Wireless (Part 1 of 2)

A bizarre Edgar lusts for a yoga instructor and tries to maintain loyalty to his job.

Wireless

      A single green eye stared into a nickel sized hole.  The hole’s accidental origin, a blessing to the dehydrating cornea, came from a maternity blouse button.  This button traveling at a speed approaching mach three struck the overlapping construction paper taped against the display window of an abandoned Kohl’s.  A wise real estate developer with an architectural handicap seized the building and poorly altered the floor plan to create rental property for small businesses:  body waxing, nail salons, law offices, travel agencies, music instruction, and a yoga class.

      The owner and instructor of the yoga class unknowingly offered the lowest bid, landed the smallest room, and consequently acquired a massive display window.  In almost any small business the window would add flare and aestheticism, but for the complicated arcs, bends, and twists by various tightly clothed women, the window became discouraging.  Many interested clients declined without reason, until one older woman presented her apprehension of being on display.  Madeline, the owner and instructor considered the woman’s fear and Scotch taped colorful sheets of paper in a spiraling pattern.  The result made the four dollar and thirty-seven cent investment a worthwhile expense. 

      Madeline’s dream of motivating healthy lifestyles in hundreds of various women and the occasional man became a reality.  Her success as a yoga instructor spread throughout the city and gave her the opportunity to take on whomever she desired.  Over the last few years she desired to instruct pregnant women.  She loved the healthy lifestyle two-for-one.  Which made her talk of charging double, but that upset the mothers-to-be.  After further consideration, she informed the women that the fetuses were in no position to enroll on their own.  She disregarded the idea leaving the women puzzled as to the seriousness of her proposal.

*

      There’s nothing wrong with the eye.  A blind man would give a good ear for the smoky green eye.  When the eye arrives shortly after 5 p.m. Monday through Friday, it’s never prepared for the arched backs, spread legs, colorful Spandex, oh the Spandex.  The eye centers itself on the nickel sized hole and like a second grader in a staring contest remains open until it shrivels and stings.  At prune like moisture, the 0.8 millimeters of skin thickness shutters with intense rapidity before closing.  Its partner in crime (literally, because voyeurism is a crime) assumes duties until it suffers from the same painful symptoms. By the time each eye has a few runs at dehydration, the session ends and Edgar continues his trek home, happier than when he arrived.

      Edgar Allen Rowe’s trekking is slightly pigeon toed and his pants collect between his thighs.  He stares at the ground just past his crooked slightly flattened nose, he allows his large dangling earlobes to swing to the bobbling rhythm of his head, and he keeps his pursed, tiny lips open to help his asthmatic chest from shorting him a desired dose of oxygen.

      Today Edgar stopped into the corner coffee shop.  A little flustered by the new face behind the counter Edgar apprehensively approached the register.  “Excuse me, new guy; may I have a large coffee?”

      “Sure, new customer, would you like cream or sugar?” a response the pimply faced teenager said in an attempt to be clever.

      “No!” a grin stretched from dangly lobe to dangly lobe.  A weight lifted from his shoulders.  He stood straighter.  He looked taller.  His chest puffed.  His voice resonated levels of confidence no one would expect from his hunched stout appearance.  At home Edgar would realize he walked out with a black coffee.

      Edgar’s shoulders slouched, his appearance shrunk, and he squeaked a short mumbled greeting to a passing tenant.  His normal stature returned and he felt a mild euphoric release. With a coffee in one hand, he squeezed his other into his khakis and pulled a gold cursive E from his pocket. He fought the lock until the door swung open.

      To the average guest, Edgar’s apartment looked welcoming.  A charming set of brightly colored fruit bowl still frames spaced evenly throughout the living room complemented soft beige wall to wall carpeting that supported the sizeable sofa and loveseat.  Each room contained many modern conveniences:  motion sensor lighting, timer activated percolator, softness control mattress, heated toilet seats, etc.  However, it lacked one item common to even some of the poorest of American homes: a television set.

