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A Moment of Change is the Only Poem
by Margaret A. Frey He wasn't much to look at, an ordinary man dressed in blue work clothes and matching baseball cap. An electrician, I thought, maybe a plumber for one of those handyman outfits, jack of all trades. Still, I kept a hard, fast eye on him. Nearly midnight, you never know who might waltz in, see a pregnant woman behind the register and think: easy pickings. I work the night shift at Kim’s Grocery. I've never been robbed like you see on TV, the twitchy guy in a ski mask who pulls a gun and lunges for the till. Been challenged a few times, teenagers mostly, who shrug down the aisles, hoping I'll mistake swagger for manhood then casually ring up their cigarettes and beer. Fat chance! Lonnie's been bugging me to quit this job, says I work for slave wages. "You think those slant eyes give a hoot about you?" he says in a lazy drawl. He's usually half in the bag when it starts. After a few drinks, Lonnie turns ugly mean. Last year, he blackened my eye after a disappointing Flyers’ game. It wasn't him, he pleaded, not the real him who loves me like crazy, wouldn't hurt me in a million years. An awful accident, he said. My life, an ongoing car wreck. For two weeks, I insisted I’d taken a fall down our back staircase. I included details about a broken heel, a loose riser and my legendary clumsiness. Despite my best attempts, my friends knew. They shook their heads at the story and looked away. My next-door neighbor Lucy was particularly dismissive. One afternoon, she cornered me in the hallway. Her mouth twisted up; her eyes turned hard and stony. “Why put up with this, Kara? Why?” “You don’t understand.” “You’re right. I don’t. Give me a call once you’ve figured it out.” She stomped away, entered her apartment and slammed the door. Another slap. Lonnie’s complaints aside, Mr. Kim and his wife have been kind and generous. They've let me name my own hours, which gets complicated with a croupy two-year old and another on the way. One day, Mr. Kim's mother read my palm. The old woman's skin is the color of dry mustard, her spine twisted from years of stooping for children and parents and God knows what. She took my hand, firmly but gently. She stroked my wrist then spread my palm like a wrinkled road map. My lifeline was strong, she said, my heart line even better. A person's good fortune was a simple matter of patience and faith. “There are no accidents,” she’d whispered. I thanked her and smiled. I wasn’t convinced about the simple part. The handyman leaned over the counter. He asked for a lottery ticket, and then I saw a pink box beneath his long, slender fingers, one of those early pregnancy tests. "My lucky night," he said with a smile. His voice was soft, hopeful. I gave him change for a ten. He put a five-dollar bill in my hand, folding my fingers around the money so there’d be no mistake. "You take care now.” Startled by the gesture, I barely got a “thank you” out before the man turned on his heel and was out the door. I looked at the bill. I tipped Abe’s craggy face to the light. He didn’t wink or smile, so I slipped the bill in my pocket. Then a giggling shriek outside. A young man and woman spilled onto the sidewalk from a nearby cafe. Huddled together, they cakewalked down the street, drunk on cheap wine and crazy laughter. A siren sounded in the distance, one of those long, mournful cries. I stepped outside. The cool air brought up gooseflesh but I stood there, staring like a loon at the skyline, bending my ear to the sound of late night construction--the squeal of brakes and gears, the groan of giant earthmovers and shapers--the songs of a city dreaming of tomorrow. My life could be different, I whispered then laughed at the foolishness. How silly. How perfectly idiotic. As if the world would turn on a measly fiver, a pocket full of wishes. A car horn beeped. The handyman, grinning widely, leaned from his window and gave me a jerky thumbs up sign. I waved. The car skidded around the corner. The winning Lotto or a happy pregnancy? No way of knowing. Still I hummed my way back into the store and slid behind the counter, thinking I might call Lucy about this stirring in my belly--part baby, part something else. [A Moment of Change is the Only Poem, title attribution and hat tip to Adrienne Rich, 1929-2012] |
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