edict

Hailey, Idaho

May 1, 2114

My name is Rosemarie.  You’ve probably heard my story, and everyone who’s heard of me knows that picture. The mug shot that makes me look like a haggard drug abuser, red hair frizzy and flying all about the place; grey eyes staring straight ahead.  It’s important to tell you that they took that picture after two days of interrogation and sleep deprivation.   I want to tell my side of the story, before I surrender to the dismal sentence I have been given. 

After the childbearing edict was established in California, women became lawbreakers if they decided to bear a child without carrying a permit.  It was now required to have written permission from the government to conceive a baby, whether you were going to terminate the pregnancy, give the child up for adoption or keep it to rear yourself.  Women were denied permits for a variety of reasons: a congenital defect, personality disorder, mental illness or a criminal record.  My criminal record was a series of shoplifting arrests I had in my teens, all for stupid stuff like make-up and breath mints.  Our lawyer fought to have my juvenile record overlooked, but  it was quickly decided that I was a non-bearer.  In short, the government would not permit me to pass on my thieving genes to the next generation.  Because of all the intervention (I was given a tubal ligation the same day I was declined), their decision was final.

A month later, I realized I was pregnant. 

My morning sickness, swollen breasts and missed periods were what normally would have been a blessing to any woman who was hoping to start a family.  Instead, I dreaded breaking the news to my husband - it would make Gene and I felons.  When he got home that night, I showed him the pregnancy test strips that all came back positive.  He was elated and actually cried tears of joy before reality set in.  Then, there was an hour or so of hand-holding and silence.  We decided that night to have the baby and we made a plan to pull up stakes and head to Idaho, where the laws against illegal childbirth were more lenient and haphazardly enforced.   

Within a week we had both resigned our jobs and sold most of our possessions.  We had arranged to rent a cabin on the southern border of the Sawtooth National Forest, where the coyote outnumbered the people.  The country became spectacular on our drive.  The Urban jungle of Oakland relaxed into the fields of Sacramento, where we headed over the Sierra Nevada’s and drove into Nevada at night.  At last, the morning sun broke out over a backdrop of trees: the promising landscape of Idaho.  We stopped only to refuel the car and relieve ourselves.  Our sustenance was peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwiches.  

As soon as we arrived, I got out of the car and took a deep breath and stretched.  Green air filled my lungs and a blue dragonfly whirred by my forehead.  The cabin was in the middle of a beautiful nowhere, just outside of a little town called Ketchum.  I still remember seeing it for the first time, blown away by the kaleidoscope of the raw wilderness.  A silver steel roof reflected the sun, making us shield our eyes with our hands.  The cabin itself was a dark brown, painted to mimic the bark of the tall pines that surrounded it, and stood humbly against a slope of grass, blooming deep purple with Indian paintbrush, leading into a dense forest.  It was so different from Oakland, so different from anywhere I had ever been.

Our new landlord stood on the porch, holding the keys to our future in his hand.  I knew I wasn’t showing yet, so there was no need to suck in my tummy, but I was nervous.   He was elderly, perhaps in his eighties, and his eyes were set deeply in folds of wrinkled skin, but he still managed to look at us suspiciously.

“Welcome to Idaho!” he called to us.  Gene raised his hands, smiling. 

“Thank you!” he hollered back, maybe a little too loud, but I knew he wanted to be heard.

“Well, here’s the house,” the old man said as we walked up the wide, brick porch steps.  The cabin looked solid, but not fancy.  I was hoping it had indoor plumbing, my bladder was about to explode. 

“May I use the bathroom?” I asked, as soon as I was close enough.

“Sure, sure...” he motioned to the doorway.  I opened the rusty screen door and walked in to a darkened room, waiting for my eyes to adjust.  As soon as I could see, I walked down a hallway to the small bathroom.  There was a blue porcelain toilet, and I sat on it thankfully.  As I looked around, I took in the dated decor.  Above the matching blue bathtub was a chrome towel rack, two fresh white towels were neatly hung, probably just for us.  The faded blue sink that came out of the wall was supported with chrome legs, stained and rusted near the bottom.  A  wall was a calendar from “A & E Auto Parts and Service” was next to me, from December 1999, smiling girl dressed as an angel wearing a T-shirt and cut-offs.  She held a wrench playfully in her hand while she looked over an opened hood of a 57 Chevy.  Above the door was a wooden plaque, laced with cobwebs, whose sentiment proclaimed “Trust God.” 

I sighed.

When I left the bathroom, I could see the rest of the cabin, which I already knew was 800 square feet.  Our bedroom had a double sized bed, covered in a soft nubby bedspread.  A maple hi-boy dresser had a mirror facing the doorway and I saw my disappointed expression.  I had to remind myself of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 

“Next year by this time I will have a baby,” I whispered to myself.

The living room actually had a beautiful fireplace, which made up for the green plaid sofa, love seat and ottoman set that was placed traditionally around floor lamps.  A TV with rabbit ear antennae was on a rolling cart, but pushed against the yellow curtains, as if it was an afterthought. 

It seemed to get worse as I looked around.  The appliances were electric, with foil placed in the strategic areas to deter grease build up.  A small faux wood dinette set was in the harvest gold kitchen.  I remembered our Restoration Hardware set we sold to my cousin before we left.  It was depressing.  I went back out to the porch and joined Gene, who was listening to a dissertation from the landlord.

“...managing and protecting the land is going to be what you’ll find most challenging, not only because of the vastness of this land, but because of the varied terrain.  In this front area, we decided just to put down the lawn, but you can see there’s no sprinklers...” Gene looked at me and raised his eyebrows, like he knew it was going to be awhile.  After we got the keys we went inside and slept without eating, without showering.  We were so exhausted from the trip, emotionally and physically that we just collapsed.  I had no idea how cold it would get at night.  At three a.m. we were huddled under a mound of blankets, shivering and frightened. 

Just before dawn, Gene said, “Today I’ll go and buy firewood in Ketchum.”  That was the very last time we forgot to buy firewood. 

I grew up in Oakland, and I’ll tell you now that it was nothing special.  What I did have in my city life were things that worked.  I had a coffee maker, a toaster, a shower head that would allow water to spray through.  As soon as we could, Gene and I replaced those things.  Little by little I was able to look past the sacrifice of modern conveniences and realize that Gene and I had landed in a really special place.  The first month was so amazing that I fell in love with that little place. If you were really quiet, you could hear a creek running clear and clean, babbling in the distance.  I lost count of how many species of birds came in and out of our yard, day and night.  Sunrises were spectacular, only to be rivaled by sunsets.  In between, the sun shone onto our back porch with such beauty that it made me feel we were living in our own slice of heaven.  

Gene and I decided to cut loose and change the inside of the cabin so it would feel more like home.  We didn’t spend a lot of money, but we transformed the place.  A couple of gallons of white paint brought an unbelievable facelift to the drab, mismatched walls.  The calendar girl was replaced with a medicine cabinet that held my pre-natal vitamins and antacids.  The nubby bedspread was replaced with a cool down comforter we bought at a thrift store in Ketchum, but I decided to dust the cobwebs off the “Trust God” plaque and leave it where it was.  Gene decided to replace all the harvest gold appliances with used white ones – he even installed a dishwasher.  It was the most incredible improvement, and I was so grateful.  When I asked him why he did it,  he said it was because he couldn’t stand to look at them anymore, and then winked at me. 

