Meg Evans

This is the second story in a series of three. Click here to read the first.
 

It’s always so pretty in the park when the sun is shining straight down at midday. Julie has been working for the park district as an assistant groundskeeper since she finished high school, and she loves it. Even though the park is in the middle of the city and there are tall buildings all around, Julie can hear birds singing and see the green grass and trees, just like when she lived on the farm with Aunt Kathie and Uncle Hank.

She has a mom and dad, too, but they live in another city far away. Aunt Kathie once told her it was because taking care of a sick baby had been too scary for them. Julie had to have heart surgery when she was very little because she has Down syndrome. That’s also why she needed extra help in school.

“It was never that they didn’t love you, bless their hearts,” Aunt Kathie had said, as her long, callused fingers busily snapped the green beans for supper. “Sometimes people have a hard time dealing with their fears.”

The park’s concrete walkways sparkle as the sun blazes down from a cloudless sky. Julie’s edger hums along, trimming back the grass. She imagines that maybe the grass is afraid it will get hurt, like when she was a little girl and cried about getting her hair cut. Bits of grass are scattered all along the concrete behind her, breaking up its flat white sameness.

“All safe,” she chants softly to the grass, her voice blending with the edger’s low vibration. Somewhere off to her left, there’s a car horn blaring. “All good, all safe.”

Julie knows she’s talking to herself as much as to the grass. Moving to the city and learning how to live in an apartment had been scary. Uncle Hank had told her she would be safe and there was no need to worry. Uncle Hank is a reverend, and he preaches at the old wooden church down the road from the farm. This year he’s been talking a lot about Providence, gratitude, blessings, and things working out for the best. Julie likes that word, Providence—it has such a pretty sound to it.

She also likes the word “reverend,” and once she looked it up in the dictionary, finding that it was part of a set of related words. Revere, reverential, reverence. Sometimes words can be fun. Math, well, not so much; but Aunt Kathie helps with the shopping and bills.

“Rev-er-ence,” Julie chants even more softly, feeling that she is now in perfect tune with the hum of the edger. She’s getting close to the end of the walkway, where orange and yellow daylilies spread out along the side of the park. A woman has set up an easel beside them and is dabbing with a small brush at her canvas, filling it with bright dots of color.

Just beyond the daylilies there’s a sidewalk and street with people busily going by. Most of them aren’t looking this way—they’re watching the traffic or talking on their mobile phones. Only the artist painting the lilies seems like she’s fully here. A pigeon grabs a crumb and hops out of the way of the edger.

Two robins are chattering to one another in the grass. As Julie comes closer they take flight, landing on a low branch of an ornamental plum tree. The thick purplish leaves almost glow in the brilliant sunlight. Looking up farther, above the trees, the sky rises into a clear blue vault full of sparkling treasures—wide open for anyone to reach, and so beautiful.

The artist turns her head, tossing a long dark braid back over her shoulder. For a moment the two women’s eyes meet, and Julie waves a hand before she even thinks about what she’s doing. Overflowing with joy, she imagines that it’s radiating from her in all directions, like the sunlight.

“Reverence,” she says one last time, in a whisper so low that she can barely hear her own voice. She feels certain it’s a blessing from Providence that she has shared.
 

Click here to continue to the third and final story in the series.

The city park with its neatly maintained flowerbeds and ornamental trees always looks like a small square of dark chocolate in the morning, when it’s shadowed by hulking office buildings. Lily can’t complain, or at least she feels that she shouldn’t; for many years she has made good money from her first-floor coffee shop, across the street from the park.

By now the morning rush is just about over. A few cars go by, their daytime running lights soft and glittering like fireflies in the shadows. But mostly everyone is at work now, settling into their cubicles for another day of ringing phones and clacking keyboards. Global commerce is an impatient master.

Lily always thought she’d had it easier with the coffee shop, where she could be her own boss. She hadn’t seriously questioned that assumption, nor had she realized how much stress had crept into every part of her existence, until last year when she got the breast cancer diagnosis. That had left her even busier than usual, of course, what with all the medical appointments and making sure she could keep the shop properly staffed when she wasn’t there. But all those weeks of lying on a hard table getting radiation treatments every day had given her plenty of time to reflect on things.

She smiles at a regular customer who just came in. Gunther is retired, like most of her midmorning clientele, and he walks here every day from the senior citizens’ apartment building a few blocks to the north. Sometimes he plays chess or checkers in the park, if the weather is good and he can find someone interested in a game. He has kindly blue eyes behind his trifocals and a short white fringe encircling his mostly bald head.

“So, Lily,” he says, in a voice that’s still gravelly from decades of smoking, though he gave up the habit a few years ago after a heart attack. “I heard you’re selling the coffee shop and going to work for a cruise line.”

