*
*
skirts four inches above the knee
long straight hair
ribbed sweaters, knee socks
panty hose, penny loafers
*
khaki chinos, no jeans
Madras button-down shirts
pudding bowl Beatle haircuts
letter jackets football tennis
*
lunch on the lawn
horseplay and hugging
Vietnam, the Rolling Stones
Homecoming queen
*
Crushes and invisibility
(Never in a couple)
Clothes angst, hours doing hair,
Armloads of books
*
The golden ones
Know they belong
We others watch
From the shadows
*
*
“My mother she one hundred three year old
She drive all over. She so healthy. Why?
She dance. All the time, she dance.
You dance, you live long, long.”
*
His luminous dark skin glows with sweat,
He grins, slaps a high five, “good job, good job”
Calls out a rhythm, “gaa-ga-ga-ga, left”
*
The drum is so loud it sets off a warning on my watch.
Wide arm swings, fast foot stamps
Sweat rivulets down my temples
Heart pounds—can I keep up?
*
I fling my arms, copy his gestures, his steps
Exhausted, exhilarated, big movements,
Breathe hard, hands high, rolling shoulders.
*
Nothing outside the dance,
My arms, hands, catch my sight,
I’m startled that they aren’t brown,
The pale skin not mine.
*
Perhaps a former lifetime revealed itself,
Or a future one. The dance swallows me.
My diaphragm is the drum. I express eternity.
*
*
Once in no-time
God gathered volunteers
from the star-souls
and sent them to planet earth
to take birth
as soft-shelled beings
God gave them free will
*
Then the Divine Presence kicked back
to watch what would happen
God hoped, perhaps, that these
be-skinned creatures would quickly
recognize their divine natures
and build for themselves
communities of love and beauty
*
Certainly God, being God and omniscient,
knew already what would happen.
*
Did God weep as its human creations
made cities of ugliness, fought over metals
and plots of land, inflicting death and injury?
*
Was this really what God wanted?
To wait and wait until a few people
perceived their Creator and their true source?
*
God must have foreseen
that all would descend into chaos and ruin
and his precious experiment would fail.
*
*
It looked like a black bean in the kitchen sink drain.
No one had eaten black beans—
not today, not yesterday
The bean unfurled one spiky leg, two legs,
then eight
A spider the size of a quarter
humped abdomen with a white dot in the center
*
I recoil in horror
*
What to do? Smash it? With what? A spoon?
No, too big for that approach—
Flush it back down the drain—yes!—with hot hot water
Run the water long to make sure
Put the rubber strainer in place
to keep the creature from reemerging
*
This archetypal fear of arachnids
must be built into our genes
The sudden, heart-gasping fear
the shriek, the leap backward
then the defense: shoe attack, broom, or tennis racket
*
Some braver souls capture and release
Not in this house
Errant spiders are forbidden to dwell here
dispatched by any means
never to squiggle across an arm
in the night
*
*
eat at the same speed
trade green peppers for olives
rearrange the furniture together
*
Old couples
may not hold hands
may help one another up steps
take turns walking the dog
*
Old couples
don’t shower together
have learned forgiveness
share the extra cheese pizza
*
Old couples
plant trumpet vines
plan for next year
know the limits
*
*
We go out into the morning,
you in your bright yellow harness
me in my sweats and fleece jacket
A shiver of chill, bird song
*
You pause on the top step
nervous, vibrating, testing the air
I check the time, you descend
to chew on new grass
*
Two backyards down, a portly woodchuck
destroys someone’s spring flowers
You glide to the shed, smell its edges
then sniff the trash cans
*
The bully cat leaves his scent marks
everywhere, I’ve seen it happen
You smell him, our mutual enemy
the one we both hate and fear
*
Wary, we circumambulate the house,
You growl when I tug you toward the door
once inside, you eat a snack on the counter
Then we nap, dreaming of freedom
*
*
In a Louisiana prison,
some inmates sew quilts.
Shelves overflow with stacks of fabric,
sorted into categories:
children’s, sixties, flowers.
And arranged by colors.
*
Sharp tools like rotary cutters and scissors
are signed out and tracked.
If a man breaks a rule, he’s barred.
The finished “sandwich”
with pieced top, batting and back
goes to the long arm machine
to be stitched together.
*
Completed quilts go to foster kids.
Letters of thanks from the parents and kids
are wept over and stapled to a huge board.
One man sits up designing quilts on graph paper
when he can’t sleep.
Another chooses only fabric with butterflies,
because his mother liked them.
*
The supervisor was incarcerated at age twenty.
He’s now sixty-four. He teaches and offers praise
and encouragement.
One quilter says he gets so absorbed in his project
that he forgets where he is.
*
It’s to weep over, these inmates finding meaning
in creative work that produces something beautiful,
something useful, for someone young and needy,
like they were, once, years ago.
*
*
That little girl with fish-blue eyes
thumb in mouth, white-blond hair
sits on the parquet floor
beside her mother’s chair.
*
She touches her mother’s foot
with one nail-bitten finger
Her mother flaps a no-no hand
says, “Not now. I’m on the phone.”
*
That little girl in a red plaid dress
sees her mother walk away
from the closed kindergarten door
The girl sobs and slumps to the floor
*
That little girl has nothing to say
when her mother asks about her day
The butterball teacher’s lap was where
that little girl sat until her tears ran out
*
That little girl wrapped up each word
inside her beating heart, hidden from
the mother who pressed too hard
Or not at all, but either way, not heard
*
*
Chapter 32: Closed and Open
That afternoon, Teresa stands outside the Mantecombe post office. She has just sent off the first draft of the memoir to her editor. She feels sad to be finished, but there is also an inner lightness, a sense of relief. It is rather like the euphoria one feels after a bout of the stomach flu, when there is nothing left to purge and the internal fireworks have subsided. Teresa tells herself to enjoy the sensation, since she knows that she’ll be revising great chunks of her writing as soon as Janine has read it.
