Memoir

Walking through the hall into the main receiving room, Margaux can see the dust motes in the fingers of sunlight seeping in from the window attempting to penetrate the shadows of the room and once again she is a young girl of eleven. Hiding her hands to keep from revealing the marks of shackles she has felt for most of her life. She half expected someone to object to her presence, but no one seems to be looking at her or her wrist; no one scoffing at her with shock and dismay. Could it be?  Would she be allowed to stand here among the pretty people, those who have never known a discomfort in their lives? The air suddenly seems too stuffy; she has to get out, escape. Margaux squeezes through a large set of doors filled with panes of glass out onto the veranda. The cool breeze washes over her face, teasing and tempting her wayward curls. Surely no one will mind if she lingers here. Leaning against the railing she gazes out across the manicured lawn to the gardens that stretch out to touch the edges of the forest. Right now she would like nothing more than to disappear among the pines and hardwoods, but she knows she must stay; otherwise all the hard work to get her an interview would be in vain and Sister Clarese would never understand if she threw it all away. Just then a girl with mousy brown hair and a sweet, almost too sweet, face steps out onto the veranda as well, looking back over her shoulder as if she suspects that someone might be following. Margaux hopes that she will blend into the surroundings; she stands very still, barely breathing. The wind blows from the forest and her hair flutters, the girl snaps around having caught the motion in the corner of her eye. Slowly, the girl approaches and when she has come close she pauses, uncertain. The girl’s eyes stare into Margaux’s searching. Finally, she says “Hello, I am Edith Stansberry, who are you?” Margaux blinks, afraid to speak but something in the girl’s eyes makes her whisper, “Margaux”. In response Edith looks around to see if anyone is watching and when she is sure that there is no one, she grabs Margaux’s hand and pulls her away from the railing saying, “Come Margaux, let us leave these people and find a  place for just us girls.” This is the first kindness Margaux has ever known. She releases her hold on the rail and they run to the corner of the veranda to a small flight of stairs. Once they reach the bottom, Edith grips Margaux’s hand harder and takes off at a run toward the stables. Once they are inside, Edith lets go of Margaux’s hand and begins to talk animatedly as she continues into the stable with Margaux following, still in shock. At last Edith stops at a large gate near the end of stalls and upon opening it steps inside. Margaux gasps. The stall is large but that is nothing compared to the giant horse that is filling it. Edith crosses the stall and climbs up the slats on the wall to a small loft and motions Margaux to follow. Closing the gate behind her, Margaux creeps around the edge of the stall to climb up to the loft with Edith…

“Margaux” Edith calls, “Is that you? I have been waiting for you all morning. How was your trip?” Margaux shakes her head, coming out of her revere. “Yes, I am here Edith, just here. This place is moldy and full of memories, how can you stand it. I feel like I am meeting myself around every corner.” Margaux and Edith share an embrace and move out onto the veranda. “You know I love this place, I always have. Besides where else am I to go, all my life has been here” says Edith. “That’s just it” replies Margaux “You have never gone anywhere or had a life outside of these walls. If I were you I would have ran screaming into the forest ages ago.” “I seem to remember you did run into the forest many times, but you always came back, even as you are back again today. Surely you miss something of this place whenever you have time to think of it between one movie and another” says Edith. “Oh, I do miss it… Well I miss you that is what I mean; I miss your company” Margaux replies. “So is that what has brought you home, my company?” asks Edith. “Well, of course and because my wonderful agent thinks it is time that I write my memoirs and is hoping that being here will help to get me a good start.” Margaux replies and mumbles to herself, “She has no idea what she has done.”

They pass the afternoon pleasantly reminiscing through memories and laughing over glasses of wine. The breeze that flows up from the forest is gentle and filled with the smells of the earth. It is probably the trees that Margaux remembers the most fondly. They were her refuge as a child, whenever life was too much and she had run away; the forest had always sheltered her. She still retreats there sometimes in her mind when the world clamors around her and the cameras flash make her want to stay in her car instead of stepping out onto the runway of life.

As the evening is coming to a close, Margaux and Edith are reluctant to part. Each for very different reasons; Edith because she has missed Margaux terribly and doesn’t want to miss one minute of her visit and Margaux because she is not sure that she wants to sleep again in the room that had been hers since that first day on the veranda when Edith had declared to her father that she loved Margaux and that she wanted a sister more than anything in the world. All this after they had been found in the stables by the stable boy, apparently they had caused quite a stir when the maid, that had been expecting to interview Margaux, could not find her and Edith’s nanny could not find her either. Edith’s father had stared at Margaux for a moment and finally said that she could stay the night. The next morning Edith had insisted that she must have Margaux for a sister and Margaux had moved into the mansion with a room of her own and for the first time in her life, no one was yelling at her or getting on to her and there would be no more shackles, not ever.

