Brightleaf

Brightleaf

Copyright © 2013 by Raleigh Rand

Published by Raleigh Rand

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1492312451 
eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-692-21292-9

Front Cover:
Lady Driving courtesy of captions.illmeyer.com.
Photo of sky with clouds by Raleigh Rand.
©Raleigh Rand

For my family

1

The Jersey Guy

I peek in my rearview mirror. Checking to see if he’s following me again. The man with the New Jersey tag bolted to the front of his Lexus.

He is.

I know where he lives. Alone, of course, except for an ugly little poodle named Champagne. Champagne is white but has pinkish-brown stains around his nostrils, lips, and in the corners of his eyes, which I find so gross. Not that I’ve gotten close enough to see the pink hair; I just know it’s there because I’ve seen this type of dog before.

I was spying on him. That’s when I heard him call the dog by name. I pretended to be looking for an open house on a Sunday but was actually looking for a house with his car parked in the driveway. I had to know the kind of person I was dealing with. My window happened to be rolled down and he happened to be taking the dog out in the yard when I got a lock-down on the Jersey Guy’s voice and the way he sounded when the dog didn’t come to him right away. That’s all I needed and kept on going.

It’s been like this for I don’t know how long: me leaving the house to drive the carpool, and him following me. Two out of five weekday mornings when I get to my first carpool stop, there he is, slamming on the brakes behind me, acting like I didn’t put on my right blinker or use my brakes to indicate that, yes, I’m slowing down. Then he honks and swerves around me like he’s driving a Trans Am in Monte Carlo.

He could be packing heat for all I know, just waiting for the right moment to tell me to make his day, like Clint Eastwood. Yesterday, when I saw him pull up to the four-way stop behind me, a block before my first pickup, I got a little panicky. I could feel him back there saying to himself, Lady, you just make my day. I dare you to slow down and pull over to the curb in front of that brick house today. I could tell he was saying that to himself, to me. Well, I showed him. I didn’t stop at all. I drove straight to my second stop. He turned left at the next light, and I just kept on going. I felt I had reached a breaking point with him. The vibes were in the air. I knew that if I kept on moving, the drive-by-shooter spirit in him would subside for a while.

I’ve been having feelings of hate for the Jersey Guy lately. These feelings are probably wrong, but I’ve already tried just loving him, the way they teach in church, but I can’t do it. I can’t get around the fact that I hate him for making me appear like a slow-minded, white, female Southerner, with nothing better to do than listen to Dr. Kelly on the talk radio while she answers dumb questions from callers.

They say things like, Hello? Dr. Kelly? This is June. Gosh it’s good to be on your show. My moral quandary is that my father, who is retired, is molesting my children. Do you think I should let him babysit anymore? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

If you’ve ever listened to any of the callers’ questions, in only fifteen minutes you’ll want to leap through the radio and smack the fool out of them. So yes, I do admit to tuning in from time to time. Just not all the time.

The Jersey Guy is an angry person. I console myself with the thought that anger is eating away at his insides, and he might die soon. I guess I shouldn’t hope him to die, but if he did get really sick, that might-could be my moment to shine. I would go to his hospital room and gently tell him that I forgive him, and that I must have appeared confused concerning unspoken traffic codes all those days he ended up behind me, but believe me when I say I actually understand he has important places to get to, and that even my own cousin has a job with Corporate America so I know all about that.

We could make a connection.

He would know that I meant well and was just trying to play my part in this world, driving the carpool, and he was playing his part, going to Corporate America, and we were both actually floating down the same stream of life.

He swerves around me again, way too close to my car. I wish I’d have opened my door real quick, by accident, as he passed.

2

Mavis

Mavis walks into the house wearing a t-shirt that would be snug on a six-year-old. We can plainly see her sixty-eight-year-old belly flopping over the top of her jean shorts. Her sagging bosoms push against the letters of her shirt, making the words
Eye Candy
look wavy, like the Scooby Doo letters.

Mavis collects t-shirts. The lady down at the back door of the Goodwill keeps her eye open for shirts she knows Mavis will appreciate; she came in here a eeks ago with a shirt reading,
I’m the BIG Sister
. Mavis’s all-time favorite t-shirt comes down to her knees, so she wears it as a dress. It has an airbrushed picture of a woman’s body from the neck down wearing an extra small bikini, so it looks like we’re seeing Mavis herself in a bikini. The reverse of the shirt has a woman’s backside, wearing a thong. I’ve seen this fashion before on groups of heavy-set ladies strolling Myrtle Beach, but never thought much of it until Mavis started wearing it around town in the middle of winter with a jean jacket, suntan pantyhose and sneakers.

