by Lucy Finn
“Well, go on and talk. It’s getting late.”
He returned to his tale, talking more quickly and cutting down on his meandering narrative. After winning the camel, Gene stole enough provisions to ride off into the desert during the next moonless night. The sun had slipped down behind the sand dunes, and the sky had turned purple on its way to black. The sand was still warm beneath his feet, but the air was cool. He planned to ride all night and rest during the day. He had just finished tying a goat’s bladder filled with water next to his saddlebags when Haidee appeared.
She begged Gene to take her along. He tried to refuse but she cried. Moved by her tears and feeling protective, or maybe guilty because they had been lovers, he put her on the camel and then got on himself. Haidee rode behind him as they began their trek into the endless waste of the Sahara. She put her arms around his waist and snuggled herself as tight next to him as she could get. Gene confessed that they hadn’t gotten far when she was doing things with her fingers that distracted him from thinking about where they were heading. He ordered her to stop. She giggled.
Finally Gene pulled the camel to a halt and threatened to take Haidee back to the oasis if she didn’t behave. He jumped down and decided to lead the camel for a while, letting her ride and keeping a distance between them at least until he—and she—cooled off. Instead, she slid down the side of the camel and threw herself at Gene. She started kissing him and tearing at his clothes like a little wildcat. Gene wasn’t interested in a quick poke and tickle; his priority was to get back to the war. He overpowered her and he was trying to control what had now become a full-blown temper tantrum at his rejection of her when the caliph rode up with a bunch of his men.
“So why didn’t the caliph kill you? Kill both of you?” I asked.
Gene explained that the caliph was indeed furious, mostly because he felt Gene had disrespected his hospitality. His men grabbed Gene, yanking his hands behind his back. He was shoved facedown in the sand. He closed his eyes and began to pray, sure that the sharp edge of a scimitar would be the last thing he felt before the blade chopped off his head. Instead he felt Haidee throw herself on top of him, crying and pleading with the caliph to spare his life. She had plenty of spunk, because she was arguing with the caliph that the entire escapade was all his fault for neglecting her. It no doubt helped that she was also immensely beautiful and even as she pleaded with the caliph she was describing to him how she, and she alone, could please him.
The caliph, despite his age and absolute power, was also a man. He forgave Haidee and took her up onto his horse. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and covered his face with kisses. She really was a very convincing actress. Before they rode off, the caliph ordered his men to have the magus enchant Gene instead of killing him. The wily old man laughed and said that it would be a far worse punishment than a beheading.
As Gene wrapped up his story, he turned to me. “So what am I, Counselor? Guilty as charged? Guilty with an explanation?”
“I think this is a case of nolo contendere.”
“Whatever that is.”
“It means you neither admit nor deny your guilt. The case is complicated. You’re not as bad as the charge makes you seem. You’re basically throwing yourself on the mercy of the court.”
“And will the court be merciful?” he whispered and took his fingers to turn my face toward his again.
In the dim light, I looked into Gene’s eyes, which seemed large and dark. I found no deception there. They were looking at me with tenderness as well as desire. He kissed me then, without urgency, a sweet undemanding kiss.
“‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d,’” I quoted. “‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.’”
“Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice. And you are as fair a maiden,” Gene murmured as he slipped his tongue into my mouth. I moaned.
“And you have a silver tongue,” I managed to say, but only barely, before my voice became another moan.
Gene drew back and looked into my eyes. “My silver tongue is at your beck and call. I want to use it for other things than talking.” He kissed me again, his silver tongue doing lovely things in my mouth.
I enjoyed his kissing immensely but finally I sighed and pulled away. “It’s late and we have to go soon. I still don’t know anything more about your life.”
Gene gave me a final kiss on the lips. “Okay,” he said. “To be quick. I have a brother, Mickey. I told you about him. I have a sister, Cecilia, two years older than I am. My father is a sheep rancher. My mother teaches school. I grew up on a farm outside of Melbourne—way outside of Melbourne. I liked to read and believe it or not, I planned to be a school-teacher like my ma. I was at graduate school in Canada when the war broke out. I joined the RAF. Once I got a taste of flying, I changed my mind about sitting in a classroom all day. I wanted to fly, and that’s pretty much it.”
“And what about your girlfriend?”
Gene didn’t answer quickly. He turned his head away. After a long moment, he finally said, “She was back in Melbourne. We were supposed to be married when I got back from the war. Her name was Laura.”
“And I suppose when you go back home, you still intend to marry her. What are you doing kissing me, Gene Hugh O’Neill, when you have a girlfriend.” My voice was quavery and I decided it was time to leave. I had heard enough to realize getting intimate with Gene had been a worse idea than I even guessed. Pain seemed to crawl up into my throat, making it feel tight. I had started to walk away when Gene jumped up and grabbed me, pulling me to him. He looked at me with anguished eyes.
“I had a girlfriend. That was sixty years ago. I’m sure she thinks I’m dead. I have no doubt she’s married and a grandmother, assuming she’s still alive.”
“But what if you go back, Gene? As soon as I make my third wish, you may be able to pick up the pieces of your life. If you can do that, you’re cheating on her. Have you thought about that?”
