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Thursday, July 28, 2011
Malachi Jones
Malachi Jones
It started when Malachi was eight and he taught his poodle Francine to dance. The dog learned to prance on two feet and stretch her front legs to Malachi’s hands. It wasn’t the waltz and it wasn't the mambo, but it would do for them.
Malachi sang Pennies From Heaven, though the dog just heard a crackling noise that meant, no one's talking about food right at the moment. That year Francine got pregnant through a consensual rendezvous with the pit bull next door.
Mr. Jones, Malachi’s farther, got angry. I don’t get home til midnight just trying to feed you. He gave Malachi the kind of look that said, even for a frail eight year old you eat too much.
So Malachi began thinking. He wanted to see the pups but how would they pay for the food? What if Francine needed an operation like their corner neighbor did? Drowning them was a cruel waste, he knew that from the TV.
That Thursday before payday when they ate the heel of the bread, it came to him. They could eat the puppies. He was so proud he sat up so straight til his backbone nearly popped. He sneaked Francine more food from the table than usual to fatten her and the puppies up.
He hugged her in bed that night. Just wait. Dad can't complain if you're bringing us food instead of taking it away. You'll be our little dancing cow. He squeezed her and looked deep in her eyes.
Francine laid her head on his pillow and snuggled her nose behind his ear where it fit just in the space Mr. Jones had accidentally cut when he was trimming Malachi’s hair the evening he heard about the puppies to be. It had that nice healing smell that older wounds did and she licked it and sniffed it til they both fell asleep soothed by the routine.
As Francine got rounder, the boy got prouder. He would show her off to the neighbors like a prize sow. He had never been proud of anything in his life and it was unusual of him to brag this way. Every time someone said that dog of yours sure is getting fat, he pulled his shoulders back YES SHE IS. And he beamed at her and she back at him.
He began to look through random magazines for recipes for puppies. He looked in the waiting room at the doctor and at his friend Bobby's house when he went over to spend the night. Do you have any dog recipes? he asked Bobby's mother.
Well, l think there's a recipe for dog bones over by the record player. My grandmother used to always take old bones, make soup and then let ‘em have it afterwards. She called it dog bone soup. She laughed and thought of her mom’s mom putting the beef bones in the tall pot and the nice smell it brought into the house.
The marrow is the best, she said. The absolute best. The marrow. Okay. Thanks. He wasn’t sure what marrow was, but his dad would have to be happy with anything that was the best. And dog bones had it. The marrow. He tried to think of words that rhymed with it so he wouldn’t forget it.
He walked back in the room and asked her to write it down on a piece of paper for him. Sure she said and whisked off the word marrow in just a moment’s time, not slow and long like it took his dad who sometimes just handed the paper back empty with a glare.
He had been going to wait til the big day itself but found that he couldn’t. It was like holding back a surprise party when you just have to spill the beans to someone, no matter whom.
When his dad got home that night, Malachi was waiting up for him. I figured out what to do with the puppies. I got a recipe. We make marrow from them. It's the best. Bobby's mom said so. He said this all in one breath and then stepped out of the way in case the mention of the word puppy caused a swing of Mr. Jones' arm before he could hear the good news.
The man was tired from the factory, but his gray face at midnight still had enough blood in it to turn bright red in outrage. EAT THE PUPPIES. You little profaner. What are you talking about? You can't eat them damn puppies. You're a profaner. You're a profaner. That's what you are. A profaner.
He was too discombobulated to punch Malachi much less spit on his proud kitchen floor. He kept spinning around, literally, his toes doing a dance he remembered from when Malachi’s mother was still alive. Daddy Loves Mambo was going through his head. He sat down for the first time in twelve hours. EAT THE PUPPIES?
By this time Malachi knew he had done something wrong but he wasn't sure how. His dad had fairly toppled into the chair no one sat in, the one the Grandmother who said Malachi was a bible word for messenger said keep open for company. He had planned to parade Francine in front of his father showing off her chubby tummy and now he wasn't so sure.
He kept out of arm’s reach as he asked, What's a profaner? Did pro mean he was good at it? Go look it up, his dad said. Where? They didn’t have a dictionary. Well, go find one.
Malachi took the leash, the best one with the purple cloth and the diamonds on the handle and took Francine for a walk to the marrow lady’s house to borrow one. It took him two blocks to realize it was midnight, his errand was so important. So he went to the park and sat under a poplar tree listening to the leaves make music with each other. And Malachi Jones waited til morning.
___________________________________
Author Meriwether O'Connor raises livestock and writes short stories in between mosquito bites and milking.
It started when Malachi was eight and he taught his poodle Francine to dance. The dog learned to prance on two feet and stretch her front legs to Malachi’s hands. It wasn’t the waltz and it wasn't the mambo, but it would do for them.
Malachi sang Pennies From Heaven, though the dog just heard a crackling noise that meant, no one's talking about food right at the moment. That year Francine got pregnant through a consensual rendezvous with the pit bull next door.
Mr. Jones, Malachi’s farther, got angry. I don’t get home til midnight just trying to feed you. He gave Malachi the kind of look that said, even for a frail eight year old you eat too much.
So Malachi began thinking. He wanted to see the pups but how would they pay for the food? What if Francine needed an operation like their corner neighbor did? Drowning them was a cruel waste, he knew that from the TV.
That Thursday before payday when they ate the heel of the bread, it came to him. They could eat the puppies. He was so proud he sat up so straight til his backbone nearly popped. He sneaked Francine more food from the table than usual to fatten her and the puppies up.
He hugged her in bed that night. Just wait. Dad can't complain if you're bringing us food instead of taking it away. You'll be our little dancing cow. He squeezed her and looked deep in her eyes.
Francine laid her head on his pillow and snuggled her nose behind his ear where it fit just in the space Mr. Jones had accidentally cut when he was trimming Malachi’s hair the evening he heard about the puppies to be. It had that nice healing smell that older wounds did and she licked it and sniffed it til they both fell asleep soothed by the routine.
As Francine got rounder, the boy got prouder. He would show her off to the neighbors like a prize sow. He had never been proud of anything in his life and it was unusual of him to brag this way. Every time someone said that dog of yours sure is getting fat, he pulled his shoulders back YES SHE IS. And he beamed at her and she back at him.
He began to look through random magazines for recipes for puppies. He looked in the waiting room at the doctor and at his friend Bobby's house when he went over to spend the night. Do you have any dog recipes? he asked Bobby's mother.
Well, l think there's a recipe for dog bones over by the record player. My grandmother used to always take old bones, make soup and then let ‘em have it afterwards. She called it dog bone soup. She laughed and thought of her mom’s mom putting the beef bones in the tall pot and the nice smell it brought into the house.
The marrow is the best, she said. The absolute best. The marrow. Okay. Thanks. He wasn’t sure what marrow was, but his dad would have to be happy with anything that was the best. And dog bones had it. The marrow. He tried to think of words that rhymed with it so he wouldn’t forget it.
He walked back in the room and asked her to write it down on a piece of paper for him. Sure she said and whisked off the word marrow in just a moment’s time, not slow and long like it took his dad who sometimes just handed the paper back empty with a glare.
He had been going to wait til the big day itself but found that he couldn’t. It was like holding back a surprise party when you just have to spill the beans to someone, no matter whom.
When his dad got home that night, Malachi was waiting up for him. I figured out what to do with the puppies. I got a recipe. We make marrow from them. It's the best. Bobby's mom said so. He said this all in one breath and then stepped out of the way in case the mention of the word puppy caused a swing of Mr. Jones' arm before he could hear the good news.
The man was tired from the factory, but his gray face at midnight still had enough blood in it to turn bright red in outrage. EAT THE PUPPIES. You little profaner. What are you talking about? You can't eat them damn puppies. You're a profaner. You're a profaner. That's what you are. A profaner.
He was too discombobulated to punch Malachi much less spit on his proud kitchen floor. He kept spinning around, literally, his toes doing a dance he remembered from when Malachi’s mother was still alive. Daddy Loves Mambo was going through his head. He sat down for the first time in twelve hours. EAT THE PUPPIES?
By this time Malachi knew he had done something wrong but he wasn't sure how. His dad had fairly toppled into the chair no one sat in, the one the Grandmother who said Malachi was a bible word for messenger said keep open for company. He had planned to parade Francine in front of his father showing off her chubby tummy and now he wasn't so sure.
He kept out of arm’s reach as he asked, What's a profaner? Did pro mean he was good at it? Go look it up, his dad said. Where? They didn’t have a dictionary. Well, go find one.
Malachi took the leash, the best one with the purple cloth and the diamonds on the handle and took Francine for a walk to the marrow lady’s house to borrow one. It took him two blocks to realize it was midnight, his errand was so important. So he went to the park and sat under a poplar tree listening to the leaves make music with each other. And Malachi Jones waited til morning.
___________________________________
Author Meriwether O'Connor raises livestock and writes short stories in between mosquito bites and milking.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Rose by Any Other Name
A Rose by Any Other Name by Gary Germeil
Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom, Wednesday February 14th, 2035
On this 14th day of February, Queen Iseult Windsor, reigning monarch of the United Kingdom and other Commonwealth Realms, firmly stood inside the Blue Drawing Room of her castle, surrounded by advisers and military experts. This room, located on the principal floor of Buckingham Palace near the Music Room, had been redesigned into a war room with the intent of hosting strategy sessions, under the orders of the Queen. The room was still decorated with the blue and pink lapis stones that could be found throughout the palace, a reminder of 19th-century interior designs that remained in existence inside the castle to this day.
Her aides were explaining to her the geopolitical situation relating to the war that had been instigated by France, Russia and Germany against her nation. Her heart was about to burst with sadness because of the current situation; she never thought it possible that it would come to this. Yet, she remained strong and level-headed. She continued to listen to her advisers.
"As of now," noted one of them, "the Coalition's campaigns have been quite successful. France stormed through Belgium while Germany invaded the Netherlands during the month of October 2034. The French then invaded Norway while the German attacked Denmark."
"The most likely intention of our enemies seems to be the encirclement of our nation and the capture of nearby port cities in order to launch a pincer attack against us," thundered the confident voice of another brown-haired military expert. "They have also solved problems related to logistics and supply routes, because they intend to use the territory of the countries they defeated in battle. They made sure these nations would not support us when the time comes to launch their final assault against us."
As Iseult listened to the explanations provided by the two men, her heart flinched and a single thought kept echoing through the reaches of her mind, the thought that everything was over. Her enemies had won, and there was nothing else for her to do except admit defeat. She could not bring herself to do that, however; her convictions brought about this war, and her convictions would see her through.
"Fortunately, their campaign was not without problems," one aged grey-haired adviser delivered his report. "The efforts of the French were at first thwarted by a magic user named Clara Jacobs, during the invasion of Bruges, in the Belgian province of West Flanders. However, they ultimately took over the country while she was unconscious, with the help of a newly created military unit known as the Organic Slayers."
"The Organic Slayers are an elite special forces unit meant to act within the borders of invaded countries to eliminate users of the so-called... Organics... so that they never run across someone like that little girl ever again," the man continued, looking into the cerulean eyes of his monarch.
The man, an esteemed advisor named Edward Wright, had his back slightly bent, his hands resting on the wooden surface of the large oval table in the middle of the war room, a table surrounded by the myriad of advisers participating in today's strategy session.
"In fact, elimination of these Organics has become the primary focus of their campaign, and our defeat has become but a minor part in their plans," the grey-haired man continued. "It would be folly to think this war would end if Your Highness abdicated the throne. With all due respect, I hope Her Majesty was not considering such a course of action..."
"Easy for you to say," Iseult thought to herself as she caressed a lock of her long golden hair, her eyes shying away from the experienced professional. Could he even see what she felt deep inside? Didn't he mind the anguished cries of the British population, appalled by the prospect of waging a war within their borders? Her subjects were no fools, they knew they would soon share the fate suffered by Denmark, Norway, Belgium and the Netherlands. Something had to be done... But what?
"Aren't there any good news?" the Queen asked her advisers, her voice trembling with emotion. She quickly regained her composure and followed up with other questions in an attempt to reassure her subjects that she was still the confident monarch they had grown to respect. "We have several allies in the Commonwealth of Nations and in The North Atlantic Treaty Organization, could I get a status report on that?"
"Certainly, Ma'am," an energetic brown-haired adviser said with a grin, adjusting his glasses as they reflected the light of the setting sun that pierced through the room's windows. "Our allies in the Commonwealth have been working tirelessly for us, using their influence in the United Nations and NATO to garner support for the cause of our defense. Canada and Australia have been particularly stellar in their performance; they have assisted us in securing the support of our steadfast ally, the United States."
"As such, progress has been made in NATO," the adviser continued, his American accent a stark contrast from every person who spoke before him during the strategy session. "As you know, Germany and France are members of NATO, but their belligerent actions towards fellow members like Belgium and the Netherlands have been rewarded with temporary expulsion from the organization."
"NATO leaders have used this restructuring process as a pretense to admit new allies like Japan and Israel into the organization, honorarily bestowing the position of Secretary General upon a Japanese official, Ryunosuke Heisashi. The reorganization is complete, and NATO is ready to intervene. They were waiting for the process to end in order to invoke article 5 of their Charter to intervene in the war and defend member nations."
"The communications we have received from them indicate they will assist us when the Coalition invades. They will also fight on behalf of member nations who have lost their sovereignty because of the invasions. It is to be noted that NATO would rather contain the enemy than wage a total war with them; they are in no hurry to ignite a Third World War. They will not deploy the full extent of their capabilities at first, but their help will still allow us to defend our country admirably."
"There is one final thing I would like to report," the American adviser said, noticing his lengthy address could have exhausted his audience, especially given the fast rythm of his speech. "Certain leaders of NATO have been emboldened by the presence of Russia in the Coalition."
"Russia has not participated in the confrontations to date, but has been the main supplier of weapons to the French and German armies. Not only that, the Coalition is mainly composed of countries who used to belong to the defunct Warsaw Pact during their heyday as constituent countries of the former Soviet Union."
"Georgia, Ukraine, Moldova, Belarus, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, they're all members of the Coalition; only the Baltic States backed out. These countries supply the Coalition with manpower and weapons. Some of NATO's personnel view this geopolitical situation as the very reason why their organization was created in the first place, and see the current conflict as relevant to their mission."
A silence fell upon the room with the last words of the American professional, as if the end of the strategy session had finally been signalled. Not a moment too soon, for everyone who had taken part in the meeting was exhausted after having delivered lengthy status reports for hours on end. Iseult politely invited the experts to leave Buckingham Palace and return to their homes, where their families were waiting for them.
Although times of war called for extraordinary efforts, she acknowledged her advisers had worked diligently today. Darkness had already shrouded the city of London in its shadowy cloak. Once the elegant monarch had finally been left alone in the Blue Drawing Room, she took a moment to collect her thoughts and noticed how tired she was.
She removed her crown and put it on the table in front of her. The sight of the oval furniture now repulsed her; she had spent far too much time standing in front of it today, listening to her male advisers one by one. She also removed her majestic red cape from her shoulders, folded it several times and gently laid it on the wooden table besides her crown.
Turning her back on these symbols of her royalty, she walked toward an empty canvas meant to be blessed with the magical touch of an artist, waiting to be filled with the many colors of a painter's imagination. The elegant woman pulled a chair toward the canvas and sat on it, but as she adopted that position, she felt the weight of her emotions subdue her fragile physique. She almost wanted to let out a cry, and indeed teardrops did moisten her slender eyelashes.
She was used to suppress her emotions, however, for it was something she had to do every day when facing her subjects. It was unbecoming of royalty to cry in public, a belief she had learned early during her childhood. She also found that her painting would be a better use of her time than weeping over her tragic circumstances.
No longer wasting any time on her reflections, she let her inspiration take over and poured her emotions on the empty canvas. She started her picture with the use of the color green, a color evoking her unwavering faith in the boundless possibilities of the future. As she started drawing the Buckingham Palace Garden, she suddenly recalled herself strolling through the horticultural paradise in the company of her dearest deceased mother. Setting her eyes on the canvas, she let herself be entranced by the painting she had begun and plunged into a nebulous reverie.
* * *
Buckingham Palace Garden, London, Sunday July 28th, 2013
A young Princess Iseult, only 7 years of age, walked in the Buckingham Palace Garden in the presence of her mother, Queen Victoria Windsor. Walking along the gravel paths of the 42-acre paradise, the child reveled in the discovery of the exotic flowers and plants decorating the horizon. Her cerulean eyes lost themselves in the beauty of the park's azure lake.
Natural wonders were not the only things to be seen inside the legendary garden. The lush park also featured several works of art, including the famous Waterloo Vase, a testament of the United Kingdom's rich history. Iseult's sophisticated tastes allowed her to appreciate those artistic creations, even though she was but a child.
"What do you think of all this?" Victoria Windsor asked her beloved child as they strolled across the park.
"I love it, everything here is so beautiful!" Iseult told her mother with a tone of voice betraying her exhilaration.
"I'm glad you have the finesse to appreciate everything you see here," the mother said with a wide smile, caressing her daughter's golden hair and looking fondly into the blue eyes of her offspring. "It would have pained me to have raised an ignorant brute," the middle-aged woman teased her child in a manner that would have been unbecoming in public.
Iseult did not mind her mother's candor, for she knew the monarch possessed a heart filled with boundless benevolence. She simply giggled and returned her mother's amused gaze, tightening her grip as she held the hand of a parent she adored.
"You are sufficiently refined to enjoy works of art and natural wonders, but you should possess the subtlety to understand that these things are not the greatest wealth a person can aspire to," the mother diligently told her child.
The parent stopped walking in front of a small hill in the center of which stood a red rose, surrounded by lush greenery. This flower, basking in the brilliant light of the morning sun, had a perfect form; it was the most beautiful bloom Iseult had ever laid eyes upon. Like her mother, the child stopped walking, entranced by the charm emanating from the lovely red flower.
"What do you think of this flower?" the mother asked her bewitched child after letting out a small cough. "Unknown to the general public, this is a family heirloom, one of our dearest treasures. This flower never withers; it has somehow remained in this particular shape for centuries."
"Really?" Iseult shrieked with surprise, fascinated by the natural wonder standing in front of her.
"And yet even this heirloom pales in comparison to the feelings that must have been felt by the person who gave this flower to our descendant," the mother continued to instruct her child. "That is because feelings, creativity and passion are the real treasures of this world," she concluded, imprinting upon the mind of her child a truth that would shape her destiny forevermore.
"The person who received this flower must have been the luckiest woman on Earth," Iseult concluded after pausing to consider her mother's wise words.
* * *
Buckingham Palace, London, Wednesday May 1st, 2024
Although the first day of May lacked the international recognition Saint-Valentine's day enjoyed, it was still revered in Prague as the National Day of Love, a day where individuals kiss to honor the Czech poet, Karel Hynek Mácha. Even though Iseult knew this, her heart felt absolutely nothing as she readied herself for the festivities that were to take place in the throne room of Buckingham Palace a few moments from now.
Holding her golden hairpin between her pressed lips, she slowly and carefully arranged her long golden hair, folding it several times as was her habit. She looked at herself in the mirror and acknowledged her own beauty with her cerulean eyes; the rosy skin of her shoulders were well complemented by her silky red dress, gloves and ankle-boots. However, she also felt the man for whom she had spent several hours preparing did not deserve such attention.
Her mother had invited countless guests for this party, hoping the event would strengthen a relationship she hoped to forge between her daughter Iseult and Count Clemens of Schönborn-Buchheim. Both individuals were born the same year, and Queen Victoria had worked tirelessly in years past to bring the two children together. However, the Queen was admittedly disappointed in the fact that Iseult had never shown an interest in the boy. The mother wanted her daughter to be happy, but marriage did not seem such an important concern to the adolescent girl.
Interrupting Iseult's stream of thought, someone opened the door to the princess's private quarters; it was Count Clemens, coming to see how her preparations were coming along. Dumbfounded, he stood silent near the entrance to the room belonging to the royal heiress, admiring her exquisite elegance. He was dazzled by her golden hair, which seemed to reflect the rosy light of the setting sun in his direction. He was enthralled by her provocative clothing, even if he knew red and pink had always been her favorite colors.
"What are you doing here?" the girl snapped, trying her best to remain polite and level-headed. "Never mind that, do you plan on just standing there?"
Caught red-handed, the adolescent boy did not know how to respond. He looked around the room nervously, then rushed to the side of the princess, noticing she would probably need someone to finish buttoning her dress from the back. The boy hoped that boldly taking initiative in this way would earn him the favors of his beloved. As Count Clemens approached her, he could feel a certain tension about her, as if her actions were annoying her.
"What are you doing?" she asked him. Unwilling to make a scene, she simply allowed him to fasten the back side of her dress. A few moments after, the count broke the uncomfortable silence by leaving the room, noting Iseult still wanted to bring final touches to her presentation.
About an hour later, the guests gathered in the throne room of Buckingham Palace and danced, for such was the purpose of this event. Couples waltzed together under the brilliant lights used for this special occasion, rediscovering the charm of their love anew.
Iseult sat on the same table as her mother, partaking in discussions brought forth by Her Majesty's acquaintances. Queen Victoria was pleased that her friends appreciated her well-mannered daughter, and liked the level of maturity shown by her offspring. However, she was worried because Iseult did not enjoy the company of individuals her own age, regardless of gender. Since tonight was a night of celebrations, she would have rather preferred for her child to dance than talk politics...
The Queen's thoughts were interrupted as she coughed incessantly, under the worried eyes of her dearest daughter. Fortunately, the short spell of illness she just endured was quickly followed by more pleasurable moments.
A smile illuminated the mother's face when she saw Count Clemens walk toward her only child, albeit with some timidity in his demeanor. She knew the boy was shy, but she also firmly believed he possessed a heart of gold. She had faith in him, and knew she could entrust her only daughter into his care. She shifted her attention to her daughter as the boy asked Iseult's hand for a dance. The young girl looked away from the count, however, clearly showing disinterest.
