Stories

Karly stood before the large, storefront window of the apothecary shop for a long minute. She was admiring, once again, the scarves decorating the various objects of the display.  It was early spring, and the seasonal exhibit now rang out in the diverse colors of the impending blooms. There were apple-crate shelves supporting bottles of liquid in rose pink and butterscotch gold, alongside baskets of decorative soaps in violet, teal and candy red. An aged wicker chair supported a carefully disorganized stack of lady’s hats, collected from vintage memories of magnificent theatre, riverboat rides, far away cities and trips to the zoo.

The center of the display was a marionette, in the form of a large, spotted dog.  It was a dalmatian, Karly decided, made from painted wood, with leather for its joints and ears. The dog-puppet was suspended from the ceiling, the strings holding it in mid-flight as it jumped over a pickling crock of dried hydrangeas – a brilliant and colorful obstacle for the starkly beautiful black-and-white dog. The backdrop of the whole thing was a parchment dressing screen, on which were hung several colorful hand fans. Some of these were fully open to show bright painted scenes from folklore and song, others partially folded, their stories collapsing in corrugated abstraction.

But Karly admired the scarves. Not because of their prominence, as they were simply draped about and under the other things which made up the giant diorama. Karly felt that she had seen nothing – not in her entire twelve years – so beautiful as these simple bolts of cloth. They flowed in a random, liquid form over and engulfing the half-concealed objects beneath, a coy game of peekaboo between art and physics; lazy cats melting into the potted plants of a sunny window box.

There were perhaps a dozen scarves in the window. Several were of a light blue, spread about like the reflection of the sky in placid waters, cool and sweet. A few of them were died in broad stripes of yellow – warm, lemony bands flanking a single strip of white, undyed cotton. The were three in different shades of orange, colors which Karly decided to name “freshly pulled carrot,” “washed carrot,” and “peeled carrot,” as they ranged from darker to lighter in shade. 

Then there was the red one.  It was the only one she didn’t like, and the girl wondered why it was even included in the display. It was at once the color of blood, rage, and violence. It looked like the coals of resentment that glowed beneath the kettle of hate, like the burning eyes of some ancient demon, crouching to strike the innocent passers-by from its dark, awful recess.

Karly tried to see the lighter side, scouring her memories for images of happy things in that hue.  Roses, symbols of love, in deep, wine red. But, no, those have thorns – mustn’t forget those awful things. The warmth and safety of a bright red campfire is nice. However, once escaped, the same fire would engulf an entire forest, along with any house which might inadvertently wander into the fire’s infernal path. The beautiful berries of the holly bush, of course, which used to deck the halls at Christmas. Why didn’t we have them anymore?  Oh, yes, Karly recalled: She had eaten a few of them, when she was five or six, and gotten so sick the doctor was called to treat the poison.  She gave up trying to rationalize the choice of window dressing and turned her steps inside.

The apothecary sat on a tall stool behind the counter, drinking from a slender cup while he read the morning paper. Karly stopped abruptly at the sight of him. All describable features faded to grey leaving only a crimson swath: he was wearing one of the red scarves draped loosely about his neck. She felt her face flush slightly, as though an odd breeze, somehow both hot and cold, had brushed her cheek, and the quiet metronome in her chest sped slightly in response.

“Hellooo, there!” The baritone voice had a lilt to it, which lent a disarming lightness in spite of its depth (and the apothecary’s girth.) “What can I do for you today?”

Karly’s heart began to slow a bit, a palpable echo of hospitality ringing after the man’s words. She felt unexpectedly safe, realized she had quickly judged the apothecary by nothing more than a scrap of colored cloth, and blushed again. She quickly gathered her wits and recalled her mission.

“I need tea, please,” pause, “tea for an upset stomach.”

“Oooh,” he nodded, “I have just the thing.” He reached behind him, without looking, and opened a drawer. His hand dipped inside briefly, then knuckled the drawer closed in a single, smooth motion, swinging around to deposit a small packet on the counter. “Ginger,” he declared, “is the mother of all herbs.” He chuckled, saying, “This is my own blend. Drink it hot or cold.”

Karly was peering down the row of drawers now, floor to ceiling, filling two full walls of the shop. “You have so many of them,” she asked, “how do you keep track?”

A deep laugh rolled from the apothecary’s chest, “Well, you know… I’ve been at this a while. I don’t recall everything here all the time, but I always seem to find things when I need them.”

The apothecary drawers, although ranked by size, were of various colors, some with labels, others not. With the miss-matched handles and knobs, the whole array made a kind of random mosaic; a euphonious chatter composed entirely from discordant, clashing voices, like the colorful flow of crowds at the open-air market, blent together in the early light of a summer morning.

“What’s in that one?” Karly pointed at a greenish drawer, with a yellow knob.

The apothecary turned in his seat to look. “Happiness.” He said simply.

“Really? You have a drawer of happiness?”

“Oh, I have many kinds of happiness here.” The apothecary gave a bouncy nod. “There are over a thousand drawers in this shop, most of which are divided into several additional boxes inside. Then there are the jars, pots and crocks on the other wall. In the back room, there are bags and pallets containing ingredients for more things than even I can imagine, and I can imagine a great many things. Many of these are, indeed, some form of happiness.”

Karly had her elbows on the counter, hands under her chin in captive attention. “Like what?” she asked, “What else do you have in here?”

“What do you need?” He shrugged, and continued without waiting for an answer, “I have treatments for all of the common ailments – cold and flu, fever and chills. I have an elixir for arthritis and another for aching backs. I something for the pain one gets in her head from worrying too much, and the same thing can be used to treat menstrual cramps.” He was pointing as he talked, at drawers in the immediate vicinity of the chair.  Now he stood and began to move slowly down the long counter. “I have chamomile and valerian, if you are anxious or cannot rest. I have echinacea, gingko, milk thistle, Saint John’s wort, to treat everything from asthma to gout to problems of the liver. I have ginseng.” He paused. “You know what that’s for?” Karly shook her head. “Everything! All of these ingredients have a variety of uses, and ginseng has the most!”

As he walked, Karly had followed slowly down the long counter, occasionally looking up at the apothecary, but mostly at the counter-top, where she had been tracing the grain of the wood with her finger. She almost bumped into him where he had stopped, at the open flap of the bar gate, stepping out into the room. She looked up, but he was now turning to point in various directions.

“I have potions, ointments, and elixirs for doctors, too. Treatments for colicky babies, and elderly digestion. I have cream for severe burns, powders to stop bleeding, and strong drinks to prepare a patient for surgery. These things make the world a better place, don’t you think?” Karly made noises of agreement into a non-existent pause. “But the usefulness of other things can be hard to see at times – at least to see them in their fullest extent.”

Karly was getting curious again, a fact which must have shown on her face. The apothecary continued, sounding somewhat like a carnival barker extolling the virtues of his marvelous wares.

“I have a drawer over there that has keys to various interesting things, and another that has only buttons.  Somewhere in that corner is a cure for cancer, although I haven’t actually assembled it yet. There are drawers of summer sunshine, autumn leaves, and candied peel for winter’s baking.  In this room are the tears of a parent, and alongside them is the first homerun of the season. The jars hold clean bandages, romantic connections, found socks, future generations of holiday gatherings, and empty space for the thoughts of our elders. Somewhere in this shop are unwritten novels, repaired cartwheels, rodeo rides, bridges to faraway shores, warm regards, the rise and fall of governments – each of them waiting to be placed in the hands of the right person.”

Although Karly was somewhat dazzled with the wonder of it all, she had a nagging question. She asked, “Can we go back to the happiness?”

“Ah. You are interested in that, are you? So, what do you think might be in that drawer?” The apothecary began moving back to his original position, eventually to sit in his ancient, spindly chair with a slight squeak.

Karly thought it over. “I don’t know. Something that makes me happy, I guess…?”

“And what makes you happy, Karleen?”

“Warm things?” It was a questioning sort of answer. “I think happy, warm things.”

The apothecary turned and reached, removing the whole box, and setting it on the counter in front of the girl. “Lucky you.” He said simply.

Before Karly even looked into the drawer, she could smell its contents. She perked-up visibly. “That smells gooood!”

It was like opening a pie cupboard in late December, with the warm, spicy steam of a mince spilling out and caressing your face. The smell was that of a magical, foreign land, whose roads were paved with cardamom shells and cinnamon bark was used for writing paper. The smell was the texture and color of her grandfather’s tweed jacket, seen every Friday when he would take grandma dancing at the speakeasy on 57th Street. It was like hot apple cider, served with rum cake.

Karly was somewhat disappointed when she looked at the actual contents of the box, which had three compartments of dry, brown, crumbly stuff. (But she was still excited.)

“What is it?”

“Cinnamon, clove, and garam masala.” He was beginning to scoop a little of each into a small muslin bag.

“This is ‘happiness’?” She seemed skeptical.

“Is it not? You seemed to like the smell – wait until you taste it.” He smiled, rising and walking a short distance down the bar. He lit a burner under a large water kettle and returned. He explained, “We make a pot of tea, and add a teaspoon of this mix to it. We will let it steep for a while, then add honey and cream. It’s known as ‘chai’.”

While the apothecary set about the rest of the tea preparations, Karly asked a new question. “Why are there so many colors on the drawers? And the knobs have been painted too – why?”

The apothecary looked up and down the row before answering, as though refreshing his memory regarding the look of the shop.  He explained, “The drawers have gotten moved around over the years, for convenience. At one time, all of the drawers of a single color would have been grouped together. There was a brown cabinet, a green cabinet, a lavender cabinet, and the several natural wood colors of course. Because I get into some drawers much more frequently than others, I’ve moved those closer to my stool, for easy reach.”

Karly laughed out loud. “I thought it meant something!”

The apothecary gave one of his deep, resonant laughs. “Well,” he continued, mostly not. A few of the drawers have been painted for other reasons, but very few. The knobs are another story. The handle used to open each drawer is color-coded to indicate who is allowed to open that drawer.” Karly’s mind was racing, her eyes scanning the drawers, as he continued. “The blue knobs, and there are only a few, are available to anyone who is aware of them, anyone who is given any access can use the contents of those drawers.” Karly listened intently, spotting the blue knobs scattered about. “The orange knobs are for the fully trained alchemist, and only they should be granted access to such important things.”

Karly suddenly made a connection, but held back, asking only, “the knobs painted yellow with the white strip – who opens those?”

“Ah – those are for students.  Anyone who has chosen to study under the apothecary, and who has been accepted, is free to peruse the daffodil handles, as we call them.”

“These colors are the same as the scarves in the window!”

“Correct.” The apothecary raised an eyebrow but made no remark as he poured the water into the teapot.

“I love the scarves. They’re beautiful. Well, mostly.” She paused, but then continued in childish disregard of tact. “I don’t like the red one.”

The apothecary let out a robust laugh this time, and asked, “They’re technically pashmina, by the way. But – why not? You don’t like red?”

Karly’s brows knit, and she said, “Well, it’s a scary color. Anger, blood, fire – all scary things. I can’t think of anything that is not at least partly bad. Like, the way red roses have vicious thorns! Red means danger, don’t you see?”

The apothecary nodded, thoughtful for a moment. “What about strawberries, then? I don’t believe those are dangerous.” He smiled before continuing, “You are, in part, correct.” He spoke in a low voice now, in a conspiratorial tone, as though he was about to give secret information. “Red is a very powerful color, with – it’s true – elements good and bad. The saffron-red pashmina is granted to the alchemist of the highest level. It is red, in part, because it is so easily seen, although that’s true of the orange pashmina as well. In the great scheme of things, red is the deepest color, the root, if you will, of all colors. The slowest vibration, of which all other vibrations are harmonics. It is the outermost color of the rainbow, and the last color of the fading sunset.” Karly was rapidly losing interest in the metaphysical lecture and had begun searching for any drawers with red knobs.

She only found one. “What’s in that drawer?” She pointed. “The black drawer, with the red knob?”

In his usual habit of deliberation, the apothecary looked at the drawer, the only black drawer, at the far bottom corner of the wall behind the counter.

“And why is it the only black one?” Karly was getting more curious by the moment. “Is the cabinet it came from gone?”

“No,” A slow sigh, then, “That one seems to have darkened of its own accord. The black drawer is for any and all things, evil.” He gave the tea a stir and put the lid back on.

“Well,” Karly had only the vaguest of notions of what evil might be, but nothing she could think of would fit in that small box. “What’s in it?”

The apothecary didn’t answer. He got up from his chair, walked casually down the length of the counter, and retrieved the drawer. He set it wordlessly between them.

The presence, up close, of the evil drawer was more than a little disconcerting, and Karly was regretting her curiosity. She held her gaze high and kept it there while a lump in her throat rose, then slowly receded again. She felt a wave of dread, fear, anger. Then a pang of inexplicable guilt, and a resignation to follow through with her original inquiry. She looked into the drawer.

“It’s empty!” She said, both relieved and confused.

The apothecary looked into the drawer, tipping it slightly to see every corner. “So it is.”

Karly stared blankly back.

“You see, Karly, this is no ordinary drawer.” He pushed it slightly to one side, but only enough to make a clear space in which to pour the tea. “In this particular box,” he nodded his head slightly, “things come and go. We can put things in it, but we have no guarantee that they’ll stay.” He poured two cups of the chai, adding cream and sugar as he spoke. “This is why only I can open the drawer – we never know what we may or may not find.”

“But why?” Karly was perplexed. “You said it was for everything evil – why have such a drawer? Why keep it?” Then she took her first sip of chai, and abruptly exclaimed, “Oh my God!” looking at the cup in her hands, “This stuff is amazing! Happiness indeed!”

The two laughed for several moments. Finally, the apothecary spoke up.

“Why keep the black box, you wonder? This is hard to explain. Sometimes we need exactly such a place. I think it’s easier if I just show you.”

The apothecary produced a small notepad from somewhere behind the counter and slid it across to Karly. Then he handed her a pen.

“What is your worst fear? Your darkest memory? You have something – we all do. Something you would never tell anyone.” He paused, waiting as Karly thought for a few moments. When she looked back to his face, the apothecary said, “Ok. You don’t need to write it all down, but I want you to put a word on the paper. Or draw something. Or just put some mark – anything on the paper, and you will find that it will become attached to this dark thing that you carry.”

