Life Lesson in a Hot Tub!

So, here we were, the token ‘blacks’ on a budget vacationing at an exclusive Marriott resort, knowing good and well we couldn’t afford the beach towels wrapped around us, much less the high-priced suites or high-end amenities, but here we came just the same, tipping over to the hot tub, hoping not to make a splash!

There were only a few people around the pool area and only one older couple in the Jacuzzi.

“I’ll give them 5 minutes to make up an excuse to leave” I whispered to my husband as we came near.

I pulled my carefully pressed and dyed blonde hair up into a knot so it wouldn’t get wet.

“You’re so wrong for that.”

“Okay, one minute.”

We dropped our towels and stepped in.

The wife said something to her husband and climbed out. It hadn’t even been ten seconds!

Aha! I looked at my husband.

Then a woman and her teen-aged daughter came around on the other side of him and stepped into the water. About the same time about four or five children come—seemingly out of nowhere and practically dive bombed in, including one little girl, about six years old, dark hair, clear blue eyes, slender arms and legs.

Fearless.

She looked right at me as she stepped into the churning, frothy, water and sidled closer. I looked at my husband.

“She likes you” he said.

I looked back at her and smiled. “Hi!”

“Hi!” She said and scooted closer. She kept looking at me, inspecting my face, my hair. “I caught a fish.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, a yellow tail tropical fish, I caught him in my hands like this” she cupped her hands together and held them out towards me.

“Oh wow. You weren’t scared he might bite you or something?” the little girl cut her eyes at me as if I was dumb.

“He was a little bitty yellow fish. Like, this big” she held her forefinger and thumb together so that there would be just space enough for a tic-tac.

“Oh, well, I guess nothing scary about that, huh?”

She gave me that look again.

“So, what did you do with him?”

She shrugged. “I let him go.”

“Oh.”

A slim, dark-haired woman holding a chubby baby wearing only a sun hat and a diaper began calling names like a drill sergeant and the little girl obediently splashed out of her seat beside me along with all of the other children who had so unceremoniously barreled in. As quickly as they came, they were gone, ordered, with precision, by Sergeant Mom. The adults who were left in the pool were awe-struck.

“I think she has 8”

“8 kids?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean all of those kids are hers?”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Wow!”

“That’s amazing!”

“That’s crazy!”

“How does she do it?”

“She seems to have a system.”

“Yeah, look at them, they’re all together.”

“Can you imagine trying to keep up with 8 kids at the beach?”

“Lord, I’d probably never leave the house.”

“I know! I’d lose one for sure!”

And so the conversation went with the older couple—oh, yeah, the wife came back, perhaps she went to the bathroom?—the lady with her daughter, who happens to be just a few years older than our daughter, and us, the only black people at the exclusive Marriott resort. We continued in the conversation, without any weirdness, awkward moments or ridiculous questions.

We marveled at the fearlessness of the mother and the ordiliness of her children, we talked about our own children and our parental triumphs and shortcomings. We laughed and chatted about all the little nothings that people chat about with acquaintances that you meet by the pool when you’re on vacation.

The water got a little too warm so we got out, wrapped ourselves in the over-priced towels and bid our resort mates adieu.  As we walked back to our room I, of course, chastised my husband  for making assumptions about others based on such simple differences as skin color or social class. He had almost let pettiness ruin a perfect vacation! ; )

Oops

Flash fiction: Life’s a Challenge–Face It!

In my Creative Writing class we learned about micro-fiction or “flash” fiction, a genre that takes the “short” in short story very seriously. Micro-fiction really challenges a writer to get his or her point across quickly and creatively. Every word counts. It’s much like poetry, except it’s prose! So, last month I featured Raven’s story.  This month I’m featuring my two boys–there’s only two of them in the class–and they each did a great job with this assignment. First, “She’s Like a Wack-A-Mole Game by Thierry Lundy

Everything was fine between her and I, until she started to give me trouble.  Like a psychiatrist, I tried my best to help her resolve her issues, but this was a frustrating and expensive task.  She became too much like a wack-a-mole game.  It seemed like as soon as I would knock one issue out, another would pop up.  This led to constant visits to the store to buy her things to make her feel better.

