Shades of Green

By Colleen Sutherland

“Keep your mouth shut,” Mama said, as she stowed Abby’s deviled eggs in the refrigerator. “Don’t say anything and Grace won’t get started. She’s worse when you argue with her.”

So when Grace and her husband arrived, Abby kept her mouth shut. She listened to Grace natter on about her two daughters, her clubs, her church, her home, her activities. Abby said nothing about her friends, her writing, her magazine column, her art. She said nothing about the men in her life, current or ex. She bit her cheek and rubbed her fingers against her arm, back and forth, back and forth. A nervous habit. But she kept her mouth shut, collecting affronts to report to her therapist.

Grace made some triumphant point and pursed her lips. At fifty, her lips carried vertical indentations that were turning into a perpetual frown. From her lofty social position as a small town banker’s wife, she knew the world and disapproved of it on Christian principle. She certainly disapproved of Abby, her divorce, her men, her freedom. Grace set her limits. She expected everybody to do the same. But Abby said nothing.

“Mustn’t brag, dear. You know how it upsets your sister,” Mama whispered to Abby over the supper dishes, wiping her hands on her stained polyester pants. Papa had towered over her, brow-beating her to obeisance. When he died, Grace took over. By tomorrow, Mama would be on her sofa with a sick headache, not answering the phone or door bell, escaping with Oprah.

Now finished with worrying about a Sunday dinner for four, Mama began to fret about Christmas. Eighteen people around the table. Eighteen people who did not like each other. Things might not go well. Things usually didn’t. “Could you make cole slaw?” she asked Abby.

Grace came into the kitchen with multiple copies of her Christmas list, suggestions for presents for her husband, her daughters, and her. “I know what you need for Christmas,” she told Abby. “A job.” Freelance writing was not real work, in Grace’s view. As Abby threw the silverware into their slots in the drawer with loud clinks, Grace checked the dried dishes for stains before she put them into the cupboard.

“It’s all part of your dysfunctional family,” Abby’s therapist said. “You can endlessly talk about your problems or you can accept things as they are. Or you can avoid the Christmas situation entirely.” 

Abby wished her therapist would give her more answers and fewer choices. She’s like God, Abby thought, never exactly answering prayers, but giving just enough reassurance to keep the patient praying. 

“Use your car keys as a security blanket,” her therapist suggested. “Always have them with you, in your pocket. Then you know you can eventually escape.”

After the dishes were wiped and put away, Abby said nothing. She sat quietly on the print sofa, grasping her car keys, planning her escape. She was quietly good until the keys imprinted themselves on her palm.

“I have to get home to Charles,” she said suddenly, using him as an excuse. Her strong-willed son waited at home, refusing to have dinner with Grace.

“Oh, Charles,” Grace said, disdainful. Her lips pursed. Abby gazed at the permanently creased lips, and pictured perpetual displeasure, forever etched even onto Grace’s final laying out in the funeral parlor. At the image, Abby felt guilty pleasure."

What a shame you raise him all wrong,” Grace intoned. “Really, Abby, you should never allow him to be so fussy.” Charles did not like Grace’s baked beans. “And why, at his age can’t he do his own cooking?” Charles was twelve. “Now my girls…” And Grace was off for another five minutes as Abby stood mutely by the door. Her head pounded. But she was good. She said nothing. And escaped.

****

Crucified by criticism, Abby retreated to her own house for a martyr’s sleep. She had this, her home, her bedroom, her green and white haven with its white bedspread, white curtains, mint walls. Spider plants and philodrenda leaves spread over her headboard, a living green drapery. Potted summer plants rescued from her garden lined the space under the windows. Geranium petals fluttered to the floor. An antique olive frame hung over the dresser, empty. It was meant to border a black-and-white sketch of Charles as a baby, a reminder of another task unfinished, another success put off until it became failure. The frame’s ornate plaster was falling apart. She vacuumed up chips from time to time.

The kelly green afghan Grace knit was draped over the old rocking chair. It was always there, even when there was an overnight male in Abby’s bed, ever, ever a reminder of Grace’s disapproval.

“Why do you keep it there?” asked the therapist.

“It’s my style,” Abby nervously laughed. “Sex with guilt.”

The alarm shrilled at 5:30 Christmas morning. It was paper route time. Abby stumbled down the old narrow stairs, barely missing the black cocker spaniel who lay in wait in the dark landing. Vertigo reminded Abby of her premonition that someday she would die on that staircase.

