Lucy's Couch
Renee Cassese
There is is again. The third time this week. The scrape of the wooden chair on the linoleum kitchen floor, like a spoon against the soup pot. Tension in the air like ozone before a lightning storm. And the slap of Daddy's hand against my mother's cheek.
I grabbed my brother's hand, along with the telephone, and ran to hide behind the couch. The reaction was automatic; like the way I sucked in air when I emerged from swimming under water.
I punched in the numbers 9-1-1 and noticed my hand no longer shook at the task.
"It's me, Lucy Barnes. One four five two Pleasant Street. It's happening again."
"Where are you?" the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
"Behind the couch. Where else would I be?"
The question amazed me. Didn't the cops always find Stevie and me hiding behind the couch? Wasn't this the same woman who almost always answered my call? It happened so many times I believed the whole NYPD knew about me.
"Are you safe?" the voice asked.
"For now," I said.
"The police are on their way. Stay on the line with me until they get there."
"Yes, ma'am."
I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder and took a deep breath. I tried to stay calm but Stevie's big, round, two-year-old eyes made my heart pound. I covered his ears with my hands, but I knew he could still hear my father screaming and my mother crying. The sound of him slapping her again and again could pierce through any barrier I tried to build. I pressed my hands harder on Stevie's ears and he squirmed under the pressure. He moved in closer to me and then jumped when the police knocked at the front door.
"They're here," I said into the phone and pressed the button to end the call.
I got up and let the police in to do their job. Then I went back behind the couch with Stevie to wait till it was over. I held him tight to protect him, but there was no one there to hold me. I closed my eyes and waited.
A policeman touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see a tall man in the familiar blue uniform bending over me and Stevie. I stood up. Stevie clung to my leg as silent grimy tears streaked down his cheeks.
"You two okay?" the policeman asked.
"I guess so," I said. I supposed we had to be okay. As usual the policeman would take Dad outside to talk to him. I would help Mom clean up her face and the crusted over dishes on the table and then we would all go to sleep.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked.
"Lucy," I said. "And this is Stevie. He's only two."
"I see. And how old are you?"
"Oh, I'm seven. I'm used to this. I can take care of us."
The policeman smiled and nodded, and then left the room. He took Dad outside to talk and another police officer went into the kitchen to talk to Mom. After a few minutes everyone came back to the living room. Daddy and Mommy sat on the couch and held hands. One policeman sat next to him asking the same questions they always asked.
"Mrs. Barnes, do you want to press charges?"
"Mr. Barnes, are you calm now?"
The answers were always the same: "No." "Yes."
And then the policeman looked at me. He came over to the chair where Stevie and I sat and he kneeled down to talk to me.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "Did anyone hit you or your brother?"
"We're okay," I told him. "Daddy doesn't ever hurt us. Never. I just take Stevie and we run behind the couch and call 911 and then we're okay. I just have to make sure Stevie is okay."
"You sound like a smart, grown-up girl for being only seven."
"I am. I help Mommy. I can call 911 when Daddy hits her. I can open the door when the police come. I can put ice on Mommy's face and help her clean the dishes. If we don't clean the dishes, when Daddy comes home he'll hit her again. He hates a dirty house."
Then I started to cry. I couldn't help it. The grown-up smart girl split wide open and my whiny, childish, scared self fell out. I felt weak and soft like a Raggedy Ann doll. I didn't even bother to wipe the tears away. I ran to the couch and Mommy picked me up. Stevie followed me and we both sat between Daddy and Mommy. Sometimes I felt just as safe on the couch as I did behind it. Times like this. Times when a visit from the police calmed Daddy down and made him nice again.
The policeman smiled. He turned to his partner. "Things look okay now," he said. "Be sure to lock up," he told me.
I nodded.
When they left the house I got up and locked the door, then went back to the couch. Stevie's shoulders were bouncing up and down and tears ran down his face. But he cried silently. It was something he learned to do so Daddy wouldn't find us when we were hiding.
"I'm so sorry," Daddy said. "Are you all right?"
"We're okay," I said, but I knew we weren't. It would happen again. It would keep happening.
