Spin the Plate Short Story

by Donna Anastasi

  “Do you want some of this?” he asked, pointing towards the chicken parmesan.

  Jo shook her head no. The waitress came with the check and asked Francis if his meal was all right.

  “Perfect. And, could I get it to go?”

  “My aunts love the stuff,” he confided to Jo.

  “Oh, you see your relatives willingly?” she replied. “I do the family-thing once a year. My sentence is tomorrow. It will take half the day just to get to the restaurant on the east side.”

  “Actually, my aunts…ahh.., I still live with them,” Francis admitted and then asked, “And, tomorrow, can I drive you?”

  “You have a car?” she queried, and answered. “Uh…Fine.”

  ***

  The next day, Jo was sitting on the cement stoop in front of her apartment when Francis arrived driving a Chevrolet Nova in a nondescript green. He jumped out of the car to meet her. He noted Jo’s lingering gaze.

  “It was a high school graduation hand-me-down present from my aunts,” Francis said. “I really don’t drive much, but I’ve gotten pretty good at fixing it myself.”

  Jo, with a hand on the door handle, glanced through the passenger side window at the odometer noting that it read only 78,303 miles.

  Jo said. “Anthony’s is on the other side of town.”

  He asked her. “Do you want to drive?”

  She shrugged. “Sure,” and walked around to the driver’s seat.

  On the way, Francis ventured. “So, tell me about your parents?”

  Jo hesitated, then began. “My mother married late, especially for back then. My father enjoys reminding her to this day that he was ‘her last chance,’ as though she still owes him. I was born a few months after she turned 40.”

  Normally, when it came to her parents Jo stuck to a few dates and facts and wrapped it up quickly. But today she felt agitated and in no mood for games. What the hell? He asked. Jo kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She told the story like an anchorman relating news of a flash flood, bombing, or other disaster: factual, impartial, and providing play by play detail of the unfolding drama. She started with her earliest childhood memory. She had just turned three and had celebrated with a big birthday with pony rides in the back yard. Everyone went home. Her mother was downstairs cleaning up. She was playing with her new puppet theater in her bedroom, when her father came in and told her about “a puppet in his pants.” She remembered how he pulled a pink thing out that looked to her at the time like the neck of her Nana’s thanksgiving turkey. He chased her around the bedroom with the pants puppet, poked it at her, and tickled her. She laughed hard and had a queasy feeling in her stomach.

  Jo said. “It escalated from there.”

  Starting from that first time he exposed himself she lead Francis through a chronological order of events, like a news reporter. Hitting the essential facts−each of the other “firsts.”

  “It was pretty much a monthly episode,” she said, “until I left the house for juvenile hall at 14.”

  “Now, that’s a whole other story,” she told him. “My parents bought me only dresses and a lot of sweaters, which by 8th grade were getting tight. I was taller than the other girls and my curves came in early. Boys were attentive and some liked to fiddle with me behind the school, feeling my breasts. I didn’t mind. One boy put his hands under the skirt of my dress. When I pushed his hand away, he shoved me down and laid his body on top of mine. I grabbed his wrist, pushed, twisted, and heard a snap. The boy turned white. I felt bad. I didn’t mean to do that. I let him do what he wanted to say I was sorry. And, to keep him quiet. He would have too, except apparently he was on some Olympic Development Team; who even knew they had lacrosse in the Olympics? He didn’t tell right away. But eventually his dad punched it out of him. When the detective came to the school to question me, he discovered that I’d taken to carrying my dad’s handgun in my backpack. That, and with the judge being a good friend of a friend of the boy’s father, well, I spent almost two years in juvie.”

  She told Francis that the time in juvenile hall was the best part of childhood, such as it was. It was there Jo discovered the top three ways to deflect a beating and, when necessary, how to take one without crying out. She learned to show no emotion except disinterest and menace, heavy on the former with those in power and on the latter with everyone else. There, she came to realize that ultimate control comes from not giving a damn about anything, or anyone, and most especially yourself.

