| View Blog
|
|
|
We're not at the diner tonight.
Instead, Dawn needed someone to babysit her children, since Rob is staying over at his mom's tonight. I figured it's the least I can do for a friend...
So, here I be, in the den. Robert and Dawn Rice live in a well-worn old Victorian in a town fifteen minutes away. The house is owned by Dawn's father, who now lives down in South Carolina. The den consists of all kinds of old nick-nacks, on neat shelving. The room is dark, and cozy. The television's tuned into TV Land, with an old episode of 'Just Shoot Me', of all things. In this room, there is peace, which is something that's been missing from my life as of late. Way too much ruminating about my friend, who came up on the losing end of a desperate battle for her life with a demented husband. So much shock, so many tears.
Here, on the couch, next to me, fast asleep, is the six-year-old Abbie. He's face down on the couch, his face obscured by his mane of strawberry blonde, curly hair. Abbie looks just like his mother, he has her facial features, her smile, even her pensive look. Abbie snores peacefully. I want so much to reach out, and playfully tousle his hair, but I also think it's just better that he sleep right now. He had another fight in school today, and to be honest, it's been a long day for him. The twin four-year-olds, Zack and Zeke, are fast asleep in their bedroom, which is right next door to the den. The family English sheep dog, Goober, is slumbering in the corner.
My cellphone, set to vibrate, does just that. Caller ID says it's Brenda.
"Hello." I answer the phone very softly.
"Hi."
"What's up?"
"Dawn said you're babysitting for her tonight."
"Indeed."
"You're a good friend."
"Well, it saves me from the probability that I would see Don Don tonight at the diner. I'd rather swallow mucilage."
"I was there a little while ago. Kinda quiet. I just left someone at the train in Trenton."
I could hear the radio in the taxi over the phone. Deep Purple's 'Hush'. "Not much happening here. I'm the only one in the house here awake."
"Sleeping kids are beautiful, aren't they?"
I look down at Abbie. He's now sleeping on his right side. "Yes, they are."
"Hey, you hear about Chuck Norris?"
"Oh, God, what now?"
"He said that McCain's too old."
I snicker. Really? "Let's see. the Senator from Arizona's seventy-one. The D-Movie human version of the Rock'em Sock'em Robot is sixty-eight, and was obviously willed what was left of Strom Thurmond's hair coloring from his estate. You can't make this up!"
"You know why we're hearing about this stuff every day?"
"Why?"
"The writer's strike."
I mentally applaud (I could physically do this, but there's the issue of awakening children and pets) Brenda's insight. Hey, let's face it, if this wasn't an ad infinitum, ad nauseum political season, Jay Leno would have very little to contribute to his own monologue material. You can only write so much about Britney Spears, after all. "You're right, you know."
"I try. I'm trying to get around an accident here on Greenwood Avenue." Greenwood's a marvelous, old thoroughfare in the state capital, lined with wonderful, picturesque old mansions that have, since the decline of the industrial base, become picturesque slums. "So, when's the funeral?"
"Wednesday. I won't get details until tomorrow."
"A horrible tragedy."
"Yes, it is."
"Think of all the people whose lives he changed. His children. They'll never be the same again. His family, her family. Friends."
"Yep."
"Didn't I read in the paper that he was a subprime lender?"
"Yeah, he was vice-prez of a firm that did very well before the market collapsed."
"Right. He ruined a lot of other lives outside of the act of killing his wife."
She's right. He profitted from giving away adjustable rate mortgages to people who he knew would go through foreclosure once the rate skyrocketed. Evil at home, evil at work. "Yes."
"The papers cared more about him then they did about her."
"Well, what do you expect from The Trentonian? It's a sensationalistic tabloid. All they care about is that a rich man jumped off a bridge after killing his wife. If he was a pizzeria guy from Hamilton, or a New Jersey Transit bus driver, the story would've wound up on page ten."
"True. Look, gotta answer this call. Speak to you soon." After goodbyes, she hung up.
The TV plays softly, and the lights are low. I feel myself falling asleep on this very comfortable couch. I feel at peace. It's such an elusive thing...
|
|
Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-01-21 20:30:59 | Rating: | Views: 62
|
| |
|
|
| Blog Comments
|
|
|
|
|
that's a beautiful story, Knox. Keep writing. You need to during this time. It helps to cleanse the soul..
|
|
Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-01-22 15:49:10
|
|
|
|
|
They say time heals. I think this one's gonna require a lot of time.
|
|
Posted by Knoxxie03
on 2008-01-24 21:32:57
|
|
|
|
|
yes. It will. Dad passed in May and I'm still healing. Most of the time, I'm okay now. But, I have my days. And, I always will...
|
|
Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-01-25 20:51:42
|
|
|
|
|
|
