Magpie Tales #29

As always, thanks to Willow for her fabulous prompt and for catering to our muses. You're wonderful!



The Anniversary Cottage

Summer was declining. Marian clutched her mug of strong coffee, the aromatic steam wafting up to tickle her nose as it mingled with the early morning scent of fading roses and loamy earth. While the first frost was still weeks away, she could already feel the change in the air; the oppressive humidity had given way almost instantly to the pleasantly warm days and need-a-sweater nights that served as a harbinger for the coming autumnal season. Not that she minded. While she enjoyed the pleasures of the summer garden, she was truly a cold weather lover. Perhaps it was the hopeless romantic in her, preferring to sit curled by the fire with a fuzzy throw and a good book. Slathering on sunscreen and brushing sand out of every place imaginable held far less appeal.

Marian smiled to herself as she propped her forearms on the wrought iron railing. She’d arrived at the small cottage the day before, to open it up, air it out, and prepare for her husband’s anticipated arrival. By the time the crunch of automobile tires on gravel reached her ears at six o’clock, there would be steaks marinating for the grill, potatoes with sweet onion gravy and fresh corn-on-the-cob from the farmer’s market. Bill would climb the steps wearily, but with eyes only for her, his duffle bag in one hand and a bottle of Allegrini Palazzo della Torre clutched in the other.

“Happy anniversary, love,” he’d greet her, and she’d watch contentedly as the worry lines on his forehead would soften, his sagging shoulders would straighten, and he’d reclaim a bit of his forgotten youth.

She could see it all in her mind’s eye. Twenty-six times they’d put aside their everyday cares and responsibilities to spend a week in each other’s arms, to become reacquainted and to reaffirm the commitment they’d made all those years ago. No one knew exactly where they went on their annual holiday. Oh, she’d described the cottage in detail to her children many times when they’d begged for a “story,” or a reminiscence of how the couple had met and eloped, but its whereabouts were a secret shared only by husband and wife.

The cottage had been a happy accident, stumbled upon after becoming lost on their honeymoon. Traveling spontaneously, with no planned route or destination, they’d found themselves on roads not detailed on the map, taking pleasure in the adventure of the unknown. As the day’s shadows lengthened, they’d eventually grown tired of driving, but since they’d left the last motel miles behind, they’d motored on. It hadn’t been until the unpaved road had led them through the trees to the picturesque dwelling and Marian had clutched Bill’s forearm in wonder that they’d considered stopping and begging shelter for the night.

It had been love at first sight.

The elderly widow who’d lived in the cottage, eager for company, had been kind enough to offer them a hot meal and a clean bed, and they’d lain awake after retiring, plotting their future and sharing the dream of owning such a charming house someday.

In payment for her warm hospitality, Bill had kept in touch with the lonely widow, and then with her daughter when the elderly woman had been moved to a nursing home after a bad fall. The cottage had been put up for sale and Bill, seized with romantic urgency, had immediately bargained to buy it, wishing to present it to Marian as a first anniversary gift.

Now on the eve of their twenty-seventh anniversary, Marian thought of the elderly widow, and of all the intervening years since their fateful meeting: more weddings, funerals, births, first days of school and Little League and job loss, boyfriends and first cars, college and hair color and anti-hypertensives. And they were still together, she and her Bill, against the odds and despite the myriad joys and sorrows encountered on their journey through life together.

A yellow butterfly flitted past, playmate in tow as the gentle hum of a bee rose from the flower bed below. She smiled again and drained the last drop of coffee from her mug before reaching for the door. It was a glorious day, and there was much to do before her husband arrived. This year, as part of their week’s activities, they had additional arrangements to make. Their daughter and her husband would be celebrating their first anniversary a few weeks hence and, as a special gift, Marian and Bill planned to offer a share in the cottage with the newlyweds in hopes that this wondrous retreat, which they dearly cherished, would continue to be a place of comfort and renewal for the next generation.


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Magpie Tales Tuesday

As always, thanks to
Willow for her wonderful prompt and for catering to our muses.



Rememberance

If someone had told me that I would one day be sitting in a hotel restaurant in Mumbai, India, waiting to meet the first man that my grandmother had ever loved, I’d have told them they were insane.

Yet here I am.

“Can I get you something else to drink?”

The waiter has been exceedingly patient, as I’ve been sitting here for well over three quarters of an hour, awaiting the arrival of my guest. I came down from my room early for fear I would miss him, but my table has an excellent view of the entrance from the lobby. I decline the offer for a beverage and return my gaze to the doorway, holding my breath every time a shadow approaches.

I’m rather nervous.

