Lucky Starr
Pixabay
Lucky Starr
A Fiction Story By Moon Metcalf
Chapter 1: The Drive
The Drive
The road is round smooth and bumpy as she rides in the car. The wind is tufting her bangs, blond and died pink in homoerotic streaks. Lusting after the man in the driver’s seat next to her, she pulls a Satsuma orange out of her bag, begins to run her fingers over it and brings it up to her face; round, smooth and bumpy. ‘I wish I could talk to you’ she thinks. ‘I wish I could express what I am really feeling right now.’ She looks out over the grassy fields that are flowing by like a river outside of the cell of the little old car. She looks past the smudge on the window; a smudge from the dog’s nose and her eyes go soft and blur to the surroundings. She misses Chester so, so much. She knows that her pain is not about Jacob. Her whole story is relevant. The years spent inside of a body where she doesn’t belong, always looking out into the world and feeling it pulse around her with expectancy. She wants to shrink, turn it off, run away. Journeying in this way she begins to feel coldness like steel, hardness like brick, and she can’t come back.
‘I want to go back’ she says. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘Never mind.’ She surfs and settles further into the seat, holding her piece of fruit very close. Ahead, the traffic seems to lead them, down the wide grey road, four lanes, like long corrals or runways for journeyman after journeyman. ‘We are here, in a way with those folks. I can feel them nearby. We all flow to a rhythm, unconscious yet totally dependent.’ One of her hands slips between her knees, and with the other, she decides to fiddle with the radio nob; perhaps to some news or classical, so tired of the same old shit. ‘I wish the people out there could see me in here. I wish they could know that I loved them and cared about them. I wish they really knew me; the rich pulpy and delicious seeds of my being that are quite the surprise once you break the skin… and the juice, it is a secret until tasted. But they don’t. They see nothing but my brake lights as I am in this car. They urge to get around me, pass me by. They crave to know nothing, to stay as white and blank as possible. Do they even feel the bumps, the smoothness, and the roundness? Do they take the time to look? I think they are blind, they are all color blind, and I alone.’
The car swerves jerking her out of her trance. She opens her Satsuma, and aggressively rips at the segments eating two or three at a time. The sweet and sour juice coats her tongue and awakens her to her surroundings. The wind pushes on the car and the rain suddenly begins to pour. She rolls down the window and sticks her head into the storm as they are led down the off ramp. Slowing, she pulls her head inside and gives a great big laugh. ‘I am so proud of you’ he says. She could never understand how he could understand her so completely. How he knows exactly what she needs, in the worst of moments and the best.
The joy bursts inside her as tears stream down her face. Life isn’t over, and she desperately hopes and pleads with whatever power exists that it will not end soon. In her mind and body, the pain hurts so bad and so deep… so much that with this partner, she feels the love on the same epic scale; so intense, always too much. She reaches in the back seat for a towel and dries her pink blond hair, pulling out the rubber band and letting it hang long. Small drips of water fly onto his face. He loves her… he always will.
The Drive Part 2
They pull up on the old house; eaves cascading down off of a gallant porch, paint chipping, only some of the old stainless windows still intact. It is the first time she has laid eyes on it, but her mood is stirred and her curiosity peaked. The gate awaits them, ominous; it calls to her. But why would this old place full of relics and memories call to her? Why would she be drawn in to a decrepit place? It should feel like a trap with its great neediness pouring out, like a load weighing her down. But she feels enthralled by its saddened majesty. Drawn to the house, she wants to know more.
He pulls their little car into the gravel driveway with the foot long grass bursting forth between the two tracks. The lawn is decorated with dandelions, thistles and wild weeds of all sorts, overgrown and luscious. Opening the car door, she kicks off her keds, already unlaced, reaches over and strips off her socks. She then plants her bare foot into the weeds and feels an immediate release. Her other foot follows with the same zeal. He waits for a minute to get out of the car, fumbling or thinking she knows not what. Slamming the car door she shouts, ‘Blare the music!’ and drops her bag in the driveway as she leaps through the yard, spinning and dancing. She flops her body, fatigued from years of bearing others emotional weight, onto the ground, growing and spurting with organic life. He turns the music up, Merle Haggard, and the notes trickle off her skin as the earth soothes her. ‘Twinkle, twinkle Lucky Star, Can you send me luck from where you are? Can you make a rainbow shine that far? Twinkle, twinkle lucky star…’
Merle’s voice is soft and like butter, yanking at the tapes and the messages from her upbringing and purging them from her system. Sparrows flutter in the sky, swooping and diving around the yard then back to their nests in the old house. She asks herself, ‘Am I home?’ ‘Come and see this!’ he shouts spiritedly from the front porch. Raising herself up, she saunters to the car and grabs her shoes and her bag. Crossing over to the brick walk, thick with moss and crackery, she walks carefully, the soles of her feet tender. As she walks up the paint-chipped, thick and wide steps of the house, she finds herself on a porch that feels much more than just any old porch. Standing on it she feels the old boards hugging her to them, wanting her to stand there. She looks out across the street to the rest of the neighborhood, modern seventies, refurbished craftsman, 90’s duplexes, and what she sees changes all of a sudden. She is looking into another realm, or rather, out from another realm. Here, standing on this porch she feels touched. Everything is seen through a veil of serenity. ‘Yes,’ she thinks, ‘I am home’.
Sweetly, he is sitting on a rickety old swing, and she tells him she is unsure whether she should join him as it might just all collapse any moment. He laughs adoringly and pats his lap. Her shoes and bag unfold from her clutches, like a bloom popping from a cherry branch in the ides of March. Resting there, in his arms, she lets go even more. Perhaps this is home, for more than a year or two. Perhaps they can find a way to claim it or own it. However, deep in her heart she knows it cannot be claimed. It is just theirs for the time being… loaned from an angel, who is perched on the roof this very moment. All that matters is that she is feeling, releasing and finally, coming to a resting place. The evening light pours through a crack from across the street, and seems to dance with the gnats that hover over the moist lush and green yard. Late spring in Missouri, sweltering days on their way, not all is lost. No, not all is lost.
The Drive Part 3
Sitting in her room, the walls tower around her in protection. She can see the cracks in the paint masquerading as rhythm. They pulse with her thoughts as they rush through her mind. She pulls some clothes out of her duffle bag, and then a photograph. The edges of the black and white picture faded, she only knows one of the young girls in the photo. It is from the early nineteen twenties and shows five young children all dressed up in their Sunday best. White collars grip at their throats, ruffles and ribbons show in white and grey decorating their small crimpy dresses. Small uncomfortable black shoes strapped and shiny hang on their feet. Her grandmother is a toddler in this photo, and her sisters are gathered around her with muted and weary expressions.
Time is an envelope, carrying a few cut outs of life; scraps of memories held onto. This photo evokes the timelessness of it all. She knows she is connected to these young girls, though she only exists to them as a future shadow not yet imagined. She places the photo on the old dust covered table that was already in the room upon arriving, and walks over to the crusty window. She heaves it open with immense effort, grunting and holding her breath. Outside, two stories below, she spots a cat slinking across the yard. The emptiness, dust, mice left alone to their burrowing. ‘A dream for a kitty,’ she thinks. She takes in a deep breath of the morning air, already balmy, and the breeze is nice passing through the room.
Downstairs she hears the sizzling of bacon. He loves his greasy meals, eggs fried in bacon grease, potatoes crispy. She was raised on a strict diet, and dabbled in being a vegetarian and a vegan for years. But it is nice that he cooks. She slips on her shoes to avoid splinters on the stairs and plods down the wide elegant staircase. She imagines the curves in the banister, shiny and prominent in its time. Quaint full length dresses on the women who slogged up and down them in their laced up boots with stiff soles. She imagines a lady sitting in the parlor, crochet hook ready, waiting for her husband to return.
As she enters the kitchen, ‘Margaret,’ he says, ‘the water is running brown. We will have to get some gallons from the store.’ ‘I’m on it in a few,’ she replies, awaiting the salty crunch of the bacon cooked just to her liking.
She sits down and plays with the edge of the plastic table cloth. ‘Alone,’ she remembers, ‘why did I feel alone?’ Lost in thought she does not hear his words as he rambles about the latest climate change news. Everything she knew of the goings on in the world came through him. Mostly she listened. But right now she wanders in her mind, back to the photo. She knows her grandma grew up to be trampy, later an alcoholic mom who both took abuse from her husband, and dished it out to her children. But what exactly was her childhood like? Could she breathe within the confines of her family’s expectations or find security in the vacant neglect? Margaret felt these things from her childhood, but she could only imagine that the times were so different.
She remembers a child rearing device in Shakespeare’s house on a trip to England years ago, where a young child would be strapped into a steel circle around their waist, three feet from a pole, also connected with a steel bar, so they could walk in a circle but not be prone to wander or bump into the hot stove. She may feel alone, but not trapped. She knows she has the freedom to ramble.
She trickles some maple syrup on her pieces of bacon, and picks a piece up. Looking across the table she squints at him, blurring the light in the background with the definition of his shape. ‘I love you,’ she says, and places the sweet salty morsel between her lips. As she crunches the strip of bacon, and the flavor bursts onto her tongue, the birds continue with their chirping outside, and there is a knock at the door.
The Drive Part 4
He opens the door, and a tall man stands there looking down at the signing device. He looks up and says, ‘A package for Margaret Dunham.’ ‘Of course,’ he replies, ‘I can sign.’ Margaret walks up to the door and says, ‘Thanks, honey, I’ll do it.’ Behind the man, dressed in navy blue slacks cut a little too short and a Best Buy T-shirt, sits the Fed-Ex van still running. She signs the little machine with the fake pen and looks at the man with salty eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she slinks out. ‘Of course, mam, have a wonderful day.’ He turns and waddles down the large steps and ambles along the mossy brick path, through the gate, and buoyantly jumps into the driver’s seat of the van. ‘Our first visitor,’ she walks into the kitchen with the package.
He must have sent the change of address forms in, and will be leaving today to get the rest of their stuff and the dog. He should make it back by dusk if he leaves soon. She offers to do the dishes and he gathers his things and shuts the door behind him softly as he exits the house. ‘All alone; I crave to be alone, and yet fear it on some level.’ With this thought lingering on the webs of her mind, she walks to the back porch and settles on the stoop. Barefoot, she rubs her toes together and nervously examines the package.
