The Bench Page 8

  Chapter 8

  Jenny lay motionless and counted the numbers. Red and bleating they stared back at her like the eyes in those Lord of the Rings horses. It went off and she slammed it with satisfaction. She had watched it for more than fifteen minutes just for the gratification of swatting it. A slightly evil joy crossed her mind, like crushing a cockroach. Was there such a thing as a sensitive alarm clock? Jenny rolled back and searched the ceiling for an answer. She had spent the last two hours worried whether he would be there or not. As he didn’t show on Saturday he must work in the area but not live there. Maybe they worked in the same building. The security guard and Robert Coley popped into mind again. The vision of the security guard as a poet made her shiver. She sat up.

  She glanced over at the large beaded necklace draped across the lemon dress. Would she have a chance to wear it on a date? After returning from her visit to Gran she had slipped it on, along with the necklace, just to feel the passion it infused her with. After the luscious clinging colors had penetrated her senses she slipped it off and laid it near the tin. Such an unusual way to package a dress she thought. The spiky haired girl had been particular in wrapping the cardigan and yet seemed to bottle the power of the dress in the tin. She would have to go back and pay her for it sometime. Even if she never wore it out, it carried a power for her. It was exciting to just have it and know that it was there. She went to her wardrobe resigned to something less empowering for work.

  She reached in and pulled out the blue dress then remembered the hem. Her Monday dress was still torn, she hadn’t taken the time to fix it. Why didn’t she fix it last night instead of prancing around in the tight yellow outfit? There had been too much going on all week. She left the blue dress out and rummaged further into the wardrobe. There was a black knit skirt she hadn’t worn for years. It was probably a bit too warm but had a nice fifties kind of pleated flare just at the back and was tight on her figure, just in case she saw him. She slipped on a black blouse and realized it was a bit funeral-esque. She normally wore a pale yellow cardigan with the blue dress, she could wear that and the new big yellow beads.

  The skirt was tighter than she had remembered and it hugged her hips and thighs giving her a very tight walk. It was almost a relief when she got off the bicycle and crossed up toward the office building. She bounced her bicycle over the curb and pushed it up toward the entrance, to go around to the cycle park.

  “Wow, that’s a different style.”

  She knew the voice. It was the last person she expected to see, let alone speak to outside the office. It was Robert Coley again.

  “Good morning Robert.” She wanted him and his butterfly comments at arms length.

  “Of course, good morning.” He had an impish kind of grin on his face. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  He never made small talk with her and the past week he seemed to always be on at her for one issue or another. “Yes thank you.”

  “I’m not sure... it’s kind of a cross between Bewitched and Marg Simpson.”

  “Pardon?” What on earth was he on about? He had stopped and was looking at her up and down like a piece of some unimpressive modern art from the Sacchi museum. She turned her bum instinctively away from him.

  “Your style this morning, it’s very fifties, you know like Samantha from Bewitched.”

  “Jesus, thanks. If I’m not a caterpillar, I’m a witch.” She pushed her bicycle quickly on. The dress was tight and it accentuated her hips as she hurried. He ran up beside her and put his arm on the handlebars.

  “Sorry Jenny, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way at all. More like Coco Channel.” She stared back at him. Her Mondays were always filled with this kind of abuse. He had managed to stop her by holding the handlebars. “It is very stylish just you know, bumblebee colors.” She’d had enough of him and marched away leaving him at the entrance. “What’d I say?”

  “Oh and how big is the ass on a bumblebee? Is that your next comment?” He shook his head. “Good-bye Robert.” She went off to park her bicycle. She glanced back just before entering the bike park and found he had given up and gone up to the offices. Where did he get off saying things like that to her? It was virtually sexual harassment. The dress was tight enough as it was without him comparing her butt to a bumblebee!

  She approached the bike stand at the same time as another cyclist, a drab suited man, whom she often saw at the stand. He had a kind face and waved her to park her bike first. Most decent of him she thought, a pleasant change from Robert. While she was bent over clicking the lock on her bike she glanced back and saw him staring at her hips. He was obviously thinking something disgusting. She whipped up and glared at him. Men were such fakers. He smiled benignly as if he was looking at some fascinating distant view beyond, regardless of the fact it was a cement wall! She crossed away quickly. It seemed a long walk to the corner of the building and she knew he would be eyeing her. Did she have a big ass? She turned the corner and felt safe again. His burning leer had been extinguished by the corner. As she crossed back in front of the large glass wall toward the main entrance she checked herself in the window and ran a palm over her bum cheeks. She didn’t have a fat ass, the jerk. Two jerks in fact, she thought. She looked up and just at the entrance she caught the security guard watching her check her bum. He smiled and nodded broadly. What did that mean she thought, was he laughing or leering?

