...You see, God, he must have been up there talking to Saint Peter - and it sure wasn't the Virgin Mary he was talking to him about. God said: Peter, you see that soul sitting over there on the bench, the second one in from the left. The one that’s getting ready to have another go ‘round? Just look at that aura surrounding it. That soul has so much anger stored up inside, if we send it back down to earth as a man he’ll turn into some kind of killing machine. There’s no telling what he’s be capable of. So let’s think about this for a minute. What are we going to do? And he pondered.
" I know!" He said, finally. "Let’s send it down as a woman, a very small woman, because she’ll be more inclined to search for creative solutions to vent her rage, simply because she won’t be able to resort to brute force." And that they did!
REMNANTS of Life
and Other Notions
REMNANTS of Life
and Other Notions
- Molly, my alter-ego, lives in an imaginary world of past recollections and memories of what was and what could have been. Each week she picks a theme on which to reminisce.This week’s topic:Some people live outer lives; others, from stored memories, and as we get older, the latter seems mostly the case.In NYC, it’s especially easy to feel disconnected and therefore, attempt to live from one’s memories in a quest to forge a connection to the past, to the infinite, and to one’s ancestral roots. Perhaps this is why the arts are so prevalent.This is a story about myself-Molly, but also about Florrie.I first encountered Florrie at Sandra’s restaurant. Florrie, when I met her, was 80. She used to sit in the room of her third floor apartment on St. Mark’s Place, stare out the window and cry until one day Sandra rescued her. And there, in the middle of NYC, for a short while, a bond was formed, of women gathering in Sandra’s kitchen: cooking and chatting and singing up a storm.Everyone comes to NYC with ancestral ties and past lives, and how they hook up and merge together is a mystery. As it turns out, my own grandparents are Sicilian, Sandra’s are Sicilian and Florrie’s Italian. So, in this feminine circle, for a short while, until Sandra was forced out, pushed out, due to escalating costs and the next immigrant wave, we created a hearth for survival from the harshest of elements; all due to Sandra’s generosity of spirit and heart.I moved to NYC in 1980 to study art. A tragic event forced me to cancel my plans. Cut off from all my loved ones, and not seeing anyway forward, I spent a lot of time in my room: researching. While on the outside I was gregarious and friendly, inside I was struggling to put the pieces together, to see how to pick up life. But, I needed to do some mending first.These are my memories, of Sandra, and my best friend at the time, Carole. They will have to write their own. As for Florrie, she’s been gone a while now, so I write for her and for me. And as memories go, some get jumbled up and confused and overlapped, so I mostly pulled out the good bits of what remains. Let the rest lie in the dust. What I gather, I put into my heart and bless the beings who accompanied me along a thread of my journey.I lived next to the “crazy block” as we called St. Mark’s Place between 2nd and 3rd Avenues—the salt and pepper of life. There, ancestral drums of every race gathered and converged. Restaurant owners from Afghanis, who made it across the Khyber Pass, Japanese sushi restaurants, Irish pubs, the gay bathhouse, the transvestite bar at 3rd, and finally, to the elderly, like Florrie, who remembered the good old days when St. Mark’s Place was considered uptown and all the brownstones were owned by lawyers and doctors.I moved to the “the city” from the country, on the phony notion that one could create a new life, but my hillbilly-swamp people-Sicilian roots all followed me like stray dogs searching for a warm home and something on which to nosh.This is a tapestry of notions. Some things have receded into my distant memory to be retrieved, and as unraveling yarn, the wrinkles inspected and knots untied.Remnants of LifeandOther Such NotionsOrEverywoman’s ShadowMolly sat in her rocker as she did almost every week ‘bout this time—reminiscing. The motion got her thoughts going good, set her mind to wandering. Then she’d find something to go on about.Let’s see. What’ll it be this week? What aboutHer thoughts trailed off then returned.“Where shall I begin? What if I pretend to telephone him as I don’t dare to in real life? Dreamed we was running through golden fields at sunset. Wonder if I called him for real what would he say? Oh, he would he just hang up? I know as sure as I’m sittin’ here he’d hang up!