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Ghost of Walton Manner 2000 Words
?Why are we here??
?I told you I have to go to London on business. Your father you know, is on the U.S.S. Pentecost. So I've decided that you will stay here at Walton Manner. You know Ms. Dementia. She was that friend of your Aunt Jaundice.?
?Not the woman with the green hair, and those eyes that looked like they are going to fall out.?
?Now, let's be nice. She, I give you, is a bit eccentric, but she is very accomplished. She has turned this old house into a private academy, which I might add, is not easy to get into. There is usually a long waiting list. If it were not for the fact that your aunt is a good friend of Ms. Dementia, I don't know what we'd do. I guess you could go stay with Grandma and Grandpa.?
?No. I'll take my chances.?
?OK then. Do you want to use the knocker to let them know we are here. Ms. Dementia wanted to interview you to make sure you'd fit in here and be comfortable. She said some of her guests, she calls them guests, although they are students, or at least that is what your aunt says.?
?No, I can't reach it, and I'd rather push the doorbell.?
?Walton Manner was built in the late eighteenth century by Bartholomew Walton. He made his money in sugar cane in the West Indies. Then there was trouble with worker strikes and rebellions, so he came back here and invested in the cereal business. He did quite well. He built this house for a wife he never found. He died about 100 years ago. He had no immediate relatives and the home remained vacant for years. Ms. Dementia's son was killed in a tragic bank robbery and she was awarded a monetary payment which they do when they don't want to claim responsibility. Her son was killed by an overly rambunctious police captain, who was removed from the police force for his exuberance, or so the story goes. More coffee dear??
?No thank you Auntie, I should get home to Benjie. You never know what he can get into when left alone for too long.?
My aunt, although a lovely person, and my favorite aunt, has a tendency to generously expound on the facts. I researched the story she told me about and found it to be quite accurate except for the discrepancies in the facts about the robbery itself.
Ms. Dementia's son was the one who was convicted of endangerment during the commission of a felony robbery. He was captured and sentenced to prison, where he is to this day. The money was never recovered.
Ms. Dementia was not his mother, but a friend of his mothers who raised him, when his mother ran off with a used car salesman. He was selling Edsel's Fords, if you can believe that. Her charge ran off when he was sixteen. She claimed she had no knowledge of the robbery or of the money that was not recovered. She had not known where he had gone off to or had had any contact with him for years. She purchased the Walton home shortly after that, and had it completely restored.
Ms. Dementia had attend a teachers college, from some place in southern North Dakota. She is not state certified, but what does that really mean. I spoke with her on the phone to arrange for Benjie's admission and explained the situation, and the need for immediacy. She was most understanding, and we arranged to have Benjie and myself show up on Friday afternoon at five thirty, on the 13th.
?How come the doorbell sounds like cow bells.? What kind of a place is this anyway??
?Now Honey, let's not get anxious. You know how that effects your asthma and hair loss. We've talked about this and you promised to be good. You know with your father being gone and my work, we all have to make sacrifices. Oh, here comes someone.?
?Come in. You must be Angela Beetle, and this must be Benjamin, come, come. I know we've met, I remember now, but I'm terrible with faces.?
Ms. Dementia leads us into the parlor. The house is elegant for its time. I can see the stairwell twisting its way upwards towards the second floor. The room is lovely. A wonderfully colorful Persian rug covers the glossy maple floor. A large granite fireplace is settled into the interior wall across from the leaded glass windows with triangular panes.
?Would you excuse me for a moment. I believe I hear one of the children. The class room is in the old dining room. It was the largest room and provided the most opportunity,? she says as she flows from the room, her floor length dress drags noisily across the glistening floor. I have no idea what she meant by opportunity, but it does sound extreme, given the looks of the place.
For some reason I remember being in my Aunt's house. I was young. She gave me a glass of milk and a cookie. The cookie had cat hair on it and the milk was sour. I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so pretended to drink the milk. I put the cookie in my pocket.
?Mom, do you see that??
?See what??
?That kid, hanging there from the chandelier, in the living room.?
Now, I should tell you Benjamin has a bit of an imagination. I assume it has something to do with him being an only child and having a father who'd rather be on a submarine than here in Tucumcari. Anyway, I think he imagines things to entertain himself.
?Did you hear that??
?Now dear, I didn't hear anything, and neither did you. Now be quiet and respectful. I don't know what we'll do, if for some reason you can't stay here with Ms. Dementia, when I'm gone.?
?Mom, there is a dog barking. You can't hear that. He is sitting right there at the bottom of the steps He has on sunglasses and a zebra stripped top hat. The tie he has on looks like its got a fish on it and its singing something about, Summer Time. You don't see that??
