By
the time Lonnie Jackson arrived at her daughter's room, Melody was
dancing to this newly created song, lost in the music.
"What
is it?" Lonnie’s face was red and sweaty, as though she had
previously been engaged in something vigorous.
Melody
stopped, looked up at her mother, and blinked almost audibly. "Huh?"
Lonnie
said her words slowly, and loudly. "Why did you call me?"
"Oh,"
Melody said, looking around her room. "Sorry. I don't remember
now. You should come sooner when I call you."
Lonnie
raised one eyebrow, but didn't say anything more. After a moment,
she turned around and began down the hallway, her fists balled up at
her sides.
"Wait,"
Melody shouted, jumping to her feet. "I remember what it was."
Lonnie
returned, this time much more slowly. "Okay," she said. "This better not be some funny trick."
"It
isn't," she said. "I promise. I just wanted to run an
idea past you."
Lonnie
walked into the center of Melody's bedroom, and sat down on the bed.
She ironed out her pants with her hands, and then placed them face
down on the bed as if for support. “You
do understand that I was down in the basement fixing the dryer.”
The
Jacksons always had a regrettable relationship with appliances.
Clothes dryers, however, historically had been the most unfortunate.
The belt in the current incarnation had a tendency to slip off the
drum every ten loads or so. The fix was to remove the top, reach
into the machine without falling into it and slip the belt back on
the track.
Melody
nodded. “Okay,” she said, seemingly not making any connection
between that act and her sudden need for her mother to listen to her
idea.
“My
point is,” Lonnie said, speaking determinedly. “You could have
come to me.”
Melody
continued to stare at her mother blankly.
“Because
your idea is more portable than the dryer.”
Melody
placed her hand on top of her mother's. “You look tired, mom. You
probably needed a break anyway. So, anyway...”
Lonnie
pulled her hand away. “Don't use that pop psychology garbage on
me.” She placed her own hand on top of her daughter's. “Just
tell me your idea already.” Lonnie leaned back on the bed and
settled in. She really did need a break actually, and Melody's bed
was soft and inviting. She wondered momentarily what her chances
were of convincing her daughter to make one of those fancy drinks
with the little umbrellas. She eventually decided this was about as
likely as Melody coming downstairs with her idea.
“Comfy?”
Lonnie
nodded. “Very,” she said, and with a wave of her hand she added,
“Proceed.”
Melody,
even by her own admission, tended to have some fairly wacky ideas at
times. Most of these went unfulfilled, not because they necessarily
weren't good ones, but because the girl tended to have more of them
than she could possibly stay focused on.
“Pardon
the cliché, but there simply aren't enough hours in the day,”
Melody would say if anyone noticed that one of her great intentions
had suddenly slipped through the cracks.
As
Melody gathered some documents for what appeared to be a full
presentation of some sort, Lonnie looked around her daughter's
bedroom. This project, for it truly was more project than room, was
a multitude of several glorious ideas. Due to the room's small size,
Melody was inspired to line all of her walls with shallow shelving
and place her bed in the middle at such an angle as to maximize
walking space. She had even come up with a complicated system of
categorizing all of the containers which Lonnie didn't really
understand. Most of the materials had already been purchased but
either sat idle in the basement, or were stacked to the ceiling in
the corner of the room.
"I
hope it isn't that you've decided to move into the attic now that
we've bought all of this stuff."
Melody
sighed, loudly. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. She
fumbled with the paper in her typewriter for a few minutes more,
seemingly forgetting that her mother was waiting next to her.
Finally,
unable to contain herself any further, Lonnie blurted out. "Well?!"
Melody
jumped, and then spun around. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Why
I summoned you."
Lonnie
stopped her. "First of all, " she said. "You did NOT
summon me. And even if you did, I..."
"It's
just an expression, Mother," Melody interrupted.
Lonnie
clacked her tongue against her teeth. "Really not liking the
way you called me mother, there."
Melody
squinted at her in a way which seemed to say, Maybe we don't need
to drag this conversation out any longer than necessary.
"So,"
she said aloud. "Here's my idea." Melody clapped her
hands together in a way she had seen football coaches do to rally the
attention of the players. "You know that little building across
the street, yes?"
Lonnie
nodded. "The weather station," she said. “Yes, I'm
quite aware of that. What about it?" Her eyes narrowed,
warily.
"Weather
station." Melody snorted. "If you believe that."
Lonnie
shook her head with a knowing grin on her face. If there was one
thing she knew about her daughter it was that the girl had a great
imagination. There was no telling what sort of theory she had about
the true origins of that particular structure. Lonnie, on the other
hand, knew for a fact that it was a weather station.
