meander

chapter seventeen

2005-10-12T14:42:00.000-07:00

Chuck’s mind was more than occupied. He had done a lot more thinking and a lot less talking than he did when he was younger. His brain was always on some sort of rapid spin cycle. It seemed his mind never ever stopped. And he hid his thoughts deep within his marrow and bone, and his skin had shrink-wrapped it inside. Everything was analyzed over and over and processed beyond imagine. It was as if it was hiding within himself and everything he said or didn’t say was for the protection of himself or others close to him. Or as close as he’d let them. But it hadn’t always been this way.

He started thinking this way when things changed.

Chuck once went by the name of Charles. Charles H. Bowlgreen. It was proper and full and fit for a professor of History. Times change and so do names.

Professor Bowlgreen was a young educator when he first met Sara Marie sitting in one of his World History classes. She had full, long straight fair hair and sky blue eyes. Her dark brown casual dress made her eyes stand eight feet apart from the rest of her body and they caught him every time he looked around the room. He quietly wondered how he had not seen this girl in the three days of class that had passed so far. She sat with eyes buried in the book she was reading and she would occasionally release their hold to look around the room to catch the comings and goings of classmates as they got settled in uncomfortable chairs. Class began and he was repeatedly drawn to her as if she had cast a deep, dark love spell on him or put nine doses of love potion in his morning coffee, but she hadn’t. She didn’t even notice that he was slower to think and to speak than usual. No one did. He would regain focus and continue teaching, but as soon as his eyes drifted back to her he stopped for the briefest of moments and rested his eyes all around her. He was in deep infatuation. He was knocking on the door of love at first sight. It was illogical and stupid, he knew, but, try as he might, he couldn’t escape.

When the class was over he asked if he could have a word with her. This was possibly devious but not uncommon; he was a teacher after all. He could talk to any of his students, any time, anywhere and everybody would assume that it was strictly a school matter. In fact, before this his conversations with students had always been academically related. But there is a time and season for everything under heaven.

She had a shyness about her that he had not expected. Her hands were clasped; she was rubbing them against each other. She held herself closely, but her eyes were strong and sure and seemed not to fit with the rest of her features.

“Yes, Professor Bowlgreen,” she said as she looked up at him.

He was caught off guard. Love has a way of turning the softest words into a hurricane of sounds.

“Forgive me,” he said recovering, “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Oh, I’m Sara Marie Mornen.”

“Well, Miss Mornen, how long have you been in this class?” he said and humorously cocked his eyebrow.

“Since the beginning of the semester. I sit in the same place everyday. And I say, ‘here’ every time you call roll,” she said and a small laugh escaped her mouth.

He was just going to ask her some simple questions about what she was majoring in and he was going to make up some phony academic reason why he wanted to speak to her (“I’m missing an assignment from you,” or something like that), but it was this laugh that edged him into further conversation.

“Oh, well I guess that I haven’t seen you before. Sometimes you just don’t notice people.

“Do you like this class? It is my first year teaching. What are you going to school f…” he stopped himself when he saw a look in Sara Marie’s eyes that said if your words were water, I’d be drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he said trying to hide his embarrassment. He was doing a pretty good job of it, too. “Sometimes I can’t stop myself even if I don’t have anything to say.”

“Yes, I know. I’m in your class, remember?” she jested through her shyness and smiled at him.

Professor Bowlgreen was taken off guard. And he stared at her not realizing at first that it was a joke. Then it sank in and he smiled back.

“I’m sorry. I was just joking,” she said, worried that she might have just sealed a failing grade for History this semester.

“No,” he said, “you are right. I do say too much sometimes. In fact I say too much most of the time,” he looked down. Now his embarrassment was showing.

She looked up at him and when he looked back she said very sweetly, “I really like this class. You look too young to have been teaching longer than a year, and if you were going to ask what I am going to school for and what year I am; I’m going to be a teacher, and I’m a senior.”

Charles opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could start she spoke.

“I have to get to Biology. I will see you on Thursday.”

And before he could speak again she was heading out the door.

“Hey!” he yelled, but she was already out of earshot.

That is, from time to time, where romance begins, with just a few words spoken. The deepest loves are realized in seconds and great leaps of faith are taken in a matter of seemingly simple moments, moments where time and space are ignored and everything does what it is and is not supposed to in an eternal instant. The deepest loves are realized in seconds, but there are occasionally oceans between realization and reality.

Over that semester The Professor did his best to keep his true feelings to himself, to be completely professional and gentlemanlike. This was getting increasingly difficult because with every passing class they talked more freely with each other. They became friends. She was smart and witty and sassy, but at the same time she was scared and meek and small. At times he wanted to scream; she could be a pain and a joy in the opposite end of the same second. And worse, at times he wanted to embrace her and tell her that he was there no matter how big and bad she thought the world was. He wanted to walk along with her, hand in hand. Every day he trudged on wanting and waiting for the next days to come and they finally did. They always do.

The semester finally ended.

The day finally came that he could do something about his feelings and now that it was here he didn’t know if he had the nerve. Before class he sat at his desk with his chair sideways against it. His fingers were nervously tapping and rapping against the wood of the table. As students began to meander their way in he handed the papers out for their final test. Finally Sara Marie made her way to his desk. She causally smiled at him as she reached her hand for the test.

“Wish me luck,” she said between deep breaths.

Charles wished her good luck, and after everyone had taken his or her seats, the test started.

The test was a long one and it gave poor Charles plenty of time to anxiously wait. As you may have guessed, Sara Marie was the last to finish. She sashayed her way to the desk where Charles sat desperately trying to look as if enthralled in whatever he was reading.

She laid the paper on his desk.

“That was a little more difficult than I expected, Charles,” the professional name had long since left her lips.

“It took a while to make. It is the first big test I’ve made. I spent a while working on it. I hope it was relevant to what everyone studied…” he was beginning to ramble. He reached into his pocked and pulled out a necklace. It was plain and silver with an oval pendent that had a rose and the letters M and R etched into it. He held it in his hand as he thought this seems crazy.

“Um…” it was the first time he was at a loss for words, “I got this for you.”

