Nevertheless, She Persisted

by Mindy Klasky

  “Oh now, it’s not so bad as that,” Milly said, hiding her dismay.

  “Or maybe I’ll die,” Frank went on, set on wringing the worst out of the situation. “Quit being a burden to you.”

  “Now, dear.” They had been married for 37 years now, and Milly could not imagine life without Frank. She would never say so, however, and Frank would have been stunned if she did. Instead she said, “A nice tuna fish casserole, that’s what you need.”

  After dinner they watched TV as they always did, their favorite fuddy-duddy cable channel that didn’t show people being violent or wearing too few clothes. Frank sat in the Barcalounger with his bad leg propped high. Milly’s armchair was surrounded by baskets, bags, and boxes of yarn. If she kept at it, she could finish this beanie sweater before bedtime.

  Frank always had a standard complaint for each of their shows, and he didn’t miss today. “Lookit that Dick van Dyke,” he groused. “His legs are good, and he’s older’n me!”

  “He’s an actor,” Milly said, placatingly. “Now you hush, so you don’t miss any of Diagnosis Murder.”

  “I miss Laura Petrie,” Frank said, another perennial comment.

  But the leg was evidently giving Frank no peace. He adjusted the angle of the recliner, shifted his bulk, all without relief. “I could take that bracelet off,” Milly offered. “Maybe it’s cutting off your circulation.”

  “That Joel, I don’t know why I listen to him.” Frank hitched up his pants cuff for her. “Him and his wacky ideas.”

  “Now that’s what I always say.” Milly unclasped the heavy copper chain-link bracelet from around Frank’s puffy pale ankle. “Your toes are so cold—do you think a nice pair of socks would help? No? Well, an afghan, then.” Milly took the big crocheted afghan off the end of the sofa, dislodging the two cats, and draped it over Frank’s legs and feet. She sat down and stared intently at Dick van Dyke on the screen. If Frank would get interested in the crime Dr. Sloan was solving, and let the afghan do its job…

  But as soon as the commercial came on, Frank restlessly kicked the afghan away. “Too many holes in this damn thing,” he grumped. “No warmth in it. You think it’s time for my pills?”

  Frustrated, Milly went on her lunch hour the next day to another local yarn store. “I just don’t understand it,” she told the owner. “You would think that Frank wasn’t half so boneheaded as a drug addict.”

  “We always put all we love into everything we make,” Mrs. Fitzsimmons said. “Maybe you just haven’t hit on the right thing for Frank. Do you think he’d wear some nice felted slippers?”

  Milly bought the pattern, but no yarn. “I have some nice grayish-blue worsted that he’d put up with,” she said.

  “Well, take this instead, for the baby blankies.” She passed over a bag of odd balls of yarn.

  Milly went back to work and began knitting the slippers with the gray yarn she had bought yesterday. Only then did she notice the label—this was a machine-washable yarn, which meant it wouldn’t felt. She had to unravel it all. Disgusted, she cast on for a bear sweater with it instead.

  Then she had a phone call from Frank. He hardly ever phoned her at the mall. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m having coffee with the guys.” In the background she could hear the bustle and noise of McDonald’s—the old guys’ favorite afternoon hangout. Frank rode there every day in his motorized wheelchair. “Joel told me about this new thing, he saw it on TV, on the Home Shopping Network. It’s sure to help the leg.”

  Milly was wary. “What?”

  “Buckwheat,” he said in triumph. “A buckwheat pillow. You microwave it, and it gives off this moist heat, you know what I mean?”

  He sounded so excited and hopeful, Milly hated to pour cold water on the idea. “Well, I guess I could go over Penney’s and see if they have one.”

  “Bring it home tonight, and I’ll try it out.”

  He hung up. Milly sighed and took up her knitting again. If only, she thought sadly, he’d give up on the nostrums and stupid quack cures, and wear a nice knitted legwarmer or sock on the bad leg! Still, when it was time for her break she went over to one of the mall stores and bought a long sausage-shaped buckwheat pillow for him.

