That Creative Spark

 

When I think of her - though I don’t, too often - what comes to mind is one of those archaic fertility figures created in pre-history, long before written language to convey the idea of primal female fecundity. What it must have seemed like, thousands of years ago, to try to fathom the idea of the creation of human life that women were capable of, and the dominant creatures, men, were not.

In her own way, she was the personification of Gaea, the ancient Earth goddess, who brought life to all natural things, organisms infinitesimally small, and gigantic creatures of land and sea who once reigned supreme before homo sapiens appeared.

Gaea must have been an amorphous figure of spiritual need, to believe in some supernatural element that was responsible for the world that mystified and surrounded, and succored and plagued early human creatures.

She too was very elemental in one significant sense, for she wished nothing more for herself, of her life, than to bear children. She experienced this overwhelming need not as an adult or even as an emerging adult, but as a child, and expressed it to anyone who would listen. It was thought to be an amusing aberration in an otherwise-normal childhood.

As she grew older she learned to muffle that voice inside her, to give it honour, but no longer to express its message vocally, because it made her the object of derision. As she matured into young womanhood, she did so at an extraordinarily early age. It was as though her child-bearing psychosis had prevailed upon her hormones to rush things along. At twelve years of age she already had assumed an hourglass figure, to her parents’ great consternation.

At fourteen, entering high school, she resembled a tiny, perfect Venus. Her face was no more than pretty, but framed by a loose, curly mane of chestnut hair, a perpetual and genuine smile, combined with that curvaceous body, she presented a formidable sight. One the boys at the school honoured by lusting after in their disturbed night-time hours, and which the girls at the school snipped and sniped at cattily, while in the process spreading rumours of her easy accessibility.

She was innocent of all the commotion she left in her wake because she had no guile. Her outward physical presence may have been expressed by an defined aura of sexuality she herself was unaware of, but her mind was a fairly simple one, although not without intelligence. She performed well enough at school, but she would be no academic prize-winner and her parents anticipated little other of her.

She had a younger brother with whom she was quite close, no more academically-gifted than his sister, but a robust, happy-go-lucky boy interested in all manner of sports. They lived, at that time, close to High Park in Toronto, where the parents, both hard workers, had managed to buy a three-story house sitting high on a hill.

Since the parents both worked, the brother and sister were left to their own devices most of the time, once school was out. A large attraction for both was Sunnyside pool, and they spent long summer days there, during summer vacation. That was their vacation, in fact. The brother had a large circle of friends, and his sister a circle of familiars, and they both enjoyed life. Their parents were comfortable with their children’s social progress.

They were, however, puzzled more than a little by their daughter’s dreaminess, her apparent disinterest in being part of a clique of girls who might spend time together. Her clear absorption in maternal things, how her attention was riveted when she saw a mother and child took them aback. But they approved as their daughter offered baby-sitting services to the young families living on their street, and glowed at the praise that came back from those whom she sat for, filling their proud, parental ears.

Their daughter was clearly no scholar, but she was healthy and a beauty. She had a quiet and gentle personality, and an easy laugh, a healthy sense of self. What more could any parent ask for?

It was annoying to put up with a steady stream of bashful young boys hanging around their house, hoping for a glimpse of their daughter, waiting for a brief, casual acknowledgement as though they had just happened to be passing by, and ran into her by chance. Their daughter never seemed to notice these serendipitous meetings of chance, but they did.

It wasn’t too long, though, before their daughter appeared to have made a huge impression on a young boy whose parents were well known to be among the privileged and the wealthy, and that gave them great satisfaction. They encouraged her interest in the boy, and went out of their way to make him feel comfortable when he dropped by.

Their daughter was still in her first year of high school; the boy one grade higher. And they became extremely companionable. Their companionship resulted in the first pregnancy. Nothing could be said to persuade the girl that she could end the pregnancy. After all, she would not yet be quite 15 when the pregnancy came to term. There was no thought of forcing the girl to respect her parents’ alarm, to acknowledge their sense of shame. Her intention was to have this baby. She focused on the child that would finally be her own.

Marriage appeared to be out of the question. Although these were the days before women’s liberation, and it was more common for two scenarios to eventuate; a) the societal-convention-offending girl would be left on her own, disowned by her outraged parents, or b) the two young people would be joined in a ‘shotgun’ marriage. His parents, aloof and disinterested, instructed him to absent himself. And he did this, although his attraction for the girl and hers for him constituted a powerful magnet and he struggled with their edict, before accepting that demand.

No one attempted to keep the pregnancy a secret. She left school, which she considered no great loss. And she immersed herself in the care of her baby. Before too long they met secretly, furtively, in area parks, she wheeling the baby in a carriage, and he riding his bicycle, to fortuitously meet up with her.

They were re-united, and nothing would cast them asunder, the girl’s boyfriend told her, and she was grateful. Her parents accepted him once again, as their daughter’s -- what -- boyfriend, lover, husband-to-be? None of that, they just sighed and thought that what would be would be.

