“And what about you?” George scurrying for boots and a coat - Melody tossing him a cap with muffs, a sheepskin affair that makes him look as young as he feels. “What pleasantries await you this evening? Is Christmas Eve a night of tradition at your mom’s? maybe goodies she always bakes? special gifts? stuffed red stockings dangling like loaded questions from the mantle?”
“You’ve got the picture,” she laughs, donning her gloves to wipe a circle of frost from a front door pane, “and so does Mr. Buck,” she adds cheerily, acknowledging him through the glass. “Looks as though he’s put more hay on your side than mine. Must think you Boston boys get cold feet when sitting next to country girls.”
“And how do you know it’s my side?” George opening his door to the earthy scent of a horse, Mr. Buck’s Morgan standing as proud as his bloodline of two hundred years.
“Because a lady’s side is always the nearer one; or don’t Boston boys practice gallantry?”
“Boston?” Mr. Buck calls out with alarm. “Train station, maybe…but Boston?”
“You tell her, Mr. Buck,” George mutters, giving Melody a hand to help her up, “thinks she’s one up on me just because-“
“One on the way, did you say?” the old farmer interrupts, cupping his ear at George, “but of course. It’s the only reason I let her hire me. The way I seen it, you wouldn’t be tryin’ any of your funny stuff while Mrs. Morrison’s with child,” he huffs. “I’ve heard the talk, ya know; stories ‘bout your-“
“Now, now, Mr. Buck,” Melody scolds, her chill-reddened cheeks merry in the frame of a fur-lined cap, her twinkling blue eyes anything but reproving.
“At least I’m worth a laugh,” George grumbles, trekking round the sleigh to clamber up beside her.
“And what was that supposed to mean, George O’Malley?” Melody offering him help with the hay-mussed blanket.
“Mr. Buck’s reference to my ‘funny stuff’.”
“Oh,” she says with relief, “…that!”
“I didn’t mean anything,” he banters, happy just for the excuse of her nearness. “The old farmer said it, not me. But now that it’s said, what are my options?”
“How does Poor Art’s strike your fancy?” she asks, Mr. Buck reining his Morgan in the general direction of the village.
“Tickles it…though it appears Mr. Buck’s making the choice without us,” George intrigued by his visible breath in the frigid air, “…but whatever our destination, it won’t be Poor Art’s.”
“That’s right!” Melody chimes, smiling at his fascination with winter’s effects. “I keep forgetting, Simon Says is somehow out of character with my memories of the place.”
“You mean your memories of…of its former proprietor, don’t you?” George pausing in awe of a snow-laden spruce, its evergreen arms stretching out as though embracing the past, the bygone era of a horse-drawn sleigh enchanting the thought. “But why visit the store on Christmas Eve? A last minute gift?”
“Perhaps; if your referring to Thelma’s regard for Simon,” she titters girlishly. “But, no. Thelma’s hosting a surprise party for Simon, a grand opening, merry Christmas, one-month-of-marriage celebration, all-in-one. I thought us duty-bound to attend. Hiring Mr. Buck is my gift. He can give rides to the children while their parents socialize.”
“I thought…I assumed we-”
“We were going elsewhere?”
“Milk and cookies?” George managing a smile, masking his expectations, his mistaken belief the sleigh was a Christmas card, a reaching back to a time untainted, a heart untaken.
“Milk and cookies, as promised; and a treat for Mr. Buck - provided you keep rum in your cabinet. You don’t mind, do you? Your place is on his way home, so why not?” she adds, explaining how her ‘gift’ includes him. A matter of convenience. The proper thing to do: Morrison & O’Malley arriving together as the partners they’re soon to be.
“Sure, why not?” George muttering in a glacial tone as they enter the village, its snow-shoveled walks appearing as rips in his gift-packaged night; the gold-glistened lawns under candle-lit windows, as smears on his oil-painted dream; the night-mellowed sound of frost-wreathed carolers, a needle deep-scratching his heart. “Why not?” he repeats, “…why not?”
