Alone No More

Spring 2009

 

Alone No More (extended excerpt)

By Miranda Baxter

Jonathan awoke the next morning in a hazy state of mind, realizing that he’d almost overslept. Quickly he leapt out of bed and threw on his red flannel robe, dashing down the stairs to get Dogberry his breakfast. Luckily the dog was still asleep, apparently still exhausted from the previous night filled with taptaptap. Jonathan decided to let Dogberry sleep in, if only this once. He gingerly crept over the blue kitchen tiles, shivering as their emptiness chilled his bare feet. As he began to prepare a cup of coffee for himself, the doorbell rang. Dogberry’s head jerked up as a slow rush of anger coursed through Jonathan Tuesday’s veins. How dare they arrive early? He’d not even had time to brush his teeth! And poor Dogberry...well, he wasn’t going to allow this to happen. Jonathan Tuesday marched through the living room and swung open the front door.

“Do you have any idea wha…wha…whauhmmmmIamsosorry.” As Jonathan gazed upon the sight before him, all of his anger drained from him as syrup through his shoes.

“Morning, Mr. Tuesday. My name’s Beatrice, and I’m leading the team that’ll be clearing away your tree problem.”

“Um…tree. Right.”

“Which one is it?”

“Which…uh…sorry, which one is what?”

“The tree, sir. Which tree is the one you want removed?”

Jonathan finally regained consciousness.

“Oh! Right! The tree. It’s this tree. This one right here.” He forced a nervous laugh. Maybe she hadn’t noticed his complete idiocy. She was a small female, but when she spoke, she reminded the world that she was anything but small. Her voice was not loud or booming, but full and melodic. She had long and wavy brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck; it was the kind of hair he’d only seen on women who’d played his favorite Shakespearean heroines—including Beatrice. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d been named for that character. What intelligent, loving parents! She wore a white t-shirt underneath a pair of overalls, the pockets of which were filled with various tools and utensils. He watched her hands moving a pen over paper on the clipboard she held. Though they were rough and worn, they were the most beautiful hands he’d ever seen. As Jonathan devoured the shining twin circles of bright brown that watched him carefully over a clipboard, he realized that she had, in fact, noticed his complete idiocy, but had mercifully chosen to overlook it.

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” said Beatrice. “I always like to arrive a little before the crew does so I can get an idea for how we can start the job. No worries, though, you’re not paying until they get here.” Jonathan nodded, but had somehow lost his voice again. “You don’t have to stand out here watching me. It’s all right if you go about your business while we go about ours.”

“Right. I suppose I’ll just…pop back into the kitchen. Breakfast, you know.” This would have been the perfect exit had it not been the moment Dogberry had chosen to leap out of the house and shower his undying affections upon the visitor.

“Dogberry, no! Down, boy!” What embarrassing behavior! Now he’d never get her attention back!

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Tuesday. I love dogs. I’ve got one at home, myself.”

“Really? What’s its name?”

“Prospero.”

Jonathan Tuesday struggled to keep from fainting with sheer delight. Keep cool, old boy, he reassured himself. Act like it’s really not the most wonderful thing she’s said yet.

“Prospero? Is that from…?”

“The Tempest. It’s my favorite play.” She glanced up at him and smiled with the most delicious-looking lips he’d seen in his life. It was a miracle that the stammering mess that was left of Jonathan Tuesday was still vertical.

“Well, uh, I suppose I’ll let you…do your thing.” He took a firm hold of Dogberry’s collar as she turned back to her clipboard.

Jonathan retreated back into his home, dragging the ecstatic Dogberry behind him. He turned on the radio just in time for his favorite program on NPR, but his mind was elsewhere. He ate a bowl of cereal while sitting on the couch, barely aware of the melodic radio voices filling the room.

There were several things wrong with this particular picture of Jonathan Tuesday. First of all, he never ate cereal on the weekends; cereal was a weekday food. On Saturdays he ate eggs and toast for breakfast. The fact that there was no milk of any sort accompanying this bowl of cereal was completely irrelevant. Secondly, Jonathan Tuesday ate only at tables—either in the kitchen or the dining room, depending on the meal of the day. You were one step away from eternal hellfire if you ate anywhere near Jonathan Tuesday’s sofa. Finally—and perhaps most importantly—he was not in the least bit hungry. He never ate when he was not hungry; he considered it useless. He also felt that it would disrupt the Routine if he decided to eat at unspecified times.

Today was a different day. The sound of chainsaws roaring on his front lawn signaled the arrival of Beatrice’s crew. In spite of the fact that the Routine had been disrupted almost beyond repair, Jonathan Tuesday had never been happier.

Suddenly, a loud and chilling shriek broke into his blissful reverie. Could it be that the chainsaws were causing this painful cry—or even intensifying it? Jonathan threw the bowl of cereal across the room and rushed to the door, fearing that his dear Beatrice was in mortal danger. He thrust open the door and charged outside, seeing three men with chainsaws ripping into the limbs of the tree.

