SCRAMBLED EGGS

[What follows is a continuing story - EXERCISE: START HERE - (merely an operative title) which commenced February 19, 2021. After getting caught up I'd invite you to subscribe to receive all forthcoming "fresh entries" still tended and emerging. Thanks]

He fumbled through the cupboards and found a pan and some butter in the fridge. There were a few eggs left in the styrofoam container, a bag of cheddar cheese and just enough milk that he sniffed before stirring into the skillet. He stood at the stove whisking the lightly browned butter which got bubbly as Fred came in to sniff his bottom, happily panting and dancing for a trip outside. Fred was telling him he had to pee but he only spoke with Zoe after all and so promised a Frisbee toss soon while the butter turned into more of a sauce he was used to calling it.

Well Fred, I hear the French like their eggs this way anyway. He lost track of the butter almost routinely and he hoped Laura wouldn't mind a little extra flavor. She got in so late it was early, he thought. Around 4:30 AM.

Why didn't she just sleep there, he wondered.

Before heading to sleep she had put ice in the freezer and orange juice was right up front when he went in to check for eggs. He made toast with a fresh loaf she left on the counter. It felt good repaying the favor of a good dinner and he thought it would help to give them a chance to catch up on all that had been happening for her the night before with her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend, he said to himself. Why wouldn't she be there for her boyfriend? Although I do kinda wish I hadn't shared that one piece from my spiral. She hadn't even understood exactly how impacted I was when the Poppy drew me in that one strange and powerful night. He thought more chess would also lead to a little more explanation of why she had sent the enigmatic image in the first place. It was large, so beautiful; it's enchanting power so hard to convey.

An epiphany can be a lonely thing sometimes, he thought while scraping the last of the soft egg curds into a large white porcelain serving dish shaped into a chickens head at the end for a handle. He also remembered some words from his old friend Jack about how after all is said and done the ineffable is really the only thing ever worth writing about. Still, he wished he hadn't quite opened the vault, especially now having found out about a serious boyfriend.

I do think she said boyfriend. She did say dating, I know that. Seeing? I've been seeing someone, she said. He was pretty sure of that.

Then turning to the table and chairs behind him he saw her sitting there as though she'd been there quite a few minutes.

I was muttering to myself, he thought, good Lord I've been sitting here talking to myself while she snuck in without my noticing.

She sat facing him on the wooden chair with her knee locked up under her chin, her bottom foot tucked in, a finger feeling around the unpainted nail of a pinky toe wearing an oversized pair of boxers and a torn gray t-shirt from the Catholic University of America. He noticed freckles, the dimple at the side of her usual half smile.

Something was smelling really good down here and I had to come check it out.

Probably the toast, he said. The coffee? He picked up a mug and waved it toward her offering and she raised her eyebrows yes.

Do you know how long it's been since I've woken up to the smell of breakfast?

CHESS WITH FRED

(Continued)

Dinner was actually quite nice as it turned out and now the fire crackled in the stove at the corner of the living room while the two of them played a game of chess. Laura had a golden retriever named Fred who was on his way toward 15 and showed his age with white whiskers around his mouth and eyes. The next day they would throw the tennis ball in the backyard but now Fred snored with his head squarely placed upon the man's feet, through the wool socks he felt the warm prattle of the gentle creature and he marveled at such perfect trust.

What a friend you have here? He said.

Castling the handcrafted maple rook and king, Laura said, don't know where I'd be without him.  He thought briefly of Zoe and how she might be experiencing her feline retreat but didn't want to become distracted. He was a fierce competitor, he almost couldn't help but want to win no matter what the engagement. Sure for now she was all smiles, enlisting her pet for the extra distraction. If history would serve she would soon be charging in with the knight or the tiny carved queen whose head dress resembled a crown roast in a perfect circle of eight.

Not this time, he thought. They had played only a few times when he would stop by after the painting class for scotch and to talk about people in the class. He and Laura experienced that immaturity of newfound friends who didn't mind pointing out the oddballs in what would otherwise be a perfect group of mutually supportive folks. The arrogant know it all who tried repeatedly to correct their generous instructor, the neon sign of a woman ensconced in polyester who spent as much time filing her nails as painting for whatever reason.

They made fun and had fun and so this visit, although a cause for some watchfulness, felt as natural to him as ever. But as for chess this was his time to turn the tables.

And that is precisely what he did as the phone rang and Fred jumped up and barked and the chessboard flew up in the air scattering pieces all over the floor. The cabin had an old-fashioned rotary phone on the wall with an intensely brash ringer.