Moments later, the two adolescent individuals danced like the other couples present in the room. Others were looking at the young couple with astonished eyes, for both young adults mastered the steps required for a waltz. The boy's composure had changed from a timid one to a confident one, yet Iseult's demeanor, in his presence, was still aloof and uncaring. The couple turned to the rythm of the music and turned again; while the count found the dance to be enjoyable, the princess simply saw the event as one of her responsibilities.
Their beautiful waltz ended with the music's delectable melody. Princess Iseult excused herself and left the room, seeking comfort in the breeze of spring and the starry sky she found outside the castle, in the palace's garden.
Sitting on grass, surrounding herself with lush greenery, she reveled at the sight of the stars above. Seeing a shooting star journey across the sky, she closed her eyes and made a wish deep in her heart. Soon after, she heard the voice of Count Clemens drawing near, and concluded the gods had seemingly preferred to mock her wishes.
"Iseult!" the boy called out to her as he left the crowd of guests to join her side in the garden. Breathing heavily, he regained his composure from his quick walk as he approached her. "It's good that you like horticulture so much... Here!"
His tall body towering over hers, the count lunged forward and presented a flower to the girl as a token of his love. The healthy bloom was a white lily adorned with the color yellow at its base.
"The color white represents virtue," the young man explained. "This lily represents the purity of our relationship. Iseult, I would like our bond to remain pure and true like this flower until the end of time."
Iseult looked at the lily and listened to the words of her noble interlocutor. She remembered the wise words spoken by her mother in the past; it was not the beauty of the flower that mattered, but the feelings conveyed by the person who offered it, and the nature of the heart that accompanied the gift.
"I can't accept this..." Iseult regretfully told her suitor, her eyes drifting away from his.
"Why?" the young man asked after considering her words for some time. "Is there... someone else?"
"That's not it," the girl replied, devoting her entire attention to the floral family heirloom that firmly stood on the other side of the gravel road near which she was sitting. "Clemens, your heart is just like the flower you hold in your hand: white, bland, insipid and colorless. It does not burn red with passion. I could never accept something like this, I'm terribly sorry..."
The young adults remained silent, surrounded by the natural wonders of the Buckingham Palace Garden. Under the myriad of lights shining across the starry sky, they considered the true nature of the emotions they felt for one another.
* * *
Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom, Wednesday February 14th, 2035
Iseult laid the final touches to her canvas, entitled "Garden of Eden." Depicting a scene she had seen many times in her dreams, the painting represented two bare-bodied lovers whose eyes met under a clear cerulean sky, in the midst of a heavenly garden filled with a multitude of lovely plants and flowers.
The colors used in this artwork reflected Iseult's feelings about her future. The use of rosy tones expressed the passion felt by the two lovers, while the use of white depicted the purity of their relationship. Together, those two colors symbolized a relationship the Queen longed for, a relationship with a man that would shoulder some of her burden during these trying times of strife.
The use of the color green reflected the painter's hope for a peaceful tomorrow, while the use of blueish hues contrasted with all the other colors, adding a heavenly touch to her creation.
Black and grayish colors were used to portray the shadows projected by objects present in the painting. These shadows represented the darker side of reality, the other side of the love shared by the two protagonists portrayed in the artwork. These shadows symbolized death itself.
Plunging one more time into the recesses of her mind, Iseult recalled the final moments of a woman she had adored her entire life, the moments when death's icy grip altered her destiny forevermore.
* * *
Rideau Hall, Ottawa, Wednesday August 14th, 2030
Today was Iseult Windsor's twenty-fifth birthday, but it was a day marked by sadness. Queen Victoria Windsor, knowing illness would soon claim her life, embarked on a journey around the globe with her only daughter. She intended to instill her wisdom into her child as they both traveled to member countries of the Commonwealth of Nations. From Australia to Bangladesh, from India to South Africa, from Jamaica to Sierra Leone, almost all countries of the organization had been visited. During each trip, the Queen explained to her child her view of the world, including its rich history.
Their travels concluded themselves as they reached Canada. Unable to endure the burden of her disease any further, Queen Victoria requested that she be treated inside her private quarters at her official Canadian residence of Rideau Hall. This establishment would later be known as the place that housed Her Majesty's deathbed.
"Iseult..." the sickly mother called out to her daughter from her bed. Sitting at her parent's side, the princess held her parent's hand tightly; in this manner, the child expressed to her mother the depth of the emotions taking hold of her heart.
"You will soon be known as Queen Iseult Windsor," the Queen told her offspring with a satisfied smile drawn on her lips. She experienced a mother's joy to have raised the best daughter in the world. Iseult's sophistication was unrivaled; the parent knew her daughter's intelligence and maturity would benefit mankind for years to come. She felt she had no regrets... Or perhaps there was one regret that still haunted her heart.
"I regret," the mother told her child, "that I couldn't do more to make this world a better place. Promise me, Iseult, that you will speak out against the injustices plaguing this beautiful world of ours..."
"I promise, mother!" Iseult said, her teeth gritted and her eyelashes moistened by tears.
"You brought it with you during our travels, did you not?" the mother asked in a whisper. "Our family heirloom..."
"Yes..." the princess said, showing the healthy red rose to her parent.
"Then, will you show it to me? Your talent, a miraculous talent that will change the destiny of our beloved world, a talent others have yet to discover... Show it to me one last time..."
Iseult did not let go of her mother's hand. She closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. Moments later, her rosy skin glowed in response to a dim light emitted by the red flower. The dying mother whispered praises in awe of her daughter's ability as they both journeyed through the memories of past generations who held the undying flower in their hands.
They witnessed firsthand the feelings that filled the heart of the woman named Rose as she lived every moment of her eternal love story with her destined inamorato. This woman had accomplished legendary deeds during the endless cycle of reincarnations that constituted her immortal existence. She had been known by many names throughout time; humans once knew her as Venus before bestowing upon her names such as Aphrodites, Juliet Capulet and Iseult of Ireland.
"But mother, what's in a name?" the beautiful maiden told her mother as the parent closed her eyes one final time, carrying a content smile into eternity after witnessing the divine destiny her child had been blessed with. "To me, you were the finest rose ever to grace our world."
_______________________
Gary Germeil, M. Sc.
Publisher, www.organics-eternal-love-story.com
Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom, Wednesday February 14th, 2035
On this 14th day of February, Queen Iseult Windsor, reigning monarch of the United Kingdom and other Commonwealth Realms, firmly stood inside the Blue Drawing Room of her castle, surrounded by advisers and military experts. This room, located on the principal floor of Buckingham Palace near the Music Room, had been redesigned into a war room with the intent of hosting strategy sessions, under the orders of the Queen. The room was still decorated with the blue and pink lapis stones that could be found throughout the palace, a reminder of 19th-century interior designs that remained in existence inside the castle to this day.
Her aides were explaining to her the geopolitical situation relating to the war that had been instigated by France, Russia and Germany against her nation. Her heart was about to burst with sadness because of the current situation; she never thought it possible that it would come to this. Yet, she remained strong and level-headed. She continued to listen to her advisers.
"As of now," noted one of them, "the Coalition's campaigns have been quite successful. France stormed through Belgium while Germany invaded the Netherlands during the month of October 2034. The French then invaded Norway while the German attacked Denmark."
"The most likely intention of our enemies seems to be the encirclement of our nation and the capture of nearby port cities in order to launch a pincer attack against us," thundered the confident voice of another brown-haired military expert. "They have also solved problems related to logistics and supply routes, because they intend to use the territory of the countries they defeated in battle. They made sure these nations would not support us when the time comes to launch their final assault against us."
As Iseult listened to the explanations provided by the two men, her heart flinched and a single thought kept echoing through the reaches of her mind, the thought that everything was over. Her enemies had won, and there was nothing else for her to do except admit defeat. She could not bring herself to do that, however; her convictions brought about this war, and her convictions would see her through.
"Fortunately, their campaign was not without problems," one aged grey-haired adviser delivered his report. "The efforts of the French were at first thwarted by a magic user named Clara Jacobs, during the invasion of Bruges, in the Belgian province of West Flanders. However, they ultimately took over the country while she was unconscious, with the help of a newly created military unit known as the Organic Slayers."
"The Organic Slayers are an elite special forces unit meant to act within the borders of invaded countries to eliminate users of the so-called... Organics... so that they never run across someone like that little girl ever again," the man continued, looking into the cerulean eyes of his monarch.
The man, an esteemed advisor named Edward Wright, had his back slightly bent, his hands resting on the wooden surface of the large oval table in the middle of the war room, a table surrounded by the myriad of advisers participating in today's strategy session.
"In fact, elimination of these Organics has become the primary focus of their campaign, and our defeat has become but a minor part in their plans," the grey-haired man continued. "It would be folly to think this war would end if Your Highness abdicated the throne. With all due respect, I hope Her Majesty was not considering such a course of action..."
"Easy for you to say," Iseult thought to herself as she caressed a lock of her long golden hair, her eyes shying away from the experienced professional. Could he even see what she felt deep inside? Didn't he mind the anguished cries of the British population, appalled by the prospect of waging a war within their borders? Her subjects were no fools, they knew they would soon share the fate suffered by Denmark, Norway, Belgium and the Netherlands. Something had to be done... But what?
"Aren't there any good news?" the Queen asked her advisers, her voice trembling with emotion. She quickly regained her composure and followed up with other questions in an attempt to reassure her subjects that she was still the confident monarch they had grown to respect. "We have several allies in the Commonwealth of Nations and in The North Atlantic Treaty Organization, could I get a status report on that?"
"Certainly, Ma'am," an energetic brown-haired adviser said with a grin, adjusting his glasses as they reflected the light of the setting sun that pierced through the room's windows. "Our allies in the Commonwealth have been working tirelessly for us, using their influence in the United Nations and NATO to garner support for the cause of our defense. Canada and Australia have been particularly stellar in their performance; they have assisted us in securing the support of our steadfast ally, the United States."
"As such, progress has been made in NATO," the adviser continued, his American accent a stark contrast from every person who spoke before him during the strategy session. "As you know, Germany and France are members of NATO, but their belligerent actions towards fellow members like Belgium and the Netherlands have been rewarded with temporary expulsion from the organization."
"NATO leaders have used this restructuring process as a pretense to admit new allies like Japan and Israel into the organization, honorarily bestowing the position of Secretary General upon a Japanese official, Ryunosuke Heisashi. The reorganization is complete, and NATO is ready to intervene. They were waiting for the process to end in order to invoke article 5 of their Charter to intervene in the war and defend member nations."
"The communications we have received from them indicate they will assist us when the Coalition invades. They will also fight on behalf of member nations who have lost their sovereignty because of the invasions. It is to be noted that NATO would rather contain the enemy than wage a total war with them; they are in no hurry to ignite a Third World War. They will not deploy the full extent of their capabilities at first, but their help will still allow us to defend our country admirably."
"There is one final thing I would like to report," the American adviser said, noticing his lengthy address could have exhausted his audience, especially given the fast rythm of his speech. "Certain leaders of NATO have been emboldened by the presence of Russia in the Coalition."
"Russia has not participated in the confrontations to date, but has been the main supplier of weapons to the French and German armies. Not only that, the Coalition is mainly composed of countries who used to belong to the defunct Warsaw Pact during their heyday as constituent countries of the former Soviet Union."
"Georgia, Ukraine, Moldova, Belarus, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, they're all members of the Coalition; only the Baltic States backed out. These countries supply the Coalition with manpower and weapons. Some of NATO's personnel view this geopolitical situation as the very reason why their organization was created in the first place, and see the current conflict as relevant to their mission."
A silence fell upon the room with the last words of the American professional, as if the end of the strategy session had finally been signalled. Not a moment too soon, for everyone who had taken part in the meeting was exhausted after having delivered lengthy status reports for hours on end. Iseult politely invited the experts to leave Buckingham Palace and return to their homes, where their families were waiting for them.
Although times of war called for extraordinary efforts, she acknowledged her advisers had worked diligently today. Darkness had already shrouded the city of London in its shadowy cloak. Once the elegant monarch had finally been left alone in the Blue Drawing Room, she took a moment to collect her thoughts and noticed how tired she was.
She removed her crown and put it on the table in front of her. The sight of the oval furniture now repulsed her; she had spent far too much time standing in front of it today, listening to her male advisers one by one. She also removed her majestic red cape from her shoulders, folded it several times and gently laid it on the wooden table besides her crown.
Turning her back on these symbols of her royalty, she walked toward an empty canvas meant to be blessed with the magical touch of an artist, waiting to be filled with the many colors of a painter's imagination. The elegant woman pulled a chair toward the canvas and sat on it, but as she adopted that position, she felt the weight of her emotions subdue her fragile physique. She almost wanted to let out a cry, and indeed teardrops did moisten her slender eyelashes.
She was used to suppress her emotions, however, for it was something she had to do every day when facing her subjects. It was unbecoming of royalty to cry in public, a belief she had learned early during her childhood. She also found that her painting would be a better use of her time than weeping over her tragic circumstances.
No longer wasting any time on her reflections, she let her inspiration take over and poured her emotions on the empty canvas. She started her picture with the use of the color green, a color evoking her unwavering faith in the boundless possibilities of the future. As she started drawing the Buckingham Palace Garden, she suddenly recalled herself strolling through the horticultural paradise in the company of her dearest deceased mother. Setting her eyes on the canvas, she let herself be entranced by the painting she had begun and plunged into a nebulous reverie.
* * *
Buckingham Palace Garden, London, Sunday July 28th, 2013
A young Princess Iseult, only 7 years of age, walked in the Buckingham Palace Garden in the presence of her mother, Queen Victoria Windsor. Walking along the gravel paths of the 42-acre paradise, the child reveled in the discovery of the exotic flowers and plants decorating the horizon. Her cerulean eyes lost themselves in the beauty of the park's azure lake.
Natural wonders were not the only things to be seen inside the legendary garden. The lush park also featured several works of art, including the famous Waterloo Vase, a testament of the United Kingdom's rich history. Iseult's sophisticated tastes allowed her to appreciate those artistic creations, even though she was but a child.
"What do you think of all this?" Victoria Windsor asked her beloved child as they strolled across the park.
"I love it, everything here is so beautiful!" Iseult told her mother with a tone of voice betraying her exhilaration.
"I'm glad you have the finesse to appreciate everything you see here," the mother said with a wide smile, caressing her daughter's golden hair and looking fondly into the blue eyes of her offspring. "It would have pained me to have raised an ignorant brute," the middle-aged woman teased her child in a manner that would have been unbecoming in public.
Iseult did not mind her mother's candor, for she knew the monarch possessed a heart filled with boundless benevolence. She simply giggled and returned her mother's amused gaze, tightening her grip as she held the hand of a parent she adored.
"You are sufficiently refined to enjoy works of art and natural wonders, but you should possess the subtlety to understand that these things are not the greatest wealth a person can aspire to," the mother diligently told her child.
The parent stopped walking in front of a small hill in the center of which stood a red rose, surrounded by lush greenery. This flower, basking in the brilliant light of the morning sun, had a perfect form; it was the most beautiful bloom Iseult had ever laid eyes upon. Like her mother, the child stopped walking, entranced by the charm emanating from the lovely red flower.
"What do you think of this flower?" the mother asked her bewitched child after letting out a small cough. "Unknown to the general public, this is a family heirloom, one of our dearest treasures. This flower never withers; it has somehow remained in this particular shape for centuries."
"Really?" Iseult shrieked with surprise, fascinated by the natural wonder standing in front of her.
"And yet even this heirloom pales in comparison to the feelings that must have been felt by the person who gave this flower to our descendant," the mother continued to instruct her child. "That is because feelings, creativity and passion are the real treasures of this world," she concluded, imprinting upon the mind of her child a truth that would shape her destiny forevermore.
"The person who received this flower must have been the luckiest woman on Earth," Iseult concluded after pausing to consider her mother's wise words.
* * *
Buckingham Palace, London, Wednesday May 1st, 2024
Although the first day of May lacked the international recognition Saint-Valentine's day enjoyed, it was still revered in Prague as the National Day of Love, a day where individuals kiss to honor the Czech poet, Karel Hynek Mácha. Even though Iseult knew this, her heart felt absolutely nothing as she readied herself for the festivities that were to take place in the throne room of Buckingham Palace a few moments from now.
Holding her golden hairpin between her pressed lips, she slowly and carefully arranged her long golden hair, folding it several times as was her habit. She looked at herself in the mirror and acknowledged her own beauty with her cerulean eyes; the rosy skin of her shoulders were well complemented by her silky red dress, gloves and ankle-boots. However, she also felt the man for whom she had spent several hours preparing did not deserve such attention.
Her mother had invited countless guests for this party, hoping the event would strengthen a relationship she hoped to forge between her daughter Iseult and Count Clemens of Schönborn-Buchheim. Both individuals were born the same year, and Queen Victoria had worked tirelessly in years past to bring the two children together. However, the Queen was admittedly disappointed in the fact that Iseult had never shown an interest in the boy. The mother wanted her daughter to be happy, but marriage did not seem such an important concern to the adolescent girl.
Interrupting Iseult's stream of thought, someone opened the door to the princess's private quarters; it was Count Clemens, coming to see how her preparations were coming along. Dumbfounded, he stood silent near the entrance to the room belonging to the royal heiress, admiring her exquisite elegance. He was dazzled by her golden hair, which seemed to reflect the rosy light of the setting sun in his direction. He was enthralled by her provocative clothing, even if he knew red and pink had always been her favorite colors.
"What are you doing here?" the girl snapped, trying her best to remain polite and level-headed. "Never mind that, do you plan on just standing there?"
Caught red-handed, the adolescent boy did not know how to respond. He looked around the room nervously, then rushed to the side of the princess, noticing she would probably need someone to finish buttoning her dress from the back. The boy hoped that boldly taking initiative in this way would earn him the favors of his beloved. As Count Clemens approached her, he could feel a certain tension about her, as if her actions were annoying her.
"What are you doing?" she asked him. Unwilling to make a scene, she simply allowed him to fasten the back side of her dress. A few moments after, the count broke the uncomfortable silence by leaving the room, noting Iseult still wanted to bring final touches to her presentation.
About an hour later, the guests gathered in the throne room of Buckingham Palace and danced, for such was the purpose of this event. Couples waltzed together under the brilliant lights used for this special occasion, rediscovering the charm of their love anew.
Iseult sat on the same table as her mother, partaking in discussions brought forth by Her Majesty's acquaintances. Queen Victoria was pleased that her friends appreciated her well-mannered daughter, and liked the level of maturity shown by her offspring. However, she was worried because Iseult did not enjoy the company of individuals her own age, regardless of gender. Since tonight was a night of celebrations, she would have rather preferred for her child to dance than talk politics...
The Queen's thoughts were interrupted as she coughed incessantly, under the worried eyes of her dearest daughter. Fortunately, the short spell of illness she just endured was quickly followed by more pleasurable moments.
A smile illuminated the mother's face when she saw Count Clemens walk toward her only child, albeit with some timidity in his demeanor. She knew the boy was shy, but she also firmly believed he possessed a heart of gold. She had faith in him, and knew she could entrust her only daughter into his care. She shifted her attention to her daughter as the boy asked Iseult's hand for a dance. The young girl looked away from the count, however, clearly showing disinterest.
Moments later, the two adolescent individuals danced like the other couples present in the room. Others were looking at the young couple with astonished eyes, for both young adults mastered the steps required for a waltz. The boy's composure had changed from a timid one to a confident one, yet Iseult's demeanor, in his presence, was still aloof and uncaring. The couple turned to the rythm of the music and turned again; while the count found the dance to be enjoyable, the princess simply saw the event as one of her responsibilities.
Their beautiful waltz ended with the music's delectable melody. Princess Iseult excused herself and left the room, seeking comfort in the breeze of spring and the starry sky she found outside the castle, in the palace's garden.
Sitting on grass, surrounding herself with lush greenery, she reveled at the sight of the stars above. Seeing a shooting star journey across the sky, she closed her eyes and made a wish deep in her heart. Soon after, she heard the voice of Count Clemens drawing near, and concluded the gods had seemingly preferred to mock her wishes.
"Iseult!" the boy called out to her as he left the crowd of guests to join her side in the garden. Breathing heavily, he regained his composure from his quick walk as he approached her. "It's good that you like horticulture so much... Here!"
His tall body towering over hers, the count lunged forward and presented a flower to the girl as a token of his love. The healthy bloom was a white lily adorned with the color yellow at its base.
"The color white represents virtue," the young man explained. "This lily represents the purity of our relationship. Iseult, I would like our bond to remain pure and true like this flower until the end of time."
Iseult looked at the lily and listened to the words of her noble interlocutor. She remembered the wise words spoken by her mother in the past; it was not the beauty of the flower that mattered, but the feelings conveyed by the person who offered it, and the nature of the heart that accompanied the gift.
"I can't accept this..." Iseult regretfully told her suitor, her eyes drifting away from his.
"Why?" the young man asked after considering her words for some time. "Is there... someone else?"
"That's not it," the girl replied, devoting her entire attention to the floral family heirloom that firmly stood on the other side of the gravel road near which she was sitting. "Clemens, your heart is just like the flower you hold in your hand: white, bland, insipid and colorless. It does not burn red with passion. I could never accept something like this, I'm terribly sorry..."
The young adults remained silent, surrounded by the natural wonders of the Buckingham Palace Garden. Under the myriad of lights shining across the starry sky, they considered the true nature of the emotions they felt for one another.
* * *
Buckingham Palace, United Kingdom, Wednesday February 14th, 2035
Iseult laid the final touches to her canvas, entitled "Garden of Eden." Depicting a scene she had seen many times in her dreams, the painting represented two bare-bodied lovers whose eyes met under a clear cerulean sky, in the midst of a heavenly garden filled with a multitude of lovely plants and flowers.
