STAND DOWN

Some battles never actually happen.  The following tale speaks for itself.  (I think I wrote this around 2009 or 2010, before my previous computer died.  Thank goodness I still had my printout.)

TOUGH OLD FARTS

            Waiting for my husband at the pub, I sat at a table with my club soda and lime, playing trivia with three keyboards, one using my name and two using my husbands’.  I wasn’t scoring very many points as I seldom guessed the correct answer.  The next question appeared on the large screen TV, asking in which war was the battle of Ap Bac.

            “Two,” said the man at the table next to me.  “The answer is number two, Vietnam.  I was there,” he said.

            I punched the number ‘two’ on my keyboard, and it was the correct answer, worth one thousand points.  Then came a break in the game.

            “Are you American?” I asked.

            “No.  I’m from here.  I went over with the Americans as a volunteer.  You could do that back then,” he said, as the waitress brought four glasses of beer he’d ordered.  “Hope my friend remembers we were meeting here,” he said.

            “My son’s a major in the army,” I said.

            “Canadian or American?” he asked.

            “Canadian.”

            “Has he been deployed out of country?” he wanted to know.

            “Yes.  Bosnia and Afghanistan.”

            He solemnly nodded his head that sported precisely trimmed silver hair and a goatee on his chin.  “It’s tough in Afghanistan,” he said.  And then his friend arrived.

            They started drinking their two beers each.  The friend began telling the soldier how angry he was with his wife because she hadn’t saved her gas receipts for their income tax return.  He ranted through his first beer and started slowing down somewhat over the second.  They then discussed the folly of living with a woman.  The next topic was how a mutual friend was being taken to the cleaners getting his divorce.

            The waitress returned and they each ordered another two glasses of beer.  The conversation turned briefly to gardening and then meandered back to the subject of their wives.

            “I’ve been married over almost forty years,” said the soldier.  “It’s not so bad.  At least Barbara keeps the paperwork straight.”

            The friend belched, and said, “I guess I could have done worse.  At least she does make sure the bills get paid.”  Then his cell phone rang and he answered after checking the number calling and telling the soldier it was his wife.

            “I’m just having a drink with Mark at the Dodger.  I’ll be home in half an hour, Sweetheart,” he told her, with a smile.

            Mellowed by their four beers each, they paid their bill and on their way out I heard the friend say to the soldier, “I sure hope she enjoys the vacation I’m taking her on next month.”

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By Lisa A. Hatton

DREAMS COME TRUE

I wrote the following piece of retrospection seven years ago when I was offered the chance of making one very big dream come true.  Today, my reality matches the dream I had and life is good.  Don’t be afraid to dream.

COFFEE TIME

I need a coffee to sort my thoughts.  I’m so unsure of where I’m going.  The pain has been a daily presence for thirty four years, and more is coming.  I don’t know what to think about it, or how I will manage.

Yes, I know the long term goal after I survive six surgeries will be to stand and walk normally again.  But I’ve been disabled for more years that I was abled, so I have trouble balancing my thoughts, never mind the steps I’ll be taking.

My whole life is arranged around the pain and limitation from previously broken legs that healed misaligned.  I decline invitations because I can’t stand for long, or because I can’t walk the distance or can’t climb the stairs.  I only want to go out in the daytime, before my pain killer wears off and I need to climb into the sanctuary of my bed.  If I entertain, I need three days to prepare.  While a young mother, I never walked my children to school and I never went on their field trips with them.  Now I’m unable to babysit my grandchildren as I can’t chase the tots or carry the baby.  Grocery shopping is a monumental task that I dread each week.  Housework gets done sporadically.  And through the years, the limitation has grown more severe.  Now the knees are damaged by the misalignments.  My condition will never improve on its own.  Untreated, a wheelchair awaits me like smothering quicksand.

I had a glimmer of hope when my surgeon suggested replacing the knees without realigning the legs, but after further investigation, he couldn’t assure me that would be successful.  So now I am faced with first having my legs realigned before having the knees replaced.  That’s three surgeries for each leg.

Am I strong enough for this?  Do I have enough courage?  Will I be able to cope with recovery at home, with all the steps that confront me for anything I want to do?  Will I accept complacently all the chores left undone?  Will I endure the loneliness of being home alone and unable to drive for weeks at a time?  And will I survive the pain?

I do not know.  I simply do not know.

But I do know this.  I am going ahead with the surgeries.  To stand and walk normally again?  That’s been my dream for thirty-four years.  Maybe dreams do come true.  I just don’t know.  Yet.

May I have another coffee, please, while I think about it some more?

____________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

SUMMER MEMORIES

The following short piece I like to think of as prose poetry.  Summer memories can be pleasant or sad, and sometimes a combination of both.  I tend to think the purpose of heartache is to make me appreciate the joys of life.

