DON MONKERUD INK

What Love Will Make You Do

By Don Monkerud

He arrived fifteen minutes early, parked around the corner from the motel and rolled his window down. Between the sign for The Cowboy Diner and The Giant Artichoke, he watched a line of cars inch along in after work traffic on the freeway.

Half an hour later he wondered if she would show up. Across the street, four boys kicked a soccer ball across a dusty yard. An old man in a flapping raincoat pedaled a bicycle past, looking up as if to apologize for his shabby attire.

He wished he hadn't given up smoking, it would at least give him something to do while he waited. He turned the radio on to a Mexican ballad of lost love, the singer's voice filled simultaneously with longing and hope. Quickly he flipped through the channels and turned the radio off when he saw her black Volvo pull up behind him. He walked back, leaned in the window to kiss her. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked. He shrugged, knowing this wasn't the place for a conversation that seemed inevitable, although they both continued to put it off.

After filling out the registration card with a false name and address and sliding two twenties across the counter, he received a key from the clerk. They met on the stairs where she normally waited for him, kissed just inside the door. He pulled the drapes and she turned her back to him so that he could unzip her tight-fitting black dress. They moved apart, familiar with the ritual as they stripped and then pulled back the covers on the bed.

Meeting in the middle of the king-sized expanse of sheets, they fell upon each other with a longing bred from two weeks of not seeing each other. He sensed that she was holding something back, felt her hesitate before rolling over. And yet she made the usual sounds that he feared where closer to agony than rapture. They each lost themselves in the pure pleasure of the moment, his apprehension over someone hearing her groans and pounding on the door to make sure no one was being murdered long forgotten.

Afterwards, sunlight spilled across the bed. She mentioned a movie she had seen, a new CD she bought and spoke of a writer of hers that was up for an award. A slight chill rose from the shadows in the room, and she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. "He's not actually a very good writer, but I managed to position him properly," she continued. "His post-modern angst combines well with a delightful bull-in-the-China-shop style. It's selling quite well, probably because people are weary of the war and want to get on with their lives. We're all looking for an escape, you know." Warmer now, she snuggled against him. She liked the way he touched her, the way he kissed, passionate yet not too eager.

He pushed back a strand of black hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. It was the kind of gesture that brought him closer to her, allowed him to touch her on an intimate level that her conversation didn't allow. She continued to tell him about the author who had been nominated for the prestigious award, and described an afternoon spent on the phone lining up support from the press. The seconds hand on the clock swept a steady arch as she chatted about how much work she had accomplished "None of the marketing people have a clue on how to market this guy," she sighed.

He told her about the tidy sum he stood to make from a sale to Hewlett-Packard, the largest sale he'd ever made. He wasn't sure that she heard him when he told her about the sales he made, customers called on, jobs completed. His ambitions. He could understand. After all, his accomplishments concerned a future she didn't share. They seldom spoke of the future. Nor, strangely enough, of their spouses. That part of their lives consumed the greater portion of their time and effort yet evaporated like coastal fog when they met. Their time together was reserved for them alone even if he feared that they endangered what they had by discussing trivia. Listening to her, he felt as if they barely knew each other. What real interests did they share? He ran his hand over her body to remind himself of their connection.

Getting together had been entirely unexpected. A salesman who called on the company where she previously worked, he had offered to take her to lunch when her boss had suddenly cancelled an appointment with him. He intrigued her, she flirted with him, uncharacteristically, and they met for drinks after work. She was forty-two, married to an accountant, although twice she hinted at being unhappy, something about her husband's lack of desire and devotion to TV sports, a typical story, he thought. Ten years older, he had two children, a cozy house in the suburbs, a normal happily married life.

"I have to run." She kissed his stubbled cheek and rose.

"Can't you stay a bit longer? We just got here." He glanced at the clock: forty-five minutes.

"I can help pay for the room," she offered.

"What? You think I'm not getting my money's worth?" He laughed. "It's just that I enjoy being with you so much and the time flies so quickly."

"You're sweet." She slipped into black lace panties and bra, and pulled the black dress on. She sat on the edge of the bed for him to zip her up. He kissed her on the neck, what he thought was one of the most beautiful parts of her body, but she squirmed away to brush her hair before he could pull her to him.

Invariably she rushed off to one meeting or another, and he marveled at her activity: It seemed she had meetings every hour of the day. He often found her quoted in the paper on environmental and community issues; saving steelhead in the river or stopping the building of a freeway through an endangered salamander's habitat. Although he suspected she filled her time to escape her marriage, he didn't press the matter. It was her business and wouldn't intrude upon the little time they had together. He found her restless and wondered more than once that, if he left his wife and moved in with her, would she have any more time for him than she did for her husband?

She sat in the chair opposite him and pulled hose over long legs, fit black pumps on and stood to pull lipstick across her wide mouth. Exuding self-confidence, she looked professional, simple yet elegantly dressed, an intelligent woman with a radiant smile. A woman so business like and demure that one would never suspect that she rolled around sweaty and breathless, pulling at him with a passion that bordered on desperation. Her dark eyes examined her features in the mirror in what he thought was a judgmental way, and he started to ask her if she was growing tired of him. Would she continue to fit him in around her various appointments? His question melted with her smile. She tied a black scarf around her neck, picked up her handbag and brushed his cheek with a kiss.

"Will I see you next week?" he asked.

