I wrote a little short story and I thought I'd post it. I think you may enjoy it.
A little background for you... This story is an offshoot from something that happens in my manuscript, concerning a very minor character, Fred Ellison. My male protagonist asked Mr. Ellison if he wanted a beer, and he said no, because he didn't drink, and he hadn't had a drink since 1981. He goes on to site the reasons why he'd stopped drinking... It involved a "disagreement" with his wife.
I liked his point of view (which is going to be cut from the manuscript, even though it is only 2 pages long). But I woke up one morning last week, thinking about his wife, who is a character in the manuscript. I was wondering what were her thoughts that day back in 1981. How did she feel? What was she going through?
Hmm...
Read my story "Buttermilk Biscuit Blues"...
But don't read it if you are hungry... Make sure you go eat first:)Butttermilk Biscuit Blues
I don’t know what happened early that Sunday morning in the spring of ‘81.
But something in me just snapped.
And for me, snapping ain’t normal.
I‘d always been like that taut red rubber band that held collard greens together in a tight bunch: strong, flexible and dependable. But sometimes a rubber band could be stretched too far and too wide for too long.
And finally snap.
And I guess that’s what happened with me that beautiful sunny morning. I snapped.
Now, my Sunday morning routine was just that: routine. I’d get up around 5 a.m., put on my housecoat and houseshoes, and make my husband Fred’s breakfast. Then I’d get dressed for a long day at Mount Zion Baptist church.
Fred never attended church, but felt he deserved a good hot breakfast on Sunday mornings. And he had to have his breakfast favorites: scrambled cheese eggs, hot grits, country sausage, peppered bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice. I even made buttermilk biscuits from scratch, which he loved sopping up with Sue Bee honey or Cane Patch syrup.
Afterall, he deserved it. Fred was a very active man. He was always good and hungry by the time he staggered in from the club or from the warm bed of whichever hussy he happened to be laying up with the night before.
Fred was a lying cheating husband. A low down dirty dog, he was. That didn’t have anything to do with me being the best wife I could be. At least that’s what my pastor would say from time to time.
But that morning, being a good wife was the last thing on my mind.
That morning, when Fred came in from a long night out?
I snapped.
Now, I could blame it on the daylight savings time. We weren’t falling back, but we were springing forward. That meant a lost hour of sleep. That would’ve been a silly excuse, because I hadn’t missed getting up and fixing Fred’s Sunday morning breakfast in ten years of marriage, whether we were springing forward or falling back in time.
I’d considered blaming it on the homemade peach brandy that my best friend Eartha slipped to me last night as I was leaving her house, just after I’d dropped my five-year-old son Marcus off for a sleepover with her seven-year-old nephew Samuel.
“Sylvia, here’s a little something for ya.” She placed a pint-sized mason jar of muddy brown liquid into a crumpled brown paper bag.
I shook my head. “No now, Eartha. You know I don’t fool with that stuff.” I only needed a little of it when I had a bad cold. A teaspoon of that concoction in my hot toddy could drive a cold out like nothing else.
“Unh-unh, go on and take it. Just a little something for them blues, that’s all. Just a little something to smooth out them blues, Sylvia.” There was no use in arguing with Eartha, as she always loved a good fight. I grabbed the jar tightly with both hands and shoved it into my large purse. Eartha was known as the neighborhood bootlegger, the woman to talk to for alcohol on Sundays. God forbid anyone see me walking out of her house with a mysterious brown paper bag. I would just pour it out when I got home.
But I didn’t pour it out.
I drank it instead, straight from the mason jar, while sitting in Fred’s big leather recliner in the den and watching Lady Sings the Blues on Channel 17.
Eartha was right. The homemade spirits, burning fire hot in my chest as I swallowed, did take away the blues. I had a good time right there in that recliner singing the blues with Diana Ross on a Saturday night.
Blaming the clock would have been easy. Blaming Eartha’s good peach brandy would have been even easier. But all that blame would have been nothing but lies.
I woke up at six o’clock that morning, which was seven o’clock really after the time change, and lay there on my side of the bed, drenched in sweat, not knowing where I was or who I was for that matter. I’d awaken on the strange end of a low moan, the sound of my own voice so early in the morning startling me. My heart was beating hard and fast like the wings of a mad hummingbird trying to steady herself in a high wind.
I’d been dreaming about the nice bus driver who drove the bus for my route to work, Lester Johnson. He always greeted me with a smile each time I stepped on the bus and dropped a quarter into the plexiglass fare box. Friday morning, my quarter missed its target and tumbled to the floor of the bus. I fell while trying to catch it before it rolled too far. Lester Johnson jumped up from the driver’s seat and helped me up from the floor. In that short moment, I could have sworn his touch held a bit more concern than it should have. And I enjoyed the warmth of his hands on my waist and forearm more than a married woman should have.
