Rosey's Story (Unfinished)

There are days when the sun never makes an appearance, when it stays backstage behind the curtains of the clouds. Maybe it does not feel like putting on the show for a cold, despondent crowd, maybe it too is tired of all the muck going on in the world and it would rather pull down the blinds way down low and be left alone, solely mingling with the stars.
Today the sun did not feel like showing, for whatever reason, and for whatever reason, Clive had to get up and face the dull hours smothering him into submission. He had to walk down the muddled brown stairs for the seven hundredth time that year. Clive would then drag his feet to the shore where he could close his eyes, just for a moment, before his “real” day began. Or the day that counts so much to all but himself. The day when he must put a thin and increasingly fragile skin—a shield, which guarded Clive from all he interacted with. This self-same veil, of sorts, made it so he could face the vileness and despicable emptiness of the society around him. It allowed Clive to simply nod at an ill-intended glance, or so that he could merely dissolve into the other facades around him. Unseen and unnoticed, he had no wish to stir up guile or a spat. This second coat let Clive speak to others with words drained of substance and let him fill up the void with meaningless conversation without shattering with shame. But when Clive got home he would stretch his mouth open wide, let out a long held-in yell, shake his head, and mess up his hair to peel off the slimy skin soiled with the bitterness and sickening falsities of the day. Clive found refuge by numbing himself with excessive sleep, despite the fact that he was a clinically prescribed insomniac. And although insomnia had plagued his entire adolescence, Clive was not always this way. As a child he slept like baby. And as soon as his therapist had discovered this bit of enlightening information he devised a nightly ritual in order to bring Clive back to his boyhood mind and permit him to sleep. It was mix of routine bedtime procedures, meditation, and downing a few glasses of whiskey before rolling into bed. What had brought Clive to this moment in his life? This degrading lifestyle he had succumbed to is not altogether clear. But what is clear, is that Clive had not the slightest inkling of an idea who he truly was. Did it bother him that he had to be damn near medicated to sleep? Or that he had no one to divulge his inner most bouts of joy or sadness to? He had no one to pose a question to and no questions to answer…and he had answers. But none too friendly. See, Clive really just wanted to get by without bothering anyone. He never hurt a fly, he just bobbed along. But all the same he bothered more than he’d have liked. People did not take kindly to his carefully kept “kindness,” but they never showed it flat out. They simply dropped hints, a stabbing glance, a rolling eye, or an all too sarcastic comment that Clive eventually collected until he knew full-well that he had worn out his welcome. And as soon as Clive realized this, as soon as he had had enough proof, and not mere paranoia, Clive felt more lonesome and more frustrated than ever. He thought he had designed his cloak well. Yes, he thought it was seamless and that he was doing just fine with the doldrums of the world. But they had all sensed something just not quite right with Clive, something even…unnatural. It was his feigned normalcy that they had detected, his perfect veil that allowed him to be just as false as the next guy. The coat he donned each day to endure their pathetic, pointless arguments and their rather unfunny and mean sense of humor. Clive thought he was doing them all a favor by abiding by their dim standards of life and thought and interaction. He did not want to kill their buzz, so to speak. Hell, he should be thanked for so ardently playing the part they had cast to him. Or to…well…everybody. But Clive did not receive any kind thanks or approval from the crowd. He did not put on their theatrics with heart. No, he was a terrible actor. His dialogue was completely unnatural and his face was blank as he said a trying phrase, because the emotions were not there. They wanted them to be there but he just could not feel them. He could not feel what they wanted him to feel. And he could not force himself to laugh, laugh, laugh at all their irrelevant jokes. Clive could not sympathize with these people who really did not necessitate sympathy. Clive found their conversations atrociously empty, and therefore most boring. So he kept his trap shut for a good portion of the day. He had nothing to add in the least! But they kept looking, nay, staring at his face demanding some form of real, real dedication to his part, to verify his interest in them. And if they were the directors, they might pull him aside and say, “You know Clive, you’re getting the character all wrong, and you’re really bringing us down with your lack of enthusiasm. You see he wants to be here, he really does care about what they other actors are saying, and if you obviously don’t want the part then,…we’ll just have to call in the understudy, you know, he works really hard for this, harder than you, and I bet he would be a lot more grateful than you are for being in a production as prominent as this.” And they’d do this hoping to scare him into real, prime-time submission—to actually change into the person they wanted. Sell his soul to the devil just to fit their niche for him, and want to fit it, and fit it well. And maybe if they had something more to offer than a hollow crust of an individual, perhaps Clive could get along with them as he and they intended. But there was simply nothing there. Save a few with true gumption and charisma, Clive saw not a soul he wished to associate with. And, I suppose, and Clive supposed, that they noticed this and they did not want an imposter around. Would they like him better if he did not act at all? If he did not try to keep the settings comfortable? If he no longer filled the role? No, I do not think they would have enjoyed that either. Clive had an idea that they did not want to hear how silly they all seemed to him. They could not stand a person as genuine as he, because to themselves, they were as real and as the day is long. They don’t like Clive fake and they would not like Clive real, they would not like Clive around at all. They do not like green eggs and ham. They do not like them, Sam I am.

Clive’s eyelids lifted to present to him the Sea. His eyelids said, “I present to you the sea. Here it is! Hello, sea! Hi Clive. You see it everyday but do you really know what it symbolizes for you? Like a…like a deep metaphor that you used to have de-riddle in high-school English? Or when you listen to lyrics and then sit around actually trying to find out what they mean? Doesn’t it seem kind of like a tub of tears? That’s a lyric. Well, maybe I’m getting carried away here. No? Let me put it this way. Look out there. It is vast. It is endless. Ah, there’s a seagull. Cute. Look how it’s swooping up and down. Way, way up there….and…back down, there he goes, back down and up! Searching for breakfast I’m sure. But look: ocean, stretching farther beyond than you can really fathom. That’s just it. It’s unfathomable. Do you know some parts of the ocean are so deep so incredibly yawning that they don’t even know how deep they are. Scientists! And there’s just no way in telling. They don’t call it, “the deep” for nothing. I mean, what if the sea reached the core of the earth. Well, now, that’s unlikely. But why not… Why, you don’t even know how much time could pass before you would meet land again. And yet, you come here everyday…ignorant of what it offers you. Don’t you get it? You’re here, standing on the shoreline, and it’s out there…its way out there, quite a ways and have you ever even touched it? Have you tasted it? Well, I’d hope not for health’s sake, but have you ever tried cat food? Cause it’s the same deal. So why not…taste it. Taste it. Dunk your head in the ocean. It is a pretty profound part of earth, yes? Go swimming in the profundity. Is your head swimming yet?”
Clive’s eyes were wide with wonder and his breath was held, his legs in a stance as if he was ready to jet into the water. Then he blinks and it’s just the sea again, nothing too special. He looks at his watch. “Work-time” it urges. He pauses before turning away for one last look at the ocean, and he almost—“No,” he thinks, “No, I’m not going to jump in the filthy shallows and I don’t care how deep the freaking ocean is. The deeper the creepier, I say. Plus, I already took a shower today…and I’m going to be late.” Instead he kicks a rock to the waves and tips his hat to the gulls. .

Walking down the street to his “office,” (because it was hardly that) Clive did not recall having eaten breakfast, or dinner the night before, for that matter, and he felt as empty as a school on Christmas. He reached in his pocket to pull out a TLC Kashi bar. Almond and Flax-seed. They made Clive feel pretty healthy. “Tasty Little Chewies,” the label says. “And that they are…” Clive chuckled to himself and gratefully ripped the wrapper open with his teeth.

Clive worked as an assistant at a graphic design firm on north Weber Street. The place was always bustling with grown-up overachievers. It also had its fair share of those who put on the appearance of a go-getter, but who were in fact just as lazy as the bum outside the office doors. These particular people were notorious for losing their head over nothing and then proceeding to scream at people and tear their hair out for equally irrelevant reasons. Clive suspected that putting on these sorts of dramatics made them feel and look more productive and extra serious about work. And the thing that boggled Clive’s mind more than anything was that the boss as well as the other ringleaders actually bought the crock these people were selling. The office also had a few tools in the tool box and that is where Clive was placed. Clive did more work (quite a bit more) than the lazy schemers but a healthy morsel less than the highflyers. This firm was considered a moderately hip place to work. The employees were graced with both creative and intellectual potential. They were all well-learned people who had no less than the wittiest senses of humor.

His shoes, his worn leather lace-ups that he had bought second-hand because they had class and style, called up to him from the ground, “Clive, where are you going to? Your job? Don’t you know you can’t stand it there? Why don’t you keep walking…right on past it and go get something hot to eat. You know you’re starving. Go get a bite, got get a coffee. You could use the caffeine. You’re always so tired. Is that because you sleep so—ah, no! Don’t go inside! Ah…useless.” Clive had taken no heed to the shrewd words of the leather shoes. Time had given them inherent wisdom, but Clive really hadn’t the time. He entered the doors to the office much to the shoes (and his own) dismay.

Clive’s desk was at the far end of the room next to the windows. Everyone thought they were being pretty sly putting him over there. They all hated the back-wall with the windows because it was either excruciatingly cold or stifling. Clive, on the other hand, loved the windows. They were grand and old and had domed tops. The panes were slightly warped with age and in each corner and along the rounded tops were stained glass squares of purple. He would stare out of them and daydream multiple times a day. Or rather, he would simply people watch and wonder, what that man’s name is crossing the street with a black hat on. Or where did that gentleman grow up? The one who his inspecting the buildings as he walks. And what are those two ladies talking about who are sitting outside the café? Is that person depressed? They look so sad. Is that one married? Did that one go to school somewhere nice? They look fairly smart. Is she just visiting or does she live here? Now, he looks content, I can’t see why. And Clive could make-up back stories for each and every one of them, and be lost in a stranger’s world for long bouts of time before someone barked at him and chucked a stack of papers his way.
Clive usually had only about ten minutes to himself in the morning, to work on his assigned tasks before he would be interrupted by someone demanding this or that. Today, not three minutes had passed before Jarline sped over to him and slapped a stack of papers in front of him. They all had the same logo printed on them over and over but in different colors, sizes, and styles. “Rick says he likes this one” she said, jabbing her finger into one of the logos. “But…” her voice trailed slightly as she frantically leafed through the stack. Ah, she found it. “But with this font,” she continued, pointing at another logo. Clive cringed at her long maroon colored nails which stabbed the two distinctly fashioned logos, as if to kill them. “We need an initial print in…” she looked up at the clock, “…fifteen minutes. Get it done.” Then she was gone. Jarline was always like that. Well, really, everyone was somewhat like that, but Jarline was the worst. She was perpetually frazzled and would always come speed-walking over to Clive. She would be in and out, speaking with such speed and urgency Clive never said a word. In fact, Clive had not said a word to Jarline in about a month and a half. And yet he saw her everyday for five days a week, sometimes six. Not that he actually ever desired to converse with her. Truth be told, Clive would prefer to never speak to her again. He could set records. Jarline had an air about her that gave Clive the willies, but feminists always did.
The office was full of them. Feminists. Or so it seemed to Clive, because they obviously were not all feminists. In all actuality, none of them were feminists. It just appeared that way if you walked in unawares. The women of the office were very strong-willed, most of them seemed angry, and they held much power in the staff realm. After all, the boss was a woman but the C.E.O was male. You give some, you take some. There were of course women who were not so…vicious. Heartless? Cruel. There were also a decent number of men. The office was about two-thirds women and one-third men, so it was not as if they were running a brothel.
As soon as Jarline had turned her back and was gone in a flash, Clive sat still for four minutes. Four minutes, because it took him a minute to take in the order Jarline had assigned him. She always pointed things out to him as if he were a toddler. He was, after all, an assistant. So now, instead of paying too much attention to what she was saying, he would just stare at her face and wonder about her as he had wondered about the people on the street. Jarline’s face filled his view and his mind would wander, “Jarline. Jarline. You look sad, again, Jarline. Like a Christmas song in the middle of summer.Your face hides it well, but not well enough. You see the redness in your eyes? Have you cried? You don’t have to be so serious, you know. You don’t have to be so scared. Are you scared? I understand this is work for you. Are you so passionate about it? I know it is just a job, to make some money, to pay some bills, to buy some comfort, a little luxury here, a little luxury there. Are you angry with me? With anyone? With everyone? Then why are you so stern? Jarline…I hope…I don’t know what I hope for you…” And then she was gone, and Clive would sit for four minutes. A minute to reflect. And another minute to examine the hideous logos before him. The flashy style with the subtle font was to be meshed with the simple one with the gaudy font. Thus, flashy style and gaudy font were demanded by the clients. “Oh come on,” Clive would think, “We’ve designed these so tastefully for you and you change them for the worst.” Then he would take a minute to find some sort of justification for the ugliness of the logo. That’s easy. It suits them well. Ostentatious people with an ostentatious logo. Fair enough. And finally, a minute to accept the unsightly logo as final. Then Clive would set to work. The polished logo would be done in five minutes tops, and onto Jarline’s desk it would go, the product of another man’s senselessness.
At 1 o’clock it was lunchtime. The hour of lunchtime was always random. It lied partly in the hands of the staff’s work efficiency and partly on Jarline’s own diplomacy. Lunch was the time of day when all of the hushed and muffled words of gossip and private conversations were amplified ten-fold all over the office. People chuckled, murmured, murmured louder, louder, and then burst into laughter. Whispered arguments accelerated into fully fledged shouting matches and small talk succumbed to boisterous chitchat. A few oddballs continued to work through the lunch break with nothing more than a handful of trail mix to suffice them. A gaggle of others made it a fervent endeavor to leave the office each and every lunch break and go out to some distant eatery. The rest of the horde stayed behind, at the office, munching on their brown-bagged nutrients or microwaveable provisions. Today, Clive, being painfully hungry and without a lunch, chose to accompany the daily escapees on their trek to a nearby café. It was a group of five. They pushed in their chairs with much haste and rushed out the door with somber but desperate expressions on their faces. As if they could not get out fast enough, as if someone would chain them down if they lingered a moment too long. Clive barely caught up to them clamoring down the stairs with their black wool coats on and their hands deep in their pockets. They spoke quietly but ardently as if they were part of a conspiracy in fear of being overheard. They apparently did not hear Clive coming down after them, and so to prevent their thinking him an eavesdropper and a creep, he stomped noisily down the steps until one of them turned.
“Oh hey Clive,” a tall monotonous guy said. He went by the name of Greg and he was awfully skinny. Some may even suggest, freakishly so.
“Forgot my lunch” Clive responded, “where you guys headed?”
“Just a place down the street,” Greg answered indifferently.
“Ah…” Clive nodded in complacent accord. Other than that initial interaction, few heads were turned and they continued their conversation with no further acknowledgement to Clive’s presence. They pushed through the doors at the end of the stairs and came out onto the street. A chilly breeze greeted their face and they dug their hands further into their pockets. Those who wore boots clicked along the sidewalk. Those who did not simply shuffled and scraped along.
“So anyway,” a girl in black boots continued, “I thought the colors were way off, and I told her, you know, but Chloe just went ahead with it anyway, and it turned out looking terrible”
“Well, of course,” joined another, “never expect Chloe to do anything right”
“Frankly, I think she should be fired, but that’s just me”
“I think that’s everyone”
“I’m starving”
“Do you think she could have let us out any later?”
“Like, I’m going home in a few hours anyway so…thanks”
“Doesn’t a Panini sound amazing right now?”
“I don’t know…a salad sounds pretty good”
“A salad? It’s like two degrees out, why not soup?”
“I’m trying to be healthy”
“What’s not healthy about soup? It’s got vegetables and shit in it”
“Well, leafy greens are supposed to be the healthiest for you. You’re supposed to eat them with every meal”
“Gross. Have fun with that, with your lettuce pancakes.”
“You can put greens on an omelet…or in a breakfast burrito, juice them…you can get creative”
“Why do you keep calling them ‘greens’? Just say lettuce like everyone else”
“I don’t eat ice-berg lettuce, I eat mixed greens, it says it on the box, that’s what they’re called”
“You eat your salad out of a box? Weird.”
“No, not a box. It’s like a plastic container thing…you know? It keeps them fresh”
“Where the hell do you shop?”
“Um, Safeway? Where do you shop?”
“King Soopers. But where do you find lettuce in a plastic box?”
“They’re everywhere. Visit the produce section. Trust me; it really is not that bizarre. At all”
“Guys, have you ever seen lettuce in a plastic box?”
“What, like at the store?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, those containers of mixed greens? Yeah. That’s what I get”
“See?”
“Really…”
“Really.”
They turned the corner and entered a small, warm café by the name of “Davinci’s”. Inside, it smelled like coffee and soup. Clive had been there many times. They had good coffee, and many places rarely do. Not that it mattered much to Clive. Caffeine worked wonders on Clive, terrible wonders, and if he drank a cup of regular joe he would not see sleep for days. His limbs would become shaky; people would think he was having a stroke and all hell would break loose. Clive’s stomach growled. He looked up at the menu board. Amidst the neon-colored chalk scribblings he found his heart’s desire, a ham and cheese croissant with a side of bacon and hash browns. After the line had dissipated and the rest of his coworkers were sitting around two small round tables, Clive stepped up to order.
“You know what? We’re actually out of those today,” The bearded man sporting a cap and a band t-shirt with gages in his ears said. Clive knew these types well. Not a single coffee shop was without them. It is a hip enough job for someone making music on the side, hoping their band gets big in the meantime. They are usually in their late twenties, pushing thirty; some of them are even pushing 40. They are either offhandedly charismatic or gratuitously sarcastic. This guy, with the beard and smiling eyes was thankfully on the brighter side.
“Ah, come on…you’re always out of those…,” said Clive his eyes studying the board again for an alternative.
“I know man, sorry, it’s our damn kitchen, they’re lazy”
“Could I just get like a ham sandwich or something? Do you do sandwiches?”
“Yeah, well…our panini’s are excellent and they are just a heart beat away from being a…like a legitimate sandwich. So personally, that’s what I would recommend”
“Okay I’ll just get the ham one.”
“That, we can do” the bearded guy assured him.
“Thanks”
Clive turned around to take in his surroundings. His coworkers were front and center in the middle of the café crowded around a couple of tables. In the outskirts were middle-aged men and women typing on laptops and sitting alone. There were a few two-tops with two people chatting away in low tones. Clive thought how his colleagues must look like real jerks coming in here, interrupting everyone’s peaceful afternoon. They looked pretty dignified and important compared to the gloomy, quiet customers sitting along the walls. At least that’s what they thought. They made quite a ruckus skidding tables together and dragging extra chairs up. They took the liberties of talking far too loud and laughing whenever they had a chance. Clive was ashamed of them and their rowdy behavior. What a transformation from their hushed voices on the staircase at the office. When Clive pulled up a chair, he made every effort to carefully pick it up and set it down soundlessly. He sat down without a word and witnessed another meaningless conversation held by his…peers.
Traipsing up the stairs to the office, everything was soft again. They talked quietly and bitter faces re-emerged. Clive had not left the office for lunch for a long time before today, and he had forgotten what it felt like to come back and see the rest of the workers faces. They were always uninterested, unconcerned, uncaring of this elite group that had breached the prison walls. The air was always very delicate, like you had walked into a graveyard or rather forbidden territory with forty guns pointed in your direction. The majority of the people had resumed working whereas others milled around smoothly striking up a discussion here or there. Most of them, nay, all of them ignored the cluster of workers coming through the doors. Clive knew how it was, as he stayed in at the office nearly every day for months on end. And every time he would be at his desk working when this bunch would come through the doors to disturb the peace. And he would pay no heed but simply think, “Oh, more annoying people to fill up the room. Great.” And he would continue to work. And the incomers ignored the people already there as they thought, “what buzz-kills” and it was all very uncomfortable for about thirty seconds. Of course Clive, and nearly everyone else knew how each side felt but they kept their grudges because it was routine. And after that habitual thirty seconds, the shoulders were dropped and everyone was “family” again and it was all forgotten until the next day when it would happen all over again.
In fact everything at the office was so cyclical that Clive nearly died. But he could not decide if it was due to absolute boredom or total madness. Clive was obviously bored of the people and the barrenness they so zealously pursued. But he was also tired of playing their silly games of human emotion and interaction. He tried to be nice. But then Chloe or Greg or Dave or name after name after name, would send him a message all too clear that they do not need someone to be “nice”. And so, “pardon me,” Clive would think and he would not be nice to those people, he would not be anything to those people, he would steer clear of those people. And then they’d give him looks that asked him, “why so straight-faced? What’s wrong with you? You are always so dull.” And so, “pardon me,” Clive would think and he would try his hardest to lighten up and liven up, but oh no! He had gone too far. What right had he to be happy today? He did nothing special, he made no cunning jokes, and he just worked! What is so enjoyable about work that Clive would be smiling today? And so then Clive would let his happiness seep out of him with every breath and he would not be sad, but more annoyed, but not too annoyed because those people were dense, and they did not know better, and so he would just be empty. And that is when it almost seemed as if people liked Clive, when he was as dry and as empty as a canteen.

