The Forging

by Jeffrey Hancock

  I never realized how much I have missed sleeping next to my wife. I learned early on working graveyard shifts it is best to stay on the schedule, even on my days off. My health would start to suffer when I kept switching back to a daytime schedule on my weekends. Most nights, when I stayed up, I would read or play games on the computer; anything as long as it is quiet and didn’t disturb my family’s sleep. Sometimes I would watch them. Nothing creepy, mind you, I would wonder what they are dreaming. Moiraine would always smile and laugh while she dreamed. My wife is a little harder to read in her sleep. I will miss watching them sleep.

  Charlene lifted her head and gave my cheek a soft kiss. It warmed me. After a few moments, she lifted her head again, and this time, she gave my ear a little nibble. First, one nibble, and then another. Next, she reached up with her free hand and put it on the far side of my head and pulled my face toward her. She kissed me long, slow, and with subtle intensity. I’m beginning to get a clue, along with other things, as to her intentions.

  We made love. We fulfilled each other in soft and gentle ways. It was a bonding. It was a restatement to each other and to the universe we are as one. We were quiet, not to keep from waking Mo, but more so we could better listen to the love we are sharing and reconfirming. It is all that is worthwhile in this world. Without saying a word to me, she let me know everything is alright. That everything would be alright. We reached the height of our love together. They say it is rare for couples; even long-time married couples like us, to achieve. We did our first time and most times since, not that I’m bragging.

  Well, maybe a little.

  I dozed afterward. It was a peaceful sleep. My nose woke me to the smell of bacon cooking. I rose and stuck my head out of the bedroom. “How long do I have before breakfast? Do I have time to take a quick shower?”

  I heard my wife call back, “Go for it.” I finished up the rest of my morning routine then quickly dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. As I finished tying up my shoes, my daughter came running into the bedroom.

  “Daddy, it’s time for breakfast. Come on,” without stopping, she ran out saying, “I’m glad you’re not sleeping today.”

  I made my way to the dining room with a slight detour to say good morning to Blossom. She responded with her usual tail thumping. “Has she been fed yet?” A chorus of yes came from the kitchen.

  “Something smells tasty. What did my girls cook for me this morning?” I asked as I sat at my seat. Char brought in the last of the morning’s grub and sat it on the table.

  “Well, Daddy, if you looked, you would see there is yummy bacon, fried potatoes, and I made the scrambled eggies. Oh, and mom made bisquicks, too.” I love what my daughter calls biscuits. In one fell swoop, she marries two different words. Twofers are such great time savers.

  As Charlene sat down, she pronounced, “This morning daddy gets served first. Right Moiraine?” She emphasized. “Help yourself, Nathan.”

  I wasted no time in doling out my portions. They were large as my appetite is large this morning. Oh! The bacon was roasted, not fried. More of the fat renders out. It’s slightly healthier for you and the bacon comes out delicious and flat as a board. It has a light maple flavor too. Char must have basted it with syrup before she put it in the oven. Next, some fried potatoes with minced garlic and a diced rainbow of bell peppers filled a large area of my plate. Then I portioned out a healthy helping of my daughter’s scrambled eggs. A feast fit for a king or at least the king’s fool, “What’s up with this extra-special breakfast and treatment?”

  “We like treating you extra special,” Char stated in a matter of fact manner.

  “And you brought us flowers, Daddy.”

  “Yes, you brought us flowers,” Charlene accused with an eyebrow raised. Also, a tone of accusation came through loud and clear.

  “I wanted to see how pale they look next to my beautiful girls,” Moiraine giggled when I finished speaking.

  Charlene acknowledged, “That was quick. But then you have always been quick, a little thick-headed, but quick.” Char nodded her head slightly as if to agree with herself.