      At one time he did own a television, a rather nice one.  He discarded the thirty-five inch Sony after a minor incident of uncontrollable anger.  He allowed his emotions to get the best of him and relieved the tension with a dining room chair followed by a matching table leg.

      When the commercial came on, he failed to remember what followed.  It began while watching a Lifetime original movie.  He thought he would make a cup of tea, bake some chocolate chip cookies, and enjoy the remaining half hour while appeasing his sweet tooth.  He covered the pan in mounds of cookie dough and pre-heated the oven.  He then placed the tray on the living room table, took one step toward his living room, and that’s when it happened.

      He was out of his work mode.  His mind was at rest, free from office troubles.  If he had only been warned, he might enjoy a television program or movie every so often.  He might even have a complete dining set instead of three wooden chairs a cinder block supported table.

      After Edgar placed the cookie tray down, he saw the face of the enemy.  He saw the man behind his anger.  He saw what millions of people consider to be a brilliant and effective ad campaign.  He witnessed, prior to this particular evening, multiple variations of the advertisement.  At first, just being associated with such a successful organization gave Edgar strong gratifying ties.  Just like the gratification an athletic trainer for the Boston Red Sox experienced when they swept through the World Series and claimed their place in baseball history.  Now, however, Edgar’s connection to the organization has faded.  The commercial’s obnoxious random presence became a turning point in Edgar’s estranged life.  It changed him for the worst.

      He has never in his life pushed violence upon anything or anyone.  That night, while the oven heated to 400 degrees, Edgar went blank.  He reached to the closest item not knowing what he was about to do and not aware of how it was done when he awoke under the coffee table.  The closest item happened to be a chair belonging to the four piece set his mother left for him in her will.  Edgar grabbed the wooden backrest, floated to the television and wound the chair back like a baseball bat.  His swing whizzed in the air and connected with the front of the thirty-five inch screen.  The chair burst into a shower of splinters leaving Edgar with a single piece of wood in each hand.

      “That man has cursed my T.V. for the last time,” Edgar said as he reached under the table.  His meaty hands grabbed hold of the solid oak table leg and removed it as if it were a leg on a moist and succulent rotisserie chicken.  This time it could not be mistaken as a baseball bat. Instead, the leg became a javelin.  He held it close to his ear and heaved it forward into the face of his enemy.  The screen exploded blowing him across the room, inches away from striking his head on the coffee table.

      When he awoke a few hours later he found himself looking up through a pane of glass on the surface the table and lying in a bed of wood chips, splinters, and broken glass.  As he picked up the pieces and vacuumed the carpet, he thought about calling the police to file a report on a breaking and entering.  But nothing seemed missing and judging by the pain in his hands he might end up being the culprit in this bizarre crime.  In addition Edgar despised those trying to serve and protect.

      Edgar took a sip of his coffee.  His face scrunched as the bitter brew raced over his tongue.  He thought he poured the usual three even tablespoons of sugar before he left the coffee shop but now he was sure he did not.  A subconscious thought told him he blacked out again.  These blackouts were becoming more ubiquitous everyday.  Most blackouts led to nothing more than arriving at his doorstep or in the break room without the knowledge of the past hour or so.  He does know that when he comes to he feels peaceful and refreshed.

      With Edgar’s coffee sweetened, he placed the Styrofoam cup on the glass coffee table and extracted an orthopedic shoebox from behind the sofa.  He removed a carving knife and a small block of balsa wood and placed them on the couch as he dug the pattern from his back pocket.  He had worked on the pattern yesterday for most of the evening and finished during his lunch break.  He unfolded the pattern of a pregnant yoga instructor and fervently peeled the first carving.

*

      Madeline had wooden blocks on the pedals of her car; an idea inspired by Shortround—a small Chinese boy from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.  A brilliant design at a reasonable price made all the difference.  She now experienced freedom from the steering wheel.

