Her Dark Night

“Jane…Jane!” Her eyelids snap open. Sleep is never deep anymore, she kind of floats along erratically, just below the surface, in a state of semi-vigilance. Her heart pounding, she fumbles for the light, rolling on Libby who squeezes out an irritated yowl. The clock reads 4:28, A.M. “Jane!” Oh God. What’s wrong now?

           “Coming.” Her creaky voice barely carries across the guest room. She heaves the covers off and doesn’t stop to put on a robe. Her feet thud against the faded carpet as she hurries to the front of the house, mind racing to the latest weather report. Did they predict snow? Did it snow? She doesn’t stop to check, but plows forward, shivering, praying that it hasn’t because then the ambulance couldn’t reach them.

She rounds the corner into his bedroom, their bedroom before the arrival of the hospital bed. She tries to brace herself for what she might find. “I’m here, I’m here,” she pants, her eyes searching his face for signs of pain. But she sees none. His breathing isn’t even labored. He’s sitting up, clear eyed.

“I want some orange juice.” Her knees stop shaking, but her heart hasn’t caught on yet. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“No! I’m tired of water and I want some orange juice. I wish you’d stop carrying on.” She looks at the clock, which is clearly visible from his bed.

Her anger has been building slowly over the years, in fits and starts, kind of like that construction project that never seems finished. First you notice a solid gray frame, wind ghosting through its beams, rising from that the perpetually barren lot that used to be dotted with errant pieces of trash and the occasional stray dog.  Then one day you’re stuck at the light and you see that the big red trucks with the giant tires are gone and a completed building stands, punctuated with manicured green shrubs and a well stocked parking lot.

Fatigue, laced with a creeping depression serves as her daily sedative, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. She’s confronted him before for such blatant acts of selfishness, but it never does any good. She turns quickly and hurries to the kitchen to get the juice. Orange pulp splashes the counter, but she ignores it. She nearly races back around the corner to hand him the glass. She can’t get out of there fast enough. He looks into her once lively brown eyes.

“Oh, God, what’s the matter now?”

She flees the room. Tears smack her cheeks rythmically like fat raindrops before a cloudburst. She crawls back into bed and hugs herself under her old quilt in the small room with the low ceiling. The sobs knot her chest and try to fight their way out, but there’s so much in the way. She can’t believe she’s going through this again. She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to contain herself, but the image of Bob’s gaunt face and unseeing murky eyes swims before her. She battles to forget that last day. Why can’t she remember his twinkling eyes and easy smile? The sobs break free and she rocks gently in the little bed.

This doesn’t last long.

No, no, she won’t go there. She can’t give in to these memories. Not today. She can’t afford to be wiped out by them. She shakes her head vigorously, searching for distraction like a junkie needing a fix. She focuses on the present, and latches onto her current husband.

His refusal to hire a nurse has not only baffled his family and friends, who know he can well afford one, but it has rendered her physically depleted. She strains her back nearly every time she tries to lift him to clean his vomit or change his sheets. God, how this has aged her. She hears that a lot lately, and the evidence is clear in those new lines that have carved their way around her mouth.

Resentment floods her system, diluting her grief. Its familiarity settles her down. For now, this is a safer place to be.

A bit about Dad

My father carried gratefulness around like a lucky coin. Maybe the seed was planted when he was adopted as a baby, but he was profoundly thankful for his family. He would have been lost without my mother and told her so in vibrant love letters that she continues to treasure. But he appreciated the smaller, sillier things, too, like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches, having someone else (anyone else) mow his lawn, chocolate cake with caramel icing, and every episode of the Muppets.

He delighted in Judy Garland’s voice, a good vodka martini, heavy on the olives, The Far Side comics, and hurrying out with me to the open garage whenever a rollicking thunderstorm paraded down the block. (To this day I can still be found sky gazing at even a hint of a rumble.) I grew up watching my father flex his senses. As he soaked up everyday pleasures, they accumulated over the years, burnishing him with the warm patina of a contented man.

