“Geez! Is that what it takes to finally get a reaction out of you people? Let me give you a little tip on how to be a better waitress. Smoke dope on your own time!” Frank yelled out to the startled waitress as she ran back to the kitchen. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at them. Allison covered her face.
“I think it’s time to go get Kristen,” Allison jumped up from the table and headed back toward the play area. She stopped hard as she bumped into a child, practically falling over the little person. “Excuse me,” she said looking down on the child, surprised to see the little face of Kristen looking back up at her.
“Kristen!”
“Mommy, I was just coming back to the table to see if Freddie’s here yet.”
“He’ll be here any second. C’mon, let’s go.”
Allison saw a man leaning over a chair at their table, his arms straight like poles gripping either edge of the chair. Allison guessed he was in his mid to late twenties, but he had the aura of a much older man. He appeared beige from the tip of his dishwater brown hair to the hem of his khaki pants and plain brown street shoes. He would’ve blended in perfectly to the natural environment had he been in the desert, but here at Freddie Fieldmouse he peculiarly stuck out as the one neutral shade in the midst of bright primary colors. He looked very serious and intently at Frank. At long last the manager of this wonderful establishment, Allison thought, wondering if she should run back and hide in the tunnels with Kristen.
They heard Frank’s raised voice as they approached the table. “I run a business myself. I believe in hiring the disabled, but geez, must they all be mentally deficient? Everyone I’ve talked to around here acts like they’ve had a frontal lobotomy.”
“We’re very sorry, sir. We can arrange for you to get a free large pizza the next time you come in.”
“Next time? What about now? I think I should get a free large pizza now.”
“We can’t do that, sir.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you already paid at the counter when you ordered the pizzas.”
“So give me my money back. Or is that too complicated for the incompetents up front?”
“Frank,” Allison said leaning down and breathing the words into his ear. “You’re upsetting Kristen.”
“I’m very, very sorry, sir,” the beige manager said.
“Oh, two ‘verys’. Never mind, then. I take it all back.”
“Cut the sarcasm, Frank.”
“Freddie Fieldmouse will be out directly, sir. I apologize to your family for this terrible inconvenience,” the beige manager said with new resolve as he straightened his shoulders for probably the first time in years.
“Don’t lecture me now, Al,” Frank said as the manger made a fast trek back to the kitchen. “I’ve had it! I’ve absolutely had it!”
“Daddy,” Kristen sobbed, the tears that brimmed in large pools now rolling at great speeds down her cheeks.
“Oh, geez!”
“Calm down, Frank You’re making a huge scene. Everybody’s watching.”
“Is that all you care about, Al? What other people think? God forbid I should make a poor impression on the patrons of Freddie Fieldmouse.”
“Soooo,” Frank said to Kristen with a phoney smile, changing moods with a sudden strained effort at cheerfulness. “Looks like Freddie’s going to be out any minute to pay a visit on our birthday girl.”
“Oh, Daddy!”
“Why’re you crying? What’s wrong, honey? No tears on your birthday.”
“I will think positive thoughts. I will think positive thoughts,” Allison mumbled over and over again until it became a mantra.
“You son-of-a….!” the terse words of an angry male voice coming from the kitchen suddenly startled everyone as they drowned out the volume of the singing animals on stage and interrupted Allison’s efforts at self-meditation. Everyone in the restaurant quieted down and strained to listen. A terrible din amidst raised male voices shouting angry words could be heard from the kitchen. Every adult in the place had a look of alarm, as their children vied for their attention asking : “What’s wrong Mommy?” “What’s wrong Daddy? “What’s going on?” Meanwhile Kristen sobbed into her Mother’s chest.
The crescendo of the kitchen conflict finally came with a frenzied rustling noise, a loud banging like someone falling hard against the wall, and a woman screaming. A deathly silence followed as the animals continued to sing up on stage. Moments later Freddie emerged from the kitchen.
