Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  “Aunt Gracie has asked me to inform you and your brother of dinner this evening at 9:00 o’clock.

  “Nine?” Jessie stumbled out the word. They might as well wait and make it a midnight snack.

  Ruthanne perceived, frowning a bit. She drew her hands upward in apologetic explanation. “Oh, I am very sorry. I understand that the hour is somewhat later than you are accustomed to, but it suites our schedules—Ellen and mine . . . Gracie’s nieces,” she paused, “Do you mind so much?”

  Jessie quickly interceded to recover herself. “No, no. Nine will be great.” She threw an obliging look at Sam. “Isn’t it, Sam.” She nodded, vividly.

  Ruthanne turned anxiously on the boy.

  “Absolutely” he spoke up. “Nine is my favorite time to eat.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes at him. What an overdone ham!

  Sam just shrugged.

  A look of relief washed across Ruthanne’s face, and she nearly clapped with excitement “Oh! But this is exceptional news! Thank you! Ellen and I are so very anxious to open a correspondence with you both.”

  Sam’s face puzzled, and he looked askew at his sister.

  “I mean,” Ruthanne composed, clearing her throat, “it will be very enlightening.”

  Enlightening? Jessie heard her mind repeat.

  Ruthanne’s chin dropped, and she shook her head in subtle frustration. “I mean it will be very enjoyable.” And she settled with that.

  For the next awkward moments, no one spoke. Then Ruthanne finally sighed. “Very well then. I will inform Gracie.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “I . . . I mean Aunt Gracie. I will inform, Aunt Gracie.” Then she whirled and headed down the hallway.

  “Excuse me,” Jessie called after her. “I don’t think we know where the dining room is located?”

  Ruthanne stopped, turned and allowed a surprised snicker. “Oh,” she giggled, then censured herself with a composing hand to her mouth. “Of course you do not,” she said. “Forgive me. The dining room is 22.7 meters from the bottom of the stairway, if you take the left corridor. If you choose the right corridor, the distance is 27.4 meters, taking into account the negotiation of the additional 4.7 meter intersection in the hallway. I recommend you take the left corridor, since it is shorter. You can make visual confirmation once you have completed the distance.” She then nodded casually, smiled and continued down the hallway until she disappeared around the bend.

  Jessie just stared for a moment. Then blinked. “Okay,” she finally managed. She turned wide-eyed at Sam. “So did you get all that?”

  “Get all what?” he groaned. “Was that English?”

  “I suppose it was,” Jessie replied blankly, eyeing the empty hallway one more time. It had been a different exchange to be sure. Jessie felt a little dazed, or perhaps bewildered was a better word. Ruthanne seemed nice enough—sincere, kind and . . . okay, she was downright weird! It had to be those ridiculous dark glasses. It gave Jessie the creeps—something about not being able to see into person’s eyes? It would be different if this Ruthanne were blind, which was Jessie’s initial thought. But the woman’s actions had dispelled that flawed observation almost immediately. She had turned and addressed both Jessie and Sam with complete accuracy; had drawn her hand in greeting as nonchalantly as anyone could have; had gestured, at one point, with a finger down the hallway; and perhaps the most incriminating exploit of all—when apologizing for the late dinner, she had actually made a subtle indication toward Jessie’s wrist-watch. The watch was clearly displayed on Jessie’s left arm, but it could have been on the right arm, or not there at all. She had no way of knowing that Jessie wore a watch unless she had seen it on her wrist. Bet she never thought I’d catch that, Jessie noted to herself, rather proudly.

  “She talks like she’s from a different country or something.” Sam still hadn’t moved, and like his sister, was focused at the empty hallway. He mumbled something else, then sighed.

  “Huh?” Jessie reverted back to the moment. “Maybe so?” she replied, then fell silent for a moment. Her eyebrows suddenly rose keenly. “You know, Sam. I think you’re on to something. In fact, I’ll bet this Ruthanne lady is visiting from a different country—or at least a different culture. I mean, it was pretty obvious that she’s not from around here . . . at least not the here I’m familiar with.”

