Off Center In The Attic

by Mary Deal

  In the kitchen her pots and pans hang from a rack over the island stove. Mother really did remodel well. She had even painted Hawaiian cooking scenes in sepia fit for an island-style kitchen. On one wall under the cupboards she had painted two brown-skinned island men lifting a barbequed pig out of an imu. That's what she called it; an imu, an in-the-ground roasting oven. On the wall behind the table, three hula girls danced before a luau spread on the ground. The flowers they wore and the ones on the lower corners of the mural had red in them. Those were plumerias. Mom had sent pictures of those beautiful flowers. Mom knew what she was doing. This kitchen felt like a fun place to be. I can see myself cooking in this room. I can see Mom and me cooking together. I only wish….

  Upstairs, her bedroom is also finished in lavender, her favorite pastel. Her Balahe perfume delicately lingers, the black designer bottle awarded center placement in front of the mirror on the dresser. Mom was only five feet, three inches tall; like me, or I like her. She didn't care for a king-sized bed. Her town house is small and the wide twin-sized Hawaiian punee bed with its hand-carved Koa frame surely served its purpose. A Hawaiian quilt of lavender plumeria designs covers the bed. Several soft lavender and purple flower paintings grace the walls on a backdrop of a woven lauhala mat. A tall silk banana tree with its reaching leaves simulate shade over the punee.

  When I turn to leave, I spot her shortie nightgown hanging on the bathroom doorknob. Its delicate pink florals match the pinks in the bathroom. I can only stand and stare. I'm not ready to empty her closet.

  Though I haven't yet been to the gabled crawl space in the attic, I know Mom wouldn't paint in any place other than a spacious well-lit area. The second and only other bedroom is at the front of the house, which faces north.

  “Paint in north light, Margaret,” she would say. “It's the only true light.”

  Again my hand shakes as I reach for the knob to the second bedroom. I take a deep breath and slowly open the door. What greets me takes my breath away!

  Mom's huge easel sits to the side of the window. It looks as though when she painted, the sunlight would strike the canvas from over her shoulder. True light, she called it. So much art hung on the walls that every portion of space was claimed. Variations of every Hawaiian flower imaginable looks at me from the canvasses. I don't know how long I stood there, turning slowly to look at each and every piece.

  To the left of the easel are more rows of finished canvasses, leaning back against others; to the right of the easel, the same. My mind is on overload. I spot her brushes, something she touched more than any other item in her possession. Mom was a bit compulsive. Her habit was to thoroughly clean all wet paint from her brushes at the end of the day before leaving them to dry. All her artists' tools were spotless, including the handles. Probably the last ones she used were the ones lying pointed downward from a small decorated ceramic wedge to keep fluid from settling into the ferrule and softening the glue that holds the bristles in place.

  Mom's urn is still wrapped in my arm. I still hold her mail, feeling her close to me through these personal items. I stand shaking my head. This was my mother's life. All she ever taught me, I find in this room, this house. I'm unable to stop my tears. An incredible feeling overwhelms me. I feel at home here; my own home in Phoenix seeming nondescript and empty and may as well be in a foreign country. I want to live here. Thoughts race through my mind with lightning speed.

  In the corner of the room sits a small white wicker desk with her laptop sitting to the side. Her white painting smock hangs over the back to the chair. The front is covered with splotches and dabs of many colors. I place her urn and mail on the desktop. Without thinking twice, and feeling compelled to put it on, I pull the smock off the chair and hurry to the bathroom. In the mirror, I see myself, the painter. Then I see my mother, and then I see myself again.

  Back at her desk, two framed photos, one of Mom with two young children, hang on the wall behind. The other photo is of a group of young children. “Mom?” I ask as I bring the photo from the wall and study the proud smiling faces. In the picture, Mom shows that she had aged well. Her hair remained true blond. I run my fingers through my blond hair, as if touching might feel like touching hers again.

  In the same photo, she is in the center with a pre-teen African-American boy on her left, a cherub-faced brunette girl in her early teens on her right. This is really puzzling, but only until I realize the message of the photo. Hanging on the wall behind the boy in the photo are several paintings of Africans, some in native dress. On the wall behind the girl are many small canvasses of birds and animals.

  “Were you mentoring?” She hadn't mentioned teaching. I have a feeling there was much more to Mom and I'm soon to find out.

  My attention is again drawn to mom's painting smock which I still wear. It fit me perfectly. My mother's essence is still present. This smock will always be hers, not mine. In time, I may frame it and hang it on the wall. It is so her. But for a while, it is also me.

  I needed to open her mail, to pay bills and to clear up loose ends. The invitation to the art showing stated, “Your art leaped out at us. We hope your exquisite art will grace our showing by entering a few pieces in the Expo….”

  That invitation told me Mom's life hasn't ended, even as I must organize a memorial service here in Hawaii.

  File folders contained papers that indicated Mom was organizing a scholarship for underprivileged art students. I pause, shaking my head in wonder, unable to read through bleary eyes.

  Unlike Mom, I have not had a child to whom to pass along this legacy. Knowledge and the ideals she stood for cannot end with me. I don't know how long I sat with my elbows on the desk and my forehead leaning against my knuckles. The sun had shifted and I had to turn on the desk lamp.