Stepping into the room, Margaux drew in a breath; it was as if she had never left. All of her things were just as she had left them, even her clothes were still hanging in her closet. Margaux walked around the room touching the trinkets on the mantle and caressing the cheek of a favorite doll. She could feel a tear in her eye but she does not let it fall, because the trail of one tear always makes way for others to follow. Climbing into bed, Margaux looks around one more time before turning off the light and whispers to herself, “It is just for a week; only a week that is all. I can handle it. Think of Edith, we cannot break her heart. She has no idea about the things we feel, the things we remember - although she might have had a suspicion.”  Margaux hears the words in her head as clearly as the day they were said, “Sometimes I think Father loves you best, Margaux. It makes me sad a little that he loves you more than me. But then I am glad because he was so lonely after Momma died, we both were. This way Father and I are both happy” said Edith. “Oh Edith, I am sure you are wrong. How could Father possibly love anyone more than you? You are his greatest treasure, he is always saying so” replied Margaux.

Margaux had written in her notes, Walter Stansberry had never been unkind, he loved me… I am sure. Yet somehow the name Father didn’t feel right whenever I addressed him. Of course no one knew how could they? No one would ever suspect Walter Stansberry of any indiscretion he was a well respected man. All the women watched after him at social gatherings. The adoption of the homeless child only made him seem more like a prince. Perhaps their musings would have been different if he had just married her instead. Right or wrong, she had loved him in the dark corners of her heart. She had never given herself to another, not her heart and soul. Oh she had danced with many, loved many; but she had belonged to none of them.

Margaux lay for a while staring at the ceiling and thinking back over her childhood until finally her eyes became too heavy to fight it anymore. In her dreams Margaux stands at the edge of the grave too afraid to step onto the freshly covered tomb. The stone was small, with only a name and dates; not even a mention of her family or that she was a loving mother, and tears are streaming down her face…  Margaux sat up in bed and rummaged through her side table until she found the paper and pencil that she had always kept hidden there as a child and she began to write.  She was buried with her still born child cradled in her arms. The ladies at the church said that father was a hard man, full of drink and hate, always taking it out on mother. She could have taken me with her; she had to know what she was leaving me to. I watched her go; her eyes were dead before she was. I called to her but she could not hear me. When they closed her eyes her last tear ran down her cheek and fell onto her pillow. I slept with that pillow for weeks; refusing to let it be washed. It was full of tears; first Momma’s and then mine. I should have hidden it, I should have known.

When sunlight came through the window announcing the end of her dreams, Margaux dressed quickly and left her room glad to be away from her troubling memories. Not that the rest of the house is not full of memories but at least most of them are memories of happy times when she and Edith had played along the corridors and hidden in many secret rooms. The breakfast table still sits in a small alcove just off of the kitchen surrounded by windows so that one can look out over the grounds as they take in their morning repast. Already the table is occupied by Edith and covered in dishes complete with the most wonderful thing so far this morning, coffee. Margaux pulls out a chair and joins Edith saying “Good morning. I hope that you slept well.” To which Edith replies, “Of course, I slept like a baby. It is so wonderful to have you here. I went to sleep planning and thinking of all that we can do while you are here.” Margaux sighs, she had told her agent that she would not get much done on her book here and that she would do just as well to stay in her own place. But her agent had said, “You simply must go home. I am sure that you will discover many ideas for you book and likely remember things you have long forgotten.” Margaux thought to herself that those memories were precisely why she had not been here in so long. Now that she is here Margaux is sure that she would rather be anywhere else, although spending time with Edith is good. Struck with an idea, Margaux says to Edith, “Why don’t you come and stay with me a while? It would do you good to get out and see some of the world. My agent has recently talked me into buying a house in Florida on the Gulf of Mexico and it is much too much for me. Let us pack some bags and leave today! I would love to introduce you to some friends and show you around.” Edith smiles and says, “Oh, I do not know. I have so much here; and to leave today would be a lot of trouble to get things ready.” Margaux scoffs, “Trouble? You have people to take care of most everything and we can pack a bag in about an hour. I can call my agent and have all the arrangements made by the time we are ready to go. Please say yes, it would be wonderful to have you come and stay with me. You can stay as long as you like and whenever you are ready I will bring you right back here.” Edith looks doubtfully at her plate, stirring the leftover bits of food with her fork and then finally says, “It would just be for the week, right?” “Sure, a week or however long you are willing to stay! So will you come? Replies Margaux. “Yes, I will come! I can feel my heart fluttering already. I haven’t done anything exciting in a long while” says Edith. Margaux picks up her cell phone and calls to make the arrangements and before lunch their car is waiting and they are placing the last things in suitcases and Edith is going from room to room trying to finish getting ready. Margaux knows that she is just having a hard time leaving, but she is content to wait. At least she will not have to stay another night here.

