How's Your Life, Luv?

It’s been a bad couple of weeks. Bad? That’s putting it mildly, it’s been beyond shitty. The Old Bag has been cutting his hours. He’s supposed to be on from noon to nine, but she’s sent him home early three days so far this week. Like, how’s he supposed to pay his bills? His car payments, for example. So all right, he has the money, he isn’t short, but why should he be penalized because they‘re slow? He’s her best man on the floor for the big stuff. She makes no secret about that. Everyone knows it.

What she should be doing is sending half the other staff home, the guys who don’t function the way he does. He’s the store’s hotshot salesman, so what the hell!? And it bugs the hell out of him when she asks in her special way “How’s your love life?” Right after telling him he’d be short another day. That’s her not-so-discreet - as in secret message - letting him know he‘s on for that other evening shift. Then she winks and says see you later, luv! Quietly, so no one else hears. Like it’s a big secret.

It wasn’t so bad at first, once he got over the fact that she wasn’t the counterpart of his fevered nighttime sweats. But given his ideal he wouldn’t be in that situation to begin with. She wasn’t a bag or a hag, but she was old, must be as old as his mother, sure she was. A shared chronological age was all she had in common with his mother, though.

A whole lot better looking than his mother, and really kind of with it, but for Chrissake! Her hair is completely white, a cap of white hair sitting over her smiling face. She’s always smiling, like she’s always pleased as all hell about herself. Maybe he’d be smiling all the time too, if he was the store manager bringing in the big bucks, making decisions, taking credit for everything everyone else does.

When he asked her about the short hours she smiled at him. What the hell! Then she gave him a lesson in fairness; everyone should share the burden of cut hours. Except her, of course; she was immune to the sacrifice she expected of everyone else. In a spirit of fairness.

It was the Olympics, everyone was glued to their friggin’ television screens, watching Canada get hammered. Right; some of the events favoured Canada with enough medals to keep the country from utter desolation on the world sporting scene. Enough of a boost to keep all those everyday sports and at-home boosters from venturing out on Canada’s true everyday sport of shopping. The lack of customers makes for a long, boring and unproductive day, no doubt about it. He was finding himself yawning, forgetting to do things, bored right out of his skull.

And then in comes this old couple he sees from time to time. Interesting how really old geezers think they know something about computers and software. The old girl prissily refers to ‘random access memory’, and the first time he heard her he kind of gawped, wondered what the hell she was talking about until it occurred to him, and he laughed, patted her in a congratulatory manner on the back and recommended she just refer to it as RAM in future; everyone would understand.

He remembered them because they always came shopping with two little dogs in shoulder bags that they stuck in the shopping carts, treating the dogs like they were kids or something. That’s all right, he liked animals, didn’t bother him. Didn’t bother anyone, since other customers always made a beeline for the dogs to chuckle them and it lent a kind of relaxed air to the environment that could only be good for customer relations. That’s what Mrs. Becker always said.

Mrs. Becker; that’s how they were supposed to refer to her. Although when it came to more personal things, outside the shop, they could call her Sheila. Outside the shop Sheila could be anyone’s idea of a prim and proper matron, just as she was generally seen in the shop, as its manager. For her age, really good looking. Which was why, when he was first employed there fresh out of high school graduation, and after a couple of college courses in computer sciences, he was flattered at her attention.

Fact was, he was nothing to look at. Worse than that, he looked kind of peculiar, he knew that. Good reason to avoid looking at himself in mirrors, although he was sometimes taken by surprise when he saw his reflection and his reflex was just as he imagined most other peoples’ was. He was short, stumpy, straight-down, with a really stupid-looking face with a wide, piggy upturned nose. But he could handle himself, anyone wanting to jeer at his looks at school soon found out he could take care of himself.

He had his mother to thanks for his looks. No wonder there was no father-figure as he grew up. Must’ve been a one-night wonder, the guy must’ve been plastered out of his mind, and his mother would never, ever let him broach the subject. He sure tried, over the years, then was forced to resign himself to the understanding he had one parent and one only. Even his grandparents would never stoop to enlighten him, their mouths would tighten, and they’d shut right up. That was a long time ago.

Anyway, that was all history, and it was what was happening right now that bugged the bleeding hell out of him. His night classes had been going all right, he’d get his paperwork eventually. He wouldn’t always be working at the store. Another year or two and he’d shake the dust off the place and move on. He could hardly wait. Until then, he had to plug away. That’s what he usually told himself, anyway. Then he kind of dropped out of that, too.

Oh yeah, that old couple yesterday, looking for another computer. So far they had bought a desk top years ago for her, and over the space of another two years, two desk tops for their daughter. In between they bought computer desks, chairs, all kinds of stuff. Nice to have parents to buy stuff for you, like the stuff they got for their daughter. Who needed them, and couldn’t afford them because as a single mother (!) she had too many expenses, worked too hard, and needed some help. Printers went with the desk tops, and expensive software; Microsoft’s Office Professional. He’d been impressed, nice sales. Right, the old man got a mini-lap-top for himself with a good sound system; to listen to NPR radio, he said; sole use.

Then in the summer they brought their granddaughter in with them to look around at laptops and the kid knew what she wanted, a pricey Toshiba. Without blinking she had it. Yesterday they were back again. This time looking for a laptop for their daughter. Asking about the Office Professional software they’d bought the year previous, wanting to avoid shelling out another $700 for the goods. The three licenses that came with the original one had already been downloaded.

Hell, he hadn’t even known three licenses came with that software. The old girl asked if the daughter could download it a fourth time, and he’d said it was only legal to download it once. When she questioned that he went over to one of the display computers and Googled “Microsoft office professional”, then became acutely aware that the woman was hovering right beside him, intently watching. She saw, just as he did, that the suite came with three licenses, or two, or one, depending on price. He kept trying to position himself, feigning that he wasn’t aware she was there, ogling the screen, but she just moved to the opposite side to continue watching. And what he feared, happened. She spotted the software at discounted prices. She questioned him about that; why their store sold what they wanted for $700 and there were Internet sites selling the same thing for less than half.

“Upgrades”, he shrugged, “that’s all they are, not the full program". But he knew that she hadn’t been convinced by the look on her face.

When they looked at the computers, she wanted specific attributes, and rhymed them off, while her husband stood by, looking vaguely lost. Toshiba because, she said Consumers Report claimed it to be the most reliable, and Intel, not Athlon processors, and nothing under a 500GB hard drive, and oh yes, a 17” screen. Almost forgot; a built-in modem.

“No one has those anymore” he said dismissively, “that’s old technology”.

“Right” she responded, “but our daughter has dial-up service, she lives in the country”.

He felt like snarling at the woman, took a breath, and said, well, have a look at these. ‘These’ were Acer, HP, Gateway, but no dice. Had to be - honestly he heard her say ‘a Toyota’. He picked up at that and felt kind of good as he said to her “hey, you don’t want one of those, they’re on recall”. That got a bit of a laugh out of them, and he figured maybe they would overlook his earlier clumsiness.

He was hoping Sheila wouldn’t ask him how his love life was today. He just wasn’t in the mood. Not that the prospect never excited him; just not now. And he was feeling a little edgy about that woman. Like she was just kind of crowding him. Every time her heard her accented British voice speaking discreetly to one of the others guys he hoped against hope that she would be repeating that mantra: “how’s your love life?” She fancied herself, she had told them once, a Bohemian. Between them, the guys wondered whether there had ever been a Mr. Becker. The other guys, it was no secret; they’d been through her mill themselves. They kind of begged off, one after the other once they were able to convince her they had girlfriends. Either that or find employment somewhere else.

God, he’d been so damn excited when he bought his car last year, a small Mazda. He owed the job that, at the very least. He loved that car, always wanted one, now he had it. But he hadn’t had it six months before Sheila figured she would get herself the 2010 model a couple of steps up from his. And he didn’t know why, but it bugged the hell out of him. Like she was trespassing on his territory. Of all the makes for her decide on, why the same as his? He’d shown it off proudly in the parking lot, felt like he was a spark alight, he felt so light and good and pleased with himself. Now, it seems almost tarnished.

