The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  “But, Daddy, his cousin is our gardener.”

  “Really? Well, in that case, I guess I’ll have to leave it alone. But that’s okay—it’s still like keeping it in the family. And that’s really the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, Daddy.”

  “But what say we go sit on the front deck, where the view is much nicer and the air’s a bit cooler at this time of day?”

  And rising from his chair, Mr. Coleman led Lisa and Mitch up the front steps and into the house.

  As they entered the living room, he turned to Lisa and Mitch and said, “My wife is somewhere about. If I can find her, I’ll introduce her to your young man here. She likes writers, you know, and in fact has had an affair with one or two of them, I believe, though women are always tight-lipped about such matters…except among themselves, of course.

  “Consuela, pregunta mi esposa nosotros unir en el patio, for favor.”

  “Si, señor.”

  “Good woman, that, and a wonderful cook. I believe she and Lope are married. Am I right, Lisa?”

  “They’re brother and sister, Daddy.”

  “Oh, yes—that explains why they look so much alike. Wondered about that, you know. But, in any case, they’re a wonderful team. Great to have on board. Don’t know what we’d do without them.”

  He opened the sliding glass door to the patio, and the three of them walked out onto a broad, cantilevered deck affording a one-eighty view of Portland proper and its environs as well as of distant snow-capped peaks.

  Mr. Coleman turned to Mitch. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”

  “Mitch.”

  “Ah, yes—Mitch. I assure you it won’t happen again. But, Mitch, would you like a cocktail or a cool beverage? I’m going to have a cool beverage, myself. It’s early in the day for cocktails.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Right. So, Coke, Sprite, Mountain Dew…”

  “Coke.”

  “Lisa?”

  “The same.”

  Mr. Coleman brought two tall glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola back to the deck table and handed one to Lisa and the other to Mitch. He went back to the wet bar, opened a lower compartment, and took out a bottle of Mountain Dew for himself.

  “So, what do you think of our magnificent view?” he said to Mitch, coming back to the table.

  “I’m speechless. It must be absolutely wonderful to sit out here on a summer morning and watch the sun come up over the mountain. It does come up over the mountain, doesn’t it?”

  Mr. Coleman emitted an indulgent chuckle. “There’s a seasonal shift one way or the other, of course. But, indeed, there’s nothing like it. It’s one of the timeless pleasures of existence, if I may say so. But it can be equally enjoyable on a clear autumn evening, with a full moon just over the mountain. And, of course, on a balmy summer evening, when my wife and I have patio parties, complete with a small combo and dancing, there’s nothing quite like it.”

  “It’s a little hazy today, though, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, there are days when it’s quite smoggy. At such times, it all seems kind of blurry…But here she is, Natalie, my wife, and, in no small capacity, the Queen of the House. Honey, this is Mitch, Lisa’s new young man. He’s a writer…”

  “Oh, how marvelous!” Mrs. Coleman said, extending a freshly manicured hand. “I do so love writers. Even the ones still struggling to get into print always have such fascinating viewpoints. I never tire of listening to them; of course, they never tire of talking, either. But have you been writing long?”

  “Long enough to know what a rejection slip is.”

  Mrs. Coleman gave an amused laugh. “The dreaded bugaboo of all fledgling writers. I can only wonder at those who manage to stay with it. But what kind of writing do you do?”

  “I’ve translated a few things from Spanish into English, and I’ve done a few screenplays. Of those that I have done, none of them have been accepted yet, but I’m always hopeful. The main problem seems to be the query letter—apparently, there’s an art to writing them, an art that I haven’t quite mastered, because whenever I do write one and send it to an agent, it’s like blowing it off to the moon—I seldom hear back. Anyway, right now I’m gathering material for a novel. I hope to start it soon.”

  “Fiction can be so difficult,” Mrs. Coleman said. “I tried a romance novel once, but it turned out to be a disaster. I managed four hundred pages before realizing that it just wasn’t going to work. I took one look at it and said, ‘Oh, dear!’ And that was the end of that.”

  Mitch smiled knowingly. “I’ve used similar expressions,” he said. “But I wouldn’t repeat them in polite company.”

  They all laughed good-naturedly.

  “But, then, so you speak the lingo? Excellente!”

  “Not as much as I used to. Actually, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to use it. It’s more the case now that I’ll recognize a word without quite remembering its meaning.”

  “But that’ll all change quickly enough,” Lisa put in hurriedly. “He’s going to work with me now, in the migrant camps. Isn’t that so, Mitch?”

  Mitch gave her a quizzical look, then said, “Yes…as a matter of fact, we were talking about it on the way up here. And I’m kind of excited…it’ll give me chance to brush up.”

  “I think that’s wonderful. I’m so proud of Lisa and her efforts on behalf of the poor dears. They’re such hardworking people, and they do so deserve our support.”

  “They certainly do,” Mr. Coleman agreed heartily. “And I have nothing but admiration for them. I’ve had Koreans and I’ve had Vietnamese working for me, but Lope and Consuela are, by far, the best. They’re worth every dollar I pay them.”

  “How are you doing with your drink, Mitch?” Mrs. Coleman asked. “Would you like me to freshen it for you?”

