Stories by the Fire

Treasure

It was the shoes I noticed first. They were brown and clompy and worn, with traces of mud and dead grass stuck to the sides. She was drinking a cup of black coffee, some of which now spilled on the newspaper she held in front of her but did not read. Instead, she held it up to hide the fact that she stared into space; her thoughts breaking long enough for her to look around the small café and then drift back to whatever it was that drew her imagination to another place and time.

With nothing better to do and too little in my own life to merit attention, I resolved to catch her eye. I did, but not of my own effort. I had just searched my bag to see whether a piece of blueberry pie was in my future. It was not, and as I glanced around for a waitress to order my tea, I felt the stranger’s eyes on me. I looked her way, nodded, and then surprised myself by walking over and asking if I could join her. The stranger looked at me hard, nodded that I could indeed join her, got up, and walked out. Stunned at her rudeness, I stood motionless for a full minute until I turned and saw her at the door, motioning impatiently for me to follow.

Startled as I was, my grasp loosened for a split second, spilling some of the contents of my bag. I knelt to scoop it up, but her wave was so insistent and hurried that I took what was in my hand and left the rest to fate; a faint peach lipstick that I loved and two quarters.

As I started toward the door, she turned and jaywalked at a brisk clip across the street, a little to the left, down an alley, and back onto another street. I trotted to catch her, nearly close enough to ask her name a couple of times; but I was so out of breath, I could only wheeze. As we neared the edge of town, she slowed and looked northwest of where we now stood.

I looked intently in the same direction, but couldn’t see a thing despite my eye-strained efforts. My stomach growled and the woman, tired of what I supposed she saw as my ineptitude, turned her head slowly to me, then started off again. Ambling now through the long grass of the field we reached, she headed toward the wooded coolness at the far end. We’d entered the woods only slightly when she bent down and wisked a handful of blueberries from a bush.

Holding them out to me, she said, I couldn’t tell apropos of what, It’s early yet, but maybe . . .

It was the first time I had heard her utter a word. Her voice was surprisingly lovely; soft and – I will acknowledge this much – lilting. It made me think of a song or, perhaps, a story I had heard a long time ago, but couldn’t quite remember.

I was just about to reply, when a piercing shriek caught my voice in my throat. My leader paled slightly, and searched the distance from where the horrible sound had come. She involuntarily, barely perceptibly shook her head and hesitated for a moment.

You look as though you could use a rest, she said, looking as though she wanted me to negate her observation.

It was not in me to let this advantage pass, though, and I eagerly assented that I did, indeed, need not only rest, but some more blueberries as well. Without waiting for further suggestions, I plopped down where I was. I quickly stood, having poked myself with a sharp stick or stone, and moved to sit on a fallen tree instead. I reached for some more blueberries and ate uninterrupted for at least five minutes straight until I felt sufficiently full. The whole time the woman in front of me looked toward her destination, then down at the decaying leaves at her feet, then off again in the same direction.

Destinations can change on the simple turn of a phrase.

What is it? I finally asked.

What?

What is it that you keep looking for or toward or whatever it is you’re doing?

I swatted a mosquito and began to itch with zeal what promised to be a generous patch of poison ivy on my ankle.

I spoke quietly to myself now. "What in the world am I doing?"

You asked if you could join me, she replied.

"At the table. I meant to ask if I could join you at your table," I answered her, frustrated with my stranger’s assertion and amazed at the misunderstandings this world holds and how destinations change on the simple turn of a phrase.

You followed me. No. You wanted to join me. In fact, when your little Honda pulled into the café, you looked, she paused, searching for a word which she couldn’t quite find, ‘lost’."

I stared at her, baffled that she’d not only noticed me come to the café in the first place, but also that she’d studied me. It was she who I had thought distracted, but her narration challenged my blazingly astute observation.

Let’s see. You’ve, on impulse, decided to pull up roots, that is if you’ve ever had them which is doubtful; a result of something in your past, perhaps.

A lump began to form in my throat, but I stared sullenly past her; a habit I’d found useful in life.

You’ve used your last dollar for a week’s worth of cheap motel and a full tank of gas; and after a few days of little sleep and not much food you’re wondering if you’re still sane.

