Saturday, August 11, 2007

   Story I had to do for school...
I tapped my fingers on the edge of the glass table. I glanced towards the window opposing mine. People dressed in suits and skirt combinations flashed across my eyes. Ok, this meant one of two things. One, the news channel was on. Often, I judge time by the news. Although I know it sounds a bit eccentric, I can’t say I agree with you. See, most people would stare at me with a slack jawed expression as if to tell me, “Hey, girl, do you realize that there are such creations as watches. Oh, and how about cell phones? They’re portable, and more convenient all around than looking at a TV! I mean, what if there is no TV nearby and you have to acknowledge the time with no cell phone or watch. What happens then, huh?”
I have a simple answer to that question. I lug around a sun dial. Do you see that I have problems with logical thinking? I hope so. Anyway, the reason the news was of any importance to me was because of the small box on the far-left bottom of the screen. Above this box blinked the time; 11:10AM.
I sighed, exasperated and thought glumly, I believe this is the fifteenth time that Burt has stood me up for his precious job. Even though we have been friends since we were children, a gap has been prying at the seams of our relationship ever since he has received that job. It feels very similar to watching a candle light flicker and sway in the whispering breeze. It sputters, and coughs, and emanates its sweet fragrance, so long that it seems like it is invulnerable. You bask in its light. How can all that happiness fade away? How can it go out now after holding on for a prolonged period of time? How can it happen so quickly, it takes a few moments for your mind to, huffing and heaving, catch up?
But; it can. It happens too often. I lolled my head forward, and thumped it against the table. I was expecting a sharp pain, but it was dulled by paper. With effort, I reared my head back and noticed it was the newspaper. The anniversary of George Washington’s death is today, I noted. Although I was somewhat interested at first; I realized it only discussed possible solutions to the question of: What caused George Washington’s death?
Disgusted, I pushed it away and leaned back, staring up at the cold, clear blue December sky. I could not believe that I traveled from Michigan to Washington D.C. just to see Burt. I thought he wanted to talk to me, like we used to, I thought sullenly. “Christmas is coming up.” However, inside my head, I finished; and I won’t be there in time to spend it with my younger sisters who haven’t seen me since I packed my bags and headed for college to major in psychology. Four years have passed since I’ve been in my mother’s arms. Four years since my dad gave me a firm handshake after achieving a goal. I remembered wryly how he would pretend to act as if it was “ok” when really, in the corners of his eyes, his eyes shone with pride. It’s been four years since I have felt my sisters on my back, trying to ride me as I bucked wildly in their game of horses. Four…long…years.





I suppose my memories got the best of me, because I heard a slight echo ringing in my ears. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve been thinking way to hard…and deep. I thought, musing over such an issue. Then, as I became more aware of what was taking place around me, I found that the sound was not because of my presumption, but because someone was calling my name in a loud yell to be heard over the noise of clattering potholes, racing cars, and the belching of industries.
I blinked…once…twice and saw Burt. “Hey, Martha!” he called.
A joyful smile broke out on my face. I should be more careful; one part of me warned, cautious. I don’t know whether he’s here for good or if he’s going to burden me, and then rush back to work. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. Still, the other part dismissed this thought, and caused me to jump up to my feet.
“Burt!” I cried. It is indescribable to express how great it was to see him since we both parted for college or work. He had grown, obviously, but there was so much of him that was so mind bogglingly similar since the days when we stayed out until dusk, playing our games of cops and robbers and other assortments. He still had the same slow smile, the same vulnerability to deceit, the same quiet inner voice that doesn’t quite want to be heard just yet. Such a quiet voice… it whimpers and cries in such a low tone, no one hears it but me. So many woes he has endured, so much pain, so much mistrust… such cruelty. He has never really been the same since his mother’s death at the tender age of three. He was so young; he simply did not understand the tragedy.
His father spat that it was his fault, he was to blame. Hate was so abundant between them, that every time I stepped into his house, the silence was ominous, an uneasy treaty, a treaty balancing its relationship on a knife, and one single movement could send the whole agreement toppling. It was so tangible that I might as well be walking through thick, cascading vines in the Amazon.
Burt would come running out to greet me, desperate for an escape, and as he pulled my hand and I trotted after him, I heard the shrill wailing of his father behind him.
Love has always had a twisted, warped way on Burt. He has never received it truly since that fateful day, and when one comes offering it as a gift of friendship, he retreats, and he fears it.
Imagine, living your life in solitude, always fearing, never trusting, blockading yourself from the outside world. You don’t want to know how the world is changing; to you it must only be changing for the worst.
But, nevertheless, he is growing. He is changing. He is coming to terms with his past. He has realized that he cannot always hide in fear, bracing himself for something that has a chance of not coming. That is why he has taken his post. It is somewhat of a security blanket to him, and he is becoming social with people. Slowly, he is learning to love again.
I should be grateful, really, I should, but it is pulling him further and further away from friends he has had since his youth. He wants to cut those last bonds to his past, he wants to cut everything away from him that is painful, but, alas, he is finding it difficult. I am putting up a fight.
*

