Lizzy's Bridge

By Joanne Bunyak

Deep in the mountains of western Pennsylvania, the fictional small coal mining towns held many secrets during the post World War II era. Centered in the tiny village of Gunther, PUDDIN FOR BREAKFAST masterfully described a childs transcendence from a dysfunctional familys cruelty. KISS THE FLY GOODBYE brilliantly set the wheels of vigilantly justice into motion. Now LIZZYS BRIDGE completes the trilogy to tell the story of Lizzy Wickett.

This young woman had only one secret...her son, Rayn. Exaggerated tales of Lizzys traumatic experience fed the gossipers and created a mystery, while the reality behind Rayns conception remained a secret. Seventeen years after Rayns birth, Lizzy finds herself facing repressed emotions. Can Lizzy muster the courage to face the past and cross her emotional bridges? Can she face the demons that have lain dormant for so many years? Will those who are intertwined in Lizzys circle be able to face facts that threaten to disrupt, or possibly destroy, their lives.

Learning the truth about Lizzys attacker only forces more truths to surface creating situations that could affect many in the community, including her attackers sons. Reunited with love, Lizzy understands the need to allay her anxieties. Intrigue and romance seemingly swim against the current throughout the story. Will love and trust be enough for Lizzy to bridge her fears? Can she successfully tread a life of deserved happiness when she crosses Lizzys Bridge for the last time? Will Lizzys truths prove triumphant? Dare to cross Lizzys Bridge with her and discover a tale of invigorated strength.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477106242

Joanne Bunyak

A retired Registered Nurse, now residing on the beautiful Tennessee Plateau. Volunteering for philanthropic organizations, I’ve served as a board member, vice-president and a publicist. Happily married for fifty two years, and anticipating further adventures with my wonderful husband, our sons, our granddaughters and our friends.

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LIZZY’S BRIDGE

110612-BUNY-layout.pdf

JOANNE BUNYAK

Copyright © 2012 by JoAnne Bunyak.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012907862

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4771-0623-5

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4771-0622-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-0624-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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110612

Contents

Lizzy Wagner Wickett

PRELUDE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty one

Chapter twenty two

Chapter twenty three

Chapter twenty four

Chapter twenty five

Chapter twenty six

Chapter twenty seven

Chapter twenty eight

Chapter twenty nine

Chapter thirty

Chapter thirty one

Chapter thirty two

Chapter thirty three

Chapter thirty four

Chapter thirty five

Chapter thirty six

Chapter thirty seven

Chapter thirty eight

Chapter thirty nine

Chapter forty

Chapter forty one

Chapter forty two

Chapter Forty three

Chapter Forty four

Chapter forty five

Chapter forty six

Chapter forty seven

Chapter forty eight

Chapter forty nine

Chapter fifty

Chapter fifty one

Chapter fifty two

Chapter fifty three

Chapter fifty four

Chapter fifty five

Chapter fifty six

Chapter Fifty seven

Chapter Fifty eight

Chapter Fifty nine

Chapter sixty

Chapter sixty one

Chapter sixty two

Chapter sixty three

Lizzy Wagner Wickett

A slow moving stream babbling on by,

As free-flowing as Lizzy’s life saying goodbye.

A weathered planked bridge thwarted the trickling stream,

Ready to embolden Lizzy’s withering dream.

On a crisp and clear spring morning,

Lizzy sat crossed legged on her back porch stoop

And dreamed of the day she’d find love.

So far, it had eluded her,

But she still coveted her heartfelt hope.

On a foggy morning, Lizzy ambled on down to the bridge,

The one her father had built for her many years ago.

Her eight year old son, Rayn, had dubbed it Lizzy’s Bridge.

Then proudly christened it with his hand carved plaque.

On a summer’s morning, the mist lifted and a rainbow appeared.

Lizzy acquiesced in the moment, readily accepting the omen.

She’d thought long and hard about the rest of her life.

If all truths lay eager to leap from the heart,

Then loneliness would not be of Lizzy’s choosing.

Lizzy had crossed her bridge nearly every day.

Either she’d stroll across to chat with close friends,

Or she’d drive across to help with neighborly chores.

Often she stopped and simply sat on the rough planks.

