A Dirge for the Temporal (21 page)

  The boat pushed out immediately, the moon-drenched, uneasy waters spreading out before it. Katrina averted her eyes from that eerie future in favor of the doings at the gates. Men showed up to hoist the burlap
sacks onto their shoulders and tote them away into the city, while the sta
tionary figures never took their eyes off the boat. She thought she knew which one was her mother, but she also knew it didn’t matter, not anymore. A loud creaking noise made its way to her ears, prompting her to look above their heads, where the gates were just beginning to come down. She could tell by the body language of the silhouettes that their attention had been drawn by the descending teeth as well. In a surge of emotion too powerful to withstand, Katrina suddenly rushed forward, scrambled up on the stern’s bulwark and leapt out over the silvery-dark water. She hung there for a moment in emptiness, supported only by the ribbons of the moon, then liquid ice shattered around her, inside her, through her head. Seconds to absorb the shock, to choose between the alluring embrace of darkness and the moonlight teasing the waves above her. Then she broke through the surface, taking in air and calling to her mother across the night.

  She thought she heard her mother shout in return, but it might have been the ice in her ears as she swam towards the dock. She fought the knife of cold by concentrating on her mother’s favorite words to her, words that had taught her to read, to solve, to swim, at so small an age.
You have a special gift and that gift is fortitude. They said you wouldn’t survive when you were born, and we listened to them. But not you, Katrina. You wouldn’t listen
. She concentrated on those words and they made every difference as she climbed up onto the pier, screaming at the jaws that were now halfway through their slow, deliberate journey towards mocking her with their cage-like grin.

  Her mother’s face grew before her, the fear, the confusion, the joy writing the beginning of a tale that would reveal much solitude and friendlessness as it unfolded.

  For while the boat, once upon its course, could not come back for its
lost passenger, there was a fifteenth burlap sack whose contents must simply melt away when dumped at the doorstep of their rightful recipient.

~

  Katrina woke into a sweat. How had she fallen asleep? Was it
the
night? Perhaps she had missed it, perhaps there lay a puddle of ice at her doorstep. Dare she look? Dare she know?

  But soon the rattling of the window and the odor of the coals, a merest
splash of cognac and the ticking of the wooden clock on the wall…these things lulled her back to sleep. It was a fitful sleep, however, and once, when the hour was still small, she rose and went to the window and looked out from beneath half-closed lids. The wind was wild, the snow like needles disintegrating against the pane. The lamp on its post swung crazily. And yet, through it all, there was a kind of deep silence…perhaps she slept after all. Who could know?

  The morning came with the same rattling silence. She went to the window and saw that a few people were out in the swirl, doing what it was people found necessary to do in such conditions. One was a girl, but she wasn’t Tasha. No, Tasha’s mother would have her inside today. Today there would be no practice, no wandering about outside, alone. Today she would be held and sung to, and told what a special gift she had. But Tasha, the daughter, would know.

  Katrina went out to get the bottle of milk left at her doorstep, and her neighbor, the one who had given her the cognac, walked up tipping and nearly losing his hat. He was an older man, striking she thought, his hair like the snow, his skin like the weather, his eyes like the sea. Other than Peter, he was the only male within a certain radius of her home. She invited him in and neither of them spoke of today being the day, though they both knew. She suspected he knew everything. He asked if she had enjoyed the cognac and she said very much. Sleeping had been easier. He told her that if she ever needed another bottle, come to him. If she should need anything, come to him. She thought it both gracious and unusual of him. But then men seemed to be that way.

  An hour before dinnertime Peter came by. His mom was feeling better
, he said. Their prayers maybe had helped. Maybe, Katrina said. He asked if she wanted to come to his home for dinner. No, but thank you, she said. Maybe some other time. As he walked away, she noticed how the wind snatched at his hair, how the girls laughed and pointed, how he moved through their midst proudly, strangely, handsomely.

  She dined on soup, not so hot that it burned her lips, for her lips mustn’t be burnt, not tonight. Dark came slowly, the wind picked up again, the snow fell in a blinding white torrent until the clouds had spent themselves, then there was only the night. She went up to her bedroom to smooth out an impression on the blanket, burn a scented candle, retrieve a spot of lint from the corner, and eventually to stare at the words on a page that never turned as the wooden clock ticked. At that nameless hour, the city bell rang seven distinct times. Katrina rushed to the window. She thought she recognized Tasha, was sure of it for a moment as the child, who was led along by a woman in a cloak, looked up in her direction. But then it might as easily have been another little girl, distorted in the breath that rose in the wake of the snowfall. It might as easily have been Katrina, looking for reason.

  Beyond the fading last note of the bell, she could do naught but tremble
. Even after the last of the cognac was consumed in one great swallow, even when her hands hovered over the fire, drawing from its calm power…even then, she could do naught but tremble. When the knock finally came at her door, she thought she would simply seize up and die, as perhaps she should have done long ago.

  The door opened to a freshly deposited pile of snow. The man and his
burlap sack were gone, but the sack's contents remained. The snow hadn't
melted away; it hadn't been spent on past transgressions; it stirred in lamplight, elegantly shapeless. As she sat before the mound, placing her hands gently over its surface, she happened to glance down the block at a woman on her porch doing the same. Katrina raised a hand to her, and the woman reciprocated. The night presented no disturbance otherwise; it was safely in the hands of the women, who were its sculptors.

