Nazrul’s ‘Aamar Shyamla Boron Bangla Mar Roop’(The Dusky Beauty of My Mother Bengal) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Who can Blow Out the Sun?, a Balochi poem by Ghulam Hussain Shohaz, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Clickhere to read.
Chapter 3of Isa Kamari’s novel, The Throne,has been translated by the author from Malay. We will be running the whole novel as serial through the year. Click here to read.
Half-a-beat Behind, a poem, has been written by and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Pothik (Traveller), a poem by Tagore, has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
My flight from JFK landed in Albuquerque well after dark, just in time to learn that the last connection to Phoenix had been canceled. Waiting until morning wasn’t an option because my daughter was scheduled for cancer surgery, and after missing the chance to say goodbye to my dying wife years earlier while chasing another business deal halfway around the world, I wouldn’t fail my daughter again.
I rented a car and headed into the night, intending to follow Interstate 40 West before turning south toward Scottsdale. But somewhere beyond Albuquerque, with fatigue settling in and my mind replaying old regrets instead of reading highway signs, I drifted onto a lonely state road with a single faded white line guiding me into a jigsaw puzzle of regret, anguish, fear, and several near bouts of dozing off. White lines and the pitch-black desert sky suggest a road is just a road, but where it leads you is a state of mind and the white line offers no guarantee of what lies ahead.
By the time the sun was climbing over the high desert, the interstate had vanished behind me. The landscape had grown quiet and unhurried, and the weathered sign welcoming me to an indiscernible town whose name was erased by decades of winds and rains. I named the town “Nowhere New Mexico” which I would discover seemed less like a wrong turn than an invitation into a place untouched by deadlines, airports, and the relentless pursuit of tomorrow. As it turns out, I learned some folks look at today and make it become magic even in the simplest of ways.
I was tired and hungry and missed the off-ramps taking me to fast food, hotels, and all the conveniences of modern life. I needed food, rest, and an opportunity to think about the long trip home. I regretted the call to my wife’s sister notifying her I’d be late, but it would wait until I could gather my thoughts.
There was an old gas station with two rusted pumps standing out front like museum pieces. An automobile repair shop with a faded sign that read MARTINEZ GARAGE with a 50-foot-tall pole sign with a Native American Chief in ceremonial headgear faded but still stared out over the land. In the center of town, I saw the “Wayward Hotel, Rooming House, and Restaurant”, and across the street was a dilapidated old metal warehouse with a crow painted on the side.
The streets were paved, but potholes interrupted the blacktop every few yards. You could almost imagine that beneath it all was the old dirt road where horses once galloped and shootouts occurred after drunken brawls inside the hotel bar. It felt like an Old West town that had simply decided to keep going. The only thing missing was the horses.
Then I saw the pharmacy,
“Saf-T Pharmacy & Soda Fountain”
I stopped and parked because of the soda fountain. You can’t find them anymore and I couldn’t resist the urge to relive the experience of a chocolate shake from a cold metal colander. I looked through the front window, six stools lined up at an old counter. The red vinyl was cracked. The chrome had dulled. I doubted it had served a proper milkshake in years.
A little bell jingled when I walked inside. The first thing I noticed was that two young women were standing behind the counter dressed for Halloween. One wore a black witch’s hat and a purple cape. She had long dark hair and warm brown skin. The other had red hair, freckles, and silver fairy wings that glittered whenever she moved. For a moment, I recalled holding my daughter’s hand as we went door to door on Halloween and in a split second, she grew up and didn’t need my hand.
The store was empty. I felt strangely at peace and smiled. “Do you still make chocolate shakes?”
The two of them looked at each other.
“The soda fountain’s closed,” the witch said.
The fairy shrugged. “Oh, who cares? We’ll make one.”
They disappeared behind the counter. The old mixing machine groaned to life. Then came the delicious ingredients: ice cream, milk, chocolate syrup, and fresh whipped cream and a maraschino cherry from a nearby jar to top it off.
They laughed quietly as they worked, neither one giving instructions, each one knowing exactly what the other was about to do but I was living my childhood again, a simpler time, a time of endless days and no responsibilities.
Finally, the fairy placed the shake in front of me. I took a sip.
“It tastes like 1959.”
They didn’t get the joke but why should they? They are living their own history. I looked around the store.
“Where’s the pharmacist?”
The fairy smiled. “She doesn’t work on Wednesdays.”
I looked back at the shelves. There were bottles of aspirin and a few prescriptions waiting to be picked but there were also tools, nails, garden gloves, wind chimes, handmade pottery, old books, locally painted pictures of the desert, candles, kitchen towels, greeting cards, and little carved wooden animals.
The witch caught me looking.
“We’ve got a little bit of everything.
“If people need something, we try to have it.”
