26. No Man's Land

            The polar bear came in a box of Red Rose Tea, a small ceramic creature holding one front paw forward that fit in the palm of Lara’s hand. A bear with many ancient names, Ursus maritimus, Sea Bear, Nanuq, White bear, Beliy medved, Lord of the Arctic, Old man in the fur cloak, White Sea deer, Lara liked Isbjorn meaning Ice Bear best. She wrapped it in a large cotton handkerchief and stowed it in a zipper pocket in her red polar anorak, company issue. A Contract Employee making frequent seasonal trips to the Antarctic under the Division of Polar Programs United States Antarctic Program (USAP) she decided not to make the trek alone this time.

            The choice of a polar bear as companion paralleled her own circumstances. Polar bears do not exist on the South Pole. They live on the Arctic up north. Lara, degreed with a BS in chemical engineering and an MS in Oceanography never intended to work in the Antarctic. She had planned to teach and conduct research in a northern university with occasional voyages on research vessels. The War Against Fanatical Malsy declared in the US just before her graduation changed all that.

            Continued attacks on public gathering places – edifices of learning, religious meetings, entertainment venues, mass transit altered the fabric of society. The urging by government to ‘conduct one’s life as usual’ had become far too dangerous a luxury. No one was willing to defy the fear-mongering of terrorists by putting themselves or those they loved in harm’s way any longer. Safety and no soft targets had become the new rule. Universities were one of the first things to go. Brick and stone were replaced by telecommutation. On-line advanced education, with fewer places for professors, threw newly minted educators out in the cold. Lara faced the truth, and headed for the snow.

            Desperate for a job, Lara responded to an ad sent to her by a sympathetic Glaciology prof. The Division of Polar Programs promised “innovative scientific research, engineering and education in and about polar regions, catalyzing fundamental discovery and understanding of polar systems and their global interactions to inform the nation and advance the welfare of people everywhere.”

            Permanent stations on the ice and temporary field camps manned by 30 countries, signatories of the Anarctic Treaty worked in harmony to further progress in sustainable energies, sensitive ecosystem management, and weather prediction. The lands were not owned; merely shared. The Mars rover was tested on the Antarctic tundra. The Icecube Neutrino Observatory hoped to provide insight into the Universe. Unusual bacterial life was found in liquid lakes and rivers buried under the Antarctic Ice Sheet. Lara was lured by the myriad possibilities. Unfortunately, there were no openings amongst the 500 coveted scientist positions. A waiting list, and a show of good intent were what was left to her job opportunities. Lara jumped.

            She landed in Logistics. She became a Field Coordinator involved in fixed-wing helicopter support, over-ice traverse tractor trains, ships in polar oceans, unmanned aerial vehicles and submersibles, learning to operate many of the land transport machines. She scheduled exploration parties and drove the scientists to sites, working most often from Palmer or McMurdo Station. Secretly, her heart ached.

            Isbjorn provided the solace necessary to soften the feelings of ‘outsider’ and ‘no land where she belonged’, as well as an opportunity to challenge her lot with a sweet spark of rebellion. In answer to her broken dreams, she would break a rule. No contaminant was allowed on the frozen continent. All waste materials were recycled or removed from the frozen landmass. No unauthorized remnant, suggestion, or influence of human habitation was to affect the pristine Antarctic world. Forbidden. Lara decided to leave her Ice Bear as an act of solidarity for all who were dislocated from where they were meant to be.

            An easy revolt really. How easy it would be to push Isbjorn into the ice when going about a detailed vehicle check necessary before every trek. Undetectable.

            Comradery grew readily in the crew. Most teammates welcomed the comfort of companionship and respected the urge to study regardless of paid occupation. Each time Lara spent four months on the South Pole she marveled at her own need for community. A new close friendship was formed on every deployment, a delightful surprise to one who had been bookish and too busy for socializing up north.

            When alone, Lara would lose herself in contemplation about the dire conflict ongoing on the rest of the planet.

            “Lara!” called John, a diver and Marine Scientist who plunged into deep watery chasms to collect samples. “What deep thoughts have you so distracted? I’ve been trying to catch up with you.”

            “John, you’re a prescientist! I was agonizing over the worries of the world when I had a realization: Antarctica is the only land where there is no terrorism. They are not here whether by design or Godly intervention. It is the last safe place!”

