The Carnation of Madison Avenue

By Liz Kelley

 

 

New York City is not a place of miracles, only instances where the crowds part and you feel you might survive another week. Croatia would be a better place to live. Besides it being a beautiful climate, some of the world’s first fountain pens come from Croatia, and eight national parks. Two days ago, in a small Croatian village, a girl woke up, washed her face, and took sea air into her lungs. Perfect riding conditions. Later that Thursday, when it was breaking day a hemisphere over New York City, Mrs. Francis Bacon is looking at her face in a makeup mirror and taking inventory of the crows which have trampled small footprints around her eyes. Outside, just a block down, a pigeon is trampling the sidewalk on the face of Manhattan, and wondering what it would be like to be a horse. Realizing that won’t get him more bread, he continues his search for food.

 

Mrs. Francis Bacon ate diamond crusted scones for breakfast, taboule salad with fig leaves and vinegar for lunch, and three raisins for dinner. Her mantra: “Make no mistake about it”. If she were younger and somebody else, she would have had those words tattooed on her forehead. She ran a real estate company that would have put my family out of business, had we not gone bankrupt years ago. Francis Bacon was also the name of a morbid English painter who put yellow carnations on black-jacketed figures, the heads of parliament revealed through fleshy pig-toned faces, animal limbed figures, and purple bruised trees in the background. Like Mrs. Francis Bacon, it was impressive to see, and took ages of waiting and watching to figure out, and even then you felt like there was no coherent grasp of it’s darkly beauty.

 

Today Mrs. Bacon is denying her son the right to bare arms: that is, she’s refusing to take him to wax his hairy limbs. Eric Bacon is one of three brothers of the BaconCorp seed, a tree planted far from the dirt and in hydroponic light. Eric has never been denied a wax before today, so of course he is curious, but more than curious, he is panicked, more than panicked he is angry, and more than angry he is furious.

 

Francis, however, feels none of these feelings. Francis is the yellow carnation of diplomacy sewn into a black lapel, and never moves an inch despite the way the wind blows. Even when pinned down, this carnation knows how to subtly follow the sun without seeming like it needs real light.

 

“You’re such a cunt, Mom.”

 

Francis ignores him. A carnation is not a cunt, no matter what people say.

 

“Eric, take your brothers to the drug store to pick up my vitamins. After that, call your father and tell him that you will be staying with him tonight. Then, I want you to look in the mirror and practice a diligent, thought out apology and good evening before I release you to your father. The apology will be to me for your poor choice of words, the good-bye will include a kiss, make no mistake about it. That is all”.

 

Eric gives her a hairy, unwaxed middle finger, then goes to the living room where the twins are napping in their cribs. The twins, Moses and Jesus Bacon, are both miracles. This cannot be disputed as Mrs. Bacon is 80 years old and was thought to be completely barren. More and more women in their eighties nowadays were giving birth thanks to the combined use of fertility drugs and Reiki. Apparently the practice of Reiki, thought to be the black sheep of the healing practices, turned out to be the stones on the foundation of fertility in senior citizens. Francis had already been taking fertility drugs for a lifelong case of acne, and took in one Reiki session from a gift certificate won at auction. Mrs. Bacon had never had sex as far as anyone could tell, and now she was giving birth to twins.

 

         The news of the miracle was plagued with scandal, as Mrs. Bacon was not quite divorced, and she gave birth to one Filipino child, and one Chinese. More than that, she debuted the twins at the yearly Princess Diana Memorial, and everyone thought she had brought them as a stunt. The party went from candle in the wind to cradle in the dried up womb. Colonel Bacon, Mrs. Bacon’s ex-husband, left the party prematurely out of sheer embarrassment.

 

“They’re…adorable!” Remarked Ms. Kushing, a Park Avenue spinster with few years left to bank for marriage, “And they look…the same!”

