~ Slivers of Saturday ~

War ...it's loss echos beyond the battle field, The casualty list is written on many hearts and neighborhoods.Thank God for real friends who pick up the pieces.

 

Slivers of Saturday   

                   

Morning peered in; tiny slivers of sunshine illuminated the empty space in the bed next to me.

Somehow, it made getting up easier.  Propping myself up on one elbow, I poked a finger between the blinds; just enough to survey the well oiled machine of “my,” of”our” neighborhood, come to life, one predictable ritual at a time.

 

The roar of the city bus swept up fliers and some newspaper into a dance down the street, sending an empty two-liter soda bottle smack into a brown-bagged 40-oz in front of the bus stop.

 

The twins Troy and Trevonn zigzagged their broken-down bikes across the road, randomly tossing papers into alleys and bushes two hours behind schedule, as usual.

 It was miraculous that they never collided; I’m just as sure they never got a paper on a porch… ever. 

  A pair of Rottweilers and a Pit bull hurled into action, oblivious of the twins, as a motorcycle roared around the corner, almost nipping a delivery driver with a full hand truck in front of Bea’s Deli.

 

Clev stood in front of the overflowing dumpster between the Deli and his Barbershop with one hand on his hip shaking his head back & forth.  Another sanitation workers' strike was one thing; but in the summer, it brought on disastrous woes.  He about-faced heading curbside with a large black trash bag, almost in synchronicity with Demetrius, whom we had always called “D.”

 

“D” dragged two cracked, jumbo size trash bins to the curb, stopping to catch his breath only once today.  That boy was straight up huge, a diabetic, with high blood pressure, forever having asthma attacks right there in the street. Everywhere for that matter.  If his Momma would just lay off the oven a bit, or if Kentucky Fried Chicken would move, he might stand a chance. His beater soaked with sweat, Demetrius leaned on the trash can for a final moment, then turned back towards the building in the only gait a twenty year old man, at more than four hundred pounds can sport.

A huge grin broke out across the width of his face; not at anyone, just because.  That was who he was, happy.  Who didn’t love “D”?  I watched him grow up, and “out.”  He was my husband Jamel's chess partner, who often sang on tracks for Mel at the recording studio uptown when he needed a male R&B singer.

I watched Glo, “D”’s mother began her early kitchen clang -and -song through her window.  Sultry

Gospel contralto drifted into the morning street……  It was Saturday.

 

Dingy plastic toddler trikes and throw rugs dangled off the fire escape next door, like ornaments of depression and lack.

Funny thing how even a navy town has its ghetto and this sure was it.

 

I inhaled, pulling myself to a sitting position and let out a slow sigh as I surveyed the room around me. In its’ place… everything dusted, but in its place. The chessboard lay permanently frozen in mid game. Cologne bottles lined up next to Mel’s watch and keys on the dresser.  Somehow, I felt, left undisturbed, they would become a tribute and talisman for his safe return.  My wedding ring snagged my curls as I lifted the tank top over my head.  Never took it off, the ring that is.

Dressed at last, I picked his picture up off the desk next to piles of manuscript.  Gently my pale thumb traced his mahogany cheek.  A lump gathered in my throat and I put it down, thrust my chin out, gauged my head a tad higher and headed to breakfast.  The only white face on the immediate block, made me feel “alone,” even when Mel was home.  I had to hold my head up.

"Stop lettin' people and their prejudice stank comments...break you down! You gotta suck it up and stay strong Dana...

 Meek ....is weak “Mel always said.

 

 Dang!  foul stench met me at the refrigerator door. Bad milk no doubt.  Shame too, since

It now looked like stale cereal was doin’ a solo act.  Didn’t drink milk like I should anyhow, Doctor said so too.

Suppose that’s why my tiny eight month belly looked more like I was just getting’ started.  Mel would be home soon, in time for the baby.  I’d shop regular then and probably feel a lot more like eating.

 

This was Jamels last year in the Navy, soon we could move out of this neighborhood, I could finish my book and Mel could go back to school, or get together that recording studio we always talked about.

 

Days gave way to weeks, and our little world moved, day and night tag teaming to maintain things just the way they were.  Graphic news stories and front-page pictures stole my sleep and pounds from my frame.

My belly expanded very little.  The baby within seemed to move restlessly awaiting his own arrival or that of Mel whichever came first.

 

The Ombudsman had assured me Mel’s unit would be homebound weeks ago.  They’d arrive at the base in Florida, where there would be a slight delay; something about “de…de…”debriefing”? Whatever that means.

 

I sat on a kitchen stool moving the “Yankees” refrigerator magnet back and forth with my toes, as I watched the news.  The sound of footsteps and a knock on the door downstairs startled me out of my half daze.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

“Ms. Dana, it’s me Francis, I’m here to tidy up some, and today I brought a friend. This is Zorida it’s high past time you got your “hair did” Ms. Dana.” and Zorida is a hairdresser.

 

“Why she droolin’ like that, whispered Zorida?”

 

“She took a fall down the stairs, when she was eight months pregnant.” “Lost the baby, partially paralyzed on her left side now.”

 

“Frances, who’s that fine man in the picture?”

 

“That’s her husband ...died in Iraq. Heard it was friendly fire too.” “That’s why she fell down the stairs …passed out with the news.”

 

Zorida released Danas tumble of curls and gently brushed through as she misted. Paralyzed or not, this woman was a true beauty.

