A Key to Paradise

by Barry Rachin

  Grace climbed the stairs and entered her daughter’s bedroom. Angie was curled up on the bed reading a paperback. On the cover of the book was a picture of a bearded Hindu poised in full lotus position. A chalkboard hung from the mystic’s neck by a piece of string. “Is that required reading, or are you off on another weird adventure?”

  With the breakup of her parent’s marriage, Angie developed a spiritual wanderlust. There was a short flirtation with Mary Baker Eddy and the Christian Scientists. Trips to a musty reading room on Huntington Avenue and an occasional Sunday service—that lasted a sum total of three months. Later Grace found several Hari Krishna brochures wedged under her daughter’s bed. They were wrapped in a furry tangle of dust bunnies. She never broached the issue.

  More recently, Angie had gone off with a friend to spend the weekend at a Sufi commune in upstate New York. The teens drove the entire length of the Massachusetts Turnpike, through the scenic Berkshires crossing over the state line heading westerly toward the Catskills. Nothing came of that either. There were no metaphysical earthquakes. The girl returned from the land of the whirling dervishes with a bad case of diarrhea and craving for junk food. Angie threw the book aside. “I’m hungry. Could you make me a crazy omelet?”

  In the kitchen Grace cracked a couple eggs and scrambled them briskly with a fork. She diced some sweet onion together with green pepper and warmed them in a pan until the translucent onions turned pearly. While the vegetables were cooking she laid a row of sliced pepperoni on the edge of a plate and opened a bag of cheddar cheese. Angie hadn't mentioned the letter from the court and that was good.

  “Gina Grabowski accused the gym teacher of trying to look down her blouse while she was tying her sneakers.”

  “Really!” She added a dash of salt and pepper. When the vegetables were sufficiently caramelized, Grace slid them directly from the pan into the egg then poured the batter back into the pan. She drizzled the cheese over the egg, topping the concoction with a layer of pepperoni. When the egg began to sizzle, she added a splash of water and covered the pan, steaming the omelet. That was the trick. The bottom never burned and it came out perfect every time.

  Grace could imagine a half dozen over-sexed male teachers who might (the operative word here was ‘might’) ogle Gina Grabowski’s smallish boobs, but the gym teacher was not on the list. Kurt Smiley was a deacon at Saint Phillip’s Church and taught CCD classes two nights a week. Grace lifted the lid. A cloud of sweet smelling steam floated toward the ceiling. She folded the sides of the omelet toward the middle, added another tablespoon of water then lowered the lid.

  “As I recall, Gina accused a male teacher of a similar indiscretion last year.” The spicy odor of the pepperoni and cheddar billowed through the kitchen. She slid the egg onto a plate, placed a dollop of sour cream on top of the omelet then rounded off the creation with a splash of mild salsa.

  Angie was big boned with a fleshy nose and bronze complexion. Not pretty in the traditional sense but attractive, sensuous even, in her quirky, understated way. Grace bore little physical resemblance to her daughter. She had a reasonably good figure, but you would never know it by the way her clothes hung on her angular frame. Her hair was dark and straight. She never knew what to do with it. If she grew it long, the wispy strands hung limply. An act of desperation, she had her stylist trim it short over the summer. The page boy was suppose to make the lanky woman who turned forty on Tuesday look mod, hip, svelte, cool—not like Tinker Bell in a midlife crisis. Over the years, the body had seen a bit of wear and tear—a handful of birthing stretch marks around the lower belly and, more recently, a smattering of crow’s feet about the eyes. The not-so-subtle indignities of aging. “This is wicked good!” Angie smeared more salsa on what was left of the omelet. The oils from the pepperoni bled into the egg staining it with an orange glow.

  “About the book,” Grace pressed.

  “It’s no big deal!” Angie said abruptly, showing no willingness to pursue the matter, but after a moment she added, “The swami got disillusioned with the material world and took a vow of silence.”

  “Language being corrosive to the spirit,” Grace added.

  “He communicated by scribbling brief messages on a chalk board then, after a couple years, announced that he’d put away his chalkboard and begin speaking again. But when the moment arrived, he had a change of heart, went into spiritual seclusion and never spoke another word for the remainder of his worldly existence.”

