Chapter 2 Trash-ures

(Part 1)

Beth stood motionless in front of those looming doors. They ticked and clicked with a dozen clocks. The gears and cogs spun in endless furious circles. "You're late." Beth heard an echo of daunting whispers. "But not to worry, you're always on time here." 

She was sure she didn’t want any part of these doors or the meeting beyond them. Her arms drooped down by her sides, her eyebrows raised. She pouted; childishly perturbed that Gabe had left her there.

“No turning back I guess. Time to face my demons.” Her hand reached for Caleb's shoulder, the other wrapped around her baby. If she had to fight for them, she would.

“Mommy your eyeballs are popping out.” Caleb covered his mouth and closed his eyes. 

Beth straightened herself out, expecting a loud creak when the doors began to open slowly, but not a peep. Time, as it were, stopped with all the clicks, clacks, and whirs.

Orange blossoms fluttered through the gap but flapped right back out on a chilling wind as the somber chambers of Mr. Weatherly’s law firm crept into view. Stiff, motionless, well-dressed people sat with hands folded around the sturdy rectangular table. A cold draft stung her skin. 

Mr. Weatherly sifted through a tall stack of manila folders. "Welcome," he said and began his opening statement. Beth could hear even from where she stood. "We are here for the reading of the will as written by Mr. Seth Matthews, prepared and witnessed by me ... Mr. Weatherly."

Beth waited for the doors to close behind her. It seemed the respectful thing to do ... not to interrupt Mr. Weatherly.

She was mesmerized by his voice and pondered his accent—British perhaps. Not quite, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. It was music, like a flute; No, perhaps a violin—every string in perfect harmony with the next. She took it in, every word, and every note. 

“Tastes like honey,” she could hear Grandpa say when he liked someone’s voice with an encouraging word, “sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.”

Nobody noticed her yet nor the massive double doors that had opened without a sound. For a fleeting moment she considered walking away, but for some reason she couldn't move. It was beginning to feel very cold around her and Mr. Weatherly’s conference room didn’t match the calm demeanor she experienced in other parts of The Grand Seville.

“Mommy,” Caleb whispered. “The ceiling is moving.”  

Beth didn’t dare look up, but she did, with one eye closed and her head slightly tilting. Why does he always see these things, she thought. She almost shuddered out of her boots. The arched glass ceiling breathed. Each pane swirled and spewed out rings of smoke forming winged snakes, horned fowls, and twisted sea dragons whose eyes dripped with liquid fire. These creatures changed shape with each passing second. Mr. Weatherly, and his angelic voice, seemed oddly out of place.

“I don’t like it,” Caleb whispered. 

Beth squeezed Caleb’s hand. Get a grip, Beth, or they’ll put you away like your father. Nothing is real, nothing is real. “We’ll be okay, Caleb. Just don’t let go.”

“Won’t let go.” His little voice cracked.

Grandpa's family sat around Mr. Weatherly's conference room table—nobody fit quite right in the large leather chairs. Grandpa's five children, thirteen grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren were now itching to escape. But Beth knew that greed held them there. Grumpy greedy faces of men and women, who bore Grandpa’s last name but had no moral right to it, waited impatiently to hear what Old Man Seth had bequeathed them.

“It’s the bus ride from hell all over again,” Beth said, a little louder than she meant to. 

It caught their attention—their creepy, stiff-necked, vein-popping attention. It took a few “ahums,” and a dozen throat-clearing gurgles before they turned their backs on her, one by one.

Mr. Weatherly’s face crunched into a frown as he continued to read each line meticulously to wide-eyed people tapping pencils and bright red fingernails on the glass-topped table, twitching their noses, and forever clearing their throats. He stopped as Beth had worked up enough courage to walk closer with Caleb by the hand, and Daniel now cradled in her homemade baby sling, which she had to check twice as she did not remember how it got there. 

Jasmine and lavender wafted through the doors behind her, gently closing, again without a sound until the click of the well-oiled lock. Click. Mr. Weatherly nodded, suddenly aware he’d been frowning.

“I’m so sorry.” She blew strands of unruly brownish-blonde hair away from her face. With stray blossoms falling off her shoulders Beth dropkicked her life’s belongings beneath the table and surrendered to the oversized leather chair. Desperately trying to avoid their grimaces and smug sighs she apologized again.