The morning light is dressing the backyard in a haze of luminescence, insects, and pollen dust floating and sifting through the air. Calmly she brushes her hair from her eyes and picks up the scissors lying next to her. She cuts into the package, and amidst wrestling with the bubble wrap she pulls out a pair of shiny red patent leather shoes, no strap and little bows on either toe. She had forgotten this purchase. The fact that they are completely non-crucial to her day intrigues her, and she slips one on her left foot. ‘If for nothing else than to kick them off,’ she thinks as she dresses her other foot in the stiff red decoration that smells of new store. She looks down at her feet, new with color and all. She taps her toes together, and her heals, sighs and stands to re-enter the house.
Gathering the packaging and scissors she can hear the classic rock coming from a radio in a nearby house. ‘They must not have air conditioning either’, she thinks. Skipping now, she lightly bounces into the house, and commences to wash the grease filled pans, wipe off the counters, create a trash and settle in; her spirits gradually lifting with every passing moment.
Every now and then a chill passes through her, remembering the sterile floors, the emotionless food, the complacent nurses, and the disturbed company. She has only been out for two weeks, and she knows it will take time. Last time it was three years before she felt assimilated to the world once again. Breathing, she lets these thoughts sift through her and gets back to the rhythmic meditation of setting up the house with what little they packed in their mini station wagon.
He had agreed, upon picking her up at the hospital, they would just drive… drive until they found something, anything that felt like it mattered. And though she is grateful to have arrived in this majestic house, she is slowly becoming aware that it is he that matters; mostly and justly because he makes her feel an ounce of self-worth, and she is ever grateful for this.
Nothing but the music of the neighborhood, the suburban wildlife, and the periodic pulsing of her cleaning and arranging decorates the sound waves around her. She prefers to become accompanied again with the world as it exists in its natural form, as an observer, gradually participating more and more, one layer at a time. She stops and stares out the window. She is nervous to leave her new realm, but she must go to the store today. Overtly, she feels confidence in her aptitude and willingness to avoid too much interaction. She places the clean dishes in the rack, turns around and settles her thoughts on living here, at 409 Eleventh Avenue.
The Drive Part 5
She shuts the door behind her and steps out onto the porch, wallet bulging in the font pocket of her hoodie. She takes a deep breath and then exhales. She uses the momentum from the exhale and propels herself off the porch, down the walk, through the gate and onto the sidewalk in twelve swift leaps. Her decent from the realm results in her being deposited onto a typical suburban St. Louis street, energy abundant and flowing.
She focuses on the ground in front of her, and gradually becomes soothed by the rhythm of her steps. As she approaches the corner, she can hear the children’s shouts and screams from the park across the street. She decides as she is crossing the street, to wander through the park instead of walking by it. As she strides onto the path entering the park, she notices a large blackbird on the telephone pole, eyeing her with a naughty stare. She nods to the creature, and the black sleek feathers and ebony eyes acknowledge her with fervor and a little fright. She can relate to the crow. This exchange of acknowledgement carries her through the weaving gravel path of the park, past the exuberant children, and onto some large and epic deciduous trees. Unable to retract the urge, she finds herself drawn to the oaks as her body is pulled towards one of their ageing trunks.
‘I have all day,’ she thinks, and plops her body onto the roots, to rest and look. Out across the green and tightly manicured lawn, her gaze wheels past the people and flocks to the nature that simply exists. Some pigeons clamor about the gravel, needy and lustful looks across their beaks, gnats and mosquitos buzz the air, and a little squirrel bolts through, hoping to not be discovered by the humans. She is so grateful to observe this nature. In her room at the hospital, planted in the middle of urban St. Louis, she could only look down four stories below to the traffic and the paint. They were allowed outside for a smoke or air break, three times a day into a caged cement courtyard with only a few neglected bushes that wished and longed for water, larger pots and to serve a purpose other than the disposal sites for garbage and cigarette butts. Depressing, all of it, and yet sobering, with the routine and structure, meds and meetings.
Now free, she looks coherently out across the park, cherishing every moment and feeling a slight pang of anxiety at the endless possibilities before her. Squatting, she focuses intently at the small patch of grass between her feet. Several blades of grass are undisturbed, and a few daisies, slightly ruffled, are still making breath.
‘One day at a time…’ she says to herself as she thinks about the purity and love that goes into getting to know just one thing intimately. Perhaps in that one thing resides a million elements. There is no need to hurry, not all is lost. And as she awakens a little each day from her nightmare, she is aware of the indescribability of everything. No shape, border or hue encompasses the meaning of her life, and she must fill it in all so slowly, savoring the stillness, every breath and the lack of definition.
Her muscles tighten as her thighs lift the rest of her body to a standing position. Her feet then once again begin to pulse to a beat and she is traveling down the street. House after house, they are all the same as she does not have the time to investigate. Unfortunately, these houses have not made it in her map yet. The sun is baking the sweat that decorates her neck and underarms, but she keeps the sweatshirt on, lifting the hood about her hair to shelter her eyes from the illuminate and scorching spring light.
Inside, a small fire is kindled, with a cool and loving lavender-blue flame. Her hand lifts to push on the warm door and a bell jingles to announce her presence.
The Drive Part 6
Patiently she stands at the counter waiting for the little man to ring up her two gallons of water, liter of milk, loaf of bread, and her tiny jar of mayonnaise and cheese slices. She hands him her money, absently, and he thanks her and wishes her a wonderful day. Lifting the two heavy paper bags, she walks to the door and uses her shoulder to push her way out. On the walk home she begins to hum a familiar Merle Haggard tune. The walk back passes briskly and she finds herself on her porch once again fumbling for the keys. As she lets herself in, she immediately deposits the groceries on a table, puts her back to the front door, and slides down it to the floor. Safe, immeasurably she is fortified. Freedom, and exhilaration along with anxiety flood her, and her thoughts turn to Jacob in anticipation of his swift return. The day is feeling long without him; it has only been a few hours at best.
She returns to nesting, and unpacks her purchased goods. There is not much left to do. She must wait for the truck with what little furniture they have, boxes of books and belongings, and Chester. ‘Chester will make this place feel like home,’ she thinks, his long golden fur, intelligent eyes and cheering pant, filling up the large empty spaces with purpose and friendship. She has not seen her mutt in three months. She imagines running her fingers through his fur, and pushing her face into his with kisses. She walks to the kitchen window and looks out to the side yard. Once again the cat emerges from the bushes and begins dancing, leaping and spastically pawing at the insects in the yard. She walks to the back yard and waits at the edge of the house, observing, and gently makes her presence known. The kitty sees her and freezes, low to the ground. She calls it over, slowly placing one foot in front of the other then stopping to crouch. Her fingers gently brush the overgrown grass filled with dandelions, and she reaches out to the critter making little noises in beckoning. The Bengal striped cat skulks over, but soon finds itself brushing up against her legs, teasing her with an expectant yet obtuse need for attention. She reaches down and caresses its soft fur, short and tidy, its eyes an elusive yellow-green. ‘He will be a back soon,’ the cat seems to comfort her with all that it has, but soon is jerked to distraction and leaps once again into the bushes.
At their old apartment, Jacob is placing the last box into the back of his friends pick up. Steve will follow in his truck, and Jacob will drive the car, both packed to the gills with furniture and belongings. He is worried, but knows that his apprehensive thoughts are slightly foolish. Margaret is strong, no stranger to being alone, yet she is still so bendable and fickle, like a rubber band that has seen too many seasons.
The afternoon light caresses his hair as he plops in his car and shuts the door. He places his hand on Chester, and feels a calmness immediately surround him. They begin to drive north to the edge of town. ‘We didn’t make it too far,’ he thinks. ‘An hour drive and then we were beckoned to that old dilapidated house. But I can see her enthrallment with it. Whatever works, stills and inspires…’ He hopes she is content upon return. He hates to see her struggle or check out and stare at the wall.
The green light glows and he is allowed to enter the freeway, and as he accelerates, he is pulled with momentum towards his new home… and her. He will always be drawn with utter expectancy to her. Known from a dream, understood at a depth, and yet uncharted territory he is always grasping for, every day is a new discovery. He grips at his life with her, knowing not what is unraveling inside of his inner complexities.
The Drive Part 7
Patiently, she sits on the front porch, the sun setting in a beautiful haze of pink and orange. The cars pull up and into the gravel driveway. Her spine straitens and her eyes widen with anticipation; the door of the station wagon opens from the inside magically. Bounding, Chester leaps from the front seat onto the long grass. Her heart leaps and she runs down the steps to greet him in the yard. He jumps up and she doesn’t care, and before long, Margaret is lying on the ground, Chester on his back, and they are rolling, playing and loving on each other so happily it lifts the hearts of all the disabled orphans in the state.
After a bit, she stands and embraces Jacob with long slender arms that won’t release without prompting. He kisses her on the head and they exchange a few words about the drive and the day. Margaret greets Steve, their friend, a fellow mechanic of Jacob’s at the old shop. Jacob has agreed to continue working at The Friendly Mechanic until he finds a gig closer to home and not such a long drive across town. He tries to keep his days to three or four a week to be home more with the dog and the girl. Margaret has learned over time to get through the long days without him, going for walks, making collages, and occasionally knitting a blanket. The dog is her company and goes with her everywhere.
They are both so grateful to be reunited. Jacob feels blessed and lets a long smooth smile cross his face at the thought. They decide to make a dinner and wait to unload the boxes and the furniture, they can manage in the twilight, and Steve agrees.
Everyone famished; they sit down to a simple meal of pasta and salad. They all eat in silence, except Chester, who sits obediently at the door to the kitchen letting out the occasional supercilious bark. The house is cooling from the heat of the day, the warmness feeling premature and sudden. Margaret, a speedy eater, and Jacob, prepensely slow, she stands, walks to the door of the kitchen, and lets Chester clean the sauce and dressing from her plate. Steve and Jacob begin to talk shop and Margaret leaves to put a record on in the living room.
Jacob will probably do the dishes; usually he doesn’t mind carrying the brunt of the chores. Often it is painful for Margaret to simply take care of herself in the moment. Besides, she does care for the dog, sweeps, and does her best with the laundry. Spotty with consistency of effort, he knows she does her best and is getting better all the time. Since they were reunited the day she was released, she takes on a bit more every day.
The last week and a half has been like a retreat experiment without their stuff and Chester, but the stillness and lack of responsibility is vitally important to arriving in a world that carries on without you. Margaret feels the pressure of this daily, as the years of college and soon childbirth pass her by. Where will she be? As she breaks into her thirties, she has embraced the unconstitutional element of her life. Soon she will hope to hold a job at a convenience store or gas station for a couple days a week. Something more fulfilling will come along eventually, like at the Library or the YMCA. Soon they will both begin looking for employment, but right now they revel in the unconformity of it all.
