A Perfect Moment

Mao, my sweet and beautiful Colombian friend, was curious about relationships between men and women. He was intrigued with the rituals and rites of romance and courtship. He startled me one day by asking how does a man propose to a woman, does the man really get down on bended knee. I said not always, though my husband did when he asked me.

Mao reflected on that. "When a man offers a woman a ring, she usually says yes. Even if she doesn't want the man; she wants to flash around the diamond ring."

"Not me. I said no."

Mao's black eyes flashed. "You are supposed to say, yes, Kah-thee! It is bad manners to say no. It takes a lot of courage for the man to propose."

"Perhaps, but I never, ever wanted to be married."

Mao gave me his brightest smile, eyes sparkling. "But you married him."

I signed. "Yes, he wore me down until I said yes."

"That's how it should be." He grunted in final approval.

I smiled at his Latin machismo. Perhaps in his culture that was the way. This little old Yankee girl had different ideas.

"I read somewhere that in everyone's life there is one perfect romantic moment. What was your most romantic moment? Was it with your husband?"

I thought back. How much do I share? "My husband was an intellectual, Mao, a good man in many, many ways. He didn't have a sense of humor and he really wasn't romantic, but I knew I was loved. He just showed it in different ways. But there was a time after that, when I was in college..." I drifted off, embarrassed. "After my Daniel died, I decided to go back to college and pursue a degree in English. I was taking a poetry class and as part of our grade, the class had to present original poetry to the entire college. There was a man there, a classmate, who presented his poems after mine, and they were all love poems. I didn't know it at the time, but they were written for me."

"Why aren't you with him! That is very romantic! That took a lot of courage to stand up there in front of everyone!! Kah-thee!! Women love a man to do that for them!"

"You're right. When I finally understood his poetry was meant for me and not just a homework assignment to pass the course, I was extremely flattered. And it truly was one of the finest moments of my life. But I had to turn him away and tell him he could only be my friend. I had to." I could feel Mao sizzle in disapproval and disappointment. "He was married. He had children. We're still friends. That is enough."

Mao slumped a little, saddened by my story of unrequited love, and I gave him a quick hug and a laugh and forgot about the conversation. Days later when I went to pick him up for work (we commuted to work together and I drove), Mao called me from the second-story porch of his apartment. "Kah-tee!" he yelled down. "I need you to come and stand under the porch." I was running a little late and felt impatient that he was delaying me even longer, but I did as I was bid. "Wait, stand right there!" he instructed as I was about to step onto the first floor porch deck. I need to be able to see you!." He disappeared for a moment, and gave me a beatific smile. "I have something I want to give you!" He held a long-stem yellow rose in his hand. "I want to give you a romantic moment! I am going to toss this rose down to you and I want you to catch it?"

"Does it have thorns?" I teased.

"Kah-thee, this is the perfect romantic moment, like in the movies. I am doing this for you," he gently chided. "You do not ask about thorns in the perfect romantic moment! It is not right!"
The rose fell from his hand and sashayed through the air, dipping and twirling, until I caught it over my head.

I clasped the rose and brought it to my nose and sniffed its delicate fragrance. "Mao, this is beautiful! Thank you! I shall remember this forever!"

"I wanted to be the one to give you the perfect moment!" he said triumphantly.

I smiled. How fortunate and blessed I am. Love, even misguided, is a gift. Two perfect romantic moments that could make the world stop: love poems that filled my heart, spoken in a filled auditorium, by a married man, and a yellow rose tossed from a second story porch by a man who shared my love of men.

Love Endures All Things

My oldest brother, Mike, was speaking of our grandmother, our father's mother. Mary Birdena Hussey was her birth name, though most everyone in the family called her Dena. There were some who called her Mary, her coworkers. doctor, bank teller, the meter reader and such, but to me and my two brothers, she was Grammy, and Grammy was her most cherished name of all.

"I just came back from the nursing home," he said. "She looks like she's doing okay, getting thinner, and she cries and begs to come home. She worked and sacrificed her entire life for the family and now all she remembers is her own name, and she says it over and over. She doesn't know who I am but she knows I'm someone who can take her back home. I feel so guilty about leaving her there when she's done so much for us. I hate Alzheimer's!" he hissed vehemently.

