I solemnly swear

I solemnly swear...

There were promises made, solemn vows taken on holy ground before God and man. Pledges to honor in good times and bad, through sickness and health, through prosperity and misfortune.

No one stood up, no one said these two should not be bound together for life. It was meant to be. Their union, blessed and sacrosanct, would last until the end of time, or until the end of their days. It was said often enough, it had to be true.

That they had only known each other for a scant few months, had only seen each other in person a handful of times, wasn’t judged. Many arranged marriages didn’t offer as much familiarity as that. Years later their marriage broker would apologize to their youngest child, haunted by the train wreck their lives became.

The other women never apologized. It would be generous to say they didn’t know they were encroaching on a hallowed marriage, or even the hollow marriage it became at the end.

Jagged and ugly fissures cracked the surface, deep and infected. There would be no miraculous healing. No laying on of hands could raise the love that was once between them. Still they were expected, commanded, to remain together. It wasn’t the death of their love that could release them, only their own physical demise.

Atrophied and gangrenous, they struggled on, putting forward a false front to the world. Madness threatened, anger festered, until they would rather be damned apart, than in hell together.

The accusations began immediately. She should have tried harder. There was something she was lacking that made him do the things he did, she should have held her family together… sinner, whore.

She made promises. It didn’t matter that he broke his vows, that he transgressed. She was a child of the church, and knew her obligations. She would not be forgiven.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Dara challenged me with “‘We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.’ — Robina Courtin (Buddhist nun)” and I challenged Cedar with “‘Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. And today? Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.”‘Babatunde Olatunji “

A fateful night

on the harbor

“We’re going to be late,” I adjusted my earrings while hopping around the bed trying to slip into my heels. “Do you need help with that?”

I smoothed down my dress, and stepped to my husband to finish his Windsor Knot. Nate tilted his head back so I had room to reach around his neck, his scowl told me all I needed to know.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I avoided looking him in the eyes as I twisted the silk tie into a perfect triangle at his Adam’s apple. “Shari’s my best friend. She’s a little eccentric, but I can’t just cut her out of my life.”

“It’ll be the same as last month,” he sighed. “I could recite it verbatim myself by now. Couldn’t she at least choose a different story, maybe read a different chapter? Something? Anything?”

I understood Nate’s frustration, I was bored with the evening program too. It’s always the same. We gather around Shari’s dining table where we feast on the finest catered meal and vintage wine. Conversation is erudite and stimulating. After our dinner, we all retire to her living room, or as she refers to it, her parlor.

While she ensconced herself in the room’s centerpiece wing-backed chair, often in front of a crackling fire, she entertained the group by giving a reading from a favorite book. Over the past few months, that book remained the same, so that each night she reads the same passage.

For the other guests this was all moot, since they were always new to the readings. Nate and I were the only repeat invitees. As he said, we both could present the reading ourselves, having heard it so often.

The evening’s dinner was delicious as usual, and as our empty dishes were whisked away from the table, we gathered our wine goblets and followed Shari to the other room. We found our seats as Shari settled into her throne. That’s how she appeared, like a queen presiding over her subjects.

Our small talk ceased when she discreetly cleared her throat. Her chosen book on her lap, open to the first page, she waited for us to settle before beginning.

“‘The night was calm and the wind was quiet that night,’ was how Tillie always started her story of the events that happened at the harbor that fateful night.”

Whenever Shari gave a reading, her voice took on an affected British accent. I had to press my elbow into Nate’s ribs to keep him from laughing. A quick sideways glance told me he was also mouthing the words as she read from her book. I dug my nails into his thigh, hoping Shari didn’t notice Nate’s lip synced impropriety.

I thought I heard a slight catch in Shari’s voice when Nate flinched under my assault. Her head down as she read, she gave no other indication anything was amiss. We tried to feign the same rapt attention the other guests showed.

Near the end of her performance, I felt Nate relax against my arm. Before he started snoring, I squeezed his thigh again, gratefully he was able to cover nodding off without so much as a yawn. We joined in the polite applause as Shari stood, dramatically closing her book with a flourish of her hand.

The others mingled for a few minutes as they gathered their coats and bags. As the last of the guests left, Shari locked and bolted her door. Nate and I were still on the couch, talking quietly, when she came down the foyer.

“The night is calm and the wind quiet,” she said as she walked across the room, her voice sounding distant and oddly sinister.