Actually, I’m not sure nervous even begins to cover my current state. I’ve never traveled this far from home alone, and have certainly never been given such a bittersweet task. I drum my fingers on the lid of the shoebox I have hidden on my lap, the secrets contained within placing a heavy burden on my heart.

My Gran, my mother’s mother, had been in failing health for several years, but her mind and her spirit remained strong. She was by far my favorite relative and I loved visiting her because she always shared such lively stories of her childhood in India. My great-grandfather had been appointed to serve in India at the personal request of Lord Irwin, and was, until the transfer of power in 1947, one of the Governor-in-Council of Bombay’s most trusted aides.

My Gran was born in 1931 in Bombay, and lived there until she was fifteen. She often talked about growing up in the city; about her ayah who took care of her and in whom she confided far more than her mother; about spending months at the sprawling house in the hill country because the heat in the city was so oppressive; about the fun she and her brother had playing with the Indian children and how mortified her mother would be every time she spoke Hindustani.

It was two months ago when Gran reintroduced me to the shoebox which housed her few treasures from her life in India: some letters tied with a piece of sky blue silk, a beautiful gold bangle bracelet, a veil, a carved ivory elephant, and a photograph. I remembered wearing the jewelry and dancing with the veil as a little girl, while Indian music played on the stereo. As an adult, I was more fascinated by the intricacy of the elephant, and by the clarity of the faces staring back at me from the photo.

Gran had taken the photo from my hands. “This slip of a girl is me, just before my father was told he was being recalled to England. The boy standing with me is Sajiva. I called him my Saji. He was supposed to be a companion for my brother, but Georgie didn’t like hunting salamanders or catching snakes, so Saji and I spent most of our time together. Of course, as I got older I no longer wanted to play with snakes, but Saji and I would go for walks or play card games. We were tutored together, so I’d help him with his lessons. Right around the time I turned fifteen, I came to the rather startling realization that my Saji was a truly beautiful boy. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, with long, black lashes that kissed his cheeks when he blinked. God help me, but I was in love, or as in love as a fifteen-year-old can be.” She smiled at the photo, lost in thought.

“Did he love you, too?” I asked, curious that my Gran had experienced such passionate stirrings long before she’d every met my grandfather.

She shrugged her shoulders. “We’d held hands on several occasions, so I’d like to think he did, although we never spoke of it. Oh, my own father was rather progressive, a bit ahead of his time. He wouldn’t have minded if I cared for a Hindu, but Saji’s parents would likely have disowned him had they known.” Her voice grew soft as she sank further into her memories. “My last full day in Bombay, Saji brought me a gift, that little ivory elephant. He said he never wanted me to forget him, as he would never forget me. And then I did something impossibly bold.”

“You kissed him.”

She chuckled heartily. “However did you guess? Yes, child, I kissed him. It was clumsy and quick and took us both completely by surprise. Of course, once he recovered he didn’t mind kissing me good and proper.” Her smile faded. “And in that moment I realized I didn’t want to leave him. But he couldn’t ask me to stay.” I noticed a tear trickling down her cheek and reached over to take her hand.

She gave my hand a squeeze, then suddenly became all-business. “Elizabeth, I must impose on you. I have a wretched favor to ask you, and if you agree, I will make adequate financial provision for you to complete the task …”

Gran lived another three weeks before succumbing to pneumonia, and in those three weeks she found time to ring her solicitor and alter her will to include this trip to India, where I will spread her ashes over the hills she loved.

But first, I have a message to deliver.

As I glance at the doorway once again, I see a white-haired man, stooped with age, shuffling slowly towards my table, with a cane in one hand and being supported tenderly on the other side by much younger man. He’s wearing a finely embroidered red kurta and white yoga pants, but it’s his eyes, peering at me from behind round John Lennon glasses, which affirm what everyone has always told me: I look very much like my Gran.

The elderly man places his hands together and bows before me. I stand and repeat the gesture. “Namaste, Mr. Dubashi. I am honored to meet you.”

“Namaste. Please, call me Saji. This is my grandson, Jaival.”

The young man looks up and I’m startled to see the same eyes, the same cheekbones, the same chin as the young Saji in the photograph. Jaival smiles at me and I’m captivated by his deep blue eyes. I have immediate empathy for my Gran’s youthful plight and it’s all I can do to force myself to focus on the elder Dubashi.

After we have made ourselves comfortable, I slide the photograph across the table to Saji and spend the next hour telling him of my Gran, of her family, and of her limitless passion for life. He speaks of his life, as well, and I see Jaival’s eyebrows raise several times over the course of the conversation as he learns new things about his grandfather. As we reminisce, Saji and I laugh, we damn near cry, and then we toast someone we both loved.

