My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  Mark wasn’t around much. I think he felt tied down by marriage and being a father. And in those days, living with your mother had a stigma attached to it so being at home reminded him of his failures.

  Mark’s attitude started wearing down Rose. Over time she got more and more “tired”. Didn’t have the energy to take care of her children, Mark or herself. For the eight years they lived with me, she saw a doctor at least once a year and no one had an answer.

  If you want an old lady’s perspective, here it is. Having a child is work. Everyone dreams of having baby but no one dreams of having a four-year-old who won’t eat his carrots and a two-year-old who’s happy to throw carrots everywhere. So dreams soon turn into reality and the shine of parenthood quickly disappears. That is unless you’re a grandparent who already knows this and knows what to expect.

  So Joshua and I spent a lot of time together in my crafting room. And I’ve read so many descriptions of this room, each one more fanciful than the next. So here’s the truth: It was a twelve-by-twelve room with two windows, two chairs, a workbench and four cabinets that held my completed pieces and supplies. That’s it. Sometimes the most horrible stories start in the most unassuming places.

  I had started this hobby as a way to pass the time while keeping my mind and joints nimble. Occasionally I would sell some pieces. Marilyn Clark suggested I sell them on consignment in her husband’s store, which I thought was very sweet. And once a young girl, Jessica Wish, asked me to make butterfly pendants for her wedding party, but for the most part, this was something I did for myself.

  Joshua practically grew up in that room. I’d watch him so Rose could rest or when Mark “needed a break” from everyone. He was at my feet and then sitting on a chair next to me. Never once did he show any interest in making his own. He’d watch me. He’d hand me tools or pieces as I crafted but anytime I offered to teach him how to make his own, he’d always decline. “I like watching you, Nana.”

  And that’s the way it was for eight years.

  Joshua’s screams pierced throughout the house. When you're a parent and a grandparent, you start to learn children’s cries. The pitch and frequency tells you if they’re hungry, need to be changed, tired or if they’re bored and just need a little attention. I had never heard a sound like this come from Joshua.

  When I walked into Mark and Rose’s bedroom, Joshua ran into my legs so hard he nearly knocked me over. He clung so hard, I could feel the bruises forming as he squeezed tighter and tighter. Between his sobs, all I heard was the word, “no”, repeated over and over again.

  “I’ve got a friend out in Ohio,” Mark explained, “He’s starting a business and says he needs guys like me. It’ll pay enough that I can buy our own house in just a few years.”

  I had become so used to the house being full, I had forgotten that it might be empty again some day. If my sweet Joshua wasn’t holding onto my legs right then, they very well might have failed me. But a grandmother can’t cry. Not when others already are.

  A week later, they had all their things packed up. I was walking through their now empty rooms and pitying myself. I wasn’t ready for the quiet. And I heard a sobbing coming from… somewhere. I finally tracked the sound down to Joshua’s room. And inside this little crawl space I didn’t even know about (I’m always amazed at what a child’s curiosity and boredom can discover) was Joshua, crying.

  “Nana, I don’t wanna go.”

  “I know, sweetie. I don’t want you to go either but your dad and mom are trying to take care of you.”

  “Nana. I don’t want you to forget about me.”

  I just about felt all the air rush out of my body right then and there. As a teenager, a stubborn mule kicked me once and that didn’t hurt my chest as much as that one sentence uttered by Joshua.

  What can you tell a child after they speak words like that? At a loss for words, I reached my hand into that crawl space, took his hand in mind and pulled him onto my lap. We sat there for who knows how long. The only sound was an occasional muffled sniffle.

  When I finally found the strength to stand, I led him into my workshop. I opened all the drawers and containers and asked Joshua to pick any piece of jewelry he wanted.

  “Find one that will always remind you of me. So no matter what happens, you’ll always have a part of me with you.”

  You’ve never seen a nine-year-old take a task so seriously. He didn’t look at every piece. He studied them. One-by-one, pieces were eliminated. A little spider pendant I had created was discarded, much to my surprise. Purple brooches were placed off to the side (purple was my favorite color). Rings I had spent summers meticulously crafting weren’t given a second glance. Finally, Joshua held up a simple circular pendant with a dirty jade crafted in the middle. He held it in his hand and looked at me. He eyes floated from the pendant to my eyes. “This one. Please,” his voice quavered.

  “Take it and now no matter how much time goes by or how far we are, we’ll always be together,” I told him. His shoulders relaxed as he sighed deeply. It was the calmest I had seen him since he found out he’d be leaving me.

  “Mom, we’re ready to go. Is Josh with you?” And with his dad’s voice echoing through the now half empty house, Joshua put that dirty jade pendant that I don't even remember making in his pocket and we walked down the stairs hand in hand.

  As they drove away I was left with a question, “Why did Joshua pick that piece?”

  If I have any regrets, it’s that I never asked him. I don’t know if it would have answered anything or acted as a warning but at least I’d know.

