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psalm_onethirtyoneI finally finished the story of AnnieDaveyJasmineandBedivere! Go me. :D It took long enough.
Read, plz, and feedback?
Love, Annie
Dear Annie,
I'm scared. I bet you think that's dumb. Well, it is dumb. It's really loud here. I hate it. I hate going outside with everybody. I want to come home. I washed my hands eight times to-day, and the shrink watched me every time. I want to go home. He thinks it's because I wash my hands. That's why he thinks I did it. That's not why. I don't remember. I don't know why. I'm scared. I'm dumb. I hate it. I want to come home. Tell them I can come home.
Love, Davey
She folded the note up and put it in her pocket. Her pockets had holes in them, but none of them was big enough for a note to fall out. It wasn't because she was poor that she had holes--it was just because she wore the pockets out. She wore all her clothes out.
Annie was tall. She was taller than most of the boys she knew; in fact, she was taller than most of the basketball players on TV. That was okay with her.
Davey was short and skinny, but that didn't matter. Nothing about Davey mattered; at least, it wasn't supposed to. He was in prison, except it wasn't called prison because there was something different about it. He was in the shrink part of prison. They thought he was crazy, and they were trying to get him better. He had to be locked up, though, because he did things when he was crazy. Annie thought that was as good as prison, and they might as well call it that. Annie thought a lot, but she didn't say much.
She worked at the coffee store down the street, where it always smelled like hazelnuts or something. She was quick and her hands made coffee just like that--cream, sugar, coffee. She'd put the cream and sugar in first, because then the coffee stirred it all up when you poured it on top. It makes it taste better, that's what Annie thought.
There was a man at the coffee store who said Annie looks like a mocha. She'd got skin the colour of coffee beans and chocolate syrup. She always wore white clothes, since white was the uniform at the store, and that was the cream stirred in and the cream on top. Davey used to get dust all over her clothes. Davey used to work making cement. It made him go grey like an old man.
Annie had some of the same customers every day. There were three ladies in the morning who always wanted breakfast--that was Tuesdays--and they smiled and talked a lot--they never really stopped talking, but they smiled. There was a man on Fridays who liked to have cake and coffee. There was an old lady on Saturday late afternoon who called Annie by her name and gave her photographs of cats to offer to people. The cats all lived in the lady's house--she rescued them. Anytime Annie found a cat that'd got no place to go, she took it to the old lady. She thought that would fit right in on a Hallmark greeting card, except the old lady swore like nobody's business. She hated the folks who let their cats get out and didn't take care of them. Actually, the lady hated cats, too, but she hated the folks more, so she took the cats in. She liked to tell Annie, When somebody ain't got a home, you got to give them one, even if you hate their goddamn guts. That's what the Bible says, which Annie thought was pretty good, if you really did hate their goddamn guts. She didn't care much for cats herself, but she liked dogs okay. The old lady hated all animals.
Then there was the man who said she looked like a mocha. That man was a little crazy, too, but it didn't hurt anybody. Sometimes Annie wished Davey could be like that. The man ate everything with a coffee stirrer, and he loved to talk to Annie. Sometimes she had to tell him to sit down and hush for a while when she was taking care of a customer. He didn't seem to mind; he shut up and sat down and as soon as the customer was gone he popped right back up again. He was blind in one eye, and he always told her she looks nice. She thought that was funny.
He was only about thirty, but he looked old. He might really be poor, she thought. His clothes were always messy and he didn't really talk sense, but he always had enough money for his coffee and something to eat. He'd take it apart with the coffee stirrer and only ate some parts, which was also funny because it didn't make any sense.
There were people all days of the week, and she didn't know most of them, but there were always people she knew.
The other things she did, the times when she wasn't working at the coffee store, were that she sent letters out to Davey at the prison, she baked bread for the Whole Foods Store down the street, she wrote recipe columns for the newspaper--her writing wasn't very good, but her food was, so they took them and gave her some money anyway--and she got things together to send to the soldiers. There was a war going on, and Annie didn't like that. There was enough trouble happening without a war--there was Davey in prison, there were all these cats that had to live with a lady who hated cats--but there were always soldiers when there was a war. She didn't know what it was like to be a soldier, but it had to be kind of scary and not much fun (that's putting it mildly, Annie thought), and you wouldn't get good food or much of anything to read, and not a lot of chances to take a bath, either, she's heard, so she got things together and sent them.
