The Summer I Truned Ten

 Sheryl and I were sharing weekly writings with one another-both fiction and nonfiction. I'm posting this story I wrote in Oct. so I don't forget how to post to my blog. (good enough reason, I guess) It's been so long since I've done much writing, and I think it would do me good to start again. I'm not sure why I'm a "Matthew" in the story. I just write stories as they come to me.

The Summer I Turned Ten

          Around the time of my tenth birthday, my Mother started calling me Matthew or Matt rather than Matty. I was glad because Matty is kind of a baby name. I liked Matty o-k until I was about five, then it was a little embarrassing. My Dad has always called me Matt, and my then eight year old twin sisters, Rea and Rae, usually called me something like skunk breath or fart man. I guess I can’t complain because, in my mind, I thought of them as piss and pot—get it? Piss Pot! Ha. I'd be in trouble with my parents if I had actually said that out loud because, being the oldest and the only brother, I was somehow supposed to set a good example.

          My sister, Lulu, who was three at the time—oh, three and a half---she was quick to correct me, just called me Map because that’s how she first learned to say it as a baby. We became so used to it that we didn’t even realize she was saying Map instead of Matt. Lulu has always been a pretty sweet kid. I can remember when Mom brought her home. She looked so foreign and fragile that I kept my distance from her at first, but before long, she and I were best buds.

          Well, my story is actually about our July trip to see Grandpa (my Dad’s Father). We always visited him two times a year: once in July and once at Thanksgiving. We’d pile into our old Nash, me in the back between piss and pot, and Lulu in the front between Mom and Dad. We would always have popcorn for a snack, and we actually got a bottle of soda pop each---each. Mom would pack up a picnic lunch for us to eat at a little roadside spot about half way to Grandpa’s. That was one highlight of the trip—sitting down at a weather-worn picnic table with our favorite food. We could run around a bit after we ate, and there was an old outhouse nearby we could use. The twins wouldn’t go near it, of course, but I was sure happy to have it there.

          On your mark; Get set; Go! We would begin the terrible four and a half hour drive. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my Grandpa, and I loved all the adventures on his farm, but the drive! Four and a half hours! Sitting between piss and pot! But you haven’t heard the worst of it: the last hour was on a winding, gravel road. It switch-backed right up a mountain side with nothing to protect us from tumbling off the ledge, plummeting to our bloody, broken deaths. I hated that gravel road for so many reasons: most of us would get car sick; in the summer we would nearly get heat stroke because we had to leave the windows up because of the dust, and in the winter, I just knew it was only a matter of time before we skidded on the snow and over the edge. I was sure that we’d be buried until spring. Then some poor family would see our car and try to help us, but they’d find our perfectly preserved bodies, with faces frozen in horrid screams. I think I felt as sorry for that imagined unfortunate family as I did for my own.

          On every trip something unpleasant happened. We had the flat tire summer, the chains required winter, the most of us have just come down with the chicken pox July. (Can you imagine the miserable itching we experienced sitting in that Nash, driving on that hot, dusty road! (I think that trip won the Disaster Trip Trophy). We had many other such hard luck stories, and this “the year I was ten” was no exception.

          When we were about 15 minutes from our picnic spot, it started to rain, what I mean is, it started to pour. Dad had to pull off the road at the longed-for picnic spot because he could no longer see through the waterfall that gushed over the windshield. So there we sat, starving. Someone, not me, no not me, suggested we have the picnic in the car. It will be fun. That must have been Lulu talking. Now, have you ever tried eating greasy (sorry Mom) fried chicken, potato salad, and cherry pie in an old Nash crammed full of tired, surly people? Close your eyes, and imagine it. Yes, it was that bad, and more.

          After we finished eating, the rain stopped, the sun shone brightly, and we drove on without pausing to use the outhouse. It wasn’t long before we stopped at a filling station and tried our best to clean up from the picnic disaster. It was difficult because, as is often the case, the facilities at the station were more disgusting than we were.

          What next, you may wonder---the gravel road? Oh, no, not yet. Lulu, sweet little Lulu, had a plan. Daddy, could we please stop to see the animals this time. You never stop. Please. The animals she was talking about were at a roadside attraction that was soon coming up. The hanging-by-a-thread sign promised coyotes, wolves, and other wild beasts. We also have the best, fresh water around. Come in and wet your whistle.

          Dad gave in. I think it was because we didn’t get our picnic, and we really, really needed a break. So the six of us emerged from our clammy seats and single-filed into a building that was not much more than a storage shed. Dad paid the man. (I have no idea how much it cost, but as we soon learned, whatever the fee, it was too much). Behind the building were five cages. One of them was large enough to hold a pathetic looking coyote, and beside it was something in a cage labeled wolf. Was it? Who knows? One small cage had a de-smelled skunk; one held a sickly rabbit, and the last cage was empty, except for the flies that were scavengering for goodies buried within long-ago dumped feces of some sort.

          I’ll summarize here: It smelled shit-bad; the animals were trapped zombies, and Lulu started to howl. She felt so bad for those creatures. We all did. We quickly crowded back into the car, and without taking time to have that best, fresh water to drink, we sped off, (or rather, sputtered down the road). Lulu continued to sob and plead for the lives of those creatures. Finally, Dad had an idea. He would call his good friend who lived in that area, and make sure authorities of some kind would arrest that bad man and let the animals go free. (Dad really knew they would have to be put down, but he decided it was o-k to tell Lulu the animals would be free because, after all, they would be free of their hell homes). Lulu stopped crying and we resumed our trip, a little more somber and less contentious than before the animal incident. (By the way, I later learned that my Dad’s friend did, in fact, follow through, and the animals are now in a better place). I was proud of my Dad and his friend.

