Short Story: Waiting

Betty Malicoat

Hi Sandy,

I’m waiting for the morning to start. Bill is still sleeping. Had to sneak out. Didn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep. Ha, ha! Like sleep could remove his beer belly and love handles.

I shouldn’t complain. You know Marie. Her husband Smitty got hurt last December. Hasn’t worked since. It’s just awful. The roofing company he works for will not pay a cent until they have their people investigate the accident. You can imagine how long that’s going to take!!!

Oh, well. Linda Mahoney at the post office, you remember her, is quitting her job. She whispered this to me on Tuesday when I went in to mail your gift. She looked like she had been crying. Everyone always thought she had a thing for the UPS driver. I think his wife found out and raised hell.

How’s Larry doing? Bill said he talked to him at Home Depot getting supplies for his workshop. Bill said Larry was getting tired of the commute to Livermore Labs. That drive is the pits. But what are you going to do. You have to go where they pay the most money.

It’s been real hard on Bill having to change jobs after the layoff. Not much call for chemists anywhere, not that he minds working at Home Depot. At least he’s a manager, and you know, things could be a lot worse.

Anyway, I was wondering if you got your birthday gift on time and if you liked it. I know you collect those glass figurines and when I saw that crystal ballerina at Macy’s, I just thought to myself, that looks like Sandy! I hope it fits into your collection.

Well, Bill just woke up and I guess it’s time for the daily schedule to begin. I do envy your going to work every day and going out to lunch with friends.

I think about how we grew up in Sacramento and went to LA together. That was a hoot! Remember the frig that died with four porterhouse steaks in it that we had just gotten the night before with our tips from the Snack Shack?!

Sometimes I wish I had stayed my senior year, finished my degree, but Bill and I were crazy about each other and I was pregnant with Cheryl. Then, you know Bill’s mom offered to help us buy a home. Feels like a hundred years ago.

Sandy, do you ever have regrets? I mean deep regrets in the heart that have no words. Sometimes I feel like I was headed in one direction and then, hell, I don’t know what happened. So many of my days are alike. Most of the time I forget what day it is.

My girls get so impatient with my forgetting their swim meets and dance recitals. But you know nothing seems very important. Even Bill rolls his eyes at me. He says I’m unintentionally funny.

But I was funny. I was the funny one in our group and smart like you. I’m beginning to think maybe I wasn’t smart enough. So Sandy, what does a woman do when she wakes up and finds she’s living some other woman’s life? You know me, just kidding!

Send me a quick e-mail when you can. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love ya,
Amanda

Story: Attention Deficit

Betty Malicoat

“Stop that! Lucy, are you listening to me?” At eight years old, Lucy had a perfect view of all ten elevator buttons. The last three floors were dedicated to psychiatric services.

Lucy pushed all three buttons, then slyly glanced at the man with glasses who returned her smile.

The doctor told Lucy’s mom that her daughter had an attention deficit disorder to which Fran, Lucy’s mom, replied, then why does this behavior only happen when she’s around me.

“Behave yourself!” Fran hissed in a whisper everyone heard. Fran gave what Lucy described to the doctor as her mom’s evil look, so evil Lucy could feel her face break into smithereens.

“Step back, please.” A nurse with a blue and white cap deftly turned the wheelchair so the teenage boy could be wheeled in facing the elevator doors.

“Hold the doors!” The woman was helped by the man with glasses who slid the doors back open for her. Lucy thought the lady was silly because she giggled the whole time the man was helping her. It wasn’t natural. This was her mom’s favorite thing to say.

The boy in the wheelchair ignored Lucy. Lucy noticed his hair stood straight up from his forehead. Fran grabbed Lucy’s hand before it reached the boy’s head.

“I’m Lucy. What’s your name?” Lucy stood directly in front of the teenage boy so he would pay attention to her.

“Ron.” His voice was slightly hoarse.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Lucy!” Fran was acutely aware of each person on the elevator and was convinced they all must think she was a terrible mother with a daughter who was never taught manners.

As the silent embarrassment continued, Fran’s blood pressure became elevated and her tension headache returned.

The woman who had giggled exchanged a knowing look with the man with glasses. Neither one had children but knew with utmost certainty, if they had children, they wouldn’t behave like Lucy.

The nurse perfectly expressed public opinion when she smiled at Lucy with false cheerfulness and spoke.

“My, aren’t we the curious one.” Lucy could hear the disapproval behind the words.

“Everything is wrong with me except my mind.” Ron looked into Lucy’s eyes.

“When I was eleven, the entire power of my body zoomed into my mind overnight, and in the morning I couldn’t move. I’ve been in a wheelchair ever since.”

The adults were drawn to Ron’s words, the hint of wry humor, casual bravery and some truth about his condition. But mainly they felt sorry for him.

“Cool!” Lucy smiled at Ron. Finally, someone worthy of her attention.

“Can I touch your hair?”

“You’ll have to pay a dollar for the privilege.”

The elevator doors opened and Lucy left with Ron and the nurse onto the fifth floor.