Our closest neighbor lived a half a mile away and the day he came to introduce himself I had been scrubbing the kitchen floor with pine sol.  After Gene installed the white appliances, I decided to make the hardwood floor look good and that meant removing years of grime.  Gene was chopping wood in the front yard and soon I heard him talking.  Normally, he didn’t talk to himself, but I figured anything was possible since we moved here.  Pretty soon, he walked through our front door with our neighbor like they were already best friends.  As I looked up at them from the floor, through my dry, frizzy hair that was hanging in my eyes, Gene lost it.

“Honey! What are you doing?” He ran over to my cleaning bucket and took it away from me.  Almost as soon as he reacted, he realized that he shouldn’t have.  He helped me up, and as I stood, I wondered if I needed to explain his overreaction to our house guest who looked at me, shocked.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” he said.  He was smiling, like he had unearthed a pleasant secret and I looked at Gene, who looked panicked. 

“No, she’s not,” he said, quickly.  “She’s just allergic to...”

“My wife is, too,” our neighbor continued.  “We’re non-bearers, but it all happened so fast.”  He was still smiling, a tall young man, maybe even younger than us.  He had golden hair and golden eyebrows and a broad, white smile that made him look like a Ken doll.  Something in his face made me want to trust him. 

Gene just smiled.  “This is my wife, Rosemarie.  Honey, this is Luther.”

I tried to act normal.  “Hi.”  I was sweating and I knew he knew that I was expecting.  I was wearing a tight tank top and I could feel my belly being larger than normal.  Luther was looking at it.

“From the looks of things,” he said, looking intently at my tummy. “I’d say that Kay is two months further than you.”

There was an awkward silence as I tried to smile.  I looked at Gene again, who wore an expression of confusion and amazement. 

“Is that why you’re in Idaho?” he asked. 

“Oh, yeah!” Luther said, emphatically.  He poured out their story with such freedom that we listened eagerly, standing in our kitchen.  They had come from New York, the state that authored the edict in the early forties.  No one ever believed it would pass, but it did, sending native New Yorkers for the Midwest.  Luther and Kay had a child already and according to the edict they were given amnesty. Even so, because of her criminal record, Kay was called in to have a tubal ligation surgery but she never did.  Instead, the family fled to Idaho, where they had lived for three years. 

“We would have never predicted the edict would have gone national,” he said.  An expression of disgust came over him.  “What kind of society declares childbirth illegal for only some women?” I knew that there were several countries that had adopted such laws, but I knew Luther’s question was rhetorical.

“Would you like some lemonade?” I finally asked, motioning for him to sit down. 

“No, no,” he smiled.  “I came over to introduce myself...” He thought to himself for awhile and then brightened.  “Look, we’re having a bunch of friends over tomorrow night for a bar-b-que.  A few of them are non-bearers, like us.  I’m sure everyone would love to meet you.”

Gene and I looked at each other, but he shook his head. 

 “My wife isn’t pregnant, Luther.”

For a second, I felt like the floor was going to crack open and swallow us up.  Time stood still as the guys just looked at each other.  Finally, Luther backed down.

“Well, I’m sorry to offend you, if I did...”

“No, no!” I was blushing, half from embarrassment, half from nervousness.  “You didn’t offend me...”

He started covering up for himself, saying that we were invited to come over and hang out anyway.  We politely refused and as he left, Gene and I didn’t speak for a long time.  We hadn’t discussed how to receive neighbors or talk to strangers.  From then on, I knew I’d have to be very careful with how I handled my pregnancy.

The next day, I woke up before dawn.  I went out to the back porch and could hear the creek running, birds chirping.  The valley was just waking up and as I looked toward the forest, I saw a family of deer looking back at me.  I smiled.

“Don’t worry about me,” I whispered.  “I’m trying to blend in, too!”

In a couple of hours, I heard someone knocking on the front door and I wondered if I should answer.  I looked out the kitchen window and saw a pretty blonde lady dressed in a polka dotted dress standing there with a big pink square box in her hand.  I decided to crack the door and peek outside, pretending I had just woken up.  When I did, all I saw was her smile.

“I’m Kay!” she said, boldly.  “Let me in.  I brought donuts.”

I didn’t have much choice but to open the door and let her come in.  As soon as she entered my house, it was like a long-lost friend had found me.  After she cracked open the donuts, we sat down at our table and started talking. 

“I know you must be scared,” she told me.  “I was scared too, but now we’re a community.  You’re going to love it here!”

I still hadn’t admitted anything, but instead asked her about the community she was referring to.  She started listing their friends, people who lived within twenty miles of them.  They met regularly, being able to be free and transparent with one another.     

“Alright,” I said.  “I guess you probably already know, but I am pregnant.” 

Kay sat back in her chair and rubbed her belly.  “So am I, and I don’t have a permit.  Now you can turn me in if you want to.”

I smiled at her and she reached for my hand.   I put my hand in hers and when she squeezed it, I started to cry. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, “everything’s going to be alright.”

That night was the first time we went over to Luther and Kay’s place.  It was the first of many nights we came together with others like us.  I came home feeling hopeful, like I wasn't alone and everything was really going to be alright.  It was good for me to meet others like us, normal couples who had been denied childbirth permits.  To me, they were angels; together we commiserated.  We all had the same troubles; the same prejudiced lectures from officials who denied us a basic human right.  The government sold their philosophy to the masses, and they bought it. We heard our own friends spout off their dogma: “People need a license to drive a car, why shouldn't they need one to bring a child into the world?”

Most non-bearers who had come to Idaho had a history of criminal activity.  Many expectant mothers had a history of prostitution.  One of the ladies I grew close to in our circle of friends was Joleyne, who admitted to smoking meth as a teenager and getting arrested for dealing.  We were different, but the same.  We had both been stripped of the right to be mothers, but we were going to be mothers nevertheless.

I didn’t know about the moles in our group; I never suspected Gary and Denise of being Federal agents.  Everyone asks me about that now, especially being locked up in here.  I tell them the truth: I never suspected them of anything and they were just really good actors. 

It happened at a swim party at Luther and Kay’s.  It was a warm spring day and we all decided we didn’t want to wait until summer to use the pool.  Joleyne and I were sitting against the wall that normally absorbed all the sun and she asked me why I wasn’t swimming. 

“I’m too fat,” I said.

“You’re nine months pregnant,” she retorted.  “You’re not fat.”

“I feel fat.”

“So do I.”

“Even my face feels fat,” I felt the underside of my jaw line.  “My face looks like a full moon.”

She looked at me and burst out laughing.  She was laughing so hard that it made me laugh, too.  We were laughing and laughing and I was trying to stop when I looked up and saw something weird.  I was laughing so hard that I hardly saw Gary and Gene fighting.  I only saw other guys come up behind him and put his hands behind his back.  I now know that they were handcuffing Gene, but at the time it looked really scary, like they were going to kill him.

You know how people say that your life flashes before your eyes?  That’s what it was like.  I was laughing, but then I just stopped.  I felt like someone screeched the brakes of my life on.  I started to stand up and I was so scared, seeing a group of men coming in to our party and handcuffing all the guys.  I remember seeing a flash of everything: being a little girl swinging on the warm swing set in my parents’ backyard, eating watermelon at Fourth of July, my high school prom, pictures at Disneyland, a roller coaster ride, kissing Gene, watching the woodpecker at the cabin...

