relationships – bendingtheneedle

The Glen

Remember when

we walked the Glen

down to the Manor

and back again

just passersby

to grass and sky

with inlet smiles

and sunlit eyes

Cicada rhythms

danced through the trees

the Sakonnet rolled

out to the sea

that world embraced

both you and me

Remember when

we walked no more

stopped skipping stones

along the shore

we buried secrets

in closet walls

dodged each other

in narrow halls

Glen strolls replaced

by trips to malls

by all-day meetings

and late-night calls

We lost ourselves

and raised the kids

crossed some lines

and hit the skids

then peeled apart

as our parents did

Mundanity paved over love

harsh words gave way

to push and shove

our home became

a handless glove

Does love lie dormant

at the Glen

under rotting leaves

and muddied Zen

or is Wolfe’s

“You can’t go home again”

as true as dirt and oxygen

where the fireflies

we choose to chase

are snuffed

by Moirai’s cold embrace?

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my book, My Paper, My Words: Rantings from a Progressive Boomer and Peeved Parent, from Amazon. And if you feel moved to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

My Paper, My Words is a collection of essays, stories, and poems that reflect the challenges of a middle-class husband and father trying to navigate a rapidly changing political, religious, and technological landscape of post-911 America.

The Girlfriend

The reflection in the bathroom mirror isn’t his.

It’s not even a reflection.

He stares at it numbly while rubbing his thumb against the business end of his girlfriend’s disposable razor.

“Honey, are you ready? “

Startled, he breaks from the visage to the red droplets at the bottom of the sink and mumbles, “Blood and Porcelain. Good band name.” The man in the mirror nods and smirks approvingly. “Be down in a minute!”

“Reservations are for 8:30.”

“Yup, I’m coming.” He grabs the Windex from under the sink, runs the water, gives a few quick spritzes, and wipes away the evidence. Then, with a Band-aid on his thumb, he’s out the door and down the stairs.

“What happened?” his girlfriend gestures toward his thumb while applying lipstick.

“You know, man in the mirror.”

“Uh-huh – you all right – do you still want to go?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He flashes an exaggerated smile and gives her a sarcastic, blood-stained thumbs-up.

Silence fills the car’s passenger cabin on the drive to the restaurant. She clears her throat before speaking.

“So, when did it start up again?“

“A few weeks ago,” he checks the rearview and sees himself sitting in the middle of the back seat, head down, aggressively working a hand-held gaming device – click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

The sound reverberates with throbs of pain in his freshly wounded thumb.

“Do you see him now?“

“Yep. The little fucker hitched a ride with us.“

The vision, which never speaks, raises his head, and acknowledges the acknowledgment – giving a friendly “what’s up” nod before reengaging with the video game.

The girlfriend looks over her shoulder at the empty backseat and then back at her boyfriend. She’s still learning to balance her reality with his. “Here’s hoping he remains in the car,” she says earnestly.

“Here’s hoping.“

The dinner is a small gathering in an intimate setting. They purposely arrive fifteen minutes early to conduct restaurant reconnaissance, surveying for mirrors and other reflective surfaces. Weirdly, this type of collaborative exercise has strengthened their relationship, for now. Secretly, they both worry about the long-term effects and emotional fatigue from their uniquely strange threesome.

They sit at the reserved table with their backs to a mirrored wall and wait for others to arrive.

“You good?“

“Sane as salt,” he says with a jittery smile while flagging the waitress for a drink.

The evening goes well. There’s a lot of laughter and light conversation, with the boyfriend and girlfriend intermittently checking on one another through caring glances.

As the evening winds down, the boyfriend casually looks toward the swinging kitchen doors that allow the free flow of wait staff. As the door swings open, he briefly catches a glimpse of himself working the line with two other cooks – chopping vegetables and garlic – before the door swings shut.

He shoots a worried look at his girlfriend.

She knows “the look” and immediately starts surveilling the room for reflective surfaces, using her boyfriend as the epicenter, then fanning out from where they’re sitting.

