Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-08-28 / 32. szám
Thursday, Aug. 28. 1986. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 9. WEST LIGHT BY ALLISON KIRÁLY They were waiting for him because it was Saturday and that was the day he came. He came every Saturday, the exception being on those days when it rained or, in the winter, snowed. But now, neither of them was worried because they knew that today, on such a vibrant blue and breezy Saturday, he'd come. He'd come because she'd told him that this week she'd "bake something special" for him. They were sitting at the kitchen table by the window of their apartment that overlooked the park so that they could see when he arrived. The man put down the newspaper that he had been reading aloud, took off his eyeglasses and looked out the window. Thinking that he saw the boy he said, "Here he comes!" The woman's face lit up as she stood to crane her neck toward the window. She leaned back into her chair and said, "No, no it's not. Our little Michael has glasses." She looked across the table at her husband. His head was still turned toward the window but from the look in his eyes she knew that he wasn't really seeing anything. She remembered how, when she had first met him, she'd remarked about his thick dark eyebrows and the sparkle in his very blue eyes and how this had made him blush. She knew how, when he blushed, the pink extended all down his neck. And then when they made love she'd kiss the place on his neck right below his ear, and his fingers would tighten around her arm, or the side of her face; wherever he'd been touching her. And his eyes, his eyes had been so blue that they'd reminded her of the cornflowers her mother had planted by the back fence. The fence that looked out onto the railroad tracks. She remembered how many times she'd wished one of those trains would carry her away to someplace fantastic. Now, his eyes, reflected in the bright daylight, were faded to almost white. She asked him if he wanted more coffee. Startled by her voice, he said, "No, no thank you. After Michael comes I think I'll take a nap." She nodded and poured the rest of the coffee into her own cup. Mixed with milk, it looked grey. She'd like to take a walk, she tought; out in that field by the railroad tracks. She'd put a cornflower in her hair. Just for him. Then sit in the grass and watch the trains. She'd lean back and look at the sky; stay there until the stars came out. Until her mother called for her. They sat and waited for Michael to come. *** The man put his eyeglasses back on and looked out the window. A young woman was walking, carrying an armful of flowers wrapped in paper. Of course, he couldn't see the flowers but he knew that's what they were; she held them so very gently. He looked across the table at his wife then back out the window toward the woman. She had just rounded the corner and was gone. He remembered the time when they had lived in a small house with a garden. He had been much younger then, yes. And he had planted so many flowers in that garden. If he went back there now, he wondered how many would still be alive. Roses, lovely roses. Damasks, Bourbons, even a small Hungarian rose that he had grown from seeds brought over in a trouser hem. ABOUT THE WRITER This story - pure magic and enchantment - was written by the 17 year old daughter of Roger Király, a friend and reader of our paper. With this piece Allison won the Nancy Lynn Schwartz Prize at her school, the Sarah Lawrence College. The judges were professional writers, headed by Amy Nintzer of E. P. Dutton Company. We see and hope for a marvelous carrier in literature or any other field for Allison who incidentally regulary visits our bazaars and other affairs whenever she has a chance to do so. The Editor And on summer evenings, when warm breezes blew through the air, he and Eva would sit in the garden. She had always been so good at detecting which scent came from which flower. But he had always teased her that it was she who smelled the best. You're my rose, he'd tell her. He smiled to himself. How childish that sounded, yet it had been true. Even now, with her scent of stale vanilla and soap, she could still send him reeling. "I don't think Michael will be coming today," she was saying. Again, her voice had startled him and he blinked a few times before replying. "No, it doesn't seem so." "But it's an absolutely lovely day, I don't understand it... and I made cookies." She looked so unhappy that it made him want to say something to make her feel better. As was often the case nowadays, he didn't know exactly what to say but he began anyway. "You know," he said, taking off his glasses once again, "there used to be an old woman who would give me sweets when I was a little boy." She looked a little surprised but was smiling, so he went on. "My mother used to take me to the town green every weekend. She would spend her time reading or talking to the other women while I played. One day an old woman who had been sitting outside in the sun came across the street and started talking to my mother and from that day on, I got to go to the green alone. "What did the woman say to your mother?" she asked. "I never knew," he replied, "or if I did,- I've forgotten." "You must be getting senile," she teased. He couldn't help smiling. "Well, this woman would watch me while I played, either from her chair in the sun, or from the window if it was a grey day. And when I was tired and finished playing, she'd take me inside and give me fruit or, sometimes, she'd give me cookies." "Homemade." she said. It was not a question as much as a statement of fact. "Yes, homemade. And they were always warm. And her hands were always cold. Her husband would let me look through the pictures in his old books. I remember so many airplane pictures - he might have been a pilot." She noticed that far away look in her husbands eyes again. "Why do you never show Michael your books?"* she asked, playing with the fringe on her shawl. "I don't think the kid would be interested in looking at birds or flowers," he said. "You have airplane books too." "Only a few... in a box somewhere." "Do you remember the garden we once had? With all the roses and nasturtiums and morning glories?" It occured to her that his eyes had once reminded her of morning glories as well as cornflowers. "Of course I remember! I'm not dead yet." He thought it was funny of her to mention the garden, considering how he'd just been thinking of it. "I didn't mean it that way - I just didn't know if you'd - well, of course I knew you'd remember - How we used to sit there in the evenings." "And I'd say that you'd always be my only rose." "Yes. Yes, you did say that." Was she still his rose? Oh, how she wanted to be in that field, by the railroad tracks. "I don't think Michael is coming today." "There came a time when I stopped going to the green." "Why?" she was still thinking of the field. "I don't know, I just stopped. My mother wanted me to help my brothers, or do schoolwork, I can't remember." , "So, do you think that's why he isn't here, that he's doing schoolwork?" "It could be." He knew that she looked forward to Saturdays and he knew she was thinking of the cookies she'd made, sitting on the rack now, fully cooled. "I'm sure that, whatever the reason for his absence, he doesn't mean to hurt you." Startled, she looked up. "Hurt me, he hasn't hurt me! He's only a little boy! It's just... it's just that I like him to come and I made cookies and..." "I know you like him to come. I do too. It's nice to have a child around again but..." "...He may come next week, perhaps he's sick." "Eva" he said, "he's a boy, he has friends, he has other things to do on Saturdays." "I know. I know that I can't expect him to need these visits as much as I do. I don't mean to be selfish. He's a little boy, with his own life... We used to have other things to do on Saturdays." He smiled. There'd been a time when he'd never thought about growing old. He used to think he'd tear up the world. Bring Cont* on p. io.