  Once again the homeward traffic was dreadful. She was never going to be able to make her left turn. The Methodist church had changed their signboard again, to read “Because of their unbelief He could do no great works.” How come the Methodists never put up a plain sentence? The light turned green, but the cars ahead didn’t move, so Milly had time to puzzle over it.

  Unbelief could prevent great works… Of course Frank didn’t believe in the power of knitting and crochet, but then Milly had never tried to explain. There was no point. To Frank these were all women things, uninteresting by definition. But the dogs and the cats in the animal shelter didn’t believe either, and neither did the children who received sweater-clad toys. Yet these innocents could access the benefits Milly offered. What was Frank not doing or believing, that he couldn’t?

  The light turned red. Somebody back in traffic began to honk their horn. Obviously nobody was going anywhere for a while. Milly reached for her knitting bag and began to knit on the gray merino tube that would become a bear sweater. She didn’t have to look at her fingers while she worked, so she’d be ready if traffic began to move.

  The old fool, how can he be so gullible about that Joel and his ideas? A different cure every week… Well, now there was a thought. Whatever else you could say about Frank, he really did believe in Joel’s suggestions. Suppose she gave up on combating those notions? Would it be possible to sort of piggyback her work onto some of this quackery?

  The light turned green, and the cars began to move. Milly gunned the Chrysler’s engine and zipped through her left turn before the oncoming traffic could cut her off. How big was this silly buckwheat pillow anyway? She had a tape measure at home…

  After dinner when they settled down in front of the TV she was ready. Frank had read every word of the label on the buckwheat pillow, and supervised her closely while she ran the thing through the microwave for two minutes on high. He leaned back in his Barcalounger and she laid the limp crunchy pillow over his ankle and lower leg. “Does it feel okay?”

  “Kind of precarious, you know? But nice ’n’ warm.”

  “It might be better to have something to lay over it, and keep the heat in,” she suggested. “Maybe something like a rubber band or tube, to hold it snug to your leg.”

  “Could be.” He clicked the remote.

  She pretended to watch the commercial for a moment. “I have part of a bear sweater here—it’s about the right width. Suppose you try if that feels okay.”

  He made no objection, so she slid the tube of knitting over his ankle and up over pillow and leg together. Every stitch of this soft gray-blue merino had been lovingly set with Frank in mind. If this failed, it was hopeless. Their favorite doctor drama was just beginning, so she sat down, waiting for his standard comment.

  To her surprise, however, after five minutes he said, “You know, that Joel, I think he’s hit it on the head this time.”

  “Does it really feel better?”

  “It feels great!” He grinned at her, quite in the old way.

  “Well, that’s so nice!” She dropped the latest knitting, a snugglie, into the nearest workbasket so she could hold hands with Frank. To give Joel all the credit for the improvement bothered her not at all. As long as her knitting could slide in under the radar of a buckwheat pillow, Frank would continue to get better. The success quite made her heart pound. She’d finally gotten a handle on this, the most intractable difficulty of her life. There was nothing beyond her now! Who else did she know, who could use some knitted love?

  Luckily, Frank brought her down to earth with his standard complaint about the show. “Chicago Hope went down the drain after Mandy Patinkin left,” he said as he always did.

  “Yes, I miss that Dr. Geiger.�
�� On the screen the doctors yelled, “Stat!” and ran to the ER; this wasn’t one of the good episodes. From the edge of her eye Milly considered one of the unsaleables. Red, white, and blue looked fine in the skein but would surely knit up into a mess. What was the zip code for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Everybody probably sent mail there, and the Post Office would deliver without one…

  Den of Iniquity

  Irene Radford

  Since mankind first started recording such things, it has been a universal truth that taverns, bars, brew houses, etc. are all dens of iniquity. They promote drunkenness, irresponsibility, brawls, prostitution, and any number of other sins.

  They are also necessary. People need places to gather to exchange news (gossip), to meet friends (or lovers, paid or otherwise), and relax (become lazy). Pick your argument, for or against, and someone will argue with you.

