Weather Permitting

I sat on the torn upholstery of the golden yellow chair.

My back pressed against cardboard boxes and plastic containers.

With each visit, the space on the chair became smaller and smaller.

Soon there would be no space for me even though I was small. 

I was alone. Mom and dad weren’t coming. Weather permitting was the refrain. Weather permitting.  Another night on the gold yellow chair.

Grandma and Grandpa were fighting again. It was the toaster. It jammed and they would argue and try to bang on the lever until the toast popped back up.

The shrill sound the toaster made and the fighting sounded like a hundred people yelling in their tiny kitchen.

I didn’t want toast anymore but she brought it to me on a little thin napkin.

They argued about grated cheese next. He used too much. They fought about the peanut butter and who was responsible for the close to empty jar. Was the jelly next? What about the ketchup, mayonnaise and soy sauce?

I went to the window to eat my toast. It was good even though it was burned a bit. They ate so little and the pasta and peas portion earlier was so tiny. 

I ate as I stared out the window looking for the old gray Belvedere. Maybe Daddy would pull up to the curb and honk. I was ready to hear the honk and put my boots on fast. I had my coat on. I was ready to say goodbye weather permitting or not.

She went to bed first. So I felt better. But while she was settling into bed, he said something to make her mad. He said it in Italian. She jumped out of bed muttering, put her coat over her pale blue thin nightgown, and stormed out of the apartment. 

I sat on the golden chair and stared at the fish tank. There were just three tiny fish. I don’t think they had names but at least the water was clear.  A little tiny shipwreck sat in the colorful gravel. One little fish swam through it again and again. I startled when Grandpa came into the room and asked if I was tired yet. I wanted to say weather permitting but I knew that wouldn’t make sense. 

I told him I was not tired and even if I was tired, I was ready in case Mom and Dad came weather permitting.  I wasn't totally sure when weather permitting ended.

“They are not coming. The roads are bad.”

 He said this in a simple way and I knew he was right.

“Grandma is a robber,” I blurted in a shaky voice even though I didn’t feel like crying. I looked at his face to see if he was mad. He wasn’t!

“Why do you say that?”

He looked like he was about to laugh. Then he shuffled over to the apartment door and in a quiet nervous way, opened the door carefully.  He stepped silently into the hallway, shuffled to the banister and peered down the long stairway.  He then quietly popped back in and locked the door.

“Why? Why do you say that? What did you see?”  

“She robbed a mirror.”

“Where is it?”

“Behind the fish tank, “ I whispered and pointed.

He carefully looked and gently lifted a broken shard of a mirror.

“Ok. Listen. She isn’t a thief.”

“She’s not?”

“No. She’s sick.”

“Grandma’s sick? She doesn't look sick.”

“In her head.  She’s sick in her head.”

He pointed and tapped at his forehead rather forcefully.  

I felt better. My secret was out. And sick was better than being a thief. I wanted to ask if she can take medicine to fix this but grandpa was already brushing his teeth.

A old ripped sombrero sat on the cluttered dining room table. I liked the bright colors. I put it on but it smelled like garbage.  I took it off quickly and wandered around. Grandpa had gone inside and fallen asleep in his bed. He snored so loud. No blanket. Just an old yellowy white sheet to match his tank top.  I quietly walked over to the bedroom window and peered through the frost. No cars. No people. Just dark with wet snowflakes blowing and falling. Then I saw someone digging with both arms inside a metal garbage can by the fire hydrant.   Was that weather permitting?  I didn’t think so.

Grandma was angry and spit frothed in the corners of her mouth. I was caught. She went through the garbage outside and found the tin cans I threw out. She found the broken key chain. She found the dirty broken matchbox car. She found the pencil nubs, tuna cans, inkless pens, broken bracelet and twisty ties. Earlier, alone and bored,  I went through a pile or two and sneakily piled up the things I thought were garbage into a big metal tomato sauce can and then shoved a smaller can into the can to hide the garbage. I told myself I was helping her.  Grandma was angry for a really really long time. She told me I was fresh like my mother. I stayed quiet remembering what grandpa said. I didn’t want to make her sickness worse.

Next time mom and dad ask if I want to visit grandma and grandpa I’m going to say weather permitting no.

Little by little the golden chair became something else. It was not a chair for a little girl to sit on anymore. I hated that chair.  One time I even sat on top of all the garbage on the chair and I felt like I was getting ejected from the chair by the chair as I fell to the floor.

When I think about the golden chair, I see it with an old upholstered face and dark squinting eyes. It smiles at me with a meanness like a villain.

When I grow up and no one’s looking I’m going to throw that chair out, weather permitting.