The colors used in this artwork reflected Iseult's feelings about her future. The use of rosy tones expressed the passion felt by the two lovers, while the use of white depicted the purity of their relationship. Together, those two colors symbolized a relationship the Queen longed for, a relationship with a man that would shoulder some of her burden during these trying times of strife.
The use of the color green reflected the painter's hope for a peaceful tomorrow, while the use of blueish hues contrasted with all the other colors, adding a heavenly touch to her creation.
Black and grayish colors were used to portray the shadows projected by objects present in the painting. These shadows represented the darker side of reality, the other side of the love shared by the two protagonists portrayed in the artwork. These shadows symbolized death itself.
Plunging one more time into the recesses of her mind, Iseult recalled the final moments of a woman she had adored her entire life, the moments when death's icy grip altered her destiny forevermore.
* * *
Rideau Hall, Ottawa, Wednesday August 14th, 2030
Today was Iseult Windsor's twenty-fifth birthday, but it was a day marked by sadness. Queen Victoria Windsor, knowing illness would soon claim her life, embarked on a journey around the globe with her only daughter. She intended to instill her wisdom into her child as they both traveled to member countries of the Commonwealth of Nations. From Australia to Bangladesh, from India to South Africa, from Jamaica to Sierra Leone, almost all countries of the organization had been visited. During each trip, the Queen explained to her child her view of the world, including its rich history.
Their travels concluded themselves as they reached Canada. Unable to endure the burden of her disease any further, Queen Victoria requested that she be treated inside her private quarters at her official Canadian residence of Rideau Hall. This establishment would later be known as the place that housed Her Majesty's deathbed.
"Iseult..." the sickly mother called out to her daughter from her bed. Sitting at her parent's side, the princess held her parent's hand tightly; in this manner, the child expressed to her mother the depth of the emotions taking hold of her heart.
"You will soon be known as Queen Iseult Windsor," the Queen told her offspring with a satisfied smile drawn on her lips. She experienced a mother's joy to have raised the best daughter in the world. Iseult's sophistication was unrivaled; the parent knew her daughter's intelligence and maturity would benefit mankind for years to come. She felt she had no regrets... Or perhaps there was one regret that still haunted her heart.
"I regret," the mother told her child, "that I couldn't do more to make this world a better place. Promise me, Iseult, that you will speak out against the injustices plaguing this beautiful world of ours..."
"I promise, mother!" Iseult said, her teeth gritted and her eyelashes moistened by tears.
"You brought it with you during our travels, did you not?" the mother asked in a whisper. "Our family heirloom..."
"Yes..." the princess said, showing the healthy red rose to her parent.
"Then, will you show it to me? Your talent, a miraculous talent that will change the destiny of our beloved world, a talent others have yet to discover... Show it to me one last time..."
Iseult did not let go of her mother's hand. She closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. Moments later, her rosy skin glowed in response to a dim light emitted by the red flower. The dying mother whispered praises in awe of her daughter's ability as they both journeyed through the memories of past generations who held the undying flower in their hands.
They witnessed firsthand the feelings that filled the heart of the woman named Rose as she lived every moment of her eternal love story with her destined inamorato. This woman had accomplished legendary deeds during the endless cycle of reincarnations that constituted her immortal existence. She had been known by many names throughout time; humans once knew her as Venus before bestowing upon her names such as Aphrodites, Juliet Capulet and Iseult of Ireland.
"But mother, what's in a name?" the beautiful maiden told her mother as the parent closed her eyes one final time, carrying a content smile into eternity after witnessing the divine destiny her child had been blessed with. "To me, you were the finest rose ever to grace our world."
_______________________
Gary Germeil, M. Sc.
Publisher, www.organics-eternal-love-story.com
I was born and raised in Montreal, Canada. I wrote a first series of short stories entitled Organics: Eternal Love Story while an art student at Marie-Victorin College.
That degree was later complemented with a Bachelor of Commerce at Concordia University and a Master of Science in electronic commerce at HEC Montreal, earning me membership into Beta Gamma Sigma International Honor Society, Golden Key International and Le Réseau HEC.
I have written over a hundred short stories since 1992. The main concepts behind the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story were created in 1998 and have inspired my work ever since then.
I now feel the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story should be shared through this electronic publication. I invite other authors to contribute to this shared setting in their own way.
That degree was later complemented with a Bachelor of Commerce at Concordia University and a Master of Science in electronic commerce at HEC Montreal, earning me membership into Beta Gamma Sigma International Honor Society, Golden Key International and Le Réseau HEC.
I have written over a hundred short stories since 1992. The main concepts behind the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story were created in 1998 and have inspired my work ever since then.
I now feel the world of Organics: Eternal Love Story should be shared through this electronic publication. I invite other authors to contribute to this shared setting in their own way.
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Veil...A Charleston Ghost Story
The Veil...a Charleston Ghost Story
By Martha Leigh Jones
A light fog settled over Charleston as the last chimes of midnight pealed the final lingering note. The cold black metal gate felt damp and forbidding to my touch. As it creaked open my senses quickened with anticipation of our reunion. The full moon cast long shadows of the tombstones as a gentle early autumn breeze sent chills down my spine and brought goose bumps to my bare arms. In the distance, a ship’s horn sounded sending out its lonesome call.
Always on the night of a full moon we meet with each time more thrilling than the last. I was completely addicted. His skin, cool to the touch, unfailingly warmed me to the core. His eyes seemed to darken to new depths with every encounter. Those eyes remained etched in my soul and dreams until I lost myself once more to their gaze. The shoulders broad, the arms strong and safe though most would die a thousand deaths to find themselves wrapped within them. I would die a thousand deaths if I missed even one embrace. His hair shone as black as the midnight sky and smelled of musk and an earthy spice.
As he slipped those powerful arms around my waist from behind and whispered my name, my knees weakened and my heart pounded as if it would explode right out of my chest.
“Mary Alice, my love. How I’ve missed you. The cycle of the moon is too slow. I’ve grieved for your touch and longed to hear your voice. Ah, you’ve done as I asked and worn the veil. You are exquisite.”
Turning into his embrace I inhaled deeply as his scent spilled over me. Assaulting me. Awakening me from a month-long famine. Every fiber of my being responded to him.
Never before had I felt such passion, overwhelming need, or all consuming love.
“Charles, Charles. Just hold me. Please. Just hold me close.”
And once again, I am home wrapped in the arms of this beautiful man.
On that memorable night we first met, many full moons ago, in his melodious, southern charmed voice, Charles told his story.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On April 12th, 1861, two events changed my mamma’s life forever. One, she gave birth to her first child, me. The second being the day the Civil War began in the Charleston Harbor at Fort Sumter. Mamma claimed she felt the house shake from the cannon fire as she lay bringing me into the world, but I’ve always thought that was a bit of embellishment on her part. She didn’t name me for several days because Daddy was off meeting with other plantation owners who were in various quandaries over the impending war. Once he returned home and pleased to learn of my birth Mamma said he insisted my name would be Charles Sumter Barnwell.
Daddy was the fifth generation Barnwell to reign over our prosperous rice plantation, Oak Hall. Being a proud southerner, he followed his heart and immediately joined the Confederacy as a commissioned officer. Leaving everything in Mamma’s hands he went off to fight and die in that horrific war. Like so many of the plantations throughout the south Oak Hall fell. However, Mamma proved to be a shrewd business woman because after the war our wealth, while certainly diminished, remained intact.
We moved to a graceful home in downtown Charleston that had weathered the ravages of war well and needed only minor repairs. It soon became a lively gathering place for what remained of the city’s elite. Invitations to Mamma’s parties were the most sought after in town. As one of the few wealthy widows she was also sought after among the eligible men in Charleston. She chose a fine man to become my step father when I was seven years old, and then went on to bless me with a darling little sister. Being ten years old when Elizabeth was born, she looked to me as her protector. As soon as she could walk she became my shadow whenever possible which wasn’t often since Mamma had plans for me.
At twelve, she thought I needed more discipline and packed me off to Porter Military Academy. Porter was located just a few miles from my home. So, in reality, I wasn’t packed off anywhere. I just wasn’t living under the same roof with my family any longer. Porter hammered many essential life lessons into my hard head. Its focus was to teach young southern gentleman such as myself to concentrate upon our actions, thoughts and habits and how each played an important character building role. It was Mamma’s fondest wish that when it was time for my departure from Porter I would exit as an exemplary specimen of a fine Charleston-born male. Of course, I fulfilled my mamma’s hopes and dreams as I matriculated to Columbia’s University of South Carolina and graduated first in my law class a few years later.
Elizabeth never lost her dependence on me and always clamored for my attention anytime I was home. She became a wonderful equestrian and an accomplished tennis enthusiast. Both were my passions as well. I liked to think she learned at my knee.
Finally I was home in beloved Charleston for good and practicing law at my step father’s firm. A twenty-four year old man on top of the world. When not at the firm I was riding, playing tennis and enjoying the attention of several lovely home grown beauties. Elizabeth introduced me to one of her friends with whom she had played tennis several times. Despite the fact she was four years older than Elizabeth a warm friendship had blossomed between them. Once we met, I certainly understood.
Mary Alice Simms was a gorgeous, kind, gentle young woman. Gentle, yet spirited. Her sense of humor would enliven even the dullest functions. At eighteen she was already a consummate story teller. I never could decide which was more mesmerizing, her beauty or her charming ways. Both held me spellbound. Hopelessly in love with Mary Alice after courting for several months, I proposed. She accepted.
The entire spring and early summer of my twenty-fifth year, 1886, seemed laced with enchantment. The firm voted me to partner on my birthday. Mary Alice and I set our wedding date for October 30th which brought about numerous celebrations. Her only bridal attendant was to be Elizabeth.
Since both were accomplished with needle and thread, they decided to design and sew Mary Alice’s wedding veil. Many hours were spent at Mary Alice’s home that summer planning the wedding while creating an exquisite veil.
One night, Tuesday, August 31st to be exact, they had cloistered themselves to sew the final stitches on this mutual work of art. It was one of those sultry Charleston summer nights. There was no moon visible so the stars were the main event. After nine o’clock I decided it was too alluring a night to spend alone. I would go to Mary Alice’s, entice them both out onto the piazza to look upon the star-filled sky. Mary Alice and I would then walk Elizabeth home and enjoy a slow romantic return walk just the two of us. A plan.
About a block from Mary Alice’s the strangest sensation came over me. The ground beneath my feet began to move. Surely it was my imagination. Suddenly houses to the left and right were shaking and some crumbling to the ground. I ran to her house by instinct as my eyes had quickly filled with dust. Midst all the mayhem, I determined the front portion of the second floor had collapsed into the lower level. People were screaming for help all around. Though the quake lasted for only a minute or two, to me it seemed to go on and on. One thought, one objective.
“I must get to them. I must find Mary Alice and Elizabeth!”
I started throwing debris aside to get through the piazza and into the front door of the house to the parlor since that’s where they usually sat. The timbers of the house were groaning and grinding. Faint whimpering, yes! Mary Alice! Though my sight adjusted quickly to the total darkness, I almost stumbled over her. Removing what appeared to be a section from the lath and plaster ceiling on top of her, I lifted my unconscious love oh so carefully then headed back in the direction from which I had entered. Once outside I saw blood running down her temple. Her right arm was most assuredly broken as it twisted at an odd angle. As tenderly as possible I laid her onto the ground. Elizabeth was still somewhere inside along with Mary Alice’s parents.
Entering the moaning house once more I treaded quietly, listening for any human sound. Close to where Mary Alice was found I saw her. Rather in the frightening blackness I could make out her white buttoned boot and a portion of her leg protruding from underneath a layer of boards, ceiling and furniture. Elizabeth! Again throwing the wreckage in madness to get to her until the last board was removed from my precious sister. Gently lifting her, I knew. Elizabeth was dead. In her arms, she protectively held the wedding veil. I quickly carried her out through the horrid mess that only minutes ago had been a lovely, gentile Charleston home and laid her beside the still unconscious Mary Alice. I prayed to God to help me find her parents alive.
Taking a deep breath of dusty air I ran back into the house. Again moving quietly, listening. I heard a weak crying which definitely came from upstairs. Though the front portion of the second floor had collapsed, the stairs remained standing and it seemed both levels of the back of the house were still partially intact but by the sound of it shaky at best. There was no question in my mind; I was going up those stairs. As I began to ascend, the first aftershock of the quake hit.
I died August 31st, 1886. Just as the date of my birth had been significant to history, so was the date of my death. On that summer night at 9:50 p.m. one of the most powerful and damaging earthquakes to hit the eastern United States, devastated my beloved Charleston. I did not yield to death peacefully. I wanted so badly to live. To see Mary Alice as the stunning bride she would have been and to vow before family and friends to cherish, love and protect her until death do us part. I wanted desperately to hold the babies our love surely would have produced and to watch them grow. I died not even knowing if she survived her injuries. That caused my soul great unrest and torment.
Elizabeth and I were buried in the family plot at our church’s cemetery. On the night of the first full moon following my death, I rose from my grave with great anxiety within my still chest. One thought, one objective.
“I must get to her. I must find Mary Alice!”
I knew I would not, could not, rest eternally until my soul was sated.
Full moon nights have drawn me from the ground to walk the earth month after month, year after year for over one hundred years. Finally finding my Mary Alice but not until she was buried in the Benton family plot not too far from where my family lies. According to her gravestone Mary Alice lived to be 90 years old. She died in 1957. It’s marked, Mary Alice Simms Benton. Wife of James Franklin Benton.
My soul should have been at peace knowing this, but it wasn’t. I was still searching. Unseen, I walked among folks on these hallowed nights the moon bestowed me. My beloved Charleston had become a great, beautiful city. Mostly I just walked. I could not rest. My soul was bound to this earth. Searching, ever searching—and waiting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Charles told me his story. Some of it I knew. I am the great granddaughter of Mary Alice Simms Benton. I am named Mary Alice after her. I did not have the privilege of knowing her, but her story has been passed down to me through my grandmother and mother. I have been told I am the image of her. Charles confirmed this.
The wedding veil, handmade by my great grandmother and Charles’ sister, Elizabeth, was worn by her in loving memory of both Charles and Elizabeth on the day she married my great grandfather. It was treasured and protected and worn once again upon my grandmother’s head at her wedding then on to my mamma to adorn yet another bride.
My first encounter with Charles occurred autumn two years ago at dusk. I loved our family church’s cemetery and came often to visit my great grandmother’s grave though never before so late. A glorious full moon bulged from the sky just over the church’s steeple. The peacefulness of the balmy evening enticed me to linger as dusk surrendered into the moonlit night.
Inexplicably I was beckoned to the resting place of Charles Sumter Barnwell. I felt the spirit of this great man. If it were not for his heroism the night of the earthquake, I would not exist. My grandmother and mother had always told his story with awed reverence. Their appreciative love toward him was instilled within me. From these stories I learned Charles Sumter Barnwell was not only brave but charming, witty and exceptionally handsome. Looking up toward the steeple I wished upon the full moon to find such a man someday. The lovely veil was packed away waiting to be worn again, but I currently had no hopes of putting it to use.
Turning to leave I heard a strange noise. A slight fluttering, a swishing sound, then a strong musk and earthy spice aroma filled the air. There stood Charles Sumter Barnwell in all his glory. My heart knew this without a doubt.
“Mary Alice, my love. You have come to me at last.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I have come to him every single night of a full moon since. Tonight I have worn the veil.
By Martha Leigh Jones
A light fog settled over Charleston as the last chimes of midnight pealed the final lingering note. The cold black metal gate felt damp and forbidding to my touch. As it creaked open my senses quickened with anticipation of our reunion. The full moon cast long shadows of the tombstones as a gentle early autumn breeze sent chills down my spine and brought goose bumps to my bare arms. In the distance, a ship’s horn sounded sending out its lonesome call.
Always on the night of a full moon we meet with each time more thrilling than the last. I was completely addicted. His skin, cool to the touch, unfailingly warmed me to the core. His eyes seemed to darken to new depths with every encounter. Those eyes remained etched in my soul and dreams until I lost myself once more to their gaze. The shoulders broad, the arms strong and safe though most would die a thousand deaths to find themselves wrapped within them. I would die a thousand deaths if I missed even one embrace. His hair shone as black as the midnight sky and smelled of musk and an earthy spice.
As he slipped those powerful arms around my waist from behind and whispered my name, my knees weakened and my heart pounded as if it would explode right out of my chest.
“Mary Alice, my love. How I’ve missed you. The cycle of the moon is too slow. I’ve grieved for your touch and longed to hear your voice. Ah, you’ve done as I asked and worn the veil. You are exquisite.”
Turning into his embrace I inhaled deeply as his scent spilled over me. Assaulting me. Awakening me from a month-long famine. Every fiber of my being responded to him.
Never before had I felt such passion, overwhelming need, or all consuming love.
“Charles, Charles. Just hold me. Please. Just hold me close.”
And once again, I am home wrapped in the arms of this beautiful man.
On that memorable night we first met, many full moons ago, in his melodious, southern charmed voice, Charles told his story.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On April 12th, 1861, two events changed my mamma’s life forever. One, she gave birth to her first child, me. The second being the day the Civil War began in the Charleston Harbor at Fort Sumter. Mamma claimed she felt the house shake from the cannon fire as she lay bringing me into the world, but I’ve always thought that was a bit of embellishment on her part. She didn’t name me for several days because Daddy was off meeting with other plantation owners who were in various quandaries over the impending war. Once he returned home and pleased to learn of my birth Mamma said he insisted my name would be Charles Sumter Barnwell.
Daddy was the fifth generation Barnwell to reign over our prosperous rice plantation, Oak Hall. Being a proud southerner, he followed his heart and immediately joined the Confederacy as a commissioned officer. Leaving everything in Mamma’s hands he went off to fight and die in that horrific war. Like so many of the plantations throughout the south Oak Hall fell. However, Mamma proved to be a shrewd business woman because after the war our wealth, while certainly diminished, remained intact.
We moved to a graceful home in downtown Charleston that had weathered the ravages of war well and needed only minor repairs. It soon became a lively gathering place for what remained of the city’s elite. Invitations to Mamma’s parties were the most sought after in town. As one of the few wealthy widows she was also sought after among the eligible men in Charleston. She chose a fine man to become my step father when I was seven years old, and then went on to bless me with a darling little sister. Being ten years old when Elizabeth was born, she looked to me as her protector. As soon as she could walk she became my shadow whenever possible which wasn’t often since Mamma had plans for me.
At twelve, she thought I needed more discipline and packed me off to Porter Military Academy. Porter was located just a few miles from my home. So, in reality, I wasn’t packed off anywhere. I just wasn’t living under the same roof with my family any longer. Porter hammered many essential life lessons into my hard head. Its focus was to teach young southern gentleman such as myself to concentrate upon our actions, thoughts and habits and how each played an important character building role. It was Mamma’s fondest wish that when it was time for my departure from Porter I would exit as an exemplary specimen of a fine Charleston-born male. Of course, I fulfilled my mamma’s hopes and dreams as I matriculated to Columbia’s University of South Carolina and graduated first in my law class a few years later.
Elizabeth never lost her dependence on me and always clamored for my attention anytime I was home. She became a wonderful equestrian and an accomplished tennis enthusiast. Both were my passions as well. I liked to think she learned at my knee.
Finally I was home in beloved Charleston for good and practicing law at my step father’s firm. A twenty-four year old man on top of the world. When not at the firm I was riding, playing tennis and enjoying the attention of several lovely home grown beauties. Elizabeth introduced me to one of her friends with whom she had played tennis several times. Despite the fact she was four years older than Elizabeth a warm friendship had blossomed between them. Once we met, I certainly understood.
Mary Alice Simms was a gorgeous, kind, gentle young woman. Gentle, yet spirited. Her sense of humor would enliven even the dullest functions. At eighteen she was already a consummate story teller. I never could decide which was more mesmerizing, her beauty or her charming ways. Both held me spellbound. Hopelessly in love with Mary Alice after courting for several months, I proposed. She accepted.
The entire spring and early summer of my twenty-fifth year, 1886, seemed laced with enchantment. The firm voted me to partner on my birthday. Mary Alice and I set our wedding date for October 30th which brought about numerous celebrations. Her only bridal attendant was to be Elizabeth.
Since both were accomplished with needle and thread, they decided to design and sew Mary Alice’s wedding veil. Many hours were spent at Mary Alice’s home that summer planning the wedding while creating an exquisite veil.
One night, Tuesday, August 31st to be exact, they had cloistered themselves to sew the final stitches on this mutual work of art. It was one of those sultry Charleston summer nights. There was no moon visible so the stars were the main event. After nine o’clock I decided it was too alluring a night to spend alone. I would go to Mary Alice’s, entice them both out onto the piazza to look upon the star-filled sky. Mary Alice and I would then walk Elizabeth home and enjoy a slow romantic return walk just the two of us. A plan.
About a block from Mary Alice’s the strangest sensation came over me. The ground beneath my feet began to move. Surely it was my imagination. Suddenly houses to the left and right were shaking and some crumbling to the ground. I ran to her house by instinct as my eyes had quickly filled with dust. Midst all the mayhem, I determined the front portion of the second floor had collapsed into the lower level. People were screaming for help all around. Though the quake lasted for only a minute or two, to me it seemed to go on and on. One thought, one objective.
“I must get to them. I must find Mary Alice and Elizabeth!”
I started throwing debris aside to get through the piazza and into the front door of the house to the parlor since that’s where they usually sat. The timbers of the house were groaning and grinding. Faint whimpering, yes! Mary Alice! Though my sight adjusted quickly to the total darkness, I almost stumbled over her. Removing what appeared to be a section from the lath and plaster ceiling on top of her, I lifted my unconscious love oh so carefully then headed back in the direction from which I had entered. Once outside I saw blood running down her temple. Her right arm was most assuredly broken as it twisted at an odd angle. As tenderly as possible I laid her onto the ground. Elizabeth was still somewhere inside along with Mary Alice’s parents.