Clive was one of the last few people to leave the office that night. It was he, a girl named Lauren, a girl named Kim, and a guy named Ruben. Clive took his jacket from off the back of his chair and put it on rather slowly. The rest of them were talking freely.
“Doing anything exciting tonight?” This was Lauren. Clive could tell that she was actually the one who desired to be asked this very question, but no one would ask her. And her answer would probably be that she was, in fact, doing something exciting tonight.
“I’m eating dinner with my parents who are visiting from Portland” Kim answered sounding less than enthused.
“Oh, that’s nice, how about you Ruben?” Lauren pursued.
“I’m planning on going home, finding something to eat, reading that new Chobsky novel, and going to bed at 9 ‘cause I am ti-i-ired.” Ruben said distantly gathering up his things. There was a beat of silence.
“Clive, what about you?” Lauren asked flatly.
“Huh? Oh…yeah, I’m just going to eat dinner and go to bed”
“boring…”
“I know.”
“Well, I’m going on a date, so you guys should wish me luck, just kidding, haha,”
“Good luck, haha”
“Shut up, Ruben”
“Haha”
“Okay well, I’ll see you guys later,” And Lauren left. Kim and Ruben gave each other looks.
“Oh Lauren,” laughed Kim, and Ruben began chuckling along as if it were a hilarious inside joke. Clive started for the door.
“Have a good night, Clive” Ruben called.
“’Night” Clive answered and flung them both a weak smile. Out of the office and on the streets, Clive began wondering. After he had left, did Kim say, “Oh Clive” and then she and Ruben go on chuckling away? He would not be surprised; indeed, he would be more surprised if they did not do just that. Now, at the end of Clive’s workday, when he could bear the mocking people no longer he felt the tug of sleep more than ever. Sleep, sweet, sweet, sleep. No troubles there. No troubles at all. He would be safe in his bed from the hatred and bitterness of people. He could be alive and be guarded from the judging eyes of the world. He could shrink away and shrivel up into a speck in his sheets. Sleep, his safe haven and his last resort! But it was sleep with a price. Being an insomniac and addicted to sleep was no easy deed. He practically drugged himself to sleep each night, but it was all he could do.
Clive stumbled through the door of his apartment with exhaustion. Sleeping so much began to strip the energy out of him rather than restoring it. He dragged his feet into the kitchen where he searched through the cupboards for a decent thing to eat. And he found it, it was the perfect thing to eat, especially since it came from his childhood, and everything than reminded Clive of his childhood helped him to fall asleep. It was a box of Cheerios that Clive had found, and he at them in a yellow plastic bowl with banana slices on top, just how his mother used to fix them. Clive ate with much eagerness for sleep was knocking lightly at the door. When finished he jumped right into his other childhood rituals. He changed into his cartoon pajamas and brushed his teeth with bubblegum toothpaste. He read himself his favorite frog and toad book and switched his night light on. And this was all very well, he was feeling sleepier and sleepier all the while, but this was not nearly enough. Then, of course, Clive had to sit cross legged on a mat and meditate. He had to envision a piece of his childhood in his mind, a distinct episode, and a strong reverie would take over him. He began to think, “Childhood. Childhood…I was eight, and I had a bowl-cut, I hated that bowl cut. Who gave it to me? Oh yes, Uncle Ron…Uncle Ron. Where was I? On the steps of the brick house in Williamsburg. Oh, I remember,” Clive let out a laugh and he was off, “the trees arched over the steps like a canopy and in the fall I’d run under them and catch the leaves. And in the winter bits of snow would fall on you if you walked under them at the right time. And on a the big tree at the end of the row there was a rope swing, left from the family who lived there before us. I loved that rope swing. It was the best rope swing. And you had to stand on that rock and jump off to swing. And you’d swing high, almost touching the branches and then low and you had to hold your feet in the air so that they would not drag in the dirt and grass below. Back and forth. To and fro. And the wind would blow so tenderly in your face, which felt so nice in the summer. Hmm..hmm...hmm…” At this point Clive was swaying his head slightly back and forth and humming slowly. He was almost asleep but not quite yet, for then came the whiskey. Clive sat up and kept his eyes partly closed, he had to cling on to all the work he had just done to lull him to sleep. He reached under his nightstand for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured himself a glass. He lied down in his bed, put on his bose head-phones and drank his whiskey. He continued to dream as the dissonant chords of Paganini charmed his ears. Of course, the drinking of whiskey was not something entirely from his childhood. Simply, his grandfather allowed Clive a few sips before bed when they were camping and it was cold. As Clive was already almost asleep the whiskey simply finished the work, and courteously knocked him out.
Clive was out like a light by seven thirty, and if he had botched any one of his nightly customs he would never have been asleep at all. Instead, he would be lying in his bed wishing so much that he could fall asleep and be staring at the ceiling be haunted by the misfortunes of his day. Or he would be pacing around reading this and eating that, lying on the floor, on the couch, on the pile of clothes next to the closet, trying to find a comfortable place which would be so kind as to let him sleep. He would most assuredly not be able to fall asleep until about six o’clock in the following morning. No, if it weren’t for these childhood exercises, suggested so brilliantly by his therapist, Clive would be done for.

Clive awoke the next morning on the button. On this day, the sun was barely breaking through the dirty white clouds. It was peeking through the curtains unsure whether to come out and shine or to stay unharmed backstage. And if that was not cheesy enough, I do not know what is. Clive rolled out of bed with a yawn and stretched out his back with a crack. He felt very dull this morning, and very tired of feeling so dull. Clive’s days were bleak, bleak and dreary. I suppose, today he felt something underneath the usual tedium. Something was undeniably astir in his blood, in his subconscious, in the back of his mind where none too many go. There was a certain restlessness and restiveness which was occurring underneath the standard anxiety. Only Clive dismissed this shard of hope and revolution as insignificant and bothersome and it made him nervous. He started his day just like any other, but today he remembered to pack a lunch. The last thing he wanted to do was go out to lunch which that flock of geese he mingled with yesterday. A standard lunch of a sandwich, an apple, some chips perhaps, and a cookie, was prepared by himself for himself.
His legs took him to the shore much quicker today. His walk became much more brisk as he approached the cold gray waters, lapping lightly on the blackening sand. He stepped a bit more gingerly up to the waves and found himself closer than he had ever come to the water. One more step and his leather shoes would be splashed with water, and fill up and soak the bottom of his pant legs. A hint of a smile graced Clive’s face as he came in such proximity to risk. He seemed to begin to enjoy this tinge of edginess. His eyes sparkled, “Ah, Clive, you are back! This is the sea, but you have met it yesterday. You have met it on many days. It held out its hand but you were too busy to oblige. You just walked away. You always walk away. Walk. Walk. Walk. Where are you walking to? To work? To money? To success? Hardly. Maybe. But will you oblige today? Have you found some valor in your schedule today? I surely hope so. It surely seems so. See, you’ve come this far, a little further and there you’ll be. Will you let your clothes get salty? Go on, get your clothes salty. I implore you.” But Clive could not see why he should jump into the ocean. What was so important about getting soaked right before work? He’d have to go home and change. But then he looked at the situation from a different angle. Why shouldn’t he jump into the ocean? He’d never done that before. It could be thrilling, maybe even freeing, and the worst that would happen is that he’d have to go home and change, or maybe he would get sick, but that is neither here nor there. Eventually, Clive sighed and hung his head and said, “All this apathy is killing me.” And with that Clive sucked in his breath and ran headlong into the crashing waves.
It was as cold as ice and Clive laughed hard. His legs carried him into the water and he laughed at the absurdity and at the frigid cold temperature of the water which stole Clive’s breath from him. But in the splash of the cold and the salty dampness and the squish beneath his feet, Clive felt no fear, no fear of anything, and all at once he felt himself to have lost his entire sensible mind. The mind he cultivated so carefully prior to this instant in his life. Oh yes, he had forgotten to paint himself in carefulness and forethought. He had forgotten to cover himself in that veil that protected his mind from considering freshness and novelty, and kept the fire in his belly at a low, low burn. Oh this epiphany was strange. He had to jump into an ocean of wakefulness in order to feel its vigor. He thanked the salty sea water and the cold of the day and the shying sun. He leapt into the air and dunked under water again, splashing around in a vain attempt to get acclimated to the water and warm himself. But it was to no avail. And after moments too short Clive dragged his soggy self onto the shore again and laughed to himself saying, “Well that was a stupid idea.” But he did not mean it, no, he enjoyed that bout of inanity. He was laughing after all! And on the beach he stood shivering for at least a minute. Clive was debating whether to go home and change and be late for work or to just show up to work in these drenched garments. You would think this decision would be easy. But for Clive, with this newly acquired nerve, he really did not care if he arrived at work being completely soaked and smelling like seaweed. It would not be the first time someone showed up looking and smelling like a sea urchin. Thus, Clive trudged along to work ringing water out of his jacket and squeaking in his sodden shoes.
Clive’s appearance did not help him to go unnoticed at the office. After he quietly opened the doors and began squeaking along in the direction of his desk, many took the opportunity to comment on his…guise. A man called Gus from the upper ranks of the business seemed oddly insulted, and his offended eyes followed Clive, without blinking, all the way across they room and to his desk. “Now, Clive…” was all Gus could manage to utter before his confusion took over him and he was forced to only purse his lips take a seat back down.
“Well hey, Clive, what happened to you? It’s not raining is it?” Ruben asked with a badly forged look of concern on his face. In fact it was more like an amused leer.
“Nah, I just jumped into the ocean—I mean, the ocean jumped out at me. It happened really fast and it was kind of confusing. So…”
“Oh really—“
“What smells?” interrupted Chloe.
“It’s Clive” Ruben said, unable to understand why Chloe had failed to notice this soggy cat until just now.
“What? Oh. Wow…that’s really something,” she couldn’t help but laugh. “And what happened to you?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, you know? It’s just one of those things that I’m not really comfortable to talk about right now. If you can respect that...” Clive answered.
“Oh sure….” She said with a crease on her brow.

It was not long before Jarline heard tell and called Clive into her office.

“Clive, this is absolutely unacceptable,” Jarline said grimly.
“I know, but I couldn’t help it”
“You know, the waves aren’t big enough to splash you on the sidewalk, I can see them from my window”
“Well, I am very sorry Jarline, and I hope you will accept my apology. You see, it’s easy to say you’ll do things tomorrow or do things later. You think they’ll be easier the next time you approach whatever it is you have to get done. But I say, just deal with them right then and get it over with and you can always work through the ruts…or just drive right over them”
“Alright, and right now I don’t know what you’re even talking about. Are you referring to something in particular, or…?”
“No, that’s just my philosophy”
“Right. Well, my advice, what I would suggest, is that you go home and change right now and never let this happen again”
“Yes ma’am and I support this decision one-hundred percent”
“Okay.”
“Okay... and I’ll be leaving now.”

Later that day, when Clive was back and dry he was assigned to tweak about thirty different logos. It was excruciatingly tedious work. Perhaps it was passive punishment for showing up drenched in ghastly shore water. Perhaps it was just malignant chance. Clive looked down at the next one doomed. It was the same logo as yesterday, the one with the hideous font that clashed all to well with the style of the logo. “I cannot bear it” Clive muttered and made the decision to confront Jarline. He knocked lightly on the edge of her desk.
Her eyebrows rose and she said, “Yes?”
Clive simply stood for a moment, fearing he had made the wrong the decision by bringing something relatively petty to Jarline—too late now. “Look, I can’t find anything clever to say so I’ll just put it out there. I think this looks…well, look at it” he showed her the logo, “it just looks dumb, and I think we should tell the company, we’d be doing them a disservice if we let them keep it like this..”
She was not amused. “You think we should go back to square one after weeks of working with this client just because you, Clive, think it looks “dumb”?”
“Wow, you really articulated that last word…umm yeah, I think it looks dumb, tacky, makes me sick, want it to die, how about you?”
“I don’t care what it looks like as long as the customer is happy.” She paused. “You’re really surprising me today, Clive”
“Me too”
“And it’s not in a good way.”
“I realize I’ve been talking some liberties that need not be taken but bear with me, it’s…I feel good about it, at least.”
“Just do your work and stay out of trouble, Clive,”
“Yes ma’am”
“Stop calling me ma’am,”
“Yes…sir”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to get back to work,” said Clive, backing away and motioning to his desk with his thumb. “I’ve got a lot to do, and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you”

“What has come over me?” thought a befuddled Clive as he strolled returning to his desk, “What is it? What’s missing? Something’s missing. Is it my fear? I’m not afraid anymore, you hear that? I’m not afraid anymore! Home Alone does wonders. Nah, it’s not fear. Oh, I’ve got work, I’ve got work.”

It turned out to be a strange day for Clive. Indeed he was not afraid anymore of Jarline or anyone else, but he could not remember if he was ever afraid of them in the first place. And this in turn frightened Clive. He felt like a different person and the only way he could describe it was not feeling afraid, feeling rather bold. But it was not that it was an absence of fear, because how could it be absent if it were never there? Rather, it was the introduction of something, an addition, that being a verve for being daring. Clive’s base was apathy and it was originally paired with neither fear nor courage but was solo, solemn, boredom. But today boldness, courage, veracity adorned Clive’s life that he felt compelled to do something. What? Anything.