“Are you okay?” Standing, I followed her to the bay window. She was looking out at the river that ran along the avenue in front of her brownstone.

“It’s a fateful night at the harbor” she murmured as she unlatched the shutters, the cool autumn air ruffling her hair.

“Shari, you’re scaring me,” I touched her shoulder, trying to distract her from the view.

Spinning around so quickly she almost knocked me down, she pulled a knife from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. “My name is Tillie!” she hissed.

Nate was at my elbow, shielding me from Shari, helping me back away from this woman I no longer recognized.

The neighbors must have heard my screams through the open window. The last thing I remember was the sound of the front door splintering when the police broke into the apartment.

The detectives tell me that Nate is waiting for the Medical Examiner in a dark, cold drawer in the hospital’s basement morgue. Doctors tell me that if the police hadn’t found me when they did, I would be in the drawer next to Nate.

Shari is being held in a guarded psychiatric ward on the hospital’s fourth floor.

My prognosis is for a full medical recovery, my psychological healing is another matter.

I can’t help but feel guilty that I could have prevented this attack somehow. If only I had listened more closely to Shari’s story, or skipped ahead in the book to read the ending. Then I would have known what made that night at the harbor so fateful.

Peer challenged prompts

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, SAM challenged me with “‘The night was calm and the wind was quiet that night.’ was how Tillie always started her story of the events that happened at the harbor that fateful night.” and I challenged Jester Queen with “Do not rely on a rabbit’s foot for luck. After all, it didn’t work out too well for the rabbit.“

Why isn’t this enough

“I want you to show me why this isn’t enough.”

They’ve been in the kitchen for a long time. Two cartoons worth at least. Mommy’s voice had that funny little wiggle in it that meant she was about to ugly cry again. She does that a lot now.

Mommy bought the pretty paper last week. She said she was going to put it on the walls in the kitchen. I was surprised when Daddy showed up to help. I think Mommy was surprised too, but kinda happy, at first. Daddy hasn’t been home much lately. That makes Mommy ugly cry too.

It started out okay. They didn’t really talk much, but they were using their nice words… ‘thank you” and “please.” Then Daddy got mad because Mommy wasn’t doing something right, and he kept telling her that it was all wrong.

I thought the paper looked really pretty, but he said it was all crooked or that Mommy needed to use more glue. He said a bunch more things that didn’t make sense too, and I could tell Mommy was getting upset. She scrunches up her face funny when she’s sad.

Mommy started crying and Daddy started yelling. I was scared. They were talking about stuff I didn’t understand.

Daddy was slamming the rolls of paper around and Mommy was trying to make him be quiet.

I just couldn’t stand it any more, I walked into the kitchen, afraid to say anything, but afraid not to.

“Stop it! You two sound like you hate each other!” I was crying hard, that hiccupy crying that you can’t stop no matter how much you try.

Daddy took a step towards me, his face all screwed up and red. I’ve never seen him that mad before.

“You, shut up!” He had raised a paint brush, still dripping with white goo.

Mommy stepped between us, her back to me. Looking over her shoulder she shooed me back into the living room.

“I want you to show me why this isn’t enough,” she said. She was facing Daddy and was almost too quiet for me to hear.

I may only be six, but I don’t think they’re talking about the kitchen any more. I want to know why we’re not enough for Daddy too.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, femmefauxpas challenged me with “I want you to show me why this isn’t enough.” and I challenged Michael with “‘Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island… discuss’ Mike Myers in SNL skit ‘Coffee Talk with Linda Richman’”

In reverse

Unknown going forward

After the initial determination, I read everything I could find. All that did was to scare me even more. One dire prognosis after another, stripping away every strand of hope from my grasp.

Since then, it’s been a book you read in reverse, so you understand less as the pages turn.

At first, other than his father, there was no one to talk with, no one I thought would understand. I feared that every one would look at him differently, treat him differently. So I said nothing. Even now, only a few trusted friends have been told.

He did changed. Not in a way you could say it was A or B, but in the way he reacted to a deviation in his routine, or by something odd he’d say that didn’t seem to fit the situation. Then there was the pacing, and sleepless nights.

Initially, I didn’t know how to help him. There was no magic pill, no big words to say, no waving of hands over him. There were no rules. This was never going to be a clean fight. There was no going back, only the unknown going forward.

