by Cathy Lamb
“What is it, Ellie?” I asked.
“I am having a hard time envisioning myself walking down an aisle, clinging to Papa’s arm because, by tradition, he is giving me away. I can’t stand that concept. No one gives me away. I won’t give myself away. What I’m doing is getting married, not handing myself over like a cow to its new owner. I’m supposed to squish myself into a white dress, which traditionally is supposed to symbolize virginity, though I am not a virgin, and I think it’s ridiculous that society would value virginity anyhow. We should always value women on their character and personality, not on their hymen. So the color white is bugging me.”
“Maybe you should wear another color,” Valerie said.
“If I wore what I wanted to wear, it would be purple, as that is my favorite color.”
“Wear purple,” Valerie and I said.
“Purple?” My mother threw her hands in the air, eyes wide, oh, the horrors of it all. “For the wedding dress?”
“Gino would have a fit.” Ellie put the bag back to her mouth.
“That’s a bad sign right there,” I said.
“Man, I need a shot of vodka,” Valerie said. “At home. Not here. I have my car. You three should come to my house and get drunk after this. We could have so much fun.”
“I don’t like hangovers,” I said. “I find them depressing.”
“Brave it, Toni. So, Ellie, what’ll it be? You have to tell us before our saleslady hides in the back room and starts slamming straight shots.”
“I won’t—” The saleslady’s expression changed. “Well, I might... .”
“I don’t like any of them,” Ellie said. “I’m sorry. I don’t.” She lay down on the floor of the shop with her bag and closed her eyes. “Reach within yourself for your personal truth, Ellie,” she singsonged. “Be with your body, not your mind ... go to a meadow, a lake ... breathe a gentle spirit into your true self and be one with nature and your organic identity ...”
“How about be honest with yourself, smart one?” Valerie said.
My mother, in a state, stood up, marched over to her prone and chanting daughter, and put one leg on either side of her. “See? What I say?” She bent down to make her point with Ellie. “I have daughter with bag on face. What I done wrong? What happen? This black magic curse because of the Italian stallion.”
“This isn’t about the dress,” I muttered.
“Duh, Sherlock,” Valerie said. “It’s about the nonrusseman.”
“She made that word up,” I said.
“I know. Impressive,” Valerie said. “More efficient.”
My mother unceremoniously flipped Ellie over and smacked her on the butt. Twice.
“Ow!” Ellie said. “Ow!”
“You get yourself together, bag daughter. I not leave Soviet Union so you marry Italian who you no can breathe around.”
I slipped the saleslady a large tip and we left, Ellie leaning heavily on my arm.
“If you can’t breathe around a wedding dress, it’s probably a sign,” Valerie said.
“Shut up, Valerie,” Ellie said. Bag inflated, bag deflated....
* * *
“Hello, Daisy.” I fell into step beside my neighbor on the dock. “You’re off early this morning.”
“That I am. I saw you crying in your kayak. Poor lady. Sad. I’m going duck hunting. I’ll bring you home a duck so you’ll feel better.” Her white curls bopped about under a green hat with a yellow duck on it. A necklace of fake white daisies hung to her waist.
“Duck hunting?” Oh, that was bad, bad, bad. She was not carrying a visible rifle, though.
“Yes. I’ve got my duck hat on and my duck galoshes.”
Her galoshes were pink with white ducks, and she did have a hat on with a yellow plastic duckie on the brim. The hat had fake pink daisies stapled to it.
“And I’m wearing duck underwear. I had Georgie find them for me. He had to order them on the computer thingie.” She pulled up her skirt. Indeed, there were two yellow duckies on her bottom, which she let me see by bending over.
“Those are friendly ducks, Daisy.” I pictured Georgie, tall and menacing, searching for duck panties for his mother online. I tried not to laugh.
“I can have him get you some, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I had to say yes. The thought of Georgie, aka Slash, buying me duck panties was too precious to give up.
