Ken Harshbarger

Rest for Celia

Things were going great for Celia. She had a boyfriend she really liked. She was happy with her job. Her two daughters were doing well in school.

But then her sister, Penelope, moved in. Penelope was seventeen. She had been living with a friend and the friend’s husband. Penelope and the friend and the husband were screwing each other. At the same time. Things were great until one day Penelope screwed the husband while the friend was at work. Apparently this was bad form. The friend kicked Penelope out of her house. So Penelope moved in with Celia.

After that, Celia had a talk with Bert. Bert was her boyfriend before they had the talk. Then they had the talk.

--No, I really like you, Celia.

-Okay? Then why?

--It’s just that. Well, you’ve had your uterus removed and you have two daughters--they’re awesome and all, but you know? And now your sister’s moving in? It’s just more than I can handle.

-What!?

--I’m just trying to be honest with you.

Celia nodded her head, for she did understand most of what he’d said.

After Bert bailed, Celia began to have problems with her nerves. Everything annoyed her: the dinosaur noises her daughters made, their dirty clothes, their hunger, their sticky hands. Everything grated on her nerves, especially Penelope. She had to clench her fists to keep her hands from shaking.

So she went to the doctor. Ever since her hysterectomy, she didn’t trust doctors. But she told him about the problem with her nerves. He told her to relax. Can you believe that? Just relax, he said. A real genius, that doctor. Anyhow, he also gave her a prescription to calm her nerves.

The prescription didn’t work. She had to take it to a drug store and exchange it for a bottle of pills. Celia took the bottle of pills home with her. At first, she didn’t take them. She tried to relax. Like the doctor said. For days, they sat in the cabinet above her record player. But her nerves just got worse and worse, and she ran out of records to listen to.

Everything got loud. It was all noise. Celia’s daughters came home from school singing a song about dew drops glistening on a spider web in the sunshine. Her sister Penelope cried on the telephone. Wailing stupidly. An apology for screwing her friend’s husband without consent.

It was too much! Celia decided to use the pills. But to make up for the days she had skipped, she tripled the dose; then, to be sure, she used all of them. She made a big pitcher of lemonade. Crunched the pills into a fine powder and mixed them in with the sugar and water and lemons and ice. She drank a glass, and she left the rest on the counter. Penelope was the first to come into the kitchen. She sobbed and chugged a glass of lemonade and poured another. Then the two girls. Her precious daughters.

The pills worked. The two little girls passed out first. Celia carried them to their beds. It took Penelope a little longer. The poor girl. Celia really did pity her. She made sure she was breathing, then left her lying on the carpet in the room with the computer.

Celia listened to “Lemon Tree” by Peter Paul and Mary. The song gave her the spooks, but she played it over and over and over. Then she took the needle off the record. No more noises, no more Penelope, no more drama. Only the spinning record.

Finally, said Celia.

Ken is a technical writer for NASA. Yes, that’s right, NASA. He just moved to New Orleans, LA, where he is looking desperately for a new job while living high on the hog.