She was about to continue, but, to my strange relief, another shriek split the air. At this she jumped to her feet and flew from the woods, running in the same direction in which we had first started.

The day was by now growing toward twilight, and having been afraid of the dark since my childhood, I sprinted after her. After all, it’s one thing to follow a stranger in the daytime, but quite another when the dark closes in. As the moon rose, she was – being the only human in sight – in an instant, my friend.

She was fast and seemed to know the terrain well. I was neither, and fell farther and farther behind. It was luck alone, although I think she would have disagreed, that brought me up short when I tripped over her as she squatted near the ground. She was peering in the dark for some small landmark, some indication she was near whatever it was that she sought. She motioned silence, and I acquiesced, too out of breath for words anyway. She straightened and we had taken only a few steps when I felt the very earth give way below me and I fell smack onto a pebbly, hardened space a good twelve feet beneath the surface. I rolled to a sitting position, moaned, and saw that she was climbing down some mismatched boards nailed into the side of what appeared to be a cave wall.

I began to groan. It was not involuntary, I’ll acknowledge, but I thought by this time I deserved to whine. However, the instant a sound escaped my throat, she held up her hand to silence me and walked into a short tunnel. I found her scraping away some dirt from the wall with a little tool. It was apparent that she knew this place. The earth was packed solid, and she seemed to know exactly what she was doing though it was very dark despite the flashlight she had flicked on upon our descent. I tried to while away the minutes by chatting with her, but getting no response, I went back through the tunnel. I’d had enough. She could have the silence she seemed to crave for company. I climbed the ladder to the ground overhead, peeped out, recoiled at the black night, looked down again at the darkness beneath me, then, gathering my courage, swung my leg up and pulled myself out. I started off unsteadily, uncertain of my direction. The moon shone only dimly, and there was no trampled path, no recognizable landmark, no inner sense of direction.

I had walked for a few minutes when I heard a rustling. Scared out of my wits, I searched in vain for the hole I now wished I had never left and then ran into a bush under which I promptly sat as far as I could manage. There appeared, not too far distant, a large bird with black feathers and no markings.

Black feathers, I silently scolded myself, Of course its feathers are black! The whole world is black in this darkness!

It stood waiting; looking around excitedly like some kid at the first football game of the season. It didn’t wait long. Four birds of similar size joined it. They immediately raised such a scream as I’ve never heard since. The sound inhabits my dreams still on nights when the dark seems to close in so near that I can touch it.

I heard a scrambling and saw the stranger throw a wooden box the size of a small trunk out first, then hoist herself outside.

Looking at the birds that crowded around the box, she said, So now you come! Now when I’ve done all the work!

One of the birds pecked at her shoe.

I’ve nothing more left. Thank you for your help in finding it, but it’s all gone now. She shooed them with her hands. Go on. All gone.

They squawked loudly, and she raised her voice over theirs, The lady that came with me. She might have something for you.

I suppose there are worse things than being found when you wish to hide, but I can’t think of many.

I shivered for a moment, enough to give myself away. They all looked my direction. I suppose there are worse things than being discovered when you wish to hide, but I can’t think of many. I crawled out from my place under the bush and took a few steps.

The box, I said, rather crossly. What’s in it that you come so far from town, at night, with these, these . . . I interrupted myself long enough to scratch my ankle furiously.

Birds, she finished calmly. "It’s a treasure I’ve been hunting for – oh, so many years I’ve lost count now. My husband buried it after a fight we had – years ago. He died not long after, but had left a note in his will telling me of some little birds he’d trained to show me where the treasure was. He always did love gamesmanship."

You’ve been hunting a treasure.

She nodded.

The birds led you to the treasure?

They led me to this little spot. I had to figure out for myself where exactly it was.

She paused. It took awhile, she concluded.

I pointed to the chest. I don’t suppose there’s anything there for me.

Not in this lifetime, she said without malice, to my dismay.

"What do you think I can give those shrieking things?"

I always gave them little pieces of meat. And berries. They seem to like berries.

Berries!

What kind of mundane, insane conversation was I having with a stranger in the middle of the night? I began to walk. Then I ran. I must get to some place normal; a place that carried familiar scenes and scents; a place where people and birds said and did what they were supposed to say and do. I left town that same night.

