"Sleeping should be just like heaven," Belle said in self-defense. "And nothing is closer to heaven than the clouds. Especially the pillow kind." And so the pillow quilt remained, giving each of their overnight guests a chuckle before cuddling under the heavenly blanket.
And under the pillow-cloud sky, ankle high fields of corn spread for miles. Farmhouses nestle in clumps of willow, aspen and evergreen, dotting the landscape. The fresh scent of broken earth and morning dew hangs heavily in the air, punctuated occasionally by the yap of farm dogs.
As he crosses the church parking lot, he notes the lack of cars, knows that he is early, but doesn't slow down. He has things to do before the service starts and Belle hates when he's late. He mounts the steps and pulls open the heavy oak doors. His baptism and wedding took place in this church. Baptizing their own children here had been in their plans, but not in God's.
Yet, being childless was only a state of the womb as far as Belle was concerned. Lacking children of her own, she had mothered half the town. Rarely an afternoon passed that Belle didn't have fresh-baked cookies, hot chocolate or lemonade, and a table full of guests to enjoy them with.
Once he came home from working the field and found a single mother of three sharing Belle's hospitality. Grubby little boys popped in and out, proudly displaying frogs and worms and such. Heedless of their dirt, Belle had scooped them into her arms and patiently listened to their tales of adventure. When it was time to leave, the mother thanked Belle. "When I grow up, I want to be just like you."
But mothering for Belle didn't mean back pats and fuzzy promises. She'd grown up tough and treated those around her with tough love. "Then get sober and get a job."
Jolted by Belle's honesty, the woman had done just that.
He knows they will all be here today, among Belle's family of friends and loved ones. His heart swells with the thought of the lives she's touched and he enters the sanctuary. Silence welcomes him, as do the figures on the stained-glass windows. They beckon him forward in the gleaming morning light. Per his habit, he takes the long iron rod and hooks the end over a window bracket. He twists it open and lets in the summer breeze. All the way down, he opens windows until he reaches the altar.
It's awash in flowers. Daffodils, roses, lilies, and irises hide amongst the delicate web of baby's breath in a rainbow of reds, yellows, purples and whites. The fragrant bouquet of summer mingles with his aftershave. Annabelle and him. She always smells of flowers and sunshine, and when they embrace, they smell like this.
He replaces the window rod, sets out the service bulletins and heads off in search of Belle. He finds her resting in the narthex, her hands folded in prayer.
"Good mornin', Belle." He greets her with a gentle kiss. "Tabby sure was cranky this morning. Wouldn't let me outta the house 'til I fed her that stinky old cat food. I'm not trying to be smug, but I think she secretly likes me and just puts on a show for you."
He tugs at his collar. It's already too hot in the church and the service hasn't even started. "Guess today's gonna be a real warm one. Good day to be sitting out by the pond, watching the baby ducks. Hope we don't lose any more to Ole Snappy. That darned turtle would make a fine soup if'n I could ever catch him."
His voice cracks. He swallows hard and tries again. "I suppose you've already seen them, but the altar is right pretty with the flowers up there."
Even after a month of Belle not speaking, he still isn't used to filling in the gaps of quiet. He wishes he'd been more talkative when he had the chance. He wishes he could turn back time and match her word for word instead of nodding off in front of the television or letting her describe every sunset for the both of them.
Just when he runs out of things to say, he remembers the gloves. "Brought your gloves, Belle. Thought you'd be wantin' them today."
Reaching over, he feels the stiffness in Belle's fingers and rubs them out of habit. The pressure of the tumor on her spinal column had also robbed her of her hands. Every morning he would ease the pain in her joints with the warmth and strength of his own. As he lays the thin fabric over her stiff fingers, her own hands useless to lend their help, his heart breaks into a thousand tiny pieces. It is just one of the many things her illness stole from them, and he knows he will never get used to the changes.
Approaching footsteps interrupt their one-sided conversation. Pastor Jim comes into view. He shows no surprise at finding them together and closes his hands over the man's. "Good morning, William. How are you holding up?"