          So, have you been waiting for the gravel road part of my story? Picture this: we’ve already been on the road for hours; the warm potato salad is catching up to us; Rea threw up on my left leg, and Mom is getting a headache. With the interior car temperature shooting up by the minute, we begin our climb up the treacherous road, and now rather than fearing a disastrous plunge, I think I’m almost hoping for it. We do, finally, finally, make it to the top, unscathed, except the car is overheating, we’re overheating and someone must have stepped in something back at the faux zoo.

          Grandpa was always out to meet us as we drove up. How did he know the moment of our arrival? Perhaps his two dogs gave him a heads up. I loved those dogs. Rea and Rae preferred the kittens, the baby chicks, and the rabbits. They ran off to find them the minute the car came to a stop. Grandfather always looked pleased about their enthusiasm. My parents made their way into the house with Grandpa to chat and catch up on the news about Aunt Rhonda and Uncle Wayne. Lulu was content to play with sticks and rocks and, especially, tiny frogs. During the July visits, I always hurried for the creek: the trickling, life-giving marvel. It was a cooling place against the sun, and a thinking place—a shelter against my sudden growing pains, and a safe haven to consider my emerging awakenings

          When we were at the farm in the winter, it was sledding and snow forts. Everyone came out to play. Everyone. The snow sparkled and the hills seemed to echo our laughter. It was truly breathtaking. Sometimes Grandpa and I worked our way up one of his little hills looking for animal tracks in the snow. He loved teaching me about nature, and somehow, now that I had turned ten, I was beginning to understand how important these lessons were on so many levels.

          The evenings, whether in winter or summer, provided cozy intimacy. It was then that our family was enveloped by a quiet unity, a harmony that was often lacking in our boisterous daytime lives. In the summer evenings, we sat out on the porch while the mountain breeze lulled us into a comfortable peace. In the winter, Grandpa’s wood-burning stove warmed us—body and soul. I can still remember some of Grandpa’s fireside stories. He shared his escapades in such a way that I often felt as if he and I were living the adventures together.

          This July, like those visits in the past, we had five days to play and visit and discover and explore.  I don’t think any of us ever wondered what heaven will be like. We got to visit it twice a year.

          When it was time to leave, as we were walking out to the car for another round of thank yous and goodbyes, Grandpa took my hands in his hands. It was then I became aware that he was aging; his skin seemed paper-thin, and his hands trembled a bit.  He leaned down and whispered gently, “I love you, Matthew,” and I replied, “I love you, too, Grandpa.”

           In that moment, something remarkable happened for the first time in my life; my childish, self-centered perception of the world widened so as to allow me to experience an elementary appreciation for the gift of love.

          Now, as a man who has seasoned over the years, I’ve come to recognize that the brief flash I experienced as a ten year old was a rarity because most profound insights come to us in nearly imperceptible increments.  However, throughout my life, I have been blessed to have experienced other such sacred moments of brilliant clarity. This extraordinary spark kindles within each of us, a yearning to be a better self. These divine revelations endow us with miraculous visions of humanity at its eternal best.

          My first such awakening was the summer I turned ten.

Twenty-three Likes

Here is another story that I posted on the Jackalope blog site. I was asked to post the challenge so I came up with: You must include the following sentence somewhere in your story: "A simple Facebook post was her undoing."

Gladys Weatherly had survived many difficult trials throughout the first fifty years of her life. When she was four years old, she broke her arm after falling off a chair. What Gladys remembered most about the incident were the comments she heard afterwards from well-meaning adults: “You’re so lucky you didn’t bump your head.” “You’re so lucky it was your left arm.” “You’re so lucky it will be good as new.” Gladys didn’t feel lucky at all every time the reoccurring throbbing pain plagued her throughout her life.

When Gladys was seven, her parents divorced, and she never saw her beloved father again. Her mother refused to discuss the situation. Gladys felt abandoned and insecure. This was also around that time that she began wetting the bed. After having an accident at a slumber party, she was teased and shunned. From then on, at school she hung back in the shadows, convinced that her horrifying humiliation would never be forgotten.

A few days after Gladys celebrated her tenth birthday, two policemen came to the door and took her sixteen year old brother, Robert, away. At any mention of Robert’s name, Gladys’ mother became stern and stony. Gladys didn’t dare ask her what became of Robert. She just knew there was something dark and disturbing about his leaving.

Gladys grew up, got married, and was once again abandoned—this time by her husband of four months who simply walked out the door one autumn day. Gladys soon began having frequent nightmares in which her husband and/or her father glared disapprovingly at her and said she was a naughty little girl. Or they laughed at her and called her worthless as they walked out the door over and over and over.

Her mother passed away; Gladys was deserted once more. Every night she sat in her tiny, dim studio apartment in New York City. Every night, surviving--and only just that.

For nearly thirty years, Gladys had been employed by a small company which contracted to clean various office buildings. She made ends meet. She met a few other nice-enough employees, but every night when she dragged back to her simple refuge, she sat rigid in her only chair for hours She ached to hold a husband, a baby, a friend, but her arms were empty, and her heart was broken.