“To Sophie.”

As I lower my glass, I remember there’s one more thing I have to do. “Saji, Gran asked me to deliver a message to you.” I lift the elephant out of the box. “She wanted you to know that she never forgot you.” As I hand it across the table to him, I see his eyes fill with tears.

He takes the elephant, smoothing his fingertips along its back and drawing his thumbnail down the ridges of its trunk. “Did she tell you she kissed me when I gave this to her?”

I laugh and nod.

“It was the first time I had ever kissed a girl. How I wished she could have stayed.” After a moment, he hands the elephant back to me. “You keep it, Elizabeth. In that way, may you never forget your Gran. A remarkable woman. I only wish I could have said goodbye.”

I can easily see why my Gran fell in love with him. I clear my throat. “I’m travelling tomorrow to the lake, to scatter Gran’s ashes. It’s what she wanted.”

Saji shakes his head sadly. “The estate house is no longer there. It was purchased by a developer years ago and is now a golf course and resort.”

“That’s all right. Gran understood progress.”

Jaival has said nothing while Saji and I shared our memories. Now he leans closer and asks, “Would you like Nana and I to accompany you?”

His gaze holds mine, and something inside me desperately wants to agree. “I can’t ask you to …”

Jaival interrupts. His accent is elegant, his English is cultured and nearly perfect. “You’re not asking. We’re offering.” He glances at Saji, who nods his agreement. “You need not do this alone, And we would consider it a privilege to join you in sending your dadi on her journey to her next life.”

“Thank you.”

We rise and I follow them to the lobby where we arrange to meet early in the morning. As I watch Jaival guide Saji outside to a waiting car, I consider myself extremely fortunate to have known my Gran and to have inherited some of her uninhibited tendencies. I only hope that, when I ask Jaival to show me around Mumbai, it will be an experience neither of us will ever forget.


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Magpie Tales Tuesday

My apologies ... I got a bit wordy this time. When I was a teenager, some of my favorite authors included Ian Fleming (James Bond), Leslie Charteris (Simon Templar),
Robert Ludlum (Jason Bourne) and Martin Cruz Smith (Arkady Renko). I was a spy junkie, and continue to be so as an adult. So, having said that, I give you ...

Laying Ghosts to Rest
Calvin Mourant had vowed a lifetime ago never to return to Bratislava.

Yet here he sat, warming a cognac between the palms of his hands and staring out the lounge windows at the Presidential Palace. A piano played softly, somewhere over his left shoulder, and he tried to let the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He knew when he’d agreed to take this job that it could easily be a mistake, yet something inside him felt compelled, as if he had something to prove.

He had nothing to prove to anyone … except maybe himself.

Calvin took a sip of cognac. The alcohol was smooth and it warmed his throat as he swallowed. He never used to drink on the job for fear it would dull his senses. Now? Well, now his senses were dulling naturally, with age and weariness. He could only pray that his next mistake – and there would be a next one – wouldn’t prove fatal.

It was a young man’s game, and he had too many years behind him. He scratched his chin, the prickly stubble rasping against the rough pads of his fingers. When had he shaved last? He couldn't remember. Sometime before he got on the plane in Tel Aviv ...

He’d only agreed to come to Bratislava after a very persuasive old acquaintance had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. In truth, he was burned out. According to the plans he’d made years ago, by now he’d be retired and living a life of luxury in a small coastal Mediterranean town, his bank account full and his worries over. No more looking over his shoulder. No more taking orders. No more lies.

Of course, that future had included Elise.

Elise. Fresh pain tightened Calvin’s jaw and he took another sip of his cognac. What would she think of him now? Would she shake her head, gently chastising him for missing her so much that it immobilized him emotionally? Would she call him a fool for submerging himself in his work so completely that some mornings he didn’t recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror?

My sweet Cal, the past is nothing but a teacher from which you learn. Each disappointment brings knowledge.

Calvin watched as a young woman perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the palace while her companion took her picture. She tilted her head, laughing. If he squinted, he could almost see Elise’s face in hers, could almost hear Elise’s laughter in his mind.

He’d met Elise in May 1985, two months after he’d been assigned to deep cover at Comenius University, infiltrating the institution as a professor in the department of nuclear chemistry. On one glorious spring day, he’d taken his lunch to a nearby park, as was often his routine. He hadn’t planned on sharing it with the blue-eyed beauty who introduced herself as a fourth-year medical student. He hadn’t planned on being swept off his feet. He hadn’t planned on being consumed by her, spending the next three years having his apartment invaded, first by her belongings and her artwork, then by random family members who occasionally needed a place to crash, and then by her student friends and their revolutionary ideas.

