THE MONUMENT: 10
Trudy sits in her humble kitchen, sipping a cup of hot tea, steeped with lemon and sugar, and reading the morning paper. Her sandy hair is in rollers, her lime green bathrobe tied snugly across her middle. A black cat rubs happily against her bare legs and slippered feet. The dominant story on the front page announces a new study on the recurrent acid rain, a residual effect of the war. Seems every other day there’s something about the environment, and what a terrible state it’s in. When it’s not the environment, it’s the landmines. Tons are still lodged in the earth, though the cleanup crews have been working for nearly thirty years. Trudy sighs resignedly. At least, she consoles herself, weapons like that are now banned. Still, that’s not much comfort when the papers show kids with limbs blown off because they wandered too far out of the backyard. So, it is almost with relief that Trudy takes on a different topic, and starts to read another article, headlined: “Mayor Says Monument Must Go.”
She scans the article, at first in disbelief, but then with consternation goes over it again to gather all the information. As neatly and carefully as possible, she rips the article from the newspaper, tearing the edges with a slow patience. She stands then, jostling the cat underfoot, places the article in the front pocket of her robe and leaves the rest of the paper, and all her dirty dishes, on the kitchen table.
“C’mere, Button,” she coos, scooping up the cat, and goes up the stairs to her bedroom. She dumps Button on the bed, where he delicately kneads the blankets and purrs contentedly. “You,” she says, watching him. “You’re so easy to please.” He looks at her with half-closed eyes, then lays down on his side and curls up, his tail over his face. She glides a gentle hand down his soft coat and kisses the top of his head, then removes her robe and gets dressed, then takes out the rollers and pulls a brush through her hair, the auburn curls bouncing around her head.
Before she leaves she tops up Button’s food bowl and double checks that she’s transferred the newspaper clipping from the pocket of her robe to the pocket of her apron. She has. Opens the front door; the first birds are beginning to chirp and it’s chilly. She takes a scarf off a hook by the door, wraps it around her throat and tucks it into her jacket, and hauls a tub of baked goods outside. Her cart waits in the driveway, like an overgrown baby carriage, a metal box on four wheels with a push bar. After loading in the food and releasing the wheel locks, she hoists the cart onto two wheels and pushes; getting out of the graveled driveway is always the most difficult part, once she’s on the street, it rolls like a prewar Merc. Walking behind the cart, gently guiding it, she often thinks of herself, pushing a stroller. She waves at neighbors and passersby, the joggers and dog walkers; no one else is awake this early. Strutting proudly, as do most new mothers, she walks her baby around the block just to get her out of the house, and they have nowhere else they need to be.
But as she rounds the corner and veers her cart among the nicer homes, the stark realization that she’s just daydreaming hits her. Not sure where time went, she’s old now, certainly too old to have a child, and besides, she’s all alone. It wasn’t the life she’d intended. Shrugging to herself, she thinks, But really, whose is? She’s got food on her table and a roof over her head. And it’s a damn shame to bitch about it when there’s plenty a’ folks who don’t.
She wheels her way up to the filling station one block from the monument and fills the reservoir of her cart with water. If she weren’t so close, she doesn’t think she’d be able to push the now heavy cart another block to her spot in front of the building. But with a firm resolve, she manages it and pulls into her usual spot, then sits on the curb for a moment to catch her breath. Then she goes through her usual routine of setting up the cart: first she puts on the coffee and lays out the sugar and stirrers; next, she starts up the warmer and piles in half a dozen of the muffins (which she baked last night); then she hangs the sign on the front that includes the menu and prices, right next to an advertisement for Koola, the soft drink she keeps chilled in the cart’s micro fridge. By mid-morning, she’ll heat up some soft pretzels and hot dogs, but for now the muffins, as well as a few day-old bagels will do for breakfast. Remembering the newspaper article forecasting the day’s protests, she wiggles two more muffins into the warmer. It promises to be a busy day.
When she’s got herself and her cart situated, the sun is fully over the horizon and the air warms. Taking off her scarf, she ties it to the push bar, and waits. She’s there early, hoping to catch John on his way in to work. She looks at the desolate street, the outdoor cafes and small specialty shops hocking prewar antiques and handmade baubles won’t be open for hours; the streetlamps still humming out a faint glow, slowly dimming as the daylight gets brighter. She waits. No sign of John.
