“I’m still sleepy, daddy. Tell me a story.”
“Sure, Wonderful, sure. Let me think of one…”
Well, I had been sleeping and I dreamt something was touching my face, like a mosquito. So I tried to swat it away. It stopped for a moment but the feeling didn’t go away. Slowly, it floated back to me like a feather, like a memory softly landing on my cheek. I rolled over annoyed and the light slid through the blinds catching me, forcing me awake. It wasn’t a mosquito or a feather; it was my mom, sitting on my bed, stroking my face. The girls were at early morning swim lessons and my dad had taken my brother KJ to one of his traveling all-star baseball games. Mom had let me sleep late, waking me by sitting on my bed with a cup of tea and stroking my face.
I caught her eye. She smiled and I continued.
“Hey, what time is it?” Mom’s smile broadened and, without speaking, she offered her tea. I propped up on an elbow to take a few sips before plopping backwards as she quickly pulled the tea away. She gave me a scolding glance as she managed the sway of the tea. It didn’t last long, “Careful, Bease.” The smile returned, seeping across her lips.
I had stayed up late watching a Yankee game on TV and was still tired. I rolled over on my stomach, jamming my head under the pillow.
Softly, mom started scratching my back. Her finger tips gently lolled back and forth across my shoulders as she silently sipped her tea. Her nails were sharpened to red points. Not so long ago I had asked why she cut them that way; to sharp points. “So I can scratch my son’s back better, that’s why.”
The hum of the air conditioner and the sound of her tiny sips accompanied the soft scratching noise. She finished by writing a note on my back with her index finger and then pulled the pillow off my head. She leaned forward to kiss my cheek, whispering, “You can see what I wrote in the mirror.” I listened as her footsteps moved down the stairs soon swallowed by the noise of the AC.
I followed a couple of minutes later, stopping in the bathroom to pee. As I washed my hands I twisted in front of the bathroom mirror trying to make out the message mom left on my back. I tried both sides, turning and arcing my chin over my shoulder. Lots of loops and red swirls and what looked like the top of a circle. I couldn’t read it.
I went downstairs to find mom standing in front of the kitchen sink, filling the teapot and looking out the window, “Mom, what is it? What’d you write on my back?” She didn’t turn from the window, “It’s something you already know, Beasley. I don’t even have to tell you. You know it.”
“Study? Don’t fight? What? What’d you write?”
She turned her head slightly before returning to the window, “You already know it. Now have a seat.”
I could tell she was happy.
Taking my seat in the corner of the kitchen, I started in on my Quisp cereal. The kitchen seemed bigger without everyone else. I looked around. The room was filled with smoke and the scent of bacon. My eyes rested on mom’s back. She turned to face me, “Just you and me this morning, kiddo. The place seems bigger without KJ and the girls, doesn’t it?” I nodded. Her white Emerson radio played AM music. Mom hummed along, every now and then turning towards me with a flourish as she fixed breakfast to the beat of the music.
She cooked my favorite, Pirate’s eye eggs, by tearing a whole in a slice of Wonder Bread, placing the bread in a butter soaked pan and then breaking the egg into the hole. Flipped over once or twice the resulting combination resembled a pirate’s eye with a patch over it. Mom continued to cook as I plowed through my breakfast of four such eggs, bacon, cereal and orange juice. I waited for an opportunity and, as mom returned to the sink, I scooped an entire spoonful of sugar from the sugar bowl and jammed it into my mouth. Silently crunching the sugar between my teeth until it turned to a gooey syrup. Swallowing, I licked my lips and asked if I could watch TV.
Still facing the sink, mom’s head turned slightly towards me. I saw a small smile curve up the corner of her mouth. She ignored my question. “Do you want some tea, Beasley?”
I nodded. Though she didn’t turn to catch my response she filled the teapot at the sink again and placed the water on the stove. She turned and smoothed her apron before joining me at the table.
“It’s too nice to be inside watching the boob tube, Beasley. Today’s a perfect summer day. You should be outside enjoying it.”
