Tag: relationships men and women

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: A Reluctant Partnership, Pt. 3

The summer dug in its heels and often seethed with heat, so that languishing on the patio was only good in morning or evening. Not that Jeanette languished much, what with her calligraphy projects, currently five in various stages. She was content to work at least 4 hours a day. The nature of it enabled deep meditative moments within the larger design and details, the beauty of it appearing beneath her pen as it slow-danced across paper.

But Lenny craved the outdoors and socializing, so he took off for hours some days, gone to who knew where. Sometimes he alerted her to plans if they were going to make and eat dinner together. Other times he slipped away, came back quietly is her head was bent over her desk. He was not such an intrusive roommate, al thing considered, she grudgingly admitted.

But if he was there he dove right into conversation, as always.

“I was thinking, I painted the bench a sage green, so why not yellow for the patio table and chairs re-do?”

She had been listening to a book at the time but she noted his mouth moving, so took out the ear buds. She gave Malloy a pat on his big furred brow, noting his tongue dripping saliva onto the floor. She had to ignore some things. He licked her chin, which made her shudder.

“Lenny, yellow screams at you, don’t you think? A blue house, a green bench–now add yellow? Make them sage green, too.”

“You have to admit yellow is cheerful. Maybe I should’ve pushed for a yellow bench, then…” He took off his Oregon Ducks cap and ran a hand over his sweaty face. “But whatever you say, Lady Boss.”

“Oh, stop it. I appreciate it, but too much alteration is…. too much. I can get you a big canvass for you to paint if you love color so much.” Her eyebrows rose involuntarily at the thought of him making any serious art.

Stroking his chin, he nodded. “I might try that. My grandfather was a painter. Well, he painted signs and such–still, he was good at it. I liked to watch him, hand him brushes. He managed a farm supply store but made signage on the side. he wanted to teach me but I had little patience for it, I was just his admirer, his steady hand and careful ways, but my dad would have nothing to do with that business. I sort of regret not learning from him, now.”

She didn’t answer, as it would keep him talking on and on about his grandfather, nice man that he likely was. It was too hot. She moved to the slider door. It was warm even with air conditioning–though she liked to keep it less cold than more. Lenny thought that odd when the whole purpose was to chill out in A/C. She opened the slider, gazing at the bench and then the table, and went out. He rummaged in the refrigerator, found his leftover ham and cheese sandwich, then joined her.

“Sage green, that’s final– for now. Do you really want to paint?”

“Okay,” he said and took a large bite. “I never tried it except for little projects. I like creating things, you see. I’m not just a factory worker.” He focused on eating, slipping a bite or two to Malloy under the table.

She emitted a little huff. “Of course not, I never intimated such a thing… Anyway, I’ve decided to go on a walk with you as suggested. The woods are cooler now. I do miss those trails some days. Might as well get back to them.”

Lenny was swallowing but the food stuck for a second. He’d asked her countless times to walk with him–he liked to share nature with others, why not Jeannette? She was so used to being alone; it had made her sort of crusty. He thought he had gotten fusty but since the pandemic-caused layoff, he realized he truly enjoyed more people, places and activities than he had had time for before.

“Well, one more thing settled, Malloy. Tomorrow morning, three of us go walking.”

******

Jeanette entered a kind of dream state as they moved deeper into trees. The greenness covered her, seemed to enter her pores by osmosis. It was disorienting. But each step brought her closer to an easier surrender. It was the heat, she told herself, many strong scents permeating the air, or her allergies leaping to life. But in fact, she was becoming more enchanted by earth and sky, plant and animal life. Lenny knew much about these things so he talked, explaining, for example, differences between Queen Anne’s lace and its poisonous look alike, water hemlock. His voice almost blended with the surroundings–full of nuance, light and shadow, a rumble of earth’s underlying energy brought to the surface. It was soothing to her ears, unlike at the house when he talked voluminously, sometimes without particular direction.

They dawdled by a tinkly creek, its musical flow steady and sweet. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, and beamed all around as if he had found a secret garden and was introducing it to her. They saw fat skittish rabbits scurry off, a garter snake rippling between grasses; heard vesper sparrows, juncoes, tanagers, woodpeckers and she thought she heard a Cooper’s hawk call out. Lenny agreed. It thrilled her that she remembered. But other than his identification of things–she let him go on, despite the fact that she’d lived behind these woods for twenty years–they were quiet, their footsteps light.

Why hadn’t she availed herself of all this more the last few years? Because teaching had worn her out. Week-ends required more labor without her ex-husband to help, and when she retired, she wanted to do what she loved and rest and not be bothered by compulsory conversations or additional agenda. Still, here she was. They were. And it was a sort of revelation–despite passing others on the trails, or hearing cars in the distance, or sweat streaming down the back of her light cotton shirt, it was good. She needed to walk more, explore again more of what lay beyond her closed door.

After twenty minutes they came to a meadow with tall, silky grasses. She spotted a brand new bench; she had enjoyed a pause there when it was still splintery, long ago. They sat down in the shade of a mammoth white oak and she pulled two bottles of water and two bananas from her rumpled paisley backpack. Offering one each to Lenny, they then satiated their thirst and hunger. She noted wild roses stirring in the breeze as their perfume came to her and Lenny. He got up and picked one to sniff more closely, then handed it to her. They chatted about nothing of note, then fell silent again, eyelids drooping under the veil of early summer heat.

A sudden country song filled the quietness, and Lenny pulled his phone from a back shorts pocket.

“Lenny here.” He pressed his ear closer, his eyes widening. “Wait, slow down– just what exactly happened?” he barked, sitting upright, ear pressed closer.

Jeanette sat forward, alarm shaking her from reverie. Was it something or someone at his house? His best friend?

“Oh, no. When was this…? Where is he now? And what do they say? What does that mean? Hold on, I can’t understand–yes, alright then…” He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, took a long intake of breath. Let it out. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I do want to come! Give me a half hour and I’ll get back to you!”

Lenny turned to her, his face drained of color, void of calm.

“That was my brother, Joe. It’s Willy–remember, my nephew? A terrible car accident. I’m getting a plane ticket to Pittsburgh.” He grabbed her forearm.

Willy, the nephew who was like a son, and always would be.

She grabbed his arms in both of her hands and they sat there a moment, face to face, Lenny’s eyes alive with fear, hers wide open. They got up and took off at a fast pace, Malloy running between them.

*******

Lenny let her know when he arrived safely. Then it was 2 days before Jeanette got a brief update via text. Multiple organs injured, head injury, badly broken leg, fractured pelvis. It was bad. But he was alive, so far. Intensive care, a group of specialists working on things. He couldn’t see him, of course; no one could due to the pandemic. It was hell to not see him. He and his brother, Joe, and sister-in-law, Ellie, were holed up at Willy’s house with his wife Meredith, their two kids. It all was just crazy. He’d text her again tomorrow if he could.

She found herself unable to concentrate well, losing her place in her calligraphic work, starting chores, then stopping halfway through. Malloy and she sat, listened to the radio, then slouched out to the patio, then returned indoors where they watched television together, Malloy’s head on her bare feet.

Lenny texted again late on the fourth night. “Long night here, can’t sleep. They’re still assessing things, keeping him going. They can fix. thank God, the pelvis, leg. Can they fix kidney and pancreas damage? Will his heart ever calm down? Can he even respond much? No new answers. My brother is a wreck, his only son….Willy’s kids are freaking out but his Meredith is a strong mother to them…Hug Malloy for me. Give him treats, walk him, of course– please and thanks.”

She said of course she would, hung up. Gulped down a small lump in her throat. Got on her knees and hugged Malloy.

*******

So walk they did, just around the neighborhood, mostly, at least twice a day. When he whined at the slider door, she opened it and he romped a bit, did his business, lay down in the cool grass under the trees’ great, leafy branches. Once she found him under the bench, another time, he was sitting on it as the sun went down.

