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Inseparable
by Evonne M. Biggens
SHE PLUNKS HER LATEST treasure onto my antique, oak
table. Her whispered,
“Aliens are hiding inside it,” whistles through a
front-tooth
gap.
“You
caught migrants from across the border?” I ask this as though
I
didn’t know why, earlier, she’d slipped out my back
door and
clutched the stiff-from-grunge burlap sack that had belonged to her
momma—gone since this one was an infant.
She
flashes her seven-year-old version of an adult’s waning
tolerance.
Her, “Grandpap, you know I wanted to catch aliens from outer
space,” rides on morning breath.
“Aha,
those kinds of aliens,” I say. The newfangled toy brings to
mind my
daddy’s dome portable radio, buried in the basement under
pile of
yesteryears. This gadget likely vacuums floors, babysits toddlers,
and bakes pies. My gnarled knuckles thum-thump the smooth, seamless,
and solid metal. I nod. Good quality. Some fool wasted big bucks on
it.
On
plastic chairs, we inspect her latest find. She kneels on young knees
and I roost on old butt. During the last sub-zero freeze, I’d
dismantled my ancient oak skeletons-–six seats, twenty-four
legs,
and six backrests. The short burst of warmth from my wood stove
hadn’t justified the rare antiques’ fate.
I
mumble, “Great discovery,” Up this close, her
auburn tresses
sweep my liver-spotted hand. And, my naked eyes—naked because
I
can’t find my damn glasses again—see that her
freckles have
multiplied faster than she’d grown in inches.
Without
glasses, I can still sum up our spent years. Her seven compared to my
sixty-seven. Thankful that we can’t tally future time, I
concentrate on here-and-now with my only grandchild. “You
sure it’s
not a toy that flew from a kid’s yard?” My question
tastes of
denture-goop. Stuff I don’t bother with the rest of the year.
When
alone.
“It’s
for sure from outer space, Grandpap.” Her eyes, the bright
blue
that remind me of extinct summer skies, search mine for reassurance.
“Extra-ter-ez-three-allz rode in it.”
I
camouflage my chuckle inside a fake, fist-cough. “Ever hear
any
E.T. stories?”
She
shakes a tiny finger as though to scold. “Those are pretend.
These,” she taps the toy with pink, dirt-caked fingernails,
“are
real.” Sand from the parched lakebed slides from her treasure
and
settles on my table. “One of them said they came from outer
space.”
I
nod. “Aha, speaking aliens from beyond our galaxy.”
She
brushes sand from the table, but I say, “Leave it
‘cause what
good is this old table if my granddaughter can’t plunk her
alien
ship on it, huh?”
She
flashes her momma’s smile.
For
centuries, our healthy forests had provided wood for whatever
mankind wanted or needed. Humans’ thoughtless waste nudged
the
domino effect that killed trees and much more. So, if the table
croaks, plastic will be my oak. Plastic—only one cause of our
ruin—will outlast mankind and bacteria. “Were you
scared to
catch
these aliens?” I ask.
She
shakes her head; auburn curls bounce. “They let me catch them
‘cause they wanted to tell me a secret.” She points
at a dimple
on the dome. “A pokey thing was here but it’s
gone.” She looks
up at me, eyes worried. “Did I break it?”
Probably,
I decide, she lost the antenna to the toy’s remote, still
with the
owner. “My daddy used a piece of clothes hanger for an
antenna on
our old radio.” Sorry I’d mentioned it, I hope she
won’t ask me
to totter down steep basement stairs and find the radio antenna.
She
glances at my cane propped against the wall. “Were you scared
when
you had to use Great Grandpap’s just-in-case cane?”
Saddened
that a child, bombarded with adult realities, searches for imagined
aliens for help, I say, “More like resigned.”
“What’s
re-zined?”
“When
you jumped off your bunk bed and broke your ankle, and you had to
wear the pink cast all summer, you were resigned that you
couldn’t
do some fun things for a long time. I’m resigned that I have
to
keep the cane near.” I don’t add: Until my bitter
end.
She
taps the dome. “The alien said he would save me if I kept
this with
me, so I got re-zined and asked if he would save Daddy and Grandpap,
and he said, “Only you, child.”