He knew he was being childish about this. Sheila wasn’t so bad, she could be thoughtful sometimes and she did try to be helpful. It was no help to him, though, that everyone was aware he was the only one left of the group to continue servicing her. He’d tried to squirm his way out of it without being too obvious, by letting some of the other guys know that he was getting into a serious relationship with a girl he’d met at night classes. Of course they had no idea he’d given up night classes in favour of home study and a correspondence course, continuing his courses on line.

As far as they were concerned - because he told them so, in generous detail - he had met Francine during classes, and they gradually began to hang out together. It had started with a coffee and doughnuts at Tim Horton’s progressed to an on-campus pub, and they’d then gone out to dinner a few times, and seen one another on the week-ends, as well. Not that things were serious-serious, just kind of nice and slow and comfortable.

Was she a looker, they wanted to know. He was prepared for that, whipped out a photograph he’d taken. Of Francine, of course. Francine, his girlfriend who was a really good looking woman, and smart too, and amazingly, more than happy to be around him. He was sure that at first a few of the guys thought he was hoaxing them, but of course, he kept telling them about different events they’d gone to, at the NAC, GCTC, and of course Scotiabank Place, to see a few Senators’ games, a few live performances.

And then, of course, word leaked out and Sheila became aware of his special relationship. At first she chided him that he’d said nothing to her about it.

“How long?” she’d asked him. “Four months, and you didn’t say a word of it to me? Playing it close to your chest, were you? Did you think I’d mind?”

“No”, he said humbly, “I didn’t think you would be thrilled about it though, given our … um, special relationship.”

“You silly kid. Don’t you think I’d be thrilled for you, after all this time, that you’ve found someone? I am thrilled about it, I think it’s terrific,” she said, the last time they were together at her place.

She asked him how far the relationship had gone. Whether there’d been some intimacy, which, after all, would mark the success or lack of, the relationship as far as she was concerned. Him too, actually. But he said, no, things hadn’t moved that far that fast, yet. She was a quiet one, religious, you know?

She laughed at him. “Religious, is she? You think that translates to no sex? You just haven’t approached her the right way about it. You’ve always been too shy. Case in point, how long it took me to convince you to haul your ass first time around, over here.”

And she gave him generous advice, how he should approach the delicate matter of getting a little more intimate with Francine. She studied Francine’s photograph and said how pretty she was, reminded her of how she looked when she was young .. And then paused as though waiting for him to say something like she’s still good looking - which she is … or that she’s better looking than Francine, anyway. But he didn’t. They were all used to him clamming up anyway, from time to time.

So here he was, in a bind. The Francine story seemed implausible even to him, but they bought it. And now he didn’t know where he could take it. They’d want to meet Francine eventually, arrange some group get-together for one of the holidays, they always did, and he’d always begged off because he was the only one who didn’t have anyone, so he’d had to go along with Sheila, everyone pretending that was OK, like they were a couple or something and that grated on him like he was a fish caught in a net, and he wanted to chew through that netting and escape.

Sure, he could escape. Nothing could stop him from just one day telling them all that would be his last day there. He was resigning his grand position as hot-shot numero uno salesman, and looking elsewhere for employment. There’d be questions but he could handle them. But wow, wouldn’t he miss them all. Come to think of it - and he didn’t often, they were just about the only friends he had. Leave that place and he’d be on his own, without anyone.

Except maybe his mother and the less said about her the better. His life was a balls-up he thought glumly, he’d done a right royal cock-up, to paraphrase Sheila. The anatomy of his discontent, he shrugged. Life's a bugger.

Dwindling Winter

Not yet March on the calendar
but spring is anxiously positioning
itself for early arrival, noting
the decline of winter's fierce,
tempestuous displays of chill
as it squats on the landscape.

Early arrivals of robins, goldfinches,
doves and starlings have discreetly
joined winter-hardy birds of the
boreal forest. A great grey owl
queries us in its deep, hollow bass
echoing through the bare-branched

forest canopy. Crows circle restlessly
above the canopy cawing their irritation
at the owl. The wild shriek of a
pileated woodpecker bounces off the
snow-melting arras, its mood
chipper as its hammering beak.

Mild though it is, boots sinking
deep into the snow-packed trails
well littered with woody detritus
the wind is adamantly determined
in its intent to draw out its seasonal
collaboration with dwindling winter.

This Landscape

Gone the pewter, snow-billowing
sky of stubborn days' duration
succumbing finally to a pure
and shining blue uninterrupted
by clouds, sun ascendant and blazing.

Overhead, crows coast and caw.
Woodland trees no longer gaily
sporting winter coats; bare now,
damply dark and raw. In their

branches, chickadees, nuthatches
and drumming downy woodpeckers,
aware all, that spring is on the near
horizon of timely seasonal arrival.

The snow-packed ground is well
littered with brittle branches,
tightly-fisted fall leaves and countless
twigs teased off their perches by
high blowing winds, soughing
through the swinging tree tops.

Mild weather and the brilliant
sun in concert melt snow new and
old, sending rivulets of meltwater
resolutely downhill, seeking

release, joining in a great, muddy
stream unleashed and madly
roiling toward the welcoming
river well beyond this landscape.

The Sky's Parabola

The great parabola of this
winter sky has surrendered
to countless nights of snow
tumbling through the atmosphere
from the cover of grey clouds
unleashing their burden
on the world below.

The landscape a monochrome;
muted, yet dazzling-bright.

Trees and shrubs muffled
in a crystallized flood of
frozen moisture, standing
ghostlike and eerily mounded.
Solemnly beautiful, eye-
graspingly exquisite in bondage
to nature's winter choreograph.

The air is charged with ions
of quiet energy, as ripples
of wind bear down on the
glazed arras. Frozen pads of
snow from overhanging branches
embroidering the underling
blanket of smooth perfection.

Just Be Assertive

“Father, my soul is troubled. I see her face in my dreams. They’re nightmares, I see her haunted, fearful eyes. It was my ego that caused her death. I persuaded her that I knew the conditions, I was familiar with them, I had years of experience….”

“My son, do not presume. It is our Heavenly Shepherd’s to make those decisions. He it is who makes the determination that a soul has lived sufficiently long, and to take that soul unto Himself.”

“But Father, surely … I told her everything would be all right. I knew what I was doing. And then, when it happened, when I tried to pull her out of the truck while it was sinking … she said to me, she said ‘I don’t want to die this way’, and then it just wasn’t working, I couldn’t free her. And Dusty, my dog, he was barking at me, he was in the back …”

“You must forgive yourself, my son. The Heavenly Father takes those whom He will.”

Standing in his mother’s living room yesterday, he was sure it was her brother he saw. Dimly, in the distance, a lone figure. A figure that dropped something onto the ice. Having to throw what he held in his arms, avoiding the yawning open water where Carrie had perished. Along with poor old Dusty. But a dog’s a dog, they can always be replaced. Carrie, that was another thing. Not that he would want to replace her. She wasn’t, in fact, what he’d been looking for. But she had come looking for him. And what a surprise that had been.

What, he wondered, had Trevor thrown into the open water? A worn old Teddy bear that his sister had loved? Something she had cherished, a little old baby comforter? Ah, more likely a bouquet of flowers. Carrie loved flowers. A tribute from her brother to his beloved sister. He must be in mortal anguish, poor guy. Life’s tough, isn’t it, Trevor?

You and your squirt brother really bothered the hell out of me, you sure did. Thought your sister was so special, didn’t you? Everyone knew your family thought they were different than everyone else around. Just because a street was named after the family, just because your family said they were founders of the area, like it was lost and you guys came around and whoa! Here’s a place needing to be found.

What a stupid name to give a kid. We used to rush at her yelling “carry me!” and she would always stand there, like she didn’t know what was coming at her. Every time we did it, she would stand there. And be knocked over. And like man, that was funny. We laughed our fool heads off. Until the time you guys saw us, and it was like, game over, right? You were always a scrappy kid, my dad said it was the Irish, they’re like that. But know what? The Frenchies were too, and we lit into you good and proper. With sister Carrie yelling at all of us to stop ‘right now!’, only no one ever listened to her, right?

Sure, maybe it wasn’t fair, all of us picking on you two stumpy little guys, but you were asking for it. What was the big deal? We teased all the girls, it wasn’t just your sister. It was a game, it was a lot of fun, the girls didn’t really mind, they loved it. We were just kids, having a good time. But you needed to tell us we had to lay off your sister. Your big sister at that. Didn’t think she could look after herself? She did, you know, she did pretty good. She had guts, standing there, telling us to knock it off, not backing down, like the other girls who went off squealing, pretending to be afraid.

