© Christopher Shennan 2008
All Sarah Osborne remembered of that interview was the single rose on the doctor's desk, and the clear, compassionate tones of his voice. The window revealing a landscaped garden; the examining couch in the corner; the certificates of qualification on the wall -- all dissolved into a featureless mist. All she could think of was that the rose, like her beautiful body, would one day lose its petals. The petals would simply fall off; hers would be ruthlessly severed by a surgeon's knife. The humiliation of it swamped her.
The doctor's voice droned on, "This need not be a negative experience, Sarah."
He was an old family friend, but his words had the opposite of the intended effect. They struck a note of despair and vibrated faintly with bitterness. He was too kind for her to be angry with him, but how could he know? Was it his breast that would be removed? ( Removed? She hated the innocuous word: severed, violated, destroyed, dismembered, seemed more appropriate) A man could only experience sympathy if his chest was disfigured in some way.
With a woman it was different. Her breasts were more than a mundane part of her physical make-up. They were a symbol of femininity; a focus of male attention; to herself and others an essential part of womanhood. A woman with her breast removed was an object, not of sympathy, but of pity. Even to herself, viewed in her own mirror, such a woman would see herself as her own bad dream.
". . . talk to David for you?"
The words shocked Sarah our of her private thoughts, "Er . . . what?"
"I was saying," said Dr. Morgan, "asking you really, if you would want me to talk to David for you . . . explain some of the medical angles, and the psychological ones too. It might make it easier for him . . . and for you also." His voice was gentle, just as it had always been. She could remember the same tone of voice soothing her during many of her childhood ills. Now he was using it again, almost understanding the hurt and the pain she would go through -- was going through.
What had Dr. Morgan said? He had said something about David? A new scene of horror opened up in the corridors of her mind. David, her fiance, and soon to be husband and lover. How would he react to the stripping of petals from his marital rose? Shame? Embarrassment? How would she react? How could her wedding night be anything approaching normal, even supposing there would be a wedding night now. Slowly, her eyes focussed on the rose perched on the edge of the doctor's desk again. Her heart skipped a beat. During the brief period of her gloomy reverie, a single petal had broken loose and fluttered to the floor. It seemed like an omen.
.............................................
A week passed before Sarah came out of the daze that had descended upon her when Dr. Morgan had broken the news of her impending mastectomy. She was not entirely sure she had come out of it, for the sense of unreality still hovered at the edges of her consciousness. She was aware that the term "deflowered" had sexual connotations, but she still thought it appropriate; the flower of her femininity was to be stripped from her.
"Dear Sarah," her mother was saying, "no one can blame you for being shocked, even devastated, by what is happening to you, but please reconsider. At least tell David why you are breaking off your engagement."
Sarah turned, trying not to see her reflection in the side-board mirror. She knew she was beautiful, even stunning. But the fact had never seemed important to her. Beauty faded, and in the end, all you were left with was the kind of person you were. If you were not inwardly beautiful, any outward beauty would be marred. At least, that is what she had always believed. It had been imprinted on her from childhood by her father, who had done his best to protect his daughter from vanity.
What she had never realized before was how much her sub-conscious mind still clung to the opposite notion; that a change in her physical body would ultimately lead to a change in identity. She could not shake off the feeling that when her body was altered by surgery, her personality would be altered as well. She would no longer be Sarah Osborne, or the Sarah David had known, or the woman David visualized as his future wife.
She spoke gently, "I can't tell David, mother. I just can't. Dr. Morgan offered to explain things to him from the medical point of view, but I told him not to. I also hold you and dad to your promise not to tell him either, or even hint that I'm going to be . . . to be . . . de-flowered." A sob broke from her, but she continued, "I would much rather he believed I am refusing to marry him because I no longer love him.
Mrs. Osborne came close and put an arm around her daughter, "And is that the truth? Do you no longer love David?"
Sarah drew away and her voice rose on a note of panic, "Of course not! Of course it's not true. I love David more now than ever. It's just that . . . well . . . I can't bear to have him marry me out of . . . out of pity." Having said that, she released herself from her mother's embrace and fled into the garden.
As she walked numbly along the paths, and across the well-kept lawns, the memory of her telephone conversation with David filled her mind.
"At least tell me why?" David had pleaded. "I keep telling myself it's something I've said or done that's causing you to act this way."
"It has nothing to do with you, David. Why can't you just accept that I'm not the one for you. I couldn't make you the kind of wife you would . . . want."
