The Soldier and The Runaway
November 11th 2008 11:00
The Soldier and The Runaway
In a huff, Rosemary plonked herself on the stone steps of the local cemetery and began throwing stones out into the road; each one thankfully missing the meager traffic.
"It's a good thing you have lousy aim," a young man exclaimed, parking himself next to her.
"Who invited you?" Rosemary asked, annoyed.
"Kinda invite myself these days. The name's Richards, by the way." He extended a hand in handshake, but Rosemary ignored it.
Masked with the gloom of twilight, Rosemary couldn't help but stare at Richards almost pristine uniform. She chuckled. "You off to some fancy dress or something?"
Richards merely extended his legs and leaned back. His uniform would never have been considered fancy enough for a fancy dress. "Something," he said with a smile.
Without realizing it, Rosemary also straightened her legs and leaned closer to her odd enforced companion. "I reckon it's your pick up piece," Rosemary added.
The young man bowed his head in amusement, "Well, if I have to be honest, it served me well."
And Rosemary laughed. Before her, one by one the lights turned on in the upstairs rooms of the villa units surrounding them. She watched, silently waiting for one light to turn on. It didn't. Richards heard her intake of breath well before she hunched forward in obvious disappointment.
"It happens every night," Richards shared. When she looked at him in confusion, he continued, "the lights. Every night I sit on these steps and watch as every single window lights up and try to pick which one will shut their light first."
"You must live a boring life," Rosemary stated. "You do realize you're sitting on the steps of the town cemetery, don't you?"
Richards nodded.
"A cemetery that was built before all these units and they all huddle around it?"
Richards shrugged, pulled up his knees and hugged them.
"Something like the western 'one horse town' – we seem to be a 'one cemetery town'," she continued.
Richards smiled then stared up at a window and said "that one," and the light in the house across the street was doused. "Little Angela needs to get up for school tomorrow."
"Good for her," Rosemary said with obvious bitterness.
Another light in an upstairs window turned off. Slowly one window after another was steeped in blackness, leaving the street lamps to cast their ethereal glow.
"That window never has a light," Richards informed her.
Rosemary didn't look up; instead opting to return to her stone throwing adventure. "Not for a long time," she muttered to herself.
"Ever been up there?"
Rosemary's head shot up. "No!"
"Why? It used to be your bedroom, you know, when you were Angela's age." Rosemary stared at him; a nerve burned straight to her heart. "That's what happens when a loved one passes on. Guess your mother didn't know how to cope so she made it into an attic and put all her memories up there," Richards continued, unperturbed.
How grateful Rosemary was that they were talking in the dark and this perfect stranger couldn't see her red eyes. "My grandfather died in the war."
"As did your father," Richards added. "They died protecting their country; their families."
And who's protecting me, Rosemary wanted to ask. She never knew her grandfather or her father. All she ever knew was one criticism after another from her mother and an aunt who would visit often and boast of how her daughter was everything she'd never amount to.
"Aunty Bessy does have a way about her," Richards said, smiling at Rosemary's surprised look on her face. "Thing is, as I see it of course, little Bessy is going through a very very bad time and talking to your mother kinda helps, and," he held up his hand before Rosemary interrupted him, "it helps keep her illusion alive, at least in your household."
"What are you talking about?"
"Bessy's daughter ran away from home a year ago with a foreign lad. Oh, they're happy and all that, but won't be getting in contact with Bessy for a very long time."
"My cousin was going to be a doctor," Rosemary explained, finding herself almost huddling with Richards because of the cool night air and the surprise of everything she was hearing.
"That was what her mother wanted, not you cousin. Children should be reared to make their own decisions; undertake their own journeys."
"That's what my mother always tells me, when she's not upset, that is."
Richards stood up and placed his jacket around Rosemary's shoulders. "Come on, I'll walk you home."
It wasn't until she was standing on her own door step that Rosemary remembered that she'd never given Richards directions.
The next morning Rosemary arose early and began removing all the memorabilia from the attic, placing one after another in any area of their small town house that would accommodate them. She had only one small box left and was tempted to break the lock with a kitchen knife when her mother came down to breakfast.
Instinctively, Rosemary stood back. When she awoke, all she wanted to do was bring the attic to the kitchen and the family area and the hallway, and now she watched as her mother's eyes darted from her to the collection around the room, resting on the box on the kitchen table.
"I thought we could enjoy them more here," Rosemary found herself saying.
Instead her mother removed a chain from around her neck and passing her hand once over the dusty lid, as if caressing it, opened the lock with the small golden key that hung from that chain.
"I thought that was your twenty-first key," Rosemary whispered.
Her mother turned the lock. "He died on my twenty-first birthday."
Rosemary watched as her mother removed a small black and white photograph of a soldier holding a new born in his arms. "Richards," she whispered.
Her mother nodded. "Yes, that was my maiden name, before my mother married again and then I was adopted by my step father and later your Aunt Bessy was born. How did you know?"
Rosemary felt like she was going to faint. "I – ah, I think – I think you should call Aunt Bessy over for lunch today. I know she hasn't been too well lately."
