A Fragrant Denial

By Jennifer Angelo

“Let’s go for a bike ride,” I said to my nine-year-old, Claire. “Weneed some fresh air.”

Claire was watching Cartoon Network, like an eagle tracking a mouse. A vacuum cleaner robot with pointy teeth gobbled a cleaning lady’s apron before sucking her head bald.

“I wish I had one of those,” Claire said.

“I heard about a new bike path,” I said.

“But I’m watching TV.”

We needed some fresh air. The house reeked from last night’s dinner, oven-baked chicken fricassee or, as my husband called it, chicken fiasco. I usually don’t bring flaming chicken to the table. Usually, the flames go out quickly when I open and close the oven door several times.

I avoided “imitation air” that came in interior decorator colors and plugged into wall outlets.

I wanted real air. The kind that intermingled with tall pines, slipped passed falling leaves, and made wet grass smell sweet.

“Come on.” I said, nudging her.

In the time it took Claire to drag herself outside, I located our water bottles and filled them with spring water, dug out the bike helmets and hurled them into the passenger seat, pumped air into the tires and hoisted the bikes into the van. I drove. Claire slept.

In the parking lot, I heaved the bikes out of the van. Claire stretched from her nap.

We pedaled down the path catching up to a group of bikers. We said, “Hello.” Inhaling, I was about to say “Life doesn’t get much better” when we heard what sounded like cars rumbling over sheet metal. Seconds later we heard more.

“Is someone shooting?” I asked a biker in sky-blue shorts.

“Yeah, this path parallels a rifle range,” he said with a shrug. “That’s just target practice.”

“Pedal!” I yelled to Claire, squeezing my handle bars.

We zoomed down the path, the noise fading as we trundled over a bridge. The forest perfume tickled our nostrils, pungent and thick with the smell of new growth. Then it smacked us.

“What’s that?” Claire yelled, pinching her nose.

Somewhere, close by, in the middle of Ohio, something had died. From the smell, I’d say its last meal had been several, five-bean burritos topped with onions and limburger cheese. Old cheese.

Then I saw the sign, “Pollution Headquarters.” Imagine, a whole headquarters for pollution.

“This must be where bad smells go to die,” Claire said, a finger jammed in each nostril.

“Let’s go,” I said. We darted back to the car.

As I drove home, Claire asked, “Can I watch TV when we get home? I can’t take anymore freshness.”

“Fine,” I said. “But first I’m buying some plug-in air fresheners.”

The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine, Cleveland, Ohio, July 13, 2003,
(page 8).