She puts on the calm smooth record of Vangelis and goes into the kitchen to make some coffee for the boys as they finish dinner. Standing at the counter she feels the lavender-blue flame inside her turn to a warmer orange-yellow. The dog sneaks in the kitchen and lies at her feet, no one notices, but she can feel him there. She can feel both of them and they ignite her spirit. The fumes of the brew begin to flood the room as the boys sit by their empty plates. Jacob and Steve both notice Margaret and the dog and their spirits are raised once again. Family, just as it should be.
The Drive Part 8
Opening the trash can lid to deposit the garbage inside, she notices the flicker of a tail around the side of a large rock. Jasper… she had given the cat a name. She dumps the trash and assembles the lid with the bungee cord. All of a sudden, Chester, having pushed the front door open comes bumbling down the steps and trots up to her. Spotting the cat, he decides in an instant to bolt after the sweet feline. Jasper hustles across the yard and into the bushes at the edge of the property with Chester hot on her tail. Margaret, calls after her dog, and pursues the pair with expectant urgency.
Having hastened through the bushes and the backyards of two of the neighbors, she finds herself in the yard of a California style stucco house. Painted erroneous yellow, white camellias guard the doors and windows, and wild old wisteria cascades from the roof and walls, covering the lemon hobbit hole in drapes of lavender and coils of smoky vines. Statues decorate the random circular paths, hidden in wild herbs and elegant lush spring flowers. Tip toeing, Margaret lurks through the wonderland closer to the house, and finds Chester on a painted oval shaped porch licking the ears of wide eyed Jasper. Gently lifted by the scene, she grabs the dog by the collar and whispering in his ear calm firm pleasantries, she guides him from the yard and into the alley behind. ‘Chester…’ she swoons, feeling adoring yet firm, ‘bad dog!’ There being no reason to restrain him further, they walk together, Chester shadowing willingly her side, back to the house they call home.
As they enter the yard, she is struck with contrasting entropy at the bleak solitude her home exudes. ‘I must return to that house,’ she thinks. Margaret settles into the ominous yet roomy feeling of her own yard and gives the dog a large warming hug. They had met, Jasper and Chester, but now they both had led her somewhere. She is curious and needing an excuse to return to the strange oasis.
Who lives there? A strange sensation cloaks her skin as if she has lived this moment before. Something feels strangely familiar. She sits in the grass and leaning on her hands gazes up at the overgrown bushes and trees that stretch overhead. Chester places his soft face in her lap, and his presence immediately penetrates through whatever ethereal walls Margaret has crafted around herself to protect her fragile mind. Her thoughts swirl with the breeze and she imagines a beautiful woman disguised as aging crone discovering Jasper on the porch and calling her in for a moist treat. ‘We must meet’, she thinks, ‘I must discover Jasper’s true name and the story of whoever lives in that strange and beautiful house.’
Standing, she leads Chester up to the porch and she goes in to grab some ice tea from the fridge. She leaves the front door ajar, and Chester is at her heals with every step. She bumps into him and ambles around his strong furry body in the kitchen as she pours herself a chilled glass of tea. She cuts a large slice of lemon, squeezes it over the glass and drops it in. They then wander back to the sunny porch and she sits on the old swing, the dog plopping at her feet and looking up at her expectantly.
‘Jacob will be home soon.’ Crispy and uncomfortable thoughts flood her body, and she reaches down to touch the soft fur of her mutt once again.
The Drive Part 9
Margaret sits dozing on the swing, and she awakens to the sound of the car softly crunching the gravel in the driveway. Jacob emerges and reaches in the back seat for his bag. He shuts the door and swings the bag over his shoulder as Chester runs up to greet him with a large soggy smile. Margaret waits on the swing and says a sweet and gentle ‘Hello’ as he walks up the steps slowly and smoothly. He asks her about her day and she answers with redundancies, choosing not to share her discovery quite yet.
She stands and they embrace lovingly. Jacob then pulls a small paper box from his backpack and hands it to Margaret. She accepts it with loving eyes and opens the simple yet cheerful gift. Inside is a small charm with an elephant. He tells her it represents healing and strength with a side of loyalty and friendship. Also in the box is a thin silk cord, and returning to the swing she strings the two together, then reaches her wrist out to him. He proceeds to tie a secure not with the silk, and kisses her wrist affectionately when he is done. Chester lets out a bark, energetically sitting erect and swishing his tail back and forth on the paint-chipped porch. A cloud sweeps itself in front of the sun, and a nice cool breeze caresses the soft hair on her cheek.
She stands and they go inside. He grabs his crossword from the backpack and parks himself in a stiff chair in the kitchen. Margaret proceeds to grab sandwich makings from the fridge and fixes a couple sandwiches. She cuts them into small squares and places them on the counter. He pops the cap off his beer. All is well.
‘I found a job just down the street,’ he remarks after several minutes pass. ‘They are gonna try me out starting a week from now. I’ll put in a few days more at the old job, then start at Buck’s Auto. It’s just four blocks from here, I can walk.’
She turns a chair around and straddles it, sitting, resting her arms on the back.
‘That’s great… I am going to walk around the neighborhood tomorrow and brainstorm some options. It would be awesome if we could both walk to work. That is better than having a sustainable salary where we put money away.’
She begins tapping her feet on the floor and gets up to put that old CD on. She sits Indian style on the faded Persian carpet next to the coffee table and carefully places the CD in the player. As her song begins to play, she thinks back to the moments of her arrival and her decision to make 11th Avenue their new beginning. The song begins.
‘Twinkle twinkle lucky star…’ and once again she is lying on the floor. Relinquishing to gravity she always feels security. ‘…Can you really make a wish come true? Or do you shine to just a chosen few? Is it over, have I gone too far… Twinkle twinkle lucky star.’
The notes ground her, her bones giving into the swaying tune and sound, and the tension pours from her veins spilling into a puddle which the carpet then absorbs and transforms into tenderness. In the kitchen, Jacob seemingly entrenched in his puzzle is looking past it off the edge of the table and into empty space. The notes too caress his spirit and pluck a cord deep in his heart that aches secretly and detached. One salty tear breaks from the moist lid of his left eye and begins carving a glowing path down his cheek, catching then releasing from the stubble, flecked with a hint of grey. Together, close, a room away, the music binds with the emotional colors drifting out from their hearts and imbeds itself in the stained wallpaper of the old house. Time, inching by, has begun its journey. Margaret and Jacob are nurtured, together and separate, a door is opened, and a new life started.
The Drive Part 10
Margaret stands in front of the candy colored house with Chester on leash, slackened as he sits attentively at her feet looking into the wonderland that basks their view. The front is as astonishing as the back. A fence made of salvaged wood, from furniture and old buildings, is as eclectic as a junk shop with sparkle, flare and good taste. It is covered in most places with various types of clematis, in the beginning of its showy and gallant bloom. Pinks, violets, tangerine, pale blues and yellows decorate the tops of wild and untamed bushes and flower clumps, spilling over bordered paths covered in sawdust and decorated with cement stepping stones and ornamental rocks. The occasional ferry or garden animal peeks out from the foliage.
Margaret closes her eyes and analyses the moment, its soothing energy outlined in an enthrallment with excitement on the fringes. She imagines herself opening the decorated gate and walking up to the lavender door, ringing the old fashioned bell, and waiting with anticipation. It was not her first visit, and her friend welcomes her with a loving smile. Parsnips and garlic are cooking on the stove and they sit on her friend’s back deck, tea and homemade biscuits in their clutches, homegrown jam dripping down to their elbows.
She opens her eyes and turns to look down the street at the rest of the block. Trailer type houses with stale crispy yards are decorated with wisps of weeds, protruding up. It had been warm lately and the oasis directly in front of her must have been well maintained and coddled over. Shades are pulled on the other houses, with not much beautification other than their gutters, stale welcome mats and neglected potted plants. These houses represent the people she has known to inhabit the planet, not doing it much justice. Blank, empty, neglected and weary, but blending in just perfect with the other houses on the block.
She recalls her group at the hospital. Those folks had issues; that was for sure, some with healing gashes on their heads and wrists, some so medicated and disoriented they barely spoke a word, some the obvious disregarded peripheral of society. Still, there was color, a sense that everything was honest and exposed, though perhaps only due to the lack of being able to conceal the abused special qualities of their person. Oscar used to offer to share his apple ever morning at breakfast, an older middle aged balding man with schizophrenia - a flare of socially challenged on the side. At least we can be honest with ourselves in such a place. She had bonded well, though now, was miles away from ever seeing any of those folks again. You don’t tend to get the phone numbers of your ward mates.
She says a little prayer in her mind, wishing her sisters and brothers the best. ‘Is it really their fault that they do not fit into this bland world, full of lies and compromised morals? Nothing makes sense anyway, and if it does it is because one is blind. Yes, so blind to the color that they have masked their own flaws so deeply in their ‘successes’ they have sacrificed the most precious and small part of their being that requires room for dancing, puking, feeling weak in the knees, longing and screaming. I wish to be free, but I know this comes at a price.’
She moves on, then. She continues down the sterile and neglected block. Noticing the cracks in the sidewalk, she begins to count them as she passes. The noise of the neighborhood recedes into a mish-mash of sounds. From deep within, she begins to hear a soft melody, her own melody, slowly creating its own notes, plucking softly in her chest. She breaks at the corner and waits for a car to pull through the stop sign. Intense, urgent, and vacant energy pierces the windshield from inside the car. Margaret lets this bounce off her softened being, still affected by the loudness of the person’s unawareness, so as to not go numb once again.
The Drive Part 11
She awakens in bed feeling small in the universe. She rises and walks over to the window. Leaning out of the large opening, she breathes in the morning air. Light is here, though there are no rays of sun enveloping God’s canvas in this moment. The birds sing wildly and in chorus with the rhythm of the city, cars in the distance and cars nearby. She slips on her flip flops and walks downstairs to start the coffee.
She heard from a friend yesterday, of the death of someone she knew from high school. Her friend still keeps her informed, as Margaret does not really tend her Facebook. Waiting for the water to boil she imagines what deceased Brent had been going through the moment of his death? He had been in a car and driven off a bank? People pass, moments cease; it all is so tentative and fragile. She thanks the stars that she has never walked into great danger during her episodes, and also that no random accident, existing in an infinite design, had grabbed her or anyone she was really close to and placed them in the heavens, apart from this world. This world may be exorbitant in its flaws, but it is still a blessed life, and she is grateful to be holding on.
