A Hammock and a Good Book

"Hi, I'm Abbey."

He looked up from his worn book, and smiled. The dappled shade swayed across his tanned face as he slowly swung back and forth with the breeze in the hammock. Abbey thought he had nice teeth. He put the bookmark in his book and turned towards her.

"I'm Charlie. Nice to meet you," he said, "Perfect day to sit in the shade, isn't it?"

The hammock was tied to two large oak trees in the courtyard of the hostel. The Acorn Hostel, to be exact. Abbey rented the upper floor apartment along with her boyfriend, Daniel. She was looking forward to sitting in the hammock herself, with a book. Only half disappointed that her seat was taken, she sat on the stump nearby. She was looking forward to relaxing this weekend. It was still shady there, and the heat in the apartment sapped all of her energy.

"Are you traveling too?" He said.

"Oh, no. I live here. In the second floor apartment. It's too hot to breathe, so I thought I would come out to the shade." She fiddled with her book, and opened to her marked place.

He immediately jumped gracefully off the hammock. "You must take my spot. It's the best spot, and I like to pretend I'm a gentleman."

"No, no, no. Sit down," she said as she fluttered her hand motioning him to sit. "You're staying in the hostel, right? That makes you a guest. Sit. Relax."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Where are you from?"

"Pittsfield, Massachusetts, but I have been on the road so long, I'm not really 'from' anywhere anymore."

"Why are you traveling?"

"You ever been to Pittsfield? We call it 'The Pits' for a reason. Anyway, I'm not the type to be still. This is more fun. I hopped on a bus three years ago, and haven't stopped more than a week since."

He had the look of a free spirit, or at least one who didn't care about his looks. His jeans were faded, threads spilling out of the hole in a knee. The t-shirt he was wearing looked like he randomly picked it out at a thrift store, with a logo from "Buffalo Bill's Diner" on the front, and "It'll kick ya in the ribs" printed on the back. On his feet were a pair of flip-flops. His wavy brown hair looked like a regular haircut grown out for half a year. All these things should have made her cringe, but he carried himself as if everything about him was meant to be. He crossed his ankles as he eased himself back into the hammock.

"What are you reading?"

"Anna Karenina. Tolstoy. You?"

"Wow. Heavy stuff. I just have some cheap paperback."

"Once you get past the names, it's really good...."

They talked for an hour or so, before Abbey remembered she had to make dinner for her boyfriend. Daniel would be home soon. She excused herself to go up to her apartment. She felt like it was going from heaven to hell; from the cool serenity of the courtyard to the oppressive heat of her apartment. She didn't particularly like cooking and playing housewife, but Daniel said it was "her job" since she "was only going to school." It was easier to just go along instead of arguing.

Over dinner, Daniel explained to Abbey how he would have to go away on business, again. She needed to drive him to the airport after they ate. It was nothing new.

Later that evening, while sitting up in bed with her book, she had a hard time focusing on the story. She read all the words on the pages, but they just dissipated after she read them, like they were printed with disappearing ink. She kept picturing dappled sunshine and a friendly smile. She wondered how long he was staying. She wondered if his hair was soft, and sighed.

"Oh, stop it Abbey," she said to herself, rolling her eyes, "You're practically married." She had been living with David for three years now, and any day he would ask her the big question. She had been thinking that for a few months now. Patience, she told herself. "He has a good stable job, and cares about me," she thought, and settled herself down into the covers, fluffed her pillow, turned off the lamp, and closed her eyes.

The next afternoon was hotter than the day before. Abbey wondered why she hadn't broken down and bought an air conditioner. Every time she thought about it, she reminded herself that it wasted energy, put it off again, and wiped the sweat off her brow. She watered her house plants, grabbed her book, and down the stairs she went to the hammock.

Charlie was there again, reading the same book and swaying with the breeze on the hammock. Again he offered her his seat, and again she declined.

"Okay, we'll compromise. I sit on one end, and you sit on the other. Let me be half a gentleman."

