Identical (6 page)

Bogart. Pass that fucking thing over here.

So I did, and once we were totally buzzed

he pulled off onto a dirt ranch road, parked.

No maid out here. Just birds and squirrels.

Defenses lowered by excellent bud, I said

okay to a quickie. Totally in control.

Out of control.

Sometimes they’re

the same thing.

The trick is knowing

that, realizing

it’s okay to feel

out of control

once in a while,

as long as

you’re sure

you can regain

the upper hand

when you

absolutely need to.

And really, when

it comes to my

reclaiming control,

it comes down to one

simple little thing,

something I sometimes

have difficulty with:

saying no.

To say no, and not only say

it, but mean it. In some

situations, not always

the right ones, I know,

I’m strong.

Really strong. Tough,

even. I guess, in a very odd

way, I’m something of

a survivor.

But there are times when,

much as I want to assert

myself, know it’s the right

thing to do,

I can’t

find the inner fortitude

to follow through with a simple

two-letter word. NO. One of

the first words babies can

understand,

one of the first they learn

to repeat. No. No, Mick, I won’t

let you treat me with disrespect. No,

Mick, and I don’t have to explain

why I

won’t let you touch me this time.

Okay, so maybe I’m a little

confused. Does being in control

mean I have to cave in, have to

crumble?

Setting tables for dinner,

washing dishes afterward,

arranging flowers in vases,

reading to those whose

eyes no longer can. But

the absolute best is when

they share their stories.             There’s Sam Lonnigan, who

as a liberal-leaning broad-

caster became snared by Joe

McCarthy’s communist witch

hunt. Commie? No way,

not that his true ideology

ever came into play.

Miss High Fashion Spyre

lost her modeling career

when “skin-and-bones,

raccoon-eyes Twiggy” hit

the scene.
Till then, curves

were hip,
she complains.

Size subzero? Spare me!
  Also sharing words of

wisdom are a fifties test

pilot, three retired doctors,

one author, one poet, two

politicians, one Olympic

medalist, four domestic

divas, and Greta Sorenson.

It’s nice having her take on the grand-

parent role, because I never see my own.

Mom’s father was killed in Vietnam.

Her mother, Grandma Betty, retired

to Florida. She used to visit, but not

since the accident. I don’t blame her.

Daddy’s father and mother divorced

when Daddy was still in grade school.

The reasons were so ugly no one

will talk about them. Other than

a few creepy film noir–type scenes,

I can hardly remember Grandma

Gardella, can barely conjure her

face. Daddy says she only ever

came around looking for money.

When I asked what for, he clammed

up completely, except to say he

wasn’t about to finance her binges.

Grandpa and Daddy haven’t

spoken in three decades. A few

years ago I tracked Grandpa down,

told him we were studying family

genealogy in school. He had no clue

Daddy was married, let alone about

Raeanne and me. Sheesh. He

sent us birthday cards for a year

or two, until Daddy found out.

I’ll never forget the fit he threw.

That sonofabitch better stay far,

far away, or I swear I’ll kill him.

When I asked him why, he had

nothing substantial to say. I haven’t

heard a word from Grandpa since.

So I have a stranger for a grandma.

At least she was a stranger until

we got to talking. And now it’s like

we’ve known each other forever.

Not that she knows everything,

a fact that she’s quite aware of.

Pretty young woman like you,

spending so much time with an old

lady like me, instead of out

with your friends? That can

only add up to one thing—

you’re hiding from something.

Said with a sparkle in her ice

blue Scandinavian eyes. But her

tone was 100 percent serious.

That’s okay, honey. You know

you’re safe here with me. And if

you ever want to talk about

it, I’m a hell of a good listener.

Meanwhile, why don’t I teach

you to crochet? It’s a lost art.

Sometimes, mid–slip stitch,

I’ll catch those sharp blue eyes

poking at me, as if trying to pierce

my armor. So far, they haven’t

succeeded. But, to tell the truth,

once in a while they come close.

I catch something

in her eyes, something

not meant for me to see.

Something very close

to what she sees in mine:

fear.

Once, I gathered up

all my courage, asked,

“What are you afraid of?”

She sat very quietly

for several long minutes.

Finally,

she took a long, deep

breath. Cleared her throat.

Nothing. Now. But I used

to be afraid all the time.

I met evil when I was only a

child.

It followed me for many

years, through adolescence,

into adulthood. I married

evil, but it was nothing new

and so I accepted it. It was the

wrong

thing to do. Never accept

evil as something you must

walk with, something you

deserve. Somehow. Do you

understand what I mean?

I nod, because I do

understand. I’m just not

sure how to go about

divorcing myself from

the evil I’ve already

accepted.

Greta is in her room, napping.

Unusual. The pre-dinner hour

is generally noisy, busy with

afternoon activities designed

to keep older minds exercised.

Card games. Sing-alongs.

Classes on memoir and poetry.

I almost always find Greta

smack in the middle of it all.

Today she’s under the weather.

I bustle around, doing assorted

duties, every so often poking

my head through her door. Shades

drawn, her room is dark as a coffin.

And why did I think that, exactly?

That pulls my thoughts toward

something she told me once, how

she never really rested until she saw

“that no-good son of a bitch”

laid down in the hard, cold ground.

I asked her who, but she was lost

in reverie, stuck in some horrible

memory, unable to extricate herself.

I saw something in her eyes, though.

Something that made me afraid for her.

Hello? Miss Gardella?
Sam calls

from the confines of his wheelchair.

Would you mind giving me a push

to the rec room? The arthritis

is acting up something awful today.

I turn away from Greta’s sleeping

form, softly close her door. “No

problem, Sam. Sorry about the

arthritis.” I give the brakes a nudge.

“Hold on tight. Here we go.”

For someone, especially someone

who’s getting on in years,

is the likelihood you’ll lose them

too soon.

The nurse says Greta has a flu

bug, nothing major, but just

the thought of her giving in to

death

makes me indescribably sad.

I want to wake her, soothe

her fever, tell her how much

she means to me before it’s

too late.

Don’t worry
, says Psychic Sam.

No damn flu gonna take Greta

down
. I nod, thinking about

going “down,” no last shot at

redemption.

That will likely be my fate.

Done in by some viral villain,

sent straight to the fiery pits,

shackled by my silence,

sentenced to

spend eternity locked in

a hot red chamber, no way

to claim innocence and avoid

an eternal

dance with the devil.