Strangled Awake

The door creaked open and an anxious face peered in. He looked around, inquiring if anyone was in, then entered, taking in his surroundings. He slid a finger along the table, glancing at the dust that rode up on it, he wrote his name in the dust. He walked through the narrow entrance into the kitchen, flailing at the cobwebs that ensnared him, heading for the sink, the water faucet. It spluttered to life, some rust colored water splattering the sink. Shrugging his jacket off, he ran his fingers through his long and stringy hair. He glanced down, taking stock of his grimy clothes and disheveled appearance, he was beyond exhaustion. He needed rest.

He pulled open the kitchen cabinets; the rusty water, the dust and the cobwebs appeared not to have killed any expectations he had of finding something edible within. He found a can of spam, sending armies of cockroaches scurrying away as he reached for it. He twirled it in his hands; he still needed a can opener. He opened up all the kitchen drawers trying to find one and then he saw it, the dagger. His body went still and then he picked it up. He looked at the intricately filigreed cover and then unsheathed the dagger to examine its edges. Then he plunged it into the can of spam.

He walked up the stairs then and into the bedroom which looked out upon the woods. The previous owners had left behind a four poster bed. A shimmering veil appeared draped over the four posts. He examined it, perhaps to draw it aside and test the mattress. The veil couldn't stand his touch; it crumbled, leaving a stringy film around his hands... more cobwebs. He pumped the mattress next, it seemed firm enough but one of the legs gave way as he stood there, taken aback. Then he kicked off his shoes. He was going to turn in, even if it meant sleeping on a three-legged bed surrounded by cobwebs. He would write the next chapters of his life tomorrow. Tomorrows always arrived in twenty four hour intervals unless... they had transformed themselves into an endless stretch of eternity.

Rosa would be here soon, just like her mother... all those years ago. I had stumbled into the shack then, down on my luck, seeking cover from a world that sought to destroy me.

The reviews had all been bad. It had taken me five years to write my 900 page epic. I had given it my all but in the end it just took that one word, a word I had dreaded since my youth: MEDIOCRE. That one word in one scathing review from the most vicious and feral critic in the land and my novel didn't stand a chance. Every paper, every literary rag, every journal had picked up on that foul word that rang in my ears every waking hour, accompanied by that gruesome image of a black cloaked, hooded figure shoveling dark and slithery sludge onto a boat...Modern Short Stories...required reading for 11th grade English, and the only short story I could never forget... about the ambiguous fate of mediocre souls, shoveled into nothingness, made to set sail on a boat to nowhere.

I dreaded that word and had dodged that label all my life until the day my worst fears were realized and the world branded me thus. I slipped into an alcohol induced haze, became a walking disaster area. My wife took the kids and left me. I slid deeper into the bottle and then a few good friends forced me into rehab. But the cloaked and hooded man, the shoveler of mediocre soul piles, never stopped tormenting me, gaining on me. So I ran through the woods behind the sprawling grounds of the rehab center. I ran for three days straight, from myself, from the dark shadows behind me and finally to this shack in the woods. I had entered it twenty years ago, just as the young man did today, his insecurities and fears etched as clearly in the lines of his face as they must have been on mine. He was running from himself.

Lily, Rosa's mother, had strangled me awake that day. Sometime during the early hours of the morning I had felt a crushing weight descend on me. The room was swimming, my windpipe was being crushed. I felt the cold fingers of death around my throat... and then it was all over. There was peace, a glorious silence, the demons were gone. The room was filled with fragrance and I glanced up to see Lily, a vision in red, a red hibiscus tucked behind one ear. She appeared to float around the room and then I saw her sitting on the ledge of the window in the room with the four-poster bed and the view of the woods. She smiled, welcoming me to a new world, a world where the colors were sharp and rich, a world of light and fragrance. I was drawn into her arms; I only had eyes for her. And then I turned my head and glanced back at the room. The bed I'd been on was now shrouded in grey and appeared far away, in black and white, seemingly encased behind a glass wall. I glanced at the mirror on the dresser against the opposite wall. I wasn't casting a reflection. I opened my mouth to speak but I felt Lily's cold breath upon me, silencing me, whispering in my ears that I never again needed to worry about mediocrity and its consequences. She had rescued me.

