Dark Fens of Cedar (4)

Go here for Part 3 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

 

(3,100 words)

tea cup poet

“Get the doctor! Oh god, hurry!”

 

Hannah woke clutching her cramped abdomen. A vague awareness caused her to throw back her blankets; fear shot through her when she saw the blood-stained sheets.

For one stunned moment, she didn’t understand what was happening. The crazy thought–I lost the baby–shot through her mind. But that didn’t make sense. She wasn’t pregnant. It took her several long, confused moments to figure out that she was not Annie from her dream. She was Hannah, and she had only started her menstrual period, a little early and unexpectedly. It was, however, a sticky mess.

Her shaky laugh sounded hollow in the dim room of the B&B. No wonder she had been so emotional with Jack yesterday.

She went into the bathroom and cleaned herself up, finding a box of Maxi pads beneath the sink. Then she stripped the sheets off the bed, futilely trying to scrub away the stains on the mattress. She walks through the world and leaves bloody footprints. The line seemed familiar, though she couldn’t recall who wrote them.

And then, in the midst of her scrubbing, she did know. Annie had written those words. They had lived in that bundled sheaf of papers she’d given Jonathan to read in Hannah’s dream, among many other words that seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but beyond her reach.

Her phone flashed with Craig’s messages. She shut the phone off and put it in her purse. On a sudden impulse, she took the rock on the bedside table as well.

She was halfway to the Historical Society when she realized it was probably too early to be open. It was 8:26 am, and she was fairly certain it opened at 9:00. She turned and headed to the Korner Kitchenette to wait. Jack was ordering his coffee in the to-go line.

She rushed up to him. “Annie was a poet, too,” she blurted.

He turned to her in surprise, his coffee sloshing through the hole in the plastic cap. “Hannah, um, hi. Do you mean Annie Eldridge?” He winced, then muttered, “Of course, who else would you mean, what other Annie would you–”

“She was a poet, too, she wrote a bunch of poems that her own husband called brilliant, though he then went on to criticize them for being too personal, not a proper subject for poetry, but the thing is, there has to be a record of them somewhere, or some extant pieces of it left. Something, somewhere. It’s absolutely incredible, but will you help me find them?”

As she stood catching her breath, Jack turned to the girl behind the counter. “Could I also have a cream with no sugar?” He looked back at Hannah. “That’s how you like it, isn’t it?”

When she had it in her hand, he led her to a booth in the corner. “Now, what makes you think Annie was a poet?”

“Well, I…” I dreamed it, she could have said. Or, I am the living embodiment of Annie Eldridge, reliving her memories through dreams with the help of some rock I found at the tower. Or: I am completely insane.

“I just know.”

“Okay.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Where should we start looking?”

“Just like that? You’ll help me, with no proof at all?”

He spun the Styrofoam cup between his hands. “I don’t have much else going on, except…” He shrugged his shoulders.

Except to watch his mother battle cancer. “How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s just really sick. Dad’s with her now. I’ll relieve him later, after lunch.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

He made an effort at a smile. “This will be an interesting distraction. If it’s true, it’d be really big, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be like finding out Shakespeare’s wife was a writer. But yeah, it would make some ripples in the literary world. It would make my career.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” he said. “I don’t think the Historical Society has anything to offer. I know that place inside out, and there’s nothing anywhere to suggest that Annie wrote it at all. If there were any surviving manuscripts, they might have been taken to Boston to Eldridge’s family when the children were sent there after his death. We could research his family line, try to contact his descendants, see if there are any leads. If anything, we could get you names and contact information, for when you go back to Boston.”

When she went back to Boston. To Craig. To Kitty and her guest list and seating arrangements. To the future suburban house that echoed with the voices of their unborn children. All the things she knew she didn’t want to go back to.

This place, River Valley, had taken some kind of hold over her. As she’d written her verses yesterday afternoon, she allowed herself to imagine living here, writing her poetry. Living alone in some charming apartment, perhaps teaching at the community college. Maybe even pouring coffee here at the Korner Kitchenette, until things got settled. Pouring coffee for Jack, before he went to the Historical Society. It was a vision so sweet, she could almost taste it.

“Hannah? What do you think?” Jack looked at her expectantly over his cup.

“Sounds like a plan.”

They ended up going back to the Historical Society to use the computer there. Eldridge’s lineage was somewhat of a public record. Jonathan and Annie’s son, Robert, had married a Boston socialite. They’d had four children, who then had gone off in different directions, from New York to London to India. Two grandsons had been killed in World War I, and the trail went cold from there.

Elizabeth, or Lizzie as she was called, had married a Boston lawyer, but the marriage produced no children. Some kind of scandal had been involved, with Lizzie leaving her husband and travelling to Europe to become an artist.

Hannah was immensely intrigued by this, but she had to stay focused on the task at hand. She sat back in her chair and sighed heavily. “Any surviving manuscript could be anywhere in the world.” She already felt defeated; she was no literary sleuth.

“We need to narrow down the search, find which trail to follow,” Jack said. “If we had a little bit more to go on…” He glanced over at her, hoping she would supply that missing information.

Information she didn’t have, except the unprovable conviction that Annie had written poetry. She stood and stretched her neck. “We’ve been at it for two hours. What do you say we take a walk up to the property again.”

“Sure.” He grabbed some granola bars from a desk drawer and two plastic bottles of water. The day was mild again, sunny and cloudless. Once at the property, they sat on an old log and tore at the granola wrappers. They chewed in silence, looking out at the spreading town below.

She glanced at Jack out of the corner of her eye. She’d only known him for two days, but she felt comfortable with him, as if she could tell him anything. If she’d told Craig about the dream, he’d laugh it off. Or insist she get psychological help. He was a doctor. He liked to fix things, to dismantle a problem so he could put it back together in a sensible manner. She had admired that in him, in his utter confidence to make things right. But here, now, she just needed someone to listen and accept.

“I know that Annie was a poet,” she said after a while, “because I dreamed it.”

He swallowed his water and waited. “Go on.”

“Since I’ve arrived here, I’ve dreamed of her. Dreamed of her writing, of showing Eldridge her work. And they’re not just normal dreams. In the dreams, I am Annie. Reliving her memories.” She dug into her purse and pulled out the rock. “I’m not sure, but I think this rock has something to do with it. I found it my first day here, in the woods near the tower. It–called to me. I dreamed of the rock, too. Jonathan gave it to Annie. The sharp edges cut her skin, drawing blood. They vowed their love would be eternal.”

She held it out to him. It glittered in the sunlight. He looked at it a moment before taking it from her.

“Wow,” he said.

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

He shook his head, weighing the rock in his hand. “I’m a scientist by education. But I know that there are still things in the world that we can never understand. Not scientifically. I know that places–or even objects–can be haunted by memories, or intense emotions. Sometimes when I come here…” He drifted off, looking around at the empty lot, at the weeds running riot, at the vines choking the hedges and branches alike. He shrugged. “I just get this funny feeling, you know? Joy and anguish mixed together. It’s overwhelming. Maybe that’s why I don’t come here too often.”

“Are you feeling it now?”

“Yup.” He smiled at her, but it was tight, as if he were in pain.

“We should go.”

He looked at his cell phone for the time. “I should get home. My dad will be waiting.”

“Can I help?”

He looked at her curiously. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” For some reason, she wanted to help this kind man take care of his mother. She wanted to do something for someone else for once. She was sick of being in her own head, and needed to get away from herself–and Annie.

They walked back to the Historical Society and got into his silver Honda Civic. He drove them across town to the ranch-style house he lived in with is parents, on a pleasant street called Meadow Lane. His father was in the kitchen putting dirty dishes into the sink. He had the same sad-looking eyes as Jack, lined and weary around the edges, but he perked up at the sight of his son bringing home a young woman.

“Dad, this is Hannah. A friend. She offered to help us today.”

Jack’s father held out a hand to Hannah. “Steve Whitmore. It’s nice to see Jack getting out a little bit with people his own age. Thinks he’s gotta be a hermit, what with his mom and all, but I’ve been encouraging him to date.”

“Dad.” Jack rolled his eyes.

“We’re new friends,” Hannah said, trying to ease Jack’s embarrassment. “Jack’s helping me with my thesis. We met at the Historical Society.”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “History major?” Hannah remembered he was a history teacher.

“English Lit. I’m writing on Jonathan Eldridge.”

“Ah, Eldridge. River Valley’s almost-famous son. He could have been one of the greats. But grief destroyed him.” He pursed his lips and glanced behind him, down the hall. He addressed Jack. “She’s restless today. Agitated. Kept asking for you. I didn’t have much time to get anything done.” He sighed and ran a hand over his receding hairline.

