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Short Story / Say Say Old Playmate
Say Say Old Playmate
I saw her only on Sundays, playing hookie from catechism classes. In the beginning, we would sneak into grown up church and watch the dull faces and nodding heads pretend to listen to Latin. When she would imitate the serious members of Townsend , Massachusetts as they ‘d shake hands and say “Peace be with you,” we’d hold laughter in our mouths with our little hands. But I was nervous the whole time—afraid of my parents finding me. Not because they would’ve been angry with me, but disappointed. They were those kind of parents. So, because of my fear, it was her, Sarah, who had thought of the abandoned sanctuary and who took my hand and led me there. It was locked off except for a small ground level window that led to the basement. Back then, we were tiny things, only seven years old, and crawled through the door with ease.
We’d make our way upstairs and perch ourselves on the alter. Sometimes we’d explore the abandoned Catholic church, or braid each other’s hair, but most likely, if anyone were to find us, they would have seen us sitting there clapping something like this:
Say, say old playmate
Come out and play with me
And bring your dolly’s three
But we didn’t play with dolls. Not because I didn’t like dolls. All of my play dates at home included my friends from catholic school (Sarah went to public school) coming over and bringing their dolls. My mother would make us cookies and we’d dress up our dolls, prance around and pretend they were our babies. But I never even thought of cookies or dolls or even my mother when I was with Sarah. It was her and I. Mostly her though. The only thing we ever did that involved anything besides just the two of us, was smoke cigarettes. She’d stolen them from her father. After much trial and error, we’d light them and pretend to smoke—blowing the heavy scented air in each other’s faces and giggling. Sarah would hold the cigarette in between her ring and middle finger, trying to smoke like an adult, and would march around imitating her father, saying deep-voiced things like, “You god-dammed brat, can’t you see your dad’s busy? Now git!” or “Dammit woman, if you say that again I’ll beat your ass back into the kitchen’!” I’d curl up and laugh and cry until finally Sarah joined me. We didn’t even know it wasn’t really funny. Well, Sarah might have, but I surely didn’t. I never imitated my father because he never said funny things. He said things like: “How was your day, sweetheart?” and “Do you want me to read you a chapter of Narnia before bed?”
Climb up my apple tree
Slide down my rain barrel
Into my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends
Forever more, more, more more more!
She wore white always, but through the cracked stained glass of Jesus’ crucification, her dress, along with her face and her beautiful hands, looked warm orange. In my eyes, she was burning and though it was always cold in the abandoned sanctuary, she appeared so warm that I thought when we clapped our hands together, her fingers would melt into mine. But her hands were always much colder than mine and it was usually her who asked me to warm her hands. So when we started to explore each other, as little children so innocently do, it was partially because our legs were warm and our small fingers so cold.
It was a phase I have since grown out of. A phrase most small girls go through and grow out of, which I know now because I have girls of my own. But Sarah was my first love. Is my first love.
She showed me what to do because I was taught to be ashamed of myself and didn’t know the things she did, “This is how daddy does it to me. Don’t tell anyone I showed you how or he’ll be really, really mad.”
“What will he do?”
“I don’t know. It’s different every time.” Sarah played with the hem of her fraying white dress.
“Oh,” I looked at the hem of my dress which was edged with iron lace and copied her.
“So you promise not to tell? Cindy, promise?”
“I promise.” We interlocked out pinky’s and kissed our thumbs.
So sorry playmate
I cannot play with you
My dolly had the flu
The mumps and measles too
I kept my promise as long as I could. One Sunday, after I’d known her for a little over a year, I broke it. We were laying on our backs, looking up at the decaying roof when I saw the bruises on her legs. Large bluish spots on the outside of her white thighs that wrapped around to smaller spots on the inside. Perfectly symmetrical.
“What happened to your legs Sarah?”
“Oh, daddy had a bad day. He needed to relax and I wanted to go to bed. So he hurt me.” she said casually, keeping her eyes on the rotting ceiling above her.
“He hurt you?” I had never put two and two together until this afternoon. In 1975, our parents or teachers didn’t talk to us about these things. Things are different now, with my girls, but then the word was mum.
“It happens.” Sarah got up and walked to the door that led to the basement. “You ready?”