The old wooden floor creaked as an elderly man walked in and bought a newspaper and a package of screws. After he left, a woman came through the front door carrying a broken lamp.
The fairy looked it over like it was a precious heirloom and assured the woman, “Mr. Ortega will probably stop by around three. He can fix it.”
“You both look darling in your Halloween costumes but it’s only springtime.”
“We don’t need a holiday to dress up and have fun together.”
A little boy came in and bought a comic book and a piece of peppermint candy. “Take an extra at no charge, dear.”
“Gee, thank you, Miss.”
The place wasn’t really a pharmacy. It was whatever somebody needed that day. The ceilings were high, and an old fan turned slowly overhead squeaking to some old beat or rhythm it recalled from decades ago. The wooden floor had been worn smooth by a hundred years of footsteps. I would have sworn that nobody had renovated that building in a century. It was authentic. It wasn’t pretending to be old like so many commercial replications seen today. It had simply survived.
“Are you going to a party, ladies?”
“No.”
“A dance?”
“No.”
“Then why the costumes?”
“We just decided to dress up today.”
“Why are you doing what you’re doing, Sir?”
“I missed a flight and decided to drive home to Scottsdale and got turned around and ended up here.”
The fairy smiled. “We have many strangers who seem to stray off the Interstate and find their way here. They all seem to carry a burden of some type. Some talk, others don’t. Most of the time they leave happier then when they arrived. We never see them again. How are you doin’ Mister?”
“Thanks for asking but I won’t spoil your Wednesday with my burdens. Did you both grow up in this small town?”
“Yep. Same elementary school, same little high school, summer jobs together, and now the pharmacy.”
“You never left?”
The fairy shook her head. “No.”
The witch looked down at the old milkshake mixer. “Not yet.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I almost asked about husbands, boyfriends, and children but it struck me it didn’t really matter because these two young ladies were at peace. Instead, I asked, “Is there much to do around here?”
The fairy looked out the window. “We watch storms.”
The witch smiled. “And people driving through in a hurry.”
I found myself wondering what it was like to spend your whole life in one little town. I wondered if they ever dreamed about bigger places; the ocean, and cities full of strangers. I wondered if they would ever leave and then another thought came to me. “What would happen if one of you left?”
Neither answered. The fairy folded one of her wings. The witch looked out the front window.
The fairy smiled. “I guess the other one would have to learn how to make milkshakes.”
The witch smiled back. “It wouldn’t taste as good.”
They laughed like happy young women with the hearts of children still pulsating inside them. I realised I had been looking at them the wrong way. I had assumed that because they stayed, they must be lonely, yet they did not seem lonely at all. They weren’t sisters as far as I could tell and didn’t signal, they were a couple. There was simply a bond between them that had been built one ordinary day at a time.
I had a revelation that perhaps in a little town, you discover that friendship just happens. Possibly, they worked there because the store itself was the one place where the whole town came together because the place had everything including a hundred years of memories and perhaps that was enough.
I finished my shake. They charged me three dollars. I left twenty. The fairy tried to hand me the change, but I stopped her, “Keep the change. Use it for more costumes and giving an old man a taste of the past which can’t be purchased anywhere for any price.”
I walked outside and the bell above the door rang as if saying, “Goodbye and thanks for stopping by.”
I sat inside my car and was ready to make the phone call to the hospital and found no cellular service. The bell above the door rang with a sense of urgency when I asked if there was a pay phone. “No cell service and no pay phone, Mister.”
“I have to make an emergency call to the hospital.”
“You’re welcome to go behind the pharmacist’s counter and use her phone in the office.”
My daughter was already in surgery and the prognosis was uncertain. My gut was tied in knots, and I feared another lost loved one with daddy absent.
I emerged from behind the pharmacy and back into the store witnessing two beautiful young women with true empathy, love, and kindness in their eyes. I teared up.
“It’s been one hell of a night and trip with hours to go. Despite the sorrow in my heart, you both brought this old man some happiness.”
The witch said, “You’re not the first one to use that phone in an emergency and won’t be the last. We’re happy you were able to make your call and hope it all works out for you.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears, ladies.”
“Maybe not ‘God’ but a good witch and fairy, Mister.”
The old hotel cast a long shadow across the street. The garage looked as though it had been waiting for someone for fifty years. The gas station pumps stood quietly in the afternoon sun. The Chief kept staring like he was waiting for the cavalry.
I climbed into my car but before I started the engine, I looked back through the pharmacy window. The fairy was pretending to cast a spell with a milkshake spoon. The witch was stirring an imaginary cauldron.
I wish I could have told the pharmacist they cast a spell of resilience and renewed energy inside me. The farther I drove, the more I thought about them. At first, I wondered whether they would ever leave that little New Mexico town. Then I realised it wasn’t really my business. People who travel too much have a habit of believing that happiness is always somewhere else. Maybe it isn’t?
