Redemption

A very short night song.

  Redemption

  David Rowinski

  © 2013

  Inknbeans Press

  Cover by Evonne, the Art Elf

  Copyright © 2013 David Rowinski and

  Inknbeans Press

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Lyrah carefully climbed the rickety stairwell that zigzagged up the back of the building. Bare wood had weathered to pallid beige where the siding had shed its first layer of lead paint in an effort to cast off the dark, monochromatic grey latex that buried architectural detail. Reaching the third floor landing she stood beneath a solitary corkscrew bulb dangling from an arch of rusting conduit. Moths fluttered spastically in a light too dim to cast shadow. She looked at the widows, a mix of undulating old glass and blandly flat replacement panes. Behind them, heavy drapes blocked the passage of light imparting an air of abandonment.

  Lyrah raised a thin arm, her pale knuckles about to knock on the door when it swung open. Light broke in a flood, temporarily drowning her as the strings of an Arabic song snaked out from hissing static to ensnare her. As her eyes adjusted, she saw Caleb’s bare feet on the floral patterned linoleum. He wore faded black jeans and an oversized, black T-shirt.

  “Hurry up, you’re letting in bugs,” he said, but when she did not move he added with affected politeness, “Please, do come in.”

  As Lyrah entered the kitchen he closed the door and wrapped an arm around her narrow waist. She allowed herself to be gently turned into him. His lips brushed hers in a disconcertingly tentative kiss. Wary, she extracted herself from his embrace.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  Lyrah responded with a noncommittal, “Eh. And you?”

  “Fine,” Caleb answered with clipped precision.

  As his clothes betrayed no intention of going out for the evening she wondered why he had called. Prepared to wait him out, she took a seat at the kitchen table centered beneath a heavy industrial light fixture he had spoken of replacing. Uneasy, she remained silent watching as Caleb walked over to the Formica countertop he had refinished to resemble granite. Caleb lowered the volume of the short wave radio. The large console set looked out of place amidst the modern chrome appliances polished to gleam coolly. Pots and pans hung from a rack bolted into the painted tin ceiling. Unmarred by flame, the copper bottoms threw phantoms of light against the walls.

  Caleb turned. Lyrah retreated by sifting through the mail strewn across the table. She picked up a catalogue of fine menswear and began leafing through the glossy pages.

  “You do know this can be done on-line.”

  “Perhaps,” he said as he came up behind her, “but I still prefer the tactile.”

  Slipping his long fingers beneath her brown hair, Caleb found her shoulders. As he began kneading, she felt her breath drawn into his palms. Her back arched, feline like, as she rested her cheek on the back of his right hand.

  Caleb jerked away as though shocked. Startled, Lyrah flinched.

  Growing impatient she wanted to draw him out, lightly saying, “There is no way I am going to be seen with you dressed like that.”

  Caleb glanced down and acknowledged his attire with a tight grin. He took a seat opposite her and then, as if pulling off a bandage, blurted out, “I’m going to do it.”

  She dropped the catalogue and asked, “Do what?”

  “Gene therapy,” he muttered into the pile of bills he began shuffling into a neat stack.

  Lyrah released a harsh chuckle that Caleb let fall.

  “You’re serious?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I‘m tired,” Caleb responded.

  The exhaustion conveyed in his tone fell heavily upon her. She squirmed out from under its pressure, knocking over her chair as she abruptly stood.

  “Well, I hope it all works out for you.”

  “Wait,” Caleb ordered as his hand shot forth to tightly grasp her wrist as if it were a lifeline.

  She snapped her wrist to shake him off.

  He softened his voice, “Please.”

  “What do you expect of me?” Lyrah asked as she righted the chair and sat back down,

  Lyrah stared as if taunting him. From the evening he had first introduced himself at Club Insomnia, he had never avoided her gaze. Now, his eyes shifted from her throat to her forehead to her mouth. Since the night she had fallen because of his sin of omission, she had been repressing an awareness that differences between them went beyond an inordinate age disparity. In spreading silence, denial became an untenable position. Caleb was born of privilege that she did not share. He needed to comprehend this.

  “I don’t have health insurance,” she said.

  Noticing the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye, Lyrah realized she has misread his intentions.

  Caught out, Caleb tried to cover, “That’s bullshit. There are options. The Church offers…”

  “What?” she cut him off, “Charity? The Church,” she scoffed, her voice rising on a swell anger, “I refuse to debase myself by seeking assistance from an institution I have no belief in. And for what? The only thing the Church ultimately promises I already possess. You infected me with it.”

  “It is not the same,” Caleb protested like a teacher correcting a student.

  Ignoring the condescension in his voice, she asked, ”Who are you trying to convince?”

  As she awaited an answer she saw, in his clean shaven face, vestiges of a child he had once described to her.

  “In spite of everything, you’re still that altar boy,” she said.

  Caleb did not deny this and a surge of sympathy threw Lyrah off balance. She was discomfited by this, fearing it indicative of weakness she could no longer allow.

  “You do realize that The Church has drastically changed since you last served Mass,” she asked needing to undermine his faith, “The Latin has been replaced diminishing the mystery. You might not like what remains behind the stained glass. It’s become…”she paused searching for the perfect word.

