The Dress

Look for my story "The Dress" to be published in the Harlequin collection "A Kiss Under the Mistletoe" 

 by Jennifer Basye Sander, in Fall 2013.

A DOLLAR FIVE

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A DOLLAR FIVE

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte, Author

Sheryljbizeboutte©2013

It is 1962 in Oakland, California.  I am 10 and my sister is 8.  Today is an unseasonably cool early fall day, so mom had dressed us in our brand new matching black “pleather “coats for our weekly trip to the theatre for the Saturday matinee.  Purchased just the day before for the start of the new school year at Montgomery Wards (or  “Monkey” Wards as the grown-ups called it), our new coats were perfect for the movies because they had two deep pockets on the outside and an inside pocket that was rarely found in girl’s wear.  “Hurry up”, mom warned; as she fastened the last button my sister’s coat. “You want to make sure you get there in time to get a good a seat under the balcony.”

 For African American children in Oakland in those days, the best seats were under the balcony overhang, making it less likely you would get pummeled by the various projectiles thrown by the white kids seated in the balcony above.  Although the waning national practice at that time was that African Americans were relegated to the balcony seats in almost all movie theaters, for some reason it was just the opposite in Oakland. Hurling popcorn, soda and hard candies at those seated below in the segregated theatre was a Saturday matinee sport for the balcony dwellers. Even though the modern Civil Rights movement was almost a decade old in 1962 and things were beginning to change, black and white children who went to school together and often played with each other in many of Oakland’s still diverse neighborhoods continued to sit separately at the Saturday matinee.  My best friend, Gayle, who was white, was at my house almost every day after school and went to the movies every Saturday just like I did.  We secured our bond with a joint passion for sunflower seeds, roller derby and Gayle’s unflinching love for my mother. But we never walked to the theatre or back home together, and Gayle always sat in the balcony.   It was a strange arrangement, but we did not question it.  It was just the way it was back then.

 As she did almost every Saturday, mom escorted us to the corner and handed me the crisp one-dollar bill and shiny nickel we would use for admission and candy.  “Hold on tight to this Sheryl,” she said, “don’t lose it along the way.”  I carefully folded the dollar with the nickel inside, pushed it down to the bottom of my right coat pocket and waited for her nod that let me know I had done it correctly.  As we began our two-block walk, I turned around to wave to her after we safely crossed the first intersection and then turned to wave again as we reached the second block.  Mom headed back to the house after she saw us make the left into the theatre door. 

Once at the theatre, we paid 35 cents for each of our tickets, leaving us with 35 cents for candy.  In 1962, those 35 cents bought us seven 5-cent candy bars; 3 each for my sister and me with one nickel left to buy the Hershey Bar we always took home to mom.  We stuffed our sugary bounty into our outside pockets and I placed mom’s Hershey bar into my inside pocket to make sure it would not get lost.  I touched that pocket at least three times as we made our way to our seats just to be certain the darkness of the theatre had not removed the candy bar somehow. Satisfied that it was still there, I was now ready to find our “safe “seats.

On this day, the featured matinee was “That Touch Of Mink” with Doris Day.  I don’t remember much about it because as was usual, we spent most of the time joking and laughing with our friends, eating all of that candy, and trying to outmaneuver the theatre usher’s bright flashlight.  It was an extreme embarrassment to be lit up by that light and told to be quiet. But even more embarrassing was when the handwritten message “call your mother” appeared on the screen with your name on it.  When that message came up, a hush always fell on the theatre, and for the few seconds before the intended recipient revealed themselves by standing up to leave, we no longer felt separated.

It was a shared childhood tradition to laugh, point and catcall at the kids who got the “call your mother” message. Even though we laughed about it, seeing that message always scared us a bit.  After all, there were some who had gotten such a message and never returned to the movies.  Later we would hear that someone had moved (which was like death for us at that age) or had actually died.  We would always stretch our necks to see who got up to go use the phone in the theatre office.  It was still funny though, that is until this day, when the message read, “Sheryl, please call your mother.” 

With great trepidation I rose from my seat and looked around to see if there was another Sheryl for whom this message was meant.  Seeing no other girl rise from her seat, I began to make my way slowly up the dark aisle.  Knowing she must have also seen the message, I desperately wanted to look up at the balcony to find Gayle, but I didn’t dare.  Standing in the aisle, and unprotected by the balcony overhang, I knew I had a very short window of unpunished vulnerability.

Instead of being mortified by the resumption of the mean noise directed at me as I passed through the lobby door, I was filled with an overwhelming fear that something had happened to mom. Just the year before, in that same movie theatre, I had seen the movie “Imitation of Life” in which the sweet and caring mother had died, confirming my fears that a mother’s death was possible. The daughter in that movie was an uncaring, selfish child who ran away to pass for white, breaking her mother’s heart, only to return when it was too late.  After I saw that movie I vowed I would always be a good daughter. I carried the fear instilled in me by the last emotionally charged scene where the daughter falls upon her mother’s horse drawn hearse, sobbing her sorrow, like it was my own. As I continued my excruciating walk up the theatre aisle that day, I was so afraid that mom had left me, it did not dawn on me that the message on the screen had read, “Call your mother.” 

