What Americans Do

I think my wife is far too interested in what Americans do.

Ours was an arranged marriage. We had only met a few times before our wedding, though we spoke on the phone often. After our wedding celebration in our country, we came straight to the airport and to America. She was nineteen, I was twenty-four.

When we first moved to this country, Sonyia was nervous, frightened of the noise and brashness of American women. I had to coax her to leave our tiny apartment. She was embarrassed by the revealing clothes the girls her age would wear. Though I was frustrated, it pleased me that my wife would be so modest.

I had been living here already for six months, only going home to be married. In those six months I prepared for Soniya’s arrival. I furnished my tiny apartment with a bed and a nice table with two chairs I had found at the Good Will store and a rug that was not in bad shape. I found a market that sold the kinds of foods I thought my new wife would like to cook and I found some friends for her. These were other couples like us, traditional, new to this country. Raj and Sira were my favorite of the new friends. They had already been married for a year before we met. Raj and I worked together and I felt that Sira would be a good companion for Sonyia. They lived in our building as well.

I tried not to show my disappointment when Sonyia was so hesitant to leave our apartment. Though she tried to hide it, I know she cried at night when she thought I was sleeping. I had worked so hard to make her happy, why could she not be…happy?

She relaxed some over time. She and Sira even went out together, without us men. Raj assured me that this was fine. “Sometimes women need women to talk about woman things with.” He’d explain. “Do you want to talk woman things over with your wife or would you rather she talks about those things with my wife?” At the time I agreed with Raj but perhaps we were mistaken. Maybe we should have taken an interest in those woman things.

I was pleased she was beginning to like her new home. One evening while Sonyia was pouring our tea, I asked what she would like to do most in America. She set down the tea kettle and thought for a moment. “Arnan,” she started, “What I think I would like most…is to drive a car.” I’m sure my mouth dropped open and I had trouble finding my voice. “We don’t even have a car…” I said.

Though I could not imagine what need she would have for driving, I did manage to make Sonyia’s dream come true. Raj knew someone with a car; his name was Mahavir. I could not tell him the truth about what I intended to use the car for; I’m sure he would not have allowed us to borrow it. That evening, I pulled up in Mahavir’s old, loud rusty heap of a car and all of the neighbors came out to see what the noise was about. Sonyia looked frightened at first but then she sucked in her breath with resolve and slid in the front seat. Her dress caught on the duct tape holding the cracked vinyl together. Once she managed to get the car in drive she slowly navigated the street, hugging the curb the entire way. She let out the breath she had been holding only once the car came to a complete stop at the end of the block. I instructed her on how to put it in park. She turned to me with the most radiant, genuine smile I had ever seen from her. It was not like the forced smiles that I knew were mostly for my benefit. In that moment, I knew I would like nothing more than to make her smile just like that again and again. Her eyes danced and she said “Am I just like an American wife?”

Slowly she became more and more interested in what Americans do. I humored her when she bought me a pair of blue jean overalls at the Good Will store. She had gotten it in her head that this was what American men wore. I put them on for her and she clapped her hands, her eyes sparkled and I was rewarded with one of those radiant smiles. It didn’t matter anymore that I felt ridiculous.

I don’t know when it happened. Slowly I imagine, over time. I began bringing her little treasures; American things. Thing that would bring on the radiant face I was so eager to see. First it was little things like Chap Stick or chewing gum that was meant to taste like grapes. I laughed at her amazement when I brought home a second hand toaster and a package of frozen waffles. She would sit next to the toaster, eyes peeled. She would jump when the waffle popped out; dance around the tiny kitchen tossing the hot food from hand to hand, laughing.

Its one of those things you can’t see happening until it’s already happened. The way the lakeshore erodes. You don’t really see anything happening at all, until you look at a picture from a few years earlier. The landscape suddenly looks vastly different. That’s how I noticed what had become of my wife. I was looking for some papers in the hall closet when a shoebox fell to the floor. I bent to scoop up the spilled contents and there on the floor was the photo from our wedding so many years earlier. I didn’t recognize the young girl in the grainy, overexposed Polaroid image. She looked like an Indian princess, modest and timid, a little scared but eager to please. I smiled to myself and felt tears moisten the backs of my eyelids. We were so young, so full of ideas about this new world, our new life.

I thought of my wife that morning, when she left to drop Misha off at school. She wore slacks and high heeled shoes, and make up. Not the kind Indian women wore, but garish pinks and blues. Like a clown. My daughter skipped out to the car with her Dora the Explorer backpack bobbing up and down and her light-up running shoes flashing. Sonyia wore sunglasses on top of her head like an extra set of ears, chewing gum as her heels clicked rhythmically on the driveway. I imagined that girl in the photo moving through this strange land; her soft, ethnic self eroding away leaving the harder American wife underneath.

Muscle Memory

The embrace lasted a moment or two longer than some would consider appropriate. They didn’t care. It felt…familiar, comfortable.