Jack put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you get a beer, Dad, and relax. Get out of the house for a while.”

“Think I will. Nice meeting you, Hannah.” He shuffled out to the green pickup in the driveway, checking for keys and wallet on the way.

“I’ll make her some tea,” Jack said.

“Let me make it. You go in and see her. I’ll bring it when it’s done.”

“Thanks. Third cupboard on the right.”

She filled the red tea kettle with water, set in on the stove top, turned the dial until blue flames appeared. In the appointed cupboard, she found black, green and chamomile tea. She opted for the chamomile and set the box on the table. After poking around, she found the cabinet with the glasses and chose a white mug that said, “World’s Best Mom.”

She felt comfortable in this kitchen. It wasn’t worn and shabby, with mismatched table and chairs and faded flower wallpaper, like the kitchen of her childhood, stamped with poverty. Neither was it gleaming and cold and intimidating, like the sleek kitchen at Craig’s parents house, as if no one lived there.

When the tea was done, she brought it to the bedroom door and knocked softly.

“Come in,” Jack said. When she entered he was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his mother’s hand. The curtains were closed against the brilliant spring day, with only one lamp lighting the room. The stale air had the faint scent of vomit and cleaning solution.

Jack’s mother sat up in the big bed against propped-up pillows. A floral bedspread was pulled up to her thin form. What hair she had left, now in tufts and patches, had been dark, and her large blue eyes shifted from her son to Hannah as she brought the tea.

“This is my friend, Hannah, mom.”

Hannah set the steaming mug onto the bedside table, trying to smile reassuringly. The woman’s eyes never left her for a moment, following her across the room unnervingly. Hannah wondered suddenly if she shouldn’t have come. Maybe his mother would resent her presence here, maybe she’d want her son’s company all to herself right now. She had every right.

Finally, his mom smiled weakly at her. “She’s lovely, Jack. I’m very happy for you.”

“It’s not like that, Mom,” he said, blushing again at the same assumption his father had made. “She’s a friend. I’m helping Hannah with her thesis. Or trying to, anyway.”

“We just met two days ago,” Hannah added.

“It doesn’t matter,” his mom said, her eyes glittering in the low light. “I can see it.”

“See what, Mom?”

“Oh,” she said, raising an arm that looked alarmingly thin to Hannah. “The link. It’s very strong.”

“The link?” Jack repeated.

“You’re both the same color. Red. The exact same shade, like blood.”

Jack glanced back at Hannah, then reached for the tea on the table. “Have some tea, Mom, and then get some rest.” He brought the mug to her pale lips as she inclined her head forward from the pillows. She took a few swallows, and then sagged back and closed her eyes.

Hannah left the bedroom. In the kitchen, she washed the few dishes in the sink, wiped up some crumbs from the counter, found the broom and swept the floor. The sick woman’s words made no sense, but she couldn’t get them out of her head.

After a time, Jack came out of the bedroom, and she made tea for them both. They sat at the kitchen table, their hands wrapped around their mugs.

“Sorry about that,” Jack said. “I’m used to her being confused, but that was just weird.”

“I’m getting used to weird around here,” she said, blowing on her tea.

“Do you think you’ll dream of Annie again tonight?”

“I don’t know. Last time, she was losing the baby. We know that she died with the third child. What if…I don’t want to go through…” She stopped and covered her distress by sipping her tea. The warmth in her belly helped with the ache of her menstrual cramps.

“If you want, I can stay with you tonight. Just to, you know, watch over you.” He plunked his teabag in and out of his mug by the string, not looking at her.

She didn’t realize how afraid she was at the idea of going to sleep that night, until she felt relief wash over at his suggestion.

He misunderstood her pause. “God, sorry, it was a dumb idea–”

“No, please. I’d appreciate that, really.” She reached out a hand and placed it over his on the table.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She didn’t withdraw her hand, and neither did he. She squeezed it a little, and his thumb came up to lightly trace her own.

His mother’s voice calling him made them jump, and he stood up from the chair with a loud scrape. “Sorry, I better go check on her.”

“Of course.”

He disappeared into the bedroom. She sat at the table and finished her tea, listening to the sparrows singing outside the open kitchen window. She was aware of her hand tingling where Jack had touched it. She was aware of the rock in her purse, which hung off the arm of the chair. She was aware of her cell phone, full of Craig’s messages.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the phone and accessed her voice mail.

“Hi babe. Did you fall asleep before calling me? Sweet dreams. I’ll call you in the morning before my shift.”

“You must be elbow-deep in research. I hope it’s worth it, Hanny. Miss you. Please call. Okay?”

There were no more voice messages, but there were several texts:

I don’t mean to keep bothering you, but a call would be nice.

I’m getting worried. Did you fall off that tower?

You met someone, didn’t you? You could at least be an adult and admit it.

She had to stand and pace the kitchen to work through the outrage that surged through her. She picked up the broom again and swept the rest of the house furiously, then went outside and swept the porch and front steps, muttering as she did so. After she emptied the dustpan into the trash, she sat at the table again, chewing her thumbnail.

In all fairness, Craig was right. She had met someone. Several someones: Jack and his parents, Jonathan and Annie Eldridge. They seemed more real to her than Craig did, in distant Boston. Suddenly the last few years of her life didn’t feel real at all, as if she’d only been playing at something until her real life appeared. Her anger spent, she found she didn’t care what Craig thought, unfair as that was.

She took up her phone and texted: Yes, I did meet someone, Craig. She’s immensely important to me, and I have to find out everything I can about her. I’m not sure when I’ll be going back to Boston. In light of this, I can’t in good conscience go through with the wedding. I’m so very sorry. I’ll explain everything when I see you again.

She hit send, shut the phone off and put it back in her purse. Holding out her left hand, she pulled off the diamond engagement ring and put that, too, into her purse. It had been on her finger long enough that it felt strange without it now, but she couldn’t deny how right it felt to take it off. An enormous weight was gone. She was giddy with lightness, with freedom. Anything was possible now.

When Jack returned to the kitchen, he gave her a funny look. “You okay?”

She realized she was smiling. “I’m good. What else can I do for you?”

 

Go here for Part 5 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

 

 

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Dark Fens of Cedar (3)

Go here for Part 2 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

(2,000 words)

 

poet pen and paper

“Do you want to get a coffee or something?”

 

The Korner Kitchenette was on the town’s Main Street, with vinyl-covered booths and a few round stools surrounding a curved counter. Old-fashioned signs hung on the walls, advertising hamburgers for ten cents, and hot fudge sundaes for twenty-five cents. Vintage signs for Moxie soda and Hershey’s syrup rounded out the decor; the actual kitchen was not a separate room, but a grill and other equipment squeezed into a corner, where the customers could see their food being prepared.

Hannah and Jack sat at the curved counter on their stools amid the lunchtime chatter and the sizzle of burgers spattering on the grill. Hannah stirred cream into her coffee while Jack bit into his Reuben sandwich. She’d ordered a grilled blueberry muffin, but didn’t have much of an appetite just now.

Part of her wanted to talk about that weird, shared moment at the property. Instead, she asked him, “Haven’t you ever wanted to leave River Valley, see other places?”

He finished chewing and put down his sandwich. Wiping grease from his fingers on a napkin, he said, “I went to UMass and got my degree in botany. I planned on getting my graduate degree at Oregon State, maybe go into research or teaching.” He fingered the stale chips on his plate. “My mom got sick, so I stayed here to help my dad. He’s a history teacher at the community college, and runs the Historical Society on the side. He’s been so busy with Mom’s chemo appointments, I’ve pretty much taken it over for him.”

“I’m so sorry.” She felt like a jerk. “I didn’t mean to imply…”She trailed off.

He stirred the ice in his water glass with his straw. “It’s okay. The longer I stay here, the more I like it. You know how when you’re a teenager, you’re just burning to get away? Anywhere, so long as you don’t become your parents? Settled and boring, the same thing everyday, walking through their lives as if they’re already dead?”

She nodded, remembering her own urgent need to leave her hometown. Her father coming home tired and dusty from the shop, her mother weary and redolent of the various aromas of the school cafeteria, her hairnet holding back premature gray hair. She wasn’t going to end up like them, or the other girls from her high school who got pregnant to try to hold onto their moron boyfriends.

Jack went on. “And then for one reason or another, you end up staying, and after a while it doesn’t seem so bad, and you just wish your mother would stay alive, you know, just for a little while longer.” He took another bite of his sandwich.

She didn’t know what to say, so she just sipped her coffee, and watched the people of River Valley walk by the large glass window in the sunlight, intent on their lunchtime errands.

“What about you?” he asked. “Where are you studying?”

“Boston.”

