The Deep Blue Sea

Ashley stood transfixed. Invigorated. Inspired. Overwhelmed. Transported. Encompassed. The blue wrapped around in thick swirls. Impasto in places, thin and translucent in others. They were large. As large as the walls themselves. The crests of the waves, delicate and dangerous. The expanse of sea and sky, foreboding and liberating. She was in the water. She was under the water and at times gasping for air. It was if she was on Gericault’s Raft of the Medusa, yet abstract and personal. A kind of history was evident in the brush strokes. A memory of blue. A complex variety of hues. Aquamarine, turquoise, prussian, colbalt, indigo, azure, misty, cerulean, periwinkle, royal, robin’s egg, and all the other variations in between. Like a Rothko, the paintings held significance in deep places, a bit more representational like Anselm Kiefer and yet a series of canvas monoliths to rival Whistler and Picasso. Ashley was aware that the paintings were extremely important to art history and yet no one knew of them. Why?, she wondered. The pieces had numerous contemporary ideas and yet they were painted before the dawn of the twentieth century. They were masterpieces before their time and rendered Picasso’s revolutionary style and aesthetic as almost passé. They held the same importance as Manet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Bonnard and Vulliard combined.

The private gallery of the Tate was eerily silent. In that space Ashley heard no traffic or outside noise. No hushed whispers of museum employees or the far off shuffle of museum patrons quietly moving from one room to another. After a moment the silence was broken as Chelsea, stepping lightly, wandered in and stood next to Ashley.

“How did the interview go?” Ashley whispered.

“Fine. Mr. Hirst is a gracious subject.” Chelsea replied.

“How are you?” Ashley continued.

“I, I actually feel great. Thank you---How are you?” Chelsea asked a little tentative.

“That soup was amazing.” Ashley replied and fixed her gaze on the canvases again.

“They’re…really…overwhelming.” Ashley said softly.

“Uh-huh…Do you realize that you have the same depth, the same gestural strokes?” Chelsea asked. “The same use of color?”

Ashley just nodded her head in silence taking in the expanse of the work. Chelsea walked over to the title card. It read, “Tempest, 1895 New York Harbor.”

“It’s the Irish Sea.” Ashley said.

“No. It’s New York Harbor, says here on the card.” Chelsea corrected.

“It’s the Irish Sea.” Ashley reiterated confidently. Chelsea pulled out her notepad and scribbled something in it.

“Why are these hidden from view? Why aren’t they public?”

“I don’t know.” Chelsea answered. “Maybe they’re too big to guard…Maybe they’ve had incidents where a patron tried to deface or destroy it.”

“No…There’s something in these paintings.” Ashley said as she tried hard to deconstruct them in her mind.

“Like what?” Chelsea asked.

“Something sacred.” Ashley said and it was as if she were in a trance, her eyes fixed on the movement of the water.

“Here’s something I bet you haven’t seen yet. Look at the horizon---or horizon line.” Chelsea directed. “What sets the sky from the ocean?”

“Looks like a slightly different shade of blue.” Ashley answered.

Chelsea shook her head and looked around. “Don’t let the guards see you, but get up as close as you can to the line.”

Ashley stood up on her tiptoes and moved within inches of the painting. There, about the width of a human hair was a fine, straight line painted in brilliant cadmium orange.

“It’s an optical illusion.” Chelsea said.

“It makes sense. They’re complimentary colors. I do that often when I paint. It’s a part of theory.” Ashley said matter-of-factly.

“When have you ever seen orange in the ocean?” Chelsea asked.

“At sunset.”

“Then why not paint a sunset. That’s not a sunset.” Chelsea said.

“Maybe it was ‘his’ sunset…or moonset or, or maybe it is what it is. An orange line.” Ashley replied. “Sometimes a painter makes marks just because it satisfies something.” She stopped and stared at the tiny straight edge. It pierced her thoughts with more questions than answers. “I want to know why they’re hidden from the public. These need to be studied and written about and taught in textbooks and on the web. There’s a chunk of information missing from that entire humanity.”

“I agree.” Chelsea said softly.

“Whom do I talk to?” Ashley queried.

“I guess the Rhys Estate.” Chelsea offered. “That’s what you told me when you found the old pictures at the Frick.” Ashley turned back to gaze at the paintings. Again something flickered across her face and she pulled the orange scarf from her pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” Chelsea asked a bit surprised.

