In the Palm of this Mountain

In the palm of this mountain,
Its cupped green hand,
I am at last whole.
I own my heart, I know my soul.

In the breath of this spring,
Its bright buzzing green,
I find myself home.
I need this place, I will not roam.

Goodnight, Sweet Boy

My Dearest Brother,

Words are barely adequate to express my love for you.  The hole in my heart is jagged and raw and every time I talk to someone else about you, it rips open a little further, like someone is tearing at me with rough claws. The lump in my throat swells at times until I have to remind myself to breathe around it. Sometimes there is barely room for air, other times I whoosh like a punctured tire.  Stupid, hot tears run down my face and my mind careens from one place to another and my nose runs. I can't remember why I crossed the room or when I last ate or what page I was on or how much coffee I have spooned into the filter. I do not know today's date. I don't know why I have a job, or why people e-mail me for answers. I don't have them.

I remember being hugged by you, your strong arms and big heart and soft shirt, last Easter. The last time. I have a voicemail on my phone from you that day.  I know the last Facebook post: I said, "Eat your damn vegetables, people." And you replied, "You're the one with your damn cat's head all shoved up in a piece of white bread." Then I called you and we laughed and said we loved each other. It was September 13th and you were in West Virginia.  You married your beautiful wife again for the 21st time in the 21st state, just a day before the earth opened up and swallowed you whole. She said you both cried a little. You had 29 states to go...

September 14th, 2011, time slammed to a stop for me and our family and your friends. I turned off Kirk Road onto Pine and got sucker-punched by an invisible boxer at 6:13 p.m. and I screamed at the fucking Gods.

Rob tried his best to save you. He screamed, too. He loved you. A lot of people really loved you.
Your face is in my mind, your pictures on my phone, your laugh rings loud in my head.  At the funeral home, I stared at your chest and willed it to rise and fall. It did not work for me any more than it did for Rob. I kissed your beautiful forehead and touched your fuzzy hair and tried my hardest to rewind it all. It didn't work.  They say it was the Widow Maker.

Your beautiful Cindy gracefully hugged and consoled hundreds of people. Your loving daughters gazed at you and wept and hugged hundreds of people. They did good, John. They did real good.  There aren't words to say how brave our parents were that day. You broke our hearts, you know.
People came from everywhere, stumbled in, shocked, could not find words. Still can't. It was horrible and beautiful at the same time. No one is able to comprehend how energy as big as JOHN WARD could dissapate in a moment. A day. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

At Dana's house afterward, all of us expected you to bust in the front door and say something funny to let us know it was some kind of stupid, sick, time-warp universe joke. You didn't come. We waited a long time. Our family, Cindy's family, we milled around and dragged it out, I know the same thought/wish was in all our heads. He'll be here soon.

At Jack of Hearts, we lifted our glasses to you over and over. We wept and laughed and tried to find the reason, the justification, the WHY. We drank a lot and we waited a long time for you to show up. A party of that magnitude was not right without you there leading the charge, telling us "Come ON, one more! It's early, man. It's a child's portion." Joe had to go out to get more of the old whiskey from the trunk of his car. More than once.

There were new t-shirts with your sayings on them. We wore dog tags and buttons with your face on them. We told your stories, relived your life, held you dear. Prayed for your return. Samantha made us notice her in a new way, her poise was something.  I lost my phone charger and my raincoat and my brother and part of my heart, all in the same week. I never lose anything.

I tore myself from Cindy, from Alice, from the girls, from Mom and Dad and Dana and Robert and Karen and Neal, with their stunned and crumpled faces. From Zoe. She is looking for you, that little dog.  I cried from Alexander to Lexington. It rained and wispy, pretty fog draped itself between the peaks and down the valleys and faded in the sun.  My husband John had to drive the whole way. I was not able to do anything but mourn you, sweetheart.

So now we are home, life goes on. Ours does, anyway. I love you and I miss you so much it is physical and visceral. My one and only little brother, the wild man, the maverick, the fixer of things, stirrer of passions, good Dad, funny friend. Baby brother.  Our man, John.

