The beginnings of one novel idea (started 18 years ago!)

As he rushed up to me, dropping the Bulls hat he'd used to conceal the gun, I didn't even try to run. Getting shot in the stomach maybe I could handle, but being shot from behind scared me to death. I knew he was going to kill me. In this city, you give up your money, your car, your virginity, and you die anyway.

I was afraid of not knowing when it would come, afraid of the noise of the pistol. My skin turned cold. Then an eerie calm settled over me, almost as if I was merely watching, yet curiously aware of every detail. Him, shifting from one foot to the other like he had to go to the bathroom...me, trying not to cry, trying not to laugh, trying not to feel anything.

Was it money? Was it a gang initiation? The cold hard steel thrusting into my stomach held no answer. I couldn't even look at his face beyond that first instinctive glance of the eyes, but I smelled him...the intimate smell of his cologne, his shaving lotion, the detergent on his clothes. Chest hair curling over the brisk white tank, a silver bracelet quivering in the light of the street lamp, gray pants in motion hanging loosely over his Nikes. Nice of you to dress so formally. I could feel him shaking through the gun.

"Don't move. Give me your purse, bitch." I am not a bitch. In my haste, I dropped the purse to the ground from its secure place under my arm.

"Stupid bitch! Get it!" He didn't even sound angry, but the gun pushed deeper into me as I bent over, thrusting under my shirt. I thought I would vomit, but the pressure of the gun, the heat from his hand just inches from my skin made me too self-conscious. He grabbed the purse from my hands with his smooth, uncalloused hand, pushing the gun even further into me, hurting me. I winced, but remained silent. Schooled at feeling nothing, I could only look into his dark eyes.

He stood there for a moment, taking in my face, plain and blank. In his eyes, in the light of the streetlamps, I saw desolation and something else. He moved closer, and I could see a single drop of sweat sliding out from under his neat, dark hair. He brushed past me, his warm arm almost caressing mine, as if he was in no hurry.

He turned one last time. His gun fired aimlessly, orange and gray in my memory, whistling into nowhere. Then he was gone, sweeping around the fence into the parking lot.

I stood stunned, not quite sure if it was safe to move yet, still shocked to be alive. I looked up to see six guys running toward me from the karate shop in the back of the lot. A thousand voices, "Are you alright?" I couldn't answer. Deep inside, this heightened sense of each movement, of each smell, of each detail. The coarse, moist hands of my would-be rescuers guiding me to the curb. The smell of pungent sweat from the karate guys. The sound of cars slowing, passing on the street. And finally, the lights of two police cars. The men crowded around the patrol car, pointing and talking furiously. One left, heading in the same general direction of the thief.

It was then that I sat down hard on the curb, knees suddenly weak, only to spring back up again, my protective shell shattering in the blinding lights of the police car. What if he saw them talking to me? Over the blaring police radio, I heard the dispatcher calling for assistance in a drive-by shooting two blocks from us. Thirteen year old boy, shot in the back. Dead. Why not me?

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Officer Hayden, according to his name tag, got out of his car like a man eager to fight, clipboard in hand.

All I could manage at first was a shrug. "I'm alive. Who am I to complain?"

"All right then, let's get some details." The clipboard clattered as he began his report. Questions fired from between his pursed lips, fingers pushing so hard on the pen, it looked like he was making the report out in braille. I told him what he wanted to know...my name, address, phone. Do I have any I.D.? Um, no. I suddenly wanted to laugh.

The officer was trying to be protective, sympathetic. He found my slight smile annoying. "We need details on the suspect." He leaned toward me, his soft face pale and prickly. "Can you remember what he looked like?"

Down to the cologne he wore. I started to laugh, coughed instead as I told him everything I could remember. His gold pen gleamed orange in the light. I didn't know why I felt like laughing. Perhaps it was some kind of self-protection. Mental karate.

"Fact is, we see this almost every night...night is when the scum come out." He called in the description, staring at the karate guys with a frown. I'm not scum, I thought. I don't even live in a scummy neighborhood. I don't even have any money...he's the one with the Nikes.

