People Running, People Walking

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 40. Finding the Words

2011-07-02T15:13:00.001-07:00

There were old hatreds. Those are part of another story. Now their families never met, never spoke, and all the people of the families were watched and kept strictly apart, as happens in old stories of hatred closely and carefully kept.

One day the girl, who was never anymore allowed to see the boy but who had secret ways of speaking to him, ways that confounded their keepers, stumbled on a precious thing.
A string of words.
She tried to wear it, but no one could see it.
She tried to share it, but no one could hear it.
She thought to put it in a secret place, but she felt it whimpering and knew that dark would kill it, so she took it back out and sat with the string in her hand, wondering, and they were sad together, she and the string.
She tried and tried, she did her best but she couldn't think what a string of words might be for, yet they sat in her hand and looked up at her hopefully, trusting.

And she thought, as she always did, of the boy.

She remembered, long ago, when once she had seen him, for a moment, they had spoken of a game sometimes played by their people, the tribe of speakers.
A story-toss game.
The game of Say and Say.
She thought, I can wrap this string in a secret and send it to the boy by the ways that confuse and confound and he will know what to do.
So she did.
She did.
And waited, looking off toward where she knew the boy was, hopefully, trusting.

The next day a little bundle came to her, a little bundle wrapped in a secret slipping down the hidden ways of mystery and conundrum, sliding and falling at her feet. She opened it and the string of words shouted up at her hopefully, trusting, jumping, hopping in a crowd of friends.

The boy had taken the string and made a scarf.

She wrapped the scarf around her arms, and by evening she had made of it a shawl. She wrapped it up, in the way she knew, the way she had learned, and sent it back to the boy who was hopeful and trustworthy.

He returned her back the shawl and mittens.

She wore the mittens all that day but sent them back before dark only by now the shawl was a cloak which she had made and in which he slept. She knew he slept cold.

This went on, days and days and nights, no one cold, no one lonely, everyone wrapped in a secret tied by words.

What could the world do but stand and shake its head, confounded?

This is not a story that ends, but it is all I will tell.
You may make more of it for yourself.
Find a string of words.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 39. In the Valley of the Shadow

2011-07-01T22:11:00.001-07:00

My mother doesn't approve of it, she said looking out the window, she doesn't approve of love, of people being in love.
He was so startled, he looked over at her, turned to her so quickly that he turned the steering wheel too and the car swerved. He swore softly and corrected carefully, still looking over at her, disbelieving.
What is it? she asked, what's the matter?
What did you just say? he asked her. About your mother? What did you say?
That she doesn't approve of people being in love? she asked him. That? Look where you're driving.
Yes, he said and looked where he was driving, that. What do you mean? How can that be?
Oh, she said. Well, she doesn't approve of most things, you know she doesn't, but my mother doesn't approve of love. Or of passion, she went on, speaking more to herself now than to him, nor even, I think, of happiness, she said sounding surprised. Mother has never been in love herself, you know, and I think she disapproves of it in others.
Really? he asked, really?
Really, she said, smiling a hard little smile, watch them next time, watch my parents. Watch my father.

Your poor dad, he said after the next time, after he had been watching.
Yes, she said, I told you.
I always liked your dad, he said, sounding a little desperate, a little frantic.
Did you? she asked. You've never really even seen my dad, she said with that hard edge of amusement in her voice. Not until today. Not until I told you what to look for.
Still, he said and waved his hand but had no idea what he meant by it.
So you saw it, she said, looking straight in front of her out through the front window, out across the endless desert. You saw them, the way they are.
I saw it, he said, holding tight, tight to the steering wheel.

It's the worst thing I can imagine, she said suddenly as they crossed the state line, after she had been so silent that he had been unable to be anything but silent, silent until he could hear ringing in his ears, til he felt he had to kick something viciously to stay where he was, to stay sane.
Her words surprised him, surprised him so much.
The worst thing? he asked gently. What is? Tell me?
Not to believe. In anything. Not to want anything. Not in happiness, not a shred, not even a shred. And she was crying, just like that, just right there, without warning, without reason. It frightened him. He pulled the car over, reached out for her, unsure, frightened and unsure.
Hey, he said. Hey. Reached out. Arms around her. Two frightened people in a little speck of air conditioned car on the side of a perfectly straight road running as far through an endless desert as any human eyes could see.
You won't end up like your mother, he said with a sudden flash of understanding.
How do you know? she asked, how can you be sure? But it's not my mom I'm thinking about, she said, pushing him back a bit so she could focus on him. It's my dad. And she cried harder. I don't want to end up like my dad. She put her hands over her face.
He held her. What else could he do? She cried softly and he thought about it. Sweetheart, he said into her hair, sweetheart, what do you think I'm for? This is what I'm for, he said helplessly and tightened his arms around her. This is what I'm for. He felt her tears sliding hot down his neck, into his shirt. This is why I'm here, baby, he made strong words for her in the middle of that vast desert. This is why I'm here.

Forty Days and Night: Love Stories. 38. Tell Me, Sister Ann, Do You See My Brothers Yet?

2011-06-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

He seemed fine when he came down to dinner. He asked her how she had been, how the weather had been, how her family was. Boring, he was always so boring. She told him all of it anyway, since he had asked. He listened closely, he seemed to be starting to say something a couple of times, but she just kept on telling him about the weather, all of the weather there had been, every day, since he had gone. He asked, after all. Then she started on her family. Lots to tell there, they were all crazy. Finally he raised his hand and asked her for his keys. That was rude, she thought, just to ask for the keys back while she was answering him about her family and she hadn't even finished with her mother yet, let alone her sisters, but she handed the keys to him without saying anything about his rudeness. Then she went back to catching him up on her mother. He was looking through the keys.
They're all here, he said. As if he had not expected them all to be there.
She stopped mid-word, sat with her mouth open. What are all there? she asked, because of course the keys were all there, where else would they be? It surprised her so much she figured he couldn't be talking about the keys, he must be thinking of something else.
He was turning his keys over and over in his hand, looking at them closely, holding them up to the light. They're all here, he said to himself. Every one of them.
She stared at him, narrowed her eyes. Crazy. Just like her mother. Dang.
He looked up at her, caught her measuring gaze, gave a forced laugh. My keys! he said in a jolly way, my keys are all right here! You took such good care of them. How nice of you.
She was nodding to herself. Yep. Just like her mother.
So, he said casually, what did you do with them while I was gone? Did you have any...adventures?
What did I do with them? she asked, what did I do? I used them to open doors, she said, and felt silly. What else would she use keys for? she wondered. Was this some sort of a test?
Of course, he said heartily, of course! Opening doors! Yes. Yes. Any special doors? he asked suddenly and sharply, looking right into her face.
She made her eyes big. There aren't any special doors here, she said, just the normal sort of boring ones.

The truth was there really wasn't anything special around here, nothing special, nothing to do.

He had given her the keys to everything before he left, of course, and told her she could do anything she liked as long as she never went into the small room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. The trouble was she didn't know what she liked to do, so she watched television and worked on her tan. That was all the work she needed to do here, everything else somebody else was paid to do. It was so boring. Her mother had been excited, so excited about him, even though he was so old and strange looking. Her mother was so excited that finally one of the girls was finally going to marry someone with some real money. Finally. Well, he had money all right, but living in this big old house out in the country was not so great, as far as she could see. Boring, boring. No wonder all his other wives had run off. They'd have died of boredom if they stayed here. She drove to the mall, to her brother's house, to the club, to the lake, to her mother's house, to the mall again, then to all her sister's houses. Then she went home and it was not even lunch time and she thought she was going crazy. So she invited everyone to come stay with her and they all said they'd come. They were coming tomorrow, she was planning a barbecue. But now he was back, which was fine, but he was being so weird about his keys. He was going to spoil it, she knew he was, he was going to be old and strange and spoil her nice plans.

But he didn't spoil anything. He left instead.

First thing in the morning, without explanation. He gave her back the keys, told her the same thing he'd said before and asked her twice, twice! like she was a baby! if she understood she was not to use the little key that was for the small room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. She said she understood. Gosh, he was an old weirdo. This marriage was a mistake, money or no money. He got right in her face, lots of drama. He said she was forbidden to use the little key. Told her in no uncertain terms that if she used it, if she went into that room, he couldn't answer for his actions. He said, I forbid it in the strongest possible terms. So, she didn't go in there. Sheesh. Who wanted to, anyway?

Her party was not ruined and her family loved the house, just loved it. She was almost glad she had married him after all. Almost.

Two days later he was back. Not even pretending to care how she had been, just asking for his keys. Fine. See if she cared. She did not. Keys. Check. Who wanted them, anyway? And he freaked out, he just freaked out. Kept yelling that they were all there, that the stupid things were all fine. Well, what did he expect? This was just stupid.

He didn't even come down to dinner. She could hear him upstairs pacing and talking to himself. She put on loud music so her family wouldn't hear him. That made it feel even more like a party and cheered her up.

He left in the middle of the night. Woke her up to give her the damn keys. Made her promise, swear, that she wouldn't go into the little room at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. Or use that little key. In any way. She was so mad at him. In any way? How was she supposed to use it if she didn't go into the room which he had just told her not to do? He was worse than her mother, lots worse.

He came home again that afternoon.

He was calm now, calm and completely creepy. So, he said, so. She looked up from her magazine and her sisters looked away, embarrassed. He was talking in this voice like he was God or something, and like she was a naughty little girl. So, he said, now tell me about it. Because, he held up one finger like he was stopping her even though she wasn't about to say anything to him when he was being such an idiot, because I know. Remember, he said and looked hard at her, I know what you've really done. You're only a woman, you can't help it. You have to know everything, you can't control yourself. Now her sisters were not looking away, they were looking at him, right at him. And they were not happy. He ignored them. He stared at her and his eyes got all twitchy and scary. You went in there, I know you did. It was only a matter of time, they do, they all do, because they're just women! Women can't control themselves, they're weak, they're liars, they're stupid and they deserve what they've got coming to them.

Now her brothers were standing up, walking over, looking hard and hot around the edges. She stood up, too, and she was mad. You're a jerk, she said furiously. You're just a big fat jerk. Why did I even marry you? Who cares about you? Who cares about your stupid room? What the hell can you possibly have that you think anybody is going to be interested in? I hate you, you know that? I hate you and you are every bit as ugly as people say you are. You should shave that horrible thing off your face and stand up straight and dress like you were born in this century. Here are your stupid keys. I never want to see you or them again.

She stormed up to her room, packed her things, all of them, even the new things he had paid for, and stomped out, slamming the door.

Her brothers drove her home.

Well, her mother said, well. So much for the money.
More important things in life, Ma, she said shortly and went upstairs to unpack. Lots more important things, her sisters said as they helped her put away all her new loot. Good stuff, she had gotten some really good stuff. Like, one of her sisters said, like not marrying a man with a funny colored beard. No beard at all next time, she promised herself, I think that's a deal breaker.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 37. Mirror

2011-06-29T22:45:00.003-07:00

It was always about the other mother. The dear one.

For instance, when she arrived at an event.
Hello, darling, don't you look lovely tonight! And how unusual! I mean, not everyone could get away with something like this, could they? So exotic!
And then, turning from her as if in that way she wouldn't really hear, turning to one of the old friends, one of the family-members-in-law, Do you remember how the dear one used to light up a room when she walked in? And she always dressed so simply.But she could pull it off. Class, that was what she had, class. Electric, just electric. The masses of that hair, stunning.

Or, when old friends who were supposed to be her new friends saw what she had done with the house.
Oh, how wonderful! And how brave! You've really gone all out here, haven't you, made the place quite a showcase, yes, really one of a kind now, isn't it? Did you work with someone, or did you come up with this all on your own?
But she would overhear them, huddled together, sotto voce. Oh, it felt so cozy when the dear one was here, she always made it feel just like home from the moment you walked in. Yes, yes, so homey then.

Or with him, even when she was with him.
Thank you, darling, I do love a drink when I get home and this is made just as I like it.
Then he would walk to the bar and change it, fix it, smiling at her.
Oh, sweetheart, have you seen my glasses? I always look for them right here on my desk--what? Where? With the paper? Oh, how thoughtful. No, that's fine. I'm sure I'd have found them sooner or later.
And he would take the glasses and return them to his desk where the dear one had always set them for him to find when he left them on the bookcase or next to the sink or in the pocket of his coat. He was very absentminded.
Are you taking my baby shopping today? he would ask, rumpling his daughter's hair and smiling down with that look only his baby ever, ever got. Oh, I know she doesn't need another dress, she never needs anything, he would say fondly, absently, dismissively, but she's always had a special one for the Christmas tea.
And he would walk away from her, tucking his little daughter's hand under his arm, leaning down to hear words whispered into his ear alone.

It was worst with the little girl, no question, it was by far the worst there. No one turned politely away, no one pretended to whisper, no one considered for a moment whether she would want to hear them gushing, pouring compliments on the blooming little girl like they were warm maple syrup, like they were honey butter.
Have you ever seen lips like this on a child? On anyone, for that matter? It's quite unreal! Other than the dear one, of course, she had a mouth just like that. Quite a showstopper she was. No one, no one could ever touch the dear one, though it looks like this little beauty may, someday!
No one. No one had a mouth like that but the dear one. No one. The dear one and, one day, the child.

The family acting as if any compliment to the little girl were a compliment to her.
Oh, my goodness, look at her, all that black hair! She's going to be a beauty just like her mama.
Just like her mama. Not like the woman standing here now with this little girl, the woman whose smile was set now, set like a stone smile. Not a beauty like her, the living woman, a beauty like the dear one, like the dead mama.

The old/new friends, coming to visit for the first time in a long time.
Oh, will you look a that! She's the spitting image, she is, the very image! That skin! I remember it so well! I thought I'd never see skin like that again, but just look at her!
Just look at her, the image of the dear one.

People meeting them for the first time.
Goodness, your little daughter is gorgeous! You must be very proud. She's so different from you, isn't she? You're so pale. Of course, she's pale too, but she's just rosy, isn't she? Does she take after her father? Oh, not yours? Well, that explains it.
Yes. It explained lots of things.

Strangers stopping them on the street.
Better watch out for this one, she'll cause lots of trouble one day, won't you darling? Do you want a lolly? Is it alright if I give her this candy? What a little beauty, what a little heartbreaker.
Lots of trouble. One day that little girl will cause you lots of trouble.

One day.

And this, when she was a beautiful woman. She knew it. Had always known it. Men stared, stopped to watch her walk down the street. She rested in that place, that safety, that surety. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, and he couldn't say that for the dear one. Childhood sweethearts they had been, so who knows if he had ever really even seen the dear departed as a grown up woman? She was the most beautiful woman people had ever seen, she was, not the dear one, they told her so. people told her so. All the time. Often. Whenever that little girl, his baby, wasn't there, wasn't holding her hand, skipping along, black curls bouncing.

One day.

And she could cook. Her food was magic, pure magic. When they ate her food, nobody thought to remember anyone else. Not the family, not the old/new friends, not strangers who came to her table for the first time. They did a bit of whispering as they sat down, reminding each other that she had grabbed his heart by way of his stomach, but that all stopped when the food came to the table. She was the queen at the table, she ruled. The dear one, rest her soul, wasn't remembered for her food.
Rest in peace, dear one.

She researched boarding schools. He wouldn't hear of it.
She talked about relatives in the country, healthful fresh air and open spaces, the life long benefits of early fellowship with cows and dogs. And rabbits. She mused aloud how vital it was for girls to learn to ride. Young. To ride and to milk and to shear. He paid her no attention whatsoever.
She mused, idly, whether and how anyone could grow up properly without a year abroad. Years abroad. It was, probably, never too early to begin. To go. He laughed at her. He laughed at her and that night at dinner, sitting, eating the dinner she always made for him herself, all of it, made all of it herself for him and him alone, he told his baby, his little beauty, that she had grown into the most beautiful girl in the world.

The first time was nearly an accident. He was gone with his work, traveling. She told that first doctor that the poor little thing had slipped in the kitchen and fallen. Which, of course, the poor little thing had. Fallen, that is. At home she combed so carefully the dried blood out of those black, black curls and reflected that, really, it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

The fourth doctor she didn't like at all. He watched her far too closely. At first she purred and bridled at that attention, recounting to him what was now a long saga of the poor little girl's accidents and injuries, her illnesses and conditions. He talked and talked to her and she loved it, she loved him, til she realized he was taking notes, caught him asking the little girl questions. She put a stop to that at once. I'm sure the silly thing's fine after all, she told the doctor, her jeans are probably too small and she's short of breath. She's very vain that way, wears them cruelly tight. I don't know, he said, she's very pale. Oh, the poor thing's always been like that, she said, takes after her mother you know. Not me. Her mother was famously pale. Skin like snow, I'm told. No, it's just the jeans. I warned her about them, but she never listens. I'm sure she'll be fine as soon as she changes. Sorry to have troubled you, but the smallest thing sets the poor girl off and she always thinks she's dying.
And she gathered them up and went home.

She oversaw the little girl's diet, watched her for sign of chill, hovered over her like a real mother would, if a real mother watched every move and breath and developed ways of discerning thoughts, of reading minds. After the fourth doctor the little girl became very quiet, very watchful, and she was increasingly watchful after each succeeding doctor. Almost as if there were a brain in that glorious, empty head, she thought contemptuously. Days went by and the poor little girl mostly stayed in her room. For years. She ranted in the kitchen, she raved as she concocted delicacies for him, railed against her slavery, her entrapment by a beautiful stranger's beautiful child. Then one day, after a total of six doctors, she had a perfect idea. It would not be easy, it would take some tricky cooking, but it would work. It would work and she would be free and the most important, most beautiful thing in his world. She made the crust and went right out to buy the fruit.

It wasn't easy to get the stupid girl even to eat nowadays, almost as if the little chit were frightened, as it someone had warned her. Here honey, she said in her very best mommy voice, aren't you hungry? You're thin, you're so thin she said and could not keep the envy from twisting her voice. Look, silly girl, I'll eat half of it, and she took her fork and ate half the piece of pie she had cut, half a piece of the best apple pie she had ever tasted, had ever made. I'll work it off tomorrow, she promised herself as she finished the crust, I'll do a double workout at the gym tomorrow.
To celebrate.

But he called an ambulance, of course. Of course he did and no one would let her ride alongside the child. No one. She shouted. Idiots. She had to drive herself because he went with the girl. With my baby, he said, and she despised him, his weakness and his tears and his love, and she made plans as she drove around and around looking for parking. Impossible, she fumed, this is going to take all night. She checked herself in the reflection of the door as she went in. Perfect. Still.

They stopped her at the door. No admittance. But my husband, she began. Family only, the seventh doctor said firmly and nodded to the nurses who escorted her to the waiting room. Well, she thought happily, great! I'm not waiting around here, and she drove home, running a sign and a light. Making plans, making plans all the way home. It was good she hadn't stayed, nothing happened, nothing changed. Coma, this seventh doctor said as he denied her entrance again. We're waiting for a specialist. The specialist came to talk to her first, before even going into see the useless girl. Very handsome, very charming. She gave everything she had, turned it on full force. The young specialist beamed at her. Oh, what an innocent! Asked her what the girl had eaten before she came, asked, delighted, if there were any pie left. She went right home to get some. Tried to remember how she had done it, which side was which. She thought about it, chose a side, cut a piece. The sweet-faced specialist took it with him into the room where the stupid girl was sleeping like the dead. If only, she thought grimly.

And she couldn't figure it out, couldn't piece it together. How the world came flying apart when she had been so careful, so very expert and tricky. She tried, for as long as she could think about anything, to think how that had happened to her when all she had wanted was what other people had. To be the most beautiful. To be loved the most. To have someone who cared only for her. She just wanted what other people had, what she saw they had. That was all. Was that so much? The little hussy married the specialist. Not a baby now, not anymore. All those years in shut in the bedroom, the lying little cheat had grown up. Well, he could have the baggage. Seven doctors indeed. She washed her hands of the lot of them. She sat up very straight in her cell. There she was, in the mirror over the sink. Still. Still the most beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman here. No visitors, please. Let me just be.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 36. The Pieces of the Dreams that You Have

2011-06-28T19:15:00.000-07:00

They made a garden and they made a house and they made a fire and then they made dinner.

Then they slept.

While they slept she dreamed of fishes that swam and floated on the air just outside the thoughts in people's heads, fishes that slowly expanded and contracted, fishes that changed from one deep and shimmering hue to another. Red, blue, green. And then of a dress, and herself in the dress, a dress stiff and layered, jewel toned, that slid from color to color as with the flow of her thoughts.

He dreamed of a mountain that fell and kept him from coming to her when the snakes threatened. Then in his dream he walked with her in deep surf and in air that turned to gold as the sun came up over the ocean. He saw the raindrops far, far above their heads falling perfect and whole, golden pearls, flashing past him and into the ocean.

They tended their garden, they set their house in order. They sat by the fire after dinner and when it was autumn she said, we've lost something, and he agreed. He said, I believe you are right. They slept close together and did not dream and when morning came they began to search. Nothing is easy to find but lost things are difficult, and a thing that is lost even to memory and naming is most difficult of any thing to find. Needles and haystacks are named and can be measured; they are weighable, countable, stackable and sewable. A lost thing, on the other hand, might as well be underhand and overland for all the two of them could do to find it. The sun went right down before they had found more than a mere few dozen of lost things and he took her hand in the cool and dusty blue of evening, where they stood tight together under stars no more than a hundred or two of which had names any one knew and he said to her, softly and gently, we will look tomorrow. We will look until we find it. Yes, she said sadly, yes, we won't have a choice. He knew it, he knew the choices they would not have, and he carried her hand soberly in his all the way back to their garden and their fire. Between them they brought all the found things that were no longer lost. Some of the things made nice stacks in the dark garden and some of them needed to go into baskets in the shadowy house and a few of them were eaten for dinner by the fire. Six of them ran away to the neighbor's tool shed.

Winter came and they moved the fire inside their house. It looked as though, if you could peel back the snow out on the garden, under it there would be only bumps of dirt and plant mistakes, but it was really their summer garden sleeping under the snow. The house sang in the cold on the outside and hummed in the heat on the inside. The house was always reaching out to hug them when they came back from a day of searching. We'll know it, he said to her while he sorted into piles the fifty found things of that day, we'll know it when we find it. We'll know then that it's found. Yes, she agreed, we will. We won't have a choice, and she threw away some lost things for which no name could ever be found and made room on the bookshelves for a few others, put two of them into her hair and fed a handful to the cat. Which cat was one thing they had found, but which cat told everyone that it, the cat, had found them. They could not have found me, the cat told people, unless I had in the first place been lost. The evidence that I was never lost is that they know my name; they call me to dinner and I come. Lost things have not known names. This was what the cat told people. The cat was one of the found things that had gone into a basket.

She dreamed of a fair and of dancing with him while birds sat in his shoulders and reminded her of things she had left undone and he said, never listen to birds that talk but don't dance. So they walked away from the dance and were lost until an old man came and showed them the way, grumbling and grumbling.

He dreamed of a little woman who sat down under their bed and told him terrible things until she came and dropped an iron on the little woman. Then he dreamed that she held him while he cried from the terrible things the little woman had said, and while she held him she told him not to eat the woman's bread, and that if he did that, he would forget all about her. And he did.

They made an early spring bonfire with last year's dead growth and sat close to it, drinking hot chocolate in the thin spring sunshine. She looked deep into the coals and said, thoughtfully as she drank some hot chocolate, We maybe need to do this in the house. He spilled some chocolate on his shoes. Do this? he asked, in the house? Make a bonfire? She looked toward him from far away, her eyes focusing beyond him, her hands wrapped tightly around the hot cup. Prune, she said, inside the house. Clear. Cut back. Oh! he said, right! Of course. Prune. Trim inside the house. Yes, I see. So they did; the next day they pared back the winter's growth of found things til only the ones that answered to their names were left and then every year after that, when they had finished outside the house, they cut back inside the house. They threw the parings out the windows and doors and there, in the newly shorn and ship shape garden, would be a houseful of about-to-be-lost-again things. Sometimes they donated those things to the Orphans of Brave Men Lost at Sea Fund, and sometimes they gave the things to the gypsies if the gypsies wandered by in the early spring. Gypsies travel light and they never knew why the gypsies wanted the pile of trimmings, but that was the gypsies' problem. Once or twice they gave the pile away as Christmas gifts. People were so moved at the thoughtfulness of those presents. Sometimes they had a garden sale, but the best by far was when, if that winter's takings had run mostly to wood and other combustibles, they just burned the whole lot. With those fires they had to roast marshmallows on sticks like, ten feet long. That was the most fun by far but it felt so irresponsible that it took them a couple of years to recover before they could do it again and enjoy it. After the huge fire was out, after they got home from donating or gifting or whatever that year had brought them, he always took her face in both his hands and told her, tenderly and because he meant and he knew it, We will find it, you know, we will find the lost thing. We will look until we find it. And she said sadly, I know we will. We have made the choice to look until we find it.

She dreamed of water and sand and dragons.
He dreamed of books with pages that flew away when he opened them.

Then they raked the leaves off of the lawn and jumped in the huge pile to see if there was anything lost in those leaves.

Hunting for a lost thing.
Picking tomatoes.
Making cider.
Pumpkin pies.
Shoveling snow.
Searching for something lost.
Forcing bulbs.
Planting peas.
Flying kites.
Trimming the inside of the house.
Gathering rosebuds.
Spitting watermelon seeds.
Drawing with sparklers.
Questing, together, for a lost thing.
Peach pies.
Reading books in piles of leaves.
Dressing as famous witches.
Sugar cookies.
Looking for a thing that is lost.
Bringing in firewood.
Constructing Valentines.
Hunting asparagus.
Pruning the inside of their house.
Eating by candlelight.
Going to find a lost thin. Or two.

One day he caught her staring out over his head into a sky filled with so many stars that it didn't even matter that they only knew the names of one or two hundred or so. What is it? he asked her, what do you see?
I was wrong, I think, she said, I think I was very wrong.
Oh, lover, he said, wrong about what? She turned to look full at him, and her eyes were filled with tears.
Nothing was ever lost, she said, we had lost nothing. I was so, so wrong. I'm sorry.
Oh, baby, he said helplessly, no, how could you have been wrong? What do you mean saying nothing was ever lost? Think, look, just look at all the things we have found. I told you, I told you all along we'd know when we found it, and we did. We knew every time.
The looking, with you, has been my greatest joy, she told him. I've loved every minute of this.
Yes, he said, we're pretty good at this, aren't we?
Perfect, she said, perfect. Come on, she said, let's go find something. I have a feeling it's lost.

They slept, they woke, they hunted together, and every spring, like clockwork, like yardwork, like tide and tree work, they cleaned out the nameless things in their house.

She dreamed of stores that opened into more stores and drawers filled with buttons and notes and jewelry and tiny dolls' arms and legs.

He dreamed of a city empty and glowing, waiting for him to arrive with piles of found things heaped in basket carriages drawn by cats.

She stood, in her dream, and waited for him, before she opened the Cabinet of Doors.
He hushed the cats, so he could hear her when she would finally come into the waiting city.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 35. A Thousand Little Girls

2011-06-27T15:34:00.001-07:00

He loved her so much he made a song for her. He loved her so much he talked to his mom about her. He tried to get his friends to be nice when she was around but it was hard, almost all his friends were boys and that made it very hard. He thought no one but his mom knew he was thinking about her all the time but after a while his sister knew. His sister said he should like someone else, another girl who was his sister's friend but he didn't. He never would like that other girl, his sister's friend, and after a while his sister gave up bothering him about it. His sister gave him a lot of advice about his girl and told him he better listen to it and he did, mostly, sometimes, but not always.

One day it was his girl's birthday and it was summer and the days were really long and warm. Not so hot, not yet, not hot like it would be when it was his sister's birthday, but not still cold and only pretending to be summer like it always was on his birthday. It was perfect weather for a summer party and it was going to be his girl's birthday and he wanted to do something for her, something nice and a big surprise. He decided to make a fairy town for her by the river and to get his mom to make fairy food and to take it to the fairy town and have a party there when it was evening, with candles in the trees and with music. He'd ask his dad to play the guitar and to not sing and his mom to come with the food and help him make a great party, and he'd only invite the friends who liked to play fairy town. That was three of the people he knew, plus his girl and plus his sisters, so seven people not counting his mom and dad. Seven is a magical number.

He sat in the mud by the edge of the stream carefully tying sticks together with grass. His littlest sister was making steps from the root of the tree down into the water, down to the landing they had made from sticks and smooth stones. She was using round, flat rocks, pressing them into a sloping shelf she had scraped into the soft, damp dirt. He watched her a moment, then went back to his slow work, satisfied she was setting the steps evenly and making them level. He could hear his other sister behind him in the bushes, singing and breaking something. Branches.

His mom and his dad were talking, too, his dad was helping his mom set up the folding table for the fancy fairy food and also some chairs for people who would want to sit down on something and not be able find a good log. He carefully set the stick and grass sliding double door in place on the pod and acorn warehouse that sat on the bank above the landing and then he scooted back from the water. He looked around the town and nodded in satisfaction. His littlest sister had finished the waterside steps and was busy working in the backyards of a row of bark cottages, making raised garden beds with straight rows of tiny, stuck-in leaves. He looked around for his next project and stopped to consider a hollow at one side of a tree, his head a bit on one side, and then began to build a theater, like a Greek one is his book at home.

The day went by and so far no one had come, but it wasn't a bother, wasn't a worry because he had told people his family would be by the river all day and that they could come whenever they wanted to, to help with the fairy town. One of his friends came and started to help and they had a great time all day. His friend loved the theater and helped him make a bakery and a pottery. His littlest sister made stables for mice and the bigger sister made a whole row of shops that sold clothing made out of flowers, and his friend helped both his sisters and talked to his mom and dad and had a great lunch with his family. Then the other two friends came in time to help with the food and with putting the candles in the trees so that by the time his girl got there the whole place looked really magical. The first friend who came also had the great idea of putting little birthday candles into the tiny shops and houses so the fairy buildings just glowed in the warm summer evening, and the candles reflected and flickered in the ripples on the river where it flowed around and under the tiny landing he had made below the pod and acorn warehouse.

His girl loved her gift, just loved it, loved the fairy town, loved the food, loved his dad playing the guitar, and he felt very happy. His littlest sister played with the first friend who had come and his bigger sister watched everyone and made lots of plans in her head for other, better girls her brother should fall in love with and marry. They ate the special fairy food his mom had made and his dad played songs for them to listen to and to sing. The river chuckled and splashed as it flowed past, and all the candles burned low. He was happy, very, very happy. He had done just want he hoped he could do for his girl and she had loved it. Just loved it. He was so happy, and he didn't even fight with his bigger sister on the way home in the car.

Do you think, his dad asked his mom as they drove the rest of the way home with sleeping children in the backseat, do you think he will ever notice that the girl he had so much fun with was not the one he has a crush on? Oh, yes, I expect he will, his mom said, he's a smart boy. His dad drove for a while and didn't talk. His mom watched the reflection of the moon on the river as they drove alongside it. How long, his dad asked, how long do you think it will be before he notices? His mom smiled out the window at the river and at the shredded moon reflected on its surface. By the time he is twenty-three, she prophesied, I think right about then he'll notice.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 34. All the Pleasures

2011-06-26T23:17:00.001-07:00

They realized, more or less at the same time, that they were starving. They set down the books and looked at each other. How long has it been? she asked him, when did we eat? Did we? he asked, did we eat? We must have, she said, we must have, people do. Alright, of course, he said, what was it? What was it we ate? But she couldn't remember. Oh! she said, oh, look here, look at this one, and she picked up a book and blew off the dust. Look! Just look at this! and he came over to look and then he found the even more amazing one, under the stack she had made. So, what with one book and another, no one ate for a while longer. No one remembered to think about it, so no one could have said for how much longer.

By the next time they remembered food, they had gotten shaky. She tried to lift a huge pile of books from a table and had to sit down, hard and fast, pinned under the books. He stood up quickly to help her, concerned, and stumbled against the table where she had piled the books. Honey, he said, I'm sorry. You okay? Yes! she said, yes, I'm fine, nothing was damaged. Good, he said, relieved, what have you got there? Just look! she said, and he came over to sit beside her. He looked and she showed him and he found more to see and she was amazed and he turned the pages, turned the books to the light, turned her face to his, turned them both to the books they turned over and over. They forgot food again. They forgot they had forgotten. They found more books and forgot more and more.

He made a bed for them when their eyes got too dark to see. He made it of books and he helped her to it and lay down by her and she pulled pages over them. She was cold now, very cold, but the book bed was very comfortable, so comfortable, the most forgiving and yielding and loving bed she had ever known, and she curled around him, growing warm and blissful. I'm happy, she said, I'm so cozy and happy to be here with you. Yes, he said, it's wonderful, isn't it wonderful? but something was tugging at him, something was nagging at him. He had to sit up to think, had to sit up even though his head felt light and empty. I think I wouldn't have ever thought, he said very slowly because his thoughts were starved now too, I wouldn't ever have thought books made a nice soft bed. Well, she said, wrapping her arms around him to hold herself against the shaking that swept over her in waves now, these aren't ordinary books. No, he said, no, that's true. I mean, he said picking one of the books up and holding it to the light, I mean, just look at this! and they did look for a long time, at that book and then at another and another and they got emptier inside themselves until they had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness on their pile of bound words, open books spread protectively above them.

He was having trouble waking up. He fought his way out of dreams too rich and too disturbingly bright to be remembered in waking life, he fought his way out because his heart was crying out that he must check on her, make sure of her. But he couldn't do it, he couldn't wake her til he pulled out of her arms the book she still clung to in sleep. It came away from her with a great sound of tearing and she awoke with a gasp of horrible pain. What have you done, she asked, why did you do that? He held her close, pressed against her where she was raw and bleeding now. I couldn't wake you, he said, was it a good book? It was perfect, she said simply, where is it now? Over there, he said, but don't look. I think it's dying. Poor thing, she said, poor, poor thing, and she hid her face against him. Then she looked up, and she was focusing on him, right on him for the first time in days. Wait, she said, wait. I didn't know books could die. I don't believe they can. These are special books, he said, they don't behave the way you'd expect. They're the best books, she said, the very best.