Illinois Woman Last Seen in Grocery Store Parking Lot

So lately I have a Stalker in my dreams.  Same serial killer guy, four dreams this week.  Each of his visits leaves my heart pounding, pulse racing, sleep disrupted, and anxiety growing.  As a result I am up later than I want to be, in a hotel in Southern California waiting for the Bad Man to finish his little job.  "Illinois Woman Last Seen in Holiday Inn Parking Lot" say tomorrow's headlines.  

DREAM ONE, before I leave Illinois:  Monday night about midnight, he shows up in my dream town.  Not a place I recognize, but I am supposed to be there.  I am in a grocery store and something sets off my internal alarm.  Nothing specific, no noise, no drama.  The hair stands up on the back of my neck and I have a feeling of being watched, a feeling of dread, of terror.  I quickly finish picking out my groceries and check out.  I keep my eyes open, search shadows, see nothing out of the ordinary.  I just feel with gut wrenching certainty that I am about to be undone.  Walk out of the store to my dream car, get in, drive to my dream house (?).  It is a white, clapboard, cottage-y type place.  Small yard, similar homes on either side, both dark.  Get chills and real fear, lousy in my gut.  Feeling I am IN FOR IT.  Decide I am being silly.  Right?  Look around, study the darkness, see nothing.  Force myself to get out of the car, walk determinedly to the door, open it, close it behind me.  Should I lock it?  What if he is inside the house, not outside?  No, don't lock it.  What if that is his thinking, that I won't lock it and he can let himself in quietly behind me?  Fuck.  Lock it.  Turn on lights.  ALL lights.  Unpack groceries.  Look in every room, every closet, heart in my throat.  Think about calling the police... to tell them no one is in my house but I feel funny??  The basement.  The basement door is closed and I cannot go to bed until it has been opened and I cannot do it.  Call 911 and say, "I think there is someone in my house.  I am home alone, and there is someone in my house.  Please help me."  I hang up before they can ask questions and determine I am making it all up.

The police arrive quickly, quietly.  Blue lights are flashing, there are no sirens.  I meet them at the door, heart still pounding, sure they will think I am crazy.  Tell them my mad story and ask them to look upstairs and down.  I follow them upstairs, the search seems halfhearted to me.  They poke around; open the shower curtain halfway, cursory look in closets, no under the bed at all!  I am standing back in a hallway watching, not feeling any better, don't want them to leave me here.

"The basement, please?"  I ask.  They roll their eyes, but open the door and go down the stairs.  I say I will turn on the lights, they shush me.  They do down in the dark, flashlights rolling back and forth, cones of yellow not enough to find this evil hiding in the corner.  I hear them talking and wonder if they are letting the Bad Man in the basement know that I am out of my mind.  They mess around down there (I have never been in my dream basement) and come back up and tell me it is all clear, that I can relax.  I say thank you, but my stomach drops and I know I am in trouble when they leave.  I see them to the front door and then turn around.  I walk back to the basement door, reach in and turn on the damn light. Close the door, jam a chair under the knob.  Check all the doors, all the windows, all are locked.  I am nuts, shaking, sure I am dead.

I go upstairs, change into PJs real fast and get into bed.  I keep my lamp on bright, try to read a light story.  Wonder why I don't have a cat in this house?  Finally, exhaustion sets in and there has not been a sound so I surrender to sleep.  A bit later, I awaken sure in the knowledge there is a Bad Man in my room.  And there is.  I cannot talk, scream, move, breathe, anything.  But I see him in the shadows, menacing, threatening me by being there, know he is glaring at me, filled with hatred only the psychotic enjoys.  I cannot move, but tears start running from the outer corners of my eyes, down the sides of my face into my hair where they get caught. 

As suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.  No sound, no footsteps, no doors opening or closing.  Just a change in the air and I can move and breathe and sit up.  My pulse must be 170 and my chest heaves with each breath like my lungs are catching up and I might live after all.  I get up and look out the window by peeling up a side of the shade, just a tiny hair, not enough to be seen, careful.  In the pool of the streetlight below I see him and he is looking up at me and smiling.  He is wearing a tank top, dark jeans, and has an orange Mohawk.  He is middle aged, fit, wide shoulders and narrow waist, vibrates meanness.  He has several silver hoop earrings shining, too many for one ear, it's weird.  He is smiling up at me and I see his mouth move "I will be back."  It looks like he is laughing, he smiles again, turns, fades away into the dark. 

