SoMa Literary Review

The Stoop

By Tim Donnelly

It’s this place, the stoop in front of my house. It hasn’t been a lucky spot for me. My first memory of it is when, as a lesson, my mother slammed the front door shut after I dramatically threatened to run away. We’d been fighting (I don’t remember about what) it had escalated and I’d rushed into my bedroom and thrown some things into a carry all of some sort. I know I was maybe three or four years old at the time. I’d bolted out the door, and she’d been standing there, holding it open. Bam! Locked out.

Another time was to teach me a different lesson. I was about the same age. Awakening from a bad dream during a nap, I could feel being all alone. Jumping down from the top bunk, my foot caught the blue coverlet; I tripped and fell. The suddenness pushed my fear of desertion to full throttle. It tightened around my throat like the kung fu grip on the GI Joe I landed on. Scrambling to my feet, I went hunting for solace. There wasn’t anyone in the kitchen. The faux-brick linoleum padded my movements, dampened by the socks on my feet. Down the hallway I went, head pivoting left and right, looking into each room I passed: dining room; living room; bedroom; bathroom; nobody; nothing; no one. Finally, I looked outside.

There was everybody except my dad, he wasn’t home much. My mom sat on the top step with baby brother on her lap. Her then brown hair tumbled to her shoulders, shiny. A strong roman nose was profiled by the usual San Francisco gray sky, and her bright blue eyes contrasted nicely with the white stucco house. She looked happy. My older brother and sister were at her feet playing a game I didn’t recognize. My younger sister was toddling about behind her.

I felt a need to be hugged and held. The urge swelled like a mushroom starting in my chest, finally breaking that “kung fu” grip which had been squeezing my throat. Shoving past the door, with hoarse voice I called: “Mommy,” arms outstretched.

She turned towards my voice, and I could sense her smile shrink. She had been enjoying her respite. The older ones – closest in age – were getting along. The younger ones were content. When I arrived with Need, it threw the scene a kilter. I tried to sidle up next to her and put my head on her shoulder. She pushed me away gently.

I put my arms out again, and she shook her head. “I can’t Patrick. I’ve got the baby here, and I don’t want to disturb him. He’s being really good now.”

One more time, I held my arms out, and again she shook her head. Alone, I turned, retreating back to my room. Once there, I saw my “Joe” on the floor, picked it up, and crawled back on to the top of my bunk. I was called for dinner sometime later. I sat at the table that night still hugging my doll with the kung fu grip.

The last time was when I was ten, and again found myself on that stoop, but this time it’s my dad who’s there with me. Dawn had begun to light the dusky mist of morning. Last night’s snails were trailing across our walk, and the morning birds were just beginning to stir. Once again I had Need, but I wasn’t going to put my arms out or anything else. What is there to say? How was I going to admit it? I wasn’t even sure what I’d done, if anything. But I felt wrong. I felt unconnected. I felt like I’d failed. Looking at those snails kept reminding me of my dad’s nurse. On one of her birthdays, her husband took her out for a fancy dinner to a French restaurant. They’d had a good time. Once home, they had to cross the sidewalk to get to their house. Like ours, the snails came out at night. As she walked, inevitably there were a few casualties: step; crunch; step; crunch. She heaved her escargot appetizer on her front lawn right around her fifth footfall. There were other things to talk about at that time, but that was the only thing I could think of. Maybe I was numb but I couldn’t get myself to open up. What happened? Let me tell you.

Like a lot of things, this started simply enough. A weekend at my grandmother’s – not an unusual occurrence. We called her Noni. She lived on Woodland Avenue, off of Parnassus, and was my mother’s mother. A shortish woman, not squat but matronly, her gray hair a halo around her soft-featured face, the only sharp angles slashing her countenance being eyeglasses and pointed nose. I simply adored her. We all did. Next to my father, she was #2 on my list of hero worship.

She could do no wrong, even the time she washed my mouth out with soap because she couldn’t prove I was lying. I knew she was only doing it for the “best” of reasons. What blame there was to attribute was my older brother’s to bear, he was the guilty party. I don’t fink. I got the tongue scrubbing as much for my stubbornness, as for my purported prevarication.

She was very unassuming and caring. More times than not, she’d tell us tales seated in her kitchen, while something on the stove simmered, aromas tickled, and her warm radiance basted our self-confidence, love, and regard.

