MOODS OVER A SEPTEMBER MOON III

We're standing at the bus stop, Dad and I, waiting for the
eastbound. A coolness has set in, the sun now obscured by cloud and
haze. A light breeze is gently sweeping the pavement, tossing about
McDonald Wrappers, cigarette butts and other refuse. A wire trash
container sits next to us, idle and empty.
Across the street, a liquor store, its front door ejecting
haggard-looking men in soiled overcoats. Next to it, a smoky diner,
emitting into the dusty air the smell of greasy burger and burnt toast.
Out of the diner walks a man in business suit, clutching the hand of a
halter-topped woman at least half his age. They hail a passing
taxicab.
We wait. A good half hour has now passed. The breeze is picking up. A
chill runs across my body. A young couple, hopefully in love, pass by,
the guy whistling into the breeze, his girlfriend smiling
gallantly.
We wait. Now it's windy, gale-like. I'm cold, shivering. Cars zoom by,
families cuddly and warm, going home. I wonder why we always have to
take the bus or the elevated. Whatever happened to the car Dad used to
drive, that station wagon with the wooden panels on the side.
"Dad," I say, "whatever happened to the station wagon with the wooden
panels on the side?"
He frowns, looks embarrassed. "It got repossessed," he says,
reluctantly. "Just couldn't keep up with the payments. I'm sorry
but-"
"Dad, don't be sorry," I interject. There's no need to pursue this
subject any further. Things happen, I understand. Anyway, who cares if
Dad isn't like a lot of other dads in the neighborhood, driving their
kids to school and taking drives out to the country every once in a
while. Who cares?
The big green and white bus pulls up. Thank goodness. I'm getting
hungry and it's getting dark. Besides, I'm full of goose bumps and I
just hate that plucked-chicken look. Never did care for it. No, leave
that look for the plucked chickens, those poor things.
Traffic's running thick through the veins of the city. The ride home
is slow and unbalanced. The bus is teetering to one side, and as it
drags along, we get a rather skewered look of the passersby who look up
at us strangely. A few shrug their shoulders; a few more shake their
heads. We're a curiosity, teetering along the streets of Chicago on a
trimmed budget. But things will be fixed later.
Dad, who has not spoken much the last few hours, pulls from his shirt
pocket a leaflet handed to him earlier by an old-looking woman who
stood isolated amid the horde, her misgivings ignored or trampled on.
Dad, feeling sorry for her, drops a dollar in her tattered satchel, a
noble act indeed, especially since it is one of the three dollars he
has left to his name. His name, Vince, is a fine name. Short for
Vincent. "Bless your soul, Vincent!" the blind lady says, after
rummaging through her satchel and realizing her gain-perhaps a dozen
eggs and a loaf of bread later on. Dad folds the leaflet and returns it
to his pocket. He looks at me and I can tell he wants to cry but is
holding back. I know how it is to fight back tears; sometimes I do it
while watching a sad movie. I don't want to be caught crying because
Shane is leaving on his horse and the little boy is calling him, Shane,
Shane, come back Shane and Shane just keeps on riding, not even looking
back at the little boy. How sad. I want to cry so much but Lenny or
maybe Trish will laugh and make fun of me. I have to run to the
bathroom and lock the door and let it all out, enough tears to almost
fill the washbasin.



Mom is tossing about the salad, blending together a few leaves of
lettuce and a couple of slices of leftover tomato. Thrown in for color
a few shavings of carrot.
Since there isn't enough to go around, I am to be given the salad, Mom
tells everyone. It's his birthday. But there is enough meatloaf and
mashed potatoes, thank goodness. Otherwise, I would feel guilty,
birthday or no birthday.
We gather around the table, well, some of us, the table is too small,
so Lenny and Trish take their plates to the living room. They don't
mind they say, the small black and white television is there to keep
them company. Shortly, they will be arguing on what to watch. Lenny
prefers cartoons, Trish likes documentaries and reality-based shows.
Lenny likes to say that cartoons are reality-based and sometimes I
think he's right.
Wendy's sitting on the old barstool, found in the alley behind the Do
Drop Inn, one of the taverns Dad and Mom sometimes go to. She spins
around a few times between bites of her meatloaf, Dad thinks it funny,
but Mom finds it annoying. "Stop that Wendy," Mom says.
"But Mom, it's fun," says Wendy, her hair in pigtails.
"Let her have some fun," Dad says, his hair matted and messed from the
earlier winds.
"Vince," Mom says, "why don't you do something with that hair of
yours?"
"Later," he says. "Before I go out to-"
"What? You're not going anywhere," Mother interrupts, her hands
beginning to shake, her face reddening. "My Mother and Papa Joe might
be coming over with a cake. What am I supposed to tell them?"
"That I went to see about a job."
"They don't know about you losing your last job."
"That's not my fault," Dad says as he pushes his plate away and leaves
the table, leaving Wendy with tears in her eyes and me wondering why
this has to happen, especially on the night of my birthday. Mother
tells us both to eat, that everything will be okay, that she'll tell
Nee and Papa Joe something if they do happen to come over. It's getting
late though and by the look of things they probably won't be over and
maybe it's better if they don't. I hate to see Mother looking all
embarrassed and sad in front of Nee and Papa Joe. It'll break my heart,
it really will.
