FRIENDS FOREVER

FRIENDS, FOREVER

She opened the book to page ten.  The worn and yellowed pages crinkled like dry autumn leaves trampled by the merciless footsteps of time.  A tear rolled down Patchouli's cheek as she read the familiar, faded handwriting, 'Keeping Friends Forever'.  The anguish raining in her heart clouded warm memories of her mother.  Lonely grief over her death shadowed the remembrance of comforting love that had filled her childhood.  The house, the furniture, the book, these things remained, reminding her at once of love and loss.

As a little girl Patchy had spent hours playing downstairs with her friends while her mother worked in the kitchen.  She especially liked it when Mumma made cookies.  Wonderful smells filled every room like a magical bouquet.  The pungent scents of cinnamon and ginger, the heavy sweet fragrance of molasses and vanilla, and the strange exotic aromas of powders and liquids that Mumma called the secret mixters filled the house, making it seem like a fairy tale cottage in a make believe land.

Some days, when none of her friends had come out to play, Mumma would say, "ah Patchy, you have got no little kinterlings for playing with today.  Would you like to make the cookies with me?"  A red stool with fold down steps was kept beside the table for her to kneel on.  From there she could watch Mumma mixing the ingredients in a big bowl with a long wooden spatula.  As a young girl she had believed it was a magic wand that made everything taste good.  Now she looked down at the book again and realized that she still believed in magic.

Soon, with Patchy helping to mix it up, the powders and spices and secret mixters became a thick doughy blob that would be rolled flat and cut into all kinds of different shapes.  After scooping it out onto a long marble-top table, Mumma would get a heavy wooden rolling pin from the drawer underneath.  The first time Patchy had tried using the roller, her small arms strained trying move it.  But every time after got a little easier, as though each batch of cookies was a stepping stone to growing up.

Mumma's words came back to her as she thought about making cookies.  She remembered her saying how proud her father would have been if he could see her.  "He would pat my belly where you were and say, if a girl, she will make the cookies too."  Patchy smiled.  The picture of him on the mantle had been taken when he was in the army.  She thought about how he looked in his uniform, strong and fit, holding his rifle.  Then she thought how he died, weak and helpless with cancer, a month before she turned three.

A bittersweet sadness washed over her.  'It felt so wonderful,' she thought, 'when I realized that I was getting bigger and older and better at things.  But now it seems like it was all leading up to this.  Like a great race where everyone finishes last.'
Cold feelings of loss had overtaken the nostalgic warmth, reminding her that she was here to sort through her mother's things that had now become hers.  Jerry had offered to help, but she knew she had to take care of it alone.  Each breath she took in this house was like reliving a piece of her childhood.  And, sadly, there was so much of it that her husband would never be able to share.

<<<<<>>>>>

Patchouli got up and carried the book into the kitchen.  A gentle thump inside her belly made her smile, knowing that in three months she would have her own little kinterling to help in the kitchen.  The smile eased its way further onto her lips as she thought of herself as the Mumma, working side by side with her daughter at the table.  The soft patina of memories swirled around her hopes and dreams, making a collage of what was and what may be.  'Oh how marvelous it will be', she thought, 'with all of her little friends coming over to play.'  She rubbed her hand across the cool marble table, thinking of how long it had been since she last used it.

She was thirteen.  Mrs. Bordeck had given her Home Economics class the assignment to make their favorite recipe at home and bring it to school the next day.  She remembered coming home and asking if she could make the cookies all by herself.  Mumma wanted to help, but Patchy insisted.  The assignment was to do it alone.

Patchy recalled how grown up she felt when she began laying out the things she would need.  The big bowl seemed not quite so big anymore.  The heavy wooden rolling pin had become more manageable.  And the spatula now fit nicely into her hand, her fingers closing on the magic wand and holding mastery over its power.
She had gotten the tins and bottles of ingredients out of the cupboard.  Some were as small as match boxes, and others so large she needed to use both hands.  Some had lids that pulled off, while others had to be turned.  And some were jars of clear or blue glass.  These had special lids and had taken a long time for her to learn to open.  "You cannot be too careful with keeping the special mixters," Mumma had told her, "they must be treated with great care."