“Quack and quack. How’s your shot? Mine is ducking perfect. It’s from the Bad Years.” She pointed a fake rifle at the sky and shot it off. “I had to kick Georgie and Skippy’s dad out when they were little ducklings. He beat me with his wings. Walked in the door one time, drunk as a snake on snake oil, and I pulled up my rifle and pointed it at his ducking head. I told him, ‘You son of a female dog. I didn’t get married so I could get beaten up twice a week. Now take your sagging butt and your orangutan face and get out.’ ”
Daisy’s memories of the past are often much more clear than those of today or yesterday. “What did he do?”
“He argued. Said he would change. I’d heard that before, so I told him he had had seven years to change, then I shot at him.”
“Did you hit him?” I could see her burying the body.
“No, I missed on purpose. Couldn’t go to jail, what about my two small ducklings? Skippy and Georgie, what would they do without me? He took off running, quacking. We never saw him again. But I needed money, needed a business, or I’d lose our home. In those days, women were supposed to stay home and take care of ducklings. But not me. I started buying the moon, the sun, and the earth, and I was in business.”
“How much was the moon?”
“Expensive. But I had money squirreled away in a hole in the wall, like nuts. So I bought the moon, then got the sun at half price, and the earth I bought from a friend when he had to get out of town fast on account of a killer chasing him down. He owed the head duck a lot of money, but I didn’t.”
She pulled out a pink, plastic toy gun from her purse, aimed at a duck in the sky, and pulled the trigger. Then she searched the sky, twirling in a circle, to see if a duck was falling through the clouds. No duck. “Bad shot. I’ll try again.”
“Bye, Daisy.”
“Bye, honey.” She shot off her gun again.
* * *
The next morning I had a cake—white frosting, with a yellow duck—on my front porch. Daisy might call herself Crazy Daisy, but she still had the same generous heart she’d had forever.
* * *
Putting together a magazine, inside a newspaper, once a week, is a ton of work. Everyone has to get their stories in on time, written right. The stories are checked and rechecked by the copy editors and Ricki. The photographer has to get photo shoot assignments, and the photos have to come in with the right lighting and composition. The design people have to lay it all out, headlines must be written, the ads have to be added in, and the cover has to be designed, with the “tempting titles,” as I call them, on the cover so people will want to open the magazine.
“We want to inform, educate, and entertain,” Ricki said to all of us in a short meeting. “Don’t screw this up. It’s gotta be friggin’ beautiful. Write like your butt is on fire.”
I felt myself smile more the longer I was away from crime, criminals, and the justice system. Writing about homes, home décor, and remodeling projects is simply ... more joyful. Easier. I liked the group of ladies I was working with. Yes, all women, except for the photographer. Ricki said, “Someone could smash my ass for only hiring women, but hell, men did it for hundreds of years. Who are they to whine? Besides, the women were all far better candidates than the men. Bring on the estrogen, leave home the testosterone.”
We moved fast, without ego. We worked together, efficiently, friendly.
We worked long hours.
Our meetings were quick. We e-mailed extensively.
I actually started to get excited. I was helping to launch a homes and gardens magazine.
That work could now be slotted into the “fun” category was a revelation. Amazing what happens when bullets and knife wounds are no longer a part of your daily life.
* * *
I wrote my first column, on my tugboat, in bed, starting at ten one night. It was my goal to have at least five in the pipeline before we launched. I didn’t know what the title would be, so I wrote, “What will the title be?”
What Will the Title Be?
BY TONI KOZLOVSKY
I live on a yellow tugboat in the Willamette River.
My tugboat, in its former life, used to haul barges filled with timber, grain, sand, gravel, and larger boats. I bought it from a friend of my father, Captain Petey, who used to own it.
It’s about a thousand square feet total, three stories. I had the whole thing remodeled. I kept the original interior where I could, but some was rotted out and some had mold, and those parts had to go.