And then a man walked over to me.  My heart was thumping in my chest and my ears were ringing, but I felt his grip as he grabbed my left arm by the bicep and the wrist.  “Come with me,” he said harshly.  “Cooperate and it will all be easier..." 

We came to Hailey in separate cars and we came into the jail one by one, in front of a paparazzi line and news cameras.  I had to go to the bathroom so bad and I thought I would wet my pants.  I looked for Gene, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.  I was given a cell all to myself and somewhere down the hall I could hear Joleyne calling out our names.  A female guard came by my cell and told me not to call out or answer her.  I was crying, not knowing what would happen to me, but all that bitch cared about was keeping her stupid cell block quiet.

They brought us in for arraignment two days later; I wore a special jumpsuit for pregnant ladies.  I was embarrassed.  You would think that all the shame inside of me would have been worked out by then, but it wasn’t.  Instead, I was weepy and frail as I stood before the judge as the charges were read.

“How do you plead?” she asked me.  I looked up at my lawyer, who just nodded her head.

“I want to see my husband,” I said. 

The judge looked over her glasses to me.  “You need to enter a plea.”

“Please,” I could feel myself crying, but I couldn’t stop.  The bailiffs led me out to the hall and my lawyer stayed behind.  The next thing I knew I was in a hospital, but I was still pregnant.  In the hospital, several federal agents questioned me.  They wouldn’t stop asking me questions, even though I was terrified.  I kept remembering the deer I saw in my backyard.  They were looking at me, like “Don’t shoot me!  Don’t shoot me!”

That’s how I felt.

In a few days, I had the baby and she was taken away from me as soon as she came out.  The nurse said that the baby would be placed with a nice family and that I didn’t have to worry.  I asked her why I had the baby if I had my tubes tied, but she wouldn’t answer me.  I wondered if the surgery had worked.  I missed Gene and kept asking for him.

It has been nineteen days since my arrest and I am getting sentenced today.  I want to tell you all that I am being forced to plead guilty to bearing a child without a permit, which is punishable by five years of work. I know they’ll probably send me to the mines where I can work off my debt to society, but my work will most likely serve  the government  and save them a salaried position while acting as their slave.  I will be separated from my husband, my home, my friends and the child I was hoping to save for at least five years; afterward, I am not sure if I will see any of them.  There are no guarantees for the incarcerated. 

Today I got a letter from Gene.  He is beginning his own sentence, a year in protective custody at a federal penitentiary that will be named the day he gets shipped there.  His words are like gold to me:

“Well, Rosemarie, we tried.  We tried to live and give this baby a life, but there was no way to do it and we didn’t know that at the onset.  Try to maintain a positive viewpoint, because a negative view is actually our real prison.  Many people that are free waste their days by judging others, as they did us.  Now I am confident that when your five years are up we will be free to have a life together.  So keep on going and remember I love you.

Gene.” 

There is a cry in my heart for justice, but there is none. I can only pray that my baby’s new mother can keep her happy and out of trouble; then she may have a chance at this life.  I’m not good at being perfect, and if that’s what she needs then maybe the government is right.

romance

Old Romance Cover - public domain

I am tired of going into Walgreens and seeing my mother’s name on the shelf of bestsellers.  She has no shame, and she freely admits it.  As a romance novelist, her job is to write stories with just enough tension in them that you can’t see the happy ending coming.  Mother is good at it; she is also good at plagiarism – most of her plots come from my life.

When I graduated from high school, Mother took a writing class, seeking to bond with me since I was enrolled at the same junior college.  I hated the idea of going to school and running into her – college days are supposed to be filled with independence and freedom.  She respected my wishes and stayed far away from me, but I was unprepared for the group of friends she made.  Most of them were my age and they met for study group at local coffee houses, like they were all best friends or something.

Mother’s first novel was an accident – it was actually a short story for one of her classes.  Her professor asked her to stay behind from class, just to encourage her to extend the story a bit and submit it to an agent.  He added that romance novels are the biggest sellers in the publishing market and that Harlequin has never had a dip in sales.  Mother marvelled, then got to work.

“What’s the story about?” I asked her, a little jealous that her professor singled her out.  I was the writer, not Mother!  Why hadn’t any of my professors had private encouragement sessions with me? 

“It’s about a woman who goes back to college after raising her children,” Mother told me as she unloaded the dishwasher.  “She has a hard time adjusting to life because she’s built her world around her youngest daughter.  Anyway, the mother goes back to school and makes a whole new group of friends, including a young man who develops a crush on her.”

“What?” I couldn’t help smiling.  It sounded so familiar, up until that last bit.  “Is this based on a true story?  Does one of your study partners have a crush on you?”  I couldn’t imagine my frumpy old mother attracting a guy my age.  Mother stood up straight and looked at me like I was insane. 

“Of course not! Who would that be?”

“I don’t know, maybe that guy Tomas?”

“Tomas is gay, I think,” Mother returned to unpacking the dishwasher, sorting silverware and placing it carefully in our ancient plastic trays.  “Ned is married.  Carl told me once that you were quite beautiful...”  With this last bit of information, she looked up at me and smiled. 

“I’m not going out with Carl, Mother.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, he hasn’t even talked with me, let alone asked me out on a date.”

Mother shut the dishwasher and hung a dish towel carefully on the oven handle.  “He’s a shy young man, honey,” she looked up at me, tenderly.  “He loves his mother and takes care of her.  Oh, honey, can’t you at least come to study group with me and meet him?”

I shook my head, incredulously.  Mother had just been encouraged to extend her first short story into a novel and get an agent – and all she could think about was setting me up on a blind date.

*  *   *   *

After Mothers first book was published, (entitled “The Freshman Ten”) we celebrated.  Her study group met at our house for meatloaf and champagne and I finally met everyone – including the shy Carl who had a crush on me.  At the party, I marveled at how much the description of Ivan (the student who has a crush on the elder-student, Samantha) matched Carl - physically and socially.  I also started to wonder if she modeled Samantha after me – the things she said sounded like the things I would say....

Mother eventually let college be my territory and didn't enroll for a second year.  She turned her sewing room into an office and bought a used computer, writing constantly.  I actually took her advice and went on a date with Carl and we ended up really liking one another.  Because of this, Mother made “family nights” for us often, cooking our favorite things and hanging out with us as we talked by the fireplace. 

“My agent wants me to write a sequel,” she told Carl and I one night after steak and potato salad.  “I am thinking of having the two kids get married and start a family.”  Mother was referring to the characters in her book – the “two kids” were Ivan and Samantha.

“You mean Samantha and Ivan will get married?” I laughed.  “Samantha is forty and Ivan is twenty!  Isn’t that a bit impractical?”

Mother blushed and I realized I had embarrassed her.  I regretted it, but Carl spoke up before I could apologize. 

“Why not have Ivan meet someone more his age?” he suggested.  Mother’s face contorted. 

“No, he would never leave Samantha!”  She was thinking, and when the fire crackled, she looked up as if an idea exploded in her brain. “Unless Samantha dies!”

Carl and I looked at each other and laughed.

“Are you going to kill off Samantha?” I asked.  “Is that such a good idea?”

Mother hardly noticed we were there.  Instead, she rose and walked to her office like a woman on a mission, never even saying goodnight.  It was fine with us; Carl and I commenced to cuddling in front of the fireplace. 

