Iron of the Sky

by Ryan Downey

  Her bottom lip was doing that thing. Where it sticks out and trembles because that dumbass jerk is being sweet again. She didn’t speak. “Do you get it now?” Only nodded. He smiled and without ever even thinking the words ‘I told you so,’ he raised his arms to half-mast. This command need not be repeated and she came over into his arms. Clair De Lune floated mystically into the air as it always does and he took step in time. An appropriate serenade as it was the only way they could ever share it. The sound of music was no longer merely setting mood, it was conducting hearts and feet. She remained relatively still, right side of face pressed firmly to unpressed button down shirt. And he spun slowly around her.

  PART V

  Sunday Morning

  Across a gravel parking lot adjacent to Surf Avenue was a small side street, Ocean Avenue. It had earned the name in the early days of the town’s formation when it was a significant thoroughfare as it was always the first to flood when storms wreaked havoc. Years ago the top of the street was cut off in execution of a half-baked plan to divert flooding to newly installed storm drains and eventually the avenue turned to gravel as well. At the bottom of the street that could only be reached by cutting across the lot, property to the historic Majestic Hotel, was a uniformly historic house. One of a few remaining on the whole island, the old wooden house had seen its share of hurricane seasons and stood the test of ever increasing over development. Sandwiched between hotel and candy store. The Majestic, whose historic charm was so encompassing, guests checking in felt as though they had actually travelled back in time to a Prohibition Era of strong drinks and long smokes. Of loose women and scoundrels ready to oblige. And a quaint privately owned candy shoppe, Lichman’s Sweets, boasting delicious homemade fudge and the best saltwater taffy in town.

  Coming off the boards, Maria Ferreira finished her morning run by slowing to a walk coming around Lichman’s. The tall, well-endowed brunette did not take the same notice of the porch that early gawkers took of her in her spandex. Notice was given to the wooden decorative post carved in the shape of a Native American’s face. The original owners had it made and no resident had ever bothered or wanted to move it. Standing about seven feet tall, complete with traditional chief headdress, perhaps the most impressive things about the ligneous idol were those that sat atop.

  Countless seagulls had perched tail feathers on wooden ones and yet neither Maria, nor any other passerby had ever noted an ounce of birdshit on or near the chief. As far as they or the current resident were aware, no bird had ever dared. Miniature onyx marbles in light brown freckled head stared blankly at her past sharp beak with black stripe and joined his tribal ancestors by not defecating on hallowed totem.

  The show of respect went unobserved as she admired paneling and shudders. Shudders painted sea green swung loosely in the sea breeze with latches rusted loose. She listened to the clap against the walls, wiping the sweat off her brow with part of her top. She jogged in place for a moment, nodded towards a beautiful late middle-aged woman on her way to get bagels. Then continued her run. Even the late middle-aged woman going for breakfast stopped to gawk for a moment before consciousness of self took over and she hurried on her way.

  Caribbean Blue

  They awoke shortly after sunrise, as they usually did. It was his job to get the coffee and bagels. A new coffee shop had opened in Montego Bay Shopping Center eight blocks from their house. The barista was a 24-year-old Cuban expatriate named Ramondo who poured coffee in the morning, body built during the day, and watched the nightclub door at Eye Of The Hurricane at night. A fresh cut lay across his lower right cheek from a dramatic altercation the week before, adding an unneeded, but intensely welcomed, note of danger to his image.

  Every time they’d been in there together he’d noticed her observing Ramondo’s every move. Laughing at jokes told in broken English that neither one of them quite understood. Ramondo would Hispanically flirt irresistibly familiar. But because it was his job to get the bagels, her visits with Ramondo were few and far between, reserved specifically for days when they both had to be somewhere early. Weddings. Funerals. Day trips and do overs. Adventures and excursions. Odysseys and quests.

  The only surprise when she offered to get them on this particular Sunday was that it took that many weeks to finally do so. He kindly kept all comments to himself and simply nodded and told her that would be great. She slid her freshly painted toes into her flip-flops and sauntered oh so gently out the door, leaving a single raised eyebrow in her wake.

