Steven Hunley
01-17-2013, 08:57 PM
The Ammonite
by Steven Hunley
On his birthday they went for a drink at Friar Tucks, but arrived ten minutes before they opened. “I’ll show you the rock shop instead,” she said, and guided him around the corner, holding his hand for support due to his weakened state.
The floor was smooth river pebbles from the Yuba and made noises under their feet. She moved in one direction looking for stones with healing properties while he searched for anything that struck his fancy. Every sort of rock was on display, polished and unpolished, gemstone to soapstone, faceted to raw and uncut. But a small basket of swirl-shaped fossils grabbed his attention. They looked exactly like the screen saver his computer displayed, a chambered Nautilus sliced in two, but these were smaller and preserved in one piece.
“Look, Honey, it’s a fossil!”
“And the spiral is a symbol of movement and change,” she replied.
They were Ammonites and 120,000,000 years old. He picked one out and held it in a stream of light that ran across the tiny room. It had a rough textured outside layer, under that a patterned layer worth examining, and beneath that, the real treasure, the deep stuff, an iridescent layer as brilliant as any opal.
It was hard to imagine that the cold stone that lay in his palm was once a warm living creature that hunted ancient seas long before life grew fond of the land. He put it back in the basket and examined a few other stones, but something about the small Ammonite had struck a chord, as if it’s softer parts, it tentacles and head and beak, had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. He bought an arrowhead for his son, a strip of Blue Kyanite for her to help balance her chakras, and the Ammonite for himself.
When they made for Tucks it was after four and cold. Last night it dipped to 19 degrees so even now, before sunset, the cold was making itself felt in his bones. They agreed they didn’t care for the cold. Neither one of them had the fat to ignore it.
Friar Tucks was warm and cozy and they took two seats at the bar. He ordered two Hennesys, hers heated and his neat. They talked.
He was naturally reserved as usual. Oh, he was good talker, an interesting conversationalist and raconteur. But if you examined his style you saw he was good at making references, to art or books or film, but hesitant to talk much about himself and especially about his feelings.
His opinions were guarded. His deep thoughts-clandestine. All was surface and more surface piled upon that. There was a disconnect between his outer and inner self, a sort of formal reserve, not affected, but necessary to his being, a strategy wrought from a survival instinct bred into the man from the child. This, combined with a passion to please, frustrated her natural curiosity and vexed her no end.
She was good at expressing her thoughts and had been practicing for years. The freeway to her heart was wide open in all four lanes. She raced, she sprinted, she soared. A woman in touch with herself is a treasure.
He’d block off that path years ago, and cemented the entrance. To him, his heart was only the beat of a drum, a dull regular pulse of blood through a hardening vein.
The process that shut him up began years ago when an idiot judge decreed that he be divided between two pairs of parents. One set to be lived with, and the other he was forced to visit on alternate weekends. One set was home, one set almost strangers. He’d exercise caution with the estranged parents, listening to their words carefully, paying attention, eager to give them whatever they wanted, curbing his own impulsive behavior and opinions, seeking to please no matter what the cost. There was 18 years or so of that.
Then his wife, a woman, God rest her soul, who was Desdemona to his Othello, alert to his stories of conquest, but possessed none herself. Mute in response and closed up years before by an abusive mother. Secretive, quiet, subdued. That lasted over twenty-five years more, until she passed away.
Now, at 66 he was single and experiencing a woman like never before. Something different, someone new, someone outside his experience. A woman fully developed, celebrating her mature years, proud of nature’s effect on her hair.
“You know Honey, I can see a few more silver steaks.”
“Can you?”
She looked in the mirror behind the bar and smiled.
“I love them. I can’t wait to have more.”
In contrast, though only five years older, his hair was quite grey.
She was straight forward, no hiding secrets, her mind active, acute, always probing. She often referred to herself as a ‘work in progress’.
“I have to use the ladies room,” she whispered, and slid off the stool, leaving him alone with his thoughts. As his eyes followed her to the far end of the room he saw the attention she wrought. It gave him a warm satisfaction to be with the most desirable woman in the room, one who looked half his age. Even among her peers she appeared to be the youngest, the most vital, he’d seen it in pictures and in person when they bumped into people on the street.
‘How does she do it?’
He’d asked himself that many times along with, 'What’s her secret?'