She’d dangle her bare feet in the water, and day-dream.

Lizzy’s heart and soul crossed other bridges daily.

Her burdensome memories and vivid nightmares haunted her.

Her mind frequently experienced crucial tormenting moments.

Acceptance and forgiveness would surface briefly,

And yet, through the torment, she found prayer and love within.

Lizzy’s bridge, Lizzy’s stream,

Lizzy’s hope, Lizzy’s dream.

PRELUDE

Mornin’, Blondie. Do you think Mihal would mind if we borrowed his mother for a few hours this morning? Fred Wickett asked while rapping on the warped screen door at #11 Lemon Lane.

Lizzy’s delivered her baby. The chubby little rascal arrived early this morning, and he sure is a beaut. We would appreciate it if Anna could sit with Lizzy while we go on over to the church for the 8 o’clock Mass. She and the boy are sleeping now, so they shouldn’t give Anna any trouble.

Fred rambled further. Our little Lizzy may be only twelve years old, but I have to give her credit. She dealt with eight straight hours of steady labor for her baby, and didn’t even curse once. Ain’t many grown women can do that and not cuss out the man who brought that on, he said with a short chuckle.

January 9, 1944

LIZZY MOANED EVER so lightly, but that had been just loud enough to startle Anna and to awaken her from her dreaming. The frail, elderly, Gypsy neighbor hadn’t intended to doze off, but she’d fallen into a gentle slumber anyway. So far, this morning proved to be an unusual Sunday morning. She’d been awakened earlier by her son, Mihal, who’d asked her to oversee Lizzy and her newborn son at the Wickett household while the elder Wicketts attended their Sunday Mass. So, Anna sat quietly and said her prayers to only herself and her God at #15 Lemon Lane. She didn’t mind the stillness in the girl’s bedroom. If the truth were to be made known, she actually preferred the silence over praying at Mihal’s home where her grandchildren’s noise reached thundering levels. While sitting staunchly still in a rickety old ladder-back, Anna became bleary-eyed from staring at the faded gray and pink paisley wallpaper. Her lean rear-end slowly adapted to the scolding numbness the chair’s sagging caned-seat had induced. The tingly sensation served as a solemn reminder that nearly two weary hours had passed since she’d plunked herself down to oversee Lizzy and her newborn.

Anna attempted to ward off unrelenting shivers that had been brought on by the room’s frostiness. Wrapping her shoulders in a black woolen shawl seemed to ease the chill. By gently tugging at the large scarf, she’d been able to pull it tightly before tying the knot. Smiling to no one but herself, she remained hushed as she watched Lizzy dozing with her baby cradled near her breast. Anna hoped, in part, not to awaken the sleeping girl who’d labored through the early morning hours. Occasionally Lizzy snorted. She sounded much like the calico kitten that had playfully crawled up onto Anna’s lap. The usually skittish young cat had plopped down its furry behind, and then purred affectionately as Anna stroked the top of its fluffy head.

Relying on the paltry wooden chair’s resilience to keep its frame from collapsing beneath her, Anna sat attentive. Her rigidly postured spine remained anchored to the slatted backing. She kept one chilled hand wrapped in her apron while petting the kitten with the other. Silently and reverently, Anna concentrated on her morning prayers.

Anna understood how to combat Pennsylvania’s cold winters, and so she sat painfully still. As long as she didn’t cross her legs, her dark cotton hose would remain in place above her knees to dutifully ward off some of the room’s biting frost. Anna knew that if she were to stand up, her ungartered stockings would fall into ruffles around her shoe tops. If that were to happen, her bare legs would instantly be engulfed in goose bumps. She kept her black laced shoes tightly planted to the bare floor boards, and her scrawny knees pinched together so that she could tolerate the sitting. Her gray woolen skirt remained loosely draped, blanketing her boney ankles for some additional warmth.

Precisely fashioned in the Old World style, her cotton flowered babushka clung snugly to Anna’s scalp also retaining some of her body heat. Held firmly in place by neat tucks at the temples, the scarf covered her forehead. The square-knotted tails kept it anchored under her chin. From time to time, she’d tug at the irritating tight knot. Often she’d cover her yawning mouth to stifle a reflex born out of sheer boredom.

