CITY ISLAND LINES
Water both joined and divided them. Each lived in a home perched somewhat precariously on a steep sandy slope: one on the north bank of the river and the other on the south. Through school terms and seasons, each stared across the wily, wiry river and wondered what life was like on the other side. As is often the case with children, they soon devised their own private language, a sort of physical semaphore through which they connected and communicated. When she returned home from school, she would choose a book and patiently sit with it in her lap until he appeared across the water. Upon seeing him, she would stand, hold the book up so that he could see its cover, and then offer a thumbs up or a thumbs down by way of review. She wasn’t sure whether or not he could see the titles she held up for him, and if he could, she also was not sure whether he could read them, since he never held up any book in response. Instead, after receiving her message, he would choose a ‘move’, sometimes a handstand, sometimes a cartwheel, and, on special occasions, a back flip. He was a strong boy, and these were his replies. He could tell that they pleased her by the way that she smiled and shimmied on the opposite shore. Of course, there were some awkward moments, like when her mother had hung out the family underwear (hers included) for all the world to see. Or the time that his father unexpectedly materialised, viciously drunk, and proceeded to pummel his mother in the midday sun. Perhaps these glimpses, these shared mortifications, brought them closer—emotionally, if not physically. So it was with consternation that she heard her mother talking about flooding up river. ‘We must prepare,’ her mother said gravely. ‘ We must go. Troubled water is coming.’ She hurriedly threw some books and a fresh school uniform into a used plastic bag. She added her toothbrush and a friendship bracelet given to her by her best friend a year ago. She ran out the back door and threw her small parcel into the back of the neighbour’s truck, where her mother and sisters huddled together. Impatiently, they urged her to squeeze in between them. She was torn, feeling the urgency around her, she knew she must warn her distant friend. Ignoring the beseeching calls, she ran to the riverbank, desperate to communicate the impending disaster. She could see no sign of him. Anxiously, she began to hop up and down in the hopes of getting his attention. Magically, as if he’d been waiting there all along, he appeared. She began gesticulating wildly, pointing at the river, pointing at the sky, pretending to run away, but still it seemed that her meaning was lost on him. Finally, in desperation, she stepped toward the edge to get closer. She put her hands to her mouth screaming as loudly as she could. She could see him straining to discern her words, trying to read the urgent message on her lips, and then all she could see was thick, green darkness and churning bubbles. She flailed and gasped and gurgled. He leapt instinctively toward her and swam for all he was worth. He was a strong boy but not strong enough. Water both joined and divided them. 19 Dec 2017
0 Comments
She looked ahead through stiff lids. Outside, the wind raged hysterically, shaking the window panes, pummeling the wooden door, wrenching limbs off trees. It was a spiteful relentless wind. It rattled the house and her head.
Her surroundings offered contrast to the madness outside: a modest but comfortable room. A large dark mahogany chest of drawers stood stoutly along one wall. A slender full length mirror on spindly limbs seemed more shy in the corner; although it was implausibly adorned with a faded pink feather boa. The windows, which continued to chatter and groan, looked toward a small lake. Usually an idyllic mirror-flat focal point, it was currently whipped into a frothy fury, and the robin’s egg blue row-boat that usually perched comfortably on the small pebble beach had been flung like a discarded sandwich wrapper halfway up the soggy lawn. Between the windows squatted an old-fashioned white dressing table with patina-ed drawer handles and curlicued corners. Its surface was covered with a large swath of faded and slightly stained lace. Placed meticulously and lovingly were a silver-backed brush and an ivory-toothed comb. Between these two flagships of a genteeler time lurked several incongruous orange pill bottles, their white tops slightly askew. One bottle, the smallest, lay forlornly on its side, a rivulet of tiny yellow pills spilling from the dresser to the floor. Set amidst all these various items was a staunch and solid four-poster bed. The posts themselves were sleek, and smooth, and tactile. The bed was covered with a blue crocheted blanket atop a kaleidoscopic quilt. The quilt and blanket, usually so neatly and carefully laid, one upon the other, were now in a state of disarray commensurate with the chaos unfolding outside the window. And at the eye of this internal storm lay the woman. A fugitive fly, having survived the squall, sought sustenance. Disappointed by her desiccated corneas and leathery lids, it flew off in search of life within the house. 31 Oct 2017 |
Proudly powered by Weebly