The Lonely Old Man: Part VIII

“Something potent, Connor dear,” Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie’s eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation. They did so gradually, stepping back and forth between us and the bar counter until Connor slid across two very strong Cuban colas. Rosie introduced herself as well as Deborah’s lack of social prowess would allow. Alice responded politely, but she seemed uninterested in pleasantries. She clutched her drink tightly and rapped her fingernails against the glass. Small finger first, moving up to her index finger, each nail struck and sang, and I watched in bored fascination.

“Your friend doesn't drink?” Alice asked.

I nodded and then shook my head, turning slightly towards Rosie. “Not tonight. Not tonight?” My concentration felt tired, so I dumbly repeated, “Not tonight.”  

Rosie furrowed her brow. If there’s one characteristic I remember from our childhood, it was that Rosie never showed frustration. Instead, she appeared thoughtful and usually replied with a vague compliment that danced on the line of sarcasm. In hindsight, probably she was always sarcastic and I never knew it. Either way, she looked to be deep in thought upon hearing my not tonights.

“I never drink.”    

Deborah laughed too loud. “Nobody never drinks. Unless they’re Quaker. Are you…?”

“She’s Methodist,” I answered. “I’m Methodist and Chet’s Methodist.”

Alice seemed unconvinced. “Chet’s Methodist?”

I raised my eyebrows from behind my glass.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Chet’s Irish. I’ll bet he’s Catholic.”

“Not all Irish are Catholics. Plus,” I added, “nobody in Missouri is Catholic.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What does it matter?” Deborah whined. “Catholic, Methodist, what’s the difference? I’m tired of this place. Let’s go to The Branch!”

Ignoring the request to leave the apartment, Alice smirked. “Only one lets you plan ahead.”

I nearly choked on my scotch. Managing to swallow, I reached back and slid the empty glass to Conner. My elbow brushed against Rosie and I felt her move closer. I don’t know why, and despite years of intentional distance from the people of old Canton, a sudden urge to be alone with Rosie washed over me. It struck my stomach and electrocuted the whiskey plummeting through my esophagus.

I turned and faced her.

She touched her necklace and stared up at up me.

And just like that—the feeling was gone. Completely and utterly gone. So I flashed an unsure smile and pointed at Deborah. “For an hour,” I said, “and then we come straight back to Chet’s. We’re here to celebrate his apartment, not tour Manhattan.”

Though she was clearly excited, Deborah rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Chet didn't earn this place. His parents…” she waved her hand “...like everyone else.”

Alice sighed. “Maybe I’ll hang myself before next year.”

“Oh do come along,” Deborah pleaded.

“Only because you’re going,” Alice said, looking at me.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. I know Chet won’t get upset with you for leaving.”

I grunted in agreement. “Yes; he trusts me, myself, and nobody but I.”

Rosie didn't smile. Deborah, however, burst into laughter and flew to the dining room to collect a few others.

The stale smell of city drifted over the street and sidewalk, and the air was bitterly cold. A steady stream of cars passed on the road, most of them noisy taxis with anonymous hats and hair bouncing around in the back seat. Steam rose from a manhole in the center of the street; it mixed with car exhaust to create a frigid bouquet of what I imagined to be the very breath of Manhattan. I sighed deeply and watched my own breath wither into the nighttime air.

Deborah’s group of seven or eight shivered and huddled their way down the walk. As not to be overwhelmed by their incessant chatter, I chose to walk slowly and trail from a distance. Just before we left Chet’s party, Rosie stepped in front of me and asked about my studies. I replied well enough, but I was in a hurry to go out and come back. Leaving a warm place on a cold night is always worth the feeling of coziness upon return. Not that Chet’s apartment was especially homey, but a place’s decor doesn’t matter to tingling fingertips and red noses. So I answered Rosie and left with a promise to return shortly.

“Come on!” came a cry from ahead. “Quit dawdling!”

I raised my hand and waved good-naturedly.