Anyway, that time you got me alone, without the guys around and knocked the shit out of me, even though you’re younger and you were smaller than me, still are, I guess. I never forgot that. Even though no one saw it, so I wasn’t embarrassed like. I was still shaken up, felt bad for myself, felt ashamed some little runt like you could do that to me. And man, I don’t forget.

Funny how when your dad got wind of what was going on he told your sister and you to steer clear of us. Like you could, eh? How’d I know? How’d you think I’d know? Carrie told me. She told me lots of things. You had to respect her, she never got mad, she just stood there and took it, and then whisked herself off and went on her way. Until the next time. And then the time after.

She said she was behaving in a Christian manner, while we - me she meant - were being brutish louts. Brutish louts, get that. She even spoke differently than we did. I don’t mean French-English, since we all spoke both, but the way she talked, it was different. Elevated like, like the parish priest, or something.

She was my friend later, you didn’t know that did you? Well, I got to like her and I knew she liked me. She convinced me I wouldn’t “get anywhere in this world” - that’s her words, I remember them like it was just fresh, and that was more years than I can really remember back. She was right. I straightened right out. I sure did, I got good at school, got good marks, my mom didn’t know what to make of it.

And then you guys just up and moved. One day you were there, the next day pouf! And I’m just betting that your family wanted to get all of you away from here. I’m just betting this place wasn’t good enough for all of you any more. The street named after your great-great whatever is still there, but you aren’t, none of you.

Like I said, I did good, and I was serious about keeping out of trouble and making a life for myself. I have my own business now, bet you don’t know that. I’ve got my own roofing company and there’s no problem getting jobs, let me tell you. I’m proud of the work that my people do, I’ve got standards. Bet that would surprise you too. Look, people grow up, they look around, they see how other people live, and they change their values. That’s what I did, and I’ve never regretted it.

All that time that passed since we last saw one another, me and Carrie. I thought of her sometimes but never bothered looking her up. So isn’t technology wonderful? I’m on Facebook, like just about everyone else - not you, I know, it’s beneath you, Carrie said so, not in those words, but letting me know you have no use for ‘social networking’. You’re an academic now, she said, you‘re a professor of what, history is it? I forgot where she said you were teaching. In Montreal somewhere?

But Carrie got on Facebook and she looked me up, found me and messaged me. At first it didn’t click, I couldn’t think straight, but how many chicks have that name? She looked different kind of, better looking than before, a lot prettier, and really tall, who would’ve thought? We began to keep in touch. She told me about her work, about how much she enjoyed it, what a challenge it was to her. And where she was living. Not all that far, actually, just across the river. So we decided to meet over coffee at the National Arts Centre café. That was the first time. There were a lot of other times.

We graduated from casual meetings and began to see a lot of one another. I liked your sister a lot. I really did. She never thought she was better than anyone else. She never really gave me a hard time. She represented, I know, a different social level than what I did, but she didn’t much care, and neither did I. She was easy to talk with, I could tease her and we’d both laugh about it, laugh about how it had been, back then.

I had this dog, a nice big golden retriever, a real suck of a dog. He was really a terrific dog, trusting and loyal; you know the usual stuff you hear about man-dog relationships. That was me and him, Dusty. A really good dog. Used to take him along hunting with me. He was kind of useless there. Sooner make friends with the wild animals than help in any way; he was so friendly he’d wag his big rump at any animal he’d see and make such a fuss over seeing it he’d scare them right out of sight.

Carrie liked Dusty, a whole lot, and we went off on week-end afternoons, spending a lot of time together. She ever tell you that? Well, your parents found out and they weren’t too happy, as it turned out. Carrie felt it wouldn’t be right, not to tell her mom and dad about who she was seeing. They asked, see? Because she was getting kind of long in the tooth, as they say, and probably wanted to see her married. Have some grandkids. Your dad, she said, has a weak heart, and your mom, she said, had a bout with cancer.

Things were going really well, you know? Neither of us had any other plans for going out with anyone else, so it was kind of nice hanging out together. Fun, like, and nice, comfortable. And then, wham!

Carrie being like she is, she didn’t send me an email message or anything like that. She planned to be right with me when she gave me the kiss-off. I thought there might be something wrong. She acted kind of strange … for Carrie. She wasn’t relaxed, she was kind of strained looking. I asked her what was wrong, and at first she said nothing. And then she said it, she said she didn’t think our relationship was heading anywhere and it was just a waste of time for both of us. I felt kind of stunned. No one likes to be told that they’re wasting their time when they’re trying to get involved with someone, and they feel good about it, and looking forward to maybe having a future together.

I asked her why.

“Just that, you know, we don’t really have all that much in common”, she said.

And that really surprised me, it really did. Because just being together and having fun and discovering things we both liked did mean we had stuff in common, you know?

“How do you figure that?” I asked her.

“Well, our general lookout on life”, she finally said. “You know, your politics isn’t mine, your values don’t reflect mine. Our backgrounds are different”, not, she said, that we hadn’t shared growing up in the same place, but that our families were so … different.

“I thought we’d put all that away”, I said, really stung, her reminding me of that now, after all that’s gone by, the years when we didn’t know each other, and the progress we’d made lately re-introducing ourselves to one another as adults.

“Yes, you’re right, we did do that to a certain degree, we certainly did, but there’s more to life than simply shifting inconvenient incidentals out of the way. Take, for example, our levels of education - not that I’m faulting you for not completing yours and venturing into post-secondary, but your background set you up for that, and I’m fine with it. But even the entertainment that means so much to you, it’s way off canter to my values. You aren’t interested in cultural entertainment that is a huge part of my life, orchestral performances, live theatre, that kind of thing. When we talk about seeing a film, you always insist on those mindless action films with sex and gore, and that’s repugnant to me.”

“Well look”, I said, “you never mentioned that to me, before. You just kind of went along with whatever I suggested. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I did, and that’s not your fault, it’s mine. I was too ready to acquiesce, not to create a fuss. It just isn’t my way to be adamant about things like that. I usually do stand down, don’t insist on what I want. You know I haven’t got an assertive personality. And that’s all right with casual acquaintances, but our relationship may develop into something far greater than that. And I’m simply not prepared to invalidate my values and aesthetics to live the kind of life that entertains you.”

“Well, sure, I can see where you’re coming from. We can talk about this, can’t we?”

“Sure we can, but what’s the point? Where are we right now? On a frozen river, ambling along, which is very nice, since I enjoy the out-of-doors too, but I’d rather be out snow-shoeing, skiing, skating, not going out on an icy river having ‘fun’ ice-fishing. It’s just not my expression. And it’s not about to become a favourite activity for me. I’m not prepared to turn around a life-time of appreciation for cultural and aesthetic and leisure-time activities and shut them away in some dark recess of my mind, and lend myself to the rural-type things you’re invested in.”

“What took you so long telling me? I thought everything was fine between us. Why now, all of a sudden?”

“I told you. I thought I’d better face reality before things got any more serious. For both of us. Look at us here, now. I don’t want to be here, out on the ice on a frozen river. It frightens me. I don’t trust the ice. How much does that truck of yours weigh? What happens if we drove over an area of ice that isn’t thick enough to support the truck?”

I laughed. Not at her, but kind of to change her attitude, know what I mean? To let her know she had nothing to worry about. “Don’t you think I know ice conditions, when they’re safe or not? Haven’t I been doing this for almost my entire life?” Do you really think I’d put your life, mine, let alone Dusty’s in danger? And risk losing my truck, as well? Don’t you think I have any common sense?”

“No, it’s not that, not at all. It’s just that when people are familiar with circumstances they become too much at ease, comfortable when sometimes they shouldn’t be, should be alert to potential problems. It’s not just you, it’s human nature. But it’s also in your nature to enjoy outings like this, they’re an integral part of your life. They’re not mine, and there’s no point my pretending I enjoy it any longer, none at all. You need someone who shares your pleasures, and I’m just not that person.”

“That pains me”, I said, really meaning it. I did feel bad, kind of deprived of something I really wanted, I thought. Know what I mean?

