Stolen

 Wrapped in a faded beach towel, I sit by the lake for the last time.  The lengthening shadows of the trees behind me creep beyond the point where shore and small waves meet, spilling onto the surface of the water, and I realize that I've been here, on this patch of grass, for quite some time.  I’m cold, and a shiver presses through my wet hair, all the way down to the tips of my toes.

The thoughts I am lost in take me back to a certain summer, the memories still so vivid in my mind.  Like black silhouettes against white paper.  It was the summer after my second year of college.  The summer  I met him.  Liquid blue eyes and a straw colored crew cut.   Ocean and sand.  I’d singled him out from the group of other swimmers who were gathered at the lake, and shyly I realized that I had been noticed as well.  By late afternoon we  were sharing  ice cream and holding  hands. 

Several nights later, I began to get the phone calls.  A voice over the line, her voice, whispering the warning I would come to know so well.   Stay away from things that don’t belong to you. Followed by a click, and then silence.

I knew her, even though we’d never met.  She was the girl who had been his girl, and had been replaced-and she was devastated.  She’d made plans for the two of them, sketched out a future that she saw as their destiny.  Baked him cookies, and knit him sweaters.  I was nothing but a thief.  All  summer long, she continued to call me.  The same whispering voice, and the same warning.  The same pitiful attempt to stake a claim on a heart that was no longer hers.  I felt sad, more than threatened.

I  stand up and brush off my bare legs, polka dotted with small bits of dried grass that have stuck to my skin.  The surface of the lake has grown dark, and in the fading daylight I see the glint of a silvered trout as it jumps, as though suddenly afraid of the deep, cold depths of its home.  I’m urging myself to leave this place as well.   I’ve done what I came here to do.  Swim one last time in this water.  The same water that was so deeply shadowed the last time he swam in it that it swallowed everything.

And fate decided he would belong to no one.

 

 

La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

I wrote this last summer, and decided to repost it for this prompt because it fits so well.  While I’ve taken a few artistic liberties with the facts as they were, this is based on a true story.

When I was a college student, my group of friends included the music majors, and there was among us a very gifted young bass player named Jeff.  At the time I met him, I learned that he’d ended a long time relationship months earlier, and that his former girlfriend would not let him go.  Jeff was frustrated both by her inability to move on-and at the same time, continue to act as though they were still together.  Sadly, the summer after my sophomore year I was stunned to learn that Jeff had drowned in a nearby lake that students often frequent on warm weather days and nights.

I’ve wondered, from time to time, what became of that girl-how she could possibly ever come to terms with the reality of truly never being able to have Jeff.  I ‘m sure she was devastated. 

It’s also sad that I can’t remember her name.

 

Double Trouble

Best Friend. 

I’d never had the privilege of being one, nor the pleasure of having one.

As a child, I was pawned off, and passed along, one family after another, like a dreaded Christmas fruitcake.  Consequently, I made very few friends.  In any case, the position of best friend was always already filled.  Years later, it ceased to matter to me, and I resigned myself socially to existing solely on casual acquaintances. I’d started life as a foundling, so it stood to reason that I should finish as a foundling, of sorts, as well.

Until Matilda.  Fellow aspiring scribbler, and drinker of black coffee. Matilda, in her fashionable hobble skirt, who’d minced her way over to my table and asked to borrow a pencil.  By chance we’d both decided to visit the same café, to work on our novels while sustaining ourselves with cup after cup of a rich Jamaican brew. She saw me, hand poised above a stack of paper, and assumed me to be what I hoped to be seen as.  A writer.  Matilda, with her stunning gray Grecian hair, and an ever so gently lined face that belied her 62 years.  Matilda, who wore the heady Quelques Fleurs and winked at distinguished old men. She was a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel.  The partner in crime I’d been longing for my whole life.

The bell on my Stromberg-Carlson jangles me back to the present moment. That must be Matilda!  I struggle laboriously to my feet as quickly as my ancient skeleton will allow, feeling the familiar pinch of age run through my hip, slowing my steps.   I really ought to get rid of my soft chair and replace it with a hard one. Better for the bones.  But there is no need, though, to hurry to pick up the receiver.  Matilda is patient.  She accepts me in all of my faltering glory, like best friends do. Hello? Matilda!  Fifteen minutes? That’s fine!  I’ll pack some cookies to have with our coffee.

