Chapter 5: Five Times The Speed Of Wind
Lucia entered the house through the back door, unlocked, just as Daimy said. The kitchen clock read 8:59. She walked lightly up the stairs. "Hello?" she said, projecting a harmless presence before her. In the front room she found Mabel Hazelton on the floor, curled up inside a huge slant of sunlight streaming in through the window, a heavy afghan pulled round her. "I hope it's all right to have come in. I'm Lucia. A friend of yours sent meŠto be sure you're OK." Mabel looked up, partly baffled, "Why, bless your heart, dear." Lucia shifted the sleeping child in her arm and helped Mabel up with the other. "So many visitors lately. My, who's the little one?""Tiffany Anunciata!" Mabel put a finger to her lips. Lucia said, "Don't worry: she sleeps through hurricanes!"
"I was watching the lights all night, so calm," and she motioned out to the long street. "Here, why don't you lay her on the davenport." Mabel walked to a back room and brought back a small blanket. Then she tended to the waking child as if she were the last glowing coal on a fireless planet. Witnessing this, Lucia conceived that the shortest path between love and a child is through the hands of a matron, and so she said, "You must have had many children." Mabel laughed, "Oh, dear no. I never even married." Embarrassed, Lucia quickly took up her duties. First there was breakfast, brought upstairs. Conversation. Replacement of all the dead bulbs in Mabel's own light strings. More conversation. Some light cleaning. Baby chores. She brought in the mail. At first Mabel protested, second offered a moratorium, and finally relinquished. Then, like a thirsty man at a well, she grew delightfully resigned to this devoted, unforeseen caretaker. By the end of that afternoon, the pair was as comfortable as girls at summer camp. "I'll go make us some hot cocoa," said Lucia.
As she stood at the stove, stirring, Lucia heard a dreadful thump and then another, and then a cascade of violent thuds. She rushed to the stairs. It was dark in the landing. Lucia saw that Mabel's glasses had been thrown from her face. She knelt alongside the woman who lay splayed and motionless. Lucia screamed. Then put her ear to Mabel's mouth. She could neither hear nor feel breath. "Dios!" And so this is where promising stories end, suddenly begun and suddenly brought to a close. Lucia cried out. Then she saw her own child at the top of the landing, gripping the leading edge of the stiff throw rug overhanging the stair. "Baby, no!" Terror and relief merged when she heard Mabel moan and then watched her child plunge, headfirst, down the hard, sharp stairs. Everything went into slow motion. The child continued to clutch the rug. Panic welded Lucia to the floor. And she sat helpless-and then astonished-as she watched the child separate from rug. The rug continued to glide stiffly down the stairs. It did not fly as Lucia willed it to. But the baby-despite Lucia's eyes-began to rise, as if on a cushion of air. She floated to the ceiling, gaily swimming her arms, as if an element of a mobile. The baby descended the stairs in this fashion, aloft, until she came to rest safely on Mabel's waiting chest. "Are you hurt, Miss Mabel?" cried Lucia. "No, no. But I won't live long enough to do that again!" Mabel rubbed noses with Tiffany; Lucia sat dumbfounded. Mabel whispered, "You were paying attention to the rug, dear. Don't worry-you'll get the hang." Lucia trembled. "Now, don't mistake me for any sprite; I am only old. In 87 years you build up enough reserve to cushion one fall, with a little left over to blunt the fall of a child, But once done, it's spent, and you have no more protections." Some things you can't explain, only say that they are so. But Lucia was not without explanation, certain that what she'd just witnessed was merely the sum-the supernumerary sum-of Mabel's life-stretched hopes and untapped love. She'd heard of grandmothers lifting pick-up trucks off trapped children. What, then, was so unusual about watching this woman levitate her daughter? Lucia picked up her child and cried for many minutes.
Later in the day, after dark, Daimy appeared at a back window, tapping on the glass as Lucia passed into view. Lucia threw open the sash. She reached for his hand, pulled it in and kissed the back of it, "She's so precious! Thank you!"
"Not so loud! I've got a delivery for you."
"I knew you were at work: I went for groceries and saw the empty bin."
"You don't know what you're getting into. They weren't at just a few counters-the Dollar Store has a distribution hub right here, for half the state! I found out where it was andŠ." Lucia marveled. "You bought them all?"
"In that old wagon," and he pointed to the station wagon his boss Skipper had loaned him, "is every living bean in the city. How's your day been?"