She said nothing for a few minutes, and I suggested, just to prove to her that I knew what I knew, we’d get in the truck and drive over to the island in the centre of the river. “Look, look over there at the edge of the river. See that? That’s my mom’s place. We can drive right up to the island and you’ll still be able to see my mom’s house. Think that’s far? Dangerous? It isn’t. I’ve driven over the ice at this time of year since I was a kid. You know that. Give me a break, Carrie. Okay, I get what you’re saying and maybe you’re right. We gave it a try. Anyway, let’s try to make the most of this day, if it’s really going to be the last day we spend together. Okay?”

She agreed. Nodded in agreement. But said she still felt fearful. She’d do it for me, though.

I called Dusty, got him into the back seat, then we settled in and drove close to the island. I turned around, to look back at my mom’s place, and said to her “have a look, didn’t I tell you so?”

And that’s when that loud crack happened. I’ve heard ice crack before, it does that when it settles. And you know the ice is good and solid, it’s just kind of settling. Nothing to get steamed up about. This was different. Jesus, there were people all around, everywhere you could look at, people, kids, running around on the ice, guys in their ice huts, fishing, trucks parked right there, even some kids flying kites. It’s like no one else was there on the river but us. Like no one else heard that crack.

And faster than I could react, I knew that truck was going under. I’m not stupid, I reacted, I opened my door and got out just in time to leap out and struggle my way through that icy river to haul myself up onto the ice. I was yelling at her to open her door, to get the hell out of the truck. I could see she was trying, but it just wasn’t working. I kept shouting at her, and screaming my fool head off. And then, gone. All of it, the truck, Dusty, Carrie. Like they were never there. Like my being there was a casual stroll over the ice.

I ran like hell, boy did I run. I was freezing, I felt unreal, my clothes frozen, stiff, like this was some nightmare I wandered into. I figure it must have been maybe a half-hour, and then I was banging on my mom’s door. I called 911.

I told the police later I did my best. That I tried three times to get her out of the truck, but she was stuck there. And then, I said, the truck was sinking and I knew I had just a few seconds to get clear of it. And I did. I got clear of the truck. I’m alive and Carrie isn’t.

Snow Mysteries

The dark cauldron of the
night sky has been flooded
by a host of whitely effervescent
crystals, silently illuminating
the heavens with their glow,
comforting the sere landscape below.

The stuff of the Universe towering
above, mingling with the frozen
essence of our existence. A pale
shimmering penumbra of pink
glazes the sky, reflecting our
audacious presence on this Globe,
infinitesimally negligible, yet

singular. As morning dawns,
cardinals trill, woodpeckers drum
and a group of mourning doves
whistles onto the naked branches
of a venerable beech, nine in number.
The tenth possibly won by the
deadly skill of a Great Grey owl.

In the woods, animals have
awakened to their transformed
reality, and tracks betray their search
for food. There are the squirrels',
leading from tree trunk to ground
level, their familiar terrain
daily explored and exploited.

And there, yet again, those
mysterious, light and thin-straight
tracks defying identity. No ground
bird known to drag its tail feathers
absent clues of foot-track on
this dewy-fresh blanket.

Crows croak derisively above
as the mild temperature has
its way, melting the light, lofty pack
off conifer branches brought low,
and the creek's released energy
gurgles triumphant toward
the great river lying beyond.

Unnatural Selection

In another era they were called row houses. When they looked at the new tract housing in a new subdivision, driving from Montreal to Ottawa for that very purpose, the houses were advertised as “executive” town homes. They were a decent price for what they represented. Further up the quiet street bordering a green wooded ravine, there were single-family homes and they were quite a bit pricier.

They never regretted buying their two-story town home. It had quite remarkable features, among which was the full wall of windows looking out the back onto their sloped little garden, which they made much of, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. For they were among the first to move onto the new street, and lived there while construction commenced around them.

It was noisy, it was dirty, but they loved it. For one thing, when most of the construction was going on they were away, in any event, out at work. By the time they were preparing to return to their new home, the construction crews were knocking off for the day. And it wasn’t as though the entire area was under construction; it was most definitely not. This was a well built-up area, a fairly short drive from the downtown. It was just that their street was newly carved-out of what had once been a farmer’s fields, and which had been lying fallow for quite some time.

It had waited for the right builder to come along, a builder who wasn’t fazed by having to design his new street and the houses that would sit on it, around the perimeter of a deeply wooded ravined area. Now that was the draw, wasn’t it? For them, it most certainly was. To move away from crowded Montreal with its nagging memories and gridlock to a quiet oasis a veritable short and pleasurable drive from the nation’s capital where their new jobs awaited them.

It struck him now and again how unbelievable it was that he would have chosen a woman like Lilly. What the hell had been the matter with him? To end up with a vituperative fishwife whom nothing he did could ever mollify, how could he do that? His mother, seeing a soul-mate in her, revelled in the fact that her son had chosen someone so like herself. Validating her view that regardless of the misery of their boyhood, her two sons loved her and one of them at least, found life might be inconsolable without a woman so like his mother. He must have been blind and dumb and out of his mind with the thought of owning that luscious body, nothing else.

And his father, well, his father was pleased. Because his son had chosen a Jew. And his son’s sons, therefore, would be Jews. His father, forever cringing before his wife, had regretted that his own children, born of a non-Jewish woman, were not regarded by Jewish tradition as Jews. His father was prepared to overlook anything, any slight character blight - for he recognized what his son had not - to have his grandchildren considered Jews.

Of his father he always thought kindly, he was a gentle man, a good enough father whose only true failing in that department was his inability to counter anything his wife did, said or demanded, even with the knowledge that her tirades fell as heavily on their sons as they did on him. She was just - he sighed to his boys when they were older and able to understand - born one of those people unhappy with life and determined to make life unhappy for everyone around her.

And he, fool that he was, ended up with a woman just like his mother. Nothing could bring back all those years of misery as a child sharing whipping-boy status with his older brother when their father wasn’t around. In those days there were still jobs that kept people on the road, and his father had been a successful travelling salesman. One of those people, in fact, who sold aluminum doors, storm windows and screens at atrocious cost, but they were at that time the latest craze among home-owners and he made a more than decent living. He even had his own business cards, and you didn’t too often see people with their own business cards, back then.

That was then. Now his parents were both long gone, and his brother lived in New York. He too had moved from Montreal as soon as such a transfer with his employer could be arranged. His visits with his brother and his brother’s trips to visit with him were now lost in time, but they kept in touch. He’d prided himself not all that long ago in being one of the first people of his acquaintances who knew what the Internet was, who had an email account, and he’d persuaded his brother to do the same. That’s how they corresponded for the most part. But now instead they’ve reverted to talking on the telephone. Of necessity. His brother representing all he had left of his family.

Well, his sons, his twin boys. In Montreal, with their mother. Not with her exactly, but living in that city. Ironically enough he’d moved to Ottawa to begin with because his sons were attending university there. But they transferred after their first two years back to Montreal and continued their education there. But that was long after their mutual decision to part ways. He was left with the certainty they had no use for him whatever, encouraged his interest in them only to extract what they could from him. Reflections of their mother.

When he and Martine moved into their town house the age differential between them was apparent to anyone. Twenty-five years, after all, separated them. She used to kid around with him, remind him she was the same age as his sons. That wasn’t his choice, though, it was hers. She was young, pretty, and smitten with him. And that did great things for his self-esteem. Not that he didn’t love her, too. And it certainly didn’t take much persuading to encourage him to finally make the break he’d long dreamed of. Living with Lilly had fractured his ego, just about broken him. Long afterward, long after they’d moved to their townhouse he had nightmares about Lilly.

He hardly knew whom he most loathed; her or his mother. It was a toss-up. Took some thinking to arrive at a conclusion over who had done the most harm to him between them. He still wasn’t completely certain. His mother had blemished his growing years beyond redemption. His wife had tarnished his married life to the extent that he felt a haunted man. Until he was rescued, and he would be forever grateful to Martine for that.

Things changed after that. He no longer felt so helplessly emasculated. He felt empowered, a man again. Martine adored him. That was resuscitating in a way he could never have imagined. She freed his spirit, he felt liberated, able to contemplate doing things he had just shut away in his mind. And it felt good to feel free to cast his eye around, reminiscent of his younger days before he had been straitened into a steel jacket that would not permit him to venture anything that might spring his wife’s vicious slap-downs.

