Category: short story

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: The Uncertain State of Bliss on Harper Land

They were escounced in their mother’s dining room, the four of them, one at each side or end of the oak table. Their histories were captured in that wood: the everyday meals and fancy ones; their squabbles and their celebrations; the long, imprisoning ache of adolesence and the relative liberation of adulthood. There were stains and scratches both inadvertent and more deliberate. There was an ancient mound of spearmint gum still stuck underneath, Tim noted–it had been his.

Their mother leaned in, forearms flat on the table at one end. Tim sat at attention at the other. Their father was long dead and buried, rest his soul. They were here to address needs and wishes, their mother said with a sigh as she straightened her shoulders.

Hold on, give me a few more minutes, Tim wanted to say. And didn’t Dad already figure out all this with Mom long before he drifted into the ether? Tim took stock of each of his siblings to better focus. He could use libation other than iced tea with a mint sprig but it was only eleven o’clock. And everyone had these sorts of conversations with their aging parents. It couldn’t be that hard, they’d get it all figured out in an hour, then go back home.

Except Meredith, on his left, had already weighed in and she was determined to win; that was her M.O. And Delia at his right was turning the sweating glass around and around, the cork coaster spinning with it. She did not want to have to do this– though she wanted something for herself, but couldn’t quite say so.

If only their mother hadn’t broken a hip and a wrist during the February ice storm. If only dad was still around. If only we all lived nearby, Tim thought. But this was conterproductive thinking.

“The new place is perfect,” Mom said. “Not many stairs there, but quiet elevators going up three floors, plus a good view of the river, and very palatable food. I tasted a meal before signing. I can show you around if you would like.” She was smiling; it appeared she had accepted many changes. Then her smile wilted as her jaw tightened. “But first, we must tend to the house and land.”

Delia had stopped fidgeting and turned her warm brown eyes on their mother, resting her chin lightly on a hand. She suddenly leaned in, hand slipping. “If you don’t need the bulk of the money now, Mom, why not just, well, rent it out? You’d get a monthly income from it, as we talked about before. I could look after t hings. But on the other hand, a huge payment would be great–you wouldn’t have to worry about money. Um…so, what is it all worth now?” Shebegan to fidget again with her glass.

Meredith tensed as if awaiting a blow but Tim and Delia knew she in fact was preparing for a battle. She had likely determined its appraisal value. Well into her financial consultant career, this was her nature: how much, what was the likely outcome and what was the best strategy to get there (or avoid it)?

“Well, $750,00-800,00, they said!” Their mother’s voice betrayed surprise.

Meredith sat back suddenly, pushing away from the table in disbelief. “No, no–more like $950,00 is a far better bet. I’d push for over a mil. Come on! Who did you talk to, Mom? You have nine acres here besides a pleasant if older four bedroom house, after all. It depends on the buyers, too– like commerical, for example. That would up the ante!”

Tim expected his sister to jump up and haggle with any unseen appraisers. Or bang her mug on the table. Sold to the very highest bidder!

Their mother shrugged. “I trust my local real estate people– but where did you get your information, Meri?”

Tim heard them chattering away but, like Delia, he eyed the vanilla and chocolate wafers in the middle of the table. Sugar before lunch? They both took one of each flavor and slyly grinned at each other.

“Well, I see. More to think over, perhaps. Timothy?” His mother was calling him.

He licked fine crumbs from his lips and gently studied her. Iona Harper was lovely in a crisp light blue blouse, white hair pulled back from her subtly tanned face. She looked cool, even calm despite the discussion. As if she had made up her mind already but was being considerate by asking their opinion.

But why was he still always Timothy, Meredith was Meri and Delia was Delia or Deely? Because he had the misfortune of being the only son–or good fortune, which was more often the case over the decades, he had to admit.

“So, Timothy, what do you honestly think of selling now? If I don’t really need the money at this time? I am 78, and could live twenty years or ten. But the prices they get these days…!”

He cleared his throat then swallowed a moutful of ice-topped tea before replying. “I think… I haven’t from you, Mom, not fully. It’s clear Meredith is for selling and selling higher, and Deely may want you to hang on to it, however that is accomplished.” He glanced at his sisters and they nodded. “But your wishes aren’t clear and it is, afterall, your home… has been for forty-some years.”

She looked down at her folded hands atop the table. “And Terrance’s, don’t forget. And he’d say to do what I want to do. The problem is, I have mixed feelings. How can I not? It has been such a wonderful place to live and and embrace nature and raise three children and… my garden and–” she waved her hands through the air and they were like small birds set free, taking in all of it that she could, praising the place in a swoop. “It is your family home, as well, you three kids.”

Tim thought he saw Meredith roll her eyes then stop midway, and Delia swipe along her left eye but he continued.

“So you’d like us to help you decide, I get it. If your financials are strong and you aren’t worried about income now, then it’s really about what everyone’s wishes are, not your actual needs. So, we could vote.” He paused. “I’m still undecided, Mom. Frankly, it was a shock to hear you are moving so fast. And surprising to me that I am waffling.”

“Yes,” Delia murmured, openly dabbing at eyes with a napkin. “I moved back to our hometown just four years ago but never thought you’d up and just leave here.” She took a big breath, held it a second, let it go.

Meredith stared at the pretty crystal clock on a side table, thinking of the moving sale that needed to be planned. Next to it was a small, very old Western painting–their dad loved Western scenes– and it was of fine quality so might be valuable. How much more would their mother get rid of? It could net quite a lot. The small two bedroom apartment must be kept tidy, their mother said. The minimum was likely best. Delia had agreed it was too small for many extras, having gone with her on a tour.

Timothy was sympathetic to his mother and more to Delia than Meredith, but hunger started to dominate. He’d only had time for coffee and a dry croissant at the hotel. His return flight to Boston was in two days, not much time, at all. And yet. The house, the land. He felt sudden heat rise from chest to neck to face, bringing with it flickers of sadness and confusion. How much he loved it here when growing up. But his mother should enjoy more cash a bit before she died. She might travel again or want a new car or just have fun tossing it about. She had three grandchildren.

Iona, her own woman if still a mother, nodded. “I know, Timothy, but everyone comes to a moment when life will decide things for you if you haven’t done so first. So you all should vote. I can stay out of it, really–I’m making my own peace with it all and am soon moving on. More or less.” She sighed. “I have to tell you, the amount of money this house and land are worth is mind-boggling. It feels so strange for someone to reduce it to this or that number. It is a home, not a commodity. For wildlife as well as us.”

Meredith placed her arms across her chest, intent on controlling any stray emotion that might distract her. “But mom, it was once a commodity–a much, much cheaper one– when you and Dad bought it. I know you have deep affection for it, we all have enjoyed it– but.. it is still a commodity, don’t you see? And others could make a life here.”

Delia, despite her best efforts, shuddered and shot a strong beam of distaste at her sister.

“Yes, there are the ‘buts’ I still have, and there is another, sharper reality.” Their mother stood up. “However, I think it’s time for turkey and bacon sandwiches, potato salad and carrot cake. And let’s take a breather, shall we?”

Delia placed a tentative hand on Tim’s arm. He smiled at her, then winked as he used to long ago, provoking an easy laugh.

***

Later, as the June sun beat down on every animate and inanimate thing and a sweet breeze ruffled grasses and treetops–long after his sisters had gone home to a son (Delia) or to visit an old friend (Meredith)–Tim walked the property.

He began with the ample back garden area, enclosed by a slightly sagging, dirty white picket fence which he should fix. Or someone should be hired to fix. They’d enclosed it many years ago, hoping wildlife would avoid it and yet knowing just that wood fence would not be the solution, likely. It had proven somewhat useful depending on the critters. There were more woods and meadows beyond and about them, then; over time new housing, including many grand homes, ate up more natural spaces. But the Harper house remained surrounded by mostly wild and beautiful acreage. Their parents were the hold outs. No amount offered made them budge. The wanted the freedoms and responsibilities of owning land and their peaceful privacy more than any money.

Noting the squash, potato and tomato plants, the blueberry bushes and strawberry plants and more, he lingered. The flowers he faltered over, they were several, bright and beautiful all. Roses of oink, yellow and white, though, had begun their entrance around a few edges of fenced area. He had often helped tend this plot; everyone loved fresh produce on the table and canned in winter. It pained him to think it might lie fallow soon.

There was once a primary meandering trail stamped into the ground from all the footfalls moving to and from the large woodland. He could barely make it out through the tall waving grasses–they had felt so much taller when a boy; he could hide in the swaths that covered so much territory. It had been some time since anyone would have cleanly redefined the path. Toby, Delia’s son, enjoyed being out there, he knew that much. The smart, shy fourteen year old had texted with him on occasion, sent pictures of things discovered. Toby was thinking of becoming a naturalist, he’d hinted. An oceanographer himself, Tim felt pleased with his nephew’s idea; he vowed to visit him before he left.

If there had been room at his younger sister’s house, he’d have stayed there rather than a hotel, but it was 900 square feet and cramped already with two humans plus dog and cat. Delia had been divorced a few years and as a teacher lived frugally after having much more, but she said she was–and seemed–happier. Excepting their mother’s life-changing circumstances with a new plan. That had thrown her off.