But not this day. “Charles,” she screamed as she filled the tea kettle at the sink.

Charles exited from his room, carefully closing the door as always to hide the contents. He was green, truly green, the color of a squished grasshopper. He didn’t make it to the bathroom. He vomited. He spewed out vomit all over the kitchen floor and half-way up the cupboards. He spared not a glance at the Christmas tree, his presents sprawled out. By clever arrangment, Abby tried to make it look like he was getting more.

What a mother must do, Abby did. First the child. She put him to bed, hers not his, because he probably caught whatever bug he had in that pit of filth and creativity. They stumbled together up the stairs to her bedroom. She strained to lift him onto her bed. Abby scuffed back down the stairs for a bucket and a bottle of tepid soda she found under the sink. Up the old staircase again, she warned Charles to swill his mouth out but not drink until the bubbles were mostly gone. She covered him with Grace’s kelly green afghan. One part of her said, it's warm. The other part thought, perhaps he’ll puke all over it. Decision made for her, she could throw it away.

On Christmas Sunday, at 6:00 a.m , which of Charles’s friends could she call for his paper route? No one, all the substitute carriers had left for Christmas vacations in sunny Florida and other places she and Charles could never afford. Abby realized the route was hers, all eighty papers, three pounds each. On this holy day, the retailers were preparing for the post-holiday sales.  

The cocker spaniel had eaten most of the vomit. Abby cleaned up the rest. She shrugged on an old army coat and lurched through winter drizzle to hump in the five bundles left on the curb, two of newspapers, three of inserts. She began the laborious task of stuffing and folding. 

Insert, insert, fold. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

After twenty papers, she ran up to check on Charles. He vomited one more time into the bucket, then there was nothing else in his stomach. He retched and sipped warm soda. Abby hurried down the stairs to empty the evil-smelling mess in the toilet, rinsed the bucket and took it back to Charles. 

Inert, insert, fold, stack. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

The tea kettle whistled. Abby found some lime Jell-O in the cupboard, old but still good enough for Charles’s lunch. She made herself a cup of mint tea to take on the route. She listened at the stairs. No sound.

Insert, insert, fold, stack. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

At 7:00 a.m., Abby drove her old Buick through the dark town. She parked on each block and slogged, slipped and slushed through the route, referring to the newspaper route cards by the greenish glare of street lamps. Where do I put the paper? She wondered. In the door, or in the mailbox? Rather than ring doorbells, Abby decided to use the door every time. How should I know? she excused herself. Besides, everyone would be using their front doors today. It was Christmas! She jerked at each storm door, flipped the paper up and slammed the door before the paper fell. Wreaths jingled, bells rang.

After twenty papers, she hurried back to check on Charles. He slept, forehead damp and hot. She stirred the hardening Jell-O and rushed back to the streets.

By 9:00, she had delivered forty more papers. Charles was still sleeping. She showered quickly, hoping her hair would be dry soon enough to go out again. She wished once more for a hair dryer that actually worked. She took three phone calls, customers complaining that the paper was in the wrong place.

“You mustn’t rude to the customer,” she always told Charles. “Don’t talk back.” She apologized calmly and explained her son was ill. One lady told Abby how sorry she was for Charles, such a little boy to have to work so hard. “But I suppose he has to since you don’t work.” A bellicose male said being sick was no excuse. “A job worth doing is worth doing right.”

Mama called. “When are you bringing the cole slaw over,” she asked querulously. “Aunt Ruth and Uncle Archie are here already. “ Exasperated, Abby chopped savagely at a head of cabbage to make the slaw for the family dinner, dressing it with a jar from the store.

She went out in the cold air, hair still wet, to deliver the last twenty newspapers, then dashed home to check on Charles, still sleeping under the green afghan. His color was better, his forehead cooler. She woke him up to force feed him soda and Jell-O. She carefully brought up the television, installed it on the dresser, and gave him the remote control. “Why can’t we have cable?” he asked, knowing the answer. They could not afford it.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she said.

Abby drove the cole slaw the two blocks to Mama’s house. Ten of the family were already there, her fat, self-satisfied, married brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles. Abby placed her cole slaw in the refrigerator and slipped gift certificates under the tree. She turned to see Grace parade through the house with her husband and daughters, each of them laden with baskets of gaudily wrapped gifts.