She sat beside him, stroking his long back. “I know I’m not the guy you want. But we do alright, don’t we? It’s family, you know–for Lenny, it’s all about family, and almost anyone can be family.” She laughed softly at that. “But this time it is blood ties, you know, and that’s big. His pack. So we will just wait it out until he gets back.”

Malloy held her eyes with his deep brown ones that never looked miserable or empty but, rather, calm, perhaps often wondering, and simply kind. Could a dog be kind? Malloy had had a good teacher in Lenny; he had been raised right.

As no doubt suffering, beloved Willy had been.

******

One morning she plugged in the coffee pot and made coffee. Malloy’s long nose sniffed deeply of the aroma as it dripped into the carafe. She poured a small mug of it and put half and half in it and a little sugar and carried it it onto the wrought iron patio table. She sat down and took a sip and spit it out.

“Tell me. Malloy, how do people drink this dreadful brew? I have to make my tea now.”

Malloy grunted and stretched out on the still-cool flagstones.

When she came back with tea, she left the mug of coffee at the place opposite her. As if he was coming back shortly from his early morning breakfast with his best friend, smiling and carrying fresh pastries or bagels for them to nibble on.

******

On the eighth day, Lenny texted as she was making a snack of apples and cheese for herself, and bits of cold chicken for Malloy.

Her phone dinged and she read: “Pelvis surgery went well two days ago. Willy is responding better to interventions. His heart rate is steadier, lower. He can nod a bit, blink and tries to talk but part of his face was fractured so he can’t talk…he may look different, but who cares, he gets surgery for that. And the leg in two days if all goes well enough. Wires and tubes, they say, doing their work. Joe and I are spending more time together than we have in twenty years…sad, huh? But good, too. He’s so shook up. I have to go, Ellie needs me to do an errand.”

Usually Jeanette responded with something like: “Thanks for update. Keep your head up. Willy is in my thoughts, hope for the best for him and your family. Malloy is just fine.”

But this time, she wrote: “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, for all. I’m saying a prayer each day. Malloy misses you, I can tell, but he likes our woods walks. Hang in there, Lenny, just hold onto hope, okay?” She felt as if tears were possible as she said these things, and it felt strange.

He answered: “The woods, good! I can use all the prayers you got. Glad Malloy misses me, but glad he is with you.”

“Willy will get better, I can just feel it.”

“Yeah…he has to.”

Feel it, why did she say that, what did that mean? It might not be true. It was up to the doctors and Lenny’s nephew. Willy had to strive the best he could to stay alive. So many factors went into recovery from a catastrophic accident. But she meant it. And believed it. For Lenny’s sake, if nothing else. He just could not lose his nephew who was like his son.

That’s when she knew. Their partnership meant something. Lenny meant something, after all. She’d never expected an unknown, down-on-his luck tenant to become an honest-to-goodness, real-as-life friend. It was something to wonder over. A sudden good fortune. But with that came everything else, too.

******

After that, they texted two-three times a day, check-ins about Willy’s progress and how the family was faring, and what it was like in Pittsburgh in June. Sometimes they chatted about what they were watching on Netflix, or what her work was currently, how he had projects on his mind for when he returned, especially her yard if he could have at it. The city he described sounded quite marvelous. She’d visited Pittsburgh once in her late thirties, and recalled a sense of progress, the beautiful setting against steep hills and its two large rivers.

She looked forward to their talks. But it was a surprise when he called one morning, two and a half weeks after the terror of severe crisis had waned just a bit. Willy was beginning to make some tangible progress, and surgeries and treatments seemed to be working.

Lenny was keen to talk about a botanical garden he’d visited. His descriptions enthralled her and he sent pictures to her phone.

“You should see this place, one of the prettiest I’ve seen. Not that I’ve been to many but I sure would like to take a tour of more. You would love it, so lush, colorful, and the orchid collection and the butterflies! It’s very old, too, still going strong. What a paradise.”

Just to hear the pleasure in his voice made her feel better. “You went with your family?”

“Naw, alone. I let them be more, now. Joe and Ellie just went back to work. Meredith as you know took leave from her job, is home with the kiddos. I’ve begun to ping pong between the two houses a little. I think I’ll give it a few more days, see what’s happening with Willy. But they say he looks better–I can’t imagine when he came in–and every day brings a small improvement, so far. They saved the kidney; the pancreas will take more time healing. Special nutrients are helping, too. He’ll be there awhile.”

She could hear him clear his throat, cough.

“I’m so truly sorry this happened to Willy…I can’t say it enough. You and your family must worry every minute.”

“Yeah, a drunk driver, didn’t tell you that before.” His voice cut the space between them, then diminished. “Thank goodness he made it, though. The other guy, unfortunately, did not…”

“Oh.”

She could think of nothing more to add; the silence fell hard between them and held. She decided to break it.

“Well, at least during this time Malloy has gotten more comfortable with just me. Though he whines on your bed at night, it is heard to hear but he barks at me to take him for walks. Drags his leash over when he’s good and ready. So off we go!”

Lenny laughed readily. “Good job, both of you.”

“Yes, I agree,” she said. They wrapped up the conversation with their respective weather reports. It was a signing off they did each time they connected.

******

“Lenny?” she said as she answered her phone. She and Malloy had moved into bright sunshine as they left a meandering wooded trail and she put on her new aqua sunglasses.

“I might just come back. But I hate to leave them. But what else can I do? Kinda in the way now. None of us can go to see Willy, just daily updates. Then, yesterday we finally got to see him on a video call, and again today for a few. He looks…Jeanette, he was so good looking– but he’ll be alright. It looks like he’s starting to heal much more. He can’t talk, jaw wired shut, but he seems to get all we say. We just yak at him for ten minutes. A total relief to finally see my nephew… Joe and Ellie are working to keep sane, I think. I’m at loose ends, spend time each day with Willy’s Meredith, bless her, she’s a good gal, and I play with the kiddos. We swam in their great swimming pool a few times–dang, he worked so hard to get where he has gotten… They all seem some better. There’s hope, a continued, slow progress. I should let them live their lives, not have them fuss over me, which they do. I don’t want to be overstaying my welcome.”

She imagined him worrying each night as he tried to sleep, wondering if Willy needed him to stay even though he couldn’t be with him. If he’d done enough, if he could do more. She saw how he was like that, mindful of others, putting others first more often than not.

She had lain awake often, herself, thinking of the situation and everyone affected. It impacted her more than she’d expected. She didn’t know them, had known Lenny three months. But how upset he was about Willy, how brave he had been to get on the plane, offer his help, face the bleak unknown.

Feeling his absence, if she was honest, though it took her awhile to figure out that was the discomfort in her own home.

“Maybe ask them if they need you there now? Maybe you can go back later when he gets home, help out more then.”

“That’s a very good idea, Jeanette.”

When they hung up, she got back to her calligraphy, more settled than she had been in a long while. She loved her work, how it blossomed into more than she planned, the words scrolling elegantly across the pages as she gave her all to each stroke.

He called an hour later. “They said to go on, they’re managing now that Willy is improving, and they’d love to have me back another time.” But he sounded sad if somewhat relieved. “I guess I can do video chats with him when he’s unwired. I’ll tell him farewell till next time– and I definitely will be back.” He paused, then added, “But man, will it be nice to be back in that familiar bed.”

She laughed at that. “Sounds good. I knew you’d do what was best. Malloy will be happy.”

“Yeah, ole boy, sure have missed him. It’ll be good to be home again.”

Home? She repeated that in her head and aloud a few times after they ended their chat. He said it. She guessed it had become true, then. How odd a thing. How it touched her. And unnerved her– but that feeling vanished as soon as it arrived.

******

She put the medium-sized portfolio bag on the end of his bed. It was stuffed with painting supplies–brushes and tubes of gorgeous colors and disposable palettes and small canvasses, along with a couple of books about painting with acrylics and watercolors.

