Illumination

A short story
by Patricia Parkinson

“You are light,” it says—three words written on the torn corner of a scalloped placemat.

“You are light.”

Samm wonders what this means. “Light. Who is light? And how did this note end up on Cay’s night table?”

“It’s not her handwriting,” he says. The pen strokes are broad. Samm picks up the paper and holds it to the light coming through the blinds. There’s something on the other side. He turns it over.

“People born in the Year of the Rat. . . ,” it says. The tear cuts off some words, which pick up at, “. . . erous to loved ones, yet tend to be emotionally distant.”

Someone Cay knows is probably born in the Year of the Rat. Maybe it’s me, Samm thinks. This placemat could be proof that Cay is right about Samm’s—what does she call it?—his inability to communicate his feelings. Samm acts on his feelings. He doesn’t know how they sound.

Cay’s into expressing herself, into feelings and astrology and cards; she believes there’s a reason for everything and does yoga three times a week.

On Sunday mornings, Samm sits on the loveseat pretending to watch sports while he really watches Cay on the outside deck mastering the sun salutation pose. It makes her feel centered.

“You should try it,” she says.

Samm wants to tell her, “You’re beautiful,” so he makes her an egg white omelet.

Cay, Samm knows, would tear off the corner of this placemat for the astrology side. This is a sign.

There are always signs. His name was a sign.

“My name’s Cay. Cay with a ‘C’,” she said.

“My name’s Samm. Samm with two M’s.”

Cay smiled and laughed like she just remembered the thing she forgot. She extended her hand, and Samm touched her for the first time.

Names of streets are signs. Cay liked the name of their last street, Walnut Grove Drive . It had something to do with her inner child, wanting to connect with some Little House on the Prairie life she never had.

“We’ll be happy on Walnut Grove Drive,” Cay said.

And they were, in their two-bedroom rental. They made love in the living room and lay naked while Cay read Samm’s tarot cards. He always pulled the Page of Wands, a young man, it said, on the verge of discovery, and then they moved to 195th Street.

“One plus nine is ten, and ten plus five is fifteen, and one plus five is six. It’s not a good number,” Cay said when Samm told her about the house.

“The area is called Meadow Brook,” he said.

Cay wasn’t smiling when she got out of the Realtor’s car. She stayed in the yard while Samm went on the tour. The salesmen pointed out all the features, such as central air and neutral carpets. “They go with everything,” he said, trying to convince Samm to make an offer. When it was time to leave, Samm found Cay standing in the cul-de-sac looking up at the oak tree in the front yard.

“What is it?” Samm asked. He shaded his eyes and looked up with her.

“I was just wondering,” she said, continuing to look, “how many people would gather round and look up with me. I always wanted to do that. Stare up at a building in a busy city and see how many people would join me.”

Samm turned and looked down the quiet street. “How’s it working for you so far?” he asked, smiling.

“You’re the only one.”

“The only one?” Samm said and looked up with her again. “Do you suppose that could . . . mean something?”

“Mean something like . . . huh,” Cay said. She looked down at the ground. “I suppose it could. This could cancel out the six.” She closed her eyes and smiled and sort of twirled in her long tweed coat with the fake fur collar that she brushes her lips across when she thinks Samm’s not looking.

“I can live in Meadow Brook,” she said.

They moved in two months later.

It was their first house together. “We’ll raise our children here,” Samm thought and then built a fence.

Now, just one year after moving into a house on a bad-number street, there’s a torn placemat on Cay’s night table. Samm holds it up to the light again. The letters from the note have left an impression in the thin paper. There’s a slash, a cut, where the “t” is crossed.

“It’s definitely not her handwriting,” Samm says, whispering now.

He hears Cay coming up the stairs for bed. He puts the piece of paper back on the table, the “light” side up.

She walks into the room.

“We better close these,” Cay says and moves toward the window.

She pushes the sheers aside. The moonlit night hits the blinds and crosses her face in streaks of silver. Cay is looking up. Her eyes are closed, and her head is tilted back. She turns to Samm and flicks her wrist. The blinds shut.

Copyright 2007 by Patricia Parkinson