Orbiting the Numinous Sensuality

Chelsea continued to gaze up through the gate that governed the little nook nestled on Grove Street. They had only been standing there for about ten or fifteen minutes basking in the glorious silence and the hum of the city thriving all around them. Chelsea felt as though they were in their own little bubble suspended in time and perhaps, space. The minutes they spent there stoically observing and reverently contemplating a kind of new found presence with each other felt like small little lifetimes marked with poignant anniversaries and celebratory memories. Introductions and synchronistic meetings, birthdays, pregnancies, motherhood, marriages, illnesses, births and deaths rolled up into a mound of sensitivities and quiet observances. The feelings welled up inside of her from an unknown place revealing the person standing next to her on the street. An artist. A talented painter with no idea how gifted she was. A warm body whose glow seemed effervescent and all encompassing. Chelsea’s analytical mind tried in vain to logically explain away the intensity. Perhaps she was projecting her hopes and wishes onto the most convenient person. Maybe her unquenchable drive to uncover the past had bled into the now and colored everything rosy. If she let her mind take control she might actively be able to control the rush and the butterflies. After all she didn’t really know Ashley. She interviewed her once and just because she had a notepad full of facts and dates and opinions about art did not mean that she ‘knew’ this woman. Lovers seem to know what their partner’s taste in food is, or what their fashion sense might be or the core of their moral fiber and system of values. This is what cements two people together. Was she a recreational drug user? Probably not, but how could she know. How was she in past relationships and what baggage is she carrying around, she thought? The questions and concerns that swam through Chelsea’s head had no real bearing on what was happening at the moment: Two human beings sharing a profound moment that included emotional memories from a past life and possibly embarking on some sort of relationship in the present. What type, she did not know. But the attraction was there and could not be denied. And though she was eager to do more research on Mr. Rhys she found his essence, his soul only an arm’s length away. She slipped her arm though Ashley’s and the feeling was constant and ebullient. Ashley’s face flushed and she threaded her fingers with Chelsea’s. It was so familiar it was uncanny. Chelsea had felt that sensation before with the same exquisite awareness. And even though she had no reference in her current life the feeling was palpable.

“Are you tired?” Chelsea asked quietly.

“No, no. Not at all. As a matter of fact I am wide awake.” Ashley replied and Chelsea could feel her hand tremble for a moment.

“Care to keep strolling?” Chelsea inquired.

“I’ll walk all night.” Ashley said and she sort of giggled. “No point in sleeping now.” She added.

“I don’t want to keep you up if you need to get home.” Chelsea said. And they stopped for a moment.

“I don’t need to be anywhere except here.” Ashley said and her gaze was intense and her eyes penetrating. They began to amble back uptown on Seventh Avenue noticing the various eateries and galleries and small theatres along the way. Chelsea often wondered why she chose midtown to live. She always felt it the center of where she must be. Perhaps it could be chocked up to some vague recollection of home. Even when she was younger, a teenager she knew she would move to New York and she knew she would live close to the crossroads of the world. She even went so far as to buy a street map of Manhattan and pick out the actual street and possible address. Her mother thought she was being silly and that the daydream would pass but it only grew stronger with time as she orbited ever closer to her destiny. She had chosen Thirty Eighth Street between eighth and ninth. It was a no man’s land and she felt like a settler amid the drug-addicts, musicians and actors that populated the area. She liked the rustic urban feel. It was gritty and real and quite possibly the remnant of a past New York slowly dying to the corporate invasion of Disney in Times Square. Soon the yuppies would arrive and gentrify the area. That was okay with Chelsea. She was always out and about never spending a lot of time in her place and the disappearance of the peep shows, titty bars and adult movie theatres were a welcomed change.

They climbed the fourth floor walk-up through a dingy hallway.

“I know it looks bad here in the hallway, but it’s safe. I know my neighbors.” Chelsea said and she realized that their hands were still intertwined as they moved through the corridor. Ashley didn’t want to let go.

“Um. Keys.” Chelsea said sweetly and she disengaged her fingers from Ashley who grew a bit self-conscious and put her hands in her pockets. They walked inside and the place was small but cute. It was decorated in muted tones: white, off-white, beige, tans and grays. The cupboards were old and made of pine with an oak veneer made popular during the seventies. Chelsea didn’t own the place so she made do with the cupboards. It was neat and utilitarian with a few stacks of magazines dotting the floor and filing cabinets. She had a double futon on an ergonomic frame. It was a place to crash and not conducive to lounging.

“I have some cookies---“ Chelsea offered.

“No thanks.” Ashley replied as she sat down on the generic looking couch. It had a tan colored canvas covering.

