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 |  A book of short shorts |
 "The rose is a cup full of humble fragrance Touching the air with subtle fingers" Jorge Carrera Andrade--Ecuadorian Poet New and old some of my short short stories are in this humble book. ""People travel to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the seas, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering." St. Augustine |
| Speechless, Amy plunked down toward the sand as if someone had punched her in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. Waves of panic, like the waves on the ocean, engulfed her. Where had this come from, this “I love you” etched in the sand? Now she had to contend with this, just when she thought that she had pried Geoffrey out of her heart. She had met him on a sandy beach while vacationing in Australia. A few months later, they had traveled to the same spot for their honeymoon and Geoffrey had written those same words, 'I love you,' on the sand. Something burst into action above her. She glanced up to find a lone seagull circling above her. Seagulls normally flew in flocks. Was this one hurt? The seagull came down in a diagonal descent, landing as near her as its curiosity permitted. 'We are two lone birds eyeing each other,' Amy thought. Except, birds didn’t age as fast as women. Amy still turned a few heads; she was aware of it. Her looks, however, had been her downfall. After Geoffrey died, many men came after her according to what they saw in her as beauty. She felt tears as sharp as razor pressing against her eyelids. It wasn’t fair. Not one of them had seen the real Amy. Men began loving a woman for what she wasn’t and ended up hating her for what she was. Did Geoffrey too? How could she know for sure after a marriage cut short by Geoffrey’s sudden departure? She was here in this “Dr. Brown’s Retreat by the Ocean” because her friend Jamie had insisted. Mystical experiences was Dr. Brown’s project. According to Jamie, Dr. Brown was a knockout psychic who worked with energy, whatever that meant. Dusk was setting in when she heard the bell. She wondered what tonight’s session would be about. When Amy stepped in the conference room, Dr. Brown had already started talking about psychic levels of progression. He was saying: “There is no area of ‘The Other Side’ that is off limits. If the ones who loved you want to stop by and say hello, they’ll leave signs. You’ll just have to recognize them. A single thought will take you from this level to the next one. If your thoughts are strong, they’ll have enough force to make themselves heard on the other side.” Amy listened to Dr. Brown’s speech hypnotized. In the last couple of decades after Geoffrey died, she had abandoned to deal with herself. Instead, she had taken many lovers, none with significance. Wasn't this what people did when they were detached from their inner life? She remembered the writing on the sand. Since this was private property, she had seen no young lovers on it. Still, the writing could be just a coincidence. Maybe the world itself was a coincidental grand mistake. If it weren't, could lovers ever be separated? No, this whole idea was absurd. If it weren’t for Jamie, Amy would never be here in the first place. Frowning, she pressed her fingers into her temples. “Don’t you feel well?” Jamie asked as they were exiting. “Nothing important, just a slight headache,” Amy said. “Let me see that.” Amy hadn’t noticed Dr. Brown behind them. Dr. Brown touched Amy’s forehead lightly as if wiping something. Then, he shook it off his hand. “Does your head still hurt?” Amy was too stunned to answer. Her headache was totally gone. “Thank you,” she stammered. Dr. Brown smiled, nodded, and went on to his quarters. Before getting in bed, Amy looked out of the window. In the dark night, the wind chased the sand off the ground as the ocean bellowed. The writing had to be erased by now. Amy woke up in the middle of the night with a peculiar feeling. Had someone been watching her? She flicked the light on. No one was in the room. She pulled the covers about her. Just as she was nodding off, she heard Geoffrey’s voice, “I love you, for you.” She smiled and let herself into a deep sleep. Next day she went walking by the beach again. Yes, the writing was gone from that spot. A few feet ahead, however, she saw the same writing this time with a circle around it. “Geoffrey?” she whispered. A gust of wind blew about her, loosening her scarf. she remembered how Geoffrey used to love her hair undone. She held on to the scarf but let her hair flow in the wind. "...If the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, Dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being." How could she be hearing this? Sprawled on the beach, she and Geoffrey used to quote Emerson. "Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you." Amy still remembered some lines. So she quoted haphazardly out loud: “As the bird trims her to the gale I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: ‘Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed: The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed.” The second day after that and the next, everyday until the time of their leaving, Amy found the same writing in the sand somewhere on the beach. She stood watching those words "I love you," as she listened to and quoted Emerson within her heart. During the last session, Dr. Brown asked if anybody would care to share their experiences at the retreat. Jamie said she had talked to the wind and gotten an answer in her mind. Other people offered what they called their experiences. Amy stayed silent, but inside her she was hearing Geoffrey's voice again. “I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home;” Just before they left, Amy dashed to the beach one more time. The lone seagull flew overhead as she gasped by the “I love you” etched in the sand. She knelt down and wrote, “I love you, too.” |
| Each time you lift your head, your eyes drink from the sky, The blue where the fish swim and the blue where the birds fly. The blue you feel when you are split in two The blue on your brush comes to your rescue. Yes, that’s me in the photo and I wrote that stanza. There will be additions to it. If you’re a painter, you’re a poet. If there is no poetry in your painting, don’t leave your day job. Well, I left my day job but that was due to my circumstances, not my skill as a painter. Actually, at that time, I was more skilled at my day job. By profession, I was a temp worker. That meant I worked with an agency, which provided temporary jobs to people who didn’t like to stay in one place for too long. They loved me at the agency because I had a pretty good education. I knew two languages and I had a degree. I was their best commodity. I looked good on paper and this elevated their status a notch higher with their clientele. If I wanted to, I could have gotten a high paying, permanent job with fringe benefits on my own. Yet, I didn’t. I just couldn’t stay in any one company more than a few months at a time, but I was never fired. No, Sir! Several times, I walked out on my own just when I was about to get a promotion. It was like I was steering in the dark, not knowing where I was going, and bumping into stuff along the way. The same thing happened again with my last assignment but for different reasons. Five years ago, I found a job handling the data in a company’s computer system. The company, Marks, Sharp & Cox, was founded by three art dealers who turned it into an auction house plus a gallery chain worldwide. The company was so successful that even Sotheby’s paled by comparison. I felt important working for this establishment. Surely I wasn’t the only employee who handled their computers, but I was very quick and accurate. Even though I was a temp worker, a month later after noticing my expertise, they trusted me enough to hire me full time with all the benefits and a cherry on top. The cherry was Sheri Cox, a daughter of one of the partners. Sheri was a high-class knockout. She was a debutante who had gotten her education in prep schools and later was sent to Europe. She worked as the art director in the gallery section. That meant she traveled to France often after paintings and painters with fancy names. If