The Color of Cold and Ice

by J. Schlenker

  They sat at a small round table, one similar to the one she had at home, where she had tea parties with her dolls. Her father sat cross-legged on the floor, at her level. He had given her a small sip of his own brew. She nearly spit it out. How could something that smelled so good taste so awful? She covered the taste with a chocolate éclair and a glass of milk, watching her father gulp the remainder of his cup down like it was heaven. It was heaven, the shop that is — a magical place, better than Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

  Her mom was at home with the new baby, Em. The outing was his and her special day, her father had said. She had felt like a princess. And somewhere along the line, before she had even graduated from high school, she had learned to adore the mysterious brew that she had once wanted to eject from her palate.

  Her goal had always been to start a business, although she had once entertained the thought of college, mostly because her parents urged her to do so. But she was adamant about not going. They redirected their efforts of higher learner towards Em, even though Em was only in junior high at the time. Syb didn’t feel she needed it to run a coffee shop. Besides, four years of college would be time wasted when she could be working towards her dream. What she needed was common sense, a business sense, determination, and dedication. She had all of those in abundance. The rest — details.

  She worked odd jobs before landing a job in a law office, one of New York’s leading firms, where she rose through the ranks. She ended up as a legal researcher. She had a drive, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work or long hours.

  Not having children helped in the beginning, although even early on, she sometimes worried about her decision to put off having children in favor of a career. Her biological clock wasn’t ticking as loudly then. And, it was easy enough to play surrogate mother to Chad, an arrangement that both she and Em were content with. After Michael’s death, Em needed her even more, as did Chad.

  From her first job out of high school, she deposited as much of her paycheck into a savings account as was feasible. Then she met her husband, a new lawyer hired by the firm. Clark literally flew into her life, like Superman. It was a month after 9/11. She had little time for dating. For him, she made an exception. He had been persistent although he wouldn’t have needed to. He was the man in her dream. She knew he was the one. Before 9/11, she had made herself believe that she was content to spend life alone, just for her work, to build a successful business she could be proud of. Well, at least a good portion of her life. But then the dream told her differently.

  Clark was her protector, her biggest supporter. Most of all, he understood and tolerated her quirky ways, her interest in the mystical. When she first told him she had visions and dreams, things that came true, he didn’t flinch an eye. Instead, he peered into her eyes, and laughed. “Your dreams could be a real asset in helping me win cases.”

  Like her, he was a hard worker. They hadn’t even discussed children, well not seriously. Once, he told her he trusted her visions to tell him if it was meant to be.

  She looked down at her hand that held the pen. No age spots yet. She had just turned thirty-eight. Clark was forty. Although, it still wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for them to have children, her baby-making machine was striking midnight. With both of their long hours, how could they manage it?

  Shortly after marrying, Clark had encouraged her to go for it, follow her dreams, open that coffee shop she wanted. She signed a lease for a much in need of renovation ground floor space in Manhattan. Clark had even pitched in at nights, moving out the garbage the previous tenant had left and scrubbing the place down. Em leant a hand as much as possible, as well, giving the space her artistic flavor. She picked up Chad from daycare after work, entering the coffee shop all bright-eyed with Chad hung in a sling at her front, while Michael stayed at home making dinner. Em buzzed in and out like a bee, the possibilities of the coffee shop being her nectar.

  Em loved the coffee shop, the whole idea of it. She saw potential where there was nothing but a stark gray concrete shell. Her eyes darted from wall to floor to corner to the front windows. An orgasmic, “Oh yes,” escaped her opened mouth expression followed by, “We can put the counter here. Art will cover this entire wall. And, oh yes, color everywhere. Magnificent, glorious color. A display case here. Nice comfortable chairs, the ones you can sink back into, and something for kids.” Her enthusiasm pulsated through the cold starkness melting through it like a welder’s torch.

