Amnesia in Autumn, Part 2
I gave a sharp knock to the front door of Bonnie Fairchild's ranch, waited a long moment, then noticed the doorbell. I pushed it and heard a distinct chime, then the sound of activity approaching. The door opened, sesame, to reveal Miss Fairchild in her brunette and green-eyed glory, attired in a black turtleneck, tartan jumper and flats. A black leotard emphasized just how slim and shapely were her pins. She stepped aside and said, "Entre vous!" The sky behind me was crisp as an autumn leaf, darkening, stars just starting to twinkle.
Her house, white with black shutters, was set in a hillock, forest to the sides and back. Inside, I noted with an approving eye, the Ethan Allen furniture accented with touches of modern: a Lyonel Feininger print, a component stereo system. She was hardly any sort of beatnik, but the kids would never term her a "square."
"No TV?"
"In the sewing room, a portable. I'm not much of a TV girl."
Bonnie retrieved a maroon blazer from the living room closet and I helped her into it. Then out the door, to her MG parked in the drive, the top up, collecting leaves. In the distance, the scent of burning leaves.
At Gino's we were seated. The hostess handed us menus and said a waiter would take our drink orders in a jiffy.
"You know, Jim, you haven't told me much about yourself. What do you do? What brought you to Trottsville?"
"Well..."
The hostess reappeared and said, "Are you Jim Engels? There's a call for you." She pointed to the bar, in a dark corner. The bartender waved from the shadows.
I made a beeline to the bar, picked up the receiver, knowing I'd hear that familiar voice.
"Hiya, Jim? How goes it, boy!"
"Fine, I guess. Who are you? I know your voice. I can see your face in my mind's eye: blond hair, part on the side. No glasses. Blue eyes, sharp as a razor. And a hint of a smile, almost as if you'd had a disfiguring accident that left one side of your mouth at a slight but permanent smile..."
"Bingo, Jim! Ya got me! Oooh, ya got me, pardner... But names aren't important. At least not for now. But take this bit of advice, sir! Order the sirloin steak, a baked potato with sour cream and chives, green beans. It comes with a salad, the house dressing is superb. For dessert, try the cherry pie a la mode. With coffee, cannot be beat!" Click, bzzz...
Winding back to our table, I managed to not lose my balance. This entire amnesia episode is a tribulation. Then again, I have nothing to compare it to. Maybe this isn't even my first brush with memory loss? Who knows! Maybe my life prior to this was worse, much worse! Maybe amnesia is, in this case, a blessing? Who the hell knows!
I ordered exactly what Mr. Telephone told me to order. And admittedly, it was delicious!
Sitting, hoping to avoid questions from Bonnie about who I am, I heard myself say, "Y'know, that's an impressive looking stereo you have! Are you a hi-fi buff?”
"Oh no! Not me! But a fellow at work sure is. He's sort of an expert on hoofers and bleeters and frazzlequats, or whatever th' heck all of that technophonic jazz is. He knew I wanted a stereo. And he was gallant enough to tell me what parts were best suited to each other within my budget. He even went to the hi-fi shop with me! Everybody there knows him, so they gave me a discount. Anyway, my component system cost about the same as a standard issue Panasonic, but with much better fidelity, and is acoustically suited to my particular living room. The speakers are placed just so."
"Oh. Sounds like he's sweet on you."
"Ha ha. Bruce is almost 40, lives with his mother, and wears pointy-toed Italian shoes." I chuckled at this bit of news—and felt a gentle wave of relief. I hardly know Bonnie, but am growing more enamored with her by the minute.
Over dinner, I spun a long fairy tale about who I am, where I'm from, et cetera. Born and raised in Hartford, Connecticut, graduated from Yale, a degree in English Lit. Stint in the army, then a little teaching job at Kent School, but hit the road, just to discover America and maybe, just maybe, discover who in the heck Jim Engels is. I hoped I had enough detail to be believable, but nothing that could be proven wrong. Would I be able to remember all of this jive if given a pop quiz?
