My January exercise (m)
Find a Conversation
| Wed, 01-02-2002 - 4:51pm |
My January exercise (m)
Did I put in enough transitions to make it read smoothly?
A LAND CALLED HONAH LEE
What in God's name was I thinking, John Conway wondered, turning from the sunshine that poured like Angie's smile through the east windows of the old loft apartment. Grief and guilt hung like a great gray cloak across his rounding middle-aged shoulders. He ran blunt fingers through his thinning hair, leaving the short wisps around the crown standing in limp, disheveled peaks.
The phone rang. He ignored it, knowing Dylan would answer it in the bedroom. Probably another well meaning friend saying words that, like the memorial service two day ago, couldn't yet comfort. Dylan would know what to say to them. At thirty-three, he had worked his way up to general manager of a small Dallas TV station. A people person. Like his mother.
Tears threatened. John turned from the window and widened his eyes, straining to will the tears away.
"Pop," Dylan stood in the doorway of the sprawling living room. "That was the funeral home. You didn't pick up Mom's ashes yet." It was one tone shy of an accusation. Not the first one he'd thrown at him in the week since Angie had died.
"I ... uh, I ... don't know what she'd want me to do with them ..."
"Look, I've got a couple of hours before I have to check in for my flight back to Dallas." The tone was consiliatory. "I'll take you down there. We can talk about it on --"
"No." The image of the mangled Harley, temporarily stashed in back of the garage, made him wince with pain. "I'm sorry ..." He turned away. Pointing to the glass topped coffee table, he said, "Take the car. "I'll try to figure it out while you're gone."
Dylan nodded and picked up the keys. "I won't be long."
As the door closed, John plopped down on the long beige couch and flipped on the television. A puffy purple dragon, some kid's cartoon, cavorted with a couple of children across the TV landscape. He stared past the scene, tears spilling over his red rimmed eyes.
"Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea ..." An image of him and Angie wavered just beyond the tears. They were both eighteen. They'd met and fallen in love at college in California, in 1968. She was so beautiful. No makeup. Wild red hair -- the color of autumn maples in sunshine -- that danced around her face as she laughed at his silly jokes.
"... and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee ..." They'd been dating for two months and were in the student union the day Bobby Kennedy died. A collective gasp rolled across the room. He'd watched her face go pale beneath the freckles as she turned toward the television. In slow motion, she'd turned back to him, her mouth open in a silent cry of pain and despair, the jade eyes shimmering with tears, the red hair flaming around the multicolored band tied around her forehead.
He'd dragged her through the milling crowd of students to his car. They drove up the coastal highway in silence. He could still see her long, thin hands, wet with tears, wrestling the love beads that hung in long ropes around her neck.
They stopped in a spot along the ocean, far from the noisy highway, hidden from the world by large wet cliffs. Hand in hand, the sand rough and soggy against their feet, they listened to "Puff The Magic Dragon" on the small black radio and danced the pain down before they collapsed in exhaustion.
At last, she'd stood and slipped out of the long, loose dress and laid back down while he undressed. "This is our Honah Lee," she said, slipping her pale, freckled arms around his neck.
They made love with all the firey anger of lost causes and dying dreams. When he rolled away, at last, she rolled on top of him, stretching her body along his -- palms to outstretched palms, toes entangled in toes. She raised her head and looked into his brown eyes, her moist hair falling along his face.
He had kissed her neck then and, in the heat of new passion, sobbed out, "You are my Honah Lee," before making love again.
And for thirty years, she had been. Dylan was conceived that day. For the next three years, they struggled through college classes, part time jobs, diapers and baby food. When they'd graduated, he took a job in Kansas City and put his journalism skills to work at the Kansas City Star while she painted and puttered around the big loft apartment they'd gradually made home.
He clicked off the television and stared at her studio in the north corner of what should have been the dining area. Through the years her paintings had sold and been scattered across the country -- living parts of her soul.
Then, three years ago, a puckering around her left nipple had sent her to the doctor. Breast cancer. They'd done a lumpectomy, with radiation afterward. But it was more persistent than they'd expected. A mastectomy, drugs, and more radiation. All useless.