Clive strolled the streets that night after work, pacing from this avenue to that, with a liveliness he had long forgotten. Usually he would be in bed by now, slumbering away with his childhood days, but how could sleep, how could he ever sleep again with this kind of vivid distraction? This may not seem so vital or profound but to Clive it was everything. His world was shaken sideways and he was clinging onto this branch of bravery that was his only hope. He could not return to his despondent days, never, never. And now, with his slate cleared of his characteristic lethargy he could be anyone he wanted to. He could be anyone in the world. Nothing would change but people’s opinion of him. And for that he could care less of. Instead he found them fascinating, people’s judgments. They can take in whatever you have to offer them, whatever you put out there, and they might assess the material of your self and it changes how they act. It reflects on their interaction with you. And so people are sending waves back and forth and constantly affecting one another, like an emotional ecosystem, people are all tied together.

And what Clive decided to do was to just experiment with different personalities to just get a taste of what the general public falls for, in a good way or a bad way. Or what any single individual falls for. What they tolerate in society and what they do not. It was rather entertaining for him to see people’s reactions to various…actions. Personas…characters. Clive could be devilishly debonair, suave, to say or a dweeb of many sorts. He could be an arrogant prick or he could strive to be as kind as he could muster. Clive could be cunningly droll or peevishly lackluster. He could be timid, flamboyant, or as snarky as can be. He could be in love with music, a sports buff, a literary know-it-all, a chef, or a grade-A nonentity as long as he could pull it off, that is, as long as he could act well enough.. Clive knew, though, that all in all, his coworkers and cohorts would initially (and perhaps ultimately) find him completely crazy. But Clive figured, crazy, not crazy, he was not their cup of tea anyway, so why bother with the anxiety. He was just bored with the usual bull-crap he put up with everyday and he was not going to quit his job or move away. There were chumps like these everywhere. He almost could not escape, unless of course, he spent a life of solitude, as a hermit in a mountain hovel. Guffaw. And this proclamation of setting aside his monotonous self to try on the characters of others, or of something he dreamt up himself, was in effect immediately. And perfect timing as well.

Clive sauntered casually into a nearby bookstore by the name of “Shelley’s Leaves” (but nobody ever called it that, they either just said “Shelley’s” or just said “Leaves”). Clive mulled around the stacks looking for something compelling to read, something to really set the cogs in his brain to turn and twist and crank. He had not picked up a book to read, just for his own enjoyment, since grade school. (Unless, of course, you count the Frog and Toad books he reads before bed.) Therefore Clive hadn’t the slightest idea what his tastes were in novels and the like and found it both intriguing and overwhelming to see such a vast array. “Oh you books, where have you been all my life?” He asked aloud eyeing the spines of hard-covers like a kid in a candy shop. But something more alluring than a charming title of a book caught his eye. There, milling around the bookshelves one isle over, was one of his most achieved coworkers, and one of his most dim-witted. He lost no time in approaching them. He sidled up to where one was reading a page of a book Clive cared not for and the other was perusing around.
“Evening ladies,” he smirked from behind his olive-tinted shades.
One of the girls, the perusing one, the dim one, looked him up and down. “You don’t look so good” she said with a tinge of worry.
“Oh, don’t I?” he smirked again, “you on the other hand look—“
“You look tired,” she interrupted.
His face dropped—his smirk vanished and he began in a bored tone, “I’m actually quite the opposite….It’s called sleep…sleep drunk”
“Sleep drunk?”
“Yaaass, sleep drunk” Clive continued annoyed, “I get far too much sleep for my own good and it starts to have the reverse effects than the intended, healthy, amount of sleep…” He thought for a moment. “Almost as if I were sleep” he chuckled for a pause, “deprived”.
“Then, why do you sleep so much?” she just had to ask.
“To escape…to dream uncommon dreams…need I go on?”
She shook her head, and he said, “You know, you’re not the brightest one at the office,”
“Well thanks Clive”
“Let me put it this way. Why do you sleep? Why does anybody sleep? Answer that and you’ll know why I sleep and I simply get it in excess,” he drawled.
At this point the girl had shrugged and walked away to the magazine section and Clive was left standing alone next to the other lady coworker who was reading.
“Fair enough,” he muttered and nonchalantly swiped a book off the shelf. He flipped it open, only to slam it shut not a moment later. “You? Out of the office? That’s unheard of,” Clive said with an air of complete shock and appall.
“Not as unheard of as your voice” she answered in a flat voice and a mocking look of surprise.
Clive dismissed this with the wave of a hand. “That’s yesterday’s news,” he sighed.
“And what’s today’s”
“What?”
“What’s today’s news?”
“Oho!” he chuckled, “well, I was just saying…but you want to play games, eh? Like a cat with a ball of yarn…Then today, the water is especially cold”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Literally, the water, I mean, the ocean is cold today”
“That’s not news, Clive, it’s always cold”
“Okay then, good point…very good point…but you never have first hand accounts...”Clive trailed off. “Say, what are you doing here?”
“I love it here, I come here everyday, to read… or to think…or to browse around”
“Well that just sounds like a dandy of a time.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I should be sleeping now, shouldn’t I…but I was taking a promenade and I was in the vicinity…I haven’t read a book in far too long a time”
“That’s too bad…do you have any ideas?”
“I have plenty of ideas.”
“Of what to read.”
“Oh so you want to help me do you?”
“I never said that, I just asked if you had an idea of what you want to read.”
“Well, I never said I wanted to read a book I just said I hadn’t read a book in a while”
Clive then received the most cutting look he had gotten all day. It was silent for what seemed like many minutes.
“Do you ever read poetry?” She asked holding up a book of Wordsworth’s poems.
“No,” Clive said drawing out the word into three syllables.
“It’s short so it might be easier than reading a whole book”
“I’m not illiterate.”
“Well, its good stuff”
“Depends on who you ask”
“I don’t think anyone would say Wordsworth is a bad poet”
“Yes, but if someone’s to say its good is kind of irrelevant to the fact that they don’t like his good poetry. If it’s not their style then…who cares if it good or bad”
“Well, I enjoy it, that’s my opinion; you can read it and see for yourself”
“Sold.” He snatched the book and flipped through the pages then he paused on a page. “Ah,” he said, “here we go, ‘A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem’d a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.” He shut the book and examined the cover “hm,” he uttered. It was silent again for minutes.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you…at work, its inevitable…”Clive finally said.
“Shame,” she said.
“Well, good-bye.” And Clive turned and walked away, out of Shelley’s Leaves, onward and homeward, with a stillness in his heart.

It was nearly 8:30 when Clive stepped across the threshold of his modest apartment. Clive began his nightly rituals right away. I suppose eating dinner had slipped his mind, as it was now preoccupied with the hunger of the heart rather than the stomach. He tried to read his bedtime story but his thoughts were with neither Frog nor Toad. His meditation always came back to the same instant in time, the same voice, the same face. Sleep would be hard to find that night, it was certain. Clive lied on his bed for many hours without the shuttering of an eye. At this point he was doomed to be awake all night, and there was nothing he could do. On nights like these Clive often called his therapist and that is just what he did this night.
“Hello?” a voice said groggily over the wire.
“Dr. Paulson?.... It’s Clive”
“Oh, I should’ve known. You’re the only person I know who would call this late” He chuckled. “Can’t sleep, can you?”
“No.” said Clive.
“Did you do your exercises?”
“I tried…my mind was somewhere else”
“Oh…I see. Why don’t you tell me about your childhood again, growing up in Williamsburg.”
Clive’s breath crackled through the phone. “I can’t” he said.
“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about right now?”
Clive sighed. He did not know what to say.
“Clive?” Dr. Paulson said again.
“I…don’t know…there’s nothing much to say”
“About what?”
Clive thought it best to just change the subject and to curb the pang in his heart.
“Doc?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you let me call you in the middle of the night? Why do you put up with it? If someone called me up in the middle of the night I’d be pissed”
“Why would you be, you’d already be awake?”
“I mean, if I was a normal person I’d be pissed”
“Well, I’m sorry to oblige”
“No you’re not, you’re elated”
“It’s called sarcasm, Clive”
“I know and I hate it. People are way too sarcastic all the time”
“You don’t think you are?”
“I said I hate it. I’m sick of it”
“Very well then”
“But why? You don’t get paid for it.”
“But I like to help people anyways, it’s not just about the money. Besides, if I didn’t, who says you wouldn’t fire me and find another therapist”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, I don’t mind”
“So you just don’t mind…that’s real genteel of you”
There was silence for a while.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about anything?”
Clive changed the subject again and began, “When I was a kid I used to lay a graham cracker across the top of a glass of milk.”
“Yeah?”
“And I would break up another cracker along the dotted lines into fourths, you know, and then I’d pretend the one over the cup was a bridge and I’d take the other ones and make them cross it and then jump on it to break it in half and crash into the milk…”
“Ah yes, graham crackers and milk.” He made a sound of a crashing ship which muffled through the phone. “Delicious.”
And Dr. Paulson did not receive a response because Clive was fast asleep.

Daniel's Story

The light flickered through the blades of the spinning fan hung in a large, high-ceilinged, warehouse-turned-coffee shop. Loretta Livingston sat at a tall round bistro table. Fragments of scattered conversation drifted past her ears. Occasionally an obscure remark distracted her, but never for very long. Loretta was focused. Taller than average and with fiery red hair, Loretta always stood out in a crowd. Not to mention she had the sort of face that made you want to know her, that you just knew she was amazing.
Papers strewn all over the table and a pot of Lemon Sunset tea gone cold gave proof of the intensity of concentration going on inside Loretta’s head. Memories flashed before her eyes. Distant points in time played themselves out in an instant. “What is it...what am I missing?” thought Loretta. “What was Tommy trying to say...?”
The day began to play back in her mind. Memories of the pain brought tears to her eyes. There must be something she had forgotten. She focused on the memory of that day, trying to play the events in order, hoping that some missing detail would jump out at her, grab her hand, and show her the way. It had all started at the old farmhouse...

