I’m not gonna write you a love song
Because you left me so heart-strung
Out. Don’t expect my tears, or my
Words. I’m not gonna write
You a love song, I’m not gonna
Write you a love song, I’m
Not gonna write you a love
Song, I’m not gonna write you
A love song.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I.
Unuttered joy—silence cries louder than tears
Unspoken wishes—never to speak love for fear
Of a broken heart is already to have a broken heart
Unspoken pain—a secret joy, a lonely child on its way
To forgiving heaven after a life unfinished, finished.
II.
I didn’t tell you
That I loved you
And I left the world
Unmissed.
I didn’t tell you
That I want you
So I guess I’ll be
Unkissed.
I wasn’t sure
Which way to go
Because I had no
Place to hide.
In your loving
Arms, receiving
Just my self-indulgent pride
So I cried.
I cried, so—
I cried.
Unuttered joy—silence cries louder than tears
Unspoken wishes—never to speak love for fear
Of a broken heart is already to have a broken heart
Unspoken pain—a secret joy, a lonely child on its way
To forgiving heaven after a life unfinished, finished.
II.
I didn’t tell you
That I loved you
And I left the world
Unmissed.
I didn’t tell you
That I want you
So I guess I’ll be
Unkissed.
I wasn’t sure
Which way to go
Because I had no
Place to hide.
In your loving
Arms, receiving
Just my self-indulgent pride
So I cried.
I cried, so—
I cried.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Saturday for Little Luc
My uncle was paying us a visit. I hated my uncle.
He got up early on Saturday, which woke Maman up, so she woke me up, on purpose.
I got out of bed and it was kind of chilly. In the kitchen, Maman was at the stove, waiting for me, and my uncle was sitting at the table.
“Ho ho, look who’s up. Are you alive, Luc?” My uncle asked jovially. He had a voice like a frying pan—too loud, and then flattening out to strike the side of my head. It hurt this early in the morning.
The frying pan continued to clang: “Maman tells me you’re going to buy breakfast for us like a big boy!” I was eight years old. Old enough, I thought.
Maman handed me two francs.
“You are to buy two baguettes instead of one because your uncle is here,” she said.
“I’m a hungry man,” interjected my uncle.
“And,” continued Maman, giving me one of her looks that felt like she was injecting me with a needle, “there are no centimes to spare because of the extra onions for your uncle after he arrived last night. You are to buy two baguettes, nothing different, do you hear me, Luc?”
“What about my chocolate?” I cried.
“We must feed your uncle, dear,” she said.
I glanced over at my uncle and saw a crocodile behind a cage, snapping its jaws loudly and whipping its ridged tail.
“Bet he wants to be just like me some day,” said my uncle. “Don’t you, Luc?” He patted me on the head, and I imagined I was Madame Fleury’s mop-like lapdog. I barked.
“It’s Saturday!” I cried. “I always get chocolate on Saturdays!”
“Ho ho, he knows the days of the week, doesn’t he? Marks it by chocolate! He knows what he wants, that’s for—“
“No chocolate today, Luc,” said Maman, “Your uncle must have breakfast. Sometimes you have to be generous and give up personal pleasures to help others.”
“You don’t want to starve your good old uncle, now do you?” said my uncle.
I didn’t answer, because I thought he might eat me if I did.
No chocolate! I huffed out of the house and decided that something would have to be done to reverse the monstrosity.
At the boulangerie, I exchanged the two francs for two loaves of bread. I loved those long loaves. Warm, smelling like a morning hug. I liked the feel of the warmth, like cotton, pushing against my hands as I walked home, feeling wisps of it escape between my fingers.
Most of the outside warmth of it would be gone by the time I got home. But more would come out when Maman broke it in parts, and I watched the butter turn translucent as it melted.
“Mint or peanut butter swirl?” Madame Dupain asked.
“Neither. My uncle’s here. I don’t get chocolate today,” I said.
“Oh, how disappointing,” said Madame.
“Yes, I wish he wasn’t.” I stepped out of the shop with the ringing of the bells on the door.
How to solve my problem? I had two loaves of bread, no chocolate, and an uncle.
I couldn’t get rid of my uncle. I supposed I could have tricked him to step out of the house for a moment, and then locked the door; but I thought Maman might notice that.
I couldn’t get chocolate without money. I knew that to get money I needed a job.
I stepped back into the boulangerie.
I asked Madame, “Will you hire me?”
