by Emanuel Carpenter

Bliss

Girl in the Picture

I dreamt about her again. After all these years, my subconscious still recalls her vividly. The way she whispered my name, pronouncing every vowel. The way she would never give herelf completely while I was willing to jump in with both feet. Her hair. Straight and black and touching to her shoulders. Her penetrating eyes. One slightly bigger than the other. (Even her imperfections were perfection.) And who could forget that long, kissable Italian nose?

In this particular dream I’d finally convinced her to return with me to the states. To my home. My bed. Covered only under a warm blue blanket and each other, we kissed and giggled together.

Bliss!

Just before we were about to make love, I told her in her own language my true feelings. Ti Amo. Her reply, in English as always since her English was much better than my Italian: No you don’t. Now this wasn’t a phony ‘I love you’ where a man desperately longs for the phrase reciprocated. Nor was it an ‘I love you’ a person says over the phone merely to put his lover on the spot. No. This was a heartfelt, genuine feeling I needed to express to this remarkable woman.

We’d met at a bar just outside the military base where local women would come to meet American men. The bar catered to Americans-well white Americans anyway-by playing the most popular and current Rock and Roll music. Loudly. I longed for some R & B, Hip-Hop, and jazz almost as I longed for a warm body to snuggle with. She scoped me out from across a smoke-filled room. I must have been "on" that night, with my new Italian clothes, fresh haircut, and intoxicating cologne. She was forward. Introduced herself. And that was it. I was hooked. The next thing you know, I’m trying to figure out the best place for an interracial couple to live without having to deal with the things they deal with. California? New York? Maybe Germany.

But as days turned into months, my love grew stronger while her feeling remained the same. She said she wanted to keep her other male friends, even though she had a special place in her heart for me. Up to this point, we’d only shared a few kisses. Passionate ones. Still I wanted more. I told her it was all or nothing with me. Since she refused to make the decision, I made it for her. It’s over.

In the dream we never get around to making love. I guess even the subconscious knows its limits. But for one night, it was just her and I. Naked and giggling under a warm, blue blanket. It was bliss.

There’s a haunting old, black and white photograph in an old oak frame that sits on the mantle of my parents’ home. The girl in the picture is smiling wide while she clutches a teddy bear in her left arm. She squints while trying to block out the sun with her right hand. She’s wearing a cute little dress with vertical stripes that barely covers her knees, white stockings, and shoes with ribbons on them. Her curly blond hair reminds me of the old Shirley Temple movies I’d seen when I was a kid. She is standing next to my dad’s brand new black Ford, which isn’t nearly as beautiful as she is. The car takes up half the frame, serving as background and a timestamp at the same time. The girl’s name is Georgina but everyone called her Gorgeous for obvious reasons. Who would have thought the little girl on the photo would die weeks after that photo was taken?

The girl in the picture was my sister. While she posed for the photograph for Father, I kicked in my mother’s belly. She was only five when she lost her life just two months before I came screaming into the world. Gorgeous was Mother’s and Father’s first. First born. First love. First to die.

The details of her death are sketchy at best. Seems like every time I hear the story it’s told differently. There’s always something added or something deleted or something forgotten about. But from all the recounted stories and the one newspaper article I read, here’s what I’ve concluded.

Mother had been sitting on the terrace of an apartment building on a warm summer day, sipping lemonade, and rubbing her belly. She was watching Father belabor over his new car. His hand would disappear into a bucket of suds. He’d scrub the car’s body all over. Rinse it with the green garden hose. Then wash it all over again. When my mother stood up to check on my sister, who’d been playing with a Barbie doll in the living room, she felt a contraction. Once she saw that Gorgeous was fine, she plopped down on the sofa and grabbed my father’s wristwatch off the coffee table in order to time the contractions. As time in between them came nearer, she called for Father who rushed to her side. Though the calendar said June and my arrival wasn’t supposed to be until August, Mother decided that I might be trying to sneak into the world a little ahead of schedule. My father frantically packed a bag for her, yanking underwear and nightgowns from dresser drawers while my mother tried to reach her sister on the rotary phone. My parents had decided not to take Georgina to the hospital with them because they believed it just wasn’t a place for children to be. Since she could not reach my aunt on the phone and time was running out, she decided to ask the next-door neighbor to watch my sister. Mother and Father banged on the man’s door, Father holding the overnight bag, Mother holding Gorgeous’s hand. When Edgar Reemus came to the door, my parents explained the situation and Edgar volunteered to baby sit.

Edgar Reemus.

From what I’ve been told, he was a short, fat, bald little man. He always wore slacks and sweat stained tank-topped style undershirts that did nothing to cover the vast amounts of hair protruding from his arms, chest, and back. He was a divorced man with no children of his own. Worked as a door-to-door salesman. Vacuum cleaners. The big fat ones with seven different attachments that looked like the arms of aliens. Mother had been one of his first customers.

I still have nightmares about him and all the terrible things Reemus may have done to my sister. Sometimes he’s beating her. Sometimes his fat, hairy hands are wrapped around her neck. Other times he’s covering her face with a pillow. But most of the time, he’s exposing a five-year old little girl to things that should never be seen or experienced by a child.

Pervert.

Mother and Father arrived home from their false alarm late in the night. Much too late to save their daughter. Mother cried over her lifeless body while Father broke a vase over Edgar’s head. Afterwards, there was a phone call to the police, an arrest, a trial, and a conviction. The newspaper article I read at the library on microfiche film said that Edgar got life for murder. There were no other charges. If he did anything else to her, no one mentioned it. Not the coroner. Not the newspaper reporter. And certainly not my parents.
As I stare at the photograph I get all kinds of feelings. Sometimes I blame myself for giving Mother those early contractions, even though I know it’s ridiculous to do so. At times I feel sad for my parents having lost their first and only daughter. I couldn’t imagine having to bury my own child. If Reemus hadn’t died in prison, I swear I would have found a way to kill him myself.

I often wonder what it would have been like to have an older sister. Someone to take up for me. Someone to confide in. Someone to play with. Even argue with. It’s strange but I miss her even though I never met her. The girl in the picture with Shirley Temple curls, a teddy bear friend, and a smile that brightened the world. She is my sister; and I love her.

Biography
Emanuel Carpenter is the author of the humor book "A Job Ain’t Nothing But Work." His book reviews have appeared in The Midwest Book Review, on A Nu Twista Flavah.com, and in Rock Publications. Carpenter’s essay and bio is featured in the 2005 Bylines Writer’s Desk Calendar. His short story titled "Learn Italian" is featured on the 2DO Beforeidie.com website (Little, Brown, and Co.). Carpenter is a cum laude graduate of Capital University and a five-year air force veteran. He lives in suburban Cleveland, Ohio.

Contact Us