  His cut was healing nicely, but much to her delight, looked as if it would leave a scar. His complexion was not the best. There were divots here and there. But he made it work. And like the fresh fish in the marina, her breath had to be caught. The bell rang as the door closed and she placed her order. Odor of thick smoked hickory bacon loomed and while she made pleasant conversation over sound of sizzle with her apron-donned crush, she began to have second thoughts about her order. Bacon, egg and cheese on an everything? Freshly squeezed into tight fitting jeans, she wanted him to notice. But not notice too much. Should have gotten low fat cream cheese on plain. What if that jogger eats bagels to carb load? The moment passed and as she watched him bag it up with those rugged beige meat hooks he called hands, she began to feel confident again. “Thank you Ramondo,” she said as innocently as she could muster. “De nada, ma’am.”

  It really hit her when she saw that old house again. Dozens of times she had been called that, taking it as complimentary. Sounded distinguished. She was in such a daze that nothing seemed out of the ordinary as she circled round back. Wasn’t until she was coming around the outdoor fenced in shower owner and guests used to wash off sand coming off the beach that she snapped out of it. “Crater face,” she mumbled. The comment lay snuggly under breath. The deep calming blue of the exterior was placating. A shade that had it appeared in any non-resort town would have induced instantaneous melancholia. But such potentially gloomy colors here were ubiquitous and very welcomed. She supposed she could forgive him for just one silly insignificant slight.

  The Holly And The Ivy

  She tripped on the gravel and partially spilled one of the coffees. That one can be his, she thought. A heavy whiff of salt air on a mild breeze temporarily masked the aroma of fresh roasted bean. It also blew hair to face and she almost tripped a second time. Lived at the beach for years now and still couldn’t adjust to open toed footwear. The gravel had scratched chips of purple paint off a few toes. She would have to do them over.

  Sloshing through a puddle of dirty beach with God knows what in it she began to resent him. Sitting at home, in magnificent desolation, reading the news in his favorite recliner with the sound of the morning surf bringing the tide in and punctual birds making personal caws. She was more than willing to generously overlook the fact that it was her idea. Ramondo, that stupid sexy jerk.

  As she cornered the Caribbean Blue façade, a glaring flash of green caught her eye. Be it angle or routine, she had never noticed it before. On their Sunday walk they would often speak with the old timer who lived there, usually out in his Sunday finest, sweeping the porch of sand with an old witch’s broom. He must have distracted her. As she came around, more green.

  Uncommon for the region, but not uncommon for a building that old, hefty vines of ivy had climbed to the roof. Stranger still, beneath them lie a very round, very lush, very out of season, holly bush. Shades that, had they appeared in any non-resort town, would have appeared completely natural.

  Bright red berries blazing through pointy defenders put a song in her head. The words were all wrong though. Hearing through the ears of her better half, she was relatively certain the original crooner never made sexual innuendo of ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’ or ‘Jack Frost nipping.’ Then she laughed. She was as bad as he was. Her amusement was abruptly interrupted by a scratchy pain in her feet as several holly leaves found their way into her flops.

 
When she got home, he got yelled at. Looking up from the news through the tops of his glasses, he witnessed her slam the coffee and drop the sandwich bag on the island. Lips pulled in and head turned to the side with furrowed brow as she yelled, “Next time, you’re going.” Then proceeded to shrug it off to the fairer he had given up trying to figure out long ago.

  Dark Skies

  They held hands as they walked down the eastern shore’s golden sands. Close enough to the shoreline for their toes to catch waves’ end. A large brown seagull resting a few yards away was incensed with the need to yell in their ears as they walked by. The obnoxious cry was home to them. A lone sailboat drift aimlessly a few leagues out, sails down, ambling southward. The denizen of the vessel were in no rush. A slight haze wrapped the horizon creating a minor decrease in visibility on this otherwise cloudless day. The weatherman had called for a possible shower late afternoon and though the day was still in its infancy, no foreseeable credibility was lent to his prediction. The biplanes had yet to begin their runs, advertising AUCE crabs and eastern shore style fried chicken. No news yet on the day’s happy hours. The parasailers had yet to begin their ascent to the heavens. The air was as fresh and the sky as clear as it would be all day.

