Rochelle Ratner


Mother Driving

Early on, she learned how fickle friends are: the stealing club formed in sixth grade, and how the first girl caught ratted on the others; the best friend in tenth grade who really wanted to sleep with her; the friend five years ago, almost like a sister, who ran off with her husband. Leaving her, of course, with three daughters. Every four months she has to drive the girls over fifty miles to see their father. The baby (hers alone) is behind her in the back seat, strapped in, then one girl in the front seat, separated by the gearshift, not too close, not clinging. Her daughters have to learn what friendship really costs: the largest slice of pie or scoop of ice cream, the treasured green piece in whatever game they're playing, the prettiest Barbie doll, this car that only seats five people. They can't even visit their father without some friend along, the middle girl pleading, whining. So okay, the two oldest will take turns giving up their seats to her. She just prays it's hot enough in that trunk that they'll always remember.

Suspicious Abandoned Trumpet Causes Scare In Downtown Salt Lake City

His mother rocked him to sleep listening to Wynton Marsalis, and that was just to start, so of course by the time he was ten he wanted to study trumpet and he was the star of his high school jazz band. He got into North Texas State but the University of Utah gave him a big music scholarship so he went to Utah. The first year's been sort of okay, but now they tell him next year he'll have to study music composition and play with the classical orchestra and he just feels like nothing matters anymore. So he leaves the damn case outside McDonald's and goes in to maybe coat his anger with French fries then heads back to his dorm and just leaves the trumpet sitting there, thinking maybe some homeless guy can pawn it. The next thing he knows he hears this blast and runs back towards downtown only the streets are closed off and there are all these people still shaking and cowering, except at the back of the crowd are these Mormons mumbling about the angel Gabriel.

AT THE POST OFFICE

It's not a bomb in that package with the plain brown wrapper, it's a diaper. I mean, it's not a diaper, actually, it's a little electronic device that you put in a diaper. It lets you know when the diaper needs changing, a little humming sound. I don't know why it's ticking. As I said, it's supposed to go in the diaper, or Huggie, or Pamper, or whatever, it doesn't have to be a cloth diaper, just up against the baby's, well, you know. And maybe it adds just a gentle shock to the tender flesh, sort of Pavlovian. Let me tell you, the less diapers I have to change, the better off I'll be. Emotionally, you know. And actually, that ticking sound's starting to have a calming effect on me. But it's also more than that, I don't know, having a baby certainly wasn't my idea, and maybe it is a bomb, maybe the kid will blow up as soon as it's fastened, oh dear, I know I shouldn't get my hopes up.

Excess Weight, Poor Memory Linked

Not to mention the fact that she can't concentrate when she's hungry. Not only that, but she has a headache. It’s like this every day at four o'clock or so, when her metabolism’s at its low. A candy bar, or two, helps her stay awake until dinner time. After that her headache goes away, but she’s too bloated to think much. It’s all she can do to pick up some trashy novel and read a few pages, word after word after word. She watches Law and Order or ER, maybe checks her email. She tries to straighten out the pile of papers gathering on her desk, but doesn't get very far. At midnight, when her husband decides this day’s been long enough, she's just perking up. Which means he's asleep by the time she comes to bed. He might shift a bit, maybe mutter something, but there’s not much chance he'll put his arms around her. He'd be repelled by her naked flesh these days, she’s certain. And he'd remember how it was thirty years ago. Of course he'd remember.

Balloon steals wedding ring

1.

Not really. Balloons don't steal. A father tied it to his son's helium balloon, hoping to weigh it down. She thinks of her father blowing up balloons for her birthday parties. Helium was a rarity in the Fifties. Besides, it was a kite she wanted, a box kite she could run along the early morning beach with. But her father knew in advance they'd never make it fly.

2.

Never give a child only one balloon. Balloons like to rise up in groups. A balloon all alone becomes bored and jealous.

3.

His finger has swelled around that ring. Even to grip a fork is painful. He's wanted for years to be rid of it.

4.

Maybe there was never any balloon. Maybe there was never any ring and the boy was his nephew who he took out for the day so he'd find it easier to talk to single women.

5.

She twists the ring on her finger as she thinks. This has become a habit as unnerving as cigarettes. She fears, if she loses this ring, she won't be able to string two sentences together.

6.

The man in the clown suit ties a few balloons together to make a dog for her. This is preferable to having her face painted.

7.

She pictures the balloon losing air, maybe getting stuck in a tree miles away. A widow looks out the window one morning to see the sun catching on this speck of gold. She thinks someone's playing a trick on her. Maybe the boy at the market she wouldn't let carry her groceries. Maybe the kids with a ball she chased off her lawn last week.

Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

 
 
 
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