Sometimes, I would be overcome with gladness as we rode through the city together.  I would not hear one peep from her.  To me, this was a sign that she was healed.  Filled with hope, I would say to myself, “Maybe she has overcome the wack-a-mole syndrome.”  Then on day this hope of mine quickly vanished.  While riding down the street with her, another mole popped up.  It was a big mole.  Her brakes went out.

She was my first car, a Ford Tempo.  She was my own personal wack-a-mole game.

Ford Tempo

Next is Cory Jackson. He’s kind of a quiet force in the room, but he has a way with words. Since he didn’t have a title for this piece, I’ve chosen to call it “DECISIONS, DECISIONS”

Staring into space, it seemed I watched him contemplate every decision he’s ever made. His rights, his wrongs, the right things he’s left and the things he’s left that he knew was right. Puzzled, but yet still determined to figure out the solution in this life and death situation. As we both stood there aimlessly, I mumbled, “Just pick”.

With a sarcastic smirk he replied, “I can’t, it’s not that easy.”

“What do you mean it’s not that easy? Either pick the right one or the left one, you can’t go wrong with either one.”

“If only it was that simple” he quickly responded.

“Well, it is, so pick or I’ll choose for you.”

“Fine!” he stated, annoyed at the fact that I was rushing him to reach a conclusion, he gracefully stretched out his hand as if he knew all along which one he wanted, then  swiftly pulled it back. “Can’t I get both?”

“Absolutely not!” I responded. “Either pick or we can leave.”

Disappointed, he laughed it off. “Ok fine, I’ll go with the Kyrie 2’s rather than the Kyrie 3’s.

“Alright grab them so I can pay.”

As he grabbed the shoes of his choosing, filled with excitement, relieved his hard work of decision-making had finally payed off, I watched as my younger brother made eye connect with the beautiful patent leather on the Jordan 11’s. Noticing, I quickly shouted, “Don’t you do this!”

Standing there in a daze he looked at me and said, “But what about these?”

I sighed and sat back down. “Just pick.” In that moment I was reminded of the trouble with being a 16 year old boy.

Jordans

Did you like these stories? Share them with a friend! If you like this, you might also like The Looking Glass. Like, follow and share Books & Coffee. Be sure to check back every Monday for more stories, poems and inspiration!

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Raven’s Story

Raven is a student in my Creative Writing class and this is her personal essay, a heart-breaking, yet beautiful childhood memory. She entitled it “Strands” but I think she has such a beautiful name and the story fits her name, so I have taken the liberty of re-naming it,  but you be the judge. Enjoy!  smallsignature

 

The school bell rings on a windy afternoon at Highlands Elementary. Recess is over and the rowdy kids are hesitant to rush back into the building. A whistle is blown and they run to their grade lines to walk back to their rooms. Lunch is over.  Residues of fruit cocktail syrup can be seen on the clothing of some of the more messy students entering the hall. Tiny hands covered in playground debris, sleeves and drawstrings wet with saliva, unraveling hair and untied shoes add to the colorful display of third graders, who will be unrecognizable to their parents. The halls echo with a mixture of young, high pitched voices and the occasional mature voice playing like a broken record commanding students to enter quietly. The hall is soon still, but voices radiate from closed classroom doors as if the walls were talking.