  “She’s nice though. I think I like her,” Sam added happily. But then again, at that moment in time with everything coming up roses, the wicked witch of the west would have seemed nice. “And who knows, maybe Mrs. Reitman adopted her like she did our grandfather, all those years ago.”

  Jessie smiled at him. “Maybe so little brother.” She sighed, glanced at her watch, and gave him a mischievous look. “We have about an hour-and-a-half until dinner. I’ll let you into my room if you promise not to be too jealous . . . because my balcony? Oh, it’s way cooler than yours.” She held her door open. “Way cooler,” she taunted again.

  “Is not,” he said. And he hurried in.

  --

  It had been raining in Florida for nearly five days straight. At Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, modifications planned for launch-pad 36A had been setback in the ongoing deluge, and Jimmy Reitman was not happy. His schedules demanded precision. These design alterations were paramount for his HOPE satellites—currently scheduled to be launched in a mere two-weeks.

  The two massive birds—far and away the largest objects ever to be propelled into space by human means—had already preempted two other solid launches: a French built exploration probe and a LEO (Low Earth Orbit) geostationary communication satellite. Neither client had been happy about NASA bumping their launches—that being an understatement. But Jimmy neither cared nor concerned himself with NASA’s other clients. His babies were all that mattered, and having pumped enough money into the space agency’s budget to finance an entire gamut of exploratory hardware, he wasn’t worried about accommodations. Besides, he had his military guard dogs to muscle any real obstacles.

  Fortunately, most of the work thus far had been done inside NASA’s largest hangar: Hangar One, just southwest of the launch-site. There, the focus had been on reengineering the eight Taurus-class rocket engines—four on each bird. When complete, there would be very little of the original Taurus left.

  The hangar had been commandeered by Reitman’s military constituents, and turned into more of an Area 51 than pre-launch hangar. The eight Taurus engines had gone in . . . but Reitman engines would be coming out—engines enhanced beyond 300% of their original thrust. Only by using the HOPE technology could such massive structures be hurled into orbit—a nominal task for the superior systems.

  Jimmy shoved his cellphone back into his raincoat pocket and hurried out of the hangar. He opened a large umbrella, glanced upward into the darkness, and cursed the drizzle—at least the downpour had subsided slightly with nightfall. He passed the armed sentry at the entrance on his way out, tossing the men a forced nod, then hurried to his black Mercedes Benz which was parked right up near the front. He quickly got in and sped off with his characteristic squeal of the tires.

  It was a thirty-minute drive from Cape Canaveral Air Force Station to Patrick Air Force Base. Jimmy made the stretch in eighteen minutes. It took him another five minutes to get through Base Security. By the time he had found Building 1370, parked, and headed in through the double-glass entrance, a full forty-minutes had passed since his phone call with Colonel Briggs—his precious gained minutes were ticking away.

  There was no one else in view as Jimmy headed down a long, well-lit hallway. Besides the squeak of his damp-soled shoes on waxed tile, the only other sound was that of moving air from vents in the ceiling above. Everyone else had long since left for the day, and the emptiness of the building seemed to permeate right to his bones.

  Soon, as he rounded a dogleg in the hallway, he saw a dark-wood doorway at the end of the corridor, right where Briggs had said it would be. Jimmy felt his stomach tighten just slightly. How he hated these
impromptu meetings. They always preceded some unpleasantness. And this close to the launch date, it meant dealing with whatever it was, personally.

  --

  Jessie rechecked her wristwatch once again to make certain they weren’t too early, or more importantly, that they weren’t late. It was 8:55 p.m. sharp.

  “Slow down, Sam,” she repeated again. “Just walk at a normal pace.”

  “I am!”

  “No you’re not. You’re somewhere between a skip and a jog.”

  Sam got off an annoyed glare before suddenly switching gears. “Hey!” he exclaimed, “Let’s take the elevator down.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “Okay. Sure. Why not,” she moaned.

