Monday, June 28, 2010
Good Deeds - Maria Robinson
Kat's Diary: Who am I really? I wife of over 50 years, a mother of 48. A child rescuing a mother, tethered with innumerable screaming babies. A father at the shipyard day and night off Staten Island in the 40s. A taste of Manhattan and the life of the upper level Jewish and Protestant women, breaking free of family and home and worship. And here I am, at 70, a mother to my grandsons, a dreamy dysfunctional daughter, and absent but good provider husband. I have not lacked for anything. But duty, duty, duty. that's all its been. Yes, I have my mother-in law's house in Florida, but really I am still the caretaker of everyone and everything. Didn't anyone ever think that I wanted something more in my life? Yes, I have my dog's, my special time to be alone, but that is all part of the show.
Good Deeds - E. D. James
Bright lights lit the end of the tunnel and the station indicator beeped insistently. Alan struggled to open his eyes and pull his head off the glass. The train would operate automatically but it wouldn’t look good if one of the supervisors happened to be on the platform and saw him napping. The warning panel began marking off the distance – 100 meters, 50 meters – at 25 meters he got his head up and grabbed the rag he kept on the dash and quickly swiped it across the grease spot he’d left on the window from his hair. One of the tricks of the trade his buddy Dave had taught him years ago when he was first training.
Suddenly the dark cocoon of the tunnel opened to the blazing expanse of the Embarcadero station. The run under the Bay always lulled Alan into a relaxed and easy state. A long dark run with no possible obstacles. It was his favorite section. He always regretted that station popping out of the dark. He could ride that tunnel for eternity and be perfectly happy.
The platform was jammed. Usually was on the midnight run. Last train to Daly City. People got out of the bars and down the hole so they didn’t have to take a cab and waste a days pay. Alan sat up and got his head into the game. The platform was the place things happened if they were gonna, especially at this time of night. Right at the end of the platform two groups with flags seemed to be jostling. Alan’s field of vision telescoped and he could see bodies getting bumped very close to the edge so he put his hands on the controls and switched to manual pulling the speed down more quickly than the computer would have done. Just as he passed the halfway point he could see a young woman in an oversize red, white and blue jersey suddenly lose her balance and pitch down on to the road bed. He jammed on the brakes and felt the lock and heard the squeal of fifty tons of steel and flesh grind against the rails. The slide seemed to go on forever, the girl was getting to her knees and Alan could see that she wasn’t going to make it up and back to the hands of her friends frantically reaching down to try and snatch her up from the onrushing battering ram. The girl began crawling on her hands and feet moving forward like a crab and then standing and stumbling along the ties her feet slipping as they hit the edges. And then the distance between she and he seemed to reverse. She was getting farther away and he was slowing and stopping.
He hit the lock button, slammed open the door behind him, stepped across the passengers who’d been thrown to the floor, and made his way out the door. He stepped over a sign that said “Slovenia Rules!” and pushed his way through the throng that was jamming forward to see if what had happened to the girl. When he got to the front he yelled, “Don’t move, the rail to your left is electrified.”
The girl looked up and burst into tears.
Suddenly the dark cocoon of the tunnel opened to the blazing expanse of the Embarcadero station. The run under the Bay always lulled Alan into a relaxed and easy state. A long dark run with no possible obstacles. It was his favorite section. He always regretted that station popping out of the dark. He could ride that tunnel for eternity and be perfectly happy.
The platform was jammed. Usually was on the midnight run. Last train to Daly City. People got out of the bars and down the hole so they didn’t have to take a cab and waste a days pay. Alan sat up and got his head into the game. The platform was the place things happened if they were gonna, especially at this time of night. Right at the end of the platform two groups with flags seemed to be jostling. Alan’s field of vision telescoped and he could see bodies getting bumped very close to the edge so he put his hands on the controls and switched to manual pulling the speed down more quickly than the computer would have done. Just as he passed the halfway point he could see a young woman in an oversize red, white and blue jersey suddenly lose her balance and pitch down on to the road bed. He jammed on the brakes and felt the lock and heard the squeal of fifty tons of steel and flesh grind against the rails. The slide seemed to go on forever, the girl was getting to her knees and Alan could see that she wasn’t going to make it up and back to the hands of her friends frantically reaching down to try and snatch her up from the onrushing battering ram. The girl began crawling on her hands and feet moving forward like a crab and then standing and stumbling along the ties her feet slipping as they hit the edges. And then the distance between she and he seemed to reverse. She was getting farther away and he was slowing and stopping.
He hit the lock button, slammed open the door behind him, stepped across the passengers who’d been thrown to the floor, and made his way out the door. He stepped over a sign that said “Slovenia Rules!” and pushed his way through the throng that was jamming forward to see if what had happened to the girl. When he got to the front he yelled, “Don’t move, the rail to your left is electrified.”