Dawn finishes its breaking and soft rays glide through the glass of the window above the sink. She had been thinking in the evening that she wished for the lightened purity and chaotic energy of children in her midst, and she would look up a few local daycares to apply for a job. Children bring one to the present, and they are born fresh. Not much of their spirit and hope has been tainted by the endless heartbreaking folds that most adults have felt, or feel perhaps without true awareness. She wishes to find that place again. She feels exonerated in the presence of small children. Not that she had really done wrong in her life. But time can make you tired, and relationships can make you feel as though you have done incorrectly.
Jacob enters the room, yawning, and gives the day a heartfelt stretch as he walks towards the coffee that has been brewing and dripping. His bare feet are smooth and white, his shorts just cover his knees and small wisps of hair decorate his shiny chest. She gives him a hug and bathes in his silky skin for a moment. They both prepare their coffee, spoons tinkling on the coffee mugs, in time with the chorus of birds floating in from the opened windows. Margaret unfolds her plan to seek children out and Jacob concurs that she is good with the young ones. Perhaps she is just the person a nearby school is looking for and she will walk into a place that is welcoming to the offer to work. Jacob stands and immerses himself in the dishes from the evening before. Margaret walks over, puts on the news radio, and goes upstairs to hop in the shower.
The water running and undressed, she looks at her body in the mirror. She is familiar with her frame, yet is seeing beyond it, and tries to name the feeling that rests in her bones. Unable to, she relinquishes to simple observation for a moment, she then turns and steps into the shower, letting the warm water wash over her slightly aching frame. She thinks about how grief can be a physical sensation, and commences to the routine of washing her hair, face and privates. Stepping out into the steam filled room, she wraps herself in a towel and without the usual routine of drying herself, walks into the room, leaving soggy footprints in her path. Air drying, she lays out her clothes and walks over to the table; she looks past her journal to the few framed photographs she had placed decoratively among the other functional objects adorning the hard surface.
‘I should call my family,’ and walking over to the window once again, she breaths in the morning air with sustainability. Dressing, her foot bumps a box tucked halfway under the bed and she leans over to pull it out. The open box is displaying the red patent leather shoes in an appealing way and she slips them on her feet. They will take her somewhere today, she knows not what she will see, but let it be new and enlivening. Let it be a beginning to a journey. ‘Lead me on little red shoes.’
Chapter 2: The Bridge
The Bridge
Margaret walks to the door. She has been waiting for Jacob to return for hours and finally there is a knock at the door, but she knows it can’t be him. Anxiety floods her body, and a vacant space surrounds her being. She looks through the peephole and sees Steve standing there, an unpleasant and expectant look on his face. She opens the door and immediately knows something is not right.
‘Margaret,’ Steve says, ‘I… I… Can I come in?’ Margaret moves aside without saying a word. They walk into the kitchen and she grabs a couple of beers from the fridge. They sit down and she gazes across the room in his direction, Steve is staring into his beer, and finally Margaret bursts out with loud and sudden force, ‘SPEAK!’ Steve is snapped out of his stupor and immediately begins rambling, though what he begins with is all that Margaret hears, as her thoughts tune out and she inhabits another place, not at all in the room with their friend…
‘I drove here as fast as I could. Jacob is in jail. There was a situation at the new shop. Being the new guy is tough, you know. It turns out there was some shady stuff going on. They were stealing cars and trafficking drugs. Jacob had just found out, and when the cops burst in this morning, a fight broke out and Jacob was in the brunt of it. This didn’t look good to the cops, made him seem like an essential player in the game, you know how able he is in a fight, and how he gets. We’ve been telling the cops that he wasn’t a part of it and he didn’t know… but Jacob is really upset and not being cooperative. He hit a few cops, and now is on close watch and not allowed his phone call. Fortunately, I stopped by to see him at work, and a neighbor gave me the low down on the excitement. I went down to the station and I muscled some information out of the desk. They did not want to give anything up, but I basically told them about you, how it was important we had some information… I don’t know Margaret, it is not looking good.’
He stopped just then and realized that Margaret had vacated her own mind. She was rocking a bit side to side and looking down at the table, but he could tell she was not there. In restitution, he stands and starts going through some papers on the kitchen counter near the phone, manically looking for a phone number. Any phone number of someone he could call on behalf of Margaret. Finally he finds a note, in Margaret’s own handwriting. ‘Call Sister,’ it reads. The phone number is scribbled beneath the direction and he picks up the phone and begins to dial. He looks over at Margaret while the number is ringing, and walks over to caress her shoulder lightly. She is going to need some assistance in dealing with upcoming events. Family for sure will come to the rescue. He then looks up at the fridge and the line picks up at the other end.
‘Hello?’ a young child asks. ‘Yes I am looking for a Sandy…’ The child puts the phone down and screams out an extended ‘Moooooom!’ then returns to the phone and says in a sweet polite voice, ‘She’s coming. It will be just a moment, please’. Several apples that are on the kitchen table, then, go flying across the room. Margaret, having evolved from her silent apathy, runs upstairs and slams the door. Steve then hears a scream, some crashing and then an eerie silence. For now he hopes everything is okay….’Hello,’ a busy sounding but friendly voice answers the phone…’Yes,’ says Steve, ‘I am calling about Margaret Dunham and Jacob Stellars,’ ‘Go on,’ she states. The dog wines and hovers in the corner of the kitchen. Margaret needs her dog, but she needs Jacob as well. Steve secretly hopes that her sister will be a help.
A breeze rushes through the kitchen and a strange chill runs down Steve’s neck. The sun is setting, and it seems the birds have stopped singing; another day, another day, some other day, please, but just another day.
The Bridge Part 2
Margaret wakes up in the morning at her sister’s house, thick crustiness in her eyes. She stretches and wanders into the bathroom to splash water on her face. Walking down the stairs she smells coffee brewing and stops to look at the photos on the wall on the landing. Her sister, a devout Christian, has photos of their mother, no longer with them, and her nuclear family placed neatly on the wall. Scarlett and Johnathon, her two children, five and two, are dressed up in their baby gap clothing with big smiles and fine soft hair gently flowing from their crowns. Sandy’s husband is tall and slim, standing in the background with an intellectual look on his angular and fine jaw. Taking a deep breath she descends the stairs and walks into the light filled kitchen, sunshine blaring through the glass paneled French doors.
‘Good morning sunshine,’ Sandy is standing at the counter, leaning over the Sunday times, the crossword on top, filled in with several entries starting from the bottom left corner. ‘There is coffee, orange juice, and we have a few scones from Della’s Bakery. Rhubarb, I think.’ Margaret ignores her offer and walks strait up to Sandy and gives her a big hug. ‘I am going to need some help putting together the events of the last few days. All I remember is the news of Jacob.’ Margaret then walks to the cupboard to grab a glass and fills it to the brim with water from the tap.
‘Jacob is fine, honey. They have cleared things up and they released him on probation yesterday afternoon. He should be stopping by today after church with some of your things. Will you stay with us for a while? I miss you a lot.’ Sandy has always been supportive. And Margaret loves her sister deeply.
Margaret then turns and smiles as Scarlett and Johnathon come storming into the room, small backpacks on their shoulders, Johnathon with toothpaste remnants on his chin. ‘Good morning, Auntie Margaret!’ They both chime and run up to her, both attaching themselves over zealously to her legs. Margaret feels a gentle breeze course through her blood vessels, allowing for space and proper flow. Her cheeks redden and she bends over to fluff their soft auburn curls. ‘Good morning troopers,’ she says with a reserved smile. The kids plop themselves in the chairs by the kitchen table in front of glasses of orange juice and sliced grapefruit set neatly in two small bowls. ‘Eat your grape fruit, and then you both may have some cereal.’ ‘Corn Pops!!!’ Johnathon squeals, and Scarlett looks at him with a teasing glare. Scarlett, the older sister, likes order and neatness, her brother balancing her demeanor perfectly with a most natural gaze at the imperceptible.
‘I will take a short walk, and then go with you guys if you’ll have me,’ Margaret says with a gentle innocence that has always graced any wild tendencies that dominate her so completely. ‘Please do, I was hoping to sit next to you this morning.’ Sandy sets her pen down and walks to the cupboard to grab two boxes of cereal. Shredded wheat and corn pops. Both lower in sugar than some of the more tempting options. She sets the boxes in front of the children with a pitcher of milk and asks Scarlett if she would pour Johnathon’s milk for his cereal. Johnathon can’t contain his excitement as the yellow balls tinkle into his bowl, but he sits patiently for Scarlett to go first.
Margaret walks upstairs, her body still aching, dresses and walks down the stairs and out onto the flowery porch into the light. She smells the rich greenery of her sister’s yard and looks upward to gaze into the euphoria of leaves dressing the giant oak pouring into the sky form its cement barrier, the sidewalk. She heads out for her walk, not sure what she is doing beyond the moment she is in. She does feel lightness in her heart form seeing her sister and being reminded that she cares. The birds are vocal, and the manicured gardens are singing their songs as well. Margaret hums along and ambles down the neighborhood street, hands gently brushing her pants as they glide back and forth.
The Bridge Part 3
After Church, Margaret sits on the front porch waiting for her love to arrive. The birds sing and the mayflies hover over the shady yard bringing life to the Iowa afternoon. After about a half an hour of quiet contemplation, Jacob pulls up in the rented moving van, air conditioning on, Chester riding shotgun with great dedication. Jacob gets out, stretches, and Margaret runs up to the van and embraces him as though he had been traveling across the prairie for months. They walk around and let Chester out on a leash, water the dog and begin chatting about the drive. Margaret suggests they borrow Al’s old classic, not to shiny for the dog, and take a ride into the country.
After meeting the children and a glass of ice tea in the back yard, Margaret, Jacob and Chester load up in the old Dodge to head down the Dubuque neighborhood street; out of town for a small journey and a bit of reconciliation. Jacob stretches a wet towel on the back seat for Chester and places a filled up gallon water jug next to a shiny chrome bowl in the back. Chester leans out the window of the old classic car, tongue wagging, and the breeze from the acceleration passes over all of them, soothing their minds and warming their hearts. On the drive, Margaret expresses her concern for Jacob and how his couple days in a St. Louis jail must have felt. Jacob grunts and smiles, saying it was no huge feat and that he is just so glad to be sitting next to his favorite mountain flower once again.
