94. Guardians

Harpo has been visiting me in the cellar, taking care on his way down the stairs. He is a Brother, of course, but I try to think of him as a sibling brother, because I believe that’s why we call each other Brother and we should act like it. I should be thankful that someone wants to spend time with me, I suppose, but anyone reading this blog will know that I'm rather self-centered. I remember a time in Africa when we were up some god-forsaken river and the map was wrong (an accurate map in Africa should have won a Pulitzer Prize.) Another Brother and myself were bringing a young woman in from the bush to a tent hospital when she began to give birth right in the boat. My first thought was about the inconvenience, because now we would have to deliver her here and I’d miss supper and my evening card playing group. Of course we took care of the poor girl and she rewarded us with a healthy six and a half pound daughter. My spiritual director at the time said my actions were important, not my selfish thoughts.  I wasn't experienced enough at the time to appreciate that my thoughts were certainly important and could be predictive.

Harpo shuffled across the cellar and headed toward the only chair, other than my stool.

"Not there,” I called to him, “you'll sit on my guardian angel."

Harpo did what I expected and sat right down anyway as I was saying, “Only kidding!”

“I don’t have a guardian angel,” he said in his Low Country drawl.

“Maybe I don’t, either,” I said. “Who knows?”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “Sally.”

“You remember?” I said, surprised he recalled the name, and wondering if he would connect it to our real estate sales woman.  I had not mentioned to anyone that I believed they were one and the same.

“Of course I remember!” he said. “Who could forget that great story of you meeting a bra-less woman in the woods!”

“I certainly don’t know for sure about her underwear, Harpo,” I laughed, now uncomfortable.  “That would seem irreverent.”

“…and far be it from you to be irreverent,” he said with a smile.  “I don’t normally notice such things, of course,” he continued, “but she seemed to be wearing a bra when Agnes introduced her to us in the Pit.”

“Why would you think they’re the same Sally?”  I asked, my eyes averting his as I looked down at my type bench and pretended to busy myself fishing an en quad out of the typecase.

“Do you mean,” he asked, “why would I suspect you thought so, just because you acted like there was a Martian in our midst?  And you spent the rest of the day and evening staring into space, adrift in some other world.”

“Sally in the woods,” I said, “and Sally Prendel look and sound exactly alike,  Harpo.”

“Jesse, your mind has been known to play tricks on you, as you know.”

“I know,” I admitted.  “And it can’t be true, but it’s … it’s … it’s …”

“It’s a mystery,” Harpo said.  “As a Catholic I’m sure you’ve heard that line before.  We Jews don’t have such a concept.  If it isn’t believable, we don’t believe it.”

“You’re not Jewish, Harpo,” I said, “your parents were.”

“If they were here they would convince you otherwise,” he said.

We were quiet for a few moments as I continued to set type and Harpo sat in the desk chair, twirling his fingers through Tapioca’s hair.  The silly dog sat there and panted as if she was thinking of a steak dinner.

 

“I used to have,” Harpo continued, “what you call ‘a manifestation of God personalized for my feeble mind’ that I saw as my guardian angel.”

For some reason, I didn’t think it was a pretty girl. “What was she like?” I asked.

“I don’t know if it was a he or she,” said Harpo. “It was an animal.”

“Ah, you’re a closet Totemist!” I said. “Was it Ayla’s uncle, the Cave Bear?”

“No,” said Harpo. “It was the Easter Bunny.”

 

Mention of the Easter Bunny in my presence always brings a negative response.  I lost all appreciation for that icon many years ago when I was child.

Picture little me at maybe seven years old, tired and sleepy after a full day of Catholic school classes and Catechism questions, minding my own business as I sat in the living room, Dad at work on the night shift, Mom devouring a Reader’s Digest shortened novel.  (I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt this post to ask what sniveling hack had the gall to cut up great novels and shorten the sentences! If you can’t hold any more than a dozen words in your head without it leaking, limit yourself to Hemmingway or the Daily News!)  

Anyway, I heard a noise in the kitchen and I set down my novel by Erle Stanley Gardner … well, maybe it was a comic book … and walked to the other end of the flat. On this warm evening in early spring at dusk the sky dribbled a meager light through the kitchen windows to illuminate all but the deeper shadows.  I noticed the door to the flat was open to the back hallway. I reached for the wall switch to turn on the ceiling light, but froze in horror as a shape emerged from the hall and stepped toward me in the semi darkness. A five foot high pink rabbit waved at me and a muffled voice cried “Hi!”

From my mouth came a screech so loud and piercing the window panes rattled and the rabbit drew back partly into the shadows. The lights came on as my mother rushed into the kitchen. The Easter Bunny pulled its head off and dropped to its knees, sending me right over the top. I tried to screech again, but I was still on my first and when I finished I wouldn’t have enough breath for a second. I wouldn’t have enough breath until midnight. Mrs. Hallack from next door, my mother’s friend when she wasn’t drinking (Mrs. Hallack), was laughing and down on her knees crawling to me. I grabbed a RevereWare copper-bottomed pan from the stove and hit her full across the face with it. I wasn’t sure what was coming after me. It didn’t matter. Had it been Pope Pius the Twelfth down on my kitchen floor in a pink rabbit suit selling his encyclicals he would have received the same welcome.

Smacked with a frying pan across the face, Mrs. Hallack sobered quickly. As blood began to trickle from her nose, she hauled off and threw a punch at me, but my mother intervened by stepping between us. Mom was on her feet, so she took the blow in the stomach and it was not appreciated.  She grabbed Mrs. Hallack by her pony tail and dragged the woman backward on her knees across the linoleum and out into the back hall. She slammed the door and locked it. Mrs. Hallack would never visit us again. My Mom said she’d never been in a real girl fight before. Ever! She was breathing hard, but she looked pretty pleased with herself as she very carefully pried the frying pan from my hands.

I haven’t eaten a chocolate bunny since.

Grace does a terrific job on this!