From the outside the building that houses the monument is nothing special, just a big cement box, made out of smaller cements blocks, simple in its craftsmanship with small narrow windows high up near the roof and a large, intimidating door. John had told her that, many years ago, the roof used to be open, that a perfectly round hole had been left in the ceiling exactly the same diameter as the monument located directly below it; whether it was to allow the natural light to come in, or else the rain, John could not be certain. In any case, he patched that hole right up, he said, because a leaky roof’s as good as no roof at all. And he’s kept the building immaculate ever since. The massive door is made of long wooden planks, with wrought-iron hinges, and with eight bold steps leading up from the mall in front, a wide pathway with lush grass on either side, setting the building quite a ways back from the street.
With a sweeping glance around, she decides to leave the cart, making sure to lock the cashbox and take the key with her. She walks up to the door, puts her hand on it and pushes. It doesn’t give. Heaving all her weight into it, she shoulders the door, but it stays firmly put. Must be locked, she concludes. Rapping her knuckles on the rough wood, she feels like the thud is stifled on the outside, that it doesn’t reverberate through the solid planks. Knocking again seems useless, so she wanders back to her cart. A short time later, she gets her first customer, a regular who every day orders a black coffee and a blueberry muffin and is on her way with minimal small talk.
The morning wears on, a slew of customers stop by, and then she sees a teenage kid go in to open the ticket booth across the street. Before the ticket window is even rolled up, a line forms on the sidewalk. Trudy takes note of a particularly handsome man, thirtyish and tall, who struts up and stands at the back of the line behind an attractive young blonde. Out-of-towners, she scoffs, and checks her watch. Where’s that man at! she wonders. A short time later, she spots John coming out the front door. Now, how the heck… She hollers at him, “Mornin’, Johnny. Didn’t see you go in.” She readies his coffee and he strolls down to meet her. “Here’s your regular.” She hands him a large black, one sugar.
“That’s a nice cuppa coffee, Trudy.” He smiles and winks at her. But she’s distracted, considering how she could have missed John going in, and when the handsome man hops out of the ticket line and asks for a cup of decaf, she fills a cup for him as though on autopilot.
Without hesitation she presents the news clipping to John and watches his face as he digests the information, sees the wrinkles deepen around his eyes and his lips vaguely quivering. Then, balling up the paper in his fist, he heaves a great sigh and mutters, “Over my dead body.”
“Oh, come now, John,” she replies. “I’ll be out of a job, too. Hell, mosta this town’ll be outta work if these tourists stop comin’. Don’t know what that mayor’s thinking, but I do know everything’ll be okay, John.”
But she’s not entirely sure she believes it herself. Her eyes follow him as his slightly stooped form sidles back up to the building, entering the immense doorway, and then propping the door open. Mystified by John’s sudden appearance from the building, Trudy tries to reconcile how it could have happened. The only thing she can figure is that he was in there before she got there. But why?
The monument is now open for viewing, and business at her cart is booming.
She scans the article, at first in disbelief, but then with consternation goes over it again to gather all the information. As neatly and carefully as possible, she rips the article from the newspaper, tearing the edges with a slow patience. She stands then, jostling the cat underfoot, places the article in the front pocket of her robe and leaves the rest of the paper, and all her dirty dishes, on the kitchen table.
“C’mere, Button,” she coos, scooping up the cat, and goes up the stairs to her bedroom. She dumps Button on the bed, where he delicately kneads the blankets and purrs contentedly. “You,” she says, watching him. “You’re so easy to please.” He looks at her with half-closed eyes, then lays down on his side and curls up, his tail over his face. She glides a gentle hand down his soft coat and kisses the top of his head, then removes her robe and gets dressed, then takes out the rollers and pulls a brush through her hair, the auburn curls bouncing around her head.
Before she leaves she tops up Button’s food bowl and double checks that she’s transferred the newspaper clipping from the pocket of her robe to the pocket of her apron. She has. Opens the front door; the first birds are beginning to chirp and it’s chilly. She takes a scarf off a hook by the door, wraps it around her throat and tucks it into her jacket, and hauls a tub of baked goods outside. Her cart waits in the driveway, like an overgrown baby carriage, a metal box on four wheels with a push bar. After loading in the food and releasing the wheel locks, she hoists the cart onto two wheels and pushes; getting out of the graveled driveway is always the most difficult part, once she’s on the street, it rolls like a prewar Merc. Walking behind the cart, gently guiding it, she often thinks of herself, pushing a stroller. She waves at neighbors and passersby, the joggers and dog walkers; no one else is awake this early. Strutting proudly, as do most new mothers, she walks her baby around the block just to get her out of the house, and they have nowhere else they need to be.