I hadn’t met her first, I would never have accepted the full-time deal. Sheri was exciting, bubbly, and always full of ideas. I was obsessed with her. Although I would have denied that then, I was in love and love makes a person feed the lions. Sheri and I started seeing each other secretly. At first, Sheri said she wanted it that way for the reason that the news of our relationship would mess up her professionalism in the company and that wouldn’t agree with her work ethics. Later she told me that it was her father who would make things difficult for us. I went along with whatever she said like a leaf in the wind. Sheri had an uptown apartment. Her father lived in the suburbs, but if he worked late nights, he stayed in her apartment. We met mostly in her place and things went very smoothly for me for several months. Sheri never liked my pad. It wasn’t because it was downtown. It was because of the way I kept it. It was easy for her to criticize my housekeeping when she had a maid coming in twice a week, but Sheri had her ways. I was not supposed to be around when the maid or her father showed up. One evening when we were in her apartment in her bedroom, we heard the front door open. We both stood up in fright. I knew I had to fight to save us and I didn’t like that one bit. I could fight off hackers, viruses, trojans, worms, bad programmers, or anything else that may pop up behind the screen. But intruders? In any case, I got ready to take him on. I grabbed a shoe in each hand, yet I couldn’t move because something had started pulsing at my temples “Sheri, it is I! Sorry, couldn’t call you! It got too hectic and the cell-phone ran out of power.” “ Dad! Just a minute! I’m coming right out,” Sheri yelled back as she stuffed me into her closet. Don’t frown; it wasn’t so bad. Sheri’s closet was half the size of my bedroom. Besides, inside it she had an armchair. The best part was that I could hear the conversation from the living area through the ventilation system inside the wall. After Sheri served her father something to eat, they started to talk shop. What I could hear then, I didn’t like at that moment at all. As soon as Mr. Cox went into his room, Sheri came to rescue me. “Henry, quick! You have to leave now, while he’s in the shower.” “Why didn’t you tell me about the other one.” “Hush! He isn’t hard of hearing.” “Who’s Aun-ree?” I was seething with jealousy. “Shhhh! Out!” Sheri let me out of the apartment. I was so angry with her, that two timing, backstabbing...aaarrgghh! By the time I reached my place, I had the whole thing planned. I was going to quit right next day after messing up her auction bids list or something like that for vengeance. Stretched out on my own bed, I recalled Sheri’s conversation with her father. “Sweetie, when are we going to announce your engagement? You know, I received another call from the Duke’s family. We can’t let this pass.” “Dad! I am not in love with him. I’ll do anything for you but not this.” “Sheri, you’ll end up being a spinster and I’ll never see the face of a grandchild.” “Dad, please don’t get upset. Remember your heart.” “Do you have someone else in mind? Don’t tell me he’s another nerd. I can’t stand nerds, especially those behind the computers...” “Dad, he’s a nerd. No, Dad I meant to say he’s not a nerd.” “He better have something. A family name, culture, pizzazz...” The old man had ruled me out in one stroke. “Dad, he’s a painter, an artist. He’s very well known in France and as a matter of fact in Europe.” “What’s so special about him?” “They call him the ‘Blue Painter’. For using blue colors a lot." “That isn’t anything to be proud of.” “He comes from a very good family.” “Which family? “Well, from one side he descends from the Bourbons and the other from the Medici’s.” “Both Italian and French? Impressive! Why didn’t you tell me this before?” “I wanted you to meet him in person. I’ve been trying to convince him to come here but he’s so busy...” I remembered the phone calls that she used to take from overseas in the middle of the night while hushing me. “What’s his name?” “Aun-ree... Dad, give me time, please.” “What do you need time for?” “It is like this, Dad. I have to make him realize I’m important to him. I’m sure he loves me, but you know how artists are...” So that was the story...I had been used for months by a silly spoiled rich chick while she was making plans to corner a blue baboon in a beret. Next morning, I showed up at the office as if nothing happened. By the closing time, I had planted a pop up bug in the whole system that would show up in two days. It would read, “Blue Painter” and would continuously pop up worse than AOL’s buddy list, all over the network, here and overseas. Before I left the office, I handed in my resignation saying that I had a family emergency and I would be leaving the state to be with my mother in Ohio. ‘Take that, Sheri Honey,’ I muttered to myself as I turned to give one last look at the building outside. I kept my word. I went to see Mom to chill out for a few days. My mom is not an apple pie mom. Mom’s housekeeping could be showcased in the ‘really lived-in’ section of Good Housekeeping, and it is just the way I like. When Mom cooks I run for cover into the nearest Burger King, but Mom makes people feel at ease. That is why she is Mom. Still, in some ways parents never grow up. “How is that nice girl you told me about on the phone?” “She’s history, Mom. No more fishing for a while.” “Oh, Henry...Don’t say that!” “Okay, I won’t.” On my return, I found Sheri sitting on my bed. “You are so clever, Henry...but you should have told me you’re leaving.” “What do you want from me? Didn’t you have enough time to search for your Aun-ree?” I said while making plans in the back of my mind for changing the door lock. “Oh, Henry! You are Aun-ree...” Sheri was beside herself with laughter. “And you’re so clever! Thanks for the pop-ups. They helped. I know we can pull this off together.” It was beginning to dawn on me. Aun-ree was Henry in French, but pull what off? Well, at that point I didn’t care. I was full of joy. I had my Sheri back and I’d do anything she’d say. When you are in love, you learn to lie flat as a carpet. Sheri brought in what we needed for a start-off: easel, palette, brushes and knives in all sizes and shapes and of course tubes and tubes of paint with several blues. I didn’t know there were so many blues: azure blue, cerulean blue, cobalt blue, thalo blue, and so on and so forth. She gave me a short lecture on the relationship of shapes and forms and left me on my own to start to create for the day. During those first few weeks the going was rough, but Sheri had a good eye. She directed my efforts in her expert manner. Since we both found out that I stank at representational art, short of stuff that looked like bad cartoon drawings, we zeroed in on the abstract. And, Boy, did I shine with that one! With my angel Sheri, I was learning how to fly. A few months later, the time had come for Sheri’s efforts. We shipped ten paintings to Sheri’s apartment in Paris. Sheri went to France and took two of them to be shown in a gallery there and scattered six of them around Europe. She brought two of them back into the States with her, and she had her father meeting her at the airport with a guard. This girl was something else. She knew which string to pull. Due to her efforts and knowledge of how the art world operates, the works of the “Blue Painter” or Henri De Perrache, alias –me- Henry Parrish, became the hottest issue on Park Avenue. I was even written about in the New York Times Art section several times and then some. A year later, having gained a name in Europe, I was living in an apartment in Paris without knowing any French. Believe me if you think I didn’t earn my fame and fortune, you are wrong. I earned it just by living among the French who snubbed at my efforts to communicate. Since the French have this high regard for personal privacy to the degree of iciness, Sheri and I got by perfectly inside our day-to-day life. I knew I was a hot commodity for the media but I didn’t give any interviews. I had my representative, Sheri, to take care of the mundane stuff. You know how eccentric we painters are... Two years and six months after we had first met, Sheri and I got married