The next day, every girl had come in carrying some sort of bowl or tray filled with their homework.  The less adventurous students had cornered the market on sandwiches, some cut into triangles, some into squares, and all using the proper technique of peanut butter on the bottom and jelly on top.  Others with a more domestic disposition had turned out tureens full of meatballs, sausages and fried chicken.  And many had accepted the task as a way to capture the attention of Roger, the one and only boy in the class.

Roger had been sentenced to Home-Ec after his prankish behavior in wood
shop nearly cost Mr. Handleson his right thumb.  His reputation for tomfoolery had already become legend with the high school teachers, securing him a position of youthful worship with the boys.  But his playful nature and dazzling blue eyes made him the object of adoring glances from giggling groups of growing up girls.  And for this the table was brimming with pastries, cakes, cookies and other confections, many of which had the distinct appearance of an experienced hand recruited for the cause.

Patchy remembered how proud she felt carrying the basket of cookies into the classroom the next day.  With her own hands she had made enough so that everybody could have one.  Mrs. Bordeck asked her to lay them out on the table along with the other dishes the rest of the students had made. But Patchy insisted that she be allowed to pass them out, one to each person.  After all, it wouldn't do for someone to take two and someone else get none.  Mrs. Bordeck agreed, but only after a lecture on rules of etiquette for serving a group.  Patchy listened, nodding impatiently, until Mrs. Bordeck had finished.  "Now Patchouli", she had said, "you may serve your guests."

Patchy walked up and down the rows of desks, offering a cookie to each of her classmates.  Smiling with pleasure as they tasted her secret recipe, she heard "great cookie" and "mmmmm good."  Pride beamed from her face as the ones who had finished asked if they could have another.  They were truly disappointed when she told them they could only have one.

The bell signaling the end of class rang as she got to the last row.  Roger rushed past her, grabbing the basket from her hand.  His exquisite blue eyes gleamed like icy diamonds as he glanced at her and ran out of the room.

"NO!" Patchy yelled,  "Roger, don't!"  She chased after him, only making him run faster.  She followed him until he ducked into the boy’s room.  Standing in the doorway, shouting for him to come out, she got only his laughter in return.  Mrs. Bordeck came up behind her, putting her hand on Patchy's shoulder.  "It's OK Patchouli", she said, "you can make another batch for the class and we'll make sure that he doesn't get any."  Patchy managed a smile. She knew that Roger would want more.

It had been thirteen years since that class.  She remembered that she had indeed made another batch of cookies, just for Roger.  She smiled, remembering how he had come over to her house and begged her to make them.  He just had to have some more.  He said he was sorry for what he did, and couldn't he please be her friend.  "Yes Roger," she thought, "you certainly became one of my very best friends, and I keep my friends forever."

<<<<<>>>>>

She closed the book and laid it on the table.  A massive wooden door with ornately carved panels seemed to call to her from the corner where it stood closed.  "It's been so long," she thought, slowly walking toward it.  An anxious longing churned in her stomach as she reached for the handle.  The heavy wrought iron lever turned easily in her hand, as it always had.  The hinges whined as the door opened, singing their greeting to a long gone friend.

Darkness reached out to her from beyond the door, held back by a wispy line of gray shadows.  An old wooden staircase revealed three steps before plunging into the inky blackness.  The light switch clicked, but nothing happened.  "Still broken," she sighed, "I'll have to get it down there."

She lowered her foot onto the first step.  It creaked in its own familiar voice, reminding her of bygone times.  Grasping the railing, she felt the grainy smoothness of the old painted wood.  Ghostly shadows from a younger time ran across her legs as her other foot left the kitchen, finding the second step.  Nervous joy tickled her insides as she continued downward.

