And then she spoke. Violet looked directly at Ellie's father. "How's your boil."
"What boil?"
"I heard it was a boil you had."
The man just sat there like a grilled fish on a bed of parsley. The room was quietly confused and held its air in place.
"Mom, where did you ever get that idea?"
"Someone told me he had a boil."
We all looked at Violet as if she were a riddle.
"No.” Ellie gently answered. “My father doesn't have a boil. Where did you ever get that idea, Violet?"
"Well, someone told me he had a boil." Violet looked assuredly at Ellie.
My mother, for as long as I've known her had never accepted being called into question, especially if its focused intent was to prove her wrong. That rule she never lost to the dementias.
Violet sat there with an absent-minded smile given out of accomplished politeness. The words were left out of the stable now, running willy-nilly without ownership.
"Someone told me he got the boil from one of those massage places he visited?"
Oh my God. If it was of any comfort to Ellie's father, my mother had lost all the social implications pertaining to massage parlors and displayed a genuine concern toward his condition.
Ellie felt she had to say something. "You might have heard me talk about my brother Bill. He was the boy (sounds like boil) my father had from a prior marriage. But he doesn’t have a boil."
“Well my dear…” Ellie’s father nudged his daughter’s arm to get her attention. “You know Bill’s mother might have worked in a massage parlor at one time.”
Violet continued. "I can just imagine how you must feel. Having such a terrible thing like a big boil. We had a dog when I was a little girl that I loved more than anything in the world. One day he ran out into the street and got hit by a car. I just didn't think I would ever get over it."
[ Gradually my mother’s body was stuck only to the facts she created at that moment. Everything else was understandably… unreasonable.]
We sat there dumbfounded watching our afternoon conversation being slaughtered. The balloons nervously bumped into each other. Dora spoke, "What is girlfriend talking about? Someone rescue this little darling from herself."
I was hoping Ellie’s father would just stop talking to my mother, but he didn't. “I’m sorry about your dog. I also have very great love for animals and children too." He was so sympathetic that I wanted to jump out of my skin. He went on moving his lips and then I saw they were moving by themselves, like a preacher.
My mother was armed. "And are you declaring yourself to having a saintly nature?"
"Oh no… I don't think I... well I never gave that much thought..."
"You look saintly." I found myself lunging out of my chair. I picked up the tray of almond horns, secretly begging the powdered cookies to help in changing the subject. "We also have mom's cabbage horns that I just thawed out this morning. You love my mother's cabbage horns don't you?" Ellie and Sovina regained their senses adding "Oh yes, Violet's cabbage horns. We love them. Thank you. That would be great." Sovina jumped up first and moved quickly to the counter where the thawed horns sat as backup.
Ellie's father didn't like talking about boils or dead dogs but had the sense about him to change the subject. "Look at that bird over there on the lawn. It has golden eyes. Can you see him Violet? …over there. Can you see his eyes? That is a Barrow's Goldeneye."
"No, I think you're wrong... I am sure that’s a duck." Violet squinted forward in her chair, moving a slight bit closer to the window; a gesture she thought would show more scientific clarification and back up her sighting.
"Yes, I'm sure that's a duck." Those were fighting words. She looked as if she used up all her conversation skills. From that point on, the afternoon took on all the qualities of a bad dream, lurid and grotesque. At times my mother's naïveté made her words skip around like a young lamb, equivalent to a genius who had overcome the conventional boundaries of fact. Yet its bizarre intensity had a kind quality of demented splendor.
I began to feel a strong sense of tranquility as I sat there watching her face. How distant she seemed, separated by the shadows and panes of the sunlight that fell between the trees. I must have murmured something or sighed, for she turned to look at me and softly asked, "Do I know you?"
Slowly, Violet ventured out of all conversations. She would drop her head, rest her thoughts someplace that she would later forget and stare out on the lawn. She did not speak for some time.