It took me a few minutes to come to comprehension that a younger man, maybe a few years younger than Burt, was standing awkwardly by his side.
One thing I have come to learn while studying psychology is how to read a person’s eyes. More than any other internal or even external body part, the eyes tend to tell all. I have learned how to figure if a person is someone to be wary of, or not. If they are friend, or foe, and in some circumstances, have a glimpse of their thoughts by combining the looks they hold, and their body postures.
I was well attuned to Burt’s eyes, and how to understand what he might mean by the position of his body, but this stranger, I was interested. I cocked my head, and gazed at his eyes.
Many people do not even notice what I am doing, if they do, they laugh and ask me what I am doing. Some feel uncomfortable, and dart their eyes away. He did neither. He returned my gaze with such boldness and scrutiny that I began to feel a bit nervous.
He possessed strength, and sharp wit that I had a notion he could and would use in a tight situation, and a temper…a fierce temper that could release a wrath if he was nudged the wrong way. An image flashed across my eyes, he bellowed at a man who was sprawled over grassy landscape, and all the while, the golden leaves shook in the brilliant sunlight.
Overall, the image gave me chills. I allowed my eyes to fall over his body. Blue, white, and brass buttons, obviously a soldier’s uniform. Taking a guess, I had to think it was of the 1700 through 1800 period. It seemed authentic. His hair was tied back, and a deep brown. Now, mostly men wore their hair short, so this was uncommon.
“Martha, this is…” he paused, uncertain, and then said slowly, “a man I believe to be George Washington.”

Chapter 2
I raised my eyebrows, slightly incredulous. Was this the man I knew who only believed that history could not come to life? Was this a joke? Burt sighed.
“Do you not believe me?”
“Oh, is it that obvious?” I grumbled.
“It is. We have to talk, Martha. Come on, grab your things and then let’s go.” He ordered.
“No! Do you recall that you promised, promised, that you would take me to lunch and we could talk. I have come all the way from Michigan for you, so don’t you dare stand me up!” I ranted.
Burt rolled his eyes. “Martha, this is important. I have to leave soon, too. I’m only off for a few more minutes. Just enough to somewhat explain what is happening.”
“Hold on, you’re going to push this guy into my responsibility, and then go running off to your job? That doesn’t seem fair,” I snarled.
Without a word, Burt took my hand, reached over, and grabbed my purse from the chair.
“Let me go! This isn’t fair! It isn’t even right, get off of me!” I hollered. He paid me no heed, and pulled me into a deserted coffee shop, Washington observing mutely.
“Listen, I know this is a bit… odd but, Martha, you have to listen.” I tugged at his hand, annoyed and had no intention of listening. He carried on, however. “He’s come back. I can’t tell you why, but he has. He needs a guide, he knew my name, and to be honest, it’s creepy but like I said, duty calls and I just don’t have the time to show him around. Please, Martha, do this for me and I swear I’ll meet you for dinner, ok? Here, I’ll give you some money for travel and food… it’s really all I can do, and I’m sorry but….” His voice trailed off.
“It’s ok,” I mumbled, “but I’m holding you to your word.” Burt smiled, and thanked me. He saluted the supposedly, “first president” and sauntered off. And this is how my part of the story begins.
*
I ran my fingers through my hair, and glanced over at George Washington. He stared back. “Are you really George Washington?” I asked, curious. He replied, haltingly at first, “Yes, I am, but I have never quite had a woman I am not much of an acquaintance with speak to me so bluntly.”
“Sorry, but that’s how people speak now. We just approach each other and start a conversation. Everyone is free to speak when spoken to. “I stretched my arms over my head and squinted in the bright sunlight as we meandered aimlessly around Washington D.C. “Interesting.” He murmured, twirling around to get a full view of everything surrounding us.
“Burt… the man I was sent here to find, are you close acquaintances?” I laughed at the question. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but we just say “friends”. You’re really going to stand out when you talk like that, “I told him loosely.
“My… bubble? What are you talking about?” he asked, thoroughly confused. I shook my head.
“Your personal space. I believe you’re hopeless, Mr. Washington.”
“What? Why am I hopeless? Wait, milady, what are you talking about?” His voice stretched over the broad expanse of land I ran across. I called back, gleefully, “Less questions! You’ll get your answers soon enough, besides, I was left to show you around the United States, and I plan to do just that! The world has changed since you were here Mr. Washington!”
He scoffed at those words, “do you believe I do not know my own country?” But, he took up a jog, and followed me, the breeze whipping the national flag on its pole.
Chapter 3

