The Memories
I recall years long gone, at least I think the memories are real. I remember wanting to be someone else, anyone else. I despised my name, my nickname even more, and the oak trees, the snow, and the cow town where I lived my tedious life. I’d have been queen of all England, but Massachusetts haunted me and wouldn’t let me go.
How can I account for those days, those seminal moments, that ancient crucible of time? Forty years later, facts get confused. 1968 and 1969 – hallmark years; years filled with Vietnam and civil rights, with changing hemlines and women’s liberation. Landing on the moon. An era of great upheaval, so it seemed, so all the papers proclaimed.
But of course so many things stay the same whether a teenage girl likes it or not. Mother Nature is cruel; she keeps us in our place, making us wait no matter how hard we fight her rule. Or she pushes us out, like baby birds too long in the nest. Her seasons vary – they change over and over again, but not really – they’re always coming back. Mothers and daughters, sisters and best friends, families – nothing unique, nothing that hasn’t come a hundred thousand times before.
How can I know what was real, what imagined; which pieces matter – what parts to discard? All I have are my twisted, broken remembrances of things past - my muddied collection of feelings, harsh and inharmonious, jubilant, mournful. They push at me; they cut through time. They come back to taunt me, they refuse to leave me alone. Over oceans of time, across that vast sea, I recall my glory days and wonder what Mother Nature could have been thinking; how savage my journey, my struggle to feel loved.
I didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it to be this way. Stories…memories choke my mind.
- Glory the Ancient
Chapter 1 – Monday Morning
It was the bleakest of mornings, a fine example of Mother Nature’s often torturous cruelties. What did I do to deserve this? Beastly frigid. Christ, it’s cold. Glory trudged down the snowy street in her platform shoes to school.
Bad enough it’s Monday. I despise Mondays. Waking up at six a.m. on any day of the week is pitiless. But Mondays are downright abusive. It’s still dark out. What kind of farmer do people think I am? I need my sleep.
The north wind showed no mercy. The high school principal phoned Ma just last week. He said I called in sick seven Mondays in a row. The man is an idiot - it took him seven weeks to figure out the pattern.
So now, it’s goddamn six forty-five on a freezing cold Monday morning with Ma insisting on school.
Glory had pleaded with her mother, who got up especially early to make certain not to be fooled again. “Joyce,” Glory begged, “you know I can’t stand it. I hate going. Let me stay home.”
It was the dawn of miseries. Even the goddess Aurora herself, pulling the sun through the heavens in her chariot of gold and red, couldn’t have wished for that particular daybreak. And Glory’s mother was in no mood for an argument. She gave her daughter the imperious look that meant don’t even bother, and said calmly, “I’m your mother. Call me Ma.”
Glory threw on her coat, wrapped her royal purple scarf around her neck, and huffed her way out the back door.
Joyce closed her eyes and leaned against the kitchen sink. Her daughter tried her patience more often than not, but she had to admire that spirit. You can’t make Glory do anything she doesn’t want to do, she thought. She turned and went back to her coffee.
Glory’s a puzzle, Joyce continued in her mind. She may hate going to school. But she did indeed walk out the door. Hey, here’s a theory! She must like being in school, if only a little. I’ll figure the correlations. Joyce reveled in the mathematical logic of it all.
~~~~~~
Glory picked her way around the snow banks and ice puddles. The sidewalk across from the field hadn’t been plowed. She walked on the edge of the street in the slush.
Dirty lumpy piles of it frozen everywhere. Whoever said snow is pretty, obviously never saw slush.
Her books were heavy, and it was a whole mile to school. Well, just under a mile. If the house had been a few blocks farther away, past the mile mark, Glory could have taken the school bus – easier, though not exactly the coolest way to arrive at school. But no, they make me walk.
The wind picked up, and Glory’s thighs were turning red. She felt numb with chill. Her long dark hair, wild and frizzy, collected mist that froze as it clung to her curls. Her nose and eyes ran from the harsh wind, and as she wiped at her face with a frosty glove, Glory stepped squarely into a slush puddle. “Oh, crap! My shoes!” she yelped in pain as her toes hit the icy water.