  Grace squirted a stream of dish detergent into the sink and let the water fill. “You’re not planning…”

  “Cripes,” Angie exploded, “it's just some dopey book!”

  Grace tapped her daughter on the wrist. “Are you packed for the trip?”

  “All set.” Angie rose from the table and began putting food away. They were only taking the bare necessities - a couple changes of underwear, towels, sheets and a few cosmetics. There was no one Grace had to impress on the island. She had budgeted the trip as down time - a chance to decompress, recharge her emotional battery.

  “The Village Idiot got kicked off the school bus,” Angie said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

  The Village Idiot was Dwight Goober, a twelfth grader who lived two streets over. He’d been in trouble with the law since elementary school when he defaced the brand new playground at Lexington Park with graffiti. Dwight, who always struggled with academics, couldn’t even get the spelling of the four-letter words right. That’s how the police knew it was him. Who else could be so dimwitted? And he readily admitted vandalizing the playground as though it was a badge of honor. The court put him on juvenile probation and his mother had to pay a fine. Over the years his penchant for petty crime and mayhem reached legendary proportions.

  “What did he do,” Grace asked.

  “Punched a kid.” Angie pulled on a wind breaker but thought better of it and switched to a warmer jacket. She stuffed the windbreaker in her overnight bag. “Ellen Barrows.”

  “Nice girl. What about Ellen?” Grace asked distractedly.

  “Ellen Barrows —that’s the girl Dwight clobbered.

  Grace retrieved her car keys and checked the time. She hoped to reach the Cape Cod Canal before sunset. “You didn’t say he hit a girl.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Angie grinned but it was not a particularly pleasant expression. “When they passed out brains, Dwight thought they meant ‘trains’ and said ‘I’ll wait and catch the next one’.”

  “The Village Idiot has to live in Brandenburg.” Grace set the security alarm and they went out the door.

 

  ******

  The drive to Cape Cod was uneventful. Few people were heading south this late in the season. The maples and oaks gradually gave way to scrub pine rooted in bleached soil. A huge hawk sat far up in a tree just outside of Fall River. As they sped past, the bird spread its massive wings and flew off to the north, on an updraft of frigid air lifting the bird high above the earth.

  “Your father’s stopping by to see you Tuesday,” Grace said. The predatory bird had nudged her memory, a free association of sorts.

  “Whatever.” Angie curled up in a fetal position next to her mother with her knees jammed up against the dash. They reached the Bourne Bridge that took them across the waterway in record time. Halfway around the rotary, they picked up route 6 that meandered all the way to Hyannis, where the Kennedys lived and, still further north, to the gay and lesbian populations of Provincetown.

  Grace spotted a diner up ahead. She must have traveled this route a hundred times or more and never noticed the brown, clapboard structure. A dozen cars lined the front of the building. “Hungry?”

  “Not really, but there won’t be any food at the cabin.”

  Grace pulled the Volvo off the road into the parking lot. Most of the patrons were Indian. Some wore braided hair and cowboy shirts. One man with prominent cheekbones sported a string tie fastened with a turquoise clasp. All the customers seemed to know each other. Behi
nd them, the door opened and more smiling Indians straggled into the diner. “Mashpee,” Grace spoke softly. “They’ve lived in this region for centuries.”

  These were the descendents of the legendary Indians who greeted the Pilgrims when the first settlers arrived in Massachusetts in the early 1600’s. The Wampanoag Tribe presently numbered about 1500 on the Cape. Each July 4th they joined with other tribes from across the country to celebrate their traditional customs, folklore and dance. Grace and her family had attended the Mashpee Wampanoag Powwow often when she was a young girl. They feasted on fried dough and clam cakes, listened to the tribal drumming and chants. The highlight of the three-day event was the fireball contest held at dusk on Saturday night where a flaming, kerosene soaked rag ball was kicked and tossed about in an attempt to score points. Soccer with a decidedly homicidal flair!

