Sticks and Stones Page 3

  In his final year of high school, my son broke his shoulder while playing football. It took a long time to heal. He got very discouraged and depressed, but she never let him forget his potential. She spent countless hours with him going over his homework so that his grades wouldn’t slip. They would have long and involved mother-son discussions about life and even his love life.

  When my daughter started dating, I thought I was going to have a coronary. My wife said I terrified those young men who came a-courting. I soon discovered that she and my daughter conspired behind my back. I would often come home to find eager young men at the kitchen table having tea and cookies with my sensible girls.

  On our 25th anniversary, I told her I wanted another honey-moon. I was taking her to Europe and our children were to stay at the house. She was delighted and the kids were ecstatic.

  We flew to Paris for a week, then trained back up to London through the new Chunnel. She insisted we take a day trip out to Stratford to see Shakespeare's birthplace. We had an impromptu picnic on the south shore of the Avon River. When she removed her shoes and curled those tiny toes through the long blades of grass, I told her I wanted us to have another child. She just laughed and laughed. I could have held her in my arms forever then.

  After our son got married, she cried for two solid days. She kept insisting she was happy but I knew it was breaking her heart to see her little baby go. She took Jojo down to the water and walked up and down the dock until JoJo sat down and would not walk anymore. I was watching them from the kitchen window. She finally sat down beside JoJo and looked out over the lake. She stayed like that for several hours until I called her in for supper. When our son had his first daughter, she cried again, especially after he told us they were going to name their first born after her.

  My daughter became engaged too, soon after that. Her young man was a fine strapping young fellow who, my wife said, reminded her of me. I don't know about that. He is a nice kid and all, but not really much like me. My daughter says we have the same dry sense of humor. I think he is rude sometimes, not funny. But everyone likes him. So, in the end, they too got married and I have learned to tolerate him. They had their first son two years ago. Now there is one fantastic child.

  I formally retired from my business three years ago at 65 years of age. We had more than enough money and I still manage a healthy stock portfolio that will carry on long into the next generation. My wife and I started playing a lot more golf and tennis together to keep ourselves fit. Her handicap was better than mine, though I could still hit the ball further. She always beat me on the putts. Her tennis game was also better than mine. She was just more agile on her feet. Though, even she said, my serve was unstoppable.

  When I developed the acute knee trouble, she began to take old JoJo out for his morning walks. She even started to take out the garbage. I never asked her to do it, she just did. After I had the knee replacement surgery, she brought in a big bowl of freshly cut peonies for the hospital staff. I think my doctor developed a bit of a crush on her. While I was still in the hospital, he kept calling her at home with updates. I was bed ridden at home for a month after that and had to have intensive physiotherapy to learn to walk again. There were days when I was so frustrated, I thought I would kill myself. She would come out onto the verandah and just sit beside me. I started to worry that maybe I was becoming a burden to her. I insisted that she go and play a few rounds of golf with Harold and Jen.

  And that's when it happened.

  They had gone together for a short 9-hole game at the club. It was hot and glorious day in the middle of August. The freak thunderstorm came up out of nowhere. They had run for cover under an old oak tree. While they were running, Jenny told me, my wife dropped something and turned back to get it. The rain was pelting down and visibility was non-existent. They called out to her but she kept looking around frantically on the ground. The lightning struck her in the back of the head. No one doubts that she died instantly. When Jenny gave me the necklace with the shell on it, my heart broke.

  My children think I should write this personal ad now to try to find a new friend. They might be right. All I know is that I doubt I will ever again find such a dear sweet darling wife.

  Kindly reply to Box 3045.

  Thank you.

  Gordon T. Henderson.

  WHEN BROTHERS LOVE

  He had said, early on, that one can only perceive what one sees. She, naturally, did not agree with him. This had been their way. When they had last met, they had tried yet again to reconcile.

  Luke had given her a small, hard-carved, argillite pendant. When he had handed it to her, Sarah accidentally dropped it and the top edge had chipped off. He gruffly remarked that she was certainly cavalier. She brusquely replied that she was sorry: it was an accident. She slipped the broken rock necklace into her pocket. Soon, however, their escalating bitter words pushed them further and further apart, until, finally, they broke off seeing each other. Later, alone, separate and thoughtful, they wondered, how they had become so estranged. What was really going on between them?

  Meanwhile, she continued to sit for his brother. He had been working on her portrait for several months now. And while she sat, framed, as she was, by the early morning light from the east-facing window, they would talk, his brother and she, about various ways of seeing.

  He was painting her as a Pre-Raphaelite angel. She knew this was dumb, but she said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the flow of his fantasy. She just sat, hoping he would be finished soon. It was only a matter of time, in her mind, before he redesigned the glistening wings, darkened the golden aura to some mud sepia, removed the cherry glow from her cheeks. Just a matter of time.

  Perception, she knew, changes.

  The wind blows. It was as simple as that.

  And yet, she sat. Still, quiet. Mindful of his intent gaze.

  The portrait was taking an indeterminate amount of time.