For crying out loud. She glanced back and realized that she was out of sight of Ma and Mrs. Fournier, who lived in the house next door and was surely keeping an eye on the street for safety’s sake. Even at this ungodly hour.
A truck appeared down the road. Glory stood in the street with her coat undone, flying in the wind. She stuck out her thumb. Within seconds she had a ride. She climbed awkwardly into the cab, her miniskirt hiking up. Her frozen legs refused to move quickly. “Where’s a pretty girl like you goin’?” asked the trucker.
“Down the road a bit,” she replied. The driver didn’t know that Gloria always said exactly what she meant.
“Happy to take you with me, little lady,” the man said, clearly pleased with his run of good luck. The truck pulled back into the street. The trucker glanced over and watched as Glory rubbed her bare red thighs.
I’m so damn cold. Will spring never come? She closed her eyes, willing Persephone, the goddess of spring, to arise from the dead. Nothing happened.
Should know better than to trust in the gods. Maybe I’ll thumb my way to Florida.
Her fingers moved up and down her frigid skin, trying to create some heat. The trucker’s hand left the steering wheel and inched across the vinyl seat toward her. “It’s like ice in here,” he said softly so as not to disturb her reverie. “I can help with that.”
Glory gave up on the gods for the moment and stared out the steamed up window. She counted the side streets they slowly passed – Forest Street, Chestnut Street, Spring Hill Lane. Such vernal, innocent places, green and natural. Merry and naked, nothing like winter; no snow drifts ever on Spring Hill.
The truck came up on Sherwood Lane as the man’s hunger searched for warmth in the girl sitting trance-like beside him.
I wonder if England had street names back in the days of Robin Hood and Maid Marion. That’s stupid, I suppose there were no streets at all, just paths leading to the castle. Robin lived in the forest, idiot, not the town. You can’t find your way through the forest, that’s the whole point. You can disappear and only be found if you want to be.
Glory’s intense violet eyes strained to see through the foggy glass. Robin stopped hiding in Sherwood just long enough to save Maid Marion from being forced to marry the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. Where is Nottingham, anyway?
And where was good King Richard when you needed him? Off to fight the silly Crusades. That’s a man for you. You can’t count on good winning out. You can’t count on men being good. And you couldn’t count on any man, not even a lionhearted king, to protect you from the slime bags of the world. No man but Robin, of course, and he isn’t real. You can’t keep a real man from forcing his way on you.
Several centuries and half a mile went by. Glory ended her day dream in time to spot Birchwood Street and told the driver, “Okay, you can stop now.”
His excitement had built and he didn’t want to let her go. “What are you talkin’ about, honey? We’re just gettin’ started – I ain’t stoppin’ now.”
“I have to get out. School’s that way.” She pointed left. “Can’t be late, I’ll get detention again.”
He said, “I ain’t lettin’ you out. This is my truck. You’ll play by my rules.” He winked at her with an ugly slyness, his mouth curled up in a grin.
Disgusting creep. Her violet eyes lit the dawn and called the royalty within her to account. Like Aurora herself, she controlled the morn. She turned to him with the calm of an ancient queen. “No one tells me what to do. Certainly not a savage like you. Now let me out or Zeus may strike you dead.”
The man’s eyes widened in surprise and not a little regret. But he pulled over to the curb, and as he stopped, let out a belly whopper of a laugh. “You sure have spunk. You’re a magnet for trouble,” he said admiringly.
~~~~~~
Glory didn’t have to hitch a ride the rest of the way. Mike drove by and picked her up. One of the few kids in school with a car, Mike was rich and owned a Mustang. But he seemed nice, not snobby, and didn’t hold it against her that she was poor. The radio was playing, and Glory sang along. “I wanna hold your hand! I wanna hold your hand! I wanna hold your hand!” She looked over at Mike, who seemed amused and a little embarrassed. Hmmm, he doesn’t like the Beatles? Glory wondered. Who doesn’t like the Beatles?
They made it to school by 7:10, fully ten minutes early. To date, this was Glory’s best time for getting to school – one for the books. But she didn’t stay in the parking lot with Mike. Instead, she hurried into school, waving to the principal as she rushed past him and into the nearest girls’ room to check the damage to her mascara and lip gloss. Must warm up. Winter is the pits.
