Sighing, Jeffrey said, “He was too involved in his own students’ lives rather than mine.” Sipping his lukewarm tea, he said, “The both of you were.”
Shrugging her shoulders, as if the topic had no meaning at all, desensitized from years of “raising” children, Mother, she said, “So, how are you doing?”
The whole time Jeffrey had been married, the relationship with his parents was nonexistent. That first meeting was the most quality talk they’d had in time without end. Jeffrey’s wife had encouraged him to call his folks regularly, saying that they should invite them over for dinner. Or tea. But there was never time.
Swallowing the rest of the peppermint tea, he said, “I’m moving forward every day.” Placing his teacup on the edge of the table, he reached for a napkin and patted his lips. A stained lip impression wetting the napkin’s surface made him smile. The lips reminded him of models who would apply a fresh coat of lipstick and then kiss a letter to their fans.
Jeffrey said, “I have no other choice but to move on.”
His mother, finishing her glass of water, said, “It was a shame what happened to her.”
The truth was that Her death had brought Jeffrey closer to his mother again. And even though they still did not have the relationship that She had wanted for her husband, Jeffrey and Mother were not miles away any longer.
The voice of silver lining reason, it said, “Let’s keep on keeping on.”
Now the question became, did dressing up like a cheerleader doll constitute “having a daughter”?
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Continuing through the corridor of the house, the phone rang. Enduring the march ahead, the message through the machine said, “Hi, honey. Thought maybe you’d like to talk.” Then a beep. The emptiness of the house was iridescently scary. Feeling alone in the oversized dwelling, the setting was both eerie and serene at the same time.
Turning the corner into the bedroom, dragging Emily through the doorway, Brittney kicked the door closed.
Tucked into bed, snug and under the covers, Brittney/Jeffrey’s second wind hit. Emily’s uniform and mask were in a pile on the floor as she slept curled up into a ball. With the mess of scattered clothing, Jeffrey’s body energized, he started to clean. Nobody should see the room in that state.
Kicking underwear under the bed, tossing shirts into dressers, the area slowly came together. Pulling out a broom and dustpan, sweeping around the corners of the room, the pan collected dirt and random flies’ corpses. Cleaning the room put Jeffrey at ease. Bringing it back to how She liked it was always the goal when he cleaned.
Moving around the house, the broom pushed up against the walls, the dust piling into little hills, the widower swept the entire perimeter. Combining the dirt together and brushing them into the dust pan, the filth led him down the staircase.
Each stair, and in between each spindle, was brushed until the debris disappeared into the pan. Working the brush around the main floor’s border, mountains of muck contained dirty piles of hair, random bobby pins, and earring backs from previous heists. Sweeping alone, the house’s appearance improved drastically.
A necklace swept out from underneath the love seat sparkled in the dirt. Stopping to pick it up, holding it up to the lamp’s glow, the charm glass locket blinded Jeffrey.
Blowing off the strands of hair and dust, he placed the necklet on the end table.
Stepping back, Jeffrey howled. “Ahh!” Lifting his foot behind him, an indent in his skin, Jeffrey scanned the floor to see the lost earring back from earlier. He cupped the back in his palm and then continued the task of cleaning the entire house before Emily woke up.
Once he finished with the sweeping, the floor’s coating appeared bland from the broom’s bristles. Grabbing a bucket and filling it with warm water and white vinegar, Jeffrey dropped in a mop to dampen it. Wringing it dry, the water drops playing a melody into the puddle, he stopped short.
Above him, the phone rang until the machine picked up. Jeffrey waited for a voice. “Hey there,” Lena’s disembodied voice said. “I just wanted to see if everything was OK.” There was a slight pause. Jeffrey, walking closer to the voice, heard the message continue. “Anyway, hope all is well. Call me if you want.”
A block away from Jeffrey’s house, sitting in her car in a gas station parking lot, Lena stared at the outgoing phone call to her friend. The call register blinked at thirty seconds, the duration of the call going to voicemail. Worried that William was right, she justified her action by relating her own experience with losing a spouse.