I have no rain barrel
I have no cellar door
But we’ll be jolly friends
Forever more, more…
She turned around and I remember her looking so gray. Everything on her: her usually white dress, her yellow-white hair, spacious blue eyes, fingernails, white ruffled socks, her bones, her blood. If cobwebs would’ve grown out of her ears and covered her I wouldn’t have been surprised—I doubt she would have moved. It’s probable that I remember her more severely. Regardless, I still have dreams about watching her and this is how she appears in them. I can never precisely recall the image of her before that Sunday morning, when she was dressed in white but radiated with warm orange. But the dull gray image seems to have cured itself in my mind.
- * *
That night at dinner, my parents asked me about Sunday school and I could hardly speak. I knew I should tell them, but I promised.
“How was Sunday school Cindy girl?” my father asked me.
“Oh, fine.” I peaked up from my plate to see if he’d bought my reaction.
“What did you learn?”
“Just normal stuff…about Jesus…and God…” This time, as the lie sneaked from my lips, I observed my mother putting her fork down and looking at my father.
“Cindy— ” my mother started.
“Give her a chance.” my father interrupted.
“A chance? For what?” I asked.
My father looked at my mother and she turned to me: “To tell us that you weren’t at Sunday school, Cindy. All the children came out and sang for us today, sweetheart, and you weren’t there. We talked to Sister Ruth on the phone this afternoon and she said you and that Sarah girl haven’t been going.”
“Sister Ruth is lying!”
“Honey, we know she’s not lying. But Cindy, you have to tell us what you were doing or we’re going to get very mad,” my father, who remained ungodly calm in every situation including his cancerous death twenty years later, warned me sternly.
And so I said it all: “I was with Sarah and we go into the old sanctuary and we smoked cigarettes sometimes that she stole from her dad but today it was horrible, daddy, because she had bruises all over her legs because her daddy wanted to relax and she didn’t want him to so he hurt her so he could relax and I didn’t know what to do.”
Though it wasn’t my intent to divert the attention away from me, that is what happened. My parents looked at each other afraid and my father angry. My mother asked me very seriously what Sarah’s last name was.
“I don’t know.” I played with the canned peas on my plate, mashing them, maybe not understanding what was going on but more likely not wanting to admit I understood.
“Have you met her parents?” my dad asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, what do they look like? What does Sarah look like?” It seemed like his long fingers wrapped around my arm five times.
“She has yellow hair and so does her dad. He’s really big and skinny.” I cried and stared at my father, wanting someone to confirm the meaning of the changed air in the room.
“Walter Flaherty. I’ve known the bastard since high school.” He got up and picked up the church directory.
“I’m coming with you,” my mother said, pushing herself away from her barely touched roasted chicken.
“No. Stay with Cindy. I’ll pick up Roger and we’ll deal with it.” And he left.
I don’t know anything else about that night besides my father came home with blood on his cheek and carrying gray Sarah. She had more bruises on her arms. I was sleeping when she got home and was too tired to talk. We would talk in the morning, I thought. My father placed her into my bed and we slept. She was gone in the morning and gone from me until today. My father never told me anything about that night. He never was that kind of man. I assume, now, it was the only fight he ever got in. - * *
Tonight, nearly twenty-five years later, I sit with my littlest girl, who’s five, on my lap playing Say Say Old Playmate. I think of gray Sarah. My husband, who is calm like my father, and my older girl, ten, sit on the floor playing cards. As usual, I keep the news on silent so I can sneak peaks at what horrible things I missed in my small hometown. Tonight, I see her.
“Mommy, play with me, play with me!” my child’s voice pleads with me, but drowns away.
“Just a second.” I throw her on my hip, get on my feet and turn up the volume.
“… raised in the orphanage right outside town. Local girl Sarah Flaherty received nationwide attention…”
“Who’s that Cindy?” My husband asks me.
“Just girl I used to know.” I said, keeping my whining child on my hip and my eyes on the television.
“…for her involvement in the support of civil unions initiative at a conference in Washington D.C.. Although we couldn’t get a…”
I’m not as interested in hearing about her as I am absorbing her. In a burnt red business suit, Sarah’s cloaked in nothing like the gray I have imagined her in. Every time my mind fell to her in the last twenty-five years, I saw only the gray when all this time she was wearing red. And she is still beautiful, “not one of those dyke-ey lesbians,” as my mother would say, unaware that dyke was now a derogatory word. She is a little too thin, but this is easily ignorable for her skin is still perfect and her hair is still blond and natural looking. Her features are full and sharp—eyes, nose, lips. She wears pearls and walks stiffly—but not awkwardly—like she could either charm or ruin you.