But once inside, the warmth of Artie’s wood burning stove, the cheer of punch happy chatter, the heart healing balm of belonging, of being part of something other than one’s self, quickly repairs the damage, the ribbon of hope tying him round like the gift he’d imagined. Simon’s suggestion of ‘spiking nogs’ over the old wood stove taking him back to when he’d hurried into the store to find Melody the gift of a book; only to discover Artie on the floor by this same wood stove. Perhaps he should complete that quest, he thinks, accepting Simon’s trembling toast - Plainfield’s newest entrepreneur off to a shaky start, his palsied patter, after the party’s punch, turning the long spike of his eggnog into the proverbial nail in his coffin - Simon dropping to the floor in a sprawl reminiscent of Artie.
“Damn!” George exclaims, looking for a place to set his drink, “what stories this stove would tell if only we understood crackle!”
“Cackle’s more like it,” interjects a rangy, young stranger, relieving George of his glass. “Does the man always drink like that? I’ve been watching him since I arrived…fellow drinks like a fish. Do you think he’s all right?”
“Until he comes to,” George eyeing the tall stranger suspiciously. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he says, offering his hand.
“Just up from Boston,” the young fellow parries, ignoring the offered hand, the press of locals gathering to gawk cutting short the exchange - George’s call for a pitcher of water scaring back the more audacious; the splash on Simon’s shock-puckered face scaring him back to the party…Simon’s bloodcurdling scream of “Th-elll-maaa!” scaring her back to his side. And Melody, too, George unaware of her polling the guests for the stranger’s identity.
“It’s that old demon Rum,” Melody shaking her head in an effort to appear disapproving, “give him half a chance and he’ll lay you out cold.”
“You mean half a gallon, don’t you?” George suggests, perceiving by her whimsical tone that disapprobation is merely pretended. “That young man…” he continues, glancing round for the stranger, “…well, I don’t see him now; but he told me he’d been observing Simon, making note of his predilection for firewater-“
“Yes, but no one knows who he is,” she interposes, moving aside so Reverand Rolundo can help with Simon’s resurrection, “…it’s a mystery-”
“Have faith, young lady,” Reverand Rolundo admonishes, stooping over the unconscious Simon as if to decide which spirit to conjure. “Our Lord tells us that where two or three or gathered together in His name-“
“Mr. Farley would still be with us if he’d kept it to two or three,” a nasal voice whines, the unknown Bostonian reappearing from beyond the ring of ogling guests, “but it’s not to be. For Simon Farley, it has always been wine, women and song; the only variable in his dissolute life being which one of the three held dominion over the iniquitous moment.”
“You are badly mistaken,” Reverend Rolundo barks preachily, protecting his most pregnable parishioner, “and it’s Far-LAY, not FAR-ly,” he corrects, “your mispronunciation proving your ignorance of our dearly departed, even had you not miscalled his character. But that you might believe, I shall give you proof,” the minister extending his hands as if to fend off Simon’s rush from confinement. “Lazarus, come forth!” he bellows, his hands outstretched as he whirls to lay them on Thelma. “Loose him and let him go!” he commands – only an irate Mrs. Rolundo and a worried Helen the organist surmising correctly: if anything’s loose it’s the minister’s tongue.
“Simon ain’t Lazarus, and you ain’t Christ,” a smoldering Thelma snarls. “My hubby just didn’t appreciate the power of my punch, that’s all – which is more than a certain little woman here can
say about you!” her tyrannical tone just the antidote Simon needs, the inebriate celebrant staggering to his feet to assume the pose of recitation, his slurred attempt raising general alarm:
Ssh-give it to me ssh-traight
Whish-pered Helen,
Or don’t ssh-give it…a-tall.
Amen.
Ssh-give it to me hard
Ssh-poke up Helen-
Thelma quelling the swelling murmur with a slap on her husband’s back, the force of her blow – and of Simon’s verse – sending Simon and the reverend to their knees.
“That’s proof enough for me,” cracks the stranger, a twitching smile contorting his face, his darting dark eyes giving Melody a haunting impression, a memory too hazy for reflection, “only the proof’s in the punch, not the parson…and I reckon it’s 90 at least!” this last observation bringing Melody’s phantom into view, a muffled cry alerting George to her need of his arm:
“Cookies and milk?” she mutters, “is Mr. Buck still ready at the door?”
