Misplaced

By Judith A. Jackson

Iris possesses a brilliant mind. Her father encourages her talents while her mother attempts to stifle them. Her mother holds archaic beliefs about a woman’s place and ridicules anyone who disagrees. Unfortunately her father is killed while Iris is still young. Already socially awkward, Iris becomes further isolated as she tries to win her mother’s unattainable affection. She hears voices and has disturbing visions.

After high school Iris lives with her mother until she marries an equally socially awkward man. She hopes for acceptance by becoming a devoted wife and mother. When Iris is unable to conceive, adoption is suggested. Iris first resists the idea, but then embraces it. When Iris goes to share the news with her mother she finds her dead and is filled with anguish. Iris becomes overwhelmed by visions of her dead mother and hatches a bizarre plan to please her by creating “perfect, happy families.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728319520

Judith A. Jackson

Before becoming an author Judy worked as a psychiatric Occupational therapist. In her free time she became involved with the Special Arts, bringing the art of writing to the incarcerated, the severely disabled and children at risk. She moved on to the Milwaukee Art Museum as a docent, giving tours and interpreting works of art. Judy has published poetry in several locations, winning the top prize in a Mensa poetry contest. Fifteen yeas ago she wrote and published her first book, English 422. She lives in Germantown with both her son and daughter near-by. And although her favorite activity for years was boogie boarding, seeing as she is turning 80 soon, she sadly left it behind for reading, writing and rock collecting.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I ris didn’t try to explain her primordial need to once again find a private place to let go, like a hopeless drug addict seeking shelter to create, unencumbered, her deadly high. Iris knew nothing of drugs and didn’t care much for the taste of alcohol.

She flung herself about in great swooping circles, her black raincoat flying open, her arms flapping like featherless wings, casting a bat-like shadow on the ground, making her appear like a giant bird performing its mating ritual on the isolated hillside deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The low morning fog held selfishly to the earth, seeking its level in the valleys. The hush beneath its cover was unlike any other stillness. Some of the stir Iris created slid down the slopes and disappeared into the blue haze of the early morning, while the rest rebounded in waves of echoes from the hills as she cupped her ears in childish delight, to catch each returning word. An owl, roosted for the day, started from its hideout in a conifer and added its shadow to that of the peculiar dancing bird before searching for more amiable surroundings.

Again, and again and again. Isn’t it great, great, great, Mom? Isn’t it great? Tell everyone how fantastic this all is! shouted Iris Angus at her long-deceased mother. She tripped, dipped, and danced over the loose gravel that covered the small wilderness knoll.

Woo Hoo! To the top of the pines, yep, you way up there. To the tiniest little twig on the ground. Let it flow out of here, and on, and on, and on and on! She stood panting and exhausted, her head thrown back, her yellowed; artificially blond hair hanging in stiffly curled and sprayed damp bunches. The many rings on her short, fat fingers caught slices of the early sunlight and flashed it crazily about, causing ground animals to freeze with fear under these peculiar knives of strobe lights.

The car door hung at a precarious angle on the sloping ground and she slid awkwardly behind the wheel. No one had seen her. She was alone. She could sense her mascara running down with the sweat on her face, mixing with hastily applied orange blush. Iris laughed hysterically at the chemical mess. The thin, drawn-on eyebrows were glistening with sweat. Looking down a long, thin, beaklike nose were two blue eyes, moist and sparkling excitedly in the small face. A cupid-bow mouth, exaggerated with bright red lipstick was smiling broadly as she drove off, sliding slowly sideways off the seat as she headed for the real world of the road a mile away.

***

Three teenagers huddled in the nearly disintegrated shack, sharing four cans of beer they had spotted one day as they hunted squirrels and rabbits. The floor space could only accommodate two sleeping bags and the walls were crudely constructed of unshaved logs that readily admitted the creatures of the woods. The shack nevertheless gave them the protection they needed from any imaginary enemy who would report the fact that they were out in the woods drinking beer, while their parents were none the wiser.

Hey, what the hell was that? asked Gordo, a heavily muscled boy with an adult body but a high tenor voice. He rose to his knees in the gray silence.

Geez, man, ever since we got here, you act like you have ten sets of ears, Gordo complained Seth, with heavy emphasis on Gordo’s name. They were next-door neighbors and Seth had assigned the nickname several years ago after seeing him trying to raise a patch of gourds to use for musical instruments. He lounged back against a rotting wall, giving Gordo a look of disgust before tilting his head back for another long swig of old beer that screwed his face up tight.

