Wanting Rita (19 page)

He stood firmly by the boulder, stooped though he was, and he called down the wrath of any god whose ear was close. He prayed and wailed for many hours, mouthing sacred mantras and incantations, evoking the ancestors, the spirits, straining in a hoarse, pleading voice for some ineffable being to stop the invaders. But the bulldozers approached, like big locusts and, because the old man was old, they waited and they did not remove the boulder that day. The world was safe, for one more day.

The girl visited the boulder that night. She circled it. Touched it. Felt its hard crevices worn smooth by an eternity of sun and rain; felt an old warmth and pulse radiating from it, like a heart; sensed its wisdom at the base where ripe green moss clung pungent and soft. She prayed that the old man would return. She did not want the boulder to go. She did not want to drift away. She did not want to float around in the universe forever, without ever being anchored to anything.

She did not sleep that night. She watched the crimson stain of dawn reveal the creeping gray silhouettes of the men of the new creation, as they climbed their sleeping giants and woke them up. The girl watched, terrified, her nose pressed to the cool window, her heart racing. “Will the boulder cry out? Does it have the magic to stop them? To save itself and the world? If so, would her Daddy survive? It was his bulldozer that lumbered and squeaked over mounds and furrows of earth toward its goal: to drive away the old boulder.

The bulldozer drew up to the boulder and stopped. Threateningly, the yellow monster snarled and belched out black acrid smoke.

The boulder did not move. The heavy shovel struck the ground, hard, and was caught glaring by the blinding spark of sun. The girl shaded her eyes, hearing her tiny horrified voice call for the old man.

The shovel shot forward and, like a predator with a clever tongue, it scooped up the rock, effortlessly, and snapped it backwards with easy precision, as if swallowing it. It lifted it high, like an offering and a prize, parading the severed head of the old gods, holding it skyward for all the cheering masses to see.

And then it was taken across the bare, ravaged fields, across the now muddy stream, and casually, routinely, it was dropped off the edge of the world.

The girl waited, breathless, and when it happened, she was not surprised. Her room and all the objects in it began to rise and float. She lost her footing and, like smoke, she drifted. Outside, all the men and their machines began lifting from the earth, rising, hovering for a time and then, finally, evaporating into a lusterless blue sky.

She had but two choices: to let go, to drift, lost, like a cloud, or to find the old man and then, together, search for the boulder. The old anchor. The old comfortable gods.

As she drifted higher, she reached for something—anything—to grab on to, to steady her, to anchor her, but all the vaporous objects that passed were just out of her reach. So she drifted and looked for the old man and for the boulder that had been dropped off the edge of the world.

I sat staring down at the pages until darkness descended; until the sounds of the crickets and bullfrogs, and a quickening breath, stirred me to my feet. I walked the land, holding the pages of Rita’s story, as if they pulsed with life. The night air shifted directions and became silky and cool. I was thrilled by thoughts of Rita; strengthened, eagerly, by the certainty that I’d see her again, because she had made contact. She had left the story with me. She was reaching out! That pleasurable thought expanded into aching, rapturous fantasies that kept me awake until two-thirty in the morning.

Chapter Two

Morning light startled the land. It fell on bright green rippling grass, drenching the trees and lakes with a trembling radiance, like millions of silver butterflies.

I had risen early, pulled on slacks and a green shirt, and made a run to the local Farmers Market for a few groceries. Returning home, I traveled the back roads, driving slowly, searching the unraveling fields for reasons—trying to understand why I’d wound up back in Hartsfield, seeing Rita again. Feeling 18 again. Feeling anxious again.

By the time I returned home and called Nicole, my voice must have sounded pensive and faraway.

“I start the trial tomorrow,” she said, with her own tone of detachment.

“Yes, I remember.”

“You’re not saying much, Alan. You sound kind of out-of-it.”

“Oh… I didn’t sleep very well. Old ghosts or something.”

“You met with the estate auctioning agents?”

“Yes. Things went fine. I don’t think it will take long. I’m leaving this afternoon. Should be home by 6 or so.”

“Let’s eat out tonight,” Nicole said. “Something simple.”

“Sure… Nicole, I was thinking this morning…we’ve both been working a lot of hours. Why don’t we go to your father’s place on Shelter Island the weekend after next? Your trial should be over by then and I can get Megan to cover for me on Monday.”

Nicole was quiet.

“Nicole?”

“I don’t know.”

“…Because?”

Silence again.

“Nicole, we could talk.”

“We have talked.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

Her voice took an edge. “Then don’t be redundant, Alan. We already know what the choices are. It’s time to take some kind of action. I’ve said that before.”

I was pacing the kitchen, gripping my cell phone. “Then let’s talk about what action to take. I need that, Nicole. I need for us to be together—away from everything—so we can move on this.”

“Okay, fine!” Nicole said, irritated. “So, we’ll go and talk. Maybe we’ll even get somewhere. Who the hell knows!?”

“Okay then, we could go back to Barbados. We had fun there.”

“You know I don’t have time for that.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“We’ll go to Shelter Island. Fine. Let’s do it! Let’s do it and get it over with! Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a trial to get ready for.”

I slumped in the nearest chair. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

While I was making coffee and toast, the doorbell rang. I made a sidesweep toward the sound, paused, and left the kitchen to answer it. Rita stood framed under the arch, in sunlight, cool sunglasses perched on the top of her head. Our eyes glinted at each other and she seemed to freeze a little. She held a plate of cookies, covered by clear plastic wrap. I immediately saw that something was different: her hair lay natural and careless, as if dried by the wind. It made her young, seemed to smooth the lines around her eyes and mouth. With light makeup, there was blush in her cheeks, and she looked back with a milder gaze. She wore jeans, a yellow cotton shirt and a light blue cotton jacket that put false meat on her thin bones.

