Authors: Laura Pedersen
Rosamond is overwhelmed by the natural beauty surrounding her. “It is just like a dream!”
“Yes, if you ever do run into God, please tell him that I’m a huge fan of His work.”
“Oh, Hayden!” Rosamond stretches her arms out toward the sea and sky. “So, is this the alkahest?”
Hayden laughs. “Good heavens no. When I was a boy that’s what Dad said when he nipped out to the barn after dinner for his whiskey. Me mum was a Presbyterian and wouldn’t allow it in the house. So when I used to meet up with the Idleonians for a round o’ drink I’d joke with Mary that we were going to search for the alkahest. And then I started sayin’ it to Joey when we’d go for ice cream too close to suppertime. Only one day he looked it up and thought I was seeking a cure for The Cancer. Of course I’ve told him there isn’t one, that I’m just tryin’ to die with as little mess as possible, but he keeps reading books about wizards and finding alchemists on the Internet and is convinced there’s a magical remedy out there someplace. You know how kids are. He believes the alkahest stops cancer the way kryptonite stops Superman.”
“I see,” says Rosamond. “Sounds as if he’s revived an old religion.”
“Well, I hope it’s a tax-free one,” says Hayden. After a recent visit to the accountant he’d been appalled by how much estate tax Diana and Linda were going to have to pay when they inherited his savings—money that he’d already paid taxes on.
As they stroll back toward their rooms a black cat leaps onto their path from out of a nearby jacaranda tree and then disappears into the dense shrubbery. Rosamond is startled by the sudden streak of movement, jumps aside, and then pauses to catch her breath. But Hayden just chuckles. “Now I bet you’re going to tell me that a black cat means bad luck.”
“Of course not. That’s just superstition.” She relaxes and smiles. “It startled me, that’s all.”
“Isn’t it funny the way we refer to other people’s beliefs as superstition but our own we call religion,” he says slyly.
“Oh, Hayden, next you’ll be trying to find a voodoo priestess to argue with.”
Between the doors to their two rooms is a bush of fragrant white oleander with swirling green leaves, gorgeous to look at, but as the bellhop was careful to warn them, poisonous to eat. Rosamond goes inside and closes the door so that she can change for evening.
The open-air restaurant overlooks the sea and when Rosamond stares out at the wide expanse of sky it brings to mind the blue of the Madonna’s robes. As the sun falls to the horizon on one side of them a pale outline of a moon can be seen emerging on the other, as if waiting in the wings. Rosamond is reminded of the words of Saint John of the Cross in his
Spiritual Canticle
, “The union between the soul and God is like starlight united with the light of the sun.”
The table is beautifully laid with elegant china, crystal water glasses, and a single flower, the reddest of roses, in the center of a smooth pink linen cloth. In the background can be heard the low popping of corks and gentle clinking of glasses.
When a tuxedoed waiter arrives with their dinners he lifts up the sterling silver covers as if performing a magic trick. The food is prettily garnished with tiny pink and red petals shaped to form a starburst.
“It’s so exquisite that I almost feel as if we should say grace,” says Rosamond.
“One grace coming up,” says Hayden, much to her surprise. Rosamond assumed that she’d be the one giving thanks while Hayden impatiently drummed his fingers and tapped his feet.
Instead, he folds his hands, bows his head, and solemnly begins, “Some hae meat, and cannot eat, And some would eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat—And sae the Lord be thankit.”
Rosamond says “amen” and then looks up approvingly and yet slightly puzzled.
“ ‘The Selkirk Grace,’ ” explains Hayden as he cuts into his filet of sole. “Robbie Burns, o’ course.”
“Of course,” she says. Hayden never ceases to surprise and amuse her.
Over dessert he produces another surprise, only this one is not nearly as amusing. Hayden quietly yet passionately unveils his plan to overdose. “I do’an’ want a death vigil—the darkened room, whispered voices, bringing everyone else’s life to a standstill, Ted droning about privatizing social security, seeing my reflection in his teeth, no, no. And then these patients who fiddle around with the morphine, they’re so weak or doped up that they can’t commit suicide even if they have a half a mind left to. . . .”