I felt his pain subside as I waited quietly for him to go on. I understood too well about why she said her name over and over; it was one of my secret guilts that I didn't tell him.

Grammy and I were outside in her yard, enjoying a beautiful New England summer day. She took my hand as she often did and held it and then brought it to her lips and she kissed the palm of my hand. "I think I'm losing my mind," she said.

"Grammy, I don't think you're losing your mind," I assured her, panic seizing me like no other panic I had ever experienced. "Tell me, what's your name?" I threw an arm around her and hugged her until she squealed with delight. She loved being loved. I loved loving her. The fear of losing her was incomprehensible.

She laughed, "Mary Birdena."

"See, you're okay. People who are losing their mind can't remember their name. As long as you know your name, you're just fine." Her large hazel eyes peered deeply into my dark brown ones, to see if I were telling her the truth, and she seemed satisfied.

"It's just that I seem so forgetful lately...but okay. I'll know I'm fine as long as I remember my name..."

"Grant and I were talking about Gram," Mike continued, " and what we remember most about her. You know how there's usually one thing that you remember the most about a person?"

I hadn't thought to define Grammy's essence and spirit with a single memory and I was a little irked by the thought that someone could be summed up so succinctly; but it was a curious statement. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he said, "when I think of Grammy, I think of her as always offering me an apple. Every time I went to her house, she always offered me an apple. I'd say I didn't want it, but she'd make me take it. Grant says she was always giving him canned peaches. Remember how she always had canned peaches and pears and fruit cocktail under the sink cabinet?" Yes, I could clearly see her badly yellowed, white enameled sink, two cabinets, one each side, one for pots and pans on one side and canned goods in the other. She kept creamed corn in there for me when she made chicken fricassee for Sunday dinners. "What do you remember?"

"Those creme-filled vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate sugar wafer cookies, I suppose." That was not what I remembered the most about her, but it's what I said. "She always kept a secret stash of them in her white dish cabinet." She also kept a stash of rainbow colored gross grained ribbons for my long hair that she loved. The baby books she kept of me had dozens of pictures of the back of my head because she loved my long dark hair.

"Gram always loved you best. How come she never loved me and Grant as much as you?"

It's too complicated, really, to understand and explain family dynamics between siblings, I thought. I said, "I suppose because it's easier to relate to another female, because I'm the one who spent the most time with her, because Dad loves you best and because Mom loves Grant best, because Grammy always wanted a daughter and had a jackass for a son. She loves all of us, just differently. She and I just had more in common, that's all."

Mike thought on it for a moment, and said "Trade you Dad for Gram. She can teach me how to cook and you can learn to drive a dump truck."

"No deal," I said.

It was a six-hour ride one way to the nursing home to visit my grandmother in Vermont. Connie, my boyfriend, was keen that we should see her as often as we could while we could and we'd make the trip once a month or so. The residents would crowd around us, vieing for scraps of our attention, asking if we knew where their children were, asking us to come back.

I would trim Grammy's nails (she was always particular that her nails should be short) and comb her hair "extra pretty." Her eyes would light up, and she'd smile broadly as I assured her that she was the most beautiful Grammy in the whole entire world.

As we would get ready to leave, she would always beg me to "take her home" and promise "I'll be good, please take me with you," and the guilt at not being able to take care of her, to take care of her as I imagined she would have done for me, would be so overwhelming and suffocating that I would leave a sobbing, wretched mess.

The Alzheimer's progressed rather quickly once she was diagnosed. When she first went to the nursing home, it was just to provide her with assistance for her daily activities as she could not cook for herself or attend to her financial needs. As time went by, the bright light faded from her eyes and she lost the ability to speak but a few words. I could see her trying to remember how to speak, her lips twitching, but only indiscernible sound coming out.

At the end, we went to see her to ensure her care. I still filed her nails and made her "extra pretty" and told her she was the most beautiful Grammy in the world. She seemed happy for the attention, patting my hair, and eagerly accepting my kisses, holding my hand in her frail one as we walked the nursing home hallways. My brother Mike stopped going "because she doesn't recognize me anymore." I tried to tell him that Grant and I didn't go and visit Grammy because I thought she would recognize us, we went because I still recognized and loved her.