She didn't do things just for other people. She liked sitting down and having a coffee for herself, and when she had extra money she made herself nice things to eat. She remembered when she was in school she was always reading about folks who when they got extra money, or any money at all, would spend it on books. Annie thought that was kind of dumb when you thought about it. If you just read, you don't get anything done, you don't stay strong because you're not eating, and then you're dead or poor or homeless or something, and you've just got a lot of books. It was better to work hard and take good care of yourself, and then you did better and finally when you'd got enough money for food and books, that's when you'd buy books. That made sense.
Anyway, when she had extra money she'd get things she needed or things she liked that were a help. Once in a while she'd do something like get new paint for her bike (she didn't have a car because she lived in a big town, and you could just bike everywhere if you wanted to; nothing was that far apart), or get herself a pretty shirt, and that was worth it. That was when somebody could buy books. But when she was short of money, she just payed her bills and got herself enough to eat.
She wasn't like the girls on TV who kept themselves as skinny as they could. You can't be strong if you haven't got any of you to be strong in the first place. It was a wonder they didn't all just fall over left and right. She was thick around the middle like a big old tree, and she was strong like that, too. She didn't think about being too pretty. It was like the books--you should be able to do what you need. Once you've got extra, then you can worry about books and being pretty. She got by. That was what she needed to do.
~~~
Dear Davey,
Church to-day was real nice. We had the windows open, since it's getting so warm, and the light was all over the floor. It looked pretty. People seemed like they were feeling good, too.
Since I didn't have work after church, I went down to the library and read for a while about sanding down things. I figure maybe I can give George a hand. His assistant decided to look for a new job, so he's short on help right now. That'll give me something to do with my extra time. I noticed that there's a lot of extra time to fill up now.
You take care, okay? I'll send you some bread next time I write. I bet the food's awful. I hope you're all right.
Love, Annie
Dear Soldier,
I am sending you cans of beans and things like that, and some clean underwear. It's good cotton. I'm also sending some candybars. They just keep coming up with new kinds, and maybe you'll want to know what they're like. A lot of them say 'limited time', so I figured you'd like not to risk it. I'm also sending some magazines. I don't know what you like, but maybe you can trade around for something else if any of them's not right. There's also some shaving cream and safety razors, and gum.
You take care, you hear? I want you to come right home when this is over. We miss you. We're thinking of you.
Love, Annie
The note and the package went out with the morning post on Monday, and Annie bicycled off to work. Somebody drove past her in a car that was playing loud music, and she smiled. Music was good.
When she got to the coffee store she put on her white apron over her white dress, clipped on her nametag, signed the book to show she was in, and slipped behind the counter. The younger girls who were there for the summer, or didn't plan to stay long, they did the waitressing and things like that. She just worked at the counter, making coffees and ringing things up.
It was the day for the man who says she's like mocha, and he came in regular as anything at nine-thirty and smiled at her.
"Hi," he said.
"Hey," Annie said, making his coffee--he got the one with peppermint in it--and cutting him a slice of coffee cake. "How're you doing?"
"I'm fine. I like this weather."
"It's real nice and warm," she said.
"Do you have any dimes?"
"Sure I do." She ruffled through her pockets and found him a couple of dimes.
He gave her a quarter for them. "They're smallest," he said, and that was supposed to explain everything. Annie gave him his coffee and his coffee cake, and he gave her five dollars and went off to sit at a table.
She was just straightening some things in the glass case of food and thinking of what she was going to send in to the newspaper that week, when someone else came in. It was a girl who looked like she was about exactly Annie's age, but she couldn't have looked more different. Her skin was white as the cream cheese frosting on carrot cake, and her hair wild red as cinnamon hots.
She grinned wide and said hello.
"Hi, there," said Annie. "What can I get for you?"
"I'd like toast, please. Just toast with strawberry jam. And a strawberry tea, please."
"Anything else?"
"No, that's all. What's your name?"
"Annie," she said.