quietly in a small church outside of Paris. Sheri had decided that we should keep our marriage secret from our families and the world. Frankly I didn’t mind the mystery because I had the love of my life, my Sheri, and we were making a fortune together. Plus, I had truly started to enjoy fooling around with the paints. I woke up every morning with my heart beating and beating just getting ready to make the paints come alive on the canvas. Give a dog a name! Last year around Christmas time we decided to go home for a visit. Since we still had kept our apartments, we thought we could manage the hide and seek with her father and my mother. Well, what we didn’t count on was Sheri’s father. He had made up his mind to be everywhere and snoop into everything. On our first evening in Manhattan, after we had gone to sleep, Mr. Cox showed up in the apartment. Neither of us had heard him come in. He came into the bedroom and suddenly turned on the light. I cowered under the quilt, as Sheri jumped onto the warpath. “Dad, you should not enter without knocking.” “I wouldn’t enter if I hadn’t heard the snoring of a giant. Who’s he? What’s he doing here?” “He’s my husband, Dad. Aun-ree! We just got married” “Then, why is he hiding?” “He’s just learning English and he’s shy. Aun-ree! Say hello to Dad.” I lifted my head from under the sheet and said, “Bon Soir, Monsieur.” A smile drifted across Mr. Cox’s face. “Bon Soir Aun-ree. Now, go back to sleep, Children. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Sheri was beside herself with happiness. “He bought it! He bought it!” “I’m surprised he didn’t recognize me,” I said. “He has seen me few times in the office.” “He probably didn’t even look at you. He never liked people with computers and things.” “What are we going to do now?” “Don’t worry. Just don’t talk too much. I’ll tell him you have laryngitis!” Everything went smoothly. Mr. Cox was very happy next morning about his only daughter being married. He kept talking in French to me and I kept nodding and pointing to my throat. Love had set me going like a fast watch. The three of us had a nice family breakfast together. After breakfast while I was clearing the dishes with Sheri, Mr. Cox had a phone call. Sheri took it. One of the crates with the paintings sent from Paris had arrived and there was a problem with the customs. “I would go, Children, but I am feeling a little tired today. Everybody is away for the weekend. Sheri, can you see to it? I’ll wait for you here with Aun-ree!” After Sheri left, Mr. Cox sat across from me at the kitchen table. “Relax,” he said in English. “My daughter knows what she’s doing. The paintings will be fine.” I looked at him as if I understood little. He burst out in laughter. “Henry Parrish, I told you to relax. Paintings came yesterday. I told them to hold it until today, so you and I could have a chat without Sheri.” “Sir, how did you know?” “I knew it all along, you two silly kids! I knew she was going out with you when you were working at the office. If I had shown approval, she might have turned away from both of us. I guess I spoiled her a little. Sheri likes success, drama, doing things her own way. Then, when a friend of mine told me my daughter was living in Paris with an American, I figured out it would be you. The only thing I didn’t know at first was that you were the blue painter.” “Sorry, Sir. Will there be any trouble now?” “I don’t think so. Everyone can work under a persona, like a pen name for a writer, or a fancy name for an actress. You are the one who is painting the paintings and they are good. I’m surprised that they are, but they are. I am a businessman first and I like the business you have brought into my office, Henry.” “Thank you, Sir.” “You were Henri De Perrache in the art world of Paris up to now, but you are Henry Parrish for the family. If you could become Henri de Perrache, we can turn you back into Henry Parrish easily. After all, my daughter is a Parrish now.” My eyes filled when I looked at this kind man’s face. Mr. Cox was building a bridge to my true identity for me. I had been living in a dream I loved. Now, I could live in the reality of that dream. Sheri’s dad and I played along with Sheri’s antics and between us kept the secret of Mr. Cox knowing who I was until Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, just before we sat down to dinner at Mr. Cox’s house, a limo pulled up into the driveway and Mr. Cox announced he had invited another houseguest. When I saw a middle aged woman with auburn hair making her way up the front stairs, my heart skipped a few beats. A few seconds later, Mr. Cox grinned with mischief at me as he led my mother into the room. Everything was coming together with a little push from someone who knew how to push the right buttons. After dinner, Sheri shook her head at his father and me, still surprised but happy. “Oh, Henry! Oh, Dad! Wait till my next trick,” she threatened jokingly. “It will be on both of you.” “I’ll help you, Sheri,” my mother said, smiling from ear to ear. "You better go buy a crib, Henry." For five years along the way, I Henry Parrish, as Henri de Perrache, have acquired a shadow with a title and a promise. I owe a lot to that shadow. That shadow gave me a passion for painting, something to be excited about, and a vocation I will never ever quit. I know I will always be a painter and I will paint poetry whenever I can. If you have a shadow don’t worry. That means you’re in the sunshine. |
| Father Flanagan looked up from his reading at the hesitant figure hovering in the shadow by the door. “Come in Theresa, what can I do for you today?” The young blonde girl, heavy from waist down but with slim ankles nevertheless, tiptoed in and taking out an envelope from her canvas backpack handed it over to the priest. “My mother sent you this,” she mumbled. Father Flanagan pulled out the card from the envelope, his face lighting up. “A birthday card for me! She didn’t forget. How so thoughtful of Maria! Tell her I’m immensely pleased and humbled. Tell her she is in my prayers. Come, sit down Theresa. Tell me how she’s coming along.” “Not any better! Worse actually. Not much time left, the doctor said.” Father Flanagan watched the childlike anguished figure in front of him. There was something awkward about her. Something awkward that he couldn’t put his finger on. No, it wasn’t because her mother was dying. It was something more. With his experience, he could tell to separate the signs of normal grief from complicated feelings. “Any news of your stepfather?” he asked. “Ernesto? No. He’s gone for good.” “Theresa, remember that you can always turn to church. You are not alone, Child.” “I don’t know. I never was. I mean I never did. I mean I’m not very good with rites, rituals and things.” “You can always start…Your mother is very devout.” “My mother’s different. She was here so often when she could walk.” “I heard that you wrote poetry. Faith is like a poem. It is an affair of the heart and learning of the mind.” “My mom must have told you that. About me and poetry, I mean.” “Yes, she did. Last Friday when I stopped by to see her.” “What else did she tell you?” “Oh, I couldn’t tell you everything she tells me. I’m a priest, remember.” “Sorry! I’m not really a church-goer. I don’t have all that much faith, one might say.” “Faith can stay silent for a very long time. Sometimes people, like poets, avoid excessive glitter. That doesn’t make them any less faithful.” “Maybe, but I’m different. I better go.” “No, please stay. I wanted to tell you one more thing. I promised Maria, I’d look out for you. We could help you with the baby here. Please, remember that.” “She asked you that!” “Yes. I am telling you now. Ahead of time. So you won’t feel alone because you never are, you know.” “But I can’t. I can’t come to the church because I shouldn’t.” “You shouldn’t? There’s something else. Isn’t there, Theresa? More than the baby…” The girl was silent but she nodded. “Would you like to confess?” “No.” “Don’t you want absolution, to get rid of what’s bothering you?” “Nothing in a confessional is going to help me.” “Then talk to me as a friend and I’ll consider it as secret as a confession.” “Thank you…” The girl was hesitant to start but she did. “I did something very bad to my mother... And now she’s dying!” Her tears came suddenly, in full blast. She sobbed, her shoulders shaking back and forth in a frenzy. Father Flanagan waited until she calmed down. “What did you do, Theresa? I had the impression that you and your mother got along very well.’’ “I told Mom that the baby’s father was Ernesto.” “Oh! … Then what?” “Mom confronted him. He got angry and told her he didn’t like to be blamed. That’s why he left.” “Are you feeling bad because he left or because he’s the baby’s father?” “Yes. No. I feel bad he left. Because right after he left, Mom got sicker and was diagnosed. But…but…” “What is it, Child?” “Ernesto isn’t. He never touched me. I hated him. I wanted him to go away because he was always there… With my mother!” “Theresa, that’s a heavy burden. Did you tell your mother?” She shook her head. “Don’t you think she should know the truth?” “I can’t. I don’t know how. She’ll hate me. If only Ernesto was here…Before she… she leaves.” “It is all up to you, Theresa, I’ll stop by your house tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have the courage to tell her then.” Father Flanagan stood up as Theresa turned her back to leave. He thought of Maria. How deceived she was! Then he thought of Theresa who was so much more deceived than her mother. So much more! By her own self. He had so much work waiting for him with this child. A few minutes later, Father Flanagan rang the bell on his desk. “Tyler,” he said to the young man who came running. “I need you to locate Ernesto Suarez as fast as you can. Then call him on the phone and I’ll talk to him.” All those weeds to untangle on God’s path! There was always so much work! |
| The winding road to the stables had coursed its way around the silo and the pasture. I had driven up from Manhattan for several hours, and just by the sight of this place, I was breathing more freely. I took in everything gradually. Snow with broad brushstrokes had whitewashed the scenery. Wood-smoke arose in curlicues from the chimney in the main house. An occasional wind gust exchanged pleasantries with the silence that dwelt in this magnificent winter panorama. If only Diane were here to see all this. . . In slow motion, my childhood flashed back at me, Grandpa’s Morgan horses, ponies, hayrides, hiding in the silo behind the alfalfa hay, and of course Jesse, my very own Morgan horse with small ears, gracefully curved neck, and large understanding eyes. Jesse was short, measuring only a bit more than fourteen hands but he was my first love. He was the first animal to inspire a passion for veterinary medicine in me. I got out of the car, circled around the snow-covered pasture on foot, and headed into the stables. The partitions were empty except for one old horse, Tax Break, blanketed and kept by Donavan, the grounds keeper. Donavan had named him in jest, for the time when horses were tax deductible. Donavan’s family had lived here longer than my grandpa had owned the place. The farm had exchanged many hands, but Donavan’s family had stayed on probably since the Civil War times. Tax Break lifted his head and snorted. “Hello, Tax Break,” I said stroking his mane. In the main house, Greta served me tea and crumpets as in the old days. “I’m glad you could come before the closing, Master John,” Donavan said. “There are some papers and things that used to belong to your grandfather. They should pass on to you. The new owners would probably throw them away.” “Donavan, please call me John,” I said laughing. “I’m not a little kid anymore.” “Yes, Master John,” he said, handing me the key to Grandpa’s roll-top desk. Donavan could never give up his aristocratic way of addressing me. So many decades, so many papers. . . The more I shuffled through the papers, the more I admired my grandfather’s record-keeping abilities. He had everything properly dated and filed. Still, there was a lot I didn’t know. If it weren’t for Donavan to fill me in, so much of what was in there would remain in the dark for me. After supper I called Diane. “John, wouldn’t it be less painful if we stopped talking to each other? After all your mind is made up.” “Diane, please understand. This is very difficult for me.” Just to hear her voice had brought tears to my eyes. “Can we stay friends at least?” There was a short pause. “John, I could never be just your friend.” I heard the phone click at the other end. For a good while, I stood there listening to the short beeps of the receiver. What was wrong with women nowadays? Why was Diane so unreasonable? We had had an intense relationship, but she was adamant about staying around her family. She said, her parents were sickly and being their only child, she wouldn’t leave them. Neither was she willing to change the country. “John if it were anywhere within the United States, I’d have no problem,” Diane had said. “But to settle in Australia? I can’t do that. I love it here. I’d like to see my family and friends at least around the holidays.” On the other hand, I had always romanticized Australia after discovering Astoria, Queens. Astoria and Australia had little in common, but to me both exemplified man’s struggle against all odds. During my high school years in New York City, I had a classmate, Steve, whose grandparents lived in Astoria. I went to visit them with Steve quite often and discovered Astoria, the town for the new immigrants and their struggles. It seemed so romantic, so heroic to adapt to a new place! During my veterinary internship I had written a short travail on the sheep farming and medicine in Australia. Through the research I had done, I had become enamored with Australia. Now when the opportunity presented itself, I wanted to grab it. After a few months stay in Sydney to put my papers and licensing in order, I planned to live in a small town practicing veterinary medicine and own a sheep farm in the countryside. The proceeds from Grandpa’s farm would help finance my new venture. My mind was made up and I was excited over my project. Except for Diane. -------- “I’ll be here only for a day or two, Donavan,” I said after breakfast. “Let’s go through everything.” “Maybe you’d like to examine the sales file, Master John?” I couldn’t believe how many hands the farm had exchanged before Grandpa. It took quite a while to sort through the many papers while listening to Donavan’s stories. “Just look at the price Grandpa paid for the farm, Donavan? Things must have been so cheap those days.” “This farm was very costly to your grandfather, Master John. Not in terms of money though.” Right at that moment I noticed a small envelope under the files in the bottom of the drawer. I picked it up and opened it. It was a handwritten contract signed by two men, one by my grandfather, the other by the previous owner. It was not the sales contract but it was an agreement of sorts. It said: “I, Henry G. Runyon, in exchange for the Fire Creek Farm to the east of Manchester, New Hampshire, and Figure Two, shall not seek the attentions of Melissa A. Thorsen. In return, Robert E. McAlister shall sign the sales contract and leave the Fire Creek Farm and the State of New Hampshire for good.” “What kind of an agreement is that?” I exclaimed. “What do you know about this, Donavan?” “I’ll tell you Master John,” he said. “But first permit me to attend to Tax Break.” “Sure, Donavan. Why don’t I walk over to the stables with you and you tell me about it? I could use some fresh air.” I helped Donavan as he loaded up a flat bed sleigh with hay and pulled it from the silo to the stable to feed Tax Break. When we passed by the lamp pole in between the two buildings, Donavan stopped and motioned to the fence. “It was right there under that lamp Miss Melissa gave your grandfather his first kiss and I saw it. But I didn’t say anything to anyone on account of the fact that Miss Melissa was promised to Master McAlister.” “I don’t understand. Wasn’t Grandpa the next owner after McAlister.” “Yes, but let me go back a bit. Your grandpa had started studying veterinary medicine. In summers, more help was needed on the farm. He had come in as a farm hand. He cleaned the stables, fed the horses, and did chores around the farm in return for room and board and some pocket money. Actually we roomed together since my Pa was the caretaker for the McAlisters and I also