No matter how we may deny it, everyone is just searching for a sense of normalcy. What eludes most is the epiphany that comes in realizing that serenity is gained by, not denying but, accepting our mortality.
“Strong emotions associated with objects or people can make it difficult to act rationally around them.” – Hugh McDonald, PhD
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After nearly 3 months absence, Sara finally came back from Paris. Max & Sara hadn’t seen each other since they had argued in Paris a month ago, the night of their honeymoon, when she accidentally came across his letters to Rebecca.
Sara had spent most of her life putting on airs & mastering the arts of affectation & seduction. Men in her life were a means to an end. If it was getting a 10-karat diamond necklace or having her father’s financial advisor convince Claude to send her to Paris for cultural exchange at 13 instead of a Swiss boarding school where ‘all’ Whitman women were sent to be “finished,” Sara always managed to get her way through her masterful yet effortless manipulation of men. Not that she ever needed anything material since her father spoiled her to death & always saw to it that she was never in ‘want’ of anything, it was, for Sara, nonetheless the thrill of the game.
But Sara never met a man quite like Max Gallagher. She thought him uncouth & unrefined, &, at first, thought that it was simply the novelty of him that intrigued & fascinated her. But as time went on, she realized it was much more than that. It bothered Sara to no end that she was beginning to really care for him. Yet he continued to elude her. Sara was a master at hiding her feelings and always keeping her cool aloof exterior. So she was angry at herself for becoming obviously upset at finding Max’s letters. It’s not as if she didn’t know that Max had been in love with another woman when she married him. But she let her guard down & showed Max not only just how jealous & upset she was, but, more importantly, how much she really cared.
Was it pride or something else? She wondered how she could possibly keep the upper hand if she showed just how vulnerable she was to him. Did she simply delude herself all this time into thinking that the whole arrangement was merely a marriage of convenience? Perhaps that was all it was for Max Gallagher who had everything to gain from the union. But exactly what did Max have to offer Sara except for the challenge of conquering & taming someone who didn’t want to be conquered or tamed, and the mere notion of procuring something that seemed forbidden & unattainable, not in the social sense, but in the sense of having a man that flaunted social conventions, that seemed wild, coarse & unruly, & most of all, was, for once, not completely enamored and in awe of her.
As Sara walked through the front door and stepped onto the checkered-tiled floor of the parlor, she had a strange feeling of relief, anticipation & dread. It was 5:34 in the evening, and she had hoped to find Max sitting in the library or in his office den, hoping that when she walked into the room she would find that his initial reaction to her, his ‘true’ feelings, would be happiness & an undeniable sense of longing, that would be mirrored and all too transparent in his piercing steely grey eyes.
Although she had tried to take her mind off Max while she was in Paris, the best way she could, by spending to her heart’s content, she could not shake the feeling that all she had really wanted was for Max to be by her side. As she walked through the cold, vast house, she realized that it was empty. Then a clanging noise came from downstairs, and she ran down to the kitchen pantry. When she got there, however, she only found Maris, organizing the kitchen cupboard.
“Madam. You’ve come home. It’s so good to see you back again. Did you have a nice trip?”
“Yes I did, Maris. Thank you,” Sara smiled at her pleasantly.
“Maris, is Mr. Gallagher here?”
“Why actually, no, Madam. I can’t say I’ve seen him all day, since this morning, that is….He usually comes home very late. Sometimes he stays at the office, or at his flat in the city. But it’s hard to say, madam, because sometimes he doesn’t come home at all.”
Sara lowered her eyes as she thought of Rebecca. Then she said softly,
“Did he say whether he’d be back later today?”
Maris shook her head, “He never mentioned it, madam.”
The disappointed look in Sara’s eyes was evident.
“Madam, I’m sure Mr. Gallagher is still in the office….Pardon me, but if you’d allow me to suggest, perhaps if you phoned him, & told him you were back, he’d definitely come home. In fact I’m sure he’d drop everything & would be here in no time.”
“That’s alright, Maris. There’s no need….I’ll be fine. I was actually thinking of retiring early today anyways. I’ve had a long trip & I’m very tired.”
“Well, if you need me for anything. I’ll be right here. Ned & Reginald have gone to town to stock our supplies. I imagine they’ll be here shortly.”
“Thank you Maris.”
Sara walked up the large marble stairwell and into her bedroom. She stood there for a moment, simply staring at her bed. Everything was perfect & pristine as she left it before she had gone to Paris. As she walked to her window, she caught a glimpse of her image in the long, brass gilded, free standing mirror & had caught the vacant look in her eyes as she had regarded herself sadly. She looked to the side, wanting to avoid the sight of her own image, when she saw that the door adjoining her bedroom to Max’s was open. She walked over to find that his room seemed even more pristine than hers, as if the room had never been inhabited, as if his own bed had never been slept in.
She walked to open his closet and was caught by the sight of his dark blue suit. A smile formed on her face as her thoughts wandered to the first time she had seen Max. He had been wearing this old blue suit at the time.
It was the annual Beliere ball, and Max had been there on business to meet his top stockholder, her father, Claude Whitman, shipping & steel tycoon, the richest man in America and aspiring politician. At the first moment she’d seen him she was intrigued by Max’s enigmatic presence. Back then she wondered what it would be like to tame a wild beast. Sara always liked challenges and Max Gallagher was the greatest challenge of them all. But she was wondering whether it was all really just a game, or something more.
“Father, who is that odd-looking man standing over there?”
“That, my dear, is Max Gallagher. He owns the 2nd largest publishing company in America, right now, & I’m happy to say we own a part of it, as well.”
“Well, doesn’t Mr. Gallagher know that his suit is 2 sizes too small for him?”
“It appears, my dear, that either he doesn’t know or from what I’ve heard of him,
he would not care less. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he stripped it right off of someone else’s back, 2 hours ago.”
“Father. That’s not nice. Not nice, at all. We have a duty to be charitable, philanthropic, kind, and be ever-mindful of what we say.”
“My dear, Max Gallagher needs no charity & I would venture to say that if he’d heard my comment he wouldn’t be so much offended as flattered. Why, he would probably have thought of it a complement of sorts…as to his resourcefulness, that is.”
Claude took a deep puff of his pipe.
“Facinating fellow, really. Just signed a deal with his colleague JT a couple of days ago. Not much of a social butterfly, though.”
“Well then, our kind is sorely lacking in fascinating fellows. His odd fashion sense & outright anti-social bearing makes him all the more intriguing. What with everyone saying the same things, wearing the same things, doing the same things, believing the same things…makes for such a bore. Wouldn’t you say? That’s why I still believe that the worse thing that can happen to society is prosperity. A great paradox, really…but, nonetheless, while a great equalizer, lack of diversity, and I mean both culturally & socially, can only work to hurt society.”
Claude looked at his daughter, with an amused grin. Sara continued to stare at
Max Gallagher, growing more fascinated.
“So father. Would you introduce us?”
“Well, dear, there really was no need going about all that. You simply needed to say the word!”
Claude led Sara to Max who was leaning against the wall, staring at the couples dancing.
“Max Gallagher. May I present to you my daughter, Sara Whitman.”?
Sara held out a dainty hand to shake his.
“Sara would love to know just who is your talented tailor,” Claude added mischievously.
Sara jabbed her father at his side with her elbow as she withdrew her hand from Max.
“Actually, I was just telling father how everyone here is such a bore that it’s so refreshing to see someone new to society who has a completely different take on life and on…well…on things entirely.”
There was a long pause as Max looked at Sara with a steady serious gaze.
“Oh. And you’ve come to this conclusion just by looking at my suit, I suppose.”
There was a long awkward moment, as Sara looked at Max’s suit, taking it in a clinical way, until her cool gaze finally met his detached glare, head on.
“Frankly…Yes.”
Claude cleared his throat as Max and Sara stared at each other.
Just then, Max broke a smile and let out a hearty laugh. When he regained his composure, he met Sara’s steady stare, nodding his head, smiling at her amusingly.
“Good. I like your honesty.”
