Spin the Plate Short Story

by Donna Anastasi

  Her father arrived into the room accompanied by another guard. He walked over, alone, and, without sitting down, lit into her in a low whisper, with a tirade of accusations.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “You little ingrate.”

  “Just look what you’ve done.”

  “This is all your fault.”

  “No,” she cut in, noting in her peripheral vision that at least one guard was starting to stir.

  Then, speaking slowly and deliberately, like a teacher repeating a concept just beyond the grasp of a dull school boy she informed him. “This is completely your own fault.”

  “You are in prison,” she explained to him, “for breaking the law. Child rape is illegal. People who do this, especially people stupid enough to film it, go to jail.”

  “For god sake, shut up!” he whispered back. “People in here don’t take well to hearing the specifics.”

  ***

  From then on, during her weekly visits, the two stuck to a script.

  He’d say. “It’s chilly (or, with the changing season, snowy or rainy or a little hot) today.”

  She’d say. “Yeah.”

  He’d say. “How’s your mother?”

  She’d reply. “Fine, I guess. I haven’t talked to her.”

  At this point he’d lament. Jo would pass the time by categorizing the complaints in her head and cataloging them by number. After a three complaint combo (later she’d tell Francis it was, say, “a 27-2-11 today”), Jo would stand up and say, “I’ve got to go.”

  At this point he’d confirm. “I got the deck of cards,” and then ask for something else. “Hey, would you mail me some warm socks.”

  “We all want things,” she’d say and be gone.

  ***

  She and Francis never spoke much on the drive there, except for a brief interchange once they were outside the city with Jo insisting to pay to fill-up the tank with gas. Francis protested, once to the point, where she pulled over and threatened to go by bus. Jo suspected a tank of gas would cost all the money Francis had to his name, a suspicion confirmed by the fact that when he picked her up each week the remaining quarter tank of gas was used and the car was running on empty.

  Between 20-25 minutes after arriving at the prison, Jo and Francis would turn back for the city. And, with Jo no longer tense and distracted, Francis would start up with, “Did I ever tell you the about…” Visiting her father drained Jo. Francis drove on the way back, and Jo closed her eyes and listened as he told his tales. Francis’ favorite themes were wealth and power and their use and misuse.

  “Did you read the latest Mitchem novel?” he began, even though she’d told him before the last book she’d read was in high school English.

  “The premise is that the obscenely rich can purchase anything at all. Taking it to the extreme, some of the wealthiest people in the world have extended their life span to almost double the normal human lifetime. They used to buy up teenaged children from places like Sierra Leone to harvest their organs, but now, if you can finance it, you can make as many exact genetic matches as you want. These clones are lobotomized from birth to make the caretaking more manageable and to make a direct transfer from a live donor possible. Of course, I wouldn’t do anything like that myself. I’ll take my 70-90 on earth and then take my chances with the After.”

  Jo liked to listen to Francis go on. His voice rose and fell increasing in speed and animation.

  “So in this story, privacy is another commodity that, with a little ingenuity, can be purchased. Limited layers is the key to privacy. That, and the right people in the right roles and responsibilities. Also, adaptation so that any loss in the structure triggers a pre-planned and immediate restructure to the network. Only the puppet master, who in a wealthy family is transitioned from parent to child, understands the entire network or even that there is a network beyond the layer below and above. One key unit is the front man, usually an actor. Reagan is one of the most obvious and famous example. But it doesn’t pay to go so high profile. A better pick would be say a budding community theatre actor, a high school student in his sophomore year, typically the class president to groom into the position. He knows nothing of the identity of the puppet master as there is a layer separating him; he, of course, doesn’t even realize how many layers exist. The puppet master has the final word on all his major decisions. He writes the front-man’s speeches too−though they come out sounding much better after a few rounds with editors and in the puppet’s booming voice. Extreme charisma and public appeal, rare characteristics to begin with, don’t seem to be traits inherent to those who are truly gifted and exceptionally skilled in politics or philanthropy. Or perhaps those other-directed tendencies atrophy over time with the adoration and acolytes of the masses.”