"What was in your purse, ma'am?"

"Four dollars, diver's license, check book, two credit cards, pictures of my family, and my library card."

He scribbled some more on his report. "Be sure to cancel your credit cards right away, and your checks."

Do I look like an idiot to you? I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter trapped in. I was embarrassed because I wasn't amused. I was scared stiff, trembling even, but still, this impulse to laugh wouldn't leave. The officer looked at me strangely.

"Sign right here, ma'am," he said with the tired, bored voice of a man on the streets. "Be sure to be extra cautious at home for a while...muggers don't usually go to their victims' houses, but just to be safe. Would you like a ride home?"

"No thank you." I didn't want to go home. I wanted desperately to get out of there. To be in the quiet sanctity of my car with the music blaring and the doors locked. to be driving away from the city to any place.

I was seized with the desire to cry, but with everyone hovering around, telling anyone who would listen their version of the story, I folded my arms tightly around myself and began to walk to my car instead.

"We can follow you home if you'd like, ma'am."

For the rest of my life? "Thank you, no."

The Lie

I don't know when the lying started. The first lie I can remember was when I lied about eating a container of chocolate icing when I was 8. Now it's just become a way of life for me. I tell myself I have to. I live on the streets. And the stuff I say is partly true...I DO have two kids. It's just that they live in foster care and someone else feeds them every day. And I AM hungry. Lying is a way of life, isn't it? People lie to me all the time...they clutch their fancy handbag close to their nice warm jackets and tell me, "I don't have any money," as they practically run to their car.

Today, Marla's with me. Usually I find people give me more when I'm alone, and they feel less afraid. But I can't say no to Marla...she's saved me more than once. She calls me her sister, and I guess it's close enough. I never had a sister before, so I'm glad she thinks of me like that. If I did have a sister, I doubt she would take care of me the way Marla does. She nearly ripped that guy apart trying to save me from his grimy hands two weeks ago. She calls me Sissy, which isn't my real name, but I don't care. Alyssa is too fancy a name for a woman on the streets anyhow.

The corner we're on is near a convenience store. Marla holds up the sign that says, "Hungry kids to feed. Please help." Every so often someone will toss some coins at us, or call out to us to get some paper money. So far today, we've got 15 dollars. Pretty good for a Wednesday. Sunday and Monday are better days, Wednesday, not so much. I figure Sunday and Monday are good because folks who go to church get to feeling all high and mighty, thinking it's their duty to help us. Not that I'm complaining. I even say "bless you" when people give us money, just to make them feel good. A little positive reinforcement, you know what I mean? I just figure God didn't take much note of me in my life, and I'm just returning the favor.

Well, we're just standing there, not much traffic. A woman gets out of her car and heads toward us, big smile plastered on her face. I tap Marla's arm, and she wakes from her napping. I never could figure out how she can sleep standing up, but she does it all the time. This woman comes up, smelling like flowers and baby powder, dressed in casual but nice clothes. No sign of a purse. "Hi, I'm Beth. What are your names?"

I'm not feeling inclined to answer right away...she doesn't have a purse, right? But then, maybe there's some money in her pockets. "I'm Sissy and this is Marla." I stick my rough hand into her soft one and return her radiant smile with a half-hearted one of my own. She asks me if we have somewhere to stay that night. That's when it dawns on me...this is one of those shelter folks.

I immediately felt as if all the air had vanished from the room. This shouldn't have been a big deal. I'm a grown woman. I hadn't done anything wrong. And yet, standing there in front of my father, all six foot one of him, I felt panic, a panic like I hadn't experienced since I was about 14 and my dad threatened to leave me on a street corner naked, just to prove to me that he could.

Part of me, the rational part, reminded me that it was just the disease talking. I looked past his thick, furrowed eyebrows and watched his eyes, normally grey and confused, suddenly become sharp and alert. "I know you've been stealing batteries from me, girl." He raised his arm and stuck one finger out toward my face, an inch from my nose. Memories flooded over me from my childhood. I remember when he used to do the very same thing when I was a kid, and how so many times, I had just wanted to bite that finger off.

