Crushed--Part V

Prayer helps.  More than once I’ve said, “Lord, please do something.  To make me not like _____ (insert man’s name).”  Bad breath.  That’s a good one.  Sloth. That worked once.  With the cute guy I served with at church years ago.  He had longish black hair going gray and an awesome radio voice.  I think that might’ve been the first time I ever said, “Lord, do something.” 

            We both showed up for a work day at church.  Him with his family.  Me and mine.  I overheard him talking to the pastor out in the parking lot.

“I don’t want to break a sweat.  Know what I mean?  Why don’t you buy and I’ll fly?  To Lowe’s.” 

Voila!  Spell broken.  Sloth makes my top lip twitch.  Thanks, God.

Jake straightened and dusted the Millie hairs off his hands. Searched for and found his coffee.  He stayed there, with his elbows on his thighs, sipping from time to time. I clanked my cup in its saucer.  In case he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure where I was.

He turned his shoulders a bit. “I know what I want you to read today,” he said.

            I pressed my palm to my forehead.  “Dang it!  I forgot my notebook.”

            Silas came back out.  Tapped Jake’s arm with a balled up, grey t-shirt. 

            “Here.”

            “Thanks,” Jake said.  He pulled it on. Much better.

            “You really forgot your notebook?” Silas said.  “Bummer.  Hey, wait a minute. I know what we can do instead.” He turned to Jake. “Do you ever feel people’s faces like the blind people do on t.v. ?”

            Jake’s forehead furrowed. “You know, I’ve never done that, but we can if you want.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and massaged my temples.  This isn’t happening. 

Silas stood and pushed chairs around.  “This’ll be cool.  Okay, so the person who’s getting their face felt sits here.  The other two people sit across from him.  Or her.”

Jake stood. “You guys go first,” he said.  “Where’s my chair?”

Silas positioned him in the solo seat.

“You touch one side of his face. I’ll take the other,” I told Silas.  ‘Cause I’m afraid to do both, all by myself. 

Jake sat up taller.  Pushed his chin out a bit.  “Close your eyes,” he said.  "Pretend you’re blind, like me.”

I cheated.  I didn’t touch Jake.  Didn’t shut my eyes either. Instead, I watched Silas.  He ran his fingernails from Jake’s jaw to just under his eye.  I listened to the dry, papery sound.  Scruffy.

“Did you shave today?” Silas said. “It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“Naw.  I usually let it go until the weekend.  Jenny’s around more then.”

Silas rubbed his pointer finger back and forth under Jake’s nose.  “I can’t wait to have whiskers.  It’s gonna be so cool.”

Jake chuckled. “Don’t say that.  It's a pain in the butt, having to shave every day.”

“I don’t care,” Silas said.  “I want a moustache.”

Jake turned away from Silas.  “What do you think, Dana?” he said.  “About my face? Aren’t you supposed to be touching it too?”

            I swallowed.  Reached out. Cupped his jaw in my palm.  Felt a muscle tense. Held it a second more.  Let go.

            “It’s a nice face, Jake. Your coloring’s great. Very golden.”

            “What about my eyes?” he said. “In high school, I was voted—“

            I smiled.  “Prettiest eyes,” I said.  “I remember you telling me.  What did I get?  Do you remember?”

            He nodded.  “Class clown.”

            I smiled.  “Good memory.”

            Jake rubbed his hands on his shorts. “What about my eyes now?”

            “What do you mean?” But I knew.

            “Do they look like poached egg whites?  I remember the blind people I used to see.  That’s what their eyes seemed like.” He made his eyes big.

            What is that color? What does it remind me of? “Ever been to Asheville?  Or Gatlinburg?”

            He nodded.

            “So you know what the Smoky Mountains look like?”

            He squinted.  Seemed to be remembering.  “Kind of.  Dark blue, with a little green?  Is that what you mean?”

            I focused on his wide open gaze.  “Yeah, like that.  Now picture them in the morning with the mist rising.  Or fog. That’s what they're like—misted mountains.  Not poached eggs.”

            He covered his eyes for a minute then slid his hands down until they met—fingers lined up, palm to palm.  For a minute, he looked like he was praying. 

            “Cool.”

            No one said anything for a bit.  Silas pecked me on the leg.  Mouthed now-what?  I pointed to Jake’s head.  To the silver-gold stubble.  Silas rubbed it with his hand—back, forth, back.

            “You’ve got great hair, Jake,” he said. “Like a recruiter for the military.” He made his voice deep. “‘The few. The proud. The Marines.’”

            Jake and I laughed.  “Good one, Si,” I said.

            “Is my mouth still pretty?” Jake said.  “Jenny used to say it was her favorite part of me.”  Did she?

            I traced it with my purple-black pinky nail.  “She’s right, Jake.  You could totally model Chapstick.”

            I glanced down at his arm. Noticed the rash of goosebumps.  My chair made a squawnky noise as I scooted back

“All done.”

            I watched a shadow of disappointment flit across his face.  You don’t remember how to mask your emotions, do you?

            “Feel Silas’s face,” I said, injecting brightness into my tone. “Tell him how handsome he is.”

