I didn’t know that Frankie and the boys kept a delicious secret. My boys wandered my door-knocking neighborhood with long faces and a fat pet who liked to sit and scratch every sixteen feet. The Avon customers I loved, ignored, and lost spied the spectacle, called my boys close for gossip and sympathy, and Marty and Louie told the long sad story of the hungry pig and the demanding mother. The ladies along my street handed out Ritz crackers and processed cheese and hotdogs and packaged cookies... all for poor, starving Frankie and his indentured companions.
One evening I thought I smelled Oreos when I bent down to pat Frankie on the head. Hmmmmmmmm, I thought. Something is just not right. I grabbed the boys and gave them the evil eye until they spilled the beans.
“Mommmmmmmmm. Frankie loves to eat! He’s a pig! He can’t help it.” Marty sat on the tiled floor and leaned against the pig. “Plus Mrs. Caldwell gives us apple pie and Gatorade.”
I banned the boys from their dinner-spoiling outings and cut Frankie’s rations in half. The pig howled at the door. His ears flapped up and down as he tried to reach the doorknob with one hoof. I massaged his back and tummy, carefully explaining that even pigs need to be mindful of gluttony. He didn’t care. He didn’t stop, either, kept yodeling and pushing and pawing the door, with a determined and fatalistic grimace.
I rolled my eyes and headed for the kitchen. I ran warm water into the sink and added dish soap. Frankie grunted twice. I scrubbed a pot, then some silverware. Frankie fell silent. I breathed a sigh of relief and finished my kitchen chores, making a mental list of the Avon deliveries I still needed to make. I dried my hands and turned the corner. The front door shook slightly in the wind. Open! Frankie was gone!
I sucked in dry white air. The door stood ajar, looked alone, frightened, as if it kept secrets. I felt the rush of salt air through the hall. It met my feet, my legs, and my heart sank as I strained to look through the front window, hoping to see Frankie munching grass or a wax-leaved potted succulent. Nothing. No pig. I heard the electric rattle of toy trains and my youngest boy imitating the call of the conductor.
“Frankie! Fraaaaaaaaaaaaankie!” I yelled into the cul-de-sac, but my voice bounced off the empty asphalt, echoed and rolled down the hill, didn’t hit a runaway pig.
I knocked on Louie’s bedroom door, made him shelve his comic book and join the living room fray. He sighed long and hard and hit the couch hard with his butt. His younger brother continued operating the train. He blew a wooden whistle and wore a striped engineer’s hat. I grabbed my cell phone and shoved it in my front kilt pocket and slammed the front door behind me.
“Frankie! Fraaaaaaaaaaaaankie!” I ran as fast as I could, passing locked gates and manicured lawns. No sign of hungry swine on a grocery rampage. At the bottom of the street I hovered. Right or left? I hustled up a brick walk belonging to an old woman who once bought six bottles of Imari perfume.
“Hello? Mrs. Frazier? Are you there? It’s me, Birdie. The Avon Lady. Hello?” I banged the door knocker hard against her pine door. “Hello! Please open up!”
The steady slow thump of Mrs. Frazier’s walker against Mexican tile frustrated me. I kept twisting my head right and left, looking, listening, hoping to take in some outlying radar ping of pig frenzy. The old woman opened her door and greeted me with a huge smile.
“Birdie! It has been so long. Please do come in.” She spoke with the careful articulation of her generation, turned her back, and lifted and clunked her walking device in a methodical pattern toward her paisley couch. I took a deep breath and interrupted her concentration.
“Mrs. Frazier, I’m so so sorry, but I can’t sit down. I’m here to see if you saw a runaway pig? My potbellied pig ran away just a few minutes ago but I don’t know which direction he took. Did you see him outside your window at all?” I made running motions with my hands as if I were a pet control mime. Mrs. Frazier stared at me through rheumy gray eyes.
“Birdie, I have not seen any pigs unless you count the chorizo defrosting in my refrigerator. Now let us sit down and you can take an Avon order from me. I have gone through those six bottles of Imari and could use a few more.” She scooted the walker once more, and I realized with a start that the house absolutely reeked of Avon fragrance. I began breathing through my mouth and beads of sweat broke out along my hairline.