“Amazing city. Good hospitals. We brought Mom to Dana-Farber a few months ago.”

“My fiance is a doctor at Mass General.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“We’re supposed to get married in the fall. After his residency.” She wasn’t sure why she was telling him these things. Maybe it was because he had shared the personal information about his mother. She didn’t know, but the words came of their own accord.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “Fall is a beautiful time to get married. Unless it rains. But I suppose rain would ruin any wedding, at any time of year.”

“I don’t want to marry him.” The words fell from her lips, the few loose stones before an avalanche.

His sandwich stopped halfway to his mouth. “Oh.”

“I can’t bear the thought of it.” And for the second time that day, tears welled in front of this kind stranger.

It was his time to be silent, as he watched her struggle to regain her composure. Her first instinct was to apologize, brush it off, and change the subject. But she didn’t. Here, in this town where no one knew her, where odd rocks called to her and gave rise to unsettling dreams, she spoke the truth.

“I thought it was what I wanted,” she said, sniffling and stirring her coffee, round and round. “To break free of where I came from and rise above it. To be a teacher, a doctor’s wife, to raise kids in that big, beautiful house in the suburbs. I thought that’s what I wanted to be. But that’s some other woman’s dream.”

Jack handed her a napkin. “What’s your dream, Hannah?”

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose before answering, then smiled at him. “Poetry.”

 

Jack walked her back to the B&B, and shuffled his feet at the door.

“I’m at the Historical Society most of the time during the week. If you need any more help.”

“Thank you.”

Hannah watched him from the front window, as he walked back to his cataloging with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Then she went to her room, got out her notebook, and wrote.

Not her thesis. She wrote some verses about a wild place haunted by memories, about burnt coffee in a retro diner, about a shy young man with dirt under his fingernails. She wrote the entire afternoon, and didn’t feel any guilt or particular urgency concerning her thesis.

When Craig called that evening, she let it ring. She would have to tell him, of course. Not now, not tonight. She rested on the bed and stared at the rock on her bedside table. She felt pleasantly drained after the afternoon’s work, satisfied and calm. She didn’t want to spoil it with a painful conversation with Craig. She closed her eyes.

 

The candles were lit, the children were finally sleeping, and Jonathan was working intently in his study. Annie hated to interrupt him while he was writing–she knew what that was like–but she thought it was time she showed him. In the morning, he’d be gone with the dawn, exploring and foraging, and she’d be elbow-deep in flour, baking the day’s bread with Agnes.

The child wriggled inside her as she approached the door, as if sensing her apprehension. She rubbed her swelling belly, as much to calm herself as the baby. She held the bound, loose pages under her other arm as she knocked quietly. She opened it before he answered and stood in the doorway.

“Jonathan? May I come in for a moment?”

He held up a hand as he continued to write with the other, finishing his thought before it fled like a startled bird. At any other time, he reminded her of a boy, with his shy smile, his excitement at showing her a new specimen for the greenhouse, his trembling caresses in the darkness of their bedroom. But with the pen in his hand, he was at his most solemn; his intensity frightened her sometimes. What came out of his pen could only be called sublime.

The line finished, he looked over his shoulder, as if waking from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I wanted to talk to you about something, something important.”

“Of course.” He took a deep breath and sat up straighter, gesturing for her to sit in the other chair next to the desk.

She lowered herself carefully, and then placed the bundled pages on the desk. “I believe it’s done.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re ready to show me?”

“Yes.” She’d been working on the poems since before the child took life within her. She hadn’t wanted to show him until they were done, lest she be influenced by any criticism he might mete out. His opinion was immensely important to her, and yet she knew he thought her writing as mere “womanly jottings”. Her heart beat with trepidation, and the child seemed to still with tense anxiety.

“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” he asked lightly, not wanting to wound, but irritated at having been interrupted for the sake of her lesser work.

“No,” she snapped, and then softening, she said, “Please, Jonathan.”

“All right,” he said, seeing her distress. He pulled the bundle closer and undid the strings of the binding.

She sat in an agony of suspense as she watched him take up the pages and read. At first his face was a mask of patronizing toleration. As his eyes moved over the lines and down the page, his expression changed to one of confusion and surprise. His brows knit together and the lines of his forehead only deepened as he continued; each page he finished was turned with an astonished impatience.

Annie perched on the edge of her chair, rubbing her belly, waiting. Finally, before he was even halfway through the bundle, he looked up at her, his eyes searching hers.

“You wrote these?”

“Of course I wrote them. You saw me writing them.”

“Annie, these are…well, they’re extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

The tension drained from her, and she allowed herself to smile at him. But he’d already gone back to the poems. Despite his words, his countenance seemed troubled as he read them.

“I understand they don’t have any recognizable form,” she said, feeling the need to explain. “I just wanted to free myself from traditional constraints and…well, see where my mind took me.”

“Indeed.” He continued to read, his knuckles pressed to his lips.

“What’s wrong? There’s something you want to say, isn’t there? Please say it, Jonathan. I want your honesty.”

He dropped the pages to the table and turned to her. “Annie, what you have written here…it’s brilliant. There’s no other word to describe it. But…”

“Yes?” The child kicked, painfully.

“Well, besides having no form–that, in itself, is rather unheard of–the subject matter, though undeniably powerful, is quite…intimate.”

“I simply wrote from my experience as a woman. Is that no less authentic than your own?”

He leaned toward her and took her hand. “Of course, darling. I’ve already said that I think they’re brilliant. Truly. And yet–matrimony, childbirth, and–” he cleared his throat–“physical desire. These things are, as I said, quite intimate and private, and perhaps–well, perhaps not a proper subject for poetry.”

She withdrew her hand from his. “What would you have me write about? The hills and valleys I’m not allowed to roam? The trees I’m not allowed to climb? The wider world I can’t participate in? The very stars I can’t reach, nor even see for the permanent roof over my head?”

He tried to reach for her hand. “Annie…”

She pulled away from him, wrapped her arms around her burgeoning belly. The child writhed inside her, agitated, as she was. “This is my reality–within these walls, within this body. I have nothing else to give, nothing else to offer the world.”

He made an impatient gesture. “Why must you offer anything to the world? Why can’t you just be my wife?”

She could see that he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but she was still speechless with rage. She stood and gathered the loose pages from the table, pressed the bundle to her chest and headed for the door.

“Annie, please. Wait.” He stood and reached out for her, his hand coming to clasp her arm.

She wrenched free of him with a violence she never knew she had; it had only simmered in the words she had scratched onto the pages in her arms, pages that now fell loose and fluttered to the floor in a messy heap.

“Look what you’ve done!” She knelt heavily and began picking up the pages, until a sharp pain in her belly took her breath away.

Jonathan crouched next to her. “Annie, please calm yourself. The baby.” He kept his voice steady, but there was fear in it, too.

“I’m all right,” she said, but another band of pain squeezed her abdomen, and she groaned. A warm gush between her legs signaled that she was not all right. She let the pages fall from her hands as she clutched her husband’s arm.

“Get the doctor. Oh god, hurry!”

 

Go here for Part 4 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

Dark Fens of Cedar (2)

Go here for Part 1 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

poet scroll

(2,800 words)

Hannah woke with the pain knifing through her hand. She sat up in the early morning darkness of her room in the B&B, straining to see her trembling hand before her. There was no blood, no wound, but the ache of it remained.

The dream had been so vivid, so real. She remembered the poet’s lips on her own, felt the rock in her hand as it cut her flesh. Her flesh. She’d dreamed she was Annie Eldridge. She laughed shakily. She’d been working on this thesis for nearly a year now. Perhaps she was getting too involved with her subject. Her brain was mixing up the rock with her research and her new interest in Annie, along with her fear (yes, she admitted it to herself) of becoming a wife.

It was only when she was soaping up in the shower that it occurred to her: in the dream, Annie had been writing before she was interrupted by Jonathan. Writing what? She said she’d been “working”. It didn’t mean anything, of course. It was just a dream. But what if…?

None of the books she’d encountered or any online research suggested that Annie had been a writer or poet. Never a whisper of it. By all accounts, Annie had been the supporting, loving wife and muse to Jonathan Mason Eldridge III. Her death had sent him into spirals of grief, a sort of permanent mourning that caused him to withdraw from public life, which had always been tenuous, at best.

The library had nothing left to offer her. The librarian suggested there may be some source material on Eldridge at the River Valley Historical Society, just a few blocks away. Hannah walked down the residential streets that bloomed with lilac and flowering dogwood, inhaling their scent on the warm breeze and trying to understand the excitement that buzzed in her belly, that odd sense of familiarity that tapped on her shoulder as she approached the brick-red Victorian style building.