But although he may have been satisfied with his life in general, he was by no means apathetic when it came to those around him. Dad held opinions on everything from when I should be allowed to shave my legs (yup) to the state of world affairs. One of his favorite places to share these opinions was at the kitchen table, most notably at breakfast on the weekends. After finishing off a plate heaped with (never enough) scrambled eggs, he would lean his hefty, 6’4” frame back into the squeaking roller chair, take a deep breath, prop his fingers into a pyramid, look out the window and say “Well, girls. ” This was our cue that a history lesson, current events summation, or just plain advice was coming.

Occasionally, Dad would pull the morning’s topic from one of the books he was reading. We’d hear about the wisdom of Churchill or the foresight of Lincoln. Civil War history was his literary passion, though, so you can imagine his delight when I came home in fifth grade and announced that I had to give a speech about the War Between the States. Thrilled, he outfitted me with an authentic Union cap, a real Confederate canteen, a tape of period songs, and an abundance of facts. I was not quite as thrilled.

A WWII Veteran, Dad was a member of the 82nd Airborne. Although he rarely spoke of his own experience, I think he gained a sense of honor from being a soldier, along with pride. Unwaveringly thankful to be an American, he often reminded me how lucky we were to live in a country where freedom was our birthright.

Words got as much care and feeding in our house as our collie, Mac. Books climbed the walls in our family room, tumbled off nightstands, and stretched out on tables. I vividly remember him telling me that I could go anywhere in the world or embark on any adventure when I became absorbed in the pages of a book. But perhaps the most valuable lesson my dad taught me was that words can comfort and connect. That written down, they carry great significance, most importantly, to those you love.

Shortly after his death, I found this dog-eared note folded in half in the pocket of his daily planner. Apparently he tucked it into each fresh notebook.

“Dear Daddy,
Thank you for taking me out in the rain.
Yours truly,
Carol Ann”

A Quick Decision

“They’ve been feeding him intravenously for the past few days.”

My honeymoon glow turned to ice. “Where is he?”

Our cat, Hobbes, had spent the last several days at the vet, brought there by my parents who were taking care of him while my new husband and I unwound on the beaches of Saint Maarten. Two weeks before our wedding, our other cat, Tigger, had to be put to sleep to spare him from the pain of an incurable bladder disease. As wretched as that experience was, we were not the only ones who mourned him. 

Tigger had been Hobbes’ littermate, buddy and partner-in-crime. Adopted together as kittens, Hobbes had never known life without him. Without another kindred soul. You can imagine how lonely he was. So lonely, in fact, that he stopped eating a few days after we left on our trip. My parents, who checked on him daily, did their best to keep him company, but he grew weak and listless. My father implored the vet, “These kids can’t lose another cat. Do whatever you can.” The doctor administered medication with an eyedropper and fed and watered him through tubes. He kept him going. By the time we got home a few days later, Hobbes had grown jaundiced and had lost nearly half his body weight.

We waited in the sterile examining room with the pea green walls and goofy dog calendar, the same room we were in when we said to goodbye to Tigger before we were ushered back to the front desk, tears still streaming, to sign gruesome paperwork. The knot grew tighter in my stomach. We didn’t wait long. The door opened and in walked the vet, empty-handed.

 “Your cat is dying of loneliness,” he stated matter-of-factly. I fumbled in my purse for a Kleenex. “There is no physical cause for his condition. You’d better find a friend for him right away.

Later that morning David and I squinted as we walked resolutely into the fluorescent bathed, antiseptic room where the local animal shelter kept their cats. We had told the volunteer that we were looking for a female, though I can’t remember why. We knew for sure we wanted a tabby though, like Hobbes. She directed us to one of the dull metal cages stacked on the left side of the narrow room. Inside three tiny kittens awaited homes. As we came closer, one kitten thrust his head between the bars and yowled an energetic greeting. 

“Oh, that’s the male. Don’t mind him. Here, hold one of the females.” She handed me a wiggling bundle of fur with sleepy gray eyes. As I began to pet her, the male piped up again, continuing to communicate with us. Preening and chirping, he bounced around the little cage, his tail curled into a question mark. Pleading to be picked up, he stretched tall on his scrawny legs. Sometimes, I guess, they just pick you.

Charlie chattered all the way home and ran straight to Hobbes the moment I opened the carrier door. Hobbes, yellow eyed and weary could barely muster a sniff. Our six- week old kitten still longed to nurse, though, so burrowed his way under Hobbes’ thick fur and suckled him. Whether he was too weak to protest or he welcomed the attention, we’ll never know, but as the afternoon wore on, Hobbes began to shuffle along after Charlie to see what he was getting into, and by nightfall he was eating. 

