Kalon ~ Vagary

Kalon:

Beauty Beyond surface deep

Vagary:

whimsical action or journey

Dr. Williams stood high on her tiptoes as she stared through the small plexiglass door-window and asked, “Does he know he’s here?”

On her first day of training at the Hospital for Medically Insane Criminals, she was eager to make a difference. She was confident that the world needed help and expected her master’s degree in psychology would be useful here. Why not? Nowhere else was hiring.

“Who? Thomas? We aren’t sure. He’s mumbled only one word since he arrived a year ago,” Dr. Sergio said and slid a food tray through the slot in the door.

He wasted no time by Thomas’ door before continuing down the cell-block—she was confused as to why he delivered to this particular cell and no others. Delivering lunch wasn’t on a doctor’s to-do list, and he didn’t give the man a chance to say anything, even if he wanted to. Dr. Williams’ gaze lingered in Thomas’ cell, marking the man’s appearance: she could tell he was tall, his arms were lanky and wrapped around his proportionate legs; his head rested back against the cinder block wall, his eyes (if they were open) stared at the ceiling; his hair hung to his shoulders, but his beard struggled to find length. She doubted he considered the way others saw him—wild animals don’t.

Noticing her partner near the end of the block, she suppressed the fantasies of savagery premiering in her consciousness.

“I originally hoped to gain insight on his case,” Dr. Sergio said. He waited by the door until his trainee caught up.

“It’s the only way he’ll eat,” he said—when Dr. Williams could hear. “Thomas’ first eighty hours with us, he muttered ‘disappear’ to himself nonstop. He became silent when his choice was to eat or die.”

Dr. Williams’ right eye squinted, as the left side of her mouth drooped; her young, usually-bright face puzzled over Thomas.