            The next day, with the opportunity to deliver Isbjorn into a new home of ice and snow, Lara chose to keep him. Polar bears, like those who commit terrorist acts, did not belong here. It is the natural order.

(869 words)

           

                                                                                        

25. Tour de Force

            Homaweigh, the summer estate of the Van Pelt dynasty shone resplendent in the afternoon sun. Dazzling window panes of amethyst, rose quartz and yellow jasper cut into thinnest sheets by forgotten artisans evoked a hint of the splendor within. Griffin Carstairs strode across the cobblestoned courtyard and entered the grand double doored foyer.

            The 2 PM tour was just starting. Griffin secured his admission tag to his blazer button and joined a group clustered around a slender woman with long black hair twisted into a soft braid down her back. She gazed up at an enormous bejeweled clock announcing the hour with mechanized songbirds in choreographed flight around its tree-like case. When she turned he noted her name, Melchiora Taverstock, printed on her golden badge. He frowned. He’d hoped to hear another guide’s impressions and possible additional information on this tour. He had seen the manse six months before, and wished to view its treasures once again.

            “Four generations of Van Pelts wiled away leisure hours in this majestic home, each contributing to its wealth of artifacts. We start with the six formal rooms on the main floor, each dedicated to a different form of amusement.”

            Standard fare, thought Griffin. He’d have to construct questions to add a bit of spice to the tour.

            “Lenora Van Pelt fancied herself an actress, though thwarted from seeking roles by family disapproval. To quell her disappointment, her father, Fritz, had this small theater built in the East wing. Plays were commissioned by established playwrights with cameos built in for Lenora. An elaborate backstage area with dressing rooms and a costume vault are through the door to the left of the orchestra pit.”

            “What playwrights exactly?”

            Melchiora turned to the tall, spare man with a black sling supporting his right arm. A heckler?

            “Wilkie Collins, Douglas Jerrolds, and George Eliot.”

            “Wilkie Collins of Moonstone fame? He would have pandered to a wealthy family in America?”

            She’d pegged it. She could spot them a mile away.

            “Collins had a penchant for actresses, though Lenora was not officially of the stage. They became correspondents when she wrote to congratulate him on The Woman in White. He even watched her perform here during his speaking tour across the United States.” So there. Silenced by more than enough information.

            Melchiora led the group to the next point of interest, the Roman Baths. Cool marble pools with functioning fountains glittered with sunlight from the sky lights.

            “I suppose Esther Williams performed here for family entertainment?”

            Melchiora closed her eyes for a microsecond before turning once again to her compromised visitor.

            “Esther couldn’t make it. Instead, a flock of swans that lived on the grounds would be brought in to grace the pools for some events. It took the pool attendants six hours during the night to clean the pools for the next day’s frivolity.” Animal stories were always crowd pleasers.

            In the ballroom Melchiora gave her visitors a few moments to admire the murals of dancers at a Viennese waltz on the walls.

            “How did you hurt your arm?” a voice in the crowd asked.

            Melchiora listened to Griffin’s reply.

            “I’m a storm chaser. It’s one of my favorite hobbies. I got too close to a tornado in Texas and got thrown in a tree. Hazard of the game.”

            His listener oohed and aahed. Melchiora narrowed her eyes. She had seen him use that same arm to reach up to adjust his glasses.

            “This ballroom is large enough to house the twelve cars of the typical steam locomotive once prevalent in the 1800s,” stated Melchiora, ready to resume her tour. The wonderment of the group was disturbed by Griffin’s next comment.

            “How did they know? Did the family have them installed here just for the fun of it?”

            Melchiora ignored him.

            The group approached the Egyptian tomb.

            “This ancient gentleman was acquired from the thriving black market that traded in Egyptian antiquities. The Van Pelts ascertained that he had been a high-ranking official, possibly a relative of royalty. Therefore, besides installing him in this sumptuous chamber, they treated him as a celebrated guest. At dinner parties with other notables he was afforded a seat at the grand dining table. His coffin was propped on an angle in a specially constructed rolling chair.”

            Melchiora paused to scan her audience. Raised eyebrows, widened eyes, gritted teeth, self-hugging. Perfect. Until she swung her gaze to Griffin, who sported a wide, toothy smile. Disturbing.

            He had her now. “A surprising tale. It was different last I was here, six months ago, however.”

            “Ah, every guide has a slightly different presentation,” said Melchiora smoothly.

