Dad called him the “Lawn Ranger”. I’d always giggle and listen out my window for the mechanical clanking and whirring blades on the old, red Wheel Horse as Grandpa swirled around the yard, hacking up the vibrant green of his lawn. Grandpa always bought red equipment. Our rusty snowplow truck was red. Great Grandpa told him red would help melt the snow. What Great Grandpa said was law.
The back door to my Grandparents’ house was a thin metal door that precariously swung out and threatened to thwack you in the nose if you weren’t careful. It screeched and groaned in protest every time I threw it open after I ran down the sloping lawn to knock on the door for cookies. Musical notes of Perry Como drifted out the open doorway as Grandpa swallowed me in one of his bear hugs. I’d poke his belly to make him laugh like the Pillsbury Doughboy. He’d wiggle his ears. I’d laugh harder. Grandma always yelled from the kitchen to shut the door as I could smell the fresh tollhouse cookies she had just baked, their moist chocolate chips simmering on the stove. She’d hand me one. It would melt in my hand before even making it to my tongue where I could savor the thick chips and doughy batter. Grandpa would sneak up behind me and snatch one from the stove. He was a Diabetic. But he cheated. He’d whisper not to tell Grandma or she’d “holler” at him. She’d be watching him from around the corner, silent, but knowing.
Horses run in my family’s blood. They owned, trained, sold, bought, spoiled racehorses. They weren’t very fast, but it was never about the speed. Grandpa took me to my first race. I remember standing up against the rail, trying to peer over the top, but failing. Everything was vibrating. The ground shook, the rail swayed, and the stands roared. He’d place his hand on my shoulder and point.
“Look to the turn,” he’d say.
So I stood on tiptoe, trying to look, but only succeeding in listening. The Saratoga flags whipped in the breeze behind me. I shut my eyes tight and heard them. Their pack of hooves churning the dirt and swallowing up ground as each stride pushed them towards an imaginary line. Grandpa muttered under his breath.
“Come on. Come on.”
He had placed a sizeable bet on this one horse. He was in the back of the pack. I looked up at his scowling face just before he shrugged and smiled at me.
“That’s why it’s called gambling,” he chuckled.
We stuck to just watching the races and buying food for the rest of the day. I knew better than to ask any questions. I was pretty proud of my gambling skills as a ten-year-old. The elderly men at the track would listen to my betting tactics anytime I had a stroke of luck.
I turned 16. I walked down to see my Grandparents less and less. School, horses, friends - all seemed so much more thrilling. He didn’t have to say that I hurt him by not visiting. I knew I did. It was harder to visit each time, having to bear that disappointment that I could hear in the edges of his voice as I talked, overly cheerful, about daily occurrences that now seemed completely mundane.
I trained my very own horse. He came to every show. I started running cross-country and track. He watched me win the championship. I got into college with a running scholarship. He told every single one of friends that his granddaughter was going to run in the Olympics.
Grandpa made me cry. He said I ignored him at my graduation and didn’t run to give him a hug. My dad fought with him back at the house. I wanted to throw my diploma in the trash as their angry voices floated around from behind the rose bush. I apologized to him.
Grandpa got sick. He had cancer. I sat on that hospital bed with him one afternoon. It didn’t make a sound when you sat down. Normal beds squeak or make a thumping sound. This bed did nothing. It didn’t exist. I shuffled the sticky deck of cards, listening to their sharp flipping sound as I made sure I mixed them up good. Grandpa just watched me. The hospital machines beeping behind him, the fluorescent lights buzzing, and the TV – still audible even though it was on mute. My head swam and wanted to burst from all the noise. He cleared his throat.
“I’m betting 4. You taking it?”
He knew I wouldn’t. He kicked my ass in Setback every time.
Grandpa died five days after I got to school. Mom drove me home in the dark. I said goodbye, but I know he didn’t hear me as I looked at his swollen face and hands. I wanted to apologize for the years lost. I wanted to thank him. Instead I cried – it was as good as silence.
