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| photo by Chris Turner ~ story by Everett Peacock |
Short Drive to Never Never
My glass almost slipped from my fingers, saved from an impact with
the stone floor by only the edge of her highly polished coffee table.
Just as well. There wasn't much more I could break anyhow.
I quickly averted my eyes from it's reflective surface. They had
told me to avoid mirrors. My eyes, they continued telling me, would
find fault with every thought, every emotion, certainly every selfish
tear reflected there. I was supposed to begin building a wall, to
protect myself. Mirrors, apparently, bore right through walls.
Reflections I could avoid. The flood of guilt I could not. It
increased its force with every new brick of my wall, actually more of
a dam, that I tried to put into its path. This morning, its exit
from darkness not yet complete, I had almost made my peace, almost
found it OK to let the river take me. Unfortunately, after feeling
it hold me under longer than necessary I discovered its twisted game.
There would be no resolution, no escape. It would never drown me.
I sat down on the floor, in the clutter of my project. The pictures
of her were now neatly organized, from the beginning all the way to
the end. The plastic coated picture album felt more bloated than
when I had paid for it. Not nearly enough to justify a long life,
but certainly more than if I had only allowed it to be.
Leave it alone. No. I couldn't do that, couldn't let the river
never quite drown me. It would just dunk me under every so often
until I thought I surely must be dead, only to force me to the
surface for one more breath of humiliation.
My glass whispered to me, with the lure of a casual lover. Come to
me. Here, on the edge of blackness. Drink my wine, drown in me.
Drown here, in me.
I could do that. Or, I could open the book one more time. Either
poison might work. But, the book... the book was the more painful
option. So, I chose that.
Pushing the piles of magazines, the scissors, the glue and the marker
pens all aside, the back of my hand moved slowly, up to my glass
again. Stroking its coolness, its smoothness, as I drew in a deep
breath, I pushed it back deeper onto the black table. And, looked
down at the book.
There, Emily Jane began it all in the usual fashion. Swaddled in
pink blankets and surrounded by balloons. Look how young her mother
was! So much dark hair! So, so long ago. The picture was worn at
the edges, only now protected from the hundreds of hands that had
once touched it. Next to it was another. Emily Jane on her first of
many beloved horses. Perhaps this was only a pony, yes. It must be
just a pony. She was so small I can't believe she had been allowed
on. Her mother must have been very loving, very trusting in the
benign nature of God.
The fascination I found in her story was intoxicating, more so than
anything my glass might promise. Here, on the next page, I found
more images of her years developing into a vibrant and formidable
young woman. Growing taller and impossibly more beautiful. More
pages turned, more smiles beamed up at me. Bicycles, toys, horses.
Always a horse or two around. Soon the trophies began sparkling in
the background of pictures. Young, confident men began appearing on
the edges of some pictures, always looking at her, never at the
camera.
Another page fell heavily against the previous ones, each a ponderous
fall against the other. They felt the weight as much as I did; a
soul sucking pull toward the dust.
I shifted awkwardly. The stone floor was unyielding, incapable of
any real comfort. A dimming lamp bulb refused to assist, loathing my
presence, my intrusion into a world which had been abandoned. I
could ignore hostility. At least the shadows were shallow.
Another page deeper into the book, high school dominated everything.
It was friends, teachers and horses, only. Her mother must have
taken keeping-some-distance to heart, leaving her to shine by herself
more often than not. Preparing her, I suppose, for the inevitable
venture into the big, wild world to come.
My glass wasn't whispering anymore. It demanded I look up, look at
it. Close that damn book, it shouted, you should hold me now. I did
look up, I have to admit I did. My lips were dry, there was no doubt
about that. But, I looked away, again. Back to the book.
Strangely, there soon was a blank page. My hand touched the plastic
sheet of that page, hoping to feel for perhaps an invisible picture
that might have escaped my eyes. Surely it would be most important,
having made the effort to hide. My fingers felt only smooth
coldness. Like the side of my glass. Nothingness.
The next page and those that followed looked a bit different from all
the earlier ones, but it continued Emily Jane's story. It was the
least I could do. There were magazine clippings about a young woman
from the country setting equine records. Others about an engagement
to a nice boy from Sacramento. A beach wedding in Maui. Shopping
trips to San Francisco, pictures of eating at Fisherman's Wharf.