Mr. Varner, a white and tall male teacher, welcomes his students back from what seems to have been a very exciting recess. When he smiles, you can see his white crooked teeth that reveal an inviting smile. His posture suggests he is calm, but stern. It’s movie day and the feature presentation is his personal favorite, Wallace and Gromit. Once instructed, the children go over to the movie area, pick from either a couch cushion or a pillow to sit on, and wait for the movie to start. One of the students, a young dark-skinned girl, is still at her desk running her fingers through her hair, daydreaming. The teacher calls for her to join the other students and immediately she snaps out of it rushing over to join them in the movie area. As she stands up, strands of black hair fall from her small dark fingers, gently floating to the ground like leaves falling from a tree.

The film is stopped after an hour and a half as it is almost time to go home. The students pile the cushions and pillows back in their designated area, head back to their seats to pack up, and wait for the final bell to sound. The young girl goes back to her seat and opens her activity book, slipping off into her own world yet again. She fiddles around in her hair and strands fall into the crease of the open book. The bell rings loudly signaling the end of a school’s day. She closes her book, puts it in her backpack and lines up. On the bus ride home, she is staring off into space yet again. As the cool breeze hits her face from the open window she pulls out a strand and rubs the end of the follicle between her fingers. It feels wet and cold. She pulls out more and examines each one, one right after another rubbing them between her fingers. The wind carries the loosened strands from her finger tips to the outside of the bus never to be seen again. She gets off at her stop, a Baptist church located two minutes from where she lives. Off the bus went, the smell of spring flowers and the sound of barking dogs fill her senses as she kicks a rock all the way home.

Once home, she is greeted with a hug and a kiss from her mother. Before the television and anything else involving leisure, homework is first. Passing the living room and the floor tv that stretches her appearance as she walks by, she reluctantly heads to the kitchen table to start her homework. Sitting at the table with her mother, she takes out her activity book. The young girl holds her head down as she reads out her instructions in haste. It is then that her mother notices that something is different about her daughter. It isn’t her daughter’s shirt that is no longer neatly tucked in. It isn’t her daughter’s shoes that seemed to have been scuffed up after only one day on the black top. No.  Her mother touches the back of her daughter’s hair, then lifts a handful of moistened pony tail and is shocked to find a bald spot stretching from one side of the girl’s head to the other! The mother moves her fingers across the now bare surface of her daughter’s scalp. It’s smooth as if it’s been shaven. Oblivious to the mother’s concern, the young girl lifts the activity book and hair falls like leaves from its pages. Both of their eyes are now drawn to the floor where a pile of hair lies, and back to the book that is still darkened with raven-colored strands gathered in the crevice.

I suppose that’s where I got my name from–because my hair is dark like the raven bird. At the tender age of 8, I began pulling out large chunks my hair from the root and didn’t even realize it. The condition is called trichotillomania. Trichotillomania is an obsessive-compulsive disorder in which a person, male or female, has an urge to pull out their hair. It was a disorder that my mother knew all too well. Perhaps that’s why her reaction was a bit subtle. Although she was shocked, she too had the disorder, so she understood what was happening. It can start as young as my age at the time of 8, or even later in life. Compulsively, hair is pulled from the scalp, the eye lashes or eye brows. Though being pulled from the root may seem painful, it is the opposite for those of us with this condition. Pulling my hair, especially at that age, was soothing and allowed me to go deeper into my daydreams. Here, almost 20 years later, I still live with the disorder. In all of this time, I have learned self-control. While hair may not fall from books anymore, there are still visible piles that sit beside me and remind me that if I don’t snap out of it, I’ll go from being a raven to a bald eagle!

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The Looking Glass

It was like a dream, Malea wasn’t sure if this was really happening–sirens and EMTs and flashing lights and people in white shirts running back and forth across her lawn. She stood on her front porch watching everything as if it were a television show. She had tried to call her husband, but couldn’t reach him.  She glanced at her watch, 5:15.

“Excuse me, Mrs…?”

“Peters. Malea Peters.” The police officer stood on the step below her, but still towered two inches above her. Malea squinted as she looked up at him.  The sun was sitting directly over his shoulder.  She shivered.

“Yes, I just need to ask you a few questions. Now, I understand that you administered CPR, is that right?