The parents were away from their house far more often than they were resident in it, working long hours. The father worked as a tailor at the Tip Top Tailors factory in downtown Toronto and the mother worked there too, as a seamstress. They had laboured there for many years, ever since they had immigrated to the country and they were both held in high esteem as skilled, reliable workers.

Their children’s futures were important to them. They were not disciplinarians, they never went further than gentle remonstration with their children. This was a different world, a different culture and society, and they hardly knew where they fit into it, even yet. But this country did allow them to be gainfully employed, and protected as citizens, and to prosper.

Their daughter’s boyfriend, in defying his parents’ command to no longer see their daughter, was disowned by his parents. What else could they do? They took him in. There was no awkwardness, they simply, casually, accepted his presence. None were disposed to press for marriage; not the parents, nor the young people. They all just lived amicably together, the young couple given the largest of the bedrooms on the second floor of the house. Rooms on the third floor were rented out, to other people.

Unsurprisingly, while their daughter stayed at home looking after their first grandchild, the child’s father kept attending school. Unquestioningly, the parents supported their daughter, her child, her boyfriend. Since their daughter remained dedicated to having children, and appeared to be content with the way her life had unfolded, there was another child, a girl. Over the course of the years that it took for him to complete high school, two additional babies struggled their way out of their daughter’s womb. And when their daughter’s boyfriend began university, nothing much changed. In total seven children were born to their fecund daughter; all but the first, girls.

After their daughter’s boyfriend obtained his undergraduate degree, his father contacted him, and informed his son that if he agreed to continue university and to obtain a law degree, he was prepared to take him into the very lucrative family firm. With the proviso that he leave his present living accommodations. And begin another life entirely.

They were prepared, he intimated, to do their part to give financial assistance to the raising of the seven children he had sired, as long as he agreed to never again enter the house where the mother of his children lived, along with those children.

To the girl’s huge consternation, her lover approached her one day with the great news. She sunk into a great funk of incomprehensible misery, and remained there for an entire week, when she bestirred herself to the reality of her position and the need of her brood.

She would never again place her trust in a man. She no longer needed a man, in any event. She had her precious children, her beloved infants who needed the alert and loving presence of their mother. She pulled herself together and resumed her life as it had been, serenely, albeit absent her lover.

The children grew and they thrived. When they were all in the primary school system, their mother sought paid employment. She was hired by a department store, in their women’s apparel section. She was still a lovely looking woman, and she had that knack of dressing herself modestly but elegantly, without having paid much for her clothing. Some people are capable of looking outstandingly well dressed, no matter where their garments come from.

Before long she was promoted to manager, and also became the women’s apparel buyer. She enjoyed her job tremendously. And was so very proud of her children, growing out of their early childhood.

And then she met someone who reminded her of her lover. This was a young blonde, very tall man of Dutch extraction who worked for the Pilkington Glass Works. Their mutual interest soon matured into steady companionship. Which itself soon was promoted up the ladder to his moving in to live with her at her parents’ capacious Indian Road house.

Wonder of wonders, an eighth child was born, and its mother was back once again, housebound, and happy. Her new lover somehow injured his back while at work, and applied for Workmen’s Compensation. So he too began to spend all his time in the large old family house. The entire family living together in the communion of acceptance. Her brother had long since graduated high school and had bought a taxi license.

She became a grandmother while still very young when her second-born child herself bore a child. The oldest, the only boy of the eight children, would remain a confirmed bachelor all his life, and would also become an locally-acclaimed chef. The other children began scattering around the world, some to live in the United States, others elsewhere in Canada, and one to Australia.

But once a year, in the summer, they would somehow manage to come together, hauling their own children along with them, to the large cottage the grandparents had bought well before they expired, in the Muskoka region. Which the no-longer young couple eventually inherited. And then sold, choosing to buy a condominium in Florida where they spent the long winter months.

And they bought a year-round house for themselves not far from Algonquin Park, in the Haliburton Highlands. Where they both tended a lovely garden, and where she discovered she had a talent for watercolour painting. She created much-admired, delicate compositions; still-lifes, bucolic landscapes, water-wheels, ivy-overgrown cottages, robust young children at play. Make that cherubic toddlers whose portrayal would break the hardest heart. People admired and enjoyed her painting, and she acquired a reputation as an local artist. Many of her delightful compositions were printed as greeting cards.

She was grieved when her partner of so many long and companionable years contracted a miserable cancer that eventually took his life. She flew out to Australia to spend a few months with her daughter. Planned to sell their rural property, and buy a new condominium being built in Orillia, Ontario. Somehow, things dragged on, and she waited almost three years before the condominium was ready for her to move in. By then she was in her mid-70s, and felt that life had been good to her. Hadn’t it been?

She not only had borne eight children, but had no fewer than 28 grandchildren, and a dozen great-grandchildren. More, many more on the way. This woman turned out to have founded a dynasty. This was her life's destiny. And she fulfilled it. She sat in her new condominium building with its large windows looking out onto a woodland, and mused, turning the pages of one of her many family albums.

