Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 56.0: May 11th, 2011

Cardboard Crosses
by Belinda Roddie

About four months ago, I moved into a one-story house on the corner of Simmons and Benton with my wife Lindsay and my daughter Sam.  It was one of the only one-stories on the street, repainted and revamped, and the mortgage was tolerable given our family’s double income.  Sam didn’t mind how big the house was as long as she had her own room to decorate.  She was bouncing on the balls of her feet when I showed her around the place.

            “Can we paint it blue?” she asked me over dinner that night.  “I’ve always wanted a blue room.”

            The three of us were eating pizza because we were too worn out from unloading the moving van to go grocery shopping.  Sam was stripping the cheese off her slice and shoving the gooey ribbons into her mouth.

            “We can paint your room any color you want,” I told her, then jokingly added, “except black.”  That got me a coy look from Lindsay and a giggle from Sam.

            It took us two weeks to unpack everything and shuffle the appropriate furniture and appliances into their designated spots.  I busied myself with re-shelving the hoard of books I had brought with me while Lindsay set up the TV, and all the while Sam sat in the small backyard eating animal crackers and humming a wordless tune to herself.  We installed our landline phone and set up the desktop so I could e-mail my boss and let her know that I was still alive.  Most of the time, however, I was adjusting to the idea of living in a house rather than the cramped apartment that I had become so accustomed to.  It felt good, and I felt healthier and energetic sitting in a space where it seemed like I had more air to breathe.  We had bought this house mostly for Sam, but it was a blessing to all three of us.

            The next door neighbors, an older couple, were friendly enough but were relatively quiet and only stopped by a few times.  The first time, about a month after we moved in, the man came by with a plate of cookies and a jar of strawberry jam as I was returning from work.  The second time occurred a few days later, when Lindsay invited the two to dinner and we sat around the table with a tub of penne marinara and a side helping of awkward silence.  The woman in the couple did valiantly attempt some small talk, but it was stilted and I felt bad for not having the most exciting answers to her plethora of questions.  Then the man asked if Lindsay and I were sisters that I promptly excused myself from the table in order to “catch up on paperwork.”

            For the most part, however, the transition was smooth and the set-up was close to perfect.  Sam could now ride her bike to school and back without having to travel all the way across town, and Lindsay’s and my work schedules made it possible for one of us to home at some hour of the day.  I was at the office until two o’clock, and Lindsay was at the pharmacy during the night, and in between we had a couple hours to spare for a family dinner.  All in all, we were comfortable, safe, and happy, and our families and friends celebrated that happiness with us on occasion.

            One day, I opened the front door on my way to work and found a large cardboard crucifix propped on the doorstep.  I looked to the left, then to the right, wondering if anyone was nearby that I could pin this to.  I certainly wasn’t going to shout, “Whose cross is this?” or “Anyone missing a cross?” at five thirty in the morning.  When I stooped down to pick up the thing, I saw a sentence scrawled on its surface that struck a familiar chord with me.  It was a recitation that the priest would say at the Ash Wednesday mass when I attended Catholic church as a child, when he smeared people’s foreheads with gray, crumbling reminders of death:  TURN AWAY FROM YOUR SIN AND BELIEVE IN THE GOSPEL.

            I wrinkled my nose and took the crucifix into the garage where I unceremoniously dumped it into the blue recycle bin.  I drove to my office with the odd image still lingering in my mind, forcing myself not to try to decipher this new mystery in my life.

            When I returned to the house about eight hours later, I found Sam sitting on the doorstop, her bike resting beside her like a sleepy dog.  Another crucifix, crudely fashioned from assuredly the same cardboard, lay a few yards away from her feet.

            “You’re home early,” I said to her.  Sam typically got home around three fifteen.

            “It was a half-day,” she replied.  “Every Wednesday.  I told you.”

            “But isn’t Mommy supposed to let you in?”

            Sam unfurled her tiny fist to reveal a torn piece of binder paper, with Lindsay’s handwriting scrawled out in blue.  “She’s out grocery shopping.”