The shack was suddenly full of music and people. I recognized a few of them myself. There were many writers here, some painters, their gaunt and hungry looks unmarred by the wholesome effects of the rescue. They welcomed me. There was a stunning looking young girl there too, a vision in purple. She was introduced as Rosa. Rosa was Lily's daughter. She had failed to earn a scholarship to Harvard. No other university was good enough for the school valedictorian. Her dad had urged her to consider other colleges but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Rosa had locked herself in her room where she lay on her bed clutching her dead mom's picture close to her heart. Her mom had always pushed her to do her best, coached her, ridden her, had demanded her very best, until the day she was fired from her CEO position. She had been found dead in her bed the next day. Young Rosa was now here with them, just as she was a gilt-framed picture on a wall in her dad's study in her old home. Her mom had gone back for her, had rescued her.

Death became this crowd.

Rosa would appear soon enough. Word had been sent. Her lonely days were about to end. I had Lily- Rosa would have this young man. We had overcome mediocrity and now we had to address loneliness; they often went hand in hand.

Rosa's young man was waiting for her. I heard the kitchen drawer being opened, the dagger being unsheathed, and there she was, in violet, the dagger poised right above the sleeping writer's heart. Tomorrow the young man's debut novel would still be in the bargain bin at the front of every bookstore but his hands would be in Rosa's.

Rains and Freezing Rains

His windshield wipers were useless now. Coated with ice, they were like foot-long icicles making 180 degree sweeps of his windshield every couple of seconds. The freezing rain continued its relentless pace, sounding like the crackling of minuscule pebbles pelting his car from all sides. He couldn’t see more than a foot ahead of the car and the bald tires would skid on the icy roads if he had to tap the brakes even once.

He couldn’t go on and decided to pull over by the side of the road. He would stay there all night if he had to but he couldn’t risk driving around in this. So he leaned back in his reclining car seat, folded his arms behind his head and prepared to wait out the falling sheets of wintry mix coating everything.

They were supposed to meet for dinner at the Red Garlic Thai restaurant tonight. They had made the date a month ago, adding the date, time and venue to her Blackberry and his tattered appointment book, as they sat up in bed, wide awake, trying to have a conversation about growing irretrievably apart. It was a cathartic night. They had suddenly rediscovered themselves, come to the shocking realization that they did indeed live in the same house. They had stayed up all night reminiscing about the early days, about sharing everything, about going off on one madcap adventure or another and about the halcyon days when every decision was spontaneous and impetuous. They couldn’t pinpoint the time when things had started changing, it had been gradual until that night, one month ago, when they suddenly realized how far apart they had traveled.

A tear crept down his face as he realized that he was going to disappoint her once again. He pictured her seated at the restaurant, repeatedly glancing at her watch. In his mind’s eye she was gazing out the windows and he wondered whether she was annoyed at his absence or concerned about his well-being. He thought it was a shame that after fourteen years he still didn’t know her well-enough to fathom her state of mind.

He closed his eyes as scattered images of their first meeting flashed across the celluloid of his closed eyelids. She had been huddled under the gray awning of the local bidi shop, trying her best to stay dry. Her clothes were wet and clinging when he caught a fleeting glimpse of her through his auto-rickshaw. Her discomfiture was obvious to him even as he spotted her through his moving vehicle; she had been trying her best to maintain a stoic demeanor as the bidi shop clientele tried to huddle close, using the rain and the limited shelter provided by the awning as an excuse. Something about her compelled him to stop. He felt inexplicably drawn to her. He stopped the driver so he could offer her a ride to wherever she was headed. He opened up his umbrella and ran back to the bidi shop, offering to share his ride. She hesitated at first but then agreed.