Two days after Gladys turned fifty, a turn of events made it possible for her to realize a kind of joy. A distant Uncle had died and left her a “tidy sum.” With her propensity for frugality, she realized that the money would likely last her a lifetime. She shared the news with four acquaintances from work and gave her notice. But before her final day, Lydia, the kind one, convinced Gladys that she should get a computer to keep her company and to help her stay in touch with world events. She helped Gladys set it up: showed her the basics of Word, Goggle and Facebook. Lydia invited several women from work to be Gladys’ friends. Four of these women immediately replied and sent brief messages of encouragement. The world began to open up for Gladys. She had friends. She was not alone.

Gladys approached her relationship with these four Facebook friends with both enthusiasm and a kind of reverence. She felt a profound sense of solemn responsibility to be helpful and considerate. She spent over two hours writing lengthy replies and waited eagerly to hear back from them. Gladys soon found the courage to invite four more people. Three confirmed. Gladys felt like a part of a group. She belonged. She was in the loop.

As the weeks went on, Gladys acquired more and more friends. She finally had to keep her replies shorter than at first, but she made certain to respond to everyone. If someone was having a bad day, she would send messages of hope and care. When she saw pictures of babies, pets or vacations, she would promptly reply, telling her friends how cute, how adorable, and how fun. Sometimes she was the only one replying, but often her comments joined with comments from other friends—a real conversation of sorts.

Months passed by. Gladys hardly had time to eat and began going to bed later and later. She had so many friends. So many! By the end of each day, her shoulders ached after being hunched over her keyboard for hours. Some days she felt drained and weak, but she would never dream of letting her friends down. Never.

Hundreds of friends. Hundreds! So many pictures to comment on. So many people to cheer up. So many condolences to write. And congratulations. And words of encouragement. And people were inviting her to be their friends. Inviting her! She confirmed and confirmed.

Gladys continued to faithfully fulfill her commitment to her friends. There she sat everyday: Typing. Composing. Replying. Inviting. Confirming. Caring. Very often, morning light would slip in through the window, leaving her to wonder what had become of the night. There was no one in her apartment to gently rub her shoulders and whisper, “It’s late. Come to bed, my dear.” Nor were there pets to walk. No phone to answer. No dinner engagements. No club meeting. No Church gatherings. And no children to hold or teach or love. Even with all her Facebook friends, Gladys sometimes felt lonely. During these times, she spent even longer hours inviting more friends and working more diligently to write well thought out replies to anyone who sent her a message.

One Tuesday night after hours of reading and replying, Gladys was again physically drained. She put her fingers on the keyboard and for the first time posted a message of her own rather than simply a reply. Sometimes I am so weary, I want to die. POST. There it was, her unexpected cry.

Gladys was quickly embarrassed that she had posted something personal and depressing, but within minutes, up popped three replies. Three friends wrote words of comfort and support. After that, she began to notice the likes: two, now seven, now fifteen. With each like, Gladys sank in despair. She froze in place as she saw the likes growing. Every tortuous event in her life burned through her mind: pain, abandonment, disappointment, grief and loneliness--above all, loneliness.

At her final count, twenty-three of her friends had responded with like to her desperate post. For Gladys, this implied that twenty-three friends were happy that she wanted to die. Twenty-three liked that she was depressed. Twenty-three friends. Twenty-three.  She was betrayed and abandoned again. Again.

As new comments and likes continued to trickle in, unread, Gladys slipped awkwardly from her chair, her breathing becoming tortured and ragged. As she hit the floor, her eyes shot open wide with surprise at the irony that her defeat finally came about by something so benign. After years of battling demons, a simple Facebook post was her undoing.             

Our Huddled Masses

A writers’ blog group I once belonged to has now resurfaced. I will post my stories, etc. that I write for that blog on this blog, too. The first assignment was to choose one of the pictures (Halloween, horror) that our fearless leader posted and write something--any thing—using it as a prompt. I wanted to complete it by Halloween, so this was written in a few days.

Our Huddled Masses

a prologue by Pat Condie Bak

By the time the general population became aware of the new super bacteria, the reactionary responses of prominent medical doctors and renowned scientists from all over the world had already escalated from curiosity to concern, to worry, to fear, and finally, to panic. Inevitable leaks of the frightening new discovery first trickled out, then flowed in torrents from the countless fissures in top secret documents. As soon as the inevitable consequences of the new Bacillus fasilmeria became clear, Earth’s inhabitants collectively wailed and plunged headlong into a universal hell.

Because of the unprecedented robust nature of this proficient killer, familiar apocalyptic scenes of B grade movies were replicated throughout the real world in frenzied, fast-forward time. First came the inevitable looting: electronics, then food and finally, any type of protective paraphernalia imaginable: from useless face masks, to surplus World War II parts and pieces and on to government issued state-of-the-art Ebola gear stockpiled in inefficiently secured facilities. What quickly followed those days of mayhem and ruthless anarchy was a quiet settling-of-the-dust atmosphere in which most hapless citizens of every country merely walked, trance-like, over decaying bodies in search of a crust of bread.

In just five weeks after Dr. Kumar Banerjee’s first wide-eyed, jaw-dropping scrutiny of the extraordinary bacteria, over seventy million people had succumbed to the terror, and the daily death count grew exponentially. A small number of intellectuals who had stayed one step ahead of the ever-growing carnage labored on several continents in a desperate attempt to understand this destroying angel. Their determination paid off as these exhausted men and women uncovered the one vulnerability of the bacteria: persistent, torturous cold.

