Hair Like Brown Silk

By Arlene Mandell

Brielle clenched the pen, but her hand wouldn't obey as she attempted to pay her bills. She stared out the clouded window, through layers of fog, willing a golden bar of sunlight to break through.

It took her an hour to write seven checks. Inserting each in the proper envelope, affixing the stamp, sealing the envelope: each minor task required more dexterity than she possessed. Soon, she knew, she would have to find someone to take care of her.

Though she cringed at people’s compassionate stares, she forced herself to go out for at least an hour a day. It was nearly four in the afternoon when she settled into her usual corner at Amy’s Café, a safe place where she could read and eavesdrop on conversations.

She observed two women with crew cuts and tattoos who were holding hands and a man with paint-spattered overalls who was pleading with a diminutive Japanese woman. Lovers’ quarrel, she guessed.

A man’s deep voice startled her. "What are you reading?"

Pushing back her curtain of dark hair, Brielle saw a forest-green sweater, a trim black beard with some gray mixed in, and kind eyes. "Ferlinghetti," she said.

"His new poems?"

She nodded.

"May I?"

She nodded again as he pulled up a chair.

"Would you like another cup of tea?"

"No thank you. It’s getting late." She shivered, though the room was steamy.

"You’re cold. Let’s see," he said and read the tag dangling from her empty cup. "Irish Breakfast. I’ll have some, too. Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Sure?"

"Well, maybe a biscotti."

"Chocolate?" he smiled. There was a space between his front teeth.

"Chocolate," she answered.

When he returned to the table, she was lost in her book and seemed surprised to see him. He liked that. "Sugar?"

"Please."

"Would you read to me?" He saw the hesitation in her green eyes, noticed the fine wrinkles in the corners. Maybe she was twenty-eight or thirty, he thought. "I believe poetry must be read aloud."

Her voice was melodious, like a cello, and deep for such a slender woman. "She didn't believe in ecstasy. She didn't believe in wild flights that would fall to the ground..." She glanced up, saw he was waiting for the next word, and continued, "Fall to the ground without parachutes. Yet was still a romantic in her own way." She stopped to sip her tea.

He took the book from her, picking up where she left off. Finally he put down the book. "My name is Tim."

"Brielle."

"Brielle?"

"It's a town down the New Jersey shore. I was conceived there."

"I don't know where I was conceived or who the man was. Neither does my mother," he said. Immediately, he regretted his blunder. Illegitimacy was not something to announce at a first meeting. Clearly, he was out of practice. He should have told her about his brief encounter with Ferlinghetti at a North Beach restaurant. No more than a glance of recognition on his part, then a nod from the eminent poet. Not much of a story, but it might make her smile.

"That's hard," she responded, and he didn’t know what to make of her comment. She swept her hair back from her pale face. He realized she was looking at his hands, at the place the index finger should have been. She didn't comment.

He appreciated that, appreciated the fact that he was having tea with a sweet-faced woman with luxurious hair. It was long, straight and smooth like brown silk falling on her shoulders, on the clean white sweatshirt she wore. Under the sweatshirt her small breasts rose and fell and rose with each breath. A few minutes passed while his mind hummed with possibilities. He examined her hands with their slim fingers and short nails. No artificial talons coated with layers of gaudy paint. She saw him looking at her hands and kept them still.

As he watched her nibble her biscotti, he had the perfect idea for their next meeting: that French film Chocolat. Before he could form the words, she started to rise, almost as though she sensed danger.

He saw she was having difficulty standing. She wobbled a bit, then steadied herself, her pale hands gripping the edge of the table.

"I have to go now," she said in her soft, musical voice. He watched her move with unsteady, yet deliberate steps toward a motorized cart parked at the back door. She climbed in with caution.

"Brielle," he called.

"Thank you," she said. Her eyes glittered. He started to get up, but with the slightest gesture of her hand, somewhere between stop and goodbye, she restrained him.