I Miss The Before Times - Before COVID

 

We are not quite knowing how to feel. It just isn’t clear.

We're numb from this continuing tragedy. Can we feel fear?

Now the whole world waits with nowhere to hide.

The rising death-toll crescendos, just like that rising tide,

Now years pass as the virus sucks our collective breath.

No one is spared; dreams and loved ones succumb to death.

We ride the surges and waves of this black wicked water

Only to be left scared and sorrowful; lambs to the slaughter.

Imagination can't picture what each victim felt and has to face,

Our loved ones are suddenly gone and impossible to replace.

Grand inequity threads throughout all our attempts to thrive.

This is a global threat. Without fairness we will never arrive.

Many say that time heals, but will our hearts remain lost?

Can we find our way, move forward? But at what cost?

Fright and rage scream both silently and out loud.

Young and old taken by an evil smothering cloud.

Nobody is spared. There is more sick, always more and more.

More than the tower's victims and all the many fallen from war.

The sane find hope in the life saving nectar of vaccines arriving.

"Lucky ones" are plagued by fear, grief, anger and the guilt of surviving.

We're better than before the vaccines and sanity in leadership.

And I'm sure this has strengthen and broken many a relationship.

But many souls suffer the ultimate indignity. Dying alone is it's own purgatory.

It's sad cruelty to be deprived a loving hand on the way to glory.

Yet from this awful suffering, beyond the realms of understanding,

Evidence of heroes, heroines, of love and hope will be outstanding.

They shine like beacons in the darkness no matter how they feel.

Let's stand together and find the strength so we can begin to heal.

New Year

Take down all your troubles,

And wrap up your regrets.

Tie them to the rays of light,

The sun sheds as it sets,

Whisper all that was,

To fleeting seconds as they pass.

But hold onto your hope,

For something new is here at last.

Beg your own forgiveness,

And then grant it in one breath.

Lay the year down softly,

As it waits to fear its death.

Then sit with eyes turned skywards,

As the night-time comes alive.

All that's been is over,

And a new year has arrived.

Grieve Or Believe

 

Inside a ramshackle house, before a dying fire, a weathered armchair stood.

The man called Santa was staring into the flames, nursing a half empty glass of vodka. His white beard was stained and his red robes were faded.
He nudged the embers remaining in the fireplace back to life. Eventually, he gave up. Throwing the poker away, Santa took a healthy swig of liquor. The vodka burned in his belly.

"Boss?"

Santa peered owlishly at the little elf standing in the doorway. "Ah, Bernard." He slurred. "Did you bring the list?"

From a tiny pocket, Bernard pulled out an even smaller book. When he handed it to the drunken saint, the minuscule manuscript expanded into a massive written tally with gold lettering.

The not-so-jolly man ran his hands over the cover with reverence. "Thank you. This is just what I needed."

Opening the magic book, Santa ripped out some sheets and tossed them into the fireplace. Bernard winced with each torn page.

"Will that be all, boss?" The elf grimaced as flames consumed the ancient list of names.

Crumpling a handful of paper, Santa grunted.

Bernard trudged away. Pausing at the door, his long ears twitched. "Santa, this will be the last year I stay."

The fat man gave no reply as he continued to dismantle the list.

Bernard swallowed and continued. "All the other elves have gone with Mrs. Claus. She's still trying to keep the magic alive, you know."

Santa laughed bitterly.

"There hasn't been any Christmas spirit in years." He punctuated the comment with a swig of his holiday spirit.

Biting his lip, Bernard blinked back tears. "We could migrate to another holiday, like New Year's or Easter?"

Santa threw the rest of the book into the fireplace. The flames roared as he glowered darkly. "I will never bow to another holiday. If you want to paint eggs for that rodent, so be it. Christmas dies with me."

Bernard wiped the grief leaking from his eyes. "Then I have nothing more to say." His voice quavered. "Goodbye... Santa."

Removing his green hat, the former head-elf softly placed it on the dusty floor and walked into the howling storm outside.

Santa started to call him back, but it was too late. Now he was the only one living soul left in that frozen wasteland.

He celebrated this hollow achievement with another mouthful of whiskey.

Visions of previous years swam before him, bright elfen faces beaming with joy as they created toys for good children. He recalled the adrenaline, soaring over cloudy mountains with his trusty reindeer. The satisfaction he'd felt, placing the last present under a sparkling tree.

It all felt so real.

"Get out of my head." He growled.

The illusion drifted in front of the crackling hearth, sighing wistfully. It was the figure of a chubby little boy with golden hair. A holly wreath crowned his transparent head, while a lit candle glowed in his hands.

"Why do you torment me?" Santa glared with bushy eyebrows.

The Ghost of Christmas Past shrugged. "I have no one else. We are relics of a forgotten age, you and I." He gently placed a hand on the fat man's shoulder.

Swatting the gesture away, Santa bristled at the touch. "Leave me be, I didn't ask for sympathy."