"There's two languages between us and not a word to describe the, uhŠfelicidad!"
"Tell me later. I've got to get my boss's car back. How's Mabel?"
"You can't keep her still! She asks for nothing. We've had so much fun! My child loves her! I bought a toboggan, and tonight I'm going to pull both of them around to see the lights."
"Make sure you dress her warm. Is she walking OK?"
"She's fine, fine-but she can't manage stairs. She almost fell flat on her face, though: she showed me the skates that she'd had as a child. Her feet are still the same size, so tiny! She insisted on trying them on, saying ‘My two greatest joys ever were jumping the tramp and skating the iced river.' She cried."
"Skating?" asked Daimy, rapt by the thought. Just then Mabel walked down the hallway and Daimy ducked below the sash. "How did she get downstairs?"
"When I tell you, you'll be the only person to believe me. But I want to wait for Christmas Eve. Mabel asked me if I wouldn't mind staying on a few weeks! What luck!"
"I'll be by tomorrow with your grandma."
Before she shut the window, Lucia said, "Your face. That was for the sister I never had, wasn't it?" He bowed his head. "You're a good man."
"Not yet." And before leaving, Daimy loaded box after box of jumping beans into the sunporch: 250 little clear cases in all. Lucia also saw in Daimy's face-and felt the sadness of it-that he did not know that after the moths emerged they live only a day or two.
The train carrying Lucia's grandmother arrived early. But Daimy was there, and led the shy and diminutive woman from the platform. "Christmas Eve," he said nervously, as he opened the door for her. She smiled graciously. The ride from the station was short, and all Daimy said was, "Are you warm enough?" She replied amiably, "Very comfortable, thank you." Nevertheless he notched up the dial on the heater. A box he'd forgotten on the dash soon began to twitch, like a matchbox of popcorn. He quickly set it into his lap as the woman busied herself in her coat, trying to refrain from laughing.
The walk was newly shoveled. Daimy escorted Amabelle Perez to the door and then begged her pardon. He had to get the car back. Inside, like a nervous schoolgirl, Mabel was preparing herself. A knock came upon the door. Lucia raced to it and held her grandmother in a long embrace, which pushed back the cold from the open door. She watched Daimy drive slowly away. "Oh, Tata!" The two twirled each another round. "Come, Tata! Tiffany is sleeping-we'll go in shortly. I want you to meet Mabel." Lucia's grandmother signaled to wait a moment. She adjusted her skirt, fixed various aspects of her self, and pressed the underside of her chin, as if to limit all that was unsuitable. Lucia then led her into the living room where Mabel was standing smartly, eager and plump with butterflies.
Many believe that love at first sight comes only to the young, and only once, and only in the form of romance, but this is not true. The encounter between these venerable women was like a pair of tintypes coming to life, the marvel of recognition widening their faces. Two superannuated women whose meeting had been foreknown but not foretold. Their hands-soft, dry and delicately creased-remained together in greeting, clasped. On the surface they were perfect complements: each wore a Whimsy hat-one red, one green-respectfully tilted, with a half veil descending over the forehead. Amabelle wore a circle skirt embroidered with poinsettias; Mabel wore a hostess apron with a reverse poinsettia print. The clothespins stuck into Mabel's side pocket endeared her to Amabelle all the more. They did not speak for many minutes but just held hands, breaking out into spontaneous gestures full of ease and satisfaction. They giggled.
In the hours that followed the entire house was filled with chatter, and the windows condensed with the dew of much baking. The four attended midnight mass, and then it was Christmas. In the toasty kitchen Lucia listened, lazy with so much food and giddy with so much joy, to the pair speak so intimately, so familiarly. The pair soon became ‘Bell,' and ‘May,' names that neither had ever before been called.
After returning Skipper's car, Daimy crossed the river. And there they were, at spacious intervals: dozens and dozens of holes in the ice, perfectly drilled. In the distance, working a hand auger, was the old fisherman. Daimy shouted out to him, "What on earth are you doing?!"
"On earth, that's good!"
"Are you crazy?"
"No, busy! They'll be here in the morning!" shouted back the old man.
"Who'll be here in the morning?" hollered Daimy.
"The fish, of course! It will be Christmas."
