Disconnect

A once beautiful woman tries to reconcile the loss of a young lover.

DISCONNECT

Tissuing a winter tear, Anita Witt stood in the early light and whispered a supplication, asking grace for Lucretia's soul and forgiveness for her father's crime.

She entered a low, brick building, hung her parka, and changed from boots to shoes. She sat at her desk, took a makeup kit from a drawer, and searched the mirror for her once elegant lines, the oceanic depth of her eyes, the rapture of her fertility.

My youth is gone; This Friday is my last day on the job. I've always dreamed of having a retirement party, crepe paper, and balloons. People wish me good luck.

She walked the brick tile hall to her work area and powered up a warming oven, a steam table, and a soup cauldron.

Meanwhile, Victor Childs backed his delivery truck to the school's loading dock, threw up the rolling tailgate, then hauled premade lunches down the tiled hall and into the kitchen. He called Anita's name.

"I'm in the stockroom."

"How's my favorite redhead?"

"I'm ok, Childs. How are you?"

"You shouldn’t ask. They changed my route again. I wish my bosses would make up their minds for once."

"Heh, I wouldn't hold my breath. How's your wife?"

"She hasn't left me yet."

"Would you give her my best? She’s such a gentle soul."

"You have my promise."

A moment passed.

"Is something wrong, Anita? You don’t seem yourself."

"I guess it shows… I'm worried about Pups; my dog is sick. I made an appointment with the veterinarian. I don't know what I'll do if it's bad news."

Her hands trembled.

"Jesus, Anita, I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't bother you. You've got your routes to finish."

"The deliveries can wait. Let me help you with some of this stock."

The school bell rang. Anita went to the cafeteria and gazed through the windows as buses pulled up. The children breathed frosty clouds while filing inside.

She drifted in memory back to the Michigan farm where she was raised.

***

Trish was austere, a doting mother whose captive impoverishment began with her marriage to Joe. He’d come north from the Appalachian Mountains, a giant of a man who’d swept her off her feet before she realized she’d married a stranger whose lingering eyes and strangeness were all unnatural around their newly born daughter. But Trish fought her fears, staying strong, always vigilant to protect her daughter against Joe's appetites and the developing fascinations he entertained as Anita came into bloom.

There was no love between my parents. Joe's bib overalls were coarse, and he held me too close. There was a time when I adored him. The men who witnessed him carry a five-hundred-pound anvil into a blacksmith's barn called him Big Joe. It's twenty-two years since he died in the electric chair. We scratched our existence from a pumpkin field. Joe disk plowed the field. Mother and I cleared the irrigation ditches and maintained a bee aviary for the extra income it provided. Fall was the pumpkin harvest and a time to prepare the field for winter rye. We shared the burden of our loneliness.

When Anita's chores were complete, she'd sit in her room, gazing through a north-facing window across the pumpkin field to a vast temperate forest where Joe hunted, sometimes disappearing for days on end. She'd touch the cool pane with crystalline fingertips and dream, listening to her mother's loving tones and feeling brush strokes through her claret hair.

***

In the summer of Anita's fifteenth year, Trish set up a honey booth at a nearby farmer's market and, through circumstance, became acquainted with a couple who were nationally recognized for excellence in horse breeding.

The couple's estate lay two miles south of the pumpkin farm. The couple had become regular shoppers at Trish's booth, often lingering for small talk. On one occasion, Elaine Wellington wrote her number and handed it to Trish, saying,

"I know an introspective woman when I meet one. Won't you call sometime? We've got a daughter, too. She's a budding young poet, close in age to Anita. I can't see why we shouldn't make an afternoon of it sometime. Lucretia is visiting relatives in Connecticut but will be back in August."

"Oh, I don't know," Trish said diffidently. "We don't have much, and my husband, Joe, well… he ain't for mixing with folks."

Elaine squeezed Trish's hand.

"Call me just the same, Hun, I love to chat, and I'd love to have this beautiful young lady meet Lucretia.”

With that, Elaine caressed Anita's face and smiled at Trish.

The following day Trish called Elaine, soon discovering her neighbor wore her heart on her sleeve. Elaine was forthcoming, expressive, and willing to share her story.