“Lori........Loretti.................... LORETTA!” A mockingly shrill voice was calling to her from down the stairs. Loretta opened her eyes to a room still darkened with night, shut them again in dismay of her surroundings. She pulled the blanket over her head wishing she could hide from Mrs. Dorsely, but knew if she didn’t show herself soon, the old hag would be up with her pancake flipper. It had only taken Loretta one day to find out how much pain a pancake flipper could invoke in the hands of a Mrs. Dorsely.
“Coming Master Dorsely, your greatness,” yelled Loretta in the most polite way possible at two-o-clock in the morning. She jumped out of bed, pulled off her pajamas and pushed her legs into the manure, mud, and milk encrusted overalls she wore everyday at the “work-study benefit home” of Babela Dorsely.
“Work-study benefit my ass,” Loretta had had the foolishness to say after her first day. She had been rewarded for the remark with a swift slap of the pancake flipper on the back of her thigh.
The study abroad program had sounded ideal back at home. Classes and studying at the beautiful St. Vincent University in Hamburg, train passes to travel across Europe, and the experience of working on a German farm for a few hours every day. Turns out a the few hours a day had meant two in the morning until seven in the evening on the farm, and then an hour to study at the campus followed by a strict bedtime of 8:30. Oh, and classes?... “You can take your precious classes on your precious Internets when you finish your chores,” had been Mrs. Dorsely’s response.
Six weeks had passed since she first arrived at the farm. By now, Loretta was well accustomed to the work. The one hour of study time a day had proven far too little for even one class, especially since the train ride to and from campus took twenty minutes each way. Loretta had given up on classes after the first week. Instead she spent her one hour a day at old Dieter Thompstein’s house up the street. Of course, she was always careful not to mention that fact to Mrs. Dorsely, as the old woman had left no doubt in Loretta’s mind her opinion of him on Loretta’s first day: “And don’t you ever be going up the street to that house up yonder. That old man will boil your brains with his talk of.....this......and that......and lord forgive me, but I would find a right good time of taking my old pancake flipper to the side of his head!” Loretta soon found out Dieter’s talk of “this and that” had proved to be interesting stories from a very adventurous life. He and Loretta became friends immediately.
Loretta bounded down the stairs in her overalls and put on an extra cheery face in spite of Mrs. Dorsely’s bitterness. “It’s about time you showed up. You’d think a girl was getting ready for her wedding with the time I’ve been waiting here,” cackled Mrs. Dorsely. Loretta had taken two minutes. “How’s a poor, defenseless old lady like me supposed to care for herself when she’s got to look after the devil’s child every minute of the day? Now start some breakfast and rub my old feet!”
Loretta shuddered. The daily foot rubbing had become the worst part of Loretta’s new life at the farm. Two of the biggest, ugliest, corniest feet hung over a chair awaiting Loretta’s soft hands. And the smell...... Loretta shuddered again. She went outside to get some sticks for the old woodstove. The moon still hung high in the sky; the stars shone as bright as ever. A cool night breeze brought the smell of the pigsty to Loretta’s nose. A swarm of flies decided they liked Loretta’s overalls. She looked up into the sky, trying to forget Mrs. Dorsely and her unrubbed feet. Blinking satellites moved among the stars. Loretta sighed within herself and made her way to the wood pile. Using one arm to load and one arm to hold, she gathered a pile of sticks and made her way back inside the house.
“My goodness child, did you walk to Brussels to get that firewood? I swear by the heavens above I’ve got to look after the naughtiest child in the world. And this is how you repay me for taking you in off the street and caring for you?... Oh lord, why do you put such trials before me?” Loretta decided not to respond. She had learned Mrs. Dorsely’s complaining was more directed towards an unsatisfaction with life than any fault of her own.
The woodstove was open and eager for the wood in Loretta’s arms. She set the wood down and went to a nearby cupboard. As Mrs. Dorsely insisted on doing things the “old-fashioned” way, she allowed no lighters or matches. The cupboard held a box of old dry grass and a smaller box of tinder (dry cotton fibers and fine dried grass, all hand-picked by Loretta). Loretta scooped up a big handful of the dry grass in one hand and a smaller handful of the tinder in the other. After setting the dry grass into the fire pit, she set the tinder on the smooth, top surface of the stove. Next she carefully stacked a few of the sticks inside the stove in a crisscross pattern around the heap of dry grass. Going back to the cupboard, Loretta fetched the tools to make fire. A flint stone, well worn from years of use and an old rusty knife, also well worn had become familiar in Loretta’s hands. She held the flint above the tinder and scraped the knife along its edge so as to send sparks down to ignite the fine fibers. After a few strokes the tinder began glowing red and smoking. Loretta set the tools down and blew softly on the embers to coax the flames to life. Once burning, she carefully pushed the heap of tinder down into the fire pit to ignite the grass. In a matter of seconds, the flames grew and the sticks began to burn. After replacing the flint stone and knife in the cupboard, Loretta placed some more of the larger sticks into the stove to build up the fire.
“I want pancakes and eggs and a blueberry muffin!” shouted Mrs. Dorsely, sounding like a spoiled five-year-old.
“Master Dorsely, you know we have no blueberries,” responded Loretta, politely. Mrs. Dorsely gave a look of surprise mingled with sadness, and topped off with anger. She looked as though the idea of having no blueberries had brought back some painful childhood memory. If one looked closely, one might have seen tears begin to form in the corners of her eyes...but not for long. In an instant, she snapped back to the present.
“What do you mean blueberries....why would we ever have blueberries, you foolish girl?”
Loretta, confused, responded “very well, I will make pancakes and eggs.”
“Pancakes and eggs? Why would an old lady like me want pancakes and eggs? I want an omelet and a fresh biscuit. And make it fast. You can’t expect my feet to wait around all day for you!... Oh to think of all I suffer through for this child...” Mrs. Dorsely trailed off as Loretta walked out to the hen house to fetch some eggs. Of course she would make pancakes and eggs. Mrs. Dorsely never ate anything but pancakes and eggs. She was just in one of her ‘fits’ this morning.
Back outside in the brisk night air, Loretta was glad to be away from Mrs. Dorsely, if only for a few minutes. About twenty paces from the back door of the old farmhouse stood an even older-looking barn with a henhouse attached on its left side. A fence formed a closed off area for the hens to strut and peck through wood chips for bugs. Loretta entered the henhouse through a small door in one end. Inside, the hens were still asleep. “Why wouldn’t they be asleep? Anyone in their right mind would still be asleep at this time of night,” she said to herself. “He who sleeps the day through performs the devil’s work,” she imitated Mrs. Dorsely’s shrill voice. “If I had a pancake flipper big enough, I’d slap the whole world for being lazy!”
Loretta reached out and gently lifted one of the hens to reveal two eggs in its nest. After picking up the eggs, she set the hen back down and went to the next bird. Chester, as Loretta liked to call her, was the biggest hen she had ever seen. Each of her eggs was almost twice the size of the others. She was, after all, Mrs. Dorsely’s pride and joy. Lifting Chester off her nest revealed two huge eggs. Loretta took them and set Chester back down. “Good girl,” she said, stroking the bird’s head, “your eggs get to feed the sweetest old lady that ever lived.”
With eggs in hand, Loretta walked back to the house trying not to think of the two feet awaiting her return. Once inside, she set the eggs down on the counter and got out an old wooden bowl to hold the pancake batter. “Oh the trials I go through just to have a breakfast for me and the undeserving devil’s child. She dillies and dallies and my feet feel as if they could fall off at any moment. What could be taking so long child?!” Mrs. Dorsely was at it again.
“Just trying to make the best breakfast for the best Master Dorsely I know,” Loretta said, realizing she had sounded a little more sarcastic than she intended. She hoped Mrs. Dorsely wouldn’t pick up on her tone.
“The best breakfast....hmpf......Mischief.....Mischief I tell you.....always up to mischief.........Why when I was your age....” Loretta tried to ignore the oncoming lecture and proceeded mixing up the pancake batter. She used the smaller eggs for the pancakes and saved the larger ones to be fried.
“......I learned to be punctual. Punctual! Does that mean anything to you child?...” Loretta poured a small amount of the batter into a greased pan on the stove. The batter spread out in the pan and she watched as the bubbles rose to the surface of the pancake.
“.........And then in the fourth grade, we wrote twenty page book reports! Can you even comprehend doing such a task child?! I should be surprised if you even knew how to read!.......” Loretta flipped the pancake. Not with Mrs. Dorsely’s pancake flipper, of course. The old lady never let the tool out of her hand. Instead, the best Loretta could use was a pie spatula, triangular shaped and not nearly large enough to hold a pancake.
“........And when I left home, my father made me build a wooden horse cart to carry all of my belongings. A horse cart! And I pulled it by myself for thirty-five miles!” Loretta flipped the pancake out of the pan and onto a plate. A swift crack of a large egg on the side of the pan and Loretta poured it in.
“.....And I made breakfast for all of the twenty-six children! And I did it in ten minutes child. Ten minutes! And you can’t even...”
Loretta flipped the egg and let it cook for a moment on its other side. She scooped it out and placed it on top of the pancake, just the way Mrs. Dorsely liked. Next she sprinkled it with sugar and garlic powder, also just the way Mrs. Dorsely liked, and brought the dish over to the now emphatic old lady.
“.....And when I was twenty-five.......my goodness child.....I should have thought the world had ended and I was left all by myself. I never had to wait this long for a breakfast before I took you in child.” Mrs. Dorsely took the plate. The expression on her face turned from exasperation to joy for an instant, then to one of disgust. “Where is the garlic powder child? You know I can’t eat your horrid cooking without garlic powder!”
“It’s on there Master Dorsely, your greatness, just give it a smell.”
“And risk losing my appetite child? I should just as soon stick my nose in the pigsty!....And I suppose you would enjoy seeing such a sight wouldn’t you child?!”
Loretta, unsure of her reply, thought for a moment. “It would pain me immensely to see Mrs. Dorsely subject the greatness of her nose to the foulness of a pigsty.” With that, she turned around to head back to the stove.
“Not so fast child. I have my breakfast and you know how I like to eat and have my feet rubbed at the same time.” Loretta scrunched up her face, her back still facing the old lady. She drew a deep breath and sat down in the chair next to Mrs. Dorsely. She lifted her feet and set them in Loretta’s lap. Loretta lifted her hands and reluctantly reached out to the two big toes. Mrs. Dorsely always wanted the foot rubbing to start with the big toes. Loretta Livingston started rubbing. The hard corns of the big toes felt like sand paper in her soft hands. The sharp toenails threatened to scratch any unsuspecting finger. And Loretta knew it was coming....yep there it was......the smell. Rotten honey mixed with vinegar and sour old pancake batter. Between each of the toes, a supply of toe jam served as an unexpected moisturizer. Slowly it seeped in and softened even the hardest of the corns.
“Oh child, if there’s anything your soft hands are good for, it’s a good foot rubbing.” Loretta tried to ignore the comment. The old lady ate her meal in satisfaction as the girl worked her way among the toes and along the soles of the feet.
When the deed was done, Mrs. Dorsely exclaimed, “Now that you’ve let the morning slip through our hands, we must begin our work for the day. Clean up the kitchen and get to your chores.” Loretta got up, cleared Mrs. Dorsely’s plate, and washed her hands thoroughly....three times. After making a pancake and egg for herself, she sat alone in the kitchen and ate. Of course her stomach still couldn’t get used to eating at this time of morning, but she forced the food down anyway and then cleaned up the kitchen.
The first chore of the day was always milking the two cows. Beatrice and Gertrude were their names. Gertrude always had to be milked first or she would get feisty and try to kick Beatrice. Loretta went outside to the still starry night sky and into the barn. To the left was the stall for the cows. To the right were the horses. At the far end of the barn stood a tall stack of hay bales. Between the cow stall and the hay was a set of shelves. Loretta reached up to the shelf to grab the milk pail. The pail felt cool and fresh in her fingers. She looked over at the hay and realized how heavy her eyelids felt. She closed them for a few seconds and found it hard to open them again. The hay looked like the softest, most comfortable bed in the world. She had gotten away with a quick nap a time or two before and decided to lie down for a few minutes. Sleep came to her almost the instant she laid down.
Loretta awoke sometime later, though she couldn’t tell how long the nap had lasted. The first sights of the morning twilight had begun to show. Luckily the pancake flipper hadn’t been her alarm clock. Loretta sat up with her hands behind her holding her up. A quick glance around showed a barn free from any sign of Mrs. Dorsely. She ran her fingers through her red hair to brush out the loose strands of hay, but didn’t bother to brush off her overalls.
Gertrude and Beatrice would be waiting for her. If anything, they would have more milk for her today, since it was now a slightly more reasonable time in the morning. Loretta grabbed the cold steel handle of the pail and trudged into the cow stall. Gertrude let out a grunt of approval. Kneeling down and setting the pail under the utter, Loretta began working. The first sound of the milk hitting the pail always excited her. After emptying Gertrude, she moved on the Beatrice and did the same. The pail of fresh milk now felt heavy and warm in Loretta’s hands. She carried it outside, where a few stars lingered in the sky. The eastern horizon was lit up with the first rays of the sun. In a few moments it would be begin to rise. Loretta brought the milk pail inside, where the empty bottles were waiting to be filled. She set the pail on the counter and pulled the assortment of different shaped bottles from a cupboard below. From a drawer, she grabbed a funnel and began filling the bottles one by one. Later in the morning, she intended to ride them into the market on her bicycle to sell them. A quick corking of the bottles and off they went into the fridge to chill. After putting away the funnel, Loretta rinsed out the pail in the sink and headed back to the barn.
The first sliver of sun peaked over the horizon. Streaks of orange and red shot out across the fading night sky. The day was about to begin.....in more ways than one. Out of the corner of her eye, Loretta caught sight of something moving. She turned to see a figure approaching her from the dirt road leading up to the farmhouse. As the figure approached, Loretta slowly began to make out its shape. It was little Zander Mortese. Zander was a small ten-year old boy with a body that seemed fit for a six-year old. He was fond of Dieter and through him had become friends with Loretta. She called out to him.
“Zander, what brings you over here so early in the morning?” He seemed frantic.
“Lori! Lori come quick! Dieter n..needs you! Lori you’ve gotta come with me!” he approached as fast as his short legs could carry him. His chest heaved with each gasping breath he took. Loretta could see tears streaming down his face. “Lori! Dieter’s fallen! He....he’s h..hurt his back. He...he says.....he says he doesn’t have m...much time.” Zander stuttered through fits of sobbing. “He says he wants to talk with you...as... as soon as you can ...come...o....over!”
“Oh Zander, it will be okay..,” she fought back tears and picked him up in her arms, dropping the pail to the ground. At full speed, she ran with Zander across the yard and up the street. The light of the morning was now enough to show her feet their way. They reached Dieter’s yard and ran towards the front door.
“No L....Lori, he’s on the side of the house...over there.” Zander pointed towards the right side of the house, around the long section that jutted out away from the originally tiny house. Dieter had built the addition as a gallery for his huge collection for paintings. Loretta ran across the yard and turned the corner around the gallery. Dieter was lying on his back at the foot of a ladder leading to the roof. Loretta could see the third step from the top was hanging loosely from one end. The old wood had finally given up its hold on the rusted nails.
“Tommy,” Loretta yelled, setting Zander on the ground and kneeling by Tommy’s side. Tommy....the nickname his American friends had given him back in his smuggling days...The nickname he wanted his new American friend Loretta to use as well. It made him feel young again.
Tommy gasped for air. The simple act of breathing now the last struggle between life and death. But Tommy looked up at Loretta with the peace of one who knows his life is ending but is not afraid of death.
“Lori....Loretta...” He looked up into her face. Her fiery hair mingled with the flames of the fiery sunrise. He could not have wished for a more beautiful closing scene. “I’m so glad you came.” He gasped for more breath and reached his hand up to Loretta’s face. She held onto the hand with both of her own. “Loretta...you are the most amazing person I’ve ever known....you have reminded me of the fire that once burned.... in me. These last few... weeks.....you’re the best friend I’ve had....” He smiled up into her eyes. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. “There is something...” he gasped for more breath “.....something I want you to....” more gasping and then a fit of coughing. A stream of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. He drew in a quick breath. “Bel....gium....scarsands....ridgetreee....sweet Violet...........tell her I ......I always loved.............................” Tommy was gone.
Loretta cried over Tommy’s body until she grew faint. Standing up, the sun was high in the sky, burning down with its early fall rays. The rest of the day was a blur of police questioning, a couple of scantily eaten meals and an impending feeling of emptiness. Mrs. Dorsely did little to console Loretta. Instead she reprimanded her for neglecting her chores. Soon after the funeral came and went. Not long after that, Loretta ended her study abroad two months earlier than originally planned.

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Loretta opened her eyes, came back from the memory....back to the coffee shop and the bistro table and the cold pot of Lemon Sunset tea.
“Belgium....scarsands....ridgetree...sweet Violet....tell her I always loved....” The words resounded fresh in her mind. They had meant little to her at the time; just the broken fragments of a dieing man’s mind. And they would have meant little to her still, that is, until the letter came yesterday. Loretta shuffled through the papers on the table and picked up the postcard she had just received. On the front, a picture of an old European-looking castle, framed in a forest of autumn trees. A hill set in the background housed a single, huge tree. She turned over the invitation. On the back, her name with an address that had been forwarded. The return address had taken her aback.
Miss Violet Swanson
Scarsands Manor, Belgium
The invitation read:
Ms. Loretta Livingston,

In honour of Sir Patrick Kingston, you are cordially invited to the crowing ceremony of Queen Amelie Lambourgh, her Highness, on the thirteenth day of December, Two-thousand and eight, at the Scarsands Manor, at two-thirty in the afternoon, Greenwich standard time. Please bring this invitation to get in at the gate.

Sincerely yours,
Miss Violet Swanson

“A crowning of a Queen Amelie Lambourgh, in the honour of a Sir Patrick Kingston?” Loretta asked her self, “Does that even make sense?” She turned the invitation over again. “Scarsands....ridgetree...” Her eyes focused on the hill in the background. The huge tree stood atop with its branches reaching out over the sides. A pathway circled the hill, running along a ridge made of stones. “Rigdetree?!” One thing was certain. Loretta was buying a ticket to Belgium.

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The next morning, Loretta awoke in her room. The sun filtered in through the window, streaking across the lower end of her bed. Sunday. Last night had brought with it the first chill of fall. She breathed in a deep breath. The chilled air felt wonderful in her lungs, well warmed under the blanket. Loretta was in no hurry to get up.
The apartment sat on a hill just outside of Kansas City. The view was.....well, the view was okay. In truth, Loretta would much rather have overlooked a forest or a canyon...or stared out into some mountains...or at least looked out over a field. But she didn’t mind too much; she had plenty to look at. Each of the four walls of Loretta’s studio apartment held a collage of posters pictures and paintings, each with a different theme.
On the wall opposite the head of her bed: landscapes of Germany. The Schwarzwald, the southern mountains, and the green hills surrounding Hamburg. She could almost make out the home of Mrs. Dorsely, off in the distance in the upper left corner... Of course, she was never sure.
To her left: the wall of her paintings, with one special painting in the center. The only one not painted by Loretta. The one Tommy had given her. A beautiful yet melancholy woman held a violin to her chin. Her bowing arm was taught with the passion of the music, as if strings in each finger ran to her arm and tied directly to her heart. Her dress crimson red, set on a background of black. And her face...such an expression of passion, of anguish, of pain, and of joy. A tear sat timelessly on the center of her cheek. Loretta had loved the painting the instant she saw it. It reminded her of the passion within herself that had gotten her painting in the beginning. Her own pieces were of a varied sort. A mountain overlooked a river winding through a dark green forest. A street corner showed a 50’s style cruiser parked in front of a malt shop. A white t-shirted boy shared a strawberry malt with a dark-haired prettyish sort of girl. Their hands could be seen moving close together underneath the table. Another showed a woman sitting at a piano, obviously in the style of the violin woman, but not quite at the same level. Next to it, a herd of wild horses stampeded through a valley. Clouds of dust arose at the powerful stamping of their hooves. And Loretta’s personal favorite: a rugged-looking cowboy atop a huge horse, a red-haired woman with her hands around his back, the horse galloping at full speed into a setting sun, hidden behind a huge orange and pink-toned cloud....A girl could be entitled to her fantasies, after all.
On the wall to her right: posters surrounding the huge window that let the sunlight into her room. A man and woman held hands on a ballroom floor. The light of a chandelier glittered in their eyes. The joy on their faces lighted up the room. The man wore a vest and tie with a felt hat. The woman wore a short white dress, with its frilly skirt rising in the air from her spinning. A big band was blurred in the background. On the other side of the window, a movie poster for Singin’ in the Rain.
On the wall behind her head: pictures.....of herself, her friends, her family, and memories from school. (There was even one of her and Mrs. Dorsely, pancake flipper and all. The woman had almost formed a smile, but hadn’t quite figured out the muscles used to bring up the corners of her mouth.) Loretta and her three brothers stood at the top of Mt. Koran, their hair blowing wildly in the wind, backpacks thrown in a pile just barely visible behind them. Their faces beamed with the victory of the climb. Her parents looked on nearby from a white background. Loretta had gotten her hair from her father. His thick red moustache spread from ear to ear, hiding behind it a whimsical smile. Her mother leaned up against his shoulder, their hands together, her gentle face nearly touched the end of the moustache. Below, Loretta stood on her graduation day with arms around her two best friends, Dora and Florence. Their faces shone bright with the excitement of youth. Loretta and her grandfather sat at their easels to the left, paintbrushes in hand. Her grandfather’s bushy white beard was spotted with splashes of color. Loretta’s face had a streak of red down a cheek and one of blue across her forehead. A paint fight. The smiles on their faces stretched to the ends of the room. Her grandfather was her first teacher, and her best. She could remember sitting and watching him paint at the age of four and believing that that was what she wanted to do. Paint. From then on, every weekend she would take the train out to his studio and they would paint all day. Grandfather would order ramen noodles from the local Chinese restaurant and make hot cocoa on his old wood burning stove. In the corner, his old record player played record after record of his favorite songs. Some Stravinsky to start things off, then a mellow session with Debussy. Afterwards, he would let ‘the Duke’ take the stage and inspire their paintings with the spirit of jazz. And don’t forget Mozart and Beethoven and Etta James and Miles Davis and many others that Loretta seemed never to tire of. Those weekends spent with Grandpa were the best she could remember, forever leaving their mark on the delicate memory of a child growing into a woman.
Grandfather had died when she was ten. It was the most painful event she ever experienced. The losing of her best friend, her mentor, her idol, all at once. At the time, Loretta refused to be comforted, even vowing to give up painting forever. Grandfather’s paintings were passed on to her parents when he died. During Loretta’s teenage years, her dad lost his job, and they were forced to sell them to make ends meet. Her parents sold all but one, which Loretta refused to give up. It was the only remaining thing in the world tying her grandparents to her. Not his best painting, but by far Loretta’s favorite. She could remember the first time she saw it.
It had been an overcast day, sometimes rainy, but mostly just a mist that seemed ever present in the air. The train was delayed with engine problems. Loretta sat in the unmoving train car mourning over the painting time she lost with each passing minute. A large woman, when sitting down next to her, dropped her cup of coffee into Loretta’s lap. The lukewarm coffee covered her pants and splashed down to her shoes. The woman didn’t even notice the coffee cup missing from her hand, her arms being full of shopping bags from nearly every store in the city. Loretta sat in the car, soaked and smelling of cheap, burnt Folgers for three hours. Finally arriving at Grandpa’s, she was nearly in tears and chilled to the bone. He opened the door and she let the floodgates open. The painting day she looked forward to all week had slipped away.
After a hot bath and a dry change of clothes, Loretta sat in the living room, dismal at best. The pot of hot cocoa warming on the woodstove did little to comfort her disappointment. And then Grandfather brought out the painting, wrapped in newspaper tied up with twine.
“Loretta, I have something for you,” he said, “I was waiting to give this to you on your birthday, but now seems like a better time.” Loretta sat up straighter, feeling ashamed at her bitterness, realizing she had overreacted in her disappointment. She took the package, feeling undeserving of the gift, and opened it. Behind the newspaper sat the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Wild red hair hung about her face bent down over a paper. Her hand looked in the act of writing feverishly. A stack of papers covered in well-formed cursive words sat to her left. Fading into the background, scenes from a fantastical world surrounded her. A giant tree, as tall as a skyscraper and as big around as a house. A winding staircase circled around to its top hidden in the mist of the clouds. A man and woman sat in a flying machine with wings feathered like a bird’s. On the ground a huge creature lifted its long neck up to the first branches of the tree. Huge leaves hung out from the sides of its mouth.
“It is your grandmother, Loretta,” her grandfather said. “You would have loved her. She died when your mother was pregnant with you. You have her wild hair and her wild spirit. She used to write stories filled with adventure and excitement and romance and great battles. Then she would insist on visiting some distant place so she could experience new things, new food, new people. She loved every minute of her life. You are so much like her, Loretta, it’s such a shame you never got to meet her.”
By this time, both Loretta and her grandfather were in tears. The bitterness was gone. The painting was quite beautiful. Loretta treasured it in her arms, felt that just by looking at her grandmother in the painting they had become the closest of friends. The boundaries between life and death were no longer enough to keep two such beings apart.
From then on, Loretta always liked to look at the painting when she needed comfort. She could almost feel her grandmother looking down on hear and telling her things would be okay. After her grandfather died, she stowed the painting away in a box in the attic. Not wanting to look at it and be reminded of the pain of losing her grandfather, but not being able to let the picture go. For years it sat in a box in the attic and Loretta stopped painting. She convinced herself she wanted to become a veterinarian, and when she graduated from high school, she went off to vet. school.
The world Loretta lived in had grown dull to her. At the end of her sophomore year, an opportunity to study abroad in Hamburg reignited her spirits. In Hamburg, despite the strictness of a Mrs. Dorsely, Loretta found a friend in Tommy. He showed her his gallery on the second night she visited. They browsed through paintings of little interest to Loretta, hardened in her grief of the art from the loss of her grandfather. They came to the violinist woman and Loretta was instantly smitten. The sadness and pain faded. The painting reached deep into Loretta’s soul and squeezed her heart with firm hands. She felt the muscles of her face contort uncontrollably. Tears leaked from her eyes and she could not find the ability to form words with her mouth. A great longing spread from the depth of her heart into every direction, sending a tingling sensation to her fingers and toes. She remembered the joy of painting, her once great urge to create beauty and life upon a canvas, the limitless abounds of possibility between a brush and a canvas open to receive colors.
Her dream of a life in painting was rekindled. The next weeks were filled with painting, despite the short hour of the day Loretta spent with Tommy. They talked of their past, mostly of Tommy’s adventures, and worked their brushes in Tommy’s studio.
And then Tommy died. For the second time, Loretta’s world grew dark. Tempted to forget her dream again, Loretta continued on with her vet. schooling. When her parents moved the next year, Loretta sorted through her belongings in the attic. She came across a familiar looking box and opened it up. There was her grandmother, writing with the fever of life. And then Loretta started painting again. She decided to finish her last year of vet. School and found it much more enjoyable, spending the evenings with her paintbrushes.
She found a local coffee shop to showcase her paintings and was able to sell a few at decent prices. By the end of her senior year, she had made a good name for herself and found herself making decent money with her paintings. Not enough, though, to keep her from getting a part-time job at the veterinary hospital as an Assistant Vet. She enjoyed the balance between working in the mornings and painting in the afternoon, and before she knew it, three years passed. Now she sleeps in on a Sunday morning in her studio apartment with an invitation to a Belgian castle sitting on her table. The picture of her grandmother she keeps hidden, only looking at it in times of sadness, when she needs encouragement.