Madame Dupain said she couldn’t hire me due to child labor laws. I said if there were laws for child labor, than there must be children that labor. She said I could wash her dishes for free. I wasn’t going for that.
The other way I knew I could get money was by selling something. I wasn’t making anything, so I knew I had to sell something I already had but didn’t want. Immediately I thought of my uncle. But I thought that must be against some law somewhere, too.
Then I thought of the two loaves of bread. I didn’t need two. If I sold one, then I’d have at least a quarter, maybe more, enough to buy at least two bars of chocolate, and my uncle wouldn’t get breakfast, so he would probably get annoyed by that and leave. For a moment I thought it would have been easier to buy one loaf of bread and a bar of chocolate and lie to Madame Dupain, but that would have meant disobeying my mother. She told me to buy two loaves of bread. I couldn’t disobey her because if I did, she might not want to give me a quarter for chocolate next week. I didn’t think she would be too angry if my uncle didn’t get breakfast. My uncle wasn’t very likeable.
I decided I would probably find someone to sell the bread to before I got home, if I took the long route through the park.
The first person I saw was my friend Nicolas from school.
“Hey, Nicolas!” I yelled. I waited for him to cross the street.
“What?” He said. “Hurry up, I have to buy bread at the boulangerie or Maman’s gonna kill me. Gramma’s over and I spilled eggs all over the floor.”
“Do you wanna buy a loaf of bread?”
“No way. I’m getting my own from Madame Dupain. Yours is already cold.”
“It’s still warm on the inside, I bet. I’m selling it for a quarter. That’s 75 cents less than if you bought one from Madame.”
“Chuette! I can use the extra to buy macaroons!”
We traded, then bought chocolate and macaroons from the candy store on Main Street.
I had one loaf of bread and one bar of chocolate. Finally, it felt like a correct kind of Saturday. I could not delete my uncle, but the idea of bugging him was enough to quiet that particular unhappiness.
I was almost to the park when I saw Violet standing on the corner with her palm out like a little bowl. Violet was two years younger than me. I thought her feet must be cold because she was stamping them and they made a patting noise against the pavement. She was stooping under a street sign and held her little brother, Jean-Baptiste by the hand. Jean-Baptiste’s other hand was stuck in his mouth. He was sucking on it, sometimes biting it.
“Hello, Luc,” Violet said when she saw me. “We’re going to get breakfast.”
“Don’t you have a quarter?” I asked.
“Not today,” she said, “My Maman couldn’t find any under the mattress so she’s in Lacville talking to my aunt. Robert is taking care of us but he’s a very bad man so we ran away. But I think Maman is silly because I can get breakfast this way faster and not even have to talk to any stupid aunts.”
I decided that since I had my chocolate, I didn’t really need so much bread, because there was onion soup left over from last night that we hadn’t eaten the night before. I could have that for breakfast.
So I tore off half of my loaf of bread (the whole loaf was about my arm’s length) and gave it to Violet and little Jean-Baptiste, who squealed with delight and started chewing on a bread end instead of his knuckles.
“Thank you, Luc!” said Violet, “when my maman gets her quarters from my aunt, maybe she’ll give you one.”
I doubted it, but that was OK. I had my chocolate.
I crossed the street and entered the park. It was my favorite way home. The path was long and straight, bordered by tall and leafy trees. The morning sunlight came through them so that the shadows on the path were dappled, and I could imagine I was walking through an underwater tunnel. I felt the weight of the chocolate bar in my pocket but stopped myself from taking a bite until I got home.
Ahead I could see a long bright section of the path where the trees stopped and the little lake began, letting sunlight through. There was a bench, and a bent back sitting in it. It was Jerome, the old man who liked to feed the ducks. As I approached him, I tiptoed on the path, trying not to make a sound, but Jerome’s head popped up and he tilted an ear toward me.
“Luc!” he called, and smiled.
“How do you do that?” I said. I sat down next to him.
“I’m in a bad spot this morning, Luc,” Jerome said, beaming at me past his milky eyes. “Someone stole my bread.”
“How could they?”
“Oh, it must have been when I wasn’t listening,” he chuckled. “There were several people walking past at once. I wouldn’t mind so much, except now the ducks won’t have their breakfast.” I knew that the ducks wouldn’t mind; they could get food their own way. I knew that Jerome minded. He liked feeding the ducks.
“Well you’re lucky today,” I said, pulling out the second half of bread loaf, “I dropped my bread in the underwater tunnel. It got kind of dirty. My maman won’t want it anymore, but I’m sure the ducks won’t mind. Maman has just sent me to get a new loaf.”