Before the old man left the room, he bent over and kissed my mother on the cheek. Oh my God... I softly whispered to myself… this is NOT going to be good.
“It was a pleasure meeting you Violet and I do hope we can get together again while my stay in Chicago.” As the door closed behind them, before Ellie and her father left the stoop, my mother jumped out of her chair. She raised her shaking fingers and held them in the air like the hands of the angels in church. "Did you see that? Did you see what he did?” She gave me a look as if she wanted to poison me. “I swear on the grave of all the saints in heaven, there is no way I am going to marry that man and take care of all his kids… and his boil too! I am as free as a bird right now - I have my own life… I have a sec-terry..."
Violet sat back into her chair. The storm inside her had passed.
She pulled down her skirt to readjust its covering over her knees. Calmly she looked at her hands, pressing down the wrinkles on the skirt’s pattern; tiny horn shapes resembling the cookies she made with her mother and that she made with her children, although she did not remember. They were locked in an empty space inside, where a small girl's hands rolled almond horns in powered sugar and placed them on a shiny oiled baking sheet. Horn shaped cookies baked and wrapped in wrinkled wax paper were tied with string and placed in the side pocket of her purse where the other wrapped memories were hidden.
Sovina and I cleared the dishes and shared a cold Saris beer.
The day could only fold itself shut in its own time.
* “Violet. Miss Violet.” Violet recognized the voice and knew what she had promised. It was Skeeter. She looked around the room. Suzka and Sovina were busy at the counter drinking their beer. She ignored his call at first.
“Violet. Miss. Violet, it’s Skeeter. Remember?” Violet looked around the room twice and turned her head to the window as to redirect the landing of her words. Hopefully the window curtains would swallow the sound before they could be heard in the room.
“I’m busy now. Go away.”
“I’m not going away. You know why I’m here Miss Violet. You promised.” “Oh... I know… “
remember the certain
prepared. “But this is not a good time. I will meet you
later... you know… later, the much, much later time...
when it’s dark, yes in the nighttime, you know. I
promise. Just, just go away before someone walks in.” "I will come back for you after the sun is down and the
night is dizzy."
"Oh no, no. That will never work. Where’s my
remote? I have MetLife... I am dead sure I have MeLife at
that time.“
Violet dare not move save for the tiniest quiver of her
lips. “You are so confusing me.”
"I will see you tonight, Miss Violet; after your work is
done."
Desperately Violet tried to amount of excuses she had
Violet tightly held her smile and took a deep breath sucking in her secret. She closed her eyes and raised her shoulders. Something changed inside of her. She heard her soft voice surrender in girlish excitement... 'He called'.
Birds outside stopped what they were doing and shook their heads. [ It was about that time when I began calling my studio leaving long messages on my answering machine. I needed a part of me to be in my studio
– even if it was just my voice. ]
Later that night, Violet sat in her chair, unbut
toned the thin silk button of her bed jacket and waited. She looked around the empty room checking if there was anyone close who could possibly hear conversations she would have with Skeeter; if he actually would appear for their visit. There was no guarantee. This could all be a terrible trick.
She twiddled her mind in distraction and began rehearsing the numerous excuses she would use if Skeeter did return. Violet was determined to take better control over her new beau's demands. She would be direct and say words like… 'Maybe tomorrow. I'm busy today,’ or ‘I think that girl, the one with the painted shoes is taking me somewhere'. Or possibly she thought, she should be more forceful, threaten with – ‘The police are here... The house is on fire!’ No, no, no, that won't work,' Violet lined up her excuses and hoped she would not forget their order. ‘Remember he will have a certain amount of excuses on his own. Don’t let him get on your nerves’, she told herself.
Violet knew she was forgetting things. Somewhere, there was a young man she met and married. It was a picture floating under water. She tried to remember. She would watch it disappear and reappear in the water.