“Yeah, I know mom but Kimba the White Lion‘s on. You know I love Kimba.”
She rested her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together, creating a support for her chin. She rested her chin on her finger archway. Her brown hair formed two long inward arching curls around her white face. Her red lipstick popped, drawing your attention to her mouth. She had long black eyelashes that rose up and down like handheld fans made of leaves from the Amazon. She was pretty. A few freckles peeked across her small nose, a nose my sisters wished they had inherited.
“Beasley, do you know how much you love Kimba?” I nodded. “Well, think of a thousand times that amount and, well, that’s how much I love you.” She broke her lattice work of fingers and reached across the table to touch my cheek with her extended fingers. They were long, ending in the red nails. They matched her lips. Slowly her fingers floated up to my mess of curly hair. Quickly they became tangled. She shook her head, “My God, Beasley, when was the last time you combed your hair?”
I shrugged, “Before school one day, I guess.”
She burst out laughing.
“Before school! School ended weeks ago, Beasley! My God. My messy little boy, what am I going to do with you, huh? Go get me a…” She stopped herself. “No, you just stay here with me and be my messy little boy, OK? School! Good Lord.” She was enjoying herself. “My goodness, Beasley, do you think there are any squirrels in that hair of yours? Maybe a bird’s nest? Huh, what’s up there in that mop of yours? Let me take a look.” She leaned forward and started probing my hair, searching for animals. Quickly, she moved her hands down under my chin and started tickling me.
We heard steps on the stairs leading up to the back porch. Hard pounding steps on the stairs usually carried an adult complaining about the behavior of me or KJ. The result was silent nods from mom or dad, apologies to the adult and a thrashing of the individual responsible for the complaint. Today’s steps were quick. Quick steps on the porch were the steps of friends. A series of light raps followed on the back door. Mom had stopped tickling me and stood, stepping towards me, squeezing my head against her stomach. She turned to the kitchen door, “Come in.” Stan entered as I not so subtly pushed away from mom’s embrace. She made a show of it, “Stan, tell Bease it’s OK for his mom to hug him, will you? It’s not so bad is it?”
Stan shrugged.
“Did you eat, honey? Do you want some breakfast?’
“No thank you, Mrs. Kinkade. I had breakfast.” Thinking better of it he stuck his big nose up towards the ceiling, then scanned the room, “Gosh, it smells good in here. I’ll have some bacon if that’s OK.” Mom handed him a plate and he crunched away. “Oh yeah, can Beasley play today?”
She turned to me, “Well Beasley, can you?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Can I go out now, mom?
“Of course, honey. Be back by lunch. And if you’re gonna leave the neighborhood stop by and tell me, OK?”
I got up to bolt. She grabbed my arm, pulling me into a hug. I hugged her back as quickly as possible. “Have fun. Oh, and Beasley, when I’m at the sink and looking out the window I can see your reflection in the glass. Ya now, if you eat sugar like that you’ll get worms.”
“Mom, I, I … I didn’t eat sugar.”
“Beasley, I see you in my window. No more, got it?”
“Um, OK. Come on Stan, let’s go. Thanks for breakfast mom.”
Liberated from my mom’s love, Stan and I roamed the neighborhood on our bikes, looking for things to use on our fort. We headed for a construction site a few blocks away. Slowing as we approached, we began to prowl back and forth, making ever decreasing loops on our bikes in front of the new house. No one was there. Riding up the curb and behind the house we jumped off our bikes, tossing them in the dirt. We climbed on piles of wood and peeked in windows. Walking around what was to be the garage we found piles of lumber, cinder blocks and digging tools. I pulled back a big blue tarp and a roll of window screening fell to the ground. I kicked it towards our bikes and then, nonchalantly, scooped it up. With Stan riding ahead of me on the lookout for cars, we returned home.