“Used to have a cat….Hence the covering.” Chelsea said and she set the kettle on the stove for tea. There were tatami mats and one repro oriental rug in the middle of the room. It was really a studio apartment with a bathroom and walk-in closet off to one side. One window looked out onto the street and the other opened to the shaft between the buildings. Chelsea went to a pile of papers on her Ikea desk and pulled out a few notes. She sat down next to Ashley on the couch and handed her the photocopied image of the tintype she discovered at the Public Library. Ashley took it and she gazed at it for some time.

“That’s Mr. Rhys.” Chelsea added.

“He looks…like he could be a relative of mine.” Ashley said slowly taking in his features.

“I know!” Chelsea said and her agreement revealed a growing attraction.

“We’re definitely from the same gene pool.” Ashley laughed.

“Definitely.” Chelsea said and the room grew quiet and the closeness they shared seemed to simmer in the midst of some unknown.

“He died of the Spanish Flu on September 11^th 1918.” Chelsea added breaking the chemistry a bit. Then she got up and opened the window to let in the evening breeze.

“I wonder where he’s buried.” Ashley said still gazing at his picture.

“Me too. I think I’ll try researching Green-wood.” Chelsea said. “That’s what the archivist told me.”

“Green-wood isn’t that far from my studio.” Ashley replied. “Why don’t you come out and see some of the new paintings?”

“I’d love to---when?” Chelsea exclaimed and her fervor was apparent.

“Tomorrow?” Ashley said without consulting her calendar.

“Tomorrow? Um, I have a meeting with the editor tomorrow. And I have to prepare for it.” Chelsea said deflated.

“How about the day after?” Ashley offered cheerfully.

“Sure. Let me call you to confirm, though.” Chelsea added.

“Well, thank you so much for dinner. I really enjoyed myself.” Ashley said getting up.

“You’re going to get a cab, right?” Chelsea asked.

“Sure.”

“You can take that with you if you like.” Chelsea said. Ashley folded the image carefully and stuck it in her small purse.

“Thank you---.” She said.

“I’ll walk you down and make sure you get a cab.” Chelsea stated and she threaded her fingers through Ashley’s again as they ambled down the stairs and spilled out onto the street below. As the cars whizzed by Ashley put her two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle.

“Ya can’t take the country out of the girl” She laughed as a yellow cab pulled up. Just as she opened the door Chelsea stepped in and for a moment it seemed as though a kiss was imminent. Ashley even leaned in and just at the last second it turned into the cosmopolitan cheek kiss of which Ashley had to grow accustomed to when she moved to the city.

“I’ll call you.” Chelsea said as the car began to pull away and Ashley watched her through the back window as Chelsea remained staring down the street at the disappearing car.

William Penn was thirty-eight when he left his native England for the new colonies across the Atlantic. They had spent months at sea making the crossing and although they had spotted land several days before they knew that the Dutch territory of New Amsterdam would be hostile to the boatload of Quakers arriving on American soil. So they skimmed the coastline until they found the mouth of the Delaware River. The King had granted William Penn 45,000 square miles of land set aside for Quaker resettlement. If England and Ireland could rid itself of these Quakers with their progressive and heretical views then everyone would prosper. Earlier settlers of the group had already bought west Jersey and set up their own colony. This land grant and charter made Penn the largest private non-royal land owner in the new world. With the agreement of Lord Baltimore the expansive real-estate began just below Jersey and just above Maryland. Penn along with his shipmates stood on deck observing the Delaware shore. The sun was fast setting and they would spend another night aboard. The captain extended his telescopic lens for closer inspection of the terrain. As the gentle motion of the sea undulated beneath them Unega with her stark white hair appeared through the glass. Behind her the wise and majestic visage of Tamanend and his tribe.

“Aboriginals, sir.” The captain said.

“Hostile?” Penn inquired.

Just then Unega lifted her arm with the saffron scarf as if to welcome the visitors.

“It looks as though…a signal…of sorts.” The captain answered.

“What kind of signal?”

“A wise woman. She’s waving a yellow scarf.” The captain answered perplexed.

“Quickly! Set a light!” Penn said excitedly. “We must assure them that we come in peace and modesty.”

“You there! Climb to the crow’s nest and set a light.” The captain ordered. Two deck hands scurried below for lanterns and oil. Another two were a few feet up the mast awaiting the glow. Penn watched the men as they deftly climbed the wooden poles way up high. He watched with childlike excitement as the lights flashed and the Indians continued to wave their colors. Later he went below decks and after the evening meal took a moment to write down his thoughts for the day in his diary: “It is a clear and just thing, and my God who has given it me through many difficulties, will, I believe, bless and make it the seed of a nation.”