      Madeline’s most attractive quality she was told were her cheeks.  They carried a rosy hue on a pale complexion that complemented her soft blue eyes and delicate blonde hair.  Madeline’s worst quality—so she thought—was her height.  She used to wear special shoes to add a couple inches just so she could experience the roller coasters at Six Flags.  One of many exhilarating experiences she chose to keep quite seeing how it contradicted her career choice.

      As a yoga instructor she focused her energy into relaxation, breathing, and stretching.  Her pregnancy restricted her a little, but she could still outperform any one of her clients.  Her clients, mid-session, often stopped and stared in disbelief as this short, pear-like figure bent, twisted, and stretched into positions ballerinas spend a lifetime to achieve.  She would tell the new people who stopped to gawk, “You should see me when I’m not pregnant.”

      Other than her difficulties behind the wheel Madeline’s pregnancy days went by with little effort.  She never experienced sickness, cravings, or swelling.  She never lost her temper—a gift she has had all her life.  She never worried about the child inside her.  She knew she would love him or her no matter what.  She did worry about two things:  the ability to raise a child and raising a child without a father.

*

      With each falling shaving, Edgar watched the transformation; a curve, a limb, a hand, a finger, a knuckle, a wrinkle.  Slowly the block of wood slightly larger than a Rubik’s Cube changed into the pregnant yoga instructor.  Standing with one leg bent and the other fully extended to her side the figure’s arms stretched out above her head.  Her bosom appeared swollen and lifted.  Her position raised the maternity blouse just enough to reveal the underside of her enlarged abdomen.  Edgar’s attention to detail resulted in an identical model of the instructor down to her delicate hair.  Edgar carved an eight on the bottom of the wooden platform on which the figure stood before vacuuming the shavings.

      Placing the figure on a square white handkerchief Edgar aligned, according to ROY G BIV, the small paint containers on the tabletop just above the cloth.  He placed his brushes and a cup of warm water to the side.  Every piece spaced evenly in relation to the handkerchief. Three hours later he sat before his work of art.  He admired his handiwork by adding a single pat on his shoulder.  She was absolutely stunning.

      Edgar touching the base with the tip of a toothpick concluded the piece dried completely.  He picked it up as delicately as a sick bird and placed it on a shelf next to seven other intricately carved and painted figures.

      Each piece was carved on the bottom with a number.  When he started eight months ago he had no idea the instructor was pregnant; so as it turned out he had carved one piece for each month of her pregnancy and each piece showed her stomach growing larger and larger.

      Edgar skimmed over the pieces.  The third carving, the only one not performing a yoga move, had a small purple blotch on her blue jeans.  The blotch came from a mixture of blue paint and blood.  It took him nearly an hour to stop the bleeding.  Although that was not his first cut during the eight months it was definitely the worst.  As a hemophiliac he was instructed to avoid sharp objects, but he would prefer accidental suicide over losing his new found passions—Madeline and wood carving.

      Each piece sparked a memory of her.  Like the very first time he decided to look through that hole in the construction paper and he saw Madeline doing a half shoulder stand. She held her hips, her feet pointed to the ceiling, and her hair fanned across the floor.  The second piece, even though he averted the accusation, reminded him to only spend a few minutes in the window to avoid losing her altogether.  The fifth piece, still Edgar’s favorite, told of a story he longed to forget but never will.

      Edgar picked up Madeline five and turned her around admiring his own creation.   

      Three inch number five sat with her legs spread.  She leaned forward arms reaching past her open legs.  Her pregnancy finally showed without a doubt.  Her face, the reason this piece was Edgar’s favorite, stared out like a portrait painting in a Scooby Doo cartoon; the portrait’s eyes always following Shaggy and Scooby.  Likewise, wherever Edgar went her eyes seemed to follow.  None of the other figures possessed that characteristic no matter how hard he tried to reproduce it.

      Edgar turned the figure so her face pointed in his direction.  Sure enough the eyes locked on his.

      The story behind figure five, the story he longed to forget had very little to do with the figurine other than the location of where it was conceived; a jail cell.

