#7 Of Telling A Truth That Isn't Believed, A Lie That Is

Right now there is a 3 ½ foot Ball Python sitting in my bathtub in a box from Saks Fifth Avenue (delivery from a great sale!)  and there are 2 white mice sitting in the box with him. The snake is named Arty and he is approximately 3-years-old and he hasn’t eaten in 3 months. He was born in the Bronx and we got him through and ad on Craig’s List.

 The mice are stinking up the bathroom with their poop and pee and they are lucky, to say the least, that he hasn’t eaten them both. Frankly, I want the mice out but don’t have the heart to let them roam 95^th street on a freezing night. It smells goddamn awful, like a pet store.

When Arty is in the mood to eat he will attack quickly, squeeze the mouse to death until it’s little red eyes are dull. He unhinges his jaw and starting from the head, he pulls the mouse into his slender body where I am sure his bones are smashing the mouse into a usable food item. He is an efficient hunter and Mother Nature is proud every time he attacks his prey.

But not today. We have never ever had mice guests spend the night and I am not happy about it.

Our cat Chesster has never met Arty and he is spending some time next to the bathtub sniffing the mice. The big joke is, “so will Arty eat Chesster or Chesster eat Arty? Ha ha ha ha!!!” We worry more for Chesster.

We fill the bathtub with hot water and drain it to make the tub nice and warm so Arty will be comfortable. Arty has some nice plush toys that he likes to bat around- especially the pink kitty.

When he does eat- usually 2 mice per meal-if left unattended he will make his way out of the bathtub and wrap himself around a pipe behind the toilet. It is hard to untangle him.

Greg walks into the bathroom. “ Hey, there is only one mouse!”

NEW’S ALERT: CHESSTER CATCHES MOUSE!

Greg just grabbed him and held him over the toilet.

“Chesster! Let go of the mouse! Let go, Chesster!”

I go in and can’t believe my eyes. He his gently shaking Chesster and the mouse is wiggling in Chesster’s maw and little pink toenails are working hard to find someplace to grip for dear life.

Truly pathetic.

“Hold on!” I say, “I want to take a picture.”
The next thing I know the toilet is flushing and I see the mouse spiral down into his watery grave. It is wrong. Really unfair. The mouse wasn’t put on this earth to die this way.

“Chesster! Bad cat!” Greg says in a stern voice.

“Jesus, Greg, he’s a CAT. What did you expect?”

So one mouse remains in the box in the tub with the snake. Tomorrow the mouse will return to Pet Land, alone.

Pet Land always takes returned live mice and gives a receipt for credit towards the next purchase. They always ask how the snake is doing. Generous and sincere.

#6 With Someone Who Can't Stop Sceaming

My mother-in-law is 82 years old and suffering from mid -stage dementia. She can remember the past as far as you could throw it which is significant, but the present is unreachable. I sit near the doorway of her room at the memory care facility, where air flow can relieve me of the horrible smell of dirty bedclothes and  excrement. I sit with her as she lays on her side in bed. Making polite conversation which has the pattern of repetition of questions and answers I politely repeat. The same answers over and over and I don’t get bored as the smell keeps me sharply aware that the visit will , must be, kept short. I ask her if she has had any other visitors knowing that she will not remember. However, her friend from Queens, Joanne, has come to visit and she tells me so. I see a Valentine’s Day card perched on her night table.

“It looks like someone sent you a card. May I see it?”

As she begins to roll towards the table she suddenly cups her hand over her mouth and says, “I am going to throw up.”

I quickly leave the room to fetch the health-aide who takes her time as she makes her way into my mother-in-law’s room.

“Is she ok?” I ask.

“Yes. She is fine. She hasn’t thrown up yet.” She reaches under a cabinet and pulls out a few of those wee-wee pad-type things that old people sit on when we don’t want them to mess up the furniture. I wish we had a few of those on our sofa for the last few visits- Thanksgiving and Christmas when my poor mother-in-law lost control of her bowels and bladder on our sofa. It was a sad situation which caused her great shame and embarrassment as she cleaned herself in our bathroom, refusing the help we offered.

“Take me home. I am so humiliated. I don’t want to stay here.”

She promptly forgot .