“Well, why flatter when everyone will just as much assume you’re saying otherwise as soon as you turn your back.”
Max’s smile widened, taken by the young woman’s wit.
“Touché.”
Claude smiled as he rubbed his hands together, and fidgeted with the cuffs of his tuxedo. He seemed to be the only one aware of the awkward deafening silence that followed, as the two continued to stand steadily, almost as if they were sizing each other up.
Claude cleared his throat.
“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me I see your colleague there. I should say hello &
advise him when he should expect my people to have the papers ready.”
Claude left Max and Sara who both stood awkwardly now as their gaze fell upon the people dancing in front of them. As Sara fiddled with the seams of her dress, Max continued to finish his drink, silently. Exasperated, Sara finally relented.
“Mr. Gallagher, it’s rather rude to be ignored. But now that we’ve both established that there’s no need for flattery, you could just as well tell me yourself. After all, one token of honesty deserves another.”
Max glanced at Sara almost quizzically. Her cobalt blue eyes widened when she realized that this particular man was either oblivious or immune to the powers of suggestion.
“Do you find me repulsive? Or am I simply not attractive enough for you?”
The surprise was evident in Max’s eyes.
“On the contrary. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room,” He replied in an
even, steady voice.
“Well then. Why haven’t you asked me to dance?”
“Forgive me Ms. Whitman, but it’s not for the lack of wanting that prevents me. You see, I’ve never been properly trained in the social graces, or cultural practices of your society,” Max said matter-of-factly, in a tone that seemed more mocking and derisive than embarrassed.
Looking relieved, Sara said briskly,
“Well then, why didn’t you just say so? I’m a good teacher. I can assure you,
you’ll be in good hands.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Max replied as he turned back to the couples dancing on
the floor.
Sara stepped in front of him.
“Mr. Gallagher, would you care to dance with me?”
“Oh, you mean here? Now? With all these people watching?”
“So? I don’t care. Do you? They are, after all, my feet, not theirs…that is, if you decide to step on them.”
A wide grin formed on Max’s face.
“Well, alright then. Of course I can’t lead.”
“Nonsense! I’ll lead. You just follow. Or does that idea offend your mundane notions of masculinity?”
Max laughed.
“Not at all. Although, I don’t want you to think that I normally take orders from women. Of course you do know that it depends on who’s doing the leading. In this case, I’m quite sure I’m in capable hands.”
***
Sara always put up a strong front. She never let her guard down. She always got what she wanted. And now she had what she had always wanted: to be the wife of Max Gallagher. Yet as she stood in Max’s room, her hand feeling through the coarse fabric of his old navy suit, she never felt more alone and more sad than she did at this moment. She wondered whether she deserved it. After all, Max had warned her. Their’s was never a romantic courtship in the traditional sense, but rather a union borne of practicality, at least in Max’s mind and Sara knew it. For being beautiful, smart and sophisticated, she knew that it was her family name and not her that Max wanted. She’d never let pride get in the way of what she wanted. They had an understanding from the very beginning. Sara could not fault Max for being duplicitous. On the eve of their wedding he had warned her in fact.
It was only 3 months ago that she was sitting at the table having breakfast with her father Claude, when Max stormed in, grabbed her hand & took her into the garden gazebo.
She remembered sitting calmly looking at Max as she watched him anxiously pace the gazebo floor.
“Sara, I’m sorry, but I can’t go through with this.”
Sara sat calm & still. She smiled at him.
“Max. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just nervous,” she said softly in a calm voice. “But, of course you are. It’s perfectly understandable, now that it’s all right in front of you. Everything you’ve craved for so long – Just think…To be finally accepted in society after all you’ve worked for. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, to be part of the social elite? To be accepted in the upper crust of society? Well, here it is, Max. I’m giving it to you.”
Max looked at Sara curiously with a side-glance, as she continued calmly,
“You know, that you could have all the money in the world but you’ll never be considered respectable or legitimate or accepted by high society unless you have the name, the social backing of old money, the network & the power. My father, the Whitman name can give you that.”
“I’ve built my company from scratch with my own bare hands. These hands may be rough with calluses, but I’m not ashamed of it. We’re the 2nd largest publishing firm in America, without cheating, without committing any crime. Are you saying that none of this deserves any kind of respect? I’m owed that respect! God knows, I’ve played by the rules & worked for it legitimately! I earned every cent I got! That’s more than what I can say about your fancy debutante friends.”
“Max. I never said you don’t deserve it. But you’re not naïve. Who’re you fooling? You know, as idyllic as all that sounds, you know perfectly well as I do, that’s not how the world works. God knows the most honest, the hardest working people in the world aren’t holding the reins. Do they have the power? I’m not fooling myself. I was born into it & daddy was too. And for the few that were simply born lucky, they just learn how to make the most with the hand they were dealt. Does society really care whether Daddy lifted a finger to earn all this wealth? No. In fact, society prizes us idle rich for our soft, polished & perfectly manicured hands. Society doesn’t want to see calluses. Life’s just not fair. And you know it. We don’t live in an ideal world. And I know you won’t be satisfied just being the richest man in the world. You want power. And money will only get you so far. I know what’s your true ambition, Max. I’d even venture to say that I know you more than you know yourself. Power, not money is all that truly matters, & you won’t be truly happy until you get it. Isn’t that right?”
Max looked down keeping silent, as Sara continued,
“Max, you’ve got the 2nd largest publishing firm in America. That’s commendable! You’ve already gotten people to stand up & take notice. You’re the talk of the town. Why do you think I’m even here? I don’t latch on to just anyone. I see your potential. More important, I believe in you.” Sara continued, “But Max, that’s not to say that you can’t use any help. With my father’s backing, you can have the largest publishing firm in the world, in no time. You know that.”
Max looked at Sara incredulously.
“My god. Doesn’t it even bother you that I don’t love you?”
Sara simply smiled, looking up at him softly, coolly.
“Oh. But you do….You just don’t know it yet.”
Max stood still, looking down at her dumbstruck, his intense steel-grey eyes narrowed, as if he were studying her.
“Why are you looking at me like that? You know we’d make a great pair.” Sara asked looking up at him quizzically, with wide innocent eyes.
“You’re a puzzle, Ms. Whitman. Outside you look like the softest, most delicate creature in the world, but inside…you have the mind of a ruthless, calculating and hardened businessman. I’m still debating whether you have the heart of a woman….of course, that is, if you have one at all.”
Sara simply smiled at him coolly,
“I’ve learned that you get what you want by letting your mind, not your heart, lead the way. I’d like to think of myself as a bit more practical than most women. But no mistaken: I’m not heartless, Mr. Gallagher….Just a realist.”
“Hmm…and I suppose you’re helping me out of the pure goodness of your heart,” Max replied sardonically.
Sara smiled, laughing softly to herself, “Oh my….you are blind…”
She looked genuinely amused as she continued calmly looking up at him,
“No….I’m afraid my motives are much more selfish. I wanted you the moment I first saw you Max Gallagher. Standing in the corner, looking extraordinarily handsome, yet awkward and out of place in your ill-fitting suit. Truth be told, I laughed, but was charmed nonetheless. You may not have the…a….polished manners of a gentleman, may lack the social graces & panache of the upper-crust….but that can all be learned….You have something that can’t be taught. You have drive & ambition. You have the killer instinct. You know what you want, & you get it. Although they won’t admit it, the men of my world admire you, ‘cuz they look like weak saps & pretentious fools standing next to you. By the same token, the women of my world are nothing less than drawn to you. You intrigue as soon as you walk into a room. You’re like a wild animal screaming to be tamed. What’s more, you’re the strongest, sexiest & most exciting man I’ve ever seen, Max Gallagher. I want you. And, if you haven’t noticed by now, I always get what I want.”
There was a long pause of silence. Max looked down at Sara in obvious wonder and dismay.
“I don’t know whether to applaud you, or feel sorry for you,” Max finally replied stoically.
