Pogo

Suzanne C Martinez

I flew to Michigan for Christmas Eve.

     Mom was in the kitchen cooking like it was a penance: ham, turkey, mashed and sweet potatoes, three kinds of vegetables, biscuits, and pies – many pies. The windows were steamy.

     “How can I help?” I asked from the doorway. At seventy, Mom still preferred doing the cooking, all sweat and glory. 

     “Lisa!” Mom feigned surprise. “When did you arrive?”

     “Just now. You make enough?”

     “It’s like the loaves and the fishes. Your father invites everyone he sees. I cook, and it works every time.”

     “A marvel.”

     “You know,” Mom frowned. “I wish you’d do your hair differently.” She held out her arms for a hug, but I backed away.  

     “I like it this way,” I couldn’t recall my last haircut.

     When my sister and I were kids, Mom gave us pixie cuts. She had no patience for long hair and its daily detangling. I hated those haircuts. Since moving out, I’ve worn my hair shoulder-length or longer.

     “How many people are out there?” Mom draped a dish towel around her neck. Her apron was stained with the day. She was barefoot.

     “At least twenty, including Dad’s friends from AA or the Fellowship – I can’t tell which.”

     “The AA contingent are better dressed.”

     “Okay. Plus the kids; another five. And three dogs.”

     “Your father should bring up the card tables and chairs from the cellar.”

     “I’ll get them.” I opened the door, flipped on the light, and descended. 

     Away from the buzz of the guests, the kids’ squealing, and the clatter of meal prep, the basement was a chilly oasis. I came home each Christmas under threat of ostracism but hadn’t been down here in decades.

     My foot touched the bottom step and I was a teenager once again. The smell of mold and dried sweat, so familiar. I’d spent years here – hiding from my parents and siblings, listening to the same ten records on repeat, necking with pimply-faced boyfriends. I lost my virginity on that couch, barely visible underneath all the boxes.

     Time had passed. Unlike my siblings, I’d never married, had no kids. Thought I’d get married a couple of times, but couldn’t do it. Not sure why. Afraid, maybe. Of getting sucked into someone else’s life. I’d rather go my own way, take my lumps.

     “Find the tables?” Mom’s voice from above.

     “Got ‘em!” They were stacked in a shadowy corner. Skis, skates, sticks, bikes, and a bin of balls, bats, and gloves flanked them. At Mom’s insistence, we played on multiple teams each season and expend our energy outside. Dad wanted to drink in peace. When I was fourteen, Mom gave him an ultimatum. He submitted, and started the twelve steps. Afterwards he found God, a mixed blessing for Mom.

     When I pulled the three folding tables toward me, I spied the pogo stick. I’d never considered how it magically appeared. Had it been in the house for years before I noticed? With four kids and a parade of visitors, random things always turned up. 

     Christmas morning, 1980. Our parents were still asleep, and we’d already demolished the wrapped gifts under the tree, all practical items, pjs and socks. Toys and games were rare. I was double-checking we’d opened everything when I noticed it. There, in the corner, hidden by the tree – a pogo stick! As the oldest, I claimed it immediately.

     The exhilaration of fourteen-year-old-me snatching it and racing outside. Down the block, I bounced. I knew instinctively how to use it, to avoid cracked pavement, to push my feet forward and follow my center of gravity before soaring ahead on the next leap. Hopping transformed my dull, predictable street into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. 

     That first pogo ride was the genesis of my leaving. I began plotting my escape from the chaos of home. I’d go to art school in New York City. I’d be like Mary Tyler Moore, but in the Big Apple, working for Warhol at The Factory.  

     Now, hearing glasses tinkle upstairs, I grasped the handles, cold but familiar. Like riding a bike, right? I propped the tables against the couch and mounted the pogo stick. My fifty-year-old self depressed the foot pegs and I rose, as expected – up, up, up, then down, down, down, down. The tip slipped on the smooth concrete, and my fingers lost grip on the handles. 

     Next came the pain, a spray of birdshot to my wrist, knee, and hip. In shock on the cold floor, my right hand dangling like an empty rubber glove. The room pulsed red-hot.

     “Lisa, what happened?”

     “I broke my wrist–and maybe other things!”

     An army descended; their steps accelerated into a drum roll. Then a blur: shouting, faces, tsking, air sucked between teeth. 