"No, but you asked for company. We heard your silent cry and so we have come." Grinning, the boy flew around the room. Dust swirled and cobwebs fluttered as he whistled through the air. From the spinning cloud of particles, a form took shape.

It was the figure of a woman.

Cobwebs created ragged clothes; dust bunnies twisting into dirty hair which obscured her face. Brushing it aside, the skinny woman peered at Santa with sunken eyes. She smiled, bony cheeks caked with layers of filth.

"Hello, Nick."

He groaned, returning the greeting. "Hello, Present."

She looked around the room for something to eat, finding nothing but disappointment. Her eyes became fixed on the vodka bottle. "Share some of that with me?" Christmas Present asked hopefully.

Santa hesitated before handed it over to her.

Gratefully, the ragged woman gulped the clear liquid. "Ahhh." She sighed. "I needed that."

The chubby boy shook his golden head disapprovingly.

Wiping her grimy mouth, she hissed at him. "Don't you look at me like that! I've never had the luxury of generous cheer and kind hearts. Everyone is stingy and cold."

Christmas Present handed the liquor back and warmed her frigid hands over the burning book.

"What happened to us, Nick?" She shivered as the saint drowned his sorrows.

"Commercialization." He mumbled, wiping his lips.

"Sorry?" The boy put a hand to his spectral ear.

"COMMERCIALIZATION." Santa roared.

Christmas Present nodded understandingly. "The corporations corrupted the Yuletide message, convincing people the more you bought, the more you cared for your family." She explained the concept to the little boy, his red nose wrinkling at the notion.

"But the children aren't buying anything!" Christmas Past pouted.

Santa spat into the fire and grumbled. "They certainly aren't buying that I exist."

"And whose fault is that?" Cheeks turning red, the boy stomped over to the armchair. The holly wreath on his head looked more brown than green, his candle flame beginning to sputter. Golden hair faded to silver as he shouted at the disillusioned Saint. "Why have you given up, when you are needed most?"

The old man gave no answer.

Gripping the iron poker, he prodded the half roasted list until a slightly singed page fell away. The smoking paper drifted by the shivering woman. Snatching it up, she read the names eagerly.

"Every name on that list is naughty." Santa said grimly. "I checked it each night, hoping one would change to nice. Even just one kid, would be worth it."

Softly, the ghost of Christmas Present began to weep. Tears left streaks on her dusty face, falling onto the ashen floor. "I knew it in my heart but I hoped it wasn't true..." Sobs racked her slender frame.

Gravely, the boy turned to Old Saint Nick. His once plump cheeks were now sunken and hollow. "It's time we called him." Christmas Past said, wrinkles appearing on his brow.

Santa shuddered.

"No! Please you mustn't!" Eyes wide, he pleaded with the apparition. "It's been decades since we've seen him. Centuries even!" The bearded man protested vehemently, hands shaking.

Snatching the drink from Santa's grip, the aging boy grinned humorlessly.

"One last reunion, for old times' sake?" Cackling, the elderly cherub poured the rest of the alcohol into the fire.
Flames greedily lapped the vodka, blooming with renewed vigor. A pillar of incandescence erupted with a bright flare, blinding Santa. The heat rose as the inferno raged within the chimney.

Past and Present flinched, shielding themselves behind the armchair. Sweat trickled into Santa's eyes, blurring his vision.

With a whisper, the flames vanished. Only the dying embers were left, coals peeking out from piles of ash. A creeping chill replaced the searing warmth. Frigid shadows replaced the flickering light.

Santa suddenly felt painfully sober.

A cinder snapped.

Something shifted beneath the smoky hearth. Slowly, it emerged from the soot. Powdered remnants fell as the ghost of Christmas Future rose.

Its blackened flesh was covered in glowing red cracks. A horrible smell wafted from the entity. A half-melted gas mask obscured the charred head, which turned to examine the man cowering before it.

With a gurgling wheeze, the figure staggered out of the fireplace.

"Leave me! You aren't welcome here..." Santa whimpered as the cursed spirit drew nearer.

The two other ghosts grabbed his arms, trapping the saint. Past leered, his boyish face now twisted and wizened with countless years. Present wept, dark eyes sinking deeper as tears running down gaunt cheeks.

And there the dreaded Future stood.

It gazed into his soul, choking out a strangled gasp. Crispy fingers ripped off the misshapen mask, revealing a scalded skull. Dried skin clung to it, liquefied features blistered and parched. Cracked teeth gave a ghastly smile, eye sockets holding a swirling void of emptiness.

"Please, stop! Anything but this!" Santa begged as his sanity began to unravel.

The two sightless holes began to show him a vision of the future, an endless journey of hopelessness and horror.

The screams were drowned by the howling storm outside, thick snowflakes burying the little house and what remained of Santa's workshop.