An ignored cup of cold coffee sat perched near the old woman’s elbow on the small round bedside table. Earlier, when the mug had been placed there, wispy steam ascended from the center. Now even the devil wouldn’t dare to sip the icy sludge that had politely cooled to a wrinkled covering of thickened cow’s cream. After gently rubbing her lank fingers to encourage the circulation, the woman reached for the coffee but quickly decided against drinking any. Perhaps if there weren’t two healthy looking attic flies crawling savagely in the yellowed topping, she might have chanced taking a few slurps to quench the rumblings in her empty belly. Instead, she carefully pushed the cup further back into the center of the table, straightened the wrinkled crocheted tablecloth, and then slowly refolded her hands neatly on her lap.

The puny Gypsy woman knew that she desperately needed to stay awake while waiting for the girl’s family to return. Time had passed slowly, but she couldn’t imagine that there were too many more minutes left before they’d finally arrive. She understood that only then would she be dismissed and sent away to her home at #11 Lemon Lane. There at least hot sugared coffee and steaming raisin oatmeal would be waiting to nourish her scraggy body. Yes, she decided, the least I can do for this girl is to sit patiently still and allow her a few minutes of deserved rest.

Studying the young mother with her little one cradled so closely to her bosom, the old woman pondered her religion and wondered what devil had dared to cause such harm to this innocent girl. Anna’s beliefs had been passed down through the generations and instilled by the strictness of the orthodox priests. Anna often deemed strange those teachings that suggested an unencumbered destiny for each human who evolved as a sum total of his ancestors. That well-spring of understanding served as a reminder to Anna as she studied the newborn nestled in the curve of the young girl’s arm. The baby’s skin was dark, but he paled considerably in comparison to his mother, Lizzy.

The gypsy woman had long ago accepted that all forefathers’ blood flowed and filtered through a descendant’s veins. Taking that conviction into consideration, Anna mulled over those gypsy creeds. Long ago she’d wisely determined that chance or luck had nothing to do with a child’s destiny. On this morning, Anna wondered how ancestors and Gods would influence this child’s future.

Birth and death had always been a mystery to Anna. On this day, her questioning would be no exception. Have newborns been sheltered as shepherds of the heavens, she considered. Were they whisked onto earth for a specific purpose? Did someone’s final breath escape only to seek another’s body? Did ancestor’s souls soar on angel’s wings through the withering brain as a final expiation of their stay in purgatory? Just what exactly is the soul? Where does the spirit reside? Is this earth the final limbo, she debated, or will a redeemed soul be allowed to enter the great beyond to enjoy a resplendent eternity with the Gods.

Anna tugged at her loose shawl after shuddering at the mystical quandaries that sloshed doubts through her dream-like state. The unexpected shivering had caused her head to bob abruptly arousing her from a deep meditation. She’d been concentrating heavily on the irony of life’s mysteries. Why do mourners painfully lament when a loved one passes on, yet newborns joyously wail upon entering their new world? Sitting quietly, she again chastised her mealy mind. Why so many strange thoughts this morning, Anna?

Winter’s cold and silence had always intrigued Anna. She stole a quick glance toward the intricately frosted bedroom window and couldn’t justify the pane’s covering of decorative ice on such a sunny morning. Anna, you’ll drive yourself crazy if you keep wondering about every little thing. Life is not to be questioned. It is to be enjoyed.

Through tightly pursed lips, Anna released an exasperated sigh causing the stillness in the room to be momentarily disturbed. Her meandering thoughts seemed to be as pressured as the gust of air she’d just liberated. She glanced at the mother and child who slept bundled tightly in the hand-sewn feather quilts. The gray squares of salvaged material heightened the whiteness of Lizzy’s high-collared eyelet nightgown. The dulled color of the coverlet intensified the translucency of the newborn’s skin. Innocents . . . two innocents, she surmised.

Anna closely observed the breathing patterns of the new mother and her infant son, and without hesitation, she began to comprehend her own awakened trepidation. Anna realized that she not only feared for their youthful innocent lives, but also for her own unpredictable demise.

