Greetings
This is the first work I have ever posted for critique. It's the first three chapters of what I envison being a humorous journey of self discovery, peppered with much humor and joyful irreverence.
I look forward to candid and helpful response from any who care to take the time.
I apologize for the fact that the formatting was removed in pasting the file, if you prefer the excerpt is attached below.
Thanks, witchi1
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Sadie Marabou’s Flamboyant Revival
Chapter One
They say desperate times call for desperate measures.
That would be now.
In spite of all my best efforts to avoid it, had I become my mother. Now mind you, there is nothing wrong with Delilah Marabou unless you want to count the fact that she survived most of her life with the aid of good vodka and Valium.
While I could get a little boozy now and then, I preferred exercise for stress relief instead of sipping my way into a Stolie induced stupor. That I went to such lengths to endure my days or my own dreary company, was very telling. I had become the poster child for the run-down and run-over. Pathetic. Lonely. Divorced. All good reasons to run far on a treadmill.
That was yesterday. That was the old me. The new me had, in a few frenetic hours, broken free of the proverbial pumpkin shell.
As I picked at my chipped pink nail polish in the harsh light of the County Jail, the conformist part of me that had allowed banal decades to pass was yelling its dying words in my head. You fool! You’ve done it, you’ve really done it! In my mind it’s just like when Charlton Heston finds the Statue of Liberty’s remains in Planet of the Apes and falls to his knees on the sand.
Somewhere along the line, my inner bohemian—the secret personal vessel containing intuition, inspiration and wonder—had succumbed to the voracious demands of my husband, his exalted career and our collective children. Between these millstones my Self had been ground down to the point of non-existence. My whole life was dedicated to achieving their dreams and successes.
My mother must have an inner bohemian, too. The vodka and little yellow pills keeping it quietly sedated in a dark corner for all these years. She obviously had chosen a more effective bohemian management plan, than I had. This morning when I woke up, so did that other, long dormant part of my being . . . and she was not pleased.
She-bo—as I have named this delightful and somewhat terrifying part of me—took over my brain, shifting my vision like magic glasses to illuminate all the murky and dubious truths I had long denied. And after a long look, I was dismayed that I had spent twenty-four years cultivating a petri dish for the growth of ho-hum mediocrity. My own special virus. A depressing and sobering notion.
It was not an end-it-all suicidal type of depression, it was more general deflation, disillusionment and reticent acceptance of what I had become.
On the surface, I had it made. Great house, beautiful kids, gorgeous rich husband. All the usual markers of a happy American life.
The kids, my only link to spontaneous fun, were grown and gone. Off to better themselves and the world, happily ensconced in their chosen Ivy League schools. Occasional emails let me know they were still on the planet and at least pretending to pay attention in class. They reassured me that I was a good mom. I doubted it, but they told me anyway.
As for my ex-husband, Richard, well he was okay for a controlling egotistical jerk. He wasn’t mean or nasty, he was just impossible to get the better of. Arguing with him was like dancing with Jell-O; just when I thought I’d actually gained solid footing, he would evade and maneuver so that I was left with nothing but sticky befuddlement. He never hit me, he never yelled, and he didn’t fly off the handle. Instead, he made a clear list of demands backed up with completely reasonable arguments, punctuated by the fact that the household was being run on his money, and then he would leave. For days and weeks at a time. It was understood that even though he was absent, the house and all it contained, including me and the children, were his.
Richard’s profession in high finance kept him on the move. We didn’t see much of each other in the near twenty-four years of our so-called marriage. It must have taken its toll on him, too, because he left me for a younger woman in the London office. Apparently, she “gets him”. As far as I was concerned, she could have him.
That was six months ago.
I wasn’t heart broken at our divorce. We didn’t have much in common other than a physical attraction that melted the paint off the bedroom walls. And that only took us so far. He liked golf, country clubs, and the Wall Street Journal. I preferred hiking, Eric Clapton and lazy days reading novels. Not that I did those things, but I preferred them. Richard held disdain for other people and I held hope for their well being. Yeah, I was blinded by the sex, because we didn’t have it going on anywhere else.
#
This morning when She-bo woke up and assessed the mess I had made of my life, she went a little ballistic.
It started off simply enough as I removed some nic-nacs and pictures to freshen up the livingroom. I noticed the paint needed re-touching but before I knew it, “re-touching” had escalated into a Jackson Pollockesque re-decorating extravaganza. I pried open every can of left over paint I could find in the garage and threw it at the wall---with impressive force, I might add. She-bo was thrilled, spurred on by the way the sunlight glinted off the wet paint that sailed through the air in wide arcs and landed on the wall with satisfying splats.
We were inspired---She-bo and I---to do more. To break out of the petri dish of mediocrity and reclaim some ground for caged bohemians everywhere.
