Never Again

by Heather Starsong

  “Now sit here.” He pulled out one of the chairs by the table. “I made muffins for you.” The tea kettle whistled. He bustled into the kitchenette, poured the tea, and took the muffins out of the oven. “Raisin bran,” he said as he set them on a plate. “Good for the heart.”

  We sat at the little table with tea and muffins.

  “Did you make any New Year’s resolutions?” he asked.

  “I’m always making resolutions,” I answered. “But I did make one last night.”

  “What did you resolve?”

  “To write a story. I started this morning.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “It’s about an experience I had.”

  “Would you tell me?”

  I sat silent, head bent, fingering the handle of my teacup. A wave of yearning surged up in me. I wanted to tell him. I longed to tell someone who would believe me, who would understand, who might even be able to help me figure out the fold in time. But he might not believe me. No one else had. He might think I was nuts, and that might spoil our friendship.

  I raised my head and looked at him. He had drawn his brows together and was watching me with compassionate eyes. Just waiting, present with me.

  “It feels like an important story,” he said at length.

  “It’s huge. It’s this extraordinary, I mean truly extraordinary, thing that happened to me on the mountain. The lightning was only—”

  I broke off and looked into his eyes again.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t believe me; you’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “Clara, I know you well enough to know you’re not crazy. You’re clearly a sensible and grounded woman, as well as being delightful and beautiful.”

  My hesitation broke. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “We have all afternoon. Hey, I’m a journalist. I love stories.”

  So I told him my story. The winter afternoon faded into dusk and then darkness before I finished. Lenny listened with rapt attention. Occasionally he exclaimed or asked a question.

  “That Zachary,” he growled at one point. “Don’t ever let me meet him. I’ll take out his knees.”

  But mostly he was silent, listening, I felt, with his heart.

  I finished by telling him how I’d seen the spaceship disappear into the sky. “And then they brought me down, and the next day I met you in the hospital corridor.”

  “That was a good day, when we met.”

  I smiled at him. “It was a good day.”

  He reached out his hand to me. His clasp was warm and solid. I felt vulnerable, having spilled it all.

  “Do you believe me?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. “I do.”

  I bit my lip, hope struggling with incredulity. “You do?”

  “I do,” he repeated. “It’s a strange story, but I believe you. I haven’t told you this, but between California and D.C. I spent some time running around Northern Arizona and New Mexico following up on tales about alien visitations.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I never got any solid evidence, but I heard enough stories to make me think there must be something behind them. But mostly I believe you because you’re you. How about some more tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Suddenly I was smiling all over my body.

  Over the fresh cup of tea, I shared with him my confusion about the fold in time, how none of my children or my friends remembered what we had experienced together in the year I was young, how the two autumns had blended, how just sitting with my journal the evening before had made my head spin again. I sighed. “I don’t even know how old I am.”

  Lenny drew his brows together into one wiry line above his eyes. “It’s a very interesting puzzle. I’m going to think on it.”

  I realized that it was growing late and I was tired.

  “I need to go,” I said. “It’s been a lovely afternoon. Thank you for the tea and muffins, and for listening to my story.” I got up slowly, stiff from sitting so long.

  “You look kind of worn out. You lived it all again. Do you want me to drive you home?”

  “That’s sweet of you. But then I wouldn’t have my car tomorrow. I’ll be okay.”

  He helped me on with my coat.

  “Thank you for believing me,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “Of course.” He gave me a brief, warm hug, before I stepped out into the winter night.

  On a Sunday afternoon in January, I opened my email and saw an announcement of a tango dance at the Avalon. I’ll go, I thought. It will be good to dance an hour or two, see my friends. So that evening I went, all unguarded. I changed my shoes in the dressing room, greeted several of my friends, settled in a chair at the edge of the dance floor, and looked around.

  Zachary was there. I caught my breath and froze. He hadn’t seen me. He was across the room by the refreshment table absorbed in a young woman with long, dark hair and lovely long legs, dressed in a very short red dress and very high red heels. I quickly lowered my eyes. In my lap a single white hair lay curled on the deep purple of my shawl. I plucked it off.

  That’s right. I took a long breath. I’m old now. It’s okay. He won’t recognize me.

  Still I kept my eyes down as a new tanda began. Before long I saw his feet in the shoes he had worn in all our dances together, moving by, intricately intermingled with the red high heels. After they’d passed I looked up. Roberto was smiling at me. I nodded. He came to me and we danced. Then Tim found me. After that I sat and wrapped myself in my shawl. I’d learned that if I rested after every two tandas I could last longer. As my resting tanda ended I glanced around for a new partner. Zachary was staring at me. He tilted his head, and I nodded.

  He started across the room toward me, his blue eyes intense and Elirian. Oh, my God, I thought. He’s coming to dance with me. Why did I nod? I should run. But I didn’t. I felt as if moved by fate. He came and waited in front of me, smiling, his left hand extended. I stood up and stepped into his embrace.