But Rosamond can’t bear to listen to such talk. Out on the dance floor several couples hold each other close and sway to a Calypso band playing “Jamaica Farewell.” The metal drums plink out the melody while an ocean breeze causes the hanging plastic lanterns to flicker and sway. Wild purple orchids cling to the nearby trees and a gentle breeze carries their pleasant aroma out toward the sea.
“Hayden, what’s it like?” Rosamond asks dreamily and gazes out to where the horizon is stained orange by the last rays of the sun.
“Same as falling asleep, only faster, like when they put you out before an operation.”
“No, not that,” she says softly. “I meant making love.”
Hayden is momentarily startled. He carefully wipes his mouth with the starched linen napkin. “Oh, you’ve never, no, well, I guess, of course not. Yes, well, it’s like, it’s like . . . come on . . .” he rises from the table, “I’ll show you—”
Rosamond accidentally knocks over the water glass in front of her. Her chest tightens as she envisions a repeat of the scene in the backyard with the ice cream soda.
“No, no,” Hayden says and places their napkins over the expanding pool as he softly chuckles. “I didn’t mean that.” He takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor where the soothing Caribbean music drifts through the balmy air and a handsome man with lustrous coffee-colored skin and swinging dreadlocks croons:
“I’m sad to say I’m going away, had to leave a little girl in Kingston town.”
“I only meant that makin’ love is like dancing,” Hayden whispers as they come together and float across the floor in the orange glow of tiki torches against a purple-black sky. “Holding each other, moving together to the music, whispering in each other’s ear, feeling your heart beat against mine, it’s an elaborate ritual that’s at once both improvised and rehearsed. Like dancing.”
“Yes,” says Rosamond uncertainly as they sway to the
plink plink
of the drums under the large and indifferent stare of a pale yellow August moon, like a sun grown old. The sky above is strung with thousands of tiny lights, and she fights an overwhelming urge to break her orbit and fling herself out among the stars.
“Rosie,” Hayden asks after a few moments, “how come whenever I pull you close you pull away?”
She giggles bashfully. “Sister Annunciata at the Academy of the Sacred Heart said that when dancing with a boy one must always leave sufficient room for the Holy Spirit.”
“Well, if angels can comfortably dance on the head of a pin then I’m sure the Holy Spirit doesn’t need a bloody wind tunnel.” Hayden gently pulls her to him and this time she doesn’t withdraw.
In fact, Rosamond tightens her grip on Hayden’s shoulder as she feels released from the small but comfortable world of her life so far and suddenly catapulted into a universe that lacks the reassurance of limits. Love had arisen unexpectedly, like hundreds of flowers simultaneously blooming on a cherry tree one day in springtime.
They move against and around the rich smooth beat of the music. For Rosamond, dancing with Hayden feels like coming in with the tide. As the song drifts to a close and they unlock their embrace Rosamond looks apprehensive. “Oh Hayden, what’s happening?”
He holds her hand as the next song begins, the carefree “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” of Bobby McFerrin. In the distance, summer lightning quivers in the moist air and the spicy, thick scent of marijuana drifts down from the bandstand. When Hayden glances up the moon appears shiny and hopeful, like a drunk’s last silver dollar. “In your dreams you were alone. But now we’re in love and so you’re no longer alone.”
“But what about God?” she asks with deep concern.
“What
about
God, Rosamond? He, She, It, wants us to love one another.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the nuns.” It’s impossible to deny that Hayden’s sense of humor is infectious. And Rosamond loves being rewarded with that warm magical chortle of his that can almost assure a person that everything is going to be made right in the end.
Indeed, Hayden does burst out laughing. “That is the funniest thing you’ve ever said to me!” He touches his lips to hers for a second, and then gazes into her intense blue eyes before kissing her again, long and languorously this time, and they hold each other close and continue to dance. Her blond hair glows with starlight and every once in a while he touches the delicate strands to make sure she’s real.
Only Rosamond can’t help but fret and wonder, is this earth-bound man with his arms around her body, sharing the very breath she draws, her great misfortune or her great redemption?
chapter fifty-six
S
lightly after midnight they stroll together, hand in hand, down the path back to Hayden’s room. The sea and the sky have turned the same shade of deep blue, as if they dissolved into each other. White lanterns glow from within the trees every few feet and the air is filled with the sweet perfume of flowers and fruit borne on the breeze. The staccato of drums fades into the background, replaced by the slap of banana leaves against the trees and the plaintive chirping of crickets. A curtain of night moths softly beat their velvety brown wings against Hayden’s screen door beneath the outside light.