 And thus it is that our determination to insure the survival of the human race has led us to seek sanctuary at the frozen poles or atop towering, ice-crusted mountains. In diverse locations throughout the world, small clusters of huddled masses have been brought together by fear and grief.  It is in this bitter frozen stillness that we few survivors are finding salvation. The forced abandonment of all mankind’s superfluous trappings has compelled us to rediscover our humanity

Encrusted Wing Covers

This picture is from the internet. These are wing covers from jewel beetles. They vary in color: blue, green, and copper tones. To use them for embellishment on clothing and accessories, the wings are steamed for about five minutes to soften them, and then, using a sharp needle, holes are pierced at the tips and on the sides in order to attach them to fabric.

This is my vial of jewel beetle wing covers that Meredith gave me for Christmas prompt #5.

   

Encrusted Wing Covers

      When Madame Barteau sent Élise to run an errand on Thursday afternoon, she assumed it would be a simple task for her maid. “I need a birthday present for my grand nephew,” Mme. Barteau said brusquely.  “He’s a bright nine year old who likes anything to do with nature. I’ll send the money with you and trust you will find just the right thing for him.”

      Madame Barteau had received the invitation to the Friday afternoon birthday tea three weeks ago; she had replied that she would attend and quickly made arrangements for a driver to pick her up at precisely 1:15.  Unfortunately, she had uncharacteristically forgotten about the event and now was making hasty last minute preparations. In addition to feeling fretful about being ready for the event, she began to fear that her oversight was a foreboding of the onset of memory loss. She thought of two of her friends whose minds seemed to be slipping and abhorred the thought that she might soon be joining them.  All this had left her in a bad temper for the remainder of the day.      

      Élise flew down a familiar Paris street. It was 1936, and the city was alive with buyers and sellers. Empty-eyed, desperate masses tread wearily down the streets and jostled together with bustling people of means. Ordinarily it might have proven quite an undertaking to find a natural gift in this fashionable, frenetic city, but as luck would have it, Élise remembered having recently passed a quaint little shop with bold lettering, Curios and Collectables from around the world.  The peculiar weathered building was pinched painfully between a well-established apothecary and a modern millinery. Élise breathlessly entered the establishment and found herself making her way though a maze of overflowing shelves and counters, but she was a skilled explorer, with a keen eye for finding just the right item for any occasion. Her eyes darted left and right in perfect synchronization with her agile steps as she surveyed the stunning objets d’art displayed haphazardly together with macabre artifacts. As Élise gingerly sidled down the narrow aisles, she held her arms in close beside her, walking sideways as she guarded every step against toppling glass jars of sea shells, disturbing imitation cameo broaches or startling huge mummified toads from their precarious resting places. The rushed errand brought a sense of urgency; nevertheless Élise considered it another unexpected adventure in her life. Élise nearly always navigated through life with light steps and a kind of brightness of spirit.

      The circumstances of Elise’s life might have left her perpetually floundering in ponds of muddy-bottomed hopelessness were it not for the buoyancy of her spirit. And although Elise’s disposition served her well, Madame Barteau often chided her for being too enthusiastic, too loud and, above all, too impetuous       

      After making a hasty transaction, Élise rushed back to the apartment nearly overcome with excitement over the unusual treasure she had found. She threw open the imposing apartment door, and without thinking, she impulsively thrust the purchase at Madame Barteau.

      Mme. Barteau’s eyes quickly scanned the label on the miniature bottle: Jewel Beetle Wing Covers. “What is this?” The old woman drew back in horror as she examined the tiny vial containing iridescent fragments. “These are some kind of body parts from a ghastly insect. What were you thinking? I asked you to purchase something for my dear nephew, and you bring me disgusting insect parts.”

      “Madame, you mentioned that your nephew likes to collect things from nature. These are rare jewel beetle wing covers that are prized for their beauty. I thought they would be something unusual to add to his collection.”

      “Unusual! Bizarre and vile! What were you thinking to buy something both loathsome and fragile for a young boy?”

      Élise paused, and then forged on. “The clerk assured me that these wing covers are for children and adults alike. In fact, the sign said they would mesmerize both children and adults with their remarkable colors.”

      “Of course the clerk would extol the virtues of his merchandise. Perhaps you also considered other treasures: the rattles from the tail end of an American rattlesnake or perhaps some hideous shrunken head from Africa. They would also make frightening and breakable gifts for a child.”

      “I am sorry. I truly thought. . . “

      “Take it back!”

      “I’m so sorry. I can’t. No returns”  

      “It seems you have a problem, then. Go find something suitable.. And you can pay for the taxi yourself. Why would I pay for your folly?”

      Élise left the vial on the receiving table in the foyer and hurried off. Today she had hoped to arrive home in time to attend her niece’s recital. Adèle was to sing a solo at the event. At ten years old, she would be the youngest participant. But Élise was beginning to feel it was hopeless until she darted into a charming little bookstore. Within moments she had found it: the perfect gift! She hurried back, clutching the prized possession as she made her way through the indifferent throng of Parisians.

      Madame Barteau was waiting impatiently in the sitting room. Élise again threw open the door with entirely too much force, but this time she paused a moment to compose herself, then approached Madame Barteau and gently handed over the replacement gift.

      “A book?”