“Hmmm…” Sara stood up, sauntered slowly to his side & kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Do you still find me pathetic?” Sara said softly looking coyly at him, as Max looked down at her in amazement.
“Well…I see you’ve all ironed out your differences, I hope….Is everything alright?” Sara’s father Claude called out as he stood by the patio door overlooking the garden. Sara looked at her father.
“It’s just a case of the jitters, pop. Everything’s fine,” then Sara turned to look up at Max, smiling at him pleasantly, as she added in a melodic voice,
“Max is here to stay.”
“Well….good to hear that. Otherwise, I would’ve had you pay for those damn caterers, even if it meant dipping into your trust fund, O’ prissy missy.”
Sara laughed light-heartedly as she continued to study the look in Max’s eyes. Claude cleared his throat,
“Well then, if it’s all settled, I’ll leave you two be…”
As soon as Claude walked back into the house, Max turned around & walked to the edge of the gazebo. He leaned over the railing, looking pensively out into the garden, away from Sara. Sara continued to study Max, as she noticed every muscle of his broad back seem to stiffen from beneath his sweater.
“So, aren’t you even going to tell me her name?” Sara finally said in a soft, even voice.
Max simply looked down.
“Why would it matter? You’ve said it yourself. If it’s matters of the heart, it’s all irrelevant. It simply gets in the way of all that’s practical, right?”
He turned around to look at her. Max paused looking blankly at Sara for a moment.
“It must be a great relief for you….having that much power, that much control in your hands. Thinking…knowing that you’re the cleverest person in the room.”
“No. It’s utter torture,” Sara replied, “But the thing it’s taught me…is patience.”
“And practicality, I see,” Max added sadly.
“As plain & brutal as it sounds….yes,” Sarah nodded.
Max studied Sara for a moment then added,
“And where do feelings and raw emotion fit in all this?” Max asked.
“The thing you learn, early on in my society, Max, is self-restraint, self-control. I’m sure as an Irish Catholic you’re familiar with the good ol’ Catholic virtue of self-repression.”
Max looked down, as he let out a faint chuckle. He nodded, as he raised his head to look at her.
“Well, at least we both know, hopefully, where we stand. As a long as there are no false illusions or delusions between us, this pretense won’t be too unbearable.”
Max said as he continued to study Sara, knowing all the while that beneath that soft, elegant and sophisticated exterior, lay the sharpest, most cunning, self-assured & enigmatic person he’d ever encountered. After a moment, he leaned down to give Sara a quick peck on the cheek.
“You know, in the remote chance that you may be holding onto some romantic hope between us, I should let you know that our arrangement won’t change how I live my personal life, nor will it change how I truly feel,” Max said sternly.
Sara simply flashed him a slight smile looking up at him from beneath thick lashes.
“I wouldn’t expect any less of you. It is, after all, your sheer strength of will that I admire most about you,” Sara said in a tone that made Max wonder whether she was actually mocking him.
“Well then, it’s settled. I suppose I’ll just see you tomorrow. ‘Til then.” With that, Max walked away, as Sara’s troubled eyes followed his image until he was out of her sight.
***
Now, 3 months later she wondered whether she was being completely honest with herself, whether she really understood her own limits. As she thought of herself sitting in the gazebo, watching Max walk away from her, Sara had laughed at herself thinking about how she had given herself a year before she’d show signs of weakness. And now sitting at the edge of Max’s pristine bed, it wasn’t even 6 months into her marriage and she could already feel the signs of her unraveling.
She thought to herself, she could continue to allow herself to feel sorry for herself, or she could simply sleep away her misery. Instead, Sara picked up the phone sitting on Max’s nightstand, finally deciding to call her friends and have a small last-minute soiree to brighten her mood.
***
It was 10:30 p.m. Max came back after working late at the office. He had been looking forward to sitting alone in the quiet darkness of the vast empty manor, drowning his sorrows in brandy until he’d had his fill & finally rendered unconscious, when suddenly as he walked through the parlor and opened the door into the game room, he walked head-on into his wife’s small bustling party. Sara had been dancing & laughing it up with one of her old beaus, Colin Middleton, and she turned around to find Max standing by the door, stiff & agitated, glaring at her with a strange look of contempt.
“There you are husband!” Sara said playfully. “I hope you don’t mind. I arrived today to an empty house, & had the sudden urge to invite a few close friends. You’re welcome to join us of course….”
Max said nothing. He only glared at her as she continued dancing. He walked straight through the center of the room, past Sara and the group of young men and women, went to the glass liquor cabinet and grabbed the largest bottle of brandy he could find. There was dead silence & everyone stared at Max as he left the room, not once giving Sara, or anyone else in the room, for that matter, another glance.
It was 1:00 A.M. when the small party finally adjourned. Sara stood by the door as she bid her guests goodnight. Colin, Sara’s old beau & dance partner for most of the evening, however, was the last one to leave. As he stood under the frame of the door, he smiled at Sara but looked at her with sad eyes.
“My dear, there’s no need to keep up this charade with me. You forget. I know you all too well. It’s all there in those beautiful eyes of yours. It’s obvious to everyone that you’re frightfully unhappy. But you don’t have to be, especially a woman as ravishing as you. It’s still possible to have everything you want: a rich and powerful husband, a perfect family…and a wonderfully attentive lover at your feet.”
Colin reached over and ran his finger across the tip of her chin.
“Just remember, my dear, I’ll always be there for you, at your whim & ever at your disposal. All you need to do is ask.”
He leaned over to kiss her on the lips when Sara stopped him, turned a cheek, smiled and kissed him on his forehead.
“Thank you, Colin,” Sara nodded as she flashed him an artificial smile, “Thank you for coming tonight. We’ll certainly keep in touch. Oh and…don’t forget to bring Elizabeth next time. We have so much to catch up on, with the kids &…just everything,” Sara said brusquely as she scooted him out the door.
As she closed the door, she collapsed on it & sighed, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, no longer so sure that the late-night soiree of intimate friends would’ve provided the much needed relief that an early night’s sleep would’ve perhaps more quickly & more efficiently served its purpose.
Tired, Sara walked into the drawing room. When she turned on the light, she was startled to find Max sitting in the dark, in the corner of the drawing room, where he’d been sitting all night, drinking his bottle of brandy.
“Oh….Have your entourage & flock of admirers left you so soon?” He said in a mocking tone.
Sara simply looked at him with contempt. When she finally replied it was in her usual calm cool voice.
“I hope you do realize, that wonderful scene of yours earlier tonight would surely be enough to put us on the front page of the gossip papers yet again.”
Max only looked at Sara stoically, as she continued,
“I do wish you’d at least try to keep your fondness for the bottle out of the public eye. A little effort is all I ask. After all, it’s not as if we haven’t already given people enough to talk about.”
“Well, I apologize if my ill manners have caused you some distress, my dear. I suppose we can chalk it up to my bad breeding,” Max said sarcastically. “But as I recall, wasn’t my coarseness, my ‘devil may care’ bravado among the qualities you found so exotic, exciting & so fascinating? Do I no longer fit into your equation of staged marital bliss?” Max then narrowed his eyes and a slight smirk formed at the corners of his mouth as he continued, “Or…is this outburst simply resentment on your part? Well…perhaps I am all to blame. I admit, I have been a neglectful husband lately,” Sara stared at him with indignant eyes, as Max continued,
“Well then, let me begin by saying, you look lovely, as usual. I almost forgot just how ravishing you are. I see that the Parisian air has certainly lifted your spirits. But being the…how do you put it?…the practical woman that you are, I just hope your pragmatic means of catharsis didn’t break the bank,” Max smiled wryly, as he tilted his head back to regard her. Sara turned to look at Max head-on.
“And, as usual…here you are, in true maudlin form…moping and pining….For what? Or should I even bother to ask?” Sara coolly replied.
“How truly trite & predictable of you, my dear,” Sara continued in a melodious voice, meeting his vacant stare as she began to take off her gloves.
“Honestly Max, I never expected you to become a bore.”
Max narrowed his grey eyes as he stared at Sara begrudgingly.