"I sure hope so." And she was out the door.

He rolled over and clutched the pillow. A twinge of sadness hit him as if an irretrievable moment had passed. Wasn't there something larger for them, something more ambitious and hopeful than this shadowy motel room with its aerosol smell? He depended upon this love going someplace, having some goal, some destination. At times, he could see their love blossoming into a relationship in which the two of them could share croissants over the breakfast table, bending back the newspaper and discussing the day's events before rushing off to work. They would look forward to spending their evenings together and bask in a sense of security and well being. As it was he had only the vague promise of seeing her the following week, if she wasn't too busy.

But he knew better. There was no future for them and in fact, he didn't even want there to be. He had married later than most, in his early forties before he decided to settle down and immediately had children. It seemed the thing to do and he was happy. This was the first time he'd strayed from his marriage and didn't regret it, although he wanted more of her. She drew back, kept herself from him: He didn't know why.

Seldom were they able to spend more than a few hours together. Once they flew to Chicago, he on a sales call, she to a book show, and spent two nights together. They lounged around the hotel room, strangely silent and somewhat nervous in their unanticipated intimacy. Neither of them knew quite how to act together in public, so they avoided the social events of her conference and found a small underground club in the Bismarck, a run-down 1930's art deco hotel in the Loop where he got drunk and had to order a cab back to their hotel. She became angry with him and they slept on opposite sides of the bed, thus wasting several precious hours of the little time they had together.

After making love the next morning, their mood change, and crossing the street on the way to breakfast, she turned to him with a level, controlled voice. "You're lucky I'm older and more mature than I used to be. If I had met you when I was younger, I would have caused you lots of problems."

"What?" Her statement both astonished him and made him defensive.

"Ten years ago, I would have had to have you, one way or the other. Nothing would have stood in my way: not your wife, not your children, nothing." She smiled. "But you don't have to worry. I'm not a home wrecker."

She stopped to straighten his tie, brush lint from his suit. He looked sheepish, and she wanted to embrace him right there on the street. She could tell her blunt speech shocked him but the old habit of restraint and the rush of the crowd deterred her from a public display of her affections. The poor boob, she thought. She had been married twice and felt protective of his inexperience. He didn't foresee how everyday routines heaped atop one another until a marriage deflated like a small leak in a tire. How two people ground each other down until joy and sensuality were distant memories, how two people became trapped in mortgages, car payments and savings accounts. Her small gestures of grooming, and her restraint, would, she hoped, keep them going on the way they were, a perfectly satisfying arrangement for the moment.

On the plane back, they held hands. He wondered whether she had ever had other affairs like this but knew better than to ask. The trip made him feel ten years younger, filled him with vitality and hope, and a rush of emotions that recalled his first teenage love. By the time the pilot told them to fasten their seat belts, they pulled back, as if detachment was part of the landing process. Out the window, he watched San Francisco glow in the evening fog, a string of lights on the Bay Bridge set against the darkness of the water.

*****

She entered the cafe´� in a panic. She was quite late and afraid that he had grown tired of waiting and left. She found him at a corner table over a cup of coffee as if he had nothing else in the world to do but wait for her. He was so sweet that way, making her feel special. She wondered if he made his wife feel the same way. He must. He greeted her with a smile, offered to get her a cup of coffee. When he rose, she placed her handbag on the chair, patted her hair, straightened her jacket. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Half and half or skim?" He asked from across the room.

"Black," she replied, surprised that he didn't know. How could he? They had been seeing each other for two years and besides the trip to Chicago, had never spent ordinary everyday time together.

The coffee tasted bitter, but she drank it, laid her hand atop his. For a moment, she would have liked to remain there forever, holding his hand while the world went about its business around them and they sat unruffled, in a serene bubble. Without the normal pleasantries of the weather and a recounting of the day's events, she rushed into it.

"I'm seeing a marriage counselor," she waved her words away. "I mean we were seeing a marriage counselor, my husband and I, but he dropped out and now I'm still seeing her. She thinks it's a bad idea for me to keep seeing you." She felt relieved after the first rush of words for she had toyed with the idea of telling him on the phone or even not seeing him again, without an explanation. Her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone far away and she was ease dropping on someone else's conversation.

"I think she's right." Traffic sped by on the street outside. Classical music played in the background. The two baristas behind the counter took orders from an elderly white-haired man with a cane and a kid with blue hair, a skateboard clutched to his chest.

Despite her confusion, she didn't share her doubts; it seemed inappropriate. The mess she had made of her life, the burden of her marriage, how it depended upon her alone to continue from day to day, how she lay awake at night wanting to be held but knowing even that couldn't satisfy her longing. Her propensity to take on new projects at work although she knew she didn't need to and that they would only become burdens rushing her forward until her life became a blur. And her fear of him. She suddenly realized how afraid she was, although she hadn't given it a voice even to her counselor. How did one speak of such things? Since the first time he had rolled her onto her stomach, she felt she couldn't trust him, feared that he would hurt her. Of course he never did, but the threat persisted; she couldn't help it. She looked forward with such anticipation to making love and yet anxiety crouched in the background waiting to pounce on her.

"So it's over," he looked hurt, sighed. "I knew it would end eventually. I guess it always does. Or else they get divorced and move in together to live happily ever after until they split up two months later. That part was never in the cards for us."