Entering the moaning house once more I treaded quietly, listening for any human sound. Close to where Mary Alice was found I saw her. Rather in the frightening blackness I could make out her white buttoned boot and a portion of her leg protruding from underneath a layer of boards, ceiling and furniture. Elizabeth! Again throwing the wreckage in madness to get to her until the last board was removed from my precious sister. Gently lifting her, I knew. Elizabeth was dead. In her arms, she protectively held the wedding veil. I quickly carried her out through the horrid mess that only minutes ago had been a lovely, gentile Charleston home and laid her beside the still unconscious Mary Alice. I prayed to God to help me find her parents alive.
Taking a deep breath of dusty air I ran back into the house. Again moving quietly, listening. I heard a weak crying which definitely came from upstairs. Though the front portion of the second floor had collapsed, the stairs remained standing and it seemed both levels of the back of the house were still partially intact but by the sound of it shaky at best. There was no question in my mind; I was going up those stairs. As I began to ascend, the first aftershock of the quake hit.
I died August 31st, 1886. Just as the date of my birth had been significant to history, so was the date of my death. On that summer night at 9:50 p.m. one of the most powerful and damaging earthquakes to hit the eastern United States, devastated my beloved Charleston. I did not yield to death peacefully. I wanted so badly to live. To see Mary Alice as the stunning bride she would have been and to vow before family and friends to cherish, love and protect her until death do us part. I wanted desperately to hold the babies our love surely would have produced and to watch them grow. I died not even knowing if she survived her injuries. That caused my soul great unrest and torment.
Elizabeth and I were buried in the family plot at our church’s cemetery. On the night of the first full moon following my death, I rose from my grave with great anxiety within my still chest. One thought, one objective.
“I must get to her. I must find Mary Alice!”
I knew I would not, could not, rest eternally until my soul was sated.
Full moon nights have drawn me from the ground to walk the earth month after month, year after year for over one hundred years. Finally finding my Mary Alice but not until she was buried in the Benton family plot not too far from where my family lies. According to her gravestone Mary Alice lived to be 90 years old. She died in 1957. It’s marked, Mary Alice Simms Benton. Wife of James Franklin Benton.
My soul should have been at peace knowing this, but it wasn’t. I was still searching. Unseen, I walked among folks on these hallowed nights the moon bestowed me. My beloved Charleston had become a great, beautiful city. Mostly I just walked. I could not rest. My soul was bound to this earth. Searching, ever searching—and waiting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Charles told me his story. Some of it I knew. I am the great granddaughter of Mary Alice Simms Benton. I am named Mary Alice after her. I did not have the privilege of knowing her, but her story has been passed down to me through my grandmother and mother. I have been told I am the image of her. Charles confirmed this.
The wedding veil, handmade by my great grandmother and Charles’ sister, Elizabeth, was worn by her in loving memory of both Charles and Elizabeth on the day she married my great grandfather. It was treasured and protected and worn once again upon my grandmother’s head at her wedding then on to my mamma to adorn yet another bride.
My first encounter with Charles occurred autumn two years ago at dusk. I loved our family church’s cemetery and came often to visit my great grandmother’s grave though never before so late. A glorious full moon bulged from the sky just over the church’s steeple. The peacefulness of the balmy evening enticed me to linger as dusk surrendered into the moonlit night.
Inexplicably I was beckoned to the resting place of Charles Sumter Barnwell. I felt the spirit of this great man. If it were not for his heroism the night of the earthquake, I would not exist. My grandmother and mother had always told his story with awed reverence. Their appreciative love toward him was instilled within me. From these stories I learned Charles Sumter Barnwell was not only brave but charming, witty and exceptionally handsome. Looking up toward the steeple I wished upon the full moon to find such a man someday. The lovely veil was packed away waiting to be worn again, but I currently had no hopes of putting it to use.
Turning to leave I heard a strange noise. A slight fluttering, a swishing sound, then a strong musk and earthy spice aroma filled the air. There stood Charles Sumter Barnwell in all his glory. My heart knew this without a doubt.
“Mary Alice, my love. You have come to me at last.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I have come to him every single night of a full moon since. Tonight I have worn the veil.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Where Are You Now, Charming Billy?
Where Are You Now, Charming Billy?
The first time I met Billy Seabolt he ran into my church in Tewksbury, North Carolina, a town so small the post office and the dry cleaner shared the same shop. Although a teenager, he seemed just an overgrown boy--all Adam's apple, and arms and legs, stringy blond hair and a shadow of a mustache.
"Father, Father! They're after me," he shouted. There was no need to ask who, because under his half-open jacket was a blinking construction lantern. Police sirens whined and lights flashed. I made him give me the lantern and I walked out to the front of the church as the entire police force of Tewksbury, both cars and all three officers, including Sheriff Hines, pulled up. Not knowing how to shut off the lantern, it kept blinking, making the scene look like a surreal homage to disco.
"Hello, Wendell," I said to Sheriff Hines as he yanked at his pants. He was a big, strangely proportioned man with a massive chest and mid-section and surprisingly short legs. Holding the lantern high in one hand, I joked, "I'm looking for an honest man."
Too annoyed to react to my comment, he asked, "Where's Billy, Father Mike?"
Billy peeked out from behind the church doors with a silly grin on his face.
Sheriff Hines took the lantern, also trying without success to turn it off. Finally, in frustration, he forced open the back and pulled out the batteries like a small child ripping open a Christmas present.
"Boy," he said to Billy. "You in a heap of trouble. Why'd you take this?"
Billy shrugged, looked at the floor, and raised his eyes slowly to meet the sheriff's. "It's dark outside."
I could see Wendell's belly shake as he tried valiantly to furrow his brow and hold back the laughter.
"Son," Wendell finally said, shaking his head. "Why don't you just go on home?"
After that, it seemed Billy always came to me when he got himself into trouble. Once, he ran into the church, looking harried and asked if he could use the rest room. I showed him where it was and he stayed in there when Sheriff Hines entered the sanctuary, removing his hat to display a full head of dark hair streaked with gray.
"Where's Billy at this time, Father?"
I wasn't sure if I should protect Billy when we heard the toilet flush noisily, and Billy came out wearing his customary grin.
Sheriff Hines sighed. "I reckon there's no need to search you now, boy. You have yourself a heart to heart with the good father here. Don't make me run you in."
After the sheriff left, Billy pulled out from his boot a small plastic bag of what I assumed was marijuana.
I looked down at my shoes, trying to come up with something wise to say. I showed Billy the way to the rectory and asked him to sit down. "We need to talk."
"But I ain't Catholic."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm Catholic enough for both of us."
I asked about his family and he said it was just him, his father and his uncle. His mother had died giving birth to him. His Aunt Faye raised him, but when she left Uncle Tyrus a few years back, he and his uncle moved in with his father. The two men drove a truck, hauling furniture all over the country, and were away a good bit of time.
"Do you go to school?"
"Nah. I never was too good at that stuff. I just stopped goin'. When I turned sixteen they stopped comin' round."
He was almost eighteen now, he said. He looked a few years younger. "What do you do?"
"Oh, this and that. Sometimes I ride with my daddy when Uncle Tyrus is too drunk. Sometimes I paint houses with Dade Smith. Mostly, I just mess around, you know?"
"You have a girl friend?"
"Nah, I ain't too good with girls." He flashed his country smile and I saw a ten year-old boy in his face.
I hired Billy to do odd jobs around the church, figuring it was as good a way as any to keep him out of trouble. He was a good worker, but like a child, he constantly sought approval, always asking if I liked the way he painted a wall or greased a door jam.
I tried visiting his father and uncle once. They were sitting on the porch of their run-down house off a dirt road just outside of town. The porch was piled with car parts, girly magazines and surprisingly new furniture. I guessed the furniture had "fallen off the truck," but they were too lazy to sell it. In a corner was a large color TV. The two men were watching the Braves game.
Each had a cooler of beer in front of him. I had to drink one from one cooler and one from the other. Anytime I tried to talk they shushed me and each handed me a beer. After a while, I forgot what I wanted to talk to them about, drank, and watched the game. I slept on their porch that night. The next day, I tried talking to them about Billy.
"Billy's all right," his father said, ending discussion.
A few months after that, Billy told me Sally Lynn Lucas was having his child. When I registered surprise he smiled and said, "I guess she likes me."
I asked him what he planned to do.
"She said she'd marry me if I got her a diamond ring. But I ain't got that kind of money."
I said if she loved him, she'd understand. He looked at me like I was from Mars.
Soon after that, I heard Billy pulled a gun in a jewelry store in a nearby town. The gun went off as he took it out of his pocket and the bullet hit him in the foot, ricocheted off the floor, and grazed the leg of a customer.
I counseled Billy while he was awaiting trial, but my order transferred me to another small church in Maine. I returned for his sentencing hearing, testifying on his behalf. Even Sheriff Hines pleaded for leniency.
When the judge pronounced a fifteen-year sentence, I saw the little boy smile disappear from Billy's face. Once behind bars, Billy never answered my letters or took my phone calls.
I often wondered what happened to Billy Seabolt, but time passed and I got involved in my new life. Trying to keep a Catholic church viable in Libertyville, Maine, is no easy task.
***
Not long ago, I looked up from my desk in back of the church and saw a figure opening and closing the heavy wooden front door. After watching him do that a few times, I called out, "What in blazes are you doing?"
"It's me, Father Mike. Billy Seabolt."
I took off my reading glasses and exchanged them for the far distance pair in my shirt pocket. "Well, I'll be damned." Adding, "Just a figure of speech, you know."
"I forgot how corny you could be, Father."
As we embraced, I noted how time had changed Billy. He was bigger now, fuller, but deep lines extending downward from the corners of his mouth replaced the mischievous smile I remembered. Billy's eyes no longer had the full of life clarity of a boy. They now looked like the eyes of a man who had seen too much.
"How are you?" I asked. "And what were you doing with the door?"
"Just opening and closing it. Since I been out, that's about my most favorite thing to do."
His voice had grown deeper, but he still sounded like the rambunctious teenager who used to run to my church whenever he got into trouble.
"How long have you been out? How'd you find me?" I was genuinely happy to see Billy again.
We sat in a pew and Billy told me he had been released from prison six months earlier. He had returned to Tewksbury, but his father had disappeared after his uncle died in a knife fight with a pimp up in Raleigh. "Nobody knew where my daddy went off to. They told me he just packed his truck and left town. We didn't talk since they locked me up anyways."
"I tried writing and calling you, but you never accepted my calls. Even the letters came back."
"I know. But I kept the return address. That's how I found you way up here in Maine. Man, couldn't you find some place warmer?"
"But why didn't you . . ."
"I couldn't talk, Father Mike. I figured the only way I could survive was by thinking about nothing but getting by."
"It's been how long? Ten years?"
"Twelve. I shoulda been paroled sooner but there was these guys inside who wouldn't let me be. I cut one of them with a toothbrush I sharpened."
I tried not to let my face register shock. As a kid, Billy was always in trouble. But there was something about him. Something innocent and hopeful. Even trying to rob a jewelry store to get a diamond ring for his baby's mother and accidentally shooting himself in the foot had its charm. The fact is I always had a soft spot for Billy. I don't know if it was his naiveté or the fact that he came to me when he needed help. Whenever I thought what it might have been like having a son of my own, I thought of Billy.
"How are Sally Lynn and the child? I heard she had a boy."
"She got herself in a bad way, I hear. Drugs. They took the baby away from her and some folks say she died. Others say she just run off."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Billy. Have you seen your son?"
"Nah. They won't let me. He's been adopted and they say he's with a good family." Billy looked down at his dirty boots. "Probably a good thing. I wouldn't a made much of a daddy. Wouldn't know how."
We spoke a little more after that. We talked about Tewksbury and about Libertyville. I told him how hard it was being a Catholic priest in such small towns. And how lonely it felt sometimes.
I watched Billy's eyes dart around the church. He even blushed. 'I always wondered," he asked, "don't y'all ever miss . . . you know?"
"All the time, Billy. All the time."
"I sure missed it," he said, his familiar grin returning like an old friend. "Never done it with no one but Sally Lynn, but I sure missed it after that." He was still blushing and I could see the awkward adolescent still inside him. "I tried not thinking about it, but I couldn't help myself."
"I know, Billy," I told him. "Sometimes it's better to let yourself think about it and slowly allow your mind to find its way to more spiritual things."
That look I remembered from when he was a kid returned. The one where he wondered what planet I might be from.
He asked if I could help him find work and a place to live. He stayed in my office in the back of the church for a while and then he moved to his own place, a small house in the woods. It was run down, but the owner said he could stay there free if he fixed it up.
Billy worked odd jobs, but when they found out he had been in prison for attempted armed robbery and that he knifed a man in jail, the people around him acted suspicious and afraid. He was soon encouraged to leave, although no one had any problems with his work. He did a good job repairing the house in the woods, but the nights started getting cold up there and Billy was still a Southern boy at heart.
I went to visit him one evening. He was drinking beer from a cooler he had next to his chair. "Too damn cold to do nothin but drink," he said, slurring his words. His eyes were red and his face looked tired and worn.
I offered him a job at the church and a room. "At least until the weather warms up."
"Nah. Thanks anyway, but I can't go backwards. I gotta move forward."
We watched the Red Sox on television. They were ahead 2-0 early in the game, but after a couple of errors they blew the lead and lost 4-2.
Less than a month after that, Herb Gossage, the owner of the cabin, called to ask if I knew what had happened to Billy. When I told him I hadn't spoken to him in a week, he said he heard Billy just packed up his truck and drove off.
"I went back to the house to see what he stole," Herb said. "But he left the house in fine shape. Did good work, too, fixing the roof and painting the place. Even washed and folded the sheets and towels I left him. I'd like to pay him if you ever hear from him."
I assured him I'd pass the word on to Billy if I ever saw him again.
***
I've been thinking a lot about Billy lately, wondering what will happen to him. I tried making some phone calls to people I knew in Tewksbury, but they hadn't heard from him or his father.
"Good riddance to them," one former parishioner said, summing up most of the town's feelings about Billy and the Seabolt clan.
Wendell Hines, now retired, was one of the few people in town who remembered Billy fondly. "I like to have helped that boy," he told me. "But I guess you can't save 'em all, huh Father?"
Sadly, I had to agree with him. "No, Wendell. You can't save them all."
After I hung up the phone, I locked the church and shuffled to my room in the rectory. I poured myself a scotch and sat in silence, something I had been doing a lot lately. I knew I couldn't save them all, but if I couldn't save a boy I'd known since he was a teenager, who could I save? What good was I to anyone? I thought about the choices I had made in life, the loneliness I accepted as my lot. I wondered what kind of father I would have made.
I downed the scotch that remained in the glass, stood up and washed the glass in the little sink in my room. I lied down on my bed and prayed for Billy.
-end-
_________________________________________
Bio:
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.)
To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. A film adaptation of his short story, "Zen and the Art of House Painting," can be viewed at http://vimeo.com/18491827. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.
The first time I met Billy Seabolt he ran into my church in Tewksbury, North Carolina, a town so small the post office and the dry cleaner shared the same shop. Although a teenager, he seemed just an overgrown boy--all Adam's apple, and arms and legs, stringy blond hair and a shadow of a mustache.
"Father, Father! They're after me," he shouted. There was no need to ask who, because under his half-open jacket was a blinking construction lantern. Police sirens whined and lights flashed. I made him give me the lantern and I walked out to the front of the church as the entire police force of Tewksbury, both cars and all three officers, including Sheriff Hines, pulled up. Not knowing how to shut off the lantern, it kept blinking, making the scene look like a surreal homage to disco.
"Hello, Wendell," I said to Sheriff Hines as he yanked at his pants. He was a big, strangely proportioned man with a massive chest and mid-section and surprisingly short legs. Holding the lantern high in one hand, I joked, "I'm looking for an honest man."
Too annoyed to react to my comment, he asked, "Where's Billy, Father Mike?"
Billy peeked out from behind the church doors with a silly grin on his face.
Sheriff Hines took the lantern, also trying without success to turn it off. Finally, in frustration, he forced open the back and pulled out the batteries like a small child ripping open a Christmas present.
"Boy," he said to Billy. "You in a heap of trouble. Why'd you take this?"
Billy shrugged, looked at the floor, and raised his eyes slowly to meet the sheriff's. "It's dark outside."
I could see Wendell's belly shake as he tried valiantly to furrow his brow and hold back the laughter.
"Son," Wendell finally said, shaking his head. "Why don't you just go on home?"
After that, it seemed Billy always came to me when he got himself into trouble. Once, he ran into the church, looking harried and asked if he could use the rest room. I showed him where it was and he stayed in there when Sheriff Hines entered the sanctuary, removing his hat to display a full head of dark hair streaked with gray.
"Where's Billy at this time, Father?"
I wasn't sure if I should protect Billy when we heard the toilet flush noisily, and Billy came out wearing his customary grin.
Sheriff Hines sighed. "I reckon there's no need to search you now, boy. You have yourself a heart to heart with the good father here. Don't make me run you in."
After the sheriff left, Billy pulled out from his boot a small plastic bag of what I assumed was marijuana.
I looked down at my shoes, trying to come up with something wise to say. I showed Billy the way to the rectory and asked him to sit down. "We need to talk."
"But I ain't Catholic."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm Catholic enough for both of us."
I asked about his family and he said it was just him, his father and his uncle. His mother had died giving birth to him. His Aunt Faye raised him, but when she left Uncle Tyrus a few years back, he and his uncle moved in with his father. The two men drove a truck, hauling furniture all over the country, and were away a good bit of time.
"Do you go to school?"
"Nah. I never was too good at that stuff. I just stopped goin'. When I turned sixteen they stopped comin' round."
He was almost eighteen now, he said. He looked a few years younger. "What do you do?"
"Oh, this and that. Sometimes I ride with my daddy when Uncle Tyrus is too drunk. Sometimes I paint houses with Dade Smith. Mostly, I just mess around, you know?"
"You have a girl friend?"
"Nah, I ain't too good with girls." He flashed his country smile and I saw a ten year-old boy in his face.
I hired Billy to do odd jobs around the church, figuring it was as good a way as any to keep him out of trouble. He was a good worker, but like a child, he constantly sought approval, always asking if I liked the way he painted a wall or greased a door jam.
I tried visiting his father and uncle once. They were sitting on the porch of their run-down house off a dirt road just outside of town. The porch was piled with car parts, girly magazines and surprisingly new furniture. I guessed the furniture had "fallen off the truck," but they were too lazy to sell it. In a corner was a large color TV. The two men were watching the Braves game.
Each had a cooler of beer in front of him. I had to drink one from one cooler and one from the other. Anytime I tried to talk they shushed me and each handed me a beer. After a while, I forgot what I wanted to talk to them about, drank, and watched the game. I slept on their porch that night. The next day, I tried talking to them about Billy.
"Billy's all right," his father said, ending discussion.
A few months after that, Billy told me Sally Lynn Lucas was having his child. When I registered surprise he smiled and said, "I guess she likes me."
I asked him what he planned to do.
"She said she'd marry me if I got her a diamond ring. But I ain't got that kind of money."
I said if she loved him, she'd understand. He looked at me like I was from Mars.
Soon after that, I heard Billy pulled a gun in a jewelry store in a nearby town. The gun went off as he took it out of his pocket and the bullet hit him in the foot, ricocheted off the floor, and grazed the leg of a customer.
I counseled Billy while he was awaiting trial, but my order transferred me to another small church in Maine. I returned for his sentencing hearing, testifying on his behalf. Even Sheriff Hines pleaded for leniency.
When the judge pronounced a fifteen-year sentence, I saw the little boy smile disappear from Billy's face. Once behind bars, Billy never answered my letters or took my phone calls.
I often wondered what happened to Billy Seabolt, but time passed and I got involved in my new life. Trying to keep a Catholic church viable in Libertyville, Maine, is no easy task.
***
Not long ago, I looked up from my desk in back of the church and saw a figure opening and closing the heavy wooden front door. After watching him do that a few times, I called out, "What in blazes are you doing?"
"It's me, Father Mike. Billy Seabolt."
I took off my reading glasses and exchanged them for the far distance pair in my shirt pocket. "Well, I'll be damned." Adding, "Just a figure of speech, you know."
"I forgot how corny you could be, Father."
As we embraced, I noted how time had changed Billy. He was bigger now, fuller, but deep lines extending downward from the corners of his mouth replaced the mischievous smile I remembered. Billy's eyes no longer had the full of life clarity of a boy. They now looked like the eyes of a man who had seen too much.
"How are you?" I asked. "And what were you doing with the door?"
"Just opening and closing it. Since I been out, that's about my most favorite thing to do."
His voice had grown deeper, but he still sounded like the rambunctious teenager who used to run to my church whenever he got into trouble.
"How long have you been out? How'd you find me?" I was genuinely happy to see Billy again.
We sat in a pew and Billy told me he had been released from prison six months earlier. He had returned to Tewksbury, but his father had disappeared after his uncle died in a knife fight with a pimp up in Raleigh. "Nobody knew where my daddy went off to. They told me he just packed his truck and left town. We didn't talk since they locked me up anyways."
"I tried writing and calling you, but you never accepted my calls. Even the letters came back."
"I know. But I kept the return address. That's how I found you way up here in Maine. Man, couldn't you find some place warmer?"
"But why didn't you . . ."
"I couldn't talk, Father Mike. I figured the only way I could survive was by thinking about nothing but getting by."
"It's been how long? Ten years?"
"Twelve. I shoulda been paroled sooner but there was these guys inside who wouldn't let me be. I cut one of them with a toothbrush I sharpened."
I tried not to let my face register shock. As a kid, Billy was always in trouble. But there was something about him. Something innocent and hopeful. Even trying to rob a jewelry store to get a diamond ring for his baby's mother and accidentally shooting himself in the foot had its charm. The fact is I always had a soft spot for Billy. I don't know if it was his naiveté or the fact that he came to me when he needed help. Whenever I thought what it might have been like having a son of my own, I thought of Billy.