?Now dear, I realize that this is traumatic for you. You don't know Mr. Dementia well, but your aunt speaks highly of her. You'll adjust, like you always do. If you must make up things to help you settle in, please do. Just keep it to yourself You don't want to scare Ms. Dementia. And you know from being around Auntie, that older people can seem a bit strange. You probably seem strange to them. So try and be co-operative. It is so important that this work.?
I have to admit that there is a feeling of strangeness that hangs like damp sheets on a clothes line. Even the smell, which Benjie has commented on, does smell like old socks, but everything is neat and clean. Even the windows are spotless. The beveled glass door cast its prism of light onto the hardwood floor. It looks like a bisected rainbow. I am sure Benjamin will adjust. He will, once he calms down, he just has to. New places, always do this to him.
?Mom, there's a monkey swinging from the chandelier where the kid is hanging. Can we go now??
?Benjamin, that's enough. Now, here comes Ms. Dementia. Behave please, this is important.?
?But Mom, Ms. Dementia is gliding down the stairs like she don't have legs.?
?Benjie, cut it out.?
?Ms. Dementia. You have some questions for Benjie. I know he'll like it here, it's such a beautiful house. I expect to be gone a number of weeks; I hope that won't be a problem.?
?Well dear, you know this is an all-girls school. I have considered making this exception because of my friendship with your aunt. She tells me Benjamin is a creative boy with a wonderful imagination. That is so important here, as we do things differently than you'd find in most school settings. We, by that I mean the student, and myself, have to believe in the possibility that what you see, is not necessarily what you see. I know that sounds strange but? we accept the possibility that realism is nothing more than a perception of facts and events, that suggest a possibility, that may or may not be relevant, or even factual. You see we are often fooled by our sense of propriety. We fail to see what's behind the obvious because it may very from what we expect, and therefore we change our perception to accommodate our comfort. Am I making myself clear, Mrs. Beetle, Angela??
?Oh yes! It is encouraging hearing you speak of creativity and imagination, as Benjie is if anything, both creative and certainly imaginative. He's just been telling me about the monkey swinging from the chandelier and the dog with the top hat and sun glasses. See what I mean??
?Sorry Dear, I have to go see about that noise. Brenda has just the one eye and she's forever bumping into things and hurting herself. I've been attempting to train her to adjust her vision telemetry by playing duck, duck, gray duck, with the other children. She's made some progress but remains prone to forgetting what she's doing and goes off course. I'll be right back. Please sit, the couch won't bite. Now, will you, Willie??
When she turned, I noticed she had a butcher's knife protruding from between her shoulder blades. The knife had a face that looked like Boris's face, the guy from Frost Bite Falls Minnesota. Used to watch that old show with Benjie when he couldn't sleep. Benjie is out by the stair case singing with the dog. Sounds creep towards me, ?He's got hair down past his knees, he's got to be a joker, he's so hard to please.? I know I've heard that someplace.
Good to see Benjie making a new friend. He has trouble doing that because he's so particular about friends. When Alvin Jenkins was over and got hurt, Benjie tried to tell me Alvin tripped and fell down the stairs. Alvin's mother informed me, that Benjie had pushed him down the stairs because he'd said something derogatory about him keeping a stuffed parakeet in a cage, in his room.
He has a few problems, I'll admit. But don't all boys have a vivid imagination, and the ability to see things you can only see when young. That I feel, is the one thing that we loose as we grow older. We forget that Peter Pan was a real boy until we stopped believing. Superman could leap tall buildings with a single bound, and Sherlock Holmes did kick his heroine habit. There was so much speculation about him not really having the mental acumen to outwit Moriarty, without the stimulus and insight it provided.
Benji is heading up the stairs with the dog. They continue singing, which is a good sign. Benjie likes to sing, he says it confuses the noise in his head and they leave. I might as well get back to the hospital and begin getting ready for my trip. I'm sure Benji will be just fine with Ms. Dementia, she seems to have quite the sense of humor, Willie. We all need more humor in this world that is becoming more cynical every day.
?Bye Benjamin. I'm off to the hospital. Be good.?
?Mrs. Beetle, who are you talking to? Now, let's get back in bed, please. It's time for your meds, and we don't want to miss reruns of The Days of Our Lives, now do we??
?Where's Benjie??
?He's just here on the floor. There you go. Now watch your show and I'll be back with those little candies you like so much.?
The days are growing shorter, the nights longer and lonelier--more hours without the fellowship of birdsong. The warmth of another summer dwindles, and again a jittery passion charges me throughout. Vibrating through my body, this energy has me beating my winds and testing the limits of my home. Above me, the sun flees and goes about its passage oblivious to my struggles.