 

“So, Ms. Dana, how would you like your hair today, up? or down?”

 

“Zorida, she don’t talk really, just sits in front of that chess board waitin’ for Mr.Red Carpet to come by.”

 

“Mr. Red Carpet ?”

 

“Yeah, “D- Sweet.”

 

“D-Sweet”…Demetrius Sweet, the Singer!!!!!

 

“Yep….none other than, he pays for her care… all of it.”

 

“Nice guy really, from ‘round here too.” “Lost two hundred pounds got himself a record deal”

Now he’s a big-time producer too…well you know all that.”

 

“Frances, reach over and turn that calendar page …to Thursday. “

 

“Oh…no, Mr. Sweet says never, ever to mess with the chess board and to leave that calendar on Saturday.”

“He was tight back in the day with Ms. Danas’ husband Mel, Must mean somethin’’

 “I hear she actually plays chess with him when he comes by.”Never did check to see if the pieces moved.”

“Be careful not to mess up them papers on the desk either, some unfinished manuscript.” “Ms. Dana here was a writer.”

 

“A writer “”Get out!” Zorida exclaimed with wide eyes, putting the last of Danas’ tresses in a clip without looking.”

 

Frances peeled the purple latex gloves off, into the waste basket. “Alright Ms. Dana, we’ll see you tomorrow, God bless.” “Come on Zorida! what you starin’ at at?”

 

 

Zorida couldn’t help but stare as, morning peered in; tiny slivers of sunshine illuminated the empty space in the bed, where no doubt that fine man once lay. She wiped a tear as it steamed down Ms. Danas’ right cheek, took mental note of the chess pieces and turned to leave.

 

 

 

© 2007 Jennifer Hampton

 

bythewurd

 

 

Author's Note

a 1st attempt at short story

Reviews

[The Random Writings Of ..]

Yes I agree you do write with incredible imagary, I can see myself there, hear the noises, feel it as if i was there. You have a great start here, and I must say for your first try this is excellent. I myself am trying to get more into writing short stories, so i am not that good of a critic on this kind of stuff. I will tell ya I like it, very easy to read and follow. You kept my attention from start to finish & yes I do hope you expand on this. So to me that is good writing. The story line is good, and you have a good basis for your characters. I am excited and really hope to hear more on this! Great start.
Kates

[d]

You definitely have a way with details...I luv this passage...Days gave way to weeks, and our little world moved, day and night tag teaming to maintain things just the way they were...this is definitely a parable that tugs at the emotions.

[Barry S. Maltese]

Although it is not perfect in it's construction, I love how you visualize your ideas with your words. You touch people with your writing here, and deliver a very sad and tragic story. I especially loved the twist at the end. I could see everything you portrayed as clear as a bell.
Great work.

[Roy L. Pickering Jr.]

You do a wonderful job creating a distinctive sense of place. This story had a nice Gloria Naylor Women of Brewster Place vibe going for it. Your gift at poetry has been put to good use as you make the transition to fiction. There is plenty of potential here. As is, I see this draft more as a sketch or outline than a finished product, perhaps because although the plot contains a full arc, within it I feel like I've only just been introduced to these characters. The introduction to them is quite intriguing, which makes me want to know them better, to see their stories develop in the background of the main one that will only grow richer as it is fleshed out. You continue to impress as you branch out, Jenn. Keep at it.

[Damien Dsoul]

The story is quite touching. Very picturesque, the characters moving both in and out of it like passing stars.

[Michael Anyanwu]

I haven't cried in a while.

Thanks for reminding me how to let the tears flow freely again.

This was a truly haunting piece that hid the sucker punch right up onto the end and I found myself touched by the sincere sense of tragedy embodied within the tale.

Jennifer, you are indeed a truly gifted writer and I'm honored to know you.

Thank you.

[Alistair Canlin]

You managed to create the feel of a hot sultry summer, images of times gone by. But I did feel that you skimmed a little. I had to re read a few sections so that I could understand them. But a bit of polish and this could easily be sorted out.
The second part had excellent dialogue, thus creating real characters, but I did feel it jarred slightly with the start of the piece. I think there was too large a jump between each scene. But that said you cannot deny the ability you have to create an image.
This has a lot of potential, just needs tightened up a little.

[Helen Woodward]

Jen xxx This just goes to prove that 'The pen is mightier than the sword!' Brilliantly put together.
Told in the first person narrative really gives this story an edge, I was completely bowled over by the twist...GOOD GIRL!!!!! You have captured loneliness so incredibly well here that it amazed me (you know why)
Your use of the English language is sublime, it needs a little revision, but don't revise it to death as there is so much life in this. You go you good thing xxxxx

[Kelley Pascoe]

I got a chill when I reached the bottom of the page. This was a really good story Jen. Your first shot at a story and I think you got a hit on your hands. I only saw a few typos, nothing big. Just reread and I'm sure you will catch them. Well great story! Thanks for sharing.
Kelley

[Bubo]

So so sad........and you write with such imagary........the sights and sounds, even
the smells!!
For a first piece you should be very proud..........its wonderful, as all the ingredients for a fine piece.......and I hope your not stopping there!
I wonder if she lost the baby in the fall.........if maybe they made a mistake and her hubby
will come home...........so hope you continue............even the dialogue was fab and the
building of characters great!