Mr. Mooney was in a very bad mood. Driving home from work on the crowded West Side Highway north towards the Henry Hudson Bridge, he heard a funny clacking sound coming from under the hood that sounded suspiciously like the sound he heard the last time he brought the car into the shop. Damn that mechanic. I know he’s ripping me off, he thought. You just can’t trust anyone.
Alexander Mooney was never one to require reassurance or a softening of hard edges. He liked his lights harsh, his desk clean, and his coffee on time. So when his gal Rosemary hadn’t shown up that morning until nearly 9:20 with his morning brew, he knew this was going to be a particularly shitty day.
Rosemary was very efficient, pretty, and cheerful enough, but she had three children between the ages of 7 and 17, and something was always going wrong with one of them. If she hadn’t been so good at typing and shorthand, or hadn’t been in the habit of wearing particularly tight blouses (with what must have been a brassiere made of gauze for all the good it did her), he would have given her the boot a long time ago. The girl simply missed too many days of work. It was always something – one kid with the chicken pox, the other one who cracked his front tooth during a sporting match, and then that oldest girl with her mysterious female troubles – infection, or some such thing…
Anyway, this morning when Rosemary showed up almost a half hour late with his morning coffee, Mr. Mooney almost fired her on the spot. But then he noticed that her eyes were puffed up and rimmed in red, and she was still sniffling from what had obviously been a good cry. She had tried to cover it all up by coming in extra cheery, with a big plate of those butter cookies filled with raspberry jam she was always making (another plus in her favor, although he had told her so many times that he preferred apricot jam to the raspberry, which left too many seeds between his teeth), but he could tell that the girl was barely holding it together. Normally, this too would not have been enough to assuage his anger, but in addition to the cookies, she was also wearing that shiny, clinging mint green blouse of hers, and the sight of those full nipples so early in the day had taken the sting out of waiting twenty minutes for his coffee… Such is life – you had to constantly balance out the good and the bad.
Alright, only one of you gets in front of me, God damn it! You see what happens? You let one get in the lane and they all want to cut in! The entrance ramp to the highway from 79th Street often backed up with waiting vehicles, and Mr. Mooney’s rule was to only let one car in per exit. In this way, he felt he was doing his civic duty to contribute to the civilized flow of traffic, while not letting himself be taken for a fool. So when three cars cut in front of him at once, he had no choice but to step hard on the brakes as well as his horn. Oh, that really pissed him off. And then, he noticed that the clacking sound was getting worse. He prayed the car would hold out until home and stepped on the gas pedal, shifting to the center lane, and then again to the far left, where he planned to stay until he crossed into the Bronx.
The trees along the side of the highway bore fruitless limbs that jutted out like cold bones from their lonely trunks, with nary a spring bloom in sight. The knobby joints had a polished look to them that appealed to Mr. Mooney’s love of all things smooth and cool. Whereas others might find the sight disturbing, or at certain times of night, frightening, their seemingly lifeless state was actually quite reassuring to him – no illusion, no pretension.
There is nothing mysterious in the business of medical supplies. Sales are sales. Customers buy the products and pay for them. And then you make a profit. Alexander Mooney had been doing business in this way at the same Chelsea location for over fifty years, when he first started Parkside Medical Supplies. He had been able to last this long, he believed, precisely because he was a man of his word.
It had been a terrible shock to him, then, when his wife of thirty-five years, Faye, had divorced him ten years ago. She had complained to him that he, Alexander, had LIED to her. He had “promised her the moon,” promised her a big, fancy house and vacations and children and grandchildren, and never mind that the one child they did have had died from a rare blood disorder at the age of two and Faye had barely let him touch her after that. Thirty years later on the evening she announced to him that she was leaving, he had tried to talk some sense into her, but she had just tolerated him with that faraway look in her eyes and then gone upstairs to pack as if he hadn’t said a word.
It was just as well. Faye had been a terrible cook and a slob. He could say that now since they were no longer together. The day after she left, Alexander had a girl come in and clean up the entire place and take whatever clothes and jewelry she wanted. Then he called the Salvation Army and had them take the rest of the clothes and the heavy furniture. Within twenty-four hours of her leaving him, it was as if she had never existed. Alexander told himself it was better this way and purchased a new chrome and black formica dinette set, and a new black leather couch and reclining chair, and some sheer white curtains. He re-did the kitchen, also in a chrome and black theme. He couldn’t believe how much the new designer appliances cost, but then it was worth it to have all the memories of Faye’s bad cooking erased from the kitchen she had pretended to use for all of those years.
Alexander wondered how it was that a woman like Faye could reject everything he had offered her. Their wedding, it had been a massive affair, even more beautiful than the Kapinsky’s at the Towne House (where, everyone knows, the stuffed derma are always too salty)! She had been so radiant that day in white satin, like a princess. He could still see the rhinestone bodice of her dress, sparkling, her big, brown eyes shining up at him when she promised to love, to obey, until death…
He had seen that same sparkle in her eyes when she went shopping. Lord & Taylor, Saks, Bergdorf’s – 5th Avenue was her playground. In the summers they vacationed at the Nevele, never mind that other place, it was like a summer camp, she always said. No, they went top dollar all the way. The best hospitals, the best medicines – it wasn’t his fault that the doctors couldn’t save the girl. They had done everything they could, and Alexander had stood by helplessly as her little body just turned on itself, and slowly withered away.
