by Kris Radish
“Run the gauntlet, Jane. Run, Jane. Run,” she tells herself.
Jane, even with her badass attitude, is not one to miss out on anything. She has crossed the muddy river and survived the dung fields. And already she can’t wait to write up her report for the insane woman who sent her here. She gingerly steps into the thistles and tap-dances her way forward until she’s at the edge of a pond.
And then she sees them. Trumpeter swans. Her heart stops.
“Oh, my!” The sight of the dozens of swans as white as snow, with jet-black beaks, honking as if they are playing in a holiday pageant, takes her breath away. Jane is unable to move, and as she watches them circle she is suddenly overcome by an urge to cry. But she fights the urge. Jane does not cry.
“The boys and girls are very hungry,” Bella calls out, motioning Jane toward big baskets of grain and corn on one side of the pond.
Jane watches as Bella dips her hands into the storage bins. She tells Jane that she’s a zoologist who is employed full-time, paid through a lifelong endowment by the Wrigley family to maintain, breed, and care for the swans. And every feeding is like a miracle.
“A miracle?” Jane asks.
“Thank heavens you heard me!” Bella says. “I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years and it’s amazing. Every single time I need to feed the swans, someone comes walking up the trail to help. I’ve never seen you before and here you are.”
And then Jane dips her hands into the grain and corn and follows Bella to the edge of the pond, where the heavenly white birds are waiting. And she witnesses another miracle: glorious birds that mate for life taking care to make sure their partners get enough to eat, long graceful wings beating in delight, the sweet melodic sounds of their trumpetlike calls, a sea of graceful white moving directly toward her.
“It is so beautiful,” she whispers, bending to place the food at the edge of the pond. “I had no idea … no idea.”
For the rest of the time, Jane forgets about anger class, her muddy shorts, and the smell of dung radiating from her shoes. And five hours later, as she is throwing the boots into her trunk and walking to the passenger seat barefoot, she is thinking about what it feels like to have a baby swan eat out of her hand while the most gracious and kind woman she has ever met tells her that surely, after this, she must believe that anything is possible.
The Green Dot
Two days after the first class, Kit spent an hour after dinner looking through the Chicago Sun-Times entertainment section.
“Trolling for laughs,” she told Peter when he asked about her secret assignment. “That’s what I have to do. Go to a comedy club and laugh.”
Peter was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Kit looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. And, seriously, how long had it been since she noticed him, focused on him, bothered to see him instead of whining or worrying? His rugged good looks always turn into something surreal when he smiles, and he was smiling at his wife. Her eyes scanned his perfect teeth, an almost-always dark five-o’clock shadow, his dark hair and deep-blue eyes. He’s modeled for three firefighter fund-raising calendars in a row. His fellow firefighters pick on him endlessly because of it, too.
“A comedy club? That’s amazing,” he said seriously. “But what the heck, Kit? I wish I could go along. Try and find someplace close so you can have a few drinks and walk home, will you, please?”
“I wish you could come, too,” she half whined. “I get kind of lonely.”
“Things will change again,” he reassured her. “You just have to be a good girl.”
“I thought you liked it when I was a bad girl?”
“Not that kind of bad girl. Not the kind of bad girl who has to go to naughty class,” he teased. “Maybe laughing at a comedy club will be good for you.”
“Maybe,” she said, dropping her eyes, and wishing she could erase the last few weeks from her life.
Kit has yet to think about the assignment as fun. She’s hard-pressed to remember the last time she did something that was fun, come to think of it. The funeral, the mess she’d gotten herself into, her job, which has apparently been eliminated. Peter’s schedule kept him gone so much lately that they haven’t even gone out to get their favorite pizza. How sad is that?
Chicago and its Second City comedy theater are major icons in the entertainment world, but Kit likes Peter’s idea of finding something close, and she was startled to see that the pub six blocks down has been having a comedy night for several years. Have I been a hermit that long? Crap! The show starts in thirty minutes, and Kit smells like an old shoe.
She forgoes a shower, splashes water on her face, combs her hair, puts on the one pair of jeans that doesn’t look filthy, grabs a clean shirt, sprays herself excessively with perfume, and all but runs down the street.
“This is what’s funny,” she grumbles, wishing that Dr. Bayer was walking next to her so she could tell her what else she’s thinking. “I can’t believe this.”
The next shock comes when she discovers that the pub is packed. Is funny in? There are men and women at all the tables, and there’s a small stage set up at the front of the room, where she remembers a pool table the last time she was out having fun, about fifteen years ago. She slips into the end seat at the bar and can’t even remember what she drank when she went out.
“Wine?” she asks the bartender.
“This is a red, white, and pink kind of bar. So maybe if you drink wine you should have a beer or a cocktail. Want me to surprise you?”
“Sure,” she says, imagining something that has more sugar in it than she consumes in three weeks.
He’s back fast, with a tall glass filled with who knows what, and there’s not an umbrella decoration in sight.
“What is this?”
