Tuesday, January 29, 2013

HE SHALL COVER THEE WITH HIS FEATHERS


                  


by Marianne Carlson
When I was in the second grade I started sleeping at my grandmother's most nights. My parents never even knew or cared where I was but her kitchen always smelled like bread baking in the oven, and it was warm there. Our house was always cold. I slept in a spare bedroom under one of her handmade quilts. I remember the sun used to shine first thing in the morning on a framed Bible quote hanging on the wall. The room was white, and there was an old oak bureau under the window.  I  put my treasures in the top drawer: my Hello Kitty knapsack, lip gloss, toys from MacDonald's happy meals.  As I grew older,  my treasures changed to bags of weed, pipes, needles.  
I'm not sure why I am telling you this, maybe because I have sat through too many group therapy sessions where anything goes as long as you keep talking.  A lot of what is said in those groups is just plain bullshit. I can spot a bullshitter a mile away.  I never said much in those groups. Confessing all was never a catharsis for me, and the older I get, the less I talk. There are too many talkers as it is, and I don't think I could ever hear anything ever again that would surprise me. 

My grandmother practically raised me. She was a tiny, fragile looking lady, but cantankerous.   I remember once some cretin tried to swindle her at a convenience store, and she knocked him over the head with her cane. Damn near killed him. It is hard for me to talk about my grandmother now because I broke her heart, not once, but over and over again. We lived down the street from her, my mother and father and six kids. I was the youngest, a most unwelcome surprise. I figured that out as soon as I learned about the birds and bees. Our house was a real pig pen all the time, but my grandmother's cottage was a safe haven, and my grandmother didn’t drink. My father was drunk all the time, a mean drunk.

On the wall in the room where I slept next to the Bible quote was this framed picture of an owl sheltering all these little owls under his wings. My grandmother told me that the owl was supposed to be the Lord, He will always protect me if I believe in Him.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High 
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
He shall cover thee with his feathers, 
and under his wings shalt thou trust:
For he shall give his angels charge over thee, 
to keep thee in all thy ways.

Yeah right. What I saw in that picture was that there were five little owls under those wings, but the sixth one was left out in the cold to fend for herself, and that sixth one was me. There wasn’t gonna be any angels watching over me, that’s for sure.

It was in middle school when my life began to go down hill. The only time I ever went home was to see if I could swipe some money from one of my siblings so that I could buy weed. I smoked pot every day. My grandmother could sniff out a bad actor in a New York minute, and she hated my friends.  

“You’re known by the company you keep,” she would say to me when she caught one of the shifty high school boys hanging around. 

“Keep them away from this house.  Boys shouldn’t be wearing earrings.”

“Birds of a feather flock together.” More birds, more feathers, this was the worst thing she could have said to me.

One of the “walking wounded,” I dressed like a freak, wore black, dyed my hair a different color every week, pierced every possible area of my anatomy.  I dropped out of school in the 10th grade, got a job washing dishes for a local restaurant, had an abortion and fell in love with heroin. The trajectory of my life seemed to be set, and in that path the owl was nowhere to be seen. In retrospect, I am amazed I survived at all, but I am beginning to entertain the notion that perhaps that owl was operating behind the scenes. I was spiteful. I pummeled  my grandmother with cruel behavior,  taunting her, the last person in the world to deserve it.

“Where were those angels when that piece of shit killed the people in that movie theatre in Colorado? I guess those angels weren’t into Batman.” 

“Why didn’t those angels show up at Columbine?”

“Are the angels on vacation when a plane crashes or some poor bozo crossing the street gets hit by a drunk driver?”

She always had the same unsatisfactory answer. “You have to learn to love the mystery of it all.”

“Fat chance,” I would answer. 

After too many years of chasing some elusive dream, I overdosed on a combination of pills and heroin, the medics told me that I was more dead than alive when I was wheeled into the ER. From the hospital I spent a month in rehab and another six months in a halfway house, I learned that angels come in all shapes and sizes and that I better listen to them if I wanted to stay around awhile longer.