      Jewel, the nearest grocery store and the location which led to the destruction of the Lincoln family made Edgar desperately want to destroy this piece.  The eyes kept him from such measures.

      After placing a few items from the produce section into his shopping cart Edgar made his way down each isle carefully scanning his shopping list to prevent backtracking. His cart’s sticky front wheel forced him to consistently flick the reduced price tags jotting out from the shelves before maneuvering the cart back to center isle.  Edgar entered isle seven.  Cereal, just across the isle from the cookies and just a carts turn away from the candy and chips, filled the shelves from top to bottom from the colorful and sweet to the high fibered and heart conscious.

      Alone, a little girl no older than six, climbed up to the second shelf.  Her progress, a slow one, appeared difficult given the lack of grip and space available on the recently stocked shelves.  Her tiny pink skirt and long white stockings suited her waist length golden strands tied up in a fluffy pink bow.  Her white shiny slippers rested neatly in one tile square.  The stockings covering her feet revealed two small holes of bare skin poking out at the heel.  Her foot’s attempt to reach the next shelf kept falling short.  It would catch the next shelf than slip off.

      Edgar unsure of the proper way to handle the situation searched up and down the row.  No adult or child for that matter was available to save her from a most certain and painful fall.  He moved closer.  He saw her tiny fingers loosing their grip as the foot glanced off the third shelf.

      Edgar looked around one last time before asking, “What are you climbing for?”

      “Cereal you fat tub of butt,” the little one replied without taking her focus off the shelves.

      “I think you might fall,” Edgar said as he hoisted his pants up to his bellybutton.

      “Shut-up, ugly face,” she said raising her voice.

      Edgar somewhat offended by the rudeness of the child shrugged the comment aside.  He had grown accustom to insults.  He would have left if she gave him a wedgie, but he doubted she could even get her tiny claws above his beltline given her height.  “Can I reach the cereal for you?”

      “I can do it myself you waste of space,” she said as her foot finally gripped the shelf.  As she lifted her weight changed, her hands slipped, and she fell.

      Edgar reached for the little girl.  She slid through his arms like a flopping fish.  Her tailbone bounced on the tile floor.  Her head, whiplashed by the momentum of impact, bounced off Edgar’s soft orthopedic shoe.  The cushion on the tongue saved her from a possible concussion or worse.

      Nice catch you ungraceful, clumsy oaf,” the little girl in ruffled pink dress said rubbing her tailbone.

      “Sorry, little one,” Edgar said.  He apologized for what he was not certain.  He looked confused.  He thought about what he did wrong.  She fell and he missed her.  He tried to help, but she would not listen.  No one listens, except his mother.  She always listened to him and he always listened to her.

      If he asked how to stop the other kids from taking his lunch money, she would reply, “Some folks aren’t as fortunate as us, but they need to eat just like you.  So I‘ll give you two lunch monies and you put one in your shoe and the other you give to them when they ask.”  Edgar thought she was wrong, because they did not ask they just took, but he tried it and sure enough they got their lunch and he got his.

      He would ask her why he had the urge to just punch all those boys and girls that called him fat and she would reply, “Some folks are good eaters and some ain’t.  You are a good eater and they’re jus’ jealous.  You tell them if they want to get some good food in their bellies they should come over and I’ll fix ‘em a big ol’ southern meal, right here in the Midwest.  That’s it, Midwest folks don’t know how to eat.”  He did just as she said.  They came over, played Atari, and ate two helpings of his mother’s favorite southern meal.  That was the last time they ever called him fat.  However, it was not the last time he had his elastic ripped out from under his pants.

      Edgar remembered his mother explaining how things always work out in the end and how things seem to favor those who are generous, considerate, and hardworking.  She always said, “If you’re gonna commit to somethin’, you commit 110 percent. You don’t get mad or discouraged.  And always, always keep control of your emotions.”  Sometimes when she saw Edgar growing irritable or angry she would say, “Edgar, keep control, nothing is that important you need to get bent out of shape.”

