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Love, its requirements and peculiarities. |
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Big ole beach ball sized balloons dipped and collided, pushed and rose to the length of bright, braided cords. The giant gumballs lolling in scoops of mischievous wind attracted children who stood on their tippy toes to bring them down to earth. More than one adult cautioned, more than one child cried, but most children disobeyed until balloons released to yonder, disappeared. When they tired of balloons bursting and the admonishing of one too many adults, they chased ribbons galore that gyrated, creating all sorts of streaming shapes irresistible to children. Hired cooks procrastinated in the kitchen producing overwhelming smells of pan-fried chicken that caused the hungry to ache. Children ran faster and faster, wafting the sugary scents of pastries. The afternoon was steamy, laggard, the people glided in a fishbowl. The in-crowd jerked and dated couples jostled in pinwheel fashion across the lawn. Some dizzy with hunger, others waiting on beer while the jukebox thumped out songs. There were card games ending, people getting drunker, most of them bided their time. It was a party, a comatose affair overrun by children. Miss Nadine sat in a comfortable chair with wheels stuck fast in the lawn. Someone sprung it from the house especially for her, not 10 minutes after she arrived. Being a member of the older guests, they treated her well, at least as long as it took her to get comfortable in the chair. In truth, she wasn’t that old, maybe sixty, sixty-five, but her hair, now covered with a Dutch Boy wig, had gone full gray. Her hips overflowed from the sides of an Adirondack chair, and her lips made space in deep jowls. A caricature of long lost days, she studied the party like a basset hound. She eyed a boy turned upside down, peering through his legs. Miss Nadine cocked her head, stretched her arms along the armrest, and figured him out. “Marcus, Marcus,” she barked. The little boy twisted and fell to the ground, bashing his previously bruised knee. Miss Nadine shook her finger and beckoned to him. He wobbled over with a bloody knee. “Tell your mama,” she growled, “to fix me a plate. Hurry up now.” The little boy lifted his knee, Miss Nadine bared teeth, and he dropped his leg and ran off. The children all knew her and from a distance included her girth as the center of their play. Ring around Miss Nadine as they loosely chased each other, laughing, whooping and hollering, with one eye out for watch. Every so often one brave child asked, “What you doing, Miss Nadine?” She’d wave dismissively, barking, “Go back to your play.” The children roared and gasped, and darted off giggling. Intrigued with more play and unbothered by old women wiles. It didn’t bother her none, people watching was an art, and her kid game days were done. They stayed their distance, and the party filled while she kept hers. Miss Nadine’s lip flopped downward so that her jowls hung in flaps. Her eyes drifted across the lawn in disapproval and disdain. She looked for the little boy, her play nephew, but he was hidden from her sight. The people broke up and fanned out carrying plates and new bottles of beer. The groupings had surrendered, yet the music, like air, was everywhere. Lost in reverie, she faded into thoughts of Miss Margaret, an opinionated old maid with a snarky response to everything. She was fond of voicing outlandish remarks and then change into a demure little mouse. Dead, two years now, and oh how Miss Nadine missed her. She didn’t agree with everything that fumbled out of the mouth of Miss Margaret, but you could count on whatever dribbled forth to be original, full of crap, and scathing. Miss Margaret would have been her lover, had she been a man and not her best friend. Back then, and since then, no other person compared to the likes of her friend. She had other acquaintances, but they weren’t half as fun, nor as sharp. Miss Nadine’s blinked her doleful eyes, heart felt memories often robbed her of joy, she simply longed for her best friend. The pang was short lived, however, like that of the children’s play. Her version of the game Miss Margaret played was preferable and easy to begin. Miss Margaret fancied blood curdling death, but the guessing game, of the people’s ages, how much they paid for shoes, who was bedding who, was enough for her. Miss Nadine had figured out a half dozen people while her stomach echoed within. She scanned the groups of children certain she’d find the little boy, sure that as soon as he got close enough she would pinch him or pull his ear. She felt defeated, a bit despondent, not understanding youth. Her face wilted like neglected plants when she thought of today’s kid. She’d make sure she’d tell his mama and make sure his mama reprimand. She slowly crossed her ankles and smoothed her old dress; there were more people to label now, having separated from many groups. A few of the older folk made it her way, said hello, asked a question, but seeing no chair they quickly moved off; straying back to groups or spots. The stole chairs as soon as they cleared. She homed in on a couple’s arguing, they had wandered in real close. It was Miss Pamela, best friend to kids - down at her old day care. Her husband was a deacon, and hardly a match, but here he was threatening to go home if she didn’t shut up. Miss Pamela blew a raspberry, he laughed nervously, and they ended up walking off bumping hips. Before