Jerome beamed wider than he had before and took the loaf I handed him. But he swiftly brought it up to his nose and smelled it.
“This is fresh bread,” he said.
“Yes. Maman was very angry with me.”
We tore the bread into little chunks and listened to their plattering sounds as they hit the water. The ducks sped and dove for them.
“Well, the ducks are very happy with you,” Jerome laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “I hope your Maman gave you a quarter for chocolate,” he called as I ran back toward town to take another route home.
I had a squirming feeling in my stomach. I was starting to think that even if she didn’t mind if my uncle didn’t get any breakfast (which now I was beginning doubt) or if I ate soup for breakfast, she might mind that I hadn’t brought any bread home for her. I tried to think up some story I could tell. Underwater monster invaders, maybe. Or maybe all the loaves of bread in the whole world had disappeared at the same time; it wasn’t my fault; there had been nothing I could have done to save breakfast.
I was reaching the end of the park path, and I could see the street ahead. I took the bar of chocolate out of my pocket and looked at its shiny wrapper. I wasn’t really supposed to have it. But my uncle wasn’t really supposed to keep it from me. It was Saturday. My uncle didn’t know about Saturday. He didn’t know how good Saturday was supposed to taste. I thought maybe if I gave him a taste, he would get it, and he would never steal my Saturday again. Maybe, I thought, if I give Maman a taste, she will never steal my chocolate again. Maybe she wouldn’t get quite so mad at me this morning if she had the pleasant melting feeling of chocolate in her mouth. I loved the way chocolate could change shape, like ice and water. When you first take a bite, it’s like shoving a pick into a cliffside. It’s kind of cold, and gives your skull a little jolt with the force of the bite. Then you let it sit on your tongue, and it grows rubbery, and when you flex your tongue the chocolate flexes, too. Slowly the puddle of chocolate grows, and if you pretend you’re about to swallow but don’t quite swallow, the chocolate sticks to the roof of your mouth, and coats it so you can’t talk right, but it feels like someone put a little cloud in your mouth and it’s going to float up into your brain and make your mind feel like it’s sleeping on a pillow.
I hurried out of the park gate and along the street, holding the bar of chocolate in my hand. It was about to burst into flames. I was running. I almost bumped into Madame Fleury I was going so fast. I couldn’t wait to eat it. I leapt over a crate of apples that had fallen in the road. It was beginning to rain. Maybe I could take it into the cellar so no one would know. I was so happy it was Saturday. A dog barked in front of me, but I dodged it. I squeezed the chocolate bar and protected it from the rain. I peeled away a little of the wrapper and smelled; sweet the way it tastes when you bite it, tangy the way it tastes after you’ve swallowed it and you have just the memory of it in your mouth. Our house was very close. I leapt over a bucket filling with water. I was a few feet from our house. I had to jump over a puddle. When I landed, I skidded in the mud. I stretched my arms out like a bird and I tottered and swayed, sliding along the street. Right before I caught my balance, the chocolate bar flew out of my hand. It landed in a puddle. A deep, murky puddle.
I dove for the bar, but the mud had seeped through the edges of the wrapping, and my chocolate now had the plague.
There was no hope of salvaging it. I tossed it into a garbage bin outside our front stoop. Then I lifted the latch of the door and plodded into the kitchen, where my uncle was sitting expectantly at the table. My hands were now empty.
Maman pounced on me.
“Luc! Where are the two loaves of bread I sent you to buy?”
“I bought them, Maman—“
“Then where are they?”
“I sold one—“
“Sold one! To buy some chocolate I suppose!”
“It’s Saturday, so I thought—“
“You’ll get a spanking for that, mark my words! But where is the other loaf?”
“I gave it away, Maman—“
“What, to the neighborhood dog? And just what did you expect your uncle and I to eat, huh?”
I could feel my uncle’s eyes on me. I had never been to court before, but I thought maybe I was beginning to know what it was like.
I had to defend myself somehow.
“Violet didn’t have any breakfast! Jean-Baptiste tried to eat his hand off. Someone stole Jerome’s bread, and he can’t see so he couldn’t have chased them, and he had to feed the ducks or they would starve, and he doesn’t have any kids like me so feeding the ducks is his only joy in life! And you told me to be generous!”
My uncle gave a wheezy laugh that sounded like his throat was about to reject his vocal chords. I wanted to hit him to make him shut-up, but I had never hit anyone before because I didn’t have a younger brother like Nicolas had.