The door held a simple sign that read River Valley Historical Society. She wasn’t sure if she should knock or just open the door and go in. She shrugged and turned the knob. The heavy door opened with a slight creak, into a darkened hallway that ran straight through to the other side of the building. Doorways to other rooms ran along either side of it, spilling light into the shadowy corridor. Immediately to her right was a staircase leading to an upper level.

“Hello?” she called into the quiet.

A stirring down the hallway, and then a head emerged from one of the doorways.

“Um, yes, hello, can I help you?” A young man, with slightly disheveled dark hair and wire rim glasses, stood half-in, half-out of the room, holding rolled up scrolls that he held to his sweater-vested chest like an armful of kittens.

“I was wondering if you had any information here on an nineteenth-century local poet, Jonathan Mason Eldridge? Do you know him?”

“Oh, Eldridge, yes, of course.” He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose while awkwardly holding the scrolls. “Just let me, um..”

“Let me help you.” Hannah approached him and took a few scrolls from him.

“Thank you.” He flashed her a smile that reminded her of Eldridge’s grin at Annie in the dream last night. It disoriented her a little, but then she was following him into the room whose door was labeled “Map Room”.

He emptied the scrolls onto a large mahogany desk near the window, and so she placed her few scrolls there as well. The room was filled with cabinets and chests of drawers, and a few glass cases where some very old maps were displayed.

“I was just re-cataloging and re-assigning,” he explained apologetically, as if she was about to scold him for it. “Some of these items haven’t been touched in years.”

“I see.”

They stood regarding each other for a few moments, and she was about to speak when he clapped his hands together.

“So, Eldridge! What kind of information are you looking for, exactly?”

“Well, I’m not sure, really. I’m writing my graduate thesis on him, and the local library doesn’t have anything new to offer. I thought you might have something a little more personal, like journals or letters?”

“Sure, we’ve got a few things like that. Let’s go to the Eldridge Room and take a look.”

“You have an Eldridge Room?”

He smiled that oddly familiar grin again. “Most famous poet in town. Have you been to the tower?” He led her out of the room and up the darkened, winding stairs to the upper rooms.

“Yes. It’s a wonderful view.”

“Especially this time of year. I go up there myself now and again, just to sit a bit and think about things.” It was too dim to see if he blushed, but he sounded embarrassed by his words. “Here we are,” he said briskly, ushering her into a smaller room just at the top of the stairs.

Its door indeed said “Eldridge Room”, and held some Victorian period chairs and tables. Some landscapes by Turner lined the walls, as well as a portrait of Eldridge himself. Some smaller, grainier photographs of the poet, Annie and their children, Robert and Elizabeth, decorated the wall near the lace curtained windows. The third child had died with Annie, and was posthumously named Sarah. A bookshelf held various editions of the poet’s work and several biographies she’d already read. A display case beneath glass chronicled the building of the stone tower in 1912, which replaced the earlier wooden structure erected in 1895 that had been destroyed by fire.

“Over here we have a few original manuscripts,” her guide said, gesturing toward another display on the other side of the room.

Hannah leaned over the glass to see some handwritten drafts of Eldridge’s poems. She’d seen a few facsimiles of his writing before, but what she was looking for now was a sample of Annie’s writing. She seemed to remember an elongated and looping script from her dream. If she could somehow match it to an actual piece of writing from Annie–well, what would that prove? It was just a dream. But she felt there was something deeper at work here. If she found a match, that meant she somehow knew what Annie’s handwriting looked like. And that Annie had been writing something more than recipes or grocery lists.

“Do you have anything of Annie’s?” she asked. “Letters, lists, anything with her writing?” Even though the dream was blurry, and she couldn’t remember any specific words, Hannah felt sure she would recognize the writing itself.

“The wife? I think so.” He wandered over to the bookshelf. “There are no surviving letters or such that I know about, but she wrote something in one of her husband’s books. A personal note or dedication, I think.” He pulled a big, leather-bound book off the shelf and brought it over to a small writing table near the window. Flora and Fauna of Northeast America, second edition, 1850. He opened the book carefully, and pointed to an inscription on the inside cover:

To my dearest Jonathan–so you may name the birds and beasts of your beloved home. May your rustic wanderings bear fruit in the knowing. Your Annie.

Hannah peered closely at the writing. She couldn’t be sure, of course. This was all based on a dream. But she thought–perhaps somehow she even knew–this was the writing she’d seen in the dream.

“Does that help you at all?” The young man’s voice pulled her out of her reverie.

“Yes, thank you.” She leafed distractedly through the book. Beautiful color illustrations of native birds, trees, flowers, bugs, reptiles and small mammals of New England popped out from the delicate pages.

“I understand he cherished this book,” her guide said.

“Hmmm,” she replied, closing the book. “Nothing else of Annie’s?”

“Not that I know of. Is your thesis on Annie, rather than the poet?”

“Both, really,” she said, and with the words, knew it was now true. Wherever her thesis had been going before, it was going in a different direction now. Annie had to be a part of it, although in what capacity, she wasn’t sure yet. She was operating on a hunch, a feeling. A dream.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. If there’s anything I can help you with, I’ll be downstairs in the Map Room. Re-cataloging.”

“And re-assigning.” She smiled at him as he blushed. “My name is Hannah, by the way.” She held out her hand.

“Jack.”

“Thank you, Jack.” She noticed incongruent half-circles of dirt underneath his fingernails as he shook her hand.

When he left, she puttered around the room, read the displays, flipped through the books on the shelf. There was really nothing here that could be of use to her. She looked again at the inscription in the leather-bound book, willing words to form themselves in her mind, words written by Annie in her dream, in this handwriting. She had known them in her dream–a captured image–she had been Annie, after all–but they had slipped away upon waking.

She stood in front of the wall of photographs, studying the faces of the Eldridge family. The boy, Robert, looked to be about three years old, and the girl, Elizabeth, was barely out of infancy. Annie had died giving birth to Sarah in 1857; the photo was dated in the same year. The child was inside her when the photo was taken.

Hannah tried to picture herself in a similar family photo with Craig, with more color and smiles. She tried to picture herself as a mother, wiping runny noses, calming screaming babies, changing diapers, of incubating a human being inside her own body. She and Craig had talked about having children. Or rather, Craig had talked enthusiastically about it, as if it were a foregone conclusion, and she had nodded, and said, yes, when we’re done with school, when we’re settled in our careers, when we have a house in a nice suburb. After her first book of poems was published…always after some milestone was met, some future date when everything was perfect and the time was right. Inevitably, a deep maternal need would wash over her, and the yearning to be a mother would override anything else in her life. Wouldn’t it?

Of course it would. She and Craig would be happy and successful, she’d be the mother of his children and they’d live in a big, beautiful home.

A thought occurred to her, and she sought Jack in the Map Room. She found stacks of folders and a few open drawers, but he wasn’t there. She poked her head into every room along the corridor, but couldn’t find him. She was about to check the other rooms upstairs when a rustling outside, beyond an open window in the nearest room, caught her attention.

She followed the sound out the front door, around a corner of the building, to find Jack on his knees near a bed of tulips. He was pulling weeds, and watering the blooms with a green watering can. The sun glinted off the drops as they fell upon the bright petals.

He glanced up as she approached and set the watering can on the soft grass. As he stood, he brushed his pants self-consciously.

“Oh, um, hello again, can I help you?”

His awkwardness was endearing; she was used to Craig’s confidence and bold manner. “Are you the gardener, too?”

His cheeks pinked in another blush. “I like to tinker around in the garden.”

“They’re beautiful.” Tulips always reminded her of some lollipop garden in a Willy Wonka fantasyland. She knew nothing of plants or gardens. She and Craig would have to hire a gardener for that big lovely house they were going to live in.

Which reminded her of her question. “Do you happen to know where Eldridge and his family lived here in town? Is their house still standing?”

“Yeah, I mean, the house is long gone, but I know where it used to be. I could show you. If you want.”

“Is it very far? I’m on foot, unless you have a car.” She’d taken the train in from Boston, on a newly open line that went straight through River Valley.

“It’s only about a fifteen minute walk from here. I can show you, if you want,” he said again.

“Okay, that’d be great.”

“Just let me lock up.” He went around to the front door and locked it from the inside, then pulled out a sign that read “Back at” with a picture of a clock and moving red hands. He moved the hands until they read 12:30, and looped the sign around the door knob.

“I’ll just take my lunch break early.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t want to take up your break time–”

“No, it’s fine. I usually just take a walk anyway, buy a sandwich at the Korner Kitchenette.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Absolutely. I haven’t been up that way for a while. It’ll be nice.” Despite his words, his smile seemed forced. She followed him out onto the sidewalk.