*   *   *   *

“Last Chance for Love” was a bigger hit than Mom’s first novel.  The unstoppable Samantha died after valiantly fighting off stage four ovarian cancer for four months.  With her dying breath, Samantha encouraged a grief-stricken Ivan to marry the beautiful nurse that had been her faithful companion, never leaving her side – the thick-eye-lashed Suzie.  At the end of the book Ivan and Suzie decide that Samantha will be the name for their first child if it is a girl, and they ride off in the sunset together.  They had just buried Samantha, but they were already planning their wedding and future children.

I couldn’t make it through the book without rolling my eyes, but apparently the throngs of people that bought it did not agree with me.  Mother started getting invited to read portions of her book at Romance conferences.  She encouraged young writers to believe in themselves and believe in true love – Mom’s latest cause.  The book became a featured item in the Harlequin catalog; Mother was elated.

“What about you and Carl?” she asked me one evening.  I was nearly finished with University and was ready to graduate with a BA, but Mother was more interested in my love-life.

“We need to wait until he finishes school, Mother,” I said.  I hated it when she butted her nose into my life.  “Carl has two jobs and can’t afford to quit them, so night school is his only option.”

Mother shook her head and tried to hug me.  I took a step back, refusing to be pitied.  She tried to give me a pep talk, Mother’s version of how things should be done.

“Your father worked two jobs when we got married,” she said.  “We got married on such a shoe-string budget…”

“I’m not you, Mother!”  I shouted.  As soon as I did, I regretted it.  She shrunk away from me and her eyes clouded with tears.  I wanted to apologize, but instead I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. 

“Carl and I will get married, but we don’t want a shoestring budget.  We don’t want a rush wedding, we want to plan and not incur debt…”

Mother brightened.  “Mother of the Bride will pay!” she said.  I almost laughed, but then I could tell she wasn’t joking.  She was bright with hope and promise, and I sunk inside of myself, knowing I should have thought of another excuse.

*  *   *  *

“Honeymoon Ecstasy” was another best-seller, breaking the bank and making Mother  a cash cow for her publisher.  Her agent invited her to New York for the launch, but Mother refused, saying that wedding planning was a full-time job. 

She literally took over all of the preparations.  I told her what Carl and I wanted for the wedding day and Mother went to any lengths to get it.  She made our rustic wedding look so rustic, despite the huge price tag I knew everything  came with.  When it came time for the bride’s dance with her father, I surprised Mother and had a dance for just the two of us.  As “In My Daughter’s Eyes” played, we cried and danced and hung on to each other. 

“Thanks for everything, Mother,” I said. 

“My girl,” Mother was sobbing, but managed to say something above the music:  “True Love conquers all…”

As she wept on my shoulder, I rolled my eyes.  Why was she crying?  Was she happy for Carl and I?  Was she happy about true love?  Was she sad that Daddy had died?  I was left with the feeling of not knowing my own mother, the feeling that pervaded my life.  I hated that feeling – it was surprising how much I felt it. 

The honeymoon was in Niagara Falls, just like Ivan and Suzie had.  In the book, the young couple overlooked the falls and declared their love as they watched the rainbow lights shining on “the drifts and billows of crashing waves” – I knew even before Mother gave me the envelope that we were headed there.

“Does it overlook the falls?” I asked Mother, wryly. 

She only looked wounded as she answered me, “Who told you?”

*  *   *   *

Last week I waddled into the store and saw it there, her latest book.  Mom stopped celebrating the release of her novels; she was as prolific as Carl and I were.  As I gave birth to children, Mother gave birth to books.  While I paced the floors at night with sick children, Mother paced the floors at night with her characters, always wrestling with the same drama that most people wrestle with, but with beauty and makeup and lots of kissing.  All of her characters seemed to be caught up in the same misery that was familiar to me; Suzie definitely saw more romantic action than I did.  Writing about the monotony of motherhood, Mother realized, is not what creates bestsellers.

I had placed a quarreling Zeke and Olivia in the back of the cart to duke it out once and for all.  Joshua, in his car seat, was nestled carefully in the basket directly in front of me.  I was so pregnant that I felt ready to burst at any moment.  Carl had started a new job and couldn’t take any more time off.  I found myself, disheveled and going to the store to replenish our ever dwindling supply of children’s cough syrup, with my troop of noisy  kids. 

There it was on the shelf, “Making Time for Love” – the cover art mocking me as I looked at it.  As the kids bickered in the back of the cart, I couldn't help but reach for it.  A beautiful woman, carrying a baby in each arm, looked over her shoulder at a man, dressed in a three-piece suit, necktie blowing behind him as he sped out the front door, briefcase in hand.  

The synopsis on the back read:  “Before the children, Ivan and Suzie enjoyed a life of mutual seduction.  Is their romance now in jeopardy with a new job and new children?  Can the lovers make time for one another and cherish each other as they did in the early days?”

Give me a break, Mother.

freak

Ella Harper - also known as The Camel Woman -
traveled in side shows between 1873-1886.
She also had genu recurvatum, like the girl in this story

   June 12, 1919  

Bristol, England

Dear Aunt Martha,

I write to you in the hopes that my letter will reach you and find you well and healthy. I have been unable to receive correspondence due to our vaudeville troupe’s traveling schedule but I do hope that soon will change. I trust that my previous letters were not misdirected, but anything is possible after the war.  

We have heard news that a terrible flu has reached the cities in America, causing many to die.  We have a doctor that travels with our troupe, who is determined to keep us all well and healthy.  We are instructed to refrain from certain foods, such as bread and cake, while he prescribes  hot peppers (called  jalapenos) and laxatives (that we call thunderbolts).  My friends and I say that the good doctor must be of the belief that if freaks can breathe fire, they should be able to eat and dispense of it!

The people in England never tire of visiting our midway act, coming in droves to see the vaudeville performances, especially since we have been able to acquire the Siamese twins, Adelaide and Ethyl.  They are quite a pair, singing and dancing with vigor - while being conjoined at the hip!  In between the people are allowed to view  Jupiter, the man with the oversized head, who has to sit in a special chair with a chin-rest to relieve his neck.  There is also J.J. the Panda Man, whose face is covered in black and white fur; and Clementine the Fat Lady, who has to sit on a steel water tank at every performance.  The people call us freaks, mainly because we are oddities of nature all living together.  With my backward knees, I can’t help but feel that I am the most normal of all of my colleagues.  Professor Marx is often harsh with me and doesn’t permit me to stand during daylight hours, at least when I am near the midway.  I am instructed to walk on all-fours, performing as the “spider-woman” that he says I am. 

In my last letter, I wrote to tell you of my friendship with Antonette, the “half woman” that I have been sharing rooms with since I began working the midway show with Professor Marx.  Antonette was born with no legs, but has a well-proportioned figure that finishes neatly at her waist. The elaborate dress she wears at each performance covers the pair of undersized feet she has at the end of her torso.  She tells Professor Marx that she will not be carried as he does Lily (the undersized dwarf he dresses like a child) but she prefers to move from place to place on her own.  She is a sight to see, dressed in pearls and lace, moving herself with strong, elegant arms the same way one would use crutches, but with grace and demure.  I believe Antonette is nothing like the public’s perception of a freak at all, being strikingly beautiful with many admirers!  Last month she received a letter via special delivery that held an invitation from a promoter named J.T. Cooley.  He wrote with his own hand and begged her to join his standing troupe in New York City, where he promised that she will be given her own rooms and a bathroom all to herself.   