"How are Sally Lynn and the child? I heard she had a boy."
"She got herself in a bad way, I hear. Drugs. They took the baby away from her and some folks say she died. Others say she just run off."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Billy. Have you seen your son?"
"Nah. They won't let me. He's been adopted and they say he's with a good family." Billy looked down at his dirty boots. "Probably a good thing. I wouldn't a made much of a daddy. Wouldn't know how."
We spoke a little more after that. We talked about Tewksbury and about Libertyville. I told him how hard it was being a Catholic priest in such small towns. And how lonely it felt sometimes.
I watched Billy's eyes dart around the church. He even blushed. 'I always wondered," he asked, "don't y'all ever miss . . . you know?"
"All the time, Billy. All the time."
"I sure missed it," he said, his familiar grin returning like an old friend. "Never done it with no one but Sally Lynn, but I sure missed it after that." He was still blushing and I could see the awkward adolescent still inside him. "I tried not thinking about it, but I couldn't help myself."
"I know, Billy," I told him. "Sometimes it's better to let yourself think about it and slowly allow your mind to find its way to more spiritual things."
That look I remembered from when he was a kid returned. The one where he wondered what planet I might be from.
He asked if I could help him find work and a place to live. He stayed in my office in the back of the church for a while and then he moved to his own place, a small house in the woods. It was run down, but the owner said he could stay there free if he fixed it up.
Billy worked odd jobs, but when they found out he had been in prison for attempted armed robbery and that he knifed a man in jail, the people around him acted suspicious and afraid. He was soon encouraged to leave, although no one had any problems with his work. He did a good job repairing the house in the woods, but the nights started getting cold up there and Billy was still a Southern boy at heart.
I went to visit him one evening. He was drinking beer from a cooler he had next to his chair. "Too damn cold to do nothin but drink," he said, slurring his words. His eyes were red and his face looked tired and worn.
I offered him a job at the church and a room. "At least until the weather warms up."
"Nah. Thanks anyway, but I can't go backwards. I gotta move forward."
We watched the Red Sox on television. They were ahead 2-0 early in the game, but after a couple of errors they blew the lead and lost 4-2.
Less than a month after that, Herb Gossage, the owner of the cabin, called to ask if I knew what had happened to Billy. When I told him I hadn't spoken to him in a week, he said he heard Billy just packed up his truck and drove off.
"I went back to the house to see what he stole," Herb said. "But he left the house in fine shape. Did good work, too, fixing the roof and painting the place. Even washed and folded the sheets and towels I left him. I'd like to pay him if you ever hear from him."
I assured him I'd pass the word on to Billy if I ever saw him again.
***
I've been thinking a lot about Billy lately, wondering what will happen to him. I tried making some phone calls to people I knew in Tewksbury, but they hadn't heard from him or his father.
"Good riddance to them," one former parishioner said, summing up most of the town's feelings about Billy and the Seabolt clan.
Wendell Hines, now retired, was one of the few people in town who remembered Billy fondly. "I like to have helped that boy," he told me. "But I guess you can't save 'em all, huh Father?"
Sadly, I had to agree with him. "No, Wendell. You can't save them all."
After I hung up the phone, I locked the church and shuffled to my room in the rectory. I poured myself a scotch and sat in silence, something I had been doing a lot lately. I knew I couldn't save them all, but if I couldn't save a boy I'd known since he was a teenager, who could I save? What good was I to anyone? I thought about the choices I had made in life, the loneliness I accepted as my lot. I wondered what kind of father I would have made.
I downed the scotch that remained in the glass, stood up and washed the glass in the little sink in my room. I lied down on my bed and prayed for Billy.
-end-
_________________________________________
Bio:
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.)
To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. A film adaptation of his short story, "Zen and the Art of House Painting," can be viewed at http://vimeo.com/18491827. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Daytime Drunks
Daytime Drunks
(Previously published in Aimee Dearmon's Blog.)
------
"So," she said, (about eight hours ago) "Let's be daytime drunks. "It sounded ok to me. I wasn't doing anything except exhaling a Parliament and wondering if I should purchase a coffee pot with an automatic turn-off switch.
She was one of those blondes who could have been something in her day. She looked a little battered by the kind of yucky life that knocks the spit out of you. She had that deep, sexy voice created by tobacco and that un-sexy double chin created by Twinkies. She was dressed in a too-tight denim skirt and snug-fitting blouse revealing strong cleavage and a weak, flabby tummy. She had a coffee stain in the shape of a heart over her right breast. She didn't seem to care about the stain and I didn't care about it, and our bartender Scout, didn't give a shit about it.
So, I decided to take the big leap. I moved to a bar stool next to her and introduced myself.
"My name's Walter Blankenship." I held out my hand in an amiable fashion.
She was flabbergasted. She looked at me with shock and awe. Finally, she took my hand. "You are Walter Blankenship?"
"Yes," I returned.
Yes. I am Walter Blankenship. I am the man who chose to leave work for the afternoon by feigning a bad case of the runs. I was quickly excused. I am Walter, the guy who seems to fuck up everything and everyone I'm around.
Well, there are some exceptions. I have a nice collection of model trains and I did give somebody ten bucks for the survivors of Katrina a couple of years ago. I can be noble.
As I tried to figure out who I was--am--she said, "I'm Robin Fileggi. You took me out for a coffee once. Don't ya 'member?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"We were in a class at College of DuPage together. It was a class about Kafta," she said.
A vague image of having coffee with a junior college cheerleader and long days of being overwhelmed by a depressing German writer began to materialize. I could hardly remember as everything I learned in college was quashed from my memory by afternoons like this or having stayed awake forty-eight hours to view all of TV-land's Sanford and Son marathons. I heard the actor who played the son, Demond Wilson, had become a preacher.
"Okay, I remember you. You were a cheerleader," I said.
"No, a pom-pom girl."
I was starting to recall a pretty girl who had coffee with me. And, we took a writing class together. Someone wrote a story about a guy who turned into a giant cockroach.
"So, we meet again." I offered a toast, my screwdriver to her pink drink. It made a delightful clink.
"You told me something the day we had coffee that I never forgot. You told me I had a beautiful soul," she said.
"I did?" I couldn't remember what I would have said to a pom-pom girl.
"And, you know what?" she asked.
"What?"
"I named my cat after you. Walter, the cat."
"Well, I'll be damned. You named a kitty-cat after me."
"Yep," she said.
"I'm so honored."
"Poor Walter died. He drank some anti-freeze in my parking lot, but I had him for thirteen beautiful years."
I was sorry to hear that. Robin kind of teared up and excused herself to the john.
I never like cats. I'm allergic to them. They make me sneeze.
Scout came over and winked at me like he thought I was gonna get lucky this afternoon. Scout was kind of lucky with the ladies. He liked to give me blow-by-blow descriptions of recent blowjobs. I wasn't in the mood to hear his pornographic drivel today. I was with a real lady, a former pom-pom girl who had matured into the type of gal who wanted to be a daytime drunk. I always thought it was a good thing to set an attainable goal.
Robin bustled her way to the jukebox. A crinkled dollar slipped in and slipped out and finally slipped in for keeps. All of a sudden the sound of Dean Martin's, That's Amore, filled the bar. All My Children was on and the TV blinked to create dark, romantic lighting in the fine establishment. An old lady with a John Deere hat seated at the end of the bar seemed pissy when she heard the music because she couldn't hear all the soap's dialogue. Will Erica Kane cheat on her sixty-ninth husband? The old lady may have to tune in tomorrow.
I found myself dancing with Robin, a slow waltz. She leaned into me and I leaned into her. It was like magic, and then it was like two daytime drunks holding each other up. I told her I wished I were her cigarette.
A half-hour later we were in a queen-sized bed at the Harlot Hotel across the street. It was fun to wrestle with her in the dark. I kind of wanted her to go home and get the pom-poms, but it was what it was.
So, it was eight hours later. Eight p.m. TV was showing a Steven Seagal movie. I had never noticed it before, but when Seagal runs, he runs like a girl. He is no match for Walker, Texas Ranger, which is advertised to come on at nine p.m. I'm doing my best to keep the volume down and let her rest.
Why is it that all us men like to see bad guys get kicked in the face? Why does it bring us joy to see Seagal force a confession out of a B-movie actor by dousing his face in a toilet stool? Who knows?
I also wondered how old Robin was. And, maybe we should have used a rubber. Geez. I hoped she wasn't pregnant. The last thing I needed was to be a father of a pom-pom girl or boy. I hoped she didn't have any diseases either.
As I looked at her lying on the bed, all I could see was her belly and her belly button, and it wasn't a very pretty belly button. It is a picture I am going to have to edit from the reel of film in my head.
From under the covers I heard her say, "Would you be a dear and go get us a bottle of Pinot Grigio?" It was if the belly button was speaking to me.
"What?"
She said, "It's a white wine. Just take some money out of my purse."
"Okey-doke."
I looked over at the belly button. I lit a smoke to make the purse search harder. I had that smoke in my face as I searched in the crimson wallet until I found a twenty. I grabbed the room key.
"Okay. Pino Gregory. Be back soon."
"Hurry Walter."
I walked down the hall and walked back up the hall so I could remember the room number. 208. I was proud of myself for taking that action.
I could hear a woman enjoying sex in room 214, or maybe it as a guy watching porn and someone else was pretending to enjoy sex. Whatever it was, it's quite possible there was a beautiful damn thing going down in 214 for somebody.
I stood at the elevator for a minute before it opened. As I stepped onto the small OTIS elevator car, I read the weight restrictions. I was okay.
There was a brown sack of empty Blatz cans. Even a daytime drunk like me could smell the stale beer odor taking over the small compartment. But, an empty Blatz can was a good place to douse my smoke.
I was thinking in terms of getting back in time to watch Walker, Texas Ranger. I knew I could catch the end of the Seagal movie because it was going to be re-played at ten o'clock.
As I moseyed down the street, I thought my hair must look messy, that I hadn't buttoned my shirt up and I was tired and could use one of those power chairs Arnold Palmer advertises on TV. Cars whizzed by. Buses whooshed by. I grabbed a parking meter to keep myself upright. I thought about rewarding it with a dime, but no. That would be wasteful.
Finally, my quest was within reach. City Liquors in all its neon glory, was like Pike's Peak to Pike, like Mount Rushmore to Rushmore, and like the Pulitzer Prize to Pulitzer. I staggered in.
"I'm supposed to pick up some Pina Gregory for the little woman," I lied to the cashier. She was no little woman.
He was a young black man with a big knot on his head. It looked kinda like he had been kicked by Chuck Norris' cowboy boot. It was a nasty thing.
I asked him, "Have you ever been on TV?"
"No," he replied.
"Well, I thought you might have been an actor."
"No, I don't think so. What do you want?"
"Pina Gregory. It's a fine, white wine."
"Do you mean, 'Pinot Grigio'?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean." I was happy he was so brilliant.
After buying three bottles, there was enough money left for another pack of Parliaments. Life can be sweet.
Again, I wished I had Arnold Palmer's motorized chair that some people don't even have to pay for if they're on Medicare. This damned life ain't fair. Now, I had to smoke and walk against the wind and carry this fine wine two more blocks.
As I made my way back to the sanctuary of room 208 of the Harlot Hotel, I coudn't remember what day it was or if tomorrow was Saturday. I sure hoped so.
I knocked on the door. The door opened and Robin was in a T-shirt. It was a Bob Marley T-shirt and for some reason, I thought he was staring at me. Anyway, Bob would never do nobody no harm. She zipped right into bed again.
I got the ashtray and two Styrofoam cups. I couldn't open the cork the traditional way, so I put the room key on top of the cork and used the Gideon Bible to pound the key like a chisel. Voila! The cork was floating inside the bottle and I could now pour the fine wine into the cups. The spillage was minimal.
I crawled into bed and set the ashtray in the middle. We clinked our Styrofoam cups together as I lit her a Parliament. Chuck Norris sang the Ranger theme song. It was a special moment.
_______________________
Author: Gary Doherty
Gary Doherty has a Master’s degree in social work. He has been employed with the State of Illinois for the past 20 years as a guardian for disabled adults. He is involved with the Red Herring Fiction group in Urbana, IL. His work has appeared both online and in print and he has participated in public readings of both non-fiction and fiction pieces at local coffee shops, churches and bars.
“I enjoy a theme of down and out persons living out their simple lives. I like to add humor and sensitivity to my stories.”
(Previously published in Aimee Dearmon's Blog.)
------
"So," she said, (about eight hours ago) "Let's be daytime drunks. "It sounded ok to me. I wasn't doing anything except exhaling a Parliament and wondering if I should purchase a coffee pot with an automatic turn-off switch.
She was one of those blondes who could have been something in her day. She looked a little battered by the kind of yucky life that knocks the spit out of you. She had that deep, sexy voice created by tobacco and that un-sexy double chin created by Twinkies. She was dressed in a too-tight denim skirt and snug-fitting blouse revealing strong cleavage and a weak, flabby tummy. She had a coffee stain in the shape of a heart over her right breast. She didn't seem to care about the stain and I didn't care about it, and our bartender Scout, didn't give a shit about it.
So, I decided to take the big leap. I moved to a bar stool next to her and introduced myself.
"My name's Walter Blankenship." I held out my hand in an amiable fashion.
She was flabbergasted. She looked at me with shock and awe. Finally, she took my hand. "You are Walter Blankenship?"
"Yes," I returned.
Yes. I am Walter Blankenship. I am the man who chose to leave work for the afternoon by feigning a bad case of the runs. I was quickly excused. I am Walter, the guy who seems to fuck up everything and everyone I'm around.
Well, there are some exceptions. I have a nice collection of model trains and I did give somebody ten bucks for the survivors of Katrina a couple of years ago. I can be noble.
As I tried to figure out who I was--am--she said, "I'm Robin Fileggi. You took me out for a coffee once. Don't ya 'member?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"We were in a class at College of DuPage together. It was a class about Kafta," she said.
A vague image of having coffee with a junior college cheerleader and long days of being overwhelmed by a depressing German writer began to materialize. I could hardly remember as everything I learned in college was quashed from my memory by afternoons like this or having stayed awake forty-eight hours to view all of TV-land's Sanford and Son marathons. I heard the actor who played the son, Demond Wilson, had become a preacher.
"Okay, I remember you. You were a cheerleader," I said.
"No, a pom-pom girl."
I was starting to recall a pretty girl who had coffee with me. And, we took a writing class together. Someone wrote a story about a guy who turned into a giant cockroach.
"So, we meet again." I offered a toast, my screwdriver to her pink drink. It made a delightful clink.
"You told me something the day we had coffee that I never forgot. You told me I had a beautiful soul," she said.
"I did?" I couldn't remember what I would have said to a pom-pom girl.
"And, you know what?" she asked.
"What?"
"I named my cat after you. Walter, the cat."
"Well, I'll be damned. You named a kitty-cat after me."
"Yep," she said.
"I'm so honored."
"Poor Walter died. He drank some anti-freeze in my parking lot, but I had him for thirteen beautiful years."
I was sorry to hear that. Robin kind of teared up and excused herself to the john.
I never like cats. I'm allergic to them. They make me sneeze.
Scout came over and winked at me like he thought I was gonna get lucky this afternoon. Scout was kind of lucky with the ladies. He liked to give me blow-by-blow descriptions of recent blowjobs. I wasn't in the mood to hear his pornographic drivel today. I was with a real lady, a former pom-pom girl who had matured into the type of gal who wanted to be a daytime drunk. I always thought it was a good thing to set an attainable goal.
Robin bustled her way to the jukebox. A crinkled dollar slipped in and slipped out and finally slipped in for keeps. All of a sudden the sound of Dean Martin's, That's Amore, filled the bar. All My Children was on and the TV blinked to create dark, romantic lighting in the fine establishment. An old lady with a John Deere hat seated at the end of the bar seemed pissy when she heard the music because she couldn't hear all the soap's dialogue. Will Erica Kane cheat on her sixty-ninth husband? The old lady may have to tune in tomorrow.
I found myself dancing with Robin, a slow waltz. She leaned into me and I leaned into her. It was like magic, and then it was like two daytime drunks holding each other up. I told her I wished I were her cigarette.
A half-hour later we were in a queen-sized bed at the Harlot Hotel across the street. It was fun to wrestle with her in the dark. I kind of wanted her to go home and get the pom-poms, but it was what it was.
So, it was eight hours later. Eight p.m. TV was showing a Steven Seagal movie. I had never noticed it before, but when Seagal runs, he runs like a girl. He is no match for Walker, Texas Ranger, which is advertised to come on at nine p.m. I'm doing my best to keep the volume down and let her rest.
Why is it that all us men like to see bad guys get kicked in the face? Why does it bring us joy to see Seagal force a confession out of a B-movie actor by dousing his face in a toilet stool? Who knows?
I also wondered how old Robin was. And, maybe we should have used a rubber. Geez. I hoped she wasn't pregnant. The last thing I needed was to be a father of a pom-pom girl or boy. I hoped she didn't have any diseases either.
As I looked at her lying on the bed, all I could see was her belly and her belly button, and it wasn't a very pretty belly button. It is a picture I am going to have to edit from the reel of film in my head.
From under the covers I heard her say, "Would you be a dear and go get us a bottle of Pinot Grigio?" It was if the belly button was speaking to me.
"What?"
She said, "It's a white wine. Just take some money out of my purse."
"Okey-doke."
I looked over at the belly button. I lit a smoke to make the purse search harder. I had that smoke in my face as I searched in the crimson wallet until I found a twenty. I grabbed the room key.
"Okay. Pino Gregory. Be back soon."
"Hurry Walter."
I walked down the hall and walked back up the hall so I could remember the room number. 208. I was proud of myself for taking that action.
I could hear a woman enjoying sex in room 214, or maybe it as a guy watching porn and someone else was pretending to enjoy sex. Whatever it was, it's quite possible there was a beautiful damn thing going down in 214 for somebody.
I stood at the elevator for a minute before it opened. As I stepped onto the small OTIS elevator car, I read the weight restrictions. I was okay.
There was a brown sack of empty Blatz cans. Even a daytime drunk like me could smell the stale beer odor taking over the small compartment. But, an empty Blatz can was a good place to douse my smoke.
I was thinking in terms of getting back in time to watch Walker, Texas Ranger. I knew I could catch the end of the Seagal movie because it was going to be re-played at ten o'clock.
As I moseyed down the street, I thought my hair must look messy, that I hadn't buttoned my shirt up and I was tired and could use one of those power chairs Arnold Palmer advertises on TV. Cars whizzed by. Buses whooshed by. I grabbed a parking meter to keep myself upright. I thought about rewarding it with a dime, but no. That would be wasteful.
Finally, my quest was within reach. City Liquors in all its neon glory, was like Pike's Peak to Pike, like Mount Rushmore to Rushmore, and like the Pulitzer Prize to Pulitzer. I staggered in.
"I'm supposed to pick up some Pina Gregory for the little woman," I lied to the cashier. She was no little woman.
He was a young black man with a big knot on his head. It looked kinda like he had been kicked by Chuck Norris' cowboy boot. It was a nasty thing.
I asked him, "Have you ever been on TV?"
"No," he replied.
"Well, I thought you might have been an actor."
"No, I don't think so. What do you want?"
"Pina Gregory. It's a fine, white wine."
"Do you mean, 'Pinot Grigio'?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean." I was happy he was so brilliant.
After buying three bottles, there was enough money left for another pack of Parliaments. Life can be sweet.
Again, I wished I had Arnold Palmer's motorized chair that some people don't even have to pay for if they're on Medicare. This damned life ain't fair. Now, I had to smoke and walk against the wind and carry this fine wine two more blocks.
As I made my way back to the sanctuary of room 208 of the Harlot Hotel, I coudn't remember what day it was or if tomorrow was Saturday. I sure hoped so.
I knocked on the door. The door opened and Robin was in a T-shirt. It was a Bob Marley T-shirt and for some reason, I thought he was staring at me. Anyway, Bob would never do nobody no harm. She zipped right into bed again.
I got the ashtray and two Styrofoam cups. I couldn't open the cork the traditional way, so I put the room key on top of the cork and used the Gideon Bible to pound the key like a chisel. Voila! The cork was floating inside the bottle and I could now pour the fine wine into the cups. The spillage was minimal.
I crawled into bed and set the ashtray in the middle. We clinked our Styrofoam cups together as I lit her a Parliament. Chuck Norris sang the Ranger theme song. It was a special moment.
_______________________
Author: Gary Doherty
Gary Doherty has a Master’s degree in social work. He has been employed with the State of Illinois for the past 20 years as a guardian for disabled adults. He is involved with the Red Herring Fiction group in Urbana, IL. His work has appeared both online and in print and he has participated in public readings of both non-fiction and fiction pieces at local coffee shops, churches and bars.
“I enjoy a theme of down and out persons living out their simple lives. I like to add humor and sensitivity to my stories.”
Monday, July 18, 2011
Back Home, Fulfillment of Desires
Back home
Fulfillment of Desires
The telegraph ,Statesman, The Times of India ,India today, Reader’s Digest, Hindustan Times, Drawing books, Colorful papers!-All and many more were spread untidily over the two joint broken tables of Ramoji. Ramoji was illiterate and hence had least curiosity in the letters and sentences on the papers. All he did was cut apposite pieces and bits of papers and use those cuttings in his collage works .Collage and arts were not his livelihood but his hobby. His mother passed away when he was only seven years old and father when he was ten. Now he is twenty five years old and works in a carpentry shop. He had grown up in a harsh milieu devoid of any type of luxury under the canopy of his uncle and aunt. His uncle was also a carpenter. Ramoji lived in a slovenly dressed hut with almost crumpled down walls with his uncle and aunt in the middle of a rice field. The surrounding lands belonged to Ramoji’s father who had built a hut for his uncle to live. It was over 15 years ago. No land belongs to them now. All were taken away cunningly by the land holders and middlemen as mortgaged property. The fields are still green but the greenness provides enjoyment only to their eyes and no more to their life. Mr. Bhushan did not have any children and so Ramoji was their beloved.
