by Annie Katz
I stacked the canning jars in the corner and pulled the desk out to get a better look. It was dusty but sturdy, and even though the top was stained, it was smooth enough to be a good work surface. I thought it would make a fine desk for me. I would need a place to study when school started.
While I finished sweeping out the garage and straightening it up, I imagined myself at the desk on rainy evenings, doing homework, writing calligraphy notes to people, being a scholar, maybe even writing poetry in my journal. It was an Emily Dickinson desk, and I claimed it as my own.
Back in the house, I scouted around for the right place to put it. My bedroom was too small, Lila already had her desk area, but there was a spot on the other side of the archway from the fireplace. I thought the desk would fit perfectly in that area. There was a small bookcase, a floor lamp, and a little chair there. In fact, the chair was probably the mate to the desk. It had the same dark cherry wood and sturdy curved legs.
When Lila got home, I had dinner ready, a nice pasta salad with ham, cheese, and blanched broccoli in a creamy dill dressing. After our dessert of pineapple sherbet and sugar cookies, I asked if I could use the desk.
She thought it was a fine idea. We went to the garage, cleaned it with lemon oil furniture polish, and wiped it down with clean rags to remove the excess oil. Then we brought the desk into the kitchen and measured it. The wood was a beautiful color in the good lighting of the kitchen, and sure enough, it would fit perfectly in place of the bookcase.
Next we unpacked the bookcase, and Lila had to sort through which books to move upstairs and which to give away, and after we got those all dusted and sorted, we moved the bookcase to my little bedroom, so I'd have plenty of space for school supplies.
Then we set up the desk with its chair and the floor lamp. Lila found a silk scarf one of her clients had brought her from Nepal to place over the stained desktop. The scarf was gold with delicate fringe at the ends, and it fit perfectly over the desk to dress it up. I collected all my pens and pencils and put them in Dante's ceramic pot and arranged that along with my journal on the right side of the desk. It was lovely.
I turned on the light and sat in the chair, and I felt like Goldilocks when she sat in the perfect bear chair. Just right!
There was a little window within arm's reach on my right, and I opened it a bit to let in the salty evening air. I could write in my journal every morning and do my homework every evening with a view of the ocean. It was heaven.
"What if Janice doesn't send back the papers we need?" I asked Lila. "School starts in three weeks."
"Don't worry, Cassandra. I'll take care of that. You're here, and I'll make sure you start school on time."
I was in such a habit of worrying about whether my mom was getting things right, I didn't know how to relax and let adults handle adult business. I'd heard adults say, Childhood is the best time of your life. Enjoy it! I had always thought, If this is the best, why hang around for the rest? Now I was beginning to suspect their childhoods were nothing like mine. Maybe I hadn't even had a childhood.
"I tried calling Janice this afternoon," I said. "But there was no answer. I did talk to Roger, though. Remember the Roger she was seeing when she sent me here?"
Lila wanted to know how I found him, so I told her, and she said I was a brilliant detective.
"I was only being logical," I said, thinking how Lila grossly exaggerated her praise of me.
"Logical, persistent, and fearless in the pursuit of truth," she said.
"Grandma, I made a couple of phone calls. I didn't solve the great American bank robbery crime. I didn't solve anything. I can't even find my own mother."
"She's not lost, sweetheart. She'll find us."
The next morning I woke up dreaming Mark and Jamie were flying in an airplane over a mountain. When they got to the top, Jamie said goodbye to Mark, opened the door of the plane, and stepped out into the sky. Mark called him, but Jamie turned into a seagull and flew in front of the plane, letting Mark know he was could fly on his own.
I told Lila about the dream in the morning, and she smiled and said, "This dream seems more positive than the tsunami one. Did you write it in your journal?"
"No," I said, "Do you think it might be another prediction dream?" I asked. "I don't want any more prediction dreams. I want to be left in the dark."