“Where are you taking me? Secondly, why have your people abandoned horseback? I believe it was more efficient than those automobiles. They were a lot quieter, too.” Washington was wheezing by the time we reached the bus station.
I purchased two tickets, and shrugged. “George, firstly, you can call me Martha, because that is my name, secondly, I am taking you to Independence Hall, more specifically to see the Liberty Bell. Third, I can’t quite tell you why we abandoned horseback, and I agree with you about horses being quieter and absolutely more environmentally efficient, but I suppose people wanted a change.”
His eyes widened. “Independence Hall, you say? Well, I remember that building. It was originally constructed as the Pennsylvania colony’s statehouse in 1732. In fact, the hall, as I recall, was the scene of the proclamation of the U.S. Declaration of Independence in 1776.” I shook my head, bewildered. I could not believe he remembered such things after at least 301 years while he was in the grave. His eyes searched mine, and he said ever so softly, “but why are you taking me to a place I have been, I have seen?”
I swallowed; his voice seemed to gently chide me. At that moment, I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. I honestly was just overwhelmed by emotions. I took a step forward, and poked him in the chest. I was embarrassed, and, still fighting back tears, choked out, “When a person takes a picture and later in time puts it in a scrapbook, as a memorandum, they usually do it to feel the joy, the happiness of that moment. When that person in the picture passes away, the taker can only feel grievance, and pain at looking at the picture after years and years of contemplating whether they would dare to look, or not. Because honestly, you can look at a picture, but you will never feel the same amount of joy, because it erodes, it is forgotten, it can’t be relived, it will never be the same. But…if you never go back, memories are lost. Is it not better to feel pain, than nothing?”
*
That outburst was horribly random, but it made me remember of a time when Burt was almost ready to graduate high school. I remember it so well…

“Burt, you have to go back to your house. I know it’s painful, and I know you feel hatred towards it…”
“It’s not the house I feel hatred towards, Martha, it’s my father.”
“But, Burt, your father no longer lives there. He has passed away; the house is up for sale. Listen, you do detest the house, it is where all your misfortune occurred. But to truly get a grasp on life and begin to take steps forward, you have got to face what you have feared to go home to for so many years.”
I put a hand on his knee, and smiled a sad smile, “besides, you are strong, you can do it.”
“Martha, no, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to feel the pain, I’ve been there for so many years, I’ve seen it for so many days, I just want to escape. I want to be free.” With that, he stood up, and walked out of the room, shadows flickering over his frame.