      He always listened, because she always knew best.  He remembered a time in elementary school when Mary hoarded his Show ‘N’ Tell.  He asked nicely, he told the teacher, he made a gentle threat, and he even tried to distract her with another kid’s toy.  He reached his chubby arms out in an attempt to right a wrong, but he heard his mother saying, “Keep control, Edgar.”

      “I wasn’t going to choke her mamma. I swear,” little Edgar mumbled to himself walking away with his arms fully extended.

      Mother never asked him about the toy and he never brought it up for he knew what she would say, “It’s better to let somethin’ go then to let it hover over your head and make ya angry.”

      It happened again and again.  Kids would make fun of his small head.  “Edgar, keep control.”  His first girlfriend dumped him because he crocheted her a sweater. “Keep control, Edgar.”  Guys in the locker room tossed his gym shorts into the feces infested toilet.  Keep control dear.”

      The little girl stopped rubbing her tailbone and pointed to top shelf, “Grab that, I want it now.”

      Edgar blacked out and came to in a jail cell three hours later.

      According to the testimony of a stock person, who happened to turn the corner at the same moment the little girl pointed to the top shelf, he said, “I turned the corner and I saw this sweet little girl in a cute little pink dress pointing to the top shelf of the cereal isle, isle seven.  The next thing I heard was a loud ‘NO!’  Then I saw the defendant grab the little girl by the wrist.  He spun her around, reached his hand way in the air and swatted her butt, no he beat her butt.  All while yelling ‘Spare the rod spoil the child, spare the rod spoil the child’ over and over and over again.  I didn’t know what to do.  I decided to get to a phone.  Just as I turned this lady plows into me.  I think we both fell.  I got up really fast and ran to the phone in isle five and made an announcement ‘Lobster sale in isle seven,’ that’s code for all Jewel employees to report for an emergency. Then I called the police.  He’s a large man.  I’m only in high school, I needed back up.”

      “I heard my child from the other end of the store.  A mother always knows when her child is in danger.”  The little girl’s mother, Susan Lincoln said under oath.  “I dropped the Navel oranges right on the floor and ran.  I knocked the stock boy on the ground.  And I’m glad I did.  He was the only one who witnessed the whole thing and he didn’t even help my sweet little innocent girl.

      “As for what I saw when I turned the corner.  Well I couldn’t believe my eyes.  This monster of a man a huge hairy beast” she pointed to the defendant, “Had my only daughter suspended three feet off the ground; his hand wrapped so tightly around her wrist her hand turned purple.  His other hand pulled back like he was swinging a sickle. When he released it, it made such a slap, like a boy doing a belly flop in the water.  I have never in all my days heard a sound like that.  It’s a wonder he didn’t do physical damage to go with the emotional and mental damage.  She will be in and out of a psychiatrist’s office for the rest of her life.  The whole time the defendant was screaming ‘Spare the rod spoil the child,’ all while hitting her as hard as he could.  I saw my little one’s free hand reach back to protect her little bottom, but there was no way she could stop the pain.  She got beat four of five times before I finally got there.  I won’t even mention the number of times before I arrived.

      “When I got there I grabbed the coconut in his cart and bonked him over the head four or five times before he finally hit the floor.  There is no way I would have stopped him if that wasn’t in the cart.  He fell to the floor like a ton of bricks.  My little girl got released from his death grip and fell to the floor.  If she didn’t roll away he would have crushed her when he came crashing down.  Doctor thinks my little baby broke an ankle from that fall, I am sure the roll didn’t help either.  The strangest thing, he didn’t even notice me coming.  He was locked in like a trance or something.  I’ll never forget those words though, ‘Spare the rod spoil the child.’  That man is crazy and he needs to be sent away for life.”

