Gotta Dance with the One Who Brung Ya - sex, scandals and sweethearts

by Jon McDonald

  Gal always cooked. Rainbow always cleaned - tonight taking their few bowls and cooking pot down to the stream to wash up. With tonight’s cold it was hard to find any running water, and Rainbow had to hack at some ice to find the little trickle to serve his need. Though poor and without much provision, they were both meticulous about keeping clean – their persons and their possessions. Rainbow carefully rinsed the pot and bowls and climbed back up the bank to their shelter under the bridge. He stored the utensils and scooted up close to Gal sitting by the fire.

  “Here, let me warm you,” Gal whispered as he straddled Rainbow from behind, wrapping his blanket around the both of them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gift. “I know it’s not quite Christmas yet but thought you could use this now.” He opened the brandy and handed it to Rainbow. Rainbow bowed his head in gratitude and offered the first sip to Gal.

  They sat like that for some time, drinking quietly, the cars overhead passing less often now. Thump…….…thump.

  Rainbow was the first to notice the child – six maybe seven. The way the boy stood at the edge of the bridge it looked as though he was lit from within but, of course, Rainbow thought, it had to be the play of the streetlight against the ice reflecting up from the river below.

  “Gal…” Rainbow breathed so softly it could hardly be heard. Gal looked up and saw the child now holding out both his hands filled with Christmas cookies.

  “For you,” the child said softly.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Eddie continued his countdown, “Nine, nine and a half, nine and three quarters. Nine and seven-eights….”

  “Edward Declan Connelly, I am not going to call you again,” his mother boomed from the kitchen.

  “Oh boy, she means business now.” Eddie knew that for sure. And for just a minute longer he savored the warmth of the covers trying to drag him back into sleep. But then he could smell the wafting scents of Christmas - oatmeal, apples, cinnamon, brown sugar. And there were tangerines, coffee and bacon sizzling on the stove. He bounded up and out of bed, shut tight the window, and still in his pajamas with the fuzzy feet, faced the light pouring through the door, and quietly walked towards his mother.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  The police cruiser was parked on the bridge, the lights blinking and swirling. Thump thump. Two officers were responding to a call from a pedestrian who believed he had spotted something suspicious under the bridge. The officers scrambled down the riverbank and peered. It was dim and hard to see. There were the remains of a fire still smoldering, sending up curls of smoke like lazy spirits going home. And there, huddled together, and covered with a thin blanket, were the bodies of two men locked in a tight embrace, drifted snow cradling their faces.

  “Oh jeeze,” one of the officers commented. “Looks like we got ourselves a couple of stiffs. Better call it in.”

  The second officer stared uncomfortably at the bodies. “Will you look at that,” he said. “Two guys in each other’s arms. So desperate to keep warm they had to resort to that.” Thump thump.

  The Long Winter Solstice

  “I don’t know, Ken, I really don’t know,” Barb fussed. “I just don’t understand what’s going on here.”

  “I know, dear. I’m as frustrated as you are.” Ken fumbled in the total dark. There was a loud clunk.

  “What are you doing now?” Barb barked, even more agitated than before.

  “I think I just knocked over the lamp.” Ken mumbled as he searched on the floor, feeling with his hands hesitantly, as he did not want to cut himself if there had been any breakage.

  “Mommy, I’m hungry,” Jane whined.

  “I know honey, we all are, but the stove isn’t working, you know that.”

  “Daddy, why don’t you light the candles, then, since there’s no electricity?” Dickey asked, trying to be practical and helpful.

  “Dickey, the candles are electric too. We’re just going to have to be patient and wait till the lights come on again,” Ken replied, with a sigh of resignation.

  “Then how about lighting a fire in the fireplace, Daddy?” Jane got all excited by the idea of a nice cozy fire. “Maybe we could grill some hot dogs on a stick.”

  “Oh sweetie, the logs are fake, they only glow when we have electricity.” Ken hated disappointing his daughter.

