Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  “It’s called the white dove of the desert,” I say. Caitlin nods with understanding.

  The mission, in a state of perpetual reconstruction and resurfacing, has a scaffold bracing its western half. The most recent efforts are to cover graffiti left by heartless people on the walls of a sacred place.

  Huddled in Caitlin’s purchases and sitting on one of the rugs, we must look like two passengers on a magic carpet headed for the mission and the city beyond. My field of vision places me smack-dab in the middle of the church…my legs straddling the pristine right half and the scaffold-gripped left. Once again, I am physically in line with my spiritual state. As much as I have strived to become shiny and acceptable to the world’s eye, I am still very much in a place of limbo. I close my left eye to take in the perfect half only…but the urge to peek at the old side with scars is too strong. For the first time I am convicted, not by guilt or regret or selfish motives, but by the pure conviction of the Spirit that I am supposed to go home. I glance down at Tess’ bracelet and the single, brass key and know for sure. I have unfinished business to resolve.

  The sun rises in the sky. We begin to shed our layers as nature places a warm hand on our backs. This is how I will always remember this day. Not driving at night scared half out of my wits. Not even the comical state in which I found Caitlin. But this moment of sacred silence, friendship, and a feeling of flying in the right direction even if I’m not sure where it will lead.

  “Thank you,” whispers Caitlin, sharing my soulful mood.

  “No, thank you, Caitlin.” And I mean it.

  Baggage Claim

  Lady. Lady, let go.”

  Huh? I am in a total travel fog, the kind that feels as though your head has been stuffed with cotton. I slowly turn to face a waiflike woman dressed in Annie Hall-ish trousers, suspenders, and hat. “Huh?” I repeat aloud.

  “That’s my bag. Your hand is on my bag.”

  My luggage was given to me by my parents as a graduation present. They said they were just about to buy the sleek black-with-gray-trim set I had requested, but then they saw the vibrant fuchsia cases. “Nobody else will have these. You’ll love that.” They were wrong. I look down at the suitcase that has my hand attached to it. It’s nearly identical to mine, except now I see a “Save Tibet” sticker on the side.

  I release my hold but not before Annie beckons a nearby security officer to mediate.

  “We’re fine,” I assure the man, who resembles Bill Murray. For a minute I think it must be him researching for a part. He asks Annie if we really are fine. She nods harshly, releasing him back to his post by the exit doors and the Washington Post dispensers.

  “Sorry.” I am sorry. Sorry that I thought traveling the day before Thanksgiving was a smart idea. Sorry that I am here in the Dulles airport, near enough to my childhood home to make me feel like I did as a child. In the way. Confused. Mistaken.

  I spot my bag coming around the luggage racetrack one more time. A young Frenchman reaches for it when I fail to drag it off the belt. “Merci pour l’aide,” I say, making a mental note that I will have to tell Sophie that I used one of our few phrases…and with a very cute French boy, no less.

  I check my watch one more time. Dad said he would be here at eleven. It is a quarter till noon. My parents are reliable but never punctual. The brass key clicks against my watch, and I am reminded of the letter from Tess. Glancing around for a place to sit, my eyes settle on a long empty bench by a magazine shop.

  Unfolding the delicate linen sheet, I welcome Tess’ handwriting with a smile. How she knew that she would be leaving me still requires too much thought and faith on my part. She writes as if in the middle of an ongoing conversation.

  To my girl,

  I told you. It is between me and God. Don’t try to figure it all out. You have enough going on in your life to worry about how the end of life works. Mari, you are the one I hate to leave the most. I am thankful I was here to see you blossom…and see you dance with your love. I cannot wait to watch you move into the next stage of your life. Things need to settle down a bit…but then you will know exactly where you are going.