“Feliz Navidad!” Grace shrieked, drawing attention to herself. She had been taking Spanish lessons for the trip to Mexico she and the banker were taking in the New Year. As if she would go anywhere near anyone of Hispanic descent, Abby thought. Grace prided herself on finding resorts with “white” staff that could speak English.

Grace waited for a response.

“Another year,” Abby said hastily. “I have to go home. Charles and I won’t be here for Christmas dinner.”

“We must all be together on Christmas,” her mother whined, tears forming. “That is what being a family is all about. If you don’t stay, Christmas is ruined for us all.”

“Charles has a bad case of the flu,” Abby said. “I can’t leave him home alone and I can’t bring him here or you will all catch whatever it is he has.”

“You know why he’s sick, don’t you?” Grace, knowingly nasal, pulled the jacket of her chartreuse pant suit over her complacent belly. “It’s a plea for attention. You spend too much time away from home. Now I think a woman should stay home with her children. I never worked away from the house….”

“Shut up!” Abby screamed. “All of you, just shut up! Can’t you mind your own business!” Abby cried out her frustration. “I work at home just so I can be there when he gets home from school! I do the best I can!” She howled out her anger and guilt. “What is the matter with you? Can’t you leave us alone?” She burst into tears.

Mama started to cry, too. Grace settled into her chair, glancing around at the relatives. Their eyes gleamed. Like Grace, they knew it all along. Abby couldn’t control herself. That’s the way she was.

***

“I haven’t seen any of them since Christmas,” Abby told her therapist at the end of their first session in January.

“This week, think about what you really wanted to tell them. We'll discuss it next time.”

“It doesn’t make any difference! You don’t understand! Grace won!” Abby sobbed. “She won again!”

In the winter's early mornings, Abby lay quietly in her green haven, the spider plant babies dangling over the bed. She practiced deep breathing exercises. She read philosophy. She listened to the sparrows singing in the bushes outside. Everything was as it was, except for one thing. Grace’s afghan was folded away in her closet.

“Why keep it at all?” her therapist asked.

“It goes with my room,” she answered. “It goes with my life to keep things, to keep them hidden.”

***

Easter came early that year, with Mama’s ham supper and Grace.

Abby said nothing.   






(Note:  This is the third in a series of depressing Christmas stories.  They date back to a beautiful Christmas Eve when I came back from church services all aglow and paused on the steps to look up and down the street.  Some houses were filled with merriment, but others were dark, though I knew the families were home.  I began to wonder what their Christmases were like. How do dysfunctional families spend the holidays?  "The Rapture" and A Candle in the Window" have already been posted here.  There are more to come.)   

Lightening the Load

November is National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo. (See http://www.nanowrimo.org/ for a complete explanation.) Wade and I are both using this month to edit novels we wrote in previous years. Today, I am posting a chapter from Going Down from Gairloch.  Ronna is an American writer of romance novels who wants to change her life. She is at Heathrow in London to meet William, the man she has been dating for a few years, to break off their affair. At the same time, she wants to say good-bye to her agent, who will be leaving for the United States on the same airplane.

Lightening the Load

from Going Down from Gairloch

by Colleen Sutherland 

It was another cool, rainy British day, but Ronna figured she might as well get used to rain.  In a few hours, she would catch a train to the Lake District where it rained all the time.  In the meantime, she had to drag her suitcase with her everywhere, and she was getting mighty sick of it.   Because of terrorists there no longer were lockers to stash luggage for a few hours at international airports.  She was a turtle, dragging her home on her back.

She could have skipped this trip to Heathrow altogether.  She had already cashed in her ticket and was using that to live on until things were settled back in the Midwest.  There was no chance she would be leaving with William.  Still, she felt she had to come to say good bye and tell him to his face that she was breaking it off.  She would tell Bonnie that they had come to a parting of ways. There would be no new novel, at least not one that Bonnie would approve of.  That would not be easy either, but cowardice would not be part of her new life in Great Britain.

The suitcase bumped along behind her, her laptop computer strapped to it. The case's pull out handle whacked her in the back of her buttocks from time to time to remind her it was there. As she dragged the case up staircases and elevators, and along the entire length of the terminal, she  began to think about what was in it.  Perhaps it was time to lighten her load.



