"Oh, the adventure of molding a new life."
Patrick Dennis, Auntie Mame

LaVerne Daniels

One Sunday
in late September
at the flea market in San Luis,
he came upon a second edition,
copyright, 1955.
The escapades of an eccentric aunt
in the '20s and '30s.
His mother's favorite
some forty years
before.

Running his fingers
over the beat up cover,
flipping through the brown-
edged pages,
he focused on a name
written inside:

LaVerne Daniels

He studied the handwriting,
the black ink on the creme colored paper,
the distinct loop of the "L,"
the flamboyant slash of the "V"
soaring upward and off                   the page.

He closed the book,
dropped it on the table,
and as he did,
memories,
long forgotten
surfaced,
pieces of conversation,
a familiar voice.

LaVerne Daniels.
Yes,
long ago
he'd known her.

LaVerne in her thirties.
"The best years of one's life," she'd said.
Attractive,
rouged,
lipsticked,
hot pink nails and
Maybelline lashes.
Gold bracelets,
a cameo ring,
large hoop earrings.
The scent of Emeraude
permeating sweaters and scarves.
Loose change and
bits of tobacco
collecting at the bottom
of her purse.

LaVerne,
a single mother,
separated
then divorced.
Raising her child alone,
working
when she could,

hauling them around like
Gypsies while the Mills Brothers' Paper Doll
and Nat's Mona Lisa
played on car radios.

LaVerne,
lost in the moment,
content wherever she was.
Between moves serving him
free motel continental breakfasts of milk,
orange juice and
sweet rolls wrapped up
in plastic.

Reading him passages from East of Eden,
telling her Steinbeck story,
meeting John at a party in Salinas,
and talking till dawn.
She, of her mice.
He, of his men.

Then the illness years later.
The pills,
treatments and specialists
sending her to a distant place,
and LaVerne returning a remote,
cheerless
stranger.

The last costume party
for family and friends.
LaVerne/Mother emulating
her most admired
literary character.
Orange blouse,
black toreador pants,
sitting,
staring into her bedroom mirror.
One hand adjusting an emerald green turban,
hiding small patches of whitened,
thinning hair,
the other waving a long cigarette holder.
Turning to me,
smiling,
touching my cheek.
A momentary spark of her old
independence.
A trace of our early life
together.
"Darling,"
she'd said, "putting on
my happy face for the mourners."
Then rising,
setting off down the hall
to greet her
guests.

LaVerne Daniels.
Yes,
long ago
I'd known her.

back to top