Cold winds blew against a hallow glacier that covered the north pool consuming Santa's workshop whole. Suddenly Santa's eyes opened as if awoken by a loud noise, pondering his surrounding's he sat up from his cold defrosted bed to find he was all alone. Confused, he sat out to search the whole workshop for clues. His effort was strenuous as he slowly tried to regain strength within his legs. Managing to walk on his own he shuffles his way around what was left of the workshop. Memories flickered in his thoughts of years before when the room he was now standing in was filled with extravagant toys from wall to wall built by skillful elves. Now, everything is replaced with nightmares brought on by abandoned hope. Now, now the room stood empty.

With this he opened a back door that let in a flood of sunshine, and Santa Claus sniffed the fresh air gratefully. He stepped out to greet the bright new morning. Santa marched over the snow toward a mountain.

There, stood a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were dainty nymphs, pixies, gnomes, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in their hovering support.

This wonderful army was led by Bernard and his newest elves, Wisk, Peter, Nutter, and Kilter, who to rescue Santa Claus from the storm damage and to aid in the search for his faith in humankind.

River Of Time

 

At moments like these, David tried to remember that going out on nonsense stories was part of a reporter’s job. His beat was a mix of investigative and human-interest stories, which were often strange, and this one was.

A man had called in to one of the city’s all-night radio talk shows several nights in a row with tales about what was going to happen that day. In his first call, he had claimed that a large meteorite would be seen flashing over Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 5:03 am that morning. That happened, right on schedule. The next night, he called and told of a small earthquake that would occur in Peru at 11:08 am, centered on the town of Caleón. That too happened, right on schedule. David took a deep dive to figure out who this man was.

At this point, the radio station contacted the newspaper and David was put on the story. He asked the host to ask the caller, if he called again, to meet David for a drink, off the record, at a bar in the city’s lawyer district.

The caller called in that night just after midnight. He claimed that a tornado would touch down at 4:24 pm near the city of Lincoln, Nebraska. A few minutes after the caller went off the air, David received an email from the host: the caller had accepted David’s invitation and would be at the Hammer and Anvil, on 14th Street, at 9 pm.

David had watched the weather in Lincoln all day as it deteriorated; the tornado warning was issued at 4:04 pm, and the tornado made its appearance right on time, destroying an auto parts store. And now, two hours later, David was on his way to the Hammer and Anvil.

At 8:58 pm, an older man stepped through the door. Around his head he was wearing a red bandanna, tee shirt and jeans. From the bandanna came two long, thick braids.

David ordered a drink and he sat there waiting for something to happen. He didn’t look up, but simply stepped awkwardly around the corner of the bar, just as David had done, and sat down on the stool next to him. “Keeping an eye on the door?” the man asked.

David immediately recognized the voice from the radio show. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”

“I know things,” the man said. He turned in his stool and David got a look at his face—he had wrinkles that could probably tell their own story. He had graying hair in two thick braids and a patchy white beard.

“You work for a newspaper, right?”
“That’s right. “The Globe.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Never actually seen it.”

“Ah,” David said. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a newspaperman’s notepad. “You don’t mind if I take a few notes?”

The man shrugged and looked at an elaborate watch on his left wrist. “The time has passed now,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you do.”

“I see,” David said, not really seeing, but willing to say anything to get to his questions. “Can you tell me your name?”

“No,” the man said. His eyes were roving around the bar; David got the feeling that he was more interested in the women sprinkled here and there. One of them caught his eye, smiled, and he smiled back and nodded.

“You’ve been making some predictions on the radio and they’ve been coming true. Can you tell me about that?”

“It’s not a secret,” he said flatly. “I’m a time traveler.” He pulled his eyes away from the woman and turned to David. “I watched these things play out the first time, and then I came back here and started calling that show.”

“You watched them play out,” David repeated. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sort of a navigator, I guess you could say. I navigate time.”

“Navigate time. How do you do that, exactly?”

“Well, it’s a little like navigating a boat. You ever been on a boat?”

“Yeah. How is it like navigating a boat?”

“Time is a river. I have a ship and I sail in the river. I navigate upstream and down.”

“Ah,” David said. “What is it that you’re trying to accomplish?”

The man turned to David. “I had to get you here instead of—where you would have been tonight.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?”

“At home,” the man said.

“Will you be calling in to the show tonight?”

“No,” the man said. “Last night was the last time.” The man got up. “It’s been great talking to you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to where I came from, which will be different now that you’re here and not where you would have been. If you had not met me here tonight.” And without another word, the man got up, placed his hat back on his head, and strode out the door and into the night.

David drove home, and when he got close, he could see yellow flickers of flame reflecting off of the houses on his street—something big was on fire. As he approached, he saw that his own house had collapsed into itself and was a raging inferno. There were fire trucks parked akimbo and an ambulance sped past him as he parked and got out. He approached one of the firemen. “This is my house!” David said. “What happened?!”