“Lucy! Get back here this second. Do you hear me?”

Story: Forgotten

Betty Malicoat

Who am I who comes to this strange land of plenty, of breezes and olive trees, or so I’m told, and sand as far as my feet can walk.

Who has gone before me? I do not know. The sun is my roof, moving past an invisible horizon. No shadows form beneath the brush along a path beneath the sun’s light.

My memory wanders beside a large white tent. I hear a thin tinkle of bells as the camels move. I feel the sway of the saddle.

A fragment comes as silver glints in moonlight, knives held in nervous hands, eyes trying to see through silence, waiting for someone or something.

I recall a marketplace, smells of dung and sweat and strange fruits packed in salt to make them sweeter.

A familiar face appears. He smiles broadly so I will notice the gold in his teeth and not the intent in his eyes. His eyes search for what I am keeping from him, some secret thing I have forgotten.

His woman hides behind her veil. She bends her head and stares at the dust on her shoes. I feel her interest and even excitement in her breathing or maybe it is fear.

She would not be here without permission, without purpose. Into my mind comes the picture of my unmade bed on the worn Persian rug, a crumpled pack of menthol cigarettes, my American-made watch and seven one hundred dollar bills.

When I open the door in my mind wider, no walkway appears, no escape into knowing, not even another door.

I am surrounded by silence. The male face moves closer. I feel the warmth of the woman through her dress. She should never come so close to a male stranger.

A sharp pain begins from the woman’s hand in the middle of my chest and travels inward, stopping my heart. I no longer see the man’s face. I no longer feel the warmth. The silence opens and I slip away.

Story: Sunrise

Betty Malicoat

The outlines of houses and trees were barely becoming visible. The air was still, neither cool nor warm. A door opened on the upper deck of the Shelton house.

An orange tomcat escaped from the open door onto the roof, went across and dropped onto the dilapidated structure of Harvey Shelton’s veggie palace. The small white poodle from next door had already slipped past a rotten board that Harvey promised to nail back in place two months ago.

Orange and white shapes moved stealthily among the dense tomato plants, sniffing under the wide zucchini leaves for a slight movement of a gopher, a rabbit, anything.

Vultures in three dark clusters began to stir in one of the many scrub pine trees, waiting to prance across Alice Framington’s roof, wings in wide arcs to catch the sun’s rays.

Alice threatened to harm them, but every morning she stood on her porch with a broom, hitting the porch columns to scare them away. This would only interrupt the woodpecker in the oak tree in her front yard.

On the other side of Harvey, past the creek, was the Shepard’s log cabin. Linda Shepard watered her heirloom roses and carefully readjusted the chicken wire around them. Last week a deer had head-butted the wire and almost trampled her prized possessions.

Across from Linda, up a steep winding drive, lived Steve Melon who had lights installed the whole length of his driveway. He claimed this was necessary to keep himself and his German Shepherd safe from the local bobcats.

His neighbor Cynthia Cross insisted a whole bobcat family was living on her three-acre lot. But Cynthia and her husband also said they could see the spirit of a white buffalo. Each story varied with their alcohol intake.

About half an acre North, down from Harvey, two visitors sat on a leafy veranda at Mark’s place. Mark was asleep as this was his one day off from Hansen’s garage. The visitors sat for a long time. As the story goes, they were waiting to see the sunrise.

Story: Between Two Worlds

Betty Malicoat

Henry points his finger at a cloud. He imagines the cotton feel on the tip of his finger. A butterfly passes close to his face. He likes the yellow ones on his grampa’s farm. His father called grampa grumpy. He didn’t look grumpy to Henry.

He sees a flash of his mother–her dark hair and eyes. He hears her whisper. Henry turns his head and sits up. His chubby five-year-old fingers try to pick pieces of grass off his new shirt and pants. He looks back over the field to the shadow trees.

His mother taught him about shadow trees. They protect each other and when people look at them from a distance, they hide in shadow. She told him each tree has a secret sound. Henry’s father laughed and said it was the wind.

The trees are hiding. Henry can tell. He hears his mother. He holds his hands over his ears until the whisper leaves and he hears only the wind. Henry’s attention moves back to the sky, the clouds and a red-tailed hawk gliding overhead.

Henry’s grampa is teaching him bird names. The whisper returns. He holds his breath and waits. His mother’s voice tries to reach him, but he won’t let it. He squeezes his eyes shut to concentrate and he smells the lotion made out of roses that his mother puts on her hands.

“Go away!” He opens his eyes, looks at the clouds. He points his finger at a cloud. The sky is distant, a million miles away. He can’t touch the cloud no matter how hard he tries.

“What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you.” Donald kneels down next to his little brother and helps Henry tuck in his shirt.

“You know Mommy’s in heaven. Right?”

“No she’s not.” Henry’s eyes are unwavering and as dark as the shadow trees.

Story: A Small Encounter

Betty Malicoat

“We at Blue Eagle Airlines apologize for the delay. We will get you on the next flight available.” The airline clerk whispers something and hands the official a hand-written note.

