A Bright House

Ray drove away from the Logan Diner with a smile that lasted almost until he reached Broadview avenue. Jenny walked back into her place of employment wearing a smile that lasted until the boss peered at her curiously through his pick-up window, when she forced her features back to neutral.

These are the moments to cherish. If one is fortunate enough to pay attention to each nuance of the heart, these are memories that will retain their feeling, no matter the subsequent journey for those who have shared such a sweetness. Alas, far too often they who have loved another with passion and tenderness, devotion and best friendship, find themselves peering inward at the pathway long behind them; where did the power of the memory go? Why can’t I summon up any of what I felt then? Not even the pain that I once thought would kill me...

Jenny who had loved and lost. Ray who had never given his heart to romance. Both were deeply affected by their first kiss; its timing, meaning, context, and tenderness. Both would replay and re-feel that moment repeatedly in the days to follow. All of what seemed to be happening to and also unfolding for them could have come bearing the withering pressure of expectation. It wasn’t to be, during that Monday when their lives crisscrossed so sweetly. Jenny told herself that should it not develop further, for any number of reasons that easily came to mind, it would all have been worth that kiss and its lingering feeling. Trusting and offering herself up so unexpectedly had felt like the heaviest lock on the thickest door had been removed. She could open it now, step through to what life would present to her. As for Ray, driving north on the 427 to an eventual scenic route through the Caledon hills on highway 10, he felt wonderfully free of the heaviness that had been sitting in his chest since Friday. Amazing, what following a purely intuitive impulse will bring.

That thought occurred to Ray as he bypassed the turn-off into Orangeville, a large town surrounded by rolling farm country that continued to flank the two lanes of highway 10. He powered down the window a little more, breathed in that rich bouquet of soil, manure, young crops... intuitive impulse. The Townes farmstead had been owned outright for many years. It was a solid supplier of rye and barley crops, for a decade fiscally solvent. If Ray could come close to his asking price, it would then mean enough freedom to relocate almost anywhere he so desired. Two weeks ago this would have been an almost unthinkable train of thought; could he truly sever his blood ties to that piece of land and the old home that anchored it? Would he consider it had he not met Jenny of Bright street? Ray mulled that over during the stretch of scenic Caledon hills roadway. How much of this new impulse was founded in what he had discovered beneath the floorboards of his mother’s bedroom?

Ray glanced into the rear view mirror at the distant skyline of Toronto. It poked at the clouds in its dominion of commerce and growth, but could not diminish the rural beauty of what he was driving through. A playful roll of hillside with vivid patches of farmland, and small churches that were built to serve communities of settlers who chose to live free of a city’s clutches. He was only an hour out of the metropolis, where Jenny lived... was it reckless and premature of him to even consider moving to Ontario? He could take baby steps, give them both ample space to grow into whatever might hold potential... for love.

The driving was easy along this hilly expanse, with a paucity of traffic that allowed Townes to slip into a meld of concentration on the road and mental wandering into the mystery of his biological father. For so many years, Ray’s life had been a smoothly structured existence of overseeing the farm’s financial status, doing as many psychic sessions for regular clients as he was comfortable with, and taking small trips around his country. It was a life based upon doing good work, assisting others, and a low-stress down time freedom. The clairvoyant work was stressful enough. So many lonely people. So many without a strong feeling about where to turn, what to do next, how to best emotionally cope with health issues, etcetera.

Ray seemed to be gaining a new insight into his drive to put the strange gift of clairvoyant “sight” to good use; had Delsin the Cree been a shaman? The memories of a kind-hearted but quietly “lost” mother didn’t gel with Ray’s adolescent acceptance of what he had been gifted-cursed with ; a weary acceptance that immediately birthed his idea to put the psychic ability to good use. He’d known from a young age that the farm would be left to him. It was also an integral part of his personality to be ultra sensitive and compassionate; what a fortunate existence, that he could subsist on the farm’s earnings and support so many charities with his odd line of work. Ray thought of Delsin Shacapot and was certain that the man had been one of strong medicine. This was the genesis of Ray’s “gift” and calling.

After a long stretch of open highway, route 10 became a small main street to a very quaint Caledon Village. Tidy sidewalks and postcard storefronts were in the early stages of warm weather promises about to come true. Ray caught all three red traffic lights and took long moments to admire the good energy passing between people who encountered one another. It reminded him of so many of the hamlets in Saskatchewan, Manitoba, little known regions of Alberta. To these folk who live simpler lives, a shimmering metropolis still visible to the south must enkindle a “let them have it” feeling. Ray passed through the little village and thought again of Delsin. He needed to find out everything about this man and how he had met Melinda Townes.

A few miles past the village, Ray began to wonder if he had overshot the left turn that would take him to Goderich. Between Caledon and Shelburne, he pulled into the wide gravel shoulder to take a look at his Southern Ontario roadmap. Sure enough, in his less than fully present state of mind with its liberal revisits to the kiss between he and Jenny, Ray had missed a major route to Goderich. The next available opportunity would occur in the form of highway 89, available once through downtown Shelburne. He looked at the map for a few moments and decided to go for it, thankful that his trip scheduling had allowed for an open afternoon and evening before the intense work of Tuesday.

