CITY ISLAND LINES
What Russell did next surprised every one of us.
It had taken all our collective strength to haul him from the floor to the sofa. We’d heard him talking with Ruby earlier. But an ominous thud startled each of us from our respective nooks and caused us to collide in the living room, where Russell lay collapsed like a giant marionette. Ruby stood over him with an expression of pure astonishment, unable to make a sound. Russell was big in every way a person could be big. He was tall and wide, with huge hands and feet, a prominent midriff, and a deep, resonant voice. For all his size he was gentle and shy. Though he was awkward in company, he made no secret of his affection for Ruby and had been her admirer for as long as we could remember. She too was shy but she seemed comfortable with his unabashed affection. What had happened to drop Russell so abruptly? As a team, we each grappled with a limb to drag Russell’s enormous, inert mass off the floor and onto the sofa. The effort was taxing and, winded, we all turned to Ruby for an explanation. Before she could offer one, Russell erupted like a long-dormant volcano, catching us off guard again. With agility that belied his significant girth, he launched himself from the sofa and exploded out the door. We all trailed awkwardly in his wake while he ploughed forward as if in a trance. Deaf to our inquiries and warnings, he strode toward the river. On the bank, he finally came to a halt and we clambered behind him. We watched as he yanked a small red velvet box from his pocket and flipped it open. Staring at its contents, he paused. A tiny diamond winked back at him. Nestled on a pink pillow, it was small but brilliant as it caught the evening sunlight. With his thick, ungainly fingers, Russell plucked the ring from its bower and, without a second’s hesitation, flung it into the river. We gasped in unison Ruby, ashen, began to tremble. As large as Russell was, Ruby was small. Everything from her petite stature to her nearly inaudible voice was diminutive. Often, she would simply disappear in a room until someone enquired as to her whereabouts- only to find that she was standing mere inches away. Russell looked balefully at his beloved. ‘What are you doing, Russell?’ she whispered. ‘Well, if you won’t marry me, I have no use for such a thing!’ he howled. ‘But I said “Yes”. You just didn’t hear me!’ ‘You did? You would? You will?’ stammered Russell. ‘Of course,’ sang Ruby with uncharacteristic confidence and volume. Years later, Russell still chuckled heartily when he told the story of how he lost a diamond ring but won a gem far more valuable to him: his beloved wife Ruby.
0 Comments
As always, the centennial congress convened at the confluence of sand, sea, and sky. The participants milled nervously about sticking mostly with their own clans. It was a tapestry of fins, fur, and feathers.
The whales sang out first. ‘We want justice! These ignorant creatures use so much resource. They think only of themselves. They never share or consider the impact of their actions. And they create so much waste! Then they just fling it wherever they please. They never clean up after themselves,’ they wailed. A wake of vultures huddled conspiratorially on the shore. ‘ Not even we can keep up with the mess that they make!’ cackled a bald old bird. ‘These brutes are breaking the rules of nature.’ A pack of wolves whirled nervously on the sand. ‘They want to eat everything and share nothing. They even kill when they are not hungry!’ howled one. ‘And they eat the weirdest things,’ added a wizened tortoise. A swarm of bees chimed in with a rumbling buzz. ‘With their need and greed, they are poisoning us!’ ‘Us too,’ echoed the vultures. A gnarled and ancient pine tree interrupted the din with its sonorous voice. ‘Well, they are naked and young. They need to create cover and shelter for themselves. In spite of their frailty, they continue to multiply and live longer lives. They probably need more food and fuel to accomplish this.’ Its tone was avuncular and comforting. ‘Although they are strikingly ill-equipped, they’ve learned how to fly. There’s something intriguing about them, ‘ it continued. ‘I’ve lived for millennia and seen many things. There has been no creature able to overturn the laws of nature. I say, give them a chance to prove themselves. They are intelligent and resourceful. They will see the error of their ways and make amends.’ Underwhelmed but obedient, the congress agreed to delay action until their next meeting. But the following assembly was a small and sad affair. A lone wolf faced a gloomy tortoise. They were unaccustomed to such raw proximity, yet they were the only ones on the shore. ‘Why is it so quiet?’ whined the wolf. ‘All of the bees are gone,’ lamented the tortoise. ‘Poisoned.’ ‘And the vultures too?’ barked the wolf in disbelief. The tortoise nodded morosely. A gaunt whale, tangled in a straight-jacket of plastic, sang a doleful note from the water, mourning the loss of its pod and progeny. Then a woeful whisper from the toppled pine tree echoed across the barren landscape. ‘They have felled my family and pillaged the planet. I was wrong! This beast will be the downfall of us all. Let justice be done. Release the virus.’ 4 Feb 2020 Hal was gone. Helen dragged herself listlessly from room to room, from day to day. Missing him like an amputated limb, she suffered pangs of phantom pain.