  There was nearly unlimited weight room access, and the gym was one of the few places consuming enough to keep her mind from wandering back to episodes perpetrated by her father. The frequent workouts plus a steady fare of bologna, baked beans, and half cling peaches in heavy syrup rocketed her weight from 145 to a solid 250. As her body transformed, she experienced with it, for the first time, a surge of power. She was awarded a wider berth and begrudging respect from the other girls and an increasing disinterest from the male “chaperones.” Chopping her hair into a ragged bob and dying it black with contraband shoe polish completed the effect.

  Jo’s one big mistake was that she didn’t realize a side effect of her under-the-radar approach would be early release for good behavior. Three months before her 16th birthday she was handed off to her parents with an ankle tracking bracelet and court order for house parole. Both parents retrieved her as both were required to be present and sign the release forms.

  In the car, her father greeted her with, “You look like crap.”

  She responded. “What do you care, you sick bastard,” and braced herself for a heavy back-handed slap across the face.

  None came. Her father gripped the steering wheel tighter. They drove in silence, with her mother rubbing the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other the whole way home.

  ***

  Francis was silent in the seat next to her. Jo wasn’t sure he was listening. Perhaps like the few others she’d told so long ago, he had rolled up an invisible glass window between them in denial, distaste, disgust, horror. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. She risked a sideways glance and saw tears flowing, unabashed, filled with the fear, pain, and shame of a young girl with tawny curls and deep, brooding brown eyes.

  After a brief silence, Francis piped up. “Let’s stop. If you aren’t in a rush to get to the party.”

  “You can meet my aunts,” he said, adding, “it’s on the way.”

  “Fine,” she agreed.

  ***

  Two stout aunts descended upon Jo with open arms, and Jo, from her neck down, disappeared into warm, fleshy hugs and ample bosoms.

  “Francis, what a wonderful surprise,” they exclaimed at once.

  Francis introduced them, but Jo didn’t catch which aunt was which. Stepping back, one of the aunts threw her hands up.

  Aunt 1: “Just look at you!”

  Aunt 2: “She’s lovely, just like you said.”

  Aunt 1: “So pleased to finally meet you.”

  Aunt 2: “We’ve heard so much about you.”

  The exuberance of their greeting made Jo curious as to the attention bestowed on a woman who actually had completed the second date with their nephew.

  “Come, please sit down,” an aunt invited leading Jo into the kitchen.

  “Don’t mind the dog,” she said, as a wet nose pressed against Jo’s hand and a warm coat touched her leg.

  Jo instinctively scratched his neck moving down to just behind his shoulder blade, and he leaned heavily against her. The dog looked like a petting zoo ewe about to deliver twin lambs. He was a mostly white, medium sized terrier mix with triangle ears, a pointed nose, wiry fur, and a curled tail.

  “His name is Goblin,” one aunt informed Jo as she offered the dog a milk bone. He sniffed at it disinterestedly, as the other added, “because we got him at Halloween.”

  One aunt scooped Maxwell House into a percolator coffee pot on the stove and set the flame to medium. In the kitchen, the four sat around a yellow Formica-topped table
with a grooved metal ring around the rim.

  “Francis tells us that you’re a tattoo artist,” an aunt chattered excitedly. “He says you are quite talented. It must be wonderful to be artistic and use your talent to bring enjoyment, and joy, and healing, too.”

  “We just love the show ‘Miami Ink’,” she confided. “Does everyone really have a story? You must meet the most interesting people.”

  It was clear where Francis had acquired his gift of gab, Jo thought.

  Jo’s eyes wandered through the series of school pictures of a small brown haired boy hung across the wall of the small kitchen. By his teens, he was unmistakably Francis. Then, Jo settled her attention on a Lincoln Log cabin showcased on a rounded, built-in, corner shelf with faded blue ribbon hanging down one side.

  An aunt, noticing Jo’s gaze, said proudly. “Francis did the whole thing himself, every bit of it.”

  Francis chided. “Come on Auntie, Jo is going to think I peaked at seven.”