Shut up. Listen, returned Gordo, now peering cautiously out of a crude window toward the sounds still reaching through the trees. His hands on either side of the glassless opening, he cocked one ear toward the outside, his face staring down at Cody, his only cousin, without really seeing him.

"You shut up, man. Relax, will you?" Cody snapped as he pulled out a mutilated cigar from his jean pocket and searched further for matches. After a small drama of lighting the cigar, he was puffing out thick, irritating smoke.

Ya’ hear that? whispered Gordo, dropping to his hands and knees. His anger silenced the other two and got them to pay attention.

The three fell silent, and together heard the faint sounds. Gordo punched Cody in the arm and stared at Seth with a see? I told ya’ so look.

Shit, let’s get outta here. Sounds like someone singing. What if they come this way? No longer relaxed from his beer, Seth looked wide-eyed and fearful, with serious furrows forming between his eyebrows.

Cody, now on his feet, gestured with his cigar. Get outta here? He asked in a coarse whisper, and if we run outta here we might run straight into them. How do we know what it is? Could be a radio. Another drag on the cigar produced a rasped cough that struggled to clear his lungs.

We’ve never seen anyone in these woods, and now you’re worried someone’s out here with a radio? asked Seth, nervously tucking his shirt into his pants.

Jesus, listen, Gordo said.

The sound of a woman singing came thinly down the slope that rose up behind them a hundred feet away. No music could be heard, just the high-pitched singing voice.

Could be one of those crazy religious nuts, wandering around out here, offered Gordo, leaning on the rough window again.

Yeah. Unless I’m crazy, that’s a woman’s voice, and there are three of us. Let’s go take a look, said Seth, swatting at Cody’s dwindling cigar as he stepped through the low doorway.

The three crouched and moved away from the shack clinging closely to the natural debris down in the undergrowth of the woods. On their bellies, they inched their way through a thick stand of wood fern.

Don’t suppose you guys care that this place is most likely crawling with tics and spiders? whispered Gordo, slapping at his legs.

They all reached the top of the rise at the same time. They lay there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the sight in front of them, about twenty yards away.

Drunk, that’s all. She’s drunk, Cody laughed into his cupped hands.

Way out here? What’s she doing, drunk, all the way out here? asked Cody.

"What’re you doing way out here, man? Getting drunk?" Cody again stifled his laughter.

Drunk or not, how’d she find her way out here? I mean, check her out. She’s all dressed up. Not exactly your native woodsman, ya’ know? Seth was irritated at the others.

No one answered. They lay there watching and listening to the senseless words sung to old folk melodies. Just as they chose to ignore and forget her and slide on back to the shack, the woman finished her act, and got into her car.

Geez, she’s got a car out here, too. We must be almost a mile from the road. How did she get all the way out here with her car? asked Seth.

Aw, you could drive a car in here. Look at the woods. There’s plenty of room between the trees. Cody murmured. He rolled onto his back to point into the woods behind them.

She’s really ripping out of here, yelled Gordo suddenly. The boys stood up and watched her go. Within seconds trees masked her path, but exhaust was still filling all the empty places and they could hear the destruction of the underbrush as the car forced its way back to the road. They scrambled back to their beer cans and agreed it might be a good thing to not mention the drunken woman to anyone. Telling their story might lead to questions as to why they were out there in the first place.

Now that’s weird, you guys. Maybe someone should know about her. TS15 is the beginning of her license number. Four-door sedan, Buick, wired hubcaps, smiling sticker on the trunk lid.

Ah, c’mon, Gordo, Seth said. She’s out here singing. So what? You’re collecting information like she just murdered someone.

Chapter 2

F orty years earlier, Iris was almost five, and sitting on her father’s shoulders on the main street of Auburn, Virginia.

Here it comes, my Dad, she squealed. Here comes the police car. Pretty soon the parade will be here. Warmth spread over the depths of his soul when his little daughter called him ‘my dad’. It was a carryover from her toddler years. Mommy, and my dad were the first words she spoke, generally at times of excitement.

All right! The circus parade is coming! He reached for her hands, tightly wrapped around his forehead like a living sweatband, and lifted them into the air for a cheer. They stood on the curb in front of the same concrete light post they stood in front of for every parade in town, in an effort to avoid his six-foot-four inches and two hundred sixty pounds blocking the views of a triangle of people behind them. Every year the parade took its odd, square route with the tight corners. Every year everyone who was able showed up to watch and cheer.

The decades old elms met high across every street, worked hard to create the illusion of cool, but managed only to keep the sun’s heat off the heavily crowded streets.

