She dragged the sleepy beagle over to the car. Her mother’s burgundy mohair sweater was draped over the passenger side seat and a pair of Nike sneakers – the ones Mrs. Borelli changed into when her feet became swollen after long hours at the bakery, was propped on the rear seat. The car had been vacuumed, all the empty coffee cups and refuse thrown away.
“Well, this sure is weird!” Picking the dog up, she placed him in the back of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. When she turned the ignition, the engine instantly fired up and a country-western tune – Jesus take the Wheel by Carrie Underwood - was purring through the speakers. She shut the radio, put the car in gear and drove home.
“The thug in the brown leather jacket,” Curtis ventured, when she finished the story, “who was he?”
Becky shrugged. “What difference does it make?” She answered his question with one of her own. “We got the car back in one piece along with the sweater and my mother’s sneakers, and that’s all that really mattered.”
“Lie down with dogs; get up with fleas.” For the first time since she joined him at the table, Curtis’ habitual blank expression dissolved in a conspiratorial smirk. “What did you tell your mother?”
“I told her I walked Ralphy to the park and found the car just sitting there.” Curtis crooked his head to one side and the foolish expression deepened. “Of course, she didn’t believe me,” Becky added, anticipating his unspoken thoughts. “She damn well knew I called Uncle Harry, but let it slide.”
In the street, a chubby man in his late twenties was hurrying across Atwels Avenue in the direction of the Music Depot. Becky had seen the jerk in the breakfast nook, Ollie’s Omelets, one street over hawking jewelry – rings, bracelets and designer watches – to the breakfast and lunch crowd. Nobody knew if the stuff was stolen or just cheap knockoffs worth a fraction of the selling price. He visited Nagel’s Bagels early on but Morris sent him packing with a few choice words in a sharp tongue and dialect that no one, except the proprietor, understood.
“The Assyrian King, Assurbanipal,” Curtis said in a thin, wispy voice, “had the walls of his palace decorated with magnificent carvings.”
The strange comment caught Becky off guard. She wasn’t quite sure if he was talking to her or thinking out loud. “One scene shows Assurbanipal and his queen enjoying a picnic in their lush palace garden. The mood is relaxed and elegant. Hanging from a tree branch just behind a harp player is the severed head of a defeated king.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He sipped at the coffee. “Whether it’s ancient Mesopotamian or Federal Hill, nothing ever changes
“The Ricci Brothers finished Uncle Harry’s mosaic.” Becky announced. Three months had passed since Curtis’ mental meltdown and things were progressing smoothly at the bakery. “The church is just around the corner if you’d like to see it.”
Becky’s father, who always arrived at work hours before everyone else, had already gone home for the day and her mother was closing up. “The mosaic built with questionable funding.” Curtis reached for his jacket. “Yeah, let’s take a look.”
Becky told her mother she was leaving and went out into the March sun. A handful of crocuses and daffodils – just the pale green stems not the flowers yet – had poked through the thawed soil in a flower pot next to the bakery. They hurried down Atwels Avenue, past the high-rise housing for the elderly, Caserta’s pizza and the Tuscan Gardens restaurant.
In late December Bobo Maroni, a low-level enforcer was shot dead, execution style, in broad daylight at the Tuscan Gardens. A brief article appeared on the second page of the Providence Journal. Bobo was eating lunch at the bar - linguini with white clam sauce, a glass of Chianti and a small Greek salad, according to the newspaper. At exactly twelve noon, a middle aged man decked out in a stylish, camel hair coat, a dark fedora pulled down over his eyes, entered. The fellow went directly to the bar and disposed of Bobo with a hollow-point slug from a high-caliber handgun.
What went unreported in the newspaper was the fact that, at approximately eleven forty-five, that is to say, fifteen minutes before his demise, the other patrons sitting at the bar drifted elsewhere. As if on cue, they discretely vacated the premises. That is, everyone except the marked man. Becky learned this curious bit of incidental minutia from Uncle Harry, who dispensed the information glibly with a poker face. Obviously the luckless slob had offended some Federal Hill muckamuck, stepped over that invisible line. The police had to fish Bobo Maroni’s brains along with feta cheese, anchovies and Greek olives from the half-eaten salad.