  The boy bolted ahead stopping just in front of the left transport. By the time his sister caught him up, he had pushed the elevator’s call button—several times—prompting an opening of the door. They stepped into the small transport, and as before, were whisked to the bottom floor. It was a quick ride, but one which Sam would like to have repeated again and again—something about the tickling sensation in his stomach?

  The left corridor, as the woman Ruthanne had suggested, was the one they took. It was a wide, gaping hallway, probably to accommodate Mrs. Reitman’s wheelchair, Jessie supposed. It had a glossy wood floor and high walls, all festooned in rows of decorative art. Some were modern, others appeared to be antique, but all seemed absolutely exquisite: sculptures, mosaics, thick-framed paintings, pictures, drawings—all varieties, and each highlighted with its own artificial lighting to give life, soft and aesthetic. On either side of the corridor, pristine antique furnishings, or what Jessie assumed to be antique, lined the section. There were high-backed seats, sofa’s, low-set tables and spiral legged sitting-chairs with thick embroidered cushions. There were tall shelves, with baroque carvings and mirrored backs. And dangling from the ceiling like rows of ripe fruit drooping drown on laden branches, were long-necked chandeliers, their crystals sparkling like a thousand diamonds put to flame, illuminating the painted frescoes above.

  Along the way, they passed several closed entryways with solid large doors below mahogany arches: three of them to be exact . . . just as Ruthanne had stated. Soon, as they approached an intersecting corridor at the end of the stretch, the smell of food accosted them, hinting that they were nearly there. And then all of a sudden, there it was . . . their visual confirmation. And what a sight!

  Jessie and Sam stepped wide-eyed through the large open archway and into a bright, capacious dining room. The first thing to come to view in the extravagant chamber, was the size of the center table, which stretched nearly the entire length of the room! It was decked out in a myriad of fancy dining accouterments, all placed meticulously between mounds of food. The walls were lined in tall draped windows which wound around the entirety of the room, each covered in slit-blinds that appeared to be made of polished metal—much like mirrored glass. And above, was the most exquisite ceiling Jessie had ever seen! It was made of delicate interlaced stained-glass shapes, and rose aloft in a great semicircle dome.

  At first glance, Jessie felt an intake of air rush into her, and she unknowingly snatched Sam’s arm. She took in the opulent flourishes, scanning with dazed eyes. But then her gaze fell upon the only other individuals in the room . . . and their eyes, were equally focused on her.

  Initially, Sam saw only the dishes of delicious food—his nose told him it was delicious and he couldn’t dispute that. After all, waiting until 9:00 pm to eat had caused an uproar at his stomach region. But like his sister, he soon felt the wash of other eyes upon him, and quickly redirected his attention from food to faces.

  Of the three individuals in the dining room, the children recognized two: Ruthanne and Mrs. Reitman, whose faces they had already seen. But the third person—a young woman standing just behind the old woman’s chair with a hand on her shoulder—they did not know.

  Mrs. Reitman was seated midway down the table, elegantly dressed as always. Her expression dominated even the gracious smiles of the other two ladies, as she nodded keenly at the two young guests.

  Finally, someone spoke: “Oh my goodness!” the unknown woman whispered, almost into Gracie’s ear. “There they are!”

  Jessie responded straightaway with a smile and eyed the woman who had just spoken. Her face was an attractive one, even striking. Her smile was radiant, her hair—like Ruthanne’s—was jet black, but long and full. She wore it braided, and tossed casually over her shoulder. She flaunted a floral scarf around a dainty neck which tied neatly in the front. Her beige blouse and patterned skirt were fashionable and elegant. Her lips were rosy and her skin a tame white—not a deathly pale—rather like moonlight on the snow. But the single salient characteristic which instantly captured Jessie’s attention, were the woman’s eyes. Unlike Ruthanne, her eyes were not concealed behind dark glasses . . . and they were stunning!

  “My dears,” Gracie spoke softly. “May I introduce you to my nieces.” She gestured toward Ruthanne first. “You have already met Ruthanne.”

  At this, Ruthanne smiled and nodded. “Hello again. And thank you for arriving so precisely. My instructions were sufficient then?”