He held it out and let the pendent hang down.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” her eyes dilated as she took it in her hands, “Why…?”

“I…I…have to confess, I’m…really nervous right now,” he faltered.

“No kidding,” she jested, but then she did something he didn’t expect. She reached out and took his hands in hers and said, “You have nothing to worry about.”

Her eyes at that moment shone with light and he was no longer afraid.

He began again, “Over the time we’ve known each other, and I know it’s not long, I have been growing more and more,” he paused, “fond of you. I care about you more than just a student and I wanted to know if you cared about me, but I didn’t want to tell you until this semester was over because I know problems could have arisen…So…I wanted to give you this, ah, necklace. My father gave it to my mother when they were about my age…” his words were cut off by the hands of Sara Marie.

“I do care,” and as she said this she moved her hands from covering his mouth to holding his face. She eased closer and lightly kissed him.

Charles stood in stunned elation.

When he got his mind collected he grinned from ear to ear.

“I was worried that you wouldn’t want to be with me because I was your teacher.”

She smiled again.

“I would want to be with you if you were my mechanic.”

If she had said anything else our story would be entirely different. Better or worse I do not know, but it would be different.

His heart was light as he put the necklace around her neck. She only took it off once.

So the story moves on. She said yes, six months later she said yes again, and seven months after the second yes, they both said I do.

They were happy and poor. They barely had enough money to pay for the little house Charles had bought for himself while teaching. She made her way through college as he taught. There was no scandal. No one cared that a student married a professor; people just minded their own business. And outside the arguments every new couple has, their marriage was as wonderful as a breeze.

One night after a tremendously long day at school for both of them, they got into a little verbal scuffle. Over what, I’m not sure, or it doesn’t matter. But it was to the point where Sara Marie had to walk away from it.

“Look,” she said, she was clearly angry, but managed to remain civil, “I’m going for a walk and when I get back, we’ll finish this little conversation then.”

“Fine!” Charles yelled.

She glared at him and slammed the door.

Charles sat waiting. It had been a few hours and it was just becoming dark when Sara Marie left. He began to worry. There had been a light rain and by now it was dark, completely dark, aside from the fact the moon was waning. He was about to call her mother to see if she was there when he heard something at the front porch. He cautiously opened the door and looked out. He turned on the light and saw.

Her white shirt was now red from the blood that had stained it. It was Sara Marie. She had propped herself against the railing. He rushed to her. He could tell she had been crawling. Tears began to fall as he spoke.

“Oh, Sar, what happened?” his voice was soft and frantic.

She could only shake her head.

“Don’t move, baby, please, don’t,” more and more tears fell and he began to sob.

He put his arms around her. He thought about picking her up but he didn’t want to make it worse.

“I’ll be right back, Sar,” he ran inside, hysterically called the police, then ran back outside. He got down on his hands and knees next to her. She looked severely beaten. Her left eye was bruised; her forehead was bleeding. It looked like her arm was broken. Both her knees were bleeding and her legs were bruised and that was all he could see in the dim porch light. He wiped the hair out of her face.

“How did this happen? Oh, please,” he sobbed.

“…No…” she weakly managed, “just…hold…me,” he could hardly hear her, and as she spoke he noticed a little blood dripping from her mouth.

He sat on the steps and gently held her as tight as he could. Her breathing had slowed. With one hand she reached up to her neck; as Charles watched he noticed her necklace was gone.

“Oh God. They beat you for that necklace?” he thought aloud in angry sobs, and he began to cry in big, wet soaking teardrops.

She slowly shook her head again, and looked up at him. Her smile gradually began to fade.

“No, Sara, no. You stay here. Stay with me, baby. No, please don’t leave me, please,” now tears fell on her face and they ran with her own.

“My…mechanic…love…” her gaze wandered. She was looking off into the night. Cold wind rushed over Charles as he silently prayed.

At that moment the light that shone in her eyes was choked, and he was afraid.

“No, No, NO!” he yelled at her, “Stay here. Don’t go. Oh, God, no. I love you. Please don’t…”

But she didn’t stay, and he broke into wailing. There was nothing he could do. So he just held her, rocking her, telling her he was so sorry for making her leave that night. And he cried and he sobbed and he wailed and buried his face in her neck and kissed her goodbye. That’s all he could give her now.

And somewhere in far off and distant lands lovers wept and cried, and the hopeless romantics fell to their knees and all over the world those who love felt pain and sorrow and they didn’t know why.

chapter sixteen

2005-10-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

Deception comes in all forms. The word itself emits the feeling of evil and lies, but we all deceive. And not all of it is meant as evil. We say things or keep things from one another and we don’t intend to hurt. In fact sometimes our intentions are to help and encourage. This sounds bizarre, but stop and think. Surprise birthday parties for instance, people running around hiding truth from the victim of the party, each person keeping secrets and making excuses for why they can’t be somewhere or do something or what have you. All little, tiny white lies.

Every so often we keep to ourselves what we are actually thinking. If someone asks us how we are feeling, the usual response is, “I’m fine, and you?” When, to be honest, we could be feeling any number of emotions. We are never really “fine”. We just keep ourselves in a closed box because we either think people really don’t care, or that we don’t want to waste someone’s time. If someone, say a wife or a mother, were to ask, “Do I look fat?” the majority of people would say, “No,” politely when truthfully they are thinking, “Yes, you are a fat cow.”

We walk around truth in order that we not get our feet dirty from the residue of consequences it brings. Does this mean we should avoid truth just because truth is painful? By no means. Does this mean every time we talk to someone we should be completely honest, we should ruin a surprise party, we should destroy someone’s self worth because we refuse to be dishonest? Again, by no means. Consideration is a factor. We must consider everything, the words we’ll use, the tone at which we will speak, the place and time. We choose to flat out lie because we are lazy, and our reason for honesty is the same. Stop and think. So much to think.

Stopping to think carries its own problems. He who hesitates is lost. What if, while we are thinking on how to be tactful or when we are pondering the correct place in time to speak our mind, we miss the perfect time to say what needs to be said? So then it doesn’t matter how we say anything. The wrong time to say the right thing makes everything wrong. Some words need to be said between two seconds, and if they aren’t, then they are simply cast to the wind to be blown away or to start a hurricane.