“Mom won’t hear of Toby and me moving in with her. You know how proud and independent she has always been, she must live her own well-defined life until the very end. Which is a good thing. I think she wants to relinquish so much space as well as the stairs–and the memories there. But it is hard to do,” she’d said on the phone before he’d booked his trip.

Yes, he imagined that was so. Letting go, then going on. It had not been easy for him when his career moved him far away from Oregon. He still longed for mountains and the Pacific coastal adventures he’d had. He still looked for job openings, but his wife liked the East coast.

He scanned a vibrant blue horizon past the trees, then the reaching treetops; watched fat, noisy bees buzzing and heard music of song sparrows and redwinged blackbirds and crows shooting the bull. By the time he’d entered the relief of shady woods, he was nicely tired out. Sitting on a nurse log, a very old felled cedar, he tried to empty his mind.

It wasn’t easy leaving work to his team at the institute and Leslie to Genevieve, their baby. He’d waited so long to marry and have children and now that he had one, it was astonishingly harder, changing their lives in ways never anticipated. He tried to imagine what it’d be like if they could get out of Boston, find a peaceful country place. But Leslie wasn’t back to work yet, far from it. She struggled with post partum depression as well as the wiles and crankiness of a four month old infant. It would make such a difference to her health, his own peace of mind and their little girl as she grew up if they had a piece of pure nature at their bidding somewhere…

He shook his head at such daydreaming when a plump rabbit, making its way toward the meadow, quickly froze. Its pricked ears and twitching nose and whiskers, the rounded body still as a statue–he fell into the moment. The early summer sun lay lemony rays over wooded gound and amid abundant foliage; it touched the rabbit’s furriness and his own quieted body. Birds chorused on and on. And a redtail hawk or maybe an eagle called out with its high pitched voice. Then into his wide eyed viewing, a deer wandered. Its head lowered behind bushes as it grazed, but as Tim stood as stealthily as he could, it lifted its head. It gazed through trees, found him instantly with big eyes fixed upon his own. Tim’s heart beat hard as he held his breath. It remained like that a long moment, then bounded beyond his view.

His father had spoken of hunting when he was ten. Terrance said he didn’t much care for it but could teach Tim how to handle a rifle, a practical thing to know in the country. Tim agreed to shooting lessons but ddn’t try to hunt much the years following. It didn’t set right with him, either; he was more an animal protector, in the end, though it was ocean life that drew him most strongly.

Just then, Terrance seemed to slip down to meet Tim on that log. He shivered as a flick of energy raced up his back. He stood and looked about him, wondering about creatures, wondering about ghosts. His father likely stil adhered to the land all the way from heaven.

On his way back he considered it all. Should his mother sell her house–their house? Wasn’t it better to sell all or some of her land? It would ensure such security for her, as well and perhaps other family members. But what of the new owners, and possibly mercenary plans for building subdivisions? Would she care finally so much? She hadn’t said so. She had left it up to her children. Meredith was ready to sell, Delia appeared to be against it, and he was certain one moment and uncertain the next about what was best for their mother. For the family.

Living with a second husband and stepdaughter in Boise, Meredith had no interest in delaying the inevitable, she had said. Never to mince words, she had called him on the day they each got the call to visit their mother.

“Look, we all have homes, thankfully, and no one has the time to tend to things if left empty and unsold. Delia certainly isn’t going to put in the labor to keep it in great shape and would rent to any person who begs her if that course is taken. Mom hasn’t said she specifically wants us to keep it in the family, after all; she can sell or not, she says. You are way out by the Atlantic with the fish and hurricane weather, for goodness’ sake. And now you have a baby along with your somewhat new wife, worn out Leslie. Kevin and I have a second home in ski country. So let’s be reasonable, okay? Let’s meet up in Canby and tell Mom we’ll take care of things, and that means getting her out from under all that work. Tim, she should clearly sell the place.”

“You won’t miss it, Meri? Not even the old apple orchard you loved to wander?”

“Oh, Tim. Don’t go soft on me now! I don’t have time or energy to miss the past. We have so much going on in our lives. This is ordinary business, not a silly drama nor a tragedy. Let’s be sensible, get this done.”

Maybe his big sister was right, for once. He might call Delia and see what she thought after their table discussion, which had lasted well into the heat of the afternoon.

Tim wandered through the woods and came out on the other side, sighting no more deer but noting an osprey take flight from a thick grove of white oaks into the blue saucer of sky. He sauntered back to the house and hugged his mother farewell, but shared little of his thoughts. At the hotel, he lay in bed with hands behind his head, thinking of simpler times and a looming future. In the deep vault of night’s mysteries, he dreamed of birds sailing overhead yet watching him closely, and a little girl of about four running, running through grasses as tall as herself, and his wife weeping in his arms, perhaps in relief.

***

They met on the back veranda where they could look over the floruishing garden and open land and toward the place dense woods met the meadows, all dazzling with an emerald- and sage-hued beauty. Everyone had their mugs of caffeine, and they were full of their own thoughts while awaiting their mother’s arrival from the house’s shadowy interior. It was a morning of tender nerves and open vistas and a sense of life granting them more wonder and wisdom than they might ever be able to return. But they sat with nervous possibility.

Iona used a cane and made her way out. As she sat hard on the thick-cushioned wicker chair she seemed glad to be off her feet already. Meredith sat beside her in the matching chair. Delia got up and returned with a steaming mug for their mother, then took the spot by Tim on the porch swing.

“Well, we’ve made our choices in writing on a piece of paper. Let’s see what we’ve got,” Meredith said, tossing hers on the glass topped table before them.

The others did the same, though their mother had refrained. She had kept her hair down and about her thin shoulders; somehow she looked older as wisps fluttered about her pale face. She wore a navy cardigan over a white top and slacks; on her feet were thick soled sneakers. Drinking her coffee as she studied the still-folded slips of paper, she kept her face and emotions closed from her children.

Iona Harper had hoped to avoid such a moment. She’d expected that once she’d paid the apartment deposit at the retirement community she’d have been certain of her due course on all necessary matters. She had already boxed for charity many things that had once mattered and now were clutter. And donated to good places the majority of books, records and CDs. She had sold or given away china and crystal when the children had declined to take most. Letters, memorabilia and photos were for the moment boxed and stored–some things seemed reluctant to leave her own hands. She had kept a smaller desk but sold Terrance’s. More had to go, but this much had been done with help from Delia and a younger friend of Iona’s. The place seemed to echo more now, its high ceilings resonant with the small, more halting footsteps she managed better with healing time. Emptying the rooms brought tears and laughter and that had emptied her out more, too.

The place was done for, in her mind. She was about finished with it as Her Own Home, expecting the last door finally shut to close her up, too, when she left for good in a month. The finality of that hit her now. And it was not pleasant, after all, but facing reality was something she was pretty good at during her long, full life, as wife and mother and an award winning illustrator and teacher and more recently, a grandmother. And Iona was not done with all that, by far.

She stamped her cane–it was also handy for this sort of thing–on the floor to rouse them awake from their own reveries.

“Let me check the slips of paper and pronounce a decision, shall I?”

One by one she picked up the small folded bits, read the words that would change the course of this fine but simply designed home and finer land. Each slip assurred her she had done the right thing. And when she was done, to her embarrassment, she began to laugh through tears that leaked from her eyes in sweet relief.

“It is determined we are keeping the house as well as this land. For now, it remains in the family!” And she stamped her cane once more for good meaure.

Delia and Tim raised their grasped hands and shouted, “Hooray, yesss!” and nearly giggled in relief and de light, as if kids who were given the best thing of all time.

Meredith’s voice eeked through the commotion. “Oh, my gosh…really, you guys? You are tossing aside almost a million right now in family cash?”

Iona looked at her elder daughter and thought, Dear Meri has a lot to learn for so bright and successful a person. Will she find her way back to what matters most or not?

And Iona cleared her throat, clapped her hands loudly on her thighs. “And I have decided that Delia and Toby should be caretakers and occupants, should they so desire. You all shall own it one day and split the ample proceeds. But right now family has to keep it tidy, strong and full of life.”

“Oh, my Lord…you mean it?” Delia gasped, and Tim thought she might slide off the swing and collapse. But she composed herself enough to get up and go to their mother and give her a hug. “Thank you, Mom. You know we will love it here and look after it. And you will come by any time at all, night or day. Or even move back in.”

“No thank you, Delia, it is your responsibility now. But I will enjoy visiting… I think!”

Meredith sat quiet, for once. She looked from sibling to sibling and to her mother and shook her head. After a moment, however, she shrugged and got up for a coffee refill. It was a pleasant surprise when she returned with the pot and offered more to others.

“I could have guessed you’d give in to sentiment,” she said while resettling, “but I didn’t think you’d toss out all good sense. We still could sell off some of the land and have plenty left. It may not be worth so much in ten years. And I wonder what Dad would think.”

Tim swung back and forth, his and Delia’s feet pushes off, gliding forward; his heart was full, his mind clear. “Dad would be glad of it and you know it. He worked hard, made good money and he also gave much away. But, most of all, he had a heart for this land. Harper land. And we can visit Mom more comfortably–we can stay here with Delia and Toby now.”

Meredith’s arched eyebrows rose higher as she smiled a small smile.