This is what my life has come to, I thought. I can’t even smell the damn stuff anymore.
“Mrs. Frazier, sorry! I have to go!” I hiked my kilt and high-tailed it outside, gently closing the door, then sprinting from her house to the next. I didn’t know the old lady somehow set the psychic stage with some kind of strange thought pulse that sent beauty desperation in concentric circles through my neighborhood.
Some kind of Imari-challenged Mrs. Frazier greeted me at every house along the street. Come in, Birdie, each woman said, old and young. I haven’t seen you in forever! I need Avon! Let’s chat about the summer colors! I tried to bring the conversation around to my missing pig, but no one heard.
I must have Glimmerstick tattooed on my forehead, I mused. I’ve been in the land of the missing, but all anyone wants is the load my arms carry.
I promised each woman I would return with my backpack and the latest samples. I promised each woman I wouldn’t stay an Avon stranger, I would help her life be beautiful and fragrant. I was promising one woman - a spry chick of seventy-six with a long blonde wig - that I would bring her wrinkle cream and lipstick and six shades of blush and, and, and.... and as my hand cramped with speed ordering, I saw a fat little beast saunter through her backyard, saw him stop and sit and eat two pink roses from a bush.
“Holy crap! Mrs. Belvins, I have to go! Sorry! I’ll come back tomorrow to finish this!” I crammed the order in my back pocket and twirled to run, but Mrs. Blonde Wig grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
“You know what the trouble with you is, Birdie?” She stood eight inches shorter than me, but she met me eye-to-eye in mental martial art combat. “You don’t take your Avon seriously.”
She dropped my arm and gave me a wry grin. “Your pig is safe in my backyard. Now let’s finish up this order, shall we?”
So I took her long order, and drank chamomile tea and ate crackers and cheese and thought about my boys and the pig and the snack and Avon and my long list of neglected customers. She’s right. And she’s wrong, too. And she’s right. But she doesn’t know, will never know the hurricane sideways one-hundred-mile-per-hour wind that blew through my summer. Ah, life is damn complicated. I glanced outside to watch Frankie dig and root through a patch of Ice Plant.
“Thanks, Mrs. Belvins. You’re right. I haven’t been a good Avon Lady. But I can try again, hey?”
I hauled my pig home, my pocket full of neighborhood orders. Frankie stopped every sixteen feet, sat and belched. The scent of roses lifted from his snout, and I remembered the day someone dropped him at my home.
“It’s me and you, pig. We’re both runaway nuts. C’mon. Let’s go home and eat some cookies.”
Jesus Marches On
Cat woman Gail’s son called me. She died peacefully in her sleep, an expected and welcome death with her family by her side, he said. He told me he already placed her herd of cats in safe and loving homes.
“Birdie, please come to the funeral services at St. Patrick’s Church. Bring your family. Gail took a liking to you, and I know she would want you there.”
I promised I would attend with my boys, and I wished Gail’s son all the peace of the world.
“Your mom was super special. She was artistic and kind and funny. I wish I could have spent more time with her.”
Life is an amalgamation; dark rocks and dirt mixed with light cement, like a New York sidewalk, all bright lights and fancy stores and streetwalkers and drugs. Artists instinctively know this. They use colors like purple and blue to paint the color gray, they know that gray does not occur in nature. I can’t think grey here, I pondered, can’t give good homage to a wonderful woman, mix that sadness with th
e joy of a life. I haven’t processed the pain of loss yet.
All my extended family breaks bread under the crucifix Sunday mornings, sits through the readings and homilies sanctioned by Rome. But me, I’m a heathen black sheep Avon Buddhist recovering Catholic, and I didn’t enter my children in Sunday School, didn’t tell them the stories of guilt and suffering and redemption I learned through years of parochial school. I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I’m not sure. I only know I woke up one day, after a rape and pregnancy and missing young adult life and chucked the Church and the old men who run it.
I corralled the boys and sat them down.
“Ok, guys, one of my customers died. Remember I told you about the Cat Lady?” They looked at each other, then looked at me, nodded Yes.