  She preferred it best just before they began their hours-long sessions. When they met in the studio barn, they would idle about making tea or coffee and listen to the weather hiss through the wooden walls. He would, sometimes, lightly touch her elbow as he gently guided her over to the stool. She would tease him about his ever-scruffy shoes. She flowed with his motion like she used to flow with his brother's motion. Within that motion intimacy was the knowing - 'You belong to my brother'. 'I belong to your brother'. Never spoken, but there, in the air. For this reason too, the portrait was taking an indeterminate amount of time.

  The final reason that things were taking longer than usual was that he, the painter brother, was falling hopelessly in love with her. And, as any self-respecting painter knows, this is not what an artist should do. It disrupts one's Work. It interrupts one's Ambitions. Yet, there he was, sable brushing gold fleck around her pretty angel-like face.

  This problem was compounded by the very simple fact that he was married to a very good woman who he loved dearly. He had had beautiful children with her. He loved making love to his wife, and he loved her making love to him. Yet, here was this angel, sitting quietly, waiting patiently, perched on the stool, bathed in warm sunlight. Alluring. Beckoning. Tempting.

  He knew what a splendid gift his brother had indirectly given him. To fall in love with her seemed the most natural way of saying thank you. But, it was a serious problem. He knew he could only ever really touch her through his painting.

  Her portrait was interrupting all his other work.

  He had spoken about it with his wife. She, wise one, knew what was happening to him. And she, being the trusting wife that she was, would always make sure that there was enough tea or coffee in the studio barn before the painter and his subject began their painting sessions.

  And, so the portrait continued ...

  "What do you think, Jack, about painting me in the moonlight?" Sarah asked.

  He paused. His brush lifted from the painting.

  "Nude?"

  She turned her head slightly. Looki
ng at him.

  A teasing twinkle in her eye, "Sure, why not?"

  They held eyes for an instant. Then he looked back to the canvas. "It would be something."

  He put his brush into the Thalo blue, pushing it around the oil, thinning it. She resumed her pose. Exactly.

  From her vantage point, she could see out the window. She was able to watch the training arena with its broad white blank railings. The wind was starting to blow. She noticed a bent post at the edge of the corral. She quickly licked her lips. "Did you see the moon last night Jack? It was so beautiful. So full."

  Jack paused his concentration, lifting the brush again from the painting, "Yes. We walked home."

  "I envy you that. I can see it now, strolling down some river path, past the lake, beneath the willow trees. I can see it."

  He touched his brush into the Cadmium yellow, sliding the tip into the Vermillion orange.

  She tentatively asked, "Any news from your brother?"

  He lifted his paint-soaked brush. Pausing.

  They both listened to the moving air, "No. Not recently."

  She held her gaze out the window. Not flinching.

  He placed the brush near her eye, "I could give him a call tonight, and find out what's up, if you like.” The tiny tip touched the wet canvas. “Any message?"

  "No. Thanks.” She shifted abruptly and the stool squeaked, “We will speak when we will." She tried to keep the bitterness and disappointment from her voice.

  He noticed how abruptly her face fell. She was sad and annoyed. It was not how he wished to paint her. He had to cheer her up. He asked, "Any horses in the arena today?"

  She focused outdoors. "No, but there is a bent post over by the gate."

  "What's happened there?"

  "Looks like one of the mares has been rubbing it. Probably that dappled gray."

  "What makes you think it's her?"

  She laughed and turned to him. "Haven't you seen her, Jack? The way she runs around? She's just a frisky filly forever taunting that tired old stallion!"

  He smiled, changing his brush. He wiped his hands on the paint splattered towel.

  She looked out the window again and noticed the trees were budding. She had been watching them throughout the winter, wondering at just what point they would finally brave the spring cold. It always happened so suddenly. This new discovery was like a beacon. The trees beckoned, inviting her to come closer. Her body hummed to them. But she was stuck, immobile, enraptured at a distance. Be still, she instructed herself, be Still!

  He was painting around her thigh.

  She mused aloud, "If there is one thing I would like to do, Jack, it would be to paint you in the nude."

  Startled, he lifted his brush and saw she was smiling.

  He smiled too. "I'll tell you what, I'll paint you nude painting me nude. Deal?"

  She chuckled.

  "Spring has sprung methinks," he said gently.

  She sighed, glancing down at her hands in her lap, "Yup. Guess so." She looked out the window again. Jack's wife was coming down the path with a plate of cookies.

  The barn door opened, "Hi! Jack, your brother is on the landline. He wants to know if we are going up to his place for lunch today. I told him you were painting."

  The stool squeaked.

  "I need another hour. I'll call him back when I'm done."

  "Okay. How's the coffee? I've brought some cookies."

  "Fine. Thanks."

  "Well, I won't disturb you. Nice to see you, Sarah."

  The women nodded at each other, and the door closed.

  "Are you good for another hour?" he asked her.

  "Yes, then I've got to get going too."

  "All right."

  They resumed their postures.

  He continued painting for a time. He picked up a larger brush, dipped it into the Azo orange for the background priming.

  “I'll have to fix that post I guess," he mumbled.

  Suddenly, she jumped up from the stool, "Jack! Jack! Look! Here she comes!"