“Ho ho,” he said, “it looks like our little Luc really has his heart in his hand, and he’s got cheek!”
Maman acted as if she hadn’t heard my uncle.
“Where is this precious chocolate bar?” she asked me. “You don’t even seem to have that.”
“I dropped it,” I replied.
“Therese,” my uncle said to Maman, “while I appreciate your efforts to accommodate me comfortably, there was no need to prevent Luc from having his usual Saturday chocolate bar, especially when I have a few francs myself to spare. Luc can come with me, and I will buy us two loaves of bread and a chocolate bar for Luc.”
“Georges, that is most inappropriate. What will Luc learn from this experience if he doesn’t feel the consequences of his actions? True, he is generous, but he had no right to sell a perfectly good loaf of bread—“
“Therese, what’s your favorite patisserie?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s your favorite treat from Madame Dupain’s?”
“She likes chocolate éclairs,” I supplied.
“Me and Luc will be back in ten minutes with one.”
We exited the house and my uncle put his hand roughly on my shoulder and steered me toward Madame Dupain’s.
“Uncle Georges,” I started to say. I supposed it was time the court knew the truth, “Uncle Georges,” I started again, and this time I kept talking because I felt like my stomach was about to boil over, “Uncle Georges, I’m really really sorry I didn’t bring your breakfast. You must be really hungry, and Maman, too! And I don’t really hate you anymore!”
“Oh it’s no trouble, Little Luc, I’m a tough guy, and you are a very kind boy, only you like to do things your way.”
“Do you think Maman will still be mad when we get home?”
“Luc,” he said, “your mother doesn’t appreciate Saturdays, does she? But we’ll come to her rescue as soon as we return.”
I was beginning to think my uncle wasn’t quite as disposable as I’d thought he was.
He got up early on Saturday, which woke Maman up, so she woke me up, on purpose.
I got out of bed and it was kind of chilly. In the kitchen, Maman was at the stove, waiting for me, and my uncle was sitting at the table.
“Ho ho, look who’s up. Are you alive, Luc?” My uncle asked jovially. He had a voice like a frying pan—too loud, and then flattening out to strike the side of my head. It hurt this early in the morning.
The frying pan continued to clang: “Maman tells me you’re going to buy breakfast for us like a big boy!” I was eight years old. Old enough, I thought.
Maman handed me two francs.
“You are to buy two baguettes instead of one because your uncle is here,” she said.
“I’m a hungry man,” interjected my uncle.
“And,” continued Maman, giving me one of her looks that felt like she was injecting me with a needle, “there are no centimes to spare because of the extra onions for your uncle after he arrived last night. You are to buy two baguettes, nothing different, do you hear me, Luc?”
“What about my chocolate?” I cried.
“We must feed your uncle, dear,” she said.
I glanced over at my uncle and saw a crocodile behind a cage, snapping its jaws loudly and whipping its ridged tail.
“Bet he wants to be just like me some day,” said my uncle. “Don’t you, Luc?” He patted me on the head, and I imagined I was Madame Fleury’s mop-like lapdog. I barked.
“It’s Saturday!” I cried. “I always get chocolate on Saturdays!”
“Ho ho, he knows the days of the week, doesn’t he? Marks it by chocolate! He knows what he wants, that’s for—“
“No chocolate today, Luc,” said Maman, “Your uncle must have breakfast. Sometimes you have to be generous and give up personal pleasures to help others.”
“You don’t want to starve your good old uncle, now do you?” said my uncle.
I didn’t answer, because I thought he might eat me if I did.
No chocolate! I huffed out of the house and decided that something would have to be done to reverse the monstrosity.
At the boulangerie, I exchanged the two francs for two loaves of bread. I loved those long loaves. Warm, smelling like a morning hug. I liked the feel of the warmth, like cotton, pushing against my hands as I walked home, feeling wisps of it escape between my fingers.
Most of the outside warmth of it would be gone by the time I got home. But more would come out when Maman broke it in parts, and I watched the butter turn translucent as it melted.
“Mint or peanut butter swirl?” Madame Dupain asked.
“Neither. My uncle’s here. I don’t get chocolate today,” I said.
“Oh, how disappointing,” said Madame.
“Yes, I wish he wasn’t.” I stepped out of the shop with the ringing of the bells on the door.
How to solve my problem? I had two loaves of bread, no chocolate, and an uncle.