Maybe it just felt good to be touched by a man, if only in my dreams. Fred touched me about as often as the moon passed between the earth and the sun. And that was not often enough for a thirty-year old woman such as myself on the cusp of reaching my sexual peak.
Lester Johnson’s touch and comforting smile were heavy on my mind all day Friday and Saturday. And he was heavy in my dreams that Saturday night.
In my dream, far too much had gone on when I happened to get on what was usually a full bus to find it empty. Lester Johnson smiled and rose from his seat for other reasons far more pressing than casual customer assistance. He’d given me more pleasure on that bus floor than Fred had given me in years in my king sized bed.
I awaken that Sunday morning deeply disturbed by such erotic dreams, but at the same time highly disappointed that that dream was over. Nevertheless, I jumped from the bed, knelt down on my knees, and ask the Lord to forgive me...
...for wanting, for needing.
Now, I got up from my knees, composed myself, and went into the kitchen to get Fred’s breakfast together. I set the oven to preheat, then placed two sausage patties and four strips of bacon into the well seasoned cast iron skillet. I put on the grits, which would only take twenty minutes. I sifted the flour, baking powder, and salt into my favorite glass mixing bowl, and added a tablespoon of sugar to the mix to make the biscuits sweet, just the way Fred liked them. I cut in the shortening and buttermilk, and formed the dough into a ball, and proceeded to knead that ball twenty times, just like my Grandma had taught me so long ago.
I picked up the rolling pin I used for biscuits. It felt cool in my hand. A good fit, it was. It’d belonged to my grandma, and she’d passed it down to my mama, who passed it down to me. I could have easily made canned refrigerator biscuits, but that rolling pin was full of love and history. It reminded me of mornings in the kitchen as a child, watching grandma roll out those biscuits. It took me back to a time when I didn’t have a care in the world.
Just as I’d flattened the dough with my rolling pin, I heard Fred’s Cadillac come to a screeching halt in the driveway. A moment later I heard the hard angry squeak of the car door opening and shutting. Fred slammed the car door. That loud slam cut through the peaceful spring morning like a dull knife cutting through day old bread.
Fred fumbled with his keys at the front door, but finally found the right one. He shuffled in and threw the keys on the half-moon mahogany table in the foyer. His steps grew louder and louder. They weren’t sure and strong, but weak and uncertain.
Oh yes, he was good and drunk.
“What . . . What the hell? Sylvia, where’s my breakfast?”Lies were birds perched on the tip of my tongue, ready and eager to take flight. I thought about telling him that I had to run to the store for more flour for his biscuits, or that the pilot light had gone out in the stove.
But lying was Fred’s specialty, not mine. I was determined to be the best wife I could be.
I sprinkled a little flour on the rolling pin. “Good morning, Fred.”
Fred was quiet. I glanced over my shoulder to see him leaning against the doorjamb, peering at me curiously, like I was some odd bird that had just flown into the room. Even in a wrinkled brown suit and with a hard scowl on his face, Fred, twelve years my senior, was still as handsome as the first day I met him.
I reached into a kitchen drawer and retrieved a thin round biscuit cutter. “Breakfast will be a little late this morning, Fred. I overslept. You know, I usually wake up with the birds, but I guess I was just tired last night. Give me about thirty minutes, and―”
“Thirty minutes my ass!” he yelled. He stumbled towards me. “Woman, you better have my breakfast ready when I come in this house, you hear me?”
I reached in the silverware drawer for a fork so that I could flip the bacon. The sausage cooked slower, and would need a couple of minutes before it was ready to be turned. “Fred, have a seat. Your orange juice and newspaper are on the table. Breakfast will be right up.”
He shoved me hard, causing me to drop the fork. A drop of hot grease popped from the skillet and landed on my index finger. Fred leaned against me, grasping my arm in a hard angry grip, his breath a mix of old liquor and the tart scent of a woman. “I didn’t ask you all that, Sylvia. I said you better have my breakfast ready when I come in this house.”
He shoved me hard against the counter again before backing away.
“I tell you.” He knocked the open newspaper from the square formica table. “A man has a right to a good hot breakfast after he been out all night. And here you are, talking about ‘breakfast will be right up’. You sounding crazy. I pay the bills in this house and I expect my food to be on the damn table! Woman, you better be glad I come home at all. I could be―”He didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence. In one quick flash, I whipped around, and swung the rolling pin like I was Arthur Ashe going for the grand slam tennis championship. Fred didn’t even know what hit him.