  Beneath Katrina’s hands the mound of snow took shape. A body, at first lumpy and amorphous, began to reveal itself beneath her artistry. The thing itself assisted with the edges and the curves, the nuances and suggestions, the wholeness of the emerging being that would be partner to her. As it became a man, that rarest occasion, as it became beautiful,
even rarer, she took his hand in hers and led him into her abode and up the stairs into the room where the fire seemed to have been burning forever. His eyes and his body were ethereal, yet physical to her every want and desire. And into the furthest morning did she satisfy herself upon him, exploring as she had never explored, experiencing such pleasures as she had never experienced. Into the furthest morning, and until the fragrances
of her body filled the room and the light dimmed to an elongated wink.

  When she woke the bed was saturated with water. Other than that, there was no sign of her lover. Snow fell ever so lightly outside her window and the seeds of the season had been planted. She sat by her fire, happier than she could remember, touching her belly, thinking of the voices of children, a music that made life livable. Inevitably, her thoughts drifted to Tasha, which caused her happiness to dissolve into the wan hues of the indecisive sky.

~

  She did not want to go, yet she must know. Indeed, wouldn’t sleep without knowing. Having no idea where Tasha lived, she went to Peter’s house. Peter took her upstairs to visit with his mom for awhile. Obviously pleased to see Katrina, Peter's mom apologized for having neglected to introduce herself on their last visit.
“Anna,” she said, patting the bed beside her. As Katrina sat, Anna did not ask specifically how her night had gone, but she alluded, commenting on the glow, the freshness about her.

  Katrina was not surprised to know that these signals seeped through her pensiveness. However, she could never let herself fully enjoy her situation without knowing about Tasha. She told Anna her fear, to which Peter's mom replied, “Hush now. Don’t trouble yourself about things over which you have no control.”

  “Our lot is permanent,” Katrina murmured.

  “That is so.”

  “I’d like to know, nonetheless.”

  With a sidelong glance at Peter, Anna started to tell her directions, then scolded herself for her motherliness. “The boy’s going to find out for himself soon enough. Peter, you take her there. And son…remember, we’ve talked about these things.”

  Kissing Anna’s hand, Katrina whispered to her, “Have you? Really talked? My mother and I never did. Not about these things.”

  Anna returned the kiss and told her not to worry. Her days of solitude were over.

  Peter led her downstairs, past the playroom and its objects, out into the gently falling snow. They walked along the street, ignoring the stares from windows, the occasional giggle. When Katrina asked Peter how he was doing, he shrugged. Feigned or real, his disinterest made her want to shake him. Tasha’s was the last door on the block. Holding her breath, Katrina raised the knocker, let it fall. Once. She looked at Peter, and Peter looked away. Yes, his disinterest was certainly feigned, and poorly at that.

  The door opened and a woman stood there, face revealing nothing, even when her eyes shifted to Peter. Katrina discovered that she hadn’t taken the time to formulate the question in her mind. It had no shape, no sprout from which to grow. It was like the pile of snow that had appeared before her door.

  “I’m…I’m wondering if…”

  “Is Tasha here?” Peter said bluntly.

  The woman let her eyes rest on him. A second passed, then another, and then her lips lifted slightly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

  Katrina felt her breath, her heartbeat return. Beside her, Peter could pretend no more. He nearly leapt out of himself when Tasha’s face appeared, smiling, alive, unselected.

~

  In the coming weeks and months, Katrina stayed in touch with Peter, his mother, and Tasha, all of whom could be found on any given after
noon, after school and lessons, under the same roof. They all enjoyed watching Katrina grow towards motherhood, but particularly Tasha, who had a world of questions for her. Katrina answered them the best she could, but regularly reminded Tasha that she was new at this herself.

  One day in the latter part of her term, Tasha surprised Katrina with an invitation from Tasha's mom.

  Something about that afternoon, about the sun melting away in a golden splendor to rival the cognac which her neighbor hadn't let her beg off him since the day she came down with child, something about the reception she got from Tasha's mother, with whom she had never really discussed anything...it would stay with her long after.

  Tasha's mom served hot buttered vegetables with a smile that struck Katrina as unlike her, though how could she know? They ate in relative silence, but when the meal was done, Tasha’s mom glanced over at her daughter, letting out a sigh.

  “I know,” she said, fixing her gaze on Katrina, “that you know what I went through that night. I’m grateful that you have been able to show Tasha what the other end of it is like. I’ve had a difficult time. I was certain I had lost her.”

  Katrina left there thinking about her own mom, about the lack of communication, about the isolation imposed upon a mother because of her daughter’s fortitude. She thought about such things and she thought about her own responsibility. As a daughter and as a mother.

  That day came with gifts from those close to her—most importantly,
their encouragement. The city had people available, but Katrina chose her own midwife. Peter’s mom, now fully recovered, happened to be available
, though it wasn’t her first calling. Together they managed through it, through the toil of it, praying a little, cursing a little, finally opening their eyes and expressions in wonder as the baby came into the world.

  At first Katrina didn’t know how to react. The implications were such
that she didn’t even know where to begin. But gradually that evaporated
.
From next door and a tipped hat came help, how to deal with these rascals,
what to feed them and what stories to tell. Rare as they were, there was an answer for them, and he’d help her along, whenever she needed it. Other neighbors, of course, shunned her. But Katrina was no stranger to that sort of thing. At least now she had her own child to keep her company.

rhyme or reason, Dear God

I
sit here and wonder why I sit here and Satan howls outside.

   
I’ve nothing but my battered will

    An armrest at the windowsill

    Another day

    To waste away

    The headstone shapes on yonder hill

  Dear God, where are you? The day has grown cold, the sky wondrously
dark. The wind has lifted to an infernal, incessant howling. I want to be away from this house
on the rocks by the sea, to swallow back the words that pour out of me.

  For it is only a pen, and a vision. Dear God.

    Words.