The Old Woman on Lynn Street and Cherry Avenue
Call me Nanny, she said, and that was why we called her Nanny. All we knew about her was that she used to call us over and give us money for candies and ice cream. And we helped her cross the streets, run errands, and buy groceries for her. She lived with a large cat she called Daisy in a small white house on the corner of Lynn Street and Cherry Avenue. On holidays we stayed in our own house with relatives from out of town, or we went over to their house and spent the night there fighting with our cousins. But, we never went to the old woman's house or invited her to come over. We were seven years old, and to our parents we knew nothing of the world. There were lunatics out there, rapists, murders, child molesters, always on the lookout for children like us. And we were always terrified when our father spoke of how a child had been kidnapped, abused, and left for dead by them sinners. He showed us them headlines from Mercury Daily News as proof, and stood there behind the lamp waiting with anticipation for our little faces to react. And our mother would look up, "Roger, you're scaring the kids."
"For Christ's sake, Erin. I'm just trying to protect them!"
In Winter, we walked past her house everyday after school. And on days when she felt "better," she would invite us in for hot cocoa and marshmallow. My little sister would play with Daisy on the brown rug in front of the television. And I would ask her questions about my American history homework. She was eager to tell me that the Americans, including her, knew what the Germans did to the Jews, but did nothing anyway. The Americans also knew about their Japanese neighbors being forced out of houses and to live in concentration camps, but, just like in the Jewish case, no one did anything, she explained after reading my report on how Hitler came into power. Then she warned me about how cold we have become in a society where production replaces emotions, where security replaces love, where individuality replaces commonality, where independence replaces dependency.
In summer, we went over to the corner market and bought bags of ice for her. We put them on our red wagon and pushed it to her house. By the time we reached there, half of the ice in the bags had turned into cold icy water. I ran carrying the dripping bags into her house, heading for the freezer. And she would laugh when Daisy, running after me with her tail standing straight up, left my poor sister crying. We reminded her somehow of the Three Stooges. She would smile as she told us who were the Three Stooges and why they were so funny. I didn't thought they were funny, and I told her so, but she said it was funny only because we knew no one was getting hurt by them eye-gouging, face-slapping routine. She said that this was how adults maintain their sanity, by watching others play out life with emotions and dependency toward each other. She said it's fun to get involved, and yet, at the same time, maintain a certain distance for protection and security. This was why television shows will always be popular in a world of Reagan and Bush. Although I didn't understand much of what Nanny was saying back then, I did sense a warmth and caring, which were lacking between us and our parents, but not between Nanny, Lisa, Daisy, and I.
When we had to go home, Nanny would hand us a bag of her homemade cookies to take a long. We would try to hide them from our parents, because Father and Mother were afraid of people trying to poison us. At Halloween, we didn't go out trick-or-treating. Instead, we stayed home and watched scary movies on TV. with our parents. Father would drink his beer while Mother and us had our cola and milk. There were cookies and chips on the living room table. And we didn't have to worry about them children in the neighborhood ringing our doorbell, because we never hung any of them posters and signs of Jack O' Lantern, or the Witches, or the Black Cat. Besides, since the media reported how one boy bit into an apple only to find a razor slicing his esophagus, or in another instance, young tricksters were rushed to the hospitals after complaining of stomach pain and vomiting because of the candies they ate, trick-or-treating, in our town anyway, was somewhat discouraged. Yet, there were still a few trick-or-treaters out there on Halloween nights. And these tricksters stuck together and only went to houses they were familiar with. So, on Halloween, my sister would occasionally look out of our quiet window.
"Lisa, honey, get away from the window." Mother said.
"Lisa, come over here next to Father and watch this scary part with him." Father would say, juggling down a beer can beside our cola and milk, pulling Mother closer to him.
"May I be excused, Father? I'm tired, and I have school tomorrow!" I asked them.
Mother looked at Father with a smile, suggesting of something special to do together later in the night.
"Okay, Sport. And you too Lisa!"
And we would sleep alone in our big rooms. And we felt like strangers in them. We heard Mother giggling downstairs with Father. And we would think about Nanny and Daisy and wonder what they were doing at this hour on this October night. We wondered if there were other children all over America who love their neighbors more than their parents. But we never wondered about the Chinese, the African, the European, the South American because they lived far away from us.
The day the ambulance came, we sat on her porch and watched them take her and Daisy away. We could not say anything to her because they didn't let us. She was lying on the stretcher with her eyes closed, and tubes stuck into her nose and arms. Then, our mother called us in for lunch and we had to go. Quietly, as though we were being forced to eat and drink, we ate our sandwiches and drank our milk. But that was not true, we weren't being forced by our mother. It was just that we had to eat from our mother. It was just the way things were. So, we never heard from Nanny or Daisy again. And her white house was sold to a Mexican family, who Father didn't like at all. He forbade me to see Gloria, but I sneaked out anyway. I remember Nanny and what she taught us.
I think she was the first and last woman who did not teach me fear. Hell, even Gloria taught me fear, and I had to marry her to get rid of the old fears and learn new ones. The world is good at making fears out of the unknown. It is a part of our education--our sharing personalities. Don't ask me why. I'm only a part of that system, too.
Now, watching our Juan and Michael play with other children in the swings, I sit and wonder how had Nanny kept herself intact from this fear-making game throughout her life.
Oh, no! I have to go now. It looks like Michael is ready to punch a kid who slides into him by accident.