|
Illustration by Deborah Ann Cidboy
|
Smoking at the Dear Sage: Mama is eighty and lives with my wife
and me. Mama smokes, which is bad enough, and she tends to go into a sort of
trance, with a lit cigarette in her hand. Several times, she’s burned her
fingers. I’m afraid she’ll start a fire. What is your advice?
Al in Dear Al: Two things you MUST do. The cigarettes
have to go. Be gently persuasive if possible, firm if necessary. And, your mother needs medical
attention. What you call a “trance” could be the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
The sooner you get a diagnosis, the better.
Sage |
|
A girl can do so much with a cigarette. Just
the fact that she’s smoking says she’s mature, experienced, a woman of the
world. Mysterious behind her veil of smoke, she may be waving a wand or
wielding a subtle weapon. Who knows? And, her choice of smoke heightens the
mystery. Marrakech? At the same time, she can use the ritual
of the cigarette to accentuate her femininity. For one thing, there’s the
business of holding it. Ever so lightly, always between the first two fingers
of the left hand, with the wrist bent away from the face, graceful as only a
lady can be. On the right occasion, she will accept a cigarette and a light
from a gentleman. Their hands touch, she whispers her gratitude, he catches a
hint of her perfume, he gives her fire and is left full of it. Richard has come to the lobby, as I
have, for an after-dinner smoke. I know his name because, while coming in to
dinner last evening, I inquired about a certain table and the Maitre D’ said
it was permanently reserved for the man known only as Richard. As is his
custom, Richard is sitting with his back to the wall, reading The
Financial Times and smoking a short, unfiltered cigarette—Camel is my
first guess, but maybe something unanticipated, Egyptian or Indian. He smokes
like a man sure of himself—crisp movement, deep inhale, forceful exhale. I open my little gold lamé evening bag
and remove my pearl inlay cigarette case. Daddy gave it to me, despite
Mother’s disapproving glare, the day I left for college. Daddy’s little girl
is all grown up now and needs grown-up accessories, he said as he slipped it
into the pocket of my linen jacket. Now, it captures a glimmer from the cut
glass chandelier and tosses it around the lobby. I love these European
hotels, with their blended bouquets of chamber music and cognac. The movement of reflected light captures
Richard’s attention. I take a But, a girl must get on with her life. I
pause, then click-flare-click and it’s lit. Richard collapses the newspaper
onto his lap and leans forward. With fingers longer and slimmer than the cigarette,
I take it from my lips and hold it aside. I tilt my head back and release a
slow stream of smoke in his direction. Through the smoke, I see him sink back
into his chair and smile. “Al. She’s at it again.” “What?” “Sitting there, with her eyes closed,
waving her cigarette around like some movie star.” “She’s okay.” “Hello? Is this more denial? If you
don’t believe me, believe Sage. You wrote to her.” “My mistake.” “Al, we have to do something. I’m willing
to take care of her, but I’m not going to be burned up by her. Take her
cigarettes now and take her to the doctor tomorrow.” The Sûreté agents are on the other side
of the lobby. They’ve recognized me. They have their heads together. The female
agent whispers to her male counterpart, tells him to take me now. But he
isn’t sure and that gives me time. Hoping to appear unhurried, I crush out my
cigarette in the crystal ashtray. I risk an unmasked glance at Richard, but
he’s watching the Sûreté. He’s already finished his cigarette and now he puts
his newspaper aside. Even from across the room, I see his knuckles whiten on
the arms of his chair. Then, he returns my glance and nods toward the big,
brass-trimmed double doors that open to the avenue. I rise. Careful. Haste
will create unwanted alarm. Careful. “Al. She’s headed for the door.” “Cool it. She’s got her purse, so she’s
going to the Piggly Wiggly for more cigarettes.” “Sure. And, maybe, like last week,
she’ll throw herself into the arms of the postman and thank him for rescuing
her from the Chinese warlord.” “Okay, okay. I’ll keep an eye on her.” The bad cop remains seated but the good
cop is up, following me. Now, Richard, now! jimmy carl harris This story and illustration were published in the and are featured in my new short story collection, Wounds that Bind. |
|