      “Oh yes,” Élise responded enthusiastically. “It’s perfect, I think. It’s about bees and hives and . . . Look, it’s a very special book. It has a clear page that overlays onto the next so you can see the layers of the hive. And look. Look at this next part. You turn the page, and the picture pops up! It pops up here, too.” Élise’s words were strung tightly together with joyful passion. “Isn’t it beautiful! Isn’t it . . . .”

      Madame Barteau raised her hand to silence her breathless maid, but at the same time, she bent over the book and turned the remarkable pages back and forth, over and over again. “It is . . . interesting I suppose, but what if he has it already? I’m sure he has several books.’

      In her excitement, Élise snatched the book from Madame Barteau’s hands. “Look, it’s very new. Really. It just came out. Isn’t it lovely!”

      “Well, I guess it will do,” Madame Barteau conceded reluctantly. “Now, as for the vial of dead insects, I think it’s only fair that you pay me for it. You may take the wretched bottle and be mesmerized all you want.”

      Élise paused and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Madame Barteau. I cannot possibly pay for the wing covers. You remember I told you that Julien had been in an accident at work. His leg got crushed, and . . ."

      “Stop! First dried insect parts and then details of your husband’s careless accident. Élise, must I remind you that as a maid in this household, you are expected to master your base nature and serve me with the utmost decorum.”

      “I’m sorry, Madame, it’s just that I want to explain that Julien can no longer work, at least for several months, and we do not have a centime to spare.

      “Will you please stop! How can you possibly think I want to hear about these things? I’ll take a little out of your pay each week. When the debt is paid, you can have your precious wings.”

      In spite of the fact that much of Elise’s life had been largely one of deprivation, up until now she had been able to maintain an enviable level of hope and integrity. Now, with one swift decree from her employer, a toxic shadow swept over her, obscuring the light.

      At this very moment, if Mme. Barteau had been looking up at Élise while she delivered her diatribe, she would have undoubtedly become aware of the embodiment of hopelessness on the young woman’s face. Élise’s terrified spirit immediately recoiled, leaving her with frightening images of homelessness. Perhaps witnessing this transformation in Élise would have softened Mme. Barteau and changed the course of both of their lives. But Mme. Barteau had not looked up.

      Élise heard herself telling Mme. Barteau about the magical qualities of the wing covers. In desperation, she told a simple lie, then embellished upon it in ways she would never have believed possible. “These wings have special properties. When the light hits them just right, you can see into the future. Surely you want to keep these, Madame. They also have marvelous healing powers.” Élise did not hear the rest of the lies; instead, her words took on a life of their own and continued to spawn more elaborate impossibilities.   She stood before the aging woman, while the absurd story of magic continued to whisper endlessly from somewhere in the dark distance. And finally the words became effortless, then pleasurable, then exhilarating. As innumerable, seemingly insignificant, minute particles from each lie fanned out over fertile dung-covered fields, dropping malevolent seeds, thorny vines took root and brought forth an abundance of venomous blossoms. The air grew rancid as Madame Barteau sat silently, giving Élise more and more time to construct her elaborate deception.

      Finally Madame Barteau sharply rapped her cane on the floor. “Enough! I should fire you this minute! Such deceit! I am not yet so advanced in my dotage that I believe such wild stories . . .”

      “But the shopkeeper said,” the lies continued, “that there is a kind of magic in . . .” 

      “You are either a fool or a liar. I am aware you have many shortcomings, but I always thought you were honest and somewhat intelligent. Leave now, without another word. I will see you promptly on Monday morning, and there will be no more talk about magic wings. You will pay me for them, or you will no longer be in my service.”

      Élise did not remember the trip home, but she knew when she arrived she would tell her husband the whole story. There was no painless way to say it: She had been dishonest. She had tried to deceive an elderly woman. She hoped Julien would comfort her and tell her that everyone makes mistakes, and she was being too hard on herself. Surely he would say that no harm was done and that they would figure out a way to manage on less income in order to pay for the purchase. “Don’t trouble yourself about that little lie,” he would say.

      Only that was not what Julien said.

      “Élise, I know you. You have always been honest and kind. That is who you are.” Julien hadn’t grasped what Élise had told him. They had been friends throughout school; he knew her. Whatever was she saying about Mme. Barteau and insect wings?

      Élise tried again, this time sounding defensive and impatient. “I did lie. We cannot survive on less. I tried to convince Mme. Barteau that the wings were valuable in some way so she would want to keep them.” Élise stopped short before lashing out at Julien, blaming him for his accident and their present grim circumstances.  

      Julien paused, then spoke with quiet conviction, “You must tell Madame Barteau the truth about the wings, and we will somehow manage with the wage cut.”

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      The birthday tea was pleasant enough. Mme. Barteau was somewhat uncomfortable to discover that she was by far the oldest guest. There were the children—friends of her grand nephew, their mothers, and her—the elderly great aunt. However, as always, she kept her composure and did not intrude or disturb.

      Alexandre seemed fond of Mme. Barteau’s gift. He examined it thoughtfully and thanked her politely before going on to the next present. It was then that Mme. Barteau’s attention turned to a small cluster of women who were crowded together in the corner, animated with excitement over something. Mme. Barteau discreetly made her way over to the group hoping to overhear some interesting information. Her niece, Martine, noticed her Aunt and welcomed her into the tight circle of women. “Look at this,” she said with enthusiasm. “Isn’t this the most beautiful handbag you have ever seen! It’s magical.”