My
gut-laugh, a rare occurrence, bursts from me. “Someday you
might be
a famous storyteller.” And then I recall: Soon there will be
no
days. No nights. No stories. For anyone.
Her
expression
reflects her innocence, intelligence, curiosity. “When you
were
little, did spaceships fly from their yard to your yard?”
“Didn’t see any.
Heard rumors, though. They’re supposedly little like you but
have
gray, wrinkly skin.” I tap her forehead. “And just
one purple
eye.”
She
peers at my face—probably imagines a purple eye nestled
between
bushy, gray brows. “What did you do for fun way back when you
were
little?”
“In
my way back, my momma and daddy and I lived in this house. As you
know, it’s far from town, so I entertained myself. I climbed
our
apple tree, perched on fat limbs amongst green leaves, and I munched
firm, juicy apples. I daydreamed that spaceships zoomed from the
black side of the moon. Pretended to fly their crafts to exciting
adventures.”
I
don’t mention that the tree slowly died from lack of
nutrition-water-sunlight. I don’t admit that the largest
limbs
thumped like broken appendages onto the barren ground to become fuel
for warmth and for cooking.
In
her sing-song little-girl tone, she lists friend’s names,
dress
colors, and favorite toys...
My
memory drifts: I grew, finished high school, and my parents passed
away. To earn a decent living, I provided handyman work for
neighboring ranchers. I married my soul mate, and our baby girl also
grew and married and had a child.
Eventually,
the rumor of mankind’s fate exploded into cold hard fact.
Dark
panic slithered across our planet. The promise of death distracted
some humans from killing each other. Some.
Our
daughter passed; Black Lung Disease produces what it suggests.
To
block my grief and the news of our pending doom, I’d lugged
televisions, radios, and telephones to the basement. Had to keep the
damn mandatory government-issue I-tablet, donated to each
household…
To Inform Citizens of Approaching Doom.
To
ward off fear, I tried to carve bird shapes from wood scraps. I chose
robins because they were vanishing, as were many species.
With
every swift pass of my sharp blade, paper-thin layers drifted like
fossilized feathers around my feet. With each slice, I wished that
something or someone would save my family and then me. Never
confessed my useless hope that still burns inside my foolish old
heart.
My
soul mate fueled our wood-burning stove with my carved feathers.
Eventually, each of my attempts—clunky, misshapen, and
crude—soared
into the fire.
We
kept one pair, attached at the wing-tips. My soul mate painted red on
the breasts, browns at the wings and tails, and tan at the beaks. She
glued beads for eyes, and announced, “They are us.”
I’d
drilled tiny holes at the bottoms of the robins and snipped and
inserted wires to resemble legs and talons. At some point, the
female’s legs and one male leg fell out. The Us birds perched
lopsided but inseparable on the kitchen windowsill.
Our
toddling granddaughter wanted to play with the birds.
“They
must perch up high to guard you.” I’d
said…
…Her
young hand pats my old hand. Brings me back to our futureless
present. “Can a grandpap climb a
tree?”
“Maybe
with help from my tiny, freckled granddaughter.”
I
imagine her straining to shove me upward into what is left of my
tree. And because I think that she imagines the same, smiles spread.
One across falsies. One over babies.
I
tap the dome. “Did you see these aliens?”
She
presses an ear against it. Auburn waves drape it.
“They’re scared
to come out. I bet they look like us but are little, like
dolls.”
Her grin tugs. “With two, not-purple eyes.”
This
one is a hunter like her beloved grandma. Most mornings, I’d
hid in
our house and ignored our fate. She’d toddled beside Grandma
and
tracked imagined space beings. Grandma sought mankind’s
salvation.
Two futile quests.
Daily,
my wife and I told our granddaughter that she was our Whole Wide
World. Laughter filled our home until her daddy took her to the
city’s best education and himself to a better job. A
sorrowful
silence filled every crevice, every space, and every one of the two
left behind; and then there was one.
Sandwiched
between the snail-crawl months when she’s with her father and
I’m
alone, she grows and I shrink; we age. Our annual reunion of almost
two full days separated by one night, where I sit and watch her
sleep, flashes in warp-speed.
I
peer at the blurry toy, mentally curse my absent glasses, and I ask,
“Where’d you find it?”
