“Aw yeah, I liked that song. We should’ve had that on the radio!” He sang out, sending me into a full-fledged laugh, in which he joined. I loved to hear him laugh. He pulled me into him, my back against his chest, his legs wrapped in mine, his arms tightly around the front of me, holding my hand. He kissed me in the curve of my neck before resting his chin on my shoulder, as he spoke soft and low, “I missed you, Harley-girl.”
“I missed you more,” I assured, my eyes heavy with sleep, fully content in his arms.
Two days later, Tuesday, September 11, 2001, the dark hours of the morning found us in what had become our favorite hangout, my bed. We couldn’t get enough of each other. It was impossible. We spent the last two days exploring Maui by day, exploring each other by night. Impulsive and shamelessly needy, we had each other everywhere, in the shower, on the kitchen table, up against the wall, on the bathroom sink and the balcony at sunrise. We slept little, afraid we might miss something, our time limited. My flight back to California was scheduled to depart early that afternoon.
“I want you, I want you, I want you,” I moaned rhythmically, breathlessly through an onslaught of orgasmic relief, his coupled with my own. He collapsed on top of me, both of us physically spent, our chests heaving against one another in hope of finding air. I could feel his heart beat rapidly, as mine kept pace. His body quivered briefly, an aftershock.
Resting his head on my chest, “You got me. I’m all yours,” he said. I ran my fingers through his hair and down the side of his face, feeling the friction of his five o’clock shadow. It felt good in its contrast, his square jaw against the roundness of my breasts, and his coarse stubble against the softness of my skin. He breathed in deep as if preparing to speak. He said nothing, exhaling. Moments later, the words came, “I love you,” he whispered. My response, if in fact I had one, stifled by the ringing of the phone at three in the morning, Hawaii time.
“Hello?” I answered, quickly handing the phone to Jeremiah, the urgency imminent in the man’s tone asking for him.
“Johnson,” he reported. He listened momentarily, sitting up abruptly on the side of the bed, reaching for the television remote.
There it was, breaking news. Planes had flown into the World Trade Center. The Twin Towers ablaze, clouds of black smoke filled the air of lower Manhattan as newscasters frantically gave new insights of information live, on-camera, in real time. The whole country clung to television sets, attempting to make some kind of sense out of the tragic scene.
We sat there on the edge of the bed, my back to his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, quiet, speechless, for what seemed an eternity. Every minute felt like an hour as new information came in rapid succession. Like a dream, a nightmare, we watched it all unfold.
Norman Rockwell Painting
In a flash, he was gone. His recon unit picked him up that morning for their new assignment, Afghanistan. I returned to California, packed Charlene, and drove for Georgia, Pennsylvania as quickly as I could get there. Tragedies have a way of reminding us what’s important in life, redirecting our aspirations.
While the world appeared in a state of full calamity, life at home was strangely encouraging. Dad seemingly found himself in his granddaughter. At two years of age, Megan, my niece, became the apple of his eye. From the moment Mom put her in his arms at the hospital, after it took him a full nine-months to forgive Kat, he was hooked. I never saw him in that light. Thrilled for Kat that Megan might experience her grandfather in a healthy manner, the skeptic in me reared its ugly head, suspicious and unconvinced.
She was the sweetest thing, Megan. Even though not of my own birthing, I considered her mine, as Kat had always been. Kat was a great mom. Concerned with securing a future for herself and Megan, she completed her GED and took night classes at the community college to acquire her prerequisites for fashion design school.
That low-life sperm donor, Joey Harper moved to Philadelphia. He told everyone he took a job in pharmaceutical sales. My guess, he sold pharmaceuticals all right, of the illegal persuasion. He showed up every now and then with a wad of cash in his pocket, as if that excused the past year of missed child support and his absence. Kat defended him vehemently. He was Megan’s dad, and she wouldn’t have anyone talking bad about him, even if it was the truth.
Mom moved swiftly now, enjoying Dad’s civility, determined to talk some sense into me for the brief time I visited.