For a moment her fingers reached for his hair. She didn’t intend to. Her hand seemed to act of its own free will.

Muscle memory, she thought. She had read about how figure skaters and gymnasts train to develop muscle memory. They repeat a series of motions over and over until their muscles remember and do them automatically. Arms and legs moving in perfect, repetitive motion; they perform flawless routines without thinking about it.

She busied her hands with items on the table, diverting them from their intended target. How long was a muscle memory, twenty-five years?

Her gaze slid outside the window and there it was. Parked at the curb was the proof of how twenty-five years could change a person. It was an impossibly responsible car, too white, too quiet. In that moment, she hated it.

She remembered what it felt like on the back of his motorcycle as if it were yesterday, even though she hadn’t thought of it in years. She could feel the wind on her skin, the roar of the engine filled her ears. She recalled the thrill of speeding away from her house, her parents’ bewildered expression as they watched her disappear on the back of the red, loud, powerful machine. She could feel her limbs remembering what it felt like to hang on, for the sake of hanging on. She remembered what reckless felt like. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

She turned her gaze back to him, searching for something. Something left over from those days. The hair was a little shorter than she remembered; the clothes a little more conservative; his manner more quiet and subdued. He was more thoughtful and mild. But it was still there, the twinkle in his eyes, the slightly teasing grin. It made her giggle.

She traced tiny circles on the rim of her cup with her finger. Flawless circles; like a figure skater.

Fishing with God

Mornings are cold in the North Woods. Even in late spring. So cold, in fact, you can see your breath.

There’s frost on the silver top of my old thermos. Carefully I pour hot black coffee into that thermos, steam rises from the opening until I tightly screw the lid on. The worn wooden floor creaks beneath my feet. Loud enough that I hope it will wake the others. It doesn’t.

I check the tackle box; line up the fishing rods, careful not to scratch the wall. I find the bait in the fridge and place it into the old red cooler; the one with the peeling sticker that once said “Big Bass Bait Shop”. Years later it reads “Big ass ait hop” I wonder if that was by design or happy accident.

Out on the porch, I lean against the railing with a cup of coffee, hot and black. Up before the sun, my senses are alive. I can hear the sound of deer not too far off, bedding down before sunrise. An owl hoots in the distance, the crickets fall silent. The frosty chill still hangs in the air, waiting for the morning sun to burn it off.

Though I can’t make it out, I know the wood pile is stacked just off the porch. I take pride in that, knowing its there stacked just the way my own father taught me forty years ago.

I inhale the scent of pine and dirt and lake and coffee. I search the eastern tree line for the first break of light. The trees look black against the blacker sky. I wonder if the boat motor will need gas. It is the same flat bottom boat that my dad and I used to row out to the fishing hole. The trolling motor was added in recent years but the same old oars sit unused in the bottom of the boat.

I remember each and every sunrise in that boat on the lake with my father. "Why so early Pop?" I'd ask. "The fish aint gettin any hungrier," he'd say. I remember how everything fell silent, grew darker and became perfectly still in the moments before the first break of light. As if the entire forest was waiting, waiting for the day’s first miracle. I believe it’s where I first became aware of God. It was the first proof of His presence that I had ever witnessed.

God had showed himself to me countless times over the years in these woods, on that lake, in many ways. A doe and her fawn at dusk, the way moonlight glimmers off freshly fallen snow, that time I lost my footing on the river bed and a perfectly placed branch saved my life. I saw God’s hands while my father taught my first born son to tie on a lure, right there on that lake. I saw His love when my youngest boy split his bologna sandwich and handed half to my father; and he ate it, never mind that those tiny hands had just been digging in the bait cup. When I was nine I saw His mercy when our pail was full and Dad tossed the fish on my line back into the lake. Though at the time I didn't see it as mercy.

I take a sip from my chipped enamel mug and toss the rest over the side of the porch. The sky turns from black to midnight blue as the tree line begins to glow with the first glimmer of the sunrise. I bend down to scoop up the heavy urn of my father’s ashes before I turn and walk through the screen door, letting it slam behind me.

“Rise n shine boys!”

I smiled to myself as they tumbled out of the bunks in matching plaid pajamas, rubbing their eyes. “The fish aint gettin any hungrier.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++

My oldest son recites a somber prayer while the little guy wipes a tear from his cheek. Our boat cuts through the still water, winding through the reeds and lily pads. I leave a trail of ashes in our wake. Half of a bologna sandwich bobs in the water.

Lucky Man

Her feet were uncomfortably wet inside her leather sandals. She swatted bugs away as she waited impatiently in the due covered grass. Her husband seemed to take his time finding a place for things on board the boat, infuriating her on the inside.

Filthy, she thought. Not sure if she meant the boat, the lake or the man.

Oblivious, he busied himself with getting things just right, whistling a tune as he worked. He smiled to himself when he glanced up at his wife on the shore. He could see the strap of her bathing suit peeking out from beneath her t-shirt; the black one, two piece. It reminded him to raise the bench seat so she could sun herself later. He thought he wouldn’t mind seeing his wife lying in the sun in that two piece. She’s still a ten, even at 49. He shot her a grin.

