The exposure

My mother was not in a hurry, for once we travelled leisurely. She and I, two temporary pals setting out on a suburban journey. Free from much thought, no tense conversations. Our roles of mother and daughter turned off. Just us gals. Me with my thighs stuck in a pleasant way to the vinyl seats in the station wagon, Her with one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and one hand rolling down the car window.

Time for another cigarette. A perfect moment, she is alone in the car, without another adult judging her. The short frantic grope of her purse, her fumbling. Me helping in my way. My emotional support of her rather than my help with the search of the cigarette pack. She finds them once I steady the bag and she steadies the wheel. The swift snap of the lighter and deep penetrating drag of the cigarette. The once coveted lighter now quickly thrown in the direction of the bag, so quickly forgotten once the cigarette was lighted.

I am six years old.

We drive to an antique shop. It is 10 o’ clock in the morning and in the middle of summer. All the windows are open in the long shop. Is it dark? It is a bit. A storm is coming. A summer storm. I hear my mom across the store. She speaks to the shop owner about what we are looking for. Small talk. Wind through the windows. I look around. I have figured out that I can pick up things in store, small things, even expensive things as long as I set them down carefully and no one is around. Cautiously like my mother. My hand moves over a ceramic cow creamer. I pick it up turn it upside down like I have seen my mother do, look at the price tag on its belly and right the creamer and set it back down on the shelf. Softly. Expertly. No one is looking.

A man approaches, he says something matter-of-factly. I freeze as he drops his pants. I am aware how much distance is between my mother and I. He rubs his flaccid penis up and I see it fall against his leg. Snap. My breath is short. Then a blur to find my mother. Fast, fast. I find her laughing in the shop with the shop keeper. The shopkeeper gives a history about antique violins. My mother discusses the Stradivarius that hangs in our hallway. My grandfather would play it when no one was looking. He also played the piano when I would visit then stop playing when people started to gather around him. His little secret. Music wasn’t something farmers respected. He thought of them as silly parlor tricks and the like. Life was to be planned and earth to be tended. Around me he was a miracle. Frivolous and throwing me in the air. I had all his attention. He followed me everywhere. He would laugh so hard when I tried to catch the geese that settled in the fields.

Mom and I climb into the station wagon. It smells of home and safety. I am in the back seat. If I sit in the front I smell the cigarettes too much and the view was better in the back. I have all the space back there. We are separated. My brothers Star Wars figurines roll forward at the light. I watch them roll under the seat again. A light turns green.

I tell my mother about the man and how he took his pants down in front of me. I tell her as best I can but I am a child. I am suddenly aware of how small I am, almost useless. She carefully asks questions. Everything is strange because everything is so careful. I try to tell her he touched himself. I am not sure what I am saying but she gasps and then does something amazing. She says “okay” then covers her mouth. She pulls back into the parking lot of the antique shop. We sit there and she has both hands on the wheel. A small bit of time goes by. She then heads the car in the direction of home. She is afraid and turns the wheel softly and carefully. I have done something wrong but am relieved she is not yelling at me. Usually there is yelling. We continue to head home. She is afraid and I have frightened her. How is that possible? She is huge and I am terribly small. I am sorry. I want to forget the whole thing. I want to take it back suddenly wiser now. I am exposed. Silence. I stare out of the window and fumble with my brothers toys in the back, all alone again.

Welcome to the Party

It was a Friday afternoon and I was exhausted from the usual work week nonsense. All of us agreed to go to the local Irish pub after work for some Irish car bombs. It was a running joke in the office as most are either from Irish or English backgrounds. Literally it meant a shot of Baileys dropped into a pint of beer. You can only do so many before the room starts spinning. Everyone at least has two, then the verbal fights break out, calm verbal fights, masked behind some corporate correctness.

The pub was located across the suburb-office-stripmall-land to the other side of the suburb-office-stripmall land. Traffic was an absolute nightmare at 6 o’clock on a Friday afternoon, a balmy 69 degrees and the sun shining. Although I could see the top of the pub on the hill, it would take at least 25 minutes for traffic to allow me to order and receive my car bomb.

I couldn’t wait to get there.

My cell phone rang. “Sweetums!” My dad sang out. “What do you say?”

I have exactly twelve memories of my dad while my parents were still married. They are foggy but they are there. Things like birthday parties and his telling me about how wonderful spiders are while we watched one spin a web so carefully on the back porch. He left my mother when I was 6 and my brother 8. I don’t know if his leaving did more good than harm. I am always left struggling for words when I speak to him. He is to this day one of the strangest people I know.

I could tell my dad had been enjoying his Friday cocktail hour already. “Havenn a little vinno” my father slurred slightly. “Well good for you” I said wanting to toss the phone out the window. “WeEELL I have been doing some research..” I shifted in my seat. “TURNS out OUR relatives - in Germany -THE ZIESSES sold their camera lens company to the Nazis during World War II”

What an opener, even for him. “What?, Dad come on...” I whined. He swooped in. “Nope! You got it, our family -- our ancestors were compliant ..even lets say..hospitible to the Nazis during the second World War.” A car horn beeped behind me. “What?” I said, shocked. “What are you saying?”

Dad went on, “What I am saying is...our family, your ancesters...were profiting ...off the Nazi Regime ...in World War Two.”

“What would the Nazis want with a camera company, Dad?” I begged.

“Lenses for their rifle scopes!!” He chirped.

I suddenly really needed that car bomb. My father has always had a flair for the dramatic. I took a breath and told myself it was nonsense. “Come on dad, I am in traffic.. what are you telling me?”

“What I am saying is that you and Hitler could have been cousins!” He shouted.

“Cousins?” I panted, then I struck back. I wasn’t going to let him get me. “Great!” I said “I’ll invite the Nazis to go to summer camp with us”

“Heard they got a few camps open!” Dad shot back. Another car horn.

“Well so much for the Senate” I whispered.

“Yes, you know, if you’re serious, you could have gone that route.” How loaded was he? “Well you know I am old buddies with the Coutiers and the Behars...” He bragged. “Great, more Nazis” I barked.

“Hey listen you can’t deny your heritage, good or bad.” He said.

“I think this is pretty bad, Dad”

“Well at least we are not as bad as your mothers family, hell, one of her great-great Aunts was Hilter’s nanny”

“Dad, stop” I begged.

Then this from him. “You know how she tied his shoes?” “How Dad? I gulped.

“In little knot-zies!” He exploded with laughter.

I hung up the phone.