He would always remember the way she looked when they wrapped her up in white linen, so thin and frail, her porcelain skin smooth and cool beneath the shroud circling her angelic face. Faye had insisted on packing the coffin with all of her favorite stuffed animals, and photos of the three of them at the Catskill Game Farm, feeding the sheep, with the one animal standing on his foot. It was the last good time he remembered them all sharing…
And then, just as he was passing the bottleneck at the entrance to the George Washington Bridge and preparing to pick up some speed for the last leg of his journey home to Riverdale, the strange clacking sound that had worsened at 79th Street suddenly broke into a full scale bucking and pounding of the right front end. Fearing that the entire wheel was going to fall off and his car would flip over head first, Alexander jammed down on the car horn and crossed to the right lane (over the wild protestations of the driver of a Hummer with Connecticut plates) and onto the shoulder of the highway, where he came to a thudding stop halfway into the grassy patch alongside the road.
His heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe, Alexander turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed and listened to the steady hum and whoosh of evening drivers speeding past him. Slowly, slowly, his breathing returned to normal, and he opened his eyes to see his own glassy stare reflected in the rear-view mirror, which had somehow turned towards his face during the rush to safety. Then, with a flicker, he saw that his hardened gaze had been cracked open by the unexpected fright. He reached for the door handle and stumbled out of the car and away from the dangers of the endless, erratic line of impatient commuters, as he made his way towards the small patch of trees off to the side of the clearing.
But before he got too far away from the car, he heard an odd sound coming from under the passenger side. He hesitated for a listen, and then he turned back towards his disabled vehicle and saw something brown and furry moving just under the chassis. As he stepped closer, he saw that it was a big raccoon. He had apparently run over it in his hurried escape from the highway. It was making soft little yelping sounds and moving its hind legs in a way that seemed to indicate some kind of a struggle. Mr. Mooney thought that the animal was probably dying, and wished he had killed it all at once.
Upon closer inspection, Mr. Mooney saw that the animal was actually trying desperately to move away from the spot it was lying in. Curious… And then he saw that from between the legs of the dying creature, a small head was pushing itself out and he realized that he was witnessing the struggle of the mother raccoon to deliver one of her young pups into the world before she died. He froze in his tracks and watched, mouth agape, as this bleeding, convulsing thing pushed and pushed and cried out in pain and release until its little one spurted out of her, at which point she turned on her haunches toward its awkward young body and licked at its face to make sure that its mouth was clear and free to receive the meal she would provide for it.
Once the little infant had found one of her nipples and begun its instinctive sucking, the mother laid back on her broken side and allowed herself to forget about the rest of the babies that would no doubt perish squirming inside her, for her eyes were already beginning to cloud over with death, and her breath, increasingly labored, was slowly unwinding its hold on her consciousness. And then, with a final arching of her back and one last clear-eyed gaze at her progeny, the mother collapsed with an exhale as the afterbirth filled with unmet promise slid part of the way out of her and lodged there, spilling blood onto the ground underneath. All the while, the new raccoon sucked away at the milk, oblivious to the drama unfolding all around it.
Alexander watched in silence as the baby nursed with contentment at its dead mother’s breast. Then, all at once, the tears began to gush from his eyes, and though he tried to hold back the cries, they came, first hiccupping and then roaring out of him from deep within his heart. And that is where he stood, weeping, watching a baby raccoon take its first meal in the evening air alongside the Henry Hudson Parkway on the west side of Manhattan island, until the police finally showed up to investigate.
THE END
© Deborah Oster Pannell 2007
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Before the Fall
Ruby Cole was completely innocent of all wrongdoing. She hadn’t seen anyone take those two brats, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to admit to anything else. Besides, she had nowhere else to go, and if they wanted to keep her sitting in this little room all night smoking cigarettes, that was fine with her.
The skinny one was kinda cute. He had this little mole over the left corner of his mouth that she just wanted to suck. She kept watching it go up and down as he talked, and the way his full lips kept spreading and then coming together. She really wanted to kiss him, but that was pretty much not gonna happen. The fat one wouldn’t leave them alone long enough for her to make anything go her way.
No, she just had to sit here listening to their bullshit about what time was it, and where was she when the guys came in, and what had she been drinking and all of this other crap. She was so tired of hearing their voices, she just wanted them to shut… the fuck… up.
This morning, Samantha had been complaining of stomach pains again. It’s no wonder. All that girl wanted to eat was fruit loops. It’s not like Ruby didn’t cook for her kids. Why just the other day she made spaghetti and hot dogs, Justin’s favorite. She’d made enough to last a few days, but that kid’s such a goddamn pig he ate enough for three people on the very first night. She tried to teach those brats some manners, but what with the shit they learn at school, it’s pretty near impossible to keep them on the right track anymore.
She tried to remember if Samantha had finished her homework last night. She had helped her with her spelling words, and then her vocabulary. That part had been easy. Somewhere around the damn math questions, her memory got fuzzy, as it usually did around numbers. Besides, what was she, some goddamn tutor? Let the girl learn to count for herself. She needed to learn how things worked. Get up at six. School at eight. Two dollars for lunch. Five days a week. Three guys a night. Two fists in the gut. What was his name, Tex? Rex? Who the fuck knows? C’mere Moleman, I’ll show you what I know. Just get rid of Fatboy here. He’s really holding things back. You want some truth? I’ll show you some truth. Just give me ten minutes, I’ll have you begging for more truth.