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Loretta looks up at the ceiling from her bed, half dreaming of her rugged cowboy, half dreaming of Scarsands Manor and Miss Violet Swanson. The phone rings, shattering the quiet peace of her morning muses. Loretta picks it up, her arm fumbling with the remains of sleep. It’s Dora. She wants to meet for breakfast and coffee a Cosmo’s. Loretta likes the idea and agrees to meet her.
An empty stomach welcomes the late breakfast. Loretta decides to break the news to her friend.
“Oh, Dora, look what I got in the mail the other day,” she says in a playful tone. Dora looks at the postcard half amused, half incredulous.
“What the hell? How did you get an invitation to a crowning ceremony in Belgium? And who crowns a queen in the honour of a ‘Sir?”
“I don’t know. I’m not quite sure what to make of it myself. You remember my friend Tommy, from Hamburg, I told you about?”
“Yeah, the old man that died and broke your heart,” she half teased her friend.
“Yeah, well when he was dying, he tried to tell me something. His last words were: Belgium....Scarsands....ridgetree....sweet Violet...tell her I always loved... and that’s all I know. I never took much thought about it at all, until I got this.”
“So he must have told his ‘sweet Violet’ about you and now she wants to meet her competition,” Dora joked.
“Or something like that.... Anyway I think I’m gonna go.”
“Damn right you’re going! No friend of mine gets an invitation to a European castle and doesn’t go. I’d disown you...Now, we have to find you an amazing dress to wear, so you can woo a handsome cowboy prince.” Dora was always trying to set Loretta up, herself never going a week between boyfriends. She couldn’t understand how Loretta had dated so few boys all her life.
“I’m just waiting for the right one,” she would always say, “The guy that will ride me into the pink sunset.”

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Two months passed in a daze. Loretta got her plane ticket, made sure her passport was ready, bought her dress (with Dora’s help), and still managed to find time to work, paint, and enjoy the fall season. And then came December 11th, and Loretta was packed and ready to go. Dora and Florence drove her to the airport.
“Do you have your ticket?” Florence interrogated her.
“Yes.”
“Do you have your invitation?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have your passport?’
“Yes.”
“Do you have your dress?” Dora chimed in.
“Yes.”
“Do you have you sassy, knock-em-dead attitude to bring that cowboy prince to his knees?”
“Oh, shit, I forgot that at home! Stop the car. Turn around.”
“Ha. Loretta, I am so jealous. You better tell us every single detail when you get back. And I mean everything. And you better not come back without having some guy’s heart in the palm of your hand,” Dora could be vicious at times.
“And be careful Loretta. Do you have the mace I bought you? You’ve got to protect yourself.” Florence was always one to worry. “Do you have you hotel situation figured out?”
“No, I’m just going to wander around ‘til I find some place to stay.” Florence looked appalled. “Flor, I’m kidding, I’ve made a reservation at a hotel near the airport.” She was, of course, not kidding, but lied to her friend to avoid worrying her half to death.
They reached the airport and Dora and Florence helped Loretta with her bags. Loretta hugged her two friends and said goodbye. Dora had the last word.
“Remember Lori, don’t you dare show your face around here without that poor cowboy prince’s heart in your hands.”

The flight was nothing out of the ordinary. A quick stopover in Atlanta and then the long eight-hour flight to Amsterdam. Looking out over the ocean reminded Loretta of her first trip to Europe, four years ago. The events of which led her to this second adventure. Luckily, she had a window seat. To her left, the shoulder of a large man leaned halfway into her seat, forcing her close to the window. He slept the whole flight. Loretta put on her headphones and listened to Stravinsky as the plane sped over the seemingly endless expanse of water.
In Amsterdam, she spent the first of four hours eating at an Arabic restaurant food that half repulsed half excited her. The strange mix of flavors was at once intriguing and unsettling. The remaining three hours flew by watching the oddest assortment of people making their way through the airport. The final hour-long flight brought her across forests and cities and mountains of Europe and set her down in Brussels, Belgium. As she stepped off the plane, the cool, wintry air reached her face through cracks in the corridor. Tuesday, December 12th. One day before the 13th and the crowning of Queen Amelie Lambourgh.
Loretta left the airport and hailed a cab. Through the little French and German she had picked up before, she was able to tell the Spanish-speaking cabdriver she wanted to find a hotel near Scarsands Manor. A beautiful winding trip through forests and mountains and mountain forests brought her to a small town, with a luxurious-looking hotel. Actually, the village seemed centered only around the hotel, with a few touristy shops lining the adjacent streets.
“Welcome to Sandre Delruga,” the only English saying the cabdriver knew. Ninety Euros later, Loretta got out of the cab and headed into the hotel lobby....the most breathtaking hotel lobby she had ever seen. Three-foot diameter oak pillars stretched up to a thirty-foot ceiling, painted with clouds and blue sky and angels playing harps. A massive gold and crystal chandelier hung down in the middle of the room. Below it, a nine-foot Steinway concert grand filled the lobby with the music of Duke Ellington, ‘The Duke.’ A set of ruby-colored, gold-lined couches with oak hand rests surrounded the piano. A stereotypically rich-looking man wearing a tux, a handlebar moustache and a monacle sat on the nearest couch drinking a martini. His stereotypically rich-looking wife wore a low-necked short white dress, a pearl necklace, a wavy bob of blond hair, and bright crimson lipstick. She sat smoking a long cigarette with an even longer cigarette holder, protecting her well-manicured nails from the burning tobacco. The two of them sat across from an almost identical couple having a clearly sophisticated and important discussion.
“Well I daresay, the caviar in Sondre Delruga is quite the epitome of class, is it not my dear?” He took a spoonful and munched it between his teeth.
“Why Charles, I should think I sit with the devil himself...” Loretta lost interest. To the left, the great front desk stood thirty feet long. Its oak base was covered with a top of solid marble. A row of chandeliers hung above its length. Below each chandelier, stood and eager-to-help-looking concierge. Past the desk climbed a magnificent staircase. The marble steps arched up to the next floor and rounded back down on the other side of the lobby to the lounge. A set of elevators operated between the two stairways.
Loretta took a moment to calculate the amount of money she could afford to spend. She had five-hundred twenty Euros to last three days she planned to stay. “Okay, no more than 200 Euros max,” she told herself. Walking up to the desk, the young concierge greeted her.
“Good evening, Madame, may I help you?” he asked politely.
“Yes. I’m interested in a room.”
“Very good, Madame, do you have a room preference?”
“Um...what are your rates?”
“We have a royal suite open for 4000 Euros per night, to honeymoon suites open for 1200 Euros per night, and 12 single bedrooms open for 480 Euros per night.”
“Damn,” she thought to herself. Then, remembering the plastic money in her wallet, “Do you take American credit cards?”
“Yes, Madame, Visa and MasterCard.”
“Alright. What the hell....put it on there. It’s free money anyway, right?” He didn’t seem to know how to handle the joke. “Oh, well, I’ll keep my 530 Euros and pay this off when I’m fifty-three,” she thought to herself, “Being debt-free is overrated anyway.”
“Very well, Madame, your room is number six-hundred-seventy-two. Franz will help you with your bags.” He pointed to a teenage bellboy eager at the chance to make money. Six floors and twenty Euros later, Loretta flopped down on the hugest and softest bed she had ever seen. The weary traveler drifted off to a comfortable slumber.
She awoke in the evening, refreshed and hungry. An invigorating shower under four powerful showerheads lasted a half hour longer than planned. After dressing, Loretta climbed down the stairs down to the lobby. She passed the concierge who helped her earlier, then stopped and approached him.
“Go ahead and swipe my card for another night, good man. I think I quite like this place.”
Out on the street, the wintry air had grown colder. The misty clouds across the sky hinted of the season’s first snow. Loretta breathed in the fresh mountain air and walked down the street. A small Italian restaurant caught her eye and her nose. She walked in and sat down to a feast. Fresh breadsticks, bruschetta, Mediterranean salad, and spinach and ricotta ravioli, all prepared magnificently. For dessert, she had a glass of port wine and some irritating pickup lines from her sleazy waiter. After a rather large bill, Loretta took the first steps out of the restaurant into the freshly fallen inch of snow. She beamed with satisfaction.
Nothing can compare to the magic of a snowy night. Such quietness, such peace, such serenity abounds in the covering of a city with a soft blanket of pure white. She took joy in blazing the first trail down the sidewalk. A few running slides down the cement path reminded Loretta of how much fun she had had as a child. It also reminded her that her childhood friends were not with her now. The loneliness she occasionally contended with in the past threatened to attack.
“No,” she thought, “I don’t have time for this now. I need my rest so I can be ready to meet my rugged cowboy prince tomorrow and seize control of his defenseless heart.” Across an ocean and thousands of miles away, an unsuspecting Dora felt a rush of excitement.
Quickly down the street, into the huge revolving door, through Debussy’s Claire de Lune resounding in the lobby, up the marble steps, through door number 672 and onto the huge, plush bed, and Loretta forgot about everything but how comfortable she was. The nervousness of the coming day was no match for the soft mattress. Sleep found little difficulty overcoming Loretta Livingston.