"Mine's Jasmine."
Annie got her the toast and tea, and Jasmine sat down to eat.
On Tuesday afternoon after work, Annie met Jasmine again by accident. She'd down to see George, the auto mechanic, and they talked for a while, about nothing really, about Annie maybe learning to sand things down for him, about what a nuisance it is his assistant's having left. After a while there was a little tap on the door, and Jasmine stuck her head around the frame. She beamed when she saw Annie.
"Hi, Mr. Hunter. I brought my car in like you said."
"Good. I'll take care of it. This is Miss Reisinger." He turned to Annie. "This is Miss Moss. She just moved up from Boston."
"I met you at the cafe!" Jasmine said.
"That's right. You like strawberry."
"I do," she said. "I like strawberry and grape best of anything. If they ever make strawberry-grape jam, I'll be the market. Anyway, my car didn't like the trip up from Boston, so I brought it in. It's a good little car. Is the bike yours?"
"That's mine."
"I like it. I like the colour."
"Painted it myself," she said, with a touch of pride. "Early on this summer."
"She's always working," George said. "Half a dozen things she does all the time. Makes me feel like a slob."
"He's lying."
Jasmine just laughed. "I don't believe either of you. And I'm going to trust you with my car, okay?"
"Okay, Miss."
Then she grabbed Annie's hand in hers and tugged. "Let's go get something to eat. Something for dinner. Do you know anywhere good to eat around here?"
Annie did.
Jasmine loved to talk, and Annie didn't like to so much, so they got on just fine. Jasmine had a lot to talk about, too. She was in love with a man who only had one arm. She was always telling Annie that he was beautiful, that the missing arm was beautiful, only he didn't think so. They fought about it all the time.
"I love him, you know? I think he's terrific. He always stubs his cigarettes out in my ashtrays--I had a boyfriend once who stubbed them on the couch. I hated him so much. But he always stubs his cigarettes out in the ashtrays, and he kisses me like he wants to. We got out to dinner at nice places, but he likes going to Six Flags and riding the roller coasters, too, which I want my boyfriend or my husband to like, and he's just great. But he won't take me out dancing because he says he doesn't want to embarrass me. I mean--it wouldn't embarrass me. It really wouldn't. I don't care if he can't put his arm around my waist. I think he's just perfect the way he is."
"Mmhmm," said Annie.
"And I actually think it's kind of sexy. He doesn't get that, either. I like touching it. I like the way it looks. It doesn't bother me at all. But he just says it's horrible and I shouldn't go anywhere near it, and then he sits away from me on the couch, and I don't get it. I don't get what he thinks is wrong with him."
Annie nodded.
"I want him to feel as gorgeous as he is, you know? But I don't know how to make him feel that way."
"Maybe you can't."
"Why not?
"Well--'cause sometimes people don't ever feel the way you think. My Davey--"
"Is that your husband? Or your son?"
"He's my adopted baby." She smiled a little. "Well, he doesn't ever feel how I think. I think he's the best thing that ever happened to me, and he just thinks he's trouble."
~~~
Dear Annie,
They're taking pictures. They're taking everyone's pictures. I don't want for them to take my pictures. They're still talking about how I wash my hands. I don't want them to look at me. Take me home, please. I'm scared of them. Please.
Love, Davey
Miss Reisinger:
We are pleased to inform you that David is making good progress. He seems to be in better spirits, and when he has progressed a little further our trained psychiatrists will begin working with him to understand the root of his problem and ascertain the reason for the injury.
Enclosed please find a photograph from a recent event that was held for the children.
the undersigned is yours sincerely,
Jacob R. Wilkinson
The picture Annie took out of the envelope was one of those light-exposure ones or whatever they were that start to develop as soon as you take them. Davey was sitting next to another boy, and they were both dressed in neat clothes with good shoes. His skinny white arms were hugging himself like he was scared, but he was smiling the biggest smile Annie had ever seen him smile.
She didn't really know what you did when something hit you that way, made you feel a little like crying and a little like laughing because it just didn't make any sense. She swept the kitchen, and then called Jasmine.
Jasmine was with the man with the missing arm, but she said they'd both be happy to have Annie meet them at the cafe for lunch, so Annie put on a nicer shirt, tied her long black hair up in a handkerchief, and bicycled down.
