Blue Agate

Glory on High (a comedy scene)

2011-01-18T13:27:00.000-08:00

Characters:
Karen Decker, a woman in her mid-twenties
Barbara Morris, Karen’s mother
Mrs. O’Bannon, a neighbor in her 50’s or 60’s

Modern day. A small city apartment. The tiny but cheerful kitchen is on one side, with a table and chairs just outside of it, and a small living room off to the other side. There is a fully decorated Christmas tree in the living room. As the lights come up, Nat King Cole’s A Christmas Song plays. Music fades as a knock on the apartment door sounds. At the same time, the oven timer sounds, and Karen comes running out to the kitchen. She is dressed in a track suit or yoga pants and tee shirt. Her front is clouded with flour

KAREN. Just a minute! Be right there. (to herself) Damn, I hope I didn’t burn these. ‘Course with the paint, who’s to notice, right? I can’t help it if Mother Nature decides to ring my bell in the middle of a Christmas project. (opens the oven to remove the tray of baked ornaments)

The knock on the door sounds again.

KAREN. All RIGHT already! Keep your pants on, I’m bakin’ here! (places the hot baking sheet on top of the stove) Geeeeeeeeez---

Karen opens the door to find her mother standing there.

KAREN. Aaaannnnd, it’s you.

BARBARA. Well, of course it’s me. (walks in past Karen) Who were you expecting, Santa Claus? Because I’m not him for sure!

KAREN. Yes you are—you told me when I was about eight, remember? (closes the door)

BARBARA. I told you no such thing!

Barbara takes off her coat; she is perfectly put together ala June Cleaver in a wool skirt and sweater set. She is also wearing a string of pearls with matching earrings.

KAREN. You’re right. What you told me was that Santa Claus exists in all of us and we embody his spirit every time we give a gift. Please. (Brings two trays of cookie ornaments over to the table) Face it, the jig was up then. Anyway, I forgot you were coming to help me today. (goes over to the counter to retrieve brushes and paints)

BARBARA. (pulling a folded apron out of her purse) That’s my line—you’re too young to start forgetting things.

KAREN. So are you. Besides, you of all people should remember that the multiple office of Mom, Chauffeur, Housekeeper, Wife, and General Manager brings its own special strain of early memory loss. (pulls out a chair) Shall we get started?

BARBARA. (ties her apron and look disapprovingly at Karen) Oh, Karen, where is your apron? I could have brought you one from home. Better yet, we could have done all this at our house---bigger kitchen, better equipment, extra aprons . . .

They both sit down at the table and start to look at the ornaments.

KAREN. Don’t start, mother. (looking up at the ceiling) What am I saying?—this started when I was born!

BARBARA. What?

KAREN. (sighing) Nothing . . . look, you know I couldn’t come to the house today, the troop leader is bringing Lucy back any time, and I need to be here.

BARBARA. I could have picked her up while you were baking . . . is this a chicken?

KAREN. No! It’s a partridge! Anyway, it was just easier to do it here, I’m already home. Now, we need to get this finished before Lucy gets home.

BARBARA. Fine, fine. (reaches for a bell) But I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry to finish. Lucy might want to help. Pass that gold paint, will you?

KAREN. Oh, no doubt Lucy will want to help. (passing the paint to Barbara) And if these ornaments were for her class Christmas tree, I’d let her. But these are for a fundraiser for one of Mark’s clients. I’ll have a hard enough time painting above a 4th grade level myself.

BARBARA. You could let her paint one or two, so she feel like she helped.

KAREN. Only if any get broken or chipped. You can bet she’s been Christmas-crafting herself to death at Girl Scouts today. Anyway, why aren’t you painting that bell silver?—You know, (in a mocking Bing Crosby singing tone) “SillllverBellllssss” . . .

BARBARA. (cutting her eyes) I’ll do some of both. Speaking of Mark, is he still up for that new promotion at work?

KAREN. Yes, but we probably won’t hear until after the holidays.

BARBARA. Just remember that with that comes new responsibility—not just for his new job title.

KAREN. What do you mean?

BARBARA. What I mean is that along with the corner office and the new expense account he’ll probably also get a new young secretary.

KAREN. Well, I trust Mark completely!

BARBARA. Dear, it’s not Mark you have to worry about! It’s these other floosies you have to keep your eye on.

KAREN. The word we use in this century is “hoochie,” and I’ll take that under advisement.

BARBARA. Actually it’s “skank”. And it also wouldn’t hurt you to be wearing something a little more enticing than a track suit covered with flour when he comes home at night.

KAREN. Mother! (laughs incredulously)

BARBARA. I do watch cable television, dear. I listen to how young people talk these days. I was just trying to be polite, when in fact these ho’s need to be checked and right quick!

Karen just stares at her.

KAREN. Who are you????

BARBARA. Oh, come on, now, if I can’t keep it real with my own daughter, I might as well hang it up. (stops painting and looks at her) What? I don’t know, maybe I’m feeling a little bit . . . insolent today.

KAREN. Yeah—I’ll say. Next thing you’ll be telling me is how you’ve been watching “Cut Off” on VH1.

BARBARA. (excitedly) Oh my lord, can you believe that Gina? I’ve never seen anyone so spoiled and selfish in all my life.

KAREN. You’re kidding me, right? You’ve actually seen that show?!?!

BARBARA. Oh I never miss it!—especially since I still haven’t figured out how that teevo/dvr thingy works.

KAREN. Amazing. You don’t know how to set your DVR, but you know what a “skank” is.

BARBARA. Well, with your father taking so many cases, I get lonely even when he’s working at his home office. So I find myself trolling the channels for something amusing to watch. And it’s a good thing too, because apparently, you’ve forgotten about these tramps out there!

Karen laughs and shakes her head. They each finish their ornaments and pick up new ones.

KAREN. No, actually I haven’t. I post about that show all the time.

BARBARA. Oh, you mean on My-Face? Pass the silver, will you?

KAREN. (passes her the paint ceremoniously) I’ts Facebook. Those girls are a piece of work, aren’t they? Mostly consumed with their bubbly jubblies.

BARBARA. (laughs) What?

KAREN. You know. Bubbly Jubblies.

BARBARA. Sounds like something I should know, but—

KAREN. (sighs, puts down her ornament and brush, and pushes up her boobs with her hands) You know---lady bazzers . . . sauce shelf . . . boobies!

Barbara starts to giggle.

KAREN. What’s so funny? (even as she starts giggling herself)

BARBARA. L-lady B-bazzers? B-b-bubbly J-jubblies! Ha!

KAREN. (snickering) It is funny isn’t it? Well, “lady bazzers” I stole from Eddy Izzard along with “sauce shelf”; “bubbly jubblies” I got from one of Mark’s comic books—well, he told me about it one night when—never mind!

BARBARA. (another suppressed giggle bursts out) I just got an image of Mark admiring your Bubbly Jubblies----(laughs)---and it’s so not funny!! (still laughing)

KAREN. Yeah, well don’t try to tell me Daddy wasn’t into your Lady Bazzers either! (snorts) Now there’s an image to keep me awake nights! (laughs)

BARBARA. (shoving her chest out) And you can bet that back in the day, my girls were gorgeous! Bubbly boobies! Barbie’s bubblies! Bubbly Barbie Boobies! (laughs hysterically)

KAREN. Oh God! (snorting again) You gave me Malibu Barbie for my birthday! . . . and I dropped her in the driveway . . . face down . . . and her boobies melted flat as a pancake by the time we found her! (laughing and holding her stomach)

BARBARA. No more Bubbly Boobies for Barbie! (guffaws) B-but wait---look, we can make them happy again!
Barbara grabs the red paint and paints large red dots on her apron over her breasts.

KAREN. Why B-barbie! (snickering) What lovely Christmas Boobies you have!

Karen screeches with laughter and falls off of her chair holding her stomach and rolls halfway under the table.

BARBARA. (holding her paint brush high in the air triumphantly) Barbie’s Bubbly Holiday Baubles!---Karen? Where are you? Oh my god---

Barbara gets down on her hands and knees and crawls halfway under the table, with her rear end high in the air.

BARBARA. Karen? What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be practicing with me—come on, three times fast---barbiesbubblybaubles,barbiesbubblybaubles, bobbiesbubblybarbie---(erupts in laughter again)

KAREN. (unable to stop laughing herself) W-what’s wrong with us?? W-why are we laughing like hyenas—at stuff that’s not even funny??---Oh, w-wait . . . Oh m-my god---

Karen hauls herself up to her knees, grabs a jar of paint and crumples back down to the floor as she tries to read the label.

KAREN. No . . . oh no . . . (snickers) listen to this---

Barbara is still crouched under the table in child’s pose now, muttering variations on her tongue twister and giggling

KAREN. “K-keep work area well v-ventilated . . . If inhaled in excess, f-fumes could be h-hazardous to your h-health!!! (collapses with laughter again) W-we need to open a window---b-but there’s no window! (holds her sides and rolls around)

Barbara pops up suddenly and bumps her head on the underside of the table, which only sends them both into another laughing fit.

BARBARA. W-wait, I know what to do---what SOUNDS like window, but isn’t? . . . A DOOR!

Barbara scoots backwards on her hands and knees, and over to the apartment door still on her hands and knees. She pulls herself up by the door handle, turns it, and falls backward behind the door as it opens, gripping the knob. One partial leg, with a pump on the foot sticks out.

KAREN. Mom! (she struggles to get up and pulls the chair down in the process) God dammit! Are you OK?

Karen too, crawls over to the open door, not bothering to actually get up. She begins tugging on her mother’s leg.

KAREN. This is no time to be silly, mother (still giggling). We’ve got to pull ourselves together before Lucy gets home! Come on, one . . . two . . . three!

Karen grabs Barbara’s shoe and falls backward when it comes off of her foot. They both just lay there laughing, until they slowly begin to calm down as the apartment airs out.

A neighbor, MRS. O’BANNON, a stout Irishwoman, walks by, still wearing her coat and hat and carrying a shopping bag. She stops at the open door.

MRS. O’BANNON. Hello? Is anyone here? Mrs. Decker?

Mrs. O’Bannon steps in cautiously, and then notices Karen lying spread eagle on the floor and Barbara’s legs sticking out from behind the door.

MRS. O’BANNON. OH MY GOD IN HEAVEN!!!! (she starts flailing her arms and running in different directions between expletives) Robbery! Murder! I’ve got to call the police!

KAREN. (weakly) Mrs. O’Bannon.

MRS. O’BANNON (startles) Saints preserve us, you’re alive! Are you alright?!?!

KAREN. No need to panic. We’re all right. We’re just a little incapacitated right now.

Suddenly, Mrs. O’Bannon’s demeanor changes from concerned to skeptical.

