Poor David

by Cynthia C. Whitehouse

 

Moonbeams rained down in streams through the spaces where leaves did not overlap. Like a torn shroud, the canopy above opened itself in a splattered pattern of unpredictable light. It was the night of a full moon on an island not far from the equator. The bright yellow ball seemed unnaturally large and low in the sky as we stood at the edge of the open field, readying ourselves to crossover into the checkered wildness.

We asked permission of the trees and all the other life forms to enter into their domain. Then, we stepped under the looming cover that covertly shaded the jungle below, casting shadows whose intensity was deepened in our minds by the legends we had heard of the spirits inhabiting them.

We trod carefully, with soft feet, trying not to disturb the many iridescent spiders waiting on webs that spanned larger than we did, all the while searching our way from splash to splash of light, not wanting to be surprised by what lay in the spaces we could not see.

The adventure seemed at once forbidden and irresistible. We knew that we had entered a mystical place. Even the ground we so carefully navigated sparkled with the remnants of undersea life. Though we were high on a hill, we were aware that there would eventually be a ledge that dropped down to the ocean below. Waves crashed in the far distance as they met with the coral reef wall that had risen from the ocean’s floor in some long ago, tumultuous earth-shift. The entire island had been born from this primordial sea bed that we now called "ground." As I breathed in the spicy scent of unknown foliage mixed with the musty, salt-enhanced odor of island decay, my skin began to tingle with the energy of the jungle. My senses became more attuned and my vision more clear. I was becoming one with the jungle.

The sound I heard next came louder than thunder. It was a blast, like an explosion, followed by the cracking of tree limbs and an inhuman yelping. My senses reeled with shockwaves of vibrations that grew tentacles and grabbed at my gut. Struggling to get my bearings, I scanned for the disturbance. What I saw was a sight more frightening than the dreaded wild boar, reputed to roam these parts and to attack sooner and more viciously than a wolf.

It was David, too drunk to stand without careening and too willful to stay behind with his six (okay, twelve) pack of beer. He was at odds with the jungle in a way that was grossly palatable.

"No, David," it came out like a whisper.

"What ya doin?" he yelled.

"David, you need to go back. You’re going to hurt yourself in here," I said. I was sure that he hadn’t asked permission to enter the jungle.

"No, I won’t!" he exclaimed as he tripped on a piece of coral that had looked smooth just a moment ago, but now appeared raised and jagged. He fell face first onto the ground and scraped his face, arms and legs badly.

"You did that on purpose," he said.

"Not me," I said, wondering to myself exactly which force it was who had. Where were the others? I looked around, but they were off discovering their own mysteries.

"Come on, David. I’ll take you back."

"Not yet. I’m okay. I just have to take a leak." David walked up to a clearly ancient Banyan tree and unzipped himself.

A sense of foreboding settled around my heart. "David, you can’t pee on that. That’s a Banyan tree! They’re sacred. They have spirits," I said.

He laughed. "Yeah, and I’m the Pope."

"Please, David, don’t do this…" But it was too late. He’d already begun.

With a decent amount of effort and very little finesse, I managed to extract David from the jungle with only minor blood loss and some pretty nasty bruises. Having unceremoniously disconnected myself from the mystery of it, I left the rest of my jungle adventure for another day.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, I called David to see how he was doing. I had prayed for him in the night, but I still had a feeling that I should be worried. David is something of a lost soul and he drinks too much, but when he is sober he is sweet and, despite his twenty-some years, still has the unsuspecting innocence of youth.

"Yeah," David answered the phone.

"David, are you all right?" I asked.

"No. No, not exactly," he said.

"What? You did clean your wounds, didn’t you?" I chided. "You know that old coral has a lot of bacteria in it."

"It’s not my cuts that are the problem," he said.

"Then what?" I asked, feeling an increase in the apprehension that had been making its home in the pit of my stomach.

"It’s embarrassing."

"Well, tell me anyway," I said.

"It’s my balls. They’re swollen. I can’t go to the bathroom or anything. They really hurt."

I took in a long breath and let it out as a sigh. "The Banyan tree," I said. The apprehension now transformed itself into shear dread.

"What Banyan tree?" he asked.

"The one you used for a urinal, David. It’s punishing you."

"Get out," he said. I could hear the disbelief in his voice. "A tree can’t punish me."

"Yes, it can and it is. What are you going to do about it?" I asked.

"Nothing. I’m sure that I just landed on something when I fell. It will go away," he said.

I knew that there was no use in arguing. "All right, but if it doesn’t, call me," I said.