He led her along a few quiet residential streets, until they came to the town’s Main Street, which was beginning to buzz with lunchtime traffic.

“How long have you lived in River Valley?” she asked, trying to make polite conversation.

“Born and raised,” he replied, not quite making eye contact, as if he was embarrassed at his answer.

“It’s a nice little town,” she said, attempting to put him at ease for some reason. It reminded her of her hometown in Vermont, though River Valley was a bit bigger, busier. She couldn’t imagine having never left it. She had counted down the days to her high school graduation, and left for Boston practically the next day for a summer job on campus.

“It’s actually considered a city now,” Jack said. “The charter was changed a few years ago.”

“City, huh? Eldridge would turn over in his grave at the idea.”

“I suppose he would.”

They climbed a hill leading away from the center of town, to a road that led to the tower. Her B&B was just down a side road from where they were. They passed the tower road, crested the hill, and walked down a wooded, dead-end gravel lane that held several upscale homes that looked out over River Valley. The lane terminated in a loop that sent the traveler back from where they came. Beyond the loop stood a small, empty field that also looked out over the town. Or city, rather, with its small conglomeration of schools, hospital, steepled churches, and businesses. Past the town were squares of fields and farms.

“Well, here it is,” Jack announced, stopping and surveying the plot and its view, shading his eyes against the midday glare.

Hannah took a few steps forward, taking it all in. Here, Jonathan and Annie had lived and loved and died; children had been birthed and poetry had been written. Now, there was nothing but the wind through the sparse trees where birds sang and crickets chirped. Perhaps Eldridge would have liked it that way.

“What happened to the house?” She could just make out the buried foundation stones beneath the wind-blown grass.

“Fire, long after Eldridge died. The house was empty, the children had gone to live with family in Boston by then.”

“Who owns the property now?”

“A charitable trust, I think. Eldridge’s family had no use or interest in it. It’s remained empty ever since.”

Hannah walked in further, and after a few moments, Jack followed her. Besides the weedy suggestion of the foundation, no trace of the house remained. A sadness overcame her, at the impermanence of things, of lives reduced to history lessons, of foundations buried in the dirt. She wasn’t sure where this melancholy came from, or the sudden tears that welled in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked beside her, a hand reaching out, not quite touching her.

She hastily wiped the tears away, embarrassed, surprised, and not a little confused. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.” She laughed, but it sounded forced even in her own ears. “I guess I’m a little sentimental about my subject.”

“No, I totally get it. I mean, sometimes when I come up here, I feel it, too.” He looked around, at the whispering trees, the weedy grass, the clouds scudding across the blue expanse of sky. “Kind of like…not ghosts, exactly…like the presence of memories I can’t remember.”

She felt the truth of his words, and wondered at it.

He tore his eyes away from the horizon and found hers. A question formed in his countenance, and then he shook his head, as if to clear it. He shrugged in his sheepish way. “Do you want to get a coffee or something?”

 

Go here for Part 3 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

 

Dark Fens of Cedar (1)

This story is based on an idea I had nearly a year and a half ago, based on a writing prompt calling for a local landmark and a special (maybe magical) stone. Here’s what I came up with (it turned out to be a long short story, and so I will post it in parts here this week).

*Please note that my fictional poet of Jonathan Mason Eldridge III is based on a real poet named Frederick Goddard Tuckerman, whose sonnets appear here in the story. All other details concerning my character of Eldridge are wholly my own creation.

 

poet stone

(2,500 words)

The tower was at the top of a forested hill that overlooked the town. Hannah hiked up the cracked pavement of the road, enjoying the spring morning. May in New England could be a glorious time, and she understood why Eldridge would have come here to write his poetry.

Boston seemed further away than the three hour train trip it was, and she was just beginning to feel giddy with freedom when the text dinged on her phone: Hey Beautiful, Mother wants to know when ur coming back, she’ll be in Italy in 2 wks, wants to tlk about the wedding. Fall will b here sooner than u think!

Leave it to Craig to ask her when she’ll be back on her first day here. Hannah slipped the phone back into her pocket without answering. She didn’t want to think about fall right now; she was absorbed in the flowering of spring all around her. The citrine light seeping through the canopy, the silence that wasn’t silent, as the maples exchanged breezy secrets with the oaks. The warm air hung heavy with earth and pine. She wanted to take out her notebook and pen a poem right now, but she was here to research Eldridge, not emulate him.

The tower loomed above, with windows cut into its brown stone, open to the wind that flapped the American flag at its top. She stopped at its base and caught her breath, looking out over the low wall in front of it at the small town of River Valley below. It had been even less developed one hundred and fifty years ago, when Eldridge left Boston for “the country”. He left his law degree behind to come here and write his poems, study botany and astronomy, and marry Annie, who gave him two children. An ideal life, though not one untouched by tragedy.

She circled the base of the tower and traced her finger along the brass plaque inscribed with the words:

Poet’s Seat Tower

Erected 1912 in honor of

Jonathan Mason Eldridge III

A Romantic poet who often came here

To write his sonnets, inspired by

The natural beauty of the area.

 

She entered the base and climbed the stairwell that led to succeeding levels that grew smaller the higher one went; it looked like a rook on a chess board. At the wind-whipped pinnacle, where the flag snapped on its shuddering pole, she splayed her palms on top of the scratchy stone wall, fighting vertigo. She’d never liked heights.

She remembered the time Craig convinced her to go to the top of the Prudential Building back in the city. She was of the opinion that buildings shouldn’t actually sway in the wind. Or at least, that she shouldn’t be inside said building. Craig had gotten angry when she threw up, right there in front of the tourists and other visitors.

Appearances were important to Craig. She’d written a secret poem about the experience called Not so prudent at the Prudential.

She quickly made her way back down the stair case to solid ground. The tower had been built long after Eldridge died. He likely wrote his poems somewhere nearby, leaning back against a warm rock in the sun. She wandered off on a worn path to the right that led to a rocky ledge along the ridge of the hill. She imagined Eldridge sitting here, notebook open across his dusty trousers, the collar of his shirt loosened against the summer heat.

Thin little leaves of wood fern, ribbed and toothed

Long curved sail needles of the green pitch pine,

With common sandgrass, skirt the horizon line,

And over these the incorruptible blue!

Her let me gently lie and softly view

All world asperities, lightly touched and smoothed

As by his gracious hand, the great Bestower.

What though the year be late? Some colors run

Yet through the day, some links of melody

Still let me be, by such, assuaged and soothed

And happier made, as when, our school day done,

We hunted on from flower to frosty flower,

Tattered and dim, the last red butterfly,

Or the old grasshopper, molasses-mouthed.

 

Hannah understood and commiserated with Eldridge’s nostalgia for the freedom and joy of his youth in nature. Lately she felt as if she were trapped in a box, miles and years away from her childhood in rural Vermont.

She sat and plucked the grass beside her, lost in thoughts of chasing butterflies and grasshoppers. She looked out to the east, where Craig waited impatiently for her to answer his text. The trees whispered behind her, and she looked over her shoulder. Just the wind, but her imaginative mind thought it had recognized words in the air. She suddenly felt the urge to leave the ridge and go into the woods, to search for the source.

She left the view and followed the trail that led deeper into the wooded hill. The brown leaves and pine needles of the past autumn crunched under her boots. Crows flapped and yelled somewhere ahead, drowning out the sweet whistle of the sparrows. The trail curved, the forest thickened with fern and laurel, and the canopy above closed against the bright spring sun. She stopped and listened. Wind like words in the gathering gloom. She stepped off the trail, waded through weeds and underbrush, found herself in a cloistered glen of cedar leaf and bark. Dim, still, silent.

Hannah stood in the center of this arboreal eye of stillness, listening to her breath. Something seemed to throb here beneath the earth, a heartbeat pulsing under her feet. She knelt and pressed her hand against the cold dirt. Nothing. Just a stone nearby, the size of golf ball, angular white quartz with veins of pink and gold. Pretty. She closed her hand around it, feeling its sharp edges. In the space of a blink, an image came unbidden to her mind–someone giving her the rock. A male hand placing it into her soft palm. Then it was gone.

Her phone rang into the silence, its vintage ring like a scream. She dropped the rock and answered it without thinking.

“Hey, you get my text?” Craig’s voice, travelling across the miles, pursuing her.

“Um, yeah, a few minutes ago. Aren’t you on rounds?” He was in the last month of his residency. They were to be married as soon as he finished, in the fall. And once she finished her thesis on Jonathan Mason Eldridge III.

“Had a minute, thought I’d check in. How’s the research going? The library there any help?”

“Haven’t been there yet. I’m at the tower, or near it, where he composed some of his sonnets.”