  They passed another couple, Pat and Cleo, half their age, perhaps on their first vacation together or even on their honeymoon following a late summer wedding. Labor Day was the perfect time to be at the beach. All the popular haunts were readying themselves for one last summer bash, while the kids were all back in school lamenting nine months of state capitals and the Pythagorean theorem, Christmas would be their only refuge from here till June and Santa couldn’t come fast enough.

  They must have wandered a bit too close to shorebreak, as an unusually large wave crashed on top them, knocking him over and soaking her legs. She readily found the humor in the situation and began laughing hysterically, though he was not so amused. Her joviality fueled his anger and his tirade opened with a good strong, “Oh, you think this is funny,” and continued from there. Ever the gentleman, it was the rare instance, but he could be a real dick when he wanted to be. Much ado over some wet shorts and a damp wallet.

  Walking resumed in awkward silence. Then freeze. Two things seemed strange in this otherwise mundane routine. One, the old man sat in his favorite chair wearing, not his Sunday best, but dressed still in his evening wear. A light blue cotton button down shirt with pants to match, his glasses on. Although that was no indication, he had never switched to contacts. Two, he didn’t wave back.

  They looked at one another, dead in track, realizing that something wasn’t right. She looked down. She wanted to proceed, even reluctantly taking a few steps forward. He, ever her rock, gently grabbed her arm, encouraging her to follow him on their impending investigation.

  The sun beginning to feel much hotter, they approached the porch as slowly as they could without feeling guilty for taking their time. Shorts were quick to dry and now the collected sand in his boxers was the least of his worries. He was moving slightly faster than she. He yelled the old man’s name as they got within earshot. No response. The old man had told them on more than a few occasions that he was hard of hearing, so hope maintained. They quickened their pace. His skin color became progressively more palid as they approached and their pace increased once more. He yelled the old man’s name, inquired if he was ok. No response. This time faulty hearing could not be blamed.

  The Old Man’s House

  The weather worn steps of the back porch creaked and cracked as he climbed. She stood a few feet back, hands over mouth, accepting the reality of what was going on. He clasped the cold wrist, vainly searching for a pulse. He placed his hand under the nose. He was only going through the motions, he knew as well as Death did. She was crying now. What might be a meaningful tribute if it weren’t fact that earlier in the week she had cried watching a late night commercial encouraging pet adoption. “Gina,” he said with a clear break in his voice. “Call an ambulance.”

  She followed suit up the stairs to go into the house for a phone. The door was slightly ajar and as she shoved it open, she hesitated. “Derrick.” She turned to face him, doing her best to position her stare so the corpse wouldn’t be in her line of vision. She placed a hand on the receiver and froze. Realizing that given her state he had asked too much, he took her place and dialed. Although he wasn’t entirely sure this constituted an emergency, he was relatively certain that 911 was protocol in this situation as well.

  He began to dial, but before he could make it to the second 1 he noticed something. A piece of paper lay beneath the old man’s left hand, a corner gently fluttering in the sea breeze. She caught him looking at it, but with the screen door and tears blocking her vision, she made her way back to see. She almost went for it before a wave of nausea swept over her rendering her stomachless to touch a dead body, even if it was a dear friend. Knowing she’d never make it, he stepped forward and respectfully removed the paper from the dead man’s grip. Rigor mortis made this a more difficult task than it should have warranted, but after a few seconds of wriggling, the paper jarred free. It was a note. Folded once. As if discovering a buried treasure chest he opened it, not as a pirate would, slinging it open with ravenous delight at the plunders ready to be spent. But rather like an eminent archeologist, expectantly curious, but reverent of the fact that a small piece of history lay mercifully in his hands.

  He read moving his lips as he did when he read anything. Normally this would be her cue to make fun of him. Here she did not. It was a brief note. He frowned puzzled, glanced at her then read it once more. A queer smile rose and he refolded it and placed it in his back pocket. “What did it say, Der?” He shook his head, moving back inside. “Really, what?” she insisted. “I’ll tell you later,” he defied. Sadness soon overwhelmed once more and the idea moved to the back of her mind.

