Raisin and Pumpernickel

I knew Helena before the English class. That is, by her name tag and a tad more. I was living in a cellar apartment. My work was thirty-six minutes away. A couple of times a week, I’d leave early and have breakfast at Larry Saylor’s Pancake Stop where she labored in a milk chocolate-colored uniform, the joint’s name in calligraphy across her white apron. Her dark eyes shined behind wire-rimmed glasses. Some called her white orthopedics ‘space shoes’. A teen told his mom they were from another galaxy. Despite their size, she moved around the room gracefully. On her wrist was a bracelet with different colored horses dangling. Her hair, deep black, was bundled in a net. A postal worker said it looked like a bag of eels. Her uncovered ear lobes displayed silver studs. A loud city laborer who waved a flag for road crews blurted out that Helena was in the right place, flat as a pancake. I calculated perfect silver buck stacks that fit her slim, tall body just fine. No visible reaction from Helena. I imagined her dropping a thermal pot on the breast critic’s head or at least emptying one in her lap. I was on a raisin toast kick and twice she gave me an extra slice for no additional charge. She didn’t say “boo” but did venture a thin smile. I fantasized chunky raisins between my fingertips, then go taut for my tongue.

I did a double-take the first time I saw her in class. She’d missed the first session. Her hair was free, draped over her left shoulder onto her beige all-weather coat, and shaded one eye. Her uniform peeked out the bottom a couple or so inches. I’d never seen her wearing lipstick before. The shade smacked of boysenberry syrup — a favorite of mine that Saylor’s didn’t offer. She plunked down at the desk next to me and winked, some of the fruit glazed her teeth. No glasses. Why did she wear them at Saylor’s? We’d been given a note at registration to choose any piece in the text and write three loose-leaf pages about it, single-spaced, with no margins. Nearly everyone followed that instruction for the first meeting. Miss O’Mara asked for volunteers to read just the opening page. I was the first to speak up. I’d written about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown.” I concentrated on the serpent-like staff and the Catechism. I included my childhood experiences with garter and green snakes and the Baltimore Catechism. The nun who taught me in fifth grade, who some kids called a witch, was a match for Brown’s Catechism teacher, Goody.

At Helena’s debut, Miss O’Mara was standing at the door passing back our work. It was as if she’d started to slit her wrists then thought better of it — there were so many red comments and corrections on pages. She noted that my grammar was poor and that typewriters were available at the library. Helena raised her hand. “I apologize for missing the first class, I had to work late,” she said.” That puzzled me. "I did complete the assignment,” she added. “You are forgiven, Miss Lawrence.” I’d browsed the text’s table of contents and skimmed a story by D.H. Lawrence. She walked over to Helena’s desk, held out her hand for the theme (in a purple folder), then briskly scanned the pages. She removed the outline, waved it as if a tabloid for sale, and gave praise. I wrote mine after I finished the writing. “Barns aren’t built without blueprints. You may read toward the end of class, Helena,” She said, then recommended we purchase a writing guide, The Elements of Style.

Helena didn’t orate sitting down. I thought she would have wanted a rest after being on her feet all day. At least her maroon flats looked comfortable. She read about her dream of riding quarter horses at Pikes Peak Meadows and called a race as a track announcer would. Holy shit, one of the horses was named Reason Traps, and the D.H. Lawrence story was about horse racing! I saw her charging through the stretch, winning a race by a nose. She included a stable fire scene to go with the story, “Barn Burning,” which made sense of the outline remark. Helena’s finale was pulling out a Zippo and flicking an inch of flame. She got away with reading her entire composition. “We need more about Faulkner’s characters and less about you,” suggested Miss O’Mara. I considered raising my hand to ask if the barn in the story was built from an outline or instinct, but I backed down. I didn’t want to establish myself as the class wiseass. Miss O’Mara wished us a good night. I thought she might hold Helena back for a word or two, but it didn’t happen. Helena hurried out. I was on her tail. The forest-green Corvette waiting for her was a convertible. The top was the color of a gooey, lightly cooked pancake. I canceled my silly notion of asking her out. I felt like a fool thinking that two free pieces of toast meant anything more than that. I quit Saylor’s and switched to pumpernickel. Helena never asked about my breakfast absence in class. The waitress at the Golden Spike Diner was grandmotherly and wore sneakers. Her glasses dangled off her neck on a pink cord. She only used them when figuring a check. She added “mother of 5” under “Bernice.” My third visit there, she used a red pen and listed their names. “Helena” was circled like a word Miss O’Mara thought didn’t fit, but Bernice winked that notion away.

Thomas M. McDade resides in Fredericksburg, VA. He is a graduate of Fairfield University. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). Recently published in The Manila Review.