  Other than Clark, Em was her biggest supporter. In fact, they may have been tied with Chad running close behind as he clapped when his mom placed a colorful table with storybooks in the corner as a toddler section and then again when she came up with the idea of a doggie water bowl outside amongst the tables. A bright orange awning went over those.

  Considering Em and Chad had made the coffee shop their second home, it hadn’t taken much urging to get Em to quit her job alongside Michael and come to work at the Java Bean Factory, the name, another one of Em’s inventions. She had imagination. Even though the accounting firm where Em worked had been where she met Michael, it really wasn’t her forte. The ambiance of an artsy coffee shop was.

  Em chose the artists whose creations adorned the walls and procured entertainment for weekend nights. And her latte art was to die for; something she joked took the place of her neglected college degree in art. At first, Em had intended on putting her own art on the bold colored walls, but she hadn’t had the time for it when Chad was a toddler and then, not the will for it after Michael’s death.

  Syb encouraged Em to return to painting. It was now three years after the accident, and finally, Em was ready to dust off her easel and retrieve her brushes from her closet. Her talent shouldn’t be wasted on swirling pictures of cream onto cappuccinos, creations that would disappear down the throats of their admiring collectors.

  Sybil didn’t know how she would make it without Emerald when she turned in her apron. They were as close as sisters could get; Em being Sybil’s rock with the coffee shop, and she being Em’s after Michael’s death.

  * * *

  Syb turned the page in her journal and took another sip of coffee. It was habitual that Syb drank from the blue mug, blue being her favorite color, the color of Clark’s eyes, the color she looked the best in, the color she most liked to see in her dreams. To her, it symbolized tranquility. But today, she reached for the orange. Orange was Em’s favorite color despite the fact she was named Emerald. Em didn’t want to be labeled by the color. It was enough that she was teased quite a bit because of her name in grade school.

  Sybil was also an odd name. She had been the only Sybil in her class, in her entire school. The same held true for Emerald. Their parents had told them to be proud of their names. They were unique. Sybil was beginning to appreciate that now.

  Sybil meant prophetess or seer. Her parents hadn’t known that at the time. They had heard the name from someone and liked it. By high school, after a series of coincidences, profound dreams, and serendipitous moments, Sybil concluded that fate had chosen the name for her. Her parents had just been the empty vessels that received the message.

  And this newest dream. What did it mean? How would it unfold? Thinking about it sent a chill through her, a tingling sensation that went clear through her body, even to the top of her head, a strange experience indeed, but a pleasant one. The dream, although strange, was enjoyable. The last dream that had taken such a hold on her, the one about Michael, happened three years earlier. It was far from enjoyable.

  Sybil had all kinds of minor dreams that came true. She might see a face of someone in a dream, someone she didn’t know. Later, she would see that identical face out on the street. It was always something like that. But this was one of her major dreams as was the one that happened three years earlier. She always knew when the dreams were major. They would be followed by varying bodily sensations, chills or a dread in the pit of her stomach, or uncontrollable emotions like crying or laughing for no reason. The on
e before 9/11 was confusing since she was both crying and laughing. It had been her most profound dream. Next had been the one she had had about Michael.

  In the one about Michael, Sybil found herself on the streets of New York, surrounded by grayness and fog. Rain poured in heavy sheets. She looked up towards the gray sky and found herself peering down from one of the skyscrapers. All she could see was a blanket of black umbrellas moving in rhythm towards a freshly dug hole, a newly prepared grave. A loud metallic noise. Something fell from above. She awoke screaming. Clark sat up, startled. “Just a bad dream, go back to sleep,” she assured him. Of course, he knew better. He held her until she drifted back into a slumber.

  She told no one about the contents of the dream, not even Clark. A few weeks later, Michael, Em’s husband, was hit by some object that came hurtling down from a crane while he and Chad were walking along the street. That dream or nightmare, in itself, had left her with anxiety a sense of dread. Seeing it come true was devastating. At that point she wanted to give up dreaming. But then she would have to give up sleep.