He became a bon vivant again, a ladies’ man, was able to freely indulge in his cosmopolitan airs that had so delighted him before the misery that had overtaken him when he’d married - how could he have been so utterly, stupidly unaware - Lilly. Whom he’d imagined at that time, in a state of sex-induced delirium, would be the light of his life. Instead, she had clamped a lid on the light that illuminated him, and sent him into the cellar of dark despair.

From loving her he had speedily descended into a state of querulous confusion, quickly overtaken by a quiet desperation, ending in fear, dejection, misery that he felt helpless to do anything about. All the more so when she had so quickly become pregnant, and he was a father of two little boys. Trapped. Wasn’t that the conventional wisdom among men? Wasn’t he a living example of a trudging male subservient to an entitled female? Wasn’t he a living cliché?

Nothing he did, clumsily, hopefully, served to placate her burning sense of resentment. She shrieked at him incessantly that she would not submit to the status of a ‘kept’ woman, subservient to a man who provided the wherewithal for her and their children. Children? They were a curse, she said, steely-eyed, shrivelling him with their piercing animosity. Because of them, she was dependent on him to a higher degree, and she felt trapped like a frail animal caught within the iron jaws of tradition.

But what about him? Why blame him? He didn’t create the social mores she had been so ready to accept, batting those long eyelashes of feminine longing at him before he’d finally succumbed. Wasn’t he a victim, if that was how she interpreted the covenant of marriage, just as much as she?

He’d studiously, obediently read all the feminist tracts she had thrust scornfully at him, to prove her hysterical rants were a reality. A glimmer of understanding arose in his consciousness. But why blame him, still? He tried, he went out of his way in a manner he’d never seen his friends attempt, to mollify her incandescent rage.

He changed diapers, fed the boys in their highchairs, walked with them at night to still their nightmares, to help them over feverish childish ailments, allowing her to sleep, while he went in to work the next morning, exhausted, his resources utterly drained. He’d done his best, what more could he possibly have done? It was as though she was on a track and would see nothing on either side that might ameliorate her angst, and he was the object directly before her on that track, requiring annihilation before she might find the peace she was seeking.

He tried to school himself to think, to reason as he imagined a woman might. He tried to anticipate things, to head them off, to protect himself, and yes, her too, from the constant eruptions that threw the lava of hate so lavishly over everything they had achieved together before she had succumbed to this pathological drive to diminish him.

Martine had been an amazing surprise, nothing he might have foreseen. She simply materialized into a life-saving mirage that turned out, in the final analysis, to be his rescue from a life of subdued misery, hopeless self-abnegation and burning resentment. He hadn’t taken her seriously at first; she was just a kid. He was 45 and she only 19. What had attracted her to him would always be a mystery, but it was self-affirming, and then a brilliant rescue from the torment he lived. Unnecessarily, he later assured himself, as he made the final break, leaving his wife to fume and fulminate and weep on his mother’s bosom. They were both, it was clear, more than satisfied to disown him, and he, he just did not gave a damn. That too was a rescue.

If his father had still been alive, it would have been different. He’d hated to disappoint the old man. He’d loved him deeply for what he was, everything that his mother was not. Decent, kindly, supportive, loving.

What was that word? Manumission? That’s how he felt, delivered from a state of slavery. And he had Martine to thank for that. And he thanked her in the only way that made real sense to him. When divorce became a reality, they were married. Of course they’d been living together for years before that happened, but it was as though, finally, a dark curtain of failure had been lifted from his soul.

For a quiet young woman from the far reaches of the province Martine seemed to know a lot about sex. With her it was more like fornication and he delighted in that. She was so natural about it all, so assured, so undemanding, but ready to try anything, imbued with an innocent sense of sexual audacity. He loved it. And it was clear enough she did, as well. He felt proud standing beside her, she was so young, so pretty, so pliable, amenable, so in love with him.

It wasn’t as though he meant to take advantage of her. He was more than a little aware of the syndrome he exemplified, an older man grasping the freshness of a young woman. He’d tried, earnestly, to persuade her that she needed a young man, someone her own age, but she laughed him off. He went out of his way to persuade her that theirs was a union of unequal age, that she might regret it at some future time. And she became angry with him, as though he were disputing the clarity and authenticity of her love for him.

He had tried. And had, in the end, become convinced that they were doing the right thing. For themselves. And wasn’t it past time for him to take something for himself? To grasp this opportunity that had been carelessly thrown his way by fortune? Hadn’t he suffered enough? How many sighs add up to yes? Life has a way of altering things, opportunities arise, one grasps them or regrets their loss forever.

She’d been indifferent to the prospect of marriage. He’d had to persuade her that it would be in her best interests. She’d shrugged noncommittally, but agreed to proceed with a civic marriage. She retained her maiden name. They proceeded as before. And when they moved into their new city, their new home, their new jobs, it seemed that everything had changed, he had been re-born a new man, and she was quietly satisfied - more than that - exquisitely pleased with the trajectory her life had taken. Together they thrived, enjoyed life; what more could anyone ask for?

As others moved in on the new street he, an extrovert, introduced himself, spoke fluently French or English, depending on the language of the newcomers, and welcoming them, offered his help wherever possible should they need information about anything. Everyone knew him. Few got to know her; she was an introvert, shy, given to holding herself at a distance from others, but sweetly welcoming in her own way.

Which was just as he saw her, too, and what he most appreciated; that she gave herself to him entirely, unreservedly; no one else mattered.

They did so many things together. Took their favourite holidays, went out for dinner whenever they felt like it. Often, that is. Matter of fact, it was he who turned out the family chef, although they shopped together. He did most of the house work too, and really didn’t mind one iota. After all, when he retired she was still working.

And he had Delilah’s company during the day. He had named her that because of her long, blonde hair and because she too had committed herself to him. Delilah went for long morning and late afternoon walks with him every day, across the road from their house, into the ravine. She ran after squirrels, socialized with other peoples’ dogs, and was a loyal companion. When at age nine she developed hip dysplasia, there was no question they’d get surgery done for her. Martine was as attached to that big dog as he was. Everyone on the street knew Delilah, and the kids ambling home from school would stop, throw her ball for her, pet her, and Delilah loved all the attention.

But Delilah died, even though she had a very long life for a large dog. And they decided once was enough; it was just too painful, they wouldn’t replace her. She was, in any event, irreplaceable. And perhaps it was for the best, because his health too began to reflect his age. In his mid-70s he was struggling with high blood pressure and high cholesterol levels. About the same time he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. That operation went well enough, but he never felt quite the same, afterward.

Their holiday times, mostly in Vermont and New Hampshire, because they both loved the mountains and hiking, became fewer and fewer. Martine joined a women’s group of hikers and went off on the week-ends with her new adventure buddies, and he was proud of her. She was in good health and had no plans to let herself go; she was determined to keep fit. She looked as young and pretty as ever, he kept telling her.

When he had his double-heart bypass operation which he had insisted on putting off time after time until his doctor and the heart surgeon cornered him to let him know he was placing himself in an awfully risky situation, that without an operation to repair his faulty heart valve, he’d soon be in big trouble, he grudgingly agreed to undergo the procedure. Post-operatively he felt worse than ever before; his chest just as tight, his breath hard to come by, tiring easily, and on top of all that, a blazing headache that just never seemed to leave him.

Martine was a good scout. She stuck around for as long as she could, until wanderlust got to her again. She’d joined another group, a women’s adventure club, and with them went to South America and all over Europe. She’d seen the pyramids at Giza, climbed in the Andes, gone to marvel at Machu Picchu, seen the Great Wall of China.

And finally, when he reached 80, one of his eyes went kaput. He had to use one eye to do the work of both, and it was tiring. So he was cut off from reading, from the Internet - other than sporadic excursions in both.

And he’d needed another small surgery which was a real pain in the … arse … because he had decided to accompany Martine to Portugal. She decided she had no intention of spending another winter in the ‘coldest, snowiest capital city in the world’ and had rented an apartment in Portugal - the Algarve. But the surgery intervened, and off she went, and here he was, sitting alone, at home.

Oh, he loved their house, and he loved their street and their neighbours, but how many people do you see in the winter, particularly when you’re mostly house-bound yourself?

Martine telephones regularly now, rather than sending emails as she had been doing previously from all over the world in her travels before returning home to him. Another three weeks and she’ll be home again. The weather is fine in the Algarve, she told him, and she loves it there. Thinking of actually buying a little place there. He’ll love it, she tells him.