Matilda’s tomato red, 1910 Atlas Model H pulls into view, thirty-two minutes later. I had a bear of a time getting this beast started!  Matilda’s voice is breathy with excitement.  Forgetting the twinge in my hip, I pull my sheared beaver stole closer to my face, and climb into the passenger seat.  In a matter of minutes, when we are nearly at the café, we encounter a swarm of people.  Naturally, our curiosity is piqued, and Matilda articulates what I was just about to ask.  Mind if we take a quick detour and see what all the fuss is about?  We mutually agree that our novels can wait, for we seem to have stumbled upon an émeute. The assembled protesters, mostly female, are in high spirits, charging the atmosphere with an electric energy.  The unease among the males who have dared to venture close enough to observe, is palpable.  Women should not be allowed to behave like this.

Move along, granny!  A red cheeked constable in blue and brass takes Matilda firmly by the elbow, steering her away from the crowd.  I hear a huff of indignation, and I can hardly believe what Matilda does next.  She plucks the young man’s truncheon from his belt, and roundly swats the top of his helmet!

I am left with little choice.   I am, after all, her best friend.

I take the truncheon away from Matilda.

 

And swat him again.

Safe in the Arms of the Sea

I know the jagged rocks exist, though I no longer have an affinity for danger. These days, I am master of my ship.  I chart my own course.  Keep to the deep water. 

I can see him clearly now-more clearly than the day I met him, and I realize he was akin to a brigantine, recklessly sailed and doomed to flounder.  Raven hair, worn long and wild, and eyes that changed color with the changing tides of his moods.  Sometimes falcon, and sometimes dove. An impossibly irresistible, unholy trinity of leather and rum and tobacco.

My pirate.

Part tempest, and part gentleman, I tried in vain to learn the art of forecasting the weather that swirled around him.  At times he brandished words like a razor sharp cutlass, warning me to keep my distance.  Other times, though, when the winds were fair, he beckoned me closer with roses and his own brand of sugar, the sweetest I’d ever tasted.  He even slid a promise of pearl and silver onto my ring finger, and asked me to wait for him while he was away, prowling the vast ocean in a hunt for other ships to plunder.

He never returned. 

I realize it now.  His misfortune was my salvation.

The rocks are still there-only instead of tormenting me, I find my ears are deaf to their siren song.  And as for the rigging that threatened to ensnare me on that doomed voyage so long ago, like the gossamer strands in a spider’s web.  I see them for what they have become.

Cobwebs.

Just Delia

She wasn’t happy about it.  Not one little bit. She’d yelled at her coat, kicked one of her snow boots. Nevertheless, she’d been elected.  Everyone else claimed to have something more important to do.  And besides.  No one liked making time for Delia.  As Lucy drove the unfamiliar roads to her great aunt’s home, the flakes seemed to be getting bigger, and falling harder. Great.  Just great.  At this rate, I’ll end up getting snowed in.

Lucy was momentarily taken aback when Delia answered the door. Her great aunt looked ancient now, but then it had been years since Lucy last saw her.  Guilt stabbed her over this neglect, but the moral discomfort vanished when she remembered being here in her childhood.  Eat your peas Toots, and when you grow up you’ll have some dangerous curves on you!  Look at all those freckles!  You’ll have lots of boyfriends, mark my words! Between the cheek pinching and the endless servings of vegetables, Lucy detested every visit. As she stepped into the warmth of her great aunt’s home, she became aware of Delia’s hands fumbling to help her out of her sugar dusted coat.  That’s better! I don’t want you to catch a chill! My, but it’s really snowing out there, isn’t it?  Delia was shyly attempting small talk, though Lucy’s dry reply was in thought only.  Cold, uncaring thought.  Well, well, well.  Delia’s sharp today.  What a treat.   Half an hour, and I’m out of here.

My stars!  How could it have happened so long ago?  It seems like only yesterday!  I still clearly remember that blizzard-right before Christmas, back in 1946. Delia was reminiscing, staring out the picture window in her front room. The snow, falling like feathery goose down, seemed to have whited out the passage of time as well as the world outside.  She’d made steaming mugs of hot cocoa. Trying to be a good hostess as well as a doting great aunt.  Lucy held her cup with both hands, secretly trying to glance at her watch.  Stifling a yawn, she hoped Delia’s story wouldn't last too long.

