mry writes

*a story*

***First Impressions***

Afternoon sun dappled the rumpled surfaces of the window panes, beating against the translucence of the old glass, trying to gain entry into the quiet room, seeking a path to illuminate the dim dusty corners. The intensity of the summer sun was softened by its passage through the dirt that crusted the panes, but still made its presence known despite attenuation by the accumulated grime.

The town beyond the grime looked empty. Everything around her looked bone-achingly dry and austere. A perfect place for Bobbie Jo, then, at this moment. She was nowhere, the middle of nowhere, feeling dry and austere, and this place suited her.

She could not interpret exactly how she was feeling, beyond empty. She looked out at the dry dusty town. Everything felt barren. The town, the room, her heart.

Her soul, if she had one.

She was not sure she had a soul, and if pressed on the subject she was likely to say she did not, but she usually hesitated before answering. Hedging her bets in a small way.

She kept looking from the window to the man sitting at a well-used table near the centre of the room. In a superficial recent acquaintance sort of way, she knew this man. What she did not yet know is whether she should trust him. Billie Joe. A small, somewhat absurd name for a big guy, she thought.

Bobbie Jo had carefully watched him during the drive to nowhere, otherwise and more correctly known as Edgewise, and concluded he was big enough that no one would call him Billie Joe in derision; big enough that he did not have to prove himself, except to small men trying to prove, mostly to themselves, that they were not small. Big enough that he had the luxury of speaking softly and still being heard. Big enough to seem obliquely threatening without needing to act threatening. Big enough to implicitly trust, because he did not show a need to continually prove himself.

She could trust Billie Joe. This was the tale Bobbie Jo was telling herself. Justification, perhaps, for proposing to him that he bring her to this bleak land within two days of their first meeting. When you have no place in particular to be, any place is as good as any other place. When you are trying to fade away you have two choices: anonymity among the multitudes of a city, or obscurity in an obscure place. She had chosen Billie Joe as her guide into obscurity, although he did not yet understand his role. He had simply acknowledged, by quiet acceptance, that the plot would unfold in due course.

Billie Joe occasionally eyed the woman standing across the room staring out the window while he absent-mindedly poked at a loose flake; a hangnail of thick layers of peeling paint. Once white, now yellowed with age and dust, the flake was one of many clinging loosely to the edge of the antique table. Billie Joe, young and bulky, and the table, old and dusty, sat near the middle of a vacant storefront room. Sitting at the table, one had a view out to the town square, which was inconveniently located near one end of Edgewise, another contrarian decision made long ago.

Along the sides of the table the effects of years of use scarred the wood, revealing layers of the table’s history as if it was an archaeological dig. Spots where the topmost dingy white paint layer was broken revealed an optimistic bright yellow, which had in turn once masked a dreary grey-blue. Somewhere deep under the strata of paint lay a foundation of bone-dry wood, which had once been polished to a sheen by a long forgotten lonely wife out on the lonely prairie.

This was not some crude sodbuster table, hacked together in haste, intended to provide a good-enough surface for rough meals or repairing harness, birthing or laying-out. No, this table had finely turned legs with smoothly spiralling grooves, the legs attached to the top with carefully fitted joints. Clearly, someone had laboured to get a good piece of furniture out here in the middle of such vast dry emptiness. It was a simple leap to conjecture the care and attention that might have been lavished on the table, sitting as a centrepiece in a straight-backed frame house. Otherwise, why bother with all the bother it must have been, getting it all the way to Edgewise?

It was a shame that subsequent generations had not valued it so dearly. If they had, they surely would not have slopped heavy layers of paint over it. They would not have crudely spliced a wedge to the bottom of one leg to level the table against the undulating floor. They would have considered the value, the true value, of a fine piece in a crude land before defiling it so roughly.

Who was this woman, really? What did she need? What did she want? Why, exactly, was she in Edgewise? If he thought these questions, he did not ask them. Billie Joe seemed content to let things unfold as they might; he was home and ready to continue his life. He did not press her. He would let the pages unfurl in their own time, like a fine picture book revealing worlds within.