Daddy was nice when he didn't drink and when the house was clean and neat and there was a hot dinner waiting for him when he came home from work. Then he would play with us, give us rides on his back like he was a horse and tickled us so we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. But I wanted Daddy to be nice all the time and not hit Mommy anymore. Even if the house was dirty and we had only sandwiches for dinner because Mommy had worked late.
Daddy and Mommy took Stevie and me upstairs and put us to bed in our clean pajamas on clean sheets, ironed like Daddy wanted them to be. As I fell asleep, I heard Mommy in the shower; the sound of water running and Mommy crying.
When I woke up the next morning, the sunlight was warm on my bed. It was already eight o'clock, but I didn't care. Mommy never made me go to school the day after the police were in our house. I went downstairs where I knew it would be quiet. Daddy would be at work and Mommy would be extra nice to make us feel better.
When I got to the kitchen I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I grabbed the phone and ran. I hoped Stevie was still asleep and wouldn't come downstairs yet.
"911 emergery. Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said. "There's blood all over the kitchen. Mommy is laying on the floor and Daddy is in a chair with a knife in his hand."
"Name and address, please."
"Lucy Barnes. One four five two Pleasant Street."
"Where are you now?" the woman asked. "Are you safe?"
"Yes," I told her. "I'm behind the couch."
The Field
Harvey Silverman
There really is magic in an Iowa corn field.
We were driving on a fine late June day on secondary roads in rural eastern Iowa, over rolling hills and passing the monotonous beauty of endless dark green corn. Just a few small, discretely placed signs point the way.
Traveling by mini-motor home coast to coast on a meandering vacation we noted, "The Field of Dreams," movie site on a map and on a whim decided to find it.
Finally, there it is, we turn and drive down the winding dirt road and park in a small unpaved area to the side. And then the magic begins.
The field is simple, with small wooden bleachers, a lightly framed backstop, basic lighting on straight wooden poles, a well-trimmed infield, and corn growing at the outfield's edge. The tidy farmhouse, where the real life owner still lives, is up a gentle hill on the first base side.
It is perfect. There is no admission, no staff, no public address system, no food stands, no neon. People come and quietly walk about, playing catch with other strangers. They are of all sorts, some who carry themselves like athletes, others who do not. Some men who throw like girls, and some women who throw like boys. Young and not so young, in shape and overweight.
Small children run the bases. Somebody begins to throw batting practice, others take places in the field. The crack of the bat, or more often the thud, is the loudest sound. Somebody brings an aluminum bat, the ping of the bat an out of place noise and soon abandoned. No trash talking, no raised voices, no posturing.
Some people leave, others arrive and replace them. Everybody gets a turn at bat. We sit on the bleachers, just watching, in no hurry to leave. The movie site aspect of this wonderful place has been forgotten by us, and, it seems, by everyone else.
The magic that resides here has nothing to do with the reappearance of late baseball players or departed family members. It has everything to do with baseball, the baseball of childhood, and of childhood itself.
Sitting there, enjoying the simplicity of it all, I am transported to the time in my own childhood half a century ago when we played baseball for the plain fun of it. There were no uniforms, no concession stands, no cheering parents or encouraging coaches. There were no umpires; close plays were decided by a bit of shouting, negotiations, or do-overs. The number of players per side varied on who was able to play that day and never reached a full nine.
We played in an open lot, landlocked so that we had to cross through neighbor's yards to reach it.
A rough diamond had been formed by earlier unknown players. The diamond and small outfield was surrounded by brush and tall grass and trees beyond where too many balls were lost. It was simply called, "The Field."
Three or four or perhaps five to a side, we played with baseballs often covered in tape, their horsehide covers long worn off, perhaps one or two bats. Sometimes we shared gloves. We played all spring and summer and into the autumn. One year, after a particularly effective January thaw in our New England town, had melted enough snow to uncover the infield, I organized a game which we played wearing heavy winter coats, the game ending when somebody hit the ball into a snow bank in the outfield, the ball lost in the white on white of ball and snow.
Decades later, a childhood friend and I returned to visit our hometown and tried to find The Field. It was gone, the brush and trees having reclaimed the open area, and identified only by a tall stand of pines which had once served as our outfield wall.
Sitting on those bleachers in Iowa, looking at the neatly maintained field and recalling those childhood games, I suddenly wonder; who maintained The Field those years ago and kept it from being overgrown? No one seemed to own it and an adult was never seen.
