Four Acts of Love in the Afternoon
by Dalia Rose
Smashwords Edition, Electronic Editing,
Published By Wayne Press July 2011.
Copyright © 2011 by Dalia Rose
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, either in whole or in part, in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Four Acts of Love in an Afternoon
by Dalia Rose
Emerson Hughes
God’s surely shinin’ down on this one, today. And I’m glad for it. Makes the goin’ for these ole bones easier. Crossin the forty feet of grass between my house and that church. It seems to get longer. Each time I make the journey. But. It always worth it.‘Specially today with everyone out in their finery.
Thank you again, God, for takin’ my hearin and leavin’ my eye sight. I’m not ten feet from my front porch when the ladies start headin my way. OH, bless me they can talk. I can see their mouths movin up and down. Their arms wavin’. They’re comin at me. So I wait. There are something things you just can’t escape. Sometimes you take the hook to the jaw just because it’s there. So, you can lift your head back up, look your opponent in the eye and ask for another. That always got them. Shook ‘um up harder than any punch I had ever thrown. Don’ work on these women though. Just eggs ‘um on. So, I wait. The distant bubbling of voices gets louder. Click. That’s better. Keep’um outta my head. Hook takin’.
A woman standing by her car. I’d never seen her before. She’s all still like. So different from the flappin’ Betty’s. Her so still. A breeze blows up. Her hair crossed her face, but she did nothin’. Just stood there. And for a moment I saw my beloved Martha.
I escaped that vision turnin’ back to the ladies who swarmed around me. I continued my journey to the church. I had a feelin’ that at any moment they might lift me into the air on their shoulders. They were frettin’ around me so. Not movin fast enough for them. God, save me from that. There are some things a man can handle. And there are some things that will break him.
Step by step I move my objecting body into the church. I take the edge of the first pew. One of the women is useful and sets down a pillow she snatched in the cupboard by the door. I feel the creaking and suck in a breath when I land. For all of its smooth surface the bench is muffled spikes. Oh, to be old. My mind surpassed my body decades ago. I still mourn it’s loss, with that of my Martha. My two regrets. But I still have my memories. They feed me in my darker moments.
Jerry Faulker’s boy sits slumped in the pew next to me. All wiggles and shifts. I remember that feeling. Though now stillness is my greatest comfort. But he’s a thinkin of something. His eyes are roving. They keep settling on something. Something that gives him sour apple suck face. I look. And I chuckle, understanding. That Jesus always was a little much. Blood, death, and despair. There’s enough in life. Church should be a place of rest from life’s weight. Leave it at the door so you can sit in God’s peace.
Miss Jennie always has it right. Though she brings peace with her everywhere she goes. Probably why she teaches that Sunday School. All the children love her. Think sometimes they treat her so good cause they think they’ll break her. Her love of God is just all around her. Talking to her is like being in church. All peace and calm. She’s a plain little thing but with God always with her, which I think he is. God never leaves that one. She is not plain at all. She is sitten’ so calmly. I swear the sunlight is reachin to touch her.
I wish for that kind of peace. But I’ve never been that pure. My heart is rugged and scarred. Filled with the years of my life. There ain’t much room left for God. But I got a small place for him. And He has a small place for me on this pew. A pillow on my seat is plenty of heaven for me.
* * * * *
Linda Jane Meyers
The sun shimmers off of everything. The brass cross elevated over the gathering flashes faith in the sun. Even the dull grey pavement sparkle and is hard to look at. A screen with the resolution turned up too high so colors wash out into various shades of glare. Even the sound is blinding. High pitched cackles spike admits the flow of conversation. A flock of doves chittering at each other, pecking at the food of conversation thrown about the front lawn. A breeze blows through them to raise the scattering voices into a frenzy. Voices rising high, startled, flapping their wings in exclamation, then floating back down.
I can’t let go of the car door.
Its steady weight and heavy metal do not yield in my grip. The edge of the door bores into my palm at my own strength and I wish for more. Because it is not distracting enough. Not enough pain in this moment to keep me from remembering the pain of the past. That past moment, a negative in shadows to this painting in bright. I wished for pain to help me focus enough to take the next breath and not exhale all of my anguish compressed in a writhing ball in my chest.
Because I had been wrong. Twenty years was not enough.
Oh, Mother.
And I am there again.
It’s quieter there. The flock is subdued, their heads lowered into their chests of grey and sorrow. The air is stale and slow, keeping pace with the coffin bearers slow steady strides. But all I see is wood grain and the hovering dark keeping pace beneath where my mother sleeps. I try to step into it. My shiny black strapped toes dip into the edge. Ebb. Then it flows away. Another step. Trying to touch the last mark she is making on the world. Then it flows away.
I lay my hands on the cool varnished wood, willing them to sink through to her. To touch her hair. The curly mass that would float on the wind. A mist of curls to tickle my nose as her arms held me firm and her love made me laugh.
And I cried. My legs barely keeping me up as my mind disengaged and my heart exploded, my nose flat to the wood. I clawed the woods perfect surface, wanting to rend it apart for all it was keeping from me.
Oh, Mother.
* * * * *
Christopher Franks
Ok, God. Can we talk for a bit?
I mean, I’m in church and all and its really great. OK, I guess you know that’s a lie. I mean why do we have to sit on these crazy hard bench seats anyway? I know you designed the Arc and you had a totally huge amount of birds and bees come onto it and fill it. And it was out and about for like years. And that’s great and all but what about these benches? If I had to sit on these for years my butt would be permanent flat. Maybe that’s what happened to the Lisa Baker and her family. Cause I’m looking down the aisle at them right now, the whole line of them standing and singing with room in their drawers. Reminds me of my friend Ben’s dog’s face. I think it’s called a Sharpie, or something. Well, you can see into my mind and all that so you know what I’m talking about.
What I really wanted to say is I think you’re great and all... I mean giving your life for us was like huge. So thanks for that. But the crosses. With you hanging dead on them. A little ick. A little scary.