"Well, if you insist. Half a gentleman it is." It seemed innocent enough, so she jumped up to her half, and lost her balance, and started to fall backward. Charlie caught her, and helped her settle herself in place. She blushed when their skin touched, but quickly turned away.

She opened up her book, and he opened up his. She started to read, glancing up when she turned a page. After a few pages and glances, he caught her eye, and grinned. She pretended she looked up on purpose, and asked him what his book was about.

"It's a complicated story, but the part I am reading now is when this noble woman has an affair with a count. In fact, it's filled with characters doing that sort of thing."

"Oh." That was all she could say.

"Actually, I've read this a ton of times. You can tell by how worn it is." He held it out to her. "Why don't you take it? I need something new to read, anyway."

As she takes the book from him, their hands touch. He leaned over and stole a kiss. For just a tiny moment, she let him. Her heart stopped moving for the space of a few beats, and then beat faster to catch up. From the top of her head to her toes, she heated up; first from the excitement, and them from shame. She pushed him away, and without saying another word, ran up to her apartment.

The next morning, she stepped onto the lawn, expecting to see Charlie in the hammock. She wanted to apologize, and explain her situation. As she looked into the courtyard, the fluttering in her stomach dropped, like the butterflies died. The breeze blew the empty hammock back and forth like it was rocking a ghost to sleep. Charlie was gone, moved on. She pulled herself into the hammock, and opened up Anna Karenina.

She Waits

She stands there, holding her pitchfork, staring into the distance.  She looks like she stepped from the canvas of "American Gothic," with her plaid shirt, and brown hair pulled back into a bun, with a few wisps falling into her face.  She is staring at the dirt road that winds away from the property, thinking that if she stared hard enough, she could see the end of it.  The bare trees along the roadside, bent from the wind, seemed to be pointing the way.  They're still waving farewell, even though she stopped weeks ago.

Her stomach starts to hurt, and so does a lump that's forming in her throat.  She takes a deep, half shuttering breath, and sighs.  Her breath leaving makes her think of deflated balloons. She tosses the pitchfork down next to the compost pile she was turning, and slowly walks down the gravel path back toward the house.  Along the way, she pulls at the occasional tall weed so that she can pick the parts off of it and flick them with her fingers.  Dragging her feet with her steps, she makes marks where the dirt below the gravel peeks through.

A couple weeks later, the postman puts a letter in her mailbox.  Anne saw him deliver it through the dining room window.  She's sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee from her favorite cup; the one they bought on their honeymoon.  A few drops jump onto the table as she sets the cup down quickly.  She slides out of her chair and walks to the door.  She doesn't want to run, but she comes close.

Anne wonders where he is right now, and what he's doing.  She imagines him laughing, and telling dirty jokes to his buddies.  Better them than her, she thought.  She grins, thinking about how he looks in his uniform.  He was wearing that smile in the last photo he sent.  The "melty" one.  She doesn't think about sand, or guns, or war.  She can't.

Before she opens the mailbox, she knows it's there.  She gets this tingle in her stomach on the days she hears from him.  Sure enough, there it is, with her name on the envelope in his sloppy handwriting.  She carefully opened the envelope, not wanting to damage anything that came from him, and pulled out the folded letter.  She reads it while she is walking back to the house.  Stumbling a couple of times on a rock and a lump in the lawn, because she isn't paying attention, she doesn't look away from the paper, but keeps reading.

The spring birds chirping outside her window substituted for her snooze alarm.  She stretches her toes towards the end of the bed at the same time she stretches her arms toward the top corners.  She rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands, and then stops.  A slow grin spreads on her face as she remembers what day it is.  She needs to get up and ready.  He's coming home.  I have to go pick him up!

She flies into the bathroom, and starts the shower.  While the water heats up she looks at her body in the mirror, wondering if he will care that she gained a couple of pounds, and sucks in her gut.  She is quick but thorough in the shower, and shaves her legs.  She puts on the perfume he bought her, as well as his favorite panties.  The "nice ass" jeans are next, and then a pretty blouse.  She puts on makeup for first time this year.