He notices Pastor Jim's long, hard look and remembers the lines of age and the washed-out blue eyes from the mirror. "I'm doing fine, Jim. It's Belle who needs our prayers now."
Cancer. The disease is as ugly as the word and sounds cruel in the silence surrounding Belle. After all, it is cancer that stole her voice.
The church begins to fill up, and the man sits quietly with his wife, greeting the congregants for the both of them. Just before the service starts, he pops out of his chair, and with a speed belying his ninety-three years, he makes his way to the altar. Uncomfortably aware of the stares, he plucks a bloom from a bouquet and carries it back to Belle's side.
With careful fingers, he tucks the stem of the purple iris behind her ear. Satisfied, he sits back and closes his eyes to the memory of their wedding day. When he opens them, it's his bride he sees, slim and elegant in her ivory wedding dress. Her hair sweeps away from her face and a smile plays on her lips. He leans forward and takes in the sweet scent of the iris bloom.
Flowers and sunshine. Pillow clouds and pillow quilts. And underneath it all, outrageous purple panties.
"It's time," Pastor Jim says softly.
Tears slide down his weathered cheek as he kisses Belle goodbye.
The Adventures of Sasquatch by J. Lea López
I'm one of those women you gawk at on the street for wearing tennis shoes with her skirt suit. Worse yet, I don't even walk to work. I have one nice pair of heels that I keep at my desk at work—black leather pumps with a very sensible square, stacked heel. By sensible I mean hardly attractive. Such is the curse of the Sasquatch.
That was the affectionate nickname given me in high school, not by my enemies, but my closest friends. To this day, twenty years later, the name still haunts me.
It's not that I have anything against cute shoes—in fact, I love shoes!—but my size 11, triple-E width feet don't share my affection. Let me give you a little perspective. Shoe widths are a bit like bra cup sizes. C is pretty average. If a woman says she's a D, well, va-va-va-voom, right? Now, envision not one E, but three. Getting the picture yet?
I've been living with these boats since I grew into them at the age of fourteen. I wore flip-flops with a short taffeta dress to my junior prom. Cowboy boots under my floor-length gown to my senior prom. Walking into the office in my Asics trainers and designer skirt and blouse is the least of my fashion crimes.
Tucking a stack of folders under my arm, I push open the spotless glass doors at Randall Advertising & Design. We do it all here at Randall. Need a catchy jingle? A stand-out billboard? How about a TV or radio spot? The pros at Randall can handle it all. We're RAD: Randall Advertising and Design. I love my job, but even we pros are prone to a bit of cheese.
Shelly, our receptionist, is on the phone when I come in. She waves and mouths a silent "Hi!" as I pass. The office has the expectant buzz of Friday-ness. Most of the semi-private offices (two desks to a room) are empty. Friday mornings usually begin in the CCA—Creative Common Area—a large, open room with each corner devoted to some creative experience. Paints, crayons, markers for visual arts at one station. A musical corner with a small upright piano and an array of other instruments, most of them donated by the company founder, George Randall, as his children—and now grandchildren—picked up and discarded hobbies over the years. A corner for thinking, dreaming, and brainstorming houses beanbag chairs, a recliner, pillows, and a metallic wall which holds what must be the world's largest magnetic poetry collection.
The staff at RAD is pampered, to say the least, but we also have the highest morale and employee satisfaction of any company I've ever worked for.
At the center of the CCA sits a large round table, always stocked with notepads, pencils, and pens. This is where the creativity sparked in the four corners gather to gain strength, organization, and direction before scattering down the hall to our offices to be fanned into flames.
This morning, almost everyone is in the CCA when I enter. Most are gathered around the center table, though a few have separated to the four corners. Carter, my office-mate, is getting in his daily round of Duck Hunt, and Sylvia is off creating her morning masterpiece, which looks suspiciously like a caricature of the rest of the group huddled around the table.