“Amen,” their mother said with one more gentle stamp of her cane. “Now be at peace, Meredith, Delia and Timothy. Let’s appreciate this perfect June day.”

And that was the end of it.

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: Refuge on C Avenue

Lily was not about to be daunted by her neighbor’s daily fussing about his yard, which apparently required mechanized tools as well as manually operated ones. And he always talked to his duck, Henry, who liked to follow him around much of the time. She knew this from a few years of spying on them from her kitchen window throughout the day, as well as in-person knowledge. Quack quack quack. It was a Pekin duck, a drake, Marlon had told her, and she had agreed it–he?– was pleasant enough. But that was before she had vast knowledge of how chattery Henry could be.

She wanted to finish absorbing her book’s information before it had to go back to the library. She dearly wished he’d speak to it more quietly; it marred her concentration. Marlon’s voice carried even when he wasn’t adamant. Did he think the creature was deaf? Did he think Henry cared about his opinions and directives? But they were neighbors and Lily had to find ways to live with it for as long as necessary. She should have been used to noise, or at least intermittent loud sounds. It wasn’t the street sounds that erupted off and on, for it was quiet although they were three blocks from the small downtown.

It was Phil, her husband–ex-husband, she reminded herself–who was the noise maker, being an amateur musician. They lived twelve years in their small three bedroom house before she’d had enough. One whole room was taken over by his keyboard, four guitars, drums and miscellaneous small instuments–harmonica, god save her– and whenever the fancy struck him, he sequestered himself for a good couple of hours. It might even be ten at night, whereupon close neighbors called to remind them quiet time had arrived. It was embarassing. It wasn’t that he was terrible. Lily was no critic, but she knew he had some talent even while on a steep learning curve. People seemed to his musical offerings, at least when joined by others, at the block BBQs. Or it was the beer that blurred critical thinking. But it increasingly grated on her nerves when he practiced alone.

When Lily threatened to go on a six month vacation and possibly longer, he built a music studio. It was a really utility shed with makeshift skylight and decent sound proofing. In summer it got sweaty and in winter it got chilly, but he jammed by himself a couple hours after work or dinner most nights, then on week-ends. She thought it might help their sparse and malfunctioning connections. Then Frank informed her he was inspired to go back to college to study music in California. He imagined he’d stay on; he liked it better than Washington, anyway. Did she want to come? No, she did not. They parted ways, not without a few regrets. But their hearts were not bruised for long, even after thirteen years.

Lily paused longer in her reading of the weighty tome about women artists of Canada. She sat in her easy chair in the living room but heard Marlon sputtering and muttering something of imagined import on the other side of the shared fence. Maybe about the weeds he’d said were recalcitrant. Henry quacked and muttered back. As this continued, loneliness snagged Lily a bit. Marlon had a wife though she was not well and a companionable duck. Not that she wanted animals–she’d done that long ago and it was enough. Not that she needed another partner yet. But she did lack for a missing part in her life. Quietness, for starters, and something more satisfying than sheer entertainments, simple distractions.

One evening when Henry and Marlon were tucked away and Lily couldn’t sleep well, she slipped out of her rooom and pushed open the back door to sniff the cooling night air. It was fragrant with a tender sweetness. Stepping onto the cement patio, she admired the roses starting to bloom along the fencing, and slowly inching up the trellis. She smiled and yawned–her one successful flowering plant, something she had worked at for years. Her bathrobe wrapped about her, she sat in a chair and gazed up at a hazy sprinkling of stars. What would round out her life and allow refuge from the cares of the world, as well as Marlon and Henry? What mattered, what called to her?

There was only so much Lily had time and energy for after 9 hour days of work at Rick Wellingham’s Photography Studio. Sometimes weekends required her services, though only in case of emergency. She was the receptionist/scheduler/prop person; she liked her job well enough. But sometimes she itched to make suggestions to Rick, to offer her viewpoint on lighting or decor or poses. Which she never did, despite being there fifteen years. And it didn’t occur to Rick to ask, either–she would have reeled at first if he did, then jumped at the chance.

She had long ago wanted to be an interior decorator or designer if she was honest, but that was when she was in her late teens, then early twenties and bored with her history and eduaction coursework. Oh, she liked history alright and she read widely. But when she was alone she had painted suureptiously during those years. She took brush to small, thick paper squares, and added pen and ink drawings. She tucked them away in shoeboxes once she graduated, then met Phil on a cruise ship and got married a year later. She taught American history a few years, then swerved from that path as Phil’s sales career took off.

Lily sighed and settled herself when a light went on next door in their rear bedroom. She automatically turned her head, ear attuned to Marlon’s wife’s lilting voice through a screen window: Grace, a lovely woman struck down by cancer. Grace and Marlon were older by twenty-odd years, but the women got on well, had coffee talks. Now the two of them seldom met up. She thought about Grace b ut for some reason got Marlon to carry a greeting or food or a card to her.

She slumped back. Why was it that the most comforting times had to come to an end so often? She imagined how it might be if she had been an interior designer, where she would have lived, what people she might have met. The theoretical scenarios filled her mind with pleasure. Her eyelids drooped as she began to drowse in her chair.

Henry, however, was roused by a coyote sneaking through underbrush in the back yard. He let out vociferous honking and quacking. Lily jumped up, peered over the fence just as Marlon flipped the outside light on and stepped out the back door.

“I’m gonna get you, don’t come any closer!” Marlon growled, his voice barely topping Henry’s.

Lily noted he had a baseball bat grasped in a knuckley fist. The underbrush rustled and out came coyote, who stood facing Marlon as if he were an annoyance. That stare could unsettle anyone, she thought but Marlon was glancing about, blinking in the light and shadow.

“Over there, Marlon!” she called out, and he glanced at her, then rushed at the advancing coyote, bat held high. The canine stopped, stepped back a few feet, then dashed off.

“And keep off my land!” Marlon shouted and gave chase as the creature squeezed through a bush covering a gape in the fence. “Henry, good job! Keep on guard! We’ll fix that tomorrow…danged coyotes think they own the world. John’s cat got taken last week, can you imagine? Go to bed, Henry, you’re safe there.”

The bedroom light went off. Lily imagined Grace was shuddering from the gross interruption of her own insomniac’s musings. She hoped she was not in much pain and vowed to call her soon.

Lily crossed her arms before her and squeezed herself with a mini-hug. She wondered if the coyote was lurking patiently and how it would fare against the onslaughts of Marlon. Luckily, Henry was enscounced in a well protected hut. What would Marlon do without that duck? The thought of his being gobbled unnerved her. For she understood that Henry –and the garden and yard work– were his sanctuary even more since Grace had gotten so so ill, left far behind from daily activities they used to enjoy sharing.

But it was all the excitement she was up to for one night–a duck, a man and a coyote soon to return, no doubt, and why not, there was a duck waiting out there! She exited the night yard and shut the door firmly. Crawled back into her queen sized bed, feeling all that cool blank space around her. Pulled a bue and white floral coverlet over her head and then arranged herself into a compact gathering of exasperated bone, flesh and mind. And covered her ears. New ear plugs were on her shopping list.

The morning dawned too soon, Henry quacking off and on, the birds offering a repertoire of fine songs. As Lily prepared coffee, she scanned the yard and her focus got stuck on Phil’s old music studio. He’d been gone over a year. Why was it still there, gaping at her, a useless, weathered shed that imposed itself on her small but savored patch of land?

She needed to make it her own. Why not?

She was going to make it hers, yes–create a refuge for herself.

The thoughts came to her as easily, an unfolding design plan as she sipped coffee on the patio. She considered colors she’d paint exterior and interior, the tall grasses and flowers she’d plant along the front, the ways its tight area could be rescued, enhanced with this and that. She’d use it for…what? A contemplative space. A library and reading room. A place for her friends to come enjoy private converations and drinks, beyond Marlon’s and Henry’s earshot. She’d find a comfortable lounge chair in– add a couple more chairs, a round table for two. She’d ask Grace over on her better days.

She would… paint. Make something interesting of nothing. She would make art again. The skylight was large and allowed for plenty of sunshine. Lily might still add a window.

Once she located the key to the padlock, she entered the shed, stood still inside. The drab walls almost hid spider webs and smudges, but that would be alleviated by elbow grease and fresh paint. Perhaps a soft peachy tone or a muted sunshiney color. Nothing there reminded her of him, though. It was empty of music, of his unleashed spirit. It was open to a new tenant.

Over the week-end Lily worked long and hard and carefully inside and out, handling ladder, paint and brush with some difficulty but getting it done. Marlon watched her with surprise but offered no comment or help; he was busy with Henry and garden. Over the week she shopped for secondhand wooden chairs and circular cafe table. A couple of fat square pillows for corner of the space. She splurged on a good lounge chair and gave it a small bouncing try.

By the following weekend she was done. Ready to put the studio to full use. Exulting in her handiwork, she strolled to the fence where she could hear and glimpse Marlon and Henry. To her happy surprise, Grace was sitting with a shawl about her shoulders.

“Hello! Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

Marlon looked up sharply but agreeably nodded; Grace waved and smiled, offered a hello in return.

“I’d like to invite you both over this week-end if you’re up to it. I have a new spot to show you.”

Marlon gabbled at Henry who’d dashed beyond his grasp. “Phil’s place re-done?”