new chapter

Wednesday, December 13th, two thousand and eight. The day of the crowning of Queen Amelie Lambourgh in the hounour of Sir Patrick Kingston. Whatever that means.
White reflections shine through the translucent curtains into the hotel room. A half-sleepened Loretta rolls over onto her back and blinks her eyes. The blur of sleep fades from vision and Loretta is awake. Sitting up on the bed lasts about a second; Loretta falls backwards into the soft bedding, not quite ready to start the day. A sleepy hand reaches out to the gold-tasseled curtain rope, pulls it to let the light of the day into the room. The rear facing window opens to a view of terraced gardens. Curving and circling sidewalks surround the various sections planted with trees and shrubs. A tall tree stands in the center, its branches empty of leaves, but holding fragments of the powder dropped during the night. From the looks of the workers still in the process of shoveling, nearly a foot of snow covers the ground. A young couple works near the large tree on a snowman. An occasional snowball or two passes between them Loretta feels just a little bit envious. Lying on her bed, looking up into the swooping and craning chandelier, Loretta muses over the possibilities of the day.
A mystical, snowy cab ride through a winding mountain road... when suddenly a knight an armored horse rides up to the car through a snow-covered field. He puts his powerful hand in the air, as if trying to halt the car. Loretta tells the driver it’s ok to stop, that she knows the knight means well. They stop, windows roll down, the knight reaches down to a pouch hanging from the saddle and pulls out a small package.
“For the lady, good sir,” he tells the cabdriver. Pulling back his visor, the knight reveals a handsome face. Somehow Loretta knows that they are meant for each other, knows that he knows as well, that words aren’t necessary...they are in love.
“NO!” Loretta shakes her head, brings herself back from the fantasy. Her eyes open back up to the curving and swooping chandelier.
Without realizing it, Loretta is back in the cab, nearing the gate of the castle. The gate is open with no guard standing about. The driver pulls in, up the drive to the main door. The door swings down from the top, with chains attached to pull it back up. A young woman steps from the darkness through the door into the white day.
“Welcome....Loretta, Loretta Livingston,” her sneery voice grates upon Loretta’s ears, “You know well who I am, don’t you?....Yes, I can see it. There is no need for an introduction. You took Dieter from me without delivering his message. Now the world will receive its punishment!”
“Come on Loretta, get a hold of yourself!” Loretta shakes her head with incredulity. She opens her eyes to the swooping and curving chandelier. This time she is fully awake. The tension of her thoughts has made her mind impatient for the events of the coming day. A long, invigorating shower under the four powerful showerheads brings her to her senses. The showerheads are actually shaped like lion’s heads, with water spraying from their mouths. Loretta feels the designers made a good choice of symbolism.
The next two hours fly by in preparing herself for the day. Loretta gets real dolled up.
With a coat around her shoulders hiding the top of her violet shimmering dress, the red-haired woman descends the grand staircase, feeling like a princess. It’s just past eleven-thirty. Loretta’s empty stomach threatens to cause trouble if she sits down to a meal. The nervousness has stolen away her appetite. She walks up to the front desk, this time feeling more the part of being a rich guest in the luxury hotel.
“Good morning, Madame, how may I help you?” the young concierge asks, a sly smile sneaks across his face. Loretta’s looks have begun to work their powers. She decides to act the part.
“I don’t know, can you,” she says in a sultry voice. The young man seems to tense up, as if realizing she is out of his league. His usual confidence shatters in the woman’s powerful aura.
“U...um....I will try....,” he says in an unsure wavering tone.
“I’m looking for Scarsands Manor. Heard of the place?” her smooth voice reaches out and overcomes the young man.
“Y....yeah,” his voice cracks. “It’s a two-and-a-half hour drive up the highway into the mountains.”
“Any idea how a girl like me could find a ride up there...real soon,” she lifts her eyebrows throwing an expectant look across the desk.
“You can take a tax.....no wait....I will call you our personal chauffer....fr....on the house.” A nearby coworker throws him a look of questioning. Apparently, it’s not common to call on the chauffer for guests at the hotel’s expense.
“Thank you...,” she looks down at his name tag, “....Martin.” she reaches a hand out to his face, brushes her fingers across his cheek. “You have saved this girl from a heap of trouble.” Martin is nearly drenched in sweat. His fingers tingle with numbness. “I’ll be waiting over here for that car...” She walks towards the couches.
“Y...yes, I’ll call it right away, Madame.”
A table with fruit and croissants stands near the lounge. Loretta feels able enough now to stomach just about anything. She can hardly remember a time she’s felt more confident.
Ten minutes later, a classic-looking Rolls Royce pulls up. The concierge walks over to Loretta, apple to her mouth, taking a bite.
“Your ride is here, Madame,” he speaks in a stronger voice now, though with a cautious tone.
“Thank you, good man,” she says nothing more, glides out of the room. The concierge doesn’t quite know what has happened, but feels invigorated at the flirtatious encounter.
Outside, the chauffer opens a door. Loretta steps into the spacious car, sits back and let’s out a deep, deep breath. She hadn’t quite expected a ride in luxury. The roads look like they’ve been well-plowed, as far as she can tell. Loretta tells the driver she’s headed for Scarsands Manor. He gives a nod of approval and accelerates away from the hotel lobby. Snow banks line the mountain road. The studded snow tires seem to have no difficulty gripping on the ascending route, up and up. Through a conversation with the chauffer, she learns Scarsands is located at the top of Mt Scarsand, with a view overlooking the entire surrounding region. Loretta’s excitement heightens.
Tall pine trees line the first half-hour section of the drive...tall, straight trees reaching high into the air...too high to see the tops through the restricting view of the window. Gradually, the trees thin out. A huge granite boulder comes into view...craggly, mossy, snow-covered granite. A pine tree grows in a crack in the huge rock. Where it takes its root, Loretta has no clue, that not being her field of expertise. She does clearly see, though, that it is beautiful...the lone tree fighting for its existence in the middle of an unforgiving stone bed.
Soon, more and more rock lines the road. Tall spires reach into the clouds handing low in the December sky. A group of falcons circle high in the distance ahead. An occasional opening in the rocks passes by the windows of the car....each one a mystical doorway into a fantastical world...or so Loretta likes to think.
After about an hour, the rocks clear up on the left side. It seems the road rounds the mountain on the edge of a cliff. Out over the edge, a deep valley can vaguely be seen through a mist of fog. Through openings in the cloud, Loretta makes out the winding form of a river deep below. She is reminded of her painting back at home, not too different form the view she now sees. A small cottage sits near a bend in the river, nearly just a dot to Loretta’s eye. Puffs of smoke arise from its chimney. Loretta imagines a lone woman living in the cottage, who sits all day in a rocking chair knitting a huge scarf for a giant who will one day come to visit. A strange thought, she realizes, but it not ashamed.
Around the bend circling the mountain edge and the road continues on along the cliff. An all-too-short guardrail is all that separates the Rolls Royce form the depth of the valley 500 feet below. Loretta enjoys looking over the edge. She imagines herself flying alongside the car with huge wings of an eagle. The imagined Loretta bird has no difficulty keeping up. Actually, she is quite bored with the speed and the constant direction. She wants to fly high in the air to get a grand view of the mountains and valleys. Eventually, Loretta can no longer convince her to stay; she flies up and up in the sky.
The car Loretta closes her eyes and finds herself seeing the view of the bird Loretta. Up and up she goes. The car becomes a speck slowly moving along a white track cut along the mountain. She ascends above the highest peak, which she hopes will reveal the great Scarsands Manor. Instead a huge cloud covers the view beyond. Higher she flies, up into a great cloud, hiding the vast landscape below. Up and up, past the cloud. Eventually, its edges come into view, revealing a frame of the land underneath. Higher and the cloud becomes merely a small spot in the center of her vision. The mountains now are only distinguishable by the great, long ridges and crags. The forests, painted white with specks of green meld into a whitish green blur. Higher, the edges of the continent come into view. The general shape of Europe, familiar from the maps and satellite pictures Loretta has seen in the past, becomes visible. The vast ocean looks a deep blue. Clouds swirl about over its surface and extend out onto surrounding lands. Higher and the edge of America shows itself around the corner of the earth. Higher, the round profile of the planet becomes framed in blackness. The bird Loretta has reached the expanse of space separating our planet from distant stars and galaxies. She wants to fly higher, to reach the heavens above. Car Loretta decides to let her go; she can no longer be held back. Car Loretta has plans here on the earth.
Loretta opens her eyes, finds herself back in the black leathery seat of the car winding through a mountain. The granite spires are long gone from view, as well as the cliff overlooking the edge. The car now passes through a flat grassy landscape, dotted with smaller boulders. Off in the distance ahead, Loretta makes out the shape of a great mountain hill. White-covered green trees cover its entirety, from what she can tell. The ridge of a winding road cut through the trees spirals to the top.
“Scarsands Manor,” the chauffer points to the top of the mountain. Loretta’s excitement builds.
Soon they are on they are on the winding road circling around to the top. Loretta sees a view repeated three times, each from a higher perspective. She looks out onto the flat meadow of boulders they just passed through. It extends far into the distance. On either side of it, the peaks of nearby mountains are dwarfed by the height the car is climbing.
Around a bend, the road flattens out, apparently with nowhere higher to climb. The top spires of Scarsands rise into view up ahead. A great pair of twin spires extends from the center, high above the others surrounding the edges of the castle. A tall stone wall surrounds the fortress, with an iron gate blocking the passage of the road to the inner grounds and castle. A stern looking pair of guards stand at the gate. The car pulls to a stop and a guard approaches the window. His bright red uniform would have given him a slightly comical appearance, were it not for the deathly serious look on his face.
The driver rolls down his window, waves to the guard. “Good day, sir, how do you do?” he asks in a friendly manner. The guard shows no sign of a friendly interaction.
“What business brings you to the castle?” A stern look accompanies the inquisition.
“Uh....A.....uh...Miss...u...,” he falters. Loretta helps him out.
“A Miss Loretta Livingston.”
“A Miss Loretta Livingston has business....um....,” he falters again, realizes he knows nothing about his passenger. Loretta pulls out her invitation and hands it to the guard after rolling down her window. The guard looks at it. The expression on his face changes for the first time. A look of bafflement brings his left eyebrow to the top of his forehead.
“I’m sorry Miss....there is no crowning ceremony today. ......And Miss Violet Swanson is no longer with us.....She died two years ago. I don’t know where you got this invitation, but I’m sorry.” Loretta’s heart drops to her stomach. Nothing makes sense. He turns the card over to the picture on the front, this time noticing the royal seal in the corner.
“Madame,” the guard resumes, “despite the incorrect message on the invitation, the card does have the royal insignia printed in gold. I can let you in for the day without question. The royal seal provides free access to those who receive it. Consider yourself a very lucky woman. Please enter. I will notify one of our guards to escort you on a tour of the grounds....if you are so inclined?”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” Loretta replies emphatically. The guard hands the invitation back to her, signals the other to open the gate. A peculiar feeling arises in Loretta’s mind. “If Miss Violet died two years ago, who sent me this invitation... with the royal seal?”
The driver pulls through the gate, the great spires loom ahead. The road approaches the main entrance in a loop heading back to the gate. The driver pulls the car to a stop. He gets out and opens Loretta’s door. As she steps out, the great doors open, dwarfing the guard coming through them. This one wears a navy blue uniform with dark brown pants and a gray cap. Thick mutton chops line down his cheeks, ending in a prominent chin. His well-practiced posture holds him as straight as a board. He stops next to the car, reaches his hand out to Loretta.
“A Miss Loretta Livingston, I presume?” His strong, powerful voice cuts through the still, silent air of the mountain castle.
“Yes, and you are?” Loretta speaks in a sweet tone, sweet enough to melt the sternness of any man.
“Admiral Lonn Von Wilkes, at your service, Madame,” his demeanor softens noticeably, “I have been informed of the peculiarity of your visit, and must say I am quite intrigued. May I have a look at your invitation?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Loretta reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out the postcard. She hands it to him; their hands touch for a brief moment. Her soft fingers feel heavenly on his own. He takes the invitation reluctantly, wishing never to lose contact with such a beautiful hand. Lonn reads it over. The same peculiar expression spreads across his face, just as the gate guard’s.
“I knew Miss Violet. She was a kind woman. Always seemed longing for something though....never quite looked entirely happy. Sometimes I wonder whether she died somewhat of a broken heart.” Then changing the subject, “Did you know her, Miss Livingston?”
“Please, call me Loretta.”
“Yes, Miss Loretta, did you know Miss Swanson very well?”
“No, not at all......I only heard brief mention of her name, years ago.” She decides not to divulge more information than needed at the moment.
“Strange.....very strange indeed.... Well, Miss Loretta,” handing back her invitation, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” He extends his hand in an offer of handshake, holds hers longer than necessary, but neither of them seem to mind.
“Very well, shall we begin the tour?” Lonn asks.
“Yes. I would love to.” Loretta looks at the chauffer with an expression of question. As if reading her mind, Lonn speaks up.
“If you like, Miss Loretta, we can arrange a car to drive you wherever you want, at your request.” Loretta gives a look of approval, turns to the chauffer, thanks him for his trouble, and offers him a tip.
“No, no, Miss, nothing of that sort here. It has been a pleasure.” He gets back into the car and loops back around to the gate, leaving the red-haired princess with the handsome guard alone at the doors of the castle. Loretta begins to enjoy her current situation.

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“Miss Loretta, where should you like to begin?” he asks in a polite manner.
“I should be happy with any view of the grounds or castle. I will leave it to you to choose the best route.” Lonn offers his arm. Loretta takes it after only a moment’s hesitation.
“Very well, I will start with the grounds, as they are the most beautiful part, in my opinion.” A man with an opinion. Things looked better by the minute. Loretta nods in approval. They circle around the massive base of stone spires to the back yard. Off on a nearby hiss, Loretta spies the huge, lone tree and the stone ridge.
“Lonn,” his own name sound’s magical on the tongue of the beautiful woman, “does that hill have a name?” she points toe the tree.
“Yes, that is Ridgetree, Miss Loretta. It was actually a favorite spot of Miss Violet. Would you like to visit it on the tour?”
“I should like that very much indeed, Lonn.” The name sounds more natural the second time around. Loretta feels she could get used to using it every day.
The two begin wandering the maze of the backyard. Zigzag stone walls surround open areas of snow-covered ground, some with trees growing out of them, some bare that likely hold exotic flowers in warmer seasons. The maze centers around a massive fountain. A great circular base holds a statue of an ancient looking warrior. Snow fills the base, now devoid of running water. Loretta wonders to herself where the water spouts from.
“This is a statue of the great King Henrik. An ancient story tells of a great battle he fought for the kingdom. They say he held in his mouth the oil from a lamp. When he rode up to the opposing general in fight, he blew the oil through a small lantern into the general’s face, blinding him and leaving the man open for an easy blow from the sword. Now the statue stands with the spout shooting from his mouth, mimicking the ancient tale. It really is quite an odd statue.”
“Yes...,” Loretta feels slightly disturbed with the tale, but overall finds the statue quite comical.
“Are you cold, Miss Loretta? Your legs must be well-exposed to the air with that dress.....It is a beautiful dress, by the way.” Loretta blushes.
“Yes, actually, I am a little chilled.”
“Very well, let us venture into the castle. We will enter through the back door, as that is the nearest entrance.” They walk to the back door, not quite as grand as the front, but still forty feet tall made of solid maple with artistic iron coverings and hinges. Lonn reaches for the handle. Loretta half expects him to pull on side open with a single heft of his manly bicep. Instead, he presses a button to the side of a great gold-covered handle. A motor starts up somewhere behind the great door. The two halves start to slowly swing open. Loretta can’t help but be a little disappointed. Lonn steps to the side, as if holding the door for her. She steps inside, her confidence in the man slightly recovered.
A great wooden dance floor lies before the eyes of the two not-so-well-acquainted acquaintances. Beneath Loretta’s feet, a white-marble floor brings warmth to the soles of her feet. She looks down inquisitively.
“Heated marble, Miss Loretta... Wonderful this time of year,” Lonn says, a little awkwardly.
“Yes,” Loretta agrees, though more than she let's on. Her toes are quite chilled underneath the thin covering of her matching violet heel.
“Let me take you coat, if I may, Miss Loretta?” He asks as if he is entirely unsure of her response...in a perfectly questioning tone.
“Yes, of course, thank you, um Mr. Lonn.”
“Please, just Lonn..... None of that formality nonsense, Miss Loretta.” She muses over the confliction of his statement while he pulls the black velvet coat from her shoulders. His warm breath brings a tingling sensation to the back of her neck. She is not entirely disgusted to the feeling, as the sleeves of her coat slip from her arms, leaving them feeling exposed. Lonn hangs the coat carefully on one of the seemingly endless hooks along the wall. He extends his arm to her again, she takes it without hesitation, and they walk into the grand ballroom of Scarsands Manor. The floor is empty. A small stage sits empty to the left. A great V-shaped harp sits silent, its strings eager to make music for the two.... If only someone were there to let it serenade the couple.
“This is, of course, the royal ballroom. Quite a sight to see when it is filled with ladies and gentlemen and suits and gowns and music and tables of food and drink to last a week!” He points around the room while he speaks, as if the objects he speaks of are plain in sight.
“It sounds amazing, although I must confess I’m not much of a dancer.” Loretta instantly regrets the remark, realizing there was no reason to divulge such information. Lonn looks at her and smiles.
“Well, Miss Loretta, I find that difficult to believe, though knowing nothing about you, I am inclined to take your word.” Lonn instantly regrets the remark, realizing he has made the woman uncomfortable. A silence invades the room.
“Well, shall we move on, Miss Loretta?”
“Yes, what will you show me next, Mr. Lonn?” She says his name matter-of-factly, using the same inflection he uses with hers. A whimsical, playful smile turns toward the man’s face. A slightly reddened cheek tries to prevent a smirk, but Loretta catches a glimpse.
“Let us go to the drawing room, if you will Miss....uh...Miss Loretta?” He can’t help but use the formality he has always used around women of distinction. The word ‘drawing’ inspires a though in Loretta’s mind.
“Perhaps there is a gallery we may visit instead? I am quite fond of artwork.”
“Yes, of course, I should be much obliged to show you....uh,” his train of thought seems muddled, “the ....paintings...of the .....castle.” So much for elegant banter. A shame wipes across his face. “Why do I have to be so awkward?” he interrogates himself. Loretta can see clearly he is upset, though doesn’t quite realize why.
“Does he think I am weird?” she questions her behavior towards the man. A feeling of self-loath sinks into her muscles. Her shoulders sag. The two walk to the gallery, each feeling as if they are an unbearable burden to the other. They walk down a red-carpeted hallway, with walls painted peach and dark walnut paneling reaching from the floor to their eyelevel. A strong, rounded walnut molding masks the top edge of the wood paneling. Chandeliers light the floor from the twenty foot ceiling above.
Ahead, the light of the day shines into the room to which the two venture. A half-covered-in-packing-paper portrait awaits their entrance, with stern, unforgiving eyes. The man wears a bald head with a thick brown moustache. The bottom half of his mouth and figure hide behind the paper.
“Such a cold painting for an entrance to a gallery.” Lonn breaks the silence, with his first informal statement to the red-haired woman.
“Indeed, I should think I was heading to be judged for a murder.” She attempts a feeble laugh, feels foolish for doing so.
Lonn begins to realize that he wants nothing more than to tell this woman he loves her, as absurd as that sounds, and hold her in his arms for the rest of his life. A naive thought, but heartfelt nonetheless. The reality of the situation makes his desire nearly unthinkable. He knows nothing of this woman. She has no reason to find interest in him. Soon she will leave and the day will be gone. The castle will return to its former melancholy and Lonn’s heart will recover.
The hell it will. He has never been so enamored of a woman before.
They walk past the dungeon master of a portrait and enter the gallery. Lonn points out the first portrait of King Henrik.
“This one, over here, Miss Loretta,” he points ahead to the painting, “is King Henrik, the same as the statue. The original painting is nearly 400 years old; this is merely a reprint. The original is kept in a climate controlled safe, along with many others.”
“He really has such a powerful face.... I can almost feel his intensity.” Loretta offers her opinion.
“Yes. Here in Belgium, he is considered a great hero, much like a George Washington or a Thomas Jefferson is in your country. He established the country of Belgium amidst a war between many nations; created a land of freedom and prosperity.” They move on past the painting, passing many distinctive looking faces, some with a demanding image of pride, others with a look of boldness, and some with an altogether devilish look.
“Are all of the paintings in the gallery portraits of royalty?” Loretta asks in an ‘I’m tired of looking at people long since dead’ sort of tone.
“Yes, of course, Miss Loretta, this way into the adjoining room.” They walk from the long, tall-windowed main gallery around a corner to a smaller section. Light filters in through the farthest window from a sun now descending in the winter sky. For a moment, the light clouds the paintings from their vision as they turn towards the window. Loretta’s eyes adjust. She catches sight of a nearby landscape. A massive tree trunk fills a third of the page, off center to the right. In the middle, the classic triangular form of Mt Fuji towers out above the horizon. Its snow-capped peak nearly touches the crescent moon hanging low in the sky. A traveler walks forward on a pathway coming in from the front of the painting.
“Such balance, such use of shading... beautiful proportions,” Loretta offers, “an inspiration...”
“I always with I could see the traveler’s face. I can only imagine the stories written upon the lines of his eyes and the grin on his face. I can almost see him perfectly in my mind.”
Loretta is impressed with the depth of imagery Lonn offers, realizes that this man appreciates a good painting. “That is an interesting insight, perhaps you should paint it someday yourself. The view from the back of the painting... though you might see the hands of the painter as you look out.” Loretta finishes her comment with a laugh. Lonn hesitates as if he doesn’t quite understand, then a light spreads across his face. He smiles, a happy smile.
“And what do you think of this one, Miss Loretta?” He points to an image farther down on the right wall. Loretta walks up to look at it closely. She sees a familiar sight. The huge tree atop the hill with a stone ridge circling around. A beautiful woman wearing a fine-laced dress sits up on a large low-hanging branch, her eyes down to the page of a thick book. Her hair lifts slightly in the breeze of a perfect summer’s day.
“It is quite...lovely... it is Ridgetree, is it not?”
“Yes, very good. And who do you suppose that woman is, reading beneath the great leaves of the tree?” He offers up a playful, inquisitive smile. Loretta takes the clue.
“It must be Miss Violet Swanson.”
“Yes, indeed. I told you it was a favorite place of hers. She lived in the castle as a sort of daughter to the princess Palin. Her parents died of the Scarlet when she was very young. Princess Palin treated her like a true mother... What do you know of Miss Violet, Miss Loretta?... or did I already ask you earlier? I am sorry...” He lowers his head in shame.
“Lonn, it is ok, I know of her only very little. A friend of mine I met in Hamburg mentioned her name in his last dying words. He said Belgium....Scarsands....Ridgetree....sweet Violet....tell her I always loved... Loretta pauses. A gray shadow seems to pass across his face at the words. Loretta looks at him with a questioning, guilt-filled expression. Lonn looks up and realizes his face has disturbed her.
“I am sorry, Miss Loretta. I was only thinking.... your words set my mind to ponder over certain events that took place quite a long time ago. Before I was born, to say the least.”
“What is it Lonn?” Loretta’s excitement becomes impatient with the possibility of uncovering the mystery surrounding her very trip to this castle.
“Forgive me if I drag on, Miss Loretta, but I feel as I must start at the beginning, though it s only based on stories I have heard growing up in this place.”
“Please do explain!” Loretta gives the best encouragement she can in a warm, excited tone.
“Very well..”

