CHAPTER FIVE: The Invocation

A touch of white lace graced her neck. Other lace accented the firmness of her upper arms. T.J. adored the sight of her, and though he tried not to let it show, his wife Elizabeth observed all ...

STELLA, 1944

Slender for seventy-four years age, Stella wore a yellow cotton dress. A touch of white lace graced her neck. Other lace accented the firmness of her upper arms. T.J. adored the sight of her, and though he tried not to let it show, his wife Elizabeth observed all, read all, understood all quite clearly from the eagerness in his eyes, the hastening of his step, and the straightening of his back as he stood more erectly.

A gust of breeze wrapped the folds of Stella’s dress tightly around her body, outlining the shapes of her legs. Strange as it might seem to younger people, even at 78 years of age T.J.’s heart fluttered, for he was a romantic man, and the passing of time had left the instincts of his heart intact. Wrinkles had, indeed, enfolded the skin, but the seat of his emotions was as smooth and as untarnished as at the age of 17. Older, he was. “But,” he would object, “I don’t feel old -- except for this rheumatism.”

Initially, Stella had intended to meet alone with T.J. on this, his seventy-eighth birthday, for he had been estranged from his wife, Elizabeth, for several years. Elizabeth lived far away in a city and had either abused or neglected T.J. for as long as anyone could remember. Stella, therefore, had fantasized about an intimate birthday dinner for TJ, an occasion to be illuminated with candles, warmed with a nightcap of Scotch imported from Speyside, Scotland; Stella imagined an evening that culminated with hugging and snuggling -- not unlike teenagers -- beneath mounds of comforters, quilts and pillows, just as the evening chill settled over the forest. What neither she nor T.J. had foreseen was that, after having been separated from T.J. for two years, Elizabeth would suddenly show up. And that T.J. would feel guilty. And that he would feel sorry for Elizabeth. And that, in the end, he would cave in and agree that Elizabeth could stay at his cabin. Predictably, Elizabeth would take full control over the small house, by degrees and stages. At first, he had only conceded that she should move in and use the small bedroom. But that only lasted a couple of nights. Such was the power and authority that Elizabeth exercised over TJ, that in just a few days, she reclaimed her position as wife, mother, boss, priestess, interpreter of values and conveyor of political convictions. If he suggested the slightest disagreement, T.J. was shouted down, or simply paralyzed by the glare of her disapproval.

Elizabeth’s return to Paradise, of course, had meant the end of T.J.’s intimate visits with Stella. Elizabeth was back … to stay. And so it came to pass, that Stella, not knowing what else to do, invited Elizabeth, too, to T.J.’s birthday party, as if nothing had passed between Stella and T.J. other than friendship. Leaning on an oak cane, T.J. hobbled toward Stella’s cabin. For a second, the breeze flipped his red necktie over the lapel of the drab, second-hand sport coat. Elizabeth, 73 years of age and (at five-foot-nine) five inches taller than he, limped at T.J.’s side wearing a purple, floral dress. The same breeze that flipped T.J.’s necktie had blown Elizabeth’s dress upward, exposing her ankles. Elizabeth’s ankles were constantly swollen, and she had wrapped them tightly with linen to relieve the pain. Now she grabbed the sides of her skirt and held it tightly, hiding her ankles. As they approached Stella’s driveway, Elizabeth looked up, and was about to criticize Stella’s short sleeves, when Elizabeth’s foot slipped into a pothole. She stumbled and grabbed T.J.’s arm, which sent the cane flying, and they both tumbled into the dirt by the roadside.

“Oh, my!“ Stella had walked out into the yard to greet them.

“We are fine.” T.J. chuckled. “A little tumble is good for what ails you.” Elizabeth, however, saw no humor in it. “A little tumble in the hay?” She wondered. But aloud she said, “A little tumble in the poison oak should cure you of that notion.”

“But, your ankles!” Stella said.

“My ankles are fine, no worse than usual.” Elizabeth had jumped back up from the tumble with surprising alacrity, but T.J. was taking his time, and Stella helped him up. Elizabeth watched, stood catching her breath while Stella first offered her hand to TJ, then brushed off the dust.

“You will go to the park’s office first thing in the morning TJ, and tell them to fix those potholes so we won’t be stumbling in the dark all the time,” Elizabeth instructed TJ.

The sun was approaching the horizon, but already the moon was large and bright. T.J. happened to look up and see the light. His moon. Stella’s moon too. And the moon of the little hoot owl in the nearby woods. T.J.’s mouth had opened; he was prepared to say, “Now that’s a real lovers’ moon.” Elizabeth’s sarcastic, clipped voice cut him off; “T.J. never sleeps when there is a full moon.” What Elizabeth had said was true. Too much light pouring in the windows kept T.J. awake, sometimes all night. And when he did sleep, it would be with restless dreams.

