Earlier in the week, Sasha noticed the corner grocer had trees in the parking lot and she waited until the weekend to buy one. Tonight was the night she waited for. She had a Wigg’s Grocery Store coupon and kept cash in her purse for the lot attendant’s tip. Sasha looked at the shortest trees, about three foot each and blended in with all the other shoppers when she pulled a food wrapper stuck to the bottom of her shoe while pacing around the dirty lot. Unhindered by the sticky sound from the soul of her shoe, Sasha carefully looked for just the one that would really say Merry Christmas while in her apartment.

“This tree?”
“Yes.” Sasha responded.
“I’ll cut it and put it on a stand for you. Wait here.”
“Thank you.”

Sasha waited quietly for the Christmas tree. She felt the occasional blow of heat from the grocery store’s revolving door, she watched the rush of people coming and going. During that time, Sasha felt uneasy as she grew tired of waiting. She stared down at the sidewalk littered with black gum stains made smooth by steps and time. As she looked, she saw a universe with a cement background and round black gum stars pelting its horizon. She skimmed her shoe, back and forth, over the sight. The night grew darker. Sasha wondered where the “tree-guy” was. Several times, she attempted to move from the spot where she stood, hesitated, and then stayed. Finally, Sasha made her move to go find the “tree guy.”

The first person she saw in the Christmas tree lot was a young high school kid who was busy cutting tree trunks. Then she saw a sales-guy and it was not the guy who said he’d be back. Walking around the lot once, she realized he was gone.

“I was waiting for my tree to be cut,” she told the high school kid.
“Ask him.” He said pointing to the tree lot attendant.
“I was waiting for my tree to be cut.”
“What tree? Pick one out and have him cut it.”
Sasha chose not to answer him.

Again, she was in the familiar three-foot tree section. Hello again she thought. She grabbed the first one she saw. It had a good empty section toward the bottom to use as a handle for the trip home. She handed the high school kid the tree. He placed it on the level and used a saw to cut the stump. After the stand was in place, he gave the tree to her using the handle. Sasha grabbed it from him and what she could carry she did, what she couldn’t dragged on the floor. The weight caused her breath to carry out into the night heavily and the cold made it transparent against the dark. It was a cold night, but a good night to bring the tree home. So good, Sasha let the slight plumes of bright breath lead her way home.

Sometimes the lines made Sasha laugh, as she lazed curled up on the couch. Eleven o’clock at night was the time for blackened, simple rest with no time for silliness like finding a lost remote control or seeing anything in this world as so important that it cannot be laughed at when it has a purple line across its face. Sasha knew this. The warmer she got the sooner she would float across the room to finish the night’s rest in bed.

She was idle, very unusual for a girl who worked nights. She knew the Canteen would be bubbling right now. Bubbling with the hands, the eyes and the silly words used in ways to convince her that she owed them a few hours of her time. Sasha was not there on purpose. She knew she was not going to follow the old flagstone alley leading to her headquarters of easy money, and lost people. Sasha had chosen a new life – from now on.

That was why Sasha could lay across the couch and laugh at the purple lines. This was a new Sasha. She had not seen a stranger in her home since Charles C. Bloomington and the two weeks between him and her suited her to the point of just lazing the time away on the couch before bed. This was a completely new Sasha.

Under a blanket of triumph and long weeks of a new outlook, what could make the night even better, she thought, chocolate, no, some coco, no, maybe just a little tea with…. Then, Sasha clearly heard the sounds of a wandering homeless sailor lost from his ship or the two light blows to the door from a burglar who stopped by after heisting many colored jewels. Old or new, forgotten and vaulted it did not matter; someone was knocking on Sasha’s door.

This was the old Sasha. Answering a door at midnight as if the day had just begun and the typing pool was gearing up for another long haul, her old cavernous life was decrepit and caused her harm, pain and the occasional STD. She did not want that old life back or to answer it, and at this point, the purple line was turning aquamarine, she could not call up the energy to respond. Then the knock came again and something about the sound aroused Sasha’s curiosity. Silently she slid across the hardwood floor not wanting to be found out. At the peephole Sasha lips gasped, her eyes lit, a spacious smile echoed across her face and through the door, as she heard a quiet voice say, “Sasha? Are you there?

