The History of Soul 2065
Page 19
The locket was still there. Julie took a deep breath and held on to it for an extra few seconds, watching the youngsters and considering. But then she let her hand drop and began walking again, anxious to get to her destination. She couldn’t blame the kids—she remembered her own contempt for the aged when she was young. Because she had known, as all children know, that she’d never get old.
By the time she got to her destination, she was winded and already tired. She paused just before the steps to the building to catch her breath for a moment. But only for a moment. She wanted to get inside.
The library was typical of the type of building built in the mid-20th century: A low, one-story construction that had had seen better days. Julie made her way up the three steps, pushed through the front door, and then stood at the return desk for a moment to get her bearings.
To her right was the long, curved desk behind which the librarians had, for over half a century, stamped books in and out. While there were still librarians behind the desk, they no longer stamped books; instead, there was a separate table with a machine on it. You put your book on the machine to be scanned and then collected a little paper ticket that told you when you needed to return it. Julie had tried using the scanner once, but she just couldn’t get the hang of it; it made her feel stupid and lost in a future that she couldn’t understand. After that, she would just hand her books to a librarian to be checked in and out. They didn’t seem to mind.
Today, the young woman behind the main desk—her name was Maria, Julie remembered, and she had just been working there for about nine months or so—waited patiently until Julie pulled out the books that she had brought and placed them on the desk.
“Do you need the computer today?” Maria asked, and when Julie nodded, said, “Steven will help you. He’s got a couple of things to do, and then he’ll be right with you. Since we knew today was your usual day, we’ve already reserved a system for you.”
Julie smiled at her and went to sit near the “Recent Arrivals” shelf. She examined the books on it, finally choosing one and placing it in her bag to check out later. She then watched the after-school children and unemployed adults wander in and out of the building for about 15 minutes or so until Steven, a stout, cheerful young man with a shining bald head, came over to conduct her to one of the computers.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Today, besides checking her email, Julie also had to order more checks from her bank. According to the rules, the librarians weren’t supposed to help her with financial matters, but they did it anyway. “After all,” said Steven, as they finished up, “I might need help myself someday, if I’m lucky enough to get old.”
“Lucky,” Julie told him, “isn’t the word I’d use.” He smiled at her the same way they all smiled at her, as if she were five years old and anything she said didn’t really matter.
“You want to browse some more?” he asked. “Or are you just going to go straight to the auditorium?”
At 3 p.m. on Wednesdays, the library showed films in the back room—one of the main reasons she now tried to come every week.
Recently, the choice of films that the library had been showing had been, to Julie’s mind, unfortunate. The movies were fast moving and confusing, with little or no plot as far as she could tell. Just a lot of pretty people running around and shooting amid a lot of explosions—worlds in which Julie had no desire to spend much time, if any. But, she told herself, there was always hope.
This week, she took her seat in the first row as usual (because her Medicare-issued hearing aids weren’t worth shit). A large, flat-screen monitor waited up front, connected to a small laptop computer on which they ran the videos (they had replaced the old film projector about five years earlier).
She opened the book she had chosen—a biography of Alan Turing that was apparently a best seller these days—but couldn’t make herself concentrate on the words. Instead, she found herself remembering her mother, and the long years of caring for her. The men whom she occasionally dated but who never seemed to want to stay. The children she never bore, and the adoptions that never happened.
Of a life that seemed over before it ever began.
Thankfully, she was interrupted by Steven’s voice. She put the book back in her bag, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
The young man stood in the front of the small meeting room, looked out at her and the six other people there (two in wheelchairs) and said, “Before I introduce this week’s film, I have an announcement to make—a rather sad one, I’m afraid. Most of you may be already aware of this, but the city has decided to cut down on funding for the library system, and this branch has been slated for closure. We are trying to change their minds, but if we can’t, we will be closing permanently at the end of the month.”
Oh, hell, Julie thought. She took several long breaths to try to quiet the panic that was hitting her throat and stomach.
