Lovely Summer Smoke Deluged by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 1

”Twenty-first century.

No chivalry involved.

No Bushido.”

Patti Smith, from the song “Radio Baghdad” on her 2004

“Trampin’” CD.

After attending the theatre, they went to her apartment for a nightcap. While drinking their second glasses of chardonnay they instinctively embraced.

He dryly said; “This was our third date, the usual time sex takes place.”

Her soft body became stiff as his and she broke away, saying; “How utterly romantic. ................... Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?”

His silence reflected his inability to deal with sarcasm not his own.

She still felt playful, but not in the same manner and said; “My mood has now changed to your lackluster rationalism.

So, three is the correct number?”

“Oh, don’t be difficult. That has been my experience.”

“Charming. Tell me. Can the number ever be four?”

“......................................”

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“Or one? Or infinity? Or none of the above? Please enlighten me. It’s only fair that I understand the rules of the game as you see it.”

“Since you choose to get finicky; what on earth did you mean by ‘mood’?”

Those who deserve the most sympathy are those who never request it. If the preceding conversation has piqued your interest, or if you’re still enthralled by the banal, played out, double binds of conservatism I’d strongly suggest that you stop reading right here, as it has no relationship whatsoever to this book. In that regard suffice to say;

“Darkness at the break of noon

Shadows even a silver spoon,

A handmade blade, the child’s balloon Eclipses both the sun and moon.

But, understand you know too soon There’s no sense in trying.”

Bob Dylan, from the song “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”

on the “Bringing It All Back Home” CD. Vinyl version first issued in 1965.

The brutal winter snow pelts the two north facing double-hung, floor to ceiling picture windows of my preferred writing

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room, but has thus far left the two facing east unscathed.

Driven by a blustering northern wind the insistent tiny barrage of indifferent and unique shells melt against the heated glass, and the result runs in small irregular streams to the pane.

There it patiently waits and slowly tries to work its way inside, doing its relentless worst to infest the warm safety of my long term sanctuary, attempting to gain my confidence by satirizing water. I hope for a return of the sun before the trickster achieves dubious glory through accomplishing the inevitable. I feel as if I am under attack by a camouflaged sky which one-sidedly offers no discernible target.

I sit on a mahogany Queen Anne armchair, comfortably leaning back, lost in my window view of the accumulated mountain snow, creating cold cream wreaths where purple proudly prevailed in warmer times. I have no idea what to type into the laptop which is motionless on a righted tilt-top table in front of me.

I stare at what is already there, characterizing it like a critic devoid of vision. I have a vague feeling of word inadequacy. It doesn’t seem to be saying what I thought when I eagerly put down the words. Yet it doesn’t not say them either.

Perhaps that is the nature of words. Perhaps words not in my vocabulary are required. Editing efforts only produce increased confusion. I can put down words, but that won’t make them come.

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Only two weeks ago I thought it would be easy to tell my favorite story.

The two bookcases leaning against the white painted, stucco over stone, drafty walls provide my best defense against the harsh realities of winter. It prominently displays titles such as “Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle,” “The Great Gatsby” (which I despise) and “Alice in Wonderland.” In a corner the open kas exhibits my damaged stereo system and C-D’s of Patti Smith, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley. But today is not one for music. It might ruin the mood. Maybe tomorrow. Today they perform surrealistically by acting as a silent shield which surrounds my head with a heartfelt glow which almost compensates for the chill slowly permeating the rest of my temporary, decaying, incarceration carcass, which must now rely on sweaters and multiple sets of trousers.

It’s difficult for me to believe that the story is old, but my faulty sixty-five year old memory in consultation with the indisputable World Wildlife calendar insists on it. The oversized 2015 on top of the December leaf on veiled exhibit resides on the reverse side of an upper kitchen cabinet door. It looms over me more ominously than the nuzzling pair of snow leopards pictured. It scowls at me whenever I reach in for hot chocolate. Without having had the “benefit” of seeing the boxes and numbers I would be under the impression that the story took

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place yesterday or today, as everything exists in this moment in my mind. In my mind. I take the calendar off its rusted nail support and put it out the front door to battle the accumulated inch of snow. It seems fair.