Perhaps we do have to be concerned with everything. Perhaps we need to be extra careful of how we say things. We must give due respect and be humbly tactful and sure. Maybe truth conquers all, regardless of the timing or how untactful and disrespectful. Maybe it all works out in the end. But who knows, maybe there are times when we need to keep truth to ourselves, in order to protect ourselves. Or others. Maybe not.

chapter fifteen

2005-10-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

“…and I felt like the biggest fool,” James slapped the dust off his jeans and somberly stared off into a local distance. The look on his face let Chuck know that James was really taking on this girl. He looked at him. James meant so much to him. It would be easy to say he was like a son. Chuck had never had any children so he wouldn’t know what having a son would feel like. He looked after the boy. Chuck did more than that; James was someone who Chuck could pour his life into. He could pass down what he learned from his mistakes, from his regrets, from life. And he could encourage him to do the right thing. Chuck was seldom disappointed in James. He really loved the boy.

The air was breezy and the sun was playing hide and seek with earth, foolishly trying to hide behind clouds. It was a good day to be outside at the back of the shop. It was nice to have fresh air in a place that spits out carbon monoxide. Chuck looked at how James’s shoulders had broadened. He looked at his face; how it was friendly yet unexplained. His face appeared rather youthful at a glance. But if you looked into his eyes you could tell he had seen things. And he had been seen by things. He was older in the eyes.

He stood, legs apart, feet planted in the ground like a maple tree. He was no oak. Not yet wise or old or immovable. James was just sure and standing. He was just planted and he grew where he was, anchoring his roots underneath. James was on his way to becoming a real man. His hands went idle and wandered to the workbench at his side. His scarred hand walked itself along the table until it bumped into a washer. James hesitantly picked it up. He rolled it around in his hand. It was just something to do like chewing gum or twiddling your thumbs. His mind was in and out of recent uncertain and embarrassing memories along with his rethinking of the explanation to Chuck about his stitched hand and the story of Rebeka’s speedy getaway. He flicked his thumb and the washer went spinning upward.

Chuck’s eyes followed it up. He caught a glimpse of James’s steady eyes. They were dead on the washer and behind them were his thoughts. Chuck thought not a lot had changed since James first rode up on his bike looking for oil for his grandfather’s car. Chuck was so taken by the boy.

He remembered it like it was yesterday. James leaned his bike against a beam on the outside of the mechanic shop, and with apprehensive eyes he cautiously walked up to the main office.

“Excuse me,” a young James asked the man behind the counter as he entered the office. The man was Chuck.

“Yes sir,” Chuck said with smiling face and open eyes, “how can I help you?”

“Well, my grandfather needs some oil for his car. Can I get some?”

“What kind of oil does he need?”

James’s look was a surprised one. He hadn’t thought there was more than one kind of oil. To him, oil was oil and it was universal; like water, there were only two types, clean and dirty. Chuck caught the look and knew James’s thought before James had the time to say he didn’t know. He could see the look of embarrassment creeping across his face.

“Something tells me that you don’t’ know what type to buy,” Chuck passed James a reassuring smile.

“I see that your bicycle has a cart on the handle bars,” he said pointing to James’s bike.

“Yes, sir,” James said not understanding where this was going.

“Can you ride with a full cart?”

“Yes, I can.” James said, still confused.

“Since my phone is not functioning right now, I will make you a deal. I’ll give you every type of oil I have to take home to your grandfather. Tomorrow you will come back and return the oil you did not use. Does that sound alright with you?”

James smiled with relief. He wasn’t badgered with questions that he didn’t know the answer to. What kind of car is it? Is it old? Is it new? Who made it? Do you think it’s this oil? How about this one? All James had to do was take the oil home and listen to his grandfather apologize for not being clear about what oil to get. And best of all, he wasn’t embarrassed.

“That sounds great.”

They loaded the cart up with cans of oil.

“I’m Chuck, by the way,” Chuck said as he put in the last can of oil.

“I know that,” James said as a little grin ran across his face.

“How did you know that?”

“You have your name sewn into your shirt,” James said pointing.

Chuck reached up to feel the worn patch over the left of his chest. He smiled and shook his head in thoughtlessness.

“I guess I do.”

“I’m James,” he said laughing.

“Not Jamie, or Jimmy or Jim?” Chuck asked curiously.

“No. It’s James,” James gave a slight look of disgust.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Chuck gave a slight look of apology.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” James said smiling again.

“It’s nice to meet you, James,” Chuck extended his hand in introduction. James grabbed it. It was big and rough and weathered but surprisingly clean and not overbearing or overpowering. It dwarfed James’s tiny hand. Chuck was as nice as his handshake.

James got his bike and before he got on his way he looked up at Chuck and asked, “How do you know I’m gonna come back tomorrow?”

Chuck looked at the boy. He was surprised that a little boy would ask a question like this. It was thick and honest.

“What would a boy your age do with all this oil?” He paused, “And your eyes say that you will be here. The eyes are the windows to the soul, you know.”

James nodded. He didn’t understand the eyes being windows thing, but it was true that he wouldn’t steal the oil, and he would be back tomorrow with money and unused oil.

“Okay, well, I gotta get home. Thanks a lot, Chuck. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, James. I will see you.” Chuck waved. James was back the next day. And the day after. And the next day as well. James’s visits to the mechanic shop became a reoccurring event. The mechanic shop was interesting and Chuck was kind to everyone, but he especially looked after James and made sure he was okay.

Chuck’s eyes followed it down. The washer fell into James’s right hand. Chuck caught a glimpse of James’s steady eyes.

Perhaps more had changed than Chuck realized.

chapter fourteen

2005-10-03T14:30:00.000-07:00

James stirred and almost spilled his coffee. He had awakened from a dream within a daydream. He was now in Mac’s Diner months past his dream. He sat with his hands clasped, twiddling his thumbs. Everything was like a fog now. It was a lost and dying dream. People’s voices trailed in and out, the pitches changing from high to low in an awkward slow motion. The room rocked and swayed. Nothing seemed to make much sense. That is just the way it is when you are hopelessly lost in thought.