And closed his door again. He’d be walking into the house in about one hour.

******

He’d roughhoused with Malloy awhile, they were both way beyond pleased. Then put away his things, and came out pf his room with the art supplies in hand, mouth wide open. She smiled and waved his thanks away, taking their drinks and a cheese plate to the patio.

“Well, here we are, back on this dull but loved patio. How did we get so lazy that this is our daily thing? I have to get at it, paint this table and chairs. Maybe we should plant more flowers, how about zinnias, they’re pretty when they get tall, colorful. And we need to find more trails to walk–hike that is, if I can ever get you to be more adventurous. Plus, I was thinking of having a barbeque soon. Invite my buddies, you invite yours, we’ll cook up some burgers and franks, maybe barbecued chicken! Sound good, Malloy? Yes? Of course you can have a taste!” Lenny rubbed his exposed belly and looked up at Jeanette. “Alright by you?”

Jeanette gawped at him. He was surely back, bigger than life. Overflowing with plans to put into motion, to push ahead. Anxious to make the days and nights peppier, more interesting–as if life wasn’t interesting enough already. But he added an extra bit she had missed too long.

Zing. Pizazz. Oomph.

“Yes, it is alright with me. As long as you leave me in charge of detailed planning and we execute things together. Just because I missed you a little, don’t get big ideas of huge changes and sudden good will spread all about. And I’m not about to have a man push me around again, you know, I am perfectly able minded and self-directed. I was thinking the other day that we’ve managed to become friends and I’ve missed you a little despite our differences and a certain lack of interest on my part, so let’s not–“

“Wait, you missed me?” He leaned over the table toward her, reached for a hand which she pulled back.”You missed me. Well, feeling has been mutual, Jeanette, my friend.” He patted her hand, anyway, then sat back again and held both palms up to the treetops. “But try to take over here? Never considered it! Why, that would be disastrous, I’d be out of house and home, and Malloy and I would be running back to my poor old place with tails between our legs. No, ma’m, we’re going forward arm-in-arm. If that suits you, that is.”

She raised her iced tea glass and he raised his beer bottle, clinked them together.

“And here’s to Jeanette MInthorn, who has the gumption and generosity to get me art supplies. Me, soon officially a painter!”

“Yes, no excuses. I expect you may have talent, the way you talk about beauty and color and–“

At that he got up and went over to her. Put an arm around her shoulders. He couldn’t help himself, he squeezed her close to his side so that she had to say, “Enough! Don’t you push the limits, Lenny Grimes! You might still be on semi-probation as a roommate!”

He doubted that, but he just sat back down with nary a quip. He was so glad to be back, and they talked until both of them–more accurately, he– ran right out of words. For the time being.

Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: A Reluctant Partnership, Pt. 2 (of a 3 pt. serialization)

Jeanette had hailed Lenny from the side door at last minute but to no avail, he drove down the street, Malloy’s furry ears flopping in the wind. They were off to the store for bagels and lox and dog food and who knew what else. She’d wanted to add a few more things to his list, the basics. She felt he overindulged in certain things, such as butter, half and half, honey. And much of everything else. That’s what she got for renting a room to a stranger without first devising a questionnaire about criteria such as eating habits. Plus, simple agreements regarding cupboard and refrigerator space.

She’d said so a couple of weeks after he’d arrived. He’d gotten masking tape and wrote on a few strips: Lenny’s, Jeanette’s. He promptly plastered them on various shelves, checking to see if his choices were okay. But still he availed himself of large amounts of items such as butter. Did that mean there was some sort of deficiency that he had to address? A need for fat? She’d had the odd thought that it was almost like being married again. Men had a way of assuming things, and consuming things. Maybe she should have found a female roommate, after all. Too late; expectations only needed greater clarification.

He just that morning took issue with what he felt were her generalizations about people, men in particular. He wasn’t rude about it. In fact he laughed a little. Perhaps at her. How she pegged people before she knew the whole story. Well, she had good judgment, overall. His words irked her. She’d reminded him he was a tenant for a bit over three months but they didn’t exactly know one another, so no presumptuous mind reading was allowed. This was after he thought she meant one thing when she meant another about the lawn being mowed. She’d not renewed her contract with the landscaping company and the yard was looking shabby so tried to put a new plan in place.

“Well, none allowed by you, either, then. The mind reading. For the record, I couldn’t delve into your mind even if I had xray vision, no worries there.”

She grunted. Was he perhaps like her past elementary students, needing simplified explanations? “Then what about the lawn? I thought I said all that aloud–it’d be helpful if you’d mow it once a week to save money on lawn care as the landscaping company overcharges plenty. That’ll even save you money on your rent over the course of months.”

“I see. I deducted that you were thinking it over, not locking in a decision.” He looked out the window, assessing the overgrown backyard. He guessed she’d let things go because she’d just expected he’d get the mower out and have at it as if he was the yard man. “I’ll do it if you take thirty or forty dollars off my rent.”

Jeanette studied him openly. Lenny leaned against the living room door jam, arms loosely crossed, one ankle and foot crossed with the other. A stocky man, he had an easy grace that belied his bulk. It wasn’t much for him to ask, a few dollars deducted. He was at least willing to do it, a pleasant surprise. She sometimes was tired out by three quarters the way through. The yard was big, by her energy’s estimation.

“How about I will try to get it done twice a month and you do the other two weeks? And I’ll take fifteen off the rent.”

“Fifteen? Such a huge amount! But if it’s harder for you as summer gets going, you do it once and I do it three times. Never mind taking more off the rent, I suppose.”

“Well.” It sounded too good to be true.

“I mean, it’s the principle of it: I’m not an employee. I live here now. I’d do it for nothing if you asked.”

“Well then–“

“Oh–” he lifted up a forefinger”–we made a deal. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I love to muck around a yard any more than you like to cook and dust.” He flashed his lazy grin. “I’ll do it early Friday,” he added as he headed to his room.

She frowned as she turned to an email about a new calligraphy project. It was going to be a hard one. But a fascinating one. But she thought, I am a decent enough cook, how would he know? He, after all, cooked his own meals; they looked passable. Dust did have a way of escaping her attention. She might hand him a dust cloth and polish sometime. Or just keep ignoring it and him.

When Lenny returned from the store, he carefully sorted and put away each item. She got a look as she filled her cup with more hot water for tea. Butter, she noticed, and half and half. She said nothing and neither did he. Honey wasn’t needed right that moment. She’d make a store run, too, didn’t she do so every week when on her own?

“And by the way– that bench in the corner of the yard? I looked it over. It sure needs help.”

“Have at it, nobody uses it. I was going to have it hauled away, ” she said, hunched over her computer.

The lawn was mowed but left at a far greater height than Jeannette would have chosen. Still, it pleased her happy to have it done at last. She’d not really appreciated how severe the yard people were, truth be told, whacking off this and that, rooting out every little thing that had the misfortune of sticking out of odd spots. They made the place look as if inhabited by an obsessive-compulsive. She was orderly but unworried about things going a bit awry. It was nature, for heaven’s sake. Character was something she appreciated, which is why her simple but attractive ranch house was blue. It had been stark white with black trim when she was married and the first thing she had done after he disappeared was get it painted.

Good thing she was amenable to some variance. Lenny was lax about his room, that became obvious fast, but it was none of her concern as long as food didn’t rot there. He kept the door shut, a relief to her. He earned the full right to privacy by paying on time his rent money. It was the second biggest bedroom, meant for children she’d never had, and if he managed to utilize every crannie–well, to each his or her own. She’d never considered how empty the room was all those years there; it was a guest room. That is, not until he brought up having a nephew as they relaxed one evening on the deck. They’d gotten into a semi-habit of meeting up in early evening and he’d start gabbing while she tried to find and savor stillness.

It was warm, and the fragrance of lilacs teased her nostrils so that she inhaled deeply several times, emitting sounds of delight. As did he. Even Malloy raised his nose in the balmy breeze.