I wake up I cannot talk, scream, move, breathe, anything.   I am at home in my own bed, two cats, John is beside me and I know it was a dream.  After an hour or so I talk myself down to a normal pulse rate.  Finally drift off to sleep. 

He is back within the hour....

Men

I swear every one of these statements were made to me on dates, when I was between the ages of 17 and 30:

• I brought you this bag of soap from Wal-Mart.  I have seven sisters and I know what women like.
• You could get there early and straighten up a little before the guys get there.
• I want you to move in with me.  Really, babe.  I need a roommate and you have a good job making good money.
• You like that sausage biscuit?  'Cause that was Charley, the pig you liked.  Good, won't it?
• You are wrong.  She came back here after the bar closed to talk about her ideas for a business.  You shouldn't have made her leave.
• Your hair smells like the wind.
• I am a photographer.  I want to take pictures of your eyes, girl, because they are beautiful.  No, your Mama cannot come with you.
• Elliot is a scientist!  There will always be dead birds in Zip-locs in the freezer.  Relax.
• Yes, I slept with ___'s Mother, but that was a long, long time ago.  You are so uptight.
• Put your finger right here, in between this curved top of the spark plug and the point under it.  And wait.  Ha Ha.
•  If we get pulled over, I am going to run.  You slide over into the driver's seat.  I can't afford any more trouble.
• The good news is, I'm married.  The bad news is my wife is having twins in about 4 months.
• You know how to make biscuits and gravy?  No shit?  Tonight?
• You're wearing that?
• My roommate thinks we should all be together.  He said you're really soft.  You in?
• I can get a job any time I want.
• I don't want to go yet.  You could go out and sleep in the car for a while.

This could also be called, "Why I love Johnny."

I'll Take Manhattan

The truth of the matter is Manhattan took me, one night back in 1981.  

My left eye creaked open to obscenely bright morning light.  It closed fast.  Excrutiatingly dry mouth.  Parched, need water desperately.  Head hurts.  A lot.  Two eyes open, but they stay squinty.  Still bright out there.  Shoot.  Unfamiliar territory.  A window and light blue sky and bright sunlight and... the Chrysler Building??? 

Crap. 

Waves of nausea wash over me.  That silvery, spiky, scalloped building is the Chrysler Building, I know it.  I saw the top of it.  I close both eyes to think about that a little bit more.  Chrysler  Building is in New York.  This probably means I am, too.  Unless the Chrylser Building was disassembled and moved to Greensboro, North Carolina last night, I am in a strange building in New York with a massive hangover.  Alrighty then.  Let's take stock of the situation, Marlene Chipley.  Small apartment.  Too much damn sunlight.  Place needs a set of drapes in a big way.  And a water fountain.  Chrysler Building for sure.  Crap. 

I am on a foldout sofa alone.  This is good.  Twin beds across the room.  How unfortunate... they are occupied by men.  Men I don't know.  Double crap and possible danger.  Head really hurts and heart begins to race.  Can I get out of here without waking them up?  And if I do, where will I go?  Who the hell ARE they?   I must be here for a reason.  Yes, think of the reason.  Calm down.  Retrace steps.  Plot escape plan.  Calm down.   I lift the covers and take a look.  Fully clothed.  This is excellent!  Move head a little to the right and spot my purse, apparently intact.  This too, is excellent.  If these men were unscrupulous killers and/or rapists, surely my clothing would be in disarray, the contents of my purse scattered or missing altogether.  And if these same men were sleezy criminals, they probably wouldn't have an apartment in Manhattan with this view, either.  Breathing slows to normal rate again.  I have obviously been kidnapped by Men with Money.  Worse things could happen to a single girl.

Flash!  The Back Porch!  Thirty-third and Third.  Gran Marnier.  Lots of it.  After a long, elaborate dinner with a bottomless bottle of Chianti.  Very good Chianti.  With my sister.  My sister!  Where the hell is my sister?!  Did she leave me here?  Did we lose her?  Am I so much cuter and so much more fun to party with that these people only stole me? 