He was opening his mouth to agree when for some reason the thing that had been nagging at him came sharply into view. The bed! he said, the bed is so comfortable. Yes, she agreed, it's the best bed. But it shouldn't be, he said, you know perfectly well it shouldn't be. No, she said slowly, I know it should not be. Sleeping on books should hurt, he said, even sleeping on very good books, even on the best books in the world, should hurt. These are strange books, she said, starting to turn over the ones on her legs. Oh, she breathed, oh, look at this-- But he took her hands in his and made her look into his eyes. It hurt and he felt the books under him flinch with pain, but he did it. They don't behave the way we'd expect, he said. No, she agreed, no, normal books don't die when you put them down. So, she asked, what are you saying? We're starving, he told her, we'll die if we don't eat. Do you mean, she asked, fear and panic rising in her eyes, you don't mean we have to-- No, he said hurriedly as he felt the books hold their breaths and lean forward in dread, no, of course not. We couldn't. We never could. But do you suppose...and he reached out, took a large book, and brought it slowly toward him, do you suppose you can eat books, after all? Because if we can, we never, ever have to go, he said, and he took a large bite.

Turns out you can eat books, or they could, if you can find, as they did, the right sort of books. Not all of them taste good, not all of them sit well inside you, but some are quite nourishing. We do, though, or they did anyway, inescapably become what we eat, and over time they became the sort of love story in which they had never believed. The sort of happy-in the-end story they had disdained, had believed themselves above and beyond, but which they found was not at all hard to believe in when they ate words and slept long and sound and deep on a loving bed of books. Turns out that was the very kind of book they loved best to have for dinner, and if they should have noticed, become alarmed at the sheer number and preponderance of that very sort of story in the stacks and racks around them, well, they just didn't.

And they lived, if you can call it that, very happily ever after. They certainly called it that.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 33. Girlie: The Crone

2011-06-26T00:23:00.000-07:00

[This is a story in five parts.This is the fifth part.]
Tell me can you love me, he said and on he came, leaning forward so as not to miss a word, his crown catching the sun, tossing the light, lifting the light and letting it free. Letting it fly, letting it soar though back it came no more, loosing it and whirling it round, hard and serious. But now he had to look up to her, high and higher into the great tree where she climbed and where she sat, swirled in the jewels of her own, own hair. Down she leaned, hard and serious, so he would not miss a word, not a single word. Go home, she told him, go home and I will come to you if I can. Something there is I must do and sure I must be, sure of you. And perhaps he went then, the King on his high horse, and perhaps he lingered. Perhaps he cried out to her, and perhaps he spoke not a word. Perhaps he did what he must, or did all he could, or did only what Kings and proud, good men should, but she looked not down to see, and the sun went down and down and down and it was dark. She wrapped her own hair about her and set herself to a-wait the crone, and she waited in the strength of a broken heart.

When the sun came back upon her the King was gone, and down and a-down came there the crone, striding along the King's way, her raven set hard and serious on her shoulder. Hie there, dearie, the crone called with never a look at her up in the tree, hie there my mutton chop, my honey pot, my peppermint drop, what and what have you gone and done with the King? He's gone, said the girlie, he's not here no more, and you have been a-telling me lies. Not so, not so, cries the crone, naught and not so. How say ye it to me? What lies ever gave I ye? Like this, the girlie says, like this and like these. It's you said to me that sad and sorry was I and would be, so I was and would be forever and forever did I not now find those brothers which had wandered, had traveled, had lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from me. Then the crone screwed shut one eye, the better to see things. Where then's that lie? the crone gave back to her, and the girlie nearly screamed with the frustration and tangle of it all. Why, says she, why, how is it and how can it be? Naught that you have said is true to me. Brothers five found I, knit them into shirts of my own hair, but no happiness found I there, nothing lasting, nothing true, and the youngest brothers, the last two, I left with no shirts to clothe them, to hide and to show them. How can it be, how can it be true, that happy I'll be when the seven I've found?

Oh, my roast chicken, my plum pie, the crone told her, said I you'd be happy? I think not, no, not I. She said only, the raven put in edgewise, leaning forward so no one missed a single word, she said only how you'd not be happy. You found the seven, the crone gave her gently, nor you'd not be happy unless you did. You're not the one to walk away from brothers lost, not you, not you. And it was well, well and truly done, my lolly, my jam roly poly.

I pulled out my own, my own hair for them, the girlie said from her high, high tree.
Yes, said the crone, yes and you did.

I brought them back to who they were, the girlie said, I set things as they should be.
No, said the crone, no, that you did not. You gave them shirts. You washed their sheets.

But, said the girlie.
But nothing, said the crone. Now do you listen to me.
Brothers are not for keeping, not as such and as so. Their hearts they give away, to the world, to fond wishes, to their own, own lives. Such are the brothers as they are, such are the brothers as they will be. Let be, the crone said to the girlie in the tree, let be, let be.
You wrapped them in your own, own hair that you might them see, not that any of them might see you. It's not a gift can be given, the crone said gentle and mild, to make another see true heart, true deserving. Only we can choose to see, or not choose.
Not any of what was done was done for the saving of them, the crone said, but only that when time was, you might come in the way of a King. And so you have, so you have, my crispy comfit, my glaceéd fruit. There's magic here, the crone confided, magic and conniving. Oh, said the crone, oh but you're a good girlie. Now, tell me what you've done with the King himself and why you're hiding up a tree.

Look at me, the girlie cried, look at me. How can he be loving of me, when I'm covered in this? You're speaking of your hair, the crone said, one eye shut and the raven leaned forward to catch it all, every word, yes, I see your meaning. Gold and silver, jewels and gems. You're afraid, the crone said so soft, so gentle, so sweet, so kind. You're afraid of your outside, isn't that so, my baby, my queenling, my own, own girl? How can he see me, the girlie cried, how can he see me when I'm covered in this? and she wept sore, her tears streaming down like a fall of stars. The crone looked up, high and higher. You're so tired, the crone said, and you've done so well. It's down you must come now, down, a-down. And when she said it, the girlie slipped and caught, and slipped, and the girlie let go, and down she fell. Through all the tree she fell, new sunlight catching on the gold and silver, tossing the light and color of the jewels high and higher. All in a blaze she fell, a comet with a living tail, and she landed in the soft dirt of the King's own way. And the crone watched her fall and saw her land and took her raven which sat on her shoulder like a lack of light, like a blindness, and went the crone on her way.

One hundred horsemen found the girlie lying there in the soft light cast by her own hair when back up and up that way they came, when they rode empty back to their own king, for they could not bring to him the one woman in all his kingdom fitted for a tear. Many and many a woman had they found, yes, many and most and all, but not a one who was not fitted with tears a-plenty, tears of her sisters' and tears of her children and tears of her life and her lands and all the things of her own, own hands and with tears, too, with tears all all her own. So the King's Hundred rode back up the King's own way, softer in their hearts, and sorrowing for the things they had that day found. And it was nigh dark when under the great tree they passed and her they found, another thing, one other thing to be found on this day of seeking, and they took her up from where she lay on a bed of her own shining tears. Carefully, carefully they took her up, carefully they brought her home, carefully they laid her before the King himself, for she had on her and all over her tears and tears of her, and a woman's tear is a dreadful and dangerous thing.

She's dead, the King's One Hundred said.
She's dying, the King himself said, and he sent for a healer.
The healer came, old and bent, with her raven black as a memory of the time before words, black as a dream of death, set hard and serious on her shoulder.
The crone stood before the King and told him, yes, she knew a healing. But you must in yourself be sure, she told him, you must be very sure, for if you're wrong, it's not she but you will die. And if I'm right? the King asked. If you are right, if you are right, if you are right she'll be born to you anew, the crone said, and drew forth and handed him a straight razor, sharp, sharp. All of it? the King asked. All, the crone gave back to him, all and all. The King took the straight razor in his own hands and straight to his task he went and the last deep breaths he took were none of them to steady himself to his task but to steady his hands for the saving of her.

Tenderly he cradled her head in his hands, tenderly he set the razor to her, tenderly he cut it all, all away. The crone watched him sharp and sharper when he worked, sharper than ever was the razor, and it was as sharp, as sharp as life. He took away ropes of gold and shaved away nets of silver, cut off piles of jewels short and tight and threw them from him, impatient with their weight, tossed them where the sunlight shone on a trash heap, where the light picked them up, twisted them into the air, tossed them and spun them and lofted them up and away and they never were seen again. But never and never did the King take his own eyes from the girlie's face. The crone watched a king's ransom tossed so lightly aside, and all the while the King himself cradled the girlie's head in his tender hands, held her like his heart would break. This is the King as he is, the crone said soft to her raven, this is the King as he will be. Magic, the raven gave back to her, magic is for conniving. And when the girlie's head was shining, when she was light and free, her eyes she opened, eyes warm and living, eyes bright with loving, and she saw herself with hair all shorn and him with his arms held out. You see me, she said. You came home to me, he gave back to her, and his own, own tears ran like stars down the cheeks royal. She caught them then, the girlie caught them, and close forever after she kept them, because beautiful they were to her, and because the tear of a King is a dreadful and a dangerous thing.

When the King married his girlie, a raven black as dried blood, black as fresh ashes on new snow, sat hard and serious on his shoulder royal and leaned forward to whisper magic, edgewise, into the ear of the King and also of his own, own Queen, but the crone herself set the shining crown on her Queen's bald, bald head. When their own first child was born, the girlie Queen's hair was long and curling and deep darkest red.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 32. Girlie: The King

2011-06-24T06:37:00.000-07:00

[This is a story in five parts. This is the fourth part.]
The sun grew hot, the sun grew high, the sun slipped over and bye and she did not see the crone, for the crone did not come. But this was the King's way, and it was the King himself who came, riding easy with a hundred men, his crown set hard and serious on his head. Soft they came, for the rains there had left the place tender and the way was soft under horses' hooves. And magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for the girlie in the tree never saw, never heard, not a sound, never a word of the hundred men who beneath her passed, til at last the King himself beneath her came.

Now, she thought not on travelers nor on horses nor men nor on the King himself, but she wept her sore, there in the great tree which hangs over the place you must pass as you come down and a-down on the King's way. Cried she for all that was and was not. Cried she for what she saw as she looked about her for her brothers' love to her and for their help and their care and their warm keeping, and cried she for those things she did not see. Wept for an empty heart and useless hands, sterile life and barren lands. In her true mind's eye looked she about, and not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could she see, could she see, and wept she hard and serious high in the great tree, and careful she caught her tears in her hands, for she knew and well she knew that a lost tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. But the wind was tricksy just there, and magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for from her fingers the wind tore a single tear, though she knew it not. The tricksy wind stole her tear, caught it, tossed it, spun it gently round and round while it sparkled like a star falling through the sun. Down and a-down through the limbs and through the leaves fell a tear of her, fell a single tear of her onto the face of the King himself as he rode under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, as down and a-down he came on his horse and with his men. Then all in a wonder put he his hand to his own cheek and caught away her tear in his hand.

Never and not at all had he cried, had the King cried since that day the crown sat hard and serious on his head. In wonder held he up the tear before his eyes, turned it this way and turned it that, but no way he turned it could he ever think how it came to be on the cheek royal. Lovely to him it was, like a pearl and like a burning sun, like a song of lost, lost love, like a story of lovers found and faithful, like deeds and quests and a binding spell cast in olden times. He sat under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, sat on his horse still as a statue and all his men about him never daring for to breathe as their King was wrapt in a wonder big as the wide world at the beauty of the tiny thing in his hand. After a lifetime he spoke. It is a woman's tear, he said, for it is not mine, and when he said so all his men drew back and all their horses stamped, for a woman's tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. Somewhere in my kingdom, the King cried, is a woman who fits this tear, and she shall be my bride. To the man that her finds shall I give merit and deserving beyond any former giving. And so wheeled the men upon their mounts and off they were and away, for this was to their understanding, this was for their doing, this was why they rode by the hundred with their king. Every father's son of them went for his King to seek a woman who fitted a tear, and the King himself was left by himself and alone on his horse beneath the great tree that overhangs the King's own way. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then down from high and from high the girlie came a-climbing and a-seeking of her tear, of her own, her own own tear.

Saw she the King, then, saw him there on his horse with a shining drop like a burning world held careful in his hand. She knew it then, knew he had a tear of her and she was sore afraid, for a lost tear is dreadful, dangerous, though she knew not it was the King himself. But the man, friendly, smiled and bade her come near, and so she did, so she did, near and nearer til all at once the crown she spied, set hard and serious on his head. Then knowing who he was dropped down on her, and down under knowing who he was she dropped. Beneath the tree, beneath the rocks, beneath her own hands she fain would hide, and when she was under her own hands, she felt of her hair. Shorn and bristly, her hair, cut off short and tight. I can't, I can't, I can't stand before the King himself with not a hair upon me, she thought and before she had another thought, out and out she pulled her own hair.

Long it came, long and longer. Bright it was, bright and brighter. Not fish nor sheep nor bear nor boar nor snake nor bird nor dog. Like ropes of gold, like nets of silver, like caskets and baskets and caches and snatches of jewels it came and down it poured and down and over her til she was wrapped and wreathed in the jewels of her own hair. Magic was there, magic and conniving. She looked up at the King himself through the jewels of her hair, and he reached out, slow and soft, and fitted to her the tear of her he held in his hand. Back he started, back and away, then he mastered of himself and was off his horse in a moment to be by her, to be nigh her, to be with her. Let me, he began, let me, he went gently on, please, please let me be a love to you and let me be all your help and you be my care and give to me the warm keeping of your heart and hands, and do you take my life and my lands. And he leaned forward so as to catch all her words, and reached out, reached out his own hand to touch the glory and weight that was the masses of jewels of her own, her own, own hair.

Back she stepped then, and stopped him.
I love you, girlie, said he as he stood in his own right and on his own way, and one step forward he took.
Back she stepped.
Love me, love me, he said, reaching for her, for her words.
Back she stepped and one hand was on the great tree that overhangs the King's way which pass you must when down and a-down you come that way.
Don't, she said, both hands on the tree.
Tell me if you can love me, he said and on he came, leaning forward so as not to miss a word, his crown catching the sun, tossing the light, lifting it and letting it free. Letting it fly, letting it soar though back it came no more, loosing it and whirling it round, hard and serious. But now he had to look up to her, high and high into the great tree where she climbed and where she sat, swirled in the jewels of her own, own hair. Down she leaned, hard and serious, so he would not miss a word, not a single word. Go home, she told him, go home and I'll come to you if I can. Something there is I first must do and sure I must be, sure of you.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 31. Girlie: A Raft of Brothers

2011-06-23T11:38:00.001-07:00

[This is a story in five parts. This is the third part.]
So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, but as she walked him home she rubbed her head and rubbed her head and felt her hair all short and bristly and wondered mightily how she'd ever want to be pulling five more brothers all home by her hair.

And this was how it went for her, and for three of her brothers more. Happy, yes, happy for a time she'd be, til on a dawning, sad she'd be, sad and sad and not a brother more would she find til down and a-down under the shade of that great tree would come the crone, mumbling and mombling and all wreathed in smiles without the teeth, her raven like a coal hole torn in the daylight, sitting hard and serious on her shoulder. Always went it the same way, for all it changed and twisted, it was the same, the way was the same. The crone calling her a baby muffin, a rum baba, a coconut pattie, and teaching her how she must pull out from herself another hank and twist of hair, of hair, an ell, a bolt, a shackle of her own, her own, own hair, and the raven leaning forward to catch every word. Three times more the crone balming her with words and plans, succoring her with the same words o'er and o'er. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your hair til once more a shirt you knit and knot, you cobble and couple, you sew, you twist and twine, crimp and acquire, weave and wrap, cut and chop, parcel, pinch, tuck and trim, til a shirt you have tailored and tumbled and sculpted and sweated. When it's whole, then take it up and look you, run you run to the brake, run to the woodheart, run you run to the sweet green pasture all fat with crunchy grass that lies hard by the the King's way as you come down and a-down through field and through town, up bridge and mountain down. Lift, there, what you have molded, and let it free, let it fly, let it soar and come back to you no more. Hold your hairshirt high there to the wind and let it loose and let it fly.

And the girlie did it, every time of it, every bit of it, she did it all, all the crone's telling. She pulled her hair and out it came, glossy and black, brittle and grey, sparkling silver and green, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Shirts three made she for brothers found in bushes with berries, in woods with wildings, in pasture with rats and micelings. Shirts men fought for and sang for, begged and pled and bled for, though it did them no good for all their strivings, no good, no good at all. Those shirts she held close and dear til she reached the place told her and there the wind tore them every one from her and sent them lofting, questing and dropping down and a-down on the brothers she sought. And up they stood as men, back they came with all their stories trailing and nothing to show but the glorious shirts on their man-backs, and there was she, hair all shorn and arms held out. And after they told her all their woes, their longings and their losses and their leavings, after they had told the way the crone came to them, named them all her berry smoothies, her tiny brownie bites, giving them for only one kiss to her, only one kiss, the impossible wantings of their hearts, each and every father's son of them fell to petting the girlie, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love.

And this was how it stood for her. Came a day she laboured o'er their five beds and beddings, stood stooped, a-washing sheets from a fish-bed grown plashy and reedy, from a sheep-bed grown oily and woolsey, from a bear's bed grown splayed and stained, from a boar's bed grown rank and torn, from a snake-bed grown cold and scaled. She scrubbed and rubbed, she twisted and wrung, and as she worked she thought on the brothers five she had found, had made into men alive with worked magic from her hair, her hair, her own, own hair. This was how it stood for them. Her fish brother gasped after gold to be thrown him for no work of his. Her sheep brother followed the others, if move he did at all, or gazed he out over field and stream and chaw a stem that from his lip hung down. Her bear brother spoke not but slept his way through night and day and ate and ate and ate and ate. Her boar brother spoke hard and sharp and ripped into talk and song, through friends and foes, all teeth and swears and elbows. Her snake brother slid silent cold and cold away from all and every, stayed low, stayed down, stayed cold, hissed the world away.

Well, I'm not happy, I'm sorrowing and sad again, sad, the girlie said, low and soft inside her head. I've not found them all, not yet by two, but I'm no brighter, no better now with them five than the day I looked about me for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands. On that day I looked about, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see. Now I look and the five I see, but what of that seeing? Well and well, it's as the crone said, yes and it is. This is the brother as he was, this is the brother as he is. What now have they? Arms and legs, arms and legs. It's all as she told me, all as she told me. Sad and sorry am I and I will be, so I am and will be forever and forever if I do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from me. What now, is the thing for my learning? She stopped in her washing, leaned down and a-down into the suds and the soaps and rested from her wresting while she thought. She did not go to the tree that hung out and over the road as you come down and a-down on the King's way, if you take it. This time she thought through things and things for herself.

One hand on each side of her head she laid, thought and thought and then pulled she out and out her hair, her own, her own hair. In the one hand it came away dark and brown and bushy, smelling of bones and of dirt. In the other hand light and friendly sweet, colored like a rainbow and smelling of the sky. These two handsful she held before her eyes and thought and thought. Then straight and sure, down she went, to where the river crosses the King's way and out and on the bridge went she, hair like fur and hair like feathers in her out-held hands. High and careful on the bridge she stood and looked she all and all around. And then she saw.

A bird she saw, bright as the rainbow and high as the sky. Round it flew, up and low, sweet it sang, true and slow. From under the bridge came a child, as answering the bird's song, and with the child came along a dog. Dark brown he was, bushy, yes, and brown. Round the child danced the dog, barking and happy and true, yes, and true. This is the brother as he was, she thought, this is the brother as he is. She watched the bird, the joy of its flight and the spread of its song. She watched the dog, with the child, the love in its face, the strength of its guard. Happy, thought she, happy are you two, happier by far than me. Arms and legs, she thought, arms and legs.

She opened her two hands above the river as under her it ran, all a-sparkle and shine. A river gold and silver, pearl and black, grey and all scales from the face of the sun. The wind reached down for the hair she had pulled and pulled, lifted it, lofted it, laced the air about her with it in a tiny, perfect storm. Threw away did she then hair like feathers and hair like fur. Walked away then, from the washed bedding and likewise the unclean and climbed up to sit in the great tree where it hangs over that place you must pass as you come down and a-down on the King's way. The sun grew hot, the sun grew high, the sun slipped over and bye and she did not see the crone, for the crone did not come. But this was the King's way, and it was the King himself who came, riding easy with a hundred men, his crown set hard and serious on his head.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 30. Girlie: Another One

2011-06-22T21:42:00.000-07:00

[This is a story in five parts. This is the second part.]
So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, til the day, though, as was bound to happen and which did happen just so, she awoke to a house and heart empty of six brothers. Six, and not a thought of how she might find them, might seek them, might retrieve them. Off she went at once to seek, to hunt. Low she wandered and high she wandered with never a plan, with never a clue, and find them she did not til at darkfall she found herself in the crook and shade of the great tree which overhangs the road so, as by you come and on you go if you take the King's way. Long and high and sad she sat and thought it this way and thought it that but never a straight thought had she, when who should she see coming a-down and a-down but the crone and on her shoulder, her raven sitting hard and serious.

Why then, my then, how comes you so high then, my pork chop, my cherry pie, cries the crone as she comes nigh. Came not to you a brother in that shirt all a-shine and a-shimmer? Ah, me, sighed the girlie in the tree, ah, me, Mistress Crone and also your Good Raven, I am a-sad and a-sorrowing, for brothers seven had I, had I, but when today I looked about me for them, for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see, but only one, who yet turns his hands to nothing, leaves them at his sides both loose and flapping while all the while he turns his eyes ever and ever after a jingle in men's pockets. Words he makes, aye me, plans he sows, wanting and wishing and that is all of him. He walks about him, he looks about him, he wears the golden shirt and carries his hands in his empty pockets and now all forgotten he has of my seeking, my saving, my pulling and my knitting, forgotten he has to be a-petting and a-loving, remembered only the gold a fish is never sharing.

Well and well, the crone said, one eye crafty on the girlie in the tree, yes and it is. This is the brother as he was, this is the brother as he is. Gold and deep dark longing had he, but you fished him out, and what now has he? Arms and legs, arms and legs. No weight of dark water, no buggies, no gold beyond counting. It's all as I told you, all as I told you. Sad and sorry are you and you will be, so you are and will be forever and forever if you do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from you, my treetop birdie, my jam tart. And here's a thing for your learning, the crone craned back to give it to her, one eye closed to better see the matter, while the raven leaned forward so as not to lose a word. A bird might indeed be sister to a fish, but how shall those two love at home together? Six brothers yet have you, but them you have not.

But how shall I go and how shall I fare and what shall be my seeking and my want and my ware? the girl asked and pled. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when they left me, turned from me, looked beyond and from me fled.

Here, my sweetling, my chocolate flake, the crone soothed her, and the raven leaned forward to catch every word. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your hair til once more a shirt you cobble and couple, crimp and acquire. When it's whole, then take it up and look you, run you run to the top of that hill which lies hard by the King's way as you come down and a-down through the glade and through the glen. Lift it high there to the wind and let it loose and let it fly.

And the girlie did it, she did all the crone's telling. She pulled her hair and out it came, short and white, curled and curling. Soft and curvy and cosy it came, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Then she cobbled and coupled and crimped until a shirt of dearest plush and cuddle she held in her hands, dimpled and curving, all of pearl and cloud shimmer. Up she held it, high she lifted, and cold the wind caught it as it twisted and spun in her hands, sweeter and softer than midnight snow under a fullsome moon. Then and then did all the people come, with a yelling and a run. Such a shirt! One would have it for his babe and one for his dying love. One would have it for his sleeping and one for his comfort keeping. All reached, all longed, all begged. Take my farm, take my land, take my gold, take my lambs. But she would none. To her the shirt she clasped and ran she up that hill and there, at last, she held out the shirt, coiling warm about her hands, pearls and spindrift and up it went and down it fell. Away til it was lost. Pillowing and billowing, puffing and plumping it rode the wind over grove and over green and was not.

All the people stopped, stony, stared her down as she had been an enemy, and from her they melted and faded as they had never been. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then came from far and from far a sheep, eyes blank and glassy, teeth green and grassy, rambling and ambling and on its back a shirt it wore. All of pearl and spun clouds that shirt, and the sheep walked under it and out of it two legs grew. Legs not legs of lamb but legs of a man. Curling pale hair, arms with elbows to them, fingers and toes, eyes round and blue, not slit and staring. A brother come back to her was he, and she fell on his neck and kissed it. He held her and told her all his telling and all his tale.

Sat I on the edge of the field, on the top of the wall all stacked there of stones, he told, long and longing, thinking and pondering on nothing and nothing at all but the ease and pleasing life of a sheep. All a-fire my life seemed to me, a-fire and for no reason but that all and everyone wanted things of me. Working I was, for just it seemed to me the working of it, weeding and hoeing, sowing and growing, making and mowing. All of thought and all of strife, nothing of easy, pleasing, empty life. And on a day came down that way a crone, gnarled and bent and on her shoulder a raven like a spill of ink, hard and serious. Up and asked me what I longed after, called me her apple seed, her bitty carrot cake, and I told her, I told her. Of my heart's desire to be rid and rid of all the foolishly sought for gain and gold. Rest is it you're after and a-longing for? asked she and her raven leaned in close, so as not to lose a word, pleasing empty ease of mind? I'll give it and you'll get it if one wee kiss you'll give to me. And I gave it, sister, and I got that rest, a sleep so deep that I forgot my own self, forgot my way and my name, ambled about in the green and grassy, ate of clover and buttercup standings, chewed while I stood and while I stood I slept, til of a sudden a shirt blew down and around upon me, and just as sudden I could not crop no more, nor bleat, nor bear to eat of clover. So up I came, and there was you, hair all shorn and arms held out. And he fell to petting her, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love. So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, but as she walked him home she rubbed her head and rubbed her head and felt her hair all short and bristly and wondered mightily how she'd ever want to be pulling five more brothers all home by her hair.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 29. Girlie: The First Brother

2011-06-21T09:33:00.000-07:00

[This is a story in five parts.This is the first part.]
She had seven brothers and she lost all of them. Some here, some there and some she could not have said where but on the day she thought to look, to wonder, to seek and to yearn, not a brother was to be found.

She set out to find.

But find she did not, and by the setting of the sun she was sad, lonely and lacking fraternity. She sat her up high and high in the crook and shade of a great tree which overgrew, there, the roadside, to ponder, to wish and to wonder. As she sat alone and brotherless, down that way came a crone with a raven set hard and serious upon her shoulder. Why now, why how, my pretty morsel, my sweet nubbin, the crone crooned, why set ye here, why ponder ye in such a brown study that I could see the cloud and shadow of it from over the hill and far away as I came, as I came, as I came on a-down by here?

Ah, me, sighed the girlie in the tree, ah, me, Mistress Crone and also your Good Raven, I am a-sad and a-sorrowing, for brothers seven had I, had I, but when today I looked about me for them, for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see.

Ah, you, ah, you indeed, the crone gave back to her again, ah, you indeed. Sad and sorry are you and will be, so you are and will be forever and forever if you do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from you, my tender lambie pie, my little candy girl.

But how shall I go and how shall I fare and what shall be my seeking and my want and my ware? the girl asked and pled. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when they left me, turned from me, looked beyond and from me fled.

Here, my cookie, my sugar cake, the crone told her, and the raven leaned forward to catch every word. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your golden, golden hair, pull it long and pull it straight and from it a shirt strong and light shall you make. Twist it, spin it, knit it, tuck and tie it. When it is knitted through and through, do you drop in and straight down that well which lies hard by the King's way as you come down and a-down through the copse and through the coomb.

And the girlie did it, she did as the crone had said to her. She pulled her hair and out it came, long and longer, gold and golden. Strong and light and straight it came, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Then she twisted and spun, knitted and tied until a shirt of wondrous shimmer and shine she held in her hands. Up she held it, high she lifted, and hot the sun caught it as it twisted and spun in her hands. Then and then did all the people come, with a yelling and a run. Such a shirt! One would have it for his wife and one would have it for his own. One would have it for a burying and one for a wedding in the morn. All reached, all longed, all begged. Take my farm, take my land, take my gold, take my lambs. But she would none. To her the shirt she clasped and ran she to that well and there, at last, she held out the shirt, one more glister, one spin and down it fell. Away it went. Into the cold and deep and slimy of that well it flashed, and was not.

All the people stopped, stony, stared her down as she had been an enemy, and from her they melted and faded as they had never been. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then from the waters slick and cold there rose a fish. Long and long he was, golden and slim, and up he came, from the murk and dim, to the light and to the day. He turned his flat black eyes up to the sky and up and up and up he came. And on him, a shirt he wore.

Long and silky straight the shirt he wore, all a-golden glister and slippery glamour. It clung to him, it twisted and it spun. In one arm of that shirt came then one arm on that fish. Not a fish's arm in that shirt, but an arm that was the arm of a man. Two arms, golden hair on a man's head, legs straight and strong, fingers and toes and eyes like sweet brown almonds, not like cold black moons. A brother come back to her was he, and she fell on his neck and kissed it. He held her and told her all his telling and all his tale.

Sat I on the edge of the well, he told, long and longing, thinking and pondering on the gold the folk threw down and a-down into the murk and into the dim of that water, he said, for I longed after it, hankered and yearned for gold and for gold. And on a day came down that way a crone, gnarled and bent and on her shoulder a raven like a sliver of night, hard and serious. Up and asked me what I longed after, called me her honey nut, her tiny barley cake, and I told her, I told her. Of the gold, of my heart's desire after all the foolishly wasted and lost gold. Gold is it you're after and a-longing for? asked she and her raven leaned in close, so as not to lose a word, deep water gold? I'll give it and you'll get it if one wee kiss you'll give to me. And I gave it, sister, and I got that gold, so deep that I forgot my own self, forgot my way and my name, nosed about in the deep and dimmy, ate of buggies and cold water plantlings, slept while I swam and swam while I ate, til of a sudden a shirt came down and a-down upon me, and just as sudden I could not swim no more, nor breathe, nor bear to eat of buggies. So up I came, and there was you, hair all shorn and arms held out. And he fell to petting her, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love. So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion.

Internet Down--didn't see that coming.

2011-06-21T09:00:00.001-07:00

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 28. Father's Day

2011-06-20T00:39:00.000-07:00

Hey, sweetheart, the father said, I'm home. Sorry I'm late, traffic. You're fine, the mother said, you're not late at all. Let me get into other clothes and I'm yours to command, he said. Good, she said, good, but I think I've about got it. We just need to set up. Oh, and balloons. Okay, I'm really glad you're here for that.

The mother made a strawberry lemon cake and a caramel chocolate cake and the father made the peach ice cream the twins said would be yummy with both. The older sister did everyone's hair and nails, which was much better than playing any party games they could think of, and the middle sister made sure everyone had a turn and a friend and got reasonably equal amounts of loot from the pinata. The oldest brother nearly missed the whole thing, as the twins had feared, but before they even had a chance to notice and to wail about it, he came rushing in to do the magic show for the end. He turned little red balls hiding under cups into lemons and then into mice. He turned one red sponge ball squeezed in a little guest's hand into sixteen red sponge balls and then into a shower of glittering, sugared candies. He made the flame at the end of a match disappear by blinking at it and then he made it reappear by blowing on his sisters. He made the wrappings from the presents vanish and reappear as suckers in the guests' pockets. He made straight hair curly and pink hair orange. It was a wonderful party.

As darkness fell, the middle sister gathered the guests in front of the television with pillows and blankets and the oldest sister turned on a Federation of Magical Kingdoms Princesses Club movie for the guests to watch in the hope they might be calm by the time their parents arrived to take them home. Calmer, anyway. The oldest brother went out into the garden under the trees and picked up scraps and cups and bits of pinata dragon and stuffed them into plastic bags. He should make the trash vanish, his father observed as he watched his son through the kitchen window. Nothing ever vanishes, the mother replied, it always goes somewhere. How about into the trash cans? his father asked. Well, I think he's accomplishing that, the mother said. The father went to help his son with the trash bags and the mother went into the living room, into the semi-darkness of the movie, to check, to count, to plan the transfer of guests back to their parents, and to sit down for a moment. But she didn't sit, she never got past the checking, the counting. She scanned the children, frowned, scanned again and then worked methodically across the room. Back. Again. She walked carefully across and among the little bodies and pillows and blankets strewn about the on the floor, drawing no attention, making no fuss. She went quietly out the door and into the kitchen. Then she ran.

How can they be gone? the father asked for the forty-ninth time. How can they just be gone? Dad, the oldest boy said, it's not that they are gone, it's that they are most likely here and we just can't find them. Don't you remember? the older sister said, we talked and talked about this before they came, that we'd have to be so careful. Didn't you see them at the party? the middle sister asked, they're tiny. They're absolutely tiny. No, the father said, I can't remember seeing them. You're sure they were here? he asked the mother. You're sure they came? Of course I'm sure, the mother said, and you never saw them because they are so small. You never looked that closely. Why would we invite children too small to see easily? the father demanded as his family hunted and searched. Why would we do that? We've discussed this endlessly, the mother said. The twins love them and you work with their father. I do? he asked, amazed, and then stopped short. No! Those children? I don't work with their father, dammit, he whisper-shouted, I work FOR their father!

They had looked under all the chairs and tables. The oldest boy worked over the garden, carefully turning up every leaf and branch. The mother checked in all their shoes and pockets and all the way under every bed. The girls handed out more treats to the guests and discretely searched under arms and legs and in pillowcases. The father, grim and careful, went through the trash bags. They met in the kitchen, tired and worried and confused. Some of them were panicking. I don't know what to do, the mother said, I'm sick, I just feel sick. You don't think, the older sister said, you don't think something...I mean, like a cat or-- No! the oldest boy said, they're fine. They're here. They're probably asleep. We just have to find them. Remember that grandma and the cookie jar? the older sister asked with an intense sort of shudder. That is not even true, her brother was looking at her with distaste, that is a myth. Will you stop even saying things like that? It isn't helping. Excuse me, your highness, the older sister said, I was only asking. What if we offer them something really wonderful? the middle sister asked. She was trying to cry softly. Make it a game? Carry a prize around and pretend the first hidden person to fly out gets it? That won't work, sweetie, the mother said holding her, because they can't fly. That's right, the older sister said, worried, I remember. They don't fly. They don't fly? the father said, his face turning a strange color. They don't fly? We invited minuscule children who don't fly to our house for a birthday party? Why would we do this? Are we all insane? DAD! everyone said, and he said, Stop, every one of you. I know. We discussed it. Be quiet a minute. Let me think.

