The Forging Page 5

  There are many kinds of kisses. There is the kind of kiss you give your daughter to say goodnight. There is the awkward kiss you launch on a girl at her door at the end of your first date. There is even the kind of kiss you give your Aunt Margret because your mother makes you. This kiss started light and gentle with the warmth love bestows only after years when a couple has grown comfortable with each other. This kiss; however, did not stay light and gentle. A thirst built up in both of us. The hunger gnawed at us. We had to partake of each other, to join, to express the animal sides of our nature. Charlene started to pull at my clothes. As each moment passed, her hands became more frantic. As she tried to remove my shirt, she popped one of its buttons. I heard the button hit the floor. In a breathless whisper, Char said, “I’ll sew it back on tomorrow.” We scrambled to remove the rest of my clothes. If this were a classic old movie, the camera would pan to an object in the room. So, mister cameraman, please pan away. There is going to be a slight intermission.

  Or two.

  It was epic. On the, “did the Earth move for you?” scale, I would give it a solid nine-point-eight. If we ever reach a ten, I will be a dead man. I will be a dead man with a smile on his face, and my wife will be a widow with a story to tell the girls at Mahjong.

  We laid there in each other’s arms basking in the afterglow. I could lie here all night, but it is getting close to the time I must leave for work. I stood to take a quick shower. Char put on a robe and went to see what Mo is up to. I dressed in my ever so stylish uniform, combed my hair, and otherwise made ready for my night of work. I went out into the living room to see my daughter arguing with her mother about getting ready for bed. I am running late. “Goodnight everyone, I will see you in the morning.”

  “Daddy, don’t go. I don’t want you to go,” Moiraine pleaded as she came running to the front door.

  “I have to go, Honey. It’s what this daddy does. I have to go to work.”

  Char came in behind Mo. “I’m with you Moiraine. I don’t want him to go either, but daddy does have to go to work, so give your daddy a kiss goodbye.” After my kiss from Mo, Char laid one on me. It was a bit passionate for in front of the carpet shark. She hugged me hard and whispered in my ear. “I didn’t pack your lunch. You will have to come home for it. I’ll be waiting up in bed for you,” she gave my ear a nibble.

  “We took a nap before work. Now you say to come home for lunch too. You haven’t been this frisky since you were carrying Mo. You know all things considered; today hasn’t been too bad after all.”

  “Today hasn’t been bad, but I will be at lunchtime,” Char said as she sneaked her hand down and gave my tush a friendly squeeze. I jumped a bit in surprise. Yes, today is a good day after all. Well, hi ho hi ho, it’s off to work I go. I left without any further fuss.

  Work, as always, is a mind-numbing routine. I sold some sundries, turned all the products in my sections to face front, and I watched over the new-hire, Mark. He’s an okay kid. Sorry, I did not mean to imply he is a baby goat. Lunch, on the other hand, lingered in my thoughts the rest of the night. And yes, she was very bad. Bad in the enjoyable way only she knows how to be.

  Chapter Three

  My shift is over at the store, so I headed home. It is time to get Moiraine up and ready for school. After a relatively uneventful commute, I arrived home and opened the door to my abode as quietly as I could. The house is still, except for the thumping of Blossom’s tail against her bed. I crept over to her and bent down to give her a good morning pet. Whispering to the old girl, “How was your night?” I walked over to the back door and opened it up for Blossom. She slowly made her way out the door to do her business. With all the stealth as I could muster, I went into my bedroom. I stole a moment to look at my wife as she slept in our bed. In the movies and on television, women are always draped in a seductive pose in the morning. Not my wife. She is curled up in a half fetal position with the covers tightly wrapped around her body. It reminds me of a pot-sticker. Yum, Chinese food sounded yummy. My stomach growled at the thought. I want to give Charlene a little extra sleep this morning, so I turned off the alarm clock. She deserves the extra rest for her actions above and beyond the call of lust last night. I smiled to myself and left our room. I gently closed the door behind me then made my way to Moiraine’s sleeping chamber.