Sasha put her hand over her mouth to muffle the slight noise from her lips – it was Ian. She leaned her back against the door to take a second breath before letting Ian in. Sasha had always liked Ian above all the other clients and, although, she had not seen him as a boyfriend and he had treated her like a paid professional – she loved Ian. Ian flew across nations and skydived, he owned a company, was Jewish and shy. She loved everything about Ian, mostly his slight body and bold black eyes above the most unaware, deadly smile. He was suave in his use of words and grand in his walk that said he had somewhere he needed to be.

Ian had taken Sasha to a business Christmas party as his date one year. He stood out amongst his colleagues, definitely; Sasha knew he would be the best-looking lawyer in the room. Some of the gossipy secretaries said they thought he was gay, and Sasha wondered why a man so handsome was not married. Later that night after champagne and head swirling dancing that made her feel like a princess, Ian grinded Sasha and grabbed her neck until she gasped for air. The sweat coming down his forehead was evil in the way it caused his black brows to spike. Ian liked her under him where he could see the pain or occasional wince on her face. Sasha hated the sexual side of Ian, even though she orgasmed with him in spite of her attempts at muffling her love for his malicious slaps.

Dancing with her, Ian’s eyes glowed a sweet boy smile, but when above her a sexual animal came out and it hungered to penetrate her deeper. Sasha held on to the loosened bed sheets for letting go meant she would lose her sanity. Why Sasha had liked Ian above the rest may not have been obvious to anyone, but her. Deep down inside Ian was sweet and maybe a little gay in his unconscious inclinations, but during even the most hideously humiliating moments of sex with Ian, he always found a second, perhaps one in transition or one unaware to her, to kiss her lovingly. He would pull her hair to one side where he could find her lips and gently caress them. Sasha always thought he was apologizing in advance for what he was about to do next, as he ran his fingertips over her outreaching lips as she begged for him to continue the light tickling motions he calmly laid across her lips before indulging in Sasha’s body again. Sasha did like Ian, a lot.

Sasha knew the click, the destructive cycle, the turn of the dead bolt would lay claim to her old vast and spiteful way of life, and then she turned it with a hard clap that echoed in her heart. She opened the door to Ian. The only soldier, cat burglar, capable of changing Sasha; Sasha knew this well.

Morris Jones said in court, “as a reaction to something strange moving around my peripheral vision I shot at the grey costume.” He said, “I called out, then, I shot the boy, Gabriel Christian Waterman.” He was asked to resign and did so willingly deciding, instead, to dedicate his life to Campbell and me. He vowed to be around doing what he could, speaking to us in a sorrowful tone, apologizing every time he’d meet our gaze. Eventually Campbell gave in and shook his hand, but I could never be that together with my emotions to stare his forgiveness down that clearly.

He lived a long life too, alone, in Manhattan, letting the dishes pile up, eating out of cans something that smelled like cat food and begging the gang member’s fighting in the hall not to bust down his door. It was the only door he had and he needed it, he’d cry out.

He received the registered letter containing the banker’s check with six zeros from me years before and thumb tacked it to the wall above the news articles he’d carefully cut and saved. One tired cold day, he went to the bathroom mirror, studied his face, his eyes searching for what he knew to find, but could not, choosing then to go to the living room and shoot himself in the head. One week later the hippopotamus costume arrived announcing my death and my forgiveness.

The pounding continued. Standing before the door I said, “Hold on,” but the noise slammed the door open with a word of warning and a tornado for a tail. The police were at the door, a Swat Team, and in they scattered, a spilling of blue melting into black with brown guns held ready to shoot. They said, “Police! Get down! Get down! Put your hands where we can see them! Get down!”

I was thrown back by the onslaught of urgency and chaos. Someone’s foot was on mine; quickly I fell with a fury. My ascent was not slowed by the police, a cavalcade coming into our apartment ready to bring freedom to a downtrodden city held hostage by an unbending dictator that lived inside it. My blood splashed as far as the carpet and wet the tile which was the last thing I saw before I woke by smelling salts in the emergency room. Campbell came out of his office and instantly saw the guns and men; put his hands-up, yelling, “Wait!, Stop!, Gabriel!, Nina!,” but it was too late. The funny bear prancing around in a solid gray velvet frock pointed his finger in response to my fall and was shot four times. Hysterical Campbell turned the corner into a living room full of chaotic, shouting, separating, inquiry, frowns, forms, and eventual crime scene. Apparently I hit the credenza, while demonstrating a half-gainer in my nightgown, and they hit the wrong apartment.

