Category: Confabulation

September 18, 1919

My dearest friend,

Girls should be fearless.

That’s what my Aunt Julia always says to me when ever I begin to doubt myself, and when she and Miss Haversham announced they were starting a troop of Girl Scouts, I was the first to put down my name.

Girl Scouts! Just the name gives me shivers of excitement. The idea that girls could do the same things the boys do in their Scouting adventures thrilled me to no end. My own brothers— I have five, all of them older— have all been heartlessly smug and manly as they return from their camp! I had been pining to go with them, but they persisted in teasing me that there are certain things that girls are not able to do, sleeping on the ground being one of them.

Didn’t Grandmother sleep on the ground when she settled out west from Bradford, Pennsylvania, to take up homesteading in Kansas? Didn’t she ride her horse own all the way? Wasn’t she a crack markswoman, as well? She used to tell me about buffalo hunting trips, and brag that she brought down just as many beasts as the men.

Well, our Girl Scout troop has had the most remarkable adventures already! And better, we have had adventures such as none of my brothers ever had! Indeed, they were so jealous when I told them that they went about denying to the worlds that such a thing had ever happened. But I stand by my word, for a Girl Scout is always truthful and forthright.

It all began last summer, during the school holidays. Aunt Julia had arranged for us to go almost all the way to Springfield, Missouri, to have a camping holiday. While were were there, we were to sleep inside tents, and cook our food over a campfire, and tell tales and sing songs in the evenings. Aunt Julia even arranged for a minister to come to our camp to deliver Sunday Services— dreadful, I know, but I am informed that appearances must be maintained. (Frankly, I’d just as soon be a pagan— wear skins and run around in the woods like a wild Indian— it seems so much more interesting and romantic than the same old wearisome lessons about Ruth and Esther that we get all the time. A shame on me, but I know you, dear friend, would never breathe a word to anyone!)

We had been encamped for several days, getting gloriously filthy in the process and having grand old times. We even explored a magnificent cave in the hills north of the city! The weather had been fine, and there was constant bickering in the evenings as to whether we should leave the tent flaps open to catch the night time breezes or to keep them tied shut in order to exclude the mosquitos, which could be dreadful at times. That night the mosquitos won.

I came awake when Hattie poked me firmly in the ribs. “Jane!” she hissed. “There’s something in the camp!”

Hattie is prone to flights of imagination, as well as speaking in italics, but Alice, who is neither, said, “I hear it too!”

I held my breath and listened hard, and could just barely hear something moving about outside. Then there was a ghastly shriek, a wild, wailing growl like nothing I had ever heard before.
My heart nearly turned to ice in my chest, but I reminded myself that cowardice is for other, weaker souls, and carefully lifted up the bottom of the tent side, just an inch or so, to peek out.

There was something in the camp. I could see a long, sinuous shape prowling between myself and the still glowing embers of our campfire. It was an enormous cat, one hundred pounds at least, and had a tail as long as its own body, with a little white tuft on the tip.

“Try not to panic, girls,” I whispered to the others. “It’s a catamount.”

Hattie squeaked at the news. “I’m going to faint!” she wailed. “Suppose it came her to eat one of us?”

“It’ll eat the one that faints first!” I furiously racked my brains, remembering one of Grandmother’s favorite stories. “We have to frighten it away. We have to bang on something, shout, make a loud noise. Have we got any saucepans?”

“No,” Alice whispered. “I’ve got my whistle, though.”

“That’ll help. Here’s my canteen— it’s empty. We can bang on that. Has anybody else got anything?” We lit a lantern and rummaged around, finding several objects that we thought would suit the purpose.

I carefully untied the tent flaps and peeked out. The catamount was still prowling around, I thought. I whispered, “All together, now! One, two…”

We burst out of the tent whooping and shouting, waving our lantern and making as much noise as possible. I caught just a glimpse of angry green eyes and teeth bared in a snarl just before the animal bounded away.

This, of course, woke everybody else in the camp, and they came boiling out of their tents in their night dresses. We explained about the catamount, but they didn’t believe us. Not at first. Miss Haversham suspected us of playing a joke, but then Aunt Julia pointed out that some of our bundles of food had been torn into.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Mr. Davis, the man who owns the campground, showed us the large paw prints down at the muddy streambank. “It’s a good thing that creature didn’t visit you girls in the night,” he warned. “He’d have et you up!”

