Fall 2003
CONTEST WINNERS
FIRST PRIZE, SHORT STORY
Cold Black Waters by Ananda Lennox
Yesterday she was on the floor, her body unnaturally still, except
for her chest, which still rose with each breath. I held her close,
and felt both paternal and scared. I stroked her face and brushed
away a stray lock of sandy hair lightened with sparse, but ever
present strands of gray. Her chin was host to tiny coarse whiskers
and I knew that she would be mortified that I saw them-- that anyone
did. I had never held her like that and I couldn't help but fear
that she may have woken, caught me, and disapproved. But she did
not stir.
Today she sits on the porch wrapped in a wool blanket and is complaining
about its coarseness. She will not let me replace it. I stand a
few feet from her, removed from her cloudy line of vision. It is
warm outside, but just warm and I wonder how she stands it, lacking
any body fat to insulate her from the chill that March carries with
it. Before us lies the lake, gray and sullen, like her mood. Yesterday
was different. The wind was up and so was she, yelling and kicking
so hard that I had to call Mr. Abraham over to help me restrain
her. It was then that she collapsed.
The lake has always been there and always will be. When I was a
child my Mama told me stories about it so that I wouldn't be afraid.
"Mama, why does the lake change color like that?" my child-self
asked.
"It depends on her mood. When she is happy she's blue, gray
when she's sad, brown when she's thinking, and black when she's
mad," she answered.
"Oh," I said, and curled my hand into hers and stared
into her young face- square and fair. She looked down at me and
smiled before standing to brush the corn silk off her apron.
"You have to be careful around that lake. Stay away from her
when she's angry, else she'll swallow you up," she said. I
watched her walk into the house with her bag of husks and her bag
of corn, then turned my attention to the lake.
"Don't get mad lake, I don't want you to swallow me or my Mama,"
I said to it with a seriousness that only a five year old could
muster and followed my mother inside.
Our house is large and old. It is too big and always has been for
our small family. It has been just me and Mama for as long as I
can remember. Sure, there was a dad once and maybe a new dad or
two, but none of them stayed around long. They always left muttering
things like, "You don't need a man, you are one!" I asked
her what they meant by that and she told me they just wanted her
to be weak and if she was going to be weak she might as well die.
She said that she didn't need anyone but me and I liked that. Life
was simple then, or perhaps, maybe it was just me who was simple.
I now know that this is all that she thinks of, her weakness. I
came to live with her six months ago. It seemed the most sensible
choice. Mama's doctor asked me to speak with him alone the day I
arrived back in town. "Jeremy," he said, "there's
something we need to talk about." I looked over my shoulder
towards my mother who sat alone in the waiting room. For a moment
I thought I saw a look of despair and my heart dropped to my feet,
but when she noticed my stare she set her jaw and reached for a
magazine that I knew she could not read. "Print's too small",
she would have complained under different circumstances. I turned
back to the doctor and followed him into his office. I closed the
door softly behind me. My ears caught the sound of its gentle whoosh
and I couldn't help but think of the sound our old freezer used
to make; the one that we stored the slaughtered cow in over twenty
winters ago.
The drive back to the house was terminal. Mama refused to discuss
the visit. We drove in silence, each contemplating the doctor's
news. My mind raced with other, more random thoughts as well. Why
didn't she tell me? Does the car need an oil change? How could I
make her happy? How long did we really have? We stopped at Bert's
Diner on the way back. I ordered a burger and fries, Mama had a
coffee and Key Lime pie. Our waitress Betsy, who was also Bert's
wife, was 40ish and well-padded.
"How are you today Mrs. Stevens?" she cooed, while wiping
down our table.
"Fine," Mama tersely replied and fell silent. Betsy widened
her eyes at me questioningly and I could only manage to shrug. Where
would I begin? Impending death just didn't fit into my diner small-talk
repertoire.
"Just bring out our food, please," I told her and immediately
felt bad. I was getting used to it already though- anger, guilt
and grief, and Mama wasn't even dead yet.
We ate quietly. Mama drank her coffee white with 5 sugars. I mused
to myself that her coffee was probably sweeter than her pie. She
worked her fork on the pie deftly, careful to miss not one crumb.
Key Lime was her favorite and she used to deny herself it, though
I don't know why. As if reading my thoughts, she spoke: "I
gave Key Lime pie up about 40 years ago, when my Daddy died,"
she said and then continued chewing. "I don't think he'll mind
now that I am coming to join him soon," she said and looked
a bit wistful. "Do you want to order another slice?" I
asked, happy to see her enjoying something that still tied her to
this world. "No, no, one is enough," she said, then carefully
scraped her fork along the plate and licked it clean.