  I decided to put my attention back to my breakfast. After a few bites of my potatoes, the remaining bits fell into an odd shape on my plate. I started rearranging them. They were taking on the form of, in an eight-bit graphic sort of way, the symbol I had lazily doodled while waiting on hold for the DA. It is beginning to annoy me because I cannot remember where or even if I have seen it before. It is a type of frustration I had never experienced before. I didn’t like the feeling. My memory is my greatest asset, besides my rugged good looks and vast income potential. My life is filling with strange happenings, and this morning is no exception.

  “Are you playing with your potatoes? It’s not bad enough every time I serve you mashed potatoes you play with them and exclaim, ‘this means something.’ Now you are doing it with fried potatoes,” Char started shaking her head.

  “No, you don’t understand. This has me bugged,” I ranted as I showed her the potatoeized version of the mystery symbol. “I keep seeing this, and it seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “I know what it is, Daddy,” Mo volunteered stretching to see my creation.

  I turned and looked at my daughter in earnest. “What is it, Honey?”

  “It’s your breakfast, Daddy,” she could hardly contain her laughter as she spoke the words. My wife had to choke back a laugh. I had to admit it was pretty damn funny.

  “Love it, Mo,” I gave my daughter a high five. “Where did you get your sense of humor, young lady?”

  Char piped up with, “You have no one to blame but yourself. You taught her that sense of humor,” she half-mocked. The conversation was sparse while we ate our meal. Charlene instructed Mo to clear off the table then to play in her room. Once Mo was out of earshot in her room, Char settled back in her chair and crossed her arms under her breasts.

  “Out with it. What’s the bad news? Husband mine.”

  “Why does there have to be bad news?”

  “Because you brought home flowers. I love you dearly Nathan, but you’ve never given me flowers unless there is a problem, or you feel guilty about something. You’re not the only one with a memory. Husband Mine.”

  Crap, two husband mines. I’m in it deep. I quickly ran through every occasion I had brought home flowers and cross-referenced it with bad news. There had to be one time at least when the two didn’t correspond. Charlene sat there looking at me waiting for me to admit she is right.

  “Well? Did that brain of yours come up with an exception?”

  I hung my head. “No, it didn’t.” Note to self: buy flowers for no reason in the future. I took in a deep breath and let it out, “I lost my job last night. The only reason I didn’t tell you when I got home is,” I took another deep breath, “I’m a coward. I couldn’t face you last night with the news. I knew you would worry.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The words “Mommy, you said a bad word,” came from my daughter’s room.

  My wife muttered something it sounded like oh great, but I can’t be sure. “Mommy and daddy are having a grown-up talk right now. Don’t listen in,” Char commanded in her don’t question me about this voice. “It’s not you’re a coward. This is I’m a man, and I can’t worry the womenfolk. Isn’t it?” When I didn’t immediately jump in with an answer, she continued, “Well, understand this mister Husband Mine.” Oh my, she stretched it into a triple. “This marriage is more than a living arrangement. We are partners in this life. Well, mister man of his word, I am a woman of her WORD! I took a vow of for better or worse. It looks like it will be worse for a while. So be it. But don’t sit there and try to save me. Don’t protect me from life. I am not some damsel in distress hold-up in an ivory tower. I am your WIFE!” The volume of her statements steadily increased with each sentence. I sat there like a proper boy and took my lumps. We have had this one-sided discussion before, but never at this decibel level. I think my ears are bleeding.


  I meekly agreed, “You’re right.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You cannot agree with me just to make me quiet. I will have my say.”

  “What more is there to say than you are right? And I love you.”

  “I love you too, Husband Mine.” The third baseman flubbed the catch, and she takes off for home folks. Safe. An in-park home run. Why we haven’t seen one of those in many years. “But don’t think this conversation is over.”

  I think her steam is letting up because she stood and headed for the kitchen to start the dishes no doubt. “I bought a paper last night on the way home, but it’s not where I put it. Where did you put it? I want to start my job search.”

  “With a memory like yours, I would think you would look where I always put a paper if you buy one.” She is obviously still working on getting her blood down. She mumbled something else under her breath too, but I knew better than to ask what. She is letting her anger control her. The sounds which came from the kitchen are disturbing the quiet. I’m glad we have plastic dishes.

