by V. J. Banis
“Yeah, sure. I got nothin’ better to do.”
And oh, his hands––those elegant long fingers so gentle as he caressed the tiny plants and tucked the earth around them. And how beautiful his straight and strong young back, as he hovered over them.
“You want to do a row of peppers, Paul?”
He also did two rows of tomato plants and a row of cucumbers.
“Well,” said Kitty, more calm now. “It’s well past noon. You don’t by any chance like salads, do you?”
“You don’t, you know, eat meat, do you?” Paul said.
“No, not for twenty years. Not since I lived in a commune in California.”
“You lived in a commune in California? Cool. I don’t like meat either. My father ate raw steaks. It used to make me want to puke.”
“Well, nobody’s making you eat meat here, Paul.”
“Yeah, but Uncle Ben fires up the grill every single night. I don’t want to, you know, offend him or nothin’. See, when I was a little kid we hit a deer. My father, as usual, was speeding, and it splattered all over the place. There was blood and bits of flesh all over the hood and windshield. And I will never forgot those terrified eyes as he lay there dying. It actually made me sick. I know it’s stupid, but no matter how I try I can’t get rid of it. My father even sent me to a shrink, but no go. Every time I face a piece of meat I think of that poor animal.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Paul, he doesn’t care,” Kitty said. “We learned years ago, the hard way, that we had to respect each others’ peculiarities or call it quits.”
They stood at the kitchen counter, shoulder to shoulder. They peeled, chopped, grated, and sliced. They mashed avocados and squeezed lemons.
When Paul had swabbed up the remainder of the vinaigrette dressing from his bowl, he said, “You gonna eat what’s left on the counter?”
The next thing Kitty knew she was seated on the sofa with Paul’s body slumped across her lap. His tears flowed freely, falling on her overalls. He sobbed, he truly sobbed––and she had never felt so elated in her entire life. She had a strong inclination to stroke his hair, but hesitated, fearing he would jump up and scream “fuck off.” But she was overcome by an unaccustomed tenderness, and touched his head ever so lightly, surprised to see that it seemed to comfort him. She proceeded to stroke his head, like she stroked and patted Geraldine.
Is this how a mother feels when they hand her that first newborn? Some unaccustomed feeling, noble and unselfish was welling up inside her.
After awhile Paul sat up, looking horrified. “Sorry,” he said, “Oh God, gees, I’m really sorry.”
“No, no, don’t feel sorry. You don’t have to feel sorry.”
And before long they were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the porch swing, mulling over Kitty’s seed catalogs.
“It’s never too early to plan for next year,” she said. “And Paul, who knows? Maybe between us we can convert your uncle Ben, and get rid of that nasty old grill altogether.” She began feel all swoony, like you feel when you are falling in love.
And for the first time since he arrived––Paul smiled at her.
THE THIEF, by Bev Rees
The mall is brightly lit for Christmas, though it’s just three weeks past Halloween. Plastic wreaths hang down on wires, full of shiny balls and blinking lights. Gert O’Bannon comes through the door at precisely half-past ten, a little creaky, but you could set your watches by her.
She passes the laughing Santa, ho, ho, ho, and his belly, girded by a shiny plastic belt, shakes like a bowl of jelly. Occasionally his batteries run down and his ho, ho, hos turn into one long groan, until he is completely silent. Gert is glad for the change of scenery; enough of witches’ hats and orange jack-o’-lanterns, enough of waxy little puritans with wicks sprouting from their dreary heads.
Gert has a route she follows up the center of the mall. She passes the entrances to ladies’ garments, displayed on anorexic mannequins. Mouths pout on heads thrust forward, and bony hips do likewise. She moseys past “The Casual Man.” Jeans and tee-shirts are tacked on headless wire forms, and look like they’ve been washed a hundred times, and never ironed. Gert addresses her reflection in the plate glass window. In my day, when you bought something, you wanted it to look brand spanking new. Not all wrinkled up and faded like some old cast-off of an older sibling.