We’d beg her: “Tell us the time Pop went to Alaska.” She’d reply: “You mean the time the lions licked all the hair off his head?” Our retort invariably: “…There aren’t any lions in Alaska.” “What do you mean? When Pop was there, it was so wild he had to show the Eskimos how to build an igloo; …it was so wild that you had to pay tribute to the grizzly bears to get them to leave you alone…Why, it was so wild, they’d say a tame horse would go as crazy as your Uncle Louie...”

Eventually she’d remember her point: “No lions? Don’t be silly child. The place was just lousy with lions. Why, we’ve got lions right here; haven’t you ever heard of mountain lions?”

“But you said they had manes. Only African lions have manes.”

“My, aren’t you smart,” she’d say looking at me. I’d smile. Then continue: “It’s cold up there. They get lots of snow. Pop, God rest his soul, would tell me those Alaskan lions – that’s what you heard me say – would grow extra-long hair to protect them from the cold; just like the saber-tooth used to do in the ice ages.”

And she’d have us. We’d believe like we were learning our catechism. With a twinkle in her eye and a gossamer grin, she’d reel us in.

Then everything changed.

That night, I heard mumbling in her room when I awoke with the urge to pee. The house was small, two bedrooms with a bath. Thinking back, I’m now reminded of a bungalow: put together low with paned windows across its living room front and matching doors on the built in hutch in the adjoining dining room, an arched wall divided the two.

At some point the urge won out, and I arose. On my return back to bed, I didn’t look in on her. I was too upset. The sounds weren’t particularly horrific, and it wasn’t like there were ear-splitting shouts of pain wailing from her room. What I heard was mumbled and muffled, a series of incoherent words. But they worked on me and caused me to worry.

I wish I could say I was panic stricken, then I’d have an excuse. My fear was real but its source was beyond my understanding. I felt it even before I’d shaken off enough of the sleep to hear her moans.

I tried to get back to sleep, even put the pillow over my head, hoping to shut the sound out and make it all go away. Nothing worked.

Once I even got up and walked to her bedroom door and stuck my ear to it and listened, while telling myself to get it over with and open it: What could be the worse thing that could happen?

With my ear cocked and my head resting about handle high, I roosted there – absorbing all sounds – the bat in his cave, echo-locating the stranger in its midst. Through the door, I could make out: ...aaAAHH…I….uh-huh….what?…mmmMMMM…somebody…there? …hhuuhhhhh…”.

I jumped back and stood a couple of paces deeper into the hallway. Frozen: What are you so afraid of? Don’t be such a weenie! Do Something!

The beginning of a pattern I’ve followed for the rest of my life took root: Sis is sleeping with Noni. If something was wrong, she’d know it. What’s the big deal? She’d be awake by now if Noni was hurt. The compromise framed, my resolve undermined, I folded, a pup tent in a tornado, and went back to bed.

At some point my sister walked in and said: “Noni’s sick”. Colleen was a couple of years younger with auburn hair, an impish nose with a pillion of freckles speckled across its bridge, and two deep dimples that dotted her face when she smiled. Tears ran down smooth cheeks and hung on her small chin before they dropped into darkness.

I got out of bed. My lean frame sprang into action. Lights were turned on, doors opened; with my sister in tow, the activity bolstered my confidence like gas in an empty engine.

Together, we walked into Noni’s bedroom. The light shone on her prostrate form. Her hair, usually neatly styled, splayed out from her head resembling the fingers of a hand stabbed by a pike. Her blue eyes, glassy with fever, had lost focus. A toothless mouth (falsies in the glass jar by her headboard) hung slack, lips and cheeks puffed in and out with each breath. She looked hollow and shriveled, akin to the dead and dried carcass of a baby bird that’s been abandoned.

Her nightgown had bunched above her knees. I’d never seen them before. She only wore dresses that fell above her ankles. It didn’t seem right to me. I told Colleen: “Get her straightened out, and I’m going to call dad.” Noni’s fingers quivered while reaching towards her hem.

As soon as my sister touched her, she came to with a moment of clarity and asked: “What are you doing?”

“Colleen’s fixing your pajamas. I’m calling dad.”

“No. Don’t. I’ll be alright.”

“Noni, you’re sick. I’ve got to call dad. (Pause) He’s a doctor.”

“No. I’m not sick. I just need to lie here a while. I don’t want you to call your father.” Then her command ebbed and with the last syllable, her eyes blurred.