Rosie clearly wanted me to stay. I never understood why she insisted on seeing me that night, but it was obvious that she hadn't come for the food and drink. Each word she spoke was carried on an expectant air, as if she felt I was about to reply with something entirely out of context of the conversation. But I always replied normally and she simply nodded and responded in turn. Accepting Deborah’s plea to leave the apartment was likely an excuse to clear my head and return with a better grasp on Rosie and her existing in New York. Sure, she had crossed my mind in previous months, but a thought is nothing close to the pining that she seemed to expect.

I took another deep breath and broke into a full stride. It really was quite cold.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VII

         
“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Chet grasped my shoulder and nodded fervently. “Exactly, my friend. Exactly!” He paused and leaned in close and said, “You know, I almost regretted sending my note with Deborah. She’s so cluttered and all, you may’ve never gotten the slip.”

I couldn't help but laugh as he ducked his head shamefully and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, pal,” he said. “Laura Henley is here. You remember Laura, dontcha?”

“Of course.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of Alice lighting a cigarette by the window.

The kitchen was full and very loud. A patchwork of platters lay atop the island counter in the center, with an array of appetizers that’d put the president to shame. I scanned the endless plates of olives, crackers, cheese, and mushrooms and wasn't hungry. A window connected the kitchen and dining room, and a tall man was passing dishes of food to waiting hands on the other side. I recognized him from another event, but I didn't care enough to ask for his name.  

Laura Henley remembered me with an exaggerated hug and nearly spilled her drink. She was hardly drunk, but the loud atmosphere had her excited and foolish. Nodding politely, I left her to hang on Chet and found my way through the opposite walkway.

The bar was rectangular, and would have been identical to the sitting room if not for a severe lack of furniture. Cabinets had been installed against the narrow wall to my left, and a counter stood in front. While certainly not vacant, the room held a more relaxed air, and the people in it were talking in calm tones.

“Whiskey and soda, please,” I said.

Chet’s good friend Connor was making the drinks that night. He was proud of his alcoholic knowledge and innate ability to mix anything perfectly. Any of us were wealthy enough to hire a bartender, but he insisted on manning the station all night. As he chose a glass, I leaned against the oak counter and looked to my left. The dining room activity rivaled that of the kitchen. A chandelier shone brightly above the table, and many young people sat around it, eating, drinking, and laughing.

“I heard you might be here,” said a voice behind me.

I thanked Connor for the drink before turning around.

She was wearing a crimson sweater over a blue dress. And not a light, childish blue, but a deep, navy color that looked like an empty night sky. Her chestnut hair was rich in the bar’s dim light, and her eyes smiled.

“Hullo, Rosie,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

She was standing quite close.

Despite my best expression of boredom and reserve, I could tell she knew I was surprised. On account of my schooling in New York, it had been two years since Rosie and I had last spoken. Honestly, I never expected her to come east at all, let alone attend a party in the city.

“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” she said.

“So was I.”

“You never came home.”

“My mother was rarely sober after Sand died. You probably know that better than I do. When she died, it just wasn't worth going back and remembering it all, you know?”

I was sorry for telling the truth. It was obvious that Rosie, having offered simple condolences, was very uncomfortable by this point. I retreated to my drink and studied her over the rim.

“I’m here with Laura,” she explained at length. “My aunt lives in Maine, and Mother decided that I should spend the spring with someone cultured.”

Voicing my initial surprise, I replied, “Wouldn't have expected you to stop by New York.”

“Laura convinced me to stay a few days before Maine.”

“Your mother approves of Laura?”

Rosie laughed. She had a bright laugh, but it was surprisingly soft and pleasant to hear. “Oh no,” she said, looking at her hands and then back up to me. “Mother has no idea I’m in New York. My aunt is the adventurous type. She’ll write my mother and say I arrived a week before I did.”

“So I suppose you’re officially in Maine tonight.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Officially.”

“Wanna drink?”

“No.”

I felt bad for drinking, but I took another sip anyway.

She broke the silence again, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

I nodded and said, “You look very nice,” and meant it.

“Thank you,” Rosie said. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is there a place we can get coffee? Is anyone still open?”