“Didn’t know you went there to go hiking,” he muttered. In her shocked pause, he continued, “Best get on it, love. Mother wants to go over dinner menus and the guest list.”

When she found her voice, she said, “Well, Mother is just going to have to wait.” She hung up and shut her phone off. Her hands trembled with her anger, and she rubbed them briskly against her thighs. She spied the stone she’d dropped, and picked it up. It glittered in her palm, strange and familiar at once. She slipped it into the front pocket of her jeans, where it seemed to emit a heat she couldn’t explain.

She looked around the glen, at its shadows and damp earthy corners. What am I doing here? She hurried away, scrambling through branches that whipped her as she passed, and followed the trail back to the ridge and light. She had work to do; it was time she got to it.

 

The River Valley Public Library was ridiculously small compared the vast caverns of the University library, but it had a section devoted to local notables, including Eldridge. Most of the books that surrounded Hannah at the table in the back didn’t tell her anything she already didn’t know: a true Romantic, his slim volume of sonnets featured nature and the individual’s subjective response to it, filtered through the lens of emotion and nostalgia. He studied law in Boston, but abandoned that vocation and his prominent family to come here to River Valley and write his poetry, build his greenhouse and raise a family with Annie, a native of the area and a merchant’s daughter. He had always been a bit of a recluse, but after Annie died giving birth to their third child, his grief drove him to further isolation. Over the years he’d had some contact with Tennyson and other notable poets of the time, who admired his work, but apart from the single volume published in 1860, his poetry never gained traction or a national audience.

Hannah hoped her thesis on the almost-famous poet would give him the attention he deserved. And open doors to a teaching career that seemed increasingly unpalatable to her.

The rock in her pocket had an almost magnetic affect on her. Her hand kept straying to it, distracting her from her reading. Every time her fingers closed on it, that familiar feeling intensified, and that flash of receiving it from that male hand blinked through her mind.

She tried to ignore it as she leafed through the old books, determined to find something new, an angle to Eldridge never considered before, another lens through which to view him.

She found a wedding photo of the poet and Annie, and peered at their serious faces. They looked as if they were embarking on a funeral procession rather than the beginning of their lives as man and wife. And yet, it was a serious business back then, matrimony and childbirth. Marriage was for life; once committed, there was no going back. And childbirth was a bloody undertaking–it could take life as well as give it, as Annie and Jonathan would find out, to their sorrow.

From what Hannah understood from the biographies, it was a love match. She focused on Annie’s face, looking for clues: did she have doubts? Was she afraid? Did she ever wish for other options? Or did her grave expression mask a sublime joy that a camera could never capture?

A bride-to-be was a skittery thing. Hannah wished she could see into Annie’s heart. Maybe it would help her discover what lived in her own.

 

The bed and breakfast stood at the foot of the hill where the tower was located. A refurbished Victorian building, it had small, narrow doorways, uneven floors, and charming gables. Hannah finished up a few notes on her laptop, then flopped on the bed and wondered if she should call Craig.

Checking her phone, she read the last few texts from him:

10:35-What the hell Hannah?

12:02-Are u getting cold feet? Is that it?

3:15-Look, I was tired. U know what this rotation does to me. And how Mother hounds me.

5:20-I’m sorry. I miss u. Call me.

In spite of herself, she felt a little sorry for him. She dialed his number.

Craig’s sleepy voice answered on the fourth ring. “Hey.”

“You were sleeping. Sorry, I should have known.”

“It’s okay.” He sighed. “Look, Hanny, I was a jerk. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. You have every right to be there. Your work is just important as mine.”

“Your mother doesn’t think so.”

He gave a little laugh. “Kitty thinks a wife is a diamond-studded platform for her husband to stand on.”

She smiled. For Craig, that was fairly poetic. “And what do you think a wife is?”

“A friend. A lover. A partner. Do you still want to be mine?”

“Of course I do. I love you.”

“I love you too, babe. Take as long as you need. Hike as many hills as you want. Channel Eldridge through those country air molecules, if you must. Mother can wait.”

She laughed, but there was some weird unease in it as she fingered the rock in her pocket, an unease she couldn’t explain. She promised Craig she’d call him tomorrow evening, then placed the rock on the bedside table. It gazed at her like some igneous eyeball, and it took her some time to fall asleep.

 

“Annie, come see what I brought you!”

“I’m working, darling.” She wished he wouldn’t shout. The children were napping, and once they awoke, she’d be called back to duty and away from the image that was just beginning to coalesce on the page. Her ink-stained fingers paused above the parchment, and she bristled a bit as her husband came bustling down the hallway. He had returned earlier than expected. She’d have to abandon the work for another day.

He peeked his head into her room and smiled that boyish grin that had so captured her heart. “It’ll take just a moment.”

She suppressed her sigh and smiled back at him, then put her finger to her lips to shush him.

He nodded and held out his hand. “Come see,” he said quietly.

She set down her pen and smoothed her skirts as she rose. He pulled her down the darkened hallway like an excited child to the sunny kitchen, where his overstuffed satchel sat on the tiled floor. He knelt and searched through it, carefully circumnavigating the stalks and sprigs of green that stuck out of it like wild hair. Specimens for the greenhouse, no doubt.

“Ah, here it is.” He stood and took her hand, and placed something hard and small into it. A white rock sparkled with veins of pink and gold in the sunlight. Not completely round, it was angular, with several sharp points.

“When I saw it, I thought of you,” he said. “Beautiful, but sharp. If you close your fist around it too tightly, it might cut you.” He met her eyes with his dark ones. “One can never fully possess such perfection.”

“Jonathan,” she murmured. He always did this to her. Any annoyance or resentment was instantly dissolved by his words, his touch, his shy smile.

He came closer, cupping her hands into his, careful not to press her skin too tightly against the stone. “Tell me our love will be as eternal as this rock.”

“I promise, love.” His lips were near, asking. She answered by pressing her own against them. Her body responded; she was nearly helpless against it. The children were still sleeping, Agnes, their housekeeper, was still at the market in town. Perhaps there was time…

His arms came up and around her as the kiss deepened. As he clutched her to him, her hands pressed against her chest. The rock, still in her palm, punctured her skin with one of its points, drawing blood.

 

Hannah woke with pain knifing into her hand.

 

Go here for Part 2 of Dark Fens of Cedar.

 

 

 

 

Mine

cotton candy

(3,000 words)

When I think of Grace, I try to remember that she loved me. She did love me. It’s been so long, I sometimes wonder if she’d been real, if I’d only dreamed her. But no, it was she who had the dream.

Curled up under the covers of her bed, her little vibrating body pressed against me, her breath warm in my ear.

“I love you, Mommy.” She said she dreamed they would take her away.

“Who?”

“The sky people. They want me.”

I kissed her freckled nose. “I don’t blame them. But I won’t let them take you, I promise. You’re mine. Anyway, it was just a dream. Okay?”

“I told them I wouldn’t go without you. I told them.”

“Okay,” I hushed. “Go to sleep now. We’ll go to the carnival tomorrow, and we’ll have so much fun. You’ll see.”

“They said I was special. That they needed me,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Of course you are. I need you, too, so you’re not going anywhere. Okay?” Her silky hair through my fingers, my lips against her smooth forehead.

But she was asleep, and I stayed in the bed with her, breathing in her scent, imbibing her warmth, memorizing the feel of her in my arms. Mine.

 

Grace wanted cotton candy, but I dragged her to the ice cream stand instead. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I’d just let her have that damn cotton candy. I don’t know. But when I turned back from handing over the cash to the girl behind the counter, Grace was being led away by another woman. The stranger’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but Grace looked up at her with a smile, reaching out for the fluffy pink candy being offered to her.

“Grace?” Alarm made my voice harsh. The two were several feet away from me. My daughter didn’t seem to hear me as the woman lured her away.

“Grace!” I started to move forward.

“Ma’am, your change,” the counter girl said, holding out coins and dollar bills.

“Keep it.” I threw the ice cream cones onto the dusty ground and lurched toward them, but the crowds moved in, their laughter somehow sinister and leering as I lost sight of them. I shoved past people, not caring if they fell, ignoring their angry complaints.

I couldn’t see them. I stopped and pivoted, scanning desperately for my child. The world spun and careened around me; the whoosh of the rides, the screaming of those who rode them, the scents of the grease and sugar and cooking meat, the warbling carnival music, all assaulted my senses.

Please. Please. PLEASE!

Then a glimpse of blonde curls, the flash of pink candy. I surged forward and they were right in front of me, the woman’s hand on my daughter’s back. A space cleared around them, and the noise of the carnival faded as my head buzzed. I wanted to run to Grace, take her in my arms, rip her away from that stranger, that kidnapper, but my limbs refused to move. The buzz in my head grew louder as the woman turned to look at me.