 

 

Winter's Icy Wind

 

Above, a wide, deep wash of blue.
Not a wisp of cloud to mar this
day's stunning perfection. This
was today's message to us.
Frigid temperatures reign
thanks to the absence of cloud
trapping scant winter heat below.

We are lashed by the icy fingers
of winds in high dudgeon,
knocking the heads of the
forest trees and slicing its fire
across our revealed flesh; eyes
weeping, foreheads frozen.

Dried flower stalks bow in
humble homage to the
insistent, imperious wind.
Gossamer veils of snow
languorously part from
laden spruce boughs.

Oblivious, in their winter
element, the minuscule, dainty
black, grey and white shapes
of chickadees flit from branch
to branch, calling their delight
with their environment.

The creek running through
our Ontario wooded ravine in
this Ottawa Valley is frozen fast,
its glaring surface reflecting
the sun's serendipitous presence
as we lope along snow-padded trails.

We have company this day;
silent, elongated, gracefully
following, then leading us forward.
Our shadows step lively, unaffected
by the chill, the ferocity of wind.
Brought to life by the sun's
life-affirming presence.

 

Grandma ... The Wolf!

 

Grandma, what an enterprising nose
you have been endowed with, sniffling
and snuffling around everyone else's
business as though it were your own;
poking relentlessly into the cloistered
privacy of others' intimacies and
hitherto unsuspected failures.

Grandma, what an amazing mouth
you have, so extraordinarily involved
in spouting opinion, analysis and
synthesizing conclusions, inexorably
leading to the restoration of global
sanity, yet there are so frustratingly
few interested listeners ....?

Cannot you be more judicious in
your interventions, in an effort to
appear more lucid, informed and practical?
Much depends, Grandma, on your
persuasive voice, for that rabid wolf
is breaking down defences
even as you desperately rail...

Grandma,what perplexingly
large eyes you have, envisioning
slights that do not exist, identifying
unintended lapses, the personal tragedy
of overlooked courtesies. Grandma,
condemn them all, for the wolf
of incivility is at the door!

 

The Ancient Tapestry of Light

Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. ⁴ And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. ⁵ God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night.

He sat on the yellow soil comprised of sand and clay, legs folded under his torso, hands held in an imploring gesture before the deliberately heedless throng. His white dishdashah was no more stained than that of most, and his keffiye neatly arranged on his head; his grey beard as indicative of age, as their own grizzled faces. His eyes, they were different. They were not, in fact quite there. They were rheumy, running hollows, to which bottle flies were attracted, distracting him from attracting the attention of those who might give alms.

They turned away from him, despite the Qur'anic injunction to charity, for his appearance was repulsive and it shamed them also, that there were amongst them some whose need was clearly greater than theirs. And theirs was great enough.

He, caring little for their disgust, entreated them to pity and to do the will of Allah in recognizing his need. He shifted his position on the ground, vainly attempting to find comfort, and his visage took on the savage look of misery incarnate, his shapeless lips no longer forming the grimace he thought represented a smile.

Carrion-seeking birds, vultures with their red-ringed heads and long wrinkled necks thrust forward, crested the sizzling sky. Dust was everywhere, circulating in the lower atmosphere, clogging peoples' throats and nostrils, and those of their livestock. It settled, mud-yellow, on everything; the lintels of their homes, roofs, worn carpeting placed over olive, oil and water jugs. Building interiors were neatly inlaid with dust, particles of the cosmos, infinitesimally minute atoms representing everything and nothing.

Dust stifled the air of the marketplace, the plaintive voices of the women, heads carefully covered in deference to the Qur'an's injunction to female modesty, complaining about the steadily rising prices of mutton, fowl, dates, figs and grain. Risen too steeply for their liking, for their capacity to pay. Mothers reached down to slap small hands that crept to the top of stalls hoping to snatch a nutmeat. Infants slung across their mothers' chests, held by stout linens, bawled in a disorder of animal and human sounds.

A hawk streaked the sky over a copse of date palms, shrilling. Wispy grey clouds, barely seen against the particulate matter crowding the canopy of the sky reflected the tattered grey of once-white garments. Glancing toward the west, squinting eyes could make out a sun-dog, portending some atmospheric change, perhaps another khamsin, perhaps a clearing of the sky to something resembling blue, inviting the overhead sun to bake the ground and burn bare feet.

In the near distance rose a curvaceously slender minaret, needling God's overheated sky. Cicadas buzzed the atmosphere. The sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer rang out and resounded in the still, torrid atmosphere. The hum of the crowd became muted, faded, as all turned; the women removing themselves from male proximity, to prostrate themselves facing Mecca.

The lyrical melody of a prayer as familiar as one's beloved's face piously rose to the heavens, toward Allah's patiently demanding hearing and benign approval, as his people surrendered for the third time that day to daily prayers.

In the courtyard of the Khedive's palace, roses, peonies, lilies, Persian cornflowers, delphiniums, safflower and red poppies thrived in vivid array and brilliant colour, sending their fragrance throughout the generously measured space. Where also grew olive trees, willows, pomegranate and bitterweed. Also acacia, wild celery, dill, henna and mint.