BEFORE

I remember the lonely that day I went to visit.

There was a melancholy sighing of the leaves in the sultry summer breeze.

Mom and Dad were lawn chaired in the meagre shade at the back of the house instead of under the trees down by the pool, avoiding happy memories long departed.

I saw the ride-on lawnmower abandoned in the heat with only half of three acres cut.

I looked at the pool, the aquamarine water I remembered now tainted a dirty green by the algae left to contaminate.  The pool was blockaded by a wire gauge fence and a locked gate.  Fun and frolic prohibited.

Memories of the years before assailed me.

Relatives arriving with trailers and campers to spend summer weekends, the pool the center of the action.  Aunts and uncles, cousins, friends, swimsuits, towels, beach balls, floating chairs, flippers, snorkels, an umbrella swing, chaise lounges, webbed lawn chairs, hats, thongs, sunburns, freckles, barbecues, salads, paper plates, cheezies, pretzels, pop and beer.  Shrieks and laughter.  Laughter.  Laughter.  Laughter.

I heard the echoes fading as I stared at the green murk.

And I remembered the way things used to be, before my youngest brother died.

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By Lisa A. Hattonnd I remembered the way things used to be, before my youngest brother died.heezies, pretzels, pop and beer.  Shrieks and laught

HIDDEN TRUTH

The following short story I wrote is a piece of fiction that was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Shoreline” in 2016.

THE UNWRITTEN STORY

I once lent a book on writing memoir to someone and never thought any more about it until the plain clothes policeman rang my doorbell.

After showing me his badge and confirming my name, he asked, “Do you know a Gabriella Ramirez-Langdon and a Claire Winters?”

“Um, I’ve met them a couple of times, but I can’t say I really know them.  Why?  What’s this about?”

“I’m gathering information on these two women.  May I come in and ask you some questions?” he asked, moving closer to the door.

We sat in the kitchen, facing each other.  He had a notebook and a pen in his hand.  “How did you meet these women,” he wanted to know, opening the notebook and preparing to write.

I had to think back several years.  They had arrived together each time at my writers’ group.  Gabriella I had previously met socially, when she was with her husband.  She was in her early forties, a slim dark-haired beauty, from Chile, who said she loved to write.  So I invited her to the group.  She brought Claire with her.  She was a woman in her fifties, originally from England, a fading beauty, quiet and evasive.  They first hid themselves in my kitchen, whispering and making tea together, before joining the rest of us.

“They came together to my writers’ group several times,” I told the policeman.

“Can you tell me what their relationship to each other was?” he asked.

I thought back to their first visit.  We all took turns reading our writing, our aspirations for famed publication nakedly displayed.  Gabriella read her poetry.  It needed work, because English was not her first language.  Claire read pages of flowery obfuscation, hinting she had a story to tell, but never telling it.

“I can’t write the truth,” she said.  “My ex would kill me.  He was always abusive.  We had three children together.  He got sole custody and I was hardly ever able to see them.  Now that they’re older and I try to tell them the truth, they don’t believe me.  They think I’m just histrionic, looking for attention.  I want to tell my story, but I can’t.”

We encouraged her to write it down anyhow.  We said she didn’t need to share it with anyone, but that writing it could be cathartic for her, a healing process.

“No.  No.  You don’t understand,” she said.  “He’s a very prominent person.  Very well known.  And very powerful.  Any hint at my telling the truth about what he’s done, at home and not at home, and I would be snuffed out.  Like that!” she said, as she snapped her fingers.

Gabriella sat beside her, and soothingly patted her arm, or her knee, each time Claire looked at her for validation.  It seemed that Gabriella knew what Claire was talking about.  The rest of us wanted to know, but respected her privacy.  Those who had also survived abuse waylaid her afterward, out on the street, urging her to write, or to seek professional help.

But to the policeman I only said, “They appeared to be close friends.”

“Really?  How close?” he asked me.

“Just close.  They arrived together.  They looked to each other for approval.  They made tea together in my kitchen.  They sat together.  Why?  What’s going on?  And why are you here asking me questions about them?”

“I have a book with your name and address in it.  A book on writing memoir.  What can you tell me about that book?”

“On writing memoir?” I asked.  “I lent such a book to Claire the last time she came here to the writers’ group.  I haven’t seen her or the book since.  Why?  Please tell me what the book has to do with anything.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands together on the table.  “Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about them?” he asked, his direct gaze holding mine.

I sighed, and then revealed Claire had said her husband would kill her if she ever told the truth of what he had done, but that she never told us what that had been.

Finally, the policeman closed his notebook and looked at me directly.

“We found your book in a hotel room with two dead bodies identified as Gabriella Ramirez-Langdon and Claire Winters.  They were found naked, in bed together, and these deaths are suspicious.”

Now I wonder whose truth it was that did kill them.

______________________

By Lisa A. Hatton