He fills her in on Margaret and Stephen’s drive from St. Louis to Dubuque, based on the full report that Stephen gave him upon return and picking him up at the precinct. The nurse had suggested Margaret take a couple Rispiridol over the phone, and once Stephen had coaxed Margaret into making the call, she was willing to take the medication without much fuss. She slept most of the drive and arrived at Sandy and family’s house calm and sedated and immediately was placed in the bed where she spent most of the following day, after a second dose of the tranquilizing drugs. Margaret is thankful for her friends and family in this moment and tears trickle from her eyes. The tall Iowa grass blankets the view from their hot and windy car.
Stopping at a Mart and Go to water the dog and grab some snacks and drinks, she takes a moment by herself in the car as Jacob lets Chester out of the back. Parked next to a field they let the dog wander a bit and Margaret perches herself on the hood of the car, gazing at the vast blue sky, breathing deeply, finally awake and vivid after a couple of rough days. Jacob returns with the sodas and joins her on the hood of the Dodge, just sitting and admiring their favorite canine companion.
‘Thanks for everything, sweetie,’ Margaret remarks comfortingly as she looks over at Jacob who is gazing across the field of baby corn, ‘I love you.’ Jacob smiles and Chester comes bounding up to them, returning to his water bowl, and lavishly laps the wet clear treat. They sip on their root beers and Jacob cracks a bag of potato chips and offers one to Margaret. ‘I knew it was to be more of a drive than we took that day… here we are now, are you good with Dubuque, Honey?’
Margaret chews on Jacobs’s words for a moment, more for the appearance of having a solid opinion. She knows in her heart that wherever God takes her in these months is where she will go willingly. God seems to have planted her near her sister, and after this morning’s small and ephemeral bit of time spent with Sandy, she knows she wishes to be close to her. ‘Let’s find a small apartment near the kids,’ she says. He nods and they return to the silent pondering of the corn and the Iowa prairie. ‘I think I will like it here,’ she thinks. The wind blows and Chester bounds off into the corn, knowing he will be sitting in the car soon enough. Jacob gets up and grabs the towel from the back seat to wet it from the spout at the side of the building nearby. The hot sun glares into Margaret’s protective skin and makes her feel alive once again.
The Bridge Part 4
The curtains open and the lights go black. The stage is shimmering in the dark, the brass edges catching what glimpse of light there is. A spot light comes on a man sitting on a single stool, mic in hand. He begins to bellow the words to a familiar tune and the band down below the stage begins to pluck at the notes that accent the inner tendrils of hope in Margaret’s fragile being. The words pour off his lips with a smooth texture that fills a vacant place in her heart. “…Like two ships on an ocean, we drifted apart, and you found an island at sea. I’m still adrift with this pain in my heart. Won’t you send your sweet love back to me? Twinkle, twinkle lucky star…”
The hot sun shining in the window wakes Margaret and she rolls over to see Jacob still asleep with covers pushed on the floor and his legs tangled in the pale blue sheet. She stretches her arm across his slightly sweaty body and places her head on his chest. Jacob stirs and lets out a ‘Hmm…’ She closes her eyes as his open and they both revel in the touch of each other’s warm bodies despite the warmth of the room. Margaret then gets out of bed, opens the window to allow for a breeze despite the air conditioning, walks into the bathroom and runs the water to start a shower. Chester jumps on the bed with Jacob, and Margaret and Jacob are both thinking how they need their own place. Wandering souls, together, alone, bonded, troubled and secure.
In the yard later that afternoon, Margaret sits with a glass of tea, ice melted except for a few tiny floating remnants. She lays back into the grass, manicured and green from a regular schedule of dawn watering. Chester runs over and stands above her. He continues to lick her face for a whole minute, cleaning and tasting the familiar salt of his favorite human’s crown. He then moves to her ear and her hair and Margaret pushes him away, sits up and looks to the house where her sister is beginning the early evening chore of preparing dinner. The kids go streaming through the yard in suits and jump and splash into a kiddy pool that had been filled to the brim with water, only to have a few inches remaining at this point. They laugh and giggle and shout, and Margaret just takes it in; the life, the perfection of family. She knows that it all is anything but perfect. She has barely seen Al at all since she has been here these four days.
Jacob sits on the swing reading his book about the latest economic crash and sets it on his lap to look up for a moment. ‘Can I get you something, hun?’ He asks. She stands and walks over to the back yard porch that is flush with the level of the yard, and as she steps into the shade she feels a small sense of relief. ‘I’ll get it. I just need some more ice.’ Johnathon then comes waddling up with his miniature thin plastic inner tube around his waste, face white with sunscreen and proceeds to start bouncing his two year old body off of Margaret’s, spreading what water remains on his small body all over her shorts. She tweaks his nose and he runs off towards the kiddy pool, prepared to jump with full force into the several inches of water. Scarlett is now sunbathing in the shade of a large sun umbrella propped near the pool. Jacob gets up to turn on the hose and rectify the pool situation.
Margaret stands for a moment, resisting the temptation to look directly into the blinding sun. She turns and opens the glass paneled door and enters the cool-ish house to grab more ice for her tea. Waltzing music plays invisibly in the sun beams that surround the house. The fan spins with solitude amongst the full life that surrounds it. The music plays and though not audibly, everyone can seem to hear it.
The Bridge Part 5
The lighting is soft and warm as she walks into the renovated old building, large windows towering on either side of the doorway letting in soothing shimmery natural light. Margaret walks up to the college Librarian at the counter and explains that she would like a card. The young woman in thick shiny green glasses hands her a piece of paper and points to a small counter with pencils and pens. Margaret walks over, sets her bag down at her feet and picks up a number two pencil. She spends a few minutes looking over the paper. Her comparative literature class has asked her to write a small paper on an American poet for a first assignment. She looks up at the windows and asks herself if she even knows of any American poets. She fills out her information and turns it in to the Librarian who explains it will be a moment to enter it into the computer, and then she will have her card.
Margaret stands patiently and studies the modern art behind the counter. The colors of the Kandinsky print reach out to her with soothing comfort and she is drawn in by the large circles. She follows a line slowly with her eye to a smaller circle hallowed by an orange-ish red, and taps the pencil on the counter expectantly. No intention of taking the pencil from the counter, she places the painted wooden tool behind her ear. The librarian hands her the card and Margaret picks up her bag, and walks to a computer to begin her search.
Sitting on a soft chair in the window, basking the warm natural light, Margaret begins leafing through a book of Poems by Sylvia Plath. She knows of her origins with mental illness, but the cliché bends around her and she wants to know more. She comes across a poem,
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
-“Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath
Margaret closes her eyes and imagines the world dead around her. She then slowly lets in one sound at a time, the scuffling of feet, some whispers in the aisle next to her, the scooting of a chair on the cold wooden floor. She imagines life without these sounds. She wonders if Sylvia wished to turn off the world when she wrote these words. Margaret does not wish to turn it off. As the sounds fill her mind, eyes still closed, she greets each one with a smile, and warmly caresses their individual existence. She notes to herself that each sound has its story. That each person creating the sound pines for love and purpose. As she revels in the quiet that is bustling with subtle action, she lets in the thought ever so slightly that all humans struggle. ‘Why should I be alone? Perhaps my thoughts do belong in a communal conscious and others feel at times the heartbreak that I feel. It may be for other reasons. The world must have balance. There is too much suffering. No one gets off that easy.’
Margaret then chooses to write about E. E. Cummings whose end to a poem she is drawn to in a slightly less personal way, laughing a bit, she is pleased by her own humor.
“…Humanity I love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down
on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death, Humanity
I hate you” - “Humanity I love you” by E.E. Cummings
Margaret then grabs her book, leaving the rest of them by the chair for the student intern to put away on their rounds.
Leaving the building she stops at the Barista cart outside and grabs a quick Americano. Walking across campus, she focuses on the ground in front of her, but a part of her wishes to look up at the bustle of students passing her by and laugh. At the edge of the campus she stands at the bus stop thinking of the poets. She imagines E.E. Cummings and Sylvia Plath meeting and then all of a sudden swirling each other up in their arms and waltzing down the street, quickly forgetting where they are headed or whatever issue was awaiting them when they arrived.
The bus pulls up and Margaret steps aboard. Among the strangers on the bus she begins to feel the loneliness once again and looks forward to seeing her niece and nephew upon return. The bus squeaks and lurches and its large engine lets out a grown up purr as it heads to its next stop to pick up a few passengers. ‘Where are they headed? I am afraid I have lost interest.’ Margaret looks in her bag and pulls out a red delicious apple. She sinks her teeth into the fruit and the seemingly bland flavor and slightly pulpy texture fills her mouth. ‘Do not complain,’ she thinks to herself. ‘There are starving people in China.’ Leaning back on the hard seat, she sighs and looks forward once again to returning to her sister’s home; her home, if only temporarily.
The Bridge Part 6
Margaret is keeled over the toilet and Jacob is nearby, making trips back and forth to the bathroom to check on her. The new apartment is filled with boxes, half emptied, though the furniture is mostly in place and the bed is made. The kettle whistles and Jacob returns to the kitchen to brew a health tonic that hopefully Margaret will be able to keep down. He squeezes the lemon in a mug, squirts in a little honey, and adds the grated ginger. Pouring the water into the cup he is interrupted by another gut wrenching hurling sound coming from the bathroom. He doubts Margaret will want to drink the hot tea he has made, but it is all he can think to do in the moment. He skips adding the garlic because she is feeling so nauseous.
Later Margaret is perched in a chair, her glass of honey lemon ginger water sitting next to her cold and untouched. She leafs through a magazine and stops at an article on breast cancer. As she reads, Chester walks up to her chair wining. She sighs, lifts the blanket from her lap, puts on her slippers haphazardly, and walks towards the door, letting out small breathy coughs as she goes. She opens the door and lets Chester out, not to follow, allowing him to make his own way through the apartment complex to find a little patch of grass to do his business. She will pick it up later.
The phone rings, the hand piece in Margaret’s lap, and she answers it to find Jacob on the other line. ‘Just checking to see how you are doing,’ he says, voice caring and a little distant, she feels. Margaret gives the report that she has managed to not throw up in the last hour, and that she still feels quite horrible. ‘I hate that I had to leave you and come to work… I will pick up some juice on the way home. I love you.’ ‘I love you too,’ she responds with a quiet yet gruff sounding voice and hangs up the phone. She stands slowly to grab a little water from the tap. As she is drinking she hears Chester scratching at the door and wanders over to let him in. He sits then attentively at her feet and looks up at her with earnest eyes. Chester knows his human is unwell. His loyalty shows and is painfully acute. They walk together back to the Lazy Boy, and he lies at her feet, placing his head down on his paw with a sad look in his eye. The phone rings again and Margaret looks at the caller Id. She ignores the call, as it just says IOWA CALL, promising to check the voice mail to see who it is later. Leaning her head back in her chair she imagines a sunny day, her and Chester and Jacob, playing Frisbee in the shade of some large deciduous trees, blanket, wine and cheese nearby. ‘We will have to have a day in the park soon,’ she tells Chester, ‘when I am feeling better.’ Chester sits up and gives a low vocal whine that she knows is his acknowledgement of her saying something hopeful.
