THE DRUM
In the shadows of the sacred birch grove, he held the tiny drum he had made of fox hide stretched thin over three sticks he had tied together with vine. While walking through the fields he had picked up the leg bone of a decaying deer. Softly he laid bone against skin. At first it was only a vibration. But as he struck it harder and harder each time, and with each subsequent meeting of bone and skin, the vibration became a faint thud, forming a pattern, and soon he was beating out a rhythm. It was hypnotic. As he played he looked around to make sure he was alone. The village Rainmaker would not like this new invention. He would take it and make it his own, or else burn it in the fire.
He lay back on the cool ground and looked up through the trees at the sky. As he continued to beat the drum, he remembered the faint palpitations he had heard inside his lover’s body as they lay together at the edge of the village, hidden in the wild flowers and grain that grew as long as the stone-tipped spears they used to hunt the mammoth. He pressed his head against her chest and listened to the blood as it swooshed through the valves like wind in the trees.
At first he thought the sound was coming from the moon. All his life he had heard from the elders about the song the moon sings when lovers meet in secret. And how sometimes, as punishment for their sins, they are transformed into the shadows they cast as their bodies fuse into one, and vanish as if a great bird had swooped down in the dark and carried them away.
The sun was disappearing in the west, the day leaving a golden aftermath in the clouds. The forest was dark. He pounded the drum. Louder and louder, the dull thumps echoed through the trees like thunder, as if the spirit of the fox and deer had been awakened from the afterlife. He beat the drum so hard the skin began to tear. He watched the sky. On the last beat, before the skin gave way, he realized that she was not coming back.
He put down the bone. His shadow lay in the grass. It was the same shadow he had always cast.
THE LAST TIME
It was raining and they sat on her bed listening as it fell through the trees. The lights were off, and the room was lit by the flicker of a black and white movie that was turned down low so they could listen to the rain. Andrew came over after school to skate the ramp, but when it started thundering they went inside. This is a scene that would be played over and over again, as if the linear narrative of his life had been damaged by a glitch in the mechanism of time and reality, the effect being a continuous loop of those few moments that otherwise would be lost in the immensity of their lives.
The window was open and the fecund, manure-like smell of the wet spring grass was strong in the wind and it wafted through the anticipatory trees that bulged into tiny blossoms on the verge of bursting into green. Her hair, straight and shoulder-length, was soft, its color a mixture of browns, reds and a tiny trace of blonde leftover from childhood. It was almost the allusive hue of a sunset-stained sky, a color that never occurs twice.
They had stolen a pint of her mother’s peach Schnapps from the kitchen cabinet, and they lay there, taking tiny swigs.
“You like my hair a lot.”
“It is pretty,” he said, stroking it.
“You have such small hands,” she said. “The hands of a poet, or a sculptor.”
“Maybe.”
“When you’re famous make sure you dedicate a poem to me.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Will you make a statue of me? Put me into flowing robes like a Greek goddess?”
“Yeah, I will.”
She got up and looked in the full-length mirror.
“If you do, I want you to make me look like I do now. Can you remember? Just as I am this moment. Not how I will look then, however many years it is from now. I dread getting old. All I have are my looks.”
“That’s not true.”
“Promise you will. Look at me. Remember.”
“I promise.”
There were lots of days like this, that first year, which would later prove to be the last year of their childhood. And though nothing particularly extraordinary happened, those few months of spring of that year when they were still kids, protected by the whitewash of innocence from the inevitable vulgarities that would soon reveal themselves, they could sense a change. It was the end of the 80’s, the decade of their childhood. There was no going back. This was the final breath before diving into the deep abyss of maturity, those years when their gullibility would give way to vigilance, their sincerity transformed by experience into suspicion, and the simplicity of imagination in the end surrendering to the cold complications of mathematics.
GHOSTS
“Remember this?” I asked, and handed her a picture of us. It was the last picture we had taken together. We were standing in a field of daisies, and the late, April sky was swirling with the debris of a thunderstorm. The grass was so green against the almost black shards of broken clouds that still hung amid the blue sky, that it looked like a painting, or some world that was never real, a place that only existed because we had been there, and when we left it had disappeared. There were lots of places like that. They were only real because we wanted them to be real. As we stood there, captured forever, the sun broke through, and the intensity of its light was so bright that its rays looked like falling angels, and we squinted at the moment the shutter clicked.
“I didn’t know there were any pictures left,” she said.
“Remember when every smile was real because we were happy and it was real happiness and we knew it so we could not help but smile? When everything we did was real?” I asked.
“I don’t really remember much of the past,” she said. “But we did look happy. We must have been happy.”