“I’m tired. I’ll be in my bedroom. Make sure no one bothers me tonight,” Sara said as she removed her white lace gloves.
With that Sara went up to her bedroom. Max sat quietly in the drawing room as he attempted to finish his bottle of brandy. He placed the half empty bottle on the floor & began to make his way out of the drawing room.
Despondent, he staggered up the stairwell & walked into Sara’s bedroom. When Max reached the side of Sara’s bed, he stood over her sleeping form. He stared at her silently for a long time. Then suddenly Sara opened her eyes & focused immediately on Max’s unreadable steely-eyed glare.
“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“You didn’t lock your door,” Max sardonically replied.
“And you took that as an invitation?”
Max met her defiant look with a wry crooked smile, as his eyes narrowed & raked over her long lean form.
“I thought I might surprise you. You know, break from predictable patterns of behavior, since apparently I’m already starting to bore you.”
He paused as he allowed his eyes to graze Sara’s form.
“Anyways, don’t you think it’s about time you fulfilled your wifely duties?” Max continued in a lowered voice.
“I thought your ‘pure white rose’ would’ve tended to that by now.”
“Let’s say some sexual favors are better suited for certain women.”
Sara instantly sat up & reached over to slap his face, but Max grabbed her wrist and wrestled it behind her back. With their faces inches from each other, Sara could smell his brandy-laced breath. Their struggle left them both breathless. Max looked down at her and saw that Sara’s green eyes were lit with a wild fire. In an instant his mouth was on hers.
***
Sara lay quietly at her side staring at Max who lay on his back next to her in bed. She watched the steady subtle rise and fall of his chest with the calm even rhythm of his breathing. Sara let the warm feeling of contentment sweep over her and she was just about to close her eyes, until she heard a soft muffled whisper come from Max. She drew closer to him so that she could make out the words.
“Becca,” Max mumbled softly in his sleep.
Sara drew from his side and turned around. She shut here eyes tightly trying to keep the tears from falling from her eyes.
***|
Max opened his eyes to the warmth of the bright white light that filtered through the large windows of Sara’s room. He turned around to see Sara lying at her side – her back turned away from him. He suddenly remembered everything that had happened the night before. Although she lay silent, from her unnatural stone-like stillness, Max knew that Sara was awake. He lay there quietly for a long moment before he finally spoke.
“Sara…I’m sorry…I didn’t know.” He said softly as he placed his hand on her shoulder.
Sara seemed to recoil from his touch and abruptly stood up from the bed.
“Well, of course you didn’t! How could you?” Sara replies nonchalantly, “We’re not living in the Victorian Age.”
Sara walked over to the vanity to put on a light chiffon wrap. Max labored as he sat up slowly at the edge of his side of the bed. He looked at Sara silently as she regarded herself in the small oval mirror of the vanity. She seemed careful not to meet his gaze through the mirror as she quickly ran a brush through her hair.
“It’s simply transference my dear,” Sara said matter-of-factly, in a quick ascetic tone. “I suppose I never gave you the impression to believe otherwise that I had been ‘pure’ or chaste, since obviously I’d never expected you to be either. But I suppose that’s a different story, entirely, now, isn’t it?”
“Sara…”
“I have an early day today, & won’t be back until the evening. Would you be a dear & tell Maris that she won’t need to prepare brunch for me today.”
“Of course,” Max finally replied, looking at her sadly.
With that, Sara hastily walked out of the room.
Max shook his head as he turned around to stare at the bright light that emanated from the window.
Posted in Novel Excerpts | Tagged fiction, love, novel excerpt, relationships, romance | 1 Comment »
…it makes a big difference, doesn’t it?
…and maybe transcendence is more difficult for some than for others.
…it’s not possible to overestimate the power of memory. Really.
…but what some fail to see is that there are no simple ‘answers’, no “consistent set of theories” to explain how one decides to act or react.
But does our past ‘define’ us?
I suppose that’s where ‘transcendence’ comes in, doesn’t it?
But how do you transcend?
hurt
deny
resign
forget
withdraw
hope
realize
rebel
experiment
repulse
accept
repel
analyze
believe
recoil
pretend
anticipate
control
lie
“oh well”
name it
We’re all survivors in some sense.
But do we all ‘transcend’?
Some decide to test their boundaries….
Out of body experiences are enlightening.
But you have to know that it’s really ‘you’ down there, don’t you?
Maybe what I’ve yet to do is really “succumb”.
What I’ve come to learn from this brief foray into ‘wanting without truly knowing or believing’ is that it is not possible to overestimate the amount of courage it takes to maintain a certain sense of innocence and naivete necessary to have faith in the things that ’should’ be as simple as ‘love’…
But when one has been adamant…when one has been conditioned to rely on no one but themself…it no longer seems so simple.
Conditioning. Self-induced or leaned behaviour?
I’ve known “intensity” emotional and physical.
But when one begins to equate “intensity” with ‘volatility’, and fear with love, rather than liberation in knowing that both are vulnerable….
And maybe I’m just emotionally drained to deal with nothing but “the now”. And maybe I’ve convinced myself to not worry about “the later”, because I’ve learned not to trust in the notion of a ‘later’.
Cynicism, skepticism becomes one’s natural state. Desensitization becomes almost instinctual.
Or maybe that’s just what I just ‘conditioned’ myself to believe.
Isn’t a heightened self-awareness the biggest irony there is?
A bit of a crock, wouldn’t you say? To say that it is this self-awareness and this alone that keeps one from being insane….
So perhaps that’s why I evade.
But is it the questions I ‘m afraid of, or is it the answers I don’t want or refuse to hear, or is it just the answers I’m afraid to give?
Is it really the mystery that holds our attention, or is it the sense that one holds the solution that keeps us there…
Maybe I don’t believe that there can ever truly be an answer.
Maybe because an answer connotes a solution….and wouldn’t that all be so simple.
After all, does ‘knowing’ truly mean ‘understanding’?
We’re all survivors.
Some choose to be fossils. They grow hard shells for the sake of preservation.
And sometimes no amount of time can get them to peel away their ’skins’….
I envy those who are willing to stand completely naked & bare to those they love.
…if only…
And there are those who may conform to “cycle”.
But for everyone it’s as different and as unique as a ”phenomenon”.
“There is no consensus on the matter.”
But it is nice to see if we can explain it away in a neat and simple package, isn’t it?
To make sense of things…
Perhaps the “not knowing” was, in the end, too insufferable.
Perhaps the need to “solve” something is a stronger urge, after all, because maybe it’s only ‘natural.’
Do you always act on instinct?
Maybe I no longer know what my natural instinct is.
Or perhaps I’ve yet to learn to ‘trust’ my instincts.
Trust.
Some people look to mneumonic devices; others, a lobotomy.
There I go again with my over-arching mutually-exclusive and over-generalized statements. It’s not always so, I know.
But wouldn’t it be so much ’simpler’ if it were?
Cycles.
Ellipses.
…Maybe in the perfect world there would only be straight lines.
Narrative structure would be nice.
Then again, I’m still inclined to believe that everything happens for a reason.
Perhaps the coin toss wasn’t meaningless after all.
For me?
You’re right about one thing: ambivalence.
Perhaps a coin toss means more than simply letting fate decide.
Maybe it is laziness…because it takes more effort to care about what happens next. Not having to account for actions or decisions means you’re not disappointing anybody. Not being responsible for what happens “later”. Should a coin toss have happened? I guess it depends on the choices; and I really didn’t leave much room for discussion, did I? Then again, perhaps I’ve actually transcended a whole new level of self-defeatist behaviour…
But that last night while we were lying in bed you did it again!
(How do you do it?)
…Time travel…
Who knew that “making amends” for past mistakes was what I ‘needed’ to do (maybe what I wanted to do)….
So the question wasn’t rhetorical.
But your answer was a bit relevatory (belatedly, I should add).
But the instinct of self-preservation precipitated my question, and had no thought other than the need to turn back time so we may have a chance to salvage something…perhaps a friendship. There’s a sense of safety in ‘not knowing’ isn’t there….Safety.
