by Turner, Lori
Ona stepped off the elevator, and in her mind she told herself that it wasn’t too late to leave.
“This way…” He pointed towards the apartment entrance, and beyond him she noticed another area that looked like a large foyer. Combined, the vestibule and the foyer were half the size of her parents assigned living quarters in the commune.
Ona walked in, and lay her hands against her thighs to still the trembling. She heard the sound of the closing door behind her, then she felt his presence by her side.
“Did you have any problems getting here?”
He didn’t want to be too direct, but he’d wanted to ask if she’d been followed or questioned by a member of her Sect.
Ona had heard him but her attention had been submerged in grandeur. After being cared for at Lincoln Medical, she’d thought that she’d seen it all; but she’d been wrong. Every form of fabric and texture beamed at her, then when she thought that she couldn’t grasp another visual sensation; something else would take hold of her eyes. She’d been transfixed by a sculpture of a woman scantily covered. There was something decadent about it, yet as she neared it, she began to notice the beauty in this work of art. Lucien had stood silent, watching her and when she crossed the floor to get a better look, he said…
“Interesting piece, isn’t it.”
“Yes.” Her voice was as low as a whisper.
“It’s an original. I bought it from one of your program volunteers.”
Ona turned at the mention of this, then she said…
“One of my volunteers? If you don’t mind—may I ask who?”
He laughed, and to her ears, the sound was like no other. He pointed towards an archway, leading further into his apartment.
“Come.” he said. “We can talk about the sculptor while we eat lunch. I had my cook to prepare a variety of dishes because I wasn’t sure if you observed any food restrictions.”
“It is a sin to be wasteful.” She quoted one of the first creeds she’d learned as a child, and after she said it, she wished she could take it back. As a citizen of the United States, legally she was an adult, and as a Samaritan she’d reached the age of consent. Yet, since the accident; her time spent away from her Sect had taught her many things, and she’d not come to terms with her revelations. Ona was not like the women Lucien was accustomed to and she didn’t know how to keep pace with a world that she didn’t fully grasp or understand.
He tore her from her thoughts when he said…
“Well, in my home, you can eat what you want—and you don’t have to worry about leftovers.”
Her lips spread into a smile and he hoped that he hadn’t sounded to pretentious.
“This way.”
He pointed towards a long hallway and she couldn’t imagine the place being any bigger. As they passed archways, doorways, and two long hallways, Ona began to wonder about the number of rooms and if he lived in this apartment alone. She wouldn’t dare ask, and when she felt his gentle touch in the center of her back, she jumped.
“Sorry.” He said. “I didn’t mean to startled you—but the dining room is in here.”
Ona walked into the dining room, and this room was just as grand and lavish as every other part of his home that she’d seen so far. The room was a combination of rich earthy tones, and every element complimented the other. The table surface was a smooth granite, and the chairs were high backs covered with a tapestry fabric. Lucien pulled out one of the chairs, and he waited for her to be seated. Ona settled in her seat, then he joined her, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table. Before the meal was served, he said…
“Shall we bow our heads and say a silent grace?”
She answered with a smile, then lowered her head. Shortly after that, Lucien’s cook entered the dining room carrying the first course of their meal. When their food sat in front of them, he realized that this would be the first time that they’d shared a meal.
After she’d sampled a few bites of her food, he said…
“I spoke with Rachel during my last visit and she wasn’t her same old chipper self.”
Ona chewed then swallowed. She said…
“She misses my brother Caleb.”
Rachel had told him about Caleb Zelle and that he’d left to join his parents in Africa. He didn’t want to pry, but Rachel had spilled her guts as if he were her father confessor. Lucien knew more than he wanted to know, but everything he’d been told, had been shared in confidence.
Lucien said…
“Did she tell you that she’ll be working at the hospital for the next few weeks?”
“Yes. But she said that she’ll still come to the center on her off days. She said that—she doesn’t have anything better to do, and she’d rather be with me, then at home. I told her that Sahara practically lives there, and her help has been invaluable to me.”
Lucien had seen the way Sahara admired Ona, and he was pretty sure that Ona had not rightly labeled her friends attraction. On the other hand, it wasn’t his place to burst bubbles and he could stomach Sahara’s dagger eyes.
During their lunch, the conversation rarely stalled. Most of their discussions concerned Ona’s project, and the local News stories that praised her efforts. After the dessert was brought in by the cook, then set on the table in front of them, by her expression, he could tell that she didn’t generally eat six course meals. When he’d explained his situation to his chef and told him that Ona would be his lunch guest for the day; his cook had thrilled over the idea of cooking for a Samaritan. Then his cook’s overzealous nature hit the ceiling, after Lucien had confided in him, concerning the importance of this meal.
Lucien had watched Ona’s expressions, each time cook swapped out their plates. Now he was certain that he should have impressed upon his cook to scale back the menu because the Queen of England hadn’t been his guest. Be that as it may; what was done was done and he couldn’t change it now.