I realize they aren't gathered around the table as much as they are gathered around Nicolette, the newest—and youngest—staff member. Her pink-streaked blonde hair, nose ring and throwback checkered Chuck Taylors speak to her nouveau punk attitude, but her porcelain skin and baby blue eyes hint at the beauty one would expect from a girl named Nicolette.
She's holding her audience rapt with mosh pit stories from the latest concert she attended. Based on her dramatic retelling, I imagine a scene at the Sidebar, or another of Baltimore's smaller venues that tend to attract hardcore punk bands and their wind-milling, kicking, fist-throwing fans. My sixteen-year-old daughter, Macie, insisted on seeing a show at the Sidebar a few months ago with her boyfriend at the time. I let her go, on the condition that I went with them. I'd been to enough shows in my day to know what she was in for. She ignored my warnings to stay toward the outer edge of the crowd and nearly had her teeth knocked out by an overzealous "dancer". She's since decided she prefers a tamer scene.
"Who did you go see?" I ask at the first convenient pause in Nicolette's story.
"Flogging Molly. They're a—"
"Irish punk band. I saw them at Ram's Head last year." I shift my folders from one arm to the other. I should've put them on my desk first. Nicolette blinks at me.
"You listen to Flogging Molly?"
"Are you kidding? I have every CD. When they were here last year, one of the opening bands was the Horrorpops. Have you heard them? I bet you'd like them." That was one of the concerts Macie and I went to together. Every now and then she's forced to admit that her old mom has pretty good taste in music. I'm sure it annoys her.
Nicolette shakes her head, still surprised that I know of Flogging Molly, much less that I'd seen them in concert.
"Who knew you were so hip, Georgie Porgie?" says Frank, resident practical joker and annoying nickname giver. I'd almost prefer Sasquatch to Georgie Porgie. Almost. I ignore him and remain focused on Nicolette.
"Since when did they get so rough at Flogging Molly shows? It's always been pretty tame when I've gone, even down in the front row." Perhaps tame wasn't the correct word, but not so dangerous that I didn't feel comfortable letting Macie stand up front on her own.
Her scowl deepens. "You've been more than once?"
"Sure. They don't do a lot of East Coast shows, so I've traveled to see them before."
She scoots off the table and shoves her hands in her pockets. "God, what are you, a groupie? That's so lame." She stalks past me and down the hall.
"What's going on?" Carter joins the group, finished shooting computer-animated ducks and clay pigeons.
"Georgia's calling Ms. Nicorette's bluff, that's all." Frank uses Nicolette's nickname this time, not mine.
"What? I was just asking a question."
"She was probably making half of that stuff up to shock us old farts. Didn't think any of us would know enough to call bullshit. Especially not you."
Now what is that supposed to mean? Does everyone really have such a dull vision of me?
"It's the shoes, isn't it?" I blurt out, drawing blank stares from everyone around me. My turn to retreat down the hall. As I turn, I catch a glimpse of Sylvia's sketch and realize I've made my way into it. I can tell by the oversized clown shoes.
I dive into my project for the day and remain planted behind my desk for hours. Carter comes and goes, quiet all day. Late in the afternoon, he returns from one of his many breaks—probably to shoot more ducks—and leans against the corner of my desk.
"Stop working so hard. It's Friday. You're putting the rest of us to shame."
I smile. I guess my all-work-no-play reputation hasn't come without reason. It won't hurt to divert my attention for a few minutes.
"You're in here slaving away and everyone else is buzzing around comparing outfits for the gala next weekend."
RAD redesigned the logo for the fifteenth anniversary of a local charity and they invited us all to their spring fundraising event for the unveiling. Dinner, dancing, and silent auction, rubbing elbows with the elite of Baltimore: politicians, high-profile businesspeople, the heads of non-profits and social agencies. Strictly black tie. I've purchased a dress already, but the tags are still on it. Just in case. I can't very well go waltzing in there with flip flops on. Can I?