“Uh, yes.”

“Uh, huh, and was that before or after you called 911?”

“Before! I mean, um, after, uh…”  The officer looked up from his notebook, peering over his mirrored shades. Without thinking, Malea began biting her fingernails, a nervous habit she had broken years ago. “I’m having a hard time remembering. It, it just happened so fast, you know?” Shifting from one foot to the other, she noticed her neighbors—Howard and Jane from across the street peeking into the ambulance which was parked on the street in front of her house, motor running, but unoccupied.  Melissa, from next door, stood in the grass, in the middle of Malea’s yard between the ambulance and the house talking into her phone and waving her arms around, apparently describing the whole scene. Joe, who lived next door on the other side slowly walked around Malea’s yard holding his phone out at arm’s length recording as if he was on a movie set!

This has turned into a circus sideshow.  Malea wondered when her husband would be home.

“What do you do, Mrs. Peters?” The officer asked.

“What? When? I didn’t do anything!” Malea felt her heart race.

“I mean what do you do for a living, ma’am.”

“Oh, of course, I’m, I’m a nurse.” Malea looked up and into the officer’s face, but could only see her own face looking back at her.

“So, you are trained to handle this type of situation, correct?”

“Yes.” Malea looked away. Joe was facing her now, his camera phone lifted. Malea sucked her teeth and sighed, shifting her weight again and turning away from Joe.

“So, tell me, what did you do when you found the plumber on your kitchen floor? Did you know right away that he was dead?”

“No!” Dead? Malea shuddered at the thought. “I mean, no, I wasn’t sure of anything. She glanced at her watch again. 5:20. She tapped the face of it and held it to her ear.

“What time was it when you found him?”

Lowering her arm, Malea looked up into the mirrored lenses. What time was it when she found him? “Um, I guess, around 3 or so, I didn’t really pay attention to the—“

“Jerry!  Jerry! Where’s my husband? Where is he?” a chubby woman with thick curly hair and smooth caramel skin had flung open the car door of the black Toyota Camry before it had fully stopped in the driveway. Everyone in Malea’s yard stared as she padded across the lawn with two wild-haired, fair-skinned boys stumbling behind her.  A tall, dark-skinned man emerged from the driver’s side wearing blue jeans and a blue cotton shirt.  With a few brisk strides he quickly caught up to the woman, catching her by the arm just as she began her ascent up the porch steps where Malea and the officer stood.

“Hold on there, Tina” the man said quietly. Malea noticed the embroidered patch above his left front pocket which read Tom.

“Where is my husband? The woman asked the officer. Her round face was crinkled with worry.

Husband?  Malea felt a lump forming in the base of her throat.

“Pardon me, officer.” The man spoke in a soft tone. “Ma’am.” He nodded toward Malea. “I’m Tom Jenkins, this here’s my sista’, Tina, and we was told by the folks down at the shop that something might-a happened to my brother ‘n law, his name’s Jerry.”

“Would somebody please tell me something!” The woman looked frantically at the officer, then at Malea, then back to the officer. The little, wild-haired boys stared, wide-eyed, at the officer.

“Ma’am,” the officer tucked his notepad under his arm and held her shoulders so he could turn her gently towards him.  Ducking down slightly so that he could look directly into her eyes he spoke in a slow and steady tone. “The paramedics were called to the scene about an hour ago and found your husband unconscious. They have been in there working on him, trying to save him, but…

“No!!!!!!!!!” the woman screamed before he could finish.  The little boys covered their ears and began to cry. Tom moaned as if he’d been punched in the stomach.  He backed down from the porch and leaned over as if he were going to vomit.

Malea felt herself falling into a tunnel. Everything around her went dark. The woman’s screaming continued from a distance. The clock was ticking, time was passing, but yet it stood still and what had she done?

Nothing.

