Great Escape

by

Kristine Mitchell

From the road the old colonial with a hill looming high behind it was just another house.  For me it was a keeper of secrets. The small sloped yard speckled with the last of summer’s blooms belied the heavy weight within.
  

The pounding on the floor filled me with dread, three loud thumps meant it was time.  Turning my head to the nearby window, I could see that dawn had passed some time ago. After extricating myself from the pile of blankets and boys, I smiled fleetingly.  Matthew was engrossed in the third run of “Toy Story,” his dark brown hair standing every which way. Samuel lay deep asleep, his small face pale and his arms covered with Band-Aids hiding the IV and needle holes.  We’d only been home from his most recent transfusions a few days and life was getting back to normal.  Looking back once more to ensure they were fine for a bit, I paused in the kitchen to retrieve ice water and Tylenol before heading up the stairs.

The patterns of life are a complex thing that confound even the wisest.  He’d come home at four that morning stumbling up the steps, breath reeking of vodka, a handful of flowers clenched in a muddy fist.  Wilted blooms from someone’s garden now soaked from a morning rain; everything seemed to trickle onto the kitchen floor: mud, little scarlet petals from lost petunias, and an arrangement of coins fallen from his pockets.  He thought he was amazing with his quick wit and the devil-may-care attitude; that charm that seemed to work so well for him in the outside world had long since lost its hold on me.  A smile at four in the morning and my inability to understand his humor were quick to earn his ire, so I moved quickly to clean up after him in order to avoid further anger as long as I could.  I even cooked dinner for him, despite knowing that he would pass out before it was finished… and, of course, he did. I gladly crawled into the twin size mattress in a side room that I shared with Matthew and Samuel.  I knew he wouldn’t come bother me while they were there lest his secret, our secret, be revealed. Later, that would no longer be true.

Now he lay across the mattress on the floor of our room, a sheet twisted around his still clothed form. Tall and sprawling, he filled the bed. Sometime in the morning he’d pushed his shoes to the floor. His muddy socks drooped, half on his feet, and one hand hung over the side of the bed, waiting.  Crouching down, I brought the glass of water his waiting fingers and he rolled over, looking at me expectantly.  I handed him the Tylenol, though I stayed at arm’s length.  I was in no mind to fend off his drunken advances.  Did he remember?  Did it matter?  I wasn’t sure anymore.

He’d barely open his eyes to squint and swallow the pills before handing the glass back to me and rolling over, not speaking a word.  Silence would be the order of the day and, in some small way, his present state meant freedom.  Walking across the room, I’d follow a pattern I’d memorized. I knew just where the squeaky floorboards were and just how to close the door.  “Sleep well,” I’d whisper as I moved down the hall, stopping at the room the boys and I had shared to pull out clothes for the day and move down the stairs again with the same caution. He didn’t seem to understand what he’d done and I wasn’t sure if he ever would.

Sammy had awoken, eyes giant in his pale face. He looked like a porcelain doll when he was sick, beautiful and frail. His red blood cells were breaking down in his spleen faster than his body could make them.  Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I’d pretend that I was going to get his toes. The giggle of innocence always brought a smile to my face. We didn’t know it then but there would be another seven years ahead of him. Seven long years of bloodwork and transfusions at Yale New Haven before they finally removed his spleen.  By then he would look at the doctors and nurses and say, “I’ve got steel under my skin, you can’t hurt me,” but right now it did and this time he’d come home from the hospital with seventeen needle marks. I’d held him through all of it.

“Alrightie munchkins, let’s get going, we’re heading out on an adventure today,” I’d say, with a cheerful smile as I began to tug off pajamas and help them each get dressed.  They were good natured little boys, as much as any children could be, and adventures, even the kind we had, were always fun to them.  Matthew whined a little before hitting the button on the television and taking the clothes I handed to him. “That’s it, son! One foot, two foots.” We’d laugh together at the words and I’d pull him close with a smile.

I’d already planned for this day, hooking my purse up on my shoulder opposite my olive green duffle from my Air Force days. I’d checked my purse several times, exactly enough change: dollars, coupons, ticket stubs, a bag of snacks, a bottle, two diapers and big boy diapers for Matthew.  Sitting Sammy in the baby carrier and buckling him in well, I’d lower myself (carefully sliding both arms in) and then stand as I pulled the straps over my shoulders and buckled the front belt.  Reaching up, I’d curl a hand around his small one and take one of Matthew’s in the other. “Here we go!  Duck!” I’d remind Sammy as we slipped out the door and down the steps of our second floor apartment.  We’d made it out and the day suddenly felt brighter.
  