“So how do you like it?” They were standing in the entryway to the church staring at a group of dolphins frolicking in a turquoise stone ocean. The circular mosaic, done in earth tones and pastel hues, ran twenty feet in diameter and was ringed with decorative brickwork.
They entered the church, which was empty except for an older woman over by the confessional, doing the Stations of the Cross. The old woman finished the last station, dipped her fingers in a basin of holy water and left the building.
“That particular design - it’s not Roman,” Curtis said.
“The mosaic?”
He shook his head. “The dolphin theme predates the Romans. It’s more Minoan.”
“Really?” Becky glanced up briefly. Curtis’ face held that same obsessive, pinched look as when he was trying to smooth the imaginary wrinkle from the underside of his athletic sock. “Minoans flourished between 1750 – 1500 B.C.. They ruled a vast trading empire that stretched from Greece across the Aegean Sea to Ephesus in Asia Minor.” The blond-haired youth tossed these historical tidbits off as though they were common knowledge.. “The Minoan rulers lived in a vast palace at Knossos on the island of Crete. The palace walls were covered with colorful frescoes, watercolor paintings done on wet plaster.” He removed his glasses momentarily and massaged the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers. “The dolphin mosaic probably came from one of those original frescoes.”
A priest entered the church, lit several candles near the altar then disappeared out a side door. The air was shot through with acrid, sweet-smelling incense. “You sure are a strange one,” Becky murmured, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. “What else should a teenage girl who works in a bakery on Federal hill know about Minoan culture?”
Curtis’ cracked a dreamy, introspective smile. “Minoans were shrewd sea traders. Unlike the Romans, their success was based on trade not conquest. Their women had more rights than in most ancient civilizations.”
Without warning, Becky lifted up on her toes, snaked her arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply on the lips. “Liberated females – I like that.” Curtis’ jaw sagged open like a gate on rusty hinges. His thin lips fluttered spastically but no sounds emerged. “Don’t stop!” Becky cradled her head on his chest. “Tell me everything about Minoan culture.”
Curtis’ eyes glazed over. He let all the air out of his lungs in a deep, contented sigh. “Europa the beautiful daughter of the king of Phoenicia was gathering flowers, when she saw a bull quietly grazing with her father’s herd. The bull was actually Zeus, king of the gods, who had fallen in love with her. When Europa reached to place flowers on his horns, he suddenly bounded in the air and carried the weeping princess far off across the Mediterranean Sea to the island of Crete. Eventually Europa married the king of Crete and gave her name to a new continent.”
Curtis bent down and caressed her neck with a flurry of kisses. “But, of course, it’s just a myth,” he added as an afterthought.
“Sunday afternoon three to five is family skate over at the Finch Arena.”
“How’d you know?” Curtis asked.
“Saw a flyer that day I stopped by.” An elementary school age girl with Coke bottle glasses was lugging a trombone case in the general direction of the Music Depot. The missing ‘T’ had been secured in its pr
oper place and the sign spruced up with a fresh coat of eggshell white paint. “So I was thinking, maybe we could—”
“Yeah that would be nice.”
Becky had in mind to say something more. She had a whole speech worked out, but the door burst open and the platinum blonde strutted into the shop. She sported a new comb fashioned from an exotic wood that Becky couldn’t identify and a compact Etienne handbag.
“Hermit cookies. Two dozen.” The woman waved an American Express credit card imperiously in the air.
“She never actually looks at you,” Becky said, placing the credit receipt in the cash drawer after the woman was gone. “So what’s that mean?”
Curtis removed his glasses and wiped a film of flour from the lenses. “Either you’re a pathetic loser or the blonde’s an egotistical snot.”
Becky pursed her lips. “I’ll go with the latter.”
At the Finch Arena, Becky rented skates and lumbered unsteadily out to the ice.