that, Miss Pamela had wandered over and had said hello, grinning with the largest pair of bleached teeth Miss Nadine had ever seen. She thought those whitened teeth, like meatless bones, to be straight from hell, wicked and sinful. She said nothing about the dollop of lipstick that stained the pearly pearls. Those were some big choppers, she thought, they’d probably pulverize meat. Where is that Marcus! She jerked around, slapping her face with her jowls. She would be sure to tell his daddy something, he knew better than to not mind grown folks. She spotted Marcus, and he was clowning again. On all fours, he crawled with pawing gestures. An ice cream cone plugged his mouth, as he gnashed with his head. Miss Nadine shouted over the raucous laugher, “Marcus, Marcus!” He caught the movements of her fluster, and the other kids did too. They laughed at him, calling out, “Look at Marcus, knot-knee’d Marcus!” as he knock knee’d over to her. “Yes, Miss Nadine,” he murmured, staying outside her reach. He brandished his cone like a sword. “Where’s my food, young man?” Marcus’s little chiseled face went blank, before shining right up again. One glance at her mean, brown eyes brought the seriousness out in him. “My mama said Uncle Mason would bring it to you,” then he piped, “She said it was too hot for me to carry.” He stood there like a little soldier, wary, but in control. She squint her eyes contemplating his words, the little boy did not move. “Who’s your Uncle?” she finally asked. “Uncle Mason,” he offered again, this time with the eagerness of a knowing child. “He’s my Uncle on my mother’s side.” “Well, where is he?” she demanded, barely hiding her excitement. If she remembered correctly, Uncle Mason was the wandering stepbrother of Miss Margaret, a salesperson or another. Marcus looked around, “here he comes.” He bit a chunk of cone and scooted off, hollering, knocking knees and joining friends. Uncle Mason bumbled along hauling an Adirondack and some trays. He stumbled a bit, skirted kids, and inched forward. Miss Nadine hunched forward in her chair, eyeing him. Jowls swaying, and hunger on hold, she watched him intently. Grinning, Uncle Mason set down his load to wave before resuming the shameless spectacle. Miss Nadine did not bark. He wore Miss Margaret’s smile she noted as she tightly gripped her hands. She watched him, ignored his load and spoke when he was right in front of her. “Miss Nadine?” She nodded, cocking her head to the side. Uncle Mason nestled the chair alongside her and opened both trays. He turned toward her and gazed into her old eyes. Winking, he said, “Going to get the food. It should be ready. Darla’s fixing it.” Miss Nadine righted her neck quite mesmerized. Salivating, she dry washed her hands and watched him saunter meandering in and out of entangled dancers. He walked like Miss Margaret, gangly, halting, and poking children that appeared from nowhere with his knees. Uncle Mason’s gauche attempts to move quickly through the crowd solicited unwitting glares. Miss Nadine held her breath as Uncle Mason dropped into his chair like a discarded marionette, then positioned her tray alongside her knees. Uncle Mason, she observed, divided the fixings with quick movements, plunking gobs of food onto thick paper plates. He smiled when he had finished and picked up his fork. Satisfied with the results she too picked up her fork, staved off her frightful hunger, and waited on his lead. With wet lips, she smacked her chops and posed to eat, but Uncle Mason closed his eyes, and lowered his head. The aroma of fine fried chicken whiffed through the air right under her nose and she suffered through his prayer while ogling the fat pieces of chicken that promised juicy mouthfuls of spicy, old-fashioned crispiness. After the prayer, she gurgled a modest “Amen.” “I love me some fried chicken.” Uncle Mason declared. Miss Nadine twisted her neck to peer at him; this was something Miss Margaret would say. Uncle Mason tore into the broad side of a breast squirting chicken oils and chomped with the vigor of a lone tiger, eyes shut tight. He dug into a pile of potato salad, packed his cheeks, and aimed the remaining chicken towards his mouth for gnashing. Miss Nadine moved as much as she could, drumstick suspended, she watched through watering eyes as he devoured his meal with animation. Always appreciative of a healthy eater, and he definitely was no Miss Margaret, she filled her mouth accordingly. The chicken was tasty, much better than dried up bar-be-cue They ate in silence until they had their fill. The meal beckoned unexcused burps and long sighs of relief that afforded the comfort developing, only achieved by people not trying to impress, Miss Margaret used to say. Uncle Mason did a decent job of fitting the bill. Miss Nadine and Uncle Mason drank alcoholic mixtures with fresh mint and colored ice; she lapped it up and drank far too much. It didn’t take long for another one to show up, and she didn’t bother turning them away. She showed out, as Miss Margaret would say, talking more than she should have. Uncle Mason had fun too; he was talking and popping up out of his seat, putting action to the stories he told. She’d shake her head roughly, and her whole body moved. She snarled, nearly drooled, and one time her dress etched up past her knee. In time, she smoothed it back in place and tomorrow, remembering this, she’d chastise herself right. When she realized that, he was paying her all his attention, acting as if he was her boyfriend she dismissed