Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles)

by Tamela Quijas

  “Mrs. Stevenson lives with you, and has to adjust just as much, becoming your eyes and guide!” Meghan’s forehead puckered and, realizing she was close to shouting, she schooled her tone to reflect the calm temperament required. “I know how frustrated you are, but you aren’t solving anything by snapping your poor wife’s head off.”

  Mr. Stevenson grew quiet. He scratched at his whiskered jaw, his mouth pulled into a frown. The room was silent apart from the muted and watery sniffles of his wife, and his expression turned contrite.

  “I’m s…sorry, Shirley.”

  “I know you didn’t mean to shout, George.” Shirley Stevenson murmured, cautiously stepping around Meghan and placing a comforting hand on his chest. “In over forty years, you haven’t raised your voice to me once.”

  “I s…swore I never would and I kept it.” Tears filled his eyes. “I can’t imagine what’s come over me…”

  “The aneurysm, I suppose,” his wife soothed. She dropped to her knees, picking up the spilled china figurines with one hand. The other, gnarled and twisted with age and arthritis, she kept on her husband’s calf. She paused and placed each of the delicate dolls on the tabletop, her expression sorrowful.

  “Mr. Stevenson,” Meghan managed, biting back her own tears. She couldn’t afford to have her client think she was less than capable of managing the situation, or incapable of teaching him how to cope. As a therapist with a nonprofit rehabilitation group offering training, education, and support to the visually impaired of Bentham, New Jersey, she had a job to do. “Your wife is right, Mr. Stevenson. The aneurysm, possibly, changed your general behavior….”

  “It changed me, as a man,” he grumbled, the words somewhat slurred. “I learned things I took for granted, all over again. It’s m…mighty damn frustrating to be half the man I used to be, relying on Shirley here to remind me I’m drooling like a s…stupid fool, or only combed half my hair. I ain’t used to none of this!”

  “I know you aren’t, Mr. Stevenson,” she soothed. “That’s why I’m here, and I intend to help. Losing your sight is adding to your frustration and, like I said, I empathize.”

  “Miss Stanley, I s…still don’t think you do.” He protested. Finding his wife’s hand, he pulled her to her feet. Desperately, he clutched at the limb, pulling it to his lips. After placing a gentle kiss on the papery flesh, he pressed their clasped hands to his heart. “I’ve worked all my life, since I turned thirteen, to provide for me and my family. I never asked for a handout and I’ve never been helpless.”

  “You’re not.” Meghan contradicted kindly. “Of course, it seems like that at first…”

  “I am, damn it!” He shouted before lowering his voice. “I don’t know how…”

  Meghan snorted. “You keep arguing with me, but you’re not helpless.”

  “How you gonna tell me otherwise?” He grunted stubbornly. “I can’t s…see a damn thing and c…can’t even walk around my own house.”

  “George, I don’t mind…”

  “That’s not the point, Shirley,” he muttered curtly. “I promised, when we married, to take c…care of you. Hell, I c…can’t do much now.”

  Wistfully, Meghan eavesdropped to the gentle and affectionate words flowing from him. His love for his wife was obvious, and she envied them. Secretly, she wished she’d found a love similar to the one they shared, enduring, and everlasting, but she hadn’t had any luck.

  George Stevenson was right though, she mused. Sometimes, despite how good of a person was, life kicked them in the ass.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson,” she interrupted, detecting Shirley’s breathy little sobs. “We need to sit and talk.”

  “Great,” George snorted again and felt for his well-worn easy chair. Huffing, he plopped into the seat, the vinyl protesting loudly. “I c...can s...still find my TV chair and run my mouth like the next man. I might as well throw the recliner on the porch, though, s…seeing as I’m not going to be watching the games anymore.”

  Meghan shook her head, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulders. She waited for Mrs. Stevenson to perch on a sofa cushion before she felt for her own seat. Settling comfortably into a worn armchair, she turned and faced the direction of their joint breathing. “You can listen to the TV the same way as you used to watch it.”

