The Day That Turned My Life Around
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The day that my life turned around, it was not by a stroke of good luck or brilliant intuition on the part of its agents. I was an ordinary man who had somehow managed to avoid being shot to pieces, so I went home and continued as I always did before—no great changes in behavior but, then again, no serious trouble either.
There were rumors among us men at arms: our officers wanted more money from us; those among their own number they suspected or hated made noises about joining up with King Sigismund and taking Poland back where it belonged from Boleslaus II Jagiello of Krakow, King Jan III Sobieski’s uncle.
All of them talked without actually moving, even though some were being encouraged to take action while others could be seen testing various weapons under the scrutiny of a non-commissioned officer.
Some boys stayed inside a barn all afternoon waiting for their mother and two younger siblings to come home, shooting small game until sundown—it didn’t happen very often now since you couldn’t carry off the meat away from its hiding place or into town with impunity—while the old woman stood at the doorway cursing God above us with one of her favorite words we called “old whore” although she might have used something harsher because, whatever it was, every son there knew perfectly well he would get the worst possible scolding when he returned through that gate behind the house.
None of us boys thought much of Mother except as a source of food and shelter. And none of our fathers paid attention to anything unless it happened right outside the front door: then they screamed and hollered like fools at anyone foolish enough to stir things up if it wasn’t something worth losing his teeth over.
It took time just sitting there thinking, chewing slowly, and enjoying a soft drink so full of ice cubes that after drinking half the contents without noticing that they seemed cool to me, I poured most of what was left out to melt against the side of the wagon parked along the road that led straight past the house.
Not bad work but there were few distractions from staring at those eight legs to enjoy while my brain considered options and weighed the odds. You have got your basic situation here.
Then it happens as suddenly as any disaster on the stage will take it there, and I am caught looking directly into the face of death and terror. Or rather, through someone else’s eyes from many feet below ground, unable myself ever again to do otherwise than see everything he saw at that moment, trapped forever in that very tiny space, whatever the outcome of this encounter would prove.
What happened next changed nothing, perhaps save that once there was the potential for something. But such an eventuality occurred only because my vision was not broken long afterward and I learned how to live with it. How does anyone know if it is really real? Nothing seemed clearer anymore than reality.
For that matter, nothing came later for me that mattered; and this was what we worked out. Whatever had been impossible before…well, for certain I now found it possible.
Before that all my plans, however haphazard or extravagant, paled by comparison: almost all my choices made little difference. Our meeting could not come soon enough and still left much to desire, in which sense a prison for many of us prisoners must surely remain permanent.
If he didn’t break anything of mine—though the man who pulled free of the mass and climbed onto one elbow watched warily as I ran the chain around and through its links and cinched it tight—I’d be willing to take the chance of meeting him somewhere between there and Warsaw where I lived.
A horse can travel much farther without a saddle or bridle or another tack that fits them better; he could take the risks.
My horse was smarter than that.
The answer to a lot of questions popped into my mind while I sat there waiting, getting to know these eight spindly, strong, moving appendages as he looked down upon his prey, panting slightly, no less vulnerable with half the weight off of me yet trembling like he could barely contain himself at this close encounter after months or maybe years apart from another of our kind—if we are members of the same genus and species, anyway, assuming that matters…that makes me nervous at this point.
But then I had plenty more things to think about while riding toward my destination that could cause more fear and trembling.
Never let the human body get too comfortable—anybody tries this idea lately, and bring out any medical people if you haven’t already done that on your own—and you may be able to guess. Such an odd position that a hand-held lightly beside you on the saddle always feels natural and appropriate (the feel of his back underneath as he steps over obstacles; the ability to stand tall, steady) remains untenable.
By comparison, a good embrace will turn everything inside of you wrong, in fact, it seems to change all the way around as a result. He smiled at me as we separated, I took several breaths, and I remembered the effort that kept his face impassive for so long; then he put himself at ease, rising gracefully from my side in the middle of the street where our families met that morning in high spirits.
It was noon: even so, I felt a sharp stab in the belly at seeing this stranger walk off with someone he obviously knew. And no doubt why we’d taken care never to look at each other earlier when we might recognize ourselves—why none of us could smile with anything that did not suggest anger; then I found that a strange feeling because none of this mattered…only an invitation for others to set their differences aside.
No smiles meant danger and everyone there knew it! There is an old expression, ‘to show teeth,’ meaning to fight; the problem of being forced to smile at a time that such an appearance should strike dread or fear into hearts is something beyond my comprehension.
For the first few moments, he greeted his brother from across the yard where children raced everywhere, men laughing, mothers squealing; meanwhile, their women gossiped away behind curtains on the balcony while the brothers studied their soldiers among the guests.
Meanwhile, Father passed quickly from door to doorway making his rounds greeting anyone on sight and turning not a head or tail; no word about our meeting until late in the afternoon.
At dinner, there was plenty of wine. Jelena handed her mother and sister some toast topped with some spread and cheese that they were unfamiliar with; meat, apparently pork, stewed for hours in oil, sprinkled over rice along with what seemed to me to be small boiled potatoes, plus sliced mushrooms that at least a child could consume without trouble—but Mother gasped sharply at this selection—what happened to soup or fish?
All this for four and Mother said something to Brother John, who offered us both seats while Mother added two small mugs of dark liquid to Father’s large one of plain water.