So that was my Scouting adventure, the first of many, I hope. We have such fine times planned for the future! But I must close this letter, now— the other girls and I are putting on a play about Anne Bonney, and they’ve given me the lead. I must dash to make it to rehearsal on time.

                                Yours most affectionately,
J. Hungerford.

I stood on the strip with my feet tightly pressed together and my back as straight as I could make it. My scalp and underarms were moist. My teeth tense. I could see down the line with my peripheral vision. Although I gave the impression of looking straight ahead at the mountains beyond the runway, I was studying the other pilots, sizing them up.

When we split into flight teams we all scuttled around, grabbing equipment and getting to work while Thomas barked orders at us. Formation had been easier since I could slyly look sideways at the men. But in the open while prepping for takeoff I could feel all eyes on me. I was different, not one of the guys. They knew it and I knew it. Takeoff could not come soon enough.

In the air a limited number of things need attention. These are the things you pay attention to. Because these are the things that your life depends on. I ran through my checklists, routinized and a part of me, and forgot about the pettiness of the world on the ground.

I watched the land beneath us turn into calm cerulean as we flew over the ocean. We would dash to the closest island which also happened to be the smallest, and then jump from one to another along the archipelago. We would hit each island in sequence like a frog jumping from one lily pad to another. Only a few places off the mainland were suitable for a new building and our job was to discover the best one. There were no airstrips where we were going, only the wild. We wouldn’t even stop unless we had to. Each touchdown would roll right into another takeoff. “How long?” I yelled over my shoulder. “75 minutes.” Someone replied. The weather was peaceful and clear. I deliberately forced my shoulders down, unaware until that moment how close to my ears they had become. I felt the muscles unclench a little. “Thanks.” I said under my breath.

The time passed too quickly. My respite from the other men’s scrutiny while in the calm portion of the mission would soon turn back into a test, another gauntlet where they would be expecting me to prove myself. I saw the first island appear on the horizon. My Nav hadn’t even told me it was coming up. He was probably hoping I’d overshoot it. “That our spot?” I asked. “Affirmative. That’s the south side of the island.” The navigator’s voice held a slight humor. I couldn’t tell if he was tickled that I’d asked for confirmation on the target or if he was amused by his own juvenile plan to not offer any help until it was asked for.

A quick trip around the island told me there was only one place to land. I descended and banked to the right. “Prepare for touch and go.” I told the crew. As I brought the plane down to the beach an uncomfortable confusion clouded my judgement for a moment. It was completely nonsensical, but for a split second I thought for sure I saw something. The trees that lined the beach about 20 yards from the water were walking. I took a deep breath and blinked hard once and quick. The trees were still. I hoped I had not let any of my disorientation show. I steeled my nerves against the nausea and that couple of lost seconds was enough to ruin my approach. “Prepare for landing. Repeat prepare for landing.” I barked at the crew. Out of the corner of my eye I could see their surprised body language as they followed my orders and adjusted their expectations.

I touched down on the sand and felt a sickening slosh as the tires sank into the soft ground. I was thrust hard forward and I heard one of the men fall against his equipment. This was one of the risks we had foreseen, but I didn’t expect to encounter it so soon in the mission. The ground was completely unsuitable for building an airstrip, probably because the island was never more than an inch above at sea level and flooded with every rain shower. The plane skidded as it came to a stop near the trees. For a sacred moment no one said anything. They were happy to be alive and unharmed. But all too soon that gratitude melted into fury that we were stuck.

“Why did you not bump!? Now we are sunk in. Thomas put me on your team because he’s still holding a grudge about that shower curtain. Now I’m going to rot on this island with…” one of the men was ranting when the Nav interrupted with even louder shouting. “Shut up! Just get out and dig and we’ll be on our way.” Seat belts clicked and the door clanged open. Everyone knew the drill. I was the last one out of the plane. When my feet hit the ground the horizon dipped and spun. I felt bile rise in my throat and my knees wobbled. I went down softly onto the waterlogged earth. When I woke the trees were upon them. The men were hunched over digging out the wheels and didn’t even see what was coming. They had ignored my fall and left me in a pool of my own vomit. I opened my mouth to warn them but the only sound I could make was a raspy grunt. One tree for each man, their branches reached out and curled around the crewmen like cocoons. The men kicked uselessly until their bones broke in the embrace of leaves and twigs. Then the trees stilled. I found my strength and raised up on one arm, twisting my head to look behind me and fulling expecting to see my own death. But there was nothing. The trees spared me. They knew I was different.