“I
distinctly remember signing the petition which allowed it to be built
in the empty field, and one of the attendants even let me peek inside
during a quarterly maintenance inspection. It's not a weather
station?"
Melody
snorted again. "Doubtful."
Lonnie
folder her arms. "Okay,” she said. “This ought to be
good."
"Anyway,
that's not where I was going with this. What that building is
or is not has no bearing on my idea."
"Well,
what's..."
Melody
interrupted. "I'm so glad you asked that." She produced a
long tube from under her desk out of which she retrieved a rolled-up,
poster-sized piece of paper. She jumped over to her bed and laid
out what was soon revealed to be a blueprint. She opened it as far
as she could with what little space was afforded by her mother’s
lounging there.
"Okay,"
she said. "This is that lot. You see how I have removed that
weather station, as you call it."
Lonnie
pointed at it. "As indicated by this dramatic looking mound of
rubble here, I'm guessing."
"Yes,"
Melody said. "Quite. You see how this frees up another third
of the lot."
"At
least," Lonnie chided, "once you get the debris hauled
away."
"Let's
forget the debris for a moment."
"Melody,"
her mother said, seriously. "Please tell me this plan of yours
doesn't involve any sort of Eco-terrorism on your part.”
The
girl chose to ignore her mother's comment and pressed on.
"Look,
see how I've parceled this out into neat little sections."
Lonnie
pulled the blueprint away so she could get a closer look. "A
community garden?" She squinted, scrunching her lips and nodded
to the side all in the same motion. It was a look which Melody had
identified over the years as an indicator of mild approval.
"There's
enough space for six small plots," she confirmed.
Lonnie
slammed the blueprint down, almost excitedly. Melody thought for a
moment by this action that her mother was going to jump to her feet,
and proclaim, "This is the best idea since walnut butter!"
Instead, she said, "I gotta tell you, I find this idea a tad
shady."
Melody
tilted her head in confusion.
Lonnie
continued with her train of thought. "I mean it's a nice,
environmental idea, which is probably where you're mostly going with
this. But, Melody," she continued, "You hate to garden."
"I
really don't," she said, folding up her arms.
"I
believe the quote last time I asked you to help me pull weeds from
around the tomatoes was, 'But it's filthy out there.'
Melody
shook her head, disapprovingly. "First of all, pulling weeds
isn't gardening. It's disgusting grunt work, and second of all I was
five years old – and I believe there was a nasty looking worm
giving me the evil eye."
Lonnie
laughed, causing a scowl to appear on Melody's face. She didn't
especially care to be laughed at, unless it was a fully sanctioned
and approved Melody Jackson bit of humor. Especially not coupled
with the dissent of an idea as brilliant as this one. However,
before Melody could launch a complaint, her mother added the
following, apparently only with the intention of making things worse.
"Maybe
we could start a garden again in our own yard this year, and see if
you like it."
Melody
exploded. "THIS ISN'T LIKE GETTING A FISH TO SEE IF I COULD BE
RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH FOR A PUPPY!" She took a deep breath, calmed
herself and lowered her voice. She then repeated the statement as if
doing so removed the stink of the outburst.
"I'm
well aware of that," said Lonnie. "And not to poke it with
a stick, but you don't see any puppies sniffing around that empty
fish bowl, do you?"
Melody's
face turned red, and she balled up her fists. She thought about
storming out of the room in a display of anger, but she didn't think
that would help her argument any. Deep down, there was a constant
struggle to contain her anger, which over the last year had begun to
gurgle from her slightly post-pubescent body, like the steady flow of
volcanic magma. While she didn't want to act like a typical twelve
year old, horribly there were times when she simply couldn't seem to
help it. This frustrated her even more. Melody especially didn't
want to suffer the comment, "Typical teen-age behavior!"
She didn't think she could bare it.
Instead
she fought to retain her initial composure, and this time won.
"Anyway," she said, brushing off the shackles of the past
conversation, "this is all beside the point. The idea of a
community garden is not simply for us to grow a garden. The key word
here is community."
Lonnie
shook her head, and said something which would force Melody from the
room finally in an uncontrollable rage. "But, sweety, you don't
exactly like talking to the neighbors, either."
"The Woman in White" is currently PERMAFREE, and is currently available at the following sites:
Hi BMB,
Bernie Jackson found his daughter wrapped up in her sheets, whimpering mutedly as her pillow was shoved into her mouth. He shook her awake, and she lashed out, kicking him in the rib cage with her one free foot.
Also, I love the stories of Homer and his business -- It had an almost Christmas Story feel to them.