Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Celebrate your Cycle with Style
Published lifestyle article Celebrate your Cycle with Style in Savvy Women's Magazine.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Haunted
Robert saw the vultures circling on the way to work on Monday morning and knew it would be a bad day. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he’d been around long enough to realize a few things and one of them was that vultures don’t lie. Whenever more than one is circling, there’s usually a large carcass involved. He hoped that this time, it wasn’t human. The Nature Reserve just outside of the city limits of Woodville had seen its share of tragedies in the past. The land was protected, but the visitors weren’t.
He turned left in the middle of Main Street onto a short driveway and into his reserved spot in the parking lot of the Woodville Sheriff’s department. The building was set back a few hundred feet from the main drag, three towering oaks lining each side of the drive stood at attention. He sat for a moment looking at the brick building that housed the administrative offices, courthouse and holding cells for the county. It was one of a handful of historic buildings in town left over from the early 1900’s. The Victorian-style architecture of the building was impressive if you didn’t look too closely. Only someone who had worked there every day for the past twenty years would notice the gradual but steady decay; a crumbling brick, a sagging step, a spot on the ceiling that never seemed to dry.
Robert stepped out of the truck, his black polished boots squeaking as his feet touched the ground. His blue uniform was pressed, as it was every day. His black belt was shiny, a holster tucked on one hip. He took his job seriously, he took himself seriously. His face was just starting to age, creases forming around his eyes and mouth. His skin was ruddy from years of living in a small town where the only entertainment was provided by nature. His eyes were blue – still piercing after years of wear, of searching for details most people didn’t see. His sandy hair was dotted with gray. Although he was fit, his physique was starting to age. He was pudgier around the middle than he used to be, though you couldn’t call him overweight. He stood a little over six feet tall and could be intimidating when he had to be, but was mostly friendly and approachable.
He briskly covered the short walk to the stoop. The sky had turned misty and gray after sunrise and the wind was cold. Not an uncommon occurrence for late spring in the northern states. He climbed the steps two at a time and opened the thick, wooden door as he had thousands of times before.
“Good morning, Sheriff Pierson,” Ted called as he passed by the small office located just inside the main entrance. Ted was both the dispatcher and administrative staff. A town of eight hundred didn’t need anything more.
“Morning, Ted. Anything urgent?” Robert couldn’t shake the image of those vultures circling and was sure there would be a missing persons report or worse, a homicide.
“Nope. Quiet as Mondays go. There’s that hearing for the mayor’s son this afternoon, though. Might be busy around here.” Ted had been with the department for five years. He was in his twenties, a little on the introverted side, but always calm when people called in with emergencies and efficient with paperwork.
“Right. The hearing. We’ll definitely have a busy afternoon.” Robert headed up the once grand staircase and took a sharp left into his office. It was a spacious for a small town Sheriff and it felt more like an old library than an office. He pulled open the cream-colored blinds on each of the three large windows that faced towards the oaks, enjoying the metallic sound as they folded in on themselves. Then, he sat down, simultaneously turning on the computer and checking voicemail. The same way he did every day.
“Knock, knock.” The deputy, Rachel Cunningham, stood in the open doorway. He motioned her inside as he finished taking down notes from his last voicemail. She walked purposefully into his office and sat in one of the two matching worn, leather straight back chairs. She was peering past him, as she often did, to the immense book shelves behind him that housed a combination of historical and local books. The very bottom shelf was reserved for the files from their most recent cases. Rachel often came to look through them, reviewing details or tying up loose ends, not that Robert ever left any.
Her uniform was softer than his, molded to the contours of her lithe body. Her thick, almost black hair was braided tightly and hung past her shoulders. She was distantly related to the Sioux and as sometimes happens, a more dominant combination of ethnic genes surfaced in her DNA. Her skin was slightly darker than your average Caucasian, her brown eyes slightly almond shaped. She was striking – almost six feet tall, her features robust and alluring.
It had come down to her and a local young man for deputy when he’d hired his replacement ten years ago. They both would’ve been great for the job, but she scored much higher in the skills test. And though Robert knew he might cause a ruckus by hiring a woman deputy in this small, conservative town, he’d done it anyway and hadn’t regretted it for a single day.
“How are you this morning, Deputy?” He stuck to titles with her, their one passionate encounter made calling her Rachel too intimate. Though it was nine years ago, sometimes he could still taste her lips. Feel her pulsing, warm body pushing against his.
“Same as always,” she replied. Rachel sat quietly with her arms folded across her chest, which usually meant she had more to say. Robert met her eyes and then gazed past her into the hall. The sun was still low in the sky and streaks of light fell on the black and white tiles; a sign the misty sky must be clearing.
“Did you see the vultures?” Her voice was soft and distant.
“Yes.” Robert matched her tone. “Did you check for any missing person’s reports?”
“None as of seven this morning.”
“That’s a good sign, but I suppose we should check with Gus. See if there are any campers unaccounted for at the Reserve.” Robert clicked his pen furtively, a nervous habit.
“I called out there and he didn’t pick up.”
That was all Robert needed.
“I’ll just run out there. I’ve been thinking about those damn vultures all morning. I could use the peace of mind. I’ve got plenty of time before the hearing.” Robert got up. His keys were in his hands and he was on his way out the door before Rachel got out of her chair.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes in on the APB.” She called to his back as he left. She was glad he was going and not her. Those vultures were haunting her too and she didn’t want to be the one to find out what they were feasting on.
Robert heard the satisfying crunch of gravel under the tires of his Ford as he turned off the highway and onto the narrow road leading to the Nature Reserve. It only took 10 minutes from Woodville’s Main Street to this dense forest. Robert had travelled the distance between the two too many times to count. The whole way this morning he kept leaning forward, peering up at the sky through his windshield. Checking for the vultures. They were still there.
Even though he was anxious, he couldn’t help but take a moment to marvel at the beauty of this place. The forest was dense – the trees so tall and close together that there was no where to look but up. It was rustic and peaceful. A stone path led from the edge of the small parking lot to a pine log cabin. There was a clearing around the cabin meant for picnickers and several dirt paths snaked out from this central hub leading to primitive camp sites. No RVs or campers were allowed; just man, his pack and the wilderness. Robert knew that within the forest there was a small stream and deeper still, a lake.
He entered the cabin, rang the nickel-plated service bell at the front desk and waited for old Gus to appear. The cabin had three main rooms. The largest room in the front acted as the reception and information area for the Nature Reserve. The back two rooms were Gus’ living quarters. The front was kept separate from the back by a full wall – Gus had the only key to the door behind the counter that led to his domain.
Robert looked at the camper’s log while he waited, noting there were half a dozen people signed in that hadn’t yet signed out. The system was archaic, but the only way to keep track of who was in and out. Cell phones rarely worked. Robert looked up when he heard the door scrape across the wood floor.
Gus was ancient. He’d worked and lived here for so long that Robert swore he was starting to resemble the tall, knotted white pines he’d spent his life guarding. He was here when Robert was a boy and over the years, he had become more gaunt and lined and gray. His sun-stretched leathery skin pulled taut over his bones – muscles still somewhat defined. He looked at least a hundred years old until you saw his eyes. They were bright and fresh, startlingly youthful in contrast to the rest of his body.
“Sheriff.” He held out his hand as he shuffled around the counter. His hand was cold but firm when Robert shook it.
“Morning, Gus. Been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Oh? I was out for a little hike. Not expecting any new arrivals until well past lunch. Thought I’d enjoy the morning. Was nice before that rain moved through – and I reckon it’ll be nice again shortly.” This was common. Out here, the hours posted were flexible. Gus wasn’t expected to staff the cabin at all times. If people arrived while he was out, they just waited.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come for a chat.” Gus’ lips formed a thin line.
“To be honest, the vultures are circling and I’m uneasy about it. I’m wondering if any campers or hikers are unaccounted for. I noticed there are a few out there today.” Robert nodded at the log.
“There are a few out. Just one is returning today – a Mr. Jacobs.” He leaned over and pointed to a barely legible scrawl on the fourth line of the open page. “Nothing to be worried about though – you know how long it can take to hike back.” Gus looked at Robert, his eyes patient.
“What about the others? All seasoned? Any first timers?” This was not a Reserve you chose for first time camping, although people had made that mistake in the past. Their trips ended prematurely.