“Hello again.” Tugging insistently on her sleeve and gesturing toward a colorful patch freshly sewn onto her jacket, Kioko Spiegelman was grinning shamelessly. “Free-style two. I passed my evaluation yesterday.”
“That’s real nice.” Through the open doorway she caught a glimpse of Curtis, who had just arrived, settling down on a bench. She waved and he waved back.
“Curtis your boyfriend?”
“We just work together, that’s all.”
“The way he looked at you, I thought maybe…” The young girl with the free-style two insignia stepped gingerly onto the ice and glided off.
To the strains of Doctor Zhivago blaring over the PA system they skated counter-clockwise around the rink. Before the melody came to an end she pulled him up short and said,” “I need a favor.” Two boys wearing sleek hockey skated raced by, laughing hysterically and pounding the chilled air with their clenched fists. She edged closer, lifting up on her toes and arching her neck so that the steamy air escaping her lips hovered just under his chin. “Teach me a perfect scratch spin.”
Deftly skating backwards while looping one dainty foot over the over, Kioko shot by in a blur. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll pull the plug from the clock over the biscotti's, then I’ll smooth all the imaginary wrinkles in your athletic socks.” She placed a hand lightly on his chest just as Kioko Spiegelman flew by a second time waving frenetically.
“You can’t work on spins during family skate. It’s not allowed.” Curtis mumbled something else but his words were drowned out by the raucous music and incessant chatter of the skaters. “Give me a kiss,” he repeated more insistently.
“Not now,” Becky shot back impatiently. “I’ll buy ice time in the evenings. Teach me the spin.”
“I’m crazy about you.” He had that queer, spaced out look that he got when his well-ordered universe was spinning out of control.
“Yes, I love you, too,” she spoke hurriedly, tripping over the words, “but we’re talking at cross purposes.” The pale blue eyes behind his wire-framed glasses held a limpid sheen such that Becky could see straight through to the core of his being.
Return to Table of Contents
A Work in Progress
Looking up from an inch-thick pile of invoices on her desk, Tawana Saunders recognized the middle aged fellow standing in the doorway as a reporter with the Brandenberg Gazette. Back in April, he had written a few paragraphs on the ShopRite Supermarket when they donate food to the local soup kitchen on the south side of town.
“Eudora Grossberg working today?” the reporter asked.
Peering over the reporter’s shoulder at an oblique angle, Tawana could see the beanpole of a girl stuffing butternut squash in a plastic bag. Favoring dark-framed glasses that were forever sliding down on the bridge of her narrow nose, she reminded Tawana of the rubber-necked Olive Oil in the old Popeye cartoons. And then there were the wrinkled cotton blouses haphazardly thrown together with frumpy, mismatched skirts that looked like they were bought, sight unseen, off the bargain rack at a consignment shop. Eudora Grossberg was a grotesque—a physical train wreck of a woman with no polish or pizzazz. “Checkout aisle three. She’s bagging groceries.”
He fished a fountain pen and small pad from a shirt pocket. “Mind if I borrow her for ten minutes?”
The black woman pushed her seat away from the desk. “For what purpose?”
“We got a letter from the senior editor of the Yale Review. They published one of her short stories in their hoity-toity literary quarterly this past spring, and now the piece is being anthologized. There may even be a book deal in the works.” The reporter was noticeably pleased at the young grocery clerk’s good fortune. “Our newspaper wants to do an article in the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday edition on a local, up and coming fiction writer.”
“Yes, I don’t see why not. Spend as much time as you need.”
The reporter made a motion to leave but turned back. “Do you know how many unsolicited manuscripts the Yale Review receives in the course of a month?” Tawana shook her head. “Hundreds if not thousands. And that includes a smattering of established writers with national name recognition.”
“And they chose our own Eudora.”