  I opened the paper and went straight to the “Help Wanted” section. I read it three times, but nothing looked promising. I kept hoping a new listing would magically appear, but alas I was disappointed. I started reading the rest of the paper. The comics came next. I’m in need of a chuckle or a chortle even.

  Charlene finished up the kitchen as I read. When she was done, she stomped toward our bedroom, “I need some chocolate,” she announced to the universe. When she returned, she had a light sweater on and car keys in her hand, “Do you want to come?” her voice is considerably softer but still resolute. Papa is not going to have any enjoyment today. And the weather forecast for tonight is chilly with a slight chance of couch time.

  “Moiraine, we are leaving.”

  “Okay, see you soon,” is the answer my daughter gave. Great, more humor from the mouth of babes.

  “No. Bring a jacket or sweater. You are coming along my little jester,” I yelled. I tried to take the keys from Char. She would have none of it. I guess I am going to be chauffeured today. It is something I generally don’t like. Charlene drives like she’s playing Mario Cart which is saying she drives fast and with little regard for other drivers. She has never been in an accident and has never received a traffic ticket, but did I say she drives fast?

  We locked up the house and walked to the car. We all piled into the car or “Jezebel” as I like to call her. Mo buckled up in her booster seat. Charlene sat behind the steering wheel, and I rode shotgun.

  “Atomic batteries to power. Turbines to speed,” I announced.

  Char started the car, “Why do you always say that when I start out driving?”

  “It’s a reference to the campy 1960’s Batman television series.”

  “I know where it’s from, but why do you always say it?”

  “Would you rather I make a reference to the show My Mother the Car?”

  She put the car in gear and peeled, I mean pulled out. We drove to the corner Seven-Eleven in relative silence. Char bought her chocolate, I bought a Diet Pepsi, and Moiraine got a small Wild Cherry Slurpee. We sat in the car indulging in our favorite vices for a few moments. The quiet was broken when Mo finished her drink with the gasping sound made by a straw trying to get every last drop.

  “Moiraine, give it up. There is nothing left in the cup. Say since we are already out and about, why don’t we go to the park and walk around? It has been a while since we have taken a stroll in the park.” In suggesting the walk, I hope to have some enjoyable family time. We don’t get enough family time, and we might as well take advantage of my unemployment to reconnect.

  Charlene blew out a huge breath. “You know it sounds like a plan,” Char started the car. Moiraine chimed in with a cheer of excitement. It is a short little jaunt to Balboa Park. The search for a parking space wasn’t. Being a Saturday, the crowds are large, and the parking spaces are few. We lucked out and found an empty space in the lot near the Rubin H. Fleet Space Theatre.

  The Balboa Park's site was created in 1835 when the 1200 acres were placed in reserve for public recreational use. The Spanish style structures there were built to hold a celebration for the 1914 completion and opening of the Panama Canal. It’s a great park. I would put it up against Central Park in New York any day of the week.

  Near the Rubin H. Fleet Space theatre is a fountain. Moiraine loves the fountain. She will stick her hands in the water and try to splash us. Next, she will run around it, again and again, laughing the whole time. This visit to the fountain is no different. I played along and chased her, pretending she is too fast to catch. Some other kids there joined the act and started chasing her. Mo is having a blast.

  While Moiraine is playing tag with her new-found friends, Char and I are watching and talking. It was a light conversation of nothing too important. Except she reassured me everything would work out, but more importantly she took my hand and squeezed it. I feel the same jolt I always do when she touches me. We are better now.

  “Mo, it’s time we move along.” Once she joined us, I proclaimed, “Come on, ladies. Let’s take a stroll.”

  “Daddy, can I have a penny to make a wish?”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a penny and gave it to her. She clutched the penny and closed her eyes. I could see Mo wished extra hard. With little ceremony, she threw her penny into the water.

  “So, Mo, what did you wish for?”