***

The doorbell rang and Malea—aka @KeepNitReal—slid back from the desk, but her eyes were still glued to the computer monitor. She was engrossed in a Twitter feed debate over the Michael Brown case. Hastily she tapped her response:

@RedWhiteBlue–Mar 12

#Ferguson protests need to stop, read the DOJ report, read grand jury info, #MichaelBrown attacked #DarrenWilson. #BlueLivesMatter

@DixieChic–Mar 12

@RedWhiteBlue they don’t read, they do what Sharpton tells them to do b/c they’re ignorant monstrous sheep

@RepublicanRed—Mar 12

@RedWhiteBlue @Dixiechic I’m sure thug #MichaelBrown was just going for the gun to hold it for Officer Wilson. #Ferguson #BlueLivesMatter

@KeepNitReal-Mar 12

@RedWhiteBlue @DixieChic @RepublicanRed you’re so racist you can’t see the injustice all around you but your day is coming #MichaelBrown #BlackLivesMatter #time4change

ding dong, ding dong, rap, rap, rap

Malea tapped “Enter” and sighed as she jumped up from her chair and bounded through the kitchen to the front door. Swinging it open–“sorry!”—she said breathlessly, “come on in.”

Jerry, the plumber, yanked a dingy white handkerchief from the back pocket of his grubby blue jeans and mopped the sweat from his forehead as he barreled past Malea and into the foyer. “I was startin’ to wonder if anyone was home!” His voice boomed and Malea rocked back on her heel.  She cocked her head slightly, slowly closing the door. There was something in his tone that didn’t sit well with her.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I was in the middle of some—“

“So, where’s this leak I’m s’posed to be fixin’?”

Malea blinked and shook her head. “Right this way.” She marched into the kitchen feeling Jerry’s warm sweaty body coming up just a little too close behind her. His loud, heavy breathing was as overwhelming as his voice.

“My husband says that it probably needs a new washer,” she said, pulling open the cabinet door under the sink. As she leaned over to take out the bottles and sponges she was nearly knocked over as Jerry’s large, fleshy belly pushed past her. He roughly jerked open the adjacent cabinet door and sighed loudly as he thrust half of his body under the sink.

“Your husband, a plumber?”

“Uh, no— “

“Then, he might oughtta leave the diagnosis to me”

“Excuse me?” Malea moved back and stared at the large, sweaty man under her kitchen sink. His beefy arms moved awkwardly as he knocked over bottles of oven cleaner and 409. He grunted and wheezed with each movement, his lungs sounded watery, with each cough it seemed that fluid was fighting to get out. Ignoring her inquiry, he said abruptly, “Don’t turn that faucet on.”

I wasn’t—

“I’ll tell you when”

“You’ll tell me when?”

The tools made a tinkling sound as the beefy, arms moved up and down. He wore a blue cotton shirt with a white patch on the left front pocket that had “Jerry” embroidered on it. The shirt buttoned down the front, but the last button was missing, so Malea could see his cream-colored belly—covered with a bounty of slick black hair—bulging over his faded leather belt which he had stretched to the limit.  The metal prong barely made it through the last hole on the strap. The nerve of this guy Malea thought as she pivoted around and headed back to her office which was next to the kitchen. He’s gonna tell me when to do something. I’m supposed to be telling him what to do. She muttered to herself.

Malea knew what this was about. Jerry was a racist. He was annoyed that this middle-class black woman was in a position of power over him. He was working for her and he couldn’t stand it! Either that or he was sexist. He wasn’t about to let a woman tell him anything! He might be sexist AND racist, in fact. Here he is a white man working on black woman’s sink. There used to be a time when no white man would be working on anything for a black person—much less a woman!

Hmph! Well, it’s a new day now, brotha. We may still be in Alabama, but George Wallace ain’t here no mo’!  Malea, turned back to her Twitter conversation. These white folks ‘round here must be crazy if they think they can keep disrespecting us and getting away with it! You in my house, now!