With head down and fighting tears, my jelly-filled knees managed to get me to the little office in the front of the theatre. In a barely audible voice I told the short round-headed man seated at the desk that I was Sheryl.  He handed me the phone without looking up at me. With fingers that felt like they no longer belonged to my hands, I  dialed our phone number fully expecting to hear something horrible had happened.  Mom answered on the second ring and said, “Sheryl, you and your sister come straight home from the movies.  Your babysitter will be here.  Dad and I are going to Reno.” 

It was my MOTHER on the phone; she was ok and talking to me! 

I let out an audible a sigh of relief as I put my hand in my inside pocket yet again to check for the hard brown paper wrapped rectangle.  It was still there.  Everything was all right.  Mom’s slightly irritated voice saying, “Sheryl, did you hear me? Come straight home.  Margo will be here,” interrupted my celebration.

As clarity returned me to the little movie office and the little man telling me to hurry up and get off of the phone, I finally said, “Ok, mommy, we will.”  I checked my inside pocket once again to make sure mom’s nickel Hershey bar was safe, secure and ready to give to her when she returned home.

After the movie was over, we all spilled onto the sidewalk to take our various routes home.  Gayle was standing at the corner.  While others watched her in stunned silence, she approached me slowly.  “Is your mom ok?’ she asked.  “She’s just fine,” I replied. 

I could smell the tootsie roll on her breath as she exhaled. We just looked at each other for what seemed like a long time, but I am sure only seconds had passed.  I finally broke the silence when I asked, “So you wanna go to the movies next Saturday?’  Smiling broadly and without hesitation Gayle replied, “Yes!  Meet at your house?”

As if giving in to the power of the inevitable, the other kids stopped watching us and began to disperse, a few looking back as if to verify, but saying nothing. With my sister in front of us skipping the way, Gayle and I fell into easy step, shoulder to shoulder, toward my house.

We had no idea that a major barrier had been broken that day.  We just knew we were happy.  Happy that mom was ok and happy to be walking home together.  And although we could not put in it into words at the time, I think we could feel the happy was big enough to free us to embrace the promise of more good things to come.

Big enough to gift us with the knowing that today, a dollar five had been well spent.

LAST WORDS FOR COUNTRY

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LAST WORDS FOR COUNTRY

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

April 2013

“We are gathered here today to honor the memory and legacy of our dear friend, Country. 

I have known Country since I was a small child.  I can’t count the number of times I heard one of my parents call out as he parked his old truck in front of the house, “Oh, Lord. Here comes Country!”   They called him that because he wore what our parents and their friends called ‘Texas- style’ suits with the long coats and oversize lapels in every color of the rainbow complete with shoes and hats to match.  Although he was loveable, he was a bit embarrassing to some who had left those country ways behind after the big migration. And to solidify his country-ness to us first generation, California-bred, proper English speaking children of the 60’s, he spoke in a dialect full of ‘disses’ and ‘dats’ peppered with ‘sho-nuff’ and the adding of r’s to words that ended with a’s and the subtraction of r’s from words where they needed to remain.  We would shudder slightly when he would transform Linda to Linder and church to chuch.

But those things alone were not what made my parents, and others blessed with his frequent visits announce his arrival on their doorstep with disdain.  It was the intricately woven stories he would spin.  Sometimes for hours.  He would tell tales of his time at college and how hard he worked to get his double degrees in mathematics and economics.  When he would offer to help me with my math homework, I would just laugh and say, “Oh Country, you can’t help me.  This is the new math.”  He would just smile and move on to the next equally unbelievable story in his bottomless repertoire.  If nothing else, the man was imaginative and persistent.

He told beautifully crafted stories of his time in the ‘war’ although he never specified which battle or branch of service and we never asked.  I mean, you all know that some of his so-called exploits were just too fantastic to be believed and well beyond what we knew a person like Country could pull off.   Raised to be polite, we just let him talk, often while going about our business of the day.  That was not a problem for Country.  As long as we gave him and ‘uh-huh’ every now and then, he would follow us from room to room, even outside, talking all the while.  We soon learned that if we stopped the ‘uh-hus’ he would simply find another family member to follow.  When he had seemingly exhausted himself with the lies he was telling, usually and conveniently after dinner, he would retrieve his hat from the hall table, tip it to us and take his leave.

After a while, we did not think of Country’s visits as an intrusion, as he had become a part of the fabric of our family, as I am sure he did with some of yours.  In fact, I know we all had blood relatives we would hide from before we would deny entry to Country.  At least he was a gentleman, did not drink or steal stuff off your dresser on the way to the bathroom, and never uttered a curse word.