“On
the dead lake that was called Clear Waters.” Her gap-tooth
smile
spreads. “The alien inside told me to keep it near me, so I
stuffed
it in my alien-catcher and dragged it here.”
We
glance at the dirt-encrusted burlap sack, dumped on her mud-caked
sneakers beside the back door.
“Good
thing there’s no water in the lake, huh?” I ask.
“If
water was in the lake, I would’ve saved the aliens
‘cause I took
swimming lessons at the anti-gravity pool.”
Swimming
pools nowadays can’t compare to the outside pools that
smelled of
chlorine. Back then, joyful sounds of watersplashes and
children’s
laughter rang through clean air. Now, a newfangled anti-gravity tank
replaces the whole works. But, because she’s proud of her
swimming
skills, I say, “Grandma would have loved to see you
swim.”
Her
frown forms between once-upon-a-time sky-blue eyes. “Is
Grandma
gone ‘cause water’s gone?”
“After
our lake dried up, Grandma wore out, I guess.”
Amassed
sorrows had overcome my mate’s heart and soul. Many dark
nights and
dim days since, I’ve envied her final choice.
I
slide the craft closer. It’s heavier than I expected.
Nowadays,
everything is heavy, blurred, or gone. My familiar but pointless
yearning surges; I wish I could blanket my granddaughter with a pure
light of salvation. Why hadn’t we protected our young when we
had
the chance? If we’d vaguely envisioned the horrific results
of our
thoughtless waste and polluting, could we have saved ourselves?
Insight, ignored. Hindsight, too late.
Her
fingertips brush the toy’s symbols, gibberish to my naked
eyes.
“Are these alien words?”
I
peer at the minute markings; I fake it. “It’s the
name of their
planet but I can’t pronounce it.” No need to admit
that
Grandpap’s eyesight, along with the rest of his useless self,
are
almost spent. How much longer, I wonder, will Almost last?
Nighttime
surrounds the old house. We eat her favorite: cheesy macaroni and hot
tea. Mine, bitter-black. Hers with two sugar cubes and a splash of
cream. She offers a cupcake and giggles as I hold palms up, form a
terrified expression, and shudder as though to ward off sweet
grossness. Yesterday, I’d traveled thirty miles to
buy—for
outrageous prices—the cream, the sugar, and two chocolate
cupcakes—my secret favorite—one for each day.
“Only the
best for
my Whole Wide World,” I say.
She
licks chocolate frosting from tiny fingers; ecstasy, or a sugar high,
shines in her eyes.
Settled
in my plastic rocker which faces the front window, she snuggles on my
lap. Her warmth seeps into my cold bones. I re-tell the
happy-ever-after folktales that my mother had told and read to me. As
always, she says, “Tell me about Superman!”
“Superman,
I say, “is the man of steel who is stronger than a
locomotive,
faster than a speeding bullet, and can soar, up-up and away! And
superman always saves our whole wide world.”
Centuries
ago, mankind had invented drawings and symbols with which to express
and to communicate. Eventually, words and illustrations formed
stories. Yet, we’ve ignored most spoken and written warnings.
Fairytale books became fuel. Now, happy-ever-after endings will never
dwell in children’s memories.
At
bedtime, I offer the princess towel—once her
mother’s—and
my
allotted shower time. Through the closed door, above the shower
spray, and past her sing-voice—an impossibly high,
little-girl
pitch—I call out the warning attached to monthly statements:
“Do
not drink the filtered, recycled spray!”
Donned
in flowery pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers, she emerges with damp
hair and rosy cheeks.
I
offer the feather-light sleep-bag, guaranteed to protect from our
sudden and extreme high or low temperatures.
She
grips toy and bag and slipper-shuffles outside—our secret
that her
father will never allow in the city where pollution and crime kill.
Settled
in my rocker, I hold the carved robins. I pull the sharp talon from
the male and tuck it into my shirt pocket. My fingers trace the small
shapes. They are not feather-smooth. Tiny hearts do not flutter
inside soft, warm bodies because these birds lived only in my
soulmate’s imagination. I’ll dust them, and
tomorrow
afternoon,
before her daddy comes to take her away, I’ll give them to
her. The
birds will forever nest side by side, wingtip-to-wingtip. They will
no longer teeter.
