Never underestimate the bonds of small town sympathies ... or their ties that bind.
And sometimes in the Gutter, you can find both wrapped up in a pretty little package....
And sometimes in the Gutter, you can find both wrapped up in a pretty little package....
Mona by Marietta Miles
 |
 |
Mona sets her dripping feet on the pink bath rug. She tucks her hair, no creams or sprays, neatly behind her ears and finishes drying off. Just past the steamy window traffic hums. She listens half heartedly, barely humming along. In her bedroom she slips on a pressed blue oxford, chinos, and smart pair of navy sneakers. Carefully, she pins a small silver angel, found at the dime store, to her collar. Mona prefers gold but knows silver is more appropriate, less showy. Tilting her head, she moves the angel so the praying hands face heaven. Mona smiles timidly to the mirror, frowns, and then smiles with less emotion.
“One day at a time, doing
fine,” she says to no one, over and over.
Mona hears Mr. Coffee
cough out the last of the boiling water. Crossing the one-bedroom flat, she
whisks into the kitchen as the light of morning changes from blue to pink. Mona
bends down, unlocks the dog kennel, and clears the water and food dishes. She
locks the kennel. After putting the metal dishes in the sink to rinse, she pours
coffee into her fading blue mug. Written across the cup, as if in crayon, is
the word “Mom.” Mona stares out the kitchen window. A cheerful yellow school
bus lumbers past.
Across the street a
child laughs, pushing Mona from her quiet moment. She cleans her cup and draws
the white curtains closed. Walking around her grey Formica table, she pushes her
chair closer, covers the kennel with a worn blanket, and turns out the overhead
light. With her handbag and keys Mona turns and scans her flat, making sure
everything is neat, everything is in its place.
***
“Good to see you, Mona,” a familiar delivery man calls and smiles shyly. Mona lifts her
hand and returns the hello.
“Hello, dear,” says the
old lady from the basement flat next door as she reaches for Mona’s hand,
patting it with boney fingers.
“Good to see you,
Mrs. Treemore,” Mona whispers.
She makes her way
toward the busy corner, feeling the stares of her neighbors on her. Some close
their eyes or bow their heads. Others consider how she must be holding up. Mona
is resilient. Mona is strong.
Mona stops at the
corner market. Inside, old men sit in the window laughing, fussing and drinking
coffee. Sleepy mothers, having dropped their children at school across the way,
pick up milk, bread. The bell on the door rings. Mona walks in and sets toward the
coffee. The store is chock full of neighbors. Watching Mona, they fall silent.
She takes her place at the end of the line after getting her cup. There are
several women in front of her; they shift on their feet, hemming and hawing. A raggedy
lady, second to the register, breaks the line and motions Mona to take her
place.
“Oh, no ... I couldn’t,”
says Mona, taken aback by the gesture, as she dips her chin and covers her
mouth.
The other women urge
her forward. Finally, Mona gives in and walks to the front of the line. Flushing,
she digs in her purse for change.
“No, Mrs. Smith,” the
owner says, refusing the money Mona offers, passing back her coffee. He uses
her married title, for everyone believes she is a widow. She never bothers to
correct them. Thankfully for Mona, small towns are quite fond of widows.
Standing before the
pretty white door as she prepares to leave, Mona stares at the aging, color
flyer taped to the glass. A beautiful little girl, smiling in front of a
Christmas Tree, stares back. Her little girl Emma, reported missing now for
three months. “FIND EMMA” it reads. Mona catches her breath. Quickly, an old
man opens the door.
“Thank you, sir,
thank you so much.” Mona stares at the ground. Shaking and unsettled, she
skitters across the street, gathers her wits enough to wave hello to the crossing
guard, and enters the little school.
***
It is the end of the
day and eager first graders file out of the library, jumping on the bright blue
alphabet rug or falling past the cardboard cut-out of George Washington. Once
the children leave, Mona closes her book and helps the librarian shelve new
arrivals. Later, after coffee with the younger teachers, Mona cuts flashcards
for the kindergarten class. She uses the big table cutter; Mona daydreams to
the sound of paper slicing.
Principal Sparks, ordinarily
smug and snippy, stops Mona near the clinic and inquires after her well being. She
asks if there is anything she can do for her. Mona barely draws breath to answer
and the woman is hugging her close. The press of her round cheek feels soft and
comforting to Mona. Mrs. Sparks fills her with warmth. Mona feels safe. She thinks back to her own ugly upbringing, wonders if this is how a mother’s love should
feel.
“We are so glad you
are out and about. I can’t imagine how hard it is, coming here….” Principal
Sparks pauses.
“It is what Emma
would want,” Mona says.
***
Mona closes the door
behind her. It is finally evening. She slides her shoes off and kicks them out
of the way. After dropping her handbag to the floor she runs to the kitchen,
furiously opening the junk drawer. From the back she pulls a nearly empty pack
of Pall Malls and matches. Not bothering to turn on the lights, moving in the
dimness, she sits in the kitchen chair. She lights the cigarette, dragging almost
to the filter, and slumps onto her elbows. Mona finishes the cigarette and
methodically starts another. She leans toward the dog kennel and unhooks the
locks, pulling the door wide.
“Be good tomorrow,”
says Mona. A shadow on the bottom of the cage pulls itself to the opening,
remaining just inside. “Maybe you can sleep in your bed.”
“Yes, Momma,” whispers
Emma.