Emotions rule.
I suppose it takes more courage to believe in them, rather than suppress them.
Perhaps I’ve become too good at it.
Ah…”2046″….
But so what if it’s the ‘right’ person, when it’s not the right time?
It takes more than ‘wanting’.
Too little. Too late.
Then again, in your case, perhaps the coin toss was ‘fate’ after all…and you found your ‘true’ destination.
Merriam-Webster defines ‘alchemy’ as “2 : a power or process of transforming something common into something special.”
Keep practicing alchemy.
Perhaps one day I’ll trust myself to ‘believe’ in it.
~Sara
Posted in Potpourri | Tagged love, missives, relationships | Leave a Comment »
The small beautiful dark-haired boy lay beside his mother’s sleeping form. The one-room shack was dark except for a thick white votive candle that bathed the room with warm, amber light. The little boy held his mother’s motionless figure as he stared, his large haunting eyes transfixed on the candle’s orange flame, which seemed to dance and flickered violently as if struggling to keep aloft amidst a strong wind. But the small room was damp and musty with dense stale air. And as the boy lay by his mother’s side, he sang the song—a simple Hindi lullaby that his mother would sing to him every night. Tonight the mother lay quiet and still next to the small boy in peaceful silent repose, as he softly sang to her, the simple familiar tune.
***
Every night the routine was the same. He would come home from working in the Master’s stables on the rubber plantation; his skin darkened from dirt baked hard by the sun. And his mother would spend nearly an hour laboring with a sponge and tepid water to scrub off thick layers of crusted earth and hardened rubber sap from his skin. Like all small boys his age the boy liked to play, but his work in the fields allowed little time for that. Under the watchful eyes of Sabu, the plantation’s foreman and the Master’s head henchman, the young boy was mindful not to stray from the day’s work. He had learned his lesson early on when he would take to venturing out in the rubber fields, at the age of 7, a little over a year ago, when he was more naïve, more dangerously precocious, more careless and carefree. It was these days that he missed—the days when he took to bouts of running through the rubber trees, at the end of the day, when work was done and the fieldworkers had gone, running wildly in boisterous play with his little friend Timor, who at 9, still stood a full 2 heads shorter than him.
It was raining and they didn’t think that Sabu would have noticed them gone. They stood under the gently pelting rain, looking up with their mouths wide open, tasting the salty raindrops with their tongues. It was twilight and grey mist shrouded the rubber plantation as the little boy ran from tree to tree. The young boy could hear Timor from a distance, giggling mischievously as he dodged him, running through the rubber trees under the cover of thick grey mist. The little boy ran through the dense vaporous cloud of smoke-like substance, looking back, until he ran into what he thought was a tree, if not for the large strong hands that grabbed him by the shoulders with an iron grip. The boy looked up to see the hard cold steely gaze of the Master looking down at him. The Master’s eyes were the palest shade of icy grey. And he had the menacing look of a demon, if not for the slight upward curve that seemed to play at the corners of his mouth. Everything else seemed hard to him, even his dark peppered hair, which always looked stiff and had a glossy sheen and never moved in spite of the strong monsoon winds.
The boy was dumbstruck, as always, when he was in the presence of the Master. He was a tall and imposing figure; an elegant man, whose commanding and sophisticated air seemed to belie the fierce savagery of his startling grey eyes. But the boy never cowered, even though he did not know whether it was necessarily fear or fascination that the boy felt whenever he was in the Master’s presence. But he was in awe of the man who was revered like a god in the plantation. And the boy never spoke a word whenever he was around the Master; so for the longest time the Master had thought the boy mute, if not for Sabu confirming the contrary.
The man simply held the boy still by the shoulders looking down at him, with an amused look as he continued to regard the small boy who met his gaze with what seemed like proud defiance. From behind him, the boy heard Sabu’s voice. And the boy turned around to see Sabu emerge from the mist-laden trees, shouting epithets in Hindi, as he held little Timor by the ear. Sabu seemed bewildered to find the Master standing before them.
“Sahib!” Sabu said startled, as he bowed his head slightly.
“Sorry. It will not happen again, Sahib.” Sabu followed in a soft but deliberate voice.
That was the last time the boy would see his friend Timor. The next day Timor and his family were gone.
***
“You mustn’t anger the Master, Lucca,” his mother said as she wiped his back with a large sponge, in the futile attempts to smooth out the thin welts and old scars, which branded and thickened the skin of his small back. The young boy sat quietly as he simply stared at the fresh purple marks on his mother’s narrow wrist.
“You must do what you’re told,” his mother said sternly.
“Why can’t we just leave?” he said softly as he looked into his mother’s large dark eyes.
His mother looked down and did not answer.
He didn’t get along with the other boys. They treated him differently. But he accepted it because the boy knew that he was different. The other boys didn’t like his aloof, defiant demeanor. They said that they didn’t like the look in his eyes. The boy was smaller than the others, being the youngest one sent to work the fields, but that didn’t stop him from fighting with the largest boys of the plantation. He had no fear. He kowtowed to no one. He was rough and his mother called him “her little savage” because he would come home dirty, his thick wavy black hair, tussled wild like coiling black dense deciduous jungle vines. He would sometimes return home beaten and bruised from work or the latest rumble with plantation youths. What’s more, the boy carried himself with a nascent sense of pride that belied his lowly class. And because of this, the other boys taunted him.
“Why do you walk about like a prince when you look like a demon,” one boy said, as he had passed a group of boys, while carrying his pail of rubber sap. It was not long before fists flew through the air, and it had to take Sabu’s intervention, once again, to pull him off of the other much larger boy’s back.
The boy would come home every night to the dark one-room shack. His only solace was the warm comforting look in his mother’s smiling eyes when she opened the door for him. She always had a bowl of rice flavored with warm broth ready for him no matter how angry she was at him, for they only had each other. As much as possible his mother tried to spoil him.
They had a routine. Before supper as soon as he got home, the boy would climb into the large tin tub of salt-laden tepid bathwater, while his mother would wipe off a day’s worth of crusted rubber and grime. He would stare at her deeply lined hands, which were hardened and prematurely aged by the rough work she did on the plantation. The roughened texture of her hands contradicted her youth. When she caught him staring at her hands as she bathed him she seemed embarrassed, and would quickly move them down his back, away from sight. After his bath, she would sit by the window silently, and look out into the darkness with a child-like trance. It was almost as if she was trapped in a private reverie, as the young boy would brush his mother’s long thick black hair until it shone with a silver sheen under the rays of the moon. It was during these times, by the light of the night sky that he would learn of his mother’s childhood, her happy years in youth with her own mother and doting father, until the death of her father forced her to leave her mother and her native village, to live and work in the Master’s house as a servant. But her work did not please the Mistress, she said, so she was consigned to do hard labor with the others in the fields.
If the boy disliked the Master, he now had reason to hate the Mistress. But he had never seen her. It was odd now that he realized it for the very first time. In the span of his short 8 years on this earth, he had only known of the world of the dank and musty slave quarters and the world of the rubber plantation, where the Master and Mistress ruled like deities. But it seemed like the Mistress was just a mythical figure to him. And he realized that he had come to loathe someone he had never seen.
“I hate the Mistress,” the boy said in a low even tone, as he had begun to associate his mother’s misery with the Mistress’s dislike for her.
“Quiet, Lucca,” his mother said. “Hate is a strong word, meant only for weak people. You are too young and much too beautiful to harbor such an ugly emotion,” his mother said softly. She gently smiled up at him, and touched his face.
His mother was a simple woman but still very beautiful, in spite of the fact that she was unadorned and always wore the simplest cotton dusters that her low station would only allow. But if she had one item of value that she cherished, it was a golden locket that she had always worn around her neck for as long as the boy could remember. He had asked about it one night as he brushed her hair and had learned that the necklace was a gift to her by the boy’s father. That was all that the boy knew of the man who was called ‘his father.’ But he never asked her anything more, because the sad look in her eyes told him never to broach the subject to her again. So he never did.