Richard felt better with each passing hour. Victoria had found a few onions in the back of a bin in the pantry. They were old but they still had their flavor. She boiled them down and though it almost drove Richard to gag he drank the broth and ate the remnants. The house was filled with the pungent odor of the cooked bulbs. As he lay there in his sick bed he wondered if the roads were being cleared. Would anyone come to the house today? Most likely not since the manor was situated on farmland and people were aware that it was a seasonal abode. The only people who knew they were there were Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Watkins. He wondered how they fared through the storm? Were they trying to make their way to the manor house? Were the trains running? He propped himself up and even though he was still weak he felt restless. Victoria had ventured outside again to fetch more wood for the fire. The pile was dwindling and Richard knew they would either have to find their way back to the city somehow or start burning furniture. He wondered how high the drifts were and if the howling winds had shifted them. He got up with some difficulty and pulled on his trousers. He could not afford to catch another chill so he reached for his wool coat and draped it over him. Michelangelo whinnied loudly as if to reprimand Richard for moving. He felt as though the horse was in cahoots with Victoria and that the animal would tell on him.

“Shhhh!” Richard exclaimed. But Michelangelo whinnied even louder. So Richard ambled across the hallway and into the grand parlor. He drew back the great velvet curtain and was almost blinded by the crisp white snow glistening in the sun. The drifts that formed were otherworldly. He almost felt as though he were living on another planet. He blew on his hands to keep them warm and then shoved them into his pockets. There was something in one of the pockets. Perplexed he drew out a small calling card. Written across it was the name “Chelsea Barrett”. Underneath in a strong fine print were the words, “Freelance writer”. An address at the lower right read: 356 West Thirty-Eight Street Apt. #4F, New York, New York. Then on the lower left were a series of letters and symbols all run together that did not make any sense. Cbarrett27@mindspring.com Underneath were a series of numbers and dashes that looked like some kind of code. He could not remember where the card came from and how it got into his pocket but he could definitely remember seeing Chelsea in the Library. But it was Victoria. He was utterly confused. Something had actually happened that he could not fully comprehend.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Victoria asked with a hint of anger. She moved to him and took his arm. “Are you trying to tempt fate? You’ll catch another chill if you don’t rest and keep yourself warm.” She reprimanded as she began to lead him back into the small parlor.

“Do you know a Chelsea?” He asked.

“No, no, I don’t know Chelsea.” She said shaking off the question and determined to nurse him fully back to health. “Now take those wool clothes off and I’ll hang them by the fire. He undressed handing his coat to her and as he slipped off his trousers she saw him as a vulnerable naked boy lost in his confusing thoughts. The sight of him made her warm but she knew better than to lose her head. She covered him with several quilts and stoked the fire.

“What if we have a girl?” He asked softly. He was still wearing a bewildered look on his face.

“Do you want a girl?” She replied.

“I want our baby whatever it is.” He said softly. “What I meant is what name do you fancy for a girl?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” She said and the quiet settled down on them like a soft downy blanket.

The Persistent Path of Return

Lenni Lenape meant “original people” in the Algonquin language. All other Algonquin tribes traced their ancestry back to the Delaware area emanating on the Atlantic coast.  Tamanend felt his role deeply as one of the first peoples. Even though he was still relatively young he felt like a grandfather to the other tribes that thirsted after war and conspired to monopolize trade with the French and Dutch. He sat in the long house alone letting the smoke of the tobacco encircle him.  His thoughts moved and transformed as quickly as the rings that appeared and then dissolved into the air again.  His people had been decimated by smallpox twice, conquered by the Susquehanna and finally he found himself under the oppression of the Iroquois nation, of which the Cherokee being all powerful.  His meeting with the Mahicans had been a success and he brokered a deal between them and Rensselaer’s Fort Orange.  They all agreed that the Mohawks were a threat and allied to protect the territory.  Tamanend was born into a time of great change.  He did not know what it was like to live without the presence of white men.  The elysian fields of his ancestors were only a daydream to him now.  As he gazed toward the past waxing nostalgic he wondered if it really was a better time.  He tried with as much conviction as he could muster to create a positive environment for his people and the new emigrants that would keep coming.  One of Tamanend’s braves entered quietly.  He sat down next to the chief. 

“Where is Unega?” Tamanend asked.

“She is on the palisades.”  The brave replied.  Tamanend gazed at the man for a moment.  “The white men are coming.” He added. Tamanend stood and draped his deer skin about him.  Then he walked silently out towards the cliffs.  He could see Unega’s white hair in the fading twilight.  She stood like a sentinel governing the tides that brought change.  All the mothers and grandmothers hovered in expectation and, perhaps, trepidation as the English ship crept closer to land.  The women parted like a school of fish as Tammany approached, his slender tall dark figure moved elegantly through the evening air.  He stood beside the girl.