He certainly hadn’t planned on falling in love.

As their lives became more intertwined, his lies became reality and his reality became a lie. He found it harder to stay focused on his objective, and harder still to separate himself from the potential risk that she and her friends posed. He was in too deep, completely taken by her exuberance and her charm, her obvious joy in life, and her heartfelt desire to serve humanity for the good.

He knew that some of Elise’s friends were being watched, that some of their late night comings and goings were seen as suspicious. But he couldn’t convince her of the danger without compromising his position … and without revealing that everything she believed about him was predicated on a deception.

Looking back, he wished he’d taken the risk. On the night of March 25, 1988, Elise and five of her friends entered Hviezdoslav Square with three thousand other souls in what history would call the Candlelight Demonstration, a protest against the communist regime. Calvin had been working late that night, so he hadn’t known she’d been persuaded to go, hadn’t known how passionately she supported the revolutionary cause, hadn’t known that her petite body would be in the direct line of fire when the police opened up with water cannons.

When the first reports of the unrest made their way to the university in the late evening hours, Calvin’s instincts told him that he needed to find her. He’d fled his office and ran home, only the apartment was empty. It was adrenaline that propelled him to the square, and fear that made him desperately search for her for hours.

He finally found her, propped against the wall of a bakery on a side street, abandoned by her friends. Several of her ribs were broken and she had a concussion from an angered policeman’s baton. He’d carefully gathered her in his arms and debated the wisdom of calling for help. Deciding it was best not to draw attention to themselves, he’d picked her up and carried her to the university-affiliated hospital. A rib had punctured her lung, but there was limited space available, even for one of their own. As he brushed the matted wisps of hair from her forehead, he told her how much he loved her, then watched the life fade in her eyes as he cried for the first time since he’d been a child.

It was in that moment that Calvin vowed he’d leave Bratislava and never return.

In reality, it was another eight months before he was recalled and reassigned, but he returned to the United States a changed man. He never challenged authority, but his methods were risky, his reputation daring. He never crossed the line to rogue agent, but when the agency decided it was time for him to come in from the cold he’d quit, seeking work privately. For twenty-five years it was the only life he’d known.

The hair on the back of Calvin’s head stood up, a warning sign that something wasn’t right. He turned slightly, allowing his peripheral vision to sweep the end of the bar and the lobby beyond. There. Up in the mezzanine overlooking the lobby. He’d noticed the man standing watching him, his reflection captured in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Careless. Nonchalantly, he tipped his head back and took another swallow of cognac. Dark green golf shirt, tan trousers. He suppressed a chuckle. A young man’s game indeed. If only youth possessed the wisdom of experience. With a satisfied sigh, he placed his snifter on the bar and leaned back on the barstool, waiting.

It was only a matter of moments before Mr. Green Golf Shirt strolled into the bar area, his hands deep in his pockets, looking for all the world like a bored traveler. Calvin slipped a pack from his inside jacket pocket and shook a cigarette out. He took his time replacing the pack, then patted his all his pockets until Green Golf Shirt was within hearing distance. “Hey, barkeep,” Calvin called in a cognac-warmed voice, “got a light?”

Green Golf Shirt waved the bartender off. “Here. You can keep them,” he said, his Slavic accent thick, as he tossed a box of matches on the bar in Calvin’s direction. Calvin deftly caught them and nodded his thanks before removing a match from the box, being careful not to expose the rest of the contents, and lighting his cigarette. The smoke was bitter as it burned his lungs, and he watched Green Golf Shirt order a beer from the bartender and take a seat at the other side of the lounge.

Calvin took another deep draw off the cigarette. He wasn’t sure if he was violating any non-smoking rules in the hotel, but he didn’t really care. He had what he’d come for. The matchbox contained a key to a safe deposit box behind the hotel desk. In that box he expected to find copies of plans for an experimental energy source. Industrial espionage wasn’t nearly as exciting as working for the government, but it paid better. A few more jobs like this one and he could give retirement serious consideration.

He rose from the barstool and slipped a generous tip under his glass, then walked back through the lobby and out into the early afternoon sunshine. Taking a final drag on his cigarette, he dropped the butt and crushed it with his heel. The safe deposit box could wait a few hours. He had something more important to do.

With a wave of his hand, he hailed a departing taxi cab. “Hviezdoslav Square,” he said as he slid in the back seat. “And take the scenic route.”


