by J. Schlenker
He could tell John was listening to Allison’s muffled voice but knew he couldn’t make out the words. The agitation John sensed coming from the other end was etched against the pinkish hue of his face. Still, he looked down at the table, seeming numb to Allison’s concerns and numb to the world.
“Just to get out of the cold,” Mark answered. He looked at John. It was apparent John knew she must have asked why they didn’t come straight home. That was expected.
The little man brought the soup and a basket of pita bread on a tray along with two small pots of tea accompanied by miniature spoons, a couple of mint leaves, small containers of honey and miniature glass cups. Their delicacy reminded Mark of something Molly would use for a tea party with her dolls. John looked at them and grasped the sides of his soup bowl in his red hands, which took on a resemblance more like the hands of a construction worker rather than those of a doctor.
“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” Mark said. “We’ll be home in maybe an hour, okay. Maybe you want to go ahead and eat, feed the kids, get them to bed.”
John kept his left hand against the bowl and poured the steaming tea into the dainty cup with his right hand, which was quivering. Mark returned his phone to his jacket crumpled beside him on the high-back bench seat.
“Tell me what’s wrong, John.”
“Where do I begin?” The words sounded so similar to the ones he heard coming from Allison earlier.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be asking this, being Allison’s brother and all, but are you having an affair?”
John didn’t look at all surprised by the question.
“No, Mark, I’m not,” John said with a sincere look in his eyes that stared back at Mark without flinching.
“I believe you.”
John looked into his teacup as if reading the minute leaves that had escaped the teapot filter, and looked back up at Mark. “Something did almost happen, once, but it stopped before it started. It was a while ago.”
“Well, then what is it, man? Is this some kind of midlife crisis?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Take a bite of soup,” Mark said. “It will warm you.”
John obeyed like a small child. His hands shook as he lifted the spoon towards his mouth.
“I think maybe after you get warmed up a little, we can get you home and maybe you can take a hot bath.”
Like a man with Parkinson’s, John maneuvered a couple more spoonfuls of soup into his mouth. Mark thought about his own bout with the cold earlier this morning and his sitting in the coffee shop for hours. What was happening? Was there something in the air, a virus that he had inflicted upon both John and Allison? Was it just some coincidence arising from their shared DNA? But John wasn’t a blood relation.
John looked up from his bowl, his shaking noticeably less, his hands gripping the bowl in a more tranquil manner, his speech less slurred. “I have always been jealous of you, Mark.”
“John, I’m sleeping in your guest room. Shelly and I broke up. Well, it was more like she threw me out after she told me she ditched me for a flying monkey.” Mark noticed a slight grin on John’s face.
“I thought you had a fear of flying monkeys.” The old John was coming back.
“Allison told you that?”
John smiled.
“This morning, like you, I wandered around in the cold. Then I found a coffee shop. I sat in there for hours. Then I went to my dead-end job at the record store. Then I knocked on your door looking for a place to stay. I hope you don’t mind. I only have the clothes on my back. Oh, and I wore your gloves. I hope you don’t mind that either.”
“I thought they looked familiar,” John said.
“My guitar is back at the apartment, the one that I seem to have lost the key to. I’m not really sure if I should even go back for it. I haven’t written a song in months. Maybe I should ask Mom and Dad for money to go to college. I’m sure they would be delighted, but the only thing I really care about is music. There’s the conundrum, once again, I haven’t written a song in months. And you are jealous of me? Go figure.”
The waiter or owner came by the table. “Anything else, more tea?” he inquired.
“Yes, that would be fine. How about some hummus and more bread?” John asked.
He took the emptied teapots and shuffled away.
A grin came to John’s face, now turning to more of a flesh tone. “I saw Shelly today, but she didn’t see me. I was so looking forward to free tickets for Wicked. I guess those are out now?”
“I’m glad my life has cheered you up,” Mark said half in sarcasm and half jokingly.
“I’m still jealous.”
“Really? How so?”
“You have your whole life ahead of you. You’re still young. You’ll meet the right woman. Shelly wasn’t her. Actually, I kind of liked Rain. Any chance of getting back with her again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, you have your whole life ahead of you, anyway. No debts. No real worries.”
“Yeah, man, I’ll figure it out. But what are you going to do?”
Mark’s phone went off. He reached into his pocket and looked down and said, “Allison. Your wife is nothing if not persistent.”
“Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t already know.”
“And, she is also worried. Do you want to talk to her?”
“No, tell her everything is fine, that we haven’t ordered dessert yet, and we’ll be home in about an hour, and like you, I’ll figure it out. Don’t tell her the last part. Tell her we’ll bring her some baklava.”
Mark looked around and saw they were the only ones left in the restaurant. The man he assumed was the owner was sitting a couple of tables over, drinking tea and looking over receipts. He caught Mark’s eye, “Is there anything else I can get for you. I need to lock the door. We’ll be closing soon. We close early on Mondays.”
“What time do you close?”
“Nine.”
John looked at his watch, 8:45. “Do we have time for some baklava?” John asked.