Jacob stands at the customer service counter at the local True Value Hardware store. He is between customers and he stares over at the phone. A pang of anxiety fills his body and he feels frozen for a moment. He can’t really explain how he feels when Margaret is unwell. It does not matter if it is mental or physical, he is usually plagued himself with a gripping around his heart. His dependency on her wellness is more than a need for her to feel well. When Margaret is sick, Jacob feels the loneliness press in and around him. He has lost her several times to stays in the hospital, and a simple ailment like the flu just brings it all back. His thoughts are interrupted by a thin woman with long blond hair wanting to find heavy duty magnets. ‘Aisle seven,’ Jacob feels his bearings return, as he shuts off the connection to his emotions to get through the day.
Jacob is silent except for his interactions with his customers. His shoes squeak slightly as he walks the young woman towards the correct aisle, and he checks in with God for a brief moment, feeling alien to the people in the room, but finding a greater presence coherent, nearby and pleasantly aloof.
The Bridge Part 7
Evelyn pulls a book out of her bag, sitting at the desk of her comparative literature class, adjusts her glasses on her face, and tucks a soft brown curl behind her ear. The room is empty but for a few eager and early students, waiting for the professor to arrive. Margaret walks in the door, ball cap on low, slightly covering her face. Her mid-sleeve baseball tee in dark blue and white is casually tucked in the front of her worn out Levi jeans. She walks over and takes a seat next to Evelyn in the third row of tables. The two sit next to each other for a moment, sensing the other, but not saying a word.
Margaret sorts through her bag and pulls out a binder and a pencil. Evelyn is perched behind her IPad, key board attached, but is not scrolling through Facebook or the internet as many other students in the room are doing, and unaware they are of the moods and subtleties of the room. Evelyn, probably 25, looks over at her counterpart and smiles. ‘I see you are preserving the old way of hand written letters,’ she says with a bit of humor. Margaret looks over at her. She is dressed simply in an elegant sundress, free hair and absent of any jewelry. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I like the feel of a pencil in my hand. It feels more productive to me to write than type. Also, I can draw a bit in the margins.’ ‘I’m Evelyn.’ Evelyn holds out a hand, smooth and soft. Margaret takes it and, though she holds it intently as they shake hands, she averts her eyes to the side.
Their meeting is brief and only lasts for a few moments. The professor then walks in, casual in Keen shoes and a button up shirt over a tank. Ms. Adelberry addresses the class with a warm greeting and nonchalantly sits on the desk at the front of the room. Perched there, the whole room is suspended for a few moments as the minute hand reaches the twelve. A few stragglers waltz in and bustle to find seats. Ms. Adelberry, Connie, then walks to the door to close it. Class begins, and all are quiet and listening to the professor’s smooth words. They discuss Walt Whitman and Emily Dickenson. A volunteer walks to the front of the classroom to recite one of Walt’s poems. The students are asked to make notes on cadence and subject matter. Margaret opens her binder and Evelyn opens her notes app and is poised and ready. The student soon recites the following words:
A Glimpse, By Walt Whitman
A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.
Margaret then smiles to herself. She writes a few words on her paper. First, she writes ‘Lovely but lacking perfect rhythm,’ then, the word ‘friend’ with a heart around it.
After class, Evelyn and Margaret stroll together through the building and then out into the campus grounds. Evelyn explains she is an undergrad, and Margaret opens up to share that she is just taking two classes for general learning and to maybe help her discover her life’s purpose. They decide to stroll to the coffee cart. They both order Americanos, Margaret’s with half and half, Evelyn’s with nonfat milk. They sit together in the grass and it seems there is an immediate bond. Margaret does not expose herself too much and they mostly talk about Evelyn, how she lives with her father who is unwell. How she loves Dubuque but longs to go to Europe. How her intermediate Spanish teacher is a letch. Company feels good to Margaret and there is something so completely natural about her feelings with Evelyn. Sitting cross-legged, flip flops flopped aside, Margaret leans on her hands as she listens to Evelyn’s words. Watching the leaves twinkle in the wind, she feels peace. Peace in the moment, peace secure.
The Bridge Part 8
The walk to the ER through the hospital parking lot was painful and hot. Margaret and Jacob step up on the curb and enter into the hospital building tired and needing water. Jonathon, her nephew, was checked in a couple hours ago with a high fever. As they enter the waiting room they encounter a frazzled and disheveled Sandy, pacing and wringing her hands. Margaret rushes up to her and embraces her loosely and earnestly, as Sandy sheds a few tears on her shoulder. Margaret’s sister stops then and pulls back, swallows her tears and gathers herself together.
‘I can’t get Al on the phone. I don’t even know where he is. The situation with Johnathon is bettering, though. The doctor says his fever has reduced to a manageable level. They are going to move him upstairs until they have diagnosed the cause further. I think everything is going to be okay.’ Jacob offers to get some tea and coffee, planning to return shortly. Margaret and Sandy sit down together in chairs, the waiting room filled with coughing and miserable noises permeating the otherwise silence. A siren blares outside, interrupting the moment of chaotic solitude. Margaret puts her hand on Sandy’s knee and turns to face her body at her sister’s. She looks her directly in the eyes, a strange and rare action for Margaret.
‘How are things with Al, Sandy?’ Sandy then returns to her tears, and begins to shake her head. ‘I just don’t know. He buries himself in his work and is not very present with the kids. I ask him often if he is depressed and check in to offer the solution that he start seeing someone for help, but he dismisses the suggestion. I don’t see interest in another woman as a possibility. It would be so out of character, not something he would be capable of. I worry he is just very unhappy and has retreated from all of us.’ Margaret rubs her sister on the shoulder, thanks her for sharing, and suggests they stay in the present with Jonathon, promising they will talk more about her relationship later. Her sister is so strong, but everyone needs a rock, scaffolding. It is obvious that Sandy is without hers and Margaret is so grateful that she can be there now and offer her support. If anyone knows how necessary a companion in a crisis is, she does.
Jacob returns with two coffees and a tea. He hands the tea to Sandy and she takes it gratefully with a sad sort of smile. Things calmer now, Margaret and Jacob stay and sit with Sandy for another hour. The doctor then reappears to say Johnathon has been moved to the pediatric ward and is ready for a visit. The three of them pick up their things and walk over to the elevator. Jacob pushes the button. Sandy then reaches over and clasps her sister’s hand. Gently, Margaret gives her sister’s hand a squeeze, but does not let go. They stand there like that for what seems like several minutes stretched into an eternity. Jacob looks over his shoulder. The thought occurs to him of how Margaret is forever the rock. She may not know this, but she is the glue that holds all of their worlds together. She may never be fully aware of her strength, but he hopes to help her realize her specialness.
The elevator dings. The three of them enter the metal structure, the artificial light letting off a sterile glow. As the doors close Margaret is reminded of her recent time at St Louis University Hospital. The elevator begins to move and ascend, encapsulating this small family in a bonded fortress for the time being. The doors open, they exit to walk down the hall toward Pediatrics, and Margaret is suddenly aware of her gift. It feels good to be needed and able to offer her love and support to another.
The Bridge Part 9
The wind whirls past her as she rides her bike through the city streets of Dubuque. As she nears the river, she can smell the moisture on the air. It is almost fall, and a very light frost dressed the roads, lawns and fields this morning. Johnathon spoke to Margaret of the ‘Castles of Ice’ when all of Dubuque becomes covered with a sheet of ice; trees, roads and buildings alike. He says the Ice Queen will be claiming her territory for the winter, the season over which she rules. ‘But Jesus is still my king’ Johnathon would say, then taking a deep breath and rolling his eyes as if he had not yet come across a Jesus action figure that was anywhere near as cool as a Ninja Turtle.
Her wheels splash through a puddle as she approaches the bridge. When she gets to the beginning of it, she hops off and continues to walk her bicycle down the sidewalk to mid-river. When she arrives at the middle of the bridge she leans her bike against the railing, and pulls out a brown paper bag and a Vitamin Water. Unable to climb onto the railing with its protective mesh shield and height, she stands, shifting her weight form one foot to another and takes a bite of her turkey sandwich. Gazing outward, she imagines herself floating down the river by raft. Before there were cars, internet, airplanes, electricity, she feels the separateness from the world she is leaving behind and the new adventures that await her out on the prairie. She looks down at the current river boats scooting along. Out in the middle of the river, Margaret feels untouchable. The vastness of the water below cleans her mind with its crystal energy and presence. She kicks off her shoes to stand barefoot on the cool cement walkway.
Looking back toward Dubuque, she sees a young man walking toward her, taking on the challenge of the long crossing to the neighboring state. She squints and makes out a white baseball cap, large hefty work boots, worn out jeans and a worker’s jacket. He carries his bag with a steadiness that feels comforting to Margaret. She nods approvingly and returns to her lunch and her small fantasy. In her mind she dangles her bare feet off the edge of her raft and into the waters, knowing she is at risk of a visitation from a giant catfish. ‘They are bottom feeders,’ she thinks to herself, and enjoys the running of the cool water across her ankles.
Returning through the busy Dubuque streets, she is focused on her route and travels at a swift speed down the roads accompanied by cars, while passing a few pedestrians and other bicycles along the way. Evelyn will be at the campus library awaiting her body’s presence while they plan to do homework side by side. As she rides further and further from the river, the rich smell of the great life giving water way fades and gets lost in the other smells surrounding her in the city streets. Waiting at a traffic light she presses her lips together and begins to hum a song. Life is fluid and she is moving with it; moving through it or upon it she does not know.
The Bridge Part 10
Margaret wakes to a screaming in her skull that feels as though it is about to shatter. She sits up, breathing heavily and clutches at the moist sheet across her chest. Jacob is off to work and so she reaches over to Chester, curled up at her side, and he begins to wine softly in anticipation of a happy and calm comment from his master. Margaret moans as she flops down onto the mattress. Staring at the ceiling, she is paralyzed with anxiety.