When they went to bed the sisters were still asking their mother about it. But how? they asked and asked, how did he think of it? How did he ever know? It's a family story, the mother said, and it suddenly came back to him. His great-grand uncle. The first time, I believe, it was an accident, but Uncle soon realized what a useful spot that was. Used to hide like that and people thought it was so cute when he was small. And Uncle was, you know, very, very small, but he did grow. He was in and out and in and out of there and it was all charming and fine until one day he realized he couldn't get out. That he never would get out. It was just awful for everyone and your father never forgot that story. Yes, she said, a terrible story and a man wrote it down in a book. That man took the sad, outlandish stories he had heard and put them into a book, hid them there under a little fun and nonsense. We have the book, if you'd like to see it in the morning. People don't tend to read it clearly, his book. Too few of them seem to see any sadness. I couldn't ever understand that, myself. I always thought Mr. Lear simply told the stories as they were, as they happened, as they were told to him. He never even tried to make them over, the mother said. Such sad little tales, all of them, and quite, quite true. She tucked the covers around the sleeping twins, told everyone good night, went out and shut the door carefully behind her.

In the tea kettle, the middle sister said, climbing into bed, I can't believe it. We're so lucky to have a smart dad. Even if he never listens when we talk, the oldest brother said. He found them, the middle sister said, ignoring her brother, he went straight to the tea kettle and there they were. And just in time, the older sister said. Imagine what might have happened. No, the oldest boy said, his hand on the light switch, don't even imagine. I thought they had vanished, the older sister said, squinching down deliciously under the covers. It was a cool night. No, the brother said, no. Nothing ever vanishes. It just goes some place else.

There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.

-Edward Lear, True Histories of Families of My Acquaintance in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales: Rhymed and Retold by the Author; Distractions for a Summer Afternoon

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 27. Wide as the Waters

2011-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

He had carried in boards and boards and more boards. When she came home the bedroom was filled with boards and nails and screws and saws and hammers and the neighbor was just leaving. Thanks so much, he was saying to the neighbor and the neighbor was saying, Any time, no problem at all. What is this? she asked. Lumber, he answered around the screws in his mouth. Thanks so much, she said. Any time, he said, no problem at all.

After she came back into the house and was speaking to him again, she asked him why he was building something huge in the bedroom. This is where it goes, he said, and it's going to be way too big to move. She went away to the kitchen to make dinner, which was as far away from the bedroom as you could go inside the house and still be inside the house. He sang a little happy sawing and nailing song to himself. The chorus went, Hand me the saw and then hand me the nail, snow in the winter, summertime hail. She was yelling from the kitchen; the kitchen was far away. Are you asking me to come hand you things? she yelled. No! he yelled back. I am not asking that. In that case, she said, dinner is ready and you may have half of this food. I am not asking you to hand me things at this time, he whispered to himself, and he put down all the tools and went to eat, humming.

After brownies and ice cream she came in and handed him things. I just don't understand why we needed a new bed, she said. Why we needed a bed bigger than a barn. Who wants a barn inside their house? she asked. He looked at her, raised his eyebrows. I know people, he said. She put her hand over his mouth. You know weird people, she told him. Is the mighty bed finished? she asked, it's late. Yes, he said, it's finished, only we have to put on the sheets. They made up the bed and he hoisted her on to it. There, he said, how is it? I can see so far now, she said, and he threw the pillows at her head.

Seriously, she said later, softly in his ear. Tell me. Why this huge bed? It's a mile off the ground. Four feet, he said. Four feet of lumber, she said. Why? He pulled back a bit, so he could see her clearly. He was very serious, as she had asked. It's for the floods, he said. Good night, love. He pulled her close and went to sleep. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, then she got up and went to the window. She opened it, leaned outside in the cool night. No sound of rain, as she had known there would not be. No clouds in the sky, as she had known there were not. No thunder in the distance. For the floods, she thought, for the floods. We're sleeping on a boat in the middle of a desert. She clambered onto the bed and tucked herself under his arm. For the floods. Huh. She slept.

Water rose with the moon. It consumed the garden and slid over the sidewalks. It bubbled down into the cellar and climbed back out one slow cellar step at a time. Water raced across the kitchen tile and darkened the carpets, rose there til the moon's reflection shimmered and danced on the rising water in the living room. Water pushed up through the pipes, swiftly filled the bathtub, cascaded soundlessly over its sides, over sinks, up through drains. Water gushed down the hall and as it fell down the stairs it joined the water coming up. Water raced low and fast into the bedroom under the door he had carefully closed before he had climbed onto the bed. Water rushed to the edges of the bed, lapped against the wooden sides, found the way under and began to pull, to push, to press, to lift. More water came in under the door, more and more and more and then the water just took away the door that was in its way. Water lifted the bed, rocked the bed and spun it, water pushed the bed across the room, water edged the great bed through the hole that had been a window until the water had torn and punched and ripped the wall apart. The bed paused, crested the fall of water pouring out of the bedroom, tipped out to slide down, to ride away, then shot forward on a great wave as the house collapsed behind them.

Well, she said, you called that one right. She looked at him admiringly. You finished this in the nick of time. Way to go. Yes, he said, I did, and you know, you had me worried. I did? she asked. I did? How so? Was I so unsupportive? I did come hand you things, she reminded him. No, it wasn't that, he said, it was that dessert. It was too good. I lingered dangerously. Ah, she said, the brownies. Yes. That might have been catastrophic. Well, she said, lying back against him as the water lapped and sang around the boat bed, what do we do now? Now we row, he said. Both of us. Right, she said. I assume you packed this boat? Here's your oar, he said. Hungry? She found the food and they ate graham crackers and yogurt. You thought of everything, she said, this boat is loaded. Why think of anything if you don't go ahead and think of everything? he asked. Why indeed, she agreed. Where are we going? she asked. Land, he said wisely and with a grand gesture, and then looked quickly over at her. I see you are considering throwing me overboard for that, he observed. I think you should not do so. I never would, she assured him, but I will continue to consider it, and she kissed him. How far is the land, do you know? she asked. He shook his head. Not close, he said, but the boat will carry the two of us there. She held his face in both her hands. I am with you, she told him, there is no place I'd rather be. He smiled hugely and sang a happy rowing song. Hey, you, he said, and grinned at her. Take your oar.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 26. In that Sleep

2011-06-17T16:54:00.000-07:00

How long has it been since you got some sleep? she asked. He raised his eyebrows, grinned. Let's see, he said, how old am I now? She didn't smile back. You need sleep, she said, I'm worried about you. I'm fine, he said, and I can sleep later. When things are not so busy. Let's finish this and then I need to run a few errands before we make dinner. She shook her head, held out her hand. You are going to get sick, she said. Come here, come with me, she said, leading him to the bed. Here, she said, and it was a command. Lie down and sleep. He opened his mouth to protest, to fight her on this, but she shook her head. When he saw she wouldn't budge, he lay down obediently, but then he opened his arms to her and waited, just as stubborn. She grinned then, climbed into his embrace, and he shut her up tight. Don't panic, he told her in her ear, I'm sure I'll loosen my grip once I'm unconscious. Pleasant dreams, she said, settling in to him. Is that a guarantee? he asked, and she said, If you like. Yes. Yes, it is. I'll insure all your dreams are pleasant, she said, while you do the sleeping. Lovely, he said, and closed his eyes.

She must have slept too, she must have though she did not remember falling asleep or dreaming or being awakened. She knew only that when she looked again, the light in the room had changed, had deepened and softened, and that he was fast asleep with his arms still about her. She watched him breathing, watched his face, soft and relaxed. She leaned toward him to kiss him as softly as a breath, more softly even than that, but she stopped to listen. To listen to a sound from under the bed. A scratching, a scuttling. She froze, she strained her ears. Scrambling, hissing. Mice, she thought. They had never seen any in this house, but certainly one or some would come sometime. She hated mice, hated them. Cautiously she looked over the edge of the bed, looked down, looked under. It wasn't mice. Not mice at all.

Hands coming from under the floor, from between the floorboards, hands reaching out of an impossible crack and long fingers feeling for purchase on the wooden floor. Not mice, hands. She thought it was a mistake, that she was dreaming, that the soft golden light had confused her eyes. She knew it wasn't hands because it couldn't be hands. And it wasn't a shoulder coming up and arms and eyes and tangled, twisted hair. It wasn't a demon. It wasn't. The eyes were only looking at him, fastened on him while he slept, and she watched from within his arms while the little thing clambered and scrabbled across the floor toward the bed, toward the leg of the bed. This is a dream, she thought. This is a bad dream. This is why he's not sleeping. Oh, she thought in horror and panic as the bad dream felt for the bottom of the quilt, how do I do this? She moved so slowly, so carefully, but it never took its eyes off him. Can't it see me? she wondered. Maybe not, it's not mine. Not my dream. The ugly little dream was on the quilt now, climbing hand over hand, clinging with its feet. She was very, very sick. She could feel the small tug of its weight on the quilt, could mark its progress without having to look. She needed not to look, found it turned her stomach to look. She listened to it climb. She listened to it breathe. He stirred in his sleep, murmured something, tightened his arms around her. I love you, she whispered to him and the bad dream jumped and she put herself right in its path and it hit her squarely in the chest.

After, after it was over and she lay by him, trying to stop shaking, trying to steady herself, to slow her breathing, she thought, this is why he never said anything. She did not look at the torn and huddled dream on the floor. She didn't need to. This is why he never told me. This is why he hasn't been sleeping, and she was grateful, so grateful to have done it, done what she said she would do. Sleep, baby, she thought, sleep. She lay back against him, drew a deep breath and heard it again. Heard that sound on the floor, that sound under the bed.

They were everywhere, there were hundreds of them. Climbing and snaking out through the floorboards, scuttling toward the bed, hissing and clicking. She pulled back against him, warm in his arms, reaching for the quilt to hide them, to pull over their heads. Then she was angry. Furious. She jumped out of bed and right over them. They paused, they had seen that. They hesitated, turned to see what she would do, waited to watch her pick up his big work boots. Okay, she said to them, okay.

He opened his eyes to see her looking at him, smiling as his eyes opened. Hey, she said. How did you sleep? His eyes widened, happy, surprised. Great, he said, like I was a little kid again. You did it, he said, you insured me pleasant dreams. Yes, she said, yes I did. She turned a little, turned them so he would not see the broom leaning against the wall where she had left it when he stirred, when she quickly came back to him. You know what? he asked. What? she said. It's been my life long dream to wake from sweet, clean sleep with the woman I love in my arms. Yeah? she said, kissing him under the chin, really? Life long dream? And how was it? As good as you hoped? Better, he said, tightening his arms, much, much better. It's a nice life long dream, she said. That's a very good dream.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 25. Leaves

2011-06-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

After it was over, after things calmed down and the family repaired what could be repaired and buried what could never be healed, after they drifted back to their lives, to the way things had been before, he just wandered around for days, for weeks maybe, lost. He took long walks, wandered along the river and among the trees, and so he found her, one day, found her and it all came slamming back on him; that long ago day and how he had run and run, chased her without plan or thought or mercy. How he had hounded her, pursued single-minded his heart's desire. It stopped him, it smashed him, it tore him apart, and he saw in himself his son, his dead boy, consumed pursuing thoughtless desire. He stood frozen, what he had done to her, how she came to be there, what she had been before pouring over him like water, like icy nightfall. It nearly broke him in two, to stumble on that old sin, that silent horror on top of so many others. He stood by her, reaching out helplessly, trying to form words that might be any way useful, any kind of sorry, but he finally just put his head against her trunk and wept til he thought he would run down into the river and be done, be emptied into that larger water. When he had cried himself quiet, he stayed with her, stayed with his arms wrapped around her and his face against her bark. He felt light, peaceful, tired, and he slid down til he lay at her foot and he slept there, against her, all night.

And after, in the days after, he just kept coming back to her. He found himself more and more often sitting in her shade, leaning his head against her bark. After a while, it was foolish, he knew it was foolish, but he talked to her. He talked to her and he told her everything. All of it. How he had wanted that love, his son's love. How he had tried to make the boy believe, how he had wanted this boy, this son to trust him, to admire him, to, well, to worship him. And what he had done. The terrible thing he had done, had allowed. He tried to explain it to her. He didn't lie to her, he told the truth. He spoke only truth, after all, but he really wanted to as well. He told her and it didn't even matter that she would never answer, could not speak. He said it all to her, from the beginning. I did try to talk him into sense, he told her, I did. I told him what would happen, I told him everything. And when he still fought for it, wanted it so badly, so badly, I did everything I could to keep him safe. I did everything I knew. Everything. It wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. Everything I could do wasn't enough.

And he told her in simple words of the burning, the boiling rivers, the flight and the fall, of streaming flaming hair like a comet's tail, of waters that embrace and close and kill and cherish and soothe a heart's fire. He told her all of that day, his eyes wide and blind, seeing it over again and again. He told her of the death of a son and the end of a world. He told her of green spikes of grass through black ash and of gentle breezes on burned limbs. He told her of a longing as wide as the sky and of daring and of failure and of judgment and he wept soundlessly and endlessly. And after, he sat under her, sheltered in her shade, dark, silent.

But a minute later he was talking again and he was saying the truth and not just because he had to. He wanted to tell her the truth, he wanted to, and he did. I didn't do everything, he said, dry and hollow now. Not everything, he said, not everything I knew to do. I did everything except just tell him no. I could have said no. And he'd be alive. He wouldn't believe in me. He wouldn't worship me or even like me and he'd be alive. He put his face against her again and cried that out of him. He felt a wind about him, soft and caressing, leaves brushing by his face. He looked up at leaves falling from her branches, whirling and spinning about him, piling softly on his legs and feet and on the ground. On the ground where they made a word.

The leaves said, Hey.

That night he couldn't sleep.

He sat under her, in her shade, tried to draw together his courage.
Yesterday, he began.
He stopped.
Tried again.
Yesterday, he said. He stuck there. There are things that simply cannot be believed without a personal dare and a running start, no matter how hot the hope, how sharp the need.
He leaned his head against her, his heart hammering, splintering. Did you talk to me? he whispered, his face on her bark. Was it...was that you? Did you? Are you there? he asked, are you there? Please, he said, shuddering with hope, please. Are you still there?
Silence. He waited for a wind, for a breeze, for leaves to chase across his skin.
It was a long time before he gave up the last shreds of his burning hope and opened his eyes to get up, to go home to his bed, opened his eyes to see the leaves about his feet that said, You've changed. Come back tomorrow.

He came every day.

He told her what he saw as he drove, he told her all the family gossip, the family dirt. He told her about fighting with his sister when they were small, how he used to tell boys she liked them and how she used to shoot him in the back. He told her about the songs he was making. He told her the questions, the heartache, the insoluble dilemmas people brought to him, he asked her advice, he told her what the sun on the river looked like, he asked her, one day, if she remembered her own hair. Is that offensive to you? he asked gently, frightened, that I wonder if you remember something like that? It's just that, that I had never seen such lovely, lovely hair, and I miss it. It's the truth, he said apologetically, I can't help saying it. I hope, he said softly, I hope it doesn't hurt you. I was just remembering. I would hate to hurt you, he said, to hurt you any more. He looked out over the river and remembered hurts he had made. I would do anything, he said toward the river, you know I would do anything. When he wiped the silent tears off his face, he looked down at leaves that were telling him, Find my father.

He flew.

He talked to her father, told him what the leaves said to him, and he did just as he had said, he did anything, anything asked of him and after so much work and after so many days he came back to her and brought her father, came back not knowing, trembling, questing, halting, burning.

She wasn't there. Her place was empty, the ground torn and still damp. He saw it, they both saw it, the leaves, the great jagged strips of bark, the pools and clumps of blood like sap soaking into the ground, but there was nothing else. No marks in the dirt, no footprints, no message. No word. Her father's hands shook, his head shook, her father sobbed and beat his chest softly. He stood by her father, hands empty, heart empty, mouth empty. I'm sorry, he finally said to her father, stunned, broken, this is not what...I'm so sorry. And he ran.

A year later he found her. She was living in a tiny house between the river and the sea, in the shadow of a tall and arching cliff. She smiled when she saw him coming, saw the light rising under the dark of the overhanging cliff. Yes, she said, you found me. She took him into her house and he sat in her chair, brimming. She watched him, curiously. He smiled and smiled, and thought he might be better able to sing than to speak, but he could no more sing than he could leave this place, leave her in the shadow of the cliff. Are you alright? she asked, gently, and he nodded, reached out so slowly, so terribly carefully, to touch her hair. What is it? he asked, looking into her eyes. Uh, she said, you're, um, is that...how are you? she asked. I think I'm completely happy, he said, and she said, Yes, I see, and are those little flames coming off of you? and he looked around him. Yes, he said, embarrassed, yes, those are flames. Could you, he asked, do you have, something? And she said quickly at the same time, Why don't you stand up? Out of the chair? And maybe, I'm sorry, but would you like to take-- and he interrupted her, A cold shower? Yes. That's the thing. It's almost funny, isn't it? Almost, she said. Could you quick step off that rug? But she was laughing so hard. He laughed and reached out for her and she was running outside and before he could think, before he could stop himself he was chasing her. Horrified, loving her, wanting her, chasing. But she was laughing and laughing and she pushed him into the river.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 24. Poison

2011-06-15T12:49:00.000-07:00

If we get a dog it shouldn't have so much long hair, she said disapprovingly as she watched the dogs and people walk down the street. He watched them, too. No, he agreed, I don't think your mom would like that much. She looked up at him. I wouldn't like it, she said. Okay, he said, you either. Me either, he added, surprised. Not a cat, she said. No, he agreed, they're creepy. But they don't bark, she observed thoughtfully, which is nice, and they eat predators. He thought a moment. Do you mean rodents? he asked, they eat rodents? What are mice? she asked, aren't mice predators? He smiled, turning the words over in his mind. Tricky question, he said, but either way, no cat. No cat, she agreed. It's got to be a frog, she said, we've talked it through before. A frog and a pretty fish. Yes, he said, we just have to be careful. I think some fish and frogs poison each other, but I can't remember for sure, I can't remember which ones. The store workers help you with that, she said, wisely. They are not supposed to let you put animals together that would die. We can trust them. Yes, he smiled down at her, yes. We're lucky.

At the fish and frog store they bought a glass container and food and plants and a little net and water conditioning drops and a tiny frog and three fish. She asked lots of questions until she got all the care and feeding straight in her head. He watched her from a respectful distance, pretending to read a small handbook on the raising of lizards for profit. They loaded up the purchases. He looked her over; she was quite burdened. We should have maybe driven, he said. No, she said. I like the walk. I like to walk with you. You can carry the heavy things, she told him kindly. I'll take the animals, I'm careful. Thank you, he said gravely.

They walked back past different dogs and other people. She was very quiet; he watched her watching the fish and frog dart about in their tiny life support containers. You were right, she said. You were right about the frogs and the fishes. I was right? he asked, how was I right? Poison, she said. I asked. Oh! he said, I forgot. Did you ask the store workers? Yes, she said. The fish make poison that doesn't hurt them but can hurt the frogs. Sometimes. She held up the bags, held them close together. Why can they do that? she asked him, looking up into his eyes, why can they make poison just by living? He felt helpless, lost. Well, he said. Do they do it on purpose? she asked, do they mean to? No, baby, he said, of course they don't mean to. So it's not like snakes, then? she asked. It's not...like...what? he asked. Snakes bite because they're poison, she said, they try to hurt you. He stopped and looked down at her. Her eyes were big, she held tightly to the cool bags. Here, he said, come over here. They walked over to a bench, he carefully set down the glass container and the bags of marine life accessories. Here, he said, sit here for a minute. She sat, bags on her lap. He sighed.

Snakes don't bite because they want to hurt you, he said, they just bite. It's how they are, how they take care of themselves. And they are just poisonous when they are born. The fish are the same way. They make poison for the frogs just because of the way they are. Not because they mean to. But, she said, but what about if it's an accident? What if it occurs in the wild? And the fish wake up one morning and everyone else is dead? He bit his lip inside his mouth. He loved her words, he wasn't used to this yet from her. I don't think it occurs in the wild, he said carefully, to protect her feelings and because his lip hurt. I think that's the point. In the wild the fish and frogs wouldn't live in the same place, so everyone would be fine. Frogs and fish have learned not to be too close if one would hurt the other one. They don't cohabitate, he said, handing her a new word with deliberate care. He watched her taste that one, turn it over on her tongue. What about people? she asked.

He sighed again, looking across the street. People, he said, that's a tricky question. Yes, people and poison. Well, he said, and she looked at him for a long time. People, he said, well, what do you think? Yes, she said, I think so. He was startled, as he often was, by the sadness and wisdom that passed quickly across her face. He tipped her chin up. Hey, he said, let's get these critters to their new digs. Your mom will be wondering what on earth happened to us. It's okay, she reminded him, she knows we walked. She thinks we're slow. We are slow, he said, balancing the glass container and the bags so he could reach his arms around her to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. Hey, she said, you're squishing the fish bag.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 23. Snowbuses

2011-06-14T22:37:00.000-07:00

The snow was so deep they could not get their car out, or even remember where it was parked. That was a long time ago, when they used to drive their car to the places they had decided they wanted to go. Now the only way to get around the city was in the big buses that drifted up and down the streets. If you needed to go somewhere, if it was time for you to go, you went out and stood in front of your house and in just a minute a bus would come along from somewhere and pick you up. It was the only way they could travel, now in this monument, this amazement of snow. This is how it worked. You stood out in front of your house in the deep ditch that you had carved in the snowfall that was like what your sidewalk used to be. Part of you stuck out the top, more or less of you, depending on how tall you were. When the bus came along you got on quickly and the driver took you to where the bus was going that time. You never knew where that would be. Most drivers didn't decide til they saw you. You might have a destination you hoped for, and most people did, at first, anyway but after you rose the snowbuses for a while, if you did, if you could bring yourself to ride them, you realized this was a good way. To take what came to you and after a time to see that this was what was best, after all. It was what you needed.

It was that or walking.

He stood in front of his house, in the deep sidewalk ditch, with his boys. The youngest was not tall enough to be seen above the banks of snow at all and the next oldest was just tall enough that only his hat could be seen, as if someone had come along and set a red hat down on the snow and walked away. A hat that hopped and zipped back and forth. The rest of them stuck out more or less half way above the snow. They were waiting for a bus, and most of them had hopes about where they wanted the bus to go. Some of them were saying out loud what those hopes were. He kept looking over his shoulder, back at the house, to see if perhaps she had changed her mind, if perhaps she might be coming with them after all. She wasn't happy about the buses now that the snow had come. She hated how it was, with the drivers going where you needed to go instead of where you wanted to go, where you chose. She said she wasn't going anywhere til she could drive again, and she folded her arms and shut the bedroom door. He got the boys dressed without her, but still he looked over his shoulder to see if she had changed her mind, if she might be coming. Or maybe even if she might be at the front window watching them. He half thought he saw her, raised his arm in the beginning of a wave, but the wave faltered and died in his hand, at the ends of his fingers. It wasn't her, it wasn't someone. It was a shadow that crossed between the kitchen and the hall but it wasn't her. He turned and saw the oldest boy looking back too, looking at the shadow that crossed and wasn't anyone. The oldest boy slid his eyes away and then leaned out toward the street. Here comes the bus, the oldest boy said, and they all turned to get ready, to jump on.

Where do you think you're off to? the bus driver asked and the boys laughed, delighted. Tell us! they said. The driver leaned over to the two smallest boys and grinned. Guess, the driver said. The zoo! they guessed, jumping. The zoo, the driver said, that's good. That's very, very good. They all held their breaths while the driver thought. The driver narrowed his eyes, staring out the frosted side window. They looked where the driver looked and there was the zoo. Soft and pillowy under the deep round drifts that muffled all the city sounds. There were the lions playing the game of follow-the-pride-leader, each one stepping precisely in First Lion's paw prints as First Lion led them around and about, leaving a single line of one set of prints; chest-deep leg chimneys in the perfect snow. Tails lifted. Happy cat faces wearing smiles of careful concentration. Follow-the-pride-leader is not an easy game. Lots of people end up getting eaten for being bad and sloppy at it. Cobras and boas were making snow tunnels. Monkeys were throwing snowballs at peacocks. Penguins were making snow angels. You could only see half of every zebra. Hmm, the driver said, the zoo. Yes. That's very, very good. The driver's gaze snapped to the youngest boys and he leaned over toward them. Next time, the driver said, pulling out into what must be the street, next time the zoo. Right now, though, you do not want to miss the mall. As they drove away from the house, as he settled his boys into seats, he looked back once more into the shadowed house, and saw his oldest boy looking back, too.

It was sad, driving to the mall. After all these days of wise buses that took them just where they had thought they hadn't wanted to go, the boys knew better than to complain out loud, but they were sure, completely sure, fairly sure, almost sure, they wanted very badly to miss the mall. The bus driver drove straight across the smooth, endless snow that used to be a parking lot. It was like a speeding boat, a snowboat. Glittering white waves flew up on both sides of them, twice as high as the bus. They left a curving and patterned wake behind. The driver went right over mounds that must be planters, parked cars, little parking lot trees, right over curbs and sidewalks and dropped them right at the mall front doors. Go all the way in, he told them, be sure to go all the way in. They went in eagerly, even the oldest boy laughing and wondering. But the mall was empty. Silent. He stopped, his boys clustered and eddied about him. Nothing. Quiet and echoing. Go all the way in, the next-to-youngest said. The driver told us to go all the way in. So they did. He pulled the boys close as they walked carefully, stepping in each other's tracks, through the shadowed and barren mall. They came to the last possible corner, the last place they could go before they were going right back out again, and the world exploded. Welcome! the man in the top hat shouted down at them. He was impossibly thin and impossibly tall. Welcome to the Winter Circus! We're snowed in, we're wintering over in the mall, and we're in dire need of acrobats! Can you do things? Tricks up your sleeves? Show us what you've got and we'll show you what we've got! We've got equipment! We've got costumes! Cotton candy gratis! Welcome! Welcome!

You must just imagine what a wonderful day they had. Not even the oldest boy looked over his shoulder. Tight ropes. Trick ponies. Face paint. Sawdust. Red noses. Cannons needing human balls. Sparkly ladies. Lion cages. Popcorn. All at mall prices. What a wonderful day, a wonderful, wonderful day.

She stood by the window, or, not by the window, but where she could see out the window from too far back to be herself seen. She waited. She watched the buses go by and she never once wished she had gone with them. It got dark and she blamed him. It snowed and she thought of how he did this sort of thing all the time. It began to snow hard and harder and she thought that was just like him. The house filled with shadows and she told him in her mind how wrong he was to take children out in snowbuses with crazy drivers who bossed you into destinations you never intended. Snow filled the deep ditch that had been like a sidewalk and smoothed it and eased it and she counted buses go by. She counted one hundred and eighty six buses and he did not bring back her children. How can you do this, she asked, how could you do this to our family? Snow sifted under the doors and around the feet of couches and chairs. It's not fair, she told him in her mind, you don't get to do this. Shadows filled the room, blue snow shadows, and she made a complete list of all the reasons he was wrong and she reached out both hands and took hold of a shadow and pulled it over her head.

We're back, he said. You should have come, he said helplessly, it was so great. The boys tumbled around, balloons, streamers, spangles, banners and a top hat. She uncurled from the chair. Why are their faces blue? she said, but it was so much like a scream that it was more horrible because it was not. Cotton candy! the youngest boy said, happy. She turned to him in frozen fury. When will you take things seriously, she said to him. Now I'm going to feed my children some real food. She walked stiffly into the dark kitchen, slapping down the milk, pulling out boxes of cereal so that they spilled. He reached out to her, he dropped his hand. The younger boys were asleep in a sticky, smiling pile on the floor. The oldest boy watched her go and his red balloon slipped away from his fingers, nestled in the shadows against the ceiling.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 23. Boots

2011-06-13T14:32:00.000-07:00

Here, she said, we have to be quick.
This is not going to work, he said, this is never going to work. Whatever it is you are doing is not going to work.
Yes, it is, she said, hurry. I promise you, I promise you. It will work. Hand me your pants.

The skinny blond one pulled her car over and hopped out. Oh, you guys, the skinny blond said, oh, you guys, are you guys all right?
Thank you, thank you so much for stopping, she said to the blond, I'm fine but my...my brother is hurt. He just went off into the gravel a little but--
Oh my gosh, the blond one said, I know! I've done the same thing and I got so messed up, it was unreal. Hey, let me give you guys a ride back. No, I want to. There's one of those insta-care places, and you can just put your bikes on the rack.
Oh, thank you, thank you so much, she said. He's really messed up, you can see he's really bad, I don't think he can even walk.
You shoved me, he whispered harshly into her ear as she helped him into the car, you nearly killed me and I will get you for it. Do not think I will not pay you back because I will if it is the last thing I do.
Shut it, she whispered back. Let me do this.
She put him in the backseat and herself in the front by the blond and they pulled onto the road. I love, love, love your boots, the blond said, were you riding in those?
Riding? In these? she asked.
Busted, he whispered. If you're so smart how come you bike in boots?
She ignored him. It was easy because he was impotent with agony. Yes, she said, biking. Yes. I was. I love them too, she purred, handmade in Italy for me. I wear them everywhere. Even biking.
They're yummy, the blond said. So, what were you doing?
Lies were told. Lots of long, elaborate lies.
Wait, the blond said, you're the guy who wrote those pieces on sustainable agriculture and co-dependent community living? That The Sun King ran? That's my dad's blog, the blond said excitedly, did you know?
No! Is it? she asked in innocent astonishment.
No! They did? he asked with barely concealed outrage. How the hell did they get there?
Someone must have submitted them, she said evenly, giving him a level stare over the back of the seat, that's how these things usually happen.
Yes, the blond said, nodding, that's always how it happens. I think.
You're totally right, she assured the blond, who grinned with amazing teeth and offered everyone gum.
I do not want my work there, he ground out whispered words through clenched teeth. That man is a lunatic. What the hell do you think you are doing?
That man, she whispered back fiercely, is king of a world food empire. When you marry his daughter, she glanced at the blond who had turned on the radio and was singing, you can save the world. Are you with me? Now shut it and let me work.
No, he said, no. I will not.
But she was purring away in the front seat and he was really hurting from the scrapes all down the left side of his body. Really hurting. He could barely hear her telling inspirational stories about his work reclaiming unused land and in year round container gardening. He needed to strangle her. He had dug up a fourth of the grass in his backyard and grown herbs on his windowsill. His work was theoretical, dammit. I'm swearing, he thought, feeling completely out of control. I have no idea what's going on here. I never swear. No, that's not true. I always swear with her. At her. He slipped into quick and vivid dreams of childhood entanglements that always had him swearing from start to finish. How did he let her get him into things? I'm gonna make something out of you, she always said. Somebody has to. She and the blond were tight as sisters now; he could hear the blond trilling about how impressed her dad was with his work, how her dad was looking for just such a visionary young man to really take off in his company. He looked up, stricken with horror at the thought of finding himself taking off in that company, and caught the blond turned right around to look him over, saw the blond linger on his chest and arms. Drive! he whispered and saw at the same time that she had the wheel so the blond could get her good look. He crossed his arms over his chest, too little too late. Give me your shirt, she had said not too long before she had knocked him off his bike and down an embankment, it will help. He had had no idea what she had meant. I'm going to have to actually make her dead, he thought in amazement. He decided to kill her right then rather than later. He reached for her neck, but he was feeling feverish now, it hurt to lift his arms. She saw him coming a mile away and evaded his grasp, feigning concern, leaning over to ask how he was holding up. She crossed her legs in those boots and smiled.
Almost there, she said.

In the emergency room he told the nurse who was murdering his whole body with antiseptic that he needed to talk to the girl who was waiting for him.
The nurse raised his eyebrows. The blond? the nurse asked, yeah, okay, and then muttered something almost unintelligible about needing to talk to her himself.
No, not her, feel free to talk to her, he said, I need the other one. The dark one in boots.
Oh, the nurse said, her. I'm not sure she's still here. I'll go check.
If she is gone, he thought, if she has left me, I will murder her twice.
But she had not yet gone. Found her, the nurse said, and just in time, she was on her way out.
Hey, she said, arms folded, face blank, told you it would work. I told you. Just play this right and you're king of the world. Your world, anyway. The part of the world you care about. Then you can do the big things you were born for. I'm gone. Got a lunch date, a concert after. She was out the door.
If you marry me, he said, I will take you to Italy next week and have a pair of boots made for you.
She stood, her back to him.
If you marry me I will have you on a plane to Italy as soon as I can walk from long term parking all the way through security.
She turned around. What? she said, you'll what?
If you marry me I will have a pair of boots for every day of the week made for you by the best craftsmen in...wherever the hell you got those boots.
Her face was white and still. Why, she said, why?
Because I love you, he told her, I thought you loved me. I thought you knew. You don't love me, do you? Do you? I thought you did. I thought that was why you worked so hard on me. I thought we'd marry each other when we got ready. I thought that right up until you threw me down the embankment. Now, now I want to know. Don't you love me? I always thought you did, he said sadly.
The embankment was an accident, she told him, I didn't know it was there.
You are most likely lying, he said. So, you don't love me? I love you, he said. Why did you try to kill me?
I love you, she said, I thought that was what you wanted.
To be dead? he asked, you thought what I wanted was to be dead because you love me?
I thought you wanted to be king of something, she said, and I knew you'd never get there alone. I just threw you at an important person. To get you what you want.
The nurse was standing with his back against the wall, an antiseptic pad in his hand and the other hand over his mouth. The nurse was crying and crying. You're what he wants, the nurse whispered to himself, but he was quiet and everyone had forgotten him.
Come here, Boots, he said.
No, she said, first I have to go get rid of a princess.
He held out his hands, so painfully.
No, she said, just a sec, let me go do this.
The nurse pushed him back down. Firmly. It's okay, the nurse said, she's coming right back. Give her a minute, she's having so much fun.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 22. Jonquil

2011-06-12T18:41:00.000-07:00

She told everyone it was not a big deal, not a big problem, though of course, it was, and there, right there, lay her problem. Not that she had told everyone a thing which was not at all true, she had done that over and over, as was nearly inevitable she should, but that she told it to everyone. That was the problem, the big problem.
She told.
Everyone.
Everything.

She was a really nice girl, but she had this problem. With talking. She never stopped. She couldn't help herself. She didn't try. She told things. She told everyone everything and sometimes people liked that about her and sometimes they didn't. Everything she heard, she repeated. And repeated. She was undeniably useful if you wanted to know anything about other people, but certainly troublesome if there were anything you didn't want other people to know. As most people want both to know and not to be known, frictions were bound to arise. You could really throw your heart into it with her, you could plead and say to her, please, please, don't tell this to anyone, ever, or, on the other hand you could say, please, please, tell me everything you know, but whatever you said the effect was precisely the same. She told everything, all the time, and not only that, she always started at the beginning so it took forever to get through it all with her. You had to really weigh your available time before she plunged in.