Do we know when it's the last time we shall see a person on this earth? I think some might and that this knowledge is a gift that is the greatest on this earth. A blessing from God to his children. Was it in October? Perhaps. I remember autumn in it's magnificent orange, red and golden splendor. Vermont fields once green, now beige and flaxen, a warm shining sun, but not the hot sun of July. A breeze with the faintest hint of coolness. The languidness of summer fading.

As Connie and I entered the nursing home, I saw Grammy sitting at the piano that was in their recreation area. In her mind she was playing a tune that only she could hear. Her knobby fingers ran up and down the keys, her eyes were closed. (The nursing home had unplugged the piano long ago as she played the same chords incessantly, to the annoyance of everyone in earshot; they couldn't get rid of the piano, but they certainly stopped the sound). As if she knew we were there, she opened her eyes and looked straight at me and stood straight up in unrestrained delight. She scurried as quickly as she could to me, arms open, lips pursed in an anticipated kiss.

I scooped her up, lifted her lightly off her feet, in a mad hug, being careful not to break her fragile body. I set her back down, and the life and the light was back in her eyes. Her lips twitched and little grunts came out. She reached up, cupped my face in her deeply wrinkled and heavily veined hands, and poured herself into my eyes. "Love," she croaked. I immediately started to sob uncontrollably. She patted my hair, as she had so often done when I was little. "Pretty," she barely mumbled. I was holding onto her for dear life, my heart bearing the greatest pain I ever knew. I could hear Connie crying behind me, blowing his nose. Grammy squirmed away from me, reached into her skirt pocket, searching for some little treasure.

She put her clutched fist into my open hand; I looked to see what she had give me. And there it lay, a little cellophane packet of graham crackers, crumbled and crushed. She closed my fingers around it and once again peered endlessly into my eyes.

Honor Among Thieves

Keith looked across the chasm of our adjoining desks, leaned across his desk into my workspace, and blurted in a whisper, "I've spent time in prison." He threw himself back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave me his five-front-teeth-only smile and his deep brown shone in a perverse humor intended to shock me.

It worked. I tried to repress my knee jerk surprise, but I knew my eyes were wide and my face frozen in a stupid look with my mouth gaped open. Finally, I was able to utter, "Oooooohh..." I had long before surmised that Keith was likely a recovering drug user, someone who had lost his way and was struggling to get back He had a saunter and a chip on his shoulder; he was quick to anger, and just as quick to laugh. He had his own set of ideas about right and wrong. He could look you straight in the eye until you looked away first. He was emaciated looking, smoked too much, could be crude in speech and manner when it struck him to be so, could be gentle and kind if one were gentle and kind with him. He was a drifter, had been homeless. He was a loner in a room full of people. He sat at his desk with his headset on, listening to talk radio, occasionally blurting out answers to quiz questions and political opinion polls.

He was my work mentor. I was in a job that was a poor fit. Map making required someone with strong analytical and spatial skills, measuring and recording roads, time and distance using instruments and published resources. To me, time and distance is measured by feeling and intuition. A road is a journey. My heart is my instrument that guides me. An odd friendship and respect bloomed, Keith was spatial and I was, according to him, spacey.

Keith roared with unrestrained delight, and disapproving faces turned to see who was laughing in this grim place called The Workplace. He stared them all down one of his F* You looks until everyone turned back to their work. I secretly admired that and wish I knew how to do it, too.

"Sooooo, why were you a guest of the state?"

"For starting up my own church."

"You're a minister?" I was dumbstruck. I never would have taken him for a man of the cloth.

"No, that was part of the problem." Keith was clearly enjoying dragging out the story, his smile wider and his eyes glittering. "I ain't no altar boy."

"So, I'm beginning to see. How could you ever end up in jail for ministering a church?"

"Well, I seemed to have "ministered" to myself with the church's money."

"Keith! How could you ever conceive of doing such a thing? That's just not right!"

He pulled out the front of his tee shirt and buried his laugh into his chest at my naivete. " Seems like others agree with you. I can't believe people got so mad about it when you consider how pretty stupid and trusting they are. I only gave them what they wanted. They wanted answers and I gave them answers. I don't see anything wrong with that. They wanted to believe in what I said and they wanted to give me money to say it. So I let them. It was simple. I used to drive a white Cadillac in those days."

"You are a very bad man!" I decreed, disgusted with him. He smiled sadly at me and I gave him an apologetic smile in return.

