by Steve Cash
In the years since I’d been gone the honeysuckle, forsythia, and wisteria bushes had grown much taller and thicker. Everything inside the “Honeycircle” was completely hidden from view, but I could hear a woman singing an old Cole Porter song slightly off-key. I walked through the opening. She was kneeling in a small vegetable garden with her back to me, collecting a few puny tomatoes still left on the vines. She wore green slacks and a long plaid shirt with a sweater wrapped around her waist. She had her hair piled up and under a faded red baseball cap. I stayed silent and watched her work. Ten or fifteen seconds passed. Suddenly she stopped singing. She seemed suspended, frozen like a statue holding the tomato she’d just picked. In a soft, distant voice, and without turning around, she said, “It’s you, isn’t it, Z?”
Nicholas and Owen had said it time and time again, and they were right — she was remarkable. I smiled to myself and waited another heartbeat. “Those tomatoes,” I said, “I think they might be a lost cause.”
Carolina dropped her arm and let the tomato fall away. She was on her knees, but she turned slowly in a half circle until our eyes met. Hers were wet with tears. She shook her head back and forth once, then picked up the tomato and threw it at me. I caught it easily in one hand. “I think you are the lost cause, Z!” She wiped the tears from her eyes and shook her head again. “Why did I not hear from you, not once, not one word, during the entire war? I worried constantly about you, Z. There was no way to know if you were alive or dead.”
“It was difficult to correspond from Japan.”
“Japan? What? Is that a joke, Z?”
“No.”
Her face was lined and creased from seventy-five years, yet beautiful, and inside her blue-gray eyes I could still see tiny flecks of gold. She took off her baseball cap and let her hair fall free. It was silver and just past shoulder length. Our eyes remained locked on each other. “My God, Z,” she said. “How … how did you …”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Come here, Z. Come over here now.”
She stayed on her knees and opened her arms. I walked the few steps between us and we embraced for several moments, never saying a word. If someone had been watching, they might have thought they were seeing a poignant reunion between a boy and his grandmother, or great-grandmother. It was anything but that. “You cannot do this to me again,” she whispered. “I am too old, Z. Please, tell me you will be here for … for at least a while. If Opari calls, then I will understand.”
“Has she?”
“No, I haven’t heard from her.”
“Have you heard anything from any of us?”
“Not a word, not even from Ray.”
“Well, that’s understandable. You know Ray.”
Carolina smiled. “Yes, I know Ray,” she said, then paused. “Z … will you stay?”
I smiled back. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Now, tell me about the current state of the Cardinals pitching staff.”
She laughed and I laughed with her. I grabbed the basket of puny red tomatoes and Carolina stood up, then we walked out of the “Honeycircle” and toward the big house. It was October 7, 1945. The sun was just setting over St. Louis. “What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Whatever you want,” she said.
I had been anxious to meet Antoinette, but she was nowhere to be seen. As Carolina and Mercy were preparing dinner, Jack asked about her absence. Carolina said Antoinette had entered Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and wouldn’t be back to St. Louis until Christmas. A childhood girlfriend from Marseille was enrolled there and Antoinette wanted to be near her friend. She said it would be like old times, when they studied and played together before the war. As it turned out, Antoinette’s absence allowed Carolina and me to spend hours and hours alone together, something we had not done in years. Everyone else was busy. Within days after arriving, Jack left for Washington, D.C., and elsewhere, promising Carolina he would be home for Christmas. Mitch was starting another new business downtown, and Mercy painted obsessively in her studio, which was really a converted bedroom in the carriage house. Every day, even as the temperature began to drop, Carolina and I went for endless wandering walks through and around Forest Park. She had arthritis in her hips and knees, yet she never complained or mentioned it. Once, on a cold and windy afternoon in late November, we were walking along one of our familiar trails. Suddenly, with silver hair flying and a heavy shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders, Carolina started running, laughing, and kicking wildly, scattering a pile of golden leaves in every direction. “Come on, Z,” she yelled back. “Let’s kick the leaves while we can!”