“All used to roughing it. A few first timers to the area, but they’ve been all over. Had a nice chat with a few of them.” Clearly Gus wasn’t concerned. “I know why you’re worried. What with the history and all. But I’m sure it’s just a deer or something. You know that can happen out here. Especially in late spring – the new ones are getting their legs, testing out their independence – sometimes they’re reckless, sometimes they get hurt so bad, they don’t recover.”
“You’re probably right,” Robert paused and glanced at the small black and white clock on the wall. “But I think I’ll still go out and have a look.” He had time for a quick look; quick being the operative word. “You wouldn’t still have that old bike around, would you?”
“For you? You bet.” Gus smiled and motioned for Robert to follow him. He led him out the front door and around to the back of the cabin where there was a small screened porch. The faded blue mountain bike was leaning against the door where the wood and screen met. The frame was scratched, the letters rubbed off over years of wear, but the tires looked new.
“Thanks. I’ll be back in a flash.” Robert grabbed the bike, hoisted his leg over and took off down the path nearest the direction of the vultures.
“Be careful.” Gus called out. Robert nodded his head in reply, knowing better than to turn around. He bounced along the path, pedaling as fast as he felt safe, branches occasionally coming too close to his face. As he rode deeper into the Reserve, the memories from that other day spun around in his head.
There had been a missing persons report. Gus had contacted the Department, saying that a camper by the same name had checked in a week ago, but hadn’t yet checked out. Search parties were immediately formed, made up of mostly volunteer locals. The search focused first near the rustic sites and then branched out further. The missing person’s pack and tent were found abandoned. There was no sign of a struggle, but that didn’t mean much.
Robert and Rachel had started in the direction of the circling vultures, knowing full well that they might find a body. They’d both seen dead bodies before – even in a small town, you don’t escape that part of the job. Teenagers commit suicide, old timers keel over when their time is up, hunters misfire, cars crash, people die. But nothing prepared them for what they found that day.
The body was lying on the banks of the stream, if you could still call it a body. What was left of the limbs lay at unnatural angles. There had clearly been an attack, maybe a bear. The victim’s clothes were shredded, his abdomen ripped open. Intestines trailed out of the open cavity. What was left of his eyes were open wide. His hair was matted with dried blood and who knows what else. The muscle was exposed in several places on the body; smooth white bone visible in a few spots. The vultures had done some of the damage post mortem, but the majority was from something else. The smell of flesh was overwhelming. Both Robert and Rachel had gagged and turned away, but only the contents of the sheriff’s stomach ended up in the dirt a few feet from the body.
It was the most gruesome scene he’d ever witnessed; the kind that never leaves you. It wasn’t just the body either. There was something unsettling about it. Animals rarely attacked and usually there would be signs of a struggle. But in this case it was as if the victim was paralyzed, laying on his back, helpless to stop what was happening, forced to endure pain before death.
After the remains were gathered and brought back to town, the coroner had ruled it death by an animal attack. But Robert couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the victim’s death. The family was devastated. The victim was just starting out, still exploring, not ready to die. He was young, he had a fiancé.
Thinking about that day, Robert suddenly understood his compulsion to come out this morning. He didn’t want a body lying around in the woods like that, he couldn’t stand the vulnerability. The utter helplessness and terror of a violent death is hard enough. The addition of being picked over afterwards was more than he could bear.
As he neared a small clearing, he saw them. Three of them huddled together. Turkey vultures. Their smooth, black and grey feathered oblong bodies stooped over. Their red heads, reminiscent of their namesake, close to the ground, their hooked white beaks pecking. Sharp little jabs up and down. Up and down. They were efficient, neat eaters.
Robert slammed on the brakes and jumped off the bike before it stopped, skidding across the dirt path. Once off, he froze, unprepared for what he might find. But it only lasted a moment. He started hollering and running towards the vultures, his hands waving through the air like a human windmill. It worked. Startled, the vultures flew away in a flash of feathers and squawks.
And their meal was revealed. A mound of flesh, slumped over on its side. The abdominal cavity was open and its entrails exposed; a blur of blood, tissue and half-eaten organs. It was a deer; recognizable only by the bits of light brown fur and full rack. Soon there would be nothing left but bone and then nothing at all.
Robert bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He was so relieved. And then he started laughing. It was a small snort at first, but it soon turned into a loud roaring, uncontrollable laugh. He couldn’t stop. He was laughing at himself, at how ridiculous it was that he was so worried about the vultures, especially for a man in his position.
Of course, if he had found another body, he might have felt differently.
He straightened up, ran his hands through his hair and calmed down, the laughs replaced by quiet sighs. Light filtered down through the trees and reflected off of the face of his watch. It was almost noon. He had to get back to the office. He’d spent the morning chasing ghosts, but the mayor’s son’s hearing for possession of marijuana with intent to sell was no ghost. That was real.
He picked up the dusty bike and mounted it. He pointed it back in the direction from which he came and started to pedal. There was no time to waste. He pedaled faster and faster, the events of the morning fading away. Suddenly, he heard a snap and looked over his shoulder just for an instant. A squirrel had jumped, snapping a tree branch.
The moment he turned to face forward, he heard a crunch and a pop as the bike hit a rock, catapulting him through the air. He tumbled, his arms flailing, trying to grasp for something, anything to break his fall. He landed flat on his back in the middle of the dirt path. He could see white puffy clouds in a blue sky through a narrow gap in the trees. He felt something warm and wet on the back of his head. He knew he should get up, dust himself off and continue on his way, but he couldn’t. Soon, the trees and the sky began to fade, their brilliant colors dulling and blurring until there was nothing left. The last sound he heard was the hushed whoosh of wings cutting through the air.
He turned left in the middle of Main Street onto a short driveway and into his reserved spot in the parking lot of the Woodville Sheriff’s department. The building was set back a few hundred feet from the main drag, three towering oaks lining each side of the drive stood at attention. He sat for a moment looking at the brick building that housed the administrative offices, courthouse and holding cells for the county. It was one of a handful of historic buildings in town left over from the early 1900’s. The Victorian-style architecture of the building was impressive if you didn’t look too closely. Only someone who had worked there every day for the past twenty years would notice the gradual but steady decay; a crumbling brick, a sagging step, a spot on the ceiling that never seemed to dry.
Robert stepped out of the truck, his black polished boots squeaking as his feet touched the ground. His blue uniform was pressed, as it was every day. His black belt was shiny, a holster tucked on one hip. He took his job seriously, he took himself seriously. His face was just starting to age, creases forming around his eyes and mouth. His skin was ruddy from years of living in a small town where the only entertainment was provided by nature. His eyes were blue – still piercing after years of wear, of searching for details most people didn’t see. His sandy hair was dotted with gray. Although he was fit, his physique was starting to age. He was pudgier around the middle than he used to be, though you couldn’t call him overweight. He stood a little over six feet tall and could be intimidating when he had to be, but was mostly friendly and approachable.
He briskly covered the short walk to the stoop. The sky had turned misty and gray after sunrise and the wind was cold. Not an uncommon occurrence for late spring in the northern states. He climbed the steps two at a time and opened the thick, wooden door as he had thousands of times before.
“Good morning, Sheriff Pierson,” Ted called as he passed by the small office located just inside the main entrance. Ted was both the dispatcher and administrative staff. A town of eight hundred didn’t need anything more.
“Morning, Ted. Anything urgent?” Robert couldn’t shake the image of those vultures circling and was sure there would be a missing persons report or worse, a homicide.
“Nope. Quiet as Mondays go. There’s that hearing for the mayor’s son this afternoon, though. Might be busy around here.” Ted had been with the department for five years. He was in his twenties, a little on the introverted side, but always calm when people called in with emergencies and efficient with paperwork.
“Right. The hearing. We’ll definitely have a busy afternoon.” Robert headed up the once grand staircase and took a sharp left into his office. It was a spacious for a small town Sheriff and it felt more like an old library than an office. He pulled open the cream-colored blinds on each of the three large windows that faced towards the oaks, enjoying the metallic sound as they folded in on themselves. Then, he sat down, simultaneously turning on the computer and checking voicemail. The same way he did every day.
“Knock, knock.” The deputy, Rachel Cunningham, stood in the open doorway. He motioned her inside as he finished taking down notes from his last voicemail. She walked purposefully into his office and sat in one of the two matching worn, leather straight back chairs. She was peering past him, as she often did, to the immense book shelves behind him that housed a combination of historical and local books. The very bottom shelf was reserved for the files from their most recent cases. Rachel often came to look through them, reviewing details or tying up loose ends, not that Robert ever left any.