People took to avoiding her. It was inevitable. They got tired; she was wearing. Everyone was always promising themselves they would never tell her anything ever again but then, of course, they did. Well. She was family and she was there, and she was so receptive. Never tired of listening. And such a fount of information! But she never stopped, she went on and on. And on and on and on and on.

People, even the family, have assumed, quite unfairly, that he didn't care for her, either because she just repeated whatever he said and who could stand that, or else because they thought anyone so wrapped up in himself could never notice her at all, but they were wrong on both points. He never disliked her empty chatter because he simply never noticed it. He never listened to talk about people other than himself, and he loved that she repeated everything he said. It showed that she had good taste and that her priorities were in order. He had the same taste and priorities. It was one of the things he most liked about her, that they had so much in common. He also loved her prettiness because he loved pretty things. Loved them. She was so very pretty and the fact that she was not as pretty as he made him all the more astonishing to people. As you see, people were wrong to assume he never noticed her, he had noticed her. These were the things he noticed. Then, too, he himself talked, all the time, talked about himself and she repeated everything he said and he thought that was wonderful. Really, he did. Right. Appropriate. No frictions ever arose between the two of them. That was not the problem.

The problem was her aunt.

When the aunt got angry the aunt had a way of making the whole world uncomfortable, and she had made the aunt very angry. People felt it, they all felt very uncomfortable now. People were blaming her and they were right. She had talked, she had talked too much. She had repeated things better said only once, and now everyone knew. It was family, it was family business. No one was to talk to her anymore, about anything, the aunt had made that very clear. And you know, they didn't. The aunt made it her business to see it through, to make it stick. When the aunt spoke, people listened but it would have come down to the same thing in the end, regardless. This was coming anyway, it was inevitable, because people were tired of her, they couldn't trust her and she was wearing. No one told her anything anymore, so all she could do was repeat the last things she had heard. She was cut off, isolated, drying up. Everyone turned away. It's the trouble with family business; it's risky, things can go wrong. No one was speaking to her but him. At least she still had him. He would talk to her, he still told her things. And he thought she was pretty. But he wasn't home much. She made a very nice dinner and sat down to wait. Something was wrong with her, she couldn't stop crying. She waited. He had gone to the mall. She wondered why he didn't come back, wondered if the aunt had called him, wondered if he had noticed none of the family were telling her things. She waited.

He hadn't noticed. He had gotten a haircut. He wondered why she hadn't noticed. He waited for her to say something, waited all through dinner but she never complimented him, she never said anything at all. He said, Well, you're pretty quiet. She said, Pretty. Quiet. When she brought in dessert he sighed heavily and said, So, do you notice anything different about me? She said, Do you notice anything different? He ate his ice cream and waited. She said nothing. He ate her ice cream because she didn't. He said, Honey, I need you to be more observant. She said, I need you. He noticed her eyes were red. Not a good color for eyes. He said, What is wrong with you? She said What? He went to watch the game. She cleared the table, did the dishes. She repeated over and over, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you?

She stood in the door, watching him watch the game. I'm dying, she said, I'm drying up. No one talks to me, I'm wasting away. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I can't seem to put two words together. She took a deep breath. I don't feel like I'm real to you, she said, it feels like I'm just a fan club, a gossip page. I was stupid, I said too much and no one will ever forget, no one in this family ever forgives anything. It's like I'm cursed. Are you listening to me? she asked. Am I talking out loud?
But he never listened when she talked about other people, people like herself. His buddy came in to watch the game. Hey, his buddy said to her, lookin' good. You lost weight? She went out to work in the garden but she just sat staring over the little reflecting pond he had installed last summer. The daffodils hung their heads over the water, the wind blew, it was very quiet. You lost, she said to herself, you lost. What's wrong with her? the buddy asked, you guys fighting? Wrong with who? he asked, glancing at his buddy. With her? No, she's fine. She's whatever. We never fight. He looked at his buddy again. Hey, he said admiringly, lookin' good. You been working out?

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty days and Nights: Love Stories. 21. Earth Mother

2011-06-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

She had deciduous hair. In the fall it turned red and orange and in the winter it fell right off and she wore hats. But it came back every spring, and then it was curly. Summers lasted forever, long and flowing. He liked that about her, he really liked it. He didn't get out much and it helped him feel connected. His office was dark, his den was dark, his work was pretty dead boring and the people he worked with were stiff. She made life so interesting. Her mother didn't like him, of course, said he had stolen her daughter, her flower, said he took away the light from the world.

She told him not to pay attention to her mother.

She's a little crazy since the divorce. He nodded; he knew that. If your husband leaves you and marries your sister, it's gonna leave you a little tippy. Anyway, she said, my mom will never forgive me for loving your food. My mom's such a bad cook, such a terrible cook. It's weird, he said, since she's an amazing gardener. Everything just grows for her, too bad she never gets any joy out of cooking it. He sighed. Nothing grew for him. He put his arms around her, held her close. I love to cook with you, he said, and ran his hands through her hair, which right then was long and flowing. And green. She smiled at him. I love you, she said, and it's okay for my mom, she eats mostly fresh stuff anyway. All she has to do it chop. Anyone can use a knife.

It made him uncomfortable when she said things like that.

The thing is, her mom really didn't like him. It wasn't just a little problem, it was a big problem. Her mom talked to people about it, about their marriage. I don't believe she's happy, her mom told people, unloading tomatoes and zucchini onto their kitchen counters, I really don't think she's okay. I think he has some hold over her, I think he somehow keeps her against her will, her mom said, handing people bags of peaches and plums. It didn't bother him, much, that her mom talked to people, even that he knew the uncles and aunts didn't care for him either. People often didn't, he knew that. People found him depressing. Silent, hulking. He was used to it. He made people uncomfortable. That was one reason he loved her so tenderly, so fiercely. She loved him, yes, but she liked him, too, and that meant so much. Even liked his big, dark house. A fortress, her mom said, who does he think he is? What is this, a castle? her mom said, handing over a basket. Here, I thinned the beets and carrots.
Her mom didn't like him at all, would never even come to dinner. Her mom made a big deal about never eating his food.

Thing was, his food was amazing. It was really good. Maybe he couldn't grow anything, no, certainly he couldn't, but his cooking was divine. She told him the first time he cooked for her that he had just changed her life. He remembered her smiling at him across her plate; her hair was short and curly then. Nothing will ever be the same after this, she said, and it never was. She never ate at home again after that first meal. And her mom never forgave him.

Her mom talked to people about him. Her mom complained, campaigned, threatened, even litigated. Her mom called one of the uncles, the judge, nearly every day. Isn't there something you can do, her mom asked, isn't there anything you can do about this? I want my daughter back. I know she can't be happy, but she keeps it from me. I can't sleep, I can't work, nothing is going right. I left corn and string beans on you back step, by the way. The uncle sighed. It was a problem. Her mom had a way of making life difficult for the whole world. Thank you, the uncle said, for the corn and beans, and no. There's nothing I can do. She's of legal age, he takes good care of her, she insists she's happy. But he's so much older than she is, her mom wailed. As if that clinched it. And I'm lonely, her mom said, I'm so lonely. Her mom covered her face with her hands and sobbed. I can't live without her, I'm so, so lonely. Which was what clinched it.

Look, one of the aunts finally said, we've all talked about it, we've all talked about it and this is what we think. Why don't you just ask her to come stay with you for a week or two every so often? Other people do it. It works. Borrow her back, the aunt said, and thank you for the pumpkins. They're beautiful.

She stayed with her mom for a week or two, and he spent the entire time waiting for her to come back. He baked and froze things, he filled the fridge with food, and there was an enormous salad and fresh bread on the table when she came back. Oh, honey, I missed you, he told her, choking a little. Hey, she said, smiling at him, I never want to go back, but I think I will. I think that was good. My mom's so happy right now, in fact, she's going on a cruise. Thank the gods, he thought, but he said, oh? She'll like that. This is so good! she said around a bite of salad, I have missed your food so much! Oh, I do love fruit in a salad. Pomegranates, he said. Don't leave me, he said, running his hands through her hair that was streaked with yellow. A few fine strands came away on his fingers. I'll always come back, she said, I love you.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty Days and Nights. 20. Snail's Pace

2011-06-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

Things were wild in those days. You could never be sure about life from one minute to the next. One morning a lion might have long hair, then the next day, short curly hair, then no hair at all. No hair was hard on the lions, but it didn't last. Tiny spots stuck to green leaves might turn into caterpillars and then into butterflies and then back and forth. Confusing. One day leopards were sleek and blond, the next day they were all over spots, and no one could ever say why. Wild boars lost their wings but grew tusks. One evening the elephants looked around and realized they were no longer pink, and, oddly, they never, ever were again. Birds lost their scales and snakes lost their tails. Things were wild in those days.

She was low to the ground, she sped about on a bed of slime. She tasted the world through her feelers and it was good, it was very good. Green growing things to munch and to munch and life was good. No one was as fast as she, no one as quick. Messenger to the gods she was, fastest of the creatures on an earth the bucked and swayed and altered as she moved across it. The sea god loved her specially for, though she was a creature of the land, she rode a wave and left a trail of foam, as did many of the god's children. She loved him, loved him and did his bidding. He gave her a beautiful home, a home of shell, twisted and spiraled and chambered.

She loved it.

Loved it with a fierce and desperate love, a terrible lusting passion that rocked her and wrecked her. She possessed it and it possessed her. She was very happy, very happy in her having.

And yet.

Her home was light to carry, as homes go. She moved it about to find the best place, the nicest sun, the choicest shade, the sweetest breeze. She moved it about for the sheer joy of the moving. She lugged and loved and longed and at last, it occurred to her to worry. If she could move it, why not someone else move it? Why not anyone else move it? Why not just everyone move it? The thought stopped her in her track. What if someone moved it and she didn't find the place it had gone? What if someone moved it and took it and lived in it and she never ever saw it again? The thought grew on her and she found she could not bear to be away, for fear, for fear of what might happen. Might. Might happen.

She went back to check.
Home.
Safe.
Again.

She slacked her duties, shirked her work, shoved her promises. Fear grew in her and she rode her wave high, rode it fast, rode it back to check, to check, to check. It was there, it was safe, all was well with her twisted, her chambered, her tapered home of lovely brown shell. All, all was well.

The gods grew restive.
No one likes their messages left lying, their orders ignored, their due reverence unpaid. It you say you'll deliver the words of a god, you darn well better see to that in a timely fashion. You darn well better. She shouldered aside the growing pile of messages as she zipped back for one more look. Just to be sure, just to be safe. Back and forth and back and forth and back and back and back.
Home.
Safe.
Home.
Safe.
It was only a matter of time. Things were too wild, too fluid, too new and raw. The gods altered creatures to suit their fancy, their whim, their style. People awoke to find themselves changed for any reason, for no reason. She was racing against time every time she raced home to check, to be sure, to just be on the safe side. How her heart leaped, how it raced and purred when she saw it, when she caught sight of her beloved. How I love thee, she whispered, how I adore thee.

Finally, the god spoke. He said, in a message for her and for her alone, why on earth don't you just carry the silly thing around with you from now until the end of all things rather than rush off to check it every five seconds? Difficult to tell what those words really meant to him when he said them, but simple to say what they meant to her when she heard them. Approval. Freedom. Permission.

She did it. She did what the god had said. She had to. She had no choice. She desired no other choice.

Yes, she thought, as she stretched under the weight of the home she carried on her back, yes. She was happy, she was safe, she was home. This is what is best for people like us, she thought, people like us aren't meant to live where things are too wild, too unsettled. We're just meant to be at home, to be at home no matter where we go.
Finally, she thought, as she strained and inched her way along. Finally. I am at peace. I can let go now, she thought as she crept through her days with her life on her back. It's all here, she thought. It's all mine. No more worry, no more wonder. No more fastest-of-them-all. No more messages from the blessed gods, she thought. Someone will deliver the words of the gods, someone will step up to the task. Someone always does, even if they have to grow wings on their feet to do it, someone will take that up if I let it fall. Finally, she thought, I can just be. Now. Now.
Now, she thought, now I can rest.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 19. Between the Lines

2011-06-09T01:34:00.001-07:00

Once he started, once he got fairly well into it, he simply could not put it down. He stayed up the whole night to finish. He couldn't help himself, he couldn't stop. It was tough in one go like that, long and densely written, but he did it. It was sort of his superpower, reading like that, and this time especially. This time he was not just interested, not simply engaged, he was riveted, he was driven. He couldn't be a moment without her, he just couldn't. He had to, had to know how she ended, and then, of course, she didn't. Finishing her first book left him frantic, raging, caged. He'd surely known she went on into the other books, but he certainly hadn't foreseen any problem with that. They were, after all, merely books, and he was, after all, a great reader. Reading was his passion, a passion he cultivated and nurtured, not a passion which mastered him. Certainly he read his share of current fiction; certainly he had read books in series before; certainly he had felt eagerness to reach the end of a long and involved story. Often. He was, after all, human, even if, he admitted it modestly to himself, even if he were a superhuman reader.
And yet.
Before this, before this very moment, his feelings towards books written in a series had been, at best, passive; if he had accidentally read a book that turned out to be the first of several, if he had liked it, he had casually picked up the later books as he found them in stores, at friends' houses, at the library; at worst he had felt contempt toward them. Real books, he had thought privately and smugly to himself, stood alone. It was an unexamined prejudice, and a strong one, but it had fled in the night and he was naked in his need. Now he was bereft and left hanging at five in the morning. Now he felt nearly frantic with wonder at her, with worry for her. Now he cursed himself for a fool to so casually undertake her having laid no plan, given no thought to in any way securing her to himself. He could not have slept even if his headlong reading had not filled the entire night. At breakfast he began her book again, to be near her while he ate. He carried her book on the train and read it in the taxi. He thought about her, brooded on her every moment he was not actually reading about her. The next day he skipped a meeting and went out eagerly to buy the rest of the books in her series, going to three bookstores to finally get them all because they were sold out everywhere.

By the end of the week he had read all her books through twice.
By the end of the week he knew her through and through.
By the end of the week he could have told you anything her author had decided about her, anything he had himself extrapolated about her and any of the things about her he had, in the last week, carefully and lovingly made up out of the clear blue sky.
By the end of the week he knew her, all and more than all there was to know.
By the end of the week she was so nearly his he could almost taste her.
And by the end of the week he had had a nasty shock.
The series was not complete.
Her last book, the volume which would answer all his questions, lay to rest all his concerns, set a capstone to mark and to celebrate all his longing, had yet to be published. Sometime next year, the website said, sometime next year. That posting was already more than a year old.

Two days later he phoned her author at home, having by that time already sent thirty-seven inquires to the publishing company, forty-one to her author's agent and ninety-six emails to her author's fan page, Facebook account and private mail account. Carbon copies. He phoned out of sheer frustration because, having gotten no response to his storm of electronic and paper pleadings, he assumed no one was listening. He got no answer at her author's home so he left messages. He left eighty-three voice messages over the next five days. He decided her author wasn't at his home. How could he be home and not answer a simple phone call, respond to a simple message making a simple request. Publication date? Plot summary? Story overview? Yes or no answers to three questions that were killing him, sucking the marrow from his bones and leaving him wide awake and staring at his ceiling night after night? Answers, that was all he needed. He had to have them, had to get them, had to know. Had to. Had to know how she would end. He had a right, after all. After all this time he had a right.

By the end of the next week he not only felt he had a right, he felt he had a claim, and a few days later he had a right, a claim and a stake. He also had her ending worked out in his head. It came out wonderfully well, tied up all her loose ends, resolved all her untamed bits and pieces. It was so clear to him, so obvious. Surely this was how it was, what she would herself want. He was sure, so sure he called her author to tell him. He told him, over the phone, into her author's message box. It took two hours. Then he sat back to wait. To await her coming to him, perfect and whole and complete.

As it turned out, everyone was listening to his missives. Even the police, even the FBI. Lots of people were very aware, but none more keenly aware than her author, who loved her for herself, who had found her in his head fully grown and fully realized and had loved her in her fullness and in her wild state. Her author turned over the pleadings on paper with shaky hands. Her author listened again and again to those hours of instruction, teaching him how to end her, to bring it all to a close. He read and he listened and he, too, did not sleep. This was it, this was it, his irrational fear come home to him and to her. He turned over and over in his bed and turned over in his mind what he had known he would have to do. In the end it was very painful for him, but he did it. He had to, he loved her so.

He wrote it all out, his own style, but following the bones, the route taken by the words spoken for those hours into his answering machine. He wrote it out, and he changed her. He changed her in the words and in the letters and in the pauses and in the marks to mark the pauses. He altered her until the woman in this story, this last story, was not at all, not in any way, the woman he knew, and loved. He wrote this new woman into an ending story, and then he sent to the crazed man who did not love her but thought of her til he thought he would die of it, a letter, genuinely expressed and gorgeously worked. He was an author, after all. The letter told the crazed reader that her author was old, too old to see her last book through publication, but that he, the author, had recognized in him, the reader, a fellow and a brother. Her author wrote that he was entrusting her final chapters to her most ardent, her one true reader on condition the reader never reveal her to the world. The secret would die between the two of them. If the reader could abide by these conditions, the author would send her to her most passionate reader for safe keeping til the end of all things. The letter stated her author would die content knowing she was in such careful hands.

Her reader truly nearly died of joy at this. He eagerly sent back his acceptance, his assurances of strict compliance. Let it be here stated that he did in fact comply, all his life, that he took the draft with the woman who was altered past recognition but who was so exactly what he had thought he wanted her to become that he never at all noticed, and hid her up to himself forever and for always. He consumed her stories again and again, filling himself with the idea that she was his alone. He died a long many years later, utterly convinced.

Her author, having sent off the draft directed to the return address on the piles of mail he had received in the last troubling weeks, sat down thoughtfully, and lovingly edited and amended the last story as he had written it over the eight months previous to these events. He marked her and mended his words of her and held her as he brought her through the end he had seen and hoped for all those years and years. He read her manuscript; it pleased him greatly. He held her to him then, proud of her; he wavered, his heart was torn, he was sad almost to death. But he knew, had known even before she acquired this stalker, this tormented lover, that he could not leave her an orphan. He set his heart, sealed up her story, wrote upon it instructions, and lay down that night to become very sick, never, in fact, to rise again from his bed a well man. He died not so long after, and when he did, his instructions were followed exactly, for the people he left behind had loved him well, and her sealed story was laid with him in his wooden box and she slept with him til the end of all things. She was, after all, a person of paper, as he had made her, and very comfortable in his last wooden home.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 18. Victor's Crown

2011-06-08T22:31:00.000-07:00

He saw her from far off and the only thing he had room for in his mind then was that he wanted to be closer. When he got close enough to talk he tipped his hand, went ahead and told her he was a god. Godlike. Now, she wasn't looking for someone to worship just then, she had plans, things to do, an agenda that didn't involve gods, just people. People like herself. Perhaps, now, if he had told her he was a person, just a person, you know, a guy, it might have been different. She might have stopped and chatted, or at least smiled over her shoulder in a come-hither sort of way as she kept on her way. It might have been different, but then again, it might not. It might have been just as it was because she simply wasn't looking for a god right then. Not right then or right after. She might not have been able to say, to tell you, just what it was she did want, what it was she was looking for, but it wasn't a god.

That's for sure.

She told him so in no uncertain terms. He found that entrancing. She found that annoying. He decided it was a game. She decided to try to pretend he hadn't happened. He couldn't believe she was serious. She, seriously, couldn't believe in him. And so it went. From not-so-good to begin with, they ended at worse-came-to-worst. Throwing caution and her wishes to the wind he decided to make his move. She saw him coming a million miles away and packed it in.

Packed it all in. Moved.

She called her dad, told him she was in trouble. Her dad asked, and she told him everything. Told her dad everything as she drove along the river toward home. He keeps showing up at work, she said, he followed me on a date, she said, he calls my friends, she said, he wants to know where I am, where I am all the time. Her dad said, okay, honey, can you make it home? Can you get here before dark? I can, she said, I think I can, and she drove faster and faster.

Much, much faster.

But as fast as she drove, he drove faster because his car was unearthly and he got to her dad's house before dark. He always got everywhere before the sun went down, it was a thing people noticed about him. Where is she? he said, I know she's coming here. He let it appear he knew these things in a godlike way. But her father was bleak and pale and staring. Her father was grey faced and held the phone in his hand. He tried to speak, he cleared his throat, he shut the door. She's not coming, he said as the door closed, she didn't, she isn't, and her dad just shut the door.

Well.

He took it hard, he told all his friends, everyone, that he took it so hard. At parties he told them, at breakfast and at concerts and at the doctor's office he told everyone that he took it so hard. It was true, he did and it was also true that he never forgot her. He would sit under the trees, in the shade, and think of her fondly. Her memory still made him feel like a winner. Still. When someone did very well, pleased him mightily, he told them they reminded him of her. People, women especially, took it as a complicated compliment. Her dad took it hard, too, he told people. Her dad felt it keenly. Her dad had loved her, too, you know. Yes, loved her very much.

This was true. All that he said was true.

But her dad was a liar and had made the whole thing up. Really, she made it home, of course she did. Her dad got her set up with a job as an arborist in another city, in another state, in a brand new life. She met a guy, a nice guy, her dad really likes him. He's proud of his girl, her dad is, proud she didn't fall for a god when she had the chance, proud she hung on to herself. You're the crown, he tells her, the crown of my life. Thanks, dad, she says every time. You saved me.

You really saved me.

If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 17. Knowing

2011-06-07T22:44:00.001-07:00

It was because she got so angry that he found out he could fly.

They had the fight, if you could call it a fight, at breakfast. She had certainly called it a fight. Her anger had flamed through the house and left the doors and curtains smoking, then poured out and filled the whole garden, set it quivering and flashing. He just left the house because he wasn't hungry anymore. He walked all the way down by the river and sat on a rock and tried to think how the fight had started but he couldn't remember so he tried to think how the fight had gone and it made his head ache so he just sat on the rock and stared and threw sticks at the river.

She stayed. She worked in the garden.
She worked under the fruit trees, pulling up big handfuls of grass from around the edges of the flowers and throwing them hard into the wheelbarrow. She was trimming the grass with her hands but she did not care.
She could remember the fight very well, how it had gone as well as how it had begun, and she was not ready not to be angry. He had stared out the window when she was trying to tell him how sad the days and days of rain were making her and finally, when she said something sharp, he had just turned his head the tiniest bit and said, well, the sun is out now, so that's fine, isn't it? and smiled before he turned away again to his window staring. He never looks at me, she thought, he never sees me really. He never hangs on to what is important, she told herself, he doesn't know what's real. She was so deep in remembering how hurtful he had been with all that ignoring that she actually grabbed the snake in her hands before she saw it. It was moving in her hands and she was bringing them up to her face to see what was moving in the long green strands. If she had been thinking she never would have brought some moving garden thing so close to her face. But her mind was all on her hurt, and the snake was right there before she thought clearly about it.

Down at the river he heard her screaming.
He stood up and stood still for a few seconds, only for a few seconds before he was there, somehow, there in the garden. It was another moment, only another moment before he found her where she was behind the wheelbarrow. Then he was holding her, running his hands over her and over her but there was nothing, no reason for the scream, for the shaking and the stiff, jerking breaths she took, gasping and ragged. That was where all the time went, that was what cost him.
By the time he found the two holes in her arm her lips were blue and her hands were cold. It was that her sleeve had fallen over the place the snake had fastened when it twisted in her hands, when she peered at it without knowing what it was she saw. The sleeve cost him the time. The sleeve, and the snake that bit and slid completely away so he never thought to look for a bite, never thought about it at all. That, and he just couldn't believe in a snake in the garden. They never saw snakes in her garden. Down by the river, yes, snakes by the river, but not in the garden. He tried to shake it out of his head. He had gone down to the snakes and the snake had come to her in the garden.

Later, when he tried to talk it out, when he tried to tell people how it happened, they set their hands heavy on his shoulder and nodded in silence. Yes, her sleeve. Yes, the wheelbarrow. Yes. The snake. He was bewildered. He said the same things over and over again. He should have gotten a dog to live in her garden. He should have brought a dog to lie by her and to protect her and to be there when he was working or traveling or sitting throwing sticks into the river. Snakes don't like a dog. She had said no dogs in the house, a dog had to live outside, and he had decided not to get a dog in that case. They didn't need a dog, they just didn't need a dog, he didn't think they needed a dog, you know? he said to the people and they lifted their heavy hands and let them fall again onto his shoulder. Yes, they said. No dog they said. You can't blame yourself they said and he shook off the weight of their hands and went to stare out the window.

When he got her to the hospital he was carrying her carefully, so carefully and she was strange, stiff and shaking and it hurt him to be so close to her if she was like this. The nurses or the doctors or whoever it was in the emergency room rushed to take her away but he hung onto her shirt, was dragged along while they tried to brush him away and he fought them. Let us do our job, one of them told him and he fought them. He had to show them, had to pull up her sleeve to show the two holes there in her arm. He felt her going away from him and felt the weight of hands on his shoulders and the doctor was trying to talk to him, saying the same things over and over. You did well, the doctor said. You did fine. Don't worry. Nobody dies of snake bite anymore. This is shock. She's in shock. You did well. You got her here. No one dies of snake bite. Not anymore.

He sat alone, waiting. He remembered and he planned. This is real, he thought, and he dropped his head into his hands and gave up. This is really bad, he said, then, no, this is good. He told himself, this is a blessing. Now I know. This is how you find out. This is how it happens. This is the end of the world and now I know. He looked at the chair and was amazed, swept away. The chair was so clear, so definite. It was real, it was right there. He shook his head at the chair, his eyes filled with tears. Outside the window there were millions of leaves on the trees and he could hear people talking down the hall, make out each separate little word they said. He felt the breath in his chest and the hairs on his head. I want to do it right. I can do a good job. This is real. Please, God, let me do a good job. Please, God. All I want is to do a good job.

He waited.

Later they helped him fill out papers and brought him juice and told him he could take her home in about an hour. Do you need help getting her out of the car when you get home? they asked, and he stared at them without speaking. The doctors looked at each other and one of them asked him the question again, carefully. Once you get home, can you get her out of the car by yourself? We think it would be good if you called a friend to help you, the doctor said slowly and clearly, to meet you when you get home. The doctor patted his shoulder. You did a great job, you got her here in plenty of time and she's going to be fine, but she just won't be up and around when you get home, not today, not for a little while. He looked at the doctors and out the window beyond them. All those leaves on the trees. His heart was hurting him. Leaves on the trees. Is there a problem? one of the doctors asked. They watched him. Is it a problem at home? Is there a problem with your car?
Car? he asked. Your car, they said. The car you came in. He shook his head. My car? he asked. Yes, they said, your car. You must have driven her here, how else did you get here? The doctors laughed a little, joshing him, to calm him, to put him at his ease. How else did you get here? Don't tell us you flew.

He knew then. Right then he knew.
He opened his mouth. They had said not to tell them so he wouldn't, but he knew. Knowing bloomed in him, stopped his heart, started his heart and set his fingers on fire.
I'll call a friend, he said, where's your phone?

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 16. Grey Light of Day

2011-06-06T18:24:00.000-07:00

She lay, peaceful, listening. She loved to listen to the cars go by as she fell asleep. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes. Swoosh, swoosh, tap, swoosh, taptap.

She sat up.

Dark and dark in her room. She looked at the window, frozen and not at all breathing.
Nothing.
Swoosh, swoosh. Swoosh.
Nothing.
She slid back beneath the covers, carefully, silently, not disturbing them at all, at all, not making the slightest sound, not moving the blankets or the sheets in any way. It took forever, it could take all night, it could take as long as it needed to take. All the way down. Further. Completely under the covers. Pause. Listen, wait. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Breathe.
Swoosh. Swoosh, swoosh.
Nothing.
Relax.
Nothing.
Swoosh.
Swoosh.
Sleepy.
Tap.
Swoosh.
Taptaptap.

She did not move, she was speared to the sheet, to the mattress, to the floor. Not a breath, her heart had stopped, she could not blink her wide-staring eyes.
Taptap.
Tap.
TAPTAPTAP.

She couldn't make her mouth open, couldn't find breath to scream for her mother in the next room. What could be tapping at her window, her upstairs window? Nothing, nothing, not a bird, not a branch, not the wind, nothing. Someone could be on the carport roof, but they'd have had to climb and anyway they'd have to be on the carport roof. No one would want to be on the carport roof. No, she said out loud before she knew she would, no, she said so softly it frightened her. No. No one could be there. No one would want to. No. No. NO
Tap.

She looked, she had to look. She looked without moving in any way, without rustling or wrinkling the covers at all, at all, she looked from under her quilt at the window and saw the hand pulling away, pulling back to tap on the glass. Saw it and saw that the tap would come and saw the soft green light around the hand. Saw it and pulled as far into herself, as far from her outside skin, as far into the core of her body where her heart was maybe still not beating as she could possibly go. Right into her center, right into the safe middle.

Tap.

He was looking at her, right at her where she was under the quilt. He could see her and she knew he could. His grey hair stood up from his head and danced in the green and grey light from his eyes. He was looking straight at her and no one moved at all. Then he put his face right up against the glass and tapped with both hands on the pane, unblinking eyes fixed on hers. Light shot from his fingers, raced across the glass and disappeared into the wood trim. I need a friend, he said into her eyes, I need a friend to help me. When he spoke, light dripped and splashed off his teeth. Help, he said. Get out from under there and come be a friend.
She didn't move.
You're not, she thought, desperate, denying, you're not real. I don't know you, she thought, I'm not your friend, I don't know you.
Oh, he said and leaned back his head, ah, he said as if she had spoken, this is what you are? Horrified, she watched him ponder as if they were speaking together, as if she were a minor problem, an enigma for him to resolve. You want to know a friend? he asked, his eyes on hers. Knowledge? You want knowledge? Yes, then, he said, making his eyes wide, making them huge and leaning forward, you will come flying? and he was right through the glass, right into her room, without a sound, without any effort or noise or warning or mercy, come flying and you'll know me. Come flying, he whispered against her face as he took her from her bed, come flying and we are friends.

She never stopped thinking. She never moved or took her eyes from him or looked down or wondered how far he would fly or how it would end. She never stopped looking at him and thinking and listening to his words and waiting with care for him to say the words she listened for, would know, could recognize as she heard them. She listened and thought til she ached with it. He clasped her easily and callously and flew her high and told her all the places he could take her and why she would love them and wish never to come back and all the places he couldn't ever take her and why and how those places would kill him and she listened and listened and listened. He adored her listening and he spoke and spoke into her soft ears, told her all there was to him, all that made and marred him and he longed for her to listen so to him always and he told her more and more and more than she needed to know. When she had it, when she had enough, she lifted her arms suddenly and made herself limp and heavy and impossible and slid through his arms, poured away from him as water pours itself over the edge of the world. And when she saw him shooting down so quickly to catch her, as she had known he would, she made herself an arrow, made herself a spear, tore through the air toward the ground. She heard him, what he said as he sped to catch her before she hit, before she was ended, sped to be there first, to stop her, to outmaneuver her, to prevent her. Just as she had known he would.

It was a near thing.
He set her on the ground, on the grass, set her on her feet and put his eyes right up to hers. That is not helpful, friend, he said as he had said in the air, light from his teeth landing on her shoulders and arms. That is not how we know each other.
And another boy was there, right there and not afraid, not even surprised at the girl suddenly landing on his lawn with a boy who dripped and spat grey light. Leave her alone, said this new boy, back off. You are not helpful, friend, the first spat and swore, light streaming from him into the grass and bouncing off the newcomer's glasses. I'm not your friend, the new boy said evenly, and turned to the girl, Is he bothering you? he asked politely.
But she was gone.
She might have died at his strange steadiness, she might have fainted at his courtesy, at his old fashioned courtliness and the gentlemanly way of him if she hadn't been running for her life, running to the garden hose and to turn on the spigot that was at the corner of the house, right where she was expecting it, right where she had known it would be. Is he bothering you? she asked herself as she raced back to turn the hose and all the water it could convey on the green and grey light pouring from hair and hands and teeth, is he bothering you? Why yes, unknown sir, yes he is, she thought, and thank you very much for asking. And she wondered, washing him away into the grass, why it was always water? Every movie, every story, every single time. What do these people have against running water? she asked herself. Why is it always water, and why did he tell me? Because he had, he had told her straight out and she had been listening. He must not have thought there was much to me, she thought grimly. He must not have supposed I was up to it.

The other boy stood quietly as she washed the last of the light down the storm drain. Wow, he said, that was very neat, he told her, man oh man, very quick and tidy. He looked at her with interest and respect. I'm impressed, he said, would you like a jacket? He was carefully not looking at her nightgown. Wait here, I'll get one and then I'll drive you home. She waited. She couldn't move. When he put the jacket on her he felt her shaking and put his arm around her. Come on, he said, I'll drive you. Don't worry about the hose, I'll take care of it when I get back, he said, and he laughed. She didn't move. You know where I live, she said, a question and not a question, and such an edge to her voice. A sharp edge. I know your brother, he said gently, taking the hose away from her. I know you, she said, surprised, but I don't know your name, why don't I know your name? I sit behind you in chemistry, he said and laughed again, and you will know my name. Give it a day, he said, laughing. She looked at him, now that she knew him. You laugh a lot, she said soberly. I do, he said, and then he laughed. I do. Come on. She shook her head. Why were you awake? she asked and he said softly, steadily, Star watching. Strange things going on in the sky tonight. I was lying on the tramp in the back. So I saw you, um, coming down. I saw you land. She still just stood there so he folded his arms patiently, waiting. How did you do it? he asked while he waited. With the hose? You're amazing, he told her, how did you do it? I read a lot, she told him, I read and I listen and I think. He nodded. Yes, he said, you do. I see that you do. He laughed, hugely admiring. Come on, it's getting light. I'm taking you home.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 15. Flower Bed

2011-06-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

She stood at the back door looking into the early morning light, waiting for the sunrise. As soon as the first stream of true sunlight slipped into the garden she took her old jacket from the hook and pulled a hat out of the pocket. No gloves. She would need to be able to feel. She picked up the paper bag with its soft, heavy burden from the basket where it had been waiting and went softly and heavily out the back door.