  She was happy to slip down behind her desk and find some work. If any man submitted work that morning that even mentioned hips, bees or butterflies she would be more than happy to rip off a rejection slip in his direction.

  The submissions seemed drab and uninspired. They were for the most part well crafted but nothing seemed to make her want to curl up with the concept. She handled fiction or poetry and needed, today of all days, to be transported away from the baseness, blandness, the humdrum of her world to the home of poets, love and life.

  Lunch could not come soon enough.

  She left ten minutes early and hurried down to the bench, partly to catch him but also partly to protect the poem from possibly falling into the wrong hands. She arrived at the bench slightly out of breath, the knit skirt was not such a good idea and the cardigan made her neck flush. She could feel the heat waves from her chest to just below her chin. She was sure that was why she felt so flushed. In any case she could see the poem on the bench and the familiar address ‘For Joy’.

  She held the single sheet of folded paper softly and ran her finger over the letters. Who was Joy? Was it a woman’s name? Was it meant to be for her joy? For the ‘joy’ of reading or perhaps the ‘joy’ of writing? It seemed the poet was speaking to her yet she had still not seen him. She tapped the corner of the paper lightly against her lips and searched the canal area. There were several people on the bridge further down but none seemed to be watching her. There was no one behind her on the grassy bank. Across from her a collection of mothers had established a virtual car park of baby buggies and cackled wildly. To her left a student walked toward her with several books in his arms. He was young and handsome. He smiled back at her but continued past. Four men all hurrying to a lunch somewhere eyed her and smiled, it reminded her of the cyclist and the security guard. At least this bee was sitting on her bottom she thought. There seemed nothing unusual about the noon time lunch. She glanced across at the trees where joggers wove in and out of the slender tree legs like biped ants. Among the trees she could make out the silhouette of the hunched figure of a jacketed tramp. He shuffled at his own pace intruding on the world of joggers. He appeared to be followed by a dog, she wasn’t sure if it was the Great Dane. They receded from view. She unfolded the paper and the flush left her neckline. A cool breeze rippled refreshingly just below her chin. The mothers grew quiet and the water lapped the noon sun into a slumber as she read his words to her.

  LOVE ON A PARK BENCH 6

  How could I honor so c
omplete a love?

  To wash the night in pale and rapturous blue,

  To race the clouds that peer forlorn above,

  Heaven asks not the glory that is you.

  For like the wind dances the leaves on high

  Or like the dew casts diamonds on the grass,

  So my love swells with the lone dove’s cry

  To quell the thirst that oer’fills my glass.

  Unleashed moments drift by through the day,

  To chide the moments that diminish this time

  And gnaw the strands that hold my love at bay,

  My love denied would be a heartless crime.

  My spirit bursts, in joyous cries replete,

  It is but your essence makes my life complete.

  The breeze lifts the wings of hearts so fair,

  The tide does wash the virgin slopes so pure,

  As snow conceals the mountain’s lonely stare

  So I must float impaled on love’s allure.

  Happily I stand skewered by your thrust

  Not wanting choice forced upon my mind,

  I race bare-chested to the love I trust,

  Casting my passion to the heart I find.

  Tis yours my sweet, fortune is lavished on me

  I taste your love like nectar drizzled from the sun,

  I drink your smile, swallow you lips, heavenly

  My unflinching adoration on you has begun.

  Once caught my love’s stallion charges without halter

  It gallops to you unbridled, never to falter.

  Two! He had written two poems to her. He spoke with such passion, such ardor to her. She wondered when they might meet. She folded the letter and slipped it into her bag. She could glue it in place later. She left the bench and walked, perhaps floated, slowly to the pedestrian cross-bridge. Each time she read a poem she felt transported by the thoughts and words. It wasn’t great literature but it didn’t matter. For once someone was writing to her, for her. Someone took the time to think what he wanted to say rather than blurt out splintered thoughts over ever more fragmented sentences. If people were in love could they not take the time to express in written words, committed words, the power of the movements of their heart. She reached the bridge and crossed. It always seemed she was floating when she read his words to her. Perhaps this is what love really was, the sense of being transported away from the real humdrum world to another place, a place of bliss.

  She felt the eyes of the group, still standing on the bridge, follow her. They were tossing bread at the ducks below and having an office laugh. She had seen most of them in the building before but they were from a different company so she hadn’t greeted them when she passed. What were they thinking of this lonely woman wandering by the canal. She felt she was in an old Beatles’ song or was a heat wave shimmering across a dessert dune.