I rummaged around in the garage, banging open cupboards and rifling through tool boxes in search of the perfect tool to sever the umbilical of corporate wife “yes-dom”. And there, shining like a beacon in spite of a thick coating of grease and dust, was the hedge trimmer. It felt good in my hand. I applied the choke, primed the engine and pulled the cord. It sputtered to life with a puff of smoke and a growl that echoed my own wild need to cut free.
I knew just the right target to ease years of frustration. I revved the hedge trimmer and went to work. The nine-foot tall privet hedge separating my yard from Mr. Peterson’s had long been a source of irritation for me. It stole the sun and sucked the very warmth from the air.
Mr. Peterson was old and crotchety when we moved in, years later, he was ancient and mean. He loved his hedge.
I hated the hedge. I couldn’t see the sunset because of his infernal hedge.
It was good that the old bird was hard of hearing and had not noticed the holy hedge desecration until I had carved the word ‘love’ from its center. I was just completing a little heart shape at the end when Mr. Peterson stepped out for his mail. There were six or eight google-eyed on-lookers licking their lips at the prospect of a fight between a middle-aged crazy woman covered in paint and mean old Mr. Peterson. I’m pretty sure they were making book on the outcome.
Mr. Peterson stalked over with his mouth working furiously in his eggplant colored face. I stood my ground next to the tall leafy letters, hedge-trimmer purring like a large cat in my hand.
“What in the sam-hell do you think you’re doing?”
I just smiled beatifically at him and finished the valentine with a flourish. I shut off the trimmer and made a deep bow to my impromptu audience. They applauded. Mr. Peterson glared at them, spat on the ground and stomped into the house.
Was that it? I wondered. Maybe he was more reasonable than he ever had been before. Maybe having “love” carved in six foot letters in his yard launched him to unprecedented kindness. Granted he was not instantly transformed into St. Francis, but I was elated! I had broken free of my cage and it seemed that I might even be helping poor Mr. Peterson find something besides misery in his life.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and turned to leave when the heavily laden peach tree caught my attention. It dawned on me that Mr. Peterson’s liberation could be helped further by sharing the fruit with others. I plucked the juicy peaches and handed them to the sidewalk on-lookers who took them reticently at first, but soon were merrily stuffing them into their pockets and hastily formed baskets made of upturned shirttails. Mr. Peterson had the best peaches for blocks around, but he never ate them, and he never shared. It always bothered me that the golden orbs would fall and rot with no one to enjoy them.
I climbed several feet up the knobby branches, straining to reach the sun kissed prizes at the top. Then I heard the sirens. Peering between the leaves with a peach in my mouth and one in each hand, I watched as a patrol car rolled to a stop in front of Mr. Peterson’s house. The siren ended on an awkward whoop and out stepped a mirror spectacled deputy.
So much for the idea of Mr. Peterson being inspired to kindness. He appeared outside his front door and stood looking from the erstwhile hedge to the deputy to me in the tree. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a bulldog with his back up and his jowls quivering with righteous indignation.
“What’s the problem Mr. Peterson?” Asked the deputy as he stepped into the yard.
“You got eyes, dontcha? Look what that damn woman did to my hedge! And now she’s stealing peaches! I want her arrested. I’m pressing charges for trespassing, vandalism and burglary.”
She-bo was outraged.
“You mean old snake!” I screeched from my perch in the leaves. “Why don’t you try being friendly for a change? Let the kids eat these peaches. They’re just going to rot. And as for the ‘hedge from hell’, well, I’m not sorry one bit! It blocked all the sunlight from my yard. I can hardly grow hostas let alone sun flowers. And besides, now you have something nice to say to the neighborhood. Right, deputy? How can making ‘love’ with a hedge be a crime?”
The deputy’s eyes widened in surprise and I could swear he bit his lip trying not to laugh.
The double entendre dawned on me. “Ooh! I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”
He stopped me with a wave of his hand.
“Yeah, I know what you meant. What’s your name?” He removed his sunglasses, pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket as I scrambled down the tree and landed like an outlandish tropical bird in front of him.
I was a spectacular sight with multiple colors of paint spattered from head to toe, scratched and leafy, peach juice dripping off my chin and an inch worm making its way to the shelter of my cleavage. The deputy (his badge said J. Donahue) was trying hard not to laugh and somehow remained professional in the face of wanton bohemianism. I was proud to be a taxpayer providing a salary to J. Donahue.
“Sadie. Sadie Marabou.” I said hoping I sounded suave. I was having fun and J. Donahue was cute. No wedding ring, either.
“Spell that please.”
I did.
“That’s an interesting name. Marabou.”
“It’s my maiden name. I took it back after my divorce. A marabou is an African stork. It’s famous for its soft white underside.” Jeez! Why not ask him to just go for it in the yard?