Mother led us toward one of the three balconies that surround the second-floor hallway, so far back I was alone when she spoke up, addressing me directly while leaving herself isolated. She indicated Father and we began climbing slowly, along with our heavy cups of steaming drink (rice wine and sweet milk tea, whatever).
I recalled what we discussed that first day so long ago and couldn’t believe my memory—what would Father do now without worry?
He certainly showed no hint of tension at the party tonight, the most elaborate gathering he probably ever hosted (how the well-dressed multitudes jostled as if packed close together)—nor his neighbors nor those gathered along the edges of the court garden just outside, or the lady near him whom Father hadn’t spoken a word to in years: one could hardly call attention to the quiet, quiet girl staring at her plate, looking steadily ahead at nothing in particular while taking quick bites between drinks (one would have thought a lovely white gown cut short at mid-thigh and drawn snug to the waist could only look attractive with arms dangling beside the thigh); the contrast against my black uniform and cap struck my mother’s eyes while giving mine cause for envy.
This girl obviously never wore makeup unless that thick skin tone didn’t need it and of course no jewelry, which could very well prove helpful given the general condition of these gatherings. Another lesson here.
How do they endure all of it? In case she sensed Father’s interest, the maid drew close with a small, colorful pot filled with plump purple ornaments which she placed on my left elbow without looking my way; as she turned to offer it to another guest on Father’s right I caught an occasional glimpse of this young lady, trying but failing miserably to study her, just as she managed to get me a menu book without knowing it from some unattended stack, eventually moving to his chair so Father could pass to mine, joining the ladies of his house there to display more drink than food.
The wind swept in, striking a few brave guests so hard the noise of their cries became part of a running melody (women sitting and standing shouted along in unison). Most guests at Father’s home laughed louder than any crowd I’ve been able to muster—it actually hurts!
This is surely a learned ability in their trade, getting better with every sip; the exception of course is those who cannot manage to sit down much less stand up at all.
Yet since this night was Father’s, Mother must feel obliged to attend with an equally dazzling wardrobe and share many glances while Father studied the dance floor through his usual set of windows, enjoying the raucous throngs with every nerve firing—the key thing here was watching for any sudden signs of weakness from one side or another of this unexpected diversion, forcing our strength to remain constant throughout all of this confusion.
In time Mother sipped away and, having made sure a little color remained under her chin, now announced it was her pleasure to offer a new drink of the moment. While Father stepped in to direct the flow and lift the small mugs to our lips, his fingers came dangerously close, a tingle just barely touching the side of my lip, yet her skin must burn as hot or hotter (all the women sat too close by to notice) so her voice carried like thunder within a whisper (or in one more familiar echo), and she’d snarl at me every year when I picked up such ‘rough language’, then promptly vanish through the back door from my very mind’s eye, that voice booming against me again!
What are they doing? Gently mocking is an understatement. Their faces betray so much mockery…they laugh as if nothing in this world is real except them, their interests are mine! Then laughing, they’ll try and pretend-mention my father’s name as a friend: he doesn’t know! He smiles! Ha, how easily tricked all the time!’
With such intensity, it could scarcely be said Marge looked pretty now (except for that selfless streak of stubborn defiance there). For now the burning shame I knew well did not obscure the vision behind these images.
So often had we stood in the hall, sometimes even alone, Mother taking us over for long walks around town on many occasions—our own secret—while Grandmother prided herself upon her craft, making lavish clothing for Marge to wear during every dance down at the Rodeo!
At least Marge still resembled a woman and might seem motherly. A fair woman, she let her daughter show such grace. Yet just once on that list, a scene comes to mind: they would do this after she dangled like bait while I’d crept close enough for my hair to brush hers…yet somehow, without warning, my neck came alive with the prickling feeling of snakes.
Sometimes I want to think I’m lying (had my grandparents always been two old thieves?) and their hands weren’t ever cold either, though my throat feels chokingly raw inside whenever they bring up Marge. Then I remember everything:
‘And they’ve changed too.’ She brought one hand slowly toward a second glass before halting its motion suddenly with great emphasis… ‘She started dressing in strange clothes around town.’ And her eyes smoldered into mine as if they knew what my lips might confess to… But when Marge stepped from behind her own cloak in that room somewhere beneath the mountain…nothing, that never happened, it only occurred after her parents were dead and here today this, now, with Aunt Sook:
For here in another land, under no moon at all, in the far past, two people caught together beyond any others can find their lives shattered. Suddenly Marge looked straight ahead, unblinking in a way a stone would do if held up for someone’s scrutiny:
This must be why it didn’t matter whom she lost! In some deep cave those old stones—for indeed Grandmother would never allow others into this house save under special circumstances which, thank Heavens, seemed never likely to arise, why should they need visitors who cared but not for the girl within? —one among those hundreds of women couldn’t have imagined finding any harm here in all the dark.
That little old witch lived across the canyon so Grandma liked to say—watched Marge as if with two sets of eyes…but really only watching and spying on her son since childhood when it pleased both their interest that he would grow to be nothing else than a man worth noticing.
On that day when she found me standing close to Mother in the foyer where each could feel safe knowing what sort of child he or she’d grown, no one could blame anyone else but myself…except this particular point was all too clear.
Neither Marge nor I spoke of what had occurred on the porch: Grandfather had suffered a seizure at that exact time that broke my attention, turning my head away just before he died as well…and so from then onward I spent years guarding one truth behind the other until something in the whole picture gave way for that glimpse outside in the night with no moon whatsoever: this when they speak about the power between Father and me, the absolute, simple magic.