Calm and Quiet

No snow falls here. The fluffy white fuzzballs my brother had named pennystealers instead fill the sky, float, soft and spiky, lightly in the chill breeze. The smell of woodsmoke and hearth fires touch the air, reminding me of winter nights, though the sun still brightens the western horizon. Autumn colors, fires of crimson and flares of molten gold, have muted and fled. The rich green of hearty pines and live oaks remains the sole source of color save for the Wedgwood of the blue-bowl sky.

It is December. People and cars rush by outside my window. But inside at home, I am warm and quiet. I fight with myself to stay still, reflective. To slow. To appreciate the temporary solitude I’ve been granted by an early shift at work today. This is a gift all its own.

This is the season of Christmas. So many different meanings for people. Many for me, too. But to start, this time, this place, is meant for calm and quiet, for anticipation. For mindfulness and gratitude.

I was given good advice yesterday, which culminated in this musing. I will strive to calm and quiet my soul. To remind myself: I have faith and I have all I need.

—————————-

Bridge

I run over the bridge toward Vilano. Huffing and puffing. I don’t come here every day. Not even every week. But a steady force it is. Always present, always here for me.

The wind shoves against me. A cold evening to run. But I need it. The setting sun lowers behind me. Sneakers smack the concrete. Pound in time to my rambling thoughts.

Did I pay the electric bill? What time is Lou’s meeting tomorrow? I have to write a new blog and post it before the end of the month.

My feet thud, thud. Breath whooshes in and out. I count. Right-left-right, inhale through the stride. Left-right, exhale deep. Again. Try to get into the rhythm.

We should have another budget meeting to go over the finances for Mather Street. Chicken’s pretty easy; think I’ll make that tonight, the Old Bay baked chicken he likes. Haven’t cooked that in a while.

A black SUV’s headlights blink on as it whizzes toward me. Blinds me a moment, but my vision clears quickly. Enough daylight hovers that the vehicle’s brilliance fades fast.

Maybe the girls are free for a GNO this weekend. Been too long. I could use a session with them; see what everyone’s been up to. How does so much time pass so quickly?

I peek over my shoulder, a swift look to see if anyone has crept up behind me while my thoughts carried me along the river and away. Nothing but a lone walker a good quarter mile back.

Crazy S.O.B., just like me.

Can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, backlit by the fading sun as the figure is. I pound on.

Can’t believe what that guy at work said about having kids. Everyone’s got an opinion. Funny, people always thinking the grass is greener. Damn fools.

The cold wind bites my face. I’d remembered Chap Stick, a sweatshirt, but I forgot gloves. The air carries a faint tinge of the sea, a scent that always brings comfort. My eyes water enough that I wipe away tears. Pretend it’s only the wind.

Pelicans swoop in formation below the bridge, skimming the water.

Incredible creatures. I’m sure they used to be pterodactyls.

I watch their effortless float, their togetherness. Push on.

The arch of the bridge approaches. Harder breathing as I near the rise. I crest it, look into the distance, find the reason I run. A clear view over the island and out to sea. Wide constant ocean. Blue-gray waves undulate as twilight settles over, white caps dancing in a windy froth. The scent of the sea stronger.

Or maybe that’s my imagination.

Right-left-right. Find my rhythm, always easier on the downhill. Too quickly the shore disappears behind the trees, the apartments, Publix. But I’d gotten what I need.

I jog off the walkway, do a quick circuit in the sandy parking lot at Beachcomber and First. Back onto the bridge. Halfway there. Renewed energy for the run home.

As I begin the uphill climb, my thoughts change tack. Less jumpy than before. More focused as I run beneath the glowing cones of passing streetlights.

So, what’m I going to blog about? Maybe tips to find your inspiration? How about writing outside?

I sweep my gaze in a semi-circle. Speed up. Headlights zip past, but they can’t compete with the fire in the sky. The afterglow of sunset dips the landscape in fuchsias and corals. Cloud streamers bisect a sky that periwinkles into violet overhead, glazes the river into Prussian.

The powerful scenery washes over me.