“Really? I’ll have to remember that. Date of birth?” He was still trying to control his amusement at me and the whole situation.
“Oh gosh, really?”
“Yes, Ms. Marabou, really.”
“August 17, 1963. And I thought you were one of the good guys.”
“I’m good.”
He continued with one inane question after another but I hardly noticed. I was busy checking him out. Nice buns. Nice biceps. Nice face. Yep, he was nothing but nice, nice, nice. I kinda wanted to nibble on his ear just to see what he would do. About that time Groucho Peterson appeared walking toward us with his wheelbarrow, the handles of some garden tools sticking out of it.
“She’s gonna clean up this mess, I tell ya!”
Mr. Peterson plucked a metal rake out of the collection and thrust it at me. I backed away.
“No way! This is art! I’m not changing a thing!”
“You’re cleaning up my yard!”
“No! I’ll pay my fine and you can clean your own stinking yard!” I knew it wasn’t entirely reasonable, but I was in the full control of She-bo and She-bo doesn’t do raking. Who knew?
Mr. Peterson pushed me with the rake and I pushed him back, not hard, but the old geezer lost his balance and fell into his wheelbarrow. He struggled there like a turtle on his shell until J. Donahue gave him a hand out.
“Assault! I want to add assault to the list of crimes against me! This woman is a menace! She pushed me!”
“Me? You’re the one shoving rakes in people’s faces!”
“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” J. Donahue interceded in a wonderfully police like manner. I felt safe from mean Mr. Peterson and his rusty tools. “Mr. Peterson, are you all right?”
“No! I’ll have to see my internist. Get her off my property!”
“Ms. Marabou, come with me to the station so I can file the report.”
“Sure!” I answered, happy to go anywhere with J is for Justice Donahue.
“Mr. Peterson, do you require medical assistance to be called in?”
“I’ll call my doctor myself. Don’t trust nobody.” The old goat grumbled under his breath.
“Good. I’ll come by later to get your side of the story, Mr. Peterson.”
“I’ll be here.” And with that he retreated to his house, plenty of pluck in his step with a tirade of curses that could pink the cheeks of a New Orleans hooker.
“My house is right here, can I change my clothes and get my purse, please?”
“Make it fast.”
#
I left J is for Justice in the paint splattered living room with his mouth hanging open in an unnatural manner. Its a fair certainty that he never met anyone who had intentionally thrown paint all over the walls. I have to say it was rather awe inspiring, still dripping in places and pooling in kaleidoscopic puddles on the floor. The energy that had propelled the act was still present in that room. It was She-bo’s room. And when J is for Justice stood there, mouth agape, I knew he felt the presence of She-bo and she talked to part of him.
I peeled off my painted clothing pulled on jeans and a soft new red v-neck tee shirt. I teased a few leaves out of my hair, washed peach juice and sweat from my face, indulgently considered taking two minutes to pluck my brows but decided to pass. I laced up my Keds wishing they were Sketchers or Rocket Dogs or anything young, hip and cool. I needed bohemian foot wear. A stop at the mall later was in order.
J. Donahue had made the rounds downstairs. I could tell, because he wasn’t in the livingroom any more, and he looked at me as if I might actually be normal after all. The power of illusion. The rest of the house looked like a sane and reasonable person lived there. Only to me did it look like a prison, created by me, for me.
The family that had lived here was long gone. All that remained were decorator drapes, carefully chosen objects d’art that displayed a sense of competent serenity, and one woman having an identity crisis. The kids had spent most of their free time at friends’ houses. Ours wasn’t fun. It was fake, and kids know fake when they see it. They have built-in bull-s*** meters and when it gets too deep, they blow you off.
I would have had soft afghans spilling over antique furniture surrounded by art the kids had made. Their pictures would have been the ones from fourth of July picnics where they were covered in watermelon, looking dazed in wonder at the night sky full of fireworks. I like real. I like messy. I like the sticky watermelon moments in life.
“You ready?” Justice was pulling open the front door and I noticed the yummy way his muscles moved in his arms. Oh man, I hadn’t had a yummy guy in too long.
“Let’s go. Do I ride with you or can I take my car? I want to go shopping later.”
“You need to ride with me, I have to bring you in formally. You’ll be held until a judge can hear the charges.”
“Held? As in ‘jail?’”
“It’s more of a holding area. It only takes a few hours until the judge hears the charges and decides what to do with the case. It’s like Night Court. You remember that show? In and out.”
“Oh well. I don’t really have anything better to do today. I’ll see how the other side lives.” I followed him to his cruiser where he opened the back door and I slid in. It was the worst seat I ever sat on; hard plastic with nothing to hold onto. He shut my door and let himself in the car. He cranked the engine over and adjusted his mirror so he could see me.