"My life isn't going well, I have to pull back and get myself together." She appeared calm and resolved, the way he remembered her looking when she left the motel room after their brief encounters.

He thought he could change her mind, asked her to go to a motel with him right then, but she refused. He knew she was right. Their relationship had nowhere to go and this talk had always been inevitable.

"I guess you're right, but I'll miss you like hell." Suddenly he felt like he should yell, knock the table over, break something but he couldn't muster the outrage. He sat there like a lump.

"There's just too much in my life that I can't deal with right now." She patted his hand, watched him grow old in front of her, his hair graying, his face growing flabby, his hands unsteady. She could have asked him to leave his wife, but she knew that wouldn't improve her future. Besides, he had told her in the beginning that he would never leave his wife, a woman who remained mysterious and far away. On her way to the car, she almost changed her mind, started to rush back in and take his hand. Lead him to a motel where they could drown themselves as they had done so many times in the past.

*****

She didn't see him for three weeks, although she felt a twinge of guilt every time she passed the Giant Artichoke on her way home from work. Its sign lit large green leaves, offsetting the Cowboy Diner's blaze of rotating red and yellow lights in the early evening chill just before the sun slipped behind the hills. He had called twice and left messages. She didn't answer. She had begun to think of him as she did of her husband, a man who wanted more of her time and attention than she was willing to surrender.

She straightened her hair in the rearview mirror; her author had won the prize, although he acted as if it was a reward for his own merits rather than a result of her persistent lobbying. That didn't matter, the little shit. Her boss had been pleased. Others in the industry knew. She would get a promotion and her mother and father would be proud. Nothing would stop her now: She was on her way to becoming president of the firm, she was sure of it.

Their last meeting seemed like a long time ago. She wanted to see him--longed to be touched the way he touched her--but she couldn't shake her apprehension, the fear she felt every time he rolled her over. Something wasn't right about it. "Damn." She punched the button on the radio trying to get something besides news of the war. Would she ever overcome her Catholic upbringing? She recalled the little white shoes, the white dresses, the lace and ribbons in her hair, could almost smell the incense, hear the echo of small feet shuffling down the long stone aisle, hear the drone of the litany. Sometimes she wished she had followed her destiny, married young, had lots of babies, and stayed home making cookies and fixing dinner for a husband who came home at six o'clock every evening. She could have settled into a routine, been happy. But she knew she would never have been happy, the scene was too idyllic to actually work.

No, she wasn't falling for that one. Besides, she had watched her mother and grandmother devote their lives to men, watched them become overweight with rough knarled hands, flat feet, gray hair and a tiredness that settled a great weight around their shoulders until they moved at a snail's pace.

Her husband was working tonight and she looked forward to taking a shower, putting on a sweat suit and vegetating in front of the TV. Forget about the pressures, her schedule tomorrow, the operation her father would have next week; just let everything slide. Her thoughts returned to him. Not seeing him left her empty, yet she would get over it. She would help herself to a bowl of cherry pecan ice cream in the freezer. Everything would be fine.

Her phone rang and she fumbled it out of her handbag on the seat beside her. His phone number marched across the screen. She watched the numbers for what seemed like an eternity. Then she returned it to her bag.

The End

Heat Wave

By Don Monkerud

When word came about the school situation in Little Rock, heat hung heavily in the trees and a blue cloudless sky formed a vast lid that clamped down on the house like a pressure cooker. Late in the afternoon, storm clouds appeared on the horizon and lightning crackled and flashed across the sky as if to forewarn of the troubles that lay ahead.

Ed sat in his rocking chair and slapped a letter from his cousin against his thigh. His cousin wanted to know if his two children could move in with us for the coming school year, at least until the trouble was over.

"They been after us ever since we lost the war." Every afternoon Ed came home from work to sit in the front yard with an iced tea after taking a shower. His khaki pants creased, he wore a clean white shirt and his hair was neatly combed. "Now they're tryin' to tell us how to run our schools. We have to stand up to them."

The war Ed was talking about was the Civil War, what he called "the War for Secession." He dragged me into the fray after he married my mother and caught me reading a book that favored the North over the South. "Those books got it all wrong," he cautioned. "The Northerners are trying to brainwash you against the South."

He sat me down on the front porch and explained how the simple agricultural South had gallantly resisted the northern states imposing their impersonal industrial system. The south was noble, a place where men showed women respect, where a man's word was his bond and where proper behavior counted for more than wealth or boasting. I became Ed's pet project. He vowed to turn me into an upright boy who honored the past and the manners, values and memories of the Old South.

When I ask if it was true that the war was fought over slavery, Ed explained that the South fought for freedom and independence and told me I was reading the wrong books. I began to read everything I could get my hands on about the long forgotten war that appeared so important to Ed.

A few months after our discussion on the front porch, I came home from school to tell him that we were going to have a visiting teacher- a Negro- who was promoting civil rights. It was one of the rare occasions I heard him cuss. He claimed that God ordained slavery in the Bible and integration experiments were a plot to supplant the authority of God and the family. "I won't have a child of mine taught by no niggra. It's not right!" Ed shook with rage while Mother attempted to calm him down.

I wanted to point out that I wasn't his child and that the teacher was only coming for one day, but was afraid that he would get mad at me. I had no idea where his hatred came from, but I knew not to cross him for he had a temper. One day he had gotten in a big fight with Mother and pulled the tablecloth off the table along with our lunch. He didn't say anything for a long time but sat across the living room in his La-Z-Boy chair and ran his hands through his jet-black hair. His features blended into the approaching evening darkness and his hawk-like nose, which he inherited from his Choctaw grandmother, jutted forcefully into the room.