I returned to the little town later and stayed in the same cheap motel as it had been so kindly described by what I was now referring to in my thoughts as my stranger. I had taken odd jobs here and there, long enough to save money enough to pull up roots and wander again. I had felt unsettled, admitting now that I had felt that way since I was a teenager, and, as inexplicable as it seemed, this was the one place I had lost that unsettled feeling one evening turned to night about one year ago. I picked up the paper in the tiny lobby as I sat down to eat my continental breakfast. As I turned a page, a small obituary stopped my hand, leaving my next bite untaken. It was she, no doubt: the dry, black hair; the harsh, definitive profile; the eyes the color of a turbulent sea.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looked up. An overweight man in a black silk suit asked my name and sat across from me.

Ah. I see you’ve been reading the death announcement. She became very ill a few months ago, called my office and asked that I find you and give you this.

It was a copy of her will.

She wrote it in my presence. It’s all legal.

I scanned the type.

Everything? I asked, stupefied, unsure what I would do with worn, clompy brown shoes.

She had no one. Not after her husband died. Here are the keys to the house. It’s the stone one on the hill. I’m sure you noticed it as you entered town.

I only recall a . . . what looked like a large . . . house. I gave up trying to describe what I had seen.

He nodded. Moved in as a young couple. Crazy in love, those two. He was away on business when he was hit by a little Honda. She wished she’d died with him. Never got over it.

Upon those words, I was immediately transported back to the day when, as a careless teenager, driving much faster than the limit, I had killed a man. I felt the blood drain from my face.

He shook his head and then roused himself. A very large estate indeed. That’s the one.

He fished out another set of keys.

Here, he said handing them to me. The keys to her cars. The Mercedes is parked in front, he nodded out the window. You might call the salvage yard to pick up that piece of junk, he chuckled as he pointed to my Honda, the only car I had ever owned.

As he rose to leave, I called, Wait! I . . . I don’t know what to do.

Why don’t you go home? he laughed as he walked out the door.

I found it the moment I entered the house. A note lay on a table in the large entryway of the mansion. It said simply, Do you wish to play a game? Then I heard a familiar shriek.

It’s been four years since. I’ve met some people from town, but mostly prefer the solitude of this place. The vastness of the grounds does something to you; something forgiving, maybe. The quietness feeds you.

I found it finally; pulled it out of a very twisting, very dark, very wet cave underneath a small waterfall. I dragged it home, the birds and their progeny following me hoping for some fresh berries in the rookery I had built up for them.

I turned on every light in my vast house, made a celebratory cup of tea, scratched my ankle vigorously, and opened the trunk at last.

I’ve been reading its contents for days now; love letters written over many years from a man to his wife; flirtatious notes, long letters of yearning, crisp pieces of ordinary detail, always signed the same way: Undying love. Treasure indeed.

The Yes Man

His heels clicked on the polished floor as he walked quickly to suite 300. The low buzz of his watch alarm sounded only once as he raised his wrist to press it off. This was exactly the time he usually sat down at his desk, placed his coffee cup neatly its coaster, and began the day’s work. People joked they could set their watches by his movements, and he felt proud. Not every man could join precision and structure so seamlessly. It was, to his mind, what made a man dependable.

He briskly knocked twice on the door and entered at the invitation of the voice within.

A smile tugged at his mouth, though looking at him, one would not have known. Madeleine wore a red skirt and red and white pinstriped blouse with matching shoes. Her short, red hair just touched the back of her collar. Looking at the combination made him wince. A gold bracelet hung heavy on her small wrist. He noted one earring lying on her desk by the phone. It was her habit to remove it to talk on the instrument, and she invariably forgot to replace it. He had once overheard her in the lunchroom saying that she had lost three earrings because of her habit, but it was obvious to him now the losses had not deterred her.

Madeleine was sitting at her desk typing and spoke above the tick-tack of the keys. I buzzed her when you knocked, Mr. Nordrum. She’s expecting you. Go on in.

Thank you, Ms. Hallowitz.

He nodded once and stepped toward the double doors. He knocked twice and turned the shiny knob. Its click was music to his ears. The doorknob was such a simple device, beautiful in its simplicity and precision. He wished he could have met its inventor.

