Story: Freedom

Betty Malicoat

“Sandra, come here. Look at that!”

Nonie’s granddaughter came over to peek out the lace curtains. She searched the alleyway below. Some garbage cans, a tabby cat. Nothing unusual.

“I don’t see anything Nonie. Want me to fix you something to eat?” Sandy’s job was to look after her grandma every day after school. Sandy’s mom said everyone has to pitch in and help.

“No, you’re not looking. Look! Right there. He’s right next to Merna’s garbage. He won’t find anything there. She’s a vegetarian.”

Sandy was getting used to these “episodes” as her mother called them. This was especially embarrassing last Saturday. Nonie wouldn’t cross the street. She stood on her sturdy legs, crossed her arms over her enormous bust and slowly moved her head from side to side like a 4-year-old.

Worst part was the smirks and laughs as people passed them. Sandy thought of pretending not to know Nonie.

“Nonie, do you hear that? Someone’s calling you.” This is how Sandy got her grandma to move in public. The weird thing is Nonie would hear someone calling her.

“Ok. Yeah. I see him.”

“Sandra!” Nonie sighed and tugged on the black cord that kept her glasses around her neck where she could find them.

“Do you think it’s ok to lie to me because I’m senile?”

Sandy was shocked. This was exactly what she thought. This time she looked for the man.

“Nonie, I would never lie to you. He’s right where you said he was. He’s wearing bluish pants and a brown jacket.”

“I think he’s intelligent. Don’t you think he’s intelligent?”

“I don’t know. I can’t even tell what he looks like.” Sandy was usually patient. She could be more patient when she was doing something like making Nonie’s sofa bed, watering the spindly plant on the formica counter or warming up leftovers her mom sent from home.

“Look at all his stuff.”

The man looked like he was growing out of his jacket. His large-boned wrists were visible as he concentrated on sorting what was in the shopping cart.

He placed everything neatly into the duffle bag and drew the string tight. He always sorted his stuff behind cheap apartment buildings. That way, even if anyone noticed him, they woudn’t care.

He would leave the cart where it was. He could always find a shopping cart, food in back of restaurants and objects to sell from what people threw away as trash. He stretched to loosen the tension in his shoulders and that’s when he saw them.

The old woman was moving arthritic fingers as if she were waving to him and the young girl’s face was a dim oval behind the lace curtain. The man hefted the duffle bag over his shoulder, walked down the alley, turned left and disappeared.

It was almost dusk. Very soon the man would quietly and carefully find his way back to his private spot, past the line of cypress trees, behind the sign that warned against trespassing.

Story: What Do You Want?

Betty Malicoat

Mike turned his head and leaned into the open car window. He could barely hear anything over the traffic.

“What?”

“Don’t forget to ask Tom … you know.” Mike’s wife Pamela moved her eyes over to their son Skip who sat next to her, carefully peeling foil off a Hershey’s candy bar.

Mike doesn’t want to ask Tom if his kid wants to come to Skip’s birthday party. As it is, 20 kids were invited already. They don’t even know Tom and his wife.

“I don’t really know Tom. I only work with him.” Mike shrugs and feels trapped.

“You promised.”

Mike remembers his promise. He promised he’d ask just before they had sex. Mike can’t remember having sex with Pamela without promising something first. It was like a little game.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mike gave Pamela his sincere smile. The one that showed all four caps that he insisting on getting for professional reasons.

Mike patted the top of the car, leaned down and pointed a finger at his son and frowned, “Any gooey stuff in this car and you are a dead guy!”

Skip giggled and offered his dad a bite of his candy. At 7, Skip was open and generous. Each week two or three neighbors would automatically drop off toys that Skip had given away. Mike brought home a toy a week for Skip.

At first, Pamela thought this was wonderful and generous. Mainly because it was something Mike did on his own. Most times she had to hint for this or that. In a careful way of course. But then all those toys needed to be put somewhere after they filled up Skip’s room.

All those containers and Mike would forget what he got, so Skip had 6 stuffed teddy bears, 11 assorted balls for every sport and 3 giant giraffes. They did not fit in a container and you couldn’t stick a giraffe in a corner for decoration. Pamela did not like things getting out of control.