Yet again, the old gypsy woman shivered in the cold room. The kitten awakened, hopped down off Anna’s lap, and eerily skittered to hide under Lizzy’s bed. The sun’s light dimmed as a dark area of shade loomed over the tan skinned babe. Lizzy stirred slightly causing the infant to whimper meekly. The baby’s whine seemed to disturb the intimidating vague mist, and immediately the shadowing dispersed. The newborn’s eyes opened widely, but he didn’t flinch. He remained perfectly calm, as though satisfied to bask in the luminescence of the sunlight that once again shimmered through the starched laced curtains.

Within a few seconds, the babe stretched out his chubby arms. He let a tiny yawn escape his o-shaped mouth before intuitively tilting his head in anticipation of a feeding. His beautifully formed lips opened in search of his mother’s breast. Instinctively awakened, Lizzy gazed at her infant’s cherub-like face. She discerned his need to suckle, but for some strange reason the thought made her cringe. Life hadn’t treated her fairly, of that she’d become acutely aware, but she’d begun to understand her commitment. Secretly, she readied her entire being to face life’s challenges.

Anna tittered quietly as she skeptically scrutinized her random thinking. The young girl and her child had aroused Anna’s hidden sacred teachings. Anna realized all too well that her gypsy religion belonged in her head and in her heart. Although she lived with her youngest son, Mihal, his wife Blondie and their children, none of them had accepted her religion. They’d adopted Blondie’s strengthened ideologies from the Roman Catholic Church’s teachings. They have a right to their own beliefs. They talk about life after death, yet I don’t know anyone who’s ever spoken to the deceased and gotten a response. Oh Anna, who are you to ask if there’s any truth behind their priest’s ideas, she deliberated open mindedly. Listen to yourself, Gypsy woman. Stop or you’ll drive yourself crazy with these foolish ideas.

Anna sat quietly and thought some more, and then conceded that all newborns could be the sum total of all its ancestors. She reasoned that one only needed to look at this child and consider its parentage to understand its olive skin coloring, its dark umber eyes and its skillfully molded face. She quietly decided that only a God could create something so perfect.

Anna shared a toothless smile with the girl. Lizzy flashed her pearly whites in return. I have a beautiful son, don’t I, Anna? Lizzy asked as she tilted her head downward to admire the baby.

Yes, child, you do, Anna responded in her broken Hungarian dialect. He’s angelic. He will teach you love.

Anna wondered how such a peaceful and joy-filled moment could come of such brutality. Will this girl ever forget the horror she’s been forced to endure?

Lizzy giggled as only a courageous, but naïve, twelve year old could. Her flashing smile reflected her mothering instinct to the child who rooted at her breast for its feeding. Love had jutted into her maternal heart as justifiably as the bright sunshine that had embraced the cool bedroom. Lizzy’s pent up resentment dissipated as quickly as the foreboding shadow had when it evaporated into nothingness.

Good morning, baby boy. Now what do you think your name should be? she asked the newborn who’d been blessed with large dark eyes, curly black hair and flawless caramel complexion.

Lizzy used her index finger to trace the outline of his perfectly shaped lips, and then she smiled easily. Raynham, that’s what I’ll call you. Your grandfather, Raynham, is a good person and he will love you. So, Raynham is who you’ll be, but I’m gonna call you Rayn, ’cause you’re my little Rayn drop, Lizzy whispered softly.

Besides, you’re already way too handsome to be teased with ‘Freddy, Freddy, Apple Betty’ the way they call your grandpa, she giggled.

With a name like Rayn, you’ll more than likely see a thunderstorm or two during your life time, my little one, she said while grinning at her own weak fling at humor.

As the babe slurped noisily, Lizzy added, I can only pray that you won’t be struck by any lightning.

Lizzy intently watched as her newborn son nursed his very first earthly meal. He’d only needed to whimper slightly before intuitively turning to his mother for an early morning feeding. As Anna stoked the coal stove’s fire, she quickly noted how the infant had easily manipulated his mother with one lowly whine. In that precise second, Anna nodded her head and understood how such a little one’s meager action would evolve into a lifetime of concessions for Lizzy. After all, Anna asked herself, haven’t I experienced those same mothering feelings with my five children?