 As the years went by, Country’s stories became more layered and detailed.  It was as though he was polishing and purifying the narrative in the wash of the repeated telling.  He began to weave in the people he had met along the way, like Martin Luther King and Joe Lewis. We just thought he was getting older and wiser and his stories were just getting better.  In fact, we were starting to enjoy some of them and from time to time would even ask him to tell us certain ones, like the one about when he got to meet Eartha Kitt or the fun he had when he went on shore leave in the Philippines.

Well, as you all know, Country never married.  Said he did not believe in the institution of marriage.  And to make sure he never met a woman who he would have to consider as a wife, he only kept company with married women.  Oh yes, I know some of you are here today, because in spite of his oftentimes fanciful, sometimes annoying stories, you came to love Country as much as I did and nothing was going to keep you away.

 As it turns out, his habit of only dating married women turned out to be his undoing.  Several of us had not heard from Country in about a week and went to check on him.  There he was, sitting in his favorite chair, TV remote still in his hand, bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.  Oh, we already know it was Mr. Johnson, because I am sure he would be here if he wasn’t in jail, and I am sure you have noticed that Mrs. Johnson ain’t here with us today either.  Seems Mr. Johnson was so upset about what he had done, he called the police and turned himself in.  He kept telling the police how much he liked Country, but somehow I don’t think that is going to help him much in court.

Anyway, we are not here today to focus on Mr. Johnson or Country’s pro-cli-vi-ties with the ladies; no, far from it.  In his will, Country designated me as the person who would take care of his estate, which of course includes all of his earthly belongings.  I had to rush to get stuff out of his house because his money-grubbing landlord has already rented the place to a new tenant.  I started in his closet and above the rainbow of suits, hats and shoes; I found a small wooden box.  I opened it to find his papers.  Yes, Country had papers. 

On the top of the pile was his birth certificate.  Seems he was born in Myler, Texas in 1922 to Mellie Montrose and Haywood Augustus Charles.  His name was Haywood Augustus Charles, Jr.  Raise your hand if you knew his real name.  No one?  That’s right, no one, not even me, ever asked Country his real name. 

Then I found his honorable discharge papers from the Navy dated 1946.  Then, I found this, and I am going to read it to you:

MOONSTONE COLLEGE

The faculty of the College has conferred upon

Heywood Augustus Charles, Jr.

The degree of

Bachelor of Arts

With a double major in Mathematics and Economics

Given at Prairie Town, Texas

This twentieth day of June

In the Year Nineteen Hundred and Fifty

Now stop your gasping and murmuring and listen to me closely.  This lesson is as much for me as it is for all of you. 

We defined this man by the name we chose to give him.  He was so gracious and kind, he never corrected us.  And even though he tried for years to tell us about who he was and the journey he had traveled, we did not believe him.  We were distracted by the clothes he wore and the way he spoke and we summed him up with that.   We could have immersed ourselves in the substance of the man, but we did not look for it.   We were shallow in our assessment and all we are left with is this box of papers.

But I am here to tell you that Mr. Charles left us with some precious messages in these flimsy documents.

 Let us never judge people by how they speak, dress or comport themselves.  May we always take the time to look deeper. Sometimes we will find there is nothing there, or find someone to be avoided, but I do believe that most of the time we will find someone we will be happy to know.

 Let us not equate the ability to articulate with the presence of intelligence, or the use of dialect other than our own with stupidity. A lot of people can talk, but they are not always nice or smart.  And some can’t speak a proper sentence, but they have heart and are gifted, critical thinkers.

Let us not continue to believe in the stereotypes that have been created to make us doubt ourselves as well as others.  Let us be open to all possibilities and combinations of talent, ability and promise.

And most of all, as we send Mr. Heywood Augustus ‘Country’ Charles, Jr.  on his last journey, dressed in his favorite yellow suit, hat and shoes, let us remember that in his papers he spoke his last words, and they were the real, true story.”

CHOSEN

Chosen

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

Author

 The chosen arrive in light for all to see,

 Unaware of their luminosity.

 They share their light unselfishly,

 And leave in light, forever free,

While the glow lives on

In you and me

I vividly remember when I first saw her.  I was seven and she was eight. Her yellow petticoated dress glowed amber in the sunlight behind her. Although the almost blinding light obscured her facial features, I could see that her hair was neatly parted down the middle, providing a pathway for the two thick long braids that brushed her waist.  But it was her welcoming smile that broke through the shadow and captivated me immediately.

It was her first day in America. The unwanted child of a Japanese woman and an African American soldier, she had been among the countless babies who had been abandoned at orphanages in Japan after the war.  Having no children of their own, my career Army godfather and godmother had adopted her on one of their many trips to Japan. They named her Cassandra.

As I walked up to her to get a better look, her smile never wavered.  She spoke little English at the time, but we did not need words. My godmother stepped in between us and handed each of us a small jewelry box. We opened them to find matching rings purchased by my godmother on a trip to Istanbul some months before. Grinning, we each put on our rings and in that sunbathed ceremony we became sisters for life.

