by Hope Lyda
“Mission accomplished. Tucson is pretty dang far away.”
“And Tucson has really grown on me.” I stop walking and fold my arms across my chest. Suddenly, the air seems chilled. “I’m torn, Caitlin.”
“You are considering staying, aren’t you?”
“It has crossed my mind. I thought it was just the good feeling of being back around family, but lately I’ve wondered if my Tucson life was about running away. I adore Golden Horizons and when we are on track, Beau and I are fantastic. I just don’t know if it is enough. How messed up am I? I don’t know which life I am running away from.”
Caitlin hugs me. “Didn’t you think things would be easier by the time we hit thirty? Here I am moving clear across the country to finally do what I love. You are torn between two lives. Angelica is still finding out who she is. And Sadie is trying to stand up for herself and create a new life with someone who has been married and who has a child. It’s like we are all just beginning to live.”
“I like the perspective that we are just beginning to live. It does feel like a birthing experience. Painful and scary.”
“And yet hopeful, right?”
As I agree with Caitlin’s words, I’m wondering when my crazy friend became so darn sane.
She continues. “I’m excited about my decision. And you will be excited no matter what you end up doing, Mari. How great that you have people who love you and support you in both places. You are blessed.”
“I am. Thanks for the perspective.”
Caitlin looks around at our surroundings. “Could you get a picture of me by the water? Get the monument in the frame, too.”
I reach for her camera and direct her toward the reflecting pool. As I am about to take the shot, Caitlin starts to wave at someone behind me.
“Sir, could you take a picture of me and my friend?”
An elderly gentleman wearing a baseball cap and suspenders over his flannel shirt is most agreeable.
“I’ll take my heels off so we are the same height,” Caitlin hollers as I hand off the camera to the man. I’m showing him the point-and-shoot method when I notice the accident about to happen. Caitlin has one shoe in her hand and is bending over to unhook the other shoe’s strap. I think she will regain her balance until the first shoe is flung into the air. Caitlin would never throw away a perfectly good shoe.
The splash directs the attention of countless tourists and the laughter of several school children. Caitlin flounders about in the murky water until the man, Hank from Wisconsin, and I can fish her out.
“This is suede, dang it. I love this dress.” She starts crying from embarrassment and over the loss of a fabulous outfit.
Now this is the Caitlin I know so well.
“Caitlin, you poor thing. Let’s get over to those restrooms. Hank, thanks for your help, but we won’t need to record this moment.”
Hank hands me the camera and reluctantly walks away once I convince him we are going to be fine.
And while Caitlin is distracted by the sound of her green dress sloshing against her thighs, I steal a photo of my mermaid friend.
Rhyme for Reason
You can’t say no,” Rachel says while chomping gum on the other end of the line.
“It’s our poetry pizza night.” I step on a chair to sit on the kitchen counter. “And I promised to be here tonight.”
“Cheyenne’s husband is driving her nuts with his fantasy football picks, and I just decided not to resign my studio lease. I can only imagine the stress you have had lately. We all need it. Besides, we didn’t really get to catch up during our last visit.”
“Maybe because I was being interrogated?”
“So this is a yes?”
“I guess I could leave after the readings.”
“That’s the spirit. We’ll even come pick you up so you can stay as long as possible at the poetry thing.”
Rachel is so transparent. “You mean Cheyenne told you I drive a fifteen-passenger van these days.”
“That would be the more important reason,” she confesses.
Wallace waits by the front door with his hands behind his back. Every few seconds he stands on tiptoe and peers through one of the narrow windows.
“Do we get it free if it takes more than half an hour?” I holler from the top of the stairs on my way down to the kitchen.
“Naaa. That’s the other place with the rubbery pepperoni. Besides that doesn’t count when you order eight pizzas.”
“I suppose not.”
Several of the children are following behind me. Lou is pushing on my lower back to hurry me up so I wedge my heels into the wooden slats to resist.
Daisy presses her tiny self against the stairwell and sneaks past us. “Slowpokes.”
“Art is here. He’s coming.”
“Art?”
Wallace turns around quickly and gives me a disappointed shake of his head. “The pizza guy.”
The pressure builds behind me and finally I give way to the herd. They clamor to greet Art, the apparent celebrity du jour in this household.
“What’s the rule?” Marcus shouts from the doorway of the walk-in freezer.
A choir of children’s voices respond, “Don’t buzz-in unless its kin.”
“That’s right. That is my job. Or Mari’s. We will do it.”
I look down at him and he looks at me. He just made us a we. Poetry night turns my thoughts into rhymes.
“Mari, I will get the door. You get the name jar.”
I head for the cupboard above the stove and retrieve a mason jar filled with torn strips of paper representing everyone in the house. Several names are pulled out for each poetry night and those kids have to read. We don’t cycle through the stack again until everyone has faced the crowd.
“Josiah, go get Mom and Dad. They are in the flower garden out back. Tara, get the paper plates and towels out of the hall closet. Grant, set up the karaoke microphone.” I joyfully give directives like a pro.