 

“They’re twins” remarked Mrs. Bacon, though she was unaware of their surprisingly different genetic makeup. In actuality, a Chinese grocery store owner was the only one who could tell them apart, and was called on more than one occasion to dress them in the morning. Colonel Bacon demanded to know the father, claiming no legal responsibility, and declaring that according to scripture, no miracle happened east of Seventh Avenue, and that would never change no matter what Brangelina spin you put on two bastard children. Only Dr. Svengard, of the St. Francis Medical hospital on 8^th Avenue and 21^st knew where these twins came from. Their birth certificates were in a safe on the sixth floor of her apartment. Yes, I said sixth floor.

 

Eric, dressed in Abercrombie jeans, a pink sweater (Salmon, he would say, Salmon), and a white collared shirt (Cream cheese, he would say, it’s from the Cream Cheese Fall collection) put his Iplug into his ears and nodded his head to the sounds of Chris “Ludakris” Bridges, Shaun “Puffy” Combs, and Leopold “Ask me if I’m gonna grapple ya wit’ hooks” Davis, Jr. He pressed a button, and with a hum the Segway Baby 2000 walked itself down the street. Its motion detectors and satellite navigation system wheeled the twins around town, and its battery could run a whole five minutes without having to be charged again. Eric usually forgot the charger or used it to re-juice his Iplug, and by that time the children were left in the care of the Chinese grocery store owner, where, in exchange for a large tip, Eric would leave them after buying cigarettes and Red bulls in anticipation of the night to come at Lotus Night Club. For their silence, they were not reported to the INS.

 

As Mrs. Bacon watched her son leave, she thought: How is it people think me and that spoiled brat are related? It’s a good thing the twins at least have a small resemblance. But what of that? That’s not what keeps me up at night. Mrs. Bacon reached inside her blouse, under her dry-clean only wardrobe. She pulled out a locket with St. Francis’ face on it, smiling at a small bird. She never knew the dirt or the air or the trees, though she was expected to flower. She knew hydroponic carnations and sharper image sounds of the ocean. She knew soldiers of payroll and she knew the victims of financial war, though the casualties were never seen by her eyes. Six figures and three children and one miracle that happened east of Seventh Avenue. The carnation of Madison Avenue knew that she wasn’t getting another one.

 

Then, a knock on the door.

 

“Mrs. Bacon?” a stranger, unknown by the doorman, and unseen by the cameras gave a swift knock. She walked swiftly with equestrian muled shoes and drew deep breaths through her nostrils. She smelled of fog on a beach.

 

No answer.

 

“Mrs. Bacon? Are you there?”

 

Pause, then, like tacks on an insect collection, she spoke through an intercom. The cameras buzzed and showed static. Broken. Again.

 

“Who is this? Did you come alone? Did anyone see you?”

 

A striking pause.

 

“Um…I know Mr. Chang? He sent me?” The girl said.

 

Static. Mrs. Bacon took a sip from her afternoon tea.

 

“You may open the door, but only after when I buzz you in. Not a second before. You will proceed down a white hall with pictures of horses on them, and wait behind a picture of a Lipizzaner with no rider. You will then, using the hand sanitizer on the table, clean your hands, and wait for me to call you in. Are all these instructions clear?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

A buzzing sound. Then coughing. Then the cool, wet feeling of hand sanitizer. A pause. The tapping of shoes. Another pause, a glance at the pictures. Is that what a Lipizzaner horse looks like? The girl thought. I know those horses-they’re magic.Another pause. A clock in the kitchen ticks to exact time. Or is it real time? Only the clock knows.

 

“You may enter” declared Mrs. Bacon.

 

A stare. A smile. Another stare. A greeting. A hard stare. Small talk. A demeaning, cold stare. A question:

 

“My son asked me for a wax, and I refused to give it to him. Do you think that makes me a bad person?” Mrs. Bacon tapped her fingernails on a marble coffee table that no matter what you put on it would never have any trace of a coffee ring.

 

“Well” the girl said, “I believe the cruelest thing to do to anyone is to put them through the waxing process, so, maybe you’re just sparing him some pain.”

