Memory of the Color Yellow

by Suzanne Jenkins

  Memory of the Color Yellow

  1-5

  Suzanne Jenkins

  Memory of the Color Yellow

  The Series

  Copyright © 2016 by

  Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.

  Memory of the Color Yellow is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For information on the Detroit Detective Stories, the Pam of Babylon series, and other works by the author, please refer to the section at the end of this story.

  Contents

  Character List & Notes

  Memory of the Color Yellow – One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Memory of the Color Yellow – Two

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Memory of the Color Yellow – Three

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 Europe Town

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 Europe Town

  Memory of the Color Yellow – Four

  Chapter 13 Steve

  Chapter 14 Europe Town

  Chapter 15 Steve

  Chapter 16 Tiresias

  Chapter 17 Detroit

  Chapter 18 Europe Town

  Memory of the Color Yellow – Five

  Chapter 19 Tiresias

  Chapter 20 Detroit

  Chapter 21 Steve

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  Dear Reader,

  Memory of the Color Yellow began as a gift to those followers who signed up on my email list. Approximately once a week I sent a novella or short story in an email. When I began this project, it didn’t occur to me that I should have a book already written, divided into installments to dole out systematically. Instead, I’m writing as I’m going and I have no idea where it’s headed. Sticking the story out there without an ending in sight is a scary proposition. I will tell you I can barely tolerate leaving the story, I’m so engrossed. What’s going to happen next? The characters are growing in complexity. Thank you so much for going on this journey with me.

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  Thank you!

  On to the story.

  Character List & Notes

  Tiresias (Paradise or Eremos to the inhabitants) Protected Zone

  Steve Manos & Family

  George – father

  Rose – mother

  Eleni – George’s mother – Manula for mother in Greek, Yiayia for grandmother

  Peter – George’s needy cousin

  Stephanie – Rose’s sister &Peter’s wife

  Baby Stevie – Stephanie & Peter’s baby

  Peter – George’s needy cousin

  Steve’s friends

  Joe Adams

  Paul Antoni

  Residents of Europe Town

  Louise Adams & Joe

  The Polskys – Jane & Edwin

  The Antoni Family – Grandfather Antoni – Paul Senior, Candy, Paul Junior

  Jim Randolph – a farmer somewhere in the area and Penelope’s father.

  Inhabitants of Tiresias

  Penelope Randolph

  Harrison Quigley – Penelope’s friend

  Angelica – Penelope’s apartment mate

  Security officers

  Walkers

  Detroit Characters

  Buz Graham driver

  Irwin Razor president

  Briana, his secretary

  Ryan Wilde, Chief of Staff

  Billie and Connie – government workers

  Darleen and Jackie – Steve’s foster parents

  Miri and John – Jackie’s parents

  Bill Reynolds, Mayor of NYC

  Beatrice Ford, Leader of the Northwest Quadrant

  Memory of the Color Yellow

  –

  One

  Chapter 1

  My childhood officially ended the day I heard the word Tiresias while playing tag with my friends on a sultry August afternoon. As daylight waned, neighborhood kids ran rampant over perfectly manicured lawns, screaming, “You’re it!” and “Tag, I gotcha!” We were twelve year olds; ranging in the stages of maturity from testosterone-ridden puberty to pencil-necked little boy. I vacillated between the two extremes. But we’d been inseparable since kindergarten.

  Until that August day, it had been the best summer of my life, one that would define childhood summers for me; running through lawn sprinklers, building a tree fort just four feet off the ground, whatever meat the Coalition had provided for us that week cooking on the grill, the smell mouth-watering, no second calls for lunch required. The following September, we would look forward to venturing off to junior high and our time of enlightenment. The sorrow caused by, and fear of our government had not yet colored my world.

  This would also be the last summer my friends and I would be on the same emotional wavelength, have the same interests, believe in the same god. I remember laughing so hard that afternoon that tears rolled down my face. We were lying on the grass recovering from our game, making fun of each other, bathroom humor rampant as it can only be with preteen boys. I wasn’t immune and I could dish it out, so could the others and they were tearing into me. “Manos farted,” Paul said, pointing at me, pretend gagging.

  “I did not,” I screamed, guilty and embarrassed. “It was Joe!”

  On command, Joe Adams bent over and farted in our direction. We carried on in this manner until the owners of the lawn tired of our shenanigans. Mrs. Polsky, dressed in classic Eastern European grandmother garb, came to the door and started yelling at us in a language I knew was Polish. My father privately referred to the family as The Polacks.

  “Get out, you bad boys, a shandeh un a charpeh! You’re a shame and a disgrace! You’ll wake the baby.”

  We got off her lawn and started walking toward the sidewalk when Paul Antoni turned around and stuck his tongue out at her. “You hateful nishtikeit nobody,” she screamed in perfect English. “I hope you go to Tiresias!”