"Miss Violet. It is Skeeter." Once he spoke her name, once she heard his call in that seductive deep tone, all the excuses in her head blew away like feathers on a dandelion that had lost its voice. How could anyone resist the passionate desires from such an ardent fiery man? Where was her Jesus?
"Hello Miss Violet. It is an absolutely beautiful night. The Gods of all the worlds created this night just for you." Violet heard his voice but did not answer. She was filled with serious confusion.
Remembering he had a certain amount of persuasion and a double rapture. Keep cool, she thought.
"Are you ready? I have wonderful plans for us. You must come. I will not take no for an answer. The sky has already turned on its stars for our arrival."
Violet looked around. She thought she saw two birds on the opposite side of the window watching but they were asleep in their nests. Violet was alone and defenseless.
"Well, I don't know... "
She tilted her head to one side and sternly whispered to Skeeter under her skin. "You are truly acting like a crazy man. You think I can just pick-up leave here at any time. I hardly know you. Yes we met and talked a bit a few days ago… I can't remember exactly when it was but... anyway, everyone is going to get suspicious. They would think me insane if they knew I ran off with some strange handsome man in the middle of the night. They would send me away for sure."
The time assigned for respectable decision-making was scrambled and soon would be completely ignored. Violet was tangled in thoughts. What was she ever going to do? How could she fight the dementias? She held on to her purse tightly – the purse filled with everything that held her in place – all the memories she couldn't remember. Both hands gripped the purse’s straps. Even if she said no, he would surely come back. The dementias deranged all thoughts of decency.
If she only knew specifically the times Skeeter would call for her, when he wanted her. If she could somehow know in advance of his visits, the gaping disruptions with his exotic escapades, possibly then she could box them in short meetings throughout the day as not to be noticed.
Violet, like a stuffed doll floating down stream had a marvelous secret just under her skin.
Skeeter waited for her as she hid behind the veil of white purity and camouflaged memories. He didn't care how she came to him or the battles she fought with meningitis and encephalitis that rearranged her brain. He simply wanted to be with her. He was in love, completely, utterly in love with this tiny woman.
Skeeter's smile softened his words. "No one will think you insane. You are too clever for that. We will be very careful. Trust me. Just slip on your red sequined gown and say you will go with me. We will laugh, dance and party 'till dawn. You will be very happy, trust me."
Violet stood at a locked gate. Skeeter handed her a key and pointed to the gate’s door, the door that would lead her to everything. Her curiosity cautiously hoped she would squeeze through.
On the other side, a tall handsome man carried a tiny bouquet of daisies and a larger than life father turned his head and winked at Violet to come. Birthday parties and family dinners were everywhere, people danced in step, singers sung in tune. Prairies of plastic flowers came to life spraying the air with their desired scent. There she would remember everything - everything she created.
* In time, Skeeter grew more ruthless and demanding as their love grew. His frayed patience tore at his heart and pressed hard against his chest. If she would not come to him, he had no choice but to take her without permission, just short of rape. He would have to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, ripping open her silk and exposing her breasts. Pearl buttons that once buttoned down her memories would fall to the ground and roll away.
30.
ESPIONAGE AND OTHER SUSPECIOUS ACTIVITIES
The house was strangely quiet. The muses were asleep and the moon was quite full that particular night. I was downstairs trying to sleep but the sheets on the leather couch made my dreams slip and slide out of my head. Maybe popcorn would convince my dreamy delusions in coming back. I rolled off the leather and made my way up the stairs. The hum of the heater was loud from moving the heavy air out of my way. Twice its forced air slapped me in the face before I got to my mother’s room. The room was covered in moonlight muting the furnishings' hard edges.
At first I couldn't find my mother. The couch was neatly dressed and empty. The sheet was folded properlike and the blanket appeared not to have a clue of my mother's whereabouts. Her purse was peeking out from under the couch's pillow.
