The Rainbow Ring

  BY CARMEN RAMOS

  It was May of 1988, and I was living in Trujillo Alto, Puerto Rico, with my two boys and a dog named Cindy. Our little apartment was perfect for us.

  Early on the morning of Mother’s Day, my eight-year-old son Hector handed me a little box—a gift to celebrate the occasion. I was surprised that he had remembered what day it was because he was only eight years old. My charming, sweet boy looked at me with those beautiful brown eyes that always made me melt with love. Hector was a funny and lovable kid, neither chubby nor skinny. Just right. I loved the caramel and cinnamon tone of his skin. And did I mention that Hector was smart? Yes, he was.

  Hector broke away from my hug and pointed to my present. “Open it, Mommy! I know you’ll like it.” When I unwrapped the paper and opened the box, tears fell down my cheeks. Inside was the most beautiful candy ring I had ever seen. “It’s not a real diamond ring, Mommy. It’s candy. But don’t eat it yet, because I’m going to tell you a little secret I know about this ring. When you move it, it makes different colors like the rainbow!”

  I was so happy and amused that I forgot to thank my son. Instead, I asked him where he’d gotten it. “I bought it from the store we went to last week,” he said. “You were busy buying other stuff, so I whispered to the lady behind the counter that I wanted a candy ring to give my mom for Mother’s Day. I got one for myself, too, and you wouldn’t believe what my eyes saw. When I was ready to eat mine, I stopped because the colors were swirling.”

  “Or maybe that’s what you wanted to believe,” I said. But Hector’s face turned serious, and I thought, well, I’ll just listen without interrupting him.

  “Mom,” he said. “You know how you’re always saying you don’t have any patience? It’s the same with me sometimes, too. But when I looked at my ring, I stared at the color yellow and thought maybe I can have patience, even when my work at school is hard. I know I can do it if I believe I can.”

  “How is it that yellow stands for patience?” I asked my son.

  “Because it’s like the sun,” he said. “It has a warm touch that says, ‘Breathe in, breathe out, and everything will be all right.’”

  I just stood there, listening; I had never imagined my young son could be so philosophical! Hector said, “Mommy, I saw these two colors come together—orange and green. The orange reminded me of the sunset, peaceful and calm. The green made me think of nature. Look around, Mommy, at the plants, trees, and grass. All this green gives me the freedom to run around. Nature is an invitation!”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Hector, my charming son, sounded like a little man. I looked at my candy ring, turning it to see if I could see or feel what he had seen and felt. What I saw was that belief is a powerful thing, if you have faith in yourself.

  Hector continued. “The color pink in the ring is not for me. It suits you better, Mommy, and let me tell you something. You should wear pink more often. You look pretty when you do, and I think your days will go better if you feel pretty.” That made me smile sadly. If my son saw the beauty in me—something I struggled to see in myself—then I would wear pink more often. Maybe I would look in the mirror and see someone beautiful, too.

  As Hector continued, a worried look crossed his brow. He said, “Mommy, you and I are the same. When we get mad, our faces turn purple, as if we might explode. But purple doesn’t suit us. We look better when we smile than when we wear our angry purple faces.” As Hector spoke, my heart filled with sadness. I thought about all the ways in which anger had interfered with my happiness, and I vowed then and there that I would learn from the wisdom of this wise and special child.

  “Keep turning the ring, Mommy,” Hector advised. “Do you see the color blue? Blue makes me feel sad. When I’m not around you, I miss you, Mommy. But when I see you again, your hugs say you love me and the blue goes away.”

  Hector paused before continuing and his eyes widened. “The color red is God for me,” he said.

  “Yes? Why God?” I asked.

  “Because you always tell me that God loves us, and that he gave his life for you and me on the cross. Mommy, you said God created the world in seven days and gave Noah the seven colors of the rainbow as his promise of love for us. So that’s why I gave you this candy ring. I know sometimes we get out of control, but I also know that every day you give us the gift of love.”