“It’s New York, everything’s open.”

“And the coffee?”

I shrugged. “There’s a cafe on this block, but it’s old. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Connor can make anything in the world.”

“Is there a place you like?”

“I like it here just fine.”

A burst of feminine laughter entered the bar and Alice waltzed in with Deborah at her heels. Alice moved with a graceful sort of confidence; a walk that drew one’s sight first to her hips and then to her piercing grey eyes. I gazed over Rosie’s shoulder, completely missing her soft reply.

Something potent, Connor dear," Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie's eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VI

                        Start of Tale #2    

The Tenth Avenue snow was furious at the sight of me. It shouted in my ears and forced itself into angry little dervishes that skipped around my feet and across the pavement. The taxi had cost more than I expected, but I brought extra for thievery like that. To be frank, my pockets were very well lined since my mother’s father had died. When everyone fought in Europe, he was at home making money in the riveter industry. I’d say he hired ol’ Rosie and painted that canvas himself.

Anyway, the money he left was enough to fill my account and send me to Columbia. When Chet decided to show off his fancy West Side apartment, I was living a cab ride away. He sent a note through a mutual friend, begging me to attend his party for old times’ sake. So I took the cab from my own apartment and suffered two melodramatic stories from the driver. Don’t get me wrong—I despise parties. But I’d much rather drink myself blind out of boredom than sit in a rancid taxicab and listen to crazy Joe whine about his estranged former wife.

Chet’s flat covered nearly a quarter of the sixth floor. It had everything: parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, full bath and shower, and an east-facing balcony with decorative rails. I left my shoes in the tiny foyer and stepped gingerly into the parlor. It was furnished very modernly—that is, modern as modern could be in 1951. Large, cushioned sofas sat against the wall to my left, with polished coffee tables and brass lamps flanking each one. Doorless walkways led to the dining room on the left and the kitchen on the right, both connecting in a bar next to the balcony door.

I knew most everyone in the place. Some had preceded me from the university, others lived with their parents in northern Manhattan, while still others traveled from New Jersey and Philadelphia. Those from abroad had already found a hotel for what night was left after the party. As a whole, it was a wealthy, entitled group of 20-somethings who, as most at that age, felt drawn to empty excitement and the taste of alcohol.

Granted, I was no different. But throughout my tenure at the university, I had myself fully convinced that I was somehow different; aloof, unique, and mysterious. I tried to convince the people around me that I knew something they did not. Quite successfully, I might add.

Almost immediately after entering the room, I was approached by two girls my age. The first was the mutual friend through which I had been invited. She was a nervous blonde gal who never seemed to finish her sentences. She had an unfortunately long face with a look of constant panic. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, flashing a smile and then swallowing it. “I was beginning to worry that...”

I nodded hesitantly and glanced at the other girl. Her name was Alice, and I had spoken with her many times before. She was tall, dark haired, very beautiful, and very, very rich. If not for her sharp wit and sense of humor, she would have been the epitome of those whom I tend to avoid.

“You’re not dressed like a beat,” she observed.

“Not this time,” I said, straightening my tie.

She smiled.

The nervous blonde gal began to say something, but was distracted by the arrival of more guests behind me. Stepping out of the way, I again turned my attention to Alice. She was recovering from a dainty coughing fit.

“How are your lungs holding up, Miss Walker?”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Only as well as your liver.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Always the optimist, aren't you.”

It was my turn to smile.

“We’re both going to die young, you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I bet everyone in this room will go insane by next year and hang themselves. Don’t you think?”

I shrugged and didn't reply, for I could see Chet approaching to my left. He greeted me with a loud shout, a great hug, and his trademark silly grin. Alice stepped back patiently.

I had always liked Chet. While many of us from old Canton left the farming life—often to places of wealth and prestige—Chet remained his jolly, genuine self. He got a kick out of everything remotely funny or interesting. I still remember the late parties where he’d laugh until his face turned as red as his hair. He was the type of fellow who could fill a flat with people from two rival schools—simply because they all liked Chet.  

“I knew you would come, I just knew it!” he was saying.