He looked at the food, then he said…
“If you’re full, you don’t have to stuff yourself. It wouldn’t be the firs time that my chef has over done it. Besides—I’d like to show you something.”
Every dish had been a new experience, and she’d wanted to sample the dessert the cook had call ‘crème brûlée. However, Lucien’s eyes glowed with anticipation. She couldn’t begin to imagine what fueled his eagerness. She considered this, then a rush of possibilities appealed to her, more than savoring the French dessert.
Ona pushed her chair back but before she stood, Lucien leapt from his seat. He was behind her in an instant, guiding her to a standing position. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever get use to this strange custom, and when she turned to face him, every thought that clouded her brain vanished. She couldn’t even recall what she’d been thinking about before he’d jumped from his chair, staking a position behind her. In those few seconds, his essence had dominated her entirely.
When they left the dining room, Lucien lay his hand to rest in the middle of her back. Her clothes were made from natural fabrics, and gauging its thickness, he was fairly certain that she was wearing no less than two layers. With her clothes on, he couldn’t feel any parts of her flesh, but he craved the contact. Just being in the same space with her had not been enough, and all afternoon he’d been fighting an urge to kiss her; and he wasn’t ready to overstep his boundaries. At least, not yet.
Lucien took her to a room that had recently become one of his favorites. A cord of remembrance wrangled her brain, sparking Ona to say…
“I recognize these.”
All around her, she could sense little dreams. A world created by the imagination of young minds.
She stuttered when she said…
“Whe…when…how did you get these?”
Lucien said…
I’ve been collecting them since the beginning of your program.”
The room that he’d escorted her too had once been a sitting room, used for reading. Lucien had paid an interior designer to completely overhaul the sp
ace, turning it into a mini art gallery. At first the project had been selfish on his part. He’d thought about the future, and he’d had hopes that one day Ona Zelle would join him here to see the fruits of her labor. But after a short time, the artwork began to take on a life of its own. Every framed picture, sculpture, and modern art made from tiles, wires or multiple pieces of material; Lucien could see the faces of the kids that created them. When he paid notice of their work, they didn’t smile at him because he’d offered to give them money. These children beamed because someone other than their teachers or their parent had noticed them. These children were growing a sense of worth and renewed value. Every week, when he visited the Children’s Center, Lucien would make his way to the art room and he always left with two or more pieces. Ona had known about his visits, but not this. She recalled the sculpture in the foyer, then it all began to make perfect sense. She said…
“That sculpture. Judd created that, didn’t he.”
He nodded, then he said…
“It was his idea that I come to his class to see some of the wonderful pieces created by the children—then one thing led to another, and I became a collector.”
She couldn’t bring herself to ask why, because it was obvious. The pieces in this room showed so much promise and she wasn’t a trained critic but she’d learned what she liked, and she could appreciate the beginnings of good talent.
He said…
“I was thinking… On New Year’s Day, my family will host our annual White Ball. Most years, the house is overflowing with art enthusiast. These people love a good cause—and some of these pieces can be auctioned off as a way to generate funds to continue your program next year.”
As a whole, most Non-Samaritans didn’t understand Samaritan creeds and they didn’t fully understand the purpose that drove them.
Ona said…
“My project is fully funded.”
When she said this, Lucien’s face drew a blank causing her to explain further.
“Shortly after the program began, the Conclave informed me about a donor. Since the program works with children, the donor gave the donation in memory of her daughter. The council members had told me that the sum was a substantial amount. They also told me the name of the donor’s deceased daughter.” Ona searched her brain, then she said…
“Amy…Yes. I believe that was the little girls name.”
Lucien’s eyes brightened because he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
He said…
“And the donor… Do you recall her name?”
“Randolph I think. It’s been a while, and I might be wrong.”
“Gloria Wilcox-Randolph” He supplied. Ona stared at him curiously, then hearing the name had jogged her memory.
“Yes.”
She said, then she added…
“I’d never heard the name before but Rachel had. She said that Gloria Wilcox-Randolph is the sister of one of our nations governors.”
“Wyoming.” Lucien flatly added. His thoughts leapt towards Marisela and her family. They fervently believed that Tollin had not been overcome with a form of grief that had caused him to kill himself. But he wasn’t so sure, and hearing Ona speak about the little girls mother added a new spin to this story. He wondered when would it all end for the Randolph’s and the Pettier’s.
He was drawn back to the conversation when Ona said…
“So you see—the program is fully funded. And you’ve done so much already and I’m quite certain that the children appreciate your interest but—as for the selling of art to raise funds; it doesn’t work that way.”
He felt like a toggle being pulled in two directions, and he shifted his focus back on Ona—the program and his desire to keep her in a place where he could easily see her.
He said…
“I don’t understand. I thought you explained that as long as donations were submitted first to your Conclave, then the money would be dispersed to fund the program. And as for funding—nonprofits can always use funding.”