Changing the subject, he said, "Know how I got this job?"

"I am afraid to ask."

"Remember on the job application they asked if you spoke any foreign languages?" I nodded my head. I had written "some Spanish" on mine. "I don't speak no foreign languages, figured they wouldn't hire anyone like me, so to be a wise guy I wrote "Ebonics. Do you know what Ebonics is?"

"Yes, it's commonly called "black" English."

Now it was Keith's turn to be surprised. "Not too many white people know that word. Well, the human resources person didn't know, and when she saw it, she was impressed that I could speak "Ebonics." She went on and on about I was the only person she ever met who could speak such a little known language."

I didn't mean to, but I started to laugh. "You correct her?"

"I needed this job. My two dogs and I were living in my car. We needed to eat. That HR lady and me were both bluffing each other. She tried to show off by letting me know she knew that Ebonics was some dead language like Latin and she needed someone who could speak another language. We both got what we wanted."

I begrudgingly acknowledged his point. "Giving up on the church founding business?"

A huge grin. "I never did look good in a white robe. Miss that white Caddy though...."

"Keith!" I admonished. I looked at my watch, it was the dinner hour. "Look, I'm starving. Want to go to lunch?"

The invitation surprised us both and for once Keith was the one who was dumbstruck. "That is very nice. You are the only one here who has ever asked me to lunch in the whole year I've been here. " I started to say something but he cut me off. "But I cannot go with you. You are a nice lady and I would damage your reputation if you were friends with someone like me. I am a bad man, but you have been kind. Go find some nice friends." Keith put his head set on and shut me out.

At the same time my regular lunch pals came over to gather me up and go to lunch. As we were headed towards the cafeteria, one of them leaned over and whispered, "Be careful of that one. He's no good, hasn't got a decent bone in his body."

A Lesson in Humility

When I was dating my boyfriend, Connie (Conrad), I would often make the two-hour drive to Connecticut from my home in Massachusetts, and oftentimes we'd do something a little extra special to make the most of the limited time we had to share.

So, one evening we decided to dine at the Groton Inn, a very nice establishment where beautiful banquets are held, as well as a fine restaurant. We decided to take Connie's best friend, Gerry, as a treat for him. Gerry was kind of an odd little person, no real friends except for Connie, and now me by my relationship with Connie.

Connie wore a nice navy blue suit, I wrote a voluminous tea length dress (black with the tiniest roses), and Gerry wore his cleanest best jeans and his standard flannel shirt. We all complimented each other on how nice we looked and we went off to dinner.

Dinner went well. I managed not to drop anything out of my mouth, knock over any wine glasses, or walk up the inside of my dress as I sat or rose from my chair. All in all a successful dining experience. When it came time to leave, I leaned over and whispered to Connie, "I have to run to the ladies' room."

He blushed (personal matters always embarrassed him)"Gerry and I will wait for you in the main lobby. I don't want to lurk outside in the hallway at the ladies' room door." His blush only deepened but his robin's egg blue eyes were laughing.

I walked past a large banquet hall, laughter streaming out, filling the corridor. I peeked in and saw a beautiful bride and her handsome groom. The huge room was packed with friends and family.

I went to the ladies' room; miraculously I was the only one there. I have this weird thing about using the ladies. I do not dilly dally in there. I do not primp or prance, check my teeth or redo my hair. I might reapply my lipstick. My sole purpose is to do what I have to, wash my hands, and leave. In and out. Plus I knew Connie and Gerry were waiting for me and I didn't want to keep them waiting any longer than necessary. I think a long absence would be embarrassing for all of us. Is that in the bathroom etiquette book somewhere?

I step back into the hallway, and it was empty, the guests either at their banquets or the restaurant. I walked past the wedding and they were still laughing and the band was playing. I walked past the restaurant and waiters were scurrying about from one table to the next.

I stepped smartly along, and behind me I heard a voice call out, "Excuse me, excuse me." I do not turn my head to see if the person is talking to me. The only person I know is waiting ahead of me, not behind me. "Excuse me, excuse me," the voice said again, only louder, more urgent. I walk past another banquet hall filled with guests.

I inwardly debated.