Seven stitches below the skin’s surface, nine above, right below the eye along side my broken nose which hurt more than the stitches. I was taped up and on my way home as the doctors and police escorted me to the street. Shot up with pain killer and bandaged eyes swollen to sedation, a police car pulled up to the curb and courted me to the door, saying please and thank you to Mrs. Nina Waterman. Drooling politeness, his big teeth showing, speaking to me of God and sentimental awards, I went to bed for the first time in eight years, without my son in my home. I slept under sedation for two days. I had to loosen myself from the blood sticky pillowcase and stumble to the sink before the flow of raining tears came down the gutter inside my nose and forever outside my eyes. I looked in the cold bathroom mirror, my skin swollen, black, blue, blood reddened and changed profoundly, searching my face for what I knew to find, but could not.

Campbell was with Gabriel. He rode with him in the ambulance holding him the whole time. Even standing clutching the handle of the drawer that Gabriel’s cold body laid inside of at the morgue, his forehead leaning against the top locker. He assisted the Medical Examiner in washing him and the Mortician in dressing him, Campbell never left Gabriel’s side. He was also there, behind the viewing room window, at the autopsy when the Medical Examiner delicately removed the four bullets from Gabriel’s chest.

We stood together for the last time as a family when Campbell and I laid a holy water sprinkled; Christ embroidered cloth over his casket, Gabriel’s color of wood, at the funeral mass. Campbell squeezed the casket handle while carrying his son during his last hours. Carefully dressing him and placing his body into the casket earlier that day, kissing him, as I did, for the last time. He said to the Mortician and me, when he arrives in heaven, I want him to look as beautiful as he did the day God gave him to me.

Campbell guided Gabriel’s entourage out to the car, to the burial site, and in reciting the rosary prayers, strong and calm. Voices rose into the serene air, and then departed amongst themselves, including Morris, blasted, Jones who stood on the periphery reciting the prayers, and crying louder than bombs. Campbell and I limped back to our empty bruised home with our injuries, internal and external, each of us laying a hand on the door knob, together, we closed the door to Gabriel’s room.

I was weak from cancer and fell bed ridden my last few days of life. Before I grew too tired to move, I went to the closet, pulled down my mismatched plaid luggage and had my housekeeper open it. For the first time since that awful night, it was opened. Inside lay the blood stained, hippopotamus costume I made for Gabriel. She pulled it out and I hugged it like he was still inside, amazed at how tall Gabriel had grown in those short eight years. She held it up while I gazed upon it, and told her not to wash it, but to mail it carefully to a Mr. Morris Jones.

More Tomorrow!

I woke up, fallen forward to the left, from sleeping in the lounge chair, my right side aching in response to the unnatural curve. I twirled the hem of my shirt between my fingers, working the threads and stretching them until they tugged back. I had no desire to move, desire to turn on the heat or even a light and sat there until midnight when I bothered to move to the couch, before I fell to the floor from leaning to the left.

I would go there to be near his grave. I would take my heart there everyday and seek to loosen the cement above his head and place it, better used, upon my heart. March had two hundred and forty trillion seconds, moments and thoughts for me. I would go to spend them near his grave. I returned home to the person who would come to the airport to help me with my mismatched plaid luggage Gabriel’s father, Campbell.  Together we walked quietly out of the airport our ghost walking between us.

The waiter set the plates down on the table glancing at Campbell’s weathered eyes, staring at my disfigured face. Campbell said, “Saul, can fix that, he’s an excellent surgeon, you know. I’ve worked with him at my medical practice for a long time. I saw that Halifax had colder temperatures than New York.”

His black hair, blue eyes and inquisitive pointing upside down fork, kept me staring at him. It was almost two years since Gabriel had passed; still I stared at Campbell blankly and answered, “I know. Nova Scotia is very cold…all the time.”

“I saw Morris Jones at the doors when I left, undoubtedly, he’ll be there to carry your luggage when we get back,” Campbell said while chewing his food, his head bent over the plate, eyes searching for his thoughts, his voice so matter of fact.
“Blast!” I whispered.
“I signed the papers with (New York City Police Department’s) Internal Affairs a couple of months ago. I didn’t take the money, I signed away my right to sue,” he said, his voice trailing off into silence, “have you? I heard you did the old speak-to-the-hand thing with them.”
“Yes. Yes I did decide what to do with the settlement money, I gave it away. Two million dollars written out in a banker’s check to a Mr. Morris Jones,” I said with an outright sarcastic smile and tone to my words as if saying it like that would send the message I wanted to send to Jones.
“Only two million dollars?” he said laughing sarcastically.
“I only asked for that much and I signed the rest of the money and my right to sue away, too,” I said.