‘It isn’t her diet, though her nutrition is good. It’s not her easy life, because her life is anything but easy. Could it be her faith? I don’t know about that. Methuselah looked old when he was old, and he was plenty old, there’s no doubt.’
She was amazing; there was no doubt about that either. She’d invited him up for his birthday and while in transit he’d come down with a cold. He arrived, coughing and feverish and ended up three days flat on his back in her bed. She made chicken soup and fed him cold remedies and Echinacea and Tylenol, and took up residence on her couch.
In his book it was an unprecedented display of kindness and caring. Little wonder he loved her.
The Hennessey was short in the snifter and he began to search his pockets for money. All the left pocket had was a lump. It was the ammonite wrapped up in a bag. He took it out anyway to examine it before she returned, and found a small slip of paper.
It had come from Alberta, and was representative of species that existed from 400 million years ago up to the Cretaceous, about65 million years ago, then it died out. He knew why, as he’d heard of Darwin. It was, as a species, unable to change. Living things die out because they can’t adapt, everybody knew that. The chambered Nautilus was a close relative that made the transition, and the fire of life burned in it now. The opalescent fire that burned in the Ammonite was only a representation, but was in the same place, deep in the center of the creature.
She returned with her typical energy and bounded up on the stool beside him. Beneath her slender brows her eyes sparkled and glittered, and her pink coral lips glistened and beckoned with their usual force. But she knew she was safe. There was no way on earth he was going to give her his cold. He gave her a hug and kissed her on her shoulder as her arms enfolded him gently. It was the first time they’d touched affectionately in three days.
“So you’ve told me about Suetonius and you’ve lectured me on Conrad,” she continued, “Now tell me about yourself. What do you want from life?”
‘Oh, here it comes again,’ he thought, ‘The probing, the searching, the request to ‘go deep’.
He fingered the stone in his pocket and mused, ‘But, on the other hand, I refuse to be a fossil.’
“Well, Babygirl, where should I start?”
An hour later they were back in her van, and should have been chilled to the bone by the unforgiving weather but neither one of them noticed. She smiled to herself as she turned the ignition.
“You know, Steven, that was the best discussion we’ve ever had.”
And their fire burned bright as an opal, and danced deep in their hearts with rapture and delight.
© Steven Hunley 2013
by Steven Hunley
On his birthday they went for a drink at Friar Tucks, but arrived ten minutes before they opened. “I’ll show you the rock shop instead,” she said, and guided him around the corner, holding his hand for support due to his weakened state.
The floor was smooth river pebbles from the Yuba and made noises under their feet. She moved in one direction looking for stones with healing properties while he searched for anything that struck his fancy. Every sort of rock was on display, polished and unpolished, gemstone to soapstone, faceted to raw and uncut. But a small basket of swirl-shaped fossils grabbed his attention. They looked exactly like the screen saver his computer displayed, a chambered Nautilus sliced in two, but these were smaller and preserved in one piece.
“Look, Honey, it’s a fossil!”
“And the spiral is a symbol of movement and change,” she replied.
They were Ammonites and 120,000,000 years old. He picked one out and held it in a stream of light that ran across the tiny room. It had a rough textured outside layer, under that a patterned layer worth examining, and beneath that, the real treasure, the deep stuff, an iridescent layer as brilliant as any opal.
It was hard to imagine that the cold stone that lay in his palm was once a warm living creature that hunted ancient seas long before life grew fond of the land. He put it back in the basket and examined a few other stones, but something about the small Ammonite had struck a chord, as if it’s softer parts, it tentacles and head and beak, had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. He bought an arrowhead for his son, a strip of Blue Kyanite for her to help balance her chakras, and the Ammonite for himself.
When they made for Tucks it was after four and cold. Last night it dipped to 19 degrees so even now, before sunset, the cold was making itself felt in his bones. They agreed they didn’t care for the cold. Neither one of them had the fat to ignore it.
Friar Tucks was warm and cozy and they took two seats at the bar. He ordered two Hennesys, hers heated and his neat. They talked.
He was naturally reserved as usual. Oh, he was good talker, an interesting conversationalist and raconteur. But if you examined his style you saw he was good at making references, to art or books or film, but hesitant to talk much about himself and especially about his feelings.
His opinions were guarded. His deep thoughts-clandestine. All was surface and more surface piled upon that. There was a disconnect between his outer and inner self, a sort of formal reserve, not affected, but necessary to his being, a strategy wrought from a survival instinct bred into the man from the child. This, combined with a passion to please, frustrated her natural curiosity and vexed her no end.