She stood in the cold sunshine, straightening her shoulders a little painfully as she looked all around their garden. Holding the bag on her open left hand, reaching in with her right to begin this work, she was distracted for a moment by the wonder, the heft and smooth consistency of all the seeds. Millions of seeds, she thought. She filled her hand and grasped a fistfull of them, held them hard, opened her hand and let them fall, pour through her fingers. Millions of lives sitting on her hand, in a bag in the cold backyard.

She began planting.

She threw seeds all along the fence and down both the edges of the sidewalk. She sowed them thickly in the front parts of the beds and under the trees, where he had dug out the grass to make mowing easier. So many of their gardening decisions had come to be based on ease. Ease in maintenance had become their inspiration, their guiding principle. She planted in the corners of the yard, even throwing seeds in the only corner where poppies already grew. He had planted them that first spring, first summer, really, they had lived in this house. She had laughed at him. It's too late for planting those, she had reminded him, you know that very well. That should have been done in the fall. He smiled at her, squinting against the sunshine, scattering seeds as if she hadn't spoken. I know, he said, I know. It's late, but I think these will come up fine. Not this year, she said, still laughing. No, he said, not this year. Maybe not this year. But next year. Some year. I want them to get started even if they show up late, he told her simply. Poppies are my favorite.

She had been right about the poppies, and wrong. Like she always was. It was too late for them that year, and they didn't show up the next year either. She was sad, she bought more seeds for him to use in the fall, but that fall he had gotten so sick, she remembered, so sick. No one planted anything that fall. And the next year that corner of the backyard was filled with poppies. Just like that. Filled. He would sit and watch them when they were in bloom, take his work and go sit close to his flowers, smiling at her from the backyard. Not triumphant, not I-told-you-so. He was never like that. She didn't believe he had it in him. Just confident in his late planted flowers, just reveling in their success, their abundant beauty and abandoned giving. Like he always was.

She worked carefully on around the yard, scattered the seeds under the windows and on both sides of the back door. She had not considered, not even considered, planting them in the front yard. The front yard was trim, tidy, interesting but not beguiling. Not enticing. Not messy. The front yard was their necessary sacrifice to the world and all its harms. The front yard belonged to the neighbors, to the town, to the people out there, outside. The back yard was home. They strung lights and built seats and made fires and dug and harvested and talked and built high fences on all its sides. She planted seeds for him in the back yard.

She worked methodically, taking time, plenty of time, making her way along the edges of the house til she stood again where she had begun this planting, and there she looked about her, a bit defeated. Ridiculous. She still had half the seeds left. Soft and yielding in the bag in her hand, all those lives. She hefted the bag, looking for more places she could reasonably put poppies. His corner was full, jammed. Every year she had pulled out poppies, pushed them back, tamed them. Piles of poppy bodies. He would stand by her, his hand on her hair. You could let them go, he would say, you could just let them go and see what would happen. She had laughed at that, too. Let them go? See what would happen? You know what would happen. Poppies everywhere. They'd take over the world. We'd be buried in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad? he would ask, looking around the garden as if he could see them, all those poppies, scarlet and lacy and festive. Would that be so bad?

She stood, half the seeds she had gathered so carefully nestled in the creased and felted paper bag, resting. Waiting. She saw herself not here in this cold sunshine but in the hot and endless summer, all summer long, every day it seemed, shaking poppy heads into this bag, every single head on every single plant in his corner. Saving every seed. And going through the neighborhood, asking if she could have seeds, saving and hoarding and amassing this treasure, this gift. Working her way up and down the streets, knocking on friends' doors and strangers' doors and bending over the poppy heads working and working and waiting to go home and sleep and not remember and never think. Just gather these seeds into this bag. Waiting for the time, the right time, because she was like that. Now she stood in the sun and it was the right time and she had filled every space, every nook and crack and recess she could think of but half of her gathering was still poised in her hand. She shook her head. Poppies were planted thickly in every conceivable, every possible, every practical place.

Would it be so bad? he asked inside her head, would that be so bad?
She turned away from the sunshine, turned back again, bent and carefully set the bag on the ground and put her hands over her eyes. She stood still a long time and remembered. She remembered everything. All, all all of it. There was no way not to remember. There was no way out.
Would it be so bad? he asked, would that be so bad?

She reached her hand into the bag, felt the seeds left there, took out a handful and threw them into the grass. Threw seeds over the garden plot and all the beds. Tossed and scattered his poppy seeds to the four winds. Take over the world, she thought, take over the world. Her tears were cold on her cheeks in the cold morning sun. Bury me, she thought, bury me in a sea of poppies. Would that be so bad?

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 14. Filling the Space

2011-06-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

She made the book for him and left it where he would find it when he came in from the snow. She stitched the pages and folded the cover and waited for words to fill the spaces but when nothing came she just left the book where he would find it and went to bed.

In the morning he was gone, of course, and so was the book.
She wondered about it as she went through the day, wondered what he had thought of the empty pages and the space between the covers. She waited for him to say something to her when he came in, but the snow fell all day and she was asleep again before he came home.

The next day when she awoke he was sleeping hard, buried under their mound of quilts and the book was lying on the floor right where she would put her feet down when she swung them out of bed. She sat, arrested, her feet suspended above the book, and she looked back at him. His face was soft, flushed, his dark hair mussed and curling. She leaned down to pick up the book and went softly out of their bed to sit by the window in the dark daylight that was all the storm allowed them and wrapped herself and the book in a thick comforter. She held the book against her chest and listened to the wind shout and insist outside the thick glass, waiting til the book was warmed through with the heat of her body before she brought it out, into the day, and held it, closed, between her two hands as if she were praying with it held there, before God. She twisted it in her hands then, left hand under the book, right hand on top. She held it that way for a moment more, trying to see into what he might have seen, felt, when he picked up the book for the first time, then she pushed her thumbs between the covers and opened it, hesitantly, as if the joint of its spine were stiff and old with disuse instead of brand new and excited to be opened.

Empty pages.
No words.
She turned five pages, ten.
Empty pages.
No words.
She caught her breath, so--pained, so--hurt.
She shut the book, stood up and the comforter fell in a warm heap on the floor. She walked out to the kitchen, walked quickly back, sank into the comforter and pulled it up around her arms, then up over her shoulders, then over her head.
What had she expected? Poetry? Love letters? A novel? Whatever she had thought, whatever she had hoped for, it had not been this. It had not been nothing.
Be fair, she told her desolate heart, be fair. You made that book to fill it with words for him and nothing came to you. Not one thing. Holding fast to fairness, grasping it grimly with both hands, she faced the empty pages she had thrust on him, the great absence she had handed to him and waited for him to fill. Be fair, she told herself, be fair. You couldn't do it. You couldn't do it either.
Why had she even thought of making the book, anyway?
Why had she assumed, hoped, waited for him to fill it?

She reached out of the nest of the comforter and pulled the book across the floor. She opened it as it was, opened it face down, opened it from the back and as the storm light slanted across the paper she suddenly noticed them. Bumps. The paper was covered with little bumps, little blisters. She tilted the book and scores of minute shadows bloomed at the bases of the bumps. She ran her fingers across them, feeling their uniform size. What in the world? She flipped the pages, looking for a pattern to the blisters and suddenly there were flowers. Flowers drawn in pencil on the pages, flowers filling the spaces. She snatched the book up to herself and saw that they were not flowers; they were snowflakes. Snowflakes. He had worked from the back and filled pages with snowflake drawings, delicate and detailed and endlessly, endlessly varied. Pages and pages of snowflakes.

She left the book on the floor when she slid into bed next him. He stirred, smiled, so sleepy, tried to get his arms around her. You're so cold, he said. Hey, he said, waking more and focusing on her. Hey, sweetheart, what's wrong? He ran the back of his hand softly across her wet cheeks and she turned her face, kissing his hand. I found the book, she told him. Yeah? he laughed a little, drawing her close. Sweetie, you are an ice cube, an ice cube. You drew snowflakes, she said, you filled the book with snowflakes. Hey, he pulled back a bit so he could focus on her face. Is that alright? Are snowflakes alright? Oh, hey, I didn't ruin your book, did I? he asked, really awake and worried now. It's not my book, it's your book, she said and made a small sound that was laughing and crying and thanking him. She opened her mouth and shook her head and buried her face in him. Hey, he said, hey. He tipped her chin up and smoothed her hair away from her face. Talk to me, he said.

I just, she said and stopped. Started again. I just made you that book and it was a terrible thing. I didn't even think of it. I thought I wanted to write and write to you so you could take the book out with you and have it, in your pocket or in your pack, the book I made and what I wrote. But when I got it done I couldn't think of the things to say. And then I just, I just left it empty and left it where you could find it and let that be the gift.
He rested his chin gently on her head and waited.
But, but really, she said, really, I wanted you to do it all, she said, I wanted you to see the book and be happy to fill it with words for me. I wanted you to want to fill all those pages, she said to his chest, I wanted you to want to do that for me.
And instead I just made snowflakes, he said soberly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
No, she said, no! It was perfect. They're so lovely. You made it so lovely, and I was such a jerk. I gave all the work to you, she said earnestly, and you made a beautiful book. Thank you, she said, I'm sorry, she said.
He leaned back again, focusing on her, her serious face, her tear filled eyes. Okay, he said, helplessly. I'm glad you like it. I love you, he said, tucking her head back under his chin, and I really thought I ruined your book.
It's your book, she said, and why, why did you think so?
He said, well, first I tried pressing them. Tons of them. Snowflakes. But I ended up having to draw them. I'm sorry, he said.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 13. Northern Beaches

2011-06-03T22:27:00.001-07:00

It was a perfect day.
There was sand everywhere.
He loved it, he loved that. He even loved it when there was a little sand in the sandwiches. It made him laugh to himself, a tiny joke in the food. Not too much sand in the food, just a very little grit. These were scrambled egg sandwiches, his favorite. The sand in the egg made him think of eggshells. He loved that.

His sister was trying to wipe sand off a cookie she had dropped. He watched her as she concentrated, carefully wiping every single grain, and wiping more and more onto the cookie from her sandy hand. She was too little, too small to understand where the sand kept coming from or to be surprised that there was more and more. He thought somebody older would just throw that cookie away, but he knew the pink waffle ones were her favorite. She worked seriously and contentedly on the cookie for a long time, and he watched her, wondering if she would win or the sand would win. Then his mom leaned over to the sister, a new pink cookie in her hand and her other hand held out for the sandy cookie. Trade you? his mom asked, and his sister smiled when she took the new cookie. Their mom took the sandy cookie at the same time and his sister never noticed. He watched his mom keeping her eyes on his laughing sister while she threw the sandy cookie far away. His mom was so smart!

Now two seagulls swooped down to grab the sandy cookie while it was still flying through the air. They were fighting for it! They both pulled on the pink cookie and he watched, hardly breathing. They were fighting in the air. One of them, the younger gull, twisted the cookie away and flew off, tossing its head up and back, swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. He knew it was a younger gull; his dad had taught him to tell from the feathers. He bounced in the sand and laughed. He wished they had more food to throw. Sometimes his mom brought a loaf of bread for him to tear in pieces and throw up into the sky. Gulls would come diving for it, they never let a piece touch the ground. He wished they could do that now. He loved watching the gulls.

He was looking around for some old food to throw when he saw the baby eating sand. He stopped to watch the baby picking up both fists full of hot, dry sand. The baby watched the sand pour through its fingers, and then jammed the sand that was left into its mouth. The baby's mouth was all black and dusty, no, muddy, from eating sand. He looked over at his mom; she was reading a magazine. She didn't see the baby with a mouth full of sand. He smiled at the baby and the baby smiled back, wet sand running down its chin. The sand dribbled onto the baby's leg and made the smallest sandcastle in the world. The baby waved its hands and laughed, and he laughed too.

He made a sand castle, a big one.
He and his sister ran in the wet, hard sand where the ocean ran back and forth. They looked for shells and when they found one they washed off the sand and made a pile of shells where their mom was reading the magazine. She looked up and smiled every time they brought another shell. The baby waved and threw sand. Their mom smiled at the baby and shook sand out of her magazine and off of the blanket where the baby had slung it. They ate, and later they ate again. He was careful and the only sand that stayed on his hands was the tiny black kind that is like flakes and sticks to your fingers.

His mom put sunscreen on the children twice.
He watched his dad sleeping and his dad had turned the most beautiful color while he was asleep. Like a rose, he thought to himself. His dad was the same color as the sunset and that thought made him very happy too. It was a very pretty color. He thought how nice it would be for his dad, when he woke up and had turned such a pretty color.

His mom said it was time to go home.
He helped her, carrying towels and her magazine. His dad and everyone carried things. They walked back to the car and their shoes filled with dry sand that had been hot when they came, but was getting very cold now. He turned around and turned around to watch the sun sliding down into the ocean. Everything was bright, the sand was golden. As far as he could see it was golden sand and sun gold water. He turned back around and sang a little song while he was walking. In the car they ate the rest of the waffle cookies and there was a little bit of grit in them so he was happy the sand was coming home with them.

His dad was a more beautiful red color now, and he wasn't as happy being a wonderful color as the little boy had thought he would be. His dad was talking about all the sand they were taking home with them. His dad was saying the car was full of sand. Absolutely full! The little boy was so happy, curling his toes in and out of the sand inside his shoes. He hadn't known they were bringing any sand home with them, and he was very happy to think they were. He was so happy about a car full of sand. He ate a brown waffle cookie and thought how smart his mom was. Sand in the car. What a good day. He was so happy.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 12. Happy Place

2011-06-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

Once there was a boy who lived in a scone. He loved it there. He could stretch out full length, and it was soft and squishy inside the scone. He loved the golden-crisp outside. He was really very happy. When he met the girl he was excited to show her the scone, and he happily anticipated her pleasure at the golden-crisp outside and he wondered, nervously, how they might enjoy the soft squishiness. He didn't tell her too much about the scone before they got there; he didn't want to spoil it, as it were.

What she said was, What's with all the honey and butter?

Truth be told, he had never thought much about the butter, or the honey. It's what happens if you live in a scone. He said, It's butter and honey. It's what happens it you live in a scone.

She said, How on earth do you manage?
He said, Manage what?
She said, You'd be sticky all the time, while he said, Well, I guess I'm sort of sticky all the time, and they said it at the same time.
It was not a fight, but it was getting to be sort of like a fight.
He said, What's wrong with butter and honey, anyway?
She didn't even bother to answer.
He said, Well, where do you live that's so great?
She said, I live in a ham and Swiss sandwich, myself.
Oh, he said, oh, what's so fine about that? It came out meaner than he meant it to, but he was sad she hadn't at all noticed the golden-crisp outside.
She said, Well, if you really want to know.
He said, I really want to know.
She said, I enjoy the stability, and I love the organic shapes.
The what? he asked and he was sarcastic. The organic shapes? Like what, the shape of lettuce? He was out of line, but his pride was hurt and he was very disappointed about the soft and squishy part of this day that wasn't happening.
Now she was trying not to cry. Organic shapes, she said. Round. Curving. Swiss cheese has lovely round holes, she said with dignity.

And that was the end of that.

Later, of course, they got to talking again. They were looking at places that were available and he thought it was mighty doubtful she would ever be happy anywhere that wasn't thinly sliced and one hundred per cent whole wheat. With port holes for windows, he thought with just an edge of bitterness.

But then.

She was all starry eyed and he was looking from her face to the place and back again. This? he asked, this is a place you could be happy? Oh, yes, she breathed, yes. Look at the wonderful golden-crisp outside. WHAT? he said, you like that?
I love it, she said, simply. Look at the stability, the organic shape.
Soft, he thought, soft and squishy, and golden-crisp outside.

They moved into the unglazed doughnut and lived there very happily indeed. People said they made a mistake not holding out for a bagel, but they knew their own hearts, and were well contented and satisfied. Anyway, she said with a shudder, all that cream cheese.
Yes, he said, who needs it?

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 11. Her, Now

2011-06-01T21:45:00.001-07:00

He had thought she was so beautiful. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and it made him afraid. He was still afraid when they had been married for a long time, such a long time that he spoke of her beauty with detachment, as a thing seen from far off and not connected to himself. Her beauty was a puzzle, a bewilderment to him and a burden to her. She carried it as a task beyond her, too big for her, staggered under it, dropped it awkwardly into conversations, hit people and the edges of doorways with it as she made her way through church services and school events, parties and family dinners. In the end, for him her beauty was a wound he carried that never healed and for her, after she had denied being a beauty for so long and so well, it became the one place in her life she finally got her way, finally got what she insisted had always been the case and lost her beauty as though it had never been.

But in the beginning she was so lovely he was undone by her, unable not to try, not to risk, not to reach out. He staked everything he had, took all he was and set it out before her, nakedly, not even trying at all to pretend there might be more where that came from, he might have a trick or two up his sleeve, that whatever she had seen so far she hadn't seen nothin' yet. He set all himself in front of her and waited for her to take it or to leave it and he waited quite a while, because he was like that and so, it turned out, was she. She let him wait and even after years of married days, he was still waiting.

Her beauty was deep to him; he wanted to believe it was deep and alive like the ocean on the planet and essential to her soul, as rich and thick on the inside of her as it was on her outside. She's lovely, people said admiringly, especially when they saw her with him in a picture, and he had to agree. She was lovely, especially when she stood by him for a picture to be taken. She turned to him then, curved to him then, smiled by him then and if you only saw them in pictures they made a picture to sigh for, to reach for, to believe a man might risk his whole self on. After the picture she straightened and turned away, her smile gone, vanished like a flame can vanish. Light, heat, life, nothing. And he had seen her arrested as she stepped away from him, stopped cold when the person with the camera said, oh, wait, that one wasn't good, let me get another, and he had seen her whip around to him, smile warm and delightful, arms reaching around him, her face tucked right up by his, turning the both of them to the reflective eye of the camera. Flash. Click. Gone. What a lovely picture.

He wasn't the sort of man, when first he saw her or later or ever, who could look at such color and texture and not see it running right through her, touching every part and piece of her, even if what he was seeing was a story he was building as he went along. He wasn't, then, at the beginning or ever in his life, a man to wrap himself in a surface and call that living. He poured all his fresh, untried, hopeful ideals about people, about life, about everything, into her, gave her beauty direction and purpose and narrative and she adored the way he saw her and feared it and loathed it and hated him for not being able to make her as real as he thought she was. She held him fiercely to that idea of her he had created between the two of them before he even knew her, before he knew anything, held him by a short and cruel rope that twisted more tightly about the two of them with every passing day of married life. She never had been and never became the woman he had held up for the two of them to believe in and admire, she never became anything at all, and she never forgave him for that. Never. She threw it at him every day, every night, in every fight, and that bewildered him as much as anything about her ever had.

There were photographs of the two of them all over the walls of their house, and she shuffled them, adjusted them, rearranged them often, often. He was always coming upon his own smiling face in some unexpected place, his own face telling him what it told all the people who looked at their marriage from the outside. Look, his face said to him, look at this happy couple. Look at all the love, look at that beautiful woman. It was what he said to her when she screamed and stormed, the picture of them he held up to her when she ranted and threw both of them out of the house, out of her life, out of the frame. Look, he said, look at the love. Look at all the love. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that, and the face she gave him when they were alone, red and swollen and tear streaked, mouth set in permanent and impotent rage, silly words streaming out for hours, why can't you when will you you always if you would just you are so, that face was so beautiful he just stood back and looked at it. Stood back quite a ways, further and further as years of married days went by. Even from there he could see that she was a beautiful woman. Such a beautiful woman.

When finally he stood so far off that he could no longer hear words coming out of the mouth that smiled so easily and readily for the camera and never kissed his own mouth with any trace of life in the lips, when he finally stood right out of the frame, he carried within him still the boy he had been when first he saw her and what he had supposed to be the beauty of her soul had stopped his heart and started it again, beating now in a rhythm he had assumed was a dance for two, the dance of his life. He remembered the story of the two of them he had told himself and he gasped at the gut punch of never having believed it, not at all, not even when in the beginning she had been so beautiful he had simply been unable to reconcile that beauty he could touch with that absence in her heart he could feel. He had made up a story to explain her, to justify her in the world as he had understood it then. He had fallen in love at first sight with a story he had made up on the spot and he had married his own story and he knew that if he had it to do all over again he would do it all over again. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Shook it again and tried to straighten under the dead weight of all he had lost, dragging a killing burden of things he never had. What a waste, what a waste, the both of them. She had been so beautiful. So achingly, breakingly beautiful, and look at her now. Just look at her now. Just look.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 10. Tilt

2011-05-31T21:20:00.000-07:00

Once there was a house with a boy and a girl in it who always thought they would get in trouble. They had so often been in trouble, for things they didn't understand and couldn't remember doing. They were so often in trouble that they came to expect it all the time.
When a person said, Have you heard what happened? they tried to remember how it had happened when they had never meant it to happen at all.
If a person said, Wow, come over here and look at this, they wondered sadly, while they walked over there to look, which thing this might be that they had somehow broken, accidentally.
If someone said, Oh, I've got something for you guys, they put their hands over their faces and waited for the something to be bad news.
When someone said to them, Hey, I want to talk to you two, they put down their heads and held hands tightly and waited to find out what bad thing they had done. While they waited the boy would say, I don't understand why that was wrong, and the girl would say, I don't even remember what that was. Then the person who wanted to talk to them would say, Why do you have your heads down? and the boy and the girl would say, We're waiting to hear why we're in trouble, and the person who had wanted to talk to them would say, Stop that! You're not in trouble! Why do you always do that? You always think you're in trouble! It makes me so mad! and the person would go off in a huff and forget what they had wanted to say in the first place. We're sorry, the boy and girl would always call to the person who was stomping up the street, but no person ever answered back or forgave them.

It was a sorry way to live.

After a long enough time the trouble they were afraid of even seeped into their house. The doors stuck, and the windows went up and down crookedly and leaked cold air, and the floors tilted and the curtains fell down or started on fire. One day the boy said, Look, we've got to do something about this. No one ever finishes a conversation with us and I think we might have missed some important stuff, like this year's tax return. The girl said, We get a tax return this year? and, Do you know why those curtains are on fire again even though snow is blowing in through the window? and the boy said, That's just what I mean.

They tried to think what they could do to stay out of the way of the trouble. This was new to them, and they felt uncomfortable at it.

The boy asked what might happen if they went about with their hands always over their ears so they couldn't ever possibly hear what had happened.
The girl wondered if they might just keep their eyes closed so they never accidentally looked at what was over there.
The boy thought maybe that if a person had something for them they should tell the person to just keep it. With their compliments.
The girl supposed that they might have little cards made that said, Please Cut to the Chase, to quickly hand to people if people said they had something to tell them. Then at least we'd know if we're in trouble right away instead of waiting and waiting, she said.
The boy ventured an opinion that they might be better off just staying inside their house forever.

The girl wondered if they were going about this the wrong way.

She also wondered if, while they thought it through, the boy would please put out the curtains? They were smoldering again.
The boy threw water over the curtains and the girl said Oh! Like that! Well! and then she said they might as well wash the windows now, after that, so they did. They scrubbed and scrubbed and had to open and close the windows lots of times, while they were trying to get them cleaned, and that was hard at first but after some serious work the windows went up and down very smoothly. The girl said, Look at that, there is almost no snow coming in through the closed windows anymore.
The boy went off to go outside and check whether the windows were really closed now or whether the snow was just all gone, but he couldn't, the door was stuck. He had to call the girl for help and she came right over. The door was harder to fix than the curtains or the windows, but they both worked a long time til they could open it and close it without having to yell for help. That made them happy. They went happily out and in and out and in until they had to go take a nap.
When they woke up the boy had to face something. He sat up and looked at the girl and his shoulders were slumping and he didn't feel rested anymore. He said sadly, I suppose we have to fix the floors while we're at this, they tilt, you know. But the girl said, Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much work it would be to fix a tilt? The boy said, I don't understand how to fix a floor anyway, but I'm afraid, I think you're sleepy now but tomorrow you might get angry that I didn't fix the floor, and the girl said, Sometimes you just have to let things be the way they are. The boy turned away his face for a minute, and the girl waited for him to say the next thing and while she waited she started to get scared. She knew she used to be right, but wondered how it must look, that she didn't care about a tilted floor enough to make the boy fix it, and she couldn't remember what was better about a floor that had no tilt. She put out her hand to the boy to touch him and to say, This way we never lose anything under the bed because it rolls right back out, and at the same time he turned to her and said, I have to tell you that I can't fix this floor and I want you to hold me. She was reaching over to hold him, anyway, so she went ahead with her plan.

He said, We should just quit this, shouldn't we?
She said, Do you think we can?
He said, This was such a wonderful day.
She said, Have you heard? I have a lovely thing for you, but you have to come over here to see it.
He said, I was wanting to talk to you about that, and about everything else.
She said, I don't want ever to leave this house.
And he said, We can stay and stay, we fixed the door.
She said, Let's have a party. So they did. It was no trouble, no trouble at all.
The boy wrote a song and all the guests sang it as they stomped up the street, going home. It was a stomping song.
Sometimes, the song said, sometimes you just have to fix things up and let them be the way they are. Fix them, fix them, fix them, said the chorus. Sometimes you have to just fix things up to let them be the way they are, but never let your curtains, your curtains, your curtains burn.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 9. In Memoriam

2011-05-30T10:47:00.000-07:00

She unrolled the map and smoothed it carefully on the table, setting candles on each of its corners to hold it open. She found the place, dark and roughened a bit from all the times she had found it before, from her touch and her weight and her pain. In fact--she closed her eyes...opened them--yes, she could find it by touch alone.

Of course she could.

She left one finger on the spot and set another on the other place, the place that was her own place, this house, this garden, this town, this place she was now. One finger there, one finger here. Touch, touch. She raised her shoulder, catching the tears on her sleeve before they could fall onto the map and blur and blister it. Touch. Touch. She set her thumb next to the finger that held her own spot on the map, then stepped her finger over her thumb. Finger, thumb, finger, thumb, walking them in the thready lines that were streets and roads between her spot of the map and the place marked by the finger on her other hand. Finger, thumb, finger. This was the strange thing, the amazing thing about the map. Her thumb set on its side or her finger set straight down covered just the map space of a day's journey on foot. Thumb, finger, thumb, finger. She had walked and walked this route with her fingers every day for the past year and here she was at the start of a new year, another year, the next year. Thumb, finger, thumb. A twelve month and one day, sang in her head. That was a strange thing as well. Today, this day, marked a year and a day and last night, the last night of that dreadful year, his horse had come home. Finger, thumb, finger, thumb. Strange and unbelievable and lovely and terrible. She had marked the days, marked every day and wondered what would become of her, what would happen inside her when the year swung round again if she had heard no more, nothing definite, nothing solid, nothing real. Finger, thumb. And then his horse, standing quietly outside the gate in the evening light, waiting for her to come, to see. Finger, thumb, finger, thumb, finger. Twenty five. One quarter of one hundred. Not even a month, she whispered to herself, not a whole month.

She jumped up and hurried to her chair by the fire, came back with a needle and bright red thread. She took two of the candles off the map and set them aside then brought the needle carefully up through the map, up through the spot that was her place, the place the horse had come, the place of this house and this table and these candles in the dark. She took one stitch, the width of her thumb set on its side, then another and another. While she stitched the streets and roads she pondered and remembered. What was it? What was she to know, to do now? Twenty five bright red stitches, twelve on the bottom of the map and thirteen on the top. She ran her fingers over them, from one end to the other while she stared at the candles. Touch, touch. She would go in the morning.

She stood with the key in her hand, arrested in the act of putting it into her pocket. If I can't make it, she had thought, if I can't do it, as she had started to put the key into her pocket. She caught herself. She held the key, then thought she would hide it, not take it with her, but she paused again, feeling the whole world hang and twist as she stared past the key in her hand. If I can't make it, she thought, if I can't do it, and she thought of candles in the darkness and an empty bed and the horse she had only a quarter of an hour ago given to her brother. She thought of all the days there are in a year and she turned, walking swiftly to the back of her house. She moved the heavy wooden cover and dropped the key into the well. She was gone before it hit the water.

She was three months coming to him.

Twenty five stitches in her map took her three months and now she was here, standing in this empty field, waiting for the reason she had come all this long way to catch up to her. This was the place on the map she could find without looking and she had come here without seeing anything before her but the road. Now she was here, in this peaceful field where the grass had grown up over everything and nothing happened anymore and no one ever came now and there was no one and nothing anywhere, anywhere. Her basket was lost, her pockets were empty and the key to her house was lying under water at the center of the world. She knelt on the grass, and then she lay down on the grass and she cried and cried and cried. When he came that was where he found her.

I'm so sorry, he whispered so as not to startle her, I never thought you could be here so soon. Oh, my girl, my girl, you came, and he held her and held her. She clung to him so he had to pull her arms away just to get a good look at her. He was laughing, too, and crying, and he asked her about the horse. Did he find you? Did he get all the way home? he asked and she said, of course he did, and buried herself against him again. Oh, you're so lovely, he said, I could hardly believe after a while that you could really be so lovely as I remembered. She laughed at him, knowing herself after the months of coming to him, knowing the sight she must be, but he just smiled and smiled. You came, he said, you came. I waited, she said, for you to call me, and she cried again. He was sober, sad now. Yes, he said, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I sent the horse as soon as I could think again, it was the only thing I could think to do, but, well, he got distracted. Oh, I'm sorry. He's only a horse. Where is he? he asked and she told him how she had given the horse away. He was astonished. He could still be astonished. But I intended you to ride him! he said, do you mean to tell me you walked all this way? He was never angry anymore and he'd have been too happy now, anyway, but he was almost angry. Well, she said lifting her chin, it hardly seems fair, does it? What would have happened to him now? It hardly seems fair to him, even if he is only a horse, after all that. He shook his head and held her, but he had to admit it hardly seemed fair. Still, he said, we could have sent him off, someone would have been happy to find him, to take care of him. He's a good horse, he said. He held her face, looked carefully into her eyes. Sweet girl, are you...are you ready? he asked. Yes, she said steadily, her hands over his, trying to smile away the doubt in his eyes, it's been, oh, it's been such a dark year. Yes, he said brokenly, yes, for me too. Oh, my girl. You came. He held her close and so tightly she did not breathe at all, then suddenly put his hands on her shoulders, setting her firmly away from him, turning his face from her, and she was frightened for the first time. Three months she had been coming to him, she had given away the horse and the key lay at the bottom of the well. He stood and looked down at her, hands clenched, eyes wider and wider, then she saw him come to his decision, and he held out his hand. If I can't make it, she thought, if I can't do it, and her heart beat like it would burst. She kept her eyes on his as she gravely, deliberately, set her icy hand into his warm one and at the same time she lifted her other hand high above her head, releasing the map into the wind, where it fluttered and twisted above them, a line of red stitches showing bright against the soft white paper.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 8. Homecoming

2011-05-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

They walked in the rain and he held her hand and she held the the umbrella and had blankets draped over her arm and he carried the big lunch and everyone's hands were full. Rain dripped off the trees and poured softly into the grass and over the flowers and formed tiny rivers that ran along the low places on both sides of the path. I wonder if this path is an island, she said, a long skinny island. He thought about that and smiled. Our very own island, just for the two of us. Hmm, she said, somehow, I don't know, I'd have expected our very own island, if we ever got one, would have enough room for us to lie down full length. He laughed out loud. It does, he assured her, head to head.

No one else had come out for a picnic.

As far as they could tell no one else had come out on this dripping wet day for any reason whatever. The big parking lot had been empty, completely empty. They had never seen that in all the times they had come here in all the sorts of weather they had braved together. The woods were absolutely silent aside from the sounds of rain and water. He noticed, when he thought about it, that he couldn't even hear the traffic anymore, and she remarked that she hadn't heard a bird all day. He smiled down at her. Just us, he said, no one else in the whole world. The rain fell straight down, there was not a breath of wind.

They were headed to a place they had found, a pavilion they thought must have been built by the CCC the same time the roads and paths were improved and the picnic tables and fire rings built. The pavilion was almost like a tiny cabin, with a great fireplace made of river stones forming a back wall and half walls, pony walls, on the other three sides. Close at hand, in some bushes, was a cobbled pillar with a faucet sticking out of it, so they never had to carry in water. They had been so delighted when they found the pavilion on a late summer afternoon when the golden air had filled with blowing cotton from the trees and when everyone else seemed to be having a party at the far end of the world. They had explored and talked and eaten the snacks they carried in their pockets and even played house, a bit, laughing at themselves, piling firewood, breaking back encroaching branches and then using those branches to sweep the piles of leaves drifted inside the walls. They ended up, that day, sitting wrapped in each other on one of the benches that ran along both sides of the pavilion, whispering plans to come again with lots of food and with blankets, to build a fire, some time, next time, any time they could ever remember to bring matches. She wondered if it would be alright for them to sleep there and he had gotten a sudden image of holding her and watching her sleeping in front of a fire they had made. He had had to duck his head and take a long breath. Yes, he had said out loud, yes, he thought it would be fine for them to camp there, he couldn't see why not. Yes, that was a wonderful idea.

They had tried, a couple of times, to bring friends to see the place, but sometimes it was hard, impossible, to find. They seemed to get there most easily when they were talking of other things and one of them would say, isn't the pavilion right over here? and then it would be. They spent happy times there but they had never built a fire, nor done more sleeping than an occasional doze taken on one of the benches, having to hold each other tightly, even in their sleep, in order not to fall off. They had taken days and evenings in the pavilion as they happened upon them, always happy there and sad, too, wishing for matches and blankets they had not thought to bring, had been unaccountably unable to remember when they set out. One morning though, just three days ago, he had awakened from a tumbled and pleasant dream into a slowly mounting sense of purpose and excitement. He rolled over to reach for her, nuzzle her awake and tell her his plans, to see her already awake and smiling at the ceiling. Let's take stuff and go sleep in the pavilion, she had said, let's really do it. Yes! he said, so pleased and excited, getting up on one elbow to talk about this, yes! And, he said, I'm going to build a fire.

So they had really done it, headed out on the day they had chosen and determined to see it through. They had awakened feeling like it was Christmas morning and hurried through necessary tasks, not wanting to even acknowledge the buckets and sheets of rain as they gathered the things they always wished for when they were in the pavilion and loaded them into the car, working quickly and quietly and closely, side by side. A pack for each of them, sleeping pads and blankets, plenty of food, matches, of course, and at the last minute, the umbrella. They hadn't looked at each other when she grabbed that, it was as if they hadn't wanted to admit the rain flooding their driveway and rushing down the street. Now they were walking steadily through the rain, nearly there, not a sound in all the world except their breathing and the mud sound of their shoes.

