Jerome

[From Memoirs of an Ordinary Guy]

Jerome was a sincere and affable fellow. With his good-natured smile, he was ever eager to engage in conversation with anyone he happened to meet. He was quite articulate when he spoke, despite the severe brain injury he had received as a teenager. The deep scar was still visible on his left scalp where his hair never fully grew back in.

The house he rented while he attended university smelled of dust and old bananas. It had no interior doors, so blankets were nailed to the tops of the doorframes to serve the purpose. A single flickering floor lamp illumined the living room in which sat a threadbare couch, a number of unpacked cardboard boxes, and a large aquarium with brown water and no fish. On the couch, a scrawny mounted deer head stared up at the ceiling, waiting patiently to be hung upon the wall.

We sat on folding lawn chairs around a flimsy metal TV tray and played chess. Jerome, with his eyes gleaming, meticulously set up the black pieces on his side of the board. After I had finished setting up the white pieces, he corrected the positions of my king and queen with a small chuckle and said something about "queen on her own color."

We then waged tabletop warfare and ate Sun-Maid raisins from little boxes. He spoke of his mother, who taught school back in Cleveland, and of his cat Groucho, who had to be left behind. At times, he also made odd references to Darth Vader, in connection with certain moves I made in the game, which he obviously found very amusing. I laughed as if I understood.

Jerome had a firm grasp of the strategy of chess, which I did not. I soon realized why he had so eagerly invited me to play. After several moves that proved unwise on my part, he forced me into giving up my queen to protect my king and my game swiftly unraveled from there. As the light outside grew dimmer, he deftly brought me to checkmate between one of his knights and his queen. He looked up and smiled, obviously pleased with the outcome. He shook my hand heartily saying "good game, good game." I congratulated him on the win and remarked that we would have to have a rematch soon.

As I rose to leave, the telephone rang in the kitchen. After he answered it, I heard him say "Hey Mom," and then, "hold on, ok?"

He looked over to me as I was approaching the door and said "Later Vader." I waved and smiled, and opened the door into the late September twilight.

As I was closing the door behind me, I heard him say, "Oh, I was just saying bye to my best friend Todd."

I smiled to myself and wondered at him saying that because I had only met him just that day.

I looked out upon the darkening world. High clouds were streaked across a fading florescent sky. Headlights and taillights shone brightly along Fort Avenue as the last of the tardy streetlamps blinked awake. The smell of grilling food was on the cool breeze and I paused to imagine from what sort of gathering it drifted.

I approached my little Honda Civic, which was slumbering there in the shadows. The traffic was light as I drove home.

XII: The Pursuit of the Phinëal

This started off as a poem but it quickly became a vignette with a life of its own.

A girl in a crimson cloak ran through the forest clutching a bundled infant. She was pursued by a pack of wolves, their long tongues lolling out over vicious fangs.

The girl stumbled and fell. The wolves closed around, their eager eyes intent on their helpless prey. The girl huddled with the infant against a sprawling oak tree, and appeared to be whispering words rapidly to herself.

The largest of the wolves, a black sinister beast, growled low with dark pleasure as he approached. His snarling companions moved aside to let him draw nearer to the children. Jaina could smell his ghastly breath, but she continued, with head down, to pour forth her fervent invocations.

The black wolf raised his head proudly and spoke: "At last - the Phinëal of the World!"

Jaina looked up with sudden boldness into his evil yellow eyes: "Begone, foul devil - we have powerful friends!"

"Oh yes - and where are they now, my dear?" he said, grinning.

He moved his hideous fanged mouth down to snatch away the bundled babe from her arms.

The infant stirred and began to cry.

A jolt of terror passed through the lesser wolves and they backed away.

"Fools!" said Gurn the Black, for indeed it was he: chief lieutenant to Vorhist, the Scourge of Mankind. "Victory is ours this day!" His companions raised their snouts and began to howl with glee.

The haughty and fierce demeanor of Gurn as he savored the prize within his grasp was terrifying to behold.

But his expression quickly changed to that of terror when the immense oak tree behind the children was quickened to life. A cavernous maw suddenly opened in the truck and let forth a tremendous roar!

Some of the wolves immediately yelped and turned to flee, but they were caught up by thick oak-arms and hammered brutally to the hard earth.

Gurn, having recovered quickly from his surprise, stood resolute with a few of his bold comrades, and growled ferociously.

The oak opened two large furious eyes which held Gurn's gaze fast in spite of himself.

An expression of true fear passed onto Gurn's face and he was as if frozen, spellbound.

Jaina shut her eyes and pressed the infant close to her, as the forest was filled with a tumultuous noise of rushing tree limbs, twisting, yelping, breaking, howling, tearing, pounding - then silence.