A man with an industrial carpet cleaner comes up and starts working on her room. I watch the health aide motion instructions to him with her arms.

“…the rug next to the bed.”
I guess she threw up.

She comes out and says, “my son had this. It lasts 24 hours and nothing comes out. Not much comes out after a while.” She smiles in a bored and disgusted way. I can tell she doesn’t like puke, something I totally can relate to.

“I’m calling the nurse up here.”

Angie, the nurse, comes up and she tells me that my mother-in-law is fine. No fever and there has been a stomach virus going around. Something I know and feel IT is seeping into my bloodstream as I stand there breathing in the same air as my mother-in-law. I feel panicked and cannot wait to get the hell out of there.

“So, you’re the daughter?”

“Daughter-in-law”, I correct her feeling rather proud of myself for showing up on a disgusting day to check on my sick mother-in-law. Dutiful me.

“We know her son and the little girl.”

“That’s Greg, her son and my daughter.”

What a nice little girl.”

I add, “you know she is nicer now with the dementia. Nicer than she’s ever been.”

The nurse and health aide look amused.

“Nicer since the dementia?” They say in unison.

“You should have seen her before. She is warm and fuzzy now.”

“Really?” Disbelief. “She’s got some spirit to her. Can be quite sarcastic (laughter).”

I think, I know and can only imagine the racial slurs each of them has suffered.

“Oh, yeah. She’s a real pussy cat compared to her former self. Nicer than ever.”

I thank them for their help and I head toward the locked elevator.

“What is the code?”

“I’ll lead you out. Come with me.”

#5 With Shotgun, Middle Manager and Carnival Ride

Two women get onto the subway with identical giant red suitcases. When I say giant I mean that one suitcase alone could accommodate a huge corpse, or two medium sized corpses, or one exceptionally large corpse and its child. I know that sounds unlikely especially because they are carting the corpses, I mean suitcases, along with those skinny telescoping handles that in lesser quality baggage might not handle the weight of the impressively gigantic bags contents and snap off or perhaps bend and not retract back into the bag properly. I have seen this sort of luggage sold on Canal Street and, yes, my assumption is the quality of these particular bags is inferior. Sorry ladies, but they are nice and clean and red now but, to my eye, this will not last long.

They are gabbing away in Spanish and wearing t-shirts in winter and are petite. From my perspective, each woman would fit comfortably in their own suitcase. I don’t think they will use the suitcases for hiding, or corpse hauling. My guess is they are headed on a trip somewhere warm and quite likely a Spanish speaking destination. Or, they just purchased them for their closest friends: two small Spanish speaking men.

Suddenly, we stop at Grand Central and the little ladies scamper off the train with their bags, which are clearly empty or filled with marshmallows or cotton balls because they maneuver them so easily indicating the gap between the weight differential of their bodies and the obvious mass of the baggage. They are happily planning their (friends?) trip in Spanish. That’s just a guess because my high school Spanish is horrible and I’m actually not listening to them.

There is an announcement from some middle manager MTA worker and many of us have to get off the train because it’s going express to Union Square and then City Hall. I was so cozy and happy in my seat and now I have to stand with the rest of humanity on the crowded platform and hope the next local will show up fairly soon.  I glance around and the Red Suitcase Ladies are gone and I’m impressed they made it up the stairs so fast.

A moment later, the next 6 train pulls up and I get on and am wedged between a man, who has a very nicely drawn tattoo of a shotgun on his neck and printed on the trigger in fine script: “Mom”, and a nondescript tourist wearing new sneakers. I cannot decide which is more bizarre, the tattoo or the twin suitcases. I like these moments of abstract inquiry because on some lucky days the subway is a carnival ride.

#4 With Can Opener, Book of Poems and House

Just returning from a walk in the Park where we enjoyed the Conservatory Gardens. Especially, the empty Koi pond now partially filled with melting snow revealing the waterworks for the use of the fountain in warmer weather. A hidden surprise we never saw before. In the pond, digging with sticks and exploring the base which resembled a swimming pool in winter.  Peeling paint shedding its own grey coating needs to be touched up before the fish return in Springtime.  The green patina of the life-sized sculpture of a boy and his girl playing the flute with bronze sparrows settling on their heads remind us of the warmer months ahead, when live sparrows will land beside them and match their poses before flying off to a nearby tree.