There is something about me that attracts the oddest people. Usually people I've never met before just see me out and are harmless. They want to reveal their entire life story to me(as when I am standing in a grocery store line) want my opinion on an item they are buying. However, there have been times when people have not been entirely harmless and it is because of them that I do not acknowledge strangers.

Yet there was a quality of urgency in the voice and that convinced me to turn. A middle-aged woman, half running towards me, repeated, "Excuse me," as if those were the only words she knew. She stopped in front of me to catch her breath. I waited patiently for her next words. "Your skirt is tucked up into your underwear."

Wrong Number?

One evening while I was reading in bed, I heard the downstairs phone ring and the answering machine pick up the call. I arose from bed and stood at the top of the stairs to listen if the caller would leave a message and to hear if it were a telemarketer, political pollster, or friend.

At first the voice was garbled and I thought it was a drunken party-goer who was pranking my phone and I turned away to return to bed. I don't know exactly what it was that caught my ear, but I realized that the person was not a drunk but a person in deep trouble whispering a plea for help.

I have poor depth perception and it is very hard for me to run down stairs without fear of falling. I have to take one step at a time with both feet being on the same step before stepping down again. It is slow and awkward and frustrating. The bile of fear rose in my throat as the panic and pain in the voice on the phone was becoming more and more evident.

I'm sure it was only seconds that passed, but it seemed like hours. "Don't hang up," I prayed aloud. My four cats, sensing my alarm, were now weaving in and out between my legs, tripping me up, always a quarter step in front of where I wanted to be, stalling me like in some horrible dream. I tapped their behinds with my foot, clapped my hands in a flurry, shouted at them to hurry them along, but they were oblivious to my angst.

I could clearly hear the voice now, TWO voices. A woman sobbing, begging, "Don't hit my face anymore...don't hit my face anymore....I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." And a man whose rage chilled me so deeply that I was frozen in place. "I will hit you as many times as I want! I will hit your face! I will kill you if I want!" More cries, more sobbing.

I grabbed for the phone. Too late! The caller disconnected!

I paced my kitchen furiously. I dialed *69 to ring back the caller, but their phone number did not accept the reverse dialing. I played back the sickening message that was now record on my answering machine, and the numbness and shock of what I heard overtook me and my thoughts were paralyzed, my mind was blank as if I could not remember how to think.

Caller ID, caller ID, I have caller ID. I scrolled through my directory and found the number. The caller was someone who lives two hours away in Nashua; how did she ever dial my number? Random dialing in a panic hope for help? Dialing her local police and she misdialed and reached me? It didn't matter, because it was now my responsibility to respond to her cries for help.

Telephone book, where in the name of God is my telephone directory? I need to call the police in in Nashua, I decided. They can send someone out immediately. I cannot find my telephone directory, the cats are even more crazed with my anxiety and I am yelling at them.

I dial "O" for operator but that does not work anymore here. When did that change? I wonder in my fury. I dialed the national number for information: area code, 555-1212, and finally after the tenth ring an annoyed automated answering service dryly intones, "City and state, please." Frustration is building. This is an emergency for God's sake!! I provide the requested information. No listing for that city and state, would I spell the name of the city. I spell the name. I can barely speak, my jaw and throat are tight with fear and frustration. "Name of person you are calling," the automated voice says. I give the name of the police department. "No such person by that name," says the voice. "Please hold for an operator to assist you."

I want to throw the phone through the window and drive aimlessly in that city two hours away to find that woman who is being beaten. The operator finally comes onto the line. In a single breath I explain, "This is an emergency, I need the police department."

"Please hold while I get that number for you," the operator says. A click, and another automated voice comes on and gives me the emergency police number for the Nashua Police Department. "Would you like that number repeated?" the hollow voice asks. Yes, yes, yes, as I write the number down and want to make sure I have it correct. "For an additional fee of 55 cents your call can be automatically dialed. Would you like the call to be automatically dialed for an additional fee of 55 cents?" Yes, yes, yes!!! I want to cry and scream. Everything is moving too slowly. I am moving too slowly.

The phone rings at the Nashua Police Department and a female dispatcher answered on the second ring. "Nashua Police Department. What is the nature of your call, please?"

In a breathless rush, I identify myself and give her my residential address. "A woman is being beaten and she is crying for help. I think she misdialed -- she reached my number -- she is crying and asking for help. You need to send someone out to her right away. She could be dead by now!"

