“In home décor . . .” Clarence out of boredom was prone to pick up whatever reading material Margaret left around the toilet, just passing the time while he tended to important matters. “In home décor, what appeals to your eye when you see a photo of a beautiful room?” He continued without giving his wife chance to pounce, as though he’d suddenly become an authority. “Lots of clean, smooth, blank surfaces covered in beautiful colors . . . yes? An interior decorator can get away with angles but he . . .”
{“[s]he . . . [s]he!” Mr. Bill corrected. “I never said the boy was politically correct.”}
“. . . he must use them, either, frugally or wisely, what one decorator in your High-Rise With Style magazine referred to as ‘clustering’ . . . a goodly amount of open cleanness, then clusters of angles. More open cleanness, then, organized, well-placed angle clusters.
“Take the housewife who’s organized her mess: knives, forks, spoons—all going in the same direction; round things—plates, cups, saucers—nested inside each other from larger to smaller; pots and pans, smaller in larger and all in the skillet. She has greatly decreased the number of angles the eyes must take in and relay to the brain. And, the brain can more easily cope with the impact of the signals it has received and complete its job of compartmentalizing and departmentalizing. All-in-all, simply put, it’s just a good, healthy state of mind.
“So the question is: how do people stand to live in the huge mess some people live in?”
{“Keep it up, Son, and she’ll leave ya to your thoughts,” informed Mr. Bill.}
Margaret staggered off to the bathroom . . . for an aspirin.
{“Maybe he’ll find his answer somewhere in that trash can . . . ’cause she ain’t talkin’”}
Totally ignoring the absence of his wife, Clarence, with a small rise in his voice, continued, “You’re asking yourself: what about all the left-over food. That’s not so much a matter of angles, although it does, still, play a part. It’s not so much about angles as it is the ‘yuk’ factor. Through experience, we know in less than a heartbeat what happens to food that’s been left out . . . fungi and bacteria, smells and sickness. And, that brings into play an entirely different part of the brain, altogether. More
primitive . . . the senses of smell and taste. The part that, immediately, warns us toward self-preservation and survival and pee-yoo. We can tolerate excessive angles for as long as our fussy natures will permit, but, spoiled food is a whole different ballpark.
“Hey. That sounds good, Hon. Would you pick up some wieners—you know, the big, plump kind—and buns when you go to the store, and some chili? Maybe some Fritos. We got onions? Hon? Hon . . . ?”
*
{“But Clarence knows there’s more to it than that since each angle strains under immense pain to eject and reflect its own light . . .”}
Not like in my pool. We have no strainin’ in my pool.
{“Ok, ok . . . little ole buckaroo. Shut your gob . . . Now, you can see how great is the competition for your brain waves. You’ve got light bouncing helter-skelter off your eyeballs, trying mightily to get through that tiny hole called a pupil . . .”}
Yep. And some of ’em makes it and some of ’em don’t. And those what don’t aren’t happy.
{“Get the deuce outta here and let me explain it to the folks! Some of them make it and some of them don’t. But those that do, commence to bounce all over—like ‘Chop Sticks’ . . . you know, that one song you can play on the piano—on the back of your eyeballs, the retina with all its tiny rods and cones.”}
Yep. And when they get to the brain, the brain has to line ’em up like forks and spoons and knives in some kind of order it likes. And too many angles just gives the brain too much work to do. And it’s not happy.
{“Thus, Clarence’s clutter.”}
So, you can see, it’s not really the wastepaper basket with the mess. It’s your head.
{“Ok. That’s all we want from you. Don’t you have a warm spring to go to? Someplace you can retire, cuddle down and snuggle . . . for a long time.”}
30
“You know the kind of cone I love . . . a big scoop of Burgundy Cherry topped off with a big scoop of Buttered Pecan. Mmmmmm. For some reason, when I buy a couple of pints from the store, take them home and make my own, it just doesn’t taste as good as when I get out, go into the ice cream parlor and get them to put it together for me. I guess we all like to be waited on, sometimes. And, those young people are so nice. That manager surely knows how to pick good employees.
“I think that’s the last time I’ll go by myself, though. I’ll wait till you or Janet can go with me, ’cause that man, Gloria . . . he really scared me. He was so big and gruff. Had a nasty temperament, especially with the girl. I told Bishop Pine all that I saw. You remember, he asked our Ladies’ Vigil Committee to pay attention to whatever we saw going on with that family. What’s the child’s name?”
“Rosie,” Gloria offered.
“Oh, yes . . . Rosie. A right pretty little thing. Very graceful, elegant, I guess you could say, but so quiet. To
have that baby carrier strung around her neck and the man wouldn’t let her take it off. It looked like it was on really tight. Poor little thing. She was whimpering. My heart just broke for her. What on earth would possess a man to do such a thing like that?!”
“The devil, I suspect,” offered Gloria.