“Sure,” the man said.
“And could you bring us about six to go?” John asked.
“Certainly, just a moment.” He took a gulp of tea and shuffled back towards the kitchen.
“Mark, what are the odds that we both were stranded out in the cold today? Well, I wasn’t stranded. I just chose to sit out in the friggin’ cold.”
“I guess it’s one of those coincidences.”
“Hmmm. I don’t believe in coincidences.” John laughed.
“What is it then?”
“I don’t really believe things are just coincidences. I’ve always thought things happened for a reason. You would think I would be more of a pragmatist. Aren’t most doctors? It’s really quite funny, isn’t it?” He laughed again. “Maybe that’s why I liked Rain so much. She wasn’t conventional and neither are you. That’s why I envy you.”
“And, I admire you because you are conventional. I need to be more normal.”
“What’s normal?”
The man shuffled back, tray in hand with more tea and a couple of plates of baklava along with a paper bag. He took his time placing it on the table. Then he said, “Life is short.”
“I agree,” John said.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but I feel you are going through some troubles,” he said, belying his Greek accent.
“Yes, you could say that,” John replied.
The man looked directly into John’s eyes with his own sunken, aged, watery eyes, a lifetime of wisdom emitting from them. “Maybe it is trouble with your marriage, maybe it is trouble with your profession, or just your life. Whatever it is, you should make it work. You look healthy. You’re in the prime of your life. Do something before it is too late. For years, my wife and I barely tolerated each other. We had six lovely children and fourteen grandchildren. Still, we were unhappy. We came in to this restaurant day after day. We never took a vacation. It
was always, work, work. We came from Athens when we were in our twenties. We always talked of going back one day. We never did. Then my wife noticed a lump. She went to the doctor. She had waited too late. Sure, she could have spent her time having operations, chemotherapy, but the prognosis was not good. I remember how she looked at me with tears in her eyes, the eyes I had never really bothered to look into before, not really look into, the way a man should look into the eyes of his wife. ‘It’s now or never,’ she said in a pleading voice. We traveled back to Greece. We forgot about the restaurant. We forgot about our worries, what we thought were our worries. We quit taking life so serious. We regained our youth if only for a month. We were both the happiest we had ever been. All those years wasted, but at least we finally lived. We fell in love, I think, for the first time.” The man snickered, “We made love like hungry teenagers.”
“So, your wife recovered?” Mark asked.
“No, we returned. Two months later, she passed. But she died happy. I held her hand, and she was surrounded by family.”
Mark noticed a tear leaving one of John’s eyes as he said, “Thank you,” and handed him a hundred dollar bill. “I hope this will cover it.”
John said thank you once again to the old man as they left the restaurant. The little man gave John a look of knowing that only old men who have loved and lost can do.
* * *
Mark and John walked the few blocks back to the house in silence until right before the door when Mark asked, “You were carrying a hundred-dollar bill and then sat outside slumped over in the snow. Weren’t you afraid of being mugged?”
“I withdrew it at a bank near the subway,” John said. “I had intended on not waiting until the last moment for Valentine’s Day this year. It’s this weekend, you know.”
“I forgot.”
“Well, I guess you dodged a bullet there, Shelly breaking up with you before Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s one good thing that came out of it.”
“Mark, I think it was probably a good thing, all the way around. You don’t see it now, but you will.”
“I think you’re right. I know you’re right. After today and everything that has happened, I’m pretty sure I’m over her. Fastest break-up recovery ever. The only thing is I still have to go back and get my stuff, and I’ve lost my key.” He paused. “John, I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. About both of us being out in the cold. This morning, something happened. This morning seems so long ago. But, there was some kind of serenity that settled over me.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I saw a guy on some show. He could brave the cold, swim in icy water. He was able to control his body temperature. He lives in Holland. I had thought about taking one of his workshops once, but I got sidetracked. I seem to always get sidetracked from what I really want to do. Then, the guy at the restaurant, well, what he said. Maybe you’re right about coincidences. Maybe they mean something. All this stuff I’ve read over the years, you would think I wouldn’t ignore them.”
John placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out together. I guess you’ll be staying at the house for a while. Might even be bunkmates after tonight.”
* * *
A little while later, John opened the door. Allison wrapped her arms around him, and Mark said good night and went up to his room.
Chapter 15
Indigo
* * *
I AM THE mind’s eye, your guide to deeper consciousness. Behold me above. I hold the stars in place. Behold me within. Travel on a magic carpet through the corridors of your mind. I am intuition, imagination, your dreams and insights.
I am grapes, eggplants, blueberries, the night sky, the starry night of Van Gogh. I originate from India, high in the Himalayas, where great sages and yogis roam.
I am the sixth chakra. I am visualization, the forte of artists. I reside in your brow. My imagination is endless.
Do not neglect me. You will suffer with poor memory, a lack of vision and imagination. I come in dreams, but you won’t remember.
But don’t dwell too much on me. Don’t keep your head in the clouds. You might become delusional and have nightmares.