            I took the note, glossed over it, and folded it up.  The paper crinkled as I shoved it into my suit pocket and stooped down to Sam’s eye level.

            “I’m sorry, kiddo.”  I gave her a hug and planted a kiss on her forehead.  “Did you have to wait long?”

            Sam shook her head.  I swiped up the crucifix before she could take a good look at it.  Another message had been written on it, this time simply proclaiming: YE SHALL NOT INHERIT THE EARTH.

            “Did you have a good day at school?” I asked Sam as we wheeled her bike into the garage.

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Uh-huh? That’s it?”

            “We talked about family trees today,” she said.

            “And?”

            Sam pursed her lips as if she were pouting.  “I wrote down your name and Mommy’s name…and the teacher got a little weird about it.”

            “…Did she say anything?”

            “No…she was just weird.”

            “Oh.”  I didn’t know why I had asked.  I had been expecting this sort of reaction for a couple of years now.  Sam was in the third grade, and she was going to be subjugated to the dreaded “talk” at some point.  I felt my shoulders sag as I leaned Sam’s bicycle against the wall before tossing the second crucifix on top of its assumed brother in the bin.

            Sam had gotten uncharacteristically quiet, so I took her into the kitchen and made her a peanut butter and jam sandwich with the crust cut off.  Sam pulled a few thin strands of auburn hair from her face as I set the plate down in front of her, sided with a tall glass of milk.  Sam didn’t touch the food at first.

            “Is that chunky peanut butter?” she whispered.

            “Yeah.”  I blinked.  “Don’t you like chunky?”

            “Yes,” Sam murmured.  She slowly picked up the sandwich with both hands and took a big bite.  Blackberry jam oozed out the sides of the bread and dribbled down her chin and fingers.  I passed her a stack of napkins so she could clean up.

            “Everything okay, kiddo?” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood.  “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

            Sam took another bite and put the sandwich back on the plate.  She looked at me with purple-stained lips and watery eyes.  “There’s…nothing wrong about you and Mommy, is there?”

            “Of course there isn’t, honey.  We’re perfectly fine.”

            “No, I mean…” She started wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  Then she stopped and grabbed another napkin when I gave her a look.  “…there’s nothing wrong with you both being my mommies, is there?”

            “Oh, sweetie…” There it was.  The need for reassurance.  I shuffled my chair over to Sam and folded her into another hug.  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with that.  We both love you very much, and that’s all that matters.”

            “Really?”

            “Really.”  I forced myself to smile.  “Now, why don’t you finish your sandwich so we can go play catch in the yard?”

            For the first time since I came home, I saw Sam’s eyes light up.  “Okay.” 

Sam was on an afterschool softball team, and she always took the opportunity to practice when Lindsay and I were around to help her.  She spent another ten minutes finishing her sandwich and drinking her milk before we headed outside.  The warm outside air settled me a bit, my head losing some of its heaviness as I tossed the battered baseball we had to Sam, underhand instead of overhand.  Lindsay had terrible seasonal allergies, so she usually watched Sam and me play from the dining room window on the weekends.  It worked well enough for me, so I needed the exercise and I was always happy to spend some time with my baby girl.

As I caught a throw from Sam, the ball stinging my fingers, I heard the front door open.

            “Mommy’s home!” Sam squealed, dropping her mitt and bolting into the house.

            It was indeed Lindsay, her arms weighed down with grocery bags and her face creased with atypical worry lines.  She barely had any time to set down her things before Sam plowed into her, burying her face in Lindsay’s sweatshirt as she clung to her waist.  I approached Lindsay and shot her an apologetic smile.  Lindsay laughed weakly.

            “Why don’t you be a big girl and get some of Mommy’s groceries?” she said to Sam.  “There’s one bag left.  You should be strong enough to carry it.”

            Sam nodded and rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind her and leaving me amazed as to how she had gotten such electric energy after being somewhat melancholy.  I gave Lindsay a light kiss on the lips before emptying one bag of its contents.