  I opened the door to my daughter’s room to behold the nightmare. While Charlene loves an orderly house, our darling daughter takes after me, but she brings messy up to the level of an art form. If there is a clear spot on her floor, I could not see it. I worked my way through a minefield of Barbies in various stages of undress, half-finished colorings, and clothes carelessly discarded here and there. You see when the mood strikes her, my daughter will wear numerous outfits in a single day, and I could see she had been moody as of late. I leaned down and started the morning ritual of waking my daughter. I started tapping her forehead in beat with a song my mother would sing to me. “Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head. Get up, get up, get out of bed…” I sang until those beautiful eyes opened.

  “Good morning, Daddy. What’s for breakfast?” Moiraine narrowed her eyes as she looked up at me. “You can stop. I’m awake,” Mo announced in a slightly irritated tone as she stretched. She never liked the way I wake her up in the mornings, but after all, traditions are traditions.

  “Your request is played once again on K R A P. Oh yeah,” the little DJ voice in my head proclaimed.

  “Who every day must scramble for a living, feed his wife and children, say his daily prayers…”

  “Please, no show tunes this early in the morning.” With the thought, the music from Fiddler on the Roof faded away.

  “Tell you what, Mo. You can help me fix breakfast if you don’t wake your mom and get ready with no hassle.” My daughter jumped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The speed of her actions rivaled her speed on Christmas morning. I tell you true. I think she left a contrail. Mo loves to help in the kitchen. For a five-year-old, she’s a pretty decent cook. Sure, she’s not allowed to operate the stove by herself, but she makes some mean scrambled eggs, and her toast is to die for.

  After making my way out of ground zero, I started pulling the eggs, cheese, and whatnot out of the fridge for breakfast. The doorbell rang. Who the Hell can it be so early in the morning? I hope they didn’t rouse my wife. I opened the front door and looked out to an empty porch. A distinctive meow reached my ears from down by my feet. “Diego, how did you manage to ring the bell, and why are you calling so early?” He looked me straight in the eyes, blinked, and then ran past me into the house.

  Diego belongs to my neighbor and landlady, Mrs. Blake. He is, in fact, one of many cats which belonged to Mrs. Blake. She has a whole clowder of them in her half of the duplex. Diego likes to come and visit my daughter every day or so. He tolerates my wife and me, but he enjoys my daughter. He had never come a calling so early before. Oh well, try to figure out a cat, and he’ll do the other for spite. I don’t mind Diego visiting Mo, even this early. I have one rule about him in this house. Don’t feed him. If you do, he’ll never go home, and besides, we already have a pet, Blossom, and she is a good dog.

  I heard a giggle, and the word “Kitty” come from the direction of Mo’s bathroom. Diego must have found his target. Well, Mo will most likely be a little late getting to work on breakfast.

  So, I started things in the kitchen. If I am lucky, I will be able to surprise Char with breakfast in bed. The noise of stirrings came to my ears. Maybe next time I can surprise her. “Top of the morning, my love.” Charlene shuffled through the living room toward the dining room table. Her hair is a bit messed, and there is a crease mark on her face. She looks like she had slept hard. Her movements and appearance remind me of a zombie from a George Romero film. “Brains must eat brains!”

  “Coffee. Did you make coffee?” Char mumbled barely audible.

  “No. Sorry hadn’t started it yet.”

  “What value has a man who doesn’t start the coffee
when he gets home?” Char mumbled barely audible. Yep, she’s my wife, and she doesn’t do mornings well.

  “You thought I showed you my worth last night.” My statement brought a slow-growing smile to her face.

  “You did earn your salt last night, but I would be happier with coffee in my hand,” Char sat there, making no effort to enter the kitchen and help me. Moiraine entered the picture carrying Diego. The cat appeared to be enjoying the ride. I could hear his purring all the way over here. Mo put Diego down then kissed her mother good morning. Moiraine turned to me and proceeded to pout.

  “Daddy, you promised I could help,” Mo stood there looking at me with her arms crossed. It is all I could do not to laugh. She had taken a pose which mimics her mother to a tee. I’m so in trouble.