“I call it the Thursday Night Killer. It’s a glorified Long Island Iced Tea. It will knock your socks off. You look like you could use a good kick.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Half bad. Your face is all wrinkled, like you’re worried or something. Lighten up, sugar. This female comedian is hilarious. Take a big gulp and prepare yourself.”
Kit salutes him, obeys, and immediately wonders if he isn’t a spy working for Dr. Bayer. Does she look that depressed and lost?
She swivels in her chair and peeks out at the audience. There are tons of people packed into the bar, and she guesses it’s at capacity. Then she notices that some of the people are dressed, well, funny. There’s a man in the corner with a pair of boxer shorts on his head; a guy next to him is wearing a hat shaped like a pickle; three men two tables down are dressed as nuns; there’s a group of women in bathrobes.
She laughs out loud and some of her drink comes out her nose.
The woman sitting next to her passes her a napkin. “Took you long enough.”
“What in the world is going on? Is it trick or treat?”
“There’s a comedy school that comes here all the time. It’s sort of a training ground, and they sometimes get to perform. About three months ago they started dressing up, and now it’s like a contest every Thursday night. Who can look the most stupid.”
Kit laughs for the second time.
“By the way,” the woman says, smiling. “Nice outfit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You look like a housewife.” This from a woman wearing a black T-shirt, old faded jeans, and an orange baseball cap. Swirls of gray hair are sticking out the sides of the hat, there’s no makeup on her smiling face, and she’s clearly at home with herself.
“Are you trying to pick me up?” Kit fires back.
“Good one!” the woman snorts.
“You’re in the club, right?” Kit asks.
The woman nods. “I’m Val and you could be funny, you know. You look sassy. Sassy is always funny.”
Kit smiles and introduces herself. If she only knew. And then the show starts and Kit orders another drink, and the evening’s performer pops into view
and is introduced by a guy who isn’t so funny. Kit suddenly remembers she’s supposed to be keeping track of how many times she laughs. She’s very tempted to tell the woman next to her why she’s at the bar. My God! These people would have a field day!
She laughs again.
Kit asks for a pen from the bartender, who gives her a thumbs-up as the comedian pushes past an old buffet table, the nuns, and a woman holding a mess of stuffed poodles. The poodles, for some reason, force Kit to run to the bathroom. She’s afraid if she laughs one more time she’s going to pee in her pants. This group would make her get up onstage and show them her wet rear end.
The bathroom is deserted and when she’s finished Kit hurries to the door, but not before she looks into the mirror. She can’t believe she looks that bad. Maybe her laugh lines are eroding because she’s been such a mess for so long. It was so easy to stop dressing like a normal go-to-work person every day. No makeup, days between showers, apparently weeks between public outings. Her inner monologue is interrupted by a huge roar from the barroom, and she runs back out to discover that someone has bought her a drink.
She looks at the bartender, and raises her arms toward the ceiling in a “Who did this?” gesture, and the bartender points to two men at the far end of the bar. They smile and wave at her, and she has absolutely no idea who they are.
Kit’s laugh this time starts below her knees and rockets through her entire body. She wants to stop it, because she doesn’t want to offend the guys, who must think she’s available. Available? She doesn’t even want herself! Kit manages to smile, and then turns her head and is absolutely relieved when the woman next to her snorts again and then winks.
She leans over and gets close to Kit’s ear. “They come in here all the time and try and pick someone up. It’s hilarious. I say enjoy the drink and don’t make eye contact.”
Kit thanks her and then focuses on the show, but it’s hard to concentrate. She wants to look around, see if there are more poodles or someone dressed up like Santa Claus, and now that she knows she shouldn’t look at those guys who bought her drinks that’s all she wants to do.
Which makes her laugh again.
Guys picking her up? Laughing? She knows that she’s supposed to be focusing on the show, but she’s suddenly thinking about Dr. Bayer. Perhaps she is some kind of magical intuitive, maybe even a witch, who can simply look at people and see what they need. There’s also all those court records and documents she had to fill out, but also there’s the obvious. Kit does look depressed and sad, because she has been in that state of mind for a long time. It’s been impossible for her to see through the fog of her own life and past the present so that she can create a new place in life for herself.
She catches herself laughing again, because she’s pretty sure sitting at the local bar with costumed adults isn’t where she needs to be. This is when Val pokes her and says, “Hey, you’re the only one laughing. Shut up or they’ll make you get up there.”
Kit clamps her hand over her mouth and puts her head down. Focus! Focus! Focus! She mouths “Thank you” to her comedian comrade, grabs her drink, pushes her elbows back onto the bar, crosses her legs, and does exactly what the good doctor ordered.
Two hours later, and a bit tipsy, she accepts a ride home from her new friend Val. Kit promises to meet her next week for more fun with strange people. Then Kit stumbles into the kitchen and barely makes it to the bathroom, where the mere thought of the past few hours makes her laugh yet again.
And listening to her own laughter bounce off the walls makes her realize that she hasn’t said a bad word or thought about her brother or anything horrid since she started working on her assignment.
The Blue Dot
It’s Sunday afternoon and Grace is trying not to have a nervous breakdown. She’s been running through her house for several hours, trying to figure out what she can do to fulfill Dr. Bayer’s class requirement, because once the day is over there won’t be a free moment until who knows when.