It was a memorable, rainy day, auto-rickshaw ride. They had hit it off so well. She had told him she had been observing, rather intently, this carefree, fearless kid on his bike. He seemed to be headed for school and was undaunted by the pouring rain, the flooded streets, he was riding his bike standing up, the rain didn’t bother him one bit. She had told him she couldn’t recall when she had ever been so foot-loose and fancy-free. She had said it in a tone that had flooded him with feelings of tenderness. He wanted to do that for her. He wanted her to feel not one but several carefree moments in her life. He wanted her to feel that he would always be there for her.

That was fourteen years ago. The lashing but harmless Bombay downpours. Here he was now, in a car that wasn’t equipped to handle the harsh northeastern winters in this country. He missed those warm rains now, the joyous monsoons, that special rainy day smell. He had chosen this world over the one of his childhood and youth. He had been chasing the elusive American dream and the more he chased the further away it drifted. Successive lay-offs from three companies following the big IT bust in Silicon Valley had left him scrambling for his next paycheck. His Toyota Camry had 300,000 miles on the odometer and four bald tires. He couldn’t afford to buy himself a new car and couldn’t accept her buying or leasing one for him. His pride always got in the way.

Her career had taken off. She was an EVP in a multi-million dollar global corporation. She was always short on time and was traveling more than she was home. She had become a stranger in her own home. Yet, she had always been encouraging to him. She had always told him not to worry and that things would look up for him, sooner or later. But there had been times, he admitted to himself, when he had chosen to read condescension in her words. He had wanted to protect her, shelter her and give her a carefree life and in the final analysis he had only succeeded in driving himself away from her.

A scraping noise on his window finally shook him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and sat up to see a familiar and beautiful face peering inside through a patch of ice that had been scraped clean with an ice-scraper. She had been concerned about his well-being after all, and had come looking for him on eastbound Route 80, the most logical place for her to have any luck finding him. He had never felt happier than he did now. They had kept their date after all.

Wish You Were Here

It was a familiar image, the startling blue sky, the sea and the pristine white buildings against that Aegean backdrop. It was an image he associated with her. Whenever she had opened up her locker at school he’d caught a glimpse of the posters lining the insides, the flashes of blue and white. Nicky Stavros – always surrounded by friends, always laughing, the center of attention, and the world at her elegant feet.

He sat there in the comfort of his leather couch, tapping his feet to the disco beats of 1987, sipping his ouzo and swiveling his head from floor to ceiling and wall to wall of his one room apartment. There she was laughing, pensive, sleeping, walking, running, dancing, bathing, dressed and undressed - the wallpaper mosaic a painstaking result of ten years of passion and obsession, his life’s work, his Nicky - his to have and to hold. He hadn’t found anyone; no one had ever matched up to Nicky.

There were several young women resplendent in bouffant hairstyles and satiny gowns with puffy sleeves in several shades of pastel – that was prom night, 1987. The planning had gone on for the past several months as girls looked longingly at the boys that were of interest to them. One by one they had all been asked to the dance. Sadly he had not been at the receiving end of any of these long lashed, veiled looks and coy smiles. And he couldn’t have cared less. He was mustering up the courage to ask Nicky. She was waiting for Mark to ask her; Mark, the tall and broad quarterback of the Langston Lions. That Mark would ask her to the prom was a foregone conclusion, no one else dared ask Nicky. And then Mark injured himself at football practice. He had several concussions and was in no shape for prom night. This was his chance. He had to summon up the courage to ask her, he had to make it happen.

That day he took pains over his attire, he wore his smartest pair of jeans and his favorite jacket. He even washed and brushed his long and usually stringy hair. Nicky Stavros was going to be his date.

