Seattle Press on Line - The Women's Room

Writers' Corner

The Women's Room

By Lon McKinney

Feb 28, 2002 -- Part one of three

My mother always told me not to take anything from strangers. No candy from old men in dark cars looking for little girls for unspeakable purposes. No promises from young men with only one thing on their minds. I was never quite sure how this related to my long-term prospects in life but I'd shake my head agreeing with what she said. Just being Mom's good little girl. Once she'd made her point, she didn't elaborate. That was her way--the assumption of understanding.

She died when I was 14, slowly slipping into the grip of cancer that robbed her first of her breasts and then her life. I helped to care for her up to the end. I washed her long, silver-colored hair and fed her homemade soup, made from her own recipe. She passed quietly, still mouthing admonitions of men with bad intentions as I held her hand. Her lips stopped moving and her eyes closed for good. My Dad did his best to raise me after Mom died.

My Dad helped pay for college, but I put in the biggest chunk. I was a starving student, working almost full-time and taking classes and studying the rest of the time. It was a grind, but I don't have any regrets. And I made it.

I avoided the phantom cars of childhood and the false promises of adolescence. I landed a good job where I met my husband, Andrew. He had a bright red open convertible and asked me for nothing but equality in commitment. Mom would have approved. Dad thought he was a prince. We have a modest house. Life is good.

I like to escape from the office routine when I can. To reclaim myself on the page. Early mornings work the best. While Andrew, and most of the city, sleep. After a brisk walk, I'm ready to get into my head. The stuff of my dreams is the grist of my stories.

I've always liked to sit out in the cold, especially on crisp, clear mornings with the sound of dead leaves crackling on cobblestones as people walk by the cafe. I sit, knees up, resting my chin inside my oversized sweatshirt, breathing down to keep warm, and making notes about the images in my memory.

Early yesterday, I encountered a big raccoon, methodically checking the fronts of the houses for a morsel of something to eat. When the animal saw me, he stopped in his tracks and the two of us had a stare-down. Slowly, I knelt down on my heels talking softly to him. The raccoon stood transfixed at my strange visage in the dark. I was an interloper on his morning route. Finally he shrugged, if a shrug applies to raccoons, and went on about his rounds, paying no more attention to me. I stood up and put my Walkman headphones back on my head. Chet Baker crooned sweetly.

The neighborhood in early morning is quiet, like a memorial cemetery for dead souls who haven't yet risen from their nightly graves of sleep to dawn's resurrection. At 5:30 in the morning, the quiet world around me is enough. I never feel threatened, even when it's still dark. And in the event of something unexpected, I'm a big girl and can take care of myself. I'm in shape and, if need be, I can run like hell.

Before going home, I stopped at the cafe to have a coffee and write. An old white-muzzled Irish setter kept me company, while Tom Waits' "Good Old World" played on the sound system, competing with the sound of traffic on the boulevard.

That night at dinner I wasn't in a very talkative mood. I just wanted to be alone. Andrew, as always, was understanding. He knows my moods. He knows when to let me spend time doing what I need to do. That's why I care for him so much.

Later that night I was restless. I'd observed, recorded, played back, and taken note of the day. Even though I was a part of it all, I was still a watcher on the inside looking out. I wanted to escape from this Wonderland crap. Get through the mirror to another side. To something else. To anything.

* * *

I don't remember the alarm sounding. Andrew's soft breathing seemed real enough, but I felt a pang of uncertainty about my waking state. It was a feeling I couldn't quantify. The cat perked up her ears as I rustled the bedclothes, trying to be as quiet as I could so as not to wake my husband. He usually slept right through my early wake-up and was hardly ever aware of my going out. Only the cat knew my every movement. She usually slept down between my legs. But this morning she was not in her usual place. As soon as I got up and padded quietly out of the basement room, I saw her settle in behind the warm nook of Andrew's knees. I made my way upstairs and crossed the oak floor of the dining room, trying not to let the squeaks of the floorboards in the old house disturb the sleepers.

I put my notebooks, and something to read, into a black nylon bookbag. When I'd finished walking, I'd stop at the cafe and read or write. I liked to work slowly into the morning this way. I'd still be first in the shower before Andrew got up. Then we'd both start our day together.

The remains of the stars twinkled in the cold. Ursa Major sat at a jaunty angle poised to pour its cosmic soup. The moon was an Arabic crescent sliver. There was no breeze. I could smell the bloom of witch hazel that grew in the corner garden. When I stepped off the porch it was as if I was stepping off the edge of the world. My feet padding along the front walk was the only sound I could hear.

I decided to walk through one of the neighborhoods near the lake, heading north and then east toward the great wall that shuts out the freeway noise from the close houses. I stopped near the cafe. I laced up my running shoes, did a few stretches, and put the Walkman in my pocket--slipping the headphones on. I did a jog up a steep hill to get my heart and lungs jumpstarted. Slowing to a fast walk, and a bit out of breath, I passed an old stone church near the crest of the hill. I knew the houses along this route. Friendly cats lurked among hedgerows, crouched on sheltered porches, or perched in the crook of trees like Alice's Cheshire.

Part 2 of this story will appear in the March 14 issue.

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