“The Indian woman…at the restaurant. She made the soup.” Ashley replied. She studied the scarf and then analyzed the tiny painted line. They were amazingly close in color. They may have even been the same color at one time but age and dust had altered the hue on the canvases over the ages.

Chelsea reached for the scarf and as her fingers made contact there was something so comforting in the fabric that it made her inhale deeply. It was like recovering a long lost baby blanket. The sensation, the smell, the color all brought about a sense of peace and joy. Ashley still held onto one end of the scarf and she felt oddly peaceful in a foreign place. She felt as though she was riding horseback even though both feet were planted firmly on the ground.

“Do you feel a little woozy?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah. A little drunk, almost. Do you think it was the soup?” Chelsea replied.

“I don’t know…I don’t feel bad…or ill. Do you?” Ashley asked.

“No, not at all. I feel…wonderful.” Chelsea said and her eyes melted into softness. Ashley thought for a moment that Chelsea might kiss her right then but her eyes revealed a sense of restriction and propriety.

“We should get you to a doctor.” Ashley said breaking their silence. “You should be properly examined to see if you really are pregnant.” Chelsea nodded and they moved to the entrance of the grand exhibition space.

“Before we leave we should find out who the executor of the estate is.” Chelsea said. They made their way into the grand hall and through the atrium. A busty woman of about fifty wearing horn rimmed glasses from the sixties greeted them on their way out.

“I trust your experience with the Rhys paintings has been fruitful?” She said in an odd British accent remarkably similar to Julia Child.

“It was an absolute treat and will round out my article for the magazine, thank you.” Chelsea said sweetly. The woman smiled proudly.

“He is one of the best kept secrets in London. We’re very proud of him.” The woman replied.

“Who is the executor of his estate?” Chelsea inquired.

“Oh, my. Well, em…let me see now…I believe it is the Rhys’s granddaughter. Chelsea Thornton Rhys.” The woman answered. Chelsea’s mouth nearly fell to the ground.

“Does she live here in London?” Ashley asked.

“Yes, well, just on the outskirts of London in Essex. But she is ninety eight and residing in a very exclusive assisted living home. It’s very hard to see her. She does not take many appointments.” The woman said.

“Do you have the name of the residence?” Chelsea asked.

“In my office.” The woman said cheerfully as she waved them along with her hand.

“I’ll drive.” Ashley said as the rental car official handed her the key.

“Remember stay to the left.” The man said pleasantly.

“Y’all do it the other way around, don’t ya?” Ashley quipped in her southern drawl. The man stared at her blankly. “It’s all right. We’ll make do.” She added.

“You think we can just show up without an appointment? Seems like a waste of time and money.” Chelsea said.

“Never know until we try…Just feed me the directions from your iphone.” Ashley replied. She turned the key, shifted the mini and off they went.

As they walked down the corridor of the very exclusive residence they both knew that the woman they wanted an interview with was probably worth millions. She had most likely been presented to the queen or may have even been an acquaintance in her youth.

“May I help you?” A snobby woman dressed in heels and Gucci glasses asked from behind the curved concierge island.

“Are you the nurse in charge?” Ashley asked innocently and she could feel Chelsea’s elbow in her side.

“Whom do you wish to see?” The woman purred.

“I’m so sorry to bother you but my name is Chelsea Barrett and I recently paid a visit to the Rhys mausoleum in Green-wood cemetery in New York.” Chelsea began.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman interrupted.

“I have some information for Ms. Rhys.” Chelsea replied.

“If you do not have an appointment I’m afraid Ms. Rhys cannot see you.” The woman said and she turned away to resume her computer work.

“The bill for the perpetual care is overdue. Now I’m sure it is an oversight by her accountant but I thought I’d handle the matter myself.” Chelsea said. The woman did not reply or even acknowledge Chelsea’s presence.

“Excuse me?” Chelsea said as Ashley moved around the island slowly. “What if I do have an appointment.?”

“I know you do not. Please leave.” The woman said without ever turning.

“Oh my God, you’re on facebook!” Ashley squealed. The woman fumbled to clear her screen. “You were on facebook and it is 4:42 London time. Gawd, I bet your supervisor might want to log on to see what you’ve been doing.” Ashley said sweetly.

The woman jumped up. “I’m very sorry but if you do not have an appointment I cannot let you in.”

“I seem to recall that these places like to start serving dinner round about five, you know for the sun-downers.” Ashley said in her thick accent. The woman stood silent and sheepish. “Why I think it is right nice of you to invite us to dinner on your break in the cafeteria. Thank you so much! We’ll just wait over here for fifteen minutes while you write out the passes and make sure we’re legit.” Ashley grabbed Chelsea’s arm and they sat down in two huge puffy chairs decked out in toile.