Of course I was excited at the prospect of financial security for my friend, but secretly I was frightened that she would leave us all and take the grace that we so desperately need in our troupe.  I also mourned the loss of my only friend and roommate, if truth be told.  When she pressed me a few days later, asking me why my countenance was so sorrowful, I confessed this to her.  She only smiled and waved me over to her.  With such tenderness, she took my hands in hers and assured me that she would not leave without me.  She had answered Mr. Cooley’s letter and told him all about our friendship and accepted his invitation on the condition that I be allowed to come with her!  Auntie, I hardly knew what to say!  If my tears did not communicate my gratitude, my words certainly did.  So, next month Antonette and I will pack our trunks for one last journey overseas.  Once we arrive in New York we will see if the accommodations are as promised.  If they are not, we will join our funds together and will rent an apartment independently.  We will see, once we arrive in New York, if the city is as hospitable as we hear it is.  I am determined to save all the money I can for our upcoming journey.

I am excited for my upcoming move, Auntie.  I can only dream that you and I may be finally able to see each other.  I want you to know that I have never blamed you and Uncle Arthur for handing me over to Professor Marx.  I understand how difficult it was to pay for my medical treatment and after the doctor diagnosed me with the congenital disorder of genu recurvatum, I could see in your face that you could not manage.  I will not expect anything of you, Auntie.  I only hope that we may meet up for a luncheon or lemonade once in awhile.  I will send you my address once I am settled in New York City.

I aim to quit this business as soon as I can, Auntie, but for now it is a good income and with so many people out of work, I know I should not complain.  Until I can write again, please keep well and greet my mother for me.  If she would ever want to write me a letter, tell her I would be most grateful to receive it. 

Sincerely Yours,

Caroline

passage

The old European sage at Congregation bet Torah was a gentle Rabbi by the name of Hopcraft, a man whose very presence inspired respect and admiration.  As if his age were not reason enough to honor Rabbi Hopcraft, his congregants knew that his experience was.  He had weathered the seasons with his synagogue in the brutal landscape of 1940’s Louisiana until now; the Rabbi deserved a medal.  Judaism in the South had endured persecution, defacement and evil threats to retire any Rabbi in one decade alone.  After years of controversy, the temple was still standing – and recognized as one of the oldest Southern Jewish synagogues in America. 

It was a deeply held tradition – and a personal desire - that Rabbi Hopcraft could choose his replacement.  As the old Rabbi neared the age of final retirement, he didn’t look forward to the task.  His choices for Senior Rabbi made him sigh with disdain and shake his head.  His poor congregation didn’t know how he wrestled under the responsibility of leaving them with the best Rabbi for their growth and enlightenment. 

There was the obvious choice of the eldest Rabbi, Dr. Wolfe, who had a PhD and many framed certificates on his wall.  He impressed the whole congregation with his knowledge of History, but the man seemed more suited to leading the Progressives.   His head was always covered in some fun-colored yarmulke, like the one he wore to shul, with the silver metallic landscape of Jerusalem around the edges, or the suede grey one he wore to Safeway in view of all the goys. Rabbi Wolfe had been faithful to the congregation and to him, visiting the sick and the downtrodden, but secretly Hopcraft detested him.  As Wolfe professed to know so much about the faith, Hopcraft only trusted him to answer only menial questions, asking him to defer to himself for serious issues.  Who could really trust a Rabbi who wore a neon green yarmulke to a briss? 

The young Rabbi, Silverman, was out of the question completely.  His services were dry, reading the Holy Book with such apathy that it became jejune.  How could he possibly trust the bumbling nephew of some influential Rabbi in New Orleans with words that transcended life, each one beautiful, potent and powerful? As if this was not bad enough, the young Rabbi had a terrible habit of slathering compliments on Hopcraft like his wife used to grease the chickens before they were roasted.  Silverman made a point of finding him at every social meeting he attended and standing next to him, heaping piles of such clumsy praise on the elder Rabbi that he would be tempted to tear his clothes and weep to the heavens. 

In between the flippant scholar and the clueless sycophant was Rabbi Eliezer Helm.  Helm was a humble man, fattened and bald with almost no ambition or vision for the future.  He had managed to inherit his father’s fortune and still remain single – a feat of note in Shreveport, where the Jewish women outnumbered the men three to one.  Helm had spent ten years with Hopcraft at Congregation bet Torah doing the impossible: bringing the progressives and the conservatives together as one.  He had been a cantor in his youth, but his father, a Shreveport businessman, recognized that his son would never be happy until he had completed the sacred path of becoming a Rabbi.  After four years at Columbia University, the elder Helm enrolled his son in the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.  It was a long stretch of twelve years that the Helms were without their only son, but Rabbinical school was worth it to the family – or so they told Rabbi Hopcraft. 

For six years, Rabbi Helm studied and absorbed enough to become a serious Rabbi.  He spent one additional year in Israel, as is the good custom.  He returned to Shreveport with much less hair than when he left, but with much more compassion.  Hopcraft was amazed at the heart Helm had for the people.  He read the Holy Torah with such feeling it made others weep; he had the heart of a cantor and the wisdom of Solomon.  He was lacking only one thing: a good woman.  This lack made him seem misplaced as a Louisiana Rabbi.  Maybe New Yorkers could get away with that deficit, but down here in the south it was a different story.

“Why don’t you marry, Eliezer?” Hopcraft once asked Rabbi Helm over coffee.  “Here you are, a young man of thirty with no wife.  Don’t you want a woman beside you in this high calling?”

Helm only nodded, smiling sheepishly.  “I do wish for a wife, but HaShem has not given me one.  I think I might be too fat for the whole marriage thing.”

Hopcraft thought of Esther, his own wife.  She adored him while she was alive, even though he had been a hefty man himself.  In his youth he had rotund vigor, and their union had produced six children.  All had families of their own now; all still lived in community.  Time being the merciless beast that it is tore Esther away like a thief.  As the Rabbi grieved her loss, his fatness left him.  Folds of skin now hung from his face, chest and flanks like pillowcases, once filled with merriment, now empty and sagging. 

“Size is not important,” Hopcraft told the younger Rabbi, who choked on his coffee as he tried not to laugh.  “A good woman can see a man’s heart despite his physical form.  A good wife possesses a heart that can only come from one place.”

“If you know of anyone who may be good for me,” Helm said earnestly.  “Tell her that I will love and provide for the right woman.  I have even tried the orthodox matchmaker…”

“What came of that?”

“I met a girl,” Helm recalled the memory sadly.  “But her family said I was too progressive.”

“Nonsense!” Hopcraft pushed his mug away with his wrinkled hand.  “You have been to Israel!  You have studied!  You can read Yiddish and Hebrew better that her father, I am sure!”

Helm shrugged.  “How was it my business to question the family’s decision?”  He shook his head and sighed.  “I know I can’t control this matter.  When the One who knows all things deems it is right, it will be right.”

It had been ten years and Rabbi Helm remained wifeless.  Hopcraft lamented the young Rabbi’s lackadaisical attitude.  He knew that a Southern Rabbi had no chance of inheriting a congregation if he was unmarried.  He wondered many times, from the solace of his office, what could be done.

*  *   *   *

In April, the young woman arrived from Brooklyn. 

  She was niece to Ruth Simon, a beautiful old woman who was a regular at Ladies Temple Society.  She had recently become incapacitated and hired a nurse, but the young woman heard about the dilemma and rushed to her Aunt’s side like a good Jewish girl.  He had seen her at Temple - she was a small girl, she didn't seem to be attached to anyone.