She always finds the kitchen shop challenging. All kinds of newfangled gadgets, displayed in the window, stare back at her. Gert hates to admit it, but she hasn’t the slightest notion what they are for. But she isn’t going in the shop and embarrass herself by asking. She enjoys looking at the fancy dishes though, and she never gives the computer store a passing glance. Why should she? The Internet is not a part of her life. She wanders past the nail salon, cupping her hand over her mouth and nose. She is fascinated by the women who sit there, all shapes and sizes, as nails get pasted on by gloved hands and masked faces.
Right on schedule she goes straight to “Cindy’s Cinnamon,” just about the best part of her day. The sugary icing clings to her lips like a gift from Heaven. She takes three creamers, pulls off the tiny paper covers, and watches the cream twirl this way and that way as it hits the hot black liquid. She watches the sugar crystals drizzle out of the packet and disappear into the coffee. This ritual over, she settles down and watches all the people, amazed at how different they all are––and yet, how much the same.
* * * *
Gert O’Bannon’s life was never easy. She grew up in Pennsylvania on a miserly, rock-strewn farm where the winters are bitter. A long and sorry tale of cold and hunger. When she thinks of it, which she tries hard not to do, she considers it a miracle that any of them survived.
She and her sisters grew up half-starved in more ways than one: an alcoholic father, a defeated mother, and the truant officer forever pounding on the door. She marvels that she’s outlived the whole damn bunch of them. And what did she do but turn around and marry another heavy drinker, whose pilot light, early on, blew out. She had thought she was escaping, but she jumped from the pot in to the frying pan. Her only child was in prison, and at seventy-two what was a mother to do?
Walk the mall and eat cinnamon buns, that’s what. A year ago she nearly died of pneumonia, the best stroke of luck she ever had. A caring doctor alerted the Social Services, and that’s how she got out of that cold rat-trap of a house. At Senior Towers the registers spewed glorious hot-air day and night.
* * * *
Christmas Eve arrives with snow, no blizzard or anything like that; just a sky as thick as pudding, releasing scattered snow flakes. Gert wakes up feeling blue; the weight of the coming holiday sits heavy on her head. She turns off the carols bursting forth on the radio. She does not want to be reminded of Christmases past on that farm of deep despair. This day is no different than the others, she firmly tells herself, and after all, she’s got her schedule––Christmas Eve or not.
She pulls her boots on, slips into an extra sweater, and into the balding Mackinaw an old guy at the Senior Center gave her. A green chenille hat is pulled down on her forehead, as far as she can get it and still see. Before she leaves, she glances at her corrugated face in the mirror hanging by the kitchen sink. Well, she says, the truth is I’m no beauty, but at least I’m warm. She waits outside the entrance by the van stop. The frigid air slaps her in the face.
Today, the van is almost empty. Many seniors prefer to keep to their armchairs and skip Christmas altogether. Memories of Christmases so long ago, good or bad, can be unbearable.
Inside the mall she makes her rounds, ending up at Cindy’s Cinnamon. Following her ritual to the letter, she settles down to watch the last minute shoppers. The young flitter around like birds to the tune of Christmas ditties. Their elders, dead serious with time so short, are burdened with the responsibility of putting the merry into Christmas.
As she sits there, an obscure hymn from her childhood, uninvited, comes drifting in. Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin, e
ach victory will help you, another one win––the tune keeps rolling around in her head and the words keep coming out of nowhere. Why? Why after all these years? Why now?
Puzzled, she begins to ponder the strangeness of things. For instance, why has she long been too timid to walk into any of the shops? Why has she settled for just peering in the windows? After all, she has never considered herself bashful. But why can’t she do it? Isn’t she as good as anybody? True, she admits, she doesn’t look like your average shopper. And true, she doesn’t own a credit card for the simple reason she doesn’t have any credit.
