The Umbrella Man

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.

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 The Umbrella Man

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.

 

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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/