  I digress. The key you have of course opens the bureau at Golden Horizons. But it also opens several other bureaus. My true love had the set made for me as a wedding gift. As you know, Gisele is my most trusted friend…so before I made the move to Golden Horizons, I entrusted her with these handcrafted pieces and their contents. But now, as I make another move, a bigger move, it is you, Mari, who will watch over, distribute, or use these items as you see fit. My faith tells me you will find a purpose for them very soon in your journey. But if not…think of them as good luck charms, never as burdens. Nobody needs extra baggage in their life, and in the end these are just things. Beautiful, yes. But still just things. You and I both know there is much more to life. Go live it, Mari. Live fully. Until we meet again, I will celebrate you and your joys to come from the Pearly Gates…the real deal this time.

  Godspeed, Tess

  After I spend a few days with Mom and Dad, I will fly to New York to help Gisele arrange for the shipment of these good luck charms. I’m more curious about this grand dame of New York than I am about my inheritance.

  Inheritance. I have an inheritance from someone I met only five years ago. It’s a miracle Tess could trust me so much in such a short time. Yet, in my childhood God showed me that the stranger I meet at breakfast is considered family before dinner. How many brothers and sisters had I welcomed into our home over eighteen years? I take a quick survey of my memory and figure more than a hundred. Could this be possible? A truth that used to bother me now makes me smile. In some ways it would be good to see…

  “Marcus!” Front and center in my field of vision is the one I am not prepared to see. A stranger-turned-brother yes. But also my first love.

  “Mari?” His dark eyes look me over and he speaks my name slowly. We are both amazed by the expanse of time that has passed. “You look wonderful! Up. Stand. I get a hug at least. I drove through lunch hour traffic to come fetch you. Ted got caught up with one of the food vendors donating to the big Thanksgiving feast.”

  I am amused and flattered that he is as nervous as I am. I figured that over time his good looks and quick wit would make him a bit jaded in the presence of women.

  We embrace until I am uncomfortable. I swat the bill of his Cubs cap and point to my bag. He obliges after first bowing to me. We laugh and keep looking at each other as we make our way through the crowd, into the shuttle, and finally to the parking lot.

  When I booked this ticket to D.C., I mentally prepared to face a lot of difficult memories, recycled emotions, former roles, and flashbacks of the childhood I still run from. My logic…the more I visualized what would take place during my three-day visit, the more I could troubleshoot the emotional pitfalls, the gaps between memory and reality, and the lapses in sanity that send my head spinning.

  But in all that careful planning, plotting, and second-guessing, I had forgotten to consider exactly what I would do if my past love stood waiting for me in baggage claim.

  As it turns out, I would sweat, vacillate between crimson red and ecru, and laugh uncontrollably and intermittently. Oh yeah, and I would ask to have the car pulled over to the side of a busy freeway so I could be sick.

  As I’m doubled over in front of lunchtime commuters in this nation’s fine capital, I can only pray that this is not a preview of things to come.

  Old Familiar Places

  Marcus and I enter quietly, with plans to surprise my folks in the midst of the commotion. But we could have used a bullhorn and come in riding cattle and never been noticed. Quick glances take in the large open kitchen with its ceiling fans above gigantic, purple cupboards, plank tables that seem to stretch for fifty feet, and multiple blackboards placed in random spots and at varying heights along the brick walls. Mom is a strong proponent for writing down expectations, events, ideas, lists, and the occasional inspirational quote when there is room.


  At this very moment, she is crossing off “Wednesday: pick up 20 pumpkin pies from Georgetown Bakery” from the blackboard temporarily titled “Donated Food Items: What and When” located at the very top of the stairwell. She stands on a precarious ladder. Gospel music is blaring, people are running in and out of the back storeroom and delivery door, and a new generation of children tromp up and down the stairs on the way to their rooms.

  After a few shouts at normal volumes to get her attention, Marcus and I shout at the top of our lungs, “Moooommmmmm!” and break up with laughter as she nearly topples from her high perch. The wiry woman scurries down the so-called ladder to greet me.

  After a long hug she pushes me away for a look-see.

  “Honey, you look all schmootzy.” She is troubled by this.

  “This is a term? Schmootzy?”

  “Puffy here,” she says, pointing to my eyes. “And flushed. Was it a bad flight? You didn’t lose your luggage, did you?”

