Hands Of Time [Part 5-6]

The young woman [she was really but a girl] was crying, her chest was heaving up and

down as she sobbed. She was looking into the face of the young man, her tears

making channels down both of her cheeks. She was very afraid; she was telling him

that her father could never know about what had happened, they had to hide it from

him. Because they were across the room I could only make out bits and pieces of

their conversation. So I tried to read their body language and the expressions of

their faces to try to get a clearer story. As I stood watching I could tell that

she wanted him to support her, encourage her, protect her but he did none of these

things. This would have entailed him playing the role of a man, taking

responsibility, doing what was right, sacrificing his wants and needs for hers. But

he was obviously but a boy and lacked the moral and emotional fiber that she seemed

to cry out for. He stood there for a long moment looking very distant in his eyes

like he was trying to find some way of escape. As I looked at his face I saw a

resemblance to the callused, hard-hearted individuals out on the front yard. As the

young man spoke he tried to convince her that he wanted what was best for her but

neither his words nor his actions gave witness to this truth. As I watched this

drama I all of a sudden became aware of another player who had been oblivious to me

up to this point. The young girl was holding a child in her arms, close to her

body. As she spoke to the young man she rocked the child back and forth. My eyes

must have been playing tricks on me in the dim lit attic because at times the child

seemed but an infant but then for a couple split second flashes the child appeared

to be the same age, if not older, then the young girl holding it. I shook my head

and blinked my eyes when this phenomenon happened and suddenly the child appeared to

be but an infant again. Even though I couldn’t catch all of their words I now knew

that the baby was an integral ingredient to what was happening up here. Now the

puzzle began to take shape! The missing piece had been found and the picture was

beginning to manifest its story. The young man did not want the child, nor the

responsibilities and cares that went with it. The young girl also seemed fearful of

all the consequences that this young child would bring into her life. She knew that

this child would severely strain the other crucial relationships in her life.

Relationships that she highly valued and was not convinced would remain the same if

her ties with the child were to continue. It was like floating in a sea of

ignorance and suddenly being hit by the wave of understanding! Everything made

sense; I knew why the death squad was at my house! It was not for my children

downstairs but for this child up in my attic! The young couple embraced one another

both crying in each other’s arms. Their tears intermingled like converging rivers.

Each one’s tear’s was because of the child, although for very different personal

reasons. Their embrace slackened as she pulled her head back from his, so as to

look into his face. Both of the youngsters looked deep into eyes of the other, hers

searching for something that she could not seem to find, and his evading all true

contact at any cost. Then he pushed her away from him, but I noticed that he did so

without the use of any physical force. By his inaction he forced her to make the

first move. As her arms left embracing him they instinctively went again to

holding the child. I again shook my head, how could I have missed the child being

there between them? As she moved away she turned toward the window facing out toward

the front yard. He simultaneously turned his back on her and busied himself,

occupying his energies on not getting involved in what she was doing. There he

stood, like an ostrich, burying his head in the sand, ignorant of all that she was

doing and going through. He slowly moved in the direction that was opposite to the

window. He walked until he reached the far corner of the room. There he stopped

and stood alone with himself. In the corner was an old mirror that hung on the

wall, it was into this that the young man focused his attention, busying himself

with his favorite person.

Part 6

Back at the window she stood, her eyes focused outward and down. She seemed to be

looking at the small gathering on my front lawn. One of her hands left the child and

reached out to grasp the handle on the window. Her face grimaced as she tried to

turn it and open the window. “Hey, What are you doing”, I yelled? She acted as if

she heard nothing. He also did not even flinch at the bark of my voice intruding

their silence; his face did not waver from the mirror. Could they hear me, I

wondered? After a moment of struggle the young woman took her other hand away from

supporting the child and moved it up to help turn the window handle. To my utter

amazement the child remained pressed to her stomach while she used both hands to

manipulate the handle to the desired position. It was if the young girl was

performing some incredible slight of hand magic act for a mere two man audience, one

of whom was willfully ignorant of her every move and the other questioning his very

own sanity. How the infant remained glued to the girl’s stomach while she struggled

with both hands to open a window was a mystery to me. Then without warning the

handle surrendered to the young girl’s manipulation with a loud crack. Her body

lurched slightly forward and to the left, due to the sudden lack of resistance from

the once sticky window. The young woman now momentarily paused, head down,

thoughtfully gazing at the child in her arms. The young man had torn himself away

from his earlier preoccupation and had his head turned to the side, away from the

forward focus into the mirror. He was for a moment trying to watch her next move

through his peripheral vision; his back was still to her. The girl lifted her head

from looking at the bundle in her arms and turned her head to look over her

shoulder, one last look to the boy. As her head moved across the room to observe

him, his also selfishly moved, with masterful timing, back to its position of utter

indifference, facing into mirror. With new tears in her eyes she returned her face

toward the window. In utter silence both of them stood peering out through their

own personal looking glasses. His gave him only a dismal view of his own inadequacy

and because hers lacked the ‘silver lining’ it therefore only pointed out to the

cold, dark emptiness. With resolve in her face she lifted her hand to once again

grasp the window’s handle, momentarily pausing as if almost waiting to hear the

boy’s cry to stop. In that split second I did not waste my breath but with all my

lunges ability screamed for her not to open the window. Her arm was free to allow

her to do want she wanted to, and that was to open the window. I again discovered

that my arm did not enjoy that same freedom. I gave one last attempt to enter the

room, but once again was foiled by that blasted clock. My doubled-over body stood

erect in an instant when I heard new voices in this all too weird play that I had

been observing. I knew immediately who these new voices were. They told her to

toss down the bundle and everything would be just fine. I retaliated with a shout

for her not to listen to their lies, and for ‘the boy’ to be a man and help her.

Both of them ignored me.