"I identify with Amanda in the way the author writes about feeling distant from other people, and the path she follows to salvation (both in the literary sense and the spiritual) was deeply touching to me. The author captured the simple power of love over a cold human heart in a very poignant way. I smiled a lot, laughed more than once, and found myself wiping my eyes near the end. I will definitely be reading the book through again, and buying at least two more copies: one to give away to a very good friend and one to read again and again over the years while my first edition signed copy sits safely on the shelf among my other paged treasures. Thank you Jeff Minick!" --Bookie, Amazon
Although she had learned many lessons from Power Management, Amanda disliked the chapter titled “The Manager as Cheerleader.” Why on earth did people need so much encouragement nowadays? Didn’t people already receive enough approval? Were there no grownups left in the world? People patted one another on the back so incessantly it was a wonder their shoulders didn’t fall off. Amanda Bell was a firm believer in infrequent compliments and merited rewards.
Irritated by the thought of managers as cheerleaders, Amanda closed the book and turned her attention to the restive herd of fellow travelers. To her right, a handsome older man with one of those drooping Eastern European mustaches stood before a group of young people, waving his hands like a conductor as he tried to teach the teenagers a Christmas carol. His graying hair was curly and wild, and in the pocket of his long blue coat was the outline of a pint bottle. “Adeste Fideles,” the man cried, swaying on his feet. “Sing vit me! Sing vit me!” He had a heavy accent, Polish or Russian, and he was singing in Latin, which revived in Amanda memories of Mrs. Donadio’s ninth grade Latin class. Soon the man had the young people singing with him, some in English, some in French, and at least one in Latin. When they finished their polyglot carol, the students applauded. The man bowed, grinned at them, and wandered away.
Amanda returned to her book. In a quarter of an hour, a short, stout woman with dark hair and skin the color of an unpeeled kiwi wiggled her buttocks into the chair abandoned by Georgetown. Clinging to the woman’s legs were two small girls who looked like twins. Four eyes brown as coffee beans stared at Amanda. Mechanically the woman bounced her third child, a fretful baby boy, on her knees. The two girls stepped a pace away when this reckless dandling commenced, watching their mother with their dark, solemn eyes and then looking again at Amanda. The woman crooned and bounced while the toddler, dressed, appropriately enough, in blue pajamas printed with cowboys and horses, bobbed up and down like a bronco buster. In a moment he was crying.
After a minute or so of this rodeo, Amanda marked her place in Power Management and turned to the woman. “Try a trot rather than a gallop.”
The woman smiled weakly.
“Do you speak English?” The woman shook her head.
The little boy’s head waggled back and forth as if it might snap off at any moment. Amanda held out her arms. “Give him to me,” she said. The woman stopped jiggling the baby to inspect her with narrowed eyes. “Come, come,” Amanda said. She snapped her fingers, then opened her hands again. “Let me calm him. Then you must all be quiet and allow me to read.”
Watching Amanda as if she were a scorpion, the woman handed over the baby. Amanda lay the child’s head on her shoulder, gripped him firmly by the bottom, and patted his back. The baby burped, then spat up on her shoulder and down the front of her suit. Making noises of apology, the mother took a rag from her enormous purse and dabbed at the curdled milk, rubbing the mess deeper into the fabric of Amanda’s outfit.
Amanda brushed aside the woman’s hand. Quiet now, the baby in her arms gazed at her. Returning that stare, she wondered how her own offspring might look. Their physical features depended, of course, on her partner. Joseph Grenier? How would their progeny turn out should she someday marry him? Which of them, mother or father, would the children favor? Joseph possessed high cheekbones and a handsome mouth, but his nose was thin and long, and his ears were too large for his head. Were large ears hereditary? And what of her own contribution to their gene pool? Would their offspring be blonde? (Amanda was not a connoisseur of blonde jokes, which she considered racist. Suppose, she had once asked a startled friend, someone began telling kinky-haired jokes?) Blue eyes, a figure firm and shapely from years of exercise at local gyms and spas, a generous mouth, though perhaps overly-stern: Amanda was no Helen of Troy, but she wouldn’t cloud the sun. Yet she was always honest in her self-appraisal, aware of her physical imperfections: her lips didn’t exactly demand a kiss, and her eyes often frowned a warning at the world.