  After much thought, I knew what I needed to do. The change would be a monstrous undertaking but one I want more than anything. Mom always said, “You can accomplish anything you wish, as long as you don't tell yourself you can't.”

  I'll be moving into this townhouse that Mom left me along with her few worldly possessions. I'll be showing Mom's art. I'd be honored if some of my pieces could be chosen to grace the showings next to hers in the future. Collectors who loved her work will buy the last ones left. The best pieces, however, I must reserve for my private collection and to use as examples to improve my own work and to teach. Mom has given me yet another gift.

  Out of that thought sprung another truly wonderful idea. It happened quickly just as Mom would have decided. Why not? I'm part of her. The idea was that while I have no child to whom to pass along this knowledge, I can find one or more to mentor. I will establish this scholarship she began. I can also establish a trust in Mom's name to benefit more children in art. Mom's legacy will live on. Who else would carry it out but the daughter who is so much like her. “I can do anything I wish, as long as I don't tell myself I can't.”

  An Urgent Letter

  Any Date

  Ms. Hopeful Writer

  Goddess of the House

  Your Writing Niche

  Nowheresville, Writers' World Unzipped

  Dear Ms. Writer,

  I was meant for writing. Each time you stick me into your mouth, I promise to stain your teeth.

  Never mind thinking me faulty and changing the cartridge. I work well in all colors. You would look ridiculous with one black tooth, one red, one blue, and so on. That's unless you wish to incite a new fad of rainbow teeth. That would be as strange as the stories you create and might even garner you more rejection. So please, I'm not a pacifier and don't appreciate being salivated upon. You're stuck in suck mode and it's just another form of writer's block.

  I suggest you learn to use your computer and keyboard, which you will be unable to get into your mouth, enabling you to get some writing finished. Save me for endorsing those royalty checks, if and when you can train your creativity to exit through your fingertips on the keyboard and not through massaging me with your lips and tongue. Start
vocalizing that dialogue you're writing. Lay me on the desk before I drown.

  Your Leaky Messenger,

  Pen Teller

  Rituals

  Now that I'm single and dating again after nearly forty years of marriage, I'm finding I have a lot to catch up on.

  “Jeffrey's not all there,” my friends had warned.

  As he and I became friends, I saw strange behaviors but nothing too unusual. For instance, at dinner, he would first eat his mashed potatoes, then the bread, and then the vegetables, followed by the meat. He avoided mixing foods, making sure ample space between different foods existed on the plate so they didn't touch. He ate all of one before tackling another.

  “Why not combine tastes?” I asked.

  “Guess I can't break old habits,” he said.

  After seeing him do this time and time again, it began to bother me a little. He would finish one entree, then pick up his plate and turn it so the next entree was directly in front of him. It seemed as if he ate the other foods first, in order to sneak up on the meat.

  One evening after dinner when he put on his jacket, he stretched his neck like a goose, like the neckline might be too tight. Yet, the collar was open and in no way binding. These were strange behaviors, but everyone has rituals. I hoped my friends' warnings hadn't made me overly critical, but as time passed, I noticed other severe behaviors.

  Every time we approached a crosswalk, he'd ceremoniously whack his fist four times against the black and white plaque with the arrow and that said Push Button to Cross. Only then would he push the button. After seeing him do this a few times, I must have looked doubtful.

  “Hit the sign four times,” he said. “The light will change in ten seconds.”

  “That's absurd,” I said. “It's just a sign.”

  “A repairman told me that when I asked how to make the light change faster.”

  He believed the repairman who teased and played into his impatience? Not only was this strange behavior but so, too, was the belief in such nonsense.

  People in cars at stoplights seemed puzzled when they watched him animatedly bang his fist. I got real embarrassed seeing him doing this. Passersby looked at us as if we were weirdoes.

  As the weeks passed, I began to realize how deep his neuroses ran as I watched him for the umpteenth time stick a finger into his fly to make sure his zipper was up. Guys always do that. I do that, too, when I wear slacks, but not every few seconds.

  That last time I saw Jeffrey, we happened upon a crosswalk button where the instruction plaque and screws were missing. Clearly nothing was housed behind the plaque to affect the light changing. It was just an instructional sign, obvious to anyone.

  The button below the missing plaque was not damaged and still clearly usable. “Quick, hit something, Jeffrey,” I said, teasing. “We have to get across the street.”

  He goose-necked again and stared at the empty rectangular frame attached to the solid metal light pole. Finally, dead serious, he fingered his zipper and turned and walked away. “It's broken,” he said, calling out over his shoulder. “Let's find another place to cross.”

  Clearly, the missing sign saying to push the button to cross would not affect the use of the button. I pushed it and the light changed. At that moment, I knew which direction I was headed. I also knew that I would not be spending much time in the future with a guy who couldn't trust the zipper in at least one pair of pants.

  Watched

  “Okay,” he said. “It's time to settle up.”