Her uniform was softer than his, molded to the contours of her lithe body. Her thick, almost black hair was braided tightly and hung past her shoulders. She was distantly related to the Sioux and as sometimes happens, a more dominant combination of ethnic genes surfaced in her DNA. Her skin was slightly darker than your average Caucasian, her brown eyes slightly almond shaped. She was striking – almost six feet tall, her features robust and alluring.
It had come down to her and a local young man for deputy when he’d hired his replacement ten years ago. They both would’ve been great for the job, but she scored much higher in the skills test. And though Robert knew he might cause a ruckus by hiring a woman deputy in this small, conservative town, he’d done it anyway and hadn’t regretted it for a single day.
“How are you this morning, Deputy?” He stuck to titles with her, their one passionate encounter made calling her Rachel too intimate. Though it was nine years ago, sometimes he could still taste her lips. Feel her pulsing, warm body pushing against his.
“Same as always,” she replied. Rachel sat quietly with her arms folded across her chest, which usually meant she had more to say. Robert met her eyes and then gazed past her into the hall. The sun was still low in the sky and streaks of light fell on the black and white tiles; a sign the misty sky must be clearing.
“Did you see the vultures?” Her voice was soft and distant.
“Yes.” Robert matched her tone. “Did you check for any missing person’s reports?”
“None as of seven this morning.”
“That’s a good sign, but I suppose we should check with Gus. See if there are any campers unaccounted for at the Reserve.” Robert clicked his pen furtively, a nervous habit.
“I called out there and he didn’t pick up.”
That was all Robert needed.
“I’ll just run out there. I’ve been thinking about those damn vultures all morning. I could use the peace of mind. I’ve got plenty of time before the hearing.” Robert got up. His keys were in his hands and he was on his way out the door before Rachel got out of her chair.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes in on the APB.” She called to his back as he left. She was glad he was going and not her. Those vultures were haunting her too and she didn’t want to be the one to find out what they were feasting on.
Robert heard the satisfying crunch of gravel under the tires of his Ford as he turned off the highway and onto the narrow road leading to the Nature Reserve. It only took 10 minutes from Woodville’s Main Street to this dense forest. Robert had travelled the distance between the two too many times to count. The whole way this morning he kept leaning forward, peering up at the sky through his windshield. Checking for the vultures. They were still there.
Even though he was anxious, he couldn’t help but take a moment to marvel at the beauty of this place. The forest was dense – the trees so tall and close together that there was no where to look but up. It was rustic and peaceful. A stone path led from the edge of the small parking lot to a pine log cabin. There was a clearing around the cabin meant for picnickers and several dirt paths snaked out from this central hub leading to primitive camp sites. No RVs or campers were allowed; just man, his pack and the wilderness. Robert knew that within the forest there was a small stream and deeper still, a lake.
He entered the cabin, rang the nickel-plated service bell at the front desk and waited for old Gus to appear. The cabin had three main rooms. The largest room in the front acted as the reception and information area for the Nature Reserve. The back two rooms were Gus’ living quarters. The front was kept separate from the back by a full wall – Gus had the only key to the door behind the counter that led to his domain.
Robert looked at the camper’s log while he waited, noting there were half a dozen people signed in that hadn’t yet signed out. The system was archaic, but the only way to keep track of who was in and out. Cell phones rarely worked. Robert looked up when he heard the door scrape across the wood floor.
Gus was ancient. He’d worked and lived here for so long that Robert swore he was starting to resemble the tall, knotted white pines he’d spent his life guarding. He was here when Robert was a boy and over the years, he had become more gaunt and lined and gray. His sun-stretched leathery skin pulled taut over his bones – muscles still somewhat defined. He looked at least a hundred years old until you saw his eyes. They were bright and fresh, startlingly youthful in contrast to the rest of his body.
“Sheriff.” He held out his hand as he shuffled around the counter. His hand was cold but firm when Robert shook it.
“Morning, Gus. Been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Oh? I was out for a little hike. Not expecting any new arrivals until well past lunch. Thought I’d enjoy the morning. Was nice before that rain moved through – and I reckon it’ll be nice again shortly.” This was common. Out here, the hours posted were flexible. Gus wasn’t expected to staff the cabin at all times. If people arrived while he was out, they just waited.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come for a chat.” Gus’ lips formed a thin line.
“To be honest, the vultures are circling and I’m uneasy about it. I’m wondering if any campers or hikers are unaccounted for. I noticed there are a few out there today.” Robert nodded at the log.
“There are a few out. Just one is returning today – a Mr. Jacobs.” He leaned over and pointed to a barely legible scrawl on the fourth line of the open page. “Nothing to be worried about though – you know how long it can take to hike back.” Gus looked at Robert, his eyes patient.
“What about the others? All seasoned? Any first timers?” This was not a Reserve you chose for first time camping, although people had made that mistake in the past. Their trips ended prematurely.
“All used to roughing it. A few first timers to the area, but they’ve been all over. Had a nice chat with a few of them.” Clearly Gus wasn’t concerned. “I know why you’re worried. What with the history and all. But I’m sure it’s just a deer or something. You know that can happen out here. Especially in late spring – the new ones are getting their legs, testing out their independence – sometimes they’re reckless, sometimes they get hurt so bad, they don’t recover.”
“You’re probably right,” Robert paused and glanced at the small black and white clock on the wall. “But I think I’ll still go out and have a look.” He had time for a quick look; quick being the operative word. “You wouldn’t still have that old bike around, would you?”
“For you? You bet.” Gus smiled and motioned for Robert to follow him. He led him out the front door and around to the back of the cabin where there was a small screened porch. The faded blue mountain bike was leaning against the door where the wood and screen met. The frame was scratched, the letters rubbed off over years of wear, but the tires looked new.
“Thanks. I’ll be back in a flash.” Robert grabbed the bike, hoisted his leg over and took off down the path nearest the direction of the vultures.
“Be careful.” Gus called out. Robert nodded his head in reply, knowing better than to turn around. He bounced along the path, pedaling as fast as he felt safe, branches occasionally coming too close to his face. As he rode deeper into the Reserve, the memories from that other day spun around in his head.
There had been a missing persons report. Gus had contacted the Department, saying that a camper by the same name had checked in a week ago, but hadn’t yet checked out. Search parties were immediately formed, made up of mostly volunteer locals. The search focused first near the rustic sites and then branched out further. The missing person’s pack and tent were found abandoned. There was no sign of a struggle, but that didn’t mean much.
Robert and Rachel had started in the direction of the circling vultures, knowing full well that they might find a body. They’d both seen dead bodies before – even in a small town, you don’t escape that part of the job. Teenagers commit suicide, old timers keel over when their time is up, hunters misfire, cars crash, people die. But nothing prepared them for what they found that day.
The body was lying on the banks of the stream, if you could still call it a body. What was left of the limbs lay at unnatural angles. There had clearly been an attack, maybe a bear. The victim’s clothes were shredded, his abdomen ripped open. Intestines trailed out of the open cavity. What was left of his eyes were open wide. His hair was matted with dried blood and who knows what else. The muscle was exposed in several places on the body; smooth white bone visible in a few spots. The vultures had done some of the damage post mortem, but the majority was from something else. The smell of flesh was overwhelming. Both Robert and Rachel had gagged and turned away, but only the contents of the sheriff’s stomach ended up in the dirt a few feet from the body.
It was the most gruesome scene he’d ever witnessed; the kind that never leaves you. It wasn’t just the body either. There was something unsettling about it. Animals rarely attacked and usually there would be signs of a struggle. But in this case it was as if the victim was paralyzed, laying on his back, helpless to stop what was happening, forced to endure pain before death.
After the remains were gathered and brought back to town, the coroner had ruled it death by an animal attack. But Robert couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the victim’s death. The family was devastated. The victim was just starting out, still exploring, not ready to die. He was young, he had a fiancé.
Thinking about that day, Robert suddenly understood his compulsion to come out this morning. He didn’t want a body lying around in the woods like that, he couldn’t stand the vulnerability. The utter helplessness and terror of a violent death is hard enough. The addition of being picked over afterwards was more than he could bear.
As he neared a small clearing, he saw them. Three of them huddled together. Turkey vultures. Their smooth, black and grey feathered oblong bodies stooped over. Their red heads, reminiscent of their namesake, close to the ground, their hooked white beaks pecking. Sharp little jabs up and down. Up and down. They were efficient, neat eaters.