She slowly opened her eyes. On the ground there was a multitude of scattered leaves and piles of fur and bone. The tree had straightened back up, and the limbs were gently swaying in the light breeze. She turned to see the tree-face, but it was gone.

She let out a sigh of relief and sat up. She looked down at her little brother, who now appeared as calm and contented as ever.

"Well, Ilanu, that was close - too close." The infant smiled up at her.

Jaina heard a soft clink behind her and turned to see a hinged door opening in the tree.

She backed up to see a small very wrinkled old man, about three feet tall, emerge. He was dressed in woven oak leaves and had small vines plaited in his grey hair and beard. He looked up at the children with bright brown eyes and then at what was left of the wolves. He chuckled to himself and said, “well, that’s that!”

He then looked again at Jaina and Ilanu with sudden solemnity. "You had better come inside now,” he said. “The Enemy has suffered a small setback here, but he will soon strike again - and much heavier this time, for we have injured his pride - we must hurry!"

The door closed behind them as they entered the tree. Any trace of the door vanished, as a deep rumbling could be heard far in the distance.

A Quarrel Over Breakfast

One fair autumn morning, when the sun filled all the wood with golden light and the last of the clinging leaves rattled in cool breezes, a chipmunk ventured out to find his breakfast. A sniff of the air and a couple flitting glances around convinced him that it was safe to move further out. With tail upright and head down, he inspected the ground for promising morsels.

“Fine morning, Chip,” said a rough voice from behind a tree. Out stepped Jack, the ragged old jackal.

Chip’s little heart fluttered. “Uh, hi Jack,” he said, trying to sound casual, “the morning is quite fine.” He knew Jack well, and knew not to trust his attempts at friendliness. He was notorious for playing with his prey, and never spoke to one of the little ones unless he fancied them for food.

Jack sauntered strategically between the chipmunk and his homey hole. As he began creeping towards Chip, a sultry voice whispered, “SSSilly Jackal, you crooked canine. SSSally you forth, the ‘munk is mine!”

It was slithering Cecilia, and the fur on both Jack and Chip’s backs quivered. She approached in an insidious arc and with sinister glee she showed the two mammals her particularly long and elegant fangs.

There was a pause as Jack considered seizing Chip in a flash and darting away. Cecilia leered at him as if she dared him to try.

Chip himself was as if frozen between the two pairs of hungry eyes. Jack had almost made up his mind to pounce when a sudden rustle rushed down deftly upon the chipmunk and like a swift wind was away.

Jack and Cecilia gaped, stunned, and heard a mocking voice trailing off through the woods: “Farewell, friends! Your hesitation has hurt you. The morning is wearing away and some of us are hungry!”

“Curse that falcon!” Jack said with real malice, “May his wings wither!”

“Felix is a fine fellow,” Cecilia said with a grin, “but he certainly knows how to spoil a fine breakfast.”

Jack and Cecilia stared blankly off into the woods, almost as if they hoped their eyes had the power to recall the thief. When it became clear that both bird and breakfast had flown far away, they both turned slowly back to glare at each other. There was a sort of unspoken blaming that took place between them then, while both tried to regain their swagger.

The silence was broken by a low growl. Jack put a paw to his belly and slowly moped away, mumbling something about needing to find something to eat.

Cecilia turned away as well, slithering over dry leaves. “SSSilly Jackal”, she said to herself, knowing as she did that chipmunks are a bit tart for her taste anyway.

Big Ben

Big Ben paused at the wooden fence surrounding his pasture. The bright westerly sun made him squint as he gazed over the fields to where his cattle were grazing. A few were still lingering at the pond, which shone at dusk like a large round mirror lying golden bright in the grassy field. He thought of his wife and of the times she spent making those final touches to her hair in her hand mirror. She never knew how really beautiful he thought she was. Now she was gone.

He waved his hand through a swarm of gnats that had gathered around his eyes. He made certain the pasture gate was secured and then he turned his slow steps toward the house.

He was still not used to the silence that now resided in his home. It greeted him like a spectre when he opened the door. Strange the contrast was between the serene and open farmland outside and the stark grim enclosure where he spent his evenings. He reached out to the radio as to a lifeline. A voice, any voice would do. And tonight it would be The Detective Hour. Silver Fox, private eye, was on the trail of yet another murder suspect. He stared at his meal of leftover stew there in his bowl slowly growing cold. He abruptly reached to shut off the radio and walked over to the window. His strong jaw was clenching and unclenching. The pond reflected the delicate crescent moon in its glassy waters.

He found himself emerging from the interior stifling silence into the soft cool breathings of the night. All the world seemed hushed, but yet not silent. Reaching his ears like music were the night choruses of crickets and toads. He paused to listen, and to remember.