Sure, I’ll take another cigarette. And a pepsi. Yeah, fine, good. Anything to get Fatboy out of the room… Ruby felt her breath catch as Moleman sat down and drew his chair up close to hers. He was leaning in, right to her face. She could see that mole really clear now. It wasn’t really round, it was more like a misshapen square, what was it they called those, a trapezoid. Ha ha. Geometry. There was a subject she really understood. The shape of things.
Detective Newsome. Oh, nice. Well, Detective, here’s your chance. You wanna kiss me? Ruby closed her eyes as his face moved in to meet hers, and she felt the press of his warm lips and the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. Mmmmm… Ow! His fingers dug into her left arm as he brought it back quickly behind her, bending her wrist backwards in a most uncomfortable way. And his hot breath in her ear, You wanna fuck with me? Is this what you have in mind?
Ruby did not like this at all, not one bit. She wasn’t even getting paid for this shit. And Newsome’s breath stank like sour chicken stew. Suddenly she felt like she was going to vomit. She turned away from him just as the hot bile came bubbling out on a stream of chewed up donuts and splattered all over the floor. Tex, his name was Tex. That was his name, the bastard. He had brought that friend of his with him, the greasy guy with the long pony tail. She hadn’t minded at first, but the greasy one had a really mean face, and no one had said anything about two guys at once. Funny how a bottle of Jack Daniels can make everything seem a little easier. Her head was cracking open now. Where was Samantha and Justin? No, she did not want another goddamn Pepsi, where the fuck were her kids? Newsome, you have such pretty lips. C’mere handsome, let me give you another kiss. And he’s pulling her arm behind her again, and it hurts so much. My babies! Where are my babies?? Ruby screamed as she saw Tex and the pony tail heading out the front door with their sleeping bodies, and then the room started spinning and the bile was coming up again, but before she could feel it come out, her head hit the metal table and the room went dark with a dull thud.
* * * * *
Newsome glared at the sleeping woman, slumped over the edge of the hard, metal table, her head settled comfortably into the crook of her arm. Over an hour she’s been in that position, he thought to himself. Despite the harshness of the room, the fluorescent lights, the cold tabletop, she seemed at home - like she was curled up in a big down comforter in the corner of a thick couch.
It’s too bad this chick is such a mess, he thought, spraying more Fantastik on the floor and wiping up the remaining chunks of vomit. She’s got a great ass and two gorgeous tits. Licking his lips, he thought about what it would be like to take her from behind, right here, right now. His cock hardened as he imagined holding her mouth shut with one hand and thrusting the other hand down her pants to find her, wet and waiting for him.
“You thinking about me?” Ruby looked up from the table top, pushing her damp hair back away from her forehead as she turned to face Newsome with clear eyes. “I’ll give you a good deal – abduction night special.”
“You oughtta be thinking about your kids.” Newsome tossed the soiled paper towel into the trash and snapped off first one, then the other rubber exam glove, as his cock reflexively went soft.
“Fuckers took my kids. They waited until I was good and drunk, and then they took my goddamn kids.”
“Any idea what they want?”
“I got nothin.”
“S’not what I asked.”
Ruby took a deep breath, drew her sweater up around her shoulders and looked straight at Newsome. “Look, am I a suspect?” Her tightly curled lips could not hide a small quiver. “I need a drink.”
Newsome stared back at Ruby and sighed in return. “You could be in a lot of trouble right now.”
“I know.” And closing her eyes with an even deeper sigh, she put her head down on the table again, this time face down.
Newsome looked down at Ruby. He liked this one. He felt sorry for her. She was pretty. His shift was ending in fifteen minutes.
His hand touched the back of her neck, only for a second. “Wait here,” he said, and the door closed behind him.
* * * * *
The Roadway Bar was one of those places that truckers would crowd into… if there were any highways passing by Hell’s Kitchen. Instead, it was peopled by retired postal workers and petty criminals – cheap hookers and dime bag dealers. Coleman liked coming here after his shift to unwind. He didn’t worry about what anyone was doing except the bartender.
“Hey Charlie,” he called to his long time friend, as he and Ruby took the last two seats at the non-TV end of the bar. Silently, he lifted two fingers, and then lowered them with a slight wag in the direction of him and his female companion. Two shots of Scotch and a couple of beers would follow shortly.
Ruby leaned forward slightly to peer across Coleman’s shoulders and survey the other end of the room. “The lady down at the end of the bar keeps looking at me.”
“That’s Gladys. Postal clerk, Wall Street Station. Retired since 9/11.”
Charlie placed mugs of beer down in front of them and poured two shots of whiskey. “Probably thinks you’re a terrorist.”
“Well she's freaking me out.”
Gladys shook her head and muttered into her coffee. “Don’t like this one, no, not one bit… got shifty eyes… gotta watch her, I do…”
“Steady, Gladys. Want me to warm that up for you?” Charlie walked back into the pulsating bluish glare of the small TV on the Gladys end of the bar and poured her another cup of coffee. She emptied the sugar dispenser into the stream of thick, black liquid, all the while fixing her eyes on the new woman on the other side.
Ruby threw back her shot and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She looked up into the mirrored wall, watching as the muttering woman continued to peer across at her. “She’s giving me the creeps.”
Newsome drank his shot and slammed the glass back down on the bar. “Grab your beer.” Ruby picked up her mug and followed him over to a dark booth in an even darker recess of the bar. She stumbled over a hole in the worn linoleum floor, and he reached out with a quick hand on the small of her back to steady her. Sliding along the cracked vinyl seat across from him, she leaned back to watch him sit down as their glasses knocked together in the center of the table.
“Is this better?” he asked, settling back against his own seat.