We spent our childhoods playing together whenever our parents visited each other.  We missed each other when we were apart; but had no control over our meeting frequency.  Cassandra remained very much Japanese, quietly keeping her own counsel, while she slowly explored her African American heritage.  Sometimes she would show me her photo album from the orphanage, full of the mixed race children that Japanese mothers did not want or could not keep. My godparents had chosen her out of all of those unwanted Amerasian children looking expectantly into the camera lens, with eyes full of hope and longing. I often found myself looking more at the beautiful Japanese clothing they wore to avoid those eyes. With the exception of showing me the album once in a while, Cassandra never spoke of her time in the orphanage or of her biological parents. I never knew her Japanese name. And although I became more curious as we grew older, after a while I forgot about those things and never asked.

As budding teenagers, we spent countless hours steaming our faces with hot washcloths to banish breakouts. We used gallons of Noxzema and thought of it as a miracle cure. Even though I don’t remember it really doing much to banish the bumps, we reveled in the routine and the promise on the jar. We always swore we looked better after one of our “treatments.” We had many sleepovers at her house; I don’t remember her ever coming to mine.  That was fine with me. I did not want to share her with my four younger sisters anyway and besides, I got to be the little sister when I was with her.

We both met the loves of our lives as teenagers and made our entries into early womanhood during the Black Power movement of the 1970’s. Under strict parental orders to shun militancy, we were simultaneously frightened and enthralled by changes taking place and wore dashikis and black leather jackets to support the cause. With the hot steam of the Black Panthers, Angela Davis and Huey P. Newton as our atmosphere, I served as her matron of honor while my new husband played the conga drums at her African themed wedding.

She was the first to have a child and would have four to my one.  We both would get our college degrees, me in English and she in child development.  With her degree in hand she started a daycare business called San’s Childcare.  My then baby daughter would be among the first to receive the benefits of her loving care.  She became my daughter’s second mother and instilled many valuable traits from infancy through early teenage years.  When I was climbing the work ladder, it was Cassandra who supported me in teaching my daughter many things woman and many things strong.  When I could not be there, Cassandra made sure that all was well at school, the homework was done, the scratched knee was bandaged and the meals were healthy. She was a precious gift sent to accompany me on that vital part of my motherhood journey. My daughter was a part of her family and we both knew we were blessed to be in her presence.

All too soon the children would grow up and Cassandra would decide to retire from the childcare business.  The children she had taken under her wing had all arrived as infants and reached their preteen years at the same time. The time had come for them to leave the nest and fly on their own.

 On one of my last trips to pick up my daughter, I encountered Cassandra and her husband on the sidewalk in front of their house.  She was again back-lit by the bright sun and I could only see her outline, moving toward me with a slow and unfamiliar gait. As they got closer and her face came into view, I asked how they were doing.  “OK, she said.  I just have a little cancer.”  Matter of fact.  Just like that. Everything stopped: The cars on the street were no longer moving; Charlie across the way was suspended halfway up his front stairs; the dogs next door ceased their incessant barking; everything but Cassandra fell away. She had to go in to the house and tell her children.  I had to tell my daughter. I told her she would be all right and that I was there to do anything she wanted. She hugged me and without looking back, walked up the steps and through her front door. She and my unknowing daughter passed each other at the threshold and hugged each other tight as they said their goodbyes. I held my tears until I arrived at home.

Cassandra fought her disease with all of her might.  When we would visit her in the hospital during and after her treatments, I would try my best to make her laugh.  But soon it became clear that the doctor she had was not the best and the treatments were not having the desired effect.

And so, her husband moved her and their family to his hometown of Nashville, Tennessee where the world-renowned cancer specialists at Vanderbilt University could treat her.  It would turn out that the first doctor had messed things up so much there was not much hope left.

In what would be my last conversation with her, with the sounds of her children in the background, and barely able to speak, she told me there had to be something she could do.  That she did not want to just lie there and die.  I told her how much she meant and would always mean to me, from the day I saw her in the sunlight with the long braids and the smile. Then we laughed and talked about Noxzema and dashikis and how we both still had our rings and about being true sisters. I thanked her for sharing her light and helping to make my daughter the beautiful loving person she had become.  I told her I would always be there for her children as she had always been there for my child.  She took a breath and I could hear through my own tears that she was crying as well.  Then she said, “ Thank you so much.  You don’t know how much your words mean to me. I love you.” “I love you too, Cassandra, I said, and I will see you later.”  Her last words before we hung up the phone, were, “I will see you later, too.”

Two days later, I received a tearful call from her youngest daughter.  All she said was, “Mommy didn’t make it.”  At the young age of 44, a wife, mother and my sister was gone. 

As her children began to re-group and return to California, I have kept my promise to always be here for them. Although they are all grown up now with children of their own, and I don’t see them much, the bonds are strong and deeply rooted. 

