Perfect Home-Broken Lives

                                                                        Perfect Home-Broken Lives

On Oak Street, in Madison Wisconsin, proudly stands a red with white trim, fifteen-year-old house. Built in 1860, it is a proper home. The lawn is manicured with precision, and the exquisite flowerbeds are weed free. The windows shine, reflecting the majestic maples shading the boulevard. The sidewalks and porch are swept clean of any debris. Everything is immaculate. People strolling past on their evening walks, comment on how admirable and proud this handsome home stands.

On the inside, the parlor reflects the rest of the home. The precisely arranged throw rugs are placed across the polished wooden floors, and the furniture, covered with bright flowered fabric, is perfectly placed for formal conversations. The oil lamps shine, without a smudge on the glass chimneys, and the books are arranged on the shelves, grouped by size, going from larger to smaller. The hearth is swept daily, without a speck of dust or ash allowed to fall on the polished cherry wood tables. Nothing is out of place. The parlor is perfect. However, if you look close, you will see that something is wrong. Someone is in the parlor and she is not perfect. She is broken.

“It’s tea time, Miss.”  Though Sarah’s voice was gentle and quiet, Mary jumped, and raised her eyes from the poetry book she was trying to focus on, without success. The room was so quiet, like a tomb, she thought.

“How can it be late afternoon already?” she whispered to herself, with a sigh. As she signaled Sarah to place the tray of hot chamomile tea, along with freshly baked scones and homemade blackberry jam, on the round wooden table in the corner of the parlor, she thanked her for bringing them in, and told her she could serve herself.  At least it will give me something to do.

“Yes, Miss.” As Sarah curtsied and turned to leave, Mary stopped her.

“Sarah, before you go, has anyone asked about me today?”

“No, Miss. Just your Aunt, this morning.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

Mary’s Aunt had been there hours earlier to, “Just check in on you.”    It was not one of the highlights of Mary’s day, though, in an odd sort of way, her visit cut the monotony that was threatening to smother her. Though her Aunt  owned this perfect home, her social life called her away on most days.

“Oh Mary, just look at you!  Don’t you take any pride in your appearance? Your dress is wrinkled and your hair is messy. Where are the beautiful hair ribbons I bought you? When are you going to pull out of this depression?  Don’t you like being here? I have given you all the advantages young women should have, especially coming from the country as you did. I have provided the finest of clothes, and, well, just look at you. Sometimes I feel like you do not appreciate anything I have done for you.  Here, I have brought you a poetry book. Try to study this today, and for heaven sakes, child, sit up straight.”  Out she flew, like the tornado that blew in, did its damage, and left just as quickly.

Appreciate what she had done for me?  Mama and I didn’t ask to come here.  Mary’s heart felt heavy as she thought over the last three months.

The July evening seemed typical of most hot summer evenings in the country, though the air seemed heavier than usual.  Mary’s father had gone into town, to buy supplies and needed farm equipment.  “I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he announced that morning.  Mary, because you are the oldest, I want you to help your mother with your brothers and sisters. You know what kind of mischief  they can get into.”

“Aw, daddy, Mary don’t have to watch over us. She’s only sixteen and we’re big enough to take care of ourselves.” interrupted ten-year-old Rudy, who over-heard his father’s instructions. “Mary does not have to watch over us,” corrected his father, shaking his head in amazement that the school had not been more vigil in teaching the correct use of grammar.

“Now listen, Rudy, I want you to mind Mary, and do as you are told. If you all behave, I will bring you a special treat,” and he grinned as he patted his right jacket pocket. He stood, walked over to mama, and twirled her around before she had a chance to stop him.
They were a handsome couple, Mama coming up to his shoulders, her dark brown hair a stark contrast to his bright blond hair. Everyone commented on Daddy’s ears. When he became angry or embarrassed, the tip of his ears would turn a crimson red. Often he did not have to say a word. You could just read his ears. Mary smiled to herself as she remembered. That was the last time she saw her father.

The evening he went to town, was unusually hot and humid. The air stood still without the slightest hint of a breeze.  Rudy, Jason and Meggy were restless.

“Mary, please take the children out of doors for a little while before bed time. Hopefully it is cooler out there than in here.”

“Yes, Mama.” She glanced over at her mother, sitting at the kitchen table, darning some old socks of fathers. Perspiration was beading on her forehead. Mary closed the book she was reading and called the children together. As they all ran outside, mama warned them not to slam the screen door, as it banged behind them.

It was like letting wild animals out of their cages. The two boys went running down the dirt driveway, while four year old Meggy, with her beautiful blond curls and brown eyes, slipped her hand in Mary’s, and walked side by side silently, following the boys. The sun was setting behind dark ominous clouds that were building in the western horizon. Something is different, Mary thought to herself. Except for the boys hollering in front of them, the world had no noise. It was eerie and still.  Nothing in nature was making a sound.