  “Not her luggage…but her lunch,” Marcus pats me on the back, smiling a knowing smile.

  “You two are up to something,” says Mom, pausing long enough to scan our expressions for proof of mischief. “Goodness, I knew it was trouble when Ted said he was sending Marcus to the airport. Will I have to keep my eyes on you?”

  Without even thinking, I step a bit to the right to create some distance in case Mom is getting the wrong idea about me and Marcus or if she and Dad planned all along to send Marcus to fetch me. I promise myself that the minute I get a chance to speak to her alone, I will tell her all about Beau. Beau! I reach into my pocket and retrieve my phone. I turn it back on and watch for the little message icon. Two missed calls.

  “Oh, no. She’s one of those.” Marcus digs his thumb into my side. This was cute when he was the object of my teen flirtations, but I’m…I’m…older, wiser, and I have an adult romance. There is no thumb jabbing, hair pulling, or ear tugging in adult love. I give him a look that says “stand back.” He interprets the look but does not budge.

  “Mari?” I hear my dad’s voice near but do not see him. I think maybe he is suffocating beneath the piles of bread loaves and paper plates that overflow an old soda fountain counter my folks bought years ago when a local, old-fashioned drugstore went out of business.

  Mom reaches past my right shoulder to a small black box. She presses the red button and hollers beside my ear, “Yes! She’s here. Ted, take a break, would you? It isn’t every day that your daughter comes home for a visit.”

  Or every year, I think, flooded with guilt. But I say, “An intercom system? Finally! How many years did I suggest that very thing?” I place my hands on my hips for a showing of strength and intelligence and due respect.

  “Well, why do you think we got it, dear? All because of you.” She pats my head in a silly fashion, emphasizing that she is indeed patronizing me.

  “Woo-hoo. Why, there’s my ma-Mari…back from sa-safari.”

  Dad comes bounding through the back delivery door with the very old and very tired line he created the year I went, against my will, to wilderness survival camp. They thought the experience would enlighten me. Instead, it frightened me into an extreme state of nature-phobia.

  It’s amazing I am even close to normal. I self-congratulate as Dad swoops me up in his arms with gusto. His smaller-than-I-recall frame can only lower me into a dance hall dip rather than lift me into the air. My silk beret drops to the floor and my honey-colored hair tumbles into view.

  “Oh, my gosh! What on earth did you do with my daughter’s hair?” Dad flips me upright and they all take in the look of Chanel. I hadn’t had time to dye it back to normal. My fingers twirl the tips as I stand feeling naked and judged.

  “I like it,” Mom says, standing up for me. I smile at her and shake my head no.

  “It was for work…just for a short while. I’m going back to the old look, don’t worry.” I fumble through an unnecessary apology.

  “Golden Horizons did a performance of Golden Girls?” Dad laughs at his new bad joke.

  “Ted, don’t tease her. You know she works at that fancy resort now.”

  “Oo la la,” Marcus says. He does not jab with his thumb, but I get the same sensation.

  This is a scene I did manage to conjure up in advance. My tactical response: deep breathing and a change of subject. I am not ready to defend Majestic. Not because I plan to be invisible while here, but because I don’t know what I would say.

  “How can I help?” This trick has never failed.

  “Blondie, come with me. We have corn to shuck.” Dad does a country two-step dance and I roll my eyes. He lobs the van keys over my head to Marcus’ sure catch. “The Capitol Deli has a bunch of salad that needs to be picked up. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. I’m there.” He starts out but hesitates as his hand is about to leave the doorknob. “Mari, it’s good to see you.”

  There are literally bushels of corn to shuck. Dad gives me a quick refresher for how to get the most corn from the cob into the big metal bowls. We speak in short spurts about current kids in the shelter, my job at Majestic, and the oddball house projects Dad has undertaken over the past four years.