Karly had come up blank, with nothing specific to write. She felt that she wanted to do this thing, however, as though she had some compelling reason for it, a reason that was just a teeny bit out of reach at the moment, a fuzzy shadow in a low corner nearby. Her hand moved quickly on the notepad, leaving a squiggle that she knew, somehow, would mean something to her later.

“Now put that in the box.”

She dropped it as instructed. The little note fell slowly, tipping back and forth not unlike the motion of a falling feather. It fell for a long time, slower and slower, getting smaller in the distance. Now it was just a small, white dab on an inky-black backdrop of empty space inside the drawer of evil. Eventually, it hit the bottom with a loud “clang,” like the locks of a heavy prison door banging together in the still silence of some remote, timeless night.

“Thank you.” Said the apothecary. “You will know when it’s time to come back and look into that drawer.”

She said nothing, sipping her chai in silence, feet swinging below her as she sat, waiting for the apothecary to speak again.

But he did not. Instead, he stood, and returned to the end of the counter, replacing the drawer in its slot. He came out from behind the counter, and walked up to the window display, reaching around the dressing screen. After a bit of rustling about, he pushed the screen back into its proper place, and returned to his stool. In his hand he held one of the blue scarves, which he proceeded to fold carefully on the bar.

Then he pushed it over to Karly, saying, “You’ll know when it’s time to open that drawer, Karleen. Save this, and show it when you come in.”

***

Karleen woke up, the memory of the black and red apothecary box vivid in her mind. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth, then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She ate a light breakfast, then moved out to the garden to sip her tea and continue the process of waking up, slowly merging her reality with the larger world around her.

The house was too quiet these days. With her youngest in college, and the rest of the family estranged or gone, Karleen feel simultaneously free of her daily obligations and imprisoned by her inner shadows.  And for some reason, today, she was thinking about an apothecary, and black drawer, and a note that she couldn’t quite recall.

Was it a dream? Or was she remembering something that actually happened to her twelve-year-old self? She had so few memories from that time, and even fewer from her life before that. She had lived with her grandparents then, she knew that much, although she was unable to recall why. It was a peaceful time, she thought, even if she couldn’t quite remember to what other part of her life she was comparing.  Curiosity won out, however, and she decided to start her weekend by looking through boxes, long stored in the deep recesses of the closet under the stairs.

The first box held nothing but sheet music from grandma’s piano bench. That was it. Pages upon pages of chords and notes, like so many ants on endless sheets of paper. She stacked them carefully and dumped them back in the box. The second was full to the brim with toys, scrapbooks, photos, documents, awards, schoolwork and an embroidered pillowcase, all of which had been packed be grandma at the end of middle school.

Karleen paused for a few moments to admire Juniper, the exuberant dalmatian of her early childhood, now subdued in a framed print. Then she replaced the contents of that box and moved on.  Next, she discovered grandpa’s collection of hand-painted lead toys. It was a very heavy box, although made somewhat lighter by the presence of several cigar boxes in the bottom. These, in turn, held greeting cards from about a decade of birthdays and Christmases, which gave Kathleen a spark of hope: she had packed this box herself, after grandpa had passed away.

Sure enough, the next box was gold. In it was Missy, her favorite doll, and a tiny, doll-sized blanket. There were candles, which she had kept hidden as a girl since she would be in big trouble if she were ever caught with fire. There were small collections of shells, stones, and a few interesting coins of little collector’s value. But most of all, and at no little surprise, was the blue scarf.

She held it up to the light of the open closet door, seeing how the old fabric filtered the light into so many pinholes. She felt the fabric – was it cotton? Or a very soft wool?  Even after more than three decades of storage, the color was a striking, vibrant blue, the reflection of the sky in placid waters, or the deep cracks in a glacier of ancient ice. Holding it up to her face, she could feel the soft presence of distant hands, working the cloth with care, fashioning it into this device – what was it called? A pashmina, wasn’t it? And there was a smell, under the veil of musty closet and time and dust – a warm, glowing smell – the scent of happiness.

Karleen began to cry. She didn’t feel silly about it, or self-conscious (there was nobody at home, anyway.) She knew that this meant something, and she felt memories sparkling like fireflies under a table of imaginary glass. She felt the memories, not as ones connected to the scarf itself, but deeper, and she knew also that the scarf was the key.

It was time.  Karleen gathered the scarf, her shoes, and her wits, and moments later was out the door.  She was filled with hope that she might find the black apothecary box, and dread that she might find something waiting inside.

The weather service had predicted a pocket. It was the first in several years, and in Sarah’s eye, every dome in the community seemed to tremble in electric anticipation.  Deep down she knew that the shimmering was just the usual mirage effects of hot air rising carelessly from baked soil and dusty roadway, but still it was hard not to think that the dry, drab caps of the subterranean homes were excited for what was to come.  Leaning her elbows on the thick casement of the dark, polarized vestibule window, Sarah craned her neck to peer at the sky for any sign of cloud.  Nothing but the usual pale haze of atmospheric dust and traces of smoke from distant fires, through which the sun cast its yellow-stained rays on the golden mountains in the distance. The view resembled the tone of some ancient photograph out of a bygone era, Sarah mused. An era when there were real seasons, a regular living cycle.  But now one could only hope for the occasional pocket.

 

“Avery!” Sarah called, “You and I have a little work to do.”

 

“Work?” The seven-year-old appeared at the bottom of the stairs, curiosity in her small, dark eyes.

 

“Yes.  And you know what?” Sarah descended a few steps down from the vestibule floor, paused for effect, then crouched, leaning forward a little, and whispered, “You might even get to play outside!”

 

“Outside?”  Avery was clearly confused. “In the daytime?” Her mother nodded.  “Why would I want to do that?” Her brows were furled in concern.

 

Sarah was laughing now. “Outside! You’ll see. But first we have a few things to take care of.”

 

Sarah’s laughter faded as took on the calm, composed bearing of a mother who had set about carefully orchestrating a miracle for her child.  She descended the rest of the stairs and, grabbing a stepstool from the kitchen, she headed down one more level.  Avery followed silently as her mother led the way into the pantry, where the light ducts cast the same sepia effect found outside.  In this light, it could be difficult to tell one flavor from another (without actually reading the package) and more than once had this led to surprise food combinations at breakfast or dinner.

 

But Sarah didn’t bother with the switch by the door, and with purposeful manner she planted the stool in the far corner and stepped up to balance on the highest tread.  Even then, Sarah had to stretch, feeling around on the top shelf for a few moments. Avery was enthralled.  Something had gotten into mom, but the child couldn’t determine what.  Was there some emergency?  No.  Avery had seen her mother spring into swift action, with the stern-faced adrenaline of crisis.  This was not that kind of urgency.  Was mom going to show her a new game? No. This was a little bit like play, but to purposeful (and mom had said, “Work to do.”)  This was something in between.  A kind of happy emergency, perhaps. Something like that.

 

“Ah-ha!” Sarah retrieved a small package from the dark recess of the back of the shelf and handed it down to Avery.  “These are just the thing.”

 

Avery held the box reverently, having no idea what it could be, but sensing great importance in the treasure hidden away and revealed in such mystery. Her respectful poise, in contrast with her tousled hair, drew another giggle from her mother, now back at pantry-floor level.

 

“Ok. Come on.” Sarah left the stepstool where it was and headed back upstairs.

 

In the kitchen, Sarah had Avery place the package on the table.  It was a coarse cloth bag, perhaps large enough to hold a pair of shoes, thought Avery, or maybe only a single shoe. From this bag Sarah withdrew a small box.  The box itself was plastic but appeared to be sealed with something.  Avery watched as her mom began scraping it away with a small knife.

 

“It’s wax.” Sarah explained.  “These have to be kept absolutely dry.  We expose the open box to the sun for a little while, then close it up and seal it to make sure there is no moisture at all. They can last many years that way.”

 

For Avery, the explanation created more questions than it answered.  She remained silent, though, enthralled by the process unfolding in the kitchen. Elsewhere in the house, games were waiting patiently to be played. There were things to read, and sounds to listen to, recordings of far-away breezes and crashing oceans. There were colors which could be moved about with little sticks, inviting the creative genius of the child mind.  Downstairs, Avery had a collection of faceless dolls that only came to life in her hands. There were puzzles that changed patterns in weird, wonderful ways, and brainteasers that looked easy when they were not.  Avery had a tree of lights in her playroom, with spectacular pulses dancing to the rhythm of centuries-old compositions, or flickering with new whimsical music one could make up on the spot.  All of the voices that whisper the language of life into the growing mind of a child.

 

As Avery and her mother sat together at the kitchen table, there were yet races to run in the deep basement, and bicycles to ride through simulated landscapes. Avery could flip through images of faraway places, sometimes to tell made-up stories about them and the history she imagined must have created them.  On most days, either Avery or a friend would make the brief, intense trek between homes, and they would play or have schooling, depending on the calendar.  Hidden under her bed, Avery had a box of jewelry (which she thought was secret) and every so often she would open it up to remind herself of the times and places tied irrevocably to each bauble.  There were so many things to do in the house, so much to draw a child’s attention, all forgotten in the moment of wonder at this small, simple box of glorious mystery on the kitchen table.

 

It was open now. The inside of the box smelled like starlight, rust, parchment and time.  Sarah gently lifted the lid, revealing neatly placed rows of small envelopes.  There were lots of them.  Avery wanted to dump them all out, to read the labels, and figure out the pictures that were printed on each. However, the process was to be drawn out in a fashion more deliberate than all that. Sarah flicked through them with her thin fingertips for a few moments and, pulling one tiny packet from the bunch, handed it to Avery.  “Do you know what this is?”

 

Avery looked it over.  She could read the label, and the faded picture was clearly some kind of plant.  Avery had seen other pictures of plants, of course, but she was having a very difficult time rationalizing what she knew about them with this little paper packet. Avery could feel the slight bulge of some lumpy contents, and a small shake elicited a dry rustling from inside – a fairy voice from a forgotten novel.  She looked up at her mom, and asked, “Is this made from a plant?”

 

Sarah stifled a sob; her eyes began to tear up.  “Radishes, honey.” She sniffed. “They’re seeds, baby girl. We are going to plant them, and if we’re lucky those ones will become radishes.”

 

****

 

The clouds were beginning to show in the sky over the hot, arid August morning.  By afternoon, they were gone, but the brief spectacle of atmospheric moisture was the expected omen. Like fluffy trumpets, the herald angels of an impending climatic miracle. The pocket was coming, and soon.  Mother and daughter watched the patterns developing, hoping to get the timing right.  Avery claimed she remembered rain, once. Sarah doubted that she actually did.  The girl had only been three back then, and it was a single, brief downpour.  The temperature had not even changed, really.  It had been well in the dangerous range of heat, foggy for a few minutes, and humid for several hours afterward.  Just because Avery talked about how awful that part was didn’t mean she remembered it. She’d certainly heard others talking about it since, creating the memory she didn’t really have.  But this – this was going to be different.

 

The evening before the pocket, Sarah led Avery out to the north side of the vestibule.  “This spot will give our garden enough shade to keep it from drying out too fast,” she explained. “Even so, we will need to put some cloth down, and a cover after the pocket, to keep them going as long as possible.”

 

After the sun was completely down, a breeze started up.  It was a cool breeze – another tell of the pocket’s onset, and a phenomenon completely novel to the child.  Sarah and Avery removed their sun cloaks and began to dig.  They turned the soil and prepared rows for the seeds. In other places, they prepared small mounds for those they had pre-germinated. They place small markers to identify which crops were in each tiny patch.  Then Sarah unfolded a large cover, painstakingly pieced together from burlap sacks she’d saved from the bulk dry-goods delivered to the resource hub.  This cover they laid carefully over the entire garden area, with stakes and rocks to hold it in place.  But no seeds yet.

 

In the morning, Avery awoke to her mother’s gentle prodding.  “Let’s go outside.” Sarah turned and walked out of the room.  Avery could hear an odd sort of rushing murmur in the distance. In her sleepy mind, she wondered idly what the sound could be, while in her waking heart she could feel the pounding footsteps of ancient ancestors, running free in forests and green fields, buzzing with life.  She rubbed her eyes, got out of bed, and a few minutes later met her mom in the vestibule.  The girl reached for her sun cloak.  “You won’t need that.” Sarah said, smiling. Avery was startled, but faithfully followed mom out the door.  

 

It was raining.  It was cold (by Avery’s standards), and the world smelled funny.  They walked a few steps into the rain, and stopped there, a few yards from the front door.  They both just stood there, as though the world had just now presented itself for their first scrutiny.  Standing, together in the rain.  Avery looked up, blinked her eyes.  She reached her hand into her hair, now soaked by the cool, soft drops, and pushed it behind her ear.  She turned her small, thin face up at Sarah, who pointed.  Avery looked, to see that neighbors, down the street as far as she could see, were doing the same.  Some were looking around, some were laughing, some were now hugging each other.  Small children looked afraid, clinging to the legs of their parents.

 

Older people had gathered cups, tubs and even wheelbarrows, to capture some of the free water.  A few seemed to be crying – in pain or joy – but the tears were masked by the flow of water coming in buckets from the dark, fluffy heavens.  Avery turned back to her mother and started a squeal of joy that quickly resolved itself to a wordless song, and the dancing began.

 

Children ran between houses, while parents walked casually down the lane.  Some had never seen each other’s faces, and all greetings became happy introductions.  Rivulets formed along paths and between houses, so the children responded by jumping across – back and forth, forth and back.  A few were seen standing with arms and mouth wide, catching raindrops on tongues dry from years of oppressive futility, and smacking lips whose cracks were healing moment-by-moment.  Sarah saw a little boy stop in a mud puddle and wondered how he knew to do it.  It took several hours for the initial bout of frolicking to die down enough for Sarah to divert Avery’s attention to the garden.  The pocket itself was expected to last two full weeks.  There would be plenty of time to play later, after the work was done.

 

They planted seeds of several kinds. Sarah would pick a spot and poke a hole in the burlap with the slim blade of a long knife. Avery would follow behind, dropping seeds in the holes, following the labels they had set the night before.  They planted green lettuce, bok choy, spinach and arugula.  There were cress, sunflowers, and beans, which would be harvested as sprouts.  Bulb greens of chives, green onions, and scallions.  They planted an entire section of herbs – fennel, dill, oregano, chervil, mint, coriander, chives, parsley and basil – some of which might be ripe enough to harvest when the time came. And, of course, the radishes.  In a time and place where all vegetables were dried, canned, processed into extracts or made into other things, Avery had been looking forward to these the most.