She was good at expressing her thoughts and had been practicing for years. The freeway to her heart was wide open in all four lanes. She raced, she sprinted, she soared. A woman in touch with herself is a treasure.
He’d block off that path years ago, and cemented the entrance. To him, his heart was only the beat of a drum, a dull regular pulse of blood through a hardening vein.
The process that shut him up began years ago when an idiot judge decreed that he be divided between two pairs of parents. One set to be lived with, and the other he was forced to visit on alternate weekends. One set was home, one set almost strangers. He’d exercise caution with the estranged parents, listening to their words carefully, paying attention, eager to give them whatever they wanted, curbing his own impulsive behavior and opinions, seeking to please no matter what the cost. There was 18 years or so of that.
Then his wife, a woman, God rest her soul, who was Desdemona to his Othello, alert to his stories of conquest, but possessed none herself. Mute in response and closed up years before by an abusive mother. Secretive, quiet, subdued. That lasted over twenty-five years more, until she passed away.
Now, at 66 he was single and experiencing a woman like never before. Something different, someone new, someone outside his experience. A woman fully developed, celebrating her mature years, proud of nature’s effect on her hair.
“You know Honey, I can see a few more silver steaks.”
“Can you?”
She looked in the mirror behind the bar and smiled.
“I love them. I can’t wait to have more.”
In contrast, though only five years older, his hair was quite grey.
She was straight forward, no hiding secrets, her mind active, acute, always probing. She often referred to herself as a ‘work in progress’.
“I have to use the ladies room,” she whispered, and slid off the stool, leaving him alone with his thoughts. As his eyes followed her to the far end of the room he saw the attention she wrought. It gave him a warm satisfaction to be with the most desirable woman in the room, one who looked half his age. Even among her peers she appeared to be the youngest, the most vital, he’d seen it in pictures and in person when they bumped into people on the street.
‘How does she do it?’
He’d asked himself that many times along with, 'What’s her secret?'
‘It isn’t her diet, though her nutrition is good. It’s not her easy life, because her life is anything but easy. Could it be her faith? I don’t know about that. Methuselah looked old when he was old, and he was plenty old, there’s no doubt.’
She was amazing; there was no doubt about that either. She’d invited him up for his birthday and while in transit he’d come down with a cold. He arrived, coughing and feverish and ended up three days flat on his back in her bed. She made chicken soup and fed him cold remedies and Echinacea and Tylenol, and took up residence on her couch.
In his book it was an unprecedented display of kindness and caring. Little wonder he loved her.
The Hennessey was short in the snifter and he began to search his pockets for money. All the left pocket had was a lump. It was the ammonite wrapped up in a bag. He took it out anyway to examine it before she returned, and found a small slip of paper.
It had come from Alberta, and was representative of species that existed from 400 million years ago up to the Cretaceous, about65 million years ago, then it died out. He knew why, as he’d heard of Darwin. It was, as a species, unable to change. Living things die out because they can’t adapt, everybody knew that. The chambered Nautilus was a close relative that made the transition, and the fire of life burned in it now. The opalescent fire that burned in the Ammonite was only a representation, but was in the same place, deep in the center of the creature.
She returned with her typical energy and bounded up on the stool beside him. Beneath her slender brows her eyes sparkled and glittered, and her pink coral lips glistened and beckoned with their usual force. But she knew she was safe. There was no way on earth he was going to give her his cold. He gave her a hug and kissed her on her shoulder as her arms enfolded him gently. It was the first time they’d touched affectionately in three days.
“So you’ve told me about Suetonius and you’ve lectured me on Conrad,” she continued, “Now tell me about yourself. What do you want from life?”
‘Oh, here it comes again,’ he thought, ‘The probing, the searching, the request to ‘go deep’.
He fingered the stone in his pocket and mused, ‘But, on the other hand, I refuse to be a fossil.’
“Well, Babygirl, where should I start?”
An hour later they were back in her van, and should have been chilled to the bone by the unforgiving weather but neither one of them noticed. She smiled to herself as she turned the ignition.
“You know, Steven, that was the best discussion we’ve ever had.”
And their fire burned bright as an opal, and danced deep in their hearts with rapture and delight.
© Steven Hunley 2013