in·ef·fec·tu·al

James sat brooding in his own thoughts in the steam room next to Bane. “I think Jackie has feelings for me.”

Bane almost coughed a laugh!  “The whore?  She has feelings for everyone.  Clearly!”

“No, I mean, more than that. Anyway, I wish you wouldn’t call her that!”  James was revealed and quickly caught himself. “…In public. That’s not a thing everyone needs to know!”

Bane smacked his arm and spoke louder, “Oh pish!  Half the men here have had her! Anyway, what makes you think she has feelings for you?”

“We talk, and she seems to…to genuinely enjoy it.”  Bane scowled looking for more from James’ reply.  James went on, “She likes to learn…poor thing, she doesn’t know a thing about money.  The Mistress has been shorting her for years. Anyway, I’ve shown her a few things and as it turns out, she’s quite a promising student.”

Bane laughed. “Promising student, eh?  So, you’re the one paying and providing services now, James?  Are you sure you’re not the one who has caught feelings?”

Mortified, James backpedaled, “…I mean…do you think she likes it?  Do you think that does something for her? Is that something women truly enjoy?”

Bane pressed, “I don’t know, does she seem to?  Not that it matters with a whore, but there are ways you can tell if woman is more comfortable!  Has it made her more…willing? More, receptive? Is she, eh, easier to get into, you know what I mean?”

James blushed, “In all confidence, yes.  I must say that usually taking a bit of time together before makes the other part…indescribable.” James lost himself in memory of Jackie for a brief second. “Have you found that?”

Bane thought about his time with Jackie, the way she vacillated between being stiff on some days and distant on others.  She was always obedient, which was why he chose her.  But this angered him.  Why was James getting something he wasn’t?  Why should they both pay the same and draw a different return?  Maybe James was right.  Maybe Jackie did develop feelings for him.  How pathetic!  And yet it piqued his curiosity. so he went on.  “You know, I have heard that some women enjoy a man with a strong mind. Perhaps it’s not so much a relational affection she’s feeling as a more visceral evocation you are drawing from her!  And if so, bully for you!  Take all you can get, I say!  In fact, I might try that same technique with her myself if you don’t mind?”

James did mind!  He loved his time with her and the way it made him feel.  The thought of another man touching Jackie was beginning to bother him more and more.  But Bane?  It made him sick.  He had seen how he was with the other girls at the brothel.  The looks on their faces when he left their rooms. 

This was the moment!  Defend Jackie or allow Bane his experiment.  But what would Bane say?  James had fallen for a dumb whore!  He wouldn't keep it secret...on the contrary, he would tell everyone!  His clients would hear, society people, Anne!  Oh God, no!  The fear of embarrassment was enough to silence him. 

Instead he said coldly, “Why would I mind?  Nothing personal right?”

Bane smiled.

James’s stomach dropped from what he said and lump rose in his throat. He felt the change in what he had just said.  What had he done?  Jackie! His Jackie…his lovely girl…

 

 

 

Enkindled

 

       The trouble with imagination was that it helped one survive the lies but made the truth difficult to determine.

 Jackie had a wild imagination.  The mistress would tease her but admitted it was what made her good at what she did.  It was an easy business, pretending, so long as you imagined things just right.  Jackie imagined that the politicians who came to her relied on her skills and confidence to guide them to better policy. She imagined the other girls were her sisters and the mistress was their mother and that they were a family.  She collected magazines and lined them at her windowsill and imagined life elsewhere.  Italy, New York, a dusty road in the home of a banker in west Virginia...

        There were worse things than being plagued with a vivid imagination.  She could feel sorry for herself, and they way her life was. She could have cried for the way her skin had become numb. But, it was by her own doing.  She was to blame.  So, she didn’t allow herself to cry, ever!  Imagining was the only way through it.  Besides, they were just bodies. That's what Jackie told herself, closing her eyes and fading away.  Drifting off into places that weren’t real, in a time that wasn’t now doing things that weren’t this.

She didn't always feel numb. There were boys that made her smile, men that liked to play and watch what pleasure looked like on her.  Regulars brought her gifts and requested her.  But there had been enough of the other kind of men who took out their frustrations on her or drunkards that liked strange things she couldn't say no to.

When He walked in, she didn't know it yet but He would change everything. It didn't happen right away. It was slow and awkward at times and she would have refused to call it anything straight off. But after a while, because of Him, she could never go back to the way it was before.