Breakthrough!  I think I am supposed to be in Manhattan!  Fucking A!  Breathing goes back to normal.  Heart rate slows.  Head still hurts really bad.  Mouth tastes like it's lined with newspaper.  Dirty newspaper, at that.  Since I have determined that these men are not going to kill me right away, perhaps a little nap is in order.  After all, I will need to be strong and alert when I attempt my escape.  Eyes close.

I hear noises.  People moving around quietly, and I smell coffee.  Killers don't make coffe first and move around quietly to avoid waking their victim.   I pretend to be asleep still and peek out.  Recognize one of the men!  I shall leave all names out of this to protect the not so innocent.  But it's L____!  And that other guy is S____!  They're friends of my sister's friend!  But where are my sister and her friend?  That little mystery remains unsolved. 

I croak out a little "Good morning."  L and S greet me and ask how I am feeling.  "Water" is all can manage to say in return.  I sit up.  Oooooh.  One of the nice un-killers brings me water and offers coffee.  "NO, thank you."  Stomach churns at the very thought of it. 

Unkillers:  We have to go to work now, so lock up when you leave.

Me:  Where am I?  And where is my sister, and our friend M____?

Unkillers:  They are at her place.  It's a 5th floor walkup and there was no way they could get a hundred pound sack of  pudding up the stairs, so they had to leave you here.  (Me: I was just referred to as a sack of pudding.  I no longer like the Men with Money.  And yes, I did weigh 100 pounds in 1981.)  M___'s number is here by the phone.  You can walk to her apartment from here.  Nice meeting you.

Me:  Walk? In Manhattan?  Alone, and in this condition?  I'll never make it.

I pull myself together enough to make a phone call and wake up the girls.  There is much moaning and groaning.  (Aha!  I am not the only one!)  I get directions and begin the slow, hot, humid walk to M___'s place.  I actually have to step over a man who is passed out on the sidewalk.  He obviously does not have a sister in his life who knows Men with Money.  I feel sorry for the dirty man on the sidewalk and appreciate the Men with Money again.  I even forgive my sister for leaving the "sack of pudding" in a strange place.  I trudge up five flights of stairs to greet two women still green around the gills from last night's festivities.  

I drink a LOT of water, and I have perked up considerably.  I am ready to Take Manhattan. 

Menano

This morning on the way to work, I got a text from my husband.
He:  Where is Menano?
Me:  He's gone.  He defiled Raggedy Ann.
He:  Don't even joke about that.
Me:  I'm not joking.  He's gone.
He:  He better not be.  The garbage truck is out front right now and if you got rid of him...  Anyway, Raggedy Ann is a slut.
Me: She is NOT! And if you ever want to see Menano alive again, you'll watch your mouth.
I was far too disturbed to reply.  Menano is my husband's childhood Teddy Bear.  He has been perched on a  bookshelf in our bedroom for the 11 years we have enjoyed wedded bliss.  His name, Menano, comes from the boyhood refrain spoken by my husband when as a child he was asked, "Who did this?" by an adult. "Me-na-no, Daddy."

I noticed Menano was missing about a week ago.  I knew he was up to something.  He doesn't move often, but when he does, he's up to no good.  Sure enough, I found him, sitting on Raggedy Ann's face in a very suggestive position, in the guest room.  (Thank heavens my parents didn't show up... my Mama made that Raggedy Ann with her own two hands.)

Anyway, this time Menano went too far.  So I gave Raggedy Ann his place on the bedroom shelf, and put Menano in a drawer in the guest room, with the Gideon's Bible I stole from a hotel room several years ago.  Maybe some of that religion would take if he sat in a dark drawer with that book for a while.
My husband called me at work later in the day. "Where is Menano?" he begged.  I replied, "He is being punished.  When he decides to behave, he can come back out."

I gave in after a while and called him back and told him Menano was in a drawer. When I got home, Menano was out, but he was reading that Bible.  Raggedy Ann reigns supreme.