  “Sure. I could use a little more Coke.”

  He held up the glass for Mrs. Coleman, and she took it.

  The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Mr. Coleman talked about the trucking business, complaining about the high cost of fuel and government regulations that forced him to limit the number of hours his truckers could drive.

  “I have a hundred trucks on the road at any one time,” he said. “You figure it out—if I could get another one or two hours’ driving time out of them, I could deliver my goods that much faster and make that much more profit.”

  Mrs. Coleman agreed sympathetically. “I have a modeling agency,” she said. “I specialize in photography models and product demonstration. I practically have to baby-sit some of my girls. They’re either having problems with their boyfriends or they’re getting sick or they’re just being irresponsible. And if one of them doesn’t show up, for whatever reason, I don’t make any money. Yet they all want to get paid. It can get to be a real merry-go-round at times…”

  They chatted amiably a bit longer, and then Consuela came out onto the deck and announced that dinner was ready.

  “You will stay to have dinner with us, of course, won’t you, Mitch?”

  “Anything but fried eggplant.”

  “Fried eggplant? My goodness, I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Mr. Coleman clapped Mitch on the shoulder and said, “Not one of my favorites, either, my boy!”

  “It’s Mexican night,” Mrs. Coleman reassured him. “And Consuela is treating us to one of her special dishes. She’s never disappointed yet.”

  They all rose from their deck chairs.

  Mrs. Coleman, walking on his left, slipped her arm through Mitch’s; Lisa, on his right, took him by the hand.

  Beaming approvingly, Mr. Coleman slid the patio door open, and they all went inside.

  26

  Heidi loathed the thought of throwing in the towel. She had come too far even to think about it. Ed just did not understand what it meant to her. He had his job and his career. Every day when he walked out of the house, he, in effect, renewed himself. H
e arrived at his office and immediately became absorbed in a profession that he not only had trained for, but one that repeatedly allowed him to express a natural talent he had been fortunate enough to recognize early on and develop into a specific set of skills. She, of course, had been to college—and an excellent one at that—but her education, while formidable, had not been designed to equip her for an immediate field. As a double major—she had studied both literature and political science—certainly she had acquired verbal skills, enhanced writing ability, mental acuity, and a broad spectrum of knowledge about public affairs and the decision-making process; and certainly one could not discount the personal satisfaction derived from the achievement. But achievement for its own sake did not quite fill the need for something deeper. There had to be more to it than the acquisition of mere window dressing.

  Her first choice would have been politics: something local to gain experience and contacts, and then perhaps something at the state level. With the set of skills she had, she had no doubt she could succeed. Public service was a worthwhile calling and one that attracted, if not rewarded, some of the brightest and the best. There was no reason she couldn’t be a player—throw herself into the mix, and shine. She had enthusiasm, confidence, ambition, and talent. She only lacked opportunity.

  That had come quickly enough, though not in the way she had envisioned. At the outset, she became involved in several programs designed to assist homeless individuals recover a modicum of dignity with job training and counseling. Her role had been as an advisor, and, over time, she had come to appreciate its useful and, indeed, vital function. But she also came to realize that rejuvenating and uplifting the homeless did not give her the kind of exposure she required if she were to move into the public realm in any meaningful way. For that, she needed to get out of her assigned role as a virtual bureaucrat and into something…sexier.

  The “bread runs” she had organized had, for a time, done the job of getting her out and about among the masses, so to speak. To make them successful, she had enlisted the help of a variety of volunteers: college students looking to beef up a curriculum vitae, church members out to follow the precepts of the Gospel, a few bored and curious individuals looking for a “different” experience, those who simply wanted to help others, and a few like-minded souls out to acquire a particular set of credentials. It was always an odd bunch that accompanied her on nightly excursions down to the seedier parts of the city, where the homeless, the shiftless, and the outright hopeless cases tended to dwell: under bridges, in city parks, the alleyways, and in doorways. But the motives of those who helped her did not really matter. She gave little thought to why any of them tagged along, or even to whether they would stay for the long haul. Some came along for one or two nights only; others could be counted on for weeks at a time. She was just thankful that, finally, she was on to something that would give her, via an occasional article written up in the Oregonian or in one or two Portland weeklies, visibility: a visibility she hoped to capitalize on when the time was ripe.

  It all may have happened thus, as planned. She may indeed have reached the zenith of her aspirations by becoming a member of the city council, a neighborhood representative, even the mayor…then perhaps on to a state office. Unlikelier things had come about in the city of Portland. The anomaly of a relatively unknown woman breaking into the ranks of elected officials certainly had precedents; all one had to do was persevere. The road ahead may have been narrow, but it was straight.

  The revelation of misguidance occurred one evening, apropos of a news article she had read about global warming. Up to this point she had taken to heart the dire predictions promulgated by a number of the world’s prominent scientists. In the face of so much overwhelming evidence, she had never been a doubter. She gave unqualified credence to the generally accepted claim that global warming posed a massive threat to the ability of the earth to sustain many of its life systems. Only a fool or an ignoramus, she thought, could fail to see what was at stake. And only a fool or an ignoramus could sit idly by and not attempt to do something to reverse the situation. Certainly, helping the homeless population on Portland’s city streets was high on her list of priorities. And she was ever cognizant of how she might personally benefit by building a reputation as a Good Samaritan (indeed, in that respect, she had come to appreciate that among the homeless she had become known as an “Angel of Mercy”). But priorities can shift, and over time hers had shifted.