 

Her mother had described radishes to her a week ago in the kitchen. “They’re like water, honey,” she’d said, “only round, crunchy, and ruby red. Bright white on the inside, too, like a small light in a dark room. They don’t have a flavor, so they go with anything or everything. But also, they do have flavor. They taste like the fondest memories of loved ones and happiness.” After a pause, she added, “My mother showed me how to grow them, long ago, just like we’re going to do.”  Avery was all-in for the radishes.

 

Once all of the other seeds had been placed into the ground, Sarah held her hand out to the rain for a few moments, rinsing her muddy palms. Then she retrieved something from her pocket, and held it out to the girl. “One more thing to plant, Avery.”  In her hand was a small jar with what appeared to be a wadded-up scrap of cloth. “These are nasturtiums.” Sarah smiled at her daughter’s quizzical expression. “They’re a type of flower, honey.”

 

Avery looked at them in awe.  “Flowers?” she asked, “we have flowers?”

 

“My mother gave me the seeds,” Sarah explained, “quite a lot of them, actually.  Every year, I take a few out, and I get them wet.  Yes, I know, we are not permitted to use house water on plants, but this is only a few drops. I do this because some seeds take a long time to germinate – err, to get ready to sprout. During a pocket, there is just no time, and we would never, ever have these if they weren’t prepared.  So, every year, I take out a small number of seeds, start them with a tiny bit of water, put them in the refrigerator and wait.  Most years, their time runs out and I must throw them away.”  Sad notes hung in the damp air as the two women kneeled together by the garden, as if in melancholy prayer for the lost souls of the nasturtiums who had never made it.  But Sarah continued. “This year,” she said, “we have a pocket. These seeds are ready, and I think the timing is right – they have a chance!”

 

With that, she poked the planting knife through the burlap, and dropped a seed through the hole, into the dark, warm, welcoming soil beneath.  They took turns, planning the seven seeds in silence.  Avery looked up at her mom, and started to speak, then stopped.  Sarah understood instantly.  “You’re done.  Run play!  Go see the neighbors, with no sun gear!  Enjoy it while it lasts!”

 

Two weeks to play in the rain.  Two weeks for the water from above to bathe the tiny sprouting vegetables. Allowing for another week or two of growth after, Sarah felt that there would indeed be a small harvest before the soil hardened to cracked concrete under the merciless sun and plants became impossible once more.

 

***

 

The pocket broke on a Sunday.  Avery didn’t notice the irony of “Sun” for a “sunny” day, but she was astonished when the clouds parted to reveal a crystal clear, deep blue sky.  Yes, the temperature was already rising, but the clean air, the dust-free lanes between the shining domes of the residential vestibules which dotted the community, the sparkle of the rooftops that could be seen on the resource hub and civic buildings in the distance – all of this was a new, uncharted world to Avery.  She wondered: How long it would stay like this? Would the skies return to their normal brown color? Or would they stay this disconcerting shade of blue? Would this thing happen again?  Another pocket – maybe this year?  Further reflection was cut short by her mother’s low voice. “Come on,” she said, eying the retreating clouds. “We have work to do.”

 

Sarah led Avery to a trap door leading to one of the out-basements.  Near the bottom of the stairs, Sarah had staged a largish roll of white plastic, and a stack of longish tubes.  Avery’s questions regarding their purpose were answered when she and her mother began assembling them at the garden.  They used these things to construct a pair of tents covering the garden plot, whose tiny plants were just beginning to break the surface.

 

“We won’t be able to go inside these for more than a few minutes once it warms up,” Sarah said.  “It will be extremely hot and humid, at least for a week or two.  Then it will just be hot, the whatever’s left in here will be dead. I’ll keep an eye on it, and harvest just before that happens.”

 

Avery had already turned away to gaze at the purple mountains in the distance.  “Mom…?” she asked, “what is that?”

 

The girl was pointing to an area of the plain some distance from the community.  It was a patch of green, amid the dark sea of mud that was already starting to bake into the familiar tawny shade of the surrounding flats.

 

Sarah smiled. “I’d forgotten about this part.  Or perhaps I didn’t want to get my hopes up, I don’t know.“ (Pause.) “Those are plants, honey. Keep an eye on them over the next few days.”  She smiled and headed inside.

 

***

 

Early one morning, Avery awoke to her mother’s gentle prodding.  “Let’s go outside.” Sarah turned and walked out of the room.  The little girl rubbed her eyes for a few moments before she realized what must be going on.  She got out of bed, and a few minutes later met her mom in the vestibule.  Mother and daughter ventured out into the pre-dawn darkness, with flashlights and baskets.  The soil that had been turned to mud during the pocket was now very dry, crunchy, and peeling up at the edges between cracks.  Together they lifted the row covers from the garden.

 

They were met by a lush patch of green leaves, happily growing from the carefully curated oasis in the desolate ground of the community.  Sarah and Avery harvested the greens, the bulbs, the sprouts, herbs and the much-anticipated radishes. Nearly everything seemed far enough along to eat.  At the far end, amidst a small array of round, green leaves, were a few pale-yellow buds.  The nasturtiums were just starting to open, revealing the deep orange flowers that were coming into being.

 

“Do we pick them?” Avery asked.

 

Sarah paused in consideration.  “Well,” she said, “we have a choice to make.” Avery, cued into her mother’s contemplative tone, let a moment pass with no interruption. Sarah continued. “We could pick the nasturtiums now, and they would probably finish blooming in the house.  We could even eat them.”

 

“Wait, you can eat these?”

 

Sarah laughed, “Yes, we can. However, there would be no seeds to replace the ones we planted.”

 

Avery was visibly trying to work out the importance of this. “Seeds… to grow more? You have more seeds, right?”

 

Sarah smiled, with a touch of sadness.  “Yes, I do. However, once those are gone, there will be no more in this house. The line will be gone, and we will probably never see anything like them again. If we leave these plants here, the flowers may develop long enough for seeds to mature.  Of course, they will dry out very soon in the heat.  But if we put the cover back on, there’s a chance that the seeds will survive, even as the flowers are dying.  Then we could dry them and store them for another year.”

 

Avery had been eyeballing the plants. “How come there are only five?”

 

Sarah hadn’t noticed, but her daughter was right: only five of the seven they had planted had grown.  “Well,” she explained, “not all of the seeds will grow.  You plant them, and some make it.  Others just don’t.  That’s why the plants have so many – so there will be a better chance for new plants to start from their seeds.”

 

Avery nodded, still thoughtful.  “How many seeds are in each flower?”

 

“Mmm… three or four, I think.”

 

“So,” Avery had obviously come to a conclusion, and now offered a plan. “How about this: We cut one plant, and we’ll have the flowers from that.  The other four plants all have several flowers on them, so there should be…” (wheels turning) “I don’t know, but a lot of seeds!”

 

“I see at least four flowers on some of the plants, and that one has six.” Sarah walked through the arithmetic out loud, for emphasis. “That means there are more than sixty seeds to come, if there are any at all, probably more.  Would you like some flowers?” Avery nodded vigorously; Sarah continued.  “I say we pick two plants, and we can each have a bouquet.”

 

“A what?”

 

Sarah laughed.  “A handful of flowers, in a vase.  You’ve seen pictures.”

They continued laughing lightly as they replaced the row covers, and the eastern horizon began to glow.

 

The two women were carrying the baskets back to the house, when Avery spotted the color off in the distance.  Sarah saw it, too, and paused, turning to her daughter. “Do you know what that is, Avery?”

 

Avery stared in the warm twilight air, straining to see detail, but could only make out some areas of purple and a few yellow blotches. “The green patches – are those flowers, too?”

 

“Wildflowers, honey.”  Sarah sat down on the ground, gesturing to Avery.  “The seeds stay in the ground, waiting – sometimes for years. Just waiting for Spring.”

 

 

 

This thing started with a question. We were sitting under the red awning of Sushi Zen in New York, about a block away from Times Square. That’s where we were.  And it was tourist season. The table-for-two wait time was expected to be about an hour, but Tom and I were determined to get in at least once before heading back to LA.  My husband was sitting astride the bench, his back to the door. I was in front of him, standing so our faces were at about the same level while we chatted. I’m short, ok? I take advantage of every opportunity to be as tall as him.

A young couple had just sat down on the benches next to us, directly behind Tom. The question came out of the blue, and Tom didn’t realize for a moment they were talking to him.  “Excuse me.” The voice was a light in tone, contrasting with dark, wooly features. The man was probably in his mid-twenties, with a wild looking mane of long, dark curls and a distinctly Mexican horseshoe mustache. I could see that the blonde woman next to him looked impassive, as though this happened quite a bit. Tom turned slightly toward the couple, as much as he could comfortably twist, but still only enough to bring them into his periphery.  “Hi!” The young man continued, with just a touch of unidentifiable accent. “I’m just wondering – are you a competitive bodybuilder, or do you just work out for fun?”

Tom turned back to me and made brief eye contact, with a teensy bit of grin, and slowly gathered himself from the bench. All six-and-a-half-feet of him. He gave a slight shrugging motion as he turned, as if to shake out a tight muscle in his shoulder, then he stood before the young couple.  I was trying not to laugh, but the strangers weren’t looking at me, anyway.  Tom had his hands on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, back straight but with a bearing slightly like that of a crouching tiger. He looked like some kind of Viking warrior, but in a Hawaiian shirt. He was going to fuck with them.

“My name’s Tom,” he said casually, “What’s yours?”

There was a nervous pause, but the man answered, “Julio.”

“And where are you from, Julio?  I’m from LA.” Tom paused, then quickly added, “The bad part.  Molly and I are from the bad part of LA.” He gestured my way as he spoke.

Julio was holding up pretty well but was clearly regretting his forwardness.  “We’re from Sacramento, sir. Shelli and I. Sacramento California.”

“And you work up there?  A professional man, I’m guessing, by the look of you.” In spite of his raw, hippie vibe and tousled hair, Julio did in fact carry polished look.

“Yes.” Pause, then stuttering slightly. “C-c-computers…” Julio was getting more distressed with each question.

There followed a few moments of contemplation. Tom’s blonde curls were buzzed short on the sides, with a shock on top that made him look even taller.  His upper body looked like he could just give one good flex and destroy his close-fitting shirt like the Hulk did in the comics, while the muscles in his thighs could be seen through his slacks. He didn’t just stand there, he towered. Inside, I was wondering how much longer I could stand this.

Tom broke the spell. “So.” It was like a single baritone note. He continued, “How long have we been friends?” he raised his eyebrows a touch. “Like, two or three minutes, maybe?”  He smiled one of his big, winning grins.  “That’s good, because if we didn’t know each other so well, I would have said that, really, why I choose to work-out is none of your fucking business.” He chuckled slightly and shrugged as he said this. “But we’ve gotten to be such good friends now and, you know, I’ve gotten past the fact that you’re from Northern California – I’ve forgiven you that.” Tom glanced around, and continued in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, “However, as we stand here today, and before I answer you, I have a question of my own.”  He paused for effect. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

Julio was confused, but he was beginning to see Tom’s sense of humor in this, and the winning charm of my gentle giant once again prevailed. Julio glanced at his wife, who apparently gave him some unspoken sign, and then said “Of course!  We’d love too.”

“One second, please.” Tom stepped over to the maître d’, returning after a brief consultation.  “As I suspected.  Restaurants always seem to work this way.  A table for two takes an hour to seat, but there’s a table for four coming up right away.  Good thing we ran into each other, yes? Got us in the door, anyway.”

Shelli was laughing, clearly enjoying the interaction and probably happy to learn this particular trick of the restaurant game. Julio was right behind her, literally and figuratively, as we crowded together near the door.  The mood was now very light, and we chatted the few moments it took to get inside.  In short order napkins had been placed, drink orders taken, and we were looking at the provided menus.

“I recommend the fugu,” commented Tom, placidly. “It’s to die for.”

“You’ve had it, then?” Shelli was apparently the foodie of the two.

Tom grinned.  “Actually, no.  But you’ve heard of the dish?”

“Well, it’s a puffer fish, right?” Shelli could sense that Tom was driving at something. “Is it prepared some special way?”

I jumped in. “Tom’s making a joke, Shelli. Most parts of the fugu fish are extremely poisonous. There are only a few chefs who are trained to prep it without contamination, and this is one of them.” I turned to Tom. “What’s his name?”

“Suzuki.” He answered. “Something Suzuki.”

Shelli was curious. “Poisonous?  So, it can make you sick?”

“Actually,” Tom responded, “it can kill you.  In fact, it will kill you, if you get any of the poisonous parts.  There’s no antidote, and it’s basically always fatal.  Happens very fast.”

Julio suddenly pointed to his menu. “Here it is, hon!”

Shelli was enthralled.  She looked at her husband’s menu, then back at hers. Her eyebrows raised slightly. “’To die for,’ you say?”

It was one of those rare times when a joke’s still funny after it had to be explained. Everyone had a good laugh, and the mood remained until the drinks arrived.  When the wine steward had gone, Shelli looked straight at Tom, and said, “You’re getting it, right?  The fugu?”

Now, my husband is not a particularly daring man. Yes, he can be bold, and does not lack confidence, but he shies away from anything dangerous.  It’s just not him. Today, however, we were on vacation, thousands of miles from home, with our new old-friends (who were on holiday as well) and Tom’s usual caution was already a little on the weak side. Add to that the presence of Shelli, who was clearly throwing a challenge at him, and Tom was transfixed.  There was a sort of stare-down between the two, which lasted several seconds, and after which Tom said (without even a glance at me), “Yes.” He paused, “Yes! I’ll do it if you do.”

And that was that.  Nobody else at the table was going for it.  Julio and I agreed to stand by, ready to dial 911, but we weren’t having the danger fish.  When the waiter came around, we ordered our chosen selections – soups, appetizers, salads, rolls – some to share and some not. Then, at the very end, two pieces of fugu nigiri.

“You’ve read the disclaimer?” Asked the waiter.

“Yes.” Shelli and Tom lied in unison.

“Will there be anything else?”

There wasn’t.  As the waiter walked away, we all began looking around.  All four of us, peering at the people and tables in our area.  I realized that we were all doing the same thing: checking for signs that others had ordered the notorious food, or indications that any were suffering the consequences. And also, I suspect, were we wondering if anyone had observed the order at our table.  Nothing.  Just an ordinary, New York landmark restaurant, filled with ordinary, New York landmark visitors. Nothing to see here.