Mary, with her brothers and sisters, had a fun walk down the driveway, being cautious not to step on the quiet frogs that were trying to keep out of the boys’ way. Rudy picked one of the frogs up and pushed his belly a certain way that made the frog pee on Jason’s arm. Rudy threw the frog into the field, trying to act disgusted, while the two boys sank to their knees in uncontrollable laughter. Meggy looked up at Mary with a suppressed smile, and Mary, acting all of the adult, told the boys they “shouldn’t do such disgusting things,”  and turned away so they wouldn’t see her laughing. Looking back now, she was thankful for that evening with her siblings, and would hold the memory close to her heart.

“Boy’s, let’s go back to the house. It’s going to be dark soon.”

“Aw, Mary, do we have to?” Questioned seven-year-old Jason.

“Yes dear, we do,” Mary replied as she tousled his full head of thick blond curls. Meg and Jason looked just like their father, where Mary and Rudy, with their dark brown hair and brown eyes, took after their mother.

She helped her mother prepare the children for bed. The three younger children slept upstairs in the back of the farmhouse, while Mary and her parents bedrooms were downstairs in the front of the house. After the boys finally settled down, and Meggy had her final drink of water, Mary heard her mother calling from downstairs.

“Mary, say goodnight to them now, and come down here. I want to show you something.”

Joining her on the front porch, mother pointed to the western sky.

“I called you down here because I wanted you to see this. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” Mary looked to the horizon, watching lightning bolts cut across the sky. Living in the country, she had seen lightning many times, but this was different. As the sky lite up, it revealed a sickening, dark green canopy. The air around the two was heavy making it  hard to breathe, along with eerie stillness. Mary moved in closer to her mother.

“Don’t worry. This storm is far away,” Mama said, as though she was trying to convince herself. “We better get to bed soon. You sleep well, Mary, and thank you for the help you always give me with the children.”

“Good night, Mama.”

She thought about her younger brothers and sister, killed that night by the twister that ripped through their home in the early hours. She survived, along with her mother. The top of the house was destroyed, with much of it missing. 

Aunt Pricilla was holding Mary’s hand in the hospital when she woke several days later.  Through a thick fog, she heard her Aunt mumbling,
“The good news is that your mother made it through. I’m afraid the others were lost, along with the house.”  What did she say?
“Your father has not been heard from since that night. They say the twister tore through three counties. Many people were killed with hundreds missing. The hospitals are full of unidentified people, who have severe wounds.  Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Mary wanted to scream at her aunt. Aunt Priscilla, with her too red hair piled high on her head, and her too bright red lipstick and her too much rouge. Aunt Priscilla, with her perfectly pleated dark blue dress, living in her perfect home in the city. She hated her Aunt for the words she spoke.  She had no right talking this way. As Mary tried to sit up, a sharp pain pierced the left side of her head causing her to fall back into the stark white hospital bed. Her world was gone.

After the horrible funeral, Aunt Pricilla whisked her mother and herself off to the city, with all choices stripped from both of them.  Mama never came out of her bedroom. She was not the same. Her face was blank. Her eyes were dead.

Day after terrible day, Mary sat in the parlor by herself, alone. It took every fiber of her being to suppress the scream that hovered below the surface. It never relented. It wanted to escape, but Mary knew if she allowed the scream to surface, it would never die. It would kill her. She breathed another whisper up to her mother, hoping, praying, that a miracle would happen and her mama would come back to her.
“Mama, I need you. I need you to take me in your arms and help me through this. We can help each other. There is just the two of us now. Please come back to me, mama. I miss you.”

The sun was low in the western sky, and while Sarah scurried around to light the perfect oil lamps, Mary forced herself to go over to the corner table. She gazed down at the single porcelain gold edged cup, and the single gold edge porcelain plate. The gray palsy of twilight threw its grip over her heart. She could not cry, anymore. Crying had not taken her back to her warm sunny fields, and wide-open spaces. Crying did not give her family back.
She picked up her tea, “politely” sipping from the rim of the china cup. Being ever so “lady-like,” she felt numb as the warm tea slid down her throat, and a tear slid from her eye.

I can’t bear this another minute. How did this happen? I do not belong here. Why doesn’t my mama come and help me? I think I might die soon. No one would know or care if I did. I must go wake mama up. We have to leave this place, but where would we go?

“Mary?”

Mary turned around, in slow motion. Her perfect cup slipped out of her hand and shattered on the perfect shiny wooden floor.  She didn’t dare believe the voice she heard.
         “Father!”