by Peter Conrad
Everything I thought I knew has changed: the coal mine is closing, and today is the last for Rob. He is laid off permanently. We are getting a good price for the house as a part of the settlement. We must be out in a month. It’s too fast, I am still held by illusions I have had for a long time that helped me cope with the belief I would be here for life.
The baby is asleep now. She has had a hard time sleeping lately. I picked her up and held her tiny body. She’s so dependent on me. No one has been dependent on me before.
I have been free, no, I’ve been too dependent on others to be free. I have always lived for the moment. I have never planned or thought of the future. I open the top drawer again. It has been a while since I opened it. The pain, then the hospital. From the hospital, home, to feedings, diapers, routines, and him …
How often have I opened this drawer? These panties—white, black, and pink ones. The small, red hearts. They are like the ones I had when I was a little girl. They were little flowers then. Rob likes these pink ones. He said they were right for me.
How young was I? This locket was such a treasure. Made of real silver, they said. It was shiny then. But real silver fades. This is silver too, this old pocket watch. Everything about it is heavy. It was grandpa’s. He had wanted me to have it—why I don’t know. It measures time that is being lost when it is wound up.
His watch stopped measuring time long ago. I haven’t wound it since the day after I received it. I wound it then to see if it worked. I’m winding it now. It works. I must measure time from now on because I’m not going to waste any more. I picked up a pamphlet that I got from Ed’s travel agency. Paris is really something. “La France et les touristes,” says the pamphlet. The whole city looks like an antique. Even that tall tower—what do they call it? I can’t remember. People are rushing around. The streets are full of small cars.
I will sit down here at this street cafe. The tables are small. So are the chairs. People are still moving along in all directions. I sit and watch as Paris rushes around me.
The pamphlet falls to the bottom of the box I am packing.
The mine has always been here—or should I say, I have never left this place, with its mine. My father was a miner. He always hoped to be a foreman, but he got sick and died. My husband, Rob, was a miner until the world changed that, no, the environment changed who we were.
Ed was always different from the rest of us. The rest of the boys at school were the sons of miners and they knew they would go underground when they were older. Ed was the son of the general store owner. Would he own and run the town store? Sure—it would be a start for him, but everyone knew he would do something else.
He did. First, he started a small sports store. Then his travel agency opened. People scoffed—Ed’s crazy. The people in a small mining town wouldn’t need that place. Ed kept going—he knew that times were improving. Foremen, ranchers, and farmers in the area kept the agency going.
I always wondered how he dressed when he did his own travelling, around town, Ed wore a red and green plaid shirt, the kind cowboys wear. He always had a black Jacket and Jeans on. It all seemed right for him and his unkempt, short blond hair.
He would walk from the general store to his sports store to his travel agency; always smoking cigarettes like a newspaper man. He always had a presence about him. But he was not big like Rob.
Ed was different and he was not liked around town because of that. I didn’t even consider him when I was young. He would be the only one that would not be in the mine. Then I wanted him because he is different.
Rob’s weight excited me when we were first married. His hard quick actions were what I wanted. He would force his way in.
I imagined Ed would not be like that. He would be slower. Easier. My movements would be a part of it. We would be one in a silky smoothness. A part of one being. We would slip easily together.
In my imagination it does not happen. We could not be together here. Ed is out of place in this town. Maybe that is why he is one of the biggest users of his travel agency. No, we could not be together in this town. Myself, in these ragged jeans and cotton shirts? No, I would be far away and free. A place that we would arrive at after a trip on a jet. A place we would be dropped into from the clouds, not from this small mining town, but from the sky.
These silly sunglasses fit. I look different in them now. Look at myself in the mirror. Where did I get them?
Oh, yes that high school play. I always wished I was an actress. I could do some theater, then some film. These glasses were one of the props. I see myself in a film about making a movie …
“Alright, Lisa gets a little shade. You can take those glasses off. We must move the cameras and lights for the next shot.”
“Okay,” I say, as I move away from the set. I go to the trailers. The sun has been hot, and the lights have only made the heat worse. The makeup feels bad too.
“Tom! Get those gaffers down here. We need this set of lights moved first. Ed, bring a grip—” I wonder how long this change is going to take?
Set the key, then the kickers. Bring up that kicker and move more fillers over there— sorry Lisa, we must get the lights right. Turn a little to the right. Thank you.
Bring that Fresnel spotlight and add—
So many detailed problems. I really should go back to the theater; the set and stage are predictable. This is where the money is. The script is typical, a woman leads an average life—good childhood and up-bringing. She goes to the right school she has the right friends. Meets a man, gets in trouble. They marry. They hate each other. They are both trapped. Cliché after cliché. Prime time television wants it, so here I am. But, as soon as this is completed, I’ll have my money and be free.
The sunglasses are set in the box by the pamphlet.
Look at this map of London. I got it at Ed’s travel agency. Why would Lisa want such a thing? he would ask himself. I don’t care what he thinks about me, asking for maps like these. I don’t care what they say about me in this town. These things are a part of me. I needed them …
Standing on Westminster Bridge. The House of Parliament looks ancient—the towers reaching high into the air. Each tower is peaked with sharp points. Long ragged walls—stone
cliffs.