“What d’ya want?” He’d spit it out like chewed tobacca; before slamming down the phone.Molly contemplated for a long while before picking up a pretend phone and cautiously dialing. Even in her imagination she felt like an intruder, a voyeur.Her imaginary phone rang: one—two—three… Would he be home? Well he did live in the country. Maybe he’s outside mowing the grass. I’ll wait a bit. She let it ring some more.Molly put her head back and shut her eyes, waiting for some imaginary thoughts to seep in. Then…Hello!Don’t hang up!What do I want?Nothing! Nothin!. ‘cept—well, to tell you I had a dream about you last night. It was so strong I felt as if I could reach out and touch you—touch you right through that curtain that time has placed between us, and I’ve sat here all morning just remembering.You still there? Don’t hang up. Been wondering about the dogs. Been gone, you say? Well I know they’ve been gone. Old English Sheepdogs don’t live much past ten or so. But I remember the times we had: you, me, Captain Beefheart and Sadie. Then there was Gregory the peacock and Barney the horse.What? What do I want? Nothing. Don’t want nothing. ‘Cept to tell you I remember. That I’ve never forgotten one thing in all these years that have passed by.Why, I remember the four of us running through golden fields at sunset, and running along windswept beaches in our dungarees and flannel shirts.Do you remember before Sadie came along, we took Beefheart cross-country to California, where in Colorado he got himself all tangled up in your fishing line, and then with you a yellin’ and a swattin’ your hat at him he tore through the grass, pulling out that fish you’d been trying to catch all morning? Well, you did give him half of it for dinner, said he’d earned his half.AndDo you remember when Sadie had her first litter of pups on New Year’s Eve, ‘round 2:00 in the morning? We were all three out in the front of the house running around in circles half-naked, like we was doing some kind of Indian dance, trying to catch that first pup. Poor Sadie didn’t know what was happening, that being her first. Nearly impossible to find homes for! Lucky for us we only told ‘bout the Old English Sheepdog part. ‘Let ‘em guess the rest.’ Free Sheepdogs, we advertised. ‘Nope, can’t imagine the other half. But Sadie, she’s pure Sheepdog, got the papers here to prove it.’Who’d a thought: Old English Sheepdog and Great Dane! You never could control that girl when she was in heat. You’d turn your back and she’d be racing up to the Custer house to see that big old black Great Dane of theirs, Zachariah. And Zachariah and Beefheart would get to fighting where breaking them up would be like trying to separate two buffaloes. We tried keeping the dogs locked in the house during that time, but it was useless. We’d leave the house in the morning never knowing what storm would have broken out by the time we got back.I remember once, returning to find the kitchen window smashed in and Beefheart running around outside with a five-inch gash in his throat. It was all that hair that kept him from killing himself.We did think about getting her spayed, but we’d kept hoping she’d have a litter with Beefheart. That was one of the reasons we’d adopted her in the first place, plus the fact that she’d become homeless. Her prior owners, they moved back toMolly stopped short. What’s that noise? She looked around.Well, it must have been my imagination, or maybe it’s just the wind.Look at me, sitting here, rambling to myself, making pretend phone calls. Why, a person would think me crazy if they heard me going on like I do. But I tell myself all the stories of life; saves me boring others to death.Let me think. She put a finger to her mouth. What was it that got me going? I know, it was that dream I had last night. I dreamed aboutThe tea kettle sounded. Molly stopped short. My golly, what‘s the time? Good golly, Miss Molly, you’d better get your butt up and do something this morning. Quit sitting here just wasting the day.Molly went to the window and upon lifting the shade, light streamed into the kitchen sweeping over mounds of laundry strewn across the counters and along the floor.Maybe I’ll make me some tea. Then I’ll hear me some Liza. I just love Liza.Molly turned on the kettle, and as she wiggled her hips to the music from Cabaret she tossed the laundry about searching for a cup and saucer. Finding a cup, she poured the water and then searched for a spoon. She pulled a bag of sugar off the fridge and sat at the table fixing her tea. Then she turned the music off.Just can’t shake that dream outta my head. It’ll be, let’s see--20 years. Good golly, Miss Mollie--20 years. Wonder if he thinks of me? Heard he got married and has a child. Would he mind if I called to say hello? Wonder what they’d think—his family? Well, I guess I’ll just toss that into my pile of wonder ifs, because I know he’ll hang up on me just as sure as I’m sitting here. He never could forgive me for leaving. I just walked out. Just packed my things and walked out. Ran was more like it. Never could get to the bottom of why I left. But I ran, that much I can tell you. I ran.Dang! There’s that noise again. Molly got up, crossed to the window.Maybe it’s the wind. Don’t remember ‘em calling for a storm today. But you never can tell. They said maybe some rain, but didn’t