Sputterpub's Blog

My brother John was born when I was 2½ years old.

He was a difficult baby. He came with crooked feet so he spent his first several months with casts on his tiny legs. He was bluish at birth and colicky in the beginning, and when he outgrew the gas he turned into a projectile vomiter. My normally impatient mother became a sucker for him, running at his every cry long after he grew too heavy to be carted around. It was like she felt guilty about his problems or something, the way she catered to him. Or maybe it was what she told me later – how if a woman is lucky she has two love affairs in her life: one with her husband and the other with her firstborn son.

I don’t recall feeling jealous as much as angry. It just wasn’t fair. And the fact was I loved John my baby brother. I was just drawing on his casts, the time I left the crayon in his crib. I didn’t even know I was missing the magenta until Mom found John with his bright red mouth; I certainly never meant him harm.

That was just the first of the injuries I caused him. When he was two I got him fake-hiccuping in the kitchen, and he banged his chin on the table and his teeth pierced his lower lip. If it hadn’t been for the seven stitches he probably would still be sucking on his bottle today, but I got spanked instead of thanked.

And it was nobody’s fault but mine when I put the horseradish in his ice cream, just to see what he would do. He was four and I was almost seven. He got a mouth shock, a nose burn, and an eye tearing. Then he figured it out and took off after me. I made it out of the kitchen but he smacked into the edge of the formica counter and the resulting gash in his eyebrow required a dozen stitches (my parents yelled that it could have been his eye – it was this close!).

I was selfish. I wanted my questions answered. I definitely wanted the biggest cookie on the plate. (I was into quantity over quality then. I bought those paper strips with dots of sugar candy on them, for a penny a yard, or those nickel candy necklaces that left apostrophes of pastel color on my throat. I was almost 13 before I matriculated to small purchases of fine chocolates.)

Once I tried to keep sleep booty. I had a recurring dream in which I received one of those plastic net stockings filled with individually wrapped hard candies. The sweets were mediocre I remember – glossy soft-centered fruit balls, tacky confectionary ribbons, and common candycanes all wrapped in clear or colored cellophane and dumped into a red net bag that was shaped like a foot&leg – but it was the type of treat my parents never bought and I wanted it for myself. I tried to bring it with me to the morning, but it was nowhere when I woke up. The next night I clutched tightly to the stocking, but still it didn’t survive the trip back to awakeness. Finally I came up a plan. The next time I got one of the dream stockings, I carried it very carefully into my house and to my room and my bed and I shoved the whole stocking right under my pillow where I was certain to find it when I woke up. I remember my astonishment and dismay the next morning, when my thoughts rose to consciousness and my right arm rose to seek my treat, and all I found beneath my pillow was cool unblemished sheet.

(continued tomorrow)

I’m really a rotten person. My mother was totally right. I’m selfish and lazy and even nasty. It takes one to know one – that’s how I can spot the phonies and users.

(I’d avoid this whole deal if I could. I distrust rituals in general and death duties the most. But I guess I’m stuck.)

It’s not like I was abused or anything. Far from it. Probably I was cherished by parents, nurtured by aunts, and favored by teachers. I know I was practically adopted by Mr. Fartham in fifth grade.

His name was “Far-tham” but behind his back the boys pronounced it “Fart-ham.” He was smart and good and homely. His eyes were small, his nose was bulbous, his teeth were caramel-colored, his skin was pocked with acne scars. He had strange long fingernails because he played classical guitar, but none of the students knew about that then, so he was mocked for his manicure too.

Mr. Fartham had a fat ugly wife and two plain pudgy daughters. Valerie was my age and Elizabeth was younger. The Fartham family did something every Saturday, and sometimes I was invited along. I was expected to hang around with Valerie, who was boring. Elizabeth was a little interesting but mostly Mr. Fartham’s ideas were the attraction for me.

The zoo was their best outing. They knew where to buy day-old bread for the bears and week-old lemon drops for the wolves, and then we could make the animals do tricks. Sometime during the afternoon Mr. Fartham and I would get in one of our talks. Around the others, either the kids at school or the other Farthams, we tried to be lighthearted and funny, but when we were alone together we got heavy, and we discussed the existence of God or the nature of infinity. (I can still see the Fartham women ahead of us on the asphalt path, their shorts riding like Ws up the insides of their thighs.)

I guess maybe Mr. Fartham didn’t have anyone at home to really talk to. I never questioned our conversations at the time. I wonder about a lot of it now.

Was he happy? Was he outgoing? Was he sexy? Why was such a smart man a public school teacher? An elementary school teacher? What did he really think of me?

At the time I saw him only as a foil to myself. Malleable metal I crinkled around me. A durable reflection about glowering brightness.

By then I had a decade of selfish habits. I’m sure I was a beloved baby girl, except I or the schedule must have bothered my mother, for my earliest memories are of her exasperation with me. I don’t think I meant to be willful, and nowadays we aren’t so rigid with our babies, but I think I remember that when I had another idea about how to spend some minutes, then there was a stern face big above me and a friction that wasn’t the right kind of warmth.