“Propane tank explosion,” the fireman said. “We’ve got it contained, but if we spray the house, it’s going to spread embers everywhere. Nothing to do now but watch it burn.” The fireman turned to the structure. “The neighbors said you live alone. You live alone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah,” the fireman said. “Well. Good thing you were out.”

When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie sang the men at the bar would stop and turn on their stools to listen. The bartender would dry his hands, move to the end of the bar and light up a cigarette. The waitresses would huddle by the wall and hug their trays flat against their bosoms. And the drunken man who cried softly to himself in the corner by the door would lift his eyes and rub his hands together underneath an invisible spigot.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy."

When Sylvie sang she never really heard the music or thought about the words. She was far away in a small town by a riverbank, holding onto someone she loved...someone she lost. She only heard his voice, felt his heat, and the nightclub disappeared.

But the song always has to end and when the music stopped the men at the bar would turn again and start to laugh and talk. The waitresses would rush to cover their thirsty stations and the drunken man would close his eyes again and descend inside himself.

Sylvie would go out into the alley and stare at the night sky. One evening she clung for a moment to the sound of distant laughter. She paused when she saw the couple in love cross an intersection, and she closed the gallery in her mind and slipped into a world of smoke and mirrors until she was called back for her next set. The singing paid the rent and bought groceries, but it cost her... dearly. Every night when the neon lights went out, she'd walk back to her room, six blocks down, two blocks over, past the on-ramp, next to the Hallmark store. And there, with no lights on, Sylvie would sing for herself and make love by the riverbank with no audience looking on. And every night the return trip from the riverbank got longer and longer. She paced away her days away inside that room.

Her room next to the Hallmark store had once been part of a large house that was broken down into crash pads in the late 1960s. By the terms of the rental agreement there was to be no cooking in any of the apartments. But everyone cooks. Sylvie had one of those GE toaster ovens that she kept on the floor by her bed and on those cold nights she turned it on and opened the glass door just a crack to let it warm her face.

When there was no show, no songs for Sylvie to sing, no way for her to leave the 'here' behind, images came to her in flashes of light. Voices yelled and swore at her. Distant blows landed on her body. The river overflowed its banks and her Lover floated away, out of sight, and was gone.

The water seeped into the floor causing the ceiling of the apartment below to discolor and drop pieces of green painted plaster onto the bed of the widower who lived alone and kept diaries so that someday “he world will know. So they'll all know.”

When his ceiling began to fall he ran into the hall. The commotion pulled some of the other tenants out of their rooms and after a short crisis meeting that bounced back and forth between English, Tagalog, Spanish and, and perhaps Greek, they marched, as a small mob, up the stairs to Sylvie's door.

The water coming from her room followed the slope of the floor out into the hallway, soaking the frayed edge of the hallway rug. The widower pounded on the door as they all yelled for her to open up. When they got no answer and the water had started its way down the stairs, the widower kicked in Sylvie's door. The door jumped from its hinges and fell to the floor. They could see the water coming from the bathroom and so the widower and a few other neighbors crowded in. The rest filled the doorway.

There she was, sitting, naked on the floor of the shower with her porcelain arms full with paperback romance novels, books of mysteries, and many beauty magazines. She didn't look up when we came in. Her eyes stayed fixed straight ahead.

The widower reached over and turned off the water while one of the ladies began to scream at her about how her craziness was going to cause trouble for all of them. About how if the building inspector came in and found out about all of the cooking, the owner would be forced to bring the place up to code and where were they all supposed to live while the work was being done? And about how, even then, they wouldn't be able to afford the new higher rents that the repairs would cause. Another man shouted at Sylvie to get her shit together or just get the hell out of the building and leave us all in peace.
She didn't hear a word he said. She just stood up, left the dripping books and dresses and walked past them. As she lowered herself onto the sofa she stopped and looked the widower in the eyes. Then she rolled over and went to sleep. The others started to leave and the widower covered her with an old afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. On her bed, laid out very carefully were three silky-looking black dresses on padded hangers. He should have left then too, but he didn't. He stayed and looked at all the books and the three black dresses. The dresses didn't fit in. Everything else in the apartment was worn and neglected, but those dresses were immaculate and cared for. All of the other clothes in her closet were casual and looked as though she bought them from a thrift shop. The dresses were expensive and classy. And they faintly smelled of cigarettes and lilacs. He put the door back on its hinges and went home and got a little drunk.

After that night the others began to freeze her out. The Armenian woman with no bottom teeth stopped saying hello in the hallway and the young couple, who are both runaways and so much in love, never asked her to share a joint anymore.

One night when the widower was taking out his garbage he saw her, in one of her black silk dresses. He didn't quite know why but he became so curious about her. She was such a dramatic mystery to him. He followed her to the nightclub, the "Satin Rose," and stayed until closing time and then followed her home.