My own face stared at me across that fathomless space.

The buzzing stopped abruptly and the voice–not my own–sounded inside my head, though my doppelganger’s lips didn’t move.

“We’ll teach her what she needs to learn.”

The buzz returned, louder, so deafening I clamped my ears with my hands, squeezed my eyes shut, but it was inside my head and I couldn’t escape it.

But she’s mine! I wanted to hurl the words like daggers, but the scream remained inside me, my voice strangled.

When the buzzing stopped and I opened my eyes, they were gone. Pink cotton candy melted in the sun in a sugary puddle.

 

I described Grace to the police: six years old, blonde curly hair, blue eyes (the color of the sky), her weight and height. Freckles. Wearing jeans and light up sneakers, a Dora the Explorer shirt. I dug out a recent school picture from my wallet. Her gap-toothed smile sent waves of pain through me.

They asked me again to describe the woman who took her.

“Well, she looked like me.”

“In what way?”

“In every way. She was…well, she was me. But the voice wasn’t mine.”

“Voice?”

“It said they would teach her what she needs to learn.”

The officer and the sketch artist glanced at each other.

“Grace told me last night they wanted her,” I went on, rocking in the hard-backed chair in the police station, wringing tissue in my hands to shreds, tears clotting my throat. “She said they told her she was special. What does that even mean?”

The officer leaned in. “Who told her?”

“The sky people. In the dream. Oh god, she dreamed they’d take her, and I promised her I wouldn’t let them. I promised her.”

Her absence was a stone in my heart. Every hour, every minute she was gone caused it to grow heavier, denser, so that nothing could escape it. Watching those shows about space on the science channel, I could never grasp the concept of a black hole–so much matter compressed into such a small space, its gravitational pull so strong not even light could escape. My brain couldn’t comprehend, but my heart understood it now. My grief would always absorb everything around it. There would never be anything else.

“Sky people?” The officer’s pen remained poised above his notebook, and I sensed my mistake.

“Please find her,” I begged.

An Amber Alert went out, flyers were posted, a flurry of Facebook appeals were sent. Search parties formed and fanned out in a five-mile radius from where she went missing. Grace’s father flew in from Florida, raging and weeping and shouting at the authorities: Find her, find my little girl! You need more officers out there, you need to keep looking, damn you, damn you!

It was only a matter of time before he unleashed his fear and anger on me. He stood at the end of my bed, where I lay silent and unmoving. Valium made his words echo in my head.

“How could you let this happen? This is your fault. You lost her. You lost our child!”

I let his words fall over me like burning embers. I lost her. They took her. I lost her. They took her.

“I knew I should have pressed harder for custody,” he continued. “If she’d been with me, if she’d been mine, this never would have happened.”

Maybe he was right. But maybe they would have taken her anyway. None of it mattered. No matter how many forests were combed, no matter how many bodies of water were drained or dredged, they’d never find her.

Grace was nowhere on this earth anymore.

 

In the first mental facility, two years after Grace disappeared, I spent hours writing down everything I could remember about her. I filled notebooks describing her habits and quirks: how she picked her nose while she watched television, the way her tongue stuck out while she was concentrating on something, how she hated the number five for no apparent reason.

Her favorite subjects at school were art and math. I detailed every art project she’d ever done. Her artwork was imaginative and colorful, but nothing out of the ordinary for a six-year old. How she knew her times tables at four years old and was just wading into long division. She wasn’t exactly a math prodigy, but she had a facility. I was searching for reasons they might have taken her. Why my child? Outside of being precious to me, what was so remarkable about her? I wrote more detailed physical descriptions, suddenly remembering a star-like birthmark on the back of her left hand that now suggested to me she might have been marked in some way.

I didn’t stop writing even when the doctor came in to talk to me for our appointed hour everyday. She watched me behind her large-frame glasses, her own notebook resting on her lap, her pen ready to jot down the occasional note.

“Are the meds working?” she asked.

“I’m sleeping better. Not as many nightmares.”

“Good. What are you writing about today?”

“Grace’s hands.” I didn’t look up from the notebook.

“Anything particular about her hands?”

“No.” I wasn’t going to mention the star birthmark. She’d nod in that knowing way of hers, scribble her notes. I was a fascinating case on how the human mind copes: the mother who lost her daughter, who insisted her child had been taken by “sky people”. The mother who couldn’t face reality–that Grace had more than likely been raped and murdered and left in some ditch somewhere, or that she’d been sold into some sex-trafficking ring. Far better to go with the “abducted by aliens” theory.

“May I read it?”

“No.”

Several minutes of silence as she watched me. I waited for the question I knew she’d ask.

“Would you like to talk about the sky people today?”

“No.” Same questions, same answers. I wondered if they’d release me soon simply out of boredom.

Then: “Is this your way of keeping Grace alive?”

I stopped writing mid-sentence and looked over at her for the first time.

“Grace is alive. She’s just…not here.”

 

After my second stint in rehab, I quit the pills for good and reached out. I read every book I could get my hands on about alien abduction. I joined an online support group for those who believed their loved ones had been taken. I gathered all the notebooks I had filled in the mental facility and shaped them into a memoir called Falling from Grace. The book became known in alien conspiracy circles, and Grace’s story was even mentioned on an episode of a prominent TV show on the subject.

When the book was published, Grace’s father called from Florida.

“Are you serious? You’ve turned the memory of our daughter into a freak show. A joke.” Voices in the background, childish babble, a baby crying. He and his young wife had just welcomed their third child.

“I know you don’t understand, but I have to do this.”

“She’s been gone for ten years. You need to let her go. Indulging in your crazy fantasies won’t help.”

Let her go? They took her from me. All I have left is her memory, and the truth. I’ll never let those things go. They’re mine.

I hung up on him and gazed out the window at the night sky. I hated the stars for their cold silence. I loved them because they were my only link to what I had lost.

 

In the second mental facility, my sometime lover came to see me when I could have visitors. He stared at the bandages on my wrists with barely constrained anger.

“After all you’ve been through, after all you’ve done and accomplished, this? Really?”

I stared at the white wall and said nothing.

“The group needs you. We’ve just gotten permission to interview the Evans girl. This is big. It’s important. We need you there.”

The Evans girl. Taken when she was four years old. Then last year, ten years after her disappearance, suddenly found in her parents’ backyard, as if dropped there straight from the sky. A joyous reunion with her parents, apparently all in one piece, but no information on her mental state, what she remembered, where she’d been. A ripple of excitement in the Fourth Kind community, and after what we considered an appropriate amount of time, pressed for first interview rights. I ran the newsletter for our group, and had every intention of conducting that interview. Beth Evans was a beacon of hope for those of us who still waited for our loved ones to come home. But as time passed and the phone call giving permission didn’t come, my hope turned to bitter resentment. I hated Beth Evans for coming back, I hated her parents for getting to see her again, after only ten years. Grace had been gone for two decades. Why Beth and not Grace?

“Did you hear me? The Evans family is ready to speak. Now get out of this bed and let’s get to Arizona for that interview.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, my voice a raw whisper.

“How can you say that? It’s what we’ve been waiting for.”

I turned to him, my own anger rising. “It’s not what I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been waiting all these years for Grace to come back, and now I understand that she’s never coming back and I’ll never know why she was taken and it doesn’t matter what the Evans girl says because she’s not Grace, she’s not mine. I don’t care what what happened to her and it doesn’t matter what I’ve done and what I’ve so-called accomplished, she’s never ever coming back and there’s no point in living with this constant, unbearable pain anymore.” I turned away from him, the stone in my heart as heavy, as crushing as ever.

His contempt bore into my back. “You think you’re the only one who’s suffered, don’t you? You think I haven’t thought about ending it all? I think about Henry every single day. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know if he’ll ever come back. But if I can honor him by simply being alive and reminding people that he was here, that he lived and was loved and will never be forgotten, then by God, that’s what I’m going to do.”

His chair scraped as he got up and went to the door. Before he left, he added, “What if Grace does come back and you’re not here? She’ll suffer the same pain you’re going through now. Is that what you want?”

The door closing behind him wasn’t loud, but it was final. I’d never see him again. A terrible relief flooded through me. I couldn’t shoulder his grief anymore, and I couldn’t shoulder mine, either. It had nearly broken me.

He was right. I couldn’t take the chance. If Grace ever did come back, I had to be here, and I had to be whole.

 

I didn’t see it on the news when it happened. I was out in the garden, planting. I’d never been much of a gardener before, but I wanted to spend my last few years on this earth making things grow. The arthritis made it difficult sometimes, but plunging those achy hands into the cool earth soothed me.

