There is a mom-and-pop grocery across the street, and Lorraine sends me for our usual—coffees, hot and black, the cups filled two-thirds from the brim, topped with the bottle from my coat. Apple juice for Beth. When I return, I see that a small crowd has gathered a short way from the gate, Lorraine and Beth the center of attention. A knot of adults mills close about, smiling; the children sense the festive mood and dart wildly among the thicket of legs. I find a bench with a good vantage point, sit down and light a cigarette, remove the lid from my coffee.
Lorraine is bent forward in her chair, finger wagging, locked in argument with Claudell’s sister, Claudeen. Claudeen is six feet tall, well over two hundred pounds, and she stands with hands on hips as she talks over Lorraine’s every remark. She is all the more intimidating for her tremendous red coat, red polka dot scarf and matching sunglasses, yet the old woman seems to hold her own. Beth stands beside her, a protective hand laid to Lorraine’s arm, coaxing her to sit back into her chair. When Lorraine shrugs her off, Beth scans the park until she finds me on the bench. I wave. Smile. Take a sip of coffee.
A young man in a wheelchair rolls himself out from the crowd, straight to Beth, and he tugs at the sleeve of her jacket. It is Ray, the father of Claudeen’s children. He was shot in the street a few years ago, his legs paralyzed when one of the bullets severed his spine. Though the young man has withered severely from the waist down, he has the tremendous arms and torso of a tireless body builder; he wears the thinnest of T-shirts, making light of the cold, and his muscles heave and roll with every movement of his limbs. Ray looks Beth up and down, then smiles and points to me, a front tooth glittering gold in his black, freckled face. He takes Beth’s hand and presses something into her palm.
Lorraine sits back in her chair, patting Beth’s hand, inclining her head in the direction of my bench. Beth hesitates and glances back. As I crook my finger for her to come over, Ray nudges her aside, pushing his chair against Lorraine’s, clanking them wheel to wheel; Lorraine digs in her purse, hands him her lighter so he may light their cigarettes.
Beth strides towards me, shoulders hunched and arms folded across her chest. When she reaches the bench, she sits and crosses her legs; sliding close, she offers the three packs of cigarettes Ray has given her. Her face is pinched and intense, the toe of her loafer taps urgently on the air.
“You will not believe what your mother …!” she begins.
I dig into the sack from the grocery and remove three of the packs I have just purchased. Taking Beth’s, I clamp them together with mine, holding all six above my head so that Claudeen may see. She nods and kicks the wheel of Ray’s chair, and he pushes away from Lorraine, slipping on his gloves as he prepares to take a practice spin along the fence. The onlookers laugh and clap and move to the water fountain, the traditional finish line.
Beth is incredulous. “This is insane. You cannot allow that sick old woman …”
“Allow? You try and stop her. Hell, I’m just the bag man here.” I smile and squeeze her arm. “She’ll be fine,” I say, seeing the worry in her face. “They always make a big production, but it’s all in fun. If Lorraine picks someone to push her who looks like they’ve half a chance, Claudeen will pitch a bitch and insist on a one-pack bet. If she thinks Ray’s a lock, then she holds out for two, maybe even three packs. They love the argument more than the race.”
Beth sighs and bites her lip.
“Christ, Beth,” I smile. “She picked you? I had no idea. Truly. You don’t have to.”
Lorraine turns in her chair and waves impatiently.
“Right,” Beth says.
Claudeen paces off a short, straight course, kicking rocks and debris to the side. It will be a measured sprint in which she makes sure that Ray’s meaty arms hold the advantage. In two years, Ray has managed to lose only three or four times—I suspect solely for Lorraine’s benefit.
But today there is an accident. As Claudeen starts them off, Ray catches a glove in his wheel so his chair tips sharply, throwing him hard to the ground. He lies on his back, unhurt, laughing and slapping at Claudeen’s efforts as she squats over his head, trying to lift him under the arms and drag him back into his chair. Beth would go to her aid, but Lorraine grabs her wrist and jabs frantically toward the water fountain. Ray lifts his head and, to the shrieking delight of Claudeen’s friends, peeks around one of her enormous thighs and motions for Beth to go ahead.
Lorraine is in her glory as Beth circles the fountain, and she insists that Beth push her in a victory lap about the park. Beth’s face is flushed and sweaty, her eyes shining with both embarrassment and pleasure. Lorraine motions for her to lean close, and she whispers into her ear. As the two women pass in front of my bench, they slow and blow kisses like princesses on parade.
“No fair, Mom!” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. “It doesn’t count if you knock the poor guy down!”
Lorraine thumbs her nose.
“Counts!” she crows, breathing hard, her face lit with excitement. “Hell if it don’t!” She laughs and slaps playfully in my direction.
It has been long years since I have heard this sound from her. That way-down-in-her-guts, give-life-the-finger-laugh. She looks back at me over her shoulder, her face soft as a mother’s.
It is good to see us here. Like this.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Walden Fellowship for the gift of writer’s paradise.
The indispensable guidance of Elizabeth Udall, mentor and friend.
Pacific Northwest Writers Association.
Martha Bair. Richard Burman, night school University of Washington. Kim Jacobs, Kaaren Mills, Jane Simonsen, Jennifer Arnold, and all those friends who read the early stuff and still believed.
The work of Judith Shepard, Editor.
Martin and Judith Shepard, The Permanent Press, for publishing those books they love to read.
And, especially, for the stubborn belief of my agent, Carolyn Swayze, to see this book come to print.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Michael Sheridan
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2836-3
The Permanent Press
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