James shook his head to clear the tar from his mind. Slowly the room came back into focus. Voices normalized. He realized fully where he was. Bringing the cup to his lips he threw his head back and finished off the last bit of coffee, which had now gone lukewarm. His mind was restless. It was churning and churning like an empty dryer. Again he shook his head.

“More coffee sweetheart?” Janis’s voice spilled over the back of the chair and into James’s ear.

“Yes, please,” he said not moving his eyes off the cup.

Janis poured fresh hot coffee into the ceramic cup. Then she sat down. This was not entirely unusual; she had down this before plenty of times.

“James, talk to me for a moment,” she began. Concern was in her eyes. James met them and looked away. “James?” she said again.

“I don’t wanna keep you, Janis,” he said trying to avoid conversation. It was just defense. He really wanted someone to talk to.

“Look around you, honey. Ain’t nobody in here but you, me, Mac, Hank and that guy that doesn’t speak much English,” she retorted pointing around the room. “And you know I get a cigarette break every thirty minutes,” she finished.

James hesitated.

“Things have just changed so much. I know that that is the only thing that stays the same, but I’m just not used to it yet. It’s all happened so fast. Well, I mean, the change has been so great. I just don’t know…”

“Shug, you’ll be okay. I had a cousin that got hit by a car. He hurt his leg real bad, had to get it cut off and everything. Took him four months just to learn to stand on that fake wooden leg they gave him, and it took another two months for him to actually get walking again. But now he’s okay,” Janis offered. James looked at her with a confused but searching face, and noticing his confusion she added, “Time. It is just gonna take a little time. You can’t expect to just be the same after things happen. Sometimes you gotta get up, dust yourself off. You gotta fix what’s damaged even if it hurts. And you’ve gotta learn to walk again. It just takes time.”

James looked at her. She reached in her shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She took a drag and blew the smoke into the air. James watched it intensely, like it was some sort of ghost dance.

“You are right,” he said, “Time.”

Time.

That was one thing he had enough of. He had the same amount as everyone else in that room, but his was different. He had time to think and it would appear that not many people have time for that.

Janis took another drag of her cigarette.

“I should quit, but then how would I get a break every thirty minutes?” she chuckled. James chuckled too. And it was not as phony as you would have thought. It was no great big belly laugh, but it wasn’t phony. And that was good.

James looked at his scar and whispered, “I just miss her.”

“Well, James, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s better to have loved and lost and all that crap. I guess think about the good things. Remember that time you were eating here; it was a couple of days after you sliced your hand. And she came in here? I remember seeing your face when she walked in. You had the biggest grin. I don’t know how the rest of that day was but I remember that smile,” Janis smiled as she remembered.

“I gotta get back to work,” she stood up and brushed her skirt out, “You remember, right?”

James put his hands behind his head and leaned back. There was a sly grin on his face. He nodded.

He remembered.

chapter thirteen

2005-09-26T10:41:00.000-07:00

James sprang awake. Cold sweat was on his forehead. He put his hand on his chest as if to stop his thumping heart. What had he dreamed? He tried to remember as he pressed his palms on his eyelids and rubbed. What was it? All he could remember was his self. It was more like a shadow or piece of him. But it wasn’t really him; it was someone like him. It was someone that he knew and in his dream he was putting himself in his or her shoes. But who? Who was it? The dream wasn’t really a nightmare, not that he could tell. It was just startling. It was as if something was revealed to him and it had been an overwhelming surprise. But what was it?

He turned on the light. As he did he jumped to see his hand wrapped in gauze. Then it reoccurred to him. You had to get stitches, moron, he said as he tossed his legs over the side of his bed. His mouth was dry and his lips stuck to his teeth. He needed a glass of water.

The wooden boards creaked under his bare feet as he walked in the direction of his phantom-like shadow that was cast on the floor.

What was that dream? What was that dream?

He tried to convince himself not to think about it. If he just stopped thinking the answer would come to him.

He turned on the bathroom light and flinched his eyes tightly. The bathroom light was considerably brighter than the one on his bedside table. He uneasily waddled to the sink, and patted around for the pale green plastic cup. After a few seconds he found it and with his other hand he reached for the faucet and awkwardly turned the ice-cold water on. Water splashed into the cup and filled it to overflowing instantly. And as he brought the cup to his lips his dilated eyes caught the image in the mirror. His heart stopped. The cup slipped from his hands and fell into the sink sending its contents spraying upward.

The dream.

chapter twelve

2005-09-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

Ramble, as James called him, wasn’t dying the way you might think he was. He was not bedridden. He didn’t have cancer or any other disease that requires lots of attention. In fact he could get around the house, use the bathroom, make a sandwich, watch television, and do a multitude of other tasks without aid. It was Ramble’s mind. It did just that, ramble. His real name was Robert; nevertheless, young tongues have a problem with all sorts of words and when James first spoke his name, Ramble was what came out. It’s just a cosmic coincidence that he’d lived up to his nickname. He was merely old and his mind was winding down.

He hadn’t needed much help and he really wouldn’t need much, but he wasn’t much help to James either. He’d sing old and made-up songs to himself. He would say crazy things like monkeys shouldn’t fly without scissors, or I’ve glued my voice shut. Sometimes he would just mumble. Everything he said was like some crazy abstract riddle. And he had his good days and his bad; some days there was no sense to be made and some days only the majority of what he said was gibberish. He would on occasion get a little cranky if he felt he was saying something important and James couldn’t understand him. But most of the time he was pleasant and kept to himself.

There were good days when he’d act like his old self. This could last for days or it could only last for hours, and when he’d come back he’d talk as if he just woke from a bizarre dream.

Today was not one of those good days.

James looked at him for a moment. He looked at his white hair and his pale green-blue eyes. His grandfather looked back at him. Then James spoke, something he did regardless of the fact that it would be a one-sided conversation.

“How are you feeling, Ramble?” he inquired.

“Less of everything more or less isn’t as good as more of everything else I think,” Ramble answered and then continued, “I am not as bad as that.”