  The restaurant smelled of fried clams, coleslaw and fresh-ground coffee. They found a booth near the door and the waitress, a dark-skinned woman with a braid of hair that hung down to the small of her wide back, took their order and hurried off.

  “How we mistreated the Indians is a black mark on American history.” Grace said. “Trail of Tears, Little Big Horn, the Seminoles in Florida - all a part of our shameful past.” But only fifteen minutes later, Grace leaned forward and whispered, “Angie, didn’t you order a cheeseburger with fries?”

  “Sure did.”

  “That fellow with the cowboy hat came in ten minutes after us and he’s being served a cheeseburger with fries.”

  “With my tossed salad and blue cheese dressing,” Angie rested her chin on the edge of the table and blew out her cheeks in protest. “This stinks!”

  The waitress came out of the kitchen with a spaghetti dinner, which she place in front of a man seated at the counter. The pudgy waitress freshened his coffee then began a leisurely conversation. “That fellow,” Angie was furious now, “came in no more than five minutes ago. How do you figure it?”

  “Trail of Tears, Battle of the Little Big Horn, the Seminoles in Florida,” her mother replied. “It doesn’t appear they’ve forgiven past indignities.”

  Grace’s blood was beginning to percolate. An inconvenience was one thing. What if they had no intention to serve white people? She could complain, draw attention to the fact that half a dozen customers who arrived after they did were already eating and maybe—hocus pocus—the food would suddenly appear. Or maybe, out of shear vindictiveness, the cook would push their order back by another half hour. Grace wished she had a kerosene-soaked rag ball to kick toward the front of the restaurant.

  The food arrived. Arranging the plates on the table, the round-faced waitress smiled. It wasn’t so much a nasty smile as one of bland indifference. Cheeseburgers and fries. The fries were burnt and greasy; the burgers undercooked.

  “Well, we’re off to a good start,” Angie muttered.

  ******

  Back on the road they picked up route 151 heading east and entered the outskirts of Mashpee. The sun was almost down. “Bastards!” Angie spit the word out, an explosion of hatefulness. “Stinking Indians!”

  Grace wasn’t quite sure how she felt. Were the Indians to fault or was it just the same old same old? Another drop in the never ending pitter-patter of life’s disappointments. Too many shitty experiences like the Mashpee diner cobbled together with a never ending mishmash of false starts and shattered dreams could wreck your faith in humanity. In recent months, she felt her purpose in life frittering away and that frightened her. “Those Indians made us cool our heels and the food was crap.” Grace spoke without rancor. “Lesson learned. Next time we visit Mashpee we don’t break bread with the Redman.”

  Finally they reached the causeway that connected the island where the cabin was situated. “What the heck is that?” Angie pointed to a large bushy object perched on top of a telephone pole. The pole was forty feet tall and tilted at a queer angle. A short, chirping whistle filtered down to the marshy wetlands.

  “Osprey nest.” Grace replied. With their white breast and belly, Ospreys were one of the largest birds of prey in North America. The wingspan alone could reach well over five feet. “Osprey feed almost exclusively on fish,” Grace explained. “The birds are protected under the endangered species act. And with good reason.”

  A large bird suddenly appeared, soaring in from the bay and landed on top of the rickety structure. “They look like they can fend for themselves,” Angie replied.

  Grace shook her head. The species had gone into a steady decline since the early 1950’s due to pesticide poisoning. But after the ban on DDT, the massive birds bounced back. They built their nests frequently on manmade structures like telephone poles, duck blinds and even channel markers.

  Grace eased passed the pole on the thin slip of roadway and found the cabin a short distance nestled between a row of holly and slender birch trees. What little light was left quickly bled out of the sky and the New England night arrived serene and darkly beautiful. From the upstairs bedroom they looked out over a calm bay. Too far away to be seen, the island of Martha’s Vineyard rose out of the Atlantic waters due south. Nantucket, the former whaling center, sat only a handful of mile off to the east.

  The women quickly arranged the linen, washed up and got ready for bed. Angie shuffled into the bedroom barefoot. She kissed her mother’s cheek. “I didn’t mean what I said about the Indians.”