The night wears on. Dad has already left, his hair arranged perfectly
atop his head. He had also managed to change his clothes, a spiffy
looking sweater and creased trousers. Before he left he kissed both
Wendy and me on our cheeks and said that he'd see us in the morning. He
wished me a happy birthday again and I thanked him. Mom stood by the
front door trying to block him but it was of no use, Dad still had
enough muscle to push her out of the way. He did say, though, that when
he returned he'd have some good news. Suddenly, I had visions of new
bicycles and shiny guitars. I saw canopy beds and refrigerators full of
food. Mom, I don't know what she saw, she slammed the door and cursed
and then cursed some more before running off to her bedroom, slamming
its door as well.
The night wears on. Nee and Papa Joe aren't coming, it's been made
official by Ma Bell. I answer the phone, thank goodness and not Mother,
who probably hasn't stopped crying since Dad left. Nee tells me that
she would see me next weekend and that she has a present for me.
"Okay Nee," I say.
"Just tell your mother that Papa Joe had to work late, okay, my sweet
chile."
"Okay Nee, I will."
"What did you do today for your birthday?"
"Dad took me on a boat ride?you know the one on Lake Michigan."
"Good, my sweet chile. Bet that was fun. Oh, lemme talk to your big
sister."
"Trish and Lenny aren't here, Nee. They went out after we had meatloaf
and mashed potatoes."
"You tell that sweet grandchile of mine to call me tomorrow,
okay."
"Yes," I say.
"Well, have to go make some supper for Papa Joe. Tell your mom I'm
sorry but-"
"Okay, Nee." I put the receiver back in its cradle and then return to
the living room where Wendy is concentrating on her Cinderella Coloring
Book. She has already pulled out her sleeping bag for the night and is
laying atop it now, knees down, adding black and red and silver to the
coach that will whisk Cinderella off to the ball. Wendy lives
Cinderella and this annoys Lenny and Trish and sometimes, Mom. But me,
I think it's cute. So does Dad. After telling Wendy what a good job
she's doing and how proud I am of her I go over to Mom and Dad's
bedroom and knock on the door. There's no answer. I knock some more.
Nothing. Why isn't she answering? She can't be asleep, could she?
"Ma, are you in there?"
Nothing
"Ma, are you okay?"
Nothing.
The door's locked. I put my ear against it and hear nothing. That's
it, I'm worried and becoming scared. I pound on the door and this
startles Wendy, who comes running down the hall, begging me to stop.
But I can't. I keep pounding till my knuckles bleed.
It's of no use, pounding, yelling and praying to Lord Jesus. It's of
no use that Wendy has now added her young voice and little hands to
this idea of getting Mother to answer the door. Before long, Wendy's
knuckles are bleeding too. Our fists are spiked with splinter, our
faces drenched in sweat. We're both out of breath and together, fall to
our knees. Oh, Lord help us! Seconds lend to minutes and minutes are
rapidly nearing that god-forsaken hour when I must call the police.
What else can I do? I run into the kitchen and grab the rotary. I dial
the long number, seven digits and then hang up. Heck, this is an
emergency. I dial zero. "Operator, send the police to my house. My
mother locked herself in her bedroom and she won't answer me or Wendy."
I rattle off our address and slam the phone back into its holder. I go
back to Mother's door and try again with all my might to push it open.
It still won't budge. I give up and run to the living room and stand
next to the window and wait. Wendy's curled up on the floor next to me,
clutching tightly her Cinderella doll. She's as silent as the clock
above the television, whose second hand seems to have gone mute all of
a sudden. The only sounds I hear are the ones from outside, an
occasional beeping of a car horn, a few awkward voices of concerned
parents calling out to their to children to come home. Finally a blue
and white pulls up.
Two blue men get out of their car, one tall, the other short and
chubby. I can hear their radios blaring, reports of crime-infested
activity. I open the window wider and hang my head out. "Up here," I
say. The two blue men look up, acknowledge me, then put their
nightsticks back into their belts. Needn't worry about an innocent kid
being concerned about his mother. I buzz them in and go out into the
hallway and wait. They're slow in reaching the third floor. Probably
out of condition, the result of too many cheeseburgers. How often do I
see a group of blue men sitting at the greasy spoon, the one down the
street with the Formica countertops and checkered walls? Probably too
many.times to count.
Finally, the two officers emerge from the stairwell, their faces
pocked with droplets of sweat, their breathing heavy and uneven. They
gain their breath, then come towards me. The chubby cop wipes his
forehead.
"What's the problem?" he says.
"My mother's bedroom door is locked and she won't answer me and
Wendy."
"Who is Wendy?" the tall blue man asks, his head straddling the
ceiling. I tell him who Wendy is, that she's shy and probably hiding
somewhere, probably in the closet and the short and chubby cop tells me
that he needs to see Wendy, just to be sure that I'm not trying to
conceal something. Why in the hell would I be trying to conceal
something? My mother ain't answering her door, my father went out into
the night to bring back some good news, my big sis Trish left to hang
out with her hippie friends and Lenny, who knows where he went and
today's my birthday and Wendy's afraid of strangers, especially those
who carry big guns and loud walkie-talkies and think that kids like us
must always have something to hide. We ain't hiding nothing.