  “How long has it been now, anyhow?” Barb tried peering at her watch, but couldn’t see a thing.

  “Well, it’s the Winter Solstice, after all. You expect it to be dark.” Ken had righted the lamp and was nestled back in his corner of the sofa next to Barb.

  “Yes, but we’re not in Alaska. It shouldn’t be so totally dark this long. It’s supposed to be the shortest day and the longest night – not just continual night. And it’s been days now since the electricity went out. Are you sure you checked the breaker switches?

  “Of course, Barb, I checked the breaker switches,” he said with some little irritation. “And I’ve tried calling the electric company a dozen times but the phone is dead too. I’ve looked out all the windows and it’s dark everywhere. It must be a system wide blackout.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain why it’s been dark all day - for day after day after day,” Barb griped. “And what happened to the trains? We haven’t seen any trains going by either since it went dark. Have they been stopped by the blackout as well?”

  “Yeah,” Dickey piped up, “they used to go by all day long. I loved watching the trains - with the smoke puffing out the smoke stack.”

  “And the Christmas tree…” Jane spoke up. “Every night it would get real quiet and dark, but we could still see the giant tree out front all covered in lights, with balls and angels. Why can’t we see that any more?”

  “And there used to be all those people outside. It was always so busy - the shoppers scurrying by - the kids peering in our windows. Remember? What happened to them?” Dickey asked.

  “Well as you know, the TV and radio don’t work, so there’s no way for us to find out.” Ken was feeling really helpless and not at all certain what to do next for his family.

  The first earthquake came very unexpectedly. It was not severe but the house certainly shook. It lasted for a very brief period and then it was quiet once again. But as there were still no lights, there was no way to assess if there had been any damage.

  “What was that?” Barb squawked, sitting bolt upright, and clinging to the arm of the sofa.

  “My, my…that was unexpected,” Ken exclaimed. “Is everyone all right?”

  They were, but Barb began to cry. Ken put his arm around Barb and pulled her to him, resting her head on his chest.

  “I think we should try and get some sleep. There doesn’t seem to be anything more we can do right now.”

  Of course, it was impossible to know if it was day or night, but it seemed long enough since they had last slept that it felt like the right thing to do - and besides, he didn’t know what else to suggest.

  “Aw, Dad, bed already? I’m not even tired,” Dickey complained, but he was only keeping up his end of being the contrary kid. He really did want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up over his head, fall asleep, and forget about everything.

  “Mommy it’s too dark to go upstairs. I’m afraid.” Jane crawled over to Barb and took hold of her leg and held on tight.

  “Then let’s just snuggle down here. One of you can sleep on the sofa between the two of us and the other can use the big chair. Dickey, you use the chair, and let your sister rest here,” Ken urged.

  “Oookaaay,” Dickey reluctantly agreed.

  They had soon settled down and were quickly asleep.

  None of them knew how long they had been asleep when the second earthquake struck. But this one was much more violent. And this time it was accompanied by a terrible shaking and the wrenching sound of ripping cardboard. Jane screamed, and sitting up sharply, clung closely to Barb. Dickey sprang up from the chair and raced over to the sofa to sit next to his father.

  But th
ey could not begin to express their relief when the shaking stopped and a flood of light poured in. They blinked and shaded their eyes, as they needed to adjust to this new blinding brightness.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  “Oh Mommy….Oh Poppy…”

  “Do you like it, Mija?”

  “It’s exactly what I wanted,” Little Patricia squealed, peering into the now open box. “It’s the most beautiful dollhouse ever. It’s just like the one in the shop I liked so much, isn’t it?”

  “Here, let me help you.” Poppy said, cutting the packing box away from the dollhouse, revealing it in its true splendor – two stories, clapboard white sides, with gables, blue shutters, and two brick chimneys at either end.

