Catching Ashes

A Story by zanfad

Memory was like that sometimes. A collection of impressions joined by flotsam of trivia forgotten, just pieces left over, lost of context. It was like riding the train from Philly in a good seat by a window; falling in and out of sleep, cheek pressed against the cold glass, watching old tires and skeletal weed trees fly past. The mind numbed, stopped marking time. Then, when suddenly jarred by something outside himself, the conductor’s call “Rye, New York!” he’d regain sense. There would be disorientation at first, and wondering how he’d gotten there so fast, missing the raucous frenzy of Pennsylvania Station and points in between. The tracks knew. If he really needed to see what was missed, they still trailed behind, marking the way he had come.

He might muse about something useless, maybe about the name, why the place was called Rye. He’d imagine that some grainy grass must lie somewhere beyond the confines of the station. Eventually, he’d see through the walls to distance beyond in a field waist high and still green, rippling with shivers as breezes passed like a horse’s haunches shaking off flies. A lone boy in a baseball cap ran aimlessly through the stalks, the rye opening in little trails, quickly closing behind him, leaving no trace of the path he had taken. Then the train would be in New Haven, the conductor’s call once again luring him back in, the field and it’s boy melting into stands of tall buildings and billboards.

That was what forgetting had become for him. Not the mundane misplacement of keys or his wallet. He had developed strict rules of behavior that made those events less likely to occur. Things, his belongings, each had a particular place. Life was safe in pockets, as he always stepped into his pants at the start of day. Trousers were changed the night before, pocket contents carefully removed from the soiled and placed in the clean �" wallet in right rear, the folded paper notes-to-self tucked in behind it; car keys and loose change in right side, work keys and cell phone in left side. It was a religion that worked for the little things.

He still had no system for keeping his place in space. Maybe it was time he had lost, the invisible trail that linked moments all together like beads of a rosary. Admitting to the problem would have suggested a psychological issue, so he kept it to himself. He cringed, imagining the certain response of his wife, “You need help!” That would be her way of declaring him deficient and incompetent in some way, not that he really needed help. She’d insist on an appointment with her psychiatrist, at which he would have to pretend, again, to be a just normal guy.
He almost got caught last time, when he couldn’t remember his age. He tried, but was off by a year, clued in to the error when the therapist repeated his question. “Well, I’ll be forty eight in a few months, right? ” he recovered, but had felt suddenly silly, like a child in a hurry to grow up, and wished he’d thought of a better excuse. He only recalled the year of his birth, calculating his age by subtracting it from the current year. Age never seemed relevant; like random digits of a serial number it had no meaning. That day, he just didn’t remember the year; the calculation was perfect, proving he was still quite sane. “I can only help those who are receptive…” Eyebrows arched above the glasses’ frames as the doctor leaned forward. It was clear that this wasn’t a psychological shortcoming, though the old man certainly wouldn’t have seen it that way. He just smiled in response, hoping the expression wasn’t more a grimace. Another visit would have been a pointless waste of time for them both.

So he stood silent and still, hoping to place context to the drawing room in which he found himself. Sometimes, in clearing his mind and relaxing, the trail to a place would be revealed, and he’d understand why he was there. An iron plant grew by a window, the curtains still drawn closed, though bright sun found its way around the seams. Flowers in their pattern seemed to glow from the brilliance behind. The ticking of a clock under a glass bell jar mingled with sound of a constant hiss, but he strained his ears to hear evidence of anyone else in the house. There were no foot steps nor murmurs, no closing doors. That was a good thing. It gave him time to figure out why he was there, without the stress of quickly deducing or inventing a scenario, making another mistake.

The hissing grew louder, drowning the slow tick tick tick of the clock, an unmistakable plume of smoke now obscuring his vision. Clearly, this thing held in his left hand, the smooth cylinder with the fuse, was the source. Confusion reined once more, as he tried to fathom some reasonable explanation for holding it. It looked like a stick of dynamite, though he’d never seen one before. The thought was interrupted as a long ash fell to the floor, landing on a Persian carpet well-worn from footsteps and vacuuming. The floor creaked under his feet as he shifted his weight. Rubbing the ash away with his boot, he made it disappear into the fabric before anyone might see it. Another falling ash was captured in his free, cupped hand before it fell to disgrace a lace doily on the tea table nearby. Then another was caught.

His two hands occupied, he felt trapped. Opening the nearby door would have required first emptying a hand filled with ash. Eyes nervously scanned the room in search of an ash tray. Maybe in one of the biscuit white tea cups? But then, how to clean it up before anyone would be served; and certainly not on the silver tray itself. Miracles come as small pearls. There was a fireplace at the end of the room, under the mantle upon which the clock sat. Carefully treading across the worn carpet, he made way to it, catching ashes along the way. He emptied his right hand onto the clean swept bricks inside. As he knelt, he noted the sewing basket, a pair of shears resting on top of its contents. He used them to snip the fuse, a still sputtering cord falling through the grate. Slowly straightening his frame, he gently placed the now silent stick on the mantle and turned to the door.

The hallway was dark, and the floor creaked under foot. He was relieved by the sight of sunlight streaming through the glass in the front door ahead. He’d leave quietly; after all, the fuse could always be lit later if someone thought it needed to be. Outside in fresh air and bright light, maybe he’d remember why he’d been there; he could return, even, if needed. He turned the latch and stepped away from the smell of smoke, old upholstery and Murphy’s Oil Soap, into the sweet scent of lilacs that curled limply from the porch columns. It was a relief, like freedom, to stand on a street that could be followed, a line he could find on a map, maybe trace back from where he’d come.