Robert slammed on the brakes and jumped off the bike before it stopped, skidding across the dirt path. Once off, he froze, unprepared for what he might find. But it only lasted a moment. He started hollering and running towards the vultures, his hands waving through the air like a human windmill. It worked. Startled, the vultures flew away in a flash of feathers and squawks.
And their meal was revealed. A mound of flesh, slumped over on its side. The abdominal cavity was open and its entrails exposed; a blur of blood, tissue and half-eaten organs. It was a deer; recognizable only by the bits of light brown fur and full rack. Soon there would be nothing left but bone and then nothing at all.
Robert bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He was so relieved. And then he started laughing. It was a small snort at first, but it soon turned into a loud roaring, uncontrollable laugh. He couldn’t stop. He was laughing at himself, at how ridiculous it was that he was so worried about the vultures, especially for a man in his position.
Of course, if he had found another body, he might have felt differently.
He straightened up, ran his hands through his hair and calmed down, the laughs replaced by quiet sighs. Light filtered down through the trees and reflected off of the face of his watch. It was almost noon. He had to get back to the office. He’d spent the morning chasing ghosts, but the mayor’s son’s hearing for possession of marijuana with intent to sell was no ghost. That was real.
He picked up the dusty bike and mounted it. He pointed it back in the direction from which he came and started to pedal. There was no time to waste. He pedaled faster and faster, the events of the morning fading away. Suddenly, he heard a snap and looked over his shoulder just for an instant. A squirrel had jumped, snapping a tree branch.
The moment he turned to face forward, he heard a crunch and a pop as the bike hit a rock, catapulting him through the air. He tumbled, his arms flailing, trying to grasp for something, anything to break his fall. He landed flat on his back in the middle of the dirt path. He could see white puffy clouds in a blue sky through a narrow gap in the trees. He felt something warm and wet on the back of his head. He knew he should get up, dust himself off and continue on his way, but he couldn’t. Soon, the trees and the sky began to fade, their brilliant colors dulling and blurring until there was nothing left. The last sound he heard was the hushed whoosh of wings cutting through the air.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Alterations
"Stop fidgeting." Gaby is holding a pin in her mouth and the words form around it. I'm standing, half naked, as Gaby makes last minute alterations on the lingerie I will be wearing down a runway in less than an hour.
"I can't help it. I feel so, so…" stupid. I can't bring myself to admit it to Gaby.
"Exposed?" she looks up briefly before sticking a pin into the airy fabric of the sheer robe." She had just ripped out a hem and was reworking it. Apparently my bulging belly had grown since the last fitting and now the robe doesn't lay quite right.
"Yes. I'm feeling a little exposed." I try crossing my arms, but it moves the robe and I get a death look from Gaby. She is losing patience with me, I can tell. I would normally never do this kind of thing. I don't like to draw attention to myself, especially not to my body - especially not to my pregnant body. And Gaby knows this. But here I am; I've agreed to model Gaby's new line of pregnancy lingerie during her annual Valentine's Day fashion show. Well, agreed might be a euphemism. Gaby sort of half asked, half told me I'd be modeling. Of course, I didn't say no. It seems I can't say "no" to her lately - I'm not sure if that started after the cancer or if I've never really said "no" to Gaby. She isn't the kind of person you say "no" to. Or if you do, it probably only happens once.
"Are you really that uncomfortable? What's the big deal? I think you look great - I wouldn't have asked you unless I thought you'd look great."
Here is my chance to tell the truth. To tell her that I'm paranoid about the cellulite on my upper thighs, about the new, weird, long shape of my butt, my protruding belly button. I'm scared that people will laugh or worse, be disgusted. "No, I guess not. I'm just nervous. I've never done this before." Which is also true. The closest thing I've done to walking down a runway is walking down the aisle towards my future husband. Even then, the three minutes of total attention made me more nervous than the fact that I was getting married. Plus, I had my father to lean on. This time, I'll be more exposed and less supported. Of course I'm freaking out.
"There's nothing to it. I do it every year. Just pull your shoulders back, boobs out, head high. Be confident. Confidence is key. None of that hiding you like to do." Gaby’s voice is all business.
"What are you talking about? I don't hide!" I practically shriek the words.
"No need to get defensive, Jess. I just mean, don't try to blend in. You always try to blend in. Today, you have to stand up, stand out." As she says the words, all I can think about is all the pairs of eyes that will be staring at me - evaluating, critiquing. I suddenly feel a flash of anger or panic, I can't be sure.
"Like you should lecture me about hiding. I'm pregnant - most normal people don't flaunt their big, pregnant bellies in public, much less parade themselves down a runway. If I want to hide, I'm justified. You of all people should understand - you've been hiding behind wigs for months." The words fly out of my mouth, unchecked.
The box of pins Gaby had been balancing on her leg fell to the floor. She leans down to pick them up. "Is that what you think I've been doing? Hiding behind my wigs?" Her voice is very quiet.
"Well, yes. Don't you see? We're both uncomfortable with our changing bodies. It’s the same, that’s all I was trying to say." I'm not sure what bubbled up in me - the mix of anger and panic that caused me to blurt out those words. But, there is truth there. Gaby has changed. She used to be out there - flauntingly raw and open for the world to see - take it or leave it. She's changed since the cancer. Of course she has. How could someone remain the same in the face of something so huge?
"It's not the same, Jessica. Our bodies are not the same - pregnancy and cancer are not the same. You're going to give life and I'm probably going to die. Stop acting like it’s the same, like we're going through the same thing because we're not. You have no idea what I'm going through. And hiding? Are you serious? Just because I don't want the entire world to know that I have cancer, you are accusing me of hiding?" Instead of growing louder with each accusation, Gaby's voice had become softer until she was hissing at me and I could barely hear her.
"It is the same. Or at least more the same than you think it is. We are both going through something we can't control."
"Stop, Jessica. Just stop. Your hem is done. Go to make-up before the show starts. I'll see you on the runway." She pushes herself up to standing and dismisses me as she walks away.
I open my mouth to say something, anything to her back as she walks away, but I don't know what to say. She is clearly upset. Extremely upset. Why can't she see that it is similar? Isn't it? I wander over to make-up, my heart racing and my baby kicking. I've just shaken things up, maybe a little too much.
***
I can feel the beat of the techno in my womb as I wait for my turn on the catwalk. Tease has been transformed, as it is every year, into a high fashion runway scene. A three foot tall platform extends from the back of the shop three quarters of the way through the store. On either side, people in black tie are mingling, sipping cocktails out of crystal stemware and tasting hors’devours from a variety of local gourmet restaurants. The lights are low, except for the spotlight on the runway - the music is loud. The models are full of energy. You can feel it, pulsing even more so than the music. Nervous energy, excited energy channeling out of everyone, forming a collective could of emotion.
I don't know where Gaby finds these gorgeous, confident women. None of them are professionals, but she instinctively knows they will be good. And they never let her down. I look around and Gaby is nowhere to be seen. We haven't spoken since the blow out. I had stared at my reflection in the mirror after hair and make-up and was surprised at the reflection. Gaby was right - I looked good. My large, pregnancy breasts, are bursting out of the plunging neckline of the baby doll style, top. It is fitted under my breasts and then immediately widens into a bell. The boy shorts cover enough to keep me modest. I have nothing to be nervous about, yet my hands are sweating and I feel like I could throw up. Confidence. I need confidence. I'm expecting it to suddenly materialize, since I have no idea how to manifest it myself. At least not in the amounts I will need for this.
"You're up." April, Gaby's assistant, points to me. This is it. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. I keep repeating it over and over in my head. I say it so many times, I'm sure my lips are moving, silently mouthing the words, willing them to come true. I make it up the stairs without stumbling and stand for a moment in the spotlight, as Gaby had taught me. I pull my shoulders back and my belly propels me down the runway. The sheer, gauzy fabric of the short turquoise robe brushes against my thighs as I move down the runway. I try to smile, but all I can think about is my pregnant waddle and how ridiculous I look. I can see people whispering out of the corner of my eyes, their head's leaning towards each other, slender fingers gesturing, pointing. I suddenly feel ridiculous, the thump, thump of my shimmering ballet flats just not up to par. I get to the end and strike my pose - feeling a little wobbly. I turn and slip the robe down around my arms. I pause and look over my shoulder, towards the front of the store and wish I could just keep walking right off the runway and out the door. Baby suddenly kicks and I am back in the moment. I flip the robe back up and walk back down the runway, down the stairs and disappear behind the curtain.