I couldn’t get rid of my uncle. I supposed I could have tricked him to step out of the house for a moment, and then locked the door; but I thought Maman might notice that.
I couldn’t get chocolate without money. I knew that to get money I needed a job.
I stepped back into the boulangerie.
I asked Madame, “Will you hire me?”
Madame Dupain said she couldn’t hire me due to child labor laws. I said if there were laws for child labor, than there must be children that labor. She said I could wash her dishes for free. I wasn’t going for that.
The other way I knew I could get money was by selling something. I wasn’t making anything, so I knew I had to sell something I already had but didn’t want. Immediately I thought of my uncle. But I thought that must be against some law somewhere, too.
Then I thought of the two loaves of bread. I didn’t need two. If I sold one, then I’d have at least a quarter, maybe more, enough to buy at least two bars of chocolate, and my uncle wouldn’t get breakfast, so he would probably get annoyed by that and leave. For a moment I thought it would have been easier to buy one loaf of bread and a bar of chocolate and lie to Madame Dupain, but that would have meant disobeying my mother. She told me to buy two loaves of bread. I couldn’t disobey her because if I did, she might not want to give me a quarter for chocolate next week. I didn’t think she would be too angry if my uncle didn’t get breakfast. My uncle wasn’t very likeable.
I decided I would probably find someone to sell the bread to before I got home, if I took the long route through the park.
The first person I saw was my friend Nicolas from school.
“Hey, Nicolas!” I yelled. I waited for him to cross the street.
“What?” He said. “Hurry up, I have to buy bread at the boulangerie or Maman’s gonna kill me. Gramma’s over and I spilled eggs all over the floor.”
“Do you wanna buy a loaf of bread?”
“No way. I’m getting my own from Madame Dupain. Yours is already cold.”
“It’s still warm on the inside, I bet. I’m selling it for a quarter. That’s 75 cents less than if you bought one from Madame.”
“Chuette! I can use the extra to buy macaroons!”
We traded, then bought chocolate and macaroons from the candy store on Main Street.
I had one loaf of bread and one bar of chocolate. Finally, it felt like a correct kind of Saturday. I could not delete my uncle, but the idea of bugging him was enough to quiet that particular unhappiness.
I was almost to the park when I saw Violet standing on the corner with her palm out like a little bowl. Violet was two years younger than me. I thought her feet must be cold because she was stamping them and they made a patting noise against the pavement. She was stooping under a street sign and held her little brother, Jean-Baptiste by the hand. Jean-Baptiste’s other hand was stuck in his mouth. He was sucking on it, sometimes biting it.
“Hello, Luc,” Violet said when she saw me. “We’re going to get breakfast.”
“Don’t you have a quarter?” I asked.
“Not today,” she said, “My Maman couldn’t find any under the mattress so she’s in Lacville talking to my aunt. Robert is taking care of us but he’s a very bad man so we ran away. But I think Maman is silly because I can get breakfast this way faster and not even have to talk to any stupid aunts.”
I decided that since I had my chocolate, I didn’t really need so much bread, because there was onion soup left over from last night that we hadn’t eaten the night before. I could have that for breakfast.
So I tore off half of my loaf of bread (the whole loaf was about my arm’s length) and gave it to Violet and little Jean-Baptiste, who squealed with delight and started chewing on a bread end instead of his knuckles.
“Thank you, Luc!” said Violet, “when my maman gets her quarters from my aunt, maybe she’ll give you one.”
I doubted it, but that was OK. I had my chocolate.
I crossed the street and entered the park. It was my favorite way home. The path was long and straight, bordered by tall and leafy trees. The morning sunlight came through them so that the shadows on the path were dappled, and I could imagine I was walking through an underwater tunnel. I felt the weight of the chocolate bar in my pocket but stopped myself from taking a bite until I got home.
Ahead I could see a long bright section of the path where the trees stopped and the little lake began, letting sunlight through. There was a bench, and a bent back sitting in it. It was Jerome, the old man who liked to feed the ducks. As I approached him, I tiptoed on the path, trying not to make a sound, but Jerome’s head popped up and he tilted an ear toward me.
“Luc!” he called, and smiled.
“How do you do that?” I said. I sat down next to him.
“I’m in a bad spot this morning, Luc,” Jerome said, beaming at me past his milky eyes. “Someone stole my bread.”
“How could they?”