The door swings open, and this time, he sees himself standing alone, smiling, holding a plucked chicken in one hand and a carving knife in the other.

He drops his wine glass and grabs his girlfriend’s arm.

The glass shatters on the floor, and everyone at their table (and surrounding tables) looks in their direction.

Without a hitch, the girlfriend says disarmingly, “Time to cut off Bill!”

Clearly, she’s rehearsed for this scenario. There’s a momentary lull before one of the guests chimes in, “Waitress, we need coffee, STAT!” and the table breaks into laughter, providing necessary cover for the girlfriend.

She rests her hand gently on his. “You’re hurting me.“

He loosens his grip.

“Look at me,” she whispers – his pupils dance in pools of panic. “Breathe, honey. breathe through it. We’re going to stand up in three seconds. Follow my lead. One, two, three. “

They stand, and she speaks, “Thanks so much for the lovely evening! We’ve got a sick cat at home that needs medication, so we’re heading out. It was so nice seeing everyone!“

“Just give the cat whatever Bill was drinking; that’ll do the trick.” More alcohol-fueled laughter. More cover for them.

“Good one, Jack!” She smiles and points at the table, and they head for the exit.

When they get to the car, she can see that he’s still visibly shaken.

‘What happened?” she says. “I didn’t see any mirrors. “

His voice shakes. “He wasn’t in a mirror. He was in the kitchen, holding a plucked chicken and a carving knife, smiling at me like a demented line cook.”

“Fuck,” she said.

“He’s broken through. Now he’s in our – or should I say my – world.” He was hyper-conscious not to drag his girlfriend into his nightmare.

He didn’t want to ruin her.

He looks at his girlfriend and rattles off a bunch of questions. “How long before he starts talking to me? How long before I start interacting with him? What does he want with me? I’m scared of where this is heading. I don’t want to end up like my father.“

The girlfriend turns her head sharply towards him. It’s the first time in years that he’s mentioned his father. “You’re not your father.“

The boyfriend responds immediately. “I’m not so sure about that.“

Her words were meant to stem the rising tide of fear in his voice – but they’re both aware of the dark footprint on the ladder of his family’s DNA. The fatalism of that biological history buries him in hopelessness.

When they enter their apartment, they immediately visage-proof the rooms—taking down mirrors, flipping framed pictures, and draping a dishcloth over the glass door on the microwave oven.

The boyfriend says, “Now that he’s broken through, I’m not sure what difference this is going to make.“

“Me neither. We’ll have to wait and see.” She smiles at him warmly as heading down the hallway to the bathroom.

A minute later, she returns with two Olanzapine tablets and a glass of water then hands them to her boyfriend.

“Thanks … for everything… for bearing with me… for seeing me through. I’d be gone without you.“

“Don’t say that. I love you. We’ll be OK —all three of us.“

He laughs, then starts to cry.

Matt’s Wake

When Bill sees Natalie parking across the street, he opens his car door to the cold backhanded slap of winter. “Fucking freezing“ he mumbles to himself. He steps onto the asphalt of the parking lot, pulls a pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket, and smacks it against his palm like he’s in a Tarantino flick.

Through the smoke, he studies the gathering mourners in long black coats and winter scarves, their low conversations demonstrated only by bursts of breath that quickly dissipate in the crisp January air.

He looks up at the sky. “Solid turnout, Matty … respectable for sure.”

Strategically hovering on the outskirts of the steadily growing crowd, Bill plots his entrance to coincide with Natalie’s. It’s been three years since he left her un-kissed on her parent’s doorstep, clutching that night’s carnival winnings, a plush multi-colored parrot, sobbing uncontrollably.

Several months later, Bill understood the horrible mistake he had made. He tried to win Natalie back for the next year and a half, but she refused to let him back into her life.

Matt’s death shook Bill to his core, and yet, almost immediately, his thoughts turned to Natalie. Ashamed, he wondered what it would be like to see her at the wake. Matt would have found his chagrin darkly amusing, the type of reaction that would have led to an entire afternoon of delving into the complexities of the human condition and intricacies of love, death, opportunity, and loss.

