Cherry Almond

My legs! My legs!

Oh, my goodness, dry skin like I've never had before. Itchy and harsh to the touch. It may have come on gradually, but I noticed it all at once and began worrying. I've never had this condition before. What organ is failing? Where's the malignancy? How long do I have to live?

Out came the notebook computer, and I consulted Dr. Mirkin, Mayo Clinic, Web MD... this could be a thyroid condition maybe. What if my hair starts falling out? Or it could be allergies to my beloved dogs. What if I have to give up my dogs?

Better go talk to a flesh-and-blood physician. And Dr. Pringle takes all the fun out of it. "You're 54 years old. This happens. Buy some lotion. Any ordinary stuff will do. If you turn red, try one without perfume."

At least I get to go shopping. I like Rite Aid. It smells good in there. Candy, cosmetics, magazines make an interesting mix. Almost like Sprouse Ritz from the childhood days, except there is way more light. I found the lotion aisle, almost a city block of choices. Six different labels in the Jergens brand alone. I chose the Original Cherry Almond. An aunt used that one, I think, so it must be good.

After my bath the next morning, I applied as directed. And something happened. A memory.

I was 17 years old. I was dating a guy my parents didn't like very much. He was 20 years old and in the Navy. I met him through my friend, Pam, who was a bit on the loose side. She was finished with him and onto the next one. Tiny and vivacious, with huge brown eyes, Pam could get any guy she wanted, it seemed to me. I would ride along with her and watch her flirt and attract. I felt like I was invisible next to her.

But Troy liked me, and he took me out a few times. He came to my house for dinner and hung around. He was happy to be around my family, and he was one guest who didn't get intimidated by my mother's intoxicated tirades. He'd just shrug his shoulders and say let's go somewhere else now.

He came from Southern California, the San Gabriel Valley, to be specific. He thought of himself as a hippie, complained about the military order (even though he volunteered), and got written up for haircuts once in awhile. Best of all, he was nice-looking, could buy beer, and wanted to be with me. We fell in love, or something like it.

Troy and I were both broken. My family life was hellish with my mother in a sauced borderline personality mode and my father working late. His mother was a barfly and living with her 9th mate (married or unmarried, Troy wasn't sure). She tended to take in the alcoholic and the violent. The boy grew up knowing how many wine bottles could be on the porch before it was necessary to stay at a friend's house, and which neighbor would give him a bowl of cereal on the way to school.

Oh, the sweetness of teenage kisses and cuddling in uncomfortable places. In his 1958 Chevy, in my parents' living room. No real privacy for exploring each other the way young people are so compelled. But what joyful moments we had. I was his and he was mine and we were wrapped in each other. So simple.

But Mom raged on and Dad steered clear and I had graduated high school. Troy got orders for China Lake, California. Leaving me alone with Mom, and no idea of what independence was. That kind of upbringing does not produce a college student or even a convenience store cashier.

Troy had given me his news over the phone. I cried and cried. He said he'd come get me in two hours and we'd spend some time together. I waited by the window as the day became dark, quietly so Mom would forget about monitoring me. Troy pulled up to the curb and motioned for me to come out and get in the car. And we drove away, somewhere. I didn't care, really. I cried, I lamented, and worried, while he drove the car outside of town and past Heart Lake. There he took a trail into the woods and parked.

"Come with me," he said, holding a big flashlight. We were alone. It was quiet and safe here. I stopped crying.

I remember the month was June, and it was a warm night. I remember the big canvas tent, and Troy lighting the Coleman lantern. The canvas was musty and the sleeping bags a bit moldy smelling. And something else.

"When I got this stuff from Ron's house I noticed it was kinda smelly, so I stopped by the head shop and got some essential oil. I sprinkled it around some so you wouldn't notice as much."

Cherry almond.

Unforgettable.

Duo

Here it is Friday already, and I have my work lined up. First I have an excise and hotel tax report for the great Hemorrhagic State of Hawaii (that's for the vacation rental income on the Maui condo), then I have four bank statements for Somerset Apartments so I can wrap 2009 and send the books to the accountant, and I have a box of quarters to count and roll. About $700 worth, they come from the laundry machines. Yes, I could take the box to the bank, but they won't pour them into the coinstar device in front of me. They take the box away to a room and send a deposit slip some day. They don't do that with checks and paper currency, so they're not going to do that with coin as far as I'm concerned.

It's my hard head and it's my time.