“Oh, it must have been when I wasn’t listening,” he chuckled. “There were several people walking past at once. I wouldn’t mind so much, except now the ducks won’t have their breakfast.” I knew that the ducks wouldn’t mind; they could get food their own way. I knew that Jerome minded. He liked feeding the ducks.
“Well you’re lucky today,” I said, pulling out the second half of bread loaf, “I dropped my bread in the underwater tunnel. It got kind of dirty. My maman won’t want it anymore, but I’m sure the ducks won’t mind. Maman has just sent me to get a new loaf.”
Jerome beamed wider than he had before and took the loaf I handed him. But he swiftly brought it up to his nose and smelled it.
“This is fresh bread,” he said.
“Yes. Maman was very angry with me.”
We tore the bread into little chunks and listened to their plattering sounds as they hit the water. The ducks sped and dove for them.
“Well, the ducks are very happy with you,” Jerome laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “I hope your Maman gave you a quarter for chocolate,” he called as I ran back toward town to take another route home.
I had a squirming feeling in my stomach. I was starting to think that even if she didn’t mind if my uncle didn’t get any breakfast (which now I was beginning doubt) or if I ate soup for breakfast, she might mind that I hadn’t brought any bread home for her. I tried to think up some story I could tell. Underwater monster invaders, maybe. Or maybe all the loaves of bread in the whole world had disappeared at the same time; it wasn’t my fault; there had been nothing I could have done to save breakfast.
I was reaching the end of the park path, and I could see the street ahead. I took the bar of chocolate out of my pocket and looked at its shiny wrapper. I wasn’t really supposed to have it. But my uncle wasn’t really supposed to keep it from me. It was Saturday. My uncle didn’t know about Saturday. He didn’t know how good Saturday was supposed to taste. I thought maybe if I gave him a taste, he would get it, and he would never steal my Saturday again. Maybe, I thought, if I give Maman a taste, she will never steal my chocolate again. Maybe she wouldn’t get quite so mad at me this morning if she had the pleasant melting feeling of chocolate in her mouth. I loved the way chocolate could change shape, like ice and water. When you first take a bite, it’s like shoving a pick into a cliffside. It’s kind of cold, and gives your skull a little jolt with the force of the bite. Then you let it sit on your tongue, and it grows rubbery, and when you flex your tongue the chocolate flexes, too. Slowly the puddle of chocolate grows, and if you pretend you’re about to swallow but don’t quite swallow, the chocolate sticks to the roof of your mouth, and coats it so you can’t talk right, but it feels like someone put a little cloud in your mouth and it’s going to float up into your brain and make your mind feel like it’s sleeping on a pillow.
I hurried out of the park gate and along the street, holding the bar of chocolate in my hand. It was about to burst into flames. I was running. I almost bumped into Madame Fleury I was going so fast. I couldn’t wait to eat it. I leapt over a crate of apples that had fallen in the road. It was beginning to rain. Maybe I could take it into the cellar so no one would know. I was so happy it was Saturday. A dog barked in front of me, but I dodged it. I squeezed the chocolate bar and protected it from the rain. I peeled away a little of the wrapper and smelled; sweet the way it tastes when you bite it, tangy the way it tastes after you’ve swallowed it and you have just the memory of it in your mouth. Our house was very close. I leapt over a bucket filling with water. I was a few feet from our house. I had to jump over a puddle. When I landed, I skidded in the mud. I stretched my arms out like a bird and I tottered and swayed, sliding along the street. Right before I caught my balance, the chocolate bar flew out of my hand. It landed in a puddle. A deep, murky puddle.
I dove for the bar, but the mud had seeped through the edges of the wrapping, and my chocolate now had the plague.
There was no hope of salvaging it. I tossed it into a garbage bin outside our front stoop. Then I lifted the latch of the door and plodded into the kitchen, where my uncle was sitting expectantly at the table. My hands were now empty.
Maman pounced on me.
“Luc! Where are the two loaves of bread I sent you to buy?”
“I bought them, Maman—“
“Then where are they?”
“I sold one—“
“Sold one! To buy some chocolate I suppose!”
“It’s Saturday, so I thought—“
“You’ll get a spanking for that, mark my words! But where is the other loaf?”
“I gave it away, Maman—“
“What, to the neighborhood dog? And just what did you expect your uncle and I to eat, huh?”
I could feel my uncle’s eyes on me. I had never been to court before, but I thought maybe I was beginning to know what it was like.
I had to defend myself somehow.
