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| Paula Ray Muted Yellow A man identified as mute sits in his wheelchair, slumped beneath the weight of ennui, grey eyes squinting to read palms--driftwood, arthritic fingers, twisted and stiff. I watch him from the nurse’s station--eyes staring through glass. I imagine myself to be a scientist with microscope. He is a living organism, in theory. I’m a student of life.
Upon hearing the crescendo of the nightly slipper-shuffler‘s stampede, his head turns toward the approaching crowd. With horror smeared across his face, he gawks at the other patients. It’s as if he’s viewing zombies, living dead, coming to feed in the dining hall--where big band swing is piped in through the ceiling as a form of laughing gas, something to ease the pain of dining without teeth or full use of one’s hands and needing a bib to catch the inevitable dribble of blender-meals. He uses his thick yellow-clawed bare toes to drag-n-roll his wheelchair toward the main entrance--moving against traffic: a hump- backed salmon with pink bald head struggling up stream to spawn or die. His energy drains from his frail body--determined to revisit Spring. I don‘t attempt to stop him, he always runs out of go-juice before he reaches the dead bolt--for which he has no key. Yes, I sit in my portable theater seat-- a spectator watching the game this man plays most every night. Some may think it cruel of me to observe this ritual without intercepting the harsh reality--he can’t leave, but I prefer to think of myself as being kind--refusing to rip that thread of hope from his tattered spirit, already unraveling from neglect.
“Where do you think you’re headed?” a dedicated orderly questions him with a smile and spins him around for a joy ride (the man does not appear amused). “The dining room’s this way.” The mute clamps his eyes closed. He resembles a scared child forced into a haunted house where fake ghosts rattle their cages and chains--the sounds of spoons hitting the sides of glasses while stirring tea, forks and knives dropping onto the floor, the crash of trays too heavy for the weak to carry--intensifies as he is thrust into the mouth of the beast: Autumn View‘s cafeteria.
As the tires of the chair bump over the wooden threshold, a red leather-bound book falls from the ripped pocket of his robe. The book-cover is worn, the string that holds it closed is frayed on the ends--like his hair: white and frazzled. I resist the impulse to rush over and pick up the book for him--anchoring myself, gripping the armrests. I watch him stretch his arm out--point a long grim-reaper finger down at the escaped manuscript. The orderly kicks the notebook out of the way like a mistreated lazy old dog blocking the doorway. The mystery man deflates in surrender. I can almost hear air hiss from his lungs in an exasperated sigh.
Once the author has been pushed out of sight , I scurry to the hallway, scoop up the artifact, and use frantic fingers to untie the words in bondage. The words are handwritten, in a foreign tongue I can not decipher, but the way the letters lean and swirl on the yellow page reminds me of a figure skater. How his pen must have been a blade on the ice of the blank page awaiting his etchings. I carry the notebook back to the nurse’s station and set it by the computer, for break time, when I can type in the alien words and see if the computer can generate a translation or at least identify the language.
Sure enough, after typing in the title on the first page--the language has been identified as Polish. This is good news, my neighbor’s grandmother is from Poland. I place my new found treasure in a zip-lock bag and carefully put it in my bag. After the break, I decide to pay the mysterious writer a visit.
His room is the only room on the hall without family photos, flowers by the bed, cards propped up in the window sill. There is a sterile, hollowness, as if it is a tomb. I tip-toe inside and he looks up at me from his recliner, draped in a pale blue blanket. I see a question in his eyes. I know what he wants, but I pretend to just be making the rounds.
“Hi there, I see you are already snuggled up in your favorite chair. That’s good.” I put a pad and pencil in his hands and motion that I’d like for him to try to write something. He glares at me and throws them both to the floor in anger, then snaps his head toward the window overlooking the parking lot. This is a signal I take to mean, “you are dismissed.” I leave.
The next day, I visit my neighbor and show her the notebook. She smiles and delicately opens it and looks through its contents. She says, “Oh, these are lovely poems, but I can’t quite make everything out. I’ll take it to my grandmother and she’ll be able to read it to us. Let’s go tomorrow. She’d love to have you visit. She gets so few visitors these days. It will do her good.”
I agree and after sharing a cup of coffee and polite conversation with my neighbor, I return home and prepare for my afternoon shift at the nursing home. Before I have a chance to get dressed, I get a call from work.
“You need to come in early today, one of the patients is missing and they’ve sent Jerry and Faith to help the police look for him.”
“Who is missing?”
“That man in room 142, the mute guy. I don‘t know his name.”