Incites me.

Damn, I have a great idea how to incorporate Matt’s backstory into Treasure Bound without overkill. Yes!

My pace ratchets up a notch. The summit approaches, one last push and I thump over it. A flock of seagulls soars past, screeching their sing-song voices into the cold night. I begin singing in my head, “And I ra-a-an. I ran so far awa-a-ay. I just ra-a-an. I ran all night and da-a-ay. Couldn’t get away.”

Brain easily distracted. Love Flock of Seagulls. Anyway….

Darkness presses outside the buffer zone of lights. I nod once as I pass the walker, another woman on a mission on a solo night. Smile. Compatriots in a way. I run on, the end near. Glance below to my right. A lone dolphin pierces the water and races with me.

I have the buzz now. A fire breathes down my neck. Penetrates my brain.

It chases me all the way home.

I sit at my keyboard and begin to write.

Everybody needs a bridge.

—————————-

Outside

She stared through the window at the glowing-green grass bending in the strong wind. Watching. Waiting for something to happen. Caged in, though in a prison of her choosing. Caged away from what tightened her grip on the coffee mug she held. Sunlight sliced through the faux-wood blinds she had cracked open when she began her vigil in the early-morning hours. Just one set of blinds, the rest remained shut tight, blocking the view through the other picture windows that lined the back wall of her sunroom. The mid-morning ray struck her face as bright as if no pane of glass separated them. She looked past her reflection, past her translucent, stony eyes.

She stood unmoving for another ten minutes. Heavy clouds blew in from the east, casting her backyard into shadow, settling a dull filter over the winter day. Something moved, but all she saw were the darting birds that often kept her company. Streaks of cobalt and sapphire, a rushing flash of red, the rare burst of brilliant yellow. Even the dimmed daylight couldn’t diminish that fire of color.

Lifting the mug, she swallowed a bitter mouthful of lukewarm brew, drained the cup. Made a sour face. Her striped reflection frowned. She twisted the white wand that controlled the tilt of the slats, shutting off the outside world completely. Letting the wand bounce against the blinds with a rattle, she turned toward the kitchen, headed for the coffee machine. She walked no farther than the arched doorway that joined the two rooms before her cellphone jangled with a text. She cringed at the jarring sound that echoed once in the quiet space.

Slow steps brought her to the counter where her phone rested. Now silent. Harmless. As she ran her fingers over the smooth, dark, innocent glass screen, the cell dinged again and she recoiled. Her heart raced, and she struggled to steady her breathing.

She reached again for the phone. A quick stab at the home button woke the screen. Two messages. A shudder ripped through her body.

You know I don’t like when you close the blinds.

One hand flew to her chest. The other shook so badly, she almost dropped her phone.

Don’t do it again. Open them.

Tremors coursed through her body. The awful chime sounded again, and this time her traitorous fingers let the phone clatter onto the granite surface.

Now.

She turned, still shivering, walked to the bank of rear-facing windows. Slowly, she rotated the rods, one window after another.

—————————–

Today

How many times had he thought about strangling her? At least thirty, he guessed. At least once every day since their sixth anniversary.

He could do it so easily, too. She knew nothing about his stint in the Special Forces, his tour short but lethal. She didn’t know so many things about him. Would be horrified if she did.

John placed his tool bag on the pristine workbench inside his shed. Sunlight filtered through the solitary window. The scent of machine oil clung to the air, pleasant. It soothed, as did the hum of the fluorescent lights, the sight of row upon row of mechanic’s tools perfectly lined up like a company of soldiers.

The garage-sized building stood on a far corner of their property. Far enough from the yellow house that he wouldn’t hear Felicity’s harping voice unless she stood outside and called from the deck. The bright, ugly yellow house he hated, the fucking, finally painted deck. Things. Things she wanted. Not him. No longer him.

These days it was “Do you have to do that now?” and “Why can’t you clean up your mess?” and “I told you already. Would you just listen to me?” Now, the spark was dead. The flame smothered by disillusion and neglect. He didn’t care to listen any more. Her whining and constant neediness grated on him, felt like teeth peeling off layer after layer of skin.