“You…are brilliant.” Chelsea whispered.

“I just cannot abide rude people.” Ashley stated. “There’s just no excuse.” And she threaded her fingers thru Chelsea’s as they listened to big band music being piped through the building.

Delilah was her name. She quickly wrote out the building passes for both Ashley and Chelsea. Then cleared her throat. As she handed the stickers to the women she said, “The story is we went to school together in the states. I was the foreign exchange student.”

“You look way older than us.” Ashley said.

“I was the ‘foreign exchange’ student.” Delilah replied emphasizing each word. “I will conveniently excuse myself to go to the loo for five minutes. You will get the information you need. When I return I will escort you from the building. We all understand?” She said in a snotty tone. Ashley and Chelsea nodded and they sauntered down the long elegant hallway to dinner.

After ordering a shank of meat---beef roast, roasted potatoes, overcooked vegetables and Yorkshire pudding Ashley and Chelsea took in the atmosphere. Gentlemen dressed in fine suits, some in wheelchairs, others on walkers and still others with excellent mobility drifted in an out of the elegant cafeteria dressed to look like a posh restaurant complete with wait staff and busboys. Elderly women wore their finest gowns and jewelry as if competing in a pageant, their hair ‘done’ in-house by the beauty shop as part of the compound.

“I feel woefully underdressed.” Ashley whispered to Chelsea.

“You are.” Delilah said pointedly. “That’s why you’re my ‘American friends’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ashley asked defensively.

“If you take offense by it then you must know.” Delilah said sweetly.

“Look. If you got something to say then say it ‘cause I won’t think twice about givin’ you a fat lip.” Ashley replied.

“Calm down.” Chelsea advised. “We’ll get what we need and then leave.”

At that moment an elderly woman was wheeled in and parked at a small table with another grand dame and gentleman. The waiters hustled by quickly and brought out their evening meal, complete with fine china, the most stunning silverware and pomp and circumstance to rival the Queen’s supper.

“That is Ms. Rhys.” Delilah whispered. “She will look about the room for me, wave and then continue her meal. After she waves I shall excuse myself. Please be brief and then get the hell out of my building.” She smiled. The old woman took in the room and when her eyes rested on Delilah she smiled kindly and waved as predicted. But something caught her attention and she gazed at Ashley for sometime. Her eyes registering recognition and confusion. Then she looked over and saw Chelsea and something made sense in her history. Her napkin fell to the floor as did some of her silverware. A waiter rushed to her table to inquire what the matter was.

“Did you know my grandmother and grandfather were coming tonight?” She said and her voice quivered with upset.

There Comes a Reckoning

Bi·lo·ca·tion: Spelled [bahy-loh-key-shuhn]–noun, The state of being or the ability to be in two places at the same time.

Dop·pel·gäng·er: Spelled [dop-uhl-gang-er; Ger. daw-puhl-geng-er]–noun, a ghostly double or counterpart of a living person. Origin: 1850–55; <>

Richard wandered the modern London streets trying to remember how to get to his East End Studio. He had a morbid curiosity to revisit his last place of residence before he fled with Victoria from Whitechapel and the Metropolitan police to the reasonably safe shores of America. As he walked at a clip he could not help but let his eyes drink in the marvels of motor vehicles, the lights that flashed seemingly everywhere and the intense cacophony of modern existence. London was a noisy place when he lived there more than a century before, but now the shrill sounds of contemporary life were deafening. They were the same sounds that seeped into his vivid dreams as he visited the New York Public Library in his delirious state. Large screens displayed moving pictures for the masses to see. It was hypnotic and not unlike the first kinetiscope he witnessed at an exhibition in the Cooper Union building. A gigantic Farris wheel rose up from the shores of the Thames like an iron cloud or all seeing eye. As he walked he could still feel Michelangelo undulating underneath him. It was a strange experience and he wondered if he looked like a drunk ambling through the neighborhood. He stopped and steadied himself against a light pole. It vibrated with power and sizzled with electricity. He looked up the thin aluminum monolith and found yet another eye gazing down at him. The gas lamps had been replaced with state-of-the-art almost science fiction looking halogen bulbs. He closed his eyes and breathed deep letting the air rest in his belly for a moment.