it, recoiled, and pretended non-interest. But he tickled her where she could not suppress her glee, and she chuckled with the silliness of youth. The evening wore off, a few couples remained chatting closely, or swaying separately, and Miss Margaret would have said it was lullaby time. Uncle Mason, apparently, felt the same way too for he laid his head in a bunch of bones, steadied by the Adirondack chair. His silhouette outlined by the quivering lights, flattened and punched out again. He snored lightly, Miss Nadine restrained from touching him for drool. Earlier Miss Nadine boldly asked Uncle Mason to dinner in two days’ time. Surprised, he accepted right away. She went back to her grim and serious way, and covered for her boldness. She was quite pleased, however, when he’d taken her card, the one she used for herb customers, and tucked it in his wallet. A man as thoughtful as this, she mused, was responsible and worth her time. Miss Nadine lay comfortably in the center of her play nephew’s twin bed, too giddy to drive home. The child, surrounded by stuffed animals, snored softly, and lulled her into deep thought. After a night of sheer wonder, having drunk more than in years, Miss Nadine came to an emotional halt. Had she acted too rashly by giving him her card? Did she talk too much, had she been loose? She reflected on when he laid his hand on hers and how sensations shot up her arm. It had jumped to her belly, and she had flinched, pulled her hand to herself and stopped all the nonsense. It disturbed her now, for she was much too old, and she had no time for men. Her prim convictions and proper beliefs belied the smile covering her face. She slept well that night, snoring like a puppy in a dog bed. On Sunday, she caught herself daydreaming about the night before. Wicked thoughts like foreign particles threatened the rhythm of an unremarkable day. Admonishing, as if that would correct the behavior was tempered by a solid hour of weed pulling in her garden. Amid the roughage, her thoughts drifted once again, and when she slapped herself to rid a fly, she knocked sense into her head. Throughout the day, she fretted and struggled with uncertainty. Often unfocused, she found she wore mismatched shoes, had misplaced her keys, and had forgotten to take her pill. Attempting to straighten her thoughts, and regain control, she settled down and read the almanac. The futile exercise challenged her fantasies and set them on fire. Finally, she set dinner to soaking for tomorrow’s meal, lounged in the tub and went to bed an hour early with a sleeping pill. Her dreams were nonexistent and she woke up quite healed. The beans gurgled and bubbled, simmering in the meaty soup and the kitchen smelled of fresh onions and stewed tomatoes. An hour before his arrival, she’d made her signature cornbread and threw together a salad. Sun tea brewed on the porch, the coffee was ready to go, and a box of Rhine wine chilled in the ice box. She nibbled on a cracker and inspected her house. Could he appreciate the hours spent waxing old wood until it shone not unlike the luster in her eyes, or the spit shine of every mirror in the house? Would he understand her aversion to simple people, simple minds, lacking couth and culture and hiding behind pretense and niceties? He would have to be an extreme gentle man, a real man, cultured, even in poverty. He would have to be like her, by God, a diamond in the rough. At dinner, he ate heartedly of the salad grown from her greens. He tore manly into three bowls of beans and half the cornbread. Miss Nadine’s heart simply fluttered at his appreciation and a million compliments did nothing compared to how well he cleaned his plate. He said he hadn’t had beans that good since he was a wee lad. In the living room, comfortably placed in the center of the overstuffed couch, Miss Nadine slurped coffee from her coffee cup, while Uncle Mason chewed. She was close to him because she sat down first and he had dropped right next to her. He smelled of beans and cornbread, but he earned the closeness between them. Miss Nadine offered a tin of mints of which he gobbled a handful. He blew soft spittle in the cool wet mint, she thought him sultry and sensual. He spoke of last Saturday remembering things she’d forgotten and he unwittingly brought up her nemesis of yesterday. He marveled of the chicken, compared it to her beans, and swore the beans beat chicken any day. Miss Nadine rose to fill tumblers with the taste of chilled wine smiling as she thought she could get comfortable with this man even if she were dressed in her gardening clothes, and even at night. When the sun lowered, they talked of things quite nice for they had not wanted for conversation during the dotted moments of silence. All was well in her household and she trembled with delight. She growled softly as he tugged her neck, and rubbed her cheeks. She was in love instantly. She was just a breath away from the first kiss in almost all her life, and when she bent sideways, pressing into him, immediately was emancipated, a low, unmistakably heavy fart. The venom of pinto beans did not cause him to pull away as he kissed her longer than she cared. True love cared little about human foibles, for when he released her; he too let out a wallop of fart that shook the couch. He grabbed her hand, lifting her, and headed out toward the garden in back. “We could use some air,” he said. Miss Nadine demurred and licked her lips, and headed for the evening stars. |
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