Oh, my, he looks more depressed than Frank, Allison thought as she watched Freddie’s large mouse feet shuffle slowly across the floor. A waitress walked beside him, seemingly leading him in the direction of their table. His large brown mouse head with the permanently fixed grin, revealing two prominent front mouth teeth stared back at them surrealistically.
“Kristy honey, Freddie’s here! Look!” Allison shook Kristen who was now heaving great aftermaths of sobs into her chest.
The child looked at Freddie, looked down, and said, “Who cares!”
Oh, great, Allison thought. She picks now to lose her innocence; her faith in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and walking stuffed animals.
“Where’s Mattie? He said he would come back to sing Happy Birthday to me,” Kristen said with a fretful look on her face.
“I guess he’s still up front playing games with Alex. It’s too late to go look for them. We’ll just have to sing Happy Birthday without him this time.” Kristen’s lower lip quivered again, threatening to bring forth yet another round of sobbing.
“Oh, please, Kristen, do not cry again. I beseech you,” Frank said. Kristen sucked in rapid little breaths of air in an effort to ward off the impending tears.
“Careful honey, you’ll hyperventilate. Calm down. Take a deep breath,” Allison said, coaching the child.
“Yeah, we finally got the damn mouse here. We don’t need you to faint on us,” Frank added.
Meanwhile several children ran up to the slump shouldered Freddie, who held up his large mouse paw-hands in front of his chest, as if shielding himself from a mauling. He seemed to take special care not to stumble over any of the children as they gleefully danced about him.
He arrived at the table and promptly patted Frank on the head with his large mouse paw-hand and began tying a balloon to the back of his chair.
“Hey, it’s not my birthday. It’s the kid’s.”
Freddie slowly and painfully made his way over to Kristen and patted the tearful child on the head then proceeded to tie the balloon around her chair.
“Hey, let’s get a picture of you with Freddie, sweetie,” Allison said reaching for her camera. “C’mon, honey, dry your tears,” Allison said, handing Kristen a wad of fresh tissues. “Smile and say ‘birthday’,” Allison said holding the camera up.
Kristen, realizing some of the staff had gathered around the table to sing Happy Birthday and that all eyes were on her, wiped her face and managed to pull herself together. She stood up next to Freddie who put his furry arm around the child’s shoulder to pose for the picture. Kristen forced the smile at first but after a few moments it became more natural.
“That’s my birthday girl! Smile and say cheese,” Allison as she aimed the camera. Click. Flash. A successful picture of Kristen on her eighth birthday. Just then, Matthew ran up with Alex dragging sadly behind.
“I hope I’m not too late to sing Happy Birthday,” Matt said.
At the sight of her brothers, the past few minutes were forgotten and Kristen broke into a smile.
“Yeah!!! You’re here,” Kristy said and in her usual impulsive manner she jumped up, clapped her hands and grabbed Freddie Fieldmouse around the waist in a too-tight hug.
“Oooh Freddie, you’re wet!” The astounded child remarked shaking out her arms as if to quickly air-dry out the dampness of Freddie’s matted fur. The large mouse simply shrugged his shoulders in response. A dirge-like chorus of Happy Birthday soon followed. Freddie Fieldmouse patted K
risten on the head one final time then shuffled slowly back to the kitchen, warding off the enthusiastic entourage of children that crowded all around him.
Later that night Allison lay on her bed ruminating. Would it ever be their bed again, she wondered. Frank lay curled up in a small corner at the opposite end. An invisible line ran down the middle of the bed, and Frank, even in his sleep, seemed determined not to cross that line. He offered to sleep on the couch, but Allison told him that wasn’t necessary. It would only raise questions in the children’s minds. Their conversation over the sleeping arrangements were the only words exchanged since the drowned rat fiasco at Freddie Fieldmouse.
