We promise that we'll stop this theme of rhyming headings. Probably some time after twelve. Then you get into the teens, and they end with the same syllable. Then we're into the 20s and so on, and those are just repeats of the first ten as far as rhyming is concerned.
We're moving into fall, a very special time in New England. A time when the world around us noticeably, vibrantly and beautifully begins to change and shut down. Things cool, slow, and retreat. It sure does make one think. And write. So, send us what you're writing. We'd love to read it.
This week, we have a story by Sarah Banse. Sarah is a lawyer-turned-writer. Her essays and poetry have appeared in The Boston Globe, Motherverse Magazine and The Wayland Town Crier. She lives in Wayland, MA, with her husband, four children and giant dog.
Read on, readers.
Paradise Lost
I maneuvered the one lane, mountainous roads like a local and sped carelessly through the unlit island terrain. The Mini Moke was rusted through at the floorboards. Although you needed a key to start it, the key was not necessary to run it. I often amused my passengers by pulling out the key as we drove.
Tonight I drove William, my Rastafarian-bartender-boyfriend. I met William at Gingy’s BBQ, a shack on the beach that served the best conch fritters and coldest Caribe beer on the island. William had seen the key trick too many times to be entertained by it. We made our way from the beach up into the rain forest to visit a friend. The sound of goats mewing gave way to the screech of small monkeys and low flying bats. I didn’t mind the monkeys, but the bats made me quiver. William laughed at me every time I flinched and ducked my head in foolish attempts to avoid them.
One headlight on the car was out. That, together with the many beers and rum punches I had consumed while I waited for William did not help my depth perception. William wanted to drive, but flushed with booze and bravado, I insisted.
I came to visit the island two years ago for a one-week vacation with my friend Ellen and never left. My parents had a friend, Rita from Philly, who had dropped out of Main Line society to run an inn on the tiny island. Rita didn’t own the property but managed a beautiful old sugar plantation. She allowed Ellen and me to stay the week for free if we helped out around the place and brought her a stack of books she requested. Rita said the only thing she missed about Philadelphia was the public library. She hungered for books of her own choosing. She read every book her guests left behind regardless of genre or topic. Any time she knew someone coming from the states, she had a list of books from old New York Times book reviews and asked them to bring them to her. When we landed at the tiny island airport and took a cab up to the Hermitage Plantation, I knew I would never leave.
William and I drove on. He clutched the door handle as I babbled on about what he should be doing with his life. We met the first week I arrived. Ellen and I plopped ourselves down at his bar one afternoon and stayed until closing. He drove us back to the Hermitage after last call. Ellen got out of his car and stumbled back to our room. William and I stayed in his Toyota Corolla and made out over the stick shift. A few hours later he convinced me to go back to his place. I stayed with him for the remainder of the week. Ellen left the island on Sunday pissed and without me. I hadn’t talked to her since.
In all my life, I’ve never had a romantic relationship last past the three-month mark. They generally ended with my so-called boyfriend saying I was a pain in the ass, or, the worst one yet, that I reminded him of his mother and he hated his mother. William didn’t seem to mind my clinginess, or my know-it-all attitude or even the fact that I was a raging alcoholic. I amused him. He just watched and let me play out my life as if an actor on the stage. Maybe this was because he was stoned all the time, or because the sex was good. Whatever it was, it seemed to work.
We rounded a blind corner, when another car headed towards us. In my two years on the island, I had never seen another car on that corner. The mountain loomed on the right and a cliff on our left. I swerved to the right and crashed into a large boulder. My face smashed into the steering wheel.
I woke still in the car, covered in vomit. I couldn’t tell how long I had been there. There was no sign of the other car or William. I called to him but heard no answer. I put my hand to my face and fingered the blood at my nose, cheek and mouth. I could only open one eye and my lip was swollen. I tried to get out of the car. The moonless night offered no light. The acrid scent of burning rubber led me to the cliff on hands and knees. I looked over the edge and saw a small flame and a car at the base of the cliff. I crawled back to the Mini Moke all the while yelling for William. I felt as if I screamed his name, my throat hoarse from the effort, but my calls were little more than a whisper. I crawled into the car’s backseat and found a sandy old beach blanket that I used to cover myself. I slept despite the blood, vomit and sand.
I woke again at daybreak, unsure where I was. I groaned just to open my eyes. I knew my body was in one piece because everything hurt. I lay on the back seat rolled in a ball. When I could open my eyes, I saw my knees bloody, scraped and embedded with small pebbles. I tried to push myself up to a sitting position, but I couldn’t put weight on my wrist. It hurt to breathe. I put my head back down and shut my eyes and tried to figure things out. I drifted to sleep for only a moment, but then shot bolt upright. I tried to scream but could only mouth the word, “William.”
Tears streaked my face. I looked down and realized that my hand was clutched in a fist. The joints ached from squeezing so tight. I slowly opened my hand, one finger at a time, and realized that I was grasping the plastic Jesus that usually adorned the dashboard of my car. I knew he was gone.