“So, what do you do, Tom?” Julio was apparently out to even the score on the original questions. Out in the awning, Tom had asked, but not said anything of his own profession. Julio was apparently not the type to let it slide.

“Well, we’re a team.” He pointed back and forth at the two of us. “Molly is a graphic designer, and I write marketing copy.  Together we work as consultants for marketing campaigns.  Small to medium sized business, mostly.”

“Wow!” Julio replied, “That’s a lot more exciting than what I do. Shelli was a graphic arts major herself, but ended up in sales.”

Shelli chimed in. “Have you worked on anything we might recognize?”

I was waiting for this common question and responded with my stock answer. “Our contracts actually don’t permit us to discuss specific engagements, but yes, you certainly have.” This was almost true and tends to avoid boring shop talk.

Shelli’s face crumpled in mock pain now. “Just a little example?” Then she veered slightly. “How about you make something up.” Shelli’s smile had returned. “How about an advertising slogan for Julio.  Pretend he’s… um… a gangster! And he needs something catchy for his business cards!”

I was already scavenging a bit of paper out of my purse, and I started sketching while Tom leaned back in his chair, inspecting the ceiling.  Within perhaps thirty seconds, he leaned forward again. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him, and in a low voice said, “Julio, Julio, shoots his guns in the air. And the bullets come down, but we never know where!”

The couple started to crack up, but then paused when I held up my sketch. It was a cartoon caricature of Julio, waving a gun in each hand.  Both guns had a flag reading “BANG!” unrolling from its barrel.

I thought management would come to quell the ensuing laughter. “The hair!” Shelli was gasping for air as she spoke, “Yep, that’s him!”

“Like I said,” chuckled Tom as, we settled down a few notches. “We’re a team!”

“Yes, you did!” Shelli said, adding, “But you never did answer Julio’s original question….”

“Which was?”  I know Tom had not forgotten, but he feigned ignorance in the moment.

“Why you work out. You do look like a competitive athlete.” Shelly gave a sweeping hand gesture, encompassing Tom from head to toe. I felt a tinge of jealousy but swept it aside for the moment.  Shelli was cute. Thin, medium height, with stick-straight natural blonde hair just below her shoulder. Her Scandinavian face was very delicate, with pale, very intelligent eyes. Even face at rest seemed to land in a smile, and she laughed easily. I wanted to see what my husband would say to this attractive young lady who seemed so interested in this subject of his body.

“I do it for beauty.” That was all he said.  Knowing him as I do, I understood his statement. There was no vanity here, but anyone else would certainly take it as such.  Shelli’s follow-up question (and it looked like she had one) was derailed for the moment by the arrival of soup.

For a minute or two there was only the quiet slurping of excellent miso.  I stepped into the empty space.

“So, how did the two of you meet?” I asked.

Julio answered. “We were set up. A blind date.”

This struck me as funny, which must have been evident to Shelli. “What?” she asked, “are blind dates out of fashion?”

“No,” I replied. “This will sound racist, but I mean strictly from your look: pale and fair, dark and, I don’t know, kinda wild looking.  You two could not be more opposite in appearance.  Perhaps your friends thought to construct a ‘yin-yang’ effect?”  This is why I usually let Tom do the talking.  He has more tact, and charisma to get away with saying this kind of shit. I was relieved when they laughed.

“Yep!” Shelli was rocking in her chair, giggling.  Her soup was finished, and she set her napkin down. “I think that’s exactly what they had in mind!  If you knew our friends, you’d agree!”

“I think it was just supposed to be one date.” Said Julio.  “It was another couple that took us with them to a show. I think they wanted company because their own relationship didn’t have enough spark to keep the evening alive.”

“But five years later, we’re still together!” Shelli shifted in her seat, and I suspected she was reaching out to her husband under the table with her foot. “Besides, I happen to like our yin-and-yang look.”

“It is striking.” Tom smiled. “You make a cute couple.”

Julio may have blushed, but Shelli kept her stride. “As do you!” She said, “with your difference in size!  And how, pray tell, did you meet?”

Tom smiled. “College cheer.”

“Molly was a cheerleader?” asked Shelli.

“We both were.”

“So, you were on a squad together?”

“No,” Tom glanced at me before continuing, “She was at UCLA, I was UCSD. I was in the all-male team.  At the time, it was starting to get really big. Competitive cheer had just gotten recognized as its own sport.”

Shelli’s interest had been captured.  “So, you met her in competition?”

“Sort of.” Tom liked this story, I knew. And Shelli had accidentally set him onto a path thought he very much enjoyed. “I was with my squad at a competition.  UCLA was there, along with others. It was regional. I was waiting for our event – the men’s, I mean – and watched a few of the other events.  I hadn’t really done that before, and I became impressed with the beauty of it.”

“You’re talking about the sport.  The beauty of the sport.” Shelli had been, I suppose, expecting me to appear in the story by now, but she was catching some of Tom’s energy behind it.

“Yes.” Tom continued, “but coed stunts in particular. They had a stunt fest that day.  I was watching these men toss their partners into the air – it was spectacular.  And eventually Molly came out, and I watched her flip, twist and land solid.  Her partner held his arm steady as a rock. She lifter her foot immediately on landing – everyone else had a pause there. I couldn’t believe it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look up ‘cupie’ with ‘rewind.’ Molly was a goddess, and her partner was amazing.”

“I’m waiting for the part where you steal Molly away from the guy…” Shelli obviously expected a punchline, but it wasn’t coming.

Tom laughed as he said, “Yes, I suppose that’s what it sounds like. But it didn’t happen exactly that way.  Back at UCSD, I changed direction. I got plugged into Hybrid Cheer, developing my stunting skills. The ladies at San Diego were great, and they helped my confidence immensely.  It’s not obvious, but the flyer has as much control of the base as the base does over the flyer.  The sport is strikingly symmetrical that way.” Tom tends to get enthusiastic about certain things, and this was one of them. “To me, it’s the interaction of the masculine and feminine aspects of human beings in a nutshell.  The base must be strong – very strong. Over and over, he’ll support his partner with one hand, while she displays the balance and grace of the divine feminine.  She must pay attention, place her feet and hands just so, maintain posture and repeat the movements exactly, all the while trusting that her base will stand firm, supporting her, waiting to catch her if she slips up.  The symmetrical beauty is beyond my ability to express.”

Shelli was surprisingly silent.  She was clearly not bored by this, and neither was Julio. They both waited for Tom to continue.  I was comfortably sipping my wine, thinking how much I loved this man.

“The beauty doesn’t stop there. Hidden underneath what looks like a simple brains-and-brawn duo is the deeper fact that she must be strong, as well.  The flyers train heavily for this, and pack incredible power into a small frame.  And the men, of course, must be graceful.  In a way, the partners learn these things from each other, and both help magnify each other’s counter-abilities.  Like learning to do things with your left hand – the skills are there, if you develop them.”

Shelli finally decided to see if she could get back on track. “So, you went back and impressed Molly?”

Now I jumped in.  “Nope. Didn’t happen that way. I was at an event at UCSD and saw Tom doing his thing. He recognized me, said “Hi,” and I immediately fell for him. It wasn’t long after that and I’d talked him into moving to Torrance.  It was I who stole him away from the UCSD girls!”

Everyone was laughing now. “They thought I was a traitor!” Tom shrugged. “They all thought I was going to compete with UCLA, but I never did. I had graduated, and the work was in LA, anyhow. It just worked out!”

While Tom had been telling the cheerleading story, most of the food had arrived.  We started reaching for our chopsticks and offering to share a piece here and there.

“So,” Shelli began, “when you say you say you work out ‘for beauty,’ what do you mean exactly? I’d thought it was just vanity, but I’m getting a different read, here.”

“Quite.” Tom said. “The beauty of controlled power.”

Shelli deliberately stuffed a piece of sushi roll in her mouth, indicating that she was listening.

Tom elaborated. “You mentioned our size difference. Yes, I’m eighteen inches taller than Molly, and more than twice her weight.  We’re both in pretty good shape, but still, I could physically overpower her at any time, if I chose.  She trusts that I will not.  It’s a bit like what I saw in the cheer partnerships. Only more concentrated. It’s not really a matter of balance, though. At least, not in the same way. Our equilibrium comes about in layers.  Hard to explain. It’s a matter of expression, or choice.  It’s a matter of contrast, between what could be and what we choose.”

Shelli wasn’t convinced. “I see virtue in that, yes, but I don’t follow your notion that’s it’s beautiful.  Why develop strength that you don’t need? I’m playing devil’s advocate, kinda.  Physical fitness has its benefits, no argument there, and a well-toned body is beautiful on its own right? Why does it need ‘contrast’ as you say?”

“But it does.” Tom asserted. “All beauty only exists as a contrast of one kind or another.  A sunset may have pretty colors, and pleasant warmth.  But it’s the night that makes us aware of this beauty. We watch performers on the aerial silks and call it beautiful because they’ve avoided the injury of falling. Again, it’s about contrast.  There are many, many different kinds of beauty in the world, of course, but they mostly come down to the balance of forces, and constrained power.”

Julio piped in at this point.  “I recognize this, in principle.  I remember reading a story in which a man at a car factory used a giant mechanical press to crack the shell of his egg. Every day, eating lunch at his station, he would take out a hard-boiled egg.  He’d place it on the surface of this thing – a three-story-tall hammering machine, used to forge and shape metal.  He’d rev it up, give it a full head of steam, and let fly! He’d pull back at the last instant, delivering just enough force to crack the shell. Restraint. Power in reserve.”

“Exactly.” Said Tom.

Shelli turned to me. “How do you feel about this, Molly?”

“I feel like a tight-rope walker must.” I answered. “All women do, in some sense.  Men are dangerous animals – or can be. They’re aggressive, unpredictable, overreactive, and stronger than us. Evolution has favored the brute and the rapist, and it’s no surprise that these male traits remain with us long after we’ve attempted to civilize our race.”

“Tight-rope.” Shelli was nodding, agreeing with one interpretation, I knew.

“Some women walk a wire over the dangers posed by feral husbands, whose whims are random, scary.  But in my tight-rope-act, my husband it my safety net.  Predictable, ever-present, and utterly reliable.  I trust his strength.”

“And I trust hers.” Tom was dead serious on this point. “It’s her grace that I aspire to learn.”

Shelli was nodding at this point. “Ok, I get it.  I think me and Julio have something similar, in our own way.”

“It’s the nature of relationships, I think.” Said Tom. “Contrast.”

At that moment, the final plate was brought to the table. Two pieces of unassuming, plain white fish. Each rested on a slim finger of rice, with a dash of green onion on top. It was the fugu.

As the staff cleared the other dishes, Shelli asked, “Who’s going first?”

“You were the one who challenged me to it,” answered Tom.

“But you recommended it,” Shelli pointed out.

So, they went together.  On the count of three. Slowly, without losing eye contact.  One bite.  The danger fish was gone from the table.

I wanted to ask, “Well? How is it?” And, “How do you feel?” But Julio and I just waited, watching for a reaction. Shelli’s cheeks were dimpling in a closed-mouthed smile while they chewed. Tom was contemplating the experience.  The silence remained until the eating game had stopped, each player had had a sip of wine, and exhaled audibly.  And then it remained some more.  The rest of the restaurant continued its murmur of indistinguishable background conversations, punctuated with the clicking of forks and the occasional ring of cup and dish, while our own little bubble of quiet prevailed.

Back and forth, Julio and I kept checking the faces of our partners, who continued to watch each other from across the table. Somewhere, there was a ticking clock, or perhaps it was the final question theme from Jeopardy, I can’t say for sure. Dread, tinged with anticipation, was creeping in.  It had become a competition, for Julio and me. Who would lose their spouse first? Would that be the winner, or loser? How did this game work? If only one of them died, would the other rejoice in victory?  I admit, my brain was getting a bit weird with the suspense, but that’s the way suspense works.

It was Shelli who spoke first. “My tongue feels tingly.”

Tom didn’t even blink. “It’s in your mind.”

“Or it’s the wasabi. I think it does that to me sometimes.”

Julio took a sarcastic tone, saying, “Beautiful,” at just the right moment.

All at once, we erupted into hysterical laughter.

***

Outside, Tom and I waited for our ride. He chuckled, saying, “The Belasco Theatre looks out of place in the middle of all these modern skyscrapers.  What is that – like, colonial, or something?”

I smiled. “You’re thinking colonial revival, and no. It’s neo-Georgian.  Early 1900s. We should go in there.”

“Why?”

“Everett Shinn murals.  Studied them in college.”

“You want to call the ride off?”

“No. Not important.  I’d probably be disappointed with them, anyway.”

“Ok.”

“You fell in love with her, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did. You’re trying to distract me with your ignorance of architecture.”

“Ok. Maybe, a little. It’ll wear off.”

I laughed.  “It always does.”

Part 1: Abigail

Gail was bored. It was still only July, and (as crazy as this sounds) she was already beginning to look forward to sixth grade. Not that she minded school so much, really. It’s just that she had expected more from summer. What had she done last year? Gail couldn’t seem to remember exactly what she did, but she’d had fun, she was sure of it. Yes, there was the county fair. It was coming up sometime (soon?) And there were few trips to the cousins, a tradition which was about the same this year as last. Yet Gail still felt that this was the slowest, emptiest, boringest summer ever. She just wanted it to be over.

The sun had set, and Gail decided to go out to the pond. Perhaps the fireflies would be out – in fact they probably would be. She packed a basket with provisions: a few cookies, a small mason jar of milk, her flashlight, and a shawl. There was an old wooden bench by the placid water, where she sat down to have her snacks. Sure enough, the lightning bugs were flitting about in the reeds along the shore. Believing the house was far out of earshot, Gail began to sing to the tiny glowing insects. Made up songs full of flowers and honey, cookies and milk, Spring and Fall.

As she sang, she unconsciously began flicking the button on the flashlight, keeping the rhythm to her mildly silly verse. This went on for several minutes. Singing softly, flashing the light, in a sort of soporific meditation in the diminishing warmth of the post-twilight summer evening. After a while, Gail noticed that a few of the fireflies had flown over to her. They were quite near, in fact. This was something new! As an experiment, the girl turned the flashlight completely off, and watched. The lightning bugs slowly meandered away, back to their grassy homes.

