by Hunter Jones
During the years at school, he saw his father infrequently and made few friends. He wanted a family like the other children had, but he had no one except Yul. James was good at sports but too tall for football or skiing, so he read books and had imaginary friends and a make-believe family. His teachers said he didn’t concentrate and they were correct.
He saved money from the allowance his father sent and hired a cook from the kitchen to come to his room at night to tell him stories of the Romani. The young man didn’t want money, but James insisted. During this time, the two became friends. Yul took James to meet his family. His grandmother taught him more of their culture and of the old ways, even teaching him about divination. James still crafted these magical symbols at moon and star placements and used the imagery to assist him in writing songs.
He believed his father loved him because he had said so one time. James never asked questions once he had an answer he appreciated. He did know that his father was much older than his mother and that her name had been Lala. At Christmas when James was seventeen, his father told him the story of their meeting and he watched his father cry.
A parrot shrieked in the distance, and the sun made James’s naked skin feel the heat. He remembered why he avoided the sun. The sound of the parrot served to remind him that the past was not the present. Yet he wanted to burn. He liked the feeling; it was almost painful and made him feel something besides numbness. The waves covered him again as he thought of that Christmas only six years ago.
His father had relayed the story, stating that he visited Dubrovnik often on business, yet rarely in September. As he was finishing a conference call, he held up his hand to motion for a drink. When he looked up, he said the most ethereal female creature he had ever laid eyes on stood in front of him. He asked her name. “Lala,” she said. “It means tulip in my language.” They spoke English to each other, but she refused to tell him her language. She refused him anything. She remained out of reach for the entire week he was there. Once he left, he couldn’t get her magical litheness and haunting eyes out of his mind. He called the restaurant and she refused his calls. He flew to Dubrovnik and bought the restaurant. She finally agreed to speak to him. At that point, he ran a corporate empire, had two ex-wives, yet had never felt so helpless. He was fifty-seven years old and for the first time in his life, he was head over heels in love. Lala was twenty-four and afraid to let him know that she felt the same way until one night under a full moon in July, he proposed marriage and she accepted.
“You had to be conceived on the first night we were together. You are made of love, James. You are magic,” he said.
James never believed his father was a cruel man, only a man who had been deeply hurt. The sand, sun, and sea continued to hum to James as he lost himself in his past. He realized that he never even knew his own father’s name; he had only heard him called Mr. van Lee. He was an old man by now, almost eighty years old.
His father told him over that Christmas dinner of the great love he had for his mother, how they spent two weeks together planning their wedding, looking for a villa in Dubrovnik and making plans to move Lala to Amsterdam. She told him of her Romani family and wanted them included in her new life. He agreed. He left for meetings with plans to return in two weeks, but the plans went awry. Two weeks became three, then a month, then two months. When he returned, Lala was gone. The manager at the restaurant told him she had moved to the United States and had left no further information.
“You must understand, son. It was before emails and mobile telephones. I was bereft. Three years I searched for her in America, only to discover that she had given birth to you.” He finished a bottle of red wine and ordered another from his sommelier. The two ate the remainder of their meal in silence. His father finished the wine and ordered a specialty vodka be brought into the dining room. He drank numerous vodka shots with dessert. As he sipped a drop, he said, “She died thinking I had abandoned her.” Then, he began to cry.
The two sat there until the older man stood. James, wishing to thank his father for sharing a tender moment with him on Christmas night, moved toward him for an embrace, as any child would. The older man met him with a right hook and beat him to a pulp, finally saying, “You, you killed her. You killed the most beautiful creature that I have ever known. Why didn’t you die at birth instead of her? Life is so unfair.” With that, he staggered from the room, leaving James lying in a bloody heap on the polished dining room floor.
“Leave him there. Go home to your families. Here, here is extra money for you,” James heard his father tell the household help. Later that night when he regained consciousness, James showered, packed a few clothes, made certain he had the ring, and disappeared into the cold darkness of the Amsterdam night, never looking back.
He fully understood the lesson that life was unfair. Now he was ready to learn more lessons, even if they were as painful. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his father since that cold night.
As another wave washed over James, bringing him to the present, it served to awaken him from the daydream and he thought of what needed to be accomplished today. During the time away, James communicated with the band via Skype and email in order to work on lyrics, music, and the technical aspects of the tour. His dreams now aided his creativity and he became less afraid of being alone.
His life was more secure than ever. The very secrecy of his private life had made the public crave even more from him, quickly leading the band to a popularity they had never expected. Luckily, with the guidance of Frank and their management, TASTE easily made the transition into stardom. Moz remained as guitarist, his old friend Yul was drummer, and a Spanish girl named Kay played bass, and her husband Jason designed the album covers. The manager and publicist in London, Bob and Vanessa, continued with them. James finally had the family he had yearned for his entire life.
He wrote lyrics based on imagery not only received in dreams but also from objects. He pulled himself from the sea and walked along the shoreline, picking the occasional shell or stick that had washed in with the tide. This afternoon, he experimented with random shapes in order to see the patterns the visuals and imagery sent to him. The waves gave him a rhythmic hum with which to build the words he saw in the shapes. From that point, the poetry of his words would grow into lyrics.