I had spent my life travelling the world for business and valuing corporate opportunities. That afternoon, I learned that some places cannot be measured that way. The little store wasn’t valuable because of the land beneath it. It was valuable because it had become one place where everybody could go.
If you needed medicine, a hammer, comic book, or a birthday card, it was there, and, if you needed a chocolate milkshake from a vintage soda fountain to rekindle something lost inside you forever, two girls dressed as a witch and a fairy would probably smile and say, “We’ll make one.”
And as I drove out across the New Mexico desert, I wasn’t sad for them. I was happy because in a world where so many people spend their lives searching for someone who understands them, those two girls had already found each other and were content.
Sometimes they watched storms.
Sometimes they meet strangers passing through and cast spells of human understanding and kindness.
And just for the hell of it on an ordinary Wednesday, they put on fairy wings and a witch’s hat, not because they had somewhere to go, but because they already had somewhere to belong.
I thought about two small town girls who decided that an ordinary Wednesday deserved a little magic which consoled a father as he made it to the hospital and found his loving daughter recuperating from successful surgery. I held her hand and whispered, “Do you remember when you were little and daddy took you house to house on Halloween?”
“I dreamed about that, daddy. I always dressed as a nice witch or a fairy.”
From Public Domain
Jonathan Ferrini is the author of nearly 100 short fiction stories, poems, and screenplays. A partial collection of his short fiction may be found inside “Hearts Without Sleeves-Twenty Three Stories” available at Amazon. Jonathan is the writer/host of the Razor’s Ink Podcast nearing 90 weekly episodes where he discusses film, television, and music. Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA and is a candidate for the undergraduate diploma in Creative Writing at Oxford University.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
My name is Arthur. I’m a metal artist, and a lot of my inspiration including my raw materials come from wandering through old automobile salvage yards. I was scrounging around for pieces for a new project when I spotted a beat-up little red wagon, an iconic model named “Radio Flyer” wedged between the rusted shells of two old cars.
The Radio Flyer was founded by an American company in 1917 and became an American cultural symbol. Its mangled condition wedged between cars made overseas was a strong metaphor for simpler times, manufacturing jobs lost forever, the American rustbelt, and something much more profound to me.
The wagon had been in a collision of its own. Twisted up inside the shards of rusting red metal was a tattered notebook. I paid five dollars but would soon discover my purchase was more than artistic, the contents of the notebook were a repayment of my small investment beyond measure.
One rainy evening in front of the warm glow of a fireplace with a glass of brandy, I opened the notebook and realised it had been written by a little boy who was just learning to write.
I want to share the original contents, but found it necessary to fix a child’s misspelling, no grammar, and lack of punctuation so his observations are understandable. The rest I left alone, because every now and then an old junkyard gives back something that shouldn’t have been lost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this little notebook was all that was left of one small boy’s adventure and the long walk through a short life he took with his red wagon.
THURSDAY
I am Tommy.
I am four.
Mommy gave me this notebook.
She said if I write in it every day, I will be smart.
I have a red wagon.
Gramps gave it to me for my birthday.
He said red things are easy to find if you lose them.
Today I found a bird.
It was under the old oak tree in the park.
I thought it was a leaf because it was jumpy.
Then I saw it was a red robin.
It had a red tummy.
Its wing was all funny.
I asked, “Your wing broke?”
The bird looked at me.
It was sad.
Then I put my sweater on him and put him in my wagon.
Mommy says we help with little things, even scary insects if they are outside.Inside, they go to insect heaven.
Mommy and daddy weren’t home, so I took the robin to the animal doctor.
The lady said, “Doc Ross is sick.”
I said, “My bird is sicker.”
She said, “Maybe the hospital can help?”
I said, “For birds?”
She shrugged.
Grownups shrug when they don’t know what to say.
The hospital was across Sycamore Road.
Mommy and daddy say, “Don’t cross Sycamore Road.”
Grampa says some people forgot how to be happy “down there”.
I don’t know what that means.
I know what pancakes mean.
I know what hugs mean.
I know that I’m not happy when I am sick.
The bird made a little peep.
I think he wants me to pull.
So, I pulled.
The wagon made a squeaky noise.
I like that sound.
It sounds like a mousy with boots.
I got to Sycamore Road.
Nothing happened.
No monsters.
No dragons.
Just a busy road.
So, I crossed.
A nice man was smelly and pushed a market cart.
He helped me cross the street.
He held my hand while I pulled my cart and he pushed his cart.
He said, “Wait for the green sign to say, ‘WALK’. Green says it’s safe to cross but look both ways anyhow, okay? We live in a world where everything doesn’t mean what it’s supposed to, young man. Keep pullin’ your way through life and I’ll keep pushin’.”
He went away with his cart full of his closet like mine at home.
I waved goodbye.
I think he was nice.