Appearing fatigued, Lizzy leaned back on her fluffy feather pillow and began to relax. She watched the baby’s mouth suckle rhythmically seeming to be enjoying her watery colostrum. Lizzy’s face radiantly beamed as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She hummed softly, and then began to sing gently, Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.

He’ll be a good boy, Anna. I can see it in his face, a preoccupied Lizzy assured Anna.

With the long pointed poker in hand, the old woman deftly stoked the smoldering flames in the small pot bellied stove that stood majestically in the bedroom’s corner. You sure can throw off the heat when you want to, Anna whispered to the iron monstrosity. As though on command, warmth gushed into the small bedroom warding off some of the morning’s chill.

Did you say something, Anna? Lizzy asked as she gazed lovingly at the baby. His tiny translucent fingers still clung to her index finger long after he’d dozed off. He’s already at peace with my singing, she chuckled. I only had to sing one verse before he fell sound asleep.

Staring intently at the infant, Lizzy giggled, But then again, maybe he’s already bored with his Mama’s singing. What do you think, Anna?

A worried frown temporarily spread across Lizzy’s youthful face, almost as an answer to her own concerning afterthought. Well, I won’t let you get bored, my tiny son. We’ll entertain each other, so we will, she aptly decided.

She bent to tenderly kiss the baby’s forehead before she resumed her gentle humming. A fleeting smile crossed the infant’s lips.

Could he be having a bit of gas already, Anna wondered.

Look at his smile, Anna. He agrees with me already, Lizzy whispered convincingly.

Remaining reticent, Anna gazed at the girl in wonderment. Remembering a sad day long ago when her own heart stopped singing, Anna at last felt peaceful and rejoiced in the girl’s easy flowing melody. The child shows wisdom beyond her years. Go with God, child. Go with God Anna prayed.

As though out of habit, Anna reached down to stroke and sooth the purring calico kitten that wove its way around her ankles.

On that same day, in Cranston New Jersey, Carla Ventini playfully ruffled her nine year old son’s thick crop of dark curly hair. Where were you and why are your new sneakers all muddied?

After hastily chastising the rambunctious boy, she praised him for bravely rescuing the playful gray kitten from the storm sewer. Now I suppose you want to keep this little guy, don’t you? she goaded.

Can we, please? Joe asked with a whining twist to his plea. I ain’t never had any pets before.

Okay, son, but he’s yours to feed and care for, and you must know that includes cleaning out the litter box. He’ll need to be an indoor cat, because there’s too much street traffic for him to run loose. Do you understand? she said to the sinewy boy with the beautiful face who stood staring up at her.

Do you think you’re ready to take on the responsibility of being a pet owner? Carla asked in her stern mother’s voice.

Joe nodded an affirmative, but that agreement nosedived rather quickly. Thanks to Joe’s perpetrated scheme, within minutes the cat scooted out of the front door that had been left slightly ajar. When the cat leapt out onto the sidewalk, it relieved Joe of his responsibilities.

Joe pretended to be saddened, but in reality he didn’t care that the kitten had run off. He had already convinced himself that the animal would be better off without him. After all, hadn’t his father taught him that promises were pledges waiting anxiously to be broken, attachments were connections that would eventually separate, and responsibilities were obligations that could be conveniently chucked? So in his childish mentality, by freeing the small animal Joe felt that he and the kitten had both benefited from his father’s mentoring.

Smugly, Joe termed the whole situation a winning fiasco, and openly giggled when the kitten slithered away. Silently he applauded the kitten’s daring escape, but he cringed as the tiny animal pounced across the street, mere inches ahead of a moving van’s tires.

Goody, goody, he’s safe. I really didn’t want tied down to that darn flea infested cat anyway. Trust me, kitty, you’ll be better off without me. Run, you son of a gun. That’s what I’m gonna do someday too, Joe’s thoughts vowed. He hoisted his crutches into place, and then swiftly stuck three cigarettes into his shirt pocket. Joe occasionally swiped the smokes from packs his mother would leave laying on the kitchen table. No guilt, no remorse, just take seemed to be his unspoken motto.

Unchallenged, Joe easily limped off into the alley with his friends to play stick ball. I like stickball. It’s fun, not like boring old baseball, he considered as he gimped along. Besides, I don’t have anymore baseball equipment, he remembered. Carla had thrown her son’s Mickey Mantel bat into the trash bin the day Joe Sr. used it to whack his son’s leg.