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After the truth hit Lena, her venture into the real world was challenging. Unable to find a job that paid enough to support her lifestyle, she phoned a financial advisor to talk about her options. Losing her husband was tough, but living through the aftermath was a harsher reality.
Waiting on tables for less than a meal’s tip, she could not afford the life she had built with her husband. Parts of her felt worthless for even letting her life get to that point. But, as the group leader of bereavement once told her, “Something drastic always has to happen for you to change your habits.” Lena just did not believe that her husband’s death was the drastic event looming around the corner.
Dropping her head down to her chest, dressed head to toe in cheerleading attire, she began to feel sorry for herself. Meeting Jeffrey had allowed her to move on. Jeffrey meeting William had allowed him to move on. They all needed each other to save themselves from being alone, being discarded again from the “normalcy” of society.
A cop tapping the car window with his knuckle startled Lena back to reality.
The green glow of the shelter above the gas pumps blinding her, she rolled down the window to address the officer.
The flashlight shining in her face, she squinted from the circle of light.
“Ma’am,” the police official said. “The gas station’s clerk called and wanted someone to check up on you.” Spinning the flashlight’s glow into the car’s interior, the officer leaned in closer to Lena.
His eyebrows lowering, his bottom lip dropping open, he said, “Are you wearing a cheerleader uniform?”
In the backseat were pom-poms. The accessories’ feathers fanned out like a peacock to show their full form. Stuffed into the space behind Lena’s seat, on the floor mat, were empty bags crumple stacked on top of each other.
Her eyes bulging, shifting rapidly left to right, Lena, quick thinking, said, “Yes. I coach cheerleading for a local high school squad that is competing in a national championship.”
The cop pulled his head back. The flashlight swirled around the automobile. Using the overhead alien glow as guidance, the police officer moved his head left to right to see into the car.
Channeling her inner cheerleader, Lena said, “Back to back champs.”
Eyebrows furrowing, the cop, waving the cheerleader out of the car, said, “Ma’am, please step out of the automobile.”
Stepping out of the car, Lena struck a pose.
Alarmed, the officer reached for his gun in its holster, ready for action.
Arranged to begin a routine, she put her finger up, signaling the public servant to wait. “Hang on,” she said. “Don’t shoot.”
Reaching for her pom-poms, her body half in the car, Lena grabbed the accessories and then slid back out. Standing erect, holding a pom-pom in each hand, she returned to form. Her legs spread, feet even with her waist, she raised one arm out. Stretching her closed fist out high, her other arm rested on her hip. Lena said, “This is known as the ‘go’ pose.”
Backing up slowly, one step at a time, the police officer stayed prepared, pointing the flashlight toward Lena while his free hand stayed close to his gun.
Inside the gas station, the clerk working the register watched the entire ordeal. He laughed behind the glass, jerking his head down and shaking his head at the sight.
The cop slowly craned his neck toward the lighted store window and then back toward the posing cheerer.
“Ready?” Lena said, body straightening, her arms falling to the side. “OK.”
Shaking the pom-poms in front of her, her arms straight and parallel to the pavement, Lena cheered. “Who’s the best squad in the whole wide world?” The peppy cheerer twisted her hips to the right. Her left leg kicked up. Her raised knee bending. Lena’s arms shot up into a high “V” and then fell back down to the front of her body. Holding the pom-poms stiff, the plastic feathers shook from the movement.
Pulling down her leg, returning to her body’s original “ready” pose, Lena screamed, “Bayside High! Bayside High!” She clapped in rhythm as she continued screaming, “Bayside High, Bayside High!”
With the police officer stunned back into his heels, Lena proceeded into a stretch of cheerleader poses she’d practiced with Jeffrey.
Pumped up, her adrenaline rushing, Lena did the low clasp, opposite the high “V” but with her hands clasped together pointing down toward the ground. Instead of the high “V” above her head, the position was mirrored, lowered below the waist.
Twisting her hips, Lena groaned from the sudden movement. Bending slightly, knees were soft. Lena’s one arm still in low clasp position, the opposite arm shot up high into the air. Lena, she said, “This is referred to the ‘K’ pose.”