The cooling, tinkling sound of a water fountain fetched the senses to swooning, as the water fell gracefully back into the shaped pond wherein swam golden- and silver-hued fish among the blue water lilies and papyrus plants. A small, wrinkled man busied himself snipping spent flowers, stopping now and again to inhale, when a broad smile would overtake his toothless mouth.

Not a hint of cooling breeze to be felt anywhere. Not in the souk, nor along the dusty alleys, or in the palace courtyard. Within the seraglio, sensuous, full-bodied women with kohl-described, smouldering eyes spread their languid limbs on colourful divans. Within this area could be heard the melodic whispering of the fountain as it circulated in the dry air.

A grossly overweight Eunuch, his taut skin glistening with sweat, fanned himself desultorily, in a vain effort to find relief from the sweltering, gasping heat. He sat in the doorway, eyes vacant, dreaming of another place, where his ancestors had dwelt and of which he had heard whispered longings from his parents before he had been whisked mysteriously away in the night as a child, to this place.

The white, diaphanous fabric of the women's garments served to accentuate their voluptuous flesh, lovingly scented with aloe. Their pale skins glistened too, in those places which remained uncovered, but they were not dreadfully overheated, for large feathered fans moved the air about them, handled with ease by cherubic-looking little black boys, unclad but for a loincloth.

The women's soft voices resounded in gentle probing questions; one of the other, in solicitous regard, humming through the sumptuously appointed chamber within which they spent their days. One inhaled a water pipe. Another plucked the strings of an oud, a second held a tambourine.

The wing holding their many children was not far away and they might visit at will, but their duties lay here, looking beautiful, rested, inviting. Entertaining themselves. Engaging in the kind of gossip women thrive upon; their own inimitable, useful and socially binding transference of news. Besides which, they were all to one another, sisters, mothers, companions in bondage.

Their latest intrigue was the introduction of another, younger woman. A girl, really, but more than adequately nubile. Her introduction awaited verification of her intact hymen. They knew little of her, but that she came from afar, and was not of their tribes, nor a familiar of the clans. She would need to be comforted, they knew. Abbad Pasha did not tolerate discord in his harem.

A slave, young and graceful, carried a tray of refreshments. Dates, and grapes, and watered wine and pomegranate juice. Nectarines, kumquats, nuts and sesame paste. The fruit was welcome, and the young man was as well, for young as he yet was, he was beautiful, too. The women rose to surround him and tease him, and he blushed as their hands ran softly over his arms and his legs.

At the souk, a camel herder cursed as his lead camel ventured too close to the food-bearing stalls, and hit the beast repeatedly on its back, its snout, kicked it viciously to encourage it to back away and begin anew. Its outraged groans elicited no sympathy. Stalls laden with nuts, grains, dried fish and olives stood out in the main traffic area where most people shopped. Linens and rancid hides were to be had there.

Closer to the protective walls of the palace stood small semi-enclosed shops with copper objects, silver jewellery, linen garments and woven rugs. Slippers, leatherwork redolent of curing camel urine, along with tablahs, and dumbeks, and mizmars could be had there, as well. Not for most, but there for those whose wherewithal was equal to the prices of these esteemed objects. The occasional palanquin moved through the crowd in the torpid heat.

The beggar half-heartedly swatted the flies that plagued his existence, before finally realizing dusk was falling and he had no further hope of charity this accursed day. He awaited the appearance of his eldest son, upon whom he would lean as they hobbled back to their hovel.
He steeled himself to accept the burden of bringing nothing of value back with him.

He longed, in his fevered mind, for the impossible; a return to the time when his wife's adolescent face beamed whenever she saw his approach, her esteemed uncle. His eyes had been capable of feasting hungrily on her youth, grace and beauty. Now what greeted him was her silent reproach, and the plaintive mewling of their malnourished children.

His tormented spirit shrieked in haunted agony that would give him no peace. First, light left his eyes, leaving him in a dark universe of bitter disaffection and abandonment. Then, the light of belief had abandoned him. He had submerged himself in the poison of despondency, apostasy, denied the comfort of eternal Paradise.

Woe betide him.

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth;
the likeness of His light is as a niche
wherein is a lamp
(the lamp is a glass,
the glass as it were a glittering star)
kindled from a Blessed Tree,
an olive that is neither of the East nor of the West
whose oil wellnigh would shine, even if no fire touched it:
Light upon Light
(God guides to His light whom He will)

 

Ravening, Rampaging, Rapacious Nature

Migod, the unspeakable misery
of this mountainous kingdom
by the sea offering haven to the
hapless dross of humankind.
Nature indifferently, unhesitatingly
sacrificing the helpless to the
unremitting fury of her earthly
devices, unleashing hurricanes,
volcanic eruptions, earthquakes
and hugely inescapable tsunamis.