lived in the farm.” “I never knew that. I mean I didn’t know Grandpa studied veterinary medicine. No wonder he was so encouraging to me!” “Well, unlike you, he never finished school because he suddenly found himself a farm owner.” “What about that deal, Donavan?” “Well, Miss Melissa’s father and Mr. McAlister had served in the First World War together. They thought that their kids would be good for each other. After the war they introduced them. Miss Melissa’s family lived in Texas. They used to come and stay here for months at a time. That way, the kids got to know each other. The year your grandfather came to work in the farm was close to the time the wedding was planned for. Miss Melissa came here with her mother to put her trousseau together. I know this because my father drove them to Boston from here to do their shopping at least couple of times a week. Your grandfather was grooming a horse when Miss Melissa first entered the stables. He dropped everything and looked at her. She too was quite taken by him. I was right there to watch them eye each other and I told myself, this ain’t good.” “You mean to tell me that my grandfather stole someone else’s girl?” “I wouldn’t quite put it that way, Master John. Miss Melissa had something to do with it too. She’d seek him out making believe she was interested in horses. Later on, as things got hotter between them, they’d meet there under that lamp post by the stables in secret.” “What happened afterwards?” “I heard through the grapevine that one day there was a big argument between Robert McAlister and Miss Melissa in the big house. Then Miss Melissa’s mother took her to Boston. There, they stayed with a friend of theirs for a while. Your grandfather was let go immediately. So he went to Boston and got a job there. Then Robert McAlister’s father went to Boston and came back with your grandfather in tow. That’s when they signed the deal.” “My grandfather gave up the girl for the farm?” “Don’t forget Figure Two. That filly was also in the deal.” “Why? What was so special about that horse?” “Her lineage came from Figure the original Morgan Horse. She was Figure’s ninth grandchild. Figure Two was Robert McAlister’s horse but she took to your grandfather better. Horse sense, you might say.” “This doesn’t seem right to me. My grandfather was bought.” “Don’t judge your grandfather too harshly, Master John. He suffered for Miss Melissa for quite a while. For years, I’d say. Your grandfather used to be a jolly fellow. He used to laugh and joke all the time. I never saw him smile much after that for quite a long time. As far as being bought goes, your grandfather gave Mr. McAlister all his savings for payment also. It didn’t count much as money but it was some kind of a payment.” “You liked my grandfather, Donovan.” “He was my buddy. He became my boss later but he always treated me as his friend. What happened to him just happened. One can never guess what life forces people to do.” “What became of Miss Melissa? Do you know?” “Her mother took her back home to Texas. McAlisters moved there also. I heard Master Robert and Miss Melissa were married in Houston much later. I don’t know what happened to them afterwards. Who knows? Miss Melissa was a spoiled flirty little thing and Robert McAlister, a solemn man, was several years her senior. But Miss Melissa and Robert McAlister were both used to acting fancy. Probably Miss Melissa wouldn’t be good match for your grandfather anyway. She wasn’t anything like your grandmother. Your grandmother worked for the farm very hard. Adding ponies, hayrides, and riding lessons were her ideas. She was one heck of a smart woman. Your grandparents worked well together. They were good friends with each other.” “Did my grandmother come in the picture right after Miss Melissa?” “Nope, that took about another six years. Master John, you know, you remind me so much of your grandfather. You used to be a happy giggly boy too. Until recently you used to laugh and joke whenever you came around here. If you don’t mind me saying so, your gait has changed. Like my horses, I can tell people’s innards from their gait.” “Maybe I’m just getting old, Donavan.” “No, Sir. I don’t think so.” Before we left, Donavan put an extra blanket on Tax Break. We walked back in silence through the half-sleepy landscape. With each motion of the wind, snow on the trees fell to the ground by the handfuls. Before we entered the house again, Donavan pointed to the clouds. “It doesn’t look good, Master John. You better plan on staying a day or two more.” From my bedroom window, I stared at the snow flakes fall idly at first, then with gusto. For a long time, I watched the stables, the silo, and the wide open landscape with its hills and valleys looking pristine and peaceful under their white cover, and I gazed at the wooden fence rails laden with snow and the lamp post under which lovers used to meet. For a split second, there exactly under the lamp post, Diane’s form took shape in my imagination. Someone whispered, “How can you leave all this?” I turned around. I saw nobody. The next day, while we were at breakfast, the phone rang. “Don’t get up, John. I’ll see who it is,” Greta rose from her chair. “It is the broker,” she said, when she returned. “Do you want to talk to him? He says to tell you that the bank is giving difficulty to the buyers. They need extra time to make other arrangements.” “Thanks, Greta; I’ll go talk to him.” Later in the evening I called Diane. Her message machine came on. I knew she was home and she was screening her calls. “Diane, please pick up the phone,” I begged. Then I said, “I’m not going to Sydney. I’m not selling the farm. This morning I told the broker I gave up. How would you like to be a horse farmer’s wife in New Hampshire?” Diane picked up the phone. “John, it wouldn’t be fair. I don’t want you give up your dream for me.” “My dream is here, with you, Diane. I’m not giving anything up. I’m holding on to what matters most.” Diane’s sobbed, “Yes, John. Oh, I’m so happy!” I gazed outside through the window. Under the flickering light from the lamp post, I could see the shape of the stables beneath the thick snow. |
| “Grant me the power through tonight,” Calanthe prayed, as Diamanta stroked Aymon Riviere’s rosy beard and said, “When are you going to introduce me to Monsieur Henri?” Diamanta’s voice was low and husky, unlike Calanthe’s girlish, whispery one. “No need for introductions, Mademoiselle Diamanta,” Henri said. “I know who you are, for I have already sketched you. That red plume on your hat highlights the composition.” Remi Legrand, the owner of the Moulin Rouge who sat near Henri, nodded in approval of the sketch on the table and turned to Calanthe. “And you, my dear, I see that leg is still bothering you.” Calanthe felt her fishnet stocking twist around her swollen, misshapen leg. She nodded and raised her chin to put on a masquerade smirk. Remi faced Aymon. “Bravo Mon Ami, if Diamanta can dance like Calanthe used to, we’ll soon have a new star.” “I am the best dance and theater impresario, if I may say so,” Aymon grinned, full of himself. “Soon, it will be over,” Calanthe muttered to herself, “after the cancan.” “Once again, Mesdames and Monsieurs, welcome to Moulin Rouge,” the announcer roared cheerfully. “And now… The Cancan…” Through the drunken cheers, swirling their skirts and kicking their legs, Fleur, Edmee, Brunella, Fifi, Antoinette, and Yolette rushed to the middle of the dance floor. Eyes focused on the girls, dancing, thrusting, panting, throwing their body parts at the spectators as if re-scripting their juicy stories and champagne dreams, even if the crowd only saw what they wanted to see. Calanthe, however, was watching only Aymon, as she rewound her recall. During one wintry Parisian afternoon, Calanthe met Aymon in the dim cubbyhole of a grocery store where Calanthe was stacking blocks of cheese. She twisted her head around when the floorboard creaked. A red-haired gentleman whose hat was two sizes too small was staring at her. “I will take your order in a minute, Monsieur,” she said. After tipping his hat, Aymon handed her his card. “But I am not here for groceries, Mademoiselle. I am here for a business proposal.” It was some proposal, indeed. Aymon promised Calanthe applause, hypnotized