MRS. O’BANNON. Incapacitated?!?! Well, what in Christ’s name is going on in here???? Whatever it is, you’d better straighten yourselves out. Lucy was just getting out of a car full of girl scouts when I walked in—she’ll be in the elevator by now. What’ll she think to see her dear ma and gran in a drunken coma, now?

Karen scrambles up and reaches down to rouse Barbara.

KAREN. Oh my God, mother we have to get up! Lucy’s home! (to Mrs. O’Bannon) We’re not drunk! We’re . . . we . . . never mind!

Karen hauls Barbara up, who falls into her, almost toppling them both. She brushes herself off, as they both start to become more clear-headed with the air from the hallway. Barbara turns to Mrs. O’Bannon and tries to recover her dignity by holding out her hand to the woman. But Mrs. O’Bannon only become more indignant when she sees the red dots painted on the front of the apron, and refuses to shake her hand.

MRS. O’BANNON. Incapacitated indeed!

Mrs. O’Bannon turns and stalks out in a huff. Barbara turns back to Karen and looks at her questioningly. Karen covers her mouth and starts to giggle again, pointing at Barbara’s apron. Barbara looks down at herself and gasps, vigorously untying it and pulling it off.

BARBARA. Oh my stars! What the blazes—

She then looks up at Karen and smiles.

BARBARA. You know, it’s been a long time since we had so much fun.

KAREN. I know. Too bad it took some paint fumes to make it happen. We’d better get ourselves together before Lucy gets off the elevator.

BARBARA. What will your neighbor do?

KAREN. Oh, Mrs. O’Bannon? She’s just a busybody. She’ll have the whole building talking, until she finds her next victim.

They hug and start to smooth themselves out.

BARBARA. You know, I have some Christmas baking of my own to do. What do you say you and Lucy come over this Saturday and help me out

KAREN. (smiling) We’ll see. But hold the paint, OK? I’m going to have enough problems without getting arrested for getting my child high while painting ornaments.

BARBARA. (thoughtfully) Sure, but maybe we can make it a slumber party, and I’ll just save that part for after Lucy goes to bed.

KAREN. You’ve got a real naughty streak in you, don’t you mother?

BARBARA. A little naughty is good sometimes—oh, I think I hear the elevator.

Barbara steps out into the hallway and appears to see Lucy walking down the hall toward the apartment from off camera.

BARBARA. There’s my beautiful granddaughter!

Karen smiles, and walks toward the door.

FADE OUT

Two Rooms - Excerpt 9/21/10

2010-09-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

Lydia sat in one corner of her studio in the chair she normally reserved for knitting on the occasions she chose to knit alone instead of by the fire across from Gordon. It was wide and deep, with enough space for Lydia to pile a few pillows, or a cat if she wanted. It was covered in a deep purple crushed velvet after which Lydia modeled many a night sky in her paintings.

How mistaken that reporter had been! And that was the devil of it for Lydia, that most people couldn't see that it was their differences that created a great togetherness for Gordon and Lydia. Instead of seeing unity in diversity, they only saw a husband too distracted by fame to be much interested in his wife's dreams, and a wife too indulgent in her own frivolities to support her husband.

Though the remaining tea in her mug had turned cold hours ago, Lydia held the mug up close to her face, as if to warm herself with a phantom steam. She stared at the mixed medium work on the easel across the room. She had not been able to approach it since the reporter had gone. Just that morning, as she added a layer of deep sapphire detail in the minutes before the light came full, Lydia had felt sure about it, alive with the possibility of what she could create. Now she sat in a stupor doubting herself.

Not so. Come on, now, she told herself. Reach down deep. You've got to find your soul and press on.

At last, Lydia got her legs to move. Toward the work, toward love. Unfolding them was like snapping a pair of chopsticks. She walked stiffly toward her masterpiece.

One could see in it a beautiful bird, or a powerful talisman. Someone else with a less discerning eye might think they saw a village in the throes of a mad circus. Above all these things, the night sky was unmistakable. It lay in waves of glistening oil colors: a deep blue-black, to a softer midnight, to a bright sapphire, and back through each one again and again.

It was a patch of sapphire that held Lydia's attention now. As she stood in front of the painting and stared at it, she realized that she would have to abandon her mug in order to work. She set it down and began rummaging in a wooden box of various baubles.

Minutes later, Lydia settled on a tiny spider lapel pin. She held it up against the glow of the sapphire paint. Of course--why can't a spider be a star? Lydia began an almost frantic search for something to pry off the pin back. Damn and double damn. Where the hell am I going to find some pliers?

Lydia unearthed a sturdy pair of scissors and somehow managed to pry off the pin back without breaking the spider at all. In another few moments, she had glued it to its sapphire heaven, and absentmindedly picked up her mug again.

There! To begin is everything, and she saw it now, the path of this piece. Lydia darted out of the studio, mug in hand. She needed a new mug of tea, hell a whole pot even, and something to nibble on.

It was a chore to get snacks and stiff limbs back up to the studio. But once she tucked herself in with nutritional fortification, Lydia could stay for hours.

And in those hours of that particular night, an aura of rhinestone-studded silver light appeared around the spider star; a single vast wing of gilded linen moved out from the canvas; so many other stars in remnants of steel and wood flew to Lydia's deep velvet-dark sky and held fast there.

Finally, as starlight faded from the real night sky, Lydia stretched herself on the chaise. What had the trouble been? she wondered as she drifted off to sleep. Not the usual artistic block she battled within herself. This time it had simply been a puzzle of how to fit it all in--the love, the struggle, the uncertainty and the beauty of the most important human relationship she'd ever have. I think I've got it now was the last bit of conscious information Lydia gave herself before she slept the sleep of the dead.

At some point, Gordon crept up to make sure she was covered and resting comfortably. He'd only come home a short while before himself, but knew better than to to disturb his wife when she was creating. He dared a brief look at her work. She never failed to amaze him with what she came out with on the canvas. He guessed that this was the first time he'd seen a mixed media effort from her. What he did not see, and would not for some time to come, was the signing on the back of the canvas:

For Gordon, my heart, my one

Always, Lydia

He covered her with the chenille blanket she kept nearby, and crept out.

The Prisoner, Act Three

2010-09-08T16:59:00.001-07:00

ENTREACT: "Sunny" plays

ACT THREE

It is several months later. The Guard opens the “cell” door, enters, and holds it for Elariel and the Counselor. Elariel is dressed more like herself, in a cotton print sun dress. The Counselor, while still appearing almost from another era, is dressed in a modern sky blue coat dress and pumps that could be retro. Both are smiling and laughing. Elariel is shocked to see how the room has changed since their last visit. A full, bright sunlight flows in through the single window. A rug covers a good portion of the concrete floor. The walls, awash with light, almost look freshly painted. A modern/retro chandelier hangs in place of the single white bulb. In place of the metal table, a low square coffee table with magazines and art books sits in the middle of the room. Three posh modern chairs surround it.

ELARIEL. My God! What’s happened in here?! It doesn’t even look like the same room!

GUARD. Yeah we spruced things up a bit. Same with the outside—the gardens and all.

COUNSELOR. Yes, we noticed that too. It’s beautiful.

GUARD. Gorgeous weather we’re having too. Speakin’ of which, you ladies must be thirsty. How’s about I bring some lemonade? The uh, Prisoner will be in presently.

COUNSELOR. That sounds nice, actually.

Guard exits. Elariel stares around in amazement, then goes to stand under the window as she has in times past.

ELARIEL. It’s strange. I feel more like myself today than I have in months. And yet, something seems different.

COUNSELOR. That’s because it is. Do you see? Everything I told you is true. I know it’s been a long summer for you, but you’ve really come so far in your emotions . . . Elariel, I think I can safely tell you now, that today is an important day. When your father comes in, everything will be really clear for you at last.

ELARIEL. I . . . sense that. But I thought it would feel different, like I was winning a prize. But I just feel . . . light, like a weight is lifting. I feel so much love, from you, from him, even, in spite of the fact that it’s been 5 months since I’ve seen him.

COUNSELOR. Good. You know that’s always been there—the love. It’s why I answered your call. It’s why you called me in the first place, and what you’ve really been after all along.

ELARIEL. I don’t know exactly what to expect today, and I’m OK with that. I just . . . there’s so many good things I want to tell him—

At that moment the door opens, and the Prisoner walks in alone. He has a jaunty step, with no need for a cane or a walker. He is dressed in an office suit, with a crisp, white shirt. He has slung the suit jacket over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up.

PRISONER. Hello Counselor . . . hello, Elariel.

Elariel turns around and starts to run to him, then stops. She beams at him and takes him in.

ELARIEL. Daddy! Look at you! You look like you’re going into work again—or like you just got off from work!

PRISONER. I know, it seems to be the one thing I had left from before . . . before I got sick. But I’ll get some new duds soon; at least it makes for a good traveling outfit.

Elariel doesn’t seem to have heard him. Instead she rushes up to grab his hand and lead him to a chair. He lays the suit jacket over the back of it and sits down. She takes the chair next to his, and the Counselor, smiling, seats herself in the third one. The Guard returns with their tray of lemonade, and pours for them all.

COUNSELOR. Thank you so much.

GUARD. You’re very welcome. Seems like you folks will have a nice visit today. (to the Prisoner) I’ll uh, try to postpone your appointment with the Warden as long as possible.

PRISONER. Thank you, I appreciate that very much.

Guard exits.

ELARIEL. Oh, Daddy! I have so much to tell you! Greg got a promotion, you’d be so proud of him, but then again you always said you I found the right person to spend my life with. And I’ve been taking an art class! Isn’t that crazy? Lord knows, I’m not an artist, not like you, but the teacher is so wonderful, and I’m actually doing it! Pen drawings at that! Remember when you used to do all of my drawings for me in high school? And now—oh I wish you could take the class with me!

The Prisoner and the Counselor give each other a conspiratorial look as Elariel rambles, until she stops herself.

ELARIEL. Oh listen to me, I sound like I’m 6 years old, talking about you taking an art class with me . . . I guess that can’t happen now, can it?

PRISONER. No, baby girl, it can’t. (takes her hand again) Listen, Elariel. For once, I actually have something to say.

The Counselor gets up from her chair

COUNSELOR. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll visit the ladies’ room, and give you two some time along. No trouble this time, OK?—either of you. (smiles)

PRISONER No, ma’am.

The Counselor exits.

PRISONER. Elariel, I love you. That’s the most important thing for you to remember, always.

ELARIEL. I love you too, Daddy.

PRISONER. I know. And that’s what I have been clinging to all these months. You don’t realize it, but your love has helped me to get better, so to speak. It’s freed me—it’s freed both of us.