     “Don’t move. We don’t know what’s broken,” Dad’s voice reassured with authority.

     Mom exhaled. “What were you thinking?” 

     “Broke her wrist good,” said one of Dad’s friends. “Must hurt like the devil.”

     “We should call an ambulance, don’t you think?” my sister’s face appeared between my parents.

     I half-tried to sit up. “Yeah. Better call.”

     “Good going, Sis.” My brother half-smiled down at me. 

     One Lab sniffed my foot; another gave my cheek an encouraging lick.

     “Get them away.” Mom shoved the larger dog with her knee. “Where’s the third one?” 

     My brother pounded up the stairs, followed by the kids and other dogs. “Ah, Jeez!” Sounds of a scuffle above. “No! Put that down!”

     “The ham?” Mom was at the bottom of the steps, torn between me and her culinary extravaganza.

     “Yeah. I’ll put the dogs in the garage, Mom. Sorry.” 

     I started to laugh and, just as fast, everything hurt – so I stopped. Someone draped a mildewy blanket over me. I recognized half of the concerned faces, these people who’d celebrate Christmas Eve together shortly while I’d be in the ER. 

     Maybe I wouldn’t be back in New York for New Year’s Eve. Not that I went to Times Square these days, but I looked forward to celebrating with my chosen family of transplants. So great was my despair that I sobbed, quaking under the smelly blanket, but no one noticed. 

     “They’re sending someone. Maybe ten minutes,” Dad squatted near my head and brushed the hair out of my face. “Sorry, kiddo.”

     I lay on the floor. Everyone talked over me. Mom picked up the pogo stick and put it out of reach. Dad’s friends asked about the sports equipment and dusty trophies. Someone spotted a shelf of old board games. “Battleship, Aggravation, Mousetrap.” Mom had kept them all.

     Time had moved on while I was away. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was a middle-aged adult, flirting with old age and possible senility. Who would jump onto a pogo stick on a whim after thirty-five years? Stupid. Really stupid. 

     The ambulance crew arrived and maneuvered a stretcher down the rickety steps. After twenty questions answered by everyone at once and a thorough check of my vitals and spinal alignment, they strapped me down, draped me in a clean blanket, and hoisted me up to the kitchen. I greedily inhaled the heady aromas of the dinner I’d miss. 

     My brother followed me outside, pressing my phone and wallet into my good hand. He volunteered to accompany me, but I insisted he stay and help Mom with the dinner. None of the others would. The EMTs dispensed with the sirens. We rode in silence.

***

Twenty minutes later, the attendants rolled me into the ER to join the sizeable crowd awaiting first aid. These were my people – who’d also made poorly considered decisions during holiday celebrations, resulting in bloodshed, broken bones, and tears. Each held body parts in distress – heads, legs, arms, stomachs. Mostly, they sat in pairs, one hunched in pain, the other with the dead eyes of boredom, anticipating the long evening ahead. 

     “You’re here on your own?” asked the ER manager, searching beyond me like I wasn’t welcome solo. “Any family?”

     “I told them to stay and enjoy their dinner. Christmas Eve and all.”

     “From the area?” she asked, wedging her clipboard onto my pallet.

     “I grew up here. I live in New York now.”

     I was gripped with an odd stirring. At first, I thought it was hunger pains, but that wasn’t it. It felt like the time Mom and Dad left me at Girl Scout Camp. I missed my family but acted like I didn’t. 

     I spent time in radiology having my wrist, hips, knees, and shoulder X-rayed. A few hours later, a weary doctor set my wrist in a hard cast, bubblegum pink. He worked without conversation and released me with a scowl and a blister-Pac of pain pills. I’d bruised several body parts but miraculously hadn’t broken anything else. I decided to Uber home, avoiding an accusatory car ride with Mom or a silent one with Dad.

***

“Welcome back,” Mom half-looked up from her knitting. She seemed to knit constantly, like Madame Defarge, though I never saw the final product of her efforts. Maybe it was a record of our lives or a journal of her feelings. “There are leftovers if you’re hungry. Ask Dad to make you a sandwich.”

     Normally, she’d make me a sandwich. I guessed she was offended by my accident. As if I’d intentionally destroyed the special dinner she’d spent hours preparing. Because of me, the compliments for her meal were diluted by speculation on the extent of my injuries. I suspected she wouldn’t forgive me for a long time. Dad would be making sandwiches for the foreseeable future.