My grandmother died when I was in rehab. No one in my family told me, I guess they were afraid it would set me off. She left me her house so I am back in the same bed I slept in when I was in the second grade. The owl is still on the wall, the little owls still under his wing. I don’t sleep well, most recovering addicts don’t, insomnia is something you  learn to live with.  The funny thing is I could swear I can hear that owl hooting at me sometimes, and when I do, I think it’s my grandmother’s way of telling me that she was right all along.


















It's All Temporary

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

EXQUISITE PAIN



by Marianne Carlson
Everything I needed to know about her was encapsulated in one glance. Or so I thought.  From her well worn, dirty white Converse high tops, her skinny jeans, low at the hip, her faded gray hoody, she was an interesting combination of class and grunge, an uptown girl who spent time downtown. She didn't wear the hoody,  instead she wore a tweed golf cap with a little visor that partially covered her dark hair and shaded her eyes so you couldn't tell if she was looking back. The effect she had on me was not pleasant. As I watched her, she made me feel as if I was stealing things from her. Little did I know that in the long run, she would be the thief. 
It was the golf cap that gave her class.  She  entered the supermarket, disentangled a shopping cart by ramming it back and forth several times into the long line of carts,  and took off like The Little Engine That Could to the dairy section. The golf cap rose above the rest of the shoppers, she was very tall and she walked with great purpose. I had never seen anyone shop with such determination, without a list.
I was in hot pursuit, an average man, not very tall. One percent milk went into her cart and therefore into mine. Six large eggs in a thick plastic carton (guaranteed to harm the environment) followed the one percent milk. I could tell she was hesitant about buying those eggs, perhaps she was an environmentalist, but if she was, so be it. I could learn to kneel at the alter of Al Gore, although she would be pushing her luck with that. Six large eggs landed in my cart next to the milk.

The market was quite crowded and so well lit that it became difficult for me to follow her. I thought I had succeeded until we waited in the checkout line. The cute young cashier with curly red hair and purple nail polish was in training, (aren't they all?) She didn't know the difference between a cantaloup and a honeydew, the scanner refused to scan, it was an endless wait, but she was rather endearing, like a puppy eager to please.  While waiting, the golf cap spoke.

"You have been following me."

"You noticed?

"Of course I noticed. You're not very subtle." Unfazed, she said nothing more, then looked in my cart, looked in her cart, back in my cart. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, the way a naughty boy feels who has been caught red-handed doing something untoward. Then she laughed.

“How vexing.”

It was silly of me, and childish, but at the very least it opened the door a crack to a conversation.  In retrospect, it was idle chitchat, but it was all I had.

“Vexing? I love that!”

“Love what?”

“That you use the word vex, what a great word. Are you an English major?”

“No, English is my second language.”

“Let me guess! German?”

“Right.”

“I knew it!”

“How did you know? My accent?”

“I knew it before you said a word. I can always pick out a German.  Germans have a look.”

“A look?” 

Yeah, I can’t describe it. But the Converse high tops are a dead giveaway.”

Our novice cashier had managed to bungle her way through three or four people in front of the golf cap. She was next. I had to act fast or all would be lost. Beep, beep, beep went the scanner, the cashier was on a roll, soon the golf cap would be out the door.  Covers from THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER, PEOPLE MAGAZINE, a potpourri of celebrities, faces frozen by too many face lifts, were almost blinding me. I suddenly realized that the golf cap was one of the most authentic females I had ever seen and I would probably never see her again. 

“Aufweidershen,” she said. “Enjoy your quark.” She smiled as she exited through the automatic door.