“I doubt he’s had time to leave,” George replies, “but I’ll check.”
“No…no…no,” she says in soft but determined syllables, “I’ll go with you…just…just keep your arm-“
“Melody?” George calling her name in dismay, “are you…?”
“I think so,” she answers piteously, accepting his help to the door. “I’m afraid the cookies and milk will have to wait. Another little treat’s trying to interpose.” Melody puns in an effort to hide her pain. “But with the roads like they are, Mr. Buck and his Morgan are a safer bet than a nervous driver behind the uncertain wheel of a car; and as luck would have it,” she adds, seeing Mr. Buck still in place-
“Call it luck, if you will,” George breaks in, his strong and willing arms carrying her to the sleigh, “but I call it Christmas. What better time to deliver-”
“Deliver me to the hospital!” Melody cries, instructing the ever-vigilant Mr. Buck; the old man snapping his Morgan to a brisk trot as he shouts back his plan:
“We’ll follow the river a ways,” he barks, “follow the lower Winooski trail, then cut back ‘cross the fallow fields. Have ya there ‘fore a motorcar can navigate the snow-bound roads,” he promises, calling crisply to his horse as though the Morgan can second his pledge.
“Did Mother-?”
“She did,” George whispers, his arm comforting, his shoulder assuring, “she’s coming with Mrs. Rolundo. I saw them tracking through the snow for the reverend’s car as we passed under the streetlamp.”
“Not the reverend!” she wails, wincing from another pang, “Mother shouldn’t be riding with a man whose vision is distorted by some two thousand years. I think the old winebibber actually thought he was Christ before the tomb of Lazarus!”
“Not to worry,” George’s well-intentioned squeeze causing another wince, “he wasn’t with them. The last I saw of the rev, he was on his knees before the soot-covered stove, whimpering like a child left out in the dark.”
“Oh…good,” she manages, “…good,” her contractions occurring with more frequency, thieving her attention – George, too, momentarily distracted: the river valley, just hours before so opalescent in the turquoise dusk, now fairy-wing pale under the silver moon; the numinous night, the tinkle of bells, making sacred the nearness of Melody; his lofty imaginings poetic, his hopeful heart entreating the stars, his belief that his reach can exceed his grasp earning him a glimpse of heaven, of ultimate peace, of the very ideal he yearns to attain – Melody’s moans calling him back to the moment, to the urgency of mortal dilemma:
“It’s coming!” she cries with alarm, “the baby’s coming!” her keen cry alerting Mr. Buck to reign his Morgan to a snorting halt along the frozen river’s bank, decades of hay-manger deliveries affording the old farmer a needed confidence - the cover of snow, the crisis of birth, precluding any awareness he may have otherwise had that he had stopped under the same silver maple where Melvin Morrison died.
The year 2000
The present contains nothing more than the past. And what is
found in the effect was already in the cause. (Henri Bergson)
XXVII
As I said once before, I’ve never given the art of augury much attention, believing such things as psychic readings, tarot cards and palmistry to be just another form of entertainment. But as such, it seemed a clever idea to hire a renowned Boston hypnotist to provide the entertainment at my New Year’s Eve party. And for a number of reasons; among them, that the eve of the year 2000 was momentous, the beginning of the third Christian Millennium; another, that it would be my last party in the apartment I share with my stepbrother, George, Jr. (alias Little George), and my last party as a bachelor (my pending marriage but a month away); and lastly, that I’d just finished reading The Search for Bridey Murphy, a book I found among my mother’s eclectic collections, the frayed hardback infecting me with a mild curiosity of hypnosis. The book presented, as factual, a modern day American woman recalling, under hypnosis, her past life as an indigent girl in Ireland. Recounting it convincingly, too, with a proper Irish accent; although the lady had never visited Ireland, nor had friends of Irish descent.
