“joy”?
The Joy of Cooking.
The Joy of Sex.
Joy to the world…
No Joy in Mudville.
Cultivating a sense of inner joy in troubled times…
Mark had told Jiselle the basics of their meeting (college), and their courtship (two years), and their decision to marry, to move to Wisconsin, to have three children, and then he ended with “and then she was hit by a school bus. In front of our house. In front of our children. What else can I say?”
“That’s horrible,” Jiselle said to him, holding her head with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. “Just horrible. ”
Mark shook his head. It was a tired and resigned gesture. His wife, he seemed to be saying, how could she have done it to them?
“You know,” Jiselle’s mother said. “I Googled that. It sounded fishy to me, and I started wondering if you might be getting involved with a serial killer. But there it was in the St. Sophia News: PILOT’S WIFE STRUCK BY BUS IN FRONT OF HOUSE.
“This is just the beginning,” their neighbor, Brad Schmidt, told Jiselle one afternoon when they met at the end of their driveways after having dragged out their trash cans for the garbage truck. “It’s the tip of the iceberg,” he said.
By then Jiselle had already spoken to Brad Schmidt several times—always over the hedge or with the garbage cans at the end of the driveway—and he always said something about the Phoenix flu.
“It’s hairs,” he said that afternoon. “They import hair for wigs and extensions, you know. From Pakistan. Korea. And those people they cut the hair off of died of the Phoenix flu.”
Jiselle tried to smile politely. She said, lifting one shoulder, “Who knows?”—although she briefly considered pointing out that the flu had started in the United States, that other countries were outlawing imports of all kinds from America—blankets, food, clothes, books. Outside the United States, everything American was suspect.
But what would have been the point of arguing with him? Brad Schmidt was elderly. He was pleased with his theory. A week earlier, he’d had to bring his wife, who had Alzheimer’s, back from the group home in which she lived. Several of its employees had fallen ill, and they’d closed down. Since then, Jiselle had seen her only once, when Mrs. Schmidt had wandered across their lawns to the front door. Before she’d had time to knock on the door, Jiselle had opened it, and this seemed to startle the old woman, who asked, “How did you know about me?”
“I saw you from the window,” Jiselle said.
“You watch me?”
“Well, no,” Jiselle said. “This is where I live, and I was looking out the window.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Schmidt’s eyes remained wide, an expression of puzzled alarm on her face, and Jiselle was surprised how much like a ghost she was—thin, white-haired, nearly translucent, like someone who had been snatched back from the other world but who did not quite understand that she was back, or why. The old woman reached out and took Jiselle’s hands in her own, and asked, “So, do you know me, young lady?”
“Now I do,” Jiselle answered as brightly as possible.
“Then, who am I?”
“You’re Mrs. Schmidt.”
“Very nice,” Diane Schmidt said, nodding, as if Jiselle had passed a test. Just then, her husband came panting around the hedge—clearly he’d been searching for his wife—and took her home.
That morning at the end of their driveways, Brad Schmidt snorted and said, “Britney Spears. All this bullshit about Britney Spears. Britney Spears isn’t even the first of millions.”
Jiselle nodded. “Still,” she said, “it’s very sad.”
“Sad, sure,” Brad Schmidt said. “Better get used to it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
M ark chose an afternoon when the children were on a field trip to Chicago with the public schools to bring Jiselle to the house for the first time. He drove downstate and into Illinois to pick her up in his ice-blue sports
The Joy of Cooking.
The Joy of Sex.
Joy to the world…
No Joy in Mudville.
Cultivating a sense of inner joy in troubled times…
Mark had told Jiselle the basics of their meeting (college), and their courtship (two years), and their decision to marry, to move to Wisconsin, to have three children, and then he ended with “and then she was hit by a school bus. In front of our house. In front of our children. What else can I say?”
“That’s horrible,” Jiselle said to him, holding her head with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. “Just horrible. ”
Mark shook his head. It was a tired and resigned gesture. His wife, he seemed to be saying, how could she have done it to them?
“You know,” Jiselle’s mother said. “I Googled that. It sounded fishy to me, and I started wondering if you might be getting involved with a serial killer. But there it was in the St. Sophia News: PILOT’S WIFE STRUCK BY BUS IN FRONT OF HOUSE.
“This is just the beginning,” their neighbor, Brad Schmidt, told Jiselle one afternoon when they met at the end of their driveways after having dragged out their trash cans for the garbage truck. “It’s the tip of the iceberg,” he said.
By then Jiselle had already spoken to Brad Schmidt several times—always over the hedge or with the garbage cans at the end of the driveway—and he always said something about the Phoenix flu.
“It’s hairs,” he said that afternoon. “They import hair for wigs and extensions, you know. From Pakistan. Korea. And those people they cut the hair off of died of the Phoenix flu.”
Jiselle tried to smile politely. She said, lifting one shoulder, “Who knows?”—although she briefly considered pointing out that the flu had started in the United States, that other countries were outlawing imports of all kinds from America—blankets, food, clothes, books. Outside the United States, everything American was suspect.
But what would have been the point of arguing with him? Brad Schmidt was elderly. He was pleased with his theory. A week earlier, he’d had to bring his wife, who had Alzheimer’s, back from the group home in which she lived. Several of its employees had fallen ill, and they’d closed down. Since then, Jiselle had seen her only once, when Mrs. Schmidt had wandered across their lawns to the front door. Before she’d had time to knock on the door, Jiselle had opened it, and this seemed to startle the old woman, who asked, “How did you know about me?”
“I saw you from the window,” Jiselle said.
“You watch me?”
“Well, no,” Jiselle said. “This is where I live, and I was looking out the window.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Schmidt’s eyes remained wide, an expression of puzzled alarm on her face, and Jiselle was surprised how much like a ghost she was—thin, white-haired, nearly translucent, like someone who had been snatched back from the other world but who did not quite understand that she was back, or why. The old woman reached out and took Jiselle’s hands in her own, and asked, “So, do you know me, young lady?”
“Now I do,” Jiselle answered as brightly as possible.
“Then, who am I?”
“You’re Mrs. Schmidt.”
“Very nice,” Diane Schmidt said, nodding, as if Jiselle had passed a test. Just then, her husband came panting around the hedge—clearly he’d been searching for his wife—and took her home.
That morning at the end of their driveways, Brad Schmidt snorted and said, “Britney Spears. All this bullshit about Britney Spears. Britney Spears isn’t even the first of millions.”
Jiselle nodded. “Still,” she said, “it’s very sad.”
“Sad, sure,” Brad Schmidt said. “Better get used to it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
M ark chose an afternoon when the children were on a field trip to Chicago with the public schools to bring Jiselle to the house for the first time. He drove downstate and into Illinois to pick her up in his ice-blue sports
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