“I was looking in the florist’s window, wondering if those cute little elves LaRue has up are for sale or just decoration, eating my cone when I heard the crying, so soft. When I looked over, Rosie was already out. Then came a woman—I guess it was her mother—carrying the baby. The man was right behind Rosie, fussing at her, refusing to let her take the carrier off. The woman seemed not to care at all. Can you imagine the humiliation, being in the parlor in front of all those people—some close to your own age—having that big man force your head through the straps. I wonder how he did it. Did he come up behind her while she sat eating her ice cream and jam it down on her. Well, Gloria . . . it’s no way to treat a little lady, I can say that with certainty. Any mother in her right mind would have been highly offended.”
“I guess that makes two possessed in that family.” Gloria surmised.
“You know,” Mrs. Stapleton continued, “what Bishop Pine told us: it’s not that we’re all perfect parents. We all make mistakes with our kids. But, child abuse has to do with severity and frequency. How often does it happen, how long does it continue and how harsh is it. And, not one of us can justify turning a blind eye when a
child—when anyone, really, regardless of age—is being abused. That’s why we all need to practice—alone and within our groups: how will we respond in love when we come upon abuse.
“Remember how ashamed the Apostle Peter was for betraying Jesus—you know: the cock crowing three times and Peter denying he knew Christ. Jesus kept telling him: ‘Feed my sheep.’ He was telling Peter: ‘I know what you did—it was just as I told you. But, I love you. You are my mighty warrior of faith and you have a job to do: feed my sheep.’ And, Peter stepped up to the plate.”
“Yes, he did . . . and scored, big time,” Gloria interjected.
“So, maybe we falter at raising our own children. That doesn’t excuse us from maturing, learning through experience and applying it in real life, especially when innocent children—people—are in harm’s way.”
“In Rosie’s particular situation,” Gloria responded, “the physical pain, although unconscionable, wasn’t so bad. It was the degree of embarrassment and humiliation. The shock factor. Who could have dreamed up such a thing?! I’m sure it took Rosie by as great a surprise as it took you. And, you’re a grown, mature woman, gone through child bir . . . Well, that little Rosie-girl’s gone through a lot of things out of natural sequence. I hope and pray the court moves quickly on this and gets her back home w
ith her daddy. They say he worked wonders while she was with him.”
“I guess you’ve seen the scar on her forehead?
Have you ever been up close enough to really observe the child?”
“Not really,” Gloria responded.
“She was in Maxine Nevitt’s class at school. Maxine was the one who reported it. What else could she do; she had no choice. It was like those people were double-dog-daring her to do something. Authorities determined it had been done with a lit cigarette, put the . . . well, I think five-year-olds are babies . . . put the baby in foster care, but, they say the foster mother wasn’t much better . . . if any, at all. Maxine meant well. They all meant well. What can we say: this world belongs to Satan. Thank the Lord Jesus Christ, we’re just passing through . . . if we can only hold on.”
12...“. . . ‘Thus says the Lord God:
“You were the seal of
perfection,
Full of wisdom and perfect in
beauty.
13... You were in Eden, the garden
of God;
Every precious stone was your
covering:
The sardius, topaz, and
diamond,
Beryl, onyx, and jasper,
Sapphire, turquoise, and
emerald with gold.
The workmanship of your
timbrels and pipes
Was prepared for you on the
day you were created.
14... “You were the anointed
cherub who covers;
I established you;
You were on the holy
mountain of God;
You walked back and forth in
the midst of fiery stones.
15... You were perfect in your ways
from the day you were
created,
Till iniquity was found in
you.
16... “By the abundance of your
trading
You became filled with
violence within,
And you sinned;
Therefore I cast you as a
profane thing
Out of the mountain of God;
And I destroyed you, O
covering cherub,
From the midst of the fiery
stones.
17... “Your heart was lifted up
because of your beauty;
You corrupted your wisdom
for the sake of your
splendor;
I cast you to the ground,
I laid you before kings,
That they might gaze at you.
19... All who knew you among the
peoples are astonished at
you;
You have become a horror,
And shall be no more
forever.”’” NKJV ™
Ezekiel 28:12-17 & 19
“Persevere. That’s what He says we must do. Hold onto the faith and persevere to the end. No small order. Being a Christian isn’t for the faint of heart . . . if for no other reason than that we must, from time to time, look the Beast direct in the eyeballs and feel his hot breath on our necks.
“Well, they all piled into that old truck,” Mrs. Stapleton continued. “That woman will not let Rosie hold the baby . . . and drove off in the direction of their house. What do you think happened when they got home? Did he ever let her take off the carrier? I can’t imagine what possible lesson he—they—were trying to teach the girl.”
“If I were Rosie, it’d make me think twice about ever having another baby . . . it’d take a good man’s love, I
think . . . but, of course, she has no control over that. Not as long as that man’s around.”
“Mill stone—that’s what it makes me think of. Isn’t there something, Gloria, about a mill stone—a burden—about one’s neck? Do you think he was letting her know that babies are a burden and they can’t let it happen, again; that, if it does, she’ll have to abort it? That this one will be taken over by her mother, but any more will be aborted? It’s a stretch, but I, simply, can’t think of any other reason for him to do such a thing.