The war was finally over and Jack was home.  I’d been writing  to him for 3 years.  I still have his letters.  Anyway, he asked me to go for a walk in the snow.  We didn't count on being caught in the middle of a major storm.  We took refuge in someone’s barn and ended up being stuck in there for hours.  There wasn’t much to do but talk and…

Delia blushed, yet there was a sauciness in her eyes.

I let him kiss me.  He asked me to marry him.  He said we were going to be together for always.

Lucy snapped out of her indifference.  Her great aunt was not making any sense.  Um,  Aunt Delia… I thought Jack never, you know. Don’ t you remember? Jack didn’t come home.  She was proud of herself for knowing at least some of the family history, but it also made her wonder whether or not her aunt was playing with a full deck.

Delia stared out the window again, but instead of the soft white clumps of snow, she saw parachutes.  White silken clumps.  She thought about Jack and how he must have felt high in the sky where it was peaceful, far above the chaos on the ground.  She often wondered what had gone through his mind as he landed, his parachute covering him like a blanket of snow-and then a shroud.  All in the split second it took fate to play it’s hand.  She hoped he’d felt no pain. 

Her sigh was barely audible.

I know, Lucy dear, I know.  But  I don’t like to think about what really happened, so I’ve made up my own memories. And besides,  what else have I had all these years  but  memories.  I'm old, and probably not very interesting to any of you.   I realize none of you like to visit me, and I’m sorry about that.  How did you get stuck with me this time?   Are you being punished?  Did you lose the coin toss?   Delia seemed to wilt.

Lucy was stunned.  She hadn’t anticipated this-suddenly finding her heart aching for the old woman-and she wished a silent, desperate wish.  Please, please, please, let it keep snowing!  She knew, in that instant, that she wanted more time with this aunt she’d been aware of her whole life, but didn’t really know. 

Dear precious Delia.

Tell me more about Jack, Auntie. We’ve got all night.  I think I’d better stay over.  It looks like the storm is getting worse. Where do you keep your candles?  Do you have an extra toothbrush?  How did you meet Jack, anyway?

A grateful Oh Lucy, and tears.  An entire lifetime’s worth of tears, saved for this hoped for moment.  Spilling down Delia’s cheeks, as she prepared to answer.

The Gift

 It’s time, she tells herself. Time to give this away to someone else.  Someone who needs to know the power of those six words as much as I did. Clutched tightly in her hand is a penny. Plain and ordinary.  Worn smooth, the date no longer discernable.  Certainly not very valuable.

But worth can be deceiving.

♥♥♥

She was looking down, on that frosty night.   Focused on her coin purse, her fingers trying to find a quarter to put in the black kettle that stood next to one of the many street corner Santas populating the city in December. She was looking down, searching, when the mitten clad hand of a stranger entered her field of vision.  Palm open, and  filled with pennies-enough pennies to just about cover the price of a cup of coffee.  Judging from the ragged appearance of the mitten, and the threadbare hem of the coat sleeve above it, the wearer was down on his luck, and in view of such unfortunate circumstances, both his greeting, and his generosity surprised her.

Merry Christmas! Here, take a penny!

She was feeling down that frosty night, as well.  Unloved, and unappreciated.  Certain that there was not another soul in heaven or on earth who gave her a second thought.  Friendless, and forlorn.  She had stopped to put a quarter in the black kettle because it was less awkward than simply walking past and giving nothing, and when she looked up at him-the expression on her face framed with questions-he whispered six words.

Give what you do not have.

Give what you do not have. Love-when you feel unloved.  Thanks-when no one seems to appreciate what you do.  Praise-when your own accomplishments go unnoticed.  Sympathy-when you are in need of comfort.  Take that which you long for in your own life, and make a gift of it to someone else.

His eyes were shining as he finished his message.  Shining more brightly than the fluorescent light illuminating the queue of poor waiting in line at the soup kitchen across the street.  The line he was about to join.

There are many good people out there-if only you will let them find you.

♥♥♥

She is looking down, focused on her coin purse-her fingers searching for the familiar shape of pennies.  Enough pennies to just about pay for a cup of coffee.  It’s cold outside tonight, and she will need to wear her mittens.