"Please be careful what you wish for, Cassandra. You were in the dark about a lot of things when you first came here. Is that what you really want?"
"No, Grandma. I want to be in the light."
"Okay, then. The light allows you to see things very clearly."
"But then it will be my fault if I see something bad is going to happen and I can't stop it."
"You are not responsible for other people's choices, whether or not you foresee them. Just because you see something doesn't mean you have to do anything with it. Seeing clearly is a great talent, clairvoyance, clear seeing. Seeing clearly into the future is a gift, the gift of prophecy, a blessing from the gods. Don't reject a gift just because you don't know exactly what to do with it. Receive gifts with humble gratitude, and you will be guided to use them for the good of all beings."
"How do you know?" I said, wanting promises and proof.
"I don't know what's true for you. I only know what is true for me. If you want to be responsible for everything you see, that can be one of your rules about life. Everyone gets to make her own rules."
"My mind is muddled, Grandma. Let's stop talking about this."
"Good idea," she said.
After we washed the breakfast dishes, I sat at my lady poet's desk and wrote the dream in my journal, along with the time and place. I was curious about whether or not I was seeing clearly in my dreams.
When I had finished that and was practicing writing my name beautifully, Marta called Lila and said she and Hank would be by for a beach walk. We met them on Lila's porch and they led the way down the stairs to the smooth damp sand.
After we got down to the tide line and admired the waves crashing on the black rocks where hundreds of mussels and gooseneck barnacles lived, Marta said, "Those pictures I took at your shop yesterday morning turned out great, and I want to print a special edition of the paper to come out Tuesday morning."
Hank said, "I told her everyone will be at the council meeting already. No need troubling with a special edition."
We walked north into the wind, which was milder than usual, and sunshine broke through the heavy overhead clouds making brilliant rays that angled down to the beach like those in the pictures of Jesus standing on the clouds. Lila and I called them Jesus rays. The ones breaking through the clouds this morning were glorious enough to turn atheists into true believers.
"Maybe you're right," Marta said. "I'll take pictures at the meeting and put a double edition out on Friday."
"Cassandra," she said. "There's one picture of you sweeping up glass that is perfect for the front page. Is it okay if I use it?"
I looked at Lila, and she said, "You get to make up the rules."
"Okay," I said, pleased that I'd be in the paper like my brothers had been, even if it was a paper that hardly counted.
Ahead of us was a big flock of tiny sandpipers, sixty or seventy of them. We watched them run on their toothpick legs as fast as they could go, chasing the receding wave, then stopping to poke their needle beaks into the sand to pull out sand fleas and gobble them up before the next wave came in to chase them up the beach again.
Watching them was like hearing classical music. There was an underlying theme with unexpected elements on top that captured your attention and held it. I loved the way one would be later than the rest and have to run to catch up with the others as they traveled on up the shoreline. Sometimes the flock separated around a pile of seaweed or driftwood and each part went its own way for a while before rejoining the whole. They flowed like water around obstacles, all their tiny bodies flashing white or gray depending on their angle to the light.
I was n
early mesmerized by watching them, but all that changed when Marta let out a wild yell and ran at the flock like a big puppy off its leash. She even barked and waved her arms at them. The guards at the edges of the flock got everyone running away from her, but when she gained on them, they flew up, signaling the whole flock to take flight. They flew about fifty yards up the beach and settled back into their eating symphony as if nothing had happened.
Hank laughed and shook his head. "Marta loves to stir things up," he said. "She can't control herself." There was a warm affection underneath his words, and I glimpsed the depth of his love for her.
Pink cheeked and panting in an exaggerated, giddy way, Marta ran back to us. "I couldn't resist," she said.
I saw all four of us there on the beach together, three people in their sixties and me barely twelve, and we all seemed the same age, all young and old at the same time. What an odd little flock we were!
Sunday after work Lila asked if I wanted to go with her and Veronica to visit Fred in jail. At first I said no, but then I changed my mind. I wanted to see the man who ruined my grandparents' wedding present.
