Wally (Cathedral City Part 5)

“You’re crazy!”

She’d screamed it at him, hurling it across the room, her face contorted with rage. 

He’d never seen her like that before. Not even close. She was always slow to anger. Even slow to happy. 

It felt like she’d slapped him. Truth be told, that would have hurt less. In that moment, he was far more afraid of her than he was of his mission.

Crazy? How could she say that? From the very first he’d told her of his plans. Of his research. Of his lifelong quest! He was crazy?! She was the crazy one! 

You can’t tell someone you love them and six years later pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about. Pretend you don’t understand when they’re getting close to achieving their dreams!

So here he was, sitting on their bed, holding his carryall. He was truly ready to go. He wished he could feel more excited, but he couldn’t get the look on Karen’s face out of his mind. He just didn't understand it. 

Wally had always been an explorer. A pioneer. It drove him since he was a little boy, the thought that there had to be more to the world than his filthy, sad house and his angry, friendless parents.

At first he just imagined things - The whole wide world, people speaking in different languages, eating different, exotic foods, living lives filled with dreams and adventures. 

But then Wally expanded those thoughts, partly because he couldn’t afford to travel anywhere, partly because, like his parents, he was nervous around others and thought it might be difficult to participate in the whole wide world if he couldn’t stop stuttering.

So his thoughts took him beyond this world and into the next. And once he opened that door, there was no turning back. He read everything he could about outlying universes and their inhabitants. About life elsewhere and communicating with those beings. Everything became easier once he started his search. Even his stuttering stopped. 

His life had been so bleak before. So cruel. But now, anything seemed possible. Anything at all. Even finding a wife. 

And he’d found her. He’d found Karen at Deenah’s Diner, named after her grandma. He ordered his supper from her and she’d asked him whether he’d prefer slaw or fries. Fries, he’d said. She’d given him a small smile and when she’d turned toward the kitchen he’d noticed her slight, sweet limp. 

In that short time he knew he wanted to marry her. I mean, she was already taking good care of him. (She’d brought him the slaw instead of the fries, “Heart healthier,” she’d said softly.)

He’d come back to Deenah’s four times that week before he got up the nerve to ask her out. She’d told him that he could buy her a coffee after her shift that night. 

They’d talked for hours. Well, maybe not hours, but a long time. Longer than he’d ever talked to any girl. And she was real pretty in her own way. 

After a few weeks he bravely broached the topic of his research. He crossed his fingers under the booth (their booth!), hoping she wouldn’t laugh. And his wish had come true. Not only did she not laugh, she asked him questions, wondered aloud with him about life on other planets, about what was out there.

That same night he’d taken her back to his house and shown her his workshop. He’d shown her his maps, his experiments, the theories that connected it all. It all made perfect sense. She’d even agreed! She’d agreed! 

He told her that he was reaching out to his community, letting them know that he thought he’d found the landing spot. The exact location of when they’d arrive!

And now, that day was here. He’d heard back from the experts. (Okay, maybe not official “experts”, but certainly amateur/experts, like himself.) They’d all agreed that the date lined up. The location lined up. This was the culmination of his life’s work and where was Karen? Who knew?! 

As he sat, perched on his bed, holding his small tatty bag, he was lost. Just lost. 

Thinking back on Karen and her reaction, he realized it was when he mentioned starting a family, that’s when she began to boil. But he thought she’d be thrilled. He was. Karen had wanted to start a family, “more than anything,” that’s how she’d phrase it. “More than anything, Wally.”

He’d put her off for years, not telling her why, and he knew she was getting nervous. But he also knew that when he gave her the great news, it would have been worth the long delay. More than worth it. “They’ll need to repopulate their planet, Karen.” 

That’s honestly what seemed to have started it.

She’d stood in their yellow-checkered kitchen and yelled, “I’m forty three! I waited for you! You told me to wait and I waited!” That’s when she picked up his dirty, ketchup-smeared breakfast plate and threw it right at him. Right at his head. 

He tried to explain that age wouldn’t matter on their planet. They’d probably live forever. And their baby would be one of the first new babies born there. They might even re-name the planet after him or her. Can you imagine? Can you just imagine?! 

Their baby wouldn’t be saddled with late nights at a diner, or cruel jokes about stuttering or limps. Their baby wouldn’t have to wait to feel loved because they’d be loved from their very first breath. Their baby would practically be royalty. 

Their baby would be born into a joyful world. A world filled with hope and love and big ideas. 

But Karen had just called him crazy, grabbed her purse and left out the kitchen door, slamming it shut. 

Wally stood up. He had no choice, he had to meet the ship. Karen would understand. Maybe they could come back for her someday. He sure hoped so. He slipped a framed picture of her into his bag. 

He’d taken the photo himself. Karen was in her robe, sitting on the porch, holding her coffee cup. And she was smiling at him. Her face beaming with shy love. 

