Memory of the Color Yellow

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Mother, the boy,” Rose would moan, looking at me from the corner of her eye. “Please.”

  She needn’t have worried. We were packed into a three bedroom bungalow and it was made clear by the frequent yodeling emanating from my aunt and uncle’s room that he was, in fact a man, in spite of his inability to hold down a job.

  The unemployment wasn’t completely Uncle Peter’s fault. He was a licensed electrician in Greece, but after the revolution, only Council Members could practice a trade. And you had to be a fourth generation Coalition Citizen in order to join. “Your children can join,” my grandmother explained, pointing at me.

  “But we’re screwed,” Uncle Peter replied, making a circle motion around the table which included me and Baby Steve.

  “That’s why they say the residents of the Towns are a drain on society,” my grandmother added.

  “Who said that?” I asked.

  “Everyone,” my father replied. “Foreigners are here for the free stuff.”

  “What a bunch of crap,” Stephanie said.

  “What’s free?” I asked.

  “Food, doctor’s visits, all the stuff we need to subsist,” Peter answered.

  “Subsist is the right word. We’re given just enough,” my mother said, patting my hand. “It’s barely enough to survive. Then we use what little money we make to pay our taxes.”

  “Let’s not forget our taxes,” my father said.

  “Like I said, we’re screwed,” Uncle Peter repeated.

  Uncle Peter was right; like other adults approaching middle age, until he was assigned a job, he’d be at the mercy of his wife’s family. In the meantime, he used the shed in back of our yard as an office of sorts to keep the house and yard maintenance tools out of the elements, also a place to keep his collective contraband. Some of his treasures included a stick shift from a 1967 Chevy Nova and an exhaustive collection of raggedy Victoria Secrets catalogs.

  “You want to see the history of women’s underwear, just look here,” he’d say, pointing to a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner.

  “Why in God’s name would anyone want to see that?” my grandmother cried, rolling her eyeballs.

  Unfortunately, my mother watched the shed like a hawk during the day and if I or my dad thought we could sneak in for a chance to look at the catalogs, we were mistaken. Every family had a few relatives like Peter, so extra bedrooms rarely remained vacant and since no one had a car, garages were repurposed into living quarters occupied by the extended family. We were not holding our breath that our garage would stay empty for long; my father’s brother, Nick made sure we knew he was next in line to move in as soon as he reached retirement age, about two years away. We’d never believe who would end up living there, but I’m getting ahead of the story.

  Once Stephanie and Peter had the baby and I wasn’t the only child in our house, all that attention formerly reserved for me was divided in half. The law since the revolution stated each couple could have one child. Mandatory sterilization after the birth took the responsibility of birth control out of the parent’s hands. It didn’t make any difference either if a baby was lost at birth; the parent had had their chance and blew it. Rarely, adults died without any relatives to leave their child with, making him available for adoption. I didn’t know any adopted kids. I knew of twins; two boys. Evidently, twins were okay. Multiples more than two became problematic. I wasn’t sure what was done about it until I was much older.

  Our lifestyle was normal as far as I was concerned because I didn’t know anything different. But my parents grew up through the rebellion, growing indignation as their autonomy was chiseled away. Those citizens my grandmother’s age remembered a completely different way of life, with freedoms enjoyed by all. She whispered about it to me when we were alone that evening, after the fiasco of Mrs. Polsky.

  “Slowly, unawares, our liberties and our ability to make choices were eliminated, one by one. On the outside, life looked about the same, almost better than it had been before the change. Gone from sight were slums and homeless people, hungry children, suffering. I was a socialist when I came here from Greece, and at first, I thought what was happening might be for the best.

  “In place of need; homogenized living for everyone. Free food distribution, safe housing, mediocre healthcare at best, but free immunizations, emergency services, and old age assistance. Of course, they chipped away at what people had saved for retirement, and now no one receives any work-related pensions. The government stole it all. Social Security ended about the same time the Coalition was put into place. People contributed to it for years and counted on it but it was taken away from us.