say anything about any wind or storm.Wonder if it’s Carole.Carole! Carole! Is that you?Well, it’s not likely to be Carole. Today’s Sunday and Sunday is my laundry day. And she knows I can’t have anybody in with my house a looking like this.Maybe it’s Florrie. No, I don’t think it could be Florrie. She can’t get here by herself. Never has anyway. She can’t get around too easily unless I go fetch her.You see, Florrie lives down the street. And do you know nearly every day that Florrie, she calls me on the telephone:You’d better get over here and look at the ‘lectric bill. You’d better come over here and see as to whether or not I paid it.Then she’ll start to cry.Ain’t nobody to help me ‘cept you, Molly.And nearly every day, except Sunday, that is, because she knows not to bother me on my Sundays, although she mostly forgets why, every day I go down the street to Florrie’s, and every day I tell her the same thing:Florrie, you look at this bill. This bill is from 1958. Let me throw the dang thing away so you’ll stop your worryin’.No, you can’t throw it away, because if I paid it then why do I have still have it? And what if they come to see if I paid it and don’t have it to show them? Then they’ll surely cut off my electric.And she’ll be holding that piece of paper in those old arthritic hands of hers so tight as if that’s all she’s got left in life to worry about. Then she’ll start to cry.Florrie, I wonder to myself, you were married for 40 years. Where’s your brood? Why don’t’ you have anyone to take care of you?But instead I say, “Florrie, you gotta get out and stop settin’ in this room. All you do is sit in your rocking chair, look out the window and cry. You gotta get out and shake them cobwebs outta your head. Quit taken all them drugs the doctors have been giving you. Why your memory’s worse than someone who’s been smoking marijuana for 50 years.But the doctors say I need the drugs to steady my nerves.What you need is some fresh air and sunshine and to flush those pills down the toilet.Finally, after some arguing back and forth, she’ll let me help her outside a spell. Usually I’ll just help get her go to the clinic down the street, get some tomatoes or what not, and sometimes I’ll bring her in here and she’ll help me clean.Loves to clean, that one. I always say ‘Blessed is the woman who loves to clean,’ Amen. Loves to clean and loves to cook. Good cook too. Sicilian. So I bring her on over here and we cook, and clean and we listen to Liza. She loves Liza too. Not today though. And even though she can’t quite remember why, she’ll call up pouting:Molly, why is it I don’t get to see you on Sunday? Can’t you come look at my ‘lectric bill?And I’ll go ahead and remind her: today’s my laundry day and by the time I get through it’s usually too late for me to come to see you. But I’ll see you tomorrow.You just wait and see. She’ll call. Got some Sicilian tomato in the cupboard; maybe I’ll have a taste of it later.Need to get myself up and get busy. Molly turned on the radio and began sorting through the laundry. Then she stopped, reached into the cupboard for a cardboard New Year’s Eve top hat and put it on. Then she put on a pair of big yellow scrub gloves. Grabbing a wooden cane, she made like a Rockette to the music, kicking and striating around the room, then panting she stopped and sat down to her tea.I ain’t never been toThey said she even tried to run off. She was 15 years old and budding with life. She surveyed the situation this-a-way and that, and she went and bought herself a one-way ticket outta town. And as she was standing in line waiting to board her bus, the man behind her, noticing she was a minor, he called the authorities and they arrested her and took her home.Yes, she married Sam. Had six kids. Then left. Said he treated everyone better than he treated her. Made her cook for the whole police department.The best story I ever did hear told about my grandmother was the time her niece asked her: Aunt Agnes, what’s your favorite kind of cake?Why, she said, rolling her eyes: I pine for chocolate cake. I pine for chocolate cake, said Agnes.So, when her birthday rolled around, that thoughtful niece made her Aunt Agnes her chocolate cake. And when Agnes spied it, she grabbed it, smashed it and threw it in the trash!Made her niece cry! Well, why’d you go and do that to your chocolate cake? You said you pine for chocolate cake.Because I can’t have it, she rasped, I’m allergic to it. Do you think I’m so polite as to sit here and watch everyone eat my chocolate cake, on my own birthday? Why do you want me to endure such suffering?Feisty, she was.No, I don’t remember her much. Although we did stay with her, my sister and I, for a bit, after our mother died. They finally removed us kids, my father that is. Said they never did see two dirtier kids. She never did do the laundry, they said. She just kept buying us new clothes. Took us to the races. Low class, they called her. Uneducated.But damned good Sicilian cook. Pretty too!