Gene looked out over my shoulder into the dark of the room. “When I think about Laura, I start to believe that I can’t go back. If I did, it would change history. Laura wouldn’t marry someone else. She wouldn’t have the children and grandchildren she most likely has. And to tell the truth, being with Laura seems like it happened in another lifetime. I miss my family very much. But I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. I know they’ve already mourned me and given me up for dead long ago.”
I put my arms around him. “I’m sorry. I really am. You must miss them terribly.”
“I do.” He moved so that his cheek rested against mine. “Let’s not talk about it. Whatever happens is going to happen. And you know, what I care about right now is what is happening between me and you.”
A shiver went up my spine. I told myself I didn’t care what he was going to say, but I asked, “What is happening between us, Gene?”
“Magic. It has to be magic.”
It was then, after Gene confessed he didn’t know if he could ever get back home, that I first considered the possibility that my third wish could be to keep Gene with me. Of course, that meant I had to make up my mind that I wanted him to stay, and I wasn’t sure I did. Except for the explosive chemistry between us, I didn’t know if we had enough in common to be a couple. So as soon as the idea popped into my brain, I pushed it out of my mind. After all, that third wish should be to make life better for Brady and me. Besides, Gene was determined to go back to his family. I had no right to stop him, and he would resent me if I did. I felt ashamed of myself for even thinking it, yet I had thought it. After all, I had the power to make the wish, and I was human enough to want to.
Chapter 9
Snow as fine as sand danced across the windshield as we drove to my mother’s later that night. Ribbons of white were snaking across the surface of the road. A light coating of powder was fast covering the grassy berm. The digital thermometer glowin
g green on the dashboard showed that the temperature had dropped, dipping into the teens and gripping the landscape with an icy fist. I would have rather been curled up in front of the TV eating that pizza that Gene had wanted than out driving in this blustery night. I felt cold inside and out. Gene looked over at me, then started fiddling with the heater control. A weak stream of lukewarm air reached my toes, and I had thawed out a bit by the time we pulled into my mother’s driveway.
Appearing through the flakes which were now coming down from the low clouds like flour being sifted, my mother’s home was brightly lit, every window glowing with a warm yellow. When we opened the front door and stepped inside, four dogs ran barking to greet us across bare wood floors. Long ago my mother gave up on rugs, saying dog piddle and wool were an unfortunate combination of smells. She also had virtually no upholstered furniture because the cushions became flytraps for animal hair and the arms turned into cat scratching posts.
Instead the house was furnished in the blond wood and clean lines of the Danish Modern decor which had been popular in the late fifties and early sixties. Today my mother’s retro taste was very much in fashion, but that was accidental. Clara Patton, rescuer of strays of both the two-and four-legged variety, was being practical.
Against one wall, tanks filled with tropical fish flashed neon colors and made bubbling sounds. A greenish gray iguana peeked out from under the wood-lathed sofa. Two cats, one white, one black—I’m sure there were many more and I never asked just how many—sat atop a perch near the ceiling and stared with big yellow eyes down upon us. Even though the room was spotlessly clean, the smell of dog-cat-fish-reptile life couldn’t be completely erased. It asserted itself boldly along with the pleasant smell of the Yankee “Sugar Cookie” Candle burning on the dining room table.
My mother didn’t care what anyone thought. If visitors weren’t “animal people,” she didn’t have much use for them. If they were, they didn’t notice—or didn’t care—that the house had a zoolike aroma.
I had grown up in this house and to me it was simply home. While I put down a shopping bag filled with empty Tupperware containers and handed over Brady to my mother’s open arms, I glanced at Gene to see his reaction. He was talking to the dogs and before I knew it, he was down on the floor letting them sniff his hair as he scratched one fellow’s chest. Another went belly-up, waiting his turn for a rub, as a red tongue lolled goofily out of his mouth. Gene was scoring big points with my mother. She nodded at me approvingly and handed Brady back.
“Dinner’s ready. I just have to put it on the table,” she said. “How was the driving?”
I told her the roads were clear and she told me to be sure to watch the evening news because the big storm scheduled to hit tomorrow had turned into a “weather event,” bigger than expected and nearly a blizzard.
I sat Brady on the counter, holding him with one hand while I dipped a piece of celery in some dip. I crunched into it and said between chews, “You know, I think I’m going to see if I can get a practice going. I did specialize in real estate and with all the housing going up, I think a good real estate lawyer might be needed around here. It’s worth a try, anyway.”
My mother turned off the gas on the range and turned to face me. “Good. We’re going to need a lawyer.”
“We? Who? Why?”
“Cal Metz and I. We’re starting a charter school. The old Dallas middle school hasn’t been used for years. We want to buy it.”
“I thought you had retired from teaching,” I said.
“Actually, I pretty much quit. First the school board eliminated the music department, and you know the band had won national awards. It was one of the best programs in the state. They took the money and built a new football field. When they started talking about teaching ‘intelligent design’ along with evolution, I knew it was time I left. The whole political climate was driving up my blood pressure.”