The girl looked up and burst into tears.
Good Deeds - Anne Wright
The cub scout’s head almost reach the waist of the old woman, but he took hold of her arm as they stood waiting for the light to change. At his touch, she gave him a malicious stare and hugged her pocketbook to her chest with gnarled hands. She was my mother although sometimes I didn’t recognize her as the pretty young woman in the family photos, the same way I didn’t recognize myself when I looked in the mirror, now that I was nearly fifty and fighting grey hair and wrinkled craw.
The light changed and we moved into the crosswalk monitoring mother’s halting steps while the Vespas fought and heaved alongside us anticipating the seconds until they’d surge and race to their destinations. We were in the middle of the cobbled street, the one overlooking the Arno when mother stumbled, knocking the cub scout to the ground, clinging to me and cutting my arms with her unmanicured claws. The little boy clambered up and ran to the sidewalk, leaving us bloody and disheveled, me kneeling and mother sitting on her feeble hips. The light changed and all I remember is the gutteral roar of the Vespas’ engines.
The light changed and we moved into the crosswalk monitoring mother’s halting steps while the Vespas fought and heaved alongside us anticipating the seconds until they’d surge and race to their destinations. We were in the middle of the cobbled street, the one overlooking the Arno when mother stumbled, knocking the cub scout to the ground, clinging to me and cutting my arms with her unmanicured claws. The little boy clambered up and ran to the sidewalk, leaving us bloody and disheveled, me kneeling and mother sitting on her feeble hips. The light changed and all I remember is the gutteral roar of the Vespas’ engines.
Fake - Camilla Basham
Well, you don’t know me, but let me tell you, if anyone could keep a secret, I could.
If there was a prize for secretiveness I would have won it and kept it on the foot of my bed, slept with it like a body pillow, worn it like a blanket. So, Eddie asking me if I could keep a secret wasn’t so much a real question, just a guy stalling before he got to what he really had to say.
I set up in bed, wiped the blurriness from my face and focused on him through the veil of the mosquito net.
“What’s wrong, Eddie?”
Eddie was never one for words so I knew right off this would be like pulling teeth. He tugged at his roman collar. He was always in some sort of uniform, when hands weren’t clapping for him as he took the field in his football jersey they were clasped in prayer as he led the Sunday procession in his altar boy cossack.
The scent of incense still lingered on him, his right hand motioned from his lips to about a foot away from his face and back again, as if he was trying to pull the words out by some invisible cord, his eyes drowning in their own tears, his cinnamon brown hair sticking straight up from the constant running of his sweaty left hand through it, stroking and tugging as if to coax the very roots out that it might offer some relief to his brain.
He opened his mouth to speak and instead of words out came a heaving sound followed by a putrid sour jet of liquid that sprayed into the palms of his now raised hands. The look in his eyes said, flee. And that’s exactly what he did.
Using the Virgin Mary statue to brace him self, he grabbed her hips, lifted himself from the floor and ran out chanting, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t”
I could feel my heart beating in my chest and I didn’t know whether to go after him or leave him in peace. Giving into my ancestry, I chose the fake security of avoidance. The smell of incense, and sour wine lingered. I watched the latter run down the robed hips and thighs of the Virgin Mary, pulled my blanket of secrets up to my chin and fell into my pillow.
If there was a prize for secretiveness I would have won it and kept it on the foot of my bed, slept with it like a body pillow, worn it like a blanket. So, Eddie asking me if I could keep a secret wasn’t so much a real question, just a guy stalling before he got to what he really had to say.
I set up in bed, wiped the blurriness from my face and focused on him through the veil of the mosquito net.
“What’s wrong, Eddie?”
Eddie was never one for words so I knew right off this would be like pulling teeth. He tugged at his roman collar. He was always in some sort of uniform, when hands weren’t clapping for him as he took the field in his football jersey they were clasped in prayer as he led the Sunday procession in his altar boy cossack.
The scent of incense still lingered on him, his right hand motioned from his lips to about a foot away from his face and back again, as if he was trying to pull the words out by some invisible cord, his eyes drowning in their own tears, his cinnamon brown hair sticking straight up from the constant running of his sweaty left hand through it, stroking and tugging as if to coax the very roots out that it might offer some relief to his brain.
He opened his mouth to speak and instead of words out came a heaving sound followed by a putrid sour jet of liquid that sprayed into the palms of his now raised hands. The look in his eyes said, flee. And that’s exactly what he did.
Using the Virgin Mary statue to brace him self, he grabbed her hips, lifted himself from the floor and ran out chanting, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t”
I could feel my heart beating in my chest and I didn’t know whether to go after him or leave him in peace. Giving into my ancestry, I chose the fake security of avoidance. The smell of incense, and sour wine lingered. I watched the latter run down the robed hips and thighs of the Virgin Mary, pulled my blanket of secrets up to my chin and fell into my pillow.