One last glance in the hall mirror to double check.  He probably just wants to see her, and doesn't care if she has breakfast in her teeth, but she cares.  Her stomach has that tingly feeling she had learned to love.  She notices how sweaty her hands are as she tries to open the front door, and wipes them on her jeans and tries again.

She sees a trail of dust winding down the road to her house as she steps onto her front porch.  Then, a black sedan with federal plates pulls out of its cloud and into the driveway.  Inside, are two men in dress uniforms.  The car stops, and they get out with somber looks on their faces.  She drops her purse.

Barefoot

He came home from work around 6.

She was painting, or rather finishing up a painting.  She was dancing to the music playing on her headphones, and singing along.  She didn't even hear him come in.  Her tan overalls were stained with the different colors of the various works she had done.  Blue and green from the landscape, beige and brown from the portrait last week, spots of various others smeared her imagination across the denim.  She was barefoot, with a little smear of color on her third toe on the left, next to the one with the toe ring.  Her curly red hair was pulled back into a poof of a ponytail on the back of her head.  Lips curled into a smirk as she belted out her mournful soul on the imaginary audience.  

She painted a picture of a bird flying against a sunset.  The wings tips pointed backwards, ready for the next sweep forwards.  The beak pointed towards its goal far away.  The trees were green smudges on the bottom of the canvas.  She imagined the feel of the wind rushing past.

Jared opened the door to her little scene.  He looked over to the kitchen to see dishes piled up.  There were beer bottles from last night on the coffee table.  Various things were scattered around the floor.  It looked exactly the way it did when he left for work.

"Belle," he said, "hey Belle!"

She was still dancing, facing away from Jared as she cleaned her brushes in a can with a faded green bean label.  Her bottom was shaking from side to side, and then she did this toe twist that Jared always thought was cute.  He was wavering between irritated and amused.  He walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

Her scream made him step back before he howled his laughter.  She turned around and her face changed from surprise to recognition.  She first smiled, and then laughed too.

"Jared!  Hi honey!"  She jumped up and hugged him.

He squeezed her until she squealed.  Then he set her down, and put his face so close to hers that their foreheads touched.  He put his hands on her shoulders, and a serious look on his face.

"Okay, babe, what's the deal?  I told you that you didn't have to work, but can you at least pick up the house?"

"What?  Oh, I thought I still had time.  I guess I got caught up in the painting, and lost track."  She grew a guilty look on her face as she said, "Sorry, honey.  What do you want for dinner?"

"Oh, just make me a sandwich I guess," he said as he sat on the couch and picked up the remote, "Did you do anything productive today?  The house looks like crap.  I'm glad I didn't bring any of my buddies home today."

"Well, I played guitar for a while, then I worked on that sweater that I started a while back, then I started the painting.  At least I finished that," she said, "Oh, and I took a pregnancy test.  I was going to clean up later, but I just ran out of time."

"You took what?"  His head snapped around to look at her.  Without waiting for an answer he asks, "What did it say?"

She walked over to him, held his head in her hands, and said, "Oh, look at you... all worried.  It was negative.  I just wanted to be sure."  She gave him a little peck on his forehead, and skipped off into the kitchen.

When she closed the door behind her, she let out a sigh of relief, and set to work on his sandwich.  She didn't want to talk about the results.  She didn't really feel like talking to him at all.  Around him, she always felt that she had to make excuses for being herself.  He never showed interest in any of her projects.  "What does he love about me, anyway?" she asked herself as she put the lettuce over the ham.

She was happier about the results than he was.  A child would only complicate her plans.  She was getting tired of playing house.  She was tired of making excuses.  She felt like the maid.

The sandwich was finished, and she put a pickle on the plate.  She didn't know why she always did that.  He never ate it.