He was physically riding Michelangelo with Victoria wrapped in his arms. He could feel the winter air as it stung his nostrils but the bison hide kept them warm. Clip, clop, clip, clop, her hooves went creating a hypnotic rhythm that put Victoria and Richard into an extremely relaxed state. He opened his eyes for a moment and noticed the saffron colored scarf Victoria wore about her neck and shoulders. As his hands pulled her ever closer to him she stirred in the silence of the snow-covered landscape. The scarf radiated heat. He let his fingers move to the parts that made no contact and still the silk was infused with the warmth of summer, the warmth of a human body, the heat of the sun.

“Where did you get this?” He whispered in her ear.

“The old Indian.” She replied sleepily.

Suddenly it was amazingly clear to him. ANSA.

“The Statue…in the corridor. When it toppled I found the scarf in its base.” She added. “I think it is absolutely beautiful, don’t you?” She said half asking and half stating a fact.

“It suits you.” He said softly while his mind began to run through the potent images of his dreams. She settled further into his chest and closed her eyes. He thought that they could just as well be reclining in their parlor before a large fire. The cold and the wind did not affect them whatsoever. He looked down at Mr. Watkins as he struggled with the snow and ice-covered road leading Michelangelo to much needed shelter. Poor Mrs. Hopkins leaned into the wind to avoid being blown away altogether. She had wrapped herself in her wool outerwear so thoroughly that only her black eyes caught the sparkle of snow beneath the scarf and shadows of winter. They shivered and quaked as they made their plodding tracks and Richard realized that was exactly how he had felt on his journey in the blizzard only a few days before to find Victoria. He wondered what had happened that he did not experience what Henry and Miriam were experiencing now---in this challenging moment. Was it a state of mind or a state of grace? He looked down at the bright orange cloth and spied a small thread that had become disengaged. He pulled at it slightly until the minute string was completely in his hand. He stuffed it in his pocket and then took in another deep breath letting it rest in the pit of his belly.

As he opened his eyes again the loud sounds of London town crashed in on him. He felt dizzy and disoriented. His stomach tossed and he felt queasy. He held onto the light pole and breathed deeply once again and counted slowly in his mind reaffirming that he was on firm ground. He took his hand out of his pocket and the small thread of orange fell to the ground. In another place and time he would have dismissed the tiny fiber and walked on but that little orange string was his anchor somehow. As he bent down to reach for it he could feel his weight increase. The light of midday dimmed and a fog of brown and gray seemed to overwhelm him. Down around his knees he could see people standing on yet another plane reaching for him. They cried and whimpered and moaned. Others screamed familiar obscenities and threats in his Victorian lingo. Still other flitted in their dark morning coats and deerstalker hats for cover in the ever-darkening shadows. He felt as though he was momentarily existing in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of hell. Richard’s chest hurt and he felt as if he were full of lead. As he tried to straighten himself and stand erect he could feel the weight of a hundred or more people pulling at him to stay down. Ne’er-do-wells and malcontents he had seen when he lived in that neighborhood. Some were common thieves and gamblers, others were grifters and murderers and still others existed on a steady flow of evil. Were they specters? Were they just remnants of negative energy? Or were they, too, traveling he wondered.

A dark complected man with a full beard passed by and leered at Richard over his shoulder. He was dressed in the modern clothes of the twenty-first century and appeared Egyptian to Richard’s eye. Then another kindly man in a turban passed by.

“You all right, mate?” The Sikh asked in his working class English.

“I’m feeling a little sick.” Richard replied as he reached for the orange thread without success.

“Ah. Have you come from the absinthe bar?” The Indian chuckled.

Richard looked over and across the street was ‘Ye Olde Cock Tavern’, a place he had spent many drunken evenings in his youth. As his eyes studied the place from the height of his knees, the façade was grimy and dirty the way he last remembered it. Drunkards and sailors stepped in and out with just as many whores hocking their wares. Rats, horse droppings, vomit and general refuse littered the area. He could feel the Indian man helping him to stand upright and as he rose, the façade of the pub morphed into its present condition, a respectable public house with college students and businessmen stepping in and out. There was no garbage, no human waste, only diffused light from the cloud cover overhead.

“I, I dropped something.” Richard said breathlessly and pointed to the jumbled string on the ground. The Indian man picked it up and placed it in Richard’s hand. As he held it he could smell Victoria beside him and his heart grew buoyant and full.