Molly shook her head, got up and began searching through the laundry. Let’s see, what was I going on about before I got distracted?She took a sip of tea.That’s right. I was telling aboutYou see, as I mentioned, at that time we were living on the Custer farm in a little tenant house down past the horse pasture, in the woods, alongside the creek. Not a more picturesque place did your eyes ever see. We had enough land at our disposal, that when we were offered Sadie, we took her as a companion to Beefheart. Same with the peacocks. We got a male and female. But peacocks are different. They’re not domesticated like dogs. Dogs have been domesticated long enough that they automatically know where home is. But peacocks, you’ve got to keep them penned in until they learn where home is. We made one mistake and uncaged them too soon. The female, she flew off, into the woods. The male, he wasn’t as fast.Anyway to get back to my story, I was telling about the Custer farm. A road was comin’ through--a highway. And so the man from the government, he came by and told us that because we were being displaced, we were to be receiving money from the government to use as a down payment to purchase a house. So we went and found us a little house setting right there on the edge of a farm on a mountaintop overlooking theSo there we were, finally settled into our new house: a little two-bedroom cinderblock house with flower bushes all around, and even a chicken coop for our one remaining peacock. And there was grass to mow, lots of grass to mow. And cooking to be done. Why, we couldn’t just run to the local pizza shop like we used to do. Nor could we just call up a friend around dinnertime.Hey Judy! What? It’s just about dinnertime is it? Why don’t we come over? Oh, okay, we’ll be right there.Then the next night we’d callI couldn’t cook anything, I’m ashamed to say.And then his mother and grandmother, they would come to visit. Those old teased hairs, remnants of life, I’d call them. Why they would just come to show me what a terrible housekeeper I was. I’d be standing there trying to be just as polite as could be. And I’d have to watch as they’d slowly run their hands over the top of my refrigerator and countertops looking for dust. And then they’d send me outside and proceed to clean my house. I wouldn’t be allowed in until lunch was served and on the table. Why I couldn’t even get out the mayonnaise.And what didI think one of the worst things that a woman can do to another woman is to treat her like she’s less because she’s younger. And I would like to send a message to all women: check your hearts; see if you treat your younger sister, daughter, or your co-worker like she’s less because she’s younger, because it’s demeaning to her.And I tried to stay. I thought I should live the dream too. I mean, isn’t it everyone’s dream to own a house in the country? That was certainly the dream of all my friends. Why, they’d get married, live with their parents, and pinch and save until they had enough money for their down payment. But not us--me and Gary. We got our house courtesy of theMolly continued to intermittently look through the laundry and sip her tea as her imagination swirled, her story taking on a life of its own.So there we were in a little house on the mountaintop overlooking theWhy we can plant more flowers. Why, we can grow vegetables. Why, soon we can even get a brand-new lawn mower. AndBut I still tried to stay. I worried about the hill in the winter, because when the road froze over you’d have to slide down it sideways. I was worried about the hill in the autumn, because when the deer hunters came we had to keep our dogs in and our heads down low. I was worried about the flower bush in the summer, the one next to the house, because it was full of bees. And there’s a wasps nest up on the roof; we can’t even see where it is to put it out, nor can we reach it.The man next door, he must have seen how young we were, why he came over one night to try to help by mowing our grass with his riding mower, ‘cept in the dark, he mowed down all the rose bushes we’d planted that day. And the man next door, to the right, he’s come over and rewired the electric. AndThere, there’s that noise again. Why, sometimes I swear, I think I’ll look out and see Beefheart and Sadie come running in all covered in mud. Those two characters are always into something. Why, they used to come home soaked every day. We assumed they’d been going across the road to the pond. But finally, one day the man from the farm behind us, he calls up and says toThere’s that noise again. She walked over to the window all wrapped up in her thoughts looked out and then went back to the laundry. They didn’t say it would storm today. It must just be in my imagination. Most people know I don’t have anybody in on Sunday, not with my house looking like this. What? Why don’t you take all that stuff to the Laundromat? But I just can’t do it. I refuse to go to the Laundromat. I just can’t do it. She looked around to see if anyone was listening. And do you know that’s the real reason I left? I never admitted it to nobody, and barely to myself. But that’s the real reason I left. That was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back.I think, now that I look back on things, I think if Gary could have tried to understand me for one second, would have tried to listen, then maybe, just maybe I could have stayed. Because it really wasn’t the laundry so much, as the thoughts that got conjured up in my imagination as I watched the washer spin. I was beautiful. I was the love of his life and I left him over the laundry. And he begged me to come back. But to what? And do you think he’d help me once?Laundry’s women’s work! Why should I have to do it? All my friends have their wives do it.Do you think he’d help me—just once? I mean, it wasn’t we both didn’t work fulltime.So at first, we tried to live as normal couples did. We’d watch to see how our friends did things. Oh, okay, we can do that. Today is Saturday. He’d be the man and