“Nephew? One only?”

“Yeah, one and he’s like, um, a default son. My brother’s son, but that’s what it always seemed to me. Willy’s the kind of guy everyone depends on, but as a little kid he leaned on me growing up. His mom and dad, my brother, divorced, and soon he was at babysitters a lot. Joe, his dad, was often gone on business though he lived nearby. I was the available and single uncle, never got hitched, so was around a lot more. Willy runs a software business now, and likes to travel to distant shores so he’s this restless person, the pandemic cramping his style. His wife is a smart one, too. Two sweet kids. Haven’t seen them all since 2018, though.”

“You ever do a video chat?” She reached for her phone reflexively, pulled her hand back. She used it for news and keeping in touch with a couple old co-workers and even more so her best friend in Arizona.

“Not too often. I don’t know why.” He scratched his neck, swatted at a bee. “You never talk about family.”

“That’s because I don’t have any.” It came out sharp-edged; it was a jolt to be asked.

“Everybody has family.”

“Not likely true. And I don’t, so stick to your own story.”

Lenny rocked back on the chair’s back two legs a moment, set it down again with a thud. Jeanette examined the cactus plant on the table. Why was he making things personal? He tended to go in that direction so she had to head him off. It was like a tick or something; he had to get talking, right to the nitty gritty. Some people liked to lay open their private lives, they went on and on. She wasn’t one of them, never had been.

“Well, I have wondered if you had your own kids, not just students.”

Jeanette narrowed her eyes at the small potted cactus in front of her, then slid a long glance at Lenny. He looked down. After the moment had passed, he got up and went to the weathered bench that languished in the corner of the yard. Mallory lifted his head, groaned contentedly, then lay it down again.

“I can fix this up real fine. How about I sand and paint it?”

She got up and joined him, pushing stray hair from her hot face, glad he changed the topic. “What did you have in mind? Not something garrish.” She sat down on it, tested the slats of its seat. “It’s held up a long time. We used to sit here sometimes at night, look at stars. My husband–my ex–and me.”

Lenny looked at her curiously. He had little doubt she had known more carefree times, and that her marriage was…interesting. Jeanette had spirit, intelligence, passions of her own, even now. He, did, too. One was working with wood. Fixing stuff.

“That’s great. I’ve been to a couple of dark sky reserves….what an experience. Put me in my place, you know? I mean, in the universe. But as a very tiny speck…”

“We went to the Chaco Culture National Historical Park in Idaho. It’s the third largest dark sky reserve in the world. No words can adequately describe it. Have never forgotten it.”

Lenny whistled at that. Malloy had dozed a bit but got up and trotted over to him, nudging a leg with his furry head. “I’d like to see it someday. We’ll both just get in the car and go, huh, Malloy?”

Jeanette got up, too, went over and patted Malloy. “You pick a few paint swatches. It might be nice to fix up it up back here. Wouldn’t hurt. I used to have a garden, too.” She gazed at the old plot that was near the cypress trees, remembering tomatoes and snap peas. Their acidic red and sweet green tastes, juicy on her tongue.

“Yeah, well, was thinking that your table and chairs need a touch up.”

She looked at the patio set. Black cast iron and glass. Worn out black. Heavy and dull. She should have dumped it all. “What color do you suggest?”

“How about yellow?”

“No, no–too much. I’ll think about it. The bench is enough for now.”

She started toward the sliding glass doors and turned. Malloy had followed her so she petted his head and thick coat a moment more. She had an urge so broke her guiding rule to stay more or less congenial but impersonal. “You should see your nephew soon and his family. Your brother. You never know.”

Lenny settled into the bench, an arm along the back, and tilted his head. It was cloudy but he could imagine the constellations up there. Pulsing and shining in the giant canvas of sky. He could imagine anything if he let his mind roam. He imagined the back yard all brightened up with lights strung, a fire pit, meat sizzling on a grill, people coming by. She had such a sweet home.

His was perched atop a sloping lot and it ended in a hollow that was flooded every winter and spring. The house was more than he could handle. It had been an investment he was proud of once, but he’d had bigger hopes than brains and it showed the years of wear and half finished projects. He’d been lucky to be able to rent it to that family. No, this was a fine place. He wondered if she knew what she had. It was a smart move to come here even for a few months. Here he felt almost useful for once since his job being axed. And he was getting to know her some even though she had barred and bolted the door to her insides. He didn’t understand that attitude. He liked people, he naturally went out to them with an open mind.

Jeannette got her thick botanical art book and retreated to her room. As she passed the small round mirror above her dresser, there she was. If she was honest, she was too lean, close to gaunt, grey hair coming in wiry and wispy, her tired eyes bloodshot too many days. She smiled at herself but was not convinced–it, too, was tired– so began to wash her face.

“He’s annoyingly nice, isn’t he?” she muttered into soapy hands. “He fills up that room as if it was made for him.” She stood bolt upright, face dripping suds and water. “But it wasn’t– he’s here for only a while.” She submerged her face again. Just helping lessen respective financial pressures. I can barely stand it when he gets personal. He is too direct. Sloppy at times. But he’s a an alright guy. Malloy, much better company, though he tracked in dirt along with odds and ends from their walks. She might go along sometime to make sure he didn’t get into anything worse. Good dog, he was.

The bench was one thing, she thought as she settled into her green wingback chair, book open on her lap. But if he started on the table and chairs what might he be up to next? It felt intrusive even though it was a generous gesture. Or seemed to be, who knew. How could it be both? She didn’t desire many changes. Her life had been run smoothly by habits and will, her own understanding. And all had gone along well enough.

Oh, but she was glad there was more butter for thick slices of toast–the best things in the kitchen were starchy or creamy– and half and half for her tea in the morning. And his coffee.

Through the wide open window came the buoyant sounds of Lenny calling out and roughhousing with Malloy. The mutt’s excited barking swirled about with his laughter. The early summer night was alive with their happiness. And it sneaked right in and settled on her.

(Note: Next week, Part 3, the story’s end.)

Wednesday’s Words/Fiction: Myrna at the Minthorn Camp

Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

The Minthorns had kept a house on the wooded rise beyond wildflower-overtaken Lazy Meadow for three generations. The big rambling domain, Minthorn Camp, had been the talk of the farmers and the town for the first two and part of the third. But it had lost much of its rough-hewn grace and prosperous sheen, sadly evident by the time Earl Minthorn, II, left behind all earthly toils and gains. Now it looked weary, as if it had a hard time trying to keep up mere appearances. But Myrna was working on it.

Garth said it was hopeless when he drove up the rutted road, looked far and wide over sun scoured land and when he ate breakfast in the breakfast room and remarked on a lack of fresh flowers at the table because they’d drooped their blooms in a gasp of surrender due to record heat. The sturdy roses folded into themselves sooner than they should have, only some regaling under a brief rain here and there. Watering properly got very expensive. The place had come to him disrespected, even damaged

“It’s going to waste, nothing I can do about it,” he mumbled. “Look at those tenacious weeds edge of even the yard. When is there enough time to tend to all those?”

Myrna looked past him and at a ridge where a shimmer of light seeped through trees, spread like honey along the grassy horizon. It gave her a shiver every morning she could see it, every dawn she walked the hill.

He was not even complaining to her, but Myrna somehow felt responsible, as if she should be getting out there on her knees and wrenching them up from 100 rolling acres. Of course she did plenty, besides which most all was leased now, which was a good thing. But that still left ten acres to keep up. Which affable Roger Dell did on week-ends, and after his own long days, to the chagrin of Terri, his wife. But they were given two good-sized plots on the meadow’s south side and grew the best strawberries, raspberries and many vegetables. It had kept them nicely fed, made them a little cash. Plus they now stabled their horse at Minthorn’s for free.