“You are traveling far.” The Sikh said knowingly. Richard nodded out of habit

“Come. I shall take you to a little place where you can find nourishment.” The Indian said as he took Richard’s arm. They walked about the London streets and everywhere Richard gazed the ghettos and poverty of his memory had been erased. People walked about in American dungarees and undershirts with advertisements or words printed across them. Strange shoes and no head cover. Jackets made of the union jack and dark glasses. The buildings were new glass and steel facades. Gone were the dilapidated row houses and condemned brothels where thirty to fifty people might take shelter in a night.

“This place is a vegetarian restaurant---the best in the whole city!” The Sikh exclaimed. They moved toward an old storefront that had no sign.

“It is Mumbai cuisine. You will love it, my friend!” He added. The patrons were crowded around the simple wooden counter.

“You! What you like?” An old woman in an orange sari yelled.

“She’s talking to you, mate.” The Sikh said and gave a Richard a little nudge. As the woman came toward him parting the long line of customers in her wake he realized he had seen her before.

“What you like? What you order?” She said in her broken English. She was extremely old and her hair stark white. Richard unfurled his fingers and noticed the thread from Victoria’s scarf was the exact same color as the old woman’s sari.

“Something to settle the stomach.” He said weakly.

“You travel long way.” She said and her face was stony. She took his hand authoritatively and began to lead him down a long corridor. Odd Eastern style music played electronically through boxes mounted on the walls. Patrons crammed against the edges all sipped Thai tea or dug furiously into their take-out boxes with chopsticks.

The hallway opened up into a small dining area filled with Asian customers.

“Sit.” The woman said. Then she pulled a chair up to his table and sat down with him.

“You having baby.” She said and her stoic visage melted into a cheerful smile.

“Yes. Yes, my wife is expecting.” Richard replied.

“You in here the other day.” She said.

“No.” Richard countered.

“Oh, yes, you were. Only it look like Green-wood.” She said softly and her eyes were piercing and deep. As the words sunk into Richard, an awareness bloomed as epiphany through him.

“Ansa,” He said making the connection on more planes than one.

“The Sleeper Wakes.” She said laughing and she plucked the orange thread from his palm. He could feel a wave of panic rush over him for a moment. She untangled the thread and pinched one end. She motioned for him to pinch the other end. It was about eleven inches long. She pulled it taut like a tightrope.

“This the way.” She said enigmatically. Then she pointed to the sky above. “You awake now.” She chuckled.

“Am I awake here? In London?” He said nervously. “I was in New York…In America.”

“You in both places. Just like me.” She said and her eyes glinted with mischief. “I make you soup. Like I did before. It good for you.” She added and she clapped her hands and a bevy of cooks and kitchen help all moved in tandem to create the potion.

“I called to you.” Richard said softy.

“Yes.” Ansa replied.

“You appeared in a bison hide. You were American Indian.” He continued.

“Yes.” She nodded and smiled.

“But…now I see you and you are Hindu.” Richard observed.

“I am half Tibetan and half Lakota Sioux.” Ansa clarified.

“Ah. I see.” Richard said not really knowing what either culture was. Ansa studied him for a moment and her eyes seemed to puncture him to his core.

“When you call out to me from the snowy house.” She began.
“Yes?” Richard said with anticipation.

“I let that life die…for her. For you.” Ansa explained enigmatically.

“What are you saying?” Richard asked a bit uneasy.

“She…your wife….buried alive…in that house…under snow. She die.” Ansa said softly.

“No, no, no, no---She’s alive. She’s with me now. If I close my eyes and breathe deep she is riding with me. We’re on our way home.” Richard began to explain.

Ansa nodded in agreement to everything.

“But…you call me. I sacrifice that life so you can have Victoria. She alive. I give her my qi.” She said. “She alive with you now.”

“But that means you would be dead.” He said.

“In that life. I alive here.” Ansa tried to explain. “I am you.”

Richard was completely baffled. The old woman smiled knowingly. “You Ansa, only later.” She said and then she laughed. The aroma wafting from the kitchen was delicious. It was infused with coconut and spices.

“You come tomorrow and I show you who you are today.” She said.

“What?” Richard asked incredulous.

“I show you. You having baby.” She giggled. The woman from the kitchen moved around the counter and brought the plastic take-out bowl filled with soup.

“It make you feel so much better.” Ansa said.

As Richard pulled the container from its white paper bag the room lit up from the light emanating from the elixir.

“Am I to eat this?” Richard asked stunned. Ansa nodded. He took a plastic soupspoon, studied it and then dipped it into the concoction. He took a small sip and immediately felt better. He continued to sip at the soup while trying hard to understand the riddle Ansa had presented to him.