  It was as if I had never left it. I fit perfectly, my brow nestled against his cheek, our hearts touching. As we started to dance, I felt him begin simply; then as I followed his slightest cue, he gradually increased the complexity of his lead. I knew his ways. I followed him faultlessly. As we neared the end of the song, one we both knew and loved, he led me through his most intricate maneuver and gave a small exclamation as I matched his every step.

  Between songs, he looked at me in wonder. “You’re a fabulous dancer. I’ve never had anyone follow me like that.”

  At the end of the tanda he asked, “Uno más?” It was too uncanny. I should have answered, “No, gracias,” and fled. But I did not. The music began and I stepped into his arms. Lost in his embrace I was young again, tasting the sweetest delights of tango. When the third tanda ended, I struggled to keep back my tears. If he had kissed a tear off my cheek…

  “Come, sit with me.” He took my hand and led me to a table. “May I get you something to drink?”

  I nodded, biting back the words about no alcohol. I had to change something. Our meeting was unfolding almost exactly as it had before. I watched him weaving between the dancers crowded around the refreshment table, seeing again his elegance and grace.

  “Déjà vu, déjà vu,” I muttered to myself. I looked down at my hands resting on the table, the dry, fragile skin, the knuckles gnarled from years of body work, the brown spots, the blue veins standing out. It’s not the same. He appreciates my dancing, but sees an old woman.

  He was soon back with refreshments. He sat down and held out his hand. “My name is Zachary.”

  “Clara.”

  “Clara. That’s a pretty name. I think I knew someone once named Clara.”

  I broke out into a light sweat.

  H
e leaned across the table. “You’re an incredible dancer, you know. You must have been dancing tango for a long time.”

  He’s seeing the old woman, I told myself. I smiled and nodded.

  He handed me a glass of wine, lifted his. “To tango. The most beautiful dance of all. And to you.”

  “To tango and to you,” I replied. We clinked our glasses and sipped our wine.

  At least it’s not sparkling cider. Something is different.

  He leaned toward me again. “You have beautiful eyes. They remind me of something. I know—it’s this really strange dream I had when I was knocked out after skiing into a tree. You want to hear it?”

  Shivers ran through me. I nodded.

  “It happened last December when I first got here. I moved here from Seattle a couple of months ago. I’d been out skiing, way out alone in the backcountry. I like to get away from all the people. Anyway, I got out of control and ran into a tree. I must have been knocked out for a while, like I said. I had this dream that these furry creatures from outer space came and rescued me. They had eyes kind of like yours, real big and beautiful. In my dream I’d gotten seriously destroyed by hitting the tree. They carried me off to their ship, a round, silver thing, and fixed me and put me back down by the tree I had hit. I was okay when I came to, which is kind of weird because my skis were toast. But I guess I was just lucky. I was fine to hike out. Strange, huh?”

  I sat quietly taking slow, deep breaths.

  “I’d almost forgotten that dream. Your eyes reminded me.”

  I looked down at my old hands. Another breath. Then, risking everything, I lifted my head, looked into his eyes, and asked, “Are you sure it was a dream?”

  He stared at me, his mouth half open. Then he rubbed his brow and said, “Of course it was. Stuff like that doesn’t really happen.” The music for the next tanda began. “It’s a milonga. Let’s go.” He took my hand and led me out onto the floor.

  It was a fast, playful milonga as only Zachary could lead it. I loved it. My feet flew. I laughed with delight. And at the end of the tanda I was completely exhausted.

  “Thank you,” I said breathlessly. “That was really fun.”

  “Another?”

  “No, no thank you. I need to rest.”

  He took me back to my chair. I wrapped myself in my shawl and leaned back, struggling to steady my breath. Soon I saw him dance by with the long-legged girl in the red dress. When my breath finally calmed, I got up and slipped out.

  I sat in my car in the parking lot, leaning my brow against the steering wheel. “Crazy, crazy,” I muttered. “Oh, God, I’m exhausted. Just let me get home.”

  I gathered myself and drove home, bathed, and got in bed. No sleep. Finally I sat up, pulling the silver blanket around me. It was too cold to get out of bed and sit on my pillow.

  My mind reeled. If Zachary skied into the tree only last month, then what year is it, when is it? How could he have just done that and I have old hands? Maybe—maybe if he hit the tree just last month, then it’s the first year. Maybe the Elirians are still here. Hope surged up in me.

  Kiria! I cried out from my heart. I felt my call spiral out into the galaxy, fade in the vastness of space. There was no answer. It is too far, Rosiri had sung sadly. They were gone.

  My head pounded. I could not hold such divergent realities any longer. I slid down under the silver blanket and slept at last.

  In my dream I saw two banners floating in the sky, one above the other. In the upper one, brightly-colored images, like tiny movies, portrayed all the events of my life in the fold in time. In the lower one, the images portrayed my life since I had come down from the mountain as an old woman, all the way to dancing with Zachary that very night. The rest of that banner waved in the air, open and blank. As I watched, the two banners began to merge. In a burst of light they became one—and then were gone. Only the light remained, and I understood that the light was Now.

  Chapter 13

  After the dream, the shadows were gone. I felt clarified, present in a way I hadn’t been before. My life was now. One moment, one day at a time. I felt a renewal of energy. Even my headaches began to ease as if part of them had been my struggle to understand.

