Winds of Fate

by Thomas H. Reed

  The blow had rocked him but not as much as his own words had. “Whore.” He had called his daughter a whore. His daughter was leaving; he had told her he no longer had a daughter.

  Suddenly his memories of holding her when she had came from the hospital, were clear and vivid in his minds eye. She had been so small that he could almost hold her in one hand. The vision changed and he saw her sprawled on the living room floor in front of the TV, holding up a coloring book and displaying the purple dragon with yellow wings. He saw her running up to him with a paper from her first grade class, the paper fluttering in her hand. He saw the joy and excitement in her eyes when he came home from work, her running out to greet him and throwing her arms around his neck. Time moved forward Sara and her mother are coming from the kitchen with a fresh baked cake and Sara is saying with pride. “I made it.” He saw the skinned knees, and cut fingers. The laughter in her eyes when he did the Gorilla. The heartbreak and loss when Rascal her dog died. He also saw the countless times she had refused to lie to him even when it might mean a spanking. He saw the long hours sitting at the kitchen table pouring over her schoolbooks, refusing to go to bed until she was finished. He saw her small hand in his and the trust in her eyes as she looked up at him.

  He had just thrown those memories away and a boy was driving off with his daughter. A good boy, who would love and take care of her. And suddenly he knew it was wrong! What he did was wrong, the boy was driving away, and all he wanted to do was go after them and hold his daughter and tell her that he loved her and no matter what she did, it didn’t matter. She was his daughter and that was all that counted. He took several running steps after the car as it drove down the gravel road and called out to Joey. “You take care of her! Do you hear me boy! You take care of my—my baby.”

  The car rolled on for a few more feet then suddenly stopped, Sara got out and ran to him. Henry went down on one knee and held out his arms and for a flash of a moment, he saw Sara, as she had been when she was his little girl. All legs and arms, pig tails trailing behind her as she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tightly around his neck. “I love you daddy.”

  “I love you to baby, so very much. Can you ever forgive me?” They held each other for a long time, and then he said, “You go with him. That’s where you belong now. He is a good boy, a good man and I know he will watch out for you.” Sara put her hand on his rough cheek and rubbed the bristles in the palm of her hand, a thing she had done for as long as he could remember. Always liking the way the bristles tickled in her hand. “When we get married will you give me away?”

  “With pride baby. Now you go with him and have a happy life, a wonderful life. You deserve it.”

  Snick Snack

  Click Clack

  Time is a tapestry, woven by experience and life. No two tapestries are the same, no to lives are woven exactly as another. Each unique, each strange and startling in revaluation. Our labor starts when we enter the world and does not end until we exhale our last breath. The shuttle moves across the loom, snick snack, the jacks rise and fall, click clack, another part of our lives are woven into the fabric of time. Snick Snack, Click Clack, time goes by, the tempo of the loom gauging the course of our lives. Snick Snack, our friendship woven so tight, the threads colorful and bright, Click Clack, goes the jack. This is our life when we are young, full of hope and color, fun and laughter. Snick Snack, Click Clack.

  Snick Snack, Click Clack. Thread by thread our lives are woven in an intricate pattern, Blues, reds, greens, pinks, violets, and yellows. All the colors of the rainbow we use, all textures and makes of threads, incorporating them into our lives to make the tapestry that is our life. Here it is woven tight in desperation, there loosely and carelessly, some frayed and tangled out of fear, or carefully out of concern. Bright threads of friendship, dark black or green threads of hate and envy. Endlessly the shuttle moves, snick snack, click clack.

  This tapestry is a work in motion, ever changing, never ceasing. Snick Snack, Click Clack. Don’t pull at the threads, the loose ends, or the frays. Do not look back, and regret, or forward to things yet woven, keep your eye on the shuttle and your mind on the thread you choose at the moment. What you have woven is finished and can not be changed, what you will weave is not yet here. Keep your eye on the shuttle, and your feet firmly on the treadle. Regardless the size of your tapestry, it is the finished work that counts. It is what you leave behind that others will marvel at.

  If a problem was to come from Joey’s recent living arrangement it will be from his mother’s objections. The woman had plans for him, and it did not involve a wisp of a girl from the Sayhey division. When his parents received a phone call in Hawaii telling them their son was shacking up with the town whore, his mother hit the roof. She was packing her bags before the phone stopped rattling in its cradle.

  Her husband stating, “You do realize that this is our son you are talking about, don’t you?” She put the suitcase down and, asked “And your point, George?”

  “When is the last time you saw your son make a mistake in judgment?”

  “George, did you hear anything I said?” Carol asked in a frustrated voice. Then continued, “Neil Fredrick is one of my top security personnel and not one to speculate. If he says our son is shacked up with a whore, then he is shacked up with a whore.”

  “Granted, that might be the case, but I have to wonder just what kind of whore she would have to be for our son to become involved with her.”

