Kindness

     She'd been sitting at the bar too long, nursing the drink, carefully, like a proper caretaker, like a nurse, somebody with skills, competence and compassion, nursing her drink. The thought bothered her, made her take a quick gulp of the Mule, the Moscow Mule--who even knew what it was, what poison sent fire down her throat.

    Well, she didn't visibly choke or cough. Her eyes watered, she felt hot, but not sweaty enough to call attention to herself, she hoped . . . then wished she hadn't thought of that, that somebody might notice her.

    She should never have come. That much was clear. 

    Clear now.

    The gift of hindsight didn't help when she was wallowing--or was it "struggling?"--whatever meant caught by her own error, her own stupidity, her impulse to . . . whatever it was. To what? Who knew or cared?

    Well, sitting at a bar, stubbornly trying to down a drink she didn't want, didn't like, that burned and blurred rather than soothed was not the answer.

    And now, the bartender was watching her,  coming over, ready to pour another drink, take more of her money, to say she'd been there long enough, too long, time to go. So, she smiled. Tried to smile, but it didn't feel like a smile. The effort was stuck somewhere in her throat, so stuck, that she actually laughed at how hard the struggle to smile was, how wrong, bad, terrible, sad . . . which then made her smile. Well, almost smile.

    "You all right, Ma'am?"

    A rumply voice trying to be kind. She recognized that immediately, the kindness, knew he couldn't help it, knew he was born with that voice, and the words were right, so she raised her head, met his gaze, both of them aware of the tears in her eyes, and now on her cheek.

    She nodded.

    He touched her hand, briefly, very briefly, but enough for her to feel the warmth of another human being, enough to make her strong enough to say thank you, and mean it.

The Training

    The cat was up.

    Rosa knew it was up because of the march of paws across her back, followed by the soft susurration of a leap to the floor, the predictable soft landing, front paws, back paws, all four feet on the carpet, and then the silent footsteps out the bedroom door to the litter box, the familiar rearrangement of the gravelly mixture, then the quiet march to the kitchen where it would wait.

    Patiently, Rosa assumed, had always assumed, because when she eventually flipped on the kitchen light, the cat was there, always, next to his empty bowl, feigning indifference, an attitude he had perfected . . . or inherited from some ancient, solitary ancestor, feigning indifference unless . . .  unless Rosa made the mistake of starting the pot of water for her tea before scooping the half cup of kibble out of the Friskies bag into the empty bowl.

    No kibble, no peace. That apparently was the cat's motto, his guiding star, his modus operandi. It began subtly: the silky body rubbing her ankle, emitting a faint sound from deep in his throat, then the slightest murmur of complaint, that slowly became insistent, once even a claw showing and the mewing rising in volume if the dish was still empty after her tea had brewed and the toast was up and buttered, tantalizing the cat's heightened sense of smell and entitlement.

    It was a game they played--Rosa waiting to see how patient the cat could be, how long before the first yowl of complaint, but, if her tea was poured and she approached her chair by the window, the cat streaked around her, leapt up on the chair, and stood, quiet, even calm, but unmovable and unforgiving.

    It made her laugh, a guilty laugh because she knew she'd ignored the cat on purpose, to see how long it would feign indifference (one of its talents) before the serious complaints started.

    Which was immediate this morning. The insistent meow started up as soon as she flipped on the kitchen light, and the message was clear.

    I'm not playing your game today . . . feed me NOW . . . and, of course, Rosa did.

Oh, Boy

It was late. Probably too late for the boy to be out, alone, walking down her block. She did like the way he crossed the street, looking both ways, making a show of looking both ways, and then strolling across. Yes, strolling as if he hadn't a care in the world, which the stiffness in his neck, the awkward swinging of his arms belied, but he was trying, he was trying.

She thought of calling to him, asking if he needed anything, knew she shouldn't, knew her interference would add to the weight on his shoulders. He was already tentative, and the imposition of a stranger would only make it worse.

But . . .

Well, what if she had something for him, a gift, a cookie, or a piece of pie? Boys like pie. Well, cake was probably better, but she didn't have cake. She did have pie, apple pie. What could be better than a slice of hot apple pie?

So, she was up, already moving toward the kitchen, wondering if she should add ice cream. . . but she only had chocolate. Can you put chocolate ice cream on apple pie?

Well, you could. You can do anything you want, but would it be good?

By the time she'd cut the pie, a big, generous piece, she'd given up the idea of ice cream, and was inching down the steps, pie on a good china plate in one hand, the other sliding along the railing as she descended the four steps to the sidewalk.

"Oh, Boy!" she called, but not loudly enough. He was moving with that easy stroll she had admired, but now nearly at the far street corner.

"Oh, Boy!" she called again, but he was too fast, and she too slow.

She tried one more time, louder, more insistent and and she raised the dish with the gift of pie higher as she yelled, "Boy! Oh, Boy!"