“Where shall we go today?” I ask.
“Wherever our feet take us. We can find some small café and forget all the things we want,” he says. I look at his neatly kept blonde hair. He wears a purple shirt and a narrow black leather tie. The tie matches his black leather jacket. He is wearing jeans—most would say a bit too tight, but I like them. They seem correct.
“London, what do you offer us today?” he says as he gazes about. “Well, which way, my lady.” I point toward Parliament. He pulls me close, and we walk that way.
“Careful now,” he says. “The cars here don’t care about you. It’s not like Canada, you know. Here we go,” he says as he pulls me into the street quickly. “Run!” We ran as a car rushed by behind us.
As we walk through the huge doors, I begin to feel small. The roof of the Abbey seems to arch into the sky. The whole wall is glass of all colors. They form pictures of people and animals. There is chamber after chamber. The walls are high all around. Small square openings in these chambers let light form patterns on the floor. We walk from hall to hall. Our footsteps echo before us and after us.
He keeps going—he is assured. He must know his way around, or is it that he is free?
We walk along crowded streets. The people seem to be in such a hurry. The small cars rush along narrow streets and honk at other cars.
We move along in St. James’ Park. The trees and grass make it a refreshing place. It is like a meadow in the city.
“That is the National Gallery,” he announces as we move close to a huge building. “Shall we go in?” I shrug—what is in it? “Of course not. It will take several days of exploring. On we go then. We shall go to Piccadilly.”
“Is that near Piccadilly Circus?” I ask. He looks at me—then laughs. Gripping me more firmly he says, “Off we go then—” here we are—it is exciting. We finally get to the concrete island at the Centre. That silly looking two-layer buses shaking and trembling their way around the circle.
Men with open booths are selling newspapers, candy, cigarettes, and cigars. The neon lights flash—children run about.
“We shall have to find something to do tonight,” he announces as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He puts one in his mouth and lights it. “What shall it be?”
I shrug.
“We will make our way up Salisbury avenue. Then down Charing Cross Road to
Leicester Square. Then up to Drury Lane. We can check the theaters and cinemas. I know a
marvelous little place to eat. Off we go then—”
I folded the map of London quickly. The edges of it are worn out. The surfaces are slightly soiled. On the front of the map is a perfect picture. A man and his wife in London getting directions from a bobby. Two children are feeding the birds.
The map is placed in the box with my old illusions. I would feel uncomfortable running across the roads dodging cars and trucks. I like the predictability of a smaller community, as that’s all I know.
Rob was never like that. He has black hair and brown eyes. He wears tattered and dirty clothes most of the time. He is short and his arms and legs are heavy. I liked that when we got married. He made me feel small and feminine.
The jet rises from the black runway. I am pushed back Into the seat. Taking time off is not a sensation of freedom at all. It exerts pressure on me. It seems to be a great force pressing me back into the seat, leaving me suspended and motionless for a while.
I am going to Italy. The place where there are great sights. The stone pillars that still stand and statues that show the great people of the old world. I am a time traveler for a moment as I walk in the ruins of Rome.
I feel beautiful in the white dress I’m wearing. The café I found is magnificent: wine. Beef a L’Italien, and cheese.
Beef a L’Italien, how often have I tried to make things like that for Rob? The recipes never seem to work. Rob never seemed to like the idea of trying new things. What’s all this fancy stuff for anyway? he would ask. Food is food, would be his reply to my efforts. I will not rob myself of any more time.
The house shudders like that every time he comes in. He’s home from the coal mine. Has that much time passed?
I will pack a few more things for myself and the baby. I will take this box of promises with me when I get on the morning bus.
“Hey, where are you?” he called.
I rush out of the bedroom, and Rob looks happy.
“I’ve got the paperwork from the mine. I was given a severance payment; it’s bigger than I thought.”
“This is all happening too fast,” I said.
“I never thought we would get out of this small town or the mine.”
“I thought you wanted to stay here.”
“I am in the training program with that grant. I’ll see the sun during the day,” he said as he pulled Lisa close and hugged her.
In a few days She would be watching the stores and houses of the small-town pass into the rearview mirrors leaving the Ed’s imagined promises of escape to distant places. Their new path was a frightening, exciting path she had wanted all her life.
About the Author:
Peter Conrad’s work was a winner of the My Dream Writing Contest 2024 and appeared in Wingless Dreamer Publisher’s 2024 anthology “Summer Fireflies 2”. His work appears in the Quillkeepers, Folklore, Half and One, and The Prairie Journal. Peter Conrad had two short stories broadcast on CBC radio. He published articles and lectures in Art History for the Art Institute Online. He has the nonfiction titles Training for Victory and Training Aces as well as creative nonfiction title Canadian Wartime Prison Escapes published. Peter graduated from the University of Saskatchewan with his Bachelor of Education and a MA.