FIRST PLACE SHORT
STORY
The Distance From
Mandy
To Me
By Jill Khashmanian
Richmond, British Columbia
I turned around for a second,
just a second, and when I turned back she was
there. She dragged a canoe behind her as she
skipped across the beach toward my daughter
Mandy, and I thought for a moment it was my
grandmother.
From so far away it could have been.
But as she moved closer she became someone
else, a stranger. She left her boat at the
high tide mark and stopped beside Mandy, who
was shoveling sand into a pail. At this distance,
the distance from Mandy to me, I could not
hear what they said, but I watched them cautiously
through the bottom of my lemonade glass as
I drank.
The old woman’s hair was bundled high
on her head and it glowed white like a full
summer moon. The black, barely-there bathing
suit she wore was, fittingly, sprinkled with
stars. She looked ancient. She moved, though,
with the agility of a child.
The two of them crouched together, filling
the pail and flipping it over to produce a
solid cone of sand, and I gazed at Mandy through
the haze of heat, wondering who she was, really,
between the bi-monthly visits we enjoyed, or
endured. For what does a forty-year-old man
living on crises and gin-spiked lemonade have
in common with a nine-year-old girl? Silences
were long between us.
I’d loved her mother. For awhile. And
she’d loved me, but we’d outgrown
it. My love for Mandy was still strong, that
kind of undefinable love that is based not
on an intimate knowledge of one another – for
such love so often goes stale – rather
a genetic trigger, a molecular, chemical compulsion
that sparks in your heart and is real, but
does not promise comfort. Yet, with Mandy and
me, there was a certain comfort in the familiar
unease that hovered about us. Like a nagging
backache, you got used to it. Easier than twisting
the body through the tortuous exercises required
to ease the ache.
They had the foundation of a castle built now.
Mandy had come alive and was furiously adding
turrets and towers and princess’ rooms.
The old woman stood and walked toward me.
“Spare
some lemonade for a parched soul?”
As close as this, it looked like there wasn’t
a drop of water left in her wrinkled body,
except for the liquid eyes that seemed borrowed
from her youth. I passed her a glass, filled
it with lemonade.
“I’ll have what
you’re having.” I
added the gin.
“Creative child. She gets
it from you. You are a creator. Is it painting
you do?”
I once loved to paint. In my youth, and with
time and inspiration. I hadn’t touched
a brush in years. “How’d you know?”
“You
have the artist’s aura.” She
finished her drink with a single tilt of the
glass and accepted a refill. I didn’t
think the aura she saw came from me; if she
wasn’t drunk she was crazy, and the way
she was going, soon she’d be a crazy
drunk.
“She’s your real
masterpiece though, isn’t
she? But she’s outgrowing the canvas.
What’s her name?”
“Mandy.
Yours?”
“Eunice. What type of painting
do you do?”
“Haven’t painted
in years.”
“Yes. I see that. Your
aura is tarnished. Too busy?”
I shrugged.
“Well, you’re not busy
now.”
I looked at her. She was returning my gaze,
staring at me expectantly. What the heck did
she want me to do?
Mandy’s sandcastle almost reached the
sky now. I was happy just to watch its progress,
but Eunice kept on.
“Some painters, I
find, when their subject is too big for their
canvas, move back. To fit
it all in, they set it at a distance. But of
course, you lose the detail then, don’t
you. And the detail is the life of the thing,
isn’t it?”
It was my turn to guzzle. Her drink was already
empty and I refilled both of our glasses. She
was a kook. The conversation was bizarre. But – and
maybe it was the lemonade, maybe the heat – I
was enjoying her company.
“Take those
birds over there.” She threw
her sagging arm to the west and a bank of short
trees. A pair of crows circled above the foliage.
“Or
Mandy. Take Mandy,” Eunice paused
for another swallow. “If you painted
her portrait at this distance, what could you
tell about her from that portrait? That she
was a little girl. No more.”
“What
more do you want to know?”
“You
can learn a great deal from moving closer in.
The very essence of the girl. Who she is.” She
shrugged. “Or the essence of those birds.
Whatever interests you.”
I wondered what kind of aura she saw around
the birds.
“Beautiful crystal.”
“Waterford.
Takes lemonade out of the ordinary.”
“Oh,
yours is no ordinary lemonade.” She
grinned. “Waterford. You must be a successful
artist indeed.”
“Stockbroker.”
She flicked her fingernail against the glass
that stood once again empty in front of her.
The ping was as pure as arctic ice. Eunice
smiled, obviously taking pleasure in the sound.
“May
I use your little girl’s room?”
“Through
those doors, turn left.”
She was gone a long time. The woman’s
canoe rocked gently in the waves as the tide
rose to reclaim the beach. Mandy stood holding
her bucket, her other hand up to shield her
eyes as she monitored its progress. By the
time Eunice returned, the water was licking
at the walls of the girl’s castle.
“Tide’s
coming in. I best be off.”
And just like that she was gone, down the beach
to her canoe and out over the water. Didn’t
even thank me for the lemonade. Who the heck
was she?
I got my answer soon enough, as Mandy and I
entered the cool depths of the house for dinner.
“Dad.
Your crystal candlesticks are gone.”
And so they were. Where had the old woman concealed
them? Certainly not in that skimpy bathing
suit. It had to have been the hair. No wonder
she’d been in such a rush to leave. No
wonder she’d shown up in the first place.
Crazy thing, though, I didn’t care. I
hated those candlesticks anyway – they’d
been a wedding gift.
Next day was our last together before Mandy
headed home, and she ran down to the beach
to build one last castle. I sat on the patio
and Eunice crossed my mind. I scanned the horizon,
but it was unlikely we’d ever see her
dragging her boat our way again. Too bad.
So I turned my attention to my daughter, and
I suddenly felt the strong inclination to indeed
paint her portrait. Just as she was, down there
on the beach. My paints and brushes were lying
around somewhere. I got up to go find them.
But instead, I kicked off my shoes and headed
across the distance from Mandy to me. And the
sandcastle we made together just about did
touch the sky.
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