That smile haunts me, I have searched for it ever since. The French have an expression, “La Douleur Exquise.” It means the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have. That says it all. Ten years have gone by and in those ten years, I married and have two children, a boy, Thomas, and a girl, Bette. The marriage has been on again, off again, it probably wasn’t a good idea. My wife, Candice, is well named because her nickname is Candy and I find the sweetness in her nature to be nauseating at times. Those times are increasing, as is the botox, fillers, manicures and pedicures. I fight her tendency to steer Bette in that direction by buying her books about Pipi Longstocking and young girl detectives, but I don’t hold much influence over her. 

The software company I work for sent me to Berlin to attend a conference on innovative software for the construction industry. One day I had had just about enough of German construction workers and ducked out for a quick lunch. While buying a sausage from a vendor on Alexanderplatz, I saw her. It’s strange, I never knew her name, somehow it added to the allure not to know, but I know it was her. She walked arm in arm with a handsome German, held the hand of a little blue eyed blonde girl, the golf cap sailing above the crowd. Our eyes met briefly. I will never know if there was a slight twinge of recognition on her part.  It doesn’t matter because in that brief moment, she once again gave me what I needed, only this time I did not feel as if I was stealing, I had earned the right to it.

“Ihre Ă„nderung, Herr, Ihre Ă„nderung.” The vendor called me back to reality as he handed me my euros. I momentarily wondered if he was cheating me, but it really didn’t matter.












It's All Temporary

Friday, January 18, 2013

A SENSE OF URGENCY






by Marianne Carlson


The cottage has seen better days, but it was all Rosie had and she loved it. Half a block from the beach, half a block from the golf course, it was an ideal location for a summer rental property. When Rosie’s mother was alive renting was out of the question. Her mother painted water colors, soothing scenes depicting the coast of Maine, for every room. “Like a miniature museum” friends said as they walked through the house, stopping to admire the dollhouse in the stairwell. “Look! In every room a tiny painting! How like her, the most creative person I know.” 

These same friends were nowhere to be found when senility robbed her blind. First her eyesight, then her mind slowly drifted away, like a low tide slowly washing away from the shore. Rosie and Chloe, her pug, cared for her. Chloe never left her side, she told her stories about life as a puppy on the farm, about her seven brothers and sisters, her mother, Hilde, and how hard it was to leave her pug family. “The Law of Attraction was at work,” said Chloe, and that is why she had to leave Hilde and her favorite sister, Barbara, to come and live with Rosie.  Rosie’s mother drank up every word, begging for more. “Tell me more about Hilde, about Barbara,” she would say to Chloe, her eyes misting over, happy in her own world that protected her from the bruising that life often brought to the rest of us. 
When she inherited the cottage, well meaning people told Rosie to sell it, but her heart wouldn't let her so her uncle, a financial planner, told her to rent it out. "Run it like a business," he said.  Running anything like a business was foreign to Rosie whose only previous business interactions consisted of negotiating some pretty savvy drug deals with shady Portland dealers. It was while in her second rehab that Rosie realized if she didn't shape up, she would surely die. Used to being surrounded by beautiful things, the florescent lights and white-washed stucco walls of A New Beginning Rehabilitation wounded her soul. Completely hollow when she entered, she left three weeks later, drug free, but filled with regrets, remorse and resentments. Chloe  was no longer alive, she was with her mother “in a better place.” Almost any place was better than the shaky ground Rosie found herself navigating without so much as a joint to mellow her out, but she was determined to stay clean. 
Tall, thin with beautiful posture, she floated, rather than walked. This is what you first notice about Rosie, then you begin to take in the rest: black framed glasses behind sad blue eyes that could surprise you with an unexpected twinkle, long blonde hair,  tattoos, a great sense of style coupled with a sense of urgency.  One of those rare young women who looked good in anything, she could grab a dress off the thrift shop shelf that was ready for the rag bag and look great in it.