“I’m glad you aren’t feeling too bad,” James slowly agreed. His grandfather smiled. “I cut my hand, and had to go get stitches today. I’m okay though. Not too bad. Only four stitches. I just feel really stupid. I was at Mac’s and Rebeka walked in, and I got up to meet her, slipped and a plate broke on my hand,” James paused as if to think through everything. Ramble nodded, “She is so beautiful. Was Grandma beautiful?”

His grandfather looked at him and for a moment James thought that he was actually going to tell him how beautiful he thought she was and that he missed her and thought about her often. “Honeysuckles and ladybugs in December,” was as close an answer James would get.

It was clear to James that he would not get more coherent conversation from Ramble today. He grinned as he stood, kissed his grandfather on the head and walked to his room. As he walked, he heard coming from the armchair, “Tell them not to bury roses for me when I eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”

James smiled to himself.

chapter eleven

2005-09-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

Four stitches. That was all it took.

In the car James looked at his hand. It had really started to hurt, especially when they put the stitches in, and it would be a few more minutes until the medicine started to work.

“Are you okay?’ Rebeka asked suddenly, pulling James out of his stare.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine; it’s just that my hand has started to hurt,” he replied. He noticed that he was getting just a little more comfortable around her, and for that he was happy. He stared out of the window. Everything looked beautiful. Everything had a silver lining. The medicine started to kick in which made his head feel a little weightless.

“Oh, I forgot to ask, where am I taking you?” she giggled, “Do I need to take you back to Mac’s? I guess you didn’t pay for your food. Or do you want me to take you someplace else?”

Drive around forever, he thought loudly. There was not a place he did or did not want to go with her.

“Um…I guess you can take me to my house. Janis and Mac both know I’ll be in there tomorrow, and I can just pay for it then.”

“Okay, where do you live?” she asked.

“Just past Plummet Road, on Owl Street.”

Plummet Road; the same road her mother died on. Her father hated that road, and just because he hated it she had always hated it too.

“Um…I know where that is; let’s take the long way to Owl Street,” she quickly solved that problem.

James was delighted. A whole three more minutes he could spend with her.

“Okay,” was all he could say.

Although the ride down Young Street did take more time to get to Owl Street, there was not much more to their conversation. They pulled up to the house and Rebeka left the car running. That was a bad sign. It meant that she didn’t want to come in. and that made him feel like she didn’t want to have much to do with his life. He decided to take a chance anyway.

“Do you wanna come in?” he asked timidly.

She reached for the keys and then stopped suddenly.

“No, I’d better not. I probably should be heading home,” she said staring blankly out of the windshield.

He nodded, got out of the car, and cautiously walked to her window.

Perhaps it was the medicine that had gone into full effect, perhaps it was just she, or perhaps it was any number of things which made him ask boldly,

“Meet me for lunch tomorrow.” It was more of a gentle command than a bold question.

She looked at him and she really was torn. She wanted to say yes. James was nice and he had a clumsiness that was endearing. He was sure of himself, but surprisingly humble.

“No, I can’t. James, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m busy,” was what came out of her mouth rapidly. And with a look of apology and a surprising glance of fear she put the car in reverse and drove out. As she rode off leaving James in a cloud of dust she yelled, “I’ll see you around, James!”

James was bewildered and somewhat embarrassed. He thought he might have been too forward, but he knew that he didn’t come across rude, did he?

He looked at his hand and let out a hopeless sigh, and dragged his heavy heart inside with the rest of his befuddled body. James’s grandfather was sitting in his armchair. He walked over and sat down.

chapter ten

2005-09-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

There is really not much to say about the drive to the emergency room that you haven’t already pieced together from what you know of James. It was a short ride. Conversation was small. Rebeka was focused on getting James to the hospital as fast as she could without wrecking. And James was focused on Rebeka. He was quite happy that he had fallen and cut his hand because it meant he would have time to spend with her. Most men have to get up the nerve to ask a girl out, but all he had to do was slip and fall and almost kill himself. He smiled in spite of the fact he was bleeding and clumsy. She was in the car. And that’s when his hand started to hurt.

“Thank you,” he said finally, after long moments of silence.

“For what?” she asked, caught off guard.

“Well, you are taking me to the emergency room,” he said, very thankful she had not answered with a simple you’re welcome and ended any chance of conversation before it even started.

“It’s really no problem. You’d have done the same for me, right?”

“Without a doubt,” he answered almost too quickly.

Again they both sat in silence, and it was a peaceful one. It was not the kind of silence that makes you feel like someone is stretching the room too thin. They both sat there listening to the wind rush through the window, listening to the tires spin and stomp the road, and just listening.

She pulled up to the awning to let him out.

“I’m gonna let you out here and go park,” she smiled.

“Alright,” he said and then he looked her deep in the eyes and said, “Thank you.”

It was then, right there in his eyes that she knew. She found a spot and parked. She turned off the engine. She stared off into nothing and just sat there thinking for a three-minute forever. Then she got out of the car and walked her way to the emergency waiting room. She knew. She knew and it scared her.

chapter nine

2005-09-15T00:21:00.000-07:00

It’s interesting to understand the origin of things. Finding out where words or expressions come from, to find their beginning, learning about one’s heritage, or discovering where it all began. Everything we know has a beginning or at least it seems that way and most of us really like that. We like saying this is when you were born, or this is when we met, or this is when we started that grandiose project to better the existence of all human life. It really is nice to have a starting point. It makes us feel like we are going somewhere. Days have mornings. Birds have eggs. Rockets have launch pads. It’s also difficult for us to play with the idea that time doesn’t exist, or time moves in all directions or some other sort of time mumbo-jumbo and not go crazy.

Sometimes it is easy for us to pinpoint exactly when things happened. Ask your mother where she was when you were born and I’ll bet she knows exactly where she was and what day of the week it was. Perhaps that is a silly example, but it serves my point. Of course there are more difficult things we all seem to remember in our pasts.

Other things are difficult to know. For example, I bet you cannot remember the first word you said. Sure you can know what the first word you said was, but do you truly remember saying it? These are the things that are lost somewhere in our pasts. They are there and we are sure of it beyond doubt. And yet we only have now to judge it by. I’ll explain it this way; I know I learned to walk at an earlier period because this morning I got up and walked. These things are a mesh and we only remember them like they were a dream. Regardless of this we still like knowing approximately when things happen. That’s just the way we are.

chapter eight

2005-09-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

Accidents.