He picked up the painting she'd been working on the day before she died. "God, why was I so stupid!" He dropped the painting without looking at it and paced the floor, rubbing his hand against the stubble he'd forgotten to shave.
He'd bought the Harley five years ago, in a fit of middle aged angst. She loved it. Several weekends a year, for that first two years, they'd put on their leathers and helmets and flown the old bike along the winding highways and hills of southern Missouri. But the cancer had quelled their lust for riding. Until that last morning.
They'd made love in the kingsized bed, among the violet printed sheets. She smelled of Sand and Sable perfume. He buried his face in the soft, floral scent of her neck, kissed the scarred, empty breast faintly traced with blue lines that still marked the area of radiation.
And when they were sated, she'd turned to him and said, "Let's go for a bike ride."
He'd stared into the laughing green eyes. "Are you sure you're up to it?"
"It's the perfect ending," she'd said. He thought she was talking about the love making.
They ate breakfast in Sedalia, lunched in Springfield. As they climbed back on the bike, she seemed stronger than he'd seen her in a while. The accident had happened on a narrow black top east of Ave. He'd gunned the Harley too hard getting up the hill, only to find the road dropped away into a tight turn as they crested. He could still see her helmet bouncing across the road just before the turn. She'd taken it off and tossed it ...
He'd held her shattered body in his arms while they waited for the ambulance a passing traveler had called for.
"Why, Angie?"
She'd frowned and looked up at him, her eyes clouded with pain. "I wanted to leave the dance before the music ended."
John shook the memory away and picked up the painting again. It was an oil sketch of the coastline in northern California. He set it on the easel, tracing the cliffs above the sea with his fingers.
He took a deep breath and sat down at the computer, pulling up the webpage of a local travel agent. After entering the destination, and clicking round trip, he picked a flight for the next day. Leaning back to wait for confirmation, he reached out for a pen and circled the date on his calender.
As the confirmation came through, Dylan opened the door, carrying the box with the urn.
"Pop, I'm gonna have to run, if I get to the airport in time to clear security. You know where you're going to take Mom's ashes yet?"
He nodded, "A place called Honah Lee."
Dylan frowned, then shrugged. "Well, take care of yourself ..."
They said their good-byes. After Dylan left, John wandered through the bedroom picking out a couple of shirts and pants, poking a spare toothbrush and the clothes into a backpack, taping the box with the urn for carry-on.
The next day, he landed in Sacramento before noon and picked up the rental car. At Woodland he turned onto the highway that would take him to 101 and along the coast. North of Ukiah, he found a road he thought would take him to the spot he'd been looking for.
At last, he pulled off toward the beach and turned the car off. Taking the urn, he began the climb up to the cliff overlooking the ocean. Out of shape, he stopped to rest and catch his breath a couple of times before reaching the height.
He stood on the rise as a wave smashed against the rocks below him. The moist spray danced across his face. He closed his eyes and licked at the salt taste, inhaling the fish smell of the mist. He heard the cry of an erne taking off above him. In the flapping of its flight, he was sure he heard the faint flutter of dragon wings. He smiled.
Opening the urn, he sighed, and whispered, "A dragon lives forever, not so little boys ..." He flung the ashes into the cool moist air, watching as the wind picked them up and carried the thin gray cloud over the ocean.
Then he walked back down to the beach. Pulling off his shoes and socks, he stretched himself out in the sand, as he had when he'd lain beside her that day. He closed his eyes and felt her slight weight against his body, palms to palms, toes entangled, the wild red hair resting against his neck.
THE END

Pages
Thanks sammi. (m)
And thanks for doing such a great job at chat.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
HI wendypoo (m)
LOL, I just about alliterated myself off my chair when I went back and re-read that first paragraph. I'm going to rework this a little and try to submit it somewhere. I wondered if it would raise questions if I didn't address his injuries -- they were minor since he was a good boy and wore his helmet, heheheh. I'll work it in somewhere.
We've missed you. How is work going? Hope you'll have some time to drop in on the chat. We had a good time Wed., but wished you were there.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
I need a hankie
This is so wonderful, Linda. I love your writings. They never disappoint! You did a great job of weaving in the dragon into the story. :-)
Michelle
Michelle, co-cl for The Writing Life
Life is short. Buy the shoes.
Visit
Pages