FIRST PLACE SHORT
STORY
The Wedding on the
Beach
By Sheila Cole Nilva
New York, New York
My mother knew people.
If she did not know them, she got to know them.
People next to her on the bus, people checking
out in her super market line. People next to
her waiting to cross the street on red. All
my life there were these stories scooped out
with the laundry, ladled up with the soup:
"So, you really have to feel sorry for poor
Mrs. Everett. With a son like that…" And then
with no one in our house knowing a Mrs. Everett
or her son, Mother would be driven to explain
that Mrs. Everett was the lady who was next
after her in the dentist's office that afternoon,
and they had shared this intimate discussion
about Mrs. Everett's jailed son. Mother sighed,
sloshing steaming soup into our wide flat soup
plates and said she really couldn't understand
why everyone chose her to talk to. We all smiled
and quietly ate soup. Which is how I came to
know all about The Wedding on the Beach.
Mother had been sitting on the
low canvas and wood chair she had unfolded
on the sand, watching Lake Folly lap at her
toes. She always sat in the same spot, year
after year, reflecting on life's joys while
knitting the fat, coloured yarns of her choosing
into mittens and scarves and hats for her loved
ones' winters. A multi-coloured ball of wool,
impelled by little jerks from the needles,
wandered across the sand almsot reaching the
prone red nose of a large woman, bathing suit
straps down, the folds of her pink fatty body
greasy and getting pinker as she desperately
sought a blessed, even tan.
Mrs. Belinsky, as the woman turned
out to be, nudged the yarn back across the
sand toward mother who happily responded by
initiating the first real friendship of her
summer season. "Oi, what a day – a
real michiah!"
Mrs.Belinsky rolled the folds of her body over,
hiked up the big purple flowers of her swimming
suit, sighed a logn funereal sigh, wiped a
sweaty, greasy tear from her eye and grunted
resignedly, "Well, it all depends on how you
look on it." Mother looked about the beach
for something to be sorry about, couldn't find
it, then cracked directly into the rich yolk
of what would surely be another friendship.
"Why, whatever is wrong, Mrs.?"
Mrs. Belinsky had been waiting.
Immediately, she said, "It's my son… an absolute
prince. He should have been a rabbi, he
is so good. His own high class shoe business,
all paid for, right in the new mall, in Charleston.
And he is only 26 years old and so good. And
now he is engaged to the most beautiful girl
I've ever looked on – from Flushing in New
York. You know where that is?" she
added, tossing her curlers skyward to indicate
the Promised land. "Even my Benjy – may he
rest in peace – was not so good."
Unable to locate a sorrowful
word, Mother esponded cheerfully, "Why that's
marvelous, Mrs.…" She paused for her new friend
to fill in "Belinsky. Mrs. Bertha Belinsky.
How do you do." Mother added, "Dear Mrs. Belinsky,
you'll have grandchildren before you can even
turn around. How wonderful." Mother knitted
furiously, as if she had another pair of tiny
hands to keep warm.
"No, you don't understand. It's The
Mother. She is positively going to ruin
the whole thing." Unable to comprehend anyone
disliking The Prince, Mother asked, "She
doesn't like your son?"
"Oh, no! What's to not like?
I told you, he is a prince… a catch.
A model husband he'll be to her daughter. She
should just deserve it… those New York girls.
Why, he is putting her Shirley on a pedestal
like a… like a…" She cast about in the sea
of her knowledge for a suitable description
and found a flawless one: "…like a glass ship."
Warming to her subject, Mrs.
Belinsky used a big pink hankie to wipe her
sweaty face. "It's the wedding. The
Mother is having the wedding in the biggest
synagogue in Flushing, Queens, new York. Six
bridesmaids. Fresh flowers – in the winter. And
everyone, everything – all in yellow and white.
She knows, already, that Mother… yellow
is just not my colour.
Mrs. Belinsky was now near tears.
"She's seen me five times, already.
She should know I look terrible in
yellow. She did it on purpose. She
jsut…" Mrs. Belinsky swung her fat arms in
two rotating spirals "…did it, I know, to humiliate
me… to look better than me, just a southern-hick-towner,
Bertha-from-Columbia, at my own son's wedding.
