RAKING THE LIZARDS
Drop off donation at church. Pick up Tess at 2. Buy cookies. Bring Charlie and Nate to basketball. Call class mothers to remind them no peanut butter in party snacks due to potential allergies. Can cause death.
Get. Do. Sign. Send. Find. Make. Wash. Mend.
Feed. Bathe. Read. Leave. Talk. Fight. Cry. Grieve.
And then.
I go outside, across the yard, to the mesquite tree, its roots bulging beneath the hard, arid ground. I walk carefully so I don’t trip, and pick up the rake I leave there, just for this purpose. I plant my feet between two huge roots and lift the rake to the wide, thick trunk. They scamper when they see me but they can’t get away. I’m way too fast for them. I rake the lizards off frantically, flinging their little red-throated bodies onto the lawn. I rake and rake and rake until the tree is empty. But I know. I know as soon as I leave, they will be back. They will always be back. I can never rid the tree of the lizards. I can never, ever beat them.
The house is quiet when I go back inside. I climb the stairs slowly, quietly, and slip back under the covers next to the man who once gave me hope and now gives me kitchen appliances.
***
Change urine-soaked sheet. Find Tess’ favorite red shirt. Wash pears. Pack snacks. Brush hair. Send fax. Put out garbage. Run dishwasher. Stop at the Holy Trinity–post office, bank and drug store. Check homework. Make dinner. Play board game and make sure everyone is a winner.
Feed. Bathe. Read. Leave. Talk. Fight. Cry. Grieve.
And then.
I go outside, as usual, tiptoeing across the yard to the tree. They see me; they always do. They try to outrun me again. But they can’t. I lift the rake and bring it down sharply on their spiny backs, flinging, flinging, flinging. Faster and farther than last night. I know they are waiting, just waiting, in the grass, for me to leave. But I won’t. Not tonight. Tonight I will wait for them to try to go back on the tree. I will wait for them and pounce on them with the rake. I will beat them tonight.
I sit on the patio, where we had the neighbors over for a barbecue just this past Saturday, the citronella torches still placed around its periphery. Where we talked about the price of new homes going up in the desert and how much our own homes had appreciated. Appreciated. As if our homes appreciated us. As if anyone appreciated us. Appreciated me.
They are back, on the tree. I see them in the dim moonlight, their bright blue bellies like fallen stars, and I pad softly over to them, the rake held firmly in my hands. They freeze. They know I’m coming and they spend a split second too long deciding what to do. I descend on them with the rake, flinging them once again across the yard. Flinging, flinging, flinging until, once again, they are all gone. But they will be back. They always are.
I drop the rake in defeat and head back inside, back up the stairs and back to bed. It is later than usual and I am tired.
***
Send in check for field trip to planetarium. Get dog dipped for fleas. Drop off Tess’s Popsicle-stick pony express project. Buy scout uniforms for boys. Order personalized gift for next door neighbor’s new baby. Sasparilla. Can hardly believe they named her that.
Feed. Bathe. Read. Leave. Talk. Fight. Cry. Grieve.
And then. The lizards. I have to get the lizards off that tree, for good. I have to beat the lizards. “C’mon, Shirley, you can do it,” I say to myself. I race to the tree, not caring if they see me coming. Not caring if they scamper, running for their lives. I grab the rake and slam it down on them, flinging them off, dragging some of them in the tines straight down the tree, leaving them crippled in a heap at the base. I am going to beat the lizards tonight. I am going to free myself of them once and for all.
My salty sweat drips in my eyes and stings them, making me cry. Tears are running down my face, yet I keep raking the lizards. I am going to beat them.
I stand back and look. They are gone. But I know they will come back. They always do. So I sit on the patio again and wait.
The citronella torches. Yes, I’ll use the citronella torches. I pull one torch out of the ground and walk toward the tree. There. I see them starting to climb it again and I hoist the torch up on my shoulder, like a bat, and whack it down on their little heads. I smash them again and again and again. They try to run from me, but they can’t. I am going to beat them, and now, finally, they know it. I swing and swing and swing that torch until the dark, velvety night sky turns pink, then red, then bright orange. The sun rises on me there, in the yard, beating the lizards.
I look up and see them there. They are back, standing together in horror, looking out at me from the sliding glass door that leads to the kitchen. My family. They are back. They are waiting for me. They always are.