But now as he looked down at her, brushing her hair he was caught by the shiny glimmer of gold from the locket that never left his mother’s delicate neck. Caught by the sight, he took the small smooth oval pendant in his hand for closer inspection. Startled, his mother quickly snatched the pendant from his hand. She then abruptly stood up from her seat, and walked away from him to the other corner of the room where she quietly made preparations for bed.
Later that night, as he laid next to her, the boy watched his mother’s sleeping figure. He waited for the rhythm of her breathing to become more even, before he quietly got up from his bed. Slowly he opened the door and made his way through the narrow gaps of the other slave quarters until he could see the yellow light that illuminated from out of the large portrait windows of the huge manor. As he walked around the perimeter of the large white house there was no sound except for the rattle of cicadas in the distance, and a faint din of leaves stirring in the gentle night wind. He found that the patio door had been left ajar and he quietly crept in. He had been forbidden, ever since he knew how to walk, to come within a hundred feet of the house. But he was not afraid. He was fueled by an inexplicable anger and a strong compulsion, a need to know how the ‘others’, how ‘the gods’ lived.
The rooms had high vaulted ceilings, which made the enormous space seem even more cold and daunting. The ivory-hued walls glowed with the amber light of large white candles that hung at every corner, walls which were etched with ornately carved moldings that spiraled and curved like the tides and ebbs of the sea. The house seemed to breathe and was suffused with an aura that filled the small boy with a sense of both wonder and trepidation. As he walked the cold surface of the black and white checkered parlor floor, he could barely make out the large stairwell, which was dimly lit by the candles that were held rather tenuously by iron-wrought lace-like sconces hanging on the adjacent wall. As he slowly crept up the staircase he looked with wonder at the huge canvas portraits of blonde-haired bearded men donning red military uniforms, ornately adorned with gold tassels and brass buttons. They carried swords at their sides as they stood with a pompous if not regal air, alongside docile-looking women who sat demurely beside them, always looking askew, drowning in an excess of dense vibrantly colored fabric, and all seeming to possess impishly diminutive and delicate features, in spite of their almost vulgarly opulent dress.
As the boy reached the top of the stairwell, he was struck with awe by the portrait of a robust silver-haired matronly old woman. The painting was a stark contrast with the other portraits that hung on the wall because of its austere minimalism. She was the strangest, grimmest thing the boy had ever seen. The old woman was alone in the picture and was not sitting but stood with a commanding authoritative air. The background was a simple charcoal grey which set a startling contrast with the stark paleness of the old woman’s alabaster complexion. She was covered to the neck in black except for the white lace that fringed the high neckline and the long voluminous billowing cuffs of her black shapeless Victorian gown. Her white hair, which was pulled back from a powdered rotund face, was covered with a simple white lace veil, which looked almost too small for her head. She was a severe-looking woman, who held a somber stern look and her artificial gaze looked slightly awry, to the side. The old woman was an imposing figure made even more so by the thin hard line of a colorless masculine mouth and arresting pale grey eyes—the same cold death-like stare of the Master. His gaze fell once again to the familiar eyes, which at the moment now seemed to jump out from the portrait and burn into the boy’s very soul.
For the first time the boy was frightened. He ran from the stairwell and quickly made his way to the nearest room, which had been dimly lit by candles. It was empty except for a large mahogany four-poster bed, shrouded in the most delicate sheer white finely-mesh canopy. It was the most beautiful bed he had ever seen. As he made his way to the side of the bed, he ran his small hand up and down the smooth fine-grained red wood of a spiral carved post. As he slowly walked the length of the large bed, he touched the soft white goose-down linen, but then was struck by the image of a thin dark-haired boy, with skin like burnt honey, standing on the other side of the room, standing barefoot, garbed in old tattered rags, looking awkward and very out of place. As he moved closer, the boy, who seemed to be caught in a long oval glass that stood at the other side of the room, also moved. As he walked slowly closer to the boy, he stopped abruptly, and saw that the boy trapped in glass also stopped. It was then that the boy realized that the image was not a ghost or apparition, but his own reflection. It was the first time the boy had seen himself.
From a distance the boy simply stood, examining himself. He was first amazed by how small he was. Thin, gaunt and almost ghostly with his dark wavy hair wildly tussled about his head. His skin—dark and ashy. His pale blue shorts seemed too long and too big for him. He looked at his legs…long, thin and wiry, with knobby knees. His hands and feet seemed disproportionately large for his small stature. His white shirt, yellowed and grey with stains, its edges frayed and torn from use. But as he straightened his stance, he was proud of his shoulders—square, wide…a formidable base to hold his long strong neck and his well-defined square chin.
The boy approached the mirror slowly to examine himself even further. He stopped only when he was a few inches from the glass. He touched its cold surface as he finally looked up to stare at his face. The orange flames of the candlelight shone in his dark pupils as he was struck with horror to see that the eyes staring back at him were the same icy grey eyes of the old woman in the painting.
For a long moment, the boy simply stood, motionless, almost catatonic, staring into his own eyes, staring at the flickering flames that danced in his pupils.
“Demon,” the boy whispered to himself.
And as he uttered this word of revelation, the boy was jostled back from his trance-like state, transported back to the visceral world long enough for him to now notice that he was no longer alone in the dimly lit room.
Through the mirror the young boy’s icy grey eyes suddenly met the cold green-eyed stare of a tall, slender and pale yet lushly beautiful red-haired woman, who stood motionless behind him, like a statuesque porcelain figurine, looking at him through the reflection, in silent horror.
***
The next day, there were no words between the boy and his mother. There was no need.
There had been enough words exchanged between his mother and the Mistress who had accompanied Sabu, who held the boy roughly by the arm, as they all walked towards the boy’s shack. It was early morning and all the slaves were startled to see the beautiful Mistress visit their quarters. They all bowed their heads as she passed them, with not much of a look or a nod of acknowledgment.
When they finally reached his shack, his mother was already standing outside at the door, looking despondent as they approached her. The boy watched the tall slim Mistress speak harshly, looking down on his mother’s passive form. All he could think about was how he hated that the Mistress never called his mother by her name. She called her “girl”, like she was a child. But the boy realized that the Sahibs treated them all as such on the plantation. They were all the same to them—‘faceless children’ who needed to be mastered and lorded over.
When it was all over, they did as they were expected, as they were told. They simply packed their things, left the plantation, and silently went their way.
***
The boy lay quietly next to his mother, as he held her. It had been nearly one year now since the day they left the plantation, and were now residing in a small shantytown that lay in the outskirts of the Master’s domain.
There was no more routine.
The boy had gone to look for any work that he could get. His young age and small size always proved a hindrance. But he was determined and resolute and that always impressed the men who had eventually hired him to do odd jobs. In the end he always proved himself, and soon he was able to find work through sheer word of mouth from past employers who had been impressed with his determination, hard work, self-reliance and strong will. He was wise and mature for his young age, and so was given odd jobs running errands for dubious men, some mercenaries, others occupied in businesses the boy could not even begin to fathom or comprehend.
But the pride of work served little to the boy’s sense of happiness. He was not happy, because his mother was not happy. The boy would now come home and sometimes find that his mother would not be alone to greet him by the door with a smile. He now found that he would be consigned to the small makeshift cot in the other corner of their small one-room shack, as strange men would now take his place by his mother’s side in bed. It was during those nights that he would find himself laboring to fall asleep since he began to resent his mother. But he could never stay angry or hate her for very long, for he knew who was really to blame. And guilt consumed him.
Some men stayed the night, while others left after a few hours. But by early morning when all men were sent away, the boy would be awaken by his mother who knelt by him at the side of his cot, greeting him with her ever-present warm smile. And all was forgiven. Before he’d leave for work, she would hand him coins left to her from the men of the previous night, and she would tell him that tonight they could afford millet.
Then gradually as he began to notice the color seem to fade from his mother’s cheeks, the boy noticed that men began to visit his mother less frequently. But he didn’t care whether they no longer thought she was beautiful. To him, his mother would always be the loveliest creature on earth. He cared even less whether they had millet for supper because he began to savor these times, when they could now go back to their old routines.
