Chapter 2
I wrote this story when I was seventy-five and I felt liberated enough to reveal some of my past. I called it “Bridging the Years.” It was a class assignment, a conversation between two people, and a setting description. The first section is imaginary, the Maggie part, but the rest is all too real, and I get tears every time I think about it, even though there are supposedly no tears in heaven. It touches my heart, and perhaps the reader’s too.
“I called you,” she said, “because now at the age of seventy-five, I feel secure enough to tell a story which is going to step on some toes, and perhaps crush them. However, the story must be told before memory fails me, and it is lost.”
This confession served to whet my appetite for a juicy story, one filled with sex and violence, and all the ingredients of good prose. I grabbed my laptop and hurried over.
The woman didn’t look the part of one who had lived that kind of life. Her snappy gray-blue eyes sparkled as she began to relate the secrets of her life.
“You may think it odd that I’ve waited so long,” she said, “but I have reasons for doing so. You see, most of the people with whom my life was involved are dead, and those who have survived really have nothing to hide. The truth is, my life has been an example of God’s diligent, continuous efforts of protection, guidance and love.”
Right there and then I knew my story of juicy scandal was shot, although, as it unraveled, that assumption was wrong. She had a few spicy spots too, as well as an interesting plot.
“Where shall we begin?” she asked, as she walked the circle around the sunken living room of her elegant spacious home. The room, if you can call it that, was most unique. So was my client. The twenty or so feet of circle in which we sat was three steps down from the hallways which led to other parts of the house. There was a heavily stuffed snow- white brocade sofa piled high with colorful pillows built into half of the circle. A huge curved glass coffee table outlined it and served as a depository for many items: magazines, books, coasters, jars of nuts, candy, and a bucket of popcorn. The edibles indicated to me that the woman like snacks, although her large frame did not carry extra weight.
Behind the sofa, and rimming the half-circle, was a raised marble wall about two feet above the top of the sofa on which were displayed twenty pieces of her prized angel collection, all Lladros. One curved all opposite the sunken area had a thirty-foot glassed case, also. It extended from the floor to the ceiling, and was well-lit. In it were over a thousand angel figurines of every shape, size, and description.
The rest of the inner circle housed two black leather chairs, both of which had cushioned hassocks, the pillows of which were beautiful needlepoint, done in rich black, white, gold, green, and yellow flowers. The chairs were separated by a built=in cabinet, topped by a white marble chess set. The chessmen were onyx.
The carpet was black, so deep that light played games of making it silver, gray and purple. The wall beyond the hallway opposite to where I sat, in one of the black chairs, was covered with black velvet, the background for at least a hundred hanging angels. The environment was fascinating. Maggie was too. She asked me to call her Maggie.
She was energetic. Pacing the area, in strides belying her seventy-five years, she reminded me of a silver fox, liquid, agile, defensive. I control. Her short-trimmed gray hair had a nondescript casualness about it, although it accentuated her well-shaped head, and her bright snappy eyes and pleasant, wrinkled face. Her makeup was done with careful light tones, but her long well-manicured nails told me that she had charisma and charm. Her softly draped lounging slacks and black Patchington blouse were topped by a loosely fitted blush-pink pullover vest. She scuffed through the carpet with bare feet, enjoying the comfort much like a child wading in the surf. She wore several rings and huge gold-looped earrings. She paused and looked at me.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked, in a charming, sweet voice.
“Yes, I do,” I answered, a little embarrassed that she caught me staring.
“You must understand that I’ve waited all of my seventy-five years to do what I am doing now. It has been so that all of my life I have lived to please others and have had to wait to enjoy what I want to do. Now, by the Grace of God, the time has come for my turn. You have been noticing my collection of angels. Well, fifty years have gone into this hobby, and what you see here is the beginning of the first Angel Museum in the world. There are more than two0thousand items relating to angels, and the entire collection will be left to a precious daughter, who will cherish them as I do.”
