As if
ordered
by a strict and disappointed teacher, you stand with your back against the
pocked and battered living room wall. Your
stomach bulging, making it difficult for your brown polyester pants to keep your
rippled flesh under cover. The red long-sleeved
shirt you wear clings to your deflated breasts and documents your comings and
goings over the last three days. Each stain
and smudge and drip having its own story to tell. On the white cuff of your left sleeve there
are crusty green stains mixed with the dampness of wiped tears.
For hours now, Jimmy
has incessantly whispered, “They took it. They took all of it. I told them to do it and they did it. They hate you. It’s true, it’s all true.”
This makes it difficult
for you to look at your children as they play and laugh, especially now that you
know all about what they’ve done – to you.
Over, and over,
and over again you heard Jimmy tell you, they did it... they did it
for me… they hate you… it’s all true.
And now, you clench
your jaw, rub and press your temples, move repeatedly from side to side, trying
hard to cope with the news, but it’s impossible for you to ignore what
you’ve heard, to ignore what’s happened.
Bursting away from
the wall, you break into their play circle and accuse them of taking your purse,
taking your money, of working with Jimmy to make you – their own mother
-- a penniless beggar on the streets of this
small and ugly town, where everyone knows everyone and everyone knows everything.
They try to
convince you that they didn’t take your purse, that they aren’t working with Jimmy,
even swear on their father’s grave, but you don’t believe them. It’s his word against theirs. Jimmy got to you, and they know
it. They’ve seen it before. The way you pause in the middle of a sentence
to listen to what they can’t hear, the way you move your head from side to side
as if witnessing a fast and violent argument, the way your eyes dart from
corner to corner in an empty room.
Jimmy is whispering
the unbelievable to you, and you, are believing. You have no choice.
Corralling them
from the living room out to the hall closet, you demand that they look for your
purse, find your purse, give back your purse!
They do look. They can’t find it. It’s not there to give back.
As you jostle, push,
and pull them up the stairs, you spit accusations and threats and conspiracy
and betrayal from your thin lips – it can’t be helped. You force them to scour and ransack every
corner of every closet in every room but one, your own.
Huddling close together,
they wait and watch as you sink into a concentrated silence and lean in to listen
to what is being said. Then, as if startled
by an unexpected discovery, you straighten up and then storm into your own bedroom
and yank open your own closet.
You find what
you are searching for.
Slouched against
a dust-covered paper shopping bag, sits your black purse. As you bend down to grab it, you can smell the
newness of the men’s clothes that will never ever be worn. You stop, take a deep breath, then kick the bag
deep into the closet.
You shake and
spill everything from your purse onto the bed and floor. Open zippers, search pockets,
and pouches, and tear through your wallet.
You sort and pile coins, separate each dollar with a licked thumb, and
count -- not once, but three times -- a total of twenty-seven dollars and eighteen
cents.
Then, you slowly
and carefully return each of the spilled items to their rightful place and hug
your purse, pressing it so tightly against your chest that the silver clasp leaves
a red and swollen mark. Your shoulders ease,
you smile, they smile, thinking it’s over.
But in a flash,
you swoop down on them thrashing your loaded purse against their bodies. With each accusation you bring your purse down
on them -- it was wrong to take your purse, it was wrong to hide your
purse, it was wrong to help Jimmy.
Heaving and out
of breath, you collapse onto your bed, still clutching and cradling your precious
purse.
Then, in the quiet
after your rage, the air-gulping sobs of your children break through. You crawl to the edge of the bed, and from
behind the pillow you dare to look down at them. Cautiously, you slip from the bed onto the floor
and curl up beside them, but you do not touch them, not yet.
Still holding your
purse, you finally bring your lips to each of their heads and with softness in
your voice you plead with them to stop crying, to stop shaking… to just look at
you.
You caress and gently
press their small shoulders, their thin arms, their slim legs, all the while telling
them that there are no bruises, no cuts, no broken bones -- see, no need for
all this crying, you say.
Pulling them
closer, trying to wrap them all in your arms, you swear that you know now that
they didn’t take your purse, that it wasn’t them, that they are good and sweet
and helpful children, yes, the kind of children that love their mother. Right?
A small hand braves
to break the silence, to answer your question, it reaches over and touches yours.
Its weight and warmth a gift.
You lift that hand
to your lips, kiss it, then hold it tight against your wet cheek, whispering, “It’s
not your fault. It’s Jimmy’s. He’s the one making all the trouble. He’s the problem. Not you.
Not you, my children.”
***
Janine Elias Joukema has been writing privately for many
years. She is a Strategic Management Consultant and, for now, spends more time
writing business reports than writing fiction.
See Brian Henry's schedule here, including online and
in-person writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in
Algonquin Park, Alliston, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon,
Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston,
Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa,
Peterborough, St. Catharines, Southampton, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor,
Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and
beyond.