“It’s true,” she answers, bracing herself for a Love Boat joke and wondering who blabbed. She still hasn’t said anything to her parents or brothers about her plans, even though she now has a definite start date on a South Pacific cruise ship next month. She comes from a practical Midwestern family descended from Eastern European shopkeepers. No doubt the first thing they’ll do is get on the phone to everyone they know, gossiping about how she has totally lost her marbles.

Much to her surprise, Gunther promptly declares, “Good for you!” His big white head bobs emphatically as he settles into his usual booth with the red-checked tabletop; Lily favors retro décor. As always, he puts the brown carrying case for his chess/checkers set beside him on the bench seat, just like the briefcase he carried to work for so many years.

“I always wanted to be a cowboy,” he confides, lowering his voice as if he’s afraid to say it out loud, even now. “But that was just a foolish thought—everyone would have said so. Instead I did the sensible thing, got my degree and became an accountant, putting aside enough savings for a comfortable retirement. Now my wife is dead, my kids all moved away long ago, I sold the big house in the suburbs because I couldn’t stand the emptiness, and what use is the money I saved? I should’ve followed my heart and trusted that the Lord would provide, just like for the birds and flowers. Isn’t that how it goes?”

He blinks earnestly up at Lily through his glinting lenses as the young waitress Samantha, blonde hair pulled back in a waist-length ponytail, brings his usual coffee and blueberry muffin to the table.

“Yes, ‘consider the lilies.'” She smiles again, wryly this time. “I haven’t been much good at that myself, for all that my name is Lily. But at least I feel that I’m heading in the right direction now.”

After picking at his breakfast a little, Gunther speaks again, this time not looking up. “If I were younger I’d move out West and start a new career just like you, but it’s too late even to think about that.”

“Not necessarily.” Lily can’t imagine what’s gotten into her to start giving advice like this. Usually she is all friendly chatter, just a lot of meaningless words, nothing that could ever upset a customer or make her sound pushy. She had more than enough of busybodies when she was growing up, and she vowed long ago that she would never become one herself.

But maybe that also had been doubt and fear keeping her silent, in a different way.

When Gunther looks up again, Lily goes on talking, her words feeling solid and right even though she’d had no idea what she was going to say. “Ranchers need accountants just like anybody else running a business, don’t they? You could keep the books part-time on a ranch, learn the business, and then maybe buy your own ranch after a few years.”

Across the street, the park comes to life in vibrant colors as the sun finally rises above the office buildings. On clear days like this, Lily always has felt drawn to the brilliant sunshine like a moth; and now she imagines that she’s seeing the tropical ports and ocean vistas of her longtime dreams. She knows, even before looking back, that Gunther has followed her gaze. When she glances at him again, she sees in his blue eyes the wide-open skies of the West’s mountain ranges.
 

This is the first story in a series of three. Click here to read the second.

The high school football field’s bleachers bustled with activity as late-arriving spectators found seats after the opening kickoff. Down on the field, the players lined up… [This is Part 18. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]

A fire crackled cheerily on a wide brick hearth, sparks rising and popping as a log settled farther down into the pile. Snowy hills and bare, icy branches gleamed in the moonlight… [This is Part 17. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]

A dream filled with whining mosquitoes gave way to the equally unwanted buzz of the alarm clock as Aurora, still more than half asleep, smacked the off button. Something plastic clattered to the cold hardwood floor in the dark—she’d bumped Darrell’s photo off the dresser again. She switched on a light, blinking as her eyes adjusted. Darrell smiled up at her from a cheap frame in a dusty corner, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners and sandy-blond hair falling to his shoulders.

She would have plenty of time for dusting after work, alone in the apartment as usual. The photo was about all she saw of Darrell most days, since he’d taken a truck-driving course last year—not long after their marriage—and gotten a job as a long-haul trucker. He was always talking about how much he loved the job: driving the big rigs, seeing the country, being part of life’s adventures rather than just watching life go by.

Aurora could understand that feeling. After all, they had met while working at a McDonald’s just off the interstate. Last month, she had been promoted to first shift manager. The job was mostly okay, but some days she felt like it would be great to jump in a truck and never look back. Darrell had ambitious plans, saving up to buy his own truck—he had in mind that Aurora would learn to drive it and they’d be an owner-operator team.

But for now, all she drove was a beat-up old Chevy sedan, which at present was sitting in the parking lot covered with about three inches of snow—as she discovered when she looked out the bedroom window. The forecast hadn’t predicted snow overnight, and Aurora hadn’t thought to set her alarm clock earlier. Now she’d have to hurry to work, especially since she was responsible for unlocking the restaurant to let in the morning crew.