“The other side is not pretty Ms. Marabou. You really should be more careful about breaking laws.”
“I appreciate the advice. But I simply had to cut down that damnable hedge!”
“Did you ever think of getting the city to tell Mr. Peterson to lower it?”
“No. I was too much of a conformist.”
He snorted in disbelief.
“Until today. Before today I was completely predictable, normal and boring as hell. I’m not sure what happened, but today something just snapped and I had to break out.”
“The new paint in the living room part of your coming out?
“Breaking out. It’s not like I’m telling the world I’m gay or something. Not that I am. And if I was, it wouldn’t be bad. I’m not homophobic or anything.” I added quickly.
I’m sure he’d heard similar “I just snapped” stories from people who committed arson, murder and all manner of hideous crimes. I wasn’t sure where rearranging a hedge fit in the scale of justice, but I was hopeful I would get off light.
“Is being normal all that bad?” He looked at me in the mirror. I could have gone diving in the Cayman Island blue of his eyes. Bohemians simply adore pretty eyes.
“I don’t know, I was numb for most of it. Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded.
“What does the ‘J’ stand for?”
He hesitated a moment, “Justin.”
“I was close. And to answer your question, yes. Painting that wall marked a new beginning for me. Jackson Pollock, the abstract expressionist, found beauty in chaos and harmony in diversity. It’s my new creed.”
“Be careful, Sadi— er, Ms. Marabou. I’d hate to see a nice lady like you end up in trouble simply out of boredom.”
“I’m not looking for entertainment, Justin. It’s so much more than that.”
Chapter Two
So, I contemplated the quality of my manicure and likewise the quality of my life in a shabby little holding cell waiting for the judge to have time to see about my case.
The urgency with which I had acted had cooled off some, and in its place I found myself mentally defending my actions to everyone. Richard, the kids, my mother.
My mother would be convinced that I had suffered a psychotic break and would insist I see her therapist. I didn’t want therapy. I didn’t want to be pushed into a neatly labeled mold again. I had been there, and I didn’t like it. I had endured a tightly scripted life, supported my husband through his years of philandering and corporate ladder climbing, and you know what? I hadn’t had a good time.
I never got to make any decisions. Richard did all that. Where we lived, who we associated with, how the children were disciplined, where we vacationed, how we invested. Everything. I had become spineless. I wasn’t merely a doormat, I was a large woven mat with the words ‘Step-here’ in ornate hand-stitched letters. Some flaw in my character invited people to run willy-nilly all over me while I lay smiling asking if they would like another drink.
But that couldn’t be the real me. The real me, way down deep inside had a lot to say. The real me had told mean Mr. Peterson to clean up his own yard. I had totally checked out a hunky policeman and I had chopped down the Great Barrier Hedge with power tools. I had Jackson Pollocked my living room for Christ’s sake! I was an emancipated woman, right?
The fact was, I was totally freaked out. My whole world had turned on its ear since the kids had left home and then somersaulted again when Richard officially left me. Every star by which I navigated had gone super nova, leaving me in the dark, alone and wishing for a compass to steer myself to a friendly shore.
Enter She-bo. She was the pure concentrated essence of all I cherished---distilled and aged in a secret place in my heart for years. Potent and powerful, she blasted onto the scene like nitroglycerin, forever changing the landscape of my life. It was better this way, eradicating the etched grooves of redundancy in one clean sweep. At forty-three I didn’t have time to come creeping out of my shell in little bits and pieces.
I leaned against the cinder block wall and closed my eyes. I imagined Richard or the kids getting the news that I had been hauled to the police station. Part of me cringed in habitual obeisance to the impenetrable walls of disapproval and general lack of understanding I would be met with. Richard would never in a million years understand the need to break free; he was the jailer, not the inmate.
As for the kids, well, they’re kids. They would be more resilient than their father, and would hopefully forgive the shock. They would be unique in the fact that in their Ivy League cliques they were surely the only ones whose mother had a rap sheet, albeit a short one.
I took strange comfort in the fact that I would have a rap sheet, it was proof of something gritty inside. If I had enough guts to break the civil law, surely I could break the laws imposed by Richard Wandering Dick. It was a wonderful irony that being thrown in jail would be so integral in freeing me.
Justin Justice came by the cell and nodded at me, a dark lock of hair swooped down over one brow making him look dashing and a little dangerous. He smiled at me, not so much with his lips, but with his eyes, pointed to his watch and indicated that it would be a short wait by holding his finger and thumb about an inch apart. He walked away tapping a folder against his thigh. The man sure had a nice rear view.
After what I considered to be far too long to contemplate the heavy nature of my thoughts, I went to face the judge with Justin Justice by my side. I felt pretty good about that. Technically, he was the enemy, but I considered him one of my co-liberators.