“He won’t move—not until we leave at least.” Dr. Sergio continued. “Most days, he sits as you saw him today. On occasions, he’ll tuck his head between his knees and stare at the dirt.” “What happened to Thomas?” She said and admired the large ring of keys the security guard sorted through each time he needed to unlock a door. “Why is he here?” “We’re—honestly—not quite sure,” Dr. Sergio said and unlocked the next door; he held a key to the rest of the locks in the route to his office. This hall led them to the office sector of the building. He waited ten minutes, until they settled into his office, then spoke further. “The rumor is: he lost it after his girlfriend overdosed. When the police arrived, he was unconscious: his head on the lap of the dead girl—I think Ruby was her name.” “What’d he dose on?” Dr. Williams interrupted as she shuffled through Dr. Sergio’s top drawer of files but had no luck. “He’s a deep sleeper, according to the first responders. All of his blood tests were clean,” he said. “The police found two positive pregnancy tests along with empty Vicodin and Xanax bottles. We assume she kept the pills to herself and never told him about the baby.” Dr. Williams’ fingers held her weight (leaning forward) against the edge of Dr. Sergio’s desk; he sat behind, testing the spring of his rolling chair. “I don’t think Thomas broke any laws—the girl’s father blamed him for forcing his daughter’s hand—to take the pills. ‘His baby would never kill herself, on her own.’” “There’s only one way to commit suicide, sir,” Dr. Williams’ said. She thought everyone knew what suicide entailed. “He didn’t even defend himself?” The case confused her, as it did all the doctors of the institution. Dr. Sergio nodded in response. “Wasn’t he respected among the community?” She flipped through Thomas’ folder (found half-way through the second drawer); she remembered a similar news story, from the time she was still in school. “That’s right! A lawyer, even.” She chuckled with the irony. “He accepted partnership of his law firm too—the youngest in the city.” She read the four and a half pages in the folder, front and back. “No previous signs of insanity either—I know,” he said and cut her off before the words could escape the edge of her opened lips. “We’ve all studied his file. Repeatedly.” She returned the folder to its proper place in the cabinet. Although the rest of the doctors had given up on Thomas, the intriguing man was alone in her thoughts for the remainder of the night. She compared Thomas to her little brother—he was in law school; she imagined her brother imprisoned by his own mind. Who locked the door on Thomas? The following day, Dr. Sergio sent the young doctor with Thomas’ daily meal. Why wouldn’t he eat otherwise? She stood back from the door and told herself to drop the food and go—she feared Thomas wouldn’t accept the food from her. But did he accept it from Dr. Sergio? She set the food in the door’s slot and her eyes crept to his window. She stretched her toes and pulled her weight away from the floor by the window’s indent, taking full advantage of her time alone with the strange man. She struck her middle knuckle against the glass. Tap-tap-tap. Thomas’ face revealed itself as his attention fell to the door. She expected him to look younger: his face wrinkled deeply around his eyes. The man’s face was imprinted on her heart, and she felt the longings of his most miserable nights (at least she tried). She aged nine years in her pineal vision. He stared into her face, and she wondered how old she looked to him. What did his mind’s eye see? She attempted to join his dreams, but there was no way to penetrate his eyes. They hid in the depths of the trenches; the tranquil-turquoise glare that she returned invited him in. “What did you fix for lunch, My Love?” Thomas said; his face brightened with a grin, revealing his less-savage teeth. Dr. Williams looked down but failed to create a name to call the mystery food on the tray. She concentrated back on Thomas, but it was too late—lost again—he returned to his statue-like appearance from the day before. What sparked his cognizance? She stayed by his window for another seven minutes (or so) and wondered if Dr. Sergio would believe her update. Would she tell him? She smiled, thinking about the guard’s keys again. Every door required its own key: was she Thomas’? *** “Get off me!” Ruby said, as she jolted out of deep slumber, sweat rolling down her brow and nose. I felt goose bumps rising on her thighs. “It’s okay— everything is okay. I’m here,” I said to calm her night terrors. “You’re in the dream again.” My arms wrapped around her until I held myself on each side; my voice cradled her subconscious mind as her heart rate eased away from it’s dangerous pace. Ruby had moved back in with me three months prior. Her demons visited her sleep; a full night of sleep became a rarity for both of us. Hell welcomed her as an old friend—as her exhusband. Nights passed, and I ached to empathize with Ruby. I deduced: her threshold for pain was far greater than mine (greater could mean different). My inability to conceive her pain—or come close to conceiving her pain—held me a whimper away. We never discussed the extent of the specific night. All I knew: after years of silence from her, she called me at two-twenty in the morning, begging for help. “Tommy Baby—is this you?” The screen of my phone caught my glance but wasn’t fruitful with information—No Caller ID. Only one person called me that. “Ruby?” I said and settled back in my desk chair. I dropped the case file in my left hand—scattered beneath my desk—and waited for her response. Could this voice, muddled with static buzz, really be her? “I need your help,” she pled. “I’m lost; I don’t know what I’m going to do—please come help me!” Her voice’s frantic tone matched her evident movement; the urgency of her call was obvious. “Where are you? What do you need?” I answered like I would’ve if she was mine again—the exact response she probably expected. It was two years since I had spoken with her last—like a recovering cocaine addict in a strip club, I faced an inevitable relapse. Her place in my heart didn’t fade; I found longing-love’s force behind actions much stronger than content-love’s. Two weeks after I had left Ruby, I realized I would never be able to live without her. But by then, she met him, and I never received a call back. I hoped hearing from her would release my mind, but with her on the other line, I felt more trapped than before. My heart’s devotion belonged to her. I soothed