He clicked the door shut behind him and stood, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mr. Nordrum. On the dot as I knew you would be, she said with clipped articulation, motioning to a chair in front of her desk.

Ms. Marley.

He sat soundlessly in front of her. Her black suit matched her hair which was pulled back into a neat chignon. Her nails were polished with a color that matched her skin. He looked at her now; her face was carefully made up so that no blotches or variations of color were evident – only a clean layer of peach tone. Her eyes were as gray and direct as her speech.

Mr. Nordrum, it has come to my attention that there is a poster – unapproved, of course – hanging in the hallway by the lunchroom.

I’ll take care of it, Ms. Marley.

Ms. Marley leaned forward, touched her thumbs, and tapped her fingers together above them forming a triangle.

I’ve been giving this some thought, Mr. Nordrum. We’ve had trouble with this for three weeks in a row.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

It makes me wonder what our staff believes about this office. In fact, Mr. Nordrum, it makes me wonder what the citizens of this state believe about this office.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

I was elected Governor not once, but twice.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

I have served our citizenry well, Mr. Nordrum.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

It is time for a change, Mr. Nordrum, and, Ms. Marley nodded her head slightly as though she was about to bestow a great honor on her employee, I have determined you are the man best suited for the job.

The import of such a nod from his superior was not lost to Mr. Nordrum.

He replied in his most confident voice, Yes, Ms. Marley.

I have thought this over for some time. I can assure you, Mr. Nordrum, this has been long in coming in a state that begs for decency and order. There is far too much, here she searched for a word and, finding it, spit it out like an air drill, difference, she pursed her lips as though she was tasting something sour, difference, repeated, in our diversity.

Diversity is something you have given much time in promoting, he answered.

Ms. Marley stood from her chair and threw back her shoulders.

It has been a very effective effort, she agreed with just the right amount of modesty and pride.

However, she continued, not everyone cares as deeply about it as they should.

Excuse me, Ms. Marley, Mr. Nordrum interrupted, but you made the word ‘should’ a misdemeanor offense last month.

His boss’s face reddened slightly.

How careless of me, but, and here she directed a steel-like gaze on her employee, I think you know what I meant.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

I would like you, Mr. Nordrum, to make a list of all of the variations at work against our contemporary society; deviations from what we consider acceptable and appropriate in this state.

The tall woman turned to face the window. Her eyes darted over the traffic beyond it to the commons spreading like a wide sea in front of the grand building.

Abruptly she spun around and commanded, Have it on my desk day after tomorrow.

Mr. Nordrum nodded.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

He rose from his chair and walked to the door.

Mr. Nordrum.

He turned slightly.

Yes, Ms. Marley?

9:01 a.m.

Yes, Ms. Marley.

He silently shut the door behind him.

As he walked through the reception area a muffled, Good-bye, Mr. Nordrum, came from beneath the desk.

The top half of Madeleine Hallowitz was enveloped underneath, undoubtedly looking for a lost earring, leaving the bottom half still in the chair to unwittingly entertain those awaiting their appointments.

Plato street

The Inheritance

A lone street lamp shone its dim yellow light over the pocked and crumbling pavement beneath it. The lamp, green from years of neglect, stood sturdy and dignified nevertheless; its scrollwork base and lantern top the result of the insistence of a tenacious city council member long since forgotten. Its light spread over the area like a thin blanket, not quite reaching the ends of the old street.

A socialite famous for a gluttony of grand parties, an unquenchable thirst for written works of philosophy, and a limited understanding of himself had once owned all of the land through which the street now traveled and some of the adjoining property, as well. He was the son of a railroad baron, had observed his father’s business from bottom to top, had never been invited to take over the business and had never asked to. In all of his life, the son, Courtney Clive Tice (Clive after his grandfather on his mother’s side), had never known want. He had never had to care for himself in all of the ways mankind finds it necessary to survive, he had never had to sweat, nor to make his own money. It was all there for him from the time he was born until his last breath.

It was this last breath, this last uttered thought, that had made his land even more marketable to those who had the means to buy some of it. So it was sold in large parcels, then later resold in smaller pieces, then divided into lots that were smaller still. The passage of time, the decline of