ELARIEL. It’s funny, I prayed for that so hard, and now here you are. But you’re not coming home with me are you?

PRISONER. No, sweetheart. But listen. You need to know something very important. You haven’t mentioned the questions you had from before—

ELARIEL. –Daddy that doesn’t matter anymore! I don’t care about all that, I just want to know you’re alright. I’ve almost forgotten about all of that.

PRISONER. I know when you’re hedging the truth, young lady—I know you’ve been awfully hurt, and I left without explaining so much. I regret that, but there are some things that I can’t explain to you, even if I wanted to. I don’t even understand why I did things sometimes, just that I thought it was the best way at the time. And I was scared. But as I started to say, I can’t explain all of that to you, even though I know that’s what you wanted when you first came here. But what you have to know now, is that I do have a great deal of explaining to do. I have a long meeting with the Warden this afternoon, and like you, a lot of personal work ahead of me. So don’t think I won’t be held accountable for the way I’ve hurt you, among other things.

ELARIEL. But you don’t have to be accountable anymore, not to me! Doesn’t that count for anything? I am your daughter after all.

PRISONER. Oh honey, it counts for a great deal. But I couldn’t do your work for you either these last months, could I?

ELARIEL. No, you couldn’t. I just want you to be OK, Daddy.

PRISONER. Well, I am OK. You can see that for yourself.

ELARIEL. Yes, I can see you in this moment. But soon you’ll be out of sight again. You said your suit was good for traveling—you’re leaving here aren’t you.

PRISONER. Yes, later today.

The door opens. The Counselor returns.

COUNSELOR. Well, have you had a nice visit?

ELARIEL. The best!

PRISONER. I couldn’t have asked for a better send-off.

ELARIEL. (to the Counselor) Daddy says he’s leaving . . . are you leaving too?

The Counselor draws her off to the side.

COUNSELOR. I’ll see you home, of course, but yes.

ELARIEL. And this is where I ask you if I’ll see you again, and you say that I don’t need you any longer, that there are other poor lost souls who need your . . . guidance. But I’m not going to say that. I think I’ve known all of this since we got in the car this morning. But I also knew I needed to experience this last visit as it was meant to be.

COUNSELOR. You see? I told you everything would be clear.

ELARIEL. I owe you so much.

COUNSELOR. Elariel, I hope this isn’t the one lesson that has evaded you in this whole process. It’s not me. It’s all you—it always has been. This is your journey.

Elariel looks over at the Prisoner. He is fastening the cuff buttons on his sleeves and putting on his suit jacket.

ELARIEL. Does this mean it’s a dream or something—that he’s not real?

COUNSELOR. No, it’s not a dream. But there are some things that we can only explain to our own consciousness. But every case I’ve ever worked on has been different, looked different. I’ve even meant different things to different people.

ELARIEL. I’ll bet “angel” is one of your special titles.

COUNSELOR. (rolling her eyes) Good grief.

The door opens. The Guard enters.

GUARD. Sorry to interrupt, everyone. (to the Prisoner) Warden’s ready for you sir.

PRISONER. Heh. “Sir”—I tell you, I could barely get the time of day out of him when I first arrived here. Anyway . . . it’s time.

ELARIEL. (tears in her eyes)W-will I see you again?

PRISONER. Yes, sweetheart—someday, sometime. But remember what the Counselor told you—all things in their time and place, not necessarily when or how we think they should be.

ELARIEL. I’ll remember. I promise.

Sobbing, Elariel runs to the Prisoner, and he takes her into his arms. As they hold each other tightly, the lights fade as “To Sir With Love” plays.

END.

The Prisoner, Act Two

2010-09-04T13:36:00.000-07:00

ENTRE ACT: For All We Know by the Carpenters

ACT TWO

It is several weeks later, and Elariel and the Counselor have come back for another visit. It is just after midday, and a strong, bright light comes through the sole window of the cell. The door opens, held by the Guard, and Elariel and the Counselor enter. Elariel looks around as if to see if anything has changed.

GUARD. I’ll get the Prisoner, and bring him back. Coffee this time?

ELARIEL. (taking off her coat) No thank you. It’s actually quite warm in here today.

GUARD. Yeah, we had a nice break in the weather. (to the Counselor) For you ma’am?

COUNSELOR. No, thank you very much. Will he want something though?

GUARD. Doubtful. He just finished lunch. But I can always bring something later if you all change your minds. I’ll be back with him shortly.

The Guard exits.

ELARIEL. (smiling, looks toward the window)I’m so glad we’re here earlier this time—in daylight. The drive seemed to go faster, didn’t it?

COUNSELOR. Perhaps. Remember, I told you things would get easier. You’ve been very patient, these weeks since the first visit, Elariel. And you’ve listened to what I’ve said. I’m proud of you.

ELARIEL. Thank you, Counselor. I . . . I feel really strong today—not frantic, just good. I think it will go well today.

COUNSELOR. This visit can definitely be a good one. You just need to keep listening and observing, and letting things unfold.

ELARIEL. I will, I promise. I still have so many questions, but I don’t feel as consumed with them as before.

COUNSELOR. Good. I’m glad to hear it.

ELARIEL. Still, he might be willing to talk, a little, don’t you think?

COUNSELOR. (sighing) Elariel, what I think is that you just need to take each moment at it comes.

ELARIEL. You’re right . . . I just hope he remembers who I am this time.

COUNSELOR. I think he will. But even if he recognizes you, you still need to get to know him again. You are both different now. (moves to stand in front of her, and takes her shoulders gently) Do you understand what I mean, Elariel?

ELARIEL. I do, I truly do. I just want so much for—

At that moment, the door opens and the Prisoner enters, followed by the Guard. The Prisoner is dressed in a pair of pajamas and a robe. While he still moves slowly, his steps are more sure; he uses a cane this time instead of a walker. The Guard follows, though not as closely. The Prisoner walks toward the chair at first, then stops and looks around at the Counselor and Elariel.

PRISONER. Why, you’re that lovely woman who was here before, and . . . E-Elariel? Is that you?

ELARIEL. Yes, yes, it’s me! (she runs to embrace him, then pulls back) It’s . . . it’s really wonderful to see you. You look so well, so much better than before. How’ve you been?---oh, listen to me, I’m sorry. I’m just babbling. The Counselor warned me about this.

PRISONER. Nonsense! Um, who’s the Counselor?

COUNSELOR. (stepping forward) Hello sir. “Counselor” is my title. But please call me Moira.

PRISONER. Yes, well, how do you do Moira? Please, everyone sit—

The Prisoner turns to ask the Guard to bring a third chair

GUARD. Already on it. Anything to drink today, sir?

PRISONER. “Sir”? Heh! I’ve moved up in the world! Just bring us some water, will you? (to the ladies, as the Guard nods and exits) Maybe he’s not as useless as I thought—I’ll keep him around and see what happens.

COUNSELOR. Elariel, sit my dear. I’ll wait for the other chair.

The Prisoner and Elariel sit at the table.

PRISONER. Well, isn’t this something? I’m so happy to see you, sweetheart. You know, they haven’t really encouraged visitors since I’ve been in here, so I was so surprised when that Guard came and told me someone was here to see me.

ELARIEL. But don’t you remember?? We were here before, we came that day, and you didn’t remember me then—

COUNSELOR. Well, it was several weeks ago sir, and it was such a short visit—I don’t think you were feeling well that day.

PRISONER. (looks briefly confused) Oh . . . well, it’s entirely possible. I was in pretty bad shape when they brought me here, you know.

COUNSELOR. We understand, don’t we Elariel? Besides, it’s a new day, and we’re going to have a lovely visit, aren’t we?

ELARIEL. Yes. Of course. Um . . . you look wonderful! I’d hoped you’d get better somehow. I’d wanted to do more . . . this “hospital”? . . . seems to have the treatment you need?

PRISONER. Hospital? (to Counselor) What’s she talking about?

COUNSELOR. Sir, as I was telling Elariel before you came in, I think you just need to get to know each other again. She may not yet understand what’s happened since . . . well, since before you came here.

PRISONER. Oh . . . well, yes, of course. (to Elariel) Funny, I can’t even quite remember how I found this place. Sometimes I think I’ve been here for years, and other times I feel like I just got here. But it isn’t a hospital—it’s my home, temporary as it may be. I’ve only met the head guy once—the Warden they call him? Nice man, I don’t see why people seem afraid of him. I asked him how long I could stay, and he said I’d know when it was time to leave, but that this was where I was for now, so I should make myself comfortable. He showed me an open-ended lease, and my one-room apartment. They do seem to have a lot of rules here, but I have everything I need, even a tv. I can push this one green button on the remote and I get all the shows I used to love before . . . (pauses, and looks puzzled again) . . . I guess when I lived with you, sweetheart, but it’s kind of fuzzy, you know?

ELARIEL. (laughing) Yes, yes—your favorite shows! The remote! I could hardly keep it away from you, I hardly ever got to watch the shows I wanted to! But that’s why it’s so strange, this place, our clothes, even. It just feels abnormal, somehow.

PRISONER. I know what you mean. I was so sick when I got here that first day. It was all I could do to keep up my strength. I think I do remember you coming to see me—what’s it been a couple weeks ago now?

ELARIEL. You remember! It was a little longer than that. I—the Counselor said we both needed some rest, but you especially.

PRISONER. (glancing at the Counselor) She seems like a smart lady—pretty too!

COUNSELOR. (smiles) Thank you sir. I’m happy to be of service to you both and offer my guidance when it’s appropriate, but as I’ve told Elariel, we all have the ability to trust and listen to ourselves.

The door opens and the Guard comes in with a wooden tray on which sits a glass pitcher of water and three glasses. He leaves the door ajar, and sets it on the table.

GUARD. Here you go. You want me to pour for you?

COUNSELOR. That’s quite all right, we’ll manage.

GUARD. Very good. Just press the button if you need anything—or when you’re ready to leave.

PRISONER. (over his shoulder to the Guard as he exits) Thanks, we’ve got it. Sheesh. (turning back to the table) Allow me.

The Prisoner pours water for them all, and takes a sip from his own glass. The Counselor observes quietly.

ELARIEL. (tentatively) You say this is home . . . but how . . . how did you get better? Are there doctors here?

PRISONER. Oh, you mean like Selma’s place down in Kentucky, where she had people coming in and out—nurses and whatnot.

ELARIEL. Selma!—I haven’t thought of her since I was a little girl . . .

PRISONER. Well, this isn’t like that. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a single doctor since . . . since before. (shudders) Don’t care for them much either. I suppose I could have asked the Warden to take me to see somebody, or to fetch me something or other to take. But honestly, after that first day, it was remarkable. I just got better with every day. Food’s pretty good here, and the Warden says all I had to do was rest. I get out in the garden more now that the weather’s improved.