In the following days, I adopted the general look and attitude of a post-war American kid. It was easy. The look, which I liked, was simple — white T-shirt and blue jeans — and the attitude of the American twelve-year-old seemed to never change.
I silently hoped I would hear from one of the Meq, especially Opari. It didn’t happen, although I did dream about her on five consecutive nights. They were all vivid dreams in faraway places, places I had never seen. Opari knew all the paths, trails, springs, valleys, caves, and beaches. In one of the dreams, under a broad bright night sky, she pointed out the stars and configurations of several new constellations. We held hands and whispered together, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees. Dreaming about Opari was one thing, but I also knew I could not let thoughts of her into my life on a daily basis. In my heart of hearts, I believed she was safe and would return to me eventually. The Itxaron, the Wait, deepens with the passing of time, and longing for your Ameq only makes it worse. Geaxi once told me there is an actual physical condition, a kind of paralyzing psychic ache, which the Meq can develop from excessive longing. The Wait is also a very real weight for the Meq, and it becomes heavier and heavier until we cross in the Zeharkatu. Above all, Opari and I were aware we must be present at the Remembering, wherever it was, and we must be there with our Stones. There was no option. Until that time, the Wait would continue.
Antoinette was expected to arrive by train on December 20. Carolina wanted to meet her at Union Station. She also wanted to wait for Antoinette before purchasing and decorating a Christmas tree. On the morning of the nineteenth, the temperature dropped rapidly and a cold front moved through St. Louis, bringing with it an inch or two of light snow. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to change Carolina’s mind about waiting to put up a Christmas tree. By midafternoon, Mitch and Mercy had found a suitably sized tree and by sunset the tree was decorated and lit with multicolored lights strung among the branches from top to bottom. After dinner, Carolina asked Mitch to turn on the phonograph and play some music, but not Christmas music. She said she wanted to dance and suggested a nice waltz by Strauss. Mitch picked out a few records and turned up the volume. Carolina looked at me. She removed her shoes so she could be closer to my height, then extended her hand for me to take. “I assume you know how to waltz, Z.”
I had never waltzed in my life, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Of course,” I said, and before I knew what was happening, we were gliding and spinning in wide circles around the big living room. Mitch and Mercy joined us, laughing loudly at my awkward attempts to be graceful. Carolina and I started laughing along with them. We were all dizzy with dancing and music and Christmas lights.
Then I saw her. She was standing ten feet from the Christmas tree staring at me with her mouth open. She wore a big Navy pea jacket with the collar turned up, dark slacks, a plaid muffler wrapped around her neck, and a red beret. She was taller than her mother, but she had her mother’s eyes. And she was beautiful. She reminded me of the young American singer and actress Lena Horne.
I stopped dancing and stared back at her. I knew why she was staring; I had witnessed the same thing before on the faces of many Giza who had heard of the Meq all their lives, yet never actually seen one of us in the flesh. I took a step toward her. “Antoinette?”
She nod
ded her head a few times without speaking, then swallowed and said, “Yes, I am Antoinette.” She spoke English with an American accent, and sounded just like Emme. “Are you … are you—”
“My name is Zianno,” I said, walking over to her. I took hold of her hands. Her fingers were nearly twice as long as my own. I looked up into her eyes. I liked her immediately. “Call me Z,” I said, squeezing her hands slightly. “I knew your mother and father well. We were great friends, and your mother saved my life on many occasions.”
Finally, Antoinette seemed to relax. “I know,” she said. “However, I have always heard it the other way around.”
I smiled. “You are early. We expected you tomorrow.”
“Yes, dear,” Carolina said from behind me. “Is anything wrong? We wanted to meet you at the train station and welcome you back.”
Antoinette gave Carolina a kiss on both cheeks. “A friend of mine was driving home today and going through St. Louis,” she said, removing her beret, muffler, and pea jacket. “I asked if I could ride along. I wanted to surprise you and Uncle Mitch.”
“And you did,” Mitch said, coming over to Antoinette and hugging her tightly. “Welcome home, honey.”