“STOP! STOP!” Jonathan waved his arms this way and that to get their attention. The men shut off their chainsaws and looked in his direction.

“Something wrong, Mister Tuesday?” asked a voice from behind him. He whirled around to see his Darling, wearing a pair of goggles and carrying a fourth chainsaw. He grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“What happened? What did they do to you?”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“I heard you screaming!”

“Screaming? I wasn’t screaming.”

“Then who was it that thus cried?” Even when frantically trying to piece his thoughts together, Jonathan had managed to speak in Shakespeare. Beatrice set down the chainsaw and took his hands from her shoulders. He could feel how gentle they were, even through the tough gardening gloves.

“I’m fine, Mister Tuesday.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. He took a deep breath. He was not sure how he should react; should he insist on watching to make sure she was as she claimed to be, or should he let her do her job?

“You’ll…uh…you’ll come and get me if…if you’re…”

She nodded.

“I’ll call for you if I’m in trouble.” He turned and went back into his house.

As he closed the door behind him, still trembling from the shock of it all, he looked to a very worried Dogberry for consolation.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it.” Dogberry merely stared at him. “I’m not crazy, Dogberry! I heard someone screaming out there!” Jonathan dropped onto the couch, feeling icier than he ever had before. Dogberry laid his head on Jonathan’s supine form, offering every ounce of sympathy he could muster. The dog hadn’t seen his friend so upset as this since the Jehovah’s Witnesses had gotten him out of the bath; Dogberry had never been more frightened of him in all their lives together.

Jonathan closed his eyes, hoping the radio would help him doze off for a bit. In all of Jonathan’s safe, predictable life, never had there been anything that reached his ears that made him feel so many feelings all at once. He was frustrated that he’d apparently hallucinated; he was confused about his unacknowledged love; but most of all, he was afraid. That scream was the sound of ultimate pain, and yet, due to the fact that he was the only one who heard it, it was apparently non-existent—until he heard it again.

This time the scream was even louder, and grew more and more so as each new chainsaw joined in the chorus of ripping the tree apart. Jonathan covered his ears, trying to shield himself from the sounds of pain, but it seemed that the screams were inside his very thoughts. He wanted to run outside again, but his desire to leave Beatrice to her work kept him firmly planted on the sofa. He looked at Dogberry, who was staring intently out the window.

“You hear it, don’t you, Dogberry?” Dogberry glanced at his friend momentarily, and then ran to the door to scratch at it furiously with both front paws. Jonathan started toward the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks when the screams began forming words.

“AAAHHHHHWHY? What have I done? What have I done to you, Jonathan Tuesday? Affliction is enamored of thy parts,/And thou art wedded to calamity!” Jonathan sank to his knees as these Shakespearian words fell upon his ears. Dogberry retreated to a safe position behind the sofa. The screams continued and then ceased, as if they’d crashed head-first into a large brick wall six feet deep. Then he heard a loud crackling sound, followed by the damp thump of the tree hitting the ground. The chainsaws ceased, and the dead air that surrounded Jonathan Tuesday’s skull was as frozen butter—too thick and too cold to be cut, even with a hot knife. He was shaken out of his stunned silence by a loud knock on the door. He stood, grasped the doorknob, and pulled the door open.

“There you are, Mister Tuesday,” Beatrice said, detaching a yellow slip of paper from her clipboard and handing it to him. “Almost finished. We’ve just got to put the logs into the shredder…” She trailed off as she got her first good look at him since he’d rushed outside to stop everything.

“Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen someone die.” Jonathan put a hand to his forehead and realized that his scalp was drenched with sweat. He glanced over his left shoulder at the mirror above the mantelpiece, and saw that he’d gone as pale as a winter cloud. He took a deep breath and turned back to Beatrice.

“I’m…fine…I think.” He stammered. His entire body was shaking. “Are you all right?” She nodded and smiled at him out of the corners of her eyes.

Somehow Beatrice seemed to understand that something had happened to him in the past fifteen minutes, and that this something would change the course of his life henceforth. What she did not know, however, was that she too had been dragged into the life of Jonathan Tuesday, and that she would remain there whether either of them wished it or not.

Jonathan’s life, safety, and blessed Routine had all been disrupted. He wasn’t sure whether to grasp for it wildly in his now-foggy world, or whether to try to develop a new one. He couldn’t just leave the old Routine behind—he’d worked for several years to craft it into such perfect stability as it had been in prior to this fateful morning. As he looked into the concerned eyes of the landscaper before him, he decided to do something he hadn’t done in years, in spite of the fact that she’d just wrecked his life’s work of creating such a stable, predictable lifestyle.

“Are you free this evening?”

“I believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Will you meet me for coffee somewhere? I must speak with you about something. I realize we’ve only just met, but I believe you’re the only one who may understand.”

Beatrice was startled by Jonathan’s sudden forwardness. “Sure. Six o’clock at the Java Hut. You know where that is?”

“Yes.” He didn’t. “I’ll see you there at six.”

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