The next woman takes her turn, beadwork glittering on her sexy black negligee - her perky breasts spilling over, her shapely butt teasing. The click of her heels as she prances down the runway is more than I can handle. I try to hold it together - almost done. Gaby is next - she is always last and then she usually says a few words and all the models join her for one last look. Model. What a joke - why did I ever agree to do this?
The song changes as Gaby steps onto the platform. I can see her clearly from my position off stage. The spotlight illuminates her and she is glowing. At first, all I can see is her legs - black lace tipped thigh highs emerge from a pair of glittering black stiletto heels. The bodice of her black strapless corset is shimmering with jewels - she always has a custom piece designed for the show. It is auctioned for charity afterwards. The matching panties are a sexy, low cut bikini - leaving just a bit of skin exposed between the top of the panties and the bottom of the corset. And she has a tail – a five foot long tail of glitter and peacock feathers trails behind her. Her make-up is dramatic - blacks and greens and blues. And then I notice that she isn't wearing any hair. A lingerie clad, stiletto wearing, GI Jane. She is fierce - applause erupts from crowd as she makes her way down the catwalk. I can see cameras flash as she hits the end, the music fades and her voice rises up.
"I want to thank you all for coming tonight. As usual, this custom piece will be auctioned off tonight, the proceeds this year going to the American Cancer Society." she pauses to allow for the brief applause. "You might be wondering about my new look." she runs a hand over her head. "Earlier tonight, I was accused of hiding, which is something I just don't do. The new look is a side effect of my chemo, I was diagnosed 7 months ago." whispers rise up throughout the audience and backstage. I hear the model to my right whispering You Go Gaby, her head shaking, her lips smiling. "I'm not trying to make any statements; I'm not trying to make cancer sexy. Although, clearly it can be." she pauses to strike a pose as nervous laughter fills the room. "I'm just here, not hiding." More applause. "Let's welcome all of tonight's lovely models for one last look. Ladies, join me if you will." She motions the models on stage and I dumbly follow the tall, tight ass in front of me. I don't even bother trying my "I'm Gaby" mantra because clearly, I'm not.
"I can't help it. I feel so, so…" stupid. I can't bring myself to admit it to Gaby.
"Exposed?" she looks up briefly before sticking a pin into the airy fabric of the sheer robe." She had just ripped out a hem and was reworking it. Apparently my bulging belly had grown since the last fitting and now the robe doesn't lay quite right.
"Yes. I'm feeling a little exposed." I try crossing my arms, but it moves the robe and I get a death look from Gaby. She is losing patience with me, I can tell. I would normally never do this kind of thing. I don't like to draw attention to myself, especially not to my body - especially not to my pregnant body. And Gaby knows this. But here I am; I've agreed to model Gaby's new line of pregnancy lingerie during her annual Valentine's Day fashion show. Well, agreed might be a euphemism. Gaby sort of half asked, half told me I'd be modeling. Of course, I didn't say no. It seems I can't say "no" to her lately - I'm not sure if that started after the cancer or if I've never really said "no" to Gaby. She isn't the kind of person you say "no" to. Or if you do, it probably only happens once.
"Are you really that uncomfortable? What's the big deal? I think you look great - I wouldn't have asked you unless I thought you'd look great."
Here is my chance to tell the truth. To tell her that I'm paranoid about the cellulite on my upper thighs, about the new, weird, long shape of my butt, my protruding belly button. I'm scared that people will laugh or worse, be disgusted. "No, I guess not. I'm just nervous. I've never done this before." Which is also true. The closest thing I've done to walking down a runway is walking down the aisle towards my future husband. Even then, the three minutes of total attention made me more nervous than the fact that I was getting married. Plus, I had my father to lean on. This time, I'll be more exposed and less supported. Of course I'm freaking out.
"There's nothing to it. I do it every year. Just pull your shoulders back, boobs out, head high. Be confident. Confidence is key. None of that hiding you like to do." Gaby’s voice is all business.
"What are you talking about? I don't hide!" I practically shriek the words.
"No need to get defensive, Jess. I just mean, don't try to blend in. You always try to blend in. Today, you have to stand up, stand out." As she says the words, all I can think about is all the pairs of eyes that will be staring at me - evaluating, critiquing. I suddenly feel a flash of anger or panic, I can't be sure.
"Like you should lecture me about hiding. I'm pregnant - most normal people don't flaunt their big, pregnant bellies in public, much less parade themselves down a runway. If I want to hide, I'm justified. You of all people should understand - you've been hiding behind wigs for months." The words fly out of my mouth, unchecked.
The box of pins Gaby had been balancing on her leg fell to the floor. She leans down to pick them up. "Is that what you think I've been doing? Hiding behind my wigs?" Her voice is very quiet.
"Well, yes. Don't you see? We're both uncomfortable with our changing bodies. It’s the same, that’s all I was trying to say." I'm not sure what bubbled up in me - the mix of anger and panic that caused me to blurt out those words. But, there is truth there. Gaby has changed. She used to be out there - flauntingly raw and open for the world to see - take it or leave it. She's changed since the cancer. Of course she has. How could someone remain the same in the face of something so huge?
"It's not the same, Jessica. Our bodies are not the same - pregnancy and cancer are not the same. You're going to give life and I'm probably going to die. Stop acting like it’s the same, like we're going through the same thing because we're not. You have no idea what I'm going through. And hiding? Are you serious? Just because I don't want the entire world to know that I have cancer, you are accusing me of hiding?" Instead of growing louder with each accusation, Gaby's voice had become softer until she was hissing at me and I could barely hear her.
"It is the same. Or at least more the same than you think it is. We are both going through something we can't control."
"Stop, Jessica. Just stop. Your hem is done. Go to make-up before the show starts. I'll see you on the runway." She pushes herself up to standing and dismisses me as she walks away.
I open my mouth to say something, anything to her back as she walks away, but I don't know what to say. She is clearly upset. Extremely upset. Why can't she see that it is similar? Isn't it? I wander over to make-up, my heart racing and my baby kicking. I've just shaken things up, maybe a little too much.
***
I can feel the beat of the techno in my womb as I wait for my turn on the catwalk. Tease has been transformed, as it is every year, into a high fashion runway scene. A three foot tall platform extends from the back of the shop three quarters of the way through the store. On either side, people in black tie are mingling, sipping cocktails out of crystal stemware and tasting hors’devours from a variety of local gourmet restaurants. The lights are low, except for the spotlight on the runway - the music is loud. The models are full of energy. You can feel it, pulsing even more so than the music. Nervous energy, excited energy channeling out of everyone, forming a collective could of emotion.
I don't know where Gaby finds these gorgeous, confident women. None of them are professionals, but she instinctively knows they will be good. And they never let her down. I look around and Gaby is nowhere to be seen. We haven't spoken since the blow out. I had stared at my reflection in the mirror after hair and make-up and was surprised at the reflection. Gaby was right - I looked good. My large, pregnancy breasts, are bursting out of the plunging neckline of the baby doll style, top. It is fitted under my breasts and then immediately widens into a bell. The boy shorts cover enough to keep me modest. I have nothing to be nervous about, yet my hands are sweating and I feel like I could throw up. Confidence. I need confidence. I'm expecting it to suddenly materialize, since I have no idea how to manifest it myself. At least not in the amounts I will need for this.
"You're up." April, Gaby's assistant, points to me. This is it. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. Be Gaby. I keep repeating it over and over in my head. I say it so many times, I'm sure my lips are moving, silently mouthing the words, willing them to come true. I make it up the stairs without stumbling and stand for a moment in the spotlight, as Gaby had taught me. I pull my shoulders back and my belly propels me down the runway. The sheer, gauzy fabric of the short turquoise robe brushes against my thighs as I move down the runway. I try to smile, but all I can think about is my pregnant waddle and how ridiculous I look. I can see people whispering out of the corner of my eyes, their head's leaning towards each other, slender fingers gesturing, pointing. I suddenly feel ridiculous, the thump, thump of my shimmering ballet flats just not up to par. I get to the end and strike my pose - feeling a little wobbly. I turn and slip the robe down around my arms. I pause and look over my shoulder, towards the front of the store and wish I could just keep walking right off the runway and out the door. Baby suddenly kicks and I am back in the moment. I flip the robe back up and walk back down the runway, down the stairs and disappear behind the curtain.