I’ve thought she’s been in jail—a prostitute, a thief—have always assumed the worst. I’ve loved her, but loved her guiltily because I thought she needed me and I wasn’t there with her. But she’s been in red this whole time, not needing me at all.
“Momma, aren’t we gonna play anymore?” my little Sarah’s voice chimes in again.
“Sure, honey.” She’s off the news now and I go back to my family.
“They said she lives in Boston now, you should look her up,” suggests my husband who sees the look of nostalgia on my face.
“I will,” I lie, hoping I don’t ever see her again so I can always remember her in red.
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indigorax reviewed Version 1 -
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AM_Schwarz reviewed Version 1 -
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This was pretty darn good. I think it only needs a little bit of editing,just on the words so they all flow. What I mean is hard to explain in a critique, but it would take about 10 minutes to go through it and just make the prose all flow. I really liked it.
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Brittkat reviewed Version 1 -
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What an intriguing story! I couldn’t stop reading this and fully absorbing every detail and twist to the plot that you threw at me! I only noticed 2 spelling errors/typos in the entire passage; and the grammar and punctuation was usually correct. Very good writing, you have a knack in captivating people and capturing their attention and not letting it slip one moment!
LAluver4ever reviewed Version 1 -
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Sloper reviewed Version 1 -
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Well, without specific concerns, it is a little difficult to decide how to proceed. There is much to admire here. The story is succinct (perhaps even so much so that it seems a little encapsulating, but that may be a hazard of the theme), the main characters well-drawn (supporting characters are less full, nearly functionary, but their involvement is minimal), and your dialogue and use of verse were smooth. You take on a very difficult theme, and you use some delicacy to approach it. My main concern is that the resolution seems rushed and disjointed. I like the echoes of childhood play in the end, but perhaps some more connection between the two main characters would be in order here. I hope that this is helpful and if you have specific concerns, attach a comment and I will try to respond.
March 30, 2007
Deleted User
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i liked this very much, though i think you should take another look at the paragraph in which the narraor’s father goes to fight Sarah’s dad. it seems rushed. i thought the scene where they begin to explore each other was very well done, it made me cringe. the other part of this that stood out to me was when she broke down and told the truth about Sarah. you did a wonderful job at making her sound like a distraught little girl. this piece flows very nicely and i couldn’t find any mchanical errors to speak of. you did a good job.
mariah94 reviewed Version 1 -
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campb26593 reviewed Version 1 -
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This is an interesting read. I don’t have any recommendations for the excellent prose. However, I thought Sarah’s portrait as a champion of civil unions felt a bit too disconnected from the original issue of child abuse. The story seems to suggest that she became a lesbian because of her relationship with her father.
I recommend that you either make Sarah’s lesbianism an issue in childhood or change her adult persona to that of a champion against domestic violence.
Anyway, this is a great piece. Good work.
alecthegreat reviewed Version 1 -
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I really like this short story. It felt somewhat ominous from the beginning, so I knew something bad was going to occur. With that said, I will say that things seem to resolve a little too quickly and easily. I think you could add even more to the reflection to make it even more relevant and jarring.
In all, I really feel that this could and should be longer. It doesn’t necessarily have to go on past the ending that’s actually here, but I do feel that there should be a bit more before hand.
I also think that the best writing of this piece is in the beginning and middle of the story. The beginning, in particular, is very strong and gripping. I love the language and how it just draws you in. I wonder, however, if you really need the occassional reminders that it’s just a reflection though. I think by saying things like “I had never put two and two together until this afternoon” you pull the reader out of the story a little bit.
On things resolving too quickly. It feels rushed about the time we get to her telling her parents about Sarah. From there until the end, it’s really rushed. Maybe we should see a couple more Sundays, have Sara talk a little more about what’s been happening to her. Let the reader fear the worst about what may or may not happen to Sarah.
I also think that if you remove the fact that the narrator’s reflecting (at least, until the end of the story), it would be even more powerful. It would make the story more immediate, more engaging.
Well, I hope that helps! Overall, this is a great story!
lynsey reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this. I thought it had a strong opening and the children’s rhymes worked very well. Your description of Sarah came a little too late perhaps – I found myself wondering what she looked like up until you gave the description. Also, I thought you needed to be clearer about the sexual abuse at the point where Sarah shows her friend what the father does to her. Even if it’s just a line describing an action. It just felt as though you were skimming over this very loaded subject.
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