  “I’ve heard stories whispered behind closed doors, of people choosing to suffer in silence rather than go to the hospital, fears of being imprisoned with a serious illness perpetuated by rumors of patients losing control over their care, and even forced euthanasia. Life expectancy has been on the decline for the past fifty years. I just pray I die in my sleep.”

  “Yiayia, I hope you don’t die,” I said as she kissed my cheek.

  Although some of the financial stuff she talked about was over my head, the other sunk in, terrifying me. I couldn’t imagine homeless people or suffering. Our way of life was definitely better than that.

  On the day I heard the word Tiresias, I stood on the sidewalk with Aunt Stephanie while my mother ran up to the Polsky’s porch and banged on their aluminum screen door. “Jane Polsky, I know you’re in there! Come out now, before I call The Council.”

  Before I call The Council was a familiar battle cry, the beginning of a hoped for resolution in every conflict. If someone broke the law, it was easier to threaten them with calling The Council than getting them to apologize and work out a solution. To my knowledge, no one had ever called The Council in reality, the fear of inviting something worse into our lives a powerful deterrent. Mrs. Polsky’s stubbornness was known around the neighborhood and adults usually didn’t bother to reason with her, letting her get away with much more than was permitted. But this was serious.

  “Your boy, he awaken the baby,” she called from the dinner table.

  “It wasn’t just me,” I cried.

  “Get out here and talk to me,” Rose yelled. “My dinner is growing cold; yours can wait, too.”

  A reluctant Mrs. Polsky moved on the other side of the screen, clearly frightened and regretful. “What were you thinking?” my mother asked in a soft voice. “You shouted that so all the boys heard. Do you think I’m the only parent who will complain? Candy Antoni is probably marching over to The Council office right now.” Candy was Paul’s mother.

  “It’s too late,” Mrs. Polsky said, shrugging her shoulders. She looked around my mother’s body at me waiting on the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry, Steven,” she called. “I don’t wish you to go to…that at all.”

  Now that my curiosity was stirred up, I’d make it my business to find out about Tiresias.

  My mother shook her head in exasperation and left the porch, letting Mrs. Polsky have the last word. “Come on Stephanie,” she said to her sister. “Now we just wait it out.”

  Reaching me, they put their arms around my shoulders, steering me toward home. Hopefully, no one in the neighborhood would call The Council.

  “Let’s eat,” she said as we climbed the steps to the porch.

  My father had finished his soup and was washing up his bowl and spoon. “Well, is the world going to end?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “It might,” Rose answered. “We’ll just wait and see. Anyone call here yet?”

  My father shook his head, but as though scripted, the phone in the hallway rang a shrill ring. It was an ancient rotary dial phone, the only kind used now. Reaching for the hand piece, my father winked at me. “Steve’s house,” he answered.

  “Oh! Paul,” he said into the phone, tittering, rolling his eyeballs at me. Paul Senior didn’t like joking around. “I thought it was s
omeone for my boy. Just teasing. What can I do for you?”

  I could hear Paul’s dad talking, his voice rising and falling in anger. “Paul, just one minute will you? Steve is standing here.” He put his hand over the mouth piece. “Son, run along. This is private.”

  That was all I needed to make sure I heard every word. “Sure, Dad,” I said, walking back to my bedroom. The walls were thin, and it didn’t take much, my ear to the crack in the door, to understand that news of Mrs. Polsky’s faux pas had spread through the neighborhood. For his own safety, Paul Junior would let his father hear it through the grapevine rather than risk his life telling him like I did my family.

  He must have asked my father what he and my mom were going to do about it. “What are we going to do about it?” my father asked. “Why, nothing! It’s not our place, as you must know. History will not be carried down by word of mouth. ‘The law will dictate when certain aspects of life will be revealed, not familial tradition.’”