  “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

  If things become tough for us, I may have to make a midnight raid to the fountain to pay for groceries. I can picture me dressed in black trying to move from shadow to shadow in an effort not to be seen. Scooping up coins and placing them in a booty bag. The wet coins would drip a trail right to me. The papers would call me “The Drippy Bandit.”

  We turned away from the fountain and started our walk. We walked in a straight line toward the many museums the park offers. About halfway to the San Diego Aerospace Museum, we started to pass the Japanese tea house. A sign in front touted a demonstration of Japanese Calligraphy.

  I steered us into the garden where the demonstration is being held. I want to hear what this man has to say. So, I purchased some drinks and snacks, and we sat down. We watched while the gentleman talked about the origins of the art form or Shodo as it is called. The Japanese art form derives from Chinese calligraphy. He demonstrated how a Sumi and water are used to make the ink. He demonstrated holding the brush or Fude. He talked about the traditional paper, Mulberry.

  After his presentation and the crowd thinned out, I approached him, “I wonder if you know the meaning of these characters and this symbol,” I motioned to ask for his brush. With an amused smile on his face, he handed me the brush. I painted the characters in easy, simple strokes. Mr. Motto raised his eyebrows in surprise and then bowed.

  “I see you have held the brush before. Your strokes are most artful. You are playing with me.”

  “No. I have never done this before. Please, I know these characters from somewhere, and this symbol has me stumped. I can’t place it, and it is driving me mad. Do you know what it means?”

  “This is Japanese. It references a date in the near future, but the symbol is strange to me. No, not right. It has no meaning unto itself. This has the look of a maker’s mark. I am not familiar with whose mark this may be or what kind of work it is for. You are right; it is most puzzling.”

  “Do you know where I can find out more about it?”

  “This little mystery is intriguing to me. Please to allow me to investigate it. May I have this?” He lifted my sketch. I nodded yes, and he placed it into his portfolio.

  “If you find out anything about it, please give me a call,” I wrote down my name and phone number for him. I thanked him for his time and trouble. I dismissed all thoughts of the maker’s mark, which have been driving me nuts. It is handled. Either I would learn what it is from or I would not.

  We all enjoyed the rest of the day in the p
ark. We ambled in the Arboretum. We listened to some street musicians. Moiraine danced to their music. She so loves music. We rode the Merry-go-round. I even caught the brass ring for the first time. We people watched, had some lunch, and just were together. I love my family. I don’t know what I would do without them.

  By the time we returned home, Charlene is treating me like everything is okie dokie between us. I dodged a bullet there. I hate sleeping on the couch. I can’t get comfortable on the damn thing. I am a little taller than the couch is long. If I sleep with my head nestled perfect, my feet are elevated. If my feet are comfy, my neck gets a kink in it.

  It’s a poor metaphor for my life, but I’m no writer.

  The rest of the weekend was pretty normal for us. We played some board games. I won at “Pretty Pretty Princess.” I think Mo threw the game to see me wear all the plastic jewelry. We worked in the garden. This year Charlene had managed not to murder the poor plants. I love my wife, but she has a black thumb. Charlene cleaned rooms which are already clean. I tried to stay on her good side by helping. I attempted to clean as well as she does, but she would come up behind me and reclean where I had already been.

  I tried my luck on the internet for a couple of decent job prospects. I logged the results in my perfect memory. All is well with the world again. Everything except I had no job.

  Chapter Six

  Monday morning is the start of a new week. We followed our usual routine of getting Mo off to school. I did my shift as a crossing guard. When I returned home, Charlene and I passed at the front door. We exchanged kisses and goodbyes as she went on to Moraine’s school to do her art docent gig. I made ready to go out looking for work. I put on a dress shirt and tie along with a pair of slacks. I didn’t believe I would get an interview right off the bat, but on the slight chance I am lucky I need to look professional. The first visit of the day; however, is going to be to my favorite Assistant District Attorney’s office. I planned to exchange some choice words with him the bulk of which I would not want my daughter to hear.