  “Common?” Caleb offered with self-deprecation.

  “Accessible,” Lyrah said.

  When Caleb finally took on her eyes, Lyrah snapped sharply, “Again with an air of superiority. I hate that. It’s as if you think you have insight beyond my comprehension.”

  “I’ve never thought that,” Caleb said, again initiating contact by placing his hand over hers, “but I have seen…”

  “More than I?”” she asked pulling her hand out and dropping it into her lap, “So what? Age won’t grant wisdom when you continue to interpret experiences through the same flawed prism. You’re like an insipid pop song. The passing years do not make it more palatable.”

  Silently Caleb withdrew, pushing himself away from the table and leaving the kitchen for the living room. Dropping deep into the large couch, he found the remote buried between the cushions. Turning on the television, he pressed mute and immersed himself in the flash of images.

  Lyrah followed but stopped in the doorway eclipsing the fluorescent glare, “Caleb?”

  “What now?” he asked without moving.

  “I can accept that you did not consider how limited my options might be,” she began, “But it never occurred to you that I might not want to, did it? I cannot forgive that. I am not ashamed of what I have become, what we are.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Then why?” she pleaded, “You can’t really believe in salvation.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “Then why take the risk?
” she asked wondering but refusing to ask where she would be left were he to undergo treatment.

  Caleb sat up making room for her.

  “I’ve never adjusted to certain losses,” he said.

  Drawn towards him, Lyrah approached but took a seat in the rocking chair opposite the couch. She watched knowing he was struggling to explain himself both realizing it would not end well.

  “In the previous life, I painted,” he told her, “Light and water. The way the Nile lapped up the afternoon sun’s rays. Morning light reflected off the Danube onto the Szechenyi Bridge. Raindrops exploding like quicksilver. I did a series on the Charles River in each season. I captured the soft summer haze become autumn’s burning gold only to give way to the crisp clarity of winter. I miss the subtle shifts of color that only sunlight can elicit, how it redefines space. The artificial light illuminating our world is so constant. We are cursed by monotony. Neon colors are no substitute. I’m sick of it.”

  Lyrah said nothing. She could no longer deny the resentment that had swelled as she listened. It pressed up from her stomach against her lungs. Her breathing grew quick and shallow. Irritated by the incessant flicker of the television, she blinked back tears.

  “I’m hungry,” she almost choked.

  With nothing to offer, Caleb closed his eyes listening to her depart. When he heard the click of the back door close behind her, he turned off the television. The shortwave broadcast from Cairo had faded; the music lost deep in the pervasive crackle of static.

  Once outside, Lyrah took the steps three to a stride. Leaving the stairwell she rounded the building. Her black, leather boots clicked on the white, concrete sidewalk. She felt the bass thump from a distant car that called to mind the club scene she had expected to be joining with Caleb. She stopped. Across the street a large church loomed behind a row of neatly trimmed hemlock. Moonlight washed clean silver down the broken slate, caught by a thick copper gutter. The stone below was set in shadow. The long narrow windows were recessed into darkness. Lyrah pulled her eyes away from the wooden doors and up the bell tower which tapered to a cross that pierced the night sky. She realized that Caleb essentially slept in its shade and questioned whether this left him susceptible to guilt for what he had brought upon her. She quickly dismissed the thought, accepting enough responsibility to keep at bay the regret that haunted the recesses of her thoughts. She began walking, passed from the light of one streetlamp to the next.

  The street ended in a cul-de-sac from which a trail carved a narrow aisle between oak and ash. Lyrah entered the woods looking down the dim corridor that led home. Hunger continued to course through her. Inevitably, it would compel her to act but for the moment she toyed with it as if she were pressing her tongue against a loose tooth. She allowed it time to spread, displacing the anger, hurt, and fear that had seized her as she left Caleb’s apartment. Suddenly, she felt the isolation into which she had been released. Having to bear it alone, she was stricken by the implications of her condition

  Everything was coming apart.

  Lyrah looked up through the leaves. The few stars brilliant enough to puncture the veil of moonlight proffered a stability she knew to be illusory. The Universe was expanding at an accelerating rate, filling a void as it devoured itself.

  “Ragnorak.”

  The word echoed out of her childhood.

  She was a young girl sitting at the window watching the soft fall of snow.

  “What’s that, Nana?” she asked. Her words struck glass and delicate fronds of frost blossomed.

  “The end of the world,” her grandmother stated, “Eternal winter.”

  Observing a pristine purity enshrouding the once dismal grey landscape, Lyrah remarked, “It will be quite beautiful.”

  Her grandmother’s eyes narrowed then, shaking her head, she silently left the room.

  Lyrah resisted the temptation to look back. She pondered the time and distance until the last star that would burn itself out might finally ignite. She had grown up contemplating the frigid demise of existence, rendering her incapable of accepting redemption and salvation. She no longer recoiled from the notion but gave herself up to it, believing in the possibility of serenity when the hunger she had to accept, that would perpetually consume her, might eventually be extinguished.

  Also by David Rowinski,

  Illustrated by Dea Lenihan

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