  “Well, get in here,” I told her. We made and ate breakfast in short order. My wife had finally risen from the grave since she has had her morning caffeine fix. She managed to motivate Mo to finish getting ready for school. All that remained on the morning to-do list is for me to make ready for my second job.

  I changed out of my uniform and put on jeans and a tee-shirt. The shirt I picked out is one my daughter had given me last Christmas. It was a Disney mass-marketed Grumpy shirt. It read “Grumpy Zone.” I looked at myself in the mirror. My little less than handsome face looked tired. My eyes are red, and I noticed wrinkles had started to make their presence known at the corners of my eyes. My five o'clock shadow gave my face a dirty look, and I need to run a comb through my hair. Screw it; I put a baseball cap on my head. It is time for me to don the mantle of my office. I put on the sleeveless vest and rested it on my shoulders. I tied the straps in front. I could feel the power of my vestment surround me.

  I reached out my hand and took up my shield. And a powerful shield it is. Designed by the powers that be, to halt the movement of speeding missiles and offer protection to those who are placed in my charge. I put my shield in its holster across my back. Its handle protrudes up at an angle between my shoulder and neck for easy reach. I picked up my magic silver amulet and placed it around my neck. I could feel the weight of it against my chest. It felt reassuring. A shock wave would travel through the air like ripples on a pond every time I invoked its power. People would heed its call and obey my commands every time it sounded. Fully dressed, I looked again into the mirror. No longer did a mere man stare back. A guardian of the innocent stood in the mirror. I am prepared for what this morning might bring. My wife called out from the other room. “Are you ready? Moiraine’s going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I called back. I put my keys and cell phone in my pocket. I walked out to the front door where my wife and daughter are waiting. I took my daughter by the hand, and as we walked out the door, I attested, “I am ready to take my place and stand between the forces of darkness and those I have pledged to protect.”

  “Nathan, you’re a crossing-guard, not a sentinel of the watch,” Charlene lovingly mocked.

  While I play at being the fool sometimes, I took an oath to watch over the children as they crossed the street to school. I take oaths seriously. I pride myself on being a man of his word. My word is my bond; you know old-fashioned. In the world of today where double-speak and “If you didn’t get it in writing,” are the norm, I do tend to be an anachronism.

  I had made peace with myself over what being a crossing guard meant; at least what it meant to me. I would, without hesitation, throw myself into the path of an inattentive driver if it would save a child.

  Well, maybe not if it is George. The little snot-nosed fifth-grader kicked me when I pulled him back onto the curb a couple of weeks ago. And his parents aren’t any better. They called the principal the same day complaining I “touched” their son. The investigation lasted long enough to view the video footage from the red light camera. What most people don’t know is the red light cameras in San Diego are video cameras. They are constantly recording the intersections where they are installed. The police view each violation and send you a still from the footage along with a hefty bill, thank you very much. The video clearly showed me grabbing little Georgie boy by the collar and yanking him back onto the curb barely before a car whipped around the corner to beat the cross traffic. It also caught my favorite fifth grader kicking me in the shin. The officer present at the viewing asked if I had wanted to press assault charges against the boy. Tempting, but I am already involved in one too many court cases. Even after watching how I had saved their son from crippling injuries or a trip to the undertaker, they didn’t thank me.

  There was a time, in years gone by, a man would admit it when he was wrong and shake your hand to mend fences. Not George’s dad, no. Well, I didn’t take the job of a crossing guard for the thanks. I took the job because it needed to be done and done right.

  “Love ya,” I said as I kissed my wife goodbye.

  “Love you too, my little Walter Mitty,” Charlene replied.

  Hand in hand, my daughter and I walked to her school about half a mile away. It is about seven twenty-five AM. The morning had a bit of a chill about it. My lungs hurt a little as I took in the cold air. Listen to me, complain. I live in San Diego where the average year you could count the number of bad weather days on your hands and have fingers left over. I have turned into a wimp in my old age. I could have grown up somewhere else where they have real weather and not this perpetual sunshine.