“The only survival is assimilation.”  She whispered. “Fighting is fruitless.”

“Our ways and traditions come from the Great Spirit.” He replied. 

“To pull someone up is to pull us all toward the Great Spirit.”  She answered.  “It is a part of samsara.  Assimilation without compromise.”  She was wise beyond years and he wrapped his arms about her.  She comforted him so.  The women buzzed like bees in a hive.  His demonstrative affection seemed to imply he might take her as a wife.  But his thoughts were that she would be well served to lead rather than to follow.  She pulled a bright yellow saffron scarf from her dress and held it high.  The wind caught it and it blazed in the last light like a flame.  After a few moments a small light in the distance appeared from the ship.  “If you are charitable then you will find release.”  She said enigmatically. 

“Release?” He asked unsure of what she meant.

“Release from all things you hold dear.”  She replied.

 

“Do you want dessert?” Ashley asked with a coy smile.  They barely spoke a word throughout dinner but seemed to take each other in as if communicating telepathically.  It was an odd phenomenon that Ashley had not experienced fully before.  She knew it existed but felt her sixth sense was underdeveloped. 

“Noooo.” Chelsea purred and she smiled and seemed to gaze at the floor.

“What is it?” Ashley asked.  Chelsea did not answer and she found it hard to keep her eyes focused on Ashley for any length of time.

“This is just so strange.  But…I can hear you talking.”  Ashley added.  “In my head.”

“Really?” Chelsea said and she could not stop smiling.  “What am I saying?”

“That’s just it.  I can hear you and I can understand you but not in words.  Something is lost in my translation of it.  It’s just…a feeling.  I guess.  That’s the only way I can describe it.  Like…like this entire restaurant and all the ambient noise and the traffic…disappears.  All I can hear is you.”  She explained and she stifled a giggle.

“What else?” Chelsea asked, her curiosity merging with fascination.

“Well…It happened that day when you came to interview me at the house.” Ashley began.

“The first day we met.” Chelsea said. And the way she said those words made the moment seem important and ripe with potential.

“Yeah.  The first day we met.” Ashley echoed and she paused a moment to swim in the blissful silence.  “I, uh…I remember being nervous and looking at the clock. But then when you arrived and we sat down I forgot about looking at the clock.  I remembered what the time was and…and then when you left it seemed so soon.  Like we had more to say to each other…But there wasn’t anything else to say because I didn’t really know you.” She explained.

“Like time stood still.” Chelsea said.

“Yeah.  Like time stood still.”  Ashley repeated and she gazed at Chelsea and her lithe frame, sandy hair and green eyes.  Outwardly she didn’t look very much like Victoria at all.  But something about her, the way she smiled.  The way she moved—even her walk was identical to the winsome lady in the white house. 

Chelsea looked just beyond Ashley and she thought perhaps someone she knew had entered the restaurant.

“Can we get the check, please?” Chelsea said and the waitress smiled and nodded. 

“Oh, um.  I guess you have to get back home.” Ashley said and she was preparing herself for their time to be over.  She pulled out her wallet and as she opened it she saw Chelsea collect the check and put a credit card on the tray.

“Too late.  Besides, I asked you to dinner.” She said and she grinned triumphantly as the waitress carried it away.

“Care to stroll to the village?” Chelsea asked and she leaned in close.  “There’s something I want you to see.”

With a quick scrawl of the pen the two women were out the door and walking down Ninth Avenue through the meat market. It was a warm spring night and the breeze off the river made the evening feel positively Parisian.  New Yorkers were out enjoying sidewalk cafes and lovers ambled arm in arm or holding hands.

“So what else did you find out?”  Ashley asked.  Chelsea slipped her arm through Ashley’s and they continued on cutting over on Thirteenth street to Eighth Avenue arm in arm.  Ashley felt that same rocking motion as if on a boat, the soothing waves gently moving in rhythm to her heart.  It was odd that they would fall into a familiarity so soon when they hardly knew each other but it was easy and natural and unbelievably sexy.  They strolled down the quiet block lined with brownstones and small black box theatres.

“I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this.”  She said smiling.  “I saw him.”

“What?  Who?” Ashley asked.

“Mr. Rhys.” Chelsea replied and the words shot like an electric jolt through Ashley’s body.  The gentle to and fro grew into a weird tsunami.

“But he would be over a hundred years old.”  Ashley said trying to reconcile it to herself.

“I know.  But I saw him.  Twice.” Chelsea admitted.

