Judgement Day
I lived in eight houses before I graduated high school. I was the fourth and smallest child, the unplanned, the unexpected, the oops, and the first couple of moves, I worried my parents might leave me behind. Later moves left me wishing they had. Each house came with a new neighborhood full of strange faces, unexplored places, and its own set of rules which Dad delivered like Moses coming down from the mountain. All designed to keep us safe, or so he said. They weren’t complicated—it was the 50’s after all—but according to Dad, the world was a dangerous place, full of crime. I couldn’t imagine any crime. The only crime I knew about happened in Gotham City or Metropolis. I didn’t watch the news on our 3-channel set or read the paper. It disappeared into dad’s briefcase before I left for school. One rule always made the list. A yard that I and my brother, number three, the next step up on the sibling staircase, weren’t allowed in. Dad never explained why. When we moved to house number two in Arkansas, that yard was right next door and it belonged to Judge Holt. To me, the Judge was a mythical figure. I’d never really seen him. If I was quick, I could catch a glimpse of a hunched figure, more hat than man, inside a white whale of a car as he rumbled down the driveway by the kitchen window at breakfast. I never saw him return. By the time I got home from school, I could see the glint of a grill grinning from the darkened depths of the outbuilding on the back of his property. Sometimes, number three and I would stand just at the edge of the forbidden front yard and dare each other to step across the Twilight Zone line, our hearts racing, wondering what would happen. But I never crossed over until the day the gang dared me. The gang was a little tribe of ragtags that we formed in each new neighborhood. Fort builders, kick-the-canners, co-conspirators—brave, resourceful, and loyal—ready to produce an alibi. They stood beside me that fateful late spring day when I accepted the dare. The grass was green-glowing, fuzzy yellow and black bumble bees as big as my thumb spiraled in and out of the blooming jasmine vines, and overhead, the God-is-smiling-down-on-you blue sky. We lined up along the 4’ chain link fence separating my backyard from the land of unlikely return. A land of grass and gravel, split by a sidewalk that snaked from the outbuilding and buried its head in a tangled tunnel formed by the jungle of overgrown bushes strangling the foundation of his two-story planked house. After I understood the conditions that would constitute compliance, I breathed in fresh courage and quickly scaled the fence, thinking this would be easy. Knock and run. As soon as my red rubber-tipped Keds hit the ground, I was off, aimed at what I hoped was the back door. My heart thudded, my feed pounded. Behind me a cheering crowd. I cleared the yard and dashed down the sidewalk. The goal was near and jubilation filled my body until an impossibly tall walking-stick emerged from the tunnel and stalked toward me, beady eyes glaring from beneath caterpillar brows. I stumbled, arms Ferris-wheeling, and landed on my hands and knees. When I raised my head, a face as craggy as the Ozarks blocked the sun. I focused through skint-palm tears, and a buzzing filled my ears. I couldn’t breathe and awaited the doom that was sure to follow. A long-fingered hand reached down and gently lifted me to my feet. “Now, now. You’ll survive.” I withdrew like a turtle. “I’m Judge Holt. Who are you?” “Uh, um…Ginger,” I squeaked. “Well, Miss Ginger. You should be more careful. Why don’t you run on home and get those hands looked at.” I glanced up and his once fearsome face transformed. Wrinkles smoothed, eyes softened, and his lips curled upward. But what happened next was truly a miracle. He reached into his jacket then held out his hand. Resting in his palm were shiny wrapped golden disks of butterscotch. “Go ahead. Take them all. I’m sure your friends will appreciate it.” He tipped his hat and stalked off toward his car, I left my whispered thank you hanging in the air, ignored the owl-eyed bunch by the fence, and casually strolled down the driveway toward the street. One did not return from visiting a friend by climbing over the fence. My gang greeted me in the front yard with the awe and respect that I deserved. The returning hero. The slayer of the dragon. The bearer of butterscotch.
Gin, did you always want to be a writer?