From my back deck, I watch Dixie, my blue heron, as she soars and glides. Anonymous, a bald eagle, visits, but not often enough, hence the name. A golden eagle named Maxie makes an appearance now and then. There are two beavers, Big Teeth and Big Tooth, who are building a new home, and a number of river otter swim around, so I call all of them Sergeant Ott.
I’ve added a bedroom next to the second-floor crew quarters. The crew quarters are now my closet. I’ve added a kitchen with blue cabinets and a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. The previous bathroom looked like, well, like men had been living on the tugboat for twenty-five years.
I had a bench built in the wheelhouse so I can search for shooting stars at night and watch the moon change color during fall. Chairs and tables on my decks let me live outside as much as possible.
I moved to my tugboat after a hard time in my life. I needed new, different. I needed change. I’m glad I moved, especially when the sun comes up, wrapped in hazy purples and blues, and when I return from my chaotic job in the city, I can sit and watch the river. Pizza tastes better eating it by a river.
Do I think I’ll stay here forever? No, I don’t.
But I love it for now. I love living in nature. I love living on the river and drinking coffee from my decks.
Some people stay in the same home for years, decades even. Others move every few years. Some homes call to us; some homes don’t ever seem to fit and we’re glad when we move.
Sometimes a home is suffused with memories, by the neighbors and friends we meet, by the children we have who run down the hallway and tackle the dog. Sometimes we’re simply passing through, a waiting spot, until we get our life back together and we move on.
I think a home, though, no matter what phase of life we’re in, should be a place of peace. A place of joy, a place where you can hide out and be alone and think, a place for you and your spouse or partner, your kids and the pets. A place for lasagna, beer, or ice-cream sundaes. A place where there’s color and light, organization and cleanliness, your favorite treasures next to your favorite mixing bowls.
Welcome to Homes and Gardens of Oregon, where we’ll be talking about homes and how to make them beautiful and peaceful, true to you and your life.
And welcome to this column, which I will be writing from my yellow tugboat.
We hope you like it.
Ricki called me the next morning. I was on my way out to interview two sisters who had designed their home to look like a hobbit home. I had caught a glimpse of two Sergeant Otts swimming by. They stared right at me and I waved. I had also seen, on the far bank, Big Tooth the beaver. Lucky morning.
“I am bustin’ my mind, lovin’ your first column. Personal, lets the reader get to know you, to know us, we’re not a corporation, we’re fun, high-heel-wearing women and we have someone quirky and odd who lives on a tugboat. Zippy awesome job, Toni, and I love all the photos of the tugboat that Stefano took. We’ll have you write the captions when we get it laid out.”
“Thank you.”
“Did Stefano take your head shot? We’ll put it in the corner of each column. What’s the title of your home column?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think quickly. Kim’s calling her column ‘Gardener’s Delight. ’ ”
“How about ‘Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes.’ ”
“Wet. Strange. Doesn’t Fit. It’s fantastic. We’ll use it. See ya tomorrow. Ten o’clock meeting. Meetings will never be before ten. I don’t want to see anyone before nine. It should be illegal to start working before nine. Too early for sanity. Bye.”
She hung up.
* * *
The dad, mom, and kids were inside the garage of the white house with the red door. The boys were jumping up and down, tossing a ball over the kayak; the mother was sanding it; and the dad had a hammer.
They were a happy family with a kayak.
I tried to buck up before my tears blinded me.
* * *
“She’s pr—”
“What?” Ellie, Valerie, and I asked at the same time.
“My daughter is ...” Our cousin JJ clutched her throat.
“Here, wine,” Valerie said, filling her glass and pushing it across my dining room table. Outside it was raining, the drops slashing against the windows of my tugboat, the wind whipping around the corners.
“She’s pregnant!” JJ howled, then covered her mouth with both hands, as if she wanted to shove the words back inside. She opened up her hands, like a book. “Pregnant. Knocked up.” She closed her hands, opened them again. “A bun in the oven.” Tears streamed from her eyes.
My sisters and I didn’t move. We were three shocked sister statues.