  “I don’t care what type of whore she is! A whore is a whore. We are going home and we are going now! And we’ll have this all sorted out in no time, and that little slut will be out of our house and out of our Joey’s life.”

  “Are you sure of that, Carol? If Joe has found a girl he likes enough to get thoroughly involved with, he must care a lot for her, be she the town’s loveliest Belle, or a ‘Lady of the Evening’.”

  “Are you saying you approve of this?” Asked Carol.

  “No, I am saying that we need to find out what’s going on before we alienate our son.” The steel in George’s voice growing firmer. “This is way out of character for him, and I have a suspicion that there is more to this story than we can possibly know from a 2800 mile phone call.”

  They caught the first flight out of Hawaii back to the mainland. Ten hours after departing Honolulu’s airport, they were landing in El Paso Texas. They drove nonstop for the next three hours and were home by twelve-thirty PM. Her husband was bringing in bags when he said; “You might as well get some rest. Joey won’t be home until 4:00 PM at the earliest. So just relax, take a breath, and drink some tea. You haven’t set still the past thirteen hours—not even when you were sitting.”

  “I can’t rest, not until I find out what is going on; and get rid of that—creature.”

  “Well, could you at least help me get the baggage out of the car?” Her husband hoped that by the time they had everything unpacked and put away she would be worn out enough to settle down a bit. Instead, she paced like a trapped animal, finally saying. “I’m going over there.” George sighed, then asked, “And do what?”

  “I don’t know! See what kind of mess they have left behind. Maybe straighten up a bit.”

  “Joe is a good house keeper; I doubt there will be much cleaning to do.”

  “Still, I would like to see for myself.”

  “More than likely all you are going to do is work yourself up more than you already are. Why don’t you just rest for a little while? You are exhausted and not thinking clearly.”

  “What has gotten into you George? This is our son we are talking about and you are acting like it’s no big deal.”

  “Because dear, I have seen our son handle some very difficult women over the years, including you. Remember Ambassador Kellerman’s daughter? Or Congressman Kemp’s wife? He is not stupid, or easily swayed. Frankly, I am somewhat curious to see this girl. She must be something very special.”

  “George! I can’t believe you!”


  “Carol. How many girls over the last couple of years have tried to set their hooks into Joe? Twenty, thirty? Not one of them had a chance. Now this girl shows up out of nowhere and he falls for her. She has to be something very special indeed.”

  “Then why did my top security man call me? If she is so special then he wouldn’t have called.”

  “Well, you have been on the phone with him three times now. What did he have to say?”

  “No police record, her father is a heavy equipment operator. They live in the Sayhey division in a trailer George! A trailer of all things! What kind of girls comes out of the Sayhey division George? You tell me? Even if she is a nice girl what can she hope to offer our Joey?”

  “Love?”

  “Be serious George, you know what I mean.”

  “No, I am not all that sure what you do mean. That people in the Sayhey division are less capable of love than the rest of us?”

  “That is not what I said and you know it! Most of those people are ignorant, filthy and uneducated. And I don’t see how she could be any different.”

  “So you think that if you go over there, you can take care of this before Joe gets home?”

  “I can certainly find out just what kind of girl she is.”

  “And if she is everything you feared?”

  “I’ll deal with that when I get to it.”

  “I think all you will do is make things worse.”

  “How can anything be worse than it already is?”

  “Carol, you are tired, you are angry and you are not thinking straight. If you go over there now, all you are going to do is make matters worse.”

  “I’m going George! I am tired of arguing about it.”

  “Go then, if you think it will make you feel better.” George’s voice had gone flat and cool.

  Carol walked out the door more than a bit miffed at her husband’s attitude. “How can he take this so calmly? Doesn’t he know our son’s future is at stake here?” She walked across the property to the cottonwood grove angling towards the back of the house.

  The Garden

  As she approached the cottage, she thought about how nice it appeared at a distance. Something about the place looked different; still, her mind was on other matters so she hadn’t taken a great effort to identify what that difference was. The cottage had always been nice place but over the years, it had slowly gone down hill. The flower garden in the back had died out completely and only the empty planters and pots remained as testament to their existence. The huge cottonwood in the back yard needed trimming and the flagstone patio needed repair. The wood floors and cabinets had been neglected and the place had started to smell of dust and mildew that lingered even after it was cleaned. She had planned to renovate the place when she got back, and George had even talked of tearing the place down. At first, she had fought the notion, still the cottage was getting old and perhaps it was time to bring it down.

  She was at the side of the house when she slowed her pace and began to look around. The low stucco and adobe wall that enclosed the back yard had been in poor repair when she last saw it. It was cracked in places and some of the stucco had fallen away in sections. There had been patches of bare ground and some weeds had started to take up residence at this side of the house. Now it was lush with grass and stepping-stones were laid out up to the newly repaired rod iron gate.