They had moved into the ‘Senior Estate’ when Hal had taken a turn for the worse, and they had laughed about the name, wondering whether or when they would ‘graduate’ from the senior class. Nonetheless, they’d tried to make the most of their changed circumstance. They’d taken Tai Chi and wine tasting classes and signed up for a painting course. Although Helen struggled to master basic brush strokes, Hal was a natural and often continued his ‘work’ back in their living room. His paintings brightened their small space, and Helen treasured these gems. But now Hal was gone, and all Helen could feel was his absence, as though vital organs had been scooped out and replaced with gelid grief. She picked up a paintbrush and held it – just to feel something he had held in his hands. As if hypnotized by the slender handle, she pulled out a thick sheet of paper and placed it on Hal’s easel. Reflexively, she squeezed some of his colours onto the waiting palette and started dabbing them onto the paper. The doctor had told her to revisit happy places and times, and Helen found herself painting the beach where she and Hal had spent their honeymoon. It was morning, and the sky swirled like pink lemonade. Turquoise waves lapped languidly at Helen’s feet and she could feel the sand between her toes, taste the sweat on her skin, smell the salt and sunscreen. She easily recalled the excitement of starting a new life together and the prospect of a shared forever. As she looked down the beach, she noticed a reclining figure gazing in her direction. Intrigued, she moved closer but could not make out the face. Suddenly, her front door lurched open yanking Helen back from her reverie. The health aide bustled in with the evening meal. ‘Hi Helen, good to see you, and how are we feeling today?’ she said with saccharin sweetness. ‘Gosh, you’re painting. I guess that’s good… what exactly are you painting?’ Helen was caught off guard and sheepishly admitted that she was painting the spot where she and Hal had honeymooned. ‘Oh! It’s supposed to be a beach? I guess I can kind of see that. But what’s that grey blob?’ Helen turned back to the painting. She didn’t know how it had got there, but there was, indeed, a shadow painted on the beach just about where she had seen the mysterious figure. All she could stammer was, ‘Uh…I don’t know…’ ‘Well, don’t forget to eat your supper and take your pills this evening. See you tomorrow.’ Relieved to be alone again, Helen looked back at the beach scene. Was she imagining things? Or was that a person camouflaged by the unexpected shadow? Her artistic abilities were meagre, but something about the image she’d rendered was viscerally recognizable. She decided to take a break and start again the next day. Washing the brushes out, she thought she felt sand between the bristles. This filled her with an inexplicable optimism. Back at the easel in the morning, the languid figure beckoned her, and, before she knew it, she was immersed in the painting. As she worked, the sun rose overhead and the hot sand dazzled her. She saw that the figure was closer now. There was something familiar and comforting about its shape, and Helen felt happier than she had in a long time. Once again, Helen’s trance was derailed by the blustery arrival of the health aide who began to nag about eating but then interrupted herself to say that the painting was coming along nicely. She liked that Helen had changed the blob into a proper person with its own shadow- much more realistic. Helen’s eyes swiveled back the painting and were greeted by a welcome sight. The person in the painting smiled affectionately back at her. And now, in what had become the lengthening shadows of afternoon, there was the faintest hint of a second silhouette. ‘If you don’t eat your dinner tonight, I am going to have to tell the doctor,’ threatened the health aide, as she melodramatically slammed a microwaveable meal on the counter. Usually irked by such patronising behaviour, Helen hardly noticed. She didn’t even hear the door slam as the aide stomped out. Helen turned her back on the food and continued painting. Now dusk was falling on the beach and the sky was a powdery purple. A full moon flooded the sand with silver light. The breeze had dropped, and there, waiting for her, was Hal. Enveloped in his arms at last, Helen was at peace. The next day, the health aide returned and began clucking about the uneaten food. She was surprised to see the painting standing unattended and walked closer to take a look. She had to admit that it had turned out surprisingly well, and now that there were two people lying side by side on the sand enjoying the moonlight, the vibe was a lot more positive. She wanted to compliment the artist, but Helen was nowhere to be found. Helen was gone. 28 Jan 2020 Becky groaned as she was all but trampled in the stampede boarding the uptown train. Carried along by the crowd she found herself wedged between two huge backpacks whose owners seemed oblivious to the excess space they occupied.
