Hadrian's Wall (6 page)

I took a half second to process what she’d
said.

“I don’t know if I’ll be here long enough to
make friends,” I replied in the same irreverent way.

The way she was talking about “being
friends” seemed frivolous to me. Even if it was normal and everyone
acted this way, the fact is that I always doubted the emotional
ties between people—friends, husbands and wives, lovers, children
and parents, colleagues...whatever it was. I believed in genuine
and disinterested feelings from people as much as I believed in
Santa Claus and I despised the inconsequential way that most people
dealt with this subject—swearing eternal loyalty one time, but
turning away at the slightest sign of trouble. Besides, her manner
did not convince me, nor was it was obvious to me that Charity was
here out of obligation.

She dramatically tilted her head to the side
while she reflected on my answer.

“Where do you intend to go?” she asked in a
jocular manner. “Hadrian’s Wall may be a small town, but it’s a
nice place to live. Appearances can be deceiving, though, so you’ll
just have to decide for yourself.”

I tried to say, or rather,
Charity says that the town is a nice place to live, but she
specifies the strengths of the town in an ironic way. Because she
thinks that people from out of town will appreciate these things.
Of course, she turns these aspects into trivial things, knowing
that Melissa will take a tremendous shock when she see how majestic
the town is. These reasons make her leave things between the
lines
.
She paused
for effect, while sitting on the edge of my bed. “People care about
each other here.”

I suddenly had some idea how wrong I was
about Adrian Cahill. Not only was he well situated with regard to
his life’s work, he was absurdly rich!

* * *

There I was, sitting in the dark, musing on
the curious “late afternoon” I’d spent in company of Charity
Cahill, a weird, but fascinating girl. She seemed fragile,
glamorous, but at the same time...something I cannot explain—she
was decidedly casual and spontaneous—a walking contradiction. In
Hadrian’s Wall, nothing and no one was at it seemed.

I looked at the piles of clothes she’d
brought me, some carefully folded in piles on the coffee table,
while other items were already stored in the closet, to be tried on
the next day. Never had I seen so many designer clothes at once.
They fit me perfectly, as if she had taken my measurements before
choosing them.

I was not the type of person who could
accept gifts like these. I wanted to work for my own clothes, the
roof over my head, and the food on my table. I wasn’t an invalid or
poor so that I would become the target of pity for the rich and
beautiful people of the town. I already felt sufficiently
constrained by the VIP treatment that I was receiving in the
Caledonia Hospital. I often asked myself, ‘Why do they want to take
care of me—a stranger who can’t pay for their services?’ Curiosity
burned me like a hot iron. Despite my probing inquiries, both
Bernice and Charity were unwilling to enlighten me as to the
reasons.

When I told Adrian about the clothes that
Bernice had given to me, I never imagined that he would send me a
truckload of skirts, pants, shorts, blouses, shirts, dresses,
shoes...and it was no use to try to reject them. Charity almost had
a heart attack when I refused to accept them. She said that she’d
be offended if I did, especially after she’d taken the initiative
to get her name in the “little book of good deeds” is how she put
it—as if the fact of distributing new clothes was a fun or
commonplace thing.

In the end, Charity stated
that I should take pity on her and accept everything without
complaint, otherwise her cousin would be upset. What a drama queen!
In the end, she finally got her way. Now, here I am, sitting on the
bed that not long before had housed a jumble of colorful garments.
Of course, I would use very few of them. Chic
clothes, with brilliant, intricate details were simply not my
style, so I separated the less tawdry items and kept the more
demure—but the shoes were still a distinct issue.

I sighed, turning my head to look out the
window. The full moon bathed my bedroom in silvery light, making it
unnecessary to turn on the light. After a few minutes of
distraction, I looked at the door of small closet where my old
suitcase was kept. I decided that I could not wait to open it. I
had to do it now and for some reason, I needed to do it alone,
without the intrusion of witnesses.