ELARIEL. Well, it’s a miracle!—

COUNSELOR. Elariel, it may seem like that to us—to you. But you’ll come to understand that this place we’re in now, it’s not like the hospital. It’s not like before.

ELARIEL. Before what?

COUNSELOR. Now I’ve created more questions . . . what I mean is, try not to think so much about the he was before he came here. Things will become clearer, but the more you try to connect the past to the present in this case, the more difficult it will be . . .

PRISONER. Hey, “he” is sitting right here.

COUNSELOR. Sorry, sir. I’m just trying to explain without giving her more information than she can handle.

PRISONER. Than she can handle, huh? Well, it’s a lot for me to handle too.

COUNSELOR. (looking at him intently) I don’t doubt that this is emotionally just as difficult for you as it is for Elariel. But we both know that, while the details are fuzzy, you understand much more about this circumstance than she does.

PRISONER. All right, yes. It’s becoming clearer all the time, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been ready to face everything either, to accept how everything’s changed, now that I’m gone—not where I used to be.

ELARIEL. Now I’m the one who feels left out!

PRISONER. Sorry sweetheart.
COUNSELOR. Yes, I’m sorry too. If I’m not careful, I’m going to botch this job. They’re counting on me too.

ELARIEL. Who’s counting on you?

COUNSELOR. The people that hired me.

ELARIEL. What are you talking about? I hired you—didn’t I?

COUNSELOR. Let’s just say, you called me, requested my help. But other . . . observers, shall we say, had a hand in making sure I took your case. And you can believe they are going to want to speak to me in short order after today.

ELARIEL. (standing up abruptly) Oh for heaven’s sake! All this mystery! Maybe I should speak to them, and then you both could stop talking around things and just tell me what in the name of God we’re doing here!

PRISONER. Now, there’s a man you could start with . . . look honey (taking her hand) please, just sit down. We’re having a nice visit today, aren’t we? Let’s just focus on being together for as long as we can. Enough about me, I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to lately.

Elariel reluctantly sits back down in her chair. The Counselor takes a long drink of water from her glass and pats her own forehead with a handkerchief she has taken out of her purse.

ELARIEL. All right . . . well, work’s been the same, Greg and I are still on opposite schedules—

PRISONER. You mean you’ve had a heavy homework load this semester? Now, who’s Greg? Aren’t you dating Phillip anymore?

ELARIEL. What homework? I’m talking about my job---and Phillip was my boyfriend in high school!

COUNSELOR. Which is why it’s dangerous to talk to so much about the past.

PRISONER. (crestfallen) Yes . . . the past . . . I just wanted to reconnect to let her know—(to Elariel) to let you know I love you. I still love you, no matter what’s happened.

ELARIEL. (taking his hands again) I love you too. I’ve missed you so much! The last time I saw you, I thought you were . . . (shakes her head) anyway, when I heard there was a chance I could see you again, that you were all right, I couldn’t believe it.

PRISONER. I am all right, honey. You don’t have to worry about me. And it seems I don’t have to worry about you either, this . . . Greg . . . yes, it sounds familiar now . . . he’s good to you?

ELARIEL. Oh yes. And to be fair, you didn’t know him for very long. We’d just married when you . . . you were too sick to be at our wedding.

PRISONER. Well, I’m sure I wanted to be . . . but like the lady here says, that’s all in the past. And since that leaves nothing but the future, maybe we’d better save that for the next time and call it a day.

ELARIEL. No! (stands again) I can’t! I won’t! I won’t leave here again, until I’ve said what I came to say. You need to know how I feel. You just left—or didn’t leave, I don’t really know anymore—but there is so much you NEED to tell me, I can’t go through the rest of my life feeling like this!

COUNSELOR. Elariel, stop!
PRISONER. (holding up his hand to the Counselor) No, it’s all right. Clearly, she needs to say this or we’ll never move on, and I’ll never get out of this place! Feeling like what, Elariel?

ELARIEL. Hurt. You HURT me, Daddy! I find out a week before my wedding that you’ve been sick, that you could die?!?! You didn’t give me much time to prepare for this at all. I mean what was I supposed to do?? And the doctors wouldn’t tell me anything. I’m your daughter for God’s sake!

The Prisoner looks away from her and hunches over in his chair. He begins to cough, lightly at first, then harder, the more she berates him.

ELARIEL. And JULIE---don’t even get me started on her! You never expected her to meet me halfway, you just shoved her into my face, into our family. It was always up to ME to accept everything, to change everything. So much “blood is thicker than water”!

The Prisoner begins hacking in earnest now. The Counselor tries to coax a little more water into him.

ELARIEL. It’s not even about the house or the money. I disagree with your decision, but in a way, I understand it. You wanted to make it worth her while for staying with an old man. Whatever. But why didn’t you just tell me?!?!?! Why did I have to find out on my birthday that you’d put her name on half of everything?!?!

The Prisoner is coughing so hard he can hardly breathe. He’s started to choke and falls to the floor in spite of the Counselor’s efforts.

COUNSELOR. Elariel! Push the button for the Guard!

ELARIEL. Selfish, selfish man. I hope you’re happy with the way things turned out. You got exactly what you wanted. You brought this on yourself!

Elariel just stares down at the Prisoner on the floor, forcing the Counselor to leave him there as she jumps up and pushes the red button. She goes back to him and holds his head as they wait for the Guard.

COUNSELOR. I would think it’s you who could be happy now, Elariel. I warned you—

ELARIEL. You warned me, you warned me—about what? How absurd all of this is? How I might upset the apple cart? Well, guess what? Apparently, that’s what people do, is hurt each other, so I guess now we’re even!

The Guard bursts in.

GUARD. What happened?

COUNSELOR. He just started coughing and choking and collapsed. He’s breathing again, but it’s strained. You’ll need some help—a stretcher, I think.

GUARD. There’s no stretcher, no one else. It’s just me.

COUNSELOR. I’ll help, then. Elariel----stay here, do you understand?

They don’t wait for an answer. The Counselor and the Guard support the Prisoner each on one side, and half carry him out of the room. The door closes behind them. Elariel sits in the chair left vacant by the Prisoner.

ELARIEL. So I guess I’m just supposed to forget about everything . . . Never mind how he hurt me. Never mind my feelings at all. I’ve just got to lump it and move on. And he gets to do what? Just fade away into the ether? (the Counselor slips back into the room unnoticed) Is he really gone at all? I don’t know anymore. Why would the Counselor bring me here, give me this chance to see him again, if he wasn’t going to be held responsible, answer my questions?! It’s so unfair!

COUNSELOR. Yes, it is unfair.

ELARIEL. (whips around to face her) Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say that this was all just some kind of—illusion, that I’d be no closer to putting this all behind me than the first time we came here? As a matter of fact, why did you bring me here at all?

COUNSELOR. All fair questions, Elariel, but not necessarily the ones you need answers to. I did try to explain, in a sense, that the outcome of this . . . situation . . . wouldn’t be what you are so determined to make it. And I brought you here because you asked me to bring you—you called for me. Think, Elariel. This is not all as wrong and confusing as it seems to you now.

ELARIEL. I just don’t understand!

COUNSELOR. You do understand . . . it’s all here, you just need to let it into your consciousness. Look, look at the window.

ELARIEL. What about the window?

COUNSELOR. Look at the light coming in. It’s still a beautiful day outside. There’s still hope—(Elariel takes a breath to respond, but the Counselor prevents her)—not to make him answer your questions, but to find the way to peace for both of you.

ELARIEL. But how am I ever going to find peace about what’s happened until I understand, until he tells me why?

COUNSELOR. You don’t need to know why in order to understand. You don’t need someone to explain the obvious. People make mistakes, Elariel. Did he handle the end of his life in the best way? No, that’s clear. You don’t need him to confess that to you. And what about you? Do you think you’ve never hurt him in the course of your life?

ELARIEL. I-I suppose I have, I never thought about that.

COUNSELOR. Because you’ve been too wrapped up in your own hurt. (moves to put an arm around her) Look, no one is saying that you shouldn’t feel hurt and confused. But eventually you will have to reach beyond those feelings in order to move on—both of you.

ELARIEL. But how?

COUNSELOR. Believe it or not, you’ve already gotten off to a good start. You understand more than you think you do, my dear. Even though our visit is over for today, you have everything you need to see this through. We’ll come back again when you’re ready—to move forward.

The Guard enters.

GUARD. Excuse me. I just wanted to let you know he’s stable. Warden says a setback like this has taken a toll, but there’s no permanent damage. He’ll just need some time to get his strength back.

ELARIEL. It’s all my fault.

GUARD. Don’t be too hard on yourself, miss. These things happen more often than you think. (to the Counselor) Warden did say to give it a coupla weeks, though, until they’re both ready . . .

COUNSELOR. At least that. He needs to recover, and we’ve got quite a bit more work to do on our own.

GUARD. Very good, then. Would you like some more time? Can I bring you some tea?

COUNSELOR. No, thank you. I think we’d best be on our way now. Please thank the Warden for us and tell him I’ll be in touch.

The Guard holds the door open for them. The Counselor leads Elariel out gently by the elbow.

END OF ACT TWO.

ENTREACT: “Sunny” plays

The Prisoner, Act One

2010-08-27T08:54:00.000-07:00

The Players

Elariel, a young woman

The Counselor, a classy woman in her mid-forties, a little Garbo, a little Veronica Lake in appearance

Guard, a man in his mid-thirties

The Prisoner, a man nearing 70

Setting: a mysterious prison, modern day. It's So Nice to Be With You plays.

Act One

Lights up on a single room inside the prison, what appears to be a holding or interrogation room. One stark light hangs from the ceiling. A high window stage left does little to improve the dismal atmosphere. A single square metal table sits in the middle of the room, with a metal chair facing the audience.

The door opens, and a guard enters, holding the door for a woman, THE COUNSELOR, and a younger woman, ELARIEL to enter next. They both look around tentatively. Though it’s modern day, their dress, and mannerisms suggest that they have somehow entered another era that feels like the late 40’s or early 50’s

GUARD. (to the Counselor) I’ll be right back with a couple extra chairs.

COUNSELOR. Oh thank you, just for her. I’m fine standing—it’s certain to be a short visit.

ELARIEL. (as Guard exits) What makes you so sure? We could be here for hours! . . . I wonder if he looks the same---I can’t wait to see him, ask him what he thinks about---

COUNSELOR. Elariel . . . take a breath my dear. Remember what I told you—this is a process, it’s not all going to happen in one visit.