“Chose her twice—¬once when they printed the story and a second time when the editorial staff recommended it to the anthology.” The man left the office. Tawana sat down at her desk and craned her neck staring up over the flat panel computer screen. The reporter was gibber jabbering away with the lanky girl who never even bothered to pause from sorting the customer’s groceries as she fielded his questions. Eudora positioned a bulky, twenty-five pound bag of Purina dog food on the bottom rack of the metal cart along with a jumbo pack of toddler diapers. Fifteen minutes later Tawana paused and looked up again. The reporter was gone. Eudora had shifted over to aisle five, where an older cashier, who was painfully slow and prone to mood swings, was ringing up an order.
By noon everyone in the store knew about the reporter and Eudora’s short story, but that wasn’t the girl’s doing. Gail Crowley, the bigmouth gossip from customer service, collared the reported as he was leaving and extracted a blow-by-blow description of what was going on. “We got a regular Shakespeare among us!” the tubby blonde crowed. Gail, who probably hadn’t read anything more challenging than the National Inquirer in the last dozen years, waddled off to tell the workers in fresh produce about Eudora’s newfound celebrity status.
Back in her office, Tawana checked her calendar. In the morning, she had to be in district court. A seventeen year-old youth was caught shoplifting the week before Thanksgiving. At his arraignment, he pled ‘no contest’. An incorrigible thug, it was his sixth offense, and Tawana had to appear in court Tuesday morning representing the market as plaintiff.
“Congratulations!” As she was leaving work for the day, Tawana bumped into Eudora running down stray grocery carts in the ShopRite parking lot.
“It’s no big deal.” She jabbed at the bridge of her glasses with an index finger, pushing the frame up on her nose, but they immediately careened back down coming to rest at a cockeyed angle.
A grocery cart began rolling away and Tawana positioned it back in the stack. “What’s your short story about?”
“It’s creative fiction,” the girl replied.
“Yes, I understand, but where do you get your ideas?”
Eudora stared at the black woman then waved her bony hands in the air. “That’s a bit hard to explain.” She leaned heavily into the train of shopping carts that ran a good twenty deep and inched them forward toward the front of the store.
Tawana felt her face flush hot. Of course Eudora would conveniently sidestep both questions. Properly understood, creative fiction was meant to be read not served up like a platter of exotic pastries at a coffee klatch. “I just read a wonderful book.” For some inexplicable reason, the store manager was tripping over her words. “Maya Angelou’s collected poems.”
By way of response, Eudora snorted making a disagreeable sound. “You don’t like her poetry?”
Eudora studied her bony hands which were chapped and raw from the cold. “Robert Hayden - now there’s a decent poet.”
“Never heard of him,” Tawana replied.
The girl swallowed and her Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in typical Olive Oil fashion. “Hayden wrote a poem, Those Winter Sundays.” Lowering her eyes, she recited the poem from beginning to end in a lilting singsong cadence. When the poem was done, she raised her head and noted, “A writer could spend a life time laboring at his craft and never create anything quite so perfect.”
A flurry of icy wind caught up a pile of dead leaves and sent them swirling in a brittle, orangey funnel. Tawana could feel her heart pounding in her ears. The poem was devastatingly beautiful. “Yes, that was quite amazing.”
A freckle faced boy and his mother passed by with a load of groceries, mostly junk food—potato chips, frozen pizzas, ice cream, three quarts of cream soda plus a carton of cigarettes. Tawana had a compulsive habit of reading the shoppers by their purchases. The black woman waited until they were a good thirty feet away. “I’ve wanted to write something for quite a while but don’t seem to get anywhere.”
Eudora smiled opaquely. “And what’s the something you want to get down on paper?”
“That’s the problem,” Tawana replied with an embarrassed frown. “Perhaps I should join a local writers’ group.”
“In all likelihood, you’ll end up with some MFA graduate student.” The thin girl pulled her collar up around her throat, but the flimsy coat was of the early fall variety and much too thin for a blustery December. “A snooty misogynist, who filters your prose through his male chauvinist biases.”
Eudora collected the shopping cart that the freckle faced boy had abandoned, adding it to her collection and pushed off toward the front of the building. “Why don’t you bring in a few pages of your writing and I’ll take a look at it.”