As they arrive in Florida, Margaux and Edith sit in the back seat of the limousine that Margaux’s agent has sent for them and talk about all the things that they can do while Edith is visiting. Margaux points out the club house that belongs to the community where she lives saying that they can go anytime they like when they want company other than each other. Edith is overwhelmed by it all, her home is a mansion but some of these homes are like palaces. “Margaux, you live here in one of these enormous homes? Whatever do you do with all the rooms?” “I know Edith, I told my agent that I did not need a large home but she would not hear of my choosing a smaller place. She consented that I might buy a retreat somewhere but that my home had to be grand. I really only live in a small portion of the house, but the view is wonderful and it is very secure. No one can even get into the property unless they own a home here. I think that is my favorite part of the whole house, the privacy. I never bring anyone here you know, I just do not want strangers looking about at my personal things. I am glad you who know me inside out already will be here for a while. The house does get a little lonely now and then. ”

As the sun sets, Margaux and Edith sit on the deck just outside of Margaux’s dining room and take their tea together. The water is smooth as glass and the white sand seems almost undisturbed as if no one has placed a foot upon it. Edith smiles and says to Margaux, “I am glad that you talked me into coming here. You are quite right about the breeze; it feels like the passing gust of an angel’s wing. Oh listen to me; I am going to be spouting out verse next!” “It is beautiful; nothing clears my mind like sitting here and watching the waves return over and over to the shore. It makes me think of how the ocean is a lot like life in that we all return again and again to the same things. We all want the same things when you strip all the dressings away, we want to love and be loved; we want a home and we want our family” says Margaux. “Well, we are philosophical, no wonder your agent is after you to write a book. Are you sure that you will stop with only your memoirs?” Edith asks. Margaux laughs and the two continue to share small talk until all of the light from the sun is gone and the moon is high. Finally, Edith yawns and Margaux stands to lead her inside to her room. Late into the night Margaux sits at her table in the dining room and writes as the memories pour from her pen. When the sun returns again the next morning Edith is the one to come and find the table occupied and dishes covering the table amid scraps of paper. “Have you been here all night?” Ask Edith. “Yes, I have. I sat down to scribble a few lines and have written a book.” Margaux replies.

Apart and Together

Apart and Together

The morning sun falls across the table sitting beside the window in Bill and Chloe Gregson’s small apartment on the upper east side of town overlooking the railway track that provides most of the transportation for the city since owning a vehicle is just too expensive. Bill is reading the newspaper out loud trying, in his own way, to be amusing. In a deep announcer’s voice he says, “And on this day, Saturday the eighth of October in the year 2034, our glorious president, James Burrows, waves to onlookers as he and the First Lady board Air Force One, departing for a week vacation. Meanwhile, Congress will be voting today to decide the fate of the country's homeless that have become a burden upon our great country. In an interview with Sandy White last week, David Sandhill explained how the homeless disgrace our cities by clogging alley ways and moving about town in ragged clothes, carrying bags and boxes of items looking mostly like trash. Can you believe this, Chloe?” Bill asks. “I mean they have placed these articles side by side. How can they not see the disparity of people starving, without shelter or money, and no hope of a job right next to an article discussing the beautiful, tax payer paid vacation that our ‘great leader’ is embarking on.” Bill shakes his head in bewilderment. “They do not even consider it, Bill.” Chloe answers. “They see the homeless and poverty level people as a completely different life form. Something along the line of a leech or parasite, not like a worker bee that they care about as long as they can be productive citizens.” Bill mumbles and turns the page, only to scoff in disgust at another article finishing by carelessly folding the paper and tossing it onto the table. Chloe looks up at him for a moment before giving her attention back to the breakfast she is cooking, scrambled egg substitute and tofu bacon strips. Turning the stove off, Chloe lifts the last strip of tofu bacon from the pan and places it on Bill’s plate. “Ah” She says. “With enough salt and pepper, this will taste just like the breakfast your mother used to make.” Bill sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose. “It smells a bit like bacon, I wonder how they get it to do that, since they were able to capture some of the smell you would think they would also work in some of the taste.” He says. Chloe is slightly offended and says, “Well fine; I will let you find a way to buy groceries, pay the rent and utilities and our transportation fees… Then we will talk about the taste of our bacon. At least we are not carting all our possessions around in boxes.” “Not yet!” Bill says. “But if our great president has anymore ‘vacations’ we will not be very far from the feel of cardboard walls and threadbare blankets.” Staring down into her cup of soy milk, Chloe notices that the liquid is quivering and she says, “Can you stop shaking the table?” Bill replies, “I am not shaking the table, you must have bumped it as you sat down.” Chloe watches the cup, waiting for the tremors to subside, but they intensify instead. “Bill, something is wrong. Turn the radio on.” Bill reaches over to the small radio that they keep on the window sill, the only place in the apartment where it will come in clearly, and turns it on. After a moment Bill pushes a button to seek for a different channel but all he can find is static. Bill ran through the entire dial with no success. He was about to start the computer and use one of their technology cards to access the global network when the entire building shook with enough force to knock the tiny radio out of the window onto the floor. Bill and Chloe look at one another, “We have to get out of the building.” Bill says. “I have seen what the tremors can do to these concrete block buildings and we definitely do not want to be under the three floors above us.” “Okay” Says Chloe “Just let me grab a couple things…” The building shakes again and all the windows shatter, they can see through the hole that had been their kitchen window moments ago, pieces of the wall beginning to fall. Bill grabs Chloe’s arm and says, “No, no we have to go now.” Chloe starts to resist but gives in and follows Bill out the door and down a small flight of stairs. Outside people are running and shouting, looking for friends and loved ones. Bill says, “Let’s get to the transit station, they are supposed to be built to function as shelters from earthquakes, tornadoes, and terrorist attacks.” Bill and Chloe make it across the street and onto the railway tracks as another violent tremor brings down a large portion of the wall of their apartment. Chloe looks back at the sound of falling debris and stops. “My pictures, they are all I have left of my family… it is just a small box. Bill, I have to get them.” Chloe says. “Chloe, don’t be stupid. Can you not see the walls falling down? We were lucky that we got out before we were trapped.” “Bill, I have to get them.” Bill tries to hold on to Chloe’s hand but they are racked by another tremor and Bill stumbles on the uneven tracks. Chloe takes this opportunity to run. Bill cries out, “Chloe, Chloe – Wait! Chloe, we will come back. Don’t go in, Chloe.” But it is too late. Bill catches a glimpse of Chloe’s red hair as she slips through the hole in the side of their apartment and disappears.