      Mme. Barteau leaned over to see the bag more clearly. It was a delicate creamy silk creation, embroidered with something exquisite, something of extraordinary brilliance. When she finally clearly saw the dazzling ornaments, she nearly swooned, for there, adorning the object of so much admiration, were beetle wings very much like the ones in the vial sitting on her table at home.

      “These are all the fashion,” exclaimed one of the women. “They soak the beetle wing covers to soften them, and then with a fine needle and thread, one can attach these delicate wonders to nearly any fabric. Truly haute couture.” The woman held the handbag up to the afternoon light. “Just look how they catch the rays. Incredible!”

      All the woman nodded, and exclaimed, almost in unison, that they must have beetle wings in time for their seamstresses to incorporate them into their winter wardrobes. Mme. Barteau wanted to interject that she already possessed several of these lovely treasures, but in her astonishment, she could not find the words.

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      Early Monday morning, Élise dragged into Mme. Barteau’s apartment, uncertain and terrified, knowing she would have to admit her deception. She found Mme. Barteau sitting at her writing desk. “Good morning, Élise”

      Élise had not expected a pleasant greeting. In her confusion, she failed to respond, but rather, launched into her confession. “Mme. Barteau, I must tell you something about the wing covers I bought on Thursday.”

      “Ah, yes. They’re really quite lovely. Magical, just as you explained.”

      “But that’s what I need to tell you-- about the magic. I . . . .”

      “Never mind all that. I’m keeping them after all. No need to pay for them.” And then, as if this short exchange was of no consequence, she motioned to the stationery on her desk, indicating that it was time to get busy with the customary Monday tasks.

      When Élise returned home that evening she was confident that she could convince her husband that she had, indeed, confessed the truth to Mme Barteau and had been completely forgiven. Élise now felt somewhat skillful in the fine art of convenient fabrication. However, much to her surprise, Julien did not mention the matter, and in that omission was the implicit conviction of his continued trust in his beloved wife. While many people in this situation would be relieved that they did not have to conjure up another falsehood, for Élise this unspoken faith in her, in spite of her previous lie, bewildered her and left her damaged.                                

      With each passing day, Mme. Barteau grew more captivated with her treasured wing covers. She soon decided not to have them sewn onto any of her clothing, but rather, she enjoyed taking them out to admire them in the quiet afternoons. This became a ritualistic time of peace, and for the first time in her life, she found a kind of joy in life’s luminosity.

      Very often while Élise was tending to Mme. Barteau’s varied tasks five days a week, the elderly matron would mention the magic of the beautiful wing covers. With each reference, Élise felt her spirit wither in ways imperceptible to everyone but herself.  As the lie festered, it consumed Élise, replacing her lifelong positive outlook with gaping hopelessness. She was overwhelmed by demons of her own making. Had Élise understood the true nature of the magic of which Mme. Barteau spoke, she may have found peace in self-forgiveness, but instead these comments relentlessly conjured up images of her unkind deceit.

      And thus it was that Élise continued to droop in despair, her misery preventing her from seeing the remarkable transformation of Mme. Barteau. As the weeks passed, Julien’s devotion no longer sustained Elise. She believed herself to be an imposter, unworthy of his love. Finally, feeling like a stranger beside him in bed, she often spent nights sitting stiffly in an old wooden chair, her spirit’s wings encased by accumulated fragments of deception now too heavy to bear.

      For several weeks, Mme. Barteau had made it a point to leave her heavy draperies open in order to catch the brilliance of every sunset. And now, resting in her drawing room, the rays once again illuminated the wing casings sitting before her. Mme. Barteau had found serenity in the stillness of these moments.

      “They’re beautiful,” she whispered to herself, as she took her closing breaths. “It’s almost as if someone has embossed them with hundreds of tiny emeralds, only they are so much more precious." In those final moments, it was peace that first embraced, and then enlightened, Mme. Barteau.

My Grandmother was a Dour Woman

    Wow, I have labored over this story and learned a few things along the way. When I first unwrapped these three pictures, I immediately knew the first line of my story and the last line.   I was interested how I would bridge the two sentences.

    I must make it clear that I do not know any of these types of personalities. I’m not certain where they came from, but I have not modeled the people in the story after anyone I have known. The first picture is of the Grandmother, the second is the Father and the third is a childhood photo of the “author.” I do know her real name because it is written on the bottom of the photograph-- Eunice Carpenter.

    Although this is a piece of fiction that my muse has fed to me in bits and pieces over the past few days, there is something that I find very peculiar: I did, several years ago, experience the poignant moment at the end of the story. I wonder if it’s appropriate to speak of it in a work of fiction. I was surprised that it would surface here. Someday I will write about the real woman with whom this scenario played out—my remarkable mother-in-law. 

When you serve someone, you often come to love them. It is a precious gift, truly.

    

My Grandmother was a Dour Woman

      My Grandmother was a dour woman. Dour and prim and stiff-necked. I do not remember ever seeing her smile or cry or even flinch—physically or emotionally. She had a permanent set-in-stone countenance that embodied both sophistication and strength. It was always my impression that people held her in high esteem for her refined manner, while at the same time feeling intimidated by a prevailing air of power and rigidity of disposition.