crowds, luminous costumes, a journey in the world of entertainment: The Moulin Rouge. Intoxicated with the dance, Calanthe learned the cancan quickly. She danced from her soul, free as a white ibis in graceful flight, as Aymon directed and encouraged her. “You are a goddess, Calanthe. Move faster, kick higher. Remember your power. Think fire; think passion.” Calanthe obeyed. In a few months, Calanthe was dancing in the dream world of vibrant lights and red windmills of Moulin Rouge. First, she danced alone in wondrous rapture, aroused by the cheers of the crowd. Then, in jubilation, she danced with the other girls, legs kicking in the air and elbows locked together in flesh. The camaraderie among dancers was inimitable, and not only at the Moulin Rouge. Under Aymon’s sponsorship, the dancers lived together in the same pension, and Calanthe soared as the brightest star of Moulin Rouge, dancing the cancan and teasing desires in others until she took her last bow every evening. One late night, Suzette, the oldest dancer who had become Calanthe’s friend and roommate, was shot to death in front of Aymon’s house in the Pigalle district. The rumor of an iffy murder circulated around; it was said that Clovis, Aymon’s servant, had taken Suzette for a prowler. Calanthe was suspicious, since it was Aymon who had asked Suzette to his house. “I hope he doesn’t kill me,” Suzette had joked once. “Something always happens to old, useless dancers here.” Several months after Suzette’s murder, Calanthe fell on ice and broke her leg. The leg didn’t heal well and Remi told Calanthe her dancing days were over. Recalling Suzette’s fate and fearing for herself, Calanthe visited Clovis in jail. Clovis said, “Mademoiselle, Aymon Riviere shot the woman, then gave me the gun. Not bad though, with only a year here and the promise of reemployment by Monsieur Riviere.” Calanthe had deciphered a cruel truth. So now, Calanthe sat, feeling powerful like a statue of strength, as Aymon fixed his gaze on Diamanta. That morning, Calanthe had given Suzette’s diary to the police chief Victor Moreau. In it, Suzette had written about dancers who were called to Aymon’s house only to be found dead later somewhere in Pigalle. “Serious accusations, Mademoiselle,” Victor Moreau had said. “Aymon Riviere may be difficult to locate.” “He is presenting Diamanta to Remi tonight, in Moulin Rouge.” “His new find, eh? For sure, I’ll attend to the matter.” Cancan was over. A lanky man with a top hat and curved back entered the club, his eyes searching the crowd. Victor Moreau…finally. Calanthe felt raw inside with anticipation. Soon, her real legacy would start living on for generations of dancers. Through the buzz of the crowd, Victor Moreau edged toward their table. For a moment, Calanthe experienced a swaying vertigo as if she was coming down a spiral of stairs too quickly. The police chief greeted the group; then pulled a chair to sit near Diamanta, blowing her a kiss. Abruptly, the air became suspended, suffocating, and steamy. Victor Moreau winked at Aymon. “Aymon, Mon Ami, Mademoiselle Calanthe Gaillard asked me to arrest you for some little murders.” Then, he threw his head back with a jovial laugh. Aymon’s eyes pierced through Calanthe. “You foolish girl, you imbecile! How could you believe my best friend would do that to me?” “I could instead handcuff you for vice or slander,” Victor Moreau turned to Calanthe. “Yes, Mademoiselle, the police chief can do that. He can do anything he wants.” “You might as well leave, Calanthe,” Remi ordered. “This is unacceptable. We don’t need traitors here.” Calanthe rose, wrapping her brown overcoat about her and not even feeling the texture of the cloth, her shock too immediate for any strong emotion. Henri limped after her. “Come with me, Sweetheart,” the painter said. “The Pigalle district has laws of its own.” |
| With a riot of annoyance about to burst, Laura lay next to Mike as he snored at a pitch that vibrated the blinds on the window. Even his sleep overpowered hers. 'He must be dreaming his dreams, common to him; the ones he usually dreams,' she thought mockingly. Maybe he was dealing in the stock market, cutting a ribbon for an opening, or walking down a city street with everyone applauding him. How Mike loved applause, how he wanted to be the powerful one, and how he controlled her! When she had confronted him about the control issue, Mike had replied --with his typical, offended kitten-look-- he was only protecting her and doing the best for her, but in his business he had to be careful with her safety. Laura had melted and had settled for whatever was her due as she always did when Mike looked at her so. Maybe their marriage had lasted all those years not through its own strength but through Laura's weakness for Mike. The image of their early romantic days locked in her heart, Laura consoled herself with some lame excuse that if a marriage were to survive, it would need somebody's sacrifice; his or hers, it didn't matter. What did it matter if her identity faded inside his rock-hard, tangible world? But at this late hour, despite his din, she had to fall asleep or she wouldn't be any good in the morning to see her grandsons off to school. The twins were staying with her and Mike while their parents attended a business conference out-of-state. It was high time now for the relaxation technique she had learned in a sleep seminar three months ago. So, inside her mind, she quoted the relaxation affirmations starting with the crown of her head, working down through her body, and loosening up each group of muscles while concentrating on the word 'peace'. When her thinking reached her ankles, she felt a twist through her chest as if a tube was rotating inside her. She was separating, emerging, and going up, although her body remained motionless on the bed. She was at two places at the same time. ‘Strange,' she murmured when, from the ceiling level, she saw the bed --with her form lying next to her husband's. ‘His snoring isn't that bad after all. And he looks so cute with his mouth half open.' She kept ascending and went straight through the roof. There, she perched on the brick Mediterranean tiles and gazed at the street under the obliquely falling white flakes. The snow had just started holding on to the surfaces while it continued its descent in ghostly waves in the dark night. There was no moon or stars but only the light from the street lamp at the corner, a faint flickering light with a mustard-colored tinge. She felt an indescribable calm watching her neighborhood swoon inside this dream-world of snow. It was then when she saw she wasn't alone. "Your ticket-puncher at your service, Ma'am. Nothing to worry about, really. I'm your guide. I can take you wherever you wish." Someone, jokingly, held out something that clicked and she laughed. She knew him from before but she couldn't figure exactly from when or where. Had she fallen asleep and was dreaming? "Is this for real?" "Of course," her guide answered, "this is a commonplace event. You're out of your body. Remember this; you're not your body." Laura nodded. Now that her guide had said it, she did remember something vaguely. She didn't know what that was, just that it had happened before and she somehow knew it well. "Only for a period of time you are a spirit with a body. You, a human being as a spirit, exist independently," her guide continued. "We can go through this universe; although, I don't recommend its outer banks --for the cloudiness of course. Or we can go to other parallels if you wish." "Other parallels?" "Other universes. Other worlds. The world of the mind. The world of the heart. What would you like to know right now at this moment?" "What is Mike dreaming of? Really dreaming of?" "Oh, the dream world... Let's see." He clicked his ticket holder and handed her a piece of paper. "Go enter the dream world and find out what Mike likes to revel in." In an instant, Laura found herself hovering over a couple dancing as they glided across the floor of a large room with a balcony overlooking an indigo sea with foam edged waves and a busy seaport. "Cagliari" she whispered to herself recognizing the place, "Cagliari in Sardinia." Laura moved in closer. Alongside the wrought-iron railing, luxuriant plants were spilling over the