Click here to see the photo that inspired this story. The owner disabled sharing. It’s worth going to look at, folks.

Lyla was always the first one to get cold. She wouldn’t run the ceiling fan if the air conditioner was on. She would give in come July and August when temperatures outside peaked in the high 90s or 100s and just put on a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans so I could be comfortable. Lyla never broke a sweat.

We never went to the lake with our friends, either, because she didn’t want to swim. She would tell me that without clothes, meaning wearing a swimsuit, she would be too cold and she wouldn’t enjoy herself.

“What do you mean? How could you be cold with it almost a hundred degrees out there and the sun right on your skin?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t. Help me understand. Are you ashamed of something?”

That started an argument.

Our fights were epic: near-hysterics, shouted words, slapped faces (mine, anyway; I never hit her), thrown glasses shattered on the kitchen tiles, slammed doors and tires squealed in anger down the driveway. Sooner or later Lyla would text me and tell me to come home. I refused only once in the seven years we’d been together. I was so angry that I stayed at a hotel overnight and the next morning there were forty texts and a dozen voicemails begging me to come home.

The house was 85 degrees when I got there.

Lyla was wrapped in a comforter, shivering. I thought it was because she was cold.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” she said. “I was afraid I’d lost you forever.”

I put my arms around her, over the comforter and I made soothing noises. It took a while, but she finally let me under the comforter with her and I held her a long, long time while she cried. I sweated like a pig, but she didn’t mind.

I didn’t understand anything about why she was cold.

Neither did her doctors.

It was explained that her core temperature was a hundred and two point nine, four plus degrees hotter than the rest of the human population. “But she’s not feverish,” the doctor would say. “I don’t know why. Her hypothalamus is functioning normally and her blood pressure is fine. Everything is fine.” He would scratch the back of his head or adjust his tie or lean back in his chair, then exhale a long time. “I can’t explain it. For all of me, it looks like you just run hotter than everyone else.”

Which is why she had a passionate hatred of winter, especially ice and snow. “Why can’t we move to a nice tropical island?”

I was pulling up the knot on my tie and checking it in the mirror.

“Because my business doesn’t have an office in Barbados, dear.”

“Couldn’t you telecommute? How hard is it to be a mid-level government functionary from an island?”

I shook my head and closed my eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d diminished my work. “I’m not a government functionary,” I said. “I’m a recruiter. I develop talent. You know that.”

“Well, they could fly the talent to you,” Lyla said. “I mean, couldn’t they?”

She was serious. I went to her and rubbed my hands slowly up her arms. She was beautiful. The gown was perfect for her figure and she had a faux mink stole to wrap herself in. The white rose in her hair was a perfect accent to the silvery dress. She looked like a movie star on the red carpet. “My darling,” I said in my best Cary Grant voice, “I know you hate these things. I have to be there. My bosses and my team are expecting me and it’s important. It’s important you come, too.”

Lyla acquiesced with a small nod, defeated.

The party was a subdued affair with everyone in their best suits and spectacular gowns. The liquor flowed and the food was delicious. The government knows how to throw a Christmas party. Lyla met everyone she was supposed to, was gracious in the face of compliments and hung on my arm all evening. The hotel had rooms for those too drunk to drive. Lyla insisted we go home. I was tipsy but I could drive. “Take the long way,” she said. “Do you mind?”

I didn’t. The bypass would drop us off on the far west side of town and we could take a country road or two and come back in on the south side. I’d be less likely to run into a saturation checkpoint that way, too.

The sound of gravel bashing the pans and axles was kind of calming and the low hum of the tires on loose rock was something we both liked. Lyla took my hand and her smile was soothing, too. She had that look that said we were going to have sex when we got home and I squeezed her hand and brought it up to kiss it.

All I remember is the whitest light I’ve ever seen. There was no sound, no flash. It was just white light and heat and then darkness.

I came to in the ditch. The car was still on the road, its lights on and the radio playing but the engine was off. I called out for Lyla. No answer. An hour later, I finally gave up and called 911. All I ever found was the white rose that had been in her hair.

It’s been a year. The police and the psych people agree that I had some kind of outre experience but they won’t say UFOs out loud or anything like that. I’ve finally been cleared to work and everyone’s offered their sympathies.

I wish I knew what happened. I wish I knew where Lyla went or if she’s coming back.

The rose sits in a vase on my desk at home, perfect as the night she wore it. It still smells like her.