"I promise," he said and then hung up the phone.

I sat a while thinking of poor David. "He doesn’t even know what he’s done," I thought. "By tomorrow, he will. And then we’ll have to do something."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, David called me. He was groaning and whining and very uncomfortable. He’d been to the doctor, but the doctor couldn’t find a cause for the swelling. He’d given David an anti-inflammatory drug, but it hadn’t helped.

"Would you like me to dowse for a solution?" I asked David.

"Do you mean that now I’m supposed to take advise from a pendulum?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, not bothering to tell him that the advice comes from a higher consciousness through the pendulum, not actually from the pendulum. He didn’t deserve an explanation if he was going to take this attitude. "Do I have your permission to dowse for this?" I asked.

"Yes," his voice was soft and I could hear pain behind it. "Anything that will fix this is okay with me."

After the standard preparation ritual to ask the question, I dowsed for what would be the most beneficial way for David to "resolve his issue," and received the answer that he was to go back and apologize to the Banyan tree. David is not going to like this, I thought.

"You’re out of your mind," David said when I told him the verdict.

"Suit yourself," I said. "But if you want me to, I’ll drive you to the tree."

"All right," he said. "I’ll try it. I’ll try anything. I haven’t peed in two days. I think my skin is turning yellow and I can hardly walk."

"I’ll pick you up in half an hour."

 

* * *

 

The ride to the area of the jungle where the tree lived was a quiet one. David was in so much pain that it emanated onto my side of the car and I was beginning to feel achy.

This time, we both asked permission to enter the jungle. When we stood in front of the towering Banyan tree, with all of its tangled roots growing tall and strong out of the ground, it reminded me of a castle with sentries guarding the secret entry points. You could see shadowed caverns inside the fortress where Irish Fairies might like to play. I did not know if there was such a thing as tropical island fairies, but I was privately glad that I hadn’t "pissed-off" the tree.

David just stared up at the formidable Banyan. "It’s really big," he said.

"And really mad," I added. "Apologize."

David dropped his head. "I’m sorry," he said, sounding like he meant it. "I shouldn’t have peed on you. I’ll never do it again."

I sent my silent request to the tree. "Please forgive him. He is really a child in many ways. Please release his pain. Thank you."

I dropped David at home and told him to sleep, which was pretty much all he could do anyway.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, when he woke up, David called me.

"Guess what? I’m better," he said. His voice was cheerful again. I could "see" his big, toothy grin, even through the phone line. "The swelling is gone."

"Great," I said.

There was a moment of silence.

"Who would’ve believed that a tree could have a spirit like that?" he asked.

"I would have.  I've always believed in the energy of life.  Remember that I'm the one who likes to trod carefully through the jungle's magic until I become one with it.  I'm just really glad that now you will, too."

                                                                 ---End.

 

 

Magic Mansion

by Cynthia C. Whitehouse

 

It happened just after she ended a long and tumultuous relationship. No one knows why, not even April, but two months ago a generous benefactor died and left his entire fortune to her. She had never met the man-never even heard of him-although obviously he knew of April.

    In need of a change of scenery and intrigued by the possibilities and the adventure of it all, April packed her things, gave up her apartment in the city and moved into the large mansion on the Williston Estate.

    The estate was located far into the countryside. The nearest small town, the one where she bought supplies, was an hour away. That didn’t bother April. She loved the country. She had neighbors, but they lived many miles away and mostly kept to themselves. Exploring deserted back roads, April found a County Clerk’s Office in an old historic building that never seemed to be open. She went time and again, hoping to catch the clerk at work. She wanted to research the history of the mansion, in particular its previous owner. No one was ever there. Even stranger, to her thinking, there was no sign with business hours posted on the door, not even a “Be Back Soon” notice.

    April had come across some papers in the mansion that confirmed the owner’s name had been Jack. Jack Williston III. Odd, she thought, on the legal deed and documents, she didn’t remember there being an III next to his name. She made a call, asking her lawyer to see what he could dig up on old Jack. For some reason, her attorney never did get back to her, which was very unlike him.

    The mansion was in good order, though dusty and in need of a thorough cleaning. The estate came with a generous allowance from a trust fund the previous owner had thoughtfully arranged. April hired Carmen to keep it clean and to keep herself from becoming too lonely.