It was still early so she settled down on a plastic seat, stuck one foot through the suitcase handle to make sure no one would steal it.  One strap of her backpack was around an arm, another precaution against thieves. She booted up her laptop, looking for the trashy romance novel she had promised Bonnie.  It was terrible.  Another thing to get rid of.  It was time to write something meaningful, she thought.

She glanced up from time to time and that was how she spotted William, a study in gray in the vast gray of Heathrow.  He had a new suit, she noticed, something different than what he usually wore. It was still a conservative suit, but not his usual style. Although she was no expert on men's clothing, it was more tailored. The pants fit him, no bagging around the hips.  He looked almost natty.

Ronna settled back to watch, wondering if he would come over to her,  but he was not looking for her. He was looking behind him, a smile under his trim little mustache.  Then she noticed Bonnie at a kiosk, purchasing a magazine. William stopped and waited for her.   Her magazine in hand, she walked toward him.  He held his hand out, to take the magazine, Ronna  thought, but no, it was to take Bonnie's hand.  They walked toward the stewardess waiting at the exit door.  They held  hands and looked at each other in the meaningful way that lovers do.

Ronna quietly watched them, surprise leading to annoyance to joy.  William and Bonnie? William and Bonnie! Somehow the two had joined up.  How did that happen?  Ronna found she didn't care.

Should she confront them and make the breakup official and give Bonnie her blessing?  No, that was a bad idea.  Bonnie would rather steal William away than have him handed to her.  If Ronna showed approval, Bonnie would re-think the prize she had won, a door prize no one else would want.  Best let that be.   It was the perfect breakup, no residual guilt, no regrets. No envy, no anger. Ronna would thank Bonnie every day of her life. A few steps more and the couple were through the door.

I've just gotten rid of two negative parts of my life, she reflected.  My old life is gone. No more trashy novels, no more boring love stories, fictional or real.  She didn't believe in them before, and she didn't believe in them now.  It was time to let go of everything else that had no value to her. She looked once more at the beginnings of the romance novel and without a second thought, deleted the entire thing.

She glanced down at her luggage.  What else was she hanging on to?  There were shops all over England.  Why was she dragging all this along with her.  She would buy what she needed, as she needed it.

She stared down at her body.  She had dressed up for this meeting with William, putting on makeup, her best clean dress, and a pair of pumps. Why had she done that?  Because it was the way she had always looked at life in the past.  Looking her best for men was over now.

She pulled her suitcase into a women's restroom.  The stalls were all occupied and there was a line of tired women waiting for their turns. Standing there, the other women staring, Ronna began to change her way of being.  She scrubbed off all the makeup.  Then she pulled off her shoes, her nylon stockings, her dress and her bra, leaving her in nothing but her skivvies.  She unzipped the suitcase and pulled out an old  pair of blue jeans and an over sized sweatshirt that flopped over her breasts and around her hips.  She  put on white socks and the comfortable pair of sports shoes. The dress went into a trash bin.

The women in the loo looked at her as if she were mad.  “Sorry,” she said, “I'm having a crazy, wonderful day.”  The new Ronna rolled her case out to the terminal.  She dropped her cosmetics bag, plop, on the carpet, picked up her knapsack and laptop and began to walk away from the suitcase.  

“Pardon me, miss.” A uniformed guard hurried over. “You can’t leave your things unattended."  Ronna  hefted up the case again and sighed audibly enough to show her annoyance.  She sat down on a hard plastic seat.  The backpack was in her way.  She pulled it off her shoulders and slid back.

A waste container was beside her.  She zipped the backpack open and let the contents spill down her lap to the floor.

File folders of handouts for her workshops. Not an original thought in any of them.  She shoved them into the container.   Books she carried all over England and had never read.  Into the heap, though she saved the best and piled them next to magazines and newspapers for others to read.

Finally, her day planner.  Addresses – dates – goals – diet plans.  Her life all laid out for the next year.  She hesitated for a moment.  Her whole humdrum life set out before her.  Who needed something like that?  She threw it in the container violently.

What else?  Some dirty laundry at the bottom.  Out it came.  The backpack lay empty like a deflated parachute.  The trash bin was full.

She opened her suitcase. What did she really need?  She snapped it shut and hauled it to the next trash container.  She opened it.  Out came the bras. …gone.