It was even better than they had thought, than they had hoped. It felt like home, felt just exactly like coming home. He thought, later, that he hadn't remembered stacking the kindling with the other wood the last time they had visited, but he was glad he had, otherwise he'd have had all sorts of trouble making the fire. She hadn't remembered the door, either, could not remember ever before shutting a door behind her, but there it was, open against the wall, and she had closed it gratefully against any little animal that might come scurrying in the night. He lay in front of the fire and thought drowsily that the pack of food seemed just as full, just exactly as full as it had before they ate dinner, and she thought as she leaned against him that she had never felt so comfortable, so cozy, so peaceful as now. Really, there was nothing more they needed, no place else to go, nothing that needed doing. In the morning, he thought, he'd set in those storm windows he suddenly remembered were around the back, out of sight under the bushes. They'd be needing them in place before it got any colder. He'd gather more firewood, too, make a great stack. She planned how to store their things, the clothing they had brought, the food that would last them a long, long time. Out in the dark, the rain washed their footprints completely away, and by the fire he watched her as she drifted into sleep, thinking, it's just you and me, just you and me and no one else in the whole world. He fell asleep holding her, and the fire burned all night.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 7. Tea and Curry

2011-05-28T17:11:00.000-07:00

He started to tell her but she left the room.
He watched where she had gone and thought about that for a while, long enough to eat a shrimp and something on crunchy toast with sun dried tomatoes, and then walked briskly after her out onto the patio.
She was nowhere to be seen.
That was a poser. Momentarily stumped, he dithered in front of another table of food, trying to remember how it had gone before and felt fairly sure he had gotten all the way through the first two times, at least, and most of the way through the next several times. She had not walked away from him til he had been telling her for a couple of weeks, and he couldn't remember her ever disappearing completely.
He made up his mind, walked all the way around the garden, searching carefully, practicing and improving what he had to tell her and ended up back in front of that same table without once spotting her. He ate bean dip and corn salsa and thought some more. The restroom. Had to be. Off he went.

She was loading a plate with green curry and raspberry cheesecake when she heard him coming. This was unbelievable, just unbelievable. She hovered, moving back and forth between possible escape routes and then grabbed a big glass of ice water and headed to the library, where she set her food on the host's desk, shut the door, sighed happily and started scanning book spines. She'd been in here once before and had longed then to spend more time with these books. She was stuck til the people who gave her a ride decided to call it a night, but she could happily wait it out in here with the books. One thing for sure, she wasn't going back out there as long as he was floating around, waiting to tell her. No. Never again. If she ran out of food, she thought she could slip into the garden or the kitchen without being seen, if she were careful. There were food tables everywhere. She would be fine. She took her plate and a stack of books and curled up in a big chair from which she could see anyone coming through the library door. She paused, staring out over the book in her hands, then got up and turned her chair around, pushing it back out of sight of the door and moving a little table over for her books and the curry. She decided she'd rather not be able to see who was coming in the door after all since it meant they could also see her. She climbed into the big chair and for good measure tucked her feet up under her. There. Hidden. Nothing showed. She opened a book and took a big bite of the curry. Through the open windows she could hear the music and see little lights all over the garden. Lovely.

She was asleep when he finally thought to come looking for her in the library. He was talking and talking as the silent host held the door and then turned on a lamp, saying the same things he had said to everyone for the last two hours. He just needed to tell her, he was only wanting to tell her, but he couldn't find her anywhere. No one seemed worried, which he could not fathom, and no one was helping him find her, which was driving him crazy. He couldn't understand it, for the life of him he couldn't understand it. Now he had thought of hunting her in the library, he was sure she would be here, he knew how much she loved books.

The host stood back and let him look around book stacks and peek into corners and under the desk. He talked about her the whole time, saying and saying the things he was needing to tell her. He walked and searched and talked and talked and finally walked swiftly out of the room, down the hall and out the front door. Through the open window the host could hear him talking and talking as he strode through the soft, dark garden and down the street. The host watched quietly, arms folded, standing near the open window, back to a chair that faced out into the dark garden, waiting til all the words faded. His attention had been fastened on the stack of book resting on a little table pulled close to the big chair, and he crossed to them now, turning them softly over, wondering at them. He bent and picked up a book that had fallen to the floor and turned it over and over in his hand, shaking his head and smiling in delight. Then the host set the book back down gently and closed the windows, turned the lamp very low and spread a blanket over the girl sleeping in his big chair. He took her empty plate with him to the kitchen.

When she woke it was light and birds were singing in the wet garden. The host had left a cup of peppermint tea on the little table next to her and next to the books she had left piled on the little table was a new stack of books with a note on top. The note told her the host had looked at the books she had chosen and thought she might enjoy these, as well, that he had informed her friends he would give her a ride home himself, and that he hoped she wouldn't mind. She picked up the cup of tea; it was hot. She walked to the window, open again now, and looked outside. The host was standing under an apple tree; its branches, heavy with tiny green apples, reached down to brush the top of his head, his hair. He looked up and there she was, standing startled and sleepy at the window. The host raised his hand to her silently and she put up her hand in a tiny wave, then checked her hair and smiled back, shy. The host smiled, looked around at the early morning, the garden and the sky, and began to walk happily to toward the house.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 6. Night

2011-05-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

They had walked a long time and both of them were very thirsty, the boy more than the girl, perhaps because she wore a shady hat and his head was bare. He had a hat when they started but lost it crossing the river. That was a long time ago, now, or at least it seemed so to him. His clothes had dried on him and his mouth had dried as well. He wouldn't be so damn thirsty, he thought, if he had taken better care of his hat. Wasn't that just the way? She took care, great care of everything, so she wasn't suffering now, as he was, because her hat shaded her. Or maybe she just wasn't complaining. He reflected that she never complained and his heart stumbled. She might be more thirsty than he was, he'd never know. He despaired a little, of ever taking any kind of care of someone who never complained. How would he ever do a good job? Still. He was so thankful she had her hat, that she wasn't burning up and feverish. He was thankful the sun was setting, was sinking now below the horizon and the air was cooling. He would be glad to stop walking and to lie down, to sleep.

As they walked and walked he ran his mind over all that had passed in the days before; they had made so many choices so quickly, left so much behind. He looked over at her, trying to read her face under the brim of her hat, but her eyes were shadowed and she was watching the dirt go by beneath her feet. He reached for her hand and she took his quickly, squeezed it and slipped hers away. Hot, she said, too hot. He nodded, kicking up the dust as he walked, feeling into the evening for cooler night air sandwiched into the hot, dense daytime air. Come on, he thought, come on cool. Come on dark. Come on, sleep. Come on, come on.

He lay on the blankets chewing the last of the bread and holding her close. Cool, alright, now, too cool to be walking in shirtsleeves. He was grateful, though, very grateful for the soft blue night and the cold desert air and the harshly silver stars throwing themselves across the sky. Grateful for her warm self next to him, grateful in his bones and his teeth and skin and hair that she had come, had chosen so swiftly and surely and completely to come with him. He toyed just briefly with an image of how it might have been otherwise, hovered at the edge of that picture just to frighten himself, as he had when he was very young and played with the idea of ghosts in the cellar, just for fun, just to give himself a thrill. He smiled grimly, finding he could no more look squarely at a picture of himself slogging without her through all the days and days yet to come in his life than his little boy self could stuff the cellar clear full of ghosties and then expect to still run happily down the damp stairs for a jar of preserves. He pulled her close, feeling her warmth, pushing down all that might have been, but wasn't. Thanks be to God, it might have been, but wasn't.

He woke suddenly in the night, stiff, chilled, lost. Where? He was lost and drifting for more time than he would have liked to admit before he pieced it back together. Their talk, the departure and the long walk, and now the two of them here, alone and together. He reached for her, worried she would be cold, and realized she was lying away from him, as far away as she could be, and that she was crying.

She would be, of course she would be, he told himself as ice water shot through him. He closed his eyes, tried not to make a sound, tried not to let her know he was awake, hearing her. Of course she would be crying. After all this, she will cry and cry, he thought. He lay still and tried to make a picture of a happy and prosperous future but his heart shivered and shattered at the sound of her crying. Of course she was crying. She was with him and she might as well be dead. I'll take care of her, he thought fiercely. I'll do a good job. This was the right thing to do. He went over it all again and all again and his heart died while she cried and cried. She'll never tell me, he realized, she'll never tell me that she's miserable. He saw his life stretching out in front of him forever and ever and there was no end to the pain of the things she would never share. He fought down a wave of longing to run and run and leave her there and run til he was done and could never run again. Dead, he thought, we might as well be dead.

She rolled over and there it was, she had caught him in his panic. He lay still and terrified; her wet cheek was against his. You're awake, she said. Yes, he said, his voice breaking twice in the tiny word. I'm awake. She held him tightly and he pulled her close and just kept her there. Say it, he told himself, say it now. Take her back in the morning, as soon as it's light. He took a ragged, tearing breath. I know, she said, you don't have to say it, I feel the same way. Thank you for bringing me. I'm so glad. I can't believe we did it. She snuggled into him, relaxing, her breath slowing. He unwound so suddenly it hurt him, pulled muscles in his back. He lay, picturing the stars burning holes in the sky, and the soft night resting all over the land. Do you mind if I tell you things, she asked softly. I'm thinking I want to. He pulled her even closer, so close some part of him worried he was hurting her but the rest of him just held on and held on. No, he said and he choked a little, I like you to tell me things. I think that's a good idea you have. I'm happy, she whispered and he cleared his throat and tried to tell her how grateful he was. I'm so happy, she said.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 5. Lions

2011-05-26T20:58:00.000-07:00

It was the boy who made the breakfast and the girl who woke up to eat it.
She looked at the food and said, this looks good. Yes, he said, it does and I made it for you.
What is it? she asked and he said, I made it up out of things in the fridge. Just now. Oh! she said, well, what a way to start the day, and he said, yes.

They ate the food and then he said hopefully, let's take a nap and she said no, we're going to the zoo. So they woke the children and fed them cereal because she told him the children would not understand the food he had made up and they might quarrel. All day. After cereal they loaded everybody into the car and drove to the zoo parking lot where the boy and girl, the father and mother, began to pay for things. The first thing they paid for was an empty space to put their car and their oldest daughter said, you know why this is a good parking place? it's so near the zoo. And their oldest son said, yes, it's good for dad to come once in a while and remind us those tricky parking spots right up close to the zoo can be used after all. Their youngest daughter said, I can read the zoo sign clearly from here! and the boy, their dad, said, that's enough, and the girl, the mother, said, alright you people, don't even think about cotton candy after that, but she was laughing and there was never even a chance she was going to pay for cotton candy anyway.

The boy and the girl got their children out of the car and paid to take them through the zoo gates with a hand stamp apiece and then everyone went back through the gates to the car to put sun screen all over them and then back through the gates into the zoo which was good because the revolving zoo gates were the best part of the whole day. In fact, they lost the youngest son to the gates for three whole rounds and the boy, the dad, got testy and said, how about you go look at animals and I'll just stand here and watch him go round and round all day, but the girl, the mom, was watching the zoo workers watching all of this and she said to the youngest son, come out of there right now or no train ride for you. Then the oldest son made a daring and dangerous dash into the gates when the opening passed by him briefly and he hauled out his brother, holding him much more tightly than was necessary and making him cry. The other children defended the oldest son to their parents on grounds that the youngest son was endangering their train ride and that he always spoiled everything for everyone. The boy and girl looked at each other and sighed at the terrible, secret, absolutely unadmittable rightness of that accusation and suggested beginning at the lions and ending with the penguins.

Later, in the shade, while the sticky children ate the snow cones the boy and girl had paid for and left most of the corn dogs and fries they had also paid for and which had cost the same amount as seats and refillable popcorn for all of them at a first-run movie, the boy watched the girl for a long time. What are you thinking? he asked her. She looked over at him and smiled. Was I thinking? she asked. Yes, he said, there was a shadow on your brow. She laughed at that, she always laughed at him when he said that. It made her think of cloud shadows crossing massive stone foreheads at Mount Rushmore. I don't know, she said, zoos always make me sad. He looked at his hands and said nothing; he knew that and wondered about it privately to himself every time she wanted to come. He could think of better things to pay for with half his brain tied behind his back, but he never said so. Their children liked the zoo, snow cones and revolving gates. She was still looking away, beyond the zoo walls, over the tops of the mountains where nearly all the snow was gone now, melted in the summer sun. Lions, she said, lions looking at the children, looking through thick glass at things to eat. Penguins, she said, swimming round and round and round as fast as they can. Swimming in a circle. Swimming back on themselves. He looked at her and his breath caught. He opened his mouth and closed it and closed his eyes and put his face down. He held his mouth shut. Held himself still. Lions, she said, and penguins. He was just waiting for her to breathe. She shook her head. Her eyes were liquid, hot and bright. That was me, she said, in that terrible empty voice and he withdrew into himself. That was me, she said, before you.

He looked so fast, so fast it cricked his neck. She was smiling at the mountains, her eyes were liquid. Hey! he said to the happy children, run wash your hands and we'll go buy one thing at the zoo shop.

Race you to the gates! their youngest son shouted as he ran to the drinking fountain to rinse one hundred per cent natural blue snow cone off his hands. No, stupid, the oldest son said, not yet. That's enough, the boy, the father, said. Zoo shop! the oldest daughter yelled, eating the last of the fries. The train, you promised, the youngest daughter politely reminded the boy, her father. Yes, he said and he smiled at her, yes, the train and then the shop. Gates! the youngest son shouted, racing back to them, hands and arms and front sopping and mouth and cheeks bright blue. Don't worry, the girl, the mother, said as she led him back to the fountain to do something about his face, we'll pay careful attention to the gates, and she smiled at the boy, the father. He gathered up the expensive food, eating the corn dog ends, happy, happy. Planning dinner made up out of what he had seen in the fridge that morning. Heaps, heaps of cereal for children, who would not understand.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 4. Sugar

2011-05-26T09:36:00.000-07:00

The little boy and the little girl were hunting for Easter eggs. There were lots and lots of eggs, they knew, somewhere, no one could remember where. Could be anywhere. They kept looking everywhere but they couldn't find eggs. Their mother had told them this was the day for eggs so they hunted. The eggs would be full of chocolate when they found them, full, or maybe the eggs would have money in them. They hoped it would be chocolate; you can't eat money and they were getting hungrier and hungrier.

The rabbit watched them from the long grass by the garden. Again. Every year. Every year with the eggs. The rabbit was mystified by the eggs and by the children who hunted and hunted for so long before they found the eggs right under their feet. Why scatter eggs just to gather them again? Especially if you had such a hard time finding them? The rabbit himself wanted nothing to do with hunting or with eggs, he planned to eat baby lettuces in the garden. As was sensible. The rabbit watched the little boy and the little girl disappear between the trees and forgot about them. No one else saw them go.

They hunted and hunted but after a very short while only the little girl was hunting for eggs, the little boy was hunting for anything that looked familiar to him. He knew he should know just where they were and it bothered him very much that he did not. When he stopped walking and looked and looked around him, the little girl stopped too. She stood quietly by him, leaning just the smallest bit toward him, her head tipped a very tiny way toward his. She waited for him to finish looking. She knew he had a good sense of direction and that she herself did not. Their mother found that out a long time ago. So the little girl waited while he looked around. She was pretending to be patient. After a little time he said, I don't know which way to walk, but I'll know as soon as the sun moves and it isn't noon anymore. We can look for eggs til then, and the little girl was very serious and nodded. Chocolate.

They hunted around one more thick stand of trees while time passed and the trees slowly grew the smallest of shadows and just as the little boy was looking up from those shadows to say he knew the way back, the little girl said, I smell cookies and fudge, and instead of saying the way home the little boy said, look! They stood very still and very close and looked carefully through the trees at the place they had come, at the house made of cake and candy and doughnuts. The trees were quiet and still and nothing was moving or talking. They stood still and amazed though not surprised, their empty baskets, slightly askew, hanging from their crooked arms. Amazed to see the house, not surprised to see it because after all, it must be somewhere and here where they were was somewhere. The little girl was very hungry now, much more hungry than when they had begun to hunt, hungrier than ever in her whole, whole life and she felt this was a terrible moment. She waited while the little boy thought and thought. He folded his arms so the basket stuck out at a stiff angle, tipped his head to one side with his heavy thoughts, looked at the icing and the spun sugar and the peppermints and the rows of lollipops and the brownie bricks and the nuts and raisins and he narrowed his eyes. It was the raisins that did it for him. What sort of normal person put raisins on the outside of cookies for children? Real mothers never did that anymore, he knew. Raisins were pure storybook. His own mother put raisins in oatmeal and in curry and on her own salad and many of them, most of them, ended in a pile on the edge of your bowl. He looked up at the sun and then he said out loud, sometimes people are in a tight spot. He had heard that in a book, a tight spot. He said it again. Sometimes people are in a tight spot, he said, and they have to do something dangerous. The little girl nodded and made her face look serious. We may have to walk back home for a long time, even though now I know the way. We need food because we're starving, so we will quickly grab just one thing. Yes, the little girl said, one thing and then we run. They knew this story. She's old, the little girl reminded the boy as they walked carefully over the green coconut grass and the crushed rock crystal candy path to the house. No frosting, the little girl said, we haven't had breakfast.

They pulled off a whole apple pie from right above the mailbox. It left a big hole and strawberry jam filling gushed out. It was like they had pulled off a scab. The pie broke between their hands as they pulled and they stuffed the pieces in their empty baskets and ran. They ran and ate pie and ran and the little girl suddenly darted away under the trees. She crawled around for a minute and held up three Easter eggs. She was always best at finding things, she was the first one their mother asked when something was missing. They followed eggs back to their garden and as they went the sun shifted and it wasn't afternoon anymore, it was morning again, the morning of hunting for eggs. Their mother met them between the beans and the carrots. She was pretending she hadn't come looking for them. The little girl held up her basket for her mother to see it full of eggs she had found, full. The little boy dropped his basket and ran to their mother and wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her stomach. She leaned down when he whispered, I don't like to be in charge. Me neither, the mother whispered back, and she smoothed and smoothed his hair. Breakfast? she asked them. Bacon, the little girl said.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 3. Balls

2011-05-23T21:52:00.000-07:00

They threw the ball back and forth as they walked around trees and between buildings, negotiating the busy people. Catch was her favorite game and she was happy, easy, tossing the ball back and back to him as they went. He felt silly at first, self conscious, stiff, too old for this sort of thing. It felt like having a very private conversation in loud voices on a crowded bus, this game between the two of them played around, over and in spite of people who were going studiously to class or seriously to work or hungrily to meals or wherever they were going to whatever they were doing, none of whom, in any case, were playing. She just kept her eyes on him, threw the ball right to him, every time, and he never missed or looked stupid and after a half mile or so he relaxed.
Relaxed.
Got cocky.
Threw too hard and she missed. Rather, she didn't miss, the ball missed her by a good ten feet and she stood still to watch it go by. Looked at him, eyebrows raised, jogged over to the low bushes where it had disappeared.

He yelled at her, sudden and harsh.

She froze, her outstretched fingers barely brushing the leaves, fingers curved and spread, the familiar shape of the vanished ball visible in her empty hand.
What? she asked, her eyes fastened on him in fright.
Don't! he said, and said it in the cross and frightened tone of one forced to warn, and with barely enough time, against an obvious danger. Like this: Don't step blindly into the street, Don't play with fire, Don't walk barefoot in the trash lot, Don't drink anything marked poison or it is sure to disagree with you sooner or later.
Like that.
Don't what? she asked, hand still holding the space of the absent ball but wilting a little now, her eyes narrowing, all her focus on him. Don't what?
The first thrill of his sudden fear was fading and he could be irritated, put out. She shouldn't do silly things. She should know better.
You don't just do that, he said. And he meant, though he did not say it, that she knew the rest of what he meant very well.

She looked at him for a moment longer, straightened up and twisted her head just a little bit. That twist said that whether or not she took his meaning, she was not going to close the gap, was not going to fill in what he hadn't wanted to spell out for the two of them, she was going to make him say all of whatever he had to say.
Don't just do what, exactly? she asked in a neutral tone that also said lots and lots of things she didn't spell out.
He had walked over and was standing next to her now. You don't just stick your hand into bushes, he said in a quiet and private and grown up tone and he did not add that this was a thing every sane person knows. He didn't have to.
Why not? she asked in that same tone.
He sighed, making words had become a burden. Snakes, he said. Obviously, he added silently.
She looked from him to the bushes, quickly, then back at him as if he were crazy and then at the bushes as if he were crazy. The bushes were fine, the crazy was all his.
Snakes? No. You mean spiders? she asked, giving him a chance.
No, he said, snakes. Snakes. You don't just reach into a bush.
Her eyebrows were up and now her head was tilted again, a downward tilt that managed to cast into serious doubt his whole life experience. He stiffened, defensive. Look, where I come from we would never reach into a bush like that, he said, voice rising, because of snakes. Because that would be dangerous and stupid, he didn't say out loud.

She bent quickly, her whole arm going into the bushes, retrieving her ball. Well. You're not from around here, are you? she asked, and tossed her ball high into the air. She stepped away to catch her own toss, took another step to toss it again and then another to catch it. A stranger caught her eye as she caught the ball and she tossed it right to him, surely and easily. He took it out of the air and tossed it back, underhand, a low hard softball pitch. She took a step to catch it and a step to toss it back. A pitch to the stranger and another pitch back to her.

He stood, a thousand things passing through him. His hands stuck out a bit from his sides. They darted the smallest fraction of an inch toward every toss that did not come to him, and he watched her move a little and a little away.
Hey, he thought, hey. I want to play.
I just want to play.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 2. Panic

2011-05-22T11:34:00.000-07:00

One morning a boy looked up and around and didn't see his girl. He looked and looked and shouted and shouted but she was not thinking of hearing him or standing where people could see her so he was very lost from her.

He tried not to panic.

He thought he would make her a treat, the sort of thing he knew she liked very much.
He baked and baked.
The sun was going away when he took the treats out and spread them under the trees and by the stream and among her flowers and carefully on the edges of the bookcases and delicately in her favorite shoes and down along the path to her friend's house and balanced some on the sleeping baby.
But she wasn't hungry just then, and she was thinking of other things so she did not come for the treats or clean up the crumbs til after he had fallen asleep on the living room floor, his hands all sticky.

The next day he thought he might try with flowers.
He bought some and he took some and he made some and he tied them in strings and wreaths and ropes and swags and bundled some in bunches and some in pairs and some all by themselves. He took all those flowers and laid them on her bed and everywhere in the refrigerator and twined them about the children and pressed them between the pages of the telephone book and heaped them all about the sewing machine. He got so tired from all that flower arranging that he fell fast asleep across the sofa and one chair and she had to be very quiet and careful when she gathered up all the petals.

The next day he remembered she loved music.
He sang in the shower and on the street corner and while he waited for the toast to pop and in his taxi where the driver made requests which he obligingly took, though he knew those songs were ones she particularly disliked. He sang to the birds in her garden and to the children while they watched television which made them turn the volume very loud. He sang a sincere thanks to the postman for the package and to the policeman for the speeding ticket and to the clerk for his change. He sang himself hoarse and silent and went to bed early and she left him a cup of honey lemon tea to drink when he woke in the morning.

He tried poetry.
He wrote with erasable markers in blank verse on the blender and on the back door. He wrote rhymed couplets on her jeans and all around the rim of the pickle jar. He wrote Italian sonnets in mustard on the children's sandwiches which they wiped off with napkins and reminded him for the millionth time that they did not eat mustard. With the erasable markers he wrote heartfelt doggerel fit for the finest, fanciest, glitteryest greeting card a mother-in-law ever resented all over the bed sheets, about which she swore quietly when she did the wash the next day.

He sent presents.
Chocolates in heart-shaped boxes. Shoes with high heels and shoes with no heels. Dresses a flattering half-size too small. Wigs, luxurious and blond. Engravings and signed first editions. Cashmere throws and designer perfumes and tickets to exotic places. A pedigreed lapdog and a case with a padlock to keep it in. A house in the country and a yacht on the ocean and a castle in the sky. An empty honey pot, a wishing ring, a flying horse and a magical bird in a golden cage. She sold all of it on eBay and put aside the money for the kids' college fund, except for the magical bird, which she let out of the cage and carried to the garden to set it free. But it sat on her head and sang a song of days long gone by and asked her, with tears in its eyes, to let it stay and to also keep the cage so it could sleep there at night, as that was the only really safe place for a magical bird to sleep. She agreed and carried the cage and the bird to her bedroom where she found him, dead to the world, sleeping on her side of the bed, his wallet empty and his credit utterly exhausted.

In the morning she called a meeting.
He sat across from her, trying not to panic.
She asked him what on earth he was on about and he asked where in the world she had been.
He told her he loved her and she pointed out that she had been thinking of other things and he asked her why she stood where no one could see her and she had no answer for that, no answer at all.
Now he was not even trying not to panic.
He asked her if it was over and she told him it was.
No more looking for her,
no more treats,
no more traps,
no more bribes,
no more sleeping when there was work to be done.
He put down his head and that was the end of the meeting. She went to feed the bird.
He mowed the lawn and she went to the bank. She had a large deposit to make.
He sent her a text and she answered almost at once.
She made chocolate cake and he grilled steaks.
She pushed him off her side of the bed and slept in the middle, to hold the ground.
He forgot to look for her and she sometimes stood where people could see her.
He let her flowers grow in her garden where she liked them and she made sure the children played nicely with him and with each other and he sang softly to her the songs she loved the best and which the magical bird didn't know. The bird didn't know any new stuff.

And she told all that was in her heart to the magical bird, which was what she had needed all along. He was happy that she liked his present.
Like it? she said, I love it!
He slept with a smile and the bird sang a song of days long gone by while she ate chocolate cake and watched the children and the flowers growing in her garden.

Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 1. Making Up the World

2011-05-22T07:29:00.001-07:00

Once there were two people, a boy and a girl, who loved each other very much.

When the spring came the boy said to the girl, let's plant beans and corn and tomatoes. But the girl was afraid, she said the ground was too wet and the sun was too cold. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the ground dried and the sun was very hot and there were no beans or corn or tomatoes that year in their garden.

When it was summer the girl said to the boy, let's take our towels and go swimming. But the boy was afraid, he said the river was running too high and the water was too cold and the girl didn't know how to swim. You might get hurt, he said. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the river slowed and fell and grew sluggish and warm under the hot sun and no one got a tan or learned to swim that year.

When the fall came the boy said to the girl, let's rake all our leaves into a huge pile and jump in them all day and roll around together and when it gets dark let's invite all our friends and set our leaves on fire and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. But the girl was afraid, she said, I think every single thing you just suggested is against the law and you can't cook a hot dog on a leaf fire. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and the leaves blew into the neighbors' yards and there was no jumping or rolling or flaming of marshmallows that year.

When the winter came the girl said to the boy, let's go sledding and see who can go the fastest. But the boy was afraid, he said, I had a bad dream about sledding with you, what if that dream came true? I don't think I could live in that world, baby. So they did other things, things that needed doing, and a storm came in the night and blew and blew and covered all their doors and windows with snow so they could not get out for months. They ate beans and corn and tomatoes from cans they had brought from the store and they were warm enough under all that snow but it was very dark, all the time; their windows were blank white faces. They had lots and lots of things that needed doing and the time went by and by while they moved slowly and safely and there was no sledding that year.

Then the boy found himself staring at the wall or the window, it made no difference which, a thing that needed doing hanging loose in his hands. The girl found him in the dark and said, I'm trying and trying to remember something important but I can't remember what it is, and she was crying. He said, what were you doing when you tried to remember? and she said, I don't know, I lost the thing that needed doing, and he said, I can't remember either, and they went to sleep afraid.

When they woke the next time the world had shifted and they couldn't think where they were or what had happened to their house. She could see him, that he was old now, and he looked at her and wondered how long it had been since the last time she had slept at all. They walked carefully in the rooms and the girl said, what has happened to the walls? and the boy said, baby, those are the windows and that is daylight, and she said at the same time, is that the sun? because they had forgotten. They went softly and bravely out their door into a ruined world. Their trees were smashed and splayed and the river was roaring and tearing the banks apart and the garden was broken and bent from the heavy snow. The girl turned her face away and said, I think I might die here, what can we ever do about this? and the boy took the girl's hand and said, don't be alone. Please don't be alone.

The girl looked at the pieces of their world for a long time, and at the boy and then at the sun and said, I never want to eat corn or beans again, but I do love tomatoes. Let's plant some peppers and some basil too, and the boy said, I'm going to build us a boat that will carry two, and the girl said, there is a place here for a ring of stones that can hold a fire hot enough to cook meat, and the boy took a deep breath and said, if we go on the sled, can I sit in front? Can you sit behind me and be safe? And she was silent til she asked, in the back? You want me to be in the back? And they both cried and he said, can I hold you tight if you go in front? And she smiled at him and said, I will never leave you alone. Then they began the things they wanted to do and it was all that long day of sun before they slept again.

Meditations. The Glory of a Woman

2011-04-01T16:29:00.001-07:00

Brian Kershisnik, Sisters

I'm needing a hair cut.
My middle child answered a question, sent an email; consequentially, photographs of us (yet to be taken) will be part of an upcoming show, a show of Thirty Strangers. You can Google that, if you like, when you leave here. Photographs. I don't like having my picture taken, I usually climb under the table when I feel threatened in that way. I'm very quick and clever at it. (Climbing under tables is a useful method for escaping a wide array of fraught or confusing situations. I recently scooted with commendable speed under a table to avoid being kissed. That moment was doubly fraught and confusing as, while the would-be kisser was a man (which you'd have no doubt expected), at the moment of the attempt, for purposes of a play, so was I, also, a man (which no one should have expected). I'd have gone under that table in any case, but, things being what they were, I was really moving. I bring up this incident of attempted man-on-sorta-man-kissing only for obvious reasons; I am talking here about my short hair. You see the connection.)
I'm going to need a haircut before I submit to having my picture taken. That's the trouble with having short hair, it needs cutting. Long hair pretends it meant to be this way. Short hair is all about history, recent history, as in, you just washed or you just styled or you just cut it--or you didn't and you just should have.
All this short hair is new to me.
Until maybe a year ago (?), from the time I ever had any hair at all it was on its way to becoming long hair. Past my shoulders, past my waist. A lifetime of long hair.
I cut it, had it cut off, to see if I could, if I could wear short hair. No, I wasn't even that brave. I already knew I could wear it. My sisters all had cropped their locks at one time or another and it was great on every one of them; since we resemble each other, I assumed. I wanted to see if I had it in me to chop it right off, if I were made of that stern sort of stuff. After the chopping a lady at church stopped me, took me by both shoulders and looked me over carefully. "Well," she said. "Now that you've done this, you can do anything." Anything sounding like she was thinking of maybe arson. Or skinny dipping. But in a happy way, at least in an it-looks-good-on-you sort of way. In a maybe envious way. An I-wish-I'd-thought of-that sort of way.
Her hair was (is) shorter than mine.

My friend had brain surgery and of course they shaved her head. I went with the painter to visit her when she came home from the hospital. It was Halloween time and she had all these closely set staples forming one half of a deeply arched widow's peak rising just above her ear and descending in the middle of her forehead. Sweetest, hardest Halloween look EVER. Road Warrior. Steam punk vampire. She was fragile and tired and drugged and so, so unbearably lovely. I felt as if I'd never before been able to see her and now suddenly I could, could really see her with all that long hair shorn away. She had long hair always, said she loved it, but I'd never believed it was a deeply considered position. More of a false tradition. A way around the curly hair she was born with and a way out of really having hair at all. I know about that (not the curls). There's nothing in the world easier than long hair you wear in a pony tail. It's far simpler than no hair at all because no hair has to be explained, defended, carried off. My friend with her hair cut like a man's and her head full of staples (I was trying to imagine getting through airport security) has a sister-in-law who shaved her head but for rock star reasons and wore her close-cut hair with ripped jeans and hauteur, with rhinestones and stacked heels and a glamor of low cut evening wear in the grocery store.
My friend will never again, I think, grow her hair long; it would be too hard, too messy and time consuming. Too silly. A waste. What on earth would she do with those awful curls in the in-between stages, the troublesome lengths between past-the-ears and pony-tail-tamed? Shudder. Anyway, she's beautiful just as she is, beautiful like a fragile shell, as if, should you hold her up to the hard sun, you would see through her the shadows of your own fingers. Her sister-in-law will yet, I believe, do all sorts of things that are hard and impossible and messy and beautiful, including growing her hair right into and then on through troublesome lengths. I cannot imagine, if you held the crop-haired, jazz singing, rocker sister-in-law in any sort of light, you'd see yourself through her.
When enough time goes by that my friend has lost her staples (modern methods of staple removal, it turns out, are not a topic for polite dinner table conversation. By the way. In case you wondered) we talk at my house after dinner about our lost long hair. My niece is with us, a short-hair evangelist (now, about that aforementioned sister-in-law? The singer? I've never met her, you know, only seen videos on youtube (and how, from those, could you ever determine?) but I'll tell you, she really reminds me of my niece, this short-hair evangelist who does much that is hard and messy and beautiful). My niece speaks passionately, sings from the heart, of the tribe, her soul mate sisters who have short hair. She claims she can tell by looking at a woman coming toward her with a slamming short hair cut that they would be great companions. My friend (her arcing scar still very, very cool and clearly visible to me from where I sit) and I are careful with our glances. We are not convinced. Perhaps we are too old. Perhaps we miss our hair.

In my grandmother's house was a wonderful picture, a wedding picture. My aunt with her short curly blond hair. I never knew her any other way, never imagined her other than the sassy aunt with a soft sort of 1930's look. Grandma told me one day, out of the blue and apropos of nothing, that my aunt's hair was short in the photo because she had had a terrible fever and all her long hair had to be cut off. Shorn off, close to the scalp. "Long hair," she told me, looking carefully, not at mine falling below my waist but at the short hair in the picture, "draws off all of your strength." "It does?" I squeaked, awed and disbelieving. "Oh, yes," Grandma sighed, assuring me, "it weakens you dreadfully." My aunt's hair had been cut off while she was so sick in order that she could get better, recover. Grandma said it as if she would add finally. Finally cut off and gone. Finally. All that hair. Said with something not altogether unlike admiration and not altogether unlike disgust.
All. that. hair.