Ed gave me explicit instructions. When the teacher walked into my classroom, I was supposed to walk out. When she came, I asked to go to the bathroom. Once I got to the bathroom, I didn't know what to do. I felt dizzy. The urinal smelled. The heat pressed down on me like a hot blanket. I struggled to breathe. Working up my courage, I ran down the steps, jumped on my bike and peddled home as fast as I could. I sat sweating in the living room for the rest of the day with the drapes drawn tight and the doors and windows closed. I ignored the phone when it rang.

Ed slapped me on the back when he came home from work, handed me an ice cold Coke and told me how proud he was of me. When we sat down to dinner, the principal called. Mother handed the phone to Ed, and I could hear him arguing in the hallway. He slammed the phone down but they called back. Ed wanted Mother to let it ring, but she said they had to answer.

"Eat," he told me as I sat paralyzed from the trouble I was causing. My sister rolled her eyes. I felt empty. The greasy pork chop stared from my plate, the peas became small green eyes plucked from some innocent creature and the mashed potatoes formed a glob as hard as concrete.

"I'm not hungry," I protested.

"They don't have no right." Ed slammed his fork and knife down and stared out the window, his face growing hard as stone-what Mother called his Indian nickel look. The muted phone conversation went on for a while and when Mother came back to the table, I carried my half-empty plate to the kitchen. Mother and Ed moved to the living room and to talk.

"See what you done caused? You're in lots of trouble." My sister handed me a plate to dry. After we finished the dishes, Ed called me into the living room.

"They're going to put me in jail if you don't go to class with this teacher. They're bringing her back just for you." His mouth twisted and hatred shined from his eyes. "I have to go along with it; I can't fight the system."

When the teacher returned the following week, I remained in my seat, aware that the other kids were watching to see if I'd bolt. She was the first Negro who ever talked to me. Young and pretty, she seemed to float around the room, and she gave me lots of attention. The other kids were delighted that she had returned. I liked her and wondered what all the fuss was about. It wasn't necessary for Ed to get so angry. There was talk of getting her as our regular teacher, but I never knew, for soon we moved to a small town in Oklahoma, just across the border from Arkansas, where Ed's grandmother had left him an old Victorian house.

*****

Willie, a pudgy, balding, clean-shaven man who called Ed by his childhood nickname, "Taylor Boy," came to visit on the evening after the letter arrived. He sat in the front yard in a lawn chair with Ed and Mother, their cigarettes moving languidly, the ice clinking in their drinks, their laughter interspersed with a steady chorus of crickets.

After dinner Mother cleared the dishes and I moved out to the front steps where I could watch the three of them bathed in moonlight. Fireflies punctuated the darkness. The Brylcream in Ed's neatly combed black hair shined in the feeble light, and his voice rose like an angry river coursing over rocks as he told Willie how his cousin's kids were coming to live with us.

Mother wanted to know who would do the laundry, cooking, and clean the house. She worked full-time and Ed didn't do anything around the house.

"They'll settle all this trouble before it comes to that, you don't have to worry," Willie gave her a sympathetic look.

Mother watched Ed and Willie talk about the unfolding drama in Little Rock as the light faded from the sky and fireflies blinked on and off like alien spaceships come to earth. Willie laughed, leaned closer and lightly touched Ed's knee.

Mother rose, collected their empty glasses and headed for the kitchen. Ed gave her a pained expression and said something to Willie, who withdrew his hand and followed Mother across the lawn.

>From where I sat on the darkened front porch, I could see through the kitchen window-watched Mother pull a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator. She dumped ice cubes into their glasses, unscrewed a bottle of gin and splashed it over the ice. The bulb hanging from the ceiling reflected off Willie's bald pate as he lounged in the doorway. Mother's crisply ironed dress rustled when she moved.

"I don't know what to say," Willie shrugged. "He loves you. I know that. I wish you could at least understand."

"How can I understand something like this?" Mother placed her hands on her hips and sized up Willie. "My God, you've got it all worked out and now you think I'll just go along with it. You are unbelievable. And you want me to accept it as normal?"

"It's no big thing," Willie turned away sheepishly. "It started when we were kids, and we never outgrew it. He's all I've got. Can you imagine living in a small town like this? I can't do anything here without everyone knowing about it. Hell, people know what bills I have in my mailbox before I get to the post office."

"Move to a city where they got other people like you, Willie. Do something. I didn't move down here to put up with this."

"Ed said he told you, told you before you got married. He said you accepted him the way he was. You knew what you were getting into." Willie took his drink from the counter and started to pick up Ed's. Mother put her hand on top of it.

"Yes, Ed told me, but that doesn't mean I accept it. I don't think I ever will." Mother mixed the drinks with a long chrome-handled spoon.

"Can't the three of us get along. " Willie placed a hand on Mother's arm.

"Not the way you have in mind," Mother withdrew herself from his grasp.

"That's not what I mean, Jesus." Willie pleaded. "We could just try. Can't we accept each other?"

"It probably won't do any good for me to ask you to stop?

"I wish I could. I wish to God I could." Willie said softly.