Bobbie Jo stood and began searching the corners of the room for some means to shift a few of the layers of dust. Billie Joe watched with a mixture of exasperation and amusement while she stomped around, poking behind discarded furniture and piles of junk. Eventually she emerged from the back room with a straw broom worn to nubs. Wielding the broom like a finely wrought implement, she stirred most of the dust from a chair and from the old table.

When the air filled with dust motes she gave up. She returned the broom to its corner and walked to the table.

She sat across the table from Billie Joe, looking from him to the street beyond the rippled glass, looking out to the faded gazebo in the square beyond the street. The dust clouds resettled while they sat at the table, not speaking. With her fingertip Bobbie Jo drew doodles, sketched roads and rivers, built hills and valleys in the settled dust while Billie Joe picked and poked at the dents and flakes in the table. He was clearly in no hurry; she had a vague feeling that was a general way of life out here.

She was the first to break the silence. With a sigh and a barely disguised attempt to hide her uneasiness, she asked, “You really mean to do this? In this dry, dusty, forsaken place you intend to open a café?”

“Yep. I sure do intend to do just that. Dry, dusty, forsaken it may seem, but this is my home and my town, and I mean to return some bit of life to it. Look around you at this place. Needs a bit of sprucing up and painting, for sure. But imagine this space bustling with folks, noisy and alive. Imagine it smelling of coffee and fresh buns in the morning, spicy chili and warm cornbread at noon. Folks need a gathering spot that is not a saloon. A town needs a warm heart if it is going to remain alive.”

Bobbie Jo had nothing to say in answer. Nothing worth saying, or hearing. Lacking her own dreams was no reason to scoff at others’ dreams.

***Between somewhere and nowhere***

On the drive to Edgewise Bobbie Jo had heard his plans, but she had not quite pictured the whole setting. Now that it was laid out around her she could only shake her head at his craziness. Perhaps too much sun and dust and dry loneliness had weathered the sense out of him. But she had only known him for three and a half days. How much sense he might once have had was unknown to her. Could be he was one of those pipe-dreamers, always hoping and imagining the good times that were sure to come. Sure to come, if only… Unfortunately, if only was generally a moving target, ever-receding from reality.

On the trip up Billie Joe explained where they were headed, ‘in the interest of full disclosure’: Edgewise, which was nearly nowhere. About midway between wherever and somewhere else, as the confused crow flies, he put it. A place located in the hinterlands, in the nowhere found smack dab between desolate and lonely.

“Edgewise. That is a peculiar name for a town.” She alternated between engaging him and ignoring him, not quite sure what she was getting into.

“It is called Edgewise because the main street runs perpendicular to the highway rather than along it. Some clever guy, who just happened to be my great-grandpapa, decided that having a town along the highway meant it was just a bump in the road from somewhere to somewhere else. He decided building a town cross-ways to the highway made it a destination. And just to make sure people hurrying from somewhere to somewhere else noticed it, he contrived to erect a monument in the middle of the highway. There is a roundabout right in the middle of Edgewise, with a stone monument and a bit of park around it. Sure accomplishes its purpose; you have to slow and notice the town even when you are just rushing down the road to get somewhere else. And somewhere else is generally where folks are aiming to get.“

“What else does Edgewise have, besides a monument in the middle of the highway? Is there a reason for someone to stop? To shop or eat or sleep or sightsee or something? Anything touristy or interesting in the area?”

He hesitated just long enough to defeat his intention of not wanting to worry her too much. He told her the town had two loops, like lollipops, on opposite sides of the highway. Two loops a ways down the main street which was called by the imaginative and somewhat grandiose name Central Avenue. In truth, Central Avenue could also be called So-what Road, or perhaps One and Only Street. There really was not much else to the town proper, Billie Joe reluctantly admitted. Yeah, some side roads, some places for living, some basic amenities. Not a whole lot more. Enough to get by, not enough to turn into a metropolis.

