Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story in which someone looks out the window and sees something unusual. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.
Cathy’s writings have been published in four hundred print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for more information.
by Cathy MacKenzie
Ellen stared at her bowl of soup, her early dinner.
Chicken noodle soup, but it was more like broth with a shit-load of smushed
noodles. She had yet, in all her years of eating chicken noodle soup, to find a
smidgen of anything that remotely resembled or tasted like chicken. Now that
she was eighty-one, she decided soup issues weren’t really worth distressing
over. She pushed the bowl aside and looked out the window instead.
That was when
she saw him.
A man stood
perfectly still on the sidewalk across the street, directly beneath the large
oak in front of the Ryder house. He wore a purple suit and a hat—the
old-fashioned kind with a proper brim—and he was holding an open umbrella above
his head despite the sky being a flawless ocean of blue. Not one cloud, rain or
otherwise. Perhaps he was protecting himself from the sun’s rays, Ellen
thought, not that much of his flesh was exposed.
She leaned
forward in her chair, watching more intently.
But he wasn’t
doing anything. Not even looking at a cellphone as mostly everyone seemed to do
in this day and age. Perhaps he didn’t own one; she didn’t and was quite aware
she was in the minority. The nearest bus stop was two blocks away. He was
alone, simply standing straight-backed and motionless, the bright red umbrella
casting a perfect circle of shade around him.
He reminded
her of the man in Peter Max’s famous The
Umbrella Man, the recurring figure in that painting and others: a
Felliniesque figure, with coat, hat, and umbrella rendered in a bevy of
colours. (She had taken note of the word Felliniesque
from Max’s website, rather liking the unique word.) His rendition of the man
never had a head, however, and the bowler hat would magically sit on air, above
the figure and below the tell-tale umbrella. When her husband George had been
alive, they’d cruised often, and she’d attend the onboard art exhibits and
talks. When Max’s works were displayed, they were always the centre of
attention. He was among her favourite painters, and the vibrant colours of his paintings
never ceased to amaze her.
Of course, the
man across the street wasn’t the Umbrella Man, as colourful as he was. She
wasn’t that senile to think he’d
come to visit her.
She watched
him for a few moments. Then she got up, dumped her soup into the sink, and made
herself a cup of tea.
She glanced
out the window. He was still there.
Ellen
considered possibilities. He could be waiting for someone. He could be slightly
unwell—a dementia patient having lost his way? He could be one of those
performance artists her granddaughter Madison was always going on about, the
ones who stood still in public places, silently waiting for their hats on the
ground to fill with coins and bills.
At 4:05, Ellen
slipped into her shoes. Walking carefully (must not tumble and break a bone),
she crossed the street. The man watched her approach without surprise. She
wasn’t certain if that was reassuring or unsettling.
Up close, he
was younger than she’d expected. In his fifties, perhaps; it was getting harder
and harder for her to discern ages. He sported a neatly groomed grey moustache
and hair—what she could see beneath his bowler hat. His kind eyes reminded her
of her late husband.
“You’ve been
standing there a long time,” Ellen said.
“I have,” he
agreed pleasantly.
“In this
heat.”
“Yes.”
She looked up
at the umbrella, then back at him. “Is it going to rain?”
He smiled.
“Not today, no. Not that I’m aware.”
Ellen turned
when she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the street. A sparrow landed on
the oak branch above them, regarded the umbrella as if with suspicion, and flew
off.
“My name is
Ellen,” she said.
“Edward,” he
said, with a slight nod.
“Are you
waiting for someone, Edward?”
He seemed to
consider the question before answering. “In a manner of speaking. I’m waiting
for the light.”
Ellen looked
up and down the street, knowing what wasn’t there before she spoke. “There are
no traffic lights here.”
“No.” He
tilted his head upward. “The light. It comes through that gap in the oak at
precisely four-fifteen. My wife used to sit on that bench—” he motioned toward
a cast-iron bench Ellen had walked past hundreds of times without stopping to
sit on—” in the summer. She said the light came through the leaves at
four-fifteen and turned everything gold for about three minutes. She called it
her daily miracle.” He paused. “She died in February.”
Ellen stood
quietly for a moment, pondering his words. The bench was visible from her
kitchen window. How had she never noticed anyone sitting on it? Where did he
live? And why would his late wife be in her part of town? She was quite certain
she’d never seen this man before now. And she didn’t recall anyone having died
recently in her neighbourhood.
“I never saw
it myself,” he continued. “I was always working. Always somewhere else.” He
adjusted his grip on the umbrella handle. “I thought I’d come and see what she
meant.”
Oh, Ellen
thought, the wife was likely out for her daily walk. Still, though, odd she’d
never seen the woman. Or the man; she’d never have forgotten him.
She glanced at
her wristwatch. Twelve minutes past four. She sat on the bench.
At 4:15, the
light came through the gap in the oak exactly as promised. It fell across the
pavement in long shafts, catching the dust in the air, turning the grey street
briefly into gold. It lasted, as he’d said, about three minutes.
Neither of
them spoke.
When the light
show faded, Edward lowered his umbrella and looked at her.
“She was
right,” he said simply.
“She was,”
Ellen agreed. She wanted to ask questions but decided the time wasn’t right.
He folded his
umbrella, tucked it under his arm, and gave her another small nod. Then he
walked up the street, turned the corner, and was gone.
Ellen remained
on the bench a little longer. The street had returned to its ordinary self—the
dull pavement, the unremarkable sky, the oak tree casting its usual shade.
She thought
about George. She thought about chicken noodle soup. She thought about all the
four-fifteens she had spent looking at nothing in particular when the light,
apparently, had been performing a spectacle across the street. Were similar
light shows happening on other streets?
Sighing, she
got up, crossed the street, and went inside her house for another cup of tea.
The next
afternoon at 4:10, she was back on the bench.
And the
afternoon after that…
Edward never
returned. By the time she realized he’d never reappear, she had already vowed
to never again have another bowl of chicken noodle soup.
***
The Spot Writers:
Val
Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine
A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com
Phil
Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De
Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