At night the boy was happy to take his place beside his mother in bed, once again. And as she cradled him, she would labor to sing the lullaby. But each night the boy began to notice that the lullaby seemed to get shorter, as her body took to almost violent fits of coughing, until it prevented her from finishing the song completely. But he didn’t mind that. The boy simply finished the lullaby for her each night and would hold her, as her ragged breathing subsided to a more even rhythm. It was then that the boy knew she was asleep. And it was not until then that he himself would fall asleep peacefully by her side.
***
In the recent weeks to come, it became part of the routine that he would normally awaken in the morning to the sound of his mother’s coughing and, oddly enough, it too began to comfort him. But now she had slept peacefully through the night. And as the boy was awoken by the warm ray of sunlight, which seeped through the crack in the roof hitting him straight in the eyes, he refused to get up from his mother’s side. She looked peaceful and he didn’t want to disturb her, so he simply continued to hold her as he allowed himself to drift back to sleep.
Suddenly a loud, hard and continuous rapping at the door broke the boy’s peace as he was forced out of bed to answer the door. An old woman and 2 men stood before him. The boy recognized the woman as his neighbor who lived in the small shack next to them.
She had been speaking rapidly to the other 2 men, in frantic guttural tones of Hindi, as they had forced their way into the room towards the bed where his mother lay motionless.
“I was worried when I hadn’t seen her come out for 3 days,” the old woman told the 2 men.
The boy screamed as he saw that the men were prodding at his mother’s body. He ran to his mother’s sleeping form.
“Don’t wake her. She’s asleep!” The boy said as he looked at his mother’s face, marveling at the sight of her, noting that she had never looked more beautiful or more at peace. The young boy gently touched his mother’s brow, which was no longer furrowed with deep lines of anxiety or premature age, but made smooth with a sense of calm. She was like an angel, with a mystical white aura about her face as she lay there with a delicate, subtle smile playing at the corners of her lips.
The old woman took the boy to the side as he had struggled to maintain his stance.
“She is dead, my child,” the woman said simply as she held the boy tightly to her. “Your mother is dead.”
The boy stood still, looking on silently, as one of the men took his mother by the feet, while the other grabbed her by the torso.
As they began to take his mother’s body away, the boy wrestled free from the old woman’s hold and ran to his mother. The men continued to take his mother away but the boy had managed to grab hold of his mother’s hand. In it, the boy found that she had been holding onto her golden locket. It was then that he realized that, as he held his mother in his arms in her dying days, she had been clenching her precious locket against her heart. The woman grabbed the boy by his waist, as the men pulled her from him. The boy was no longer able to hold onto her hand, and the locket fell from her hand into his. The boy ran to the doorway and cried as he watched the men take his mother away until he could no longer see her.
It would be many, many years before the boy would ever cry again.
***
It was Christmas and the manor was filled with guests who were dressed in their most opulent and richly adorned attire. The Mistress moved across the room as she entertained the dignitaries from the Motherland and the country’s social elites. Occasionally she would look up to meet the Master’s hard stare, but he would look away just as quickly as she would catch him glaring at her. But with her natural poise, cool grace and customary charm, the Mistress simply resumed her dalliances with her guests without missing a beat, despite the anxiety and torment of her inner world. The Master excused himself from the crowded ballroom, walked through the French doors, which he closed behind him, and took refuge in the quiet solitude of the balcony and the darkness of night. As he stared into the evergreen fields below him, he was caught by the sight of a small figure who stood in the distance in front of the manor. The Master strained his eyes, until he was finally able to make out the identity of the figure.
It was the boy.
And even in the darkness the man could see that the boy still had the same familiar defiant look in his eyes. And he could see that their hardened gaze was directed at him.
For a long moment the man and boy simply regarded each other in silence. Then he watched as the boy crouched down. The boy had held a stick in one hand that he now lit, and drew towards a large mound of leaves, sticks and shrub that was piled in the form of a small teepee behind him. Instantly with the touch of his stick the mound burst into flames, carried by the damp dense wind and held aloft, dancing fervently as it towered above the small figure of the boy.
In that instance screaming was heard from the ballroom and the Master opened the French doors, ran into the room, pushed through the crowd until he reached the front steps of the manor. Sabu and the other male servants had gone out to stand beside the Master, ready to pounce on the child. But the Master held them back with his arms, calling them off, as the small boy began to shout from his stalwart stance. From a distance the boy’s small form was surrounded by an aura of menacing orange-red flames, which towered over him and billowed brightly behind him. It was the first time the boy addressed the Master. It was the first time the Master had heard the boy’s voice.
The boy seemed to be chanting something, as he held a small shiny object in one hand, which he raised high above his head. But he spoke in Hindi, so the Master could not understand him. The startled crowd bustled and clamored, as Sabu aided the Master in holding them back from the doorway.
“What is he saying,” the Master shouted to Sabu, who held a worrisome look in his eyes.
But before Sabu could answer him, the boy spoke again—this time in English.
The boy shouted in a slow but deliberate voice, which seemed to labor at the carefully chosen words.
“Her name is Asha! You will remember that…Always,” the boy shouted. “I promise you!”
He repeated the words again, once more, more slowly, in a loud and commanding voice. Then the boy turned away from the manor, looked down at his hand, at his mother’s locket. He opened it to find the Master’s picture—to find staring back at him, the Master’s cold grey eyes…demon’s eyes…his own eyes, which he now detested. As the boy snapped the locket shut with his fingers, he raised his arm and motioned towards the flames as if to throw the necklace into the bonfire. But he hesitated.
The boy clenched his fist and winced as he held on to the locket in his tight grip. He paused; then turned around to look once more at the Master who stood silent and still, like a black monolith, against the frenetic animated crowd who clamored in the background. Sabu stood next to him, looking on sadly, as he labored to hold the frenzied crowd behind them.
The boy then turned and quietly walked away—away from the fire, away from the manor.
He had expected to find Sabu and the other servants running after him. He had anticipated the pain of Sabu’s familiar iron clad grip about his shoulders. He had been prepared to be dragged back to the manor to be dealt with whatever punishment the Master and Mistress would see fit. But he walked with no fear. And as the boy continued to walk away from the fire, away from the manor, away from the familiar grounds of the enormous estate, until he could no longer hear the din of the hysterical crowd, nor see the bright orange-yellow light cast by his large bonfire, nor feel the heat of its flames lick his small back, it slowly became apparent to him that no one would be coming after him. So as the boy walked on, he felt the tiny droplets of cold grey mist that embraced him slowly transform into large razor-sharp pellets of blinding white rain, as it began to beat down on him more violently. The small boy continued to walk on, walk away, walk calmly in even strides, unfettered by nature’s own rage. And as he walked passed the stables, passed the rubber trees, passed the iron-wrought gate that marked the boundary of the Master’s domain, he did so, leaving the world of innocent youth, with not one glance behind him.
Posted in Novel Excerpts | Tagged Colonial India, family, loss, poverty, relationships | Leave a Comment »
Dear Dora,
Anyways, so I went to L.A. again.
Yeah. I swear deep down inside I really must love this city, but the “Berkeley brainwashing” (as Dad puts it) prevents me from explicitly admitting it.
Um. I guess I just did, huh?
…and ‘as usual’ my trip was fraught with half-expected perils….
I took the bus since I wished *not* to relive the shame of “special security clearance” (i.e. being ’branded’ with the “type SSS” airplane boarding pass – as if ‘labels’ aren’t demoralizing enough) AND, not to mention, the really ‘unnecessary’ frisking by another intimidating zaftig Black woman.
“I’m just going to San Francisco,” remembering my pathetic futile plea of a month ago as her hands proceeded to graze my loins.
(ok, so perhaps I should get that expired driver’s license taken care of ASAP).
So the bus.