The wheels of an organized gathering are set in motion. By the time Mom and Dad enter the room, everyone is seated and ready to pray over the pizza and get the night underway.
After the first round of slices is distributed, Marcus nods to me. I stand with the jar and with an exaggerated move, I crack my knuckles.
“Gross,” says Elsa, but the boys giggle.
“Silence!” I shout to reinforce my moment of dictatorship control. I roll up the sleeves of my long-sleeved T-shirt and wiggle my fingers.
“We’ll never get to the poetry,” mumbles Grant.
“Silence!” Marcus shouts as my dedicated assistant.
More giggles as I reach in slowly and remove three different slips of paper. All eyes are on me as I call out those who will be put on the spot to either read something they have written, make up something in that moment, or read aloud a portion of literature or a poem they have selected. The real cruelty of this night is that, of course, everyone must decide in advance what they will do in case their name, scrawled in my dad’s handwriting, is on that piece of college-ruled paper.
“Jon.”
“Camden.”
“And…” I pause and look at everyone in the eyes. Wallace is a nervous wreck and taps his fingers on his forehead. I look down at the paper and turn toward Marcus. “And…Marrrr.”
“Marcus!” shouts Tara.
I snap my fingers in an aw-shucks way. “I wish.”
“It’s Mari!” cries Wallace. “Praise the Lord! My piece is not perfected.”
“Who added my name to the jar, anyway?” I look over at my parents, who are standing at the kitchen counter shrugging.
Marcus raises his hand. “I did, Ms. Hamilton. It is only fair. You did start this tradition.”
“Well, your name will be surfacing soon. I guarantee it!” Outwardly, I shake my fist at him, but inside, I feel the warmth of inclusion.
While everyone digs into the pizza, I rush up to my room to search for one of those napkins from the Locals’
Landing. I discover the missing one wadded up in my jean’s pocket. It will reveal too much of my thought life, but it is all I have.
“Jon. Jon. Jon.” The hungry crowd begins their call for the first poet. Jon is typically all bravado, but tonight his long bangs cover a reddened face and a shy stare. Hands in front pockets, Jon looks down at a piece of notepaper on the floor. He has scrawled out a poem in large markers.
“Nobody laugh till I am done. Okay, here goes it.” Jon licks his lips nervously and begins in a cracked, puberty-ready voice:
There was a time when I was sad.
There was a time when life was bad. I always felt alone.
And when I was the most scared, someone came along who cared…and that day I found a home.
We all burst into applause as the young boy brushes back his hair with a shaking hand. His grin is broad and sweet. I watch as Jon accepts a sideways embrace from Marcus, his biggest fan. Their backs are to me and I notice the similarities between these two—broad athletic shoulders, trim torsos, and long, strong legs, dark hair—these two resemble father and son more than mentor and pal.
Camden wastes no time getting up on the short performance platform. He has his eye on the last of the sausage pizza so he reads just a few stanzas of Poe’s “The Raven.” Of course, he reads enough that the young ones are sure to have nightmares.
Dad stands. “That was a fine reading. and since you are so eager to give us the Reader’s Digest version, I think we should ask you to present it in full for Halloween.”
“What’s Reader’s Digest?” asks Camden innocently.
“Not the point.” Dad tosses a wadded up napkin at him and laughs. “You will read us the rest for our harvest party. Mari, you’re up.”
As I stand, the doorbell rings. Wallace pushes the step stool to the intercom and loudly proclaims that it is poetry night and we are not to be disturbed.
“Sorry,” I say. “Cheyenne and Rachel must have come early.”
Wallace pushes the buzzer with authority. “No, it’s Lonna.” And Wallace, who never does anything comical, walks across the room in what must be Lonna’s style—hands on hips, swinging strides, and little curtsies.
I stifle a laugh. I can feel my face growing warm. Marcus stands and walks over to the door. He is ready to greet his girlfriend. The girlfriend I have not yet met.
“Mari, hon…your turn.” Dad places his hands on my shoulders and directs me toward the stage.
“No. We have a visitor. I will go first next time.” I reach for one of the last cartons with pizza remaining and hold it up. “Who wants Canadian bacon and pineapple?”
Marcus is now talking to Lonna, who is standing in the doorway. I cannot see anything except an expensive purse on a slender, tan arm.
“Mari. Mari. Mari!” My dad conducts the yells of the kids as though he is forming a precious symphony. They end with an earsplitting, high-pitched yodel.
I will only receive more and more attention the longer I put this off. I walk to the stage and hear the door shut. My heart is racing, and I pray that Marcus and Lonna have left for the evening. Slowly my feet turn to face me toward the audience and my eyes close briefly. When I open them, all the kids are attentive and Marcus and Lonna are sitting on the soda fountain stools waiting as well. I don’t mean to, but I look directly at Lonna. Like a kid told not to stare, it is all I want to do.
I shake my head to return my mental focus to the scrap of napkin in my hand. With what I hope is an undetectable movement, I shift my feet slightly to the left so that my parents are in my line of sight rather than Marcus and Lonna. My voice begins nearly as warbled as Jon’s, so I cough and begin again.