“Meanwhile,” Steven said in a fake-enthusiastic voice, “on with the show. This week, we’re going to do something a little different. Instead of a current movie, we’re going to show a film that was produced in another era of financial difficulties, and which was recently restored: Gold Diggers of 1933.”
Julie bit her lip and thought hard. 1933. Breadlines, poverty and desperation. Jazz, sound films, Roosevelt and the end of Prohibition. And the possibility of pushing your way up if you were young and healthy and smart enough.
Not a bad deal, actually—especially if you considered the alternative.
Steven started out of the room. On the way, he stopped at Julie’s seat. “I’m so sorry, beautiful,” he said. “I know you love coming here. If you want, I’ll see if there’s another branch that you can get to.”
“Thank you,” Julie said. “I’d appreciate that. This is, you see, the only chance I have to escape.”
The young man smiled sadly at her and left. Julie watched him go and then turned to the screen as the film started.
Ginger Rogers, pert, sexy and impossibly young, sang “We’re in the Money” while a line of young women dressed as coins swayed beside her. Julie knew these types of musicals; there would be a lot of big numbers with lots of pretty girls in elaborate costumes—and careful close-ups of smooth faces, bright eyes and darkly lipsticked mouths. She watched as the camera panned away from Ginger and across the anonymous faces of several chorines—young, cheerful, and completely unaware of what the future held.
There, she thought. That one. Fourth from Ginger, as pretty as the others but with a distinct look of intelligence in the knowing smile. Somebody, Julie mused, who would do whatever it took to earn a few spoken lines, or an extra 30 precious seconds on the screen. Who might welcome a bit of advice from someone who knew what was coming.
The camera moved on and the girl was gone.
Julie reached up with her left hand and clutched her locket—and just kept watching. Jazzy music and energetic dance routines. Sharp dialogue and wonderfully overt sexuality. It was the kind of film that Julie used to love—but now she just waited with barely concealed impatience.
The plot, such as it was, continued to unfold until it was time for the big musical numbers. Ginger and Dick Powell sang “Pettin’ in the Park.” The chorus chimed in, gamboling and singing in an obviously fake landscape of winter and ski chalets.
The camera focused in close on the faces of girls lying in the “snow” and beaming at the unseen audience, their faces surrounded by furred hoods, their eyes open and vulnerable.
And there she was again, the dark-haired girl with the knowing, lopsided grin.
It was a chance. Possibly Julie’s last chance.
She took a deep, careful breath, put the locket to her lips and blew gently. Her breath misted the amulet.
The film stopped, frozen at a single moment. There was a dissatisfied murmur from the audience; Steven ran into the room and to the computer. He poked at the keyboard, confused, trying to see what the problem was.
Something like surprise. Or fear.
I’m sorry, little girl, whispered the old woman. I’ve no time left to wait. You may not deserve this. But for the first time in my life, I’m going to be selfish. So whether you want to or not, you’re going to have to learn to share.
She hissed a phrase, quick and powerful and effective.
And escaped.
Sophia’s Legacy
A story of Rachel Bowman, Sophia’s great-granddaughter
1998
“Do you remember what we told you about your great-grandmother’s earrings?” asks Rachel’s Aunt Susan.
Rachel just shrugs. She’s irritable because she’s been pulled away from her weekly chess club match. But when Rachel’s mother came to the school that afternoon, she didn’t accept any excuses—she waited until Rachel had exhausted her arsenal of arguments and then just said, “This is important,” with that note in her voice that meant no more talking, get your stuff, we’re going home.
Now Aunt Susan opens her right hand and shows Rachel a pair of earrings with long, teardrop-shaped green jewels dangling from small gold wires. Rachel puts out a finger and touches them gingerly.
“We’re going on a small expedition,” Aunt Susan says. “To the park. And you get to wear the earrings.”