The book intrigued me, reviving my never-too-reticent inquiries into how I, a black baby, could be born of a white mother and father, my mom’s well documented and hopeful research into her own and my assumed father’s genealogy revealing not a clue to the mystery - though my stepfather George has long suggested a mistake was likely made by a defunct Boston sperm bank. According to George’s theory, my deceased father, together with his inimitable foresight in providing for my well-being, provided for my being, as well. And though my mother eventually supported George’s postulate, I’ve always rejected it as preposterous, believing it far more likely Mother was seduced (in a drunken state, of course - probably the reason she seldom imbibes) by the man who gave her the monstrous diamond I once embarrassed her with as a child.
Ironically, my childish prank occurred at yet another New Year’s eve party - Mother’s guests including the diamond giver - during which I discovered the delights of her jewelry case. And being under five years of age, it seemed the right thing to do at the time: masquerade as a little girl and traipse in front of her guests behind a pendulous, three carat diamond. What I remember most is how it perturbed my soon-to-be stepfather, George; and prompted the diamond giver to leave the party. But I’m straying from more current events, recounting my New Year’s Eve celebration.
The Boston hypnotist (I’ll call him Dr. X) arrives early, and in a state of hysteria – the very moniker he gives Vermont. Apparently, Dr. X has a preconception of Plainfield as a quaint little village with an innkeeper in desperate need of guests, said need epitomizing the lack of regard the good doctor tenders my state. So, when he learns there’s no room at the inn, he panics. I don’t, securing him a bedroom en suite with the Comptons, the parents of my fiancée Dorothy. It’s an arrangement I’m soon to regret, Dot.Com (my fiancée’s nickname) blaming me for all the spooks the spellbinding doctor unearths; Dot.Com, according to Dr. X, “The spunkiest spook of ‘em all”. And if it weren’t for my sister Pamela’s support, and that of my stepbrother Little George, Dot.Com would probably dis-engage me, Little George (who is actually 6’4” and older than me by two months) saving the day by suggesting Dot.Com’s collaboration with me on a book, noting the fame she’s sure to garner. Fortunately, she believes him; for, if there’s anything at which Little George excels, it’s books, his encyclopedic mind filing away everything he reads.
My party is at once a successful soiree and a social snafu: the subject of Plainfield gossip, Godhard lectures, Montpelier coffee-houses, and even a free weekly newspaper or two – one of which eventually gets into the hands of a young Appalachian revivalist making a name for herself over the airways; my party, in her fundamentalist’s jargon, hosting the minions of hell with Dr. X playing Belial. (More on that later.)
Dr. X strikes a
vein – my jugular, it seems – regressing me to a life fraught with ruinous connections to my guests. My journey begins, innocently enough, with my offer to be the the doctor’s first subject. If the host can be hypnotized for his guests’ amusement, I venture, they’ll be obliged to follow my lead. But despite my best intentions, I steal the show, providing my friends such hair-raising, mind-boggling entertainment that the old year passes and the new one arrives without the faintest flick of an eyebrow, my audience sitting as solidly about the doctor and me as the megaliths on Salisbury Plain – some of them turning just as gray from my startling revelations.
Stretched out on an old sofa my folks had salvaged from the attic over their Plainfield law office (Mother swears it had been my father’s), I’m already unwittingly in the past, the doctor taking up his mesmeric ritual where my father once practiced his, the old sofa resuming its role as an altar to dark skills and thrills.
“Breath deeply,” Dr. X instructs, his pipe tobacco voice a smoky singsong, “ten deep breaths, then close your eyes. Relax…relax,” his cherry scented breath corralling my focus. “Relax and let go, as I count backward from ten to one…count down till you’re totally calm…completely at peace when we reach number one…relax…feel the tension leaving your body…a soothing flow of warmth, of peace, bathing your lower extremities…your toes, your feet, as I start my count at ten…warmth, peace, moving up your ankles, your calves, spreading gently over your shins, as I count to nine…spreading…relaxing…gentle, soothing warmth moving up your thighs…your pelvis, as I count to eight….”
The numeral eight the last word I consciously remember (the rest ‘remembered’ on the doctor’s tape recorder), the word ‘pelvis’ sending me into a mental spin, into a memory locked deep in my tenebrous past, the numeral ‘eight’ playing the key and Doctor X the hand that turns it-
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