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Tranziltor Park: leaves (6/7)
copyright (c) JMD, 2006
“What is an icicle, but a growth of frozen tears?”
And he sat there, caressing the cloth like it were the fur of a cat, speaking inaudible words of affection and staring out the window as though a portal floated in the glass and he could see his dead wife encased in river ice. The kettle screeched in steaming protest, and beside him the phone cried out in rapid dial tone. The TV too babbled for attention, but his old, filmy eyes were locked to that portal, and he saw the whole dreaded scene as it must have happened.
She walked the cat every morning in Tranziltor Park, come hell, she walked the cat. Down the aged cracked stones of the northern staircase she carefully placed her steps, and then along the narrow, winding pathway under the bare arms of the creaking oak trees. To the red bench, steel and cold, she always went to the bench. And sitting she would give her pet the treats secreted in her pockets, she would untie her scarf and breathe in the icy air, stare across the river and eat the toffee she kept in her purse. That purse, brown he remembered, never a dime in it, just candy for the grandkids, especially the toffee. That purse, he had given it to her the year before, her old one was tearing...yes, that purse became the desirous object of some deviant thug. Oh, the story is the same, as countless stories are of women who find themselves the owners of articles coveted by immoral men. One witness, of course, a child with his dog, he had seen it all. That dark fellow with the black hat, the black trenchcoat, the black boots, the black gloves. She struggled, stubborn as she was -- it was the principal of it. He fancied she had even tried to talk him out of it. Stupid woman. Then the man had thrown her, hard, the purse ripped and the contents fell to the snow. The man searched the ground while she rolled down, down, and bouncing, flipped out onto the frozen river. The ice gave way and sucked her under, swallowing her deep beneath its heavy liquid weight. The cat jumped in too. Loyal thing. The man left her candy, the witness cried, and hours later, the police men showed up at the house.
He placed the phone back on the receiver and turned the television off. Pushing himself to his feet, he wobbled to the kitchen where he yanked the kettle from the pain of the element. His thirst had vanished, his mission had become singular, and he hobbled to the closet to retrieve his jacket. Once bundled in mitts and hat, he opened the door to the chilling winter and stepped out onto Karling Street. A quick glance told him Loretta was not home, her car was missing, and he thanked the gods for that, she always said something moronically sentimental. Ah, she was trying to be nice, but must she keep reminding him of Dora?
His slow steps brought him to Fairbanks where, mindful of the slush and slippery pavement, he opted not to jay walk. The traffic lights switched, but he found himself staring at his feet, and he had to wait again until the walk sign showed for a second time. Other people had died at this corner. Not from the painful suffocation of water, but from moving rams of high speed metal. He saw the bodies turning in the air, the pedestrians tossed and battered, though no one was there. Someone began to walk across ahead of him, and he realized the traffic lights had rotated for a third time now. He crossed, keeping his head low, for there were thoughts to be thought, and not much time to think them.
Down the northern staircase where she had come, he nearly slipped on the crumbling stone, and then onto the pathway beneath the oak trees. The trail twisted into the recesses of the park, through clearings and over mounds, past great, opposing boulders, and then finally to the red bench beside the river. He stopped in his cumbersome tracks and squinted his fading blue eyes. Someone sat on the bench, oddly enough, dressed entirely in black. The old man’s heart skipped twice within his skinny chest.
Anger gave way to three tears, which hadn’t the time to roll down his wrinkled cheeks before he began his deliberate approach. Closing the distance, he saw the man raise a coffee-coloured substance to his mouth. Dora’s toffee. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him. He knew the odds were against him, that the universe had played a dirty trick, but he didn’t care, for he had come to die anyway, and he still had a little of the widower’s bitterness in him. It lent strength to his legs, and instead of letting out a string of curses as he had intended, he barreled forward faster than he thought possible and tackled the man to the ground.
Snow slammed into his face. The man, however, didn’t even let out a grunt. Instead he laughed, and rolling over jumped back up to his feet. He looked down at the old man, who shivered, though not with cold, but with heat, for his hate had warmed him.
“Peter,” the man nodded, as though to a friendly acquaintance.
“Bastard!” Peter spat.
The man, reaching with his wet, black gloves, pulled Peter to his feet and tossed him down the embankment. He could have stopped the descent, he still possessed considerable strength, but he let the momentum carry him, for he had meant to do this anyway.
A pain ripped up his back, he landed hard with a thud but, surprisingly, the ice didn’t break. He took that as a sign and tried to get to his feet. But he couldn’t get a definite hold on the glossy surface, he kept falling to his stomach and hitting his stubbled chin. He turned his head back to the bench, but the man was not there, he had moved to the riverside, and above his head he hefted an enormous rock. Beside him two squirrels chirped in assent. And was that a snake slithering between the man’s legs? But he didn’t see clearly before the rock crashed into the water and he slid beneath into a world of cold.
He held his breath. An unnecessary reaction. He sunk slowly, as he did all things these days, slowly. His knees hit bottom, he squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks numb, and then felt an arm enfold around his waist. His lips touched another set of lips; he opened his eyes, they burned, but Dora’s blue face encompassed his own, and the fur of a cat he felt brushing his left hand caused him to lie down and forget about anger and toffee and the chicanery of a laughing universe.
copyright (c) JMD, 2006
“What is an icicle, but a growth of frozen tears?”