The little boy fell asleep, his mouth drooping open. Amanda handed him to his mother. The two girls watched everything with big, brown eyes.
“Well, what about the two of you? Are you like your mother or do you speak English?”
Their stare glimmered recognition. Otherwise, nothing.
Then one of the girls covered a yawn.
“You are tired.” Removing the scarf from her neck, Amanda folded it around her hand into the shape of a rabbit with floppy ears, a trick taught to her by her father when she was seven. The side of her hand became the rabbit’s mouth. “Hey, amigos,” her hand said. She paused, then pitched her voice an octave higher. “I’m Squire Rabbit. You need sleep. It is getting late. Are you tired? You look very sleepy to me.” The rabbit talked to the girls for five minutes, telling them about the snow, and their flight tomorrow, and why they must sleep. The girls kept their eyes on the rabbit and listened. When the rabbit said, “Let’s go, little amigos. Let’s get ready for bed,” they nodded.
Leaving her coat and bag in the mother’s care, Amanda escorted the girls to the women’s room, where she washed their hands and faces. On their way back to mother and baby, Amanda paused by the assistance table set up by the airlines and asked to borrow three blankets. The uniformed boy manning the table, pimply and skinny as a stick, looked like an eighth grader in masquerade.
“What sweet little angels,” he said.
“Children are not angels.” Amanda took the blankets. “They are nuisances.” Then she studied the girls. “Still, they do possess a certain charm.”
Back at their seats, Amanda put the girls to bed beneath the chairs. She tucked each one into a blanket, piling up one end for a pillow, and patted each girl on the head. She wrapped the third blanket around the mother, who remained firmly ensconced in her chair. She resisted patting the woman’s hair, but stroked the baby’s forehead. She then gathered her travel bags and coat, and set off to discover quieter quarters.
Someone touched her arm, and she turned to find Georgetown smiling at her. “It went down just like you said,” she said, blushing with excitement. “Julia never intended going out with Caleb. She never even knew about it. And Caleb’s going to meet me at the airport after all.”
“So it is working out for you.”
“I can’t thank you enough. You were such a help.”
“And you are—”
“Mary Beth Miller.”
“You must be pleased, Mary Beth. Promise me you’ll get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you tomorrow.”
“I promise.” Happiness shone in her eyes. “What’s your name?”
Amanda assessed Mary Beth’s age—twenty was an outside guess—and declined familiarity. “I’m Ms. Bell.”
Mary Beth hugged Amanda, then pecked her cheek. “Good-night, Ms. Bell.”
“Sleep well, Mary Beth.”
Irritated by the thought of managers as cheerleaders, Amanda closed the book and turned her attention to the restive herd of fellow travelers. To her right, a handsome older man with one of those drooping Eastern European mustaches stood before a group of young people, waving his hands like a conductor as he tried to teach the teenagers a Christmas carol. His graying hair was curly and wild, and in the pocket of his long blue coat was the outline of a pint bottle. “Adeste Fideles,” the man cried, swaying on his feet. “Sing vit me! Sing vit me!” He had a heavy accent, Polish or Russian, and he was singing in Latin, which revived in Amanda memories of Mrs. Donadio’s ninth grade Latin class. Soon the man had the young people singing with him, some in English, some in French, and at least one in Latin. When they finished their polyglot carol, the students applauded. The man bowed, grinned at them, and wandered away.
Amanda returned to her book. In a quarter of an hour, a short, stout woman with dark hair and skin the color of an unpeeled kiwi wiggled her buttocks into the chair abandoned by Georgetown. Clinging to the woman’s legs were two small girls who looked like twins. Four eyes brown as coffee beans stared at Amanda. Mechanically the woman bounced her third child, a fretful baby boy, on her knees. The two girls stepped a pace away when this reckless dandling commenced, watching their mother with their dark, solemn eyes and then looking again at Amanda. The woman crooned and bounced while the toddler, dressed, appropriately enough, in blue pajamas printed with cowboys and horses, bobbed up and down like a bronco buster. In a moment he was crying.
After a minute or so of this rodeo, Amanda marked her place in Power Management and turned to the woman. “Try a trot rather than a gallop.”
The woman smiled weakly.
“Do you speak English?” The woman shook her head.