Rock Star

Matthew lifts the bottle of beer to his mouth for another drink.  Just one more, for courage.  He sets it down slowly as he looked toward the stage.  An overweight greying woman belted out "Mercedes Benz" off key, and very loudly.  She is obviously enjoying herself, and the people at the tables closest to the stage are enjoying themselves as well, hooting and clapping during the gaps.  He curls his upper lip in a sneer, and takes another drink.  This time he guzzles the rest of the bottle.  He winks at the blonde bartender and asks for another.

"Hey sweetheart, one more for the rock star, please."

"Sure, honey"  She says, and then turns toward the cooler, and rolls her eyes.

He fidgets on the bar stool, adjusting himself in his overly tight jeans, and eyes a man in a suit laughing and chatting with a pretty young woman.  To Matthew, he looks too good for this bar, and he assumes him to be a talent scout.  Better bring out the good stuff.  This is my chance to show how great I am, and blow this small town.

The woman on stage sings the last note of her song, and the crowd applauds.  She does a little bow, and steps off the stage, smiling at the attention she received.  The MC says, "How about Marie Sanders!" and the crowd applauds again.  Marie's grin gets wider as the bartender hands her a free drink for performing

Marie looks over at Matthew, and says, "Isn't Open Mic night fun?"

"Yeah, I love it."  He says, "You were great, by the way."

"I don't know about that, but thank you."  She smiles at him, and holds her drink up to tap his before her next sip.  She then walks over to her table, where her friends are there to giggle and congratulate her.  She gives them all hugs, and sits down to watch the next performer.

One more, and it's Matthew's turn.  He makes his way over to the far corner of the bar to tune up.  He makes a big show over his new guitar, which had alabaster inlay, and was obviously worth a lot of money.

The next performer is a young woman with long brown hair.  He watches the way her curves moved as she walks up toward the stage.  She giggles when the MC introduces her to the audience, and they applaud.  She was sang a folk song about the downtrodden worker.  He can tell by her face that her heart is truly into her music.  She sways slightly to the rhythm of her song.  Matthew thinks she was hot.  "I'm going to get myself a piece of that," he thinks to himself, as he tunes up the last string.

When she finishes, the crowd applauds with hoots and other encouraging noises.  She blushes and shrugs, obviously not used to this attention.  "Let's give it up for Samantha Bree!" says the MC, and the applause starts up again.  When the applause dies down, he announces Matthew.

He smiles graciously at everyone as he makes his way up to the stage, and waves at the people he knows, and the regulars.  He walks slowly, with a touch of a swagger.  He gives the MC a little man-hug as he steps up on the stage.  The crowd applauds, and he gingerly sits down on the stool, and arranges his guitar on his leg.  He straightens his back, and gives Samantha a little wave.  He strums the strings slowly, and plays a short, melodic instrumental intro.

"This one is for Samantha."

Edith's Last Stand

Edith peeked through the window blinds at the spectacle gathering outside.  She sighed heavily as she straightened herself, and smoothed her flowered dress.  Her hands went into her white hair to brush it back, and then dropped as if limp.  The police lights made the walls of the classroom look like a disco, but she didn't feel like dancing.  She felt like throwing up.

"What have I gotten myself into." she whispered to herself, and sighed again.  She was worried about her own safety now.  "Should have thought about that this morning," she said, again to herself.  No one else was in the building.  Everyone gave up, but not Edith.  This was too important to her, and she wanted everyone to know she thought it should be important to them, too.  They won't listen anymore.

The final word came down last month.  They were closing the school for lack of funding, and spreading the students among all the other schools in the district.  Half the teachers would be layed off.  Picket signes were made.  Meetings were held.  The community gave so much support for the cause, but this was the same community that turned down the bond.  Eventually, after their protests were ignored for so long, the picket line got shorter day by day.  People lost hope, and then they found something better to do.

