Eight
Juliana studied her calendar and discovered an unblemished
rectangle. She took this gift to her favorite spot, the oval garden behind
Fetzle, where she settled on a marble bench under an arborway of wisteria
vines. Before starting in on her morning letters, Juliana leaned her head
against the wisteria’s twisted trunks and closed her eyes.
The wisteria was planted by Harlan Fetzle himself (or so the
story went). The first warm days of spring brought pearl-drop blossoms on two
sides, followed by purple on the remaining two. The months of March and April
hummed with the sweet danger of honeybees, every breeze a sugary whisper.
(The atmosphere was markedly different in autumn, when the
wisteria cracked its pods and spat out seeds, occasionally striking passersby.)
She was finishing a letter to Stephen Swan’s agent when the
garden was overcome by a wash of dull silver – the morning fog completing its
climb from the ocean. A sudden breeze blew petals onto Juliana’s page. Sweeping
them away, she found Scootie Jones walking toward her, smooth as a ghost, all
concentration as he manipulated a scrap of gold foil. Juliana feared he might
not notice the Italian fountain looming in his path, but he paused a foot away
and slipped around it. By the time he arrived, the foil had achieved its final
form: a swan.
“Got one of your invitations in the mail. Quite clever.”
“Thanks,” said Juliana. “It was Lorraine Kim’s idea. We
conned her third-graders into into folding them.”
“Child labor – that’s good. They’re actually cranes, you
know.”
He handed it to her. She studied the small fold at its neck.
Scootie sat down next to her, his eyes on the fountain.
“Little girl named Sadako Sasaki. She was exposed to
radiation from the Hiroshima blast, and ten years later developed leukemia. A
common thing. There was an old Japanese legend, that if a sick person folded a
thousand cranes, the gods would consider making them well again. Sadako only
made it to six hundred and forty-four. But her friends finished it for her, and
collected money for a statue. She stands in Peace Park, holding a golden
crane.”
Scootie put out his palm, Juliana returned the crane. He
aimed its face to his, as if they were about to converse.
“So. How many Sadako Sasakis did we save this week?”
“Three,” said Juliana.
Scootie jumped to his feet. “I’d better go. Goodbye,
Juliana.”
He crossed the garden and was gone. Juliana sorted her
letters into her bag, then found the crane lying beside her on the bench. She
carried it up the trail to her house.
Her breathing quickened, bringing back moments of last
night, when Scott made up to her – dinner at Spagnola’s followed by hours of
lovemaking, an artwork of small touches, quiet as a library, piece by piece.
The fluid in her limbs, the lights in her head, the way only Scott could love
her, but what was it? Was it control? The absence, the forgetfulness, followed
by a dozen black-eyed daisies and a forgiveness that was entirely too
predictable. But only when he wanted it, when he was ready.
But that was the man she married, a redwood icon who spent
his days calling shots, his skin sparking with decisiveness. Could she really
expect him to turn it off once he passed through those Mexican doors?
But then, at the bottom of the hill, there was a man who
brought her peace, health and apocalypse in a single paper animal. And now her
climbing was done, and now she was home.
Photo by MJV
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