Her swollen ankles seemed to exacerbate the pinching pain of the fresh blisters on her heels. She should have known better than to wear new shoes on a Wednesday, when she was tormented by countless meetings at opposite ends of the campus. At least she was more than halfway through the week, but, oh, how she longed to sit down and relieve some of the pressure on her weary feet. Gazing toward the window, she caught sight of her reflection. Clearly, it was not only her feet that suffered from the day’s travails. She did not want to look herself in the eye, and so she looked down at the seat below. It was overflowing with an amorphous young man in a dingy grey hoodie, which was cinched so closely around his head that she could not see his expression. Nonetheless, his slouched posture spoke volumes. Becky, tired as she was, felt a wave of irritation that young people today showed so little courtesy or understanding. She scowled down at the hooded head. Unexpectedly, the hood suddenly looked up. “What are you staring at?’ hissed the young man. His pallid skin was pocked with acne and anxiety. ‘You think you deserve this seat more than me? I’m so sick of old people telling us that we act “entitled” when really they are the ones with a bad attitude!’ With alacrity and agility that belied his bulk, the youth launched himself out of his seat, grabbed Becky by her shoulders, and shoved her in a swiveling motion toward the window. The abruptness of the maneuver knocked Becky off balance, and she felt herself falling, falling backward, falling through the window. As she fell, she saw shards flashing around her and images rushing by. Did she see the young man brandishing a knife? Or was someone threatening him with a knife? As her fall continued, so did the disjointed impressions. She saw herself, earlier in the day, complaining childishly to her boss about the ridiculous number of meetings, although she knew it was not her boss’s fault. Another picture appeared. This time she was crying at her desk over a curt e-mail from her ex-husband demanding that she surrender both of their cats to him. She flinched and fell further. Earlier versions of herself flicked past but not before she had recalled each moment: the afternoon she had caught her husband cheating, the time her tantrum at work had nearly got her fired, the morning her father had told her she would have to leave the house now that he was getting re-married. As she plunged further, she sensed an important message emerging, but she couldn’t quite make it out – like when you’ve joined all the corners and edges of a jigsaw puzzle, but you’re still trying to organize the jumbled bits inside. Finally, her descent ended, and she found herself looking at her reflection again. The shards of the window were slowly reassembling themselves. At first, she saw her own face, worried and wrinkled. But as the fragments knitted themselves back together, she was able to see through the window, where the young man’s face stared back at her. Now she could see his pain, his fear, his insecurity – not so different from her own. ‘Yes,’ she realized, ‘he is worried, just like me!’ As the window completed its transformation, the train came to a halt, and Becky looked up from the seat where she had landed. She was unharmed. She wanted to thank the young man, offer him a kind word or encouragement. She searched for his troubled face, but all she saw was a grey hoodie disappearing through the train doors. 14 Jan 2020 Betty sighed as she gingerly cinched the Velcro strap under her chin and then sagged back into her pillows. As the salesman had instructed her, she started a review of the day’s events. She knew she needed to write down any important information before deciding to press the green button.
The bright spot in her day was definitely the sweet young lady at the coffee shop. She had really looked at Betty and listened when Betty spoke. Her warm expression seemed to say, ‘I may not know the depths through which you are going, but I know you are going through some deep things. I hear you. I see you.’ Yes, this young lady really had ‘seen’ Betty, and that’s what made the recollection so precious. Most people looked straight through Betty. Even if they heard her speaking, they didn’t really listen to what she was saying. For instance, the doctor this morning. After he said something about Betty’s blood pressure readings, he looked balefully through her. Betty didn’t know if he was disappointed in her or merely had indigestion. Either way, she felt as though she was no more than a shadow on the wall, as the doctor swiveled back to his computer screen and began furiously clacking away at the keyboard. Then there was the mortifying exchange at the pharmacy, where they had reorganised the aisles. Betty had to ask an irritable woman where the incontinence supplies were now housed. As if that wasn’t painful enough, the woman, without looking up from her mobile phone loudly barked, ‘ are the adult diapers for YOU?’ Betty wanted to melt into the floor, although the floor already looked so filthy that it seemed like a bad idea. On her way home, relieved to have ticked off the items on her ‘to-do’ list, Betty felt the tension loosening slightly, as she waited patiently for the traffic light to change. Unfortunately, she must have momentarily closed her eyes, because the next thing she knew a red-faced motorist behind her was hammering his horn and yelling at her. Her right foot frantically sought the accelerator and propelled her car toward home. Now she sat slumped in bed and looked over at the green button. She fiddled with the chinstrap again and shifted some of the cables behind her head. This ‘NightCap’ contraption had been a gift from her son. He thought it would help her to sleep better. She’d never been a great sleeper, and this had only gotten worse with age. She found the Medusa like wires on her head a little awkward, but she had to admit that after erasing the day's worries, she had been sleeping more soundly. Again, she eyed the green button. Above it, in clear bold letters was the manufacturer’s slogan: ‘Tomorrow is a new day!’ She thought about how amazing it had felt to really be ‘seen’ today – albeit fleetingly. A smile reflexively lifted her lips, but the day’s darker moments quickly elbowed this memory aside, and her expression crumpled. As always, she hesitated momentarily. Then, as always, she pressed the green button. 13 Aug 2019 The little boy knocked timidly for a third time. Just as he turned to leave, the creaky door cracked open to reveal a wizened smile.