Yeah, he’s also hot. Sue me.
Mr. Peterson’s report was read aloud. I sounded very villainous in that context. I felt like I should have a piece tucked in my underwear or something just to live up to the menacing description of my deeds.
Justice submitted his report and I tried not to look at him like a cat inspecting a bowl of cream. I don’t think I was successful because the judge kept looking from him to me with one eyebrow cocked.
The Honorable Masterson was a pleasant looking lady. She asked good questions and listened with an attentive air like a television news interviewer. When she finally turned her attention to me for my side of the story, I felt like I could trust her with the truth.
“Ms. Marabou, please explain to me what you were doing on Mr. Peterson’s property.”
“Your Honor, I was cutting down a hedge that had blocked the sun from my yard for years. Mr. Peterson steadfastly refused to lower the hedge, in fact he let it get taller. In retrospect, I should have gotten the city to help me, but I admit it felt good to cut it down myself.”
“Well, you didn’t cut it down, Ms. Marabou. You carved the word ‘love’ in it. Correct?”
“Well, yes. It seemed like the thing to do, better than just mowing it to the ground. What better thing to take down a barrier than love, right?”
“A very interesting philosophy Ms. Marabou, and while I may agree with you on certain aspects of it, your behavior, being at odds with the law, demands that I penalize you. The charges are trespassing and vandalism. Since this is your first offense and I venture it will be your last, I will be lenient with you. I understand the hedge is still viable and that the peach tree suffered no damage, therefore the sentence is a two hundred dollar fine, and twenty hours of community service. You can start by cleaning up the mess you made in Mr. Peterson’s yard. Do you have any questions?”
I didn’t.
A quick strike with the gavel and it was over. I walked out of the court room with Justice by my side. I stole a look at him from under my lashes and hummed to myself.
“Ms. Marabou, if you’ll pay the court, I’ll drive you home. My shift is over and I would hate to see you take a taxi all that way.”
“All that way” was fifteen miles, not a bank breaker in a taxi cab, but I liked the idea of hanging out with the cute cop a little longer.
“Thanks, Justice”
“Pardon?”
“I mean Justin. Sorry. You acquired a nickname while you weren’t looking.” I blushed under his inscrutable gaze.
Then he laughed. He had a smile like warm syrup on waffles.
“I like it. Justice.” He repeated the name slowly like he was trying it on. “But it’s our little secret, huh? The guys around here would tear me up if they found out.”
“Just between you and me.”
I paid my fine at a plexiglass window that had lettering in peeling gold and black paint. At one time it had said Rockbridge Maryland Circuit Court. Now it was missing enough letters to be a challenging puzzle on The Wheel of Fortune.
“Ready?” Justice asked. He had disappeared while I signed papers, presumably to the attached police station, and changed into civilian clothes. If he looked hot in a uniform, he was walking lava-man in faded blue jeans and tight black tee shirt.
“Oh yeah.” Ready wasn’t the half of it.
#
The ‘68 Camaro sat like a dragonfly, metallic blue and glistening in the late afternoon sun ready to spring into flight. It was an instant turn-on, a car guaranteed to get Justice a fair collection of wet panties should he seek them.
He held open the door for me and I slid in the interior of the car and looked around. You can tell a lot about a person by their car. The tachometer on the dash and the Hurst shifter thrust up through the floorboards screamed intense, potent and spicy. The exquisite care taken in executing every detail of the vehicle showed the more carefully controlled side of my pal, Justice. Leather stretched in seamless gray across the seats, tucked and rolled expertly on the edges. This car was his baby, his woman, his hobby and his friend. I couldn’t help wondering if he would treat a girlfriend with such regard or if that special treatment was reserved for classic autos only.
Justice eased in behind the wheel and cranked over the engine. I thought I would die right there. He had a million horses under that hood and they were all clamoring to go. The throaty power of pistons pumping vibrated the seats and sent blood coursing through my veins.
I must have looked like an awestruck kid at her first fireworks ‘cause Justice watched me, amused.
“You like it?”
“What do you think? I’m dying here! Let’s go!”
“You got it, Jackson.”
It took me a moment to realize what he said and when it did dawn on me that he had nicknamed me after my new painting style and life philosopher, I laughed out loud. The sound of my amusement swallowed up in the roar and growl of the Camaro.
Justice took me for a ride. He hit the interstate and put his foot in the accelerator, flattening me against the seat as the ponies under the hood hurtled down the road like a rocket. Dodging slower traffic, he veered down an off ramp so fast that my stomach flipped as we caught sick air. We wound our way down one of the many rural roads that leached out into the countryside from the city’s center. We roared past farms and fields, over quaint bridges spanning silver streams and around tight curves that wove through the gold and green of field and wood. We listened to ZZ Top—loud. The wind whipped my hair into a frizzy nest that spun and twisted in the rushing air. I couldn’t stop grinning. This was as good a sex and way the hell better than chocolate.
