Stuck Drawers

Story about a Grandmother's secrete

Grandmother

Was it a freak isolated downpour at the laundromat that afternoon? Or was it her tears drowning her eyesight? Whatever it was, the sun had returned, the pavement remained dry as she retraced her steps to her car.
Now

“Madam?  Do you recognize this man?” Her distant eyes floated slowly over to the speaking detective.  Although she was standing in front of the bench, surrounded by police and the detectives, she slipped away; she slid quietly into an envelope.  A small pocket of space, where she can easily recall his words, the strain in his voice, and the pain in his eyes. Although it’s been years, the moment lingers; the smell of laundry soap on his hands, the music blaring out of waiting cars for the green light and, of course, him. Time stopped.  It stopped when his words, “The Truth? You’re not worth it any more”, left an invisible scar that only she unconsciously caresses.

”Madam!”  

“mmm?” The corner store, the traffic stop, the song’s lyrics, the laundromat all mutate into a park bench sitting in an archaeological site of candy wrappers, beer cans, napkins, and broken glass with her standing next to the detective.  “What will they think of us in 100, 200 years if they were to dig here and find this?” she wonders.  

“MADAM!” She wobbles.

“Babushka?” the grandchild anchoring her, spoke. The grandmother patted the child’s arm, to reassure her that all is okay.  

“Do you recognize this man?”

She turned back to the man on the bench, hunched over, while Detective Ryan held the man’s head up for her to evaluate.

“ahh ahh…. nnnooo…..nnnnnoooo…,” she clears her throat and manages to choke out another stuttered “nnnooo”.  Funny, how Detective Ryan cocked his head to the side inquisitively.

  “Madam, I have been with the department for ten years. I know a liar when I see one.”

   A defeated “yes, I am sure you do.” passed through her semi-closed lips. “Are we done here?”

  “Your blood drained from your face when you saw him. What’s the deal?” Again, she tried to stutter a response that ended up coming out in garbled sounds. She coughed and regained herself. “Good day then.”

 

Granddaughter
Now

The sun is radiating into the room and soaking my faint yellowish white sundress. I match the walls.  Babushka's voice booms in my head "Well, in heaven," Babushka once said " I'll be surrounded by radiant light; so why not now? It's like giving tombstone flowers.  The dead can't appreciate their fragrance. Don't bother giving me flowers when I'm dead, give them to me now!" Babushka’s bed is made, with the quilt her Babushka made.  She never "upgraded" to a queen.  She said, in her twin, she felt closer to her Babushka and her late husband. 

Babushka’s quilt was one of her prized possessions. Babushka made it for her wedding day.  Her sore arthritic, wrinkled, hands with paper skin stitched each piece with love and dedication. Since then, it has warmed Babushka's body when either the room or her soul  were cold.      I'm sitting on the edge of my grandmother's bed gazing at her old cedar trunk; the only remaining evidence of this unlucky suitor’s failed attempt to win her heart.

Then

“It was a birthday present. Look, he even inlayed her initials.” mama said proudly.

My cousin and I sat around “ewwww” and “awww’ ing

“Babushka! He made you a trunk?!” I exclaimed.

a voice asks "Maya, you have grown-up with this. Why is it so amazing now?”

“Because I just noticed it!”  

“Ahh…..we understand.” My auntie states.

“Understand what?!” My hackles are raised.

“You're becoming less self-centered?” All the women in the room laugh, except me.  

“Congratulations, honey” mama hugs me close.

Liz, my 24-year-old cousin chimes in “I’m lucky if my boyfriend remembers my birthday.”

Babushka softens her voices to reassure her “It was different back then” adding a comforting light touch on her elbow.

“She was a looker back then!”

“Who says I’m not now?!” She gives her flat, fat 85-year-old butt a bit of a wiggle and the room erupts in laughter. “Not one nail was used to create those chests. That’s how poor we were back then.  We couldn’t even afford nails.”

 

Now

Babushka's old room sits quietly.  Most of her  possessions line the edges as if encapsulating her joy and love in its protective interior.  It's an eclectic mix of eras. To read the room is to open a time capsule and her soul.  Two proud chests, made in the 20's, were placed neatly on opposite sides of her closet. The cedar chest holds quilts and hooked rugs my Babushka and her Babushka made. She only owned a handful of dresses and shoes. Anything more was considered "extravagant."  Her father's  modest old 30's secretary corner hutch desk, complete with an inkwell, looks odd with a modern lumbar support chair.  Next is a cheap full-length mirror encased in aged Polaroid instant photos; most of which have turned various shades of brownish yellow. 

It was the two dressers that demanded most of the attention in the room. When I was little, I used to snoop through the dresser draws, looking for undiscovered treasures. The stuck drawers were the most interesting. Once, I wince still thinking about it, I went to the tool shed and dug around until I found a crowbar. Liz, that annoying brat, threatened to tell.  I dared her.

“I’m doing Babushka a favor!” I yelled.

“You stupid idiot!  I’m opening a stuck drawer.  She isn't going to be angry, she’ll be thrilled I’m so helpful! Why can’t you be so helpful?” I’m not sure why Liz went running to Auntie.  It could have been my words, my tone of voice, or my plan.  At the time, I didn’t care.  I was being “helpful”.

All that remains of that tragic day, when I walked into Babushka’s room and started jamming the crowbar into the drawer edges, is the hunk of wood missing.  Everyone but me saw through my effort to be “helpful.” It took several torturous days filled with tears: Babushka’s, mine, and, of course, stupid Liz’s, for Babushka to forgave me.  

I was in the field with Liz catching butterflies when Babushka came with her picnic blanket and basket. She calmly set it down and pulled out the lemonade she made. Liz came running to her side, chirping and displaying her jar of butterflies. I sat down and pouted out in the field.  What felt like years, but could easily have only been minutes. She sent Liz to fetch the napkins she forgot. That was when she opened a book and called me over.

While flipping through the pages she carelessly asked “Have you ever heard of Salvador Dali?”

“ahh?” do you mean  “huh?”

“Mi detka” my baby Babushka was half Russian, and Spanish. She loved to mix her three languages as if to say “Look! I have half Russian half Spanish. I speak three languages. How many do you speak American? “Escuchas moi slova” listen to my word.

“Salvador Dali is a famous surrealist artist.”

 “Look” she randomly opened a page.  I couldn't take the torture. “I’m sorry Babushka!” I half yelled, half crying. She let me cry. “Look Maya. What is it?”

“A woman with drawers coming out of her.” Snot ran down my nose. She wiped my nose with her napkin and smiled.

“Mi detka, you are my grandchild.  Of all my grandchildren, I see myself in you the most.”  My red eyes studied hers. “Still I wouldn't want to bare my whole soul for your eyes, your judgement.” “I’ll never judge you, Babushka!” in a half whine, half ghoping the hidden treasures were close behind. “There are drawers that are stuck for a reason.”

“why?”

 “Do you want Liz going through your stuff and finding things?”

I became belligerent. “NO! I wouldn’t!”

“why?”

“Because it’s MINE! I don’t want her greasy,..” 

“Enough”

We heard the back door porch slam and Liz calling our names.

“There are some things about me, your mother, your auntie, Liz and...yes…even you.. that will and should remain a mystery."  

That man, on the bench, is one of those stuck drawers.

 

Reviews

[Jesse W.]

Salvador Dali is one of my favorite artists on the planet. Props for including him in your writing. As to the writing itself, this deserves to be legitimately published. It's beautiful, the imagery is exquisite and the language you use is magnificent. This is one of the best short stories I have ever had the pleasure of reading :)