And he sat there, caressing the cloth like it were the fur of a cat, speaking inaudible words of affection and staring out the window as though a portal floated in the glass and he could see his dead wife encased in river ice. The kettle screeched in steaming protest, and beside him the phone cried out in rapid dial tone. The TV too babbled for attention, but his old, filmy eyes were locked to that portal, and he saw the whole dreaded scene as it must have happened.
She walked the cat every morning in Tranziltor Park, come hell, she walked the cat. Down the aged cracked stones of the northern staircase she carefully placed her steps, and then along the narrow, winding pathway under the bare arms of the creaking oak trees. To the red bench, steel and cold, she always went to the bench. And sitting she would give her pet the treats secreted in her pockets, she would untie her scarf and breathe in the icy air, stare across the river and eat the toffee she kept in her purse. That purse, brown he remembered, never a dime in it, just candy for the grandkids, especially the toffee. That purse, he had given it to her the year before, her old one was tearing...yes, that purse became the desirous object of some deviant thug. Oh, the story is the same, as countless stories are of women who find themselves the owners of articles coveted by immoral men. One witness, of course, a child with his dog, he had seen it all. That dark fellow with the black hat, the black trenchcoat, the black boots, the black gloves. She struggled, stubborn as she was -- it was the principal of it. He fancied she had even tried to talk him out of it. Stupid woman. Then the man had thrown her, hard, the purse ripped and the contents fell to the snow. The man searched the ground while she rolled down, down, and bouncing, flipped out onto the frozen river. The ice gave way and sucked her under, swallowing her deep beneath its heavy liquid weight. The cat jumped in too. Loyal thing. The man left her candy, the witness cried, and hours later, the police men showed up at the house.
He placed the phone back on the receiver and turned the television off. Pushing himself to his feet, he wobbled to the kitchen where he yanked the kettle from the pain of the element. His thirst had vanished, his mission had become singular, and he hobbled to the closet to retrieve his jacket. Once bundled in mitts and hat, he opened the door to the chilling winter and stepped out onto Karling Street. A quick glance told him Loretta was not home, her car was missing, and he thanked the gods for that, she always said something moronically sentimental. Ah, she was trying to be nice, but must she keep reminding him of Dora?
His slow steps brought him to Fairbanks where, mindful of the slush and slippery pavement, he opted not to jay walk. The traffic lights switched, but he found himself staring at his feet, and he had to wait again until the walk sign showed for a second time. Other people had died at this corner. Not from the painful suffocation of water, but from moving rams of high speed metal. He saw the bodies turning in the air, the pedestrians tossed and battered, though no one was there. Someone began to walk across ahead of him, and he realized the traffic lights had rotated for a third time now. He crossed, keeping his head low, for there were thoughts to be thought, and not much time to think them.
Down the northern staircase where she had come, he nearly slipped on the crumbling stone, and then onto the pathway beneath the oak trees. The trail twisted into the recesses of the park, through clearings and over mounds, past great, opposing boulders, and then finally to the red bench beside the river. He stopped in his cumbersome tracks and squinted his fading blue eyes. Someone sat on the bench, oddly enough, dressed entirely in black. The old man’s heart skipped twice within his skinny chest.
Anger gave way to three tears, which hadn’t the time to roll down his wrinkled cheeks before he began his deliberate approach. Closing the distance, he saw the man raise a coffee-coloured substance to his mouth. Dora’s toffee. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him. He knew the odds were against him, that the universe had played a dirty trick, but he didn’t care, for he had come to die anyway, and he still had a little of the widower’s bitterness in him. It lent strength to his legs, and instead of letting out a string of curses as he had intended, he barreled forward faster than he thought possible and tackled the man to the ground.
Snow slammed into his face. The man, however, didn’t even let out a grunt. Instead he laughed, and rolling over jumped back up to his feet. He looked down at the old man, who shivered, though not with cold, but with heat, for his hate had warmed him.
“Peter,” the man nodded, as though to a friendly acquaintance.
“Bastard!” Peter spat.
The man, reaching with his wet, black gloves, pulled Peter to his feet and tossed him down the embankment. He could have stopped the descent, he still possessed considerable strength, but he let the momentum carry him, for he had meant to do this anyway.
A pain ripped up his back, he landed hard with a thud but, surprisingly, the ice didn’t break. He took that as a sign and tried to get to his feet. But he couldn’t get a definite hold on the glossy surface, he kept falling to his stomach and hitting his stubbled chin. He turned his head back to the bench, but the man was not there, he had moved to the riverside, and above his head he hefted an enormous rock. Beside him two squirrels chirped in assent. And was that a snake slithering between the man’s legs? But he didn’t see clearly before the rock crashed into the water and he slid beneath into a world of cold.
He held his breath. An unnecessary reaction. He sunk slowly, as he did all things these days, slowly. His knees hit bottom, he squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks numb, and then felt an arm enfold around his waist. His lips touched another set of lips; he opened his eyes, they burned, but Dora’s blue face encompassed his own, and the fur of a cat he felt brushing his left hand caused him to lie down and forget about anger and toffee and the chicanery of a laughing universe.
copyright (c) JMD, 2006
posted by Jonathan Dobson | 12:34 a.m.
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