"I'm sorry. We can't help you. You must call the police department in your own city and they will contact us and then we can send someone out there."

"WHAT?!" I scream. "Are you kidding? Did you not hear what I just said? A woman is being beaten in YOUR city and you want me to call MY local police department? You are not going to send help that she needs NOW?!"

"It's procedure. The police department in the jurisdiction of the...." I don't know what she was going to say after that as I slammed down the phone in helpless rage.

Phone book, phone book' I just find the phone. I did not want to dial 911 as I didn't want the police sent to my house; I needed police sent to that other poor woman's house. Found it! How to look up the police department. My mind was going blank again; I was forgetting how to think clearly. I know how to use a phone book, so why can't I find what I'm looking for. I cup my head in my hands as if to clear the cobwebs.

My orange cat, Buster, jumps onto the counter where I am trying to read the fine print in the book and paces across the pages in front of me. I unceremoniously swipe him off the counter and he sits sulking and glowering at me from the floor. He leaps onto the pages again, and this time when I brusquely push him off he tears the pages with his claws as he dug in to hold on.

There are two telephone numbers listed for our local police department. One is for the detectives unit. I dial the number, ring, ring, ring. An answering machine saying that they are available during the work hours of blah, blah, blah. I cannot believe this night. Our police department keeps banker's hours? Crime doesn't happen in our little city after five p.m.? No one is available?

I am lost and incredulous; I am cold and numb; but I still feel fury as never before. Everything is moving in slow motion again. I find the second number for our police department, dial, and a woman answers, "Dispatch."

Relief surged through me. Once again I identify myself and I tell her all that happened. I play the recorded message into the receiver so she can hear it, I tell her I have caller ID and that I have the number of the caller. She patiently takes this all down, says they will do a reverse phone number look up, and assures me that they will follow up.

I went back upstairs to bed but could not sleep. I sit up with all the lights on, my knees up to my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs, hugging myself to myself. The woman's voice reverberates in my head, and I hear it over and over. I fell asleep with the lights on and awoke after midnight when Earl came home from work, listened to the message, and came into the bedroom, white-faced, asking if I were okay.

Late the next afternoon, I called my local police department and asked if they knew anything further about my mysterious caller. They could only confirm that they called Nashua but did not have any further information; I would have to follow up with them if I wanted further information.

So, this time I dialed them directly, saving 55 cents to have the phone company automatically dial the number for me, and spoke to the female dispatcher. "Sorry, we can't give out any information. I can tell you that we did receive a call from the police department in your city about a phone message belonging to someone to the address at the phone number that was provided. That's all that I can tell you."

"You can't tell me if you actually sent someone or if you simply took a message? You can't tell me if the City of Nashua responded to a cry for help from one of its own citizens? You can't tell me if that poor woman were dead or alive if you even went there? Did you hear the recording that she left on my answering machine?"

"It's an issue of privacy..."

"PRIVACY! That woman called me. Never mind. I have the number and I have the name. I know how to do reverse look up as well as you do. (I provided the name and address of the caller.) I'll call myself. Thanks a lot. I'm sure that woman is thanking you as well!"

"Wait! Just wait a second." The dispatcher weighed her words. "Look, I'll tell you this much. We did send out a car and we went to the door. We asked if everything was okay. The person who answered the door said everything was fine. We asked to see the woman of the house, and she also confirmed everything was fine. We've done all we can."

I was stunned. "She said she was fine? Was this some horrible telephone prank after all?"

I could feel the dispatcher's shrug. "No, I think it was real enough. But when the police show up at the door, the woman backs down. It happens all the time. She's afraid of her husband or boyfriend going to jail and they'll be alone. They just want this beating to stop and they hope that having the police showing up at the door will scare the beater into stopping permanently. We see this a hundred times a week here, at least. Alcohol, drugs, crime, poverty, certain ethnic groups that think it's okay to beat up their women all play a role...every night we get these calls. After a while it's just hard to care as much as you should care, but we keep trying because sometimes what we do makes a difference in someone's life. You have done far more than most people ever would have thought of doing."

I thanked the dispatcher for her thoughtful and honest answer and hung up the phone. I replayed the message one last time, and hit "erase."

I wish it felt as if I had done enough.