Malea’s cell phone rang and she snatched it up quickly, “Hello? Hey, April, no I’m fine… No, really, I’m fine! What’s up? Oh, Mrs. Caldwell, yes, I saw her yesterday. No, her bloodwork was normal, she seemed to be more alert than the day before. Yeah.”

“Hey! Miss—“ Jerry, the plumber, yelled from under the kitchen sink.

“Uh-huh, yeah, you’re right, I put a note on her chart, Dr. Hiram hadn’t been by yet, but he may want to decrease the dosage.

“Miss!”

“Hold on a sec, April. Yes? What does he want now?

“I need you to try the faucet.”

“This guy is talking to me like I’m a child” Malea said in a lowered tone. “I’ll be right there!” She said, loud enough for him to hear. “Yeah, this guy is here to fix my sink,” she glanced at the clock. It was 2:05. “He’s only been here like five minutes and he’s already insulted me three times! Ha, ha! No, he didn’t call me a name—he’s not that crazy! But just rude! I don’t know, so anyway, yeah, Mrs. Caldwell…”

It was 2:15 when Malea looked at the clock again and suddenly realized that Jerry was still waiting for her. “Oh, April! Let me call you back, I need to see what the plumber wants. Okay. Bye.”

There was no sound of tinkering tools when she walked out of her office and into the kitchen.  The large island in the middle of the room blocked her view of the sink, but just past the granite counter she could see his van parked outside the window. Maybe he went out to the van, she thought, as she stepped around the island and tripped on a bulky brown boot.  “Ouch! Oh!” she exclaimed looking down at Jerry, the plumber, lying still under her kitchen sink.

***

Malea’s eyes filled with tears.  Her second grade teacher was explaining how slaves were brought to this country to work. This page of her Social Studies book glared up at her as an artist’s depiction of an African slave, a dark-skinned woman with a broad nose and protruding lips being led by a white man with a cowboy hat, billowy white shirt and tan slacks that were tucked into his cowboy boots.  The woman’s hands and feet were bound with ropes and her head was down. Malea noticed a sad look on her face. “Hey, Malea!” Billy whispered loudly, “ain’t that your granny?” The kids who heard him burst into laughter…

***

Malea stared at Jerry, the plumber for a moment.  Then reached down and slipped her slender fingers between the folds of his neck. She could feel a slight pulse.  He was lying on his back, eyes closed as if he were taking a nap, except that his head rested precariously under the kitchen pipe.  Malea stood up. I should do something. She thought.

***

“Just ask him!” Malea’s middle school girlfriend, Amy, nudged her as they hurried from history class to the school cafeteria. “You never know, he might say yes!” The Sadie Hawkins dance was this weekend and Malea was working up the nerve to ask the cutest boy in the 7th grade, Patrick O’Malley.  He seemed surprised when he turned around, “H-hey, Amy…Malea? What’s up?”

“Malea wants to know if you’ll go to the Sadie Hawkins dance with her!” Amy burst out before Malea had a chance.

Malea looked at her and frowned, “Amy!” she said through clenched teeth.

Patrick’s smile faded, “Uh, no thanks, I’m not into black girls.” He shrugged and took a huge bite of his ham sandwich as he swiveled around in his seat, his back to the girls.  He and the other guys leaned over the table, their heads down, shoulders jerking up and down as they tried not to choke through their laughter…

***

“David! You have to come home, the plumber had a heart attack or something.” Malea spoke frantically into the phone. Her husband was always in meetings and probably didn’t even have his phone on. She was still standing over the unconscious man, but couldn’t figure out what to do next. You’re in my house now.

