The Porcelain Perambulator

  Alex held a small porcelain perambulator between his forefinger and thumb. He twisted it slowly, examining the intricacies. His eyes slowly rose and looked around the shop of porcelain figurines of all varieties. The shop had not changed in thirty years. It was full of memories. Only one figurine was of interest to him. 

  The hardwood floor creaked as before and in the identical places. The smell was as he remembered - the faint odor of lilac and cinnamon from a potpourri on a small table next to the door. His attention returned to the perambulator. For a moment, he returned to a forgotten time - an innocent and carefree time, a time long ago. A tear of longing formed in his eye. A deep sadness hovered over him like a cloak.

The shopkeeper asked politely, "Can I help you with something today, sir?"

"Yes," Alex said, quickly shaking his melancholy and replying adroitly. "I wish to purchase this. No need to wrap it."

The shopkeeper chuckled and leaned forward, propping himself with his hands against the counter. Looking over the tops of his spectacles, he said, "Oh, I'm afraid, sir, that one is not for sale. It is special, but if you're determined to purchase something, we have many others, and I think you will find something to your liking."

Alex smiled politely as he instantly took an estimate of the middle-aged shopkeeper with a broom mustache and a worn brown button sweater. "I was quite surprised that I would find this one still here. It has been thirty years, and I will pay ten times its value."

"Others have inquired of that one over the years, but it is not for sale at a thousand times its value, sir."

Alex pulled on his French cuffs from beneath the sleeves of his custom-tailored Italian suit. "Is this not a shop, and do you not earn a livelihood from selling porcelain?"

"Yes, but everything else you may purchase, except that one," the shopkeeper said, reaching over and tapping the perambulator with his finger. He picked it up. He smiled and looked at it fondly.

Alex pulled it from the shopkeeper. "If you knew how special it is to me, you would fix a price and sell it to me. You see, thirty years ago, my young wife and I bicycled to this town every Saturday. We were poor then. We came to this shop, and each time she picked up this very perambulator and admired it. We had no money for it at the time. It would mean so much to me if you would fix a price and send me on my way."

"Oh yes, I remember you two well. She was pretty, lovely, and kind. One does not easily forget beauty, loveliness, and kindness. Yes, I remember. Every Saturday at nearly two, you strolled into and out of the shop, and down the street you continued. You had tea down the way. She was very much in love with you. I could tell. I was a young lad then dusting the shop for my father, who dusted for his father, who dusted for his father."

"I remember your father, a kind man who wore a monocle. I believe the right eye." "Yes, that was him."

"Is he still with us?"

"He tends the shop on Mondays only."

"If he were here, what price would he fix upon it?"

"You should have inquired from him thirty years ago."

"Are you being flippant, sir?"

"Why should I do that, sir? I stated my case, and that is the much of it."

"Confound it, man! Sell me the perambulator."

"Sir, it is not for sale."

"It is important to me," Alex pleaded.

"When it was important to her, you would not even consider buying it. You did not even inquire about its price then. My father told me he would have given it to the young lady if only you had asked, but you had no intention or interest in it, but she did."

"Do you know who I am? I am Alexander Crowley. I have crushed corporations and banks. I've met half the Prime Ministers and heads of state in the civilized world. I could buy this shop. I could buy this town. I could buy you."

"But you can't buy that perambulator. I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. I read the papers and watch TV. Your wife is dead now, isn't she, Mr. Crowley? I truly mourn your loss."

"Thank you, sir. Then you know how important this is to me."

"You see, sir, I won't sell it to you because it is important to you. Thirty years ago, you had no intentions of buying it, and she knew it. Did the years continue to be selfish ones, Mr. Crowley? You are buying this for yourself, Mr. Crowley, not for her. It will now only bring you pleasure. It will only make you feel good. Your opportunity to please her has long passed."

"I gave her everything she wanted," Alex exclaimed angrily.

The shopkeeper retorted, "Except the perambulator, sir. If you had asked, Mr. Crowley, what do you think Mrs. Crowley would have held most dear?"