He spotted them at the bench underneath the old maple tree. As always, she was surrounded by ten other girls, some eyeing her shoes, some her dress, the others just happy to be sharing her space and breathing the same air as her. He walked toward them with determined steps. He was going to ask her today. Before he knew it he had closed the gap and was now standing facing Nicky.

He stared at her perfectly symmetrical face, unable to tear his eyes away from her gaze. He felt he couldn’t breathe, he opened his mouth to speak but words failed him. He swallowed and then he opened his mouth and swallowed again. Then she spoke and her voice was like tinkling, shattering crystal – girls let’s go feed the fish - and they left…leaving him standing there, nervously tugging at the sleeves of his jacket as they walked away giggling. He felt humiliated, his ears felt warm, his face flushed.

He never did forget standing near the punch bowl all night, watching the shimmering colors of the disco ball above reflecting off Nicky’s radiant face and the more he looked the angrier he felt at his humiliation. He was torn between an intense desire to take her in his arms and never let go, to squeeze her so tight, so tight that her ribs cracked and her breath came out in gasps until it never came out again, at all.

That summer she didn’t notice him. It was Langston, PA, population 8,000. Everyone knew everyone else. She was all over town, riding around in her Dad’s Thunderbird or waitressing at the local diner and bartending at the local pub at night. She was still the talk of the town, flashing her baby blues and radiant smile at everyone. He felt like the only invisible resident of Langston, PA.

But invisibility has its advantages. An invisible photographer is never noticed, an invisible neighbor is never acknowledged, not when he rents the apartment across the street and not when he buys and trains a telescope at the uncurtained window of the most desirable woman in the town. He can watch her dress, watch her undress, sleep with her and wake with her. He can even follow her out of town, several paces behind the trail of confetti that litters the Greek Orthodox Church at the edge of town, invisible in his little utility van that quietly follows the car that loudly proclaims the “Just Married” state of the couple within.

He had spent many years of his life in quiet pursuit - the telescope his only companion, the darkroom his only real refuge – the one place where he could surround himself with Nicky. This was the tenth anniversary of his failure and humiliation and this was his chance.

The picture postcard was perfect - a photograph of the Greek landscape that graced the back wall of her bedroom - the fresco that her husband had so lovingly commissioned for her 28th birthday. Tomorrow she would open her mailbox to retrieve the perfect postcard that would read “WISH YOU WERE HERE” in a strange spidery scrawl that she would never recognize…

Shadows Die on Moonless Nights

The cherry blossoms were in full bloom and there was colour all around. I could hear the faint koto strains of an ancient spring song filtering through my consciousness, taking me back to the ill-fated visit to the jungles of Iriomote-jima where I had gone camping with Haruki. I shuddered as I tried not to remember what happened to him that spring, thirty years ago.

Life flowed all around me like a river in spate as I tried my best not to be swept away by the flood of memories that threatened to overcome my very existence. I headed for the bench underneath the cherry tree and decided to catch my breath and recover my bearings. There were other joggers in the park; spring time brought them out in hordes. A couple of young girls jogged past my bench without a second glance as I looked on after them. It felt good to be alive, to have emerged unscathed.

I was startled by a loud chirping sound and looked up to see a pair of Eurasian kestrels. They appeared to be saying something; I sensed an urgency, a slightly discordant note in their song.

There were cyclists, jugglers and roller-skaters in the park, an ever changing tableau of springtime festivities and yet my sense of foreboding grew, it had formed at the pit of my stomach and was rising and growing.

I decided to resume walking. I got up with the help of my cherry wood walking stick, my fist closing over the screw top dragonhead that served as its handle, seeking reassurance. I slowly made my way around the curved path, gazing at the fountain and the little kids trying to float their toy boats in the little pool surrounding the fountain. One of them appeared to be having some trouble trying to keep his little kayak afloat, it kept flipping over and floating face down. I decided to help him. I walked up to him and lowered myself down on my arthritic knees with great effort, smiling at the boy as I took his little kayak from his tiny hands. I flipped it over to shake out the water inside when a little parchment scroll fell out. I asked the boy what it was but he merely shrugged. So I wiped it dry and opened it up to see what it said.