He hadn’t expected it to come to this. They’d started out friends, felt the warmth change to heat. But the heat intensified, burned the soul, the desire out of him.

She changed, too. The glow wore off, the sheen dulled. Before it was “You’re the best man I’ve ever known, John,” and “Thank you, hon, for the wonderful things you do for me.” Days long gone.

One by one, he removed items from his kit and returned the tools to their proper places on the shelves, in the tool box. Nothing out of order. His place. His life. He had to get it back.

He clenched his hands into fists, then released. Again. Flex, relax. Stretched them wide, tightened them. Cracked his knuckles. First the left hand, then the right.

He turned to leave.

“Yes. Today’s the day.”

—————————–

Kayak

The bottle green Castine kayak sliced through the swell of Salt Run. Darkness enveloped her as she rowed through inches of low tide. The sound of the chop cloaked the dipping in-out of her paddles. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder, and the kayak rocked at her sudden twist.

Nothing but dark, empty water.

Wind crisscrossed over her, the current roughened, and she knew she neared the spot where the waters converged. The Matanzas River, Salt Run and the inlet intersected near the tip of the island, creating a mash-up of frothy currents. Paddling hard, she strained and the kayak responded, tracking cleanly through the churning waters. The tide had been with her when she’d paddled out from the lighthouse ramp, pushing as if assisting with the task she undertook. But rounding the north end of the island brought new worries. Fear.

Her tired limbs dragged as she rowed out of the waves, ducking around the docks that jutted into the river. She watched them as she passed, checking whether anyone loitered above. For a moment, she rested and let the river carry her. Inhaled deeply, breathed in the brackish scent, listened to the lapping waves. A crescent moon spilled light like mercury over the river. But for that, she’d be almost invisible. A speck of darkness floating on so much fluid black.

A look at her watch told her three a.m. had come and gone.

She pressed on, neared the Bridge of Lions. Lights shined along the posts crossing the river. The towers’ glowing windows speared the night sky with vertical shafts of light. A ragtop jeep rumbled across the span, its noisy muffler disrupting the quiet.

She passed beneath the bridge and looked up, counted the docks as she passed beneath their shadows, the lampposts of the surrounding mansions casting meager light. One, two … she eyed each as she passed until she found the right one. A small speedboat floated overhead in its boat lift. She slid quietly up to the piling and tied in. She swiveled to open her boat’s rear storage compartment. It sat within reach, but she struggled to lift the rubber lid, and the kayak pitched, nearly upending her. Stabilizing herself, she tried again, prying open the cover with shaking hands. Steadier after a few seconds passed, she retrieved her cargo. Small, heavy like a ballast stone. Way more dangerous.

She cradled the package, rotated it slowly, looked for the timer.

Pushing the buttons as she’d been directed, she saw red numbers begin to flash. She whipped her head around. No one else seemed near, as far as she could tell.

She focused on the device, the webbing that surrounded the watertight plastic cover. With hands shaking again, she reached around the piling and strapped the bomb to the pier below the low-tide waterline. Out of sight.

Done.

Deep breaths. After she removed the line tying her in, she paddled out. Looking back, the glow from the red numbers flickered, then faded as she rowed into the night.

—————————–

501

A body is buried at 501 Lakeshore Road. Walk a short way down the overgrown drive, and you’ll see the marker when you round the curve. It’s a crude thing, looks like a weathered slate from somebody’s walkway. Jim Henney’s initials are scratched into the worn surface. With a date: Febuary 29, 1976. Yeah, people often spell that incorrectly, but see it carved into a gravestone and that’s sad. For me, anyway.

My name’s Sam Gates. Sam, short for Samella, a family name. My byline says S Gates. No picture. Keeps folks guessing. My exposé column got picked up from the local paper and now reaches twenty-one states in syndication. Imagine that. Going from Podunk, Florida to nationwide in a few years. What does that tell you about people’s morbid curiosity? What does it say about my proclivities?

