fiction

Be Careful

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“Be careful what you wish for, Missy.”  I can hear my mother’s words reverberate in my head.  Be careful what you wish for, be careful what you wish, be careful.  Be careful.  I was raised to be fearful.  Somehow, the times, the burgeoning women’s movement, the rise of feminism, the advent of women as something other than playthings for men, allowed me to transcend my upbringing.

I stood there in front of the travel agency door looking at the poster.  Travel!  It said.  And oh I wanted to go in and book a trip- to somewhere, anywhere I haven’t been before.  To escape nostalgia.  I wanted new and unfamiliar.

But in times of decision, I heard my mother’s voice.  Over and over.  Boys don’t like girls who…your future husband will want…, when you are grown and married…, when. . . It was like I never had a chance.  And then I was forty with a husband and I didn’t give a fuck what he wanted.  That was my sign to get out.  I wished for a life other than what I had, and my mother’s voice came back to me, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Photo by Keszthelyi Timi on Unsplash

I have been sincere with my wishes.  They represent my core values.  I didn’t need to be careful; they were front and center and required no deliberation.

I left my marriage.  Not gleefully I recognized the tragedy and the failure it represented, but as the bible said, be ye not unequally yoked.  We were unequal in every way.  It was a disaster.

And here I was possessed of half of my retirement account and newly paid-off credit cards.  I went in.  A bell tinkled with the movement of the door.  The woman at the front desk seemed surprised and I said as much. 

She said, “We don’t get much foot traffic.”

I said, “I need a trip to somewhere I’ve never been.  A place most people don’t go.  A place where I can lose myself in the novelty of moving through unfamiliar streets.” 

She snapped her fingers and said, “I have just the place for you.  And we have a promotion going on.  It’s quite the deal.  Free airfare if you book The Budapest Hotel.”

I paused for a second and said, “I’ll take it.  Do I need a visa?  Travel papers other than a passport?” I didn’t even know what country Budapest was in.  I knew nothing.  It was perfect.

“Yes, but it’s pro forma. We can take care of it here.  Just fill out some online forms and voila!”

An hour later I had everything I needed to leave for Hungary the following Tuesday.

I didn’t second guess myself, oddly enough.  I strode into my boss’s office and told him I needed five weeks off beginning Tuesday and he said no.  So I said, “I quit.”  And he said, “Now woah, wait a minute…” but he wouldn’t relent and neither would I.

I was sitting on the plane, in first class no less due to an upgrade for the number of weeks I had reserved a room at The Budapest Hotel.  It took nearly all my retirement account to reserve the suite.  But I didn’t care.  Maybe I’d care in 20 years, but not now.

The flight attendant brought me a glass of crisply cold champagne, a finger bowl, and a warm towel.  The juxtaposition of the temperatures and the textures was sublime.  I handed her the used towel and she took the bowl.  I was left with nothing but the bubbly and my thoughts and I penned this. 

I think this trip will be transformative.  I’m going to keep this journal and document my deepest feelings.  The ones I’ve always shied away from because of Mother’s voice in my head.

Maisie Anne The Fae

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Maisie Anne O’Keefe looked to be Black Irish – that sumptuous result of Spanish DNA and Irish DNA colliding, but in reality she was Scots. 

Upon her birth, both parents looked at the other and said, “This wee one does not have red hair.”  Both were present at the home birth, or they might have wondered if babies had been confused in the nursery. Maisie Anne was the 7th daughter of a 7th son and and the 7th daughter of a 7th daughter.  Gossip had been rife throughout Adelaide’s pregnancy.  This child is fae, the village folk whispered.

And indeed, Maisie Anne O’Keefe grew into the reputation the village folk had invoked with their words.

Art by Paula Belle Flores

While still small, she exhibited an affinity for and a bond with birds.  Any time she left the cottage, the birds would gather about her.  As they grew bolder, they would perch on her shoulders, her hands, her arms, and even her black tresses.  As time went by, they began gathering at her doorway each morning eager for her exit. 

She kept seeds and whatnot in a pouch tied about her waist and she would feed the birds as she walked to the shoppe in the square where she served tea.

One winter began early and was fierce.  The snows came and stayed and she didn’t have enough seed on hand to adequately feed all the birds that waited outside her door.  She feared for the birds though she wasn’t usually prone to fear.  The birds, the villagers whispered, were her familiars.  Maisie Anne thought of them as her children as the years had gone by and would-be suitors were too intimidated to woo her.  Her parents had died, and her siblings had scattered.  She alone lived in the cottage and had meager means.

That evening she set to with the saw her father had used as well as his hammers and nails.  She needed a warmer hat and the birds needed shelter from the cold.  When she was almost done, she went outside, perched the ladder to the side of the cottage, climbed up, and grabbed some straw.  The cottage had been fresh thatched that autumn and the straw was almost pristine.

When she was done, she had a hat of branches, straw, and wood for the birds to use for warmth.  They flocked to her in numbers the villagers had never seen.  When they asked Maisie Anne what she had done, she replied that she couldn’t keep them from starving, but she could keep them warm.

The following morning, Maisie Anne left the cottage sporting her hat and discovered that during the night the villagers had left bags and bags of seed for the birds and provisions for Maisie Anne.

She and her hat became a spectacle each and every winter from that time forward.  Tourists came from miles around to see the fae0 one feed and shelter the birds.  The tea shoppe did very well with the added custom and Maisie Anne’s wages were increased, but still the villagers provided for her and the birds. 