The words were sharply etched and clear, “Remember the Shadows on Moonless Nights”. I looked up again; the boy was nowhere to be found. I stared at the toy kayak in my hand, it was covered in blood.

I looked all around me, nothing had changed, the cherry blossoms were still swaying gently in the wind, the young joggers were back, about to commence their second lap around the park. The Sakura-Sakura song still filled my ears, its notes closer together, frenetic, as I looked around in a panic, looking for other signs of impending doom. There were none. It was time to head home.

As I walked home, I couldn’t stop myself from reliving the moment from thirty years ago, when Haruki and I had gone camping. We had marched in step to the Sakura song, lugging a kayak across our shoulders. We were young and fearless then, Haruki more so than me; adventurous and always willing to push things to the limit. He wanted to plod through the mangroves behind the lagoon and then follow the river up to the base of the falls in the kayak we had been lugging all day. It was his idea to pitch our tents by the Urauchi-gawa River, in the heart of the dense jungle.

At nightfall the wind was still and nothing stirred that moonless night. There was a chill in the air despite the early onset of spring, so we lit ourselves a fire. It was rather eerie for me and I wanted to turn in early. The yamaneko had been known to jump out at unsuspecting travelers. I told Haruki I wanted to get inside the tent and secure the flap. He looked at me with condescension and dared me to stay up with him. I did. He told me I needed to learn to live a little and to take chances. He told me life would pass me by if I didn’t shrug off the comforting mantle of my secure existence, if I didn’t feed the person within: the shadow that sought resolution. I listened, mesmerized. Haruki’s voice had the power to bend anyone to his will.

During the course of our conversation by the fire a strange lightheadedness descended upon me. I stared at the dancing flames lighting Haruki’s face from below, the flames dancing in his eyes, giving him a surreal and other-worldly appearance. And then, as I continued to stare I thought I saw a second Haruki sliding out of the one I knew to be my friend. I thought my tired eyes were playing tricks on me; I really needed to get some sleep. We had another long and tiring trek ahead of us the next day.

I interrupted Haruki to tell him I was ready to turn in as I started to get up but I didn’t get too far. Haruki’s clone was by my side in an instant, pressing down on my shoulders as he looked into my eyes. Those eyes were black as the night, their menace intensely terrifying. I summoned up all my strength and managed to get up. He followed. I ran toward our kayak. He was gaining on me. Somehow I found the strength to pull out one of the wrought iron tent pegs and as he closed in on me I stabbed him with it. He fell onto the kayak, lifeless. I blacked out then.

It must have been noon when I came to, the sun was beating down as I squinted up through a throbbing head. I was on my back staring up at the branches of several trees, their branches meeting. I spotted a pair of Eurasian kestrels chirping in that strange way, declaring spring. I heaved myself up on an elbow. There was a collapsed tent on my right, a charred pile of twigs on my left and a dead Haruki, stabbed through his heart, lying sprawled across the kayak. I walked up to his dead body. There was a yellowed scroll of parchment next to him, it simply said, “Shadows Die on Moonless Nights”.

I stumbled upon a rock; I had walked into an isolated section of the park as I reminisced. There wasn’t a soul around. The branches above were still filtering the remaining light of the evening sun as I watched my lengthening shadow. I wasn’t too far from my apartment; another thirty minutes would see me there. I quickened my steps hoping to be safely inside by nightfall. I got there just in time, the doorman held the door open as I entered and headed for the elevator down the hall. Then I heard it: the sound of determined footsteps filling in the gaps between my own. I turned around to see the doorman holding the door open for others while his shadow focused its menacing black eyes on me and my fist tightened over the screw top dragon head of my cherry wood walking stick…

Internet Embargo

The message was blinking on the screen as she watched, transfixed. The words started swimming around on the page, drifting in and out of focus while she sat, paralyzed. They leapt out at her – HUMAN THOUGHT - growing bigger in her line of vision and taking over completely.