 She often heard the mistress talk about working girls who fell in love and the men that broke their battered hearts.  “There’s nothing more pathetic than a whore in love!” 

 Jackie knew it!  But there was something too enticing to allow her to turn away, because with Him, she could feel again.  Not just in her body but everywhere...as if finally, she was whole and things were real. 

 She imagined there was a wick inside her that had suddenly been lit.  It was if she had come to light and all at once life was warm and lovely. She must allow herself the luxury of its glow, even if only for a little while.  So, in the quiet of her mind, when no one else was watching, she silently burned and warmed herself by her own thoughts.

Remembering all the things she had done; the abuses she had seen, the lies people told, and the money she took for what she did.  How could the mistress allow all of the lies and offences and scoff at…whatever it was that Jackie was feeling for Him?  How could it be that rape and greed and debauchery were permissive but this, this hopeful pleasure she felt was sacrilege?

Sometimes afterwards, He would fall asleep and she would lay beside him, just feeling grateful and there was no where else she wanted to imagine herself.

 There was a place above His lip, beside his nose at the tip of his cheek that showed only when He smiled.  She would kiss that spot when it was time for Him to wake, savoring the look of it one last time when their hour was through.

He would rise and dress and she pretended not to care.  She knew enough to know that men didn’t like trouble and complications and she wanted him to come back.  So, she smiled and swallowed tears and hoped he felt the same.  Sometimes it seemed he did, when he helped her or played with her hair or when he took control and moved inside her slowly,  until she shook and the strangest kind of tears came over her. But she knew her imagination was lying to her, and she hated it.   

She hoped for the strength to endure the sadness she would feel when he quit coming back, when life would go back to the way it had been before.  She shuddered because she knew that no amount of imagining could save her from the ache of that. 

Book 1: A new way

 

The  water was warm and cloudy that morning on the Savannah. The sun rose on a bright sky and a dry smell that promised unusual heat.  The wise eyed females of the pack lined the shore to drink, according to their place among the heard.  They "Po wooed" and scuffled, settling on the proper order among themselves.

The negotiations at the watering hole were fierce.  It had not rained for months and tensions were high as provisions for drink were established in a hierarchy. The lesser members would drink after the greater members and places were held with brutal protection.

Mara woke to the sound of her Aunties’ songs by the water.  She listened closely for grandmother; her Nyana, but heard nothing.  The shade cover from the tree that she lay under had moved, and the sun shone hot on her skin.  She looked to the sky for clouds.  A respite from the sun? A blessing of rain? But not a sight of cover could be seen.

Mara knew better than to present herself  at the watering hole without Nyana.  But this morning, her trunk was dry and sore.  She rose and stretched, looking one last time for her grandmother. 

Overcome with thirst, Mara trudged along the path toward the shore.  The dust rose red from the earth as she walked.  A few females trumpeted as she approached.  The clustered bodies formed a hedgerow at the waters edge, blocking Mara's passage. 

Off to the right was a small puddle, just enough to take away the dry ache of morning.  But when Mara reached her trunk towards it, SPLASH! One of the Aunties, Angalau, stomped it away before Mara could get to it.  

“Thirsty?  You shouldn’t be meddling about alone...that's what mothers are for!” Angalau chided, knowing the pain of her remark.

It was well known that Mara’s mother was wayward and cold and wanted nothing to do with her. Mara would have been starved, stomped, or left to exposure.  But, It was Nyana who rescued Mara from the plight of her mother’s indifference.  It was Nayana’s love that saved her.   She was Mara's grandmother and  Matriarch of the pack. Provision was made for Mara because Nayana said so.  Because of Nayana, she ate and drank first, traveled in the front of the herd and was given shade during rest. 

But that morning, without Nyana, Mara was reminded of her true place among the pack.

“Step aside…It’s my turn!” Commanded Angalau, for she was tired of always drinking last.

With this treatment, other calves might have obeyed.  But not Mara, she could feel a certain heat in her chest and she stood her ground.  So Angalau pressed forward, pushing Mara toward the cliff, where the water was deep.  She bellowed again, “Step aside!”

Still, Mara stood pressing her feet into the mud.  They slid closer toward the edge and Mara's first foot slipped out from underneath her and dangled off the edge, then her second.  Maras’ heart raced, the water below was deeper than she was tall. “Please!"

 Angalau scoffed while Mara dangled there.

 “Po woo! Po woo!” Mara sounded a cry for help!  The cluster of females looked to one another to see who would give up their place at the watering hole to help Mara.  But no one did.  Mara began to hold her breath, lest she slip.

