Just after breakfast Bobby led her down the cellar stairs promising a special treat. He could get her to do anything because she trusted him. Later this would not be so.
A bare bulb glared above the workbench. He climbed up to reach the Mason jar. The lid stuck. His small hand applied all its strength. The lid gave way. The jar sloshed open.
“Drink this.”
She did.
After some commotion – a frantic phone call, a screeching car ride – an attendant held her hard against the table while the doctor jammed a tube down her gagging throat. Up came scrambled eggs, pumped into an enamel pan.
Boric acid in a jar on a workbench in a cellar.
This was not the first time Bobby tried to kill his sister.
Jane Follett Janson ~ Prose and Poetry
Pantoum - October 1962 & 2007
Mornings are chilled.
The sun is warm in a dark blue sky.
October in New Mexico holds me
Up when the ache is hard and cold.
The sun is warm in a dark blue sky
When October calls me home.
Up, when the ache is hard and cold,
I say a safe and sacred prayer.
When October calls me home
I pack my heart-full of memories,
I say a safe and sacred prayer
To you and you and you.
I pack my heart full of memories
Of October under a colder sun.
To you and you and you.
I long for every moment
Of October. Under a colder sun
We grasped at love and tears.
I long for every moment
When I could still dream.
We grasped at love and tears
Fell. And now I long for then,
When I could still dream.
October in New Mexico holds me.
- October 24, 2007
The sun is warm in a dark blue sky.
October in New Mexico holds me
Up when the ache is hard and cold.
The sun is warm in a dark blue sky
When October calls me home.
Up, when the ache is hard and cold,
I say a safe and sacred prayer.
When October calls me home
I pack my heart-full of memories,
I say a safe and sacred prayer
To you and you and you.
I pack my heart full of memories
Of October under a colder sun.
To you and you and you.
I long for every moment
Of October. Under a colder sun
We grasped at love and tears.
I long for every moment
When I could still dream.
We grasped at love and tears
Fell. And now I long for then,
When I could still dream.
October in New Mexico holds me.
- October 24, 2007
Lena
She walked up the lane in her black Persian lamb coat. She wore black galoshes, open, buckles clacking with each measured step. It was May – no snow or rain – and warm. The worn brocade handbag in her hand held every thing that mattered to her.
When she reached the last house, she faced the veranda and stopped for a moment as she did every morning before entering. What she took in was more than the rose trellis, the ivied brick, and the leaded glass arch above the door. She saw so much. Here was her purpose. Within she was real and she was loved.
Years and years earlier, when she twenty-two, still just a girl, her husband, whose name she has since forgotten, brought her by streetcar to the main gate. He held her hand as they walked down the manicured avenue, past the lane, past white-trimmed brick buildings. He took papers from the vest pocket in which he always carried important things, and handed them to the doctor. The papers were unfolded and closely examined. Signatures were checked. Words were exchanged is if she were not sitting right there in the room with them.
Her husband left and she stayed.
A man in black trousers, black bowtie and white shirt walked her through corridors with floors so shiny even her leather-soled shoes squeaked in the cloistered silence. Closed doors were opened and closed again. The long empty ward was lined on each side with beds sealed in starched white linen. Late afternoon light swirled yellow in the motes casting narrow slanted bars across the room. She was shown her bed and the night stand beside. The lockless locker was to hang her things in. But all she had was a brocade handbag and the clothes she wore.
She sat down on the bed in her Persian lamb coat. She thought nothing. She felt nothing.
- Fall 2009
When she reached the last house, she faced the veranda and stopped for a moment as she did every morning before entering. What she took in was more than the rose trellis, the ivied brick, and the leaded glass arch above the door. She saw so much. Here was her purpose. Within she was real and she was loved.
Years and years earlier, when she twenty-two, still just a girl, her husband, whose name she has since forgotten, brought her by streetcar to the main gate. He held her hand as they walked down the manicured avenue, past the lane, past white-trimmed brick buildings. He took papers from the vest pocket in which he always carried important things, and handed them to the doctor. The papers were unfolded and closely examined. Signatures were checked. Words were exchanged is if she were not sitting right there in the room with them.
Her husband left and she stayed.
A man in black trousers, black bowtie and white shirt walked her through corridors with floors so shiny even her leather-soled shoes squeaked in the cloistered silence. Closed doors were opened and closed again. The long empty ward was lined on each side with beds sealed in starched white linen. Late afternoon light swirled yellow in the motes casting narrow slanted bars across the room. She was shown her bed and the night stand beside. The lockless locker was to hang her things in. But all she had was a brocade handbag and the clothes she wore.
She sat down on the bed in her Persian lamb coat. She thought nothing. She felt nothing.