Migod, the pathetic cries of the
injured, the trapped, the elderly,
the infants, crying piteously, and alone.
Migod, salvation from painful,
lingering death. Children, injured,
fearful and exhausted, trapped and
sleeping fitfully among the mass of
decomposing bodies that once were
their parents, grandparents,
uncles and aunts, assuring life.

Migod, the atrocious meaninglessness
of it all, the horrendous outcome,
this disaster of inanimate, inexorably
drifting, crushing crusts of this Earth,
manoeuvering endlessly under
this globe's vast, depthless oceans.
The unspeakable tragedy of those
so frequently assaulted, living
precariously, penuriously, bordering
starvation, felled now, utterly.

Migod, the world looks on stunned,
thankful themselves to have
escaped that dreadful calamity,
frantically mustering human and
material life-saving resources:
"something must be done!" to
assuage their own guilt, and to
proffer humanitarian aid, even while
the afflicted, needs unmet, wander
dazed, amazed and seeped through
with sorrow and dread.

 

That Sporting Life

She knew how to drive, but chose not to. That hardly diminished her value and her abilities in his estimation. That was fine with him. He didn’t at all mind timing his day to suit the hours she chose. They hadn’t any children, had no intention of ever starting a family. They were just fine, the two of them, able to spontaneously do as they wished, enjoy all the recreational and travel pursuits that appealed to them.

Working at a bank, but pursuing a university degree, attending after-hour classes several times a week kept her busy enough. Her studies took up enough of her time. And he was inordinately proud of her, of her determination to gain her degree. He encouraged her, spoke boastfully to any of his colleagues who knew her about how well she was doing. Her intelligent capabilities quite rivalled his. They were quite the pair.

The days she attended after-hour classes he tended to while away the working hours by actually postponing attending to his work. Instead, he embarked on a circuit of rounds, dropping off to see various of his colleagues on other floors, other sections, intent on maintaining his workplace social network. And just to exercise his sheer love of banter, of departmental gossip, of discussions with respect to new opportunities. He loved to network, to socialize, to gather new people into his sphere of acquaintance. And you never knew who might turn out to be useful or influential at any time.

Late in the afternoon he would drift back to his desk, begin to attend to his own work. After the building had emptied almost at an eye-blink rate -- everyone but him anxious to leave, get home to their families, look to their leisure pursuits -- he was still there, working industriously away, clearing up his files. He worked overtime. And all that overtime added up, for him. The additional time-and-a-half, even though he knew perfectly well it was generally frowned upon, became addictive. Even if his superior had to defend his inflated pay in response to the deputy minister’s pointed observations. The department had been asked to cut its operating budget especially with respect to overtime.

But he knew he was a valuable asset to his section. He knew he would be protected. Austerity needn’t affect him. (He had received a bit of a scare when his superior’s secretary who had access to her boss’s email account, had emailed a chastising warning about all the overtime he was accumulating, saying he wouldn’t be able to cover for him indefinitely, and recommending that he cease and desist. He’d noted, belatedly, that those whom he himself supervised had gathered around his cubicle, and, noting his expression on reading the email had burst out laughing. Which was when it was revealed to him that this had been a bit of a practical joke.)

He laughed with them. It was no secret, and he had never attempted particularly to hide what he was doing. And no one in a supervisory role over him seemed to be sufficiently concerned to discuss it with him, so he felt more than justified in continuing his little practise. He would leave the building just as the evening cleaning staff arrived. Responding to his own clockwork, picking his wife up at the corner entrance of the university quadrangle beside the business administration building.

It wasn’t all work for them, by any means. They were both avid sports buffs. For him, more than for her. His was a fascination with extreme sports, actually. He loved motorcycles, and drove one. A sidecar for her. They both enjoyed mountain biking. And they became bored with the mountain biking trails set aside for bikers, separate from those meant for hikers, and couldn’t care less when irate hikers, sometimes with startled and wildly barking companion animals, would berate them as they sped past after having come up unexpectedly, silently behind the hikers, on trails they knew held signage warning bikers to avoid. Trouble was, those just happened to be the trails that were most spectacularly exciting to someone on a bike. And the park wardens did little to patrol the area and to apprehend those that flouted the rules.

He enjoyed and relished the rush he felt hearing the (patent-protected) roar of his Harley-Davidson, which his wife had affectionately named ‘The Beast’. They rarely missed an opportunity to enjoy Motorcycle Week by ripping down the interstate highways to Laconia in New Hampshire, where the adventure-gregarious couple loved to mingle with the motorcycle crowd. Meeting up with enthusiasts from all over North America, and as far as Venezuela (where the Venezuelan bikers complained about non-government-subsidized gas pumps) and they got to see exotic, unorthodox, anti-establishment, but happily civil, counterparts in an atmosphere of friendly rivalry.

They, unlike many that arrived in their thousands, thundering down the highways in scattered groups, rain or shine, were properly suited up with leathers and impact-saving helmets, in a state that had no highway safety laws insisting on such, and where buckling up 'because it’s the law', was meant for minors only; the state whose motor-vehicle license plate logo “live free or die” more than adequately expressed their mass credo. Fact was, there wasn't a year that went by that some poor dude driving along the White Mountain highways didn't get to meet his maker when he lost control of his bike on rain-slicked roads, aquaplaning beyond control.