Myrna bit her lip, then retrieved the coffee carafe from the bright, high-ceilinged kitchen. She leaned on the counter, tucked sweaty hair behind her ears. It hadn’t changed so much in her view; when she’d married Garth it looked much the same. True, the pictures he’d early shown her depicted the wealth of previous generations–that freshly painted, proud exterior, the beautiful stone work, carefully tended gardens, a maid in the long formal dining room and cook in the pantry. Rich acreage that prospered so well it was legendary. It was so big and beautiful in those shots it scared her to think she might actually have to live there. Then Garth explained it’d declined and she felt relief and ready to try it. There was nothing in her background that prepared her for such a place, but she knew how to keep order. How to work hard as she had on her grandfather’s humble land in the summers. And, too, make improvements others didn’t notice until done, how to learn fast what was needed.

One thing was saying nothing when Garth was caught by the web of discouragement and remorse. Maybe if he’d been a lawyer like his father, or a horse breeder and trainer like his grandfather (a side business), or an investment banker who made a fortune to bring back home–then things could be different. The cancer had taken so much money, and so soon even the will from his father.

Instead, Garth taught at the state college both American history and world culture (he was still trying to get that right) classes, as well as one economics class he hated, driving 45 minutes each way. Earl, his father, had belly laughed when he’d told him he was going to be a professor. Surely, he wasn’t serious–but he made his own way. Later, he thought living at the old place would be better than college faculty housing. When Earl passed four years ago following a grievously long battle with cancer, Garth and Myrna moved in.

“I should sell it, just unload it. You’ve done a great job refreshing many rooms…we might make a little now.”

“Maybe not decide today,” she murmured. “Maybe walk with me tonight, find ways to enjoy the land.”

Myrna poured a second cup, a hand placed on his shoulder. He tugged at her fingers then touched his lips to them. Her hands were that rare combination of smooth and strong, hearty enough to split wood. They’d met at grad school, yet here she was, trying to make him happy as she labored to maintain a 5500 sf dwelling (counting the guest cottage, but not counting barn with stable, and sheds) when she might have been teaching, too. But art history classes weren’t available for her to teach there. She had plenty to do, she said and he witnessed. If she wasn’t removing old wall paper, she was pruning trees and shrubs; if she wasn’t stripping wood, she was deterring mice from nesting in the attic.

He should be there more. But there were not only classes but multiple meetings and student conferences and papers to grade. It was enough to keep him out of her way and the place out of his mind. Until he came home.

“Aren’t you lonely out here?” But he knew the answer. She loved it more than he did.

He finished the cup and grabbed his sweater. It sweltered in the house even with strong cross breezes and multiple fans, while his rooms at work were air conditioned to an icy chill. He turned back to ask something about the fence but wasn’t sure what it needed now. She gently pushed him toward the door.

“Stay cool as you can, don’t work so hard.” He kissed her on the cheek and lips, then left.

Was she lonely…she could not imagine being less so, she thought, as she cleaned up and banged the screen door to the back. There were chickens not far off that she’d insisted they buy when they moved in. But did she wish he felt about this place as she did? Yes–it was his! Perhaps living a life more privileged caused you take things for granted; maybe it was the good and not-so-good ghosts of his past life, family he’d loved more or less. But she was fully engaged in the plan; she wanted to see it prosper. If he’d just hang on and not sell but keep faith. If he was home a bit more to actually roll up his sleeves, not just criticize.

Even Roger wondered if his old friend had given up, and said so one day as they’d shared a beer on the back veranda. Then he’d apologized.

“Sorry, Myrna. A Minthorn has deep pride in place. His father would have done more if he could have. I don’t think Garth will abandon it.”

He didn’t say, “And won’t abandon you, either,” but he thought it and wondered why. He shook off a ripple of unease as they gazed at the sheer blue prelude to twilight. She was smiling; that was good.

“See you tomorrow night to check on those fruit trees.”

“Thanks, Rog–what would I ever do without your help?”

He shrugged and tilted his hat at her, then turned on scuffed toes of his boots. “You’d learn, you’d be alright,” he said over his shoulder.

******

Her husband brought the young woman by one Saturday morning when a class had been cancelled due to air conditioning repairs. Myrna had forgotten they were coming by as she painted the cottage’s second bedroom. The ramshackle but appealing 1200 sf house was a quarter acre east of the house and she had walked there early to finish the task, naming birds as she went. It was true she’d had the idea to rent it out. Garth had mentioned he might have a potential renter. And then they were in the open doorway.

Garth smiled broadly as he flung wide his arms in the bedroom.

“Myrna, Sherrie Evans. Sherrie, my wife Myrna.”

Myrna wiped trickling sweat from her brow and stood to face a woman taller and younger than she, with a mane of streaked blonde-red-brown hair, a pale hand (with topaz ring on a finger) thrust at Myrna.

“Good to meet you–this is gorgeous!” She breathed in deeply, despite the prevalence of paint fumes

“Well, come on in– I guess you’re looking to rent awhile?”

“The rest of the school year, at least, and as soon as possible.”

The student–so Myrna deducted–swiftly apprised each room with enthusiastic commentary–“Great color and designs for rugs, walls and curtains, you must be a decorator!” –and in ten minutes said, “I can use one room for a studio, yes. When can I move in?” Her toothsome smile was a thousand watts.

What? Myrna thought. An artist?

And so it was done. The rent money was reliable because she was not a student, after all, but taught at the college. Fundamentals of Art and ceramics. Myrna looked at the woman sharply then; she did admit she missed teaching. Also, time to create more than restored houses and chicken coops and middling flower borders. She tried to not think of it because she enjoyed most she was learning and accomplishing.

But now Sherrie would be using their home to make whatever she wanted while Myrna scrubbed dirt stains from her fingernails and got up to tend hens in early morning.

Furthermore, she thought as the woman left, she didn’t like her laugh. It was brittle, could cut glass if she pushed it a bit more, her gaiety underscored by a recklessness. Also, what was with all that hair half-obscuring her eyes–was she hiding something? Or just into over-dyed long hair? And why did that matter–why was Myrna bothering with her? A tenant was what they wanted. The cottage was not that close to the house; she could be avoided.

“Well, she needed a place and will pay good money!” Garth hotly protested as she raised questions. “I checked around, she’s responsible, has taught there three years, is quite pleasant–look, you don’t have to be best friends! ” He gave her a thoughtful look. “I thought you’d like the fact that she’s an artist, too. It might be nice.”

“I know, I should be grateful. I am. It was so unexpected, just like that! Did you put up a notice up? How did she know about it?”

“I mentioned it at lunch when she complained of her roommates.” Then he glanced up at her quickly. “Well, it was an impromptu birthday lunch for four college staff, she was one of them, and I was invited by a guy in my department so I went–we started talking about rentals–“

“Okay. It’s done. We can use the money so I–we–can keep improving things.” She picked at a nubby spot on her light sweater and her torn fingernail caught at it. The temperature had cooled considerably since a hard rain the day before; lingering clouds yet kept the heat at bay. She wanted to leave and take a walk. “Just so I don’t have to be that friendly with her. I have work to do. She seems so extroverted–for an artist…”

She released a tight laugh. She wasn’t going to whine about not being able to work on her massive paintings or research about 18th century silk weavers or study her students’ critique sessions. She lived at the Minthorn Camp, it was where she needed to be now. And wanted to be. Here with Garth, after all.

If Sherrie Evans’ money could keep things running better, why not? She just needed to stay out of Myrna’s way. And yet her chest tightened a bit and her mind felt murky as a stirred up pond.

******

“If he’d talked to me more about it, I’d have felt better prepared to turn over the cottage soon.”

“That it?” Roger was dragging a birch branch to the side of a shed. There was always more to do but he was getting hungry. “Or don’t you like the idea of that cottage being someone else’s good spot?”

“What do you mean? That was the whole idea when I started fixing it up.”

“You said you might use it down the road. A refuge, was that it? And for your art work.”