Lucretia's conception was Elaine's redemption. Infertility and nervous disorders had challenged her sense of worth, but that was the past. She happily described her husband's reaction to her pregnancy.

"Well, he jumped from his seat and gave me a vigorous slap on the back. Gracious, but that gave me a start. It started me coughing as well. 'A job well done!' That's fair enough, by Jove!"

"By Jove?"

"Why yes, Alex invoked Jove! Are you acquainted with Jove?"

"I can't say that I am," Anita said hesitantly.

"Nor can I," Elaine said with a laugh. "I'm certain I've never met the man! At any rate, Alex hardly spoke before Lucretia's birth. He's very expansive these days. I'm sure it's got little to do with me--cultured pearl that I am. Everything's happiness and generosity."

But Trish sensed a cloud, something ironic in Elaine's buoyancy and peculiarities of manner. This was especially the case when Elaine spoke of Lucretia at length.

August arrived, and Elaine called Trish. Did Trish fancy refreshments? Lucretia was back from Connecticut. Would Anita come, too?

"Joe's gone on a bear hunt," Trish said.

"Well, that's not so very alarming, is it, dear?" Elaine said, sensing the apprehension in Trish's voice.

Twenty minutes later, Trish steered their truck down the Wellingtons' quarter-mile driveway. Anita gazed hopefully through a sultry haze as they rolled along.

"Oh, my, Appaloosas!" exclaimed Trish. She slowed the truck to stop at a corral.

A young lady stood inside the fences. Her hair shone in the light, falling about her waist in black tresses as she groomed a magnificent animal. She wore a gaucho jacket and riding boots. She'd clipped a small, beaded purse to her belt. Anita leaped out of the truck and climbed the corral gate.

"Hello," Anita called out. "We've come to visit."

Lucretia tossed her hair over a shoulder, then turned toward Anita with a tremulous smile, emerald eyes flashing vividly under a patrician brow. A tinge of rose bloomed in the porcelain symmetry of her features.

"Are you Lucretia?" Anita asked.

"I am she."

Anita’s heart fluttered. Your smile is jewelry.

"What does your purse hold?" Anita asked.

"My adornments."

***

The young ladies' friendship developed steadily, and they used their time together well, tramping through the forest, riding horses, snowshoeing, and skating. They played board games before a fire and had sleepovers at the Wellington residence. Each kept their dreams in a diary. Each sensed the other's heart and the desires within.

But, as the girl's friendship grew, so did Joe’s resentment and his sense of betrayal at having lost a part of his daughter’s attention. He became reticent and finally spoke to his wife and daughter no more, preferring instead the company of taverns or his ax at the woodpile where he chopped incessantly while Trish watched him from a window, cursing the day she’d met him.

One morning in April, having just shared breakfast in the Wellingtons' kitchen, Anita and Lucretia decided to walk through the forest. While strolling near a spruce stand, Lucretia asked,

"Is it nearly a year we've known one another?"

"Close to that, I think," Anita replied.

"Do you love me?" asked Lucretia, touching Anita's face and kissing her forehead. "I never doubt that we bring out the best in each other."

"Yes," whispered Anita. "I love you."

"And I feel you with my heart!"

Lucretia pushed Anita's hair back, leaned forward, and pressed her lips against Anita's ear.

"Oh, jeez, it's warm."

"Yes, it's warm," Lucretia said.

"I'm afraid I'll swoon."

"Yes," said Lucretia, "a swoon within the privacy of our forest cathedral. Should I stop?"

"Hold me more tightly. Let me surrender--oh, what was that!” exclaimed Anita, reacting to a sudden movement in the nearby underbrush.

“It’s only a bunny,” Lucretia said, kissing Anita’s neck.***

Later that same week, Lucretia took Anita by the hand, saying, "Let's get baskets and collect orchids in the forest."

"Yes, but from where?"

"From a bitter old swamp, a torment of green algae and incessant croaking. There are fallen cedars, patches of sunlight, and orchids springing from decay. We could fill our baskets, then follow a stone wall that goes deeper into the forest than you'd think possible. We'll follow the wall to a meadow with a fen and climb grassy slopes to an outcrop where one can stand and look down to the shores of Lake Michigan. Oh, Anita, how well do you love me? As night falls, we'll spread our orchids on the shallows. The northern lights will rise and sanctify our love for eternity."