He described the town in brief: The midpoint of Central Avenue had the monument, and in the centre of the loops at the ends of the Avenue were town parks. The east loop had a playground and the west loop had a bandshell, strategically positioned to capture the midsummer setting sun. The town hall and the church hall faced each other down the length of Central Avenue. Other buildings included a few shops, two open for business and two shuttered, a free library, the little kids school. The open shops were a feed store, both animal and human feed, and a Five and Dime. The Edgewise Historical Museum, occasionally open on Tuesdays from 11 to 2, and the auxiliary shop next door rounded out the commercial district. That is how Billie Joe put it: The Commercial District. As if it was something worth promoting.

“You make it sound like some big fancy town, with your emphasis on The Commercial District. But your description does not seem to fit. Do I have to wait and see for myself, or can you clue me in? Why are you pushing Edgewise so hard?”

“Well, that is what the mayor is supposed to do. To promote his town and make sure it gets its fair shake from the powers with the money.”

Bobbie Jo burst out laughing. “You are the mayor? But you are barely older than me, and I am sure not ready to be a mayor.”

“Laugh if you will, but I am really honest to gosh mayor of Edgewise. Although in truth that is partly because my family has been part of Edgewise since before it was Edgewise, and partly because no one else stepped up for the job last election.”

“Okay. Interesting,” she mumbled. She turned her head to stare out at the passing scenery, and silence settled back in.

“Why are we here?” Billie Joe asked after another dozen or two kilometres of road was left behind. “I mean, not in a grand philosophical sense. You and me, right now. What happened to bring this about? Your view.”

Bobbie Jo tapped her lip with a forefinger for a minute. “Well, I guess it started at breakfast a few days ago. Maybe you did not see me, but I was standing behind you waiting for a seat at the counter at that little hole in the wall breakfast place.”

“I guess I sort of saw you there, but I did not really pay much attention,” he said. “I was focused on my stack of blues. Which are the best blueberry pancakes in the whole of anywhere, as you doubtless discovered. I go there whenever I go to the city. I was in the city for university, hung out in and around the area for a couple years beyond university, and fattened myself at that little counter during most of those years.”

She nodded. “That explains why they knew your name. When the cook yelled out ‘Hey, Billie Joe’ it caught my attention. Must be fate, Bobbie Jo finding Billie Joe. At least that is the crazy thinking that went through my head. Mind you, I was still coffee-deprived at that point. For me, crazy thinking goes with that territory. When I saw you in the pub that same night I had to go over and meet you. I had to find out if you really were a Billie Joe sort of guy.

“What is a Billie Joe sort of guy?”

“Sort of a provincial. A yokel, I guess. Like folks expect Bobbie Jo to be a female yokel.”

“So once in my life my crazy name paid off. I cannot tell you how much teasing I got about it all the time I was growing up. Still do, in fact. But since I am a slightly bigger guy now, the teasing is a bit more respectful.”

“Well, try growing up in Swankytown with a name like Bobbie Jo. That is like having a big ‘kick me’ sign stuck to your back all the time. All those Amelias and Stephanies and Rebekahs had a good time with little Bobbie Jo.”

“So you come from somewhere? I never before met a girl from somewhere. Not many folks from there come out here, I guess.”

She stared at her fingertips for longer than was comfortable. “Oops. That was more information than I planned to share,” she said. “Ok, I admit I come from where folks do not think they need to explain themselves. They let their wallets and pretend fanciness do the deed. I suppose you never heard of Swankytown out here.”

“Sure I have. Once home to a pretty durn good composer. I played some of her music with the Edgewise Orchestra. Do not look surprised. We are not totally lacking in culture and social graces here. We just try to hide it. Got to keep folks guessing about exactly what we know and do out here. Sort of a game of lowering expectations so we can exceed them easier.”