“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Barringer Hill

(from the prompt "Garden")


Once upon a time there grew a garden atop a hill. An ancient oak sprouted from the center of the garden, the roots of which were rumored to keep the hill itself upright. Many perennials and vines grew and reproduced year after year, and they were joined in the spring by poppies, marigolds, petunias, violets, sunflowers, daisies, and chamomile. A mossy brick path looped its way around the great oak tree and disappeared back into itself.

The hill served as a monument for the farmland and town nearby. And its crown, the garden, served as a sanctuary for generations. It was many things to the people of the valley: excitement for children in winter; haven for lovers beneath the naked autumn moon; peace for old men on calm summer morns. Each year multiple weddings were held in the shadow of Barringer Hill (for that was its name), and picnics were arranged by the congregation of Mason Methodist Church. These took place in the grassy fields and knolls surrounding the dear hill.

Barringer Hill was an ivory tower for the people of Mason, Pennsylvania. A haven of earthly rest. In the spring they would tenderly clear last year’s leaves and debris, letting the new growth breathe. Favorite flowers were often transplanted from private gardens in town, and no one minded. Beauty alone, while certainly enjoyed, was not the reason for loving the hill and garden. Indeed, the collective love seen year after year was founded in a concept—the idea of an asylum, beloved and revered by all.

One year a friendly carpenter built a white gazebo, decorative on the outside and spacious within. He placed it on the south side of the great oak, right in the middle of garden growth so that vines would grow up its columns and into the trusses above. The view from beneath that tiled roof was lovely. Beyond miles of farmland to the left, one might catch the sunrise above distant mountains. And to the right, in the west, grass fields ran until meeting the town and dusty roads. The southern view was very far and rolling, and it was speckled with farmhouses, barns, silos, and elm groves. Crops of soybeans, potatoes, and tobacco lined the open spaces, shifting according to shallow brooks that snaked across the valley.

The gazebo quickly became a place of affection. Cool summer evenings could find hands clasped, arms entwined, heads resting on sunburnt shoulders. Hushed voices would blend with murmuring oak leaves and the lowing of faraway herds. Grace and peace and kindness seemed ingrained in the very boards of Mason’s octagon cathedral. It seemed appropriate that the townsfolk had their own contribution to the hill. It became a sort of gift—one that they maintained with equal kindness as the garden itself, caring for the white pillars and benches for generations.

When young people began to fall in love, or when old friends yearned to reconnect, one would smile, look the other in the eye, and say, “Meet me at the top of Barringer Hill.”    

Heartbeat

Dear (You),

Traffic was awful. The rain only increased as daylight fled, turning Evergreen into what can only be described as a parking lot. The windshield wipers wailed endlessly and hardly made a dent in the rivers streaming in front of me. You were right - I should have replaced them before it got this wet. The left headlight is out. It would’ve been wise to fix that too.

The neighborhoods seemed to go on forever, and I would be lying to say I didn’t get lost once or twice. My excuse is that I haven’t been in North Everett in years. But you, my dear, will always be the exception. I persevered through those dim houses and finally found Colby, following it uphill until finally reaching the hospital. The parking garage was too dark and surprisingly full, forcing me to crawl two levels with one headlight and wipers that now skipped noisily across the glass.

I don’t know if I parked straight. I didn’t care at the time and still don’t. The downpour was no kinder to me now than it had been in traffic. By the time I had crossed the street and found a sign indicating the correct building, my hair was plastered hideously against my skull and over my eyes. Stepping into the lobby, I shook my head briskly and dripped over to the receptionist. She nodded in response to my breathless inquiry.

The elevator was busy; I ran to the stairs and immediately slipped on the first step. Grabbing the banister, I hurried up the flight and around the corner to even more steps. The lights in the second story hallway were dim and had an eerie green hue. I gave my head another good shake and strode down with as much confidence as I could muster. Ten paces ahead, a nurse rushed from a room to the one directly across the hall. I quickened my pace and checked the number plaque of the room she had entered. It was my stop.