            “I would assume so, except that you were the guide on that day,” returned Griffin with the slightest laugh in his voice.

            The group had already begun to file into the atrium. Melchiora and Griffin had lagged behind. He hesitated, allowing her to go ahead of him. As she did so her right foot deftly loosened the wedge holding open the heavy gilt door, which swung directly against Griffon’s black sling with a thud. Melchiora turned sharply to observe his reaction. Griffin held the door afar with his right arm, no apparent worry about its violent contact with his current injury.

            “A tornado was it? And an arm was all you broke?” gloated Melchiora, staring up into Griffin’s face.

            “You question my veracity when half of your tour has been fiction?” parried Griffin, looking down into her eyes.

            They waited, breathing heavily. A communion of recognition passed between them.

            The remainder of the tour passed without incident. The visitors came away with renewed notions of how eccentric the uber rich could be.

            “Coffee and pastry is available in the former billiard room,” intoned Melchiora brightly as they finished their thanks.

            “Let me treat you to a latte. I’ll tell you how I injured my arm.”

 (978 words) 

24. Antiphon to Ennui or A Shameless Way to Avoid Boredom

            “And if you’ll step this way, you’ll become acquainted with the family mummy, a cherished family member.”

            The group filed dutifully into a dimly lit chamber transformed by trompe l’oeil into an Egyptian tomb. They clustered around their guide.

            “This ancient gentleman is believed by the Van Pelt family to be a distant relative, based on the location of the catacombs in Alexandria, Egypt, where he was laid to rest.”

            “Do they know his name?” inquired a man to Melchiora’s right.

            “Knatphornatten,” she replied.

            Melchiora paused, then continued, refreshed.

            “This room depicts the second level of the catacombs. The spiral staircase in the far corner was the means by which bodies were brought down to the center of the tomb, then placed in a designated burial niche. Note the sculptures, eerily alive in appearance. Pillars are topped with lotus, acanthus leaves, papyrus, and two falcons below a winged sun. Also note the Egyptian hair decoration and the Roman style of clothing.”

            “Beautiful,”’ breathed an observer.

            “The Van Pelt’s, like many Gold Coast Families, went to great expense and excess to provide a proper setting for their mummy. Other families did not consider their acquired mummy to be family, as the Van Pelts did. They hosted lavish dinner parties with famous, often royal guests, with unwrapping of the mummy as after dinner entertainment.” To the varied murmurs she replied, “So it goes.” 

            Melchiora approached the body in the center of the room encased in glass. The visitors drew around her and gazed silently at the dark gray head and hands of the deceased, exposed above the wrappings.

            “Mummies of this time period, approximately 2 AD, were embalmed and wrapped with hands forced forward on the front of the body. They were left uncovered. The facial cloth has been removed. The reason for this pose is an obeisance to Bastet, and to fend off any who would violate his remains.”

            “I’ve studied Egyptian artifacts as an apprentice at The Natural History Museum in LA before going into historic furniture. I never heard anything like this,” stated a young woman with a serious expression.

            Melchiora shifted her eyes to her questioner’s face before turning her head to address her.

            “The dynasties of the early Christian calendar have many historic intricacies that often vary from what is more commonly known. I have my information from a visiting scholar of obscure antiquities from Vienna. He gave a lecture here when he came to see the estate and I have complete faith in him.”

            The young woman nodded her head slightly in acceptance of the hallowed word of a professor. Satisfied that her guests were once again with her, Melchiora went on.

            “Macabre as this setting may be, a certain family practice is even more so. On specific occasions of the year, Knatphornatten had a companion in his bed chamber of sorts. One of the family would have a small divan brought in and sleep beside him.”

            Melchiora drew her eyes from the mummy’s form to the faces of her listeners. Riveted.

            “Why would they do that?” gasped a woman with a tight grip on the shoulders of her son in front of her. “That’s gruesome!”

            Melchiora noted that the son exhibited a wide, pleased smile.

            “I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

            The group followed Melchiora into the intricately carved, black-walnut hallway. A question floated from behind her.

            “And how did they make their money?”

            In the cavernous sitting room flanked by hearths guarded by iron lions poised on hind legs, Melchiora turned and replied, “Shipping. The Van Pelt Shipping Enterprises was a stable conglomerate for many, many decades. Of course their wealth was also due to contraband imported into the country under the innocent guise of shipments to private companies. They didn’t exist. Stolen artifacts were sold to unscrupulous collectors.”