“Harley, I just wish you would start thinking about your future,” she said, standing at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes for dinner.
“I’d love to Mom, but I’m too busy living in the present.” I took a seat beside Gram at the table, joining her in snapping her green beans.
“I’m proud of you...for getting out of this town. You’ve done more in four years than I’ve done in my lifetime. And I’m thankful for that. I just wish you’d pick something and stick with it.”
“What do you think Gram?” I asked, playfully rolling my eyes.
“I think maybe some things aren’t worth sticking to. She’s young, Marilyn. She’s got plenty of time to figure out what she wants to do,” Gram said.
“I know, Mother, but you know as well as I do how fast time passes. I just want her to start thinking about settling into something, something with security.”
“Security?” Kat questioned, returning from the bathroom with Megan. “You might as well put a wedding band on her finger,” she joked, placing her hands around her neck, mimicking a choking sound.
Megan came to me. “What do you think sweet thing?” I inquired, pulling her onto my lap, showing her how to snap the green beans.
“Aunt Harwey good,” she said, with her limited yet direct, two-year-old vocabulary.
I chuckled, kissing her on the cheek. “I knew I could count on you.”
The front door opened, and Megan turned her head toward the familiar noise. She knew what that meant. Grampy was home from work. She jumped down off my lap, meeting him with anticipation. He knelt beside her, handing her his lunch pail, a tradition they had. His farmers, for whom he carried milk in the truck he drove, left baked goods for him as a token of thanks. He stored the treats in his lunch pail, carrying them home to Megan. She opened the silver pail, pulling out a bag of chocolate chip cookies, much to her delight. She looked at Grampy, then to the cookies, and then to Kat, standing at the table.
“Just one,” Kat said. “You haven’t had dinner yet.” She walked out of the kitchen.
Megan pulled one cookie from the bag as directed. Dad peeked over his shoulder, clear of Kat, and pulled another cookie out, handing it to Megan. He held his finger up in front of his mouth, “Ssh,” he coaxed, smiling at her.
She hugged him, grinning from ear to ear, “Fanks, Grampy.” She returned to my lap, eating her cookies.
“I’m on to you, Grampy,” Kat called, returning from the other room. She swatted him lightly as he passed her by, heading outside to smoke a cigarette. He chuckled. Imagine that, our dad going outside to smoke a cigarette.
While we were growing up, he smoked like a freight train inside, outside, wherever he wanted. After all, it was his goddamn house, even though Mom had a terrible disdain for the yellow hue it left on everything. She scrubbed the walls with bleach, no less, to get rid of the grime. He smoked outside now because second-hand smoke wasn’t good for Megan. I watched in awe at the tableaux of our family, like a regular Norman Rockwell painting. I chuckled to myself, shaking my head in pleasant disbelief.
“Harley, I just think you need a career, something with a reliable income, insurance, and retirement. You’ve changed your major how many times now? I don’t like to see you chasing dreams that may never come true,” Mom continued, putting a pot of potatoes on the stove to boil.
“Ma, I’ve only changed my major twice. I’m a few credits shy of my Bachelor’s in broadcasting. I can get that done in two semesters,” I said. “Besides, the name on my student loans reads Harley LeBeau. That means Harley LeBeau gets to pick the
major. I know you guys helped with the first semester, and I thank you, but I would also thank you for letting me live my own life.”
“Probably brings back memories doesn’t it, Gram?” Kat asked. “I’ll bet you had the same conversation with Mom back in the day.” She took a seat at the table.
“No, she did not,” Mom interjected, disappointment in her tone.
“No. I didn’t pressure my children. I was happy as long as they were happy and healthy. Times were different back then, the opportunities, especially for women,” Gram emphasized.
“I’m only saying, you’ve been at it four years, Harley. Don’t you think if it were going to happen, it would have? The music, the acting, or whatever else you’ve dipped into. I think it’s good to dream, but you need to be realistic, too.”