I crossed Sycamore Road for the first time.
The houses have gotten old.
There was broken glass.
Lots of trash lying around.
One house had flowers.
One had no windows.
One had a chair on the roof.
I don’t know why?
Maybe somebody wanted to sit high.
A dog barked at me.
I barked back.
Then I remembered I must be brave because the bird was little and hurt.
If I was little, I would want somebody to pull me too.
I think I got lost.
I cried a tiny bit.
Not a lot.
A girl found me.
She had black hair.
She said, “What’s that bird doing in your wagon?”
I said, “A robin needs to go to the bird hospital.”
She said, “You’re not from here.”
I said, “No. I’m from my house.”
She laughed.
I liked her laugh.
It sounds like gumdrops falling on the floor.
“My name is Lily”, she said.
“My name is Tommy.”
Lily said, “My momma works at the hospital.”
I was happy.
I almost hugged her.
But I don’t know if she liked hugs.
She held my hand.
Her hand was warm.
I wasn’t lost anymore.
The hospital was big.
It smelled like soap and dirty laundry.
A man had a hurt foot.
The baby was loud.
A nurse came.
She had tired eyes.
Lily hollered, “Momma!”
The nurse kissed Lily.
Lily said, “Tommy has a sick bird, but doc Ross is sick.”
“Oh dear,” she said.
She picked up the robin like it was a bubble which can pop.
“My name is Beatrice.”
I said, “I’m Tommy.”
She took us to a little room.
Then a doc came.
He said, “The wing is injured but not broken. He needs somebody to love him for a little while. I know a ‘bird lady’ who will take care of your friend.”
Hospital wasn’t happy.
People are scared.
People are hurt.
Everyone wearing white and green ran around in a hurry.
Then a lady came in.
She had white hair.
When she saw Lily and Beatrice, they all hugged like they loved each other, like Grampa when he looks at the moon and thinks about Grandma who died.
Then she looked inside my wagon.
“My,” she said.
“I had a wagon just like this.”
I asked her if she lost it.
“No, sweetheart. I lost being little.”
I didn’t know you could lose that?
“My name is Mrs. Willow.”
She lifted the bird up and put him on the table.
The bird liked Miss Willow.
“I can fix this wing with a simple soft gauze bandage to keep the wing close to the chest and immobile. You can come and visit every day.”
I asked, “Do you live below Sycamore Road?”
“Yes, Tommy.
“I have a big house with happy birds, trees, and a kitchen with milk and cookies for you and Lily when you visit.”
I forgot I wasn’t going to pass Sycamore Road anymore.
I cried a tiny bit again.
Lily and Miss Willow asked why?
I said, “Daddy and mommy gonna’ be mad.”
“I’ll try and help them understand, dear.
“You were being compassionate and a steward of nature.”
Miss Willow took Lily and me into her clown car.
It was painted with flowers.
Lily said, “Miss Willow drives a hippie car.”
I liked the hippie car.
When I got home mommy and daddy were on the porch.
Mommy hugged me so hard my nose got squished.
Daddy asked me, “Where did you go?”
“The hospital with my hurt red robin,” I said.
“You crossed Sycamore Road?”
“I guess so.”
He shut his eyes and shook his head. Daddy does that instead of yelling at me.
Mommy asked, “Were you scared?”
I thought about my day.
I remembered the dog.
I remembered getting lost.
I remembered Lily.
I remembered Beatrice.
I remembered Mrs. Willow.
I said, “It is not good to cross a road unless the green lite says ‘WALK’. No, mommy. I wasn’t scared.”
“Then why did you cross against our rules?”
“Because my sick robin would die under the oak tree.”
I told them Miss Willow was a bird doc who drove a hippie car. Mommy hugged Miss Willow for bringing me home.
SUNDAY
Miss Willow, Lily and her Beatrice came to my house with the robin.
Miss Willow made cookies.
Beatrice brought soup because Grampa had a cough.
Lily picked flowers for mommy.
We all sat on the porch.
Miss Willow sat close to Beatrice on the porch.
They smiled at each other.
Like they had a secret.
Grampa smiled too.
Later I asked him.
Are they friends?
He said, “I think maybe they always were.”
The robin got better.
He jumped and flapped.
Miss Willow said the bird needs more rest at her house and we can visit.
Mommy said, “Okay”.
Daddy went golfing before they came over.
I don’t know why.
WEDNESDAY
We went to Miss Willow’s house.
Lily lived there with her mommy and Miss Willow.
Lily said she has no daddy.
Lily said she was happy with her mommy and Miss Willow.
It was an old house but happy.
I saw birds.
Dogs.
Sleeping cats.
I smelled cookies.
Miss Willow had a party for the bird.
Everybody was there.
Me.
Mommy.
Grampa.
Lily.
Beatrice.
Mrs. Willow.