  My tears fell again. Wow, I thought. Even though I spend most of my time with Hector, he is a mystery, wise beyond his years. My sweet little boy has such a vivid imagination—such a gift with words. I, on the other hand, was speechless. I just kept hugging my son. And when at last I could speak, I said, “Hector, you’ve grown up so much. The things you just said? They touch my heart and I will remember them forever.” And I have. To this day, I recall my little present—a candy diamond and a Mother’s Day I will never forget.

  You don’t need much money to give the gift of love.

  Pictures of a Daughter, Viewed in Prison

  BY CHRISTINA MACNAUGHTON

  You set the photos down,

  spreading time around you panorama-style.

  Button-nosed baby, toddler, little girl, bigger girl:

  Your eyes roam the chain of living paper dolls,

  the side-by-side smiles posed just for you.

  Time cannonballs you in the gut.

  You think, When the hell did all this happen?

  How did I miss so much?

  Too late to cry, too late to mourn

  the baby smell, the small heft, the music of her giggles.

  The middle photos blur, become

  the space between your first photo and your latest.

  This is the abyss into which time has fallen.

  Your reverie broken,

  you gather up your painful collection and rise.

  The clock reads 2:28.

  Time has just stolen another hour.

  Under-Where?

  BY LYNNE M. FRIEND

  My sister Andrea was adamant. “Lynne, I mean it. Please don’t get me laughing at some inappropriate moment and make me look like a fool!”

  A big family event was coming up: our brother Gary, who’d borne the burden of growing up with four older sisters, miraculously still liked women enough to marry one. Gale was the girl of Gary’s dreams and their wedding would be the first time in over nine years that we five siblings and our divorced parents would be in the same state together, let alone the same church. The wedding couple was “opposites attract” in some ways; Gale had grown up with horses and her own credit card and Gary had grown up in a family on a budget. So the stakes were high, and my sisters and I were hoping not to come off like too loud and lively a bunch in front of Gale’s staid and proper relatives.

  But there’s a history between Andrea and me. On many, many occasions, I have gotten her guffawing at the most inopportune moments. Here’s an example: once when we were kids, Gary accidentally passed gas in church during the minister’s sermon. I leaned over to Andrea and whispered, “Gas who?” She tried laughing silently at first, her shoulders rising and falling, but it was no use. She broke out in full-scale chortling. Mom frowned, heads swiveled, and Reverend Fortin stopped midsentence, all of which made Andrea laugh harder. Well, she was not about to let it happen again. She wanted to be solemn and thoughtful during the upcoming nuptials, and she made me promise not to derail her in that effort. But it was not to be.

  My husband, Bob, and I flew from Colorado back to Connecticut a week or so before the wedding. Andrea and I had always been close with Gary, so we were thrilled that Gale had asked us to be in the bridal party. And because our future sister-in-law had a great fashion sense, we were looking forward to wearing the bridesmaid dresses she’d chosen. Until we saw them, that is.

  They were pink satin, low-cut, and gathered at the waist, with short sleeves that puffed out like a car’s air bags on impact. Andrea and I had given Gale our dress sizes over the phone, so at least the gowns fit us. In the bridal shop dressing room, with Gale waiting outside, my sister and I stood side by side before the mirror. Two look-alikes in matching cotton candy getups looked back at us. The shoulders of our mirror images moved up and down with stifled laughter. “The Shoulder Sisters,” our family had nicknamed us, and we were at it again.

  “Oh well,” I whispered, when I could finally speak. “He’s our only brother, right? These dresses aren’t his fault. And look, we only have to look ridiculous in front of a hundred and fifty people or so. We’ve seen worse dresses, haven’t we?”

  Andrea didn’t answer me.

  “Well, haven’t we?”

  “Maybe you have,” she said.

  But ugly dresses or not, I was determined to be a good sport and a supportive sister-in-law. When I emerged from the dressing room and faced Gale, I gave an Academy Award–winning performance of enthusiasm.