She should have retired years ago.  All of her friends told her that she should finally enjoy her life and relax.  They didn't understand that teaching was her life, and her joy.  She couldn't picture in her head how anyone would quit a job where they got to look at so many sweet little faces every morning.  She loved how the eager ones would practically bounce in their seats, with their hands stretched up like they were trying to touch the ceiling.  The stubborn ones didn't bother her either, because she always had a way of convincing them that her way was what they wanted to do all along, and never let her grin slip.  Every name of every student was still in her memory.

The walls were all blank now.  Stripped of the colorful drawings, and seasonal decorations.  They even took her chalk board, which she stubbornly kept when the school switched to the white boards.  She never liked the smell of the markers, but loved the dry feel of the chalk in her fingers.  The desks were gone, and the room echoed with her every step.  The coat hooks on the wall were just begging hands.

Early this morning, she decided to make one final stand.  She figured she didn't have much more time to lose.  She bought a big sheet of poster board, and thick markers.  Ignoring the smell, she made careful letters to make sure her point was well taken.  She knew of a window in the building that never locked properly, and crawled in.  It was difficult with her trick knee, but she triumphantly landed on the tiles.  "Ta da!" she said as her tan orthapedic shoes slapped the tiles, more gracefully than she expected.  She walked through the school to the front classroom.  It was her classroom, and had been for twenty years.  She dug the tape out of her pocket, and carefully held up her sign to secure it.  From outside, you could read, "I'm not leaving!" in big bold letters.

"We know you're in there, Edith Eklund." a man's voice came from a loudspeaker outside, "For your own safety, you need to vacate the building immediately.  This building is due to be demolished within the hour!"  The presence of a bulldozer smashing the front hedges testified to that.  Men in flourescent vests and hard hats were standing around talking to each other, and waving their hands around.  Some pointed at the window like they wanted to throw a rock at it.

They said that as if she didn't know.  That's why she was here.  She thought that maybe her extreme protest would get enough attention to save the school.  The news vans were parked outside with the well groomed reporters standing in front of their cameras.  "They are probably all saying I'm some disgruntled employee." she said.  She knew she was, but felt that it was more than that.  In her head, she felt that she was the champion of all the closed schools in the nation.

"Edie, I don't want you to get hurt.  Please come out!"  That was her sister, Mattie.  Mattie stood by her through all of this.  Marched right behind her in the picket line.  Organized fund raisers.  She brought up some of the best points in the council meeting.  Edith felt aweful that she had to worry.  She kept her plans a secret so Mattie wouldn't talk her out of it.  Mattie was always the cautious one.

The bulldozer moved forward a few feet, as if to challenge the stubborn teacher.  Mattie screamed, and the loudspeaker noise started again.  "This is your last chance, Edith," Mr. Loudspeaker said, "If you don't come out, we will forcebly remove you."

She paced back and forth through the dusty room, stirring up particles that swirled in the colored police lights.  Looking up, as if asking for supernatural help, she held her palms up towards the sky.  Nothing happened, as she knew.  She was alone, here.  Her energy deflated as she dropped her hands and hung her head.  She took down her sign.

Walking past the janitor's closet, she grabbed a broom stick and an old rag.  She tied the rag to the end, and as she tightened the final knot, she swallowed the lump forming in her throat.  The wood tapped the tiles as she walked, half supporting her.  The light from the windows warmed her face as she made her way to the front doors.

Just before she pushed open the doors, she turned around and looked down the empty halls.  She sighed and waved goodby.

The news cameras got an excellent shot of her as she emerged from the building, an elderly woman holding a white flag.  Her hair was disheveled from climbing in the window that morning.  She was limping a little.  The whole scene looked like a surrender after a battle, except for the flowered dress.

Doll

     A deep breath sharply shoots into my lungs as I bolt upright.  My clothes are damp, although I usually don't sweat.   I take in a few quick deep breaths before my breathing gradually slows down.  A dream. A bad dream, I think, but just a dream.  I don't want to know.  It's over.