Lots of people I don’t know came to the party, but Daddy was playing golf. He likes golf very much.
Beatrice and Miss Willow don’t know golf. I like that.
I picked up the robin.
I told the robin, “You don’t have to be scared.”
I opened my hand.
He fell.
Then he jumped
He flied out the window.
He flied over the house.
He flied over Sycamore Road.
Miss Willow said, “Birds know how to get home.”
I think people do, too.
Gramps said, “Birds don’t know where people make lines they won’t cross.”
I think that is smart.
Mommy says I must write what I learned.
I learned birds are little.
I learned wagons squeak.
I learned hospitals are good.
I learned Lily is my friend.
I learned Mrs. Willow smiles with her eyes.
I learned Beatrice does too.
I learned Daddys can fear things they don’t understand.
I learned mommy’s and daddies are different.
I learned robins don’t care what side of Sycamore you live on.
I learned don’t trust signs even if they are green.
I learned we meet nice people anywhere.
SATURDAY
I miss the red robin, so mommy made a trip to a national park to see if he was there.
Maybee, he has a friend like my friend Lily?
Mommy says I will see lots of birds.
Daddy says it will be a long drive in the car and won’t want to make any stops to save time.
I hope I see my red robin and he’ll know it’s me when he hears my wagon wheels.
I’m tired and need to sleep in the car until we get to the national park.
From Public Domain
Jonathan Ferrini is the author of nearly 100 short fiction stories, poems, and screenplays. A partial collection of his short fiction may be found inside “Hearts Without Sleeves-Twenty Three Stories” available at Amazon. Jonathan is the writer/host of the Razor’s Ink Podcast nearing 90 weekly episodes where he discusses film, television, and music. Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA and is a candidate for the undergraduate diploma in Creative Writing at Oxford University.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
“Speedy Gas” was a small, two-pump, single-bay gas station tucked into a forgotten corner of San Francisco. It was not the kind of station visited by those chasing the lowest price per gallon or making a hurried dash into a minimart, but to its old customers and to those who still valued personal service, Speedy Gas was a relic of a slower, more intimate relationship between driver, car, and service station operator, resembling a visit to a trusted family doctor.
Rita kept the Speedy Gas rituals: windshield wiped clean, hood lifted, fluids checked, tires tapped and filled. Rita approached quickly with the tools of her trade; window spray, clean rag, tire pressure gauge, and welcoming smile.
Below in the grease pit, Daniel lay beneath an aging sedan, his hands blackened with oil as he tightened the final bolts. The scent of motor oil, grease and cement walls of the pit surrounded him like family and was his sanctuary.
Rita stepped carefully toward the edge of the pit and looked down at him.
“Mister M, you’ve been working on that old car all day without a lunch break, and it’s nearing six o’clock.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“This car is more than transportation to its owner.
“Joan Hobson’s long life is wrapped up inside it this old car and driving it to Christmas to be with family will make her feel at home just like this pit and garage makes me feel at home. When I’m done, I want you to run the car over to Maxi Waxi’s and pay for ‘The Deluxe’ service wash.”
“I look at the invoices and know you’re undercharging your customers. You’re a generous man, Mister M.”
“Rita, I’m four times your age. I own this place free and clear and live comfortably inside my shoddy apartment behind the garage. My ‘generosity’ is paying it forward for my long life. I’ve survived. What matters is we’re serving the people who depend on us.”
“The grease pit is too dangerous for a man your age.”
“I may be one hundred and two years old, but I can still lubricate a chassis.”
“It hurts me to see you down there and living behind the garage in a cramped apartment alone. Spend Christmas with my family.”
“I celebrate eight days and nights with candles which is enough celebration for me but thank you. I’m a lonely old man who finds solace working here. My son worked alongside me after school, weekends, and summers at this garage. Ben was a natural born mechanic just like you.”
“I know you miss them dearly, Mister M.”
“I never had a chance to say goodbye to Ben. His jet was taking off from Naval Air Station Alameda to join the carrier USS Constellation at sea. I was busy replacing a radiator hose for an old customer, so I sent Helen off and told her I’d join her after the repair. She called me from the air station and said I missed Ben taking off to join the squadron. Helen said Ben appeared disappointed by not seeing me saying, ‘Tell pop’s I love him.’ She mentioned a look in his eyes as if he knew…
“I lost my only child, Ben, when his F-4 Phantom jet was shot down over Vietnam. He’s still listed as ‘MIA’, but we know Ben didn’t survive and buried him posthumously at the San Francisco National Cemetery. When Helen died peacefully at home twenty years ago, I sold our home including all its happy and painful memories to live and work here where I can keep my mind on work and cherish memories of working together with my son. I’ll be here opening and closing for our customers every day including holidays until the day I die and join Helen and Ben.”
The grease gun slipped in his hand and Daniel fell holding his chest.