JJ opened her hands/book again. “A baby.” Hands closed, keep those words in.
We three sister statues were speechless.
“She’s expecting.” JJ’s voice cracked. She was losing it. “She’s in a family way.”
JJ’s mascara was smeared down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, JJ,” I finally stuttered out. I thought of her daughter, Chelsea. Black dyed hair. Black eye shadow. Black fingernails. Black clothes, black leather. Drummer in a rock band with other teenagers. She snuck into clubs. She snuck out of the house at night. She snuck into bars. She hid joints in her jewelry box.
As JJ had told me, “Chelsea needs a chastity belt and a leash. The leash needs to be wrapped around her neck and locked to a load-bearing wall in my house so she can’t escape at night.”
“That is bad news,” Valerie finally said.
“I know, I know!” JJ drank an entire glass of wine, head slung back. “Give me another glass of wine. Get the scotch out, Toni.” I gave her a straight shot of scotch. She tossed that back, too.
“How are you doing?” Ellie asked, which was a bit inane, because JJ was breaking down piece by piece, her hair a mess. If someone walked into her salon like that, she would shout at them, “Did you deliberately put your head in a weed whacker?”
“How am I doing?” she snapped. “I have a pregnant daughter. She is not out of high school. She is not married. She is a teenager. I am out of my head, that’s how I’m doing.” She slammed both hands on my table. “I am panicked. I am pissed. I am worried about her.”
My sisters and I adored Chelsea. She was a rock-and-rolling rebel, but she was charming and smart and musical and loved us right back. She hugged us all the time. When she was a little girl, she would cry when we left and beg us to live with her.
“How is she feeling?” Ellie asked.
“She’s hysterical. Scared to death. I thought I might kill her. I thought Jax was going to have a heart attack. He put ghosts to shame, he was so white. Jax and I have had two more dates where we pretend we don’t know each other and meet at a bar and pick each other up, and things have been all hot and heavy again. I even wore a blond wig last time and now this! This! We are going to be grandparents. How do you pick up a grandfather at a bar?”
“I’ll call Chelsea and tell her I love her,” I said. As soon as I could
get my mind around this.
“Me too,” Valerie said. “I love Chelsea, that wildflower child.”
“We’ll support her,” Ellie said. “Kozlovsky family, lots of love.”
“Oh. My. God,” JJ said. She put her refilled wineglass down too hard. I was surprised it didn’t break. “Does no one listen to me? It’s not Chelsea who’s pregnant!”
“What are you talking about then?” I asked. “Who’s pregnant?”
“Are you pregnant?” Ellie asked.
“You’re pregnant again?” Valerie said, incredulous. “Now that is a slip-up. You’re pushing middle age and you’re knocked up. Haven’t Jax’s sperm wings been clipped?”
“It’s all those dates that she and Jax have been going on when they pretend they don’t know each other and shack up for the night,” I said, happy for JJ. “You got carried away and voila. A new Kozlovsky. Congratulations!” I held up my glass.
“It’s not me!” JJ shouted. “It’s Hope. Hope is pregnant.”
What? Hope? My sisters and I were stunned down to our bones. Straight A student. AP classes. Played volleyball, basketball, ran track. The rain lashed the windows, streaming down.
“Yes. Hope. The academic star. The athlete. She’s pregnant.” JJ covered her head with her arms.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“That can’t be,” Valerie said.
“How?” Ellie said.
“If you have to ask how Hope got pregnant, Ellie,” JJ said, “you should not be getting married.”
“I meant—”
“She meant,” Valerie said. “Well, hell’s bells, we were not expecting it to be Hope.”
“No one did. But, she is, she is.” JJ put her hands over her mouth, once again.
“Is she keeping the baby?” Valerie asked.
“Yes. She’s keeping the baby,” JJ said. “She’s about six weeks along. She told me she already loves it.”
We sat in that for a while. Teenagers should not be pregnant. It was a disaster. But there it was.