Whether it be rainy season, winter or summer, Ramoji and Mr. Bhushan always woke up at 5o’ clock, took a bath in the nearby pond, light an incense stick before an idol of Lord Krishna and then set off for a 1 km walk to their shop. Most of the days they went out without breakfast and if they had any it was only one or two hard breads. After continuous hard work for about six hours they came back home for lunch to have dry breads again. In spite of all the hardships they never complained and tried hard to adjust to their needs. Last pujas (festival of Bengalees) they had opened a sweet’s shop in the market and had a good profit. This puja they are planning for another such sweet shop hoping to make some more profit. Apart from all these day jobs, Ramoji’s mind remained busy in constructive art works. Whenever he used to get time from his work he used to take wood pieces and carved out different beautiful structures of God, Goddesses, animals, humans etc. At night he used to sit at a corner of their two room hut and carry on his collage works. He was an expert in collage too and he used to bring old papers from the market to serve his purpose. The only people to appreciate him were his unckle and aunt and he too did not care for anybody else’s opinion. Sometimes his aunt lend a helping hand in his art works. Ramoji dreamt of so many things and all those are indicated in his collage works. His uncle while at home spent his time on a cot smoking hooka and chewing tobacco.
One day it was too hot in the summer season in April. The heat waves blew all over the land making it extremely difficult to survive. The cows seemed too fatigued to eat grass and preferred shade. The dogs sat with their tongues out and the buffaloes cooled themselves in the ponds with their faces out of the water. In this oppressive heat Ramoji and his uncle Bhusan were strolling back home. They had tied torn towels dipped in water around their head with a part of it covering their mouth and nose to survive the tremendous heat.
In their hands they carried the bag containing their carpentry tools. Ramoji’s aunt was waiting eagerly for them. Today she had cooked cabbage and pumpkin along with breads and rice. They came and went to the nearby pond to have a bath and also to cool themselves after the day’s hard and toiling work. They returned and sat for the lunch but couldn’t eat much, in spite of the good food as the extreme heat had ruined their appetite. Bhusan went for his afternoon nap on a broken cot and Ramoji sat with his aunt carving a rose structure out of a piece of wood. That day Bhusan went alone to work in the second half of the day. Ramoji was not feeling well and so preferred not to go out. The whole afternoon he worked carving a structure out of the wood.
In the evening a slow cool breeze was blowing which seemed to bring bits of life to the dying atmosphere. Ramoji sat with his aunt and discussed over so many topics, the fields-if they regain it someday, a good house, their own carpentry shop, their golden old days and so many other things. By this time Ramoji had carved out a structure of a beautiful “Rose” .At night after dinner Ramoji sat by their outside boundary fence and looked at yonder point beyond the unending fields of grain. A smoke was curling like a serpent in the sky above and getting inside one of the holes in the cloud. It was the smoke from the engine of the only passenger mail that passed through the Silpahari station far away. Ramoji suddenly had a strong wish to be there and feel how being on a train is like. In his short life he had boarded bus a few times and cycle, that too of his master at the carpentry shop. Ramoji’s innumerable pieces of dreams joined to converge into one wish that is to be on the train. He has seen the train and its smoke from their hut. He now wanted to see how their home looks like from the train.
One long week passed by. One day Ramoji took the wooden Rose along with him to the market. Mr. Saibal Banerjee, a big businessman came to the carpentry shop to place some orders of furniture. Ramoji was working in a side, shaping and smoothening a log to be used for making a bed. The wooden rose was beside him. It attracted the vision of Mr. Banerjee. He was impressed by the artistic skill of Ramoji. He gave orders for ten such wooden pieces and asked Ramoji to come to his home at Kolkata. He told Bhusan that he will also arrange for some more works with good payment once Ramoji comes to Kolkata at his house. He paid Bhusan the fare for Ramoji’s journey by train. Ramoji was overjoyed in his mind and at his heart. His joy knew no bounds. The dream that he had seen just a week before had turned into reality. Mr. Banerjee also confirmed to give Ramoji a job with Rs 1000 as monthly salary at Kolkata along with square meals. That day, everyone at Ramoji ‘s home was very happy. They conversed till late night discussing and planning things. Ramoji was about to leave next week. Though there was happiness on one side yet there was a feeling of emptiness in the heart of Ramoji’s Uncle and aunt, as their beloved was about to go away soon but Ramoji remained busy planning things and was very excited about his visit. The plume of smoke ---he has always wanted to be there! And now was the opportunity.
It was Monday next week and Ramoji was to leave. His aunt placed a ‘tilak’ that she had brought from the altar of a nearby temple. Bhusan took Ramoji to Silpahari station. They went by rickshaw. Ramoji carried two bags one containing his clothes and the other his sculptures. They waited eagerly for the train. The rails trembled and the sound of the piercing whistle of the train rang through the air. As the train dashed in the station Ramoji’s heart seemed to feel heavenly satisfaction. Ramoji got up and took a seat by the side of a window. Bhusan told a man who was sitting next to Ramoji to help him get down at Howrah station from where Mr. Banerjee was supposed to send someone to pick him up. The man asked Bhusan not to worry.
As the train slowly started its journey Bhusan bade him goodbye with tears in his eyes but Ramoji felt as if he was travelling in a boat sailing in the waters of his dreams. He watched the sceneries outside as the train ran passed the villages and towns, the rivers and lakes.
In the next station a beautiful girl of about twenty sat in the seat in front of Ramoji , face to face. Never before this, has Ramoji seen such a beautiful lady. He gazed at her for quite some time with two of his innocent eyes. The girl quite naturally did not seem to be interested in Ramoji but asked his name. They gossiped for a while .She was from Kolkata too. From their talks on hobbies Ramoji’s talents in art works came up. When she heard that Ramoji was called to Kolkata for his sculptures , she expressed her wish to see them. Ramoji took out one of his nicest sculptures that he had carved out of wood. Rusha asked him how he managed to do these amidst his days of tiring work. She was so mush impressed by Ramoji’s talent and overwhelmed to see it that she wanted to take all the sculptures. She was ready to pay a hefty sum for those. “Ramoji will you please give these to me?”, she asked. For the first time in life someone has asked for something from Ramoji directly. He couldn’t say no though he knew that he would not get the job if he did not bring the sculptures along with him to Mr. Banerjee. The next station Rusha got down. Ramoji too got down. He had given his heart to Rusha but he knew it wasn’t possible to proceed further. He gave all his sculptures to her without any payment. She said thanks gave a smile and then went away. She kissed one of the sculptures as she went away.
Rusha had not given her heart to Ramoji but to his sculptures. Ramoji’s heart was in those sculptures. Perhaps he had sent his heart and love secretly through them. He looked at the passing train and smiled. He did not want to go to Kolkata anymore. He felt as if he had got what he had wanted to achieve in his little world. He now waited for the next train to return home. He did not know how to buy tickets but by this time knew how to board a train. Perhaps it was enough to come back home. At least for Ramoji it was!
____________________________
Brief Bio:
Sonnet Mondal is the author of six books of poetry including a poetry bestseller and is the pioneer of the 21 line fusion sonnet form of poetry. He is a regular contributor of articles in Edit Street newspaper,Stagebuzz magazine etc. His works have been published in several International literary magazines and have been translated into Macedonian, Italian, Arabic,Hindi,Telugu and Bengali. He was awarded Poet Laureate from Bombadil Publishing in 2009, Doctor of Literature from United Writers' Association in 2010, Azsacra International Poetry award in 2011 and was inducted in the prestigious Significant Achievements Plaque in the museum of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur. He has also been a featured poet at World Poetry Reading Series, Canada and Asian American Poetry project, U.S.A.At present he is the managing editor of The Enchanting Verses journal of poetry.At present he is the managing editor of the Enchanting Verses Journal of Poetry.
Fulfillment of Desires
The telegraph ,Statesman, The Times of India ,India today, Reader’s Digest, Hindustan Times, Drawing books, Colorful papers!-All and many more were spread untidily over the two joint broken tables of Ramoji. Ramoji was illiterate and hence had least curiosity in the letters and sentences on the papers. All he did was cut apposite pieces and bits of papers and use those cuttings in his collage works .Collage and arts were not his livelihood but his hobby. His mother passed away when he was only seven years old and father when he was ten. Now he is twenty five years old and works in a carpentry shop. He had grown up in a harsh milieu devoid of any type of luxury under the canopy of his uncle and aunt. His uncle was also a carpenter. Ramoji lived in a slovenly dressed hut with almost crumpled down walls with his uncle and aunt in the middle of a rice field. The surrounding lands belonged to Ramoji’s father who had built a hut for his uncle to live. It was over 15 years ago. No land belongs to them now. All were taken away cunningly by the land holders and middlemen as mortgaged property. The fields are still green but the greenness provides enjoyment only to their eyes and no more to their life. Mr. Bhushan did not have any children and so Ramoji was their beloved.
Whether it be rainy season, winter or summer, Ramoji and Mr. Bhushan always woke up at 5o’ clock, took a bath in the nearby pond, light an incense stick before an idol of Lord Krishna and then set off for a 1 km walk to their shop. Most of the days they went out without breakfast and if they had any it was only one or two hard breads. After continuous hard work for about six hours they came back home for lunch to have dry breads again. In spite of all the hardships they never complained and tried hard to adjust to their needs. Last pujas (festival of Bengalees) they had opened a sweet’s shop in the market and had a good profit. This puja they are planning for another such sweet shop hoping to make some more profit. Apart from all these day jobs, Ramoji’s mind remained busy in constructive art works. Whenever he used to get time from his work he used to take wood pieces and carved out different beautiful structures of God, Goddesses, animals, humans etc. At night he used to sit at a corner of their two room hut and carry on his collage works. He was an expert in collage too and he used to bring old papers from the market to serve his purpose. The only people to appreciate him were his unckle and aunt and he too did not care for anybody else’s opinion. Sometimes his aunt lend a helping hand in his art works. Ramoji dreamt of so many things and all those are indicated in his collage works. His uncle while at home spent his time on a cot smoking hooka and chewing tobacco.
One day it was too hot in the summer season in April. The heat waves blew all over the land making it extremely difficult to survive. The cows seemed too fatigued to eat grass and preferred shade. The dogs sat with their tongues out and the buffaloes cooled themselves in the ponds with their faces out of the water. In this oppressive heat Ramoji and his uncle Bhusan were strolling back home. They had tied torn towels dipped in water around their head with a part of it covering their mouth and nose to survive the tremendous heat.
In their hands they carried the bag containing their carpentry tools. Ramoji’s aunt was waiting eagerly for them. Today she had cooked cabbage and pumpkin along with breads and rice. They came and went to the nearby pond to have a bath and also to cool themselves after the day’s hard and toiling work. They returned and sat for the lunch but couldn’t eat much, in spite of the good food as the extreme heat had ruined their appetite. Bhusan went for his afternoon nap on a broken cot and Ramoji sat with his aunt carving a rose structure out of a piece of wood. That day Bhusan went alone to work in the second half of the day. Ramoji was not feeling well and so preferred not to go out. The whole afternoon he worked carving a structure out of the wood.
In the evening a slow cool breeze was blowing which seemed to bring bits of life to the dying atmosphere. Ramoji sat with his aunt and discussed over so many topics, the fields-if they regain it someday, a good house, their own carpentry shop, their golden old days and so many other things. By this time Ramoji had carved out a structure of a beautiful “Rose” .At night after dinner Ramoji sat by their outside boundary fence and looked at yonder point beyond the unending fields of grain. A smoke was curling like a serpent in the sky above and getting inside one of the holes in the cloud. It was the smoke from the engine of the only passenger mail that passed through the Silpahari station far away. Ramoji suddenly had a strong wish to be there and feel how being on a train is like. In his short life he had boarded bus a few times and cycle, that too of his master at the carpentry shop. Ramoji’s innumerable pieces of dreams joined to converge into one wish that is to be on the train. He has seen the train and its smoke from their hut. He now wanted to see how their home looks like from the train.
One long week passed by. One day Ramoji took the wooden Rose along with him to the market. Mr. Saibal Banerjee, a big businessman came to the carpentry shop to place some orders of furniture. Ramoji was working in a side, shaping and smoothening a log to be used for making a bed. The wooden rose was beside him. It attracted the vision of Mr. Banerjee. He was impressed by the artistic skill of Ramoji. He gave orders for ten such wooden pieces and asked Ramoji to come to his home at Kolkata. He told Bhusan that he will also arrange for some more works with good payment once Ramoji comes to Kolkata at his house. He paid Bhusan the fare for Ramoji’s journey by train. Ramoji was overjoyed in his mind and at his heart. His joy knew no bounds. The dream that he had seen just a week before had turned into reality. Mr. Banerjee also confirmed to give Ramoji a job with Rs 1000 as monthly salary at Kolkata along with square meals. That day, everyone at Ramoji ‘s home was very happy. They conversed till late night discussing and planning things. Ramoji was about to leave next week. Though there was happiness on one side yet there was a feeling of emptiness in the heart of Ramoji’s Uncle and aunt, as their beloved was about to go away soon but Ramoji remained busy planning things and was very excited about his visit. The plume of smoke ---he has always wanted to be there! And now was the opportunity.
It was Monday next week and Ramoji was to leave. His aunt placed a ‘tilak’ that she had brought from the altar of a nearby temple. Bhusan took Ramoji to Silpahari station. They went by rickshaw. Ramoji carried two bags one containing his clothes and the other his sculptures. They waited eagerly for the train. The rails trembled and the sound of the piercing whistle of the train rang through the air. As the train dashed in the station Ramoji’s heart seemed to feel heavenly satisfaction. Ramoji got up and took a seat by the side of a window. Bhusan told a man who was sitting next to Ramoji to help him get down at Howrah station from where Mr. Banerjee was supposed to send someone to pick him up. The man asked Bhusan not to worry.
As the train slowly started its journey Bhusan bade him goodbye with tears in his eyes but Ramoji felt as if he was travelling in a boat sailing in the waters of his dreams. He watched the sceneries outside as the train ran passed the villages and towns, the rivers and lakes.
In the next station a beautiful girl of about twenty sat in the seat in front of Ramoji , face to face. Never before this, has Ramoji seen such a beautiful lady. He gazed at her for quite some time with two of his innocent eyes. The girl quite naturally did not seem to be interested in Ramoji but asked his name. They gossiped for a while .She was from Kolkata too. From their talks on hobbies Ramoji’s talents in art works came up. When she heard that Ramoji was called to Kolkata for his sculptures , she expressed her wish to see them. Ramoji took out one of his nicest sculptures that he had carved out of wood. Rusha asked him how he managed to do these amidst his days of tiring work. She was so mush impressed by Ramoji’s talent and overwhelmed to see it that she wanted to take all the sculptures. She was ready to pay a hefty sum for those. “Ramoji will you please give these to me?”, she asked. For the first time in life someone has asked for something from Ramoji directly. He couldn’t say no though he knew that he would not get the job if he did not bring the sculptures along with him to Mr. Banerjee. The next station Rusha got down. Ramoji too got down. He had given his heart to Rusha but he knew it wasn’t possible to proceed further. He gave all his sculptures to her without any payment. She said thanks gave a smile and then went away. She kissed one of the sculptures as she went away.
Rusha had not given her heart to Ramoji but to his sculptures. Ramoji’s heart was in those sculptures. Perhaps he had sent his heart and love secretly through them. He looked at the passing train and smiled. He did not want to go to Kolkata anymore. He felt as if he had got what he had wanted to achieve in his little world. He now waited for the next train to return home. He did not know how to buy tickets but by this time knew how to board a train. Perhaps it was enough to come back home. At least for Ramoji it was!
____________________________
Author: Dr. Sonnet Mondal.
Brief Bio:
Sonnet Mondal is the author of six books of poetry including a poetry bestseller and is the pioneer of the 21 line fusion sonnet form of poetry. He is a regular contributor of articles in Edit Street newspaper,Stagebuzz magazine etc. His works have been published in several International literary magazines and have been translated into Macedonian, Italian, Arabic,Hindi,Telugu and Bengali. He was awarded Poet Laureate from Bombadil Publishing in 2009, Doctor of Literature from United Writers' Association in 2010, Azsacra International Poetry award in 2011 and was inducted in the prestigious Significant Achievements Plaque in the museum of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur. He has also been a featured poet at World Poetry Reading Series, Canada and Asian American Poetry project, U.S.A.At present he is the managing editor of The Enchanting Verses journal of poetry.At present he is the managing editor of the Enchanting Verses Journal of Poetry.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Two Days in July
Two Days in July
by Courtney Hartnett
The day my sister came to town was just like any other day in summer. The air hung heavily over my shoulders as I sat on the front porch, listlessly tracing circles in the dust with my toes. It was quiet and I was quiet, and I sat with my head propped despondently in my hand, watching a soft coat of dust dull the bright pink polish that had been gradually chipping from my nails for the past week.
There were no other houses around for miles, just the little dirt road cutting through our swatch of South Carolina low country. The palmetto to my right rustled a little in the faint breeze. I yawned and kicked a pebble.
I was jolted out of my empty reverie by a sudden rumble far off down the road. Who would come this way at this time of day? Or ever, for that matter? I turned my head to see if I recognized the vehicle, but it was still too far off. I rose slowly to my feet and cautiously traversed the front lawn, going up on tiptoe and shading my eyes as I strained to see. In a second, I recognized the familiar rounded roof of my sister Paloma’s antique lima-bean green Bug, riding toward me on a cloud of Carolina dust.
Paloma had never been quite real to me. She was more of an abstract of pieced-together memories, like the peaceful thoughts I would have after awakening from a pleasant dream. In actuality, Paloma was my half sister, the only child my father had had with his ex-wife from Mexico. She had been the one to insist on the name; my father had tried to dissuade her, offering up the sensible Barbara, Kimberly, Paige. In the end, her mother won, and the little half-Hispanic, half –Anglo-Saxon girl became known as Paloma Kimberly Gates. Paloma hated her middle name.
To me, my sister was near-mystical, an itinerant preacher of the simple beauty and quiet glory of the world. I said she was, like her name, a dove: to my father, she was a feather floating aimlessly on the breeze. Paloma was every parent’s dream gone sour, the prodigal daughter who never came home. She was brilliant; I knew that. All through high school, she had been a model student: straight A’s, president of this and that, star volleyball player, you name it. After graduation – I always wondered why she waited – she left home with a duffel bag, her Spanish guitar, $500 in cash, and a box of Saltine crackers. My father told me she’d come running back home in a matter of days: small, graceful Paloma, with her gentle fluttery voice, liquid brown eyes, and delicate hands, would never make it alone in the world.
She never returned. Her mother heard from her rarely; I heard even less. I gathered glimpses of her world from our meager correspondence: she haunted coffee houses and pubs in the evenings, mystifying her audiences with the sparkling tones of her guitar and the lilting, half-Spanish cadence of her voice. By day she worked odd jobs and somehow managed to scrape together a living. But Paloma never stayed in one place for long. I’d get a letter postmarked from New York, then one from Chicago, one from Richmond. Paloma was a restless soul.
So when her car rolled and coughed into the driveway, I puzzled over why she had decided to come home. Or to my home, at least.
“Hey, Lila!” She smiled and rolled down the window as if she’d only been gone an hour. Her white teeth contrasted sharply with her raven-black hair and her dark aviator sunglasses. The picture was complete with the old Bug: she looked like snapshot straight out of the sixties.
“Paloma,” I said simply. How do you greet someone you haven’t seen in years?
“How’ve you been?” She stepped out of the car, smoothing a charcoal-gray silk sundress as she rose to her feet.
“I’ve been…alright,” I said. “What – why are you-“
“Why am I here, right? I just thought I’d drop in, you know. Catch up.”
Drop in. After five years. She was 22.
“Well,” I said. “You might as well come in. Can I carry anything?”
“Sure.” She opened the back door despite its harsh squeak of protest. Out came a black guitar case. “Here.” She grabbed a duffel bag and shut the door.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I lugged the guitar case up to the door. “Dad!” I called. “You’ve got a visitor!”
“What? I – hold on a minute.” Hesitation. Footsteps. He stood at the top of the steps, looked down.
“Paloma?” I read the worry behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Dad!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to drop in. Long time, no see, you know?” I detected a faint trace of a Spanish accent in her voice. It came and went, tucking itself into the occasional rolling r, sometimes hiding in a word.
“Come in, then,” he said, not looking her in the eye. “You can stay with Lila.”
“I can sleep on the couch if it’s easier,” Paloma offered. My father wasn’t a fan of spontaneous visits.
“No,” I said hurriedly. “I want her to stay with me.” I turned to Paloma. “As long as it’s fine with you.”
“Thanks, Lila,” she smiled, a little more at peace.
“I’m sorry about Dad,” I said as we walked down the hall to my room. “He doesn’t do well with change.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said, with a smile that made me feel like it was. She turned to the duffel bag and pinched the zipper between her tanned fingers, opening it gingerly. She pulled out a rolled woven mat and unfurled it over the floor. “I guess I’ll take over this side of your room, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. “But you can have my bed, you know. You are my sister.”
She laughed suddenly: a light, spontaneous laugh. “I’m used to sleeping on the floor, Lila. I think I can manage.”
“Well,” I said, a little puzzled, “make yourself at home, then.”
“I think I’ll wash up,” she said. “Maybe take a shower. The AC in my Bug is broken” – I figured it would be – “and I’ve been driving a long way.” She walked down the hall, leaving me alone in the room.
Her guitar case was still resting on my bed where I had left it. I had never played a guitar in my life, had never heard her play, or at least since I could remember. I ran my hand over the worn black of the case and flipped a rusted silvery latch. I shut it, then opened it again. Then the next latch, which squeaked, and the third. Carefully I opened the case and looked inside.