“PO WOOO!” The earth began to rumble, and Mara’s heart fluttered. Nyana!  Grandmother!

Nyana's light skin glowed as she moved toward Mara, her huge ears fanned out and she ran, extending her trunk and pulling her up.  Mara shivered and knelt, tired from thirst and fear.  Nyana wrapped her trunk over Maras’ body and breathed over.  "You're safe now little one."  She whispered.  And they stayed that way until peace returned to Mara's body.

Then suddenly, Nyana stood and walked with a great unyielding force toward the hedgerow of females by the water.  She pushed like a battering ram and three of them went down into the mud. “We care for our young!” She stood over them with the fire and command that had earned her the title of Matriarch.

“It wasn’t us!” The Aunties protested.

“We care for our young!”  Nyana repeated and motioned Mara near to drink.

Finally, Mara took her place beside her grandmother and drank until she was full. But the fire was still in Nyana.  “Where is Angalau?”

The other females motioned toward the meadow where the grass was long and sweet.  Nayana disappeared into it and was gone. Until a great loud “PO WOOO!” was heard deep in the grass.  Nyana emerged and stood before the pack while they watched her command.

“Angalau will sleep outside the pack tonight!”

The other females knew better than to protest the decree. Nyana was right.  What Angalau had done was forbidden among their herd.  Nyana  would not permit harm among her kin, especially toward the young.  She had even exiled  Mara's mother, her own daughter, for it. 

That night, the moon rose as only a crest.  Small moons meant great darkness. The distant roars and cackles persisted all night.  Mara thought about Angalau, alone in the dark; an outcast.  “Can’t you bring her back in, Nayana?” Mara begged her grandmother, feeling partly responsible.  Nayana was firm but she kept her resting eyes closed, “Others might.  But I won’t.”

“But what if she dies?”  Mara protested on Angalau’s behalf, but Nayana retorted “What if you had died?”  Mara thought about the water and it’s depth.  The way Angalau pushed her.  “Why does Angalau hate me?”

Finally, Nayana opened her eyes. “Because you have not earned your place.  And her path is bitter as the lowest among us. ”

Mara understood. "Perhaps if I were lower than she, life wouldn't be so hard for her."

"Or at least it would seem so." replied Nayana.

Maras voice held shame, “Because of my mother. It should have been that way.”  There was a long pause while Mara steeped in truth. “Do you think I am lowest among the pack?”

“Yes.  By rights you should be.” Nayana did not spare her  and Mara swelled with sadness because of it.

Still Nayana went on, “But you are my beloved one, so you will have my privileges.”

“But Angalau’s right! I don’t deserve them!”  Protested Mara.

Nayana did not take the bitter thought away, “No, you don’t.  That is true.”

Mara’s voice became small, “Then how will I live with that?”

“Only you can say, Mara.  That is your path.”  Another blow.  Mara’s mind craved a command from Nayana, but she would not give it.  Instead, the dark spread itself over both of them and Nayana closed her eyes, breathed her peace and slept.  Mara was alone in her new thoughts. Thoughts of rank and privilege and position and how they were decided.  She tossed nearby Nayana while she slept and Mara was angry that she had done so.  How could she sleep knowing all of this to be true?  And knowing Angalau was alone in the dark, left out for exposure?  And then,  as if by providence drop by drop, rain fell on the earth.  A strange Summer rain that seldom fell, bringing benison and favor to Mara's worried mind.

The next morning was a surprise.  Angalau had survived the night. She had emerged while the greater members were drinking at the watering hole. She approached, overcome by thirst and exhaustion.  She waited with her head down while the others had their share. The pack parted to make space at the shore for Mara and Nayana as they approached.  As they passed, Angalau would not raise her eyes.  Mara stopped short of her place at the shore beside her grandmother.  She lay her trunk near to Angalau's whose head was still bowed for shame.  Mara stood in stillness beside her a moment and contemplated Angalau's bitter sadness.  Angalau lifted her trunk to Mara's and Mara reached back and held on to her.

Nayana was watching from the corner of her eye, but drank, saying nothing.

Finally, Mara pulled Angalau toward an empty place at the shore next to Nayana.  Angalau was too thirsty to resist and drank deeply.

Nayana looked down at her beloved one, proud of the path she had chosen.  Nayana stepped aside for Mara to drink the way she had done for Angalau.  It was the first circle of kindness the pack had ever seen and they looked on in silence. 