Antoinette turned to look at the Christmas tree, which blazed against the darkness outside the window. Suddenly tears welled up in her eyes. “I have never seen anything more wonderful in my life,” she said. “It is …”
Carolina slipped her arm around Antoinette’s waist and smiled. “Merry Christmas, my dear, Merry Christmas.”
Jack never did make it back for the holidays. He sent a postcard from Panama apologizing and swore he would be home by baseball season. Carolina was disappointed, but her spirits rose when she received a telegram on the twenty-second. Star and Caine and Willie Croft were setting sail for New York on January 1, then coming to St. Louis by train — a complete surprise to Carolina and she was ecstatic. I was excited by the news because I hadn’t seen any of them in years. Antoinette mentioned that she had met Mr. Croft once, briefly, in Marseille. “He was a complete gentleman to a very young and silly girl. He gave me an enormous piece of the most delicious chocolate.”
“That’s Willie, all right,” I said, then I had a curious thought. I asked Carolina, “How old is Caine now?”
“He’s twenty-seven,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “No reason.”
On Christmas Day snow fell throughout the afternoon and Mitch played Scott Joplin tunes on the piano until late into the night. Mercy sat on the piano bench next to him, tapping her foot to the music. Carolina reminisced about the great musician, good friend, and humble human being he had been. Antoinette was familiar with ragtime music and wanted to know everything about him. I was amazed at how well Mitch could still play, and I loved hearing the music again. It reminded me of old St. Louis. I thought of Solomon laughing somewhere in the big living room when it was filled with expensive whores and the smell of cigars and the sound of poker chips and playing cards and silver dollars and all the time a piano in the background. I could hear him laughing and swearing when he lost, cheering when he won, leaning over and telling me with a wink, “Zis is good business, Z.”
We awoke the next day to bright sunshine and a snow-covered city, though the streets were open and busy with traffic. Over breakfast Carolina said she wanted to go for a long walk in Forest Park. She wished Antoinette to see the sheer beauty of the place, especially after a decent snowfall. It was during this walk that a relatively minor incident provoked me into using the Stone. I hadn’t needed to use it since before the war when Sailor and Sak and I slipped into northern Japan. The incident would also be the first time Antoinette witnessed the silent, mystical power of the Stone of Dreams.
Entering the park from Lindell Boulevard, we followed the few paths that were clear, making our way south with no particular destination in mind. The park was nearly empty, but the absence of people only made everything more beautiful and surreal. As we neared the southern boundary, we passed by the Jewel Box — a unique art-deco-style conservatory, made entirely of glass and steel, with stone at the base and concrete framing the entrance. Standing alone against the snow, the building glistened in the sunlight.
Just then, I caught a glimpse of two figures kneeling in the snow between two huge spruce trees. They were both aiming what looked to be rifles directly at the glass walls of the Jewel Box. Without hesitation, I reached in my pocket for the Stone and held it in my palm, then raised my arm. “Hear ye, hear ye, now, Giza,” I said in a low, even drone. “Lo geltitu, lo geltitu. Go like lambs, now. You will forget. Ahaztu!”
The two figures rose slowly and turned around to go. They both had blank, dull expressions on their faces. They were only boys, two boys about my size, and the rifles were only BB guns, which probably would not have had the power to penetrate the sturdy glass. Nevertheless, they were threatening to vandalize the Jewel Box, and I could not allow that. The boys dropped their guns in the snow and walked away without a word.
I glanced at Carolina and caught her trying to stifle a smile. I looked at Antoinette. Once again, her mouth hung open and she was staring at me. She mumbled something in French, then switched to English. “How … how did you … how is that possible?”
I glanced once more at Carolina, who had her eyebrows raised, waiting and wondering how I would answer. I decided the truth was the best and simplest reply. “I don’t know, Antoinette.” I took a step or two toward her. “There are only five of us who can do it. None of us know the secret. We never have.” I paused and looked into her eyes, which reminded me so much of Emme. “Did your mother never mention this … this ‘ability’?”