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The Name Game
“Come stai, Bella?”queried Nonna in flawless Italian as I bound into her kitchen on a spring afternoon. My white Keds squeaked on the tile and the faint smells of garlic and tomato sauce lingered. She called me “Bella”. Come over here, Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella. She called me her “beautiful Bella”. She never stopped. Her lips always forming the “b” sound, then flowing through the “ella”. I could never say it the way she did.
She’d always be stationed at the kitchen table, her Nebulizer perched in her hands, ready for use. “Che ore sono?”she’d ask the next time. I looked at her blankly, stared at the faded pink plastic table cloth that still had breakfast crumbs scattered around the edges. My mind went into overdrive, pressure in my eardrums thudding with my heavy heartbeat. Nothing stuck from lessons. My tongue poised at the roof of my mouth, throat tight. Pugnaciously, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “2 o’clock”, denying her the musical, flowing Italian that I should have known. She would shake her head before the room succumbed to the loud, thrumming sound of her Nebulizer. Smoke billowed from the end and disappeared in the cavernous kitchen. I think Nonna’s hopes of a fluent, ethnic granddaughter dissipated as well.
My mother seemed to have suffered from a bout of indecisiveness. She named me Adriana but told everyone my name was Addie, for short. I go by Addie. The teachers at St. John the Evangelist grammar school constantly docked me points on tests because I didn’t write out, in cursive, “Adriana DiFrancesco”. Each test handed back included a nauseatingly red “-5”. I tearfully explained, “But my name is Addie”. From behind oversized gold-rimmed glasses, Miss Torrence retorted, “Go home and have your mother pull out your birth certificate.” Until 8th grade, my papers always bore the garish, smudged, erasable blue ink heading of “Adriana”. In college, I anticipate “Adriana” during roll call. “You can call me ‘Addie’,” I quickly interject, watching her make a note next to my name.
Rachel calls me “Adaline”. She sang it down the cramped yellow and green Holy Cross hallways when everyone else just called me “runner girl”. She bellowed it out the car window when she saw me running on Oronoke Road. She calls it from Florida State, through the phone lines. Our secret names for each other, Rachel Irene and Adaline. We decided one dreary, damp fall day that these names fit us. We lay on my bed, heads hanging off the side, enjoying the rushing roar of blood to the head, as the tips of our hair brush the nubby, mauve carpet.
“I’m only going to call you ‘Adriana’ from now on!” he laughed at me from his car window, winking with a wicked grin as he sped off, spewing dirt in my direction. I watched the fading license plate to his scratched green Subaru wagon as it turned the corner. My lips twisted into a smile as I remembered his mouth pressed to mine just moments before. Right before Dad shuffled to the screen door in the garage to glare with tired eyes. That hard, fast, sneaky goodnight kiss. He could call me whatever he wanted. I was powerless around him.
First, he called me “Bu”. Not as in, “Oh hey, boo”, the way a typical boyfriend would say lovingly to his girlfriend. No. He called me “Bu” because of the Malibu, my ski boat. “Addie-bu, I love you.” I angrily told him that “Bu” is childish. It was never the same after that late night October phone call. I said “things just weren’t working out” and “we’re too young for a long distance relationship”. Yet, I secretly wished to hear “Bu” one more time as the winter months dragged on. Two years of confusing summer touches, fights. Finally, the quiet hand squeeze and smile that began the next three years. We still never call each other Addie and Paul.
The other day, he started calling me “Bella”. No reason. He’s drunk. From 350 miles north, he says he misses me. More than ever. Wishes he was with me. The glowing green numbers on my alarm clock inform me that it is 3 a.m. I sigh into the phone, assuming this new name is the result of too many Bud Lights.
“You’re my Bella,” he whispers.