            Jake swept his hand from side to side, searching. His wrist caught Silas’s ear.  He floated his hand higher.  Found the top of Silas’s head.  Patted.

            “Man, Silas.  That’s a ton of hair. You should give me some.”

            Looks like dandelion fluff, but curly.

            Silas shook his head.  “No way.  Yours is better.”

            “Aren’t his cheeks soft?” I said.

            “And he wants whiskers,” Jake said.  “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Silas.  Don’t ever do that.”

            Jake ran a finger down Silas’s nose.

            “He’s got my nose and Joel’s mouth,” I said.  “All three of you could be Chapstick models.”

            Silas fidgeted.  “Your turn, Mom.  Trade me seats.”

            Oh, no.  I wondered if they noticed my sharp intake of breath.  Silas stood.  Then me.  I lowered onto the chair.  I felt Jake's hand above my head somewhere.  When it dropped,  my hairclip bit into my scalp.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “My hair’s up.”

            Jake’s nose wrinkled.  “You have long hair now? But it was always short.”

            “I know,” I said. “A few years back Joel told me, ‘You’ve had every short hair style there is.  Why don’t you grow it long?’ So I did.”

            “How long is it now?” Jake said.  “Let it down.”

            You’ve got to be kidding.  I pinched the clip and my hair tumbled free.

            “It’s halfway down her back,” Silas said.  “And it’s the color of coffee.”

            I chuckled.  “Nice description, Si.”

            Jake’s hand came at me.  My lungs felt empty but I didn’t do anything about it.  He found a hank of hair and followed it until his wrist collided with my shoulder.

            “Wow,” he said softly. “That is long.”

            I almost ducked when both his hands approached, on either side of my face.  I locked eyes with Silas.  Did you feel that?  The air just thickened.  Jake’s fingers combed through my hair.  Went out the back.

            “Nice,” he said.  My cheeks felt suddenly sunburned.

            “Face time,” Silas said. I glared at him. 

            What will my face feel like? I tried to remember what I looked like that morning.  No little red bumps today.  Good.  And crow’s feet? I don’t think you can feel those.

            Jake ran his fingers from my forehead to my chin.  Kept going.  Under my jaw. Stopped at my necklace.

            “What’s this?” he said, rolling the chain back and forth.

            “My cross necklace.”

            “There’s other stuff on there too,” Silas said.

            Jake’s finger explored each item.

            “There’s a rock that says ‘faith,’” I said. “And a cross, of course. That’s a little pearl, like in the pearl of great price parable, if you know it.  And the silver rectangle says, ‘GRACE.’”

            Jake dropped his hands to the sides of his chair. Sat back.  “So you believe?”

            I saw Silas’s head tilt, but I knew what Jake was asking.

            “Yes,” I said. 

            Jake scratched his arm a couple times before he spoke. 

“And you think your God’s a good god?”

“Uh huh.”  I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t.

“So exactly how do you explain what happened to me?”

I winced and put up my pointer finger. “Can you give me some time, Jake?” I said. “To gather my thoughts on that?"

Jake shifted. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.  Then my mom’s coming for a few days.  How ‘bout Friday?”

I counted on my fingers.  One, two, three, four days. Whoo!

 “Friday’s good,” I said.

I stood.  Took Silas’s hand.  Pulled him to standing.  Scooped up Millie’s leash. Tugged. Gives me plenty of time to ponder the mysteries of pain and suffering and all that.

“And don’t forget your notebook,” Jake said. “'Cause I know what I want to hear next.”

His tone made me turn. “And what would that be?”

“Love stories.  You do have love stories, don’t you?

Never Say Never

“Mommy?  Why does that lady have a moustache?”

            I heard my molars clack together.  I kept 'em clenched.  Turned slowly.  Tried not to be obvious.  There she was.  Looked like she’d stepped right out of Little House on the Prairie.  Her blue calico dress L’d where it hit the ground.  A creamy apron, edged in eyelet, bathed her front.  Or is that called a pinafore?  A circle of lace hugged her storm-colored bun.  In her hands lay a hank of yarn, yellow-orange from an onion-skin dye bath.  Her blunt fingers caressed the fibers as she gazed off into the fire-colored foliage.  Whew!  I don't think she heard.

            I put my finger to my lips.  “Shhh!” I told my daughter.  “Remember the Thumper Rule?  If you can’t say anything nice—“

            “But, Mommy.  I wasn’t being--“

            I pounced my pointer finger on my lips and made mad eyes.  She shushed.  I pretended to fiddle with my younger daughter’s stroller blanket.  At the same time, I stole another glance at Gunsmoke gal from beneath my lashes.  I had to nip my lower lip to keep from gasping.  Cream-gone-to-butter strands sprouted above her pursed lips.  Honestly?  I’m not sure moustache was the right word for the thing.  It was more of a fringe.  Reminded me of the stringy edge of the off-white muffler my Nan made me years ago to match my camel-colored, Bobbi Brooks winter coat. 

            I murmured.  To me, not her.  “God bless her.  Why she doesn’t yank that thing is beyond me.” 