If they weren’t going to be thinking how would she monitor their thoughts? The Grand Triumvirate (TGT) had no tolerance for excuses. “Excuses” were a fascinating discovery. When humans were in trouble, when they hadn’t done or said what they were supposed to have done, when they broke promises or commitments they could use excuses and get away with almost anything. TGT had greeted this discovery of hers with great amazement and equal disdain.

Now they would think she had learnt the art of making excuses from her subjects of study. If the humans weren’t going to be thinking for an entire week how and what could she report back? This could jeopardize the whole project.

The World Wide Web had offered some amazing behavioral insights. She had seen them change and evolve and accept willingly the leashes that bound them to their laptops, computers and various hand-held devices. Laptops had replaced the bedtime book and people on the streets always appeared to be talking to themselves. They had little devices hidden behind their ears and a tiny microphones dangling around their necks. She had ridden with them on trains and buses, noticing their deep involvement with their gadgets. No one paid attention to their fellow travelers in this journey of life, it was a wonder they still needed to get up and go somewhere every morning! People didn’t seem to need or want flesh and blood people anymore. Why, just last night she had watched a news snippet on TV about the International Pornographers Convention and their optimism about the new phenomenon of Pocket Porn. Cell phones could now provide titillation on demand! Well, well! Back home she had learnt about the outcome of such utter dependence on technology. It had taken them eons to recover from its soul-destroying effects.

Her efforts to understand humans had led to her becoming an avid chatter. She chatted around the clock, interacting with people all over the world. Loneliness was rampant. Real relationships had deteriorated or were somehow standing simply because their dissolution was a nuisance that wouldn’t add anything meaningful to the their lives. Clean breaks were just as meaningless as unions. And now it was all virtual. People were virtually stimulating the same areas of the brain that got stimulated during the mating ritual simply by interacting across chat lines. She was very amused with the “a/s/l” inquiries that came her way each day as some lonely soul somewhere, on this vast blue planet, reached out to “touch” someone across high bandwidth cables.

So how was this world going to react to a shut down of the Web and subsequently human thoughts? It did cross her mind that this was perhaps a hoax, but her research validated its authenticity. She was worried for herself. The TGT would demand her return and immediate execution if she failed to send in her weekly report. They would never believe all thoughts were going to be shutdown for a week. They would think it was her ploy to take that vacation to the 12th moon of Jupiter. They believed human tendencies were contagious and disdainfully cited the example of a renegade predecessor of hers who had gone around sporting an S on his suit as he flew around making people wonder if he was a bird or a plane.

She needed to think and fast. The shut down would happen in a few hours. She decided to take a walk on the beach to clear her head. There still was time.

She walked along the shore watching the waves thinking about her future, when suddenly she saw it. It jumped out of the water, a gargantuan beast, before gliding back in. A plume of water shot out of its head. What was that? Could it be? This was wonderful! She had been reading about these sea creatures, there was some data that they were almost as, if not more, intelligent than the humans she had ended up studying all these years. It all came back to her now – The Discovery Channel - she remembered the Whale. They were even said to have a language of their own, a Whale song! Her problem was solved.

She summoned up all her energy, and saw the sands shift beneath her slowly disappearing feet, her legs turning into that mighty tailfin as she slid, smoothly into the calm waters.

She was going to be reporting on whales this week.

Exposed!

“These are the latest”, she said as she flicked the envelope toward Josie. Angie’s cheeks were tear-stained and her fingers shook as she lit another cigarette. The packet had arrived in the mail today, another set of photographs that Mr Desoto, her private investigator had sent. The first one showed Joe assisting a long haired blonde woman out of the limousine. The picture was grainy but not unclear. There were other pictures of Joe holding the door open for the same woman or enjoying a meal at a sidewalk café. She had yelled at Mr Desoto for never being able to capture a clear view of the woman on film.