Bill imagined how that scenario would have unfolded. He would have said, that’s what love does to a person and Matt would have nodded, lit cigarette in hand, a wry smile on his face, and replied with one of his Mattyisms:

Love is a fork in the garbage disposal.

Bill takes one last drag, tosses the half-smoked Marlboro to the ground, and grinds it out with the toe of his shoe. He heads slowly towards the line forming at the funeral home entrance while watching Natalie cross the street in his peripheral vision.

Nat steps onto the sidewalk gracefully, and Bill falls into step alongside.

“Hey,“ he says, slowing in hopes of an embrace.

“Hey,“ Natalie says, her voice cool.

“Hey,” he says again, dumbly mesmerized by the combination of her bright beauty and profound sadness.

Natalie catches Bill in mid-stare. “Are you okay?”

Bill sputters. “Huh? Oh. Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay. You?“

“Actually, I’m the opposite of okay,” she says quietly.

“That’s true, you’re a knockout,” Bill says and almost immediately regrets his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Excuse me?” Now she stops, rounding on him.

Bill holds up his hands defensively. “The opposite of OK – KO – Knock Out.”

“Seriously? You’re hitting on me right now? Here?” Natalie shakes her head, but there’s a hint of amusement beneath her veneer of sadness.

They fall into the line of mourners, shuffling along a few steps at a time.

“How are your folks?” Bill asks sheepishly, hoping to at least get back to an informal conversation.

“They’re fine; I’ll tell them you asked.” Her sarcasm shatters Bill’s hope like a bullet through candied glass.

By the time Bill and Natalie step into the funeral home, an awkward silence has set up camp. For the next 30 minutes, it’s mostly just quiet nods to other attendees until they find themselves next in line to pay their respects.

As the couple in front of Bill finishes their prayers, Bill quietly panics. Should he accompany Nat to the coffin or hang back and respect her privacy? The couple stands, and the man and woman each briefly place a hand on Matt’s casket before proceeding to the receiving line.

Natalie looks at Bill, but he’s unsure what it means. He offers his hand, which she takes gently, and they approach Matt’s casket together.

They can feel the stares from around the room. Their break-up three years ago was big news to their small community, so this public reconciliation (if that’s what it is) generated some buzz.

Though Bill had imagined Matt’s wake as an opportunity to reconnect with Nat, he hadn’t envisioned what would happen afterwards. It would all depend on how Natalie responded, and up to this point, it had been primarily awkward silence. He didn’t know how to get a beat on what she was feeling.

As soon as they kneel, Bill bows his head and whispers, “Listen, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking about that night.”

“Suzy,” Natalie mutters flatly, head also bowed.

“What?” Full of confusion, he risks a sidelong glance.

“You said you didn’t know what you were thinking about. Fucking Suzy is what you were thinking about – literally. I figured it out when you started dating her the week after you dumped me.”

Bill swallows, another Mattyism springing into his mind like a jack in the box: The truth has a way of shooting you down and shutting you up.

Matt would have enjoyed this exchange for several reasons: He would have loved that instead of praying at his casket (Matt was a devout atheist) they were trying to work out their shit. And he would have reveled in knowing his wake provided Bill and Nat a venue for reconciliation (if that’s what this is). As he’d been fond of saying, Wakes are for the living.

“You’re right, Nat, and I’m sorry I ambushed you today. I’m lost without you. I’m just stumbling through this.”

After a few more quiet seconds, they both turn to look at a framed picture on the table behind Matt’s casket. Taken at a high school graduation party, Matt is center in the picture. But just over Matt’s right shoulder: Bill and Natalie. They’re holding hands, Nat is smiling at Bill, and they all look at ease and happy.

“That was us,” Nat says, pointing to the picture. Tears fall down Bill’s cheeks as he registers everything he’s lost.

Matt was right; wakes are for the living.

Bill and Natalie stand up together. Bill’s hand brushes the back Natalie’s hand, and she pulls away reflexively, looking at him deeply and shaking her head.

They move through the receiving line of hugs, tears, and warm laughter before going their separate ways.