And my Benjamin only in the ground this one
year, may he try to rest in peace in Charleston,
where he moved me when I was nineteen, and
where even her Shirley found my son.
Benjy wouldn't have let The Mother get away
with that!
"I told her
I would wear blue, or grey, or pink. Even
green. But not yellow. And then the Mother
said, 'Mama Belinsky, it isn't just yellow
and white. It is yellow and white Norells'"
Mrs. Belinsky tugged at the midddle of her
fat
flowered bathing suit to explain. "From Norell yet,
I have to put up with, too! I try,
but I look short-waisted in a Norell. Imagine
me, Bertha Belinsky, in front of every single
relative I have in the world from South Carolina,
even North Carolina, in Flushing
in Queens in New York in a short-waisted
yellow and white Norell!" Reflecting a moment,
she added, "I hate being called
Mama Belinsky and I won't wear a
yellow and white Norell!
"I just won't go. I'll cancel
on the airplane. I won't stand for it. I haven't
even got my Benjamin – may he rest
in peace under the beautiful new tombstone
i got him for almost two thousand dollars –
to defend me. I won't send the invitations.
They can elope with my blessings. But there
won't be any big fancy-shmancy wedding in Flushing,
Queens, New York, because I won't consider a yellow and white Norell. I won't even discuss it anymore!" Mrs. Belinsky threw her fleshy
shoulder out at Mother as if she had been insisting.
"No!" Mrs. Belinsky cried out again, furiously.
"I will not let this happen!"
My mother was sympathetic. It
was her consummate role in life. How could
The Mother not understand? Why wouldn't she
let Bertha Belinsky wear a hot pink Halston
or a blazing blue blass or even a green diamond-decked
Dior? Poor Bertha Belinsky from Charleston
(formerly Columbia)… to be alone, so alone,
in Flushing Queens New York in a yellow and
white Norell.
The parted. Mother rolled her
yarns into the tight crewel satchel to be carried
over her arm with her folded striped canvas
chair. She hugged greasy Mrs. Belinsky for
a moment and patted her pudgy pink cheek. "Don't
you worry. You'll see. It will be all right.
In a few months there will be grandchildren
and it won't even matter, the yellow and the
white. Besides," my mother, ever the optimist
said, "The Mother might change
her mind." She looked at Mrs. Belinsky's bathing
suit and in true loyalty to her new friend,
Bertha, added hopefully… "maybe even to purple!"
All through the rest of summer
and the coming fall and even as we tugged on
the cable-stitched gloves of winter, Mother
ever reminded us of Mrs. Belinsky, and when
reminded we all wondered at her sad yellow-and-white
fate.
Finally we knew that summer would
be arriving in a few weeks, because mother
took us all to the discount yarn store to pick
out the colours for next winter's larger sweaters,
socks, hats and gloves. But by then none of
us remembered Mrs. Belinsky anymore, because
Mother was meeting more people and we had to
concern ourselves with Mrs. Grossbottom's difficulty
with a car that was not a lemon but an absolute
grapefruit and with Beverly Davidoff's moleskin
coat stolen from a high class restaurant while
she ate her fifteenth anniversary dinner and
how could Mrs. Cudahy (formerly Cohen)'s possibly understand
her own slow, tedious emigration from the poorest
boarding house in a Charleston slum to her
fine pillared portico on The Hill, and all
the other people from the beauty salons, grocery
stores, dry-cleaning shops and dental offices
of my mother's busy life.
It was finally really summer,
because Father tugged Mother's old striped
canvas and wooden chair from the back of the
closet behind the winter coats, and Mother
stuffed her crewel satchel with her new yarn
and old needles and a thermos of lemonade and
some sandwiches and caught her lonesom first
bus of summer to the bus stop near Folly Beach.
Then, on foot, she trudged down to her favourite
spot on the shore.
She set up her chair on the sand.
She knitted. She reflected on life's joys and
the evident growth of her children and the
sadness around her that never seemed to touch
her personally. Then, across the way, near
the water, with the same fat pink curlers haloing
her head and the same matching pink folds between
her chin and the flapping straps of a brand
new purple bathin suit, Mother recognized Mrs.