As we reached the sidewalk, I took Matthew’s hand firmly in mine. Sammy’s small arms wrapped around the side of my face and under my chin. His pale, dark eyed face bobbed above my own as we looked both ways and crossed the street.  We always went this way to town; it was shorter and inevitably we would find something that caught our eyes.  Happy Branch’s headstone rested beneath the ancient maple near the gates to the Norwich town cemetery.  It had been moved to the high point some hundred years or so ago when the city flooded and the streets were filled with drifting coffins.  I’d seen an old newspaper print somewhere. I always looked at Happy Branch’s tombstone; I didn’t know anything about her, but I always thought the name was beautiful and she must have been a happy person. It seemed fitting to me that the grand maple near to her stretched high and beautiful overhead and in the autumn, a carpet of golden leaves laid out before her.  The grand old tree’s roots twisted and tangled beneath it before spreading across the soil’s surface to crest here and there between the gravestones.

The walk through the cemetery was always a pretty one. The grounds, though old, were carpeted with a rich green grass and a number of graves along the old stone wall were bedecked with flowers and flags. In the autumn, the far end of the entire wall was covered with bittersweet. Brilliant circles of never ending vines were speckled with small crimson berries folded in their golden cases. I used to gather some to create wreaths that would last the whole winter hanging prettily on the door. We crossed the cemetery and descended towards town, coming down along behind one of the central city blocks near all of the State offices. 

Our first stop was the soup kitchen near the train tracks, where the ladies were kind and the boys innocently saw this as a curious part of the journey. We’d collect a bag of day old bagels donated from the local grocery, a bag of fruit, and a cookie each. I’d often come by later in the month for a more significant bag of goods.  Crossing back through the small alley that ran along behind the state office and along the train track, I’d duck under a long stretch of metal stairs and around the corner to arrive at Madonna Place. This was our second stop before the adventure really began.  Matt and Sammy were released into a play area as I unloaded the duffle of clothes that no longer fit them. Pulling out some baby blankets and onesies, all neatly cleaned and gently used, I began to sort through what was there for the trading.  A nice pair of sneakers for Matt, some jeans for Sammy, and more were carried out from the back room where one of the volunteers gave me a package of diapers and formula for Sam. 

The bag was much lighter and I was grateful for the treasures I’d found for us as I shrugged it back to my shoulders and gathered the boys back up.  As always, the kind woman offered a way out, and I smiled, nodding, hearing but not really believing there was a way.  Not anything here, not anything so close to home.  I had no marks, none that anyone could see, but they knew.  Men like him always knew how to do it just right. They always knew how to make it hurt, and they always had a smile that could charm a snake.

“We’re walkin’, yessiree, we’re walk’n.  You ‘n me,” Matt and I sang, our feet moving along the sidewalk and then to the grassy curb. Almost a whole mile his little feet marched with me as we sang, stopping every now and then to drink and rest.

“So, what animals do we see in the jungle today Matt?”

“Lions! No, velociraptors!”

“Oh, really?” I’d reply with a smile. “And where are we going next?”

Our lighthearted banter and playing continued as we walked, talking about all the dinosaurs we saw. We sang along to pass the time, finally arriving at the bus stop. 

“Okay little man, you sit right here,” I murmured, patting the rusted bench that sat under the dingy glass of the stop, eyeing the old posters peeling from weather and wear.  

Settling Sammy back off my shoulders, I shoved the carrier, now folded, into the duffle and pulled out my ticket. The boys rode for free. The old man that drove the bus knew us by now. Deep seated wrinkles curled into a grin and he’d laughed and winked, “Hey Mateo, Samuel.”  

“Hey Willie,” I said, lifting a hand in a quick wave before guiding Matthew along the aisle.

Settling into our seat, various sundries tucked in, we were on the bus for forty minutes.  Sometimes I would find us all leaning against the duffle half asleep as the bus wound its way across the town stopping and going, getting fuller and then empty again before we would arrive at the stop near the Big Y. I always waited for everyone else so that I could rearrange children, the duffle bag, and my purse before moving down the aisles. I watched Matthew’s feet and carried Sammy the short distance to one of the beat up old carriages this particular grocery store still used. The autumn air felt good, clean and crisp. Even Sammy’s cheeks had begun to get a bit of color back. Matthew would have a birthday soon and his little face had begun to change shape again, my little man. Sammy was all tucked into the carriage seat, buckle in place, duffle squeezed in on one side, purse on the other. I imagined it would not be long before he’d drifted off to rest.  Matthew was lifted and swung high, little heels dangling, with a wide smile that lifted his chipmunk cheeks high. A treasure, a memory to hold tight to without a doubt: the image of my boys at the height of innocence. I spun the carriage around and begin the long trip through the store. A whole month worth of food was the goal and I had just enough food stamps, and just enough money for one taxi ride.