As they turned to enter the house, a large crow landed on the roof and began to peck at insects. “Caw. Peck, peck, peck. Caw.” Elizabeth held her ears. “TJ, do something about that awful crow.” T.J. picked up a pebble and threw it, dropping his cane again in the process, but his aim was not good and the rock hit a small attic window. The glass tinkled and Elizabeth frowned. “Throw at the crow, not at the window, you idiot!” Stella, the hostess, only laughed. “That silly old crow always comes at this time of day.” T.J. offered to repair the damage immediately but Stella insisted, “Come in and sit down, and leave that window for tomorrow. I want you to see your birthday present.”

An amateur artist, Stella had created for him a personalized teapot; on it she had engraved images depicting events from T.J.‘s past life: The wagon full of coins, of which he had spoken so often; the image of a man laying bricks; a sailing ship, a steam locomotive crossing a trestle, a small cabin nestled among trees, and more. Elizabeth frowned, but T.J. felt contented. Stella proceeded to fill the new pot with hot tea water. Like TJ’s cabin, Stella’s tiny home had no dining room, so they ate in the kitchen, starting with tea served from his birthday pot.

Stella made a show of pouring her tea leaves into the saucer and reading everyone’s fortune. “You will achieve a great victory in your love life,” she told Elizabeth. Elizabeth snorted. Stella then held T.J.‘s hand and read his palm, “Your adventures have just begun!” she told him. Elizabeth snorted twice this time. “Adventures! A safari to find his false teeth perhaps.” T.J. had misplaced the dentures and lost a half hour looking for them before coming to the party. Stella served the appetizer: crawdad cocktails; the crayfish were fresh from the San Lorenzo River, which flowed behind Stella’s cabin. Elizabeth looked at her husband. “You ask the blessing, T.J.” T.J. hesitated, but Stella rescued him. “Oh, no, it’s my turn.” Stella prayed and then commented, “Isn’t it wonderful how the Lord has blessed us?” T.J. stared at his plate but Elizabeth agreed loudly. “Oh, indeed it is wonderful. It’s only because we believe the Holy Bible literally that God has blessed our great nation.” T.J. sucked in his breath but avoided rolling his eyes as he would have done had Stella not been present.

Aborting religious talk, Elizabeth started an attack on her own eldest daughter, Ruby. “Isn’t it awful, Ruby dating that horrible Texan.” A statement, not a question. “Why, her husband died barely two months ago.” T.J. clicked his false teeth. It had been four months. Still, he said nothing. Stella stood and poured each of them a small glass of wine, and said, “But Ruby seems crazy about him.” Stella was always cheerful like that, optimistic. Dinner had not been served as yet, but Elizabeth had reached over and helped herself -- stuffed her mouth full of pork -- so she was chewing and could not reply.

Ruby was a puzzle. She alone in the family had had black hair, the others were blondes and redheads. She had been wild but intelligent and charming as a child. Of the three girls, Elizabeth had picked only Ruby for charm school, where she had learned to present herself properly, but Ruby had not learned to restrain her wild spirit before the damage was done. Ruby came to age in the roaring twenties, and she was a modernist. As a teenager she had taken several lovers, all soldiers, several years her seniors. Naturally, she become pregnant. Elizabeth sent her to San Diego to live with distant relatives for a few months. The abortion in San Diego had ruined internal organs and she was never able to have her own children after that.

The loss of her child had sobered Ruby however, and, combined with the effects of charm school, the experience had transformed her into a sophisticated, modern lady. She was the only one of the sisters to attend college, and after business college, she resembled her sisters in almost no way. Her speech was refined. Her clothing was expensive. Her posture was upright. Her face was white, her hair black, and her cheeks always bore a touch of red rouge. She was so beautiful and so well spoken that she seemed almost to have come from another family. Still, the others never forgot that Ruby had been impregnated. Had been young, wild, unmarried, and … soiled. For six months she was sent away from home. No amount of money or supposed “class” could wipe away the disgrace, not so far as they were concerned. They never forgave her.

Nothing could stop the steady stream of young and older men who were attracted to Ruby, however, and she had soon married a rich boxer who later died of a sudden heart attack. To his credit, he left an estate worth $250,000. To Ruby’s modest family, that quarter of a million dollars seemed a vast fortune. With the boxer, Ruby had lived in a big house with beautiful gardens. Fine silverware and expensive lace tablecloths graced her table, while the others in the family had to make do. Her sisters had lived in run down apartments and had hemmed old sheets, remaking them into tablecloths. By contrast, Ruby’s place was an exhibition of style: Oriental ceramic elephants, their ears spread and trunks raised heavenward, “grazed” among potted tropical trees. Her indoor flower pots, the works of Chinese artisans, were engraved with flying birds, twisting vines and pink blossoms. Unlike the rest of the family, Ruby had become “well to do.” And refined. Her walls were lined with bookshelves, which were laden with original, signed copies of the noted authors of her day: Upton Sinclair, Jack London and Carl Sandburg to name a few.