She’d never had to explain portions of her Creed and in her mind, it had never needed explaining because she’d grown up knowing no other way.
When she spoke, her words were crisp and eloquent; he’d never seen her demonstrate such a show of confidence.
“Each year Samaritan’s pray, asking God to direct our path, leading us to where our talents are needed most. Since needs are constantly changing, we believe that our pursuits should last no more than one year. As our programs near their ends, we are encouraged to empower the benefactors of our programs and this can be done in a number of ways; but most times the communal Conclave takes charge and they oversee all program dismantlements or transfers.”
Lucien tried to think of this in the same way one would when considering a business merger or buyout. It made sense to allow the governing body to take charge but he wondered how these dangling particulars would affect their fledgling relationship.
He frown when he said…
“But…do the rules apply, even if a project is accomplishing inspiring outcomes?”
“In our Creed, we are taught that every seed has its cycle; as do we. My parents have spent half of their live’s working in Africa constructing schools from the ground up. Even if for some unforeseen reason a school is not completed by years end, my parents must abandon the project, leaving the villagers to complete the task on their own. As a rule, the Conclave expects that during our time spent in prayer, God will impress upon us places where other needs are not being met. In most cases, the Conclave will not approve the same project in consecutive years, but in my parents case, they are one of the few couples that have been exempt from this rule. My parents have devoted their lives to the continent of Africa, and each year they travel to a different country, choosing a region that has been most hard hit. So you see… Even though my project has made a difference in many young lives; unless the Conclave recognizes my project by appointing the exemption clause—at the end of the year, the Conclave will relieve me by assuming my role.”
Lucien felt a strong aversion to her words and he definitely had cause to surge with emotion. He had an emotional investment in her being around and he didn’t like the sound of her hard work being saddled by the Conclave.
He appeared disheartened when he said…
“If you have to submit a new project to your Conclave at the beginning of the new year…then what does that mean for you? I mean to say—will you remain in the city or will you travel elsewhere?”
She shrugged because like most of her people, she didn’t think in those terms. Yet, in her imaginings, she had begun to wonder about Lucien. She wasn’t sure how she would feel not seeing him every week at the Children’s Center but that was as far as she’d allowed her thoughts to go. She’d limited her mental wanderings to the present, steering clear of her future.
Ona sighed, and her exhale was more than a bored release of air. She said…
“In December, I will join the members of my Commune in a prayer service, in which we seek God’s guidance.”
Lucien was more direct because he couldn’t wait until December when she planned to have her conversation with God. She was here and he wanted to know if she planned to stay.
“Ona—some time ago, before Noah and Caleb left, you explained why they weren’t concerned about leaving you here in the city alone.”
He recalled the conversation but not entirely; and he wanted to be certain when he made his point.
She nodded, saying…
“Unmarried members of my Sect are governed by rules. Males may travel freely, but if they leave the country they must be accompanied by at least one of their parents; and age is not a consideration. Unmarried females, such as myself; if we choose not to join our parents, working alongside them—then we must remain in the region of our commune. But there is one stipulation that allows female’s to travel outside of the communal region. Unmarried females may travel with a married coupled appointed by the Conclave,
and the parents must give the final approval. In both cases, the unmarried female is considered safe because the members of their commune are extended family and they are responsible for the well-being of Sect members during the absence of the parents.”
He couldn’t understand why most religions placed more restraints on their female’s than the male’s. He’d learned from Rachel that neither of Ona’s brothers were married, but he didn’t think this odd because most of his male acquaintances had taken an oath of bachelorhood, vowing that they would never marry. But in Ona’s case, marriage equaled freedom, and he didn’t know what that meant to her. Would she marry if the cost amounted to her liberation? He didn’t have the answer, so he thought it best to cover every base.
He said…
“So…you’ll have to remain here in the city. Or, travel elsewhere because your Conclave directs you to do this.”
It didn’t sound like he’d asked her a question, but his questionable inflection didn’t deter her from making her point crystal clear.
“I must follow any Conclave ruling, as long as I am unwed; even if I submit a project proposal, requesting to remain in the city. If my proposal is rejected, I’m left to choose one of two choices; follow my parents, or go where the Conclave places me.”
That was it. That was the sticky point; marriage. Lucien’s mind stirred with all manner of possibilities and he didn’t savor the thoughts. He supposed there was a time and a place for nonsense but this time most certainly wasn’t one of them.
His jaw clinched when he said…
“What about me?”
Her brow arched, clearly showing her confusion. When she didn’t respond, he felt his body and his thoughts lurching forward.
“I don’t know what your future holds for you—but I hope that I’m in it because frankly, since meeting you, my future has been set. I already know that I can’t live without you and I need to know if you can live without me.”
Her mind conjured up a picture in which she and Lucien were miles apart, or she was engaged in a project with some other member from her Sect; she didn’t like the image.