“If you gave your life so that Victoria could be with me. Then how am I you and you me? How are you here?” He asked.

“Because your love for her is all encompassing, you have unknowingly released me from samsara. I have reached enlightenment. I am everywhere. I am one. I am all.” She explained. “I am you.”

Triumph of the Will

The sky was a brilliant ultramarine blue. As his eyes traveled higher above the horizon the blue grew deep like a Prussian blue, like a blue black sprinkled with silver dust. He craned his neck and searched the pole star. The spin of the earth was not visible to the naked eye as he watched the brilliant diamonds above gleam in their firmament. He felt like he was floating and weightless. Once the sun drifted behind the shadow of the earth the brutally cold wind died down. He was surrounded by silence. The only sign of life was his breath as he walked towards the road cloaked in the bison robe. Steam rose off of Michelangelo’s back. Mr. Watkins and Richard had somehow maneuvered the large beast through the giant drifts of snow.

“This is where the carriage left off.” Mr. Watkins said in the stillness. The vertical drop from the surface of the snow to the actual earth was about ten to twelve feet. It was like trying to get a horse off the roof.

“What shall we do Henry? It’s too cold for us to be outside much longer.” Mrs. Hopkins said worried.

“We’ll follow the perimeter of the cleared road and perhaps there might be a slope for Michelangelo to get down.” Mr. Watkins answered.

“Or we leave her here and continue walking.” Richard suggested,

“We’ve come this far. We can’t leave her.” Victoria said adamantly. The light of the lantern cast a buttery glow across the snow covered fields. It seemed like a gestative moment. That quiet, pensive stillness when an idea or thought takes root and the magic of its very conception cloaks one’s entire perception with hope. ANSA. It was the name or word or incantation that seemed to take over Richard’s mind. It was the alchemical key to a profound theory that would change the way he moved through the world. He had been introduced the year before to a young man that was interested in social reform and became quite good friends with Victoria through the Fabien Society and William Morris. He would spend afternoons at tea in deep discussion with her about the changes needed so that society would no longer suffer and injustice be rectified. Victoria found him fascinating and since he was a blooming artist she suggested he spend a little time with Richard. The two or three times they met in Richard’s studio the conversation quickly veered away from art and painting to science and philosophical discussions. This young man had truly innovative and provocative ideas that resonated with Richard for quite some time. It was their last meeting when Mr. Wells confided he was working on a story, a manuscript, that he hoped Victoria might help him publish, called “When the Sleeper Wakes”. About a man who sleeps for hundreds of years at a time and wakes up in different time periods with skyscrapers, automobiles, aircraft, calculators and a machine that works like the human brain. His bank accounts remained intact and because of the interest accrued he wakes up the richest man in the world. The idea of time travel had always fascinated Richard and he wondered what the spiritual ramifications would be if it was truly possible. His recent illness and the vivid dreams made him question whether they were hallucinations and idle musings or if he had, indeed, been someplace else. Chelsea’s business card was some sort of proof. There was no explanation for it. The name ANSA and the Indian woman with the white hair felt more real than his actual existence and so as they trudged in the cold silence he committed himself to the idea that he had indeed left his own body and traveled through time and space. It was the only clarification he had for his fervent pleas to keep Victoria alive during this little month of death.

Finally there was a break in the steep line of the snow drifts and Michelangelo was able to slowly and methodically plod her way down to the solid ground of terra firma.

“’Tis about a half mile to the next carriage house or even the next property. Mrs. Rhys, you should ride.” Mr. Watkins suggested as he stretched out his hand to help her mount sideways.

“Mr. Rhys is not at all well.” She said with a hint of worry.

“I’ll be all right.” Richard replied. “Mrs. Hopkins should ride,”

“No, no, no. I am not comfortable on horses. I insist on walking.” She said as she backed away nervously from Michelangelo. Mr. Watkins threaded his fingers to make a human stirrup and Victoria pushed her way up the side of the animal and found her balance in the curve of its back. She motioned for Richard to join her.

“Please.” She cooed softly. Richard nodded.

“Do you mind terribly, sir?” He asked as Mr. Watkins threaded his fingers again.