            Chloe climbs over the jumbled remains of their little apartment and she remembers the day they moved in, it was just two rooms, but it was theirs. The walls were painted a plain white and the floors were covered with a dull carpet that had seen too many renters, but she had loved it. Now as she looks around trying to get her bearings, she can see bits and pieces of their furniture. The small love seat and the couch that folds out to become their bed, the tears start to come but Chloe battles them back down, they can find a new place. She just needs to get her pictures. The rubble is hard to move, but Chloe continues to dig and look. The building shakes again and the inner wall between Bill and Chloe’s apartment and their neighbors falls into a heap, followed by a scream. Chloe stops searching and listens with shock; surely there is not someone still in the building. Faintly, Chloe hears a voice and she begins to move across the debris toward it, further into the ruined building. As she crawls on all fours over the mounding heap, Chloe tries to remember who her neighbors are. All the tenants lived busy lives and most of them keep to themselves. Chloe stops and listens again, nothing… Chloe calls out, “Hello is anyone in here?” “Hello” Chloe is about to turn around and make her way back when she hears a sound, it is weak, very weak, but it sounds like a baby crying. Suddenly, Chloe remembers watching a young woman carry in a few belongings a couple weeks ago and she had a baby. Chloe had not gotten a very good look at the child because the woman had it wrapped it all up in blankets to ward off the chill air. Slowly, Chloe made her way toward the sounds, gently moving aside pieces of debris, until finally she catches a glimpse of hair, quickly now, Chloe begins to dig and finds the young mother crushed beneath a huge pillar, dead, with her baby clutched protectively in her lifeless arms. Amazingly, the baby is still alive. Chloe works to free the baby from its mother’s arms. Once she has pulled the baby free she tugs at the blue blanket that is still pinned. Once she has it, Chloe wraps it around the baby and notices some red stitching on the corner, it reads: “Oliver Lindel August 19, 2034.” Chloe almost dissolves into tears again. This poor child, he will never know his mother… Mother, her pictures! Chloe starts to climb back to her apartment; she looks around, to her left she can see a path that would lead her out of the building, but looking back to the right she can see where her belongings appear in small snatches among the fallen debris. Chloe looks down at the baby in her arms and he whimpers reaching out with a tiny hand and clasps onto her finger. Chloe’s heart stops. She has never wanted children, but standing here, holding this small babe in her arms she knows that she is a mother now. Clutching Oliver close to her chest, Chloe turns left and makes her way quickly outside. Bill is beside himself, running around from opening to opening trying to see where Chloe has gone, coming around the building, Bill stops to stare as Chloe steps through a gap in the wall cradling something in a blanket. Her eyes meet his and Bill can see something is different; Chloe has changed in the space of a few minutes. How long had she been in the building? It cannot have been more than fifteen minutes, although it seems like the building has been falling for hours. As they draw close, Chloe tips the corner of the blanket and Bill looks in to see the babe asleep in her arms; his eyes travel from the baby up to Chloe’s eyes and he knows this baby is theirs now. Bill wraps Chloe and Oliver into an embrace and guides them back to the railway tracks and on toward the shelter of the station house.

            As they sit in a huddle among the other citizens who have fled to safety, Bill reflects on how normal his day had begun, reading the paper, eating breakfast with Chloe and expecting nothing out of the ordinary for his day. Now here at the end of the day, his whole world has fallen apart and yet come together at the same time and it lies sleeping in Chloe’s arms.

Cafe Ladies

Café Ladies

Mr. Geoffrey walks out on a Saturday afternoon, as per his custom. Mr. Geoffrey loves to stroll along the river walk observing the city and its people. This particular Saturday is especially fine as the sun is shining with only a few small patches of clouds and the temperature has risen to a high of seventy three, perfect spring weather in February. Mr. Geoffrey chose to live in San Antonio, Texas precisely because of its combination of life, weather, and proximity to the ocean. Life here always seems to be moving at its own pace and the weather in fall, winter and spring is absolutely wonderful; for the summer months he spends most of his time on the beach.