Then the cosmetic kit. Should she keep a lipstick?   No!   She took out a toothbrush. She found a bandanna, tied it around her frizzy head hippy style, and threw away the hairbrush. The curling iron went flying into the container. She dumped every bit of the junk she had kept to make herself attractive.  Why fight a losing battle?   She tossed the toothbrush into the backpack.  She was now officially old.  God, it felt good!  

She zoomed over to the counter with the empty suitcase.  “See here,” she told the attendant.  “I’m getting rid of this stuff.  I’m not bombing anybody.  Have the security check it over, then give it to charity.”  She turned abruptly and marched to the sunlight carrying her laptop and the knapsack with two pairs of pants, two shirts heavy enough to cover her nipples, a pen, a journal, and a toothbrush.  

That was enough to go on.

Garage Sale

The woman waved the blouse in front of Jasmine like evidence of a crime.

“The stitching is coming loose,” the woman said, “right here at the armpit – two dollars.” She tossed her head back like she had a penthouse overlooking Central Park, even though she was cramming a size sixteen frame into white stretch pants that were never intended to go beyond a size ten. Whatever damage had been done to the spandex was covered by voluminous black t-shirt that read “D&R Powersports” across a bust that had given up the fight against gravity long ago.

Jasmine glanced at the blouse, red silk, and the stitching in question. “It was fine until you pulled at it when you thought I wasn’t looking – five.”

The woman’s face looked like Jasmine had just slapped her. Her mouth opened and closed several times in quick succession, but nothing came out. She looked around the garage at the others sifting through the plywood and sawhorse tables looking for sympathy. No one met her eyes.

“I never!” she finally said.

“Look, you want the shirt or not?” Jasmine said.

The other woman stared back for a few moments before she finally nodded.

“Okay then, four bucks,” Jasmine said.

“Three.”

“Fine.”Jasmine said.

The red blouse had been a gift from her Grandmother Hazel, the last thing she ever received from her before she died. Jasmine made change for a twenty, and considered herself lucky for getting the woman out of her life. She sat back on her garage stoop and watched everyone else paw through her stuff. A woman with red hair piled up on her head mouthed the sizes of clothes as she sifted through the piles of Patagonia hiking clothes, two teens flipped through the DVD collection inherited from Uncle Mark, an older lady screwed up her face as she considered a beach wrap Jasmine purchased in Jamaica.

This is all what it comes down to, she thought, inviting people to come into your garage and grope through the detritus of your life. Right now her life was ninety percent off, and even that was negotiable.

The red-haired woman came up with a pile of lightweight outfits and the lamp that she and Devon picked out after moving in together. He hadn't wanted it when he moved out.

“This is some really nice stuff.” The woman said. “It’s not stolen is it?” The woman squinted and stuck out her tongue, then she laughed. “Just kidding.”

Grandma Hazel always said sticking out your tongue was rude. Jasmine forced a smile as she flipped though the clothes and added the total in her head. “Fifteen,” she said.

“Oh, I was also wondering about the TV out front. Does it really work?”

“Yeah, perfectly.”

“Does it work with high-definition and all that stuff?”

“Yes. It’s plasma, one year old.”

The woman stuck out her tongue again and squinted. “I think someone pulled a joke on you. It’s labeled fifty dollars.”

“You can have it for twenty.”

The tongue went back in. “Oh my. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You can have the DVDs too.”

The woman took a step back. “Oh, no. That’s okay, I don’t think that I could possibly -”

Jasmine stepped around the TV tray with the shoebox that served as her register. “No really. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? A good deal?” She threw her arms up into the air. “Well here you go, lady, something to bring home for the hubby. He’ll never make a crack about you garage salin’ again!”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t want it.”

“What, isn’t my stuff good enough for you? Can’t you feel like a good little American if you can’t pay full price for something?”

The red-haired woman held out her hands as she half-crouched, half-backed away. “No really, I don’t want it. Look, I’m just going to go away now.” She backed out one step at a time until she emerged from the garage’s shadow. When the sunlight hit her freckled face, she turned around and ran, her sandals twap-twapping the concrete all the way to her car. Jasmine returned to her stoop as an engine roared and tires squealed. The concrete step had gone cold again. The lamp and the clothes lay on the floor by the TV stand. Jasmine sighed. She’d have to put all that crap back on their tables now. She let her head fall to her hands.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” a voice asked. Jasmine looked up, pushing strands of oily black hair out of her eyes. The remaining old lady held the beach wrap over one arm, and had reached out into the space between them. The two teens must have left when she was shouting. Jasmine looked down at the outstretched hand for a moment before folding her arms across her chest. The other woman withdrew her hand.