“Ma?” Kat scolded. “You can’t just go to school, major in songwriting, and then poof, you’re a songwriter. It’s all about the right place and time.”
“Thanks, Kit-Kat,” I said. I could always rely on her to have my back.
And thank you, oh wise woman of the world, my first sarcastic thought coming to mind. I couldn’t say that though, not to my mother. She didn’t leave Georgia. She never dared to dream, to take risks, or venture out into the world. Life led her. She never took charge of her life, at least attempting to make it what she wanted it to be. Yet she proposed to know how I should live mine.
Bite your tongue, Harley. Picking Megan up in one arm and the bowl of green beans in the other, I walked to the counter, setting Megan on top of it. I wiped the chocolate from her mouth with the dishtowel and poured her some juice.
“Fank you, Aunt Harwey.” She smiled, clapping her hands.
I smiled back at her, cute as she could be. Her face made my heart happy. “You’re welcome, sweet thing,” I said, reminded of the promise of life and all its possibilities with her image, young, naive, and simply ecstatic to have a cup of juice after a few chocolate chip cookies.
So basic and wise, children, finding happiness in the smallest things life has to offer. I picked her up, carrying her on my hip. “Well, I’m realistic about the fact I’m hungry,” I said playfully, diverting further confrontation about my life and my choices.
“It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Here, have a deviled egg to tide you over,” Mom offered, unable to permit anyone going hungry in her kitchen.
I bit into the egg after giving Megan a sample. “Hmm, its good, Ma.” I kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, I just think it’s great, you girls and all your hopes and dreams,” Gram said. “Who would have ever thought I’d have such talented grandchildren. I say go for it, all of it.”
Dad returned to the kitchen, his guitar and mine in tow. “How about a little entertainment before dinner,” he suggested. I obliged, we all did, simply beside ourselves in the presence of his revolutionary change. It’s amazing, really, how the good in people can virtually cause us to ignore the bad, as we nurture the perpetual desire within each of us to believe in the humanity in the ones we love.
Let Me
Upon Benny’s request, I escorted his wife and him to New York City. He paid his respects to the fire department after 9/11. A few lives lost that day were second-generation firefighters, sons and daughters of men Benny served with before his own retirement. A somber scene, New York was very different from the city I experienced years prior with the fashion company.
During my time there with Benny, witnessing the destruction, loss, and heartbreak in the lives of others, I felt compelled to do something. The past four years of my life revolved around me, completely self-serving and indulgent. If ever there was a time to give back, to make a difference, this was it.
With no exact idea how to help, I joined a volunteer service in the city, Angels of Mercy. Blood, an essential for human life, remained in great demand, and that’s where my volunteer efforts began. After a few weeks of training, I joined the ranks of so-called medical vampires, phlebotomists. Although a bit unsettling initially, I stuck needles into human flesh, veins, something I never imagined myself doing. But it proved the most rewarding work to that point in my life.
It got me thinking; maybe Mom was right. Maybe I did need to evaluate my life and do something concrete with it, a means to a happy, comfortable ending.
I prided myself on living in the moment, going where the wind took me, and following my instincts, no matter how unconventional. Where exactly had that lead? What did I have to show for my life, besides numerous disconnected experiences, people I met, places I saw, and things acquired along the way? What had I really accomplished? I had a bank account with minimal funds, college debt with no actual degree nor career, a notebook of songs, none of them published, and an endless stream of ideas and notions left unfulfilled. Maybe I should try Mom’s way, rational and realistic.
I trudged along to the New York City College of Technology in Brooklyn, wearing my mother’s boots, the first time I put them on since boxing them up in Nashville, two years ago. I signed up for the associate nursing curriculum. With my current college credits, I was looking at one year of classes, to include a heavily intense hospital clinical load, before I would be eligible to sit for the state boards for my nursing license. One year, that seemed like forever in my vocabulary.
