Jonah

by Dana Redfield

  Coral Kay, I ask you…can you eat money? Can you shelter under money? Can you wear it?

  “You have to have money to go to the store. Dollars.”

  Yes, you're right. And on Earth, stores are wells and money is water.

  Lizbeth said we should take photos of my injuries. I should see a doctor and make sure the medical papers were sent to the insurance company as incriminating evidence. And she, noble soul, would testify on my behalf during the theatrical court scene she envisioned in her mind. I didn't know what I was going to do, but a high court drama was out of the question. Some things I could not do.

  I felt it would be an invasion of her privacy to ask why she was so anxious to help me, but I did discreetly inquire as to her future as Drake's secretary.

  She blushed. “I have this other friend? He's higher on the totem pole. I already told him I needed to transfer.” She flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I start tomorrow in accounting.”

  On the way home, to gather my thoughts, I parked in front of a darkened house on a residential street.

  What was I going to do? Whom could I talk to? Jo was dead.

  Not exactly a sign from the heavens…a patrol car pulled up behind me. The strobe light on top of the vehicle was pulsating red and blue. Up and down the street, yellow porch lights snapped on.

  The policeman packed a flashlight as big as a baseball bat. My hand came up to shield the brilliance. There were two, male and female, both suited up for enforcement.

  The man yelled at me to roll down the window. I pressed the button and down it wobbled and whined. Cold air rushed in. Identification and registration were demanded. As I fished in my purse, I could feel their eyes on me like furry gloves.

  While they inspected the papers, and me, across the street a woman came out on her porch to admire the moon. There is one on every block, Mercury in a housecoat.

  “Your turn indicator broken?” said the man.

  I shook my head.

  “Who hit you?” said the woman.

  “I fell. Off a ladder. I was painting. The house.” The lie leapt off my tongue like a coiled spring.

  “What color did you use?” asked the woman.

  “Chartreuse.”

  I was issued a warning ticket. The woman lingered. “Case you're interested, I know these nuns who take in women. Doesn't get any better, you know. A man punches you, next time he uses a club.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  She straightened, tugged her cap, and admired the moon. “Be careful driving to your chartreuse house.”

  The strobe light was still pulsating when I drove away, carefully. Find another side street and wait out the night? Check into a motel. Call an attorney tomorrow, pack a bag after Drake left for work. Skip finding out if a verbal abuser crossing the line to physical cruelty would next time use a club. Skip the nuns.

  Heading east, I turned the motel plan over in my mind. Seemed best. But unfair. Why was I night's orphan? So I trashed the house. Plate-glass windows are replaceable.

  North of the golf course, I stopped again, parking next to a row of tall trees, sentinels posted to guard the star-studded sky. There were tears as I remembered four months ago, seeing Drake with Lizbeth in the mall. I knew he was probably having an affair then. We had not been intimate for over a year….

  After I saw him with Lizbeth, I came home, went directly downstairs, and lit candles and incense. I sat down at my round table, and began to write. Fifteen, twenty minutes later, I realized my purse was still slung over my shoulder, and I still had on my dark glasses. I dropped my pen and covered my face with my hands. All the days of my marriage to Drake Borden Cromwell passed before my eyes, five years in one instant.

  I smelled something. A whiff of Diva eau de parfum floating down the stairs. The stairs creaked. In my mind's eye, I watched a woman in a long silver gown descend into my den. A blue lace veil covered her black hair.

  “Alcyone!”

  She squinted, scanning the room for signs of life. Seeing no one, she shrugged. I was never to Alcyone a person of any substance. She flexed her fingers, as if to warn the air she had come to mold it to her liking.

  I knew why she had come. To perform on me psyche surgery. My hand came to my neck. I imagined her, cleaver raised, standing beside a body bent over a chopping block. The body was Sister Glorianne's marriage to Drake, but the head that would roll belonged to me, the Writer, the escape artist. I had it worked out.

  I made a note. Possible plot development. Several characters in my novel would benefit from losing their heads. All of them women who think too much.