  Carlos was ripping at his large package under the Christmas tree. He stopped and stared at the box in disbelief. He looked up at Mama and Papa. “It’s exactly the train I wanted,” he beamed. “Help me set it up,” he urged his dad.

  Little Patricia plugged the power cord from the dollhouse into the wall socket and ran over to peer into the windows of her new present. Every room was beautifully furnished. The dollhouse blazed with light - even the fireplace lit up and flickered, and the candles on the sideboard glowed in the dining room. Barbie, Ken and the two little children, Dick and Jane, sat squarely on the sofa in the living room ever so pleased and proud to be in the light and on public display once again. Never was there a more contented family.

  Soon Mama called her family together for their Christmas supper of posole, tamales and bizcochitos. And as the happy family celebrated their Navidad, the Christmas tree was resplendent with an array of twinkling colored lights; and the new train circled under the tree, chugging smoke from its sturdy smoke stack - next to the brightly glowing dollhouse.

  Kids

  Miss Charlotte’s Jump Rope

  Miss Charlotte was one hundred and three years old and in no mood to be fussed over – ever. Lino was flustering around her once again, like a startled canary in a cage, prodding Charlotte to take her nasty vitamins. And Charlotte had no mind to oblige.

  That Charlotte was considered difficult by the staff would be an understatement. She would demand to go faster as she was pushed in her wheel chair, thrusting her cane forward like a saber as she led the cavalry charge into the dining hall or rec room.

  She reigned at the head of the best dining table by the window and commented, in no uncertain terms, on the manners (or lack thereof) of each timid soul unfortunate enough to have no place else to sit for luncheon except at her table. Their lunch was always brief, avoiding eye contact, and inviting certain indigestion as they scarffed down their chicken tetrazzini and mystery berry cobbler, scurrying away as quickly as possible after.

  Miss Charlotte came from a very distinguished south Alabama family whose wealth came from lumber. They resided in a small town supported mostly by timber harvesting and her family’s sawmill. They lived in a classic antebellum country house; wide two-story front porch supported by sturdy Doric columns. Some of the domestic help lived in what had once been slave quarters, built far enough away from the main house so the stench of the unwashed would not impinge upon the delicate nostrils of the fine ladies.

  Charlotte was an only child and especially beloved of her Father, Graydon Shelby Jackson, who delighted in giving piggy back rides and showering frilly frocks on his rather spoiled baby girl. She was particularly delighted with the bracelet of glass beads Grandmother Jackson had given her, and she would dance around the azaleas holding her wrist up to the sun to watch the sparkles shoot off in jeweled rainbows. To her they were crown jewels. And she never quite recovered from being that little princess.

  Lino struggled. From a family of six boys and two girls, and the next to the youngest he was the runt of the family. He was described as delicate – thin, with fine features. He was from a Hispanic family and his five brothers were either crack athletes or tending towards the rough and tumble. His sisters thought he was a wimp. His father barely spoke to him. His mother was so frazzled most of the time, with such a rambunctious family, that she rarely had time to give him much thought either. With little education and deep inner torments he found a job as a personal attendant at Winston Manor, “a secluded but active community of gentle men and women in their golden years” (or so said the brochure) in Reseda, California. While not an institution from a Dickens novel, it could hardly be described as a premiere pleasure palace either.

  Charlotte could not abide most of the personal attendants. She became testy when they tried to dress her, and she absolutely forbid to let anyone tend to her hair except Lino. For some reason he seemed to sooth her. His gentle hands fluttered around her head like a cloud of butterflies, and before she knew it she was once again presentable. She would turn to him with her sweet princess smile and pat his hand like a dried spotted leaf falling from an autumn branch.

  He would wheel her to the window where she could look out over the back of the property to the line of trees by the Ventura freeway. There was always a little sun there in the mornings, even in winter. She particularly liked the way the sun dazzled her glass bead bracelet as she drifted in and out of remembrance of her lost Alabama home. She would doze off till Lino revived her by reading from Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice was her favorite, and she never seemed to tire of hearing it over and over.