Split Pea Soup

It’s obviously Friday afternoon.  A quick glance into the shopping carts that snake both ahead of her and behind her, like some sort of long grocery train, confirms the fact.  Cartons and six packs of beer, bags of chips, and plastic wrapped packages of hamburger and steak.  She won’t make this mistake again-shopping at the start of the weekend-and for a fleeting moment she is tempted to break from the line, put back the few items in her small basket, and leave.  But she is hungry, she is already homesick, and she still has not finished unpacking-and the comfort and nourishment that a bowl of homemade soup promises is too compelling.  And so she waits.

The train of carts inches forward until she is near enough the check stand to place her humble basket on the conveyor belt, watching it now inch forward, waiting for its turn.  With unpracticed hands, the clerk seizes the basket and begins to remove the soup ingredients one by one.  A small onion, and a few stalks of celery, one pound of bacon, and a package of split peas.  It is the split peas that are to blame. Not quite clearing the edge of the basket, a several inch gash opens up on the side of the package, releasing a torrent of green that cascades onto the conveyor belt and floor.  The clerk gasps, and there is an audible groan from the line of shoppers who are painfully aware that the beer in their carts is getting warmer by the minute.

Clumsily, the clerk is trying to gather the peas and put them back into the wounded package.  Clearly he is wishing  to put this incident behind him and finish up a shift that seems to have no end in sight.  She, all the while, stares open mouthed as the scenario unfolds, unable to say a word.  Until, unbelievably, the clerk places the partially filled bag of sullied split peas into the waiting brown paper sack. 

She finds her voice and stammers-

Wait a minute!

All eyes are on her.  She can feel them.  Angry eyes.  Impatient eyes.  Eyes that like the sight of ice cold beer.  Her face is hot, but she asks anyway.

I don’t want to be a bother, but may I please have a new bag?

The poor novice clerk.  His face assumes an expression of sheer panic, as though he is facing an impending mutiny.

Split peas…anyone know what aisle the split peas are on? 

He addresses everyone, and no one in particular.  She can offer him no assistance, either.  The layout of the store is already a blur.

As though taking part in a frenzied scavenger hunt, a dozen or so pairs of feet abandon their carts and scatter in every direction.

She is suddenly tired, and embarrassed beyond words, but she can’t resist thinking how amusing it would be if only she had the nerve.

Would somebody grab me some cold beer too!

Hay Season

 In this dimly lit room, she can see that very little about the hospital has changed in 15 years.  Sterile white plaster walls.  Brown linoleum floors.  Scents of antiseptic and soap.  The memory she draws upon is from the last time she was here.  A happier occasion.  The birth of her son.  This time, though, she is here to be with him while he dies. The doctor has confirmed her worst fear.  There is nothing more to be done.

This son of hers, Jack, lays motionless on a narrow bed.  In an attempt to make his few remaining hours more comfortable, he has been covered with a blanket, a damp cloth placed on his forehead.  Traces of blood at the corners of his mouth are the only visible sign of the accident, almost letting her believe that her son is not so terribly broken after all.  She remembers the night he was born.  A perfect little boy.  But still, a mixed blessing.  Sons in this family grow up to be farmers, and if there is one certainty in farming, it is that nothing is ever certain.

                                              ***

The boy’s father is not at the hospital, as one would expect.  The cut hay is ready to be baled, and rain is forecasted.  Hanging in the balance is the livelihood that one thousand acres of sweet timothy will provide.  But as he hurries to bale row after row, anguish consumes him.  Farming is a gamble. Rain. Insects. Fire.  Drought.  The risk of serious injury.  Still, he should have realized that his boy was too inexperienced to drive a tractor so close to the irrigation ditch.  So close that a wheel happened to catch the edge of the slope, and the tractor rolled, crushing his son beneath its iron bulk.

                                               ***

Around two a.m. she loses her fight with exhaustion and nods off, but is roused a few hours  later by an insistent Wake up Elsie! She is alert in an instant, heart pounding.  Her eyes, full of questions, seek answers from the owner of the voice.  Her husband.  Tears are streaming down his face.

Henry? 

Her tone is shrill.  His words spill out, cracked with emotion. 

It’s ok , Elsie!  Look!  Jack’s conscious! The doc thinks he’s going to make it!

It takes a moment for her disbelief to turn to relief, and then, utter joy, and she rushes to cradle her son, her boy, her baby, in her arms.

For now, Henry decides, the news about the rain can wait.