I think of my chosen sister often and miss her still.  And each day, with the rising sun, she continues to share her light with us all.

CROSSING BRIDGES WITH PERRY MASON

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CROSSING BRIDGES WITH PERRY MASON

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

December 2012

“Time to get up! Let’s go for a ride!” 

That would be Daddy’s voice ricocheting off the walls announcing to me and my sister that we needed to get dressed in a hurry.  At least twice a month, in the spring and summer, we would be roused from sleep, sometimes just as the sun came up, and hurried by Mom through our morning ritual to get ready for the ride of the day.  Daddy would already be up and dressed, often pacing in the driveway; so anxious to leave he acted like the world was going to end at any moment and it would be our fault for taking too long to get ready.

We washed and dressed as fast as we could, and often with hair uncombed we would pile into the backseat the latest family car and be off to the mystery destination.  Today we were in the new 1957 cream-colored Chevy Impala with Daddy driving and Mom riding shotgun. My sister and I had to crane our necks to see out of the windows. We could have cared less about where we were going.  The ride was the thing. 

Down the street and on to the freeway we went.  I was always glad when we got on the freeway.  It usually meant we were going to a new place.  Daddy was singing along to Elvis, “Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear”, making up his own lyrics, “”girl, you need to comb your hair”, joking about the sad state of my and my sister’s messy locks.  When Johnny Mathis started to sing, “It’s Not For Me to Say”, Daddy reached over and turned the radio knob until he found Fats Domino half way through “I’m Walking.”  Daddy did not like the slower love songs or Gershwin tunes Mommy usually favored, so we knew the ride soundtrack would only be fast paced rock and roll.

 Soon we came to a tollbooth where Daddy slowed to a stop, rolled down the window and handed the toll taker a quarter.  In one seamless motion, his left hand twirled the window crank to send it upward, his right hand gripped the steering wheel, and his right foot shifted from the break to the accelerator. As he hit the gas he yelled back to the toll taker,” Thanks, you shitass!”

 Daddy would yell those words to many toll takers over the years, and start to laugh, and then we would laugh because Daddy was laughing, even though we didn’t have clue what “shitass” meant. We just knew it must have been one of those words only grown-ups were allowed to say because Mom would always give him “the look,” whenever he said it, just like she did that day.

Over the bridge and on to the streets of the city, where only tops of the tallest buildings that seemed to be hovering in the clear blue sky were within our view from the backseat.  Finally Daddy, playing both geography teacher and tour guide, explained that were in San Francisco, and were on our way to ride on “the crookedest street in the world.”   He would turn his head all the way around when the spoke to us causing Mommy to tense up and press her right foot into the floor as though applying an imaginary break pedal. Daddy went on to tell us that the street went straight up toward the sky and then went down so steep and so crooked that you could only go five miles per hour.  We were fascinated because we had learned about miles per hour during one of our many previous rides and knew that we would be going really, really slow.

When we got to the crookedest street, Daddy’s descriptions suddenly felt woefully incomplete. We began an incline that was so steep, all I could see was the hood of the car.  I was scared but as the oldest felt an obligation to be courageous.  But after while, with the hood of the car seeming to come toward me, and it felt as though we were going to tumble backwards, I yelled out, “Daddy, do you want to get dead?”  My parents both turned to look back at me and busted out laughing.  Little did I know at the time I would hear this story well into adulthood.

Soon the car leveled out and the beautiful houses at the top of the hill surrounded us.  Daddy pulled over the to the side of the road and we took in the magnificent view. 

Suddenly Mom yelled out, “Oh my goodness!  Is that who I think it is?” 

“Who? Where?” Daddy asked.

By now, my sister and I were standing up, trying to see whom they were talking about.

“Trying to get into that house on the corner. The last house on the right. Wearing the beige trench coat”, Mom replied.

Recognition coming to both of them, they said in unison, “It sure is! It’s Raymond Burr!” 

And there he was, right in front of us, Raymond Burr, aka, Perry Mason.  While Little Richard screamed out a scratchy rendition of “Lucille” on the radio, we watched Perry Mason do take after take; going to the front door of the house and pretending to open it and then walking back to the sidewalk and repeating the process again.  It took four to five takes before we noticed the cameras and crew on the other side of the street. 

Perry Mason was one of the first shows we watched on that fairly new invention of the time, television. From 1957 to 1966, Raymond Burr played a defense lawyer who only lost 3 of 300 cases. His character was in fact my earliest and most favorite introduction to the medium. The show featured a diverse cast including African, Asian and Latino Americans, often in groundbreaking television roles such as police detectives and doctors.  To see him as a real person rather than a black and white undersized image was almost too much for me to process. He looked over at us and nodded slightly.  My parents nodded back and we started down the hill.