mow the lawn and I’d go into town to the Laundromat. And every week I’d beg:Can’t you come with me just this once? You know the things that keep me there the longest are your jeans. You know they always take, three, maybe four quarters.And that’s when it would happen. I’d watch the dryer spin. And that woman with her brood--it’s all her fault. Her and her six kids. She always came with her six kids every week and she always looked the same—worn out. Worn out clothes, stringy hair, and hips as wide as I don’t know what, with her kids running in circles around her all screaming and misbehaving. She sure knew her laundry though. Most people know the laundry, all ‘cept me. Why, she knew how to sort, fold, which colors go here, which colors go there, how much soap to use, right when to put in the fabric softener, and how long to leave things soaked in bleach. Why, I still can’t get my whites white. She ripped open her dress to look at her pink-tinged slip. And no matter how tired or frazzled she looked, no matter how many kids tore around her screaming, she would just stand silently, calmly folding laundry, matching socks. And while the dryer went round and round, my thoughts would spin around, and the washers would chug from side to side, and my brain would rattle from side to side, and I’d remember.I remember the washing machine my grandmother used to have. This was down inAnd I remember my step-mother. We used to go with her to the laundromat in Taneytown,So every week I pleaded withYou gotta come with me to do the laundry.And even though I’d be standing there looking young and strong, he couldn’t see my spirit weighed down behind me, dragging on the floor. And I didn’t know how to explain what it was. So I’d plead:You gotta come with me to do the laundry. We can go get a soda.No! He’d say firmly. Now, I’m mowing the lawn. And unless you want to trade jobs, I’m going to stay and mow the lawn.Well I would trade jobs if I wasn’t’ afraid of that lawn mower sliding back down the hill and mowing off all my toes and the loud roar startin’ it.So one day I’d had enough. I found a room and left. But ran was more like it. I told that little man I’d seen digging around out in the yard, I said:I can’t live out my life in no flower bed plantin’ tulips all in a row. Why I want to learn to paint some with zebra stripes, with a rainbow hovering over them, in a pitch-black sky, with a bright gold autumn leaf floating right in the center. I’d be helping out God just a touch.And do you think all of our friends would try to understand me?She just walked out on him!AndAnd I left. And you know what? I still had the laundry. And there I’d sit, week after week, watching the dryer spin ‘round and wondering what it was all about. And look, I still got the laundry. She waved her hand over the pile. Twenty years later, I still got the laundry--mounds of laundry.Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Why did you take up with someone you didn’t want to be with in the first place? I had to think about that. Must confess it took me awhile to consider. But I recall telling my father that I wanted to go to college. I wanted an education.You can’t go to college. You aren’t like your sister. You can’t learn math. You can’t learn French. What are you going to do in college? You can’t sit around and paint those flowers like you do in college all day. What are you going to study?But he wasn’t to blame. I mean, it was 1968, in those days going to college meant dropping out and getting high—and I was wearing bell-bottomed dungarees. He always did get the issues confused. He did loosen up a bit later and got himself a wide-leather belt. What he did not know though, was that I had already been through my experimental drug phase. Now, I was ready to get on with life.‘But now, little daughter,’ he insisted. ‘Why don’t you just come down here with me toSo I did comply, and went down and got a job in computers and I stayed there for two years. Finally, I said to myself: I have to go. I have to go to college and get myself an education. What was I supposed to do? I was 19 years old and budding with life and a computer job just didn’t do it for me. The blood in it ran me cold.And my father, he thought I was dropping out and he confiscated my money, he confiscated my car; he tried to coop up the spirit that ran free in me. So I ran. I he expected me to crawl back home. But I didn’t, I still went to college where I studied art.So nowadays what I’m wondering about is if you ain’t raised with any know-how, then how are you supposed to know how to get from A to B or from B to C. Sure woke up the con artist in me. Woke up the magic in me too. For just as that house seemed to fly outta the wind, so did the rest of my life. Flew the coop for my grandmother.Molly took a sip of tea.By the way, I did go seeSo we drove, that Eli and me, real slow, so I could get my bearings.Stop, I yelled out. There’s the house. And there’sAnd Lord he must have seen me coming because he stood there with his head down, and didn’t even glance up.Well, guess you said it, he said back. Now you’d best be on your way. And he never did look up once. Why, I figured he must have been waiting for the better part of 10 years for that moment to trounce me. And then something in me began to shake, and I just shook for an hour, just like that old white washing machine. Years later, while discussing the event, Eli said it had made her shake too.Now all this has set me to thinking about Barbara Jean-Barbara Jean and Jimmy. Barbara Jean was the prettiest girl you ever did see. Must have been fromI remember the first time I saw them, it was at their wedding. They had been living inThen, Barbara Jean and Jimmy, they had the prettiest little daughter, she could win anyone’s heart. She’d become the center of attention no matter what the occasion.Well, we were surprised to hear one day that Barbara Jean had left. No one could imagine it. She couldn’t have been more than 20.Then, a few years later, I had the occasion to run into Barbara Jean