My
tears will well when I tell her that the robins are symbols of
springtime and of Grandpap’s and Grandma’s love for
her. I’ll
tell her that, no matter what, she and I will forever be inseparable.
She’ll
wrap her little arms around me in a fierce hug. For the last time?
From
my window, I see her small shape, huddled in the sleep-bag and
surrounded by a twilight that’s uncertain if being born anew
or
dying out. Under my apple tree’s skeleton—-which
I’ve refused
to burn because she needs the memory of sleeping-under-a-tree no
matter how wretched the damn thing—-she aims the flashlight
beam
toward pollution-shrouded stars in search of a real Superman to save
her because Grandma tried but failed and Grandpap didn’t even
try.
I’ll
eventually guide her inside. She’ll sleep-mumble of aliens,
princesses, and Superman while I ask her to never forget me when
I’m
gone. She’ll say I’ll never be gone and kiss my
cheek. I’ll
pull in her precious scent of life.
Once
she’s settled in her mother’s childhood bed, the
air-purifier’s
hum will lull her back to slumber. I’ll return to plastic and
re-live every second of her visit. I can sleep after she leaves or
after I die. Whichever hits first.
Tomorrow
night, I’ll sit alone and peer through my ghostly
window-reflection; I will find only thickening black air.
I
swipe at the tears that ride zigzag wrinkle crevices and tickle my
tissue-thin cheeks. In the midst of my gloomy thoughts, something
bright flickers. One of those flashes related to the old-age
shadow-spots floating on my eyes? There’s another damn flash.
And
another! “What the hell?”
Outside,
a faint glow flickers from the toy which sits on dead ground that
once smelled of rich soil, deep roots, and lush grass. Of fresh
promise.
“Good,”
I mutter to the old house that has heard only my grumpy voice for the
past twelve months. “The battery holds a spark of life or the
owner’s frantically punching the remote button.” I
pull in and
let loose a shaky sigh. “Before her dad takes her to the
city,
we’ll attempt to fly it.”
A
high-pitched Hummm worms through my musings. Has my
tinnitus
kicked up a notch? I tug earlobes. What’s worse, forever
hearing
dead silence or constantly enduring head-hums? I
peer at the faint glow behind the air crud. Am I seeing the moon?
During the daytime, our sun’s rays struggle to filter through
filthy air. At night, the moon’s shrouded glow looks anemic.
Must
be the moon.
Pain
slashes. Not the familiar physical joint-ache. More a soul-ripping
despair. “What will happen to my little one with the eyes
that
bring back memories of summer skies?” My, question gets
clogged
with tears. “What of the tiny but brave alien-hunter with the
morning breath, the missing baby tooth, and the scattered
freckles?”
I call toward the ceiling, “What about all innocent young
who’ve
never climbed a living tree, breathed clear air, or jumped into
healthy water? Is our planet punishing the offspring of those
who’d
steadily murdered it?”
Beside
me, something beep-beeps.
I glance at the I-Tablet on the floor. I’d ignored it for how
many
months or years? The screen is faint as though steadily expiring like
the rest of us. I lean down and knuckle-thump it; the government
announcement, even without my eyeglasses, glares up at me.
THE
SAVE
EARTH’S CHILDREN
COMMITTEE REVEALS THAT, WITH THE AID FROM OUR ALIEN ALLIES, THE DEEP
OUTER-SPACE SHIP GATHERS CHILDREN TO TAKE TO OUR SISTER PLANET,
EARTH-TWO where pure air and
fresh water exist in abundance. A thriving colony has been formed
…
The
screen beeps, shrinks, blackens.
My
heart races. My fingers tremble. My questions burst: “What
Save Our
World’s Children Committee? What alien allies? What sister
planet?
Have I disregarded my world for too long? Am I an ignorant,
opinionated old fool?” A sound from outside overwhelms my
rants.
“And, what the hell is that damn hum?”
I
struggle to my feet and grip the sill with one hand while the other
cradles the robins. Outside, the toy hovers beside the sleeping
child.
My
thoughts collide. What if the craft is not a toy? She said a voice
from inside the dome told her to keep it near her so they could save
her. Was that a recording or a scam? If the antenna is missing, will
the drone not be able to make contact with the mother ship? Will the
extraterrestrials leave her trapped, here, on our dying Earth? Am I
insane?