I ponder the question as I sit in the magic of the Iowa cornfield. I decide it was somebody who had played on The Field himself years earlier, and who, on a warm summer day, might sit at an open window and listen to the sounds of children playing baseball just for the simple joy of the game.
The Iowa field and The Field, each kept so that anyone could play baseball, unadorned baseball. A visit to the one has returned me to the other.
Magic.
I Found the Wooded Trail
C. B. Stow
I found the wooded trail
at the base of the miniature moutain,
a parting of maidenhair ferns,
a cedar stump, a group of rocks,
weathered and re-grown
over three years like a bad relationship.
Morning dew freshened up my lungs,
while I gently held a Dogwood blossom
in my palm. I strolled up the narrow path
no wider than a nymph's knees,
and recognized an old resting place
where a peek between pines
showed me the distant valley below.
Then the long-winded song of a chickadee
announced my approaching footfalls,
urging my trek upwards to where
things lost could be re-found.
The Old Man At the Nursing Home
Ron Flowers
He sat upon the crumbling steps and leaned
against a rusty rail. A withered hand
caressed a cane worn slick from use and time.
deep furrows like a thousand rivers, etched
his face. His eyes half hidden deep beneath
a shaggy brown. The sun was shining bright
that day, the birth of spring was near. As I
approached, his eyes met mine, I smiled and said,
"hello." "Sit down and talk awhile, said he,
his eyes begged me to stay. He talked about
when he was young and in his natural prime,
of things he'd seen and things he'd done, how as
A lad of seventeen he'd come across
the sea. Again he'd crossed the ocean wide,
a war had beckoned him. The battle won,
once more returned, pursued his life again.
the home where folks like him reside takes land
That he once tilled. "But that was long ago,"
he said. "I'm ninety two come May. I've had
my day and it was good, I'm glad you came
my way." I stood and said that I must go.
A knotty hand encirled mine. He said,
to me, "Come back again whenever you
Have time." I never saw the man again,
I never thought I would. I think about
him now and then, I sometime wish I could.
Renee Cassese
There is is again. The third time this week. The scrape of the wooden chair on the linoleum kitchen floor, like a spoon against the soup pot. Tension in the air like ozone before a lightning storm. And the slap of Daddy's hand against my mother's cheek.
I grabbed my brother's hand, along with the telephone, and ran to hide behind the couch. The reaction was automatic; like the way I sucked in air when I emerged from swimming under water.
I punched in the numbers 9-1-1 and noticed my hand no longer shook at the task.
"It's me, Lucy Barnes. One four five two Pleasant Street. It's happening again."
"Where are you?" the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
"Behind the couch. Where else would I be?"
The question amazed me. Didn't the cops always find Stevie and me hiding behind the couch? Wasn't this the same woman who almost always answered my call? It happened so many times I believed the whole NYPD knew about me.
"Are you safe?" the voice asked.
"For now," I said.
"The police are on their way. Stay on the line with me until they get there."
"Yes, ma'am."
I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder and took a deep breath. I tried to stay calm but Stevie's big, round, two-year-old eyes made my heart pound. I covered his ears with my hands, but I knew he could still hear my father screaming and my mother crying. The sound of him slapping her again and again could pierce through any barrier I tried to build. I pressed my hands harder on Stevie's ears and he squirmed under the pressure. He moved in closer to me and then jumped when the police knocked at the front door.
"They're here," I said into the phone and pressed the button to end the call.
I got up and let the police in to do their job. Then I went back behind the couch with Stevie to wait till it was over. I held him tight to protect him, but there was no one there to hold me. I closed my eyes and waited.
A policeman touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see a tall man in the familiar blue uniform bending over me and Stevie. I stood up. Stevie clung to my leg as silent grimy tears streaked down his cheeks.
"You two okay?" the policeman asked.
"I guess so," I said. I supposed we had to be okay. As usual the policeman would take Dad outside to talk to him. I would help Mom clean up her face and the crusted over dishes on the table and then we would all go to sleep.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked.
"Lucy," I said. "And this is Stevie. He's only two."
"I see. And how old are you?"