“Oh, let’s call it my place now. Lily’s studio.”

Grace smiled more broadly, her wan face betraying new lines but her eyes focused and brighter than in awhile. In her weakened but melodious voice she said, “Wondered when that might happen. Good for you, honey. I’d love to come over and see it. Try me tomorrow.”

Marlon peered over the fence with his bushy head inclined, his eyebrows rising, lips puckering to show his reserved approval. “Is Henry welcome, though? I mean, if he wants to come?”

Lily gave a little shrug. What was Henry to this man? Was marlone losing it a little? “Maybe so. If I’m not painting. It’s my snug refuge, Marlon, from all that quacking and muttering and all else that’s distracting.” She paused before adding, “But you know Henry is welcome in my home, if he wants to come.”

“Well, okay then,” he said, and walked off scratching his balding head.

Grace clapped her hands twice in restrained glee. It was enough to make Lily’s heart swell.

That night, Lily took her coverlet into the studio, lay on a pretty ivy fabric that covered the lounge. Breathed slowly from belly up and exhaled evenly. She hadn’t turned on the electric lantern hanging from a hook. Instead, she looked up through the skylight, searched for Venus and found her. The studio was entirely still. Not one irritating sound reached her, though there likely were few. The interior was so refreshed, but she decided she’d like a skylight that would open and close. Walls were darkened but gave hints of a spring green. A pink and white peony bouquet sat on the table. A compact easel was in one corner, in case she wanted to try painting a bigger picture. And her well made art box, a new purchase with handle for carrying in and out of the world, sat waiting by the flowers in a blue glass vase. It was almost like home, and would be as soon as her first painting found its way to a bright wall.

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: Genius at Work

He seems to know nearly everything about almost everything. He doesn’t just believe this is so; he has been told he has a mind like a powerful magnet, taking in all that he learns and he learns at high speed. He reads as if he is taking a long drink, enjoying every slurp and swallow so quickly you have to forego blinking to see him absorbing what is on a page or screen–or even out the window. It is not hard to imagine a high quality scanner in his eyes, a terabyte’s worth of computer memory in his head.

It’s like listening to the wild imaginings of a science fiction plot as he speaks of science and art and countless topics in between. And yet he molds a vision that makes sense. Even for high school students to whom he lectures. And tosses out tough questions.

Furthermore, he is excellent at putting the array of condensed, unique, arcane information to tremendous use. And cross connecting, though he calls this cross pollinating which is a more interesting way of thinking. This helps him and helps people, as witnessed by the progress his students make, and the manner in which he can solve problems at school meetings ( and as he develops and presents workshops at state level or across the country). He teaches world history and biology and even subs for the music teacher when he’s gone. (He plays clarinet and sax, violin, harmonica and composes.) The kids he teaches are leaps beyond what one would expect for high school juniors in critical thinking and knowledge of the subjects. Though some of the kids are noted as talented and gifted (and others work hard so they might become higher achievers), they all sit back and shake their heads. Even more typical students come alive in those classrooms; they hang on every word.

Can’t find the motivation to make good use of your high school education? Have your parents plead and swindle to get you into his classes and a miracle may happen. He’s a genius, they say, and at teaching as well as mastering his own brain’s capabilities. And he chose high school teaching, not research, not a big university. No fame or fortune for him–or not yet, it seems to want to find him. It is about helping kids unleash maximum potential and excitement for the experience. He once said he might have failed life if not for one fine teacher and a heavy door was shoved open so he’d leap and go seek. Being so smart was a burden before that.

His students don’t know he said that. They think he was born more than extraordinary. They might be right. How does this guy do it? When and where did he jump out of the vast universe at birth? They all love to learn once they set foot in there; they consider the possibilities they can aspire to as he informs of strange events and natural phenomena that make every nerve and brain cell vibrate faster, setting aflame their own dormant hunger for knowledge.

“But is he nice, is he respectful?” Students’ parents want to know such things if they haven’t yet found out for themselves. “Smart, sure–but is he fair?”

The kids shrug. How do they know? He’s their teacher, he follows the basic behavior rules like most adults. Yet he’s another kind of creature, there is a twist to every test, far-fetched question, experiment. They accept him in time. They embrace the goals. He is a smoldering, hyper functioning person, his brain power kept at bay only by fierce will, they think, as they wait for him to begin. Then leave, dumbfounded and enervated at end of class. Otherwise he’d go up in flames or just disintegrate before their eyes. Otherwise they’d not be able to keep learning.

But sure, he’s normal in that he’s about six feet tall, not all that good looking and has chaotic dark hair although it’s kept pretty short. Like he never looks in the mirror to comb it and who cares. He wears the same things every day–a black polo shirt and dark grey chinos or the other way around–he keeps it simple. His eyes, though. They could see all the way to Mongolia or the Yukon if he focused long enough, they suspect. They certainly see into them so if a student is timid, better not take his classes. At least, he perceives their intellects thoroughly when they apply themselves to the work he puts before them. His eyes are like laser beams, they decide, grey-blue laser beams.

And that’s the thing. He may be visiting on earth, so caught up he seems in other planes more suited to his interests and needs. Some of them understand. He was thrust into the world way different, period. There is no good explanataion of his intense presence and generally admired mental acuity. He is a mystery. They appreciate and fear that a little. It helps them to never miss class or give up on demanding homework.

What else his life is about, they don’t know. They may wonder but dismiss it as irelevant, except for those who are more like-minded and conjur up all sorts of radical theories. Then the students go home, leave him in the classroom where he belongs.

But one night Amelia is out with her possibly new boyfriend, Jamie. They’re finishing a salmon dinner when Amelia spots her teacher and of course it is weird, he is right there in real life, out of context, shovelling food in his mouth just like they are. But sitting across from him is a woman. Not just any woman. A mini-goddess who has popped in from perhaps ancient Greece, rosy dress draping across her body. Taller than he is, burnished hair wound atop her head, smile slight though her eyes sparkle as if pleased or amused–are they almost amber, tiger eyes? or just bright as she faces the light?– and her hand goes to his forearm and touches exposed skin as if she knows him well. Very well, as now he puts down his fork, takes her hand within both of his. They fall silent. Amelia chews slowly as Jamie studies his phone a moment. Then she swallows with difficulty as her teacher and the goddess are conversing intently. There is something going on, and she half-wants them to levitate, lift to that place from which they arrived like crazy magic and leave her happily guessing. Nothing else exists for them but the two of them. Amelia whispers loudly to Jamie: look. He glances over and pays strict attention while trying to avoid staring rudely.

Who in that restaurant cannot see how amazing they are? The couple finish their wine, get up and walk out of the place as Amelia and Jamie return, distracted, to their meals. Amelia feels like she was let in on a secret; she can’t wait to tell her friends. But she is also wondering about Jamie. His braod jaw, his warm voice, the way he attacks his food so enthusiastically. She can’t quite abide ravenous eating habits.

Jamie squints out the window, studying their teacher. Jamie’s intelligence tests at a coveted percentile like Amelia but he’s more–he senses things, he feels in layers of feeling, and so he responds to something in the way the teacher walks, then slows near the parking spaces, turns to the woman. She leans in, hugs him briefly, then pivots swiftly. Walks through one yellow pool of light after another that are cast along the sidewalk from old fashioned streetlamps. And the teacher stands with hands in pockets, watches her move away; then his right hand lifts in a wave, unseen, as she parts the night and is gone. The lifted hand lowers and reaches as if he is asking her to turn back.

It begins to rain. The teacher looks into the night sky. Increased rain spatters him; it is early spring and it is not warm. He hunches his shoulders, lowers chin to chest. He shrinks, collapses briefly into himself. Then straightens, strides to a handsome classic car, leans upon it, hands flat against its hood a long moment. Then he covers his face, is maybe weeping. Who knows what sound he makes, what words he forms in the damp and dark?

“Is he crying?” Amelia says, breaking the spell. “I mean, really, our genius is weeping over a–a pretty woman?”

“He might be,” Jamie says softly. “She just left him there.”

“Oh my gosh, how can he cry? Isn’t he somewhat impervious to emotional pain?” She laughs a little. “I mean, doesn’t that brain get everything right– or figure it out? He never seems soft at school….he’s all facts and hypotheses.”

She feels embarrassed for him, for the three of them, and looks away. Teacher or not, she is shaken, deflated.

But Jamie keeps watching. He knows a wounded heart when he sees one, he isn’t dense about things like that, not even at 16; he has not lived some perfect life to this point. But he’s uncertain why he has to feel this–the teacher man’s hurt–and now he knows something more than maybe he should. The teacher is not such a superman, and he sure knows he is not some alien from far, far away. Despite his astounding mind, despite unique teaching methods that shake up everybody. Now Jamie likes him that much more knowing that he is in possesion of not only an atypical, densely packed, irreplaceable brain that holds countless facts very few can keep up with him. That he is another mortal is good. A necessary and good thing.

The next Monday in class Amelia and Jamie aren’t talking, and they may not go out again. That remains to be seen. They are both looking at the man in front of their class. He’s fine, he’s once more that person they recognize. He’s a live wire, he’s bursting with the contradictions and choice complexities of biology and what it all means to humankind. What the students need to address to preserve, serve and be served by its far-reaching impacts as climate and cultures change. The miracle and power of arts and sciences! he says with a fist raised in the air. How these things relate to each other and to daily life. How they, his students, can use those gifts of knowledge while honoring them.