“Yes,” she said softly. Her eyes looked away for a moment, as if she was embarrassed. “I … I must confess I never quite believed her.”
“Believe her,” Carolina interrupted. “Believe every word.” She folded her arm inside Antoinette’s arm and turned in the direction of Lindell Boulevard. “Come on, my dear, let’s go home and build a big fire in the fireplace. I will tell you a few stories of my own, and I promise you, you can believe every one of them.”
Later that night, long after dinner, Carolina caught me standing in the closet of Jack’s bedroom. I was rubbing a thin coating of neat’s-foot oil into Mama’s glove. The old leather and stitching soaked it up. I pounded my fist in the pocket and thought of the last time I played catch with Papa. I was not aware Carolina was in the room and watching me.
“Your mama made that for you, didn’t she, Z?”
I turned around, still wearing the glove on my hand. “Yes,” I said. “It was the only one she ever made.”
“What did you do for a baseball?”
“My papa made two.”
“Do you still have them?”
“The first one was destroyed. The second served another purpose.” I reached into my pants pocket and withdrew the Stone. “This was inside Papa’s baseball.”
Carolina looked hard at the pitted, egg-shaped black rock that is the Stone of Dreams. “Z … may I hold it? Is that allowed?”
I laughed and said, “There are no rules, Carolina. Of course, you may hold it.” I gave her the Stone.
She held it gently in her hands and examined every detail. “It is heavier than I expected.”
“Yes, and there used to be jewels embedded in the rock at four different points — a blue diamond on top, a star sapphire on the bottom, and lapis lazuli and pearl on the sides.”
She continued to stare at the Stone. She seemed entranced, almost like a little girl. Her hands were thin, blue-veined, bony, freckled, and blotched, but her long fingers were graceful and beautiful to watch as she turned the Stone over and over. “What do you suppose it really is, Z?”
“I don’t know. I truly don’t know what it is or from where it came.”
“It feels old,” she added, handing it back to me.
“Yes,” I said, then let my eyes settle on the Stone of Dreams and paused a moment, thin
king of all the ones who had carried it before me. “Older than you can imagine.”
Carolina stood silently as I placed Mama’s glove in the shoe box where Jack, and later Caine, had always kept it. I put the shoe box back on the shelf and closed the closet door. In a soft voice, she asked, “Z, do you remember the day in Forest Park when you first told me you were … different than me? Do you remember what you did to prove it?”
I searched her eyes, but couldn’t tell where she was going. “Yes,” I said, hesitating. “I cut myself with a knife across the forearm. You were horrified and begged me to stop. I told you to wait and watch what happens.”
She took hold of my hand and led me toward the hallway. She ran her fingers over my knuckles and wrist and up my arm to the elbow. “You healed in seconds, and in minutes your arm was smooth and unblemished. There was nothing — no red lines, no scars. And there are no scars still.”
She let go of my hand and we turned to leave the bedroom. As I switched off the light, I said, “Oh, yes, there are. You just can’t see them.”
Antoinette surprised Carolina again by announcing she wanted to move back to St. Louis and transfer to Washington University and study literature, if they would accept her. Carolina was overjoyed and quickly made a few telephone calls to some old friends. Antoinette took a few tests, which she passed easily, and within days she was enrolled as a student in Washington University for the spring semester. Two weeks later, on a cold, blustery Saturday afternoon in the middle of January, the three of us were sitting in the kitchen discussing whether Antoinette should concentrate on English or French literature. Suddenly the back door to the kitchen burst open and Star and Willie stood in the doorway.
Star locked eyes with Carolina. Although they had exchanged letters throughout the war, they hadn’t seen each other since it began. She was wearing a long wool coat with a fur collar turned up. She was forty-four years old and looked exactly like Carolina at that age. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. The tiny gold flecks sparkled in the light. “Mama,” she said, running over to Carolina and embracing her. Carolina nearly disappeared inside the coat, but I could hear her say quietly, “Oh, I missed you. Oh, how I have missed you.”