The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break.
"Nice of them to ask." I grumbled.
I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden.
After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunday also meant a nap. Back then also included night service, I reminded myself, in an effort to balance my feeling of loss.
I set my computer up in my makeshift office which is also the water heater closet and went downstairs to brew half a pot of coffee. If I make a whole pot, I will drink a whole pot- even after it has started to grow thick and cold. If I brew only half a pot, I will wish there was more after the last cup, but the drought will force me to drink much-needed water. My inner supply rationing neurosis won't allow me brew two half pots in the same setting, unless we have visitors. We almost never have visitors.
I returned to the tiny closet with my oversized mug and enjoyed the quiet moment. It would only be a moment. That's how quiet time works for adults. A big game of Hide-and-Don't-Speak that only lasts until children are alerted by the sound of silence. It is the same absence of noise that startles the parents of a toddler at play.
They'll be knocking- or better yet- barreling in- any moment with various questions and deep conversation that cannot wait another minute. It is like a required opening ritual before I may commune with my own thoughts.
No matter how many diversions one offers in advance, a sacrifice of zen will be required.
A snack offering must be made, as well as a dozen or more frenzied sit-down-only-to-be-called-here-to-"Look-At-This-Mom-No-Come-Here-To-Look-At-It"-stand up genuflections before I am granted audience with myself.
Five minutes before I'm discovered, fifteen max between interruptions, not to mention the laundry, this is why I only write short stories.
In the Water Cave, as my kids have dubbed my little sanctuary, I procrastinate by straightening up. The window in the closet is what invited me to carve out space in here to begin with. Through it I can see our front yard and the cars rushing by on their way to the beach.I can see the sky and across the street, a swath of marsh dotted with boat docks.
A scattering of art supplies and stacks of old magazines crowd my paint splattered desk, which is just a slab of discarded shelving stretching along the wall, underneath the window. On the wall behind me is a gallery of art work, mostly the children's.
To the right, a shelf of favorite books is kept company by a scattering of trinkets and toys that I have collected. A vinyl Snoopy stands on a volume of collected works by C.S. Lewis. A small latching jar filled with buttons and bottle caps bookends On Death and Dying and my Thornton Wilder selections,. A Lego figure guards the Old Bay seasoning tin, now filled with bookmarks of varying design: an old discount shoppers card, a ribbon, an actual paper book mark from a library four moves ago.
I type a title then procrastinate thirteen more ways before returning to the keyboard with intent.
The water heater on my left is home to magnetic poetry and a magnetic dress-up Mr. Rogers, complete with Trolley and characters from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I busy myself straightening Mr Roger's sweater and shoe collection, I will the groupings of poetry words to inspire me to write about something else. They do not.
There is also a real live turnip affixed with googly eyes, but I will tell you about it some other day. I must stop this procrastinating now.
I've known I'd visit this memory since the popcorn scented hallway this morning. Even now, as the words fall one in front of the other, I'm not sure why or what it is I want to say. I don't want revenge. I don't want confrontation.
I would prefer the edges of my sharp cornered memories remain padded with blurred details, but I am now forced to add definition to the popcorn memory, new layers and sensations. I consider whether there are more things I will remember, more things that will spring out of nowhere and without warning.
There is no reason why he did it. He was different; a boy on the spectrum who liked blood and the macabre. He was older than me, bigger.
I don't expect to make sense of the thing.
We'd been shooed from the doors to the meeting room a dozen times or twenty. I remember thinking that a board meeting somehow involved sitting on a board while voting in that mysterious aye and nay fashion. I thought the board must be special like Christmas presents- kept hidden until they were sure we wouldn't see it. They must need to keep whether they voted to keep the board or to get a new and better board secret from us kids.
Board meetings certainly did cause boredom.
And so, our diversion was popcorn. I do not believe even the sadistic boy intended to burn it. Microwaves were still a fairly new technology. The bag was tossed in, time and temperature were set. I doubt instructions were read.
I remember all of us gathered in the Fellowship Hall, the same room used for Children's Church on Sunday mornings. Windows provided the only light as we waited for the parents and for the popcorn and for the microwave to ding.
That is all. I see him online sometimes, smiling in pictures on his sister's social media. She and I connected a few years back when we discovered we'd both moved to the same big city a few hours from home. Though I've been tempted to say something to him, I have no idea what I want to say. I believe he would laugh.
And so, our diversion was popcorn. I do not believe even the sadistic boy intended to burn it. Microwaves were still a fairly new technology. The bag was tossed in, time and temperature were set. I doubt instructions were read.
I remember all of us gathered in the Fellowship Hall, the same room used for Children's Church on Sunday mornings. Windows provided the only light as we waited for the parents and for the popcorn and for the microwave to ding.
He said something like 'Watch this" then grabbed me by the face. One, two three times, four- he slammed my head into the oven door repeatedly. I feel as if the back of my head caught the oven's handle but I also distinctly remember crashing against the flat glass door where one might peek to see if their cake was baking evenly.
I cried out just as smoke poured from the microwave door, rolling a bitter stench swiftly into the sanctuary.
I cried out just as smoke poured from the microwave door, rolling a bitter stench swiftly into the sanctuary.
The smoke detector began to sound its alarm, the alarmed parents rushed to investigate. In the chaos, what has happened to me is combined with what has happened with the popcorn; just a cacophony of unattended kids, grown restless and rowdy. The frantic search for a fire, to assure that nothing is aflame, drowns out the assault he's just made on my skull. The popcorn is dealt with first. Of course, no one is to blame. The popcorn just threw itself into the microwave, a miracle of popped kernels has occurred here today. No one claims responsibility for the popcorn or why I'm crying. She's probably just a scaredy baby, a tattle teller, too.
The offending bag is taken outside and the room begins to empty. Why am I still crying? I tell my parents that I was pushed into the stove door.
He may have been made to apologize, but I do not recall remorse of any kind. We are 'Family of God.' We do not rock boats. Lord knows, they have their hands full enough with that boy, something new every time they turn around. The incident will now be treated like an accidental collision, or a mutual offense where no one was really hurt. No harm, no foul.
That is all. I see him online sometimes, smiling in pictures on his sister's social media. She and I connected a few years back when we discovered we'd both moved to the same big city a few hours from home. Though I've been tempted to say something to him, I have no idea what I want to say. I believe he would laugh.
One day, without either of us going into details, his sister tells me she's had to work at forgiving him too, he's hurt her 'in many ways.'
It is what it is; all that it ever will be.
It is what it is; all that it ever will be.
He is a jarring memory that persists even as other memories - memories I'd rather keep- sneak silently away.
~~
Out of the blue, she tags me in an old photo of one of her childhood birthday parties. I don't remember it- at all; not the presents, the cake, the theme or ever, ever - no matter how hard I stare again and again at that photo- ever having been in that place. All I recognize are the faces of my friends and the outfit I am wearing.
~~
Out of the blue, she tags me in an old photo of one of her childhood birthday parties. I don't remember it- at all; not the presents, the cake, the theme or ever, ever - no matter how hard I stare again and again at that photo- ever having been in that place. All I recognize are the faces of my friends and the outfit I am wearing.
What else have I forgotten? And why can't I just forget about him?