Kindred Spirits

Kindred Spirits

  by

  Barry Rachin

  * * * * *

  Published by:

  Kindred Spirits

  Copyright © 2014 by Barry Rachin

  This short story represents a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * * * *

  Kindred Spirits

  Harry Jankowski stood under a flowering dogwood tree in the Brandenburg Arboretum. Directly above his head, a raucous collection of jays was feasting on clumps of wine-colored berries scattered among porcelain petals. Thirty feet away in the trellised rose garden, a middle-aged woman sat on the same bench he had recently abandoned, a familiar, moss green volume with a cracked spine resting on her lap. Bent over slightly at the waist, her lips fluttered in silent accompaniment to the printed text. From his vantage point, the slim, dark-haired woman looked reasonably attractive, but as he drew closer, Harry realized his favorable impression had been premature. She wasn't ugly per se. Rather, it was as though, early on, God had become distracted and wandered away from the wet canvas before completing a meager handful of details. The woman's features were drab, colorless. The unassuming face, an aesthetic work in progress, exuded a disconcerting blankness.

  "Is this book yours?" she asked.

  Harry had driven halfway home before realizing the tattered anthology of Persian verse, was missing. He stepped closer. "It's a library book," he noted apologetically. "I must have gotten distracted and…”

  "Would you mind terribly if I read through to the poem’s end."

  "No, of course not." He sat down beside her. "Which verse were you reading?"

  "The Rumi." She lowered her head again. Leaning closer, Harry could just barely make out the final stanza.

  The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you;

  Don't go back to sleep.

  You must ask for what you really want;

  Don't go back to sleep.

  People are going back and forth

  Across the doorsill where the two worlds touch.

  The door is round and open.

  Don't go back to sleep.

  The woman returned the book. "What do you think it means?"

  Harry ran an index finger thoughtfully over the faded buckram cloth. "Sleep would seem a metaphor for most people's natural state. Even wide awake, we often miss the ‘secrets’ Rumi hints at." The intoxicating scent of roses coupled with the woman's perplexing features catapulted the normally reticent man in an uncharacteristically chatty mood. "So few people take an active interest in poetry these days,” Harry added. "Here, see for yourself." He opened the slim volume and pointed with a taut index finger at the yellowed slip of paper pasted on the inside of the front cover where, at cockeyed angles, a smattering of dates was stamped in black ink.

  Prior to Harry checking the book out, the anthology hadn't seen the light of day in six years. Before to that, it languished in the musty stacks another four. “Over the last forty years," Harry noted with morbid humor, “only twelve readers showed an interest."

  The woman studied at her fingers, which were slender with pale pink, lacquered nails. "Do you come here often?

  "Mostly weekends, when the weather’s decent."

  "I'm Dora." She extended a hand. He pressed her fingers gently.

  "Harry Jankowski."

  The woman rose and, began moving at a leisurely gait down the flagstone walkway past a profusion of pink blossoms that reeked sweetly like incense. Before she had proceeded very far, Dora abruptly returned. "Just for the record, I'm partial to the traditional poets - writers such as Frost, Ferlinghetti, e e cummings, Robert Lowell, Ann Sexton and John Berryman."

  "Berryman's Dream Songs are rather challenging," Harry noted.

  "Yes, I know," Dora agreed. "Much of his later writing is beyond my limited abilities."

  Harry missed Dora’s final observation. Rather, he was concerned by the disconcerting fact that the last three writers on Dora's list of personal favorites had met with tragic ends. "Sylvia Plath, the author of the Bell Jar, wrote some interesting free verse."

  “I was never a great fan." Dora shook her head vigorously from side to side. “Plath glorified mental illness. Her poetry was a snake pit of nuttiness.”

  The vigorous rebuttal set his mind at ease. “Yes, I totally agree!”

  On the ride home, Harry glanced at the frayed anthology resting on the passenger seat and grinned foolishly. A senior moment - that's how he understood the miscue when he realized the book was missing. A dumb, addled-brained bit of mental torpor guaranteed to waste gas and time.