They were sitting at a little table near the window. She found them just by looking for Jasmine's red hair, and in a moment she sat down with them, trying out a smile. Jasmine beamed back. The man with the missing arm smiled, too, but he look a little nervous and a little gruff. He had curly hair, much curlier than Annie's.
"Hi there," Annie said. "I'm Annie." She held out her hand.
"Phillip," the man said.
"Call him Phil," said Jasmine.
Eating was pretty quiet. Phillip didn't say much, and Jasmine tried too hard to let Annie know everything was okay, and Annie didn't know what to do to get them cheerier since her head was full of Davey.
Three weeks later, Jasmine and Phillip got married.
"I don't know if that's gonna fix things," Annie said.
Jasmine just smiled. "It will. You'll see. Once he realises how much I love him, he'll start to realise that I mean it when I tell him that I love him, all of him, no matter what he looks like. Don't you figure? Then it'll all work out, and we'll both be happy."
Annie decided to write some more letters. She sent more packages to the boys who were fighting in the war. Davey was only sixteen. In a few years he'd be old enough to go fight himself, except that they might not let him in because of the prison. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that those boys who were fighting should get letters and packages and things to let them know that Annie wanted them to come home safe.
She started helping George at the garage, kept on working the same days at the cafe. She wrote her recipes and she baked her bread, and kept on getting Davey's letters.
Then, slowly, it started making sense. It made sense why Jasmine had married Phillip, why Davey wrote her he was scared but always smiled when they took pictures of him, made sense why her crazy man liked dimes. It didn't all just come together, snap, suddenly, like the door locking with a click when all the parts came together. It was more like sewing something.
Or like baking bread. It was like leaving the bread under the damp towel, and while you went off and cut flowers to make the house nicer or sat down to write to somebody, the bread rose, puffed up slow. Then you came back and looked and realised your bread was risen.
Just like that.
Annie smiled when she came and looked, just a little sad, because the answer wasn't easy. The reason it all was happening was because it was suppose to happen, because things worked like that. It made sense when you finally realised that it didn't make sense, and it wouldn't make sense, and you got on with your life. Annie had always got on with her life. It was just that she'd been so stuck when Davey left.
Some mothers had dead children. She had Davey, and he was somewhere safe, even if it was prison, where there were smart people taking care of him. She'd always known how to fix it when he got hurt or wasn't feeling good, and now what had happened was that something had gone wrong that she couldn't fix, so she'd sent him to people who could. He was going to be okay.
And Jasmine--Jasmine wanted so much because she really did love Phillip. Annie couldn't change either of them, couldn't make Phillip like his arm or make Jasmine stop pushing. She could tell Jasmine to stop pushing, but it wouldn't change her mind if she didn't want it changed.
And you couldn't always fix the world for people, no matter how much you wanted to.
She put on her white blouse with the pretty white embroidery, and bicycled to the coffee shop; put on her apron and signed herself in.
It was just nine-thirty by then, and the man who said she was like mocha came in, regular as regular as any other day. He smiled.
"Hello!"
"Hey there. How are you doing?"
He looked a little puzzled. "I'm all right. Incomplete, I think. Very incomplete. But all right."
She nodded as she mixed his peppermint coffee. "I know what you mean. We have blueberry cake to-day."
"Yes, please."
He handed her five dollars, smiled again into the steam of his coffee. Annie put his bills into the cash register (he always made her keep the change) and waited for Jasmine to come in. It was Jasmine's day.
~~~
Dear Davey,
I stuck that picture of you they sent up on my fridge where I can see it. This morning I stopped by George's to give him a hand on some new fancy car he got in. You should have heard him yell when I started sanding it. Did you know there's more than one kind of sandpaper? I got them mixed up.
I hope you're okay. I'm sending cookies along this time--I was trying out different recipes for the newspaper cookie contest, so I've got dozens.
You tell me if it starts to get cold and you need your quilt, okay?
Love, Annie
~~~
Read, plz, and feedback?