“Yeah, I hate people staring at me.”
The two sat in silence, sipping their beer, allowing the tension of unanswered questions to slowly uncoil.
“Thank you,” said Ruby. Newsome nodded and took another sip. He was probably a cruel bastard. Punishment would come later. It always did. But Ruby was grateful for the small kindness of this moment, and she wanted it to last as long as possible. They emptied their glasses in silence and Newsome nodded to Charlie to bring them another round.
To be continued...
© Deborah Oster Pannell 2009
The skinny one was kinda cute. He had this little mole over the left corner of his mouth that she just wanted to suck. She kept watching it go up and down as he talked, and the way his full lips kept spreading and then coming together. She really wanted to kiss him, but that was pretty much not gonna happen. The fat one wouldn’t leave them alone long enough for her to make anything go her way.
No, she just had to sit here listening to their bullshit about what time was it, and where was she when the guys came in, and what had she been drinking and all of this other crap. She was so tired of hearing their voices, she just wanted them to shut… the fuck… up.
This morning, Samantha had been complaining of stomach pains again. It’s no wonder. All that girl wanted to eat was fruit loops. It’s not like Ruby didn’t cook for her kids. Why just the other day she made spaghetti and hot dogs, Justin’s favorite. She’d made enough to last a few days, but that kid’s such a goddamn pig he ate enough for three people on the very first night. She tried to teach those brats some manners, but what with the shit they learn at school, it’s pretty near impossible to keep them on the right track anymore.
She tried to remember if Samantha had finished her homework last night. She had helped her with her spelling words, and then her vocabulary. That part had been easy. Somewhere around the damn math questions, her memory got fuzzy, as it usually did around numbers. Besides, what was she, some goddamn tutor? Let the girl learn to count for herself. She needed to learn how things worked. Get up at six. School at eight. Two dollars for lunch. Five days a week. Three guys a night. Two fists in the gut. What was his name, Tex? Rex? Who the fuck knows? C’mere Moleman, I’ll show you what I know. Just get rid of Fatboy here. He’s really holding things back. You want some truth? I’ll show you some truth. Just give me ten minutes, I’ll have you begging for more truth.
Sure, I’ll take another cigarette. And a pepsi. Yeah, fine, good. Anything to get Fatboy out of the room… Ruby felt her breath catch as Moleman sat down and drew his chair up close to hers. He was leaning in, right to her face. She could see that mole really clear now. It wasn’t really round, it was more like a misshapen square, what was it they called those, a trapezoid. Ha ha. Geometry. There was a subject she really understood. The shape of things.
Detective Newsome. Oh, nice. Well, Detective, here’s your chance. You wanna kiss me? Ruby closed her eyes as his face moved in to meet hers, and she felt the press of his warm lips and the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. Mmmmm… Ow! His fingers dug into her left arm as he brought it back quickly behind her, bending her wrist backwards in a most uncomfortable way. And his hot breath in her ear, You wanna fuck with me? Is this what you have in mind?
Ruby did not like this at all, not one bit. She wasn’t even getting paid for this shit. And Newsome’s breath stank like sour chicken stew. Suddenly she felt like she was going to vomit. She turned away from him just as the hot bile came bubbling out on a stream of chewed up donuts and splattered all over the floor. Tex, his name was Tex. That was his name, the bastard. He had brought that friend of his with him, the greasy guy with the long pony tail. She hadn’t minded at first, but the greasy one had a really mean face, and no one had said anything about two guys at once. Funny how a bottle of Jack Daniels can make everything seem a little easier. Her head was cracking open now. Where was Samantha and Justin? No, she did not want another goddamn Pepsi, where the fuck were her kids? Newsome, you have such pretty lips. C’mere handsome, let me give you another kiss. And he’s pulling her arm behind her again, and it hurts so much. My babies! Where are my babies?? Ruby screamed as she saw Tex and the pony tail heading out the front door with their sleeping bodies, and then the room started spinning and the bile was coming up again, but before she could feel it come out, her head hit the metal table and the room went dark with a dull thud.
* * * * *
Newsome glared at the sleeping woman, slumped over the edge of the hard, metal table, her head settled comfortably into the crook of her arm. Over an hour she’s been in that position, he thought to himself. Despite the harshness of the room, the fluorescent lights, the cold tabletop, she seemed at home - like she was curled up in a big down comforter in the corner of a thick couch.
It’s too bad this chick is such a mess, he thought, spraying more Fantastik on the floor and wiping up the remaining chunks of vomit. She’s got a great ass and two gorgeous tits. Licking his lips, he thought about what it would be like to take her from behind, right here, right now. His cock hardened as he imagined holding her mouth shut with one hand and thrusting the other hand down her pants to find her, wet and waiting for him.
“You thinking about me?” Ruby looked up from the table top, pushing her damp hair back away from her forehead as she turned to face Newsome with clear eyes. “I’ll give you a good deal – abduction night special.”
“You oughtta be thinking about your kids.” Newsome tossed the soiled paper towel into the trash and snapped off first one, then the other rubber exam glove, as his cock reflexively went soft.
“Fuckers took my kids. They waited until I was good and drunk, and then they took my goddamn kids.”
“Any idea what they want?”
“I got nothin.”
“S’not what I asked.”
Ruby took a deep breath, drew her sweater up around her shoulders and looked straight at Newsome. “Look, am I a suspect?” Her tightly curled lips could not hide a small quiver. “I need a drink.”
Newsome stared back at Ruby and sighed in return. “You could be in a lot of trouble right now.”