Out on the pond I see two Canadian geese. They stop here every year on their migration, but in the past there were three of them. I wrote a sweet little story about that last year:

http://denisehoverson.blogspot.com/2009/04/trio.html

And like I said, this year there are two instead of three. I smile and wonder where the third goose is. I think she must have found a love of her own.

Or bird shot.

That's the best I can do today in the romance department.

Yellow and White

Jake and I arrived at the garden wedding just five minutes late, so we sat down quickly in a couple of the plastic chairs at the back of the lawn. It was a beautiful spring day, just after a rain, everything fresh and bright for the new couple to begin their lives together.

There were about a hundred people there. I knew some of them, and waved my hand at the few who looked our way. I knew Jake and I looked good together. He was so gorgeous in his new suit (and looked even better out of it). I put my arm through his, and squeezed his bicep. He kissed me on the top of my head.

The ceremony began and I aimed my eyes forward.

Yellow and white were the colors the bride chose, the groom and his men wore medium gray. Daisy bouquets with just a dash of emerald green fern and gray-green eucalyptus. Perfect for a such a day in Sonoma, I was thinking. I was half-way listening to the words the pastor said to the young couple and half-way remembering the ceremony Jake and I enjoyed just three years earlier. Almost to the day.

The couple was pronounced man and wife and the guests began to stand up to applaud the union.

A round-ish boy about seven years old suddenly appeared and pushed me over backward. My chair tipped up and my purse flew out of my lap as I fell hard on the lawn. The kid grabbed the bag before it hit the ground and he ran fast behind the lattice fence and hedge, tripping over an azalea bush.

"Stop!" I yelled, as Jake rose to his feet and looked toward the boy with puzzled expression.

I rubbed my elbow and noticed I was bleeding a little bit. There were grass stains on my new dress. I pulled myself up while people stared at us.

"Get him!" I yelled to my husband, who had one foot in the aisle. He took a hesitant step. "Come on!" I said, "He's getting back up!" The boy arose and began to run again. Chubby legs not moving him as fast as they might have on a lighter frame.

Why can't he catch that kid, I wondered. I watched the two of them round the corner of the block, Jake still not even with the boy.

I ran to the car, which was parked at the curb, and started it up. I found Jake and the boy talking to each other not far from where I lost sight of them, with the boy still holding my purse. He was gazing up at my husband, face all red and eyes all teary.

I got out of the car and stood with my hands on my hips between the two of them.

"Who do you belong to?" I demanded of the boy, my face showing anger and disbelief. The boy looked down and did not answer. His fists were clenched and his face was red with rage. I wrenched my purse away from him, glancing inside to see if anything was missing. He tried to kick me. I asked the boy again where he lived. Still no answer.

"Ah, Jenny, he's just a kid. Don't be the heavy. You got your purse back, let's let him go."

"The 'just a kid' assaulted me and took my purse. Get in the car, Jake, and put him in with you. We'll go to the police station and get this sorted out. He can't get away with this. Why shoud he?" Jake took the kid by the arm and steered him into the back seat. As I drove the half mile or so to the station, I glanced into the mirror and saw that Jake was letting the boy play a video game on his i phone. Huh? No time to ask, we'd arrived and I told Jake to hold onto the kid's hand while we entered the building. The boy made a sudden break and ran down the sidewalk and through a hedge.

"Just let him go, Jenny. It's not worth chasing him." He saw the expression on my face and said, "OK, I'll go find him." How's he going to do that? I wondered, but Jake was well-underway in the direction the kid fled, so I went back to the officer to make my statement.

A half-hour went by, and Jake appeared with the boy, who now had the name Danny to identify him. I saw Jake's suit coat open and noticed he wasn't wearing a belt. "You got dressed without a belt this morning?" Jake looked down and smiled, shrugged his shoulders and yawned. "I hate getting dressed up. You know that."

"Do we really need to go through all this, Jenny? Danny is ready to apologize for what he did and I think he's too little to be so tough on." Jake gave me his most charming smile, and yawned again.

He's looking pretty relaxed, I thought to myself.

Jake sat down on a bench. The boy, Danny, sat next to him and glared at me. "How did you find the little criminal?" I asked Jake. Jake told me the kid told him where he lived when they were in the car. So he simply went to the house and got him. "Where is his mother?" I asked. Apparently, she was still at the house. "Well, dontcha think we should involve her?" I was feeling a little incredulous.

"Oh, Jenny. She's a nice woman. She works two jobs and she's all alone with Danny. I told her I'd sort this out for her."

Now this was getting bizzarre.