Night after night he went to the club. He'd sit at the bar, close his eyes, and let Sylvie's voice make him feel good. He didn't want her to see him. He would be compelled to tell her how he felt and he couldn't do that. He was falling in love with her and she was barely aware of him. And besides, everyone in the club knew that Sylvie was in love already with someone that no one could ever outshine. One song and you just knew.

But the widower wanted to be something to her - do something for her. So, he began to feed her. He would fix food for her and put it by her door. Soup, eggs, some meat when he could afford it. The widower wasn't much of a chef, but he can fix what he remembered his mother fixing for him. Stew. He crushed vitamins and mixed them in.

At first, she didn't eat anything that the widower made for her. Then she started to take a few bites and, finally, she began to eat everything he put down for her.

In the morning, while he knew she'd still be sleeping, He'd come up and get the dishes from the hallway. Last month, she left him a paper napkin that she'd kissed. He wished he could say things to her in words as eloquently as she spoke from a napkin.

One Friday, the widower had to work late so he couldn't go to the club. When he got home he fixed himself a meal and put a plate in the hallway for Sylvie. The next morning it was still there.

That night the widower went over to the club but somebody else was singing. He asked the bartender why Sylvie wasn't there. He said that the night before Sylvie had done her usual show except, after the last set she went through the club and thanked everybody for being there - shaking hands, kissing cheeks and then she said good-bye, picked up a small brown suitcase from behind the bar, and walked out the door. Then he handed the widower a note. “Here. I believe this is for you.” he said.

The note read:

"Thank you very much.

For coming to hear me sing, for the food,

for loving me when I couldn't."

That night she sang the last song that she felt she had to sing.

"Love brings such misery and pain. I know I'll never be the same.

Since I fell for you...."

When Sylvie sang.

 

The Identity of Love

 

Elinor was at a point in her life where she had met a lot of her goals professionally, and made peace with the loss of her only child over a decade ago.

She finally got to the point where she could live on her own without feeling anything else missing from her life. Her father's birthday was coming up and she wanted to do something really special for him. He was a great dad and would do anything for her. He was approaching eighty years old and she wanted his birthday gift to be really unique to him. Suddenly it dawned on her. Elinor's plan was to give her father his specific story – the story of his people and their history.

Elinor completed a DNA kit using her own DNA and sent it off. This would be especially thrilling for her father, Max that had always been quite braggadocios about his extensive Irish ancestry.

Elinor was eleven when her grandparents took her on a trip to Ireland. They were able to trace the different cottages and churches her family had occupied over a period of two hundred years. In fact, the last memory Elinor last memory of her grandfather was of him standing over his own grandfather's grave with a smile and a tear. He took off his cap, placed it on his heart and said, “I'll be seeing you at the great pub, Grandad.”

Elinor's plan started smoothly as she arrived at her parents house to celebrate her father's big day. She deliberately didn't looked at the DNA results so she could enjoy each morsel of discovery along with her parents.

When Elinor arrived, her father opened the door and greeted her with a big smile under his bushy white mustache.

“Happy birthday, Dad!” cheered Elinor. “I have a birthday present for not only you but will be a gift for all of us!”

After an explanation, her mother cleared off some space on the living room coffee table so Elinor can lay out some paperwork.

“Elinor, I don't know about all this dear.” said her mother Claire nervously. “I mean there are a lot of scams out there, you know.”

“Oh Mother come on.”

Claire's eyes grow wide.

“Mother! Really! It's fine.” Claire stands frozen.

Her father Max sits next to Elinor and puts on his glasses to get a better look at all the documents, graphs, and maps.

“Well Claire, this thing shows all your German ancestry, all right!” said Max.

Claire remained silent and standing.

A few minutes pass. Elinor is a bit disappointed at her mother's lack of interest.

“Okay, that takes care of Mom.” said Elinor. “This section her must be yours Dad...let's see...”

Elinor and her father leaned in closer to the document.

“Well, that can't be right.” protested Max. “I'm Irish through and through!”

“Yeah. I know Dad.” But why is it showing your roots to be from ...let's see...it says Eastern Europe, specifically Poland. What?” Max turned to Elinor. “Little girl, you better get your money back.”

“I'm so sorry Dad.” expressed Elinor extraordinarily dis heartened. “I don't know what happened.”

Max reads on. “ Ethnicity: Anasazi Jew. That's definitely not me!”

“That's right, Max.” said Claire softly. “ That's not you.”


Elinor and Max look up from the paper work at Claire.

Then they look at each other...then back at Claire.

“Mom! What are you saying?

Silence.

“She's saying that I'm not your father Elinor.” roared Max.

“I'm sorry Max. I should have told you. I didn't want to lose you.”

“Mom! What are you talking about?”

Max in one fluid motion clears all the paperwork off the table with his arm, walks over to the coat rack by the front door. As her grabs his jacket, her starts to say something but just shakes his head and walks out the door.

He stands and takes his jacket off the coat rack near the front door.

“Mom! You have to explain all this to me! Dad is heartbroken!”