“I know.” And closing her eyes with an even deeper sigh, she put her head down on the table again, this time face down.
Newsome looked down at Ruby. He liked this one. He felt sorry for her. She was pretty. His shift was ending in fifteen minutes.
His hand touched the back of her neck, only for a second. “Wait here,” he said, and the door closed behind him.
* * * * *
The Roadway Bar was one of those places that truckers would crowd into… if there were any highways passing by Hell’s Kitchen. Instead, it was peopled by retired postal workers and petty criminals – cheap hookers and dime bag dealers. Coleman liked coming here after his shift to unwind. He didn’t worry about what anyone was doing except the bartender.
“Hey Charlie,” he called to his long time friend, as he and Ruby took the last two seats at the non-TV end of the bar. Silently, he lifted two fingers, and then lowered them with a slight wag in the direction of him and his female companion. Two shots of Scotch and a couple of beers would follow shortly.
Ruby leaned forward slightly to peer across Coleman’s shoulders and survey the other end of the room. “The lady down at the end of the bar keeps looking at me.”
“That’s Gladys. Postal clerk, Wall Street Station. Retired since 9/11.”
Charlie placed mugs of beer down in front of them and poured two shots of whiskey. “Probably thinks you’re a terrorist.”
“Well she's freaking me out.”
Gladys shook her head and muttered into her coffee. “Don’t like this one, no, not one bit… got shifty eyes… gotta watch her, I do…”
“Steady, Gladys. Want me to warm that up for you?” Charlie walked back into the pulsating bluish glare of the small TV on the Gladys end of the bar and poured her another cup of coffee. She emptied the sugar dispenser into the stream of thick, black liquid, all the while fixing her eyes on the new woman on the other side.
Ruby threw back her shot and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She looked up into the mirrored wall, watching as the muttering woman continued to peer across at her. “She’s giving me the creeps.”
Newsome drank his shot and slammed the glass back down on the bar. “Grab your beer.” Ruby picked up her mug and followed him over to a dark booth in an even darker recess of the bar. She stumbled over a hole in the worn linoleum floor, and he reached out with a quick hand on the small of her back to steady her. Sliding along the cracked vinyl seat across from him, she leaned back to watch him sit down as their glasses knocked together in the center of the table.
“Is this better?” he asked, settling back against his own seat.
“Yeah, I hate people staring at me.”
The two sat in silence, sipping their beer, allowing the tension of unanswered questions to slowly uncoil.
“Thank you,” said Ruby. Newsome nodded and took another sip. He was probably a cruel bastard. Punishment would come later. It always did. But Ruby was grateful for the small kindness of this moment, and she wanted it to last as long as possible. They emptied their glasses in silence and Newsome nodded to Charlie to bring them another round.
To be continued...
© Deborah Oster Pannell 2009
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Patient Woman
She waits. Waits and watches. She wonders what it will be like when he awakens. The sun beats down upon her head, and sweat forms on her brow in little drops. They tumble down her forehead in rivulets that tickle her skin when a breeze brushes past them, and dry before they can roll down past her cheeks. She marvels at the water turning to air on her face, molecules lifted from her skin and dispersed into the infinite space all around her.
He breathes. He stirs. Her heart beats faster as she imagines what it will be like when he encircles her body with his rugged arms, carved, as out of stone. He appears very strong to her, as though he could lift her without strain and carry her wherever he wished - through a doorway, up a stairway, into a bed, through a fire. He could take her anywhere she wished to go, as well - to the water, to the top of a tree, up a mountain, across a desert. She would be safe with him, of this she was certain.
No one had warned her about the waiting, although she was finding that practice did make it easier. Admittedly, the first year was exceedingly difficult. She was utterly unprepared for the solitude, the quietude that made even her own breathing seem loud, and unwelcome. Indeed, it had taken several years to become comfortable with the sounds of her own body, and the occasional utterances that left her lips before she was even conscious of the breath she had given them.
In the third year, they survived a massive storm. She had wrapped his body carefully in the robes and blankets slated for this purpose. Satisfied that he was well protected, she had peered up at billowing clouds - monstrous mushrooms and other, more violent forms that brutalized the skies without apology. Frightened by the force of the tempest, she shut her eyes and held on to the madly flapping front panels of their tent, praying to survive this wave of destruction. She counted the moments, visualizing his face in her mind as a kind of mantra to focus away from her fear. It was hard to imagine such a thing, but secretly she believed that when he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, she would witness the entire universe and every miraculous bit of life contained within it. She would fly out of her body and go to live in the universe of his soul, found inside his eyes. This she would do, when the time came.
Many more years passed, and still she counted the hours by the rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids, and the periodic swelling and then shrinking of the part of him that lie between his hips, straining and then relaxing against the garments that covered his prone form.
She looked forward to the daily bathing which started each morning at dawn. She yearned to peel back the layers of silk that encircled him, hiding from her his difference – that which made him a man, that was so opposite from that which made her a woman. She grew to know every inch of his flesh, even as he remained to her, a silent stranger.
She knew that when they finally joined as one, she would feel once and for all the inner pulsing and opening that had heretofore lived only as color and shadow in her dreams. She would know the sweet release of the tears and tension and expectation that had been building up within her since she could remember.
Years became decades, and the woman saw her own flesh soften and wrinkle, and her hair grey and flatten. Blue veins rose to the surface on the back of her hands, and tiny, spidery red lines appeared in haphazard networks behind her knees, inside the moist bend of her legs. Her vision began to cloud, and she became increasingly aware of the sound of her breath, the beating of her heart, and an ever growing longing in her mid-section that prevented her from sleeping.