    After only a few days of living on the estate, April realized how desperately her spirit had needed the peace and serenity this slice of utopia provided. It was a wondrous place to live. Of course, the air was fresher and life was more serene here, but it was more than that. Everything seemed different. Even the house seemed to have a magic that allowed her to slide more gracefully into herself. Although the trust fund was generous, April found that she didn’t want to leave long enough to spend any of the money. She let herself relax as if she were staying at a fine spa and decided it was a miracle of synchronicity that had brought her to the Williston Estate.

* * *

Swaying in the double swing that graced the front porch, April closed her green eyes and let her thoughts roll with the rhythm of her ride. Her golden blond hair flew in wisps with the wind she created while she swang. It was all very odd, she mused. Her inheriting the entire Williston Estate, the mansion, the caretaker’s cottage, which was as large as a normal home, the stables-although no horses currently resided there-and acres and acres of land. Yes, it was odd that she was there. Of course, many odd things happened at the Williston Estate. There were noises in the night that sounded like a man’s soft laughter; glasses moved into her reach before she even touched them. Doors opened themselves when she wanted to walk through. In a way, it was like being “kept” by an unseen spirit, but her heart felt freer than it ever had. Was that part of the spell of the mansion? She wondered. Or was she just once and finally allowing herself to become light enough to ride the winds of life’s magic.

     When the paranormal events first started happening, April thought about it and concluded that, if the price of the generous and magical gift she’d received was having to share her home with the ghost of its previous owner, she didn’t object. The place was certainly large enough for more than one spirit and, since Jack seemed more gentlemanly than mischievous, the arrangement suited her just fine. April actually liked the idea that there were more entities than just she and Carmen living in the spacious, sprawling house. Carmen kept to herself a lot. She also spoke mostly Spanish and didn’t offer much of that.

     Recently, April had found the key to a room that a lock had previously kept her from exploring. In it, she made a discovery that filled her heart and her eyes with joy. It was an artist’s studio. Canvasses filled with wild brushstrokes of obvious talent, cast in the most brilliant hues she could imagine, lined the studio floors and walls. One painting sat on an easel in the center of the room, unfinished. Her heart ached at its loneliness-its sense of being abandoned.

     “Oh Jack,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “It’s so beautiful. What a brilliant and sensitive man you must have been. Not that you aren’t still wonderful as a spirit,” she added quickly. “But I wish you could have finished this piece. It feels so sad to me.”

     April came back to visit the canvass often and toyed with the idea of finishing it herself-even though it had been several years since she’d dropped out of art school to pursue a writing career. The art had spoken to her, but the stories were more insistent. They wouldn’t leave her alone. It was a good choice because her writing was bringing her success. She had written two novels that sold well and was working on a third.

     While April worked, she often felt Jack reading over her shoulder. Sometimes, she asked him what he thought. Her most recent inquiry had brought the lights to flashing on and off. She took that to mean that he liked it.

* * *

Still swinging in the hot breath of the lazy afternoon air, April opened her eyes to see Carmen standing before her with her suitcases in hand.

     “What is it, Carmen?” April asked.

     “Senora,” the maid said, making the sign of the cross as she spoke, “I can no longer work for you.”

     “Why? Don’t I pay you enough?” “Oh, you pay me good, Senora. It is not you. It is that man.”

     “What man?” April had not talked to Carmen about Jack, purposely hoping not to frighten or disturb her.

     “That man. I see him and then he is gone. He throws pillows at me and he spill my lemonade. In my country, we know to stay away from such ones,” she said, again crossing herself and then heading for her car.

     April sighed largely. “Jack,” she said. “Now look what you’ve done.” April got up and walked into the house, wondering how she was going to keep the enormous place clean and still finish her book on time.

    “Why didn’t you like Carmen?” she finally asked.

    “She was always worrying and fretting and then touching my things,” the words came like a thought into her head. April knew the thought wasn’t hers.

     “She was cleaning them,” April said.

     “She was cleaning them dirty with her worrying,” Jack said. “They felt tainted when she was done with them.”

     “I wish you would have told me sooner,” April said. “It happens that I like my things clean, in the worldly sense. I could have just told her to leave your things alone. By the way, which things are yours? I thought you gave it all to me.”

    “No,” he said. “The trophies, the pictures, the books in the library, those things are mine. And I don’t like fretting fingers pawing them.”

     “Well, you could have just said so,” April told him.

    “I just did,” he said.

    April had to laugh. There was no point in being mad at a ghost. “Yes, you did. What about the paintings?” she asked. “Do you want those left alone too?”

    “No. No, I don’t mind you handling those. As a matter of fact, I wish someone would finish the one that’s started. Can’t stand an unfinished project left open like a wound to fester.”