My heart leaps into my throat. He can’t disappear now, not when I’m so close to finding out who he is. Why didn’t the police send his notebook off to be translated earlier? Why has it taken years before anyone, including myself, took the time to find out what was written in that tattered red notebook? I feel as if I’ve let the man down.
“No, not him! I’ll be in as quick as I can, Deb. Let Thelma know I’m on my way.”
I get to work and tongues are wagging, the escaped patient has caused quite a stir. There is a rumor he put tape on the door plate when no one was looking , then when the halls were clear, he made his escape. The other patients are scheming and the head nurse is in a panic.
That night, the man is not found. Most of the patients are given sedatives to calm them down enough to sleep and extra security is put in place at the entrance and exit. The loving family members of patients call and drop by to make sure everything is safe. At the end of the evening, I go home exhausted and unusually sad.
The following morning, I go with my neighbor to visit her grandmother in a different nursing home on the outskirts of town. I am anxious to see what is in that book. I hope the old woman’s eyes are strong enough to read it, some of the pages have faded.
My neighbor and I chat in the car on the way over and I tell her about the man’s escape. She detects my sadness and tries to offer comforting words to ease my tension. When we get to her grandmother’s, she assures me the notebook will find a voice and it will help to locate the man.
After a brief visit with her grandmother, she gives the old woman the notebook and the woman opens it and examines it carefully, then turns to page one and begins to translate aloud:
My Love,
Bleak is this horizon laid across my path, pounded into the soil of my father
by angry hooves of scavengers on horseback.
Promise is spat in the face of the humble men who ask not for proof.
Let my roots trip the feet of the invaders; they swarm the hill insect-black,
a murder of crows; they caw and I bury my traps in seed of knowledge
hidden between poems of love for you, my shelter.
Dawn will wrap you with its yellow, plucked from petals of a sleeping sun
and I will kiss the dew before its pearls adorn the satin of your pillow cheek.
I have not abandoned you, this night, I’ve poured the wealth of my soul
into the velvet purse of your mouth, it is yours to spend as you wish, you own me.
I could not bear to see farewell darken your eyes with storm clouds
or hear the thunder of your goodbye, I am coward when faced with this one battle..
I am traveling the stream where your scent dances on the surface: a dragonfly
It will lead me to the safe harbor, where we will build our home,
A sturdy nest for the children blessed to call you mother.
I will send for you by way of your brother, for now, tell no one you know my name.
It is a death sentence of syllables you are never to speak.
I shall remain nameless and you will go back to your father
‘til the security of travel has been established, you are far too valuable
to risk, my love, you are my treasure, my one golden truth.
All that I am
(Page 2)
My Love,
Over the mountain I must climb, it will take a winter’s length.
One day, I will present these words to you as proof,
you were always in my thoughts. The morning I left you
by the water’s edge, as we made our way to freedom,
I left you because I was afraid you would not survive
the journey I face today. I left because I knew your life would be
sacrificed for being in my company.
I look at this mountain, I must ascend, and it humbles me.
I fear I may not be strong enough to overcome such a monster.
There are jagged edges on all sides visible and at the tip a dagger
of ice. I know I was right to leave you on the soft bank,
wrapped in the sunshine blanket still warm from our love making.
It is the memory of that blanket that will give me the strength
to survive this brutal cold. I only pray that memory
will survive in your heart and no one claims you as his own
before I’m able to send for you.
If another man takes you as his wife and you build a family,
I will be happy even then, that you are safe. My beautiful,
forgive me for writing that poem, the words that cursed our life.
Words haunt my nights. I’ll never speak or write to anyone again,
until I know you are safe. This notebook will be the only place I have a voice.
* * *
The old woman looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes, glossy with tears. “There is more, but I do not wish to read more now.”
“Thank you. It is okay. We can continue another day.”
“Where is the man who wrote this?”
“He was in the nursing home where I worked, but he escaped last night. I was hoping the contents of this notebook would help us find him.”
“If he climbed a mountain, and escaped confinement, perhaps he deserves his freedom.”
“Yes, perhaps he does.”
The woman pulled the tattered yellow blanket around herself and began to cry.
“Grandmother, did you know this man?”
The old woman looked at her granddaughter, “He was a legend. Everyone in our village knew the great writer. Some knew him better than others, but his words touched us all.”
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| Paula Ray is a woodwind specialist from Wilmington, North Carolina where she teaches band, gigs about town on her saxophone and clarinet, and writes poetry as well as fiction. Her work has appeared in elimae, Word Riot, Pequin, DOGZPLOT, decomP, Oak Bend Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, Gloom Cupboard, and several other small press publications. For more information about Paula, visit her blog. Danse Macabre welcomes Paula's ink energy to our pages. | |
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