Inside the room the bed has been expertly turned down in his absence and the radio softly plays in the background. Hayden’s attempts to find a jazz station with some Miles Davis and John Coltrane have turned up only All Reggae—All the Time. But after awhile the plaintive strains become almost hypnotic, molasses smooth voices against a strongly accentuated offbeat.
Hayden lights candles that cast crisscross shadows of bamboo furniture onto the walls. He pushes back the curtain and opens the sliding glass door so they can see the moonglow atop the ocean and hear the surf crash onto the beach only a few yards away. After locating the key to the mini bar he offers Rosamond a drink. When she declines he pours a scotch for himself, takes a swallow, and walks back to where she’s seated on the edge of the bed.
“I . . . I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” Hayden says with a gentle burr in his voice, and then leans over until the space between them melts into darkness and he kisses her slightly parted lips.
From the clock radio Bob Marley chants soulfully in the background. When they come apart Rosamond exhales nervously, glances toward the top of the TV and asks, “Aren’t you going to have the rest of your drink? Or maybe you’d just like to knock it over?”
“No, I’m fine now.” But it’s Hayden’s turn to appear puzzled. “Why?”
“Suddenly I’m a little thirsty.” She stands and retrieves his unfinished cocktail from across the room with the defiant grace and resolute step of the healthy. Lifting the glass to her lips, Rosamond hastily dispenses with the last half of Hayden’s scotch. The radio fills the silence,
“Won’t you help to sing these songs of freedom, because all I ever had, redemption songs.”
When Rosamond returns to where Hayden is seated on the edge of the bed she’s no longer slightly distressed but overwhelmed by her own inexperience. “Hayden, doesn’t it concern you that I’ve lived my entire adult life as a nun?” Though her uneven voice hints that in reality it’s more worrisome to her than to him.
He raises her left hand to his mouth and delicately kisses her third finger, the one where she used to wear the ring sealing her marriage to God. “To be honest, it’s . . . it’s exciting and terrifying all at the same time. I do’an’ think I ever, with a, I mean, Mary had been engaged before, and there were some others, mostly from the nurses college . . . very fast, those nurses, must be the anatomy classes.”
“I see.” Now that she’s approaching the point of no return, Diana’s tales of Hank’s clumsy inexperience reverberate in Rosamond’s head like chapel bells and she suddenly withdraws her hand. Surely she’ll disappoint him.
Hayden touches his lips to her other hand. “To tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about bein’ a dyin’ fifty-five-year-old who’s tryin’ to make this worthwhile for you. As far as finding a partner goes, you could have made a better choice . . . a healthier choice, I mean. I’m not exactly setting the heather afire anymore.”
She squeezes his hand with hers and draws it toward her heart. “When it comes to certain things, I don’t believe the choice is ours.”
“Huh? Oh, right, the God thing. I get it. Well then, God could have made a better choice for you, other than one of his defective products that’s just about to be recalled.”
“My father was a fisherman,” says Rosamond, “and he used to say that the stars shine brightest when the moon is on the wane.”
“Well, my father was a farmer. And he was fond o’ saying that the rain is God’s way o’ cleaning the sheep.”
“See! I knew you were from God-fearing people. That was a bunch of boloney about reading the Bible in Alaska.”
“Yes, you finally got me. I’m a born-again heathen. After reading the parable of the Lost Sheep and learning that God loves sinners most of all, I have since devoted all of my energies in that direction.”
“Stop it. You’re making me laugh.”
Hayden gently slides one hand to her front and unfastens the top button on her blouse.
“This is very sexy, by the way.”
“Thank you. Diana gave it to me for the trip.”
“No wonder I’m constantly havin’ to shoot at blokes in my livin’ room.”
“Oh, Hayden!”
Hayden lets his hands flow like two rivers from Rosamond’s face down to her neck, across her smooth shoulders and along her sides, without letting so much as a shadow come between his fingertips and her soft skin.
“What shall I do?” she whispers, as if there’s a chance they could be overheard.
“You know Diana’s spirit board?”