I am vision, your sight. Guard me well.
I am your dreams. Write me down. I am your imagination. Dare to dream big. Paint me, draw me, write me. I am your intuition at its highest.
Chapter 16
Emerald, Chad and Vincent
* * *
“HAVE YOU EVER seen such bold colors?” Emerald asked looking down at her son by her side.
“It’s like the painting in our apartment, only brighter. Is Dad in this one, too?” Chad asked.
“You remembered. Yes, he is. But the one in our apartment is a copy. This is the real one. That’s why it’s brighter. Just look at those colors.”
“By Van Gogh.”
“Vincent Van Gogh, mommy’s favorite artist. Vincent’s The Starry Night.”
“My favorite painting of all time, Mom.”
“Because Dad’s in it?”
“Yes,” he said, snuggling up next to her side, a wisdom and sadness coming from his young eyes that suggested he had more memories of his father than she had previously thought possible.
“I would love to paint like that.” She bent down to his level. “You know, Chad, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we could take a trip after school’s out, or maybe even during spring break. We could go to Amsterdam and see a lot of Van Gogh’s paintings. There is one entire museum dedicated to Van Gogh.”
“We studied about Amsterdam in school.” Chad’s posture straightened with this declaration as the bright, sparkling eyes of a little boy without a care in the world returned. “They have lots of canals, and that is where Anne Frank hid in an attic,” he said proudly, eager to recount and impress his mom with what he had learned in school.
“Yes, and we could see the actual building where Anne Frank stayed. It’s a museum now. Would you like that?”
“Really? Yeah!” He grew silent for a moment as if in deep thought. “But, it’s far away. We would travel in a plane?” he asked in a manner as if he were surprised by his own powers of deduction.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a long trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Your father and I talked about it before you were born. We said someday that we would go to Amsterdam, to the Van Gogh Museum. I guess it will be just you and me now.”
“Aunt Syb and Uncle Clark wouldn’t go with us?” he asked. Syb and Clark were such a big part of their lives that it was even hard for her to imagine just her and Chad being on their own anywhere. Could she manage a whole week without Syb and Clark to fall back on? The whole idea of being so far from them was brave on her part. What was she thinking? Could she? She must. It would be good for both her and Chad. It would also give Syb and Clark some free time to themselves.
“No, Aunt Syb has the coffee shop to run, and Uncle Clark has his law practice,” she said as casually as she could muster, trying not to think about how dependent she had become on her sister and brother-in-law since Michael’s death. “I don’t think they could get time off. And besides, wouldn’t it be nice, just the two of us?”
“I guess.” Chad nodded.
Raising back up, she once again directed her attention towards the painting. “Van Gogh produced over two thousand works of art, all of that, and he only lived to age thirty-seven.”
“That’s old,” Chad said, his eyes growing big at such a preposterous age, already forgetting that he would not see his aunt and uncle, who he was used to seeing everyday, for a solid week, maybe two. She marveled at how pliable a child of his age could be. Van Gogh, like most adults, had never lost that innocence.
“I hope thirty-seven isn’t old. Don’t let Aunt Syb hear you say that. She’s thirty-eight. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, I guess. Can we walk by Rockefeller Plaza and watch the ice skaters?”
“Yes, we can do that.” She smiled, taking
hold of his hand.
* * *
“Oh, he fell,” shouted Chad. “Can we skate?”
“Not now. We’ll come back on the weekend.”
“You mean Uncle Clark will bring me to skate on the weekend.”
“No, I’ll bring you.”
“But don’t you have to work at the coffee shop?”
“No, not for a while. I’m taking some time off, so I can spend more time with you. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
“Yeah, sure, I guess.”
“You just guess?”
“Yes, I’ll like it.”
She ruffled his hair. “You know, we need to get you a haircut. A haircut before the trip would be good.”
“Not like Brad.”
“Why? What kind of haircut does Brad have?”
“He got a buzz cut.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t get a buzz,” she said distracted, her eyes gazing towards the rink.
“Mom, what are you staring at?”
“The ice. Mom’s staring at the ice,” she said as if almost in a trance.
“Why?” he asked, annoyed and impatiently, aptly portraying the attention span of an eight year old.
“I’m trying to see its colors,” she said, her eyes focusing on one single spot.
“It’s white,” Chad said with a huff suggesting the answer was so obvious.
“No, it’s more than white. It has all the colors,” she said, her attention still transfixed by what lie beneath the shiny blades running back and forth over it.
“No, Mom, it’s white,” Chad said in a solidifying, confirmative terseness.
She broke her intense observation of the crystalline solid with the etched lines of skate marks covering it and shifted her look to Chad. “No, you’ll see,” she said with a determination. “I’ll paint it one day, and I’ll show you all the colors that go into it.” She looked back at the ice, smelling its coldness along with the pungent aroma of oil paint and linseed oil. She could feel her grip on the wooden handle of the brush and the impression of the bent bristles giving a slight indent to the canvas as it left behind its trail of hues.