No one ever does enough planning to prevent them, and if they did, of course, we wouldn’t have them. No matter how one plans, it seems like some sort of misfortune drips its way into reality. And it also seems as if the world is held at one end by accidents. They cause reaction, and reaction is the motion of human movement. We are all reacting to something, and we have been since creation. But some things that happen on purpose are retold like they were accidents to hid guilt. This is important.

Everyone breathed in.

Janis was the first to act while all else stood agape. Then Rebeka started to stir. Without doubt she was an angel. She dropped to James’s rescue on invisible wings. But to be quite honest there was not much rescuing to be done. James had been cut before, but this time he was stunned. Not because of the cut but because of her. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Over and over in his mind was she. She was there, no matter what he thought about or what he was doing, his mind just meandered to her face, or eyes, or hair. And there she was, kneeling, at his side. She barely knew him and yet she was at his side helping Janis mend the situation.

Blood was soaking the towel that was wrapped around the wounded hand. It really didn’t hurt; it just bled. Seconds crawled into hours and hours into minutes. Time stood still and rocketed past all at once.

Things were said, nothing specific, just words of startle and comments on cleaning and what needed to be done next.

It was all so blurry. And before he could know it, James would be on his way to the local emergency room for who knows how many stitches. And she would be driving him. She.

As Rebeka and James headed for her car, Janis mopped up the blood and swept away the glass. The people watched, shared their surprise and went back to eating or talking or smoking or whatever they were doing before the accident. It was like it never happened. People are funny like that.

chapter seven

2005-09-12T10:20:00.000-07:00

Back in James’s memory it had been about a week since he had first seen Rebeka, and he would have forgotten her if every time he closed his eyes he hadn’t seen her. He was at Mac’s Diner enjoying a sandwich like he had often done.

He just sat there, munching on his sandwich, thinking about his life or the sky or nothing in particular. Not in deep thought, just a constant flow in the stream of consciousness. He thought of his mother who died five years ago when he was sixteen. She had been dying for a very long time. A broken heart doesn’t have a specified cure. Her heart cracked when James was four. His father drove into a tree. And hearts crack under the strain of loss. She loved him and he loved her, but death doesn’t seem to care about love. She had lived eleven years without him when cancer struck. It just washed up on the shore and she found it. It was almost a relief to her and if James was not around she would have welcomed it, besides, her father-in-law was there for James. There was nothing anybody could do, so she just said her goodbyes and her life ended a year later. James cried, but time passes. Of course he missed her, it would be foolish to think otherwise, but these were the facts. You can take them and move on or you can go insane. James was now twenty-one and he was moving on. That’s why he was in the diner and not in an asylum.

Janis came by to refill his coke. As she did she looked out the window.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” she said. So with a natural curiosity he turned his head.

There she was. Rebeka. She walked in with amazing grace. Her feet didn’t touch the ground. And it seemed no one noticed this phenomenon, save James. Their eyes met, and James’s hands began to bleed sweat. She walked over.

“Hello, James,” Oh, she had remembered his name. His heart churned. Was it beating fast? Or slow?

He stood up, unaware of the wet floor, and stepped out to greet her. That’s when it happened. It was one of those instances when time decides to slow down so you can see everything that’s going on around you and yet do nothing about it. He was falling. Flailing. He reached his hand out for a nearby table to catch himself. All he fully caught was the shocked look on her face. His hand collided with a plate and it catapulted into the air. There it hung, like a wild, motionless satellite. The food, the plate, the silverware. And then he saw the steak knife, sharp and keen, spinning, reflecting light off its blade. James continued in his decent toward the ground. He hit it not noticing the force because his eye was still on the knife. It was now on its own decent to earth and his helpless hand. James made an effort to move his hand. It was frozen. It was like stone. He watched as the blade came down. With a clang it hit. With brief relief he saw the knife land without causing human injury. But it wasn’t the knife. It was the plate. Plates are seldom sharp, and because of that James’s eyes were not on it. So it was a surprise when the plate came crashing down on his hand. It shattered into millions of pieces. One thick shard sliced its way into backhanded flesh. The noise stopped. The blood flowed. And everyone stood breathless.

chapter six

2005-09-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

But for right now we are going to go years behind. We need to spend some time talking about Edward Benton.

Edward’s father, Aiden, was a stone slab of a man; he was grim and silent and in ways he was rather manipulative. He had married gentle Vera, daughter of the wealthy Emory Stevebrook, because he could and because he wanted money and power. Together they had only one child. Vera died giving birth to Edward. Because he was rich and alone and lacked real interest in the boy, Aiden spoiled Edward. Anything he wanted was his; toys, books, vacations, clothes, and the list goes on and on. And he never ever had to think of or work for what he would do with the rest of his life, because of course, he would own the Stevebrook factory, which did nothing short of keeping the town alive.

For Edward’s seventh birthday he had asked for a horse, a black one. And when his birthday came around, sure enough he got a horse, but much to the chagrin of anyone in his vicinity it was brown. Edward threw more than a fit. He threw chairs and silverware and china and anything that he could get his selfish hands on. And sure enough, the next day, there was a black horse. He kept both of them, and in a week had lost interest in them until he was sixteen when he gained interest in riding again. He kept the black one, which he had named Charmer, and the other, who was ironically named Doom, was left neglected, much like Edward himself.

When Edward turned eighteen his grandfather died, leaving his father with the factory.

You must believe that Edward wasn’t really evil, well, not in the beginning. He was just greedy, but unfortunately greed breeds evil, and selfishness grows malevolence. Edward was sad. It sounds so simple to say. There are plenty of other words that can be used. Bigger, better words that fill much more space, but sad is as small as he felt. Edward was content to remain alone, dismal, and cheerless. Or he had gotten so used to the idea he would remain in that state so perhaps he just accepted it. He was miserable and that is just how he wanted everybody else. He wanted people dark and sad and hopelessly alone, and there was nothing that could be done about it. And of course, in that dark time where all light or goodness was being drowned by selfishness and depravity, that is when he met someone; is when he met Elaine. She was the daughter of one of Aiden’s managers. She was everything. She was bright and colorful, and life and joy seemed to radiate off every moment she made and every step she took. And she made him feel and think and move. He was still selfish. But all he wanted was to please her. It took months for him to tear down the shell of his old self and build a new one just so she would love him, and after a while, because she was good beyond doubt and could see through his pain and selfishness, she did love him.

