Ancestors, Pt. 2

Over the course of the following month I had all but forgotten about the beautiful woman in red. I was convinced the encounter was due to some early onset of the flu or another mental malady. Perhaps my lunch had been disagreeable with my stomach, and my mind had decided to take part in the argument. In any case, I had returned to the cafe several times since the ghostly encounter had had not seen her again. Either she was simply a mad woman running loose, or my imagination had gotten the better of my faculties which was prone to happen from time to time, as my mother had always suspected.

The month of June presented itself with its own mind-jarring troubles, I’m afraid, specters notwithstanding. I had lost yet another job with the paper and I was immanently in danger of losing my present living arrangement with a rather young and seedy theater entrepreneur, especially since it was now both residents who failed to “bring home the bacon” as it were.

“You should move back in with your mother,” he said in passing one day, “That’s what I plan on doing.”

“Don’t be absurd, man!” I said, “I would never become such a burden. You may get away with such a scheme, but I am almost twice your age! Such a thing would never float well with my ego, and my mother would never let me live it down.”

“Your brother, then.”

“He’s a sorrier lout than you!”

“But he has got a job, hasn’t he?”

I paused, “Well, yes, he’s becoming quite the businessman dealing in soaps, but to room with a sibling at my years is almost as terrible as rooming with one’s mother.”

“Pity,” he said, “Dear ol’ mum must be proud to have such a dignified and respectable son.” He laughed and lit a thin cigarette, nestled beside our fourth story window. I could not abide the smell of smoke, he knew well, and so I took that as my cue to exit. I had been meaning to pay mother a visit, in any case.

The walk across town to her flat was a long and dreary one. It had been raining for several days and I had failed to remember to grab my umbrella in my haste to avoid suffocation. It was not a downpour on the streets of Chicago, but it was heavy enough to seep through the seams of my overcoat and make my suit thoroughly damp. By the hour I reached her doorstep, the only dry part of my person was the thinning hair beneath my hat.

“Get in, you fool!” she said upon seeing my misery, “Who leaves their home in this weather without an umbrella! I raised you better than this. You’ll catch cold and give it to your frail, old mother!”

“I certainly apologize should it ever come to that, mother,” I said.

“I suppose I should worry,” she said, “You haven’t given me anything in years! Why should I be concerned that you would start now?”

“That isn’t fair, mother,” I responded, “You know money has been a hard to come by these last few years. Besides, I gave you that book last year on your birthday, remember?”

She prepared two saucers of tea as I sat at the modest kitchen table, “Oh, what woman my age wants to read these days,” she exclaimed, “I’ve got to keep up appearances to the other widows at the Society! Your dear brother got me these.” She tilted her head to show a pair of pearl earring dangling from her ancient earlobe.

“You’d best be careful, mother,” I said, “With pearls such as those it may be difficult to hold your head so high. Why, they might prevent you from looking down your crooked nose to anyone else!”

She gave a cackle that sounded more like a cough, “Say, what you will about me, but the Society maintains certain standards. It take more than just losing a husband to hob-knob with those kind these days. And without them, your dear old mother wouldn’t have a thing to do but spend more time with her dear, loving children.” She pinched my cheek and gave it a little slap at the end.

“By God, I shall seek a bank loan immediately! Fine furs! New slippers! The greatest necklace money can buy! Anything to keep mum happy and away!”

We laughed so hard that the tea waved and spilt onto the table. Mother wiped away a joyous tear, then said, “Oh, it would be a joke like that that would have kept your father roaring for days, God bless his soul,” she patted my hand, “It was sweet of you to visit on the anniversary, dear.”

“Has Terry been by?” I asked.

“Not yet, but he’s been busy with soap these days,” she said, “At least one person in this family can still hold a vocation.”

“Mother, don’t be cruel,” I said, “You know that I’m trying.”

“I know that, dear, but I’m worried is all,” she said, “you got to learn to stop chasing these dreams of yours and settle down. Find a nice wife to take care of you. Have children. Get a proper job and stop with this writing nonsense. Its what yoiur father wanted, and God knows I would feel so much better.”

“Please, mother, not this conversation again,” I breathed in deep and prepared myself, “I cannot be something I am not, and I cannot be Terry?”

“But Emith, dear, Terry is your younger and he already has two lovely children! You’re slowly reaching middle age and have so little to show for your life. One book is all, and it s a wonderful book, Emith,” she said quickly seeing the hurt in my eyes, “But it cannot feed you, or keep you warm, or love you like a family can.”

“I’m beginning to see that clearly,” I said

“Oh, come now, don’t be sore. I only want what’s best for you.”

“You only want more grandchildren and pearls!” I said playfully.

“There are few people in the world who can appreciate the value of such things,” mother said, putting her hand to her ear, “But enough of such talk. How would you like to play a game of chess? I tried to teach the women of the society but they showed absolutely know interest.”

We had played several games that consisted of forks, blocks, and draws. We had always taken each loss against one another deeply personal, so most games were taken to our wit’s end and finalized with nothing but a pair of kings and pawns. Always anti-climactic.

Upon leaving mother’s flat, she gave a final word of judgmental advice (she simply couldn’t help herself) and sent me home. The dampness had cooled in the setting sun, making the air heavy with an evening fog. As I walked, I encounter a most curious sight. On the side of the road, underneath the orange glow of a streetlamp, stood the contradictory figure of an Indian man, red-skinned with braided hair, and wearing naught but a pair of animal skin pants and long feathers beside his face.

When I saw him I stopped. My eyes took him in for a few moments, and decided that the appropriate course was action to take was to blink. I did, several times, but there the image remained. In the bloody middle of the Chicago city was an Indian savage, far from any tribe, plains, or hunted animal. He stood squarely between me and the entrance to my recently unaffordable home and so I had little choice but to pass his figure. I chose to walk quickly past and avoid any sort of contact; eye, courteous, or otherwise with the hopes of being pleasantly ignored.

Perhaps I moved too briskly. Mayhaps I expelled a cough that brought attention to myself. It could be the case that I stared at him a little too long. Whatever my mistake, he turned to me as I walk towards him, and he stared at me with the deepest and most lively eyes I had ever seen. I could not help myself but stop my brisk beeline to my apartment door. We gazed at each other, and neither of us said a word.

After a brief moment (it could have been a second, it could have been a year) I started to slowly pass him. Still silent, his hard, stone-like face followed me as I went. I dared not match that sort of visage, and so I glided past without another look. Coming to the door to my apartment my keys jingled as I removed them from my damp pockets. I dropped them as I tried to open the door and used the opportunity to take one last look back. He was gone. Only a single lamppost met my eyes. Again, my eyes determined the appropriate response would be to blink, and so I did, looking both left and right for the mysterious Indian, but he was no where to be seen.

That night I slept soundly, better sleep than I had received in weeks. I awoke with the rare existential sense that all was right with the world, and that today was a day of destiny. I lept from bed, arranged my clothes for the day, and decided to find a new outlet for my writing. I would use my recent misfortune in unemployment to begin a new book, one that would sell, and one that would love me as a family would, despite my mother’s beliefs to the contrary. It wasn’t until it was noon time and I was a quarter of the way through the twelfth page that I realized I was writing about the woman in red.