Sharon Cebula: Two Stories

The Lesson

Dale made her way up to the attic while Emma-Jean, who was supposed to be watching her, was elbow-deep in ironing down the hall. The attic was Dale’s favorite place in the great big old house, filled with treasures and hiding spots and creepy shadows. At almost five years old, Dale felt she was quite old enough to explore on her own; but it was only when she could escape Mama’s watchful eye that she was truly free to root around among Grandma’s many memories in the attic.

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Today, Dale discovered some old clothes hanging from a low rod suspended between rafters under the eaves in the far end of the attic. She ran her hands along wool jackets, silk dresses and soft furs. Halloween was fast approaching, and Dale was finally big enough to go trick-or-treating with her older cousins. She wanted an especially good costume.

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As she pushed apart two garments to get a better look at the fur, a flash of white fell to the floor. Dale picked up the pale cloth for inspection. It was coneshaped, actually pointy at the narrow end, only open at the bottom, about three feet long. A hat maybe, or a bag? As Dale turned the cloth over she discovered two holes had been neatly cut about a third of the way down from the conical point. A ghost costume! And just exactly her size! How perfect! Dale slipped the cone of fabric over her head, right over her cotton dress, and found that it just skimmed the floor with the eye holes in just the right places for her to see. Pity there were no arm holes. Maybe Mama could make some before trick-or-treat night.
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She wanted to hurry downstairs to show Grandma and Mama her find but she couldn’t grasp the railing, as there were no armholes in her costume, so she scooted down the stairs, one at a time, on her bum. Just as she reached the bottom step, before she could run to the kitchen or call out, she heard a shriek and a crash. Mama had come out to the hall and dropped a plate of cookies and screamed when she saw her little girl in the Klan hat. Grandma came rushing out from the kitchen. Before Dale could say a word, Grandma snatched the white hat off her, took hold of her arm and dragged her out to the back yard. She strode directly to the barbecue pit at the end of the long yard, not saying a word, Dale stumbling along in her tight grip. She was too scared and confused to cry.
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Grandma threw the white material onto the barbecue grill and fished in her apron pocket for a box of matches. She lit one and held it to the cloth. As the fabric curled and blackened into red and orange flames, Grandma stood back to watch with Dale. She was quiet until the flames had fully engulfed the hateful garment. Without turning from the fire, she spoke.

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“The only thing you need to know about those people is this: When your mother and I were starving, they brought us food.”
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The flames dying now, Grandma turned to walk back to the house, leaving dale there to puzzle over her words.

Crazy Dream

I ride on the night wind, a gust of light and air rushing me in. I shrug off the cold, breathe in the smoke, exhale my other life. The lights cast color on romance under the current. The opening act still spins. The night just barely begins. All the Usuals are here tonight, all the inhabitants of my world, all the creatures in my crazy dream. Crazy, man; crazy. I spy my bartender, her skin still tender but her eyes made of glass. She sets up the medication, brown liquid in my glass. I survey my domain, my home away from home, if I had a home at all. Standing nearest the stage, to absorb the rage of music in a trance, to escape her cage, the redhead sways and lip-syncs, in matching crimson lipstick. In the booths at the back, slapping buddies on the back, stacking beer cans like a trophy: fuckin’ frat boys.That old wino down the bar tries his line on more young girls. Never know when it’ll work. He’s more than just another jerk: saw him take a sax once and really make it work. That was the good old days, before my life was in this haze of crazy, jumpin’ nights. I need more juice to keep up this pace. Can’t just observe the human race. Gotta go, gotta get! Gotta whop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-lap-bamboom! She swings my way and swims through the smoke, through the colored lights and dizzying heights of heartache long remembered. I’m blinded by her lips, their memory trips me into smiling despite in spite of myself. A solar eclipse as she rotates her hips and throws me a dagger of hello. I turn my back, take a different tack, and ask the happy wino for the time. Band’s gonna start soon, blinding us from a hidden moon, reminding us the tune’s the thing. Let her ring, baby; let her sing.