Out of Oxygen - John Fetto
Hawley stood at the sink, washing the blood from his hands, watching the red water circle down the drain, and breathing, long deep gulps, his chest stretching to collect enough oxygen to push the blood pulsing in his brain, but no matter how fast he breathed, there wasn’t enough. The bare light bulb of the washroom flickered, as if it too were gasping for air and with each pulse of light, the room disappeared in darkness as if the whole world stuttered and gasped, on the verge of deserting him in darkness because of what he had not done. He rubbed his hands harder, harder, no, he was wrong. He wasn’t being cast in darkness. The darkness had always been there. This wasn’t punishment. This was a test. He would get another chance. At least one chance. And the moment he thought that, his lungs caught a breath as easily as a boat’s sail opened to a warm breeze. He knew how to make it right. He would make it right.
Out of Oxygen - Judy Albietz
Richard likes to listen to Rose’s version of how they met. That was fifteen years ago. She was on a business trip. He was coming back from a long vacation. The way he likes to tell it he was caught off guard since he was so relaxed—or maybe he was just jetlagged. Rose describes how she spotted him at the ticket counter. A green day pack slung over one shoulder, he was tall and lean in his worn blue jeans, t-shirt and tan blazer. When he turned around, she saw he had a heavy day’s growth of beard. She didn’t see him again until she got on the plane and saw he was sitting in the row right behind her. She usually didn’t talk to anyone on an airplane, but that day she did. She even talked to him through the crack between the seats. Finally, he moved up to the empty seat in her row. What did they talk about? That’s not part of her story. Next she tells how the seat he sat in refused to recline and he threatened to move back to his seat for the long five-hour flight. “So what did I do?” she asks. “I fixed the seat.”Then she goes on to describe how he swept her off her feet. After a long sigh, she slowly lifts both hands in the air, palms faced away from her, to illustrate her surrender to him—or maybe she was showing how inconvenient it was to meet him. After all, once they met, fell in love and decided to live together, she was the one who had to move 3000 miles to a new place, get a new job and leave all her friends.
Out of Oxygen - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
He slammed the door of the old white station wagon and turned the ignition key. The car was parked in front of the house facing the wrong way. He leaned into the steering wheel as he engaged the gears. She stood beside the car in her green running shorts and top, hugging herself against the morning chill.
``What time will you be home? See you tonight?’’ He didn’t turn his head but managed a little wave. He pulled the car away from the curb with a deep thrust of the accelerator. She kept her eyes on him as she began to run alongside, feeling at least she could be beside him for a minute more. He pulled away onto the right side of the street.
She kept pace for two more seconds until she slammed into the concrete with her chin and knees. He kept going. Flat on the rough sidewalk, she gasped and began crying with the shock, curling around to reach for her knee, patting her face and coming away with blood. Confused and stunned, she sat up. She had stepped in a deep hole in the sidewalk in front of their next door neighbor’s house, a hole she had never noticed. She couldn’t get her breath and held her stomach until slowly, air returned and she could get up.
She hobbled into the house feeling as if she’d been assaulted. At least the children were already gone to school and she could tend to herself without scaring them. She dabbed at her scraped knees and hunted in the medicine cabinet for the antibacterial ointment.
Tending herself, by herself. She sat still in the quiet house, no chaos, no shouts and tears. She wanted this. She had to make it happen. She had to go, take the children and go, before she stepped in another hole, before she ran out of oxygen for good.
``What time will you be home? See you tonight?’’ He didn’t turn his head but managed a little wave. He pulled the car away from the curb with a deep thrust of the accelerator. She kept her eyes on him as she began to run alongside, feeling at least she could be beside him for a minute more. He pulled away onto the right side of the street.
She kept pace for two more seconds until she slammed into the concrete with her chin and knees. He kept going. Flat on the rough sidewalk, she gasped and began crying with the shock, curling around to reach for her knee, patting her face and coming away with blood. Confused and stunned, she sat up. She had stepped in a deep hole in the sidewalk in front of their next door neighbor’s house, a hole she had never noticed. She couldn’t get her breath and held her stomach until slowly, air returned and she could get up.
She hobbled into the house feeling as if she’d been assaulted. At least the children were already gone to school and she could tend to herself without scaring them. She dabbed at her scraped knees and hunted in the medicine cabinet for the antibacterial ointment.
Tending herself, by herself. She sat still in the quiet house, no chaos, no shouts and tears. She wanted this. She had to make it happen. She had to go, take the children and go, before she stepped in another hole, before she ran out of oxygen for good.
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