(to be continued on Wednesday)

They had to walk single file between trees for a minute or two. They came to an open space overlooking the rocky cove, and they paused. Spot investigated gopher holes; his tail swept the air like a metronome.

“Anyway … I’m feeling misanthropic lately,” Isabelle explained as she watched seagulls flutter around a far rock pool. It wasn’t typical of seagulls to flutter. “Except for you and my kids, I don’t think I’d miss people. What’s over there?”

“Where?” and Isabelle pointed at the flocking seagulls. “Come,” she said as she nudged Rosie along the path.

“Lately I’ve been extremely critical of the works of man,” Isabelle continued as they walked. “Nothing’s good enough for me. I feel like a drill sergeant; I want to tell our species to buck up, try harder, STRIVE dammit! Drop to the floor and give me 50 pushups! I look around, and nothing we do is good enough. Not the operas. Not the cathedrals. Not even the wedding cakes. On the other hand, the works of God? or nature?” and she swept her arms open to include the ocean’s width, the sky’s height, the depth of land behind them. “This stuff’s absolutely perfect. Stop here.”

“Why?”

“I want to check that out.” Isabelle pointed to a rock pool below them. “I’ve never seen seagulls fly like that.”

“Oh. Is something dead?”

“No. Ahh. It’s a sea lion birth! See? To the left of the birds …”

As Isabelle’s words registered, Rosie saw. A shiny dark cigar-shaped animal nudged a small one into the sea beneath the pool.

“The mother is making the baby swim before she lets it nurse,” Isabelle declared. They watched the infant circle a few times in the waves before it began climbing back to the pool and its mother, who by then had wriggled her body onto the warm stone above the water, leaving only her tail flippers submerged. The afterbirth remained in the pool, and the seagulls dove and wrestled for it while the baby slithered up rock and slid back down in its attempts to climb.

The pup made it to the pool as the birds took off. Two still fought for one piece of sea-rinsed placenta while most of the others carried strands in their beaks.

The baby crossed the pool and began its final quest. Rosie and Isabelle watched, silent. It took awhile for the pup to make it. The mother didn’t help. When the baby finally managed to suckle, the two friends sighed together.

“Wow.”

They returned to Isabelle’s cottage without further discussion. Their cheeks were damp and their smiles soft. Mutely agreeing, they managed to avoid Rusty-the-slut. Spot followed them like a groom.

Isabelle was looking straight ahead as they walked but she caught some movement in her peripheral vision and turned to the right. “Is that Rusty-the-slut?”

Rosie peered where Isabelle faced. A tall figure was moving away from a parked silver SUV, toward the beach. “Shit. I think it is. I do not want to see her.”

“Come this way. She’s too lazy to climb.” And Isabelle strode ahead, onto a boulder pile that surrounded the bottom of the eroded headland at the edge of the cove. She was used to the climb, but she had to put a hand behind her three times to help Rosie up the steep parts of the vine-bordered track. Spot scampered around them. They emerged onto a cypress-shaded path that ran along the top of the headlands; their view was rock-formed tide pools and crashing surf. They giggled conspiratorially, like giddy 12-year-olds who had just ditched a despised third girl.

“I warned you about Rusty-the-slut,” Isabelle grinned.

Rosie returned the smile, edged with dismay. “Fuck you,” she said fondly. “I had a weak moment.”

Rosie had been celibate for three years, and broke too. Her last relationship took her heart and her savings. Belinda had been a compulsive gambler and Rosie was too naive or too smitten to understand until it was too late. Rosie made next to nothing anyway, and she refused to give up her volunteer work to earn more, so she was accustomed to living a few paychecks away from destitution, but Belinda sent her deep into negative territory. She’d been paying off creditors since Belinda disappeared, and when Rusty-the-slut came along, flirting and admiring and picking up tabs, Rosie decided to disregard what Isabelle said about Rusty’s exploits. She allowed herself to think it would be different with her. She went home with someone who was notorious for graphically describing all of her trysts, and after a night of mediocre sex, Rosie now got to hear pornographic little tidbits with herself in a starring role.

“It wasn’t even good sex,” she mumbled.

“That’s not how Rusty-the-slut tells it,” and Isabelle acted ready to run, as if Rosie were about to tackle her. But Rosie looked serious. Suddenly it wasn’t about Rusty.

“Belle,” Rosie breathed, and her mouth twisted searching for words. Her eyes watered. Her face swelled.

Isabelle spoke instead. “Listen, kiddo. It might just be okay. I mean, maybe I’ll beat it myself. I’m going to take better care of my immune system, and maybe that will fight off the chaotic invader. Hell, I’ve even stopped smoking pot. Or maybe I will weaken (that’s the way I see it now), and turn this mortal coil over to the machinations of the medicos. But let’s look at the worst option. Let’s say I die. I have lots of arguments in favor of that… as someone in a Kingsolver novel once said ‘I’ve already been there.’ And I’m pleased with what I’ve accomplished here: I’ve noticed and appreciated and loved and understood; I’ve figured out the answers to a lot of my questions; my kids are okay without me; there’s not much more I had in mind to do.”