She had spent hours poring over all the photographs she had collected. She had scanned them in her computer and had invested hundreds of dollars in imaging software. It had become an obsession. She had suspected Joe of cheating on her ever since he had become more attentive in bed and had taken to having flowers delivered at the office every other day. Her coworkers were going gaga over the long stemmed roses, orchids and other floral arrangements that had made her cubicle resemble a florist’s. But this was highly unusual behavior. They had been married fifteen years and Joe had rarely showered her with cards, candy, flowers or jewelry in all their years together. She didn’t mind, she saw herself as a practical woman who only yearned for these things when she saw other well-loved women exclaiming with glee all around her.

“You have no need for artifice”, he liked telling her and she had laughed such comments away. So this was puzzling, to say the least.

She had also been noting his late work hours and the sudden proliferation of work assignments that required frequent travel. She had deliberated long and hard and then, on a whim, picked out Desoto Investigations from the Yellow Pages. Mr Desoto had been tailing Joe for two months now. She was convinced Joe was having an affair. She wasn’t sure who the object of his affection was, but she felt she was close and that the answer was there, staring her in the face, she just needed to concentrate.

Josie scanned each picture again. She felt the color drain from her face. She looked up at Angie and said, “I don’t know what to say Ange. These pictures are not very clear. You can hardly make out anything. Besides, I could never imagine Joe being unfaithful, especially after all these years!Get a hold of yourself Ange, I can’t see you doing this to yourself!”

“I don’t know, Josie, I just don’t know! I really trusted him...,never for a moment thought he would do this to me! The saddest part is that our married life has really perked up! He has been so attentive, so sensitive. I am convinced now it’s guilt!”

Josie saw the tears brimming again and rested her hand on Angie’s, “Maybe she is just an acquaintance Ange! You are letting your imagination run away with you. And this Desoto guy is just making it worse. I think he is a charlatan, a bottom feeder. You have to cut him loose Ange! He is messing you up!”

“I don’t think so. I have really studied these pictures. The woman looks so familiar to me, yet I can’t place her. That hair, her style. I wish these pictures were clearer!”

Josie felt nauseous. She had an insane desire to leave the table at the restaurant where they had met for lunch. She wanted to bolt and was just about to excuse herself for the powder room when the waiter arrived. He smiled at her and said, “Ms Greene! So nice to see you again! Two days in a row. How fortunate we are!”

Angie looked at her as Josie flashed an icy smile back at the waiter, “Why John, you must be confused! I haven’t been here in awhile! Excuse me!” She got up and walked to the powder room while Angie stared after her, with a perplexed John looking on. She ordered herself a martini and told John that she needed a few more minutes.

But instead of reading the menu she pulled out the pictures from the packet again and flicked through them until she came upon the one where the restaurant awning read – Café Un Deux Trois. That’s where they were today. The blonde hairstyle, the clothes, the shoes, were all pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fell neatly into place. She had been confiding in Josie for many months now, sharing her deepest, darkest secrets and more recently her suspicions about Joe’s infidelity.

She saw things with crystal clarity now. The music changed to a familiar old tune, “When you left me all alone/At the record shop/ Told me you were going out/For a soda pop/You were out for quite awhile/Half an hour or more/You came back and my oh my/This is what I saw/Lipstick on your collar…” A favorite oldie. She saw Josie walking back from the restroom, steps resolute, a decision reached.

“Angie, I don’t know how to tell you this. Actually I have told you about it, many times. I am hopelessly in love. It started that day at your fifteenth anniversary party. Remember when you had retired early, with a headache? Joe had spent a lot of time organizing the party. He was heartbroken when you left. I found him standing alone on your porch, drinking. He talked about that spark that had gone missing and then one thing led to another..., you know the rest. This is it for me Ange, I have found love. I am glad it’s out in the open. We should all try to move on with our lives now.”