  We started laughing, running away from the house, afraid she was putting a curse on us. Although she was funny, shaking her fist in the air, there was something frightening about her, a regular person transformed into hideousness, with bulging eyeballs and spittle flying, and the word I had never heard before. Tiresias.

  I’d had enough though; it was time for me to go home. I waved goodbye to my friends and ran to my house near the end of the street. My handsome father, George sat on the stoop reading the paper and smoking his last cigar of the day. Still in uniform, I felt proud of him, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves now that he was home, tie loose around his neck. Although at the time he seemed old and always tired to me, he was only in his forties, in great physical shape from hard work and our restricted diets.

  “Hi, Pop,” I said in Greek. “How was work today?”

  Putting the paper down, he pulled me over for a hug. I’d never be too big to be hugged by my father. I believe one of the reasons I’ve survived this world was my father’s constant validation.

  “Hi, Stevie,” he said, in English, in defiance of the law. In Europe Town, the native tongue shall be s
poken at all times in the home. My grandmother said the government was trying to create its own Tower of Babel to maintain control of the people. “Work is work,” he continued. “I like my route. I see dignitaries in the city everyday. Today, a lot of visitors in ethnic dress made me lonely for my father.”

  “Why, Pop?”

  “Oh, he loved costume. My father owned his own business, but he was an artist, too.” He looked hard at me. “You remind me of my father.”

  “I do?”

  It was the first I’d heard this story, my parents not prone to reminiscing. The law forbade speaking of the past. My grandmother and parents, Uncle Peter and Aunt Stephanie were born in Greece. They’d have plenty of stories to share some day. The Coalition hadn’t been called the United States of America for a long time, not since before I was born.

  “My father wrote poetry,” he said. “Beautiful, epic poems about his observations and feelings for this country.”

  He got up close to me and whispered. “I still have them. The originals. It’s against the law now, you know. You can’t have anything which is descriptive, or tells the history of what it used to be like here. We can talk all we want of old European history, but of what happened in the US? Forget it.”

  Straightening up, he shook his head, what he’d admitted to me could have him imprisoned, or worse. “I can tell you all about Greece, the history of Greece, your family’s roots, but not about America. Nothing about America.

  “Never repeat what I just said,” he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. “I want to read the poems to you soon. You’re at the right age to know about the past.”

  My father speaking to me of the past confused me; hadn’t he just said it was against the law? And the past of what? The way we lived hadn’t changed as long as I could remember. I was born into it.

  This life was the norm, but hearing that my father knew of a different way thrilled me. The circumstances reminded me of a children’s science book which had been my mother’s when she was a child. Supposedly hidden in her room, she left it out for me to find on my own, with the understanding that the book was to be kept secret. Within, I discovered a world from a time before humanity, with watercolor pictures of dinosaurs eating the flesh of small animals. It titillated me to go through the book and imagine what life was like before humans. It was the only evidence I had that life was not always what I knew it to be. The knowledge unlocked my curiosity, a dangerous condition in current times.

  “Don’t tell anyone about the poems,” he warned again, repeating himself. “We’re forbidden to speak of the past.”

  I promised my father I’d keep it to myself and continued into the house. I could hear my mother, Rose talking to my dad’s mother, Eleni in Greek. My mother, I can see her now so clearly. In my youth, she always wore dresses; that day a brown shirtwaist that had seen better days. Trim and attractive, my mother never left her room without her hair done and makeup on. They were arguing over me. I was sick to death of going to Greek school after regular school, and with junior high came more opportunities; sports and clubs and girls. I’d begged my mother for free afternoons, finally wearing her down. But now she had to advocate for me to my father and grandmother, and they weren’t having it.

  “Greek school is one of the last ties he has to the old country,” my Yiayia maintained. “If enough of us don’t take advantage, soon they’ll do away with it, as well.”

  “What’s for dinner?” I interrupted.

  “Soup. Sit down,” Rose said, pointing to the table. Then to my grandmother, she continued the bargaining process, although I was afraid she might be losing by the sound of it.

  “George, come eat!” Rose called. I could hear my father groaning as he got up from the granite stoop while my mother set bowls of something tomatoey down in front of us. My aunt came in with my cousin, also named Steve, perched on her hip and sat across from me, followed by her husband, Peter.

  When everyone was seated, I remembered the word. “Where’s Tiresias?” I asked. Gasping, the adult’s heads swirled around to look at me.

  “Where in God’s name did you hear that?” My mother asked while my grandmother made the sign of the cross on her bosom. “George, did you just hear what Steve said?”

  “Son, where’d you hear that word?”

  In shock, no one had started to eat, although it was customary in our family to gobble up whatever was put in front of us the minute my mother sat down. It was clear something monumental had occurred.