But as she rounds the corner and veers her cart among the nicer homes, the stark realization that she’s just daydreaming hits her. Not sure where time went, she’s old now, certainly too old to have a child, and besides, she’s all alone. It wasn’t the life she’d intended. Shrugging to herself, she thinks, But really, whose is? She’s got food on her table and a roof over her head. And it’s a damn shame to bitch about it when there’s plenty a’ folks who don’t.
She wheels her way up to the filling station one block from the monument and fills the reservoir of her cart with water. If she weren’t so close, she doesn’t think she’d be able to push the now heavy cart another block to her spot in front of the building. But with a firm resolve, she manages it and pulls into her usual spot, then sits on the curb for a moment to catch her breath. Then she goes through her usual routine of setting up the cart: first she puts on the coffee and lays out the sugar and stirrers; next, she starts up the warmer and piles in half a dozen of the muffins (which she baked last night); then she hangs the sign on the front that includes the menu and prices, right next to an advertisement for Koola, the soft drink she keeps chilled in the cart’s micro fridge. By mid-morning, she’ll heat up some soft pretzels and hot dogs, but for now the muffins, as well as a few day-old bagels will do for breakfast. Remembering the newspaper article forecasting the day’s protests, she wiggles two more muffins into the warmer. It promises to be a busy day.
When she’s got herself and her cart situated, the sun is fully over the horizon and the air warms. Taking off her scarf, she ties it to the push bar, and waits. She’s there early, hoping to catch John on his way in to work. She looks at the desolate street, the outdoor cafes and small specialty shops hocking prewar antiques and handmade baubles won’t be open for hours; the streetlamps still humming out a faint glow, slowly dimming as the daylight gets brighter. She waits. No sign of John.
From the outside the building that houses the monument is nothing special, just a big cement box, made out of smaller cements blocks, simple in its craftsmanship with small narrow windows high up near the roof and a large, intimidating door. John had told her that, many years ago, the roof used to be open, that a perfectly round hole had been left in the ceiling exactly the same diameter as the monument located directly below it; whether it was to allow the natural light to come in, or else the rain, John could not be certain. In any case, he patched that hole right up, he said, because a leaky roof’s as good as no roof at all. And he’s kept the building immaculate ever since. The massive door is made of long wooden planks, with wrought-iron hinges, and with eight bold steps leading up from the mall in front, a wide pathway with lush grass on either side, setting the building quite a ways back from the street.
With a sweeping glance around, she decides to leave the cart, making sure to lock the cashbox and take the key with her. She walks up to the door, puts her hand on it and pushes. It doesn’t give. Heaving all her weight into it, she shoulders the door, but it stays firmly put. Must be locked, she concludes. Rapping her knuckles on the rough wood, she feels like the thud is stifled on the outside, that it doesn’t reverberate through the solid planks. Knocking again seems useless, so she wanders back to her cart. A short time later, she gets her first customer, a regular who every day orders a black coffee and a blueberry muffin and is on her way with minimal small talk.
The morning wears on, a slew of customers stop by, and then she sees a teenage kid go in to open the ticket booth across the street. Before the ticket window is even rolled up, a line forms on the sidewalk. Trudy takes note of a particularly handsome man, thirtyish and tall, who struts up and stands at the back of the line behind an attractive young blonde. Out-of-towners, she scoffs, and checks her watch. Where’s that man at! she wonders. A short time later, she spots John coming out the front door. Now, how the heck… She hollers at him, “Mornin’, Johnny. Didn’t see you go in.” She readies his coffee and he strolls down to meet her. “Here’s your regular.” She hands him a large black, one sugar.
“That’s a nice cuppa coffee, Trudy.” He smiles and winks at her. But she’s distracted, considering how she could have missed John going in, and when the handsome man hops out of the ticket line and asks for a cup of decaf, she fills a cup for him as though on autopilot.
Without hesitation she presents the news clipping to John and watches his face as he digests the information, sees the wrinkles deepen around his eyes and his lips vaguely quivering. Then, balling up the paper in his fist, he heaves a great sigh and mutters, “Over my dead body.”
“Oh, come now, John,” she replies. “I’ll be out of a job, too. Hell, mosta this town’ll be outta work if these tourists stop comin’. Don’t know what that mayor’s thinking, but I do know everything’ll be okay, John.”
But she’s not entirely sure she believes it herself. Her eyes follow him as his slightly stooped form sidles back up to the building, entering the immense doorway, and then propping the door open. Mystified by John’s sudden appearance from the building, Trudy tries to reconcile how it could have happened. The only thing she can figure is that he was in there before she got there. But why?
The monument is now open for viewing, and business at her cart is booming.
...continues tomorrow...
posted by jay x at 5:52 PM
1 Comments:
Nice blog. Check out my cat scratching post blog.
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