“Where?” Ashley said and they stopped for a moment.

“Once in the library and the second time in the pet store right over there.” Chelsea said.

Ashley was sure she was kidding.  A pet store?  No way.  That’s just outright ridiculous, she thought.

“Really?  What did he say?  Did he give you lotto numbers?”  She said giggling.  Chelsea pulled her arm away and the motion of it took the air out of Ashley.

“I’m serious.  I saw him.  There’s a picture of him in the library and then he made himself appear to me.  He said, ‘I told you I’d get well.’” Chelsea explained.  Then she took a few steps to hide a certain vulnerability that took them both by surprise.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to make light of it.”  Ashley said and she wanted Chelsea to slip her arm back through hers but she did not.  They walked on for a bit taking in the night’s activities.  Chelsea seemed to walk in a kind of dreamlike reverie her feet barely touching the ground.  It was in sharp contrast to the almost business like demeanor with which Chelsea seemed to approach everything.  Ashley was very much aware that some sort of veil had parted and an innate extremely private assurance was in the process of forming.

“I believe you.” Ashley said earnestly and they turned down Grove Street.  They stopped at the gate in the crook in the street and gazed up at the old apartment complex behind it.  Ashley stood transfixed.  A flood of feelings rushed through her that she could not explain.  She was from the South.  Things like fried green tomatoes and corn bread and wisteria vines made her cry.  Kudzu and humidity and sweet tea made her sentimental.  Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird and A Streetcar Named Desire made her nostalgic. New York was her present home but the South would always be home.

“This is where they lived.”  Chelsea said softly.  Ashley gazed at her new friend questioningly.

“Richard and Victoria.” Chelsea added.

She had probably been down the street before and walked past this very house and not truly taken it in.  It brought up the same feelings when she wandered into the great columned house in Brooklyn where Victoria worked and just then it dawned on her that Victoria had been an apparition and that she had experienced exactly what Chelsea had only she did not know it at the time.  She imagined with great clarity the rooms in that old townhouse.  The curtains, the wallpaper, the bedding---all the minute details and personal belongings bloomed as if being pulled from a trunk that had been stored away long ago.

Ashley’s eyes were moist and she felt like she could cry.  Not from sadness rather from discovering something profound and passionate.  She looked over at Chelsea who was lost in her own kind of reverie staring up at the old brick structure.

“I have an impulse.”  Ashley said softly as the two women looked skyward side by side.  Chelsea looked at her as if she already knew the answer. 

“But I’m not sure it’s right.” Ashley murmured.

“Right for whom?” Chelsea said.

 

As daylight broke Richard could see from his sick bed that the snow had stopped.  The sky had cleared and the great blue of infinity shined its light through the parlor windows.  The fire was full and warm and the quilts kept the chill away.  He was home.  More than any other place in the world he was exactly where he was supposed to be living the life he was meant to live and loving the woman whom he adored beyond words.  She was his muse in everything.  Victoria was his touchstone, the point of departure and the absolute place of return. He would paint her again and again and write about her and listen to music with her in mind.  He would learn photography and make images of her trying again and again to capture the mystery that lived just behind her eyes, He would lay down his life for her. 

He inched over to see Michelangelo shuffling about in the kitchen and he thought perhaps Victoria had gotten up to find something for the poor creature to eat.  She bobbed her head and her large dark eyes sparkled with the anticipation of being able to roam about someday and stretch her legs.  Then he saw Victoria as she deftly maneuvered around the animal.  She had wrapped the bison robe about her and seeing her adorned with the magical hide she was elegant and majestic and alluring.  She moved silently into the room carrying a cloth and bowl of vinegar that she set down beside him. 

“Are you too warm?”  She asked.  He shook his head ‘no’. He was mesmerized by her.  She let the hide fall away and she was magnificent in her bareness, her belly protruding and catching the new daylight.  She knelt down and slipped under the quilts beside him.  Then she carefully and tenderly pulled the quilt away from him exposing his exceedingly pale skin.  He was so white he almost looked gray.  His face had color and so she was aware that he was on the mend.  She gently bathed him in the vinegar to take away any leftover residue of sickness.  She was lost in her reverie engaging in every nuance of his body as if making a holy offering to each area: his chest his neck his upper arms.  Though the smell of vinegar was pungent it seemed to overtake the smell of sickness and stagnancy replacing it with a clean and disinfecting aroma. 

“I was eight.”  He whispered.  Victoria was roused out of her daydream and looked at him questioningly.  “The boat capsized.”  He said.  She stopped and propped her self up beside him, her creamy ivory skin a salve for his battered being.  “He said we were going to Inishmaan…but we sailed by it and kept going.”

