Her Other Half

Sandy pulled her long, black hair into a sloppy ponytail, then rinsed her hands and began kneading. The mixture felt cold and nasty as it squished between her fingers, the scent of raw meat, egg, breadcrumbs, and spices repugnant to her nose and empty stomach. As soon as the boys left for the bus stop, she’d jumped headlong into the task of feeding the crock-pot before so much as pouring her morning cup of coffee. This afternoon—crammed full with little league practice for the boys, a dentist appointment for her, and a stop by the church to set up for the missionary conference—held no time for dinner prep. It had to be done now or they’d end up in the McDonald’s drive-thru, spending money they really didn’t have and eating junk food they certainly didn’t need.

On TV, the crowd of Times Square Morning Show viewers cheered from behind the velvet rope that separated them from the show’s host. Jimmy left for work before Sandy and the boys woke up, and had left the set on. When Sandy came down, the weatherman was there to greet her with a sunny forecast. She glanced at the TV screen. Two chubby blond women in the group jumped up and down like cheerleaders holding a cardboard sign with the words, “Happy Birthday Grandma Eleanor!” written in red marker.

Sandy’s birthday was this Saturday. Her thirty-sixth. What would Jimmy and the boys get her? Would they remember? Thank goodness for girlfriends or she’d never have a cake baked for her. That was all right. She’d long been accustomed to her male-majority household with its lack of frills or sentimentality and its abundance of muddy footprints and bathroom humor. God gave her sons and one goofy but lovable man.

She expertly scooped handfuls of the greasy slop and formed them into reddish golf balls, then plopped them on a growing pyramid on the countertop. She’d quickly brown them, then set them to cooking in sauce—jar sauce today, no time for home made—in the crock-pot. Once that was accomplished, she could relax a bit with her Bible and coffee, maybe read a page of the Daily Bread devotional magazine, before zipping through the shower and starting the laundry.

The Early Show’s host announced a special performance by Montgomery Gentry, eliciting screams of delight from the Times Square crowd. Sandy wasn’t a country fan, listening usually to strictly Christian music, but she smiled at the song’s lyrics, and since there was no one but Lazarus the goldfish there to see, swayed her hips a little to the slow, bluesy beat.

I ain't tradin' in my family's safety
Just to save a little gas
And I'll pray to God any place, any time
And you can bet I'll pick up the phone if Uncle Sam calls me up
You do your thing, I'll do mine
Hey, I'll worry about me
You just worry about you
And I'll believe what I believe
And you can believe what you believe too

Jimmy was a military transplant she never would have met had he not been stationed in her New England town around the time she graduated high school, and a proud member of the NRA. He’d certainly appreciate the song’s sentiments.

She’d cleared all but about two meatball’s worth of gook out of the green and brown pottery bowl she’d inherited from her mother when the phone rang. Why did it always wait until her hands were messy? For a moment she considered ignoring the ring, but then thought better of it. Could be something about the boys—a playground injury, forgotten homework. Could be Jimmy calling from work or the pastor relaying details about the conference.

Sighing, she elbowed the tap on and plunged her meaty hands under the flow. Resisting the grease, the water beaded and rolled off her fingertips. The country singer droned on.

I ain't gonna spare the rod
Cuz that ain't what my daddy did
And I sure know the difference between wrong and right
You know, to me it's all just common sense
A broken rule, a consequence
You do your thing, I'll do mine

The phone persisted.

“Coming!” she called apologetically into the empty house and squirted a blob of yellow dish soap into her palm. She scrubbed frantically, trying to beat the answering machine, and then dried her hands on the way, using her nightgown, which was headed to the wash soon anyway.

She was there in the foyer, reaching for the phone when it happened. With her fingertips brushing the handset, she hesitated, distracted by a note on the foyer table. And something else. She leaned over, inspecting the items, vaguely aware that the machine had answered the phone.