  Not that Harry had any special place to go most Saturday afternoons.

  Since his wife left, his social calendar had atrophied, shriveled away to nothing. Monday through Friday he managed a temporary employment agency; weekends mostly found him treading water, waiting for the workweek to resume.

  It was almost two in the afternoon when Harry pulled into the driveway. He tossed a meager load of laundry in the washer - mostly dress shirts he needed later in the week. Then he swept the kitchen floor, filled the bathtub and even threw some of his ex-wife's lavender-chamomile bubble bath in the steamy water. He didn't usually indulge in such questionable extravagance, but the chance meeting with the woman with the unremarkable, slapdash face had propelled him in a weird frame of mind.

  Twenty minutes later when the buzzer in the basement sounded, he switched the damp clothes over to the dryer, went back up stairs and gingerly climbed into the tub. Only now did Harry grasp why he left the arboretum without the book. Since early spring, when the weather finally became warm enough to visit the park with any regularity, he had begun studying the deciduous trees. There were numerous maples - the Norway, silver, sugar, mountain and diminutive box elder, as well as the striped or moosewood varieties – he was attempting to identify. Maples shared certain unique characteristics - sweetish watery sap and long leafstalks. Almost all had palmately veined, fan-lobed leaves. Harry absorbed all this from the plaques that dotted the landscape.

  Even with trees as common as birch, things got dicey. Harry could easily identify the ever-present American or paper birch. But then there were the black, gray and yellow birches and, of course, the American hornbean, also known as musclewood, ironwood or blue beech. They all fell under the same generic species, betulaceae, sharing simple, alternate, stipulate leaves, which were generally thin and often doubly serrate with fruity catkins and a one-seeded nutlet. He had gone off on a walking tour to take one last look at the trees before heading home and forgotten the book.

  What were the odds of meeting a fellow poetry enthusiast in the Brandenburg Arboretum on a late summer afternoon? With his big toe, Harry flicked the hot water on and waited as the soothing warmth crawled from the front of the tub to the rear. Sliding down in the sudsy water, the perfumed bubbles tickled his ears.

  *****

  During their marriage, on the rare occasion when his ex-wife, Nadine, reach for reading material, she favored the National Inquirer or Reader’s Digest. The busty blonde Harry had fallen hard for some twenty-five years earlier was a dolt, the woman's fleshy loveliness little more than a paper-thin mask. Three years earlier in the throes of a hormonally-induced midlife crisis, Nadine ran off and left him.

  The summer his wife flew the coop, the couple had signed up for a tour of the Holy Land through a local church group. Rather than forfeit the deposit and air fare, Harry went alone. He visited Jerusalem then toured the Upper Galilee before heading down through the Negev Desert into the southern Sinai to the Monastery of Saint Catherine. Saint Catherine, the tour gui
de explained, lived in Alexandria during the persecution of the Christians under the reign of Maximus. When she converted to Christianity, the Romans tortured and finally killed her in 307 A.D., cutting off her head as a gruesome admonition to her Christian zealots.

  The Sinai was barren, a dried-up, godforsaken wilderness infested with poisonous snakes and wild camels. A short distance from the monastery stood a huge outcropping of reddish rocks, what was thought to be the original site where Moses witnessed the burning bush. The reddish-brown hills strewn with huge boulders, the thousand year-old, stucco monastery was thrown together from brick, mortar and whatever raw materials lay readily at hand.

  Initially, Harry found the landscape otherworldly, apocalyptic, hideous, an affront to everything civilized. But when his eye was drawn back for a second look, an intrinsic harmony emerged from the desolation. He noticed a small cluster of fir trees off to the right of the main gate and how the stunted mountains directly behind the monastery heaved up toward an unbounded sky.