            I gave the stroller a shove to get it out of a mud rut.  Then I couldn’t help myself.  I did a Lot’s wife.  Glanced back one more time.  I puffed at my bangs and shook my head.     
            “Gracious!  That’s never gonna be me.”

Know where you can find us the first Saturday of every October?  The Springs Festival in Springs, Pennsylvania, but don’t go on a Sunday.  It won’t be there.  Most everyone over that way, especially the Amish, Quaker, and Mennonite folk—will be in church ‘cause  Sunday’s the Lord’s Day.

            The first thing we do when we arrive is buy a couple homemade, soft pretzels.  I love the salt polka dots, almost big as pebbles, all over the glossy brown surface.  I squirt sunny mustard all over my pretzel and open wide.  The kids gobble theirs plain or with nacho cheese.  Fight over the leftover viscous orange sauce that  paints the waxed paper.

            I smile and hand the girl who can't stop blushing two dollars.
           “Two lemonades, please.  ‘Cause it’s so good, one is never enough.”

            Next we head for the Forest Trail.  My older daughter tugs at my jean jacket sleeve.    
             “Is it time, Mom?  Or did we miss it?  I hope not.  We've never missed it before.  Not even once.”

            I peruse the printed schedule.  “In five minutes the sheep shearing gal from Morgantown will be here.  Run up and save us a seat on the front row.  Or snag us one of those boulders, one that's dry.”

            We oooh and ah over the lamb getting its first ever haircut.  My girls tear up when "she" gets nicked in her pink, fleshy armpit. Of course, my daughters assume it's a girl. 
              After they pet the shorn she, we get back on the Forest Trail and continue the loop.  We pause at the soap maker and sniff every flavor of her essential oils.  Then we use broken pretzel sticks to sample all the dips and spreads the Tasty Shoppe vendor has to offer.  We listen closely as Musket Man, who looks like a skinny Santa in buckskin instead of red velvet, does his demo.  We can almost recite his whole spiel.  I cover my ears right before he pulls the trigger.  KABOOM!  I feel the sonic force in my skeleton.  We clap and he bows low.  I grin and toss my hair behind my shoulder when he winks at me.

            “There’s a blacksmith this year,” I tell the girls as we continue on.  “Let’s go see.  And then we’ll get homemade ice cream, pet the Alpacas, and buy a broom for Gram.”

            My older girl steps in front of me and locks her brown Bambi  eyes with my blue ones. 
           “Can we take a hayride too?  Pretty please?”

            I herd her close with my arm. Bend to kiss her curls.  “Of course, sweetie.  You know how this is.  We do every thing, every year.”

My younger daughter sits criss cross applesauce on the sidewalk next to the flagpole outside her middle school.  I pull alongside the curb and push the gearshift to P.  She stands.  Opens the back door.  Drops her bookbag on the seat.

            I look over my shoulder.  “Did you tell your music teacher you’ve got a good excuse for leaving play practice early? That we’re going to the Springs Festival?”

            She nods as she opens the front door.  “Can I ride shotgun?”

            “Sure.  You’re almost twelve.  But when we get your sister, she’ll probably--”

            “I know.  I know.   I’ll sit in the back then, with the little guy.”

            I flip the visor down to check my lipgloss status in the mirror.  I feel my daughter’s gaze and turn to her. 
            “What?”

            “There’s something on your face.  On your jaw right there.  An eyelash maybe?”

            I flip the visor back down.  “Where?”

            “There,” she says.  She puts her finger on my chin.  Jerks her hand back and rubs it on her shirt.

            I huff.  “What?  Why’d you do that?”

            Her mouth pulls to one side.  “’Cause it’s icky.  Wiry,” she said.  “You touch it.”

            I release my seat belt.  Scoot forward to get closer to the mirror.  My fingers search my jaw line.  Brush toward my neck, then away from it.  Finally my fingernails find the thing.  Tug. 
            “Oh, poop!”

            My daughter’s eyes are huge.  “What?  What is it?”

            “It’s attached, that’s what it is!”

            She makes a gagging noise.  “Ew!  Are you kidding?  Gross!”

            I yank, hard.  My eyes water.  I inspect the offender.  It's a silver S.  It almost gleams in the noon day sun.  A tiny speck of skin, a flesh rootball, clings to one end.  I hold it in a pincer grip.  Offer it to my daughter.  Her glossed lips curl and twitch.

            “What do you want me to do with it?”

            “Put it somewhere safe,” I say.  “’Til we get home.”

            I watch her swallow.  Her nostrils flare. “You’re not going to do that thing, are you?”

            I grin and re-buckle my seatbelt.  “Of course I am.”

            She moans and presses her palms into her eyelids.  “I hate that urn where you keep all our personal stuff. Our belly button stumps after they fell off, our first fingernail clippings, Dad’s super long eyebrow hair, L'il Paint's toe.  Do you know how weird you are?”

            I chuckle and put the car in drive.  “I think the word is sentimental, dear.”

            She shakes her head.  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s weird.” 

            She turns the radio on, then off.  “Oh, and just for the record?” she says.  “The whisker on the chin thing?  That’ll never happen to me.”

            I snort.  “Really?” I say.  “Oh, sweet pea.  If there’s one thing having children has taught me, it’s to never say never.”