“And Cal Metz fits into this how?” I said as I handed Brady a Triscuit from a nearby plate. “I think he’s teething,” I said. “He seems a little feverish.”
My mother stopped what she was doing and put her hand on his forehead. “You might be right.” She put her finger in his mouth and ran it over his gums. “Some top teeth, I think,” she announced. “His gums are hard as rocks.” She took a clean washcloth out of the drawer and ran it under the tap water which came from a deep well and didn’t ever need refrigerating. Then she handed the cloth to Brady. He immediately stuck it in his mouth and started biting on its coldness. “That might help. Rub some of that stuff the doctor gave you on his gums before you put him to bed.”
“About Cal Metz,” I reminded her.
“I’ve known Cal for twenty years. He’s not a talker. He’s a doer. We came up with the idea together. We intend to offer young people an alternative, especially kids that the system has already lost.”
“Like teenage mothers,” I said.
“Of course. But we want more than those girls. We want the students who aren’t into sports. Who feel left out and excluded. The charter school will offer the music program the school abandoned. Theater arts. Graphic design. Maybe even culinary arts. A quality writing program. That’s for starters. Other ‘retired’ teachers just like me are already on board. But the legal obstacles are huge, and even getting our hands on the building will be a struggle. Are you with us?”
A fire burned in my mother’s eyes. She loved a good fight with a passion nearly equal to her belief in the transformational powers of education. I couldn’t say no to her request, and I didn’t want to. The school had the potential to change lives and hearts. Maybe this was why fate brought me back here. I told her to count me in.
“We’re calling the school Warrior’s Path High School. It’s named after the famous path used by the Iroquois down near the town of Saxon. Plenty of Native Americans lived here in our valley and the name is symbolic. To embrace art and learning takes courage. The reward is power, the power of the mind. It’s the warrior’s path, see. We figured the kids would relate to it.”
I agreed. As I held Brady on my hip rocking him a little, my mother found some pot holders before she pulled a roasting pan out of the oven. She gave me another long look that I felt was evaluating something inside me. “And I think you’re making the right decision by starting a practice out here. A lot of folks in this region need somebody to stand up for them. Too many have already gotten cheated out of their land.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, noticing that my shirt was getting wet from Brady’s dripping washcloth.
My mother plated a roast chicken and started filling serving bowls with some buttered carrots and her nightly special, mashed potatoes. “Take the Sikorskys over in Buttermilk Hollow; they’re pretty close to the Katos,” she said while she worked. “Their well got tainted; nobody knows how. They didn’t have the money to drill another, so they put their farm up for sale. They didn’t get a quarter of what they should have because the EPA said PCBs had even contaminated the creek. What could they do? Half a loaf is better than none, so they sold out and moved down to Florida to live with their daughter. Then the guy who bought their farm had the water tested again. Nothing wrong with it. He turns around and sells the land to a big developer for close to a million dollars. Now there’s two hundred condos being built up there. And the Sikorskys aren’t the only ones with a story like that.”
“Who was the guy that bought their farm?”
“I don’t know. I never heard of him. Nobody ever saw him around before or after. Maybe you can find out?”
“Yeah, maybe I can,” I said as I walked over to the table and secured Brady in his chair. My shirt was drenched, clearly outlining one breast. I pulled it away from my body and saw that Gene was staring at me as I did it. I flapped the shirt back and forth for a few seconds trying to dry it out. I ignored him, opened the silverware drawer, and started to set the table.
Gene immediately got up off the floor, washed his hands, and helped me. Then we all sat
down and wouldn’t you know it, Gene said grace. My mother was beaming at him. I wasn’t. My heart felt heavy. She was getting the wrong impression, thinking Gene and I were together in any kind of normal way. This was such a sham.
We talked all through dinner, sticking mostly to discussing classic movies, but even that was dicey because Gene had no references for any films made in the last half of the twentieth century. We managed to get into a rip-roaring argument over which movie director did a better job, Orson Welles with Citizen Kane or Alfred Hitchcock with Rebecca. I thought Hitchcock was far superior and the only thing Orson Welles could top him in was his waist size. Then we got on the topic of farming and Gene’s family in Australia. Crop management had changed since the 1940s, but fortunately my mother belonged to an organic gardening club so the methods Gene’s father used seemed right up-to-date.
As for the war, my mother assumed Gene had been flying his plane in the Middle East. He answered her few questions without elaborating and she sensed he didn’t want to talk about it.
Gene and Brady had seconds of the mashed potatoes. When everybody’s plate was clean, my mother served us all lemon meringue pie. Gene raved about it and then asked if he could do the dishes. Score two more points.
My mother said no, that she and I would do them. She suggested that Gene and Brady could watch television in the living room. Gene’s face lit up. I knew he was dying to spend more time exploring what he considered an astonishing invention and seeing what it could do. The four dogs, and I think the iguana, went with them into the living room. My mother and I ended up at the sink.
“So?” my mother asked. “Is it serious?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. Gene is visiting, that’s all. He won’t be around very long.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” she said.
“Really, Ma. Gene’s only going to be here a few days. He wants to get home to Australia. We’re old friends, that’s all.”