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The following is an excerpt from my new novel, ‘Beyond the River’-

“Look, kid.  Why don’t you just go home?  I’ve got a sort through all this stuff and get what I can before my sisters get here.”  She turned away and walked into the kitchen: I followed. 

I could tell at once that this woman was a stranger in this kitchen; she knew where nothing was and she looked out of place like a gaudy piece of neo-modern furniture set in the middle of a Victorian living room.  She opened and slammed cabinets and drawers without taking the time to actually look inside them: she huffed and puffed, seemingly winded from all her movement, yet holding on to that cigarette as if it was giving her air instead of taking it away.  She finally found what it was she was looking for, and stood on the tips of her toes trying to get whatever it was down.  I considered offering help out of chivalry, but her problem was clearly a vertical one and I myself am quite vertically challenged.  It did occur to me that standing on a chair might make the retrieval easier, but she had done nothing to illicit sympathy from me, so I just watched her struggle.  It was a bit of a sadistic game, I admit, like when I watched the fish die on the pier last summer: the helpless succumbing to the crushing weight of the world.

She was muttering profanity as she finally retrieved the illusive appliance that Miss Sarah had hidden away.  It was a rather new looking coffee maker.

“I got this for mom a couple of years ago; I guess she doesn’t use it.” The woman said as she wiped the dust from inside the carafe.  I didn’t mention that Miss Sarah prefers her coffee to be instant: while clearly not the best coffee, she didn’t think it was worth the ‘fuss’ of making coffee when it was just for one person.

The poor woman began her search anew for filters and ground coffee.  I decided to intervene at this point, to put the animal out of its misery, and showed her where these items were kept.

“Do you want some?” She asked sarcastically.

“I would love a cup, thanks.” I responded, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“Really?  How old are you?” She was filling the carafe with water from the sink.

“Nine.  I started drinking coffee last year.” I answered her as she poured the water into the back of the coffee maker.

“I heard it stunts your growth.” She said, returning the carafe to the heating plate and then retrieving the filters from the counter.

“That’s not really true.” I said.

She scooped out the coffee using a spoon from the drawer and then, I noticed, promptly deposited the spoon back into the drawer.  She closed the coffee pot up and turned it on: the tiny red light signaled the advent of the brewing process.  The woman sighed a sigh of accomplishment and then walked over and sat in the other seat at the kitchen table.

This was the closest I had been to her, and the first time I was able to really look at her.  She appeared older than she should have been; her face betrayed years of use despite the youngness of her movement and aura.  I had learned from my father, who does a good bit of psychotherapy in his work as a neuropsychiatrist, that the powers of observation are indispensable in proper assessment.  He taught me that the eyes are the greatest revealers of the soul, often betraying the guilty and liberating the truly innocent.  I had begun to notice people’s eyes, especially in talking to adults, and was amazed at how accurate a picture of a person can be painted just by their eyes.

My companion at the kitchen table had taken great pains to highlight and hide her eyes.  The shadow was a horrid blue, the liner a dense black.  Behind this camouflage set the light green eyes of a small child: innocent, sad and confused.  Her eyes, just like herself, were out of place, anachronistic anomalies in the weather-beaten face of a long life.  I was pondering her eyes when she spoke,

“I’m Cordelia, Sarah’s youngest daughter.”

“I’m Wendell,” I replied.  We shook hands like adults, and I couldn’t help but notice a small jewelry shop adorned her hand and wrist.

Miss Sarah had not spoken often about her family.  There were no pictures on the wall or on the piano or in the various other places that one might expect to find pictures around a home.  I had heard her mention grandchildren in a reference that led me to believe she didn’t see them often and that this fact caused her disappointment.  I had also sensed that she was not inclined to talk about it, so I never pursued that line of questioning.  During our lessons, it was all business.

“When did Miss Sarah go to the hospital?” I asked.

“Last night.  She had a mini-stroke they think.  Of course, you know she has cancer, right?” She asked in a tone that almost sounded like pity.

“Yes, I knew that.” I answered.

“Well, I talked to the Doctor this morning and they said that the stroke wasn’t serious, but they found that the cancer had really been spreading.  It doesn’t look like she’s going to be with us much longer.  I just came over today to try to gather some things up, mainly just to beat my sisters to it.  Once they get a hold of the stuff they’ll fight about everything, even though they are both living in the lap of luxury.” She stood and retrieved two mugs from the mug-tree on the counter.  She set them by the coffee maker as the final drips fell.

“I guess you can tell I don’t get along with my sisters, huh?”

“I don’t know; I’m an only child.” I said, not wanting to fall into a family-systems discussion.

“Can she have visitors?” I asked.

“I guess so.  She’s over at the big hospital, what’s its name, just down the street.” She poured the coffee as a renegade drop which had been holding out in the filter fell to the steaming hot plate and sizzled.

“I know; my dad works there.” I said.

“Milk, sugar, anything special?” she asked bringing the three-quarters full mugs to the table.

“Milk, that’s all.  I like it muddy like the Mississippi.” I said.  We had driven out west a few years ago, and when we crossed the mighty Mississippi river I was struck by the fact that it was the color of a perfect cup of coffee.  Since then, I had ordered coffee that way, with the reference to the Mississippi, and it always brought a smile.