“Shall I come with you to visit her?” Rabbi Silverman was blocking the entrance to his office, hanging on to the doorjamb like a kitten.  “I know you are able to handle a simple visit, Rabbi, but I thought perhaps I would be able to learn from you as you….”

“There is no need, good Rabbi,” Hopcraft adjusted his hat and coat, trying to show the young man he was ready to pass into the hallway.

“I need to learn from you, even more than you have mercifully taught me,” the young man droned on like an old refrigerator.  “It will be a delight to meet her and come with you.”

“Don’t you have an intended?” Rabbi Hopcraft pushed past the fawning idiot and into the hallway where he could breathe. 

“Yes, I do!  Sarah Littleton and I will be married in January of next year,” Silverman sounded proud of himself as if he had been the magnet to entice Miss Sarah Littleton into marriage.  She was surely a weak-witted girl with little or no prospects in New Orleans, where the Silvermans bewitched her into marrying their nephew. 

“I suspect,” Rabbi Hopcraft turned back to the young Rabbi, who nearly ran into him from behind.  “That this Sarah would not like you visiting other young ladies.  Even with a senior Rabbi.”

He enjoyed the look of confusion on Silverman’s face.  It looked as if he had shut the young Rabbi up once and for all; instead it caused another outpouring of nonsense words.

“Oh, Rabbi!  I had not thought of that!  You are too, too good!  I had no idea…”

Rabbi Hopcraft continued down the hall and stopped at Rabbi Helm’s door.   He rapped twice with his knuckles on the frame, causing Eliezer to look up from his book. 

“I need a ride to the widow Simon’s house, are you available?”

Rabbi Helm looked blankly at Hopcraft, shrugging and nodding as he stood.  As he stretched with the laziness of a cat, the old Rabbi would hear Silverman behind him.

“If all you need is a ride, I can drive you!  I can stay in the car…”

The widow Simon’s house was an ancient structure that was beautiful from the street, but at closer examination needed paint and new screens. 

The girl came to the door to answer and Rabbi Hopcraft saw that she was as the house was.  In the service she seemed beautiful, but at closer inspection she was not much to look at.  Her eyebrows were bushy and a mole came out of one of them.  Her face came to a point at her chin, then gave way to a long neck and bony shoulders.  They girl looked like a modern day Olive Oyle, complete with knobby knees and clothes that were woefully unflattering. 

“We are here to see the aunt,” Rabbi Hopcraft said, sadly.  From behind him, Rabbi Helm removed his hat and bowed in courtesy. 

“Please come in,” the girl said, smiling.  It took the edges away from her face and made her appear a little rounded, especially in the face.  She pushed the screen door open, making a small passage for both Rabbis into the main sitting room. 

Rabbi Helm had to squeeze through and accidentally brushed the girl’s arm, making her apologize and blush furiously.

“I’m not an Hassidic Rabbi, please be at ease…” Rabbi Helm was smiling and the girl was, too – Hopcraft was secretly delighted.

“Would either of you like a drink?” the girl looked as if she was still blushing. 

“I do have a tickle in the back of my throat,” Rabbi Hopcraft confessed.  “But permit me to ask your name.  We have not met.”

“I am Esther,” the girl said, bowing slightly.  Rabbi Hopcraft was taken aback, feeling a rush of emotion just for the mention of his dearly departed wife’s name. 

“I am Rabbi Hopcraft,” he managed to say.  “This is Rabbi Helm.”

The girl bowed again, and then disappeared to the kitchen. 

“A good girl,” Hopcraft said to Helm, who watched the girl retreat with some interest. 

“Yes.”

For a moment, both Rabbis looked around the room and did not sit.  There were bookshelves lining the wall, all covered with sentimental items: pictures, doilies, statues and teacups.  A bag of needlepoint lay open at the end of the sofa.  A golden birdcage in the corner held a small, stuffed bluebird, perched like it was ready to sing.  The room had particles of dust floating through the air and it made Rabbi Hopcraft cough, a feeling of heaviness descended upon him. 

“I think I need to sit down,” he said to Rabbi Helm, who had been looking at the framed pictures on the wall. 

“Here, good Rabbi,” Helm touched the back of a high-backed chair, doilies draping the arms. 

Rabbi Hopcraft sat, but the pressure remained.  He coughed again.  Then the pain came like lightning, clamping down like pliers viciously gripping his heart.  The old Rabbi’s hands flew to his chest, dropping the hat he held on the floor.  He heard thumping, like an elephant running on the wood floor.  He looked up to see the girl, Esther and Helm looking down at him with panic and fear. 

“Am I dying?” he wondered.  It was terrible, the pain.  He squeezed his eyes shut tight and cried out for relief…any relief. 

“Rabbi, Rabbi…” he heard the sound of a train in a tunnel, a terrible feeling came into his head: his congregation would be left with the Rabbi Wolfe, with his sandy colored beard and brightly colored yarmulkes.  How could he do this?  He should have appointed someone years ago…

“You!” he heard himself say.  It escaped him, as he clenched his body, in strident urgency.  “Marry each other and lead these people!”

He opened his eyes.  The two were still staring back at him, panicked.  Rabbi Helm’s face seemed larger and bloated, but he realized it was because the Rabbi was crying.  Rabbi Hopcraft wondered if the couple understood him. 

There was the terrible pain, a terrible long grip.  The pliers continued to clamp down, and then there were the sirens and the blackness.  The blackness surrounded him and he surrendered to it, helpless to change any part of the future.  

***

pupusas

Keekeeyo, the rooster, was crowing in the front courtyard, sounding like bacon frying in a pan.  Amanda rose, wondering if she had remembered to water the chickens the night before.  She nudged her husband, Juan as she lifted little Pepito from the bed.

“Get up,” she said, gently.  “Keekeeyo is already awake!”  Juan opened his eyes, but turned his back toward her.  The night before the couple had fought and Juan left her to drink beer with Alejandro.  Amanda remembered him crawling over her to get to his side of the bed sometime during the night.  She pretended to be asleep, even when Juan stroked her hair and apologized. 

Now she stared at his back and sighed.  She knew it would be difficult to rouse him with the hangover, so she tied Pepito to her back and went to the outhouse.  The air was already warm and Keekeeyo was crowing madly.  The hens saw her and followed her like children as she walked over the broken pebbled pathway, white with lime wash to keep the scorpions away.

She took the stick and opened the door, making careful circles with the wood around the seat.  The air was stiff and ripe already.  As she sat down, Amanda knew it would be another hot day.  She heard Pepito yawn, then mutter something.

“Yes, it is hot already,” she said, playfully.  Amanda thought of how the child would be bathed in the yellow enamel  tub, fresh water washing luxuriously over his tiny body.  She wished she could be a child again, even if it meant she would be incontinent and dependent on someone, if only she could experience the thrill of a fresh water bath each morning.

She closed the door to the outhouse and was surprised to see Juan walking toward her.  She was careful to look down and avert his gaze.  He would accuse her of wicked things if he was still angry.  Instead of an unsteady walk, Juan took careful steps along the pathway, reaching her and stepping to the side so that she could pass.  She turned back to watch him complete his walk to the outhouse, which he did unceremoniously, leaving the stick outside.  It wasn’t necessary that he sweep the seat, since she had just been sitting down and proven the absence of a scorpion or spider.  Being the second one to the outhouse had its advantages.