rims of red baked-tile pots and cascading down in multicolored flowers. A hauntingly harmonious music kept playing inside. The woman Mike was dancing with was... Laura, in a red dress and red shoes, and Mike sang to the music in his Al Martino voice, "alle porte del sole/ ai confini del mare." "To the door of the sun, to the ends of the sea" Laura translated in her mind. Then she sang the rest of the song with Mike, "I will travel anywhere as long as you are there with me./ On the wings of the wind, in the arms of a storm/It is always summer weather, with your love to keep me warm." "He is so into this song, isn't he? Think of its words." It was her guide's voice. "I know I'm a dreamer, but I don't want to wake up/ Whenever you touch me I can fly to the sky" Laura whispered recalling random lines from the song. "I have no illusions, just a heart full of lovin'/ It's a wonderful world I know, whenever you're near." Laura zipped back into her body at once. Mike had awakened. She gently touched him and he touched her back mumbling something in a sleepy voice. ------------- "Have the boys left already?" "Yes, Mike. They were very good this morning." "Two more days and Jessie and Doug will be back. We should take a vacation, too. Don't you think?" Laura nodded as a positive answer. "Ahha! Finally. I said something you agreed with. Where would you like to go?" Mike asked. "To the door of the sun," Laura teased. Mike glanced at her with surprise. "You know, I had a dream last night with that song in it." "You and I were dancing on a balcony overlooking the harbor. In Cagliari." "You had a red dress on..." "And red shoes, Mike. You were singing..." "You were singing, too." Mike lifted his bushy eyebrows in astonishment. "But how's this possible?" "I will travel anywhere as long as you are there with me." Laura sang, but her tone was serious and careful when she talked again. "Simple," she answered him, "love put us together in the same dream." |
| Out of his bedroom window, George watched Mrs. Bridges as she made her way into her apartment, bit by bit. Just a few hours ago, two men had come to take some of her furniture away. ‘She must be trying to make space. Maybe she’s getting some new stuff,’ George thought, although he didn’t see how, because Mrs. Bridges lived on a very low income. It wasn’t just Mrs. Bridges. Nobody in the complex was well off. Just a few days ago George had gotten notice in the mail about a twenty percent rent increase. Since he had no place else to go, he knew he had to pay it, and so did every tenant in those five buildings. Yet, George thanked his lucky stars. He would never get that shiny red used corvette he had set his heart upon in Eddie’s Autos, but at least, he worked at a reliable establishment and could manage his money from one month to another. Still, he admired the sleek image that kept popping up in his mind. Humming a tune, George clicked on the remote and sat on the sofa biting into a sandwich. At the end of the evening news, a slim lady wiggled behind a big boxlike glass enclosure into which numbered balls rolled for the lotto drawing. The ticket with the winning five numbers would get $700,000. ‘That can get me the car and then some,’ George dreamed. Why not? For the next drawing, he decided to spend two dollars and buy two tickets. Next day, George saw Mrs. Bridges walking slowly by the side of the road. He stopped his car and called out. “Mrs. Bridges, may I give you a lift?” “Thank you, George, Dear. I’m going to the Hospital to visit a friend. Are you going that way?” “Yes,” George lied. “Get in, before you get wet. It is starting to rain.” Mrs. Bridges didn’t own a car, probably she couldn’t afford a taxi, and the town had no public transportation. George worked on the opposite direction of the hospital, and once in a while, he drove to other stores of the chain to take care of customer complaints. Today, however, he was supposed to go straight to the office. ‘I’ll check in late and make the boss twitch his eyebrows,’ he joked inside himself. “How is everything, George?” Mrs. Bridges asked, clicking on the seatbelt. “Good enough.“ “What do you do after work, George?” “I watch TV. The news mostly.” “I had to sell my set. Anything interesting lately?” “Last night I watched the lotto drawing. Someone from Johnsville won seven hundred gran. I think I’ll get a ticket or two myself. You never know…with luck, maybe?” “Yes, you never know, do you?” Mrs. Bridges stayed silent for a while. Then she muttered something to herself and started scouring the insides of her handbag. “Here, George.” She placed four quarters in the tray on top of the dashboard. “When you buy yourself the tickets, buy one for me, please. Okay?” “Sure, Mrs. Bridges, just as soon as I can.” George grinned. “Do you have any numbers in mind?” “No, you pick whatever.” During the next few days, George’s work picked up. If, at the gas station, he hadn’t noticed the promo in big letters announcing that the next day’s lotto drawing was for eleven million dollars, George would have forgotten about the tickets. He hurried inside the convenience store and filled out two entries. After he handed it to the cashier, he remembered Mrs. Bridges. “Wait,” he said, “I have to fill out another one.” “I put this one through already. Why don’t you get another slip?” The cashier suggested. George filled out another slip and paid for the three tickets. Late in the evening when he turned the knob on his apartment’s door, George remembered Mrs. Bridges’ ticket. He knocked on her door but heard no answer. As he returned to his own apartment, he glimpsed her walking up the path. “Mrs. Bridges, I have your lotto ticket,” he called out. “Hold on to it, George. You tell me if it wins. I have no way of finding out myself.” “Come over at seven. We can watch the drawing at seven o’clock together,“ George offered. “Will do, Dear. Will do.” Around seven o’clock, after the news came the drawing. One ticket from the first slip already had the first two numbers. He jumped up in awe as the next three numbers plus the extra one equaled to the numbers in the palm of his hand. It was one of his tickets that had won the grand prize. His other ticket had one number matching. The numbers on Mrs. Bridges’ ticket did not match at all. George fell back on the couch. He already saw himself whizzing by in his red Corvette. Should he give up his job? No, why should he?. He would buy into the business... Maybe buy the whole establishment... No, he should become a partner... The knock at the door brought him back into his senses. He got up to open. Mrs. Bridges ambled in with a tray of freshly baked apple turnovers. Almost instantly, the aroma of cinnamon and apple filled inside his apartment. “I know you like these, George,” she said. “I remembered you telling me about your grandmother baking them for you.” “Yes, apple turnovers. Great! Thank you so much, Mrs. Bridges.” His grandmother... The wonderful lady who raised him... Her teachings of kindness, her chubby form, and her radiant face swayed in front of George’s eyes for a split second. “You won’t believe this, George. The owner sent the super over because he can’t face us himself. He wants everybody in my building out, so they can renovate the place and rent it for more. He offered me a third floor apartment in building C for seventy-five dollars more. Just how am I going to pay for that? I can’t even pay my rent without having to sell something or other every month.“ George’s grandmother offering him an apple turnover...“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal...” “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Bridges. I’ll see what can be done,” George said. “Oh no, George, you don’t. I don’t want charity, please. I wouldn’t take a penny from you.” “... but lay up for yourself treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal...” “No, Mrs. Bridges, I mean to tell you...” Nno, George. I know what a lovely boy you are. I love you like my own. Although I never had any of my own, if I could pick, it would have to be you. But I wouldn’t take anything of yours, just the same.” “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” A vision wavered right there in front of him. George’s grandmother watched, pointing to the ticket... Oh no, forget it, not the red corvette... “Why not? Why not, George?” “Why not?” George echoed. “Because you don’t have to. Here, Mrs. Bridges. This is yours. You have the winning ticket!” After the first shock was over, Mrs. Bridges and George kept hugging each other in tears of joy. Mrs. Bridges suggested that since George had picked the numbers and had gone to all that trouble of buying the ticket, the ticket was George’s; George told her that since she had paid for the ticket, it belonged to her. George thought of sharing the ticket, but Mrs. Bridges came up with a better idea. A few months later, a new franchise opened in town. The company logo said, “George C. Goude & Ellen Bridges Enterprises.” The business grew fast and soon became a leading player in the industry of the state. Its success startled everyone, especially its owners, Mrs. Bridges and George, who had become family to each other. It was habitual. Each evening, George stopped by Mrs. Bridges’ new home where they discussed most recent public service projects, such as low-income housing or education grants. Later, George left in his red shiny Corvette with a freshly baked package of apple turnovers. |