       Grandmother had enough money to keep her comfortable, but she was not wealthy by the standards of Chicago’s High Society. Nevertheless, she carried herself regally and acted the part of a Grande Dame. The fact that she had inherited a rather large, imposing house when her parents passed away provided further credence to the impression of affluence.

      Although we lived only five houses down the street from Grandmother, our house was not remarkable. Because we lived so close, I could visit Grandmother by myself even at a young age. That is, I could visit when invited; I did not see my Grandmother often.

      My mother died when I was born on May 27, 1887. My mother’s sister, Aunt Harriet, who also lived nearby, helped my Father care for me. She was a good enough person but had three young children of her own who kept her very busy. Her husband, William, never seemed able to provide more than the bare necessities, and my early impression of the Linton household was one of frustration and hard work with an underlying foundation of goodness. Aunt Harriet met the daily tedious challenges that inevitably come with never having enough: time, resources and, perhaps, love. Uncle William was forever on the periphery. He put one foot in front of the other, but there were never any forward-moving leaps or passionate spring in his steps. I will always have an appreciation for this family. They cared for me the best they could. Grandmother made her hushed tsk tsk at the mention of Harriet or her family. That hurt me.

      When I was two years old, my Grandfather died of a sudden heart attack. Grandmother rarely spoke of him, but when she did, she subtly implied that he had been inconsiderate to leave her a widow. On other occasions, not wanting to appear overly sentimental over his loss, she would hastily add that it may have been for the best. “He was, after all, a rather sickly man, and I am doing quite well in spite of the inconveniences he has caused me by his leaving.”

      I was told that it was my Grandfather who had added some warmth and cheer to their imposing house, bringing in, little by little, copies of bright masterpieces for the walls and flowered wallpaper for several of the rooms. After his death, it was my Grandmother who had shrouded everything that was bright or breathtaking or hopeful. There was no need for her to remove the wall coverings or veil the paintings; she brought with her a gloomy ambiance, effectively suppressing anything bright. I wish I had known my Grandfather. Perhaps that would have made all the difference.

       While visiting my Grandmother on my seventh birthday, she mentioned that I was born on a very dreary day. This led me to ask her what my mother was like. She looked through me as she began a perfunctory listing of Mother’s shortcomings and concluded her monotone remarks by summarizing her observations, “She wasn’t strong, I suppose. She died very young, after all. And I can’t imagine what she was thinking, leaving her infant to fend for herself, bereft of a mother.”

      “But how did she die? Father does not like to talk about her; I don’t know anything about her, but still, I miss her.”

      Grandmother signaled the winding down of our very brief exchange by ringing for her housekeeper to show me out. As Erma helped me on with my coat, Grandmother added an afterthought, “You can’t possibly be missing her. You never knew her; you were only a newborn when you killed her.”

      I did not talk of my mother after that.

     Even as a child, I had a growing awareness of how Father’s mother had largely shaped his character and depleted his spirit. Grandmother never raised her voice, but very often when she addressed my Father, her tone was somehow both sharp and demoralizing. “Walter.”

      She had a way of making each letter in his name stand stiffly at attention and crowd close together seeking refuge. I suppose my Father could be considered a weak man, but as I matured, I came to understand that any strength my Father might have come to develop in maturity had been systematically undermined since childhood. It must have been obvious to him that, in his Mother’s estimation, he was never quite enough. Perhaps his own father’s spirit had also been conquered, and he could not prevent the damage to his son, or perhaps his father did not sense that his son’s spirit was being diminished on a daily basis.  

      It is clear that Grandmother did not approve of my mother. I am certain that Father’s decision to marry was made in spite of an onslaught of venomous disapproval from his mother. Perhaps my mother had lent him some of her strength to make it happen.

     I was aware of other decisions my father made that did not please my Grandmother. In fact, quite possibly, nothing my Father did was ever acceptable. One evening as I was on my way down the stairs to get a drink of water, I could hear Grandmother and Father talking in the drawing room. I sat on the stairs to listen in, and even though my Grandmother’s voice was hushed and steely calm, I could sense underpinnings of imposed authority in every carefully constructed word.

     “Walter.” She proceeded to address him with words so frigid they became brittle icy shards that injured in a thousand different ways, the countless toxic wounds left to fester into sepsis of the soul. “I know of your dinner last night with that woman. This is not the first time. What are you thinking to get yourself entangled in such a liaison!”

    My Father began to murmur something when he was harshly silenced.

    “That was not a question, Walter. Not a question at all. You obviously were not thinking. What are your intentions? Must you flaunt your indiscretions in public forums like a common rogue?  You dishonor your wife’s name and shame the child. You . . .”

     “Mother, Edna has been gone for eight years, and Eunice has been motherless long enough. Mother, she likes Claire.”

     “What! You have exposed the child to this woman, this sordid affair! I cannot believe this. Your must stop this reprehensible behavior at once; I raised you to maintain proper conduct at all times. It appears you have turned aside your lessons, and now you have brought shame upon our family.”

     “I assure you, my actions have been upright, and my intentions are honorable. I may ask Claire to marry me.”

     “Walter, that will not happen.”

      Grandmother stopped abruptly, and I could hear her walking toward the staircase where I crouched. I escaped up the stairs with silent footsteps, driven by an unnamed dread.

       I never saw Claire again.