The next woman takes her turn, beadwork glittering on her sexy black negligee - her perky breasts spilling over, her shapely butt teasing. The click of her heels as she prances down the runway is more than I can handle. I try to hold it together - almost done. Gaby is next - she is always last and then she usually says a few words and all the models join her for one last look. Model. What a joke - why did I ever agree to do this?
The song changes as Gaby steps onto the platform. I can see her clearly from my position off stage. The spotlight illuminates her and she is glowing. At first, all I can see is her legs - black lace tipped thigh highs emerge from a pair of glittering black stiletto heels. The bodice of her black strapless corset is shimmering with jewels - she always has a custom piece designed for the show. It is auctioned for charity afterwards. The matching panties are a sexy, low cut bikini - leaving just a bit of skin exposed between the top of the panties and the bottom of the corset. And she has a tail – a five foot long tail of glitter and peacock feathers trails behind her. Her make-up is dramatic - blacks and greens and blues. And then I notice that she isn't wearing any hair. A lingerie clad, stiletto wearing, GI Jane. She is fierce - applause erupts from crowd as she makes her way down the catwalk. I can see cameras flash as she hits the end, the music fades and her voice rises up.
"I want to thank you all for coming tonight. As usual, this custom piece will be auctioned off tonight, the proceeds this year going to the American Cancer Society." she pauses to allow for the brief applause. "You might be wondering about my new look." she runs a hand over her head. "Earlier tonight, I was accused of hiding, which is something I just don't do. The new look is a side effect of my chemo, I was diagnosed 7 months ago." whispers rise up throughout the audience and backstage. I hear the model to my right whispering You Go Gaby, her head shaking, her lips smiling. "I'm not trying to make any statements; I'm not trying to make cancer sexy. Although, clearly it can be." she pauses to strike a pose as nervous laughter fills the room. "I'm just here, not hiding." More applause. "Let's welcome all of tonight's lovely models for one last look. Ladies, join me if you will." She motions the models on stage and I dumbly follow the tall, tight ass in front of me. I don't even bother trying my "I'm Gaby" mantra because clearly, I'm not.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Inspiration
Creativity runs rampant. Characters are shouting to be written - the rather clumsy, but gorgeous twenty-something, lanky waitress at an upscale downtown cocktail bar whose black uniform skirt is so short that when she bends over to place drinks on the adjacent table, her perfectly shaped, round cheeks peek out. The elderly man whose mobility scooter misfires at a bus stop, propelling him into traffic on a busy street. A young woman whose life starts to change as soon as she gets married; she finds herself strangely transforming into the perfect, desperate housewife. Stories are brewing in my mind. I need to make more time to write.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Dress
I'm not sure how long I've been curled up on my closet floor, tucked between a pile of discarded clothes and the shoe rack. But, here I am. I had come in looking for something to wear to Gaby's funeral. And nothing fits. My post-baby body has been transformed into something that just doesn't fit my old clothes. It has shifted, widened in some places, narrowed in others. My nursing breasts can't be squeezed into my pre-pregnancy size small tops. My belly - still soft, like kneaded dough, looks awkward in my dresses and bulges over the top of my pants. To make matters worse, I'm crying. And not just because nothing fits, but because I am picking out something to wear to Gaby's funeral and that means she is really gone. Dead. She is dead. And I don't want it to be real.
As I wipe my eyes with the corner of my pink terry cloth robe, something flutters in my peripheral vision. The gauzy, fabric of a black dress seems to be calling out to me. It is peering out from behind a canary yellow cardigan. How could I have missed it? I stand up and push the surrounding clothes aside, giving it the spotlight. As I caress the expensive fabric, I struggle to remember when I bought it. It is a knee-length dress with a plunging neckline and capped sleeves. It is lined with a an opaque, silky, soft fabric on the inside and has a light, fitted sheer overlay on the outside. I slip it off the hanger and put it on. It zips easily, which is a good sign. I haven't been able to zip a dress all morning. I cautiously peer into the mirror, hoping this forgotten one will work. I just don't have the time or energy to go shopping for something new. Not with Lily. Not without Gaby. I'm surprised at my reflection. My boobs fill out the top and the material slides over the curves of my new body - disguising instead of drawing attention to my soft middle. It hits just below the knee. It looks amazing. I look amazing and for the first time today, I smile at myself. It is then that I realize where I got the dress. The memory overwhelms and my smile is replaced by more tears.
"When would I wear it?" I had said. "It probably won't fit."
"Trust me, you'll find an occasion to wear a dress like that. Lots of good memories in that one. It is one of those dresses that looks great on everyone." She had waved my comments away with a flick of her hair. Her real hair, this was before the wigs. Before the cancer.
I had fingered the lush fabric, much like I had a few minutes ago. Gaby had been cleaning out her closet and wanted me to have it. We weren't really the same size, but close enough to have traded the occasional piece of clothing through the years. But not a dress. Never a dress. She had bigger boobs and a more curvaceous figure. My little B-cup-on-a-good-day boobs could never fill out one of her dresses. I had taken it and tucked it in my closet, lamenting the fact that Gaby had wasted the dress on me.
Yet, here I am. Standing, wrapped in Gaby's dress - wearing it like a second skin. I suddenly feel strange wearing her dress, my dead best friend's dress. But at the same time, it feels wonderful. I feel close to her. I can smell the faint scent of her perfume. And I can hear her laughter in my ear. As usual, she is right. This is the perfect dress for this occasion and I can't imagine wearing anything else.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Disfigured
My review of Disfigured: A Saudi Woman's Story of Triumph Over Violence by Rania Al-Baz is posted in the June 2009 edition of womenwriters.net.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Crepe Sucre
It was my first night in Paris. Candles flickered and the dark air of the café was filled with smoke and jazz. Everyone was older than me. The lone freshman amongst juniors and seniors, I felt one step behind. During our first class on Expatriate Literature, I got lost somewhere between the French Feminists and Deconstruction.
The introductory tour of Paris was a blur - Sacre Coure, the Champs-Elysees, Jardin du Luxembourg, Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, the Seine, The Louvre – they were all muddled together in my mind, shades of black and gray. I had no idea how I would navigate such a huge city for the next three weeks.
I focused intently on the jazz, my glass of red wine, the French being spoken around me and its unfamiliar sounds - alluring and harsh. I couldn’t help feeling that my eighteen-year-old attempt to take charge of my life by doing something bold and adventurous was a big mistake.
As the days passed, I eased into the study abroad experience. I stayed with the group while exploring the city, carefully read the assignments and started to speak both literary theory and French. I learned the differences between the French and American Feminists and the relationship between Deconstruction in literature and the larger arts community. I read Gertrude Stein, Hemmingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, developing a kinship with those famous Americans living in Paris. As I walked the same narrow streets that had been their muse, their protection, and their raison d’être, I soaked in the promise of Paris. And even though I’d never studied French, it looks a lot like Spanish, which I had studied. I found I could read a menu even if I couldn’t pronounce the words.
Needless to say, I became a Francophile within days. And it wasn’t just Paris, it was crêpes.
Despite my initial feelings of naïveté, I felt a growing sense of my independent self in Paris. It began in earnest the day I decided to venture out alone into our neighborhood. I pulled on my gray wool coat, tied my scarf smartly around my neck in the French style and walked confidently out the front doors of the Hotel Trianon Rive Gauche into the Latin Quarter.
Turning onto Boulevard St. Michel, I walked past a patisserie. Scrumptious desserts lined the window and the smell of croissants wafted out the door. I passed a lingerie boutique with delectable desserts of a different kind displayed suggestively on the mannequins. Further up the street was a small market with large baskets of fresh fruit and flowers positioned near the entrance. The Café Le Luxembourg was filled with Parisians leisurely sipping coffee and reading books in the atrium facing the Jardin du Luxembourg.
As I turned the corner, I was engulfed in a smell so warm and sweet that I had to stop. A small stand was tucked under the awning of a confectionery shop just a few feet away. It was a crêpe stand. During our student orientation, we had been warned about eating food from street vendors, but as I looked from the menu to the batter bubbling on the griddle, I was ready for the risk.
Bonjour Mademoiselle, man behind the griddle greeted me. Crêpe Sucre, I immediately responded, surprising myself with the clarity in which the words flew out of my mouth. I sounded, well, French.
