by Greg Jolley
The silhouettes on the hallway walls had been covered. Film posters and large still photographs had been put back up. Each was elegantly framed and had a cloth matte and featured Elizabeth Stark and her films. In the front room, I was greeted by light from the big windows. I watched the last of the orange sun sink into the royal-blue sea.
Ezra stood beside the front door talking to the festively dressed doorman. As I approached, his trembling fingers slid his white cloth into his shirt pocket. The doorman got the door, and Ezra and I stood on the front porch in the failing light, both of us looking down across the well-maintained landscaping. I hadn’t said a word since the film ended and had no words at that moment either.
“Thank you,” Ezra said to the view.
I didn’t reply, so he went on.
“She only has a little time. I’ve tried to save her—well, no, I have saved her. I know you once tried…”
A flock of snipes lit and flew across the sky, headed south, possibly for the row of eucalyptus trees or the ocean miles away.
“Drive carefully, please,” Ezra said and sniffled.
The chatting birds swarmed past the trees. I retrieved the Lincoln’s keys from my vest pocket.
I had nothing to ask or say, so I walked down and across to the Lincoln, watching the snipes fly to the ocean, becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared.
Scene 16
I’m sitting here at the keys of my Underwood wondering about flight in 3D. Maybe someday we will find a way to place cameras on little wooden airplanes and fly the rooms and cities, forests and coastlines. Somehow, maybe like television, people will view and control the flight, the viewfinder, from below. For now, I’m good with pulling on my goggles and flying the black Lincoln with all the different colors of wind coming in through the jacked-open door.
Doc came by a half hour ago, entering the sun porch looking uncertain and undone. His voice was unhinged. I didn’t know the reason for the visit, so I sat there on my chair and viewed and listened. I nodded along the lines of his voice which was running like errant film spilling from a broken projector. He talked about Mother’s return and his plans and worries.
“Her treatments aren’t completed.”
I didn’t have anything to say about that and swept my goggles back and forth along his chatter until he handed me a letter. I recognized the handwriting and my name and address.
When Doc was spent, fully unwound, I guess, he left. I could see his trailing words like the flickering of movie credits at the end of a film. His voice had appeared in black and white whereas the voices of my three were in color, each one a different shade.
The sun porch was warmed with golden light, and the sky out above the pool was a cloudless blue. I saw Jared’s voice appear, royal blue in fine print, dancing with the cream and cinnamon and peach of Baby Ruth’s short laughter. Pierce chimed in, a march of greens and orange words. My head was sweeping fast along the lines of their three beautiful voices along the different and crossing streams.
When the music of their conversations dissolved from the angled window, I opened the envelope. Inside was a three by five card with a single sheet of paper folded behind it. The card was an invitation to the memorial for Elizabeth Stark and below was the location and date and time and a reminder to bring the invitation to be sure to be allowed in. There was going to be a retrospective along with the service. Formal attire was recommended.
I swept my nodding goggles along the lines of Ezra’s handwriting on the second page and learned that Mumm had been buried in her home village in the UK. He had traveled with her to her final resting place.
I breathed from the pages before folding them back inside the envelope. It was a subtle flavor of dust and papyrus. I laid the envelope on my table beside the Underwood in front of the open box of white typing paper. I would not be attending.
It came to me then that I had been wrong when I told the boys and Baby Ruth that God was the big director.
“He’s not. We are,” I typed on the Underwood. That seemed to explain His affection for us. He leaves the acting and directing to us, enjoying our many choices and wishes. And why? He loves our stories.
The blue lines of Jared’s voice danced across my goggles from poolside—a three-word exclamation of humor and bemusement that sounded scripted.
I watched my darling Pierce’s caustic instructions enter the flow, a mix of lime and tangerine. The colors weaved and swam and dissolved into new shades of delighted laughter.
INSIDE THE front pocket of my black suit pants are the keys to the Lincoln. There is no need to worry anymore. No rescue required.
Earlier this morning, Pierce brought me breakfast laid out on a cutting board. Toast and eggs and a cup of something. Jared followed his brother and stood in the doorway watching the dresser mirror and me. At Pierce’s verbal nudge, Jared entered and offered me the orange in his young, tan hand.
“We picked it for you from the orchard across the road,” Pierce explained.
I looked at the orange in my steady hands.
I didn’t peel it. I twisted and broke it open in half and raised the fragrant meat to my face. My fingers became slick with juice as I breathed in deep.
My chair fell on its side, and I gathered myself up slowly. My head must have hit the floor hard because my goggles were askew. I corrected their angle and set the chair upright.
I’m typing again, my view panning left to right and then back, flying slowly and low over these words.
I might be done here. Not saved, but free.
Pierce and Jared and Baby Ruth are in the pool. I can see the sparkling water in sunlight and their laughter and wit and kindness. My three. I believe that I’ve saved each one of them. Saved them by giving them the freedom of forward flight.
I use my bare foot to nudge IM’s briefcase full of cash. There’s enough there for Pierce and Jared and Baby Ruth to fly for years.
I’m almost done with this Underwood. I’ve got the keys to the black seabird and its jacked-open door.
I’m eager for flight.
My own.
My last.
Fast along and over the blue Pacific.
The End
Stephanie Jorgensen, the best editor on the planet
Robert A. Jolley, the other best editor on the planet
Shoot First! Assignments of a Newsreel Camera-man
by Ronnie Noble
A Seabee’s Story
by Lieutenant Colonel George A. Larson, USAF (Ret.)
The Seabees of World War Two
by Commander Edmund Castillo, USN
Looking Back
by Thomas P. Hennings
Northfield Harvest
edited by Wystan Stevens
Edwin Eugene Mayer
William B. Gruber
“Beautiful World” (Alternate Mix) by Colin Hay
Charles Addams
The mind of Sarah Silverman
The style of Harrison Steampunk Weissenberger
Greg Jolley earned a Master of Arts in Writing from the University of San Francisco and lives in the very small town of Ormond Beach, Florida. When not writing, he is a student and researcher of historical crime, primarily those of the 1800s.