  The day before the wedding, I pulled Gary aside for a serious talk. I was having a bit of difficulty letting go of my “baby brother,” but he reassured me that we’d remain close. “Married or not, I’ll probably still call you from time to time for advice about women,” he said.

  “From time to time?” I said. “You better call me every chance you get, or I’m going to call you every chance I get. Collect!”

  Gary rolled his eyes and laughed. “Wouldn’t want that,” he said.

  At the rehearsal dinner that night, Mom turned to me with a look of concern. “Now, Lynne, try to be graceful when you walk down the aisle tomorrow, okay? You don’t want to trip like you did at your cousin’s wedding.”

  “But Mom, there was a rip in the carpet,” I reminded her.

  “Sure there was,” Dad chimed in. He turned to his ex-wife. “We should have named her Grace, don’t you think?” Mom smiled and nodded.

  The big day arrived: Saturday, August 17, the hottest and most humid day of the summer. “Oh my God, it must be a hundred degrees out there,” I whined to my husband, Bob. “I’m going to be miserable in that puffy satin dress all day. Where are my dress shields?”

  “Chill out,” Bob said. “It’ll probably be air-conditioned in the church and at the club for the reception.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll be outside before the wedding and in the receiving line afterward. You know how cranky I get when I’m sweltering.”

  What could I do? Well, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be leaping up to catch the bridal bouquet with the single women, or showing my legs for any other reason. Why not just wear knee-high stockings under my gown? Nobody would know and I’d be more comfortable. I’d packed my favorite underwear to wear for the wedding—green satin panties with lace, hand-sewn by a friend in Colorado. I slipped them on, then a half-slip, then the knee-highs, then the dress. I was still hot, but not as hot as I’d have been in pantyhose.

  Bob and I drove to the church with Andrea, her husband, Corey, and my nephew Michael. “I wish I’d thought about the knee-high thing,” Andrea said. “My legs feel like they’re in a toaster oven.”

  In the bridal room, Gale gave us each a strand of pearls to wear. She was nervous, of course, but she looked beautiful. And now I realized why she’d picked out our dresses. Her off-white satin gown was low-cut with puffy short sleeves. We blended together perfectly. As Bob had predicted, the church was air-conditioned. I would be walking down the aisle with Dan, a good friend of Gary’s who was both nice and funny. Okay, smooth sailing, I thought.

  We all took our places at the back of the church and the organ music began. Everything went fine as we proceeded down the aisle to meet the minister and the handsome groom. My brother, six feet tall, with dark brown hair and eyes, was wearing a black tuxedo with a cream-colored shirt, and a white rose in his lapel. The guests gazed lovingly at us all, especially the bride and groom.

  During the ceremony, I looked from the bridal couple to the gathering of friends and family who had come to witness their union. Swept up in the magic of the day, I was listening intently to the minister’s meaningful words about holy matrimony and unconditional love when, without warning, it happened. The elastic waist of my elegant hand-sewn underwear had just broken and that fancy underwear was heading south. Oh, no, I thought. This could only happen to me!

  Andrea was standing next to me. I leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re not going to believe what just happened to me.”

  “Lynne,” she whispered back, “I swear to God, leave me alone right now or there’s going to be hell to pay!”

  “Yeah, but the elastic on my underwear snapped, and they’ve fallen down to my knees.” I shifted my position a bit. “Whoa, make that below my knees!”

  Andrea’s shoulders started moving up and down. That started me going. The “Shoulder Sisters” were at it again. If only I’d worn pantyhose!

  I turned back to look for my mother, but all I could see were Gale’s relatives in their conservative suits and tasteful dresses. And when I finally did spot Mom, the scathing look she gave me let me know I was on my own.

  I placed my hand just below my knee—along the outside of my dress, of course—and managed to pinch a little of the lace trim. I tried inching the underwear, little by little, back up toward my rear end. I couldn’t get a strong enough hold, though, and they kept slipping back down to my knees.