You have reaching the home of Jimmy and Sandy…

That’s when her world exploded. The deafening sound of it drowned out everything else—the screeching brakes of the garbage truck and the barking of the neighborhood dogs, the distant voice on the answering machine, and both Montgomery and Gentry. The shock of the blast sent her hurtling to the floor. She felt pressure on her back, forcing her down. For a moment there was nothing, then a wave of nausea. Panicking, she realized that half of her body, or very nearly half had been blown away. Pain such as she’d never known radiated from her core to every extremity, and she wished she were dead. She felt herself bleeding, it seemed from everywhere at once, her life spilling on the freshly shampooed carpet. God, help me.

She’d always wondered if it was true, what they said about one’s life flashing before one’s eyes, and now she knew it was. The images scrolled before her like a lifetime's worth of home video playing in fast forward. Only the flashes began not at childhood, but with meeting Jimmy. The two of them sitting on opposite sides of a folding chair circle, a bible study for singles at a local church. She remembered the heat in her cheeks every time she peered up from her Bible and caught him looking at her. Right away she’d wondered, “Is he the one, Lord?” And he was. The movie trailer of her life continued, Jimmy, handsome and smiling his lop-sided smile, his eyes glistening as she walked toward him, her face hidden behind a wedding veil she’d embroidered herself. Jimmy squeezing her hand and whispering encouragement as birth pains threatened to tear her in two. In her present agony, the pains of labor seemed a joke. She saw Jimmy and the boys dragging a far-too-large Christmas tree through the woods. The boys learning to walk—toddling from Sandy to Jimmy and back again. Picnics, Halloweens, yard sales, baptisms… everything. Mostly, she saw she and Jimmy entangled in the darkness, making love in the antique bed they found at the flea market in Madison-- the bed their children were conceived in. She hadn’t been his one and only- he'd had other girls before her-, but he’d been hers. For a moment little things flashed through her mind—his pet names for her, the jokes just between them, the mole on his lower back. Then the slide show stopped and confusion swelled. Why, why, why...

She moaned, a deep, choking guttural moan that grew in volume until it filled the room and her head. The pain was too much. Too much. She could hardly think clearly to begin the process of reasoning how or why this terrorist act had occurred in her quiet home on Wren Street.

She didn’t know how long she laid there, tides of pain and shock overwhelming her. Then the phone rang again. She lay listening to it ring—once, twice, four times and then the machine. A moment later it started up again. From the kitchen, the traffic woman informed the TV audience about a traffic jam on I-95. Sandy marveled that life continued while she lay here bleeding. People continued on to work, the garbage truck—now a block away—kept moving from house to house, and the Times Square multitudes still pulsed through the street. While she bled and bled and bled.

Again the phone rang, the caller obviously frantic to get through. Shaking, she dragged herself to the foyer table, struggled to reach up and retrieve the handset from its cradle. When she did, the note came fluttering with it. The gold ring—a simple wide band—came falling too, the morning sun glinting off it briefly in mid-air before it plopped silently on the rug.

Numbly, she hit the “talk” button and croaked a greeting into the phone. Her voice sounded hollow, robotic.

“Sandy?” It was Don Hester. One of Jimmy’s pals. He sounded surprised that she finally answered. “You are there. I was about to give up. Where’s your other half?”

She stared at the ring, lying abandoned like her on the rug.

“Hellooo? Sandy? I said where’s your other half?”

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh. Words from their wedding ceremony seventeen years ago. Sorrow welled up and spilled from her eyes as the reality of it hit her. “Gone.”

Her other half was gone.

Lunch Lady

Matilda pulled a tube of ointment from her apron pocket and squeezed some into her palm. She eyed her raw, cracked knuckles. Drier than Egypt after the seven-year famine. Wincing at the sting, she rubbed the greasy substance in, then pulled on a fresh pair of plastic gloves. The lunch bell rang and the sound of teenagers—wild and hungry after a morning of classroom-captivity—thundered down the halls.

She jogged on orthopedic shoes, arriving at her post just as the first kids, a herd of ox-like football players, stampeded in. They rushed for the trays all at once, nearly sending the whole stack crashing. Bobby Wheeler won the race and slammed his tray down in front of her.

She paused a moment to watch him stare at the massive pan of macaroni and cheese. His expression reminded her so much of her Great Dane at dinner time, she almost expected him to drool. She dug her long-handled serving spoon in, scooping out a portion and plopping it onto his tray. “Salad?”