Justice swung into a gravel spot on the side of the road where logging trucks turn around. Dust swirled up around us as he stopped the car and killed the motor.
“Can I ask you something, Jackson?”
“Yeah, sure.” My eyes were bright, exhilaration staining my cheeks pink.
“I was just wondering why? Why the paint and the hedge? Are you sorry now?”
I laughed lightly belying the seriousness of both the questions and my answer. The sun was beginning to go down and the light was turning that sweet soft shade of lavender when it seems the mysteries of the universe are right there on the periphery of our sight. I have never been quick enough to see them, but I know they are there.
“With all my heart I believe in what I did today. I was on a recovery mission—to recover . . . well, me. It’s not something you’d really understand, being the type of person you are. And that’s a good thing.” I added quickly as a flicker of defensiveness rippled across his features. “Somewhere, years back, I lost track of my self. I want to find that me and get to know her.”
“You sound a little schizo there, Jackson.”
“I’m perfectly integrated, thank you. It’s just easier to explain it that way.”
“You mean what you said to the judge. About love taking down barriers?”
“Absolutely. Where there is love, I mean real love, there can’t be any walls. That has to be true, I heard it on Dr. Phil.” I laughed. Well, I had heard it somewhere, maybe it was a book—but it seemed like the sort of thing Dr. Phil wouldn’t mind being credited with.
“What was so hard about your life that you didn’t stand up for yourself?”
Now that was a damn good question. What indeed? I answered the best I could with words giving form to ideas that were still untried.
“I was living the wrong life and didn’t know how to get out of it. Just plugging along, doing what I “should” and hoping it would be enough. Turned out it wasn’t. It never is if you don’t have love, and lots of it. I settled for mediocre and called it fine and I tried to make myself believe that ‘okay’ was ‘great’. I was a flavorless, beige woman lurking around in the background.”
“I wouldn’t say anything about you is beige or flavorless today.”
“No, I think I’m off to a good start.” I smiled at him and he nodded as he considered all I had told him.
“You still want to go to the mall?”
I had forgotten my idea of shopping for shoes. It didn’t seem so urgent now.
“Nah, you can take me home, Justice. Thanks.”
He smiled at me from under dark lashes.
“You’ve been checking me out all day, Jackson. You ought to know that I’ve had my eye on you, too.” He paused and ran a hand carelessly through his hair. “I know it’s quick and all, but I’d like to take you out Friday night.”
“Oh,” was all I managed to squeak out. I hadn’t thought of that. Not even once. How odd that it never crossed my mind that he might think something of me. I couldn’t have conjured a finer testament to pitiful self-esteem. I must have looked like I needed an explanation, because Justice gave me one.
“It’s not every day I run into someone who’s shaking up the normal way of doing things, looking for more. Especially a pretty woman. The girls I meet are all stuck on themselves and pretty much stupid with make-up and fashion. But you’re different. You have more—”
“I’m older.” I cut him off, feeling a trifle embarrassed with the compliments. “I may not have lived my life the way I wanted for too many years, but I know what I like. And I know what I want. And now, there’s no one to stop me getting it.”
“What do you want?”
My mother always said actions speak louder than words.
I kissed him.
For a second he was slow to respond and I thought I had freaked him out, but then his hands came around my shoulders and pulled me close. His lips were velvety and they moved with a roving ease that left me warm in all the right places.
It was a short kiss, experimental and sweet. When it was over, I smiled devilishly and sat back in my seat.
“Take me home, Justice. It’s been a busy day for us both. We don’t want to over do it. What time on Friday?”
#
The Camaro moved away like a tiger prowling amidst the pearlescent-gold herd of Lexuses and Mercedes that made up the car pool in our neighborhood. It was a perfect illustration of a new truth; I was just like that, a hot-rod Camaro trying to fit in with beige luxury cars. The whole thing really had been destined to fail—my marriage and career as a corporate wife and stay-in-her-place Mom. Eventually the racing stripes and headers would show themselves.
I was overcome with a desire to leave and never come back to this stuck-up neighborhood again. I could feel the very ground sucking the life and color out of me. Mr. Peterson could grow his stinking hedge to the moon and it wouldn’t matter. I would be gone. Nothing but taillights.
In the garage I found a freestanding yard sale sign. It was a tall wooden post that had the words Yard Sale Today printed on a slate board hanging from little chains attached to a cross beam.
I cut a cardboard box into squares that would fit over the slate pieces and wrote HOUSE FOR SALE in thick black strokes and taped them into place. It would do until I could list the house properly. I felt better knowing that the house was “on the market” before I set a foot inside it once again.