The little boy’s head waggled back and forth as if it might snap off at any moment. Amanda held out her arms. “Give him to me,” she said. The woman stopped jiggling the baby to inspect her with narrowed eyes. “Come, come,” Amanda said. She snapped her fingers, then opened her hands again. “Let me calm him. Then you must all be quiet and allow me to read.”
Watching Amanda as if she were a scorpion, the woman handed over the baby. Amanda lay the child’s head on her shoulder, gripped him firmly by the bottom, and patted his back. The baby burped, then spat up on her shoulder and down the front of her suit. Making noises of apology, the mother took a rag from her enormous purse and dabbed at the curdled milk, rubbing the mess deeper into the fabric of Amanda’s outfit.
Amanda brushed aside the woman’s hand. Quiet now, the baby in her arms gazed at her. Returning that stare, she wondered how her own offspring might look. Their physical features depended, of course, on her partner. Joseph Grenier? How would their progeny turn out should she someday marry him? Which of them, mother or father, would the children favor? Joseph possessed high cheekbones and a handsome mouth, but his nose was thin and long, and his ears were too large for his head. Were large ears hereditary? And what of her own contribution to their gene pool? Would their offspring be blonde? (Amanda was not a connoisseur of blonde jokes, which she considered racist. Suppose, she had once asked a startled friend, someone began telling kinky-haired jokes?) Blue eyes, a figure firm and shapely from years of exercise at local gyms and spas, a generous mouth, though perhaps overly-stern: Amanda was no Helen of Troy, but she wouldn’t cloud the sun. Yet she was always honest in her self-appraisal, aware of her physical imperfections: her lips didn’t exactly demand a kiss, and her eyes often frowned a warning at the world.
The little boy fell asleep, his mouth drooping open. Amanda handed him to his mother. The two girls watched everything with big, brown eyes.
“Well, what about the two of you? Are you like your mother or do you speak English?”
Their stare glimmered recognition. Otherwise, nothing.
Then one of the girls covered a yawn.
“You are tired.” Removing the scarf from her neck, Amanda folded it around her hand into the shape of a rabbit with floppy ears, a trick taught to her by her father when she was seven. The side of her hand became the rabbit’s mouth. “Hey, amigos,” her hand said. She paused, then pitched her voice an octave higher. “I’m Squire Rabbit. You need sleep. It is getting late. Are you tired? You look very sleepy to me.” The rabbit talked to the girls for five minutes, telling them about the snow, and their flight tomorrow, and why they must sleep. The girls kept their eyes on the rabbit and listened. When the rabbit said, “Let’s go, little amigos. Let’s get ready for bed,” they nodded.
Leaving her coat and bag in the mother’s care, Amanda escorted the girls to the women’s room, where she washed their hands and faces. On their way back to mother and baby, Amanda paused by the assistance table set up by the airlines and asked to borrow three blankets. The uniformed boy manning the table, pimply and skinny as a stick, looked like an eighth grader in masquerade.
“What sweet little angels,” he said.
“Children are not angels.” Amanda took the blankets. “They are nuisances.” Then she studied the girls. “Still, they do possess a certain charm.”
Back at their seats, Amanda put the girls to bed beneath the chairs. She tucked each one into a blanket, piling up one end for a pillow, and patted each girl on the head. She wrapped the third blanket around the mother, who remained firmly ensconced in her chair. She resisted patting the woman’s hair, but stroked the baby’s forehead. She then gathered her travel bags and coat, and set off to discover quieter quarters.
Someone touched her arm, and she turned to find Georgetown smiling at her. “It went down just like you said,” she said, blushing with excitement. “Julia never intended going out with Caleb. She never even knew about it. And Caleb’s going to meet me at the airport after all.”
“So it is working out for you.”
“I can’t thank you enough. You were such a help.”
“And you are—”
“Mary Beth Miller.”
“You must be pleased, Mary Beth. Promise me you’ll get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you tomorrow.”
“I promise.” Happiness shone in her eyes. “What’s your name?”
Amanda assessed Mary Beth’s age—twenty was an outside guess—and declined familiarity. “I’m Ms. Bell.”
Mary Beth hugged Amanda, then pecked her cheek. “Good-night, Ms. Bell.”
“Sleep well, Mary Beth.”