How interesting! Gail began flashing the light again. Several fireflies, indeed, made their way in her direction once more. After a few more experiments, it was clear that this was a thing: the bugs were attracted to the glow. It was a very short leap of logic to reach the conclusion that, if these things were easily called, they could be easily caught, as well. A few minutes later, Gail had determined that she could coax a firefly to land on her shawl (now draped over her arm) and from there it was a simple matter of scooping it up in the mason jar.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” She had abandoned everything at the bench and was running to the house with the jar. “I’ve got a lightning bug! I got one, I GOT one!” Dad was already at the back door, holding it open for her as she blazed through the pantry into the kitchen. “I’m naming him ‘Rodney’,” she announced, her face beaming in obvious joy, “but we can call him ‘Rod’,” pausing, “Lightning Rod, get it?”

Dad laughed at the joke, and admitted it was a fine name. “We need to poke some holes in the top, so it has some air, ok?” About that time, mom came on the scene, wondering what the commotion was about. She stood assessing the situation for a moment.

“Abigail,” mom began, “are you sure you are ready to keep a pet? Do you know how to take care of a glow worm?” Gail stopped what she was doing for a moment, and said, “First, Rod is a lightning bug, not any kind of worm. Also, he isn’t a pet – he’s my friend! And I think Rod and I can figure it out.” She turned to dad. “I’m calling Kelli – can Kelli come over?”

Thus began an impromptu sleepover, with Gail’s best friend Kellianne. Really, Kelli was the only school friend she’d seen during the summer, on account of the fact that she was the only one who lived close by. The two girls disappeared into Gail’s room and were not heard from again that night. After breakfast, Kelli stayed around most of the morning. There was talk of catching more fireflies, but Gail was set on having only Rod, and Kelli would have to find her own.

Three days later, tragedy struck: Rodney was missing.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Gail came bursting into the kitchen, empty jar tenuously held in emotionally drained fingers, “Rodney is MISSING!”

“Oh, no!” Dad was visibly concerned, “What happened?”

Mom was at the table, as well. “When did you last see him?”

“Well,” sobbed Gail, “Rod was tired, so we went to bed early. This morning, he was GONE!”

There was a bit of a pause. Mom and dad looked at each other for a long moment.  Then dad responded, “Perhaps he got up early?” Gail nodded, willing to accept any explanation. Dad continued, “Yes. That’s probably it. Was there food in the jar?”

Gail seemed surprised at the question. “Food?”

“Well, ya. A guy’s gotta eat, you know? Perhaps Ron went looking for something to munch on.”

More tears were starting to gush, when mom interjected, “He meant Rod, honey.” Then turning to dad with a stern glare that was somehow starkly impassive, “Daddy meant Rod.”

“Of course,” dad continued, sheepish, “Rodney! I meant Rod.” Fewer tears now. “Perhaps he was just hungry, and got lost on his way back from the, err, garden?”

“So he’s lost!!!” Gail was in full cry, at this point. “He’s goooonnnne!”

“Hang on, honey,” dad had his arm around Gail’s shoulder by now. “I think I know how to get Rodney home.”

“Hmw?” The question was slightly muffled, as Gail was wiping her nose on dad’s shoulder.

“Well, I happen to know that fireflies love apples. Perhaps, if we were to put a bit of apple in the jar, your friend will find his way home!”

Mom jumped in again, saying, “Holes. We will need to fix the holes in the lid so he can’t get out again.”

Dad nodded. “Yes! Rodney obviously got out because the holes were too big. We’ll replace the lid, too – with smaller holes in it.”

Gail was satisfied with this plan. So much, so, in fact, that she immediately wriggled out of dad’s hug and ran to the counter, picking through the apples for the very best, ripest, tastiest looking apple she could find.

Part 2: Alec[Author’s note: Please imagine rewinding sounds as we back up three days.]

Gail was bored. Just by looking at his daughter, Alec could tell that she was sad and frustrated. The troubling thing was, why? They were doing all the same fun stuff they always had done – trips to the river, new summer clothes, sleepovers with Kelli, family picnics, watching the off-season practices at the college field – none of it was working. The county fair was coming up this weekend, but Gail just didn’t seem to be excited about it. Not like last year, anyway. This summer was packed with all of the usual activities, yet Alec was watching his little girl mope about as though there was nothing at all to do.

Even now, from the kitchen window, Alec could see the slumped shoulders and bowed head, as her feet swung gently beneath the bench at the pond. The shawl he’d put in her basket lay next to her, along with the now empty jar and the cookie plate. Gail was singing softly to herself. Alec could almost hear the words, but not quite. He was sure she was making it up as she went, though. That would be just like her, using her creativity to keep herself occupied. Yet, somehow, dad knew it wasn’t enough.

Gail was flicking the flashlight off and on now. “What in the heck is she doing?” Alec thought. He smiled, and continued to watch, entranced at the inscrutable activities of his child. After some time, the singing stopped, and no light. Then, the flashing beam skipped across the pond again for a minute or so. Then it stopped. Clearly, she was up to something. Was she trying to scare off a racoon, or perhaps a skunk? No, that wouldn’t be it. Gail knew how to calmly move away from wild animals. His fatherly amusement grew as the cycle of flashing light and darkness continued.

He was wiping down the kitchen counter, and putting away the last remaining evidence of dinner, when Gail’s raised voice commanded his attention. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” She had abandoned everything at the bench and was running to the house with the jar. “I’ve got a lightning bug! I got one, I GOT one!”

Alec met his daughter at the back door, a brief spike in adrenaline already fading as he saw she was ok. She held up the mason jar, which, in addition to traces of milk, contained the insect.

“I’m naming him ‘Rodney’,” Gail continued, “but we can call him ‘Rod’,” pausing, “Lightning Rod, get it?”

Alec had to stifle a snort as he laughed. Clever Gail! Of course, she would come up with a catchy name! He nodded his head merrily in agreement and said, “Yes, honey, I think that’s a fine name! We need to poke some holes in the top, so it has some air, ok?”

Marche walked briskly through the kitchen door, slowing her pace as she saw the work that Alec and Gail were doing to fix up the jar. Her look turned to one of mild concern. “Abigail,” she began, “are you sure you are ready to keep a pet? Do you know how to take care of a glow worm?

Gail stopped what she was doing for a moment, heaved a dramatic sigh and said, “First, Rod is a lightning bug, not any kind of worm.” She rolled her eyes emphatically and continued. “Also, he isn’t a pet – he’s my friend!” Indignant look, hands on her hips now. “And I think Rod and I can figure it out.” She turned back to Alec. “I’m calling Kelli – can Kelli come over?”

There was nothing else for it. By the time Kelli showed up, Gail had Rodney’s glass home enshrined atop her dresser, surrounded with decorations and a few flowers picked from the planter by the front door. Alec and Marche left the girls alone (or perhaps the girls deserted the adults – it’s a matter of perspective.) Before bed, Marche asked, “Are you going to tuck Abigail in? You usually do, even when Kelli’s here.”

“I was debating that very question,” Alec answered. “It kinda feels like I shouldn’t. I don’t know, it’s like I’ve been replaced by a lampyrid.”

“Perhaps you have!” Marche laughed, Alec joining in with only a slight delay.

Two days later, tragedy struck: Rodney was dead.

It was late at night. Alec was standing in the bedroom doorway. He held out the jar, now sporting a ribbon and several stickers, for Marche to examine. He said, “I’m going to replace him tonight, before she wakes up. I’m getting my shoes on and going out to catch another one right now.”

Marche rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh my god, Alec!” She was simultaneously laughing and looking annoyed. “You can’t protect her from her own mistakes! She decided she could handle this all on her own, and didn’t want to talk it through. She didn’t feed the thing, now it’s dead. She’s got to learn from that.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Alec was torn. “I mean, it’s just a bug, after all. How sad could she get, really? She’ll forget about it by the time we go to the fair on Saturday.”

For a moment, Marche chuckled, but it was a dry laugh and she was more serious when she answered. “No, Alec. She won’t. She’ll be very sad, and probably for a while. She’ll feel a twang of guilt every time she sees a mason jar, and that will certainly last for weeks. Maybe longer. She’ll probably want to get him a Christmas card and mail it to heaven.” She added with another dry chuckle.

“So… I’m confused. You make it sound bad.” He paused. Marche said nothing, so he went on. “I know she’ll be really bummed out. I can fix this. I’m going out to the pond!”

“Alec,” Marche sighed deeply, “you can’t always fix things for Abigail.” She shifted to a lighter tone. “Yes, she’s very attached to that stupid bug. It’s hard to explain, but you need to let her go through this.”

“You mean the grieving process.” It was a statement.

“No. Well, yes.” She slowed down a bit, picking her words. “Your daughter is shedding her tiny childhood feelings and starting to experience big ones. Like losing your baby teeth – it takes time.”

Alec was silent.

“She needs to learn how to chew on her adult emotions. You can’t take that from her.”

Alec had been sitting on the corner of the bed, examining the jar. “Fine, then,” he said, standing. “Rodney escaped.” With that, he opened the jar, dumped the dead bug into the wastebasket, and went to put the jar back in Gail’s room.

The next morning, Marche and Alec were silently drinking coffee. There was an unspoken question waiting patiently with them, like an invisible cat coiling its legs to pounce. Alec knew Marche was right; Marche was certain Alec could not maintain the charade; both of them wondered how Alec’s little “escaped bug” compromise would work out. The little bird entered the room and scared the cat away.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Gail came bursting into the kitchen, empty jar tenuously held in her limp, emotionally drained fingers, “Rodney is MISSING!”

There were looks back and forth. For a fleeting second, Marche thought about responding with something like, “I’m sorry honey. Here, have some toast and jam.” Or maybe adopt a sardonic attitude and say, “Oh, wow! Perhaps you should have been more thorough in locking up your victim!” But she refrained, and she waited, with her eye on Alec and his suddenly pale complexion.

“Oh, no!” Alec was visibly concerned, “What happened?”

Marche played along. “When did you last see him?” she asked.

“Well,” Gail was sobbing now. Alec reached out to take the jar, thinking the girl would drop it – but she clung it to her breast and continued, “Rod was tired, so we went to bed early. This morning, he was GONE!”

There was a bit of a pause. Marche and Alec had talked about this. The plan was to offer comfort and move on as quickly as possible. Alec ventured a postulation. “Perhaps he got up early?” Gail nodded. She was clearly brightening up with this idea, so Alec continued, “Yes. That’s probably it. Was there food in the jar?”

Gail seemed surprised at the question. “Food?”

Marche could almost feel the moment when Alec’s resolve came crashing down. She watched as Alec unfolded a plan to set out some food, and she knew – without any doubt – that Rodney would indeed return that night.

Epilogue

Sure enough, the next day, Rodney was back. Gail never asked him where he had been, or what he had been doing. It’s not that she didn’t care, either. Gail felt that, deep down, she already knew the answer. It turned out that Rodney actually did like bits of freshly cut apple, and he fared quite well for some time. A couple of nights later, Kelli caught a firefly, too. His name turned out to be “Sparky,” and he never wandered off.

After a few weeks, Gail and Kelli decided that their tiny friends would probably be happier back at the pond, with all of the other lightning bugs – Sparky and Rodney’s own friends and family. As the summer had worn on, there were becoming noticeably fewer lights among the reeds and over the water. It was definitely time. So in the late August twilight, there stood mom, dad, Gail, Kelli and about a dozen toy bears, dogs and unicorns. All were gathered around the bench by the pond to open the jars and release the lightning bugs. Gail hushed them all and paused for a few words.

“Rodney,” she said, “the once lost lightning bug, and Sparky, the brightest firefly we’ve ever known,” she stopped, reaching down into the basket for a paper plate that mom and dad hadn’t yet noticed. It had writing on it, and it was taped to what looked like a single chopstick, probably pilfered from a kitchen drawer. Gail and Kelli walked the few steps to the edge of the water, and together they ceremoniously stuck it in the ground, like a small signpost.

Gail started her little speech over from the beginning. “Rodney,” she said, “the lost lightning bug, who returned to us, and Sparky, the brightest firefly we’ve ever known,” she paused for effect, “we now mem… memory…”

“Memorialize…?” said dad.

“Yes. That. We memorialize your names with the declaration that this is to be known as the ‘Lightning Rod and Sparky Pond,’ to forever remind us of our most enjoyable friendship this summer!” The two girls opened the jars. The fireflies flew out and, as best as Alec could tell, turned to wave goodbye before buzzing off over the swampy shore.

The deed was done. The stuffed animals were gathered. Everyone headed back to the house.

“So, you know school starts Monday, right?” asked Alec as they walked.

“Ya,” said Gail. “When is that, exactly?”

“That’s three days.”

“Wow,” said Gail. “Summer went by so fast!”

Once upon a time, there were two hedgehogs.   One was tall, the other was quick, and both enjoyed eating very much.  Quick Hedgehog would share recipes with Tall Hedgehog, who would say things like, “That sounds pretty cool, but I need the measurements if I am going to make it.”  Other times, Tall would bring food to Quick’s house, and Quick would say, “This is technically pretty good, but your presentation sucks!”

The two hedgehogs loved each other’s company and discovered that they each learned a lot from cooking and eating together.  When Quick moved to a city far away, Tall was lost for a time.  But not for long – the two hedgehogs always compared notes and continued to share their recipes by mail.  Both of them knew that this was not just about cooking.  Both of them knew that, as long as they each believed in each other, Everything would be Ok.

Ten years went by.  Then another ten years.  And then another.  In three decades, the two hedgehogs had each earned a few grey hairs, and had many adventures.  Quick became a farmer, because that’s what he had always been anyway.  Tall became an engineer, for the very same reason.  You see, when Everything is going to be Ok, you will eventually find out what you already are, and you will become that.  The two hedgehogs learned this, together, in separate parts of the world.

One day, Tall received a letter from his hedgehog friend.  Only it wasn’t his friend, it was only a dream of his friend (don’t try and figure that out – this is just a story, ok?)  In Quick’s dream, we can see Quick climbing a tree in his backyard, and telling us there are apples, just out of reach, and that he wanted them for a pie. “What kind of pie?” asked the Tall Hedgehog.  Quick just looked down, smiled, and said, “If I really have to explain, you’ll never understand.”