The cottage was rented, the new tenant was to move in later in the day. Rosie floated through the cottage, scanning her check list on a clipboard, looking for cobwebs, crooked lampshades, memories. If she squinted, she could see Chloe and her mother huddled together over the kitchen table, whispering. Rosie wished that she could be with them, she yearned to die but suicide was not an option.  Gone were the paintings, the dollhouse, the antiques - anything that had made the cottage home. What remained was all generic, generic furniture, generic dishes, generic quilts from Walmart. 

“Hello, you must be Rosie.”

“Who are you? How did you get in?

“Walked right in. The door was unlocked.”

“You should have waited. The lease says arrival no earlier than 10:00 a.m.”

“I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

This self possessed, strange little man sat in Rosie’s mothers chair. Oddly enough, he looked perfectly comfortable, as if he belonged there. Even more odd was the feeling that her mother would have liked him there. He had a rather endearing quality about him, an ingenuous aspect to his nature. Everything about him was somewhat faded, his white hair, white beard, pale gray eyes, flannel shirt, blue jeans. He looked as if he had been through the wash with a bit of Clorox thrown in.  

“Would you like me to show you the house?”

“No need, I took a walk through, it’s perfect.”

“Would you like to sit on the screen porch? My mother loved the porch.”

“I would.” 

They sat on the old white wicker furniture with the floral seat cushions, slowly rocking back and forth, saying nothing. The bell on the chapel across the street rang, calling parishioners to Sunday service, a mild reminder to Rosie that life goes on.

“My wife and I were married in a little chapel similar to this one,” he said softly.

“Where is she? Your wife?” Rosie wished she hadn’t asked, she felt as if she was intruding, but he lit up like a Christmas tree adorned with gentle white lights.

“Oh, she died many years ago. I still miss her, I think about her every day.”

“You never remarried?”

“No. I would have always been comparing my new wife with my first one. It would have been unfair. 

“Oh.” Rosie could see he was not listening, he was far away.

“And it’s a funny thing. I know my memory is distorted. She wasn’t as perfect as my mind likes to tell me, but I don’t pay attention, I like to allow her to be perfect in my head.”

“I think that is what I am doing with my mother,” said Rosie, her eyes beginning to tear.

“Nothing wrong with that, no one can take your memories from you. You have a long life ahead of you, just remember, slow but steady wins the race. No sense of urgency, just one day at a time. 


It's All Temporary

Friday, January 11, 2013

ON BEING A BENEFICIAL PRESENCE




by Marianne Carlson

"I always thought there was something not quite right about her."

"Not quite right? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you know, a little left of plumb. I mean, let's face it, she is drop dead gorgeous. I mean I really really have come to hate hate hate beautiful people. You know, they are just so perfect, I'd like to strangle them. Wouldn't you?"

"No."  Marcia munched on her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich as she looked around Annabelle's. Her dark eyes scanned the booths, the tables, the bars, only half listening, as if she was looking for someone. It was the usual lunch  crowd, not an empty table, some of the heavy wooden twosomes set for three,  elbows and knees knocking. Marcia vaguely wondered if the fire department was aware of this overcrowding. Background music, “Someone That I Used to Know.” repeated endlessly, almost hypnotically, adding a strange intensity to the atmosphere.  The bar tender sang along as he mixed drinks, dancing behind the bar. He was in a good mood, shaking up those Margaritas. 

"Well a fine lunch date you turned out to be. You haven't heard a word I have said." Kayla was definitely someone Marcia used to know, the change in her friend was immense and very sad. Her hair, too blonde, a severe Dutch Boy cut, aged her. It was as if Marcia was having lunch with a helmet. Her skin was sallow, pox marked under gobs of foundation, and her eyes were  awful - pale, tired and mean. She wore one of those yoga workout outfits designed to go “from  gym to dinner” which  accentuated her huge shoulders and arms like an angry  mama gorilla past her prime. Resentments, the mother of all rages, oozed from every pore.

"How's business? Any new clients?" Marcia needed to change the subject. Kayla had sensed the friendship waning for months, and the more Marcia withdrew, the angrier Kayla became. She was a ticking time bomb.

