Sister Death Watch

(Inspired by real events)(November, 2009)



With Eugene, there always seemed to be a contest going on, life was a dispute, although, it was all a little amazing, even a tinge odd to Roland Lawton, being, as he was, a man quite observant, and particularly conscious, growing old (or older, now at sixty-two), yet still so aware (married to Piper, whom was the younger sister to Celosia). As for Eugene, he was a few years younger than his brother-in-law (Roland), large in frame and strong in body, stubborn in mind, always seeking admiration—from or to whomever, and—more often than not—moody, for simple—if not silly reasons, but reasons nonetheless; displacing annoyance on Roland— or for that matter—on any family member, during those uncommon (or out of character) moments of shifting moods, those mood, if not anger.
By and large, all the family members lived by one another.
Eugene was mentally outside, not in it—the extended family, and seemingly the obnoxious one of the family (of which his daughter, Shelley had appeared to have inherited, genetically or by social comparison, his mood swings), that is to say, or add, Eugene had a hair-trigger temper, to everyone and thing around him, even to his most regular customers at his restaurant.
As I mentioned, there seemed to be a contest with him and those around him. It concerned ways of doing things, decisions, expecting those around him to surrender.
I suppose it is like that in many families, there being one usually one person, in most every family structure (relatives, and all to be contaminated by that one person), and more so in the nuclear family for the most part, one that forms within the group this antisocial or disruptive behavior (especially while in the fall of life); to include: jealousies, concealed hatreds, silent battles with envy, all this secretly going on—with brother-in-laws, the children, the wife, brothers, fathers, as for Eugene—in all respects, all of the above pertained to him.
He had two young adult children attending college, who adored their mother, and a young boy of thirteen, who adored her likewise.
As for Eugene Jr., and Shelley, they lived within the house, within the family structure, but within their own world. And to be quite frank, they were in the process of trying to establish their own world, and it was not without a struggle from their father. The point was, that the mother having the heart that never stopped beating, was always tender for the kids. And Eugene never understood that—how it infuriated and hurt him at times, not to get that admiration, respect, awe, the kids gave to the mother—although they were of little help to lighten the load for their mother.
Sometimes Eugene went white and trembled with anger—and then at other times, red from holding it in. It didn’t matter it seemed he wanted to break his wife and children, like one would break a horse: beginning with the children, then the wife, then the relatives. Having it out with whomever, whenever, and never really wining, simply just driving a wedge between himself and the family members.
“No, Eugene. You can’t,” his wife would plead. But he had learned to swear so loud, whatever she said, wasn’t heard. Where he picked it up from, who’s to say.
Perhaps Celosia, his wife, understood how he felt, never quite putting the matter, and circumstances certainly into words, not even to her mind’s eye (her second-self, her unconscious, hence, hiding it for her, because it was too much to endure, consequently saving her from a sudden, and perchance injurious, impact). But it was one of those things that started to age her quickly, weaken her immune system, arouse in her family members a curious determination to look deeper into—or at, Eugene’s maladaptive behavior (not accepting his intentions, or understanding them for the most part, perhaps not able to be sympathetic to the his way of thinking, reckoning, it was anything but healthy). They even caught themselves saying, “Can’t he just stop!” It was really not an inquiry, but rather a statement-question at best. Someone even mentioned, in passing, “If she’s to enjoy the last years of her life, must he spoil what she is to have!”
They, all of us, thought she was dying, over and over and over—she had but one kidney. Especially the father of Celosia had some hidden resentment against her husband, being Eugene was likened to a tyrant—if let be; he was as if standing guard over her—them.
The two chidden in college drew more and more away from the father, just appeasing him so he’d not cut their tuition short, or off.


•

It was a rainy November, 2009, in the mountain city; Celosia was in her restaurant kitchen cooking. The rain was pouring down hard. Great streams of water were outside by the kitchen door. Lunch was almost ready, she ran out in the rain to the car—through the restaurant area, to get some groceries she had forgotten—the rain soaked her hair, but it felt good, it was cold against her forearms and neck, and even soaked under her cloths. She looked at Eugene; he was cleaning the tables, wiping them off, he had just priory finished moping the floor—she heard anxiety in his voiced, “We got to hurry up, before the lawyers com, and the rest of the crowd!” (He didn’t look at his sister-in-law, Piper, or Roland; they were standing by the kitchen, near a table one they usually sat at; he had given the impression they were insignificant, although they were his best customers; but it was not out of character.) There was fear in Celosia’s eyes.
“Oh, Eugene, you know you mustn’t get all worked up, we’ll be ready!” remarked his wife, faintly.
Just that was enough to set him into a dry mood, as dry as a bone, parched. The least shock or resistance could do it. It really was simply an old, very old story.
‘Why,’ thought Eugene, ‘can’t anyone understand, that such things are a hundred times worse for me—’
On that day, without answering his wife, he jumped in his car and rode off. He wanted to go hide himself, cool down before everyone came. Celosia, deduced how he felt.

Celosia and her sister Piper stood looking at each other, Roland sitting in a chair at a table. Celosia over fifty, Piper just fifty, it was getting to everyone in the family.
“What, Piper?” asked Celosia, there were astonishment and a slight annoyance in Piper’s voice?
“He’s always making you feel bad, if not accountable, or at fault, so it looks as if … anyhow!” remarked Piper—she wanted to cry but didn’t.
Celosia understood. It was at this point, an odd tense moment for them both, and then Celosia walked off into the kitchen to get ready the lunch.
Celosia, wanted to fly off somewhere, anywhere, like Peter Pan, like a child in a dreamland-dream, perhaps shake Eugene for being so impudent.
There was so much implied—perhaps she could be allowed to die, quickly, suddenly, rather than this slow death for she was always in danger of a sudden death anyhow, but she kept to her values in life, but death was not the most terrible thing to her. She tuned to the side door, went silent, watched the rain as it came pouring down, dripping into the kitchen. There were no explanations.
“Well,” Celosia said presently, “what did you want for lunch, are you eating here at the restaurant today, Piper?”
Piper spoke, “Yes,” meaning she was eating there.
There was a bond—between them two sisters. Piper was witty and could think of a lot of things to say, but they were all too risky, she had an inclination— ‘…keep hands off,’ and accordingly, there was a little inner-world created (being re-created perhaps), and in it there was a kind of—‘sister death watch.’


Afterthought

There are times when men who seriously like one another cannot endure one another. Instinctively one needs to be careful—do not get too close in knowing the truth of the other person, he may hate you for it: knowing you can describe him, to himself.
Eugene was alive when he boasted; a little intoxicated with dreams of the present, visions unaccomplished from the past. Some people such as he, are destined to make their lives hell, others who tag along, live in purgatory.
I hope this does not all seem trivial? I am trying to tell it the best I can. So this was his life, this is what I saw. Never mind my life, it is unimportant, in this story, what must become of those others involved will become in question in times yet to come.
We are just faces of people in a fleck of light; a dim shadow questioning voices, words whirled about us. We need to take some of this life out of our heads, and live a tranquil existence—it is so very short, and then the lights go out. We are more than scraggly weeds growing, and when someone thinks that is what we are to them, and then it is time to set the record straight.


No: 535 (12-2-2009) SA