“That’s the day we took a picture of a ghost,” I said. And it really was a ghost, a woman in a white dress, posing it seemed, for a wedding photo a century too late, sitting patiently, waiting for someone who has been dead for a hundred years. We had gone on a hike that afternoon and ended up in the flower gardens of a nearby Antebellum mansion that had been turned into a museum. As we walked around the gardens, Leigh sat down beside a fountain, and I snapped a picture of her. We did not see any woman out there that day, but she showed up in the pictures. There were many things that we did not see, or chose to ignore, that showed up later, long after it was too late. That summer was the last good summer. Now there are more ghosts and pictures of ghosts than we ever could have imagined.
DEE ERNST
Dee Ernst is the author of the romantic comedies Better Off Without Him, A Different Kind of Forever, and the recently released, A Slight Change of Plan. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband.
ABIGAIL
She was, he had no doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Jen was trying to talk to him, and he turned towards her, but she seemed nothing more than a pale shadow in the light of this new star.
“Peter!”
He grabbed Jen’s hand. His wife, her hair flat and pasted across her forehead, face white and drawn. He kissed her dry lips.
“Jen, everything is fine. Right?”
The woman nodded. What had her nametag said? Julie? “Perfect.”
Yes. That was the word. She was perfect.
Dr. Brody was saying something, but Peter’s eyes were drawn away. What was she doing over there? He strained for the sound of her voice. What was that? A whisper? Was she crying?
“I love you, Jen,” Peter murmured in his wife’s ear.
She smiled. “Me too. We did good, didn’t we?”
He nodded, still watching, waiting for a glimpse of her. He’d caught a flash of one dark curl, a rosebud mouth.
He let go of Jen’s hand and moved slowly across the room, unable to stop as one foot went ahead of the other. He peered around Julie.
“Oh, my,” he breathed.
He gazed at one exquisite ear, shell pink and gleaming. Up-turned nose. The bluest eyes he had ever looked into. And where did those eyelashes come from? My God, he thought. Women
paid a fortune for eyelashes that long.
Peter heard Jen straining, and he glanced back. Brody and Jen were staring at each other, some sort of unspoken current moving back and forth as his wife grimaced, then fell back, done.
He reached for her hand, and her grip was surprisingly strong, and the look she gave him was long and full of wisdom and truth. You are mine, the look said. We are forever. What happens between you and your wife will never touch us.
Peter nodded to himself.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Peter?” Jen called.
He barely heard, because she was reaching for him, and she slipped into his arms, head nestled against his shoulder as though it had always belonged.
“Peter?”
But he was beyond hearing. All he knew lay in his arms, lips slightly open, eyes wide and trusting.
“And do we know who she is?” Julie asked.
“Tyler,” Jen said.
“No,” Peter said gently. “Not Tyler. Abigail.” He looked at Jen. “It means ‘a father’s joy’.”
And his daughter began to cry.
AMAZING
“Wow, that was amazing!”
“You always say that. Even when it’s not.”
“When isn’t sex with me amazing?”
She propped herself up on one elbow. “I realize,” she said, “that, for a man, there is no such thing as bad sex.”
“You’re right.”
“But women, in case you haven’t noticed, are different.”
“I noticed. But let’s get back to the main point. Sex with me isn’t amazing?”
Annabeth laughed and stretched out on the bed.
In truth, she felt wonderful. If she had been a cat, she’d be purring. Poor Jordan—always a bit insecure. Just the way she liked it.
She thought. About their first time together. They’d both been a bit drunk. She had been a bit unsure, but flattered by his persistence, his obvious infatuation. They’d been to a club, with four or five others. She hadn’t planned on saying yes. She was just along for the ride. Just another hook-up.
The sex had been good. And afterwards, he had not suggested she leave. In fact, he invited her to stay the whole night. It had been cold and it was late, so she rolled over and slept. In the morning he’d bought bagels. And then, the next day, he called her.
She had not expected it. She had learned to never expect it. The men she knew were not into relationships. They didn’t even use the word ‘dating’. She would joke, “Another drive by,” and all her girlfriends would understand.
They still hung out together with the same group of people. But often they would see a movie together, just the two of them. She had cooked him dinner a few times.
Things were changing.
Annabeth rolled out of bed and grabbed the robe that hung on a hook by the closet. He was the only man she knew who had a robe. But then again, he was the only man she’d been around long enough to even notice if he had a robe or not.
She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, washing out her mouth and spitting into the sink, then finishing the glass in long, steady gulps. His kitchen was neat, even if the rest of the apartment was messy, overflowing with books and magazines and newspapers. Who ever read a newspaper any more?
“You’re a Renaissance man,” she said as she crawled back into bed.
“How so?”
“You still read a real newspaper.”
“That’s not the actual definition of a Renaissance man, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. Okay, then, you’re a 20th century man.”
He laughed and kissed her. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Which was?”