So as not to appear demented to others I consider obtaining another calendar of a long past year which had the same date alignment. It couldn’t be very expensive and being unaware of the precise month and day raises suspicions of Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t want to fall prey to a checklist-armed Social Worker’s surprise visit and risk being declared unfit to take care of myself. I am not yet ready to sit in a wheelchair at a senior’s facility and make cheery chit-chat with the med nurse, whose drugs make no one feel the least bit intoxicated, as I watch other fossils spit out their teeth while attempting to joke about Viagra. It’s a very real dilemma, but I decide to gamble incarceration, rather than endure the possible tedious accusation of “descending into mere nostalgia,” said to be a mortal sin for a writer, as if anything written, re-written, edited, re-edited, re-written, printed, advertised and distributed has one iota of “immediacy.”

Its concealed prominence out of my house I try to think of my story. It haunts me in its demise, yet provides comfort in its thought. Perhaps making an account of it will shed light, or provide a new experience. I can’t remember the sequence of the

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events, save the first, and wonder if they had any order at all.

The subsequent, venomous disclosure and its resultant separation seem to have come from the undesirable aspect of chaos.

I realize that I persist in telling the long suffering reader another account of a writer’s difficulty in doing his chosen profession. Why should they have any interest? Turning the tables it would fascinate me as much as enduring a technician telling me the difficulties he faces in repairing my engine. Just fix it if you can! Just write it if you know how!

I remember Kale Hallinger conveying his recollection of the summer morning he was driven to his “new” Washington (though Washington is the legal name, this Washington is most often referred to as Long Valley, to differentiate itself from the two other state Washingtons’ residents consider to be of lesser quality), New Jersey home by a perfunctory, fiftyish, female social worker either with too many cases or with a secret desire to be in the races. As the beige, recent model SUV steamed up the gravel driveway Kale obtained his first view of the three story structure and thought it seemed most suitable for ghosts and demons. At the age of fourteen the long, light brown haired, tall and thin boy had a small collection of “mystery” comic books which told bizarre stories, one of which was fittingly titled “Forbidden Worlds.” He was immediately certain that this

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freshly white painted structure was the artist’s model, upon seeing the tower pierce the sky over the tri-level house. In an early demonstration of his fascination with the eclectic revivalism of the “Second Empire” style, he mumbled; “Very interesting,” inaudible under the air conditioner’s arctic wind.

He wondered who or what lived on top.

Like a typical American teenager in 1964 he had no knowledge of or interest in economics. Consequently he was unaware that his step-parents-to-be chose this huge old house not thinking about anything “interesting” in its appearance, but rather functionally desiring to maximize the number of bedrooms.

They wanted to adopt as many children as energy and space allowed, while the Social Service Department insisted that each child have their own bedroom. The third level was now an attic, which the owners intended to turn into bedrooms for more children.

The little family came out the front door and huddled on the pillared porch. As Kale exited the car, bags in hand, he saw Posie Conciesse (pronounced kon-chess-uh. Name left on a note with abandoned child, now known as Posie Collinaire, utilizing her step-parents surname.) for the first time. His eyes were drawn to her as she broke away from the group and leisurely descended the stairs, coming a few steps out of the shade.

Keeping her head motionless, her brown eyes slowly moved up and

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down perusing the entirety of her new housemate. Just shy of mid-day, the sun’s intensity, both from above and reflecting off the many driveway stones, coupled, causing Kale to perspire in the re-enforced heat. He put down his bags and wiped his forehead with the arm of his well-worn, white, short sleeved shirt while she continued her relaxed approach. The pale-skinned girl brushed an arm across her flimsy white lace, summer dress and used two fingers to wipe a dot of sweat from his cheek.

He cocked his head to the left side and gazed into her static brown eyes and a bead of moisture appeared over the left orb. He wiped it with a finger of his left hand, which he then placed to his lips. Kale felt a need to stretch out after his cramped car canter. He put one hand on his lower back, pushed it forward and her clever eyes followed his movements. She offered her port hand, pinky positioned at the pinnacle, and he carefully clasped and caressed her fingertips with both of his keen and curious hands. She closed her eyes and he admired her long, graceful neck, pointed chin and regal nose. As he leaned forward to sniff her long, vanilla-scented black hair a momentary, tiny zephyr blew some into his face. The world was forgotten and all he saw and sensed was her.

Rudely re-introducing the reality of the crowd, Mildred Martinet, the social over-worker, bustled her ample frame to them, took Kale by his upper arm and pulled him toward the

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waiting group. Posie silently laughed as off-balance-Kale’s pupils shot to the sky and he shrugged his shoulders. Mildred efficiently commanded; “Come, come.” She climbed the steps with him in tow, and said; “Mr. and Mrs. Collinaire, here is your new charge. Kale is sometimes called Smokey because of the color of his eyes. You have thirty days to decide if you want to keep him.”