“Not at all, sir.” He replied. Richard straddled the animal and sat behind Victoria. He pulled the heavy bison robe around him so that it covered Victoria as well. His arms encircled her waist and rested there near her pregnant belly. She leaned into him as if breathing a sigh of relief. And somehow he felt complete. Everything was in its proper place. Manhattan seemed like it was a million miles away and the cold made it feel ever farther. As they walked through the silent snowy fields the moon cast an ethereal glow over the entire landscape. Richard looked up and let his mind wander. The Christmas tale infused his spirit and he wondered what it might have felt like for that iconic first family to trek across the wintry desert into Egypt. They were perfectly warm and content on the back of Michelangelo. Victoria closed her eyes and all worry and concerned drained quickly from her being. Richard could feel the warmth of his progeny moving slightly within her. And his emotions spiked and he could feel his eyes water and a sense of intense gratitude move through him like an engine. He could not wait for his child to be born. His excitement and anticipation drew him ever closer to her. The rhythm of the horse's gate became hypnotic and Richard let his thoughts drift. He gazed up at the pole star directly overhead and he imagined that there was an exquisitely thin silver string that connected him to that far away light. And maybe that thin silvery string was really a railway of sorts with stops in different times and dimensions and perhaps even planets. He had wondered what life on the moon might be like. He had read Jules Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon and from that moment had always been intrigued with space and science. He had read in an article that scientists were trying to devise an elevator similar to the one in the Cooper Union building to reach to the moon. He noticed that Victoria had fallen into a slight sleep and he wrapped himself ever tighter about her. He gazed at the expanse of the heavens and he questioned that if he concentrated hard enough he might be able to throw himself into a different time and place. He might just be able to project his being just like in his dreams. So he closed his eyes and he held the image of Chelsea in his mind for a moment. He drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment and then connected it to a slow deflation from his lungs. Suddenly he found himself in the Savoy Theatre in London. He had been there many times before and had actually performed in one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s light operas. He walked down the corridor and found people scantily clad in half trousers, half shirts with no ties or coats and dark spectacles. They were a strange sort and spoke an unfamiliar dialect of English. The décor of the place had been stripped to the minimum. The theatre space had vanished and as he gazed out of the windows he beheld Mr. Wells’ glass skyscrapers and horseless carriages. He was in the future. It wasn’t a dream. He moved down the corridor as people turned to stare at him and through what looked like a futuristic dining hall. There at the window he saw her. Chelsea sat with a young man in intimate conversation and she was vivid and alive. By the looks of their conversation he grew increasingly deflated and decided it inappropriate to interrupt her. So he moved quickly past and wandered into the grand foyer of the building.

“May I help you?” The concierge asked cheerfully.

“No, thank you. I’m on my way out.” Richard replied and he tipped his hat kindly as he dashed off into the London street.

Ashley stood across the main road that ran in front of the historic hotel. She held the Indian soup in her hands and noticed Chelsea sitting with a man at a table in the restaurant. Something seemed peculiar so instead of crossing with the walk signal she stood sentinel studying the intimate conversation the two were having. Something inside her broke. She was confused and perhaps jealous, possessive and angry. She thought that Chelsea was into her. She certainly acted like a girl in love. She even said so more than once. So why was Ashley having these feelings that she was somewhat ashamed of, she wondered. They never talked about exclusivity so perhaps Ashley misunderstood the natural evolution of their budding relationship. She felt like a fool for a moment. What was the real purpose for their trip to London? Was she just a passing fancy? She began to question her own judgment and her ability to see reality. She was starving and the soup smelled delicious even though it was the Fourth of July weekend and London proved to be just as hot and humid as New York. She couldn’t go to the room because she didn’t have a key card and she didn’t even know what room they were in. Maybe she should find a park bench and eat her lunch there. On second thought it was too hot so she decided that she’d wait in the lobby of the hotel. She crossed and entered and as she walked past the elevator bank she saw a man dressed in Victorian clothing holding a top hat. He was extremely handsome and as their eyes met briefly in their passing a shot of recognition and a jolt of energy like two magnetic bodies engulfed Richard and Ashley. They could not break each other’s gaze and the moment was infused with a kinetic spiritual revelation that momentarily took their breaths away. She watched as his presence disintegrated into thin air and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was no ghost. He was real flesh and blood and he was made of the same spiraling fluid as she. As he faded from view Ashley turned and saw Chelsea standing there in the hallway wearing an expression of disbelief. Ashley just stood there holding the medicinal in her hands and before she knew what was happening Chelsea stepped towards her and kissed her. She was stunned. Tourists and business people passed by them in their amorous embrace mumbling under their breaths, ‘I thought gay pride was last month.’