            “They really were robber barons,” exclaimed a man as he gazed up at the embossed ceiling.

            Melchiora stifled the impulse to laugh.

            “How long have you worked at this museum?” he queried.

            “Oh, it’s been seven years now. Before this, I was up state in Elk Hollow at a small museum dedicated to the history of the Green Mountain Boys.”

            At his blank stare she said, “You know, the Battle of Mauritania. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

            “Yes, yes, I’m sure I have.”

            Melchiora led them through the lavish bedrooms on the second floor. In each she provided an interesting personal tidbit concerning a former inhabitant.

            “Trisha Van Pelt had a heated house built for her cats. Her father was allergic… Mrs. Olivia Van Pelt had special corsets designed to hide an odd deformity in her back… Harold Van Pelt suffered from an unusual rash that he contracted from going abroad. It could only be treated with leeches… Lorelei Van Pelt spoke eleven languages… Corporal John Van Pelt collected rare beetles…Mr. Rory Van Pelt rolled cigars from leaves from his prized rhododendrons.

            As they returned to the grand foyer, Melchiora put on her high-wattage smile and thanked them for coming. She gave a slight bow to their applause.

            “Thank you for your interest in the story of the Van Pelts!”

           

(866 words)

23. If You Must Know

            Could his luck get any worse? A down pour. No umbrella. Griffin stood inside the door of the professional building undecided. He shifted the black nylon sling on his right arm and prayed for the prescription strength ibuprofen to work, envying rain-coated, umbrella-wielding, able-bodied people their freedom.

            A faint cough made him aware of someone at his elbow. A boy around twelve glanced up at him.

            “How’d you break your arm?”

            Such a bold child. Griffin would never have asked a personal question of a stranger, no matter how bedeviled by curiosity. He’d make it clear it was none of his business.

            “Pitching. It was the bottom of the tenth, my team needed to break a tie. Even though I was too sore from pitching the first six innings, they begged me. The whole team. How could I say no to my mates, especially when they knew no one else could pull it off? Fast ball. Out. Screw ball. Out. Gum ball. Out. Tore a ligament, but we won the game.

            “Gum ball?”

            “That’s a sticky spin combined with a curve. My signature pitch.”

            Griffin looked down at his questioner and waited. Big blue eyes looked back wide with admiration. 

“Wow.”   

The boy’s mom swung through the heavy door and motioned for him to follow. He turned back to Griffin and waved.

The uptown bus splashed along the curb. Griffin dashed into the rain and managed to stomp down into a deep puddle, a crevasse really, filled with icy water, before almost tripping up the first high step. Pants leg soaked to the knee. At least he found a seat along the side.

What a bizarre exchange. Had the boy really thought what he’d said was true? And all the while he’d thought he was telling the kid an obvious whopper to make him realize he should mind his own bee’s wax.

Griffin settled back against the seat and nudged the woman who was reading next to him. He started to excuse himself when she beat him to it.

“Oh I’m sorry I bumped your arm! What happened?”

Again Griffin was nonplussed at the need to know of the general populace.

“That’s all right. A rodeo clown gets used to a few bumps and bruises. This time got it snapped clean in two by the quick flick of a bucking palomino’s left rear hoof. Couldn’t stop to take stock though. Had to get that horse away from his downed rider before he trampled him. He was crazier than a bag of mad monkeys.”

Griffin paused for breath and rubbed his arm through the sling. The woman gaped at him and said, “Oh my!”

Just then the bus pulled to the curb and she closed her book and rustled her umbrella.

“Too bad this is my stop. I’d love to hear more. Take care of that arm!” she called over her shoulder and exited.

Griffin was puzzled. She couldn’t have believed that story, could she? If he didn’t know better, she was almost flirting with him too. Not what usually happened to him on a bus. Was it the clown or the arm that warmed her up to him? He never talked to women, and not so freely either. They’d take a quick look at the too tall, too thin guy in loose clothes who seemed to always say the wrong thing and dismiss him without a thought. He thought everyone liked Star Trek!

The next afternoon Griffin needed a few things and strolled over to Gristede’s. He liked their kopi luak coffee with cinnamon buns in the morning. Just as he was reaching for a five pound bag, a man with a longer arm procured it for him.

“Looking to buy some of that cat poop coffee?” he asked.  “I’ll help you out with that. Good to the last plop, hey? How’d ya bust the wing?”