  What shouldn't come as a surprise is Mark and the family didn’t stay very long in Ohio. Apparently that “great opportunity” turned to smoke quick. For years, the only way I knew where they were was when I’d get the occasional letter, usually around my birthday or the holidays. Kentucky was their next stop, followed by Missouri, Kansas, and Iowa. All the letters basically said the same thing: they had moved because Mark had heard about some fool opportunity, but it would never work out. Always someone else’s fault. The boys were good. Rose was good. And that was it. I’d write back but who knows if Mark ever got my side of the correspondence.

  Their journey went on for about twelve years. Sometimes I’d get a letter every few months, other times it’d be nearly a year before I heard from them. Then one day, I’m washing dishes and there’s a knock on the door. When I go to answer it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was looking at my sweet Peter. This wasn’t the Peter I had grown old with, this was the Peter that spent weeks courting me with flowers he’d picked from a neighbor’s garden. It was Joshua. My adorable shadow had grown into a man.

  When I asked him what he was doing there, he just shrugged and said, “Guess I got tired of moving.” Apparently Mark was getting ready to move again. This time to Oregon. Oregon? They would have been the first people I’d ever known that traveled that far. I couldn’t blame Joshua. Or maybe I didn't want to because I wanted the house to fill up again, even if it was just by one.

  At the time it didn’t mean anything but looking back, I know what he brought with him. He carried an unassuming bag with all his clothes and a beautifully carved, mahogany box. When I asked Joshua if he wanted help carrying his things up to his room, he handed me his clothes despite that box—that damn box—being much lighter.

  People have claimed that I should have realized what that was but that’s just unfair. How could I think of anything other than joy? My Joshua had come home.

  The Bauble Butcher. Can you believe that? Oh yes, I’m sure some newspaper man thought himself very clever when he came up with that. But I find it disgusting and disrespectful to reduce Joshua and all those poor souls down to some trite wordplay.

  It wasn’t long after Joshua returned I found him in my crafting room, hunched over the table working. I was able to get four steps into the room before he noticed he wasn’t alone. Without looking at me, he snapped that mahogany box closed.

  “When di
d you learn to make your own pieces?” I asked.

  “Here and there. Met some people along the way.”

  “I’d love to see what you’ve made. Maybe we can share some time up here tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great, Nana.”

  Not once did he turn around and look me. And the whole time, he kept his hand on that damn mahogany box, like someone was going to swoop in and take it from him.

  The next morning, I heard him rustling around in his room. He was packing his clothes. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “A friend wrote me. Said I should go visit him in South Carolina.”

  “And you’re leaving now?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll be back.” He walked past me and kissed me on the cheek. As he walked out of my house, carrying his suitcase and that mahogany box, chills went through body. At the time I dismissed it as hurt feelings, “He’s just like his father, I guess.” But, yes, now I know that was the universe trying to warn me.

  Now the other thing people accuse me of is being blind for the next five years.

  And to that I tell them that, yes, hindsight must be a wonderful gift to possess.

  Joshua treated the front door of my house like a turnstile. Stay for a few months, leave for a few, and then return.

  Each departure corresponded with a “break-up”. His words, not mine, mind you.

  And why would I question that? He was a young man dating young women. Joshua would bring these girls around for a spell and then one day he wouldn’t be with them anymore.

  “Would you like to bring Madeline to dinner on Sunday?”

  “No, Nana, we aren’t seeing each other,” and he’d go about his day. Then soon after he’d head back out again.

  I thought he was trying to mend his heart. And why would I think any different?

  These people who claim I should have “known”, I wonder if they give the third degree to their children when their relationships end. Of course not! But me, I should have known?

  Some people are just so ugly and judgmental.

  November 12, 1921. That’s the date everyone remembers but the day before was the more important one. And this, this I take full responsibility for.

  Joshua has been back, again, for a month and had picked up some work stocking shelves at the local store. I knew he was just working there because he’d be leaving again soon.

  I was walking by the crafting room. Those days, the door was always closed, whether Joshua was working in there or not. But this morning it was left open and sitting on the bench was that mahogany box. Maybe if I had ignored it, things might have been different. But I didn’t.

  I went into the room and opened the box. Inside the box were little felt pockets and each pocket was filled with a small piece of jewelry. They were all different types of shapes and gems. I guessed there might have been thirty or forty pieces in there.

  As I looked at the pieces, I noticed each had an engraving, four letters and six numbers. TH.O.051616. JC.S.CAR.120117. AM.PENN.060819. And each piece had a slight brown discoloration in the gem. Finally the guilt of snooping overwhelmed me. I put the pieces back, closed the box and left the room, thinking I was nothing worse than a bored, nosey grandmother.

  The next morning I was reading the paper in the kitchen when Joshua walked in.

  The first thing I noticed was how dark his eyes looked. He was also carrying that damn box with him.

  “They’re so I’ll never be alone, Nana.”

  It was like he had started a conversation in his head and expected me to know what he was talking about. The most important conversation in my life and the memory is a complete blur.

  He talked about leaving me when he was six. About the jade pendant. How he knew he was never alone because I was part of the pendant.

  I tried to respond but he kept talking. It was like someone had turned on a spigot and all the water was rushing out. As he was talking, he opened that box and started taking pieces of jewelry out.