I took a deep breath, and opted for distraction. "I think I remember seeing those batteries in the livingroom, Dad. Let's go look for them." It took everything in me to smile and step toward him. He looked uncertain for a moment, then turned with me and began to walk slowly down the hall. He was saying something under his breath that I couldn't understand. I was grateful that the television was on as we entered the room, because it drew his attention away from me. He shuffled to his chair and sat back, hands folded across his stomach, eyes half-closed, just like the old days.

_____________________________________

Staying overnight with my dad became more challenging each time. He had trouble sleeping at night, and would get up and wander all over the house. We had removed the handles from the stove so he couldn't turn it on by himself, and all doors leading outside had deadbolts. I kept the key around my neck so he couldn't find it. I was a light sleeper, so I usually woke up when he began to move around.

Not this time. I awoke to find him standing over my bed. "Dad! You scared me!" I said as I sat up.

"Be quiet!" He yelled at me. I quickly switched the light on, and discovered that he was even more agitated than usual. "Where's Lori?" He demanded.

"She had to step out to the store," I lied deftly. My mother had died three years ago, but  my dad couldn't remember that. He was always asking for her. If I told him she was dead, he would sob and be heartbroken for hours, forgetting after a while why he was crying, but still inconsolable.

I got up carefully and reached to pat his arm. "What do you need, Dad?" He had that half-angry, half-scared look in his eyes again. His fists were clenched. I had learned to keep my distance. He had been a marine in his youth and a heavy duty mechanic before he retired, and those arms were still powerful enough to do serious damage. It was hard to know what would soothe him when he was like this.

"I want ice cream." He looked like he was about to cry. "I can't find it." He stepped closer to me, and it was then that I caught the scent of urine. Apparently, he had had an accident.

It was pointless to tell him that it was the middle of the night. It was also pointless to remind him that he had diabetes and shouldn't have ice cream. "Okay, Dad. I'll get some for you. First, let's go change your clothes. You want to look handsome when Mom gets home, don't you?"

He relaxed and nearly smiled at the prospect of seeing Mom. He shuffled after me to his room, where we wrestled with his clothes and got him rinsed off. Even just getting him into the shower these days was tough, but tonight he was unusually cooperative, eager to be ready for his wife to come home. Of all the caregiving duties I had assumed after my mom's death, washing him was the hardest. There was nothing comfortable about bathing my dad, who at his nicest had been gruff and awkward most of his life. I tried to do it quickly and efficiently, but that was getting harder and harder. I usually let the daytime attendant take care of that. Thank God for the veterans benefits my dad qualified for. I couldn't have cared for him 24 hours a day.

It was especially hard as the disease diminished his inhibitions day by day. I had to buy clothing that zipped in the back so he couldn't take his clothes off himself, otherwise he would take his clothes off over and over. Soon I wouldn't be able to care for him at home at all. Already my business was suffering from my exhaustion and inability to concentrate.

By the time he was dried off and dressed, he had forgotten about both my mother and the ice cream, and had slipped back in time to an early memory of being bathed and dressed for bed by his mom. He climbed into bed without a word and within a few minutes, had fallen asleep again.

Andy

    “Are you sure you don’t want to step on the other foot, too?” Martha asked impatiently as her four year old looked up with a grin. It was hard to be mad in the face of his sunny smile.

     “You’re so funny, mommy.” His big blue eyes in the sunlight were stunning, and his perfect tiny white teeth shone back at her with only a slight remnant of the chocolate cone he had just finished on his face.

     “Let’s get a move on, bud…places to go and people to see!” She reached down to take his hand in hers as they crossed the street, rustling around in her purse for a tissue to wipe his face with. Andy waved at others as they crossed toward them, and said hello in his warmest voice as they passed each one. Several people smiled back at him, others rushed by without so much as a nod. They reached the other side and the bench for the bus stop. Martha pulled Andy onto her lap. The elderly lady looked up from her terribly crouched position to offer Andy a toothy smile of her own.

     “Hello, there!” She turned her head slightly so she could see his face better. He smiled at her without reservation and put his hand out to touch her brightly colored cane.