The guitar rested in the soft velvet interior. There were patches where the varnish had come off in swatches. The fretboard looked tired, the strings strained. It was beautiful. I pulled a string and let go. It snapped back almost reproachfully, then resonated with a rich, full, melodious tone that suddenly captured my ear. I plucked the next string, and the next. Each had its own sound, its own voice. I was mesmerized. The sun slanted through the window and illuminated the beautiful polished wood.
I turned to her little corner and looked at the worn duffel bag, rubbed at the corners and threadbare in patches. It rested on her mat with what seemed to me like relief. I swiveled and looked at the guitar again. How did she live this way? How did she eat? Where did she sleep? Paloma was a paradox to me. She was a poor, homeless, vagrant musician. Yet she kept about her an inexplicable air that made her more than that: while others were too poor, she simply lived frugally. When others were shortsighted dropouts, she took the longview and chased a dream. While others were starving musicians, she was a traveling messenger who seemed to sacrifice herself for the sake of her art.
I walked back to the guitar and looked at it again. The day was getting later and the slanted rays of sun that bathed her guitar were taking on a rich and honeyed hue. Dust particles rose and swirled in the golden light, then sifted off through the heavy air.
“Do you want me to play you a song?”
I whirled around, startled by her voice. She stood in the doorway, her damp hair gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, her dark body swathed in the same charcoal dress.
“Sure,” I said. “That - that would be nice.”
“What kind?”
“One of yours. One that you wrote.”
She smiled and lifted the guitar from its velvet bed. She ran a small finger over the strings, making sure it was still in tune. It settled in her lap like a sleepy cat. Deftly, almost before I knew it, the song began. She plucked the strings in a dark and gentle cadence. It sounded to me like the deserts of Mexico, the wind’s whisper through the pampas of Argentina. The words began in Paloma’s rich, soft Spanish:
“Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo…no
I cannot tell you where I came from
I cannot tell you when or why
But I can tell you that I’ve followed
The gentle whispers of my mind
I cannot tell you where I’m going
I cannot say when I’ll return
But you’d be better off for knowing
That I will come around in turn
Yo no puedo decirte
Yo no puedo decirte
Yo no puedo decirte
You no puedo…no”
After that came more Spanish – I couldn’t tell exactly what she said – but it was beautiful, all of it. Her voice and her guitar would weave and harmonize as I was silent, mesmerized, watching in wonder as my half-Mexican half-sister sang her song and her life story before me.
When the song ended, I didn’t know what to say. “Wow,” I said quietly. “That was beautiful, Paloma. I loved it.”
“Really?” One eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “That’s a new one. I guess I’m glad I tried it out on you first!” She smiled and settled the guitar in the case.
“Well,” she said, straightening up, “I suppose we ought to have some sort of dinner soon. It’s five o’clock.”
“How’d you know that?” I asked suddenly. She wasn’t wearing a watch, and there was no clock in my room.
“The sun,” she said coolly, making a vague gesture toward the window. “You can always read the sun.”
With that, she turned and walked out to the kitchen, where my father stood, drinking a glass of iced tea and looking absently out the window.
“Dad?” said Paloma.
“Hello, Paloma.” I could tell he was making an effort to be cordial.
“It’s been awhile,” she began, and then stopped. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be home.” Her voice quieted and she looked around the house, at the walls, at the ceiling, as if she weren’t used to the feeling of a roof over her head.
“Tell me, Paloma,” he said, “Why did you decide to come here?”
“Like I said, I just wanted to drop in.”
“Drop in? You leave home and now you just decide to drop in? What do you think this is, an express hotel?”
She was quiet for a moment. Her smile faded. Her arms hung limply at her sides.
“Why did you leave in the first place?” I pictured my father as a train gathering speed. “Why, Paloma?”
“I – I just knew I had to.”
“Had to what? Leave us? Me? Lila? Your mother?”
“No,” she said softly.
“Then what? You just had to follow your heart, didn’t you? Your head’s too full of sixties music, Paloma. Sixties music and air.”
“Dad,” she said, “I’m a working musician. Not a starving artist.”
“You look pretty thin to me.” My father’s eyes looked different. I wondered if it was like this in his final days of being married to her mother.
“Dad,” I said, stepping forward, “Stop.”
He looked like he’d forgotten I was there. He opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the clock, “it’s about time for dinner.”
“I’ll make a salad,” I said. “It’s too hot for the oven, I think.”
I walked to the fridge and pulled out a plastic container of cold chicken, a bundle of romaine lettuce, a tomato, a cucumber, celery, carrots. My dad brought out a glass jars of olives and a red onion and a bag of shredded Parmesan cheese. I sliced the hard boiled egg I’d cooked and forgotten to eat that morning.
“I’ll start chopping the lettuce,” Paloma said, breaking our silence. She pulled a cutting board from the wall as naturally as if she had lived here her entire life.
“I’ll grate the carrots,” said my father. A peace offering. I began chopping the other vegetables.
“You have a very nice house out here,” Paloma overtured.
“Thank you,” replied my father, focusing intently on the shredding carrot. “It’s pleasant.”
“So how have you been?”
“Well. You?”
At that moment, I wanted to leave the room, to run away. I hated the stiff conversation between them, hated how my father and my sister, the two people I loved most in the world, became like zombies who wouldn’t smile or laugh or look one another in the eye. I wanted to bring them back to a time when they were happy, when things were okay.
“Dad?” I said.
“Yes, Lila?”
“Can you tell me about the day Paloma was born?”
He paused a moment. I couldn’t tell what exactly he thought. It was part anger, part reluctance, part something else.
“Okay,” he sighed reluctantly, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.
“Your mother,” he said to Paloma, though he still didn’t look at her, “wasn’t expecting you so early. It was a few days, really, so it wasn’t too early. Her water broke while she was out in the pepper garden.”
I pictured it in my mind. Paloma’s mother was short and slight, draped in a woven shawl. I could see her, stooping gingerly to touch the jalapeños, firm and green in the blazing afternoon sun.
“She called me over and told me we had to get to the hospital. She was so calm. I was the one freaking out about the whole thing.” Maybe I imagined it, but he seemed to crack a smile. “It was over almost before I realized. And soon, I was holding my beautiful baby girl.” He smiled at the memory but still wasn’t looking at Paloma. I watched my sister as the faintest flicker of a smile fluttered over her face. By the time my dad turned to her, she had gone back to cutting the mushrooms into thin slices and stacking them gingerly, one over the other, as if she could make them whole again.
* * *
That night, I had a strange dream: it was like a silent movie and all in black and white. Paloma, my father, and I stood in a square white room. I was in a corner. My father was by the door. Paloma was playing her guitar a few feet from him, but of course there was no sound.
My father looked at her, then looked at me. I can’t hear, he mouthed. There was something else, too, but I couldn’t read his lips. Paloma went on with the silent song and I tried to both watch her and reassure my father, but he kept insisting: I can’t hear. I can’t hear. Above us, a stark, uncovered lightbulb cast our separate shadows across the tiled floor.
* * *
The next morning was Sunday. I had told my dad that Paloma really ought to come to church with us, and he’d agreed more quickly than I might have guessed. I thought maybe he still felt guilty for the way he’d spoken to her the night before. Now we stood in a pew a few seats back from the front row: I was wearing a soft yellow gingham shift, Paloma was dressed in an airy paisley frock with her hair up in a French twist, and my dad had put on a shirt, tie, and long khaki pants despite the heat. The church had no air conditioning, and it was sweltering. Babies took turns wailing over the preacher’s words as their mothers tried in vain to comfort them. We were all hot and uncomfortable, and I tried to distract myself from my own discomfort by focusing on the preacher, with his elegant vestments and high, starched collar. How sweaty, warm, and weary he must be!
My father wiped his brow as the little child nearest to us dropped a toy and began to cry loudly. Paloma gritted her teeth almost imperceptibly. I focused intently on the preacher, willing him to finish, to deliver us not from eternal damnation but from the immediate and currently more pressing matter of the interminable stickiness of the July air. At long last, it was finally over, and the church seemed to heave a sigh of its parishioners’ collective relief.
It had been announced that all were welcome, after the end of the service, to come to the Fellowship Hall (which had air conditioning), where iced sweet tea and fruit and cookies would be served. Half the churchgoers went for the tea; the preacher’s wife made the best sweet tea in South Carolina, or so said anyone who had ever attended worship at the Redeemer Baptist Church.
After I’d internally said ten or so prayers begging God to please let the service end, it did. Dad, Paloma, and I walked over to Fellowship Hall amidst the brightly-colored horde of sweating and thirsty parishioners. I imagined there was already a line at the sweet tea table.
When we were inside, I took a deep breath of the cool, clean air and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, sparkle-white above the nondescript beige-tiled floor. Dad disappeared quickly into the crowd. I looked at Paloma. She surveyed the room with a sort of eager apprehension, almost as if she were looking for someone she knew. She glanced over at me, gave a crooked little smile as if to let me know that she was okay, and disappeared into the gathering throng. I wanted to see who she’d talk to, how my sister, who had seemingly fallen from her ethereal world into our comparatively mundane one, would handle herself in a room full of deep-Southern conservative strangers. I lost sight of her when I turned toward a light touch on my arm.
“Lila, dear,” said the elderly woman who always served as a lector, “how have you been?” I could never pronounce her name – it was vaguely Slavic, I knew, and there were faint traces of an accent that cropped up in the middle of my mental portraits of Jesus and his followers. She’d done readings since I could remember, and as a result, the Jesus in my mind spoke with a quivering old-woman voice.
“I’m well, thanks,” I replied cautiously, remembering all too well the time she’d admonished me for saying “good.” “My sister’s here, too,” I added, fishing for something worthwhile to say.
“Your sister?” Her eyes widened and her heavy beaded earrings rattled faintly on her drooping earlobes as she absorbed the apparently unknown fact. I had forgotten that Dad didn’t like to mention his other daughter. “Has she been away at school?”
“She’s out of school, actually,” I said. It was true - Paloma had left school a long time ago. “She’s working now.”
“What does she do, Lila?”
It was a simple question. I tried to think of ways I could truthfully answer while making the art of being a street musician seem like something an old woman would grant her approval. I couldn’t think of anything.
“She’s a musician,” I said, “She writes her own songs and plays them for people.” I waited.
“Ah, I see,” she replied, “You young people and your music. She ought to play some hymns for us. It’s about time this church had some real music in it.”
It actually struck me as a good idea. “I’ll ask her about it,” I said. “I think she might like to, actually. She played a song for me yesterday. I liked it a lot.”
“Please do ask her,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile, then turned toward another older woman approaching from her right. I took a minute to glance over the still-packed room for any sign of Dad or Paloma. I didn’t see them at first, but suddenly I heard something from the far side of the room. There was a sort of halfhearted hush descending upon the crowd; some of the people were turning their heads to see who was playing the dusty upright piano in the church hall. I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
I hadn’t heard the song before; it was floating, haunting, ethereal, even. Paloma could make the bass beat of the song thrum, the high notes sparkle over it, the middle notes form a bridge to connect the two. It was intricate, beautiful, surreal. I found myself walking across the room, standing on my tiptoes to see above people’s heads to the spot where my sister, bright-faced, sat at the piano. There was a small semicircle of people surrounding her, nodding their heads, tapping their feet. They smiled to one another sometimes, occasionally leaned toward one another to make a comment on her playing. I wasn’t sure how, but my half sister, whom nobody knew, was sitting here in the church hall playing a song nobody had heard, and somehow she had brought people together. More heads were turning – I knew that the piano hadn’t been played in so long that many of us had forgotten it was even here. I couldn’t tell if Paloma liked the attention, if she wanted it or was even aware. She didn’t look up the whole time she played – just focused on the worn ivory keys as if they alone could tell her what note came next.
She finished the song with a little flourish, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, stretched her fingers, and launched into another song. This one was familiar:
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to carry me home;
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to carry me home.
I looked over Jordan,
And what did I see,
Comin' for to carry me home,
A band of angels comin' after me,
Comin' for to carry me home.
By the time she came around to the chorus again, the whole room was singing with her. It was like nothing I’d seen before; the room pulsed with an energy that defied the heat outside, the languid drag of our tired minds, the starched formality of our traditional Sunday best. Groups of parishioners clapped in time to the music. Our voices rose in what felt to me like one part campfire singalong and two parts collective prayer. When the song ended, everyone clapped, smiled to one another, thanked Paloma. She smiled shyly, stood up, smoothed her skirt gently, and left the piano bench. The sunlight coming through the window illuminated the still keys as the last note hung in the air a moment and dissipated.
* * *
The rest of the day passed in a dreary haze of July heat. Thankfully, her unexpected piano interlude had provided much-needed conversational fodder between Paloma and my father. Over dinner, he managed to compliment her on her playing (“It was good, Paloma, really good; I think people liked it.”) and then, hesitantly, he asked about her work.
“What is it exactly,” he began, running a hand through his hair and glancing downward slightly, “that you do?”
“Well,” Paloma began, an eager but subdued smile crossing her tanned face, “I’m a musician. I play on the streets. I play in bars. I play in restaurants.”
He looked a little uneasy still as he pondered her answer. Paloma’s eyes darted across his face, over to me for a split second, and then back to my dad. “So do you record anything? Have an album or something?”
“No, not really,” she replied, twirling her fork absently amidst her green beans. “Music is best when it’s free, I think. It’s not that I’m against recording, but when you take something you’ve written to the studio and play it, it gets put through so much editing and cutting and pasting and mixing that by the time it’s finished and trapped in a shiny little CD, it isn’t yours anymore. I like playing live. It’s real.”
“Real,” he echoed, absorbing her answer.
I knew what she meant. Real wasn’t the sound of filtered guitars and synthesizer beats pulsing through a pristine stereo. Real was the echo of the last note inside the body of Paloma’s worn guitar when she finished a song. Real was the sound of the church hall coming together to sing with her as she sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” on the dusty piano. Real was Paloma’s work, making its way from her thoughts to her guitar to her voice to the world, where she set it free and let it grace the air, if only for a little while.
“Paloma,” I said suddenly, “once dinner’s over, why don’t you play your song for Dad?”
I regretted it the instant I said it. Paloma had played it for me and I had loved it. Who was I to tell her to play for anyone, especially Dad? He didn’t understand her. I knew that. She knew it, too.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d love to.”
* * *
In the wake of cleared dishes and the emptied table, Paloma carried the guitar case from my room and set it on the leather couch before us. Dusk was settling in, and the sound of crickets blended with the squeak of each latch as she carefully, lovingly opened it.
“What’s the song about?” My father was trying to fill the silence. I wondered if his nervousness was because Paloma was so much of an unknown – she was his own daughter, but he could barely converse with her. She was unpredictable, a wild card in his ordered deck of life.
“You’ll see,” I told him. “Listen.”
She tuned up in a few seconds and strummed a single chord, let it hang. She straightened a thin silver bracelet clasped lightly around her wrist before the song began. It was just as haunting as it had been the first time I heard it – maybe even more beautiful now that the sun was setting outside the window and the clouds were a brilliant hue of red with a little orange and yellow mixed in. Like fire, I thought.
I glanced over at my father. He pushed his glasses back a little, listened. I could tell he knew the Spanish parts – his eyes stayed focused, his mouth started to form what could have been a knowing smile and stopped. Paloma was pouring more feeling into the song; her eyes fluttered shut a moment, her dark lashes like birds coming to rest on her face. When they opened again, her eyes were full of some emotion I couldn’t name but knew, deeply, and understood. I looked again at my father, who seemed to relax a little as he followed the song. He looked as if he was far away, lost in his nearly-estranged daughter’s intricate tapestry of words and sound.
His eyes never left her face.
* * *
That night, when the moon was high and the stars shimmered through the clear night sky, Paloma and I talked in my room. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed; she held her guitar on her mat and absently plucked the strings in between words. A lamp on my bedside table cast a faint light over us, bringing out the shadows.
“Where do you think you’ll go next?” I asked her.
She paused a moment, as if deciding for herself. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Memphis, I think. Something’s been telling me I should go to Memphis.”
“Where were you before this? Before you came here?”
She laughed lightly. “I’ve been lots of places, Lila. Before here I was in Charleston. It’s tourist season, you know – people come out there even though it’s hot and muggy and downright oppressive. They ride the little mule-carts through the city on tours and look at the old houses with the porches and dip their feet in the harbor. Sometimes I’d sit on the side of the street with my case open and just play and sing whatever came to mind. I’d play in little restaurants, sometimes – people liked that. Before Charleston it was New Orleans – that was before the hurricane. And for a little while I was in Chapel Hill. I liked it there. Quaint.”
“Wow,” I said. “Where do you sleep? How do you eat?”
“It just depends,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll stay with a friend. Sometimes I’ll sleep on the street. I just take each day as it comes.”
“I couldn’t do that,” I said. “Doesn’t it worry you?”
“Why would I worry? I love this, Lila. I love waking up and not knowing where I’ll be by the time the sun sets. I feel like as long as I’ve got my guitar with me, everything else will fall into place. And it does.” She ran her fingers down the strings and brushed a patch of dust from the guitar’s side.
“Do you think you’ll come back?”
“Probably. I’m not sure when. You never know. But you’ll be seeing me again.” She cracked a smile as if to give some substance to her answer.
It was quiet for a moment. The crickets were louder now, their collective song carried on the balmy evening breeze. Paloma yawned.
“Are you tired?” I asked, realizing the stupidity of the question as soon as it left my mouth. She nodded. “I’ll turn out the light.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The switch made a little click as the room went dark. The guitar settled into its case. The crickets and Paloma’s even breathing were all I heard.
“Paloma?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you came by.”
“Thanks, Lila.” I imagined I could see her white-toothed smile through the dark. “I am too.”
* * *
In the morning she was gone. No note. No trace that she had even been here. For an instant, I wondered if I had dreamed everything. That was how she lived, I thought to myself as I stood before the mirror and ran a brush through my hair. Here one day, gone the next. She was probably on her way to Memphis by now if she hadn’t changed her mind already. I walked to the window and looked out. Her Bug was gone from the driveway. It occurred to me that I hadn’t even heard her pull away.
I opened the window to let in the faint breeze that still remained from the night before. I imagined it lifting the last of the dew from the grass and carrying it skyward, where it would hang heavily for the rest of the day.
The house was quiet. I figured my father was still asleep, tired from the unexpected visit. But Paloma, undaunted by distance, had stayed, landed here for two days, and moved on. She was, I thought, the proverbial rolling stone.
My little reverie faded and I stood a moment at the window, watching the morning unfold. I breathed in deeply, letting the air settle in my lungs before I exhaled into the soft light. I watched the fronds of the palmetto nodding, whispering against one another. In the quiet surrounding me, each sound, each movement was like music, a note sounding and settling. I heard a mourning dove’s call, distant and beautiful, lilt through the gentle rays of the rising sun.
_________________________________
Courtney's Bio:
I'm a student at the University of Virginia, and I'm an Echols Interdisciplinary Writing major - my major is self designed and involves poetry, fiction, journalism, and screenwriting. I'm the author of a poetry collection, Eleanor's Angel (2009, Wild Leaf Press), and my poems have appeared in The Virginia Literary Review and in the contest-based Writer's Eye anthology. I'm a columnist for The Cavalier Daily, and in my spare time I enjoy playing mandolin in my parish folk choir, playing guitar, running with friends, and horseback riding.
by Courtney Hartnett
The day my sister came to town was just like any other day in summer. The air hung heavily over my shoulders as I sat on the front porch, listlessly tracing circles in the dust with my toes. It was quiet and I was quiet, and I sat with my head propped despondently in my hand, watching a soft coat of dust dull the bright pink polish that had been gradually chipping from my nails for the past week.
There were no other houses around for miles, just the little dirt road cutting through our swatch of South Carolina low country. The palmetto to my right rustled a little in the faint breeze. I yawned and kicked a pebble.
I was jolted out of my empty reverie by a sudden rumble far off down the road. Who would come this way at this time of day? Or ever, for that matter? I turned my head to see if I recognized the vehicle, but it was still too far off. I rose slowly to my feet and cautiously traversed the front lawn, going up on tiptoe and shading my eyes as I strained to see. In a second, I recognized the familiar rounded roof of my sister Paloma’s antique lima-bean green Bug, riding toward me on a cloud of Carolina dust.
Paloma had never been quite real to me. She was more of an abstract of pieced-together memories, like the peaceful thoughts I would have after awakening from a pleasant dream. In actuality, Paloma was my half sister, the only child my father had had with his ex-wife from Mexico. She had been the one to insist on the name; my father had tried to dissuade her, offering up the sensible Barbara, Kimberly, Paige. In the end, her mother won, and the little half-Hispanic, half –Anglo-Saxon girl became known as Paloma Kimberly Gates. Paloma hated her middle name.
To me, my sister was near-mystical, an itinerant preacher of the simple beauty and quiet glory of the world. I said she was, like her name, a dove: to my father, she was a feather floating aimlessly on the breeze. Paloma was every parent’s dream gone sour, the prodigal daughter who never came home. She was brilliant; I knew that. All through high school, she had been a model student: straight A’s, president of this and that, star volleyball player, you name it. After graduation – I always wondered why she waited – she left home with a duffel bag, her Spanish guitar, $500 in cash, and a box of Saltine crackers. My father told me she’d come running back home in a matter of days: small, graceful Paloma, with her gentle fluttery voice, liquid brown eyes, and delicate hands, would never make it alone in the world.
She never returned. Her mother heard from her rarely; I heard even less. I gathered glimpses of her world from our meager correspondence: she haunted coffee houses and pubs in the evenings, mystifying her audiences with the sparkling tones of her guitar and the lilting, half-Spanish cadence of her voice. By day she worked odd jobs and somehow managed to scrape together a living. But Paloma never stayed in one place for long. I’d get a letter postmarked from New York, then one from Chicago, one from Richmond. Paloma was a restless soul.
So when her car rolled and coughed into the driveway, I puzzled over why she had decided to come home. Or to my home, at least.