She hands them to Rachel, who has forgotten her pique in the wonder of owning such a lovely (and grown-up) pair of earrings. “But they’re screw-ons,” she says, a bit dismayed.
“We can have them converted to pierced later,” her mother says. “Meanwhile, just put them on the way they are.”
“Here, let me help,” says Aunt Susan. She carefully removes Rachel’s small gold hoops and screws the earrings on. “There.”
Rachel moves her head slightly; the earrings feel heavy and elegant as they swing against her cheeks. “Why am I wearing these to the park?” she asks. “And why are we going there, anyway?”
And then she stops, struck by a sudden, breathtaking thought. She asks in an excited whisper, “Are we going to do a Seeing? Am I old enough? Will we…”
“Never mind,” says her mother, but she smiles as she says it. “We’ll tell you when we get there. Put a sweater on; it’s getting chilly.”
The park is just across the street. Once they get there, Aunt Susan leads the way past the large lake where a few children feed the ducks and geese, into a grove of trees off the main road and down a darkened path. Rachel pauses as she sees a tall, old oak tree with a large, lower branch that is so large and weighted down by its foliage that it touches the ground. She walks slowly forward, looking past the green and gold leaves. “There’s another path there,” she whispers.
“Don’t dawdle, Rachel,” says Aunt Susan. “You can explore another time.” Rachel makes a mental note to remember the location of the hidden path and rushes to catch up. She could, she thought, persuade her best friend Annie to come with her and investigate the trail. It would be a shared adventure, like in a book.
They finally reach a small pond, dense with moss and surrounded by tall reeds. “We’re here,” her mother announces.
Several blackbirds squawk and flap away as they approach. Aunt Susan pulls a thin cloth from her backpack and spreads it out at the edge of the pond, and they all sit. They eat chicken salad sandwiches and drink flavored ice tea; Rachel’s mother gives her a brownie for desert while she and Aunt Susan share a small thermos of strong coffee. They put all the garbage into a plastic bag and stuff it into the backpack.
Then they just sit, the adults chatting casually about work and salaries and the rising cost of theater seats while a reddening sun slowly edges toward the horizon and a harvest moon pushes up against the darkening sky. Rachel’s a little nervous; although she’s pretty sure her mother and aunt know what they’re doing, she has never been in the park after dark, and her friends have told her all sorts of stories about the drug dealers, thieves, rapists and other human monsters that prowl there after everyone has gone home.
And then Aunt Susan looks at the sky and announces, “I count three stars.” She immediately pulls a thick candle in a large white glass out of her bag and places it in the damp earth by the pond, twisting it slightly to make sure it is secure.
“Rachel,” she says, and hands her a book of matches.
It takes three tries, but Rachel finally gets one lit and touches it to the wick. “We light this candle,” murmurs Aunt Susan, so quietly that Rachel can hardly hear her, “to bring peace to the soul of Sophia, daughter of Rokhl and mother of Isabeau.” The flame flutters in the night breeze like a tiny, incandescent banner.
Meanwhile, Rachel’s mother drags her right hand through the grass until she comes up with a long, slim twig. She begins to pull long strips of bark from it, revealing the smooth blonde heart of the wood.
“Listen, Rachel,” Aunt Susan begins, in the way that she began stories when Rachel was a little girl. “Every evening, after dinner was over and the children were put to bed, your great-grandmother Sophia would have the servants light the fire in her sitting room, pour two glasses of sherry, and set up the chess board.”
Aunt Susan’s eyes drift from Rachel’s face to the surface of the water, so Rachel stares into the pond as well, letting its small eddies and currents pull at the corner of her vision.
“Your great-grandfather Meyer would have gone into his study after dinner, presumably to read the evening paper, but actually to take a short nap. When Sophia was ready, she would send a servant to the study in order to bank the fire, and Meyer would wake up, put the paper away, and join Sophia. He loved to play chess with her in the quiet hours just before bed, and on their first anniversary, he gave her a carved chess set with pieces in the style of French and English Napoleonic soldiers.”
