Monday, April 12, 2004

Work in Progress

Lans sat on the curb, rolling the coin. It rolled so nice. The sun’s rays on its edges was nice. It gave it a nice glimmer which sparkled to his eyes.

A small boy with short black hair, Lans was nine years old. When asked how old he really felt he was, he’d say he felt like he was old as his Grandpa Nelson--who was a grizzly fellow of eighty or so. He’d then recall beautiful memories of his Grandpa Nelson, who lived far away from Lans, and wasn’t able to see him much.

The day was a hot and humid morning in the middle of Summer. Ron was with Lans. Ron was a year younger than Lans, but the two got along fine. Also with them was Ron’s older brother, Wilton. He was babysitting. Wilton was a seventeen-year-old youth. He had wild brown hair down to his shoulders, wore tattered shorts, and had a look of bitterness about him that could scare away a lion. Or so Ron said with wide eyes each time Lans asked him.

“So Ron, what’re we gonna do taday,” Lans asked. Lans continued to roll the coin back and forth, back and forth, on the curb. It was as if the coin had mystic powers, the way Lans followed it. His eyes did not sway from it.

“I dunno, watcha wanna do, Lans?” Ron was on the curb too, watching some ants as they trekked by. They caught his interest and kept it. The boys didn’t look at each other as they talked.

“I was thinkin we could go down ta the park, maybe. Watcha think of dat?” The coin glimmered off Lans’s eyes. Back and forth, back and forth back, and forth and back, and forth.

“Sounds good ta me.” Ron nodded in agreement, his blonde hair moving ever so slightly.

“I don’t know bout that,” Wilton said. He crossed his arms. He was standing beside a tree, in the shade, overlooking the curb. His shadow made him seem big. His tattered shorts blew softly in the wind. “You’d hafta ask mama first, Ron. So would you, Lans. You’d hafta ask your mama too.”

“Lans, let’s go ask, den.” Ron stood up. “Let’s go. I’ll ask my mama first.”

“OK.” Lans stood up, pocketing the coin in his jeans.

Ms. Dayle was an old widow. Her husband, Vern, had died five years ago. He had died at a tragic construction accident. Vern had been on the rooftop of the house he was helping construct, when he’d lost his footing, and fell to his death. With a broken neck, if he hadn’t have died, he would’ve been paralyzed the rest of his life.

Inside Ms. Dayle’s eyes, as the children approached, was a sullen coldness. If the eyes are windows to the soul, Ms. Dayle’s windows were full of rain water in the clouds. Water that was going to fall down one day, sweeping everything in its path in a muddy muck.

Ms. Dayle was in the kitchen, the TV on some soap opera she always watched. Ron didn’t know which. He only knew it was mama’s soaps.

The lingering scent of cookies permeated about the room, coming to the childrens’ nostrils. It smelled like chocolate chip from what Lans could smell.

On the TV, a woman and a man embraced each other. The woman’s hands went around the man’s shoulders, the man’s hands around the woman’s waist. Their lips came together, and disappeared into each other as they swept each other head over heels. Then, a door was heard in the distance, creaking open. The woman and the man didn’t hear it. They were too into the moment.

A man walked in. His eyes widened.

“Darla! How could you!” the man said, his eyes getting even wider, anger in his voice, naked shock. “How could you! You--you heartless bitch!” Music played in the background. Music which wrenched and toyed with the moment, loud and wondering. “I just don’t know how you could. How could you, Darla? What about Michael? What‘s going to happen to him? Oh, you bitch!” Now his eyes unwidened. They became angry slits accusing her. “You bitch.”

Their arms still on each other, Darla and the large muscle man took away each other’s arms. Took each other away from their lips. Darla looked at her husband, then to the muscle man. The muscle man’s eyes showed surprise, then looked over at Darla as if for recognition. Darla’s eyes said she wanted a fight.

“I’ve seen what you’ve been doing, Donald. I’ve seen it. And you have the gall to call me a bitch! Oh, you’re lucky you’re not drunk right now!”

“Is this what it’s about, Darla? Is this what it’s about? Me and my drinking?” Donald’s eyes slit even more, became even more accusing. “Me and my drinking.”

“Yes, it is. So am I still a bitch? At least I’m not a drunk, useless excuse for a father!”

“Fine then! You can fondle your man here! See if I care! I’ll just go to the bar, then. Cause if you’re trying to hurt me, I’m going to hurt you right back!” Donald’s eyes retained their slit. He made motions with his hands this time for emphasis. “What do you want, Darla? You want a divorce? Don’t you know I work hard? Don’t you know I go to work each day for you?”

“And don’t you know I watch your little precious for you each day? Or do I just do nothing, Donald?”

“No, you don’t just do nothing. But I work hard, Darla. I’ve worked hard for what we’ve got. You see this house here--this nice house?” He motioned around the house. “You see it? It didn’t come cheap. It costs money, Darla. And you see that nice dress you’re wearing? It costs money, too. It all costs money. And you know where that money comes from? You know where it all goes?”

“It all goes to drinking. That’s where it goes.” Her voice was soft, but powerful. It was like she was going to go from low to screaming at any time.

“No, it isn’t. You know--I’m not gonna take this. If you’re going to be like this, I’m just going to get a divorce. I think it’s for the best. If only you could understand I need a little break after work. I need to cool down. That’s what drinking does.” He put his hands in his pocket, jangling for his keys. “I’m not gonna take this. Goodbye, Darla.” He walked out the door. It slammed shut. The muscle man and Darla got back into each other’s arms. She whispered into his face, her eyes tearing up.

“I just don’t know anymore,” she said. Then the screen went black.

“Silent Return will resume after messages from the following sponsors.” The familiar garble of commercials began playing.

It was just then that the boys came in. Ms. Doyle looked up at the boys as they walked in. She tucked away her feelings the soap had given her, and flashed them a smile. Her hair was just graying, the natural blonde color looking more dirty blonde than it was blonde. She looked weak. But the children saw a strong woman. “Why, hello children,” she said. Her smile created wrinkles on her face, like ripples when a rock is thrown in a river.

“Hi mama,” Ron said. “Whatchin your soaps?”

“Yeah. Oh, and I’ve got some cookies in the oven, too. They’ll be done soon. Fresh chocolate chip cookies! Whaddaya say?”

“Sounds good, mama. Hey, mama. I wanna ask you somethin.”

“Yes, dear? What is it?”

“Lans and me wanna go to the park. Wilt said we gotta ask you first, then Lans’ mama.”

“Why, of course. I don’t see no reason why not. It’s a perfect day out. I bet your brother’s just givin you heck about it cause he doesn’t want to have to go there. That’s kind of selfish of him, I think.”

“I dunno. So when the cookies gonna be done, mama?” Ms. Doyle got up and checked the timer.

“It’s gonna be about five minutes. You children going to wait?”

“Sure mama. I’m hungry. Don’t know bout Lans. But I am.”

“I’m hungry too Ms. Doyle,” Lans said.

“OK then. You kids can sit over there at the table. You’ll be the first to know when the cookies’re done.”

“OK mama.” Ron and Lans sat at the table. Lans took out his coin and began spinning it on the table’s top, watching it closely, trying to guess which way it would spin. Ron watched, his eyes not paying as intent attention.
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