In the store’s window behind her, the clerk pointed out toward Lena. His other hand was covering his mouth. He jumped up and down in excitement, his body recoiling inward at the same time.
Returning to low clasp position, instead of the low “V” to the concrete, she crossed her arms together. Breathing heavily, Lena said to the cop, “Do you know what this pose is called?”
Shrugging his shoulders, his mouth curling down into a frown, the police officer said, “It looks like you’re making an ‘X.’”
Lena jumped up into a scissor kick, her arms punching into the air. At the top of her leap, she said, “Ya-a-a-ay copper!” Landing, she returned to the low “X” position. The quick motion caused her to wince in pain. Even though she had practiced the cheerleader moves, doing them in rapid succession was a different animal.
The overaged cheerleader finished her demonstration with daggers, her two arms in ninety degree angles in front of her chest; and then touchdown, her arms straight up in the air like a football referee signaling a score.
She then went into a low inverted “V,” and then ended with the bucket pose, her legs spread out and straight, her one arm bent at the elbow as high as her chest and parallel to her shoulders, and her remaining arm extended out sideways, in line with her bent arm.
Statue-still, catching her breath, Lena stood tall, stiff as could be.
The cop, eying the laughing clerk and then turning his head back toward Lena, tucked the flashlight under his armpit and slow clapped.
A faint scream coming from the inside of the gas station filtered out into the parking lot. The clerk pushed a button, turning on the speaker above the gas pumps. He said, “That was awesome!” After the police officer’s slow clapping died to a halt, the clerk said, “But, please, there is no loitering.”
Before her legs could cramp, Lena softened her knees and slowly bowed to the officer.
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Trading in the Toyota Corolla for a Chevy Corvette was a long time coming. Even though the winters consisted of sub-zero weather and knee-high snow drifts, the sports car removed wrinkles from Jeffrey’s age. Gone were the perceptions of predictability, middle-age, and being safe.
Trading miles per gallon for speed wasn’t practical. It was a true sign of aging. Dying your hair when it turned white, shaving the gray out of your beard, there were always ways to look youthful.
The decision to unload the Corolla was challenging for Jeffrey. The gas-saving vehicle had always been reliable throughout the ever changing weather patterns that hit his area.
It had, after all, two rows of seats, the ability to seat five comfortably - six if there were children involved – and safety ratings and cost savings over the lifespan of the car. These were factors that Jeffrey couldn’t ignore. The reasons he opted for a Corolla to begin with.
The Corvette, though, had power and intense fast speed. With great cornering ability, the ‘Vette tested high on road tests. The luxury features and entertainment system were icing on Jeffrey’s proverbial cake.
The voice of cool reasoning said, “No. Brainer.”
Overall, the decision had nothing to do with features; rather, it had everything to do with Jeffrey working through the pain caused by his wife’s death. At least, this was how he justified the purchase.
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Looking out the window, the silver sports car was partially covered by shingles. Parked in front of the house for a random passerby to admire, the status gave Jeffrey strength. He felt on top of the world with the speedster, oftentimes driving the scenic route to and from work just to get more eyeballs on him.
For the inner voice, the status gave it a disembodied boner.
Jeffrey leaned in to see the glowing top of the automobile, a spotlight circle caused by the street light nearby. Sleep deprivation mocking him, his balance teetering back and forth, Jeffrey closed his eyes and dozed off in a standing position. His heart rate increased, and before he could fall into a deep coma sleep, Jeffrey jolted his eyes open. The burning of his eyes caused him to blink. Strained to the point they became itchy.
He slid into bed next to Emily, who had transitioned from her “passed out” stage to a “sleeping peacefully” phase. Since Her death, sleep was a limited resource waiting to be discovered. Hoping to capitalize on the short period of sleeping while standing, Jeffrey closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.