  I realized I was stronger even than I had been on the morning of my eightieth birthday. I could shovel the snow when it fell, take long walks around the winter lake, and enjoy my outings with Lenny. My heart remained steady, only slowing and accelerating as was appropriate to my activity. I knew that made a huge difference.

  One evening I invited Lenny to come over for dinner and a movie. He arrived on a late February afternoon. The days had begun to lengthen, but that afternoon was dark and cold with heavy clouds.

  “Smells like snow,” Lenny said as I took his coat.

  “Oh, is it supposed to snow? Have you heard a forecast?”

  “I never bother with forecasts. They say a flurry and we get a foot. They say a foot and nothing happens at all.” He handed me his beret and sat down to take off his boots. “I trust my nose more, and I’d guess by the smell that we’ll have snow before morning. Ah, the wood stove.” He went over to it, rubbed his hands together, then turned his back and stood up close to it. “You have such a cozy home. It’s a pleasure to come here.”

  I smiled at him. “It’s a pleasure to have you come.”

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “No, it’s ready. Come and sit down.” I turned down the overhead light and lit the candles. I’d roasted a chicken with all the fixings.

  He sniffed appreciatively. “I’m one lucky dude to have a woman friend that’s such a good cook. What movie are we watching tonight?”

  I started slicing the chicken. “Harold and Maude.”

  “Harold and Maude. I haven’t seen that one in thirty years. It was about a young boy with a fascination for suicide falling in love with an old woman, wasn’t it? A good story and really funny, as I remember.”

  “Yes, it’s one of my favorites. I haven’t seen it for a long time either. Maude’s a wonderful character. In the end, she’s the one who commits suicide, on her eightieth birthday, because she wants to die while she’s still full of life. I’ve always thought there was something to that.”

  “Now don’t go getting any ideas.”

  “No danger. I’ve already had my eightieth birthday—twice—and I’m still here.”

  “I’m curious,” he said a little later as we cleared the dishes. “What’s behind that door off the dining room? You’ve given me the tour, but never showed me that.”

  “Oh, that’s the master bedroom. It’s got its own bath and a big closet. I used to rent it out, but when my last housemate moved on, I didn’t bother to get another. I keep it shut off to save on heat. When my kids come to visit it becomes a guest room.”

  “Hmm. Did you like having a housemate?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve had good people come and go, some not so compatible. I guess I always hoped for more companionship, but my housemates were so busy with their own lives that I’d only see them passing through. Finally I decided that if I were going to be alone most of the time anyway, I might as well save myself the hassle of adapting to a new person. I do get lonely sometimes. It’s nice to have you come for dinner.”

  After we’d washed the dishes together, I stirred up the fire in the wood stove and we settled side by side on the couch to watch the movie.

  “Come here,” he said. He moved close to me and put his arm around me. Then he bent his head to look into my face. “Is that okay?”

  “It’s lovely.” I nestled up to his warm body. So lovely to be held.

  We both thoroughly enjoyed the movie, the touching parts, the funny parts, all the more for sharing them. I loved feeling his deep chuckle vibrate through both our bodies.

  When it was over, he stood up and stretched. I felt a pang of loss as his warm
body moved away from mine. “Great movie,” he said. “Well, I guess I’d better be moseying along.”

  In the front entryway, he sat down to pull on his boots. I handed him his coat and beret and turned on the porch light.

  When I opened the door, a gust of wind blew swirling snow across the threshold. “Whoa!” I exclaimed, stepping back. “You were right about the snow.”

  We peered out together. It was coming down hard, big flakes driven by a strong wind. There were already several inches on the porch.

  I closed the door. “Why don’t you stay here tonight?” I suggested. “I don’t like the idea of you driving all the way across town in that.”

  “I don’t like it much either. Thanks. I’d like to stay.” He smiled at me. “Then we can have breakfast together tomorrow morning.”

  “The bed in the guest room’s all made up. Or…” I was still warm all through from his arm around me as we watched the movie. “Or… if you like… we could share my bed, keep each other warm.” I blushed down to my toes at my impulsive boldness.

  Lenny’s eyes softened. A strange look crossed his face, almost as if he might cry. “That’s the sweetest invitation I’ve had in many a long year,” he said. He reached out his hand and I went into his arms. He held me close. “I would love to share your bed and keep you warm. Only, Clara… I don’t want you to be disappointed. My old man”—he set me away from him and gestured downward—“doesn’t stand up very well anymore.”

  “Oh!” I touched his cheek. “I won’t be disappointed if you’ll just hold me. It feels so good to be close to you.”

  “I can hold you. And I can still kiss. My lips work just fine.”

  “My lips work okay, too.”

  “Let’s see.” He drew me back into his arms and kissed me. Gentle kisses on my face, then my lips. Sweet kisses. Age only enhances the sweetness of a kiss.

  We stood in the entryway, lost in kisses. Then, just when my knees began to complain so much they distracted me, Lenny said, “Let’s find that bed of yours. We’re too old to be standing up for as long as I want to kiss you.”