The boys were together for 14 years.

The Soul of a Vineyard

A chubby Dalmatian and a scrappy black terrier tore down the road, barking furiously. Driving slowly past lush rose bushes standing sentinel at the ends of the rows of vines, we inched past the rambunctious welcoming committee towards the trailer at the end of the drive. I could hardly wait to spring out of the car and walk through the vineyards.

As a birthday present (it was a big one) my husband had arranged for us to learn about winemaking from the craftsmen themselves, right in the heart of Santa Barbara’s burgeoning wine country. A couple of vintners graciously offered to show us around during crush, their hectic harvest time. The early morning fog had burned away and the autumn skies over the Santa Rita hills were speckled with only a few lingering clouds.  The winemaker for Clos Pepe greeted us as we bounded out of the rental car.

“Welcome! You must be David and Carol. I’m Wes. Why don’t we head right out to the vineyard while we talk.”  A lanky man with square shoulders and a brisk stride, he tromped over the occasional tangled weed, and led us down a tidy row of carefully tended vines, their leafy tendrils reaching out to us in a verdant greeting. He explained that the east/west orientation of the coastal mountains formed valleys in Santa Barbara County that drew the cool ocean breezes over the land, carving out distinct microclimates ideal for producing classic wines like Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. The faint scent of salt water still hung in the air.

Tenderly, he cupped a cluster of chardonnay grapes in his coarse palm. “See the dusty bloom? This protects them from sunburn. Here, have a taste.” He proudly handed them to us. A bright burst of fresh fruit puckered my lips and made me smile. Such possibility brewing inside those busily growing grapes. 

As Wes went on to describe the growing process, we learned more about the consistent, precise care that’s needed to nurture the grapes throughout the season. There was a comforting orderliness to it that seemed to suit him and he nearly shined with confident focus. Clos Pepe produced a very low yield, which enabled him to micro manage each row of vines. In fact, he had just completed a partial picking due to frost. Imagine- having your work tied so intimately to the moods of nature. A delicious sense of rootedness began to stir inside of me. Strolling through the tranquil vineyard, I could almost picture dedicated winemakers from generations past bending over their precious crops; their livelihood and their passion embedded in the land. After toasting Wes for generously sharing his time, knowledge and glorious vineyard, we were ready to get back on the road.

Winding our way through miles of dusty farmland and dry scruffy mountains, we drove into the criss- crossed hills of the Santa Maria Valley. The whole county was swollen with miles of ripe grapes just aching to be harvested. We slowed to a stop in front of an enormous warehouse on the grounds of the Bien Nacido Vineyards. Once again, we hit the ground running. These were busy guys.

“Hey, I see we have visitors!” Brad, a newbie preparing for his first bottling, strode over to us and extended his hand, adjusting the rim of his soiled baseball cap. “Have you guys ever tasted free run wine?” I’d only vaguely heard of it, let alone tasted any. Free run is the juice that’s produced from the de-stemming process before the grapes have been pressed. He grabbed a glass from a nearby worktable and carefully dunked it in the barrel, gently scraping the side to collect just the bright ruby juice. The clean ripe taste was refreshing; it was the real deal.

Since this was his first bottling, Brad drew samples of wine from his two barrels produced the previous year. He would taste each one, and then, with the skill of a budding alchemist, he would blend them. What he needed was some expert advice. We followed him to the vineyard’s makeshift office where a man in his early thirties sat, examining the two glasses lined up in front of him on a bottle strewn table. James, a 9th generation Californian, whose family had harvested the land I was standing on for several hundred years, not only grew his own grapes and sold them, but was a highly regarded winemaker as well. Brad took a deep breath. I didn’t hear him exhale.