Matthew squealed with glee, “Ball!”  Dark brown eyes grew wide above his rounded cheeks and pudgy fingers splayed as the orange escaped. Sammy giggled around his own fingers that were actively being gnawed upon.  I shook my head, laughing despite myself, and pulled the heavy old grocery carriage a bit further down the aisle in an attempt to catch the ‘ball’. All along the way busy little hands were fast at work: a box with a brightly colored picture in red and white found its way in, the box of pasta ended up in an aisle display of sponges. Finally I had the orange and handed it back to Matthew.  

“Orange,” I said, enunciating carefully. 

“Ball,” he promptly replied.  

“Okay, okay, you hold onto the orange… ball.”  Sammy had begun to build something with a soggy teething biscuit.

We passed along the aisles of the grocery store, I carefully marking off things on my list and them ‘helping’ with the embarking and disembarking of our myriad of passengers. Ah yes, it most certainly was a family affair. We passed along the bakery looking at all the forbidden sweets and to the brightly colored flowers, their petals a bit droopy in the artificial glare of fluorescent lighting. 

“Ball!”  His fingers reached, grasping for the blue balloon that decorated a nearby stand. Laughter erupted as it slid between his small hands and bounced upwards, his whole head mimicking the movement. 

“Well, almost.  Balloon,” I enunciated again, “Balloon.” Matthew laughed and tried to catch the ball again.

Sammy had managed to paint the front of his jumper with the teething biscuit, a proud toothless smile beaming up at me as I worked at wiping him clean. Matthew had found new balls. A bag of grapes lay in his lap, a hundred little purple balls, and his cheeks were a chipmunk’s pouch of stored treasures. I couldn’t help but laugh once more and, rounding the last corner, Matthew’s little hands froze above the grapes.  

“Ball! Ball!” he cried out gleefully, insistently. 

Oh yes, he was so very right this time.  The ball cage stretching high above us in a grand display of every color and size. Round, oblong, bouncy and firm were proudly arrayed for all of kid-dom.  We wheeled closer and I started pointing at them, naming each, adding their color.  “Red ball, football, blue bouncy ball, small ball, baseball, giant beach ball,” I listed, pointing until Matthew shouted out his new favorite word once again. 

“Ball, ball!”  

Ah hah, I thought to myself, we’ve found a winner. My hands wrangled the ball free from its habitat to place it neatly in the hands that waited. His hands, though small, wrapped neatly around the red bouncy ball. 

“Ball,” I said softly and gently rubbed his head. 

“Ball,” he replied. All round things are balls, at least in the world of a two year old.

Matthew was content and I chose a smaller blue ball for Sammy, who’d fallen asleep against my duffle. Gently cleaning his fingers and his face with a wipe, I pried the soggy biscuit free of his hand and moved along to the register. The carriage with the boys and food was pushed in front of me and another was pulled along behind me containing household items that I kept separate from the food. The long wait for my taxi was tedious and I always I worried about the frozen goods, but it was the only way I had to get home. Once it arrived the trip was much quicker than the bus route had been. 

I’d get the boys upstairs first, settling them into a spot where I knew they’d be safe. I put a movie in for Matt and got Sammy comfortable in his crib. Then, carrying the groceries in and putting them away, I started dinner. The rest of the evening was an inevitable pattern: dinner and bath time for the boys, nightly ‘walk’ for their father, if he bothered to be home in the first place. I never knew on any given night what the walk might entail, but I always knew he would not be home to tuck the boys in. Settling comfortably into our worn sofa, Matthew curled up in my lap with his head nestled gently against my chest. Sammy would be bundled between Matt and my other arm. Turning the pages of a story we read together, my fingers gently brushed the hair from their rounded foreheads. Later I made up stories for them, telling them about magical places that were ours alone, adventures that we had together and faraway places that nobody else knew about. My boys are my heart, and though I did not know it then, my strength meant something in the end.

Years have passed and my sons are young adults now, in their twenties and truly beginning their lives. I’ve kept the door open to them, and have had long soul searching conversations with the universe. Many times I have questioned the journey: the bruises, the tears, the late fearful nights, and the holes in my dignity. Looking back now, I know it was worth it. I know that no matter the cost to myself, my sons have always known unwavering love through me. On the darkest of days we had each other, and that was our great escape.