And by the way, she said last time they spoke, she was planning to take another little trip to Arizona, maybe stay there a few weeks, look around. She’d heard it was quite beautiful, the geological features outstanding, and the weather nice and dry.

Another Civil Ritual

From house to neighbourly
house on this street with
canvass kit in hand, from one
or another charitable, research,
health-established group,
to persuade a few dollars for
the greater good of the
society we inhabit...

To wheedle away visceral
inhibitions against sparing a
dollar here and there. Long
familiarity; a greeting and a
smile, a sharing of local news
and private triumphs; extraction
enabled - amplified by
public awareness...

Of dread disease; cancers,
diabetes, heart and stroke attacks,
crippling arthritis, MS and a
wide range of afflictions
tormenting humankind. It is
when kindness of human
reaction to share the burden
illustrates our innate humanity.

'Tis the Seasons

This morning's languid snowfall
has left a lightly-substantial coverlet
over our rapidly-depleting snowpack
plagued by the icing effect of warmer
spring-precipitated temperatures
and a more assertive sun.

There is a hushed presence in the
woods, the trees neatly washed and
limned with white plush. Even the
creek, with its newly-released lid of
ice raises but a muffled tinkle as it
rushes headstrong, downstream.

The sky this day reflects the scene
below, brightly overcast, the very
shade of the snow those clouds have
released in their spirit of seasonal
generosity. Not even a murmur of wind
as we tread those silent pathways
through the wooded ravine.

Trails left by rabbit, pheasant,
grouse, squirrel and mice are clearly
seen, patterning the new snow. Soon
enough, the rough caws of circulating
crows, the soft ducky-peep of nuthatches
and the near-distant puncture of
woodpeckers enliven the air.

Together, we have foiled nature
in one small, local way, for this
was one of those rare years with scant
conifer seeds and cones, leaving winter
birds and small mammals one less
food resource. Each day we distribute

nuts and seeds in the ravine, in
cracks and spaces in bark and the
cleft of branches as we make our daily
rounds, squirrels eager to take our
tribute to their will to survive rough
seasons. Now they clamber like

clever acrobats, swinging from
branch to branch, tree to ground
in height-defying boldness; saucily
switch tails, twisting around tree trunks
in a frenzy of seasonal mating.

Perspective

With time, opportunity and
a vast horizon of attainment
before them, the young, whose
imagination festers with
the impatience of their years,
view the present gloomily;
their future disinterestedly;
the past with blithe indifference.

The tedium of being, the utter
boredom of inaction, the
strictures of discipline, the
misery of acquiring knowledge
and social stability grate
their tender sensibilities.

Resentment with stultified
rules, social mores, fuels
their dissatisfaction with the
orderly progression of their lives.
Direction and the formulaic values
of society decried, derided, denied
devalued beyond resuscitation.

The rigidity of the ego-denying
initiative-stifling sound contract
miseries their vision of a world
in reflection of their sensibilities
their imperative needs, their
generation's selective entitlements.

The Art Lover's Paradise

Moses receiving the Law from God on Mt. Sinai.

The next panel is essentially a single scene. Moses stands on Mt. Sinai, receiving the ten commandments from God, as the frightened people of Israel gather below. The turmoil of the crowd is contrasted with the majestic nature of the law giving, far above the cloud-like treetops. The story of Moses' successor Joshua is in the adjacent panel. Joshua directs the crossing into the promised land, across the miraculously dry River Jordan, as tribal members gather stones for a memorial monument. At top background, Joshua and the Israelites march around their first conquest, Jericho, as its walls crumbling at the sound of their trumpets and shouts. Jericho resembles a typical Italian hill-town of Ghiberti's day.

He hesitated only briefly. Not because he was thinking of the vitally important meeting that he’d set up in another one of his discreet business deals. It was the doors of the impressive building he stood before that grabbed his aesthetic sense of appreciation. But he would not waste time looking at them closely. Not that it was a waste of time, for it most definitely was not. Simply because he loathed being taken for a tourist. That he mightn’t be anything else but a tourist given his appearance in an Islamic country in the Middle East would be automatically assumed, he merely shrugged off. It was his gut reaction to being identified as such, his antipathy toward that feeling that compelled him to linger for the briefest of times, before continuing.

The doors, incredibly thickly-layered slabs of faintly gold-hued glass with their laser-impressioned stylistic Art Nouveau design, were breathtakingly beautiful. He’d seen them before, in photographs, but seeing them there, right before him, in touch-close proximity was far different. They glowed with an inner force of majesty, the relief-work subtle, embellishing the inner-depth, illuminating a sweeping glory of notionally-perfect nature at its finest. That the doors bore, seemingly, little stylistic relation to the Islamic-tinged architecture of the building itself seemed peculiar, a little jarring to his sensibilities, while at the same time impressing him with its transcendent beauty.

It was almost - though not quite - like the feeling of awe that had transfixed him, standing before 11th-Century Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise, in the Baptistry in Florence, years ago, before he was so conceitedly sensitive about appearing to a critical onlooker like a tourist. He was a tourist back then, even though he was there also as a businessman, just as he was now, in Dubai. Then, he had been young and unaffected, and he had stood amazed before the giant splendour of those immense portals with their Medieval gilded-bronze panels illustrating Old Testament episodes.

He thought, briefly, as the great glass door swung effortlessly inward directing him to the interior of the hotel’s lobby, how more apt it might be if these glass doors had also been etched to commemorate biblical-era themes, given that Islam took to itself much of the earlier Old Testament towering figures of epiphanies leading toward and reflecting monotheistic belief. As a secularist himself, it was the outstanding sociology of human traits demonstrated by those old tales that fascinated him. He had studied sociology as a young man; he understood the pathologies of mystic belief leading to fanaticism that robbed humans of reason.

As he entered the lobby with its soaring, glass-enclosed atrium, simply understated in the height and magnificence of its sky-reaching ambition, he quickly glanced about. It too was vaguely familiar to him, for he had been given the opportunity to study its lay-out. The interior appointments an amazingly bold contrast to the simple vertical walls. Translucent marble floors, alternating immense white-and-black squares. Huge palms in equally-impressive ceramic planters. Outsized, extravagantly-carved and gilded easels adorned with putti, carrying gilt-framed Rubenesque-type paintings. Free-standing alabaster Romanesque pedestals and plinths holding larger-than-life-sized marble busts reflecting Greek antiquity. And the immense oriental porcelain vases stationed ostentatiously around the immense chamber. The provocatively opulent display simply floored him.

The impossibility of waterfalls cascading down the glass walls of the atrium was compellingly intriguing. He wondered how they managed to do that, as he briefly watched minuscule and occasionally not-so-small colourful aquatic creatures tumble over the walls, washed over by the waterfalls they remained trapped in for perpetuity, before he was able to tear himself away. He took especial note that very few people deigned to notice the display. Clearly, it was beneath them to gawk at what might appear to be beyond one’s biological imagination.

He had to actually force himself to peel his eyes away from the spectacle. All the more so that a shifting crowd of people garbed variously in kefiyehs, Western-style suits like his own, casual street wear, and more formal clothing as though the wearers had stepped directly out of a high-style clothing magazine, kept their eyes averted from the displays. In small groups, voices discreetly discussing social issues, and in single array, people streamed in and out of the immense lobby. Leaving him, a dapper, distinguished-appearing individual as no one to particularly stand out in the crowd.

The anomalous situation of his being there, of the international elite that crowded the city made wealthy by its siting and its natural resources, struck him, as did the presence of all the overwhelming displays of art and architecture. Medieval and Renaissance Italy, wedded to its love affair with excellence in the arts owing much to its great patrician noblesse oblige. Contrasted with the Arab Gulf States enamoured of their new economic status, eager to display their immense fossil-fuel-based wealth to the world, possessing anything that echoed excess.

Odd, he thought, the edifice exterior reminiscent of the region's fine archaic architectural tradition, yet its interior an unsettling jab, as though to express a tinge of triumph; western art absorbed by the orientalism of conquest in all spheres of human endeavour.

He shrugged that idle thought away and confirmed his reservation at the front desk. The young woman, with flowing dark hair, uniformed in a designer-inspired outfit flashing a pacific, welcoming smile. And an archly discreet comment in French-accented English, that "Monsieur" would find his accommodation on the 21st floor superlative.