That’s the day Joe learned that his compound-fractured left femur would always be ‘deformed and shorter than the right one’. Those were the words the surgeon had used when describing Joe’s leg injury to Carla. Much to Carla and Joe’s chagrin, the doctor had been ever so correct with his prognosis. Literally and figuratively, Joe limped along through life, never taking another steady step after that crushing blow from his father.

Chapter One

May 28, 1961

Saturday

EVERY BUSYBODY IN the sleepy coal-mining town called Günther thought they knew Rayn’s story. They knew that his mother had been quite young when she’d given birth, but beyond that tidbit of information Rayn’s beginning would remain a mystery. Lizzy had vowed to never confide a single detail of her ‘ordeal’, as she called it, to any one of the gossip mongrels. Why should she? She owed no explanations to anyone except her son, should he ever ask. So far, Rayn hadn’t shown any indication of being inquisitive about his birth. He had grown to be a well-rounded young man, satisfied with living a myopic rural existence. Through hard work and perseverance, he’d earned his positions as quarterback on the high school’s football team and as lead baritone in the spring operetta for three years in a row. He didn’t mind doing his homework and actually got a kick out of seeing his name on each semester’s honor roll. Cheerfully, he whistled while tending to his vegetable garden and sang with gusto in the church choir. Yes, by all accounts, Rayn appeared content with his meager existence in this small Pennsylvania village.

Lizzy couldn’t have known, but changes were just chugging around the bend, and approaching full speed. For one thing, Rayn’s latent curiosity had been aroused recently when his baseball friends had taunted him about his skin color when compared to his mother’s. Rayn, Rayn go away. You’ll come back darker another day, they sang in a mischievous tease.

Frank, the short stop, had shouted, Why’s your mother young enough to be your sister?

Alex, the catcher, asked about his father. Is your dad stationed somewhere with the military?

Someone on third base responded, Naw, he’s back with the New Jersey mob.

For the very first time in his young life, Rayn gave some serious thought to his heritage. Why aren’t there any wedding pictures on our mantel? Shouldn’t there at least be one of my father’s pictures in our family album?

Exactly why his teammates had chosen the first lineup of the homecoming game to call attention to Rayn’s skin tone could be anybody’s guess. On this day the subject became Rayn’s albatross. Frank and Alex’s weak attempts at jesting only served to embarrass and baffle Rayn. Nevertheless, these suspicious questions stuck in Rayn’s craw, and began gnawing at his every thought.

That same evening, Rayn deliberately took note of the obvious difference in his and Lizzy’s skin tones. He kept silent about his friend’s strange comments, but from then on he took a keen interest in any and all of his neighbor’s snide remarks. He paid a bit more attention to those subtle greetings that were laced with wanton insults, or to the hasty side glances that were flashed from evil eyes. Rayn’s vigilance toward these observations was sidelined by his shy personality. His mother, who always seemed to ignore the harsh stares or stinging remarks from the local gossipers, paid little heed to Rayn’s lay back attitude. Lizzy had sort of accepted Rayn’s adopted cool reserve. Even as a toddler, he’d always opted to avoid conflict at any cost.

With a definite sense of pride, Rayn began to realize a new-found appreciation for his mother. Her character exuded lady-like refinement. She openly practiced self-restraint. For years, Lizzy had played her role beautifully. She’d behaved with an irrefutable air of dignified femininity, no matter the cost. She’d hold her head high and conduct her actions so as to earn, as well as to reflect respect, to all she encountered. At least that’s how it had always been, until this one particular windy spring morning, Rayn would learn just how quickly his mother could, and would, become effectively defensive. The locals couldn’t have known, but what began as a snowball fight would quickly become Günther’s avalanche.

As usual, Rayn had gone to the local A&P with his mother to do what Lizzy referred to as their ‘weekly marketing’. This particular Saturday however, his mind strayed. He daydreamed about the upcoming homecoming festivities, white buck shoes, renting a tux, finding a date, and money. Yes, money seemed to be the real dilemma. Lately, the big to-do seemed to be the only topic of conversation among the senior classmates. I can’t imagine why this stupid dance is so dog-gone important, he thought as he headed for the vegetable isle.