            “How was work today?” Lindsay asked me as I pulled out lettuce and carrots.  Standard small talk.  I cracked another smile, a dry one this time.

            “Fine.  Usual stuff.”  I perused Lindsay’s face, her tired expression dim in the fading sunlight.  “Everything okay with you?”

            “Hon,” Lindsay muttered, “did you see anything funny nearby when you went to and from your office?”

            At first I thought she was attempting to evade my question by changing the subject, but then I wondered if maybe our two situations were related.  I sat down by the kitchen counter and nervously drummed my fingers on the tile.

            “Hon?”

            “Actually, yeah,” I finally replied.  “I found something by our door both times.”

            “What did you find?”

            I bit my lip and shrugged.  “Crucifixes, actually.”

            “Crucifixes?” I was now looking directly at Lindsay’s furrowed brow.  “Like the kind you buy at a giftshop by a mission?”

            “No, no,” I said.  “Cardboard crosses.  Like someone made them by hand.  And there was stuff written on them.”

            “I see.”  Lindsay paused for a moment.  I started fidgeting with my collar.  “What did you do with them?”

            “Uh, I threw them in the recycling.”  I was becoming a little disconcerted by Lindsay’s blunt, somewhat suspicious tone.  I tried to mask that uneasiness with false curiosity.  “Why?”

            “Why?  Because I was just yelled at by a woman across the street, that’s why.”

            I felt the heat rise in my face.  In our months living here so far, no one had attempted to abuse us.  I pushed for more information.  “Is she a neighbor?”

            “Yeah.  She was standing on the porch just across from us.  She was just screaming at me.  I think she was reciting Bible verses or something.”

            “I didn’t hear her from the backyard.”  I swallowed down the fleshy stone that had grown in my throat.  “You think she…”

            I didn’t have to finish that because just then, Sam came stumbling back into the kitchen with the last bag of groceries and a frightened expression on her face.  She set the bag down slowly before turning to look at both Lindsay and me.

            “Um…” she whispered, “there’s a crazy lady across the street and she was yelling at me.”

            “What?” Lindsay exclaimed.

I knelt down and took Sam’s hand.  Her arm was visibly shaking in my grip.  I felt like hugging her again.

            “What did she say to you, honey?” I asked.

            “I…” Sam faltered.

            “It’s okay,” I tried to assure her.  “You can tell us.”

            Sam lowered her head.  “She said I was in a bad household with bad people and I need to get out while I can.”

            The veins in my forehead constricted and I stood up a bit too quickly, the blood swimming in my head and making me dizzy.  I turned to Lindsay and spoke to her in an overly harsh whisper.

            “Take Sam to her room,” I ordered.  “Get her distracted.”

            “With what?” Lindsay demanded.

            “She probably has homework.  Arithmetic.  Reading.  Just keep her occupied.” 

Lindsay gave me a wide-eyed look as if she were shocked that I would suggest such a strategy.  I sighed a little too loudly and gritted my teeth.

“Please,” I begged, shutting my eyes tightly for a brief moment.  “For Sam’s sake.”

            Lindsay looked at Sam, then back at me.  When she finally nodded, I choked down a growing knot in my chest and strode a little too passionately toward the door.  I threw it open and the hinges screamed in protest as the light remaining specks of sun settled on my head, warming my hair down to the follicles.  I found myself staring down a gray-haired woman from across the street, eyes noticeably bulging even from yards away.

            She couldn’t have been younger than fifty years old, and even if she were fifty, she appeared to be older.  It was as if life had given her a severe blow to the head, and now she let her jaw drop in a cascade of fanatic yells and growls as I descended from the doorsteps.  I placed my hand in my pockets as I shuffled to the very edge of the street, my necktie loose around my neck.

            “Pervert!” she screamed at me feverishly, wildly, right at the top of her lungs.  “She-man!  Repent, for the sake of the children!”

            She-man? I thought to myself.  How the Hell did she come up with She-man? But I held my ground, my dress shoes squeezing my blood vessels and making my toes go numb.  I loudly cleared my throat and responded.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 11th, 2011.