    April looked toward the studio door. She had taken to keeping it open. “Would you like me to finish it?” she asked. “I don’t know that I could master your technique, but since you aren’t really in a position to do it yourself, I could try.”

     “Sure,” Jack said. “That would be damn nice of you.”

* * *

    April spent the next week working on the painting. It wasn’t so hard, she told herself. Its essence was already in place. She just had to tune herself into the intentions of its original artist. She asked Jack a couple of times to help her, but he didn’t seem very interested. When it was finished, April stepped back, looked at the painting and smiled.

    “Well, it isn’t Picasso, but it isn’t bad, either,” she said to Jack. April jumped when she heard a door slam.

    “Does that mean you don’t like it?” she asked. There was no answer. “I did my best,” she said to the canvass, continuing to stare into its world of vibrant colors. “I think it’s all right.”

     “What’s all right?” a distinctly real and deeply masculine voice said from behind her. April jumped again.

    “Jack?” she asked, turning around.

     “Yeah. And who are you?” a man with dark hair, deep blue eyes and the sculptured face of a Greek God asked. His muscled arms were carrying a suitcase.

    “I’m April,” she said. “I live here.”

    The man shook his head. April figured him to be about her age, somewhere in his mid-twenties. “Not anymore you don’t.”

    April straightened her shoulders. “It just so happens,” she said, “that I own this place.”

     He shook his head again. “I am Jack Williston and I own this place.”

    “But, but you’re not dead,” April said.

     “I get that a lot,” Jack told her.

    “Is this some kind of a cruel joke?”

    “Yes, it is. But I’m not the jokester,” he said. “That unfortunate soul would be Grandpa Jack. And I’m sorry to tell you that this is not the first time he has played this particular game.”

    “I don’t understand,” April said, removing her smock. She didn’t miss the fact that young Jack’s eyes appraised her head to toe. Jack let out a long sigh.

     “I don’t understand either. Although I do have to say that Grandpa Jack’s taste is improving.”

     “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” April asked. “You know I have the legal paperwork that proves the estate is mine.”

     "None of it is real," Jack said. "I promise you it’s not. I have the original Will that bequeathed the estate to my father, and I have my father’s Will bequeathing it to me. I also have the original Deed."

     "Then how did I get my Deed?" April asked.

     "I don’t know, exactly. As best I can tell, Grandpa Jack has a dead attorney friend who works through some schlep downtown at Sore and Sons to forge documents and house women here in my absence. Old bugger doesn’t like to be alone, I guess. He’s been at it ever since I started this travelling job. It’s damn annoying, really. No offense to you."

     For the first time, Jack’s eyes left her and moved past to the painting. His face became severe. "What the hell have you done to my painting?"

     "I finished it. And I didn’t know it was your painting."

     "You just don’t go around finishing someone else’s art work." Jack walked closer to April now. He stood beside her and stared at the canvass.

     "I’m sorry," April said quietly, feeling bad about her obvious intrusion. "Jack told me to do it. I thought it was his and he said he wanted it done."

     Young Jack looked at her. "Jack talks to you?" he asked.

    "Yeah," she said. "And he ran my housekeeper out."

     Jack laughed. For the first time, a smile spread across his face. "Did he really? And I thought he just brought people in." He turned back to the canvass. His eyes lingered over it. "The painting’s not half bad." He stared out the window at something far away. "I suppose it’s my fault for not having finished it years ago. Someone I cared about died and it seemed like the inspiration to paint just died with her."

     "I’m sorry," April said. "Did you paint all of these fabulous pieces?

     Jack leaned toward April. She smelled of roses and lavender. Her hair fell softly in curls the color of sunshine. She was quite a pretty package. And she could paint. He nodded yes to her question.

     "I don’t mean to interfere, but you should really show your work," she said.

     At that the lights began to flash.

     "See. Jack agrees," April said.

     Young Jack looked into her eyes. They were deep green, the color of malachite, complete with streaks of light running through. "That doesn’t freak you out, Jack’s spirit being here?" he asked.

     "No." April met the depth of his gaze. It was like his eyes were beams of inquiry, searching for something she couldn’t name. Something he’d lost. "Jack’s harmless enough. Well, at least to me. Apparently he wasn’t too kind to Carmen."

     "And he talks to you?" Jack asked again.

     "Yeah. In my head," she said.

     "What does he say, besides that you should finish my painting?"

     "Whatever he feels like, I suppose," April said.

     "Doesn’t he talk to you?"

