THE MEETING
He is an ordinary man, and she is an ordinary woman, and on this common ground they connected.
“Have you danced much?” he asks her. She timidly answers, “No, I haven’t.” “It’s easy.” he tells her, “Come on. I’ll show you.” And they start to dance right there in the eating room, first to-and-fro, then around the table.
“Now do a spin and keep going.” he says to her. And this she does.
“There’s more room outside.” he tells to her. And with that they go out of the house, out into the night, and they dance. They dance in the courtyard and then move out into the driveway where they dance down to the barn, around the water pump, and then back up. Her father watches them through a window, these two shadows prancing around in the dark . . . the one he knows so very well, the other he knows hardly at all . . . both enjoying this innocent fun . . . and the old man smiles.
They come to a stop and stand there to catch their breath. A silvery moon . . . perched up in the night sky . . . carefully watches over them, while an old willow tree . . . standing quietly nearby . . . pretends to be looking out onto the lake, but is in fact casting sidelong glances at these two silhouettes in the driveway. Nature is on their side . . . urging them to come together.
“I wonder if they ever go in the other direction?” he says out loud, and she responds with a silent laugh. Then, without really thinking, he kisses her on the top of her head. She looks up, and for a moment . . . one of those brief moments that contain so much meaning . . . their eyes meet. It is more than a meeting of their eyes, of course. It is their minds and their hearts that come together as well. He then bows his head, turns it slightly to his left, and, at this moment, their lips meet . . . joining their eyes, their minds, and their hearts . . . in the proper order for a couple’s first kiss.
Her father, still peering out through the eating room window, sees this and raises his eyebrows, widens his eyes, and breathes out a hushed
“Ooh.”
Out in the driveway, these two figures in the night . . . now baptized . . .
embrace. He then lowers his head so that the front of his neck and the bottom of his jaw curve over the top of her head . . . forming just one silhouette . . . as they indeed are now one.
GOING FISHIN’
It is an old rowboat and it has sat in Tom O’Hara’s barn . . . boat, oar locks, and oars . . . for how long he couldn’t exactly remember. Ten years maybe. So Tom isn’t overly ambitious while dickering with the new fella. An agreement is reached and the boat is carted to its new home where it is scraped, made water tight, and given a new coat of paint.
“Ever go fishin’?” he asks her. “Nope.” is her reply. “It’s fun. You’ll like it.” And so, a fishing date is arranged.
They row out to the middle of the lake and he drops the anchor overboard, the anchor that is nothing more than a large stone with rope tied around it, rope tied around it like ribbon tied around a Christmas present.
He baits her hook and shows her how to let out the line. “Hold on to the pole pretty good.” he tells her. And this she does. And then she sits there and just sort-of wonders.
It is about ten minutes later, maybe twelve, when the cork on her line begins to jiggle . . . all on its own. Then it goes completely underwater and she feels a substantial sort-of tug on the line. “You got one.” he says to her.
Well, this is a new feeling indeed. A shiver goes through her body and then a tingling excitement comes in right after it . . . and that feeling stays.
Her eyes widen and her mind lights up. “What do I do?” she asks. “Keep holdin’ on to the pole with your right hand,” he tells her “and use your left to crank the reel . . . kind-of slow like.” And this she does.
It is a pretty good-sized fish and it puts up a pretty good fight, which keeps her interested, you may be sure. “Now switch hands on the pole and use this net to scoop him out of the water.” And this she does. He then removes the fish from the net, removes the hook from the fish, shows her her fish, and then drops it into the bucket. “Nice one.” he says to her.
Things change, sometimes in a moment, and her thinking undergoes just this sort of transformation. The first time around it all didn’t mean anything to her, but now, the second time, she wants her hook to be baited, and she wants her line to be let out, and then she sits there in the boat and waits . . . with a purpose.