ELARIEL. I know, I know . . . but it’s a miracle how you found me and now we’re here. I just know everything’s going to turn out alright.

COUNSELOR. I feel that way too, my dear. It’s just that things turning out might not mean exactly what you think it does at this moment. It doesn’t mean anything bad, but you just need to see this through—one small step at a time.

Before Elariel can protest, the Guard returns with another chair and places it at an empty space at the table.

GUARD. (to Counselor) Are you sure I can’t get you a chair? Warden says I’m supposed to make sure you and the young lady got everything you need.

COUNSELOR. Thank you so much, I’m quite fine. (Elariel harrumphs. The Guard gives her a furtive look before turning back to the Counselor)

GUARD. Right then. It won’t be long. I’m going to bring the prisoner to you now.

He nods and exits. Elariel has wandered over to the wall and is standing under the window, staring up at it.

ELARIEL. It’s already getting dark . . . and it’s so cold. I don’t remember it being so cold this morning, but I guess it’s a good thing I brought this coat—how did I even know to bring a coat? Funny, I don’t even remember this coat . . . or this dress, this hat . . . I’ve felt so strange at times this whole day.

The Counselor walks up behind Elariel and rubs her arms up and down in a gesture of comfort.

COUNSELOR. I know. So much is unclear to you right now. That’s why I want you to just take each moment as it comes. (she gently turns Elariel to face her) And I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it easier for you. Trust me?

ELARIEL. (smiling) That’s one thing I do feel certain about—although I can’t explain this either—but ever since I met you, I’ve felt I could trust you . . . wait, when did I meet you?

COUNSELOR. (laughing softly) Oh, not that long ago.

ELARIEL. And this place—it looked like a castle when we drove up, but it’s so . . . dismal inside!

COUNSELOR. Elariel, you only have to remember that you are always supposed to be exactly where you are and that everything is in its place at every moment. Try to keep that in your mind, alright?

ELARIEL. Alright. I can do that.

Elariel embraces the Counselor warmly. The door opens, interrupting their moment. The Prisoner walks in, followed by the Guard, who has held the door for him. He moves slowly, with the aid of a walker. He looks frail; his skin is pale, and his wiry hair is mussed. He wears only a white hospital gown and a pair of slippers. After several minutes, he settles into a chair, with the help of the Guard.

GUARD. Pardon, ma’am. I’ll be leaving you and the young lady to your visit. Would you like something hot to drink first? Tea, perhaps?

COUNSELOR. Oh, I don’t think so—

PRISONER. (turning quickly to the Guard) I’ll have some hot coffee—black no sugar. And make a fresh pot, will ya? Don’t give me that turpentine that’s been on the stove since dawn.

The Guard nods and exits. The Prisoner doesn’t seem to notice the Counselor or Elariel, and she looks to the Counselor with slight panic on her face. The Counselor gently takes Elariel by the arm, and they approach the table together.

COUNSELOR. (leaning down to the Prisoner) Hello, sir. How are you today?

THE PRISONER. (looking up, slightly confused) What? Oh, my hello. Forgive me, I didn’t see you. Just walking across the room takes all of my focus these days.

COUNSELOR. That’s perfectly all right, sir. Look, I’ve brought Elariel to see you.

Elariel steps from behind the Counselor so that he can see her more fully.

THE PRISONER. Who? Oh . . . H-hello there young lady. I’m pleased to . . . do I know you?

ELARIEL. (visibly shaken)Y-you don’t remember me?

PRISONER. (rubbing his forehead) Well, I’m sure I must, I just . . . It’s been such a long day.

Elariel just stares.

COUNSELOR. Um, perhaps, you’d like a sweater or a robe, or something?

PRISONER. Heavens, no. This is all I seem to wear these days. I must remember to ask the Warden what happened to my suit . . . that Guard is useless, wouldn’t depend on him to give me the time a day.

COUNSELOR. Well. All right then. Elariel, dear, why don’t you sit down over here?

ELARIEL. I can’t believe you don’t remember me—how can you not know who I am?!?!?! It’s ME, Elariel!!!

PRISONER. I . . . I do know you, it will come to me . . . it’s just been such a long day . . .

ELARIEL. (to Counselor) Why did you bring me here?!?! I thought you said I could talk to him, get some answers---and he doesn’t even know who I am!!

PRISONER. I do know you sweetheart, I feel certain of it—

COUNSELOR. Elariel, please . . . yes, I brought you because you wanted it. But I warned you that you’d have to let it happen slowly—

ELARIEL. Slowly! There’s no time, I mean, look at him, look how frail he is, we don’t know how long he’ll last in this . . . asylum or whatever it is, tomorrow he could be d--- (she stops herself)

In the middle of an uncomfortable silence, the Guard returns with a cafeteria tray on which he carried a basic metal tea pot and three plain white mugs. He enters tentatively.

GUARD. Uh, I got your coffee here. I brought enough for all of you, just in case.

Without turning in his chair, the Prisoner holds up his hand, and shakes his head.

PRISONER. No, not now. I can’t. (looking to one side without turning his head to where Elariel stands in his peripheral vision) She’s so angry . . . I know I’ve done something, somewhere, but . . . it’s been such a long day.

COUNSELOR. It’s all right. Perhaps we’ve had enough for today. Would you like to go back and lie down now?

PRISONER. Lie down. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Where’s that useless guard?

The Counselor gestures for the guard to come and help.

GUARD. Uh, right here. I’ll just put this here, and take him back. Help yourself if you still want some tea. Just push the red button on the wall there when you’re ready to leave.

He helps the Prisoner stand; the Prisoner seems suddenly twice as tired and disoriented. The guard decides to leave the walker so he can support the elderly man more securely as they walk. They exit and the door falls shut with a loud, ominous sound. Elariel has gone to stand under the window again. She stares up at the window with tears streaming down her face, fists clenched at her sides. The Counselor sits wearily in the chair and pours herself a cup of coffee. She sips it, giving them both a moment to contemplate what should come next.

ELARIEL. What is this place exactly . . . ? Why am I here? I just thought . . . Why won’t you tell me anything?

COUNSELOR. (sighing) I know this is hard. I can tell you that you’re here because you called me and asked for my help. And you were right to do that. This will be—is—a good thing that’s happening here. It just may not be able to happen exactly the way you imagined it would.

ELARIEL. (turning to look at her) I just don’t understand . . . how could he not know me? Why didn’t you warn me?

COUNSELOR. I know you have a lot of questions. In a way, I can’t answer them all even if I wanted to. And some things you just need to see for yourself. You need to trust me, and if you can’t do that, you need to trust yourself. But in order to do that, you need to set aside some of your burning questions and just listen and look at what’s going on around you.

Elariel starts to cry more in earnest now.

COUNSELOR. (comes to embrace her) There, there. Come on, now, I think we’re all a bit drained. Let’s get you home. You need to rest and think about what I’ve said. We’ll be back next week.

Elariel looks up with tears still in her eyes, but a bit more hopefully at the Counselor.

COUNSELOR. He does know you my dear, and he wants to see you. Just give it a little time, OK?

Elariel nods and they walk to the door. The Counselor pushes the red button on the wall next to the door. Presently, the guard comes, and opens the door for them. They exit.

END OF ACT ONE.

ENTRE ACT: For All We Know by the Carpenters

Two Rooms - Excerpt 8/16/10

2010-08-16T15:23:00.000-07:00

Once, only once, they interviewed Lydia. She gave the interview not because she thought Harper's was any better than the rest of the media, but because Harper's was the only publication to ask her for an interview.

They sent a smart-looking young woman to the house. She arrived ten minutes early, which annoyed Lydia to no end.

"What a lovely home,' she said, as she crossed the threshold. The problem was, she said it as if she were entering a palace, when in reality, their home was a very small, private dwelling by the sea, a palace to Gordon and Lydia, yes, but only in the way it manifested what they both truly loved about their lives. The girl--Cathy or Susan was her name--and her little black Chanel suit couldn't be more out of place.

"Welcome." This from Lydia was all the girl needed to start her strolling room to room remarking on what she felt was important.

"Are you finding it lonely, with Gordon away shooting a film?"

There was no pretending with this girl. No pretense that she was actually there to learn anything about Lydia herself.

Lydia took her stance. "It's always good to have these periods when each of us can focus on our own endeavors. I"ll paint--I paint at all hours when he's not here, and when he comes home, we'll revel in each other's adventures--and in each other." The last words Lydia emphasized with a quiet vehemence as she stared at the back of Cathy or Susan's head. Lydia had followed the girl in her own house toward the living room.

"Gorgeous. I can just picture Gordon sitting by the fire of an evening sipping a cognac, and you across from him knitting or something." Lydia's knitting basket was nowhere in sight. Cathy or Susan tossed plopped herself irreverently into Gordon's armchair. "Shall we do the interview here?"

"We'll do it in my studio. It's an intriguing space, and I feel very comfortable there. Besides, I see you brought your own camera--you can get some shots of me with my artwork. I'm working on a mixed medium piece now."

"Yes . . . I was also hoping there was a snapshot of you and Gordon you could loan me--the magazine, rather."

Lydia answered with a sweep of her arm toward the hall stairs. The girl stood and walked obediently that way.

"This is nice," remarked Cathy or Susan upon entering Lydia's tower studio.

It would seem nice to her, in a distant sort of way, Lydia thought. Just a nice, sunny room in a turret, with lots of natural light and lots of painterly supplies scattered quaintly about.

The round shape of the turret gave Lydia a sense of continuity in her art work. She added two more windows, and all four were spaced equidistantly around the wall. They made it possible for her to see her work at different angles under varying light conditions throughout the day.

These conditions she would memorize, and then made her desired adjustments accordingly by various lamplight or on the most blessed nights, by the glow of a full moon. It was the way Lydia worked, how she felt each piece coming out of her soul, that this girl would never grasp. Nor was she interested in grasping it, Lydia thought.

"Have you ever painted anything for Gordon?" Cathy or Susan asked.

"Specifically? No. Painting doesn't work that way. I have to paint what I feel."

"And you don't feel love for Gordon enough to paint something for him?"

"I love my husband more every day . . . if he likes a painting, I won't sell it. We keep it here at home . . . for him."

And so it went, Lydia standing in her studio knee-deep in innuendo, sometimes the cat, but more of the time Cathy or Susan's toy mouse. Lydia managed to impart quite a bit to the girl about her paintings, her influences, her life. The girl listened out of an imposed politeness, and even took the obligatory photographs of Lydia with her work.

At the end, though, as they stood at the same time, Cathy or Susan's politeness fled the room like a phantom, leaving an icy haze to fill the room in its wake. "Now about that snapshot of you and Gordon . . ." Cathy or Susan snapped her camera closed as if the photos she had taken of Lydia had presented her with a most tiresome and inconvenient task of which she was only to glad to rid herself.