            Today, the river walk is beautiful, with the small tables beside the walk covered by colorful umbrellas and crowds of people shopping, sightseeing, and milling about. It seems like the warm weather has brought everyone out. Mr. Geoffrey strolls along, pausing here and there, watching the people passing by and listening in on pieces of conversation hoping to find something, some kind of spark. Mr. Geoffrey is an author and he is searching for a new story. For days he has been staring at note after note of scribbled ideas but still the words will not come, everything he has written so far this week has been dull and lifeless. He wants to find a character that will breathe, a character that has his or her own story, one that his pen struggles to keep up with. But Mr. Geoffrey is still walking along, sitting at tables and talking with strangers to no avail. About mid-way through the afternoon, Mr. Geoffrey sits down at a table across from the Marble Slab Creamery. Mr. Geoffrey watches as a man and his son leave the store, each with a double dip ice cream in a sugar cone and he is reminded of his childhood. Mr. Geoffrey takes out his journal and begins to write:

The morning air was crisp and clean as Billy stepped outside the little white frame house and filled his lungs. His dad, William, had already been up for a couple hours and almost had the morning chores finished. Billy heard the tractors engine rumble to life and took off running toward the machine shed; if he could get there fast enough he might be able to ride along as his dad fed hay to the cows in the feedlot. Out of breath, Billy called out across the yard, “Wait! Wait! Dad, Wait!” William had seen Billy standing on the wide front porch as he had walked from the barn to the machine shed an had been expecting this very thing so he paused just before the edge of the barn lot to give Billy time to catch up.

Mr. Geoffrey pauses, lost in thought, and then shuts the journal and places it back in his pocket. Wiping a tear from his cheek, Mr. Geoffrey gets up from his table and moves on down the river walk. Billy is a fine character but somehow Mr. Geoffrey is just not ready to write about him yet. Finally, tired and hungry, Mr. Geoffrey stumbles into a small café at the end of the river walk and takes a seat in a booth where someone has been kind enough to leave a copy of the day’s newspaper. Mr. Geoffrey orders a small dinner, a classic burger with chips and a tall glass of iced tea and begins to peruse the newspaper; maybe his character is hiding in newsprint. Just then, two ladies came through the door and looking around the café, they proceed to make their way across to the far side of the room to sit in a corner booth away from the other diners. This piques Mr. Geoffrey’s curiosity and he begins to watch them with his newspaper held up as if he is engrossed in its headlines; all the while his mind is whirling and his characters began to stir to life… Mr. Geoffrey pulls out his journal and writes:

In a small diner, Joan and Lizzy sit in a corner booth, as they do each Saturday evening, chatting over coffee and the remnants of their meal. Joan and Lizzy have been best friends for ages, ever since Lizzy moved to the city from her small country town after graduating high school; she had been accepted at Our Lady of the Lake University and was excited to begin life after high school. Joan had always lived in the city; she had grown up on the eastside of town where she still lives in a small one bedroom apartment with her cat, Major. The girls had started out meeting at the café on Saturday evenings to talk about their week, their dates and anything else that came to their minds; but now, years later, it has become a tradition or habit. Sometimes it seems a little sad, they both thought that they would have families and “lives” that would take up all of their time and that they would struggle to find time for one another by now. But week after week, month upon month, years passing by and here they are, another Saturday night alone together.

            “Do you remember when we used to make fun of women like us?” Lizzy asks Joan. “What, us ‘Café Ladies’, is that what we have become? Oh god… you are right! We are those ladies. How depressing, thank you for that! Now you have ruined my day! I cannot believe it, we swore we would never become this… What are we going to do?” Joan replied. “Ha! Do? I do not know what can be done aside from marrying some wishy washy loser like the guys we work with or throw caution to the wind and leave our lives behind on a search for ‘The One’ maybe he only exists on paper” said Lizzy. “Speaking of paper, how about this one, I started this new book last night, get this: ‘ Light sparkling from the chandelier above gives a magical appearance to the room; yet my heart breaks with each thought of you. The yearning is almost more than I can bear. I feel as if I will surely die without your touch. Where have you gone, my love? Anywhere, my love, even to the grave; just tell me and I will follow.’ What would it be like to be loved this way? Where are the men like the ones we read about?” ask Joan. “I think that is why it is called ‘Fiction’! I have never met a man like this… I do not think I can believe anymore” replied Lizzy. “Oh wait; I have another one, listen to this:

‘My heart is my own, so you say. But a lie it is, you have been mine since first our eyes met… Within a glance our souls united and we two have been one, as if we had never known a moment apart. Search yourself; there is not a corner within without me. Just as I am lost completely, until upon reflection, I see only you.’ Can you just die? I can’t wait until they are able to produce human robots that you can buy and program any personality you like. I think it is the only way… Until then, I will just have to continue living through paperbacks” said Joan.

            Looking around the diner, Lizzy comments, “Well, let us see who is dining with us today… Nathan is collecting dishes, while Julie and Charlene wait tables. Over in booth number one there is a family with two young, noisy children. In booth number two there is a man with his newspaper, I think it may be his lover; look how close he is holding it to his face! And what do we have in booth number three? Definitely a ‘Café Lady’ if I have ever seen one! And here on our side booths four and five are empty which leaves us all alone here in booth number six. What is that supposed to mean, even the diners shun us!” “Oh Lizzy, do you have to be so dramatic? I thought we picked this side because everyone else is sitting on the other one” Joan said. “I guess you are right” Lizzy said with a sigh, “it just gets old.”