Alex held the perambulator tightly in his grip. "Sell it to me, you stubborn fool." He slammed his fist to the counter, and the perambulator snapped into several pieces. Alex frightfully looked at it as it fell and crumbled from his hand. He was horrified to see blood pool like beads of sweat in his palm. He murmured slowly, "What have I done?"

The shopkeeper looked at him pathetically and handed him a tissue. "I was about to say again, Mr. Crowley, it is not for sale, but it is yours for the taking."

The Ferris Wheel

   Ivan sat in his chair reading the Bible from a light that cast a dim light across the living room. The chair was leather. He had the chair as long as he could remember. In fact, he couldn’t remember when or where he purchased the chair. 

His head turned toward the doorway to the bedroom. Tonya, a middle-aged hospice nurse, entered the living room from the bedroom. He laid the Bible on the stand next to him. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s resting well,” Tonya smiled softly.

“That’s good,” Ivan said quietly. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ll stay the night, if that’s okay with you,” Tonya tiptoed into the room, avoiding Andrea’s chair and sitting on the couch. 

Ivan slowly breathed deeply. “You’re thinking tonight’s the night?”

Tonya paused. She wanted Ivan to know the words were coming before she said them. “No one can be certain,  but it’s close—hours.”

“Yeah, it’s best. Thanks, Tonya, you’ve been more than a nurse to Andrea, you’ve been a friend.”

“And she’s been my friend, as well.”

“Does that make your work harder?”

“No, it just makes my work more focused.”

“Most of us are only faced with this a couple of times in our lives, but you deal with this all the time. I don’t know how you do it.”

“You and Andrea have done so well. Where do you find your strength? You two amaze me.”

“You’re being too kind. But you probably noticed I was reading the Bible when you entered the room. That’s one source from where my strength comes.”

Tonya smiled politely. 

Ivan reached over to the stand and grabbed his Bible. He opened it and leafed through the pages, and stopped when he located a passage. 

“Let me read something. ‘And I have hope toward God, which hope these men also look forward to, that there is going to be a resurrection of both the righteous and the unrighteous.’”

“That’s beautiful,” Tonya placed her elbow on the arm of the couch and rested her chin in the palm of her hand as if expecting more to be read.

“You see,” Ivan said, “a man’s faith can not be based on one promise or scripture. It must come from many sources. The resurrection or coming back to life is integral in the Bible, not sporadic. Adam’s hope was not death. Death would only come if he proved disobedient. And when he did prove disobedient, all his offspring inherited his trait for disobedience, and all became subject to death. The only hint of death prior was only through disobedience. However, shortly after Adam’s disobedience, the Bible offered the hope of a reversal of that tragic event. The resurrection and hope of everlasting life are spoken about in every quarter of the Bible. It’s inescapable. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“It is, and it’s interesting to hear you talk about it.”

“So you see, Andrea’s death—well, I will grieve until my last breath. No one wants to see anyone die. No person wants to die. It’s not natural to die. If it were, we’d have conditioned ourselves by now. In fact, I’d say each time you care for a person who faces death and dies, you quietly and silently weep.”

“I do,” Tonya confessed.

“Andrea and I have talked about these things. We know our time together is short. However, we have that hope, and we’ll see each other again. We will see each other as Jehovah originally intended for us to live—in an earthly paradise.”

Ivan brushed the pages aside and stopped near the end of the Bible. “I’m going to read something.” He smiled kindly and moved up in his chair. “I’m going to ask a question when I’m done reading.”

Tonya chuckled under her breath and joked. “There’s no math, is there?”

“I promise,” Ivan jokingly assured. “Now listen,” and he began reading. “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the former heaven and the former earth had passed away, and the sea is no more. I also saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God and prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. With that, I heard a loud voice from the throne say: “Look! The tent of God is with mankind, and he will reside with them, and they will be his people. And God himself will be with them. And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away.”

“That’s so beautiful,” Tonya said. “And you read that so well.”

“You’re trying to flatter me to get away from the question,” Ivan smiled. “So here’s the question: What is new?”

“The heaven and earth,” Tonya answered.

“Exactly! Another question? Something I haven’t read, but I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Well, I got one right,” she grinned

“Not really a question, but complete this phrase. It’s from the Bible; ‘The meek shall inherit the…”

“Earth?” 