my loneliness with an abundance of cases at work. I failed to forget the days when she was mine. “Henry isn’t breathing—I’m at my house. Please-pleaseplease come quick.” I cleared my throat to ensure my voice was comforting, “Everything will be okay. I’m on my way.” Click. My keys didn’t hang on the hook by the door. Where were my damn keys? I never took care of the little things; she would know where my keys were. I ran to my bedroom for the spare before rushing to the car. Take the first exit on the roundabout and then a quick right on Brandywine Rd. Getting lost on the route was second nature. Thoughts labeled Ruby in my memory don’t expire, but memories of the lost only help you find the destination on occasion. Since she first moved into her grandparent’s old home, the neighborhood confused the hell out of me. “Umm, Babe—that’s your turn,” she’d say: her giggling rooted in her stomach. I would take notice of the driveways and mailboxes and slow down in time to turn onto the gravel road— the quickest route after missing the preliminary turn. For two years, I told myself I’d get it right on the day she called—only if right meant the same and not correct. I pulled in the driveway and found Ruby pacing the length of her porch. I still felt the engine’s vibration in the steering wheel, but she stood outside my door, catching her breath—the sobbing and pacing blamed for stealing it. She threw her arms around my neck as I stepped into the cold fall night; neither of us said a word. She held her ear to my chest for long enough I believed she needed my body heat. The truth: she needed much more. My consciousness awoke when Ruby’s fingernails dug into my forearm; I became focused on my surroundings—pain brought my entire awareness into the moment. I took note of my complete shift in thoughts (the acknowledgment is worth revisiting) and focused on the situation at hand—Ruby. She forced me to forget my monopolized emotions: if I was the CEO yesterday, I fell to sanitary management when I heard her voice on the telephone. Ruby led me into the house; we walked through the foyer and into the dining room. The scene played out—as it did hours before—for my mind’s eye. What remained: her arms welted with bruises, the corners of her nose crusted with blood, her t-shirt drenched with snot and tears—the same one she held against me. The table lay on its edge; and her husband, Henry, lay next to the table; a bottle of Merlot—from his mother’s collection—shattered against his skull; the crimson wine, and the darker blood, infused into a puddle surrounding the body. His lungs lay forever motionless. That night, the nightmares began. His ghost haunted her peace. I handed her a glass of water from the bedside table and wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs—palming her face on each side—assuring I’d protect her. “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered between exaggerated low and high breaths. “Will you escape with me?” Her eyes fixated on my bedside table—my prescription pain and anxiety medicine, neat and out of sight. “Don’t think about the pills.” Her intentions screamed for help behind her quiet words. But if she found her wildest desires (without me) fulfilled, her house would remain the same. I taught her the art of imagination but didn’t finish; an abandoned project, I provoked her curiosity, broadening her weaknesses. “It’s his baby—I’ll never escape him,” she said. “What about the nightmares?” She had convinced herself, we hadn’t been together long enough for the baby to be mine. She’d rather kill them both than raise the bastard child. “Will you sail into the sunset with me?” I made the offer without consideration on details. When she was in a mood, I’d fire spitballs, hoping something would stick—draw her mind away from the drugs and the positive pregnancy test. My fantasy, unvisited for years, woken by her touch—to disappear in the islands—she showed little to no interest, before. But, the spitball stuck. Could we really disappear? The firm agreed to name me the youngest partner, and she recently opened a hair salon by herself. What about our families, our friends? “You don’t mean—you would disappear, for me. Do you? You’d leave your firm for me? your mother? for me? and your other girlfriends?” With a clear mind, she will remember—she is in charge. She fell to her back on the mattress (from her knees), her arms stretched out to the side—a glimpse of a smile appeared. “Ruby—I’ll tell you again. I am here now,” I said. “I have you—my imagination woke up—and you’re game on the boat idea.” My lifelong dream felt more plausible than making it another month at my new job; I hadn’t gone in since the promotion. “I’ll call my brother,” I continued. “He’ll be the person I tell and will help load the boat; tell one person—who you trust.” With more energy than my body felt in years, my feet hit the floor beside the bed. “Wait!” she said. After clearing the hair from my face, she held my cheek and stared into my eyes. Tears rolled past the corners of her mouth; a soft smile sprouted as they did before; I was lost. “You’ve saved me,” she whispered though a kiss against my forehead. Ruby’s eyes were the depths of the Caribbean Sea: a mixture of blues, greens, and turquoises, swirling into a storm. With her eyes—I am home. Why does home seem so far away? Who would guess the outcome of our discussion—Ruby found her peace, and my dreams became my reality. The sea stretched around the sun, and the day’s live action art show was under way. “Do you realize today’s significance?” Ruby pondered. A blood-red horizon painted the wake of the sun’s energy behind her, reflecting her hair’s shine to those looking. “It’s March—I think.” I said, allowing my consciousness to roam the cove, rooting my thoughts in the scenery. “The days blur together, don’t they?” Bahama Mama quenched my thirst as my attention turned back to Ruby. “We really did it,” I said. “You didn’t believe me—here we are.” “No Captain—March 10th—it’s our anniversary,” she said and smiled a portrait perfect for my fancy. “Ruby—my love, every day is worth celebrating, here.” My mind raced for her meaning, I gave in and kissed her—an anniversary would mean plenty of kissing. “Yes—but a year ago today, we rebirthed ourselves into this life.” She glanced into the vast night, “Anniversary is more euphoric than rebirthday.” Her attention became mine, “Do you think our death is official yet?” “If not, they gave up searching a long time ago,” I spoke with confidence. I lifted her above a wave; it crashed on my ankles, and