"Give me her name and address and I'll go deal with her myself." So, I took a slip of paper from the officer with Loralee Shultz's address on it, got in the car and drove the five blocks to her address. Yellow house with white shutters. A short, pretty brunette opened the door the moment I knocked. Her smile faded quickly when she saw me standing there.

In her hand was Jake's belt.

(fiction)

Sun

The Westlake Villas is a pretty fair-sized condominium development in Peoria, Arizona. I've come here to visit my friend, Gail for a long weekend. Adobe colored, almost identical stucco residences, block after block. Rock gardens punctuated with cactus and citrus trees. Graceful streets, immaculate driveways... some people actually paint em and wax em.

This place is where the Cadillacs go when they leave the dealer lots. There is one in every other driveway, I think.

The Arizona sun in late January is brilliant but benign and softly warm. It's on my face as I glide through the water in the clubhouse pool, what passes as a backstroke. Ever so slowly, I am really enjoying this cool tourmaline water, convected air, bright light. It's delightful, stimulating, kinda sexy, even... but oh so soothing. No, I'm in no hurry at all.

I notice two old Jewish men checking me out. I am 54 years old, but still a Shiksa. The unapproved and disallowed and interesting. I smile.

Gail is dog paddling near me and talking non-stop. Talking non-stop is what Gail does. I think she has no inner dialogue. But I can't hear her with the waterline above my ears. And it doesn't seem to matter.

We are the same age. She is way better looking than I am, and she works very hard at it. Scandinavian for sure, she is blonde with blue eyes, slender and beautifully proportioned. She dresses in white and jewel tones, very classic. You cannot tell by looking at her that she is dying.

Gail gets up early. She runs a mile with Bella, the dog, then makes me breakfast. I cannot make my own breakfast. "No, you can't use that bowl because it doesn't fit in the dishwasher. Use this one. And here is the spoon we use for the yogurt. These Asian pears are ready to cut, but these are not. That coffee is too expensive. We only use that one for the first pot, then we use this cheaper stuff later in the morning. You take your shower now and I'll have your breakfast ready when you get out."

We sit on the patio and get caught up on each other's lives. She offers me a cigarette. "These aren't going to get me," she says, "The Hep C is way ahead of them." If she's smoking, I'm smoking. She does not allow a choice, but I'm willing.

I ask her, "How are you, Gail?"

She tells me if she weren't a type A personality she would already be in the ground. "I have to keep moving, and the way I am I like to keep moving," she tells me. "If I don't move, I stiffen up. Something hurts all of the time. I can't think about it. I stay very busy. But sometimes I feel like I have the flu and I have no choice but to be still and keep warm. I hate that most of all."

Gail got the disease through a blood transfusion in 1986. She did not know she was sick for at least fifteen years after that, when the symptoms were practically screaming at her physician. No one knows if earlier treatments would have made her more comfortable now. She does know that she has a highly resistant strain and the chemotherapy she went under for a period of time did not put a dent in it. She relies on some convential medicine, but mostly alternative medicine. The alternative medicine is busy stuff ("I put this on my skin here, then one of these patches, and this goes on my cereal... I drink some of this at noon, and take some of these at bedtime.") But if it makes her feel like she's wielding some kind of weapon at the demon, who would question her practices?

She and her husband have their rituals. An early morning walk, Bible study, an early evening walk before dinner. Clark is out on a golf course for half of each day. That is when Gail should be resting or hobbying. But today we are at the pool soaking up sun and splashing around a bit.

Gail directs Clark with the zeal of George Patton. He follows orders like the best of the general's soldiers. But his eyes shine with deep love for her. Clark is tall and good-looking, he looks very much like the retired executive he is.

Clark is a master at getting a word in edgewise. Gail interrupts him constantly, but he continues speaking in a low but undistracted tone if he wants to get a point across. The listener, if agile of ear, can follow both of them.

"I am so glad we came to Peoria," she says, "I feel so much better here in this weather. The cold and damp of Washington kill me. And all the relatives are still up there. We didn't even come home for Christmas... Clark and I just don't care. No craziness, no dramas... it's just so nice here."

At the end of this day, I pack my suitcase for my evening flight home. Clark will take me to the airport. Gail is on the sofa covered in a blanket. "I can't go with you," she apologizes. I can see pain in her eyes and she is very still. "It's like the flu, like I told you. I'll feel better tomorrow."

"I love you," I say to her. She says, "God bless you."

Clark opens the door for me, and the little dog, Bella, goes to Gail and curls up next to her.