  Alcyone stepped over to the mirror on the wall and stared, fascinated, as if this were the first time she'd seen her reflection in anything but a pool of water. A mirror positioned just so, to catch Drake when he crept down to see if I was really working. Who was I kidding, hanging that mirror? A moose could slide down the stairs and I would miss it. When I write I go away, I told my husband. To no man's land. Drake is a man who must see and touch physical evidence. I showed him reams of paper adorned with words. “Soul maps,” I tried to explain. Try to imagine, try. Books that exist in no man's land were to Drake's mind utter nonsense.

  “Who's Alcyone?”

  Alcyone is a deception. She is the woman in magazines, on TV, and in the movies, who represents the best a female can be. She is wit, will, and whimsy, with just the right amount of kitten. She is the woman who evokes jealousy in other men, and dread in women who know themselves only as Eves. But beneath Alcyone's outward appearance is a warrior who can gather crows and invoke the power of a dark water star pen.

  Alcyone thought marriage was a trick, a trap, something we should avoid. But five years ago, even Alcyone was attracted to Drake. Soon after we married, Alcyone donned her blue veil and disappeared into the shadows, only to appear now and then to taunt me.

  Listen to me, Coral Kay. I was no real multiple personality. Nonetheless in my house lived four personalities in separate compartments. Damn the door slammings and sneaking about! I was at a point. Past the point of scuttling behind these discordant personas. When I confronted my husband, all of me had to be present.

  It is a curious thing that points of resolution often present as plain-faced schoolgirls, who in their expressions give no clue of the complex underthings they conceal beneath their crisp white blouses and pleated skirts. If I had seen through their disguises, courage would have failed me, and I would not be here now. No woman rushes into the arms of death, smiling, dreaming of the wonders she will encounter on the other side, on the dark side of the moon.

  Chapter F (6)

  In forty minutes Jonah has swept, swabbed, and shoved into bedrooms the junk and clutter of leisure weeks. He has waved a feather wand over dusty furniture and piled near the back door three jumbo-sized plastic sacks full of trash and several items Coral Kay will search for in vain.

  Whistling, he shuts the hall closet door against coats, boots, blankets, toys, umbrellas, hats, tennis racket, and a shoddy footstool. The back screen door slams. Jonah hears the sound of a car driving away. As he steps into the kitchen, the closet door flops open, disgorging the footstool, tennis racket, hats, umbrellas, toys, blankets, boots, coats.

  Coral is in the kitchen.

  “Where'd she go?” Jonah peers out the window. Thunderpaws is out there sniffing tire tracks.

  “Motel…” Coral opens the refrigerator door.

  “Is she coming back?”

  “Tomorrow—where're all the knives?”

  “You want a knife?”

  Coral wrinkles her nose. She holds up a hot dog and points at it, as if Daddy has had a stroke and can't remember that you have to split it before you put it in the microwave oven, so it won't burst, his own rule he made up.

  “In the drawer,” Jonah says. “I washed dishes.”

  He pours coffee into a mug, sits down at the table.

  “What did the woman tell you, Sugar?”

  “She's not thuh wom
an. She's Zion. Just Zion.”

  “So, what did Just-Zion tell you, Darlin'?”

  “Everything.”

  “Tell me, Punkin, tell Daddy every word.”

  Coral sticks the hot dog inside the oven, shuts the door, punches the numbers. The machine whirs. “Drake beat her up—”

  “Louder.”

  “DRAKE BEAT HER UP BECAUSE HE DIDN'T WANT TO GIVE HER ANY MONEY. YOU KNOW WHAT? SHE BURNED UP ALL THE BOOKS SHE WROTE!”

  The microwave beeps. Coral snaps open the door, reaches in a tentative finger. She whirls around. “Oh, Daddy!”

  Thinking she burned her finger, Jonah jumps up.

  “Zion made me forget McDonald's!”

  He sits back down. “She has the same effect on me. We'll do McDonald's very soon, I promise. Now tell me the rest, Sugar Plum.”

  “SHE KILLED ALL THE—”

  “Not so loud.”