Campbell was finished with his food and obviously content. He leaned forward and drank from my water cup and noticed that I had not eaten one bite of my salad except to push it around; immediately his eyes looked at mine, terrified. Slowly, Campbell’s eyes turned a tender blue while he sentimentally searched my face for what he knew to find, but could not.

            Most days I would come in, drop my coat down, open the curtain on the windows overlooking the street, call out to Gabriel, my eight year old, “I’m home!” Usually there would be no sound and I would look in his room to see his bed made and his baseball bat gone. I knew he was at the park with Max practicing ground balls and pitches. So I would dress and go to join them, with a basket of extra baseballs and gatorade, calling out, “numbers and inches, boys, numbers and inches.”

            Today I did not go down to the park, no reason to. Instead I sat on the couch watching a movie, but when the kissing part came, I had tears and pink carnations in my heart and excused myself to the bedroom to cry.

            What fun Gabriel and I would have had today. My nose may have stopped me from kissing him, only to tickle him all the more. Normally I would have been against going out on a rainy day, but today I would have said, “Big Gabe, let’s go throw some balls because baseball games get played in the rain sometimes.”

            Instead I have several hours before night; the mental chains unlocked from the bed and chose not to sit behind the chair again. When he was four we’d giggle and hide from each other. He’d pretend to hide until I’d find him then he’d shoot at me with a gun made from his hand, blowing the smoke from his finger, turning and running from me. His little arms pumping at his sides, his shoe untied and clothes mismatched.

            I was blown over completely. One minute I was sitting with the television turned off and dealing with what is, what is not, and what there is. I had hours to decide in and that was the hardest thing, I never looked at his picture, or sat in the kitchen but waited at the dining room table for the door bell to ring. There was calmness to the man who walked in like the calmness that comes from knowing reasoning is useless. His eyes searched me for what he knew to find, but could not. It was the sag in my spirit, the lag between my words that gave my blue soul away. I could see it in my reflection in the peering stainless steel oven, why couldn’t he?

            He was here with colored news expecting me to forget my genius ways and meet with the news in tap shoes. I thought, “You’ve made a terrible mistake, wasted your time,” wiping my aching eye and nose with the back of my sleeve. I tapped my finger on the kitchen table, “listen,” I whispered as I turned my ear, tapping, “it’s a hollow, sort of, shallow sound. It’s the only sound I hear in my heart since Gabriel died.” I put my hand-up blunting the conversation. “No thank you. Not today,” I said. He left quietly. I placed my head on the table only to wake up later with isolated stage fright, determined not to buy a gun today.

Ian walked slowly and turned easily on his new foot. He had his hands in prayer, eyes closed, while ridding the burden left by Trees Smith. After a time he walked with the others to the red velvet altar and kneeled to the stone statue of Buddha three times while the palms of his hands lay upright and open. By the time Ian saw me peeking, I had tears in my eyes. I gave birth seven months later to a boy we named, Runner Ryan Kessler.

**********

Ian said I could choose any kind of day I wanted. He said no matter which kind of day I chose to see it in, clouds, rain, sun, or mist the door would always be open. Heavy cherry wood and important looking fabrics line the furniture in Ian’s office. A desk facing the front door centers between two easy chairs, a credenza lines the back wall under a window with a view of Ahimsa. Phone propped on his shoulder, his left arm around the message pad like a crescent shaped moon, Ian is on the phone to a client and writing down some notes. I have to laugh to myself at the thought of his left-handed scrawl being smeared by his fist as it drags along his line of writing. Ian looks up enthusiastically and whispers, “Come in.” Ian said the door would always be open to anyone who wanted to see it. My seamstresses, Charlie and I have already taken full advantage.

On the left hand side of Ian’s desk there is a framed picture. It is a picture of resolution and plenty. In the picture, between two black and white cows and two brown oxen standing next to the sand colored ox cart, Ian and I stand with smiles wider than the wagon’s width. We’re holding up six month old Runner on the wooden bench. He is grabbing the reins leading to the yoke on the oxen, ready for action. We are standing in a rolling green pasture under the bluest of skies. Ian said I could choose any kind of day I wanted. I chose a full Saturday morning sun and Ian thought that was good.