  She took a sip of the black coffee as she wrote this latest dream and thoughts into her journal.

  She started a dream journal during her junior year in high school when the coincidences and dreams became too overpowering to ignore. She had learned to know which ones were imminent. She trusted her intuition, something else she had learned to do.

  On her birthday, her mother gave her a dream dictionary. By now, she knew most of its worn pages by heart. Water was incredibly symbolic in a dream. The type of water mattered. The water in the canal was crystal clear. That was a good sign. The water, the rain, in the dream three years earlier had a different feeling altogether.

  Then there was the cold. People tend to think of cold as bad. Sybil sensed something different about this cold. She knew it was good, yet she didn’t know why. She ruffled through the tattered pages of the book. Cold, cold. “Cold on a sunny day meant that poverty would be removed,” she read aloud. She shut her eyes, trying to once again picture the dream. It was sunny, definitely sunny. The frost on the man’s hair sparkled in the bright rays. Did this mean actual monetary poverty or spiritual poverty? Maybe both. The removal of monetary poverty was certainly true. Em was financially secure now; if indeed this dream was about Em’s future. Sybil’s gut told her it was.

  The pink yoga mats. Pink symbolized young love. Yoga? A serene, calm love. Sybil skipped through the pages to find orange. It was all about balance. The meaning of that eluded her. It didn’t fit. She conceded orange did have significance, but maybe orange didn’t have any emotional or spiritual context at all. If this were some sort of vision of a future happening, everyone would be wearing orange. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar. Didn’t Freud say that?

  She had learned over the years not to over analyze the dreams. Analyzing too much often led her down wild goose chases that departed drastically from the dream’s actual meaning. Once she had dreamed about losing her teeth. While a dream dictionary would give all sorts of symbolic references for such a dream, it merely meant she was long overdue to see the dentist.

  Sybil finished up her journal entry, took the last sip of coffee, and went in the bedroom to wake up her husband. Clark had often told her to take up tea drinking, joking it might be easier if she just read the tea leaves.

  She sat on the side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed him. “His eyes were blue, like sapphires,” she said.

  “What?” Clark groggily asked.

  “Oh, something I just remembered about the dream I had last night.”

  He sat up in bed. “You were dreaming about another man?” One eye opened trying to focus on her while his other eye remained closed.

  “No,” she gave him a smile and ruffled his graying hair with her hand, something her mother used to do with her when she was young. “Not in that respect. I think he is someone Em will meet.”

  “That would be nice if Emerald would meet someone,” he said with a voice as groggy as his eyes. Clark almost always called her Emerald. He liked the name, and green was his favorite color. “And Chad needs a father figure,” he said while managing to open his other eye.

  “Yes, it would. Of course, the right someone. You’ve been a good father to Chad.”

  “I try, but that usually just happens on weekends. He needs a real father, not a substitute one.”

  “I agree. I have coffee on. You sound and look like you need some. Get up and shower or you will be late for work.”

  “Did I ever tell you you’re a dream?” He reached for her giving her a subdued morning breath kiss.

  “Yes, many times,” she said, not minding his morning breath at all.

  * * *

  Sybil stood in the corridor of the subway station, waiting for the train and gripping Chad’s yellow galoshes against her chest. The concrete below her was wet with tracked in snow. She wrapped her scarf tighter to shield herself against the damp and the biting air that shot down the subway steps. She glanced at the map on the back wall out of the corner of her eye and looked back towards the rails. Something clicked. She jerked her head back towards the map and read, Amsterdam Avenue. Canals, the color orange, the royal color, the Queen of Orange. The tall slender buildings that leaned forward. She smiled as a pleasant chill rippled through her body. An omen. the dream was about Amsterdam or somewhere in Holland.