Love, Annie
Dear Annie,
I'm scared. I bet you think that's dumb. Well, it is dumb. It's really loud here. I hate it. I hate going outside with everybody. I want to come home. I washed my hands eight times to-day, and the shrink watched me every time. I want to go home. He thinks it's because I wash my hands. That's why he thinks I did it. That's not why. I don't remember. I don't know why. I'm scared. I'm dumb. I hate it. I want to come home. Tell them I can come home.
Love, Davey
She folded the note up and put it in her pocket. Her pockets had holes in them, but none of them was big enough for a note to fall out. It wasn't because she was poor that she had holes--it was just because she wore the pockets out. She wore all her clothes out.
Annie was tall. She was taller than most of the boys she knew; in fact, she was taller than most of the basketball players on TV. That was okay with her.
Davey was short and skinny, but that didn't matter. Nothing about Davey mattered; at least, it wasn't supposed to. He was in prison, except it wasn't called prison because there was something different about it. He was in the shrink part of prison. They thought he was crazy, and they were trying to get him better. He had to be locked up, though, because he did things when he was crazy. Annie thought that was as good as prison, and they might as well call it that. Annie thought a lot, but she didn't say much.
She worked at the coffee store down the street, where it always smelled like hazelnuts or something. She was quick and her hands made coffee just like that--cream, sugar, coffee. She'd put the cream and sugar in first, because then the coffee stirred it all up when you poured it on top. It makes it taste better, that's what Annie thought.
There was a man at the coffee store who said Annie looks like a mocha. She'd got skin the colour of coffee beans and chocolate syrup. She always wore white clothes, since white was the uniform at the store, and that was the cream stirred in and the cream on top. Davey used to get dust all over her clothes. Davey used to work making cement. It made him go grey like an old man.
Annie had some of the same customers every day. There were three ladies in the morning who always wanted breakfast--that was Tuesdays--and they smiled and talked a lot--they never really stopped talking, but they smiled. There was a man on Fridays who liked to have cake and coffee. There was an old lady on Saturday late afternoon who called Annie by her name and gave her photographs of cats to offer to people. The cats all lived in the lady's house--she rescued them. Anytime Annie found a cat that'd got no place to go, she took it to the old lady. She thought that would fit right in on a Hallmark greeting card, except the old lady swore like nobody's business. She hated the folks who let their cats get out and didn't take care of them. Actually, the lady hated cats, too, but she hated the folks more, so she took the cats in. She liked to tell Annie, When somebody ain't got a home, you got to give them one, even if you hate their goddamn guts. That's what the Bible says, which Annie thought was pretty good, if you really did hate their goddamn guts. She didn't care much for cats herself, but she liked dogs okay. The old lady hated all animals.
Then there was the man who said she looked like a mocha. That man was a little crazy, too, but it didn't hurt anybody. Sometimes Annie wished Davey could be like that. The man ate everything with a coffee stirrer, and he loved to talk to Annie. Sometimes she had to tell him to sit down and hush for a while when she was taking care of a customer. He didn't seem to mind; he shut up and sat down and as soon as the customer was gone he popped right back up again. He was blind in one eye, and he always told her she looks nice. She thought that was funny.
He was only about thirty, but he looked old. He might really be poor, she thought. His clothes were always messy and he didn't really talk sense, but he always had enough money for his coffee and something to eat. He'd take it apart with the coffee stirrer and only ate some parts, which was also funny because it didn't make any sense.
There were people all days of the week, and she didn't know most of them, but there were always people she knew.
The other things she did, the times when she wasn't working at the coffee store, were that she sent letters out to Davey at the prison, she baked bread for the Whole Foods Store down the street, she wrote recipe columns for the newspaper--her writing wasn't very good, but her food was, so they took them and gave her some money anyway--and she got things together to send to the soldiers. There was a war going on, and Annie didn't like that. There was enough trouble happening without a war--there was Davey in prison, there were all these cats that had to live with a lady who hated cats--but there were always soldiers when there was a war. She didn't know what it was like to be a soldier, but it had to be kind of scary and not much fun (that's putting it mildly, Annie thought), and you wouldn't get good food or much of anything to read, and not a lot of chances to take a bath, either, she's heard, so she got things together and sent them.