I decided to take the car into the factory so I could drive a large order of rainbow, leftovers and remnant-looking quilts to the Samsara Hospital as a donation for sick children. When I was there I saw my doctor and left a urine sample with some very worrisome suspicions. I had a terrible day waiting on the results. When the phone rang all the ladies stopped sewing as I did. I said, “Oh, uh-huh, yes, okay, thanks.” I was pregnant. The girls were so happy, they clapped and hugged me. I was cautiously joyous and nervous to tell Ian as we were not planning on having children.

I drove home to find Ian, he was not there. I drove around the few streets near our house to no avail. I parked the car at home changed into walking clothes, grabbed a heavy jacket and started looking for Ian. I finally found him right where I hoped he might be. He was standing at the doors of the monastery speaking with Charlie and giving him the buckets of milk from the pole. Then a funny thing happened. Charlie opened the door and waved Ian in. No one has ever been in the monastery that has not taken the seven vows, no one. Ian walked in sheepishly and it seemed he was saying no to Charlie’s generous invitation, but Charlie was insistent.

Ian entered the beautiful gardens surrounding the majestic ashram. He was not to go into the ashram but four of the monks showed him through the lavish labyrinth gardens quietly pointing out the lavender, ponds with fish and brick laden walkway leading to an enormously beautiful stone statue of Buddha sitting in meditation. I myself was standing at the door watching with only a few inches to peek from, but was awestruck at how Ian fit in. Since his accident, he’s taken on a sort of calmness. He’s been a lot less obsessive.

I heard Charlie say, “Govinda you brought us the milk without using the ox today. You have been living the life and doing the work of your ox for several days now. I’ve seen you.”

Then he winked. I could see Ian realizing the simplicity of Charlie’s words come over his face, he said, “I thought I would have to pull the heavy weight of the ox cart, literally, by myself. But it wasn’t that literal was it?”

“Sometimes it is Govinda, You stand here ready to break the spell of ignorance. I think you’re not so unfamiliar with this,” Charlie said.

When she left she said, “The road to health goes through Samsara Hospital.”
To which Ian replied sarcastically, “Happiness all around.”

I worked at the factory while Ian was convalescing and got used to the schedule of cows, oxen and Ian. I did not worry about Ian that much. He hobbled around on crutches and with the right amount of time could go back to being as active as he wanted. I knew that, the Home Health Nurse knew that, but Ian would not. One day I was surveying the obscurity of the ox cart’s remains and felt an overwhelming hate. I wanted to roll it down into the canyon and set it on fire. It sat there big and strong untouched by the unfolding of Ian’s life beneath it. The right front wheel had a small chunk removed at the curve where the spoke unites with the wheel and lots of dried mud. I knew it was easily fixed but left it to Ian to do when he was ready.

The weeks passed slowly with Ian smiling more as he steadied on his left foot. He could not find a piece of wood to fit the small chunk on the ox cart wheel so he devised a new way to deliver the milk. He bought a thick three foot long wooden pole. He etched out a crosswise hitch and laid the bucket handles securely in the hitch, picked up the pole, laid it across his shoulders and behind his neck. It ended a few inches out past his shoulders and with the buckets bouncing off his hips as he walked with a lopsided gait, off he went to deliver the milk.

I heard about the milk delivery at work, one of the seamstresses saw Ian taking the milk to Mrs. Talon’s house. I was elated to hear he was out and anxious to hear about his day when I was able to leave the factory. It turns out Ian made all his stops and got home before sprinkles of rain could drench him, with no milk left to spare. He spent along time delivering as everyone knew of his accident and he spoke at length about his ordeal to the housebound ladies.

Many were surprised to see he would go back to delivering the milk and glad he did. I knew Ian had a few hurdles yet to mount, the ox cart and going to the monastery. I waited for Ian to see the first few days on his own before I would begin the push to making him whole. Walking the deliveries added more work to the day for Ian as he had to make more trips home for buckets. I tried talking him into purchasing a truck, he said, “It helps me to get used to my new wooden foot.”

He rode the bike one night and when he came back I saw him looking at the plastic prosthetic I chose. He showed me how the balls turned upon itself for good ease of use and how the foot part was like a ski. In another month we would probably have snow, I said, “It will work to your advantage to have a custom made ski on.”

He answered with a smile, “I have another advantage. I have less body parts to get cold this winter.”