Behind the sofa was my mother - vertically awake and seemingly on a mission. I questioned my eyes. This tiny woman stood ironed flat against the windowed wall and positioned like a jumper on the narrow ledge of a twenty-storied building. Her hands were pressed back and at her side; one hand gripped the lace drapes, the other hand held the remote control. Mom stood unbent which caused her height to exceed its five-foot stature.
I watched her from the other side of the room. The moon chalk-lined her exact location. I squinted my eyes and moved them closer into my mother. From where I was standing, I could see that she was wearing a satin pink bed jacket over her day clothes. A part of the dress she was wearing earlier stuck out of the jacket’s collar. On her head, bunched hairs were claw-clipped in scattered places. A few hairs tried to escape but were captured by her large round clip-on earrings. Mom never ever went anyplace without her earrings.
My mother then scooted on the jumper's ledge and shuffled her way to the far end of the curtains. When she reached the corner, she split the curtains with the barrel of her remote control, which allowed only one eye to peek though.
The room was eerie quiet. The moon had whispered my presence into my mother's ear. She turned her head startled at first but unrelenting. I must have felt like a hunter pointing a loaded rifle at a mother dear. She kept a guarded distance and visually interrogated my intentions.
"Shhhhh" pressing the edge of the remote to her lips. What is she doing? I raised both my eyebrows and lowered my head a tiny bit looking straight into her eyes
- a gesture requesting some direction, some answers. I am not completely sure but I believe at that very moment dementia took mercy on the little woman and squeezed out a few flashbacks of a rebellious middle child that solidified her decision to trust me.
"I'm glad you're here. You can help me." I felt strangely close to my mother, mischievous and a bit dirty. We were a team, partners in a crime. We were Thelma and Louise, Cheech-n-Chong, the Easy Riders of the moment. I moved closer to the little commander for instructions.
"Now watch carefully. Watch very, very carefully. They're out there, hiding behind those trees, waiting. Can you see them?" Without Violet moving her eyes from the window, she continued updating me on the facts.
"They get their boys to do all the work. They’re big boys and strong too. They come out late at night when they think I’
m in sleep. And that's when they start stealing my land."
Violet quickly looked toward me and pumped up her seriousness. "They've done this before."
It appeared to me that my mother was not yet comfortable with her liberating dementias. She didn't trust their gifts of freedom or the ageless voice inside her soul. What more would she have to give to the dementias to stay in their good graces? They fed on memories memories she was not willing to give up, not without good reason. She would remain fooling everyone, keep her screams muted and bite down on God's graces. She kept her thoughts suspicious. Paranoia just laughed and threw in all kinds of scenarios to keep Violet distracted.
I had to be very careful with my questions. I was walking a thin line. "How do they steal your land?"
"You know how they do it?” Violet obviously turned her ears off and never heard my question. But I was sure she felt my interest to be sincere.
"They move it. See those stones? They move all those stones one foot over onto my property." The accused stones were stacked like a hedge about three feet high and two feet wide extending the full length of the property. They sat precisely on the property line of the two lots for decades. The stoned hedge was in Violet's full view from the room's line of windows. The only thing between Violet and the stones was the garden of plastic begonias.
Violet lowered her voice. "That’s what they do when I’m not looking… one stone at a time." Violet retreated from added arm gestures and strengthen her argument. "In the middle of the night they move all those stones over a foot into my yard. They do it carefully so I don't notice. Then when I get up in the morning my yard is smaller. That's how they steal my land. They're sly.” She repeated it again. “They take a foot at a time."
Violet finished relating the facts and returned her attention to the alleged crime scene. It was tensely quiet. The hum of the heater lowered its voice. We all waited.
"This is a criminal of fence in the sight of God and the church. And it's a sin too. A Goddam moral sin... a morbid sin... or mortal, well, you know what I'm talkin' bout… one of those big ones. I can't remember all those sins they have now. We got so many it’s hard to remember all of ‘em."
Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand Page 19