I turned the page slowly, this time it fell with less weight.
Pictures of babies popped up like mushrooms. Advertisements for
strollers, daycare and college savings accounts filled the next
several pages. I could see they had it all. Great jobs, family, a
future. And, horses.
A ranch appeared, with a fine picket fence encircling what had to be
a hundred acres. Majestic trees lined her driveway, the lead up to a
magnificent home, not just a house. A big family was there, sitting
on the grand stairs spilling down from a sprawling veranda that
glowed nicely in the shadows of a great roof.
Her clothes changed often in these pictures, never the same outfit,
always a new set of shoes or gloves or some accessory. The
accompanying kids grew taller and more attractive, their clothes just
as varied and fashionable as any well appointed fashion model. Cars
were always the latest year. Shiny, attractive, full featured and
some even electric. It's as if her life was so rich she felt she
must try every experience, wear every new thread imaginable, consume
everything the world had to offer someone as beautiful as herself.
Her mother and dad must have been so very, very proud. Pictures of
older folks were sprinkled in, but not as often as I would have
thought. Perhaps her mother and dad were busy, or traveling the
world as parents of such a woman might. Having launched her
successfully into life they must have decided to relaunch their own
lives. I looked over at my glass, sarcasm filling me. Wouldn't that
be nice, I thought.
I turned the page carefully. They were beginning to feel
increasingly fragile.
The magazines kept a watchful eye on her interesting life. Middle
age seemed to treat her very kindly. The kids must now be adults,
off on their own adventures around the world; climbing mountains and
investigating the limitless boundaries of the gifted. She smiled at
it all. In fact, she was smiling in all the pictures after that
blank page. Whomever the photographer was, or were as the case may
be, they were certainly professionals. Perfect lighting, perfect
composition and focus. I didn't see one head cut off anywhere.
The remaining pages were few, which prompted my glass to commence
screaming. Now or never, it cried! It sounded desperate to me, a
little forlorn. I watched it sweat in the manufactured heat, pooling
against itself on the black table. It might have been the lighting,
but the condensation almost had the darkness found in spilled blood.
Without looking away, I turned another page, feeling it lightly
splash against the previous, before looking back down to the book.
My breath found some courage in that. I took another deep draw of
air. I couldn't drown.
This page showed her as an elegant older lady. London, Paris, the
Queen, Effie. Always wearing the most extravagant clothing, always
sporting a dazzling smile. I couldn't find her children in any of
these pictures, or perhaps I just couldn't recognize them. Kids will
do that. Morph right into someone you might never know in a crowd
many years from now.
My glass was whispering again, having failed at yelling. It was
begging me now, almost weeping. Please, it said softly. Please
close the book. Even if you don't but sip me, please stop now.
While you can. I looked at my glass with a new level of respect. It
was losing some of its selfishness. Or it was lying. Probably the
latter, of course. But, I had to give it points for presentation.
My eyes fell back to the last two pages. It was obvious to anyone
that cared to look that Emily Jane had lived a full and satisfying
life. The pages of this photo book proved it quite convincingly. It
had a substantial weight to it. I could easily ignore the freshly
cut magazine paper all over the floor, the glue sticks and the subtle
mistakes.
The next to last page held only one image. Emily Jane sitting side
saddle on a majestic Kentucky bred mare. Handlers held the reins and
stood close by, due to her advanced age. But you could tell, if you
studied her eyes, she was confident. And safe. And happy.
Outside the window the first hints of light were struggling through
low clouds. It was almost time to leave. My glass was silent. I
respected that. Gracious defeat.
The last page, well, the last picture had its own defeat I suppose.
The defeat even the most fortunate human, like Emily Jane surely had
been, must eventually meet.
The lighting in the image was spectacular, textures of radiance
reaching out to touch not just the roadside memorial but any who
gazed upon it. It was a bit unusual, I had to admit, that such a
fabulous life as Emily Jane's would only warrant a simple remembrance
on the side of a high desert road. I could ignore that glaring fact.
I could.
I had to.
Closing the book, I walked past the table and stopped. My glass
ignored me, having given up. Fine. Give up then. I cannot. The
door closed softly upon my exit.
The drive down from Truckee was uneventful. The tourists were
between seasons and the locals were taking Sunday morning off. I had
the pavement all to myself, and the book. It sat silently next to
me, neither whispering nor yelling. It might have been sobbing.
