“Class
is not over yet.” Scarlett loomed in front of the chalkboard,
coldly staring at the dozen entitled Catholic girls she taught in her fourth
period AP Language class. The girls
froze in their act of packing up their bright pink pens and purple binders,
drooping.
“But
the St. Cecilia bell’s been ringing for the past twenty minutes!” Came a whine.
“And
it can ring for the ten minutes more that we have class. One more word of protest, Miss Miller, and
you won’t be leaving with your friends to enjoy your half day. Instead, you’ll be spending the next hour
with me in detention.” Scarlett leveled the threat, arms crossed and eyebrows
raised.
There
was silence in response.
“Good
choice.” She whipped around, writing furiously on the blackboard in sloppy,
sharp letters. “Now, what makes Oedipus
a tragic hero…”
Scarlett
shut the classroom door and sighed. Finally.
That Professor Snape act is getting old.
At least this strange Catholic holiday means I get the rest of the week
off. She threw all of her grading into
her backpack and scurried into the badly-peeling, beige-painted bathroom to
change.
Thank God. She burst out of the school’s double doors at
a sprint, darted across Penny Lane, and trespassed between City Hardware and
Pat’s to reach The Victorian in under 6 minutes flat. Her boss called her on-the-run commute “unprofessional.” Scarlett called it “necessary stress relief.”
She
dropped her bag off underneath the grumpy concierge’s desk, itching to move. Better
to beg forgiveness than ask permission.
Although I don’t think I’d get either from Ellen.
Outside, her feet pounded the pavement
rhythmically, in tune with her thoughts and the bell. Wait,
the bell? Her head lifted, as if to check that the spire of St. Cecilia’s
was, indeed, still clanging, when a sudden cacophony of sound drowned out the hypnotizing
tune.
HONK!
SCREECH!
EEK!
CHOOOCHOOO!
“What
the hell?” Scarlett exclaimed, abruptly stopping. Just in time, too, for a garishly-clad woman
she’d never seen before was less than two feet away from a full-on collision
with Scarlett.
Red on maroon on salmon
on…is that burnt sienna? Jesus, I hate red.
The
woman drifted closer, smiling eerily through the thickening fog.
“Where
do you find your peace?” She murmured, ethereal.
“Excuse
me?”
The
red woman just tilted her head and smiled again. “Where do you find it?”
Scarlett
decided to take her literally. “On runs.
Or under the big oak tree – the mossiest one – in Howell Park.”
“Will
you take me there?”
Scarlett
assessed her, critical. “Can you run in
those shoes?”
“I
do not need to run. I float.”
“…Alrighty
then. Let’s go.” And they were off, scarlet
hair and salmon scarf streaming side-by-side. It was only as they slowed in front of the
wrought-iron park gates that Scarlett realized she’d completely forgotten to
investigate those gut-wrenching noises. An accident, maybe? She shook it off. I’ll
find out later.
The
ancient, rusting gates creaked as Scarlett pushed them open, but she ignored
it. With the woman by her side, she
walked the gravel path inside by memory more than sight, the fog now the
consistency of split pea soup.
As
her thinking tree rose in front of her like a pillar to Heaven, Scarlett slowly
spun to the red woman, beginning in a hushed undertone, “This is—”
She
was gone.
Scarlett
completed her slow turn, looking for the woman in what she knew to be a vain
effort. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She absently rubbed her arms, shook her head –
that damn bell is still ringing – and
jogged her way towards the edge of the park.
It is definitely time for me to go
home.
A
flash of bright red and green in her peripheral vision, visible even through the fog, caught her
attention. She
turned her head and met the strangely blank eyes of a grizzled old man, sitting
on a patchwork blanket underneath a gingko tree. He’s
blind, she realized, and squirmed uncomfortably when he continued to unflinchingly
hold her gaze.
“The
truth, with all its power, lives inside you.” It was his only comment, but
Scarlett stood stock still for eons until he broke their eye contact.
Only
when she was halfway home, on Blackbird Boulevard, did she dare ponder what he
meant.
What truth? Many truths? In me? In others?
“God, it’s been a weird day.”
