Tommie Lyn

My Friend, Nancy Brown

What is real and what is imaginary?

"Suppertime!" Mama called, and Nancy Brown slipped inside the cedar wardrobe, pulling the mirrored doors shut behind her

"It will be over soon. Then we can play," I told Nancy.

Nancy's mother didn't ever make me hide. There were always goodies in Mrs. Brown’s kitchen and fun activities at the Brown’s house. Which was only a step and a thought away.

Carrots. Green beans. Sliced tomatoes. White bread and butter. And a piece of ham. Not appetizing, but interesting to push back and forth on the blue banded plate. And colorful.

“Stop that! Eat your food before it gets cold!” Mama snapped.

Why worry? The temperature of inedible soggy vegetables didn’t matter if scrumptious stuff awaited.

“Frank! Please do something about your daughter!” Mama shouted.

“What, in heaven’s name?” Daddy yelled. “Poke it down the little darling’s throat?”

Their voices became shrill, accusing, and wandered onto other subjects. I, as usual, was just the agonizing catalyst they relied upon to wave the checkered flag for the race around a track paved with insults, attacks and verbal abuse.

Good. While the nightly war escalated, I made my escape. And this time, I wouldn’t return.

I tapped on the aromatic red and yellow wood and whispered, “Nancy.”

“Come in.” Nancy smiled.

The smell of cinnamon cookies comforted me, and Mrs. Brown’s beaming, welcoming face was soothing.

And Mama’s harsh words, “Where IS that girl…” faded to nothing as I walked through the gateway into Nancy’s world.