Her Thirties Part 97
Later that night back in the apartment, I was once again staring out my window at the cityscape—the jumble of lights I had come to love which now sheltered a sinister enemy.
There were others out there too—good guys like Abe and Cindy and Erin—but I knew, the larger the city grew, the more dangerous a place it would become.
I felt myself yearning for the old Toronto of the Thirties—for a simpler time—a gentler era. Was it ever like that, or was that too just a dream, a chimera, with the shadows painted out?
Harry Greenspan and Ella were from that era—living relics of another time—a time when people had to be content with less and take delight in ordinary pleasures.
I smiled at the memory of Harry’s gravelly voice on the phone, “Euchre and spending a night with Ella? Tell her I’ll be there with bells on. And don’t you go picking me up either—I’ll take a cab.”
It would be fun to spend the night with them—listening to them reminisce. When the two of them got going, they seemed to summon up the past, conjure up not only the details, but also the very spirit of the times.
It wasn’t the best of circumstances, it was far from ideal, but the alternative was totally unthinkable—a life without Marilyn, would be no life at all.
I went to sleep with her face brightening the darkness—I pictured her before me—moonlit hair, moistening lips and silky skin.
I was in the midst of the sweetest dream—the places, the people, all so familiar. I was slowly waking, but half-asleep, trying to prolong the experience—the atmosphere, the feeling so warm and blissful.
Suddenly, the staccato beeping of the clock radio dispersed the mist and I was fumbling and cursing, groping for the pause button.
Damn! Why didn’t I shut off the alarm?
I glanced at the luminous blue digits of the display: 7:00 A.M. I groaned, turned over, and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
I strained to recall the fleeting impressions before they melted away.
Marilyn and I were walking through a rainy mist. It was at night in an old part of the city. There were stone houses—manses, really—on either side of the street, and huge wide-trunked trees.
We had been somewhere—a party perhaps. We were walking, blissfully enjoying the night, savoring the after-glow of being with good friends.
She was laughing and teasing, and as we walked beneath a street lamp’s inverted cone of light, I caught her by the waist, pulled her close and kissed her.
Raindrops sparkled in her hair and there was a rainbow glow around the streetlamp.
The scene was vaguely reminiscent of an amalgam of images—black and white photographs of misty Parisian park scenes and Van Gogh paintings and old Thirties films of New York.
We were approaching a pathway when the clock radio alarm went off.
I turned back onto my side, punched the pillow, and snuggled back under the covers. Maybe, I could go back—but try as I might, I merely ended up spending the next few hours in a fitful sleep.
I stubbornly stayed in bed until ten, but to no avail—the magic was gone. I finally got up, turned on the coffee maker and headed for the shower.
When I toweled off and got dressed, I went back into the kitchen, toasted a whole-wheat crumpet and sat down at the table with my coffee.
My weekend habit was to crack open my laptop and read the Toronto Star on-line while I ate breakfast.
I read the headlines and an article about a Good Friday re-enactment of the Crucifixion to take place later in the streets of Little Italy. Then, I read my horoscope.
I was born on December 20th, which made me a Sagittarius. I munched my crumpet and read:
A meeting or discussion might force you to do some searching in your memory to see if you have missed someone’s warnings. Know that everything will pass. Do not forget a child or loved one. Tonight: Relish the change of pace.
Hmmm, there were some dark hints and foreboding warnings, along with a benign observation worthy of George Harrison—everything will pass.
Yeah, that seems about right—provided, of course, that Death takes a holiday and Charlie stays put or gets drunk.
The thought seemed bleak even for me.
There is nothing worse than being awakened during a good dream! Poor Scott. I hope he doesn't pay to much attention to that silly horoscope. It will definitely ruin his fun plans for the evening Abe will be watching over him. Fore shadowing a bit of danger it seems.
yes, exactly! Foreshadowing can be more than a tool for creating suspense - it can go to the heart of a character's deepest needs and fears
Scott is somewhat superstitious ... I maintain easy to fool and manipulate. So earnest, superstitious maybe about the wrong things and putting his faith odd, immaterial things. He really is an interesting character study.
He is unique...but then again, so is the situation in which he finds himself
very:)
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