     In the kitchen, I found him wolfing down cherry pie like it was a secret. Since he stopped drinking, he’d become addicted to sweets, though the extra calories seemed to land on Mom’s hips instead. 

     He raised his eyebrows. “How about I make you a turkey sandwich with everything on it?” Lightly, he touched my cast. “Does it hurt a lot?” 

     I leaned in close. He was now so soft-spoken that I often had to ask him to talk louder — probably compensating for yelling at us as kids. 

     “Not really. My dignity hurts more than my wrist.”

     “I’m familiar with that.” He kissed the top of my head. “It’ll pass.”

     He pulled covered plates, Tupperware, and jars from the fridge and arranged everything on the counter in an assembly line – a habit he’d developed from years at the community food pantry.

      “Dad, do you recall where that pogo stick came from?” I asked.

     “I do.” He turned, bouncing a butter knife in his hand.

     I settled in for the story. As Dad grew older, he’d become a raconteur after years of one-word answers. I enjoyed the change. He could’ve used an editor, but the AA and Fellowship members probably appreciated his tales more than we did.

     “I rode it home from a bar a week before Christmas in 1981 after my driver’s license was suspended.” 

     He let that nugget sink in and turned back to the counter, arranging the meat, cranberry sauce, and lettuce on the bread slices, merrily moving along the line. 

     “You’re joking, right?” Looking at Dad’s back, I couldn’t remember him without gray hair. At 71, he was skinny and sun-weathered with a bum knee. 

     After adding salt and pepper, he cut the sandwich crosswise and put it on a plate. “It’s a miracle I didn’t split my head open, but I made it home in one piece.” He sat at the table and pushed the plate toward me. 

     “Why not call a cab?” I asked. 

     “I was broke, and the barkeep refused me another drink. I stomped out like a dumb kid and slammed the door. Outside, I realized I had a problem. It was bone cold, and I had a long walk home.” 

     “No options?”

      “It was the pogo stick or walk two miles.” He sat up straight. “It sobered me up.”

     “Where did you find it?” I wiped a gob of cranberry sauce with the last bit of crust.

     “Leaning against the dumpster in the parking lot. The streetlight made it twinkle like a polestar.” 

     “I bet it did.” I pictured him bouncing and falling all the way home. The exertion would’ve warmed him up, at least. Poor Dad. “Do you have any other secrets?”

     He rose and went to the sink. “No, not really.” He washed my plate and put the food away, carefully checking that the lids were on. His bony fingers danced on the tops and edges of each item. 

     “Sorry about your evening,” He put the last container in and closed the refrigerator. “Everyone missed you at dinner and the Secret Santa. Your gift’s under the tree.” 

     “I’ve had enough surprises tonight. I’ll open it in the morning.” It was probably something I’d hate. No one ever asked me what I’d like. They bought me generic items like you would for a stranger. 

     Mom peeked into the kitchen. “I’m off to bed. Before you come up, lock the doors and turn off the tree lights.” 

     “Night, Mom.” 

     Why did I come home? Why’d I leave my comfortable New York apartment and fly halfway across the country to see my father, who’d barely spoken to me as a kid except with the back of his hand, and my mother, who constantly criticized me? My brothers and sister, whose lives no longer included me. I don’t understand why they stayed. I left as fast as I could. It made me angry at them and myself. Something bubbled up inside me, an urge to spread my misery around.  

     In the kitchen doorway, I leaned against the jam like a smart-mouthed teen. “Dad, I have a question.” 

     “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes held kindness, and I immediately regretted my tone. I always knew how to start trouble, Mom said.

     “You were so different when we were kids, hardly ever home, and when you were, you were pissed off at us all time. You beat us whenever we did anything you didn’t like. Now you’re all sweet and gentle. What happened?”

     “Funny you ask that tonight of all nights.”

     “Why, because it’s Christmas Eve?” 

     “No, because of the pogo stick.” He motioned for me to sit. “Your Mom and I married straight out of high school. We were too young, but lots of our friends were getting married, and we rode the same wave. Then the babies came.”

     “As they do.” I’d figured out long ago Mom was pregnant with me when they married.