That’s it, she muses––you’ve got to have a credit card to count for something in this world. But she’s got a right to be who she is, hasn’t she? Credit card or not, hasn’t she has the right to walk around and look at all the pretty things like everybody else? A sudden spurt of defiance propels her to the kitchen shop. She walks in cautiously looking all around, and nobody pays her the least bit of attention as she picks up a garlic squeezer, and then a grapefruit spoon. Nobody comes up and says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Feeling rather heady, she tours the toy store. In the “Sport Depot,” a young man stares at her as she examines a snowshoe, but he soon turns his attention to another shopper. She hurries past the bookstore and into La Belle Femme, and dreamily wanders among the dresses. She gently touches the lovely satin nightgowns trimmed with dainty appliqué, and plushy robes the color of emeralds. There’s a constant din of conversation all around her: May I help you?––Perhaps your wife would like these, sir?––Charge it please and send it on to wrapping.
At this point, she begins to realize nobody is paying the least bit of attention to her. After all, what must she look like? An old woman wandering around in a discarded jacket and a hat that looks like a flowerpot turned upside down. She fingers skimpy black lace undies, half puzzled, half amused, and nobody cares. And then it hits her: Gert is struck by the fact she is, indeed––Invisible!
This revelation gives her confidence. She proceeds to the cosmetic counters, where they are currently doing a brisk business in expensive perfumes. On the backside of a large display she comes upon a rack of lipsticks in the most beautiful carved gold tubes. In her younger days she had often seen women with these fancy lipsticks, but hers, by necessity, were always in plain plastic tubes, always a dull green or an unpromising beige.
She picks one up and looks at the label: Foxy Fuchsia. Another? Hot Cinnamon, and so on until she comes to Spanish Carnation. Sure now, that nobody sees her, she releases the seal, pushes the stick up, and encounters the pink of her dreams, contained in one small glistening pillar. Like a flash she comes to her senses, and terrified, recaps the thing. Standing there frozen, she hesitates; Then gripping it tightly, she heads for the restrooms.
When all the hand-washers have departed, she opens the lipstick with unsteady hands, and applies it. And behold, the face she once knew, youthful and shining, smiles back at her. She steps away quickly before the image vanishes.
She sits in a booth, and tries to analyze her situation, and damn, if that hymn doesn’t wing its way back again. Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin, la, la, la. Quite depressed now, and possibly angry, she sits there and makes her decision. She drops the tube into her handbag, and click––it is hers.
Riding home in the van, her secret concealed in the purse on her lap, she suddenly starts feeling giddy. Like a schoolgirl about to come down with the giggles. Perhaps, I’ll go to the Senior Center tomorrow, after all. Maybe I’ll even stand ‘round the piano with all the other old farts, and sing Frosty the Snowman. And why not enjoy a sugary cookie or two?
“And yes,” she says to the hat directly in front of her, “I will definitely ask Norman to come back in the van for a splash of Old Smuggler.”
“What did you say?” The neck of the head was too stiff to turn around fully.
“I said, ‘I’m gonna take Norman up to my room for a snort.’”
“Oh, that will be nice,” the hat says.
ROSIE AND MAC, by Sally Brinkmann
Tuesday Night, May 3
Mac McCabe released the hand-brake and eased the white Porsche down the drive. The tires crunched lightly over the gravel. He glanced back at the A-frame, but no lights flashed on; no alarms sounded.
The cabin vanished into the shadow of the mountain. All was quiet. He guided the sports car down to the main road and switched on the headlights. The West Virginia Mountain Rentals sign flashed past. Yeah, lucky for him, people were more relaxed on vacation. They only expected to be ripped off down in the city. Mac revved the engine and headed toward Tanky’s place.
The Porsche purred under his touch. In less than ten minutes, he turned off the Coolfont Road onto Route 9-West. Punching on the radio, Mac grunted with satisfaction as a new country release blasted from the speakers.
“The man likes country music. Money didn’t make him into no snob,” Mac muttered as he pulled out a cigarette. Inhaling the first drag, he started beating on the leather upholstery with the flat of his right hand, keeping time with the twanging guitars.
He smiled. “Well, the owner’ll just haveta make a little more money and buy hisself another vehicle. Shitty luck for him, but damn good luck for me.” Whole damn thing went smooth, he thought, not a single hitch. And he was in for the lion’s share. After all, his ass was on the line, wasn’t it?