She didn't do things just for other people. She liked sitting down and having a coffee for herself, and when she had extra money she made herself nice things to eat. She remembered when she was in school she was always reading about folks who when they got extra money, or any money at all, would spend it on books. Annie thought that was kind of dumb when you thought about it. If you just read, you don't get anything done, you don't stay strong because you're not eating, and then you're dead or poor or homeless or something, and you've just got a lot of books. It was better to work hard and take good care of yourself, and then you did better and finally when you'd got enough money for food and books, that's when you'd buy books. That made sense.
Anyway, when she had extra money she'd get things she needed or things she liked that were a help. Once in a while she'd do something like get new paint for her bike (she didn't have a car because she lived in a big town, and you could just bike everywhere if you wanted to; nothing was that far apart), or get herself a pretty shirt, and that was worth it. That was when somebody could buy books. But when she was short of money, she just payed her bills and got herself enough to eat.
She wasn't like the girls on TV who kept themselves as skinny as they could. You can't be strong if you haven't got any of you to be strong in the first place. It was a wonder they didn't all just fall over left and right. She was thick around the middle like a big old tree, and she was strong like that, too. She didn't think about being too pretty. It was like the books--you should be able to do what you need. Once you've got extra, then you can worry about books and being pretty. She got by. That was what she needed to do.
Dear Davey,
Church to-day was real nice. We had the windows open, since it's getting so warm, and the light was all over the floor. It looked pretty. People seemed like they were feeling good, too.
Since I didn't have work after church, I went down to the library and read for a while about sanding down things. I figure maybe I can give George a hand. His assistant decided to look for a new job, so he's short on help right now. That'll give me something to do with my extra time. I noticed that there's a lot of extra time to fill up now.
You take care, okay? I'll send you some bread next time I write. I bet the food's awful. I hope you're all right.
Love, Annie
Dear Soldier,
I am sending you cans of beans and things like that, and some clean underwear. It's good cotton. I'm also sending some candybars. They just keep coming up with new kinds, and maybe you'll want to know what they're like. A lot of them say 'limited time', so I figured you'd like not to risk it. I'm also sending some magazines. I don't know what you like, but maybe you can trade around for something else if any of them's not right. There's also some shaving cream and safety razors, and gum.
You take care, you hear? I want you to come right home when this is over. We miss you. We're thinking of you.
Love, Annie
The note and the package went out with the morning post on Monday, and Annie bicycled off to work. Somebody drove past her in a car that was playing loud music, and she smiled. Music was good.
When she got to the coffee store she put on her white apron over her white dress, clipped on her nametag, signed the book to show she was in, and slipped behind the counter. The younger girls who were there for the summer, or didn't plan to stay long, they did the waitressing and things like that. She just worked at the counter, making coffees and ringing things up.
It was the day for the man who says she's like mocha, and he came in regular as anything at nine-thirty and smiled at her.
"Hi," he said.
"Hey," Annie said, making his coffee--he got the one with peppermint in it--and cutting him a slice of coffee cake. "How're you doing?"
"I'm fine. I like this weather."
"It's real nice and warm," she said.
"Do you have any dimes?"
"Sure I do." She ruffled through her pockets and found him a couple of dimes.
He gave her a quarter for them. "They're smallest," he said, and that was supposed to explain everything. Annie gave him his coffee and his coffee cake, and he gave her five dollars and went off to sit at a table.
She was just straightening some things in the glass case of food and thinking of what she was going to send in to the newspaper that week, when someone else came in. It was a girl who looked like she was about exactly Annie's age, but she couldn't have looked more different. Her skin was white as the cream cheese frosting on carrot cake, and her hair wild red as cinnamon hots.
She grinned wide and said hello.
"Hi, there," said Annie. "What can I get for you?"
"I'd like toast, please. Just toast with strawberry jam. And a strawberry tea, please."
"Anything else?"
"No, that's all. What's your name?"
"Annie," she said.
"Mine's Jasmine."
Annie got her the toast and tea, and Jasmine sat down to eat.
On Tuesday afternoon after work, Annie met Jasmine again by accident. She'd down to see George, the auto mechanic, and they talked for a while, about nothing really, about Annie maybe learning to sand things down for him, about what a nuisance it is his assistant's having left. After a while there was a little tap on the door, and Jasmine stuck her head around the frame. She beamed when she saw Annie.