“Exactly,” Ivan said. “Can you try one more question?”

“Last one?”

“Promise.”

“That means the worst I can do is one out of three wrong. That’s sixty-six and two/thirds percent.”

“Look at you,” Ivan grinned, “and you didn’t want any math.”

“Wow,” Tonya said, “I don’t know where that came from.”

“On that new earth, name one thing that will not be there?”

Tonya’s eyes opened wide, the sleepiness washed from her face. “Death?”

“One hundred percent,” Ivan said. 

“That’s so nice of you to share that with me.” Tonya lifted her chin away from her palm and relaxed against the back of the couch. “I see what you’ve done, you comforted me.”

“It’s the least I can do for all the comfort you have brought to Andrea and me.”

“Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?” Tonya asked, scooting forward on the couch. “I’m going to have one.”

“No, thank you. I’m going to go to bed now.”

Ivan stood from his chair. He looked back at the chari and gestured toward it. “That chair, I almost forgot, Andrea bought it for me for our tenth anniversary.” 

He eased his way into the bedroom. His eyes fell upon Andrea’s face, softly lit by a night light. His mind briefly flashed to an earlier time, when her skin was young and fresh. 

He dressed in pajamas and quietly slid into bed.

He placed his hand on Andrea’s chest. Her chest rose slightly and sank. He thought, ‘How many more are there?’ 

He thought about their first meeting, a county fair, standing next to each other in line for the Ferris wheel. They were strangers. The worker assumed they were together and motioned for them to take their seats. He was right. And they remained together ever since. 

All the good memories and trying times flashed through his mind like each seat on that Ferris wheel; one seat after another spinning closer and further away, and suddenly replaced by another seat. ‘Me and Andrea, getting older with each passing seat.’ 

He cuddled close and brought his lips close to her ear.

Tonya returned to the living room from the kitchen with a cup of tea. She passed the bedroom door and heard Ivan whisper a prayer. She paused for a moment and thought. ‘That’s usually it. When someone dying hears those final words, it’s like saying, It’s okay to let go. It’s beautiful that they can spend this time together.’

Tonya relaxed on the couch, setting her cup of tea on the stand beside her. She curled her legs on the couch. She smiled, knowing that Andrea was in good hands. 

Eventually, Tonya stretched out on the couch and fell asleep. It wasn’t deep sleep. She slept in expectation of being awakened by Ivan to inform her that Andrea had taken her last breath.

Something disturbed her during her sleep. She glanced across the room through sleepy, foggy eyes toward the clock hanging on the far wall. She squinted to read the time, 3:36.

At the sound of movement from the bedroom, she swung her feet to the floor and stood. She wiped her eyes as she crept toward the bedroom.

At the bedroom door stood Andrea, not feeble, but appearing well rested. 

“Tonya,” she said. “It’s Ivan, he’s died.”

The Story Teller

    Guess who walked into The Jittery Goat Cafe the other day and ordered a coffee? That’s right, Kenton Lewis. 
   Kenton sat at the counter, and Pix set the coffee in front of him

“Kenton, haven’t seen you in a while,” Pix said. “What’s up?”

“Been busy,” Kenton said and sipped.

“Anything in particular?” Pix said.

“Just stuff I’ve put off,” Kenton said.

“It can really pile up pretty fast on ya,” Pix said.

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Kenton said. “I took the long way here today. Must have walked a mile or more.”

“You should get in your car and check the mileage,” Pix said. “That way you’ll know for sure. It’s good to be accurate when you’re about to tell a story.”

“How do you know I’m about to tell a story?” Kenton said.

“You always tell stories,” Pix said.

“No, I don’t,” Kenton said.

“Sure ya do,” Pix said. “I ask you about the weather and you just never say, it’s sunny. You go into some long story about a summer ten years ago or what the summer reminds you of.”

“Then don’t ask,” Kenton paused for a sip.

“Okay,” Pix conceded, “what did you see on the way here?”

“On my walk here, I counted nine or ten masks. A year ago, they were rare. People were looking high and low for them. Now they just toss them away.”