“I’m fine. Just fine. Everything is fine” Jasmine said.

“You know, if you're in some kind of trouble, perhaps –“ The old woman smiled and nodded encouragingly. Jasmine was reminded of her sophomore homeroom teacher. Maybe it was the little peach cardigan the woman wore, or the deep brown hair dye. It could have been the shoes peeking below the pants suit, sensible browns with square silver buckles over the toes. Maybe it was the delicate cross, dangling over the folds from her turtleneck. Whatever it was, Jasmine remembered all the little old well-meaning ladies that had arrogantly thought they knew what she needed in life.

Jasmine stood and let her nails dig into her palms. “Perhaps what? What is it you know?”

The old woman blinked, but she held her ground. If anything, she drew herself up taller. “I know I see a troubled young woman when I see one.”

“Well believe me, what I got, you can’t fix.” Jasmine said. “You gonna buy that, or what? Two-fifty.”

The old woman stepped forward and nodded. “Why yes I am.” She pulled out her purse and rummaged around for some bills. “Here is three dollars.” Jasmine grabbed the bills from her hand and searched trough the shoebox. “No need,” the woman said, “You keep the change.”

“I don’t want your charity.” Jasmine said.

“I want you to keep it, so you remember that there are people in the world that are willing to help if you let them. Good Day!” The old lady spun on her heel and left.

Jasmine was glad she was too tired to cry. She went to go put the lamp back on the table.

* * *

Jasmine managed to make it through the rest of the day. Though the TV went for the full fifty, the rest of her stuff had gone for about half of what she had marked. The things left over, such as the kitchen utensils, old couches, some clothes and the TV tray, had gone on the Goodwill truck that pulled up at six o’clock. What the truck wouldn’t take went to the curb, to be taken by whoever until the garbage truck decided to show up.

Jasmine sat on the floor of her dining room. The table had gone for thirty, the chairs five apiece. She recalled paying over five hundred at the showroom. She counted the money in her shoebox, and separated it into piles. Each pile went into a cardboard mailer marked with the names of her friends, her landlord, her mother (and step dad), and her father (and his girlfriend). When the doorbell rang, she paid the FedEx guy the fees plus a tip. They said you shouldn’t send money through the mail, but she figured she’d leave it to fate to see who got their cut and who didn’t. When the delivery truck had cleared the driveway, she turned off the porch light.

Her house seemed bigger without all the furniture in it, more serene without all the clutter on the walls. She walked though the house, touching each wall, looking though each window. Half-way though, she took off her shoes and walked over the freshly-shampooed carpet. Her toes wriggled through the soft shag, releasing the smell of lavender. The walls in the hallway were a pale lavender too, she noticed. Odd that all these years she had thought the walls were off-white.

She started the shower, turning the water up hot enough to turn her skin pink. She let the heat soak into her bones before she washed her hair, letting the suds slide down her back as she rinsed. She opened a fresh bar of sandalwood-scented soap and lathered up her body just outside the shower head’s reach. The musk and the steam took away the day’s stress, and almost made her forget that there was even a world outside the shower curtain. She took the razor and spent ten minutes tending the body hair she had neglected over the past two months. She sat another ten minutes on the floor of the shower, just letting the water sluice over her head.

She brushed her teeth with more care than she could remember giving them in years. Three strokes up and down, three strokes side to side for each tooth, front and back. Each tooth got flossed as well, something normally done only the two weeks on either side of a dentist’s appointment. She had heard of people who found joy in little rituals like this. She didn’t see the point of making something this anal a matter of routine. Life was too short to waste on dental hygiene.

She dried her hair with her towel, and brushed it out. It was way past the point of having any style, just a shaggy mass of black hair. Just pull it straight back, she decided. She debated makeup, but decided against it. Tonight was not the night for her usual job, which her friend Jenny had dubbed “somewhere between dragon lady and goth going on thirty.” Jenny would not get an envelope.

She looked one last time in the mirror. Middle-aged Japanese half-breed, a few years past pretty. She ignored the circles under her eyes and the Buddha chin just starting to peek out. Then she stopped, and forced herself to look and acknowledge the flaws. The bit of grace gained from the shower evaporated. She wrapped towel around her and left wet footprints in the carpet all the way to the bedroom.