Once again, Tall was impressed with Quick’s uncanny brilliance, and the farmer’s intuition that had always evaded Tall’s engineering mind.  Tall Hedgehog thought for a moment, then turned around to face the tree Quick had been climbing.  Tall Hedgehog started to say, “Apple pie!  You want the apples for apple pie!”  But even as he opened his mouth, Quick had climbed higher, and higher, and higher – until he had passed the top of the tree and disappeared.

That was the last time we saw Quick.  Some of us will wonder if he found the apples he needed for his apple pie.  For Tall Hedgehog, there remains the never-ending questions: how many apples?  What kind?  What are the measurements for the other ingredients?  How can I ever get this right without the colorful creativity of Quick Hedgehog? 

But even as these questions are asked, the answers are right at hand: If you learn to believe in someone when they’re close to you, you will find that you can still believe in them when they are far away.  Even so, if you know someone believes in you to your face, you must know that they still believe in you when they’re gone.

Thank you for believing in me, Quick Hedgehog.

Warm regards,
Tall Hedgehog

(A side conversation, edited out of The Human Scale)

“You know how sometimes, in a grove of oak trees,” Indy began as though they had already been chatting, “sometimes there are little groups of smaller oaks clumped together?  I mean, there might be lots of giant oaks in the grove, of such size as would take two or three people to touch hands around the trunk.  But then every so often you will find a clump of smaller ones, and these will always be arranged in a ring.  You’ve seen this?”  Jill wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway, and Indy continued, “This happens when one of the big trees has been cut down.  Fifty years ago, or maybe a hundred.  Just long enough for some branches to form around the remaining stump, and those branches to eventually grow into trees. That’s why they form little rings.  The stump may be long gone now, leaving only a little circle of sister oaks.”

Jill realized that there were trees outside like this, on the property.  “Yes,” she said, “that makes sense.”

“Sometimes, you will see a forest composed only of such tree-rings. Ring after ring, easily mistaken for branching trunks, but really all growing from old stumps.  A forest like that would have been, at some time in the past, completely razed.  Lots of clear-cutting went on during the Gold Rush. Whole hillsides of nothing but stumps.”  Indy paused, and added, “But now there are how many trees?  Three, or even four of them for every one that was cut?  Like a slow-motion hydra, over hundreds of years, many lifetimes, the forest multiplies in the face of injury.”

“Did you just read that?”  Jill was looking at the stack of books on the coffee table, trying to see which it might have come from.

“No,” Indy said. “I don’t really know where that came from.  It sounds like the kind of thing my mother would have told me, but I don’t recall her saying it.” He paused. “I think of it now, because it describes martyrdom, in a way.  If the tree had lived, it would have grown old, and eventually fallen over.  However, by being cut down, its power is multiplied.” Jill stared blankly, as though the room were on fire, and no one else was noticing. 

“You’re telling me that Desirae’s death will be worth it,” Jill said, “is that what you mean?”

“No.”  Indy was shaking his head. “Desirae is more powerful now that she is gone than she was while she carried the torch for us.  Now her plans have been picked up by a mob of people who will storm the castle in her name.  They will probably make a difference.  In fact, this generation of activists will likely change everything.  But, no, it’s not ‘worth it.’ It isn’t, in the same that the little rings of oaks have not replaced the groves.  The old forest is gone, it is not coming back.  The new forest remains to be seen.  It’s different.  It’s unstoppable.  It’s a miracle. It’s a radical evolution, and an overwhelming wave of progress.  It’s many things, but there is no worth here, no value in conflict.” Indy paused. “There is no trade, no exchange.  More trees do not make more value. The river only flows one way.”

Jill started to speak, then stopped.  After several minutes of contemplation, she said, “I’m going home.”

Indy nodded. “Good call.”  He stirred the embers of the fire a bit and closed the damper.  He gathered the empty teacups from the coffee table and followed Jill out of the room in silence.

---

Note: Adult theme, some graphic content. May not be suitable for all ages or audiences.

Friday Afternoon

“Rumor has it this is your super-power,” John remarked casually as he steered the car onto the highway.  The mountain home was perhaps thirty minutes out from the city, and John wanted to make sure he’d learned what he could about his special guest before they got there.  On arrival, there would be other people around, and probably little time to talk privately.

Indy smiled. “Super-power? If that was a text, I’d respond with the laughing-to-tears emoji.” 

John chuckled, then asked, “Well, what is it, then?  The counselors call it ‘magic.’ They say your readings can change everything for their clients.” The radio was playing softly in the background, with Indy bouncing slightly to the music, but now John turned it down further, barely audible against the quiet road noise of the sedan. Indy stopped his microdancing and focused (somewhat) on his host.  John went on. “I’ve known you in passing for a while now, but I have no idea what they could mean.  I just know that Dan said to take you along this weekend.  He said you might be able to reach out to Cammi, get her to come out of her shell.” John paused with a glance at his passenger, then added, “Dan’s not just the director of a successful rehab, he’s a good friend of mine.  He wouldn’t be sending his receptionist with me today without some good reason.”

“Office manager, actually.” Indy said this absently, his eyes searching the farmland along the road, as though the fields that slid past the car windows held an answer that he might use.  The question John was asking had come up many times over the years.  Friends, lovers, family members, even the occasional stranger had asked essentially the same thing, usually in the form of, “How do you do that?”  Indy had given many different answers to this question.  Usually he would give only a brief response, like “it’s magic,” or “I’m just cleaver,” or “a little bird told me.”  Other times, he would give the long answer, about how empathy works, and his own natural ability to respond to the vibrations of his fellow beings.  Once in a while, he would be honest.  After a few moments of silence, Indy said simply, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?” John looked mildly amused, but his tone was direct. “My curiosity is getting, well – is it like, a secret, or something?  Are you a cold reader?”

“No.  That’s not it.”  Indy sighed as he decided to try, once again, to describe what this thing was like for him.   “It’s like this: sometimes when I meet someone, I get this feeling.  It gets my attention.”

“So, you’re saying you’re psychic?”

“No,” Indy shook his head, “I really don’t believe in telepathy.  It’s more like an impression.  It’s like… I blink, and then think, ‘There’s something I need to say to her,’ but I have no idea what it is.  It makes me want to talk to her, to learn more about her.  Pretty much every time this happens, I eventually learn that she has been abused as a child, like molested.  Somehow, I pick up on this, and it generates an emotional response.”

John was clearly skeptical, and more than a little concerned.  “So, you have a thing for abused women?” he asked, “That’s kinda sick, you know…”

Indy would have laughed, but he had gotten this question many times as well.  “When I was younger, I used to believe I was falling in love whenever this thing happened, but I’ve learned to think of it as something else.  Perhaps you could call it a protective instinct.  Like there’s still a scared child inside this adult women, and I feel called to help.  In fact, I tend to think of a woman who evokes a very strong reaction in me as having an emotional ‘beacon’ lit up.  Like she’s broadcasting on some frequency I can hear.”

“You’re describing empathy.  We’ve all heard of empaths – isn’t that what you are talking about?”

“No.  I don’t know, I guess.”  Indy was shaking his head, “I think the idea of an empath is the same as telepathy.  That’s magic. This is real.”

“But you were born this way, right?  If you’ve always been this way, it must be some kind of innate ability.  So, I’m going back to calling it a super power!”

Indy actually laughed aloud – this was a new remark, and refreshing change from rehashing the threadbare explanations he had given time-after-time.  “Yes, I think you’re right!  It’s definitely my super-power!”  His laugh faded, and he added, “But I was not really born this way.” 

John’s eyebrows were raised slightly as he took a longish look at his passenger, but said nothing.

“Here’s what I think happened.  First, I was abused as a boy. I mean, I don’t ‘think’ that happened, I know that part is true.  I was molested by the pastor of a church near my house.  Repeatedly.  This may sound odd, but it was not actually a bad experience at the time.  The man was nice enough, and always seemed so caring and, well, priestly.” 

Indy paused to gather his thoughts a bit.  Outside the window, the landscape had changed from rolling hills to the rocky bluffs of the low mountains they would soon ascend.  Indy was trying to visualize their destination from the descriptions Dan had given.  A “cabin in the mountains,” later said to have “at least five bedrooms.”  Cabin?  Must be quite a big cabin to have such space. 

A sudden stab of curiosity prompted Indy to ask, “How big is your place?  Dan makes it sound like you have a lot of room.”

“Right around five thousand square feet, I think.  It was originally built as a retreat center for architecture students.  Don’t remember the man’s name, but I guess he was a Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe. I got it cheap.”  Brief pause.  “So… you were saying something…?”

Indy sighed again. “This bit is hard to talk about, but not for the reasons you might think.  I’ve come to terms with what happened.  But – like grief – it doesn’t really go away, even if you’ve learned to cope.  In fact, I suppose that is exactly what it is: grief.  It’s a sense of loss. It’s like my internal sense of self, the corporeal home of my spirit, had been invaded by a trespasser while it was still under construction. Boundaries crossed before they even existed.  If you have not had it happen, there is no way for you to understand.  For those of us who have, this feeling of violation is unmistakable, not like anything else.”

John made a small noise, as though he would speak, but seemed to change his mind.  In a moment, he tried again.  “So, I get that you have had a horrifying experience, and I am guessing you feel like you share something with other people who have had something similar?”

“Not exactly, and yes, and no.  It was not horrifying.  Like I said, the pastor was kind to me.  It wasn’t until later that I realized it was wrong, and that I’d been violated.  I suppose it worked something like this: I was born predisposed to some kind of intuitive talent.  Then, my own experience fine-tuned that intuition.  I think this perspective does cause me to resonate with certain people, but the feeling I get is not commiseration, it’s – as I mentioned – a protective instinct.  As far as I can tell, this is why it happens with women who were abused.  It has almost never happened with men, and I can’t think of any reason why not, except that I do not feel protective over them.”

“I see.  So, this is why Dan hired you at the rehab – it’s a women’s facility, right?  But, you aren’t a counselor, you’re a recept….”

“Office manager,” Indy chuckled.  “Actually, I’m a writer.  I make more than half my living off of reviews, blog posts, and the occasional article in one of a handful of magazines I freelance with.  I have no desire to be a counselor, and probably would suck at it – not my temperament.  Dan and I became acquainted years ago through a mutual friend, and – Dan being the way Dan is – he saw an opportunity to use me in his front office.  I like it, and he pays me ok – certainly very well for a receptionist.” 

“Office manager.”

“Just checking!  Anyway, it’s not like I report my radar detections to him, he can just tell by the way I act.  When a new client comes in, the more I like her, the worse condition she’s in.  It helps Dan’s staff know where to start, or when there is more to uncover, I guess.  It’s kinda crazy, but I’m Dan’s canary in the mine.  When I stop singing, they know there’s poison in the air!”

“Well,” said John, “we’ll have to see how you do with Cammi.  She came to us by way of some friends, but they wouldn’t tell us exactly why she needed a place to stay.  They just said we’d have to ask her what happened…”

Indy clamped his hands over his ears in mock deflection, saying, “No advanced information, please!  No preconceived notions!”

John, laughing out loud, said “As far as she knows, you’re just one of the guests, here for Saint Patrick’s Day dinner and a couple of days at the lake. In reality, the same is true for you – you are part of my extended family for the weekend, no expectations beyond green beer, corned beef and perhaps a few games of bocce ball.”

Saturday night, late

Jill found Indy in the den, perusing her and John’s extensive and diverse collection of books.  There was a small stack of books on the table, while Indy was holding a poetry anthology.  There was a fire in the stove, but the damper was mostly closed.  The flames moved slowly back and forth in search of air, licking the glass black with their sooty breath.  Most of the house was asleep, or soon would be.  Jill had only stayed up to help John put dinner away, and prep for breakfast.  Now he’d gone to bed, but she was too wound up to go to sleep.

Jill remarked, “You and Cammi seem to have hit it off pretty well.”

“She’s nice.”

“Dan told us of your talent. He seemed to think you would be able to help us understand her.”

Indy seemed to pivot. “Where did she come from?”

“She’s a friend of a friend.  They contacted us.  All we know is she needed a place to stay, perhaps to retreat for a while.  Honestly – she came with nothing but the cloths she had on.  We figured we’d get more details from her, but we don’t want to pry and she doesn’t offer anything up.”

Jill was tall, with an imposing air in spite of her slender frame.  Realizing that she was towering over her seated guest, she sat down in the couch across from Indy, who relaxed visibly once the field had become more level.  There was a tacit question attached to the end of Jill’s sentence, but Indy didn’t bite.  Instead, he asked about breakfast.

“Corned beef hash and eggs – it’s a tradition, uses up leftovers.” Jill paused, then decided to be more direct.  “So, is what Dan said true?  Can you read minds?”

Indy set down the book, and shifted in his seat.  Jill was sitting directly across the coffee table from him.  He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, and looked Jill straight in the eye.  “Something happened to you.  You weren’t exactly a child, but were too young to deal with it.  It was sexual, but not something you consider assault.  It was not a family member.”  He paused, watching a mosaic of fleeting expressions spark in Jill’s face, while she tried to look impassive.  For a long moment this silent game of poker lingered, a slight chill creeping into the edges of the room.  “It was ongoing.  There is something about it I don’t recognize, like it was a lover, or a friend, but it changed.  I can’t put my finger on it, but can feel it.  Like you were in the middle of something, and couldn’t – or wouldn’t – leave.  You wanted to will it away.”

They broke gazes, and sat in electric silence for several minutes.  Indy picked up the poetry, again, but only looked at the cover.  Eventually, Jill asked The Question: “How do you know that?”

Indy, in all honesty, answered, “I don’t know.  Am I right?”

Jill’s look became distant. “I was 13.  I had been developing somewhat earlier than the other girls, and I thought I liked the attention I was getting from the boys.  During PE, one of them groped me.  Just a little grab-ass, you know?  And the boy was good looking.  I was embarrassed, but that died away when I realized no one saw.”  Jill looked at Indy before continuing.  “There was another boy in the class – one that I liked.  With only a little bit of choreography on my part, I gave him the same opportunity.  He took it, of course, and that time it made me feel good.  It got to be a regular thing, however, and I started to feel… well… not right, I guess.  I still can’t explain, but I decided it should stop.  By accident, when trying to avoid the boy I liked in PE, I actually backed into another boy – a creepy one.  He grabbed me, by the hips, and pressed himself into me.  I couldn’t get away – he was strong.”  A frown, and another pause. “The whole class saw it.  The thing was, as much as the boy disgusted me – even scared me – I could have just walked away from that.  It was the girls – the looks on their faces.  They made me feel like I did this, like I deserved it.  No one said anything, but you could hear the word ‘slut’ just under their breaths.  So, ya, not really an assault, but it left a definite scar.  You nailed it.”