At one point, she was overtaken by an anger that pulsed through her bloodstream, threatening to explode somewhere behind her eyes, or out the tips of her fingers. How was it fair that she be called upon to wait and watch for so long?? But this, too, eventually passed, until one day she found that she was perfectly content to lie back and gaze up at the blue sky, marveling at the fluffy bits of clouds that floated across the palette of her vision, taking form after unexpected form – dog, angel, bunches of grapes…
And then, as the woman lie there wondering at the infinite varieties of nature’s creations in the sky and on the earth, the man woke up. Tenderly, he gazed down at his beloved partner and wondered how long they would have together in this world to express all of the love they could possibly share with one another. Then, he lowered his face to hers, and pressed his lips to hers, and touched his heart to hers, and the woman accepted his gaze, his kiss and his own urgent longing as her own. And breathing deeply, she held him back as tightly as she could.
© Deborah Oster Pannell
August, 2010
He breathes. He stirs. Her heart beats faster as she imagines what it will be like when he encircles her body with his rugged arms, carved, as out of stone. He appears very strong to her, as though he could lift her without strain and carry her wherever he wished - through a doorway, up a stairway, into a bed, through a fire. He could take her anywhere she wished to go, as well - to the water, to the top of a tree, up a mountain, across a desert. She would be safe with him, of this she was certain.
No one had warned her about the waiting, although she was finding that practice did make it easier. Admittedly, the first year was exceedingly difficult. She was utterly unprepared for the solitude, the quietude that made even her own breathing seem loud, and unwelcome. Indeed, it had taken several years to become comfortable with the sounds of her own body, and the occasional utterances that left her lips before she was even conscious of the breath she had given them.
In the third year, they survived a massive storm. She had wrapped his body carefully in the robes and blankets slated for this purpose. Satisfied that he was well protected, she had peered up at billowing clouds - monstrous mushrooms and other, more violent forms that brutalized the skies without apology. Frightened by the force of the tempest, she shut her eyes and held on to the madly flapping front panels of their tent, praying to survive this wave of destruction. She counted the moments, visualizing his face in her mind as a kind of mantra to focus away from her fear. It was hard to imagine such a thing, but secretly she believed that when he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, she would witness the entire universe and every miraculous bit of life contained within it. She would fly out of her body and go to live in the universe of his soul, found inside his eyes. This she would do, when the time came.
Many more years passed, and still she counted the hours by the rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids, and the periodic swelling and then shrinking of the part of him that lie between his hips, straining and then relaxing against the garments that covered his prone form.
She looked forward to the daily bathing which started each morning at dawn. She yearned to peel back the layers of silk that encircled him, hiding from her his difference – that which made him a man, that was so opposite from that which made her a woman. She grew to know every inch of his flesh, even as he remained to her, a silent stranger.
She knew that when they finally joined as one, she would feel once and for all the inner pulsing and opening that had heretofore lived only as color and shadow in her dreams. She would know the sweet release of the tears and tension and expectation that had been building up within her since she could remember.
Years became decades, and the woman saw her own flesh soften and wrinkle, and her hair grey and flatten. Blue veins rose to the surface on the back of her hands, and tiny, spidery red lines appeared in haphazard networks behind her knees, inside the moist bend of her legs. Her vision began to cloud, and she became increasingly aware of the sound of her breath, the beating of her heart, and an ever growing longing in her mid-section that prevented her from sleeping.
At one point, she was overtaken by an anger that pulsed through her bloodstream, threatening to explode somewhere behind her eyes, or out the tips of her fingers. How was it fair that she be called upon to wait and watch for so long?? But this, too, eventually passed, until one day she found that she was perfectly content to lie back and gaze up at the blue sky, marveling at the fluffy bits of clouds that floated across the palette of her vision, taking form after unexpected form – dog, angel, bunches of grapes…
And then, as the woman lie there wondering at the infinite varieties of nature’s creations in the sky and on the earth, the man woke up. Tenderly, he gazed down at his beloved partner and wondered how long they would have together in this world to express all of the love they could possibly share with one another. Then, he lowered his face to hers, and pressed his lips to hers, and touched his heart to hers, and the woman accepted his gaze, his kiss and his own urgent longing as her own. And breathing deeply, she held him back as tightly as she could.
© Deborah Oster Pannell
August, 2010
So I decided to start a blog...
Last night I had an epiphany. I was talking with an old friend, and with her strong encouragement, I realized that all the time I have spent idealizing the success of people I have known throughout my life and then knocking myself down in comparison, I have been doing myself a disservice. For I have also been quite busy over the course of my own existence, gaining experience and hopefully a little wisdom, learning invaluable life skills, and exercising my creative muscles. The fact that certain people whose paths I have crossed may now occupy this or that position in the professional world is kind of irrelevant. Everyone still has to wake up each day and do their work. Some people’s work is more fulfilling, some is less. Some people make more money, others are just scraping by. Some of us have realized lifelong goals or dreams and are now moving on to other things, while those of us who have yet to come into our own still feel the yearning to strive for more. The plain fact is, each of us is on a very distinct path, and although I could choose to be discouraged by the success of another, I can also be inspired.
Today I feel inspired.