Today is a day to not leave the house for Margaret. She recognizes this immediately and gets on her phone to send apology texts to her friends and teachers. She has learned over the years that there are days which she must not press on. There are times when her fragile psyche lets her know that it is not happy in a most unpleasant way, and she knows that whatever mysteries her brain and body must solve, they must be done within the comforting and dimly lit walls of her apartment. Chester recognizes her symptoms and walks over to the pile of DVDs on the floor by the television and begins to paw at them, hoping he will uncover a movie that will result in a comforting cuddle on the sofa. Margaret, however, is solely focused on the weight pressing fiercely on her head and heart.
She gulps down a glass of water. Standing blankly in front of the open refrigerator, the water turns in her gut, and she walks away and to the restroom to succumb to the ritual hurling and nausea that is common on a day like today. Emerging from the bathroom, she kicks the refrigerator door closed and flops down on the sofa. Staring at the ceiling she remembers that today is the day to turn in a paper for her comparative literature class, and a tear begins down her cheek. Calmly, on the inside she urges herself to embrace her body’s need for a mental health day. The paper can be turned in at a later date. She despises the litany of excuses she has been forced to create for needing a day such as this. But the lies are easier and simpler than the truth. Trying to explain her inner mental health reality to acquaintances, strangers, teachers, bosses and even friends at times, is much like explaining to a creature that lives on air why you are hungry for food. It is like trying to tell a raven why you must return to the water as a fish, or explaining to an Olympic runner what it is like to live without feet.
The nausea settles, Margaret walks over to the record player and puts on a classical vinyl of one of her favorites, Beethoven. Somehow, deaf to the world, he chose to communicate through music. Familiar with the rhythms and bass, heard like no other, he used the platform of music to create the most amazing stories. Listening now, Margaret hugs her stuffed bunny and swallows her regret, guilt and grief. Hoping tomorrow she will be able to re-enter the world of ravens, air-breathers, and Olympic runners.
The Bridge Part 11
Out she walks, placing one foot in front of the other. She is barefoot, in cotton shorts and a t-shirt; no bra. The bottoms of her feet numb, the icy rain soaks into her skull, rain water dripping down her face.
‘The agony!!!!’ Margaret cannot hear the traffic zooming by her on the bridge, only the pulsing of the blood vessels in her temples. Wringing her hands and gritting her teeth, she continues to make progress on the bridge-scape, adrenaline pushing through her veins like heroin. Margaret was unaware of the looks she was receiving as she walked the four miles across town barefoot, yet she is aware enough of the day to be relieved that she has finally arrived at the Bridge.
Margaret pauses and looks down at the Mississippi. The water is a luxurious grey green, and she longs to be one with it. Unfortunately as she reaches the middle of the bridge there is no way to jump. There is no way to climb, hover or fly from the precipice to greet her lover who she has courted so fiercely. Margaret takes a moment, standing in her usual spot, and lets the tears stream down her face. For a moment, she lets the feelings in. ‘Why!!!!’ she screams inside her head. Margaret does not know how this all is still inside of her. She has spent the last five days paralyzed inside her apartment. ‘…how did this spin so out of control…?’ Margaret then makes a promise to herself, standing on one frozen foot, face mashed into cold steel mesh, tears indiscriminate with the rain, ‘I pledge to never try to be anyone or to accomplish anything ever again… If I give this up, God, I ask only that you lead me on a road to happiness.’ Her voice is tenuously primped, as it takes all the control in her fine being to even compose words and thoughts that aren’t screams.
Surrendering, giving up on her dream to join with the river in a flight so epic that it would be seen from space, she continues onward. She gives up either hope or awareness of going home, she knows not which. As she approaches East Dubuque, Illinois, her knees begin to tremble. She had hoped to get a closer look or feel of the river down by its bank, but instead she leans against the mesh barrier and slides down into a crumpled seated position on the cement. Sitting Indian style, her ears begin to open to the sounds around her; the falling of the rain, the splashing of the water on the road, and the loud, loud pulsing of traffic. ‘Slow down… slow down… please slow down…’ Margaret then slips into a dream sleep, and enters dangerously close to a life threatening hypodermic state.
Margaret awakens to the sound of a siren, lights, a blanket wrapped around her, though what she is most aware of is Chester, who is licking what parts of her cold frail body remain exposed. Limply, she lets the EMTs place her in the ambulance. Chester is allowed to enter and lies at her side. Margaret then becomes aware of two beating hearts side by side, her and Chester’s. As she reaches over to run her fingers through his fur she slips out almost musically, ‘Home, I guess we are going home.’
Chapter 3: The Walk
The Walk
As they pull up the Forest Service road, Margaret stares at the dusty bushes along the side of the bumpy gravel drive. Chester stands in the back seat, head as far out the window as is doggedly possible, feet carefully perched on the door arm rest while surfing over the rowdy yet serene mountain road. The radio turned off, just the noise of the crunching of gravel beneath the wheels of their car saturates the sound waves about their heads.
Jacob was at the hospital waiting for Margaret when the ambulance pulled up. There was no other explanation for her obviously chaotic exit from the apartment after being incapacitated for several days. After driving around the city streets, he resorted to waiting for the deduced inevitable. Glad to see Chester with her, also baffled by the kindness of the EMTs to allow the dog in the ambulance, he greeted them both. In contrast, the hospital officials would not allow Jacob to visit Margaret, though they obviously knew each other upon arrival. Having stood at the ambulance entrance and watched her be wheeled in on the cot, he had gone to the front desk, though he knew from experience that without being married they would not let him in to visit her.
After 24 hours of waiting room chaos and Margaret’s wait in the holding ward for a room post emergency room hypothermic treatment, Sandy shows up at the hospital, kids in tow, and gives the hospital permission and explanation for Jacob to see his mountain flower. One week later, Margaret emerges from the walls of the psyche ward with one desire in mind. Together they pack up for a road trip and head west to cross several states, eventually arriving on Highway 20 in Washington State.
After days on the road, Margaret is finally catching her breath. They get out of the car deep in the mountains of the Okanogan National Forest, and Margaret breathes in the warm crispy air fragrant with the smell of puzzle pines. As they set up camp, Chester explores the stream nearby and continues to drop sticks, twigs and rocks at Margaret’s feet. She struggles with the tent poles and tarp. Finally, Jacob settles in to cook their afternoon meal of chili and macaroni and cheese, and Margaret says she is heading out for a walk.
She and Chester head further down the back road, taking the occasional detour into the woods to scramble a rock or cross a small brook. Deep inside, she wonders about the recent course of events. She resolves to live more in the moment and take each day as it comes. Time after time she knows she is getting somewhere, approaching something. She does not know what, but she trusts that she is being led. In her mind she kisses the Mississippi goodbye as she looks up at the rocky precipices that tower overhead.
The Walk Part 2
Margaret sits high on a rocky bluff, looking down at the trees and the river below. The air is dry and the light is golden. It is hot, but that is nothing that Margaret is not used to, and it is a dry heat. To her left she hears a call from a bird. She imagines herself soaring downward over the trees and along the riverbed. A few ravens caw gently and she is at peace. Her stay in the hospital ward was brief. She feels that she had a deep emotional breakdown more than a psychotic break. Mood disorders do however lead to extreme and incomprehensible feelings that are immensely unbearable if one is not treated with the right meds. Margaret had thought she had dialed this in on her last visit, but is turns out she had needed a greater dose of her mood stabilizer. After a week in the hospital and a week on the road, she feels as though breath is filling her lungs easily and lightness has reentered her being.
Standing and stretching now, she calls to Chester. She is so so grateful for Jacob. He is her mountain, her rock. She is standing upon him now lightly, like a flower, but could not even have the roots to live if it were not for him. To Jacob, Margaret has never been a burden. She is his love and his whole life. Often he says that her outbursts and trials give way to an interesting path that he would not trade for anything. He says she brings healing to his heart and makes him complete. Margaret knows Jacob did not have an easy life before they met six years ago, but they only talk about the stories and the memories in his life that he tells. There is nothing in him that needs healing, other than the slow release that comes while spending time with Margaret. Together they are whole. Together, life has meaning.
Margaret descends the rocky precipice with Chester in tow. They climb down to a path that leads to the small forest service road, which leads to camp. Placing one foot in front of another, she embraces the rhythm that her walking creates; the rhythm that blends in time with the chirping and the buzzing of wildlife that surrounds her. Even the trees have a life source, and their strength exudes onto the path before her, standing gently and fiercely with their life. As she approaches camp on her downward climb, Chester runs ahead of her. When she arrives she finds Jacob sitting in his camping chair, back to her, staring into the stream. In this moment Margaret knows love and she is grateful. It is not a painful love that makes her cry, the joy and fear of losing him too great to bear. It is a gentle love; a calm sweet breeze beneath her breast. She walks up to the empty chair next to him, presses her lips into his hair, and sits. Not a word is spoken, nothing is said, but much is experienced in warmth within their hearts.
The Walk Part 3
The rain falls softly on their tent the morning they plan to pack up. Indian summer seems to be over, and Jacob and Margaret decide it is time to leave the mountains and head further west. As they pack up their car and break down camp, a definite coolness is in the breeze that surrounds them. Winter is on its way.
Grateful for the nice weather and few days of extended summer in the mountains, they head over Washington’s Pass and take the 87 miracle miles through the wilderness. As they crest the two passes, they notice the snowline. The chill in the air makes them realize that winter is near. It is mid-October and the pass will be closing soon. As they begin to coast the long downhill towards Newhalem, Margaret feels that she has crossed some sort of divide, and is unsure that she wishes to go back. At the base of the Cascades, they arrive in Western Washington, soaking in the green and the raggedness of fall that has obviously already set in. ‘Have we not been through enough to not care and just start over again?’ Margaret asks Jacob. ‘Let’s get a motel,’ Jacob suggests, ‘It seems that we have finally arrived in fall’. Margaret agrees and they continue down Highway 20 for several more miles until they arrive in Burlington, Washington. After some searching they find a cheap motel that will accept their dog for a fee, and they settle into their room. Margaret kicks off her shoes and flops on the bed thankful for the softness and the warmth of the polyester fabrics. Jacob feeds the dog and then turns on the television. The two of them settle in to a show, grateful for the subtle return to civilization.