“Are you okay, Mister M?”
“I’m having a heart attack!”
The last thing Daniel remembered was a mask placed over his face and Rita holding his hand.
*
Lieutenant Daniel Mercer was flying straight and level through a gray morning over the Atlantic. Suddenly, the cockpit filled with the bitter smell of burning oil and hot metal. The instrument panel flickered, the engine sputtered and fell silent. He knew his P-51 Mustang was hit by a lucky shot from a fallen Messerschmitt.
“Blue Jay Two, you hit?”
“Still flying but no engine and falling fast.”
The engine temperature needle swung hard into the red. Smoke curled backward across the wing. Daniel tightened his grip on the yoke. Below him, the ocean was choppy and cold.
A bullet had passed through his upper flank, grazing the ribs and tearing muscles. He adjusted the trim and remembered home, San Francisco. He thought of the cable cars on California Street, the ringing bell and the slow climb toward Nob Hill. His father’s garage was on California Street, and he would inherit it and forever live his life in the “City by the Bay”.
War had changed his career plans, and the aircraft was descending quickly. He could see England now, and the white cliffs of Dover emerged slowly rising out of the sea with welcoming smiles.
“I’ve got Dover in sight, Blue Jay Lead!”
“Take it straight into any field you see and may God be with you, Blue Jay Two!”
*
He opened his eyes. The air smelled of starched sheets, chlorine, antiseptic, and pain. A woman stood beside him. She wore a white neatly pressed nurse uniform, her posture was erect, and her expression composed. Her hair was pinned neatly beneath her cap. One hand rested lightly against his wrist, fingers counting the rhythm of his pulse.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in a British Army hospital.
“I’m Lieutenant Nurse Stephanie Hall.”
“Let me out of here!”
“You’re wounded and require proper medical care.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Sir, if we must strap you to the bed to ensure you receive proper care, we shall do so.”
“I can see you are going to be a difficult patient. Most of you Yanks are.”
“I need to get back to my unit.”
“Where is your unit, Lieutenant?”
“My squadron is the ‘United States Army Eight Airforce’ based in East Anglia, England.”
“A ‘Mighty Eight’, lad. We’re grateful for your service to Britain. How old are you?”
“My birthdate is on my dog tag.”
“I see a very brave, defiant, man-boy of no more than nineteen, correct?”
“I guess the truth no longer matters because the war is over for me. I lied about my age when I enlisted. I serviced the Packard Custom Eight Clipper at my pop’s garage owned by a Brigadier General who pulled strings for me. They rushed me through flight school in time to see action before the war ends. I’ll be twenty years old on Christmas Eve.”
“Your mother was very fortunate to receive a gift of a beautiful baby boy the night before Christmas. I expect you to write home and tell her and your ‘pop’s’ you’re receiving the best of care and will be home soon.”
He studied her face and saw beauty, confidence, and something else, buried deeper. He did not yet know what it was.
*
The hospital ward was filled with wounded men. At night, the air filled with murmured prayers, delirious whispers, and sometimes screaming. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall adjusted bandages, administered morphine, and checked pulses. Her presence was precise, efficient, and compassionate.
She rarely spoke more than necessary but he watched the way she leaned closely when listening, the faint crease that appeared between her brows when she concentrated, and how beautifully her figure filled out the uniform. He found himself waiting for her. He learned she worked the late shift ending at midnight.
*
He woke to find her sitting on the edge of his bed.
“I’m off duty. Care to chat?”
“Only if you move in closer; the crash made me hard of hearing.”
“Nonsense, but brilliant try. What’s it like where you’re from?”
“San Francisco is a slice of heaven. The fog rolls in low, like it owns the city. You hear the cable cars before you see them.”
“Cable cars?”
“The San Francisco cable car system hurdles up the hills. You hear the bell and their steel grip biting into the tracks. It’s a good sound. It means people are going somewhere. Going to work. Going home where I want to be. My father has a garage on California Street with one bay and two pumps out front. Before the war, I spent my days in a grease pit underneath a car or truck with oil dripping down upon me and grease under my fingernails that never quite washed out.”
“That sounds dreadful but delightfully masculine. You have long slender beautiful fingers resembling those of a pianist which contradict your profession.”
“Slide in closer and I’ll let you read my palms, too.”
“Just a few inches, Lieutenant but I warn you my scream will awaken this ward.”
“You’re bluffing, you’re a compassionate nurse and wouldn’t risk waking these poor wounded bastards.”
“I remind you that you’re also ‘wounded’ and an irreverent ‘bastard’.”
“Find me sexy?”
“Possibly, Lieutenant and you’re sex appeal may likely increase after talking more about the garage.”
“I enjoy repairing cars. A customer say’s he can’t get to work or his wife’s expecting soon and he needs it ready. You find what’s wrong, set it right, and witness the beautiful sound of the engine turning over again. I helped him and it made me feel like I mattered.”