“No need, Ms. Beth.” Mr. Weatherly poured a large glass of green tea, ice cubes popping with dazzling colors, and placed a muffin—twice the size of her hand, surrounded by exotic fruit and oozing thick warm cream from its sides—before her. She spotted the sugared white blossoms and cherry on top and wondered, though she was hungry if she could even manage a bite.

“My favorites,” she whispered and took a few gulps. Then she and Caleb dug their fingers into a delicious mess. All the while aware of the uninvited guests slithering overhead in that cold glass ceiling.

Mr. Weatherly nodded in approval and handed Caleb a cup of juice with a long licorice straw, and a baggie brimming with rainbow fish crackers. “Mighty fine Band-Aid^®.” Mr. Weatherly pointed at Caleb’s elbow.

“Thank you,” Caleb said. “It’s porple.” His thin body perked up.

“Indeed it is.” Mr. Weatherly chuckled and made sure to give Caleb some extra attention.  

"Larry—"

"The bus driver?" Mr. Weatherly interrupted Caleb.

"Yep, the bus divor." Caleb's face was as serious as any four-year-old could get. The tale of his journey on the bus became the center of attention—every word an exclamation. 

Mr. Weatherly made sure that the family members around his table heard every word. Caleb smiled when he knew he had an audience. His words became more cheerful. "I told them bout Jesus, too, like Grandpa Seth tot me."

That name alone—Jesus—sent shivers through the ceiling. Caleb's innocence had power. The heart of an innocent child then began to vanquish the fearful creatures in the glass ceiling above. 

Beth took note as she leaned back with an awkward smile into the leather chair. “Caleb, let Mr. Weatherly speak for a while.” She pulled him close and brushed through his curly brown hair with her fingers.

"Thank you Caleb," Mr. Weatherly said. "Back to business then."

Mr. Weatherly continued the reading of the will, which Beth didn't expect much from. The hand-delivered invite was why she showed up. She loved Grandpa Seth. He never judged even after she had made a few bad choices and wound up with two babies before her 21^st birthday without a husband—frowned upon in her family, and reason enough to be ostracized. Today, on her 22^nd birthday, she no longer cared.

Grandpa Seth loved Beth regardless and laughed at her horrible jokes with botched-up punch lines, and he appreciated her creative homemade cards. Always proud she had inherited his love for art. He received a card every week, with an extra one when she came to visit.

“My Beth,” he would say as she peeked around his bedroom door. “How I love to see your face.” His old scarred and weathered countenance would beam and come alive, and though his voice trembled it was music to Beth’s ears. He could still hold a conversation but sometimes during their walk in the garden he would fall asleep in his wheelchair. She stayed nonetheless till his nurse offered to set up a room for her. “No,” she would reply. “Just give him this card and tell him I love him.”  

****

At the end of the day Grandpa’s fortune fell into the hands of his ungrateful children: Four yachts—two for racing—, four mansions, three vacation homes, a dozen vintage cars, and a collection of baseball cards in original packaging.

“Nothing for Beth?” Her mother’s feeble attempt to care fell on deaf ears.

Mr. Weatherly gave Beth a reassuring wink even though the pile of manila envelopes was gone.

“Remember,” Mr. Weatherly said in a stern voice. “These things come with a price.” He handed each of them a letter. “These … things … are yours only after you complete the tasks Mr. Seth has laid out in the letters addressed to you.” He shook his head and exhaled. “I will see you all in a couple of months.”

They shrugged, they huffed, they shook their heads rapidly with pruned lips, but none seem to have any intention of opening their letters. The oldest son, Beth’s Uncle Jake, left his on the table. No one seemed satisfied with what they had received but at least the black sheep of the family, namely Beth, and her children did not receive a dime. Even her mother, Grandpa’s supposed caregiver, had said enough. And with her young lover hovering over her shoulders, looked the other way just in case she would be cut off from the rest of the family as Beth had.

The room emptied quickly leaving Beth and her boys sitting at the end of the table. The glass ceiling now emptied of unwanted creatures allowed the glory of the midday sun to filter through. When the last vestige of a spoiled child walked out the doors, Mr. Weatherly's conference room burst into a sea of color—like flowers blooming after a long hard winter, losing its blanket of smoke and must. 