Two days later Wally felt bleary behind the wheel. His mind searching for the name of the singer of the song he’d just heard…Rita? Lita? He couldn’t remember.  He rolled down his window, taking in big gulps of fresh air.

And in an instant he knew he was getting close, he sensed it even before he saw the sign: Cathedral City. 18 miles. He was almost home.

Farewell

Wendy Margaret Cope

Mom, wife, best storyteller, keeper of our secrets, fan of the underdog, 

glorious gardener, skateboarder, spellbinding letter writer, avid traveler, wine enthusiast, 

advocate of courage, adventure and kindness, 

open door for strays, stronger than anyone I've known, 

magnificent chef, forever curious,

and born with a roaring, infectious laugh.

Nothing's the same but our love for you.

Mother's Day 2017

(That's me with the big hat, white purse, and huge smile. Not much has changed.)

When I was little, say five years old, I took to dressing like an adult. Or my version of what an adult would dress like. I was eager to move to New York and live in an apartment where I would paint my nails a classic red, banter wittily over luxurious dinners, and star in Broadway plays where I would receive nothing but rave reviews and standing ovations.

I began carrying a pair of white gloves and a cream colored clutch purse. Inside the purse were loose keys I found in a kitchen drawer that I would use to fake open my bedroom/apartment door, and crayons that I would smoke while sitting on my toy box, gazing out over the imaginary Manhattan skyline.

I would wear strands of plastic pearls and large hats, my favorite knee-high boots that had a small but thrilling heel, and layers of cherry chapstick that in my mind was a deep crimson. I would reapply this constantly between drags of my crayon.

I did this daily and with all of my heart. And it never even occurred to me that this might be seen as silly. Or weird. Something to make fun of.

And that was entirely because of my amazing Mother.

Never once did she laugh or roll her eyes or use a condescending tone. Quite the opposite. She would knock on my apartment door playing the role of “neighbor”, asking if I was interested in a snack, which I usually was. We’d head down to the closest diner which, as luck would have it, was located in our kitchen. She took me shopping for new looks at vintage stores. She offered up her old purses and perfume. She not only encouraged my imagination, she applauded it.

I began asking friends over after kindergarten and they would be required to pick an outfit from my toy box and dress as adults as well. Everyone was game. My cousin Clay was the only boy allowed but he kept it cool by dressing as a cowboy which went over big with the girls.

But, as often happens to weird little kids, time marched on and some of my friends began resisting my fun. They were now six and seven and they wanted to wear their own clothes and jump rope, not write short fiction and pretend to submit it to small publications.

 (Side note: My Mom collected all of my writing and printed copies of my “book” which I proudly titled, Mousetracks. Inside you will find selected stories such as, “The Hippy Who Lit A Match” and “The Very Scary Thing”.)

Soon my friends no longer accepted my invitations. And they weren’t extending any themselves. It was a hard lesson for a six year old and one I didn’t fully get at the time. I just knew that I was suddenly considered odd and no one wanted to play with me.

I stopped carrying my purse and gave up crayons cold turkey. My Mom immediately noticed. She asked if I wanted to go to Goodwill to shop for an evening gown. Of course I wanted to, but I declined.

I tucked my soft gloves and colorful hats away inside my toy box.

I lived in Seattle, not Manhattan. My pearls were as imaginary as my lipstick. I was six and friendless and miserable.

I didn’t understand that people would abandon you if you didn’t match their version of the world. That being different, to some, meant being bad.

And the reason these concepts were so foreign to me was because my Mom was so proud of who I was. Of every single thing about me. There was nothing strange about me in her eyes. Her love was pure and true and relentless.

One night, when I was feeling particularly lonely, she knocked on my apartment door and asked to come in. We sat side by side on my toy box. The sun was setting and summer was coming on.
“What do you see when you look out your window?” she asked me. “The backyard. The McNeil’s roof. Dad’s old surfboard by the barbeque,” I said.

Then she asked me this, “What do you want to see?”

It took me a moment before I offered up shyly, “New York.”

 “Tell me about it,” my mother said. “What’s out there?”

I told her everything. My dreams, my hopes, my nail color choices. She knew most of this already, of course, but it felt good to hop back into who I really was. To feel comfort in the truth of myself. And the comfort of my Mom’s earnest desire for me to go after my dreams, no matter what.

That night we had dinner at our favorite diner in the kitchen. We both wore strands of pearls and large hats.

And that is my Mom. All of my life she has not only encouraged my adventures, but demanded that I run toward them, heart first.

And she makes it all possible with the constancy of her powerful love in a world that can so easily misunderstand you. She is my person to call in the middle of the night who will listen for hours. She is the vault of my deepest secrets. She is the roaring laugh when I need it most. And the hand to hold tight when I feel lonesome or lost.

She is the friendly neighbor sitting at a diner who celebrates a crayon smoking five year old and lets her know that everything is going to be alright. Better than alright. Everything is going to be magnificent.