“Was it nine masks or ten?” Pix said.

“To tell you the truth, I lost count,” Kenton said. “But it was nine or ten. The point is, it was a lot on my mind.”

“Why didn’t you just say it was a lot?” Pix said.

“You might not think nine or ten is a lot,” Kenton said. “Your definition of a lot might be fifteen or sixteen or six or seven. I’m not even sure where to draw the line when it’s a few; is that two or three, or is it four or five?”

“They were just masks?” Pix said. “Nothing special about them?”

“No,” Kenton said. “Most were those blue type. I saw a plain white one and another black one. Then I saw one that was black and covered with sequins. Looked to me like it could have been a veil from some girl who belonged to a harem.”

“You got quite an imagination,” Pix said.

“No,” Kenton said, “just wanted to be a little creative and give you perspective. Likely, it was discarded by some lady of the evening.” Kenton smiled in disbelief.

“Why do they call them 'lady of the evening?'” Pix said. “Ain’t that pretty much a twenty-four/seven job?”

“What time does this place close?” Kenton said.

“Six,” Pix said.

“And how long is it before you get out of here?” Kenton said.

“An hour,” Pix said.

“So seven. That’s evening, right?” Kenton said.

“Hey,” Pix said, “what are you implying?”

“Can I just tell you about my walk without interrupting me?” Kenton said. “If I knew you were going to interrupt me because of a minor detail, I’d have left it out.”

“No,” Pix said, “leave it in. I got the imagery on the sequined mask now. It does add something to the story.”

“Let’s just stop right there,” Kenton said. “This is not a story. I don’t tell stories. There’s no plot or lesson or point to what I’m telling you. I’m just telling you I saw an unusual amount of discarded masks on my walk here.”

“Just because it’s not a story doesn’t mean it couldn’t be one,” Pix said.

“Okay,” Kenton said, “here’s the story. A guy takes a peaceful walk. He stops for coffee. He tells a man, not unlike himself, about an experience on the walk. The man, not unlike yourself, interrupts. He asks questions that have nothing to do with the story. He doubts the particulars. Here’s the point: some things just aren’t worth telling. They’re not interesting; even if you add sequins to it.” Kenton stood and sipped. He set the nearly full cup back on the counter. “End of story.” He left.

Pix strained his neck watching Kenton walk away. “He didn’t pay for the coffee. He only took a couple of sips. I’ll just pour it back in the pot.”

A Visit From Robin

About every three months, Robin visited Mack. He lived halfway
between Pittsburgh and her home just outside St Louis. It was too far for one day’s drive and not enough for two. Mack was happy to put her up for the night.

Robin was the daughter of Mack’s best friend, Sammy. He died right after Robin graduated from high school. Mack sort of filled in the space.

She showed up about supper time. Mack had a meal prepared and her room ready. He figured ole Sammy would do the same for him if the roles were reversed. However, they weren’t. 

Mack’s wife left him twenty years ago for a used car salesman from Cincinnati. Their marriage didn’t even last as long as the thirty-day guarantee on one of his used cars. She tried on several occasions to ease her way back, but Mack stood firm. He had the locks changed. 

Mack liked having Robin come around. Every three months was fine. If for nothing else, just a female smile seems to lift the dullness from the rooms she walked into. It was a cure for loneliness. And like all medicines, it is best in moderation. 

There was no other female in his life. His nieces lived on the West Coast. His mother had passed. The “old birds,” as he called them, seemed to pop up everywhere. They had been divorced several times or driven at least one, or more, of their husbands to an early grave. 

He had lived alone for a long time. And become very satisfied with his bachelor arrangement—no women, no problems.

Yet, He looked forward to Robin’s visits. He was thirty years older and viewed her as a daughter or niece. That arrangement removed any sort of tension. Two friends talking and enjoying the company with boundaries of decency—perfect.

Mack awaited her visit by tidying the house. He enjoyed it because it had as its purpose pleasing someone besides himself. 

Robin would always say, “Are you sure you didn’t hire someone to come in and clean. This place is mama-clean.”

