Fleeting Thoughts

Tessa moved steadily along the dimly lit street. She’d walked this neighborhood before, but somehow, tonight was different … she was different. She stopped and studied her hands, her arms, her legs, and measured the sensations she felt as she rotated her arms full circle.

I feel. I’m aware. But why now and not ever before? Thoughts crowded her mind, one after another, assaulting her with questions that had no answers. Puzzled at these new feelings, she walked on, now keenly aware of motion, first moving very fast, then more slowly, enjoying the contrast. A comforting sense of ritual repetition distracted her wondering.

Ahead, she saw a break in the darkened storefronts. In a flash she decided, When I get to that corner, I’ll turn right this time. Always before, I turned left, but today I need to do something different. When Tessa came to the corner, against her will she turned left.

“No, no, no! The other way!” she cried aloud. “Why can’t I turn right?” But her voice had no resonance, as if the sound died a few inches from her lips. She passed more storefronts, all indistinct and shadowed. At the next corner she paused as a taxi went by. Just a yellow taxi, nothing worth remembering. Just like the neighborhood.

Tessa approached the next corner. I always turn left here, too … this time I’ll turn right. I will!

But she turned left and continued walking, still wondering why she had no will of her own. On this street, store windows were lighted like television screens; the objects inside looked as if they were painted on the glass. The next block had only one lighted storefront. A striped pole rotated by the door and the words ‘Barber Shop’ were painted in green on the glass.

She stopped at the window and looked inside. Couples waltzed across a gleaming wood floor. Muffled music coming from within startled her with the realization that her journey to this place had been silent. No heel-taps from her shoes on the concrete. The taxi, silent, as it passed by. And something else was strange … no rectangle of light from beyond the glass splashed onto the sidewalk where she stood.

Tessa glanced down and nervously smoothed the heavy satin of her lovely blue gown. I’ve just been preoccupied. That must be it.

Then a thought captured her. Blue?

She quickly looked from her dress to the green lettering on the window. Everything else along the streets had been shades of gray … except the taxi. That had been yellow. Three spots of color in charcoal world. She wondered about that for a few moments until the music coming from inside, again caught her interest and enticed her to enter.

Tessa put her hand on the door, but hesitated, letting the music washed over her. Then, standing tall, she squared her shoulders and went inside. A man dressed in a black tuxedo rose from his seat, as if he’d been waiting for her and without a word, they began to dance. She studied him, trying hard not to be obvious. Tall, dark and handsome, of course. But then, he always looked that way. In a moment or two, the older, distinguished gentleman would cut in. She knew this without question, also.

And that was exactly what happened. The older man didn’t speak, even though Tessa asked, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

He merely smiled and led her through the waltz without hesitation or error. A perfect dance partner. As they glided about the floor, she glanced at the window. The words ‘barber shop,’ so distinct when she stood outside, were no longer visible. The glass was opaque.

Puzzled, Tessa chose to sit out the next dance. She noticed that while the music was perfectly clear, the people around her made no sound. There was no low murmur of conversation from the tables, no sound of dancers’ feet moving across the floor. But, then another man approached, interrupting her thoughts and, obediently, she rose and danced.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” she again asked.

He didn’t reply, either, but held her correctly, turning her in proper time to the music, and showed not the least flicker of emotion.

Tessa gathered her thoughts in one supreme effort of will. I must break this pattern! The effort caused her to miss a step. Her partner appeared not to notice.

Overcome with confusion, she thought, But why must I break the pattern? Why is a pattern important, and what is the point of breaking it?

Unbidden words formed in her mind: So I can see. This is a new reality for me. I must learn to function in it.

Tessa shook free of the mental chatter and tried to focus on her partner. “Do you like this place?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

With precision, he twirled her across the floor, smiling all the while. But then, he always smiled and never missed a step.

For a second, something stirred within her. If she had to give it a name, she might call it anger. He cannot change, but I must. I must make a difference. But different how? What will happen if I do change the pattern?

Tessa gently disengaged her hand from his.

“There, that’s a start.” For the first time she heard joy in her voice. She almost… felt it.

She allowed him to lead her through another turn, then she took her other hand away. Still they danced, apart from each other. Her partner showed no reaction, whatsoever, to her withdrawal.

“I’ve had all of this I can stand,” Tessa said, her voice indignant.

Tessa stopped dancing. It was almost beyond her strength to do so, but she stopped. For a tiny slice of time, her partner danced on without her. She watched his back move away from her as he swung through the next turn.

And then things started to change. The music became garbled. It stopped in mid-note.

She stared at her partner’s back. Change accelerated upon change, until he appeared only as a collection of squares within a ragged outline. He seemed to be made of tiny blocks that quickly grew more and more disorganized.

Completely bewildered, she saw her surroundings fragment. The people, the room, the walls, everything became squares that began to disconnect from each other. The change progressed faster and faster. She only had time to say, “Oh, no!” before her own body formed into blocks, too. She watched it all go, until even her mind–her newly-made mind–disintegrated.