This is a wonder. That someone can be so compassionate to someone so undeserving.

They married, and for a while he was truly happy, he wanted nothing else. He could have never wanted more. He would have never had anything else but her. But he got more. Elaine was pregnant. For the first time he was deeply moved. He was lifted. For months he spent days and hours on hand and foot for her. Everyone was delighted. Even the factory glowed. It seemed that the world was bright with colors and alive with joy.

The day finally came.

Rebeka was born. And she was truly lovely. Oh, she was beautiful. And light shown from her eyes even then like frozen lightening. Laughter hung in everyone’s ears and joy clung to the air. With his wife and daughter, Edward was completely whole. The inner dark Edward was fading away, and burning up.

But then life stepped in. Life, what a wonderful or wretched thing, everyday is spinning and turning, up and down to moves and churns, making everyone giddy or sick.

Rebeka was four the day it happened. Elaine left her with the nanny, got into her car to run errands and never returned.

Sometimes rotted trees just fall at the wrong time. And the wrong time was so sarcastically the right time. It fell at the precise moment Elaine drove by. A tree crashed through the windshield and that was it. What else is there to say, except that she was crushed, and they had to have a closed-casket funeral.

This made Edward enraged. It was as if a thousand fires were burning in his mind and his heart cracked and split every time he breathed. He didn’t even get a chance to see her one last time just to say goodbye. He wanted to punish someone. Someone had to be at fault. It couldn’t be just an accident, could it? Someone had to pay. Someone.

I think it was Rebeka that drove him out the door that night. She did nothing wrong, but be a little sad and curious girl and ask a question. It was two weeks after Elaine’s death when it happened. Edward was sitting in the study when little Rebeka walked up and sat in her father’s lap and placed her little head on his chest. She even smelled like her. His jaw tightened.

“Daddy,” she looked up with her mother’s eyes and they caught him and held him frozen in anguish, stuck between love and sorrow, “is mommy ever coming home?”

This was too much. She didn’t even understand death. He had to explain to her that the love of his life was never coming home again.

“No, baby,” was all he could manage out of his throat.

Tears dripped down his face and into her hair as he carried her off to bed. He tucked her in, kissed her head, and walked out the door. More tears began to gush out and he sobbed. He wanted comfort.

Thirteen minutes later he pulled his car into Aiden’s driveway.

Seventeen minutes after that he left with his father in his father’s car. His father wasn’t breathing well, or at all.

chapter five

2005-09-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

James was no different. He, like many, had scars. One was from falling down the steps at age three. One was from running along train tracks and tripping. He had cut his arm on a railroad spike and it had taken three weeks to heal.

But those scars were not at the front of his mind. I’d say they weren’t even in the middle. It was the scar on his hand that held his mind. He looked at it. He just stared. He had seen it millions of times before. He knew exactly what it looked like, exactly what it felt like, everything. But that didn’t stop him from looking at it right at that moment.

He took a long sip of his coffee, leaned his head back, closed his eyes and rubbed his hand. His mind was already there. There was no wandering about it. His thoughts were in the place his scar had already taken him. He was months behind.

chapter four

2005-09-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

A scar can be a funny thing. I’ve heard it said that girls love a man with scars, or scars are like souvenirs. I will say that not one scar of mine has made any young woman walk even one small step closer to my life, so I’m not too sure of the former, but I am sure about the latter. Unless a scar happens before our puny minds start remembering the past, we usually remember where it came from. Scars come in all shapes and sizes. Some are noble from the hellholes of war where men bleed out of wounds for their cause and country. Their wound may have scabbed and healed, but the shadow of it is still there in the form of a scar.

Some scars come from being under the knife. Here another battle is fought, a war where we pray medicine and health conquer illness and pain. Both wars have far too many casualties.

Scars can come from accidents. It was an accident to be walking down that street that late at night, or it was an accident that he played with fire and got burned. These scars remind us of our failures or humanity’s stupidity. We seldom see that sometimes these scars are just the mishaps of life regardless of how we could have avoided it.

Other scars run deep. They root themselves in and run their claws into the flesh of our heart. Sometimes they have a physical origin, like when a father slaps a child so hard his little face rips. That wound is lightening through an old tree, splintering it to kindle and often enraging it to flames. But other times neglect makes no holes or tears in the skin, yet is no less as powerful as lightning. This is sad. This is life.

Scars are good. They are proof that we’ve healed. They are truly reminders of our past, our days gone by. Everyone has wounds, but not everyone has scars. Some wounds just don’t heal.

chapter three

2005-09-08T15:14:00.000-07:00

The first sip singed his tongue as his lips connected with the porcelain cup. He set it down and added two creams and a sugar. The owner, Mac Parker, was always trying new brands of coffee. It was close as he could get to a hobby. So every time James came in he’d have to taste first and then add what was needed. Some days he’d add lots of sugar, some days he would add lots of cream. Once he even tried honey, but he decided that he didn’t like the taste. Rarely, but sometimes, the coffee would be perfect. But a perfect cup today usually meant that the cup tomorrow would be lousy. Everyday was a different brand of coffee. And change was the only thing he could plan for. Like life, the coffee was never the same, different everyday. So every day was something new. Every day was a change. You could only count on that. That and the heat.