"Actually, there aren't any I feel comfortable loaning out. I'm sure your editor won't mind reprinting something from one of the other rags." Lydia again held out her arm toward the way out.

Triumph, the cat in the end. But she hadn't meant to use the word "rags," though she saw Cathy or Susan as a rag of the most filthy sort.

With the snipish thing out of her hair, Lydia brought a steaming mug of lavender tea back up to the studio. Though she felt somewhat calmer now that the interview had passed, she wasn't quite able to focus on what her next moves with the mixed medium piece would be. The whole afternoon's experience had left her ears ringing with a single unrelenting chant. Gordon. Gordon. Gordon.

Two Rooms - the last chapter

2010-01-14T15:15:00.000-08:00

[this is a revised version of the last chapter in my novel-in-progress Two Rooms]

They'd made it. Made it to where they wanted to go in life, not anyone else's idea of what their destination should be. And for this, Lydia was the most grateful. This one thing, that she and Gordon had lived their own adventure, made everything work--it kept Lydia sane, made her work, so that she could live happily with the rest of it.

It was dark now, and the blue-black sky sparkled with crystalline stars. The nearly-full moon was slung low over the bay. Lydia was painting it by candlelight. She'd have to dic the shading in daylight, but the essence of it, she knew, existed now. It was the last night this week for such clarity--a storm was rolling in and would shroud the sky and drown them for the next several days.

By the time she finished, the world would be well hammocked in the still of night. She would descend from her studio on the 3rd floor of their town home, turning out most of the lights, but leaving odd ones on, the ones that made her feel safe.

She would find Gordon where he always was in his favorite chair by the fire, having fallen asleep with the latest issue of Stage and Screen slipping from his lap. More often than not, there would be some article or photo of him. While his roles had dwindled, they had become more distinguished and so had he, which meant fewer trips to LA, but enough income to not necessitate them. It meant he served the acting community on many levels--he ws sought for SAGE officer positions, and the boards of many theaters and artistic causes. It also meant one stunning Oscar, and nominations for three others.

Lydia felt she was only just being born as an artist and would have been thinking of this, and feeling practically giddy as she laid eyes on Gordon in his chair. Not that her early successes hadn't mattered, they just hadn't felt as real. She no longer painted for anyone except herself.

She had learned over the years not to wake him, but to gently take whatever he was reading and put it aside, and to cover him, usually with the Shetland blanket. Eventually, he'd find his way to bed. Even in contented creative exhaustion, Lydia was hardly even ready to sleep. Were she a spirit, she would have floated out the window to dance in the moonlit currents of the bay once she settled Gordon. Instead, she would steal silently back up to the chaise in her studio if she was too restless for the solitude of their bedroom. Sleep almost never overtook her before the first pale hint of daylight began to lighten the sky, which was often the same time that Gordon chose to come shuffling in to bed. Until these last years, he would have had to rise painfully early when she could lie in and rest her fill. Now they could slumber each to his own content.

But this night, Gordon woudl murmur awake at her touch.

"Lydia."

"Shh. Go back to sleep."
"Lydia"
"Yes, Gordon?"
"Is it real?"
"You're talking out of your head."
"No, I mean this. Us. Our life. Is it real?"
"It couldn't be any more real."
"I love you, Lydia."
"I know"
"Do you love me"
"Always."

Then the reading laid aside, and Gordon covered, and Lydia off to the seascapes of her dreams.

And then, the rest of their lives.

K-9

2009-07-10T16:28:00.000-07:00

The story goes that one Tuesday, Deputy Cliff finally took a turn at feeding and watering old Adolf. It was a wonder he ate at all, because almost everyone was afraid of him. You’d see the rookies out there, trying to look brave, trying to look like men, darting into Adolf’s pen just long enough to get the food bowls down. They’d hold the bowls out in front of him, letting him smell the food, a kind of distraction.
Deputy Cliff would just laugh. He’d watch them from the break room window and har-dee-har. He’d scared them all in the beginning by exaggerating about how the dogs were trained, how if an officer was walking a dog through the station nobody could move too quickly or even put their hands on their guns because even if you were in uniform, the K-9 would take you down and rip your throat out. Well it had some truth to it. You had to be cautious around the new dogs. But if you knew the commands, you could control almost any situation or any dog. Except Adolf. Most agreed he really wasn’t right.
Some of the deputies claimed he foamed at the mouth. It got so bad that they had to cut a hole near the bottom of the fence to slide the food dish under. They used the end of a crowbar to hook it back, unless the brute gnashed it in his jaws and tossed it away somewhere in the back of his pen. Then they’d just forget about it and keep bringing new ones. Looking in there it seemed like there was a dozen or more empty bowls strewn about the place.
Whenever a deputy wondered aloud why the department kept Adolf or how in the world they got him out of his pen to work with him, Deputy Cliff would say they’d slip him some tranqs in his morning food, then go in and muzzle him and leash him and carry him out. Once he woke up in the cruiser, he seemed to know he was at work and have his head about him. The department liked to use him for riots on appearance alone. He was almost entirely black. They’d named him Adolf because he was the meanest sonofabitch in the pack. He wasn’t the biggest one of them, but he’d stay inside his standard regulation doghouse and as soon as he heard the latch on the gate of his pen, he’d charge the gate with the fury of hell.
But today, Deputy Cliff was not waiting for any tranquilizers, and he was not resorting to any sissy tricks. He clicked the latch. When Adolf charged, Deputy Cliff waited until the dog jumped up in front of the gate and used it as a shield as he pushed himself into the pen. Adolf came back down to the ground. In one movement, Deputy Cliff swung the gate closed and reached for his night stick as Adolf crouched to spring again. He brought the stick down on the animal’s neck just above the shoulders.
Adolf let out a single yelp of pain as he fell, and then he was still. Deputy Cliff half tossed the bowl of food onto the ground. Not hard enough to spill it, but he meant to show what a nuisance he thought the whole exercise to be.
When Deputy Cliff entered the station, all the boys were whooping it up in the break room. When he came into the room, some were tempted to slap him on the back or shake his hand, but something unsaid held them in check. Mostly they just shook their heads in amazement and said things like “man, oh Man!” Deputy Len, who’d been with the department awhile ventured a question: “Didya kill him?”
“Naw.”
Sure enough, a few hours later, Adolf came to, and stood up shakily. Eventually he ate his food. He limped and staggered around for close to a week. No one ever had a problem feeding or working with him again. He became so docile, that instead of riot work, they took him around to schools for career day, but with the muzzle just in case he ever lost his sense again.
This was the story Deputy Scott Larsen told his wife Becky about his best friend Clifford Parker. He loved telling this story. He loved Cliff. When Scott came on at the department, Cliff had helped him right along, kind of like a big strong brother.
Becky had feared German Shepherds since she had been attacked by one as a child, so she believed in the picture-perfect character of Deputy Cliff built up by her husband. That is until she met Cliff. He was arrogant and grotesquely overweight to her. In spite of the way Scott raved about him, and told that stupid story over and over again to whoever would listen, Becky never felt any real warmth about him. She suspected that every show of friendship he made was either to make himself look good, or to get something out of somebody. But she didn’t dare tell her husband how she felt. Scott was just so in awe of the man, and he had made good progress at the station and in the community, so she had no real proof that Cliff wasn’t the man Scott thought he was. And it was her husband’s feelings alone that motivated her to allow Cliff into proximity of her home, her affairs, and her grief when Scott was fatally shot at a riot one night.
At the hospital, Cliff swaggered around the peripheral boundaries of the scene. He showed up in uniform even when he was missing work to be there. He tipped his hat when he said “Becky.” He kept his sunglasses on and paced outside the door to Scott’s room until Becky went to get some coffee or simply had to go home and sleep for a few hours.
During these times, Cliff would hold his wide presence at Scott’s bedside, implore him not to speak and reassure him that everything was going to work out, that he, Cliff, would take care of Becky and keep the riff-raff out of his locker at the station until Scott was back in action.
And when Scott died on his fifth day in the hospital, Cliff did not for one moment allow Becky, the wife of his best friend to become overwhelmed with the fallout. He made all the calls and kept a plump gentle hand just near the small of Becky’s back in case she could not bear to choose a casket. Cliff told Becky not to worry about things like selling the second car, he knew a guy that would give them a decent price. It was the two of them really, Cliff taking care of Becky, and he’d maybe get to keep a little of the money from the sale, since he was—had been—Scott’s best buddy and he’d missed a lot of work over the past couple of weeks taking care of his best friend and now his best friend’s wife.
Throughout the ordeal, Becky found that if she actually listened to Cliff, too many questions and doubts would creep into her mind. So she just listened to Scott, to him telling her he loved her, to him laughing at the TV with her, or complimenting her cooking. Even telling her that damned story, because it kept her from screaming uncontrollably at Cliff.
Night fell on the funeral. The casket was finally closed, and the people went home. Most of the sandwiches made by Cliff’s girlfriend Penny had been eaten between respects paid. Penny had laid her tray of hand-garnished sandwiches on the counter in the kitchen alongside the chocolate chip cookies baked by the minister’s wife, and an anonymous orange and green jello mold. Penny had spent the afternoon in a chair that was nearly too small to hold her 175 pounds comfortably. Her bangs were her best feature. The rest of her dyed black hair hung limply about her thick neck and broad shoulders. Penny and Cliff began dating almost six months before the tragedy of Deputy Scott’s death, just the proper amount of time to establish her right to make sandwiches for her boyfriend’s best friend’s funeral.
Penny understood that Cliff was needed at the Larsen home and did not protest when he told her to go on home, and that he’d call her tomorrow and maybe they’d go bowling. When Becky swallowed the little blue sleeping pill, there seemed to be just enough time to lock the doors and stagger to bed. But somehow, Cliff was still there downing the last of a beer when Becky walked into the kitchen.
When he saw her, he tossed the empty can over to the sink, where it bounced once on the stainless steel and landed on the counter by the bread box. The pill, now taking effect, and the mammoth loss of everything let only half of Becky’s words leave her mouth. Where? Penny? Everyone? You?
Cliff obliged her with need-to-know information. He would see Penny, who understood that he needed to be here tonight, for their date tomorrow. He told Becky she should just relax, that he was going to take care of everything and why didn’t she just head on back and lie down? She didn’t have her Scotty tonight, but he was here and he’d be her Scotty.
Becky believed that if she just crawled under the covers, Cliff would leave. She told herself that Scott would never let anyone hurt her, then felt the stab of reality that Scott wasn’t here to protect her anymore. But instead of the bedroom she walked to the couch. Never to their bed, hers and Scott’s bed.
She half stumbled down onto the couch and Cliff was right behind her. She felt his large hands coaxing her down onto her stomach until her mouth met the cushion and she turned her head so she could breathe. Then he was talking to her again. That’s right, he was saying, and telling her to relax again. He knew how these things were supposed to be. She felt his fat fingers tugging at the zipper of her dress. Scott’s best friend. Didn’t she know, he was saying, that massage could be a stimulant just right to the point of excitement. No, wait. Come on, now, he said above her, Deputy Cliff was just gonna make her feel good, and he even needed a little comfort himself. Him being away from Penny, and her not having her Scotty, he said, they might just need each other. As she fought to stay awake, to stop him, Becky became lost in a sea of yes-no’s and all was dark.
The next morning, she woke on her stomach with her face buried in a pillow. Oh, god, she was in her bed. She crawled out of bed and walked to the dresser. She stepped in front of the mirror and looked clawed at her dress. She had wanted to look beautiful for Scott one last time. She could not get it off, could not get it unzipped all the way. She jerked open the bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a gray police academy sweatshirt of Scott’s. It came almost to the hem of the dress. She shoved her feet into a pair of cross-trainers—no, no, pantyhose missing—and searched the kitchen for her purse and keys.
Down at the station, they all cleared a path for her, even the dispatcher, who seemed to know that she was there to see Deputy Cliff. Becky rounded the corners and followed the sound of laughter toward the break room until she saw Cliff through a hall window. He was leaving the dog pens with a large, bulging burlap sack. He slung it into a metal garbage bin. Though she couldn’t hear anything, Becky jumped when Cliff slammed the metal lid shut. She made her way to the back door and waited for Cliff there.
“Mornin’, Becky,” Cliff said in a loud tone. “How you holdin’ up, honey? First night’s always the worst.”
“I know what you did last night.”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry Penny and I couldn’t stay until you fell asleep. Please tell me your sister came after we left.”
“You’re not going to get away with this . . .”
“Try to stay calm, honey. Let me and some of the boys help you with Scotty’s locker, OK?”
“Help me? I’ll get tested you sonovabitch!”
Cliff leaned in close then. “Now, listen, sweet thing, I don’t want to have to be the one to tell the whole town how you begged me to stay with you at the house last night, and how I had to push you away when you wanted to dishonor my best friend’s memory by sleeping with me before his body was even cold in the ground. You know, beer and sleeping pills are not a good mix.”
No resistance. There’d been no resistance because of the sleeping pill. And his beer can made it look like . . . There was no proof. Becky started to back away, but Cliff caught her arm and pulled close to his side, crushing her with his girth.
“Len! Come on, let’s help Miss Becky with Deputy Scott’s things.” Then to Becky he added, “You shouldn’a driven yourself here, darlin’. We’ll see that you get home. Maybe I’ll take you myself, check on the proceeds from the car sale. You can pick up your car when you’re feeling better.”
As they moved down the hall Len fell in behind them. They passed two approaching officers on their way out, and Becky looked at them as they shook their heads in awe and marveled to each other about how Deputy Cliff had put ailing old Adolf out of his misery with one clean bullet to the head.