      Given the first two testimonies, the jury was ready to convict on the spot.  That was until that devil child stepped up on the witness stand.  She was out to get someone in trouble, but it was not Edgar.  As it turned out, her mommy wasn’t in the produce section “She was foolin’ around with Uncle Dwain,” Alexis said.  “My momma and I come here every Thursday night while my daddy pulls the night shift on Toll Exit 47.  Daddy says his brother Dwain is a ‘manwhore’, but he didn’t believe my momma and Uncle Dwain were bumming uglies.

      “When she left I decided to get my own things.  If I threatened to tell Daddy, she would have no choice but to buy me those things.  I climbed up on the shelf and that ugly man,” Alexis pointed to Edgar who was slouched down close to tears, “said he could help me.  I told him I could do it myself, then I fell, then he missed me, but his fat shoes saved me, then I asked him to get the cereal for me and he says, ‘No!’ Then he grabs my arm and starts hitting me.  I screamed because I ain’t never been spanked before by a stranger or my parents.  It didn’t even hurt that much anyway.  He hits like my cousin Sandy.  She’ll be six like me next month on the fourth.  I don’t think her mom, Auntie Shelly, knows Uncle Dwain and my Momma bum uglies.”

      The court room turned into a circus that day.  Susan Lincoln stood up in the middle of Alexis’s testimony and screamed at her daughter to shut-up, but the anger Alexis felt toward her Momma kept her going.  Harold Lincoln screamed at his brother Dwain before throwing a right hook.  Dwain flipped over the pew, cracked his head, and suffered a mild concussion.    The jury gasped through Alexis’s testimony and concluded that Edgar’s actions were warranted.  An older black woman stopped Alexis halfway through and asked the bailiff, “You need ta go over there an’ swat that lil’uns behind.”  An overweight juror suffered a heart attack when the little girl mentioned ‘bumming uglies,’ even though she meant bumping uglies.  The stenographer filed a lawsuit a week later against the courthouse claiming her carpal tunnel was a direct result of the intense stress on her wrists during the chaos involved during that one hour revelation.  And Edgar’s lawyer told Edgar he hadn’t had that much fun since his fraternity days.

      Alexis answered every question in depth and saved Edgar from being labeled a child abuser.  He loved children and really wanted one of his own to love and discipline.  Edgar walked out a free man.  The only thing he had to show for it was a sketch of Madeline five.  The sketch was completed during the three weeks he spent in lockup.  Since bail was posted at one million dollars he chose to wait in the holding cell until the trial.  The courthouse sent him a written apology for setting bail at such an unreasonable price.  In the end he was glad his name cleared.

      At work, his employers defended allegations and thwarted rumors.  “Who could possibly kill a little girl with a box of cereal?”  “Who beats a child senseless over a box of Fiber One?”  Edgar even today struggles with Alexis’s attempt at the colon cleansing cereal she scaled a wall of shelves to attain.  He found himself more loyal to his job than ever.  In truth, they would have defended him if he killed the girl and buried her in his back yard.  They were set on keeping Edgar until his services were no longer required.  No one was willing to take on the task and those that had did not last more than a week.

      Edgar’s actions in isle seven, he concluded, directly related to his career.  He knew the blackouts related to the single task he performed daily.  A task he hated to an extreme. He thought about turning in his two weeks notice, but he wanted desperately to please his mother, God rest her soul.  To be able to tell her he committed himself to something and in return his employer committed back.  It was just like she said, “If you are loyal to someone, they will be loyal in return.”

      Edgar place Madeline five back on the shelf and chuckled at either his misfortune or his good luck.  Which one he would never be certain.

*

      Madeline arrived home.  A quant ranch style house decorated excessively in country décor.  Cows, apples, potpourri, and sunflowers covered the furniture, drapes, soap dishes, lamp shades, bread box, and outlet plates.  A sign above the kitchen entryway read, “Dust is just a country accent.”  The warm air, soaked with cinnamon and ginger, felt damp; a result of the humidifiers strategically placed below the warped end tables.  On top of the moisture soaked maple rested duplicate pictures of Madeline’s cat Cider.