“Your work is like that of a surgeon, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, call me a car doctor! Ah, I made you chuckle…Your hands are soft and beautiful and don’t look accustomed to hard labour.”
“Before the war, I was an appendage to a man of position. That sort of vital national service.”
“I don’t understand a damn word you’re saying. Spell it out.”
“After graduation from boarding school, I was placed into an arranged marriage with a man I didn’t know. He was the first man I came to know. I didn’t love him and there was no romance. His family sorely desired a male heir to carry on his family line. We tried and failed repeatedly to have a baby. I was blamed for being infertile despite his private admission of impotence. I remained a dutiful wife standing beside her husband instead of close to him in the same bed. Now, I find myself helping broken men stand again. Helping them return to their lives. Just like the cars you made whole and sent them on their way.”
“Where’s home?”
She chose not to answer, knowing nothing she could say would translate across the caste and privilege gulf between them. Her world was a life he had never imagined, just as she could never truly appreciate the grease-stained certainty of his.
“Home is wherever I am needed.”
They remained there in the dim light, studying each other with the quiet curiosity of two travelers who had met at the crossing point of two lives. He saw refinement that both fascinated and intimidated him. She saw competence that steadied her, a man whose worth was measured not in title but in usefulness. She saw a man she ached for and dreamed about.
*
Night after night, they spoke. Their formality softened. He called her Steph and she called him Daniel. They recognised the war they shared brought them closer and freed them from needing to understand dissimilar worlds.
*
A distant chime signaled midnight awakening Daniel. Steph was no longer wearing her cap, and her long flowing blond locks fell softly around her face. She saw his eyes open and he smiled.
“I have a surprise for you, Daniel. But you must keep it a secret. I’m breaking hospital regulations.”
She handed him a paper bag. He opened it and found a bottle of Coca-Cola, a Hershey bar, and a pack of American cigarettes with a matchbook.
“What made you do this at your peril?”
“I wanted you to feel some small semblance of home.”
“You’re a wonderful woman, Steph. I wish I had met you under such different circumstances. Steph, what can I do for you?”
“Daniel, just be my friend and listen to me. I have no one else to speak to about these matters.”
“What do you have to tell me, Steph?”
“My husband Bernard was a pilot. I spent two years waiting for him to come home until notice arrived; he was shot down and killed.”
“I’m sorry for you, Steph.”
“I’m lonely, Daniel. I find meaning and purpose working here but I think I would like to find the passion and yearning absent in my marriage with you, Daniel. I also wish we met under different circumstances.”
*
The deceased were removed in the very early hours of the morning so as not to alarm the dying. Their beds were filled by morning. A priest came by each bed at dawn, whispered a prayer, and waved his hands in the form of the cross. He never spoke but Daniel muttered, “I guess one prayer is as good as another.”
*
Stephanie arrived just after midnight on a clear cold night. The moon’s light cast a faint but warm glow across the ward. She drew the privacy drape around his bed. She stood beside him, her hands trembling faintly, and they devoured each other with their eyes.
“Do I smell ‘Chanel No. 5’ perfume?”
“I chose a scent you might recognise from San Francisco and used so little only you would notice.”
“Why the perfume?”
“Because after midnight, near to you, I’d rather be a woman than a nurse, darling.”
She climbed onto the bed beside him; her movements deliberate, urgent, tender, raw, vulnerable, and filled decades of neglect, culminating in a glorious culmination of emotions. He held her close but neither spoke. The world beyond the drape ceased to exist.
*
Rain traced soft lines down the tall English windows. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his shoulder wrapped in stiff white bandages. Daniel noticed fewer beds were being filled, which meant the war was ending.
The curtain providing intimacy at midnight opened without haste. It was Nurse Captain Melinda Richardson. She carried herself like an officer accustomed to command. Her uniform was immaculate, her posture erect, and expression firm but not unkind. She pulled a chair close to him to speak quietly.
“I have come to speak with you about Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“It has come to my attention that the two of you have spoken intimately on more than one occasion. She has attended to you personally, even when such attention could have been delegated. I do not interfere lightly in the private lives of my nurses, but I am responsible for their well-being, particularly in matters where misunderstandings may arise. You are an American and come from a nation where distinctions of class are less formal and permanent. That is not the case in England. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall was married to the son of Lord Hall. She returned to his family estate a widow before she had truly become a wife. She is the daughter of a distinguished family, and her father holds influence at the highest levels of government. She could have spent the war in comfort and safety. Instead, she chose to serve Britain by becoming a nurse and entering the army. She will one day return to the family estate. Her father is ill and mother deceased. She is the last of her line.”
“In other words, she’s out of my league.”
“You’re blunt but on point.”
