I Know

The phone rang again for the third time in an hour. She knew who it was. The caller.

He’d started a few months ago. At first she thought it was just another solicitor and ignored it. She even called *69 once or twice, but the caller’s number was unavailable. Then, just out of curiosity, she started to pick up. A few of the calls were the usual fundraisers and the like, but sometimes there was just silence. If she waited long enough she could hear the distinctive breathing. A kind of scratchy sound, like the lungs of a long-time smoker.

Randomly at first, and then more regularly, the calls continued, always in the evenings. After 7:00, before 11:00. Why? Why would someone harass her, frighten her? What was so frightening about breathing? There was no real harm in it. Still, it was creepy.

She called the phone company of course, but the calls could not be traced. She changed her number, but the calls continued. She began to dread coming home, and found excuses to stay away, but the demands of an early morning commute combined with her need for a solid eight hours of sleep, meant she was frequently home when the calls came through at 10:00, 10:30, 10:45.

Then on one call she heard the voice. “I know,” he said. Just that. “I know.” And then the hang-up.

She told her doctor she had a stressful job and needed some help. She didn’t tell him it was only in the evenings that the stress was more than she could bear. The calls continued. A Valium with dinner helped soothe her jangled nerves. “I know.” Some nights she took two and even three. “I know.”

Finally, she unplugged the phone. Peace. Then she heard it again. “I know. I know.”

What could he know? How could he know? No one knew. “I know.” More Valium. A drink to steady her nerves. Another. Lay down. Rest. In her head now. Ring. Ring. Ring. “I know.”

Not any more. It’s over.

I Have A Lot To Do

“So what are you doing with yourself these days?” I get this question a lot. Now that the children are grown and I don’t have a job, my friends want to know how I fill my days. I’m probably the wrong person to ask. I actually enjoy the mundane routines that provide structure to my days. I remind them that I still have laundry to fold, bills to pay, grocery shopping, cleaning, and dogs to tend. They sigh, and nod their heads sympathetically, but I know they’re disappointed with my answer.

It’s as if Lewis and Clark returned from their magnificent journey with the Corps of Discovery and explained that other than hunting and fishing and a whole lot of walking there wasn’t much to report. I’d get a better response if I said I’d taken up pole dancing or professional poker. I think they’re hoping I’ll provide evidence of something exciting just around the corner.

But once in a while, I get a day with no chores or lists or appointments and I get to think about their question. Maybe the better approach is to start at the end. On your very last day, when you look back over the years, what will make you smile? What moments stand out? Are there things you’ll wish you’d done? People, places, and experiences that brought you joy or fill you with longing to try again?

And here we are, with this day stretching out before us like a blank page. I hope you’ll excuse me. I have a lot to do today.

Romance Novels

Recently I discovered a wealth of fiction that I never knew existed. Romance literature. Oh sure, I’ve paged through lots of famous bestsellers and thumbed through paperbacks at the beach, but I had no idea how vast is the scope of romantic literature these days.

At the county book sale last year, eBay entrepreneurs wandered up and down the aisles of the paperback romance section with grocery carts (yes, grocery carts) full of slim volumes, each of which could easily be finished in a sitting or two. I asked if there truly existed a lucrative market for this enterprise and they insured me that - yes indeed - buying and selling these little jewels was profitable business.

Romance isn’t just romance anymore. If you look at the spine of the books for assistance, you’ll find descriptions of several fascinating sub-genres: Paranormal Romance, Historical Romance, NASCAR, Western, Sci-Fi, Young Adult, and Chick Lit Romance. The list goes on and on.

I was prepared to make fun of them. After all, the cover art is generally – well – ridiculous - for lack of a better word. I couldn’t find a better word because I was staring so intently at the shirtless, smoky-eyed, hard-bodied Adonis on the cover that I was distracted. And of course the stories are entirely preposterous. Frequently, a damsel in distress is involved with a lusty hero who eventually sweeps her up, takes her away, and unfailingly pays homage to her body in descriptive vocabulary of a lightly erotic nature. (Okay, technically they weren’t just talking about it.) At least that’s the way it worked in the dozen or so I read last weekend. Some chapters I read several times – just for research. What I particularly liked (after Adonis and the descriptive vocabulary) was the assurance of a happy ending.

Romance novels always have a happy ending. I like that. Our lives may be full of unresolved challenges, but for a few moments each day a romance novel guarantees that everything will turn out okay. No wonder they’re so popular. How comforting it is to tell a book by its cover.

Mammogram Fun

I am very cold. My arms are stretched out in front of me so that I am able to clutch the paint-chipped handles of the machine in a death grip. I am very cold because from the waist up I am naked.

It’s mammogram time again. I hate it. Don’t look at me like that. I know I have to do this every year. I know it saves lives. I know I should be grateful for this miraculous technology. I will think of all that later. Right now I just want to get the hell out of here.

“Are you comfortable?” the nurse asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I haven’t been this comfortable since the last time I gave birth,” I add to the empty room after she leaves.

Every woman who has endured this necessary humiliation has her own pet peeves about the procedure. I have several. The first is the embarrassingly short torso-length medical gown that is barely long enough to protect my modesty. The garment makers have either tried to cut fabric costs or have simply made false assumptions about the affects of gravity on the female anatomy. It makes me break out in a nervous sweat as I walk across the public hallway and since I am prohibited from wearing deodorant or cologne, it also means I am smelly.

I am not the kind of girl who walks around the house or locker room au natural, so this is difficult. Not only am I unclothed, but the technician has tagged me like a steer at roundup time. I glance down at the stickers. L and R. Left and Right? Large and Round? Lush and Ripe? Lucy and Roberta? My mind conjures any number of combinations.

And then the final blow. I try to appreciate how hard it must be for the harried nurse to move quickly while attempting to provide a modicum of compassion. But she is very fortunate that I am in the lock and load position because her next comment nearly results in homicide.

“You’re lucky. The young girls with firm, perky breasts have a much harder time of it,” she remarks cheerfully as she continues to compress the plates another notch or two.

At home later I fume anew over the accumulated indignities: cold, naked, vulnerable, tagged, humiliated, and insulted. Oh yes. And one other thing.

Alive.