*****

Our five-acre plot consisted of an overgrown wood lot, an open pasture surrounded by tumbled-down fences and an aging Victorian, built by Ed's grandfather, Captain C.C. Mathis, who fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. When we moved into the house, Ed took me into the backyard and told me that his grandmother's people, the Choctaw, owned all the land as far as we could see before the white man stole it from them. He said we'd fix it up like it had been when he was a kid and spent summers visiting his grandparents.

The house had sat vacant for ten years, ever since his mother died of cancer, and it needed a lot of work. The paint peeled in long strips. The front porch leaned precipitously and the wallpaper frayed like old skin. The hedgerows grew wildly, drainage ditches needed cleaning out, and Ed's list of repairs ran three pages long. I spent my summer vacation working through a list of things he wanted done before he got home from work.

Ed had become bitter and short-tempered from not finding work for a year after we moved. His mood improved with his new job at the highway department, even if he resented his lowly status as a junior clerk. We had money to pay the bills and the prospect of his cousin's kids moving in with us cheered him up. The better he felt, the more work he had for me. I cleaned out ditches, dug fence postholes and scraped flaking paint from the house. The lawn had to be mowed once a week, and Ed assured me that we would have the place in shape before school started in September.

Eagerly, I threw myself into the work and Ed praised my efforts. On Saturdays we worked together, me running to fetch a random screw, a handful of nails, or a length of bailing wire. Ed claimed such errands would teach me valuable lessons about life, although I had no idea what could be learned from fetching a handful of nails. I basked in his acceptance when the two of us rested on the tailgate of his pickup truck after a hard day's work and ate Snickers bars and drank Cokes.

Meanwhile, the newspaper reported on the happenings over in Little Rock, the days continued to grow hotter, and Willie started coming over three or four nights a week. Ed, Willie and Mother took plates of cold chicken, potato salad and freshly sliced tomatoes to the lawn chairs in the front yard to listen to Ed talk of the "impending crisis" and how somebody was going to shoot the President if he didn't stop "sticking his nose where it didn't belong."

*****

On Saturday night Willie, Ed and Mother were going out to Johnson's Corner-the first time I remember Ed and Mother going out dancing. Mother looked beautiful, dressed in a red flower-print dress, her hair newly permed, a smile parting her freshly painted lips. She hung on Ed's arm, steadying her high heels as she got into Willie's 1957 Chevy convertible.

"Don't stay up too late." She waved, sliding across the front seat. They pulled out of the driveway, leaving a mist of dust hanging in the sluggish air, My sister and I walked to the movies and came home late.

Loud voices awoke me in the middle of the night. The moon rode high in the sky. A car door slammed and someone swore. I strained to hear through the darkness.

"I hope you had a good time because we're never going back to that goddamn place," Ed's voice boomed in the night. "I won't have you dancing with no goddamn strangers."

"The hell with you! I'm going to bed."

"Come on Taylor Boy, let it go. She didn't mean nothin'." Willie sounded as if he were soothing a child's feelings. The bedroom door slammed.

"May not be nothin' to you, but my wife ain't dancin' with every Tom, Dick and Harry in the county. You might, but she ain't." Ed laughed.

"I might what?" Willie slurred his words.

"You might fuck anybody. You want her? Go ahead, try a woman for a change."

"Come on Taylor Boy, take it easy."

"You might as well have her too, I've already shared more with you than any man I've ever known. Take my wife too."

"You don't mean that."

"The hell I don't!" The front door slammed and Willie's car pulled out of the driveway.

*****

The next morning I returned from Sunday school to find Willie's convertible parked in the driveway with the top down, and Willie's sports coat resting casually on the couch in the living room. Voices came from the bedroom, and the bathroom door slammed when I came in the front door. In the bedroom door, a fan blew across an empty bed, the sheets in a bunch on the floor. The shower went on in the bathroom and Mother came to the doorway clutching her blue robe tightly at the neck. "You're home early." She sounded like she'd been sleeping and had just got up. A scent hung in the air, a mixture of sweat, Brylcream and flower blossoms.

"Church has been over for half-an-hour."

"Well, change your clothes and go out to play, Tell your sister to start dinner and I'll be in to help a little while." She closed the door in my face before I could tell her I was too big to "go play."

After I changed out of our church clothes, I went into the kitchen where my sister was patting down naked drumsticks in a mantle of white flour and dropping them into a pan of hot grease that popped and splattered on the stove. I sawed through ripe red tomatoes, allowing the juice to pool on the table.

"Do you think those cousins really going to come live with us?"

I asked, "Well if they do, I want to know how we're going to share one little chicken between all of us?"

"It feeds six now; one more won't make any difference." I sat at the table watching her turn down the fire under the skillet.

"You math isn't too good. There's five in this family, or haven't you counted lately?" she smiled at me like I was an idiot.

"Willie makes six or haven't you noticed that he's one of the family now?" I mimicked her.

Abruptly I rose, went out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind me. The sun was high in the sky, the garden behind the toolshed turned limp in the heat. I wanted to take my skin off and throw it off the porch the way I would a dirty pair of overalls. I didn't want some strangers coming to live with us, even if they were Ed's cousin's kids. How could our family make room for two more kids? We couldn't. We already had Willie insinuating himself into the family and things were getting crowded.