  She did not give up entirely the effort to reach out to the human shipwrecks that shuffled along gritty sidewalks during the daylight hours and, at night, sought out a place of repose and refuge, whether in a back alley or in an arboreal encampment on the side of a hill. She continued to administer to them with almost as much regularity as always. At the same time, she became more involved with environmental issues. Her awareness of how much needed to be done—not only to inform the public (books, magazines, television programs, etc. abounded for that purpose) but as well to provoke and stimulate discussion—rose to a level commensurate with her own educational efforts. The more informed she herself became, the more she realized that the academic approach did not have the potential to arouse public awareness as much as an outrageous act, an act purposely intended to trigger a chorus of viewpoints and opinions, condemnatory or otherwise. Taking a page from the Earth Liberation Front, as well as from Greenpeace, she decided that unequivocal audacity held the better hope of shaking people loose from their complacency…

  § § § § § §

  Heidi had phoned Rick earlier that day and asked to get together with him. She told him she wanted to talk about his notion of going to Montana to look after his buddy. While not committing herself, the idea sounded interesting, she said, and she wanted to hear more about it.

  They met at the same coffee shop where he and Jody had met a few weeks before. He showed up shortly after she did and after buying coffee and donuts for himself joined her at a table in the rear of the shop.

  “You’re looking good, Rick,” she told him, after he settled into place across the table from her.

  “It’s my new image,” he said, referring to a fresh haircut, a pair of pressed chinos, a new pair of Nike Runners, and a plaid shirt to go along with his corduroy jacket. “I’m thinking about leaving ‘The Life’ behind. I’m gonna take some night classes at Portland State.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful, Rick! But when did you decide all this?”

  “My past is catching up with me, Heidi,” he said, sitting back in his chair and affecting an expansive and open demeanor. “I’m getting older. And I just decided I want to take a different direction. I’ve seen too many of my buddies get wasted by drugs and booze, and I don’t wanna go that way. You either die young, you go to prison, or you wind up feeling that you wasted your life. I think I’m destined for something else…”

  “That’s just great, Rick—really—I don’t know what to say. But congratulations. Anything I can do to help, let me know. Education is something I’ve had plenty of, and I know what a life-changing experience it can be.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t stay in one place forever, can we? If we do, we miss too many opportunities. But, speaking of looking good, you’re not looking bad yourself, Heidi. What have you been up to, anyway?”

  “You mean Jody hasn’t told you?”

  “I haven’t talked to her in a while. I called about a week ago, but she didn’t pick up. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “I think she’s still struggling with what happened. She’s been up and down with it. Real moody lately…”

  “What did happen?”

  “That’s right, you don’t know, do you? How would you?”

  She spent the next few minutes going over the events of that night. A new commitment to environmentalism had brought Whit out of the closet, so to speak. He had wanted to take a more active role in the group’s effort to inspire greater public awareness and, to prove his sincerity, had joined them in their latest activity. Getting
right down in the trenches with everyone else, he had done his share of “handiwork.” Unfortunately, his enthusiasm got the best of him. A wild impulse had resulted in a fatal accident. It had happened so quickly that no one had time to react, and the aftermath had left everyone feeling dejected and ready to quit. At this point, she herself wasn’t even sure if they hadn’t, unofficially, disbanded.

  Finishing up, she said, “I suppose someone should have told you earlier. After all, Whit was a friend, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah…Whit was my man…I’m really sorry to hear about it. I knew a few people he knew. I’ll have to let ’em know. But, hey, you deal with your grief and then life goes on. I’ll have a drink sometime, in honor of his memory. Not much more you can do, you know?”

  “We thought a memorial would be nice. But, so far, everybody’s still spooked by the whole thing. At this point, it’s not something most of them even want to talk about.”

  “I can understand that,” Rick said. “Something like that puts a hole in your sense of expectations. But, listen, do you really think the group might break apart?”

  Heidi swirled her cup of coffee, as though rolling a set of dice and hoping they would come up snake eyes. The very same question had plagued her for the past couple of weeks, since the accident, and while she thought she could count on Jody and Lisa, she had doubts about the others. To the extent that they had not even contacted her, which none of the others had, she felt intuitively a definite sense of dissolution. Her own instinct, undeterred by the magnitude of the setback, was to go on. She truly believed and accepted the wartime maxim of inevitability: people got caught in the line of fire, casualties were to be expected, horrible things happened. But she also believed in the necessity of the fight. If someone didn’t take a stand, bring to the forefront, even in objectionable ways, the risk of not doing anything about the environment, the consequences would be greater than anyone could imagine. For all its resilience, demonstrated again and again over eons of time, Mother Earth was a finite capsule and one that evidently was becoming more and more susceptible to the miscalculations, rapacity, and interference of one of its creatures.