  Periodically, I try to shake off bits of husk and hull that gather like snowballs on my sweater sleeves. But really I use the moment to scan my dad’s face. He looks a lot older. I used to see him as a blur of energy and motion. Now he is slow motion except for short bursts. I want to ask what happened, but the question only serves to point out my absence. The choices I made to avoid contact with this place now make their consequences known.

  Evening is upon us as we evaluate the food prepared for tomorrow’s big community feast. Dad and I go through a master checklist. This one is not on a blackboard but actually printed out from a computer (yet another technological advancement around here), so I have grid boxes to check off as Dad calls out the mounds of vegetables, bread, desserts, fresh turkeys, hams, and every side order imaginable, from sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes to stuffing and chickpea casserole. My stomach is about to state its case for dinner just as Mom opens up the walk-in freezer.

  “Finish counting those frozen turkeys and then come and eat. Don’t forget to add you two to your total. Ha.” She closes the door and leaves Dad and me to fake laugh behind her back.

  “Just like ol’ times, eh, kid?” Dad leans his shoulder into mine.

  “You got it.” I lean back into him, wishing I knew all my feelings so I could express them right then and there. But I promised myself I’d enjoy moments as they happened rather than figure them out in relation to my past. To stay silent, leaning against my dad, seems like home.

  For Whom the Bell Tolls

  By ten o’clock in the morning there is a line wrapped around the neighborhood. Many diners have walked here from nearby areas, but some families or groups of neighbors have pooled their resources to take the Metro or a cab ride here from a distant part of the city. When I go outside to make an initial count, two local shelters pull up with their refurbished school buses and unload passengers.

  “Is it my bad memory, or did Mom increase her marketing efforts this year?” I nudge my dad, who is karate chopping a head of lettuce with the vigor I recall. This visit has helped me understand one thing…my folks are extroverts, thriving under the pressure of being surrounded by people who need something from them. I am, however, an introvert…longing to pull up a chair in a corner with one of the guests or shelter kids, strike up a heart-to-heart, and observe the rest from a safe distance.

  “Your mom, my dear, has at least half the city’s politicians in her pocket these days.”

  I scrunch my face. “Isn’t that a bad term? It sounds like she is making payoffs.”

  “It’s the opposite. They are making the payoffs. Much of this food has come from organizations that boast having a politician or wealthy patron on their board.” He looks up from his kung fu cabbage moves to look fondly at Mom. She is rerouting a new group of people to the covered outdoo
r porch, which we enclosed with particle board yesterday. “That woman wears the leaders down. At this point I think she could run for office and they’d all offer support just to keep her out of their hair.”

  Mom turns around and hollers at me. She can sniff an idle person from a mile away. “Mari! I need your help.”

  I trot over in obedient fashion. I know to not get smart with her on a day like this.

  “Here are the van keys. Do you still have your fifteen-passenger-vehicle license?”

  “Yep. From…Golden.”

  “That’s my girl. I need you to go to this address and pick up a group of folks. They have no way to get here.” Her eyes focus on the ceiling as she reaches for a thought. “The Morenos! They have been coming for years. Remember them? Robert Moreno wears that hunter’s cap; he used to call you…what was that?”

  “Mari Christmas,” I offer, amazed that my memory is returning in full force.

  “Yes! Well, they cannot get here, and we cannot do Thanksgiving without them. Go quickly. It’s a ways. Don’t get lost.” I’m only a few feet away when she adds, “Take Marcus…Roberta is in a wheelchair now. You will need help.”

  It only takes us twenty minutes to get lost.

  “I know we are close. There’s the old arcade. Remember, we used to go there all the time.”

  “No. You went there. I was busy studying, remember?” Marcus smirks at me from the passenger seat.

  “Oh yeah. I do remember…that you were the one who had to study.” Chuckle. Chuckle. “Same ol’ Marcus.”

  “Different Mari, though.”

  I grip the steering wheel and strain my neck to read the next street sign. I don’t know if I really want to follow this conversational detour. But I take the bait anyway. “How am I different?” I give him a look. “Other than the hair. Or extra weight. No obvious statements.”