Sure Willie made Ed and Mother laugh when he told them about the art galleries, the symphony, and the cocktail bars where he went in Dallas and Tulsa, but he wasn't part of our family. Ed and Mother had never been to a symphony in their lives, so they didn't need to listen to Willie talk about conductors and movements and jazz combos like they knew what he was talking about.

Willie was redefining our household and making us something we weren't. Maybe he did it to 'broaden their horizons," as he said, or maybe he did it because he and Ed had known each other their whole lives. Or maybe he was changing our lives because Mother and Ed admired his sports coats, dapper slacks and clean pressed shirts with the silver cufflinks. He had been to college, lived in Dallas and made broad sweeping statements that brought the outside world to our doorstep, but I was growing tired of the three of them sitting out in the yard like they had something special going that nobody else could be in on.

*****

After dinner Willie pulled up in his convertible and motioned me over to the car. "Listen to this." He turned the radio up and snapped his fingers, bouncing in his seat as music spilled across the quiet evening. When the song ended, Willie turned the music down and asked how my summer was going. I told him that I'd ridden my bike out to the lake that afternoon.

"We have us a regular damn heat wave." Willie looked me up and down. "Going swimming in the lake sound like a good idea. It'll make your body fit and lean. Maybe I should get my bike out and ride with you."

Willie turned to Ed when he came out the front door.

"I tell you Ed, this music is hotter than a three-dollar pistol. The boy and me were just listening to the Platters. Wonderful group. You listen to them?"

"I don't listen to that kind of music; I'm surprised you do." Ed pulled out a Lucky Strike and lit a match.

"It's the sound of freedom." Willie laughed. "This music frees you from the everyday hubbub, makes you want to kick up your heels and dance. It's young Ed. It's in the air. You got to feel it, get with it. Things are changing around us; it's not the same old world as when we were kids."

"I'm lookin' but I don't see no difference."

"Things are starting to change. I can feel it. You got to change with it."

"Lord help us," Ed said.

The summer moved on, filled with hot muggy days without pause or relief. The first day of school grew near and we still had no word of the cousins coming to stay with us. In the end, they didn't come, and Willie left for Dallas. He claimed that Ed's cousin must have seen that things were changing and couldn't escape the inevitable.

The End

Family Supper

By Don Monkerud

Saturdays are not my favorite. A body should be able to sleep until noon or at least until she can't stay in bed no more and I should have stayed in bed Saturday rather than get the hell beat out of me, but I didn't see it coming. Mama doesn't go to work on Saturdays and she calls up to me from the bottom of the stairs. "Get out of bed, child, there's things to get done," like I don't have a clue that she's going to work me to the bone and I'll have to help fix supper on top of it.

There's more chores than you can shake a stick at around this house. I do the washin' during the week, but by Saturday, everything's dirty again. There's Mama's waitress uniforms to wash and her white shoes to polish. Daddy leaves his clothes all over the house and I have to pick them up. I have to collect the beer cans and glasses with melted ice cubes that sit everywhere: on the windowsills, in the bathroom, on top of the dressers. You name it. Then I dust the house and clean out all the dirty ashtrays.

After all that, you'd think Mama would give me a rest, but no. She ain't done yet. I got to pick up my room, vacuum and dust, and then she examines it like a drill sergeant to make sure I done a good job. Maybe not first thing in the morning, but I make my bed every day; that should be enough.

"Come on kids, get up!" Mama shouts again after I doze off. I turn over and kick the sheets from around my legs, my little sister, Janey is snoring like a log, so I shake her awake. She grumbles because she knows what's in store.

"Get up! Breakfast will be ready in two shakes," Mama calls again. I hear Daddy-he's really my stepdaddy-say something and the bedsprings squeak. Pretty soon Mama is banging pans around in the kitchen. I rub the sleep from my eyes. There's no use resisting. If Mama comes up here, there'll be hell to pay. Janey makes me feel like a sourpuss when her smile bursts over the room like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. That damn child wakes up happy every morning. I can't believe it. I push her out of bed, tear the sheets off and throw them in a pile for the wash, get dressed in my house cleaning clothes, and hurry down to breakfast.

Mama's at the stove stirring oatmeal. I can tell she's fixing to work us today because she's wearing her old shorts and has a rag wrapped 'round her head like a washerwoman. Is there any way I can get out of this?

"Mama, can I go to the Walden's to ride their horse this afternoon?" I butter the toast while Mama ladles the oatmeal into our bowls. Daddy comes into the kitchen, pulls on his pants over his boxer shorts and sits down to pull his slippers on. His hair is all mussed up. He hasn't shaved yet. Mama washes the pan in the sink. She's busy smilin' at Daddy and ain't payin' one bit of attention to me.

"Mama! Can I ride the horse this afternoon?" My voice is more urgent now. I glare at Janey as she scurries to set the table. Bless her heart. At least someone around here wants to please me. I wait for an answer then repeat the question for a third time. We pull the chairs out and sit down to eat oatmeal.

"Can I go too?" Janey squeals, jumping around in her chair like she has ants in her pants.

"I'm not having her tagging along. I'll go by myself or I won't go." My oatmeal is getting' cold, but this is more important because I'm planning to meet Mike. He's this high school boy who's handsome and real nice to me: he says I got the best figure of any girl around. Janey scoops sugar into her bowl like it's goin' out of style. I swear that child will die of sugar poisoning the way she's goin'. No wonder she's smilin' all the time.

