Sampson and Delilah

Daylight sat dull on the window. Zinny opened one eye, looked at the window, closed the eye, sighed and rolled over in bed getting tangled in her top sheet as she did so. The fan across the room pushed sticky, warm air against her face. The air smelled of exhaust and grease. It had probably started as a tangy zephyr in the Gulf but now it was old and stank and made her feel old and tired just breathing it. She heard a muted snore from the bedroom next to hers and knew her father was still asleep. She might have a few minutes if she were really quiet, she decided, She would take her shower after he woke. She got off the bed and walked softly on bare feet out of her room and past her father’s room where she stopped for a moment to make sure the air conditioner was still humming away. She then went down the stairs into the huge kitchen in the back of the old house. Zinny poured herself a glass of iced coffee from a pitcher in the fridge, sat at the circular wooden table with all its scars and marks, sipped at the coffee and tried to wake up. Condensation from the glass formed a small puddle on the table underneath it. She got up, carefully folded a clean dishtowel to use as a coaster and sat down again. Putting the towel on the table, she picked up the glass, wiped up the small amount of water on the table top, put the towel back down and placed the glass in its exact center. Alles in ordnung. The glass in the window over the sink sparkled with the sunrise. A pipe somewhere gurgled softly. What a shame, she thought, that I can’t take this moment and stretch it like a piece of taffy over the whole day. See everything but dimly and sweet too. Could always take a lick of two if I was feeling in need of a sugar kick. When I was little it was sweet. Waking up early when the whole world was still asleep. Only the birds making little noises outside the window I would listen to their music for a minute and then slip into pants and a t-shirt, and tiptoe down the stairs and out into the back yard. The grass was a silver carpet of dew and I was queen of my own little world. I would jump on my blue swing with its white seat and rusting chain links and float into the heavens. Up and up and then down and wheeee free of everything. I would be beautiful and accomplished. Men would swarm around me with flashing white smiles and expensive gifts. Dressed in white silk and a powder blue satin gown, I would graciously wave them all away while waiting for that special someone to appear at my side. Nice dreams. Young girl dreams. Maybe a little fanciful even at that age but I did so love that swing set. As I grew older and the swing became increasing rustier and smaller, I still enjoyed sitting there while working through increasingly adult problems, mostly concerning boys with pimples and bad breath and hands that were everywhere. YUCK. Sighing, Zinny washed out her glass and headed back up the stairs to begin her day. “Hello.” The old man lay on top of his bed, the top sheet tangled around him so that he looked as if he had been trussed and tied up with it. From under the sheet, a wizened, lined face still with a full head of snowy, white hair, stared at her blankly. “ Good morning, Dad.” “Who are you?” “Zinny, Dad. Your daughter.” This was not going to be one of his better days. Who was she indeed? The girl on the swing, the professional, the care giver, the klutz, the romantic, the scullery maid, the bread winner, the keeper of the hearth? I am the tomb. I am the womb. For her father, it did not matter anymore. His life was a series of moments each lived and then forgotten, each a miniature exposure of thought and feeling but unconnected by memory to the next. Like an infant whose memory has yet to develop, each moment was enough unto itself. Zinny helped her father untangle from the sheet and, grunting from the physical effort, got him sitting up on the side of the bed. His underpants and the sheet below were soaked in his urine. Third time this week, she counted. Guess I’ll have to get diapers. Don’t need the extra expense and hassle but there no longer is much choice. Expertly, she helped him to his feet, pulled his underpants down in one smooth movement, and then let him sit back down on the bed where she finished removing the offending garment. “Okay, Dad. Up and at ‘em. Another day begins.” She tried to sound upbeat and cheerful but had no idea to what degree of success she attained. The old man responded well. “Okay.” He said and smiled, swinging his legs from side to side, quite happy to be sitting there on the wet bed. He had already forgotten what the woman standing over him had said. “C’mon, Dad. Here we go.” Zinny pulled her father gently off the bed and partially supported him as he walked across the room and into the bathroom where he sat down on the toilet and grinned up at her. “Okay,” he said “Just sit there and try to go.” Zinny made sure he was aimed downwards into the bowl. She then went into the bedroom and stripped the sheets from the bed. Thank God for mattress guards. She bundled up the sheets into a damp wad. She would take them down to the washer in the cellar when she went down to go to work. She heard the sound of water on water from the bathroom. Good. He would stay dry a while. Maybe he was even doing number 2. That would spare Rosy a dirty task. “I’m cold.” The voice was now thin and plaintive overlaying a core of paranoia, helplessness and despair. “Coming.” Zinny went back into the bathroom and there to wash and clean him and bring him out and dress him and sit him in his chair and bring him cereal and a cup of coffee that was mostly milk and sit there chatting gaily about the day ahead, about the weather, about the leak in the kitchen faucet, about the new taxes being debated in the city council, about the house going up for sale on the next block, about anything and everything except that she loved him but he would never know it and she felt as she had as a child when she had dressed her doll and sat her down to have tea with Zinny except her Dad’s hair was different and he did change expression and speak on occasion. Zinny walked out the back door, down the driveway and turned left towards the bus stop. Thank God for Rosalinda and welfare although I know I shouldn’t even think like that, but how else could I afford to have someone take care of Dad while I’m off working. Money under the table works wonders. Whoever said it was useless was never in my situation. God I am a mess today. Hair like a birds nest and not neat birds either but the ones who have sticks and shit sticking out everywhere. Lipstick is wrong. Shit. Look like a tramp. Need a do. Wonder if Suzie would have time on Saturday? Make note to call her this morning first thing and get it done. Sure, and what are you going to use for money? Got utilities to pay. Dad’s medicines and everything else. Food if there’s any left for it. Minor thing, that. Put it off. Now that’s a laugh. Oh sorry, Dad. Ran out of money for food. Here. Chew on this weed that was growing in the lawn. They sell it in the grocery store as fancy salad greens. Hah. Everyone’s got their hand out it seems. Might have to give up the old place. Oh sure, Zinny, old girl, and what about Dad. What are you planning on doing with him? Dear dad Poor dad We’ve hung you in the closet And we’re feeling so sad Some kind of children’s rhyme, I think. Forget who wrote it. Maybe someone like me saying oh I love you but caring for you and paying for the house and everything and you not knowing what’s happening around you and your life like a firefly moments blinking on and then gone and yes there are times when I think that it would be okay if I found you some nice place where you would be comfortable and there would be people dressed in whites and blues and pinks yes rainbow people smiling and caring but then I remember the places I visited and the people I talked to and it tears my heart