Sheer self preservation drove my momma to keep me in tight braids whenever she could, but she also sent me to school all on my own and once there I became a champion of repressed hair everywhere, a freedom fighter. I loved to let it fly, set it loose from its twistings and moorings. I was romantic in that way. I thought lots of unrestrained hair made me beautiful. Like a lion. The school bus windows were nearly always down on the way home unless we were in the bleak midwinter. There was wind from those open windows and that wind whipped us about. This string of events (wind, lots of long hair, vanished braids) led, what with one thing and another, to snarls. To lies. And to fights with my momma. Threats. She was going to cut it all off if I didn't and didn't right now. Didn't be good. Didn't behave. Didn't stop being a lion and start being a lady.
I remember the shiver of deciding to learn braiding it myself, of teaching myself ponytail and pigtails. Taking back my hair. For the first time. Soppy, fat, loose braids that did not survive even a bike ride to the store, a paltry three and a half country blocks from home, those awkwardly crafted early plaits growing steadily softer, sticking out hairy arms and legs all down their length. Pigtails that were never of an even thickness (and the part? Who even knew? Think I've got eyes in the back of my head?). A ponytail always slipping away from me. Fixing it, doing it again. And again. Drawing a definite power from doing my own hair. By myself.
I watch my girls reach for that power. Watch them carefully craft funny, crooked braids and tails to wear to school because these are talismans, amulets woven from their own selves. Power. Becoming. Silly, unbalanced hair that says, Hey! Get outta the way! I did this all by myself and MY MOMMA WANTED ME TO. Watch me stand up , people, look at me go. Hair that gets a fond and pained and loving and conspiratorial look from every woman with eyes to see it.
One day, after a while, they get good at it and then they look just like everyone else.

It keeps you warm, long hair, like a scarf, like a shawl. Keeps you warm winter and summer. Also, people step on it and sit on it and lie on it if you don't prevent them by cutting it off. Once, when I was a freshman at Snow, a man hooked, snagged and dragged me with him for about twenty feet in the hall of the Administration building. By my hair. He used only a simple suit coat button, the most effective hair-hook God ever invented (it had to be God, it's that good). I was immediately hopelessly snarled, my route altered instantly and I was hopping along, backwards, at his side as he strode in a direction I had not intended to travel. He was irritated. As if I had thrust my hair at his button with malice aforethought.
All. that. hair.

I resisted letting my girls cut their hair. Once it's gone, it's gone. I didn't absolutely prevent them, but I did absolutely require they either leave it long enough to go into a pony tail or cut it to chin length. Out of self preservation. To insure that they (I) could get it out of their (my) way. There's a family portrait, the painter's family, and the three of us look like we're growing hair for a cause, like we're trying to make a point or keep a vow or observe a hair-covenant. It was shocking to me when I saw the photo. Within a month or so we all of us had significantly shorter tresses.
All that hair.
My sister cuts my hair. I don't know what I want, I only see other people with hair I covet. She explains to me I can never have that hair, mine's too thick or too straight or has too much wave. One day we miscommunicate and by the time the dust has settled I have nearly nothing left. I find myself in a strange spot, looking into the mirror and seeing there my son. Only, he's wearing my clothes. Now, this was all an accident. Within a short time there is another accident and I am cast in a man's role in a play. This is a favor for a friend; he says he will make the character a woman. But it just won't work that way and now I am playing a man. I have the hair for it, you see? Inevitable. I get this very weird attention. From men and from women. Pretend you're a girl and you're told you're "disturbingly handsome."
Wait, what? So I'm...is that... a compliment?
Hey.
I do have a handsome son.
My hair's longer now, lots longer. In fact, since I began writing here, I have cut it all up. It was too long and I have to be photographed, remember? My sister hates it when I cut my own hair, I make it all weird. But I think it looks good, better, anyway, and she can fix it and I can submit to the upcoming photos. And it will grow back.
It always does.

Even now, a year or more after the cutting, when I am facing a difficult day, having a hard time, I catch myself thinking, ok, get all this hair out of the way and then let's get going! I even move to put it up, to twist it out of my way so I can set the day spinning. That was always the signal I gave myself that things needed to get serious.
High, tight ponytail and away!
When it was long I played with it all the time when I thought hard or talked to people, twisting it up onto the top of my head over and again. I had a set of twists I did without thinking that always landed me in the same complicated, knotted mass, and I'd catch myself with it in a state of completion, having accomplished it without noticing. If I tried to do it, if I thought, I couldn't for the life of me make that knot. I had to be focused somewhere else and my hands just knitted my hair up and up. I wondered if I would lose the hair-playing action when I lost the long hair but I find I mess with it constantly, more even than I did before. My hair grows across the back of my head from right to left (widdershins) and I stroke it and stroke it. Twist a lock on one side or the other in front, where I (try to) keep it longer. When I write or think hard I pull it up in big handfuls and sit like that, fists full of hair, or I twist and rub it around and around on the top of my head.
Fortunately, I do not work when other people are around.

My little sister cut her hair off all the time when she was small. It was awful and complete. Jagged and strange, there was no fixing it, no softening it, we had to wait around for it to grow while people wondered, politely, why we had perpetrated this savage hairdo on our little boy. When it did grow out at all she cut it again. And again.
Now she's a momma and her own little blond girl just committed upon herself a serious and terrible haircut.
For the second time.
Karma.
All that hair.

Mary Ingalls got sick, became blind and her long golden hair was all cut off. Laura's hair grew and grew, it passed her knees, her daughter wrote of the terrible headaches her mother suffered wearing her hair up.
Maybe the real Lady really rode her horse through the streets clothed only in her hair, and if she did, I'm sure that act really caught her husband's attention. But he had asked for it. What could he have been thinking? Maybe she really did just have a ton of hair. Maybe she just really needed to make that point. (Under a specific set of circumstances my momma used to call me Godiva when I was small. Very small. Minute.)
I read a story, long ago, a ghost story by Guy de Maupassant, a specter beseeching, begging a man to comb and to braid her long black hair to save her, to cure her. I never forgot that description of the ghost hair falling to the ground over the back of the ghost's chair as she sat in the bedroom the man had unlocked in her empty, haunted house, while he combed and combed with the comb she carried, him all shuddering and horrified. Her hair icy, like black snakes. And in another of Maupassant's stories, a man maddened by love and desire for a long-dead woman whose beautiful, golden braid he found hidden in a secret drawer in a wonderful antique cabinet. Driven to obsession, driven past sanity by a braid tied with a golden cord.
Bernice bobs her hair--heck, Bernice bobs everybody's hair--for proof. To prove she will, she can. As it turns out, she really can't and her successes all fall down around her, piled with her long dark locks on the barbershop floor, so much detritus, so much waste, so much loss. Clunky with her dark hair in "blocks", not awarded a husband by the story-gods, not honored for her social sacrifice as her classical namesake was honored who traded the goddess golden braids for a safe returned husband. I never admired Bernice's desecration of her cousin, the rape of those locks, but she really does bob her hair, she does it and she escapes into the night on her own two feet. She'll drive into her future behind the wheel of her own car. Sign of things to come.
Jo Marsh cuts off her one beauty for money, for the honorable woman's way to quick cash.
A wonderful Christmas present bought with money from lost hair, hair weighed, chopped and sold in a festive, wild act of seasonal and abandoned loving. He holds her to him tightly, loving her so hard, tells her all that hair will grow back so she can wear the combs-- and it will, of course it will. By the time it can have grown out to its full length, no one but no one will be wearing their hair long anymore and those wonderful, unaffordable combs will still lie pristine, awaiting their big break on The Antiques Roadshow. Lucky the people in the story don't know that, huh? Perhaps the view I'm taking here is too dim. Let's see, this is 1906...yeah. Well, maybe her hair grows super, super fast. Anyway, that is certainly not what this story is about. Merry Christmas.
If you were in a tower and a prince came along and said, hey, let me climb up there the same way your jailer climbs up, let me come up there to you, well, you'd let him up, wouldn't you? Even if it meant a man were climbing your hair? I mean, wouldn't you?

When I think of myself, when in my mind I see myself moving through the world, my inner construct has long hair.
The I'm the tall one with long hair.
I don't even know who that is, that dark-haired woman in photographs, the one with no hair.
Am I just hair?
Am I anyone without it?

You know what makes me crazy?
So, she lets him climb the braids to the tower because, who wouldn't? I mean, for all she knows, that's the only way people go visiting. It's not like she's got any other experience. It's not like she lives in a normal house built normally for normal people. The thing's got no door and only the one window, so right off the bat, in the very structure of her world, she's in trouble. Only one person comes and goes so, as far as she can see, as far as she knows, the whole world makes all their entrances and exits up and down her hair. This prince is her Jacob and she's his ladder. He's an angel coming and going from heaven on a golden cord strung out of a person. Sounds like love, doesn't it?
So far, so good.
But this story is going to get crazy.
Long strong braids are one thing. I've had those myself. And so are witches who think they've got it locked, got set it up tight and strong so nothing can change, nothing can go wrong. No snarls. People close enough to be like family, baby, we've all got those. But there's a question of responsible behavior here, of a badly botched rescue.
He wants her to go away with him and so he should. He's got to see that her situation is unsustainable, that she's in terrible danger. This would not be a stable family life for anybody, even for someone protected by absolute naivete, sheltered in utter ignorance,who knows nothing whatever of anything else.
Maybe he asked her to do the obvious thing. I'm telling myself he did. "See, baby, if we just cut off these braids we can tack them to the window here and we can both go the next time." He's got a fast horse. They'd have a shot, anyway. Maybe he tried to get her to see.
And maybe she was terrified because she'd never climbed anything but up onto a chair or into her bed. Or maybe she was worried about the window fastening (always the weak link); maybe she had nightmares of braids unwinding, coming from together, separating, untwisting, and she's falling and falling with her prince into the hungry, menacing thorn bushes growing around the base of the tower (abusive landscaping); thorn bushes reaching up to catch them, to snatch them. Maybe she just didn't believe him when he solemnly swore to her it hurts not at all to cut your hair. Maybe she worried about who she'd be if she ran with this guy and left behind all that hair.
She came up with a different plan, all on her own.
It was a dumb plan, but then, she'd have had no idea about danger, about time slipping away, about peril that grows with every risked exposure, every stolen kiss. So her prince brought her the silks she asked him for because, well, he loved her (when I was small I thought it was such an odd material, silk, but seeing as she thinks ladders are made out of hair, really it's an obvious choice) and she squirreled them away telling herself, soon, soon it will be enough, soon it will be safe all the way to the bottom. And he came to her and came to her even though he must have known it was folly. What was he going to do? He loved her so. Anyway, he was young, too, and he'd never died before.
He still had that to look forward to.
That's right, kids, let Tower-Girl formulate the escape plan. Her super power is not getting it.
It broke upon them like thunder, like the dead of winter, like the fall of a tower.
But how could she have known?
But wouldn't he have warned her?
Maybe it never occurred to him how many things would never occur to her. Maybe he couldn't wrap his mind around what it would mean to have no experience of anything. Maybe he got lost in all that hair.
It makes me crazy because it was all going anyway.
He climbed so confidentially, set his feet in the places he trusted, his passage woven of the woman he loved.
The last thing he saw would be her severed braids tacked to the window (hey! good idea) and another woman altogether (her crazy not-a-family), not his girl, not the one he loved at all, before the thorns had him.
But she.
She was out there, hair swinging in a low-maintenance bob, free! She got thrown away and it made her free. And she does better than you might expect. Maybe all that hair was drawing off her strength, all along. She must have hung on, hung on so tightly to the idea of him and it took her years, but she found him, found him wandering in an bottomless night. She cried his sight back into him even though his eyes were scratched right away and even though, on the face of it, I know, that seems completely impossible. Remember, though, this is a story about hair. This is a story where lost things grow back and our passage into the whole wide world comes right out of our own heads.

It's who we are.
We cut our hair, it all grows back.
I needed my hair cut and I cut it.
Maybe one day I'll show you the photo.

Elizabeth, Wales
Noah's photo

Meditations. Words. That Which Cometh Out of a Man.

2011-02-05T14:36:00.000-08:00

I am the same which spake,
and the world was made,
and all things came by me.
D&C 38:3

I stutter.
It can get worse when I am tired. Or if I audition for a play. Sometimes in church settings. Stress, too.
Or none of these things at all.

My family says they do not hear it.
In the car we discuss the movie we have seen, a king trying to take words from inside him and pour them out his mouth and into his people. As we discuss the story of the king and the therapist and stammering and stuttering and I talk about the ways in which I am similar to and different from the king, the painter says, "The trouble, the problem, with you is that you don't stutter enough."

Do you have those moments when your understanding of English, of communion between humans, of myriad meanings and any sort of guessing as to another person's possible intent, flees, deserts you and you stare, empty; the most inner space which should be warm and whispering and teeming with thoughts and feelings and what you are planning to say next desolate and whistling as outside air blows frozen and unimpeded across your perfectly blank mind?
I looked at the painter, when he said that, from such a place. I could not for the life of me figure out his words.

Insufficient stuttering is not the trouble, the problem, with me.

I stutter. I stutter a lot.

That's not what he meant, of course. His meaning didn't match the words he used. What he meant is that he has lost his ability to grasp it, the stuttering, to pull up from his memory stumbling specimens for examination, to tease my speech apart and figure it out. There's no longer enough of it for him to grab hold. It is not gone; it is gone from him.

I know I do it. I am strategic. I make choices, mindfully breathing, picking and choosing from among thousands of words those least likely to trip me up, to knock me down. Still, as my sister says, at some point you're gonna have to face using words that begin with W. Like, for example, word. Like that. You may be able to think of a few more W words difficult to avoid. And then Y is tricky. L is nasty. My daughter's name begins with L. S can be a problem-- obvious difficulties there. Watch me take a careful breath before I tell you my name. Watch me stumble anyway. You will lean forward, tiny frown, tiny smile. "What's that? What was--I didn't catch--"
Watch me. Another breath. Second try will be much better. Or much, much worse.
Watch me do this all my life.

I'm just shaping the sound,
I'm just turning the syllables round.
Dipping my toe in the water
and watching you drown.
-Keane, Again and Again

I know I stutter because people misunderstand. I misstep, hit the first syllable of a word twice and people react to what they heard, repeat it; amused and/or annoyed that I have made a stupid and mildly funny joke, a broken pun, an annoying embroidery on a bit of conversation. They throw it back at me, ha, this is funny-dumb, you said a dumb-funny thing, ha. I have to look at them, have to say into their eyes, "No, I didn't say that. I stutter." Clatter, smash. You can hear that word go to pieces on the stones at the bottom of polite conversation. I stutter. Like a special parking permit. Allows me to stop this friendly flow of unexamined words in their tracks. Baby, nobody adult wants you to say I stutter when they have just tossed a casual, a thoughtless-- no-- an unconsidered slur on something you've said. Makes them, suddenly, nakedly, afraid they might actually, after all, secretly, be not so nice people. As they feared all along.
You should try it.

And the Lord said unto him,
Who hath made man's mouth?
or who maketh the dumb,
or deaf,
or the seeing,
or the blind?
have not I the Lord?
Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth,
and teach thee what thou shalt say.
-Exodus 4:11&12

A woman comes to me at church after I have taught a lesson. "You stutter," she announces without preamble or introductions (lucky for me), "you stutter and stutter and look at you! Just look at you!" I look at me. I do not know what she is talking about. Has she come up to me after class, made all this social effort in order to hand me an atta-boy award? "Look how it doesn't stop you, how you think you can just talk anyway." She goes on, flows and gushes on, words pouring unbroken and pure from her so I have not time to perceive, let alone give form to the aghast thoughts rising and fluttering in masses inside my head. "My daughter stutters and she will not speak. Will not. I can't get her to speak even with us, even with people who don't care. She just has stopped talking and I just wish," she's holding on to my arm, crying a little and twisting it, "that she could have heard you give this lovely lesson and stutter!"

I sift through words in order to speak. I re-order. I substitute. It's a habit. I listen. I think. I will take your sentence apart and put it back together.
...will not speak...even with people who don't care.
She doesn't mean this thing she's said, exactly.
She means her daughter will no longer speak; of course, she must have once spoken. Will no longer speak even with people who do care. People who do care about this girl enough to want her words limping and crippled, who still care so much for her they want her insides to show on the outside. People willing to trade caring about the form and precision and beauty of spoken words (because they do care, they do, we all care, observe our love affair with the British accent) for a share in this girl's thoughts and opinions and bad jokes, however marred, however fragmented.

...you think you can just talk anyway.
It is a new world this nice, concerned and moved Mormon lady opens to me. One I had not before considered. I might, in my life, have chosen a different world. I might have chosen silence.

Then I said, Woe is Me!
for I am undone;
because I am a man of unclean lips,
and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips;
for mine eyes have seen the King,
the Lord of hosts.
Then flew one of the seraphims unto me,
having a live coal in his hand,
which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar:
And he laid it upon my mouth,
and said
Lo, this hath touched thy lips;
and thine iniquity is taken away and thy sin is purged.
Isaiah 6:5-7

I stutter. And I talk too much.
I talk all the time. Incessantly. About everything. Need something said? I work for free. And I never shy away from anything except asking people questions about their lives. That's yucky, but the rest of spoken everything is free game. Ask me a question. My response may or may not include a long and detailed story about my life, ruminations on word origins and connotative meanings, digressions into the causes of the Battle of Hastings and speculations as to its effect on fast food in America and some pointed observations on modern Mormon mores. If you can keep your wits about you and your focus sharp (if you can stay awake) you will see all those words will be my answer to your question. Sometimes a friend will ask a question innocently and unguardedly and I will take a breath and there's this suspended moment when we look at each other and then I say, "Do you really want this answer? Or shall I say, 'It was fine' ?" and they think about it. Some go one way, some go another.
I talk.
To people. All, all, all the time.
Hands, face, body, words, words, words.
I'm the one who says, "That's a cheap answer. That's easy to say."
The book club girl who says, "Huh. I don't think it means that at all. And by the way I didn't like this book."
The one who says, "Wait a minute-- what did you just say?"
The one who says, "What could that possibly mean? What on earth do you think they thought they were saying?"
I say, "Wait, I don't understand. You lost me. What are you talking about?"
"What do you mean," I say, "Why?" "How so?" "And is that true? Do you think that's true?"
My friend says, stopped in his tracks, caught short by some query, "Man, you are just the one to stick people with tough questions, aren't you?" I have stuck him by asking him to explain why he chose those words he has just used.
Look how it doesn't stop you, how you think you can just talk anyway.

But it might have been different. This had simply never occurred to me.

And behold, the glory of the Lord was upon Moses,
so that Moses stood in the presence of God,
and talked with him face to face.
And the Lord God said unto Moses,
For mine own purpose have I made these things.
Here is wisdom and it remaineth in me.
And by the word of my power have I created them...
-Moses 1:31&32

Lately I am plagued by people running from their own words. People who claim not to have meant what they said, who cast from themselves the words of their own making like so many bastard children. Sorry, Son, whatever it was in my head that I meant at the time I certainly never meant to make you. Distancing themselves as if these things out of their mouths were not things made, chosen, but things that came upon them in some sort of fit, outside their control, like storm squalls or tax law.
That was said in anger, it was because I was desperate, I don't know why you feel this way about what I said, I'm not sure I want to be held to those words, just because I said it he thinks I meant it, she is holding me to what I said but---
but
but
I want to not be held
to,
by,
these words
I have made.

they're only words they're only words they're only words

DAMN IT, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself;
and though the heavens and the earth pass away,
my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled,
whether by mine own voice, or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.
-D&C 1:38

Begin picking words, selecting between them, at about the age of three. Take careful breaths. Listen. Otherwise, if I cannot get some control of this thing outside my control, I will have to spend more time with the school speech pathologist. We met, the pathologist and I, when I was in third grade. He was the first ever adult I realized was unable to keep up his end of a conversation. I tried to speak very carefully around my teachers after that so as to minimize therapy and contact. Breathe. Think about all the words that do not begin with W, L, S, Y...

I would say that I'm sorry if it would do any good
But to never regret means you have to forget
and I don't think that I could.

Don't say words you don't mean,
When I'm gone please speak well of me.
-The Weepies, Please Speak Well of Me

It's a story we tell, a world we make and we make it all out of words. What do I know of you? Your dress, your countenance, your movements, your deeds, your words. Nuances of dress may elude you, your face is what you wore into the world, all we can do to be known is move our limbs and shape the air that passes from our lungs. Marks on paper, movements through time and space, vibrations of air across vocal cords. Of such tiny stuff are our whole selves made, as far as concerns others and their knowing of us. How to connect, ever, worlds without end, except through our saying? And then, that anyone would desire, embrace, pursue, seek to disown their words? To be separated, divided, from their own making of meaning?
How terrifying.
Not that we wouldn't take back. Not that we wouldn't regret. Not that there's no place in the world for an editor (heaven knows). Not that anyone can get it right.
It's a question of ownership.

Not much for conversation
I still find need to pray
Sometimes I get tired of walking
Through these ordinary days
If nothing else I get to see you
Even if we never speak
The harm of words is sometimes
We don't quite know
What they really mean
-Jars of Clay, Ordinary Days

In the beginning was the Word.
And,
the Word was God.

My niece is small, three years old. Pretty, blond, a good girl. Earnest. Smart. She began stuttering one day. Out of the blue. Fully developed inability to get sounds out.
Why?
And how you gonna get along without W words, baby?
She tries. Deliberately. Carefully. Breathes. Tries. Heartbreaking to watch.
One day, playing with her cousins, she breaks. Cries, stops speaking. Withdraws.
...even with people who don't care.
Her mother is good, a good mama. We have spoken, counseled, she is sensible, not making too great a fuss, exerting any sort of pressure or weight, we know this is common, will probably not last, is not the end of the world.
Only, of course, it might be. It might be the end of that world in which this little girl speaks freely.
Look at you...how you think you can just talk anyway.
Her momma tries to comfort a despair too huge for only three years of living. "Maybe, maybe tonight we can pray to Jesus and He can start to take this away, to help you." Words said in hope, to push away pain. The little girl grasps them, the words, takes them, makes them real. She goes immediately, prays. By herself. Makes words and gives them to God and no one hears those words but God. We will not know if she had to chose between tricky words and the faithful friends. She has not stuttered since that conversation with the God she loves and trusts, to whom she has spoken.

But remember that all my judgments are not given unto men;
and as the words have gone forth out of my mouth even so shall they be fulfilled,
that the first shall be last,
and that the last shall be first in all things
whatsoever I have created by the word of my power,
which is the power of my spirit.
D&C 29:30

Never occurred to me, that there might have been a different world.

In the movie the king makes his speech. "Breathe," says his therapist, just before the terrible moment, the crisis. And after, after the words have come out and not come out, after the great and terrible, limping success, the therapist tells the king he did stumble on some of the W's. He had to leave those in, the king says, had to put them there so the people would know it was him.

I stutter. You know it's me.

For it is my voice which speaketh them unto you;
for they are given by my spirit unto you,
and by my power you can read them one to another;
and save it were by my power you could not have them;
Wherefore you can testify that you have heard my voice,
and know my words.
D&C 18:35&36

Noah's photos

Stories. Dreaming. The First Part.

2011-01-10T19:53:00.001-08:00

Brian Kershisnik, Practice

The reason angels can fly is because they take themselves lightly.
~G.K. Chesterton, "Orthodoxy"

He says, leaning over remains of soup and noodles and Beef Waterfall, that he has only one recurring dream, a dream that came to him as an adult. The other man leans back, listening, and though he speaks not of dreams recurring or of dreams singular, I know he dreams seldom but that his dreams, when they come, linger long, unsettle the order, can deeply upset him. They are quiet about their dreaming, these two men, but I ask them questions and questions; I cannot stop myself (I do not), I always must know the details, the twists and turns of other people's thoughts directed and thoughts aimless in waking consciousness or of thoughts spinning and twirling in sleep.

We talk of dreams.
I'm one of those recurring-dream people.

The earliest dream of any dream I can remember is of standing on a bridge at night, a bridge lit by city lights, and looking over its edge into distant water so far below me that I can hardly make it out. I gaze and peer and stare, enticed, griped by a formless dread or desire. A river, a river flowing far below the streets of the night city. I get over or through or around the railings and there, built into the edge of the bridge, just below where my feet had been when I still stood safe behind the handrails, is a little platform that pulls out, like a bread board in a kitchen counter, like a writing board in a rolltop desk. In the dream I must pull this out to stand on so I can see further down, over the edge into the water, which is so very far below me. Still I don't see far enough and I pull out the little platform more, and a bit more, but cannot yet see whatever it is I need to see through all the dark distance and I inch the platform out more and then it's too far and it all comes uncoupled and I'm falling and the platform falls with me and I wake up, heart exploding in my chest, just before I die. I will dream of this bridge and its strange viewing platform dozens of times before I turn eight and we move to Utah. I have no idea why I need to look down and down, what I am striving to make out, nor why I must pull out the little platform and pull it out and pull it out til it tips me, slides me into the dropping darkness like a body slides off a plank over a ship's side and into the ocean. That's the shape, the destiny, of the dream, it's how it goes, and it's always the same. I dream this and I am, what? three years old? four? Being the child I am I will hold the horror close and close and never speak of it all the years of my life til now.

Please help me, I'm falling...
Close the door to temptation, don't let me walk through
Robertson & Blair, Please Help Me

One night will be the last time I fall off the bridge. I will catch myself in the dreaming, somewhere between the first look over the side and my climb through the rails. I will recognize the bridge, think, oh, yeah. Here. This place. Why do I do this? Why pull out the platform and strain over the side? Why die for this view? And though I will not quite change that destiny, though I will slide into the river, I will fall slowly enough to think it through, to decide this is pointless and to be done with it.
I will never dream of the bread-board-viewing-platform again. And I will be about eight years old.

Many's the time I've been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and I've often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
Oh, but I'm all right, I'm all right
I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be
Bright and bon vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home
-Paul Simon, American Tune

Then the jumping dream comes.
In this dream I can jump so very high and then even higher, rising above trees, then above buildings, into sky that is measurably colder and I do, I jump and jump because seriously, who wouldn't? And I keep jumping into air thinner and air stranger til suddenly (always on the way up and up) things take a dream twist and I (every time) realize that I have been here before, I always, always jump higher and higher until I am irrevocably outside my own control. Though I am on to this, canny, realizing the dream, I still follow its shape to the inevitable end. Horribly, now I am a little older I no longer wake up before I hit the ground. In jumping dreams I hit squarely, solidly, flatly, abruptly, and it kills me. I slam awake, dead. There is this literally breathless moment before my heart hits me inside my chest so hard it makes me alive again and I lie in the darkness, gasping, alive, waiting for my chest to stop hurting so I can sleep again.

Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.
~Titus Maccius Plautus

Even though in these dreams I know each time when I feel the dreamscape skid away from me that this is a dream, it is not real, this time round I never get to that why-perform-this-pointless-dream-action-anyway epiphany and I'll tell you why. Unlike teetering on the edge of a bridge-extension bread-board in order to gaze upon distant water drowned in darkness, jumping higher than even mountains can grow is not stupid, folks. It's great. And there's no way, no way, I'm ever going to talk myself into wanting to give it up.

There is an art, or rather a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.
~Douglas Adams, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

About the time I left home for college these dreams became a terrible burden. I was dying too many times a week and my heart was aching in my chest during the day, during classes. From the strain, I guess. I was losing too much sleep waiting for my pulse to calm down after falling such a long, long way, for my heart to calm back into normal living. Then came a night when, after I hit the ground, the dream didn't end as it usually did. I lay flattened face down into the dream dirt waiting helplessly to be awake and alive again and I was given to know in a firm and kindly way that this could not go on. I was going to have to change things. I was going to have to learn to fly.

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
but it's all right, it's all right
for we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong
-Paul Simon

Learn to fly.
Learn.
To fly.

"What can you conceive more silly and extravagant than to suppose a man racking his brains, and studying night and day how to fly?"
— William Law, 'A Serious Call to a Devout and Holly Life XI,' 1728.

Have you ever wrangled your brain around beginning to learn how to learn to fly? Not wonky sweating with pencil and paper or light wood and cloth or sheet metal and plexiglass to invent or to construct (supposing one were so inclined) a machine on whose cold, unbreathing back one might rest between rigid and strutted wings while an engine performed the work, released the power from fuels stored underground in secret black lakes of oil, freed the force and spark left from myriad ancient lives that can now, with a little geometry, a little physics and good weather, give you, the rocket man, lift, thrust and speed. No, baby, I mean unassisted flight. Just your human soft and squishiness, all by your onesie. No wings of wax and feathers, no rocket pack, no wires. Over a long and painfilled series of nights I stump around the problem, regard it critically from multiple angles, take running starts and stabs, mull on it as I mull over my chemistry chapters. How to begin to try to figure out how I can begin to learn to fly. Do you run and jump? Arm stuck out and stiff, fist clenched, head down, muscling your way into the ether? Appears to work for Superman. And I run, I jump. Jump, I can, (it's a problem, remember?) far, high, as is my wont. And I fall, far and hard, as is my wont. And I jump again. Farther. Higher. Concentrate. Fall. Farther. Hit. Harder. Arm stuck out stiff, fist clenched, diving straight into the dirt. Heart hurting in class during the day.

Brian Kershisnik, Victim Man

I try ballerina leaps. Fly like the gazelle flies. This is good. Seven league leaps. Not flying exactly, but certainly running with style. Panache, even. Citius, altius, fortius. And a slip in the structure, a twist in the mindscape and a skid and a fatal crash. Heart break.
And again.
And again.
One night I am surprised in my practice by one I know in dreams, one who wishes me ill. I never saw him coming but come he did, wondering, suddenly, over my shoulder, soft into my ear, just what it was I was doing? And if there was something, some other thing, he and I could do? Together?
I run.
He runs.
I jump obstacles. No one can jump like I can jump. Fly like the gazelle flies. I am forever and forever away from him and I risk a look back.
He can jump, too.
A stagger. A kink. I stumble.
He flies like the gazelle. He does not stumble. He is coming he is here he is smiling and he is not smiling. This is not going to be death like falling. This is not falling.
And I can fly. Not far. Not long. But fly, which he cannot. I know the trick. The trick of kicking free from earth and lying softly upon the air that loves me, will hold me, will swim with me and around me and through me just as water swims me along.
I fly away.
I can sleep in the air.

He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.
~Friedrich Nietzsche

Control is troublesome, I am unwieldy, too many thoughts for the sky. I get flushed with victories, over confident at tiny successes and go too high, fall to far, wake with my heart slamming me back into life like it's trying to pound its way out of my chest.
This goes on for about a year.
Then I forget I ever could not fly.

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was crying
-Paul Simon

So I fly. Because, really, folks, who would not? Around, where people can't see me, at first, because people aren't supposed to know that other people can fly. After a long time I realize people aren't ever going to see me, that people simply don't see one of their own flying past, and I'm not so careful anymore. Still, I try to stay out of sight, try not to draw attention, swimming delicious in my delirious secret. Showing off to myself, visiting exotic and imaginary places for free, flying in the stars after dark, napping in the air. Turning somersaults, walking across ceilings (specialized flight), zipping at crazy speeds between evergreens in dense forests (especially in the crisply blue dusk), prowling through abandoned, ruined buildings, taking the stairs (get it?). And once or twice, in a panic, in a horrible dream, trying to save my own life, I can't fly when I need to, can't get off the ground even though I can, damn it, I can. The bad guys, the monsters, they get me. But here's my terrible truth. Sheer delight wears off after a time. It just does and flying becomes tame, routine, and mundane once you can count on it forever and always. I stop dreaming it every night. It becomes, well, a recurring dreamscape feature, like running very fast and far, or being able to swim and swim like a fish (which I can't at all in this world, or not well) or not being able to open my eyes, keep them open (dream that all the time). First, I come to fly simply out of habit and at this last, seldom ever fly at all.

When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.
~Leonardo Da Vinci

It has come to this. I am now occasionally expected to fly dream people around with me, to fly large objects from dream place to dream place, or sometimes to fly large objects filled with people. I know, in my dreams, that this work is important, being able to move groups and their stuff, should the need arise, should they be in distress. Fly them and never drop or tip them so that they slide away from me, cascading in helpless streams toward the dream dirt. Fly them carefully around and away from kinks and twists in the dreamscape, never letting things get out of hand, never pushing it too far, too fast, too high (never be cross or cruel, never give them castor oil or gruel). It is important work, but it is work and I confess I find it annoying, working in my sleep. Gently but deeply annoying that these people do not learn for themselves. Learn how to learn how to fly, to swim and to sleep in the air. Learn either how to let go of having to see to the dark at the bottom of things, or, for crying out loud, fly on down there yourself and get a close look.

Oh, and it's alright, it's all right, it's all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest
-Paul Simon

Brian Kershisnik, Flight Practice with Instruction

Life. Program

2010-12-15T21:28:00.001-08:00

I feel like I've been gone, lost from word smithing a long time, and I was wondering to myself what kept me.
Turns out, the reasons call themselves Legion(s).
But here is one of them, and its very own personal short name is Program. Christmas Sacrament Meeting Program, to be formal and complete.
An assignment, a gift of opportunity, from my bishop. Given, as I recall, in August, but flowering only in the snows of December. And though in the end I wrote nothing, to write was my actual assignment, if we are calling all things by their true names here. I wrote nothing because I could feel nothing. My words were wooden; they refused to sing. Instead, I read. I gathered for weeks, read and read, searched, cried, hoarded, copied, passed things to friends. "Listen," I demanded at the painter, "put that down and listen." Poems. Stories. Scripture. Letters. Carols. Press releases. Email from Iraq. Orders from two hundred years of warfare. Jars of Clay, rocker boys who sing their whole hearts out in Drummer Boy. Dickens and his ghosts. I felt quite at home there, in the smokes and smudge of a midwinter London fog. "It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal...the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already: it had not been light all day..." Dark, already for me, in the dead mid September. Oh, it matters not the month, beware the ides. The account of the Mormon martyrs in Carthage jail, sending out for wine, for spirits to lift their spirits which were "unusually dull and languid...a remarkable depression of spirits...all depressed, dull and gloomy and surcharged with indefinite ominous forebodings," as John Taylor recorded in his Witness to the Martyrdom. John singing to Joseph and Hyrum, though he protested he had no spirit for a song. Why do I go back and back to that story, that moment?

The warning signs and weight of tired conversations
In the absence of a shoulder, in the abscess of a thief,
On the brink of this destruction, on the eve of bittersweet.
Now all the demons look like prophets and I'm living out
Every word they speak, every word they speak.