  “Now, Francis,” said his aunt patting his arm, “there’s no reason to be modest.”

  She launched into the story as if it were yesterday. “Each child was given a certain number of pieces and had to pick which to use as well as the make up a design. When the parents arrived for the presentation, all four walls of the whole gymnasium displayed the cabins of the lower elementary grade students. And, in the center, right up on the stage−I recognized it right away−right up on the stage was Francis’ log cabin,” she announced smiling broadly. “And a bright blue first prize ribbon.”

  Her eyes were wet as she patted Francis’ arm again.

  The pot bubbled on the stove, filling the kitchen with rich smell of coffee. One aunt poured three cups of the dark liquid and placed the mugs on the table along with a half gallon carton of cream, a large bowl filled with sugar, and spoons. The other aunt busied herself catering to Francis, laying out before him a paper plate and knife, a box of town house crackers, a jar of peanut butter, a glass of chocolate milk, and finally a red Macintosh apple expertly prepared on the spot using a circular metal contraption that surrounded the fruit, cored it, and produced six even slices with one press.

  She then began emptying the contents from the refrigerator, which Jo noticed where layered one on top of another, onto the table before them: cold cuts, sliced cheeses, olives, cold cheese ravioli, antipasto, cooked lobster still in the shell, scali bread, butter, biscotti and assorted hard cookies, and ricotta cheese cake. Jo surveyed the feast and noticed Goblin’s mild interest as an aunt hand fed him a slice of roast beef. She mused that Francis’ food jag had likely spared him from a suffering a similar fate as the bursting-at-the-seams terrier. Jo consumed a respectable portion of the offering, though, despite not having eaten all day, she was motivated more by politeness than appetite.

  As Jo and Francis departed out the front door, there was another round of hugs and an invitation to come back and visit very soon. Jo inhaled deeply a last breath of the warmth and smells of this place. She said goodbye to the aunts and left with Francis to meet her parents.

  ***

  When they arrived at Jo’s family bash, an elderly aunt walked towards them. As she passed beside Jo, she gave her hand a quick squeeze saying almost inaudibly. “So pleased you’ve come, Julianna,” and continued moving forward.

  Jo headed across the room and hunkered down in a folding chair in the far corner. Francis pulled up a chair beside her. His repeated attempts to make conversation failed. Jo scanned the room intently, looking distant as always, but with a furrow deepening in her brow.

  Finally Francis asked her. “Mind if I work the crowd?”

  “Sure, fine,” she murmured.

  As he stood, a man strode towards them, with a woman in tow. The man had a large build, an ashen face, and a protruding stomach. The woman was trim with a neat salon haircut, color, and curls, wearing a straight black dress and crisp white half jacket. Her lips were pressed in a red line, her arms crossed tightly at her waist. Francis thought that she must have been beautiful, once.

  The man glared at Francis through squinted eyes and said to him. “Julianna didn’t tell us she’d be bringing anyone.”

  Jo turned her eyes to the woman and said. “Hi Ma. This is my friend, Francis.”

  “Oh, ho! A friend,” her father retorted, clamping Francis roughly on the shoulder. “Maybe a Boy…Friend.”

  “Come. We need to get acquainted,” he commanded, leading the way to the buffet table, where after Francis piled a plate with Townhouse crackers, her father leaned over him and whispered at length.

  With the absence of her father, Jo’s mother became more animated.

  “Oh, Julianna. Just look at you,” she began.

  “Why do you insist on wearing that getup,” she sniffed. “You look like a farmer.”

  “For god sake, they had this catered. I still have a closetful of beautiful dresses in your bedroom at home,” then she added, “of course none of those would fit you now...”

  Jo interrupted the diatribe. “You look well, Mother,” and continued deliberately, “no visible bruises. Did he keep it to the rib cage, with the big bash coming up on the horizon?”

  Her mother hissed back. “Why do you have to be so hateful.”

  She whirled away, letting out a soft yelp, and clutched her midsection tighter.