What I did know is that I love him, unconditionally. I also know I can’t change his future, only be there to ease his way.

Oh, and I know I need to stop reading…

Peer Challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with “Since then, it’s been a book you read in reverse, so you understand less as the pages turn.” – The Shins, “Pink Bullets.” and I challenged Alyssa Reyans with “Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won’t help.” – Calvin and Hobbs

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Clean [adj. \ˈkleen] 3 c: observing the rules: fair

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Free Write!

Silent treatment

She loves me

It was 2:34 a.m. and I had just won my eleventy-millionth game of Solitaire on my iPhone. For the record, it’s not cheating to switch between Draw 3 and Draw 1 mid play, it’s game strategy.

I was lying on my side, my back to my bedside table lamp. It was more convincing to be turned away from the light if I had to pretend to be asleep. The dog sprawled in her usual spot on his side of the bed, was all legs and tail. The cat had nestled herself behind my bent knees. I was trapped amongst the animals.

Lucky for me I could hear his diesel engine as he drove down our street.  If I did miss that familiar chugging, the dog’s sudden tail drumming when he came in the front door was a give away. Quickly turning off my phone, I laid it on the table just as the cat jumped off the bed. Burrowing down into the blankets, I closed my eyes, feigning sleep as he quietly came into our bedroom.

He tried to still the dog’s wagging tail, I assume to keep her from waking me up and giving away the late hour. I tried to keep my breathing steady, as he walked around the room, changing out of his work clothes. I’d rummage through his pants pockets later. I had found interesting tidbits there before.

As he climbed into bed, I did my best imitation of a sleepy rollover, turning away from him. On cue, he spooned up against my backside, groping me where he could find a handhold. Despite the urge to elbow him in the face, I didn’t react. I only had to wait a few minutes to hear his snoring. Opening one eye, I laid still for a little longer to confirm he was asleep. Easing out of bed, I tiptoed around to his side of the bed, turning off his clock alarms.

A quick visit to the bathroom, I emptied the toilet paper roll of all the tissue save two squares. I put the extra rolls back into the closet. He wouldn’t notice until it was too late. I’d time it so I’d be in the kitchen and out of hearing range, unable to make out his calls for help.

From the bathroom I went into the kitchen, unplugging the coffeemaker. I was a tea drinker, I wouldn’t miss the morning caffeine like he would. Opening the refrigerator, I pulled out the orange juice jug, downing what little remained. Rinsing out the container, I turned to the milk bottle. I took a travel jug from the cabinet, filling it with what milk was left then hid it behind the salad dressing. I put the empty milk bottle in the front of fridge.

Down the hall I went into the laundry room, taking his only two clean pair of work pants off the rack. Along with a few towels and T-shirts, I put them all into the washer, and started a cycle.

All my preparations only took about twenty minutes, giving me plenty of time to go back to bed for several hours as if nothing was wrong.

I was at the kitchen table, enjoying the morning paper and my second cup of tea, when he rushed into the room holding his wet pants, already late leaving the house. I simply looked at him, lifting one eyebrow, then went back to reading my paper.

The next time he came in the room, he was wearing an old pair of pants, a size too small. Rummaging through the cupboard looking for a mug, he turned to the coffeemaker, taking the empty carafe off its base, only then noticing the plug lying on the counter.

I could feel him looking at me again. I took a sip of tea and turned the page I was reading. Thumping the mug down on the counter top he went to the fridge looking for something to drink only to find no juice or milk. Standing in the kitchen with his hands on his hips, his back to me, he finally stomped down the hall to our bedroom.

The house shook from him slamming drawers and the closet door, throwing things around the room looking for his car keys. My cup rattled in its saucer as he stomped back to the kitchen. As he rounded the counter, I held up his keys, still looking down at my newspaper. Snatching them out of my hand, he finally broke the silence.

“So, this is how it’s going to be,” he demanded. “Are you ever going to talk to me again, or are you going to continue this passive aggressive assault?”

Turning to look at him, I pulled a ziplock bag out of my robe pocket. Inside, neatly folded, were a pair of women’s lacy underwear, clearly not my size. Lying the bag on the table top, I slid them toward him.