“Violet didn’t have any breakfast! Jean-Baptiste tried to eat his hand off. Someone stole Jerome’s bread, and he can’t see so he couldn’t have chased them, and he had to feed the ducks or they would starve, and he doesn’t have any kids like me so feeding the ducks is his only joy in life! And you told me to be generous!”
My uncle gave a wheezy laugh that sounded like his throat was about to reject his vocal chords. I wanted to hit him to make him shut-up, but I had never hit anyone before because I didn’t have a younger brother like Nicolas had.
“Ho ho,” he said, “it looks like our little Luc really has his heart in his hand, and he’s got cheek!”
Maman acted as if she hadn’t heard my uncle.
“Where is this precious chocolate bar?” she asked me. “You don’t even seem to have that.”
“I dropped it,” I replied.
“Therese,” my uncle said to Maman, “while I appreciate your efforts to accommodate me comfortably, there was no need to prevent Luc from having his usual Saturday chocolate bar, especially when I have a few francs myself to spare. Luc can come with me, and I will buy us two loaves of bread and a chocolate bar for Luc.”
“Georges, that is most inappropriate. What will Luc learn from this experience if he doesn’t feel the consequences of his actions? True, he is generous, but he had no right to sell a perfectly good loaf of bread—“
“Therese, what’s your favorite patisserie?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s your favorite treat from Madame Dupain’s?”
“She likes chocolate éclairs,” I supplied.
“Me and Luc will be back in ten minutes with one.”
We exited the house and my uncle put his hand roughly on my shoulder and steered me toward Madame Dupain’s.
“Uncle Georges,” I started to say. I supposed it was time the court knew the truth, “Uncle Georges,” I started again, and this time I kept talking because I felt like my stomach was about to boil over, “Uncle Georges, I’m really really sorry I didn’t bring your breakfast. You must be really hungry, and Maman, too! And I don’t really hate you anymore!”
“Oh it’s no trouble, Little Luc, I’m a tough guy, and you are a very kind boy, only you like to do things your way.”
“Do you think Maman will still be mad when we get home?”
“Luc,” he said, “your mother doesn’t appreciate Saturdays, does she? But we’ll come to her rescue as soon as we return.”
I was beginning to think my uncle wasn’t quite as disposable as I’d thought he was.
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Poem for the Teacher
With teacher comments
I think you’re hot informal—insert “sexy”
But kind of nerdy prejudiced language
I hate it when you call on me explain
I’d rather call on you OK Who cares
If you’re too old not the point—cut it out
I dream of you a lot please clarify
Give me an A. Connect to former point.
I know I’m just a kid
But you are in my heart
And if you gave a damn
We’d have a start cliché
SO PLEASE GIVE ME AN A
B+ for effort but you can do better.
I think you’re hot informal—insert “sexy”
But kind of nerdy prejudiced language
I hate it when you call on me explain
I’d rather call on you OK Who cares
If you’re too old not the point—cut it out
I dream of you a lot please clarify
Give me an A. Connect to former point.
I know I’m just a kid
But you are in my heart
And if you gave a damn
We’d have a start cliché
SO PLEASE GIVE ME AN A
B+ for effort but you can do better.
How to Make Mistakes
Haha, I don’t make MISTAKEs.
I
MIS TAKE-OUT
YOU
You MISTIFY me TAKE ME WITH YOU.
MISFORTUNE TAKES A LOT OF STALE COOKIES.
do Raise
re the
mi stakes!
.sdrawkcab m’IStakes help tomatoes grow.
And if all else fails:
I make mistakes.
I
MIS TAKE-OUT
YOU
You MISTIFY me TAKE ME WITH YOU.
MISFORTUNE TAKES A LOT OF STALE COOKIES.
do Raise
re the
mi stakes!
.sdrawkcab m’IStakes help tomatoes grow.
And if all else fails:
I make mistakes.
The Island in the Living Room
“How much are you asking for that island?”
“I’m not selling it.”
“Why not? It’s prime real estate. It’s got a great view of the ocean—on all sides, in fact! And it’s private. It’s disconnected from other people’s busy lives, so you don’t have to worry about them or put up with their advice or their opinions or their noise. And it’s customizable. You can call it anything you want. You can do anything you want on it because no one will see you. You can dance around in your underwear. You can walk around it continuously and never come to a dead end or the line of some else’s property. And best of all, it’s in uncharted territory! No one knows where it is! A chance finally, a real chance, never to be bothered by anybody. After a long day’s work, that’s almost as good as a cold beer! Why can’t I claim that island as my own, huh? You could at least lease it.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Forgive me, Mark, but why in God’s name not?” Harold took off his sunglasses and gave Mark what Mark thought was perhaps the first ever serious look he’d ever given—until Harold’s cellphone vibrated detectably and Harold dove into his pocket.