I looked at my sister and she looked at me. Neither of us said a word. Fear wasn’t my problem, but once again I was pinched between do and don’t. That interloper, my resolve, was wavering like a politician choosing between two campaign donors. What do I do?

The call wasn’t made. We struggled trying to get her back into bed. We pulled, tugged, shoved in our efforts to maneuver her from where she had collapsed at its end. We wanted to get her to the side, where there wasn’t a footboard.

Once there, our plan was to hoist her up to a squatting position, and then with her shoulders and arms above the mattress, we’d yank and drag her the rest of the way back into bed. The thinking went, between our effort and her crawling, we would be able to do it. We couldn’t even get her around the corner of the bed frame. There wasn’t any crawling on her part, just mumbling and snatches of sentences: “…I…uh-uh…who’s that?…what?…You can’t!…I won’t!…Never… .”

We abandoned that plan. It wasn’t working. Again I stated: “I’m calling dad”. Once again she spouted a clear cut: “No. I’ll be fine”. I flip-flop: Yes I am. No I’m not. Yes I am. No I’m not….

Eventually a new idea dawned. Once more we stationed ourselves on either side of a shoulder, pulled and tugged, dragged and heaved with everything we could muster. Ultimately we were able to get her to rest on her knees, and lugged her arms over the top of the footboard. She loitered there like dirty laundry – in a heap, wrinkled and worn. We couldn’t get her any farther. We were the Donner party just before the summit. Then it hit me.

I told my sister to climb up on the bed and grab both of Noni’s arms. “When I tell you, pull with everything you got”. I was going to position myself behind her, use my shoulder to elevate Noni by placing it at her haunch, and use my legs as leverage. All we accomplished was to get my grandmother’s nightdress to ride upwards, past her hip. I saw she wasn’t wearing any underwear (and more). That was it; I made up my mind. The heck with elders. This was too much!

“Noni, we can’t get you into bed. You’re sick. I’m calling dad right now.”

Dad answered the phone. I told him: “Noni’s sick”. He asked a few doctor questions. I replied the same thing to each query: “I don’t know. She’s sick. She can’t get into bed”. Finally he replied: “I’ll be right there”.

My parents arrived a few minutes before the ambulance. Exact time frames are not clear. The time that passed from when I hung up the phone and saw my mom come crying up the walk, I don’t know. It could have been a minute; it could’ve been a year.

At some point Noni was loaded on to the gurney, while my mom sat on the bed with Colleen in her lap, both rocking back and forth to the rhythm of synchronized sorrows. I was in another room sitting on a straight-backed chair, silent.

More things happened; they always do. Suffice to say Noni died before she ever got out of the hospital. Originally, the prognosis had been good. It was an intestinal tract infection, but treatable.

I’ll never know for sure why, but her health took a turn decidedly for the worse, right after my parents had gone to visit to discuss her housing options upon her departure from the hospital. I wasn’t there, none of us kids were. But we knew what was going to happen. It had been discussed with us ahead of time. Her doctors had said she couldn’t live alone any longer. Though the infection was treatable, it could erupt again at any time, without warning, and without prompt attention, she’d die.

When she protested, my parents responded: “We’re moving to the suburbs next week, almost an hour away. We can’t be here fast enough if, God forbid, something were to happen”. They’d also point out, she didn’t drive – never had. “How are you to get to your doctors appointments, or go grocery shopping? All your friends are getting older, and we won’t be close by to help.” They’d say: “For you to live alone, you’d require a live-in nurse in case something were to happen – doctor’s orders. That’s too big an expense for you and for us. What else can we do?”

The last time I saw her alive, we were visiting in her hospitable room. She was distant and uninvolved in our conversations. I remember she just laid there, not talking and not paying attention. She’d look at me or Colleen, my brothers, my other sister…but never my mom.

Every once in a while, her eyes would mist, and she’d turn her head towards the window. I was reminded of how our dog used to look at us as we’d go off to school. It always made me feel sad and silly, both at the same time. Sad because I was leaving a friend. Silly because I felt like I was letting the dog down and even sillier because I didn’t know why I was making a big deal out of it.

In this case, the big deal was the funeral and I wasn’t allowed to go. I’d made myself a spectacle, as my mother put it, at the rosary the night before.

I don’t remember much past walking into the chapel, blessing myself, and then walking up the aisle to pray before her visible remains. I had no idea those things went like that. The interior was dim, lit by candles that framed both walls and continued along its rear. There was a small lectern off to one side, and my grandmother’s casket was flanked on either side with two standing crucifixes.

