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| Thursday, April 20, 2006 |
| Lonely |
I'm boiling yams, kneading dough to cut for biscuits, shucking peas, while I wait for the oven to heat.
He sits, watching and waiting - glancing o'er his shoulder, out the window, across at the clock, "Last time they took her it was four o' clock 'fore they ever got her home!"
Then he curls his fingers, rapping their knuckles against the table top. I push a curl out of my eyes, run a hand across my brow, "Yeah? She's been gone a little while," I agree.
Then blanching the yams, putting the biscuits into the hot oven, begin boiling water for the peas, I offer him a coke.
"Anything interesting in the paper?" I shout to his good ear.
"Some idiots stole some books from the Mormons," he disgustedly folds the paper and tosses it to his feet.
"No kidding?"
"Yeowp." he sighs.
"You know, last time they took her it was four o'clock 'fore she ever got home! Took her earlier to set her hair. Its ridiculous!" His face flushes.
"Didn't she want her hair done?" I ask, trying to keep it light.
"I don't care if she gets her hair done, I just hate that they do this to her. She's getting older. These parties all day wear her out!" He's at a fevered pitch.
I take the biscuits, steaming, from the oven. I put one on a plate, smothering it with butter and strawberry preserves I gently lay it at his elbow. "There ya are."
He nervously picks at it. He sniffs, fiddles with the arm of his glasses over his left ear.
"Yeowp," he says.
"Did you grow up here?" I ask. I know he's worried, but it's only been an hour since she left.
I wash my hands, peel and cut the yams.
He tells me about his childhood of growing up on the mountain. He elaborates about the time he rode his bicycle through a plate glass window, shows me the scar still white on his forearm. He says they took in a stray dog with a lead bullet in its side, said you could feel it through the animal's hyde. He said "Old Charlie", the horseman shot the dog because he hated strays. He said that dog was sooo smart. She'd wander three blocks down and sit outside the butchershop. He said the man always came out and gave her a soup bone. She'd saunter home with her proud new prize. He said the paperman hated her because she was "Fierce Protective" of her family, and would snarl and bark when he came around. He threw her a package of tainted meat one day. He continued soberly, "A man shoulda given that boy a punch in the mouth. But, my dad was a gentle sort, kind, naturally cheerful. He didn't have it in him to hurt a body."
He suddenly grows quiet. His eyes are trained toward the blossoms on the tree outdoors, but he's not looking at them. I don't disturb his silent reverie.
Instead I crumble brown sugar on the yams, covering them with marshmallows, stir the peas and turn the hamsteak.
He shifts, bright and awake,"I wonder why it takes a body three hours to see the doctor?" He complains, "Last time they took her, she wasn't back before four o'clock! She just can't take this kind of excitement anymore!" His knuckles rap the table top again.
I arrange his supper on a plate. The ham steak in thick slices, peas, candied yams, and steaming biscuit don't appeal.
"Make her a plate for the icebox," he says. As I obey, he continues, " make yourself a plate, too." He's never offered before, customarily I eat after they do, a cold lunch from home, but he's earnest. I can see he doesn't want to eat alone.
"Alright, thank you."
We talk about the weather and the war. We talk about happy times with the children in our lives, mine being sons, his being granddaughters. He recounts times he courted his wife, his eyes dewy. He misses her, feels the void she left behind. Though, she only just went to get her hair set, then off to see the doctor, she's been gone all day.. they have spent over sixty years together, it seems he realizes now how little time they have left. He grows impatient, sorrowful with each tick of the clock. I stay with him after supper's long gone, dishes washed and placed in their respective places. The food is stored in small containers in the icebox. We chat some. Four o'clock comes, then goes. I pray she's home soon. He carries on awhile about mining, then stops abruptly, asking where I'm from, where my kids are, then says, "Well dear, I've bent your ear long enough. You've had a very long day, worked hard today. I 'spect you have to go home and start all over again." He looks out the window,"Reckon I should let you to it. Haven't talked this much in years, my voice needs a rest."
I smile and rise, patting his arm, " She'll be back soon."
He smiles,"See you tomorrow, young lady." |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 8:28 PM  |
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