March 2019
Irving Feldman
feldman@buffalo.edu
feldman@buffalo.edu
I retired from the SUNY Buffalo English Department in 2004. Have published a dozen or so collections of poems. Such my addiction to the sport of squash racquets my headstone is to read: "ONE MORE GAME?" See more of my poems HERE.
STORY
One day she said, "Oh, babysit Michael for me,
will you, Joe?" Some things she had to do--you know.
Well, why not? Sure. Okay. So, fine, he stayed.
Besides, he felt it for the little guy
who had this look of being freaked--completely--
so uptight you'd swear his ears could scream,
an only kid, and no real dad around
to set him straight--which Joe related to.
Well, they hung at the house awhile, and then
he had this bright idea, took him to the zoo.
One thing and another, they got back late,
after dark, and she'd been home for hours
and getting really ticked, as he saw right off
--even though the kid was okay, in fact, great,
happy instead of hyper, for a change.
And here he'd even brought a Cracker Jacks
which he handed her with the sweetest smile,
like it was a special joke they had going,
and got her to open it and show the prize.
She wasn't having: not the stupid popcorn,
not the dumb prize, not Joseph playing cute.
"Where was you?" was all she said, and gave the kid
a good long onceover, checking him out.
So he went, "What, didn't you see my note?"
and took her by the arm and nicely walked her
over to the fridge. And there it was, of course,
under the purple fish magnet on the door.
She looked at it hard, like for minutes, thinking,
and then all she went was, "Oh." Like that. "Oh."
You would think that was that. It wasn't. It was,
you could say, the beginning of the end.
Oh sure, they had their good times after that,
when she'd seem to lighten up and go along,
but it was nothing like before, because
more and more she had this mean look on her
or he'd catch her looking at the wall when he talked.
"What's eating you?" he'd say, "What's biting your ass?"
Once she answered, "Nothing you could understand."
And he never did, not which or what or why
or how he got put in the wrong or what
he spent so much time trying to make up for.
All he knew is that he could honestly say
--and every so often swore it to himself--
he never once meant anything but good.
And look what it got him. Tell him it paid!
Oh yeah, maybe she would tell him what, as he
so couthly put it, was biting her ass
--except she was too smart to say anything,
was sorry she'd let on as much as she had,
because that time he brought Michael home late,
that was a message he was sending her.
There she was, not thinking anything special,
tidying, putting away some things she bought.
She asked herself what kept them, where were they.
She went to the door three or four or five times
and looked out into the empty driveway.
She sat down again and tried to eat.
Back then when she was still a prize fool.
Suddenly something started clicking away,
like the night was typing itself into her head.
And then she was reading the words.
Then she saw black. It was Joe telling her:
I can get at you anytime--through your kid.
So it didn't matter how good he might be,
and he was alright as far as people went,
or didn't realize what his actions told,
or that she could be mean, distrustful, sneaky
--she had to be, because he had it easy,
but she was fighting just to survive,
she was fighting for her life!
Right then she decided: when she was sure
he couldn't get back at her, he would go.
STORY
One day she said, "Oh, babysit Michael for me,
will you, Joe?" Some things she had to do--you know.
Well, why not? Sure. Okay. So, fine, he stayed.
Besides, he felt it for the little guy
who had this look of being freaked--completely--
so uptight you'd swear his ears could scream,
an only kid, and no real dad around
to set him straight--which Joe related to.
Well, they hung at the house awhile, and then
he had this bright idea, took him to the zoo.
One thing and another, they got back late,
after dark, and she'd been home for hours
and getting really ticked, as he saw right off
--even though the kid was okay, in fact, great,
happy instead of hyper, for a change.
And here he'd even brought a Cracker Jacks
which he handed her with the sweetest smile,
like it was a special joke they had going,
and got her to open it and show the prize.
She wasn't having: not the stupid popcorn,
not the dumb prize, not Joseph playing cute.
"Where was you?" was all she said, and gave the kid
a good long onceover, checking him out.
So he went, "What, didn't you see my note?"
and took her by the arm and nicely walked her
over to the fridge. And there it was, of course,
under the purple fish magnet on the door.
She looked at it hard, like for minutes, thinking,
and then all she went was, "Oh." Like that. "Oh."
You would think that was that. It wasn't. It was,
you could say, the beginning of the end.
Oh sure, they had their good times after that,
when she'd seem to lighten up and go along,
but it was nothing like before, because
more and more she had this mean look on her
or he'd catch her looking at the wall when he talked.
"What's eating you?" he'd say, "What's biting your ass?"
Once she answered, "Nothing you could understand."
And he never did, not which or what or why
or how he got put in the wrong or what
he spent so much time trying to make up for.
All he knew is that he could honestly say
--and every so often swore it to himself--
he never once meant anything but good.
And look what it got him. Tell him it paid!
Oh yeah, maybe she would tell him what, as he
so couthly put it, was biting her ass
--except she was too smart to say anything,
was sorry she'd let on as much as she had,
because that time he brought Michael home late,
that was a message he was sending her.
There she was, not thinking anything special,
tidying, putting away some things she bought.
She asked herself what kept them, where were they.
She went to the door three or four or five times
and looked out into the empty driveway.
She sat down again and tried to eat.
Back then when she was still a prize fool.
Suddenly something started clicking away,
like the night was typing itself into her head.
And then she was reading the words.
Then she saw black. It was Joe telling her:
I can get at you anytime--through your kid.
So it didn't matter how good he might be,
and he was alright as far as people went,
or didn't realize what his actions told,
or that she could be mean, distrustful, sneaky
--she had to be, because he had it easy,
but she was fighting just to survive,
she was fighting for her life!
Right then she decided: when she was sure
he couldn't get back at her, he would go.
© 2019 Irving Feldman
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