We went straight to the fort, tucked in the far corner of my backyard. The fort was a work in progress, always changing and always expanding. Cobbled together with lumber found around the neighborhood and extra 2 x 4s from my dad’s porch expansion project, the fort consisted of three floors. The center floor was our private hangout, protected by a hatch from the first floor and a hatch leading to the roof, which we liberally referred to as the third floor.
We were in need of a window as we were forced to peek through cracks to gain a sense of what was happening outside our sanctuary. Banging out a couple of planks from the second floor, we started nailing the new screening in place. We folded it over on itself a couple of times to create a thick mesh, letting light, but not curious eyes, join us. The fort was our refuge and we did not want prying eyes peeking in. Task complete, we sat in the fort drinking from a stash of Coke bottles we had stashed there. We took turns looking for neighbors to spy on.
Stan pressed his face against the screen, “Whoa, look at all the bumble bees by your kitchen window, Bease. I can see ‘em from here. They’re huge.” He turned to me. “That’s a lot of ammo, Beasley. A lot of ammo.”
“Are you challenging me, Beasley Kinkade?” I asked in mock seriousness. “Are you asking me to throw bees?”
“Let’s do it,” said Stan. “me vs. you, Kinkade. Let’s go.”
We climbed down from the second floor and cautiously approached the rhododendron bush under the kitchen window. The bushes ran along the side of our red house with the biggest blossoming below mom’s window. The bees roamed the airspace around the bush, landing, doing their thing and leaping up into the airborne crowd. Like miniature flashbulbs going off at a Yankees game, tiny spots of sunlight flicked on and off as the light periodically caught the bees’ wings. Busy at their tasks they paid us no mind. We crept forward, entering the bubble of their airborne crowd.
About eight feet above the rhododendron bush, mom’s head periodically bounced across the kitchen window. The window was cranked all the way open. We could hear cabinets banging shut and water rushing as she washed dishes in the kitchen. The radio was turned up and every now and then we could hear her singing or humming along with a song. Though a far better cook than singer she allowed herself to bounce around the room following the music. I could smell a cake baking in the oven. With no one else in the house she enjoyed her private time. The open window allowed pieces of my uninterrupted mom to spill out into the yard.
“Ready to throw bees, Bease?” He laughed at his own joke. When he saw I wasn’t laughing along with him he followed my eyes up to the kitchen window, “Your mom’s funny, huh? Whatever she’s cooking it smells great. Hey, think I can eat dinner over your house tonight? That smells like a cake.”
Unaware of her audience below, mom’s head bopped back and forth above us.
I watched her, seeing if she would turn towards me.
Drawn back to reality I looked around. “Yeah, hold on, I need a second here. Yeah, dinner will be great. My mom won’t mind. That is if you’re not crying like a baby from getting stung.”
Steeling myself for the bee fight I held my arms out to measure the distance from the rhododendron. “You’re too close,” I protested.
Stan extended his arms to confirm he was starting from the required arm’s length from the bush. “Chicken,” he chided me. “Ready now?” I nodded.
Together we counted, “One. Two. Three. Go!”
On queue and without sound we both stepped towards the bush, eyeing potential projectiles. Stan went to grab for a bee but jerked his hand away as it became alarmed. I worked more slowly, finding a bee on the edge of a purple flower. My hand slid towards the bee. I peeked at Stan. He was looking for a suitable bee. Looking back to the flower, my bee was unmoved. I wrapped my hand around him, pulling my arm back in one fluid motion. I felt the bee’s wings go wild in my hand as I flung it in Stan’s direction. He dove to the ground as the furious bee looked to dole out some punishment. Stan rolled away, crushing some of mom’s yellow marigolds. I quickly searched for another bee.
The trick to throwing bees is to hold your hand as loose as possible to avoid crushing the bee. If a bee feels like you’re going to crush it, you are in for a painful sting. The bee wants to get away, not fight; a lesson learned through dozens of failed bee throws.
Finding a second bee, I grabbed it and whipped it at Stan. It hit his chest as he backpedalled flailing his arms. The bee retreated in a series of sharp zigs and zags.
