Salt 2

“Listen to him, whatever happened to decent, simple names like Fido and Skip?”

Mrs. Seraphina Monk has a helluva gall to complain about the status of names, their fallen simplicity.  But she is old, so she has the right to complain about anything.  “Animals shouldn’t be allowed indoors.  They belong outside where they can scratch themselves on their privy parts without offending us decent creatures.”

From the kitchen Mr. Monk stares at the steeping tea, “Well, how do you know he’s calling them inside?”

“Well, where else, I’d like to know?  From the outside to the outside?”

“Anyway, he ain’t calling them inside this house, so I don’t know why you bother yourself.”

“Dox, don’t fret me!  Especially not on a Sunday.”

“I ain’t aimin’ to cause you no fret, just don’t seem to me that you’re bein’ wise to bother yourself with other folk’s business.”

“He’s on my land.  That makes it my business.”

“It’s his own home.”

“His home, my land.”

True enough.  The sale was for the hacienda, not the earth on which its original wood-frame was built.  She knows this, Mrs. Monk, because, as the leading figure of the historical society, she knows everything about anything historic in town from the houses to the city buildings to the parks and water towers.  Her wattle stiffens.  Though old in age her mind is vibrant, adolescent, a condition she credits to her childlessness and late marriage.  She credits Dox with only making her decent by marrying her for they had been biblical with each other and only marriage avoided a scandal.  Whereas Mr. Derrick was neither this nor that, Dox Monk was concretely, strictly, irrefutably ugly.  Crooked profile, lanky, beady-eyed, his mother determined to give him some mark of esteem.  She named him Doxology because its uniqueness, she believed, would give him the chance of separation from his ugliness.  Let the people focus on his name, not his appearance.  Give them a distraction.  Of course, she was certifiable.  But that fact does not discredit her sincere motherly intent.

“Well, it’s your land, so have him get them dogs off it so’s you ain’t gotta worry yourself about em all the time.”

“And where would they go?”

“Back downtown where they come from.”

“Now, Dox, you know we’re cleaning up downtown and can’t release mongrels to scavenge on its streets.  How’s the tea coming along?”

“Just fine.  Give it a minute.”

“I don’t want lemon in mine.”

No, you’re a sour enough woman.  Them dogs ain’t doin’ nothin’ but bein’ dogs.  And Mr. Derrick, well, ain’t he helped clean up downtown by bringin’ them back with him?  Now you’re complain’ ‘bout how he’s callin’ em.  Yes, woman, you sure are sour enough.  Makes my soul pucker.

The Monks don’t live as monks.  On the holy contrary, their concrete block home is the envy of the town.  They own the downtown diner, Monk’s Counter, the movie theater, Monk’s Movietown, the pharmacy, Medicines by Monk and have a two pews dedicated to and reserved for them and theirs at the church which Mr. Monks serves as a deacon and Bible Study teacher and Mrs. Monk as the organist and secretary/ treasurer.  Her great grandfather was the first pastor, then her grandfather after him and her father after him and should’ve been her brother after him but her parents had only girls, she being the oldest of three.  The younger two married dedicated secular men.  Secular, like Mr. Derrick.  He interprets scripture with his intellect, not his spirit.  Has to be.  If he did not she wouldn’t hear him curse that girl, “Damn it, Caterina!”  Wolf in sheep’s clothing, has to be.  And he upbraids her, Lord, he upbraids her.  She strives, strives to be correct and he upbraids her:  Indians are the people of God.  Corrects her knowledge.  She’s been living longer than he’s been dripping man-sweat on the very land she owns and he upbraids her.  She would like to correct his face with an unadulterated slap!  There was a time when a lady could do such a thing to correct a man, remind him to be a gentleman.  Times have changed.  She has tried strived struggled to change too.  Yet he upbraids her.

“You wantin’ cookies with your tea?”

“No cookies, Dox, and no lemon.”

If I were Mr. Derrick offerin’ you’d take the lemon, pulp and rind and all, take it right down your throat.  

“Well, you don’t mind if I have a cookie or two?”

“It isn’t me who’s going to eat them, so what do I care?”

It ain’t your house them dogs would come inside, yet you care.

“I will take sugar.  Mind you don’t mistake it for the salt.”