“Amazing sex.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. Had his eyes always been that blue? Something tightened in her chest, unlike anything she had felt before.
”Everything about you is amazing,” she said softly.
He smiled. It was all that he had ever wanted to hear.
ANNIVERSARY
“Is it Tuesday already?”
“No, Dad. But I thought you might like extra company today.”
I lean over to kiss his cheek.
He folds his hands. “Would have been seventy years.”
“I know. I can’t even imagine.”
“She was quite a looker, your mother.”
“Yes, she was. Too bad I look like you, Dad!”
He chuckles. “Sorry about that, I really am.”
“How are you feeling? Is your leg better?”
He waves his hand. “No. Why should it be better? I’m ninety-four. I can’t believe I’m still alive. Do you really think I’m going to start feeling better?”
“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable, Dad.”
“I know. What’s this? Oh, where did you find this?”
“In a bunch of old papers. We’re finally clearing out the attic.”
“My letters! She kept my letters. ‘Course, look at all those blackouts. Did they really think I was giving away national secrets to my girlfriend? I never knew what we were going to do next. I was just a sergeant, you know.”
“I know. But she worried, Dad. Of course she kept them. She didn’t know if she’d ever see you again.”
“The war did crazy things to all of us, I guess. I sometimes wonder if we’d even fallen in love if not for the war.”
“What do you mean, Dad? You two were so perfect for each other.”
He looks away from me. “I wasn’t her first, you know. She was crazy about my cousin, Jimmy. Jimmy was a wild one. He flew. Joined the RAF. Got shot down in the first days over France. That was a tough one.”
“I never knew that, Dad.”
“Yeah. That was a real loss, Jimmy. That’s when she started writing to me. We’d known each other before then, of course. Used to run in the same crowd.”
“Yes. But in those pictures, she was always with you.”
“Because after Jimmy was killed, she burned all his pictures. That’s how much he meant to her, you see?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “She sure loved you. She used to say that only her and I could have made such an amazing kid.”
“That’s right, Dad.”
He nods, and there are tears. “Seventy years. That’s a long time to love someone.”
I take the letters from his hands. The paper feels fragile and dry. My mother’s writing is graceful, faded. I put them back in my purse.
“Should I get us some tea?”
“Jimmy was really something,” he says sadly. “Seventy years.”
I nod, and get up to find the tea.
JONATHAN
She was in tears when I sat down.
“What?”
“I slept with Jonathan. And it was great,” she said, sniffing and wiping her face.
“Okay…then why are you crying?”
“It was Saturday night. And he hasn’t called me since.” She started sobbing. “It’s been three days!”
“Oh, Becca.” I reached over and grabbed her hand. “Baby, don’t cry.”
“B-b-but I love him!”
I squeezed her hand. “You don’t even know him. And he’s obviously not good enough for you.”
“He’s perfect, Sara.” She sniffed again. “You just don’t know him.”
“I know that he slept with my best friend and then walked away. He’s just another shithole.”
She shook her head hard. “No. He’s not. I just don’t know why he would do this, you know? He’s always been so caring.”
“Becca, remember Will? And Drew? Let’s face it, you have crappy taste in men.”
Her shoulders slumped. “But Jonathan seemed different.”
“What about when he left you at that club and I had to come and get you?”
“But Sara, he explained that.”
“Right. So how about your birthday?”
“We’d
only known each other a few weeks. I’m not even sure he knew it was my birthday.”
“Becca, he knew. And he didn’t even get you a card.”
“You’re right. You’re always right.”
“Yes. So stop crying. He’s not worth it.”
She wiped her eyes. “No, he’s not. And we really aren’t that compatible. Did I tell you he likes the Yankees?”
“No!”
“And that crappy music he listens to? And all his weird friends?
“Poor baby. But better to find out sooner than later what a loser he is, right?”
“Yes. He is a loser. He doesn’t even have a real apartment! Oh, Sara, thank you. You always know the right things to say.”
“So, maybe now you’ll let me fix you up with Mike from my office?”
“Maybe. Yeah, I guess. Wait…” She reached for her phone. “This is him.”
“Don’t answer.”
But it was too late. She grabbed for the phone and held it to her ear. “Jonathan?”
Her face changed slowly, brightened. She ducked her head and I could hear her giggle. Then, she grinned, said ‘yes’, and hung up.
“Well?” I asked.
“He was on a business trip,” she said. “He wants to see me tonight.”
“But Becca, we just decided he was a total loser!”
“I know, Sara. But I love him.”
Oh, Becca.
LOVERAP
Know your self,
First.
Know your own voice.
Look around—
Hard.
Make the right choice.
Is she fine? Smart?
Does she have her own style?
Does she make her own path?
One Page Love Story- Share the Love Page 3