"Oh, I'm seven. I'm used to this. I can take care of us."
The policeman smiled and nodded, and then left the room. He took Dad outside to talk and another police officer went into the kitchen to talk to Mom. After a few minutes everyone came back to the living room. Daddy and Mommy sat on the couch and held hands. One policeman sat next to him asking the same questions they always asked.
"Mrs. Barnes, do you want to press charges?"
"Mr. Barnes, are you calm now?"
The answers were always the same: "No." "Yes."
And then the policeman looked at me. He came over to the chair where Stevie and I sat and he kneeled down to talk to me.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "Did anyone hit you or your brother?"
"We're okay," I told him. "Daddy doesn't ever hurt us. Never. I just take Stevie and we run behind the couch and call 911 and then we're okay. I just have to make sure Stevie is okay."
"You sound like a smart, grown-up girl for being only seven."
"I am. I help Mommy. I can call 911 when Daddy hits her. I can open the door when the police come. I can put ice on Mommy's face and help her clean the dishes. If we don't clean the dishes, when Daddy comes home he'll hit her again. He hates a dirty house."
Then I started to cry. I couldn't help it. The grown-up smart girl split wide open and my whiny, childish, scared self fell out. I felt weak and soft like a Raggedy Ann doll. I didn't even bother to wipe the tears away. I ran to the couch and Mommy picked me up. Stevie followed me and we both sat between Daddy and Mommy. Sometimes I felt just as safe on the couch as I did behind it. Times like this. Times when a visit from the police calmed Daddy down and made him nice again.
The policeman smiled. He turned to his partner. "Things look okay now," he said. "Be sure to lock up," he told me.
I nodded.
When they left the house I got up and locked the door, then went back to the couch. Stevie's shoulders were bouncing up and down and tears ran down his face. But he cried silently. It was something he learned to do so Daddy wouldn't find us when we were hiding.
"I'm so sorry," Daddy said. "Are you all right?"
"We're okay," I said, but I knew we weren't. It would happen again. It would keep happening.
Daddy was nice when he didn't drink and when the house was clean and neat and there was a hot dinner waiting for him when he came home from work. Then he would play with us, give us rides on his back like he was a horse and tickled us so we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. But I wanted Daddy to be nice all the time and not hit Mommy anymore. Even if the house was dirty and we had only sandwiches for dinner because Mommy had worked late.
Daddy and Mommy took Stevie and me upstairs and put us to bed in our clean pajamas on clean sheets, ironed like Daddy wanted them to be. As I fell asleep, I heard Mommy in the shower; the sound of water running and Mommy crying.
When I woke up the next morning, the sunlight was warm on my bed. It was already eight o'clock, but I didn't care. Mommy never made me go to school the day after the police were in our house. I went downstairs where I knew it would be quiet. Daddy would be at work and Mommy would be extra nice to make us feel better.
When I got to the kitchen I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I grabbed the phone and ran. I hoped Stevie was still asleep and wouldn't come downstairs yet.
"911 emergery. Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said. "There's blood all over the kitchen. Mommy is laying on the floor and Daddy is in a chair with a knife in his hand."
"Name and address, please."
"Lucy Barnes. One four five two Pleasant Street."
"Where are you now?" the woman asked. "Are you safe?"
"Yes," I told her. "I'm behind the couch."
The Field
Harvey Silverman
There really is magic in an Iowa corn field.
We were driving on a fine late June day on secondary roads in rural eastern Iowa, over rolling hills and passing the monotonous beauty of endless dark green corn. Just a few small, discretely placed signs point the way.
Traveling by mini-motor home coast to coast on a meandering vacation we noted, "The Field of Dreams," movie site on a map and on a whim decided to find it.
Finally, there it is, we turn and drive down the winding dirt road and park in a small unpaved area to the side. And then the magic begins.
The field is simple, with small wooden bleachers, a lightly framed backstop, basic lighting on straight wooden poles, a well-trimmed infield, and corn growing at the outfield's edge. The tidy farmhouse, where the real life owner still lives, is up a gentle hill on the first base side.
It is perfect. There is no admission, no staff, no public address system, no food stands, no neon. People come and quietly walk about, playing catch with other strangers. They are of all sorts, some who carry themselves like athletes, others who do not. Some men who throw like girls, and some women who throw like boys. Young and not so young, in shape and overweight.
