The seconds thumped their molasses feet through her ears as they ticked by. She checked again, only 11:32. Why had she always loved giving in-class essays? Today would have been a great day for a class discussion, anything to get her talking, to take her mind off Phoenix. The rhythmic swish and scratch of pencils continued, the air sent the sleep-deprived groans and the smell of pubescent sweat swirling around her. She stood up to pace the classroom, methodically glancing at papers here and there. Jenny Thomas clearly had been checked out for the last two weeks; her essay told how the main theme of Pride and Prejudice was racism after the civil war. It was large and sprawling, the words stretching as far across the required two pages as possible. Another glance, 11:35. Lunch would never come, the news would never come. Carmen convinced herself that she would perish amidst a flurry of poorly composed literary criticism papers before she ever heard word of her husband’s pending promotion.
A click at the door and she whirled around to see an incoming student, an office assistant. She darted towards him so quickly that the worn nub of her mary-janes caught the leg of Kristen Farlow’s desk and she suddenly found her face smashed into the salmon-tinted linoleum that she glared at every chance she got. Before she had realized what had happened, a cold runny sensation was spreading itself across her hidden face. The unmistakable smell of salt. This cannot be happening she kept repeating over and over again. Then the chatter came; stifled laughs, a few gasps and some courteous, “Are you okay Mrs. Bradley’s?” Terror gripped her. The only thing more terrifying than teaching high-school, was lying on the floor of your classroom bleeding, only able to imagine the talk that was about to spread across the school like a brushfire.
As soon as the shock lifted enough to allow her to raise up off the floor, a senior, Jake Thomas was helping her to her knees. Kristen had gone for some Kleenexes and she shoved them into her nose as quickly as possible. Pain seared through her whole face. Broken, her nose was most certainly broken. Hannah, always a sensible student, had rushed out for the nurses office and the office assistant that she now recognized as Kalvin Grier only stared at her, mouth agape, eyes glossy.
I’m ssssss….oooo sorrrrrrry,” he muttered.
“Iths sokay Kaaabiiin,” she managed through the tissues.
“Mmmmmmissses BBBBBBradleeyyy…”,
“Yesthhh?”
He gulped hard, “This is for you…” he handed her the long-awaited for yellow slip of scrap paper that she thought would never come. She jerked it from his hands before they were fully extended, glancing down at the words she was prepared to read. But they weren’t there:
You have a delivery waiting in the office from your husband.
Read the neatly curled script of Miss Mona the secretary.
Just then the nurse rushed through the door with Hannah and the in-school substitute Mrs. Rose tailing behind her. She came to Carmens side and lifted her gingerly to her feet.
“Mrs. Rose is prepared to take your classes for the rest of the day. We need to get you to a doctor. I’m afraid it’s as bad as it must feel dear.”
Then the tears came. Not the tears she expected to cry that day. Not the tears that would foretell her leaving her town, her life that she had loved for all these years. Not the tears that promised more money, a fresh start, leaving family and friends behind. They were not as painful as those tears, but they welled up to twice their normal capacity due to the emotion trapped inside of her.
Three weeks, they’d been stuck in limbo. She started to feel queasy. For two years they’d talked of having a child. She recognized the lunch room they were walking through but the colors were faded, blended, blurry. For eight years they’d dreamed of an easier life. Her knees gave out and everything faded.
The harsh smell was what finally woke her. She felt herself sliding around the vinyl covered infirmary bed in the cramped office. She looked up to see Nurse Waddell huddling over her, a flashlight beaming in her eyes. When she turned to the side, something that she wasn’t expecting caught her eye, a massive, bouquet ,a rainbow of flowers spilling out of a tall vase. It was something fit for teen-love, surely this was for a student that had recently occupied the bed. Then she uncurled her hand and glanced down at the crumpled yellow paper she was still holding. Sure enough, the card propped up next to the flowers read
Dearest
She had only ever heard one man in the world say that sweet, stinging word. She heard it often, to the point of annoyance. With hesitation, she reached for the card. Before opening it she closed her eyes and privately wished Colorado Springs a bitter farewell.
Carmen, I got the promotion. I turned it down. I found the pregnancy test. I love you.
Everything blurred again, this time for the tears that were fixing themselves on the inside of her swollen eyes.
We’re staying, she thought. We’re staying.
1st Person/3rd Person: A Special Occasion
Third Person:
He paced gingerly around the living room, examining every inch. When he reached the oak paneled hallway that led to the bedroom, he gently kneeled and proceeded to lower his face into the mint green carpet that lined the hallway. He sniffed along the carpet, his head sweeping back and forth from side to side. At once, he lay along the hallway floor on his back, staring at the ceiling but not looking. He began to hum Green sleeves and twiddled his thumbs methodically. He lay for several minutes longer, his humming changing in tempo and volume, but the twiddling was constant. When he reached the end of the melody he rose from the hallway, skipped to the bedroom and leaned seductively against the doorframe. His long thin fingers caressed the wood that framed the heavy door. He drew in a deep breath, laid his forehead against the door and began to shake his head in a violent motion while a sinister smile smeared itself across his face. One by one, he curled the fingers of his right hand around the crystal doorknob, like a child, relishing a treasure.
The doorknob clicked, and he slowly pushed it open to reveal his wife and her lover asleep in the four-poster. Her naked breasts reflected the light from the midday sun glaring through the open window. The breeze brought in the smell of the magnolias from outside. The sheen of sweat covered her beautiful, voluptuous figure; a ripe pear overflowing with the nectar of femininity. Her lover, his forehead too, shone with the labor of their work. His tightly muscled arm lay across her stomach, a loving embrace. They both smiled, sheltered by the cloud of unconsciousness.