No reaction. How rude, she thought. How disappointing. It wouldn't occur to her until much later that he hadn't heard or seen her.

She waited until he had crossed the road safely and was halfway down the next block before she turned for home, still carrying the pie. At least it hadn't slid off the plate.

And when she got home and was sitting in her chair, with the apple pie and a fork in her hand, she said, "Oh, boy," one more time, and smiled at how two simple words could change meaning in an instant, from a call for attention to a celebration of pie, pie just for her. No need to share.

Oh, Boy!

Bait and Switch

            He went to the store for zucchini, and came back with cucumbers.

            “What will I do with this?” I said and brandished one so he could see clearly that it was a cucumber, not zucchini.

            He shrugged.  “I’m just the errand boy,” he said. “You didn’t tell me your plan.”  And then he was out of the kitchen and down the hall before I could sling the cucumber at him.

            “I’m not making salad,” I yelled. “Or pickles. I’m cooking zucchini, the way you like it, with cheese and tomatoes, a little onion, sea salt. Zucchini!”

            “Great!” he hollered from the living room.

            “I can’t with a damn cucumber,” I shouted, but by the time I got there to ram the cucumber down his throat—more satisfying than hurling it across the room, he had left. Fled. Was in the driveway, backing out the car.

            He cracked the window when he saw me on the porch, arm raised, cucumber threatening. “Need anything at the store?” he said. “It’s on my way.”

            Pause. Long pause. Couldn’t think of what to say.

            “Maybe a zucchini or two?” he said.

            I nodded, defeated. “Better get three,” I said. “Sometimes they’re small.”

© 2024 Kathleen Coskran

Here, Here

     She was stuck. Really stuck this time. All the loose chatter that had poured from her mouth as long as she could remember had dried up.

    She knew she'd been a talker and was almost embarrassed by her ability, nay instinct, to go on and on, to fill every empty space with stories--some of them true . . . and then, and then. . .

    But now she was done. She'd said it all--nothing left to say or think. The words had stopped coming. No more descriptions of glorious meals, hilarious accidents (or mere mis-steps), no recitation of every memory, all of it now cut off in mid-thought . . . not even mid-sentence.

    She was all that was left now, too old for anybody to want to listen to her, and her throat scratchier than ever. Her voice had made the transition from sultry and sexy to parched and worn without her permission.

    So, nothing to do but watch, croak uh-huh when somebody asked her a question, to smile when smiled at, to not recoil when that unrecognizable woman claiming to be a relative--cousin of some sort . . . a dime a dozen those kind--patted her arm and whispered, "There, there."

    Yes! That's what the woman actually said. Ethel couldn't believe it, but after the third there, there, she repeated it herself, slowly, as if taking in each letter, t h e r e  t h e r e, not that easy with a one-syllable word, but she'd always been good at making something out of nothing.

    "There, there," she repeated softly, softly and shyly, then shifted cadence, went from there, there to here, here, where, where  . . . and then a there there in her best imitation of Maria Callas.

    Soon a child was singing with her, singing, "Where?" --a where that brought out Ethel's there, there more powerfully and eventually led to everybody singing, "Here here, where where, there, there--all of them clapping, harmonizing, laughing, making music, all of it nonsense, but at the end, when the chanting died down, and after the last laugh, the final sigh, somebody said, "What was that?"

    But there was no answer, just the warm feeling mammals sometimes get when everything they are part of fits together. Not bad, Ethel thought, not bad at all.

The Coming Storm

     "It's snowing."

    "Well, barely."

    "Yes, that's true, but there is the white stuff we call snow falling now, as we speak."

    "But, it is hardly snowing."

    "So, what would you call it?"

    "Flurries."

    "Semantics . . . the study of "the logical aspects of meaning" how meaning is interpreted. So, when I say it's snowing, and you correct me, and call it . . ."

    "Flurries!" he shouts triumphantly, "flurries, a more precise definition of what is actually happening. A flurry of snow, not a blizzard or a pelting.

    "But it is still snowing, a perfectly valid . . . and provable . . . description of what is happening as we argue about what is happening." 

    "Discuss...."

    "Which started as a simple observation, not a discussion. Nothing to discuss. Look out the window, and what do you see? The white stuff we call snow falling from the sky, which is usually described by the noun snowing."

    "There are degrees of snowing . . . "

    She nods, mutters something, goes back to her phone.

    "What?" he says.

    She shakes her head, says something under her breath that sounds like a complaint or curse . . . about what? Snow?

    "What?" he says again. "You really think this deserves to be called a snow storm?"

    She shakes her head, and holds up the phone. "Well, it is hardly a snow storm, just a normal snow, but it'll get worse. What is really worse is that Trump just said he's going to annex Greenland! Now that will be a storm!"

    He laughs. "I know you don't like him, but no need to make things up."

    "I don't have to," she says. "I don't have to, it says here . . . ."