Shelburne arrived in the shape and character of countless small towns; pleasant enough heritage architecture on the main strip, notably the old library, town hall, and a beautiful red brick church of Anglican faith. Ray noted that people on the sidewalks turned their heads to look at him openly. It mattered little that the town straddled several routes to the tourist destinations dotting the shoreline of l

Lake Huron and Georgian Bay; these were locals with an instinctual vision for out-of-towners. The feeling was completely neutral. They were looking openly with unreadable expressions, most simply taking note of him and perhaps his unusual appearance; a left forearm aligned with the bottom edge of a driver’s window that had been fully lowered. Ray’s tattooed hands and long hair often fed into assumptions that he was a biker or some other form of roughneck. It consistently surprised him, the frequency with which books and their covers are so quickly judged.

Ray passed through the town’s core and took his turn-off onto highway 89, which like number 10 behind him was merely a two-lane artery in need of resurfacing. He had officially entered “snow belt” territory, a vast area under direct influence of the massive great lakes and bay that formed a relentless weather machine. This was the region of tractor-pull contests, giant pumpkin-growing competitions, quilting bees, outdoor antique markets, barn-raisings, and so many other assorted social events that seemed country-hick to the big city folk whose numbers dominated the population of southern Ontario rimmed around the so-called “Golden Horseshoe”.

Quite frankly, it was Ray’s preferred lifestyle. He thought again, for the hundredth time, of Jenny. The sweetness and trusting vulnerability was a mere fraction of a resilient core that he felt vividly when in her presence. The way she had kissed him in return, with a fully given energy that had cascaded through his senses; it replayed with full force as he drove west on 89. He looped the recall, also with scattering peripheral thoughts about a future that held potential for him to relocate and at last, mercifully, enter into a relationship with a person who might understand and accept his essence. A great love requires a sympathetic resonance. A great love should not exist solely upon the power of its mutual desires.

Ray envisioned a beautiful sculpture crafted from two pieces, the fit of which would occur only once. Should these pieces become separated, it would be the journey of each to find its other half so that the whole of that specific resonating work of spiritual art could attain divine being. His elliptical elusive thoughts could only skirt these truthful edges. It may be that all energy is driven by love; the quest for a great love that will ultimately unite all forms of energy.

Ray drove past a tiny hamlet named Keldon, admiring one farmstead that appeared so wonderfully maintained as to be a storybook illustration. He thought of his mother and the Cree father who had met and fell into a love that could not sustain itself, at least not in the present lifetime. There lingered within a potent sadness, for the lacerating obvious reasons of Melinda’s brutally chosen means of “coping”, but also within the blood and spiritual composition of the son who came into being as a result of a love that fractured due to fear, Ray’s unwavering new hunch that he had been conceived within a great love. He felt an overpowering knowledge that his existence at this critical point in time was laden with imminent answers. People have been vanishing, yet I will be found.

And so, with sporadic glances at his watch, with the only music inside the Buick supplied by rural Ontario winds and a humming of all season tires, Townes approached the larger town of Mount Forest and luxuriated in a spreading sense of inner calm. The days ahead were sure to bring upset, intensity of concentration and will to assist the families of those who suddenly disappeared, but this mellow drive northwest held all the necessary ingredients to prepare a good-hearted man for his unusual mission. Stopped at a crossroads where a freight train leisurely lumbered past on its north-south rails, Ray’s recollection of the dream-train and his mother’s warning came to mind only mildly. He took the opportunity to glance again at his roadmap, and a word that struck a chord; Teviotdale.

Where do I remember that from?

CP Rail cars clattered across his field of vision. He looked at the rusty hulks moving right to left, relaxed his thoughts for those moments and it came to him; a client. An Ontario client who used to call twice a week for phone sessions. The man had been a trucker who had often enthused about a filling station-restaurant in Teviotdale that served up the best coffee and comfort food ever. Despite a generous breakfast of less than two hours ago, Ray felt the light gnawing of a stomach that would appreciate something to tide it over until dinner, whatever and wherever that may be. He looked back to the map and noted that Teviotdale was en route to Goderich if he altered his course to take route 6, southbound. He could order a light meal, partake of the legendary truck stop coffee, and proceed to the octagonal town via highway 109...

The train’s caboose rumbled past and Ray continued along, now with a detour in mind and a fresh revel for the loosely structured afternoon drive. Within fifteen minutes he reached the left turn onto route 6. An impulse had him reaching for the radio, where he dialed in a country station from not too distant Walkerton that rotated classic cry-in-your-beer hits from the days of genre yore. Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings... dry, tired, authentic, bittersweet classic song craft that had Townes instantly homesick in a way that didn’t involve the Saskatchewan farm or even anything specific from his childhood. It was an all encompassing nostalgia, fuzzy around the edges but reaching into his depths. For a straight stretch of dusty gravel roadway that didn’t seem to earn those royal crown insignia with an inset ‘6’ on the signposts, Ray thoroughly enjoyed the music, clouds of dust kicking up behind the Skylark, and an otherwise uninvolved mind.