- Fall 2009
Karaoke
The plane was scheduled to land at 7:55 p.m., but—due to thunder storms somewhere in the middle of the country—the flight was late. Too late to make the three-hour drive back to Silver City.
Carry-on dropped in the room, face washed, and downstairs to the bar. A drink and pretzels would be dinner.
The Tiki Lounge – I’m not sure if that really was its name – I just remember that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the Sonoran desert. It was a Saturday night, but this bar had no draw. Just another airport hotel along Tucson Boulevard. I sat on a tall stool, ordered a Manhattan, and picked through the pretzels until I found a whole one.
In the corner of the too-large room was a group of three tables and maybe a dozen people, over-dressed and local. All had a distinct 70’s, pre-disco look. Women: Big Hair. Men: Tom Jones sideburns.
So it was no coincidence that a man in a dark wine-colored velour shirt (top 5 buttons unbuttoned) and wearing a medallion the size of Olympic Gold, was standing, microphone in hand, singing What’s New Pussycat in a key ever-so-slightly lower than the accompaniment.
His moves were deliberate, studied. His whole body leaned into the chorus, right arm outreached, hand open then closing to draw the air and the audience in with it.
At the end of the song, Tom dropped the mike to his side. He shook himself from the shoulders in a loosening up sort of way. He humbly raised this palm to the audience to deflect applause.
“Thank you. No. Please. Thank you.”
The audience – the others around the three tables – did not cheer or agitate. The applause was slow, heads nodded. One fellow closed his eyes, brought his pinched fingers to his pinched lips in a kiss indicating perfection. Tom had hit an ace down the center line.
Beautiful.
The evening’s emcee took the microphone, quieted the crowd, then “Let’s hear it once again for (I couldn’t make out the name).” Gratitude moved around the tables a second time as the singer’s upturned palm fended off pride.
It seemed late for this sort of thing. It felt as though the bar should have already shut down for the night. But something was going on here.
Another pitcher of beer was ordered.
The emcee turned to the audience. “Please help me welcome, once again, to the Tiki Lounge, star of the Tucson stage, our very own Darlene Dolores.” A sweeping gesture lifted Darlene to the microphone. She stood, first with her back to the tables; head bowed, a deep breath, then turning slowly and raising her voice to We’ve Only Just Begun.
One by one each took a turn at the microphone. Each was someone special up there. The screen was turned so only the singer could see the words. But no one needed to look. Each was a professional. An entertainer. The center of another world. Complete.
- July 2009
Carry-on dropped in the room, face washed, and downstairs to the bar. A drink and pretzels would be dinner.
The Tiki Lounge – I’m not sure if that really was its name – I just remember that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the Sonoran desert. It was a Saturday night, but this bar had no draw. Just another airport hotel along Tucson Boulevard. I sat on a tall stool, ordered a Manhattan, and picked through the pretzels until I found a whole one.
In the corner of the too-large room was a group of three tables and maybe a dozen people, over-dressed and local. All had a distinct 70’s, pre-disco look. Women: Big Hair. Men: Tom Jones sideburns.
So it was no coincidence that a man in a dark wine-colored velour shirt (top 5 buttons unbuttoned) and wearing a medallion the size of Olympic Gold, was standing, microphone in hand, singing What’s New Pussycat in a key ever-so-slightly lower than the accompaniment.
His moves were deliberate, studied. His whole body leaned into the chorus, right arm outreached, hand open then closing to draw the air and the audience in with it.
At the end of the song, Tom dropped the mike to his side. He shook himself from the shoulders in a loosening up sort of way. He humbly raised this palm to the audience to deflect applause.
“Thank you. No. Please. Thank you.”
The audience – the others around the three tables – did not cheer or agitate. The applause was slow, heads nodded. One fellow closed his eyes, brought his pinched fingers to his pinched lips in a kiss indicating perfection. Tom had hit an ace down the center line.
Beautiful.
The evening’s emcee took the microphone, quieted the crowd, then “Let’s hear it once again for (I couldn’t make out the name).” Gratitude moved around the tables a second time as the singer’s upturned palm fended off pride.
It seemed late for this sort of thing. It felt as though the bar should have already shut down for the night. But something was going on here.
Another pitcher of beer was ordered.
The emcee turned to the audience. “Please help me welcome, once again, to the Tiki Lounge, star of the Tucson stage, our very own Darlene Dolores.” A sweeping gesture lifted Darlene to the microphone. She stood, first with her back to the tables; head bowed, a deep breath, then turning slowly and raising her voice to We’ve Only Just Begun.
One by one each took a turn at the microphone. Each was someone special up there. The screen was turned so only the singer could see the words. But no one needed to look. Each was a professional. An entertainer. The center of another world. Complete.
- July 2009
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