Her feet came together on the third step.  Beyond lay total, yet familiar darkness.  The reality of now became an airy dream, wisping away like the last hint of sunlight in a moonless sky.  Crossing the threshold into blinding night, years melted away and memories overcame her.  Little girls dressed in mommy-sized clothes paraded through her mind.  Another step, and long ago guests drank make believe tea from baby doll cups.  Timeless phantoms of ages past whirled before her, bringing the still, cold darkness to life.

She wanted to stop and rest in her childhood reverie, but beckoning shades of adolescence urged her on to the next step.  White party dresses with ribbons and bows swirled around a cake with nine candles.  Another step, snickering boys blushed and ran away from giggling girls.  Patchouli's head reeled with delight as the pleasing specters of younger days rushed by.

Without seeing, she knew that she was three steps from the bottom.  She felt the sensual allure of the cool dark basement calling her, enticing her, seducing her to lower herself into its waiting depths.  Thick, palpable blackness caressed her skin and gently kissed her lips.  Her breath caught at the vision of a gangly young woman of insecure age, appraising her budding figure in a bedroom mirror.  Her thighs parted as soft, exploring hands made delicate circles on innocent flesh.  A yearning moan trembled in her throat as quavering fingers teased her firm young breasts, luring her to ecstasy.  Her hips thrust, moving in rhythm to her panting breath, bringing her closer to...

<<<<<>>>>>

Patchy's belly jumped, yanking her from her fantasy.  She rubbed her left hand over it as the baby kicked again, and again.  Shaking her head to clear out the fog, she reached up and pulled the frayed and knotted cord.  In a dazzling flash the darkness scattered, finding shelter in hidden corners and crevices.  She smiled.  "It's been such a long time," she muttered, as she took the last three steps.

Ghostly swirls of white dust wrapped around her ankle as her foot touched on the bare cement floor.  Stones showed their smooth round faces through parts of the wall where the plaster had fallen away.  An old workbench sagged in the corner, its wooden top giving way to age and dampness.  Nervous anticipation crept into her stomach, though she knew they would still be here, waiting, after all these years.
She turned, walking around the hulking oil furnace that filled the center of the room.  Air ducts leading from it were hung with tattered shrouds of dirty gray cobwebs.  She smiled.  Behind the furnace was the door to her private place, a place where no one else could go unless she took them.  And she took only her very best friends.  Friends she kept forever.

Light from the single bulb scarcely reached around the furnace, offering only a twilight sketch of the room beyond.  Her vision now came not from her eyes, but her memories.  Just ahead, two steps, now to the right a little, now two more steps.
Without fumbling, her hand reached out and grasped the slide bolt.  It hitched on the first tug, then slid back.  A gentle thump in her belly accompanied the warm, contented, coming home feeling that washed through her.  "Yes sweetheart, we're going to see all of Mumma's very best friends."

The hinges barked a loud complaint as the door screeched open.  Cool tendrils of dampness curled around her, pulling her in with the gentle touch of a trusted companion.  Her belly jumped again, making her wish that she could share her lovely playroom with Jerry.  "But I'll share it with you, my little kinterling," she said, as she reached up and pulled the cord.

Light splashed over the stone walls and ceiling of the tiny room.  The floor was bare, shadowed only by the rows of old wooden shelves that sat against the far wall.  Each shelf was lined with dozens of glass jars.  Some were as small as baby food jars, and others would take two hands to hold them.  Some were of clear glass and some of blue.  And they all had very special lids.

Patchy tiptoed across the room like a playful child and took down one of the large clear jars.  Two small pale globes like grotesque dumplings floated near the top of the murky solution.  She blew the years of dust off and looked at the label.  "My my" she said, "you haven't changed a bit.  I guess friends do keep forever."  As she tilted the jar, the two orbs turned, each revealing a black dot surrounded by a beautiful icy blue ring.  She held the jar down to her belly and said, "look sweetheart, Roger wants to see you.