Forgetting Charity and her
troublesome shoes for the moment, I got out of bed and walked
slowly to the closet. I leaned forward with caution because of the
brace and started to pull
the
suitcase
out. I still felt occasional
twinges in my ribs, but the bandage that pressed my chest was no
longer bothering me as much. The case was very heavy. Wow! I
carried this through two states?

I set it on the coffee table with a thud,
knocking the clothes that Charity had given me onto the floor. I
felt another twinge in my ribs, stronger this time. Adrian will
kill me if something happens to my damaged ribs. Well, I can’t
worry about that anymore...what’s done is done.

I turned on the lamp and took a deep breath.
It’s here—the moment of truth! I wanted to prepare myself, but try
as I might to concentrate on breathing slowly, my heart was racing.
Well, I can’t wait indefinitely. On the other hand, I wasn’t
feeling a crisis coming on, so perhaps it was better to end it for
good.

It was better to end the
suspense once and for all. I pulled the zipper.
The opening gave way slowly. The plaid was so worn that it
seemed more gray than blue. I folded the sides back as best I
could, hoping to prevent the decals of my childhood from
reactivating the symptoms that Dr. Talbot had classified as
psychosomatic. Greek again. Amen!

Clothes and books were
first things that I saw. They were carefully folded and stacked to
make the most of space. The clothes were practical—a pair of jeans,
frayed at the hem, tracksuit pants, three shirts in basic colors, a
pair of black shoes with a hole in the right sole, two pairs of
cotton panties, and a
bra.
Wow, I traveled with very little clothing. Where
was my faded winter coat and my brown sweater? How would I endure
the harsh winters of New England without them?

I was disappointed. I kept digging through
my meager belongings, hoping to find something that let me fill the
gap between New Hampshire and Maine. It seemed ironical to me that
both states were neighbors, yet in my mind it seemed that the
distance between them was the same as that between the United
States and Africa.

As for my books, there were not many.
Although used, they were in good condition. I’d brought some of my
favorite novels and my drawing book. Had I left my other books at
the orphanage?

Beside them, I found some small envelopes
containing some memories—teen magazine clippings, postcards that I
saved because of the landscape photos, and my dear keychain with
little dolls that I loved! Miniatures. They were all there—the
panda bear, a Chinese girl, the Maltese dog, the dancing pig, the
three huskies on sled, the golden retriever wearing sunglasses, the
puffy lion, the squinty-eyed rabbit, the miniature of the old barn
from Dailey’s Crossing—a reminder of my “fortress of solitude.”

I also found a kit containing brushes and
graphite pencils, a feather beak, and a transparent plastic bag,
large and misshapen, with small pots of gouache, fabric paint for
painting tissues (this was impromptu), nankin, watercolor, ink and
water-based.

I remembered that I did not have the full
range of colors to paint my drawings, because all my utensils were
second hand. I considered these color tints as my greatest
treasures, some donated to my art classes in high school, others
purchased by myself with much sacrifice.

Stirring up the bottom of the suitcase, I
found a small, effete photo album. I felt beads of sweat appear on
my forehead. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and boldly
flipped through the frayed pages to recap some of my dull life.

That’s funny! Looking for those few photos
where people appeared smiling, I did briefly reflected upon the
world’s irony. An onlooker seeing them devoid of necessary
information could really believe that my mother was a wonderful
mom; that my father was not dead (that he’s still around, playing
his guitar); that the girls and boys at the orphanage or at school
were actually my good friends; that all tutors and teachers dealing
with orphans liked us—the lost boys and lost girls of a perfect
society!

I closed the album firmly. It was not good
to be looking at the past. I know it. This conclusion was also true
with regard to the only toy I had kept all these years—the doll
that my father had given me...the one I had with me at the time of
his death. I recognized her, pressed against the bottom of my
suitcase...another ghost from my past. Tears welled up in my eyes.
I carefully placed the doll next to the album on the couch so that
I did not to have to look at it a second time. Why had I kept those
things if make me so sick? I knew why. Having an unhappy past is
better than have no past, which only showed me that I am
masochistic by nature and I did not like seeing myself like
that.