“Who do you think I am?” Ashley asked innocently when their lips finally parted. Chelsea was speechless, unable to answer for some time. “I don’t mean it in a judgmental way at all. I’m just curious and I want to make sure I’m not mistaking what it is we are together.” She said awkwardly.

“You saw me having tea with Scott.” Chelsea said. Ashley nodded.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asked and she couldn’t help feeling a little helpless.

“Because I thought it would be good for you.” Chelsea replied.

“Good for me in what way?” Ashley pursued.

“For your art.” Chelsea said innocently. Ashley nodded half-heartedly and began to turn away.

“It’s not what you think.” Chelsea said.

“That sounds so trite.” Ashley quipped. “How do you know what it is I think, and how can you condescend to know what is good for my art.”

The words stung. Chelsea was wounded to the core. She never expected such a turn of events and now she found herself in the middle of some melodramatic situation for which she had no adequate explanation.

“Can we go upstairs and have our soup in private.” Chelsea asked.

“I would like my key card, please.” Ashley said emotionless.

“There are things that I did not realize until today---until just a few minutes ago that are forcing me to reevaluate---“ Chelsea began to explain. Ashley took her key card and handed the soup to her friend and began to walk away.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t. Just hear me out. I don’t expect you to understand. Just hear the facts and then go.” Chelsea said and her eyes welled up.

They rode the elevator in steely silence. Chelsea unlocked their suite and set the take-out on the table. Ashley stood near the door with her arms crossed.

“Why did you kiss me just then?” Ashley asked coldly.

“Because I wanted to…Because you kissed me in front of all those people outside before and I wanted to make it up to you.” Chelsea explained weakly.

“It’s pretty clear you don’t feel as strongly about me as I do about you.” Ashley said defeated.

“And how strongly do you feel?” Chelsea asked.

“I thought you knew.” Ashley replied. “My bad. Never assume. Even when the actions seem to fall into place. My mother always said ‘when you assume you make and ass out of u and me’.”

“I love you.” Chelsea said bravely. “I will always love you.”

“Why?” Ashley asked.

“Because you make me feel unlike anyone else. You make me feel nervous and vulnerable and ecstatic and loved. You make me feel attractive when I don’t quite measure up. You give me butterflies. You excite me and inspire me. When you’re gone I miss you so much it hurts--- more than anyone else I’ve ever known.” She said and her chin quivered with the unavoidable tears she would begin to shed. Ashley softened. She couldn’t be mad at her no matter how hurt and betrayed she felt.

“I’m pregnant.” Chelsea confided suddenly. The words exploded like a bomb and shattered everything Ashley had built up in her heart and mind until now. The rosy illusions of love broke into a million pieces and the weighty soulful reality of flesh punctured their circle of intimacy. Ashley sat down slowly on the bed.

“Him?” She stated. Chelsea just nodded.

“It was a while ago --- before I got to know you. Before I fell for you.” She tried to explain. “I didn’t even remember it happening. We were at a party together and one too many drinks led to a forgotten night of drunken sex.” Chelsea tried to explain. Ashley felt like she was in some Judd Apatow film. She felt strangely generic and culturally devoid of value. She had been caught like a fly in the web of mediocrity and predictability. She felt inescapably bourgeois.

“I don’t know what to do.” Chelsea said through a flood of tears.

“Well what do you want to do.” Ashley said softly. “Take me out of the picture for a moment.” She never made eye contact. She felt like a cuckold.

“I want to be with you.” Chelsea said calmly and she held out a fist of British money. Ashley looked up for a moment and then realized that Chelsea was willing to have a procedure in order to rectify her life.

“How do you know for sure?” Ashley asked concerned. Chelsea disappeared into the bathroom for a moment then reappeared with two home pregnancy tests that glowed positive blue crosses, a strange irony in the midst of confusion.

“Maybe you should see a doctor.” Ashley suggested. “Those things aren’t necessarily accurate.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Chelsea said as she dissolved into tears again.

“Of course you didn’t.” Ashley said tenderly. She moved Chelsea’s hair from her eyes and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“You should eat something…I’m totally famished.” Ashley said as she pulled the soup with a slight coconut aroma from its paper bag. As she uncovered the plastic bowl the soup was infused with actual light. Ashley seemed astounded and confused because it was bright white like winter sunlight on freshly fallen snow.

“Are you sure we should eat this?” Chelsea asked nervously.

“Yes.” Ashley said definitively. “Absolutely.”