Sometimes I thought of Grace as I worked. Sometimes I didn’t. There were times now where I could go whole days without thinking about her. It had taken me a long time to accomplish that without guilt. I’d filled those days with work at the library (books having been my first love, before Grace) until I retired. Now I spent my time reading, meditating, volunteering at the animal shelter, tending my own brood of house cats. And now gardening. I never thought I’d be very good at it, but it turns out I’d found my calling as I coaxed life out of the earth.

I had a patch of herbs, and a little plot for tomatoes and cucumbers and beans, but my pride and joy was the flower garden. Brief explosions of beauty in their season, and then gone. But not forever. Things lived, things died, and then things lived again. Soon I would die. Maybe I would see Grace again, and maybe I wouldn’t. She wasn’t mine, not for a long time now. She belonged to the universe, or God, or whatever one believes is larger than ourselves. I had to let her go to do the great things I believed she was doing, what whatever it is they had taught her.

She wasn’t mine, but my love and pride and great joy in her would always belong to me.

My knees hurt as I bent over the spaded earth. Time to go in for tea. I used the cane to push myself up, and hobbled into the house that I’ve lived alone in for decades. The wall monitor droned on about some big news. My hearing wasn’t what it used to be, and I ignored it anyway. Who could bear to face the latest horrible thing in the world? But it was my only company these days, besides the cats. I put the kettle on (I still liked to make tea the old fashioned way) and settled at the kitchen table as Ollie, my big Maine Coon, rubbed against my tired legs. I bent over to scratch him between the ears, and my eyes flicked over to the monitor. That’s when I saw it.

The ship was massive, hovering over the city like some giant insect. Thousands of people lined the streets, looking up and pointing. Flashing lights and sirens everywhere, shouting, breathless reporters yelling into the cameras. Words scrolled across the screen at top and bottom:

Historic moment as UFO appears…President will make her statement soon, appeals for calm…No word from otherworldly visitors yet; long-missing children suddenly come home: connection?..Friend or foe?

The kettle whistled and then shrieked, but I didn’t hear it. The stone in my heart, the black hole that had nearly sucked me into oblivion, collapsed into a supernova, and I clutched at my chest and fell from my chair.

 

Ollie licked my face, and I opened my eyes. Early morning light filtered through the blinds of my bedroom window, and a warm spring breeze fluttered the curtains. I’d been dreaming of Grace. We had been at that long-ago carnival, eating cotton candy and riding the merry-go-round. Our sticky fingers gripped the poles, and she laughed as her purple-maned horse went up and down, up and down.

Someone sat next to me on the bed. A woman with curly blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. As I focused on her face, she smiled.

“Mom,” she said.

 

 

 

 

Dear Internet

Dear Internet,

I love you. You must know this, considering all the hours I while away in your company. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Facebook, I could scroll through your memes, family photos and videos forever. Pinterest, my fandoms knows no rest with you. YouTube, music old and new sends me into ecstasies. WordPress, I blog to my heart’s content, and convince myself I’m “writing”. As an introvert, I can make connections and feel a part of something in a way I never could before. You coddle and console me. I’m grateful, I really am.

But afterward, I feel kind of empty. Cheap. Guilty. I long for a more satisfying relationship, one that makes me feel more grounded and authentic, one that doesn’t leave me feeling as if I’m wasting my time. In truth, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about another media: pen and paper. I can’t help it. We used to have something real, and then I drifted away, lured by your flashy entertainment and empty calories. I can actually feel my brain shrinking, the cells atrophying from lack of use. I grew up with pen and paper; we’re old friends. What I’m saying is, I’d like to see more of pen and paper in my life and less of you.

notebook-writing

Am I dumping you completely? I’m not saying that. I just think we need to separate for a while. It won’t be easy. God, you’re alluring. It will be hard to resist you. But I must, at least for my own sake.  Love has turned to obsession. I knew a line was being crossed when I began to feel anxious when I was away from you for too long. When I couldn’t check my useless emails, when I couldn’t see how many likes and comments my Facebook or WordPress posts accumulated. As if any of that matters. You made me think all that stuff was important, while what’s really important is the relationship between pen and paper and my own mind.

And really, there’s an ugly side of you I don’t like at all. I’m not just talking about trolls and fake news, although that’s a part of it. There’s a certain lack of both accountability and civility that repulses me. But I won’t get into that; what’s important is that I’m saying goodbye. But not forever. For better or for worse, you’re a part of everyone’s life now, and you have your uses. I just need to get some space to breathe, and figure out what that use is.

I’ll miss you. But I miss more the words and stories in my head that want to come out, but are unable to; they’re stopped up by your dominance over my time and mind. So I’m letting you go for the time being. I’ll come back to you when I feel stronger, more able to assert control over your addicting tendencies.

Au revoir for now,

Me

 

Words and Coffee

I prefer to write outside of my home. There are numerous reasons for this:

  • My apartment is small, and I don’t have a “room of one’s own” to write in; I often leave the house to get some privacy (even though I usually go to a place full of people!).
  • When the weather is nice, it’s hard to stay inside and write; when the beauty of the day calls to me, I’ll grab my notebooks and/or computer and walk to wherever it is I’ll write that day (and get a bit of exercise, too).
  • Often, I have cravings: Dunkin Donuts coffee. A chocolate and nut mix at the local co-op. Or there’s absolutely no food in the house, and I’m hungry. Why not go out and eat and drink and write?
  • There are too many distractions at home: my family, of course; a messy, dirty apartment that screams at me to clean it; the television, the phone, the refrigerator, the cat, noisy neighbors. Any number of things to take me away from my desk. Sometimes I write on my computer, but the internet is an alluring distraction–when that happens, I’ll grab just my notebook and get out of the house.
  • Natalie Goldberg, my early writing influence, told me to write in different places, and so that’s what I did, and that’s what I still do. It’s what I’m used to. Although I don’t write in laundromats, as she suggested.

coffee and writing

So where do I go to write? Here are my favorite spots in my town:

  • Greenfield’s Market. My local co-op is a place I’ve been writing in for close to twenty years now. It’s easily my favorite spot; there’s good food and drink, free wi-fi I tend to trust, and two different places to sit and write: downstairs near the sunny windows looking out onto Main Street, or upstairs in the mezzanine which overlooks the entire store (I try not to sit next to the railing–I’ll gaze out and people-watch the whole time if I’m not careful). I’ll drink peach Honest Tea and nibble chocolate trail mix; my friend Vince is often there, working on his haiku or reading his obscure books. He’ll stop by my table and chat for a few minutes, but respects my need for space to work. Familiar strangers surround me, and I feel right at home.
  • Dunkin Donuts. I love Dunkin coffee. In the winter, it’s hot decaf with one cream; in summer, it’s iced with one cream. The donuts don’t tempt me, really; it’s all about the coffee. There are three Dunkins in my town, which really doesn’t seem excessive to me. One is within walking distance, and that’s where I usually go. In the morning, there is a large group of seniors who gather there every day to talk and tell stories and laugh. They’ve come to know me, and call out a few pleasantries. They can become quite raucous, but I don’t mind. I’ve learned to block out distraction from the multitudes, the shriek of the coffee grinders, the employees giving each other shit. It’s all background babble, white noise. It’s wonderful. It smells wonderful, and I smell wonderful when I go home, the coffee clinging to me like an aromatic shawl.
  • Greenfield Public Library. Sometimes I need to go to the library to search for a book or do some research, and I’ll sit and write for awhile in one of the many comfortable nooks provided. There are the big tables in the main room, near the computers and the check-out desk and the magazine racks; but there are more private places nestled near the stacks, with upholstered chairs and low tables with vases of flowers on them, or a table near a window with a view of familiar buildings, seen from unfamiliar vantage points. It’s quiet, mostly, and being surrounded by books has to be the closest thing to heaven I can think of.
  • Greenfield Coffee. I only occasionally frequent this cafe in the center of town, mostly because it’s kind of expensive, and the coffee is darker than I prefer. But I like the wrap-around glass windows looking out at the intersection of town that often steam in winter, and the hardwood floors and the shiny steel espresso makers. It’s fairly small, so I’m lucky to find a seat among the many other solo patrons working on their own projects, on laptops mostly, but some with actual books and notebooks. I feel I’m a part of a special tribe, my tribe, even if I don’t speak a word to them.

My peripatetic writing habit suits me; it’s like leaving home to go to my office to work, except my office is everywhere. I’ve written in doctor’s offices, in my car (not while I’m driving, just in case you’re wondering), at work at my register. I’ve even written at a picnic table on the town common on nice spring days. Come to think of it, I might have written in a laundromat once, a long time ago. With a pen and paper, you can do your work literally anywhere.

If you’re a writer, where do you like to do your work?