Shocked, I ask where he heard that name before. No answer. He tells me I’m his beautiful Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella. I drive to Otis Reservoir a week later. He waits for me in the doorway of his house, flop of hair in his eyes, grinning his crooked grin before running to swing me into a tight hug. “How’s my beautiful Bella?” I smile into his shoulder and he turns my face to his. “Bella”. His lips form a smiling “b” that fades into a laughing “ella”. He calls me “Bella” and hasn’t stopped. I don’t want him to. I like this name best of them all. Sometimes, that’s enough comfort when he’s away.
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Train Ride
Cold, harsh winter air hides nothing. A barrage of new things assaults my nose as I impatiently wait for the screech of the 283 Amtrak train to roll into the foul green steel of the Poughkeepsie station. I rub my nose harder than necessary, wincing as I remember the unwashed, acrid scent of the homeless man in the large overcoat asking for change before he scurried away to hide from the police. The recent snow creates a damp, saturated atmosphere of clammy passengers, grumbling in their heavy winter coats. The sun inspires a salty sweat despite the blistering cold. Everyone shifts on their aching feet, uncomfortable, wanting to be at a stable temperature, wanting to be the first aboard to grab that single seat by the window.
A train is anything but private. Within two minutes, I am intimately aware of the woman plunking her bulky body down next to me. I understand that certain women have an infatuation with perfume. However, I don’t appreciate having my eyes water as I’m bombarded with a thick, heavy, floral smell. It clings to the hairs in my nose, clouding my vision. Instant nausea.
“Dear, would you like the outside seat?”
YES!
I’m obviously more polite than this. My response was more of a tight smile and queasy nod. An uneasy sleep fails to create a satisfactory escape from the stink next to me. It amazes me how something that’s supposed to smell beautiful and feminine can be so unwelcoming. We whoosh and jar along the snow covered tracks. I hear footsteps and the scraping of luggage. Strangers’ putrid colognes and the rush of cool air sweep in as we accept new passengers. I want to bottle up that icy, refreshing air. But right behind comes the thick, sweetly disgusting smell of the bathroom. The burnt plastic and baking bread of the café car follows, making my stomach roil. Even the heater next to my seat is burning. Burning plastic, burning metal, burning air. I melt into my seat, overheating. I can’t look at my watch enough times.
The station rolls into view and I stumble down the snow and ice covered metal stairs. The gentle old man grabs my arm. He’s not the sturdiest, but he instantly reminds me of Poppa with his aftershave and droopy eyelids. The fresh air fills my lungs for only a moment before the diesel and smoke of the train pushes it away. For a moment, I’m standing beside my dad’s old Suburban, helping the dog jump into the back so we can spend our summer at the lake. I smile, but open my eyes to an iron monster whining behind me, pushing me into the gaping mouth of the station that reeks vaguely of urine and garbage.
I hesitantly sniff the sleeve of my lint covered North Face. I exude the musky, sharp, smoky odor of the man in the lined Harley Davidson jean jacket; he happily puffed his way through two cigarettes as we stood outside Albany station stop. I am masked by the people who all push and surge to be the first out the door. They rub against me, transferring little details of their day onto my clothes. I bring more than myself to your waiting arms at the sliding doors of the station. That deep breath that you inhale of my recently washed hair is not the coconut and orchid infused Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner I lavished upon my scalp this morning. I vaguely remember my seat mate eating a pungent onion, Swiss cheese and ham sandwich. If you smile as you breathe me in, then you are politely ignoring the fact that I smell of a sweaty armpit. Thanks to you, Allison from Schenectady.