After a long silence, Claire sat down took a tissue from its box on the side table.

“I met your..... biological father one August night at a cocktail party, when he was singing in a doo-wop group after his senior year in college. I didn’t know how that moonlit night on a blanket would forever change my life. I didn't know that at the same time, Roger's fiancee Debra was flipping through Bride magazine looking for the perfect dress for their March wedding.”

Claire starts to tremble.

“After I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified and didn't know what to do. I packed up a small suitcase and hitchhiked to Chicago where my old dorm mate had an apartment. She let me stay there until I could figure out what to do. My plan was to give you up for adoption. I got a job as a hatcheck girl at a local hotel downtown. It was there where I met your father...uh...Max.” She hangs her head and sobs.

Elinor felt numb. She couldn't bring herself to give comfort to her mother not because she was angry and . It was all so serial. Just a couple of hours ago, her life was totally different.
“Mom, I understand...no actually not all of it. But what I can see clearly is that you did decided to keep me and that it changed your life's path.”

“Yes. I did. I have hated myself because of the lie but I am proud and blessed to be able to keep you. If it wasn't for Max, this would be a totally different conversation. I knew right away that he was an honest, hard working, nurturing Irish man. He took care of me. We fell in love. He told me that when he first laid eyes on me as I check his hat, he knew I was the woman he was going to marry. Two weeks later we were married.”

“Yes Mother, I knew about that part. I always thought it was very romantic. Did you really love him back?'

“Yes Elinor, my love for Max has always been true. I was too scared to tell him. But before our wedding I went back and forth about telling him that I was pregnant.”

It was very still between them. They both could feel the weight of each passing moment. Elinor could feel her very identity burning at the edges.

“I've always known your wedding anniversary was in April and I was born in November. Dad said I was a premature baby. But that is what you led him to believe, is that right?”

Claire nodded.

“Oh Mom, Dad is devastated.”

“Yes.”

Claire sighs and looks off in the distance at a memory.

It was a Monday in November. I was baking biscuits in the kitchen when I went into labor. Your father grabbed the small suitcase from the closet, hurried me into the car and brought me to the hospital. I remember wailing in pain the whole ride there. Max tried to take my mind off the pain. He said we should name you Slade if you were a boy or Elinor after his mother if you were a girl. Six hours later, I was looking into your blue-green eyes.”

Elinor took a deep breath, “Now what can you tell me about my father...my biological father?”

Claire stood up and left the room for a moment and came back a moment later with an old record album.

“Here.”

She handed Elinor the album with a picture of four young men with pompadour hair styles and wearing over sized tweed suits.

“He's the one on the left.”

Elinor looked closer at the cover. Even in the black and white photo, she could see how light his eye were.

“Did he know?”

“No. Not then.”

“Not then? You mean he found out?”

“Yes. Leading up to your high school graduation, I had a strong urge to tell Roger. But it was fear. It took over. Fear of hurting you and your father...Max max. There was also the fear of disrupting Roger's family. But it ate me alive. I selfishly wanted to share the burden. So one day, I just tracked Roger down and told him.”

“What did he say? I mean, how did he take it?”

Claire looked off in the distance and sighed with a slight shutter of sadness.

“He cried. We both cried. For a long time we cried. He didn't know what else to say. He apologized. He felt badly that I had to go through that without him. I told him that you had a wonderful father and that you are growing up happy and healthy.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I think so. The last I heard, he moved back to Indiana after his parents died.”

Claire took a sip of her coffee and then placed the coffee cup down on its saucer. She looked at her daughter and took a deep breath.

“He wanted to meet you but I wouldn't let him.”

“What?”

“Yes. This was selfish on my part. It hurt him. But Max would have been crushed. He is crushed.”

“So you just told him to stay out of my life? Mom! Why didn't you tell me at the time?”

“First of all, I thought you were too young emotionally to handle such a big identity issue but to be honest Elinor, I didn't want you to hate me.”

Claire looked down at he lap.

“Do you hate me Elinor?”

Elinor, annoyed and confused stood up and picked up her purse.

“I have to go find Dad.”

As an afterthought she picked up the record album and headed toward the door.

Claire stood up, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“He came to your graduation. I spotted him way in the back.”

Elinor froze, setting her eyes on her hand on the front door knob. She opened the door and left.

Elinor found her biological father after Googling the name “Roger Blum”, “doo-wop”, and “Indiana”. A name hidden for decades revealed in ten minutes It took only about ten minutes. It seemed like it should have been more difficult somehow. After a few rings, there was disembodied voice that was deep and smooth. If he was surprised he didn't show it; instead, a meeting was arranged.

Elinor agreed to drive down to see him where he lived in Indiana. The drive was just under two hours. South Bend was not only his home town but Claire's as well. She wondered when all of this would sink in.