I took a few deep breaths before
continuing.

At the bottom of the case I found two pairs
of socks. Where are my shoes and my slippers? Wait! In a
transparent baggie I found a thumb drive. This item wasn’t among my
things that I remembered. I was curious. I opened the small object
and turned it between my fingers. On one side was a sticker that
read: “File & e-books.” The calligraphy was not mine...

I plugged it into the USB port of the laptop
and clicked to access the files. Some literary classics appeared;
comic books; articles on art history; images of sculptures,
pictures; engravings; summaries on the major world museums—their
collections and their email addresses. Wow! I was intrigued. How
could this happen? There are many mysteries surrounding the
frontier between Maine and New Hampshire.

I shut the files, clicked on the request to
“safely remove” and pulled the thumb drive from the USB port. Wait!
How did I know the procedure? I’d never had a thumb drive before.
For a moment, I stared at the small device and then I shrugged and
returned it to the bag.

Back to the suitcase... Like any thriller,
the impact was always reserved to the end. Basically, I found
sheets of various sizes—stretched and wrapped carefully in plastic
sheeting. They were my drawings. Of course, I remember them!

I pulled them out, one by one. Each drawing
represents my views on the bucolic scenery of Coos that marked my
childhood and adolescence: the old orphanage; the hospital where my
father died, now abandoned, with its ghostly stained glass windows
and the sunny garden; the wooden covered bridge that crosses the
Connecticut River, not so far from Dailey’s Crossing; the railroad
tracks...

The next drawings had a very different theme
and were more mature than the landscapes. They represented my first
attempts to “exorcise” the hallucinations. There on the faded
paper, red eyes fueled a spectra—shapeless, faceless—the winged
monster that haunted my worst childhood nightmares.

Yes, I’d made several charcoal sketches: The
creature flapping its wings on its flyby; perched on the branches
of trees when moonlight hangs over them in front of the window of
my bedroom. To look at it caused me a sudden and terrible malaise.
Dizziness overtook me and my lungs began to fail me. It seemed like
I’d been punched in the stomach. Without warning, the crisis struck
me.

For one brief, lucid moment, I regretted
bitterly not having heard Adrian before. I knew I would not have
time to reach the emergency button. I stayed completely paralyzed,
tumbled sideways on the bed with my face turned to the window.
Great! So I have a privileged view of death approaching me. And
here she comes, flapping her huge wings while I sweat
profusely.

My heart was pumping in my ears, echoing
those wings beating in a crescendo orchestrated until the
monotonous sound of both became a single squealing. My vision went
dark in the same proportion to the beat until the squealing
dominated everything. There was a blackout...and then, silence.

Suddenly, a crazy thing happened. Images
emerged from nowhere and seemed to dance in front of my eyes.
Initially they were flashes of light and shadow that assaulted my
sensibilities, but then became more defined. Some I recognized,
others were strange and senseless. They were gone so fast that I
couldn’t understand what they meant, but I saw the fragments of
scenes as if I were a part of them.

So hallucinations, nightmares, and reality
mixed in the life of a girl and a woman at the same time...but who
was that woman? It seemed to be...ME.

* * *

S
unny afternoon...

From over the wall, I could see the trees of
a thick forest. A distinctive scent of incense burned around me,
brought by the breeze. I knew instantly that women from the fort
were making their offerings to Vesta.

Peace enveloped me like a blanket until
suddenly I noticed a shadow running through the trees. It was him.
I was waiting for that confrontation.

* * *

A t
emple in ruins...

I was using a set of delicate veils that
fluttered as if wanted to launch down the cliff. He was approaching
faster and faster. I could already feel him behind me.

I turned and finally got to see him. He was
magnificent in his fury. His arms seemed amazingly sculpted in the
hardness of marble. I noticed that he still wore his warrior garb
and the ritualistic camouflage of Celtics covered his face, making
the jade color of his eyes scarier than it used to be for his
enemies, but not for me.