There are, of course, fishermen who are more experienced, and many are more capable, but no fisherman . . . or fisherwoman for that matter . . . ever watched their cork more intently than she is now watching hers. And, when it starts to bob up and down a little, she does nothing. She doesn’t move a muscle. That is the right thing to do, of course. When the cork is bobbing up and down a little it means the fish is flirting with the hook, and you have to wait until he makes a commitment to it. She doesn’t know any of this. All she knows is that she is going to do exactly the same thing she did the first time. And when the cork goes underwater she begins to reel in the fish . . . kind-of slow like. She then nets her catch and brings him into the boat where he joins his compatriot in the bucket.
They catch six fish that afternoon . . . she five, he one . . . before they decide to head in. And that night, as they eat fish for supper, she feels a little proud of herself. Oh, she has grown and eaten her own vegetables before, but this is different. Here she feels a sense of . . . triumph . . . and the meal seems more important.
“Good girl God.” he thinks to himself, “Real natural. Not hard to see.”
And they share a smile.
FOR A BOWL OF STEW
Shamus McCafrey is the village bully. Oh, he is too old to be called a bully, but that’s what he is. He is tall and strong and he enjoys using his fists to maintain what he calls “My sovereignty.”
Shamus always says what he thinks . . . and he often speaks without thinking . . . and on this day it would cost him.
You see, Shamus doesn’t like the new fella. It is true that, in a small village like Timber Lake, nobody really likes a new fella, but Shamus’ animosity is more than the common suspicion and mistrust. To Shamus, the new fella is someone who has to be brought into line . . . a subject who has not yet shown him the proper deference . . . and Shamus’ mind is made up to set things straight.
Shamus has tried, on a couple of occasions, to bait the new fella into a fight, but was all but ignored. This forces him to take a more direct approach, and so, as the new fella is making his way toward The Timber Lake Inn for a bowl of stew, Shamus places himself right in the doorway of the inn and tells the new fella, “You’re not allowed in here.” The new fella gives Shamus a look and then tries to get past him and into the inn for the bowl of stew his belly is calling out for. Shamus blocks his path.
Shamus: I told you that you’re not allowed in here.
New fella: You wanna fight. Is that it? And Shamus smiles.
New fella: All right, but I aint gonna pick you up.
Shamus: What?
New fella: Somebody else is gonna have to do it.
Shamus’ expression changes. A dark menacing contemptuous look comes over his face. The king has been insulted and somebody is about to pay the price for having done it.
Shamus hands his derby to one of the four men who have gathered at the inn’s doorway . . . and he steps out into the street. “This won’t take long.” he thinks to himself. And he is right.
Out in the street the two men square off. Shamus stands erect. His hands are clenched into fists and his arms are extended forward . . . his right arm being a little further extended than his left. His opponent, the new fella, drops down into a slight crouch. His hands are also clenched into fists, but his arms are down by his sides . . . looking sort-of like a pair of wings.
Shamus makes the first advance and he pokes a quick right jab at the new fella’s face, but, to his surprise, it misses. The new fella dodged it . . . with nimble quickness, Shamus thinks . . . to his right. Shamus tries again, but again is dodged, this time to his, the new fella’s, left. A little flustered now, Shamus moves in aggressively for a right jab that will not miss. But it does miss. And not only does the new fella make it miss . . . by dodging once again to his right . . . he now brings his own right fist into action, throwing a punch that has all the power of his arm, his side, and his legs in it. A haymaker. And it does not miss.
The blow lands solidly on the left side of Shamus’ head. Shamus’ knees go weak, his eyes roll up into his head, and his body crumples forward and hits the ground with a thud. He is kissing the dust and knocked out cold.
End of fight.
The new fella then walks into The Timber Lake Inn . . . where it is kind-of quiet, he thinks . . . to have some stew.
It would be a few days before Shamus would show his face . . . his swollen and black-and-blue face . . . in the village. Thomas and David, two lads no more than twelve-years old, walk past an expressionless Shamus and, when they are sure they are out of earshot, say to one another:
Thomas: I aint gonna pick him up. Are you gonna pick him up?
David: I aint gonna pick him up. Somebody else is gonna have to do it.
THE BARCLAY SCHOOL
Goodness sometimes comes in an unusual package.