Scampering to the phone she apologized profusely, realizing that not everyone was accustomed. She picked up the receiver and made her way around the corner pulling the lengthy coiled cord into the other room with her.

Fred gave a good shake and settled down with some nice happy panting as only dogs know how to do while Laura talked on the phone and he picked up the pieces of the chess set from the oval woven rug on the floor. It was woven of various shades of brown and beige, bespectacled by threads of red and orange, nearly identical to the one in his grandmother's home where he'd spent much time as a boy.

The cabin was a comfy space where he could see himself, perhaps, visiting more often.

Why am I living in the city? He asked himself. Not giving himself much more time to pursue it as he knew overall one of his greatest challenges was thinking too much and too often about his surroundings, perfecting the setting of his life to the nth degree as though it were somehow an avenue toward contentedness. Surely he knew otherwise.

As time wore on and she was not returning, he took the liberty to add a few small pieces of pine to the stove and then sat down to thumb through a book of poetry called Turn by a local poet he'd never heard of.

Ten minutes later, after finishing the Chardonnay, He became concerned and walked over to listen in on the conversation without listening in.

Several more minutes passed and he sat staring at Fred who had flopped down on the floor across from him in front of the leather couch. He gazed now with some degree of concern through the window out into the purple dusk where a sprinkling of stars had become visible between the blue and white checkered curtains.

Finally, he heard the phone hung up and Laura made her way into the room.

It was another world now, another moment. Hey man, she said.

Are you all right? Is there something I can do?

It's just…ah, shit…

Her face was flushed and he felt the energy of overwhelm, frustration, concern.

Um. I just want to go back like half an hour…

Whatever you need, what's up?

I've been seeing someone… On and off. It's his mom, she's not doing well. She has a rare blood disease and I guess things got bad over the last day or so. Good Lord, what time is it even… I had no intention of being… I'm so sorry…

ART BARN

 (Continuing)

He wasn't going to panic. He was going to lean slowly to the right.

No longer were there thoughts of presence, efforts made to spiritually connect with all that lit with bright energy the rocky forests surrounding the lake. Now presence meant staying aware of the counterbalancing elements at his disposal to draw him toward the right and into balance before spilling himself into the cold waters out at the center where the depths demanded an immediacy, an alertness by no means still.

He breathed and leaned and reached over the side with the paddle, then with a quick shift of his bottom in the seat and one lunging slice through the water with the bright yellow blade he set himself to rights and continued onward in pursuit of the stand of pines, the Golden Eagle.

His heart was charged and thumped at twice the pace now and he hollered out just once with a native power, primitive and sharp, announcing his victory over the ominous deep and dangerous. Yes, this was the adventure he wanted, maybe just this much and not a whole lot more.

The day on his own flew past like a dream and although it offered all that he had wanted, he found himself sorrowful and somewhat stingy to offer details the next evening as he sat at the table drinking wine and eating pot pies with his art friend Laura. The table was set beautifully, with candles lit and Chardonnay chilling in a bucket of ice to shnazz up the frozen dinners and instant biscuits she'd prepared.

As usual she was full of questions.

Before moving into the city and not too long after completing his cabin build a few years back, he'd had the thought to sign up for a painting class in town. It was a rich experience with participants ranging from their teens well into their seventies. The group was hosted by a retired professor with wild gray hair who had managed to receive some acclaim among Midwestern art circles as a painter and lecturer. 

The professor specialized in American Impressionism and had done doctoral work on renowned painters like George Innes, Thomas Moran and Daniel Garber. Large canvases depicting hunting dogs and farmhouses and turn-of-the-century storefronts were hung about the meeting space, giving it a warmth and natural wonder, blending both light and color, a glowing world without and within.

The group met twice weekly in an oversized barn at the back of the professors thirty acre farm and Laura, having arrived late with much kerfuffle, took up the station beside his and seemingly out of blind habit made that her spot for the duration of the class. Never having done much painting, it was his plan to sit along the outskirts of the group, give himself plenty of space where no one could peer over at his monstrous efforts to bring form and beauty to the canvas. Now here she was and meant to stay with little he could do but smile.

Upon that occasion, as with many others, he took some degree of interest at this tendency of his; a desire to be present and cordial enough in a group setting, but overall to be able to keep a certain comfortable distance and do his own thing. He wanted to venture into new territory and get away from the emotional pressures of ministry and counseling. Being in the people business was indeed something he treasured and he also knew the tremendous value of self-care and finding ways to destress and reconnect with wordless, renewing life.

But as he would soon learn that day, Laura was not having it.