Daddy drove slowly and carefully down the hairpin turns in crookedest part of the crookedest street in the world.  Crookedest street forgotten, and Daddy looking straight ahead, my parents talked a bit about seeing Raymond Burr, how looked just like he did on TV, and how tall he was.  While my sister slept beside me in the backseat, I was thinking about how popular I would be in the neighborhood when I got to tell all of my friends about seeing Perry Mason.  The radio got to play whatever it wanted all the way back home.

Over the years, we would take many rides with Daddy and Mommy.  In our travels we crossed many toll bridges and Daddy would never fail to yell out his profane appreciation to the toll taker.  We would look back and see a perplexed, angry, or surprisingly sometimes amused toll taker face and fall into fits of laughter.   When the car or the minivan become crowded with more sisters and eventually my husband and other sons-in-law, Daddy never wavered in giving his special” thanks”, even if he wasn’t driving. Although some may think it was not such nice thing to do, for us Daddy’s unique message of appreciation to those toll takers has become a verbal reminder of both the physical and metaphorical bridges we have crossed and those we will cross in the future. It provides vivid clarity to how wonderful the ride has been so far and how much we are still enjoying the journey.

Today, when my husband and I cross a bridge and pay the toll, he will often deliver the same line, although always well out of earshot of the toll taker. Then we look at each other and laugh out loud before the inevitable silence sets in; he with his memories of crossing bridges with Daddy and me with mine. 

And although I have never asked my husband what he is thinking about when this happens, I think about the day Daddy, Mommy, my sister and I happily took off under a just rising amber sun in the cream colored Chevy Impala for a ride.

Then I think about how we crossed the bridge expecting to find the crookedest street in the world on the other side, but instead we found a lasting family connection and a story to share, brought to us by Perry Mason.

BURNT SIENNA

BURNT SIENNA

by

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

We were in 1961 Oakland, California and my 2-years younger sister and I had been invited by Miss Krause, my 5^th grade teacher, to her home for a weekend of horseback riding and outdoor fun. We were giddy at the invitation and our parents had readily said yes.

Miss Krause was a German beauty, not long arrived from the old country, with a gentle manner and soft, but strong accent.  Her hair was a strawberry blond with a slight kink to it, which she perpetually forced into a bun perfectly centered at the nape of her neck. As though trying to escape the bun prison, curly tendrils fell lightly around her face and provided the perfect frame to highlight her flawless peaches and cream complexion.  She always dressed in 1940’s era suits and shoes with the only change being the weight of the wool depending on the season.  This made her the source of ridicule among some of the students, but to me, she looked like a movie star.

Finally the Friday after school arrived when we would take the trip to her house.  Right before dinner, she arrived to pick us up.  A young single woman, Miss Krause lived with her parents in the Oakland hills.  At that time, the hills were a compete mystery to us; unchartered territory that we voraciously took in from the windows of her car.    Although I don’t remember where she lived, it could have even been close to where I live now.

After travelling closer to the clouds and the brilliant spring sun, we finally arrived at the long private dirt driveway that led to her house.  On our way to the house we caught a glimpse of the horse behind a short fence on the left side of the property. Once the car came to a stop, we threw open the car doors and made a beeline to get a closer look.  The horse was a magnificent brown animal, the color of burnt sienna, my favorite crayon. I decided at that moment that Burnt Sienna would be my name for her during our stay. That turned out to be ok since Miss Krause only referred to her as “girl” and never told us her real name. We didn’t think to ask, because we had been conditioned not to ask teachers too many questions. Back then unbridled inquisitiveness was often considered disruptive classroom behavior and could lead to bad grades in citizenship.  Before too long, Miss Krause called out to us that needed to come into the house and that we would have plenty of time with the horse later.

The house was huge; three stories of all white stucco with the top floor being a full attic.  The first thing I noticed when we crossed the threshold was the absolute and utter quiet.  I knew Miss Krause lived with her parents, but there was no sign of them and they did not come out to greet us.  There were no voices except ours.  Scanning the front room, I saw no television, no radio.  I did, however, make note of the old school black telephone on the small table by the front door.

The house had gleaming dark hard wood floors, almost the same color as Burnt Sienna, and bright white walls.  I thought this a bit odd because during those days, wall-to wall carpeting and walls painted  “sandalwood” or “eggshell” were in all the rage in interior décor. Every piece of furniture, and there was a lot of it, was heavy and oversized and if it was wood, intricately carved with florets or other designs unrecognizable to a 5^th grader.

We were shown to the first floor bedroom where we would sleep in the four-poster bed while draped in a bumpy white chenille bedspread. We put down our little suitcases and followed Miss Krause upstairs to the attic space. But it was not just an attic.  It was her closet.