No. I just wanted to read or draw. Every week, without fail, my mother took us kids to the library to check out our five-book limit, but I always wanted more. I think the first thing I wrote was probably a note telling my mother I needed more books from the library. That was in Little Rock, Arkansas, where we lived for a time. We were always packing the old station wagon and heading to some other state as my father climbed the corporate ladder. That lifestyle didn’t promote long-term childhood friends, and I spent a great deal of time alone, reading and painting, dreaming of places I could go—places with dragons, talking animals, and spaceships. I went to five schools before graduating high school, and during those years, I wrote the required essays on subjects dictated by others, but when allowed free rein, my stories mimicked my dreams. When I left home, my own life was so hectic, I didn’t write, but I never stopped dreaming. I kept running stories in my head—stories in which I led other lives. One day I shared a story with a friend…not on paper but verbally. I think that’s what made me into a storyteller. Ten years later I began writing it down. Then life got in the way and I put it aside. Until forty years later, a very dear friend, who happens to also be a retired librarian and very nosey, was spending the weekend with me and began rummaging in my library. She found an old binder full of yellowed paper and hollered, “What the hell is this?” and “You didn’t tell me you were a writer?” followed by, “Oh, you have got to finish this story.” What started as a peaceful evening of binge watching Austin movies and eating chocolate turned into the first planning session with my new alpha reader, Celeste. Suffice it to say, she got the ball rolling, but it took another four years and three revisions before the manuscript was ready to submit for publishing. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done…and the most rewarding. So, no, I didn’t want to be a writer. But I became one. How I did it is another story. Stay tuned…
The Chinaberry Monkey
By Gin Coleman Someone asked me once what made me turn back to the Lord. Well, it was a day just like every day. I got off the bus like I do every day and started walking home—you know, those four blocks get longer every year. Anyway, I was thinking how hot it was and how quiet. Nothing to hear except bumblebees buzzing in the mimosa tree. And the traffic on the freeway, not far enough away and not really free, what with the taxes I pay. I remember when I got home, I turned the front doorknob quickly—it had heated up in the afternoon sun—and dragged myself into the house. I stood in the foyer for a moment and let my job fall off my back then I set my purse on the table in the hall next to a stack of envelopes—there’s always a stack of envelopes. I was tempted to ignore them, but I never do. I peeled off my work coat, hung it on the back of the rocker, and gathered up the mail. Time for my second job. It was a short walk to the kitchen where my children were all talking at once—one child on the phone and two in the corner arguing over something, as usual. No one paid me no mind but for a short, “Hey, mama,” and, “What’s for supper?” I should have started putting supper together, but that day I just couldn’t face it yet. I was already pulling the smokes from my pocket as I pushed on through the back screen door. Can’t go far on my short back porch, so I eased down onto the top step, trying to pretend it was cooler in the backyard than in the front. Leaning back against the old wood post, feeling the warm concrete under my backside, I sat and watched the birds working the photinia bushes next door. How they could be so busy in the heat was beyond me. Lord, I was tired. And hot. And thirsty. I hollered at the children to bring me something cool to drink. I bet they heard me…but I wasn’t betting they’d do it. And I didn’t want it so bad I was going to get up and get it myself. So, I sat and smoked, ignoring that stack of mail sitting next to me on the step, and tried not to think about anything, just like I did every day after work. But today was different. I started feeling kinda agitated. Edgy. Smoking seemed to help, though I knew I shouldn’t be doing it. My doctor said so. Sister said so. Seems everyone has an opinion. Exhaling, I watched the smoke changing shape, curling and swirling, then get fainter and fainter as it drifted away. Wonder what it’s like to be so light the wind carries you away and you disappear? My eyes were drawn to that stack of mail, and I pushed it around a bit, just enough to see who it was from. Usually, I could recognize the bad ones by their shape or color. You know. The phone bill’s small and square, and the really bad ones are ugly orange with red letters bleeding all over them. Do they think we won’t see ‘em if they’s white like the rest? Do they think we mean to ignore them? Not that we didn’t wish we could. But the worst ones are all red, white, and blue, promising you’re going to be a millionaire or saying you’d won a new car. Don’t believe that. That’s the Devil all dressed up, as my daddy used to say. Well, that day they were all there, and I couldn’t ignore them because you got to have power for the refrigerator to keep food for your babies. And you need a light at night to keep out the boogeyman, not to mention those boys from down the street that ain’t got nothing better to do than hang around—just trouble waiting for a reason. I think wearing a sweatshirt with a hood in the middle of summer would make anyone do crazy things. As I studied that pile, one long envelope drew my attention, and I picked it up. It was addressed to me but all formal-like with a label. Now, that usually means it’s from someone who got my address without asking for it. I usually toss those, especially if there’s no return name. But this one said Cross Street Church. Hmm. Suddenly, I couldn’t seem to help myself. It was like I wasn’t in control, and I held it up to the setting sun to see if I could see what was inside. It got me to thinking. I hadn’t needed church in a long time and really hadn’t had time to go, what with the hospital schedule. And the children. Can’t say I felt too blessed after my man left me and the babies. He tried to come back, and I let him once or twice before I finally wised up. Couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. After I took one last, long drag from my cigarette and put the butt in the coffee can I keep by the porch, I continued to stare at that envelope. It was sealed good and tight. Even had a piece of tape in the middle, like someone was afraid the wrong person would open it or maybe whatever was inside would fall out. It was clear they wanted to be sure I got it. But I figured it couldn’t be much of anything, and I was about to toss it to one side, next to the wonderful news that I had won a brand new car, when something made me just set it in my lap instead. As I reached for another smoke, thinking I had time for one more before the children come looking for food, I found myself picking that envelope back up instead. Slipping my best nail under the edge of the flap, I tore it