“How did you begin the collection?” I asked, as my client finally collapsed into the sofa. I had not even begun to write.
“My grandmother really started it. I was about eight years old when she began telling me about the angels in the Bible: how they were kept busy doing what God commanded them to do. My fascination about them kept me reading about them, and then collecting them. Whenever I saw an angel, I bought it. As my family and friends noted my interest, they added to it. Soon there were so many the cataloguing them became necessary. Now the collection, as you can see, has crowded that wall, and throughout the house. This house was built for them, and they have emerged from storage forever, and are here for all to enjoy. That is, for all who enjoy angels. My husband does not!” she laughed. “Not everyone enjoys them. They think I’m some kind of a nut. . .” she said.
“I don’t,” my answer was sincere. The angels wee beautiful, and she was too, I thought. She’s the most beautiful among the angels; she has the radiance of Christ, and the voice of an angel. I’m going to enjoy writing this story!”
Part 2
“My parents were divorced when I was four years old. They should never have been married, but my mother was pregnant with my brother, who was eleven months older than I, and my grandfather made my father marry here. Today, they wouldn’t bother, but remember, this was back in 1914, when the wronged female had rights.
“Some say children cannot remember what took place when they were very young, but I remember my dad coming, flashing a gun, and threatening to kill my mother with it. You see, he had found out about her lover.
“My mother was the grocer’s mistress. When my dad was away from home, buck came around. My mother’s signal for him not to come was turning the light on and off, and that night, my dad came home unexpectantly. Even I knew the signal, and I was only four years old.”
“Is this something you want me to put in the book?” I asked.
“Yes, Why not? This is something that still goes on wrecking families. Yes, do. It might straighten out other family situation by telling. Who knows?”
“Obviously, there was no murder,” I said. “Or was there?”
“No. After their fight, and they had made love, everything was peaceful until the next time. My brother and I got used to being shoved into the other room where we either played until we were put to bed, or we fell asleep on the floor.”
Didn’t your father live with you?”
“He lived with us whenever he was in the area. You see, he was an electrician, and it was in the early years, when lines were being stretched between cities, and my dad was one of the men who doing this. He came home when he could, but, remember, there were no highways then, just dirt roads going through fields, especially in wide open Texas where we lived, and there was little transportation.
“We lived in a suburb of Dallas called Broadmoore. Imagine no having a way to get around and having two little kids to tag along. Even walking was a chore, especially having to carry packages of groceries. This is how the affair got started. My mother would ring up the grocery, and Buck delivered the food, and my mother didn’t have money to pay for the food. The arrangement worked until my dad walked out. Buddie and I were dropped off at Grandmothers, and my mother ran off with Buck.”
“Where did your grandmother live?”
“401 Center Street, Oak Cliff, Dallas, Texas. I went back to see the old homestead twenty-five years ago, and the house had been torn down and there was a dry-cleaning business there. I was so unhappy, I cried. I guess that is progress, but what beautiful memories I have of living with Grandmother.”
“Her name was Irene Reeves Ross. My middle name is Irene. What a saint she was. She raised four boys and two girls, the oldest of whom was my mother. She not only raised that family, but there was never a time that Grandmother did not have other children and adults around. Buddie and I lived with her most of the time until I was twelve and he was thirteen. She also had some of my cousins, uncles, and my aunt, who in later life was extremely ill, and Grandmother took care of her until she died.
“As a matter of fact, she also took care of my mother until she died., but I’m getting ahead of my story. Let me tell you, that I was the most fortunate of children. Looking back, I am sure that God arranged the whole thing, because Grandmother gave me the insight to Jesus, the Christ. I wanted to accept Him when I was eight years old, and she thought I was too young. I wasn’t. The Lord knew this, and He has lived in my heart all of these years.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I get emotional when I talk about my Grandmother. She is the second person I’m going to look for when I get into heaven.”
“I did not press to know who the first one was. I knew.”
About the Author