"We'll see how the cleaning goes." Mama carefully spreads jam on her toast. "I want you to help me fix dinner tonight, so don't get your hopes up."

I start to protest but it's no use. Even if she promises now, she'll turn right around and change her mind later. She's like that, but I'm going come hell or high water, as Daddy says. If not today, then I'll go after school on Monday, before Mama gets home from work. And I'm not walking Janey home either; I'm ditchin' that girl. She's plenty old enough to get herself home from school. It's not that I don't love my little sister, but she has to stand on her own two feet and get independent like the rest of us. Besides, if she went with me, she'd tell Mama everything that happened and Mama wouldn't let me see Mike again.

Daddy comes into the kitchen and pours himself a big cup of coffee. He don't eat nothin' for breakfast 'cept coffee. He looks about half asleep this morning, probably because he and Mama were drinkin' again last night. After the story Daddy told at supper, it's no wonder. He goes into the living room and sits back in his lounger, lights a cigarette and blows smoke rings toward the ceiling.

"Take your elbows off the table!" Mama scolds me. "You act like a truck driver."

"But Mama, Daddy drives a truck," I remind her.

"I know, honey. I had to teach him too. He used to eat with his elbows on the table hunched over his food like some vulture." Mama blotted her mouth with a napkin, as if to remind me that I'm not supposed to wipe mine on my sleeve.

"But Mama, you said you don't even like to eat." I change the subject because I don't want Daddy to hear her talkin' about him. They might start in fightin' like Mama did with my Daddy and my other stepdaddy, and then knows? Maybe we'd wind up in another trailer park like we done last time.

"If you served as many restaurant meals as I have, you wouldn't ever want to see food again, let alone eat it. Working around food takes your appetite away." Mama pushes her bowl away and lights a cigarette, stuffing the match in her oatmeal.

"Being around all that food would just make me hungry," I tell her.

"Well, I'm glad because now that you girls are getting older, you can start fixin' dinner for me when I get home. I'm bushed after work. I'll teach you how to cook somethin' besides macaroni and cheese too."

Janey washes the dishes and I start in cleanin' the bathroom. Mama comes in and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. She seems far away, like she's lost in thought.

"Remember what Daddy told you last night?"

I crinkle my nose and think. Daddy talked like the radio last night, rambling on about baseball, his job, the president, so many things I can't hardly remember no details.

"About the sheriff's deputy?" Mama blows smoke toward the open window and examines her fingernails.

Now I remember. It's rare that we all eat together. Usually Mama and Daddy eat in the dining room, and Janey and I eat in the kitchen, which is fine with me, because Mama makes us use our manners when we eat with her. I'm pretty good; I remember things like which hand to hold my fork in when I cut my meat and how to butter little pieces of bread instead of buttering the whole slice at once and crammin' it in my mouth.

Last night I set Daddy and Mama's place in the dining room and Janey and mine in the kitchen, then Daddy decided we'd all eat together. I put away the old chipped plates us kids use in the kitchen and got out the China and cloth napkins I ironed last week.

The white linen tablecloth was stretched smooth with the silverware and plates in their proper places and the food sittin' in bowls ready for us to start eatin'. Daddy wore a starched white shirt and his black hair slicked back with Vitalis. With his dark skin, he looked dignified like he was a judge or maybe the bank president, which he says he would've been if his cousins hadn't cheated him out of his birthright.

Daddy said grace and I filled my plate, but just when I started to eat, he laid his knife and fork on his plate and folded his hands. He stared at the bowl in the center of the table like it was a crystal ball and he was going to tell our fortunes.

"I almost got a ticket today," Daddy said real serious.

"You don't drive fast." Mama paused with her fork in midair. I could see a lecture comin'.

"I came off the hill by the roller rink. There's never any traffic, so I downshifted to first and went through the stop sign like I always do. Except today this deputy is on me like a hornet, writing a ticket."

"Rolling stops are the same as runnin' a stop sign," Mama reminded him, but Daddy sat there staring at her until she let it drop.

"If you're through, I'll continue." Daddy flicked some breadcrumbs off the tablecloth and cleared his throat. "What's legal ain't the point of this story. Besides, what's illegal for some is legal for others. I don't get tickets. Can you see some peckerwood half my age giving me a ticket? I asked him if he knew who I was, and when I told him I was the Country Road Commissioner's cousin, he about peed in his pants."

"Deputies know better than to mess with me." Daddy tapped the table with his finger. "I may not be as tough as I was when I was twenty-five, but I could kick his ass." He rearranged the knife and fork on his plate and moved his water glass. "Did I tell you the story about the last time one of them peckerwoods came after me?"

I started to ask permission to leave the table, like I was in school or somethin', because once Daddy gets goin', you can be there all night. Mama shook her head sheepishly. Damn, I wanted to watch TV tonight too.

"After mother died, when I was staying out here in the house by myself." Daddy stared at me because he wanted us to pay particular attention when he told stories about his family. They used to be famous, owned all the land hereabouts, as far as you can see, Daddy said. He hadn't taken a bite of his dinner and he didn't look like he was going to.

"I felt terrible after burying my Mother. Anyway, I was headed down to the post office in my old pickup when it died, right in the middle of the road.

"Wouldn't nobody help me push it. I used to know everybody in this town, but when I looked up, there weren't nothin' but strangers sitting in their cars like they was crippled. I pushed the truck over to Thompson's garage by myself. I'll be damned if a deputy didn't pull in right behind me. He sauntered up like he owned the place and started to inspect my truck.