"At least let me come and see you so we can talk about it. There has to be a way to work things out."
"No, David! Just leave things as they are. Find another girl who can really make you happy.
"Sarah please . . ."
"Goodbye David!" Sarah had replaced the receiver, then fled to her room. It was a long time before her tears stopped flowing, or the sobs stopped wracking her still beautiful body.
Now, as Sarah stood in the garden amidst the roses, she felt empty and alone. She had always found tears a kind of therapy; a healing balm in the face of overwhelming grief. That was not the case now. The only result of her bout of sobbing had been a deeper loneliness; a more profound emptiness than before. It was as if the tears had merely sucked more of the life-principle from her being, and left a shadow of hopelessness in its place.
A foot scraped on the footpath and Sarah turned. The straight, kindly figure of her father stood before her -- non-intrusive. He simply stood there as he had a thousand times in her growing years, solid, like a pillar in the temple of Solomon -- supportive. John Reginald Osborne: the name echoed in her consciousness, seeming to replace the thin tendrils of hope her tears had leaked from her. He was the one man she knew loved her -- would love her -- regardless of her outward appearance. The grey of his eyes penetrated beyond mere form, though he was by no means immune to his daughter's beauty.
Taking Sarah by the arm, John Osborne walked with her down the path, "There's something I want you to see." He paused, then said, "No, I don't want you to merely see it. I want you to look at it until you really understand." His voice was still gentle, but there was an urgency to it that faintly alarmed her.
"But why don't you just explain it to me? You've always been good at explaining things." Her tone was affectionate.
He stopped near a bed of roses, "If I did that you may feel I was pressuring you to see things my way."
"I would never . . ."
"Perhaps not consciously," Sarah's father interrupted, " but the idea would be lurking there, ready to overshadow any future happiness you might find. I would not want that for my little girl."
The sun shimmered on Sarah's golden locks as she jerked her head bitterly, "If any such happiness were possible! I don't suppose it is . . . now."
"Anything is possible, but you must believe in it and seek it with all your heart."
Sarah sighed, "I'm not sure I can believe in anything right now, except . .."
"Except what?
"Except your and mother's care for me. It's the only thing that's real to me at the moment. Everything else seems like a dream -- a very bad dream."
"There will be other dreams, and other loves," John Osborne said. "It just takes a little time, and a little careful consideration to realise it. Now take that rose, for instance. It has a story to tell that just may open your eyes to one of the mysteries of life." He indicated a full-bloomed rose that was beginning to fade at the edges. Its yellow petals seemed to have only a tenuous hold on the central bud that bore them. The stem itself was bent, with a tiny bud of new growth showing close to where it joined the main bush.
"Look at it, Sarah. I'll leave you alone now, but look at that rose till you can read its message."
When he had gone, Sarah tried to follow her father's advice, but all she could see was a wilting rose with the petals ready to fall. The sight did nothing but remind her, in graphic detail, of her own predicament. More depressed than ever, she turned away to wrestle with the anger and hurt churning inside her.
The sun was already low on the horizon when Sarah moved disconsolately back toward the house, oblivious to the grating of the garden gate and the shadow ofa tall figure approaching her.
Sarah jumped when he tapped her on the shoulder, shocked out of her private world. She turned on the man, knowing it would be David, and knowing that the emotions in her were mixed anger and relief. She was angry he would violate her specific desire to be left alone; relieved the matter could at last be thrashed out and disposed of.
"You shouldn't have come," Sarah said helplessly, backing away from his tall, athletic frame; from the blond good looks and the grey, pleading eyes.
"I had to come, Sarah. I promise I won't press myself on you if you insist on breaking it off. It's just that I'm going crazy trying to think what I've done wrong. Knowing the reason may not fix things, but at least I can stop tormenting myself." He took a gentle hold on her elbow and eased her toward a bench. The shadows were growing longer. The sun would soon dip below the trees and the gloom would hide at least some of the pain in her eyes.
Sarah had dreaded this moment, and the dread had not been entirely without warrant. She quite simply loved David, and seeing him again compounded the agony of the inevitable parting. Seeing him beside her, hearing the slight panting of his breath that gave evidence of his distress, Sarah's resolve faltered. Perhap's she was wrong. Perhaps she was being unfair to him in assuming his love for her revolved around her physical beauty. Perhaps there was that quality in him that could endure a wedding night; that could endure a lifetime of intimacy with one stripped of the symbol of womanhood.