‘Hullo, young man. What can I do for you today?’ Caught off guard, the boy stammered his rehearsed response, ‘My mother baked some bread and asked me to bring you some.’ He extended his left hand, which cradled a warm loaf swaddled in paper. ‘Why that is kind!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘Wont you come in and have some with me?’ “Oh no!’ said the boy. ‘It’s all for you! I wouldn’t want to take any of your bread, because my mother says you’re poor.’ Instantly regretting his insensitivity, he blushed crimson. ‘Poor?’ said the man, genuinely astounded. ‘Whatever made her think that? I have more treasure than anyone I know!’ It was the boy’s turn to be astounded. ’You do?’ he asked with wonder. ‘Yes, I do. I’ll show you if you’d like.’ The boy’s curiosity elbowed aside his timidity, and he nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes please!’ ‘Come in then,’ smiled the old man. ‘Just follow me,’ he said, as he wove a path between piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes. ‘I keep my treasure hidden in the back,’ he winked, as the boy stepped cautiously behind him. ‘Here we go,’ the man grinned triumphantly. They had reached the back of his small dwelling, which was really no more than a garden shed. He stood in front of a wooden cupboard that was brightly painted and, unlike anything else in the house, clean and cared for. It had two doors each with a shiny brass handle. Ceremoniously, the old man grasped each of these and swung the doors open to reveal the cupboard’s contents. Braced for the blinding shine of gold or the stunning sparkle of gems, the boy was perplexed to see only row upon row of books. They came in every size and colour, each one with its spine neatly leaning against its neighbour. Confused, the boy stared up at the old man. ‘Here I have knowledge, travel, conversation, imagination. You see, I have all the wealth in the world. What more could I ask for?’ 30 July 2019 As he walked across the room, her heart sprang toward him like a jack-in-the-box. Though they had known each other for a year now, she still felt a giddy rush of joy when she saw him. They had met using a dating App, something she’d had lurking concerns about. Incredibly, he was her first ‘match’, and she’d never needed another. Their connection was immediate and magnetic.
Since then, they’d shared a spectrum of adventures that cemented their bond. He was a scuba instructor and had gently coaxed her past her paralysing panic and opened the wild windows of the watery world to her. She had learned to embrace the soundlessness and submerge herself in the kaleidoscope of corals and fish. She herself was an avid cook, and she had patiently taken his hands to ‘show’ them how to knead bread. Together they had concocted recipes and menus then brought them to life. It certainly seemed like their relationship had all the ingredients for an exceptional dish. So here they were, in their favourite restaurant, celebrating the one year ‘anniversary’ of their first date, and she was looking forward to some delicious nostalgia seasoned with engaging conversation. But she was slightly startled to find that he had ordered oysters to start the evening off. In spite of the amorous connotations, she did not like oysters, and he knew that. To her, they had the texture of rubber cement and tasted like rotting seaweed. What else would you expect from a sorry soggy creature that slurped on sewage all day? She looked at him quizzically. It was unlike him to forget a detail like this. ‘Well, happy anniversary—thank you for an amazing year—the best ever! Let’s dig in.’ He purposefully selected a lidded oyster and placed it on her plate. She eyed him and then the ugly oyster. ‘Well, it’s not like they’re going to get cold, but you might as well start, ‘ he affectionately encouraged her. Gingerly trying to avoid the jagged edges, she lifted off the top shell and braced herself for the inevitable sight of something that belonged in a spittoon. But there was no sign of the hideous innards. Instead, she was greeted by what looked like a tiny full moon twinkling within the luminous shell. A perfect pearl perched on a platinum band was all that the oyster held. She lifted her gaze to meet his. ‘You are greater than any treasure I could ever find in the sea. Will you marry me?’ Once again, her heart leapt like a joyous jack-in-the-box. 23 July 2019 She ran her fingertips over the sensitive skin, tracing the tattoo’s outline in her mind’s eye. She could remember the excitement when she described her idea to the tattoo artist. And she remembered his warning that it was a sensitive area and would likely be quite painful. It was. She could still recall the sharp stings singeing her skin, while she bit her lip to stop from screaming. But it felt like a physical manifestation of true commitment. They had chosen the word together, and feeling it etched into such an intimate place made her feel anchored, tethered to another.
