Flash Memoir from Kimberly Hayes

The Silver Bell

The small, silver bell made a dainty, lighthearted noise, but it was loud enough for my mom to hear it. It had probably been my grandmother’s. It was about five inches tall, the bell and chime part made of silver, and it had a wooden handle. Its home was on the mantle in the den.

My mom was in bed, tossing and turning, in that half-dreaming, half-awakened state. Reading something hadn’t helped, nor had taking her sleeping pill. She hadn’t expected the bell to ring.

The sound came from the den. My mom called out my dad’s name. “Chuck? Are you there?”  She was tired and just wanted a good night’s rest. She had always been a light and restless sleeper and she was still getting used to falling asleep alone in the house. Her calling out my dad’s name was met with silence. She thought it had rung almost nightly in the month since his passing. Sometimes she heard it—or so she thought. Sometimes she called out, but there was always silence in response.

Before he died, my father would ring the bell in the middle of the night when he needed something. In his last months, he was unable to use a regular bed and slept in a recliner in the den. My mom got into the habit of lightly dozing until my father rang the bell.

She called out again, “Chuck? Are you there?” But thought she might have dreamt the ringing, eventually falling asleep.

***

The bell rang again the following night, slightly more insistent, louder. My mom was half asleep when she thought she heard it.

She called out my dad’s name again. Silence. Then a quick burst of ringing. “CHUCK?” She almost hollered in the direction of the den. Then, silence. She was hesitant to get up. It would just awaken her more and make it more difficult to fall asleep.

***

The following night, my mother couldn’t sleep at all. Her sleeping pill hadn’t kicked in and she sat in her bed with the bedside table light on. She was wide awake.

At the usual time, the bell started ringing loudly. There was a strong sense of urgency about the ringing. She called out my dad’s name. This time, instead of silence, the bell kept ringing. She called out again. “Chuck? Are you there?” The bell rang louder.

She was nervous and a little scared. What if someone had broken into the house and was hiding in the den, waiting to attack her?

The bell kept ringing.

Finally, she got out of bed and walked into the den. The room was dark–dark enough that she couldn’t see the bell ringing–but could hear it. Insistent. Loud. She turned on the lights.

The bell was on the mantel, where she had put it after his death. She put her hands on her hips. “Chuck! We are fine. Kim and I are going to be alright. Go back to sleep.”

My mom waited a few minutes, but nothing happened. She turned and went back to bed.

She never heard the bell ring again.

Audubon Park

I grew up in New Orleans, in a section of town called Uptown. We lived two blocks from Audubon Park, expansive, with its bike and jogging trail around its perimeter, a golf course, a central lagoon filled with fish, turtles, ducks, and geese. The oak trees lining the pathways were some of the oldest in the city, two or three hundred years old.

I filled many lazy summer days with Celeste feeding the ducks and geese and exploring the park. We’d visit the play areas with the usual swings, slides, and little merry-go-rounds. Our moms took us in strollers as infants and toddlers, and as we got older, we were allowed to go by ourselves.

What I remember best was feeding the ducks and geese. We’d save the ends of bread loaves, and they would crowd around us, begging for more, always more. The geese displayed their aggression by hissing and spitting when we ventured too close, yet they wasted no time in snatching the bread from our hands. They would squawk at the ducks until they had their fill and then the ducks would approach us for the leftovers. Both birds were cute in the way they would shake their back ends, their tails once they had food in their mouths. The ducks would waddle off, quacking, and the geese tended to raise their necks high, sauntering off to find the next person who would feed them. Begging for more, always more .

A small island floated in the middle of the lagoon; the ducks and geese slept there at night. There was no way to reach it, other than to swim or wade over, but our moms would not let us. The lagoon was shallow, maybe three feet deep at most, but the water was dirty. We often wondered what was on that little island. My imagination always ran wild, thinking about what we might find if we ever were brave enough to cross over. We just wanted to explore the island: not being able to get there just made us want to find a way. We dreamed of finding something valuable, priceless even! A box of money tucked away, or precious jewelry guarded by the island’s moat and the amphibious creators who lived there.

***

When I was around six or seven, we had a cocker spaniel named Gumbo. My dad often took Gumbo walking in the park and once I learned how to ride a bike, I’d tag along. One Sunday morning in spring, my dad took Gumbo for a walk before church.

Even on leash, under the control of my dad, Gumbo tried to chase the ducks, geese, and squirrels, all the park’s creators I so greatly admired. That Sunday, however, Gumbo had other plans. Mom and I waited in our church clothes for them to come home. She kept looking at the clock, fretting that we were going to be late.

Dad walked into the house soaking wet, dirty lagoon water dripping on the Oriental rugs, with a drenched dog behind him. Gumbo had chased the ducks into the lagoon and dragged Dad with him. Mom became annoyed about the dirty water on the rugs and the fact that Dad needed to dry off and change, which would make us late for church. I thought the whole thing was funny because I could picture Gumbo chasing the geese with Dad trying to control him. Gumbo must have had a blast swimming in the lagoon.

***

Celeste and I were about eight or nine when we received roller skates for our birthdays. We spent a few weekends skating up and down our street, getting used to them (and to the scrapes on our knees from falling), before we were allowed to venture over to the park. Our moms would follow from a respectable distance as we gripped hands and skated down the paved part of the road that ran around the park. We stuck close to the edge of the road at first, in case we fell, but as we improved, we would venture out to the middle of the road. Of course, that’s where all the faster joggers and bikers were. Learning to avoid them added another layer of giggles as we skated.

***

When I was about ten, the chance to explore the island arrived when the city drained the lagoon for cleaning. Celeste and I took full advantage of the opportunity. The island was the size of a city lot, overgrown, with a couple of oak trees. We had to watch where we stepped, as the tree roots ran all over the place. There was no path, and a few angry ducks and geese honked and quacked at us because we almost walked into nests full of eggs. We had fun poking around, but the magic we had thought was there was nowhere to be found. I think we had built up in our minds what this island would be like, and were very disappointed when reality did not live up to our imaginations. When you are little, you always think of magical places or things that seem unreal, but as you get older, you realize those places are no longer what you dreamed about.

***

Audubon Park’s golf course was covered with what we called pricker grass. We called it pricker grass because walking on it barefoot hurt, as if the grass had little thorns in it. As much as I loved being barefooted, I didn’t like the golf course because of the grass. We used to play in the sand traps, much to the ire of the golfers. One time, we filled a small bucket with water to pour onto the sand. We were in the middle of making a sandcastle when a golfer walked up to us and yelled that we had no business messing up the golf course. He made enough of a stink about calling our parents and telling the club owner that we ran off, scared that we were in big trouble.

***

In the years since, the park has changed little. The play areas now have that added layer of padding, and the lighting has improved at night. The road that winds around the park gets repaved every so often. The island is still in the middle of the lagoon, still full of ducks and geese, but the water is cleaner. Every time I’m in town visiting, I try to make a trip to Audubon Park.