  Joey! She should have known that Joey would have been working on the old house while they were away, he had always loved this place and the thought of tearing it down had been a sore spot for him. He had never been afraid of work and had let his feelings be known about the subject of tearing the cottage down. Therefore, it shouldn’t have been a shock to her, but somehow it was.

  When she opened the gate, it swung outward without the usual protest of rust and iron grating against each other. Stepping into the back yard, she paused, did a double take, and just stood there in awe. She shook her head, closed her eyes then opened them again. Still, when she looked she saw the same thing. The hard work of her son was apparent wherever she looked, from the repaired flagstone to the freshly sanded and painted porch swing and railings. The old cottonwoods were free of dead limbs and the yard was lush with newly mown grass, not one bare spot was visible. These were all the signs of her son’s hard work, of this there was no doubt in her mind. But the flowers! The explosion of color and variety and the way they seemed to flow around the back yard in a profusion of color and light. Everything was perfect and in balance. There were blown glass and brass humming bird feeders hanging from the porch and several more in the garden. Humming birds flitting from one feeder to another performing acrobatic feats as the sun caught on their wings illuminating them in brilliant greens, reds and gold. Many of the flowers were the kind that attracted butterflies, and the butterflies had readily accepted the invitation. Hundreds of butterflies floated, flittered and flew around the flowers, or sat with their wings opening and closing slowly in the warm summer sun.

  The perfume of a dozen different flowers assailed her senses and delighted her nose with their fragrance. How long had the yard looked this nice? Many years had gone by as the old place had slowly degraded to dead grass, dried and broken tree limbs and empty planters full of spider webs. Still she never remembered it being as beautiful as it looked at this moment. She shook her head; this was more than Joey’s doing. He was good with his hands and had an exacting eye for detail, but this required a woman’s touch and a woman’s eye for beauty.

  “The Tramp! She was responsible for this.” She didn’t know how she knew it but the notion was unshakable. Then George’s words came back to haunt her. “If Joe is living with a lady of the evening then she must be something special.” Shaking her head again as if trying to remove the image of the garden, she said. “Focus! Keep your head. So the girl has an eye for gardening. Big deal” Yet, even as she said it, the words left a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Opening the back door, she stepped into the kitchen, still looking over her shoulder in amazement. Instead of smelling the years of mold and mildew she had expected to smell, she inhaled the fragrance of baked bread, wood polish and other pleasant odors. Old lost memories of her childhood days came rushing back to her in an instant, and for a moment she was once more in her grandmothers home, remembering the way she felt when she was small and still full of wonder about the world. Clean linens, baked bread, and a thousand odors that told of love and living.

  Then she saw the dining nook. Over the years it had aged and developed scars and cracks, the seat covers worn and faded all the signs of long wear and use. Now it was beautiful, she noticed that the old gouges, nicks and reminders of a thousand family dinners were still there. The wood had been sanded and the cracks filled, but the imprints of a lifetime of living and loving still remained. They were carefully preserved then varnished over to protect them, the seats stitched with new bright fabrics. No, this wasn’t Joey’s’ handy work. Always a practical person he would have simply sanded it and filled in the scars then varnished it.

  It was the girl again! The girl had understood the significance and the history they represented and had taken pains to preserve them. She had brought out the history and gave the wood beauty at the same time.

  Looking around, Carol realized that the girl had done much the same with everything, instead of simply plastering over and painting out the history of the cottage, she had restored what she found, brought out the original beauty and the memories they represented. She had enhanced their presence, and brought out the life of the old cottage.

  She went into the bathroom and stopped at the doorway. Like the kitchen, it was spotless. It looked lovely with just the right touches of color, a beautiful vine that dribbled from a high shelve, and bit of ivory lace at the small window. She could have gotten down on her hands and knees and checked for dirt, but she suspected she would find none. She went into the living room/bedroom area. The room was as neat and as homey as she expected it would be. The old bras
s bed was polished and neatly made, her mothers patch work quilt folded carefully over the foot rail. The quilt had been threadbare and worn, and in places, it had begun to tear. Now, as she looked at it closely she found the neat stitch work and careful matching of materials that restored it back to its original beauty. She ran her hand over the quilt then picked it up. Within these threads are my mothers hand and that of her mothers. Now, this child, this creature has sewn herself not only into this quilt but also into our lives.

  Carol held the quilt to her face and breathed in its fragrance. What kind of girl is this? What kind of girl seeks out the beauty in a thing then brings it to life? A whore? A Harlot? What kind of a person can find and keep the heart of my son, when the daughters of Heads of State could not? A Tramp? A woman of questionable virtue? Who is this girl that has sewn her self into my Son’s heart?

  She folded the quilt across the foot rail of the bed and smoothed it out, tracing the careful stitching with the tip of her finger, and asked herself again. What kind of girl is she? This waif, this vagabond of a girl who has woven her self so thoroughly within the cottage and into the very fabric of our lives?