The man nodded without any recognition of the significance of this moment we were sharing. He poured enough batter to thinly coat the large, round griddle. It sizzled as it started to steam and bubble in the crisp, January air. With the skill of a master, he quickly flipped the crêpe, slathered it with butter and sprinkled it with sugar. And with three swift movements of his spatula, the crêpe was no longer a thin pancake on the griddle, but a smooth triangular pastry in a paper liner. I exchanged a handful of francs for my crêpe. We both smiled as I turned to walk away.
Across the street was one of the many entrances to the Jardin Le Luxembourg and I could see an empty bench just on the edge of the garden. I dodged Renaults and Volkswagens as I crossed the street and claimed my place on the bench. I breathed in the scent of my crêpe, the foliage and the smell of diesel thinking that it was the perfect trifecta.
I watched people hustle by, hunched against the brisk wind and listened to the smooth, rhythmic cadence of the French language around me. I bit into my crêpe, letting the butter and sugar melt on my tongue, and I found that the language that was so foreign a few weeks earlier was now soothing and familiar. I couldn’t help feeling that this was what being independent was all about. Letting the sweet taste of a new experience overwhelm your senses and surround you. Simultaneously losing and finding yourself in a moment, in a crêpe, in a garden, while enjoying each luscious bite.
To appear in the anthology Let Them Eat Crepes (eatingcrepes.com)
The introductory tour of Paris was a blur - Sacre Coure, the Champs-Elysees, Jardin du Luxembourg, Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, the Seine, The Louvre – they were all muddled together in my mind, shades of black and gray. I had no idea how I would navigate such a huge city for the next three weeks.
I focused intently on the jazz, my glass of red wine, the French being spoken around me and its unfamiliar sounds - alluring and harsh. I couldn’t help feeling that my eighteen-year-old attempt to take charge of my life by doing something bold and adventurous was a big mistake.
As the days passed, I eased into the study abroad experience. I stayed with the group while exploring the city, carefully read the assignments and started to speak both literary theory and French. I learned the differences between the French and American Feminists and the relationship between Deconstruction in literature and the larger arts community. I read Gertrude Stein, Hemmingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, developing a kinship with those famous Americans living in Paris. As I walked the same narrow streets that had been their muse, their protection, and their raison d’être, I soaked in the promise of Paris. And even though I’d never studied French, it looks a lot like Spanish, which I had studied. I found I could read a menu even if I couldn’t pronounce the words.
Needless to say, I became a Francophile within days. And it wasn’t just Paris, it was crêpes.
Despite my initial feelings of naïveté, I felt a growing sense of my independent self in Paris. It began in earnest the day I decided to venture out alone into our neighborhood. I pulled on my gray wool coat, tied my scarf smartly around my neck in the French style and walked confidently out the front doors of the Hotel Trianon Rive Gauche into the Latin Quarter.
Turning onto Boulevard St. Michel, I walked past a patisserie. Scrumptious desserts lined the window and the smell of croissants wafted out the door. I passed a lingerie boutique with delectable desserts of a different kind displayed suggestively on the mannequins. Further up the street was a small market with large baskets of fresh fruit and flowers positioned near the entrance. The Café Le Luxembourg was filled with Parisians leisurely sipping coffee and reading books in the atrium facing the Jardin du Luxembourg.
As I turned the corner, I was engulfed in a smell so warm and sweet that I had to stop. A small stand was tucked under the awning of a confectionery shop just a few feet away. It was a crêpe stand. During our student orientation, we had been warned about eating food from street vendors, but as I looked from the menu to the batter bubbling on the griddle, I was ready for the risk.
Bonjour Mademoiselle, man behind the griddle greeted me. Crêpe Sucre, I immediately responded, surprising myself with the clarity in which the words flew out of my mouth. I sounded, well, French.
The man nodded without any recognition of the significance of this moment we were sharing. He poured enough batter to thinly coat the large, round griddle. It sizzled as it started to steam and bubble in the crisp, January air. With the skill of a master, he quickly flipped the crêpe, slathered it with butter and sprinkled it with sugar. And with three swift movements of his spatula, the crêpe was no longer a thin pancake on the griddle, but a smooth triangular pastry in a paper liner. I exchanged a handful of francs for my crêpe. We both smiled as I turned to walk away.
Across the street was one of the many entrances to the Jardin Le Luxembourg and I could see an empty bench just on the edge of the garden. I dodged Renaults and Volkswagens as I crossed the street and claimed my place on the bench. I breathed in the scent of my crêpe, the foliage and the smell of diesel thinking that it was the perfect trifecta.
I watched people hustle by, hunched against the brisk wind and listened to the smooth, rhythmic cadence of the French language around me. I bit into my crêpe, letting the butter and sugar melt on my tongue, and I found that the language that was so foreign a few weeks earlier was now soothing and familiar. I couldn’t help feeling that this was what being independent was all about. Letting the sweet taste of a new experience overwhelm your senses and surround you. Simultaneously losing and finding yourself in a moment, in a crêpe, in a garden, while enjoying each luscious bite.
To appear in the anthology Let Them Eat Crepes (eatingcrepes.com)
3AM
I.
There is a crash and the house vibrates. My eyes shoot open and a flash of lightening illuminates the room for a second. The eyes of my dolls are eerily open, watching. A deafening boom follows the light and it repeats within seconds. The thunder and lightning occur almost simultaneously. The rain pelts the sky light in my room – so loud it is like hail, so loud it almost dulls the bursts of thunder. I pull the comforter up to my chin and breathe in, out, in, out. It is just a storm, I’m safe. I repeat the mantra in my mind over and over again. With each flash of lightening, I swear I see things moving in the corners of my room. Fearsome things lurking, waiting to pounce. In, out. In, out. I force my breath to be slow, steady. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I think pleasant thoughts – summer days doing cannon balls at my grandma’s pool, racing around the block on my purple banana seat bike, slurping icy root beer floats at the drive in. I feel my grip on the comforter start to loosen, the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I no longer have to consciously slow my breath. The storm rages on and I slip into a dream.
II.
Your breath is steamy in my ear. Your tongue traces along its edge and ends at my lobe. You hold it in your mouth. It is wet, hot. You move to my neck, gently teasing my skin with your teeth. You smell earthy; a combination of rum, sweat and cologne. I run my hands under your shirt and feel your chest, trace the outline of your pecks. I lift it up over your head and press my lips against yours. I feel light headed: the last glass of wine and desire simultaneously fogging and heightening my senses. Dido’s crooning and our labored breathing is all I hear. The candles on the dresser and the nightstand flicker. You pull off my shirt and fumble with my bra. Then, in one smooth movement, you cradle me onto your bed, brush the long strands of dark hair out of my eyes and kiss me. I unbutton your jeans and push them off of your legs with my foot and then slide out of my own. We are naked moving, hips tilting, grinding – hard, pressing into each other. Pushing, building, frantic until we release.
III. I feel your tiny hand on my breast as we rock, snuggled in the glider in the nursery. It is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that shines through the opening where the curtains meet. The only sound is the rush of the wind through the trees outside and the rhythm of your sucks and swallows. You roll the nipple on my left breast between your thumb and pointer finger with your right hand, absently fondling your food source. I wince and remove your hand while tucking my nightshirt tighter around that nipple so you can’t pinch it. I rest my head against the padded chair and close my eyes. I rock us back and forth; my feet perched on the edge of the footrest. Your fingers and open palm lightly caress the skin between my sternum and left breast. Your eyes are closed, lips fluttering, jaw working. You stop. My nipple, moist with milk, slips out of your mouth. Your face is peaceful, content. Your hand rests on my heart. I imagine the comfort that courses through your small body as you feel the familiar thud-thud, the music of the womb. I hold you a little longer, enjoying your weight in my arms, the quiet darkness of the night, your soft, sweet scent.
There is a crash and the house vibrates. My eyes shoot open and a flash of lightening illuminates the room for a second. The eyes of my dolls are eerily open, watching. A deafening boom follows the light and it repeats within seconds. The thunder and lightning occur almost simultaneously. The rain pelts the sky light in my room – so loud it is like hail, so loud it almost dulls the bursts of thunder. I pull the comforter up to my chin and breathe in, out, in, out. It is just a storm, I’m safe. I repeat the mantra in my mind over and over again. With each flash of lightening, I swear I see things moving in the corners of my room. Fearsome things lurking, waiting to pounce. In, out. In, out. I force my breath to be slow, steady. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I think pleasant thoughts – summer days doing cannon balls at my grandma’s pool, racing around the block on my purple banana seat bike, slurping icy root beer floats at the drive in. I feel my grip on the comforter start to loosen, the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I no longer have to consciously slow my breath. The storm rages on and I slip into a dream.