  Harry returned home chastened. The barren, blistering wilderness of the southern Sinai mirrored his inner spiritual wretchedness. Some nights he sat in his condo contemplating the desert’s message. At the Monastery of Saint Catherine Harry sensed that he was not just growing older. Men in their late twenties grow older, more mature and settled. In their thirties and forties their hair fell out or went gray; they developed a glut of yuppie ailments - tennis elbow, carpal tunnel syndrome, trick knees, spinal subluxations, acid reflux and hemorrhoids. No, that wasn't it either. Harry wasn't easing into middle age - he already plateaued a decade earlier. Now he was just plain growing old. It's why he made weekly pilgrimages to the secular shrine that was the Brandenburg Arboretum, where he meandered among the greenery like some fetishistic obsessive-compulsive, reading the plaques, memorizing the genus, species and identifying characteristics of the various trees and shrubs. While other men in similar quandaries downloaded soft porn from the internet, Harry Jankowski staked his purse on botany.

  This middle-aged poetry lover with the unfinished face - would she return or was Dora’s appearance in the park a fleeting aberration? Five minutes after meeting, Harry no longer noticed the drab exterior.

  No, that wasn't terribly accurate.

  It was more like viewing sepia tones in an old-fashioned print. The murky, monochromatic reddish brown shadings exuded a distinctive warmth seldom attained from modern, digital photography. Once past the initial shock, Dora wasn't terribly unattractive. Unlike Nadine’s flamboyant charms, Dora’s rudimentary features, in their ragged simplicity, hid nothing.

  * * * * *

  The previous December at three a.m. with the tail end of an icy blizzard raging in the streets, Nadine called. Groping for the receiver, Harry knocked the bedside lamp over. With his left ear epoxied to the receiver, he recognized the familiar, nasally voice.

  The woman was babbling a clutter of barely coherent sentence fragments. “Met this guy at a club… a musician. We went out a few times… got intimate. " Nadine’s voice cracked. “Earlier tonight he mentions that he’s got two lovely daughters and another bun in the oven.” “I’m crushed… devastated. Could you come over for a while, just until I get a handle on my freakin’ nerves?”

  With a grinding of gears and metallic scraping noise, a snowplow turned the corner and lumbered down the street. Harry, who could set his watch by his ex-wife’s failed romances, ran a hand through his thinning hair; he retrieved the overturned lamp. His face went through a series of contortions. "At this hour of the night? No, definitely not!" He hung up the phone.

  Harry knew the woman was wacky when he married her. His crime was thinking he could make Nadine over in his own image. He wandered to the window. The storm was relenting, the sticky, wind-driven snow that battered the East Side of Providence since early evening replaced by a flurry of windblown powder. In the front yard, a thick sheet of icicles bowed a birch tree almost to the ground. The grimy snow was piled four feet on the impassable sidewalks from the last storm. Harry rubbed his finger on the frost-covered window. From the basement, the boiler purred softly sending a wave of hot water gurgling through the pipes. The sheer curtains began to sway listlessly with the rising heat.

  Brinnnng! Brinnnng! The phone rang shrilly.

  Was there anyone else to comfort her? Harry shook his head emphatically and reached for the receiver. “Yes, Nadine. I’ll come.” Dressing silently, he added a thermal undershirt and a pair of insulated socks before easing his rubber galoshes over a pair of Sperry Top-Sider boat shoes and stumbled out the door.

  Normally a 15-minute drive, it took three quarters of an hour to crawl from Randall Street to the far end of Douglas. Harry passed the Charlesgate Nursing Home on North Main Street, inching along the ice-packed road at five miles an hour. A parking ban was in effect. Except for the heavy plows and sand trucks, his was the only car on the road. He felt like a total idiot.

  Pulling up in front of Nadine’s apartment, Harry stumbled through the slush to the front door. With an air of slighted pride, Nadine showed him into the living room. She was heavier than he remembered. A decade earlier, her sagging jowls had been 'remodeled' by a plastic surgeon, the double chin reduced by one. Still, like a well-kept car hitting a hundred thousand miles, the rust and rot of an unhappy life had taken its toll. It wasn't so much that Nadine had aged. Whether it was a receding hairline or spidery pattern of varicose veins, they had all grown noticeably older. Cloistered away in his one-bedroom efficiency apartment, Harry was approaching forty-five. His hair, what little was left of it, was silvery gray and, like the Brazilian rain forest, losing ground each year.