Patricia Collinaire, at times referred to as Bee, instinctively put her arms around Kale and gave him a gigantic hug, while her eyes set upon Mildred, and she said; “Oh, what a thing to say. Of course we want to keep him.” She looked to her husband and added; “Don’t we, Wellborn?”

Wellborn Collinaire (sometimes called Hi, predominately in private) stepped forward and put his hand on Kale’s shoulder, looked sternly at Mildred and said; “We wouldn’t have come this far if we didn’t intend to go all the way.”

Kale had a strange thought which he kept to himself. “So far it seems that I am here to be touched. Conversation is directed toward others.”

Mildred said; “Good,” and presented the Collinaire’s with documentation which required their signatures, the boilerplate of which was based on the standard donkey lending agreement.

Having had previous experience with this sort of paperwork they promptly signed. Mildred dashed to her SUV and rolled away so

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rapidly it made Wellborn wonder if she now worked on a commission basis.

Patricia introduced herself to Kale saying that her other children referred to her as “Mom,” and asked if he’d be comfortable with that. Kale said; “Yes,” appropriately his first spoken word at his new home. The same process was undertaken with Wellborn, excepting the fortyish, tall and thin man’s preference for the word “Dad.”

Patricia introduced Amber, a short, slightly overweight girl of fifteen. Amber smiled, did a small curtsey and said;

“Charmed.” She giggled, drawing Patricia’s attention. Kale’s gaze alternated between the light brown-skirted girl and Mom, at any moment expecting an interjection. It didn’t come and he slightly bowed his head and said; “Charmed,” for the first time using the word he had previously heard in pre-1950 British movies.

Amber again giggled, prompting Mom to sharply say; “Amber, on your best behavior.” Amber Hopschild, now known as Amber Collinaire, fell correctly in line. The daunting honey blond was born in Lexington, Kentucky and her gregarious, free-spirited, heavy drinking parents brought her north in a Mercury-powered, cross-country Exodus when she was ten. Their end came in a crash, legally determined to be the fault of Budweiser and their truck driver. While she was normally competent at burying

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that memory, watching the interaction of Kale and Posie, some sixth sense resurrected it.

Dad brought out a boy of about sixteen with a blonde Beatles 1964 mane, who seemed to prefer a poor attempt at hiding in the background. Patricia said; “Kale, meet Otis. Otis, this is Kale.”

They exchanged handshakes and “Pleased to meet yous,” but when Otis got a close view of the almost imperceptible lizard insignia (actually a chameleon doing a soiled white impersonation) on Kale’s shirt pocket he added; “Far out, man.”

Kale nodded, thinking that he sensed a brother, separate from that which was provided by law and answered; “Courir en liberte,” (run wild), demonstrating the partial French fluency he had acquired growing up in Portland, Maine, where his biological father had manufactured whoopee pies, which became a household mainstay. He looked to Posie, who returned the approval question with a smile and brown eyes which found the house high tower.

Patricia thought it time to register her disapproval and chastisement. She opened her eyes widely, their shape approximating the contour of her roundish face, and said; “Kale, I want you to hear this, and Otis, you will re-hear. This house is one in which the first rule is that English is to be spoken properly. I will tolerate no other language, slang or

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corruption. As you age you will see that this is of the highest importance in faux classless America.”

In an off-hand manner, Otis (formerly Westhaven, now Collinaire) said; “My apologies,” possibly fulfilling the letter of the law, but not the intent. Kale considered the commentaries about returnable merchandise and said; “Please forgive me” with sincerity. Patricia and Wellborn nodded a mild approval and Patricia motioned for Posie to join the group. She said; “I have seen that you two already met, but now it is time to formally do so. Kale, meet Posie and Posie meet Kale (Hallinger, perhaps soon to be Collinaire). Their eyes locked like magnets set to the correct polarity. She curtseyed and slightly bowed to her left. Kale took her hand and moved it upward as if he was lifting her hand as a Queen’s Knight might. Still holding her hand, he then performed a deeper bow, saying their first spoken words; “My lady.” He rose and their eyes returned to their magnetically charged position.