The problem was Jeffrey’s brain kept him awake. Every “what if?” scenario racing through his thoughts, he puzzled together situations that sometimes existed and sometimes were random figments of his imagination. Piecing together a logical explanation of why his wife could have died, Jeffrey often came up empty as the facts and fictions never became actual facts but instead stayed a conjoining mix of practical and make-believe ideas.
Tossing, turning, kicking the blanket off his legs, nights were spent staring at the ceiling. Hating Emily because she could sleep. Counting down each minute until sunrise.
Unable to go under, Jeffrey walked to the “his” of the “his & her” closets. With every inch of wood already swept, Jeffrey assessed the next situation. Drooping on one side of the walk-in was a row of button-down shirts organized by color. Hangers facing the same way, the front of the shirts closed, garments were held together by the top button. Whites, yellows, blues, and then greens, each dress shirt ironed straight; ready to be worn.
Opposite the shirts were slacks pinched by pant hanger clips. Dangling down the length of the inseams, the colors coordinated with their counterparts across the walk-in.
Over top of the rods, shelves spanned the closet. Shoes were in pairs, from dress to casual. Facing away from Jeffrey when he walked in, the heels were at his eye level. Also used as mini-storage, boxes stacked against the back wall. Jeffrey tapped the stack of boxes with his foot, forgetting momentarily what was inside them. When they slid away from him, he observed that they were empty.
Evaluating the apparel, sliding each shirt individually to the end of the rod, Jeffrey pulled down the articles considered outdated. Yanking shirts off the hangers, pulling pants from the clips, he tossed them behind. The rods now three quarters bare, the discarded attire was shaped like a volcano on the wood surface.
Feeling accomplished, Jeffrey stood above the pile of the throwaways. Beating his chest, one closed fist at a time as if he was a gorilla, he circled his lips around an invisible cigar and grunted out loud.
The noise apparently did not bother Emily, as her body remained in the same position that Jeffrey had dumped her in. The thumps on his chest getting louder, his grunts echoing off the walls, Jeffrey started to hop on one foot, alternating his legs until he developed a rhythm. Every other jum
p, his foot slid on rejected shirts from the closet. The stinging in his ankle reemerging, the childish cheerleader stopped the unnecessary bouncing.
Collecting the heap of fabric and depositing the clothing into the garbage can, excitement faded from the heist and impersonating a hairy beast. Tiredness became prevalent.
Jeffrey sighed deeply, sleep finally in his future. Climbing into bed, the morning coming soon, a car door slammed, startling him back alive.
His lower body underneath the covers, almost positioned in a resting position, Jeffrey mouthed the word, “Nooooo.” Dropping his head to his chest, closing his eyes sharply, he said, “I just want to sleep.”
Giving in to his curiosity, Jeffrey walked over to the window. Peeling back the curtain, his face half covered, Jeffrey stared through the tree, onto the lighted pavement.
Jeffrey saw the neighbor kid light a cigarette. The boy was standing around a rusted Pontiac Grand-Am. Laughing with a shorter boy, silhouetted by the lone street light, the neighbor’s shadow inhaled a drag and then released.
Their voices were low. Every third word was audible.
Watching from afar, Jeffrey saw the shorter boy fire up a bowl. Manmade from a crushed aluminum pop can, holes poked in the crushed portion of the can, a stash of pot burning over the holes, the pipe was made in a relatively short period of time.
The shorter boy sucked out the drug from the drinking spout. Deep into his lungs, the marijuana fried his insides. The drug sizzling on the can, he passed the Mountain Dew pipe to the neighbor kid.
The aroma of marijuana floated through Jeffrey’s bedroom windows. His eyes tightening, the pot gave Jeffrey a contact high. Closing his eyes, the teenagers’ voices were getting louder, clearer.
“Sweet ride!” the shorter boy said. The neighbor and friend walked over to the Corvette and stood around it, admiring the car’s splendor. “Check out the rims, Alex.” The shorter boy was kneeling before the rear wheel when Alex made the turn. Pot getting stronger, the shorter boy inhaled and then passed the bowl to Alex.
Drama Dolls: A Novel: [Dark, Suspenseful, Fast-paced, Exhilarating] Page 5