Small children run the bases. Somebody begins to throw batting practice, others take places in the field. The crack of the bat, or more often the thud, is the loudest sound. Somebody brings an aluminum bat, the ping of the bat an out of place noise and soon abandoned. No trash talking, no raised voices, no posturing.
Some people leave, others arrive and replace them. Everybody gets a turn at bat. We sit on the bleachers, just watching, in no hurry to leave. The movie site aspect of this wonderful place has been forgotten by us, and, it seems, by everyone else.
The magic that resides here has nothing to do with the reappearance of late baseball players or departed family members. It has everything to do with baseball, the baseball of childhood, and of childhood itself.
Sitting there, enjoying the simplicity of it all, I am transported to the time in my own childhood half a century ago when we played baseball for the plain fun of it. There were no uniforms, no concession stands, no cheering parents or encouraging coaches. There were no umpires; close plays were decided by a bit of shouting, negotiations, or do-overs. The number of players per side varied on who was able to play that day and never reached a full nine.
We played in an open lot, landlocked so that we had to cross through neighbor's yards to reach it.
A rough diamond had been formed by earlier unknown players. The diamond and small outfield was surrounded by brush and tall grass and trees beyond where too many balls were lost. It was simply called, "The Field."
Three or four or perhaps five to a side, we played with baseballs often covered in tape, their horsehide covers long worn off, perhaps one or two bats. Sometimes we shared gloves. We played all spring and summer and into the autumn. One year, after a particularly effective January thaw in our New England town, had melted enough snow to uncover the infield, I organized a game which we played wearing heavy winter coats, the game ending when somebody hit the ball into a snow bank in the outfield, the ball lost in the white on white of ball and snow.
Decades later, a childhood friend and I returned to visit our hometown and tried to find The Field. It was gone, the brush and trees having reclaimed the open area, and identified only by a tall stand of pines which had once served as our outfield wall.
Sitting on those bleachers in Iowa, looking at the neatly maintained field and recalling those childhood games, I suddenly wonder; who maintained The Field those years ago and kept it from being overgrown? No one seemed to own it and an adult was never seen.
I ponder the question as I sit in the magic of the Iowa cornfield. I decide it was somebody who had played on The Field himself years earlier, and who, on a warm summer day, might sit at an open window and listen to the sounds of children playing baseball just for the simple joy of the game.
The Iowa field and The Field, each kept so that anyone could play baseball, unadorned baseball. A visit to the one has returned me to the other.
Magic.
I Found the Wooded Trail
C. B. Stow
I found the wooded trail
at the base of the miniature moutain,
a parting of maidenhair ferns,
a cedar stump, a group of rocks,
weathered and re-grown
over three years like a bad relationship.
Morning dew freshened up my lungs,
while I gently held a Dogwood blossom
in my palm. I strolled up the narrow path
no wider than a nymph's knees,
and recognized an old resting place
where a peek between pines
showed me the distant valley below.
Then the long-winded song of a chickadee
announced my approaching footfalls,
urging my trek upwards to where
things lost could be re-found.
The Old Man At the Nursing Home
Ron Flowers
He sat upon the crumbling steps and leaned
against a rusty rail. A withered hand
caressed a cane worn slick from use and time.
deep furrows like a thousand rivers, etched
his face. His eyes half hidden deep beneath
a shaggy brown. The sun was shining bright
that day, the birth of spring was near. As I
approached, his eyes met mine, I smiled and said,
"hello." "Sit down and talk awhile, said he,
his eyes begged me to stay. He talked about
when he was young and in his natural prime,
of things he'd seen and things he'd done, how as
A lad of seventeen he'd come across
the sea. Again he'd crossed the ocean wide,
a war had beckoned him. The battle won,
once more returned, pursued his life again.
the home where folks like him reside takes land
That he once tilled. "But that was long ago,"
he said. "I'm ninety two come May. I've had
my day and it was good, I'm glad you came
my way." I stood and said that I must go.
A knotty hand encirled mine. He said,
to me, "Come back again whenever you
Have time." I never saw the man again,
I never thought I would. I think about
him now and then, I sometime wish I could.