The nob felt cold and the door was heavy. Even before the room met my eyes, a rhythmic tone entered my ears. It beeped loud and clear, even above shouted demands and technical terms for metal utensils. I pushed the door further and stepped forward with the beat of the machine. I cried out when I saw you – head turned limply to the side; sweet lips engulfed in a clear plastic cage; hair in disarray. The crimson dress I had given you was soaked in a liquid slightly darker than the cloth it stained.

The beeping tone faltered. I stopped dead in my tracks. The man nearest your wound seemed electrocuted by the next tone. He plucked a utensil from a beckoning hand to his right and turned quickly back.

The beep took longer to arrive this time. I tried to call out but nearly vomited out of panic.

The tone arose again, this time at a higher pitch...and didn’t stop. It went on and on and on and rang interminably throughout the room and deep inside my head. They put horrid paddles on your poor chest and lifted you violently from the bed. Once, twice, now three times.

The piercing noise remained. It was at that moment the doctor turned from your motionless form and looked me dead in the eyes. I understood.

My heart beats for the both of us now.

Yours eternally,
                (Me) 

The Lonely Old Man - Part III

Tale #1

The first event occurred three weeks after my thirteenth birthday. I was a summer child, having been born on the twenty-second of June, and as such, was oblivious to many things. Oh, I liked to think I was wise. But at the time I didn't even know of events. And certainly not the way I know them today. Events are quite the bane of my existence, do you know? But of course! That is why I'm telling you these things! This is the tale of my first event.
 
Thirteen-year-old me was an explorer. I dug for insects, ran after rabbits, climbed trees for the view, and broke my ankle twice in the attempt to fly. Mark my words: if ever you wish to fly, do not use chicken feathers and balsa wood. You'll break your ankle twice. However, even a white plaster cast could not halt my discoveries. I would simply color it with charcoal and then hobble back into the forest and fields.   
 
I often wandered to the Red River that passed by three miles from my home. Its banks were steep, with long grasses falling over their sides into the water. That is, the grasses grew on my side of the river. The opposite bank was flanked immediately by forest, and many of the smaller trees bent over and made V's in the water. Very rarely did the earth slope to meet the Red River. The nearest place it did so was a mile downstream from my part. A dirt road opened its wide mouth there, melding itself with the pebble beach.      
 
As I said, the first event happened three full weeks after my birthday. And it happened at the river Red. The sun was bright that day and pierced its rays through the forest ceiling. I ran down the road, accompanied by children both above and below my age. We leaped from one patch of sunlight to the next, half naked in the heat of the summer. There were near twenty of us there. Me, of course, and also Sand and George and Annie and Harold and Frances and Rosaline and Johnny and Thomas and Big Thomas and Gus and Aiden and Chet and Nance and Robby and MaryAnn and Laura and Luke and Lizzy.              
 
We were a noisy lot as we skipped away; the older ones tried to shout louder than the rest as to instate some sort of order. My brother, Sand, was the leader of this movement. He was my elder by two years, and mirrored our father in wiry build and bold auburn hair. I too had auburn hair then, but not the stature of my brother. Not only was he tall, he was also the strongest boy I knew. Admittedly, I was often jealous. But admiration was stronger, and so shown constantly on my face.       
 
"Almost there!" was the cry, even when we were a half mile from the river. Bare feet trod even quicker than before. As we neared the road's mouth, my brother shouted at George to untie the fabled rope swing from its bed in some high-up bough. He skipped once and leaped into a sprint, tearing off onto some forest trail.
 
To this day, I still remember how our swimming hole shone in the high afternoon sun. It seemed as though the stars of heaven had come to dwell on the surface of old Red, blinding us with every ripple and crease. We stood in a breathless jumble, our towels cast upon the lawn.
 
"He-e-ey O!" came a shout from above, and we turned to see George whiz over the grass and loop high into the air. Releasing the rope, he hovered a moment then flailed pathetically until disappearing into the river. 
 
A great whooping and hollering went up from the rest of us. Sand led the charge. I followed close behind, breathless with excitement and smiling from one ear to the other.