The work of revision, however, is in the future. Right now she has hours of free time, and a date–well, let’s just call it a dinner– tomorrow with Father Michael. She should get something nice to wear, a swirly skirt, or a bright summer dress. Teresa decides to drive south as far as she can go today, all the way to Land’s End. The tourist towns in Cornwall will surely have some clothing stores. She returns to the Manor, packs an overnight bag, and leaves a note for Miss Micklewhite that she’ll be back tomorrow.
The traffic gets worse the closer Teresa gets to Penzance. While creeping along in a line of cars, Teresa muses over finishing the memoir. She knows the therapeutic value of writing; there are innumerable self-help books that recommend journaling, goal-setting, or some other type of writing to achieve clarity or release. The memoir has freed her of some weighty baggage. In particular, writing about the process of forgiving changed her. She had been inhabiting her past. Now the past is just that, past, and it has lost its grip. A new feeling is tickling the space between her ribs, like a fresh green sprout. She might, just possibly, call it peace.
What if Margaret forgave her father? Teresa wonders. The next thought comes in a flash of surprise: what if I write forgiveness into the story? What would happen to the real ghost if the story I write has a different ending? By the time Teresa finds a hotel and dinner, it is late. She lies awake in her hotel bed, her mind unable to let go of this new intriguing idea. She knows how she would write the scene. She can see it unfold as if on a cinema screen.
It takes place in Margaret’s room at the Manor House. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, giving light and warmth into the darkness of the room. Outside the window, it is still night. George sits slumped in a chair, dozing. Margaret is on the bed, a blanket thrown over her. Her skin is the color of skim milk, her face bruised and swollen. She stirs and opens her eyes. She sees George.
“Da?” she says. “Is that you?”
He snaps awake. “Margaret? Nooo, it can’t be!” He kneels at the bedside.
She lifts her hand, reaching out to him. “Da, where’s Lucas?”
“He’s alive, but he’s hurt some. He’s at a farm nearby, with a woman who’s a healer. She has a babe, too. She’s feeding Lucas.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She lapses into silence from the effort of talking. Then she says, “And Mary?”
“Died of a fever, three winters past.” George begins to weep. “Oh, Maggie, I’ve missed you these years. We treated you poorly, we did. Even Mary said so, before she died.”
Margaret squeezes his fingers. “It’s all right, Da. It’s over and gone. I knew you loved me.”
“Always did, always will, Maggie-pie.” He kisses her hand.
Here the film in Teresa’s imagining fades into blankness. Would it be too corny if Margaret turns to look out the window where dawn is beginning to show its light, and then dies? The camera could pan out the window, over the farm fields and down to the sea, where the wreck of the Maeve lies broken on the rocks. Teresa wrinkles her forehead. I’ll have to work on that part.
Teresa finally falls asleep. She will stay at the Manor to write Margaret’s story. She’ll do more research and see more of Father Michael. And maybe Father Michael will understand how Teresa’s life and Margaret’s life were meant to come together across time. How it had to be Teresa, with her own ghost and bearing the loss of her own child, who would uncover Margaret’s secret. And maybe Father Michael would also understand about the writing. That just like history is rearranged in textbooks to suit the particular slant of the government in power, memories can be rearranged as well. And if Father Michael is really astute, and truly compassionate, he might also understand how Teresa could write her own and Margaret’s way out of anger, into forgiveness and peace of heart. He might be a man like that. If he is, it could be a very good year.
Dear Readers,
I’d love to know your reactions to The Manor House. Please drop me a comment.
Thank you for reading!
Kim
*
Chapter 31: Epilogue
Salerno Enterprises did not go under. Not only did Angelina keep the business afloat, she also made shrewd investments. She found other markets for the olive oil, making the boycott by the stores in New York ineffective. When she was ready to retire, she turned over her position of CEO to Dolly. By that time, Dolly knew all the inner workings of Salerno Enterprises, and had some of her own innovations to contribute. Angelina went to live in Florida where she still resides with her three obnoxious Yorkshire terriers, Mimi, Fifi, and Lulu.
Cousin Alberto was released from prison. His sentence was reduced by five years for cooperative behavior. I saw him only once after that, at a restaurant. He did not appear to be a broken man, but he was definitely damaged. There was none of the old bravado. His dyed dark brown hair had gray peeking out along the part line. His smile startled me; he had false teeth! I guess the prison diet wasn’t that healthy, or maybe he offended a prisoner with a big fist.
Neither Debo nor Dolly ever married. Dolly lived with Jason for many years. He died of a heart attack two years ago. Debo finally wearied of police work in the City. Now she teaches classes at the New York Police Academy. The four of us, Dolly, Debo, Angelina, and I, get together twice every year, once at Christmastime in Florida, and again at Easter in New York City. I never did tell them about Father’s ghostly visits. At first I was too ashamed of my own role that caused his appearances, and then too much time went by to bring it up. When this memoir is published, we’re going to have plenty to talk about!
And Father? He never appeared to me again, but Dolly, who lives in our old apartment, swears that when she’s taking a shower, she hears him singing arias in the kitchen.
Tangled Magic 