And sail-boarding, they both loved that. Loved the choppy water on a windy lake. To get out there, regardless of the weather, and challenge nature with their skills in handling their sailboards. Maneuvering them close to upset for that extra heart-thumping excitement of danger, and then skillfully turning them around just when it seemed a collision would be inevitable. But area lakes were tame. And they loved to go out to Cape Hatteras several times a year - spring and fall - to challenge nature at her most merciless. Extreme weather warnings, approaching storms did nothing to cool their -- particularly his -- ardour for meeting the danger that nature meted out to the unwary and the inexperienced. He needed that challenge. To feel fully alive, to feel his veins bursting with the effort of controlling his sailboard in the face of huge, tossing, frothing waves hitting the far shores, and the puny board and sail, and the human intent on controlling both. His wildly beating heart, even the headache that would overtake him as he challenged weather and lake conditions exhilarated him beyond belief. Later, he would be flooded with a great wash of supreme satisfaction, of accomplishment, of pride in his own arrogance that he had faced the worst that nature could throw around and had handily survived.

He brought back lots of videos to show to his colleagues at work. He felt challenged to do that too, in light of the fact that another of his colleagues boasted about his mountain climbing prowess, and always brought in too many photos and videos of clambering well above the tree line in some pretty inaccessible places, where mountain peaks marched in lock-step one against the other, accessed by his determined colleague. Who faced off some fairly intimidating weather conditions in ascending some of those peaks, but nothing really in comparison, he felt, to what he managed to do, in the open, raging waters tossed around on his sailboard and coming out the other end of peril through sheer, heady adventure.

In some ways he was a traditionalist, however. He owned an SUV, the biggest, most expensive that General Motors produced. And prided himself on servicing it himself. Light mechanical maintenance (despite the cautions in the warranty). He didn’t sweat the small stuff, like changing oil, that kind of thing. He’d always done it, always would. Just as he looked after ‘The Beast‘ pretty much on his own.

He’d been thinking about getting a sport car, too. Plenty of room in that double garage. Sitting beside the new house they recently bought. The houses spaced fairly far apart, in a part of the far-flung reaches of the city newly amalgamated to include the suburbs and beyond. Beyond was where they bought their new home. Situated on their own one-and-a-half acres. The house, built of solid brick, with a turret no less, and a grand, sweeping staircase. Built 40 years ago, on a prestigious piece of real estate, named Forest Pine Heights. The house had needed some refurbishing, and they’d get around to it all, eventually. It had been a steal, actually. They’d been hunting around for a while, were glad to sell their much smaller tract house in a near suburb, to take possession of this beauty.

One thing she did that he didn’t, was run. In the evenings, when they got home from work, she’d go out for a short run in the neighbourhood. One good way of getting to know your way around. She became a familiar sight, pumping her arms and legs, running without stop for an hour, before slumping back home again. On the week-ends, after a leisurely late breakfast, she’d go out for an hour’s run. He’d be busy puttering around with something, usually in the garage.

On this occasion he was changing the oil in the SUV.

When she returned from her run, she wondered why he hadn’t yet finished, wasn’t in the house. So she looked into the garage, and there he was, still in there.

The big vehicle had slid off the ramps he had run the two front wheels up on. Something he had done countless times before. Not just with this vehicle, but all the predecessor-vehicles they'd owned over the years. He knew what he was doing, he always felt confident that he was functionally capable and careful. And he was, most certainly.

It was just that this time something went awry. Unexpectedly. He had no time to react. The vehicle had somehow managed to slide off the ramps. The SUV slammed backward. And it had backed him into the closed garage door. Seeing him crushed, half-slumped, the vehicle pinning him, she slowly, casually turned back into the house and numbly dialled 911.

It seemed to her as though she was a disaffected onlooker to some peculiar event, as though she was watching a film, something on television. Everything looked strange. She felt dazed, recognized nothing familiar, even though this was her own house, and that was her husband out there in the garage of the new house they were so proud of.

His colleagues were shocked to hear on the local news that evening that someone they were so familiar with had made the news. His tragic death left his widow with a large house to rattle around in. She would have to become accustomed to driving herself around.

And people reading about the misadventure in the next day’s newspaper silently told themselves -- those who still did their own oil-changes -- that it might be a good idea to consider having it done professionally, at the dealer’s or the properly-equipped corner garage. 

 

Lovers

People never seemed to notice the blemish that appeared high on her forehead, startling on her porcelain-smooth complexion. Even people who had known her for many years, in fact, were unaware of that scar. It helped immeasurably, needless to say, that she wore her hair with a side part, so that her long, straight hair hung looped over that side of her forehead. And it suited her, it certainly did. It enhanced the sultriness of her dark hair expressed against the fairness of her skin, her large hazel eyes with their oddly asymmetrical appeal, her large, expressive mouth. The shape of her face was different too, somewhat reminiscent of the rare result of a kind of oval perfection resulting from a cross-fertilization of South Asian- and Western-generated genes. Although this wasn’t really the case with her; she was pure Anglo, her forebears sturdily British Isles-originated.