  “It ain’t the s…same.” He sniffed, although she did detect a gleam of hope in his tone.

  “A yelling umpire and the play-by-play will be as good as the real thing.”

  “You obviously ain’t a football fan.” He commented tensely. “They don’t have umpires.”

  Meghan grimaced, the mere mention of the sport causing her to shudder. Familiar with the basic rounds of football, she could have kicked herself for using the wrong term. Still, George was speaking halfway civilly, and she wanted to keep up the repertoire.

  No,” she confessed sincerely. “I can’t say I ever became interested in the sport. I’m far too busy doing other things than wondering who’s going to the Super Bowl.”

  “That's a s…shame, girl.” Despite everything, she brought a half-hearted grin into the gloom overshadowing his voice. “Here I thought there was s…smidgen of hope for you.”

  “Mr. Stevenson…”

  “George.” He grumbled. “I gather we’re gonna be s…spending a lot of time together in the next few months, s…so you best be c…calling me George.”

  “Ok, George,” she cleared her throat and swiped a stray stand of hair from her cheek. “I guess I need to be frank when I speak…”

  “Well, s…shit, girl!” He ignored his wife’s faint chastisement. “I’ve been hoping you’d do that all along! I don’t want you s…spouting that entire s…social s…service lingo and leaving me s…scratching at my head!”

  Meghan chose to ignore his outburst.

  “George, you do realize my organization is providing you with free rehabilitation and training. I plan to help you adjust to your loss of sight.”

  “The only way to cope is to make Shirley a widow,” he muttered.

  His wife gasped, outraged, before breaking into fresh sobs. Straight away, George grew contrite, attempting to reach for her. His hand clutched at the air and, finding nothing, dropped to his lap.

  “Ending your own life isn’t going to solve a thing!” It was difficult for Meghan to still her annoyance. Biting her lower lip, she allowed her disbelief to become obvious. “I’m ashamed of you, George. You struck me as a different sort of man.”

  “How s…so?” He scowled at her.

  “I took you to be a proud person, who didn’t let life’s ups and downs get in the way of living.”

  “I don’t,” he snarled, and she stifled a satisfied smile. “I’ve been through the worse, with Shirley at my s…side, and we’ve managed to make do.”

  “But, you’re letting this beat you.” She stated with certainty, wishing his wife would stop crying.

  “How can’t I?” He inquired gruffly. “I was this close to retiring and moving off to Florida, especially since the kids are grown up. Instead,” his lower lip pulled downwards as he blinked back tears. “I can’t get around the house, and I can’t s…see a damned thing. I ain’t gonna get to Florida, and Shirley’s s…stuck with a cripple for the rest of her life.”

  “George,” Meghan cleared her throat. “You’re only as crippled as you allow yourself to be. I’ll help you adjust and you can do everything you dreamed about before your aneurysm.”

  “How the hell am I going to do that?” He grumbled and she pictured his frown.

  “Once your rehabilitation is complete, you can continue to live your dreams.” Meghan assured. “You’re not dead, George. If you can’t see the Florida coast, you can still experience the spray of the ocean, the warmth of the sun, and listen to the seagulls. Your vision has been taken from you, not your life!”

  “I wish…”

  “No, you don’t!” Inhaling a breath, Meghan rose. She recognized the direction of his thoughts, and wasn’t fond of th
em. “Tell me, how long have you two been married?”

  “C…close to forty years.” He responded humbly.

  “After all the dreams and heartaches your wife and you have shared, are you going to let one little thing get you down?”

  “If you ain’t noticed,” he shouted in return. “This ain’t exactly one little thing!”

  “I’m ashamed of you, George Stevenson!” Her clouded eyes narrowed. “I didn’t figure you to be a quitter!”

  “You can ask my wife and s…she’ll tell you I’m a lot of things, s…some good, and s…some bad.” He ground out sharply. Meghan sensed his unspoken determination, and his stubborn pride, as it seeped from him in a great wave. “But Shirley can tell you right off, I’m not a quitter.”