excerpt from God Brode (Good Bread)

2009-02-08T13:58:00.000-08:00

[author's note: this seems like it must be at least the 57th incarnation of this story. I have started it so many times. It is beginning to approach the story I'm after, but it's still missing something. Still, I decided to let it breathe out in the open, so here is one of many rough cuts--I'm sure there'll be many more along the way.]

Phoebe slept next to Niels in his old room. She dreamed of their train ride from Copenhagen to Kalundborg, where his parents met them. Her heart relived the question meant for a girlfriend or a bride-to-be that she still faced as a wife: will they like me? It couldn't be helped. Niels worked, studied, and lived in NY. No one would expect him to meet a Danish girl there. No one except his mother. The distance made it easy for Niels and Phoebe to discourage the Moelsens from coming for the wedding. It also made it easy for Rikke and Eben to agree not to attend.

At the train station there had been a warm hug for her from Eben. He spoke to her in English, and both his voice and his face carried a smile. Rikke offered a tentative kiss and said nothing.

Language remained on the same frequency throughout the dark ride home, with Niels speaking animatedly in Danish to his parents. It continued at the house, with his brother Jesper who had come from the neighboring farm to greet them. Jesper's "hello" had been neither warm like Eben, nor distant like Rikke.

Finally, Rikke led them to their room, Niels's own room, with Niels whispering to Phoebe along the way in English about the family photos on the wall, tricks to get the hot water to work--all the things Rikke would have told Phoebe if she had spoken enough English, or had been willing to try.

Sleep came easy, but Phoebe's dreams suspended her on the train, rocking and ambling away from the lights of Tivoli and toward that unknown part of her husband.

On the train, when Niels got tired of reading, he began telling Phoebe stories of his childhood. Stories of helping with the mink vaccinations, or smelling his mother's homemade bread. She dreamed them again and of the passing countryside, of the fields in the last golden glow of August. Phoebe frowned in her sleep at eh tall golden arches of McDonald's that pierced the horizon.

Then she smiled. Niels was telling her about the pigs again. Before the mink, there had been pigs. Before Eben built out the lower level of the house below Niels's room, it had been, literally, a pig sty. Niels told her how they would grunt and squeal. He said it could sound like thunder when the sows got excited and tore around.

Yes--she could hear it! First right underneath of them, a low rumble. Then they seemed to be in the very room, the troubled ghosts of the sows, stampeding around the room, and somehow now over her head . . . !

Phoebe gasped and opened her eyes. Niels had moved near her in the his sleep and nestled his head on her shoulder. He snorted loudly as Phoebe rolled away. His head fell against the pillow and the rumble of his snores began again.

Manicure

2009-01-21T18:06:00.000-08:00

People always thought the worst of women in Coco's line of work. But Coco was nothing like what people thought of her.

Coco was very clean. Pure, even. She stayed healthy, ate clean food, practiced yoga, washed her hands often.

Her clothes were perfect for her work, just right for an up and comer. The dresses and blouses she chose always had a way of showing off exactly what she had without really revealing too much.

Coco was the epitome of style from her soft brown hair, to her impeccable taste in jewelry and accessories--right down to her very clean hands.

Coco felt it was her hands that would eventually get her off of the corner, the street even, and doing things the right sort of way. It wasn't just what she could do with her hands (and that was the problem with the whole business of it in general--the way peole looked at her for just one or two talents but never had a thought for her potential). No, it wasn't just what she did with her hands, but the look of them. They were the color of a few teaspoons of coffee in a cupful of cream. Just the way her grandmother had let her drink it as a little girl, to feel grown up.

Coco chose Paradise Nails. It had to be in the mall because it had to be today. Because tonight she moved in bigger circles.

A round-faced Filipino girl named Apple came to the front of the salon to care for Coco's hands.

The tables looked clean. Coco settled in the chair and spread her fingers. She waited for the little bowls of soapy water. She was pleased that Apple had been handed a sealed plastic kit of manicure tools. The water did not come and Coco wished that she could get up and wash her hands but the moment passed. She shifted her bottom in the pink plastic chair. Apple smiled at Coco. Her little, surprising teeth formed an even row. Not polished. Not at all like piano keys.

Coco looked down. She wanted to watch everything that Apple did so that if it looked like Apple would hurt her (some of them did at times), she, Coco, could stop it.

But the dirt. Oh God. Why was it that every time you came to a place like this, these girls' fingernails looked like they had been out digging up potatoes? Coco wanted to scrub. Scrub Apple's fingernails. The thumbnails. A black line of dirt was caked underneath them. Someone should be told. The manager. But when? Not in the middle of things being done. There could be an injury. After, maybe. The moment passed.

Coco looked away, but felt the little pink buffer scrape her cuticle. She thought of the white powder from her nails. Coco looked at the sink across the room. Now the water would come, it had to. This was a sensible salon and Apple was trained. She had to be. Because she smiled at Coco so rightly.

Apple stopped buffing. White powder everywhere. No water. Apple took a bottle of pink lotion and squirted way too much of it into her palm. And rubbed her hands together. Coco saw the thumbnails again. And right over the white powder. The lotion covered it. Pink lotion. Dirty pink.

Coco shut her eyes and tried to breathe. She must have pulled her hand away by accident because Apple giggled and pulled her hand back, and their hands were slippery together.

When some of the lotion had absorbed into Coco's skin, Apple got up again. The sink . . . water?!

No water. Apple pulled dull slate-blue towels out of a steamer/warmer. At least Coco could see a washing machine beyond the main room. It would be illegal for them not to use it. They'd lose their license.

Apple wrapped Coco's hands in the towels. The steam helped Coco breathe. The towels were hot and wet. It might be OK.

Apple pulled out the little clippers to cut Coco's cuticles, and peeled the towel back from Coco's fingertips. Coco felt clammy. The towels were cooling, and not drying. She considered telling Apple "no, just skip this part." The moment passed.

It happened almost instantly. A cut was made. Apple cut good skin, not just the cuticle. Why was it that every time you came to one of these places, paid your money, sat here, trusted, that you left with your fingers feeling like they'd been shredded by baby barracudas? No, really, why?

Apple seemed to regret her mistake. After her regret, she kept plucking at Coco's dead cuticles and scraping under Coco's nails and wiping the things she harvested on her side of the white towel.

And then there was another liquid, some sort of conditioner, rubbed in, meant to be wiped off, and the damned little Apple tried to--

"No! that's where you've been wiping things!"

You had to tell these people. Exhausting. Apple flipped the towel over to the clean side and wiped Coco's fingers. Coco breathed.

Finally, the color. Her favorite red. Coco never took a chance that a salon would have it. She always brought her own bottle. She loved to watch the way the little brush spread the color across the nail. Apple was very good at painting.

Just as it was looking perfect, Apple raked her thumbnail down Coco's cuticle. Coco tried not to look. It happened a few times. It seemed unnecessary. Coco wished that Apple would stop trying to be so thorough.

Then Apple took out a tool, a small brush with an edge (it almost looked like it was for eye shadow) and dipped it in remover . . . and edged Coco's cuticles with it. Well, why the goddamned hell did she need to scrape with her dirty thumbnails then?!?

Coco breathed. Looking at her hands helped. The look of them was perfect. Off the corner, off the street. Creamy coffee and the best red. The red was called "I'm Not Really a Waitress." Because she wasn't.

Dolly (Identity in three parts)

2008-09-24T14:35:00.000-07:00

I.

I remember her clearly, just not her name. Penelope; or Priscilla, maybe.