  Josh had that special look in his eyes and hadn't diverted his gaze elsewhere the entire evening. Anticipation, both nerve-wracking and exciting, filled Mindy's mind. Adrenalin flowed. His attention excited her, but he wouldn't propose again. She had made it known that her childhood bout of life-threatening rheumatic fever left her with severe health problems that she didn't wish on anyone.

  They were huddled in a booth in the area's only vegetarian restaurant, a refurbished antiquated house on the edge of Walnut Grove in the Sacramento River Delta. The Delta is a sprawl of rivers, channels and canals that formed islands in a far-reaching portion of California's Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys. The cafe was their favorite place to discuss the business matters of Mindy's small organic farm located on the two acres adjacent to her home on Grand Island.

  Often times, groups of young people would visit her mini-farm to tour. Afterward, the group would relax on the back patio. She would lecture about the importance of growing their own food for better health. In particular, a couple of students, as she called them, had been coming since she began her talks. She treated them like family; family she no longer had because her few relatives died early, including her mom and dad. After managing her doctor bills all those years, her parents were left with nothing. An aunt that she stayed with afterward left her the small weathered farmhouse and land.

  Relaxing over lunch, the ambiance of the cozy eatery attracted both those who managed their diets well and farmers who still used pesticides. Chattering happy voices drowned out soft music playing in the background. Ceiling fans wafted scents of spices and flavorings through the air and tantalized even the most reluctant to sample some new healthy fare.

  “Settle up?” she asked. What was that about? Only halfway through the meal, surely, he couldn't be referring to the dinner bill. Plus, he would not allow her to pay, ever.

  “Yes,” he said, taking a sip of water as he studied her reaction. Finally, he said. “Ah, those exotic hazel eyes of yours!” He scooted even closer and ran a hand down the back of her hair and gently clutched a handful and studied it but remained quiet. She couldn't count the times he had complimented the way the sun bleached streaks in her auburn-brown hair while his hair had remained dark no matter how much time he spent outdoors.

  She would often notice him watching her. His dark eyes exuded a sense of peace. He was kind, patient and understanding. “I wouldn't have guessed we were indebted to each other,” she said, teasing. She laid her fork down momentarily. No need existed to rush through the meal to make way for other diners. She smiled and pushed gently against his shoulder. “Just stare out the window once in a while, okay? You make my heart flutter when I catch you staring at me.”

  Josh was friends with the owners who allowed them to use a booth set aside for management. Yet, the managers never sat, but mingled with the patrons helping them feel welcome. On one or two occasions, the owner joined them unannounced. His meal was placed in front of him without having to order. Mindy and Josh welcomed this kind of personal camaraderie.

  “Things are heating up between us,” Josh said, looking as if he couldn't stop smiling. When he had something serious to say, he would approach it in a jovial way. His smiling eyes were sure to develop crow's feet as he aged. Mindy had to smile. Suddenly, Josh frowned and looked serious. “I know why your rheumatic fever makes you shy away from me,” he said. He was really trying to understand and she knew it, though at times he seemed obsessive about it.

  If he was about to propose, she would decline again, perhaps not see as much of him, maybe stop seeing him, though the idea left her with an emptiness. Dealing with the bit of stress this caused put a strain on her weakened heart. How could she not see him? She loved him and that should be great for her emotions in a very healthy way. Yet, how could she dump her health malaise onto the very person whose relationship she cherished and wished to nurture?

  His eyes held a look of knowing. He had already quietly laid his utensils on his plate and took her hands. “I just want you to know something,” he said, taking a breath. “About me.”

  “As if I don't know a thing about you?” she asked. Suddenly she needed to break the tension. She smiled and crinkled up her nose. “So what are you going to tell me? That you're married? Or that you have a felony record?” She really was being facetious. She had checked his background scrupulously before he was hired.

  He laughed, even bellowed. They had known each other nearly two years and just about bared their
souls to one another. Except that she hadn't disclosed her deepest fears in order not to dump her garbage on him.

  When they settled down, he asked, “Remember I told you about that load of pesticide that got dumped on me when I almost smothered to death?”

  “That was, what? About five years ago?” It was her turn to be serious. “Oh Josh, it didn't make you permanently sick somehow, did it?” Pesticides were forbidden in Mindy's organic crops. It was one of the reasons that Josh vied for a position to work with her.

  “No, nothing like that, but I just went through an extensive physical to be sure there could be no long term effects.”

  “So you're safe.” She sighed, relieved that he was okay.

  Before she could comment further, he said, “Safe, but I learned something else in the process. Listen. The docs did a whole work up on me. You know, like they do those soldiers that got hit with Agent Orange in Vietnam.”

  “And?” She was sure he was about to tell her the tests revealed something wrong with him. She could feel it in her bones and his expression confirmed it, but he had not served in Vietnam.

  “Mindy, he said cautiously. “I just learned that I can't have kids.”

  She drew her chin back sharply. “Because of the pesticides?”

  “Nope, that's something they happened to find, probably always been that way.” He studied her face “That's all I wanted to say.” His hand shook as he reached for his water. He eyed her over the rim of the glass. His stare was beginning to unnerve her. “Just a little quirk about me I thought you might find interesting,” he said finally.