"They come and they go. One client wants me to be at her home at 6:30 in the morning, and another at her house at 7:00 at night.  Some scattered in-between. And the traffic is brutal, just brutal. Being a personal trainer ain't what it's cut out to be. The truth of the matter is I am bone weary all the time. 

"Maybe you should think about doing something else, Kayla. Being a personal trainer is a young persons career. You're in good shape, but this is just too much for you. It's too much."

“Well gee thanks for the encouragement.  I thought friends were supposed to be supportive. With friends like you, who needs enemies?” 

Marcia’s iphone began to hum. Expecting a call from Sam, she glanced to see if it was his number. “I’m sorry, Kayla, I have to take this. 

“Go right ahead, anyone is more important than a friend in crisis.”

“In crisis?” Kayla was beginning to attract attention so she decided to let Sam go to voicemail which annoyed her. (Now you’re somebody that I used to know, used to know, used to know.)

“Yes, in crisis. I want a drink. Don’t you want a drink?”

“No.”

“Well, I do.” She began waving frantically to the server who was balancing too many plates en route to the kitchen.

“This place is going down hill. Can’t get anyone to wait on you any more.” Kayla continued waving her arms in the air like windmills until the happy bartender caught our server’s attention and pointed our way with a quick nod of his head, never losing a beat, a bemused smile on his face. He was kinda cute. (Now you’re somebody that I used to know, used to know, used to know.)

“Scotch rocks. Dewers. Make it a double.” Kayla barked her order to our server, talking to her as if she was a slave, not quite human. Within minutes the caramel-colored liquid arrived. Karla stirred the ice rapidly with one long red fingernail and then tossed down half the glass in one gulp.

It took but a very few minutes for the alcohol to do it’s number. Marcia found herself with a brand new person sitting opposite her, and not a welcome replacement. This replacement vibrated.  It was as if a low voltage quiver was shooting waves of anger into her pores as her index finger stirred the ice frantically, and then ordered another double.

"You can sit there looking so perfect. No one knows how hard I try. God I hate you sometimes. Say something. Oh you're too high and mighty to talk to me now?  I am doing everything I can to be the best personal trainer in the city and I am! I. am. the. best. Itch marketing. Mark.Et. Ting. I donhave the money to mark. Et. Myself. Whaddaya have to do to gedadrinkk around here? 

Memories came flooding back. Marcia as a child, sitting at the dining room table, her father, very drunk, yelling at her mother. “You’re a worthless bitch. Whaddaya do all day, you piece of shit.” Marcia and her little sister never saying a word, playing with their food, terrified for their mother.

“Never try to reason with a drunk,” her mother told her later. “Just remove yourself from the scene as quickly as possible because you can’t win with a drunk, just try to be a beneficial presence, and then get the hell out. ”

The server and the happy bar tender stood over their table. “You need to leave,” the bar tender told Kayla who sat wedged into her chair, mama gorilla ready for battle. 

“Fuckyou. I’m a paying customer.” Kayla slammed her fist down on the table, knocking over the empty scotch glass. 

Marcia remained mute as the left over patrons sat, eyes riveted to their table. She wondered if she was a beneficial presence, but when the bartender winked at her, she didn’t care. He was kinda cute.








It's All Temporary

Friday, January 4, 2013

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT


by Marianne Carlson

Our marriage counselor told us that it was important to set rules for a fair fight. Rule #1 was "avoid accusatory, all encompassing statements. "You always, you never" were no nos. I can close my eyes and picture the small, wise, sweet man who wanted so much to help. A Paulist priest, his office was warm, uncluttered. Books of a religious nature lined his shelves and a picture of a very gentle Jesus hung on one wall. Even I, an agnostic, could learn to love that Jesus. There was no crucifix. I think he knew he would be pushing his luck with a crucifix; send me right out the door.