Belinsky. She sang out, happily, "Bertha! Bertha
Bel-in-sky! How are you?"
Bertha Belinsky rolled all of
herself over and lifted her mass up and waddled
over to Mother. "Oi, it is good to see a friend,"
she confided, "…so early in the season." Mother
knitted and nodded agreement. Coming to the
end of a row, she tapped her long knitting
needle on the sand at her side, "So sit down,
already. What's new? Tell me, how is your son,
the Prince, and your daughter-in-law, Shirley?"
Mother never forgot her ffriends' relatives'
names. "Is she pregnant yet?" Mother, ever
tactful in her treasured position as confidant,
skirted the Wedding and The Mother.
Mrs. Belinsky sank to the sand,
sighed and gurgled as she prepared to speak.
"What a lucky woman I am. What
a mitzvah is my life. My son, you
know, is a prince. God bless him. My husband,
Benjamin – may he rest in peace under the finest
tombstone in Charleston – was the best husband
that ever was. My only daughter-in-law, Shirley,
from Flushing in New York – she's an angel!"
Bertha Belinsky clasped her fat
fingers in holy appreciation, then parted them
in a wide arc. "Oi, Sadie, how I wish you could
have been at The Wedding. I flew first class
on the sirplane. The Mother paid. It was the
biggest wedding they ever had in Flushing in
New York. There were white limousines.
There were chauffeurs. In uniforms, yet.
The chopped liver was shaped like a fish with
radish eyes. There were fresh flowers everywhere. Even
though it was winter. The champagne
– all of it – was imported from
California. The petits fours, those cute little
cakes, were from the finest caterer who brought
them special from Brooklyn in New York.
"There were six bridesmaids,
two from Dallas even, also first class on the
plane. And two maids of honour, one from Miami
also first class. And three little flower-girl-cousins
from Charleston, all in Norell gowns, and…
and…" Bertha Belinsky paused, breathlessly,
to again bring the vision before her tightly
closed eyes. "…and everything, everyone, even
the ushers, even me – Bertha
Belinsky, even, looked so beautiful. So beautiful! Everyone said
how gorgeous it all was – all in yellow and
white…"
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
SECOND PLACE
SHORT STORY
Park Bench
By Anna Best
Oliver, British Columbia
The girl seemed unaware that
Sam was watching her.
She sat on the park bench, staring
of into some distant place, he jaw set, her
dark eyes narrowed, defying all that she saw
there.
Can't be more than nine or ten,
Sam thought.
She wore jeans and a faded blue
tee shirt, he long brown hair hanging from
beneath a soiled baseball cap.
Sam wanted her off his bench.
He was much too old to appear threatening,
and his voice, graveled from years of too many
cigarettes and too much booze, had lost its
timbre. He doubted he could frighten her away.
He took a handkerchief from his
pants' pocket and mopped his face. The walk
from the bus stop had left him sweating and
a little breathless.
He longed to sit and rest, the
old bench offering shade. It sat on tended
grass before a backdrop of aged oak and pine
trees, of lilac and forsythia bushes, the bushes
resting now after their colourful spring display.
But it was the birds that Sam
had come to see, and he feared the girl would
frighten them away.
Carrying a small paper bag that
held slices of bread to feed the birds, Sam
approached the girl, limping slightly from
the pain of arthritis in his left knee.
"You're on my bench, kid," he
said.
She remained still, and for a
moment Sam thought she hadn't heard him. "It
ain't your bench, mister," she replied, "so
get lost."
"Listen, kid. I've been coming
to this same bench for the past fifteen years.
I'm not going anywhere, so why don't you take
a hike around the park? See if you can find
yourself a mugger to play with."
She awknowledged his remarks
by folding her thin arms firmly across her
chest.
Sam sat down next to the girl
and deliberately placed the bag of bread beetween
them. It wasn't much of a barrier but it marked
a line that defined their territory. He took
a dry crust from the bag and began breaking
it into small pieces.