“You’re Irish?” Victoria asked.  Richard nodded ‘yes’.  “Catholic?” She added.  Again he nodded ‘yes’.  Not that any of the information had an effect on how she felt about him.  She loved him with every fiber of her being.  But the discovery of not knowing exactly who he was seemed a bit unsettling.  “Long, long time ago.” He managed to say.  “I was the only survivor.”  He struggled, his voice growing hoarse with each word.  “Malachy—“ he started and then stopped to rest.  She let her hand gently glide over his chest.

“What about Malachy?” She ventured.

“He was the last to drown.  Slipped from my arms.” He said and the tears welled up and as he tried to stifle his grief his throat hurt and he began to cough. 

“Shhhhh.  Shhhh.”  She cooed softly and she collected the wet cloth and resumed her task.  As she wiped away his tears she felt herself shedding her own.  Then he gazed up at her and gently loosened a pin that held her hair back.  It cascaded down about her shoulders.  She let her hand rest on her belly.

“We’ll call him Malachy.”  She agreed and she let the sound of that name move through her as if calling to the unborn soul from above.  Ma-la-chy.  It was no longer a word but a kind of chant that had a divine component.  Every time the sound of the name would cross her ears her point of reference would be her child.  It was fixed in the Akashic records and even if they decided on another name or the child wanted to be called something else he would always be Malachy to her.

The Collision of the Perpetual Senses

As Richard entered the house just after Nell he was stunned to see Mr. Watkins sitting in the kitchen reading the paper with a cup of tea.  It was warm out. A fire in the kitchen made the house absolutely uninhabitable and sweltering.  A glass of ale would be the fitting beverage of choice Richard thought.

“Mr. Watkins, sir.  If you please.” He said.  Henry never looked up from his paper.  Richard found this disconcerting and was about to confront the head butler when he heard Nell yell out from down the hall.

“Leave him --- he can’t see you anyway.” Nell said loudly.  She walked quickly through the house clomping with her thick-soled shoes and made her way down the stairs to the cellar.  As Richard entered the basement all he found was Nell’s lifeless body lying on a door that had been taken off its hinges, a makeshift slab for the poor girl’s corpse.  A few candles had burned down and a Bible rested on the old wicker chair. 

“Nell?” He whispered but he was aware that she would not answer.  She was quite dead.  When he touched her she was as cold as the walls that preserved her.  It was all so strange.  He could see his own breath and he felt colder than he had ever felt before even on the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of the storm.  His fingers were numb and his forearms tingled with pins and needles. He wondered---hoped he was dreaming but as he turned to move up the stairs he saw his father standing there in the very same clothes he had drowned in almost twenty years before.  He shook his head from side to side.

“Da?” Richard murmured. Again the man shook his head.

“Ye have to go home, son.” He said.

“Home.” Richard repeated unsure what his father meant.  Did he mean Ireland?  London?  Or his country home in the flatlands?  He was at home here in Manhattan. It was all so confusing.  His head spun and his stomach felt queasy.

“To ye’re wife, sure.  She’s wretched with grief over ye.” He added. “This one.  She was your cousin.  A wee babe when we sailed for Liverpool, sure.” The information shocked Richard and he stood there for a moment trying to take it all in. 

“Such a pity, tsk, tks.”  The man added. The new scullery maid was a relation of his.  What were the odds in a country so vast with so many opportunities that little Nellie would end up working for her only surviving cousin.  He wondered if she ever knew. He gazed at her gray white face and colorless lips.  Her eyes had sunken a little and her hair was brittle now.  Her hands folded over her heart were stiff with rigor mortis and her rosary beads tucked just inside the palms with the crucifix neatly arranged on her abdomen caught a flicker of light from the stairwell.

“Have I died, da?” Richard asked softly.

“Not yet…Go home.” And the man turned and slowly made his way up the cellar stairs leaving Richard alone with Nell once again. 

 