“Hey, Lila!” She smiled and rolled down the window as if she’d only been gone an hour. Her white teeth contrasted sharply with her raven-black hair and her dark aviator sunglasses. The picture was complete with the old Bug: she looked like snapshot straight out of the sixties.
“Paloma,” I said simply. How do you greet someone you haven’t seen in years?
“How’ve you been?” She stepped out of the car, smoothing a charcoal-gray silk sundress as she rose to her feet.
“I’ve been…alright,” I said. “What – why are you-“
“Why am I here, right? I just thought I’d drop in, you know. Catch up.”
Drop in. After five years. She was 22.
“Well,” I said. “You might as well come in. Can I carry anything?”
“Sure.” She opened the back door despite its harsh squeak of protest. Out came a black guitar case. “Here.” She grabbed a duffel bag and shut the door.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I lugged the guitar case up to the door. “Dad!” I called. “You’ve got a visitor!”
“What? I – hold on a minute.” Hesitation. Footsteps. He stood at the top of the steps, looked down.
“Paloma?” I read the worry behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Dad!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to drop in. Long time, no see, you know?” I detected a faint trace of a Spanish accent in her voice. It came and went, tucking itself into the occasional rolling r, sometimes hiding in a word.
“Come in, then,” he said, not looking her in the eye. “You can stay with Lila.”
“I can sleep on the couch if it’s easier,” Paloma offered. My father wasn’t a fan of spontaneous visits.
“No,” I said hurriedly. “I want her to stay with me.” I turned to Paloma. “As long as it’s fine with you.”
“Thanks, Lila,” she smiled, a little more at peace.
“I’m sorry about Dad,” I said as we walked down the hall to my room. “He doesn’t do well with change.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said, with a smile that made me feel like it was. She turned to the duffel bag and pinched the zipper between her tanned fingers, opening it gingerly. She pulled out a rolled woven mat and unfurled it over the floor. “I guess I’ll take over this side of your room, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. “But you can have my bed, you know. You are my sister.”
She laughed suddenly: a light, spontaneous laugh. “I’m used to sleeping on the floor, Lila. I think I can manage.”
“Well,” I said, a little puzzled, “make yourself at home, then.”
“I think I’ll wash up,” she said. “Maybe take a shower. The AC in my Bug is broken” – I figured it would be – “and I’ve been driving a long way.” She walked down the hall, leaving me alone in the room.
Her guitar case was still resting on my bed where I had left it. I had never played a guitar in my life, had never heard her play, or at least since I could remember. I ran my hand over the worn black of the case and flipped a rusted silvery latch. I shut it, then opened it again. Then the next latch, which squeaked, and the third. Carefully I opened the case and looked inside.
The guitar rested in the soft velvet interior. There were patches where the varnish had come off in swatches. The fretboard looked tired, the strings strained. It was beautiful. I pulled a string and let go. It snapped back almost reproachfully, then resonated with a rich, full, melodious tone that suddenly captured my ear. I plucked the next string, and the next. Each had its own sound, its own voice. I was mesmerized. The sun slanted through the window and illuminated the beautiful polished wood.
I turned to her little corner and looked at the worn duffel bag, rubbed at the corners and threadbare in patches. It rested on her mat with what seemed to me like relief. I swiveled and looked at the guitar again. How did she live this way? How did she eat? Where did she sleep? Paloma was a paradox to me. She was a poor, homeless, vagrant musician. Yet she kept about her an inexplicable air that made her more than that: while others were too poor, she simply lived frugally. When others were shortsighted dropouts, she took the longview and chased a dream. While others were starving musicians, she was a traveling messenger who seemed to sacrifice herself for the sake of her art.
I walked back to the guitar and looked at it again. The day was getting later and the slanted rays of sun that bathed her guitar were taking on a rich and honeyed hue. Dust particles rose and swirled in the golden light, then sifted off through the heavy air.
“Do you want me to play you a song?”
I whirled around, startled by her voice. She stood in the doorway, her damp hair gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, her dark body swathed in the same charcoal dress.
“Sure,” I said. “That - that would be nice.”
“What kind?”
“One of yours. One that you wrote.”
She smiled and lifted the guitar from its velvet bed. She ran a small finger over the strings, making sure it was still in tune. It settled in her lap like a sleepy cat. Deftly, almost before I knew it, the song began. She plucked the strings in a dark and gentle cadence. It sounded to me like the deserts of Mexico, the wind’s whisper through the pampas of Argentina. The words began in Paloma’s rich, soft Spanish:
“Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo decirte,
Yo no puedo…no
I cannot tell you where I came from
I cannot tell you when or why
But I can tell you that I’ve followed
The gentle whispers of my mind
I cannot tell you where I’m going
I cannot say when I’ll return
But you’d be better off for knowing
That I will come around in turn
Yo no puedo decirte
Yo no puedo decirte
Yo no puedo decirte
You no puedo…no”
After that came more Spanish – I couldn’t tell exactly what she said – but it was beautiful, all of it. Her voice and her guitar would weave and harmonize as I was silent, mesmerized, watching in wonder as my half-Mexican half-sister sang her song and her life story before me.
When the song ended, I didn’t know what to say. “Wow,” I said quietly. “That was beautiful, Paloma. I loved it.”
“Really?” One eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “That’s a new one. I guess I’m glad I tried it out on you first!” She smiled and settled the guitar in the case.
“Well,” she said, straightening up, “I suppose we ought to have some sort of dinner soon. It’s five o’clock.”
“How’d you know that?” I asked suddenly. She wasn’t wearing a watch, and there was no clock in my room.
“The sun,” she said coolly, making a vague gesture toward the window. “You can always read the sun.”
With that, she turned and walked out to the kitchen, where my father stood, drinking a glass of iced tea and looking absently out the window.
“Dad?” said Paloma.
“Hello, Paloma.” I could tell he was making an effort to be cordial.
“It’s been awhile,” she began, and then stopped. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be home.” Her voice quieted and she looked around the house, at the walls, at the ceiling, as if she weren’t used to the feeling of a roof over her head.
“Tell me, Paloma,” he said, “Why did you decide to come here?”
“Like I said, I just wanted to drop in.”
“Drop in? You leave home and now you just decide to drop in? What do you think this is, an express hotel?”
She was quiet for a moment. Her smile faded. Her arms hung limply at her sides.
“Why did you leave in the first place?” I pictured my father as a train gathering speed. “Why, Paloma?”
“I – I just knew I had to.”
“Had to what? Leave us? Me? Lila? Your mother?”
“No,” she said softly.
“Then what? You just had to follow your heart, didn’t you? Your head’s too full of sixties music, Paloma. Sixties music and air.”
“Dad,” she said, “I’m a working musician. Not a starving artist.”
“You look pretty thin to me.” My father’s eyes looked different. I wondered if it was like this in his final days of being married to her mother.
“Dad,” I said, stepping forward, “Stop.”
He looked like he’d forgotten I was there. He opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the clock, “it’s about time for dinner.”
“I’ll make a salad,” I said. “It’s too hot for the oven, I think.”
I walked to the fridge and pulled out a plastic container of cold chicken, a bundle of romaine lettuce, a tomato, a cucumber, celery, carrots. My dad brought out a glass jars of olives and a red onion and a bag of shredded Parmesan cheese. I sliced the hard boiled egg I’d cooked and forgotten to eat that morning.
“I’ll start chopping the lettuce,” Paloma said, breaking our silence. She pulled a cutting board from the wall as naturally as if she had lived here her entire life.
“I’ll grate the carrots,” said my father. A peace offering. I began chopping the other vegetables.
“You have a very nice house out here,” Paloma overtured.
“Thank you,” replied my father, focusing intently on the shredding carrot. “It’s pleasant.”
“So how have you been?”
“Well. You?”
At that moment, I wanted to leave the room, to run away. I hated the stiff conversation between them, hated how my father and my sister, the two people I loved most in the world, became like zombies who wouldn’t smile or laugh or look one another in the eye. I wanted to bring them back to a time when they were happy, when things were okay.
“Dad?” I said.
“Yes, Lila?”
“Can you tell me about the day Paloma was born?”
He paused a moment. I couldn’t tell what exactly he thought. It was part anger, part reluctance, part something else.
“Okay,” he sighed reluctantly, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.
“Your mother,” he said to Paloma, though he still didn’t look at her, “wasn’t expecting you so early. It was a few days, really, so it wasn’t too early. Her water broke while she was out in the pepper garden.”
I pictured it in my mind. Paloma’s mother was short and slight, draped in a woven shawl. I could see her, stooping gingerly to touch the jalapeños, firm and green in the blazing afternoon sun.
“She called me over and told me we had to get to the hospital. She was so calm. I was the one freaking out about the whole thing.” Maybe I imagined it, but he seemed to crack a smile. “It was over almost before I realized. And soon, I was holding my beautiful baby girl.” He smiled at the memory but still wasn’t looking at Paloma. I watched my sister as the faintest flicker of a smile fluttered over her face. By the time my dad turned to her, she had gone back to cutting the mushrooms into thin slices and stacking them gingerly, one over the other, as if she could make them whole again.
* * *
That night, I had a strange dream: it was like a silent movie and all in black and white. Paloma, my father, and I stood in a square white room. I was in a corner. My father was by the door. Paloma was playing her guitar a few feet from him, but of course there was no sound.
My father looked at her, then looked at me. I can’t hear, he mouthed. There was something else, too, but I couldn’t read his lips. Paloma went on with the silent song and I tried to both watch her and reassure my father, but he kept insisting: I can’t hear. I can’t hear. Above us, a stark, uncovered lightbulb cast our separate shadows across the tiled floor.
* * *
The next morning was Sunday. I had told my dad that Paloma really ought to come to church with us, and he’d agreed more quickly than I might have guessed. I thought maybe he still felt guilty for the way he’d spoken to her the night before. Now we stood in a pew a few seats back from the front row: I was wearing a soft yellow gingham shift, Paloma was dressed in an airy paisley frock with her hair up in a French twist, and my dad had put on a shirt, tie, and long khaki pants despite the heat. The church had no air conditioning, and it was sweltering. Babies took turns wailing over the preacher’s words as their mothers tried in vain to comfort them. We were all hot and uncomfortable, and I tried to distract myself from my own discomfort by focusing on the preacher, with his elegant vestments and high, starched collar. How sweaty, warm, and weary he must be!
My father wiped his brow as the little child nearest to us dropped a toy and began to cry loudly. Paloma gritted her teeth almost imperceptibly. I focused intently on the preacher, willing him to finish, to deliver us not from eternal damnation but from the immediate and currently more pressing matter of the interminable stickiness of the July air. At long last, it was finally over, and the church seemed to heave a sigh of its parishioners’ collective relief.
It had been announced that all were welcome, after the end of the service, to come to the Fellowship Hall (which had air conditioning), where iced sweet tea and fruit and cookies would be served. Half the churchgoers went for the tea; the preacher’s wife made the best sweet tea in South Carolina, or so said anyone who had ever attended worship at the Redeemer Baptist Church.
After I’d internally said ten or so prayers begging God to please let the service end, it did. Dad, Paloma, and I walked over to Fellowship Hall amidst the brightly-colored horde of sweating and thirsty parishioners. I imagined there was already a line at the sweet tea table.
When we were inside, I took a deep breath of the cool, clean air and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, sparkle-white above the nondescript beige-tiled floor. Dad disappeared quickly into the crowd. I looked at Paloma. She surveyed the room with a sort of eager apprehension, almost as if she were looking for someone she knew. She glanced over at me, gave a crooked little smile as if to let me know that she was okay, and disappeared into the gathering throng. I wanted to see who she’d talk to, how my sister, who had seemingly fallen from her ethereal world into our comparatively mundane one, would handle herself in a room full of deep-Southern conservative strangers. I lost sight of her when I turned toward a light touch on my arm.
“Lila, dear,” said the elderly woman who always served as a lector, “how have you been?” I could never pronounce her name – it was vaguely Slavic, I knew, and there were faint traces of an accent that cropped up in the middle of my mental portraits of Jesus and his followers. She’d done readings since I could remember, and as a result, the Jesus in my mind spoke with a quivering old-woman voice.
“I’m well, thanks,” I replied cautiously, remembering all too well the time she’d admonished me for saying “good.” “My sister’s here, too,” I added, fishing for something worthwhile to say.
“Your sister?” Her eyes widened and her heavy beaded earrings rattled faintly on her drooping earlobes as she absorbed the apparently unknown fact. I had forgotten that Dad didn’t like to mention his other daughter. “Has she been away at school?”
“She’s out of school, actually,” I said. It was true - Paloma had left school a long time ago. “She’s working now.”
“What does she do, Lila?”
It was a simple question. I tried to think of ways I could truthfully answer while making the art of being a street musician seem like something an old woman would grant her approval. I couldn’t think of anything.
“She’s a musician,” I said, “She writes her own songs and plays them for people.” I waited.
“Ah, I see,” she replied, “You young people and your music. She ought to play some hymns for us. It’s about time this church had some real music in it.”
It actually struck me as a good idea. “I’ll ask her about it,” I said. “I think she might like to, actually. She played a song for me yesterday. I liked it a lot.”
“Please do ask her,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile, then turned toward another older woman approaching from her right. I took a minute to glance over the still-packed room for any sign of Dad or Paloma. I didn’t see them at first, but suddenly I heard something from the far side of the room. There was a sort of halfhearted hush descending upon the crowd; some of the people were turning their heads to see who was playing the dusty upright piano in the church hall. I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
I hadn’t heard the song before; it was floating, haunting, ethereal, even. Paloma could make the bass beat of the song thrum, the high notes sparkle over it, the middle notes form a bridge to connect the two. It was intricate, beautiful, surreal. I found myself walking across the room, standing on my tiptoes to see above people’s heads to the spot where my sister, bright-faced, sat at the piano. There was a small semicircle of people surrounding her, nodding their heads, tapping their feet. They smiled to one another sometimes, occasionally leaned toward one another to make a comment on her playing. I wasn’t sure how, but my half sister, whom nobody knew, was sitting here in the church hall playing a song nobody had heard, and somehow she had brought people together. More heads were turning – I knew that the piano hadn’t been played in so long that many of us had forgotten it was even here. I couldn’t tell if Paloma liked the attention, if she wanted it or was even aware. She didn’t look up the whole time she played – just focused on the worn ivory keys as if they alone could tell her what note came next.
She finished the song with a little flourish, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, stretched her fingers, and launched into another song. This one was familiar:
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to carry me home;
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' for to carry me home.
I looked over Jordan,
And what did I see,
Comin' for to carry me home,
A band of angels comin' after me,
Comin' for to carry me home.
By the time she came around to the chorus again, the whole room was singing with her. It was like nothing I’d seen before; the room pulsed with an energy that defied the heat outside, the languid drag of our tired minds, the starched formality of our traditional Sunday best. Groups of parishioners clapped in time to the music. Our voices rose in what felt to me like one part campfire singalong and two parts collective prayer. When the song ended, everyone clapped, smiled to one another, thanked Paloma. She smiled shyly, stood up, smoothed her skirt gently, and left the piano bench. The sunlight coming through the window illuminated the still keys as the last note hung in the air a moment and dissipated.
* * *
The rest of the day passed in a dreary haze of July heat. Thankfully, her unexpected piano interlude had provided much-needed conversational fodder between Paloma and my father. Over dinner, he managed to compliment her on her playing (“It was good, Paloma, really good; I think people liked it.”) and then, hesitantly, he asked about her work.
“What is it exactly,” he began, running a hand through his hair and glancing downward slightly, “that you do?”
“Well,” Paloma began, an eager but subdued smile crossing her tanned face, “I’m a musician. I play on the streets. I play in bars. I play in restaurants.”
He looked a little uneasy still as he pondered her answer. Paloma’s eyes darted across his face, over to me for a split second, and then back to my dad. “So do you record anything? Have an album or something?”
“No, not really,” she replied, twirling her fork absently amidst her green beans. “Music is best when it’s free, I think. It’s not that I’m against recording, but when you take something you’ve written to the studio and play it, it gets put through so much editing and cutting and pasting and mixing that by the time it’s finished and trapped in a shiny little CD, it isn’t yours anymore. I like playing live. It’s real.”
“Real,” he echoed, absorbing her answer.
I knew what she meant. Real wasn’t the sound of filtered guitars and synthesizer beats pulsing through a pristine stereo. Real was the echo of the last note inside the body of Paloma’s worn guitar when she finished a song. Real was the sound of the church hall coming together to sing with her as she sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” on the dusty piano. Real was Paloma’s work, making its way from her thoughts to her guitar to her voice to the world, where she set it free and let it grace the air, if only for a little while.
“Paloma,” I said suddenly, “once dinner’s over, why don’t you play your song for Dad?”
I regretted it the instant I said it. Paloma had played it for me and I had loved it. Who was I to tell her to play for anyone, especially Dad? He didn’t understand her. I knew that. She knew it, too.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d love to.”
* * *
In the wake of cleared dishes and the emptied table, Paloma carried the guitar case from my room and set it on the leather couch before us. Dusk was settling in, and the sound of crickets blended with the squeak of each latch as she carefully, lovingly opened it.
“What’s the song about?” My father was trying to fill the silence. I wondered if his nervousness was because Paloma was so much of an unknown – she was his own daughter, but he could barely converse with her. She was unpredictable, a wild card in his ordered deck of life.
“You’ll see,” I told him. “Listen.”
She tuned up in a few seconds and strummed a single chord, let it hang. She straightened a thin silver bracelet clasped lightly around her wrist before the song began. It was just as haunting as it had been the first time I heard it – maybe even more beautiful now that the sun was setting outside the window and the clouds were a brilliant hue of red with a little orange and yellow mixed in. Like fire, I thought.
I glanced over at my father. He pushed his glasses back a little, listened. I could tell he knew the Spanish parts – his eyes stayed focused, his mouth started to form what could have been a knowing smile and stopped. Paloma was pouring more feeling into the song; her eyes fluttered shut a moment, her dark lashes like birds coming to rest on her face. When they opened again, her eyes were full of some emotion I couldn’t name but knew, deeply, and understood. I looked again at my father, who seemed to relax a little as he followed the song. He looked as if he was far away, lost in his nearly-estranged daughter’s intricate tapestry of words and sound.
His eyes never left her face.
* * *
That night, when the moon was high and the stars shimmered through the clear night sky, Paloma and I talked in my room. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed; she held her guitar on her mat and absently plucked the strings in between words. A lamp on my bedside table cast a faint light over us, bringing out the shadows.
“Where do you think you’ll go next?” I asked her.
She paused a moment, as if deciding for herself. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Memphis, I think. Something’s been telling me I should go to Memphis.”
“Where were you before this? Before you came here?”
She laughed lightly. “I’ve been lots of places, Lila. Before here I was in Charleston. It’s tourist season, you know – people come out there even though it’s hot and muggy and downright oppressive. They ride the little mule-carts through the city on tours and look at the old houses with the porches and dip their feet in the harbor. Sometimes I’d sit on the side of the street with my case open and just play and sing whatever came to mind. I’d play in little restaurants, sometimes – people liked that. Before Charleston it was New Orleans – that was before the hurricane. And for a little while I was in Chapel Hill. I liked it there. Quaint.”
“Wow,” I said. “Where do you sleep? How do you eat?”
“It just depends,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll stay with a friend. Sometimes I’ll sleep on the street. I just take each day as it comes.”
“I couldn’t do that,” I said. “Doesn’t it worry you?”
“Why would I worry? I love this, Lila. I love waking up and not knowing where I’ll be by the time the sun sets. I feel like as long as I’ve got my guitar with me, everything else will fall into place. And it does.” She ran her fingers down the strings and brushed a patch of dust from the guitar’s side.
“Do you think you’ll come back?”
“Probably. I’m not sure when. You never know. But you’ll be seeing me again.” She cracked a smile as if to give some substance to her answer.
It was quiet for a moment. The crickets were louder now, their collective song carried on the balmy evening breeze. Paloma yawned.
“Are you tired?” I asked, realizing the stupidity of the question as soon as it left my mouth. She nodded. “I’ll turn out the light.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The switch made a little click as the room went dark. The guitar settled into its case. The crickets and Paloma’s even breathing were all I heard.
“Paloma?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you came by.”
“Thanks, Lila.” I imagined I could see her white-toothed smile through the dark. “I am too.”
* * *
In the morning she was gone. No note. No trace that she had even been here. For an instant, I wondered if I had dreamed everything. That was how she lived, I thought to myself as I stood before the mirror and ran a brush through my hair. Here one day, gone the next. She was probably on her way to Memphis by now if she hadn’t changed her mind already. I walked to the window and looked out. Her Bug was gone from the driveway. It occurred to me that I hadn’t even heard her pull away.
I opened the window to let in the faint breeze that still remained from the night before. I imagined it lifting the last of the dew from the grass and carrying it skyward, where it would hang heavily for the rest of the day.
The house was quiet. I figured my father was still asleep, tired from the unexpected visit. But Paloma, undaunted by distance, had stayed, landed here for two days, and moved on. She was, I thought, the proverbial rolling stone.
My little reverie faded and I stood a moment at the window, watching the morning unfold. I breathed in deeply, letting the air settle in my lungs before I exhaled into the soft light. I watched the fronds of the palmetto nodding, whispering against one another. In the quiet surrounding me, each sound, each movement was like music, a note sounding and settling. I heard a mourning dove’s call, distant and beautiful, lilt through the gentle rays of the rising sun.
_________________________________
Courtney's Bio:
I'm a student at the University of Virginia, and I'm an Echols Interdisciplinary Writing major - my major is self designed and involves poetry, fiction, journalism, and screenwriting. I'm the author of a poetry collection, Eleanor's Angel (2009, Wild Leaf Press), and my poems have appeared in The Virginia Literary Review and in the contest-based Writer's Eye anthology. I'm a columnist for The Cavalier Daily, and in my spare time I enjoy playing mandolin in my parish folk choir, playing guitar, running with friends, and horseback riding.
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