            “Wait, who is that,” ask Joan. “Who is who?” ask Lizzy, “I cannot see, what is happening?” “Just look at all those roses, and the guy is not half bad either… What is he doing? It looks like he is coming in here!” Joan said. “Can’t be” scoffed Lizzy, “no one knows I am here besides you.” “Oh, ha ha” said Joan, “I am serious. Here he comes.” A tall man with dark wavy hair falling across his tanned forehead and brushing the collar of his light blue oxford shirt ducked into the little diner and looked around until his eyes found her… The café became silent as everyone turns toward the open door. Everyone holds their breath as they watch the young man. Walking across the room, his eyes lock with hers as if no one else existed, he kneels beside her booth and says, “Heart of my heart, what shall it be? Shall I love you, or you love me? My hand in yours’ yours in mine… Let us forever be so entwined, lost to the boundaries of yours and mine. Promise me, this day, your hand.” If an answer could be given in a kiss then one could only suppose her answer was yes… Like the breaking of a spell, the diner breathed a collective sigh and then burst into applause. Joan and Lizzy sat starring at the lady in booth number three. “Okay, so how did that book go? Read it to me again…” said Joan.

            Mr. Geoffrey closes his journal and signals to the waitress, “Check please!”

A Morning in the Park with Miss Tillie

A Morning in the Park with Miss Tillie

                The withered old woman sat on the bench soaking up the sunlight as the world went on around her. All dreams lost and forgotten, they had long ago been brushed away, given over for more necessary things. Now they almost never came to mind save when a passerby causes her to remember, to fly for just a moment with wings of possibility. What could have been or should have been… perhaps would have been. But then the moment is past and she returns to her life upon the bench; soon they will come take her in for lunch.

            Shifting in her seat, Margaret turns to look across the path toward the small pond surrounded by children playing with the ducks, couples sharing picnics, and the occasional solitary soul strolling through the gardens seeking a quiet place for reflection and memory takes her again, bringing her back to this bench on a sunny spring day. Margaret had been strolling around the pond, wrapped in her favorite blue shawl for the wind still carried a bit of winter’s nip even though the sun shone bright. On that day, Margaret had wandered over to sit on the bench beside an elderly woman who sat watching; they had shared a pleasant conversation about the weather, the kids playing and how happy the couples seemed lying upon their blankets, their picnics all finished. The old woman had told her a story of life, love and loss. It was a lovely morning, as they talked all too soon the attendant had come and taken the old woman in for her lunch and Margaret had left the park. Margaret found herself thinking about the old woman throughout the evening; she had not even asked the old woman her name. Perhaps, she thought, she could return the next day and visit with the old woman again.

            But Margaret returned the next day, and the next, and the next but did not find the old woman. Finally, Margaret decided to inquire at the retirement center to see if she could find out the old woman’s name and speak with her again… but when she asked at the information desk the attendant would not give her an answer; Margaret asked to speak to the manager who eventually came and took Margaret into his office. The manager asked if she knew the elderly woman and Margaret explained how they had shared part of the morning in the park and that she had been so moved by the old woman’s stories and wanted to know her name and to visit with her further. The manager had looked down at his desk for a while and then cleared his throat before he began. “Miss Chantille, or Tillie as most new her, lived here at Parkview Retirement Center for several years. Miss Tillie was a favorite of many of our attendants, she was always ready to visit but not demanding, in fact almost no trouble at all. Miss Tillie requested to sit in the park on nice days and spent other days here in the dayroom in a large wingback chair covered in floral fabric beside the picture window that looks out over the grounds. We have sent inquiries to locate her family but have not found anyone. I am sad to say that Miss Tillie passed away four days ago; she had spent the morning in the park and come in for her lunch after which she decided to take an afternoon nap. That evening, her attendant went to check on her as she had not come to dinner and found that Miss Tillie had passed in her sleep. Miss Tillie has not had any visitors in her time with us and as we have been unable to find any relatives, we here at Parkview are holding a service here for her tomorrow at ten o’clock if you would like to attend.”

            Margaret had felt as if she had been slapped, she told the manager that she would definitely be there and left in a hurry. Standing beside the pond, she looked back up at the bench remembering a few days before… she had come to the park to sort out her thoughts concerning her future. Just that morning, Margaret had received an offer to write for a magazine whose readership was predominately middle to elderly age adults. Margaret had been unsure, she had not spent much time among elderly people and was still in her early thirties so not quite middle age either, but after talking with the old woman in the park who she now knew as “Miss Tillie” she had decided to accept the job; her first article was due on Monday. Margaret had pulled out her journal and scribbled “A Morning in the Park with Miss Tillie” before leaving the park to go home.

            Margaret’s gaze drifted across the pond, settling on a young woman walking up from the pond bank. The young woman asks, “Do you mind if I share your bench?” to which Margaret smiled and replied, “Certainly, certainly it is a lovely morning,” which began their conversation.