     "He talks to me," Jack said. "I’ve just never known him to talk to anyone else. As a matter of fact," he smiled, "he must have told me to finish that painting a hundred times. It really bugged him that it wasn’t done."

     Grandpa Jack chose that moment to insert his thoughts into young Jack’s head.      "She’s the one," he said.

     "Well, it’s done now," April said.

     "What?" young Jack asked, "I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you."

     "I said, it’s done now. Speaking of now, what do we do now? I’m not really prepared to move out—obviously I want to verify your story. Not that I don’t believe you," she smiled, "but it seems the prudent thing to do."

     That brought Jack back to the logistics of his situation. He’d found himself in just this spot more times in the last couple of years than he cared to contemplate. Grandpa Jack was a busy boy. First, there was Jenny. She had tried to fight him in court over the property and then sued him for all he was worth. Of course, she lost. No one believed that a ghost would or could give away his old house. Second, was Audrey. She threw a fit and broke half the china before Jack could extract her from the premises. Third had been Julie, a fiery redhead who had tried first to fight and then to seduce him. Next was Sandy, a bleached blond with thighs the size of two of his. Jack had wondered if she would try to wrestle him but instead she set the place on fire. Luckily the damage was minimal. Grandpa Jack sure could pick ‘em. Young Jack looked at April and began to wonder what was wrong with her. There must be something, he thought.

     Undeniably, though, there was also something engaging about April, maybe even besides her looks. Jack didn’t want to throw her out on the street the way he had the others. Yet, he didn’t want to encourage her to stay—she might think it was a permanent invitation.

     "I suppose," April said, "I could invite you to share my dinner. I made a pot roast and there’s more than enough for two. I’m starved. I think it would be good to eat first, then talk about this afterward."

     Suddenly Jack felt hungry. And he had to admit that he was tired from his long trip. He contracted his shoulders and then let the muscles release. It was good to be back. He could feel himself melting into the embrace of his home. There was something very soothing about coming home to the mansion. Since April had bought and cooked the food, it wasn’t like she was impositioning him in any way, Jack reasoned. Then his mind rewound to the word "bought."

     "So, how much of the trust fund did you spend?" he asked.

     April looked at him appraisingly, remembering that he was the artist of the work surrounding her. He was sensitive, yes, but he was also a defensive guy, one of her least favorite qualities in a man. That suited her fine. She wasn’t interested in getting too close to him or anyone else right now. April tried to remember what she had done with the personal armor she had always worn in the city. She strove to surround herself with some of it now.

     "Was that a yes or a no to dinner? I vote yes. I don’t communicate well when I’m hungry, so I recommend we wait until after dinner to be difficult with each other."

     Watching the way she postured herself when she was feisty intrigued Jack. He gave a soft chuckle.

     April noticed that his laugh sounded exactly like the one she had come to appreciate so well in Grandpa Jack.

     "Okay," Jack said. "We’ll call a truce until after dinner." Still, he couldn’t help wondering exactly how difficult she was planning to be.

* * *

     When she’d started the roast, April had already set the table for one. She had put a candle in the middle of the table. A pack of matches lay next to it. April liked to eat by candlelight and always did so. When Jack walked into the room with her, he saw the arrangement. April wasn’t sure whether it would be more awkward to remove the candle and turn on the light or to sit with this man she barely knew in the soft glow of what could be construed a romantic setting. She took out another plate and silverware while deciding. April turned and watched as Jack lit the candles, taking the decision from her with so much ease that she couldn’t help resenting it.

     A slight tremor of fear passed through her belly as she realized he might be able to influence more than just the lighting. She knew then that this was not going to be as simple as she’d thought. Most things came easily to April. She prided herself in the fact that she didn’t usually tie an anchor to her emotions the way some people did. She didn’t know why, but there was definitely an emotion involved now. Was it the probable loss of the house she had come to love? Or was it saying good-bye to the spirit she’d befriended and become a little bit too attached to? In her heart, she knew that the house belonged to young Jack—her intuition told her that. She should just be a good sport and leave, she knew that, too. But something she didn’t recognize, something desperate and needy in her seemed to scream "NO!"

     April tried to smile as she sat down to her meal. She tried not to look at Jack. They ate in silence for a while. It was like poker without the cards, a game she wasn’t very good at playing.

     Jack concentrated on the lightly herbed scent that came from the meal and on the simple but rich taste of the beef with potatoes, carrots and spinach April had served him.

     "You’re a good cook, April," he said.