"You speak strangely sometimes."***

September arrived, and the nights became chilly.

Anita sat at Lucretia's vanity while Lucretia stood behind, braiding Anita's hair. Their eyes met in the mirror. Anita turned, reaching for Lucretia's hands and holding them to her face in a fit of passion.

Lucretia kissed Anita's head and pulled her close.

“Always and forever, little girl. Listen to my heart."

"Yes," Anita said, pressing against her lover, "Let me listen."

Later that evening, as they lay in each other's arms, Lucretia suggested they use the coming Saturday to investigate the forest quarry.

"God, but I loathe that place," Anita said, "cliffs and caves, falling rocks and fat tadpoles lazing about in the murk of drowning pools. It's been abandoned for a hundred years."

"The perfect milieu for a picnic. Should we set the time for noon?"

"The dregs. But very well."

"Then it's decided? Oh, to think of all the splendors in the world. It seems I love a rendezvous just as well as an enchantment!"

Anita dissolved in the warmth of Lucretia's silken embrace as, together, they drifted into sleep***

Saturday arrived, but occurrences delayed Anita.

Trish's wall clock had run down, and Anita wore no wristwatch. Anita had spent a whimsical morning daydreaming while her fingers worked a crochet needle. When Trish noticed the clock at a standstill, she applied its winding key and called to her daughter.

"It's past noon. Aren't you meeting Lucretia?"

"S**t!" exclaimed Anita. She hurried about and collected herself while Trish stood by the back door holding a picnic basket she'd prepared for the girls.

Anita bolted by, grabbing the basket and racing into the forest. Mottled light splashed about her feet as she disappeared beneath its canopy. The air was sweet, her pulse quickening. She hurried on, calling for her lover, sidestepping a familiar obstacle, then leaping over a fallen tree… but as she landed, she froze. Trepidation sharpened her senses to a razor's edge, and the basket slipped from her hand. Fast in the throes of intuition, she strained to hear her lover's answer. The wind pushed through the canopy, and a deadwood branch crashed to the ground. She started forward, stumbling over the basket.

"Lucretia!"

Crows answered, and her fear boiled over.

"Lucretia!" she screamed, stumbling down the darkening path. She rounded a boulder, then dropped to her knees with a crushed heart, covering her face in horror.

Lucretia lay broken on the ground, the emerald ruins of her eyes spilling the final tears of her agony as Big Joe knelt over her, scattering the adornments of her purse and pawing her innocent hair.

Anita leaped to her feet and flew to Trish. Policemen hunted Joe down.

Lucretia was buried three days later.***

Fog haunted the funeral. A priest chose from Ecclesiastes and began Lucretia's rite of commitment. At the same time, Anita stood unsteadily at the gravesite, squeezing Trish's hand and staring morosely, first at the priest's face, then past the coffin to Lucretia's parents: to Alex, undone by his loss, to Elaine, her anguish the herald of her coming demise.

Suddenly Elaine glared at Trish and erupted. "F**k you, who have sponged away my daughter's life!" She convulsed brutally, wailing, "No, not my little girl!"

Anita grabbed Trish's arm. "I can't breathe," Anita gasped. "Don't let me see this!" She gazed skyward, searching out the sun, a smoldering marble in an edgeless expanse, irretrievably gone, indifferent to the desperation of her soul. In the halls of her bereavement, Anita scorned God. Lucretia was gone to the rye and would only return in the split seams of Anita's subconscious.

That same evening, Elaine Wellington ended her life with a straight razor. A month later, having suffered nature's vilest storm, Alex succumbed to madness and was institutionalized.

***Thirty years passed.

A shrill ring jarred Anita from her reverie. A systems test. How long have I been standing here? She glanced self-consciously around the cafeteria. Gone, they're all gone. Her mind drifted to Lucretia, and her throat tightened.

She keyed herself through the service entry, walked the service line, and chatted with her helpers while inspecting the steam table.