They were sitting in a black convertible on a hot August afternoon (right after the sun had reached its zenith and the pavement was generously returning the heat it had been given in copious waves). The healthy trees in the sparkling New York suburb were reflected in the convertible’s sides in marbly swirls.
“Why not, Mark?” said Harold, finishing a text with a click.
“Because,” said Mark arduously, as he had told many of his friends many times, “that island is in my living room.”
“Yeah, I know. And I damn well wish it wasn’t. If it was in my living room, I’d be milking it for all it’s worth. But you’re such a reclusive old nutjob, you’ll hide yourself in it until we all forget who you are. And then we’ll say you died and sell your house for a quarter million. At least we’ll get some profit out of it.”
Mark was filled with retorts—and good arguments they were, too. But instead of speaking them out loud, he kept his mouth shut. Harold was right; Mark was a recluse. But he was comfortable with the knowledge.
“You know what I think?” continued Harold, as if he hadn’t just insulted Mark already, “I think you’re a hoarder. And you know where hoarders go in Dante’s inferno? In the same circle as the money-wasters! That’s where they go. You’re positively sinful, Mark. You have a moral obligation to lease that island! Be a good consumer, Mark. It’s for the health of the economy. Be a patriot. Lease your goddamn island!”
“You know I can’t argue with you, Harold,” said Mark as he climbed out of the car, “you’re a lawyer.”
“And I didn’t appreciate your lawyer joke birthday card, either!” shouted Harold. “Hey wait, hold on! We’re waiting for Marcy to finish her house-call!” But just as he spoke, Marcy came out of the house carrying her case of vet supplies in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other.
To be continued...
“I’m not selling it.”
“Why not? It’s prime real estate. It’s got a great view of the ocean—on all sides, in fact! And it’s private. It’s disconnected from other people’s busy lives, so you don’t have to worry about them or put up with their advice or their opinions or their noise. And it’s customizable. You can call it anything you want. You can do anything you want on it because no one will see you. You can dance around in your underwear. You can walk around it continuously and never come to a dead end or the line of some else’s property. And best of all, it’s in uncharted territory! No one knows where it is! A chance finally, a real chance, never to be bothered by anybody. After a long day’s work, that’s almost as good as a cold beer! Why can’t I claim that island as my own, huh? You could at least lease it.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Forgive me, Mark, but why in God’s name not?” Harold took off his sunglasses and gave Mark what Mark thought was perhaps the first ever serious look he’d ever given—until Harold’s cellphone vibrated detectably and Harold dove into his pocket.
They were sitting in a black convertible on a hot August afternoon (right after the sun had reached its zenith and the pavement was generously returning the heat it had been given in copious waves). The healthy trees in the sparkling New York suburb were reflected in the convertible’s sides in marbly swirls.
“Why not, Mark?” said Harold, finishing a text with a click.
“Because,” said Mark arduously, as he had told many of his friends many times, “that island is in my living room.”
“Yeah, I know. And I damn well wish it wasn’t. If it was in my living room, I’d be milking it for all it’s worth. But you’re such a reclusive old nutjob, you’ll hide yourself in it until we all forget who you are. And then we’ll say you died and sell your house for a quarter million. At least we’ll get some profit out of it.”
Mark was filled with retorts—and good arguments they were, too. But instead of speaking them out loud, he kept his mouth shut. Harold was right; Mark was a recluse. But he was comfortable with the knowledge.
“You know what I think?” continued Harold, as if he hadn’t just insulted Mark already, “I think you’re a hoarder. And you know where hoarders go in Dante’s inferno? In the same circle as the money-wasters! That’s where they go. You’re positively sinful, Mark. You have a moral obligation to lease that island! Be a good consumer, Mark. It’s for the health of the economy. Be a patriot. Lease your goddamn island!”
“You know I can’t argue with you, Harold,” said Mark as he climbed out of the car, “you’re a lawyer.”
“And I didn’t appreciate your lawyer joke birthday card, either!” shouted Harold. “Hey wait, hold on! We’re waiting for Marcy to finish her house-call!” But just as he spoke, Marcy came out of the house carrying her case of vet supplies in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other.
To be continued...
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