 The water was sweet that morning on the Savannah and the wise eyed females of Nayana's pack lined the shore to watch the sun rise on a new day.

This story is dedicated to Barbara Hibbert Bloom...my Matriarch my Nana...Thank you for pulling me up and breathing your peace over me.  I love you forever.

Word Study: Burn

 

 Quaking, pining

 desire

Humiliating insult

 pride

To produce flames and heat

 fire

To be ardent or enthusiastic or fierce

 passion

Causing hurt, damage or lying waste

 destruction

A downward flowing journey leading into another

watercourse 

Muscle fatigue provoking constant sensitivity.

 body

Salve

The word washed over me.

My chest and lungs swollen for the release that comes with naming things.

Grief. 

Full like the ocean in a changing tide.

I let it roll over me in it's relentless waves. 

Wash away blame

 Recede 

Wash away shame 

Recede 

Revealing  the  shore of the sadness girl who tried... as hard....as she could....

I am undone. 

Bare

I turn toward the path of the clumsy rhythm of finding words, like a child,  new to piano or bike. 

Hopeful and afraid because finally I see...

                                                                    

                                                                    ...all roads lead back to Love.

An Unkind turning

It was an unkind turning from Summer to Fall. It came quite suddenly, cooling and diluting the thick ripe air of summer sweetness all too soon. Leaving the residence of the city feeling robbed of some much-needed leisure. The events of the past year: the market crash, unemployment, hunger, and an overall feeling of melancholy, left many with a sense of entitlement for an “Indian summer” and an abundant Fall harvest. They longed for healthy crops, worthy of growing fat on to sustain them through what was predicted to be another hard winter. It was not to be, and so they grumbled about town, feeling betrayed by God, Mother Nature, and the powers that be. They began using words like “cursed” and “hexed”, faithless words as evidence of their diminishing hope.
The cold had blushed the maples overnight, it seemed. Streets lined with trees once lush and green, now shades of orange and red seemed a warning of winters coming cruelty. The leaves of the squash, tomatoes, and sunflowers had crisped and withered prematurely from the cool brisk wind. Farmers were forced to harvest early to avoid frost damage. As a result, crop yields were only a shadow of what they should have been and market prices were high to compensate for the loss. Food cost were too high for most to afford, and more went hungry, so less food was sold and farms were lost because profits were low; and so the spiral continued on as it does in time like those. Loss perpetuating loss.
Because the cold had come early that year, there was still much left undone to prepare for the approaching cold weather. Warm clothes to mend, Food to preserve and store and wood to chop. They bustled from block to block. All were trying to make something out of nothing, wasting away still tan from summer sun and dusty from hard field work. They dressed in clothes two years old, which now hung on their lean, angular frames. In preparation to combat winter, they were an army of tattered soldiers fresh from the battle and straight off to another without pause

Rainer Men's club (A)

It seemed the afternoon meeting at the Conservatory had moved to the Rainer House, a men’s club in downtown Seattle. Formalities of the outside world were shed at the entrance with briefcases and full-length coats. It was a place where one could enjoy a hard game of squash, a swim, or simply speak freely about business and stocks without the medaling of wives and other underlings who felt fit to speak out of turn on subjects they knew nothing of. It was the last fraternal outpost, where a man could be…a man. Membership came at a considerable cost and the working class could not afford it, which was not accidental. Cultural lines were drawn not so much by law, but by money. Permission was granted or denied by it. Money was not something everyone could come by, and for good reason; money provided access to the social tiers of society. Much of the color and passion of the Irish and Italians had amalgamized themselves into American culture a generation before. Their thuggish infiltration to government, public service, and civil duty had a top-down effect into the fabric of American culture. Both groups proved themselves as formidable pseudo-Anglos and thusly, accepted, so long as no one had an accent or made heavy mention of culture or religion publicly. Coloreds and other immigrants had housing jurisdictions in neighborhoods kept separate from whites which meant that even if any of them could afford membership, social grace would be limited to nil in tolerance of their presence within. Jews kept to their own clubs of culture and didn’t care if they were excluded or not. The Chinese had their own parts of town by the docks where one could buy fish, spices and fabrics while others could find their way into alcoves draped in a labyrinth of curtains which kept secret rooms with women and pipes filled with hypnotic smoke where a man could drift away into his dreams and never return. Andre Bane liked things this way. He believed that people found their place in the culture by a combination of breeding and hard work. Could a man work his way into social culture, in a way, but he would always have a “smell” to him.