Rosie admitted she didn’t have a response to that … yet. She might have said it was weird how people with low self esteem seemed to cling more to life than folks like Belle, but that wasn’t news. She and Isabelle had agreed long ago that life is kind of like a party; one doesn’t want to leave until one’s had a good time.

Rosie seemed preoccupied with her shoe. She was bent over and busy with the lace, so Isabelle looked at the back of her head. “Belle,” Rosie began, aiming her words at the sand, “I don’t want to beat a dead horse but we need to talk some more about the doctors.”

Isabelle watched her twist her shoe lace as she formed the final loop. “You’re making a granny bow.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“But your lace will come undone again. I can show you …”

“It won’t come undone,” Rosie enunciated as she doubled the knot. Her tone was tight and parental.

Isabelle led them to the firm sand near the water and turned north. “Okay. Talk to me about the doctors.”

Half a minute passed. Rosie spoke: “Look. I know you hate it when I order you around, but that’s not where I’m coming from. I love you. You’re my best friend. I want you here, alive, for me as much as for you. I’m probably being selfish: I want you to do whatever is necessary to prolong your life. Right now, I guess I care more about quantity,” she paused and smiled up at Isabelle, “than quality.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?” Rosie managed to load her murmur with sarcasm. She also stopped walking. Isabelle felt compelled to respond.

“Rosie, they don’t have a surefire protocol. They admit their chemo/radiation/surgery mix has only succeeded, so far, with a third of the cases and, so far, we’re talking less than three years of remission. That’s how new it is.

“And it’s nasty. The patient is sick or debilitated throughout. For what? A couple of years, ill and ill-tempered? I’d rather be remembered now.”

They plodded on side by side. Their heels cut scallops in the cinnamon sand while Spot zigzagged ahead. Isabelle continued:

“I’m sorry, Sweetie, but I just don’t have confidence in the MDs. They’ve never been right for me. Shit: their pregnancy tests didn’t even work!

“I can’t bear it. It may not make sense, but I just can’t smell the hospital smells again, or lie there again in miserable discomfort, waiting for some strangers to treat my body and ignore my self. I did it at 36, with the ruptured cyst and hysterectomy. I did it a lot at 49, with what should have been a simple case of food poisoning. I just can’t go there again. Death is better.”

Rosie was silent. She couldn’t summon a good argument. She’d known Isabelle since they were 17, and it was true that her friend had never had a meaningful medical diagnosis. Isabelle mostly didn’t need doctors. She rarely felt ill and when she did, she always seemed to understand what she had and what she needed, but it was a different matter, entirely, to convince the doctor. Then tests were necessary and time had to pass, with the result that healing took longer. “I don’t know what to say,” Rosie admitted. “You know I love you and respect you. I hope you’ll change your mind.”

“I will not willingly surrender myself to the medical industry.”

That had always been one of Isabelle’s assertions, and Rosie accepted it as much as she could. Everyone else said “Oh, you’ll sing a different tune if you’re ever diagnosed with cancer” and secretly Rosie agreed, but she and Isabelle cherished their friendship for its mutual respect, so she tried to believe that Isabelle would rather die than deliver her days up to medical procedures and protocols.

Isabelle was always bright and not dysfunctional; her friends and family thought it was just a matter of time before she would mature into mainstream thinking. Her mother forecast that she’d learn to like money and love shopping. Her father predicted she’d develop a desire to drive. Her friends insisted that she was bound to get lonely enough to look for a third spouse, even as they watched her live 15 happy years single, after the last breakup.

So far Isabelle was proving them wrong. She was 53 and hadn’t yet learned to love money or cars. She liked to live simply, alone with her dog. But the need for change loomed. Her just-diagnosed cancer was active and fast-moving. Six out of seven oncologists thought she wouldn’t have more than a year unless she underwent obnoxious procedures.

“Let’s take a walk,” she suggested. She set her empty coffee mug on the low table and stretched as she stood. She pushed her right hand through her short hair and massaged the back of her neck. Rosie was never opposed to a walk, but she considered her friend’s stamina and hesitated. “Do you think you should?”

“Sure. You’re confusing me with other ‘patients.’ (Actually I’m not a patient. I looked it up. ‘Patient’ means to suffer without complaint. I’m not into that.) If I let them do their chemo I wouldn’t be able to walk. But my energy’s fine. Let’s go listen to the water. See Spot run.” Her old beagle began to dance as Isabelle lifted the leash from its hook by the door.

“Fine. But grab a jacket. It’s nasty out.”

“It is not. It’s just overcast. Come on.”

Isabelle’s little house was a block and a half from the beach. She lived in a funky cottage which she thought would be perfect if it were just a little closer to the ocean. As it was she heard the surf at night. She smelled the tides. She breathed salt air. Her curly hair bent in the constant humidity. But the house lacked an ocean view. So she walked every day to the shoreline. It never failed to awe her.

“I know I’ve said this before, but isn’t it a trip that the beach is also the border of the country? The rim of the continent? I mean: straight out there? Hawaii if you manage to hit it, but otherwise Japan or most likely some part of China. I think we may even be at the edge of the actual plate.” She disconnected the leash from the eager dog. As usual, Spot dashed at the water.