  Now I was really confused. From what book was my dad quoting? I could hear Paul Senior sonorous voice through the phone. “That’s bull shit! I don’t mean tell your kid. You have to do something, George, you or Rose call The Council and report Polsky before you get into trouble.”

  “According to Steve here, she said it to your boy. I think that means it’s your responsibility. Why don’t you call them yourself?” my dad asked.

  I could hear Paul Senior’s voice, the resonance vibrating deep in my chest. He was begging my father to do the dirty work; he’d already had one run in with Jane Polsky and was afraid he’d get into trouble if there was a second encounter.

  “Let’s not invite trouble, capisce?” My dad looked at his watch. “Besides, Paul, it’s nine now. Less than nine hours till we have to get up. If we call now, no one will get any sleep tonight and we all have to work in the morning.”

  Paul Senior must have said something about killing Mrs. Polsky because my father’s next words were consoling and admonishing. “No, no, you’re just upset, you don’t mean that.”

  I heard my mother’s light footstep, and when I peeked out the door, she’d joined my father in the hallway, standing next to him, holding his hand. Finally, my father hung up.

  “He’s not going to call, is he?”

  “Oh hell, I hope not,” my father said. “He has to get up at dawn, too. Let’s close up this place and get some sleep. I’m beat.”

  “The boy never ate,” Rose said.

  They saw me through the crack turn in my door, aware I was eavesdropping. “You can come out now, Stevie,” my dad said gently.

  Opening up, my parents waited for me. Worry, fear had taken its toll of everyone.

  “Come out, my love,” my mother said. “I’ll heat up your soup and cut you a nice slice of bread.”

  “I didn’t get bread,” my dad complained. “That’s not fair.”

  “Come, you can have it now, with jam.”

  We walked into the kitchen together, my dad and I sitting down across from each other while my mother prepared my soup and bread and put tea water on to boil. It was rare we were together alone for a short time while the others sat on the porch, enjoying the last of the summer nights before fall arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking from mother to father. “We won’t play in front of the Polsky’s house anymore.”

  “You play where you want,” my mother replied passionately. “I won’t have you restricted in our own neighborhood.”

  “Your mother is right,” George said, looking at me, concerned. “You’re a young boy. Play wherever you want.”

  “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Rose muttered. “Trouble in our own home.”

  That night while my family slept, I lay awake, my nerves taut. The power of a word had upset the balance of our life. My grandmother’s secrets about what it used to be like swirled through my head, both frightening me and tantalizing me. I longed to know what Tiresias meant.

  We had two government mandated books in our house; a tattered, outdated Merriman Dictionary, and a newer, vinyl clad bible. My grandmother moved the two books when she dusted the shelf on which they lay; gently handling the dictionary, but picking the bible up with the tips of her fingers like it was a piece of dog crap.

  “It’s not even a true version,” she said of the tome, a bastardized translation from a new religion conceived during the uprising which would change the world. “It doesn’t mention Jesus. How can a bible be a Bible and not even mention Jesus Christ our Lord?”

  “Watch it, Manula,” my father would say during these tangents. “We’re screwed if anyone hears you.” I knew who Jesus was; another secret revealed by my grandmother.

  Not able to squash my curiosity about Tiresias, I crept out of my room, feeling along the walls to find the way into the living room, the lack of streetlights and outdoor lighting making sneaking around tricky at night. Threats of shutting off the power grid after dark kept citizens from using electricity except for their most urgent needs; we didn’t even have a nightlight plugged into the bathroom and I’d stubbed my toe on the granite threshold more than once.

  Like the rest of our house, the living room wasn’t cluttered with memorabilia to fumble through and I put my hands to both sacred books with no trouble. Finding my way back to my bedroom without alerting my parents successful, I slowly closed the door with a click. I had my flashlight ready. Heart beating hard, I didn’t know what I was going to find, but I felt confident it would shed light on the events of the day.