With Erin’s encouragement (shout out to the timelessness of friendship), I have decided to start a blog. That’s right. I’m taking the plunge. I’m not sure I’m ready for comments yet – that might be way too traumatic – but I definitely need to publish my work, my thoughts, my feelings, my stories… I have to get them out of the solitude of my own internal process, my aspirations. I have to share them with others and let them breathe – give them a chance to delight or disappoint, let them stand on their own and see what they’re made of… I’ve been through so much, I don’t believe I have anything left to fear at this point, at least when it comes to putting my work out there. What’s the worst that can happen? People won’t like it? Ooohhhhhh….. scary monsters!!!
____________________________________________________________
Ever since I can remember, I have loved reading. It was my first great escape. There was some family myth that I started reading when I was two years old, but I don’t think that’s true. I do know that I was given a very detailed book to read at the age of 4 or 5, called “The Wonderful Story of How You Were Born,” and I proceeded to give a full report to my kindergarten class. My parents heard all about that at parent/teacher conference night.
Somewhere along the line, I started writing. I remember having a diary somewhere around the 6th or 7th grade, filled mostly with detailed descriptions of trips to the mall. Since then, in addition to the mandatory school book reports and creative writing assignments, I have written letters, short stories, poems, feverish journal entries (more than I care to remember), plays, screenplays (never finished, of course), essays, treatments, and all matters of work related documents for the various management and marketing positions I have occupied in my professional life.
I LOVE to write. I love how it feels to let ideas flow through me and to watch them slowly take shape on the page. I love discovering what direction I’m actually going in, when I thought I was headed somewhere else. I love seeing characters that I have created come to life.
Of course I, like many people, grew to be very protective of my work over the years. For a time I was brave, and circulated my stories for comment from friends and colleagues, even had a couple of my one page plays produced, but aside from one South African feminist website that published two of my short stories about a decade ago, and one poem in college, I’ve never seen my work in print. Somewhere along the line, I began to develop a crust of fear that hardened a little with every tentative submission and subsequent rejection (I have made it a habit of periodically sending one of my stories to a literary magazine run by two sisters, called Glimmer Train, and they have regularly rejected each and every submission). At some point, I settled into a passive state of lethargy with regard to putting my stuff out there at all. Life, work, doubt, all seemed to overshadow my creative aspirations, and rendered me virtually silent.
But in the private woods of my mind, there are trees falling all the time – very loudly, I might add! In fact, sometimes it’s so noisy, I can barely concentrate. There are characters, situations, plot lines, all jostling for attention, distracting me from the exigencies of daily life, which, in and of themselves, are numerous. And now, my life has come to a head, and I can no longer tolerate the status quo. It’s time for a major change.
Almost eleven months ago, I lost my husband and life partner of 22 years, Ivor Balin Pannell. People who knew him will tell you that he was a force to be reckoned with… A man of extraordinary wisdom and patience, seriousness as well as humor, he taught me more about adversity and courage than anyone I have ever known. He was born with a genetic disorder called sickle cell anemia, a terrible disease that affects the blood and causes extraordinary bouts of pain as well as major organ and joint damage. My life with him was incredibly rewarding, but also filled with challenges that pushed me to my absolute limits. Together, we learned about love and friendship and struggle. We also created a son, Josiah, who is now 7 years old.
So I’m a newly single mother, working sometimes upwards of three or four jobs or projects at a time, trying to keep afloat financially in the midst of a terrible recession, struggling to keep my house clean and organized, and dealing with perhaps the single greatest emotional transition of my lifetime. And yet, there are still those nights when I will stay up until all hours working on a short story, because I just have to do it. I don’t know why, I just know that there is still this creative fire that burns inside me, and all of these other draws on my energy seem less like obstacles than they do inspiration.
When I was in my teens and twenties, and I was going through some particularly angst ridden episode of the drama that was then the hallmark of my days, I used to say to myself, “There’s good material in all this.” Well, if that was true, then by now I have accumulated a goldmine of material, and it’s time to hammer it into something shiny and polished to admire, and have the satisfaction of knowing that I created it. And since I’ve now hit the point where I’ve lived out some of the scariest things imaginable… and survived… I’m no longer frightened by the prospect of sharing my words with you.
Like so many other creative souls, I have a tremendous need to be told how wonderful I am, even at the same time as I yearn for constructive criticism that will help to make my work better. When I say better, I mean, closer to the essence of what it is trying to be. In my work as well as my life, I tend to take things to the nth degree. I don’t like to hold back, and whenever possible, I’m out there pushing the limits. I don’t know if my work always reflects this desire, but that is something I’m working on! Some would say I have boundary issues. I prefer to think of it as taking liberties, questioning authority, defying limitations.
Or maybe I just like being a bad girl…
In any case, I’m officially inaugurating this blog, and I am going to try like hell to put it out there with courage, and without expectation. I am at what you might call a pivotal point in my life, and can think of no better way to celebrate than to take a leap into the ocean of creative possibility. Fortunately, I am a pretty good swimmer.
I will begin the task of uploading stories, essays and other random pieces of writing that I need to share, starting with a couple of new pieces. Soon I’ll go back to my older stories. They have been holed up for too long, and I warn you, some of them may be a little mildewy. But I can’t keep them private any longer. Seriously, if I don’t get them out of my head, I may become physically ill. So this is truly an act of self preservation.
I have no idea what a woman like me, pushing 50, a widow, a single mom, is supposed to sound like, look like, act like or be. I’m pretty sure I get to make it up as I go along, though. I guess we’ll see what happens…
© Deborah Oster Pannell
August 23, 2010
Today I feel inspired.