In the morning over their continental breakfast they pull out a map of Washington State to review their options. There seems to be a medium size city to the north by the Canadian border called Bellingham, and of course Seattle to the south. Margaret follows Highway 20 with her fingers along the map and notices that it ends in Anacortes, that is, land wise. Jacob tells her he has heard a lot about the Washington State Ferry system and that from Anacortes they run out to the San Jaun Islands. By asking the lady at the desk they discover that the ferries actually extend Highway 20 in the water and take it out to San Juan County where there are four stops before it gets to Canada. Margaret mystified and intrigued suggests that this is the way. ‘The islands are beautiful,’ Suzy from the desk remarks. Margaret thanks her and returns to her orange juice and bowl of Cheerios.
Margaret walks Chester around the patch of grass outside their motel. She lets him off the leash and he wanders and sniffs, marking various shrubs and rocks in the landscaping. ‘They sound amazing,’ Margaret thinks to herself, ‘Magical mists, choppy waves, island inlets, dry hay fields, ravens and eagles… who could ask for more?’ She pulls a cigarette from her pack, a habit she picked up at her last stay. She inhales deeply on the carcinogenic treat. As she exhales, her smoke rises in the windless air, blending with the atmosphere of her new, almost home. Together, she and Chester walk back to the room, kicking dry fallen leaves along the way.
The Walk Part 4
The large heavy ferry coasts through the cold salty waters of the Puget Sound, and Margaret winces as a seagull dives down into the depths in front of the boat, unable to fly away in time as the ferry moves forward with massive force. She stands in the cold wind, at the bow of the ferry, lines of cars packed in behind her. The light is low and in its October glory, it shines angled and peachy through fluffy white and grey rain clouds, puffed and cool with their invincible presence. Margaret lets the cold air cleanse her for this new beginning. Craving to leave her past behind her, she breathes deeply, and with every inhale lets in the clean vacantness of the present moment. As she exhales the past, sadness enters her body. It is soon replaced by a joy, as she continues breathing, and it overtakes her. The sadness and joy very much immersed with each other, she sends her spirit up to the clouds, and clings to the unknowing.
Jacob sits above in a booth in the passenger cabin, legs crossed, occasionally looking up from his book, out to the islands slowly moving by. Evergreens dress hilly masses of land, lined with rocky beaches and sandy cliffs. Jacob is not worried about money, about a job, about a place to live… though he probably should be. Life has always worked out for him. He has a faith that surpasses logic. His faith is constantly shared by his lover as they bump and amble through life. Friends are not a worry either. Jacob has Margaret and she is all he needs. Folks have always liked them. Margaret and Jacob seem to exude congeniality in their strangeness that folks find comforting. Plus, he knows these Islands are full of characters. He looks forward to it really.
Together the couple travels on the large steel vessel, separated only by a great steel partition. Again, they are together, and separate. Margaret knows she will be clinging to Jacob’s strong body soon, though neither of them knows where they will sleep tonight. Camping gear still in their car, they plan to sleep in a tent until something is figured out. Jobs come first. Both know deep in their beings that they are exactly where they are meant to be. As Margaret peers off the end of the vessel, and Jacob looks out the window, they realize this in time with each other. Grateful, their smiles are seen by the golden sun, and they merge with the radicalness of the San Juan Islands.
The Walk Part 5
Margaret was set on getting off at the first stop in the San Juan Islands. As they pull off the ferry on Lopez Island, a few people wave. ‘I like this place already,’ Margaret says, gazing out at the evergreens. Right off the Ferry they come across Odlin County Park and pull in to see if they can get a camp site. They reserve the whole week and pull into a spot right on the beach. Very few fellow campers are around them. Margaret feels the solitude of the islands already settling in, and she takes off her shoes and socks to go walk through the sand. The tide is low and there is a large sandy bar stretching out before her as she approaches the water. Placing her toes in the icy cold sound, she notices a blue heron standing solitary down the beach. She soaks in the large bird, and is taken aback by its majesty. All she can think about in this moment is being here now. It is too painful to try and put together any pieces of her recent past. She did call her one friend in Iowa back in Anacortes, and explained that she would not be coming back. ‘I can’t go back… in any way,’ Margaret says aloud to herself.
The next day Jacob heads out in the car to check out the local mechanics to see if they could use his help… and from there he will head to the restaurants. Cooking and dish washing is always an option. Margaret goes with him, but has Jacob drop her off in the Village. She walks around, mostly looking in windows as Lopez Island is a tourist destination and there are very few shops actually open on a Tuesday in October. After going into the grocery store to grab a Kombucha, a pack of cigarettes and an apple, she walks across the street to a large grassy area outside the skate park and the local Center for Community and the Arts. She sits down at the picnic table by the Skate Park and watches several small children bumbling about on their skateboards and mini BMX bikes. As she crunches on her apple, she sets her bottle of Kombucha next to her with her small bag. A young girl with a pink helmet walks up to her and asks what her name is. Margaret smiles and answers her, returning the question. The small girl says her name is Alice, ‘and I love pink,’ she states with more confidence than her name. Alice then turns and runs over to her bike decorated with fringe on the handle bars, and rides off to climb one of the smaller ramps.
For several days, Margaret comes to the Village, sometimes hitch hiking, Jacob will give her a ride, and one time she walked the 3 and a half miles. She sits by the skate park, and at the beach access near the Just Heavenly Fudge Factory and the Bay Café. She discovers the two coffee shops, and meets some folks as well as sits and reads. Mostly she does not let on that what she is doing on Lopez or that she might need a job or a place to live. She is just observing for now. She trusts, and she has Jacob. Sitting at Isabel’s espresso on the porch under the overhang on a drizzly day, she peers into her cappuccino hot in its attractive ceramic coffee cup and saucer. In this moment she feels far from home, but she likes that feeling. It suggests that she has a home somewhere, even if she wishes to make Lopez Island her home away from home… or perhaps her real home.
The Walk Part 6
Margaret sits in her little cabin on the south end of Lopez Island, listening to the radio on a Canadian station that at this point in time is playing classical and opera. Chester is lying next to her on a sofa they acquired at the Take it or Leave it, a free shop at the small independent Transfer Station on Lopez. She wrote home to her sister, letting her know of their plans to stay on Lopez Island for the time being. She is sure that her sister will be able to send some of their stuff, which Jacob was able to put in storage while Margaret was in the Hospital. Margaret had let him know during their first visit in the Hospital that she would withdraw from her classes and that she wanted to leave Iowa, unclear of where she wanted to head, only that west was calling to her. They were monthly in their apartment, no lease, so leaving was not too arduous. They didn’t have much in the way of things anyway.
Jacob wipes the sweat off his forehead. He had risen at 5:30am to start his shift cooking breakfast at a local grill at 6:30am. The same station on the radio, Jacob is able to tune out the noise of the sizzling of bacon for a moment and savor the sounds that are pouring through the greasy radio into the hot kitchen. Jacob is more than thankful for the job, which he was able to start four days after arriving on Lopez, as the kitchen was shorthanded. A short perky waitress named Shelly snaps Jacob from his day dream with the words ‘Four Top!!’ Shelly then smirks and turns to grab the coffee pot and head back into the dining room with her customers. Shelley had explained that they have ritual regulars throughout the week that order very much the same thing, almost always off the menu. It had been a while since Jacob had cooked, and though he had only trained one day, he was working his way easily into the swing of cooking breakfast and lunch.
In the afternoon, Margaret walks up to Jacob’s work, Nelly’s, and ties Chester up on the porch. She walks into the bar and orders a Bloody Mary extra spicy, and kicks back on the porch with her dog. As she sits there, she lights up a cigarette and stares out at the water, dazed and peaceful. There is not much that seems to be bothering Margaret since they arrived on Lopez. The sky begins to drizzle and as Chester walks over to lap up water from the resident dog dish, the sun breaks through in the western sky and a rainbow appears over the bay.
The Walk Part 7
Margaret sits above a small cove, on a large slanted rock covered lightly with tufts of thin golden grass and dotted with small purple wildflowers. In her lap splayed open is an old version of Dickens’ “Great Expectations”, but currently her gaze is centered on the currents that are swirling and moving out in the water outside the small cove situated on one of the south tips of the Island. Soon realizing that her mind is filled with thoughts, or perhaps the processing of the absence of thought but the presence of emotion, she moves the book from her lap and places it next to her in the rocky grass. She stretches her legs out before her, crossing them, and leans back on her hands. She begins to rock her feet back and forth as if to a tune. Slowly her little theme song comes to her mind and she begins to hum the subtle notes of the song, wondering why the tune never ceases to leave her.
“Twinkle twinkle Lucky Star. Can you send me luck from where you are? Can you make a rainbow shine that far? Twinkle twinkle Lucky Star. Can you really make a wish come true, or do you shine for just a chosen few? Is it over, have I gone too far? Twinkle twinkle Lucky Star.
Like two ships on the ocean we drifted apart, and you found an Island at sea. Now I’m still adrift with this pain in my heart. Won’t you send your sweet love back to me?
Twinkle twinkle Lucky Star. Can you send me love from where you are? Can you make a rainbow shine that far? Twinkle twinkle Lucky Star.”
The tune then goes into instrumental and Margaret’s eyes begin to scan the landscape around her. She stands, in a way wishing she could get that damn song out of her head, in a way comforted by the fact that it follows her everywhere. Margaret then decides to scale the rocks down to the water. It is an unusually warm winter day, being the large El Nino year that it is. She takes off her shoes and socks and sets them upon a log. The round stones are painful to walk on, and she takes in the pain as a reminder of her aliveness. Grateful for the fact that she is here, on this majestic island, grateful for the fact that she has feet in order to feel pain. Tiring of the exercise she plops herself down onto the shore. Her heels dig into the rocky rubble, unearthing the moisture therein, and the fragrant smell of ocean and a seaweedy richness that also is a reminder of life is perfumed out around her. Her rear chilled by the coolness of the earth, her toes numb and her soles relieved from the pressure of the small round rocks, she revels inside herself the thought that she is lucky. She is lucky to have Jacob, she is lucky to have Chester, she is lucky to have a body that works, eyes to read and hands to turn the pages. She hopes as a tinge of pain enters her heart, that someday she will perhaps understand the thought, the hope of the thought, that her illness will bring her luck, and ultimately love. This day is showing her that she has both.
Chester then returns from his adventure romping in the wind blown woods above and bounds down to the beach cove immediately running into the cold water, just deep enough to keep a stripe down his back dry. Margaret smiles at the cadence of his arrival with her thoughts about Love and Luck. Yes they are lucky and they are lovely, the two of them, alone and solitary near the shore, near the mouth to the ocean, stretching out into infinity and the watery heavens of this earth.