Do you know what I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"?
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
-Jars of Clay, Work

Our copy of Witness falls open to that page. John sings, not for joy, but "in consonance with those feelings" I have quoted above. He sings for expression in suffering rather than for solace, knowing "[T]he song is pathetic and the tune plaintive..." When, and after a moment, Hyrum asks for the song again, John has no more in him, protests he has no feeling for singing. And Hyrum says, "Oh! never mind, commence singing and you will get the spirit of it."

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

After I stored away nearly all my harvest the few things printed below remained; fifteen minutes of words to be read aloud at a nice pace by Leah, not any longer a child but still a very young girl, Harrison, a young man, Krista, a very young mother, Stephen, a father of young children, and Lisa, a young grandmother. Good voices, all, rich and varied. So I am sharing it with you, too. Because these are some of the treasures I have had in my pockets these last few weeks, watching December float past me in all its state and silliness, reverence and revelry, glory and gilded, glistening succulence. Good old December, food for the spirit, comfort and joy for the body, beauty for the soul.
My bishop offered me a chance to gather. It was hard to find the rhythm, the sway and pace of the dance.
I did not feel like singing.
As John Taylor says, "At his request, I did so."
If ever you were to feel, this December, or any other, that your feet did not move lightly in the season's dance, I would advise you to sit a spell, rest from the dance, but sing the tunes.

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

There is work to do, and though sometimes this comfort sounds cheap and easy to speak, I feel to the marrow and core of my bones (especially those bones grown stronger for the breaking) that we are gifted in our strength for the tasks, gifted in our skills, gifted in the holiness of mundane giving. The breakfast, the folded laundry, the washed and bandaged cut, the trimmed hair, the baked bread, the swept floor, the story read aloud, the words in time of crying, the helpless, ragged breath in time of laughing, the pages turned in time of gathering.
To every thing there is a season.
"Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness." Ah, Scrooge, my soulmate.
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it."

And our eyes at last shall see him,
Through his own redeeming love,
For that child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And he leads his children on
To the place where he is gone.
-Once in Royal David's City

How, my dears, can I keep from singing?

*******************
Opening hymn, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.

Sacrament hymn, God Loved Us, So He Sent His Son

(STEPHEN)- For behold, did not Moses prophesy unto them concerning the coming of the Messiah, and that God should redeem his people? Yea, and even all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began--have they not spoken more or less concerning these things? Have they not said that God himself should come down among the children of men, and take upon him the form of man, and go forth in mighty power upon the face of the earth? Yea, and have they not said that he should bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, and that he, himself, should be oppressed and afflicted?
Mosiah 13:33-35

(LISA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(KRISTA)- And in this mountain shall the Lord of Hosts make unto all people a feast of fat things, a feast of wine on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on the lees well refined. He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off of all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it. And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, and he will save us; this is the Lord; we have waited for him; we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation.
Is. 25:6-9

(STEPHEN)- The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
Is. 9:2&6

O Come, O Come (men's quartet)

(HARRISON)- And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
-Luke 2:8-14

Stars Were Gleaming (primary)

(LEAH)- Christmas Morning

by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

If Bethlehem were here today,
Or this were very long ago,
There wouldn't be a winter time
Nor any cold or snow.

I'd run out through the garden gate,
And down along the pasture walk;
And off beside the cattle barns
I'd hear a kind of gentle talk.

I'd move the heavy iron chain
And pull away the wooden pin;
I'd push the door a little bit
And tiptoe very softly in.

The pigeons and the yellow hens
And all the cows would stand away;
Their eyes would open wide to see
A lady in the manger hay,

If this were very long ago
And Bethlehem were here today.

And Mother held my hand and smiled—
I mean the lady would—and she
Would take the woolly blankets off
Her little boy so I could see.

His shut-up eyes would be asleep,
And he would look like our John,
And he would be all crumpled too,
And have a pinkish color on.

I'd watch his breath go in and out.
His little clothes would all be white.
I'd slip my finger in his hand
To feel how he could hold it tight.

And she would smile and say, "Take care,"
The mother, Mary, would, "Take care";
And I would kiss his little hand
And touch his hair.

While Mary put the blankets back
The gentle talk would soon begin.
And when I'd tiptoe softly out
I'd meet the wise men going in.

The First Noel (congregation)

(KRISTA)- And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us go now even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us.

(STEPHEN)- Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is the child that is born, the Messiah of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and are come to worship him.

(LISA)- And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon...and he came by the Spirit into the temple...when the parents brought in the child Jesus...Then he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, Lord, now lettest thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel...And Simeon...said unto Mary his mother, Behold this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (Yea, a spear shall pierce through him to the wounding of thy own soul also)...

(STEPHEN)- And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom; and the grace of God was upon him.
And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man.

(KRISTA)- God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power: who went about doing good, and healing all that were oppressed of the devil; for God was with him.

(LISA)- But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.
The Gospels of Matthew and Luke; the Acts of the Apostles; Joseph Smith translation.

(LISA)- And when they had sung an hymn they went out into the mount of Olives. And they came to a place which was named Gethsemane, which was a garden; and the disciples began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy, and to complain in their hearts, wondering if this be the Messiah. And Jesus knowing their hearts, said unto his disciples, Sit ye here, while I shall pray. And he taketh with him Peter, and James, and John, and rebuked them, and said unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here and watch.
Mark 14:26, 36-38, Joseph Smith Translation

(STEPHEN)- Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest's servant, and cut off his ear. Then Jesus said to Peter, Put up thy sword into the sheath: the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?
John 18:10&11

(KRISTA)- And he shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.
Is. 2:4

Candlelight Carol (choir)

HOW FESTIVE SPIRIT HALTED GREAT WAY
by Neil Griffiths, press officer of the Royal British Legion Scotland.

(STEPHEN)- NINETY years ago tonight, a group of bedraggled Scottish soldiers, Cameronians mostly from Lanark, spotted Germans clambering into the open with no sign of hostile intent.They were on the Western Front, near Lille. Baffled, they held their fire but the Germans came right up to the trench and offered cigars. It was 1914 and the near-mythical Christmas truce had begun, when men laid down their weapons, shook hands and embraced the season's message of peace on earth. If it seems incredible to us, to the men themselves it seemed beyond comprehension.
Extraordinary circumstances often lead to extraordinary events.

(KRISTA)- It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold.
"Peace on the earth, good will to men, from Heaven's all gracious King!"
The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing.

The first Battle of Ypres in October and November had brought horrific casualty figures. The British lost more than 50,000 men and the Germans perhaps twice as many, but a lull followed as both sides awaited replacements for the savage losses. The huge armies dug in and watched each other as close neighbours, able to hear one another's chatter and smell their cooking. On Christmas Eve, frost hardened the mud and froze the pools.

Still through the cloven skies they come, with peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains they bend on hovering wing;
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing.

When night fell, almost simultaneously, the Germans mounted trees on their parapets and lit candles and lanterns. Thousands of British watched in fascination as the wondrous sight was joined by the distant haunting sound of men singing Stille Nacht. Every survivor spoke of the abiding impact of that one carol.

In many cases the British responded with a carol of their own. When the British sang O Come All Ye Faithful the Germans accompanied with the Latin version, Adeste Fideles. The Belgians and French, holding more than 400 miles of the front, shared the same experiences but very much at arms' length - the invader was on their soil and more than 300,000 French had fallen in August alone.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife the world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not the love song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!

Both sides wrote home using phrases like "fairytale", "day of fiction" and "extraordinary". At its simplest it was a triumph of the human spirit, when the ordinary soldier called off the conflict for Christmas, when the will for peace prevailed over the might of war. By 1918 the Armistice had been signed and the memory of the Christmas truce of 1914 slipped into legend, a moment from the forgotten golden age even the participants came to suspect never happened. But it did happen - when man's fundamental decency surfaced briefly in the midst of hell - and should never be forgotten.

Edinburgh News

For lo! the days are hastening on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever circling years shall come the time foretold,
When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the sound which now the angels sing.

Still, Still (instrumental)

(LISA)- A poignant description of the famous Christmas Day Truce in 1914, was bought by the singer Chris de Burgh at an auction in London yesterday.

The author is untraceable and it is not known what his fate was after the day of improbable gaiety, with carols, letters and presents from home, and a feast in the trenches of chocolate, oranges and hot Christmas pudding.

Historic documents experts at Bonham's auction house said the letter was a rare surviving example of a genuine original. It was clearly treasured and bears the marks of being read and reread and careful repairs to tears.

After a fiercely contested sale, De Burgh said he had a strong personal interest in the history of the first world war, in which his great uncle Thomas de Burgh was the first officer killed, and his grandfather, General Sir Eric de Burgh, served in the trenches.

The letter is headed "British Expeditionary Force, Friday December 25th 1914". It reads:

(HARRISON)-"My Dear Mater,

This will be the most memorable Christmas I've ever spent or likely to spend: since about tea time yesterday I don't think there's been a shot fired on either side up to now. Last night turned a very clear frosty moonlight night, so soon after dusk we had some decent fires going and had a few carols and songs. The Germans commenced by placing lights all along the edge of their trenches and coming over to us - wishing us a Happy Christmas etc ... Some of our chaps went over to their lines. I think they've all come back bar one from 'E' Co. They no doubt kept him as a souvenir.

"There must be something in the spirit of Christmas as to day we are all on top of our trenches running about ... After breakfast we had a game of football at the back of our trenches! We've had a few Germans over to see us this morning. They also sent a party over to bury a sniper we shot in the week ... About 10.30 we had a short church parade the morning service held in the trench ...

"Just before dinner I had the pleasure of shaking hands with several Germans ... I exchanged one of my balaclavas for a hat. I've also got a button off one of their tunics. We... had a decent chat. They say they won't fire tomorrow if we don't so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday - perhaps ... We can hardly believe that we've been firing at them ... it all seems so strange. With much love from Boy.

(LEAH)- And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children...This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord...
Is. 54:13&17

(LISA)- Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
John 14:27

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful (congregation)

(LEAH)-Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

Henry Van Dyke, Keeping Christmas

Sleep Little One, Sleep (choir)

(STEPHEN)- So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, feed my lambs. He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.
John 21:15-17

(HARRISON)- And he said unto them, These are the words which I spake unto you, while I was yet with you, that all things must be fulfilled, which were written...concerning me...And said unto them, Thus it is written, and thus it behoved Christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day; And that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. And ye are witnesses of these things.
Luke 24:44-48

(LISA)- And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.
Mark 16:15

(KRISTA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(LEAH)- And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.
2 Nephi 25:26

From All that Dwell Below the Skies (congregation)

********************

God rest you merry.

Noah's photos

Meditations. Words Fail.

2010-12-11T07:45:00.000-08:00

Lines written Extempore, on receiving, in the month of December, a Gift, a Token of memorial and of sweet and tender care, shocking in its lovely Unexpectedness; here presented after minimal Fussing.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
2Timothy 1:7

Small and stupid words fighting out which among them shall be first to abase and embarrass itself here.

"Thank" and "you" won the first heat. As they so often do. Though predictable to the point of mundanity, their unfailing leadership not all bad, especially as "you" does so much heavy lifting and can stand in so very many places at the same time. The others murmur and protest, jostle for a standing in the line. "Love" and "this" vied to run next, but "you" is fighting fiercely to displace "this," and it's not looking good for the impersonal pronoun. As was said, "you" wants to be everywhere. Is everywhere, these days. "Broken" has simply enjoyed too much face time of late, as has "smiling", hence they are no longer taken seriously; "laughing" and "crying" have lost credibility in precisely the same way. In a canny bid for power, "humbled", a relative newcomer, has joined a coalition formed by "to", "the", and "dust" and is making great strides, intending to hold its ground. "Wow" has raised its great, silly head, wagging senselessly and shamelessly as the others turn away; even small and stupid words are mortified by "wow" 's antics. "Wow", the blissful mutt of the word world, notices nothing, happy in the frolic, spreading affection, hair, confidence, saliva and a deep, doggy contentment in equal measure. Vapid hasty "repay" jumps up and down, stamping tiny insignificant feet, insisting on its spotlit moment. Long-time heavy weight "never" has come silently and somberly to stand in front of "repay", lending the upstart both credibility and stability. While no one could ever speak out against "never", still, most of them cannot fathom how "repay" fancies itself a player in such a weighted conversation. "Debt," perhaps, "undying", certainly, arguably even "slave". But "repay"? The very notion. "Repay" looks to "you" for backing, relying on the unprecedented surge in importance and popularity the second person pronoun has recently enjoyed; "you", however, is looking firmly off in another direction, entranced by the graceful stance and wistful vulnerability of "need". What a power-pairing that would be, hmm? "Moved" is, well, all over the place, chasing after "deeply", and even considering such unlikely couplings as "irrevocably" (not strictly a member of the small word club) and "heartstoppingly"(worse and worse). These are such oddball efforts ("heartstoppingly" not even being a fully formed word, only some sort of bastard offspring) that "moved" is fading out of the running, despairing of support. "Shy" stands alone, at once miserable and pleased, never courting favor but always strongly supported by the crowd, not that "shy" would notice the crowd. Ah, "now" has offered to back up "shy". Fat lot of good that will do, though it is a noble effort. But then, "now" is always impatient. And here, at the end of it all, comes a dark horse, taking the lead in great, ground-eating strides! "Unworthy" crosses the line, the winner by a whisper, barely outpacing "joy". "Joy" will take it next time, wait and see if it doesn't (though how "joy" fell among this crowd is one of the mysteries). Yes, the smart money is on "joy" for the future.

Which leaves "I", lonely and unhappy, for what can "I" do without "you"? Bring "need" here to lie soft between, so "you" will settle, and "I" can slip into place, into the place that feels like home.

Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner: but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God;
Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began,
But is now made manifest.
2Timothy 1:8-10

Meditations. Do Unto.

2010-11-11T13:53:00.001-08:00

Of the Remembrance of Benefits

Gesta Romanorum

There was a knight who devoted much of his time to hunting. It happened one day, as he was pursuing this diversion, that he was met by a lame lion, who showed him his foot. The knight dismounted, and drew from it a sharp thorn; and then applied an unguent to the wound, which speedily healed it.

A while after this, the king of the country hunted in the same wood, and caught that lion, and held him captive for many years.

Now, the knight, having offended the king, fled from his anger to the very forest in which he had been accustomed to hunt. There he betook himself to plunder, and spoiled and slew a multitude of travelers. But the king's sufferance was exhausted; he sent out an army, captured, and condemned him to be delivered to a fasting lion. The knight was accordingly thrown into a pit, and remained in terrified expectation of the hour when he should be devoured. But the lion, considering him attentively, and remembering his former friend, fawned upon him; and remained seven days with him destitute of food.

When this reached the ears of the king, he was struck with wonder, and directed the knight to be taken from the pit. "Friend," said he, "by what means have you been able to render the lion harmless?"

"As I once rode along the forest, my lord, that lion met me lame. I extracted from his foot a large thorn, and afterward healed the wound, and therefore he has spared me."

"Well," returned the king, "since the lion has spared you, I will for this time ratify your pardon. Study to amend your life."

The knight gave thanks to the king, and ever afterward conducted himself with all propriety. He lived to a good old age, and ended his days in peace.

My beloved, the knight is the world; the lame lion is the human race; the thorn, original sin, drawn out by baptism. The pit represents penitence, whence safety is derived.

Source: Gesta Romanorum, translated by Charles Swan, revised and corrected by Wynnard Hooper (London: George Bell and Sons, 1906)

*****

Some of us went to the coast, or to the beach, really only to the beach, for a few days with friends. From the beach house you could step out the backdoor, take four magical strides, fall over the sea wall, roll just a little way down the sand and be in the water. You'd never want to do that, it'd be dumb, but you could. Nearly all the days were sand and salt water, golden rainstorms and soft, soft sea air. Good things for a dried out Millard County girl.

We talked and ate and took walks and one day the painter oversaw the making of a monstrous sand worm, but mostly we did all the body boarding we could do and then some. After the first day spent almost solidly in the water I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident. Wonderful. I took a sleeping pill, which, I guess, did its best. After the second day I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident the day before. The first day had the best waves, totally worth a car accident; also worth, but only just, the wild abrasion I acquired and am sporting above my left knee. I'd have put in a picture of it here, I deeply considered it, but it would gross you out and I'm not about that. Maybe I'll post it on Facebook. To be honest, I was a little bit worried you'd think it was fake. It looks fake, or like something you'd see and say, "AaaaaH! What the-!-!-!-oh, wait, that's fake. It's fake, right? I mean, look at it. That's got to be fake," because you just so totally hope that if someone has that on their body it's fake, maybe yucky body art or some sort of dare.

I'll tell you how it happened. It was sort of a dare.
Toward evening there came a truly huge wave and my sweet youngest child, boarding for the first time, watching it mounting, growing toward us, blocking out the view of the distant islands, blocking more of the western sky than we were used to, said, "Oh. We're going to die."
And then, "I'm not going to try this one."
A tiny interior voice said to me, ooh, she's smart, not dying is smart.
I jumped on the wave.

*****

LAVINIA. I can't help you, friend. I can't tell you not to save your own life. Something willful in me wants to see you fight your way into heaven.

George Bernard Shaw, Androcles and the Lion

*****

Through the wave, into the wave, I don't know, but not in front of it in an organized and manageable fashion. Too big for me, too pushy, too powerful. Broke me up completely, ate me alive. Bubbles go up, I reminded myself, blowing a little air to figure which way that was. A minute or so after I had got so I could breathe and see at the same time, we saw another big wave coming, like the one that had just messed me up. I held up my board and ran out to it. Oh. Good. I'm doing it this time. And I did.

*****
A lion roaming through the forest, got a thorn in his foot, and, meeting a shepherd, asked him to remove it. The shepherd did so, and the lion, having just surfeited himself on another shepherd, went away without harming him.

Some time afterward the shepherd was condemned on a false accusation to be cast to the lions in the amphitheater.

When they were about to devour him, one of them said, "This is the man who removed the thorn from my foot."

Hearing this, the others honorably abstained, and the claimant ate the shepherd all himself.

Source: Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables (New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1899)

*****

Not dying is smart and body boarding is fun and big waves are very cool. It took so much of me, staying on top of that wave, I just completely neglected my legs, lost touch, forgot to keep them lifted, ground my knee hard and serious across sixteen miles of sand. Maybe more. Salt water. Stings, you know. Examining the damage after, I found myself missing my boy Noah. He's got such a weak stomach, so easily tipped over by skin and bones and sutures and splints but he's fascinated by blood running across wet skin. And he loves to play in the waves. Eden plays hard too and if she hadn't had to stay behind in Utah, a slave to her senior year, she'd have photographed the knee with her cell phone, adding record of my arrogant carelessness to the gallery of softball, volleyball and dance injury pics she carries around with her (ooh, look, you can see the stitching on the ball in the bruise; man, look at the swelling!; oh, gross, this one's still got sand in it).

Ever since I washed, smashed up, out of the ocean and into the hot tub and from there climbed carefully into a wet suit that covered the destroyed knee, ever since I had to begin dealing with the hole I have torn in my fabric, ever since then a little, long lost memory has come tumbling over and over into my mind, like a bright bit of beach glass in the surf. The memory, over and over, and then gratitude. And also relief, huge gratitude and relief.

*****

LAVINIA. Blessing, Caesar, and forgiveness!

CAESAR (turning in some surprise at the salutation) There is no forgiveness for Christianity.

LAVINIA. I did not mean that, Caesar. I mean that WE forgive YOU.

METELLUS. An inconceivable liberty! Do you not know, woman, the Emperor can do no wrong and therefore cannot be forgiven?

LAVINIA. I expect the Emperor knows better. Anyhow, we forgive him.

THE CHRISTIANS. Amen!

CAESAR. Metellus: you see now the disadvantage of too much severity. These people have no hope; therefore they have nothing to restrain them from saying what they like to me. They are almost as impertinent as the gladiators.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

This is the memory. One summer, when I was home from school, from college, a friend from high school days showed up in Kanosh, living in a house his parents had moved away from but not sold. People do that in Kanosh, leave town, never come back, hang on to their real estate. They think they want to retire there, come back if they ever get a decent job, hide out when society goes to hell in a handbasket, sell when the market is better or after all their relatives die. Whatever. My friend was living in his parents' spare Kanosh house, working a summer job. I saw him around a couple of times, no big deal, we liked each other well enough and had always been friends of a single degree of separation; he had, for a longish while, been my best friend's boyfriend, that sort of thing. One evening that summer he took a hard, fast slide along a goodly stretch of road, still mostly wearing his motorcycle.
And went home, alone, to a spare house to recover.

*****

LAVINIA. (laughing) You know,Ferrovius, I am not always a Christian. I don't think anybody is. There are moments when I forget all about it, and something comes out quite naturally, as it did then.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

No one in Kanosh did anything for him, of course, they are not inclined to extend themselves on behalf of (comparably) healthy young adult males who really should be on missions but aren't, whose relatives are too tenuously connected to the core handful of long-time town families, boys who are not exactly troublemakers but might be, someday, maybe, maybe not. Since as the twig is bent, the tree will grow, I am firmly Kanoshian in many/most of my views on human relations, devoutly believing not only that most people mostly ought to take care of themselves, but that most of them truly, deeply would prefer to if allowed, but thank you very much. This doesn't mean I don't help lost children or stop to give directions or make cell phone calls to report crimes or hold open doors for folks who have their hands full. It does mean I would never dream of opening your door myself, just to check, just to see if you maybe could use some help for no reason other than that I suspect you may have your hands full.

*****

Androcles. No: it's very kind of you: but I feel I can't save myself that way.

The Editor. But I don't ask you to do it to save yourself: I ask you to do it to oblige me personally.

Androcles. (scrambling up in the greatest agitation) Oh, please, don't say that. That is dreadful. You mean so kindly by me that it seems quite horrible to disoblige you...But I must go into the arena with the rest. My honor, you know.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

But. I was moved with compassion for my friend. No idea why. Nothing at all romantic in our history, not even near misses, though some possible romantic something had certainly been examined, contemplated. All the kids in a small town are closely considered, willy nilly, by every adult as possible matches for every other kid in town, without regard for the personal inclinations and preferences of the actual, living kids and these imaginary pairings result in greater and lesser degrees of foreboding and/or delight among the adults (and may have been a tiny part of the reason we moved. shhh). As a victim of this conversational, parental shuffling, I had, only a few years before he spread his DNA across an intersection, actually phoned Road Rash Boy (after three days of frozen, horrified, concentrated inability to do so) and asked him to be my choice at a girls' choice dance, the only girl's choice dance I ever attended. My mother prodded me, knew best, bucked me up, drove me into it (I think she had already talked to his mother. I mean, I know she had). That calling, that asking, was without doubt the worst thing I had undergone in all my life to that point. After he said yes, after I got the phone back onto the cradle (historical reference, some of you may have to ask an old adult about that one) but before I stilled the shaking and caught all my breath, I closed my eyes and promised God that I would say yes to every boy who asked me on a date as a tribute to their incredible bravery and in memorial to the things I had just myself suffered. That promise would itself wreck a considerable amount of damage, of course, but I meant well. And the date was fine, just fine, first because nothing could possibly be as awful as the asking but also because he was really a great guy, very cute and smart and funny and unfailingly polite to adults. Which is why my mom wanted me to go out with him, I'm sure. I think I remember we were a bit bored on our date, this being in the ages before people dated in pods and myself not being much of a planner. He asked me if he could kiss me to fill some time and I found I couldn't just step into that in cold blood. Perhaps if he hadn't asked first...well. At any rate. The point of that story is, I went to the spare house offering my assistance with no prior commitment, no history save that which is common to mankind nor any blood at all between us, bad or good.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. You are right: it was silly thing to say. (In a lower tone, humane and urgent) Lavinia: do Christians know how to love?

LAVINIA. (composedly) Yes, Captain: they love even their enemies.

The Captain. Is that easy?

Lavinia. Very easy, when their enemies are as handsome as you.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

Nope. I only felt a sudden wave of terrible sorrow for him, like contemplation of dental procedures, like homesickness, like the memory or foreboding of a breakup, and was sure, positive, he had no medical supplies in that spare house. I gathered an armload of my mom's stuff and made my dad drive me over (as I had no license yet; another story). He didn't like this, my dad, me alone with a young male person in a spare house but I scoffed him into silence. Pish. What could possible happen? I'm not attracted to road rash, scabs are not sexy to me. I promised to call my dad for a ride back (as he was suddenly, singularly concerned. Under other circumstances, many, many other circumstances, I had walked lots further than that, but, you know, boys and stuff). I knocked at the door while he waited (hovered, really, but that would sound funny) in the car and thought my friend shouted something from inside; a noise, it could have been anything. I nodded and smiled to my dad in the car and confidently pushed my way in, shouldered the door right open, just as if I had been invited, just as if I had heard a come in. Dusky in his den, the light all blue from the TV. I sat down with my armload of medicines by the patient on the sofa who, having had no call upon his voice, no reason to speak since the day before, could only make a harsh strangle when he tried to yell an answer to my knock. The first thing I did for my friend, who was so thankful, undone, pitiably grateful, to see any human enter his spare house, was to help him get up so he could creep down the hall to the bathroom. It was a slow getting up, some of him was stuck to the sofa.

I applied Neosporin and strategic Bandaids and set out food and water around him and changed the channel on the TV and talked, called my dad, waited a bit awkwardly till he came, and left.

I climbed into the car with my dad, smiled to show how unharmed I still was, smiled silently out the window because my eyes and mind were filled with stills and with short movies of arms and shoulders and torn skin.
Huh, I thought in the car.

And later,
Maybe.
Maybe not.

Arms and shoulders and a boy who made no sound when I pulled off bandaids, hard and fast.

Maybe.

I went back some more times, maybe every night for as long as a week; maybe it was a short week. Till he didn't need me anymore for doctoring, only for company, and then I missed a night and now I have grown old I realize I don't know what happened to him; he left the spare house and I never saw him again.
Or thought of him. Til now.

*****

LAVINIA. Remember me for a fortnight, handsome Captain. I shall be watching you, perhaps.

THE CAPTAIN. From the skies? Do not deceive yourself, Lavinia. There is no future for you beyond the grave.

LAVINIA. What does that matter? Do you think I am only running away from the terrors of life into the comfort of heaven? If there were no future, or if the future were one of torment, I should have to go just the same. The hand of God is upon me.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

My leg is surprisingly, stupidly, painful, red and hot. It has a fever, I think. When I pack it with the herbs I have come to use on open wounds I am appalled that it...well, it kills. Really. Embarrassing, inconvenient. The pain subsides, I remind myself, and it does after longer than I want to write about. I lie back in bed, a taut, bright rivulet of pain shooting out one edge of the scrape, minuscule screaming demons riding booted and spurred up the side of my thigh. Effleurage. Deep breaths. Wait it out.

Hurt nearly always makes a memory, for me, that's why I so often write about it. It sticks, I remember those moments. I remember and remember my friend, scraped and ground to a fare-thee-well, as my mom says. He must have hurt so big, so bad, those days alone in the spare house, the blue TV evenings with no one to talk to, listening, maybe, for a girl from down the street who had not promised to come back, had not asked what else he might need, a girl who ran her hands gently over his scabs and did not speak all her thoughts. The pain will subside, I say to him in my mind, and I know that it did, after more time passed than he wanted to talk about, time that was only a couple of very long days. This is the whole point of the story, Beloved, that it was not a big deal, going to him, putting on some bandages, taking off old ones, quickly. Buying a Mountain Dew against my better judgment ( bring Dr. Pepper for the sick and afflicted, dude). I take off my bandage, quickly, and am buoyed, floated, by this memory in this moment, a fortunate and prosperous time to recall that one time when I did something, opened a door when I knew somebody had their hands full just to see if there was help I could give. I receive it back to myself, my need so much less than his but still great enough, thank you very much, for me. For now. Not dying is smart. A friend to get you off the sofa is a friend indeed. A spare house is no place like home. An armload of home medicines is saving me. And one time, long ago before I became too old, I didn't let somebody down, though I owed nothing, had made no promise. Sweet, sweet, to me, sweet.

*****

FERROVIUS. In my youth I worshipped Mars, the God of War. I turned from him to serve the Christian god; but today the Christian god forsook me; and Mars overcame me and took back his own. The Christian god is not yet. He will come when Mars and I are dust; but meanwhile I must serve the gods that are, not the God that will be. Until then I accept service in the Guard, Caesar.

THE EMPEROR. Very wisely said. All really sensible men agree that the prudent course is to be neither bigoted in our attachment to the old nor rash and unpractical in keeping an open mind for the new, but to make the best of both dispensations.

THE CAPTAIN. What do you say, Lavinia? Will you too be prudent?

LAVINIA (on the stair) No: I'll strive for the coming of the God who is not yet.

THE CAPTAIN. May I come and argue with you occasionally?

Shaw, Androcles

*****
When I tore open my knee in the salt water no magical blond boy arose, like a Greek god from the seafoam, to carry me to the hot tub and run after bandages and ointments (have I yet mentioned that Road Rash Boy looked like a Greek god? Because, he did, dang it, though the Greek gods were unquestionably taller. Not that I fault him in this, without doubt they were showing off) because once I had helped him, had lingered on him in my thoughts and he had lingered on me, in his turn, and awaited the day I would scrape myself badly and foolishly enough that he might come to me for the end, the summation, of our story and this, Beloved, is the whole point of the story.

In the real of my life no one arose to carry me anywhere and they'd have been summarily dismissed if they had. Because I was going to get there on my own steam (more like fumes, at that point). Because I had to say it was nothing, a small hole, an easily repaired tear. And I had to go back for a few more hours in the water. I'm a tough chick; it's what we do. And it was pretty nice that a man loaned me a wet suit to cover my hole. He was nice, too, and pretty. He did this thing at the prompting of his wife, who could recognize a thorn when she saw one. And I was grateful to her, and relieved.

It's the temptation to make, to have made, my friend into a story; to wish for the why of it, the what happened because of and also the after. It's the too great longing for those tellings where he, the magical, injured god, saves me, the broken girl, since only he can see I need repair. And happens to have the tools on hand; he carries them with him for just such a chance as this. The heart's yearning toward discernible motives, explication, denouement, reward.
As,

She nursed him and he loved her; she saw deep into his heart in his suffering and her heart softened to his. When at last he could stand unaided they were married.

No.

She nursed him and he never forgot her and when he died he left her his fortune.

She nursed him when all others abandoned him and, later, she needed a kidney and he gave her one.

They threw him to the lions and one lion recognized him, from services rendered of old, and did not eat him but honored him and did him great service.

No, wait.

He took a thorn out of the lion's foot, so later the lion took a thorn out of his foot.

Once a person helped a lion in peril, which was a brave and stupid act. The lion, sensing this person was both stupid and brave and fearing what might follow, ran away as soon as it could, frightened and not so hungry. Later the person made up stories in which people figured prominently and lions could not get along without them. And sold the stories to other people, though the lions were not buying them.

*****

The locus classicus of the story is found in the fifth book of Aulus Gellius... of which Apion himself claimed to have personally witnessed in Rome...The emperor pardons the slave on the spot, in recognition of this testimony to the power of friendship, and he is left in possession of the lion.
"Afterwards we used to see Androcles with the lion attached to a slender leash, making the rounds of the tabernae throughout the city; Androcles was given money, the lion was sprinkled with flowers, and everyone who met them anywhere exclaimed: "This is the lion, a man's friend; this is the man, a lion's doctor".

Wikipedia, Androcles and the Lion

*****
Tony Hillerman, in an essay, told of a beautiful and miraculous natural story he and a friend watched unfold. The friend said, after, "This will be a wonderful moment in a book." But Mr. Hillerman already knew, sadly, that he could never use that miracle in fiction. "No one," he lamented, "would believe it."

Real life miracles are not what stories are all about. Story miracles do not make for real life.

It's the terrible, seductive desire to belong to a story, not just to events, to come away with something of your own, something to keep. A devoted lion. A beautiful boy. Someone to gather you into their arms and soothe away ugly scrapes. Something to keep. A hearty, well done thou good and faithful, at the very least. Even if it's not what actually happened. Even if you have to make it up. A life-friend. Someone owed you because once you were better than you had to be.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. Are you then going to die for nothing?

LAVINIA. Yes: that is the wonderful thing. It is since all the stories and dreams have gone that I have now no doubt at all that I must die for something greater than dreams or stories.

THE CAPTAIN. But for what?

LAVINIA. I don't know. If it were for anything small enough to know, it would be too small to die for. I think I'm going to die for God. Nothing else is real enough to die for.

THE CAPTAIN. What is God?

LAVINIA. When we know that, Captain, we shall be gods ourselves.

Shaw, Androcles

*****
Once a man came upon a lion, wounded and dying in the mouth of a dank cave, a man who disregarded his own life, whether bravely or foolishly, sufficiently to render the lion service, to go on his knees before it and to climb between its very paws, one paw badly torn by a terrible thorn which the man removed, though the lion could not. The man told no one this story for though he was brave enough for the telling he was not such a fool as to expect anyone would believe. He kept the thorn, for a time, but remembered it less and less often til finally he lost both the thorn and the story.
But the lion, who recovered, never forgot.
When, later, in his extremis, the man met the lion again, he did not recognize it, but nor did the lion recognize him, for men and lions do not so much love each other that either tribe has learned to know one among hundreds of strangers. The man, knowing not how he might face bravely or foolishly a fate so appalling, simply stood before the lion and cried silently. The lion, however, whose mind was not clouded by any fear of death and rending, observed still its habit acquired in the intervening years; it approached its prey softly, gently, raising one paw and holding it out to the man for a moment, waiting. To his astonishment, the man saw upon the pad of the great paw a ragged scar, made by a terrible thorn. As he had once before, the man fell upon his knees before the lion and wept tears, hot and gushing, onto the scar, in recognition of his lost friend and in relief, for his heart told him he had, all unlooked for, regained his own life. The lion, having long ceased to wonder at the ways of men, waited kindly, breathing on the back of the man's neck, small and weak before him, and onto the man's hair where his head was bowed before the lion. The lion did the man no harm then or ever, because they were friends.

It was never a story about a boy, but about a thorn and torn fabric and what came of the mending.
Though all our pain subsides, we shall know each other by the scars.

*****

You sit there in your heartache
Waitin' on some beautiful boy to
Save you from your old ways.
You play forgiveness, watch it now,
Here he comes.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young.

The Killers, When You Were Young