     "Thanks," she continued to eat. April had to remind herself several times to slow down. She thought that she should ask him all kinds of questions about his work, his life, this place, but she just wasn’t in the mood for any of it right now. April felt suddenly heavy with tiredness. It wasn’t physical exhaustion, but fatigue born of years of fighting down emotions, the ones she was sure she hadn’t tied herself to. She suddenly felt them stirring deep in the ocean of her belly. They were beginning to win the battle and surface. You let one through and they all come rushing to the fore, she thought. She just wanted to sleep. To sleep, then to wake up and find this whole evening had been a dream. Maybe it was just part of the spell of the house.

     If it is a dream, she thought, in the morning how will I analyze it? Will I say that my subconscious is still searching for a reason why I was given the gift? Will I say that my psyche needs a face to put to the voice that comes more and more often into my head? Will I say that, perhaps, I am just horny and I need to get myself into town once in a while?

     "A nickel for your thoughts," Jack said. April blushed. "A penny’s not worth much these days," he added.

     "I was just doubting my sanity," she said. "I was hoping this whole evening was a dream that I could objectively analyze in the morning."

     "They say life is one big illusion," Jack said, "and that we create it as we go. Do you believe that?"

     "I don’t know," April released a sigh that nearly extinguished the candle. "If that is true, why would I illusion myself into this fabulous place and then illusion a handsome man to come and take it all away from me?"

     April blushed again, realizing that she had just told Jack that she found him handsome.

     Jack liked the pink that rose in her cheeks. That was twice so far tonight. He wondered if he could make it happen a third time, just for sport, of course.

     Feeling suddenly philosophical, Jack said, "Who knows? Maybe I illusioned you here. Maybe we both illusioned the spirit of Grandpa Jack."

     April laughed and so did Jack.

     "That’s got to be one of the more creative illusions as illusions go," April said. "Either we’re both very inventive or we’re both nuts."

     Jack watched the way the candlelight danced around the corners of her smile.

     It’s possible she is nuts, Jack decided, but I like her anyway.

     April thought about the possibility of creating illusions and wondered what she would want to make happen if she could actually control her world.

     "Get out of your head and listen to your heart for once," she heard the voice of Grandpa Jack chide her. Grandpa Jack was wise. April knew now that he wasn’t just a ghost haunting a house. He was more like a spirit guiding its occupants while lifting the vibration of their surroundings to a level of new possibilities. April decided to follow Grandpa Jack’s advice. She let her consciousness descend into her heart and felt an ethereal release as she envisioned the dissolving of the shield that had barricaded her heart for much too long. Warmth, like the breath of a puppy, spread through her. Odd, she thought, without the armor, she felt stronger and more confident.

     April put her napkin on her plate and looked into Jack’s eyes for the first time since dinner had started. "Tell me," she said, "if you could illusion anything at all right now, what would it be?"

     Grandpa Jack had been busy putting a matching thought of "listening to your heart" into Jack’s head. The idea that came to him was "I would get this angel across from me into my bed and love her all night long." Jack wasn’t shocked at the direction of his wish, so much as the power and the urgency of the force behind it, as though it was an animal that had lain dormant inside him, waiting to be freed. He was also shocked that he had spoken it out loud.

     April stared at him. She wanted to argue about all the logical reasons why that was a bad idea, but her heart was so full of the need to move past the anchors of ugly resistance that she stood up and crossed over to him. Jack stood too. When his lips met hers, April willed herself to make the illusion last.

     Jack took April up to his room, opening another of the locked doors that seemed to fill the house. They illusioned each other into worlds where there was nothing but dark desire and into universes where each cell of their merged body was a star that flashed and flickered in an endless pattern of light. Neither cared what the morning brought, for this night was a lifetime in itself.

* * *

April woke to an empty bed. The whole wonderful night could have been her imagination, the web of her psyche sinking deeper into the murky magic of the house, but she didn’t mind. It had been wonderful.

     Still, it wasn’t her room she had woken into. Lured by the waking-the-earth scent of fresh coffee, April wrapped herself in a sheet and headed downstairs. After pouring herself a cup of the steaming morning brew, she began to wonder where she might find Jack and what his response would be when she did.

     She wandered through beautifully furnished rooms, filled with the luminescence of morning sun, until she came to the studio. Her eyes began to mist as she watched Jack—paint-filled brush in hand—caressing a canvass with bold strokes of untamed talent.

     April smiled and vowed that this was one illusion she was keeping.

                                                                 ---End.

