Elizabeth Mercereau

Liza's Breasts

    The decision was easy.  Should I finish my Master’s Thesis on the poems of Tibullus or go with Steven and Linda to help them build a house in the woods of Western Massachusetts?  I said yes right away to my friends.  By the second week in September Steven, Linda, their two year old daughter Amy and I were settled in a white ranch in Amherst.  My main contribution was to help pay the rent on the Amherst house.  During time off from my job in a nursing home I would work on the building site.  Friends from New York came to visit and sometimes they helped, too.
    One day Linda and Amy had gone somewhere.  Our friend Ken was visiting.  He was trying out pastry recipes and had made a strawberry and rhubarb pie.  As soon as he took it out of the oven, Steven, Ken and I rode off in the pick-up.  When we arrived at the site, Steven asked Ken and me to move branches he had cut during the week. He would work on planning the foundation.
     In my pink peasant blouse embroidered with multicolored flowers, men’s jeans and Chippewa boots, I went back and forth in the sunshine, first empty handed, then with a long branch still loaded with leafy twigs and smaller branches.  I realized with guilt that I liked having the two men to myself, no crying toddler, and Linda not there either.  It wasn’t that I was jealous of Linda, and I loved her companionship.  It was just that I felt special on this day.  It was me and the guys.  I would pass Ken as we went back and forth, unhurried.  We were snugly surrounded by a wall of high evergreens, laced with maples and oaks in full foliage.  The clearing Steve had made let in a house-and-garden size bowl of yellow sunshine. The air smelled of pine and the earth was fresh from a recent rain.
    Ken was slowing down.  He dropped a branch onto the pile near the road, and walked slowly back up the drive and over to where Steve was working.  He watched over Steve’s shoulder.  Motown sounds were coming from the radio on a tree stump near the men.  I picked up a pine branch covered in small dry spikes.  I found a smooth part to grip and dragged it down the slope.
    A breeze sent the music in a loud wave.  Song sounds cooled me as I let go of the branch and shoved it to rest on the pile.  I heard Ben E. King singing ‘Save the Last Dance For Me,’ one of my favourites.  I sang along.  I thought of the boyfriend I had, for four and a half years during high school days and after.  We danced every dance together, and cherished our last dances.  I certainly did.  I knew about last dances, wanting them saved for you. 
    ‘You can smile every smile for the guy who’d like to treat you right neath the pale moonlight,’ I kept singing as I remembered the night on our school boat ride and his arm was around me.  We were sitting on a bench with one of my classmates.  His hand had moved off my shoulder, and when I looked behind me I saw he was touching the sleeve of Pat Barone’s dress.
    I got to the top of the hill where I was supposed to pick up another branch.  Instead, I turned around and started dancing.  I shook my shoulders, my breasts swinging.  Steven glanced at me briefly once or twice, while he muttered answers to Ken’s questions about his measuring.  Their ignoring me made me feel inspired.  Still singing, I practiced the effect of my swinging breasts.  First I slowed down, and swung them slowly back and forth.  And then I moved my shoulders good and hard, making my breasts swing in a full circle.  I repeated this several times.
    ‘Oh I know, that the music’s fine like sparkling wine go ahead and have your fun…’ I carried on singing the whole time, my voice shaking when I jerked my body.
    ‘…But don’t forget who’s taking you home and in whose arms you’re gonna be,’ I screamed.
    They both looked up.  I was at the top of the hill performing this standing dance, looking out over the whole building site, shaking my head to the beat.
    ‘Don’t forget while we’re apart don’t give your heart to anyone,’ I continued, my eyes nearly closed, and swinging my breasts covered only by the loose cotton of my blouse.  Steve’s hands dropped down to his sides, his ruler pointing to the ground.  Ken stood to Steve’s left, hands on his hips.  They were shaking with laughter, and Steven said, ‘Oh that Liza, and her breasts.’

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Biography

Elizabeth was born in New York City.  She lives in South East London.  Primarily interested in life writing and short fiction, she is working on ‘Floating Bodies’ a book of memoirs.

lizamercereau49@yahoo.com