She swiped at the air with her hands. “Oh, that, just a fantasy. Like a getaway for when I had time to read or draw or sit, listen to mice dance about and watch leaves drift to the ground in autumn. Right.” She looked at him more closely. “And we get along fine, don’t you worry about things. We just need our space at times. Or, I do.”

“I’m not worried about you and Garth. But now this Sherrie gal has put her mitts on it while you have all that extra space everywhere else– but you feel cramped? Go figure, Myrn! ”

She tried to punch his shoulder but he took ax to branch, then she piled up the cut pieces until they were done.

“I can use this pile if you don’t want it. Or should I ask Garth?”

“Go ahead, you know he won’t care. But it’s more psychic space, not literal space, I need sometimes, you know? Away from Minthorn energy, but also constant household chores and the yard’s mess. The cottage was a hidden treasure when we moved in–neglected and forgotten but waiting to be shined up and loved–by me.”

“Ah, she speaks her truth.”

“Oh, Roger, give me a break. I just like my solitude.”

“I know, now you won’t have the cottage for sure. I’m sorry but nice that rent will be coming in.”

“Yeah. I have one week.”

He took his handkerchief and wiped damp brow and face, then his neck and chest where a chambray shirt was unbuttoned a few inches. She gazed at the spot, then past him at the fence that required repair, then her eyes returned to him. He folded up the handkerchief, resettled his baseball cap and hitched up his jeans. Roger was six foot three and if he didn’t work outside so much he’d be thin as a willow branch. He was a telecommunications lineman all day, then often came to help. This had gone on the last three years. He never griped about it.

“You got anything to eat? I haven’t had sustenance since after noon and my stomach is howling.”

“Salami and cheese okay? Just salad and sandwich today, I didn’t go to the store. Garth will be home by ten.”

They tromped through swaying wild grasses, crossed over Kills Creek where a man was attacked by a cougar years ago, past the barn where Roger stopped to check on Pal, his (really, his daughter, Lou’s) horse and finally past the cottage.

With its lights on.

“Why are those blazing right now?” They climbed up five new steps to the back door.

Sherrie was inside evaluating square footage.

“Hi there, I’m just measuring rooms since I move in next weekend.” Sherrie ushered them in.

“Sherrie, this is Roger, a friend who works for us. Garth gave you a key already?”

“Hello! Yes, today.” Hands on hips, she surveyed the living room. “I was thinking of my couch size, and then chairs over there and my buffet here and the dining table might be big for this area and what about my drawing table?…”

She nearly glided in low golden sandals to the other side of the room.

“Well, please don’t move in before the lease start date. I still have work to do in the kitchen and out back.”

“Sure, sure.” She turned back to her surmising of furniture and placed one foot delicately in front of the other, like a ballet dancer.

“Okay, just checking. I know you’re signing the lease tomorrow. So… just please lock up.”

Sherrie murmured something agreeable, flipped the surfeit of hair over her shoulders with both hands, stretched her arms up high and returned to inspection.

Myrna and Roger continued to the house.

“I see what you mean.”

“About what?”

“Not much caring for her….maybe not trusting her, either.”

“Did I say that, Rog?”

“More or less.”

“Sometimes I think you know me better than Garth.”

Roger stuck both hands in his pockets, sped up so that she had to run a bit to catch up. It was true, he probably did.

“Wait up, the sandwiches won’t be all that good!”

“Like fine cuisine to me!”

From behind he was outlined against the vibrant sunset, and how confident the set of his shoulders, how natural and easy in the landscape as he pointed to Venus suddenly sparking at them. She’d occasionally thought they might have more in common than she and Garth but what did that mean? They had become good fiends, perhaps best friends. They were both nicely married. He had a lovely child, a good horse, a job he liked, a pleasant home: it was a good, full life. And so was hers. Minus child and horse, both of which which mattered less to her than an art studio, she admitted. Minus husband rather too often, which also mattered somewhat less than she’d once imagined.

******

When she was considering getting ready for bed the next night, Myrna did not look at the clock. Nor check the driveway and peer down the long road that ran circuitous like a snake unwinding its tough, attractive length through their land. His and hers, Minthorn Camp.

Garth was to have been home for dinner but he called and said he was meeting Sherrie to sign the lease–he’d be home before long. It was far too late but she didn’t care when he got there–she knew all she had to know.

She was putting away his T-shirts in the dresser drawer earlier. They weren’t lying nice and flat and socks were bunched up, so she took them all out to organize. There at the back was a folded receipt, then one more, then another, and more. Garth saved receipts for work so she tossed them in the wastebasket, reordered the underwear but as she did so kept eyeing the receipts until her hand followed gaze. He filed such receipts in his desk drawer, not in a dresser.

They–eight of them–were from Palatini’s Food and Spirits. She’d heard of it, but they’d never been there; she wasn’t fond of Italian food. When she studied the credit card, she realized it was not a regular debit card but his credit card. The one he used for emergencies or big purchases. These purchases were meals, two meals each time and dated over the last four months.

Myrna lost her breath, time and space fell away; she grabbed the bedpost to keep from sliding to the floor. She put head in her hands, leaned toward her lap, took in slower breaths. She was not going to faint over this. She’d already sensed it: Garth was meeting someone and it was not for work.

She slipped on her Teva sandals and ran outside, leaned against the nearest tree, body going soft as if defenseless, and searched the sky. Nothing but a wash of soft blue-black, stars and ever more stars and a three quarter moon that glowed so bright she could see dry, brown grasses bending against the weathered fence. She felt relief: to know the truth, not be afraid, to know her gut was right despite rational excuses. Two tears slid down her face but that was all, and they dried fast in the heat of the wind.

Then she got mad.

She reached for her phone.

“Hello?” He sounded a bit annoyed but resigned.

“I know it’s getting late, but can we talk, Rog? Or will Terri be mad? I could use your help–I’d be glad to explain to her, too.”

“Terri and Lou are at her sister’s in Utah for two weeks, remember? It’s kinda late so what’s this about, buddy?” He wiped his face of sleep and got out of bed.

******

They shouldn’t have done it, of course, and if they’d have thought about it a few days and Myrna had let her mind settle and clear, heart becoming quiet as it tended to be, they might not have. But they went ahead with it, changed the locks on the cottage front and back doors. They could barely stop laughing on the way way back to his truck, then said good-bye with somber faces. It was no laughing matter. Roger wondered what on earth Garth was thinking and Myrna, was dumbfounded by a deep sadness.

When Sherrie arrived with her lovely possessions in a rental truck, she couldn’t get in. She called Garth and proceeded to yell, fuming like a child who has been denied. Roger and Myrna watched her carry on from their vantage point in a wooded stretch by Kills Creek. The not-to-be tenant waited for her–Myrna said it right out loud– lover. They couldn’t hear much but the activity–or lack thereof–said it all. Garth came to a a roaring, dust-swirling stop at the once-hoped-for-trysting spot and took Sherrie into his arms, then stomped around the place, trying all windows and doors. Then they were gone, each in a car, one after the other. The rental truck sat as evidence.

Myrna had seen far more than she’d desired; they skulked deeper into woods, then parted. Nothing was said, though Roger had reached for her and maybe she wanted more than anything to fall into someone’s arms–no, his arms–but she did not. Instead she returned home to wait for her husband.

Roger Dell drove all the way home singing loudly with the radio, not a song he even liked. It was better than the feelings he felt, heart pounding like wild hooves against the dirt.

******

The two of them, Garth and Myrna, dug for and found enough love and good sense to recover. It was also the pleasure and grip of Minthorn Camp, one place that belonged to Garth, and he to it. And the woman he married was not someone he cared to harm or lose again, and he told her he’d spend his life proving it. He knew that place had become part of her, as well. He found himself teaching better, returning earlier and in search of Myrna.