Chapter Three
A ravenous rummage in the refrigerator produced a not too wilted salad, some cheese cubes and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. A few Triscuits made it dinner. I flopped in front of the TV, sipped wine and channel surfed. Thelma and Louise was on. I had never seen it.
Just as it was getting really interesting—I love that Thunderbird—my mom called.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you today?”
She had taken it upon herself to make sure I was not withering away after Richard’s departure. She called and fretted and offered unsolicited advice to the point of me wanting to run stark naked around the house with a flame thrower just so she could be justifiably worried.
On further consideration, it wasn’t all that far from what had actually happened. Trade hedge trimmers for the flame thrower and even if I was clothed, I was definitely exposing myself. Maybe mom was onto something.
“I’ve had a busy day.”
“Oh?” She asked in that way that made it seem like I couldn’t have possibly done anything worth talking about let alone classified as “busy.” It ticked me off enough that I decided to let her have it right between the eyes.
“Well let’s see, Mom, I repainted the living room, I cut down Mr. Peterson’s hedge, stole some peaches, got hauled to jail by a hunky cop, was found guilty of trespassing and vandalism, paid a fine and went driving with said hunky cop in his hot-rod, got kissed, and put my house on the market. I’m about three quarters of the way through a bottle of Pinot and I’m thinking about the Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.”
“Stay right where you are. I’m coming over.” The phone went dead and I knew that my own dear mother was half-way here before I had even hung up the phone.
I giggled a little bit at the thought of Delilah Marabou speeding through the night to reach her daughter, who, in Delilah’s mind, needed a straight-jacket and heavy sedation.
My mother does love me even though we have had many years of disappointment in our relationship. But since Dad died and we only have each other, (I am an only child) Mom took it upon herself to reconstruct my life. She lives well off my father’s careful investments filling her days with bridge, shopping and therapy—and fixing me.
I regret having no siblings, but my parents wouldn’t over complicate their lives or over commit emotionally with a passel of off-spring. Go figure. As I look at it now, I think Dad was plain selfish, and Mom went along with it.
Just like me. Riding the current, being pulled along in the wake of our men. Doormat syndrome was hereditary.
The screech of Mom’s tires as she slammed on her brakes in the driveway announced her arrival. I opened a fresh bottle, poured a second glass of wine, refilled my own and sat back waiting for Miss Delilah to descend upon me.
“Sadie! Sadie, where are you?”
“In here.”
I heard the pat-pat of her Reebok’s on the wood floor, then she came in. I didn’t look up immediately.
Her stunned silence was dramatic, topped only by the verbal tirade that followed it.
“What on earth have you done to the wall, Sadie? Have you lost your ever lovin’ mind?” Mother was Southern,—pronounced suuthun—and the more upset she became the more suuthun she sounded.
“Why, Mother, how good to see you. Would you like a glass of Pinot while you admire my humble tribute to the late, great Jackson Pollock?”
“Why would anyone want to honor that mo-ron? He was such a strange man, Sadie. What were you thinking?”
“Sit down, Mom and I’ll tell you. But first, a glass of wine.”
“Is it that bad, sugah?”
“No, it’s not that bad. But it does require a looser frame of mind than you usually operate from.”
“Oh Lawd.”
“See what I mean? I might not say anything to you until you have two glasses if you keep that up.”
“I won’t be able to drive home. Sadie Marabou, you tell me what the devil is going on around heya right this minute.”
“Have a sip?”
“Oh, all right. You can start with that painting and just work your way through that list that gave me fits all the way heya.”
Agitation released Mom’s Alabama upbringing in broad strokes. She took the glass I offered her and sank back on the sofa, all the while watching me like a sniper with the target in her sights. I wasn’t intimidated. I was used to her antics. She was a whole lot of bluster and not one bit of bite.
“The simple truth is, I found this room, this house, to be boring beyond words. Besides which, nothing in here is mine. So I started with this wall. It’s a small start in the reclamation project.”
“Don’t be foolish, it’s all yours. The courts awarded you with it.”
“It’s not an award, it’s a goddamned prison sentence! This place is my very own cell, cleverly disguised as a home.”
“Watch your language, Sadie. Now, tell me what you mean by that.”
“I mean that every piece of furniture, every single thing in this house was picked out by Richard. He chose it, he paid for it, he told me where to put it. Point to anything, Mother, go ahead.”
She looked around the room and smugly pointed to the kid’s pictures.
“Richard’s photographer friend took the pictures. Richard, acting as art-director, chose the settings, and while he didn’t actually shop for the outfits, he dictated what he wanted them to wear.”
“I don’t believe it. Why on earth would a man carry on so?”
“Do you really mean you don’t believe me, or are you being dramatic? ‘Cause if you don’t believe me, then there’s no point in going on with this whole discussion. The whole thing is based on that.”