  He rushed to join her at the window and as he did so his brush blazed a bright orange trail straight across the center of the canvas. The painting was ruined.

  After Luke put down the phone, he returned to the calf skin sofa and lay down again. The room was filled with books. His articulate architectural drawings were strewn about on the white marble floor. He placed his right arm over his eyes and tried to sleep. He so needed sleep.

  Her taut thighs, calves, ankles and bare feet curled around the silky body of the steaming stallion as she thundered on towards the birch grove.

  Asleep, Luke's hand slid to the floor. His immaculately clean baby finger nail touched the glistening white marble.

  Her mud-caked gripping fingers clung to the beast’s coarse wild mane. Her auburn hair blew wild. Warm blood flushed through Sarah’s cherry cheeks and her lips glistened.

  Luke turned his head.

  As Sarah slid down from the broad steamy backside, the large equine head turned and nuzzled her matted tussled hair. She left him with a gentle pat and began the slow walk up the rocky promontory. At the top, her aching body absorbed the vastness of the extending horizon. The wide lake far below shimmered gold as it stretched further east and west. Skeletal feathered trees rose from the water's edge. Mauve mist hugged the shoreline. A flock of white birds soared slowly high above her head. She took hold of the stone in her pocket. Pulling it out, she rubbed her thumb along the broken edge. Holding it up to the rising sun, she cried out, "What do you want me to do?"

  Luke opened his eyes. He could still see her. Damn it.

  Drowsy, Luke rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He sat up. Dropping his bare feet to the floor, he noticed through the bay window that the mist off the lake was filling the rising air with a soft golden hue. The skeletal trees fanned the shoreline in gradations of rose and mauve. He could see a brisk breeze blow across the lake. The wind was coming up. In the distance, storm clouds were forming. He looked down at his watch. They'll be coming soon. He wondered: will she come too?

  ...

  Sarah had been as upset by the ruin of the painting as Jack. So many hours, days, and months had gone into that slow meticulous effort. Closing up his paint box, he washed out his brushes for the day. He could hear the rain hit hard on the tin roof and wooden walls around him. He thought to himself, at least she is willing to start again. I'll ask Luke to come and help me fix that leaning post tomorrow before she comes. They may meet then. Aside from their respective bluster, Jack knew they would both like that very much.

  He turned back to look at her in the spoiled canvas. Yes, he would try again. She was so willing, so generous with her Self. Such an angel. How could his talented brother not see that?

  His wife burst through the door, her hand pushing back her rain hood, "Ready, Jack? He’s waiting!”

  ...

  Sarah accidentally dropped the stone again to the ground. It landed with a thud. Rain began to fall upon her tangled hair. Bending to pick up the chipped pendant, she exclaimed over her shoulder, "You want me to do WHAT?"

  FAMILY HOLD BACK

  One month ago, to the day, I had the dream. In it, I was standing in the hall of our century old farmhouse. The front door was wide open. The sky above was banging and groaning with thunder, and yet, directly over our house on the hill, it was clear and bright. It was as though we were sheltered in some kind of atmospheric bubble. In the dream, I remember standing in the front hall of the house looking out the opened door, thinking how strange the weather was, when the barn swallows suddenly swooshed down from upstairs. They passed by my head and flew out the door. I woke up and instantly knew, with unquestioned certainty, that Dad had very little time left.

  ...

  There had been a torrential downpour with thunder and lightning when the undertakers returned him to the house in the back of the black hearse. The guys came to the backdoor and said they were going to wait awhile before they brought him around to the fron
t door and into the house. It was raining too hard. I asked the attendants if they wanted to come in to wait and they, in their crisp clean black mourning suits and dutifully grave faces, said "No, thank you, we'll wait in the garage, we don't want to disturb the family."

  The family waited quietly in the living room while it rained, banged and rumbled outside. Occasionally one of us would wander into the dining room where the coffin was to go. A plethora of lilies and white roses were situated around the room. The Williamsburg green walls, the deep rich patina of the two-hundred-year-old oak furnishings, and the polished brass fire accessories gave the room a solemn grandeur and eerie beauty. It was strangely welcoming.

  We were ready.

  A few of the in-laws were in the kitchen, busily bustling about, preparing an assortment of food platters for the two up-coming wakes. People were going to be arriving soon.

  It rained and rained and rained.

  I went out to the backroom and looked out the window. The hearse was parked in the middle of the gravel driveway with the back-end facing the house, doors open, ready too. I could see through the rain treacle that the guys were huddled in the tractor bay of the garage having a cigarette. The collars of their coats were flipped up around their ears. Their cigarettes glowed like fireflies.

  I suddenly did not like the notion of Dad lying so very dead in a box in the hearse in the pouring rain.

  It was time he came in, rain or not.

  Ferreting around in the mud cupboard, I found several of his vintage tractor and broad-rimmed boat caps. I grabbed four and went out through the backroom door into the garage. I clip-clopped over to the guys in my black leather pumps and, said, as I gave each of them a hat, "I think it's letting up a bit, don't you?"

  They looked sheepishly at each other, then out into the wall-like downpour. They tried to be positive and kind. One said, ‘Let's give it another minute, okay miss?'