The wrought iron chair scraped the floor and fell backward as Angie got up with a start, she walked out of the restaurant with whatever dignity she could muster as Josie picked an olive out of her hair and wiping the martini from her face looked on at Angie’s retreating figure. John was standing nearby, napkin in hand…

Grandfather's Coat

That coat, its cavernous pockets, the hidden treasures within, it graced Benny’s Scarecrow now.

My hands were always cold. My earliest memories are of times I’d slip my tiny, cold hands into his and ask, “Grandpa, how come your hands are so warm?” He would tell me his coat pockets had special hand-warming powers. He would ask me to see for myself and every time I tried I would come up with candy bars or other trinkets I fancied. The coat had inside pockets as well, for his books, notebooks, pens and pencils. Grandpa’s coat was a source of eternal fascination for me.

I loved our long walks through the woods, the fields, hand in hand stopping by Pirates’ Cove. His binoculars would come out of those pockets so we could watch the Peregrine falcons perched atop the rocks or circling up above. We walked by the scarecrow in the field, its arms extended in mid-speech, exhorting crows to stay away from the corn. Grandpa never failed to hum, “If I only had a brain…”, whenever we saw Benny’s Scarecrow. Benny was Grandpa’s childhood friend and they had crafted it together as little boys.

Deeper in the woods we would wait for the red-breasted bullfinch or the loons on the lake. His notebook always at hand, recording the stunning descriptions of flora and fauna he’d observed around us. I still remember him telling me the zoological name of the bullfinch - Pyrrhula Pyrrhula – and my inquiring if they called it that for its sound, its quiet warble. He laughed at that and told me it probably referred to the male bullfinch’s fiery red breast. I was in awe of Gramps and never left his side throughout my summer vacations.

I watched him now in his room at the Sunset Home for Seniors. The sunken eyes staring out into nothingness. I held his hand in mine watching the translucent skin stretched tight across his frail hands, crisscrossed by underlying blue veins; they had lost the warmth I had sought as a child.

He wasn’t sitting up today or pacing or throwing things in anger and frustration. This lack of energy seemed so uncharacteristic of him. His condition rarely stopped him from pacing around the room or sitting up in bed, scribbling in that notebook of his, its pages yellowed with age.

I’d tucked him in on many a night, before leaving his side; smoothing his brow, positioning his head on the pillow, unclasping his fingers from that notebook. It’s pages were immortalized in my brain, each notation firmly etched, each sketch as fresh as the day it was first rendered, at least in the earlier pages. The latter ones gradually devolving into a spidery scrawl, increasingly unintelligible, just dark squiggles now, meaningless to anyone but me. Yet his arthritic fingers clung to it with ferocity. The nurses weren’t able to pry it away.

He didn’t recognize me anymore, didn’t know my name. He even threw things at me or pushed me aside when I tried to get him to change his clothes or to go out on the lawns or to eat or drink. In his more lucid moments he recalled Benny from seventy-five years ago. He talked about the games they played, their bird watching, their tree house, his mom’s apple pie. But he never remembered his siblings or my parents. It was as if they had never existed for him.

I sat down beside him, tears rolling down my cheeks, on to the notebook, smudging the blue ink. I found the entry from fifteen years ago where he wrote about the morning he’d taken me out for breakfast and had shared the shattering news with me. We’d found our favorite spot at Papa Gallo’s Diner. He had calmly shrugged off the coat as he settled into the booth and ordered the stack of hot pancakes that we both loved. He told me his sudden bouts of forgetfulness had taken him to his doctor and that they had diagnosed the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease. He’d warned me about the progressive degeneration, reassuring me, telling me not to get disheartened. He knew things would only get worse from here on end.

They finally were. I stared at the thick blankets covering his frail form. Was my beloved Grandpa really in there? Where was the person I knew and loved?

He had handed me his favorite coat that day at the diner. He had wanted me to replace the frayed one on Benny’s Scarecrow.