  “She killed all the people inside her. And Daddy? She made CROWS come!”

  “Damn…a witch…”

  “But now she's got some other friends—some angels. Why are you looking so funny, Daddy?”

  “Tell you what, Coral. Tonight, we pack our bags, we fly to the dark side of the moon, and we plant potatoes.”

  “Wow. Zion went to the dark moon, too. Wow.”

  “Coral—did you take the cactus plant off my bureau?”

  Chapter G (7)

  By the waters of the sky, I prayed I had learned the lessons of marriage, woman to man.…

  I arrived home from Denny's around eight o'clock. The back door was unlocked. Drake had set right the kitchen table. A treasured vase, a gift from his mother, loomed in the center of the table. It was cracked down the side, and a big chunk was missing from the rim. He wanted me to see the severe extent of the damages I had caused. In the dining room, he had secured a tarp over the shattered patio door.

  One lamp was on in the den, the swag above the recliner where he sat, dressed in slacks, white shirt, and tie; he had been reading. When I walked into the room, he lowered the book.

  “Dinner engagement?”

  I sat down on the edge of the sofa, pulled off my woolen cap, and ran my hands through my hair. “A surprise invitation from a most unlikely friend.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  The ticks of the grandfather clock were gongs on a giant stopwatch as I reached down, down, to gather courage.

  “That agreement we signed that stipulates forfeiture of the estate, if income and property are concealed? You won big on a couple of dog races, Drake. Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Anger is a palpable energy. It beats up the air. All the cells that compose my body screamed in chorus—run! But a woman is more than her parts….

  “So now you want a divorce,” he said as calm as iced tea. “Just as life begins to get interesting. I don't like your timing, Zion.”

  I remembered the business trip he had planned, two weeks away. He seldom required me to accompany him on such occasions anymore. The event coming up was important to him—other wives would be present—at someone's cabin near a lake, somewhere.…I had forgotten the details. Was he suggesting I delay leaving until after the event? Impossible. Something had erupted today, and the lava was overflowing. If I did not walk now, the slag would solidify around my feet.

  I told him I wanted a check for ten thousand dollars. I was being more than fair. No muss, no fuss, no court appearance. Bon voyage. The end.

  “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, Zion. You think it grows on trees—” he snapped at the air. “I can just walk out and pluck it—ten thousand dollars?”

  “I realize it's a lot of money, but wouldn't a divorce proceeding as usually occurs in such circumstances be more costly?

  “Ten thousand—by Friday,” I said as fearlessly as I could. He said nothing.

  Tuesday morning I did not go upstairs to join Drake for breakfast. Doubtful he expected me to appear for the usual morning ritual, but still, this break in the routine, no matter the cause, scared Sister Glorianne half to death.

  “Who's Sister Glorianne?”

  When I was a young girl, I lived with a family of Mormons. I could not fathom their religion, but going to church was my first school. Aunt Jo warned me they would warp my mind. How could I explain that would not happen? I didn't understand it myself. Nonetheless, the Mormons did leave an imprint on me.

  Jo was the kindest woman…God, I miss her. But she was hardly a role model.…

  “Are you laughing or crying?”

  Both! The Mormons have a rather glorious ideal for women, Coral Kay. They are at the same time strong enough to push carts across plains and mountains, and gentle bird mothers, nurturing the flock. It's all home-baked bread, canning fruit, and stroking the brow of an honest, hard-working man. The reward is eternal partnership in a kingdom in the clouds. How could I have married without Sister Glorianne? She was the only one who believed the dream.…

  Tuesday, I couldn't think, eat, sleep straight, much less organize, make plans, pack. It was all so confusing. I was pretty sure that my reaction, finding Drake and Lizbeth, was fairly human, but it wasn't really me. That was scary. The Writer was supposed to walk the tightrope between my soul and the marriage. But she fell, and there was no net.

  I woke up Wednesday morning, feeling like my true self. In this glow, I realized that everything I'd written the past five years was false. When I wrote, it was the only light I knew, but it was cloudy light. Now the light was shining brightly. I felt elated. I was glad I had found Drake in bed with Lizbeth; glad he hurt me. Something had to wake me up. I suddenly realized—I had been in bondage, and was going to escape!