  She scuffed at the dust on the path. She was now on the other side of the canal looking back at the bench. It seemed so small, so insignificant and yet drew so much energy and power from her. She stopped and looked back at it. It was not remarkable in the least, the same color as the other benches. There were no special trees or bushes to give shade or shelter nearby and yet it was a magical spot. She had escaped there innumerable times from the sly innuendo of the office and Charles with his vulgar Sex in the City mind trap. She went to the bench to find peace and only in the past week had she found a touch of something special, a new voice. The voice was tiny and clear, like a teardrop on glass, a whole world contained in a teardrop. Perhaps that is what love was – life contained in a teardrop.

  A butterfly flitted around her. It was small, white and not particularly clever in its travel plans. She watched as the little wings beat frantically, uncertain which way to venture. It seemed the GPS system had gone definitely askew with this butterfly. It went up and down, left, right as it progressed across the canal. It fluttered around her bench and then landed at almost the exact spot where she had found the letter. It stayed there, its wings gently pulsing. Jenny stood and hurried around to the bridge and then back up, always watching the bench, expecting the scatterbrained butterfly to dither off somewhere, but it seemed to wait.

  The wings of the butterfly stopped pulsing as she drew near the bench. She slowed and extended her hand, hoping to take it on her finger. The threadlike legs tentatively shifted as it climbed on her finger and seemed to stare at her. The wings were silk white with the slightest golden trim, its body was black as coal and slightly furry. Facially they were quite ugly actually, butterflies, with beady eyes and bizarre curly tongue. She would point that out to Robert when she saw him. The moment she thought Robert’s name the butterfly took flight and vanished in the treetops.

  She walked slowly back to the office amazed at how long the butterfly had waited for her to arrive. Then after the briefest of greetings and mention of Robert it took flight. Maybe the butterfly knew that Robert also had a thing about big assed bumblebees. He was still a jerk to say or at least imply a thing like that.

  A hastily made photocopy was taped directly onto her computer monitor and the scrawl on the bottom suggested either familiarity or anger. She sat down to read it.

  It was from Robert and seemed unclear which side of the fence he was on.

  It was a photocopy of a review of the recently promoted poet’s work. It was an absolute pasting of Seattle’s work and of the company for having published such commercial trash. The article went on to describe the work in the same ’less than glowing terms’ Jenny had used. It was almost a verbatim trashing. In red ink on the bottom of the page Robert had scrawled, ‘You critiquing for another company? Butterflies and Caterpillars. Meeting my office 1:15 tomorrow. Please. Robert Coley.’

  Jenny wondered what he meant. He was either very angry or had some other issue to lambaste her with. At least he had said ‘please’.

  She pulled the poem from her purse and pasted it onto the next page in her notebook. She would write a response to her poet tonight.

  Her entire afternoon was taken up with the reading of two fifty-page synopses and a response to each of them. Amazingly, she found herself requesting to read the full manuscript of each. She was rarely in such an appeasable mood, perhaps it was the butterfly or perhaps guilt over the thrashing the all too handsome Seattle had received. In any event the office had grown focused and still as readers recovered from their weekends by immersing themselves in their work.

  It was almost six when she finally picked up her messenger bag and made her way to the elevator. She met Cindy there. They hadn’t spoken much since the eruption in the office when Jenny sided with Charles.

  “You have a good weekend Jenny?”

  “Yeah, I guess, saw my Gran.”

  “You see her every weekend?”

  “Yeah, she is getting on and the rest of my clan are far away.”

  “Is she still writing?”

  “A bit but not as much. Her caustic opinions still keep me in stitches. You wouldn’t think a children’s author could be such a dragon.”

  “It’s good she still writes.” She paused, there was obviously something else on Cindy’s mind. “The comment about my marriage-”

  “Cindy, please I didn’t mean your marriage would be a cage. Clarence is a great catch.”

  “I know, I know and we are in love. But you know, it’s not that easy to get a man who’ll take you seriously. I have dreams too.”

  “Well you’re ahead of me. Seems I may have dreams, but everyone in this office seems to think I need to get laid more. Maybe if I had your looks.” The elevator opened and they stepped in, it was quite crowded.

  “No one thinks that.”

  They rode down in silence and walked to the entrance together. Jenny stopped the tall slender black woman at the entrance. “You know I hate Charles, but sometimes in the mass of crap he spews there is the occasional intelligent thought.”

  “Don’t worry Jenny I won�
��t tell anyone you said that.” Cindy said lightly.

  “No really, I mean it.”