Looking directly at him, jaws clinched, I blinked several times, then turned back to my paper. I hoped that gave him his answer.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Eric Limer challenged me with “Write something where the main character interacts with at least one other person, but never actually speaks. ” and I challenged Lance with “‘Apart from the pleasures of coffee and chocolate, what I most enjoyed was appearing to be someone else.’ – Umberto Eco”

Tea and cookies

Snickerdoodles

I watched her as I made my way down the hallway. I was familiar with her, even knew her name, something that I couldn’t say about most of my other neighbors.

Mrs. Clancy, the apartment complex’s ubiquitous octogenarian, was struggling with her foldable shopping cart. She was stuck in her doorway and the harder she tried to exit her small one-bedroom with a view, the more entangled she became in her bulky coat and oversized patent leather handbag.

A quick extrication, and she was free to make her weekly trek to our nearby market. I carried the cart down the elevator, helping her unfold it once on the street level. With a hug and the promise of a plate of fresh baked cookies, Mrs. C was on her way.

As she slowly walked the half block to the store, I waited to make sure she arrived safely. Turning the opposite direction I headed to my office.

The thought of home-baked Snickerdoodles kept me distracted the whole day. I had lived in the city for only a few months, and aside from my co-workers, was having a difficult time meeting new people.

As the elevator opened on my floor, I immediately smelled the welcome aroma of warm cinnamon and sugar. Walking by Mrs. C’s door, the aroma was it’s strongest, making my mouth water.

Seconds after dropping my bags on a chair in the foyer, my doorbell rang. Mrs. C’s, still in a flour dusted apron, was standing in the hall holding a plate overflowing with still warm cookies.

Inviting her in, I made us both a nice cup of vanilla rooibos, an excellent compliment to her tangy cinnamon treats. Over our cups and dessert plates, Mrs. C and I became fast friends. She asked about my job and I learned she was a teacher at P.S. 204 for 30 years. She never learned how to drive, and I missed racing around the winding roads of my hometown.

We spoke of our families – her children lived in other states, called often but rarely visited; mine – physically and emotionally distant.

A mutual love of books and music only acted to further bond us. That and our mutual sense of loneliness.

The company where I worked was a growing startup. Most of the staff was recruited from out-of-state, each of us struggling with homesickness and a lack of local friends. Mrs. C told me about her friends, the men and women who frequented the senior center close by, who also faced that same sense of loneliness, outliving family and friends.

Begging off a second cup of tea, I walked Mrs. C back to her apartment. Thanking her for the cookies and company, I invited her to dinner the next evening. Later, sitting alone in my apartment, an idea began to germinate.

At work the next day, I spoke with a few of my co-workers about my idea, each one excited to be a part of it. I couldn’t wait to bring it up with Mrs. C.

Over parmesan chicken and bruschetta, I laid out my proposal to my newly adopted grandmother. My friends and I were missing family, her friends were too. We should bring them all together in the same way we had.

A small idea grew into a big one. My friends hosted an informal pot-luck for Mrs. C’s friends at the senior center, a meet-and-greet that helped everyone learn about shared interests. The dinners became a monthly gathering, with the surrogate families soon enjoying trips to art galleries, the theater, sporting events, and concerts.

Holidays and birthdays, once solitary and forgotten days became anticipated celebrations. A new generation benefited from the knowledge of their elders, and the older generation benefitted from what the juniors could teach them. Histories were passed on, and new technologies were introduced. Lives were enriched, young and old.

I thought of how all these people were changed while I sat in the sanctuary waiting to give Mrs. C’s eulogy. The pews filled with two divergent generations, but one huge extended family.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “‘There’s a phrase in Judaism, ‘tikkun olam’, which means ‘repairing the world.’ The concept is that people shouldn’t do something simply because the religion requires it but rather because it makes things- something, anything- a little bit better.’ -Mike Mayo” and I challenged Leo with “‘Many a man’s nose was broken by his mouth.’ – Irish proverb”

DISCLAIMER:

This challenge was difficult for me because the theme was a concept of Judaism. Not being Jewish, I had a hard time clearly understanding the subtleties of ‘tikku olam.’ I worried that if I misconstrued ‘tikkun olam’, I might inadvertently offend my Jewish friends. In an effort to make sure I didn’t completely mess this up, I consulted a friend, @melisalw, using her as a sounding board. This piece was my second attempt and it received a thumbs up. (You are the best Melisa!). Any interpretation mistakes are mine alone.