"That your lunch?"
He turned to look at the girl
as she spoke and it was then that he noticed
a dark bruise on the side of her face.
"No," he replied. "I prefer my
garbage with a little salt. This is for the
birds."
"I hate birds," the girl said.
"All they do is fly around and crap all over
the place."
"You shouldn't hate birds," Sam
told her. "They're God's creatures."
She shrugged. "So are rats. Bet
you don't feed them."
Sam began tossing pieces of bread
onto the grass beyond the bench. "You got a
name, kid?" he asked.
"What kind of a dumb question
is that? Course I got a name."
"You going to tell me, or is
it classified information?"
"It ain't none of your business."
"Well, I'm Samuel Trout. You
can call me Sam if you like, or loser, if you
prefer. I'm broke and all my friends are dead.
I'm old so I can't help farting in public.
I come here to feed the birds, dwell on the
past and count my age spots." He tossed some
more bread and three sparrows swooped to the
ground to feed.
And then he spotted the jay.
It was sitting on the branch of a young maple
tree, the branch bending under its weight.
It was the biggest blue jay Sam had ever seen,
its body sleek and powerful. It began dancing
back and forth along the branch, its blue feathers
catching brilliance from the sun.
Come on down, big fella,
Sam thought. You'll even impress
the kid.
As though reading his mind, the
jay dived to the ground, causing the sparrows
to break for the sky. It studied Sam and the
girl, cocking its head, wary of strangers.
Then grabbing a piece of bread in its beak,
it flew back to the safety of the tree, disappearing
among the leaves.
The girl remained silent for
several moments, then turned to look at Sam.
"Amanda," she said. "My name's Amanda."
"So, Amanda, how did you get
the bruise?"
Once again she stared of into
her secret world. "I fell," she said at last.
"Looks bad."
She shrugged. "It ain't no big
deal."
She reached into he pocket of
her jeans and pulled out a man's watch, the
bracelet missing, the crystal cracked.
"Nice watch," Sam told her.
She ignored the sarcasm, a faint
smile touching her lips. "Yeah," she agreed.
"It's my dad's." She checked the time, fear
suddenly blanching her face. "I'm late," she
whispered.
Sam leaned back and closed his
eyes. Face it, loser, he thought. You're
worried about the kid.
When he opened his eyes, Amanda
was gone.
* * * * *
Three days passed before Sam
met Amanda again. He was sitting on his bench
throwing bread, but doing so more from habit
than desire. Admit it, old crony, he
thought. You wish the kid would show.
He glanced around theh park,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her. A male jogger
passed nearby, and the thump, thump of feet
slapping the ground sparked panic among the
birds. In a sudden, collective rush of wings,
they flew to the trees.
In the distance, Sam could see
a heavy-set woman with a small boy heading
toward a playground area. He could see children
on swings and hear their laughter, but none
resembled Amanda.
But then he spotted her walking
toward him, holding her side. As she reached
the bench, she held up a small bag. "I brought
some wild seed for the birds," she said. "Thought
we might see that big old jay again. Not that
I care a whole lot," she added quickly. "Anyways,
you ain't supposed to feed birds too much bread."
"Says who?"
She shrugged. "I guess I read
it in a book someplace."
"Hey, kid. I'm impressed."
She sat down next to him, favouring
her side.
"Fall again?" Sam asked.
"Yeah."
"Seems you fall a lot, kid."
"Just clumsy, I guess."
"So, Amanda, how come you hang
around the park? Don't you have better things
to do?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Play the horses,
go fishing, shoot a little pool?"
"You sure don't know much about
girls," she said flatly.
"You got that right," Sam agreed.
"I raised a son. He's a big hotshot lawyer
now. Too busy counting his money to even buy
his old man a cup of Geritol."
Amanda took a handful of seed
from her bag. "I ain't gonna be like that the my dad.
Soon as he finds me, we're gonna do all kinds
of stuff together." She left the bench to set
the seed on the grass, glancing hopefully toward
the maple tree as she returned.
"So where is you dad?" Sam asked.
"Don't know exactly. Me and my
mom move around a lot. She don't want him to
find me."