"Hi, Mr. Hunter. I brought my car in like you said."
"Good. I'll take care of it. This is Miss Reisinger." He turned to Annie. "This is Miss Moss. She just moved up from Boston."
"I met you at the cafe!" Jasmine said.
"That's right. You like strawberry."
"I do," she said. "I like strawberry and grape best of anything. If they ever make strawberry-grape jam, I'll be the market. Anyway, my car didn't like the trip up from Boston, so I brought it in. It's a good little car. Is the bike yours?"
"That's mine."
"I like it. I like the colour."
"Painted it myself," she said, with a touch of pride. "Early on this summer."
"She's always working," George said. "Half a dozen things she does all the time. Makes me feel like a slob."
"He's lying."
Jasmine just laughed. "I don't believe either of you. And I'm going to trust you with my car, okay?"
"Okay, Miss."
Then she grabbed Annie's hand in hers and tugged. "Let's go get something to eat. Something for dinner. Do you know anywhere good to eat around here?"
Annie did.
Jasmine loved to talk, and Annie didn't like to so much, so they got on just fine. Jasmine had a lot to talk about, too. She was in love with a man who only had one arm. She was always telling Annie that he was beautiful, that the missing arm was beautiful, only he didn't think so. They fought about it all the time.
"I love him, you know? I think he's terrific. He always stubs his cigarettes out in my ashtrays--I had a boyfriend once who stubbed them on the couch. I hated him so much. But he always stubs his cigarettes out in the ashtrays, and he kisses me like he wants to. We got out to dinner at nice places, but he likes going to Six Flags and riding the roller coasters, too, which I want my boyfriend or my husband to like, and he's just great. But he won't take me out dancing because he says he doesn't want to embarrass me. I mean--it wouldn't embarrass me. It really wouldn't. I don't care if he can't put his arm around my waist. I think he's just perfect the way he is."
"Mmhmm," said Annie.
"And I actually think it's kind of sexy. He doesn't get that, either. I like touching it. I like the way it looks. It doesn't bother me at all. But he just says it's horrible and I shouldn't go anywhere near it, and then he sits away from me on the couch, and I don't get it. I don't get what he thinks is wrong with him."
Annie nodded.
"I want him to feel as gorgeous as he is, you know? But I don't know how to make him feel that way."
"Maybe you can't."
"Why not?
"Well--'cause sometimes people don't ever feel the way you think. My Davey--"
"Is that your husband? Or your son?"
"He's my adopted baby." She smiled a little. "Well, he doesn't ever feel how I think. I think he's the best thing that ever happened to me, and he just thinks he's trouble."
Dear Annie,
They're taking pictures. They're taking everyone's pictures. I don't want for them to take my pictures. They're still talking about how I wash my hands. I don't want them to look at me. Take me home, please. I'm scared of them. Please.
Love, Davey
Miss Reisinger:
We are pleased to inform you that David is making good progress. He seems to be in better spirits, and when he has progressed a little further our trained psychiatrists will begin working with him to understand the root of his problem and ascertain the reason for the injury.
Enclosed please find a photograph from a recent event that was held for the children.
the undersigned is yours sincerely,
Jacob R. Wilkinson
The picture Annie took out of the envelope was one of those light-exposure ones or whatever they were that start to develop as soon as you take them. Davey was sitting next to another boy, and they were both dressed in neat clothes with good shoes. His skinny white arms were hugging himself like he was scared, but he was smiling the biggest smile Annie had ever seen him smile.
She didn't really know what you did when something hit you that way, made you feel a little like crying and a little like laughing because it just didn't make any sense. She swept the kitchen, and then called Jasmine.
Jasmine was with the man with the missing arm, but she said they'd both be happy to have Annie meet them at the cafe for lunch, so Annie put on a nicer shirt, tied her long black hair up in a handkerchief, and bicycled down.
They were sitting at a little table near the window. She found them just by looking for Jasmine's red hair, and in a moment she sat down with them, trying out a smile. Jasmine beamed back. The man with the missing arm smiled, too, but he look a little nervous and a little gruff. He had curly hair, much curlier than Annie's.