Ashley arrived a little early to get a table near the window.  She didn’t like crowds and sometimes the restaurant that had been chosen could get overrun with trendy dinner patrons.  She had a slight claustrophobia that at times became acute when positioned in a corner of a busy eatery with people blocking her way to the exit or bathroom.  So she was a little high strung.  It only added to her list of eccentricities.  She tried not to dramatize it like other people in the family.  When she felt anxious she merely stated her discomfort and then attempted to quietly correct the perceived imbalance.  Either that or she would step outside to get a breath of fresh air until the anxiety subsided.  For Ashley it all came down to being fully engaged.  If she were not completely captivated by the people or the place or the moment then her innate sense of wonder took over and like divining rods searched for the person place or thing that could enrapture her.  However, her southern upbringing and stringent code of etiquette forbade her from being rude or inconsiderate of others.  Perhaps both sides of her coin were working at cross purposes and her panic resulted from a perceived coarseness.  She found her spot at the restaurant---a table in the window near the front door.  Perfect.  In case of a fire she could be one of the first ones out.  Ridiculous!  It was irrational and she knew it but she didn’t care.  She was too young to be old and the idea of mortality fueled her choices more and more as time marched on.  She thought perhaps she might be obsessive compulsive.  But that turned out to be wrong.  She didn’t wash her hands one hundred times a day and avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk.  Sometimes she’d forget to wash her hands altogether and go out in public with oil paint stains under her fingernails and in the crevices of her skin.  As for cracks she stepped on them and even walked on the steel grating that covered vents in the sidewalks, a dangerous exercise since at least once a month someone was falling through them and needing to be rescued.  There was a fearlessness about her in some areas of her life.  She was not safe.  And no one could say that about her.  She was trustworthy and comforting but not safe.  And she wasn’t boring either.  When she felt inclined she could engage in a conversation about anything and make it seem like the most fascinating thing on earth.  She was a good listener if the other person was willing to talk.  She could listen in silence as well summing up a person by the information they withheld and the way they carried themselves.  She could have been a detective but the mystery she was interested in solving was the universe itself.

She caught sight of a woman on the other corner across the street.  As the woman moved Ashley realized it was Victoria.  She wondered what Victoria was doing in Chelsea.  Maybe she lived in Manhattan and commuted to the huge white house for work.  She remembered she needed to make a note and scribbled down, ‘Call James, Peter and Felix about the columned house in Brooklyn.’  James and Peter were two artists from Texas she had gone to school with that now worked and flourished in New York City. And Felix was another Texan she had been engaged to briefly a few years before.  He was an investment banker but his life at work was more important than a relationship and so they agreed to be friends.  It was funny because Ashley saw more of Felix when they became compatriots than when they were a couple.  She would need all of the guys help to get the wooden Indian out of that house if it, indeed, were scheduled for demolition.  When she looked up again she noticed that Victoria seemed to be moving towards the restaurant.  Her gait was the same as earlier in the day even though she was wearing jeans. That same sensual pleasantness washed over Ashley as she studied her.  At that moment she realized that she had been watching Chelsea. Her face came into sharp focus as she made her way through the front door of the restaurant.

“Hi. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”  Chelsea said smiling as she slung her purse over the back of the chair.

“No, no. Not at all.”  Ashley said and she realized she was staring and quickly grabbed for her glass of water.

“You all right?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.” Chelsea said as she situated herself and picked up the menu to peruse.  Chelsea was nervous.  Her hands trembled a little and it was magnified by the paper menu she held.  It shook like a leaf in the wind.  As Chelsea caught Ashley’s astute eye she giggled and shrugged. 

“Low blood sugar.  I’m famished.” She said as she averted her eyes and set the menu down.  But Ashley knew better. 

“I have so much to tell you.” Chelsea said as she gazed over the entrée selections.

“So do I.”  Ashley replied.

“You first.” Chelsea said quickly.

“Well.  You know I said I had to deliver some baked goods to a friend in Brooklyn earlier.” Ashley began.

“Mmm, hmmm.” Chelsea murmured.

“A few weeks ago I went on the house tour in my neighborhood and I stumbled upon this huge almost southern plantation looking house with columns and everything.   And the woman who seemed to be with the historical society, I don’t know, she must’ve been a reenactor or something because she was dressed in Victorian garb, she seemed really troubled.  It was at closing time and so she asked me to come back and so I did and brought some cookies because I thought it would cheer her up and---“

“Aw, that was sweet of you.” Chelsea interjected.

“So when I went back earlier today she was there.  And I asked her what her name was and she said Victoria---“ Ashley continued.

Chelsea choked on the water she was sipping and she reached out and took Ashley’s hand.  And before she could speak that same feeling washed over her of her most fervent unknown wish fulfilled and a kind of unending joy and bliss but this time there was a physical element to it.  And as she gazed at Ashley still talking she could see that man, Richard Rhys that had appeared to her, in Ashley’s eyes.  Something clicked and that moment and the feeling and the emotions all locked into place as if something had lain dormant for twenty-seven years or even a hundred years.  She was awakened somehow.  There was an electric connection that gathered its power from some divine all knowing force.