Overall bee activity kicked up a notch as their flights became more agitated. Their bubble expanded as they sensed intruders within.
Jumping up, Stan lurched to the bush, grabbed at a flower and pulled his arm back to bean me with a bee. I dove to the ground as he threw a handful of air towards me. Oldest trick in the book and I fell for it. With me climbing up from the ground Stan took his time, found a bee and hit me directly in the face. I fell backwards as Stan threw his hands up in triumph. No sting but a direct hit. He probed for a perfect bee to finish me off. I collected myself and hunted for a bee. Silently our arms moved back and forth as we raced against each other, lunging for a knockout bee without success.
I found my bee and turned to acquire my target. Stan had stopped and was just staring up at the window. The music was louder now and mom was belting out the words to Horse with No Name in the window. We could just see her head, perfectly framed in the window. She spun and twirled, tilting her face up the sky as she worked at the sink and sang.
Stan looked at me as we worked to contain our laughter. Without thinking I released my bee. Stan bent over laughing and I tried to mute my embarrassed laughter by covering my mouth. “Mom, hey, mom, we can hear you, ya know! We can hear ya singing.”
She was lost in her little slice of heaven.
Eyes closed she continued to sing along. “In the desert you can remember your name, ‘cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain..”
Stan started clapping to the music as we both jumped into the chorus, “La la, la, lalalala. La la, la la…” Connected through the window, we belted out our duet with mom bouncing and singing eight feet overhead.
The bees swarmed in confusion. We ignored them as we started dancing as well. They obliged our turn towards benevolence by not stinging us. Perhaps they liked our song.
After working our one-sided duet through a number of chorus’s mom finally glanced outside and saw us singing along and dancing to her song. She froze as we burst out laughing and applauded her. She pulled back from the window before regaining her composure. She returned to the window blushing, “OK, smart alecs, how long have you been watching me?”
I jumped into the chorus, “La la, la lalalala…” Stan joined in. We slowly turned in little circles, shaking our butts and dancing as the song continued to pour into the yard below.
She covered her mouth with both hands, enjoying the moment.
Mom noticed Stan and I were not alone in the yard. “My God boys, there are bees everywhere. What the heck are you doing out there?”
“You mean besides singing along with you, mom?” Just throwing bees.”
“For the love of Pete! You didn’t let me hug you but you’ll throw bumble bees at each other? Are you off your rockers? Get in here before you get yourselves stung. Come on, I just finished making chocolate icing for your dad’s cake. You guys can lick the bowl.”
We left the bees to their devices. I ran ahead of Stan, making my way up the stairs and into the kitchen before him. Mom was at the sink. The same sun reflecting off the bees’ wings pierced through her kitchen window. Her face lanced into the sunlight like a ship’s bow; curving the light around her and filling the kitchen. Before Stan made his way into the room I grabbed my mom and hugged her. I whispered, “I love you, mom,” pulling away just as Stan joined us.
As I finished telling Gee my story, her eyebrows scrunched down into seriousness, “You threw bees at each other? That’s crazy, daddy. Really, really crazy. Didn’t you get stung? Didn’t those bees sting you? And, hey, how old were you, anyway.”
I smiled back, “I was a little older than you, Gee. And, yes, sometimes we got stung, but not so often. The trick was to be gentle and not to squeeze the little guys. You may only be six but if you squeezed a bee, even a little, he’d get scared and sting you. Best to be gentle. Actually, I guess its best you don’t even try it, OK.”
Gee was rule oriented and assured me, “I won’t daddy. Believe me, I am not gonna be throwing bees like you and your friends did when you were little.”
She took a measure of me then asked, “Dad, scratch my back please?” Not waiting for an answer she fell backwards and rolled over on her stomach.
I put my coffee on the night table next to her bed and started to scratch her shoulders. I leaned forward and, as I heard the air conditioner kick in, a message nearly 30 years old slowly came into focus.