Griffin smiled. He was ready for him.

“You know that heist down in Chelsea two nights ago? The one where the Fifth National Bank almost got cleaned out?”

‘Yeah…”

“I was in on that one.

“You held up a bank?”

“Law enforcement. Special Forces. Mounted police. Took a slug in the shoulder. They never had a chance.”

The man’s face blanched. He took a one pound bag of kopi luak civet cat fermented coffee out of his coat pocket, placed it on the shelf, grinned at Griffin and sped out the door.  As Griffin paid the $349. 74 for the coffee he had a hard time stifling his laughter. You never knew who was roaming the streets.

That evening Griffin got a call.

“Hello, Griffin Carstairs? This is Pamela Baxter from the Fordham Alumni Reunion Committee. I remember you from the Ballroom Dancing Club. There’s a dinner dance scheduled for February 16^th in the Rose Hill Gymnasium. Tickets are $250.00. How many can I write you down for?

“Well Pamela, I’ll take one ticket, but I won’t be doing any dancing. You see, my arm’s in a sling. Dislocated it doing some marlin fishing down in the Caribbean. A thousand pound fish can do that to a man.”

Griffin stretched his right arm over his head to keep it from getting stiff after healing up from his latest bout of tendonitis. He’d have to get the sling out of the cabinet for the event. He wouldn’t want to disappoint his public.

(901 words)

           

                 

22. If Only

  

            “Nondepressed people show an illusion of control – they grossly overrate the degree of covariation between action and outcome under action noncontingency.”

            Holly sighed. She knew that her illusion of control so necessary to courting and cultivating a happy outlook was sorely lacking. Her favorite Sedek and Kofta quote from 19 months of grad school for psychology that she penned and posted on several available surfaces encountered during the course of a day – on the wall of her cubicle at Grossi and Co., on her fridge, on the back of her cell phone cover, served as her guide and comforter.

            Some people thought they had control over events in life – a delusion. Holly merely nurtured the illusion of control over events. Most of the time she was successful; she was a closet optimist after all. She amused herself with the notion that her detour into Grossi and Co. as an assistant accounting specialist was an interesting life experience rather than her inability to land a job in the psychiatric field. Her continued single status was the free-spirited availability required of the heroine in a gothic novel. A figure prone to soft outlines and a poorly defined chin were the hallmarks of a real woman. Her ‘control’ amounted to rationalization that it was OK be less than perfect in an imperfect world.

She tried to encourage the illusion that she had a low stress level, she really did. Until outlier assassins bent on destruction of the realm of America became a daily torment. That morning a radio commentator set a gloomy tone to the day. “I’m worried that Super Man can’t come to the rescue anymore because there are no more phone boxes,” he said.

            No one’s coming, she thought to herself.

            That evening after a cozy dinner at Trattoria Trecolori in Times Square with old friends Holly hurried down west 47^th Street to catch a bus downtown. The light of the giant digital billboards prevented any late evening shadows. The street was lined with merchants selling their wares though Holly noticed that artists predominated.

            One display in particular caught her eye. A portrait of Super Man, side view, was splashed on poster board about 12” by 14”. The color was arresting. Holly stopped and gazed at several renderings of other super heroes. One surpassed the others in vibrancy and dramatic spectacle.

            The painting was of Captain America, Marvel Comics hero from 1940. He leapt from the white surface, round shield held high, the white star on the blue background on his chest above longitudinal stripes of red and white, splattered with red, white and blue paint. Holly saw movement in his posture and the sweeping color commanding the board. Fine black marker was used to draw his face which spoke of determination and confidence.

            Holly pulled her eyes away to observe the actions of the artist, a thin young woman lost in a frenzy of creating bent above another board. Krylon paint cans were scattered on her work surface. She grasped one, then another as she sprayed the form of a character to life. Her gloved fingers dipped into puddles of fire red, indigo blue and spotlight white and flicked pigment across the image. Black was applied with a brush for depth and dimension.

            As she tugged $23 from her purse for the painting and a black matte frame Holly asked, “What’s your name, do you have a card?”

            “Kate,” the artist replied in a dense accent with a shake of her head, “Kate.”

            “Where are you from?” asked Holly.

            “Belarus,” was the answer as the artist returned to her work.

            Holly left with her counterfactual, possible, imaginary illusion restored. That night she sighed knowing that Captain America, protector of the land, stood watch in the dark.           

( 628 words)