Lani Jo

In the twelfth year of my marriage something got lost. My husband Roger and I had a fight. It's futile to repeat what was said. Cruel, ugly words spilled out on both sides. My psyche felt like it had stayed out in the sun too long, defaced by blistered, oozing sores. Our bed, once an island oasis, was now as wide as the Gulf of Mexico, and each night I slept fitfully robed in grey flannel. We moved through our days in studied politeness. Emotionally abandoned and betrayed, for the first time I danced with the specter of divorce.

Three o'clock on this Memorial Day afternoon, I'm having a beer in the Queen of Hearts. It's a neighborhood bar across the street from the community center where Eugene and I used to go swimming three or four times a week. One time I even got him to take a yoga class with me, but since he was the only male in the class, he swore he'd never do it again. To be truthful, I used to think this bar was a strip club, and it's certainly not the kind of place I would normally frequent, but today is my Red Letter Day so anything is possible for me.

Sitting in the corner booth of the Old Town Diner, I've got today's paper spread out on the table and a yellow marker in hand – wanted, apartment for rent.  I'm on my third cup of coffee when Terry walks in. He sidles up and places an arm around my shoulders. “Whatcha doin', Ruby, my jewel? You’re just the person I’ve been wantin' to see.”

I heave a sigh in his direction. “Trying to find some place to live. I don’t think I can take another minute with my mother.”

Jack lifts his head from the crook of his arm. Across the counter, he spies a bartender’s face reflected in the mirror behind shelves of liquor.

The bartender reaches for a bottle of Makers Mark, catches Jack’s eye, and winks.

Jack shifts his position on the bar stool. It has no footrest, and he struggles to stay upright on the hard, narrow seat, even though his long, thin legs almost touch the floor.

The bartender turns around. “Whoa, buddy, steady there. I don’t have to cut you off already, do I? You just got here.”

Crystal is hunkered down in her bed writing, and tonight, like every other night, she is pretending she is on safari, deep in the wilds of Africa.

Just in the past week, I've reconnected with people I haven't laid eyes on in more than 20 years,  both encounters courtesy of Facebook.

Since I work in memoir, it's interesting to discover how differently we remember the stories that we carry forward into our future.

It’s Friday night. I’m sitting on the top bunk singing The Old Rugged Cross. I love that hymn, especially the part in the chorus where you get to sing up high. My younger sister, Karen, is asleep or she’s being quiet and not talking for once. We don’t call her Chatty Cathy for nothing. Mommy and Daddy are playing cards with Bernie and Lilly Fowler in the kitchen. I keep hoping they hear me.

It's been one hell of a year on both the personal and global front. In March we bury our beautiful and beloved Aunt Beverly after she dies from a debilitating stroke. Thousands of innocents die in senseless wars; hundreds of thousands are injured. There's my tumor and hysterectomy. Oil prices balloon to $100 a barrel, and the economy collapses. Then, are you ready for this? God and I get a divorce.

The hot Oklahoma summer is drawing to a close. Tomorrow the doors to Moore Elementary will swing open, and at recess the dusty playground across the street from Ruby’s house will thunder with the sounds of running feet.