Iris slid down her dad’s chest and legs while he adjusted his neck and shoulders from the strain of his growing daughter.

They bought a whole bunch of new wagons this year. Old ones that needed some paint and fixing.

How old?

Some of the wagons are as old as a grandpa, and haven’t been used for a long time. When they’re fixed up, they’re beautiful. No one makes nice circus wagons anymore.

Who fixes old grandpa circus wagons? asked Iris.

We did. People right here in town. I helped paint one a couple nights after you were in bed. I’ll show you which one when it comes by. Our town has some of the best old wagons in the county now.

Is it fun to paint a wagon?

Yes, it’s fun but it’s also hard, Iris. Sometimes pieces are missing or broken and have to be replaced. It takes a long time because we want them to last a long time once they’re fixed up again.

Slowly the parade crept down the street led by the high school band. Two wagons, resplendent in their new coats of red and gold paint followed the band.

The final elephant and wagon were soon out of sight as Iris skipped along next to her father, her hand buried inside of his.

Why doesn’t Mommy come to the circus parades, my dad? She misses everything, like that wagon that plays music. I think she probably never saw one of those. Do you think she has?

No, I’m sure she never has, he answered. A brief question flashed through his mind if his wife had ever been taken to a parade as a child.

It’s a steam calliope. My favorite. And it belongs to Auburn now. I helped paint the outside of it. His mood had transformed somewhat with Iris’ questions about her mother.

Steam calliope? It looks sort of like a piano or organ at church, but they don’t have any steam in them, do they? How does a steam calliope work?

He looked straight down his chest at the clear, innocent face full of curiosity, looking back up at him for answers. His friends had warned him of kid’s questions, but Iris surpassed anything anyone had ever warned him of since the time she was old enough to talk. At four, she was most likely the only child in the neighborhood able to find the proper tool by name and deliver it to her dad as he worked about the house. Chuckling, he rubbed his hands over her small head, and down the soft, childish hair, loving her hair, loving her, loving her active mind and often wishing her mother was more like that.

How does a steam calliope work? Hmmm. I really don’t know, but we can find out. The wagons will be parked in the town square all day, so we can ask the man who plays it how it works.

Think Mommy would come with us?

Mom doesn’t like crowds or animals much, my girl. She likes to do things with you, though, but things at home, like read and work on projects with you. He kept the conversation light, crowding out the tongue lashings he had received for teaching Iris about tools and electronics and suppressing the distaste he could hear in his daughter already for the, ‘projects,’ of peeling vegetables and beginning embroidery. He understood his wife’s desire to have a married daughter one day, with children, but knew her harsh approach to that might be what a teen would reject.

Reaching their car, Iris climbed into the front seat, as she suddenly remembered her mother reading Pinocchio to her.

Pinocchio’s a really good story, Iris said.

Yes, it is. What made you think of that just now?

Mommy read it to me and afterwards, I made up a story about a boy whose right leg grew longer every time he ate peanuts, and it was getting hard to walk, but he worked with the circus and couldn’t stop eating them.

Hey, there’s an idea for a story, Iris.

Mommy didn’t like it.

She didn’t like it? Why not?

She said it would ruin the old story to change it. You know what? I wish I could write like you do, then maybe I could write my stories down and read them to you.

You start school in one week. You won’t believe how quickly you’ll learn to read and write.

They waited in a patient but endless line of cars. In time Iris and her father were able to turn right and proceeded down the eight blocks of heavily treed acres and old stucco and brick homes set far back on huge lots, years of flowering trees and shrubs around their foundations. He bit at the dry skin on his lower lip as he considered Iris, her interest in everything, her creativity, and her subtle awkwardness. And he thought of her mother squelching her desires, and he didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

I don’t want to go to school, my Dad, Iris answered after a long silence, her thumb having found her mouth in an uncharacteristic habit that had been mostly lost.

Remember how you used to feel about riding the Ferris wheel and how you feel about it now? Maybe it’s the same with school. You just haven’t been there yet, and you’ll think it’s great after you have. The image of his nearly hysterical daughter in the seat next to him as the Ferris wheel began to move, and then his thrilled daughter at the end of the ride, when she couldn’t get enough rides to satisfy her, finally going home because her father said something was wrong with his stomach.

***

When the day arrived to actually start school, Iris no longer remembered the Ferris wheel analogy, her feet reluctantly keeping up with her mother on the two-block walk.