But Myrna didn’t believe or care if Garth proved it; she was simply there despite the pain. It had become her home. That was the half-answer answer she had for him; any more would take loads of time. So she finished up the cottage. She moved in and turned two rooms into one airy studio space. There she captured time enough to make large acrylic paintings that were a wilderness of colors, and to refine new skills in botanical drawings, their lushness made more potent by exacting lines. There was the research for articles she was determined to publish again. She went back to the big house only after she sold an article months later.

Roger stayed on part time at Minthorn Camp. He needed to work the challenging acreage; he had grown up roaming it with Garth and their friends. He liked the extra money he now was paid for his labors. It accrued over time for a second horse for Terri (as expert a rider as was he) and himself to share. He hoped one day for a third, maybe more. The Minthorns weren’t the only ones with a respectable history with horses.

And there was Myrna, wasn’t there. She was learning to ride–Garth didn’t enjoy it after he’d fallen as a kid and badly broken his an arm– and it was taking much effort and time. She was not quite at ease on the back of an animal that knew its own mind better than did she. Myrna needed extra help, they both knew it, and Roger was careful as she got better–and gained back ground. Before too long they rode together now and again, sharing a beer and a sandwich after each comforting, victorious ride.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: His and Hers

img_0128
Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

He zeroes in, past feet beating pavement
where discarded minutiae gather and disperse
and it all counts to him, marred or unscathed,
this matter he dissembles, puzzles into patterns
to designate order in the world’s gaping chaos.

She scans breadth of east, west, south, north,
and whole or broken it is received as cosmology,
a kaleidoscope of the universe turning before her
as lassos of time capture, scatter light so she
gleans evidence of Grace, its mercurial designs.

The Convening, Part 1

In the village of Quazama there came restless spirits, snatching gold, green and red leaves from mammoth branches and spinning them to earth, making the sweet air heavier with heat, and sending an urgency squalling about the temple to assure the Grand Baraxus was paying attention. The dole houses were abuzz with labors as usual, and the fields were weighed down by vegetation that would feed well the many and spare the rest–those unable to work– any grief of starvation. The Grand Baraxus surveyed his small kingdom and found it good, while his chief Sentry whispered in his ear that a convening was soon needed.

“It is yet early, no need to move fast,” he said with the usual barest smile that preceded impatient reproval. “Surely Martram cannot be plotting once more when he knows so well who holds all power. Mind your attitude, Sentry.”

This was all said with an arrogant satisfaction; the feelings rested on his visage much like the expectancy of a victorious hunt. Yes, much had been done to himself by that scheming miscreant but much more had been undone by himself in the last brutal Discord.

Sentry O stepped two feet to the side and waited. He knew better than to press the matter though written word had arrived to him only moments ago. Time should not be wasted. He fingered the packet in his short robe now and felt the terrible heat of Martram’s rebellion. Sentry O was loyal to The Grand Baraxus as that was his only job. He was tired of trying to convince the man he was not entirely invincible. He had weaknesses others could spot even if he could not. Six times Quazama had given rise to leaders who had wielded the heft of their power and also discovered where it stopped. Not so Baraxus. Useful, potent insights could be obscured, even blotted out by the sheer force of ignorance of one’s self. This, Sentry O knew well. He had served nearly his entire life and now that his knees were bony and his skin loosening, eyes failing and hair leaving his lumpy head he wished only to rest. Not to plot with a ruler who cared less for all his people than one more rapacious bug. But rule he did. Sentry O blinked his eyes to erase this repugnant awareness. If such thoughts were seen in his face, he wouldn’t have time to plan his funeral celebration as he’d be vanquished in an instant. He had his family to consider, and his legacy.

Beyond the temple terracing lay the village Sentry O was so fortunate to be born into. Greenery and light were ubiquitous. The foliage flushed the air with a perfume by turns bright and sweet or darkly sweeter, depending on temperature of the air–or a warning spiritual agitation that came from far away, no one knew from where anymore. There were fifty dole houses, another to soon  be added after his granddaughter came of age and chose her path. Although Sentry O felt her path was already chosen. He wanted to see what she might do before he failed to wake once and for all. Naliya knew her heart; her mind knew far more than she yet realized. But her good mother, Terl, was loathe to let her go. He turned back to Grand Braxas and waited to hear what was expected next, and loosened a shuddering sigh.

******

Crickets greeted her with a chorus of beautiful noise. River slipped through its banks in a surge of energetic melody. Light fed the water, Naliya thought as she filled the jugs, that was why it always shone. But today it was swift and cool and its blueness verged on purplish in its whorls and spouts. She frowned, looked upward. The sky was the same, open and brilliant. Her half-pale, half-inky hair flew above her head in a sudden gust and she pivoted to look all about. Three of the riverine deer were there as usual but only bobbed their fine heads at her, then reared up and dashed away. Naliya listened to the water, crickets, wind and heard a frenzy. She  hoisted the jugs on her sturdy shoulders and half-ran back to the house. Her mother had been waiting by the fire, her long-fingered hands folded. She now stood, and went to the earthen tub.

“Mama, there’s something happening.”

“Child, don’t go on about signs now. Please bring me the water. There’s to be a convening tonight and I don’t have time to discuss your far flung meanings now.” Terl poured the contents of a jug into the deep tub, then sprinkled on top a smattering of dried herbs and flowers. She slipped off her blue robe and stepped in, then leaned back. Her eyes closed. “The Grand Baraxus must have an itch to create chaos again. I wonder why he bothers to call us all in for counsel when he will needs his own way in the end…Not like when our blessed ancestors toiled for and lived the peace, joined life in the realm of the Prism.”

“Mama, listen, the deer left the river before coming to me. This isn’t right–you know they visit me every day. They didn’t even wait for my new honeyed berry treats.” She handed her mother two vials of scented oil.

“Thank you for the oils. Naliya, calm yourself. You may stay here or sit with your cousins or neighbors. It will likely last into eventide.” She put her face in the water, then came up for air and smoothed her arms and neck with oils.

Naliya had only that year been allowed to sit by herself and this thought helped alleviate her concerns. It meant she could visit Zanz, her best friend and maybe more, and her mother wouldn’t know. She knew that now she was thirteen summers she wasn’t supposed to visit him without a chaperone. But they always found a way.

“Alright, but my riverine deer don’t deceive…”

“Daughter, we will see what is to be seen. Patience.”

Naliya sat by the tub and idly dipped swished her fingers in the tepid swirling water, awaiting a turn if she wanted one. Her long hair was lifted from her shoulders by a blast of wind through the  open doorway and tossed it over her face. For a moment she was blinded by its mass. A darkening sweetness found her nose and she sneezed, then coughed, out of breath until her mother’s hand grabbed hers. Terl’s face might have betrayed her own fears but Naliya thought only of Zanz.

******

Their typical back and forth worked its way around the circle many times. The dissenting had been civil as well as time wasting and also thought provoking. Now their words had found a more comfortable balance.

Except for the Grand Baraxas’ declarations.

“If that idiot Martram feels he must try to usurp me once more and be humiliated by losing again, then let it be done. Isn’t the far banishment enough? This time, the outcome must be final!”

There was a murmuring about the circle. Twelve plus the Grand Baraxas sat about the emblematic bolt of lightning and lance inlaid on the floor. Their current ruler had designed and fashioned this from gemstones and finest made tiles when he came into power sixteen years prior. It had replaced the River, Sun, Tree and Star within the Four Directions Cross that had forever been Quazama’s symbols until then.

“When was he last heard from?” another of the Sentries inquired. “He has been gone for over nine seasons this time. I had imagined him quite dead already.” He barked an angry laugh.

There was silence at that; no one imagined anyone much less Martram dead unless he or she planned on killing him, it was a bad seed of an idea. Did he know, perhaps, Braxas’ hidden plan, fueled by his greatest desire?

Terl shifted and looked up at their ruler who in his orange splendid robes appeared more corpulent than ever. She barely smiled but patiently. “I heard from him once not so long after he left. When the storms came and went and he was out seeking sustenance. It was past the Highland hills; I was searching for pink tourmaline for a necklace for Naliya. I told this at the convening for harvest back then. He said his intention was one day return–you know this so surely the latest news is no shock.”