  But there is one Den of Iniquity that has become quite essential in the continuation of humanity. My Den of Iniquity. At least that’s what the sign reads on the little placard by the side of the road, precisely three feet outside of town. Whichever town, wherever I need to set up shop to fill a need, I respect the town’s boundaries, and jurisdiction. Therefore any problems with my little establishment are mine and not the town’s. And my name is Lilith—Lily to my friends, which are legion. I cook and run the place. We don’t offer much, basic pub grub of fish and chips or hamburgers and fries with doughnuts or pies on the side. The crude cabin with extensive outbuildings—updated equipment as required or desired—has been at this location for as long as anyone cares to remember, or recordkeeping has bothered to keep track.

  Raphe performs daily miracles as my brewmaster. Gabe tends bar and acts as the local psychologist. Ariel waits tables with near-innocent grace and charm. And Michael, lovely, lovely, big Mike keeps rowdy patrons from becoming too rowdy.

  Mike’s usual station is in front of the hearth. He’s been known to divert a suicide or two from throwing themselves into the flames. Actually the fireplace is one of the major draws to my little tavern. It looks like sculpted plaster in the shape of a demon head with the open mouth framing the fireplace. It has a Nordic feel to it. Remember the Vikings? Kind of bloodthirsty. That’s where that particular demon came from. Interior decorators and movie producers love it.

  As I thought that, Willy Frost jumped up from the bench he straddled beside a round table toward the back of the room. “Take that back, you lying, cheating iguana!”

  Willy is the town plumber and he once found an iguana, escaped from its terrarium, curled up behind the water heater of the mayor’s house. The reptile had made a nest of house insulation and proceeded to chomp on wires and such, leaving the mayor to cold showers. Ever since, Willy used the word “iguana” any chance he got.

  “You stole my 3/8ths socket wrench, and that’s a fact!” replied Johnny the auto mechanic.

  “Then how come your wife found it in her make-up case an hour later?” Willy returned.

  “Because you put it there!” Johnny accused.

  Willy threw a lopsided punch across the table and stumbled.

  Johnny pushed his bench backward, awkwardly. He wasn’t quite as drunk as Willy and had better reaction time.

  Big Mike by the demon hearth loosened his billy club and took a wary stance as Johnny’s fist connected with Willy’s jaw.

  I slammed a rolling pin on the bar. Most of the patrons looked up and silenced their babble.

  Willy and Johnny paid me no heed as they wrestled into the open space between their table and the hearth. They wobbled and reeled inevitably toward the demon mouth. The flames flared high, eager for new sinners to fall to their doom.

  My heart leapt to my throat. My aging minivan needed a tune-up, and the sink trap in my bathroom showed signs of clogging. If either one of these men gave way to their baser natures, I’d have to fix the blame things myself.

  Mike saved the day, again. He pushed his way between the two combatants and held them apart with a firm grip on the collars of their shirts. They continued swinging blindly without connecting until Mike stepped on toes. I heard bones crunch. That shifted their self-absorption from destroying a good friend to nursing hurts. Gabe called their wives to retrieve them.

  Just another normal night at the Den of Iniquity.

  Or was it? The winter solstice had passed three days ago, the crowd was loud, singing seasonal music in a raucous and off-key competition. They swayed in unison in their seats, danced wildly, or banged their tankards—I use pewter vessels, some old enough to be considered antique, with newer replacements as necessary. Gabe loves washing them and polishing them with a pristine white towel as he listens to problems and dispenses advice.

  Right now the mayor poured out his campaign woes into Gabe’s receptive ear. Come the equinox he faced some stiff competition in his election campaign. He also needed about a dozen hefty “donations” from the bar to offset what a local church was raising to run a candidate against him.

  If the world knew where the donation came from, it wouldn’t help his cause.

  “Six more specials,” Ariel said, slamming her serving tray on the bar to pry Gabe’s attention away from the mayor.

  Gabe nodded and smiled, threw his inevitable towel over his shoulder, and drew the beer from the tap, never once taking his eyes off the mayor who kept prattling on between longer and longer quaffs of his unspecial ale.