  Oh my God, I thought, they’ll be saying their vows soon. I had to figure out something quickly, because once the minister invited the groom to kiss the bride, I’d have to take Dan’s arm and walk back down that aisle. How the heck was I going to get myself out of this one?

  Half-composed, Andrea whispered, “Have you pulled them back up yet?”

  “I’ve tried,” I said. “But they have a mind of their own!”

  More shoulder action from both of us.

  At that point, my brother, who’d been trying to concentrate on his wedding vows, turned and glared at us. I felt terrible—I certainly didn’t want to ruin his big day. My forehead and upper lip broke out in a sweat. I tried a few more unsuccessful hoists. Then, just as things were wrapping up, I got a good grip on the underwear and formulated a plan. I would carry my flowers in my left hand and hold on to my underwear with my right. I wouldn’t be able to link my right arm with Dan’s left on our way back up the aisle, but no one would guess what the problem was. I would quietly tell Dan, “I can’t hold on to your arm. I’ll explain later.”

  The music played, the bride and groom began their exit, and I stepped forward to meet Dan. I tried to tell him I couldn’t hold on to him, but he wouldn’t listen. “Aw, come on. Don’t be shy,” he said and hooked his arm around mine.

  One or two steps into it, my underwear dropped back to my knees. I couldn’t let them fall to the floor. What if people saw them dragging beneath my dress? What if they tripped me up and sent both Dan and me toppling? I clamped my knees together and took a few baby steps forward, my feet turned inward, my knees scrunched against each. Puzzled looks fell over the faces of the wedding guests as they watched our curious progress up the aisle.

  Midway there, I spotted my husband, standing at the end of his pew and laughing. He knew something had to have happened to make me walk so awkwardly—he just didn’t know what it was. But Bob wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to immortalize the moment of my mortification. He raised his camera and began snapping away.

  It took several minutes for me to make it to the vestibule. I was in tears at that point, but Andrea, wearing her stupid pantyhose, was doubled over. As the others in the wedding party gathered for the receiving line, I ducked into the ladies’ room and took off my underwear, rolled it in a ball, and crushed it inside my fist. Once I located Bob and got him to pocket the evidence, I’d just have to stand in the receiving line au naturel.

  The problem was: I couldn’t find Bob. As I got in line, I transferred the underwear from my right hand to my left and put it behind my back. My whole body trembled as I shook hands and greeted guests. “Hello. So nice to meet you. Yes, it was a lovely service.”

  At long last, Bob materialized behind me. “What the hell was going on with you and Andrea in there?” he asked. “Your shoulders were shaking for ten minutes.”

  “I need you to take these,” I said. I placed my underwear in his hand.

  Bob’s eyes widened. “What the…what are you wearing under your dress?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just my slip and my knee-highs.”

  “Ooh, baby,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes and told him to get a grip. And when he gave my behind a squeeze, I said, “That’s not what I meant, but hold that thought for later.” He walked away, laughing and shaking his head.

  When the last of the guests had made their way through the receiving line, my mother approached me. “Lynne, I want to talk to you,” she said. “Would you mind telling me what was going on up there during the service? Whatever it was, everyone noticed. And why were you walking up the aisle like a crippled person?”

  By the time I finished telling her the underwear saga, she was laughing so hard, she was holding her stomach. “Oh my God, you poor thing!” she said. “You’d better go tell your brother what happened. He’s looking for you and he’s not too happy.”

  I found Gary in the parking lot, pulled him aside, and told him the whole story. Howling with laughter, he repeated it to Gale, whose proper bride behavior collapsed into belly laughs. “My bottomless wedding!” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Welcome to the family.”

  By the time I arrived at the reception, the story was all over the place. As I stood there in the air-conditioned room, freezing my butt off, I tried to maintain some sense of dignity. And when that proved hopeless, I gave up and simply maintained my sense of humor. “Butt anyways…” I’d say.

  The groom made fun of me all afternoon and, by midreception, he was even imitating my perilous walk up the aisle. Little brothers, I thought. Some things never change.