Someone was.
In another hour I was there. Emily Jane's roadside memorial. I
pulled off the road, just opposite, a moment after sunrise. It
wasn't Easter, so I didn't expect any miracles, but one would have
been greatly appreciated. Sitting in my car, not yet willing to turn
off the engine, I stared out my driver's side window. Time had
worked against the wood, ropes and tack that had been left behind.
Evidently, winter had decided to let it all stand one more season.
Without looking I reached over for the book while opening my
reluctant door. The ground crunched a bit under my shoes. Rustlings
of wind were trying to get going, waiting on the sun to move just a
bit higher in the sky. My eyes crinkled at the biting cold, hoping a
few tears would protect them. I allowed it.
I got to the middle of the road and stopped. Paused actually, not
stopped. Nothing could stop me. This was supposed to save me. It
might. Yet, it felt like it would first tear my heart right out of
my chest, piece by broken piece. Maybe I could drown then. Maybe.
I took a few more steps forward. The edge of the pavement leading up
to the collection of some of her favorite things pushed back against
me. My hopes of redemption were not welcome here, it growled. I, of
all people, was not allowed. OK, that was quite understandable.
Some things can't be undone. Burned bridges need only carpenters, no
one else. Certainly not the fire starter. My toes pressed hard
against the bottom of my shoes, as I waited.
I'm a patient sinner. The sun climbed an inch higher. I stood very
still. It climbed another inch, and another. I remained at the
edge. There, with the book in my hands, holding it like I used to
hold a Bible, I stood resolute. That reminded me of something from a
long time ago, almost dreamlike in its faded recollection. I looked
up into the sky, hoping that somewhere mercy could be shown. All I
saw were contrails, weaving a cage above any and all that slithered
here on the ground.
I eventually sank to my knees, my hands and knees, pushing the book
ahead of me. Perhaps I couldn't walk, but I could always crawl. The
sun climbed another inch higher. My eyes struggled to look up at the
wood, at her engraved name. It was OK, I told myself, it was OK.
Dirt and dried summer grass reluctantly let me approach, if only
slowly. Another inch for the sun, another inch for me. Dust swirled
up around me, welcoming another. The memorial finally allowed me to
approach.
Friends had written various things on the wood, but most had faded
away. Except some red paint. I pushed the book up against the
wood's base and sat back on my heels, digging into my pocket for my
black marker pen.
“I'm so sorry, Emily Jane.” My fingers finally located the pen
deep down in the lint of a corner of my pocket. “I've brought you
a book...” I had to look away, embarrassed at such an offering. I
glanced up. The sky was deep enough to afford me anonymity. There
the contrails were weaving themselves tighter and tighter together,
little silver spiders spilling white silk behind them. God was up
there somewhere, in that blueness. On the other side of that web.
“It's a book of your life, honey.” My fingers fumbled with the
pen. “It was rich, and long and from what I could imagine quite
fulfilling. Family, travel, beautiful things and happiness. Lots of
happiness.” I accidentally dropped the cap into the sand. “And
horses! Lots of magnificent horses.”
The wood had decayed badly except of course where someone had written
her age in red paint. No birth date, no death date. Just her age.
No one had to do the math. It was right there, so there would be no
mistake.
“Emily Jane...” I paused, relishing the last time I might ever
utter her name. Such a beautiful collection of syllables.
Em-lee-Jane. My Em-lee-Jane.
“I wish I had done better, honey.” I sketched the number 92 onto
the wood, going over it a few times so that it would not soon fade.
92. “I'm so damn sorry.” The pen fell into the sand as well.
It didn't matter. I stood up and looked down at what I had done, or
more accurately, what I hadn't done. I had left her mother before
she was even born, become a refugee from my responsibilities and led
my demons into the mountains. It took several minutes for it all to
play out again. Maybe, just maybe... if I could have taught her how
to drive things would be different.
I looked up into the sky, her sky, one last time. The contrails
above had now merged into a thick canopy of cirrus. Walking back
across the pavement, dust clinging to my boots, I could hear my
demons calling from the mountains. They could wait. Reaching my
car I found my reflection in the back door window. Quickly, I
focused through that to my old box of vestments sitting with infinite
patience under my collar and cross.
From my car I tortured myself one more time, and looked. Even from
here one could still see that under the black 92 there was a red 16.
~~~
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