 

 

She Chose

by Cynthia C. Whitehouse

 

    Jaynie drank the cha from the delicate cup in front of her. The green tea was served so hot that she had to cool it through warm lips before her tongue could swish the wash to the back of her mouth. She felt it burn steadily down her throat, then lift the temperature of her chest and steam a space into her belly.

    "Ahh," she said.

    Her body sometimes spoke for itself. This time she didn't mind. She knew there were things inside her that just had to come out. Sitting in the small restaurant with its moss-colored floor mats, its bamboo shades with leaves painted apple-green and its lanterns that cast a hint of ivy onto her skin-she was glad for the comfort of green. Glad for the tiny moment of release.

    Jaynie had spent too many hours during the last days in the sterile white of a hospital. Her best friend was lying in a bed, in a strange country, dying of something Jaynie had never heard of before. She couldn't quite bring herself to believe the "dying" part. They were here on vacation, for heaven's sake. Sharon had been so healthy when they started this trip, only two weeks earlier.

    Jaynie looked out the window. Mount Fuji loomed tall and rolling off to her right. It looked ancient and bent-over but still incredibly powerful. How could something so old be so strong and someone so young as her friend, Sharon, become so weak?

    In Japan you have a choice of healers. You can choose traditional Japanese healers or western medical doctors. Sharon had chosen the western doctors. Jaynie wasn't sure that was the right choice, but Sharon always made the decisions in their relationship, so Jaynie hadn't argued. Maybe she should have?

    Still, there was nothing to say to her now, one way or the other. Sharon couldn't respond. She was in a coma. Her body had just shut down. Someone had once told her that is what bodies do when the pain is so intense that the mind can't stand it anymore. Well, I can't stand the pain either, thought Jaynie. I need her back here. I need to ask her what to do.

    The English-speaking Japanese nurse at the hospital, trying to comfort Jaynie, had explained that she should not feel bad for her friend. That, in dying, the spirit was freed from the prison of its body and that Sharon would be joining all of her ancestors in a state of nirvana. Jaynie's mother was Catholic. She believed that when you died you went to be with Jesus and lived a beautiful, blissful existence.

    Everyone gets to be with someone, Jaynie thought. Except me.

    "I guess I shouldn't be too surprised," Jaynie said to the waitress who had come with more cha.

    "Wakatimasen," the waitress said, shaking her head to emphasize that she did not understand, but looking concerned enough to stay.

    "I thought that letting Sharon make all the choices would free me from this burden," Jaynie said. "The nurse said we make our own choices in everything, whether we believe it or not. I can't imagine that I would have chosen this."

    Staring past the glass, out at the mountain, Jaynie took another sip of her cha and then, whispering, confided in the waitress. "You know, in my mind, I always knew I'd end up alone."
 
                                                                 ---End.

 

 

Cracking

by Cynthia C. Whitehouse

 

Bill felt his life cracking. Not a loud snapping crack. More the uneasy crackle of a too large communion wafer in the too small mouth of a child. Sometimes, when everything was silent, Bill thought he heard the echoes of long broken crumbs falling off the edges of his memory—edges that were brittle from years of living in the same gray house, on the same street, in the same small town. Bill painted the house once, a nice soft blue. That was years ago. Time and smoke from the power plant had pulled the paint back to that same old gray. Some days Bill was sure that he was that crisp, little wafer, and that the old gray house was an oven, baking him hard from the outside in.

"Charlene, I think we should sell the house," Bill said.

"You love this house, Bill," Charlene said, without turning to look at him. She dried the last dish in the rack and moved to answer the phone on its first ring.

Even Charlene—the girl who could read his mind all through high school, who finished his sentences when they were newlyweds, who bore his children—did not understand that the person Bill was becoming was not a person who could love this house.

"I mean it." Bill spoke to her, even though she was on the phone. It didn’t matter. Charlene always had a minimum of two conversations going. This used to amuse Bill. Now it annoyed him.

"I’m selling the house," he said.

Charlene waved her hand at him.

"Bill’s going through mid-life crisis," she said into the phone. "He thinks we’re moving to Florida."

"I didn’t say Florida," Bill said, and went to sit in the living room. The kids were in bed, and the lights were all out. Enough of the kitchen’s low glow found its way into the room to cast shadows on the walls. Charlene kept things dim. She called it atmosphere. Bill called it depressing.

He sat in his old Lazy Boy and stared at his surroundings. The paint in here looked drab, too. In contrast, the built-in bookshelf looked bright. Sun yellow "National Geographic" magazines filled the space, tantalizing him with the lure of places in the world that he would never know.