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“Miss Violet Swanson was born to a Mr. and Mrs. Ethan Macgregor, in a room not too far from the room you and I currently stand in.. by the way, Miss Loretta, please take a seat.” Lonn offers up a space on an old bench near one of the sun-facing windows. Loretta takes it delightedly. “Now, where was I?... ah yes, Miss Violet was born in this castle to parents in the highest circle of servants to the King. As I said before, her parents died when she was still at a very young age. Princess Palin, an old maid who had not the birthright to the crown, was happy to take her in as her own child. Miss Violet was brought up as all of the other servants’ children, though she had certain more liberties than the others, being cared for by one of the royal family.
“Thus, from the day she was born, Miss Violet spent her days in this castle, sneaking about secret rooms, as any child could be expected to , and exploring the grounds of the castle.” Lonn moves his arms about, as if encircling the entire grounds. “She, along with the other servants’ children, was schooled in a room adjacent to the servants’ quarters. It was a very room with a perfect view of Ridgetree hill, which you and I both know became a favorite spot of hers. Everyday, during classes, whether sunny, rainy, or snow-covered, she looked out with a longing expression on her face towards the tree. I think to her it was a symbol of freedom, a magical getaway on an otherwise isolated mountain.
“So the years passed and Miss Violet grew into a woman, a very handsome, lovely woman, none the least. I was not surprising then that she became sought after in the eyes of the gentlemen about, both servant and royalty alike. In particular, Prince Edward, first son of the king, was absolutely smitten with her. From what I have heard on the matter, Miss Violet did not particularly return his affection. It was of little use, however, for her to resist the powers of persuasion acting upon her gentle mind. Edward offered a sum of money Princess Palin could hardly refuse, in return for the hand of her adopted daughter. Miss Violet, though not madly in love with Edward, soon consented, having no reason to reject such a favorable match. After all, she would someday be queen.
“Now, a certain event came about to bring a tremendous strain upon her heart. A mysterious man appeared at the castle one day. A wild, adventurous man, who flew upon the castle in an old WWII bomber airplane. He seemed to have stumbled accidentally at Scarsands on an empty tank of gas. In return for a room to stay the night, he offered up a small pouch of fine-cut diamonds. The King immediately warmed up to the stranger offering riches for such a small request.
Upon touring the grounds of the castle, the man caught his eye on a whitish figure sitting on a low branch of the tree that sits atop the hill surrounded by a stone ridge. The figure was, of course, Miss Violet, the fiancé of Prince Edward. Such a detail could not stop a man in awe of the beauty before him. The man walked the path leading to the hill. He circled around the hill on the path lined with the stone ridge. At the top, the clarity of his vision confirmed what the blurred image from afar had suggested. Miss Violet was stunning. A long wave of golden-brown hair hung to the sides of her fair, gentle face. She sat with a book in her lap, though not reading. Her face lifted up to the sky, eyes closed, a radiant smile imitated the sun shining upon it. The man drew near her, quiet as a feather, so as not to disturb her, though knowing that at some point she would startle at the sudden realization of his presence. He walked up to the branch upon which she sat, every moment ready to be turned upon and screamed at. But she never said a thing; only acknowledge his presence by patting the branch next to her, as if offering a seat. What happened between them, I will leave to your own imagination, Miss Loretta.” A redness spreads across Lonn’s face; the color seems particularly fond of his cheeks today. And not much different can be said of the woman’s at this particular instant in time.
“Needless to say, a young Prince Edward saw the two from afar and immediately sent a royal trio of guards to put an end to the “despicable behavior.” The man was sent away with no kind offer of return, to say the least. The incident was never to be spoken of by anyone; the marriage was set to commence in the following month.
“One week before the wedding, a package arrived for Miss Violet, with no return address. It contained the very painting which we see before us, of Miss Violet atop Ridgetree hill. With the painting was a note:
My dearest Miss Violet,

It is I, the lone stranger, the mysterious pilot, the man you knew for only a moment. It is within my heart the desire to love and treasure your soul for the length of eternity. But I know that the forces of this world are intent on keeping us apart. Forget me, Miss Violet, sweet, dearest, loveliest Violet. Let not the pain of my broken heart keep you from living and loving the marriage to which you have consented. I will move on as well. Do not think that my heart will not recover. The painting is but a mockery of the image burned within my heart. But it must fade.
Sincerely,
Alfred Hitchenwibbens

“And so, Miss Violet wedded Prince Edward and lived the life as if it were the best lift to live, until the day she died, two years ago. The mysterious man was never heard from again.” Lonn stops speaking, looks at Loretta to see a peculiar expression on her face. A look of sadness, but of understanding. “Miss Loretta, forgive me, but what is it you are thinking?”
Loretta has a hard time forming words. It seems her tongue has a large lump in the center that doesn’t want to let go of the roof of her mouth. “I.... I am only thinking.... I knew the mysterious man. He was my only friend in a foreign country when my life seemed turned inside out. I... I watched him die.” Here she breaks into tears, “He lived with a broken heart his whole life.... lived with a great hole in his chest aching away at him every day until he died... and .... and he never said anything of it to me..... only mentioned her in his last dying breath.... Belgium....Scarsands....Ridgetree....sweet Violet....tell her I always loved... Loved what? Loved the hurt in his heart? Loved the cruelty of the world keeping two lovers apart!? He had nothing to hold onto but a love that would never be!” Loretta breaks down into deep sobbing, mourning the pain of her dear friend. Lonn sits next to her, offers his shoulder for a headrest. Loretta takes it, reaches her hand out to his without thinking. The fingers touch, hands come together, fingers fold around the other’s hand. The woman sobs out her grief of the newly discovered tragedy. The man wants only to comfort her and never let go of the soft hand folded around his.
Many minutes pass between the two. The woman silently cries and the man offers silent comfort. Eventually, Loretta has spent her grief. Lonn, realizes the sobbing has stopped and breaks the silence.
“There’s something I don’t understand, though, Miss Loretta. Why would Alfred want to tell you of his lost love with his last breath? Why would he be compelled to speak of it to you?” Loretta thinks to herself, finds nothing to say. Lonn continues “I think there may be something else to the story.... He specifically mentioned Ridgetree, didn’t he? Perhaps we should visit the place... And who sent you the invitation?”
Loretta’s emotion changes. “And how did you know so many particulars of Miss Violet’s story... like the way she looked up into the sun and the man’s note..... And where did you get the name Alfred Hitchenwibbens?”
“.... Um... storyteller’s freedom....” Lonn offers up an embarrassed chuckle. Loretta can’t help but smile back.
“Okay, I can accept that, you’re just a hopeless Romantic.” She smiles with the remark, then suddenly realizes their hands are connected. She looks down at their entwined fingers, Lonn looks at her looking at them, wondering what she thinks. A mildly awkward minute passes.
“Well, I think you may be right, Mr. Lonn, shall we venture to the Ridgetree hill?” she says the words ‘Ridgetree hill’ as if it were a grand introduction to a great hero.
“Very well, Miss Loretta.” They get up, hands slide apart at the disappointment of both, though neither knows of the other’s sadness at the loss. A silent walk back through the tall gallery through the golden orange rays of a setting winter sun, past the countless faces hanging from the walls, through the long red-carpeted hallway, out to the grand ballroom, through the automatic back door, and the two stand in a shower of orange-tinged whiteness. The shoveled walkway leads ahead to the maze of gardens, another segment of the walk breaks off to the left down the hill bringing them to the foot of Ridgetree Hill. Loretta imagines Tommy walking this same path, years ago on a perfect summer’s day. The ridge begins winding around the curve of the hill. Snow caps the top surface as well as the unshoveled path they walk along. Lonn looks down to see the heels of ‘Miss Loretta’ buried beneath the snow, the bare ankles above her feet exposed to the cold blanket of powder.
“Miss Loretta! Your feet must be frigid!” Lonn bends over, lifting Loretta’s legs to the air. His other hand support the top of her back. She feels light in his arms. Loretta says nothing, only offers up a sweet smile with eyes closed. She is imagining the man climbing the hill to his beautiful goddess, Lonn thinks. In reality, she thinks of Lonn.
Round the ridge, seeing the same views repeated with each turn, Loretta remembers the similar drive up to the castle. The path rounds the last ascent to the top of the hill The great tree looms into view. The arches of its great white-covered boughs envelope the entire span of the hill’s surface. Loretta says what each of them have been wanting to say.
“I think I know why he wanted me to visit Ridgetree....he wanted me to find....love.” Lonn looks down into her face. Their eyes meet, twinkling with the affirmation of the others desires. The man’s head bends down, the woman’s arms reach up around his neck. Their lips touch.

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A rustle above in the tree. A startled couple breaks the contact of a long first kiss. Their faces turn to the sound. A figure moves among the branches, trying to get a closer look at the two.
“Hello, who is there?” Lonn asks in a strong voice.
“Lor....Lori.... is that you?” A familiar voice reaches into the memory of her past.
“Yes it is me...,” she pauses, trying to place the voice, “... Z....Zander, is that you?” The figure seems contented and climbs down a great branch, jumping to the snowy hill below. “Zander!” Loretta exclaims, lying in the solid arms of a handsome man.
Zander has grown. His ‘six-year-old’ body has transformed into that of a teenager, quite tall for his age. The soprano if his familiar voice has become a strong bass.
“Loretta! I knew you would come, I just knew it!”
“So it was you who sent the postcard?” she exclaims in a sudden burst of realization.
“Yes, I.... I’m sorry.... Loretta. I didn’t mean to lie to you, but didn’t think you would come on account of just me.” He looks to the ground in remorse, if not a little overstated.
“But why, Zander, why did you want me to come?”
“I missed you, Loretta....and there is something I wanted to show you....” here he starts to break down. His words become trapped behind a fit of crying. “Loretta... it’s been so hard..... I’ve tried so hard.... ,” he looks faint. The legs of his growing body become weak. The teenager falls into the snow.
“Zander!” Loretta screams.
“Miss Loretta, it’s okay, I will carry him inside. I will carry you each in one arm.”
“No, Lonn, I couldn’t let you carry us both. I will brave the cold snow. After all, I know a warm marble floor awaits my return. Lonn hesitates, not particularly liking the idea, but knowing the journey will be much easier with only one weight, despite his impressive strength.
“Very well, Miss Loretta put be careful.” Lonn sets her down as gently as a porcelain doll, then quickly runs over to the fainted youth. He lifts the boy over his shoulders, balancing the weight over his body to make for an easier trek back inside. Loretta and Lonn walk briskly down the path in the last fading rays of the sunset. Loretta hardly notices the snow upon her legs as her thoughts are only of the weakened boy she knew years ago.
The three of them reach the back door of the castle. This time, Loretta pushes the small button before Lonn has a chance. The doors slowly swing open.
“We should go to the dining room, Lonn. I am sure is suffering from hunger and cold. Lord knows how long he’s been waiting out there in the tree.”
“Yes, Miss Loretta,” he heads across the grand ballroom floor, his heavy footsteps resounding loudly in the huge empty room. “This way, Miss Loretta.” They move down another hallway leading from the ballroom, very much like the one leading to the gallery. Lonn reaches a doorway on the left and turns into it. For a moment Loretta loses sight of him. Her heels do not let her feet keep up with the man’s pace. She bends down and loosens the straps of the shoes, takes them off and runs up to the doorway to catch up with Lonn. At first a sinking feeling of despair grabs her senses. Loretta sees no sign of the man she recently touched with her lips. But the feeling lasts only for a second, as Lonn returns from a distant doorway looking for her.
“Sorry, Miss Loretta, I thought you were right behind me. This way.” He turns back into the doorway, Loretta hot on his heels now. Inside a grand dining room table, lined with at least fifty chairs on either side. To the left of the table in the huge room sits a group of sofas and reclining chairs. Lonn sets the boy down on a sofa. Loretta runs over to kneel beside Zander, strokes his cold cheek with her soft hand.
“I will go to get some warm soup with bread and some fresh milk, Miss Loretta.” She turns to him and nods in approval. Lonn rushes out of the room leaving to two to the great silence of the empty room. Loretta’s soft touch brings Zander back from his sleep. He looks up into the stunning eyes he remembers from the years past.
“Lor... Lori... I missed you so much... I’m so happy you came.....,” his teeth chatter with the coldness infused in his body.
“Sh.... Zander, you’ll be okay. That man went to get you some food. Just rest now and we can talk when you are better, okay?” Loretta reaches up to a blanket draped across the back of the couch, pulls it off and covers the shivering boy. A few more blankets from the other couches find their way to him as well. In a few minutes, Zander’s shivering begins to slow. Loretta can hear a more steady breathing from her friend.
When Lonn returns several minutes later, he carries a feast fit for a king. A great bowl of sausage and onion soup, a tall glass of fresh milk, four thick slices of a freshly baked bread, a plate of sliced cheeses, and a glass of wine. Loretta pulls a small table to the edge of the sofa; Lonn sets the platter down in front of the silently sleeping boy. Loretta gently shakes his shoulder, find a hard time of rousing him from sleep, but ultimately prevails.
“Zander, Lonn has brought food for you. You must be starving.” She breaks of a piece of bread, offers it to Zander’s mouth. He bites into it. A look of pure bliss precedes an expression of mad hunger. Zander sits up quickly, eyes the platter with awe-struck eyes, tries to take it all in before deciding where to start. It seems the bowl of soup looks the most appealing. A mad rushing spoon quickly empties the great bowl. Next comes more of that heavenly bread. One, two, three pieces soon disappear. The glass of milk serves well to wash them down. The plate of cheese comes next. Perhaps the teenager hasn’t yet developed a taste for the untouched wine. Perhaps not. The wine glass empties in a single tip. Zander sits back with such a look of satisfaction as ever Loretta or Lonn had seen, their own faces stunned with incredulity of the feat accomplished before their eyes. Zander rubs his stomach, looks down with a full, drunken face. His eyelids grow heavy, open quickly up and down in a futile attempt to stay awake. Loretta realizes she will not hear his story tonight, Lonn reads her thoughts.
“Perhaps, Miss Loretta, you and Zander should stay at the castle tonight. I see no reason to make either of you travel out into the dark mountains when there are so many empty rooms in this great manor.” Loretta’s eyes light up in an expression of satisfaction. She will not miss the soft bed and powerful shower of the hotel room spending a night in a beautiful castle.
“Yes, thank you Lonn... so much...” Their eyes meet for a brief second, Lonn’s quickly drop to the floor.
“Very well, let’s carry Zander up to bed.” The boy is now fast asleep. Neither of them have any hope or fear of awaking the full, weary teenager. Loretta and Lonn walk side-by-side, Zander hung over Lonn’s shoulder, down another hallway to an open room with a grand staircase. The red-carpeted stairs circle around the round-walled room in a spiral up to the next floor. The wide stairs do not prevent the man and woman from continuing their side-by-side walk together.
At the top of the stars, an open sitting room greets the trio. Five hallways shoot out at angles, each with rows of doors seemingly without end.
“These are the guest rooms, Miss Loretta,” Lonn waves his finger past each of the hallways. “The first hallway rooms are the grandest. I will lead you to the best room in the house, after we lay Zander down in the one next to it.”
“No, Lonn, I would like to stay in Zander’s room. I think he is too troubled to feel comfortable in a great room by himself. You understand don’t you?”
“Y...yes, of course, Miss Loretta. I will show you to the best room.” They walk to the end of the hallway, stopping at the last door on the left. “Here, Miss Loretta.” He opens the door, revealing a great, beautifully furnished room at the flick of a light switch. A huge canopied bed sits in the nearest corner, dwarfing the bed of last night’s hotel room. Loretta would not have thought that possible, before seeing this bed. A second, smaller bed sits in the opposing corner, lower to the ground. A well-sized round dining table sits centered next to the wall opposite the two beds.
“Perfect!” Loretta exclaims, “It is absolutely amazing! Thank you, Lonn.” The man carries Zander over to the smaller bed and carefully sets him upon it. Then turning around, he seems nervous.
“Well, good night, Miss Loretta. We shall meet again in the morning. I will come with breakfast.”
“Thank you, Lonn,” Loretta says, sweetly. The two of them have a hard time looking each other in the eye. Lonn makes a move for the door. As he passes through the doorway, Loretta runs up to him.
“Wait, Lonn!” He turns in a surprise, finds her hands reaching around his neck, pulling his head towards hers. A moment later, their lips pull apart. “You almost forgot to give me a good night kiss...,” Loretta says mischievously. Lonn can’t help but smile, not to mention pull her back to him in a repeat of the recent activity. A few minutes later, the two reluctantly pull apart. Lonn leaves the room in such high spirits he forgets where he is going and gets lost on the way to his room. Loretta sighs a comfortable sigh and flops onto the giant bed. “What a day!” she thinks as her eyes close to a deep sleep.
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Morning comes in the blink of an eye. The south-facing window of the grand room gives the sun the chance to awaken Zander and Loretta. Loretta is easily convinced and sits up basking in the golden rays. She looks over at her friend, soundly sleeping across the room on the other bed in a tangle of blankets. Getting up, still wearing her violet dress, she surprisingly doesn’t feel too grungy. The magic of Lonn’s lips precludes any other thought in her mind at this time. A view from the window down to the grounds below reveals Ridgetree Hill in perfect sight. Thoughts from last night’s conversations flit about in her mind like hummingbirds flying from flower to flower. “What will Zander have to say about the ridgetree? There must be something interesting to find out. I just know Tommy meant something more with those words.
A knock on the door. Loretta perks up in excitement. “Lonn?” She runs over to the door. “Coming,” she yells. Turning the doorknob and pulling the door open reveals a maid with a cart full of breakfast foods and drink.
“Morning, Madame. Breakfast is served, just as Mr. Lonn requested. French toast, waffles, cheese and vegetable omelets, bacon, hash browns, orange juice, coffee, and blueberry muffins. Please, Madame, I will wheel it in and set the table. Loretta’s stomach growls at the chance to be filled. She realizes she hasn’t eaten since the hotel. The events of last night made her forget about her stomach altogether. The maid quickly lays a velvet cloth over the table and sets the meal about. Just as she is finishing, Lonn appears at the door.
“Good Morning, Miss Loretta!” he exclaims happily. The uniform from yesterday is replaced with new one of maroon top and black pants. A velvet hat tops his head. Loretta’s heart jumps.
“Good morning, Mr. Lonn!” she teases as she half-runs over to him in an embracing kiss.
“There you are Mister and Madame, breakfast is served.” The maid pushes the empty cart from the room. Lonn and Loretta look at the table with hungry, empty stomachs.
“I will try to wake up Zander.” Loretta goes over to the sleepened boy, shakes him softly as she had the night before. She is once again successful in waking him.
“Lori! It wasn’t a dream. Oh Lori...” he reaches out to hug his beautiful friend. She returns the embrace.
“Come on Zander, time for breakfast.” He looks over at the table. The same ravenous look takes over his face. “This time you will eat like a human being.” She laughs lightly and they walk over to the table.
“So, young man, I don’t believe we have formally met. I am Lonn Von Wilkes, head of the royal guard. “Head of the royal guard?” Loretta thinks to herself fondly.
“Nice to meet you... sir... my name is Zander Mortese. I am Loretta’s friend from Hamburg.”
“Yes, I gathered that much. What brings you to the castle, by the way?” Lonn looks at him with a half-accusing look, realizing the boy snuck into the grounds under his own watch.
“I...uh.......”
“He will explain everything,” Loretta breaks in, “right Zander? I want to know everything.”
“Okay, okay,” Zander prepares himself for a long speech, clearing his throat and trying to look as formal as possible. “I suppose I should start with back before I met you Loretta....”