When George said that, it came rushing back to me. I suppose it was silly to give him a clue about my thoughts, about what they centered on but I could not help it. It sounded like he was giving up, like he was tired of it all. Like he had been everywhere and seen everything, and he did not quite see the point anymore. “But, why are you taking me to a place I have been, I have seen?”
“I do not know,” I whispered softly. “Maybe it is because I cannot let things go.” George sneezed beside me, and groaned. He shifted positions restlessly. We were on a bus to Philadelphia, and obviously he was having trouble finding comfort.
I was sympathetic, he had never been on a bus before, and I suppose he did not find it agreeable. Then again, he slept for a long period of time in the freezing cold on hard, frostbitten ground.
When the bus finally halted near our destination, I nudged him. He jumped up, bewildered, and then relaxed when he remembered where he was and where we had been going. People were giving him strange looks, most likely because of how he was dressed. Annoyance flickered over his face, and I led him off the bus, thanking the driver as I hopped off.
“I do not know why they were staring, but this uniform was common in my age, in fact, I made this one myself, and here they are staring and me with such disrespect.” I linked my arm through his. “Perhaps, if you will let me make a suggestion, we buy you new clothes?” I proposed.
“New clothes, like breeches, and the propaganda and the like you people wear?” I nodded.
“If I must.” He sighed.
“It will be a lot easier to take you around,” I assured him.
*
Chapter 4

“Wow, you actually look like one of us!” I exclaimed as he walked out of Gap wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket.
“Do I, “he asked, trying to get a better look at himself.
“Definitely, but your hair is a bit unusual. However, I think you will pass for normal.” I told him, grinning.
“My hair is not, absolutely not, being chopped off, do you understand Miss Martha?” George was still refusing to call me just Martha, and although it was getting annoying, I dealt with it the best I could. Ignoring him, I looked at street names, thinking, and then called, “it is this way!”
When we reached the hall, a group of elementary students, not quite off for winter break yet, were being guided about it, the woman leading the expedition rattled on about the history. I tuned in for a bit, “…and not only was it the site of the proclamation of 1776, it was the meeting place of the Continental Congress and the Constitutional Convention. The Constitutional Convention was held in 1787 in which the meeting of the delegates from 12 states wrote the United States Constitution. “
George listened, although I knew he acknowledged these facts already. I tilted my head and nodded towards the separate pavilion near the hall, clearly visible. George caught on, and gave a quick nod, and we escaped outside. He was quiet, and the silence was eerie. I coughed. “What are you thinking about?” He paused, and then said, “Life, death, the difference between the two. I played an important role in life, I started the French and Indian War, the start of my true career, I am thinking about how I died, I am thinking about how I am here now. I have acted on the stage of life, and I have played my part, and now it seems my role is not finished. I am acting on the brink of life, and death.”
The pavilion was quiet, and a welcomed silence. I read the plaque which gave information. A strong breeze pushed against me, and I shuddered, but not from the cold. I read, “The Liberty Bell was cast in England in 1752 for the Pennsylvania Statehouse. It was recast in Philadelphia in 1753. If you look closely, you can see the words, ‘Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.’ This bell was rung on July 8, 1776, for the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence. It was re-placed here in 1778 after being hidden in Allentown during British occupation. The bell cracked on July 8, 1835, while tolling the death of Chief Justice John Marshall.”
“That is a bit unnerving.” I told him. “Yes, strange… death works in strange ways.” His gaze was glazed, and distant, staring out at what seemed to be nothing in particular. His emotion chilled me, and I decided we both need to cheer up.
“You like to ride horses, right?” This distracted him, and it took him a few moments to reply. “Yes, I do, why?”
“Come on,” I said, and pulled him towards Somerset Farms Inc.
*
I nearly was bouncing out of my seat on the bus as we neared the farms. I loved horseback riding myself, and had prior experience with horses, I had actually made many bonds with multiple horses in the past from riding at stables with my mother’s encouragement. George was similar in emotion. I felt the eagerness emanating from him. Before the bus fully stopped, we jumped up and ran out, the bus driver yelling at us to stay in our seats until the bus was completely stopped. The owners were very friendly, and helped choose horses based on our preferences.
When we had finally chosen, we tacked them and mounted. “Are you ready Mr. Washington? I would love to see if you are really the acclaimed rider you are said to be.” He grinned wickedly, “We will see, Miss Martha, but are you ready?”
We shot off, galloping over dry, brown grass, kicking up mud and debris, jumping over fallen logs. He won, I admit, and he was not graceful about it either. “Ha-ha! I told you!” He boasted. I panted, and stuck my tongue out at him. But, I had enjoyed myself greatly, and it felt good. It was something that I had wanted to do for a long, long time.
Chapter 5
“Where to go next,” I asked George as we wearily and reluctantly returned to the coughing bus. He shook his head, “I am not quite sure. You are my guide.” So, this was my decision. Hmmm… what would be of any interest to him? I wondered. In a moment, I knew where we were going. “I have acted on the stage of life, and I have played my part, and now it seems my role is not finished. I am acting on the brink of life, and death.”
*
When I was younger, perhaps in 9th grade, I was in History class and reading a chapter in my history book, when I became dedicated to helping Burt.
Arlington National Cemetery occupies 612 acres in Virginia on the Potomac River, directly opposite Washington. This land was part of the estate of John Parke Custis, Martha Washington’s son. His son, George Washington Parke Custis, built the mansion which later became the home of Robert E. Lee. In 1864, Arlington became a military cemetery.
“Martha, psttttt, Martha!”
“What?” I snapped, “I’m reading!”
“I think Burt is, um, having a few thoughts.” With that, the boy passed me a note, and, fingers trembling, unfolded the paper. Written on it, in shaky hand writing was:
Here Rests In
Honored Glory
An American
Soldier
Known But To God