A strong smell permeated the room as we entered. I would later learn that this room was constructed entirely of cedar.  A single tiny window near the ceiling struggled to illuminate the space. Three walls of the room were either spaces for hanging clothes or contained built- in dressers.  There were no doors on any of the hanging spaces and Miss Krause’s extensive collection of suits was in full view.  They were all the same impeccably tailored 1940’s vintage.  The colors were all muted and ranged from a barley discernable mauve to numerous shades of brown and grey.  There were no black suits.  There were no spring or summer dresses.  There were a few pairs of men-style and riding pants and long sleeve shirts.  Everything was carefully arranged by season and purpose; all of the heavy wool fur collared suits were in one section; lighter wool in another, and pants and shirts in yet another.  But the main feature of the room was the three-tiered circular apparatus in the middle of the floor that displayed all of her shoes.

Again the shoes were all 1940’s style, all leather and a variety of shades of brown or grey.  There were Mary Jane’s and T-straps and peep toes and oxfords and boots and heels of every height.  I had never seen such a large collection of shoes outside of a shoe store. My sister and I were so mesmerized by this collection of footwear that we did not notice that Miss Krause had changed out of her school suit into a pair of grey pants and coordinating shirt, until she pushed the button that rotated the turnstile to pick out a pair of low heeled leather riding boots.  Seeing her slip into the boots we knew our ride on Burnt Sienna was imminent and eagerly followed her back down the stairs and out into the yard.

We had been on horseback rides before but they had been at the park where the horses were tethered to a riding ring confined to a small circle.  At Miss Krause’s house, we where finally going to be able to ride a horse out in the open; a real “Bonanza on the Ponderosa” horseback ride.  Once we got to the horse, Miss Krause handed each of us a large brush and told us to brush the horse until it shined.  We thought this was the prelude to the horseback ride to come and since she was our teacher, we gladly and enthusiastically complied.  Since we were little kids, we took the low parts and Miss Krause took the high parts.  We told stories and laughed and sang as we worked.  We brushed and brushed until Burnt Sienna was as luminous as an expensive mink coat and we were too exhausted to continue. Announcing that we had done a good job, Miss Krause told us it was time to return to the house for dinner.  Tired but disappointed, we asked when we would be able to ride Burnt Sienna.  “You will be able to ride soon enough”, she said, “but right now we need to get back to the house and wash up for dinner. Mother and Father are waiting for us.”

We were seated at the large dining table with Miss Krause and her father.  He looked at us with a stern expression but said nothing.  Her mother soon emerged from the kitchen with a platter on which rested an entire fish, head and all, and placed it in the middle of the table.  She too was silent. As if on cue, the family cat, which we had not seen up to that point, jumped on the table.  Mrs. Krause used a spoon to extract one eye of the fish and fed it to the cat.  Then she turned the fish over and repeated the process.  Satisfied with the treat, the cat jumped from the table and retreated to another part of the house.  Having never seen such a thing before, my sister and I looked at each other in stunned silence, but were too hungry and exhausted not to eat. After dinner, we were so spent from brushing Burnt Sienna we did not miss the fact that we did not have the usual television background noise to usher us into slumber and soon fell into a sound sleep.

The next morning we were roused from sleep by Miss Krause, who was dressed in full horseback riding regalia, and told to get ready for the day.  We found ourselves again at the big dining table, only this time, there were no parents present and we were looking into bowls of cold oatmeal with a bit of sugar and milk. We just knew this would be the day we rode Burnt Sienna, so we ate quickly.

But instead of taking us out into the yard, Miss Krause handed us each another set of brushes.  This time they were toothbrushes that we were instructed to use to clean any debris and dust out of the small openings between the carvings on the dining room sideboard.  After a bit of instruction, Miss Krause said she was going to go and change out of her riding clothes, and that she had other chores to do and would leave us to our work.  She made no mention of Burnt Sienna.

Once we were alone for a while, with no sign of Miss Krause or her parents, I went to the telephone on the table by the front door and called mom.  All I had to say was, “Mommy, please come and get us.”  I rushed my sister into the bedroom and we quickly gathered our things.  Suitcases in hand, we went out of the front door and down to the end of the long driveway to wait.  I could feel Burnt Sienna’s stare branding hot circles into the side of my face, but I could not bring myself to turn and look at her.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally saw the green hood of mom’s Impala climbing the hill, signaling her arrival.  We got into the car as fast as we could.  Mom did not bother to go in and speak to Miss Krause.  All she had to do was look at me and we both understood that everything had been said when I called and asked her to come and get us.  I wondered why Miss Krause did not come to look for us.  Maybe she got so busy with her chores she did not notice we were gone. Or maybe she was watching us from that tiny window in her closet in that noiseless house and seeing our backs with suitcases in hand at the end of that driveway said it all.

As mom began to drive down the hill, I was finally able to look back at Burnt Sienna. Her sad brown eyes locked with mine until we were both out of sight.

SILENT KEY

SILENT KEY

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

August 2012

Before I could completely remove my fingertip from the doorbell, I could hear the click -click of Madeline’s freshly paraffin-waxed heels slapping against the inside of her high-heeled sandals. The pungent odor of unwashed dog and fish fried in old grease slapped me at the front door as she opened it.  Then there was the woman herself, beaming a wide too-white smile, dressed in a designer track suit, hair done, nails done, standing there amid all that funk. 