Vivian

Vivian

Vivian Rose Martin was a striking woman. The men always stared after her, while the women squinted their eyes and glared, determined to detect something false. I remember seeing her picture on the back of a book one summer at my great grandmother’s house; Aunt Vivian was so beautiful with her dark hair framing her porcelain face, full red lips and eyes that made you feel like she was looking right back at you and she knew what you were thinking. I carried the book to Great Grandmother and asked how Aunt Vivian got to be on the cover of a book. Great Grandmother gathered me in a hug, she was always hugging us whenever we got within reach, and laughed saying, “Why she wrote it that’s how, didn’t you know child? Your Aunt Vivian is a writer, and getting quite popular too. The pride was clear in her voice. I was shocked, Aunt Vivian a writer, I could not believe it. Momma never talked about Aunt Vivian much, except when we did something strange or out of line and she would admonish us to straighten up or we would turn out like Aunt Vivian. I never told Momma but Aunt Vivian was my favorite aunt. Whenever she came to visit our normal, boring lives were put on hold and a sense of un-reality descended upon us. Aunt Vivian told the most amazing stories full of adventure, danger, and fantastic creatures.

I used to dream about being a famous writer who traveled the world and told stories of my adventures in wild places with beautiful people… But those were not the sort of dreams we talked about. Momma tried to teach us to be proper children who grew up to have successful lives that were respectable like Bankers in my brother’s case or housewives, teachers, or secretaries for us girls. In our home, being proper was everything. We were taught that our behavior was a reflection of our parents and a prediction of our future which told the world who we were and who we would become. This was very disappointing to me when I finally understood it. I was a good, proper, well-behaved, boring girl; but in my heart I longed to be free to explore, to adventure and dance in fantastic places. So how could my behavior be a reflection of me? It was not me at all.

I remember seeing Aunt Vivian the summer after Great Grandmother passed. The family had all gathered together at Great Grandmother’s house, which had been left to Aunt Trudy who was the oldest. There were children everywhere, lots of food, and everyone sat around the living and dining rooms at various tables visiting; when the front door opened with a gust of wind that blew my hair across my face. No one said anything, no one moved; no one even looked around… The awkwardness began to rise, almost as if everyone was holding a collective breath. This was nothing new; every reunion, family gathering and funeral is always the same. She knew that they hated her, not just because she was different but because they were not and never would be. All of them, sitting around the tables, trading stories about their children, laundry, husbands and soaps were enough to make her gag. But she had promised, how could she refuse, her grandmother that she would never leave the family; that she would keep in touch and visit whenever they all got together. What had she been thinking? Deathbed promises were the worst, completely unbreakable. Oh well, she did not have to stay long – “Dress it up with a smile”, that is what Grandmother used to say, “Nothing is ever as bad as it seems once you grace it with a smile.” Ugh... Sigh… Smile, “Hello everyone” she called, forcing them to look at her, “Where’s the party? Am I in the right place? Oh yeah, I remember… it is only a party if there are balloons! I guess we will make do with a ‘gathering’, Cheers!” Making her way through the room, she found a seat close to the back at a small table for two and sat down as the babble resumed and she was ignored like an ugly spot on the carpet everyone knows is there but steps over, long ago given up on. She tried to be “good” once, but it just was not for her. It was like trying to wear clothes that were too small, pinching and binding in all the wrong places.  In an interview, she once said “I think the term they use for me is ‘inappropriate’… I am never quite proper, you know – happy at the right moment or sad or contrite… There is a prescribed behavior one must conform to or suffer their displeasure… I feel no remorse, one must be allowed to breathe otherwise all your brain cells die - of course then I would fit right in.”

            I had been fourteen that year, and had waited until everyone had become absorbed once more in their conversations so I could steal back to Aunt Vivian’s table. I loved Aunt Vivian; she seemed to me like everything I would like to be. I knew that Momma would never approve, but the thought of being a plain housewife or worse a secretary filled me with dread. Aunt Vivian’s life was practically scandalous compared to my Mother and her other sisters. Sometimes I wondered how they all came from the same family. Great Grandmother had not seemed to mind Aunt Vivian’s writing so why did everyone else act so negatively?  Now, some thirty years later I am still wondering that same question. Many things have changed in the world so that it is no longer such a wild idea for a woman to become a writer instead of or perhaps in addition to being a wife and a mother. When I look back at my childhood and remember that summer afternoon spent with Aunt Vivian at the back of the room, worrying every moment that I would be caught and sent to play; I know that was the day that my decision was made. That was the day I decided to be me. 

My Heart My Enemy

My Heart My Enemy

June 1, 2011

“Tramp, gypsy, vagabond, and bum – I have been called all of these and more; yet none have ever known me save one, and he called me lovely. The roses lay withered upon the ground, cast away and forgotten like the love that had given it… All my friends thought that I was the lucky one, they did not know that paradise can be a prison. I traded it all for freedom. A prison, no matter how beautiful, is still a prison.”

                It had begun easily enough, there was no effort involved in loving after all. They met on the river walk at two o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny day in June. Chelsea had been leaning against the bridge rail dropping the remains of crust from her sandwich into the water and watching as the fish came to the surface of the water to grab the morsels. John had been hurrying along to his next meeting, stopping at a park vendor to grab a quick lunch on his way. Standing in line he had noticed her leaning over the water, laughing to herself and had been hooked as securely as if she had been casting a line. John had barely listened to the vendor, taking his sandwich and walking toward her, finally, some sense returned and he was able to stop himself from bumbling over like a high school boy;  he chose the table nearest to her and sat with his lunch hoping to strike up a conversation.