Along my way, I am finding what I left behind
Through worry and wonder I walk on
Waiting for shadows to leave
Hoping for light to lead.
What used to be comfortable now seems distant.
I tethered my dreams to certainties that have defied gravity and taken flight.
It is cold here in the unknown
But as I look around
I see the freedom of possibility.
Along my way I am finding my future
In the pieces of yesterday.
There is applause and then I see it. I see it before I can read the expressions of appreciation on my parents’ faces. My eyes glance over, in the wrong direction…the direction I warned them about, and they see the furrowed line on Lonna’s brow. Confusion. Frustration. Anger? She is looking at Marcus and Marcus is looking at me, and he is smiling, but not with the silly grin he gives me when I have made a fool of myself. It is a smile of recognition.
He understands me.
I step off the stage quickly and return to my seat, which is thankfully far from the soda fountain and front door. From here I watch Marcus and Lonna leave. I see his hand on the small of her back and it gets to me.
One of the kids makes a joke about curfew. I don’t hear it all, but everyone laughs…so I join in to cover up my nervousness.
Lucky in Love
Where are we going?” I ask from the backseat of Rachel’s VW Beetle—the old kind. I am wedged between piles of heavy boxes. “And what is this junk?”
“Junk? I’ll have you know that is future celebrity, rent, gas money. I have to get used to not having much storage space anymore.”
“Huh?”
“It’s her sculpting clay.” Cheyenne turns in the passenger seat to look at me. “We thought we would take you to a place that would feel like home.”
“The Southside Youth Shelter?”
“Austin Grill.”
“You do know I have been living in Arizona, not Texas?”
“They eat enchiladas in Tucson, don’t they?” Cheyenne inquires.
“And the Alexandria location is a great place to take in the view of local men,” Rachel offers as a food alternative.
“Um, Cheyenne is married, and I’m spoken for,” I say a bit loudly. A night with old girlfriends I was up for—a night on the singles scene I was not.
They look at each other and smile.
“What? What is your little inside joke?” Paranoia is leaking out of my mind.
“You say you are spoken for. We just want to know who is doing the speaking?” Rachel singsongs while trying to parallel park.
“Enchiladas sound good. Inquisitions do not.”
Rachel holds up her hands in submission. “Okay. Okay.” The car jolts forward and hits a curb. A box of clay lands on my foot and curbs my appetite.
“That large slab of concrete resembles a speed bump, but it’s actually a sidewalk,” I say angrily while rubbing my ankle.
“Rachel, you were right,” says Cheyenne as we step out into the nice evening. “Mari needed the night out even more than we did.”
I hobble along the cobbled sidewalk and wait for some sympathy. I know better than to wait for empathy. As we near the Austin Grill sign and hear a band tuning up, Rachel turns on her heel and glares at me.
“This hopalong bit is not going to be too helpful inside those doors.”
“But your clay landed on my ankle. It hurts,” I whine. “I think it is swelling.”
“I’ll order extra ice with my margarita, but please act normal.”
Cheyenne looks at my ankle to be sure they are harassing me for good reason. It isn’t swelling, only red. “You are okay, Mari. Rachel, on the other hand, is a bit sensitive about tonight. She is hoping to run into a particular someone, so she wants to make an impression.”
“A good one, in case you need clarification.” Rachel adds, staring at my rolled up pant leg. “Make yourself presentable. I’ll go put our names down for a table.”
“Whom are we impressing?” I ask Cheyenne once Rachel is inside.
“Phillip Wallis. He manages Trampled, the band playing tonight. Good guy, but a bit full of himself. He thinks he is single-handedly responsible for the music scene in this area.”
“Is Trampled successful?”
> “Not yet. But he is putting a lot of energy behind them, so they might do well. He really is a good businessman, but I personally could not handle the…” her voice trails off as we see Rachel approaching.
“No waiting necessary. Phillip says we can share his booth by the band.”
She is giddy and her face is flush with excitement. I look to Cheyenne to finish her sentence, but she only shakes her head and acts innocent.
“Great,” I say. “Who is Phillip?” I join the innocence.
“Okay, you got me. I had a couple ulterior motives in choosing this particular place for our night out. Phillip and I have group dated a few times, and I’m hoping to go to the next level and get a one-on-one.”
“Do you have to try out for him or something?” I am being sarcastic.
Rachel is serious. “Sort of.” She touches the tip of her gelled hair. “He could have his pick of women. Tonight could be the big night that he asks me.”
Good grief. “You’d think the girl was getting a proposal for marriage, not a pass to a one-on-one date,” I whisper to Cheyenne. Rachel has bounded into the club, and we are about to be accosted by the techno sounds of Trampled.
As we step into the bar area, it doesn’t take long to notice Rachel. She is doing a little show-off dance near the booth. Clapping her hands above her head, she looks as though she would be put on a solo platform for Soul Train. The image of her doing a desperate disco move strikes a familiar cord in me.
Angelica.
I had never made the connection between my high school friend and my college pal. Even in Rachel’s jock days, she was a tad boy crazy and more than a little off balance when it came to crushes and infatuations.