Wellborn unnecessarily cleared his throat and delicately touched the chest area of his sprinkled blue work shirt, Kale amusedly noting what he considered a dichotomy. Wellborn said;

“You will be meeting two more siblings,” which Kale thought was an incorrect term, pointed more at trifling castigation than accuracy. “They are currently in summer school, not due to any deficiencies, mind you, but rather because they love to learn.

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Let me show you to your room.” He put his heavy hand on Kale’s shoulder and directed him to the red front door.

Like Amber, Otis, too, sensed something unusual happening at the Collinaire’s. His intrinsic laid-back nature led him to no particular thoughts other than the stoned 1964 California jargon, which was impermissible to utter in the Collinaire’s Washington Township, New Jersey bastion. But they had not yet found a mechanism capable of stopping him from thinking; “Cool,”

“Far out,” “Let it be,” and a new addition to his lexicon;

“Courir en liberte.” He was not yet aware of the precise translation, but he was of the opinion that anything French and libertine had to be good. He glanced at Posie, who quickly averted her eyes and dazedly ambled off toward the road.

Dad pushed the red door open and motioned for Kale to enter first. Dad said; “That’s thank you.” Kale responded as directed and viewed the vast front to back center hall. A feeling of privilege to be in the grand dwelling came over him. The planked wooden floors were almost entirely covered with intricately designed, predominantly burgundy and sky blue, Farsh, Persian woolen rugs. The walls were hung with the finer examples, some displaying vase and formal European garden motifs. The kaleidoscopic texture staggered Kale; the six closed doors produced curiosity. An opened Art Nouveau, ebonized and rosewood, lady’s writing desk with ivory inlay rested near the

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center accompanied solely by an ebonized and inlaid, Aesthetic Movement armchair. At significant intervals three more lined each side wall. Kale’s view of the white-painted, plaster, box-designed ceiling holding a yellow, leaded glass chandelier with green foliage was abbreviated by Dad’s shoulder tap. He said;

“It’s not as large as it seems. Sparse furnishings cause the visual illusion of size.”

He grinned as he led dazzled Kale up the open winding staircase. He made a left at the second floor landing and went through a door, Kale, behind him. He said; “This is your room.”

He must have noted the distress on Kale’s face and said;

“It’s nothing like the hall, which is meant to make an inspiring first impression; the American way crossed with a Persian drunkard. We’d like you to put your own touches on the simplicity in here. ........... Or you can choose to leave it as is and make no statement at all. It’s yours.”

Kale scratched his cheek and replied; “There is no question in my mind that a statement, as you put it, is called for.”

Kale’s head craned around as he took in the barren room, which contained a mattress and a pressed wood chest covered by a strip of plastic, imitation wood-grain. He tried to curtail, and at the very least, not advertise his feeling of being appalled.

Partially intending to change the subject, he said; “I haven’t noticed any clocks in the house. Where are they kept?”

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Dad smiled and answered; “Clocks are irrelevant as the time is always now. For those who do not see that the time is always never.”

Kale smiled and said; “Interesting, and I believe astute observation.” He thought; “Far fucking out.”

Still grinning, Dad extended his right hand, saying; “I’ll leave you to get settled.”

Kale shook it and sincerely said; “Thank you for the challenge.”

Dad exited. Kale put his bags on the mattress and sat with them. He visualized possibilities; the primary one: Posie. The oak inlaid floors were easily mendable, doubtless requiring only the simple massage of linseed oil. The peeling, lime painted walls posed a greater problem. Something would have to be done to curtail the shedding and Kale desired a more naturalistic, shaggy texture, in keeping with the beauty of the center hall.

The smooth, uniform lines of Art Deco were anathema to the random curls of an unaffected garden. The white-painted plaster ceiling was innocuous. Kale considered removing it entirely to expose the hidden beams and whatever surprises might be found.

The unattractive furnishings could be easily carted out and replaced after visiting an “antique” store.

Posie appeared at the open door. He leaned back and viewed the visible shadow of her long legs, which seemed to be held

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together at the pinnacle by a prominent, pileous patch, which produced a panty-less preference. She closed the door behind her and walked straight to him, tripping insignificantly on the sway of the undisguised parquetry. She balanced herself in front of him by spreading her legs. He gazed upward and she down, their eyes in unblinking communion. He thought; “Courir en liberte,”

as he hid his head beneath white lace and his starving soul was irrigated.