Indy was nodding in agreement, but said, “That wasn’t it.”  Jill looked shocked, and somewhat offended.  Indy elaborated.  “I mean, sure, that happened, but that’s not all.  It’s not enough to get the kind of signal I get from you.  Something like this happened again, didn’t it?”  Jill was getting visibly uncomfortable, so Indy answered his own question.  “Yes.  In fact, it was a pattern, wasn’t it?”

Jill seemed to be fighting an internal battle, perhaps between anger and grief. While grief was losing, curiosity came in like the cavalry, and anger was dispelled for the moment.  “Supposing it did. What does it mean?”

“Nothing.  It means nothing.”

Jill had that look you get when there’s a thorn in your shoe, but you can’t find it and put your shoe back on anyway.  Only worse.  “Several times,” she said. “Well into college.  I changed the way I dressed, let my hair go, quit wearing makeup.  Didn’t matter. Different circumstances, different places, different people, but essentially just like middle school. It would feel good, then it didn’t, then I’d end up getting mauled by a bystander while others looked down their noses at me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Not by much.”

“But it stopped.”

“Eventually.  I have never understood why.”

“It was not your fault.”

Jill looked sharply at Indy. “How could it not be?  I led people on!”

“No.  You only played the same game everyone else plays.  Not your fault.”

Back in the battle of Jill’s mind, anger had regrouped and returned to the field.  “But, I put on weight.  A lot.  Looking back, it was intentional.  That didn’t stop it!”

“But it did stop.  Something you did changed it.”

“It never completely stopped until I got into grad school.”

Indy was impassive.

Jill seemed to be struck by a thought, and said, “Wait.  It stopped when I graduated. I even stayed at the same campus for my masters. Nothing else had changed.”

Indy said nothing.

“It changed the way I felt about myself.” Jill didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, at the silly obviousness of it.  “I stopped it.  It was me all along.”

Indy said again, “It was not your fault.”

“But…”

“People are responsible for what they offer us.  We are responsible for what we accept.  It was not your fault.”

Jill pulled up short.  There was a moment in which Indy thought he could see her head dip, like a horse at full canter who has suddenly been made to stop abruptly.  Then she cocked her head to one side, gave a very slight smile and said, “I wonder how many times I’ve heard that?”  Indy raised his eyebrows a notch.  “I mean, people have told me it wasn’t my fault, and on some intellectual level I’ve known it to be true.  But I don’t know if I’ve ever really believed it, until just now.”  Indy just shrugged.  This part always made him feel awkward, as much so as the confidence he felt a few minutes earlier. “You really need to be one of the counselors!” She added, with exasperated smile.

“Can’t do it.  Not my thing.  I’m too unpredictable, and I tend to get attached.”

“Ok. So now that you’ve run me through the wringer, what about Cammi?”

“She’s nice.”

“Seriously, Indy?  I’m asking for your expert opinion here – do you have one, or not yet?”

Now it was Indy who looked distant.  “No.”  He said. “And I probably won’t.  It happens within the first few seconds, or pretty much not at all.”

Jill pondered this for a moment, then, “So, you’re the litmus test, right?  If you don’t react… she’s all okay?”

“I didn’t say that.”  Indy was beginning to look distraught.

“I don’t understand.  You just opened-up my head, reached in, and pulled-out a nasty skeleton from my otherwise fairly clean closet, and in almost perfect detail.  Do you have a read on Cammi, or no?”

Indy pursed his lips, looked at Jill for a moment, then let out a long sigh.  “I don’t know if I can explain. In fact, I don’t really understand it.  This is a new one on me.”  Jill’s expression said, “Keep talking,” and Indy reluctantly went on, haltingly, as though picking his way through a swamp with a walking stick to locate the rare clumps of solid ground.

“Cammi is ‘silent’ to me.  No broadcast, no beaconing, nothing. She is like empty space in the room, like a cardboard cutout and not a person.”

Jill was shocked.  “So, you can’t read her at all?”

“It’s not even like that.  I always feel something from other people, even if I don’t get a clear read.  I think everyone does.  We all sense people – their presence, their moods, whether they are listening or not, whether they’re hungry.  You do this, right?  We are all empathetic in this way, we are all connected.  I have an especially good sense of these things is all, and I seem to be tuned to particular frequencies or something.  That’s how it works.  But even with people who are not on my channel, so to speak, I know they’re there – just like you do – just like everybody.”

Jill nodded, mulling this over.

Indy went on.  “Cammi is not there.  It’s like she is intentionally clamming up emotionally.  It freaks me out.  I feel sucked into this void.  Normally, when my radar actually does get triggered, there are two phases: First, I feel like there is something I need to tell this person, but I don’t know what it is.  Next, I open up a dialog, and I receive a flood of emotional signaling from her.  It gets hard to handle sometimes – like drinking out of a firehose.”  Indy looked up from the table and met Jill’s gaze.  “With Cammi, it’s like looking into a dark room, and I feel like I need to shine a light – a very bright light.”

“So… are you afraid of getting lost in the dark, or of what might come out of it?”

Monday morning

Jill was getting ready for work.  John was straightening the living room.  All the other guests had left, either last night, or earlier this morning.  Cammi and Indy were finishing a cup of tea in the kitchen.  Looking out the window, Indy could see the morning mist lingering on the lake in the distance.  He’d never made it down to the water, in spite of every intention to take the short trek.  As he sipped his tea, he noticed that there was smoke coming from the chimney of the neighbor’s house and drifting down toward the lake.  “Perhaps,” he thought, “that isn’t mist at all.  Perhaps that’s smoke, settling on the waters – or even both. Yes, it could be both.”  But he didn’t voice these reflections, instead taking the opportunity to say good-bye.

“I think John’s about ready to take me back to town.” He said.  Cammi nodded.  “It was very nice to meet you, Camille,” he said.

Cammi giggled, “Funny, but a common mistake – my full name isn’t ‘Camille,’ but ‘Chamomile.’  I think it was, like, an autocorrect on my birth certificate or something, but I never got the chance to ask my mom.”

Indy laughed, took another sip of tea, and said, “Well, my full name is ‘Indygo,’ with a ‘y.’ It’s an intentional misspelling of ‘indigo.”

A smile from Cammi.  Two sips of tea.  Outside, on the lake, it was really looking like both.  Indy thought he could see the slight difference in color between the mist and smoke, which was mostly at the shore closest to the neighbors.  Cammi was gazing out the window, so Indy asked, “Do you think that’s mist?  Or smoke from the neighbor’s fireplace?”

Cammi looked mildly surprise for a moment, “What?” Then, refocusing her eyes, asked, “on the lake?”

Indy nodded.  “I thought you were looking at it, too.”

“No, I wasn’t really looking at anything.” Cammi paused for a moment. “It could be either. What do you think?”

Indy just shrugged. He felt awkward, helpless.  Indy had long known, with no arrogance, that his intuition gave him an advantage in most situations.  But at the moment, he felt a kind of blindness. It was like what one feels in a deep cave with the lights out.  Inky, oppressive blackness that seems like a physical pressure on one’s eyes.  It was the intuitive equivalent to that.  He wondered if this was how people were supposed to feel.

Cammi broke the silence.  “Have you ever hit someone?”

Indy was taken aback, and didn’t speak for several seconds while composing an answer to this rather startling question.

“I mean, a woman,” Cammi added. “Have you ever hit a woman – lover, spouse?”

“No.” Indy had no idea where this was coming from, and didn’t know exactly what to say. “I don’t think I could, either.”

Cammi did not explain her question, but went back to sipping and looking out the window. The sun was poking a few rays into the smoky mist on the lake, and the early morning birdsongs were starting to fade in advance of the morning buzz that would slowly start up as the bees began to wake.  After a long pause, she said, “Actually, you could.”

 

 

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” —Winnie the Pooh

I stopped just short of the water’s edge.  I hadn’t expected this situation at all, as the trail was well worn, and seemed like it should continue. In this place, there were even stepping stones, poached from the nearby land and placed by some anonymous traveler, apparently for the benefit of anyone who would find them later. There were no signs, no warning whatsoever. Yet there it was: a pond, directly in the trail.  I looked left, and I looked right, but there were no signs of travel in either direction along the shore.  One minute I was strolling along the path, the next my progress was cut short.  The pond itself was not newly flooded, but old, and well established, its marshy clumps of reeds overhanging the sandy earth of the shoreline.  The trail just seemed to end here, as though it were the final destination.

I was perplexed.  I craned my neck, seeking any sign that there might be others in the area. No one; I was alone. Did people come here to wash things – like clothing, or to bathe? That would explain the need for such a path. But there were no real signs of activity here, the trail simply ended at the water’s edge. Did people come here to fish? No way to be sure, but there were no obvious signs of fishing, and no dock, no fishing boats. Did people come here to gather water then?  Possibly.  The pond seemed clear, and fresh, as though it were fed by unseen springs.  Cool water, rising from the depths of the rocky earth beneath my feet.  It was a thought that felt refreshing, soothing, and reminding me that my feet were tired.  I looked around for a clear space to rest on the low grass beside the trail.

Perhaps this is what people do here, I thought to myself.  Perhaps they come to relax, and spend a few hours or minutes in the light of the late sun; to inhale the smell of the mud at the water’s edge; to listen and hear the small sounds of insects about their insect business and the talking breezes which chattered in a language of near understanding.   Perhaps people come here simply to marvel at the tiny waves lapping the shore, whose miniature tongues curl like so many flames, persistently seeking to move, and then to re-move, the division between water and earth.

I may have fallen asleep for a while, but the sun had only advanced by the smallest degree.  Time seemed to scrape its belly on the trail before the water’s edge, hanging low on its tired legs, as though urging me to continue alone.  It was a lazy kind of day anyway, in late fall, with its blend of warm sun and chill draughts of air.  The kind of day in which anything could happen, but nothing did.  I would like to go on record to say that I believe in nothing beyond the present, as the future is unseen, will always be unseen, and each moment slips into the past before we can even put our arms around it.   Why should this philosophical ditty matter now?  Does it need to matter?

I looked back down the trail which led me to this spot.  It was long and meandering.  Sometimes steep, sometimes slick with moss, sometimes rocky, with sharp, dangerous edges, while on other days totally unremarkable, tame, even seductive.  I don’t know what I expected to find, when I began this path, but this place was a surprise.  I should say, “is” a surprise, as there is only this moment, the present – only now.  This is a surprise.  The trail is long.  The water is clear, and calm, and settling into the nest of its vale like a cat settles in the laundry basket.

I am looking out to the lake now. It is bigger than I had thought, and I now see that it is dotted with small islands.  I see trees on some of the islands, shrouded in a light mist, and having a bit of glow about them as the sunset places the leafless branches in soft silhouette.  In my mind’s eye, I can see movement on the islands, but I know this is whimsy, or the work of an overactive imagination.  I can feel that this place is only for me, and the other-worldly shadows that leap from island to island are just that – shadows, of another life, or another place, not really part of this landscape.

I am standing beside my father now, as he was when I was small.  He is supine on the lawn. I leap upon him, but he catches me and holds me at arm’s length over his head.  He lowers his arms, the pushes me back up, and I feel myself fall, bouncing on his chest as he laughs. I can feel that he is solid, immovable, permanent.  Now I stand beside his bed as he becomes part of the world that gave him to me, fading into the rocks, the forest wood, the ocean – solid, immovable, permanent.  I walk now with my mother, and hold her hand.  I can smell her perfume, and the hand-lotion on her fingers, now on my fingers.  Her lips are moving, but her words are so quiet, fading to pastel, then watercolor, now an unfinished veil painting, with no firm designs, no edges.  I have so many questions for her, but each moment slips into the past before we can even put our arms around it.

At the water’s edge, I examine myself in the mirror liquid.  I see my father’s chin, my mother’s eyes, my sister’s ambition, my brother’s memory. I see the hopes and dreams of my children, the lines and creases of past loves, together, in the present, right now.  They are all in the face looking up from the water, but through them I see something new, something I hadn’t noticed before.  I have been standing at the water’s edge, letting so many moments sift through my fingers, like bits of grain in a sieve, or the raindrops that had begun to obliterate the trail at my back, and I had not noticed something behind my own reflection.   The glassy surface of the lake reveals its secrets as the sun begins to set, as the reflection gives way to the truth, and looking through my face I see stones.  Stepping stones – and the trail – continuing along, unending, uninterrupted, beneath the vast expanse of water.

I laugh as I kick off my shoes, looking ahead, I continue to follow the trail.  And now the moment at water’s edge has gone, slipping away as all moments do.

 

Roger’s world was getting smaller. He could feel it in the way it fit. Like a pair of jeans, shrinking with each wash, it was apparent that he could not wear it much longer. There was a smell, a taste to this place, which reminded him of his childhood; but he couldn’t place the exact memory. It was a sunset slanting through a window, the taste of a dusty screen. The smell of mothballs in his mother’s closet, fresh in Roger’s nostrils. His nose ran. His back hurt. He wiped his damp fingers on his grimy coat, holding out his hand, “Some change, please, ma’am?”

Sally usually would have ignored a homeless bum. But today, on a whim, she turned her head toward him as she passed. “I’m afraid I don’t give directly to the homeless, friend. My charity goes to the Friendship Center, on the north side of town. They feed people like yourself; you might go check it out.” She looked directly at Roger’s gaunt face, and with emphasis she repeated: “Friendship Center.” She continued into the café.

Frank was already there sipping coffee in front of his paper, catching moments of scone between paragraphs. He noticed Sally with a nod and a smile, washed down a few crumbs, and asked, “What’s new?”

“Not much,” she replied on her way to the counter. “You?”

Frank shrugged without comment.

The café stereo played something trendy, a soundtrack to Sally’s exchange of cash with the barista. She chose to wait for her drink before sitting down. What is that song? She wondered, trying to hum along with a new-but-familiar-sounding melody. It’s like something from high school. I can almost remember dancing to it – but… different. No, not the same song, but nice. I’ll have to ask, I bet they sell this CD. At the sidewalk, Roger could hear the same melody from the patio speakers. It made him sad somehow, and he walked away.

“I lied,” confessed Sally after sitting down, “I do have something to report.”