      Father’s vitality was mined and laid barren with every concession he made, and he made many. Giving up Claire eroded his foundation, but I recognized precisely the moment his decline became terminal, when I knew, and he knew, he would never recover. It happened the year after he changed careers. He had been successful as a bookkeeper for a large company in downtown Chicago. But the business world was changing, and he was changing. He had always wanted to own a little shop on the outskirts of the city and had saved for years to make that dream happen. Establishing a new business, even a small business, is difficult at best. For my Father to attempt such an undertaking was unimaginably heroic.  He had gleaned some remaining courage, and although his plan was sound, and his work ethic faultless, within a year things went wrong. It was then he had to do the unthinkable. It was then he had to ask his mother for a loan. I saw her hand the envelope to him. I cannot forget the scorn on her face and the defeat on his. I have heard that when one is about to die, the world moves slowly, and so it was with my Father. He managed to shuffle through life for two and a half years after this incident. He continued to exist on some level, but in truth, it was in that moment that I lost him.

       Looking back now, I’m convinced that my Grandmother arranged for me to see the incident. It was orchestrated so I would know, assuredly, of my Father’s folly. 

      When my Father was finally laid to rest, I was left with the house and no immediate opportunities for matrimony. It was not possible to live on the little money that I inherited. Aunt Harriet would have taken me in, but I could see the walls of her house still bulging and her health waning with the growth of her family. Grandmother had enough income to supplement my inheritance, but I could not consider reliving my Father’s ruin as he reached for that envelope. It was simply necessary that I find employment, and I soon became a teacher. As was expected, Grandmother sat stone-faced as I told her the news. I had disgraced the Carpenter name as surely as if I had committed a heinous crime. But it was no more difficult to tell her this news than any other. Everything about me was always objectionable.

      My first year of teaching left me exhausted and feeling hopeless. I was not prepared for the working conditions, the long hours, the unrealistic expectations, and most of all, the nearly sadistic treatment at the hands of the headmaster. I was trapped between an unbearable situation and an unthinkable decision to ask Grandmother for help.

      I persevered and the next year secured a position in another part of the city. The hours were still long and resources in short supply, but oh what a change from my previous post. My colleagues were pleasant and the headmaster, although exacting, was reasonable and civil. 

      During my third year of teaching, Grandmother’s health began to wane. It was such a gradual decline that no one recognized it in the beginning. Erma remained her loyal housekeeper, and began doing more and more for Grandmother. However, Erma was aging, too, and it became evident that Grandmother would need additional help. I arranged for a home nurse to come three times a week, but because of Grandmother’s sour disposition, it was hard to keep anyone for more than a few weeks at a time. And finally, the time came when Erma's energy was depleted. She reluctantly left Grandmother's service to be cared for by her daughter.

      Doctors recommended a suitable establishment that would care for Grandmother in her remaining months. I toured the facility and knew immediately that Grandmother would not stay there. Even in her weakened condition, she remained strong-willed. She would find a way to escape from what she would consider a prison. Most likely, perhaps in spitefulness, she would die alone on the unforgiving streets of Chicago.

      By this time, school was over for a summer recess. I began helping Grandmother nearly full time, staying with her during the day and hiring a nurse at night. Soon, I moved in with her and became enveloped in the dreary darkness that resided there. Hanging over her house was a canopy shielding against any brightness.  

      After a few weeks, at my insistence, I moved Grandmother into my home, and there we settled into a routine: waking, washing Grandmother, tending to my own hygiene, feeding, eating, administering medication and attending to household chores. Two days a week I would hurry out to purchase whatever necessities we might need while a nurse sat with her. Over the years I had worked hard to make my home comfortable and bright, and I stood firm against any of Grandmother’s attempt at drawing the drapes or dimming the lights.

      Money quickly became a concern, and I had to approach Grandmother with the suggestion that we consider selling her home. Living together in my home cost considerably less than the upkeep of her house. I had promised myself never to ask Grandmother for anything, but this was not really for me, but rather to save her from spending the last of her life in an institution filled with strangers.

      As we sat warming by the fire one evening, I cleared my throat and began, “Grandmother, I cannot work and take care of you at the same time. I am running out of money to feed us and keep up this house. You need a nurse to look in on you more and more often. I do not know. . . “

       “Sell the wretched thing. Help me look through it for a keepsake or two, and then sell it. Don’t trouble me about these matters again.”

      We quickly sold the house, the home she and her husband and her parents before them had always lived in. Despite my unhappy memories there, I did not revel in its passing and appreciated its contribution to solving our dilemma.

      It wasn’t long before the Grande Dame could no longer hold down food. I would get anything she asked for. I peeled, chopped, mashed, and strained; her body rejected it all. I wiped her forehead, brushed her hair, cleaned her undergarments, freshened her gown and changed her bedding. I held a cup to her lips as she drank. I gently stroked her hands while she stared blankly at the ceiling for long periods of time. She rarely spoke now, but would occasionally revive and ask again to try eating something, an apple, perhaps---peeled, and sliced ever so thin. But she lived on water, and her body begin to shrink and whither.

      And then came the day she could no longer raise her head to drink. This was unbearable for me. With inspiration, I found some straws in the cupboard. As I put the straw into the water, I covered the other end with my finger. I removed the straw and gently guided it through Grandmother’s parched lips. When I released my finger from the end of the straw, the water trickled into her dry mouth. Calling upon the last fragments of  her determination, she struggled to swallow each precious drop.

     As I sat beside her, giving her these last droplets, she looked up at me, astonished, her eyes widening in great surprise at the tear making its way down my cheek.