Finally, Sam forced my hand. His crying was piteous and I had things to do.
Got Sam taken care of. Got the bathroom cleaned, the bed made, etc., then I sat down and started to write. Next thing I know it's almost 3:00 in the afternoon and I still haven't done the dusting or the shopping - the things on my to-do list I need to do.
Sheesh! So now, instead of doing the 'must dos' I'm doing this - which is fine because this, too, is a commitment I've made to myself. I'll whip this out and then go on to the other, less fun stuff.
In fact, I'll compromise. Instead of beating my empty head against the bricks of creation, I'll just post a flash piece. How's that?
A Man Named Jack
The scent of cherry
smoke woke me; a sweetness that tickles the nose and hints at taste. At first, I didn’t think it was there,
really. I thought it was still my dream. Turning over, I slithered under the covers,
hoping to slip back into the nest of sleep, but the scent wouldn’t let go. I sat up, listening. It was still there, heavier, but there were no
sounds except snores from Jeremy’s room.
I got up, shivering, because Jeremy insisted on leaving the windows
open, even in the dead of winter.
After donning my robe
and slippers, I peeked into my brother’s room.
He was sound asleep, snoring heavily as usual after a late night of
drinking. In the hall, the cherries were
stronger. Following the trace, my
slippers whispered on the hall runner.
The study door was
ajar, showing golden in the gap.
Surprised that Jeremy had left the fire burning, I pushed the door
wide. Surprise became astonishment when
I saw a dapperly dressed man I had never seen before sitting in the
wingchair. His fingers curled lovingly
around the bowl of a pipe, from which arose the heavenly scent that had woken
me. He moved, withdrawing the pipe stem
from between the neat mustache and trim beard.
“Hello, Jillian.” His voice was soft, like warm honey, and, by
the light of the fire, I saw the skin around his eyes crinkle when he smiled.
I leaned against the
solidity of the doorframe, afraid, but not.
He was so calm, looked so easy and natural there, he didn’t seem to be a
threat. After a minute, when I didn’t
move or speak, he shifted, crossing one leg over the other.
“You’re wondering who
I am, what I’m doing here, aren’t you?”
Still I didn’t move,
even to acknowledge him.
His eyes looked away,
into the fire, then turned back. “You
look like her. Like your mother, I
mean.” The lines in his face, caught by
the light from the fireplace, deepened.
His expression became hurt. “I
shouldn’t be surprised she never told you about me. I know she wanted to forget. She said she did, but she never could.”
“How did you know
her?” My mother died when I was three,
killed in an accident, and no one my father’s family had ever talked about her,
shutting down questions almost before the asking.
Despite the oddity of
having a complete stranger sitting in my brother’s study, smoking a pipe at
two-thirty in the morning, I felt excited.
I stepped away from the solidity of wood, drifting to stand by the
partner of the chair in which the man sat.
“Who are you?”
The lips curled, the
eyes crinkled. “My name is Jack.” The smile faded, saddened. “Yes, I knew her. Long, long ago, before you were born.”
“Are you related?”
Another flash of
humor. “To her? No.”
“Then to whom? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He gestured at the other chair, and I sank
onto its cushion. “I heard your … father
died, and that you were here for the funeral, so I came to see you, to
introduce myself.”
I waited, knowing he
would tell me whether I asked or not.
“I met her when she
was sixteen. Friends invited her to a
party, and that’s where we were introduced.
For her, it was instant love. She
said she never felt alive until I was there.
Years went by and she fell in and out of love. When she was almost thirty, she met your
father and, for a time, she gave him the devotion she had shown me. But he traveled, made her feel neglected and
she took back up with me. Your father
made her feel unloved, taken for granted.
Then Jeremy was born, and things got better.
“When she was
thirty-four she met Matthew, a man your father hired to work around the
house. Lonely, unhappy, she was easy
prey and Matthew took advantage. Their
affair ended when he left one morning, without a word. She had confessed to him that she was
pregnant, but that wasn’t something he had bargained for.
“She took back up with
me. For three years, she made any excuse
she could think of to spend time in my company.
Even when your father begged her to stop, to think of you and Jeremy,
she couldn’t. It was too late. Six months later, on her way home from
shopping for your birthday dress, she ran into the tree, killing herself and
nearly killing you and Jeremy.”
My throat was dry and
I colder than the air around me. All
those years, nearly twenty-five of wondering why and how, and here, in my
father’s study, this stranger had given some answers. More, I had been given questions.
“How do you know all
of this?” I hadn’t meant to waste a
question. It just slipped out.
The man’s laugh was
warm and smooth, like bourbon. “Because
I was there , through it all. I helped
her try to deal with her pain, her fear, her insecurity. When she felt lonely or sad, she took me
up. I was with her when she died.
“You see, my dear, my
name is Jack Daniel’s and I was your mother’s favorite crutch.”
* * * * *
Have a lovely weekend!
Best~
Philippa
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