“I’m from San Francisco, Captain. My father owns a garage. I suppose that’s all there is to say.”
“You became an officer and crossed an ocean to defend a country not your own. That speaks highly of you. But there are worlds, Lieutenant, that do not easily join. Not because of character but because of obligation and history. Bluntly, Stephanie Hall’s Anglicanism and your Jewish faith present barriers to a union between you both. The fact that you have won her heart is not a trivial thing.”
“Steph never brought up religion although the letter ‘H’ for Hebrew was stamped on my ‘dog tag’.”
“I ask you to understand what it all means and what it may never be permitted to become.”
He looked past her, toward the dark window where the rain pelted reminding him of the bullets fired to kill him and this time, hitting his heart.
“I understand, Captain. Requesting your leave to process all of this.”
“I wish you the best of everything and a long life, Lieutenant.”
Captain Richardson left him, but he knew that survival, however miraculous, did not free a man from the boundaries of the world dividing people. War should have taught him that lesson, but for a moment in time, a beautiful woman from a stately manor and mechanic-turned-pilot fell in love.
*
The day came when he could stand, walk, and be discharged. They did not speak of it until the morning it arrived. He stood beside his bed, wearing his uniform again. Steph stood before him.
“You’re returning to your unit and then home?”
“Yes, to the life I had lived before the war.”
“I will miss you, Daniel.”
He attempted to pull her tight to him, but she resisted.
“You cared for me and I took you into my heart, Steph. I want to say more but there are no words which will suffice except a kiss which you’ll permit me, please.”
She entered his embrace and released the pent-up desire raging through her until Captain Richardson approached with his discharge papers. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall watched Daniel leave forever but knowing he left behind a permanent memento.
*
Their son was born in the spring and she named him Bernard. Steph raised him alone. She never wrote to Daniel and never spoke his name, but she was reminded of him in every feature of their beautiful son.
*
Daniel returned to San Francisco, resumed his life working inside his father’s garage and married. The war became memory. Years and decades passed. His garage on California Street was built with his hands and discipline learned in the cockpit, and watching the dedicated nurses complete their rounds with compassion which he shared with each of his customers.
*
Daniel awoke and found himself alone inside an ICU not resembling the hospital ward he recalled from the war. The war defining his youth was more than eighty years behind him and losing his son and wife faded into memory.
Rita was cautioned by the cardiologist,
“Say your goodbyes before it’s too late. His birthday is tomorrow. We didn’t think a birthday celebration was appropriate for a dying man. Nobody in this ICU can recall a birth and death on the same day particularly Christmas Eve.”
“Mister Mercer never shared his birthday with me even though I’m the closest thing to family.”
Rita held Daniel’s frail hand in one hand and a faded sealed envelope with foreign postage stamps in the other hand. Daniel’s eyes were hollow, but he recognised the aged envelope.
“I searched your office for somebody to contact and came across this envelope from England addressed to you many decades ago and never opened.
“Would you like me to open it?”
Daniel remembered his decision not to revisit the past by opening the envelope because he put the past behind him, but the memories and mourning were about to end, and he motioned for Rita to open the envelope.
Rita removed a photograph of a handsome young Royal Air Force aviator. She turned over the photo revealing a handwritten note suggesting a woman’s soft touch with a fountain pen which she read softly:
Dearest Daniel, Please meet our son, Bernard Mercer Hall. Bernard was told his father was an aviator killed in the war. The night our son was conceived inside the darkness of the ward remains a blessed, romantic memory and a warm togetherness two young people shared inside the cold of war. After graduation from Cambridge, he darted off to the RAF to become an aviator like his father. I’m mailing this photograph and note in the final days of my life. I knew you as a sensitive young lad and you may be reticent to open it fearing to relieve the past which I fully understand. Life was kind permitting our union during times of mutual need but also cruel in keeping the three of us apart. I hope our beautiful son will bring you happiness and remove any grief life may have dealt you. Goodbye, my love.
Daniel’s American son followed him into the sky and lost to it but here was another son; a son born of survival and two lovers from different worlds. Although Bernard walked beneath ancient, privileged towers, he, too, flew inside the same sky that had both spared and punished three pilots; a husband, and a father and son. Daniel was gifted with a second son, and his grief was replaced with pride in two heroic sons born from two magnificent mothers.
Rita held Daniel’s hand which gripped tightly and suddenly let go. A sound from the heart monitor resembling the bells of the cable cars Daniel warmly spoke about signalling his long journey ended. Daniel’s cable car reached the top of California Street and waited for him to climb aboard with a nonstop flight to a grand reunion of loved ones; a beautiful extended family all with eyes towards the sky.
From Public Domain
Jonathan Ferrini has published nearly one hundred short fiction stories and poems. He is the host and writer of the weekly “The Razor’s Ink Podcast” where he discusses movies, television, and music.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