myself. She had some strange look on her face, like she hadn’t quite figured anything out.So Barbara Jean, wherever you are, I want you to know that I never forgot that look on your face. I dedicate this wish to you: here’s hoping you finally did get things all straightened out.Molly raised her tea cup towards an invisible Barbara Jean.Molly pressed the start button on her cassette player. Five string banjo music soared up. She lowered it.Well, I’m surprised Florrie hasn’t called yet. She calls every day to see if I’m coming. Now she’s gonna set me to worryin’. I’ll wait and see. I used to always say to myself:Now that Florrie, she was married 40 years. A good Italian Catholic girl with a steady job at the Nabisco factory. Florrie, I always imagine myself asking:Where’s your brood? Where’s your brood, Florrie? Why haven’t you someone to take care of you?But I never do get the courage to ask. Felt like I might be invading her privacy. Then, one day I couldn’t stop myself. Just spit it out.Florrie, where’s your brood? How come you don’t have anyone to take care of you?Not a word. So I let it pass. Then, beside myself with curiosity and me, being the nosey sort, I asked again.Florrie, where’s your brood?Then one day she told me. She said she douched with Lysol. Said it burned her insides clean out. Well it did say disinfectant, didn’t it? I thought a disinfectant was a disinfectant.I told you ‘bout Carole. She lives around back. She’s a good friend. She’s a writer. She keeps saying to me:Molly, you should sit down and write about everything you go on about.Well what do I have to write about?Molly, the writer is the one who looks back through time and retells history.Don’t think anyone would want to hear my version of history. What would I tell about, ‘cept diapers to mourning clothes all covered in blood?Molly pulls out a black and white striped tie and puts it around her neck.Oh, here’s what I been searching for.She examines the end.Think maybe I ought a try to get that spot out.This was my father’s. The one he wore down to IBM.Why is it that a man can forget his troubles? If he has some sort of tragedy, or suffering, he can just pick up his life and go on, if he wants. But women, they’re different, it seems. Because no matter what her status or financial situation, from queen bee to worker ant, once a month she’s led down that murky path where she experiences the anguish of nature, whether she wants to or not.So when I read all those male philosophers pushing their notion that life is an illusion, then I want to ask them about the pain. Is that what brings life into a 3-D reality? Unless you go killing it with painkillers and alcohol.So Carole, I don’t think you want to hear what I have to write about.My friend, Irina, she told me once that women just bleed. Why we bleed our whole life. That’s just our lot, whether we want to or not. We bleed when our children are born, we bleed most of our life preparing for them, we bleed when they go off to war, or get hurt, and our hearts never stop bleeding if they die.So Carole, don’t you go inviting me to rewrite history. Because I’ll be writing about the diapers to mourning clothes, all covered in blood.But you see, she says. That’s exactly why you need to write. You need to get out all that anger you got stored up inside you.But I don’t have any anger, I retort.That’s ‘cause you got it all wadded up in that ball of dirty laundry and those stories you keep repeating over and over again. Look at all them shoot-em-up westerns being made. Don’t you think the people making them are venting some sort of rage when they invent a world in which everyone gets murdered?—deadly comedies, lethal minds. Don’t you go telling me about the violence we see on the screens before us today because there weren't any TV screens when we decimated the American Indians, and there wasn’t any TV from which to copy those ovens that were built during World War II. TV just shows us the demons we carry inside, each and every one of us. The ones who make it, and the ones who watch it.And then, Carole and I, we have to quit the conversation right there, before the two of us get to fightin’.Molly, she says to me, one day. Do you know why I’m a writer? I got it all figured out.You see, God, he must have been up there talking to Saint Peter, because it sure wasn’t no Virgin Mary he was talking to about me.He said: Peter, you see that soul sitting over there on the bench, the second one in from the left. The one that’s getting ready to have another go ‘round?Just look at that aura surrounding it. That soul has so much anger stored up inside, that if we send it back down to earth as a man he’ll turn into a killing machine. There’s no telling what he’d be capable of.So let’s think about this for a minute. What are we going to do? And he pondered.I know. Let’s send it down as a woman, a very small woman, because she’ll be more inclined to search for creative solutions to vent her rage, simply because she won’t be able to resort to brute force.Carole, you’re talking nonsense. Don’t your brain hurt from all that wear and tear? Then, I had to admit when I thought about it some, Mother Teresa sure was pint-size.And by the way, Carole always says to me. You sound like a sharecropper’s daughter. It irritates me. You been to college. You’ve educated yourself.Right, I’ve educated myself, my eye, just because you can learn to talk differently doesn’t mean what’s inside of you has been educated. More like a valve has been shut off. That’s what I have to say about education. When the time comes that we learn why we’re hating and killing each other, then I’ll value education. Maybe the problem is the right side of my brain’s been too educated and it’s left the other side in a state of total confusion.Well, maybe you need to write.Except I don’t have nothin’ to write about.Well, write about Florrie.What do I have to say about Florrie? All she’s starting to talk about is when she’s going to die and worryin’ ‘bout that no-count sister of hers sticking her in a nursing home