Some called her “Mother Theresa”, others, Paul Revere.” To us kids, she was just “Toots,” with her walnut face, rumpy-dumpy body, and loopy prattle, spewing forth endlessly in a shrill, roller-coaster voice. Toots of the ratty rattan chair forever squeaked on the plank porch as she watched us kids play kick-the-can in the street while dodging oncoming cars.

Some said there had been a baby girl that died years before, and maybe she sat there and dreamed of her when she looked at us, but kids don’t think of such things; kids aren’t wistful.

Once in a blue moon, her husband, Red would join her, but more often we’d hear a rousingly horrific “God damn it! Get off that friggin’ porch and get me something to eat, you ugly bitch!” People said it was probably because of the War, “Dubya Dubya Two” he called it. “The last man’s-war”, he called it. He called us “shitheads”. On summer nights, she’d keep a nice big pitcher of sweet lemonade next to her ratty rattan chair. She never said a word but we knew it was for us. One time, Red stormed out, snatched up the pitcher, smashed it into the wall, and strolled back into the house as if he’d just gone out to get some air. For a long time afterward, I wondered about what wars do to people.

On particularly hot, sticky nights, I’d go by myself over to Toot's house and hide under her porch where there was only the dark and the smell of mud and mildew. Sometimes my father would come looking for me—at least that’s the excuse he gave my mother, but what he really wanted was to take advantage of Red’s open bar. I would always come home by ten; my father might not come home until morning. But kids don’t think of such things, kids are ironic.

Her crawlspace was my escape and gossip was hers. Any unlocked door, open window, ratchety sound of a lawnmower would be a tacit invitation to her high-pitched warble: “Hey, what’s up?” And whatever she was told, she, in turn, told. But I don’t remember anyone getting angry with her. I guess it was because they knew she never listened or reported in malice. And because of Red, too, I suppose. The only thing she never talked about was Red and his drunken rants, his bruised knuckles or her purple-brown welts. We knew all about that without being told.

Toots had another daughter, adopted. She is long gone now and never a word. Red’s long gone too, his final rant only annoying the other patients in the cancer ward, I suppose. Now there’s only her reporter’s beat, her ratty rattan chair, forever squeaking on the plank porch as she watches other kids play kick-the-can in the street while dodging oncoming cars, and the pitcher of sweet lemonade by her side.

Patrice Conlin currently works as a legal assistant to an administrative law judge for a large federal agency and has taken several writing courses at Santa Monica College.