| "Bosphorus--in Istanbul, Turkey--is a seventeen nautical-miles-long strait between Asia and Europe, connecting the Marmara Sea with the Black Sea. Its widest point is 3300 meters and its narrowest point is 660 meters. Two bridges were built across the strait in the recent decades. Before that people used to cross from the European Side to the Asian side in ferryboats. To this day ferryboats and motorboat-taxies carry passengers across from one continent to the other in order to ease the traffic on the bridges. There's not only the traffic up and down and across the Bosphorus but also ferries and fishing boats. Since ships, most notably tankers, became bigger several accidents have occurred. Bosphorus always was extremely important, whether controlled by the Romans, Byzantines, Ottomans or Turks." From my Travel Notes -------------------------------------------------- The motor vibrated with an abrupt roar. All five of us clutched at the sides of the boat as a sudden wave swept over us. The man with the huge black mustache and bushy eyebrows, the one I thought of as the skipper, announced. “The engine’s croaked.” Everyone glanced at each other with concern. I looked down. I was the one to insist that we take this boat, although when we had started off the engine was already sputtering. In my excitement as the bride visiting her husband’s family for the first time, I was eager to taste and try everything in this magical city. I wanted us to drive through every major road. I wanted to step into every small alley. I wanted to taste every morsel of the Turkish cuisine. I wanted to touch every mosaic, to look at every tile, to see whatever is possible to see, and to experience whatever is possible to experience. I knew no fear. I had even enjoyed the day I had gotten lost inside the Grand Bazaar, but more than anything, I had felt an incontrollable rapture when I first saw Bosphorus. If I could walk on water, I would walk on these waters alongside the ferryboats sailing back and forth like ballet dancers. We had already taken a sightseeing cruise, the sights of which had left me with goose bumps. I had imagined myself as the sultan queen with sprinkles of seawater on her embroidered harem gown sauntering around the majestic, highly decorative palaces by the water. I was so enamored by this strait that each time we had to cross it, I made it almost obligatory for those with me to do it by water. That afternoon, we had just missed the ferry and the next ferry would come probably two hours later. While we were dejectedly crossing the ferry docks, a burly Turk directed our attention to the small barges by the side that taxied passengers from the European to the Asian coast, suggesting we use his water-taxi service, which would take us across in no time at all. When I looked toward the direction his forefinger was pointing at, the small barge with bright red rim and blue body hypnotized me. “Yes, yes, yes,” I bubbled with excitement, skipping towards it. “Will this be safe?” My husband raised his eyebrows tentatively but didn’t oppose too much. Now, here we were in the middle of the sea inside this small vessel that had unexpectedly given up on life. There were two other passengers besides us, a man of about forty years and his teenage son who remained unusually calm even though we had just gotten stranded in the middle of the sea with all that traffic bustling around a tiny boat. ‘Turkish people endure anything’ I thought. The mate and the skipper stood up. “We’ll get help,” the mate said, glancing toward me under the visor of his rumpled cap with a sheepish smile. He turned toward the shore and waved crisscrossing his arms over his head. Minutes later, we saw a larger boat take off from the docks. I glimpsed at my mother-in law whom I called Anneh, meaning mother. A thin strand of white hair had escaped through her tightly bound headscarf. She stirred nervously inside the long summer coat that meant to cover her from the eyes of the opposite gender but instead was imprisoning her. She avoided my eyes. “She’s mad at me,” I thought. If so, I knew she was right. I was the one who was grabbing at every choice, while it was her who quietly arranged the house, cooked the meals and did all she could without a peep of a complaint. Never once had I heard the words, “I want...” from her lips. She was taught like a command soldier that women had to be obedient and accepting, never too loud and demanding, while attending to the necessities of the livelihood of their families. I recalled that one morning while clearing up the breakfast table, I was throwing a piece of toast into the trash bin that had fallen off the table. She had yanked the bread off my hand, kissed it and touched it to her forehead and then she had put it in the trash. “If you respect the bread, you’ll never lack it,” she had informed me. According to the stories my husband and his brother had told me, her life was patterned with rules and regulations. She was highly critical of any disruptive behavior. She didn’t approve of loud talkers, people who were too insistent, and even women crossing their legs when they sat down. She had forbidden her boys to stretch on the sofa if there was another person in the room. She never tolerated disrespect of any kind especially toward the elders. I had caught her refer to the pretentious girls of Istanbul’s jet set, as “those girls on the street”. Yet, she was a person with irrational ways who believed in superstitions. To start with, she had a phobia of graveyards and death. Right that morning, she had made the driver to take the longer route in order to avoid the sight of a cemetery. A white larger boat neared ours with its engine idling. Two men from that boat stretched a thick wooden plank as a ramp. The mate of our boat held one end tightly while we were ushered up onto the side, over the plank, and into the other boat. My husband ventured first and turned around to stretch his hand to Anneh. She stepped onto the plank. Just then an ominous horn sounded behind me and both boats bobbed up and down on the waves. A big Russian tanker was passing through creating waves. I held Anneh in an embrace from her back. We swayed together on the plank in between the two boats. What miracle kept that plank in place and which divine being was watching over us, I’ll never know. As the waves subsided and I lifted my head, my eyes caught the sight of one of the long bridges connecting Europe to Asia. “We should have taken a taxi,” my husband said. That evening when we sat down for supper, though I felt I deserved a reproach, I realized that Anneh had taken the whole incident in stride and had not said anything. While we were doing the dishes later, I apologized for having put her through that ordeal. “Don’t worry,” she smiled. “At one time long ago, I too was young and I loved those boats. Don’t you think I once wanted to live and do as I wished?” Then she waved her dishtowel towards the living room where the men were sitting. “Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let them stop you, EVER!” |
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