  Ariel looked a little frazzled, her blond hair drooping into her eyes and tendrils escaping her French twist. The diamond-encrusted gold comb that kept it all in place failed miserably in its job tonight. A sure sign that something strange lingered around the edges of our domain.

  I checked the fireplace. The demon eyes glowed red.

  Big Mike stood stalwart again in front of the low hearth, feet braced apart, arms crossed over his chest. Easier to move a mountain than him when he was in a mood. And he was in a mood after ejecting Willy and Johnny into a snowbank as their wives drove up to claim them.

  His white duds nearly pulsed in their radiant glow. Of all my comrades-in-arms, he alone kept his whites clean and pristine. Gabe’s were perpetually stained by spilled beer, likewise Ariel’s and Raphe’s. I always wore red that didn’t show much of the grease and batter I dealt with all day every day.

  The front door opened, with a tinkling of silver bells. All eyes turned toward the glittery figure of a stunning blonde with cherubic cheeks. Snow dusted her hair and shoulders. She carried a fat portfolio.

  “Hi, Angela Halleule,” I called from the kitchen pass-through.

  She draped her pink wool coat over a barstool and sidled onto another, then planted her papers on the bar. A company logo sprawled over the cover. It looked very official.

  “Who are you tonight?” Gabe asked in a stage whisper that reached all the way to the depths of my kitchen.

  “I’m a private investigator over in the city, and I’m looking for this guy.” She opened the portfolio to reveal a mug shot of a scrawny man with a permanent five o’clock shadow.

  I shook my head. So did Gabe and Ariel. “Can’t say I’ve seen him around,” I said.

  Angela heaved a sigh, and even Mike spared a glance in the direction of her chest.

  “Why are you looking?” I asked.

  “He missed his parole hearing, and his family is very worried. They say that he’s seen the light and is trying to rebuild his life after running over a child while drunk.

  “Well, if he was going to stray, this is the place he’d come to. But I haven’t seen him.” I motioned for Mike to desert his post to examine the photo. “Did the child live?” I asked. That might make a difference in the direction the man in question fled.

  “Unfortunately, no.” Angela closed her eyes, and her lips moved as if reciting a prayer for the departed.

  Mike’s eyes widened in recognition. But he said, “No. He’s not been around here lately.”

  Angela opened her eyes, but not in time to see Mike’s reaction. “What about her?”
Another photo, this one of a smiling teenager with an infant in her arms. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes looked haunted.

  Mike and Gabe both shook their heads.

  “She came to the back door begging for milk for the baby. I gave her some and called social services. They came and got her and found a warm shelter with food for her and the baby,” Ariel said. “She never crossed the threshold.”

  This time, I sighed in relief.

  “And these?” Angela spread three more photos in front of us, all men, different ages, different races, different economic groups determined by expense of haircut and clothing.

  “Sorry. We get a lot of people through here, regulars as well as strangers. I don’t remember any of these men.” But the ancient Asian man wearing elaborate silk robes brocaded in gold resembled someone who had stumbled through the door and straight into the fire without bothering with a drink. He’d been convicted of raping eighteen children; five of them died. He couldn’t live with his crimes (addiction) any longer and sent himself straight to Hell. Almost a redeeming act, except he’d taken control of his death and not left it to the big man upstairs.

  The middle-aged black man in a well-made off-the-rack suit had drunk his fair share of special beer, sobbing about the people he’d made homeless by embezzling their mortgage payments to the bank he worked for. Gabe had set him straight and told him how to set up a trust fund to repay those he’d duped.

  Ariel had taken care of the blond man with slightly up-tilted eyes suggesting Slavic origins, who’d fallen into the trap of selling drugs to young teens. She’d found the right rehab and job training for him and ordered him into volunteer work helping the people he’d lured into the downward spiral of drug addiction and escalating crimes to pay for them.

  “And one last one.” Angela pulled another picture from her coat pocket. The paper looked old and had been folded and refolded many times. She smoothed it flat on the bar. A charcoal line drawing of a woman in the first flush of love stared back at me with my own face. Lilith, first wife of Adam, the original sinner who had been cast out of the Garden by the Archangels for the sin of wanting control in her relationship with Adam and with God.