In spite of the luxuries that Frank had bestowed upon Ruby, T.J. had disliked the boxer, although T.J. had tolerated Frank well enough … for Ruby‘s sake. In his youth, Frank had been a decent boxer and had earned good money, but he was already 42 years old when he married the twenty-year-old Ruby. As she discovered, Frank was constantly sullen, angry and depressed. The best hours of his life had been those spent in the ring, pounding his opponents senseless. At home he was cantankerous and a bully and Ruby wore dark glasses and long sleeved dresses to cover the marks he left on her body. “Ruby was not happy with Frank,” T.J. ventured. Elizabeth’s eyebrows raised a notch. T.J. ignored them. “Ruby could do worse than re-marrying to old Austin.” It was the first time T.J. had challenged Elizabeth during the meal. “At least Austin treats her like a lady.”

Elizabeth dropped her spoon; it clanked noisily on her dish. She glared at her blouse, which the falling spoon had splashed with red cocktail sauce. Doubly upset, she turned her gaze upon her husband. She thought about yelling, “Now look what you made me do!” Remembering that she was in Stella’s presence, however, she said instead, “Why, of course! Austin should treat her nice. She is a lady.“ Elizabeth sniffed loudly. Snorted. “But he is just after her money. He thinks she’s a bird’s nest on the ground, that’s all.” Stella brought Elizabeth a damp wash cloth to wipe the soup from her dress.

T.J. remained silent now, again speaking only when spoken to. Stella tried to smooth things over. Elizabeth criticized one neighbor or relative after another, seemingly oblivious that she was putting a damper on TJ‘s party. To sweeten things up, Stella served homemade lemon pie for dessert. After pie, everyone helped clear the dishes, except for the teapot, which Stella refilled, and they returned to sit around the kitchen table. “Has anyone heard from anybody/?” Stella asked.

“I almost forgot!” Elizabeth groped for her purse and handed an envelop to TJ. “This letter. I forgot to give it to you this morning.” The letter was an invitation to a reunion with shipmates from TJ’s first sailing ship, a wooden bucket known as “the SS Saint Thomas.” T.J.’s eyes brightened for a second, but then his shoulders slumped. I cannot afford a trip to San Diego.” Nevertheless, he had been pleasantly surprised to hear that some of the original crew were still alive; he folded the letter carefully and put it inside his coat pocket.

A lull in conversation followed, rather like the calm before a storm. Stella acted quickly. “Let’s cheer things up with a game.” The legs of Stella’s chair screeched on the linoleum floor and she rose, going to the cabinet. “I’m tired of Canasta. That’s all we do, Canasta, Canasta.” She turned back to them, holding a Ouija board. Elizabeth squealed in mock horror, “I will not touch that evil thing!”

“It’s all superstition anyway,” T.J. said.

Not to be deterred, Stella smiled and looked directly into TJ’s eyes. “Ask the Ouija a question. Go ahead. Try it.” He declined. “I won’t, but if I did believe in a Ouija board, I would ask to hear from my old friends again, from my cousin Georgie, and …” his eyes wandered to one side as he recalled his old chums, “and Simm.” He hesitated. “And … Claire.”

At the mention of the name “Claire,” Elizabeth jumped out of her chair, her hip bumping the table. The teapot, dashed to the floor, shattered into a jagged puzzle of broken pieces. Tea had splattered Elizabeth’s shoes and, at the same time, Elizabeth had shrieked, “Claire! That … whore! That Mormon slut! ” But the words were drowned out, because, just at that moment, far beneath the earth’s surface, the pressure of two continental plates had built up to the breaking point. The earth emitted a rumble and then a roar and the cabin began to shake. The Ouija board jumped off the table, books fell from the shelves, and ceramic knick knacks scattered on the floor, in shards. The tremor lasted only a few seconds. The lights blinked but the electricity remained on. When the quake was over, a single light bulb blinked above the table, swayed back and forth on its cord, not unlike a fragile glass head, suspended on a wire noose. Thus, the party ended.

***
Author's Note: The above was a chapter from an experimental novel by F. Ellsworth Lockwood.


The book incorporates adventure, romance, and spirituality in the saga of a boy named T.J., who runs away from home at age fourteen in search of freedom and self determination. T.J. navigates a transition from wooden sailing ships to steamships and locomotives, yet the end of his life is more surprising (and more adventuresome) than his first boyhood prank, in which he jumped aboard a rag barge only to fall into the hands of a cantankerous “rag lady” and her skinny daughter.
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