The principal shook his head as she flew by. “Gloria is impulsive – always in a rush,” he told his assistant. “But at least I can count her present and on time today – and it’s a Monday!”
~~~~~~
Glory didn’t have much homework that night. The peewees were in bed. Dad always went to sleep early. And Penny and Sammy were in the dining room with their books spread out everywhere. Exams tomorrow. She waited up for her mother to come home from her shift.
Ma walked in the house and lit a cigarette. She stood at the kitchen table and wearily scrambled eggs for her late night supper. “Ma,” Glory wondered, “why don’t you ever check up on me? I kind of thought you’d call the school to make sure I didn’t skip today.”
“It’s been a long day, my dear,” Ma said, remembering her six o’clock wake up. “And, no news is good news,” she explained with a knowing look on her tired face.
Gloria didn’t consider hitchhiking newsworthy. “I made record time,” she responded proudly.
“That’s my girl,” Ma answered as she turned up the heat on her eggs.
Glory looked around the dirty kitchen. She saw dishes piled high in the sink, and a stovetop that no one ever cleaned encrusted with weeks’ worth of cooking. God, Sunday’s papers, dumped in a corner on the linoleum floor.
“Ma?” she wondered. “Have you ever wanted to be rich and famous, like a movie star? Have you ever wanted to be someone besides yourself?”
“Why do you ask?” Joyce answered.
“I hate my life.”
Joyce chuckled. “That’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Being me is so boring. A movie star has adoring fans. Everyone knows she’s gorgeous, in the spotlight in Hollywood and Times Square. She might climb the Eiffel Tower or visit Stonehenge at the summer solstice. Or sail the Atlantic first class passage.” Glory had never seen a real passenger ship. “A movie star plays lots of roles; she can pretend to be whoever she wants. I’ll bet a movie star’s life is always exciting.”
Joyce wasn’t so sure. She sighed. “Gloria my dear, life is unfair. What can I say? I suppose you’ll just have to live with being you. It’s not really so bad being you, is it?”
Glory answered without having to think. “I’d much rather be someone else. I don’t even like my name. Gloria – it’s such a stupid name, and “Glory” makes me sound like a baby. The only thing I like about me is my eyes. Everything else on the list - get rid of it, chop it off!” Glory laughed a deep Pooh-bah laugh.
“But maybe a queen is a better choice than a movie star. Because a queen is real, not just pretty. She has power. And she can come and go as she pleases, and has loyal followers to do her bidding.” Glory glanced around her filthy house. Cobwebs up at the ceiling.
“A queen doesn’t have to live in a messy house. She could discover new worlds. Someday she might even fly to the moon on a rocket ship. If you could be a queen, Ma, who would you be?”
Glory’s mother considered the exhausting day she had just finished. “I suppose Cleopatra,” she replied. “Why? Cleopatra floated down the Nile on her own barge. She could be alone anytime she wanted. She made rules to suit herself.”
Ma took a drag on her Chesterfield and flicked the ashes into the kitchen sink. “Oh, and she drank lovely coconut milk and ate figs dipped in honey. Egypt is hot but not ungodly humid like here in summer. She had the gentle breezes of the Nile to keep her cool. Yes, I’d be Cleopatra if I had a chance.”
She scraped her scrambled eggs onto a plate and took a last drag of her cigarette. She looked for an empty ashtray. Every one of them overflowed. She dropped the butt into a coffee cup left on the table from breakfast. Joyce closed her eyes for a moment and luxuriated in the notion of being all alone. “Who would you be, Glory?”
“I know it’s dumb, but I’ve got to get a new name, and I want the coolest name in the world. The best by far is Elizabeth, don’t you think?
I want to be rich and famous, and powerful beyond all reason. And wicked beautiful, of course, and have cool clothes, something different to wear for every season of the year. I want to do good deeds for the people of my country. I must travel the world and see every corner of the British Isles. Search for Sherwood Forest and Camelot and the Hundred Acre Wood.”
And attract handsome followers, naturally. Glory blushed.
“I’ll be the great Queen Elizabeth, the First among all queens.”
She smiled. It was an excellent choice, the choice of a lifetime. It all makes sense. Though how I’ll get myself to the moon, I’m not sure.
Only the vast sea of time held that answer.