Frank went right off to bed and fell asleep instantly. Allison watched him sleep. He barely moved, tucked away in his little corner. She lay on her back staring up at the ceiling, her fingers nervously tapping together. The hall light flooded through their bedroom door, casting shadows on the wall. Kristen always insisted on going to bed with the hall light on and her bedroom door wide open. They usually turned the hall light off after she’d fallen asleep. Allison couldn’t sleep unless it was completely dark, but tonight she couldn’t bring herself to turn that hall light off. She didn’t know why. Perhaps she felt compelled to keep vigil on their last night together in the same bed.
Her mind raced and her body felt as if it had to follow. She wondered if this could be Restless Leg Syndrome. She’d read an article about it in one of her women’s magazines. It described exactly what she felt at this moment, like she had to move or she’d go crazy. She needed to get up and do something–house work maybe. But then her busy presence in the house might awaken her family, like a haunted spirit, what with all that restless energy passing by their doors and leaking in like radiation. No, what she needed was to move outside in the open air. She wanted to get up, put her running shoes on, and go for a jog, but of course she couldn’t do that. She might get hit by a car in the dark. She might twist her ankle and, unable to move; lie outside in the cold all night only to die of exposure in the first early rays of sunrise. What a cruel farce that would be. Allison decided against a midnight jog.
She would have to turn that hall light off if she wanted to get any sleep. Why was she so reluctant to do that? What ghosts might appear in the void of complete darkness? If only she could turn her mind off with the flip of a switch.
She got up and flipped the hall light off, her long quick strides returning her back to bed in an instant. She felt the comfort of the sheets beneath her, still warm from where she laid just moments before. She closed her eyes. Something bade her go back to where it all began. She didn’t want to go back. It wasn’t Allison’s way. The past was the past and she couldn’t change it. Why look back? She breathed in deeply. She smelled Polo. No wonder her mind kept slipping back to the eighties. It was the cologne that Frank wore when they first met. She carefully leaned over the invisible line down the middle of the bed, and sniffed Frank. As far as she could tell it wasn’t coming from him. She didn’t think so anyway. He hadn’t worn Polo in years. It was too passe. Too eighties.
Great ! Now I’m having olfactory hallucinations. She sniffed Frank again. Now she thought maybe she did smell it. Stupid allergies! That’s what comes from living in the Ohio River Valley too long. Everyone in this town has a screwed up sense of smell. But why would Frank put a cologne on he hasn’t worn in years right before he went to bed? Or did he? I don’t know.
Allison collapsed back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. She stopped fighting it. She went back.
Chapter 4
June 1983
There was hardly a hint of blue on that early summer day in 1983. All along the horizon was a murky grey, contrasting with the dark green of the trees that flew past Allison’s window. A cornfield blurred out of her peripheral vision as she rolled up the window of her red Trans Am and turned the AC up two notches.
My sinuses are bothering me already. She could always tell when she was getting close to Lamasco because of her inability to breathe, an invisible hand holding a warm, damp rag over her face. The three H’s. Hot, hazy, and humid.
She had to remind herself why exactly a successful, upwardly mobile, young professional such as herself would choose to move back to her boring little hometown nestled on the Ohio River valley. Lamasco had a population of one hundred and fifty thousand, but it was small-minded. This was 1983. The Reagan era of the yuppie. Why would anyone who’d experienced life outside southern Indiana ever return? And why was she returning? Because I love Kent, she told herself, and because Lamasco is a great place to raise a family. Or so her fiancé Kent always said.
For those seeking stability and security Lamasco was a great town. That was the up side. But the down side was the conservatism and lack of adventure that had permeated the town. That’s why her fiancé Kent had never left Lamasco. The fearful could never quite break free and neither could the dutiful. Many returned after attending college elsewhere due to family ties, often to a family business. And then there were those, like herself, who returned because of romantic ties. She was tied to Kent, and he was tied to Lamasco, and that’s why she was coming back. She had of course argued that if he really loved her and really wanted to marry her, then he should make the move to Chicago. That’s when she realized that his fear ran far deeper than his love, and she wasn’t sure she felt the same about him since.