Amelia sighs. Their teacher is another person who is very, very smart, that’s all, she thinks, but she loves to listen to him, so she will. This class will help her get into an Ivy League school. But who was that goddess? Does she live nearby, did she fly into town for the week-end? Is she his lover, friend or sister? Or is she trying to recruit him for a CIA undercover job in Europe or a professorship at Harvard? Did he cry out of joy or sadness? She has to figure it out; it is a puzzle deeply annoying and thrilling to consider. But biology is just such good mind-boggling; she already knows she is going into molecular biology and will be a success. Just like she knows she will ace all her classes.

Jamie, chin in hands, follows the meandering line of thinking his teacher presents, a vast and undulating web, and sparks shoot up and fly through his head, and he gets it, he sees the connectivity between this and that and that and, man, it’s a radical process and he floats along and answers the questions right because he knows things, too. But what matters–what really matters–is that you can be a man and you can hurt but you can also be in the thick of the universe and pursue its secrets with or without others. And in the end, that’s what matters–the exploration and endless surprises that are available to human beings. The elation, confoundment, and to-be-revealed-answers that await him are just out of reach, and he’ll get there, he’ll find his way like his teacher has.

(This story was inspired by my oldest brother, Gary, whose musical gifts and probing mind with prodigious memory were so often astonishing, and whose soul and heart grew deeper and more generous with the passing years. Though not a high school teacher–he was first a psychologist and then a jazz musician–he taught me much. He is gone now. How I miss him.)

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: The Staycation, Q and Eek

(Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com)

Evie pushed the door open and into an offering of warm air. And the comforting smell of books. It took her a minute to orient herself. The walk in gusting flurries had about done her in as she half-slid about icier spots on the sidewalk. She knew better–she didn’t have stellar balance– but she’d been bored. Bored with another day amid a multitude of plants she’d fussed over, and alternately enjoying and regretting the presence of Mavis Divine, her off-white Persian cat, and the FM radio playing Schubert then Respigi–how jarring was that!- in the background as she cleaned up nearly a week’s worth of dishes. She needed to get out. She needed a small but invigorating leap away from simple routine. From a creeping boredom that threatened to yank her into the depressed zone. It was the endless winter, rain, dashes of snow and wind and more rain and not enough God-given light, not for her plants or herself.

And yet as she surveyed the books lined up like obedient children on the shelves, and bibliophiles bent over their captivating finds, and librarians hunched over computers–did they not read actual books in that job?– she felt let down. How pedestrian an outing did she have to choose? Couldn’t she at least have gone to that new coffee house? But alone, as usual, that was the thing; it wasn’t that interesting hanging out with yourself–not lately–while savoring a fragrant cup.

Why had she taken time off from her receptionist job at the women’s clinic? Her boss had insisted; Evie never used her PTO. It had been over a year since she’d taken time off and then she’d gone off to Hawaii. Got tan and drank a bit, enjoyed the islands–and sliced her foot on a coral, at least she thought, and ended up in the hospital. This time, a staycation suited her, she’d thought. But she had begun to miss the patients just five days out. And was restless.

She had another ten to go.

In the mystery section she pulled out four different novels and after reading a few pages of each, put them back. Wandering over to the literary section she walked by a man passed out on a leather loveseat with a grimy trade paperback; a woman whispering something exciting to her friend; a teen–playing hooky?– slouched in a corner with face hidden; and another man huddled with a stack of books on a table that rivaled a miniature tower of Pisa, if not exactly circular. All crime novels or true crime from what she could see. She shuddered a little, but he looked up with eyes a-twinkle, weirdly. She crooked her lips into the barest half-smile and took a detour. She had wondered about people who holed up in libraries and made it a point to not do the same more than a little while at a time. Yet there were plenty of people stilled by a captivating book, those in chairs made for deeper reading and thinking, and kids holding their mothers’ hands, excited to head to the children’s section.

Her favorite authors had no new books out. Evie lost interest in browsing after twenty minutes–how to know if a book was worth her time? How to read enough to rouse curiosity while standing in a narrow aisle? Graphics on covers lured her–a devious device, that visual eye candy– but it was not a smart way to make a decision. She found she had little patience with the process today; irritation with the books and herself grew. Upstairs were the art and architecture, psychology and philosphy tomes, and so she climbed the stairs with determination. It was good for her to be in the library, and a good saga would alleviate a portion of doldrums. Or great ideas.

The second floor was open in the center. One could peer downstairs, watch goings-on if desired. Like polite spying. Evie looked over, leaning on the half-wall, pondering her next hour. If nothing appealed, she was going to the Green Light Coffee Shop. As its name implied, photos revealed an interior bestowed with luxe plants and several skylights. She’d been meaning to go for weeks. Watching the women who’d shared some secret earlier now sharing books, she yawned hugely. She didn’t bother to guess what they chose. Considering the graphic arts section, she asked herself: how many showy, culturally informative books did she need stacked on her floor?

“Are you finding what you need alright?” asked a quietly rough-hewn voice.

The words yanked her from her sluggish state as she spun around. He was immense. Rather, not so huge as tall and straight as a fir tree, and surprising with rusty-red hair that flopped over an eyebrow. It was certain Evie hadn’t seen him before.

“I don’t think so,” Evie murmured, “but maybe you have a suggestion?”‘ She pushed away from the wall.

He stepped back, which with his long legs resulted in a three foot gap. He briefly studied her in a manner similar to evaluating inner workings of a clock. Neutral but interested. Then he grinned and he was enlivened. “It might help to know what you enjoy reading.”

“I was considering art. I like modern art but anything will do at this moment,” she said frankly and shrugged.

“This way, if I might show you,” he said, authority creeping into his speech, which held the faintest trace of an accent. British or Australian? She’d not know the difference. She hoped he knew somethng useful.

She followed dutifully although she knew the section well. But he appeared confident he could lead take her to a book that was appealing. He pulled out this volume and that and she shook her head or nodded and they talked a bit about various types of work and artists– his appreciation for Monet and Pissaro, hers for Cindy Sherman and Georgia O’Keefe for just two examples. How she was drawn to very contemporary ones– and crafters. They did agree on Brancusi and Rothko and more when he glanced at his watch. He possessed decent art information she did not have. He also possessed a gold tooth, a molar to the left of perfectly fine front teeth. Evie couldn’t keep her eyes from it. A voice to reckon with, a tooth to gleam at you. Hair that was wildly good to look at and consider.

When a moment passed he blinked and looked down at her gathered possibilities. Which truthfully held no great interest. Then his gaze paused on her face as his demeanor registered as pleased. It was a look most memorable for the quick lift it gave her.

“I’m off work shortly. We’re closing early on account of unpredictable weather.”

“Oh, I see–I’ll need to get moving, too,” she replied, though what she was up to next she didn’t yet know.

“Sorry that I didn’t inspire you today, Ms….?”

“Oh, it’s just Evie,” she said, grinning. Eva Lynne was not anywhere around since the divorce and her relocation. “I’m a regular, you’ll tire of my questions and my face.”

“Evie, I’m Q– yes, just Q– and new to your library staff. So please call on me for help any time,” he said, backed up and added, “We’ll revisit women artists next time, okay?” and pivoted with understated grace. Sauntered off. She watched his red-crowned tallness sliding through brightening spaces.

“Hello, Q, so long,” she said quietly to his retreating back.

She had glimpsed his name tag earlier, half-noted the “Q” and thought she’d missed the rest of his name. But it was his official work name and that was that. (The memory of her big brother taunting her with “E!”–always an exclamation–or worse, Eek!– came forward: first letters for a name were not unheard of, she conceded. She’d consdiering changing her name altogether but “Evie” worked. ) Of course she wanted to ask what Q stood for; she imagined everyone wanted to know, and what were the parents who had named him even thinking? But she wasn’t that forward; it would be rude. It might be Quincy or Quentin and he didnt like those–thus used the first letter.

She grabbed an updated history of women artists just to get something, and checked out. He’d given her alot of time. And had disappeared already, like smoke hidden in fog.

Well, it had been an occurrence that stirred, even altered her day. That was more than she’d hoped when she’d left her place.

Outside, flurries had ceased. Soft globs and little puddles lay where there had been fluffy bits or icy spots. To the coffee house, she determined, and set off, her lungs welcoming washed air. The malaise drifted off more. Evie squinted at sunlight as it glowed around cloud edges.

In the shiny new coffee shop there were small groups of people taking refuge from the damp and chill, finding comfort with hot drinks and good company. A back table caught her eye; she took her steaming latte to a quieter corner, then prepared to study her book as she sipped. This was better than she’d thought, the rich aromas of lunch fare and treats, coffee and tea circling about the open place. Muted conversations were punctuated by laughter, people sat, perched on stools, stretched out their legs on couches. Each loosened coils of tension they’d carried to the coffee house. Or sought that end. For the first time in months she was glad to be doing little but be at rest. Be more present.