  I gathered up all that I'd written since marrying Drake, and took it out to the brick barbecue pit. I burned it all! I burned every word!

  But my elation was short-lived. Later I felt hollow, lost, frightened. Was I no writer, after all? Why then was I so driven to write? I should have been packing, but I sat at my table, brooding.

  I didn't burn my supply of blank paper. I picked up a pen and began doodling. The doodles became symbols and the symbols began to form a kind of language, like hieroglyphics. It felt familiar. Then I was afraid if I kept writing this way, I was going to…I don't know…lose my footing.

  Drake came home late that night. Drunk, I suspected. He crashed around upstairs, making violent noises. Soon a heavy silence descended, and I was able to sleep.

  Thursday, strengthened by something like grace, I was able to rent a U-Haul and pack into it what I could identify as mine. This something, this grace, this strength, whispered to me that the day was sufficient unto itself, which I translated to mean that I should go now, and not look back. But I had less than three hundred dollars and an old car. How was I going to live?

  Zion spent the night in a motel, arriving home Friday morning before Drake left for work. Habitual even in a crisis, he was seated at the kitchen table. As Zion stepped into the room, he lay aside his spoon and gave his bowl of Shredded Wheat a shove. Next to the bowl, she saw an envelope bulging with something. Then she noticed her husband's glare. And in that glare she knew that if ever he had loved her, for him it had been a brief enchantment, she knew it then.

  He said, “I had my attorney check on the value of that property your lezbo aunt left you in that sand pit of a town you call Apple Valley. Wonder of wonders. While my back was turned, Apple Valley transformed into the bicycling mecca of the West. Property values have soared. You're a rich woman, Zion. And you concealed that from me.”

  Zion felt herself shrink, a little girl screaming down a well. He wasn't going to give her the money. So what was in the envelope?

  He removed the contents. A quitclaim deed on the house and a divorce agreement, no contest from Zion. He pointed out a paragraph that stipulated forfeiture of the jewels and furs he had lavished on her. This was important to Drake. She almost laughed. When occasions called for such adornments, the jewelry felt like shackles, and the furs felt like what they were�
��animal hides. She assured him the jewelry was in the safe; the furs were in storage.

  Coral Kay, I admit I am not money-wise. But I knew this was a cheat. The house was three times the size of this one. It had a swimming pool, and was full of the finest things. My special world was a spacious room on the lower level. I could see out sliding glass doors for miles…trees, mountains, birds, sky. I filled the room with plants and special things. I strung tiny colored lights all about the room, and wrote by the light of these and candles. When I was in this room, I was the me Drake would never know, never control. And this he could not abide.

  But he had me now, and he knew it. Even with a good, expensive attorney, in a courtroom I would be grass, and Drake would be the lawn mower. I understood the politics of law less than I understood money. The very innocence that had attracted him to me was now the pillow he would smash over my face.

  “Don't these have to be notarized?” Zion asked him. She knew something about the law.

  Drake really smiled then. He showed that his lawyer friend had already notarized above the lines where Zion was to sign. He held up a gold Cross pen.

  “I sign in exchange for—”

  He pulled a check out of his shirt pocket. He waved it. Zion saw that he did this for enjoyment.

  She took the pen and signed her name on the papers. Drake gave her the check. It was for three thousand dollars, not ten. She had signed the illegal papers, she had given what he demanded. She handed it right over to him. But Drake was insane now. He wanted her soul, and because he couldn't have it, he punished her once more.

  He gripped her arm.

  “I treated you like shit, Zion. I married you because you were a doll baby I could buy for cheap. I bought you for amusement. But Zion, you failed me. At some point, you were supposed to realize I was using you, and get hot. You should have been incensed at the way I penned you up like some half-breed slave I bought at an auction. You should have fought me. You should have tried to rob me. You should have dicked the gardener instead of baking him and his fat wife zucchini bread.