The guitar was a gift on my fifteenth birthday. It was my only gift. Mother, a proper Parisian matron, didn’t approve. A frivolous request, she called it. Her view was justified—I could barely play guitar, and my historical commitment to investing in any singular hobby had proven ephemeral, at best. But my mother’s dismissiveness only served to further encourage my desire to possess the guitar, and with stubbornness only an adolescent can possess, I insisted that no other gift would suffice. So I devised a plan.

Normally, I would have expected my father’s response to my birthday request to have been a flat no, his lack of emotional involvement providing none the same traction as my mother’s disgusted denial. Lately, however, my father was willing to adopt contrarian positions with my mother for no other reason than the power play that would inevitably ensue. I knew this, and I used it. I played up the universal need of men to possess beautiful tools and machines. And I emphasized how mother couldn’t possibly sympathize with our shared primal instincts. My father, unable to resist the opportunity to exert his parochial control, convinced my mother to let him purchase the guitar for me, despite her strenuous objections.

It was the best birthday gift I ever received.

Two weeks later, my parents announced their divorce.

I wasn’t surprised by their separation. But I felt responsible for accelerating their inescapable end. I was incapable of admitting my guilt to either of them. Instead, I radiated palpable waves of anger and resentment, and walled myself off from the world with music. I plugged in my headphones into my guitar amp and plucked my new Les Paul from dusk to dawn, letting my blossoming ability as a guitarist ease my guilt and pain.

My father left without ever speaking another word to me. His silence wasn’t a measure of blame, necessarily, but that’s how I took it. It took me years to forgive him. By then, it was too late to reconcile. He’d passed away.

My mother never let me forget my part in their end. And the guitar I clung to with increasing desperation was a clear, physical symbol of my selfish, manipulative nature. Like a dowsing rod, the instrument kept tugging me towards the door, away from the relentless blame. Just weeks after my father left, I’d had enough as well. In the middle of the night I packed a bag with my tiny amp and a few changes of clothes. I slung the bag over one shoulder and my guitar across the other, and I left.

Those first years on the roads of the French countryside were hard, but simple. I traveled lightly, begging for whatever food, shelter, and company I could find. The guitar strapped to my back served as a badge of sorts, automatically affording me entry to a cabal of like-minded bohemian musicians spending their time on the road. Visiting with these folks, my ability with my guitar quickly grew, and I began to use my music as a means to earn a living. There were still many long winter nights spent strumming power chords through my tiny amp, waiting for enough money to be tossed into my case so I could afford a baguette and a train ticket to the next town. But sometimes my skills earned me a spot playing backup for a local band or playing at a neighborhood coffee shop. Those days I could afford a bed at a hostel and a warm meal.

I met Marie during one of my jaunts across the Channel into London. I heard her reciting poetry at an open mic night at a bookstore, and afterwards waited outside for her to leave. She didn’t. Turned out she owned the shop and lived upstairs. She found me asleep on the stoop the next morning and took pity on me. Two cups of coffee later, I was in love. Marie seemed intrigued by the idea of rescuing me, much like a stray alley cat.

I spent three years in London. Marie and I had a beautiful baby girl, Josephine. I retired from my guitar-slinging days and tried my hand at settling down, working in the bookstore with Marie and taking care of our daughter. It was a good time in my life. But eventually the restlessness that had begun with my flight from home began tugging at me once more. I found myself drawn once more to the Gibson I’d stored in the closet. I’d sneak down the hallway at night to take out the Gibson, and I’d strum it softly for Josephine while she slept. But I always made sure to put it away before the night was through.

Until one night I didn’t. Marie woke up to find me sitting at the kitchen table, the guitar and its case propped up in the seat next to me.

“Go,” was all Marie said. She might’ve smiled. I’ve never been sure.

It’s been many long years since my fifteenth birthday. Mama’s still alive. She frets away her final days in a tiny apartment just outside Paris. I stop in on her sometimes when I’m playing in the city or I’m in between jobs, but my visits seem to confuse and upset her. I don’t know if she always recognizes me. She may think I’m a scam artist there to steal from her.

Not much has changed since my first days on the road. I’ve got a few more wrinkles, but no more wisdom.

Sometimes, late at night, I peer along the frets and headstock of the guitar, as if looking across the bow of a great ship, and wonder where it will lead me. But I know better. It’s merely a musical instrument. There is no rudder of fate to guide my travels. I point myself in any direction, and off I go, my instrument slung carelessly across my back.

Just an instrument. A vessel. Nothing more.