She was beginning to undertand that she didn’t have to have a grand purpose. Evie didn’t have to develop a big plan that assurred money-saturated goals. She no longer needed a career-obsessed husband or a purebred dog (he’d kept Lucy, his before their mistake of marriage) that required lavish attention. It had been over two years of struggle to recover, the lengthy weepings and self-recriminations and bittersweet longings, and her mother reminding her weekly that she’d told her so. She had the time and mental space to expand life options, enjoy a few fledgling friendships and a job she truly liked. Much more satisfying than being a realtor. For now. She appreciated her tidy condo with its greenery, her new cat, her own choice of music. A corner in a hospitable coffee house. She could walk to a library, to the grocer, to shops and restaurants and a lovely park. It was enough. What had been missing–with the accumulation of things, long term plans and endless work– in her life before she arrived here, ready for change?

Safety.

Now she felt safe, usually.

Now there was a strange absence of drama and anxiety, fear and high alertness after a mariage marred by too much desire, too much disregard, and his random insults and punches. She’d take the periods of boredom. It might even be required, she thought, to heal up more, fill in any blanks with calm consideration.

She opened her book, sighed, took a sip of the latte.

“Excuse me, is this chair free? I wanted to move it to the window. I just need a place to sit with my mocha–other spots are taken.”

Evie startled at the sound of Q’s voice and, roused from her thoughts, looked up. He wore a baseball cap backwards and a big navy jacket so she looked him over to confirm his identity. Yes, coppery hair and all.

His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s…Evie! Sorry, I don’t want to bother you, I’ll grab another spot.” He smiled sheepishly, adjusted his cap.

“Sure, have at it, I was daydreaming so missed a beat there.”

“Thanks, I’ll leave you to that.” He took the chair and sat several feet away. He reached into his pocket for a tissue and wiped his nose, then inhaled the redolence of his drink and stared out the window, as if waiting for someone.

She might have offered him a seat at her table but no. Not today. Maybe not any time soon. Q glanced at her and she glanced back, a quizzical look to which he responded with a small smile– after which he retreated to his phone. That was fine with Evie, but she closed her book and watched customers come and go, heard the steady flow of conversation and espresso machine and othermechanical noises, smelled deliciousness of cinnamon and almond, fresh coffee and more. How relieved she was to sit there as wind whipped treetops, and cars slowly passed by. As if she had not a care in the world, which is how co-workers saw her. How she hoped to be seen, at least there. And as compassionate, efficient –just not weighted by miscellaneous sorrows. She had to be welcoming to patients and she wanted to be.

All would be well during this time off. It had to be. And for the moment, it was.

Until the brute arrived. Of course, he wasn’t quite that. But when the German shepherd trotted in with his owner, who wore a long red scarf and hat like warning flags, she steeled herself. That dog looked like it owned the place; perhaps the owner, too. Evie’s ex-husband’s Lucy was a Shepherd. Like her owner she did not play well with other canines and most people. This dog sniffed, paced, sniffed about then growled at a miniature poodle on a tight leash. Make them leave fast, Evie said under her breath, and the dog must have felt her anxiety so fixed his gaze on her. She gripped her cup, eyes darting about as she tried to figure how to scoot by the dog and outside.

As she stood, so did Q. He jumped up and stepped ahead of her, strode to the dog and the woman who gripped his leash as she waited in line. Evie sat down again, exhaling. Slow and steady.

“Hey there, Marcia, hey Toby, how’s it going, buddy?” He pronuounced her name Mar-see-ah— fancy, a bit like herself.

“Hi, Q! We’re just out for a walk and my afternoon coffee. Glad you found this place. I was just thinking how you now work nearby.” She smiled broadly, jostled his arm like it was a big deal.

The lanky, bright-haired woman ordered as Q crouched down to pet and talk with Toby. Scratched his ears, smoothed his coat. Toby wagged his tail an inordinate amount, slathered Q with kisses. Order completed, the trio claimed a vacated table.

It was Evie’s chance to hightail it out of there. She grabbed her coffee and was almost to the door, passing Q and friends, when a clump of customers stalled in front of her. Q and Marcia were animated by their chatting. Marcia placed a hand upon Q’s once more, then tilted her head at him.

“Well, Aquidus III, it isn’t like you’ve moved to a whole new country, only a few thousand miles. But Mom and Dad are pleased we’re all together again.”

There it was, another slight accent. Yes, British, Evie thought, but who cared, really?

Aquidus? Aquidus the Third? Aquidus Aurelius? Thomas Aquidus? Aquidus the Squidus…oh good grief, a string of foolish possibilities threatened her so she moved more assertively through clots of people. Q when his name began with an A? One couldn’t be called “A”, she guessed: “Hey, A!” It was slightly interesting that this Aquidus person loved animals and had moved recently, had a sister and parents he must care about. But Evie liked him as a patient librarian and preferred the simple Q, anyway. She tried to not look at him but her attention scanned him a last time. Just to take him in from a distance, the sharp mystery of him.

He laughed along with his sister, Marcia. “More or less, later than sooner!”

“You’ll soon get used to things here–and us again, I promise.” She crossed her rosebud- pink-tipped fingers. Maybe he needed good luck.

Q scanned the spacious room but didn’t come close to noting her presence. Evie felt like an eavesdropper–which she was–so ducked her head, made her way out the door. She rushed home, wet snow melting on her face again, feet twinging with cold as the winter sun lowered itself on the day. She thought of Mavis Divine. Her jungle of green beings. Her fireplace, before which she would settle when dinner was done, likely with a good book. Not the mammoth art volume. Perhaps poetry. She no longer felt bored–goal realized. She was almost happy and suddenly longed for the beach, those waves and beach treasures discovered during long zig-zagged strolls. You just couldn’t feel sad, lonely or distracted at ocean’s edge–it required full attention in the best ways, and fresh air to fill her up. That vast music of even vaster water…it was what she needed.

But Q…or would she think of him as AQ? The strange wonder of a name. Surely it wasn’t just his name that intrigued her. Nor his unruly shock of hair, his compelling voice. It was likely there was more than what met her eye. She’d go back to the library, return her book and take a better look around before the staycation was over. And she’d already chosen her favorite coffee house to sit, sip, observe and read. Dream new dreams.

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: Leaving for the Other Shore

Sawyer sat back in the weathered Adirondack chair, crossed his legs at the ankles and propped them on a tree stump. It was early April but the air was chilly. The wilderness view opened up before him. It was like entering a magic door that allowed him to take in a teal-blue lake with its backdrop of pine trees and above, brilliant sky broken up here and there with puffy cumulus clouds. That grand sky: just seeing it let him breathe deeply and well. He wondered if he’d have to fear the old tightness in his chest so much.

In solitude there might be a chance of a greater reprieve, and so Sawyer had left the city. And the fat job and the social circle that had begun to tighten around him like a noose, and even the golden-eyed, glossy-haired wife who had vowed to be there for all time, no matter what. Those words were spoken on Santorini when they were giddy with the prospect of making a life unlike any others before them. Not that they were naive. She–Bethanne– had finally careeened off the littered trail that had led to and from her parents’ divorce; he had dodged a family history layered and wrecked with complications.

The young lovers’ mistake was a common enough one. Their dream of love was full color and unreal, helped by that charge of sudden romance, more laughs than not and plenty of good talk. And no talk at all. So they had taken the Leap and landed in a place of multiple new realities. Anyone could have cautioned them; many did. But Sawyer, for one, didn’t care for other peoples’ opinions much. His new life partner felt it was the right time and the right man so that was that. When her hopes did not come to full fruition, she became balky and soon looked for keys to other kingdoms. As did he, in time, and perhaps worse.

Yet was there a worse thing than one morning walking away from everything known for the unknown? Or was it so bad, after all? The kicker, he guessed, was that he didn’t leave a trail of crumbs behind. He just left. His office facing mountains and a boss that was not once quite pleased; his platinum Porsche requiring too much attention; his perfect mid-century modern house. That, he did love. And, of course, there was Bethanne. Though she for all intents and purposes was well into being on her own,having stopped talking to him. Having become closer friends with..others. Geting a promotion at work. And finding a lawyer.

Did he feel rejected and dismayed by these occurrences before he walked out and didn’t look back? No, he thought, or at least not yet, or not very much. He felt justified in leaving. He was forty-two, and after six years married he ached for more aloneness. After joining the mad dance line that led to becoming a partner at the investment firm, he yearned to be his own man. He lusted mainly for the next drink and had stopped pretending otherwise at home. After spending too many bundles on cars, he went out and bought a used Chevy truck. That was the thing that spoke most to him. His wife was perplexed, displeased, evidenced by a very raised eyebrow as she watched him pull into the driveway. Then she looked away and eased into her fine, fussy vehicle.

He had felt a tiny frisson of happiness as he looked over the metallic grey truck. It was the afternoon before his departure, and his decision to buy it was his cue: it was time. No more delay was necessary. He’d already taken two weeks vacation, so it was reasonable to just take off.

He’d orginally been planning on driving another four hours south to the California state line and sunnier climes but he stopped to get gas and a coffee.

“Hey.” The guy–Bill, embroidered name on a grey shirt stated- looked from beneath the bill of his grimy cap. “What can I getcha?”

“The gas, this coffee and how fresh are the boxed sandwiches?”

Bill shrugged. “I imagine a few days. But kept cold.”

“I was thinking about the ham and cheese.”