To chase down its kindness and fruits, to join with others and become of singular purpose again. To do what I have never done, to rise and soar. To be buffeted along, the trade winds carrying me further than I have ever been. Further, then I could ever imagine beyond this gilded limit. I hop and skip along my perch, hovering and calling out to the gathered birds.
"What plans do you have? To what lands do you head?"
They seldom answer, but when they do, their words are fragmented and foreign. Their strange song sounds clipped, their chirps and chortles exotic. I listen and press myself against the bars, to strain and catch their meaning.
"Far from here. Wide-open. Not this. Come."
Images, unformed and awash with emotion, flutter in my mind a riot of colour and joy. Painted in my mind by inexperienced hands.
"Oh, I'd love to. Next year maybe?" I chirp back nonchalant.
"Come. Be bird. Come," they call.
They startle and rise. Swirl and settle. And wait for my reply.
"I cannot," I sing back at last. I turn and flutter to the back a little way away from the open window.
They rise and leave. None look back.
Oh, I do have some comforts for the long and lonely evenings. Food is not hard to find, the nights are never cold, and a bird that looks so much like me visits fleetingly.
So shy, though, he or she never stays for a shared meal or a quiet drink. But still, I must admit, it is exciting when they drop by unannounced at my home.
I am happy to have enough to share, even if they don't stay for a quick peck.
There are many things in my life to be grateful for. Many many things.
When the trees outside grow quiet when no one comes close to my window to visit, on those days I wonder. My mind drifts up and up on the powerful winds that must be braver cousins to the breezes that come in through my curtains.
They lift me higher and higher, through space and open-air, room enough to swirl and dive and roll. The cool air on my feathers, the warm distant sun on my beak, the orange glow in my eyes The climbing cool, the vanishing heat on high, kept at bay by the sturdy true beat beat beat of my wings.
Wings that stretch and strengthen, accomplish more in a moment than they've been free to do my whole life yet. I wonder of birds that look different, that follow different headings, of the stories they'd share on the winds. Of the places they've seen, the strange and beautiful lands, beyond Baker Street and Main.
Oh, the colours they must have seen, beyond brick and mortar, shadowed green and even these muted autumn shades. The bright flash of light on rivers and lake, the shifting colours of land below. The sunrises and sunsets unencumbered by these hunched and clustered mountains so square.
Oh, I wonder yet of broad, beautiful blue skies, and wet white wispy clouds, even the passing fancy of fresh and fleeting fogs, afloat with boats, barges and shifting ships jostling side by side on the water's edge. Daring and diving, dipping and darting through the river traffic, following the swirling dark grey waters to the endless deep blue sea.
Oh, how I wonder and while away the long and lonely days, the empty trees and the closed window. The chill and drafts have been sealed away, so to the smells and the cawing of the crows and the rapacious ravens pecking at their evening meal. Welcome safety at least.
This winter is different. I dread the deeper longer nights, the days that come are thin and shallow. Their light mean and meagre. Through it all I sleep less; I cannot find solace like I once did. I spend many a night awake on my perch. Standing sentinel through the night, looking out for I know not what. Nothing comes, no one speaks, but I cannot sleep?the Movement of the flock calling to me. But, I cannot answer, I cannot follow.
The morning comes, and I am bone-weary?no song to sing today, no energy to eat. Without the sun to warm my heart, I wonder not where I could go, but where I will be tomorrow. The grey, the dreary climate has infected me and brought me low. Years past I'd been able to batter through because Spring was coming, another Summer just behind it and a tantalizing Fall to leap into flight. But this year is different.
This year my wings are bent and broken, shaped by this confinement. They cannot stretch and flex; they cannot lift me and carry me the scant few beats the to the roof of my cage. I cannot hover in place, and for the two illusory moments feel a cheap facsimile of flight.
Although my mind wanders still, my heart stagnates deeper. Days pass where I don't look beyond the misty curtains to the world outside. I don't listen for the faint chirps of a new voice, a stranger fresh with stories of faraway streets, or if fortune favours me beyond measure faraway unseeable lands.
My final day began like any other.
I sat perched. Clinging with fading strength on the cold metal rod that speared through the middle of my tiny home. I hungered so. But the mere seed, my seedbox overflowing, did not fill the void in my guts. My thirst clawed against my throat, choking the song from my beak.
I stood to watch, waiting, waiting, waiting.
And then in answer, I saw the first faint white blossom on my bare-branched tree outside. A beautiful promise extended towards me.
Spring was here!
A new year, perhaps my neighbours would return from their travels.
Perhaps they would share their adventures, their stories.
Perhaps.
My heart beat so powerfully at that hope.
Painfully.
And then -
It skipped.
It stuttered.
And I slipped.
I fell.
I saw a roof above me, not the window anymore.
A cage within a cave.
A curtain drew across my sight.
Oh, how I wished I heard just one more story.
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