  "When I told the bastard I didn’t date married men.” Nadine offered Harry a drink but he declined, “and he laughed… made a joke of it.”

  “They stunk,” she added as an afterthought. “The crummy lot of them!"

  Harry was sprawled in a stuffed chair with his overcoat and rubbers still on. "I don't follow you."

  " The musicians he played with," Nadine clarified. "They couldn't keep a goddamn beat."

  "You never mentioned what instrument he played."

  "What the hell's that got to do with anything?"

  Harry cracked his knuckles. "Just making small talk."

  "Drums. He played drums. I could probably do a better job."

  Harry leaned forward and squinted. Even with bifocals, his vision was poor. The problem was depth perception, the right eye being hopelessly nearsighted while the left only focused on objects at a healthy distance. For that reason, he frequently failed to see what was right under his nose. Like the fact that Nadine was wearing a see-through negligee, the top fashioned from a sheer, transparent fabric that left nothing to the imagination. Only now did he actually see Nadine's sagging breasts - more tubular than round - rocking crazily like a pair of derailed, out-of-control carnival rides.

  Her nakedness aroused Harry; it made him horny - not the normal, end-of the-week horny but a vulgar offshoot, the product of sleep deprivation and chilled feet. "You should never have gone to bed with him." Harry blurted in a dispirited tone. "You should have sensed something wasn't right."

  Nadine began to sob uncontrollably. "How could I know such a thing?"

  "ESP, female intuition … a burst of cosmic insight." Harry was numb with exhaustion. Pushed beyond a certain fixed point, he became nasty. "You never come up for air… never stop yapping long enough to hear the hidden message in the mindless prattle."

  Nadine dabbed her nose with soggy Kleenex. "And I invited you over for moral support?"

  "You shouldn't have slept with him," Harry repeated and lowered his eyes. There was a dark water stain where the ice and snow had melted onto the Persian Carpet. He spent five hundred dollars on the rug the year they were married. In his exhaustion, his mind was running amok. He pictured a cluster of young Arabic women, dressed in chadors with thick, black veils hiding their faces, sitting in a row weaving his Persian carpet – an intricate tape
stry of designs and colors that he was ruining with mud and chalk-colored road salt. Worse yet, he didn't care. Not about the carpet or Nadine's endless series of mindless misadventures. "If I go home, are you going to kill yourself?"

  She blew her nose and sat up straight. "I'll go in the kitchen, fix a TV dinner and cup of chai."

  Harry gave her a hug and didn't release his grip for a full minute. "I'm going home now."

  "That was a horrible thing you said… about not coming up for air.” Nadine dried the remnant of the tears with the back of her wrist. “It's the most awful thing anyone's ever said to me in my whole life."

  "No, it isn't," Harry replied. "The most awful thing was the two-timing louse not bothering to tell you he was married." He pushed the door open and was met by a blast of sub-zero, arctic air. "Take care, Nadine."

  * * * * *

  The following Saturday, Harry returned to the arboretum. The weather was humid but not oppressively so for mid-July. Twenty minutes after settling in Dora arrived. She wore a blue chintz dress with a matching scarf tied up in her hair. The woman was clutching a small paperback. "Are you familiar with the poet, Robert Hayden?" Harry shook his head. She sat down on the bench next to him, opened the book to a page that had been flagged with a slip of paper.

  Sundays too my father got up early

  And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,…

  The poem was a dazzling tour de force describing a blue-collar laborer who rose early every Sunday throughout the frigid winter to light a cast-iron stove and shine his son's shoes before traipsing off to church. It was a brief piece– three stanzas, a total of fourteen meager lines – resembling an epic novel in that the reader could visualize the man's devotion, his humble dignity. When Harry finally lay the book aside, Dora asked, "Who is Robert Hayden?"

  "I told you I'm not familiar with his poetry."

  "Yes, but take a guess," the woman pressed, "based on this short poem."