Mysteries of Flying Objects
Shoe. Men’s summer fisherman sandal. Brown, leather, worn. Thrown at boyfriend circa 1999. Said boyfriend ducked. He placed it on the table with a note containing a single word: “Evidence.” Said boyfriend later proposed.
Candle Stick, a wedding present. Crystal, heavy, from Tiffany’s. Thrown while living at that South Beach short term rental, after we’d packed all belongings into a Civic and headed South. Gauzy white curtains fluttered at the long windows. Husband ducked. Amazed. Amiss. Led to two weeks of silences.
Soup Plate. White and pure. Thrown like a frisbee at back of husband’s head, husband who had just become a father. A flying saucer arced the air, approaching its target with an edge, thin and obtuse. Plate shattered at contact with the base of his skull, by the hardness of the husband-father’s head. Later, sweeping the shards, post-partum belt pressing into my belly, husband left, stayed mad for days, maybe years. “You could have brain-damaged me!” he said.
Baby daughter, thrown up in the air and caught in the game of happy life. The baby grew and pushed little toys through a hole in the screen. The toys, tiny figurines, fell to their death into the downstairs neighbor’s courtyard. They lay dismembered, still and in pieces. The daughter peered down below to watch them. Sometimes we’d hear him, the downstairs neighbor, yelling at his wife. Other times he would hear me, yelling at the daughter or the husband. The building creaked. It was a co-op built in 1901.
Guild Framed Portrait of Husband and Mother in Law. She’d given it to us as a present for Christmas. Merry fucking Christmas you filthy animal. He’d hung the ornate frame in the foyer, below the moldings, using a level. Alone in the apartment I was pacing the baby after lunch. The photo had my mother in law, husband and my daughter, just the three of them. I didn’t want her hideous face on my wall. I plucked if off with one arm, carrying the baby on the other hip, lifted it high into the air and smashed it as hard as I could into the soft wood floor, aged and buckling. Large splinters spliced across the floor and small silvery particles bounced back up, rebounding three feet into the air. The baby was silent as the showers flew. Tiny knives. And when I tried to pick up the glass, my fingers bled red. I smeared blood onto the photo, like a pagan, a priest. I put the baby back in the crib and comforted him. “I’ll be right back!” I cleaned up the mess and took it to the outside bin, started weaving the explanation, the cover up I’d give to husband. About the missing portrait. It was an accident. It’s at the repair shop.
Thomas Train Engine No.1. I threw the baby boy’s train engine against the wall like a shot put. It left a dent on the drywall. I’ll have to call a handyman. Just moments ago we’d been singing “Patience Is a Virtue, It Will Never Hurt You.” Lip service. The engine was broken. So was the boy’s heart. He cried. I apologized, promising I’d never do it again. “You always say that,” he said through a veil of tears.
Seven Peaches. The girl was 12 when I threw the peaches at her, one after the other, in a rage. She’d been squeezing them defiantly, showing off her abilities of independent thought and action, of being free of mother. But I was the Queen, how dare she disobey me? I’d show her. The first peach was a surprise. I threw it at her back and it whizzed by her. I’d missed. She turned very quickly, a quick twitch superhero. I pelted another. She ducked. I missed her and I kept missing her. Yet I kept throwing them, determined to get my target. She kept moving around, dancing and swerving. I only hit her once. I was out of peaches. She ran upstairs, “I’m calling CPS!” “Go right ahead! They’ll find you a good home!” Actually no. “Sorry! Sorry!” I ran after her. She was against her door, blocking me from getting in. “I was saving the peaches, ripening them slowly on the counter, to serve them to you with homemade whipped cream.” Silence. I crept back downstairs and started cleaning up all the peach flesh off the walls, ceilings, floors. The mess was sickly sweet, sticky and substantial.
Pizza Cutter. I banged the wooden handle on the counter to get their attention, the children, who were running around the kitchen chasing each other, instead of setting the table for dinner. I banged it hard. It was my mother’s pizza cutter. I’d gotten it in my dowry. Or stolen it from her kitchen, depending on who you ask. It was old, at least 20 years, maybe more. The spindle which attached the blade to the handle was rusted orange brown, the molecules would not hold. They crumbled under the pressure, became a fine dust on my hand. Out the window, a full moon. Inside the window, the circular blade came loose and flew across the room, spinning above the childrens’ heads, landed with a clatter and came to rest on the ceramic floor. I was left holding the empty handle. “You almost killed us,” said the girl.
Tea. It splashed out when I stood up suddenly, angrily. A wood fire was burning, thanks to a good pumping of the bellows. The husband had laid a carefully worded trap: “I’ll be spending the day with my mother.” I jumped up and off the couch. I was holding a cup of nettle tea. The tea leapt out into the air. He accused me, that I was about to throw the mug at him. No! I protested. Just like you threw that drink at me, years ago, at our honeymoon, he said. I’d forgotten about that one. I followed him up the stairs. He was packing his bags. Don’t go! Don’t leave me! I begged. We need you! I begged. I was on my knees, grasping at his pant leg.
Tailors Shears. My mother threw them at me when I was 6 or 7. We were visiting her mother in Pakistan and I was asking to play. She was bent over her work. She was cutting out a pattern to sew for her mother a new dress. Her mother, who had engaged her to a man at 14, married her at 15. Why mother why? She’d once asked but her mother said she did what she knew to do. I wanted to know why, why is the ceiling like that. There were cracks in its smooth beige cement. Suddenly, without warning, the shears, heavy, cold and metal went slicing through the air. They were heading towards me. I didn’t see them, I was looking up towards the heavens. I felt the impact on my knee, they gashed me good and strong. It was monsoon and the cut became septic. I couldn’t walk for a week. I was carried around in a sedan chair, a vintage relic, brightly painted with birds and flowers, a wooden rectangle with bars on the windows, a soft cushion inside on which brides used to be carried around atop four poles carried by strong men. I was delighted. I forgave my mother, longing to delight her too.
My Mother. She was thrown off the train, soon after her marriage, by her mother in law, Ammaji. They were saying goodbye. The train was just about to pull away from the station. Ammaji had wanted us to come back with her, but my dad insisted that his wife and baby stay with him. “She’s too young to take care of a baby!” Ammaji cried. Standing just inside the car, my dad told his wife to say goodbye to his mother. She reached in, to hug Ammaji. Pushed hard with arms that waggled, my mother flew back, feet lifting off and across the gap, squat onto the platform. The whistle blew, the car started to pull away from the station. My mother, post-partum, was sprawled on the platform floor. My father carried a baby in one arm, extended the other hand to help her up.
Paddle Hair Brush. It was wide and used by my mother to tame my curly hair, to try to smooth it out, compress it into place. Her hands flying, it came down repeatedly on my head back and shoulders while I crouched and tried to shield myself with my small hands. She was screaming: “Marjania!” Die Bitch. Die Bitch, she kept saying.