I stole another kiss. “I mean, we held people’s interest this long—we could call it quits and go home.” Ruby pushed away from my direct contact: her gesture meant she wasn’t leaving any time soon. “I wonder how they wrote my obituary,” she said and chuckled; she loved being dead. “If I came back to life—hypothetically—could I complain over a shit-obituary.” “Why worry about it?” My philosophy was not to stress over the past. A wave splashed against my knees—willed by the force of dark mystery; we neither saw nor heard the powerful sea punch. Ruby found an excuse for closer proximity and wrapped her legs around my waist, her breasts cushioned each side of my face and my ears focused on her heartbeat as it sped up. “We are worlds away from our old lives—why provoke old nerves?” I said and paused. I enjoyed physical pain, but it seemed she preferred mental torture. “The only relevance of our past is how it explains our scars.” If her pain scarred—maybe she’d heal too. Ruby lowered to dry sand beside me and whispered, “Is it not time to head back to the boat?” The ice rattled against the bottom of her glass. Our handmade dock tucked Boat Time into the inside third of the bay. Most (if not all) sloops drafted deeper than Thomas’ old vessel. We crept toward the dock, but she sprinted onward alone. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” she hollered and disappeared into the lower cabin of the boat. A pungent aroma flowed from the sloop and found my nostrils on the beach: my favorite. “I learned how to roll while you napped earlier—rather taught myself.” She laid nude in bed, toking a delicately rolled joint. Flames danced down the pearled paper. “Am I dreaming?” With her body on display, I noticed her finger most, seducing my consciousness. Has there ever been a more pleasing sight? Calm my mind—claim my heart. My shorts inched up my thighs as I eased beside the bed and stood tall over her. Ruby dragged long and slow from the spliff as she came to her knees on the bed, she tightened my necklace around my throat and brought me to her level and kissed me; the smoke danced with the rhythm of our tongues. Exhaling, I reached out for the joint, I took a quick hit, and focused on my real treat. Ruby’s hips arched as I kissed her inner thighs. She tangled her fingers through my hair and wrapped her legs around my ears. I continued up her body, in between her breasts, and up the side of her neck. “You don’t know me,” she said and giggled as I bit her spot—just below her left ear. I laid back for my favorite dream; she knew me better than any girl did. When she wanted, she rocked my world quicker than I could myself. Time itself froze as her breathing slowed. Proper love making remained my memory of life’s opportunities. The sky hatch leaked rays of moonlight into the cabin and I watched Ruby sleep. I wanted to sleep beside her; but in the cove, I slept in my hammock during daylight. Before now, her body’s perfect (innocent) beauty as her stomach filled and deflated had never occurred to me. I drifted along in my mind. Once a week, I made the nine and a half kilometers trek to restock the cabinets. After three and a half hours of sleep, the journey began. Ruby would wake up before I returned. The mental list of our essentials made me chuckle; we recently became reliant on the island’s and sea’s fresh food; my trip was to Jack’s Rum Shack. “Morning Jack,” I said to the old man, as he fumbled his keys at the door of the shop, on my arrival. “How’s the week been?” I forgot the name of the day of the week, but on the seventh day, Jack opened his shop an hour early, for me. “Still kickin’,” Jack said, as he walked behind the counter to unlock the liquor cabinet, “Your usual?” “Surprise me.” I went to the Rum Shack for the first time, a year ago—I never shared my story with Jack, but he kept a hush deal between us. “My three best and a cherry on top.” Jack said and lifted the prepackaged box from beneath the counter. “For you, my man.” He accepted my money, and I left for the cove. Jack’s meaning was ambiguous, but the man was too innocent to bother me. Jack hooked me up with rum and reefer, but our relationship stopped there. His intentions seemed true; he looked after his own business and hoping to enjoy his remaining days in peace. Ruby and I made a point to remove ourselves from civilization on the island, and Jack respected our wish. I approached the trail’s final moiety—a bird cut in front of my eyesight. I felt the breeze lift off its wings. I want to fly far, far away, like a bird. Can’t we just disappear? We laid together as dawn broke, just over a year ago. She rested her head against my chest; my hands glided along her skin, her strawberry-blonde hair fell beside my head. Tears shed the night before, dried on her cheeks. Her eyes pled with me for us to leave. “What if we froze time? Just us, forever?” she said, running her fingers over the sailboat charm on my necklace. “You belong in the Caribbean—you know it.” She gazed deep into my eyes, “You belong with me—you know it.” She made valid points. I grew up on the water, and it drove me insane: to wake up in the morning, without the melodies of crashing waves. Like the waves—without Ruby I feel a deep longing; loneliness takes over my heart. In a room of friends, I am misunderstood unless she understands me. I do belong with her. “What about our lives here? The people who love us? Our jobs? Responsibilities?” The pros and cons ran through my conscious mind. She was scared beyond my comprehension about her court date in a month. I knew her lawyer; she wasn’t in danger of getting into any trouble. “When we die: how long before we are forgotten forever?” When the sun rose above the trees' peaks, Ruby resembled an angel where she sat, perched on my lap. The sun's glare found its way past her grin, to the back of my skull. My eyes adjusted—my heart fluttered. The cove and the love of my life bathed nude on the bow of my boat. Paradise—my dream. Ruby peaked from beneath the brim of her sunhat as the boat rocked, adjusting to my weight. My cheeks warmed under the sun as I walked forward on the boat. Ruby greeted my forehead with love. “I know you are tired,” she said, then paused to take a mental note of what my eyes reflected in the moment, “Rest easy Captain, I’ll fix lunch.” I’ll rest my eyes for a moment—I identified the clouds as characters and shapes, passing to tell a story only they knew. I didn’t close my eyes, but the clouds overtook me: white walls surrounded my every side. Tap—tap—tap— Where’s Ruby with my lunch?