Amanda could not escape the chickens, who clucked anxiously at her ankles, reminding her to tip a tin can of seed for them in the courtyard.  She reached across the wood column that supported the east side of their simple adobe home, clutching the top of a large rubber garbage barrel.  Inside was a rusted can and a smattering of seeds on the bottom of the barrel that could not be scooped up.  

Because of its position, Amanda could not lift the barrel easily.  She had to step down to the garbage area and move the  pieces of wood and aluminum away from it in order to grip it in her hands and lift it to the courtyard.  She managed, since the barrel was not heavy, to tip it over and let the dregs of the food fall across the courtyard, in full sun.  The chickens madly pecked at the seed, as if they knew it was the last of it.  The fat red hen got most of it.  The little grey one, a gift from her father for Pepito’s birth, got barely any.

“Why aren’t you faster?” Amanda scolded him, walking back to the garbage area and setting the barrel back in place.  “You will die in no time if you let that Mama bully you!” She looked up to see Juan smiling at her; she steeled herself.

“Are you working today?” she placed the wood and aluminum pieces  gently in place againt the barrel.  “If the family manages to pay you today we might be able to buy more feed so that they can continue laying.” 

Juan looked at her steadily.  “I am working.” 

He went into the house and Amanda heard him getting dressed.  She walked into the darkened home, a simple square of twenty by twenty feet.  A bright yellow curtain hung near the center, dividing their bedroom from the living area, an orderly arrangement of a lamp, couch and chair with a small table used for eating.  There was a long table against the South wall that was their kitchen.  A small grey gas stove sat next to a clay base that dispensed fresh water from a plastic five liter bottle.  The writing on the clay base said “Yosemite” and had a great mountain with a man overlooking a valley.  

Sometimes Amanda wondered where the mountain of Yosemite was.  

For now, she brought a red plastic washing basin from under the table and filled it with two cups of water from the dispenser. 

Soon Juan came from behind the curtain and walked to the basin to wash his hands and face. 

Amanda watched him from the corner of her eye.  He was a tall man, strong and lean like his father.  He had the curse of being handsome, and an even greater curse of a curled moustache.  He reached for the rag that hung next to the door and dried his hands and face.  When they were dry, he turned toward Amanda, his eyes round and brown.  She handed him his white straw hat, but did not smile.  Amanda knew that he was sorry, but she would not look at him.  Instead of speaking, Juan left quietly, his footsteps crunching against the pebbles.  Keekeeyo crowed at him, his voice weak and crackling like a dying fire. 

“Daddy is off to work,” Amanda said quietly to Pepito.  “Now it is time for you!”  She was untying the cloth that tightly held him against her back and reached around to cradle her five-month-old son in her arms.  His large brown eyes (just like his father’s) took a moment to focus, but soon saw his mother’s face and a great smile broke out over his face.  The child contracted his arms and legs and stretched them out as if to celebrate her presence.  The action made Amanda laugh in gratitude.

“Yes,” she said, softly.  “It is the bath time.”  The child was dimpled and fat and filled with joy as Amanda washed him in the same basin Juan had just used.  She poured out two more cups on her son’s brown belly and Pepito inhaled deeply before urinating in volcanic fashion. 

There was a cracked mirror in their tiny kitchen, hanging above the washing basin.  In between bathing her son, Amanda caught glimpses of herself, hair still neatly braided on each side; face pale against her black hair.  She smiled and her dimples appeared, the ones that her Papa loved.  She always knew she was his favorite daughter and therefore bore the happiness of a dearly loved child.  Today, she would have to go to him and ask for money.  If he granted it to her, she would buy the seed that her husband wouldn’t.  She would be the one who would be responsible for a harvest.

“Hola! Amanda!”  A voice called to her from the courtyard.  Amanda reached for the rag to dry her son, but could not find it. 

“Si, yo soy aqui!”  She called, steadying her son with one hand and searching for it with the other.  She finally found it, placed carelessly next to the basin instead of the hook by the door.  Juan had left it on the counter in his way out.

“Good Morning!”  Abita stepped into her home, freshly bathed and looking smart in a white blouse and red skirt with a yellow belt.  “Are you coming to the pupusaria with me today?”

Amanda looked at her friend and exhaled, with great regret.  She had forgotten her promise to her friend, made only two days ago.  Abita ran a local pupusaria, where she would cook the stuffed tortillas for the villagers for lunch and evenings.  Lately, business was good and Abita had asked Amanda to help just to ease the workload during the lunchtime.  Amanda had agreed, knowing she and Juan could use extra money.

“I’m sorry, Abita,” Amanda said.  “I have to go see my father today!”  Pepito squirmed as she dried him.  Amanda walked to the bed and laid him down to dress him in the soft cloth diapers and wool soakers she had made him.  There was a cotton shirt she was planning on making him wear, but she couldn’t find it in his drawer.

Abita had followed her behind the curtain.  “Why not visit your Papa tomorrow?  My sister will be back home by then and I will not need any help at all.  Are you able to postpone one day?”

Amanda located the shirt behind one of her own.  The family had only one chest of drawers and so far things were manageable, but crowded. 

“I need to see him today,” Amanda looked up at her friend, a thin woman with a long face.  Abita had glasses, but wore them only at night.  The bridge of her nose had two oval marks where her glasses rested normally.  Amanda thought the marks made her friend  look clever.  “I need to buy the seed to plant corn today.  It is the last week I will have to plant.  I’ve made the rows in the field but Juan will not buy them.”

Abita shifted on her feet, looking at her friend with a small scowl.  “Didn't you say that Juan is not going to plant the American seeds?”

“He has refused to use them,” Amanda shook her head, angrily.  “Even though the American seed is cheaper... and grows faster.  He wants to buy the seed that his father got from Honduras.  He says that seed will do better in our soil.”

“And the farmers are not annoyed by the Honduran seed,” Abita said, quietly.  Amanda looked up at her and raised her eyebrows.  

“While some farmers can have the luxury of being annoyed by the American seed, my field is waiting to be planted!  I have a baby and I have no money!  I have to borrow the money as it is to buy the cheap seed!”

Abida knew to be silent.  Pepito’s round body bounced as Amanda tightened the soaker in place.  He looked at the ceiling as his mother unfolded his shirt and pulled it over his head.   “Now I am forced to buy the seed that I myself will sow into the ground so it will not go fallow?  I choose the promise of life and I am the rebel?  I am the traitor to my people?”

Abita exhaled and sat down on the bed.  “I need you today, Amanda.  I need you to help me make the pupusas.  You love helping me.  Please come and take your mind off of this.  You can postpone this trip for one day, can’t you?”

Amanda shook her head, straightening Pepito’s clothes.  “We fought last night,” she said, motioning for Abita to help her make the bed.  The friends stood and made the bed carefully, like sisters used to working around Pepito.  “Last night he called me a traitor and a disobedient wife.”

Abita nodded, looking up at her friend to see  if the emotion in her voice was actually tears.  She could see a red-eyed Amanda straightening the pillows. 

“You know he is under great pressure,” Abida said, softly.  “The farmers he works with don’t like the American seeds.  They’re unnatural and forced upon us…”

“The farmers he works with don’t put food on our table!”

“They help, don’t they?” Abida  shook her head.  “It is a small town and I promise you that if you plant that field with the yellow seed…”

“What?” Amanda straightened herself and placed her hands on her small hips.  “They will know?  They will find out and treat Juan harshly?”