A shadow crossed over him and he looked up to see Frank standing behind him, crisp and clean in a white cotton shirt and linen shorts. Sunglasses covered his eyes and a slight smile caught James’s eye.
“What’s wrong, Frank?”
Frank looked at him and said, “You are famous now and you are out on a beach naked. That’s a bit of a concern.” He looked down and James knew there was more. The shadow of a cloud crossed Frank’s face and served as an omen to confirm this suspicion. Right on cue, Frank’s brows tensed and his breathing slowed. He rubbed his hands together as if needing to warm himself, even in the glow of the sun. He stared into James’s eyes.
“What, what? Something is wrong, isn’t it? Are you going to tell me or make me guess, Frank? Is it the tour or has something happened with one of the recordings?”
Frank’s silence spoke volumes. James had never seen him react in such a manner. I’m scared of what Frank is about to tell me. Something is really, truly wrong.
“We have to go to Amsterdam immediately. Your father had a massive coronary last night. He is dying and wants to speak with you.”
James hurled a clump of sand that remained in his hands at Frank; the remainder he scrubbed on his own forearms. His mind flashed back to the Christmas spent on the dining room floor, the back seat of a car when he was three years old and tasted his own blood from his burst nose and lip after his father struck him. The child within him screamed, “No! Don’t make me see him again! Please, Frank! Protect me from him.”
Instead, he said, “Damn it, Frank, I’m never going back to see that son of a bitch again. He can die and they can throw him to the dogs for all I care. Let him rot in hell, where he belongs
.” With that, he turned away and looked over the vastness of the azure sea, wondering why the world allowed madmen to bring children into the world when good men had none. His own rage angered him, and he was surprised that he was capable of such an intense hatred. In that one moment, he understood why stories were told of men leaving home in search of gold, in search of fairy tales and the hope of dreams coming true. The kaleidoscope unraveled itself before his mind’s eye in an instant. A sudden breeze tangled his hair and Frank’s voice brought him back to the reality of the moment. He was shocked to feel tears fall down his cheeks.
“James… he is your father. He is an old man and his dying wish is to see his only child. We have to go. It is the right thing to do.” Frank sat beside him on the sand, then took James’s chin in his left hand and wiped away the tears with his right. “You will look back one day and be glad you did this. Hate should never be met with hate. Hate is best handled with love.”
With that, James burst into tears and collapsed into Frank’s arms. Within an hour, they were on Frank’s plane and, by evening, James was in a privately hired limousine, on his way to see his dying father.
Second Story
A Little Boy and a Little Girl
Chapter 3
In the little mountain town in southeast Tennessee where Margaret Pickett and Rhett Turnquest grew up, there weren’t many people or houses or much money, but Margaret – or Maggie, as everyone called her – told Rhett, when she met him on their first day of school, that she would marry him once they grew up. They were five years old at that time. Rhett didn’t quite know what to make of tall, leggy Maggie. She kept chasing him on the playground and outplaying him at basketball. Maggie had been the one who had taught Rhett to throw a curve ball when they learned how to play baseball. She was smarter than him and passed all the tests.
Maggie had dreams, but as she grew older, she wondered if these things had actually happened. In the dreams, the town was so crowded with houses and people that few had space for a garden or even a little yard. People had to be happy with what little they had. One night, a band of gypsies came through the town. The grown-ups talked about it for days. At night, she could hear the music as they sang and danced. Then, one night, she looked out her window to see a little blond boy standing in the backyard. She waved at him and smiled. He waved back and disappeared into the night. The next night, she left him a piece of cake on the back porch. By the third night, they were speaking to each other.
But outside her windows were all kinds of flowers, mainly rosebushes. The roses grew so high, they became walls, and eventually a few vegetables blended into the mixture. The green plants and flowers framed the windows until the plants bowed underneath the weight. The children knew that they weren’t to climb on the flowers, so they would wave at each and sometimes the boy would kiss the glass on Maggie’s window so she would know he was thinking about her. Eventually, they figured out how to climb onto the roof of the back porch, and make wishes on stars as they twinkled in the warmth of the Southern night as a breeze caressed them with a kiss from the roses.
“My name is James,” he said.
“I’m Maggie.”
“I’ve never had a friend before,”
“Well, you have one now,” she whispered.
With that, they lay on the warm roof and watched the stars night after night until, one day, her Aunt Charlotte called her downstairs.
“Did you take a look outside this morning?”
Yes, Maggie nodded.
“See the bees swarming? It’s like a biblical plague. You can’t go outside until we let you.” Looking over her glasses, she whispered, “I know you’re sneaking out to see that little boy from the gypsy camp. Don’t be doing that no more ‘til I say so. Stay away from that Rhett too, or you’re going to get stung. You hear me?” Aunt Charlotte adjusted her glasses and looked around the room, making sure no one else was around listening to her instructions.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. Do they have a queen bee?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, of course they do. Well, she thinks she’s a queen bee. That’s why there’s such a mess,” Aunt Charlotte said. “She’s right in the thick of it. She’s the cause of it all, you do know that? She can’t never stay quiet. She’s always got to surround herself with those dark clouds.” She moved in so close Maggie could smell her Wind Song cologne. “Now let me tell you the latest gossip and make you laugh; otherwise, your parents are going to wonder what you and I are up to.” She smiled as she shared the latest stories of the ladies from the beauty shop.