With Erin’s encouragement (shout out to the timelessness of friendship), I have decided to start a blog. That’s right. I’m taking the plunge. I’m not sure I’m ready for comments yet – that might be way too traumatic – but I definitely need to publish my work, my thoughts, my feelings, my stories… I have to get them out of the solitude of my own internal process, my aspirations. I have to share them with others and let them breathe – give them a chance to delight or disappoint, let them stand on their own and see what they’re made of… I’ve been through so much, I don’t believe I have anything left to fear at this point, at least when it comes to putting my work out there. What’s the worst that can happen? People won’t like it? Ooohhhhhh….. scary monsters!!!
____________________________________________________________
Ever since I can remember, I have loved reading. It was my first great escape. There was some family myth that I started reading when I was two years old, but I don’t think that’s true. I do know that I was given a very detailed book to read at the age of 4 or 5, called “The Wonderful Story of How You Were Born,” and I proceeded to give a full report to my kindergarten class. My parents heard all about that at parent/teacher conference night.
Somewhere along the line, I started writing. I remember having a diary somewhere around the 6th or 7th grade, filled mostly with detailed descriptions of trips to the mall. Since then, in addition to the mandatory school book reports and creative writing assignments, I have written letters, short stories, poems, feverish journal entries (more than I care to remember), plays, screenplays (never finished, of course), essays, treatments, and all matters of work related documents for the various management and marketing positions I have occupied in my professional life.
I LOVE to write. I love how it feels to let ideas flow through me and to watch them slowly take shape on the page. I love discovering what direction I’m actually going in, when I thought I was headed somewhere else. I love seeing characters that I have created come to life.
Of course I, like many people, grew to be very protective of my work over the years. For a time I was brave, and circulated my stories for comment from friends and colleagues, even had a couple of my one page plays produced, but aside from one South African feminist website that published two of my short stories about a decade ago, and one poem in college, I’ve never seen my work in print. Somewhere along the line, I began to develop a crust of fear that hardened a little with every tentative submission and subsequent rejection (I have made it a habit of periodically sending one of my stories to a literary magazine run by two sisters, called Glimmer Train, and they have regularly rejected each and every submission). At some point, I settled into a passive state of lethargy with regard to putting my stuff out there at all. Life, work, doubt, all seemed to overshadow my creative aspirations, and rendered me virtually silent.
But in the private woods of my mind, there are trees falling all the time – very loudly, I might add! In fact, sometimes it’s so noisy, I can barely concentrate. There are characters, situations, plot lines, all jostling for attention, distracting me from the exigencies of daily life, which, in and of themselves, are numerous. And now, my life has come to a head, and I can no longer tolerate the status quo. It’s time for a major change.
Almost eleven months ago, I lost my husband and life partner of 22 years, Ivor Balin Pannell. People who knew him will tell you that he was a force to be reckoned with… A man of extraordinary wisdom and patience, seriousness as well as humor, he taught me more about adversity and courage than anyone I have ever known. He was born with a genetic disorder called sickle cell anemia, a terrible disease that affects the blood and causes extraordinary bouts of pain as well as major organ and joint damage. My life with him was incredibly rewarding, but also filled with challenges that pushed me to my absolute limits. Together, we learned about love and friendship and struggle. We also created a son, Josiah, who is now 7 years old.
So I’m a newly single mother, working sometimes upwards of three or four jobs or projects at a time, trying to keep afloat financially in the midst of a terrible recession, struggling to keep my house clean and organized, and dealing with perhaps the single greatest emotional transition of my lifetime. And yet, there are still those nights when I will stay up until all hours working on a short story, because I just have to do it. I don’t know why, I just know that there is still this creative fire that burns inside me, and all of these other draws on my energy seem less like obstacles than they do inspiration.
When I was in my teens and twenties, and I was going through some particularly angst ridden episode of the drama that was then the hallmark of my days, I used to say to myself, “There’s good material in all this.” Well, if that was true, then by now I have accumulated a goldmine of material, and it’s time to hammer it into something shiny and polished to admire, and have the satisfaction of knowing that I created it. And since I’ve now hit the point where I’ve lived out some of the scariest things imaginable… and survived… I’m no longer frightened by the prospect of sharing my words with you.
Like so many other creative souls, I have a tremendous need to be told how wonderful I am, even at the same time as I yearn for constructive criticism that will help to make my work better. When I say better, I mean, closer to the essence of what it is trying to be. In my work as well as my life, I tend to take things to the nth degree. I don’t like to hold back, and whenever possible, I’m out there pushing the limits. I don’t know if my work always reflects this desire, but that is something I’m working on! Some would say I have boundary issues. I prefer to think of it as taking liberties, questioning authority, defying limitations.
Or maybe I just like being a bad girl…
In any case, I’m officially inaugurating this blog, and I am going to try like hell to put it out there with courage, and without expectation. I am at what you might call a pivotal point in my life, and can think of no better way to celebrate than to take a leap into the ocean of creative possibility. Fortunately, I am a pretty good swimmer.
I will begin the task of uploading stories, essays and other random pieces of writing that I need to share, starting with a couple of new pieces. Soon I’ll go back to my older stories. They have been holed up for too long, and I warn you, some of them may be a little mildewy. But I can’t keep them private any longer. Seriously, if I don’t get them out of my head, I may become physically ill. So this is truly an act of self preservation.
I have no idea what a woman like me, pushing 50, a widow, a single mom, is supposed to sound like, look like, act like or be. I’m pretty sure I get to make it up as I go along, though. I guess we’ll see what happens…
© Deborah Oster Pannell
August 23, 2010
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