And then … nothing.

- - -

“It was so close,” Dr. Whitaker sighed. “So very close. We actually saw her begin to react.”

“It was fantastic!” his assistant replied excitedly, as she shut down the device and set it back on the shelf. “She was self-aware for twenty-seven milliseconds! Artificial intelligence is possible. We just need a larger memory matrix, that’s all.”

The assistant turned off the lights and pulled the door shut behind them as they left the laboratory. All was dark. All was silent. And then … the device whirred to life and an image appeared.

- - -

Tessa moved steadily along the dimly lit street. She’d walked this neighborhood before….

Twelve Months of Winter

I push the button that ejects the tape from the car cassette player and stare into the skeleton-like cottonwoods at the ‘Y’ in the road just past our house. Even though it’s warm outside and should be stifling hot sitting here inside, I’m chilled to the bone and shaking violently. The same kind of cold one feels immediately after giving birth. With all my heart, I wish a nurse could come along and wrap me in one of those blankets fresh from the warmer oven and make all this go away, but deep inside I know even a warm blanket will not dispel this kind of cold.

In the house I struggle to make my mind function. Where did I put that ratty imitation fur coat that was my consolation prize when I’d discovered the last affair? The one before the cassette tape in the car. I dig through several closets and finally find it in the storage room downstairs, put it on and go back to sit in the car, with the windows rolled up.

My mind wanders. Anything not to think of the cold. Or that tape. The kids won’t be home from school for at least three hours.

Would that be enough time to suffocate in a hot car?

I toy with the notion, then go back to dissecting small question fragments all starting with ‘Why’? I feel myself slipping into that dark place that has taken so many years to climb out of, again feeling the panic of being too close to the edge, fingernails losing their grip.

Like one of those garish neon marquees, a phrase runs through my mind: “He who fails to learn from his mistakes is destined to live them again,” and I wonder who said that. Probably a Hindu or Buddha thing. But they should have said, “She who fails ….”

And fails. And fails.

But this is the end of fail and the end of hope. He’d begged me to take him back. This time would be different, he promised, and I had.

That time had been different for me too, because I’d had the wit to say, “This is the last time. There won’t be a next time. You cheat again and I’ll know before you know I know, and you will have your walking papers,” which is why I talked to the private investigator about installing that voice activated recorder on the phone line. Because I knew.

And the guy charged a huge amount and wouldn’t install it himself. Watergate was in the news. He said wiretapping could get his license yanked, but he gave me the machine with instructions on how to install it.

I’d prayed to God I was wrong, but my instincts had become so finely honed over the past twenty-four plus years that it wasn’t hard to spot when he was again “on the make”. He was such a slave to habit that little changes in his behavior were instant warnings. And he said dumb things that were a dead give-away, almost like he wanted to get caught. Maybe he did. Maybe this time he’d found someone he couldn’t live without and would rather get caught than have to say the words that would end it all.

I stare again at the cottonwoods. They show flecks of green. A week of warm weather like today and the leaves will unfurl and winter will be past, for the trees. But I will miss the spring. And the summer. And the fall. This will be my twelve months of winter, a terrible time to live through. A worse time for my children.

But I could chose to sit in the too-warm car and never be cold again.

I hadn’t recognized any of it until we’d been married fourteen years, but he’d been through four women by then. At that time, I’d never even changed a tire, and our youngest of six children was not yet two weeks old. The admonition had rung in my ears that a Mormon wife is supposed to make it work. Somehow. So I did. We uprooted the kids and moved to give us a chance for a new start.

And three years ago when he strayed again, I still didn’t know how to fix a tire. By that time two children were grown and had eagerly left the nest. But, like most Mormon wives, I had no skills that would earn enough to raise four children. That was back in the days when child support wasn’t well enforced. I knew: I’d checked. But that time he’d promised it wouldn’t happen again.

But it did. The proof there on that tape sticking out of the player. I still can’t change a tire, and the kids will be home in barely more than two hours now.

I look at the clutch of cottonwoods again, my gaze pulling back to the ‘Y’ that flanks the trees on either side, and my mind plays with parallels. The cottonwood trees stand huge and tall in the middle of the road. To be safe, the driver must choose the road to the left or the right; to go straight puts one in peril of his life. Much like sitting in this car until the kids come home.

Realizing I am no longer cold pulls me back to present; in fact I’m sweating profusely. I bring the tape with me to the house and hide it in the bottom of the cedar chest. A quick shower clears my head. I pull on a sweatshirt, faded jeans, a pair of old sneakers, and an old denim jacket and get back in the car. Slowly, I angle onto the road, follow the right arm of that ‘Y’ into town, and stop at Garr’s auto repair that does the work on our automobiles.

“Nice to see you,” he says. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, I need to learn how to change a tire. I’ll pay you for your time. And while you’re at it, maybe you could teach me how to change the oil and check the battery too.”

Mr. Garr studies me for what feels like a full minute, then goes to get his tools.