  A slight wind stirred in the tunnel. She made her way onto the crowded car, getting the last available seat. She noticed a couple that would be getting off at her stop. She often saw them in the coffee shop. She gave them a friendly nod; the man acknowledged her with his eyes and then returned to his paper. It was Monday, the beginning of another work week for most.

  Chapter 3

  Red

  * * *

  “PUSH! PUSH!” SAID the man standing to his wife’s side.

  “I can see the crown. Won’t be long now,” the man in the green scrubs said, his hands positioned as if to catch a football being shot out from between the woman’s legs.

  I am life itself, pulsing, flowing, oozing, erupting from inside the womb. It begins with me. I am washed off, but only the outer layer. I inhabit every organ, every fiber of being. At the center, I beat like a drum. I am the symbol of love. I am creation. The man and woman ooh and ah. I am the passion, the spark that begat this small bundle, this creature of joy.

  The tiny hands push me along. “Vroom, Vroom.” I am the fire engine putting out the pretend fire. But bedtime disrupts the scene, and I am placed carefully in the toy box.

  I look at the surroundings from my vase. My odor permeates the room. I am the heart shaped box that lay empty on the table. Beside me sit two empty glasses, my petals strewn about the bed. I am all lace and satin, the color of love, the forerunner of fertility, ordered from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. And so, it begins again. I am renewal.

  I am the subdued light that makes the flesh appealing, an urban area of brothels, strip clubs, and the like, a district in Amsterdam.

  A narrow piece of silk, carefully picked out at a fine department store. “This says power, strength, wealth — with this you can’t go wrong,” the over enthusiastic salesman, clearly fueled by commission, says. A fashionable noose. I’m flipped back at lunch. The power broker swirls a French fry in me. I am the wine in the glass to ease his nerves before heading off to his meeting. Once again, I am the Merlot. Cheers. A promotion is imminent.

  I am the new shoes, the pair in the window. The woman has been eyeing me for weeks. Now, with her husband’s promotion, the one I influenced, she can afford me. She wears me out of the store. I am bold. I am to be noticed. I’m Prada, devilish. I hear the catcalls, the whistles. I am sexy. I am lust. The moment is lost. My siren blares as I shoot up the thoroughfare. I am danger. I am excitement at every turn.

  A loud bang. A gun shot. I pour from the wound. People don’t realize how much of me there really is. I’m messy, sticky. I drench the body and its surroundings. I cannot be contained
. This fact is covered up on television. It’s not pleasant. Not so in a Coen Brother’s production. I am anger, aggression, no longer love. I am the brutal aspect of war.

  In whatever form I come, I’m not to be trifled with, downplayed, or trodden upon. I am courageous. I demand attention wherever I go. I am always energetic.

  In the country, I’m a soft field of Poppies. I’m dazzling, ablaze with pigment, enough to excite the senses, unless one gets too close. For then, I intoxicate. I’m a drug. I seduced Dorothy into an almost deadly slumber. I am the ruby slippers that sent her home.

  I am the sweet apple dipped in caramel. I am the lump in Adam’s throat, his downfall, the temptation of Eve.

  I am the cherry atop a sundae, the tree George Washington could not lie about.

  But, I always come back to love. The most voluptuous of fruits, the berry that is heart-shaped, the fruit of Venus, the goddess of love.

  Alluring, deceptive, cloaked and hooded, I flow with each stride making my way through the woods to Grandma’s house. I am a bright cardinal perched in the snow, a shock to my surroundings, warning me to focus as I skip merrily through the woods. All is not as it seems. I chirp out a song.

  I am portly, obese, does my butt look big in this velvety costume, as I squeeze my body down a soot encrusted chimney, after having endured endless lines of children, one at a time positioning themselves on my lap. I suffer through the meekness, shyness, fear, crying, beard tugging and greed as they each go over their never-ending lists.

  I am the letter ‘A’ borne by Hester Prynne in a seventeenth century Massachusetts Bay Colony.

  In royal vestments, I parade, like a prince ordained, only second to the Pope.