"I'm most certain I will", he responded dryly, waving his hand toward the impressive lobby display, remembering to flash his own disingenuous smile at the beautiful countenance that surveyed his own with a disquieting hint of interest. Doubtless, he told himself, she's seen the world of entitled presence pass by her casual scrutiny.

Such people always raised an uneasy awareness in him. The servants, as it were, of the privileged, yet confident enough in themselves that they were not intimidated, felt at ease in the presence of power, prestige, celebrity, wealth. His problem? Too old-fashioned, despite his continentalist sense of equal entitlements.

His wife - his second wife - kept telling him he was getting a little old to be involved in this business. Their children - not his older son and daughter, but the infants he’d had with his second, younger wife - needed their father around; they hardly recognized him, she said, when he was home. Which was rather overstating the case, since his forays abroad had become less frequent as the years progressed.

He loved her, and he loved his kids, but he also loved his job. The younger cadres had a lot to learn from him. He’d had experiences they could only dream about. There weren’t that many of the old school around who could challenge his reputation. And he felt jealous of it, wasn’t quite yet prepared to retire. He was not all that old, after all. But it was true, in this business you had an advantage if you were young, aggressive and not easily deterred from your goal.

Import-and-export was like that. He had always been intrigued by the world of art, antiquities, the Renaissance, the Baroque era, and he soon discovered in his market research forays, that other people too had a yen to acquire faux works of art for themselves. It had become his business to search out top-quality replicas of noted art; paintings, statuary, objets d'art, furniture, oriental rugs.

He’d been just about everywhere in the world, in his years as a professional, spoke a half-dozen languages, had contacts - discreet, of course - just about anywhere, everywhere. He liked to think of himself as a modern-day incarnation of the hardy travellers engaged in trade and commerce who travelled the fabled Yellow Silk Road. He favoured small local workshops with an emphasis on creative hand-work and avoided mass-production enterprises like the plague.

On an entirely other level, he worried back and forth in his mind the personal problems that plagued his consciousness. His kids growing into this world of international intrigues. A growing threat from countries resentful of their disempowerment in a new, barely-disguised era of economic imperialism. Facing off against a tide of religious fanaticism spurred by resentment and an unassailably incandescent drive to exact revenge from their purported oppressors. The real problem as he saw it, was the misidentification of their real oppressors. But, it was ever thus.

He might hope his children and their children would inherit a better world, but nowhere in his experience was he ever able to detect a better world lingering hopefully on the outskirts of the dysfunction readily identified across the Globe, ready to enter at even the barest glimmer of opportunity. Humanity, he thought grimly, as he did increasingly, was propelling itself unerringly toward utter disaster. It pained him to think of his innocent kids inextricably tangled in this chaotic mess the world had made of itself.

As he entered the elevator, he compelled himself to turn from the personal to the practical. All the preliminary work had been concluded. The game-ending meeting was scheduled for early the following morning. That’s when the final transaction, the agreement, to be signed on the dotted line, would take place. Nothing like the import-export business to bring personal relief from boredom. Why that should be, he wondered, was curious, since this was most certainly not a boring time in world history.

There, he was going off on one of those personal tangents again. He mentally shook himself back into the public persona that he was always so careful to convey; that of a successful businessman working in an elite environment. And that was very true, every bit of it. He took note of others sharing the elevator that ran up one of the glass walls of the atrium. Peering down from the glass floor of the elevator, it seemed to him that the swiftly receding spectacle somehow resembled history; fleeting, painfully beautiful, illusory.

He took the same care to avoid making eye contact with those sharing the elevator space as they so meticulously did. With the exception of a young couple holding hands and whispering what might very well be sweet nothings to one another, no one else spoke. It was not a completely silent environment as the elevator moved swiftly upward however; there was a barely-heard musical background, the kind of white sound one expects everywhere.

When he disembarked at his floor, he appreciated the soft ambiance of muted lighting, softly pastel-painted walls, ornate mirrors hung at intervals, and yes, that white background music drifting down the hall as he himself did, looking at the numbers, then slipping himself into his suite. He discussed with himself the pros and cons of eating in the suite, or going down to one of the hotel’s restaurants. As he was musing on this, a discreet knock at the door, and his suitcase was brought inside by the bell-hop.

Who insisted on showing him about, as though he could not possibly manage that on his own. It would make for a more expansive tip, he knew, and he couldn’t after all, begrudge the fellow. Whatever he made he likely sent home to the Philippines. The glass-walled exterior of his suite was impressive for the view it gave him; desert on one side, ocean on the other. He could almost swear he could see in the far-off distance, flares coming off oil rigs; now that was most certainly a mirage. Closer to the hotel, within the city itself, the landscape was brilliantly verdant, Paradisaical, it seemed.

The suite was beautifully appointed, as one might anticipate, reflecting any expensive accommodation at any of the world’s premiere hotels within cities of note. But he’d seen these interiors before, and as far as he was concerned, absent a few decidedly mid-eastern touches, they were all the same. Reminding him that he might begin to admit to himself that he was finding import-and-export wearing a bit.

Maybe he was, after all, too old to continue. Perhaps it was time he set aside his ego, consider his legacy to have been set in impermeable stone, and retire. Really, he shook himself, his thought processes were galloping away in the direction of the irksome. And he wondered what the hell was wrong with him?

He wasn’t tired, since it had been a series of relatively short flights, but time-consuming withal; he'd been away for the better part of a month setting up ... background. But he thought it best, given the oddly introspective state he found himself in, to perhaps isolate himself, and order from the room-service menu. To better compose himself.

Tomorrow’s meeting was an important one. His business was highly reliant on the success of such contacts and the future contacts that might result from them. Tomorrow’s contact was a wily and admittedly successful professional in the trade; he needed to be as fresh for the meeting, as resolutely committed to a successful outcome as with any previous such conferences.

And he had slept well enough, as it happened. Showered, did a few push-ups, carefully consulted the full-length mirror in the marble-clad bathroom and found his reflection more than satisfactory, then dressed himself, made a critical call on his cellphone, and sat down quietly to reimagine the scenario before him.

When he entered the hallway it was still quite early; obviously too early for most, for the corridor was clear of any one else, but for two people casually striding down toward a door not too far from his own. They were not together, but were walking several paces from one another. He recognized them both. Had taken note of their presence yesterday afternoon after he had signed in at the lobby.

He took a few paces forward, then stopped. Watched in hushed silence as the tall young blonde woman approached the door, while the man who stood close by her now flattened himself against the wall adjacent the door, just as he himself was now doing on the alternate side. The woman looked at him enquiringly, and he nodded, whereupon she knocked, lightly, at the door. No response. Another, slightly more assertive knock.

A sleep-muffled voice responded. The woman’s softly seductive voice responded to the man’s enquiry. A few minutes passed in silence but for the faint shuffling sounds in the suite’s interior. Finally, the door was opened a crack and a man’s voice spoke again. The young woman spoke in the affirmative, and the door was opened sufficiently wide to admit her. Which was when the young man deftly shoved it, so it had the effect of knocking the breath out of the man inside, holding it in its half-open position.

While he was struggling to regain his breath and get back up on his feet, they all three swiftly entered and softly closed the door. He locked the door. Slipped the hypodermic needle out of his breast pocket, while the young man held the struggling man in his tight grip, and the young woman whispered assuring endearments to the stranger who had trustingly opened his door to her. Whatever she said did not assuage the man’s fears, and his eyes were dark depths of despair before he lost consciousness.

“This one“, he observed quietly to his two companions, "appears not to have invested himself in martyrdom. He does not appear prepared to enter Paradise, to greet his adoringly dutiful virgins, as is his rightful claim. But that”, he laughed deprecatingly, “is for the foot soldiers, the credulous simpletons delusionally enthused by the promise of God-sanctioned sex, not the veterans who own to no such illusions.”

David beheads Goliath.

Full of detail, because of its low position, the last main panel at left features David's defeat of Goliath. As David decapitates the fallen giant with the latter's sword, the Israelite army under King Saul take heart and press forward to victory against the disorganized and demoralized Phillistines. The battle scene is starkly realistic, and reflects Venetian/Ottoman battles of the day. In the background, a victorious David brings Goliath's head to Jerusalem, a large walled city not unlike Ghiberti's Florence.