“Well Mr. Mayor, you are exceeding mine now. No offence meant. It is just, well, Billie Joe from Edgewise. Not quite Percival Quincy Roger Stanhope. The third. From Swankytown. Who is real, by the way. Or at least I know someone who really does have that good grief pretentious silly name. And lived up to it, by the way. Insufferably pretentious. Anyway, differing expectations, like you said.”

Billie Joe smiled. “As we also like to say, differ your expectations and you likely will not wake up disappointed every day. Works pretty well when you are 112 kilometres from anywhere.”

“Sorry, but I didn’t expect anything to be 112 kilometres from anywhere. Now here I am, after every one of those 112 kilometres and even a bit more, and right now passing a sign that says Edgewise, Pop. 419. Is that for real? You have exactly 419 people out here where you are mayoring?”

Billie Joe was a bit slow to respond. “It doesn’t exactly say 419 people. It says population 419. Fact is, there are certain benefits if your town has a population more than 400. Things like a post office. Like road crews. Like road signs even. So we get a little creative at times. The point is Edgewise has a population of 419 souls, give or take a handful, of which 297 are living people. We also seem to have some dogs and cats who become full-fledged citizens when it comes time to tot up the residents. In total, the population last time we counted ended up at 419. At least that is what is on the ledger.”

“Sure is a different world, that is for sure. Clearly I am not where I was any more.”

“Okay, why are you here? Women do not usually ask some guy they just met to take them off to an unknown place five hundred kilometres away. Not unless they are running. Or hiding. Or maybe both.”

“How about for a change of scenery? If you have no place in particular to be, any place is as good as any other. The way I look at it, if you want to go nowhere in particular, any road will do.”

“Well, I am sure some places are better than others, even if you have no particular need to be somewhere. So which is it? Running or hiding? Going off with a relative stranger seems like an interesting way of discovering yourself, if a bit risky.”

“No bodies left behind in shallow graves. I promise.”

“Guess I should accept your word. For now. Later, we might try exposing a bit more truth to the light.”

***Oma’s shadow***

A shadow passing in front of the rumpled window briefly interrupted the slanting rays of illuminated dust. Bobbie Jo turned in time to see someone walk towards the door. The door opened slowly and a small backlit figure stopped in the opening.

“Is that you, Willem Josef? Or is some scoundrel hanging out in here?”

Bobbie Jo smiled. Here was a bit of information Billie Joe had not seen fit to share: he had a proper name.

“Same difference, Gramma Oma,” Billie Joe said to the visitor.

“Oh, you are not alone. Is that what you went to town for? To fetch a woman?”

“She is a bonus fetch, Oma. And a better one than the bank man I went to see.”

“She is? That is good, that is good. Been telling you things are getting stale around here. Good fresh blood is needed and welcome.”

“And who are you, dearie?” she said to Billie Jo.

“I am Bobbie Jo,” Bobbie Jo answered.

“Bobbie Jo? What sort of name is that?”

“The sort inflicted on a baby girl. Not my choice, I can tell you.”

“Now, who would give a girl a name like Bobbie Jo in a day and age like this one?”

Bobbie Jo glanced at Billie Joe. She scowled when he smiled at her. Meanwhile, Oma walked in and stopped near their table. She smiled at Bobbie Jo. Bobbie Jo looked at the little woman, then at Billie Joe. Same eyes, she decided. Right down to the sparkle when they smiled.

Oma nodded. “Ah, she is lovely. Where did a scoundrel like you find a lovely girl like her? I hope you did not dazzle her with all your wit and charm. You need to save some for tomorrow, and the days beyond, if you expect to keep her around.”

Bobbie Jo smiled. “Fear not. His wit and charm have been quite measured so far. Parcelled out in minute measure, bit by bit.”

Billie Joe feigned a thrust to his heart.

“Now,” Oma said. “You were telling me how you became a Bobbie Jo.”

Bobbie Jo sighed heavily.

“Take your time, dearie. Time is one thing we have plenty of around here. Time, and dust.”

Bobbie Jo looked again at Billie Joe. He must have seen the pleading look in her eyes, for he shook his head slightly, and then shrugged his shoulders slightly.