I gasped, and clasped my hand over my mouth.
Chapter 6

“Many, many people are buried here George.” I told him. We were standing at a respectful distance away from the graves of Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. “I mean, some even include presidents such as William Howard Taft and John F. Kennedy; there are a number of Supreme Court justices and a mystery writer Dashiell Hammett. If you can see from here, you’ll notice that Civil War “contrabands” are buried here, their headstones engraved only with ‘Civilian’ or ‘Citizen’. It’s a bit sad.”
I turned towards George. “It is,” he repeated. Eyes filled with sorrow. ”So many people are dead… sleeping an eternal sleep in their graves.” He leaned against a tree. “Then why am I not dead with them, Martha, why am I not sleeping with my comrades?”
“I could not tell you that, because I do not even know.” We peered out and I said brightly, “but, on the bright side an Unknown Serviceman of Vietnam buried here on May 28, 1984 was identified as First Lt. Michael Blassie. So that was good for his family, they no longer had to suffer over their son or father that never came home. Perhaps technology will prevent another “unknown” from being buried.”
He glanced at me. “You are so passionate about giving someone a reason to keep going in life, and even death I find.” I nodded. “It is all I can really do.” Shadows played over his face, and his eyes were guarded. He leaned forward, without a word, and kissed my cheek. The wind ran through my hair, invisible fingers and, as I was so shocked, I found I could not move.
He pulled away and I touched my cheek, eyes wide. He began to take long steps away from me, and called behind him, “Let us move along.”
*
The day was dwindling down to sunset, the sky already becoming golden and streaked with reds and pinks. It gave off the impression of an artist’s palette, when he has labored to make a masterpiece, but has little care for the condition of the palette. I wanted to show him one last thing before the day became night. “George,” I whispered. “I want you to see this.”
“It is a garden, what is so special about it?” I shook my head, disapproving.
“No, George, this garden is life. It even…” I say, trailing off, kneeling at a stone wall and cupped a brown stalk in my hand. “It even possesses Maryland’s official state flower, although I am sure other state flowers are abundant here.” He knelt beside me.
“When I was little, I used to take one of these flowers, and pick off the golden petals, quietly whispering, ‘he loves me, he loves me not…’ and when the last few petals were remaining, I closed my eyes and plucked off the few remaining petals and hoped that the last petal would reveal to me the one thing every girl hopes for… he loves me!” I laughed. “It seems silly now, but it was something I loved to do on a summer afternoon when it was too warm to do anything else. “
George smiled, and then laughed. “I can imagine.” And we laughed, surrounded by sleeping flowers and bare trees, but we were happy, and that was all that really mattered.
Chapter 7
“Well, it has been a joy, I assure you, Miss Martha, but I find I must leave you. It seems that at the fall of night, I am due to walk through a pathway and remain quiet, and then I will return on this very day for an unknown reason.” He smiled a lonely smile. “Must you?” I cried.
“Yes, but, although my life, my age, is over, yours is not. You are still on the stage, and your role cannot be filled by anyone but you. So keep acting, and the path you choose I am sure will lead you to the happy ending of your play. It is not over yet, Martha.”
With that, as the sun hid beneath the hills, a gateway became visible, glowing golden in the dark. It solidified, and opened showing a bright light. He waved, and ducked through.
Whoa. I wonder if Burt is going to believe this.


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