In a huff, Rosemary plonked herself on the stone steps of the local cemetery and began throwing stones out into the road; each one thankfully missing the meager traffic.
"It's a good thing you have lousy aim," a young man exclaimed, parking himself next to her.
"Who invited you?" Rosemary asked, annoyed.
"Kinda invite myself these days. The name's Richards, by the way." He extended a hand in handshake, but Rosemary ignored it.
Masked with the gloom of twilight, Rosemary couldn't help but stare at Richards almost pristine uniform. She chuckled. "You off to some fancy dress or something?"
Richards merely extended his legs and leaned back. His uniform would never have been considered fancy enough for a fancy dress. "Something," he said with a smile.
Without realizing it, Rosemary also straightened her legs and leaned closer to her odd enforced companion. "I reckon it's your pick up piece," Rosemary added.
The young man bowed his head in amusement, "Well, if I have to be honest, it served me well."
And Rosemary laughed. Before her, one by one the lights turned on in the upstairs rooms of the villa units surrounding them. She watched, silently waiting for one light to turn on. It didn't. Richards heard her intake of breath well before she hunched forward in obvious disappointment.
"It happens every night," Richards shared. When she looked at him in confusion, he continued, "the lights. Every night I sit on these steps and watch as every single window lights up and try to pick which one will shut their light first."
"You must live a boring life," Rosemary stated. "You do realize you're sitting on the steps of the town cemetery, don't you?"
Richards nodded.
"A cemetery that was built before all these units and they all huddle around it?"
Richards shrugged, pulled up his knees and hugged them.
"Something like the western 'one horse town' – we seem to be a 'one cemetery town'," she continued.
Richards smiled then stared up at a window and said "that one," and the light in the house across the street was doused. "Little Angela needs to get up for school tomorrow."
"Good for her," Rosemary said with obvious bitterness.
Another light in an upstairs window turned off. Slowly one window after another was steeped in blackness, leaving the street lamps to cast their ethereal glow.
"That window never has a light," Richards informed her.
Rosemary didn't look up; instead opting to return to her stone throwing adventure. "Not for a long time," she muttered to herself.
"Ever been up there?"
Rosemary's head shot up. "No!"
"Why? It used to be your bedroom, you know, when you were Angela's age." Rosemary stared at him; a nerve burned straight to her heart. "That's what happens when a loved one passes on. Guess your mother didn't know how to cope so she made it into an attic and put all her memories up there," Richards continued, unperturbed.
How grateful Rosemary was that they were talking in the dark and this perfect stranger couldn't see her red eyes. "My grandfather died in the war."
"As did your father," Richards added. "They died protecting their country; their families."
And who's protecting me, Rosemary wanted to ask. She never knew her grandfather or her father. All she ever knew was one criticism after another from her mother and an aunt who would visit often and boast of how her daughter was everything she'd never amount to.
"Aunty Bessy does have a way about her," Richards said, smiling at Rosemary's surprised look on her face. "Thing is, as I see it of course, little Bessy is going through a very very bad time and talking to your mother kinda helps, and," he held up his hand before Rosemary interrupted him, "it helps keep her illusion alive, at least in your household."
"What are you talking about?"
"Bessy's daughter ran away from home a year ago with a foreign lad. Oh, they're happy and all that, but won't be getting in contact with Bessy for a very long time."
"My cousin was going to be a doctor," Rosemary explained, finding herself almost huddling with Richards because of the cool night air and the surprise of everything she was hearing.
"That was what her mother wanted, not you cousin. Children should be reared to make their own decisions; undertake their own journeys."
"That's what my mother always tells me, when she's not upset, that is."
Richards stood up and placed his jacket around Rosemary's shoulders. "Come on, I'll walk you home."
It wasn't until she was standing on her own door step that Rosemary remembered that she'd never given Richards directions.
The next morning Rosemary arose early and began removing all the memorabilia from the attic, placing one after another in any area of their small town house that would accommodate them. She had only one small box left and was tempted to break the lock with a kitchen knife when her mother came down to breakfast.
Instinctively, Rosemary stood back. When she awoke, all she wanted to do was bring the attic to the kitchen and the family area and the hallway, and now she watched as her mother's eyes darted from her to the collection around the room, resting on the box on the kitchen table.
"I thought we could enjoy them more here," Rosemary found herself saying.
Instead her mother removed a chain from around her neck and passing her hand once over the dusty lid, as if caressing it, opened the lock with the small golden key that hung from that chain.
"I thought that was your twenty-first key," Rosemary whispered.
Her mother turned the lock. "He died on my twenty-first birthday."
Rosemary watched as her mother removed a small black and white photograph of a soldier holding a new born in his arms. "Richards," she whispered.
Her mother nodded. "Yes, that was my maiden name, before my mother married again and then I was adopted by my step father and later your Aunt Bessy was born. How did you know?"
Rosemary felt like she was going to faint. "I – ah, I think – I think you should call Aunt Bessy over for lunch today. I know she hasn't been too well lately."
[ Text and original characters copyright © 2008 by Teresa Strati ]
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