End of Chapter 2, Part 1

Serendipity Copyright by Deborah L. Alten 2019

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Chapter 1 The Grand Seville

It was hot. Temperatures sizzled into triple digits when a lukewarm rain began to mingle with her sweat. Beth’s hair was a matted mess as she boarded the 727 bus to LA. Wishing she had never put on the cheap mascara, she caught a horrid glimpse of herself as she passed the side mirror. At least her clothes got a good washing.

Passengers glared, visibly upset the driver stopped at all. This was an unscheduled stop—a Dead Stop, abandoned, invisible on any other day. "You're picking up ghosts, Larry!" someone shouted from the back. "There’s not even an ad on the bench."

The bus driver, not a patient man and rather portly, complained vigorously. “Yeah, I know! It isn't on my route either!”

“Yet, here you are,” Beth scoffed, looking for an open seat.

He was quite puzzled himself. “Yeah, well you better keep those kids quiet.” He pointed a stubby crooked finger at her, invading her personal space.

Beth could feel those “Grapes of Wrath” about to spew from her lips with teeth ready to bite that finger off. She and her kids were hungry, suddenly homeless, and she was relieved of her school bus driver job ... for the second time. But she restrained herself while laboring up the last step with a baby seat dangling in one hand, and gently pushing her 4-year-old into the bus with the other. If words are weapons, the driver had an arsenal, which he used as he picked up Beth’s army duffle bag—unaware of the baby bottle falling out the side pocket—and flung the bag with her life in it, onto the overhead bars. There was hardly room for the three of them and as tired and frazzled as she was she wound up having to stand in the aisle.

This must be the bus to hell. "Chivalry really is dead," she mumbled. 

The hour-long ride didn’t go well. The bus leaked through three rusty holes and rattled like its wheels were square; The baby was hungry; she couldn't find his bottle; and her 4-year-old thought he would practice his new words while kneeling on the worn-out leather … out loud, in sentences that only made sense to him—cute perhaps any other time, but it was 100 degrees and this rain wouldn’t get anyone to work on time. He was scolded twice by a passenger with pasty pale skin and sunken eyeballs but mostly ignored by the others, who, Beth noticed, weren't in much better shape. 

Finally arriving at their destination exactly an hour later, Beth’s struggles continued: The baby cried—no doubt hungry; she fought with her duffle bag, which was stuck under someone’s briefcase, and her busy 4-year-old (who decided to say goodbye to each and every one of the passengers, and something about Jesus) didn’t want to get off the bus. Never mind the rain, which now pounded the streets of LA leaving puddles of murky mud in fresh potholes.

No one offered assistance and the driver began checking his watch. That’s when the massive iron bell of the church tower struck once, in time with the distant thunder. She was late, she was stressed out, and as usual, in a hurry but getting nowhere.

As best she could, Beth straightened out on the second step and blew out a defiant sigh. “Come on, Caleb! Hang onto the elephant’s tail.” She laughed nervously as Caleb offered his best baby elephant trumpet snuffle puff, which came out more like a “ppffft.” He hung onto his mother’s shirt as if his life depended on it. And it very well could have.

Passengers were not amused but at this point, she didn’t care and heaved her duffle bag through the accordion door into the rain. It struck a stray dog who yelped and ran for cover under the newspaper stand.

Poor Caleb barely got his little snuffle-puff arm out of the bus when the driver closed the door scraping the child’s elbow. He cried, but no apology from the driver. Beth scowled and swore men like him would get their just reward. That’s when the bus swerved to avoid a cycler who made a rude gesture as he rode by just before the bus came to a grinding halt. Burning rubber filled the already pungent air. 

Beth crunched her shoulders, her face, and cupped her hands over her mouth. Slightly lifting one foot off the ground, she whispered, “Oops, my bad,” and hurried through the stone archway of the English gardens surrounding The Grand Seville. And suddenly ... her world turned into Narnia. Well, not exactly, though she did take a quick look behind her to see if there was a wardrobe or any other portal not of this earth.  

Grandpa Seth had told her of this place. "Close your eyes," he would say. "God dwells ... even in LA." 

She would giggle. "Not in LA, Grandpa."

The pristine gardens greeted them with a cool breeze, snowy blossoms free-falling from a clear sky, and mourning doves cooing. 

They sat for a while on a white garden bench under a weeping willow that beckoned them with outstretched arms. 