“You do?” Frank asked, eyebrows raised. “New lover? Promotion? Patents pending?”

Sally laughed out loud. “No! Nothing so dramatic, but pretty groovy, nonetheless.”

“Your inner-hippie is showing.”

“Shut up and listen!” Sally was obviously smitten by an eager bug. Frank pocketed his next few comical remarks, and waited.

“Okay,” she continued, “I was at the toy store on 3^rd St. The woman ahead of me at the checkout suddenly gasped, and began rummaging furiously through her purse. She kept repeating ‘Hang on…,’ and looking in all the pockets, ‘Hang on…’ She stopped, looked up at the checker, at me, then back into her purse. Turns out she had lost a hundred dollar bill. She’d set it aside to buy Christmas presents for her kids and it wasn’t there! She turned and apologized to me for the delay. She apologized!”

Frank listened impassively, waiting for the punch line.

“I could tell she didn’t have much money. You know – thrift shop clothes, an overworn purse – you can kinda tell. She had picked good but moderately priced toys, and had set the newspaper ad down on the counter. With a coupon, she had come in just under the one hundred dollar limit.”

“Was this my mom, by any chance?” Frank jumped in, “I don’t want to have to return the Justice League action figure set I just know she got for me…”

“Clamp it, Frank!” Sally took a sip and continued. “She started crying. It was a huge setback for her. I mean, a hundred bucks is a fair sum when you make good money. But when you’re broke, well…” She shook her head. “I paid for the toys.”

“Was she working a scam?” asked Frank. “Sometimes people will use their kids to play on the sympathies of passersby…”

“No way. I could tell which pocket she had kept the money in. She kept checking that spot over and over, as though hoping she’d just missed it. She didn’t cry right away, either. I could see the look on her face when it really hit her, and she tried to hide it. Of course, she wouldn’t let me pay at first. But here’s the important part:  I paid, and then refused to arrange for her to repay me. I mean, she offered and all. But I told her to pay someone who needs it, whenever she gets the chance.”

“Pay it forward, then?” Frank had his usual look of holier-than-thou understanding out in a flash, “This is why you’re all glowing and shit, like Kevin Spacey, changing the world – one tea set at a time? Did you ask her to help out three other people?” A parodic tossing of the head.

Sally was expecting such a remark. “This wasn’t a movie, Frank! And I didn’t actually see that one, anyway. But yes, ‘pay it forward.’  Can’t do it any better than that. It’s the true nature of charity – no strings attached. Helping someone who will not be able to return the favor.” Frank had a contemplative nod going now, Sally continued. “It’s one thing to lend money to a friend. It feels good to help somebody out, you know? But it feels ten times better when you know that you are helping someone who cannot repay you. I’ll probably never see that woman again. That’s part of the deal:  she won’t be able to thank me or anything.”

“What about charitable giving?” Frank interjected. “That’s the same way:  the kids at Shriner’s will never pay you back.”

“Different.” Sally shook her head. “That’s detached, abstract and, I don’t know – it’s good, but not the same. Besides, only a percentage goes to the cause. The rest is overhead for the charity administration.”

“True.” Frank was mulling this over, when his reverie was interrupted by the dishwasher bussing the table. The moment was past.

“Hey, I gotta run,” said Frank. “Catch you tomorrow, huh?”

* * *

Roger’s world was getting smaller. He knew that he could not wear it much longer. There was something glaring at him, though, out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look, but it was gone. Like the memory of words overheard and forgotten, gone like a dream of a different person in another life. There was a smell to this place. It was the enemy of light; dank and foggy. Roger’s stomach was an empty sack, filled only with the ghosts of broken promises. But that memory of words overheard, and forgotten – what were those words? He tried to sift them from the ramblings of his tired mind. North. That woman had said, “North.” Roger was hungry, and the woman had told him something about food “on the north side of town.”

* * *

Frank spotted Sally before she got in the door. He set the paper down, waiting anxiously for her to get her coffee and come to the table. He looked out the window, watching the snow fall on the traffic in the street, on the tops of awnings, in the intersection. In some places, you could see the snowflakes in the air; in others, you could not – but you knew they were there. In front of the streetlights you could see a constant fall of snow, moving quickly through the narrow band of colored light, yet no snow accumulation on the tops of the lamps. On the patio rails and posts there were perhaps three inches piled up, yet no flakes were visibly falling on them. An odd illusion, thought Frank, the dichotomy of snowfall.

“Hey!” Sally’s greeting broke into Frank’s little bubble of existence, reminding him that he was excited to see her.

“Hey there!” Frank paused briefly. “So, you remember our conversation of a few weeks ago, the one about your big Christmas Toy Purchase?”

Sally wiped coffee from her cheek – she had been taking a sip when her giggle took over. “I didn’t ‘buy’ any Christmas toys. I gave someone money, you nut!”

“Right.” Frank slid on. “You felt good about doing a Good Deed for one who would not be able to pay it back – the ‘pay it forward’ thing.”

“Um-hm.”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘You can’t do any better than that.’ Am I right?”

“Well, I may have said something like that…”

Frank gathered himself, like a kitten preparing to pounce. “I’ve got a better one.”

Sally was intrigued by the expression on her usually blasé and comically witty friend’s face; Frank had definitely reached a new level of smug today. “Go on,” she said.

“I used to go ice fishing with my cousin in Michigan.” Sally gave a quizzical look, but Frank continued. “I haven’t gone in years, and my cold weather gear has just been sitting in the closet. Well, you know that guy that runs the newspaper stand two blocks that way?” Pointing. “He’s been there forever. In all weather – heat, rain, and these icy winter storms. He can’t afford a decent jacket. Have you seen the layers of flannels he puts on? I’ve seen him burning stacks of day old newspapers in the garbage can, trying to warm up.”

“So you gave him your jacket?” Sally was wondering how this was better than her story.

“No! Well, yes! But that’s not the point.” A conspiratorial look crept over Frank’s face. “I snuck it into the back of the stand and left a note on it.” Grinning. “A three hundred dollar subzero parka, and he’ll never know it was me who gave it to him.”

Sally was nodding with approval, but had yet to grasp Frank’s intended point. “So, it was an expensive jacket, as a gift?”

Head shaking. “Not important. It could have been a five dollar sandwich. The point is this: There are levels of goodwill. Giving something that cannot be repaid is one. Giving anonymously is another. Not only can that man never repay me, he will never know it was me who gave him the coat! And before you ask, he loves it. I bought this paper from him thirty minutes later,” lifting the newspaper, “and he was wearing it. He looked much happier than he did yesterday!”

“You looked him in the eye afterward?” Sally was elated. “Did you make any remark, compliment him on his jacket?”

“Not a chance!” Frank shook his head, “I didn’t want to give anything away. He might have guessed, and then it would be gone.”

The conversation paused for a moment as the dishwasher picked up Frank’s plate.

“Okay,” Sally said, “that’s a better one. Let me see what I can do.”

“Are you going to try and out-nice me?”

“Scared of friendly competition?”

In lieu of a reply, Frank leaned back, crossed his arms, and looked thoughtfully out the window at the snow, now just a bit higher on the patio rail.

* * *

Roger’s world was very small. There was only him, and a few others, holed up in this last house. Travelers they were, on the road unknown:  a path leading away from the cracked concrete and wind-tortured rumble of the urban wilderness. There was a fire here, yellow and warm.  And a taste, too:  a taste like water from a warm, summer mud puddle with tadpoles in it. Roger looked at the others. Some shared this place; others came and went. Counselors – yes, that was it – counselors during the day. He looked at the letterhead on the papers he’d been given. “Friendship Center.” How long have I been here? He wondered. Roger leaned back on the couch and drifted off into a light sleep.

* * *

“Sometimes life hands you material.” Sally was beaming, suppressed excitement dimpling her cheeks. She sipped her coffee, waiting, refusing to go any further until asked.

Frank obliged. “Alright. Let’s hear it!”

“Ok,” she set down her cup, folded her hands in front of her on the table. “A few weeks ago, I took on the challenge.” She shot an inquiring look across the table. “You know, different levels of charity? I was thinking it over, and anonymous good deeds are fairly easy to come by – you agree?” A nod from Frank. “That was level two, as I recall. So how do I improve on that? Hmm? Well, this morning I had an even better chance fall right into my lap.”

“A ‘Lap Chance’ it was, then?”

“Punny, Frank. Very punny.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I was leaving the townhouse, when I noticed a trashy mess on the stoop of my neighbor Helen’s place. I immediately pictured Helen – elderly, living alone – having to deal with it, and thought I’d pick it up for her.” Frank was gathering an unimpressed look. “Hang on! There’s more! So I walk up to her steps, and I realized she’d been vandalized! Two large clay pots – big ones, tall as this table – overturned and smashed on the stairs. Plants everywhere.”

“Wow,” said Frank, serious for a change. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the good part:  I’ve been admiring these beautiful pots for some time. Terra cotta, nice design. She got them at Rupert’s; I know, because I asked. In fact, I had already gone and bought two of them for my own porch; they were sitting in my garage!” Frank began to nod, seeing the direction this was going. “It’s 6:30. Helen doesn’t move around until midmorning, and she’s likely a heavy sleeper. I gathered up the scattered plants, took them to my place, had them repotted in a few minutes. By the time I left, I had swept her porch and replaced the pots.”

“Well, she certainly won’t know to pay you back for the favor…” Frank began.

“Frank, she won’t even know that she’s gotten a favor!” Sally was completely ecstatic at this point. “Helen will never know that she was vandalized, nor will she have any idea that a caring neighbor took the time to fix it. It was not about the cost of the pots; they’re not that much. I saved her the pain and the work, which was much easier for me than it would have been for her.”

“A good deed for one who will never even know about it.”

“Yeah.”

“That is a new ‘level,’ for sure – the third, it would seem. I don’t know how I could outdo that.”

* * *

Roger’s world was small. But it seemed to fit. He shrugged his shoulders, stretched his back, and stood up. The house felt empty today. Those residents who could had gone on day passes. There was a smell to the air, like hope. It was the scent of a soft breeze, moving dandelion seeds off to their new homes, the taste of long kept fortune cookies just opened from their plastic wrappers.

“How’s it going, Roger?” asked the counselor.

“Good,” Roger said. “My mind gets clearer, every day a little bit clearer.”

“That’s what happens here, Roger.”

“I wish I could remember the person who sent me here. I’d like to thank her.”

“It was a stranger, right? When you were on the street?”

“Yes, but a regular, I think. I can’t remember her face, or anything, really. It just bothers me!”

“Some memories never return, Roger. You were in a very low place. Just be happy that someone sent you to us.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Time is getting close for you to leave here, you know. Next week, you can go looking for a job.”

Roger’s world began to grow.

* * *

Frank arrived at the café at his usual time. It had rained overnight, but the morning sun shone on the early flowers in the window boxes. In perhaps another month, it would be warm enough to leave the windows open; but the café never did so. They would run the air conditioner when it was cooler outside, and the heater when it was warm, as though the building was its own independent ecosystem, with no rhyme or reason, no relation to the rest of the world. Such is the dichotomy of the mindless enterprise, thought Frank. Yet, it has a life of its own.

There was a wallet sitting on the next table. That’s odd… There was a woman sitting there a moment ago... Frank searched the area with a glance, but the owner of the wallet was nowhere to be found. He picked it up. Perhaps there’s an ID, contact info inside. He sat holding the small leather parcel, unwilling to open it, to unceremoniously tromp across the border of someone’s private space. No one was watching; in fact, only a few customers were seated. Most were in line at the counter or leaving with their drinks.

He turned the object over in his hands. No markings to speak of, beyond an ornamental de fleur on the flap. What would be inside? Wallets often held those things most valuable to a person:  a bus pass, driver’s license, medical information. Pictures of small children, and used theater tickets. Business cards from acquaintances and associates, and the cards you have stamped to get your 10th coffee free. There could be locker combinations, keys to safe deposit boxes, and phone numbers. A wallet could contain directions to the prom, positive affirmations, and recipes given in kindness. Reminders, love notes, and sometimes letters that were never meant to be sent. A man’s livelihood might be in his wallet, or a woman’s life. There would probably be sweat in the leather, tears, and spilt perfume. A miniature time capsule of the person who carried it. This would be sorely missed, and the intimate trespass would be forgiven should it lead to the safe return of the wallet. Frank took a quick look around the café before opening the clasp – and there she was.

The woman was coming from the direction of the restroom, heading directly past Frank’s table for the door. She clearly had no inkling of her wallet’s fate. Now what? Frank was aghast, I’ve got a stranger’s wallet in my hand. What… do I just hand it to her? “‘Scuse me ma’am, but would there be a reward for this little trifle?” The momentary embarrassment was fading as the woman reached the door. She stopped, and turned away from Frank. She was getting her jacket from the coat rack.

Preparing to speak, Frank glanced out the window; saw no chance of rain. When he turned to the woman, however, he saw an opportunity. She had her back to him, was putting on her coat. She had set her purse on the floor at her feet. It was open. Frank dropped the wallet into the purse, and turned back to his coffee.

“Hey!”

Frank nearly farted in astonishment – but it was just Sally, approaching the table.

“What’s new?” Frank asked, collecting his shattered nerves and chuckling wildly inside.

“Not much,” she replied as she sat down. “You?”

Frank shrugged without comment.

“No witty remarks today? What’s in the news?”

Frank looked at the paper, folded on the table. “Oh, uh… haven’t read it yet.” Should I tell her? Does this match her secretive replacement of the neighbor’s flowerpots? That was, what, level three? The anonymous good deed for one who will never know a service was performed…

“I think the weather is breaking,” Sally was saying. “Early spring, you think?”

“Possibly. Good weather for good deeds, wouldn’t you say?” This is nice. I like this. That woman will never know. No one saw me. Sally gave a scone-crumbed grin, and nodded. The game was still on. Unless I tell, no one will ever, ever know – not even Sally. Doing good without getting caught! Level four…?

Frank’s thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of cups and saucers to his right. The dishwasher was bussing the next table.

“Hey, you’re new here, aren’t you?” Frank asked amicably.

“Yes,” said Roger. “My first day.”

Sally turned, then paused in mid-smile. “Wait a minute,” she said, brows slightly knit. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Roger responded. “But my memory is not what it once was.”

Three grins, a round of shrugs, and Roger went back into the kitchen.

“Hey, I gotta run.” Said Frank, “Catch you tomorrow, huh?”