"You're going, right?" Carter asks.
"I don't know yet. I don't have shoes." I know how ridiculous that must sound to anyone but me, and his wide grin confirms it. Not his polite smile, close-lipped and impersonal. Not his genuinely warm smile, which lifts his eyebrows and crinkles the corners of his eyes. Nope, this is his thoroughly amused smile, broad enough to showcase his I-had-braces-for-seven-years perfect teeth and reveal the small dimple in his right cheek.
It occurs to me that I should be irritated with his reaction, but I don't get the sense that he's laughing at me or teasing me. He's heard my big-foot rant before and doesn't push the issue. Instead, he produces a couple of granola bars from his desk drawer and offers me one. I've worked through lunch without noticing.
He sits and rolls his chair around next to me, close enough that our knees touch.
"What are you working on?"
I swivel the computer monitor to give him a better view of T. Wrecks, the comical Tyrannosaurus Rex mascot of an auto-body repair shop.
"I'm trying to find the right balance between cartoon caricature and scary monster. Especially with the animation."
All thoughts of ball gowns and shoes leave my mind as we focus on the screen. We sit like that, knees touching, hands brushing over the computer mouse or keyboard, working out the problem for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I leave for the day, T. Wrecks has evolved to near perfection and I've all but forgotten about my feet.
* * *
Saturday afternoon, over a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup—a childhood favorite neither my daughter nor I have outgrown—Macie gushes over some website on her laptop.
"Mom, you have to see these shoes."
Shoes. Everywhere I go, they taunt me.
"Jenna told me about this website where she got her shoes for prom last year. I bet you could find something for your dress."
Skeptical, I peek over her shoulder. The screen is full of designer shoes, all in my daughter's very reasonable size nine. With a few clicks, she changes the search criteria to size eleven, EEE width. I explode in laughter when the results come up. There are actually about ten styles, but they all have one fatal flaw in common.
"Great. I can wear orthopedic sneakers to a black tie event, right? How will they look with my dress?"
Macie snorts and almost spits soup onto the keyboard. I start to turn away, then stop.
"Try double E width." I've been squeezing my feet into far narrower shoes my entire life, so why not give it a shot? My heart leaps when Macie clicks the keys and the screen fills with something other than old lady sneakers.
Is this truly happening? Might I actually find what I'm looking fo
r?
I plop down in the chair next to my daughter. I look at her and she looks back at me with a mix of my green eyes and her own youthful exuberance. Though she's inherited my punk rock taste in music—and an eyebrow ring—she still has an inner princess that shines through more often than mine.
We scroll silently down the page and I try to envision each pair peeking out from the hem of my burgundy dress. Macie puts a few styles into the virtual shopping cart for me to pick from when we're done. Black satin peep-toe pumps. Strappy rhinestone heels. On the third page, I see them. The Shoes. Macie sucks in a breath and I know she's spotted them too. She clicks on the exact pair.
Simple, silver, T-strap stilettos. Delicate, yet bold enough to stand out against the deep color of my dress. Without speaking, Macie puts them in the cart and we look at the checkout screen.
"I already know which ones I want," I say.
"Yeah. But you should get them all."
"Macie! Absolutely not." For all three, the total is close to $250.
"Mom, you have to! What if the ones you really want don't fit? You need a backup. Besides, shipping and returns are free. You can send back the ones you don't want."
She does have a point. How many times have I found The Shoes only to discover They Don't Fit? Every time, it seems. I pull out my credit card and hand it to Macie to finish the checkout process.
"Hey. You still need shoes for prom, right?"
Macie's eyes grow large and a smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. I nod at the computer.
"Go ahead."
"Really?"
"Hundred dollar limit, okay? Not a penny more."
"Mom, you rock."
At least someone thinks I do.
"Can you burn me a copy of your Horrorpops CD when you're done?" I ask, clearing away the lunch dishes.
"It's already on your iPod."
"I know. It's not for me. It's for someone at work."
Spring Fevers Page 4