"I don't care what the problem is, " David was saying, "nothing will stop me loving you."
Hope fluttered softly. Sarah started to speak, then fell silent.
Please, Sarah! His fingers caressed the golden strands of her hair.
"Are you . . . sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Nothing could be worse than this torment of not knowing."
So she told him. She told him of the doctor's diagnosis and the scheduled operation. She shared her shame and her fears and her terror that he would stop loving her. And while she talked she watched. It was as though her senses had been fine-tuned. She could read every expression on his face while she looked desperately for signs of the moral power that would sweep her fears away. She looked for the softening of his features into an all-encompassing love. She waited for the words that would mock her fears and tell her that nothing . . . nothing could stand between their love. They did not come.
Horrified, she watched David's features change from passion, to disbelief, to shock , and finally to something she could only interpret as disgust. Then came the platitudes, the explanations and the justifications. What was happening to her was not quite natural, after all. Sarah had been right to break their engagement. He really admired her for her good common sense. He wished her well for the future, but he really had to go. It took longer than that, the excuses wrapped in good manners and a concerned tone of voice. But the end result was the same: David scurrying out of the garden gate and Sarah shrinking on her seat as though the weight of her inward pain was trying to crush her.
The sun was long gone while Sarah sat motionless. The moon rose over the treetops and shed a silvery light on the garden -- a full moon. Still she sat, till a chill wind drove her along the path toward the house. She stopped near the rose her father had urged her to study, and found that the moonlight had somehow transformed it. It was more like a vision than a mere flower of a day. She saw the wilted petals and the new bud courageously protruding from the stem and understanding settled upon her like a soft rain.
The petals were falling from the full-blown rose, but the bud spoke of renewal and hope. One part of her womanhood was about to die, but Sarah Osborne still carried within her a life that would burst into new beauty. Different beauty, but nevertheless real. She breathed deeply and ran into her house. Hope for the future was still only a tiny flutter in her breast, but that it was real and vibrant she had no doubt at all. This bible study is from the book Exploring Biblical Prayer by Christopher Shennan, available at christophershennanbooks.com and lulu.com.
© Christopher Shennan 2008
This bible study is from the book Exploring Biblical Prayer by Christopher Shennan, available at christophershennanbooks.com and lulu.com.
© Christopher Shennan 2008
The trouble began at almost the same moment Gilmore Randall walked down the main street.
Rushmore was not a place that tolerated peculiarity in any of its residents. They were even less tolerant with this stranger. He ambled into town with three day's growth of beard and a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes three times their size. Even that would not have spooked the populace as much if his eyes had been the same colour, which they weren't. One eye was a kind of brown and hazel mix; the other an intense blue that seemed to glow at times, like a gem under the light. Real queer it was.
That was not the whole of it. Several other things about this Randall fellow made you sit up and take notice. His suit was shiny, as if it had been ironed without a damp cloth -- and it was the wrong size. It was too big, and I was sure he had a stiff knee, for he swung one leg in a kind of circular movement. The swing wasn't too obvious, mind you, but enough to draw attention. It gave the impression he was not quite walking, but rolling along. Perhaps you think I'm exaggerating, but that's how it appeared to me, and I know other folks would have added even more detail than I have.
In any case, he came into the hotel lobby and went right up to Andy Everett, who owned the place. He had no luggage to speak of; just a leather case about the size of a Webster Dictionary, and a bill-fold in his left hand. He had cash all right, but Andy took no notice of that.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, with no welcome in his voice. You had to be suspicious of a man with a pile of money, hardly any luggage, and the look of someone who'd just escaped from some institution or other.
"I'd like a room," said the odd character, holding out the billfold. He seemed to be making the point that, in spite of his appearance, he had the money to pay for it.
I was standing behind Andy, and a little to once side, so I both heard the voice and got a grandstand view of his expression. The voice was nothing like I'd ever heard. It made me feel all queer, as if I was hearing the voice of God for the first time. The expression I never did figure out, all the time he stayed in Rushmore. It was not so much the expression itself, but what it made you feel like, as if something inside you were beginning to melt. I confess, I'd have given him a room right off. But the decision wasn't mine. Andy may have been my father-in-law, and he was training me to take over as manager, but at the time I am speaking of, he was still the boss.
"There are no rooms available," said Andy.