  Jo leaned forward in her chair, and pleaded with the retreating back. “Oh Ma, I’m sorry!”

  Her mother wandered in search of a glass of white wine and Jo’s father.

  Jo whispered. “I didn’t know.”

  She chewed the inside of her left thumbnail and small vertical dents appeared to each side of her forehead.

  ***

  Afterwards, in the car, Francis’ face was drawn and, for once, his boundless energy drained.

  “Wow,” he said.

  They drove without speaking for a while.

  “That’s not okay,” Francis commented.

  After a minute, picking her words carefully, Jo confessed for the very first time. “You know, I have video tapes…”

  ***

  The following Sunday over coffee and chocolate milk at an outdoor café, Jo told Francis the story of the tapes. A few years back, Jo was minding the house for her parents who were away for a long weekend of leaf peeking in Connecticut. Jo came by each day to check on the cat and bring in the mail and newspapers. In the house, the heat had been turned down to 65 degrees, and though it was too warm for a jacket, Jo was cold without one. She went into her father’s dresser drawer to borrow a sweater. There, she found two video tapes labeled “Home Movies,” not dated, but with a small red “x” in the lower right hand corner. Jo thought it was strange. When she was growing up, they did have a movie camera. But, vacations and holidays were marked by increased drinking and a lot of yelling so most often the camera stayed forgotten in its carry case or set up, but turned off, in a tripod in one corner.

  Jo pushed one of the movies into the VCR player. A dizzying nausea hit her as one of the episodes flashed on the screen. She struggled for a moment to stay standing and gulped back warm saliva filling her mouth, preparing her to vomit.

  As she snapped off the television set, a single thought consumed her, “To this day that sick bastard is using me to jack off.”

  The realization set her heart pumping, filling her veins with blood and a rush of energy. She ransacked the house from attic to basement, emptying every box, dumping each drawer, searching any video tape sized space. She unearthed a total of six tapes, each one identically labeled, “Home Movies” with a red “x.” These she put aside. The rest of the video tapes, commercial or home-made, she smashed. The six movies she wrapped in three layers of grocery store plastic bags to transport them home. She bought a fireproof strong box and stored the movies under the floor boards in her living room. Perhaps she always known she would need them later.

  Not surprisingly, her parents never mentioned the incident, the state of the house upon the
ir return, or the missing tapes.

  After finishing their early afternoon breakfast at the café, Francis said, “I know someone.”

  ***

  He and Jo took a train downtown and met with a lawyer who seemed to be expecting them. He was a bear of a man with clear blue eyes that reminded Jo of a husky’s. He had salt and pepper hair that had started to gray when he was twenty and then froze half way through. Now in his 50s, there was still as much pepper as salt. He spoke slowly and emanated calm.

  He asked Jo. “How long? Best case.”

  She immediately replied. “119 years.”

  He said. “What about 19 without the possibility for parole? Nineteen would be no problem in a plea, with no trial, no jury and at his age and health he'll most likely come out in a box.”

  “You would not be required to participate in any way,” he added.

  Jo considered her options.

  “Fine,” she said.

  As promised, the proceedings were swift, and her father was sentenced to 19 years in the sex offender wing of a medium security prison.

  ***

  Three Sundays later, two days after receiving approval papers and instruction by mail, Jo and Francis made the first, weekly, three-hour drive up state. They drove down a long road to a large grey complex. At the end of one of the wings was a courtyard with a large paved area with several basketball hoops. Two layers of tall fences topped with razor wire about 20 feet apart surrounded the buildings and the courtyard. There was a third fence about 10 feet high that had an imposing, believable sign “Electric Fence. Do not touch” with the skull and crossbones symbol. Jo parked the car, asked Francis to wait there, and followed the signs marked “reception and visitors.”

  When Jo entered the visitors’ room, she saw prisoners talking in low voices to their guests. Most looked like wives, or girl friends, a few had children playing at their table. One man sat on the floor with a boy about two years old. She also saw there were several guards positioned around the room.