 Madeline has been my good friend for many years.  She has never been interested in having a clean house, but even for her, this was a new level of nasty. I do not really want to enter her house, but can’t think of a polite or believable excuse which will enable me to turn around and walk or perhaps, run, away. Reluctantly, I slowly cross the threshold into the small entryway. Every surface my eyes fall upon seems to be covered with something.  All of the kitchen cabinets are open. Last night’s dinner is still in pots on the stove and what looks like a week’s worth of dishes sits unwashed in the sink.  Madeline ushers me in with no apology, oblivious to the obvious squalor. King, the so-called watch dog, is so engrossed in rooting for potential edibles on the floor that he never even looked up to acknowledge me.  I find myself following his search to see if he laps up anything alive and moving.

“Girl, I am so happy to see you”, she says.  “It’s been way too long”, I say. We hug that old friend’s hug.  We are sincerely happy to see each other.  I try to let that emotion rule my senses instead of my overly evolved sense of smell.  She is saying something else and I don’t really hear her because I am wondering if the smell is going to be in my hair and clothes when I get home.  I realize she is still talking in time to snap out of my reverie and manage to mouth a generic, ‘Uh, huh.” 

“What have you been up to?” I ask, thinking cleaning certainly has not been on the list. I am hoping the stench, which has gotten stronger as I move further into the house, doesn’t travel on those little comic strip smell waves into my mouth and down my throat when I part my lips to speak.

“Oh, girlfriend, I have been doing Pilates, going for walks and just generally trying to keep myself together.  You should join me sometime.  You know, we baby-boomers really need to try to stay fit.”

“Yes, I agree with that, and you do look good”, I say, fighting back a choke.

Well, my dear, I do believe that no matter how old we get, we gotta at least try to stay as cute as possible”, she says, and we share a too quick laugh on that.

“So, where is Proctor? I ask.   I expected him to be here.” Proctor is her life partner.  They never married and have been together for twenty years. Proctor is about ten years older than Madeline and is a ham radio operator.  A retired engineer, he likes to brag about how he was able to get his radio operator’s license without taking the exam.

“Oh, he is where he usually is, back there on that damn ham radio,” Madeline says with an eye roll. “Talks to those strangers more than he talks to me. I think one of those little radio chicks is his new girlfriend.”

In spite of what I am hearing from Madeline, I am relieved to hear that Proctor is home.  His radio room is always sparkling clean and will be my escape from the filth that seems to have consumed the rest of the house.

Doing my best to avoid the discarded clothing, layers of dust that look like beach sand, and other debris, I slowly make my way to the back of the house where I know Proctor has his elaborate radio set-up.  I notice the smell is different back here.  The odors from the front of the house seem to slightly fade and are replaced by a woody and metallic combination. As I approach Proctor’s door, I can hear the staccato collection of voices coming over the ham. 

I knock and get no answer, so I push the door gently and peek in.  There is Proctor, sitting in his leather chair, arms on his desk, head forward and mouth open ready to join the conversation.  Dressed in his signature Dockers slacks and elbow-patched sweater, he is hovered over his microphone just like an old-school deejay.   His room is all wood, from the floor to the paneling on the walls and even the ceiling, to the wood shelving he made himself to hold all of this radio equipment and reference books. The woody-metallic smell is more intense here, and I decide to just get a little closer so I can whisper a quick hello and make my exit.

I walk toward Proctor slowly and he does not move or acknowledge that he heard me come in.  I think he is just like a kid with a video game; in the zone, totally engrossed and losing all connection to everything external. As I make my way across the room, my footfalls cause the wood floor to squeak.  Still, there is no response from Proctor.

“He’s on that fucking radio, isn’t he?” Madeline shrieks from the front of the house.  “I told you, that’s all his ass does these days.  It is really starting to piss me off.  Who is he talking to today, cause it sure isn’t me.”  I don’t miss the fact that the smiling, happy woman I exchanged pleasantries with just a few moments before has suddenly become shrill and profane.

It is when I open my mouth to say hello to Proctor, that I notice the handle of the knife protruding from the nape of his neck.  It had been plunged with extreme force into the fleshy spot at the base of his skull. The small, linear trickle of long-dried blood trailing down the back of his neck signaled that Proctor had been sitting there poised for conversation for quite some time.

“I said, who is he talking to?” Madeline screams.

In a voice that seems to come from a new inside place, I yell back to Madeline, “Oh, he’s not talking to anyone.  No, he’s not talking to anyone, right now.”

From the front of the house, in her original sweet greeting voice, Madeline calls out, “I’m going to take King for a walk, be back in a few minutes. Hope you can stay for lunch!”

The front door closes before I can respond, and I find myself alone in this suddenly coffin-like room.  Just me, the stranger voices on the radio, and the silent key.