The Late Afternoon Sun

The late afternoon sun
pierces our stained glass
windows, sending
streams of brilliant
colour shafting their way
onto furniture, floors
and rugs, transforming
this house into a magical
winter garden, landscaped
by a wickedly-humoured
colour technician.

Freed At Last

The Book of Women 4:3

English translation by M. H. Shakir

"You can never be equitable in dealing with more than one wife, no matter how hard you try. Therefore, do not be so biased as to leave one of them hanging (neither enjoying marriage, nor left to marry someone else).... "

The viper that consumed her heart and her spirit, the adder that took dainty nibbles of her liver and her spleen, the asp that sucked the very marrow of her bones; defeated, all. Her vital organs consumed, she has peace. Her agony of existence dissipated. She awaits the final release of Death. To be welcomed as a pious Muslim to her everlasting reward.

IN the context of proper attire and conduct, the Quran lays down one basic principle, namely, modesty which is stated in Surah 24: 30-31: Tell the believing men to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity; in this they will be more considerate for their own well-being and purity, and surely God is fully aware of all that they do.
And tell the believing women to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity, and not to display the charms of their bodies (in public) beyond what may (decently) be apparent thereof; hence, let them draw their head-coverings over their bosoms.
And let them not display (more of) their charms to any but their husbands, or their fathers, or their husbands’ fathers, or their sons, or their husbands’ sons, or their brothers, or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons, or their womenfolk, or those whom they rightfully possess, or such male attendants as are beyond all sexual desire, or children that are as yet unaware of (the physical attractions of) women’s nakedness; and let them not swing their legs (or other actions in their walking) that may aim to draw attention to their hidden charms.

They too, are at peace, saved from themselves. They will be re-united with us. No vestige of the struggle will remain, between their unheeding denial of God's instructions and their final submission. That submission to His divine will complete, irrevocable.

Her inner furies erased by the grace of God, she is prepared to embrace them; her sister, her daughters. Compassion now replaces enmity. Calm resides in her breast; an hitherto-unknown quantity; a soul-restorative.

Allah absolves those who do His work. He takes them gently unto Himself, cradles their weary essence, brings them final comfort.


You it was he loved, not me. His choice was you, when he had from among so many to make his selection. In our tribal village, the dashing, handsome great grandson of the village founder, son of the tribal chief, an integral portion of the wealthiest local family; he chose you, Dahlia.

The homely one, his first cousin with whom he shared childhood memories. Quiet and unassertive, her only obvious quality one of kindness,warmth of presence. Her form dense, already matronly. Why her? Years passed and she did not conceive. Whispers ran through the village. His family took note, and became impatient, yet he begged them not to press him. When several more years passed it was clear she was barren, a disgrace to herself and to her family.

When he set her aside, gave her freedom to leave, her family would not welcome her return, they disowned her. And when his eyes turned elsewhere though his heart was heavy, he looked at younger women, and in particular one whose clear complexion, long, lustrous black hair, sultry eyes and vivacity marking a vast contrast to his cousin became his choice.

She, Amirah entered his life. And she made his life pleasant and comfortable so he might wish to remain with her. When her father informed her of Almadhi's interest she was happy beyond comprehension, and she was anxious for formalities to be concluded, for the ceremony of marriage to be done with, to have him welcome her into his strong arms. It did not take long for her to pridefully advise him and her family that she was bearing his son.

For a son it was; Alhusain, their first child. She had fulfilled his desires and his need to have a son, and there would be more children for she was fecund and more than prepared to do all that was expected of her.

When Alhusain was yet an infant her husband became restive, and it was clear he was dissatisfied with something. Her relief was great, but she came close to despair in any event, when he advised her he had begun proceedings to emigrate with his family to North America.

She dutifully made all the required arrangements on her part, and determined which of their belongings would accompany them. Drying her tears she did what a good wife must do to follow her husband. She was fearful of leaving her family, her friends, her village, her society. And then, a catastrophe; a fortnight prior to their departure, Almadhi claimed to have had a vision and in that vision he was instructed to bring Dahlia back into his household. She would, he informed her gravely, aid her in the raising of their children, for Amina was yet again gravid.

She knew, even before they left, that Almadhi would be visiting Dahlia in the night-time hours, for he was permitted as many wives as he could afford to support, and he could afford to support more than merely two wives. From scorning the woman who she had replaced, she turned to detesting her and spoke harshly to her, although Dahlia made no protest.

When they settled in their new place on another continent and Atifah was born, Dahlia held the child as though she were hers and hers alone. She brought Atifah to Amina to be nursed, and did everything else for the baby, leaving the care of Alhusain to his mother.

Amina resented Dahlia on the one hand, but was grateful that she was spared having to look after an infant and a baby on her own. She was unrelenting, however, in her spite toward Dahlia and would never permit her to forget that she had been the spurned one and it was Amina who had brought honour to Almadhi's family, not she. Dahlia would never respond, merely dip her head in assent.

And then two other babies were born in fairly short order, two more girls, Daniyah and Bhashira, and Dahlia opened her great heart to the new babies each in turn, while their mother turned away from them. The three girls felt Dhalia to be their mother, for it was she who comforted them, encouraged them, supported. With Almadhi's approval, Amina focused on their son, and Dahlia on the three girls.

And Amina's hatred for Dahlia, even while she gave up maternal custody of her three girls to Dahlia, festered and caused unrest in the family. Almadhi chose to ignore the tension, and he continued also to take his conjugal rights with Dahlia, far more often than with Amina, which she knew, and which drove her to a frenzy of raging acrimonious execration.

Dahlia deftly, in their large spacious home, kept to her own apartment, and it was there that the three girls spent most of their time at home, as well.

Almadhi's business continued to flourish, and life was good to the family. Their circle of friends and acquaintances remained firmly within the Muslim community where they were well known. Dahlia, however, was open and committed to casual friendships with those of their neighbours who were non-Muslims, and this too infuriated Amina, and she demanded that Almadhi do something to discourage this un-Muslim-like behaviour, one that their regular Muslim cleric, the respected imam of their mosque warned against.

As the children entered adolescence and beyond, the girls began to emulate their beloved Auntie and became freely engaged outside the confines of their home, with their peers who were not Muslim. When this became apparent to Amina, she railed against the girls' behaviour, warning them that their father would not approve of it.

And when she informed Almadhi of the girls' indiscretions he became more alarmed than she might have imagined. He brought the girls to his study and lectured them sternly, and later spoke privately to Dahlia, forbidding his children to mingle with non-Muslims in any kind of social situation.

As the years passed and the girls became older, one 18, the second 15, the last 13 years of age, tension in the household increased. Particularly as their mother announced she and their father had decided their girls would now not only wear the headscarf, but also begin wearing an abiya.
the girls were horrified and Dahlia was distressed for them.

As soon as they left the house they would discard the abiya, push it into their school bags, to be retrieved when departing school for the return journey home. But Alhusain, witnessing this, reported it to their father. And reported also that his sister Atifah had been seen speaking to non-Muslim men.

The household became a hothouse of accusations, denials and counter-accusations. The girls were desperately unhappy and their aunt became extremely worried for them. Nothing was resolved despite the threats of dire punishment, for the girls became more defiant, refusing to even wear the abiya on leaving home and Dahlia tried to explain to Almadhi who was not closing his mind yet to her, and to Amina, who loathed her, how in their new country the girls were being influenced by other social mores that would not impact deleteriously on their personal faith.

Almadhi became furious with Dahlia, something that had never before occurred. And Amina watched, fascinated, as he set Dahlia aside, refusing to hear her out, shunning her company. And it was when Almadhi approached Amina, together with Alhusain, and, face stone-hard, infused with an anger they might never have suspected resided in him, said they must take steps to save their family's honour.

So it was that a dreadful accident occurred, when one of the family vehicles driven by Atifah, with her aunt sitting beside her and her sisters Daniyah and Bashirah seated in the back somehow managed to plunge into a wintry-icy canal, in the city where they lived. The submerged vehicle and the four dead bodies were discovered by a police patrol, for their family had reported them missing.

A truly dreadful tragedy. The three remaining family members went into deep mourning.

It is in a jail operated by infidels that they now await trial and judgement by kuffars; completely unjust, without divine guidance, meaningless.