Now, I knew there were at least six rooms with no one in them, and they weren't booked for any future time either. Anyhow, Andy hadn't said he didn't have any rooms. He had just said they weren't available.
Gilmore Randall [I saw his name on the little leather case] never even blinked.
"I'll only need it for a few days, till I can find permanent lodging."
"I said," Andy snapped, "there are no rooms available!"
Silence, for about fifteen seconds, then the odd bird turned and walked out of the lobby and into the street. I followed to the entrance and watched as he made his way over to Ma Skinner's boarding house. After a few minutes he came out and went further down the street, most every eye fixed on him. I hadn't figured he'd have any more success with Ma Skinner than he'd had with Andy. I heard later he'd found lodging with an old widow who lived in a tumble-down place at the edge of town, Alice Jensen by name.
I should have guessed that was where he would end up. Alice was all twisted up with arthritis, and was more or less shunned by the rest of the community, on account of her looks, and some vague scandal that shadowed her past. The talk was she'd had a daughter who'd died mysteriously. In any case, him going to live at the Jensen place did his reputation no good. There was no doubt she needed the money, but nevertheless that old saying was circulated, "Birds of a feather flock together."
I remember sitting on the porch a few days later with a few of my buddies, when the talk got round to the "odd bird," as he was now being called. Now the word "odd," in Rushmore, was a word you could have swapped with bad, evil or wicked, without changing the meaning any. If you fitted in, you were considered a mighty fine person. If not, it would take a million years to get accepted, if ever.
Like I said, we got to talking and Jimmy Gates, who ran the Service Station on Ruby Street, started the ball rolling with a question:
"What you think 'bout that odd bird that just rolled into town?"
The other guys grunted out replies that weren't important, one way or the other. I kept quiet 'cos I didn't know what to think. I also kept quiet 'cause I felt strangely attracted to the man, but was afraid to say so. That's one of my faults: I have my own thoughts and convictions, but I put a great deal of store on what other folks think of me. I'm inclined to follow the crowd.
"Well I'll tell you," said Jimmy, pushing his cap way to the back of his head, "I've got a feeling he's up to no good."
"Why you say that?"
"Well, I've been hearing talk. Did you know he hasn't changed his clothes in the three days he's been here? Yet he went into Ted's Clothing store and bought a whole new outfit. Next day, Bert Lang came strutting out in that same outfit."
Now, Bert Lang was one of the rejects of the Rushmore community. He'd been caught stealing, and gone to jail for it. Ever since that, no one would give him a job. I guess they thought he'd start his thieving ways on them. He lived with an aunt who more or less supported him, though she had little enough to support herself.
"Makes you wonder, don't it?" Jimmy was saying. Seems like he could've known Bert in prison, got friendly with him, and now he's come to help him out. Makes you wonder where he got all that cash he's flashing around."
"Think he might have got it in a robbery or something?" Asked Billy Trent, who was having trouble hitching his belt over his belly.
"Seems likely," said Jimmy, "all things considered.
We were quiet for some time after that, each of us busy with his own thoughts. Jimmy had given us quite a lot to think about. Somehow, though, I couldn't square the insinuations Jimmy was making with the sound of Gilmore Randall's voice -- or the expression I'd seen on his face that first day he'd come to town. In any case, I could see Jimmy's words had made an impression on the others, and I wasn't about to rock the boat by giving an opposite opinion.
"There's something else, too," said Badger, another of my buddies, "Odd Bird has had some strange effect on Mad Elly."
"What's that?" we all asked together. Our curiosity was peaked by the remark.
Elly was not shunned, but tolerated, because her madness, or imbecility, was of the harmless, dead-pan variety that harmed nobody, and stirred vague feelings of pity. She was part of the scenery, and a kind of symbol of Rushmore's more gentle nature.
"Well, you know how Elly never smiles, and her bottom lip curls up over the top one? And you know how dead her eyes are, and the way she drags her feet?"
We all nodded.
"Well, some of us saw Odd Bird talking to her for quite some time yesterday. Next thing, she pops into Ben's Grocery for her usual candy stick, and what do you think? She stands in front of Ben and smiles at him; actually smiles. Then she says 'Thank you!' bright as you please, and walks out without dragging her feet. Folks that've seen her since say her eyes are alive, an' she talks to her family quite normal, instead of that droning babble she's known for."