It seems the people in the world want only to recognize the bombastic and outgoing. James sat, unnoticed by all save Janis, and she, at the moment, was busy taking orders. He watched as she did. He had always admired her. She was somewhere in her forties, uneducated but had a reservoir of common sense and street smarts. Not the kind of common sense that comes so easy to us when we see people making stupid mistakes, knowing deep within our minds that we probably would have done the same, but she had the kind of sense that never would have gotten her into a stupid situation in the first place. Janis was honest and would have listened if she cared or had the time. James watched as she shared pleasant goodbyes with one of the regulars. From about three feet away he watched her paying attention to the final lines of his story about a fishing trip, or a television show, or local tales of excitement. He watched her so closely that he failed to see this clumsy customer swing his arm out in emphasis and knock James’s cup over. James noticed then. The hot liquid fell on his right hand like tiny little swords. James flinched and was startled, but barely jumped. He looked down at his hand. It was okay. The clumsy storyteller was all over himself trying to apologize and clean up, but Janis came with towels like an emergency medical technician. Again came the apologies. James just waved them off. His mind was too full and he was too tired to care, not that he would have if he weren’t tired or brain-logged. James was often easy-going and seldom irascible.

The mess was cleaned in no time and in a flash a new cup stood before the scalded victim. Again he did his coffee ritual and added what was needed. He wiped his hand where steaming coffee hit. He rubbed it. He looked at his hand. And he looked at a familiar scar.

chapter two

2005-09-07T23:47:00.000-07:00

“James, come here!” the voice of Chuck Bowlgreen, chief mechanic, ground and chopped the air. He stood enthusiastically waving as a young girl finished signing the check.

“This is Rebeka Benton. She is Edward Benton’s daughter, back from school for the summer. You know of Mr. Benton, right? He is the gentleman who owns and runs the Stevebrook factory. He is really a nice man; he gets his car done here…”

All of Chuck’s words turned into a string of unintelligible ramblings. And it wasn’t because Chuck was stuttering or stammering or anything of the nature. In fact he was one of the most well-groomed, well-mannered, and well-spoken people James had ever met. Many wonder why Chuck was even a mechanic. If asked he’d say he couldn’t do anything else, but everyone knew that wasn’t true. It was because it was the only thing that put his mind and heart at ease since a tragedy fifteen years ago, but now is too early a chapter to be explaining Chuck’s past.

Chuck’s words turned incomprehensible because of her.

Rebeka.

As she stood there all of James’s senses went dead. If he had been shot in the stomach he wouldn’t have known. His ears became mush. His mouth went dry and swallowed all of his taste buds.

Well, forgive me, not all of his senses died. He could still see. And he could still smell. And besides standing, that’s all his body would let him do. Both his eyes and his nose drank her. His eyes took big gulps while his nose sipped. Her dark brown hair seemed to twirl despite the fact that there was no wind and everything around her seemed to fade. And her eyes. Over and over, throughout his life he would see in his mind those eyes. So big and so deep and so hazel that they seemed to capture light and send it wherever they pleased. Her lips, her mouth was like Eve’s before The Fall, pure and innocent.

There she stood.

Breathtaking.

James’s nose flared with ecstasy. She smelled wonderful, like roses or cinnamon. This had to be the smell of heaven’s bakery. It was a natural skin aroma blended with the smell of clean hair. He was drugged, intoxicated.

“James!” the voice boomed his senses back to life,

“Aren’t you going to say hello? Don’t just stand there, looking like an idiot.”

“Oh…um…er…hello,” his voice rocked and cracked. He uneasily stuck out his hand. A cool, smooth, dry hand met it. The sense of feeling rushed his brain.

She was lovely.

“Hello,” she said. Her tone was gentle and sure, “You don’t work here, do you?”

“Um…no…Chuck is a father…um…like a father…I’m…I work some…paint…” Never before had anyone slopped through the puddles of the English language.

“I mean, I work here some, and I do some yard work. Just saving for college, or something.” He thought college was a good choice, but something was more likely. He had always wanted to travel. The only thing that made him stay was his insane and dying grandfather, and perhaps Chuck, even though Chuck encouraged him to see the world.

James tried to make himself at ease. Rebeka had a soothing smile and those lovely eyes of hers didn’t condemn.

“Well, I just came to get my car. Dad just loves this place. Maybe I’ll see you later.” She smiled.

“Okay,” he said. I hope so was all he could think.

“Well, I’m gonna leave…um…you can let go now,” Rebeka laughed as James looked at his hand in shock.

“Oh, right.” He awkwardly let her hand go. She smiled and walked off leaving James feeling rather silly. He watched her to her car. She turned, smiled again and waved. His heart tripped.

There he stood.

Chuck grinned and patted his shoulder.

“At loss for words? Sounds like you are at a loss for a great deal more than words.”

“Oh, leave me alone.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Chuck simply stated.

“Yes. Yes, she is,” James agreed.

James was still watching as her car drove away. The smell still lingered in his nose. What a wonderful smell. The smell of…of…coffee?

“Here you are, sweetheart,” Janis placed his cup on the table with cream and sugar. “Enjoy, I’ll be back in a sec, the eggs are burnin’,” and she hurried off.

James stared at his coffee.

chapter one

2005-09-05T00:25:00.000-07:00

He pushed the door open like it was made of brick. Slowly his feet carried him toward a worn metal chair where he then sat, head buried in his hands.

It seemed to him that it was as if the entire world had picked him up, turned him upside-down, and set him on his head. What a cruel world. How he longed to escape. Maybe for a day. A year. A second.

Unfortunately it had not been the world, for if it had been, he could ignore it, brush it aside, and let it crush him. Then all he would have to do is open his eyes, crawl from his hole and mend.

It had been because of a girl. Or a woman. If you ask me I’d say she was a female trapped in between. But it was a she, and greater men than he have killed themselves for lesser women than she. That is just how it goes.

“James,” the voice shook him out of his thoughts. “James, what do you want?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, I’ll have coffee,” he answered the waitress. His mind was in a scramble to find the words of any common man.

“Are you ok, shug? You look like you aren’t sleeping.”

James thought about the last time he got a solid night’s rest and smiled at the memory. He looked at Janis and said rather bleakly, “No, I guess I’m not.”

Well, maybe you need sleep more than you need coffee, but I need your money so…” and she trailed off to get his coffee.

Again a smile drew itself upon his face. I think he was so wrapped up in his head that he didn’t even know he laughed. It was a hollow empty laugh and it was the only escape he could have, and it lasted only for a second. Then the hurricane slid back into his gray matter. He sat waiting.

Waiting for coffee. Waiting for escape. And his mind drifted to her.