Mom stitched her for me out of mod pinks and greens that came in her kit. Those colors, her lush lashes, and especially the plastic patent-leather-looking boots she wore made me dream of being a stewardess, just flitting through life and jetting back and forth between Paris and Milan. I had the luggage for it—round pieces and square pieces with round edges, all with signs of the zodiac on them. And somehow, everything that mattered to me fit inside them, even the giant plastic purple hair rollers and all those hairpins.

She made me dream of perfume, and Monte Carlo. But she was blond, which I’d never be. And she was weak in the neck because Mom short-changed her on the stuffing and stitched her too tight there. The way she couldn’t keep her head up, all that bobbing from side to side, really began to bother me. Eventually, I let her be, and she blended in with the other toys and games until we all became old.

Imagine my shock when I found her there, in that box, in the basement. At least she was under the window—gray light is better than none. I saw her yellow hair first, then one spider-lased blue eye looking up at me out of the rubble of our past lives.

I started clearing it away and gently pulled her out. Her pink-toned skin had the one coffee stain blemish. Her clothes were a little faded, but the still said “That Girl” to me. Her little plastic boots shone more towards their original white after I rubbed the dust from them. And her head was still attached at the neck.

II.

When I outgrew darling Penny-Priscilla, I found a new idol. She was from Malibu and was married to a dolt. Of course none of this occurred to the pre-adolescent minds of me and my friends Marcy and Jill. We were just crazy with all of her pink accoutrements.

Her camper was Marcy's, and the townhouse was mine. Jill didn’t have much of anything in the way of Barbies, but she let us haul all of our crap to her basement on hot summer days. And the clothes—we stopped arguing over who’s were who’s. We ignored the fact that we actually had two Barbies, and threw in a Dawn doll and her convertible to keep the peace.

Barbie never kicked us out of her world, never told us it was time to go home. We had to be called. It was usually me who got called home first, unless we had staged everything on my front porch. It was my dad whose voice could find me, even in the depths of Jill's basement. But somehow it was harder to hear him when I was at Marcy's even though she lived right across the street from me—maybe I just never wanted to come home.

I was running home from Marcy's when it happened. Did I mention it was hot? Well I was tearing home to my mom’s friend chicken dinner—and I dropped her. She fell, really. Right onto the scorching driveway. It never occurred to me that Barbie wouldn’t be caught dead eating fried chicken, the skinny bitch.

The next morning, my dad approached me. He had that same twitch in his mouth as he did the day he tried to apologize to me for laughing when I fell in the toilet at age three.

“I found your Barbie doll this morning.”

No connection yet.

“I think you must have dropped her in the driveway—on your way home from Marcy's yesterday.

Oh?

He brought her around from behind his back and held her out to me by the legs. As soon as I took her from him, he bolted. No doubt to spare me another one of his laugh tracks. She’d apparently fallen face down, because her perky little upturned nose, her perfect little boobs, and her pointed little toes were melted flat.

I was a little dispappointed, but I knew my dad would have no trouble replacing her. There were hundreds of them lining the shelves of Wal-Mart, all made from the same plastic mould.

It’s the present me that’s amused. Fucking hysterical with glee. The beauty of it overwhelms me. Thank God I’ll never melt.

III.

By now it’s clear that I never had any real baby dolls, nothing I could honestly nurture or learn to love. There was a Dressy Bessy and her brother Dapper Dan, but I don’t count those. They only taught me what not to wear.

One of the last pieces of artwork to come down after my parents died was the self-cutout I’d done in kindergarten. The teacher stretched out this huge bolt of white paper, and one by one, we all laid down and had somebody trace us from head to toe. Then we cut out the images and painted them in.

There she was, the other little me, still taped to the kitchen door that led me down to the basement. She was taller than I’d imagined. A little faded by the years of hanging in half sunlight, but I remembered her. I remembered who I was that day. My hair was still long. I’d worn it in a ponytail held by one of those “hair doodles,” as my mother called them. I wore a white mock-turtleneck sweater that I was always afraid of getting dirty, and a thick knit skirt that had some kind of intricate Fair Isle pattern in primary colors. It was lined, too. A skating skirt. Or at least I felt like a skater when I wore it. White knee socks, brown shoes. I remember turning my ankles and pointing my toes like a dancer—ok, a skater—instead of just forming my legs into “Ls” like the other kids.

I can’t recall who did the tracing. It tickled. I had the most fun painting in the sweater (it was ok because the paint was a starker white than the paper) and the colors of the skirt. I used the same tree-trunk brown for my hair and shoes. But for my skin . . . I could not find a color to match mine. The “flesh tone” that the teacher shoved at me was all they had. But it wasn’t right. I tried to mix the paints, but even then, I—she—came out so pink!

When I finally peeled her down from the kitchen door after 25 odd years, I marveled at how the masking tape had never given out. How the yellow stripes on the skirt never faded like the other colors.

But there was really nothing I could do with her. She couldn’t come with me. There’d be no point. So I started at the top of her head and rolled her up down to the toes of her shoes. Then I put her out with the trash.

"N"

2008-09-24T14:33:00.000-07:00

“Say it.”

Lucy felt Todd Phelps’s cold gray stare before she turned to face him. She wasn’t, or shouldn’t have been surprised to see him in the corridor. He was a football player, she was in the marching band. The music room was right across the hall from the locker rooms. Band practice and football practice ended at the same time everyday. Simple. But on this day, Lucy’s private flute lesson had been cancelled.

She stood still and watched him as he closed the space between them. Lucy could never register within herself if she was attracted to any of them, the black boys in her school, or if she could even be friends with the “other black kids.” They were “other” to her, so outside herself, yet so much a part of her, that when her best friend told her that dating Mark Davis, the marching band’s white drummer, was just not something Farley High was ready for, the hurt cut straight through her. So she took another white boy to the dance, Rich Taylor, because she could, and because he was willing to go with her.

Looking at Todd, with his caramel skin and his afro the color of red clay, she might have felt the warmth that young girls do when the muscles of his arms rippled, had it not been for the fists he made of his hands, and the madness in his eyes. She hated the comb sticking out from the back of his afro.

Lucy tried to listen to Todd as he explained with every step, that he wanted her to say one word, just one word, because he just knew her little light-bright ass couldn’t say it right. He kept talking, but his voice became heavy, melted, and Lucy began to hear interference, static. The crack of a hairbrush handle against her head, when her mother hit her for having the hairdresser blow her hair dry straight; Mr. Dawson, her math teacher telling her that even if she managed a “C” in Trigonometry, she’d still fail Calculus because didn’t she see how all the colored kids struggled just be average? And her mother again, saying “You don’t look at Whitey from down here, or from up there, you look at Whitey right here” and pointing at Lucy’s eyes as if she wanted to gouge them out.

Todd stood in front of her now. She stared down at their feet, toes nearly touching. She felt his hot breath on the top of her head.

“Say . . . it” He’d beat her hard, right there, if she didn’t.

Which way could she jump? Which way would she fall? Lucy knew she couldn’t stay teetering on the fence between one shade of black and the next, between the people she called her friends, and the people who would fight for her. And she never could have seen how Kevin Wright would have come around the corner in another half a minute and talked Todd out of his rage; the “A” she’d get in college Calculus; the white man who’d leave her because he couldn’t believe she wasn’t the Italian or Native American or Spanish woman he thought he was dating, and the black men she’d never allowed herself to know because she was making a point, and the man she’d marry because she loved him; how she’d grow her hair and let it do what it does; or how she’d get more out of traveling to Argentina than anything she’d force herself to do in the Black Achiever’s Club the following summer.

So Lucy looked straight into Todd Phelp’s gray eyes, and heard her own voice, smooth and correct, when she spoke to him:

“Nigger.”

Topaz

2008-09-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

You burn,
and your tears are
clear
‘til they hit the sod—
pools of brown, black, blue

Don’t die crying,
be rare—be true.

First

2008-09-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

The second thing, no matter what it is--husband, leftovers, the day after--is almost never as good as the first thing, and is never exactly the same. "Different" is the word we use to survive change, the costume for "better" or "worse". There's a new chef at the Thai restaurant who replaces the pineapple in the Bo Satay with carrots. The Paris gallery where you bought the very last green amber bracelet on earth five years ago has been taken over by a deli. You just can't go back, ever--friends change and grow, the very air and light moves, is never still. Things evolve.

So what do we tell Lily? She is wearing the orange dress with puff sleeves that she loves best in the world. Her mother, who holds her hand as they walk across the bridge that links the property of Heritage Hill Elementary School with that of the parking lot of Springdale Acres apartment complex, has arranged her fine hair in soft brown bouncy curls all over her head.
What do we tell Lily, when they reach the front office of the school, and they tell Lily's mother (but Lily can understand too) that because the thus-and-such paper wasn't filled out, or didn't get filed in time, or whatever story they needed to tell, that Lily will have to come back tomorrow and start school on the second day. The second day of school. And that she must walk back home to their rented apartment, because that is where she lives, now that her mother has left her father and divorced him.
It's not surprising that Lily's mother is so ineffectual at this moment. Her words tumble about Lily like so much stupid noise. It's just that mothers are so in the thick of things, so near the center--someone from the outside needs to step in, to help Lily here.
I'll do it. I'll scoop her up like a little pillow and hold her to me. I won't lie to her--I'll admit that there will never be another first day of school. Not at this school, not like this one. The second day will be mediocre at best, and even the first day of her next year here will not really be the first. I'll tell her I know how this disappointment sits in her blood like mercury, but that she must wait. Because after the second day--well! There will be all the days when she'll forge her friendships; when she'll buy chocolate milk for lunch because she's told her mother that regular milk costs 55 cents; when she'll walk to school in her favorite brown shoes and one of her cardigans hugged about her with a box full of pencils, and empty notebooks waiting for her answers and dreams. I'll only tell her a little bit about the day her father will somehow, beyond all the corrupt powers of the corporate prison he works in, escapes for parent day(she's got to have some surprises); how she'll see him from way across the lunchroom in his suit and trenchcoat, and how they'll eat lunch together. I don't tell her about how they build a clay man together in art class and that for one day out of the art teacher's miserable life she doesn't hate any of the children.

And by the time I've started throwing in some of the hard times, like how her best friend will stop speaking to her for a week, or how humiliating gym class will be to an uncoordinated thing like her (the realist in me can't stop at all the nice-nice), it won't matter, because she'll be full of wonder again, and ready to take it all on.

Sankofa

2008-09-07T23:56:00.000-07:00

“We must go back and reclaim our past so we can move forward”

Where is my house
with the day-glo dishes
and the
single red wall?

While I was
looking for all
the little pieces
of our favorite
tea cups,

you came back,
and I was ready.

Bach told me
“there’s no such place as far away”
and

Here you are at last,
building my cupboards
instead of
tearing them down
and blaming me.