Mike constantly and politely corrected those who called him a used car salesman. He sold pre-owned cars. He adjusted his left wrist so the rolex could be seen when he said this. Never mind that he saved 3 years for it. The point was, it represented him, his ideals, his ambition.

He would not go without and neither would his family. He promised himself this when Skip was born.

Mike was 13 and he was looking at his tennis shoes. They were cool. He made sure of that. But the clothes were his older brother’s. He looked up as the school bus came to a stop.

“Hey! What’s up.” He held his winning smile as his eyes searched and compared everyone’s clothing. Mike relaxed. He would pass. No one would notice. If anything, he even looked better than some of the rich guys.

Story: Who’s In Charge?

Betty Malicoat

“Are you sure this is ripe?” Marian holds the melon in her hand. Her white hair looks blue under the fluorescent light.

“Well, why don’t you smell it.” Sarah pulls on her earring.

Marian doesn’t look at her daughter. She knows her expression of annoyance by heart.

“Joshua, stop that!” Sarah’s son Josh tries to stop four yellow onions from rolling off onto the floor.

Marian can feel an old anger seep into her throat. Sarah’s father used to yell all the time. She once told her best friend that he yelled himself right into a heart attack.

Marian smiles at her grandson and hands him the cantaloupe to put into the grocery cart.

“Why do you always do that?” Sarah uses her scolding voice. The one she uses for Josh and for her students in first grade.

Marian feels too tired to answer. This is like a verbal sword fight with her daughter that never ends.

“What am I doing?”

“You picked up the onions. You didn’t make them fall. Josh did. Josh, apologize to Grandma. It’s your fault the onions got on the floor.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Marian waits one second to decide on anger or humor.

Josh is relieved to hear Grandma’s small laugh.

“Josh, come with me and let your mom shop in peace!” Josh holds Grandma’s hand as they leave to go to another store and later to eat ice cream.

Neither one will mention the ice cream to Josh’s mom since neither one asked for permission to spoil Josh’s dinner.

Sarah speaks.
“My mom named me after Sarah Ferguson. Can you believe that?! When Mom was upset, she’d call me The Duchess. That’s about as harsh as she got. I love my mom, but she has no guts whatsoever. Sometimes, I think my dad just pushed her around to see if she’d get mad. Dad always told me I was feisty and feisty was good. People respect a person who is strong. My dad died four years ago. I miss him every day.”

Marian speaks.
“I guess you could call Sarah my change of life baby. I was 35 when she was born. You wouldn’t know it by the way she acts, but she does have an older brother in Seattle. I think her father spoiled her. Spence did whatever he thought was right. We argued about Sarah. One time he actually said I was jealous of my own daughter. How could that be? And now she treats little Josh just like her father treated her.”

Let’s Begin in the Middle

Betty Malicoat

Like the Ancient Greek story-tellers and the renowned Japanese novelists, we will begin the only way  we can realistically and practically begin and that is right in the middle of something else.

I have no idea where we will travel together.  This is an invitation into the unknown, unmapped territory of the human psyche.  I’m referring to a mythological sense of the soul.  No hard-edged definitions here, no political stands unless they’re accidental.

What I wish for us is a little human adventure–how the soul wanders about when embodied in our miraculous minds and bodies that are born and die and experience one adventure after another in between.

Let’s follow our fictional travelers into their world and see where it leads us and what we think and feel about these people and situations.

Steve sat with his head in his hand.  He felt the slick texture of his unwashed hair.  He couldn’t remember how long he had been sitting and shifting his position onthe cement stair.  He felt the wind and willed his body to stay warm.

The door behind him remained closed.  Steve knew what was behind the door.  He could see the hardwood floor with the one flaw, the one board that didn’t fit the pattern.  Lily never noticed.  Steve remembered how she painted the kitchen cupboards with thick white paint.  She said she didn’t understand why he thought the paint didn’t look right.

The wind blew harder and Steve pulled his jacket zipper but it was caught in his shirt.  For one second he wanted to rip the jacket open.  The anger turned to resignation and passed into his chest as pain.

He caught a glimpse of red and the gray cement around him lifted and became brighter.  The distant red figure leaned into the wind as it walked rapidly toward him.  Even though the hood hid the face, Steve was sure it was Lily.  He had never waited for her before, but he knew…

What impressions or feelings come to you?