People liked her. They liked her natural easiness, her lack of social pretension. With her wide circle of friends, everyone invited her out to spend time with them, for social occasions and just plain get-togethers, one on one, or with some of the crowd that made up their social compact. She was generous with her attention, fixing her gaze directly at the person to whom she was speaking. Age had not diminished one iota her grace, nor her calm, warm presence. What people appreciated most about her was her seemingly casual disregard of others’ fascination with her physical presence. She was just like them, unaffected and well-balanced.

Her on-again, off-again acting career superimposed on her more lucrative and certainly more frequent modelling gigs and television-ad appearances had people turning in the streets, not quite certain what was so familiar about that passing face; her ubiquitous appearances on the public stage, as it were, gifting her also with a eerily-familiar, quasi-celebrity appearance, one she dreaded and did her best to offset. She remained, whatever else she did to shield herself from public scrutiny born of curiosity, a fragile creature of uncertain emotional stability. The quiet panic attacks she experienced followed by black moods when she cloistered herself in her apartment until they eventually passed, were her little secret, not to be divulged to anyone.

And when they’d finally met again, there was no mistaking, even after all those past years, that his appeal for her had resisted the years. When she saw him as she entered the large reception room full of familiar and some unfamiliar faces, she quickly averted her eyes when she realized he was looking directly at her, as though anticipating her arrival. Because she looked elsewhere in that split second she did not witness the dark look that engulfed his face, obviously shocked to see her there. Why that should be was peculiar, since despite his long absence from the country he had been eager enough to link back up with people he had once known and shared certain social pleasures with. Those people, in fact, who had formed a firm compact of friends during their university years.

Little surprise, then, he thought to himself immediately after, that she would also be there. He hadn’t thought to ask… Now that he saw her, he cudgelled himself mentally for his lack of caution. Resigned himself to coming face to face with her. He would never forget the way she had once made him crawl in his fever for her. The heat of their shared passion had seared him, left him unable to form a trusting relationship with any other woman. It pained him to think of all of that. The lack of intimate companionship throughout all those years of living abroad. He had even, at times, encouraged people to believe that he was gay. He could do that, with no blow-back, in the more relaxed social atmosphere that prevailed there.

When their host made a great show about finally bringing them face to face, somehow it seemed to them both that the tumult in the room became hushed, as though all eyes had swivelled toward them, to observe their re-introduction to one another. That isn’t quite what happened, people were more discreet than that, those who knew their history, and most of them avoided looking directly at them, continued with their spirited conversations, on this, their regular annual get-together.

Most of them represented the original crowd of university students who had formed a fairly close bond. Year to year, the changes in marital status, re-marriage or alteration in ‘companions’ expressed a changing repertoire of the presence of others swelling their ranks. They’d all, over the past several decades, experienced their full measure of life’s opportunities and disappointments. Most of them had prospered, and their languid self-assurance spoke volumes about their place in the larger society.

He wasn’t the only one who had found the satisfaction of living abroad to their liking; only the one who’d chosen to be longer in deciding to return to the country of his birth. He tired, eventually, of being an expatriate, even though he enjoyed all the benefits of a foreigner perfectly adapted to his adopted country which had rewarded him handsomely with a prestigious position in an international bank. His old friends, acquaintances and intimates were eager to re-connect, pump him for not only personal information, but financial insider-stuff as well. And he was glad to accommodate with respect to the latter, formally withdrawn in responding to the former.

When they came face to face each made a distinct effort to appear cool, detached, in perfect control. There was no particular warmth expressed, as he held out his arms to take her hands in his, and press them. She leaned forward toward him, her face grazing his, as they shared a perfunctory shadow-kiss. He had murmured something as his face passed hers, but she hadn’t caught what he had said, if indeed he’d said anything. He still held her hands, seemed to not realize that, then looking from her face down to his extended hands encapsulating hers, loosened his grip, allowing her to reclaim what was hers.

"It's wonderful to see you", he said truthfully, hoping that he sounded casual enough.

"Great to see you too again", she responded carefully, well enough aware of that dreadful flutter in her chest.

"Sorry to hear about your failed marriage. You see, I have kept myself informed. I know you were married for almost twenty years. I know you've got two grown kids."

"That's all right" she said. " We had a good marriage, for as long as it lasted. We've remained friends. That's what's important."

"Yes, of course", he said quietly.

Two decades hadn’t, after all, made that much of a difference. He was still captivated by her presence, the ethereal beauty of her appearance gripping him as though he were in the presence of an other-worldly figure. One he’d wanted to possess, make his own. But she had been so profligate with her favours, so generous in her liking for so many other people, her attention to him was diluted to a degree he could never accept. It had grated on him, torn tiny ragged holes in his self-esteem, that while professing to love him, she would still insist it was her right - not a privilege that he could bestow upon her - to see whom she wished when the mood took her. He was driven mad with jealousy.