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Magpie Tales Tuesday

Today begins a new venture by that consummate blogger, Willow, called Magpie Tales. In Willow's own words, it is "dedicated to the enjoyment of writers, for the purpose of honing their craft, sharing it with like minded bloggers, and keeping their muses alive and well." She gives us a prompt every Thursday, and we write a piece of short fiction or poetry inspired by the prompt for posting the following Tuesday.

So, without further ado ...


A Piece of the Past
Lacy sneezed as she brushed the dust from her hands and stood to stretch. She’d been crawling around in her parents’ attic for hours and she was dirty, tired and hungry. She glanced at the floor around her, littered with the effluvia of a forty-eight year marriage, and three large boxes labeled “KEEP,” “SELL” and “TRASH.” There was a matching set of boxes in each room on each floor of the house. As was the case in all the other rooms, the attic’s “TRASH” box was nearly full and the “SELL” box was overflowing, but the “KEEP” box was pitifully empty. Lacy felt more than a twinge of guilt for that, but wasn’t about to second guess her decisions in order to ease her conscience.

Her mother’s sudden death only eight months after her father’s equally unexpected passing had left her the sole heir to a renovated childhood home full of stylish modern furnishings. Considering Lacy, a history professor, and her husband, Rob, a museum curator, had recently purchased a 1760s stone farmhouse, there was very little in her parents’ house which would fit with her colonial décor. They were working hard to get the home placed on the National Register of Historic Places and they had little use for contemporary pieces.

Lacy picked up the “KEEP” box and turned for the attic door. The auctioneer would be coming in the morning to begin appraising the items for sale, some of which were indeed antiques, just not antique enough to suit Lacy. She’d been truly amazed at all her parents had kept, secreted away in closets, in bureaus and under beds. Many of the hidden treasures brought back fond memories, which made it all the harder for her to place them in the boxes for auction.

Just as Lacy reached for the pull chain to turn out the light, she spied another box tucked in a dark corner behind the chimney. Placing the “KEEP” box on the floor, she pulled the flashlight out of her back pocket and shined the light into the shadows. “RCA” was the first thing she saw on the side of the box, and the second was “Oberholtzer/Stein,” her maternal grandmother’s maiden and married names.

Curiosity chased hunger and fatigue from her thoughts as Lacy dragged the heavy box to the center of the attic floor. She vaguely remembered her mother bringing home some things after her grandmother’s funeral, but she’d never questioned what her mother had done with them and had never given them another thought until this moment.

In the harsh light of the bare bulb, Lacy lifted out a well-worn patchwork quilt, the edges frayed with use. The initials “C.L.S.” and “1897” were embroidered in one of the corners. Catherine Louise Schauer, she thought to herself. That was her great-grandmother’s name, and she knew Catherine and William Oberholtzer were married in 1897, so perhaps Catherine had made it for her trousseau. It smelled musty, yet Lacy caught a whiff of something familiar, something spicy. Cinnamon, perhaps. Laying the quilt aside, she next pulled out a long, thin wooden box. Flipping the catch, she lifted the lid carefully, mindful of the delicacy of the hinges, to find an assortment of fountain pens and nibs nestled in the red velvet lining. Lacy smiled. Rob would enjoy displaying those on the rolltop desk they’d just refinished.

Lacy dug deeper in the box. Several photo albums, an old map, a family bible, a christening gown, a set of brass candlesticks and a bundle of old letters all found their way out of the box into her eager hands. Scattered around her lay remnants of her family history, most of which, much to her chagrin, she knew nothing about. How sad, she realized, that she knew so very much about Colonial and Revolutionary American history, yet her own personal origins remained a mystery.

One last item remained in the box. Wrapped in an old gingham-checked curtain Lacy found a pewter creamer. She marveled at its cool weight in her hand before tracing her finger over the delicate wreath pattern which graced its side. Turning the creamer over, Lacy was surprised to find a small strip of paper taped to the bottom of the creamer, right above the touchmark. The tape was browned with age, as was the paper, but Lacy was still able to read her grandmother’s writing:

Wedding gift from Josiah Weldon to Elizabeth Smith
June 18, 1762
Phila. Penna.

Lacy stared at the treasure in her hands, her mind racing. Perhaps the family bible held clues to their identities, or maybe one of her uncles or her aunt would be able to tell her more. Anxious to share her discoveries with her husband and even more anxious to begin piecing together her past, Lacy hurriedly placed everything back in the box, except for the creamer, which she rewrapped in the curtain and carried by itself. She would give the creamer -- that small, tantalizing piece of her past – pride of place on the mantle over the fireplace in her kitchen and share its special significance with every guest who crossed her threshold.