“Can’t I have more mac and cheese?” His thick brows arched, and his eyes pleaded with her, making him appear all the more dog-like.

“One scoop a person.”

Tom Pierson gave Bobby a shove. “C’mon, man! We’re starving back her. Move it!”

Already the line stretched the entire length of the cafeteria. The kids filed past Matilda, most taking mac and cheese (second only to pizza in favorites), half wanting salad as well, and a few—mostly the anorexic-looking girls—taking only salad. Further down, Gwen offered bread and butter, and lastly, Rachel offered cups of “chocolate surprise,” a layered mixture of cake, pudding, and cool whip.

The kids waiting in line wrestled, joked, and inevitably made fun of her. When the gymnastics girls approached, Matilda could hear their whispers. You think she like wears that hairnet to bed? Sexy shoes, lunch lady. Matilda inhaled deeply, silently asking for grace. She didn’t want to hate these foolish, young girls. They didn’t know how, years ago, she’d been an Olympic hopeful, probably better than any of them on the balance beam. They didn’t know that she had a man at home who did indeed consider her sexy, hair net and all. One day I’ll trade this hair net in for a crown, won’t I Lord?

She smiled inwardly as she dropped salad-only on the skinny girls’ trays. They waited, chins raised haughtily, glitter accenting their eyelids and cheeks. Time would catch up with them one day, marring their perfect complexions, dimpling their toned thighs. Hopefully wisdom would catch up with them too as they hurtled trials instead of pommel horses, balanced on the tightrope of family and work rather than a balance beam, and learned that not all falls result in soft landings on cushy mats.

Matilda’s heart warmed at the sight of her next customer. Delia Dunbar (an unfortunate name the children twisted to Delia Dumbell.) Gangly and quiet, cursed with the worst acne, and dubbed a nerd, Delia kept her eyes downcast continually, from the time she entered the cafeteria until the moment she slunk into her lonely seat in the corner.

The cafeteria wasn’t the only place Matilda saw her rejected friend. She also saw her at church—still quiet and mostly alone, but singing. And smiling. Matilda could tell Delia loved the Lord. She longed to give the girl a reassuring smile, let her know she had a friend in this brutal place. Unfortunately, Delia never lifted her eyes long enough to see Matilda’s face. Even if she did, Matilda wasn’t certain she’d recognize the hairnet-wearing lunch lady as the woman from the back row at church. Matilda certainly didn’t want to make a show of introducing herself and embarrass the girl. Delia had enough problems without being known as the lunch lady’s friend.

As she dug her spoon into the bread crumb topping, Matilda had an idea. She scooped deeper, extracting a scoop nearly double-serving size. When the mound plopped on Delia’s plate, she started with surprise. Matilda cleared her throat, achieving the desired affect: Delia looked up. Matilda winked. The confusion clouding Delia’s eyes dispersed as the sunrise of recognition brightened her face and the slightest smile dawned on her thin lips.

Sensing their silent communication would soon be noticed, Matilda gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Delia hurried on to Gwen and her bread, her head a little higher. Matilda heart swelled. Right on, little sister. You’re a princess.

"To Do Today"

Proverbs 13:12 - Hope deferred makes the heart sick…

Tick... The lawn needs mowing
Tock... The car needs an oil change

Tick... There are ants on the carpet
Tock... There is rot in the deck

Tick... The porch is sagging
Tock... The roof is 20 years old

Tick... The windows are open and it might rain
Tock... The bills are due

Tick... There won’t be enough
Tock... I weigh too much

Tick... I’m tired
Tock... death


Talk? The lawn needed mowing

Listen? The car needed attention

Care? There were ants in the carpet

Accept? There was rot in the deck

Share? The porch was sagging

Grow? The roof needed attention

Respect? There was a chance of rain

Live? The bills were due

Love? I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough

Trust? I was unhappy with myself

Give? I was tired

Hope? died

Lifting Clarence

Hannah lay crumpled in the grass, a clothes pin clutched in her hand and tears wetting her cheeks. She straightened her already-swelling ankle and rubbed it through her knee-high stockings. Pulling her housedress down to cover her knees, she searched the neighbors’ yards and sighed. No one had seen.