------------------------------------------

The meeting took place at a deli in downtown South Bend. Elinor walked in and instantly knew the man at the back table was Roger. He looked older than she had imagined. The only image she had of him was on the album cover from his doo-wop days in the late 1950's. He was very tall even without the pompadour. His jacket was very old but well tailored and his shoes were spotless. Under a cloud of white hair Elinor saw her own blue-green eyes. This is my father, she thought.

All the questions Elinor had prepared evaporated. Words failed her. Here was a man, charming and witty- and all too human. They both ordered some soup. For the first few minutes, they talked about mundane things: the weather, the music business, how he was learning to remodel his house - the house he grew up in. My grandparents, Elinor thought.

To anyone observing them, the conversation was relaxed, informal. They might have been a boss and his younger underling at lunch hour. But beneath the surface, Elinor wondered if he had a knot in his stomach, like she had.

After a bit more chit-chat, Roger passed Elinor a sealed envelope. She looked at him to read his face. He looked at her over a spoonful of matzo ball soup.

“Open it.” he said, gesturing his spoon toward the envelope.

Elinor nervously turn it over then open it. Inside, there were about a dozen photos of Elinor at her, of Elinor at her high school graduation, of Elinor holding books and walking with her friends at Chicago State University, of Elinor and then, husband being showered with rice as they leave the church that held her wedding, and alone in a graveyard kneeling at her baby's grave as she softly fingered the name engraved in the stone. All the photos were taken from a great distance. He cared. Elinor thought. Her eyes started to well up.

“I have two more.” Roger pulled an old dog-eared photo out from his shirt pocket and laid it in front of before Elinor on the table.

“Is this you...and my mother?

He smiled.

The pictures depicted the happy couple walking along a street somewhere in Italy and another riding in a gondola in what was obviously Venice. He is holding Claire tenderly on his lap. Time stood still in that photo.

But it led to a life plot twist for everyone...all of it leading to Elinor's existence.

Elinor felt her whole body tingle.

“Can I keep this?” she asked.

“I've kept it for fifty years. I think you can keep it now.”

Roger talked to Elinor about his family line. He had no other children. He married twenty years ago but she had died recently. His parents were both Jewish. His father was born in Poland and had come to America before the atrocities of the holocaust. Roger's mother was not as lucky. Although she, being the youngest, was sent to Indiana to live with a distant cousin but her two siblings didn't make it out and were killed in Auschwitz.

“I'm so sorry, Roger.”

He smiled. “I haven't lost you...have I?”

She took his hand.

“No. But let's take this slowly. All of this has left me shocked, afraid and excited....and angry at my mother.”

“Don't be. She wanted to give you a stable upbringing. I wouldn't been very good at it even if I did know about you. I was on the road with the group and extremely immature.”

A tear fell down Elinor's cheek. “I like you Roger. Let's do this again soon.”

Elinor stood up. And with a struggle, Roger got to his feet. She embraced him and felt him relax in her arms.

“Yes. Let's do that. Shall I walk you to your car?” he asked.

“No...Dad. You finish your soup. I'll call you soon.”

A broad grin lifted his face.

Elinor left the deli with a mild smile. On her way to her car she stopped and went back to the deli window and saw her father hunching over, spooning his soup. Elinor took out her cell phone and took a picture of him through the window, got in her car and drove home.

-------------------

The sun was sinking below the horizon as Max sat staring at the fire making little leaps within the stone fireplace. From the open cabin door, a cool spring breeze ruffled his already-disheveled white hair. His cheeks were slightly flushed. It had been a long day. Max didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t talk. All he could do was sit. Sit and think about it all. But the more he thought, the more he felt the tears well up in his eyes. And he could do nothing to stop them.

“I thought I'd find you here.” Elinor whispered as her eyes welled up. Grimacing slightly, Max pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. A permanent line is etched between his eyes, another testament to his character. Elinor remembered her fathers laugh. He would laugh with all he has in him. Max is not laughing now. The deep lines on his face testify to how hard he worked for his family, to the nights waiting up for Elinor out too late home late with friends, to joy the he had at all the little things.

Then Max turned his head up to her.

“Who are we to each other now?”

Elinor sat down next to him. She took a sip of his flat Sprite.

“Who are we to each other? Well...let's look at the facts. Each day you would walk the six blocks to my school and sit under the school flagpole just in case I forgot anything. You, never wanted me to take anything to be taken for granted. You made sure that I'd take the time to notice the changing of the seasons.”

Elinor laid her hand on her father's.

“Don't you understand, Dad? It was you that would let me stomp in the puddles on rainy days. You were soaking wet, standing there with the rain pouring down off your head. It was your arms that I would jump into filled with excitement. It was you that on car rides would turn on the radio and belt out songs with me. It was you that came with me as I went off to college only to then take the very lonely train ride home. It was you, Dad, that talked me about the wonderful adventures I will have in my life and that I could do or be anything I wanted.

That was us Dad. That's who we are to each other.”