     “I like your cane,” he said. “It has so many colors.”

     “I painted it myself, several years ago.” She patted the cane with a spotted, wrinkled hand. “I used to be an artist, you know.”

     “I’m an artist, too.” Andy’s face looked intense with concentration. “What’s several?”

“Oh, that means more years than I can keep track of with this old brain.” Her hand flew to her graying head and tapped it. “So tell me, little one…what kind of art do you like to do?”

His grin stretched from ear to ear. He wrested his hand free from his mom’s grasp so he could use both hands. He just couldn’t talk properly without using his hands. “Let’s see…I like to color with crayons, and make statues with clay, and color on my wall with paints or markers. But mom says I shouldn’t do that because then she has to pay to fix it. It doesn’t need to be fixed…I make good pictures!”  He made a slightly reproachful face at his mom, as the old lady giggled toward her lap, but continued on. “I really like gluing things to paper, too.

Matthew

                The little boy had red hair, of which he was very proud. Grandpa had red hair, before it had turned gray, his momma said. Of course, the little boy hadn’t believed her at first. As long as he could remember, grandpa’s hair had always been gray. But Grandpa and Grandma and Uncle Charlie had all promised that it was true, and now he believed it. Besides, it made his heart glad to know he was like his Grandpa. Grandpa had been a brave soldier, and he had built his house with his own two hands.

                He also made wonderful things out of wood. “I’ve been carving wood since I was knee-high to a grasshopper,“ Grandpa always said, which always made Matthew laugh. Imagine being that small! He had even begun to show Matthew how to carve, too. He would take a block of wood and turn it into a fox or a tree or a little girl, just like that. They were magic, the things that he made, and as he carved, he always told stories that little Matthew loved.

                Right now, Matthew’s red hair was covered with a blue hat. He had on his jacket and some gloves, and in his hands he held a carefully wrapped box. Momma carried Matthew’s little sister, and Daddy carried a few things in a box to give to Grandpa from his house. His big brown eyes stared at the large building, feeling weird about Grandpa living there now instead of in his own house. This was his first visit to Grandpa there since Grandpa had moved. Momma said Grandpa, who was 84 years old now,  was not getting on too well now, and there were lots of things wrong with him, too many things for it to be safe living alone since Grandma had died. Matthew’s house was really little and there was no place for Grandpa to live with them, even though Matthew really wanted him to. They only had two rooms, and Matthew and his sister shared a room, and Momma was going to have another baby soon.

                They walked into a big room, filled with couches and chairs. Most of the chairs held old women with gray hair, covered with blankets, who seemed very interested in looking at him and his sister. He couldn’t blame them…whatever they were watching on TV seemed really boring. One man walked up to Matthew and said something that was hard to understand, then walked over to the Christmas tree and began to examine the lights. Matthew went over to the tree and looked at the lights, too. Then the old man bent down and looked at the bottom of the tree. Matthew squatted down, too, and looked under the tree. The old man looked at him and smiled and touched his hair, but a moment later, he stood slowly, looking confused and wandered off.

                “Matthew!” Momma called. “This way, son.”

                He stood and followed them down the hall.  He was feeling a little worried. Would Grandpa be mad that he hadn’t come sooner? He stood behind his dad as they went into Grandpa’s apartment, just in case. He peeked out from behind his dad and saw Grandpa standing up. He smiled vaguely at them, and said in his deep voice, “Why hello! Visitors! How nice!” Momma went up and kissed him on the cheek, and Matthew could see that Grandpa was happy about that. Then, Matthew couldn’t wait any longer, and he ran up to Grandpa, wrapping his arms around his legs and smiling up at him. Grandpa’s eyes met his, and he carefully sat down in his old chair. “Why, aren’t you the cutest little boy I ever saw,” Grandpa said. “You look like a little boy I once knew.”

                “Grandpa!” Matthew cried out with a grin. “It’s me, Matthew!!”  Then he kissed him on his cheek. He handed him his present. “Here’s a Christmas present for you, Grandpa.”