“I’m not a dumbass,” she mumbles to herself the moment Kelli walks in the door. “I am not a dumbass!”
“Mom, are you okay?”
Grace jumps a foot into the air. She didn’t hear her daughter come back into the house. She absolutely doesn’t want her even near the house. Grace is driving herself crazy thinking about something lovely that she enjoys doing alone. She also knows that thinking about it is half the point. But, still, it’s a point that is eluding her.
“I’m fine,” she lies, walking back into the kitchen.
Kelli has been so nice lately that Grace is a bit worried. This usually means something’s going on that she doesn’t know about but should. Is there anything bad left to happen? Shoot. Maybe just sitting alone in a dark closet and trying not to imagine every possible flaw in her offspring would qualify for the assignment.
Grace has actually gotten herself a bit depressed on her only day off this week by trying to remember what it was like when she did things. Things that had nothing to do with raising children, work, or beating herself up over past mistakes. Things that were fun and made her happy and helped her forget this miserable hole she has dug around herself.
“I’m twirling,” she’s been telling herself since last Tuesday, when she opened the envelope. “It’s like spinning in one circle after another so I don’t have to focus.”
“Earth to Mom. Hello?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“That’s not big news, Mom. Are you okay?”
“Fine, Kelli, just fine.”
Kelli looks at her in disbelief.
“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything?” she asks, hoping her mother says no.
Grace almost tells her, but then she looks at the stack of books Kelli is carrying and realizes that her daughter has her own world of tasks and problems. She shakes her head, and Kelli turns to leave but then grabs a plastic bag out of her purse that looks as if it’s been jammed inside a tiny jar.
“Oh, this is from Cassie’s mom. Remember her? You two used to sit around and do this stuff when Cassie and I were playing. She said it’s been at her house for, like, years or something. What is this stuff called again?”
The second Grace peeks into the bag her heart stops. “Oh, Kelli! Thank you. Oh! This is it! It’s my needlepoint!”
“Mom, I can’t remember the last time I saw you needlepointing,” Kelli says, startled by her mother’s exuberance. “It’s needlepoint. Not a piece of gold.”
“I’ve been looking for this all day and I didn’t even know it,” Grace says, unable to take her eyes off the tapestry.
“Mom, I’m really happy for you,” Kelli says, giggling.
Grace looks up for a moment. She loves it when Kelli giggles. Now that Kelli is no longer a little girl but a beautiful, dark-haired, mostly self-assured young woman, she misses all the little-girl parts of her daughter that have seemed to disappear.
Grace thinks quickly. “This is going to sound absolutely stupid, but if I give you ten bucks will you go grab a friend and go out someplace and then come back in three hours?”
Kelli laughs so hard that she drops her books. “This must be really special needlepoint, Mom.”
“You have no idea. Someday when you’re a big girl I’ll tell you all about it.”
Kelli lets out a screech as if she is a wild animal, grabs the money, and runs out the door. “Score! I’m off to hunt for more needlepoint.”
Grace quickly locks the doors, turns off her cellphone, and tries to remember if there is any wine in the house. She should have asked Kelli. She discovers a cold bottle of something that looks white behind the orange juice, pours herself a full glass, and then heads to the one piece of furniture in the house that she actually loves.
It’s her grandma’s rocker. Ironically, it was a wedding gift, but it’s as if all the memories buried inside it wrap themselves around her when she sits in the chair, which she has done less and less every year. And the moment she s
its down Grace gets the whole point of what she’s doing, what the doctor ordered, what must be part of some of the most interesting therapy she has ever witnessed. She sits back, stretches out her legs, sets her glass down on the table next to her, and instantly realizes this isn’t going to be as easy as it might seem.
It is so hard for Grace to relax that she has to fight the urge to get up and do something because, well, sitting and sipping wine and whatever happens after that isn’t something important. Even though she knows better, even as she thinks about how her legs feel fabulous, and the wine tastes delicious and really, for a while anyway, there isn’t a thing to worry about, Grace fights it.
Then she starts to rock, and the movement begins to pull her into a place that feels familiar and comforting. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Years of rocking and babies and stories start to rumble up from the old wooden legs, into the seat, up the arms, and right into Grace’s mind. Suddenly three hours won’t be enough time. She rocks until she remembers the needlepoint and then stops abruptly.
The bag must be at least ten years old. She can’t remember the last time she worked on needlepoint, especially this one—the one she took with her everywhere when the girls were younger.
She pulls it out slowly, touching the soft strands of yarn, grabbing the last needle she held, which is still threaded with the blue yarn she was using for the background. Grace was working on a landscape, trying hard to create a place she wanted to visit, stitching in every spare moment she had. She had this idea that if she finished this piece she might actually be able to go there. She so wanted to take the girls to the ocean.
When Kelli cruises back home exactly three hours later, she finds her mother rocking and needlepointing. There’s an untouched glass of wine sitting next to her, and Kelli tiptoes into the living room, puts her hand on her mother’s arm, and says, “Mom, that’s beautiful.”