His smile irritated her. How was she supposed to climb in that wretched thing with the bench seat in the way? Jackass. That boat was supposed to be his. To keep him occupied so he’d leave her be. She was appeasing him with this excursion. She hated flying around that tiny lake. She hated the way the wind ripped at her hair. She hated the way he looked in a bathing suit.

He extended a hand to help her on board. I’m a lucky man he thought.

We are Family, Death and I

His pale blond hair glinted in the impossibly bright sunlight. I noticed that his Osh-Kosh overalls sagged a bit in the seat. From the sidewalk, I watched his chubby fingers reach for the doorknob. A breeze caught his hair, gently tousling the curls at the nape of his neck. He turned and smiled an angelic smile, his blue eyes like ice. It sent a chill right through me.

I pulled my sweater tighter around my body. He pushed open the worn white door and disappeared inside. As if in a trance, my feet carried me up the concrete stairs of the old porch. I gripped the rickety iron railing tightly at the top step. My breath came heavy and fast, my hands shook. “He is just a child, a baby.” I told myself. But I knew he was much more. An Angel of sorts, though not the sort of angel you want visiting you.

The door was open just an inch or two. I could hear the voice of the old women who lived inside. “Why, hello dear. Are you lost little boy?” I pushed the door open with my foot just enough to see inside. The woman was hunched over a walker; her white hair seemed like a cloud of curls perched on top of her head. He was there, smiling silently. She prattled on in her high pitched granny voice. “My, but it’s been a while since I’ve had visitors. I bet I have a cookie for you. What’s your name sweetheart? Can you tell me?” He said nothing; only that smile.

She moved slowly, creeping along as if her arthritic legs couldn't bend, shuffling her feet across the worn out linoleum floor. She paused with her walker mid-step, as if something had just occurred to her. “Oh.” She said; the falsetto dropped from her voice. “You aren’t here for a cookie.” I'm always amazed that they know who, or what, he is. She made her way to an old lazyboy chair that had lost its shape years ago. She lowered herself into it slowly and set the walker to the side. “Well, o.k. then.” She looked unsure for a moment but quickly shook it off. “No, I’m ready.” The Angel made his way over to the woman and climbed onto her lap.

I saw her smile sweetly at him and close her eyes. I heard her whisper a prayer as I let the door close.

I couldn’t watch. I heard the awful thud and shuffle of little feet. I stepped back on the porch as the door opened. He smiled his sweet smile at me, suddenly looking like any ordinary three year old. I glanced past him into the living room. I saw the old woman, slumped in her chair, her sticky sweet smile still present on her stony face. Were it not for the trail of blood rolling down her temple, I would have thought she was sleeping.

I took the Angel of Death by the hand as we walked down the walkway to the sidewalk, around the corner, through the city streets to our little blue house where our breakfast dishes were piled in the sink. With each step, the chill of death slipped further away. I busied my mind with mundane thoughts of chores and shopping lists, pushing the memory of the morning to the farthest reaches of my consciousness. I would not think of it again until he is called upon next.

He began to skip a little, swinging my hand as he went.

We are a family, Death and I.

Cleaning House

I've been cleaning house so things look a little sparse around here. Don't worry some of the favorites will be back and new stuff too!

My name is Ruby

She tried to make herself as small as possible in the front row. She pulled the tattered sleeves of her sweater over the palms of her hands and hunched over her small desk. The teacher’s voice seemed far away as it rattled on about people and places long gone from this world.

Beneath a curtain of greasy dark hair, she studied the dirt under her broken fingernails. She snuck a peek across the isle. His body angled sideways, making the desk seem impossibly tiny. His fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the thigh of his jeans; his fingernails neatly trimmed, clean. She inhaled deeply and thought she could smell the scent of him, mixed with stale books and pencil shavings. She allowed her gaze to creep up.

His t-shirt fit snug enough to reveal the outline of a necklace trapped underneath. For a moment she was mesmerized by the rise and fall of that necklace riding the waves of his breath. She imagined resting her cheek on the spot where that necklace sat. She imagined what her hair would look like shiny and soft blowing in the wind. She imagined what those fingers would feel like caressing her cheek. She imagined what her name would sound like on his lips.

The drumming of his fingers stopped abruptly. They reached up and freed the necklace from the shirt. It was a fake looking shark’s tooth on a leather-like string. Her eyes snapped back to her own jagged fingernails, her cheeks blazing. She shoved her hands beneath her legs to hide them from view. Hunched over, hiding behind her veil of hair, she fought back tears, willing them not to fall even though her eyes stung.

She wondered if he knew her name at all.

The bell rang and he rose from his seat and collected his books in one smooth, graceful gesture; never looking her way. She watched his back and broad shoulders disappear through the door.

“Ruby” She whispered, “My name is Ruby.”