It took us 3 hours longer to get to our ‘planned’ destination since the driver spent those first 3 hours ’circling’ the Bay Area. Hey! At least the out-of-towners got to see 3 — count’em 3! — bridges in that span of time. However, I feared that the (understandably) irrate passengers would end up hijaking our bus. If not that, I thought the “crazy man” who sat behind me (and spent 3/4 of our trip teetering between arguing emphatically and laughing hysterically at the many apparently amusing things that his imaginary friend he called “Lars” was saying to him), would surely jump into the fray and decide to finally act on the many demonic impulses “evil Lars” was coaxing him into realizing. Thankfully for the rest of the occupants of our oxygen-stricken bus, “crazy man” managed to win *this* debate.
And then 10 minutes from our final destination, our driver decides (if inadvertantly) to take us to Pasadena without much less an announcement to his “hostages”…. In spite of this, I just had to laugh out loud when half of the passengers ended up jockeying for the position of his personal GPS system, as they shouted and argued with each other whether he should take the 101 or stay on the 5….
Believe it or not, this is *not* the first time I’ve been on a bus where the driver had gotten ‘very’ lost. (You’d think I’d learned by now.)
…Then as I jumped into my parent’s car I realized that the scratchy frog lodged in the back of my throat was *not*, to my disappointment, belated male puberty setting in, but alas, just a cold. (And I had thought that I’d finally ‘evolved’ into a new *hermaphroditic* hominid species….) Ah well.
…and while I must admit that the feeling that my head had expanded 10 times its normal volume seemed half-way ”enjoyable”, it did naught to censor my subconscious thoughts….
“What is that?” I asked incredulously, as I pointed to the 3 large stars aligned in *inverted* triangular formation.
Coming up to our driveway, the “stars” illuminated with small sparkly multi-colored lights that hung from the large portrait window of my parent’s house, which *by itself* would not have been so disturbing, if not for their blinking at irregular intervals with what appeared to be morse code. …For what? I was afraid to even speculate….
My dad (whom I strongly believe to have lived a past life as some sorta unappreciated and frustrated artistic genius) chimed with unbridled pride, “Oh, *I* did that!”
“Wow,” was all I could say at the moment. And as my voice trailed off, I heard mom stifle a chuckle in the passenger side.
Well, while I was checking out what *else* comprised these strangely hypnotic “stars”, I discovered that the lights were strung up against narrow wooden cut-outs (all impressively uniform, I must add, in deference to Daddy)…anyways, the lights were also hooked up to our old X-mas carol chime box. You know, the ones that made X-mas lights ”sing”….
After 2 days of listening to what almost sounded disturbingly like stripped-down techno music, while sitting amidst Vegas-like decor (I ask seriously now: Does decorating sense normally degenerate with age?), I finally brought myself to put the X-mas carol box on mute. But then *that* just made things worse, as I felt ‘compelled’ to see whether I could guess what X-mas tunage was ‘playing’, just from watching the pulsating lights do its erratic rhythmic ‘dance’….
This “game” went on for nearly a half-hour before I finally cracked.
Then a sorta revelation set in, as I piped while watching my parents ready themselves for church.
“Dad, what message *are* you sending?”
He shot me a perplexed look.
“You know those are ‘Jewish stars’, right? As in, the star of David?”
Horrified, he looked again, then turned to me,
“No they’re not! Jewish stars are 6-pronged. These have 5 points!”
I counted them out loud. With my fingers. All 15 of them. Hm.
I felt foolish being so careless.
I gotta admit though. I was impressed that Daddy actually ‘did’ his research.
But of course that didn’t stop me.
Apparently, the sense of mischief seems to be in direct relation with a heightened body temperature.
Or perhaps it was just the effects of Nyquil taken 3 times the normal recommended dosage.
“Well, I hate to break it to ya Dad, but I *do* believe that those stars could still also be interpreted as Pentagrams.”
“What?”
“You know, as in Satan….
…decapitated roosters, dismembered cats…oh no wait.
I’m wrong. That’s Hoodo, or Voodoo. No.
Arrgh. Forget it. That’s Santeria….”
I looked up and met Dad’s blank stare.
“Elle, don’t you know that in…”
Dad’s voice trailed off in the background, as my mind drifted back to the day when I first came home 10 months ago after my 3-year absence from L.A., and how shocked I was to find our inconspicuously-hued beige house painted a bright cotton candy-pink, coupled (of course) with crimson where there were once tasteful (if not mundane) black wrought-iron gates and beams looming over bulbous flowering ’Birds of Paradise’ plants.
I had read about how our neighborhood (Silver Lake) had only recently seen an influx of bohemian-types, as it was fast becoming a mecca for artists and (to my brother’s misfortune and malcontent) *the* new haven for gay men alike. And! of course I could not help but speculate whether this would *still* have been the case, if it had not been for our bright powder-pink house sitting conspicuously cheerful and buoyant atop our little hill, as if beckoning its secret message to ”its own” to “come join us and share in the frivolous mirth and bliss of all that is ‘gay’….”
I guess I would’ve more easily dismissed this as just another one of my silly foundless ‘theories’ if not for my brother mentioning that a couple more houses in our ‘hood soon after “followed suit”, by dispensing with the trite earth tones, opting instead for the pastel purple and fluorescent teal hues….
Still bittersweet though it was, to see all the charming new gelato shops, quaint eclectic cafes, and rustic antique stores supplant makeshift taco stands, small mom & pop liquor stores, as well as the sadly now theoretically- and pragmatically-defunct quarter arcades of my childhood….
But where was I? Oh yes…my dear dad, in his last ditch attempt to calmly and rationally explain to (or perhaps ’remind’) his spiritually-disenfranchised prodigal daughter the profundity behind ’silver tinsel’ and ‘bedizened pines’, had started explaning how putting up lights in the form of celestial symbols is a ”tradition” heaped in…, but then perhaps knowing it to be an act in futility, simply ended his brief discourse with the following words:
”Elle, you have an abnormal brain.”
Ah well. It’s nice to be validated.
It’s also nice to have a sense of humor, I’ve found.
I suppose I would have been offended if not for the rather *endearing* manner in which daddy said it.
…that is, in his rather monotone, matter-of-fact, quietly resigned, albeit incredulous, yet accepting way.
“Well, if you start finding dead cats splayed out on your porch and black-clad ‘Goth-likes’ pitching tent on your front lawn, don’t say I didn’t warn you….” I retorted, of course refusing to relent, as my parents walked out the door.
Then, 2 hours later, my parents walked through the front door to the sight of my cocooned form lying on the couch huddled knee-to-chin in the fetal position, watching reruns of ”Good Times”, donned from head to toe in heavily-knitted garments (beenie, mittens and scarf rolled up to nose), fully prepared for ‘The Big Snowstorm’, even though L.A.’s winter night air was still a balmy 60 degrees.
Dead silence met me as the parents stole furtive quizzical glances my way.
“What are you hatching?” Dad finally asked in his usual deadpan manner, as he nonchalantly walked past me.
My brow furrowed (a natural reflex) in the attempt to decipher Dad’s ambiguous words.
“What do you mean?” Mom caviled earnestly in my defense, “She’s not a chicken.”
(Ah, Mommy…the ‘literal one’….)
“Are you cold, dear?” Mom cooed softly as she peered down on me.
Then on further contemplation, I thought: how appropo.
Leave it to Mom — Dad’s *unwitting* accomplice — to inadvertantly supply Socratic irony.
Although Dad’s not one to normally speak figuratively, of course ‘my mind’ naturally presumed the latter….
But! I suppose given my 300-degree body temperature, even minus the mummification-via-crochetworks, I could have managed to ’hatch’ an egg….
(That is, of course, if I were *so inclined*).
Then again, perhaps Dad’s some sorta ‘empath’ with nascent Sufi-istic tendencies as well.
In any case, as idiosyncratic family relations go…, I hope your X-mas was good, if not likewise ‘illuminating’.
Wishing you a joyous and relatively “fraughtless” New Year.
Love,
Elle
Posted in Potpourri | Tagged family, letters, x-mas | 1 Comment »
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