    He is still laughing, clearing his throat with that definitive rumble he's perfected and says, as sarcastically as possible, "Well, don't worry about Greenland. I'm going to text him and point out that Canada is a lot closer. . . and much bigger! He'll love that idea--Canada, our 51st state!"

    "Don't even think it," she says, but it's already too late.

Vocabulary Lesson

     It was a luminous day, a day full of possibility, the sun radiant, the air clear--the gift of winter, her mother would proclaim on such a day, "Six above and the glory of the earth shineth."

   Sybil often called up her mother's voice, her mother's gift for pronouncements and proclamations, as if she were quoting a saint, a famous poet, the Bible. "Add an -eth to any word or phrase," Mama had told her, "and you immediately sound smart, learnéd, and widely read."

    Sybil did notice the emphasis on the final -ed in learnéd--another subtle lesson in how to appear smart and, yes, learned. She had absorbed those teachings without thinking much about them, and assumed that everybody's mother was diligently planting vocabulary in her children's unconscious to make them appear smarter than they were.

    Well, it had worked. Adam had visibly brightened when she proclaimed the day glorious, laughed appreciatively when he overheard her describe him as indefatigable. It was easy to embrace her mother's lexicon after that, to casually work anomaly into a conversation, to be loquacious without sinking into garrulousness, and to offer Adam strings of accolades in her practiced and carefully honed mellifluous voice.

    And now, as she walked down the aisle towards a glowing Adam, she realized she should have changed her name to Eve, but grace and the gift of her extensive research dismissed that thought as quickly as it had appeared. Sybil, the prophetess, Sybil, the oracle, was just what Adam, her earthy, well-grounded Adam, needed. It was, indeed, a luminescent day for them both.

Same Old

    "Did I ever tell you about the time I kissed Marilyn Monroe?"

    How do you answer a question like that, a repeated question like that? It is obvious that it never happened, that he was never in the same town or state as MM, that he was in junior high when she died, that it's another story, fable, construction, myth, part of the long, twisting fable of his life, the life, times, and, most certainly, the Adventures of T. K. Smith, the alias he adopted at the age of 12, on the cusp of teen agedness, the precipice of puberty, the entry into unfamiliar urges, desires, inclinations passions (still his favorite word).

    "Why T. K.?" I had asked innocently, before I knew what the power of a simple question ignited in him. "Why T. K. . . . and why 'Smith?' That's not your name."

    "Exactly!" he'd shouted. (Yes, shouted!) "The anonymity of Smith, and introduced by T. K. . . . thank! Think! Subtle, I know, but . . ."

    "So, you," I had said so long ago, as I tried to shift my snort to a tinkle of appreciation, "So you created yourself, your image, " I said, making it sound like a compliment, which he accepted with his characteristic grace, manifest as a quick bow, and that look in his eye of happiness, delight, pleasure, of simple joy which is there again to remind me again why I am still here with this eccentric old guy, who never kissed Marilyn Monroe or any other famous beauty.

    And, to his credit, today was the first time he'd mentioned Marilyn in years. Forgotten all about her, I'd assumed, but just as I shake my head at her resurrection, he takes my hand, "You're still better than Marilyn. Want more coffee?"

    I nod. What else to do? I nod, he gets the coffee, and we continue our long march to happily ever after.

Enough Said

     The old man sat still--two things he was good at, sitting and being still. Gifts of old age? Perhaps.

    But, if you asked him how he did it, how he maintained his serenity and calm, he would laugh, or, depending on the day, just nod, and say, "Practice. Practice."

    If you pressed the point, he'd explain that anything of value comes both as a gift and an intent, with a splash (one of his favorite words, splash) . . . with a splash of patience."

    So she tried it. 12 years old and curious, she was always asking questions, questions that annoyed some with her string of where's and when's followed with how's and whys, but she had her eyes open, that one, and took to sitting with the old man whenever she saw him on his porch.

    Which is where she was, where they both were, when the dog appeared, moving slowly, sniffing at grass, at the roots of the last elm on the boulevard, moving slowly, not in a hurry, just smelling his way down the block.

    "Smart dog," the old man said.

    "But slow," the girl said.

    "Well, they go together," the old man said.

    "Go together?" The girl liked questions and didn't mind raising her voice to show her skepticism (a word she had just learned) to the old man.

    "Slow tells you where you are, what you've seen or done--or, if you're a dog who sees the world with his nose, smelled. Look at him--he's exploring, not in a hurry."

    Which was true. The dog sniffed the length of the roots of the elm, the spotty grass and patches of dirt around the trunk, sniffed slowly and deliberately, then, lifted his leg, peed at the base of the tree, and hurried back the way it had come--job done.

    "Made his mark and moved on," the old man said. "Smart dog--left his mark and moved on."

    "Like a lesson?" the girl said.

    The old man nodded. "Guess so," he said.

    The girl stood up, grazed his hand with her fingers, left her mark, and the old man happy for the rest of the day.