Absent-mindedly, he counted off the items he’d been instructed to put into his shopping cart. His thumb represented the most important vegetable, one large burlap sack of russet potatoes. Lizzy had long ago instilled the importance of potatoes as the staple in a household. Rayn knew that to be a fact. He’d certainly witnessed her miracles many times when a few taters were the only vegetables left on the ice box shelf. The thought of potato pancakes topped with a dollop of sour cream made him momentarily forget all about the homecoming shindig. He licked his dry lips, and swung the bag of spuds into his cart. He whistled, Row, row, row your boat, as he merrily surveyed the displays of freshly misted veggies rigidly aligned in their bins like soldiers awaiting roll call.

Pointing his index finger, he remembered that represented carrots. A generous bundle of stemmed carrots would garnish the oven-roasted chicken dinner that would undoubtedly be served on Sunday. The meal would be placed on the table at precisely five o’clock, as usual. Those tasty orange colored roots would also enhance a distinctive flavor and produce a rich aroma from the pot of soup that would be simmering all day Monday. That one pot of savory broth made from chicken scraps and fresh veggies would, and could, supply dinner for the rest of the week. Rayn didn’t mind eating Lizzy’s zesty soup for several days straight. At least not as long as there would be fresh homemade bread to sop up the substantial stock.

Rayn knew only too well that bread from an unfailing mound of yeast dough rose daily in Lizzy’s large green Pyrex bowl. The gooey mass had been his mother’s morning magic for as long as he could remember. Once again his mouth salivated at the relished thought of coming home and smelling the tantalizing aroma of Lizzy’s breads baking in the oven. Biting into his mother’s oven-fresh crusted bread slathered with freshly churned butter could always make Rayn woozy with anticipation. The only treat that could top that would be her piece de resistance, her fresh-baked cinnamon buns drizzled with honey glaze. My mother’s quite the magician, he decided as he aimed the cart around a corner to the other side of the produce aisle.

The pungent smells that lingered in the vegetable isle only served to remind Rayn’s thoughts of the culinary delights that were sure to tantalize his appetite in the coming week. Damn, all this thinking about Ma’s cooking is making my taste buds tingle and my belly growl. I’ll sure be glad to see that roasted hen with its golden crisp skin sitting in the middle of our dinner table tomorrow. I’d better eat something pretty soon or we might not have any carrots left to ring around that chicken. His thoughts meandered as he eyed the clump of carrots resting in the cart. The temptation of chomping into one of those misted carrots made him chuckle. He considered doing just that, but then a thought whizzed through his brain. Ma would bean me if I did that. Beans . . . does she need any beans today? His hunger panged day dream had roamed aimlessly through his growling belly again.

Pushing the grocery cart cheerfully onward, his mind returned to the list of items he needed to retrieve before meeting Lizzy at the checkout counter. Instinctively his middle finger went up indicating that celery would be next, so he reached and took what appeared to be a large, crisp, green bundle. Next, he raised his ring finger to signify onions. Playfully he tossed a sack of pungent yellow onions into his cart rounding out the list of vegetables he’d been instructed to retrieve.

There were five items, he recalled, but as he stretched out his little finger he realized that he’d forgotten what vegetable that represented. Rayn began to whistle softly once again, while his size twelve shoes high-tailed him back down the isle to catch up with his mother. He knew what would happen if she beat him to the Eight O’clock coffee shelf. He could hear the noise already. It was a sure bet that the grinding contraption would begin to hum and buzz, and then there’d be no way to get her attention. Unless, of course, if he shouted directly into her ear.

So, he jauntily quickened his steps and rounded the corner where a pyramid of canned freestone peaches had been stacked as this Saturday’s special. Carefully, he reached up and grabbed a brightly labeled can from the top of the heap. I sure don’t want to knock down ElGiza’s pyramid, but Ma’s gonna be happy to see peaches for a nice cobbler. Rayn quickly realized that his hungry pangs were at it again. Absorbed in his vision of the fruited delicacy, he barely missed the bottom corner of the stacked cans. Geez, Raynham, watch where you’re big feet are going, his brain chastised while his side-stepping size twelve’s avoided a catastrophe.