Bill’s eyes wandered to find ghosts dancing in the corner. He saw his brother John, age twelve, holding a can of red spray paint, threatening to make him wear it if Bill didn’t stop teasing. It was over a little strawberry blond who lived two streets down. She and John had looked good together. John died in Vietnam. The strawberry blond still lived in town. She wore her hair platinum now, and dated the Mayor.

Shadows of his Uncle Ed, who had come back from World War II "a little off," played upon the wall. Uncle Ed had moved into a cabin deep in the woods, and only came out for special occasions. Bill watched himself at his fifteenth birthday party. Uncle Ed was holding him in a bear hug he couldn’t pull out of, and repeating, "you’re my boy. I’ve got you. You’re my boy, now." Bill felt the pressure of embarrassment wrap around his body and almost suffocate him. The shadows danced on. Bill shook his head. He’d been to Uncle Ed’s funeral just last summer.

He saw his cousin Annie laughing at a stupid joke he’d told. No one else had laughed, but Annie had a heart of gold. She died in a car crash when she was just twenty. Her face and tears came to his eyes every time he heard the song "Only the Good Die Young."

He saw his best friend, Tommy, holding a joint between his finger and his thumb and dragging in all the "perspective" his lungs could hold. "Good shit," Tommy said, smiling at Bill, and passing him the goods.

"God, I miss you, Tommy," Bill said to the shadow. "I know you’re in the big city chasing your dreams, but I really miss you here."

"What’s that?" Charlene called.

"Nothing."

Bill glanced up and noticed that the light fell just far enough into the room to cross the portrait of his mother that hung near the door. He and Charlene had bought this house from her when they married. His Mom wanted an apartment that she could "keep up," but didn’t want "just anyone" living in her home. She’d moved back in with them last year, after her surgery, and stayed with them until last month.

She died in this room, Bill thought. A chill went up his spine. He didn’t like her portrait hanging there, but was too spooked to take it down. He never looked at it in the light. He thought she was watching him, just like all the other ghosts.

Sitting in the quiet dimness, listening to Charlene chatter in the background, Bill’s thoughts rested on his house. He had lived his whole life here. He learned to play ball in the back yard and had his first kiss in the basement.

A cough came from the room where the kids were sleeping. He smiled when he thought of them. Bill closed his eyes and listened. The house settled a little. The sound made him wince.

 

He woke Sunday morning with a pang in his heart, knowing he would bring his family to the church at the end of his street. He’d sit where he’d sat every Sunday for forty-five years. He would say his prayers and stand up to receive at communion time, letting Charlene and the kids go first. When he got to the priest, his mouth would open to accept the wafer, then close back gently around it. He would hold the wafer in his mouth, protecting and softening it with his saliva, all the while being very careful not to let it crack.

 

After church, Bill stayed to light a candle and say a prayer for his mother. He prayed both for her and to her, asking her to intervene on his behalf, appealing to God to show him a way out of his despair. When he was ready, he began the walk home. Funny, on the way there he hadn’t noticed how much the road had potted and split this year. The heat and cold, he thought, from the pressures of this changing environment.

Kicking a can, just as he might have done thirty-five years earlier, he watched it land near the wheel of a van with the words "McMurry Moving Service" written on the side. The van was starting. On impulse, Bill jumped onto the back bumper and held the bar that framed the door. As the vehicle moved down the street, Bill’s vision blurred. Each house he passed became magically transformed into a place he had read of, but never seen.

The Johnson’s became Egypt, with dry deserts and strange looking sphinxes...the LeMire’s was an Island where hibiscus bloomed as palm trees waved to wispy whispers of clouds…the Bell’s was a fishing village that smelled of the sea and the pungent punch of yesterday’s catch.

He watched as windows to worlds passed by and by. He rode through Mountain Top Escapes and Fresh Lake Resorts, until he came to a playground where the merry-go-round spun in a whirl of nostalgia that made him heady with hope. An old archery set flew arrows that pierced his gut with an ache to belong.

Bill jumped and fell rolling onto the lawn of his childhood. Lying on his back as he caught his breath, he could see that the sky was the blue he had once painted his house. Robins flew by to nest in the bent old tree he remembered loving to climb.

Hearing a sound like the crack of an egg, he felt his chest open, as though God had lifted a latch, airing out the old specters; letting a birthing light in.

Bill sqinted and smiled into the light. The faces of John, Uncle Ed and Annie smiled back at him. His mother waved.

"Thank you, God," Bill said. "Thank you for waking me to what I have. Thank you," he said, "for giving me a full and haunted heart."
 
                                                                 ---End.