They removed the unnecessary baggage and lay on the mattress. He started kissing at her forehead, gradually working his way downward, attempting not to neglect any of the milky white flesh available. She put her right hand behind his neck and her left on his ninety degree angled protrusion and found a resting place for the alabaster rudeness with a deft hand movement and some acrobatics. Four eyes widened and six lips open mouth smiled. Posie put a finger in his open mouth and whispered; “Slow, slow. Think Antonioni.”

“L’Avventura?”

“Precisely.”

The thought of time was lost as they gently moved sideways more than forward and back. He said; “I’m going to ...”

Her eyes brightened and she said; “Micheli.”

He halted halfway across the bridge. After two tiny steps he was compelled to run the rest of the way.

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He felt exhilarated and inadequate at the same time as he had made no note of any upheaval in her. She turned her head and looked at him slyly and searchingly. He slowly nodded once and slid down her body, making stop-overs at her breasts and navel.

As he departed the ticklish spot, he murmured; “Best part of the meal. Dessert,” and he rested his head in her downy pillow.

Thirty-nine winks later he felt her brace and he said;

“Take your time. I can do this all day,” which only served to produce the contrary effect and brought on a small gasp and the fortieth.

They turned on their sides and lay together, Kale at the rear. He soon felt ready for another trip across the bridge.

Posie giggled and dexterously explored as he kissed her neck.

The world imposed itself with a staccato drumbeat on their door. Boom, boom. ......... Boom! She jumped up and started to dress, as did he. She said; “That’s Arthur’s trademark.”

Kale called out; “Just a minute,” to the now silent door, dressing as quickly as motion allows.

Posie grinned and seemed to be going at her own pace. Kale entertained the thought that she either found him prudish in his haste or that she favored a bit of exhibitionism, perhaps both.

Boom, boom. ......... Boom!

Kale said; “Insistent, isn’t he? Did you lock the door?”

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“Yes and no. You’ll like him, ...... somewhat.” She flashed her brassiere across his face, and then fastened it in place, lifting her light gray pullover.

“Into Antonioni?”

“No. Closer to Bunuel.”

“Good.”

“The Exterminating Angel.”

“Oh.”

Fully clothed, the two stood and Kale said; “Entrez, s’il vous plait.”

Arthur (originally Doughtry, now Collinaire) pushed the door open with flair evocative of a G-man on a raid, took two steps in, and said; “I’ve come to greet my new brother.”

Kale smiled at the faux Dali approach and walked to the fifteen year old boy garbed in overly tight khaki pants and a black and white striped, pullover shirt. His tall, slightly overweight body was topped by neat, closely cropped, black hair held in place by an oil with a weak musky scent which produced a fabricated shine in certain lights. His alert face was sporadically dotted with insignificant acne, somewhat camouflaged by the early growth of a beard and mustache.

Posie’s ocular review began and ended at Arthur’s khakis.

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They shook and introduced themselves, subsequent to which Kale, much too nervously explanatory, said; “Posie is helping me decorate my room.”

Perhaps with a twinge of friendly sarcasm Arthur said; “I see.”

Posie said; “We’ve hardly started.”

In an attempt to change the focus of the conversation Kale uttered; “I understand you are attending summer school.”

Arthur replied; “That rumor is correct. I’m taking courses in Art History and the Surrealist Perspective. I can’t get enough.”

Perhaps revealing a gauche tendency toward simplicity, Kale replied; “The ancient and the fluid.”

“One could also say the primal and the adaptable.”

“My sincere apologies. I intended no value judgment. I find your characterization intriguing in its breadth.”

Arthur acted as if he was pleased with the response, by vocalizing thankfulness. The words emanated from pursed lips. He said; “Perhaps I might be of assistance right here.” Arthur scanned the room and said; “Pragmatically, most start with the ceiling in consideration of its tendency to splash onto what is below. I would suppose that you are one who first considers the lower elements.” He stared at Posie as he paused for possible

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clarification. Perceiving paltry protestation, he continued; “In that vein, for the walls, might I suggest Modigliani?”

Posie somewhat derisively interjected; “You are undoubtedly referring to his collaborations with Miller.”

Kale said; “I adore Posie’s taste.”

Arthur opened his eyes widely and matter-of-factly retorted; “Business is inevitably done.” He turned on his heels, saying; “I must be on my way. A pleasure.”

Kale and Posie simultaneously said; “All mine,” and turned to each other beaming. Minds fixated on artful decoration and again alone they explored tactile possibilities.

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