“I missed you.” Another deep breathe. I melt like hot wax into your arms. Bury my oily face in your scratchy jacket. It’s my turn to inhale your heady scent. The crisp, bright scent of you. The same smell I’ve known for years. You. Bare, soft skin that is filled with sunshine and freshwater. The Adidas Moves cannot disguise you. I’d recognize you in a sea of others that on first whiff smell similar. That first date, six years ago, you pulled me into your arms on the roof of the pontoon boat. We drifted through currents of pine and lake water, watching the stars with our eyes closed. Your taste electrified me, stamping me forever with that purest essence of you, always bringing me back to the first moment when you held me. This is where I always return, forgetting the unwelcoming mixture of strangers’ smells on the afternoon train to Rochester.______________________________________________________________________________
Winkie
Everything’s in primary colors – red, blue, yellow. They’re blunt and bright. Impossible to miss. The plastic time-out chair sits in a horrendous yellow aura in a corner, waiting for Mrs. G to hand out her next punishment. Chunky Legos create a multicolored plastic hazard for those wearing socks. But one section is cleared off on the raised half of the classroom. A threadbare Oriental rug stretches to each corner, straining under years of kindergarten feet pattering over it in search of a lost puzzle piece or Mr. Potato Head appendage.
Nap time. Sacred for both teacher and toddler. John has a Power Rangers towel that he’s proud of and shows to all his buddies. Genevieve has a Barney towel that she meticulously spreads out in a Lego-free spot of the floor. Mrs. G hits the lights and shuts the door. She sits at her desk, her small glasses perched on the bridge of her upturned nose as she buries herself in a book. She shushes us without looking up. Her desk hides in the corner. She trusts too much.
Bridget was my first best friend. We had a hair growing competition. Both of us had the longest hair in the kindergarten – past our butts, reaching to the back of our knees. Her sandy hair was straight and thick, mine was a tumbling waterfall of curls; Mom was beyond annoyed having to wrestle with it every morning. I followed what Bridget told me was “cool”. I thought the little plastic horses she brought in to bribe me with were simply trinkets of friendship. I never thought about why she wanted me to be only her friend so badly.
Recess was a jungle. Red rubber balls flying out into Main Street traffic and being run over by cars with a satisfying pop. Sometimes a kind soul would stop and run the ball back up to the tireless toddlers. There was a lot of running.
Bridget cut herself with her scissors. She told me it was on purpose and it didn’t hurt. I almost tried it, but stopped when I saw the bead of deep red blood that welled on her fingertip and dripped onto the desk. Mrs. G gave her a band-aid and told her to be more careful. I placed my purple scissors back in my pencil case, picking up a waxy crayon to start coloring instead. Two tables over, a boy I can’t remember was eating his glue. The thick white paste ran down his lips as the other kids stared at him in a mixture of horror and awe.
The room always smelled of lunchmeat. No matter how well our high tech lunch boxes were insulated, everything seemed to wilt in the ancient coat room. Cheese turned to a watery, egg shell colored mess and my bologna felt slimy as I took a bite. Mrs. G cleaned the desks off with something that smelled like sharp lemons. It mixed with the lunch meat odor and made me feel sick until Mom came to pick me up.
Bridget crawled through the desk limbs, her big blue eyes lit with excitement. Always the dutiful student, I was attempting to nap like a champ, despite not being tired.
“I have something to show you.”
She took my arm and began dragging me along behind her before letting go, assuming I’d follow on my own by this point. She took me to a corner in the back of the classroom, obscured by desks and chairs. Kevin was sitting in the corner. I never liked Kevin. I don’t know why. He made me feel nervous. His blue eyes never fully connected when he talked to you. Even as a child I knew when someone was really listening and when they weren’t. He sat there in his polyester navy blue uniform pants and light blue oxford shirt. He had a smug expression on his face as Bridget inched her way towards him.
“Kevin has a surprise for us.”
Kevin unzipped his pants and pulled them down, underwear included. I just stared. Bridget smiled and inched closer.
“He’ll let you kiss it. He said he likes it.”
She demonstrates exactly what she means and I’m scurrying at the speed of light back to the safety of my horse towel. I’m too young to know what it means, but I’m terrified. I shut my eyes tight, but all I see is Kevin. And I don’t just mean Kevin, I mean ALL of Kevin. The image won’t go away. Bridget, smiling and caressing him. It’s all too much – the lunchmeat smell makes it worse. I don’t want to cry, but I pretend to sleep as she crawls back over towards me. Mrs. G is caught in a romance somewhere else, unsuspecting of these supposedly innocent toddlers.