The Grand Baraxus smoothed his unruly grey beard, flicking bits of food onto the floor as he found them.

“When exactly was the recent information given us and had he a name?” asked a woman.

“Late last evening. A Roamer, hence no name known, stopped for a meal with Hiri and his family. He left at dawn, having completed his task and being fed and rested. No one we ever seen around here before, so said Hiri.”

“And he said he had just met with Martram for food, as well…repeat the message you received from Hiri, Sentry O.”

“The river belongs to no one but the people, amen, and to perfect facets of the Light, amen.” He turned to Terl who gave her full attention as she listened. “This be the prayer we’ve said so long, of course. Then: the people determine worth and need as taught by the Prism’s Heart alone.”

“He never trusted the Grand Baraxus’ knowledge and words. It cost Martram greatly as is the law, and so it has been done,” the First Sentry asserted, and stomped his feet to underscore the point.

“Who does?” someone whispered but only a few heard and ignored it.

The Grand Baraxus got up with difficulty as Sentry O helped him, then left the circle and stood with hands behind him, staring out at Quazama. He hadn’t expected this, not so soon, and now that he had taken ill with increasing frequency the last thing he wanted was more trouble than he could manage well. He rubbed his head with a large, soft hand and turned back to his three best Sentries who sat three in a row. The third appeared to be close to dozing, idiot, in response no doubt to the warmth in the chamber, making it close. He wished it was storm weather again so it would cool. He wished he could just drink a large goblet of wine, lie at peace with his woman.

“I am about out of patience,” he said and reclaimed his spot in the circle, touching the lightning and lance once each, then his chest, as was required when coming to or leaving a convening.

“We might vote on holding a village court to determine his worth, as before this was not done as was once our custom,” Sentry O said, his once-rich and strong voice now tremulous. He cleared his throat. “What is your say Terl, Mistress of Rites?”

They all turned to her. She sat tall, her white hair pulled into a braid at the nape of her neck, rain flowers woven in. Her rose and silver robe glimmered in shifting light cast by candles in wall sconces. She felt deeply calm, almost out of body,  despite her heart jumping at the thought of Martram coming to Quazama. She knew exactly what to do.

“We will at last bring out the Living Trust and see what is known of its truth. Martram and the Grand Baraxas will answer the questions that are posed by the last originals among us, Jedmin and Kristoz. This is my offering of justice: guidance of our oldest Quazama rites, the Living Trust left us from our best origins. ”

A gasp went up and then a silence so loud it nearly shook the room.

“I forbid this! I have governed all this time and we prosper in grain and fruit and gemstones! I have been more than fair, more than I should have been despite the unruliness of our people! I need not defend myself with a mere display of words in the open square!” He stood bellowing into the rafters; everyone had to resist the urge to disperse.

But convening members gathered their breath. They locked eyes one pair to the next pair each person around the circle; they began to hum in four tones, a harmony rich and steady, singular. Mighty. Inside the small chamber, the sounds merged and curled about the group and then the Grand Baraxas, to the ceiling, out the windows.

It was determined: meant to be. The Grand Braxas stood with fists at his side, but even he would be tampering with strong power if he rebelled against a convening. And so he left.

A member spoke up. “Now we need the Messenger to send for Martram, the sooner the better. Who is the fastest runner since our last poor soul lost his life to a jungle cat? We have waited too long to choose the next!”

“I have a name,” Sentry O leaned into the circle and looked at Terl.

She closed her eyes, folded her arms against her chest and prayed.

******

“That’s it,” Zanz said and gave Naliya his cup for another drink. “They’re done. Do you know what it’s all about?”

They had come to the river in hopes of spotting a glimpse of the three deer but they weren’t so far visible. They, like all villagers, knew a convening decision was announced by the resonant humming which spread across the village, filling each dole house and then sailing over fields and grasslands to dissipate before reaching the boundary of the highlands.

Naliya sat with knees pulled up to chin, her arms around them. “I could guess but would rather not. It’s not a good moment. No deer, no happiness. Mama knew it when I told her they left me earlier. But she won’t ever quite agree with me, as if I am not supposed to know.”

He turned from his front onto his back. “She’s right; you’re too young. Just be easy with life, let the elders worry!” He tickled her arm with a long flat blade of grass, then stuck it between his teeth, blew on it until it vibrated and made a harsh sound. He wanted to impress her even with  simple things but usually failed at this.

Naliya pushed him so the grass fell away, then put her face close to his. “I am not too young. I am ready to do things, know things!”

“Like what?” He felt the pleasant warmth of her breath on his lips and thought he could taste  berries.

She nudged his long nose with her short one, then sat back, legs splayed. “Something smart, something good….”

Zanz sat up and stretched. “You’ll soon have to sweat like I do every day, working the looms or tending sheep or helping your mother find gemstones. Or train as a warrior–you’re very fast on your feet, have good balance, are strong. I might do that later. You can do more after you learn a trade, like anyone who has a strong body, is a quick thinker. And that, I’m afraid, is more true of you than most anyone I know.”

He wanted to touch each color of her thick hair, the unusual ivory and blue-black strands lustrous in the dusky light. They marked her as part of grand rulers many lines back, which was why her mother was Mistress of Rites. But to meet her–any girl her age but even more so, her– was forbidden enough. He instead tossed a wildflower onto her head and she grabbed a handful of grasses with earth attached to roots and threw them at him until they were on their feet, laughing and shouting.

Naliya put her hands out in a sudden motion to stop their play.

“Mama will soon come looking, I must return home.” She stood still and let her eyes boldly roam over him, then looked away as her cheeks flushed. “Until next time.”

“Until next time,” Zanz said and they parted ways, he to the near valley and she to village center.

Terl waited on a stool at their dole house and told herself to be wise, be at ease with life and humble. She felt grateful for all the years they had made their home in lovely Quazama. It was a decent space, one that was comfortable, vibrant with hand woven fabrics she used to decorate, many gems she’d turned into mosaics and the voluptuous flowers her daughter planted last year and now tended in the side garden for their table. But even with much to appreciate and a future that seemed secure, she felt the fear race through her veins, as if someone had put in a taint of pulsing poison that sought only to ruin her or get out. She felt her mind expand, and in its dense center then illumine the hard truth. In her innermost being she begged for mercy. She tried to not weep but it was beginning. Now.

As Naliya came up to the door of the house, she stopped. She felt an involuntary shiver, willed the waning light shift into her sturdy body and wiry limbs. She looked up for the flock of birds she’d watched take wing, then dipped and turned away as she’d made her way through the grasslands. They were no longer there. Her riverine deer had left. Everything held its breath as before a great storm.

She stepped inside and found her mother seated on her stool, sunset’s graciousness spilling through the open skylight, onto her rose and silver garment. Naliya had such love for her but knew, too, the power she possessed even if she denied it, saying it was nothing, it was only beauty passed on and that vanished. Naliya knew otherwise. She knew her mother was one of the wise, just as her mother and the mother before them both had been. Her grandfather, Sentry O, remembered much more.

“Mama?”

The Mistress of Rites held a hand out to her long-legged strong child.

“Naliya. Little dove.” She lay her hands alongside her wind-and sun-burnished face, and looked deep into her unsettled face and still grey eyes. “It’s time. You are made the new Messenger. There is no turning away, no turning back.”

Naliya heard her but it was there is no turning away, no turning back that struck her to the core. She suspected she might become the Messenger as she was the fastest runner in the village and knew how to keep things safe. What else was her mother not saying aloud?

She knelt at her feet, accepted the strange blessing passed on from her very hands. And felt a terrifying courage rise up in her blood and bones, readying her for work to come as each fretful roving spirit tried to shake her. And soundly failed.

 

(Readers: Part 2 will be posted next Monday. The photographs are by this writer.)