“You know they will!” Abita looked at her friend, still unbending in her stance before her.  In a moment, she shrugged her shoulders.  “Look, I respect your desire to grow a crop.  God knows that you are one brave soul for not caring about the farmers’ position… but take one more day to think about it.”  Amanda was thinking deeply; Abita continued.  “I need you today, conchita bonita!”  She saw a flash of hope in her friend’s eyes as she stroked the child’s arms lovingly.   Almost intentionally, Amanda became stoic.

“I need to do this…” she said and picked up her son.  She hoisted him on her hip and walked back out to the kitchen.  Reaching under the narrow kitchen table, Amanda took out a clean, blue cloth and tied Pepito to her back, securing him deftly.  The child made a small squeal as his mother tightened the knot, but soon Amanda heard him cooing.   

Abida followed her friend out to the courtyard, where the chickens chased her down the path, hungry and ready to eat again. 

*    *    *    *

It was noon and the oil in her pan was smoking, causing Abida to step away from her cooktop.  There were three hungry customers in line and each of them wanted the pupusas with cheese and cabbage slaw.  She had just run out of cabbage slaw, using the last of it on the customers before these. 

“It will be five minutes, at least,” she told the men, breathlessly.  They looked at the sun to see if they could wait, which panicked Abida.  “I will hurry!  You will be more than satisfied!”  The men looked at each other, but walked back and forth with familiar impatience that Abida had grown accustomed to. 

She pulled a ball of masa from the bowl, rolling it around her palms quickly and snapping it back and forth between her hands.  The “slap slap slap slap” of dough both comforted and tempted the men, who watched the process with mouths watering.  The dough became a bowl between her fingers and then Abida filled the bowl with cheese.  She reached for a fingerful of dough and then covered the pupusa over again.  She reached for her wooden dowel to roll the stuffed tortilla flat, just as she heard a rhythmic chopping behind her.  She turned to see Amanda, chopping the cabbage slaw with care and speed.  She reached for carrots and onion, gently moving around her friend.  The two women considered each other with faint smiles as they sped through the process to feed the three men before they would walk off. 

“So you did not go see your Papa?” Abita asked Amanda.  The question hung in the air and for awhile Abita thought that perhaps her friend had not heard her.

“I need to think about it one more day,” she finally heard her say. The onions were being sliced with accuracy, her friend could tell.  She began to smell the combination of the slaw ingredients, even as the dough was being fried.

“If we sell twenty pupusas today,” Abita said, smiling.  “You will have enough money to go buy a sack of seed to feed your hens.”

“The hens are not as important as this child in my house,” Amanda said as she mixed the slaw ingredients together and placed a portion on top of each grilled tortilla.  The pupusas’ corners were brown, dripping with cheese and fragrant with savory seasoning.  The men smiled eagerly at the creations, nodding their thanks to the women as they paid and took their food away from the counter. 

“Those hens lay eggs,” Abita said, quickly.  “Eggs are for the humans; seed is for the hens.”

The next two customers came to the stand, asking how fresh the chorizo was.  As Abita told them it was purchased last night, Amanda considered her son, asleep on her back.  The greatest joy of motherhood, she thought, was knowing that her son was always with her, content with the world around him and unconcerned about the politics of seeds. 

For a good pupusa recipe check this out!

In July of this year farmers across El Salvador united to block the purchase of Monsanto genetically modified seeds.  They chose, instead to plant local seeds that have caused a greatly reduced harvest, but one they can have confidence in.  Today family farms in El Salvador are fighting to keep enough of the food they grow to feed their families.  To help them, you can sign a petition here.

Callie

Callie (in striped shirt) and I (in white shirt) with the women at one of the churches in Mozambique
(Ingreja Alianca de Mocambique)

I remember the day I met her.  

Her reputation preceded her: a prophetic woman who was married to Keir, a graceful lady that bore a no-nonsense approach to evangelism.  She believed that if a Christian testified what God had done for them it would be easy for others to listen - I believed the same thing. 

Her name was Callie and I called her Snow White behind her back.  It wasn’t just because she looked like the Disney princess, with shocking black hair, creamy white skin and red lips that were always smiling.  It was also because she was such a supportive force for her husband, gently supporting him as he went to claim the pearls of great price in the mission field.  Callie had a dreamy grace that made me want to be like her.  She also liked me, which makes it easy to be friends with someone.

We met on a trip into Mozambique, in a village just north of Maputo.  The local pastors were organizing a big tent revival and asked Keir and his team to come and host an “outreach”.  We visited the churches on the Sunday before the weekend, our team meeting the pastors and their wives before we started working together.  I was surprised that Keir and Callie asked Mario and I to accompany them to the church we went to, but we gladly went.

“We may be asked to go fetch bread,” Callie whispered to me just outside the church building.  It must have been a thousand degrees Fahrenheit and I was already dripping in sweat. 

“Where is the bakery?” I asked, crystals of perspiration already sliding off my face. 

“I hope it is not far,” Callie said, smiling mischievously.  We both giggled, like sisters.  Was I that obvious?  I didn't want to walk far in that heat and I knew it fall to the women to schlep the whole load of bread back to the church for the after-service.

We found the bakery, mercifully only a few hundred meters down the road.  The baker was expecting us and already had a few plastic bags ready for us to take away.  I was grateful, but sticky when we arrived back at the church. 

“Why aren’t you sweating?” I finally asked Callie, who seemed embarrassed by the question. 

“Believe me, I am,” she answered. 

“I can’t tell,” I said.  The observation made Callie laugh.  “I’m sure not used to this heat.”  I would have fanned myself if I had a free hand.  I was still used to being in Africa.

The trip was groundbreaking for Mario and I.  It was the first trip we had with Keir and Callie and we were greatly impressed by their marriage and their desire to serve God together.  They seemed inseparable, but I l later found out that Callie and Keir were no strangers to separation.  During a time of conversation that evening, Keir and Callie told us their story.  Their words spilled out like diamonds as we listened.  They had spent the early years of their marriage with Keir in the army and then later years with him on the road and Callie home with the kids.  Keir was a man that was famous for his crusades, evangelizing tirelessly with teams, going in and out of Sub-Saharan Africa.

“You seem so close,” I confessed to her later.  “You don’t seem bitter about all the separation you had to go through…”  I wanted my marriage to Mario be selfless, but I didn’t think we could be the kind of couple that still filled with intimacy and tenderness, like theirs seemed to be. 

“We are close,” she told me.  “But it is because God has caused that.   I’ve supported Keir in this ministry and God has given me the grace to be without him when he’s gone.”

“I don’t know if I could do it,” I said. 

Callie only smiled.  “Well, has God asked you to?”

I thought about the question long and hard.  I was a little relieved that the answer was no.  God never asked me to surrender Mario to long, solitary trips or be on long trips without me.  I was glad that He hadn’t,  I hated separation. 

The Mozambique trip was not our only trip together; it wasn’t our only ministry together.  I loved ministry with Keir and Callie – it was so honest, so refreshing. 

One of the reasons I love it is because Callie is one of the most unique mentors I have in my life.  She doesn’t try to teach, she just naturally imparts love and wisdom just by being herself.  I love who she is because of the love she has for others, and for me.  I also love the way she teaches me.  

The Bible says “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” (Proverbs 25:11).  For our mentors, this is true.  They have a way of teaching that doesn't feel like we’re being taught, only that we are being befriended.