I hit Fred so hard upside the head that a large crack split the surface of the rolling pin. My rolling pin, so full of love and history, was now tainted by violence. I stared down at Fred, who was sprawled out and unconscious on the kitchen floor with biscuit dough stuck to the side of his head.
“So much for breakfast,” I muttered. I turned the knobs on the stove to the off position. The oven, hot and ready, wouldn’t be seeing biscuits today.
I stepped over Fred and went into the bedroom and got ready for church. I made sure to place the empty mason jar back into the crumpled brown paper bag. I shoved it deep into my purse. I was also quick to set the bedroom clock to the right time.
I went to church that morning and answered the altar call. I knelt at the steps of the altar and asked God to forgive me for hitting my husband. I asked him to forgive me for the anger I felt right before knocking Fred upside his head. I promised God that I wouldn’t yearn for Lester Johnson’s gentle touch, drink anymore of Eartha’s peach brandy, or forget to change my clock during daylight savings time...
. . . If only He’d take away the years and years of hurt and pain.
Or at least quench the nagging ache of loneliness in my life.
I knew that nothing was impossible with God. But I didn’t have much faith in His ability to stamp out loneliness.
I spoke with Pastor after church, my eyes averting his as I shook his hand. I just knew he could tell that I’d been through much that morning, but he said nothing except, “Good to see you this morning, Mrs. Ellison, and you enjoy the rest of your Sunday afternoon.”
I walked to my car and drove home. I would pick up my son Marcus a little later.
I walked into the house, and I had to admit that at that moment, I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid of whether Fred would retaliate, as he was not a violent man, save for this morning, but I was afraid that I would see him lying dead on the cold kitchen linoleum, stiff as a piece of old rotten wood.
I loved Fred. I didn’t want to see him dead.
The house was quiet, save for the distant sound of the running water of the bathroom shower. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he was up and about. I entered the kitchen to find it as I had left it. A smear of old biscuit dough was stuck to the tan and white kitchen linoleum. The bacon and sausage were cold and hard in the cast iron skillet, caked in white grease.
I took time to clean everything up. There was nothing worse than a dirty kitchen.
As I picked up pieces of rubbery biscuit dough from the rolling pin, I noticed the small crack that was there immediately after I hit Fred had lengthened into a wide ugly fissure. The fifty year old rolling pin, passed down three generations was now useless. I would be better off using a glass tumbler to roll out my biscuits than that fractured rolling pin.
I walked over to the tall stainless steel kitchen trash can next to the refrigerator and tossed the rolling pin in. Just then, at that very moment, I remembered
something my grandma said to me back when I was a little girl, no more than five or six years old, while sitting in her kitchen helping her prepare dinner. I closed my eyes tight. I could almost hear the sizzle of the chicken frying in the hot lard in the cast iron skillet and the smell of the collard greens and ham hocks simmering in a big soup pot on the old black stove. Grandma had just made biscuit dough, and had just plopped it down on the floured tabletop. She lifted the rolling pin from an old Maxwell House coffee can she used for storing large kitchen utensils and held it up by one handle. She rotated it slowly as if she was trying to work out the nagging arthritis in her wrist.
“
Sylvie, this right here is a good rolling pin. Real good. Good for rolling biscuits and pie crust to just the right thickness. Even good for rolling out those sugar cookies you like so much.”
I watched as she gripped the rolling pin in her large hand, weathered from so many years of living a hard life.
“Yes Lawd, yes Lawd. It’s good for all that, baby. All those good things.” She smiled and squinted at the rolling pin. “But it’s also good for impartation. And don’t you ever forget that, you hear me?”
I had no idea what she was talking about. All I could think about were those sugar cookies she and I made the past Christmas, all decorated with brightly colored sugar crystals.
She sprinkled flour on the ball of dough, then flattened the biscuit dough out with the rolling pin. “Sometimes, you just need to impart a little sense into a hard head. And a good sturdy rolling pin can be just the right thang to do that with.”
I watched as she chuckled to herself. I still had no idea what she meant, and I tucked her words back off into a dusty corner of my mind.
I finally understood her words of wisdom, so many years later. Wish I would’ve understood those words years ago, when Fred became the lying cheating husband that he was that day..
Nothing wrong with a little impartation.
I reached into the trash can and retrieved the broken rolling pin.
No, it was no longer good for rolling out those mouth watering buttermilk biscuits that Fred loved so much. . .
. . . But I’m sure it would be good for a little impartation from time to time.
Borrowing Brains
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