  Basking in the comfort of the car heater, her mind occupied by Francis’ endless stories, Jo felt tension she didn’t realize had been gripping her slip away. She relaxed into the car seat for the long ride home.

  ***

  As it turned out, the prison sentence was not nearly as long as anticipated. After eight months, Jo’s father was diagnosed in the prison infirmary with inoperable stomach cancer. Three weeks later, he was dead. And, unexpectedly, a month later, Jo’s mother died as well.

  According to family folklore the woman had became distraught after the death of her husband, and, disinterested in living, had stopped eating. In truth, both Jo’s mother’s emaciation and eventual death were a direct result of living alone for several months without anyone to lock up the liquor cabinet.

  ***

  Now, on Sundays a new routine emerged. Francis arrived to Jo’s place early, at about 11am. Jo was still in her night shirt. Nothing was rushed. Sunday morning jazz played on the radio, and Francis made coffee and banana-apple pancakes, omelet burritos, multi-grain toast, and bacon or breakfast sausage links for Jo. Using jelly jar lids, he would fix a plate for each of the rats and arrange them one to every corner of the cage, so that the each rat could face his back to the others, sit up on his haunches, and enjoy a meal to himself without fear of being accosted by a brother rat.

  Francis came brimming with stories, ideas, and questions. He seemed to store them up the whole week and then spill them out during their Sunday together. Newspaper stories and political novels were his passion. Not the kidnap, murder, death, destruction, sports or finance pieces, but those about compassion and hope for the desolate or forgotten. He’d launch into a new story with a “Have you heard…” and of course she hadn’t. Jo didn’t own a television and found nothing of personal relevance to persuade her to part with $1.50 for the daily paper.

  Francis was a good narrator. He had a commitment to the story and told it with passion. There was urgency to his voice.

  “Anyway, these women in Sierra Leone, if they only had a bit of funding could completely turn around not just their own lives, but their families’, and the whole village. This one program is called ‘Give a Little.’ It gives these woman some seed money, just enough for a small herd of pygmy goats and a fence or a sewing machine and some material. Then, they use the profits to buy more goats or more material. A twist to ‘Give a Little’ is that the receiver is asked to give back whatever they were given initially, so they provide someone else the first batch of kids, you know baby goats, to start their own little herd. Or a woman with a sewing machine is asked to time-share until another earns enough to get her own machine. The whole process is tracked on a wooden map in the center of the village, using colors and symbols, so a woman can see how her herd has propagated to the other families, throughout the village, even beyond their village to a neighboring one. The intense poverty is not the biggest problem facing this country, you know; it is the despair that comes with utter hopelessness knowing full well that there is no way out. When these women see their impact, they become empowered. Some even to pursue formal education for a son or daughter.”

  Francis poured the beaten egg mixture into the skillet, grating fre
sh parmesan on top and warming a tortilla in a second skillet.

  “Once these techniques have been piloted and proven, a new initiative will kick off to draw the richer countries, more specifically US citizens, into the lives and plight of the peoples of the third world. With technology and the internet, the world is shrinking, Jo.”

  He brought the plates over to the table and sat down with Jo. After the initial round of eating, Jo lingered over coffee and picked at a second stack of pancakes.

  Francis said to her. “Tell me something.”

  “What is there to tell?” she replied with a shrug, “every day is pretty much the same; it runs into one long day.”

  But the eagerness with which Francis drank in even the smallest tidbit of news encouraged her to say more. Over time, her stories became almost as long as his with the sights, sounds, and characters of the nigh−characters he’d never met and places he’d never been, never read about in the paper or in a drug store novel. She’d get caught up in reliving sketching the first, always her favorite, layer of an especially beautiful tattoo mural across someone’s back, telling him the motivation for the tattoo, her inspiration, the symbols, the colors, the lines, the curves taking almost as long to tell as it had to ink the tattoo. Or, the progress she was making with an animal she’d picked up at the shelter destined for death row with a sentence like “food aggressive,” “not good with kids,” or simply “large, black dog.” Sometimes she’d almost forget he was there. As much of a talker as he was himself, Francis listened with complete concentration and utter silence.