 

“---And the park worker said the house is going to be torn down.” Ashley said softly.  And as the last bits of sound escaped her mouth she could feel Chelsea’s hand on hers.  Chelsea had stopped listening and it was evident that she was now searching.  Ashley could hear the hum of the intertwining.   And the waves of sensation began to roll through her.  It was that same feeling of being on the ocean.  The same sensation when Victoria had taken her hand to show her the Indian.  Yet it was no longer platonic.  In the ‘now’ it had become corporeal. 

“The painter.  Rich, Richard…uh, Rhys.” Chelsea stumbled. “He was married to Victoria Thornton.” Chelsea said and the words collided with Ashley’s ears like huge gongs and her heart raced and her face grew hot and she sipped at her water as if parched.  She was speechless.  And the two women sat there searching each other without a word maneuvering a maze that transcended time and space. Ashley saw Victoria and Chelsea stared into the current face of Richard Rhys.

 

His hands began to regain feeling. The pins and needles seemed to subside and he was no longer chilled beyond recognition.  He could feel warmth and with his eyes still closed he let his hand move across the wiry hair of the bison robe that covered him.  The sensation was soothing and reassuring and somehow luscious.  The crackle of the fire bled into his consciousness and the soft in out of her breath as she lay next to him made him realize that he was truly home.  Victoria shifted in her slumber and she gently laid her head on Richard’s chest.  He was aware that he was unclothed and he was ever more aware that Victoria had shed her bodice and skirt and various layers of underpinnings in order to lay skin to skin.  She was warm and her presence there was a salve for him.  Her incalescence brought him back from the edge of existence.  He knew he had not died but was hovering somewhere in between.  It was a place that he was curious to explore but the experience rendered him weak.  As his hand swept across the fur once again it made him tired.  His muscles ached as if he had been through some extreme physical ordeal and perhaps, he actually had.  One of her hands lay across his abdomen. He could feel her heartbeat and yet he was so frail his body could not truly respond to her.  Not yet.   But his heart bloomed as the quiet minutes passed lazily into the night.  The wind stopped blowing and he wondered if the snow had finally ceased.  He cocked his head a bit to find Michelangelo standing in the kitchen her eyes drooping idly about to nod off.  Victoria shifted again and her hand swept across his chest.  He caught it in his own hand and carefully threaded his fingers with hers.  Her eyes opened slowly, sleepily and he studied her carefully.  At that moment she looked like a little girl still swimming in her dreams.  She let out a soft sigh that held the weight of water.  It held all the relief and the worry and the breathlessness of hope.

“Richard?” She whispered and her eyes grew moist and she cupped his face and kissed him again and again and her tears made his cheeks wet.  Then she studied him in the firelight taking in every nuance and drinking in whatever magic had moved across them in the interim.

“I’m sorry.” Richard whispered and his voice crackled from phlegm and unconsciousness and dormancy.

“Sorry for what?” She asked a bit confused.

“Illness.” He managed to say.

“Shhhhh.” She replied and she put her finger to his lips and then sensually traced the outline memorizing them for times when they might be apart.  She got up slowly and he watched her lithe figure move like a silhouette against the orange glow of the fire.  She added more wood to the embers and stoked it until it caught and the flames grew ever higher.  She set the kettle on and another pot filled with water.  Then she pulled a quilt from the couch to keep her warm as she fetched a clean cloth to wipe him down.  She moved like a shadow into the kitchen where Michelangelo eclipsed her.  The equine’s ample form moving smooth like the shadow of the moon.  She reappeared carrying cloth and a ceramic container covered with something metallic.  Victoria’s face seemed perplexed. 

“Did you see this when you went through the pantry the other day?”  She asked.  Richard shook his head ‘no’ and he was truly bewildered by it.

“There’s a card here.”  Victoria discovered and she opened it:  For the Lady of the house.  I hope you enjoy this sweet little concoction and secret recipe from North Carolina.  I sincerely wish you happiness and joy.  Your friend, Ashley.

Then she smiled to herself and pulled the tin foil away.  The S’mores would keep them one more day from starving. She thought she was going mad but apparently someone did come to call.  Victoria was disoriented with exhaustion and she couldn’t quite remember one day from the next.  The blizzard and their forced internment seemed like one extremely long day and night. Someone knew they were there and left them something to eat and the idea of the reality of it astounded her.  Richard bit into the S’more and the sugar gave him a rush. 

“Very interesting.” He managed to say as he inspected the desert.  Victoria draped herself across him propping herself up on an elbow.  Her pregnant belly caught the flicker of the hearth and Richard let his hand trace the contour of their progeny.  His gaze drifted into an interior meditation. Images of his dreams pervaded and he wondered what was real and what was only a reverie.

“Tell me what happened to Malachy.” Victoria said softly.  And the memories rushed in with such a force that Richard felt himself rolling on the waves once again.