                Chelsea had noticed him there, sitting at the table she had recently vacated, looking out of place in his three-piece suit distractedly eating his sandwich, glancing toward her as if he were watching her but not wanting to be caught. Amused, she turned back toward the water and dreamed of faraway lands with knights in armor, castles by the sea, dragons guarding treasure and small cottages nestled beside a river where a young maiden lived… “Beautiful day,” John had said, breaking her fantasy. “Yes, beautiful,” she had replied smiling up at him. John was very tall; at least he seemed so to Chelsea, though perhaps not to everyone. Chelsea had to stretch to reach five-foot-three. Their conversation had stumbled along at first but soon they found themselves laughing together, eventually walking along the river walk – John’s meeting forgotten. They walked and walked until it became evening and Chelsea began to talk of going home. John invited her to dinner, not wanting to part, but Chelsea declined. He was a stranger even though they had spent the afternoon together and she had planned to eat with her best friend, Joan. In the end, they had agreed to meet the next day at the table by the bridge where their conversation had started. This began a pattern and over the next few months, they became a fixture of the park, like a living love story if any had been paying attention, culminating on an evening in September. The leaves had turned into a bouquet of magnificent color, both on the trees and covering the ground. The air was fresh and crisp with just a bite of cold, suggesting a promise of snow. There upon the bridge, John knelt upon one knee and whispered those timeless words, “Will you marry me?” Chelsea had been so excited she could hardly speak; at first her eyes brimmed with tears and she shook her head and finally got out the word, “Yes!”

                Time spun faster as the wedding approached, so many arrangements to make and John away on business more and more. Until, suddenly, the day arrived. More quickly than she had imagined, she stood before the mirror thinking that this would be the beginning of a whole new life. She could not have been more right.

                The roses had been delivered in a glass vase; a dozen long-stemmed ruby roses bearing a card that read, “Happy Anniversary.” Standing beside the window, gilded with the morning sun, Chelsea gazed out across the courtyard reflecting upon John’s comments that morning as he packed his bags yet again… A month in Tokyo, another eternity, when she had turned away toward the window he had said, “I love you, Chelsea. I will miss you – please come and kiss me goodbye.” Something in her hesitation

had made him ask, “Do you love me? You do love me, don’t you?” How could she have responded with anything other than truth? How could he have asked her that when he knows how his touch still caused her to melt in his arms?

January 17, 1961

“Do I love you? How can I express? I love you – I love you – I love you; it is at once a blessing and a curse. For all that I love you, I long to be free. Have you ever thought, even for a moment, about what your love has done to me? It has killed me… This person you see before you is not me; I long ago ceased to be. This is a shell bearing my resemblance who has become what you need her to be; but even in this shell, the heart cries out, ‘do not love me, let me be me; only do not leave me for I cannot bear to be apart. Is there no room for me beside you, not as your mirror but as your mate?’ Oh how I long for your touch. I long for your kiss upon my lips. My heart aches as I lay here upon sheets of silk, wrapped in anguish without you. My body betrays me for I know your love is a poison. I know I should run, run as far and as fast as I can. Yet my heart thrills at the sound of your steps; anticipation builds as I lay waiting. At last, when your breath falls upon my skin, sheets are cast onto the floor as our bodies move together until we become one. Such passion, such bliss, if only I could die there in your arms. The only mar upon that moment is that the morning will come and I shall wake alone, tangled in silk sheets. I love you. I love you. I must find a way to be free. You touch me and I am lost in your presence, totally enraptured with your words. When I awake to find you gone, the search for an escape begins again. My determination is renewed. This is a prison more cruel than most, my love for you can only be compared to the depth of my loneliness when you go away. I cannot endure another parting.”

June 2, 2011

                “Alas, I have traded one prison for another. I walk through life alone, beholden to no one… And yet my heart is a prison of its own making, for I cannot forget his love, his face, his touch… Just the thought of his kiss sets my pulse racing and in that moment I would crawl naked across the world to lie in his arms once more. Is my heart a traitor or am I the one who is guilty? In my quest to be the person I thought I was to be, I threw away the part of me that I loved the most. Oh treacherous love what has become of me? Where can this lost soul find solace? Years have worn away the beauty of life; I look forward only to death, this prison finally to escape…”

                On an afternoon in June, Chelsea wandered from her car across the park toward the river walk, hoping to cast some crumbs to the fish and spend the afternoon living in memories. As she neared the bridge she sighed in disappointment, someone was sitting at her table. Chelsea dug in her purse for the crumbs she had saved and shuffled over to the rail, the fish scrambled together to snatch her offerings and she laughed at them for their impatience. The breeze took strands of her hair from its clasp and she turned her face to the sun, closing her eyes as she let its warmth soak in. A voice came from behind her saying, “Beautiful day,” and for a moment her heart stopped… Then with tears in her eyes she replied, “Yes, beautiful,” and turned to see the man at the table smiling at her. “I come here every day and sit here at this table in the afternoon in hope that you might come… “Oh John, John” she cried… “I have missed you – I have missed…” “Shhh, my love, shhh… let me take you home.” John said. Together they left the park, John led her into the house and they lay together through the night lost in raptures of love. As the sun rose and shone through the window it fell upon their faces both serene in loves last embrace.