Even though all Mavis’s bottom front teeth have disappeared, and her skin shows the signs of a person who has smoked since practically a baby, with lots of teensy little lines crinkling her whole face like a wrinkled tissue, she’s happy as a cricket getting those t-shirts and cooking for us.

By employing a cook, I appear elite, but actually I run a boarding house here in Brightleaf. When my grandmother passed five years ago, she left me this house on Main Street. I’ve lived here on and off since I was thirteen. My grandmother practically raised me. When other kids were watching MTV and
Beavis and Butthead
, I was hanging out at flea markets with my grandmother and her friends, something I resented at first but I gradually found my rhythm.

Whenever I tell people I live on Main Street, for some reason it seems like someone wearing gobs of frosted lipstick always screams, “I LOVE those old Victorian homes!”

No one around here knows their architecture, a fact I find bothersome, except the guys living in the Greek revival next door, who educated me on my particular style of home. Prairie Style is a design made popular by Frank Lloyd Wright in the early part of the twentieth century, overlapping the Victorians, which explains why you’ll often see the two styles built side-by-side. But Prairie is simpler, none of that gingerbread woodwork, with a flatter roof, and clean-cut windows and doors. Frank Lloyd Wright named one of his homes Fallingwater, and in that same tradition I named my home the Rapturous Rest.

Despite its architectural celebrity, my home is known around town as a place of refuge for down-and-out folks. I’ve found, as far as the homeless are concerned, it’s best to keep it professional, especially since my marital status is single, and since I look a little like Reese Witherspoon, it would be easy to accidentally lead them on. So I’m not
overly
friendly, but from breakfast to supper – and only in the great room – I have created a space for my boarders, the homeless or anyone else in the community to play checkers, drink coffee, chat, and watch TV without being alone during the day. Individuals who appreciate a little nod letting them know they’re all right.

People need to know they’re all right. Acceptance creates happiness. That’s my truism. There are some who’ve never experienced a happy moment in their lives, people who were born into broken-down families, babies who had the misfortune of being born into totally third-rate situations. Like one minute they’re safe and warm in the womb, the next minute they are pushed out into this botched operation already in progress. They can’t just put on the brakes and say,
Whoa! This looks like a dark alley. Let’s turn around!
If life gives them a dark alley, then they grow up in the dark.

The neighbors have nothing to worry about. I keep the lawn tidy. I also keep the heat on in the winter, the AC in the summer, the drip coffee maker in perpetual drip mode, and the TV on at all times, as a light to the weary. In that respect I’m like the Proverbs 31 woman. But instead of
her candle goeth not out by night
, it’s the TV that turneth not off. I offer free meals on Wednesday nights, so naturally most people stay after for Share Group.

3

Share Group

Eleanor and I set out the chairs in a big circle in the great room. We’ve got two sea green sofas from the 1960s, a pair of matching paisley wingback chairs, a round oak coffee table, and a twenty-seven inch TV, but we push them all against the walls for the meeting, so everyone can have his or her own chair. I feel people are more comfortable with their own space, especially since Winslow used to like to sit too close to some of the ladies on the sofas.

Winslow looks like a shrunken head with an extra long blond ponytail and extra long legs. Put all that together, and I only want to be his friend. I know it’s wrong to draw the line between romance and friendship based on whether or not a person looks like a voodoo talisman, but I can’t help it. I’m inclined to believe his scary appearance runs a little deeper and implies a certain spiritual darkness. He’s a psychology professor at Merritt College here in town, and a regular at our Share meetings. Even though he gives me the creeps with his tales of seducing his students, and it’s apparent he wishes he could seduce me and the other females present, I let him come because he genuinely needs friends. I seriously doubt that he’s seduced anyone in the past twenty-five years. Plus, how can you deny a man who cuts his own bangs and smokes wearing a jogging outfit?