Teviotdale was but a blip on its crossroads; four corners with a few businesses and the famous filling station and adjoining restaurant. The parking lot was expansive, seemingly out of proportion to its location, but soon enough as Ray turned to pull into the establishment, he could see the rows of eighteen-wheelers and many well-worked smaller trucks with their dirt encrusted Ford, GMC, Chevy logos. There were two long rows of fuel pumps, both busy on a Monday in this well situated oasis between scattered towns. This was where most of the truckers supplying food and other essentials to the large but spread out population bases along Huron and Georgian Bay could fill their tanks, their stomachs, and maybe catch a few hours of shut-eye.

Ray parked as far from the restaurant as possible, giving a wide berth to the hive of activity around the fuel islands. He climbed from the Buick for a good sky-reaching yawn and stretch. The weather was beautiful, not a cloud in sight with seasonable temperatures. He slowly strolled across the asphalt to the restaurant, in excellent spirits, feeling hungry again. That first whiff of ambiance when Ray pushed through the wide front door was utterly homespun; a wonderful rich note of strong coffee, closely followed by the always mouth-watering fragrance of bacon. He let his eyesight adjust for a moment, just inside the space beside a long dining counter and its back wall of refrigerated shelving that held assorted desserts... apple pie, rice pudding in tall ornate glassware, coconut cream, lemon meringue, red Jello... Ray’s stomach grumbled and he moved toward the young lady who stood behind a cash register with a wide smile and an indicating hand wave - “any of those empty booths, if you like sir.”

Despite the activity taking place at the fuel pumps, his timing had been fortuitous. This was a brief lull between lunch and the frenetic hours of late afternoon and early evening. Three empty booths presented themselves and Ray selected one that faced through a wide glass window to the section of parking lot he had chosen. Within minutes he was approached by a matronly old waitress who must have been around since the foundation was poured; she smiled at him in that open country folk manner, handed him a menu, and asked if he would like something to drink.

He spoke of the raved-about coffee and she nodded with a grin before he could finish his sentence. “Oh yeah” she chuckled. “We have people drive an hour out of their way just to have our coffee. It isn’t unusual to see some of these fellas order two or three extra large for the road.” She indicated with a tilt of her chin the long row of stools that held up assorted big-bellied baseball cap wearing men who made their way with a windshield full of whatever mother nature wanted to throw at them, and a peculiar love for endless horizons...

“Bring it on, then” Ray told her.

Five minutes elapsed before the thematic word of Ray’s Monday was uttered again : “Wow, that’s so good.” He shook his head and grinned at the waitress as she returned to take his order, a BLT with fries. “I hate to say told you so...” she said in feigned sternness. “Is it a big secret, then?” Ray asked. “How you get all that robust flavor into one pot?” “You betcha” she laughed, then headed towards the distant kitchen to place his order.

His sandwich arrived with golden brown perfectly executed French fries. Three generous strips of bacon, a thick slice of beefsteak tomato, and crisp iceberg lettuce with mayo and Ray’s addition of pepper... he enjoyed every bit of the meal, each sip of strong flavorful coffee as the waitress kept his mug filled until he requested the bill. Not one to break with a local tradition, Ray asked her to add the cost of a large coffee to go, to his tally. Yes, it was that good.

"Here you are, love” she said with genuine warmth, placing the receipt in front of him. “You pay at the front. Have a great day.” Ray looked at the reasonable price and told her how much he had enjoyed the experience; “the place lives up to its hype.” She laughed a hearty one and turned to attend to other customers, and Ray made his way to the cash register. It was during that two dozen steps that he caught sight of a man in the distance of the parking lot, not many vehicles away from where the Skylark was parked. Ray squinted and watched as the tall lanky figure, slightly bow-legged, ambled toward a rusty Ford pick-up carrying a load of what looked to be shovels, rakes, assorted landscaping tools. The girl at the counter made change and extended her hand, but Ray kept his eyes through that window and told her “please give the balance to the lady who served me”... he accepted the proffered Styrofoam cup of coffee, then quickly turned for the front door.

What was riveting Ray’s eyes, catching at his heartbeat, was that the tall man was clad entirely in native Indian buckskin with a full headdress. His hair swung to and fro across a broad back. A waist length greying braid. This of itself wouldn’t be remarkable but for the power of memory and peculiar upheaval within Ray’s brain. He pushed through the front door and tumbled through myriad rushing thoughts. Must be a pow wow ceremony somewhere... There were a hundred yards to cover before he could reach the man getting into his truck, but Ray picked up his gait into a near jog. Coffee bubbled through small openings in the lid rim, spilling down across his hand. He was halfway to the Buick when the beaten Ford backed out and into a smooth turn that gave Townes a quick but clear glimpse through green tinted windshield glass.

“Wait” he called, suddenly breaking into a lope and gesticulating with his left hand. The man in his truck, he of high cheekbones and broad nose, an electrifying similarity to a certain photograph in Ray’s medicine pouch, did not see Townes and finished his acceleration to the exit of Teviotdale’s truck stop. Ray of the pounding heart dropped the hot cup of spilling coffee and broke into a full sprint for his rental car.