  “Is that so?” Intentionally, Meghan made herself sound skeptical. “All I notice is an irritable old man feeling wretched and furious with the hand life supplied him. You can't keep going around making everyone miserable because you think that way.”

  “Damn it, girl!” He almost shouted, grumbling as his wife quietly shushed him.

  “Prove it to me, George.” Meghan refused to back down from his display of temper, though her face flamed uncomfortably.

  “How the hell am I gonna prove it to you?” He questioned sharply.

  “I suggest you make the therapy lessons easier on us,” she stressed firmly. “Shirley will help, but you need to help yourself.”

  “How am I going to lend a hand, Miss Stanley?” The elderly woman piped in, wiping her tears aside with her fingertips.

  “I advise that you keep up your daily routine as you did before George lost his sight. He’s accustomed to what you do, having learned your habits after all these years.” Meghan sat on the sofa, thinking of the mandatory list of must-dos. George’s muffled mirth interrupted her reverie and she frowned.

  “Meghan, girl, she’ll be the death of me!” He provided with a loud but watery guffaw. “Her daily c…chores mean moving the furniture, and trying to make this place look like s…something out of those decorating magazines!”

  “First, Shirley, you can’t move the stuff,” Meghan shook her head. “And you can’t change the way anything is arranged in the house.”

  “Why can't I?” His wife asked, curious. “I always move things around. It’s what George has always called my therapy, moving, painting, redecorating…”

  “George remembers, in his mind,” Meghan tapped at her forehead for emphasis. “He recalls how this everything is laid out, where you’ve placed every chair, table, and lamp. He knows where the television set is, his chair, where the cups are in the kitchen….”

  “I could maneuver the damn place at night and never s…stub a toe.” He interjected proudly.

  “Well,” Meghan had to stop herself for squealing with delight. Finally, they were getting somewhere! “You now live in the dark, George. Everything’s the same, only the lights are out.”

  He stifled a half-hearted chuckle and his tone lightened. “I ain’t ever thought of it that way.”

  “Well, do!” Meghan startled the pair with her vehemence. “Meanwhile, your wife promises not to rearrange the furnishings. Isn’t that right, Shirley?”

  “But that’s what I do. I love moving things around.” Shirley sounded exasperated, as if Meghan had requested she do the unimaginable.

  “You can’t anymore. You have to meet George halfway on this, or he’s going to become more frustrated every day.”

  “I suppose…”

  “I’ve told you, Shirley, and so has your husband. George has a picture of this house in his mind. He uses that image to make his way around the place.” She tried not to sigh with annoyance.

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Be patient and love George, just as you always have.”

  Meghan wished she’d have kept her mouth shut and not uttered a word as she detected a muffled sob. Forcing a smile, she blinked vacantly.

  “Do you promised, Shirley? Can you promise George everything will stay exactly where it’s placed, and you won’t move anything?”

  “Oh, I promise!”

  George's wry chuckle followed the fervent vow.

  Chapter Two

  Years ago, by the decree of the Historical Society for the Preservation of Bentham, automobile traffic became restricted from Maple Avenue. As a pedestrian road, the thoroughfare occupying the oldest section of Bentham was a history buff’s haven, and regularly occupied by enthusiastic tourists and local citizens. In fact, everyone enjoyed the ambiance of century old structures, charming artiste studios, and old-world style coffee shops with cozy tables lining the walkways, and the street was often bursting at the seams with humanity.

  Brick buildings, row houses from the late seventeenth and mid-eighteenth century shadowed the cobbled lane, and multi-paned lead glass windowpanes reflected the faces of excited visitors and the flash of cameras. At night, the windows glowed with the light of electronic candles, a haunting image of long-ago, casting a warm glow over the walkways. Not unlike images from an illustrated fairytale book, appearing chock-full of magic and enchantment, the avenue and shops garnered gasps of delight, and were the favorites those visiting Bentham.

  In the spring and summer, flowers spilled from carefully tended window and street planters, and musicians played romantic tunes late into the night. Holidays were enchanting, with streams of lights hanging from storefronts and lampposts, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and fresh-baked sweets escaping from adjacent shops.