  After breakfast Jo always insisted. “Leave the dishes, I’ll do them tonight.”

  But the telltale Mount Dishes that awaited him each Sunday indicated otherwise

  “I never get to do any of this for myself,” he joked. “You know I like my peanut butter and apples raw and served on a paper plate.”

  While Francis washed the pans and dishes, Jo looked through the “Local” section of the paper that Francis had brought for something for them to do. She’d learned not to find anything that cost money. Francis insisted on paying, and she always got the distinct feeling that he’d have to go without for the rest of the week as a result. Once they decided on an outing, they’d head off for the afternoon to the dog park, a street fair, window shopping, or to explore some obscure hobby, show, or collectables.

  ***

  Back at the apartment, they would wrestle with Rufus, teach Ben a new trick, or play with the rats. Locking dogs in the bathroom first, Jo would let the rats run. Muzzy had a special affection for Francis, which Jo secretly thought was due to his peanut butter breath. In any case, as soon as Francis sat, Muzzy crawled up on his chest, curling his head into the nook of Francis’ neck, grinding his teeth in contentment, as Francis rubbed the rat’s tiny jaw line and around his velvety ears. After a time, Muzzy inched his way up toward Francis’ face. He liked to give Francis kisses, his soft, dry tongue tickling Francis’ lips, and, if not dissuaded, would take it to the next level to pry open his mouth and floss out particles between his teeth.

  “Jo...” Francis pleaded.

  Jo dislodged the rat’s head from within Francis’ mouth and scooped him up tickling the small creature and blowing raspberries on his belly, until he spun away, energized for a surprise attack on one of the other rats.

  Jo reclined in the comfortable chair or lay down on the rug and read the comics. It would all start out rather innocuously, as Francis said, “Do you mind if I…” “brush your hair” or “massage your shoulders” or “rub your feet,” followed by an increasingly sensual experience: raking her scalp with a metal comb, giving soft biting, gentle kisses in between the fingers, kneading her neck or making long scratches all the way down her back.

  The first time, she stiffened at his touch. But soon relaxed as she realized she could send him flying across the room with one smack. And, if all else failed, there was always the gun handy. So, she let him continue. She found he had a good instinct for her likes as well as a talent for reading her reaction to his touch. She developed a silent code to speed along the learning. Communicating in black jack signals, Jo would tap (more) or rub (pass) the arm of her chair. After Jo had fallen into a deep relaxation under his touch, Francis ran a hot water in the tub, placing bubble bath, bath beads, or oils and always lighting a candle in the same or complimentary scent. As she lowered herself into the steaming water, he let himself out the door.

  ***

  One Sunday evening Jo reclined in her chair with Ben stretched on top of her, his head resting on her shoulder and body laid across her chest with his tail curled beneath him in her lap. The dog sighed in contentment; it was a new experience, one they both found enjoyable, for Jo to be awake and still.

  Jo was preoccupied and mildly amused listening to Francis, perched next to her on the wide arm of the chair, absorbed in working out a knotty theological issue. For Francis, theology, rather than being a set of facts to be memorized and then vehemently defended, was more of an intellectual and spiritual video game. Reaching one level of enlightenment excited him briefly, but ultimately only increased his hunger for the next. He liked to work through his ideas aloud. Jo listened to his religious talk without the typical response: a glazed over look, forced politeness, or outright hostility. Void of any religious training or preconceptions and because she had no agenda or stake in the outcome, she came at it from a new angle that was refreshingly direct.