“Ok. Good. I’m gonna teach you how to act Catholic, how to get through a funeral service without embarrassment and the pointing fingers of the thoroughly washed. Jesus is the Son of God,” I said, “and folks go to Catholic Church to pray to him and ask His forgiveness for their sins. He forgives everyone, that’s what the Catholics believe.”
Louie eyed me with suspicion. Marty played with the hem of his shirt, his glazed eyes capturing memory from some other planet.
“All you have to do is sit and stand and kneel when everyone else does, and read aloud the prayers in the missile, I’ll help you, I’ll find the right page, kick you when you have to stand, and whatever you do, don’t tell the old people this is your first time in church. Please, boys, please.”
Louie nodded Yes. He looked like one of those dashboard bobbleheads. He kicked Marty in the side of the shin and Marty nodded, too.
“And one more thing, boys,” I added. “Toward the end of the service, everyone third grade and up goes to the altar. So you - and I pointed at Louie - will go up to the altar with me, and you - I pointed at Marty - will remain in your seat until I return. Is that clear, boys?”
The next morning we arrived at the Church, dressed in our most conservative finery, with tissues for the sad parts, and a pack of chocolate kisses in my purse as sedation devices for Marty, and we sat near the front, behind the long oak pews decorated with lilies and reserved for the immediate family. The organ began a drone of solemn liturgical music, and the congregation rose. Not a seat remained open. Altar boys and girls led the procession, carrying Catholic utensils and a Holy Bible, followed by a deacon, the readers, the Eucharistic ministers, and finally the priest, a tall and fat and kindly man, dressed head to toe in embroidered purple silk robes. I pointed to the words in the music book and sang a song of salvation in unison with the community of faith, didn’t see Marty turn around to stare at the priest, mouth gaping open, moon pie eyes, until I heard him yell, at the tip top of his lungs, “Look! Look! It’s Jesus!”
Mortified doesn’t begin to describe my pain, and I shrank in the pew, pulling little Marty close to me, whispering a severe and sharp warning in his ear, but the damage was done. The congregation laughed, and the priest began the mass.
“Welcome to St. Patrick’s Church! We are celebrating the life of a wonderful mother, wife, and friend, who now rests with Jesus. And I’m not Jesus” - laughter here - “but we teach that we should aspire to be as much like Jesus as possible, and this woman was as close as you can get.”
The service continued, a mixed-up river of sadness and joy, with touching stories told by friends and the priest’s promise that she now rested with angels, rested and watched over us, was with us in spirit, just like Jesus. My boys absorbed every word. They paid close attention to the blessing of the bread and water, listened to the ancient words changing water into wine, bread into the everlasting body of Jesus Christ. I didn’t even have to break out the chocolates.
And then the big moment came, the big Communion moment of our Saturday night instruction, and I left Marty sitting in the pew with the snacks and held Louie’s hand as tight as a mother can, and headed up to the altar for my bread and wine. I held out my hand and received the Eucharist, mumbled “Amen,” watched Louie do the same. We chewed on the thin tasteless wafers and began the shuffle back to our pew. I glanced at our seats, saw Marty trembling, standing on the pew once more, finger pointed at me, at Louie, and then he let loose, in the loudest loud kid voice you ever heard.
“Hey! Hey! This isn’t fair! Hey! He said that bread makes you live forever!” - and here he pointed at the priest - “And my brother got one and I didn’t! That’s not fair! If he gets to live forever, I want to live forever!”
The congregation filed out of the church. Each person stopped to hug Gail’s son, to genuflect, to dot themselves with Holy Water. I slipped a few Avon samples into the poor box and ushered the boys outside.
I stopped at the store to buy the boys a treat after the service. The grocery store clerk stuffed the flier for a Latin Dance Fiesta in my paper bag between a dozen free-range eggs and a package of cheese doodles. Her braided silver bracelet caught the jagged edge of the bag and left a small tear.
“You gotta go. My boyfriend plays guitar with Son Como Son.” She popped her gum with a pierced tongue and handed me two dollars and thirty cents change. Her hair hung in dry red-brown ringlets around a short neck. “You don’t have to dance. You can just listen to the band and watch the Tango.”