Chauncey is here, too. He’s done pretty well for himself, considering the way he started out in life. Chauncey’s childhood trailer home kind of resembled a long, rusty dumpster. And he had a ton of relatives that lived in there with him. I heard his mother or his aunt, one, had a miscarriage. Somebody put the little dead baby in a jar of alcohol and named it Cousin It. I used to imagine them using that jar as a bookend or illuminated in a curio or something. Why is it you don’t ever hear of that type thing happening in New Jersey? You’d think people from New Jersey would be crazy over an idea like a fetus bookend. Unfortunately, it happened in Brightleaf.

We are all sitting in the circle – there are seven of us this evening – and I feel I must explain the rules again before we proceed because they’ve been getting broken lately.

I remind everyone that the whole purpose of Share Group is to allow people to speak freely of concerns, joys, ideas and revelations without being criticized for doing so, and to offer friendly advice. Also, no laughing, snickering, or touching someone in an effort to comfort them. Everybody glances at Winslow.

We begin our sessions in silence so we can ponder before we share. To focus, I like to either close my eyes or look up at the wall, where my favorite scripture verses hang: Thou shalt neither vex a stranger nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt, Exodus 22:21, and Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares, Hebrews 13:12. I get comfort from these because I let so many strangers come into my home, and one might even be an angel. An angel could be cleverly disguised as a house painter, like Jimmy over there.

Everyone is silent.

Finally, Jimmy clears his throat and speaks, “Lately, I’ve been mixing cough syrup with valerian to get high.”

Silence.

“I highly recommend it.”

“Cool,” says Ned.

“So how much cough syrup and valerian do you use in this formula of yours?” asks Eleanor.

“Depends on your mood,” says Jimmy. “Heck, cough syrup on its own is pretty awesome.”

“Have you asked a doctor about that?” asks Eleanor.

“A doctor?” Jimmy looks at Eleanor like she’s five. “Why would I do that?”

“For safety reasons.”

Jimmy laughs. “If I told a doctor I was using cough syrup and herbs to get a big buzz, he would be all like–” (Jimmy changes his voice to sound real educated) “–Mr. Riddle, cough syrup should only be used for the purposes on the label. I cannot recommend you use it for recreation.”

Everybody laughs at this. And then Jimmy says, “But you know the first thing that doctor is gonna do when he gets off work is drive straight to the closest Super Wal-Mart and buy some Robitussin and valerian. I need to pay a doctor for advice like I need to buy a wagon wheel.”

“Sounds scary,” I say.

Vanessa says, “You get all that at a Wal-Mart?”

Jimmy says, “Mainly the Internet. I’m in my kitchen like a mad scientist, mixing and experimenting. Substituting ashwagandha for passion flower, feverfew with balm of Gilead.”

“Interesting,” I say.

He says, “I’m serious, I can fix whatever ails you. Next time you get pink eye or ringworm, call me and I’ll fix you up.”

Several people mumble to their neighbors until Ned, my carriage house boarder, speaks up.

“Just thought I’d say that I agree with Jimmy. I never really try to mix my own medicine, but don’t go to doctors, either. Too expensive, man. And I’m always a little paranoid that some doctor is going to try a secret experiment on me. You know, like give me a placebo when I really need an antibiotic, just to see if I’ll die.”

Mavis says, “Doctors don’t try and kill folks.”

“You never know, man,” says Ned. “Don’t forget MK Ultra.” Jimmy points his finger at Ned, like he just hit the nail on the head. Then Ned says, “Hey, not to change the subject or anything, but I had a kick-ass dream last night. Wanna hear it?”

We all nod because that’s what we do at Share Group.

“Okay, The Three Tenors,” says Ned. “Remember those dudes? And that dude Pavarotti? The one with that wicked beard? Dude looks like a villain, man!”

Jimmy and Winslow start laughing.

“Lots of people have wicked beards,” says Winslow. “Abraham Lincoln, ZZ Top, Colonel Sanders.”

Ned nods, “Hey man, don’t get me started on the Colonel. Anyway, those dudes were planning this new show. It was gonna be like a reality show about people who can sing opera super good and perform impossible tasks at the same time, like beat Pac Man and eat six saltine crackers in one minute.

“At first those Tenor guys had trouble deciding between me and the little kid from Malcolm in the Middle. I should have been scared shitless, but since my dreaming self knew the real me watched all the Malcolm shows, the dreaming self had an amazing amount of confidence. Anyways, Dewey was trying to sing, run a three-legged race, and balance a checkbook, but I was teaching quantum physics in a WWE Smack Down ring, and keeping perfect pitch.”