“Good morning…” I said. “Are the cookies for me?”

She nodded, demurely.

She offered me the plate and I took it. “Wow…they look great.”

I passed my nose over them and couldn’t smell anything. “They smell wonderful. What are they?”

She worked hard to speak, and it was barely above a whisper. “Oatmeal, raisins…nuts.”

“I love oatmeal. Want to come in?”

She gave another little nod and I stepped aside as she entered. She looked around with an uneasy awe at the rooms and staircase. There was the hint of a breeze, a spring breath, fleeting, but it stirred the bottom ruffle of the cream sheer curtains in the living room.

“Had breakfast?” I asked.

She swallowed and then spoke, faintly. “Yes…”

It cheered me to hear her voice again. “How about some coffee then? I just made some.”

Her eyes said yes.

In the kitchen, she settled on a stool at the island and blinked around at the brightness of the day. I placed the cookies on the almond Formica countertop, and looked at her briskly, suddenly buoyed. And then our eyes played a back-and-forth game of “look and look-away” until I grinned and she broke it off, her fingers moving busily.

I shakily poured coffee and bustled about, looking for cream and sugar. “You take cream and sugar?” I asked quickly, nervously. “I know I’ve got both, well, I mean, not cream, but milk. Sugar I’ve got somewhere. I don’t use it, but I know I have it. My mother used it. Dad never did.” I was vamping, as it were, until I could find a true melody of thought.

I had my head in the refrigerator, looking back over my shoulder. “You know, we never drank coffee together, Rita. That’s why I don’t know how you take it.”

“Cream,” she said. “Milk…” she corrected, with a faint smile.

I took out two French cups, slim and elegant, and poured the coffee. I poured milk in a little gold pitcher and laid it and the cup before her. I peeled the plastic from the cookie plate and pushed it close to her reach. “They look fantastic. Going to have one?”

She shrugged her left shoulder.

“Well I’m going to.”

I brought my coffee, toast and cup of plain yogurt to the island. Leaning against it, I picked a scrumptious looking cookie and studied it. “I didn’t know you baked.”

“…Some,” she said.

I took a bite. It was soft, rich, but not overly sweet. “Good. Very good. Excellent!”

She folded her hands, pleased.

I drank coffee, chewed and strained for conversation. Rita stared blankly out the windows at the thickly wooded hills, her head resting in her left hand. I’d have to be very careful with my words. I didn’t know her now, and one innocent or well-meaning word or phrase could easily detonate a terrible memory or emotion. I’d have to keep the subjects general and light, steering clear of the past, treading softly, like a soldier in a mine field. I was skittish about bringing up her short story, afraid that discussing it might drop her into a dark mood, although I was sure that’s why she’d come. I decided on something bold.

“What are you doing today?”

She turned her face up to me, with mild surprise. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped. She shrugged again.

“It’s such a beautiful day. Maybe we could go for a drive or something,” I said.

She considered it while she tasted the coffee. She looked at me, her face drawn with confused thought; and then I saw a wildness and a calm in the depth of her eyes: two distinct incarnations appeared, one sizing up the other, on an inner battlefield. It startled me. Maybe it was the medication she was taking, but I couldn’t help but stare and explore. It was as if she’d been split in two and “those two” were hell-bent on war; frightened; stalking; and measuring the distances.

I felt the professional obligation and surge to reach out and help; the irrational passion of an 18-year-old who wanted to rescue; and the faltering man, caught by reawakened desire, who wanted to take her and run off to some far corner of the world.

She twitched away from me.

“Are you okay, Rita?” I asked, softly.

She recovered slowly.

I dropped my apologetic voice to a whisper. “Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head, and looked at me again, beseechingly. Her eyes filmed with tears. Laboring, she finally spoke. “It was so long ago. Such a long time, Alan James.”

I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but I had to swallow a couple of times to stop the emotion. “Yes…”

In a long silence, I finished the yogurt and toast while Rita finished her coffee. We listened to birds and a distant droning lawn mower. Not wanting to risk another possible “episode,” I waited for Rita. She finally raised herself up and went to the door that led to the patio. She opened it and stepped outside, slipping on her sunglasses. I reached for another cookie and followed her. She pointed to a patch of glowing flowers, leaning in the soft breeze, and she went to them. When I arrived, she was bending toward tulips. The close damp fragrance of them and the sound of bees seemed to give her energy. Her face relaxed.

“Beautiful…” she said. She lifted a hand for expression, indicating. “This house and the land. It’s so beautiful. You were lucky to grow up here.”

“Yes, I was lucky. My mother planted so many flowers. She loved her gardens. Dad said she’d never planted anything when they first moved here, but after a year or two she told him that the land just called out to her. So she bought books and took some classes and planted flower and vegetable gardens. She grew huge roses and entered them in some contest: came in second, I think, and was she pissed off! She said the whole thing was rigged. She entered again the following year and came in third. That did it! She never entered again.”

Rita took a fresh breath. “I talked to her once.”

“My mother? Really. I didn’t know that.”

“She was very kind to me. And she was so pretty and elegant. It was right after the State beauty pageant. We were in the grocery store. She came up to me and said she was…” Rita paused, running a hand through her hair; her eyes filled with emotion. “She said she was proud of me. I never forgot that. I was so disappointed when I lost. It was such a nice thing for her to say.”