Back to Jim Henney.

Today is February 29, 2016. I drove thirty-two miles to 501. Now I’m idling beside a flowering azalea, listening to birds chatter through the windows, cackling up a racket. Sun rests heavy on my car. I kill the engine, and the interior warms quickly. Besides the birds, all I hear is the motor’s cooling tick. Not a soul, save me, graces the unkempt patch of land butting Creek’s Head Marsh.

Not a soul, save me, is willing to visit Jim Henney.

Whispered stories about the man followed me all my life. He’s legend where I’m from. He died young and he died hard. His exploits started it all; those stories ignited my interest in investigative reporting.

Forty years later, his grave calls me back.

His grave, and the anonymous email I’d received this morning.

I leave my car beside the ditch and tramp down the drive. Nasty vines had overtaken the land, and they snag my pants and sleeves. I’d remembered to cover up, despite the rising temps and humidity. Trees bow overhead, sunlight trickles through. I feel as though I’m walking inside a giant, glowing green bowl. The air smells fresh until a fetid breeze wafts from the marsh.

I find the marker. A ray of sun slashes across the slab. I pause in the clearing where the house had stood. Gone now, burned to its foundation. Only charred timbers lie junked beneath the encroaching brambles.

Again I inhale. The stench has blown away, leaving a remembered, woodsy smell. One of the few good things about this place.

Forty years. His grave’s still calling, but it’s not giving answers. I’ll find them, though. All the secrets, the lies. The cover-up. I’ll learn the truth behind those whispers, behind the averted eyes and closed faces.

Folks say Jim killed twenty-five locals with his tainted moonshine. The townspeople lynched him for it. On the day I was born.

I don’t believe their gossip. I have my reasons. Reasons I’ve collected half my life. Unfinished snippets I’ve learned from trustworthy sources. Not enough, but enough to keep me going. Someone else doesn’t believe the old stories either.

There’s more than one side to every tale. I’ll uncover the truth because it’s my job. And because I’m the one who can clear my brother’s name.

Even though I never knew him.

—————————–

Why Not

“I can’t believe you made me come over here to do this.” Her hand trembled.

A mug sat on the stained laminate table. The scent of coffee lingered in the air as it cooled, helped along by a chilly breeze that floated through the open kitchen door. Milky sunlight crept over the counter, spilled on the floor.

“A phone call would’ve been nice. After everything we were to each other.” Her eyes smarted, the burning tingle of rising tears. She struggled to swallow. “Do I mean so little to you? What we shared …. I can’t believe you don’t feel the same way. How could you not?”

His stony face watched her.

“Everything you said, everything you did. Were you just faking? The whole time?”

Silence heavier than a tombstone filled the air.

“It’s not like I didn’t try to make things work between us.”

She paced. Back, forth. Her eyes never left him. One hand clenched into a fist. Releasing it, she inhaled, held her breath a moment, then tried again.

“You know, there’s a new Adele song they keep playing. Have you heard it?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “There’s a line ‘I must have called a thousand times.’ That’s exactly what I did.” Her voice rose as she continued. “But you never answered, just like he didn’t. You never picked up.” She turned to him as she yelled, “Why not? Damn it, why the hell didn’t you ever pick up the phone?”

Expressionless eyes followed her. Again no reply. She moved toward him, fire burning in her eyes. She slipped on the slick floor, slid through a slimy puddle, but that didn’t stop her. Her hand swung in a wide arc, made abrupt, satisfying contact.

Still he didn’t utter a sound.

She retreated and resumed pacing, anger dissipating. The sound of a soft drip carried through the air, but she took no notice. No other sound broke the quiet. Even the refrigerator didn’t hum.

“This is getting us nowhere.”

Julia turned to face David, left fist settled on her hip. Her right hand gripped the chef’s knife she’d pulled from his butcher block. David’s blood seeped onto the floor and mingled with the puddle widening beneath his chair. No response would come from him now.

“I can’t believe you made me do this.” Julia shook her head. “You should’ve answered.”

All works ©2016-2019 Carolyn Greeley