      Cider suffered terribly from bulimia and despite Madeline’s efforts at various foods, feline and human, the cat’s waistline deteriorated sucking its skin around its fragile bones.  The veterinarian offered to put Cider down.  He blamed the condition on a psychological problem involving a depressive state symptomatic in some animals that tend to be lonely.  Madeline refused to believe him and broke down in tears when he mentioned putting Cider out of its misery.

      Madeline canceled her classes for an entire week to express how much she cared for Cider.  She wanted the cat to feel important and loved.  Cider showed no sign of improvement.

      The cat might have lasted a few weeks longer, but the day it died, Madeline broke down.  She suffered from an anxiety attack.  Having a child growing in her womb while attempting to save a cat from suicide caused her to stop breathing for a little over two minutes.  She passed out on top of Cider smothering the fragile body.  Madeline laid there for half an hour, the cat only lasted half a minute.

      After a bowl of Rice Crispies that snap, crackled, and popped in a sea of orange juice—a meal Madeline preferred even before her pregnancy—she removed a Jo-Ann Fabrics bag from behind the Granny Smith upholstered davenport.  She pulled two long turquoise needles, a ball of pink yarn, and a blue partially finished sweater from the bag.  This sweater a little larger than the last needed yarn on the bottom half before she could start the next one.

      Madeline wasted no time.  She unraveled a few lengths of pink and added it to the blue sweater.  Her needles clicked rhythmically over her bulging stomach as her feet dangled over the edge of the sofa kicking to the aggressive sounds of Slayer.  Her love for death metal, an odd yet defining trait kept her from watching the thirteen inch television set placed on a sunflower quilt draped over four neatly stacked cinder blocks.

      Maintaining her line of sight away from Cider’s framed playful pose, Madeline sparked the knitting needles.  “Grieving is a completely natural and accepted part of life.  Memories should be cherished not buried,” her psychiatrist told her.  His words of wisdom kept the framed photographs out of storage.  Even though it’s been a year since she was able to open the drawer she desperately wanted to reach over and scrape the photographs out of sight.  The attachment to her cat needed closure before her water broke.  A bastard child coming into this world will be extremely difficult to care for by herself.  It will be even harder now that she knows she cannot prevent a cat from hurling itself to death.  “You’ve made progress, you’re not blaming yourself,” her psychiatrist would say.

      Madeline made her final loop, finishing the sweater.  The half blue half pink series ended successfully.  She moved down the narrow corridor into the baby’s room.  A white crib with black spots matched the dairy farm scene on the four walls.  A fenced in red barn was the focal point for the grazing heifers.  A boarder of dancing cows surrounded the room just below the cloud scattered blue sky ceiling.  Dangling musical cows spun above the crib as Madeline opened the dresser drawer.  She folded the sweater on her enlarged bosom and placed it next to the seven matching sweaters of decreasing sizes.  If her calculations were correct she would give her child one sweater every year for nine years.  She had made one each month during her pregnancy.  Each sweater was knitted larger than the previous and each one was made out of blue and pink yarn because she wanted the gender to be a surprise.

      As a finishing touch to every sweater Madeline added a small pink stinker even though the varying sizes could determine their order.  After placing the number eight sticker on her most recent work, she made a hot cup of spiced cider, realizing the connection and wept while it boiled.  Wiping her tears she brought the mug into her bedroom.  Forgetting to remove the previous evening’s partially finished cup of hot chocolate she pushed it to the back of the nightstand before placing the fresh cup in its place.

      Rummaging around the floor, Madeline located the book she had fallen asleep to last night.  The bookmark was not far from it.  Getting a running start Madeline hopped up on her quadruple layered mattress.

      She flipped through the pages before stopping on a partially crumpled page.  “That Dennis Rodman sure knows how to write,” she said aloud as she began reading.  Slowly moving her lips and tongue to each word Madeline faded allowing the book to hit the floor; the bookmark floated a few seconds later settling under her night stand.

...Continued in Part 2...