The Louvre

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Saundra had an 11-hour layover in Paris. Eleven hours wasn’t enough particularly as she’d never been to Paris, but she was going to wring the last morsel of Parisian delight from every second. She spent as much time planning her layover as she did the trip to Amsterdam that was the reason for the trip.

Her son had once dated a woman who was a flight attendant. She swore Amsterdam put Paris to shame and was her favorite city of all the places she flew. Saundra wasn’t so sure. Amsterdam was business and she had to be on best behavior and would be in meetings all day and with colleagues in the evening. There would never be a moment to let down her guard.

In Paris, she would be free or as free as a finely tuned itinerary would allow.

She was allowing herself two hours to get out of the airport to the city and three hours to get back to the airport and through security. That left her with 6 hours. She would have lunch at a sidewalk café three streets over from the Louvre and then spend the rest of her time in the museum.

Saundra knew 5 hours at the Louvre was laughably short. Not near enough time. She had already made up her mind not to see the most famous of the exhibits, the Mona Lisa and whatnot, but to find the Renaissance gallery and explore it. It might not be much of a plan, but it was hers.

Things went like clockwork. She was actually off the plane and sitting at the sidewalk café within 70 minutes of deboarding. Woo Hoo. Extra minutes in Paris.

She sat at the table and soaked up the sun. She had chosen this one because Hemmingway used to drink here. Saundra wasn’t that big of a Hemmingway fan, but the literary pedigree intrigued her. She fancied herself a writer.

The waiter, rude as she had been led to expect, did not dampen her enthusiasm, or improve her high school French as she ordered poulet something-or-another and a glass of the house vin.

She was in Paris. Her food arrived and the presentation was beautiful. She decided to hell with looking like a tourist, put aside her self-consciousness, and took a photo of her food, the table, and then a selfie. All she was missing was a fanny pack and a red beret to be the Ugly American Tourist.

Saundra laughed aloud. And then said aloud, “I will remember this day always.” She had time to spare, so she ordered a second glass of wine, but drank it quickly. Perhaps too quickly. She noticed she was light-headed as she walked to the Louvre.

She loved that word. Louvre. Loved how her tongue rolled around in her mouth when she said it.

She was appalled to see a line of tourists at the museum. She’d thought they would have arrived earlier. Saundra begrudged every minute she stood in line waiting for security to paw through her things. Finally, she was in.

With her map in hand, she found the Renaissance gallery and ducked in. It wasn’t empty, but there weren’t hordes of people either. So far so good.

She went to the first painting, a landscape. She carefully read the card affixed to the wall next to it. There was far too much information. She decided to just look at the images. If she wanted to know more then she would read.

In this manner, Saundra wandered through the landscapes before reaching the portraits. She was on the fourth portrait when her jet lag stalled for a second and realization hit. She went back to the first portrait. A blonde countess, yes. But those eyes. Familiar. The courtier’s mouth. The courtesan’s hair. The washer woman’s hands. Those were her eyes. Her mouth. Her hair. Her hands. She continued. All of her body parts were represented. Even her breasts with the mole on the left one. She turned around to see if anyone was staring at her. No. Not yet at least. She kept her head down and walked quickly out of the gallery.

Too much wine. “That’s all,” she whispered to herself.

Headed down a sculpture gallery, again she was met with familiarity. The curve of her back. The tilt of her head. All in white marble.

She’d taken melatonin to sleep on the plane. Perhaps melatonin and vin ordinaire didn’t mix well. This just couldn’t be.

She nearly ran from that gallery. She checked her phone. She had more than 3 hours left to wander. She decided coffee was in order. She’d find the museum cafeteria, they all had one, and sober up. She hated to waste the time, but thus far she was not enjoying being an exhibition at the Louvre.

She found a docent and asked for directions. In haughty English, the woman directed her to the courtyard. By the time she got there, she was a wreck. En route she had passed more and more representations of herself. Each a little more complete in their likeness.

She went through the line and took her coffee to a littered table. Saundra didn’t care. She needed to sit down.

She drank the coffee quickly and decided to leave early. She was not enjoying herself and felt ill. Best to do so at the airport at her departure gate.

She kept her head down and looked at the floor as she quickly exited the museum. A security guard stopped her.

“Is Madame well? What is your hurry?”

Saundra tried to explain but after a few false starts, she simply said, “I need to get back to the airport. My flight leaves soon.”

“This way, Madame. Please. I need to search your things.”

She found herself in a small room with a female attendant. She had been instructed to remove her clothing and the attendant was wearing gloves.

This was not the hoped for Parisian experience.

Saundra would never return to France. She never made it to Amsterdam. It should be noted that she told people that she far preferred Amsterdam to Paris.

I wish this wasn’t fiction.

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Marjorie sat on her sofa in the room with blue walls and stared at them. She loved this room, and she loved her house, but on this particular day, she was at loose ends and restless. She picked up things from the coffee table one by one. The teal candle holder with the tea candle. The pottery bowl her stepdaughter had made. Her meditation beads.

Photo by Keszthelyi Timi on Unsplash

She thought about meditating. Her brain was so noisy today that she knew it would be futile. All the more reason to try, but she set them down too. She spied the small antique globe and picked it up. Spinning it, she daydreamed about taking a trip.

“Why not? She asked the cat. “Why the hell not? I have vacation days and I have a hefty tax return on the way. I like traveling alone. I can do this.” The cat didn’t reply.

She gave the globe a mighty spin, closed her eyes, and touched her finger. . .

To Hungary.

“Hot damn, I’ll go to Budapest. I have always wanted to go. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.” She danced around the living room and imagined the adventure she would have. Maybe she could fly into another city and take the train or river cruise into Budapest. That seemed in keeping with the ancient city.

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