She would sleep now; a new life would be waiting for her in the morning.

Discovery

    That morning, the boy took a short cut through the alley. His head was down, his thoughts on his math homework. His route didn't save him much time, but it took him past the big windows of the pool hall where grown men with tattoos used their sticks with precision to whack away at balls. The boy liked the imagery. In a small town, this was as close as he could get to phallic stuff. Phallic. It was a new word to him. He liked it.

    It was a mixed bag in the pool hall, all the races showed up here eventually. His private school was not integrated, but the pool hall was. He liked the mix. White men perspiring, Mexicans sweating, niggers gleaming in their chocolate masculinity. He liked them all. He liked real men, men like his dad.

     He hated sissies. Just like his dad, he hated queers.

     He resented the occasional women that hung out with the men. They didn't belong in that room with the big  men leaning over the pool tables.  Sometimes, it was a loud “smack” when they broke apart the balls. He could hear that from outside. Sometimes, they gave the balls a gentle nudge.  Later in the day he would stand there and watch.  But it was too early for him to stop. He would take a longer look on his way home this afternoon.

     A figure in the alley caught his eye. Some wino laid out from the night's carousing. He had seen them before, usually huddled against the wall for shelter. This guy was sprawled, not fetal. Dark hair,but not kinky. Must be a spic.

     It was late for a guy to still be laying there. Must be close to eight now.  He carefully stepped closer. You never knew.

     The body was sprawled on its back. The dark eyes stared up at the overcast sky. A fly wandered over and began to check out those eyes.

     “Damn.”

     His eyes moved lower. A dark brown line led across the man's throat. Leaning over, the boy examined it. The line was pulled open. The muscles of the neck were exposed. To the left of the body there was a drying pool of blood. Not on the right, the boy noted. The throat had been slashed from the guy's right to his left. If the dead man had been attacked from the back, it was by a left-hander.

     He wanted to puke, but he kept making observations. He was a witness.

     He squatted down and took a better look at the Mexican. He took in the whole body. The legs were in a tangle, pulling the tight white pants even tighter. He could clearly see the penis and balls outlined. He thought about that for a while and almost touched them. He thought better of it.

     He picked up his book bag and kept moving. The police station was next to the pool hall. He shoved open the door and walked up to the desk.

     “Where's the Chief?” h asked the receptionist.

     She waved him in, never taking her hand from the phone.

     The Chief look up. “Hi, Chuck.” The Chief knew everyone in town, but he sure didn't know that the boy hated to be called Chuck.

     "Charles,” he said automatically. “There's a body in the alley.”

     “Oh,” the chief said. Nothing dramatic, just “oh”. Like it happened all the time.

     “I can show you.”

     “Nah.”

     The chief didn't move, didn't show any surprise. He already knew the body was there.

     “Aren't you going over there? Don't you have to get the crime people here? Maybe the FBI?”

     “Tell you what, Chuck. If I do, there will be reporters and the rest.”

     “So?” Charles could hear himself on the radio, see himself on television, telling how he discovered the body.

    “They'll start asking questions.”

     “So what?”

     "They'll want to know what a spic is doing here in this town.”

     “He was working at the canning company.” Everyone knew that. Charles' dad was a foreman down there.

     “Right. And illegal.”

     Charles thought about that.

     “You're a bright boy,” the Chief said. “Feds come in, investigate, and pretty soon they close down the plant. Not a good time for that, with this economy. Kid, it's an election year. I want to keep my job, too.”

     “But you have to investigate. You can't just leave the guy there!”

     “I can until his friends come looking for him. Fact is, if those spics figure it out, they'll take care of it on their own. They'll get the body, bury it somewhere, and maybe bury some other guy with him. I save the taxpayers a bundle.”

     “Still...”

     “Kid, you report this and your dad is out of a job. You can kiss college goodbye. You'll be stuck here for the rest of your live.”

     “But...”

     “You'd never get out of this town, got that? Do you know the hell you'd be in for?”

     “I'd survive.” The boy was desperate, wanting to do the right thing.

     “Not when everybody figures out you're a fag.”

     Clutching his bag, Charles back out of the door.

     The chief knew. Did his dad know? Did his teachers know?
      It didn't make much difference. At that moment, the boy accepted the truth. His life would never be the same. 

     At 3:00, school let out. Charles took the shortcut home. The alley smelled of bleach. The body was gone.