  Francis was saying, “So, yeah, the switch occurred between old and new testament. Around the time of Job, God gets this idea, or probably we just evolved enough to get the idea He always had. In either case, Job represents the test case of how things are going to be from now on. God has always been excruciatingly slow, at least by our sense of time, to responding to the pain, suffering, and crying out of His people. But least in ancient times, suffering was a direct result of disobeying God. In that sense, people deserved what they got. With Job, on the other hand, God allowed a lot of crap to happen for no apparent reason, no fault of his own.”

  “The bright spot in this is that He uses the crap that happens to us or is done to us for something good; He turns it all around, spins the plate. No longer is it an eye for eye or follow the rules and get a blessing. The way He explains it with Job is pretty basic. Job loses everything: belongings, livestock, servants, children, wives, his own health. Then, through Job’s steadfast faithfulness, all is restored, plus more.”

  Francis glanced over at Jo and added. “Yeah, those were the good old days. When you could trade in a wife. You know, upgrade.”

  Jo reached over and smacked him.

  “Ow,” he protested, grinning.

  “But seriously, the message here has to do with suffering and sacrifice with a purpose, namely giving up something for greater gain. Sacrifice used to mean giving up a pigeon or a goat and gain was prospering in health and wealth. Now the stakes are upped. Jesus demonstrated the ultimate sacrifice of His own life with a hefty amount of suffering leading up to His death. The gain in His case was creating a door or entryway for salvation of the people. Eleven of His twelve apostles followed suit suffering a variety of awful martyring with similar treatments of saints through the ages.”

  Francis considered Jo for a moment.

  “What about you? Your father molested you; you mother allowed it; your teachers looked the other way. But yet, as completely abominable and inexcusable, if all of that had not been so, would you be who you are today? God seems to grant powers to survivors not possessed by those cruising through life. Perhaps with you it is a longing to rescue and fearlessness of the night and just about anything or anyone else. There is a great power within that combination.”

  Francis paused, then said softly. “God loves you, you know.”

  Jo chortled without amusement, “No. Obviously God does not love me. How could He claim to and then just let all that happen? Where was He? What was His role? What is He anyways, some sort of superhero on standby?”
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br />   Francis did not answer right away, he looked sad and troubled.

  He finally spoke. “I would never question His judgment, after all He is God. But between you and me, His policy of extending ‘free will’ to everyone seems like a pretty crappy one. So why didn’t He reach down from Heaven, scoop you up in his arms, and smite your parents on the spot? Inflict your teachers with boils or frogs?”

  Francis fell silent again. “I don’t know why. If I were God with all that power at my finger tips, there would be a lot more smiting. God works in a different way. I guess I just don’t know why. Why don’t you ask Him yourself? And, listen. Maybe you’ll get an answer. Or maybe just peace knowing He’s in charge and He’s got it all figured out.”

  Francis suddenly leapt to feet and began pacing. “What about this.”

  Rufus raced over to join him. Francis didn’t seem to notice the giant dog leaping at his side as he traversed the room in a walk so fast it was almost at a jog.

  Francis said excitedly. “Think about it. Suffering, Sacrifice, Gain. Childbirth is a good example. When a woman has a baby, it is the painful labor that produces complete joy. She doesn’t care about the pain or at least accepts it. Some women go through labor again, birthing another child, knowing clearly that the pain is for purpose, reason, an end result. People hold as an expectation, but with no foundation at all, that God will give His people an easy, pain-free life. It seems to be just the opposite. Many people who reject God are the ones living cushy lives. Those who choose to serve may go through pretty horrific experiences. Clearly belonging to God doesn’t mean living pain-free. But think about it. The pain can lead to a good, joyful outcome. Maybe it is even necessary.”

  Francis went to Jo, knelt beside her chair, and, holding back Rufus with one hand, took Jo’s hand in the other. He searched her eyes.

  “I have a question. What if you could sacrifice your own childhood so that others might have theirs. Would you do it?”