  Grace sighed and pulled her daughter close, rubbing the nape of her neck. “The strangest thing happened to me today.” She pulled Angie down on the side of the bed next to her and told her about Carl, Pushkin and the amboyna burl box.

  When she finished, Angie asked, “What else do you know about the guy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “A regular mystery man.”

  Grace blinked. That was the same thing the receptionist, Pam, had said. “For the time being, yes.”

  She squeezed her mother’s hand. “I’m tired. Goodnight.”

  When she was gone, Grace thought, “A thousand questions in search of a thousand and one answers.” It was an old Arabic saying she had read somewhere, possibly in graduate school - the implication being that a person, no matter how sincere and earnest, can search a lifetime and still come up short. Grace listened to her daughter’s steady breathing. Deep, serene and unencumbered. The sleep of a youth with little to no excess emotional baggage. As tired as she was from the drive south, Grace hovered on the edge of sleep but could not slip across the threshold. Some bit of unfinished business?

  Wait. She did know something else about the enigmatic Carl Solomon. But it was really only more of the same, one more bit of ephemeral nothingness. A thousand-and-one questions in search of a thousand-and-two illusive answers.

  A little more than a year ago, the teachers at Brandenburg were negotiating a new contract with the school committee, and the meetings were going poorly. In December just before the holidays, a number of staff refused to attend a parent-teacher conference. The act of defiance, which was written up in the local press, backfired and was interpreted as a slap in the community's face. Many parents who previously were sympathetic toward the teachers, felt betrayed. Between the staff who attended the conference and those who stayed away, a rift developed; best friends were no longer on talking terms, and an ugly mood settled over the school unlike anything Grace could remember.

  She saw little of Carl during this time. He seldom ate his lunch in the staff dining room and was either working snow removal or doing repairs in some other wing of the building. One afternoon when the children had been sent home on early release, the janitor's helper came quietly into her classroom. He walked with the weight of his body far back on his heels - the strong, earthy gait of a man used to doing heavy, physical labor. His expression was flat, opaque. "Floor needs washing. Did you want me to come back?"

  Grace looked up from the pile of papers she was correcting. His face was framed in the habitual scowl, but the tone of voice was unmistakably neutral and polite. Almost but n
ot quite friendly. "No. That won't be necessary. I'll be out of your way before you get to the front of the room.

  Stacking the chairs and desks to one side, he left the room and returned with a mop and pail of water. His eyes shrouded over, turned dull and inward as he leaned into his work. Rinsing the water after each pass, he swabbed the floor down with smooth, muscular strokes, paying special attention to the baseboards and space under the heating vents. When half the floor was washed, he dragged the dirty liquid out of the room and returned with a bucket of clean water. Moving all the furniture to the other side, he repeated the process.

  "You're getting a new floor," he said leaning on the mop handle at the far end of the room. The entire length of floor between them was still quite wet. For the second time, Grace put her pencil down and looked up. The classroom floor was covered in linoleum tile, except for a smaller section toward the rear of the room that was solid oak. The wood was originally installed as a purely decorative feature - decorative and utterly impractical. Over the years, the finish had been eaten away and the damaged boards reduced to an eyesore.

  "This oak," he said tapping the floor with the head of the mop, "may look a mess, but it’s in reasonably good shape. This weekend I'll be sanding away the stains and dirt to the bare wood. Come Monday morning, you'll have a brand new floor." Carl rubbed his chin meditatively. "We're using a water-based sealer that dries real fast and leaves very little odor."

  He lugged the filthy water back out into the hallway and disappeared. In the morning the children would be back with their dirty feet and untidy habits. Once more the scuff marks, bits of scrap paper torn haphazardly from spiral binders and other bits of educational debris would litter the floor - the disorder and chaos of half-formed minds.

  On Monday as Carl had promised, the classroom floor near the coat racks in the back of the room had a bright new look. All the scrapes, gouges and discolorations were gone. The oak had lightened to the color of golden wheat. There was an odor from the high gloss finish but it was slight and inoffensive. Even the blackened stain - India ink - near the water cooler was mysteriously erased, the wood fiber sanded flush then finally bleached back to its original color before the final, satiny film was applied.