     “You were colicky; your brother arrived before we figured you out. And then the other two. I had a lousy factory job; your Mom was home with you kids. Your Mom is smart. She’d planned to go to college, maybe be a teacher, but she couldn’t with babies to tend, and there wasn’t enough money anyway. She made sure I understood she was unhappy.”

     “She shared her unhappiness with us, too.”

     “You kids were animals – four of you so close in age. Your voices were so high- pitched. It gave me terrible headaches.”

     “We were kids, Dad.” I glared at him. “You had a permanent hangover.”

     “You’re right. I did. No excuses.”

     “Mom has always been unhappy, as far as I can tell.” I couldn’t remember her laughing. She was usually at a low simmer, tending to boil over at the slightest provocation, a broken window, a muddy footprint on the ceiling, or a failing grade on a math test.

    “She was happy the day each of you was born. She was happy on our wedding day.”

    “That’s not a lot in fifty years,” I said. 

    “No, it’s not.” He cut himself a sliver of pie and offered me some.

    “I’m okay,” I said. 

    “I began stopping at a bar on the way home. I couldn’t face the chaos, the yelling, and the noise. I needed a buffer, a transition. After a while, I stayed longer.”

    “I remember lots of dinners without you.” Unfortunately, Mom was there, cooking with great resentment. She served criticism at every meal.

    “Anyway, back to that night. It took me a few hours to get home on the pogo stick. No surprise there. Drunk as I was, I knew it was an unusual vehicle. Luckily, the town went to sleep early. If anyone saw me hopping down the center of the street like an out-of-season Easter Bunny, no one mentioned it.”

    “How old were you then?” I asked. 

    “I was thirty-four years old.” He took my uninjured hand in his. “My fingers were raw with blisters, my insteps ached, my head pounded, and I thought I’d never get here. I wanted to get home. Eventually, I did. I went around the back of the house, dropped the pogo stick on the grass, and slept on the back porch swing. Your mother woke me in the morning.”

    “What did she say?”

    “Surprisingly, nothing.”

    “That’s not like her.”

    “She let me in but kept quiet. That’s when I figured she was done with me. I took a hot shower, dressed, and walked over to the Unitarian Church, where I knew AA met, and I joined. I’ve been going every week since.”

    “What about the Fellowship?” I asked. I strongly suspected they recruited the members from AA. None seemed to hold a job but volunteered at the food pantry, cooked lunch daily for anyone hungry, and ran a used clothing collection and distribution center.

    “They’re good people,” he said, as if I’d accused them of something. “They’re my friends, too. Some used to be in AA, but many are just unemployed and a little quirky.”

    Dad found his cohort like I had in New York. I couldn’t fault him for that.

    “I’ll say good night now.” 

    “Your mother had an abortion,” he said and looked up at me, his eyes glassy.

    Mom. “When?” 

    “When your sister was five. You must’ve been twelve. I didn’t know until years later.” His voice changed, became angry, like I remembered him. “I can’t ever forgive her.”

    Mom. Amazing. I wanted to hug her. “That’s not fair. Four kids in seven years and you, drunk all the time.”

    “I was an only child. I wanted a big family.”

    “Did you discuss this with Mom? That’s not a decision you can make on your own.”

    “She knew. Your Mom’s a quitter.”

    “And you – you’re an asshole.” I’d never been so furious with anyone and at once overcome with warm feelings toward Mom. Her whole life, how she’d catered to Dad and his issues, to us kids. But she’d taken a stand. Four kids were enough. She was now my hero. 

    I left him in the kitchen and went to bed. 

***

“Merry Christmas, Lisa,” Mom said, looking down at my cast and patting the couch cushion for me to sit beside her. “How are you feeling?” 

    Unlike the rest of us, Mom was a slow gift opener, savoring the process. Everyone else was talking, tearing packages open, wandering into the kitchen for coffee and pastries, but Mom kept quiet.

    I’d brought her a watercolor I painted in the fall. It was the view from my hotel in Florence: the Duomo and the bridges spanning the Arno. She opened the gift and didn’t say anything for a long time. Her fingers gripped the frame. Finally, she smiled.

    “Maybe, come visit sometime?” I whispered.

    “You’ll have to cut your hair now,” she said, tucking a lock behind my ear.

    “Give me a trim before I leave.”

    “I’d love to.”  

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