“Stop,” says Winslow. “We don’t want to hear this whole dream. Dreams are only for the dreamer. And who is Dewey?”

Ned stops and looks at Winslow. Like he feels sorry for him.

Ned says, “You don’t know Dewey?”

Winslow shrugs.

Ned says, “I’m almost done. Listen, my fake wrestling was sick! And then I did the worm. Dewey tried to do the worm but couldn’t. He’d gotten a little older, and kinda soft around the middle, so he wasn’t as powerful.”

“You da man!” shouts Chauncey.

Ned stands up and gives Chauncey a high-five across the circle. “Yeah man, it was sweet.”

Eleanor asks, “What exactly is the worm?”

Eleanor has a thing for Ned. He’s cute, if you’re into bohemian types. He’s got an innocent quality, something that Eleanor loves in men. Someone she can mother and control.

Ned is still lovin’ on the memory of that dream. His shoulder-length hair is tucked behind his ears. He says, “The worm is a breakdance move. It’s been around forever.”

“Can you really do it?”

“I can.”

Chauncey says, “The worm is easy.”

Ned gets excited and claps his hands together and says, “It is! Show them, man!”

It is apparent Chauncey gets nervous doing the worm in front of people. Or else he suddenly can’t remember how to do the worm because he says, “I can do it. My three-year-old nephew can do the worm, and my sister is super at it.”

“Smokin’ family!” says Ned.

“But I don’t feel like getting all dirty,” adds Chauncey, smoothing his pants.

“This floor ain’t dirty,” says Mavis. “Vanessa mopped it not three hours ago.”

Vanessa says, “Go ‘head, and eat some ham off this floor. Clean as Clorox.”

I say, “Come on, Chauncey. Show us.”

Chauncey finally confesses to not having performed the worm in a while, and he’s worried about pulling a muscle in his back, but he wouldn’t mind seeing Winslow eat ham off the floor.

“I’ll lick peanut butter off the floor if Ned will show us the worm,” says Winslow.

All of us, sitting in the circle, draining our coffee cups, beg Ned to show us the worm.

Ned begins to blush and shake his head, but you can tell he’s making a decision, and picturing himself breakdancing in front of seven or eight people.

Then Ned stands up, pushes back his chair, rolls up his sleeves, and sort of throws himself onto the ground and begins to make his body go in a wave-like motion. His hair swishes back and forth across his cheeks to the rhythm of his rolling movements. Right there in the center of the circle. You would never imagine Ned could do this type of thing that demands a certain amount of physical strength. Muscles even. I always thought Ned was your basic video game stoner, but it’s apparent he works on his worm skills with frequency.

Ned stands up, does a quick bow and tucks his hair back behind his ears and says, “That’s how it’s done, man.”

Everyone claps. I can tell Ned is pleased, and he will walk away from this night with new confidence, and everyone here will remember this moment.

Winslow starts to speak. I forget where he says he’s from, but I always think Minnesota. And he talks real slow, like he’s trying to be smooth. Since he’s a psychologist, he sometimes tries to help people in the group with professional comments.

“Ned, dreams can help us realize our potential. It’s good you remembered that dream because we often forget them, and the purpose is lost. Start keeping a dream journal. It will help you understand yourself better.”

“Will do,” says Ned.

We all sit there, wondering if anybody is going next, because some nights I can’t get people to shut up so we can all go home. But everyone just sits, like they’re waiting for the next act. Or maybe they’re thinking they might make a quick stop at Super Wal-Mart on the way home. Since everyone seems so introspective, I decide to go ahead and say what I’ve been meaning to share. It’s nothing big, but I’ve been thinking about it all day.

“Dr. Kelly is encouraging all women, via radio, to go to the gynecologist and get a mammogram,” I say. “And if you send her a copy of your results she’ll send you a free t-shirt that says, This Mama Got Her Mammo.”

The men shift in their seats and stare at the floor. But that got Mavis’s attention all right. Besides getting a shirt, she loves going to the gynecologist. Eleanor rolls her eyes because she’s skinny as a moray eel and has no boobs. I, on the other hand, am putting on the brave face of a leader because I do have something going on. I’ve never had a mammogram, and I’m terrified.