Bobbie Jo inhaled. “The people who raised me were, ah, different.”

She saw Billie Joe’s eyebrow rise. She closed her eyes for a few seconds before continuing.

“My parents, my too-young birth parents, whoever they were, left me with friends while they went to explore. I was a few weeks old, I hear, when they left. I obviously do not remember. They did not return when they said they were going to. They did not return any time after that, either. And the friends they left me with, well, turns out they had met only a few weeks earlier.”

She stopped and took a couple deep breaths.

Oma put her hand on Bobbie Jo’s arm. Her touch felt oddly reassuring to Bobbie Jo. Maybe it was the unusualness of feeling a gentle touch? Bobbie Jo briefly wondered about this before taking another deep breath and continuing her story. Better to get it all out as quick as possible and try to move on to safer topics.

“My newest people, my surrogate family as things ended up, did their best, considering they had not planned for and were not ready for a child. They were still rebelling against their own families and upbringing and were not looking to settle into the kind of life against which they were rebelling. They decided their wealthy stuffy families would be seriously offended by having a Bobbie Jo in the family, even as a surrogate daughter. I, and my name, were symbols of rebellion.”

“Were they good to you? Not the stuffy ones. The rebels. Well, the stuffy ones also.”

“I can honestly say we got along despite ourselves, and despite our beginning. They put few demands on me even though I put them through all the trials I could dream up. I think they cared for me, maybe even loved me, in their rebellious way. The stuffy ones, not so much. They kept up appearances but did not go far beyond that. They lived in a brutal society: wealth and privilege. I do give my surrogate parents credit and gratitude; they had no obligation to me but they raised me anyway. They were decent in that way, even if I was their act of rebellion.”

Billie Joe was leaning his chair back on two legs. Oma looked at him, and with a pointed nod of her petite head signalled to him. He immediately brought the chair back to a proper four legs on the floor position even though he was nearly double Oma’s size. Oma nodded.

Bobbie Jo stole a look at him. He looked serious, not scandalized or amused. She relaxed slightly.

“Well, Bobbie Jo,” Oma said. “Nobody here says rebellion is wrong, so let us get that out of the way. Ask this little guy here about rebelling some time. Maybe you can get more out of him than I ever could.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking at Billie Joe. “Never was any question that you let a bit of air out of your balloon at times. We let it go. If you needed to tell us, you would tell us, we decided. So long as no authorities came knocking, we figured it was more or less okay. Better to let the air out slowly while you were young. And see? We were right. You came out okay despite some of your efforts.”

She gestured towards Bobbie Jo and spoke to Billie Joe. “Do not have any peculiar worries about this one. So far, she passes. She does wonder if she, inside, is as empty as the land around us. Tell her it is not so. Her soul is full. There is something special within her.”

Bobbie Jo and Billie Joe looked at each other. He smiled first; she hesitated, nodded, and smiled back.

“Still thinking about undusting this place? Think the world is ready for Billie Joe to unleash his vision?”

“Yes, Oma. I am not only thinking of it, I am about to begin doing it. Bank man says okay. The world better get ready, because we are coming.”

“Good,” Oma said. “Edgewise needs it. Now, we expect to see you on the porch later. We will have a proper visit and chit-chat about how this little corner of the world is going to become semi-fabulous. Cannot wait to hear how you two plan to make all the dust more tolerable.”

She shuffled to the door and stopped. She nodded to Billie Joe and smiled at Bobbie Jo. She looked around, alternately frowning and nodding, as if recording the before picture so she could look back and see it the way it was before it changed the world.

***Ensnared***

“Wow,” Bobbie Jo said. “You sure come from interesting stock. And to think I was thinking my life was sort of interesting. Sure glad I made that last minute decision to wait for a short stack of blues. Your Oma is quite a lady.”

Billie Joe nodded.