and robbing her of her money. Then she'’ll die for sure, and her sister knows it.And so I ask Miss Florrie, what am I supped to do if I find you collapsed from a heart attack. And what am I supposed to do if I find you lying on the floor because you’ve fallen and can’t get up. You gotta start thinking about who is going to take care of you. It’s gotten to the point that already you can’t cook for yourself. If I don’t cook for you, you starve or eat cookies. Half the time you forget my reprimands and I find egg yolk all over the place. I’ve even found in the toaster because you forgot it goes into the frying pan.I don’t care, she’ll begin to holler. I ain’t going to no nursing home. I’m not going to die in some strange bed and I’m not going to let some stranger my essential parts. This is where my husband brought me when we were married, and this is where I’ve lived all these years and this is where I’m staying till the day I die.Florrie, I don’t blame you. Do you know what I read in the paper the other day? Do you know those vulture capitalists already have retirement homes planned for the baby boomers. They can’t wait to sell us their retirement homes along with their designer prescription drugs.There’s an awful lot of us, they say. Gotta figure out how to cash in.I always thought retirement homes always happened to other people. So this got me to thinking.Florrie, what say you, we turnNow it occurs to me, Florrie, what if we go out in a group spirit, then maybe when we re-enter we could bring back another decade of the ‘60s. Wouldn’t that be grand? But we’d do it right this time. Have to make sure we don’t bring back another Vietnam War. Florrie, you go ahead of me and see if you can’t program that universal computer a little better.Oh shush. You all made a mess of things. There’s less order in the world now. Less stability. All you kids had to offer was some stringy hair, dirty jeans and loud, screaming music, from which the world has never recovered.I say my generation tired to teach you all a few morals, even if you never did hear anything. Molly she pulled on the striped tie she had around her neck.You sound like my father. He expected the whole world to fit into his moral code. He spent his whole life working, then he finally retired to do this thing, when he was killed in a car accident. Killed instantly. Never had a second to figure anything out for himself. Left it up to me, I guess, to do it for him.I remember after he died, I had a dream with him? Do you believe in the significance of dreams, Florrie?The dream was about getting the holes in our heads filled up. It was the last place we had to store information, as all other orifices were randomly searched. In fact, they had even started yanking out people’s dentures to see if there was anything hidden in the gum line. Well someone figured out that right under the top of the skull, there was about a 1” by 1” space, just big enough to implant microfilm and other such small things that could be transported across borders. So the government put out a decree, that in order to secureSo just like the draft, it went by date of birth and everyone had to register. And us, being a free country and all, we knew that everyone would just step in line for the cause of democracy. And, us being a free country, we could decide whether or not we wanted to go to the clinic or the hospital. And, of course, me being so headstrong, I refused to go. My father, he came to get me with the officials, because he was worried about what would happen to me if I rebelled. He tried to convince me that we were having this procedure done to keep America pure, democracy intact, the dream secure, and to keep foreign infiltrators out. He told me, in the dream, how he had fulfilled his life-long ambition by having a good-paying steady job, a wife and kids, not one, but two station wagons, and a dog, although it was only a poodle, a dog nevertheless, in the backyard.And then we proceeded to get into a very heated discussion, when I reminded him that his dream was to have been a bluegrass musician. That music was the one and only thing that brought him happiness. And then I began throwing a temper tantrum telling him that I would rather die than to have my hole filled up. And if we had to go to these measures to keep the dream secure, then I’ve lost the meaning of the dream.No, I wasn’t angry. I think that’s what kids are for, to educate their folks, help them evolve. Anyway, so when he died, I took my inheritance money, and I ran as far as I could away, from all the fathers and theAnd I ran to the four corners: I searched for the great bear spirit, so I ran to the great northwest where I picked apples and camped under the stars and ate wild rabbit stew.Trade you a bushel of apples for your sister, the Mexicans told my friend.And I searched for the wolf spirit. Then I ran toAnd I ran, screaming like a banshee into the night all the way down the Spanish coast where I fought the war goddesses, inner and outer. And I can tell you I won.Josa, she wasn’t so lucky. Jumped off a cliff one night, trying to extinguish the night.Oh! Exclaimed her parents with shame. It was those prescription drugs she was on that probably did it. She always was complaining about something or other. The medical doctors never could find out what was ailing her.Just paranoid, said the psychiatrist. Here, let’s give her these pills.Twenty-six years old, and just budding with life.Josa and I, we used to do our laundry together. First thing every morning, after our coffee, we’d wash laundry.Josa, look, I’ve got bloodstains all over my whites. Don’t you have any Spanish tricks for removing blood?Molly stopped short. I don’t know what’s gotten me so excited today.She put on her top hat and yellow gloves, picked up her cane and wraps some laundry around herself.Miss Molly, you have gone plum loco. What if anyone heard you? They’d be shoving prescription drugs down your throat too. She shivered.The air feels cold. Maybe it’s supposed to storm. Maybe I’d better turn up