"Hi there," Annie said. "I'm Annie." She held out her hand.
"Phillip," the man said.
"Call him Phil," said Jasmine.
Eating was pretty quiet. Phillip didn't say much, and Jasmine tried too hard to let Annie know everything was okay, and Annie didn't know what to do to get them cheerier since her head was full of Davey.
Three weeks later, Jasmine and Phillip got married.
"I don't know if that's gonna fix things," Annie said.
Jasmine just smiled. "It will. You'll see. Once he realises how much I love him, he'll start to realise that I mean it when I tell him that I love him, all of him, no matter what he looks like. Don't you figure? Then it'll all work out, and we'll both be happy."
Annie decided to write some more letters. She sent more packages to the boys who were fighting in the war. Davey was only sixteen. In a few years he'd be old enough to go fight himself, except that they might not let him in because of the prison. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that those boys who were fighting should get letters and packages and things to let them know that Annie wanted them to come home safe.
She started helping George at the garage, kept on working the same days at the cafe. She wrote her recipes and she baked her bread, and kept on getting Davey's letters.
Then, slowly, it started making sense. It made sense why Jasmine had married Phillip, why Davey wrote her he was scared but always smiled when they took pictures of him, made sense why her crazy man liked dimes. It didn't all just come together, snap, suddenly, like the door locking with a click when all the parts came together. It was more like sewing something.
Or like baking bread. It was like leaving the bread under the damp towel, and while you went off and cut flowers to make the house nicer or sat down to write to somebody, the bread rose, puffed up slow. Then you came back and looked and realised your bread was risen.
Just like that.
Annie smiled when she came and looked, just a little sad, because the answer wasn't easy. The reason it all was happening was because it was suppose to happen, because things worked like that. It made sense when you finally realised that it didn't make sense, and it wouldn't make sense, and you got on with your life. Annie had always got on with her life. It was just that she'd been so stuck when Davey left.
Some mothers had dead children. She had Davey, and he was somewhere safe, even if it was prison, where there were smart people taking care of him. She'd always known how to fix it when he got hurt or wasn't feeling good, and now what had happened was that something had gone wrong that she couldn't fix, so she'd sent him to people who could. He was going to be okay.
And Jasmine--Jasmine wanted so much because she really did love Phillip. Annie couldn't change either of them, couldn't make Phillip like his arm or make Jasmine stop pushing. She could tell Jasmine to stop pushing, but it wouldn't change her mind if she didn't want it changed.
And you couldn't always fix the world for people, no matter how much you wanted to.
She put on her white blouse with the pretty white embroidery, and bicycled to the coffee shop; put on her apron and signed herself in.
It was just nine-thirty by then, and the man who said she was like mocha came in, regular as regular as any other day. He smiled.
"Hello!"
"Hey there. How are you doing?"
He looked a little puzzled. "I'm all right. Incomplete, I think. Very incomplete. But all right."
She nodded as she mixed his peppermint coffee. "I know what you mean. We have blueberry cake to-day."
"Yes, please."
He handed her five dollars, smiled again into the steam of his coffee. Annie put his bills into the cash register (he always made her keep the change) and waited for Jasmine to come in. It was Jasmine's day.
Dear Davey,
I stuck that picture of you they sent up on my fridge where I can see it. This morning I stopped by George's to give him a hand on some new fancy car he got in. You should have heard him yell when I started sanding it. Did you know there's more than one kind of sandpaper? I got them mixed up.
I hope you're okay. I'm sending cookies along this time--I was trying out different recipes for the newspaper cookie contest, so I've got dozens.
You tell me if it starts to get cold and you need your quilt, okay?
Love, Annie
~~~
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-28 06:22 pm (UTC)Oh, sweetheart, I just-- you're so wise, about people. (And I know you're going to laugh at that, but it's true. It's just harder when it's your own life you have to apply it to.) And I -- oh.
I really think you should start sending this stuff out to magazines. I'm dead serious.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-29 07:10 pm (UTC)Oh--thank you. Thank you so much. Ack.
I'm too fragile yet to want my ego damaged by all the editors sending them back. ^^