We, the Coronado Scribes, consist of both professional and amateur writers. We have in common a desire to learn, by sharing our efforts and listening to other writers. We hold pressure-less sessions every Wednesday, at the Coronado Library conference room, starting at 1:30. Often we have guests who wish to just listen. They are welcome, and so are you.
Each week on eCoronado, we feature a different piece of prose or poetry produced by one of our writers. Please feel free to comment or ask questions in the comment section below.
The Life and Times of Marlayna
Part 1 of 3
I was awakened by the phone early one morning. Marlayna said, “Up and at em, sleepy head. How about going to Rosebud today? One of my customers told me the machines are really hitting.”
Marlayna is a bouncy, totally optimistic, ageless beautician and entrepreneur. She is so cheerful that it is contagious. She is a person who tries every money-making scheme that comes along. It if fails, she happily goes on to something else. She always comes out on top. If anyone has the King Midas touch, it is her. I have always believed her optimism has a lot to do with her success. One of her favorite ways to make money is at the casinos. Intuitively she chooses a machine, whispering to it, “Are you good today?” while she holds a concealed pendulum over it. She determines its worth by the movement.
“When did you want to go?” I asked, running my hand through my hair, trying to think how long it would take me to be presentable.
“The thing is… I need for you to drive. My right knee, the leg that works the pedals, went out. Bruce just went to the office. He’ll be back at ten. Could you pick me up before then?”
“O.K., I said, trying to remember if I had anything else promised for the day,
There is nothing like a spontaneous adventure. My favorite days have not been planned. My husband was all right with my going. He said, “Wait, I’ve got some quarters,” and he emptied the change from his pockets.
She was waiting on the porch when I drove up at a quarter to ten, and limped to the car. I thought she seemed nervous, clearing her throat, and checking the roads at every corner, unlike her usual manner.
A few miles down the road, I asked, “Did Bruce mind you going?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
“What?”
“I left him a note in the refrigerator. He’ll find it when he gets hungry.”
A month later we went to the same area, to the annual Association of Nebraska Art Clubs, known as ANAC, for its annual convention at Valentine. The class we took the first morning was given by Roberta Barnes, who used prisma colors in short strokes to create landscapes. She showed us her exquisite notebooks of drawings, each of which would later become a guide to make a tiny pricey needlework. Marlayna is always in her own little world when taking classes, not paying attention to the instructor, but using the time to do her own thing. I remember her dipping Roberta’s prismas into water, definitely not recommended for waxy colored pencils. Her pictures bore no resemblance to our instructor’s, but they were interesting.
The class broke for lunch. Instead of going downtown for food, Marlayna wanted to shop. We spent an hour in a Western store, trying on jeans and cowboy boots. As we were leaving, Marlayna noticed a statue of an Indian with a feathered headdress holding the door open. It looked old and worn. The paint was wearing off, and it stood about five feet tall.
“Wait!” Marlayna said to the owner, who was standing close to the door to bid us goodbye. “Is that for sale?” pointing to the statue.
“I suppose it could be,” he said hesitantly. It was clear to me that it was just a prop.
Marlayna, although having no Native American blood, always paints pictures of circle-dancers, drums, feathered headdresses, pueblos, teepees, women with shawls over their heads, crows. Groupings of tiny costumed figures appear mysteriously in the corners of her canvasses. She wonders if she was a Sioux in a past life. A fortune teller told her that her Spirit Guide was Chief Joseph. That may make sense in a crazy way. No matter how she begins, she always ends up with an Indian themed painting. Clearly, the worn statue spoke to her sensibilities.
The owner scratched his head. “I suppose I could let it go for about thirty five dollars,” he said.
“Well, I’ll take it if you can load it in that blue car out there.” She pointed to my Olds.
“I guess,” he said.
We didn’t watch him struggle to pick it up as we were busy unloading the luggage and art supplies from the back seat and moving them to the trunk. When he laid it on the seat, the base touched one end of the seat and the feathers, the other. The car doors barely shut. Marlayna was excited with her conquest. We returned to the class without lunch.
The convention included daily workshops, a competition judged by a nationally known artist, concluding with a banquet and award ceremony. Marlayna won a travel show award as well as an honorable mention on her two pieces exhibited.
We were going to get home after dark since the ride after the banquet was more than four hours over country roads. When we saw the lights from town, she called her husband.
“I won two awards, Bruce!” she told him. Could you stay up until we get there? We have something heavy to lift out of the car.”
“Oh, honey. I’ve been having chest pains. I’m going to bed soon.” (Did I mention that Bruce was a hypochondriac? She wasn’t worried about him. It was typical.)
“O.K. We’ll manage” she said.
When we pulled into her driveway, it was nearly eleven.
We opened both back seat doors and tried to slide the statue out. It wouldn’t budge. Since we had not loaded it, we had not realized how heavy it was. It was solid concrete.
I pushed with all the oomph I had in me. Marlayna pulled from her side. We could only budge it an inch at a time. It was slow going.
Then, all of a sudden, the concrete Indian and Marlayna disappeared. I gasped.
I ran around to the other side of the car. Marlayna was lying on the ground. The cement Indian was lying on top of her. Her chin was bleeding from the pointy feathers that pushed against it. I positioned my back against the car and braced myself to roll the statue from her. It tumbled with a thump into the grass by the driveway. She sat up, then slowly got to her feet. Brushing her clothes off, she said brightly, “You know, I think it knocked my knee back in place!”