It wasn’t that their entire relationship was like that. They'd shared long periods when she seemed resigned to surrender her autonomy - that’s what she called it - to 'assuage his possessive constraints' upon her. She would do this, exhausted from those short, sharp and nasty periods when his barking orders so completely enervated her normally ebullient personality, to bring a halt, however, temporary, to their temporarily dystopian existence.

When that happened, when she studied furiously, made no effort to see those of her friends he mistrusted, when she spent all of her time with him, they really did revel in the sublime comfort of mutual devotion, and really incredible sex. It was soothing to her soul, priceless beyond endurance, she thought, their relationship. And she was right; it was beyond endurance, since with the lapse of several months she began feeling restless, began to rage that she was being kept a prisoner, that he must regard her as a helpless dependent he forever hovered over, unwilling to trust her, to give her a little freedom of movement and relationships.

They had originally met at one of their shared classes, one he dropped after the first semester. They both lived in residence, but since they and a number of other students weren’t comfortable there, they had decided between them to rent a downtown house close to campus, and equitably share rent, an affordable luxury which gave them plenty of room and removed them from the closer confines and the kind of raucous environment that they weren’t interested in sharing.

Living together in close proximity brought all of the seven who ended up renting together even closer as a group of intimates. But it was the chemical reaction between they two that stood out, that everyone recognized and made amused allusions to, thrilling them both that others too had understood their need for each other’s proximity.

It wasn’t long before they took on another house-mate, since they found themselves with a spare bedroom, when they moved into the room he had originally had to himself. From there, it wasn’t long in the following year before they moved out to a place of their own, when they both earned a bit of a salary, she waiting at a nearby restaurant, he doing remedial math for high school kids.

They were doing all right. They both agreed that this was so. But he somehow continued to become irked with her. With her still-casual clinging to the notion that she was a free agent, despite their fixed status as a couple. It hardly seemed to matter how often she told him she loved him, he was never satisfied and he was never convinced. Any deviation, however minor from routine, would perturb him. If she arrived home late from her part-time employment or university, he would interrogate her. And she would become furious with him, berate him, warn him that she would take only so much, and no more. That he was not entitled, no one was, to treat another human being as a possession, a thing that could be controlled. He was breaking her spirit, sucking the life out of her, and she could not, despite her love for him, accept that.

Each time, witnessing her white-hot anger and her anguish, he would repent, apologize, say he hardly knew what had come over him. He knew better, he said, it was unfair, he just couldn’t control himself. But he would, he promised, he would.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you” he pleaded with her when she had first intimated that she would be prepared to break their relationship rather than continue to submit to his jealousy.

“You’re working toward that eventuality”, she responded grimly, in no mood at that juncture to help him to smooth things over.

“I know you’re angry with me. I know that. I’m kind of angry with myself. I know I’ve promised enough times that I would restrain these impulses” he said, his face a grey, worried colour.

“You’re right there, on all counts. You’ve promised time and again that you wouldn’t keep jumping on me, accusing me, giving me ultimatums. I’m not prepared to continue to overlook your failures to control yourself. You must know that now.”

“I do, yes I do. I know I’ve been unfair. I can’t for the life of me understand what comes over me. It’s not something I want to do. It’s as though I’m being controlled by some malign force.”

“You’re right again, Jeff. It is a malevolent thing, to continually insist on controlling someone else’s personality. That’s what you’re doing. You’re trying to drain me of those characteristics that express my unique personality, and replace them with those you find acceptable.”

“I’m not! Really I’m not. You’ve got to believe I love you, I don’t really want to change anything about you.”

“I’d like to believe it. How can I? How can I keep making excuses for you because I want to believe the things you say when you try to disown what you do to me?”

He stood there, mouth agape, not knowing this time how to respond, what to say. And then succumbing - despite desperately attempting to stifle the heat that suffused him - to that same chasm of vibrating, headache-inducing rage that initiated their interminable arguments revolving about her independence. Only this time the heat escalated to a kind of rage he’d never before experienced.

He found himself suddenly mentally detached, and physically manipulated. He felt, in fact, like a puppet that someone was experimenting with. With invisible strings manipulating his limbs. An artful ventriloquist was bellowing disgustingly hateful invective. Even as he felt helplessly detached, the thought flashed into his mind that what he was screaming at her would never be forgiven, never forgotten. He wanted to swallow his tongue, torque his body into helpless convulsions, so she might have pity on him and forgive him.

Instead, while still lashing her with those bellicose threats that poisoned the very air that surrounded them, he advanced toward her, and flung his open hand against her head, and she reeled backward, but caught herself from falling. Her shocked, frightened face, focused unbelievingly on his blistering anger seemed to motivate him further.

His second, backhand slam at her face succeeded in throwing her to the floor, body twisted sideways, face downturned, where her forehead hit the metal table lamp that her falling, twisted body had brought down.