“As you know, I was good friends with Dieter, though you may not know how good of friends we really were. Actually, I was an orphan in an old district of Hamburg. The headmaster treated us kids real bad. We were fed one meal a day of old dried out bread. We slept on rags on the floor in a rat-infested room with cracks in the walls that let the coldest winds through even on windless days.”
“Zander, always one for drama,” Loretta thinks.
“Well, one day I decided to run. I snuck out at night through the old creaky door. I never heard him running after me, though thinking on it now I don’t know why he would’ve much cared. Anyway, I came to find a house out in the country with an old shed behind it. I snuck into the shed and found a nice bag of leaves for a bed.... Well, I suppose the old man in the house somehow knew I was staying there cause one morning, I find a plate of food outside the door. Then the next day I find the same thing. Well before I know it, I’m walking up the footsteps to his door and lifting the knocker. Before I can set the thing right in my mind, I’m knocking on the door of the man who’s shed I’ve been stealing. Of course, he opens it and let's me in to share his lunch. I tell him my story and he’s real nice-like and just listens. Well, after that we’re all friendly-like and he offers me to sleep in his house. I tell him I’m quite happy with the bag of leaves and he says ok. So from then on, I’m asleeping in his shed and eating meals with him in his house. Before I know it, he’s fixing up the shed all nice like and fixing me up with a real bed. I tell him I don’t need it, that I used to sleeping on nothing but a rag beneath my head. Well, he won’t take none of that and so I’m sleeping on a real bed in a shed nice enough for a princess....well maybe a real small princess. Anyway, one thing leads to another and, the man, Dieter, of course, sets me up with a real job, a paper route. And so a poor orphan boy came to have a place to stay and a descent job.
Now that’s how things were going when you came to town, Lori, and you know what happens here. A few happy weeks fly by with you coming over in the evenings to paint with Dieter, or Tommy, as you call him. Then one morning, I hear a noise outside my shed. I look through a crack and there is Dieter, setting a ladder up on the side of his house. You know how he liked to watch the sunrise from the roof of his gallery. Well anyway, as you know, that third step from the top decided to give up on him and I heard a terrible crash that would’ve scared the daylights outta the devil himself. So I run out to find him laying on the ground, gasping for breath. He tells me to run and get you so I run with all my might down the street and find you looking at the sunrise with a pail in your hands. I tell you what happened and you pick me up (I was small back then) and run to Dieter. Any way, as you know, when we get there, he’s in real bad shape. He tries to tell you something but only makes out the words: Belgium....Scarsands....Ridgetree....sweet Violet....tell her I always loved... Anyway, those words stick in my mind like knife in a wall and when my world falls apart that’s all I have. Soon, you leave back to America and the bank comes to tear down Dieter’s old house and shed, to make way for a new shopping center or something.
So the next couple of years, I live on the streets, eating from trash cans and stealing only when I had no choice. My two friends in the world are gone and I’m all by my self. But all along, I’m trying to find out about what those words mean. I get into some coffee shops with them free computers and search on the internet. Turns out Scarsands is a castle in Belgium and Ridgetree is a hill next to it, as you both know. I find out about Miss Violet, that she was married to a Prince Edward, who died before he became King, then Miss Violet died eight years later, or two years ago. I get to thinking on how Dieter always looked so lonesome and I start to wonder whether he was in love with “sweet Violet.” Turns out, there were some stories of a passing affair between her and a mysterious pilot back before she was married to Edward.” Loretta and Lonn nod their heads in agreement. “So you guys already know all this?”
“Yes, Lonn told me about her last night before we found you. We thought there may be something more to Dieter’s words than just an old story, so we made our way to Ridgetree to look around.”
“Ah! Same as I was thinking. I couldn’t help but wonder why Dieter would go through the trouble to try and tell you something that was just a sad story as he lay dying. So anyway, I try and save up some money to get out here somehow. I was able find another paper route and stayed in a kind of clubhouse with some of the other paper boys. Then, when I got enough saved up, I did some more research and found the royal seal of Scarsands and hired a real good guy to make a phony postcard to send to you. Then a week ago, I took a train across the way into Belgium, snuck into a taxi cab trunk when I heard the man saying Scarsands. I made sure to keep the trunk from latching, and when the car stopped, I jumped out and ran into the woods. Turns out the cab wasn’t quite at the gate but stopped on its way up the hill. Lucky for me, cause I could sneak up the hill and not be seen by the guards. Well, one thing leads to another and I found my way to Ridgetree yesterday morning. I climb all around the hill and around the tree finding nothing in particular. Then from a branch in the tree, I spy an odd looking stone in the ridge along the path. So I climb down to look at it and it turns out it was loose in its place. I pull it out and what do you think if find?”
“What!?” Loretta exclaims in excitement.
“Well you’ll have to see for yourself... I won’t spoil the surprise. Loretta nearly explodes with anticipation.
“No, just tell me, I can’t wait!”
“Alright, but I think you should see it for yourself... Anyway, behind the stone there was a little box made of some smaller stones with a lock on the front. On the top of the box, the name Violet was carved into it, with some shiny stones making the shape of a flower. Lucky for me, I’m used to pickin’ locks, so I take out a pin in my pocket and pick the small lock. I open it up and what do you think I find?”
“What?! Screams Loretta. “Just say it already!”
“Well, it’s nothing but an address carved into an old piece of wood. Something like 3446 Ferris Lane, Rehmes France. And then the initials D.T., which I suppose stand for Dieter Thompstein. And that’s it. I put the piece of wood back in, close up the box and but it back behind the stone.”
Loretta looks at him in skepticism. “Alright, Alright, so I put the piece of wood in my pocket.” He pulls out the old scrap of oak, with the address written on it, just as he had described. Loretta looks it over in her hands, feeling the carved letters across its surface. She thinks of the pain Tommy must have felt, feels tears well up in her eyes.
“Well, I wonder where the address leads,” Loretta says in an anything-could-be-possible sort of tone. Lonn, who has been quiet for quite some time, speaks up.
“An interesting story, and sad none the least. I should be reprimanding you for sneaking into the castle, but considering the circumstances, I will forget about it.” He looks at Zander with mercy on his face, then turns to Loretta. “Shall I arrange for a flight to Rehmes, France?” Loretta’s face melts into a huge smile. She finds no words to answer and only nods her head in emphatic agreement. The three eat their breakfast with their hearts and heads full of excitement.
Two hours later, Loretta is showered and dressed in a sleek red dress, given to her by Lonn. She looks radiant, although it may not have been the best choice on a winter day. Oh well. The plane sits ready and waiting outside the castle on the private runway running the length of the grounds far to the right of the castle when looking at it from the gate. Loretta thinks perhaps Lonn will be the pilot. After all, he is the head guard of the castle. She knows so little of him, yet can’t wait to spend her life with him. She wonders if he feels the same, hoping that the magic of their kiss under the tree and in the bedroom were not just fleeting moments of a love to never be realized. She sits in a grand sitting room near the main entrance to the castle, which she has not yet ventured through. Lonn descends the stairs, his bright face beams affection down to her. Or is she just imagining it?
“Are you ready, Miss Loretta? You look absolutely stunning.”
“Yes... thank you. Red is sort of my color you know,” she smiles the same playful smile Lonn fell in love with the day before.
“I love that smile, Miss Loretta, I could gaze at it all day.” The expression remains on her face. “Well, shall we? Where’s Zander?”
“He’s wandering about the kitchen, I suppose.... the boy could make a profession out of eating.” The two of them look around the nearby rooms. Sure enough, they find Zander in the pantry, stuffing crackers in his pockets.
Five minutes later, they are outside getting ready to board the plane. The sunny rays of the morning hide behind gray clouds. The plane sits only a pilot and three passengers. They use the empty seat to hold their bags. Loretta’s guess was right. Lonn does a check over of the plane making sure everything looks all right. He winds up the propeller and cranks the engine over. It starts up right away, apparently just as excited to get to France as the three humans. Lonn sits down in the pilot’s seat, with Loretta to his side. After a few adjustments on what Loretta thinks is a maze of controls, Lonn brings the plane to face down the runway. He holds the brakes and revs up the engine to top speed. The plane surges forward as he let's off the pedal. Soon the plane rises in the air.
Loretta looks down at the mountains, shrinking from view. She thinks of the bird-Loretta, wonders how she’s doing up in space, “How can she breathe up there?” she thinks to herself strangely. The plane rises above the clouds, hiding all from her vision but the misty whiteness. She decides to close her eyes and finds herself falling asleep.
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Loretta awakens as Lonn brings the plane down a descent to a long runway. How convenient of her to pass the time in anticipation so quickly. The plane touches the runway with a slight jolt, tires screech on the wet pavement. It looks to be a rainy day in France. “That was fast,” she looks over to Lonn, focused on brining the plane to a stop.
“Yes it was. Here we are... Just outside of Rehmes, France. I’ve made arrangements to park the plane in the hangar up ahead.” He points to a big white building up ahead.
“I can’t believe it’s raining in December... especially when it snowed two days before just down in Belgium.” She realizes she doesn’t really know how far apart France and Belgium really are. Geography was never one of her strong subjects. Lonn drives the plane into the hanger and the three of them climb out. After a walk across the runway, Lonn spies a cab waiting for them. “Wow, it sure is nice to have a cab waiting just for you... I could get used to this.” Loretta confesses to herself.
Lonn and Loretta get into the backseat of the cab while Zander sits in the front seat. Zander takes control.
“3446 Ferris Lane, good man, nice day isn’t it?”
“I don’t see what’s so terribly nice about it, just mist and rain and...,”
“Yes, but rain in December... it’s almost 50 degrees here.”
“I suppose.” The conversation ends. In the backseat, Loretta slips her hand into Lonn’s. He couldn’t be happier. The cab winds down a highway through brown hills dotted with sparse pine trees. The first buildings of Rehmes pop up on the distant horizon. The cab driver thinks to himself, the address of the destination rolling around in his mind.
“3446 Ferris Lane.... how do I know that place?....” The cab continues winding down the highway. The buildings grow in size, the nearest ones soon within walking distance. The cab pulls up to the first stop light in the small city. “3446 Ferris lane?....I know I know where that is....Ah, just off Winchester, yes the old...,” his thought gets cut off.
“What kind of paper routes does Rehmes?” Zander asks the odd question, clearly thinking about his next home.
“What kind of paper routes?... I don’t know, boy...early ones, with naughty little boys who throw the papers at my window at five-in-the-morning, breaking the glass twice in the last six months...those kind of paper routes.” Perhaps Zander wouldn’t mind staying here.
The cab pulls around a final corner, stopping at the corner of Winchester Dr. and Ferris lane. “Here you are, Madame and gents, 3446 Ferris Lane... ah yes, the old...uh... what was it.... oh well, I’m sure you know.”
“Thank you sir,” Lonn hands him payment with a generous tip. The three of them step out of the car and onto the sidewalk. 3446 Ferris Lane, “Tommy’s Gallery,” the sign above reads.
The door is unlocked. Loretta leads the way into the old sandstone building. Her eyes meet up with a painting of Miss Violet, clear to her after seeing Tommy’s painting of the same woman on Ridgetree hill. Her face tilts slightly, her eyes lay closed, her smile writes a story with a happy ending. All around the room, more and more pictures of the woman named Miss Violet. A similar, joyous expression resides on each of her faces... all but a few that show a deep longing and a distant stare off in the infinite distance.
“Tommy painted these for Miss Violet. He must have hoped she would someday find the note.... for her to come and see how strongly he loved her. But she never found it. And now he’s dead and she’s dead and these paintings are all that remains of their forbidden love. It is such a sad story...” Once again the tears of grief for her dear friend find their place on Loretta’s cheeks. Lonn offers an arm around her shoulder.
“But these are not paintings of sadness. These are paintings of joy and love. That’s what Tommy wanted you to see... The love captured in these paintings.”
Loretta realizes Lonn is right. She looks around the room and feels enveloped in the love painted upon each canvas. Then, across the gallery, a particular painting catches her eye. She and Lonn walk up to it, hand in hand, almost as a mirror image of Tommy and Miss Violet in the painting. The same feeling Loretta felt with the violin woman takes over again. Her face contorts as the muscles of her face take on control of themselves. Her cried out eyes somehow find a few tears left to leak down her face.
Lonn purchases the painting for his girlfriend. What will happen in the next few weeks, he doesn’t know... only hopes that the red-haired woman will somehow stay in his life. Perhaps he will move to America, the land of opportunity. After all, he has spent more time than he has cared to in the great isolated castle of Scarsands Manor. Loretta takes away any doubt from his mind.
“Lonn, I don’t know really anything about you.... you don’t know really anything about me.... but I.... want .....to love you.... more than anything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Loretta, I couldn’t agree with you more. I couldn’t live separated from you after spending a single minute with you. Tommy’s only way of coping with such a loss was his paintings..... and I’m not much of a painter.