“Oh, Gloria . . . let’s see if the ladies can come to my house tonight for a special, intercessory prayer. Ask the Lord to get Rosie and her baby boy on their way as soon as possible.”
31
There’s no buckaroo like a determined buckaroo and one thing Rosie knew—she was her baby boy’s mother and he loved her. This she knew each time they looked into each others eyes. It was, to Rosie, like the infant was drawing her eyes to his, never to let them go. Almost like he already had the understanding of a little man and was not about to abandon that knowledge . . . like, he expected to be in charge, like he was taking charge and his mommy was not to worry. It would all work out. And, too, all the good men her daddy knew—the doctor, the pastor, the lawyer—had given her confidence in her rightful place and assured her she and her baby would soon be back with her daddy. All she had to do was hold tight and wait.
“Persevere.”
*
And, the woman did leave the house, more often than expected—left the baby asleep in his crib—while she shopped for groceries or ran errands for Marlon. It seemed Marlon was making more demands on her time than he used to: go pick up this from someplace or go take so-and-so the such-and-such. It wasn’t that he wanted to give Rosie quality time with the infant; he was growing more and more disgruntled with his sister-in-law and the unspoken arrangement they’d had for so many years up to that point. He was learning a bit himself about how to work another human being, namely his sister-in-law . . . and he liked his new-found power.
Actually, he may well have been the better off of the two since he did have a life outside the house. Rosie’s mom would quickly tire of the restraints a baby puts on one’s life. The baby was her way of one-upping Martin and, even, Rosie . . . nothing more: if she couldn’t twist them to dance her jig, she’d compromise, if not destroy, the bond they three had and do so with great prejudice.
Marlon, on the other hand, ran discarded metal, recycled it—an occupation he’d only recently picked up. And, that endeavor put him in contact with other males—men he met at the metal yard, out on his runs. They’d arrange to go out for a beer, pinch a few fannies, scratch and fart and other machismo preoccupations as that. And, he had his old bowling buddies.
{“Now, all he has to do is get to church and pay taxes and he’ll be a right smartly gentleman,” Mr. Bill’s thoughts.}
Marlon’s problem was the house: it wasn’t his . . . and his old, used trailer was too small for a man his size. If he couldn’t finesse the woman sagaciously, she’d
toss him out on his ear. He had no place to go. But, really, neither one wanted that. His being male provided a certain amount of security and credibility for Rosie’s mother and, yes, even companionship ’cause she’d scratch and fart, too, if it came down to it.
But, ultimately, Martin continued to provide the shelter since his daughter was still under the roof. He had built the house and never gotten around to including his wife’s name on it or his share of the inherited property. It was out of his sense of fair-dealing that he left it to the woman to live in, to live in peace, free of complaint and conditions. That would all change, however, when the court sent Rosie and baby back to him. Marlon and Martin’s wife understood that only too well. So, and thus explained the additional stress on that unholy and unsanctioned relationship between woman and brother-in-law.
Actually, what was happening without either of them realizing it was that their house of cards was commencing a significant tumble, at least a metamorphosis. Their relationship climaxed with Rosie’s pregnancy and delivery—neither one could improve upon that act, except to replay it over and over—a
nd the only thing left them was the real and horrifying fact that boredom was setting in. Their only concern for each other was how that person could serve their own selfish needs, and Marlon—no longer interested in, merely, drinking beer and watching wrestling—much to his sister-in-law’s terror—had somehow acquired dangerous perceptions into her basic nature. Pouting, stomping off, breaking things were no longer working and she was feeling most vulnerable.
At those times when the woman left the house, Rosie slipped into her mother’s bedroom and gently retrieved her son, cradled him in her arms and tip-toed back to her own bed. She held him there until he awoke, then, washed him, put a little lotion—gift from the seniors—on his bottom, changed him into a clean diaper, gave him a bottle, maybe read a book or sang a song, brushed his hair. If Rosie heard the car roll onto the drive before the child awoke, she made a slow trip down the hall, into her mother’s room and put the baby back, sound asleep.
He was a sweet-natured baby, very calm, content to watch his mother and look into her eyes, listen to her voice—to the lovely sounds coming out of her mouth when she read or sang. And, now and then, Rosie heard him sing back to her . . . a few small utterances in response to her own, but she knew he was singing.
“I just know he is,” she told her father the next time they talked.
32
Virgie had stopped off at the hospital on her way home from choir practice at the church to check on her last arrangement. The florist assured her the flowers would last more than four days before looking totally bewildered, but she wanted to make sure. If they were wilting, she’d get on the phone tomorrow and order a fresh bouquet. She wanted the room to look pretty when Margaret awoke and for the sons’ visit coming up that weekend. Mrs. Widon informed her that it was good she was planning on being there since Margaret had had some few personal items in the car with her at the time of her accident. The hospital had stored them in the closet in Maggie’s room. The sons felt Virginia would be more familiar with what their mother was accustomed to carrying around with her, had called her and asked her to be there when they two arrived.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 17