That was when she could still get around with relative ease. Now
she has a wheelchair and a walker whose presence to Mama represent
both freedom and dependence. She looks at them sometimes just like
she once did her pack of cigarettes; when she realized she couldn't
leave the house without it, she quit. Sometimes she looks at me
that way. Twice a week a nurse comes by to help out. His name is
Art. Art is a large man who used to work in the psychiatric ward
in St. Augustine's Hospital. Mama poses no trouble to him, though
I overhear them arguing often as I arrive home.
"Why not?" I hear my mother say.
"Because it is not your time yet. You have to be patient,"
Art replies.
"All I've been is patient. I want to go now!" she says.
I hear Art sigh, then reply, "Mrs. Stevens, Mary, can I call
you Mary? Look, I'm not going to argue with you over this anymore.
I am here to help take care of you, not to help you drown yourself."
Two weeks later we are sitting at the dinner table and she starts
the same argument with me.
"Let me go," she says, looking shrunken in her ill fitting
sports-coat that my Grandpa used to wear.
"No Mama, I'm not going to let you kill yourself."
"But this is my last chance. I won't be able to walk anymore
soon."
"Mama, please, please stop! Just stop. You're killing me."
"No, you're killing me," she says and then pauses and
turns to look out the window towards the lake, "Jeremy, do
you know, I can't wipe myself anymore. Yesterday when Art came by,
he had to clean me up. I smelt like shit! I can't work, let alone
walk. I can't wait any longer. Please!" Frustrated, I slam
my glass of milk down onto the table and rise up, unable to handle
the conversation any longer.
"Mama, you are trying my patience. I am here to help you, not
to let you kill yourself. I cannot help you with that. Good night!"
I leave her at the table.
Moments later, as I lay on my bed, I hear her, softly at first,
then louder, in broken, halting sobs.
"Please, let me go," she wails, "please!"
I grit my teeth and pull my pillow over my head, feeling a wetness
and a heat begin to spread over my face. Eventually I fall asleep.
It is May 1st and it is raw outside. Our thermometer that hangs
outside the kitchen reads 49 degrees. Mama is dressed in a heavy
wool dress over thermal leggings. She greets me when I join her
at the table carrying a pot of coffee.
"Morning," she says.
" Good Morning," I reply and place the pot upon the table.
She has aged overnight, though there is an air about her of steadfast
resolution, a strength that was completely lacking last night during
her breakdown.
"I am going to try walking down to the lake today, by myself,"
she says aloud, but not directly to me. Her eyes fix through the
window towards the lake. It is as smooth as ice.
"Oh," is all I can think to say. I take a sip of my coffee.
She nods and sips her coffee like today was just any other day.
We sit in silence for awhile, then she eases her wheelchair from
the table and guides it over to her walker by the front door. She
studies the walker for a moment, sizing it up, then bends to lock
the wheels on her chair. Once secure, she reaches her thin, flaccid
arms for the walker. Her hands find their grip and she pitches her
weight forward onto them. I watch her struggle out of the corner
of my eye, and pour myself a second cup of coffee. She eventually
manages to raise herself onto her feet and breathes heavily from
the exertion.
"Jeremy, would you mind getting the door for me?" she
asks softly, seeking permission. I hesitate for what seems like
an eternity, then walk towards her and search her eyes for something
I don't want to see. It is there. As I peer into her glaucoma haze
I reach for the door knob. Her opaque eyes are moist and dark beneath
their film. She is smiling at me. I open the door.
"Thank you son," she says, "I'll see you later."
My breath catches and my lungs ache. There is a scream down there
that wants to rip free, but I deny it.
Slowly she shuffles through the open door and makes her way down
the hill. I watch her for a moment, then sit back down at the table.
One minute goes by, then five.
"I could still stop her," I say aloud to myself, but in
my head I keep hearing her echo: "Please let me go, please!"
Then ten minutes pass, thirty minutes, two hours. Before I know
it, it is dinnertime and Art pulls into the driveway.
"Evening Mr. Stevens, what are you still doing here? Shouldn't
you be at work?" he asks. I look up at him through an air that
feels heavy with time and memory.
"I let her go," is all I say.
Art rests a large hand on my shoulder and squeezes once before leaving
me to wonder where those things that you love go, when you set them
free.
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