***

It was like some grand conspiracy, some great cosmic joke and Malea was the target.    Although she had the highest GPA in high school her grades were under scrutiny.  She had transferred from a “failing” school to Clairmont High in her Junior year and now with graduation just around the corner it was discovered that Mandy Peters—reigning school queen, class president, lead cheerleader and heiress to her millionaire father’s fortune—would not be valedictorian.  It was assumed that the As on Malea’s transcript from MLK Academy were inferior to As earned at Clairmont, thus, administrators decided to “solve” the issue by making Malea and Mandy co-valedictorians. Mandy’s graduation speech was a huge success as it was given just after the processional at the beginning of the program.  However, not many people heard Malea’s speech which was at the very end of the ceremony, after everyone had received their diplomas and most of the audience members had slipped out to prepare post-graduation celebrations…

***

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes, uh, my name is Malea Peters. I live at 912 Overview Terrace.”

“What’s your emergency?”

Silence.

“Ma’am?”

“Jerry, the plumber, uh, I think he had a heart attack.”

“Someone had a heart attack? The plumber?”

“Yes.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No.”

“Breathing?”

Silence.

“Ma’am are you there? Do you know if he’s breathing or has a pulse?”

“No.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Thank you.”

“Ma’am—Mrs. Peters? Why don’t you stay on the line. I can help you administer CPR until the paramedics get there.

***

Malea had a wonderful conversation with a woman over the phone who was certain that Malea would be perfect for the receptionist job at her accounting firm. “Malea.  What a pretty name! My grandmother’s name was Malea, she was part Cherokee. Do you have any Cherokee in your bloodline?“  The woman asked.

“Um, well, yes, as a matter of fact—”

“Oh, I just knew I had a good feeling about you!” The woman crooned.  “Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting, but stop by on Tuesday okay? We’ll just need you to complete the application and other formalities.”

When Malea came on Tuesday Margaret didn’t recognize her. “M-Malea?” she asked incredulously.

“Hi, yes! We spoke on the phone last week” Malea pumped Margaret’s limp hand vigorously.  “You said I needed to fill out an application.”

“Oh, yes..of course…um, uh, let me see…” Margaret fumbled with some folders beneath her desk then finally produced an application. “Just fill this out and leave it with me, we’ll call you if something opens up.”

Malea was confused. “Opens up? I thought…when we spoke…that—”

“Oh, you’re interested in the receptionist position, right?” Margaret quickly broke in. “Yeah, uh, we just filled that position yesterday, but um, uh, just fill that out and give it to me.  Something else should be opening up, uh, soon…”

“Yes, of course.”  Malea considered mentioning again that she was still part Cherokee.

***

“Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters!”

Malea was sitting on the ground and everything around her was spinning.

“Babe! Are you okay?” Malea was so glad to hear David’s voice.

“Honey, you’re home!” Malea pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the familiar smell of cologne and perspiration.

“I got your message.”

“I didn’t do anything…”

“What did you do? What did you do?” The short, stocky woman with the wavy hair and caramel skin was screaming at Malea. Tom tried to hold her, but she flailed her arms and wrestled away from him. “You did something! What did you do?”

The police officer stepped in front of her before she could reach the porch. “Ma’am, please. Calm down.”

“Look at her! She did something! Look at her!”

The officer turned around. The paramedics were wheeling the stretcher out. All went silent as they moved in slow motion, gingerly, reverently, down the stairs and across the lawn, stopping momentarily so that the now-wimpering woman could confirm that the man under the white sheet was, indeed, her husband. Seeing him with her own eyes was more than she could take.

Watching the scene as one would watch a television with the sound turned down, Malea watched the woman’s legs buckle, watched as her brother grabbed her under the arms, watched as the two of them stumbled toward the car, watched as the wild-haired boys followed close behind, their little sun-tanned faces tear-streaked, their big brown eyes seeing but not comprehending, their little ears hearing, but not understanding.

The neighbors were transfixed. Like props on a stage, they all stayed in their places, mouths open, eyes wide with wonder.

Then all eyes turned toward her. The neighbors. The officer. David.

They all looked at her.

 

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Featured image courtesy of https://michaelquinnphotography.com/