As the key turned to unlock the door, she picked up the Bible and said, “Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires, Song of Solomon, Chapter 8, verse 4.”
“Pardon me?”
She lowered her voice and moved toward Maggie, as if flicking a piece of lint off her shoulder. “You heard me. Now get on upstairs.” She raised her voice so Maggie’s parents could hear and said, “That’s the end of our lesson today.”
“Anything else I should know?” Maggie asked.
“Many a night, she goes through the streets and into places you don’t want to know about, young lady. She does things with people that you wouldn’t understand. Just take my word and watch out for her. She’s two-faced. Then, there’s pieces of a broken mirror made by the Devil. Everything good becomes bad…it becomes its opposite. She uses this to her advantage. Beware.”
Go, she whispered underneath her breath, and Maggie ran upstairs. Later that night, she saw him wave and climbed outside to meet on the rooftop under the silver gleam of a crescent moon. She told him of bees, magic mirrors, and things. Both children believed that if Aunt Charlotte said, “Change,” it had to be true.
“Can the queen bee get inside here?” Maggie asked Rhett at school the next day.
“Well, let her try,” he said. “I’ll squash her like a bug.” This made them both laugh. That night, she and the little boy made a wish on a falling star and promised never to tell anyone.
By springtime in the dreams and in real life, the boy was gone.
“One day, we’ll grow up and be doctors too. You just wait and see,” Maggie would say, and the twinkle in her eye made Rhett believe her. They grew to be the best friends in the whole world. Too soon, Rhett and Maggie were teenagers. But Maggie wasn’t as pretty as her dark-eyed, raven haired, petite best friend, Annie Bragg. Annie was the daughter of the town’s banker and she would buy Rhett ice cream when Maggie wasn’t around. Her dark beauty matched Rhett’s own swarthy looks. When they were alone, she would let him look up her skirt too. Rhett didn’t know exactly what this meant yet, but all the boys wanted to see and Annie charged most of them a quarter to look. He felt special because she gave him everything for free. As they grew older, some of the boys said that Annie let them touch her for a dollar. This was another benefit that Annie gave Rhett for free. Annie wasn’t his best friend, but by high school, Rhett was meeting her in places he shouldn’t be, and meeting Maggie in the library. His life was spent between the two girls and the girls remained the best of friends.
The years went by until, one day, Rhett realized that Annie never ever told Maggie openly about her relationship with Rhett – Annie was a two-faced brat. She never shared what she let Rhett do to her, even though Maggie was open about her feelings and intentions toward Rhett. Annie made fun of Maggie behind her back all the time. He caught Annie a few times with other boys. Each time, she explained that the boys had only needed someone to talk to and that it wasn’t her fault if boys liked her. Rhett had to agree. His better judgment told him that Maggie was the girl for him, yet Annie kept him entangled with her web of sexual promises and manipulation. He began to believe she had mental problems. It was as if she had two personalities.
“I’m weak, Rhett. I need a man like you or I’ll go off the deep end. You keep me sane,” Annie would plead every time he attempted to break up with her. She would flash those big dark eyes at him and do something naughty, and he simply couldn’t r
esist her.
He tried talking to Maggie about his problems.
“What you and Annie do is none of my business,” she would say. “You are both my friends and I want to keep it that way.”
Rhett admired Maggie’s tolerant attitude, yet felt unworthy of a woman like her. He deserved a weak person like Annie who needed his care. At times, he would look at Annie and worry that she was lying to him about everything. On those nights, he wished he were strong enough to leave her, rush to Maggie, and tell her he loved only her.
But he never did. Someday, Annie would get over this wild streak; she just needed a lot of attention. Plus, he needed the car her dad had bought for him.
By the time they graduated from high school, Maggie and Rhett had perfect grades and had been accepted to Emory University in Atlanta: Maggie in Literature, Rhett in pre-Med.
“I’ll be a Ph.D., but it’s still a doctor, right? Just like we always promised each other,” Maggie whispered in his ear at their combined graduation party.
Meanwhile, Annie had secretly made it with most of the school’s football team as well as the cheerleading squad. The day after graduation, she announced that she was changing her name to Natasha and would be moving with them to Atlanta because she wanted to be a lead singer in a band. She never told anyone that her grades had been so terrible that her father couldn’t even pay to get her accepted into a state school, much less Emory. So, as they had done since they were children, they remained friends and moved on to the next phase of their lives. “Natasha’s” father rented a one-bedroom apartment for her and Rhett, and Maggie moved into a studio across the hall from them in the Decatur neighborhood of Atlanta that was much like the tiny hamlet they had left behind in Tennessee.