  The wait for the ambulance was long. He had of course told them not to rush. They sat in silent vigil in the old man’s living room. For a fleeting moment Derrick considered turning on the TV or even the radio, but nothing aired would likely be relevant. He stood and began to peruse. Several items caught his eye. There was the room’s centerpiece, a large model wooden ship. A three masted Spanish Galleon, The Rose Marie, handcrafted and decades weathered. She was yar. Very yar indeed. Very fitting for the living room of a beach house. The flip-flops by the door with the bottle opener built in. He laughed. Turning to Gina to share the amusement, he noticed her green complexion. Seasick on shore. “Would you like a soda?” She nodded. “I’ll check the fridge.” He made his way to the kitchen nearly tripping over a large black Frisbee. “We can use his flip-flops to open it.” He opened the door.

  He paused a moment when he noticed a Christmas card held to door by way of Key West magnet. Odd it would still be up given the time of year. Also odd given the only other thing on there was a deli menu. Odder still as the reds and golds had faded suggesting it wasn’t from the previous Christmas.

  A true bachelor. Half a hoagie, beer, some mustard, and dessert. Bowl full of Jell-O. No help there. As he closed it, he spotted a bottle of Ginger Ale on the door’s shelf. Bingo.

  True to his word, he cracked it open with footwear and served. The idea that there was one degree separating her soft drink to an old man’s foot didn’t seem to slow her down. She took a huge swig. In an instant a follow up swig had settled her stomach and soothed her nerves.

  Lady she was, she passed the bottle and he followed suit. With her hands freed she rummaged through a pile of books on the coffee table. An old one caught her eye. Hardback. One of the few titles she recognized. It was a classic, she had read it in high school. She opened it and before reading the inscription, pressed it to her nose and breathed deep. Old book smell. She was right back in the library. As the dust settled in her lungs, she read.

  “To My Pretty Girl, if ever you feel lost, read this and think of me. For I was lost and you were there to l
ight my way back. My Love Forever Yours-“

  Afraid the returning tears would run the ink, she pulled back. Before closing, she kissed the tip of her middle finger and pressed it to his signature. Then placing the book back on top of the pile, he stopped her. “Keep it.” She was so unsure. “Oh I couldn’t” she countered. “No really,” he picked it up and placed it in her lap. “We both know no one else is getting it. He’d want you to.” After a considerable amount of humming and hauling, she consented.

  “Who could that have been?” “You don’t think he was pretty?” he quipped. She laughed through sobs and heaves. “What if she rejected him?” she worried. He thought for a moment. “Or if she gave it back to him?” He thought a second more. “Maybe it ended before he had a chance to give it to her” he comforted. “And never had the heart to let it go.” “The last girl he ever loved?” She pondered. The question was haunting in a sense. “Maybe just the best.” They were both right. And both wrong. The man who sat peacefully outside had lived a full and vibrant life. The list of characters he had the pleasure and displeasure of getting involved with read like a list of Disney sidekicks or Dick Tracy villains or rejected rapper stage names.

  Boo Sneeze. Sweetheart. Vicki Skullz. Tricky Baby. DC. Platform Girl. Big Mac. Mickey D’s. Natali With No E. Math Girl. Big Red. Bubbles. Short Round. Giggles. Chuckles. The Mom. Double Dees. Pizza Hut. The French Tickler. Pretty Girl. Miller Time. Brown Out. The Indian. The Russian. Jilly Bean. Friz. Special K. Glowworm. E.T. Liv Tyler Has A Boyfriend. The Pastor. The Chilean. Meghan From Maine. Pepper. Umbrella Girl. African Queen. Rizzie. Barbie. Members Only. Franley. Strawberry Mansion. New York. EPCOT. The French Hornist. Princess. Mesh Shorts. Swanson. Judd. Jannellezabub. BC. Scotty. Almond Joy. Kitty Kat. The Nurse. Asshole. Psycho. Bells. Rocket. Jaws. The Other One. Road Runner. Housewife. Pickles. Scout. Stardust. The Waitress. Starbuck. Laura Powers. Thumper.