Hi, Iris, my name’s Tom. The crossing guard at the corner opposite the school slowly stooped down to be level with her face. You have a good time in school, y’hear? And I’ll have fun helping you cross the street. Tom had been the guard there forever, ever since his retirement, and everyone had long since lost track of when that had been. Iris knew she had seen him there for as long as she could remember. She wondered how he knew her name and then remembered the big orange nametag pinned to her dress.

Groups of children were out on the playground and others were going into the building with their mothers. After crossing with Tom, she began to hang back more heavily. She had worked her anxiety almost to the point of crying by the time her mother pulled open the heavy door. They stepped inside, and it closed with a solid chink behind them. The tears appeared in her eyes, and she edged closer to her mother’s skirt.

Can you find your name here on the door? a smiling young teacher in a light flowery dress asked, her own nametag like that on Iris. She pointed to a low bouquet of cardboard and construction paper flowers taped to the door of the classroom. If you can, then this is your classroom. Otherwise your flower is on the next door. The teacher glowed with enthusiasm, and Iris’ mother frowned as they searched through the flowers. Iris hung back shyly behind her mother, but suddenly blurted out, There it is! Almost involuntarily she had spotted her name on a red and yellow flower.

Then go take it, Iris, and put it on any chair you like around the table here, said the teacher. Iris was taken in by her enthusiasm, let go of her mother’s hand and went without hesitation to her flower, then into the colorful room where she put her flower into the paper flowerpot on the back of a chair. Many flowers were already in other pots and children colored at the table.

You can look around and play with anything you want, said the teacher, wisely keeping Iris’ mother in conversation at the door. In an instant Iris had a belt of plastic tools in one hand, and a cardboard box of felt numbers in the other.

Good-bye, Iris. Her mother called to her across the room.

Iris turned and watched a woman stoop down and gather a boy into her arms to say good-bye. He had a large turtle shell in one hand and accidentally knocked it against his mother’s head as they hugged. They both laughed.

Bye. Iris waved from her chair, wishing her father was there to give her a hug like the turtle boy was getting. Shutting the image out by humming a song she knew about elephants; she began spreading the numbers out onto the table.

Next, the teacher passed out paper and crayons. Draw a picture of something in this room that you noticed right away.

You drew the sandbox, too! The girl right across the table from Iris squealed. And we both colored it blue! We must be twins! The girls giggled over that and then the teacher spoke again.

Now let’s learn how to line up. I want two lines starting at the door, and that has to happen without running and we’ll go check out the library.

Chaos appeared as each child ran to get in line.

No pushing, no shoving, just get in line behind each other.

Iris and Kathy hustled down the length of the table and took one another’s hand. Twins! Kathy giggled.

Yeah, twins, laughed Iris and they both joined the same line.

Show me how quiet you can be, because we have to be silent in the hallway because other students are trying to work.

My name is Kathy, Kathy suddenly offered to her new friend.

My name’s Iris, and they laughed.

By the time the day ended, Iris and Kathy had learned that they lived on the same street just five houses apart. The fact that they could play together at one house or the other excited both of them.

Mrs. Boort and Mrs. O’Doon met them in the hallway and the girls skipped and sang until they parted ways at the O’Doon’s driveway. Iris and Mrs. Boort continued on with plenty of see you tomorrows in the air.

This was Iris’ first friend and she couldn’t contain what that all entailed so she ran the rest of the way to her own house. She stopped to see if she could still see Kathy from her driveway, and her excitement doubled at the thought of it.

Chapter 3

M rs. O’Doon always wore silky, loose flowing items, even her slacks were wide and moving, and the shirts over them were long and loose. Once Iris giggled to herself when she wondered how her clothing stayed on because there seemed to be no zippers or buttons to hold them together. Iris felt she looked beautiful in her clothes, and when she watched how easily Mrs. O’Doon swept her long blond hair up into a loose, graceful bun on the top of her head, she seriously hoped she would be like her when she grew up.

The only trouble Iris had with Kathy was that she was so friendly and outgoing; it was difficult to separate her friends from people she barely knew. Kathy would speak to anyone she met. Iris only did so if another would approach her first. Iris worried about it at times, often wondering if she was really a good friend of Kathy’s or not.

Kathy came downstairs with Iris for the snack Mrs. O’Doon had prepared for them. With her, she had a frame in which she was practicing basic cross-stitching. They took the snacks with them into the family room and sat on the leather sofa, with Mrs. O’Doon between them, helping Kathy with her project while explaining how it was done to Iris. Sitting close to Mrs. O’Doon reminded Iris of her aunt’s cocker spaniel, who loved to curl close to her