      I put my hand down, and feel the soft ridges of corduroy.  It smells faintly of dog and Febreze.  I try to reach my arms  up for a stretch, but a crick in my neck, holding it in an unnatural angle, forces me to rub it for a minute.  As I try to push my neck back into place, I look around the room.

    It's dark, with just a far off street light shyly peering through the curtains.  It isn't bright enough to show me anything, so I slide my feet to the floor, and bring myself upright like a zombie.  My legs are semi numb, like my head, and I stumble across the room, stubbing my toe on something.  I fall against the wall as I fumble for the switch on the floor lamp.  Bright light fills the room, painfully flashing in my eyes, and it takes a minute to adjust.  I squint as I look around, wondering why I'm not  in my bed, blinking so hard my face crunches into wrinkles, and then doing it again a few more times.

    When I can see, it's beige walls, brick red carpet, sienna curtains.  I'm in my own living room.  My cocoon in the world, where I feel the most safe and comfortable, but not tonight.  I now realize why my neck hurts, and it's the couch.  The chocolate brown corduroy cushions are comfortable, but not for sleeping, and I didn't have a pillow.  I see the same brown couch, rocking chair, and oriental rug.  Furniture that I had kept for the specific reason that they made me feel cozy, now seems neutral to me, like it's someone else's.

    I stumble back to the couch, sit down, and lean my face into my hands for support.  Rubbing my face brings the circulation back to the skin, and I'm hoping that will wake me into reality.  I smooth my hair back like a swimmer coming out of the pool, and I see something familiar.

    A little rag doll lay on the coffee table, its arms and legs splayed like a suicide jumper.  The soft muslin cloth of her skin was smudged and dirty from love.  The stitching on the corner of her mouth is fraying slightly, turning her smile into a smirk as she stares at the ceiling.  She was wearing a blue gingham dress, with pink lace on the edging.  Her little black mary jane shoes were stitched on her rounded feet.  She was mine a long time ago.

    She didn't always look so tattered.  Fifteen years ago, the yarn of her hair was bright red, and clean.  She lay in a bin in a small town craft shop with her dozens of sisters.  Naked as a first birthday.  My pony tails bounced as I excitedly begged my mommy for it.  She made me promise to behave the whole time we were in the store.  We walked down the aisles for what seemed an eternity to an eight year old girl before finally making our way back to the doll.  We picked out fabric for it's little dress, and made plans to make it.

    I pick her up from the coffee table, and smooth the stitches on her mouth.  She's smiling again, but not me.  I brush the yarn of her hair away from her face with my finger.  She looks so sweet and innocent, like I was when Mom helped me sew her dress.  A drop of water falls on her face.  No, it's a tear.

    I remember sitting at my window, eight years old, watching every car pass by.  Each time I hope it's the right one, the familiar one.  Mommy's car was the one I wanted.  This was summer vacation, and time to go with her for a few weeks.  I waited all year for this.

    Finally, I got what I wanted.  Her car slowed, and pulled into the driveway.  I barely let her get out of the car as I bolted out the door and flew to her.  To me, she was the fairy princess sent to save me once a year, and Daddy was the mean ogre.  It was so easy back then to simplify people into their fairy tale icons.

    Reality was more complicated.  My father was a stressed out single father trying to raise two little girls.  Being strict and overly protective was his love.  He knew first hand the consequences of a man and a teenage girl.  He took care of them every day.  My mother wasn't a fairy princess.  She was a young woman trying to build her life up after dropping out of high school.  I didn't know she had to save up all year to see me.  To me, she seemed rich.  It's not much of a fairy tale.

    Now I remember why I'm sleeping on the couch.  Like a good little host, I let Mom sleep in my bed for her visit.  I still only see her about once a year.  The sunrise is now peaking in the curtains, and I reach for the ceiling for a stretch, which I can accomplish now.  I walk into the kitchen, and start the coffee pot.  She'll be up soon, and we have a lot to talk about.