We met Veronica outside the police station, and Lila showed her a contract she'd written.
"This is great," Veronica told Lila. "That lawyer I work for couldn't have worded it better. Good for you."
"Let's see if it works," Lila said, and she led us into the police station.
The officer at the desk stood up when we walked in. "Ms. Blue," he said to Lila. "The chief said you'd be in to file charges."
"I'd like to speak to the suspect first, if that's okay," she said.
He looked at Veronica and me.
"I'm his wife," Veronica said.
"I'm Cassandra," I said.
"I guess it's okay," the officer said, and he led us back to the jail cell where Fred was sitting on a skinny cot looking bored.
When he saw us, Fred stood up and came to the bars. "Ah, Lila," he said. "I'm so sorry. They told me what I did. I'll fix everything with my own hands. I'll do whatever you want."
"Good," Lila said. "That's what I came here to talk to you about."
"You'll see," he said. "Good as new. Better, even."
"Cassandra," Lila said to me, "I'd like you to meet Fred Wattles. Fred, my granddaughter, Cassandra Blue."
Fred stuck his hand out through the bars to greet me but I stepped away from him.
Fred tried to talk to Veronica, but one look from her silenced him.
Lila started out then in a lawyer tone of voice. "Mr. Wattles, the Chief wants me to file charges against you for your criminal actions, but I'd rather not. I have a proposal where you might be able to avoid additional trials, jail time, court enforced restitution, a more serious criminal record, and various other unpleasant consequences."
"Oh," Fred said, properly humbled.
"Four conditions," she said, holding up her hand to tick them off with her fingers.
"One. You pay for all repairs."
He nodded vigorously but kept his mouth shut.
"Two. You destroy all your firearms."
His eyes got wide, and he looked to Veronica for support. Her face was stone.
"Three. You bring me an exact replacement of the antique barber pole you destroyed."
"But," he said, ready to go on.
"And four," Lila said, stopping him. "You do not set foot in a bar or any public establishment where alcohol is served until you have completed the first three tasks."
"But, Lila," he said. "Why can't I sell the guns and give you the money?"
"You destroyed my property. I'm asking you to destroy yours. I can leave right now and file charges on the way out. I don't want to waste your time talking."
"Wait," he said. "Just give me a few minutes, okay?"
"Take your time, then," she said.
"Where am I going to find a barber pole?"
"My husband and I bought that barber pole on our wedding day in Portland forty-five years ago. I'm sure there's one just like it somewhere."
"Your wedding day?" he asked.
Veronica said, "You heard her, Fred."
"But what if I can't find one?"
"Then you'll never set foot in a pub again the rest of your life," Lila said. "That's the deal."
"Maybe you should go ahead and press charges then, Lila," Fred said. "The police won't make me destroy my own guns."
Veronica stepped up close to the bars of the cell then and said in a very sweet, soft voice, "Honey, don't make a decision until you hear my part."
Fred went back, sat on the cot, and slumped down like a busted five year old. He hung his head.
"If you don't agree to Lila's terms and work at least eight hours every day to complete the tasks, you can find yourself another place to live, starting now."
"Vee," he said in a five-year-old whiny voice, "Don't be that way."
Veronica held up her hand and he shut his mouth. "Lila's giving you a chance to save your life here. If you don't take it, I'm done with you. I've already changed the locks on the doors." She turned and marched out of the building, not giving him a chance to say another whiny word.
Fred looked at me, desperate for one last chance at sympathy. I looked him straight in the eye and thought of broken glass in the middle of the night.
Lila waited a few more seconds, and then she said, "I'll see you in court, then, Fred. I understand. No hard feelings."
She took my hand and turned us around to march out the way Veronica had.
"Wait," Fred said, leaping to the bars and hanging on them. "I accept. I'll do the four things. I promise."
