Crazy Quilt:

Four Selections from CRAZY QUILT Ed dove into the corporate world of Bechtel with the urgency of a killer whale who had been stranded at low tide and was suddenly catching a swell that plunged him into the deep waters where his own kind fished and fed and fought for dominance. Anne was left behind, tangled in seaweed at the shore. * * * * * There it was—the notice on the library bulletin board: “Singles! Join Old Friends! Make New Friends! Wine and Cheese Tasting Extravaganza at Charlene’s!” . . . Good God, I don’t know how to prepare myself for this any more than I did for my first communion; but here I am, all gussied up and bathed and sweet smelling and clutching a bottle of Cabernet in my hand instead of the Catechism. Her map had led her to the right neighborhood. But now how the hell do I find Charlene What’s-her-name in this maze of condo cubicles? Disturbing dim-lit images: in/out boxes where the people get all sorted out; piles of honeycomb frames waiting for the bees to fill them with honey; stacks and stacks of gray cardboard egg cartons. Anne played her little game of metaphors in an effort to dispel a growing uneasiness. It was scary: a scavenger hunt for singles in a strange neighborhood. Finally—the right door. A hand with too many rings clutched Annie’s bottle. A Wild Cherry lipstick mouth, surrounded by a crackle glaze frame, oozed out effusive welcomes and “so-glad-you-cames,” while the eyes sighed, “oh-another-woman-damn.” Anne looked past the hostess into the room behind her. Good God, I’ve walked into the hostess /bar-girls scene of “From Here To Eternity!” * * * * * Preview note: In a zany moment the children had named their pet (simply)“Dog.” And now, today, it was an Indian Summer day and Anne was on the deck looking out over the yard. Though the sun was a soft comfort on her back, it shone heavily through the bare branches and moldering flower stubble in her view. A slight breeze stirred the dry brown leaves that once had been all glistening green. They swirled and gathered along the brick patio steps and collected in little corner piles. I’ll have to sweep, Anne thought. It was an interruption to other thoughts, other memories of the patio steps. Anne saw again the tiny puppies all tumbling and stumbling down those same steps on their first outdoor adventure. What year had it been? She couldn’t remember at the moment; the rest of the memories churned and beclouded her thoughts with a bruising intensity. David had decided that Dog and the boys should have the experience of the birth process and the fun of puppies. He had found an appropriate stud—“nothing but the best for our beast”—and supervised the entire process with devotion and irrepressible enthusiasm. They had all gathered around the grand piano to watch the birthing take place underneath it, in the special nursery bed that David had prepared. The stereo provided classical background music, and they celebrated with root beer floats and wine. David had even rewarded Dog “for a job well done” by giving her a bowl of Bott’s vanilla ice cream. Anne closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun. I remember every bit of it. A feeble half-smile, unformed, shuffled across her face. It felt bittersweet, like the taste of dark chocolate. I envied Dog. Betsy Hess-Behrens, 83, was born during the jazz age in Buffalo, New York, and still finds new rhythms and musical inventions a salutary accompaniment to her life in Berkeley, California. Her Vizsla dog, Mandy, and classical music are also indispensable companions—as is a resident mocking bird who tries to compete. When her daughter, three sons, spouses, and seven grandchildren appear, the mocking bird gives up. After life as a student, local newspaper columnist, faculty wife/helpmate, student again, research assistant, survey interviewer, and finally Ph.D. college instructor and Fulbright Senior Research Fellow—she escaped from the confines of objective literary precision to jazz up her writing with a flight of fiction. Though age may have limited the distance, she does not feel that it has clipped her wings, nor led to a fear of flying.