II.
Your breath is steamy in my ear. Your tongue traces along its edge and ends at my lobe. You hold it in your mouth. It is wet, hot. You move to my neck, gently teasing my skin with your teeth. You smell earthy; a combination of rum, sweat and cologne. I run my hands under your shirt and feel your chest, trace the outline of your pecks. I lift it up over your head and press my lips against yours. I feel light headed: the last glass of wine and desire simultaneously fogging and heightening my senses. Dido’s crooning and our labored breathing is all I hear. The candles on the dresser and the nightstand flicker. You pull off my shirt and fumble with my bra. Then, in one smooth movement, you cradle me onto your bed, brush the long strands of dark hair out of my eyes and kiss me. I unbutton your jeans and push them off of your legs with my foot and then slide out of my own. We are naked moving, hips tilting, grinding – hard, pressing into each other. Pushing, building, frantic until we release.
III. I feel your tiny hand on my breast as we rock, snuggled in the glider in the nursery. It is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that shines through the opening where the curtains meet. The only sound is the rush of the wind through the trees outside and the rhythm of your sucks and swallows. You roll the nipple on my left breast between your thumb and pointer finger with your right hand, absently fondling your food source. I wince and remove your hand while tucking my nightshirt tighter around that nipple so you can’t pinch it. I rest my head against the padded chair and close my eyes. I rock us back and forth; my feet perched on the edge of the footrest. Your fingers and open palm lightly caress the skin between my sternum and left breast. Your eyes are closed, lips fluttering, jaw working. You stop. My nipple, moist with milk, slips out of your mouth. Your face is peaceful, content. Your hand rests on my heart. I imagine the comfort that courses through your small body as you feel the familiar thud-thud, the music of the womb. I hold you a little longer, enjoying your weight in my arms, the quiet darkness of the night, your soft, sweet scent.
It Takes Two
When she asked Bill about the scar on his cheek, he grimaced and self-consciously or lovingly touched the tip of his finger along its rigid surface. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, his eyes seeing something more vivid than the harvest moon, rising against the clear Midwestern sky. She followed his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. She couldn't see the clear green glass of the bottle as it approached the side of his face, couldn’t smell the bitter beer, couldn’t feel the pain as the flesh on his cheek ripped and his bone fractured, couldn’t hear the thud when his body hit the floor. She couldn’t absorb the shock when he opened his eyes in the emergency room, felt his face and knew that his life would never be the same again. At sixteen, he would never go back home.
He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.
The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.
She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.
She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.
“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.
He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.
The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.
She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.
She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.
“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.
Side Effects
“I can’t do this. I can’t handle the waiting part. I just can’t.” It’s 3 in the morning and Gaby is wearing the kind of desperation on her face that only surfaces in the middle of the night.
“Maybe you don’t have to.” I notice a set of clippers on the counter near the sink. “Why don’t you do it?”
“What? Shave my head? Are you crazy?”
“Think about it. If you do it now, you are in control. You don’t have to wait around until it falls out. No more getting up to stare at your pillow, no more freaking out. If you do it now, then it’s done and YOU did it.” I am convinced it’s the right thing to do; the take charge thing to do. But I can’t help thinking – what if it was me? What if I was going through chemotherapy? Could I do it?
Without a word, Gaby picks up the clippers and turns them on. The buzz fills the silence in the room until it is all I can hear. With a look of concentration on her face, she hovers just above the center of her forehead and plunges ahead leaving a patch of white behind. A reverse mohawk – a skunk’s stripe. There is no going back now. She lines up to the right of the gap and cuts again. Then to the left. Again and again and again; her expression never changes. She is watching herself intently in the mirror, looking through rather than at herself. I am hypnotized by the constant hum and her intensity.
She shaves until only one chunk of hair remains, to the left of her right ear. “Can you do it?” Her question startles me. I take the clippers from her, their vibration filling my hand and creeping up my arm. I take a breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling and leaving my lungs.
“Face me.” My voice sounds strangely distant. She turns, looks at me and then closes her eyes.
“Do it. Quick.” It is a command. I lean in; gently place the guard against her skin with my right hand while holding her hair in my left. I run the clippers through it – they move quickly with little resistance. It’s done. I shut off the clippers. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the silence.
“What do you think?”
Gaby opens her eyes and turns to the mirror. There is a half circle of hair on the floor around her – luscious, long locks of dark hair splayed Medusa-like on the white tile. I’m still holding the last clump in my hand. She is beautiful. There is a quarter of an inch left, just enough to create a shadow. Her head is perfectly shaped and without hair, her blue eyes are stunning. Her cheeks are flush. She runs a hand over her head.
“I feel like a different person. I feel strong – like I can do anything.”
“Maybe you don’t have to.” I notice a set of clippers on the counter near the sink. “Why don’t you do it?”
“What? Shave my head? Are you crazy?”
“Think about it. If you do it now, you are in control. You don’t have to wait around until it falls out. No more getting up to stare at your pillow, no more freaking out. If you do it now, then it’s done and YOU did it.” I am convinced it’s the right thing to do; the take charge thing to do. But I can’t help thinking – what if it was me? What if I was going through chemotherapy? Could I do it?
Without a word, Gaby picks up the clippers and turns them on. The buzz fills the silence in the room until it is all I can hear. With a look of concentration on her face, she hovers just above the center of her forehead and plunges ahead leaving a patch of white behind. A reverse mohawk – a skunk’s stripe. There is no going back now. She lines up to the right of the gap and cuts again. Then to the left. Again and again and again; her expression never changes. She is watching herself intently in the mirror, looking through rather than at herself. I am hypnotized by the constant hum and her intensity.
She shaves until only one chunk of hair remains, to the left of her right ear. “Can you do it?” Her question startles me. I take the clippers from her, their vibration filling my hand and creeping up my arm. I take a breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling and leaving my lungs.
“Face me.” My voice sounds strangely distant. She turns, looks at me and then closes her eyes.
“Do it. Quick.” It is a command. I lean in; gently place the guard against her skin with my right hand while holding her hair in my left. I run the clippers through it – they move quickly with little resistance. It’s done. I shut off the clippers. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the silence.
“What do you think?”
Gaby opens her eyes and turns to the mirror. There is a half circle of hair on the floor around her – luscious, long locks of dark hair splayed Medusa-like on the white tile. I’m still holding the last clump in my hand. She is beautiful. There is a quarter of an inch left, just enough to create a shadow. Her head is perfectly shaped and without hair, her blue eyes are stunning. Her cheeks are flush. She runs a hand over her head.
“I feel like a different person. I feel strong – like I can do anything.”
Innoculated
You squirm the moment you hear the crinkle of the paper on the examination table. I hold your arms firmly at your sides and try to meet your eyes as I whisper tender words and give you haphazard kisses as you shake your head from side to side. Your eyes are frantic with panic; every fiber of your 19 pound, 30 inch body is struggling to escape. Your father holds your legs while the nurse sticks you with a syringe, efficiently pushing fluid into the muscle of your left thigh.
One – your screams raise a notch.
Two – breathing borders on hyperventilation.
The nurse moves to the right thigh and delivers the last dose, dabs each puncture mark and covers them with bright blue Snoopy band aids. It is over.
I wrap you in my arms. You hiccup and continue to whine as we gingerly put on your pants, socks and shoes. You bury your face in my shoulder; wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist as we walk through the clinic to the car. Our soothing “it’s okay,” and “no more owies” don’t seem to dull your pain. Or ours. As you snuggle in closer, looking for comfort at my breast, I find no comfort in the knowledge that this isn’t the last time we’ll make you cry.
One – your screams raise a notch.
Two – breathing borders on hyperventilation.
The nurse moves to the right thigh and delivers the last dose, dabs each puncture mark and covers them with bright blue Snoopy band aids. It is over.
I wrap you in my arms. You hiccup and continue to whine as we gingerly put on your pants, socks and shoes. You bury your face in my shoulder; wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist as we walk through the clinic to the car. Our soothing “it’s okay,” and “no more owies” don’t seem to dull your pain. Or ours. As you snuggle in closer, looking for comfort at my breast, I find no comfort in the knowledge that this isn’t the last time we’ll make you cry.
Friday, April 24, 2009
myShape.com Makes Online Shopping Personal
Published the fashion article myShape.com Makes Online Shopping Personal in Savvy Women's Magazine
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