Unlike that relationship, the tattoo endured. She had long since allowed hair to grow over it, keeping it concealed. Private. Even she needed a handheld mirror to see it, although she had not looked at it in a long time. But now, now that she felt awakened again, she wanted to see it. More importantly, she felt ready to share it. In fact, she longed to feel those slender fingers finding this singular secret; to watch those deep dark eyes, which had held her from the very first moment, as they found her tiny treasure for the first time. Giddy with anticipation, she heard the knock. Opening her front door, she felt herself melting. Wordlessly, she took the elegant hands and drew them to her, guiding them gently. Tingling with desire she looked into those bottomless eyes and parted her hair to reveal the hidden jewel. She shivered with pleasure as she felt the inquisitive caress on the nape of her neck. Usually up and about at this hour, she groaned and rolled onto her elbows. A tattered plastic bag trapped in a tree outside her window shimmied piteously. Basketballs bounced between her temples. Her tongue felt like a spoonful of desiccated oatmeal.
She had thought he might be different, genuine- not like the other Don Juan con artists. But waiting for him to call last night, she had been forced to drain a bottle of wine- alone. Thanks to the Pinot Grigio, she was now bedbound- too groggy to even contemplate rising. To compound her discomfort, the phone lit up beside her, clattering horribly as it vibrated on the bedside table. The final insult was seeing his picture – a picture of them both together- smiling affectionately at one another. She hesitated but could not resist the siren’s call. ‘What do you want,’ she barked hoarsely. ‘I wanted to see how you were. Really, I just wanted to see you. May I stop by?’ ‘Your timing is pretty lousy! Where were you last night, when you were supposed to “stop by”?’ ‘Didn’t you get my note? I left you a note. I had an urgent call from my father’s caretaker. They thought that he’d taken a turn for the worse, but everything was OK in the end. When I was finally able to leave the hospital, it was so late that I didn’t want to wake you—even though I really wanted to see you. I explained everything in the note.’ She desperately wanted to believe him, to let herself fall into his arms, into his soothing voice, into the undeniable comfort of him. But bitter experience pricked her dreamy balloon and snapped her back to reality. She clenched her jaw resolutely and said, ‘I’m not falling for another line. There’s no note here. You’re covering something up, and I have no time for more lies.’ ‘Please believe me, ‘ he pleaded. ‘Listen, let’s grab a coffee and talk this through.’ ‘Too little, too late. Timing is everything. We’re through!’ She snorted and hung up on him. As she slouched off to the bathroom, a white fleck caught her bleary eye. Wedged under the doormat was a slip of paper- one tiny corner peeping out. Timing really is everything she thought ruefully. 9 April 2019 She woke blanketed and bound by heavy darkness. She was not afraid of the dark - never had been. In fact, she found that it sharpened her other senses and opened different windows on the world.
Though her lids felt leaden, sleep would not come. An inveterate insomniac, she knew better than to try. So she settled herself and let her mind float, seeking different sensory channels. She listened but could hear almost nothing. What little sound reached her was dull and muffled. Almost like mournful music. So, abandoning sight and sound, she honed in on aroma. Adrift she was carried on a current of scents that seemed somehow linked to one another -and to her. The initial concoctions were mouth-watering. The savoury smell of olive oil, garlic and rosemary. The earthy nose of red wine. The irresistible fragrance of freshly baked bread. All of this was suffused with the waxy warmth of candles. She could almost feel velvety butter melting on her tongue. She could also smell the familiar cocktail of her husband: his warm skin, his woody scent, his affection, his desire. And there was the tender perfume of fresh roses that he had given her. Love. She sighed and settled again. The next thing to hit her nose was the wool blanket and worn leather seats of their car. The whiff of happy wet dogs. Cosy, comforting. Suddenly, the stinging stench of fire, burning rubber, burning petrol, burning everything. The smell of danger, damage, destruction. Then a different smoky stink. The smell of ash-infused skin and clothing, of too many cigarettes smoked. This was incongruously paired with an astringent odour. Rubbing alcohol, industrial detergent, formaldhyde, disinfectant. Ominously sterile. For a brief moment, she smelled nothing. Complete scentlessness. And then she was struck by a deluge of hankerchiefs and lilies. The heavy fragrance of grief. It was wretched. ‘WhereamI ?’she wondered. ‘At the funeral,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘Whose funeral?’ she responded reflexively. ‘Yours, of course ‘ 5 March 2019 |
Proudly powered by Weebly