  The other niece made subtle snicker. “Obviously, Ruthy,” she put in, stepping forward, “since they have arrived.” She held out a friendly hand. “I am Ellen. It is a pleasure to finally meet you both, Jessie and Sam Goodwin.” She took Sam’s hand first, giving it a brisk shake.

  Sam returned only fluttering eyelids, followed by a rather impolite stare—he was not the model child when it came to introductions.

  Jessie salvaged the boy’s disastrous first attempt by feigning a cough, which worked.

  Ellen turned and smiled. She looked Jessie over thoroughly, as one would a fine piece of art.

  Jessie tried not to stare back too intently, especially at those enthralling eyes. But it was difficult! She was beginning to understand her brother’s rude ogle.

  Ellen’s right eye was predominantly green, but green like emerald in sunlight, and flecked with bits of blue and amber. The left eye was similar, yet somehow opposite. It was predominately blue, again a deep, unnatural blue with hints of green and amber. It was like looking into the eyes of an animal: brilliantly alert, wide and spectral.

  Ellen sensed Jessie’s awkward struggle, and immediately moved to dispel it. “They are a matched set,” she joked in ease. “I have a rather rare, yet pronounced, case of heterochromia, which is simply a long word for multicolored eyes. Don’t let them scare you.” Then she smiled sincerely.

  Jessie blushed. She must have really been obvious! “Actually,” she responded a little clumsily, “I was thinking how beautiful they are.”

  Ellen’s expression blazed. “Really?” She glanced a surprise at Gracie, then turned and blushed a bit herself. “You and I are going to get along very well indeed, Jessie.” Then she gave the girl a quick, unexpected squeeze.

  “I believe the food is getting cold, Ellen,” hinted Gracie. “Let the children sit down and we’ll get dinner started.”

  Ellen nodded. “Of course.”

  “Great! I’m starved!” Sam voiced a little more energetic than he intended, and stepped ahead.

  “You mean thank you!” Jessie leaned and whispered at his ear. She drilled reprovingly at him, as she steered him toward the table.

  “I mean,” he cleared his throat, “thank you. And yes please we would love to eat now,” he corrected.

  Jessie rolled her eyes. Why did she bother?

  Ellen grinned humorously and sat herself opposite next to Ruthanne, who had also allowed a masked snicker to escape her.

  It was an elegantly dressed table with far more utensils and cutlery than either of the two kids had ever seen. Sam couldn’t decide which utensil to pick up first; there were so many lined up at his plate. He finally opted for a fine, silver fork. He looked over the table and quickly spotted a tray of steaming rolls just within arm’s reach. He was about to skewer him a fine, plump one, whe
n he looked up to see everyone else sitting quietly, hands folded, and as before, eyes on him.

  “In this house,” spoke Gracie reverently, “we say grace and give thanks at each meal.”

  Sam squinted up his eyes and looked a question at his sister. What was grace?

  She returned a bulged-eyed expression and indicated at her own folded arms.

  “Oh,” he let out. “You mean prayer.” Then he followed his sister’s lead.

  After Gracie offered the supplication, the table became alive with motion. Plates of food began shifting here and there, utensils clinked and glasses filled. It took a little more time for conversation to ease in, but when it did, it flowed pleasantly.

  Mrs. Reitman, who had insisted that the children call her Gracie, started off casually first. But Ellen soon took the lead. She was full of questions. Gracie interjected as often as she could, acting as a vicariate when Jessie and Sam seemed to stumble on their answers. But many of Ellen’s questions, Gracie did not know or understand, and so she would also pause in anticipation of an answer—which eventually came from . . . someone.

  Ruthanne, who had seemed content to nod and gesture happily in the general soup of the conversation, finally spoke up and asked her first, real question: “What do the young women of your age do for entertainment in today’s culture?”

  Jessie perplexed a moment. She didn’t want to be too obvious in her grasp of the phrase—she didn’t want Ruthanne to feel uncomfortable. But weird! “Well,” she responded with a quick gulp of her food. “There are movie theatres, shopping malls, eating out, or just hanging with friends.”