He drew the camera from his back pocket, a sword from its sheath. He stood motionless in the heavy silence while breathing deeply and filling his lungs with the air of summer. Unable to lift the camera, he returned it to his pocket. He tip-toed out of the room, as silently as he had entered, leaving the door cracked this time. He walked methodically back to the living room, drew open the drawer that contained the key to the liquor cabinet, and palmed it. He glided to the glass door and opened it with the swift and graceful motion of experience. He selected the pair of crystal toasting glasses from their wedding day, plucking both from the high shelf where they had sat in reverence these twenty-two years. Next was the bottle of champagne, purchased on their honeymoon. He slid the corkscrew from the drawer without a noise, and was able to remove the cork with the same tact.
He placed the glasses on the sterling serving tray that was her Grandmothers, and carried them to his favorite leather chair. He placed the tray on the side table; poured the two glasses to overflowing. He set the bottle next to the glasses on the tray. He returned to the hallway, lifted his keys from the hook by the door; a slight jingle pierced the air. He stared down the mint-lined hallway once more, his eyes landing briefly on the doors of each child’s room and fixing themselves on the bedroom. For what felt like years, that tall oak door taunted back at him, a clanging symbol of reality. He tore his eyes from it and turned to the front door. He walked, past his car, past his wife’s car, past the familiar SUV. For blocks, he walked.
Nearly an hour later, he found himself in City Center. He found the bench instinctively; his legs had carried it to him without cognizance. He looked down to see the initials he had carved on the day she had said yes. He sat.
First Person:
I paced back and forth in the living room, remembering Christmases, Thanksgivings, nights at home before kids. When I reached the hallway, I gently kneeled and lowered my face into the carpet. This is where we had last made love, while the kids were away at camp a few weeks ago. We had decided to try something new while we had the chance. The perfume of her body, the intoxicating scent of her filled me and overpowered me. I turned on my back, staring at the ceiling but not looking. I began to hum Green sleeves, remembering it from when my father had died. It was the song I had learned at piano lessons the day he was killed. I had listened to it for weeks, trapped in the melody, trapped in time where he still existed. I finished the melody, but not the song; this was not a reality to be trapped in anymore. I got up, skipped to the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. Here too, so many times, was the prelude to our love-making. Passion had filled me so many times as I had caressed my wife, showered her with kisses before carrying her to our bed. But the feeling was different this time. Hurt, anger, hatred, filled me. I traced the doorframe. I took a breath to steady myself, to push back the memories. I laid my forehead against the door it was all gone now and I finally would have my revenge. I grabbed the doorknob as if it was the key to my happiness.
But when I pushed open the door, something happened that I didn’t expect. The vision of her naked breasts seized me. They reflected the light from the midday sun glaring through the open window. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Just the sight of her had always been enough to thrill me. The breeze brought in the smell of the magnolias from outside. She had planted them earlier this summer with our daughter. “We have to make memories while we still have the time,” she had recited to her. How could I have known how true those words had been? The sheen of sweat covered her beautiful, voluptuous figure; a ripe pear overflowing with the nectar of femininity. Her lover, his forehead too, shone with the labor of their work; with the strength he had given her that I couldn’t. His tightly muscled arm lay across her stomach, a loving embrace. They both smiled, sheltered by the cloud of unconsciousness.
I drew the camera from my back pocket, I had prepared for this moment for months. But I couldn’t’ turn it on. I only stared, stared at the look on her face, at the smile that I hadn’t seen in a decade; a smile that told of her satisfaction, of her comfort, of her happiness without me. I breathed deeply and filled my lungs with the scent of the room. The sticky summer sweetness, mixed with the salt of forbidden love. I put the camera back in my pocket. He tip-toed out of the room, leaving the door cracked this time. I walked back to the living room, drew open the drawer that contained the key to the liquor cabinet, and palmed it. Then to the glass door that had been my haven all these years. I selected the pair of crystal toasting glasses from our wedding day, plucking both from the high shelf where they had sat in reverence these twenty-two years.
“Well use them on our 25th, she’d always said.
“But every year I have with you is worth a celebration to me,” I would protest.
As always she had won out, and they hadn’t been touched since that vague night all those years ago. Next was the bottle of champagne we purchased on our honeymoon, that too she had wanted to save. I slid the corkscrew from the drawer without a noise, and was able to remove the cork with the same tact. All those years of drinking silently in the in living room, alone, at all hours of the morning, were paying off at this exact moment.
I placed the glasses on the sterling serving tray that was her Grandmothers, the one we had served the punch on at each child’s Baptism, at the death of her mother, and at our son’s graduation. It was only for special occasions. I carried them to my worn in leather chair, molded with the print of my backside, ever widening in my recent years. I placed the tray on the side table; poured the two glasses to overflowing. I looked at them for a moment, long enough to recall the engraving. I closed my eyes and methodically remembered the words, an old routine; “Forever and always, my beloved.” I set down the bottle next to the glasses. I got up and went back to the hallway, lifted my keys from the hook by the door; a slight jingle pierced the air. I stared down the hallway once more, my eyes landing briefly on the doors of each child’s room and fixing themselves on the bedroom; the bedroom that contained my wife, who had left me so many years before. All those years now stared back at me from that tall oak door, once a refuge of our love, our covenant, now a clanging symbol of reality. I tore my eyes from it and turned to the front door. I walked, past my car, past my wife’s car, past the familiar SUV. For blocks, I walked.
Nearly an hour later, I found myself in City Center. I found the bench instinctively; my legs had carried me to it without even thinking. I looked down to see the initials I had carved on the day she had said yes. And like all those nights I’d spent alone, all those nights I’d waited for her to look at me again; I sat, once more, alone. No brandy to soothe me, no leather chair to hold me, I sat.
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