  Amid the history and beauty, one store stood out from the rest.

  The building was made of brick, but not the standard red block to which people are accustomed. Instead, the structure appeared composed of a hodgepodge of every stone manufactured in human history. Stones of black, burgundy, gray, and taupe created the edifice, accentuating the large bay window overlooking the sidewalk. flanked by a craft shop overflowing the pleasant aromas of potpourri, handcrafted dolls, and a bookstore packed with works both ancient and new, this certain structure’s façade resembled a bent crone of old, the wooden shingles on the roof curling and weathered, the eaves bowed and faded by sunlight. The shutters edging the upper windows of the three-story building seemed weather-beaten and aged. The effect was purposeful, though, and didn’t detract from the beauty of the road. The flaws added the semblance of reality to an almost too perfect lane, and drew many curious shoppers.

  At night, not a single candle brightened these particular windows. On the contrary, for a curious and bright glow of light seeped from the behind the five narrow glass eyes staring over the street. Any who stopped to stare felt a shaft of pleasant warmth shoot through them, and their senses would detect the subtle scent of aromatic incense emanating from the outlandish shop.

  An Art Nouveau image of a scantily attired blonde-haired woman breathed the name of the store across the front windows, and gleaming shards shimmered in the room beyond. The crystals, tiny shafts of luminous glass, glistened enticingly. The polished fragments moved with every breeze, dangling from flimsy fishing lines strung from the low beamed ceiling. Each facet appeared to dance, and the actions drew people’s attention, mutely beckoning them into the incense-scented interior.

  Inside, the unsuspecting marveled at the surroundings, their eyes wide with awe. The walls were deftly painted amber and parchment, appearing chipped by the passage of time, the semblance of brick peeking through faux broken plaster. Shades of black marked the place where elaborate iron scones were once situated. The discoloration provided visitors the false impression smoke from a forgotten flame stained the walls for eternity.

  Behind a dark wood shop counter, an assortment of dried herbs, incense, herbal salves, balms, and beeswax candles of different colors and sizes crammed rows of shelves. Various racks overflowed with mysterious curiosities. Among the delights that invited customers were the latest in organic teas, beauty creams, scented oils, brilliantly illuminated books, tarot cards, and flasks filled with spells rumored to cur
e anything from heart to headaches.

  Despite the store’s alluring appeal, the owners garnered the most attention from the curious clientele.

  The woman reading Tarot Cards at the table behind the bright windowpane was breathtaking, her long red hair a wild cap of spirals tumbling to her hips. Franchesca Pagliatti was petite, delicately boned, and exotically featured. Heavy kohl rimmed her emerald-green eyes, accentuating the slight slant that rose over high cheekbones. Large hoops of gold dangled from her ears, drawing attention to the long slender column of her throat and the shadowed vee hidden beneath the white linen of her gypsy blouse. When the glow of the sunlight struck her flaming crown, she shone like a beacon, drawing people to her. One couldn’t help moving from where they stood on the crowded square and approaching the window, pressing faces and hands against the pitted and bubbled glass, and watching her with awe.

  Her beauty was exotic, and fiery. Some locals whispered she was a true Romany, her ancestors escaping war-torn Europe and resettling in the United States. Truthfully, Chesca did resemble the gypsies of old, the fire in her eyes as wild as that rumored held by the ancients, and her skill with her cards frightening accurate. On the average day, she foretold the future, greeted the many that ambled through the open doorway, and sold the goods that made her a small fortune.

  Her friend and co-proprietor, though, collected an assortment of awe-struck and adoring female customers.

  He appeared at the doorstep of The Mage after the store’s grand opening. At the time, Chesca doubted she’d succeed with her new enterprise. Tons of obstacles stood before her, but at the top of the list, launching a pagan shop in an overtly Orthodox town was asking for trouble. After a week of picketers, rocks thrown through the windows, and a lack of clients, she’d been ready to admit defeat.