  “What? What does it mean?” I whined, afraid I was in trouble.

  “He’s going to find out anyway,” Uncle Peter said. “You might as well tell the boy.”

  “Shut up, Peter,” my grandmother said.

  “It’s okay, Steve,” my dad said, patting my hand. “Just tell your mother where you heard the word.”

  I looked around the table, at all the concerned faces staring at me.

  “We were playing tag in front of Mrs. Polsky’s house and she said she hoped we went to Tiresias. I think we woke her baby up and she was angry.”

  My mother whacked her spoon down on the table and got up, storming out the front door.

  “Rose, come back,” my father yelled.

  “Like heck I will,” my mother yelled back. “Polsky’s getting my wrath.”

  My father picked up his spoon in surrender and started to eat, but me and Aunt Stephanie, first handing the baby over to my grandmother, ran out after her.

  “Rose, wait up!” Stephanie yelled. “I’ll back you up.”

  It was still hot outside in spite of the sun already set, the moon brilliant on the horizon, heat rising from the sidewalks. Windows and doors were open, smells of everyone’s tomatoey dinner wafting out, and I noticed our neighbors peering out as my mother marched to the Polsky’s with us following, mumbling Greek the whole way.

  “This time, I’m calling The Council,” she said. “She’s not getting away with it this time.”

  Chapter 2

  Our town sat at the west end of urban sprawl. It was called Europe Town because everyone who lived there originally came from Europe, a nebulous place which no longer existed in the reality of anyone under twenty years of age. First, second and third generation Europeans were encouraged to continue the traditions of their ancestors wherever possible.

  In addition to Europe town, I’d heard of Asia Town, Africa Town and Latin Town. I supposed to the provincial leadership, the masses needed to be segregated according to the color of their skin. It explained why I heard my friend, Paul’s father talk about the Swedes who lived in our neighborhood not really belonging there.

  There was nothing remarkable about Europe Town, except it was within commuting distance of a big, political center, and the people who lived there were the service workers. My father drove a public bus, Paul’s dad, Paul Senior managed a restaurant which catered to the very rich politicos, and Joe’s mother, Louise worked as a secretary in the government office. A widow, she was one of the few women in our neighborhood who worked outside of the home. Although it was the norm for single mothers to live in an apartment village, Louise Adams received a special dispensation from the higher ups to stay in her house. Of course, the neighbors whispered about that, too.

  I liked watching Joe’s mother walk to the bus. She wore high heels, and the clip clop of the heels on the sidewalk matched the movement of her rear end, titillating me. I think it did the same thing to the men who walked to the bus because she always had a crowd around her. They commuted together with the other neighbors, waiting at the bus kiosk at the end of our street each morning at six, returning each evening at seven.

  On the weekends, unless he was scheduled to work, my dad recovered. Any necessary maintenance needed around our house, Aunt Stephanie’s husband, Peter took care of. It was their contribution to our home. I heard my mother repeating the phrase when Stephanie would cry because she felt so badly about invading our privacy.

  “We
don’t deserve your generosity. Where we would be if you hadn’t taken us in?”

  Even I was aware that they’d always been at our house. A phrase of her contrition repeated each month when my mother would anguish over bills; my dad’s pay had been severed repeatedly until it was a token payment given him, and my grandmother no longer received a pension although she’d worked in her husband’s factory in the city for more than thirty years and contributed to the fund all that time. These were regular complaints, voiced cyclically, especially on the weekends when the ouzo and retsina flowed.

  Rose and Stephanie subsidized the household finances by baking bread for the neighborhood, fresh bread no longer available after a catastrophic blight destroyed the wheat harvest six years in a row. Now, only small, craft bakeries survived, baking bread from heritage wheat grown in parks and vacant lots, an activity tolerated by The Council, but watched carefully. My mother’s bread didn’t require much wheat; she used oats and ground nuts and anything else she could get her hands on, foraging for wild grains a pastime the entire family participated in.

  Uncle Peter kept our house in repair, the yard meticulous, the structure perfect, conditions mandated by The Council. Dwellings shall be maintained in pristine condition, the landscaping cut and trimmed, the exterior painted and cleaned, the interior clutter free under penalty of the law. Unannounced inspections shall be made regularly. I couldn’t remember anyone inspecting our house, but the threat was always there.

  My Uncle Peter was mental. At least, that was what my dad said. “Peter’s mental, leave him alone.”

  Peter, my grandmother’s nephew and dad’s cousin in need of a helping hand came to live with my family before I was born. He was in the last wave of immigrants to arrive in the country before the borders closed, my dad said, “At a time when people still wanted to come here.” My dad felt guilty about introducing him to my mother’s sister, Stephanie, who also lived here before I was born.

  “He might be mental, but he’s still a man,” my yiayia would say, nodding her head toward their bedroom door.