Sam was afraid to press further. Could
be risky, he thought. Don't want
to lose her now.
As the afternoon passed, Amanda
began checking the time on the old watch. "Gotta
go," she said at last. "Just in case you're
gonna be here on Saturday, I'll come early
and save our bench."
"Our bench? It's my bench,
kid."
She almost smiled. "Not anymore
it ain't."
At that moment, the jay suddenly
appeared above them. It swept gracefully to
the ground, landing on the grass. Ignoring
crumbs of bread, it hopped to the pile of seed,
attackin it voraciously.
Amanda looked at Sam, honouring
him with a wide grin.
Soon, he thought. Soon
the kid will level with me.
* * * * *
They met several times over the
next two weeks. Amanda seemed brighter, and
Sam began to wonder if his concern for her
was unfounded.
On a hot afternoon in July however,
Amanda arrived wearing a tee shirt with long
sleeves, her face pale, her eyes distant.
As she sat down on the bench,
Sam noticed a purple bruise extending beyond
the cuff of her sleeve.
It's time, he thought. If
she doesn't trust me now, she never will. He
took her arm, "who did this to you?" he asked.
Fear clouded her eyes. "Nobody.
I hurt it playin', is all."
"I'm on to you, kid," he said.
"Somebody is using you for a basketball, and
their game has got to end."
She tried to pull her arm away.
"It ain't nothin'."
"Nothing? You call this nothing?"
Sam pulled up the sleeve of her shirt. Dark
bruises marred her flesh, appearing harsh and
ugly against her pale skin. On the inside of
her arm, fresh cigarette burns had already
begun to fester.
Despite the heat of the day,
a chill rippled through him. "Sweet Jesus!"
he gasped.
She yanked her arm away.
"Please, Amanda. Please let me
help you."
"It ain't none of your business,"
she cried. "Just leave me alone!"
Before Sam could stop her, she
was running along a path that led to the street.
He leaned forward, burying his
face in his hands. So how do you help her
now, loser? he thought. You don't
even know her last name. Or where she lives. He
wanted to weep.
He heard the rustle of clothing
and looked up suddenly to see Amanda facing
him. Sh stood with her arms at her sides, her
small hands balled into tight fists. "I came
back," she cried, "but I ain't here bause I
need help. I don't need help from nobody, you
understand?" Tears flooded her eyes, spilling
down her face. "I'm here cause you need me! I'm
the only friend you got in your pitiful, worthless
life, so you gotta help me or you'll just keep
on bein' the big loser you are." She swept
her arm roughly across her face, wiping away
tears. "I'm only lettin' you help me as a favour
to you, understand?"
A middle-aged woman pushing a
bicycle stopped by the bench. She glared at
Sam while speaking to Amanda. "Are you alright,
girl?" she asked.
Amanda spun to face her. "Take
off!" she screamed, kicking the bike.
That's it, kid, Sam
thought. Let it out. Let it all out.
The woman turned to Sam, her
body trembling. "You got it straight now?"
Amanda sobbed. "I don't need you! I don't need
nobody! So tell me what to do so you can help
the only friend you got in this whole stinkin'
world. Let me do you a big fat favour!"
"Who?" he asked. "Who hurt you?"
"My mom," she cried. "My mom
hurt me."
Sam longed to go to her, to comfort
her. Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief
and handed it to her. "Here, kid," he said.
"Honk into this."
She blew into the handkerchief.
He held out his hand to her.
"Come on, Amanda."
She took his hand and they began
walking along the path leading to the street.
"Where we goin'?" she asked.
"First, we're going to call my
son."
She wiped her eyes. "The hotshot
lawyer?"
"Right. He'll know what to do.
He'll find you a safe place to stay until he
can locate your dad."
"Then what?" she asked. "You
gonna be like that old jay? Just show up when
you darn well please? Or not come at all?"
"No way. You're the only friend
I got, remember? Thought maybe we'd all go
fishing. My son has a big boat."
She blew her nose. "I hate fishin'."
Sam smiled. "Zip the lip, kid,"
he said. "You'll love it."
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights
reserved.