I wore Mom’s boots every single day, as a reminder to stay on track. Without them, the imprint of her feet literally leading my path, guiding me every step of the way, I never would have made it through that year. If left to my own devices, I would have easily bounded off for another place, another town, and a new experience. I had to do this, at least give it a try, the ideal life. Mom couldn’t have been more proud.
I worked at a hospital in the city in the intensive care unit. Intensive care was as its name implies, intense. The technical aspects of the job, coupled with the mental and physical demands, proved challenging but I could handle them. What I found extremely difficult to manage, the ethical dilemmas, the emotional attachments, and the constant threat of mortality.
Patients and their families, all ages, ethnicities, and genders, found themselves in extreme circumstances. It was impossible not to become attached, not to empathize, another constant reminder that life is too short not to dream. I saw patients as young as three years old with burns over eighty-five percent of their bodies, teenagers paralyzed from some random, tragic accident, never to walk again, healthy adults unable to perform daily activities such as brushing their teeth, the after effects of a spontaneous stroke, elders kept alive by machines, because their loved ones couldn’t bear to let them go. Every patient etched a memory, their eyes, so appropriately called the window to the soul, haunted me.
Detachment, a coping mechanism, albeit classified as negative, a tool I came to know and use in my relationship with my father, now became inevitable in my career. You come to a place where repeated exposure ceases to faze you, and you grow comfortably numb.
I often found myself thinking about Jeremiah, wondering how he was, how he handled war day in and day out. How did he cope? Who did he go to when he needed a soft place to fall? Was he still alive?
Even though I found the job quite difficult, it was rewarding, at times, and I couldn’t quit. I must make this ideal life thing work. I had a regular paycheck, insurance, and even a 401K. If all of that made one successful, then why did I feel like such a failure?
I continued writing songs, poems, whatever came out of me. With the emotional stresses of the job and a deep-seated feeling of discontent, without some form of creative release, I would have gone mad. I played a few gigs here and there when time allowed, nothing substantial, just a few local spots. I remained an amateur, at best.
Late November 2002, the weekend after Thanksgiving, I played the early set at Sal’s Ristorante, down the street from my apartment in Brooklyn. Midway through my set, a man came from the dining area into the bar, unaccompanied. He sat down at the front of the room, taking the closest seat to the stage, purposefully watching me, a bit unnerving re
ally.
My first impression did not flatter, as he sat in his designer suit, perfectly polished shoes, not a hair out of place. Surely, he was fully manicured from his hands to his feet. Entirely too pretty and completely entitled, he just kept staring at me, smiling every now and then as I continued my set. In the middle of a song I grew uncomfortable singing in front of him, as I had written it with Jeremiah in mind:
I know you’re hurt, babe,
It’s all right, you see.
You don’t have to be tough,
When you’re lying here with me.
I’ll be your warm place,
When the nights get cold.
Share it with me, baby,
And let it all unfold.
Let me go down,
To that place inside your soul.
Feel me all around you,
Until you don’t wanna let go.
Let me wake you in the morning,
Baby, can’t you see.
Let me show you,
How it’s supposed to be.
Finally, I exalted, as the song came to an end, relinquishing me to my fifteen-minute break. I put my guitar down and walked offstage. His eyes followed me, continuing to make me uncomfortable. I couldn’t take it.
I marched up to his table. “Hey, Pretty Boy, could you lay off the staring?”
“Pretty boy? That implies you think I’m attractive,” he said with a million-dollar smile, leaning over the table, placing himself closer to me. “I’ll lay off the staring, if you let me take you out,” he played on the words to my song.
I leaned closer still to him, meeting the imposition of his body language, my hands now resting boldly on his table. “That implies you think I’m the bargaining type.” I sarcastically returned his million-dollar smile. “I’m not. Stare all you want,” I challenged, walking away.
I finished the rest of my set, before packing up and carrying my stuff to the parking lot to load up Charlene. Usually I left her in the garage, as driving in the city proved inefficient, however it was the first really cold night of the season, and I wanted to warm her up.
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 14