I knelt down, dad to my right. I was just big enough to see over the coffin and look in. She was wearing a dress I didn’t recognize. Her hair was cranked up, and there was rouge on her cheeks, lips painted a muted shade of pink. It was hard to identify her as the person I knew. I began to stare real hard, and I began to think that maybe this wasn’t her but someone else and it was all a big mistake. I looked inside at all the ruffles and satin stuff and tried as hard as I could to convince myself that this wasn’t Noni. Looking towards my dad, I was hoping for reassurance. His head was bowed, lips trembled with whispered prayer. I’d watch her, aching for movement. I wanted more than anything to replay that nights events and fix what I did wrong. I knelt in front of her and began to beg forgiveness. I asked her to forgive me for not being brave enough, for not being good enough, for not being someone she could count on.

My dad never noticed all my twitching and fidgeting till I let out a full-throated scream and collapsed in a heap by his side. He was a good sized man, a little over 6 feet tall, broad shouldered, with barrel chest – he picked me up in one clump and threw me over his shoulder. I can still see the back of his legs and us crossing carpet backwards (in my view) as he led me off to a rest room and away from everybody.

Upon entering the bathroom, I was taken off his shoulder, placed in front of the sink, and it was turned on. He reached around to the towel dispenser, grabbed a few, handed them to me in a wad. I continued to blubber. I’d taken the towels from him but didn’t use them.

I kept this up for a while, and haven’t any idea what Dad was doing during my fit. I just continued to cry and cry. I was looking in the mirror. I could see myself, tear streaked, complexion flushed. I couldn’t get it out of my head; I could feel it with my fingertips; my ineptitude had killed her. I’d see her as she was when telling us a story in her kitchen; I’d see her crumpled at the foot of her bed; I’d see her laughing; I’d see her crying; I’d see her in her coffin.

Guilt and despair a lather, each sob added more froth. I became driftwood in a river going off a cliff, I free fell. Some part of me wanted to become totally submerged.

I began to stutter: “Mmmy ffffff…my ffault…”

Dad must have heard enough because he went from silent to DAD!: “That’s enough of that. Stop it. Right this minute. It’s nobody’s fault. There’s nothing you could have done”.

“You don’t understand…”

“Stop I said. There’s no use in blaming yourself. She got sick and died. It had nothing to do with you.”

“But dad, I…I was…”

“Enough. You can’t continue to beat yourself up over this. What’s done is done. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t know the whole story. I… I…”

“It’s time to buck up, boy. Someday you’re going to be a man, its time to start acting like one.”

“But, dad…I didn’t…”

“Save her? Son you have to realize that’s life sometimes. I’m a doctor, I know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not that. It’s something else. It’s how I didn’t…”

“I told you, that’s enough. She died because her insides gave out on her. It was her time. It happens to all of us, sooner or later. That’s it Patrick. I don’t want to hear anymore about it. It’s not your fault. Who are you? God? Do you really think you have control over life and death? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the way life is. And you need to learn it.”

“Dad – you don’t know the whole story.”

“No. That’s the end of it. You need to pull yourself together. No more of this nonsense. I’ll not hear another word on it.”

Dad placed his hands on my chest and began to pull my tie back into place. I saw on his face his mind was made up. I heard his words. They were doing battle with everything else that I was feeling. It was emotional anarchy. But I put up a brave front. I tried my best to put a lid on it. After a few more minutes and about 5 gallons of water splashed on my face to wash away the tears, we left and went back to the chapel.

It was no use, however. My spirit had been halved in two, and each half was cooperating with the other like the Vatican and Martin Luther. Chaos prevailed. I once again fell apart. The broken rosary whose beads had spilt.

My outburst and continued hysterics caused my parents to deduce that the funeral would be too much of a strain for me and deemed my presence too stressful. I stayed home alone and waited for them to return, hoping to be filled in on what happened. Upon arrival, nobody wanted to talk about it. To this day, it’s never been discussed.

That was only the beginning. It’s as my dad had said: “That’s life”. And that it is – he was dead within the year.

Tim Donnelly is a born and raised San Franciscan, dating back four generations. His mother, grandparents and great grand parents were all born in San Francisco. His grand mother used to tell stories of the '06 quake and having to live in Oakland until the city came back to life. He still lives in the bay area.