---------------------------

Elinor enjoyed a friendship with Roger until he died about a year later. Eventually, Elinor forgave her mother. But for Max it was harder. He still lives in the cabin but is very happy when Elinor comes for her weekly visit. After all, she was Daddy's little girl.

Fade To Black

 

I used to be Marilyn Monroe. 

I’m sitting in a bedroom with white curtains and pale walls that remind me of coffee with heavy cream. Not quite brown but not quite beige either. I’ve been sitting in this room for twenty years, staring at the same rotten, dried landscape all day, every day. It gets quite boring, but it passes the time. The time always passes, no matter what I do.

On Wednesdays, I get to go for a ride to the park. The big gray bus that picks us up smells like rotten potatoes, and the driver sometimes forgets that we’re old. The way he flies over those bumps and potholes is enough to make anyone dizzy. Sometimes we get to feed the birds. We watch the waves rise and fall, and they look so beautiful. The waves can swallow you whole and drag you to the depths, if you’re not careful. Yet the deep blue of the water calms me.

One day at the park, a group of school children were visiting, and we crossed paths. There was a little boy in the group with mousy brown hair and big blue eyes. He smiled at me as he walked by, and I smiled back. The smile that I saw suddenly became familiar. It was not so familiar that I knew who he was exactly, but I had seen his features in another form. Perhaps in my younger days I may have known his family.

Making eye contact with the boy, I smiled again and motioned for him to come to me. Unsure of me, he glanced back over his shoulder to see if anyone was behind him to tell him if he should come to me or not. When he saw that no one was watching out for him, he paused briefly, I assume he was thinking about what he should do, as he started toward me. The determined look on the boy’s face as he approached me spoke to the pride he had in his decision. His grin alone was enough to make me chuckle out loud, which was enough to cause one of the groups’ caretakers to call out, “Daniel! Time to go.” Daniel turned toward the voice and then looked at me. Frowning, he shrugged his shoulders, ran back to the group, and headed out of the park. I was sad, but I understood that he needed to go.

Once the boy left, I began to think…I was trying hard to remember how I used to be. Lights and music were a large part of the memories I had, but beyond that, nothing is clear. I remember a man, a tall man, with serious eyes and a warm smile. The first time I saw him, I was so nervous. I knew he was smarter than me, and more sophisticated than I could ever be. I’m not sure if I love him or not but I know that he protected me and cared for me.

******************************************************
Now I’m standing in front of a crowd, and my heart is racing. Taking a deep breath, I’m thinking about why I let him talk me into this. All these people staring at me like I’m a freak, or worse, almost reduces me to tears. I turn to walk off the stage, and I see him in the audience smiling at me, but with piercing blue eyes. I know what will happen if I leave right now, so I walk up to the microphone and speak. I hear the words, but my shame stays buried within me.

I close my eyes and try to remember. Images of my childhood come very easily and stay with me, but new experiences seem to be fleeting. Where am I, and who keeps looking at me? The only thing that stays emblazoned in my mind is coming from the tall man. It makes me uncomfortable. I’m sure it’s been years since he last looked at me. That makes me feel like a misbehaving child.

But I’m not a child. I’m a crippled old lady with a brain like a scarecrow.
I called for the attendant because I was feeling uneasy. Of course, he’s talking to some young girl with brown eyes and a tight skirt. Young ladies don’t have any class these days. I don’t want to yell too loudly. I really don’t want to cause a scene.

Now I see the man who was staring at me stand up. He’s walking toward me. I may be old, but I can reach for the wheels on my chair and push myself in the opposite direction. Oh no…I must’ve hit something. My chair is starting to tip over.

Now I’m lying on the ground, unable to move. I don’t want to open my eyes. I’m afraid that if I open them, I know that he would be staring back at me. So I’ll just lie here and try not to cry, even though I’m in pain.

I feel someone touching my arm. Please don’t let it be him! I open my eyes, and I see a much younger man. That’s a relief! But I’m still scared. I don’t know this person. I hate being touched by people I don’t know. It makes me feel dirty. But he’s trying to help me get up. That’s nice.

As I get to my feet, someone brings me my chair and sits me down gently. People are asking if I’m all right. The young man says that I’m fine, and that I just need to rest. I expect that someone from the home will push me to the van. That isn’t happening though. The young man takes my chair as the staff walks away toward the other residents. I’m starting to panic.

A van pulls up and the side door opens. I’m being pushed up a ramp quickly, and the door closes behind me. Someone swings my chair around, locking it into place in the van. Now I’m crying. The driver is staring back at me. I’m terrified. I see a familiar face smiling at me. This man, who I can’t quite remember, is driving too fast. My head feels heavy, and my mind is scrambled. I feel a pain and then I see nothing but darkness.

I swallow and take a deep breath. I look out into the crowd, and I see him sitting there. No one else matters but him. I smile and start to sing, “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, Mr. President…”

Fade to black.