  The other guests resented that Charlotte could command so much of Lino’s time, when there were so few personal attendants to go around, but they would be firmly reminded that she was a hundred and three, and by far the senior resident. Allowances, after all, must be made.

  Lino always dressed in white scrubs, looking like the center pole in a collapsed circus tent, as the scrubs always seemed far too loose on him. Perhaps they did not have his size or maybe even the smallest size was too roomy for his slight frame. He had his long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, accentuating, even more, his delicate features.

  He took great pride in his meticulous attentions to Miss Charlotte. He felt he could be himself with her, unlike with the other staff and guests who tended to instinctively shun him, or even worse, taunt him. He would move like a ghost through the hallways as he tried to blend into the surroundings and disappear during his duties of the day. But in Charlotte’s room he felt safe. Her world of southern gentility soothed him and let him feel fleeting moments of peace.

  She had resided at Winston Manor almost twenty years now, and her room was full of southern charm. She had the oak dresser that had graced her bedroom as a child; and over it the faded photo portrait of her parents, stiff and glassy eyed. Her mother had died shortly after the photo was taken during the Spanish influenza epidemic of 1918, leaving Charlotte grief stricken at eleven. The metal institutional bed was covered with a family chenille bedspread, worn but still quite respectable.

  This morning it was finally warm enough for Lino to have the window open slightly, which let the early spring breeze billow the languid, sheer white curtains.

  But there was something different about Lino today, Charlotte noted. Not that she paid that much attention to his appearance generally. However, today she did notice something. What was it? Oh yes, Lino’s hair was not constrained. No ponytail today. It fell loosely around his face as he leaned forward, almost obscuring it.

  “Lino,” she commented, as he dusted the figurines on her dresser, positioning the silver hairbrush and comb in their proper place, “your hair.”

  “Yes. Do you like it?” He smiled shyly.

  “Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen it like that. What prompted the change today?”

  Lino hesitated, briefly suspending his dusting. He thought for a moment then came over and sat next to her at the window. She imagined for a moment he might start reading to her again.

  “Not sure if I should tell you,” he confided.

  “As you like,” she smiled. “I’m not trying to pry.”

  He nodded then said. “Okay. I’ll tell you, but no one else here in this shit hole must know yet.�
�� He paused and bowed his head. “I’m transitioning. My hair this way is the first step.”

  “I don’t understand.” Charlotte was flustered by his graphic reference to the Manor. “First step to what?”

  “To becoming a woman.”

  Charlotte became profoundly silent.

  “You may call me Lina from now on, if you please.”

  Still Charlotte did not respond. Lina was disappointed. “I thought you might understand. Sorry if I offended you,” she said with a modicum of bitterness.

  “No. No. I’m not offended.” Charlotte responded ever so softly.

  Lina bent down and took Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte looked up at Lina and seemed to see her for the first time. “Oh yes, I remember.”

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Eight-year-old Charlotte knew there was going to be a problem with the jump rope her father had given her for her birthday. Here she was dressed for Sunday church and her crisp light-blue dress with the starched and layered petticoat was just too stiff and cumbersome to jump rope in. Why had Martha dressed her so-o-o early? It was still two hours before they would get in the buggy for the dreary ride to the Presbyterian Church, and she was just itching to try out that fun looking new present. Why did her birthday have to fall on a Sunday anyway, for heaven’s sake? And even though it was only nine o’clock in the morning she was already feeling the swamp heat and knew that by noon, when they returned, it would be a veritable bathtub of swelter.

  Well then, there was nothing to do but try and find Otis and see if he had any brilliant ideas as to how to pass this miserable time till they left for church. She scampered back in the house with the new, still too stiff, jump rope, crinkled from being folded up in the dry goods store, and dumped it on the kitchen table where Martha was fussing with the noon dinner. Charlotte could spy her birthday cake, hiding on the top shelf of the pantry.