the music, down out this strange feeling and get to the laundry.Molly rolled her eyes at the song that was playing. I always think of Florrie when I hear this song. This was her favorite. She used to love to come here and clean and we’d listen to Liza and she’d sing along.Molly stopped, looked toward the window and her mouth gaped open.Florrie. Florrie. Is that you? Has that been you out there all this time making that racket, and I’ve been thinking it’s the wind. Is that you? You better be coming here peaceful because you know it wasn’t my fault. And you know I can’t beg your forgiveness enough for what happened to you because it was never my intention to take you to the hospital. If you remember, I only took you to the clinic to get your prescription filled. And Florrie, you have to know, by the time I got you to the clinic it had gotten to where all your neighbors had a different pill to give you because you didn’t know what you were doing anymore. And when I got you to the clinic, the people there said you were going straight to the hospital. That you didn’t even have a choice about it and they would not even allow you to go home, like you begged, to get your things in order. They just absconded off with you. That’s when I ran to your apartment to make sure all was in order and to telephone your sister. And by the time I go to the hospital, you had the attention of everyone in the emergency ward because that feisty old lady in you refused to be admitted.I want to go home. I want to go home. You kept repeating.By the time I got there you had a gash on your forehead where you had fallen out of bed and the IV half outta your arm, and you were making your way out the door dragging the whole IV machine along with you.And I know I calmed you down by saying that they were just going to make sure you were strong enough and your heart stabilized before sending you home. We quarreled.Florrie, I told you, I cannot be responsible in the event you keel over on me.And you grabbed, clutching me, begging me to take you home.And I contacted all the social workers and doctors I could find, on your behalf, for them to look out for you. I told them that that sister of yours would try to stick you in a nursing home and you demanded seniors’ rights. I told them that if it wasn’t for me, you would have starved to death. That your sister had access to your savings accounts, and your retirement checks were mailed to her, and that you had plenty of money set aside for your home care. They assured me they would do everything possible to make sure when you got strong enough that they would send you home with a full-time nurse. And me, being exhausted over the whole issue, I didn’t dare face you, because I knew you were being let down and I could not stop it.Where’s Molly, you kept asking. Where’s Molly, you kept asking. She’ll take care of me.And then I called to see what I could bring and when you’d be coming home.Why she died, said the social worker. She died. Her sister transferred her to a nursing home and she died.So Florrie, I’m glad it’s you making all that racket outside my window trying to get my attention, so I can finally tell my version so I can lay it all to rest. I did not let you down. You just were wrestled away from me and there wasn’t a thing I could have done to stop it.Come on, Florrie, here’s this song I put on for you? I just want to hear you sing it, one last time. Loud and clear. Then I’ll let you go.Molly strained listened. Then she heard Florrie, and soon she saw her gray hair, she knew for sure it was her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Molly she saw Florrie joined by a celestial choir of senior citizens, dressed in long white robes, with angels wings made out of aluminum foil and (?) halos. Molly shut her eyes and hummed along.The song finished, Molly turned off the cassette and looked at the clock.My goodness, look at the time. Carole must be waiting on my call.Molly grabbed a large plastic bag and began stuffing her laundry into it.That Carole is so kind. I think the best balm for an achy heart is a cup of tea with a warm-hearted friend. Don’t you agree? And maybe a bit of Liza to go along with it.That Carole, ever since she’s known me, she’s left me alone with my Sundays.She knows Sunday’s my laundry day.She often says to me: Molly if you don’t get at what’s eatin’ you, you’re gonna end up hanging yourself with the same rope you’re running from.So on Sundays, I drag out my bags of laundry, put on Liza and reminisce the whole afternoon. Sometimes near evening, just like today.Then when I feel like I’ve had enough, I put all the laundry back into the bag and put it away until next Sunday, That’ll have something to write about during the week. I’ll wash a few things out by hand tomorrow.She stopped. What’s that noise? Do you hear that noise? She turned around in all directions. Beefheart? Sadie?Oh, let me get out some of Florrie’s sauce. She opened the cabinet and pulled out a jar of commercial spaghetti sauce. And sings, Viva Florencia, Viva Florencia.Molly turned on the cassette, puts on her top hat, her big yellow scrub gloves,grabs her cane, and moves like a Rockette….To be continued next SundayNote: Sandra’s restaurant was a mainstay on St. Mark’s Place for many years.She was forced to close and has since relocated toCarole got married and moved toMolly remains in her rent stabilized apartment enjoying her writing.Florrie, as I said, passed away as written above.And Barbara Jean, I found her alive and well through Facebook inWe’ll be reconnecting soon.Eli married Bear and moved toRegarding Gary, I did finally did locate him, 20 years after this writing, and 40 years after our romance, via My Space where, on his son’s website I saw he had passed away. Such is life. I then searched for his mother, to make my amends. Learned she also died. Bless their souls.Special note: Gary's mother was a lovely woman. We just didn't see eye to eye is all.Mine was a different generation is all.
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