  We arrived at the corner. I pushed the idiot button on the traffic signal. It is the button every idiot pushes when he gets there. We stood there, waiting for the signal to change. I started our routine. “Are you going to have a productive day? Make sure you listen to your teacher. Eat all your lunch. Play nice.” Moiraine answered in the affirmative. As we talked and waited for the light to change, other children and a few of their parents began to wait at the corner too.

  The light changed. I pulled my sign from its holster and blew the whistle. It is time for my daughter and the other children to make their way to the opposite corner. After seeing traffic has indeed stopped, I stepped into the crosswalk and signaled those waiting to begin their trek. My daughter stayed at the corner. “Come on, Mo. You have to cross the street to go to school.” She stood at the corner, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. She shook her head as I urged her to cross. The signal is about to change, and everyone else had finished crossing, so I went back to the corner where my daughter is standing to wait for the next batch of kids. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Daddy, I can’t go to school today,” she confessed on the verge of tears.

  “Are you sick?” She shook her head. “Well, what is it?” The waterworks started. I feel so helpless when she cries. We went back and forth while I crossed more students. After about fifteen minutes, we heard the final bell ringing calling the kids into class. “Come on, Mo. You have got to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I didn’t do my homework. Are you mad at me?”

  “Oh, is that what’s wrong, Honey?” It’s such a trivial problem in the scope of life’s obstacles. But it isn’t to her. To her, this represented a major stumble. “Don’t worry. I will talk to your teacher. I am sure you can turn it in a little late. Tell you what: when you get home this afternoon, I will help you with it. Okay?” She shook her head yes, wiped away her tears, and steadied herself. I pressed the button for the street light and grabbed her hand while we waited. Her problem is solved for the moment. The light changed, and I helped her to cross over to the other side. We raced to arrive at her classroom in time.

  I had a brief conversation with Mo’s teacher. The homework it seems is a meaningless exercise to teach the children about what is expected in school. Mo’s teacher fully expects more than half the students to miss the deadline. It is a lot to ask kindergarteners. Finger painting and recess is what the kids should be doing at her age, not have responsibilities. There is time enough later in their lives. Now is for the joy of being alive. I returned home. The walk back give
s me a few minutes to reflect on the events of the day. This day had been a Hell of one. Not only was I run through the wringer by Refrain and Associates, not only did I have to still go to work, but now Moiraine has a crisis I need to deal with when she gets home. Sometimes you can’t catch a break.

  I heard my bed and pillow calling to me, “Nathan, come and curl up with us. Be embraced by our cozy goodness.”

  “Yes, I will be there soon,” I called back to my bedroom furniture. I walked through the front door to see my wife had already cleaned up the kitchen. My wife, the White Tornado. Mr. Clean has nothing on her. I have been up for over thirty-six hours, and I am beginning to drag. I shuffled to the bedroom. Low and behold Charlene had also made the bed. Tell me why she would do that knowing full well I am going to crawl into it as soon as I returned home? It is the sign of a sick mind. She has twisted priorities I tell you.

  I could hear the shower going. Char is getting ready for her day at our daughter’s school. My wife is the art docent there. Docent is a fancy French word meaning “She who does not get paid,” but she loves working with the kids. It’s all well and right, but you know, how about a little something for the effort?

  I peeled out of my clothes and put on my jammies. I slid in between the sheets and into the arms of Morpheus. Ah, “to sleep, perchance to dream.” Let me tell you: sleeping in the middle of a perfectly fine day is no picnic. I have lived like a vampire for far too long, working at night and sleeping during the day, but a man does what he must do to provide for his family.

  I wish I could provide a little more. Oh, we get by. I make enough to pay the bills, but living in Southern California isn’t cheap. There hardly isn’t any left over for extras in life. The only vacations we can afford are day trips in the area or maybe a movie a couple of times a year. We eat out only on birthdays or other special days. A man should be able to provide more than “needs.” He should be able to give his family some “wants” too.