James swirled the first sample, then stuck his nose down into it briefly. He straightened his spine and slowly brought the glass to his lips. As his eyes closed, he took a deep sip and held the wine in his mouth awhile before he swallowed.  Eyes still closed, he sat quietly, almost reverentially. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Brad, who whispered that he was counting the time of the finish. Just then, James opened his eyes and gave his colleague a slow, warm smile. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. Thoughtfully, he suggested areas for improvement, then blessed Brad with sincere praise.  Eyes dancing, our new friend beamed and extended a glass in our direction. We took turns enjoying the samples, giving what we hoped were knowledgeable sounding impressions. Having witnessed a baptism of sorts, I felt privileged.

We began to say our goodbyes when the owner of the winery invited us to stay to be part of the toast given to the exhausted but satisfied men who had brought in the harvest. At the end of the meal, James asked us if we’d like to try some of his wine.  It was as if da Vinci had asked if I’d like to look at some of his sketches. Our day had come full circle. From tasting grapes plucked off the vine to this. Lifting a glass with a man whose veins pulsed with his family’s accumulated wisdom and skill. I swirled mine gently in a small circle on the rough table. Lifting it to my nose, I pulled in a deep breath. Hints of black cherry and vanilla drifted up lazily. I took a healthy sip, letting the wine wash over my entire tongue. The smooth, velvet texture wrapped the fruit in a creamy embrace. I swallowed almost reluctantly.

In the end, it’s all about how it makes you feel. Rather than distracting me from my recent birthday, this trip immersed me in the rhythm of the harvest, the fruitfulness to be found in the passing of time. And that is well worth a toast.

Fussin': a fiction short

James felt relieved when he spotted Wanda’s rusty green Dodge resting in its favorite spot at the back of the lot. He had heard about her husband’s death a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t seen her at the diner since. Wanda’s Place was as reliable as the sunrise, the eggs were always piping and the bacon always crisp. He pushed the squeaky screen door open, wiped his boots on the bleached welcome mat and headed for his favorite stool, the one by the wall under the Coca Cola clock at the end of the no smoking section. A relatively recent concession Wanda had made just for him.


The swinging doors that led into the kitchen opened without their usual burst. Wanda moved through them gingerly, as if avoiding contact with a bruise.

“Hey there, honey, Good to see ya.” She grabbed one of the creamy mugs that were stacked to the left of the coffee pot and set it in front of him. Normally, she’d hit the punch line before she finished pouring, but today was different.

“Wanda, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”

“No, James, they’ll be none of that.” She shook her head. “I know ya are and if you say any more, you’ll just get me going again.” She sighed slowly and reached a plump hand into her faded blouse to snatch a hankie. She dabbed at the blotchy skin by her once lively blue eyes. “It’s just that I don’t know who to fuss over now.”

She moved off to take care of another customer, leaving James with his thoughts. He held the mug with both hands and blew the steam softly. Wanda had ministered to Ed for longer than James had been alive. She grumbled about it, sure, but everyone knew that’s what fueled her. Fussing over people.

Late for a meeting, he polished off his scrambled eggs, took one more sip of coffee and tipped his cap to Wanda on the way out. Gravel crunched under the tires of his muddy red pickup as he sped up to the warehouse. He strode around to the side door, jangling his keys. His boots clumped heavily on the plank steps, nearly drowning out the pitiful mewling. He stopped short, keys in mid air.

“Meew, meew.” A hoarse, high-pitched call crept up through the steps.

“What the hell?” James jumped off the side and peered underneath. Sunlight stole through the cracks in the wood, throwing splotches of light into the small space. Perched on a pile of twigs was the tiniest kitten, its huge triangle ears threatening to topple it head first.

“Meew.” It squeaked again, its small fuzzy body shaking with the exertion.

James dropped to his belly and reached in slowly, crooning “It’s okay, little one, I’m not going to hurt you.” He scooped the kitten up with one gentle swipe of his sturdy paw and drew her out into the welcoming sunshine. He stroked the orange stripes of her downy fur with his other hand and her trembling began to subside. His meeting temporarily forgotten, he leaned back against the steps and began to inspect his new friend. Her green eyes looked clear, and except for some leaves and a bit of dirt, she seemed pretty clean. Well, her motor works, that’s for sure. He smiled to himself as she cranked up her contentment to a rolling purr. She was so young, so needy; she’d have to have a home where loving attention flowed freely.

She battled with his bootlaces as he hurried through his meeting. He knew what to do. Less than an hour later, for the second time that day, James was relieved to see that rusty, green Dodge.