Bill looked him up and down, saw the nice casual outfit, likely, and kept his opnion to himself. But then his eyes held Sawyer’s a moment before answering with a smile. “I’d mosey on down to Sal’s place for something like that. And try an honest cup of soup with it.”

“Thanks for the tip, I’ll do that.”

“Sure thing. Passing through?” Bill took off his hat and scratched his bald head, then resettled the cap as he took Sawyer’s credit card.

“Yes, on my way to California. Maybe. I have a nice stretch of time.” There was something about Bill that invited talk.

Bill nodded knowingly. “Nice–good luck with your trip, then.”

Sawyer tipped his Ducks cap at him and headed out. Then stopped at the door and pivoted. “Got any good reasons I should explore more around here?”

“There’s lots of places to like. Best start with Sal’s lunch, she’ll give you a bunch of ideas.” Bill chortled a little and the next customer pressed forward.

Sal’s was busy. His sandwich was mediocre but the soup recommendable. The waitresses and cook were trading a few barbs with each other but friendly. Sawyer felt the tension slide off his shoulders. He lingered over a tall iced tea–he had decided to give up beer and whiskey and more when he bought the truck and packed to hit the road. The tea was not great but cold so he drank it all. When he stepped up to the register and asked for ideas, Sal got a phone call so said, “Next door, real estate–he’ll give the info!”

Next to the restaurant was a second hand store and beside that, the real estate office. If you could call it that. It was a big unattractive room with photos stuck here and there. It might have made an area tourist information center if the office was more inviting and had better organized materials. But there was a smattering of homes and a few rentals, and after a time a simple cottage caught his eye. A house that was strangely inviting, though it was a dingy white–or tan?– with a roof that hop[efully was fully intact. A trellis that would sport roses, though not til June. Over a half hour from the hamlet, it was closer to the Pacific. Nestled in the forest. No neighbors rubbing right up to a huge, partly wooden-fenced yard. Lakefront property. The owner had died a year ago; family rented it out for extra income, Tom offered as Sawyer eyed it closely.

“Anything great to see and do around here?”

“Not so much,” Tom Johnson said as he lifted a shoulder and smiled. “What are you looking for? There’s a lighthouse forty minutes down the road. Trails to hike. Wildlife all over, good fishing on Midden Lake. You got a boat, right? Good boating. No? Well, you can rent one. The beach isn’t that far a drive if you take the ole–“

“Let’s talk more about this cottage–is it still for rent?”

He discussed details with Tom who made a few calls, ran a credit check. An hour later, Sawyer had the key and Tom was talking about seeing him around, maybe at Ray’s Tavern, full of curiosity about this tenant, but Sawyer was noncomittal. It could not have been simpler to get off track awhile. He had it on a week to week basis.

Tom called Molly, his sister–turned out they co-owned the cottage–as soon as the new renter left.

“I don’t know how long we’ll have him. He’s way city, headed to California, don’t know why he stopped here. He said he ‘liked the energy’.” He laughed sharply. “A tree hugger, maybe? Well, money talks, and he’s sure got that–but he’s pleasant enough. This could be an answer to prayer, Mol. He might stick around, who knows? Stop by, see for yourself.”

Sawyer settled in quickly. He went to bed earlier and slept later at first, there was lots of nothing to do. Then the second week found himself getting up with the birds. He’d just sit back in the splintery Adirondack chair on the long rickey dock built on Midden Lake, a few occasions tried a hand at fishing with a fishing rod found in the shed. Fishing was not his forte–yet. He arranged his hours into a new routine of relaxation with spurts of work, emptying his mind as time went by. Damp wind raked his hair, scents of woods and water filled him up with each deep breath. The quietness seemed less an anomaly, more a companion after week one. Then two, and just into the third. He was undergoing the foreign experience of making peace with life lived each day and he let his life unfold, seeking the smallest pleasures.

I can hear the rain and wind stirring the treetops, he thought each night as he drifted off or sat on the porch with its bench swing. The absence of intrusive noise was a gift. It had been years since he’d just sat and listened. His other vacations were chockful of events and booze.

He did think: well, I should go back now. I should call Bethanne, at least, out of courtesy. I should tell my boss…maybe tell him I quit? I might call Rick, my oldest buddy…but likely he’d try to talk me into going back, too. Or would he? Rick had switched careers long ago, lived in Idaho and worked as a forest ranger. He might really get it. But Sawyer didn’t want to explain anything, not even to him.

He did think: do they sell liquor at the tiny market? Then he thought: it isn’t waiting for me.

But although these thoughts circled around the edge of his mind often, none of that seemed urgent. The quibbling over whether to call or not call anyone was what felt daunting, so he stopped worrying about it. And stopped using his phone, then dismantled it. There was a very old phone plugged into the wall in the cottage; it had a dial tone so that was all he needed. Anyway, he believed all their lives would just go along–that his absence was like a speed bump in the dramas of the main characters he knew. Another reason he had left with a large canvas duffel bag packed… he was run ragged by drama that mattered little to him.

He thought briefly of his father, but he’d retired in Portugal. They hadn’t talked in seven months. It was a miserable fact he tried to avoid recalling.

If Sawyer had known how easy it was to get lost and become more at ease, he’d have done this a long time ago. It had taken gargantuan effort to garner considerable worldly success. He had occasionally wondered what, if anything, he’d missed. Now he grasped it more, could list items each day. He felt like a cliche: “Our man about town chucks everything and becomes a hermit-woodsman.” He laughed in the stillness and it startled a gabbling squirrel. He was far from that though it had a ring to it.

But it wasn’t that simple. It was grueling to do what he did year after year. If anyone had known what had been going on in his head and heart for the past twelve months or more, they’d have been shocked. They’d have been glad to show him the door–or disturbed, calling for emergency help. Depression had begun to sap his resources and dog his dreaming. It was using up any hope he’d held onto while trying to develop a more fulfilling or just decent–not so vulgar with resentments, flashing with roiling anger–existence with his wife. And with his job. That empty position that brought increasing acclaim for his skills. He tried to have good times with a few buddies but he tanked it by mumbling and stumbling out of the bars, away from poker games. Mostly, he wanted better for himself. He nonetheless drank away unpredictable terrors and a blanket of misery that had begun to squash him even while awake, running so fast.

He’d had a vague plan when he drove away from their home. There were two hazy but nagging options. Live. Or die. So he just waited to see how life might be if he could let go of the heaviness of failures, his growing sense of futility, the helplessness that seeped into him. He thought he’d search for and let a smattering of light in. if only. If he figured out what mattered.

He could use that drink, for sure. One tall cold bottle. A small glass of wine, even. But he could not indulge, that was also a certainty. He knew what the bottom of an emptied bottle or glass would come to look like: a locked dungeon. If he kept up the recreational cover he had for going numb, he’d be in serious rehab –or jail–before the year ended. No thanks. He’d rather give up on it all than have it come to that ugly end. He’d rather, in truth, end things himself.

Sawyer winced, narrowed his eyes at the parting of clouds that allowed illumination of the landscape. He looked at his good-sized hands. They weren’t so clean and soft as before. He’d chopped some wood, he’d busied himself in the yard and found the rhythm of physical labor a safe and often adequate relaxant. No one was there to help, nor paid to complete such simple tasks. There was a kind of freedom in taking care of things alone; he did it his way, on a nonexisent schedule. It brought an odd sense of accomplishment as he cooked for himself more, tidied up the 900 square foot cottage that had been well loved if neglected over time. That small size could hem him in, so he took daily walks at dawn and dusk, hiked up meandering trails in the Coast mountains, followed one gravel road after another to see where it might end. It was hard; he was used to a suit, sitting for hours, staring at computer screens, yakking on a phone. He was used to money matters, the graphs and deals and the stretch for the next spot on the ladder. So when he just walked four or five miles, his newly tested muscles cried out.

As warmth of the sun crept over him, he fell asleep. His mind followed a maze of dream routes–to his old, apparently gutted office where everyone talked without making a sound. To his wife running down an abandoned street, barefoot, limping with each unbalanced step, her high heels in hand. To his looking, looking for his car, not finding it, walking endlessly in dark alleys.

When the crows made a ruckus from a fir’s high limbs, he jerked awake. Sweat ran down his back; gnats circled his face. But he was grateful to be there, not elsewhere. Not home, that seemingly alien place.

The lake was blue as an early spring blue can be. Serene. A canoe floated several feet from the dock. In it was a woman of indeterminate age. She wore a floppy olive green hat and big plaid shirt. He sat up.

The canoe rocked slightly as it floated closer. At the end of the dock, she stuck a hand out to cath it and hang on lightly.

“Hi there. You Sawyer Ingram?”

She had steel gray hair gathered into a big ponytail and he could see her face well: round and open.

“I am.”

“I’m Molly, Molly Taber. Can I come ashore?”

“Sure…” He couldn’t turn down his landlord, could he? He was curious why she came by when Tom was the one who rented it out for her.

Skillfully she stepped out of the canoe in flip flops, pulled it ashore then walked on the dock toward him. He stood up before she held out a hand. Her grasp was strong; they shook once. She was of average height and build, perhaps in her mid-fifties. Clearly she was used to being outside; her face was tan and weathered about eyes, cheeks, neck.