"What part of dead don't you understand? I told you it's beenŠ"
"Fifty years. Yes, I remember." The man vanished from Daimy's sight. His sled was still out in the middle of the river, and Daimy walked to it. On a barrel under the mirror he saw an immaculate shaving mug, and a razor set out on a plate. He sat on the chest and heard the screw of the auger. "Where are you?" All that came back was the sound of the auger tapping and riddling the ice. After some time a great, explosive, jubilant ‘whooop' echoed off both shores, and then all went silent. There was now no sound anywhere, nothing between Daimy and the deepest parts of space, cold and black, and it made him shiver. When Daimy's fingers began to sting, he walked back to the workshed. Before entering he heard a far-away voice, "Merry Christmas, Damian!" He raised the heat on the boiler and then went straight to work. Midnight passed, and then several more hours until he was satisfied with his efforts. Then he put his tools in order, and lay down among the wood shavings under the long window. There he fell asleep, occasionally waking to see the multi-colored beacons from a tower across the river washing through the shop.
On Christmas morning, someone at the far end of Donner Street was shouting: "I'm not kidding! Natal said he caught a fish! There's about a thousand holes out there! Mac is on the ice now." Soon a formation of skeptics was wending its way to the river. And as soon as they saw Natal pulling out another fish they scuttled back up the bank like a throng of startled hounds, arms akimbo, merrily knocking into one another. Moments later a whole troop of men in their Christmas pajamas, tackle in hand, descended madly on the river, and before long there were hundreds of men and women jigging in the holes. The shouting continued up and down the river, "The fish are running, the fish are running!" By late morning the entire length of Donner Street was packed with the empty floats from the Christmas parade that had been redirected and summarily concluded. Children abstaining from their own gifts at home were upon the ice. The ecstasy there threatened to melt the very ice on which the entire city seemed congregated.
That afternoon, after the ecstasy of the city had turned to mere bliss, and Lucia and Mabel and Amabelle fell bushed into their three armchairs, Daimy appeared in the kitchen. And as Lucia and her grandmother slept, Mabel walked in to see what was the noise. Daimy held the tin of White Rose open, mouth-down, as a magician showing his audience a prop. "Ma'am, I was the one whoŠ" and he began to transfer from his satchel to the tin all the bills he had taken. Confused, Mabel then gasped, suddenly recalling her poetry money for the first time in a decade. "You're the stone age boy!" Daimy bowed his head, "I am truly sorry. If one day you could forgive me." Mabel came round behind him, "Forgiveness would come even if it weren't Christmas Day," and under her touch he broke down. Daimy looked up, quietly sobbing, "This is not all I took." Mabel replied, "I know."
Very soon they had an audience. Daimy said to Mabel, "I have a gift for you. I know how much you loved to skate, to be on the river." And he handed her a Polaroid. "I built a sort of side car. You can see the extra braces I assembled. I modified the runners. Very safe. I cut new sails. I've asked Skipper-that's my boss-to give you a ride, anytime you like." The photo of the iceboat passed hand to hand. "Don't you pilot these boats?" asked Mabel. Daimy nodded yes, "But I'm not so worthy." Mabel said to Lucia, "My cold weather clothes, dear. We're going out on the river! Hurry-I can't fall dead before I get this chance!" Daimy then asked, "May I use your phone, Ma'am?"
Everyone dressed for the cold. A knock came to the back door. A clean-shaven man came into the candle-lit kitchen, holding up a string of trout, smiling, "More than I can eat, Ma'am!" Mabel shrieked, joyously startled, "Bell, it's the man I told you about! All those summers ago." Lucia recognized the man from old family photographs; he had died before she was born. Daimy grinned and winked, "SoŠ!" and he tossed the sturgeon-engraved lighter to the old fisherman, "You give this back to your little girl, hear?" Mabel went to gird Amabelle, who'd begun to totter, her face bedazzled and wonder-struck. Amabelle whispered distantly to her, "If you had ever let him in, he may have stayed, and never come to me." Then she ran to him, radiant, "May, this is my husband!" Everyone sat, hardly able to take in the scene. Lucia would later tell the story she heard so often: how he'd go north every summer to plant and to pick, and how her mother and grandmother would wait in Comala. And how one year he never returned. How he'd lost his life on the river. "The rest," she'd say, "can not be explained, except to say Alleluia for the boatbuilder who came in through this kitchen, bringing togetherŠ."
The old fisherman took off his hat, "I have but a few moments. I'm bound to the river, and, well, we all have our appointments." The whole ensemble moved quietly to the door, leaving Amabelle to her husband, and their hidden joys.
