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Fiction Short Story

Phillipa Medley lives in South Africa and is currently taking fiction-writing courses over the Internet with Writers' Village University. She first started experimenting with the craft of writing in June 2000.

To date, she has received one published credit, a poem titled "Stale Popcorn," appearing in the January 2001 issue of the magazine publication called Beginnings.

Arms Wide Open

By Phillipa Medley

I did not find it unusual waking up next to a stranger. From time to time, mother put her strays in the spare bed next to mine. Their faces were seldom visible. Sometimes only groans would emerge from beneath the shelter of the blankets, especially after one of mother’s notorious parties. Returning from the farmlands at the end of my day, I would find no trace of the needy overnight guest in my room apart from a faint clue of perfume.

"Who was she?" I asked mother.

"Someone in pain," she replied, which could mean a visitor suffering from a night of debauchery, or some other kind of agony; the symptoms varied. Seldom were the details of the fleeting fugitives revealed, or those of mother's other cases, unless an emergency cropped up and my assistance was necessary.

"Rocco," she called, "Mrs Bligh has taken an overdose and I need strong arms." We would hurtle off and deliver the patient to the Nervous Disorders Hospital.

"Why don’t you just ring an ambulance?" I said. "She does this so frequently."

"If you were about to take your last breath on this earth, would you want to look into the eyes of a stranger?" she said. I found no reply.

When Mrs Pierce felt depressed, mother expected me to recite poetry to the aged elocution teacher. "Stay away from Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. A sonnet or two will suffice," warned mother. Mrs Pierce teased her hair into startled wisps and wore orange lipstick that sometimes missed its mark. After my rendition, she would shout "Magnificent!" and gasp, clasping to her mouth a handkerchief that had seen better days. Mrs Pierce then returned to contemplating the golden moments from her heyday in the theatre.

Regular visitors came to the farm. Mrs Welfit arrived on Tuesdays clutching a bottle of gin in a brown paper bag. I sighed, anticipating a long night and prepared myself for the lyrics of Leonard Cohen, which I could sing in my sleep. Mother rang her silver bell, a signal for me to deliver fresh ice.

Mrs Welfit would enthuse in a throaty voice, her vocal cords the victims of too many cigarettes, "Thank you darling, such a sweet boy," and cup my chin and wink at me. At 25, I was no longer a boy. Mother would nod, a cue for me to exit, allowing them to continue their departure from reality.

Mrs Bryan was easier. She was fond of wearing capes decorated with exotic patterns that I found fascinating. Sometimes she would weave unsteadily along the rough path from the house to the stables and question me about my horses.

"Are those breeding mares?" She once asked, waving in the direction of one of the paddocks.

"Yes." I replied.

"Don’t let the stallion be too hard on them, Rocco." She said and handed me a large packet of sugar cubes. "This should make them feel better."

She and mother would sit on the veranda and focus their mental energy on staring fixedly at the sky, as if attempting to disperse clouds. Mrs Bryan had an interest in Eastern religions and felt her meditation efforts were given a boost if she stripped down to her underwear, in which case I was expected to stay out of sight. Occasionally I would hear her wail, indicating a sharp decline in the contents of her bottle of whisky.

One morning I awoke to find a new fugitive and I could see her face. Her hair was the colour of champagne. I would like to kiss that mouth, I thought, shocked by my desire. Quickly, I suppressed my lust. Our home was supposedly a haven for emotionally wounded women, free of predatory men.

She spoke. "Don’t be shy. My name is Fleur and I know you are not asleep."

"What are you writing?" I asked.

"I’m sending a postcard to my dog, I miss her. You get up first, I promise not to look."

I fled to find mother. She anticipated my protest. "Sorry darling, last night was hectic and I had nowhere else to put her. She is closer to your age than I thought and I’ll move her to the front room."

"How long will she be staying?" I said.

"Her husband is a mean swine, and she needs time to think. I have said enough. Rocco, I know you will be a perfect gentleman while she is here."

I tried. My hours training horses at the stables grew longer. I schooled my favourite horse, Farah, asking more of her than was fair. Thoughts of Fleur visited unannounced and languished like a song unbidden looping persistently in my mind. I wondered about her mean husband, concluding that although my stolen glimpses of her body indicated no marks there are many other ways in this world to be mean. When he telephoned, Fleur would request an urgent conference with mother behind closed doors. I was not in the habit of eavesdropping, but the sound of her sadness drew me to the door leaving me frustrated that we could not offer more than just the shield of comfort.

Despite my evasion, Fleur sought my company. "Run with me," she asked. Perhaps she imagined she could run away from her pain. To avoid the sight of her beautiful legs, I jogged in front, worried, for an enemy may choose to strike from behind, and I could not protect her, but then I reasoned that she could already see her foe.

She liked to groom Farah's chestnut coat into a shine until it flirted with the sun.

"You’re special." I heard her whisper to the horse. Her glances of green sparkled as she persuaded me to laughter. When her fingers chose to toy with my hair or banish sweat from my face, I swallowed my torture, like the stomach of a boxer absorbing repeated blows. Her questions were direct and simple.

"Why are the swallows flying so high today?"

"A sign that it may rain."

"Do you want to be anywhere else but here?"

"No," I said "it is better here than out there."

Fleur’s husband was wearing her down. I knew the signs, having seen resolve falter many times in the eyes of other damaged foundlings. She took to staring at the sky beside Mrs Bryan, looking for answers in the clouds. In an effort to cheer her up, Mrs Welfit plied Fleur with copious amounts of gin and taught her how to puff on imported cigars.

My horse Farah became ill, diverting my attention from the tormented Fleur. Two nights passed before her voice called me to the entrance of the stables.

"Rocco, will Farah live or die?" she said.

"She will live."

"Then I would like to see her." We walked toward Farah's stable, but her right hand blocked my thigh from completing its stride. I was surprised by her strength and unprepared for the precise intuition of her body. Her mouth smoothed the inexperience of my clumsy responses and her voice was my coach.

Of course, she was gone in the morning. Mother was tight-lipped about her farewell.

"Tell me where," I pleaded.

"One can only surmise, sometimes they do let me know. What is important, Rocco, is to keep our arms wide open."

Then I did the right thing, I thought, but with more than my arms. We continued with our work, offering respite to weary travellers ambushed by sorrow. After a time I received a postcard from Fleur, addressed to my horse, Farah, bearing a brief message.

"I hope you and your master are well."

Copyright © 2001 Phillipa Medley