“Based on the pictures?”
“Really, Mom. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Well, I never!” But there was too much of my story yet untold for Mom to give up in a huff. She took a long swallow of Pinot and composed herself. “I’m sorry, dahlin’. Just start from the beginning and I’ll try to be a diligent listener.”
“Thanks.” I sipped my own wine and reached for a handful of salted almonds. “So, I took a look around this house today and I was thoroughly disgusted with it and my life. Nothing here reflects who I am. I like Jackson Pollock, so I paid homage to his bohemian spirit, and in turn, it fueled mine.”
“Your what?” She looked startled and took another long sip of wine. I would say she slugged it, but Delilah Marabou never slugged, she preferred to “drink with enthusiasm.”
“My bohemian spirit. Pay attention.”
“What is a bohemian spirit? If I may ask?”
“It’s the wild untamed part of a soul, the part that speaks truth, lives in love and is fearless. Everyone has one. Most people just keep theirs shut up inside.”
“And I suppose, yours is, er . . . out?”
“You could say that.”
“And that’s what spurred this flurry today?”
“Yes. After I painted the wall, I felt so exuberant, so wonderfully alive that I had to keep going. I found the hedge trimmers and without any real thought, moving purely on impulse, I carved the word ‘love’ out of Mr. Peterson’s hedge.”
“Oh Lawd.” She took a long sip of wine and refilled her glass.
“I even decorated it with a little heart. He called the cops on me.”
“What on earth were you thinking, Sadie?”
“I told you, I wasn’t really thinking.”
“Are you going to be a serial criminal now?”
“Only with hedge trimmers. I don’t go in for the heavy stuff. No chainsaws or axes.”
Mother laughed at the joke but she was still confused by the whole thing. It was beyond her for now, but at least she had laughed.
“Well, that’s a relief at least. So what happened after the police showed up?”
I didn’t want to go into the details of Justice, he was my tasty secret, but I had to share the bare bones about the encounter. Mom wasn’t satisfied.
“You said he was hunky. How hunky?”
“Mom, he would make the angels weep.”
“Oh Lawd.”
I hadn’t heard this many “Oh Lords” out of her since Wandering Dick went off to London. It was a good story, and she was surely dying to share it with her bridge ladies. Of course, the names would be changed to protect the family honor. The ladies would know anyhow, but they could pretend that everything was fine with their friend all the while giving advice and admonition in equal doses to the nameless unfortunate in Delilah’s story.
“He came to the house so I could change my clothes, took me to the police station where I answered some questions and saw a judge after a few hours in a holding cell.”
“You were in jail all afternoon? Why ever didn’t you call me?” She looked like I had betrayed her.
“Didn’t need to. I was in and out of there. And besides, if I had called you, I wouldn’t have gotten to ride in Justin’s Camaro.”
“Who is Justin?”
“Oh, right. The hunky cop, Officer Justin Donahue. He gave me a ride home since his shift was over. He has an amazing hotrod and we went for a little ride in the country. I kissed him and then he brought me home.”
“Oh LAWD! You kissed a stranger? Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?”
“Apparently. I’m going out with him Friday.”
“You are going out, on a date, with the police officer who hauled you to jail?”
“Yep.” Maybe he’d bring his handcuffs. Bad, Sadie!
“Sadie, I think you are becoming unbalanced. You should see my therapist. I’m certain he can help.”
I had been to Joel Lowenstein before and I had not found any comfort in his office. He spent the whole session trying not to look at my breasts.
“No, thank you. I feel great. Better than I have in a long time. I put the house on the market and I feel that the whole world is opening up for me.”
“You’re selling the house? Your only source of security and tax shelter?”
I cut her off as she took a breath to continue. “Before you ask me if I have lost my ‘ever loving mind’, I will tell you that I haven’t. I simply don’t want to live here any longer. This house is, was and always will be Richard’s.”
“What about the children? Where will they come to when they are off school?”
“I’ll get another place. It’s going to be fine, Mom. Really.”
“I’m sure it will, sugar. I truly hope so.”
I patted her hand and we sat together with Thelma and Louise filling the silence while we sipped wine. We were both stunned when the girls clasped hands and floored the gas barreling the Thunderbird headlong into the open maw of the Grand Canyon.
“Sadie, what kind of movie are you watching? Those girls just killed themselves.”
“I think they would rather be dead and free than mixed up with that posse of men chasing them.”
Her face changed as she considered, her eyes moving from the television to the Pollocked wall to me. When she intertwined her fingers with mine and gave a squeeze, I knew we had connected in a deep and vibrant way.
“Freedom is a powerful motivator, I suppose.” She raised her wine glass in salute. “Here’s to freedom, Sadie.”
Delilah Marabou may be the epitome of a society lady, but she knew the nature of a wild heart. More than she realized.