That piece of news really stunned us, for Elly was one of those comfortable reminders that some things never change. It clean knocked the foundation from under us and made us feel uneasy, though I can't say there wasn't a tiny thrill of excitement stirring in me somewhere.
Jimmy said, "How can one account for that?"
Some say it's that eye of his: the shining blue one. Something to do with witchery or necro-something."
"Necromancy," I said. I read it in the dictionary once. "Something to do with magic, when they're supposed to raise up dead people and make them talk to you."
That killed our free discussion, because a shiver of fear ran through us. One by one we got up and went our own ways.
During the next two weeks other things began to happen: Alice Jensen, all twisted up with arthritis, got untwisted. She was the one who first gave lodgings to the Odd Bird. She walked down the street with her back straight, a smile on her face, and her once-twisted hands gracefully holding the handle of her grocery basket. Bert Lang suddenly got industrious and started making lawn ornaments. He took them out of town (no one would have bought them in Rushmore) and sold them. For the first time he was a help to his aunt, and they both began to look better, and more prosperous.
That was enough to get the tongues wagging, and stories began to circulate. Odd Bird was credited with the most fantastic powers, both good and evil, most of them centering on his un-natural eye colouring. Even then, he might have weathered the storm, had there not been another disturbing quality to his presence in the town: He triggered off a "quake" in the shadier areas of Rushmore's social life.
The first of these took place in the hotel bar, which was a kind of gathering point for the rougher elements in the town. Andy Everett knew a lot of the men spent a good deal of their pay-checks on drink before it got to their families, but that was one of the facts of life. No one could hold him responsible for what the men had chosen to do of their own free will. That was the way of it until one Friday night, at the height of the drinking. Gilmore Randall walked into the bar and took up a position at one end of the bar. That gave him a clear view of almost everyone in the room.
He didn't do anything except scan the room with those eyes of his, occasionally fixing the bright blue one on some half drunk individual. His expression was not harsh or condemning. Nevertheless, after a few minutes of his presence the atmosphere changed. The men began to feel uncomfortable and glanced over their shoulders. They shuffled their feet. The free, alcohol-induced chatter, died. They began to leave and the cash-register stopped ringing. By the time he left, there was no more point in keeping the doors open, and Andy was forced to shut up shop. It hurt like crazy to see the night's takings at an all-time low. The same thing happened at other places in town, too.
By the sixth month of Gilmore Randall's presence in the town, the fires of resistance to him in Rushmore had begun to blaze. Groups of people stood in the street discussing nothing else but how to get rid of this odd specimen of humanity (even this was held in doubt), who had somehow disrupted their comfortable existence. As it turned out, this was easier than expected.
On the last Saturday of June his customary walk down the sidewalk of the main street was interrupted by half a dozen of the more prominent residents. They blocked his progress and gave him hostile stares. For the first time I saw a sadness slide across his features. His eyes loomed large behind the thick lenses, but totally without a hint of hostility.
Mayor Jordon spoke first, aware of the sudden silence and the intensely watching crowd, "Mr. Randall, sir, I'm sorry to tell you that you are no longer welcome in the town of Rushmore."
The odd figure before him acknowledged the term of respect with a nod of the head, then said, "You want me to leave?"
"I'm afraid so, "the mayor breathed, elated at the gentle inquiry. It seemed this was not going to be as difficult as he had imagined.
"Are you sure?" The question was addressed to the crowd, as well as to their spokesman.
"Why . . . why . . . yes!" At that point Mayor Jordan seemed to feel an apology was required. "You understand, it's not that we feel anything personal against you, but . . ."
"I quite understand!" said Gilmore Randall. "There is no need to explain." With that he stepped off the sidewalk. With the small leather case in one hand, and the bill-fold in the other, he slowly made his way down the street, and out of sight. No one in Rushmore ever saw him again.
Perhaps you're doubting my strange story. Maybe you don't even believe the town of Rushmore exists -- and you'd be right. It doesn't exist. Not anymore, that is. From the moment "Odd Bird disappeared over the horizon, Rushmore began to die. The built a highway, diverting through-traffic, and the life-line of commerce was stifled. That's the way ghost-towns are made.
Why do I keep remembering that word from the Bible, "Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels unawares." There's something else, too: Why do I get the feeling that Rushmore was given a mighty big privilege; a great opportunity -- and we blew it."
This bible study is from the book Exploring Biblical Prayer by Christopher Shennan, available at christophershennanbooks.com and lulu.com.
