spoon, I head over to the eight-foot cherry shelf. It looks like a
library collection, but duller. The book-jackets are faded and lack the hues I
see in the grocery store best-sellers. I lift East of Eden. The paper feels
thin and brittle, like an old person’s skin. I replace the book between
Tortilla Flat and The Grapes of Wrath. I’ve read all of those. There are a few Steinbeck
that I haven’t read. I lift “The Pearl.” The white letters of the title are
surrounded by an unsightly shade of blue with dark blue half-moons. Maybe it’s supposed
to look like water. The blue is framed in black and surrounded by what was once
a mostly red border, but now seems sun-bleached.
The repulsive cover calls to me.
I lay it on the couch. Cori should be settled by
now, but I need more privacy. There are French doors by the kitchen. I let
myself out to a swept balcony with a glass patio table for two. A dead plant
and dried dirt sit to one side in an exquisite three-foot-high, jade-like vase.
No Navaho pottery here.
I sink into a white metal chair with pastel
cushions. April 27. Two months, to the day, since I last saw my flute. It’s
almost cosmic—or divine. The shaft feels foreign until I slide my fingers over
the holes. A breeze lifts the pine branches nearby and I close my eyes, waiting
for it to lift me. I want the spirits of the wind or animals or trees,
whichever are strongest, to take me away. If only something spiritual would
touch me, carry me.
When I wondered if Hayden’s God could find my
flute last night, I didn’t believe—I never thought—why would his God help me?
With my eyes still closed, I lift the flute to my
lips. Just a few notes at first, I need to breathe music before I let it
consume me. After the sounds have become familiar again, I sing through the
wood my father carved.
When I’m finished, the silence is release. I’m
thankful the mournful reconciliation is complete. Just as I rise to leave the
balcony, Mark’s voice lifts in resonance and echo. There are no words at first.
He explores the cadence I just played. His sounds become words in a language I
don’t understand. His meaning is clear though, no one has ever felt more
heartbreak. I’ll weep from the sound of it. I lean over the railing to see if I
can catch a glimpse. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, “I’m sorry you hurt,” or
something; but I cannot let someone cry out like that.
My legs carry me through Cori’s earth-toned
apartment and out the front door. As I navigate toward Mark’s front door, a
wholly different sound emanates through the closed window, an upbeat-joke-of-a-song.
He starts again. He sings a scale. It was only practice. Who knew opera could
express such passion?
I try not to feel betrayed as I creep back into
Cori’s place. Am I the only one who hurts?
I take a sweater from my backpack and roll up my
flute. From now on, it travels with me. To work, home, wherever.
I stretch across the couch with The Pearl in my
hands. The pages are smooth, almost cottony. It smells better than library
books, but I knew it would. A small white envelope lands on my lap. The envelope
is unopened, the hasty script faded, the postmark 2005. Five years old?
Coribella Reese, with a Reno address. She must
have misplaced this message from … Lehi Brower, Utah. I turn it over several
times. She will be glad I found it.
Now, about this pearl.
When I wake, the room has darkened. The open book
is a shield on my chest, I don’t remember laying it down. I look out the French
doors and try to orient myself. The sun has begun to dip behind the Sierra
Nevadas; the earth slipping into her nightgown.
The kitchen lights burst on.
“Oh, hey.” Cori wears snug black pants that flare
out over gold high-heeled sandals. Her emerald and gold halter-top shimmers
against equally iridescent skin. The green in her top highlights the green hues
in her dragon tattoo. But the most catching part of her is still her eyes. The
heavy black
library collection, but duller. The book-jackets are faded and lack the hues I
see in the grocery store best-sellers. I lift East of Eden. The paper feels
thin and brittle, like an old person’s skin. I replace the book between
Tortilla Flat and The Grapes of Wrath. I’ve read all of those. There are a few Steinbeck
that I haven’t read. I lift “The Pearl.” The white letters of the title are
surrounded by an unsightly shade of blue with dark blue half-moons. Maybe it’s supposed
to look like water. The blue is framed in black and surrounded by what was once
a mostly red border, but now seems sun-bleached.
The repulsive cover calls to me.
I lay it on the couch. Cori should be settled by
now, but I need more privacy. There are French doors by the kitchen. I let
myself out to a swept balcony with a glass patio table for two. A dead plant
and dried dirt sit to one side in an exquisite three-foot-high, jade-like vase.
No Navaho pottery here.
I sink into a white metal chair with pastel
cushions. April 27. Two months, to the day, since I last saw my flute. It’s
almost cosmic—or divine. The shaft feels foreign until I slide my fingers over
the holes. A breeze lifts the pine branches nearby and I close my eyes, waiting
for it to lift me. I want the spirits of the wind or animals or trees,
whichever are strongest, to take me away. If only something spiritual would
touch me, carry me.
When I wondered if Hayden’s God could find my
flute last night, I didn’t believe—I never thought—why would his God help me?
With my eyes still closed, I lift the flute to my
lips. Just a few notes at first, I need to breathe music before I let it
consume me. After the sounds have become familiar again, I sing through the
wood my father carved.
When I’m finished, the silence is release. I’m
thankful the mournful reconciliation is complete. Just as I rise to leave the
balcony, Mark’s voice lifts in resonance and echo. There are no words at first.
He explores the cadence I just played. His sounds become words in a language I
don’t understand. His meaning is clear though, no one has ever felt more
heartbreak. I’ll weep from the sound of it. I lean over the railing to see if I
can catch a glimpse. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, “I’m sorry you hurt,” or
something; but I cannot let someone cry out like that.
My legs carry me through Cori’s earth-toned
apartment and out the front door. As I navigate toward Mark’s front door, a
wholly different sound emanates through the closed window, an upbeat-joke-of-a-song.
He starts again. He sings a scale. It was only practice. Who knew opera could
express such passion?
I try not to feel betrayed as I creep back into
Cori’s place. Am I the only one who hurts?
I take a sweater from my backpack and roll up my
flute. From now on, it travels with me. To work, home, wherever.
I stretch across the couch with The Pearl in my
hands. The pages are smooth, almost cottony. It smells better than library
books, but I knew it would. A small white envelope lands on my lap. The envelope
is unopened, the hasty script faded, the postmark 2005. Five years old?
Coribella Reese, with a Reno address. She must
have misplaced this message from … Lehi Brower, Utah. I turn it over several
times. She will be glad I found it.
Now, about this pearl.
When I wake, the room has darkened. The open book
is a shield on my chest, I don’t remember laying it down. I look out the French
doors and try to orient myself. The sun has begun to dip behind the Sierra
Nevadas; the earth slipping into her nightgown.
The kitchen lights burst on.
“Oh, hey.” Cori wears snug black pants that flare
out over gold high-heeled sandals. Her emerald and gold halter-top shimmers
against equally iridescent skin. The green in her top highlights the green hues
in her dragon tattoo. But the most catching part of her is still her eyes. The
heavy black
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