She dressed quickly and went outside, putting on thick gloves to keep her hands warm while she brushed snow off the car. A bitterly cold wind blew from the north, and the predawn sky was still pitch black. A city truck had just gone by, plowing up the snow into big dirty heaps. Aurora drove the few blocks to the highway and got on the ramp. There wasn’t much traffic yet this morning. She passed a semi, noting a Bible verse on its trailer. 1 Corinthians 16:14, it proclaimed: Let All Your Work Be Done with Love.

Well, that certainly hadn’t been the first thought in her mind, after waking up in the dark on a morning like this. And there was a slowpoke ahead in the exit lane, crawling down the ramp she needed to take. Some people had no idea how to drive in the snow. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as the usual list of complaints ran through her head: dreary, dull, dismal, dark, depressing winter. The sun wouldn’t rise for a long time yet. It was no wonder ancient people had made up myths about it, telling stories around the fire on the long, dark nights.

In the story from which she got her name, a chariot pulled the sun across the sky. Every morning as dawn approached, the celestial gates had to be opened to allow the chariot to pass. That was the goddess Aurora’s task. The myths had seemed silly, learning them in school; but at least they had enough simple, realistic details that it wasn’t hard to imagine being in the stories. Even goddesses had to wake up before dawn and trudge off to work.

She pictured her mythical namesake on a chilly Mediterranean morning, wrapped tightly in a wool cloak as she made her way along a windy mountain trail. From somewhere far below came the sounds of the sea. The moon had just set, and she had only the stars to light her path. She took a deep breath that tasted of pine and of the snow on the high peaks.

In the east, a pale glow brightened—the sun! Excitement rose within her as well, and she started running, the path coming clearer at each step. Her sandals slapped against the stony earth, in harmony with the hoofbeats echoing through the sky as the chariot approached. There they were before her, the golden celestial gates, shining in perfect glory! She lifted the bar, letting the gates swing wide as the chariot thundered through, feeling the thrill of its passage as it rumbled by…

The only rumbling as Aurora parked the Chevy outside the McDonald’s came from a semi on the interstate carrying cold rolled steel. The imagined hoofbeats still echoed in her mind, all the same, and the unexpected joy lingered. It wouldn’t be long—one of these days, she and Darrell would have their own truck, driving out of the east like the chariot of the sun. For now, though, her place in the world could be a meaningful one, right here where she was. Opening the gates.

Aurora found herself smiling as she unlocked the door of the restaurant, doing her work with love.

Woods had been sitting in the dining hall for a few minutes, mostly just looking at his hot oatmeal rather than eating it, when Mastroianni walked in from the galley… [This is Part 16. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]

A large brown suitcase stood next to the open door of the dormitory room, bulging with things that hadn’t been on the original list… [This is Part 15. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]

In the moment between sleep and waking, Woods flew on powerful wings through the luminous seascape of Europa, with an endless seaweed forest superimposed on the ocean of his recurring dream. Then reality took shape around him… [This is Part 14. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]

Once upon a time (because that’s how a good old-fashioned fairy tale ought to begin) there was a storyteller, her thoughts filled with dreams, who sought to weave mythical spells with her writing. Angels and bright magical crystals gleamed in sunlit corners of imaginary tiled courtyards with lovely red rose-bedecked lattices, almost (but not quite) close enough to touch.

Though our heroine ventured bravely forth in her quest to bring these delightful wonders to life on the page, she always encountered obstacles in her path (as one might expect, of course, in a fairy-tale quest). The balmy summer breezes proved just too inviting after a long, bitterly cold winter. The garden beckoned, urging her to spend more time with its fragrant heaps of flowers and its overgrown bushes in need of trimming (to be honest, she’d neglected them longer than she cared to admit). Picnics and other outdoor activities filled her calendar. The Fourth of July fireworks came and went. Our guilty heroine realized she hadn’t written any stories in months.

“This just won’t do,” she told herself reproachfully. “My characters are depending on me to bring them to life!”

So she took a pen and paper (as she was an old-fashioned storyteller) and sat down to compose a story on a gloriously sunny Wednesday afternoon. She had plenty of ideas for fanciful tales she wanted to write. But she just couldn’t manage to get them down on the paper—when she tried, all that came to mind was how few clouds there were in the gorgeous blue sky, how lovely the birds sounded singing outside the window, and how much she’d really rather be outside too.

“Well,” she finally said, posting these meager paragraphs on her blog later that evening, “it’s a start, anyway.”

In hindsight, inviting a telepathic alien creature to have a friendly chat inside his head might not have been Woods’ most prudent option… [This is Part 13. Continue reading this installment, or read the story from the beginning.]