Bridget and I played horses and Barbies the next day. We brushed Barbie’s tangled hair and rode the horses around the small classroom.
Bridget and I lost touch after 3rd grade. She told me I was a bad best friend.
I didn’t kiss a boy until I was 16.
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Growing Up
I. Nonna freaked because Mom took me on the boat when I was less than a year old. “Bella” she always called me. Still pink and soft. She feared my soul would go straight to hell since I had yet to be Baptized by her priest. Mom strapped me in the faded blue car seat and tucked me safely beneath the dash of the old Mark Twain, our 1977 speedboat. The smells of vinyl and gasoline swirled in the air as Dad was perched in his captain’s chair.
II. My feet scrape against the rough wooden dock as Mike and I fish. I have my pink Power Ranger pole. His is black because he’s the boy. I cast wildly. Invisible twine flying amongst the clouds. I hook Mike. His accidental blood stains the dock. Dad carries Mike, dripping and crying, back to the house. I continue to fish long after he is gone. His white chair blows into the lake.
III. Megan is here. We drag the Red HO tube down to the waiting boat. We slip our slight bodies into the tiny opening and grasp the handles, giggling as we drift. Best Friends Forever. Just like our mothers wanted. Our hearts jump, race. We paddle from the suctioning water that pulls for our struggling limbs. The sky is an impossible blue. “Lean back. Lean back,” we frantically whisper as the boat tries again to plane us over the surface.
IV. We get lobster if we learn to ski. Too bad I don’t like lobster but say that I do. Dad eats mine. Butter cannot make this mess any less of a horror show. Megan digs in. I watch the slick butter dribble down her chin as she chews.
V. Megan and I smear red clay all over our bodies. “Indian clay!” we yell in excitement, ignoring the stains it leaves on our suits. The grit scratches and stings as our hands grate against our skin. Mud monsters. “Look Mom! It’s like a spa!” she proclaims. So advanced, even then. One leap off the dock and we are clean again.
VI. The lake is empty one summer. Megan and I paint the boys toenails and they cry at the rainbow on their toes. They asked for it.
VII. I pull at my suit edges self consciously. My skin tingles as I scrutinize my reflection in the still water. The bulbous clouds mock me. My white t-shirt sanctuary. Megan tans her magazine perfect body. I envy her. I pull on my baggy shorts.
VIII. “Why are you never here?” she whines. “I hate this place,” I lie, pinching my thighs. But it’s not the place that I hate. The sun sets on her light brownish blonde hair as speed boats motor by the dock. “Since when do you hate ice-cream?” Mom queries.
IX. I watch him. He whips the Jet Ski around in front of my dock, spraying water in all directions. Megan is pursuing her most recent boy that she likes. Dog-eared, tattered library books replace the friend who once spent every summer on my dock. She’s moving on without me. It hurts to be there.
X. He follows Megan to me. They’re all on my dock, swimming, laughing. I immediately think he’s already going to be hers. He shimmers with summer. Slowly, he chips away at the walls I’ve constructed. Otis has pulled me back in. He drives me around the lake – learning, listening, bringing me to quiet spots. Surrounded by tall evergreen pines, my hair slips through his gentle finger tips. He presses his forehead to mine, his eyes crinkling with his soft smile. Everything I feel for him is foreign. He cups my face with his callused hands.
XI. I feel my friendship with Megan strain. It’s not the same as before. His fingers tightly lace through mine.
The dark wood and campfires fill the empty space around me. It’s cold and harsh as I breathe in. I lay on the gray dock. Someone has hooked me this time. We watch the thunder approach from the distance, the rain roaring as it floats over the glassy water. Our hands clasped together. I’m still waiting for blood to stain the dock. Waiting to reach for his hand, but knowing it won’t be there. I am called inside. But he waits for me.