"Then, then, aw... what's the use. Bonnie? I don't know who I am. Or even, really, much of anything before just a few days ago. And I keep getting these phone calls." (That's what I thought of saying, but didn't actually say it because I'm falling in love with Miss Bonnie Fairchild of Trottsville and I didn't wish to appear to be a crazy person. And to be honest, maybe I am a crazy person? Maybe I should get out of Dodge? Maybe that would be the kindest thing I could do for her? But those eyes! So green. So innocent. So lethal.)
"But enough about me! Tell me about yourself! Who is Bonnie Fairchild?"
"Oh, I'm just a local gal, pretty ordinary, I guess one might say. But you know what? Tomorrow afternoon there's a meeting, a lecture, at a society I'm involved with, The Theocratic League. Why don't you attend? You could meet my friends!"
Sunday, I wandered into town and located 1313 Harper Lane, a gloomy brick Queen Anne with a handsome sign in the front yard announcing: The Theocratic League of Trottsville, Minister Elwood Van Der Hofner. Entering, I found a main room with a dozen slatted folding chairs placed before a mahogany dais. In a corner, a table with a punch bowl of lemonade, an assortment of cookies and a statue of Buddha. The walls were covered in yellowing wallpaper and held several portraits in ornate gilded frames, most notably a brilliantly hued one of Krishna, and a B&W photograph of Adolf Hitler. Busts of Plato and Moses sat atop a bookcase crammed with esoteric and occult tomes. Milling about were mostly ladies, but also a few gents, they mainly of the sunken chest variety, although there was a portly fellow. All were in their Sunday best. The chubby guy sported a carnation pinned to his lapel. In my tweed jacket and bow tie, I blended in. A sturdy matron approached me. "How do you do? I'm Mrs. Ruckingham. And you are...?"
"Yes, pleased to meet you. I'm Jim Engels."
"You must be new to Trottsville. I've never seen you before." She leaned forward, squinting through her pince-nez. Her perfume was intense, but pleasant.
"Why, yes. Very new, in point of fact. I moved into the old Randall place. Just a few days ago."
"Really! Why, it's been ages, simply ages, since anyone has lived there! I do hope you give it the needed TLC! Oh! There's Elwood! Yoo hoo! Elwood!”
I turned to see a gaunt gentleman, countenance of a cadaverous cast, dressed in a black suit from another epoch entirely, towering over a gaggle of excited devotees. He possessed a face that might crack if he so much as thought of smiling. His eyes were tombstone gray. He gave Mrs. Ruckingham a slow somber nod in recognition of her holler.
"Elwood studied with an intimate of Madame Blavatsky for many years. And he taught at Princeton until the bigots handed him his walking papers! A disgrace their treatment of him! As if it's a crime to hold seances in the privacy of one's home! Is nothing sacred any longer! It's horrible what they did to that poor man!"
"Yes, um, horrible!"
"Oooh, I wonder what today's lecture will be about," Mrs. Ruckingham cooed. "Elwood never tells us in advance! Keeps us in suspense, the scoundrel! Last week it was about an aboriginal tribe he lived with for a year in caves in a most remote mountain nook in Mongolia, and their practice of sacrificing and cannibalizing a firstborn in homage to their god, Brappa Dappa!" She shuddered. "Simply ghastly stuff!"
"Yes! Sounds pretty darn ghastly!" Then I noticed Bonnie waltz through the front door. We waved to each other.
"I see you two have met," Bonnie chirped. "Mrs. Ruckingham is one of Trottsville's most beloved souls!"
"Oh, my dear! You are too kind! Too kind!"
Someone rapped an empty crystal with a sterling silver fork, silencing the disciples, signaling them to be seated. Outside autumn leaves drifted, red and gold. The sky was blue, a blue so brazen that it seemed to challenge the gods, seemed ready to gobble their firstborn, thank you very much for that tidbit.