I hung the yellow flier on my fridge and stopped and read it every time I opened it for milk or jam or juice. Workshops in Tango, Cha Cha, Merengue, Cumbia, and Flamenco! The biggest dance festival in the county! Live Tejano music! All-night dance party! I imagined wearing a dress spun like cotton candy and piling my hair high in a loose clip. I imagined dancing with a tall enigmatic stranger named Frito, a man with hair dark like licorice who would pull me too close, be dangerous with his arms and legs, lead my hips from the dance floor while his breath blew blue flames above my head.
I almost didn’t attend. Babysitters aren’t cheap and the workshops started at the rooster crack of dawn. But the flier taunted me, whispered dreams of dancing dark men from some crater moon, and I found myself shuttling my young boys to a neighbor’s home while I zipped up the back of my sexy red dress with the asymmetrical hemline and buckled my vintage black dancing shoes. I took Avon, too, stuffed fragrance and bright red lipstick samples and two slightly wrinkled brochures in my small velvet purse.
I left my aging van in the parking lot behind the dance party hotel. Two young women in ruffled Flamenco gowns smoked cigarettes, swapped a square compact back and forth. They leaned against a Camaro, wide hips splayed in provocative gestures, dark eyes painted with blue shadow and lined with more mascara than I use in a year. Tiny beaded roses dotted their hair, and I felt underdressed, old, missing the necessary traditional background of ground pork tamales and complicated saints. I stopped for a minute, pulled out my own small mirror and freshened my lipstick.
I’ve moved a mountain over the past few months. Feels like forever, like my life is starting over for the hundredth time. Who am I? Why am I doing this? I want to rest. I snapped the compact shut, even though my lips looked naked and the tip of my nose sparkled like wet glitter. I am ready for something new. I felt something fracture inside me. It thrust lightening bolts through my legs and burned through my feet, a trail of feathered fire. I stepped into the hotel.
The band caught my attention first, grabbed my ears and slung them like gunfire onto the dance floor, three middle-aged Mexican men with an accordion and two guitars, singing a song of loss and betrayal. The wood floor smelled of fresh honey wax, and heavy brocade curtains lined the windows overlooking the boulevard. Six couples faced the curtains, lifted feet and hands in almost unison and moved with the unpredictable wave of wind through an oak tree. My heart couldn’t contain the rhythm of boots against floor. I wanted to join them, the band, be a worn guitar, a woman’s stacked heel, wanted to melt into the pine boards beneath me in some strange captured surrender, but the sound turned to whisper and the dancers stood still, breathed one shot of air together, as the accordion player flexed his left hand, prepared to play.
“Excuse me, Miss? May I have this dance?” A tall Latino stood before me, the tip of his chin reaching the exact center of my forehead, and I remembered in desperation my collection of Avon samples. I wanted to say “No, please sit with me and let’s talk Men’s Products,” but the sadness in his eyes made my mouth say “Yes, I will dance.” He gently took my hand and led me to the center of the floor, the place usually reserved for the sure-footed and sane, and the strains of Felicia filled the hall.
“Thank you, Miss. My name is Manuel.”
“I haven’t danced in some years.” Manuel apologized as a delivery truck idled outside the ballroom windows, setting the floor to rumble, the band to skip a beat, two, laugh, rest fingers, strings, voices. The dancers idled, too, moved legs in practice shuffle and arc.
“That’s ok. I only know the basic tango steps. I will probably step on your shiny shoes.” My eyes studied Manuel’s cream-colored suit, the way it draped a body thick with muscle. I could feel his heart beat through his jacket, down his arm, into my right hand, chaotic, unsure. He wore dancer’s boots and a bracelet made of an etched silver talisman strung on black leather.
He must be around my age, I thought. He has the same tired eyes, the same dark wisdom.
He smiled at me, his hair thick and wet with gel that smelled of amole and mineral oil. “Please don’t worry. We can be useless together.”
I liked the words he used, the way he hid something behind them, the quiet echo of his voice. The static truck faded to nothing. The band lifted instruments, and I heard the shuffle of couples moving into position. Manuel snaked his hand behind my back in a delicate wave as if he was afraid of breaking me into tiny pieces. He pulled me close and I heard him suck the air through my hair, breath the scent of my rosemary shampoo, my skin, deep into my skeleton, and I felt my body respond in the ways dance promises.
Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! Page 22