  After I’d eaten dinner, I begged my parents to tell me the meaning of the word, Tiresias.

  “Oh my God, Son, don’t even speak it out loud, do you understand me?” My mother was beside herself, giving my shoulder a good shake.

  “We should tell him,” my grandmother insisted. “It can only give him the upper hand. Steve, you’re smart enough to keep your mouth shut if we tell you something, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes, Yiayia,” I said. “I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.”

  “Manula, with all due respect,” my father quickly whispered, frightened. “You’ll endanger the boy’s life if you tell him so I must insist you stop now.”

  “I’ll only tell him the myth. The Ancient Greek Library…”

  “Manula!” George cried.

  My father had just said earlier that day he was going to show me poems his father had written, also prohibited. Would doing so also endanger my life?

  “Dad, I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “If you had a knife to your throat you might!” My mother exclaimed, hovering over me.

  “Rose! For God’s sake,” George yelled. “Listen to what you’re saying!”

  The conversation stopped there.

  Under my covers with the flashlight leaning against my pillow, I looked up Tiresias in Merriman’s but it didn’t make sense to me.

  n: a blind seer of Thebes who in one Greek myth, is changed into a woman for several years and then changed back to a man. It was too perverse to even contemplate at my young age.

  Putting the dictionary aside, I reached for the bible. It was viewed with such disdain in our household I was almost afraid to crack the spine. What lurked between those covers that evoked such strong emotion? The absence of Jesus name was enough to throw my grandmother into a rage.

  Slowly opening the book to the first page, I wasn’t sure how to find what I was looking for. In school I’d been taught a rudimentary research technique utilizing archaic encyclopedias, so I had a basic knowledge of how to proceed. The table of contents didn’t tell me a thing. I flipped to the back and found the index and in the Ts found my word; Tiresias, Page 268.

  Tiresias-a prophet of Apollo in Thebes, blinded by the gods simply because he told their secrets. Tiresias is a transitional figure mediating between human beings and the gods, male and female, blind and sighted, present and future, this world and the Underworld. Then a sentence which would la
ter help me sort through the confusion; those things in life shall remain separate, like with like, blind with blind, sighted with sighted. Like shall stay with like.

  That sentence got my attention. I hoped it spoke of ancient times, that provocative phrase I heard my grandmother use. According to my sixth grade teacher, there was no such thing as a prophet, it was blasphemy. And what did Tiresias the prophet have to do with the place Tiresias that Mrs. Polsky wished upon my friends and me?

  I read on concerning Greek myth, of strange sexual imagery I couldn’t fathom, having to do with copulating snakes and nymphs, heady stuff for a twelve-year old. I wondered if it was what my grandmother referred to when my father begged her to stop. None of the information seemed powerful enough to have triggered the near hysteria a single word evoked in my family. Switching the flashlight off, I prepared to sneak out to the living room to replace the books on the shelf when I heard a scratching on the screen.

  “Manos!”

  The low, whispered hiss got my attention. I placed the books on the bed and crept to the window. It was Paul, hanging from the lower frame of the window screen, his flashlight shining in my face. Whatever drove him out after dark had to be significant because if he got caught, the punishment would be severe.

  “What are you doing? Are you nuts?”

  Imagining what could befall my friend terrified me, especially in the aftermath of the events of the day.

  “You have to come out,” Paul begged. “It’s important.”

  “Tell me now,” I said, too frightened to climb out the window.

  “I have something to show you,” he insistent. “You won’t believe it, Manos.”

  “Show me tomorrow, then,” I said.

  “I can’t! We have to leave the neighborhood and the drones will see us in the daylight.”

  The thought of trying to circumvent the manifestation of the drones increased my fear two fold. “What’s to prevent them from finding us in the dark?” I argued. “It’s still dangerous.”

  “No it’s not! And I can’t wait until tomorrow. Come on.”