Flash Fiction

(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)

Pearl

The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.

“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.

She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.

“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”

It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.

I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”

Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”

If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.

“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”

“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.

Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.

I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.

John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.

Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.

Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.

John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.

Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”

“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”

The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”

“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .

“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”

* * * just saying

(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)

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Girlfriends Weekend

 

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Girlfriends Weekend

I recently flew to Boston for a girlfriends weekend and came home thinking I have to get away more. It was not just the good company but getting out in the world of Uber, Lyft, and Google Maps.

I did not know you could “Fly Dry” or that there are several head devices and hats to stimulate hair growth. The Delta Sky Magazine tucked inside the seat pocket (along with a vomit bag) advertised these products.

Having made a commitment to reading or rereading as many of the 100 books on the Great American Read list, I was reading Lois Lowry’s novel, “The Giver.” Last week I read “1984” and thought this a good choice to read next because both have similar themes, loss of individuality, but from contrasting societal views. “The Giver” takes place in a utopian world and “1984”,  a dystopian. Neither are happy reads, although there is no expectation of a happy ever after ending from Big Brother, “The Giver” leaves you guessing and me personally, annoyed.

So bored and grumpy over the ending of “The Giver” I thumbed through the airline magazine. Zach Posen, the designer of new uniforms for Delta’s attendants, was on the cover and I recognized him from Project Runway. Yes, I was a fan. The attendants on the plane wore the new plum colored uniforms that looked practical, comfortable, and wrinkle free. I was reading along when low and behold after the hair restoration advertisements, an ad for icon underwear similar to what I purchase for the trip appears. The tag line Fly Dry, caught my attention and I slipped a pair of cheaters on to read the smaller print, Pee-proof Underwear that keeps you dry on the fly.

I refrained from poking the person next to me and saying aloud, “When did peeing discretely in your pants, find a market?” Then thinking, perhaps it is a better option for those in the window seat reluctant to disturb fellow passengers, especially with the beverage cart in use. Thankfully, further investigation revealed the undergarment is for incontinence of three teaspoons or less.

Relieved I reclined my seat the one quarter of an inch allowable, closed my eyes, and savored the weekend trip.

thWe arrived late in the day, Saturday, but managed an ocean view meal that evening, at Renzo’s in Revere Beach. Sunday morning we viewed The Blaschka Glass Models of Plants and Flowers at the Harvard Museum  of Science, and then walked “The Secret Gardens of Cambridge” stopping for lunch at Toscana’s. In the evening, we went to Cheers Restaurant where no one knew our names, but Norm was there even though he was not. His presence was a cardboard cutout.

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The following morning we were up and out of the hotel early for a Duck Tour. The tour guide, an over-weight past prime super hero, wore a red letter S on his chest and swirled a blue cape. His humor and knowledge of Boston, made us forget it was raining. Lunch was at California Pizza, we did not have pizza. It was the closest restaurant in the rain. After lunch we walked two blocks to the Public Library, a beautiful museum in itself and then made the trek to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum to see missing artwork stolen in 1990 (you have to look for the empty frames). I say trek because, Google said it was a mile (the distance birds fly), it had to be a good three miles. I had a latte in the elegant Isabella Garden Café (white tablecloths) before mustering up the energy to climb the stairs and hunt for the missing pictures.IMG_0926

The finale of the trip was dinner in North End at Lucia on Hanover St. The meal was memorable.

I loved Boston and would return in a blink but the best was being with friends who have been friends for years. Two I have known since moving to Newton, N.J. in 1981 so that gives us 37 years of friendship. My oldest friend I met when we were thirteen. She is not older I have simply know her the longest, 57 years. Yikes! I am very blessed.

Year to date I am flying dry on my own, but you never know.

                           .  .   .   .  just saying

 

https://hmnh.harvard.edu/glass-flowers

https://view.imirus.com/209/document/12910/page/1

https://www.iconundies.com/