The Pagan on Elm Street

 

Chapter One

Boing. Damn hair. I stabbed my finger at a fat, bouncy, blond curl that had escaped from the gelled-down ponytail I’d attempted to trap it in. Boing. Ahh!

I was attempting to look “put together,” at least long enough to drop my son at school and greet his principle. Principle Perelli tended to stare over his half-moon glasses at me like he knew I’d been an unruly child in need of detention, and still was. He probably wondered each day that I screeched to a halt in front of the school in my ancient Dodge truck, how I could possibly be the mother of my well-mannered, honor student son.

I had woken up this morning determined to show him that I was indeed a calm, organized, respectable mother capable of delivering my child to school on time, hair tidy and wearing a crisp white shirt. Today there would be no pink-fuzzy robe with coffee stains down the front. Charlie, my twelve-year-old son, looked at me sideways, appraising my ponytail, then my blouse. His gaze finally resting on my pajama bottoms with the purple cows all over them.

I returned his stare. “I’m a work in progress, Charlie. Tomorrow I might make it into pants.”

He rolled his eyes.

“No one will see the bottom half of me anyway. The top looks good this morning though, doesn’t it?” Boing. Damn.

Charlie shrugged his thin shoulders and pushed his ear-buds deeper into his ear canals, dialing up the volume on his ipod.

We were rounding the last corner. The school was in sight and at least 70% of my hair remained contained in the ponytail, and still no stains on my blouse. I hadn’t even brought coffee so I wasn’t temped to sip it on the way and possibly spill. “And look, honey, we’re five-minutes early today. You don’t even have to rush.”

He pulled one of the ear-buds out of his head. “Amazing.” He snapped his gum. The bland look on his face never changing.

It was my turn to roll my eyes. Why did I even try?

I pulled slowly and carefully up to the curb, smiling at the principle through the windshield. See, I'm not rushing, I thought, willing him to acknowledge my awesomeness. Just one in total control, super-mom here. Look at me in my crisp white blouse. My eyes met Mr. Perelli's. He appeared to almost smile at me. I gave a little wave and then, bam!

Charlie yelled and I looked up to see the backside of a minivan unusually close to the front of my truck. Realization dawned that I had just rolled into the car in front of me. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck as I took in the little stick-figure stickers on the back window of the car – three little cheerleader stick-figures in descending heights. Oh, crap. I had hit Emily Peter’s minivan. No, no, no. Boing.

Charlie grabbed his backpack and mumbled, “Nice going, mom.” He bowed his head and scuttled out of the car, making a beeline for the school.

Traitor.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed down my blouse and got ready to get out of the car to assess the damage. I looked down and took note of my purple cows. When I looked back up I was met with the visage of the well groomed, track-suited, athletically trim Emily Peters.

She glared at me. I mouthed “sorry.” She stabbed the air in the direction of the parking lot and then stomped back to her car.

I mouthed “sorry” to Mr. Perelli, too. His familiar, disapproving look was firmly back in place. I slowly drove behind the minivan to the parking area.

A moment later Emily was back out of the car inspecting her bumper closely. I knew there was nothing else to do but get out too, display my pajama bottoms and take my lumps. I looked down at the back of her well-groomed head, her nose two inches from her bumper. “I am so sorry, Emily.”

She was vigorously rubbing at the black mark on her otherwise pristine bumper, mumbling about idiots – I’m pretty sure she meant me. “What is the matter with…” her words died in her throat as she looked up from her rubbing to take in my clothing choice. “Are those purple cows?”

“Did I dent the bumper? I can give you my insurance card.”

She stood up and then took in my rapidly deteriorating ponytail. “No, it’s just a mark. I think it’ll come out. Can you please be more careful next time, though?”

“Of course. I don’t know what happened.”

“I do. You weren’t paying attention.”

“I’m really…” But there was no reason for me to continue. Emily had already gotten back into her minivan and was pulling away.

Feeling like a failure - I mean really, I couldn’t even drop my son off at school on time without having a collision - I pulled into the driveway of the white clapboard farmhouse that had been in my husband’s family for generations. Even the sight of the flowers I'd planted beginning to bloom in all the flowerbeds and the prospect of a day in my studio stretching before me, could not dispel my mood.

My husband, Rick, would be away for another four-months before he returned from the Adriatic Sea where he worked as a deep-sea welder six-months out of the year. And I missed him. Plus, my son was clearly embarrassed by me. And to top it off, my latest project wasn’t coming out the way I planned. I'm a sculptor specializing in outdoor art created with discarded metal pieces (aka, junk). The commissioned piece for a horse farm I was currently working on was suppose to be an abstract of a stallion, but looked more like a deformed mule. 

So in my funk, I slammed the door on my truck and headed straight for the old chicken barn I had converted into my studio. This was a place I usually found refuge and peace…but the mule was waiting for me. Pulling open the heavy wooden door, I came face to face with the rusted-metal eyes made of old winch nuts.

“What are you staring at?” I asked it.

Forgetting that I was still wearing a white shirt and pajama bottoms, I grabbed the heavy rubber apron off its hook on the wall, slipping the strap over my head. Then I pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves from the bench and worked them onto my hands. Boing. The last lock escaped from the ponytail holder and the elastic band that had been valiantly trying to hold all my curls, shot across the room.

I found a pink bandana on the bench and folded it around my head, tying it at the nape of my neck. Now I was ready to work, and already starting to feel marginally better about my day. Time to turn the mule into a stallion.