Rachel’s mother bends forward and dips the end of the twig into the water, clearing away the moss. When she sits back up, the water still ripples slightly; Rachel watches as they resolve into the wavy lines of her great-grandmother’s dark blue dress, heavy and rich with embroidery and tiny pearl buttons.
Sophia sat at a small mahogany table, carefully placing small, brightly painted figures in their places on the chessboard. Her dark auburn hair was neatly braided on top of her head. Her earrings glinted in the firelight. On the painted squares, the kings, queens and bishops were dressed in elaborate court costumes; all the other pieces were wearing blue or red uniforms and carried long, black rifles. It was a beautiful chess set.
She looked up from the board and smiled. “I’m ready,” she said.
From the other side of the table came a puff of gray smoke.
“My great-grandfather smoked cigars?” Rachel asks, shuddering slightly. “Ugh! How could she sit in the same room with those great smelly cigars?”
“Women put up with a lot of things in those days,” says Aunt Susan. “Cigar smoke was the least of it. And according to family stories, your great-grandmother liked the scent of cigar smoke. She said that it made her feel that she was at home, and that everybody was safe.”
Rachel privately doubts it. She looks at the woman playing chess, and watches how her nose wrinkles slightly when the smoke drifts her way.
“The interesting thing is,” says Rachel’s mother, “that however much your great-grandmother played chess, she only won against her husband once. And it happened exactly 100 years ago tonight.”
“Only once?” asks Rachel, annoyed, although she isn’t sure why. “Was he that good at it?”
“Yes,” says Aunt Susan. “He was. He also liked winning. And his wife knew it. Oh, hell!”
A pigeon has miscalculated and has landed at the edge of the pond, close enough so that his wings flap at the water, disbursing the image. Recovering quickly, he turns and stares at the three visitors, hopeful that they’ll toss some food.
“Sho
o!” says Aunt Susan. “Go away!”
Rachel’s mother tosses a small rock in the bird’s direction, careful to miss it by several inches. The pigeon skitters back, but then returns and examines the rock to make sure it isn’t a particularly heavy piece of bread; disappointed, he pokes through his back feathers a few times to prove he is master of his own fate and wanders away into the grass.
The ripples caused by his passing gradually subside. While they wait, Rachel says wistfully, “I wish Annie was here to see this.”
Disturbed, Sophia looked up, a slight frown making her forehead wrinkle.
“Something the matter?” asked a male voice, deep and a little impatient.
“Not at all,” said Sophia. “I was just remembering a girl I knew before the war. A Russian girl named Chana. I was wondering what happened to her. It’s not important.”
She held out two hands, both closed into fists. Her husband lightly tapped the left fist; it opened to reveal a small red-coated soldier. “Your move,” said Sophia, putting the two soldiers in their places and moving the board so that the British soldiers were on her husband’s side.
“Can’t I see my great-grandfather as well?” asks Rachel.
“Not this way,” says her mother. “But you can get a glimpse.”
She dips the twig in the water and revolves it as though she’s mixing cake batter. “Close your eyes,” she says, and touches her daughter’s eyelids with the twig, one after the other, so that a drop of water creeps through the closed eyelids and into her eyes.
She (Sophia/Rachel) set the scene very carefully. A well-stocked fire created shadows that danced around the room (although they had a modern coal-fire furnace, she knew that firelight set her looks off well), the bottle of sherry was well within reach in case a refill was called for, and the servants were warned not to interrupt unless for an emergency.
She looked across the table at her husband. Meyer was pulling slightly at his beard, staring at the board. The beard was just starting to gray slightly, but his hair, about which he was rather vain, was still a deep brown. He wore the same dark gray suit that he had changed into for dinner; his only concession to informality was his unbuttoned jacket and slightly loosened tie. Rachel finds him a bit frightening, but Sophia looked at him with fondness and understanding. He reached out and moved a pawn two spaces.