"Good," Lila said, and she turned around and handed him a contract to sign. He read it, shook his head and sighed, and finally signed.
"Please sign the other two copies, too," she said, "One for you and one for Veronica."
Lila took all the copies back, she signed and dated them, and then she had me sign as official witness.
"You've made the right choice, Fred," she said, handing him his copy. She bowed Namaste to him. "I'll let Veronica know."
Monday morning there was a misty fog on the beach, but it disappeared two blocks inland, so Rainbow Village had clear blue skies. We went early to meet the window repair guys at the shop. They worked on one of Hank's building crews, and he sent them over to get Lila fixed up. They started by taking the plywood off the windows and loading it in their truck.
Marta was there taking dozens of pictures. I thought things were stirred up enough. I wanted to say to her, You can ruin biscuit dough by too much handling.
"These guys are great," Marta said. The workers, two middle-aged men in white overalls and heavy brown boots, smiled for the camera like movie stars. After they prepared the window frames and measured everything carefully, they set off for the valley to get the glass they needed.
As they drove away, Fred and Veronica showed up. Marta ran over to take their picture and Veronica held up her hand and said, "No pictures. I'm humiliated enough as it is."
Fred was scrubbed and dressed in church clothes, and his shoulders slumped when he saw what remained of the barber pole. He went over and stood in front of it. Lila and Veronica chatted about her new job with the law firm. No one moved to rescue Fred. People drove by on their way to work and slowed down to wave at Lila and comment about the shop windows. It was a regular Monday morning in Rainbow Village.
Herbert came and turned on the neon open sign, and then he sat in his barber chair to read the Portland newspaper. After a few minutes, he came outside, handed the paper to Lila, and went back inside to a customer.
"Marta," Lila said. "How did this get in here?" There was a note of agitation or impatience in her voice that I'd never heard before. Veronica and I looked over her shoulders, and there was a big picture of me in my beaded Pocahontas braids and blue jeans sweeping broken glass on the sidewalk. The murdered barber pole was beyond me in the left corner of the photo, and you could read the Lila Blue's Family Barbershop sign on the front doo
r of the shop. The caption read, Coastal Business Victim of Shooting.
Marta took a deep breath and walked over to us. "I told you it was a great picture," she said.
Lila looked at her and held out her hand. "Give me the camera," she said. "No more pictures. Period."
"Lila," Marta said, "this is the news, the biggest news happening right now, not just here but in the country. It's my obligation to cover it."
"Stop," Lila said, and Marta did stop and kind of pulled herself up to attention. She didn't turn over her camera, though.
"No more," Lila said again.
"Okay," Marta said. "I won't use the ones I took today."
"Thank you," Lila said. She folded up the paper and handed it to me.
I took it back inside the shop where Herbert was finishing a donut haircut on a customer. A donut haircut was their barber term for a trim for men who were mostly bald, those who had only a narrow fringe of hair all around. Herbert charged half price for donuts, because they took so little time. He sold a lot of them.
I sat in Lila's chair, aware of the clean bullet hole at the center of my back, and unfolded the paper to my picture. There was no story, just a paragraph that served as the photo caption. Coastal Business Victim of Shooting. At 2:22 Saturday morning rifle shots shattered the silence of the lovely beach community of Rainbow Village, Oregon. The attack on Lila Blue's Family Barbershop came after the owner’s column in the Rainbow News called for residents to come together at their community council meeting Tuesday night to discuss handgun safety. Pictured here, in the aftermath of the tragedy, is Blue's twelve-year-old granddaughter.
I liked the picture of me. I could see why Marta was proud of it. I looked young, vulnerable, and sweet, surrounded by broken glass, and the shattered barber pole seemed a symbol of a peaceful small town being destroyed by violence. The photo was artistically pleasing, and I wanted a copy to send to Shakti. I figured I'd ask Marta later for a print. Now didn't seem the appropriate time.