And that’s exactly what she said when Mack opened the door and she walked in.

After supper, they sat in the living room. They talked as always.

“So how is your company’s branch in Pittsburgh doing?”

“I had to fire the branch manager this time. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was long overdue.”

Mack clicked his cheek. “Hard to keep good help these days.”

“One of those things, he was a good manager for three years, and all of a sudden, who knows? I tried to get to the bottom of it and help him out.”

“You're a caring person, Robin. I’m sure you went above and beyond.”

“I did, and my boss told me not to leave Pittsburgh without a scalp.”

“How long did it take you?”

“I walked into his office at 3:35, and he was starting his car at 3:45. Sometimes it’s good to just rip off the bandaid.”

“Sometimes, that’s the best.”

“What about you, Mack? What have you been up to?”

“You know me, I got plenty to do, and when I get it all done, I start all over again. I have my little projects. I’ve been making ballpoint pins and candlesticks on my lathe. That reminds me, I made a pin for you and a set of candlesticks—walnut.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Mack smiled. It pleased him to see her so gracious for the gift he labored to produce. He thought to himself, ‘That’s the best kind of gift someone can give. Anybody can buy a pin or candlesticks, but making them is a whole other thing.’

“They’re out in the workshop. I’ll get them before you leave.”

They talked for a while. Mack turned his head and looked at the clock on the mantle. “It’s my bedtime.” He yawned.

“This is such a good evening, and I’d really like to talk,” Robins smiled

Mack couldn’t resist the smile. He nodded and pressed his lips. “Sure, I can do that. But mind you, I’m no night owl.”

Robin curled her legs up on the couch and leaned on its arm.

Mack assumed she had some things she wanted to talk to somebody detached from her social and business life. He willingly relaxed into his chair and listened. 

“I had this dream. It keeps coming back. I’m in a house with a large picture window. I look outside, and a forest full of identical trees keeps swaying back and forth. What do you think it means?”

“It’s windy?”

“So it would seem, but there’s no wind. I don’t feel the wind.”

“It’s because you’re inside.”

“Oh, that’s right, but it still has to mean something.”

“Well, I don’t know. Why does it?”

After that, she talked at length about an open jar of strawberry preserves she left in the pantry. It grew mold. “Why do they call them preserves when they don’t preserve?”

Then there was the car wash cheating her out of 45 seconds, and the attendant couldn’t refund her quarter without the permission of the owner.

Her neighbor’s dog barked all night long. She discovered in the morning that she had failed to turn off the television. Reruns of Lassie aired all night long. 

She called a maintenance company for a dripping faucet. They sent an electrician. Her light switch is repaired, but she lost two nights' sleep from a dripping faucet. She’s suing the maintenance company for the lost sleep. The company agreed not to charge her for the light switch. 

This took half an hour to unpack all the nuances and maneuvering. As did all the other events, not taking a half hour each, but just as mind-mumblingly void and superfluous.  

There had to be dozens of events, maybe thousands, of such ramblings. Combined with sleep desperation, almost leaving Mack in a comatose fetal position. During one of his slumbers, he was awakened by, “What do you think of that?” Drool slid from the side of his mouth. 

Under such circumstances, but for the memory of Robin’s dear father and old loyal friend, Sammy, he would have dashed his hand long ago into a running garbage disposal. And either called 911 or bled out—anything to relieve the torment. ‘She would ride along in the ambulance,’ he thought. ‘I know she would. There’s only one way out. It’s me or her.’

Inside, he gnashed his teeth and growled like a beast. Just before dropping off into a deep sleep, he thought, ‘I do not wish to kill her, but I do wish her dead.’

The piercing glint of the morning’s sun slivered through a crack in the kitchen window blind and cast its ray on Mack’s eyelid. He woke. In his folded hands was a note.

“I’m so glad we had that little chat last night. Dad said you would always be there for me, and he was right. I’ll be back through town in a few months. Love you, Robin.”

Mack smiled and tenderly placed the note on the stand next to his chair. ‘Things always look better in the morning. Thoughts are clear. I should have negotiated a time limit beforehand. Nevertheless, I may consider moving, and not tell anyone.’