The wet clothes- Clarence’s white t-shirts, boxers and socks—lay in the dirt, still attached to the clothes line that’d broken and sent her tumbling. They’d need to be washed again. Hannah winced, imagining a trip down the basement stairs on this ankle.

The stairs she’d raced up and down thoughtlessly for thirty years had become a source of anxiety since what happened last Thursday.

Clyde, the furnace man had come up from the basement that day, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden steps. Hannah pulled the metal spoon from the beef stew she stirred, replaced the lid and grabbed her checkbook.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You’re all set, Mrs. Glover. Furnice’ll run like a greyhound now.”

Hannah smiled. “Good. Need a healthy furnace in New England.”

After she’d paid him, he’d gotten into his red truck and slammed the door.

Her hand was back on the stew pot’s lid, when she heard the sound—a guttural cry she identified all at once as her husband’s. She raced to the basement door and descended, in slow motion it seemed. At the bottom, she stood on tip toes, reaching for the pull sting that would illuminate the dirt-floored basement.

“Hannah?”

Her eyes searched the dimness and caught sight of Clarence, huddled in the corner.

His face was white like the laundry soap, his teeth clenched. “My leg…”

“I’ll call the ambulance…”

“No! Help me… upstairs.”

It was the request of a proud man, an old Yankee carpenter who’d gone down to shoot the breeze with the furnace man, but stumbled on the stairs and fallen, hurting his leg. A man who’d dragged himself into a darkened corner rather than let that furnace man see him hurt. He’d waited a half hour to hear Clyde’s truck start up, before calling for help.

Looking into his eyes, Hannah knew he meant what he said. He wouldn’t forgive her if she called the ambulance. Lord, you’ve gotta help me. How long had the agonizing trip upstairs taken—a six-foot injured man, supported by a five-foot sliver of a woman? She’d prayed all the way and somehow, finally released her hulk of a man into the safety of his recliner, where he’d nodded his assent towards the telephone.

The x-rays revealed a degenerative disease. Clarence’s legs were weakening, the doctor said. Only a matter of time till he’d need a wheelchair.

“We’ll be all right,” she’d said, squeezing his wrinkled hand. “For better or worse, remember?”

Now, in the grass, she cried bitterly. Lord, I’m so afraid that I won’t be able to care for Clarence. I can’t. Unless You help me.

Already, her children whispered about nursing homes. Hannah overheard Neva’s hushed voice drifting from the living room last Sunday. She’d been basting the chicken, the oven’s hot breath on her face. Momma’s so frail. She can’t help Daddy get around…

How did they suddenly know so much, her girls who she’d taught to cook and sew and love God? Now they knew more than her?

The morning dew soaked through Hannah’s dress and she shivered, then struggled to her feet. She’d ice her foot and return for the clothes in a bit. As for tomorrow, she’d leave it to the Lord.

The Lord helped her through tomorrow, then the day after that, then through ten years. Together, Hannah and Clarence defied the odds, the combined effort of Clarence’s strong arms and Hannah’s strong love getting him in and out of bed, on and off the commode and into the old recliner where he spent his days. Hannah cooked and cleaned, sometimes mowing the lawn or taking the car in for work. Each night she helped him over the bedroom threshold, the one he’d carried her over on their wedding night.

On Sundays the children came always asking, “How are you two making out?”

Clarence would glance at Hannah and wink. “We’re doin’ fine.”

Still they whispered when she left the room to baste the bird—How on earth does she lift him?

She’d lean over the roasting chicken and smile to herself. She shouldn’t be able to do what she did for Clarence, any more than this chicken should be able to fly. But she did.

By God’s strength, she did.

*Author note: Hannah and Clarence were my grandparents, a New London girl and a Long Island boy who lived out their happy years in Waterford, CT. I wrote this story after reading a page from a diary of hers. She had fallen and twisted her ankle while hanging the clothes and wrote of her fears that she would not be strong enough to take care of Clarence, and her prayers that God would give her the needed strength. Which He did.