"'Where was you when I needed help pushin' my truck?" I asked.

"'I don't push cars,' he told me, lookin' real self important."

"'If that ain't a tall dog in a short skirt,' I says. I wanted to grab the little shit and shake his pants down around his ankles. Instead, I lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his face. 'You're a public servant, ain't you?' I asked."

"'I ain't nobody's servant, buddy, and for your smart mouth, I'm going to write you a ticket for obstructing traffic.' He said. I laughed in his face when he asked to see my driver's license. Then I told him who my cousin was, but he wouldn't have none of that."

"You're crusin' for a bruisin'. I told him."

Janey and I cracked up and Daddy smiled, straightened his knife and fork again.

"'If you think a jackass deputy is goin' to give me a ticket, you're full of shit,' I told him straight out."

Mama gave Daddy a sharp look 'cause she don't like him cussin', especially around us kids. Daddy cleared his throat and took a sip of water. Us kids had stopped eating and were waitin' for him to continue.

"'You were tying up traffic and I'm giving you a ticket,' the fella insisted."

"All of what, three cars! Damn, woops sorry, he got my dander up. 'What kind of low down city person just sits there and watches somebody push his car without a helpin'? People used to help each other. Now look at 'em!'

"'Let me see your driver's license,' The deputy said and I told him to stick it where the sun don't shine, turned my back on him and put my foot up on the running board.

"He didn't know I had holt of a towin' chain in the pickup bed. When he grabbed me and spun me around, I caught him right up side the head with that chain. Beat the livin' Jesus out of him, up one side of the street and down the other. I probably would've killed him if they hadn't pulled me off. They had to take him away in an ambulance."

Daddy sat there proudly, like he owned the whole town. He told lots of stories at the supper table, but none like that. I went right up to my room after I did the supper dishes last night because I didn't want to do anything to get Daddy mad at me, not after a story like that.

Mama watched me scour the sink from where she sat on the tub. "Don't you ever repeat that story to anyone."

"Everybody probably already knows anyway."

"Let's just say that Daddy stretches the truth sometimes." Mama looks down at the cigarette in her hand.

"You don't mean he lies, Mama?"

"Just little lies, white lies, nothin' that hurts anybody. I don't know why, he just feels he has to exaggerate things. Men are like that."

"You mean he didn't beat up that deputy?"

Mama doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Let's just drop it, not mention it again."

"I don't understand, Mama."

"He probably didn't hurt the deputy as much as he claimed, or they would have arrested him. Let's keep it our little secret."

"But Mama."

"Not a word to anyone. Ever!"

"If you say so Mama." My agreement is not without a price. "Mama?"

"Now what?"

"I need to shave my legs."

Suddenly, her face looks tired. She takes a drag off her cigarette and looks out the window.

"Mama?" I stamp my foot. Am I supposed to wait all day for an answer?

"Let's not start this again," she says, flicking her ashes into the clean sink I just washed.

She thinks she's getting' tired of this, I'm really tired of it. My legs look like some hairy ape's because she won't let me shave. I put my leg on the tub to show her. "See that hair?"

"Don't you look at me like that, young lady!" She pushes my leg away.

"I'm thirteen. All the girls shave. This is ridiculous. I'm cutting the hair off my legs."

"You will not! You'll wait until you're old enough."

"And when is that supposed to be?"

"When I say you're old enough." She's real mad by now but I don't care.

"What? When I'm an old maid?" I demand.

Mama jumps up and slaps me. I start bawlin'.

"Why are you afraid I'll grow up?" I yell through my tears.

"Don't talk to me in that tone of voice!"

"You don't listen to me," I argue. "You don't care what I look like!"

"I know how boys are." Her face is red, but her voice changes, gets gentle. "The first thing I know one of them will start messin' with you and you'll grow up too fast."

"Boys! Boys! That's all I ever hear from you. Don't you ever think about me, your daughter?"

She slaps me again and I run into the dining room. She chases after me and pushes me against the wall. I shove back for all I'm worth, and Mama staggers back.

"Don't you ever raise a hand against your mother! I've never seen such insolence!" She slaps me again and again. We are both shaking and I scoot away so she can't reach me. Snot and tears flood down my face and I wipe my nose on my forearm.

"Keep your hands off me or I'll tell my teacher." I try to keep my voice steady.

"Don't tell me what to do," Mama yells at me and chases me into the living room where I trip over the goddamned vacuum cleaner that Janey left in the middle of the floor. I land hard on my side and Mama is right on top of me, swinging like a crazy woman. I'm tied up in the vacuum cleaner cord. Mama grabs the hose and it swings at me. She misses and knocks over the lamp, giving me time to escape. The vacuum cleaner is between us and Mama's eyes are filled with hate.

"I'm going to shave my legs."

Mama just stares at me like she can't make up her mind what to do. She's already beaten me to a pulp; she can't hurt me no more.

"Don't you know I love you? I'm doing this for your own good. I won't have you growing up too fast. I don't want the boys after you like they were after me. I want you to enjoy your childhood while you can."

"Because you didn't?" I'm so mad I could eat nails.

"I'm not going to have a daughter of mine parading around town."

"You're just jealous because I have a better figure than you do!" My tears stop. Mama stands there for a long moment and everything gets real still.

The End