“Wanta walk, then talk a bit?” she asked. “Thought I’d see how things are, how you’re settled in.”

“I’m good, but sure, lead the way since you know it well.”

They followed a barely visable path at the edge of the lake, Molly pushing aside plants and low branches, until they came to a clearing with a weathered picnic table he hadn’t seen before. She motioned to one aside of the table while she sat on the bench on her side. She loosely clasped her hands together after he climbed onto his bench, stretching out his long legs. He sat a little to her left, wishing he had the lake view rather than her face and the trees. He exhaled, smiled at her. She wanly smiled back and her sharp eyes took him in, in a flash. He saw a blue jay burst out of somewhere, then let his eyes focus on her.

“Well.” She looked all about. “I used to sit here with my father many a day and night. We’d talk, or not. He built and lived here since he was thirty and first married. I was raised here, a brother, too. Left when I was eighteen. So you see, it’s a family place. Then he died at ninety-four, so we–my brother, that’d be the Tom you met, and myself– rent it out. I nearly moved in after he passed.” She lowered her large brown eyes. “I have my own place, a fixed up farmhouse. I don’t need to have any ghosts as guests.”

“I can see it’s been well loved. The slouchy sofa, the old fashioned frig. Even the curtains and tablecloth look older but homey.” Was she going to tell stories? He’d expected country people would be more quiet and hoped for that. Hoped she’d leave soon.

“You like those? I sewed them a long time ago. Mom took off when I was fourteen so I did that sort of thing often.” She took a deep breath. “And now I have to ask–what brings you out here? Not too many stop for vacation around here, mostly familiar hunters or fishermen. Only one motel down the road. A handful of cabins. So…” She sat very still, as if presently rooted there.

And then Sawyer felt her mind zoom in, focusing on him, picking aspects of who he appeared to be, zeroing in on what he might be thinking. She was not shy in her examination. He had worked with sharp and powerful business people so it shouldn’t have thrown him off. But this woman’s presence was both comfortable and cagey, she had a breezy, sunny way that belied a wily and tougher interior, he thought. Why did she care who he was? He paid cash; he had more to shower on her if needed.

“I’ll tell you, why not?” he began, willing himself to also be easier, friendlier, or at least to act like it.

Fake it as ever. He just could not figure out why she had to interview him. He wanted to be left alone. He had come here to do just that–otherwise, he would hav kept driving.

“I needed a big break from work. It was getting stale. I was worn out. I worked so much I barely saw my home as my main living quarters. It was a no brainer to take a long vacation. Refresh, you know?” He turned over his palms, held them up and swept them about. “Besides, what’s not to love about our Oregon mountains and coast? I miss the outdoors; it’s been too long.”

“Burn-out, eh? That’s what the fast lane does for you. I used to work in Portland, ran reception, customer service at a gogeous historic bed and breakfast, you’d know it if I told you the name. The frantic energies and all those fumes got to me. Cars, buses and trucks and ambulances, honking, skidding, ramming things– and people. Random souls sleeping on the lovely terrace, then being chased off by the owners. Hearing a few gunshots at night. People running corner to corner. The business was great. I did fine at my job, but after twelve years I had to get tomore country again. Now I run my own farmhouse “B and B”. And watch over the cottage for my family.” 

She gave a smile as though they’d shared important imformation, and a connection since he’d come from Portland–so he half-heartedly grinned back. She took her hat off; her high forehead appeared golden in the thin yellow sunshine, and her thick salt and pepper hair gleamed.

He swallowed some spit, he was so dry–he wished so badly that he had a drink. “That’s pretty interesting. I bet that historic mini-masion you worked at is in close-in northeast Portland.” She nodded. “I do know the place. Our offices aren’t that far from that corner. Impressive you worked there so long. I can tell you, though, that I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Is that a problem?”

“No, not yet. High season is a long way off. It’s great to make some money from renting now. Just let me know each end of the week what you plan.” She picked something off her frayed uff. “What did you do for work, Sawyer?”

“I am–I still work, I guess, for an investment firm.” She said nothing and that was a good thing. “Well, great, I appreciate the flexibility, Molly. Glad you came by to chat.” He put his hands on the picnic table, ready to push up and climb out, close this deal easily. But Molly sat very still, gazing at the lake through an opening in trees and brush.

She didn’t take her eyes off the view. “I don’t really care why you’re here. I just care that the right sort of people use my dad’s cottage. I have standards. And in the past, someone who stayed almost made me want to sell it.” She cleared her throat. “He was on the run from the law. That happens at times out here, where a person can better hide away. It was a real problem for us.”

He settled in again, listened with more interest. Did she think he was a criminal? That was a new one.

“You never know what people bring with them. They can be running from pretty odd stuff. They might not be trustworthy. They might be heartbroken. They might have plans I would rather not know about. Everyone has a reason for coming to a place they didn’t think to find before. The only issue I have with welcoming others–those who pay– into my home is I have to take quite a risk. I’m not a suspicious person. I’m fascinated by and enjoy others. I accept them for who they are– or I couldn’t be in this type of business. But I need to be reasonably cautious. I need to gauge what might happen before it happens, even. I need to be–” she paused–“exceptional in my assessment of the odds. That came straight from my old work lingo…!”

So she was a gambler of sorts, trying to fgure out odds. But with people, not money. He respected that, so much of life was risky. But he studied her when she looked down and he couldn’t stop thinking that somehow she read minds and she was about to read his. He readjusted his cap and sat taller, ready to defend his lack of openess. Maybe he’d share something about Bethanne, just to encourage her to feel better about him. Though what was there that was so good now?

He decided no, no real reason to interact more. They were strangers. Just a vacation rental owner. Let her speak her spiel, then she’d get back to canoeing.

“Sawyer, the truth is I’ve got an extremely good gut instinct. When I was wrong that once about a renter it was because I ignored my gut. And I let myself be charmed. Big errors. I have to stay tuned in, can’t help it. So I want to tell you: I see that you are a good man, a decent human being, and I’m glad to have you here.”

Good, he thought, this really nice but nosy lady is finally wrapping it up. “Appreciate that, Molly. I sure hope so.”

She continued. “But I’ll also say this: you hurt too much. It’s in your eyes and shoulders, the way you cave in as you walk, sit, the way your arms press to your ribs as you talk–like your center needs protection. It’s lingering in your being. I suspect strongly you’re seeking refuge from that suffering, whatever drove you away–and you just stopped here.”

She locked eyes and it was as if she saw down to his core, like she dove right in and discovered who he was and where he was headed unless things changed in major ways. If only he could survive the year-long plague of his fear and despair. Was he that transparent? Maybe he could no longer wall himself off; once he was expert at that. He tried but could not look away. Her eyes were too warm, her gaze unabashed– her kindness vast, and there was trust that was clear and simple.

Molly stirred, pushed a flyaway strand of gray hair behind her ear; in so doing the mutual gaze was broken. Then she slapped the tabletop as if to break the spell completely. “So, now, that’s it! I hope you find comfort in my dad’s cozy house and land, this lake and woods. You’re safe here. Well, we have a bear, Big Benny, that comes nosing around now and then, especially when the berries are juicy-ripe…But I hope you heal up. Even have some fun while you’re at it. Give life more chances.”

She stood up but he remained sitting. Shaken. Who was this woman? Why did he listen so closely? He felt the old, crafty, soul wracking ache well up and threaten to undo him, but this time he gulped it down with an uprising of tears. He might let himself feel it later, maybe, if need be. Right then he wanted to be in her gentle–also strong, even tough– presence a little more. He rose and followed her.

When they reached the dock, Molly climbed into her canoe, took a paddle into her capable hands and started to move away.

“If I wanted to go canoeing, where would I rent one?” Sawyer asked as she shoved off hard.

Molly let loose a hearty laugh. “Of course you want to canoe, who wouldn’t? It’s in the shed, didn’t you find it yet? Under the brown tarp, probably behind a bunch of junk. Use a life jacket, just a suggestion. If you need a first lesson, let me know. There are still a few of us that prefer a canoe to anything else that floats. It’s the perfect way to experience everything out there. To drift along happily with fish and fowl. Try it at sunrise or sunset!”

“Thank you!” he shouted as she drifted out, then her free hand rose and she flicked the air a bit.

Sawyer watched her glide off, long ponytail lifting slightly in a sudden breeze. She followed the shoreline, then paddled to Midden Lake’s center, silently slicing through deep water toward the other side where she melded with soft shadow. He held on to the subtle glow of offered compassion, marvelled at the incisiveness of her mind and clarity of her intuitive energy. Becaused it was exactly what he needed, her welcoming spirit. To think he’d be able to have such responses and feel these tender things, anymore! It was like having a circle drawn around the original human being he once was, that person he’d put in a corner, then almost misplaced. So he stayed within it, the good heat of care. Opened to it a little–even with reservations. Who was Molly Taber, a canoe-travelling healer? There were stranger things.

He’d check the shed tomorrow, find out how the canoe and he managed on the water. he thought about calling Rick. Bethanne? No, he had to give himself more time. His boss? What boss? The man and the end of his work there would wait. Sawyer had a life to reclaim, and he had to do it on his own. Sober, if feeling small and uncertain, and discovering the other side of bleakness with each dawning of his days.