  “I know, but he is such a wind bag.” Cindy suddenly turned to her and leaned down to the shorter Jenny. “It’s not him is it?”

  “Is who?” Jenny was confused.

  “Come on. Bernadette and I can see it. I mean look at this skirt it hugs you like a koala on a eucalyptus. Who’s it for?”

  “There is no one, really.”

  “Jenny I’ve known you five years and you’ve never talked about a guy, come on. Is he old or gay, what? Why are you embarrassed?”

  “No, for Godsake.” Jenny felt her heart pound. She wanted him, half had him, but couldn’t possibly share who he was. It was too private.

  “What then? This last week you have been all over the place and Robert is constantly on your case. Even Charles and Stephen think there is something wrong and those two are as thick as rhinos.”

  “I’ve just been doing some writing and reading some poetry, it’s nothing really-”

  “You’re great you know.” Cindy affectionately rubbed the shorter Jenny’s shoulder. “An academic with seething passion. See you tomorrow. Give your poet a squeeze for me.” She gave Jenny a wink and smiled at her as she casually sauntered out the front door.

  Jenny had battled for almost an hour to repair the blue skirt and it still looked as if a dog had chewed it. She wasn’t really sure why she was making such an attempt to save the relic. It was not like she couldn’t afford another one, nor that it was even a particularly expensive purchase in the first place. Perhaps it was just to have something to do. Having something to do - was that not as banal as the life of mediocrity Charles spoke of? She left the skirt. It was as fixed as it would ever be.

  She crossed to her bookshelf and thumbed the spines Wordsworth, Coleridge, Chaucer, Milton, Pound – nothing seemed to jump out at her. Then it dawned on her - Venus and Adonis by the Bard. She’d not read it for years. Shakespeare’s version of Ovid’s unrequited love between Venus and the handsome Adonis would suit her mood perfectly and with any luck she would be able to imagine her poet.

  She retrieved her massive volume from the doorway grabbed a packet of Doritos and curled into the corner of her sofa. She dug her toes under the opposing pillow and cracked open the text. The fragrance of the pages welcomed her, stirred her.

  To love like that, to dote unquestioning, to desire with such totality - did she have that inside her? She drifted into the text.

  He too had sculpted pectorals, like dinner saucers they stood off his chest. She played with the ridge running up from his rib, it was hard, firm then gliding across to his flat nipple. She was so glad there was no hair on his chest. She hated hairy men. She felt the end of his nipple lodge between her fingers and she turned him to face the painting. She was so glad no one minded him not wearing a shirt. The guard at the gallery was so understanding. She stood behind him and held the ice cream to him. It was vanilla made from real pods and the sprinkle of black specks dotted the snowy scoop as it married the mango sorbet above. His lips wrapped around the cold treat like they swallowed her. No one noticed them as they circled the cone between them their lips glued to it as they shared the exotic flavors sliding down inside cooling the passions that swirled down deeper inside them. He was all raging fire and was held at bay by her single ice cream. She would make him wait and want, and want, as they circled in the gallery. It was hot and sunny, the sky roof was a wonderful architectural choice. He got behind her and wrapped his arms around her, the cone was gone as he squeezed. She could feel the muscles of his body, his thighs, chest and arms as he melted into her lifting her off the ground his arms squeezing her waist. He squeezed hard, too hard. It started to hurt. She pulled at him but the weight of his arms was too much. Her legs were trapped. The weight pressed into her stomach she fought to free herself but the weight bounced back. Bounced back? It was sharp, pointed.

  It was the massive five kilo volume. She’d fallen asleep curled on the sofa. The enormous book jammed into her stomach. She struggled up. The room was dark. Her entire body ached, her left leg, still jammed in the cushions, was tingling and asleep. She felt like the entire army of Henry the fifth had rode across her back, as if Lady Macbeth had stabbed her left side. She looked at her hands and smiled there were no spots and her hands were actually there, so she wasn’t Lavinia.

  ‘Never, ever sleep with the Bard’ she thought.

  She shook her head and peered at the clock it was 3:30 am.

  She trudged off to the bedroom, maybe Bernadette was right, five years was too long. It wasn’t that she needed it more often, perhaps just at all would be a change. Why was it so hard to find a decent guy? Maybe she needed to see a psychic or maybe a psychiatrist? Or just her poet? She stretched out on the bed. Everything ached, she twisted and pulled the pillow close to her chest. She whispered to the pillow his lines;

  ‘How could I honor so complete a love?

  To wash the night in pale and rapturous blue

  To race the clouds that peer forlorn above

  Heaven asks not the glory that is you.’

  She drifted off again.