He turned of Route 9 and headed down Peach Tree Hollow Road. Tanky’s place was on a side road. You had to be looking for the turn to find it. Mac drove the Porsche through the garage’s sagging double doors and jumped out. Tanky was waiting for him. The same country song thumped out loudly from Tanky’s boom-box. Mac took that for a good omen. It was like they were on the same wavelength.
“Whadaya think, Tanky? Is this here a beauty or what?”
Tanky pushed the greasy cowboy hat back on his head and slowly circled the Porsche. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all.”
“Should bring a nice piece of change,” Mac said. “I already had my eye on a new pickup over in Winchester.”
“Now boy, don’t go getting no big ideas yet. You know the cost of doing business.” Tanky propped one hand-tooled boot up carefully on an oil drum. “You ain’t nowhere without connections in this business. And connections cost money.”
Mac studied the top of Tanky’s hat and said nothing.
“This here’s the thing, Mac,” Tanky went on, “you’ll do okay outta this. Maybe not no new pickup truck. I mean, there’s expenses.” The two eyed each other in silence. “How about a beer, boy?” Tanky walked toward the door leading to the house. “Naoma, hey, Naoma, get us some beers.” He moved quickly for a man of his bulk. “What you say, Mac?”
“You done said it all, Tanky.” Mac started moving aimlessly around the shop, picking up a tool, examining it, setting it back down. Finally he came face to face with Tanky. A ball peen hammer dangled loosely from his right hand. “So, Tanky, I was out there risking my ass tonight. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have no nice, shiny Porsche to ship down to the chop shop in D.C. You wouldn’t have nothing. So just how much do you figure my cut might be?”
“Now hold on, Mac, I just can’t do no figuring yet. I ain’t sure what we can count on down in the city. But look at it thisaway, ain’t I always been fair?”
“Fair? I’ll show you fair.” Mac reached the Porsche in four long strides. Raising the hammer, he brought it down on the left fender. “I’m taking care of your share right now, Tanky. This here is your share!” Mac brought the hammer down repeatedly on the fender.
Tanky ran at him and tried vainly to grab the hammer. “You sonnavabitch, you give that hammer here. Are you crazy?”
Mac was not as tall as Tanky, but slim, fast, and wiry-strong. “Yeah, I’m crazy. Crazy for getting into this thing with you.”
“Gimme that.” Tanky tried to wrestle the hammer away.
“What about my share?” Mac shoved Tanky against the wall.
“
Chrissakes,” Naoma shrieked from the door. “What in the hell are you two doing? Oh my God, you done grabbed a wrecked car.” Naoma ran toward the men, a bottle of beer swinging in each plump hand. “Stop it, you fools.” Her huge breasts strained against the lime green spandex tank top. The men fell apart, gaping at her.
“Oh, all right, Mac. You made your point. You’ll get what you want.” Tanky took one of the beers. “You done spilled half of it, woman. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Ignoring Tanky, Naoma handed the other beer to Mac. “What happened to the car?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at the ball peen hammer, now in Tanky’s hand. She waited. Finally, she turned and stomped off, tight jeans barely containing her ample butt. “Gene called,” she said from the door. “He’ll be here any minute with the flatbed. There better be something left to load. Ain’t nothing more better happen to that car, Tanky, or I’ll be back with the ax.” She slammed the door.
Wednesday, May 4
“Damn Gene,” Mac muttered as he tried to maneuver the flatbed through D.C. traffic. He couldn’t remember the street name, although he’d been to Vito’s place before. Gene would have known. He should have been here. This was a two-man job. Damn Gene, he thought again. At the last minute Gene had run off home—some problem with his woman. Just left, stupid sonnavabitch. Couldn’t trust him. Last time Gene would ever be cut in.
Finally Mac located the street. He left the flatbed, loaded with the gleaming white Porsche, parked in front of Vito’s nondescript garage and banged on the door. Nothing happened.
Not wanting to leave the flatbed unattended, Mac glanced back over his shoulder and silently cursed Gene again. He tried the door. To his surprise it opened.
He walked into total darkness. “What the hell is going on,” he muttered, feeling his way along a wall. He remembered that the office was in the back, to the left. Some idiot must have shut things down, forgotten about his delivery.