 

A laugh.

 

“Hardly. That boy could use some pain in his life.” Mrs. Bacon could feel St. Francis staring coldly on her chest. The girl spoke:

 

“I brought your vitamins. Mr. Chang says you needed them today, and he wanted me to ask if your son was coming in.”

 

“Leave them on the table, Thank you.” Mrs. Bacon turned  

 

“Aren’t you going to stop by?” The girl smiled, it was half fake, but an intentional, honest fake that your favorite bartender uses. The other half of the smile was almost pixie like, and reminded Mrs. Bacon about the time her mother took her to see Peter Pan. For months after that show Mrs. Bacon refused to take off her tights unless forced by the housemaid.

“Vitamins on the table. Thank you.”

 

Mrs. Bacon turned to leave, and was stopped by wistful nostalgia. Wistful nostalgia is, by definition: buzz kill for the young and Vikodin for the old and dying.

 

“Do you ride these horses?” the stranger asked.

 

“No. I don’t ride”.

 

A pause. Then, the first step to a miracle. Mrs. Bacon responded to a question with a personal inquiry. Something that hadn’t happened since her husband said he was leaving her. To which she replied then: “Well, at least you waited until after the Holidays. What will you do now?” And to which she replies:

 

“Do you? Ride horses?”

 

The stranger smiled. This time, for real.

 

“I had a horse. I remember everything about her. Her mane, the way she used to nuzzle me as a pony, and how the smell of the ocean would make her run faster and faster…like she was coming home. She would eat all sorts of flowers, trees. Her favorite was carnations, but carnations are poisonous to horses, so I had to pick all of them out of the fields. I really miss that. The outdoors. I didn’t give it enough credit for being such a big part of my life, but now, I just imagine fields and green lakes and trees just to get by during the day.”

 

Mrs. Bacon felt a lump in her throat.

 

“But knowing I have that is such a miracle to me. I’m not a smart person. I never was. I just am a rosy, wide eyed horse. And I’m not even the best rosy, wide eyed horse all of the time. But I just am what I am. I guess I just look for daily reminders that I’m not alone in this world. And they’re there.” The stranger laughed, lips bouncing. “What am I saying? Sorry. Um, I say stupid stuff all the time. I must not be getting my vitamins. But here are yours. Stop by any time!”

 

A pause. Tapping of feet. Two feet. Four? Two. Silence. The smell of the sea. Grass. Time going forwards and backwards, only the clock knowing the truth. Mrs. Bacon inhaled for the first time in her life. Is this…outside? Am I outside?

 

And then, time shifted as the sun slowly moved across the sky. New York City became just an island for the first time. Far away, in Croatia two days ago, the fog lifted from the beach and a little girl was revealed, crying in the sand. She had fallen off her horse, held up by a bed of carnations which were to be her last place of rest. Her chest had taken a beating in the fall, and now her heart was pumping blood in the opposite direction. She needed a miracle. Her spirit rose from her body as she traveled across the Atlantic, got stuck on Ellis Island and stepped onto Madison Avenue cement. She got a job at a Chinese Grocery store, and made 6.25 an hour. She went to on an errand to Mrs. Francis Bacon’s house and left there wishing she could ride her horse again. But she would never ride her horse again, only look at pictures of them on walls. But they would still be magic. The front door of the apartment shut as Mrs. Bacon expelled an explosive dreamy sigh. This miracle would have to last her a long, long time.

 

 

Author’s Bio: Liz Kelley is a performance artist and actress from California. Some of her favorite roles include Taffy from the new musical Tomorrowland, Carly from The Most Massive Woman Wins, and various characters in a show she wrote about Norman Rockwell entitled "Norman '43. She has written for her university monologue festival (pieces entitled "There's Something I'm Forgetting" and "The Box") and currently is writing a show called "The History of the World According to Google", which is being workshopped at Dixon Place in New York City this April 30th. Liz is currently living in East Harlem.