“Mommy, the tree moved,” Caleb whispered as he pulled on Beth’s arm.

“It’s the breeze. Don’t you worry.” She looked over her shoulder and checked the pounding rain outside the arches. Then scanning the branches and the trunk beneath them, she made sure the tree wasn’t moving. A strange peace descended from every limb. Caleb had let go of her arm catching blossoms and sipping its dewdrops. "Be careful, Caleb."

Again she checked outside the stone archway. Again she heard the driving force of a storm that couldn't find its way into the garden where a soothing mist caressed red roses and kissed a sea of golden daffodils. She searched for the baby bottle while puffing unruly strands of hair from her face. 

"I'm so sorry, Daniel. Mommy doesn't know what happened to your bottle." She held her baby close, the car seat nestled between her legs. 

"Mommy, my elbow hurts." Caleb wiped a tear off his brown skin. 

"Well ... stop chasing those blossoms. Come here." She kissed him on top of his curly head. It took a second or two till all was well at the mention of ice cream but only after their meeting with Grandpa Seth’s lawyer. "Oh, the meeting!" Beth sighed. 

The soft showers on fresh grass did wonders for her soul, as did the coos of her baby boy after she gave him a pacifier dripping with fresh blossom water. She didn't want to leave the garden as time seemed to have stopped among the fountains and the daffodils. The chaos of the world, she so desperately sought reprieve from,  drifted away. Nonetheless, it was time to face the music and the family who had disowned her.

Still drenched, clothes disheveled, and hair plastered to her face, Beth entered The Grand Seville, a cathedral-like structure left from yesteryears. It took her breath away. She wondered how modern society had built around it, almost ignoring its grandeur and its very existence. Or maybe The Grand Seville had ignored modern society. Grandpa Seth loved this place and wrote a book about it. But no one read it except for Beth even though she and the rest of Grandpa's family could never find The Grand Seville's location.

"But you see, my Bethany," she could hear Grandpa say. "One can only find it when one is given a special invitation."

Inside the lobby two chiseled ladies of ivory, holding a water pot with a steady flow of sparkling water, graced each side of the ornate elevator doors. As soon as she took out her invitation the doors slid open with a soft hiss revealing the elegant palatial décor inside and a man she thought was yet another statue.

“Good morning, Ms. Beth, I’m Gabe.” He stood tall and straight, eyes sparkling, and not a strand of hair out of place. “We’ve been waiting for you.” The elevator operator adjusted his dark blue vest that stretched a little tight over a crisp white shirt. His tie matched his pants—his shiny gray pants with not a wrinkle in sight. “May I be of assistance?” She hesitated but he already had her duffle bag over his shoulder and without much effort picked up the bulky car seat where baby Daniel finally lay fast asleep.

“He must be so hungry.” Beth shook her head.

“You just fed him, didn’t you?” Gabe pointed to the empty baby bottle in her hand.

She raised her eyebrows, then hung her head. “Oh, I’m losing it ... again.”

He handed her a warm moist hand towel. She cleaned her face as best she could as Gabe led them into the elevator. The ride up was like a smooth sail on Grandpa's yacht. It refreshed her tired body—another chance to rest, which was rare. Her muscles unknotted as she slumped onto a chair appearing from nowhere and felt like a cloud of marshmallows. 

Again, time stopped, or so she thought, giving her extra precious minutes of respite. Once or twice, when she gazed into the smokey mirror that covered the elevator wall, she witnessed the shadow of wings protruding from Gabe’s back. She rubbed her eyes. Grandpa had told her many stories of his angel encounters. Great stories, she thought. She had made him a promise to believe … one day. Never should she have promised him that. Caleb on the other hand had no problem believing. 

Out the elevator doors, that strange peace beyond her understanding, and a little too disturbing for her taste, sprinkled about like fairy dust. 

Gabe politely asked for her invitation and brought her in front of the massive double doors—reddish oak, sparkling as if fireflies had set up residence. “The penthouse conference room.” He pulled out a colorful Band-Aid^® from his vest pocket and gently covered Caleb’s scraped elbow. “There you go, young man.”

Beth returned the towel, trading it for a brush and hair tie, for which she was grateful. 

“I must leave you here,” Gabe said. “Duty calls.”

He was gone before she could thank him.

End of Chapter 1

Serendipity: Copyright by Deborah L. Alten 2019

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