She asks, “where do the fish go in the winter?”  Spying a drainage portal on the side of the pond she conjectures they somehow transport to their home in the Reservoir through the modest sized hole. Since it was a pretty good idea, I didn’t bother to correct her or present the obviously logical reasons why it would never work for the fish.

“That’s a good idea.” I indulged and continued to watch her climb snow mountains in the empty pond. The Winter sunlight changed the mood every minute or so. So nice being outside and alone in the middle of the dead flowers, bushes and dormant trees. Nesting inside the garden; nested inside the city. Once in a while someone walked past and a florescent green down jacket momentarily changed the landscape. Back to the straw-toned bushes carefully wrapped in twine, supporting them through the heavy winter along with the metal, ankle–height doily fence designed for decoration and protecting the impending Volunteers that will perk up soon. Maybe crocuses and definitely (at least) 15 varieties of daffodil, also part of the narcissus family, which I learned about over the many years of garden visits. Not wanting to lose the relaxation of the garden visits by learning the Latin names of the flora, the name narcissus stuck.

Entering the apartment and the cat is screaming for food. Immediately, we search for a can opener because none of the pull-off top cat food cans are around so we have to use a can of Bumble Bee Solid White Albacore Tuna in Water. Cat jumps on the counter and everything near the edge falls. Empty stained wine glasses shatter on the floor and make a really dangerous mess that we tip toe away from so I will sweep and wipe the tiny shards so no one gets hurt, including the cat. It’s annoying because we had the really nice walk in the park and now drops of red wine and little glass pieces are everywhere, even stuck to the wall.

After the mess is gone we settle onto the bed and start homework and reading. It is nice and calm and when she begins the assignment about poems she opens a book with a photo of a big Victorian house on the cover. It is a black and white photo so it’s hard to tell what the actual color of the house is, but it might be white and even before opening the book it suggests what the content or mood of poetry might be about. I don’t like that very much, because when younger kids start exploring poetry I believe it should be done without visual suggestion.

The reader should conjure those images up purely in their own imagination.

#3 But She Came Back

The good day when the sun is out and there aren’t any constraints pulling one down into a dark place. The day when all the assignments are turned in, the flowers are in bloom and ones body feels like it belongs to its owner in a pleasurable way. Feelings aren’t particularly felt in any extreme way on days like this.

In autumn when the leaves are all over and the apples are hanging on trees ripe waiting to be picked, eaten or made into pie.  Or strawberries sliced up with sugar added sitting in its own red juice soaking and gelling and mingling with red rhubarb until it is put in the oven and the smell takes over the entire world until it comes out of the oven and becomes its lovers greatest gift in the world. The flaky warm crust with the hot filling scooped into ones mouth quickly before the temperature cools and it no longer resembles perfection. Everything works together and it is easy.

Really easy.

Stepping outside when the snow is falling for the first time in Winter. Clean, bright, welcome release from the clouds to earth. Remembering the Snowy Day and the collaged snowflakes pink, green and purple. Peter woke up and looked out his window and it covered everything as far as he could see.

His little red snow suit.

He walked with his toes pointing out, like this:

He walked with his toes pointing in, like that:

The snowballs, snow angels, mountain of snow with wisps of cotton swirling across the deep blue sky.

And home he goes.

His mom carefully removing his socks. Her large, brown friendly body. His steaming

hot tub and bubbles.

The dark wet pocket where his saved snowball lived a short life.

The days grow shorter and the cold gets impossibly colder.

The moments collapse into spaces with no warm breath. Stillness with no comfort. Stained bathrobes and tattered slippers. Cold coffee.

Wanting to fall asleep early but never quite dreaming.

Nothing feels quite right like it never will again.

The roots are tangled and the laundry is piled high.

No one wants to do it so it sits there.

The cars are stained with mud and the steps down into the subway are wet and slippery and there is a giant brown mud puddle to tip-toe across before to reach the platform and maybe ones feet will get wet, or maybe not.

On the platform are two musicians. One plays the violin and the other a guitar.

Someone holds the closing doors open.

One gets a seat and can read a book and there are a few chapters left.

But she came back.