As Rayn approached the coffee grinder, his eyes widened to witnessed a scene unlike any ever anticipated. There stood Lizzy, crimson-faced and screeching in an angered voice. He could see her index finger wagging back and forth directly in front of a neighbor’s blanching freckled face. What in the blazes is Ma all fired up about, he wondered. Cocking his head to one side, Rayn tried to get a clearer idea of what Mrs. Blyer could have said to irk his mother so.

Don’t you ever again threaten to tell my boy about his father. Do you hear me, you old prune-faced hussy? Lizzy hissed to the thin woman.

Mrs. Blyer’s flaming red hair had been anchored at the nape of her neck with a wide, faded-yellow ribbon and the clump resting on her neck comically bobbed up and down with every movement of her head. In contrast, Lizzy’s curly auburn hair hung loosely down over her shoulders and swung lightly with every movement of her head.

When he’s old enough to understand, I’ll be the one doing the telling. Do you understand me? Lizzy asked Mrs. Blyer, who at this point stood square-shouldered and equaling Lizzy’s stare. The two women glared at one another, eyeball fixed to eyeball.

Ah, I understand, Mrs. Blyer responded coldly in her heavy English accent, but you’d best tell him soon before he gets wind of it from one of his girlfriends, or his football pals. The lad’s already askin’ questions, or didn’t you know that?

What I know, or don’t know, about my boy is none of your business. You’d do best to get that straight in that crazy foreigner’s noggin of yours, Lizzy growled softly, while backing slowly away from her neighbor.

You have a child of your own to look out for. Why don’t you start with the business in your own home, you brazen quidnunc, before you go out pokin’ your nose in other people’s lives, Lizzy sizzled.

Lizzy’s index finger continued to wag directly at Sherry Blyer’s nose as she proceeded to back further away from her neighbor. And back away she did, stepping directly on Rayn’s frozen feet. When Lizzy turned, she saw how the visible alarm had spread across her son’s face. She knew the time had come to face the truth. Although she hated all the details of that story, she had to admit that Rayn deserved to finally hear the accounting from her.

With tear-filled eyes, Lizzy stood on tiptoes and kissed her son’s cheek. Did you get all of the vegetables, son? she asked gently. And what about the soup bone? Did you pick out a nice large one with some meat on it?

Oh yeah, that’s what the little finger meant, Rayn chuckled. I’ll get everything now, Ma, he said playfully hoping that he’d been able to conceal all that he’d overheard during the women’s heated argument.

Turning on his heel, he again rounded the corner to head for the vegetable stalls, but after only a mere two steps into his saunter he glanced back over his shoulder. Clearly, he saw his mother wiping away tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Abruptly, she turned and walked away from her obnoxious neighbor. With her back turned to Mrs. Blyer, Lizzy hadn’t witnessed the woman’s quick spiteful tongue that had protruded momentarily from her widely opened mouth. Then, Sherry Blyer maliciously spit. The large gob of frothy sputum flew out of Mrs. Blyer’s red greased lips and landed directly onto the back of Lizzy’s head. Lizzy hadn’t witnessed her neighbor’s nastiness, but Rayn had. In an instant, he understood those trifling distinctions that distinguished a lady from a bitch. With contempt building in his thoughts, Rayn vowed retaliation for the neighbor’s loathsome act.

Why don’t you get the soup bone when you pick out that plump chicken for tomorrow’s dinner, Rayn called out over his shoulder. I’ll go get another bunch of carrots. There can’t be too many carrots in the soup, ya know, he quibbled sarcastically without breaking stride in his steps.

Rayn had managed a crooked smile as he stepped further away from his mother. We can talk when you’re ready, Ma, and not when that old nibby-nose thinks you should.

Although feeling abashed by Sherry Blyer’s confrontation, Lizzy grinned. What would I do without you? You’re such a good son, she whispered gratefully.

Rayn hadn’t heard Lizzy’s compliment. In his haste to get away from the ghastly scene he’d encountered, he quickly rounded the corner to hide his own tears. He had seen Mrs. Blyer’s disrespectful confrontation, and he’d felt the singe of his mother’s embarrassment. He