When I found the letter, tucked in among a pile of old bank statements in the attic, memories came flooding back, memories from 15 maybe 20 years ago. The letter wasn't dated but in my mind's eye I saw our son, Jason, now a freshman at Harvard, as a toddler with his blonde hair, big blue eyes, snot running out of his nose, I saw our three bedroom, two bathroom house painted brown, lots of toys and tricycles on the front porch, I saw myself, pregnant with Jenny, now a high school senior, an honor role student with her father’s gray, troubled eyes  who never saw a dog, cat, horse or squirrel she didn’t want to take under her wing,  I saw Jerry coming home late, trouble in the dining room, (the waitresses hated their new uniforms) trouble in the kitchen, (the chef was drunk again) trouble with the bar tender. Always something. Jerry was in the hotel business, a demanding occupation, and I was an unreasonable and demanding wife. It was typed, the letter. As I read, a sense of disquiet enveloped me.

Dear Jerry:

I am uncertain whether Father Paul can help us. It is unclear to me why priests would ever make good marriage counselors anyway. What do they know about the difficulties of hanging on to something  that was once precious, but is now slipping away like sand through our fingers?  Expecting a priest to understand a marriage is like expecting an elephant to understand a ballet. 

(I would think I could have come up with a more appropriate simile. Our marriage was many things, but a ballet it was not.) 

Because the "Rules of Engagement" set forth by Father Paul prohibit any blanket statements, I will refrain from calling you an asshole. 

(That was harsh. Do you think I might have found a slightly more eloquent pronoun? How about jerk? Or maybe fool? But asshole?  Did I write this before or after my "three week vacation"  in rehab? I suspect it was definitely written before the meds began to kick in, before I turned into a  zombie.)

I feel nothing for you any more, but don’t feel badly because you are not alone.  I feel nothing for anyone except Jason, and my love for him is so strong it frightens me.  Perhaps the child I carry will help me to learn how to be human once again. I don’t know. 

(Jenny’s arrival did enable me to pull myself together long enough to worship every hair on her head. I still do, which is probably why our mother/daughter conflict has been worse than anything I could have ever imagined. We were best friends until she reached puberty  when she turned on me. Jerry became her everything, I became the monster. When I look back at pictures from this era, I am very surprised I didn’t have horns. Was it at that time that I lost my mind?) 

I owe you an apology. I am very sorry I nearly set the house on fire. I threw all that trash into the fireplace out of spite, because you told me not to. It was childish, I could have killed us all. I don't think you can blame me for acting out, though. My entire world is unravelling, and the only ones around to help me pick up the pieces are a diminutive priest with eyes like a golden retriever and a little blonde boy who loves me unconditionally for the time being. It won’t last, though, because I’m not lovable.

(I had forgotten about that, about the fire.  I was a mean, vindictive woman. I still am. No wonder Jenny hates me. It's a miracle Jason even tolerates me.)

That fire emboldened me.  I started seeing Father Paul on the sly, two, three, sometimes four times a week, and believe it or not, it was meek little  Paul who initiated the change in me, he helped me  morph from a shy kitten into a tiger with claws.  Who would have guessed it? In retrospect that gentle Jesus must have more going for him than I ever gave him credit. Paul likes you, he likes you a lot more than I do, which is a fine kettle of fish we are in: you, me and Paul. I shall remain in the kettle, I'm not going anywhere, and we will continue to follow the same rules of engagement. We shall see. Love, Janice

What a ninny I was! I wouldn't have gone anywhere if my life depended on it. And poor Jerry! He didn't deserve this. He may have been more in love with the hotel than with me, but after reading this letter, I don't blame him. And what's with all the "J's"? Paul would have said maybe I wanted to throw Jesus in the mix,  we both would have gotten a good laugh out of that. I miss him. I even miss Jerry and hope he is happy with Jane (yet another J!)


It's All Temporary