A day in the life

Big yellow bus

Dressed in his usual medium blue, short-sleeved work coveralls, Chester answered an urgent call from the principal. He was almost done for the day, and this late afternoon puke disaster sent him begrudgingly into the cafeteria just as the last bus riders were queuing up for their rides home. The after-school clubs were gathering in their respective corners of the lunch room when a particularly annoying seventh-grader exploded over Chester’s once clean floor.

The combination of Glacier Freeze G2, a full bag of sour Skittles and several slices of greasy pepperoni pizza was never meant to stay put, especially when aerated through youthful dancing to the beat of loud, vulgar hip hop music.

Girls screaming, and boys laughing uproariously at their home boy, Chester simply wanted to drench them all with his industrial sized bucket of dirty mop water. He was getting too old to put up with these shenanigans. A mere three months away from retirement, he had a daily argument with himself over whether to wait it out, or say, “the hell with it.”

“Gawd, these punks have no more sense than God gave a rock,” Chester had gotten used to the stench of pubescent humors. Piss didn’t bother him, neither did crap, and blood had lost all scent to him. The only thing that could still make him retch was teenage sweat. The combination of cold french fries, fear and Axe cologne was a potent poison.

Moving the chunks around in a technicolor puddle, Chester visualized that instead of his trusty Unisan 2020B, he held the offending pre-teen by his feet, dunking his mop of unruly hair into the soap bucket. He made the mess, he should help clean it up.

“I bet his mom still has to wipe his ass,” the janitor muttered, glaring at the kids who were now laughing at him. One of them moved a chair so that as Chester moved backward mopping he almost tripped, the bucket sloshing a wave of dirty water over the rim, soaking his pant leg.

“Little bastard,” Chester held back the rebuke. What he’d like to do is grab the offending brat and wear out his belt giving him the ass whipping he so richly deserved. Instead he ignored the jeers and finished cleaning up the mess. After putting away the bucket and mop in his janitor’s closet, he grabbed his tools, ready to attack his final, thankless chore for the day.

Armed with an old spackle tub and a putty knife, its blade tip honed to a razor’s edge, Chester headed into the now empty gymnasium. Tomorrow night’s basketball game would mean he’d be at this again the next morning, but if he didn’t stay on top of the wads of chewed gum stuck to the underside of the bleacher seats, the stands would be completely coated in masticated Dubble Bubble in no time.

“Guaranteed their bedrooms are pig sties,” grumbling as he scraped old gum from the seats. “Or their mommies do everything for them. Raising a bunch of entitled brats. These parents ain’t doing their kids a bit of good.”

Dumping the minty, sour apple dregs out of the full tub, Chester tied up the plastic bag in the gym trash can. His suggestion to the faculty heads that he be given the detention inmates went unanswered. A shame, he thought, as he pulled the can outside to the main school dumpster. Heaving the Hefty bag over the top, Chester thought the delinquents would benefit from a little hard work. Make them break a real sweat and not just from sitting in the same spot for hours tweaking a video game controller with their thumbs.

“Good for nothing losers,” Chester grunted with the exertion. “Prolly couldn’t even lift one of these bags. Sorry bunch of candy-asses.”

His work finally over, Chester did a walk-through check of the school door locks, systematically turning out the building lights. Making his way out to the staff parking lot, the only thing Chester wanted was a long, hot shower. He needed to wash off the grime of another long day. Once in his car, Chester sat with both hands on the wheel, head down, taking deep breaths.

After a long, ten seconds he relaxed back in the driver’s seat, putting the keys in the ignition. Later, the Medical Examiner determined Chester never knew what happened, he was killed instantly in the explosion.

The crude bomb was attached with duct tape in the top of the driver’s side wheel well. Despite the extensive damage to the car, the bomb squad sergeant easily traced the explosive device to a former junior high school student who blamed Chester for getting expelled. He believed the old janitor had turned him in for smoking weed in the boy’s bathroom. During the trial he found out that Chester wasn’t responsible, a newly installed security camera had captured him exiting the bathroom, tucking a roach into his shirt pocket.

Ironically, Chester would have been impressed with the boy’s ingenuity, and that he made something so efficient with his own hands.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kelly Garriott Waite challenged me with “You’re the janitor at the local school. Tell me what you think about when you clean up after the kids.” and I challenged Michael with “If I had a dollar bill for all the things I’ve done, there’d be a mountain of money piled up to my chin…’ Annie Lennox“