“Your new flight number is 643. Flight 643 is due to arrive in approximately 45 minutes. Thank you.”

“I could use a drink” Raven comments to no one in particular. She examines the polish on her nails. She wanted a darker color. Raven checks her itinerary. Boston again. That’s three times this week. How Arnie ever talked her into living in Arizona is beyond her.

“I know the real story.”

The woman to Raven’s eye is a size 10 on top and a size 14 on the bottom and no one, but no one she wanted to have anything to do with.

“Is that so.” Raven half-closes her eyes. She has several faces. This is her, do I look like I give a damn face, or facade in Arnie-speak as Raven calls it. In their first fight, she told Arnie he had a BA in BS. His white face got so red he looked like he was sunburned.

“I heard it from my friend Dory who works at the newsstand, right over there.”

As the woman leans forward, Raven is assaulted by a lavender smell the likes of which she has never encountered. Repulsive is too kind a word. Raven moves as far back in her chair as possible and decides to entertain herself with this stranger while she’s waiting.

“How long have you known Dory? And what is your name?”

“Oh, I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. My name is Penelope. Gosh! Dory and I have known each other since third grade.”

“Your name is Penelope?” My gawd! Raven doesn’t know whether she feels disgust or pity.

“My name is Raven.”

“Nice to meet you. Please call me Penney. Only my sister Pam calls me Penelope.”

Raven suppresses a smile. She imagines ten children, each name beginning with the letter P. Unfreaking believable!

“So what amazing information did Dory impart to you?” Raven can tell by Penney’s slightly parted lips and lowered eyes that too much sarcasm has slipped out. Raven takes a different approach.

“So why the delay? What really happened?”

Penney looks into Raven’s eyes and wonders what it would be like to be so beautiful. She feels uncomfortable and imagines how Raven must see her, and she is embarrassed and even a little ashamed. Of course this woman doesn’t really want to talk to me. What’s the matter with me.

“I don’t want to bother you. Really. I have this habit of maybe being, you know, too friendly. I’m really sorry. Excuse me.” Penney moves to the last row of seats where Raven can no longer see her.

Raven thinks she could really use that drink now. She feels slightly uncomfortable as if she forgot something. Oh, Raven girl, a penney for your thoughts. The humor feels contrived. So I hurt the country bumpkin’s feelings. Who cares! But she does and that surprises her, and nothing, but nothing ever surprises Raven.

Story: A Change of Mind

Betty Malicoat

“Did you read about the accident on Lincoln Way? It’s on page 4.”
Marge never understood why Danny didn’t take the newspaper to work and read it during the day.

“I don’t read about tragedy.” As soon as the word came out, Marge knew she shouldn’t have said it.

“A tragedy! Are you kidding me. You should read it to see if anyone you know got hurt.”

“I watch the news on tv.”

“Yeah. That’s so much nicer. Video of mangled cars and people.”

“Do you want pork chops or hamburgers?”

“Hamburgers!” This is shouted by all three kids from the next room. Someone is screaming on the tv.

“Your father will decide.” Groans follow their mother’s announcement. Marge feels like a rope is tied to her from every person in the house. Every move, no matter how careful, how slight, gets a reaction.

“Which one do you want?” Marge is waiting for Danny to decide. She knows the routine by heart. First he’ll be silent for a long time, then he’ll ask what else can he have. Their oldest child, a daughter who knows everything at 16, told her mom it was her fault that Dad was so spoiled.

“We’re having hamburgers.” For the first time, Marge makes the decision and purposely ignores Danny as she gathers the onions, and ground chuck to fix for dinner. She catches herself. She was going to ask Danny if he wanted a salad.

“Hey, wait a second. I haven’t made up my mind.” Danny’s voice is flat and he sits very still.

Marge can feel the imaginary ropes tighten around her, making her moves jerky and it’s hard to breathe. Danny only hit her a couple of times. Four different times to be exact, but that was 12 years ago. He said he’d never do it again.

Marge helped him keep his promise. From that time on, she made herself neutral and agreeable, and she kept her opinions to herself.

Marge looks at Danny. Danny’s eyes look darker. She feels this is somehow familiar, like the buttons on his shirt, the creak of his chair and the fear in her chest. Even the smell of olive oil beginning to smoke on the stove is perfectly familiar.

“Well, whatever your going to cook, you better get it in the pan!” The newspaper hides Danny’s expression.

Marge moves the frying pan off the burner, and methodically begins chopping the onion to mix into the meat. Was she careful for nothing? Was she afraid of something she created in her mind? This thought is worse than believing Danny could be dangerous.

Could she do what she wanted? Could she feel free, or as her daughter would put it, was she emancipated?

Marge passes the salad to Danny.

“Tastes great!”

He always says that. Now that Marge thinks about it, she can pretty much predict what he’d say. The food has no taste. She looks around the table at her daughter, her twin boys and her husband. The only person she doesn’t recognize is herself.