All seemed in order: lasagna, chicken nuggets, hamburgers, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. She went to the tray drop and powered up the dishwasher. Alkaline steam billowed out and floated rapidly to the ceiling. She signaled the cashier to open the service doors. The bell rang, lockers clattered, and students angled into the cafeteria. She left an hour early to make Pups' appointment, taking an off-ramp, then weaving through the side streets to her house. Pups lifted her head and peered over the edge of her basket as Anita entered. Dog biscuits sat uneaten in the pantry bowl. Anita knelt next to the basket and rubbed her companion's head.

"We have someplace to be, Pups. Remember I told you this morning?"

Pups yawned and put her head down.

"You want to be carried? Well, you're not so heavy."

Anita lifted the basket and fit it under one of her arms. She carried Pups to the truck. On her way to the veterinarian, she stopped at a shopping plaza with a pet store. Pups twitched in her basket as Anita searched for a parking space. She cracked a window and got out of the truck, momentarily startled by her reflection as she swung the door shut. An annoying jingle played as she entered the shop. She stopped to admire a topsy-turvy parrot clawing about a large cage with a slice of apple in its beak. Open barrels of dog biscuits sat at the back of the shop. She went from one barrel to another, determining if the difference in biscuit color meant anything. Every barrel had a similar odor. She decided the colors meant nothing. One barrel had pig ears; she thought she'd be sick. She selected green and maroon biscuits, scooped them into a brown bag, and headed for the checkout. A young girl with beautiful eyes opened the bag and peered inside suspiciously at the counter.

"They're only dog biscuits. Did you think it would be pig ears?" Anita asked.

"Those things are so disgusting," the girl said. "Some of them still have the hair. So gross." She wrinkled her nose and shivered.

" I wondered about the dog biscuits; they're all the same, right?"

"No," said the girl, laughing hysterically.

Her laughter was the badge of her well-being: uncomplicated.

The girl's limpid beauty, the open sky in her face. The jewelry of her smile, is it she?

"Can I tell you a secret?" the girl asked, leaning closer to whisper in Anita's ear. "My boss is partial to the orange biscuits. He dips them in his coffee when he thinks nobody sees. That's him standing at the other register."

Anita shot an embarrassed glance toward a smallish man wearing a lab coat.

"That's not nice," Anita smirked.

Back in the parking lot, Anita placed a maroon biscuit in Pup's basket, then paused and thought about the counter girl.

"One more stop, Pups, then it's home."

The receptionist at the animal clinic was pleasant, leading Anita and Pups down a sterile white hall to the examination room. No sooner was the door closed than it reopened. The veterinarian walked in, nodded curtly, and placed Pups on the exam table. Anita sat in a chair as he began the examination. Pups sat very still, her head hanging as if studying her front paws.

"She doesn't feel very well," the veterinarian said.

"What does that mean?" Anita asked, distracted.

"I'd like to test her for heartworm, Ms. Witt."

Anita stood quickly, fished a tissue from her purse, and held it nervously to her mouth.

"Heartworm? I don't know what that means."

"Ms. Witt?"

Anita's eyes darted around the examination room.

"I won't listen to this!" she said, wringing her hands.

She tried to reel herself in. It was too late.

"I worked thirty useless years at a job most people wouldn't give two s***s about!"

"Ms. Witt, I'm sympathetic toward…."

"Oh, don't you f*****g dare speak to me as if… as if." Her voice shrank to nothing. She folded her arms across her body and pulled back defensively, trembling, breaking apart, weeping piteously, reaching out as if to embrace something unseeable.

"My father," she sobbed, "he murdered my flower… my precious flower."

The examination room door opened, and the veterinarian's assistant walked in, frowning.

"Angie," said the veterinarian, "would you please bring Ms. Witt a water bottle?"

Angie left the room, returning quickly with the water.

"I'm sorry," said Anita, regaining herself. "I can't do this. Please don't let Pups die."

"Oh, Honey, no," said Angie, gently rubbing Anita's back. "Pups isn't going to die."

"Ms. Witt," said the veterinarian uneasily. "I'm prescribing a simple blood test. Nothing more. Even if Pups tests positive, there are treatment options."

"Then you'll help her?" asked Anita, suddenly hopeful. "Oh, please help her... she's everything I have."

End