“If you peek into the corners of this room you will likely find a gossamer spider or two,” he said. “Spiders fine and dainty. Spiders so fine as to be as transparent as their webs. It is only when the sun streams through at the right angle and captures them in a translucent glow that you spy them. So delicate even arachnophobes do not flinch at their presence. Not immediately, at any rate. They spin webs so fine you would not think they were any threat at all. Surely if you must be ensnared in a spider’s web those would be the ones to choose. And yet even the delicate gossamer spiders survive. They make their mark in their own fine and daintily deceptive way.”

“And you are going to say your Oma is one of the gossamer spiders, aren’t you?”

“Her web is fine and delicate, but it is strong. It spreads over a large area, with many strands. She may seem fine and dainty, non-threatening even, but she endures out here. She thrives. You saw. We did not broadcast your arrival in Edgewise. We have not yet met any townfolk, have not talked to anyone, but a strand of Oma’s web vibrated. She has not been down to this old place in years, but today, soon after you arrived, she showed up. She knew something was new, interesting, and she had to ensnare it before it escaped.”

“Now you are creeping me out. Like this is an early scene in a horror film. How long before I find myself chained in a barn, sadistically maltreated?”

“I could ask what day it is, but that would probably be very unfunny. The true and correct answer is never. Never ever. I am sorry if I creeped you out. No, Oma is as fine and dainty as she appears, and she raised me. My point is that one only once makes the mistake of confusing dainty with weak. Oma has strength, like a web has strength. Individually each strand is breakable, but spin them together and you have surprising strength. That is Oma.”

“Why did she say those things about me? How does she know me, or seem to?”

“I do not really know. She has done that my whole life. She has known things, known people, in surprising ways. That is where my web analogy comes from. It is as if Oma’s web covers the world. It encompasses everyone she comes in contact with, and from them to everyone they come in contact with, until she has six degrees of separation for everyone. And all are happily joined in her gossamer web, or at least blissfully unaware of their ensnarment.”

“And do you share this trait? Do you connect so easily to everyone?”

“So many questions. We are going to need time to follow all these strands, to untangle this web and resolve even a portion of them.”

“Time. So easy to say we need time. Time is inconsequential. Well, unless and until I decide I should be elsewhere, or not here, I am here.”

“And that is definitely one of the strands I want to follow.”

“And here is where I renege on my previous statement. Time will tell. Not time exactly, but the trust that comes with knowledge. The knowledge that comes with history, shared history.”

“So you are saying you do not yet trust me? Fair enough. No strong reason you should at this time. I might almost hope you do not. Not yet. That would say something about your character. I do hope you have no reason to mistrust me, but, as you say, time will tell. I hope time will say any trust you place in me is proper and worthwhile. And until trust comes along I will respect your scepticism.”

Bobbie Jo stroked her cheek with a fingertip while she sorted through his words. When she was satisfied she understood them she said, “Putting aside Oma’s web for the moment, I will take my chances. Let us see if Oma’s perception is accurate.”

“Good.”

“First, let us explore my question. You have described Oma’s web. I asked about you. Do you have a similar web? Are you even now spinning a gossamer web, ensnaring me one fine strand at a time until I can no longer break free?”

He laughed. “Look at me. Can you picture me as a dainty gossamer spider, like Oma? No, I am neither fine nor dainty. If I was a spider spinning a web I would be one of those big hairy ones that makes people shriek when they see it. I would spin a big ugly dangling web, just like in your horror movie.”

She smiled. “I guess I would have a hard picturing you spinning a dainty web. And big ugly dangling webs ensnare things effectively.”

“Yes they do. Difference is the victim figures it out pretty quickly.”

A smile slowly spread across her face. She looked around the room.

“How about a fireplace or a stove?” she said. “A living room-type area in the corner, with some fat chairs and a sofa for people to sink in to? Some books, too. Old, well-thumbed. The kind that say ‘pick me up, sink into me.’ “

He smiled. “Puzzles on a shelf. Games. A shelf of old vinyl.”

“Short stacks of blues.”

“Definitely stacks of blues.”

“Exactly. We are going to bring life to these dusty corners.”

“We?”

“We.”