Allison looked in her rear view mirror at her father’s pick up truck, which held half of her belongings. Behind him was Kent in his pick up with the other half. The rest of her things were crammed in the back seat of her Trans Am. She tried to get a look at her father’s face so as to gauge his present mood, but he was too far back. She knew he was probably still mad at her. He wanted to lead the convoy back from Chicago to Lamasco. Allison shook her head as she remembered their discussion about it before they left.
“Let me lead, Dad. I’ll get us out of Chicago without getting lost.”
“Lost? What makes you think I’ll get lost? You got no confidence in me.”
“You’re the one who has no confidence in me. I’m not a helpless little girl anymore, Dad. May I remind you that I’ve spent five years away from home; four years at college, one of those years in France as an exchange student, and one year after college living and working completely on my own in Chicago. I thought you raised me to be independent.”
“I raised you to take care of yourself, not to be no women’s libber.”
“Not to be a women’s libber. Not to be no women’s libber is a double negative, and what the hell are you talking about anyway?”
“And I didn’t raise you to be too big for your britches either. I know why you want to lead. I know. I know,” he said, his voice and his words trailing off. Her dad had a habit of mumbling to himself.
“Maybe I could lead,” Kent politely interjected. Up until now he had been standing, watching the interchange between Allison and her father like a spectator at a tennis match.
“I know why you wanna lead,” her father mumbled again to the ground, ignoring Kent’s suggestion.
Allison clenched her fists and rolled her eyes with one great growl of frustration, “You drive me crazy!”
“You wanna leave us behind in a cloud of smoke. Mario Andretti couldn’t keep up with you.”
“Did anyone ever tell you, Dad, that it’s just as dangerous to drive too slow as it is to drive too fast?”
“Oh, and drivin’ twenty miles over the speed limit ain’t gonna cause no accident?”
Kent tried to speak, but was only able to squeak out a single syllable before being cut off by Allison.
“Would you please stop with the double negatives? And I do not drive twenty miles over the speed limit. I drive sixty-five. Which is what the speed limit should be. Fifty-five miles per hour is a complete joke.”
“You drive seventy-five. And if they up’d the speed limit to sixty-five then you’d drive eighty-five.”
“Oh, please!”
“I didn’t raise you t
o be no speed demon with a lead foot. Know what I think?” he said mumbling again.
“Enlighten me, please.”
“I think if you’re so dag-nabbed independent then you can pay your own speeding tickets from now on.”
“All right. All right. I’ll drive the stupid speed limit. Just let me lead.”
“You can lead if you promise to keep to that speed limit.” Allison’s father made the statement like a bold command from the king to his half-witted servant, not an act of surrender. “Deal?”
“Deal. Mon cher papa,” she said, feigning a smile as she got into her car leaving Chicago and her other life behind.
“And don’t be speakin’ no French to me neither.”
“How’s this for a deal, Dad? I won’t speak to you in French if you promise to speak to me in correct English,” she said hanging out the car window.
“You’re too dang big for your britches, little miss.”
“And please don’t speak to me like John Wayne either,” she said rolling up the window.
Her father was still angry with her and hardly spoke to her at their various stops for gas and lunch. Kent tried to make polite conversation so as to ease the tension between the two. Allison found this mildly annoying and she sensed her dad did too. Couldn’t Kent see they didn’t want to make small talk? They wanted to sulk. And they wanted to see who would cave in first. It was the stubborn Brinkmeyer way. Kent’s small talk simply interfered.
Allison tried to talk herself out of this growing irritation she felt for Kent when a green light suddenly turned yellow, snapping her out of her highway hypnosis. She braked just in time as the light turned red.
“Truck stops and stop lights,” Allison said to herself. “Welcome to Lamasco! The only town in the civilized world that still has stoplights in the middle of a four lane highway.”
The light turned green and Allison, solely for her father’s benefit, deliberately floored the accelerator for a few gleeful seconds, squealing her tires through the intersection,. I hope he gets a shot of exhaust through his AC vents. Except that Dad never turns the AC on, she remembered.
ODD NUMBERS Page 6