  He talked about moving to Ohio and how his parents were never home and his brother never wanted to play with him. They never cared where he went and what he did.

  He talked about the father of a friend he’d made in school and how that man had a special room Joshua wasn't supposed to tell anyone about.

  He talked about a young lady in Kentucky who was going to be a nurse one day and wanted to practice on Joshua.

  He talked about his first girlfriend in Montana. And how after two weeks, this girl, Helen, decided she didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. As he talked about her, he held a small pendant in his hands. He then handed it to me. I read the inscription: HP.MONT.061814.

  “Mom didn’t care. Dad just laughed at me and told me to stop crying. I liked her.

  I didn’t want to be alone. And it’s like you said, the jewelry meant I could keep them with me no matter what.”

  He pulled out three more pieces. He handed me a small quartz brooch. The inscription read RL.MONT.090215. “Mom found the box and figured out what I had done. And about the girls.”

  He handed me a ring with some small topaz shards in it. The inscription read ML.MONT.090215. “Then she told Dad. They said they were going to tell.”

  “Timothy walked into the house before I could finish cleaning.” Joshua showed me a third piece, a small bracelet with yellow topaz. The inscription read TL.MONT.090215

  Joshua stood up and handed me a jade pendant. The same one I gave him all those years ago. But now it had an inscription: ML.PENN.111221.

  From behind, I heard him say, “I wish you hadn’t opened the box. But at least we’ll always be together.”

  I’ve been in the black ever since.

  In Okome, Pennsylvania, there’s a cluster of oak trees near a bend in Little Pine Creek. In that cluster is a tree with two knot holes. Dig at the base of the tree. If you find my Joshua’s mahogany box, please open it and smash each piece of jewelry. That may be the only way we can finally move on. And rest.

  Jessamine

  The story of

  Jessamine, the Naturalist

  Samantha Boyette

  Jessamine was eight years old when she first discovered she wasn’t like other children. That was the year her parents died and she moved from the city to the aging family home with her uncle Charles. He was old even then, his children already grown and on their own. No one knew what had become of his wife; she’d disappeared years before. Some said she’d run out on him with a local ruffian, others said Charles had killed her. Jessamine didn’t hear those rumors until she was much older.

  The idea of moving into the country home with her eccentric uncle scared her at first, but as the carriage bumped down the long drive that led to the house and the woods surrounded them, she began to feel a peace she’d never known. Uncle Charles was away on business and she’d been greeted by the small staff he kept on. A butler had taken her things to a second floor bedroom while a maid took her into the kitchen for lunch.

  “Now, poppet, be a good lamb and eat it all. You must be hungry from your journey,” the woman said as she fussed over Jessamine.

  She obediently spooned thick stew into her mouth, finding it well spiced and appealing. When it was gone she sat, swinging her legs and waiting to be told what to do next. In the city there had always been lessons to attend, tea party dates with the other children of the well-to-do, play dates in the park. The maid pursed her lips as she looked at the girl, unsure what to do with a child who sat so silently. Charles’s children had been boys and they’d rarely sat silent or still.

  “Head out to play if you’ve finished. No need to sit under my feet all afternoon.

  “Out?” Jessamine tilted her head. “Who shall I play with?”

  “You’ll play with your own self, poppet.” The maid leaned on the table, bringing her face close to the small girl’s. She wasn’t the prettiest child with a round face and mouse-colored hair, but she wore a sweet expression. “Woods out back are full of magic for a girl who know
s where to look for it.”

  “Really?” She put two of her fingers in her mouth, sucking them and looking toward the windows.

  The maid gently tugged her fingers free and nodded. “Really. Now, off with you. I’ll ring the bell for dinner.”

  Jessamine nodded and slipped from the chair. She paused as she gripped the handle of the back door and looked back at the maid one more time. The maid nodded her encouragement and she left the house.

  The woods enveloped her like a warm hug and she slipped through their narrow paths like she’d spent her whole life under the cover of trees instead of on city streets. She stumbled and fell to her knees, laughing as she landed in soft moss. She leaned forward, digging her fingers into the dirt and doing what came to mind without giving it a second thought. A seed sprouted from between her fingers, the plant growing until the bud of a flower appeared and then bloomed.

  *

  Those had been different times, lighter times, when she was young and life held so much potential. Now she was an old maid, thirty-five and unmarried because she’d spent her adult life caring for her uncle, not that he’d taken the time to care for her as a child. That had been left to maids. Still, his own children refused to return home as the man became sicker and more obstinate. Jessamine stayed out of guilt.

  “Jessamine,” the old man yelled. “Bring me my port.” A cough racked his frail body. “Jessamine!”

  “I’m right here,” Jessamine snapped, entering the study and moving to pour the man a glass of the vile liquid.

  When she took it to him he smiled to reveal three missing teeth. He took the glass in one hand and cupped her behind with the other. The smile turned into a leer as he squeezed. She smacked away his hand, uncaring that it would bruise his ancient skin. This had been the only care he’d ever shown her, first only small touches here and there as he became accustomed to having her as his ward and then late night visits to her bedroom that became more frequent as she aged until one day at sixteen she had enough.