He then approached his overturned wooden dory at the water’s edge and righted it. It made an audible splash which seemed to startle the toads into a moment of silence. His bare white feet stepped into the cool water and down into the soft muddy bottom. Bringing the boat behind him, he lowered down his hefty frame which caused the vessel to lunge towards the middle of the pond, heaving waves out ahead which shone white in the scattered moonlight. But Ben settled softly into peaceful repose, lying prone as if in an open casket, hands folded, gazing at the starry spectacle above.

The heavens seemed in motion as he drifted. How beautiful the stars are, he thought. Like sparkling teardrops suspended in the air, refusing to fall. And in such marvelous array. Ben understood how the ancients could see shapes in the stars they beheld every night. He thought of the nighttime faces he saw as a boy, gazing down at him from the smudged ceiling above his bed. Now he fancied he could make out Clara looking down at him with her sparkling eyes. The heavenly lights blended together as tears filled his own aged eyes. Too weary the days seemed now, and too lonely the nights. But there alone, and despite the hard bed he had made, Ben’s eyelids weighed heavy and he slipped away into slumber, nudged in his dreams by little waves through the night.

Nocturne

A constellation of freckles, the fruit of twelve summers, lay across Sarah’s cheeks and nose and brought to mind carefree days spent out of doors. Her large blue eyes were as clear as the cloudless sky and still sparkled with that undimmed mirth and joy of life that commonly abides in the female child before the complexities of adulthood loom large on the horizon.

But that usual light in Sarah’s face was veiled by clouds this night. There was a paleness in her cheeks and her head hung low where she sat. Upon her eyelashes, the remnants of tears glinted in the firelight. She began again, softly pressing the piano keys down with her slender fingers. The gentle rolling notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the stifling air of the sitting room. She moved her head tenderly to one side as she concentrated all of her attention on bringing out the wordless melody that spoke so much. She finished the piece in the gentlest manner, lightly intoning the last notes and letting them fade away into silence before she lifted her foot from the pedal.

“Did you like that one, Grandfather?” she asked. The gentleman seated behind her continued to stare with blank eyes down and gave no hint of response. His grey visage seemed to droop down slightly from his skull, while his thin frame, all skeleton and skin, was insufficient to fill out his black suit, which draped shapelessly around him as he slumped in the armchair. The cravat he wore, which had been tied for him, was loose, allowing the wrinkled folds of skin on his neck to hang down freely upon his starched collar.

A woman’s hand touched his shoulder. “Uncle, she played that one for you, remember how Auntie loved it?” The old man stirred not at all. The stillness of a graveyard in winter hung about him. Josephine, whose pretty forehead was creased with concern, let her hand remain on his slumping shoulder. The candles in the room flickered with some slight stirring of the air. The two men standing back by the wall shifted uncomfortably, and one whispered briefly to the other. He nodded a response and both looked forward again with grave faces. Their wives nearby held bunched lace handkerchiefs up to their faces.

Josephine glanced towards Sarah, who was gazing with moist eyes at her grandfather.

“Perhaps another piece, love,” Josephine said. “How about Chopin, you like Chopin don’t you, Uncle?” The man maintained his vacant stare. Sarah nodded and turned slowly around. She placed her hands above the keys and paused. She noticed that her hands were quivering. She took a breath and tried to calm herself. Her black taffeta dress rustled as she shifted on the bench. Then she began.

She played Nocturne in E-flat major, and with the opening notes there was a faint flicker in her grandfather’s eyes. Sarah deftly brought out in the simple melancholy strain a lilting optimism that seemed to ease the heaviness in the room. With a quieted note here and a well-executed trill there, Sarah managed in that moment to make the piece seem fresh and newly heard, when in truth Grandmother Agnes had played it many times over the years upon that very piano.

The fragile old man leaned forward, tremulous hands clasped before him. “Oh!” he said, with a rough-throated voice. He continued to exert himself and, as it became clear that he wished to stand, Josephine and the two men moved in swiftly to assist him. As he was being gently lifted to his feet, Sarah paused in her playing to look back over her shoulder. Josephine whispered to her, “Keep playing dear, it’s lovely.”

With the attentive assistance afforded him, the widower took slow small steps across the room towards the open coffin of polished mahogany. It was flanked by two large arrangements of white and yellow roses, and several small vases of lilies and violets were set nearby. Joseph approached his wife. Her face radiated that quiet grace even now. But her mouth was stiff, never to smile again. He reached out for her, and laid a wrinkled and spotted hand over her delicate folded hands. The skin on them was very white in this light, and nearly transparent in its thinness. And cold. He lowered his head.

Sarah gently quitted the piano bench, leaving the song unfinished. She placed an arm tenderly around her grandfather, who was weeping his first tears since his beloved’s passing.