Daimy guided Mabel into the little cockpit he'd built for her. Gave her a wool face mask and goggles and pushed off.
"How fast will she go?" asked Mabel.
"When sailed well, five times the speed of the wind."
"An old man is not put in a boat to row, but to give advice-I am not an old man, and this boat can not be rowed, but here's my advice!" And Mabel whirled her fingers, as if to say throw away the brakes! Daimy fixed the sails and the sleek little boat shot out under the wind. He expertly tacked shore to shore. The deep slick rumbling roar of the blades running over the rough ice thrilled Mabel, who said, "In your dreams you are never ninetyŠ" When they were at top speed, Mabel let go of the brace bar and began to propel her arms, as if she herself were skating, freeŠ
When they returned to Skipper's dock, two patrolmen were waiting. "Are you Damian Hunt?"
"I am." When Mabel asked what the case was, she said, "I didn't report a robbery."
"I did," said Daimy. And the patrolman opened a notepad. "What was missing from your home, Ma'am?"
Mabel thought and then said, "Peanut brittle and cheese."
"I mean of value."
"Nothing else."
"No, that's not all," said Daimy. "I can list for you what was stolen."
"Ma'am, you'll have to sign a complaint. Will you do that?"
On the day he was released from his sentence, Daimy began the project he and Mabel had corresponded about: a complete remodel of the bedrooms she had opened up to the three Perezes. The White Rose tin funded Lucia's final year of college and two more experimental surgeries for the baby. While mitering some toe molding, Lucia told him about the spring: "We laid all your beans out on baking sheets. They were dormant quite a while. In May they started rattling, and then one day-whooff!-they all started to emerge out the little trap door in the seed. Then the porch was filled with a thousand moths! They fluttered all around, looking for a light I guess. There was a single pale blue one among this great swirling stream of gray. Then they made their way out a tear in the screen and flew out over the river. It was beautiful, Daimy-I wish you could have seen it."
The following summer, in the rapids of the Black River, Damian Hunt drowned.
The White Rose tin financed a gifted attorney who won back partial rights to his boat design, which Mabel insisted be renamed the "Wind Tamer." The few gains from the boat went to the hospice center Lucia later founded. The government never suspended its quest to deport Lucia, whose status never changed. But she lived on, in the haven of the Donner Street home. Mabel and Amabelle began to spend summers, and then autumns, in Comala. But they always returned north for winter.
Someone discovered that a hand auger had disappeared from the fishing museum. Nevertheless, every year thereafter, the holes would appear on Christmas morn up and down the length of the river. And on every Christmas Eve, children would sneak to the shore of the river, trying to spy the two figures pulling a sled: the old man and a little girl, skipping alongside him. And it was only children who could ever see them, and the lighthouse. And even as the beams of red and yellow and green passed across the faces of their children, parents could not see them. Rather they prepared for the fish, which ran only for the 12 days following Christmas Day. One year, Karl Metz found in the gullet of a fish a ring he'd lost years earlier. Then people began finding other long lost objects-mostly valueless-but which reminded them of something vacant in their hearts and in their souls. Then it was not just fish that were caught in the river-but age-old losses made tangible. And every Christmas something of untold worth was resurrected in each household along the river. And so it was that men rushed out in the shameless glee of youth, in their Christmas pajamas and slippers, anxious for the first sight of the holes, some looking for fish, others for redemption.
If there is some other world, where spinsters die, alone, and their dusty homes are emptied out by hired crews-where all the shoes and linens and photographs and scratchpads are tossed, drearily and uninspected, into commercial dumpsters and shipped to town's edge, where coffee tins rust among the heaps and their contents decay, turning finally to dust-then we do not know where it is.
Mabel Hazelton would live long enough to learn exactly 5,280 Spanish words. Amabelle slightly longer. Tiffany Anunciata, who never married, inherited the house on Donner Street after her mother died; she kept an old chisel-head crowbar on a pantry shelf as a reminder of all that had been unbound. One day, in her 87th year, Tiffany stood at the top of her stairs, musing, ‘All we really have in our power is the ability to reduce the suffering of others.' So engrossed in the thought, she slipped and fell violently down the stairs. As she lay there, bruised but unhurt, she thought, "Now I've used up my reserve. I'll have to start being more careful." She lay restfully, looking up at the blue pagoda, when an old adage flitted across her mind, ‘Time builds the castle and time demolishes it.' And she responded, "Yes, but while the castle stands, we live." Go Back up to the Chapter List
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