Adrenalin
rushes through my gnarled veins and pushes my ancient body and my
stubborn mind into action. I turn to totter down basement steps to
find the old radio but glance back, to where the small craft wobbles,
as though to fall useless to the ground. No time to struggle down the
stairs and to search through mounds of junk for the radio’s
antenna. No time left on this Earth for me to manage the
knee-killing, upward climb. I must not hide! I must save my
granddaughter!
With
carved birds gripped in one fist, I grab my just-in-case cane, and I
shuffle to the back door. “Kick into gear, old
man,” I say as the
screen door creaks open and slaps behind me.
The
small craft wobbles beside my granddaughter, who sleeps in the bag
and dreams that her treasure and Superman are saving her playmates
and her dresses and her dolls and ...
My
shaky fingers run across the smooth dome. On the third try, I find
the indentation that had held the antenna before a little girl had
stuffed it into a grungy bag, dragged it through dirt, thumped it up
porch steps, pulled across the kitchen floor, and plunked it onto
Grandpap’s oak table. I pull the wire from my pocket and
shove it
into the dome’s dimple.
I
release the craft; it slow-motion sinks down and nestles onto fuzzy
pink slippers. A dome-shaped balloon out of air. Out of time. The
bird’s leg and claw aim upward as though to grasp something
beyond
reach.
On
wobbly legs, I stand beside her and wait. Do I dare dream that hope
is near? Is it too late? Will the ship leave her behind? Was the wire
an old man’s pathetic, last-minute, futile attempt? Should I
have
searched inside the alien-catcher sack for the antenna? Have I failed
her? Again?
I
tuck the carved robins between tiny, freckled hands. I pull in a
shaky lungful of tired air and push out, “The robins will
keep
guard over you, and Grandpap will love you forever.”
My
whispered plea, as I back away from my only grandchild,
“Please
take her, please take her, please take her,” rides on gasping
breaths.
My
heart pounds as I shuffle into the house. Settled on plastic, I glare
out at the toy that sits silent, dark, and useless on pink fuzzy
slippers.
“Damn
you…” Before I finish my curse that rides on
spittle and whistles
past falsies, the small craft darts upward toward a sudden flash of
brilliance that I’d never imagined. My heart, unaccustomed to
sprinting, stumbles.
What
I’d thought to be a useless toy, enters a hovering ship with
a
diameter too humongous to tally.
“E.T’s
from outer space?” My voice echoes the wonderment of my
youth. “For
sure real aliens?” Has my childhood wish come true or is this
the
unveiling of an old man’s brain-rot? Or, is this the
beginning of
everyone’s end?
Why
did I assume, because she is young and I am old, that she is wrong
and I am right? Why did I think, because I gave up the fight, that
all mankind had given up? And, why hadn’t I helped?
The
brilliant, blinding light dims to a soft glow which brings to mind a
healthy sunrise. It highlights the mother-ship’s engravings.
I see
without glasses, what I couldn’t see with them: I see hope in
the
form of: EARTH-TWO
CHILD RESCUE.
From
inside the ship’s many portals, young faces smile out at me.
Young
faces only.
“The
important part of my wish comes true.” My whisper, like my
earlier
rants, gets caught in tears; these tears are not born from sadness or
fear or desperation. These are tears of relief. An emotion I thought
would never again surge.
I
nod and agree to what is offered: through memories, my granddaughter
and I will be forever inseparable. I press my palm against the window
pane; my final goodbye.
A
pure light of salvation blankets my yard, my tree, my house, and my
sleeping
granddaughter.
The
light, stronger than a locomotive, darts faster than a speeding
bullet and soars up, up and away to save Earth’s children.
Below
the pathetic skeleton of my apple tree, pink fuzzy slippers wait
beside the feather-light sleep-bag—guaranteed to protect from
our
sudden and extreme high or low temperatures. The bag, empty of wooden
robins and living child, looks deflated.
Resigned,
I rock on hard plastic, and my smile, the rare one that has hidden
for too long, spreads over falsies. I hum Momma’s lullaby,
the one
that I forgot to sing to my granddaughter when I had the chance. So
many wasted chances.
I
stare through my ghostly window reflection, I peer beyond Earth
One’s
dark air, and I search for Earth-Two and my Whole Wide World.
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