Listening To The Sun

By Gil Roscoe

When Rama begins his mission to circle the earth he has little money, no passport, and a great deal of faith. He leaves his village in India and manages to stow away on a ship bound for the United States. In the suburbs of New York he sets up camp in a forest that borders the Ramapo Golf Course. Rama soon discovers that the forest floor is home to many lost golf balls. He then spends his mornings looking for golf balls and his afternoons selling them back to the golfers. While practicing this occupation he meets Luther and Abby. Abby is immediately charmed by Rama's quest to go around the world. She recruits Luther to help her in a plan to sneak Rama across the width of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483548579

Book preview

9781483548579

ONE

You’re a stupid old man! Luther’s daughter shouted as she turned and headed toward her house.

Insulting old people is like insulting yourself in advance, Luther yelled after her.

Lucy stopped, turned around and glared at her father.

How many times will I have to listen to you say that? she asked.

Every time you call me a stupid old man, Luther replied with a shrug.

Then I guess I’ll be hearing it a lot, Lucy shot back.

She turned the corner and was gone. Luther watched her go and then looked over at his son. Russell had observed the whole confrontation in silence.

You’re a big help, Luther muttered.

It’s not like I haven’t heard it before, Russell said.

What the hell is wrong with your sister? All she ever does any more is yell at me.

Dad, it embarrasses Lucy that you go through the neighbors’ garbage cans. Every Monday morning you’re out here rattling around.

What’s that got to do with her?

Her friends kid her about it. It hurts her pride.

Her friends are the idiots who throw out all this good stuff. We’ve got a yard sale coming up, Russell. We need more inventory.

I know, Dad, I know, Russell said with a sigh.

Luther walked across the street and looked inside the Harpers’ garbage can. He dropped the lid on the driveway.

Could you at least be quiet about it? Russell asked in a loud whisper.

Luther bent down, picked up the lid and very gently placed it on the ground.

Happy? Luther whispered back.

Russell stood still for a moment and watched his father pick through the contents of the can.

I’ll be late tonight, Russell said.

I can take care of myself, Luther replied as he pulled out a shoe by its lace.

There’s chicken in the fridge.

Can you believe these fools? Luther said as he studied the shoe. This shoe is hardly used. If I can find its mate, I’m off to a hell of a start.

I’ll be home by eleven, Russell said as he walked to his car.

Luther dug past an old apron and found the other shoe. It too was in fine shape. He fished out the apron and gave it the old look-see. Even Luther had to admit the apron’s days were over. Luther put the shoes in his burlap bag. He returned the garbage can lid to its place and walked up the street looking for more booty. He was walking fast because he had to finish with his pickings by eight o’clock. He had to beat that damn Howard to the golf course.

There was nothing Luther hated more than other people cashing in on his ideas. He did not regard imitation as flattery. As a matter of fact, imitation often led him to the highest forms of violence. He’d already socked Howard once and was ready to do it again. Right after he’d slugged him, Luther had suggested to Howard that he find his own damned golf course. Luther would always do what he had to in order to protect his territory.

It was just after nine o’clock when Luther turned down the Spook Rock Road toward the golf course. He was swinging his bucket and singing little made up songs to himself. Not sweet, light tunes befitting this fine spring morning. Instead, he sang nasty little rhymes about wringing Howard’s neck.

Luther ducked into the woods before the entrance road and made his way around to the seventh green. Monday was always his best day and he expected to find a lot of golf balls.

The seventh fairway was a long stretch of grass that took a drastic turn to the right about fifty yards from the green. The thick woods hugged the left side of the fairway and every day at least a dozen golf balls made their way into the maple trees and settled among the mossy rocks. The golfers were not too fond of venturing into this little wilderness area. The very official- looking BEWARE OF SNAKES sign Luther had nailed to one of the trees did not encourage long searches. Luther knew this area as well as he knew his own living room, but something was different today. Up in the woods, on the small hill that overlooked his most fruitful hunting ground, there was a tent. As Luther approached he could see a figure sitting in front of a small campfire.

Shark in the water, Luther muttered to himself.

The shark proved to be a little man sitting with his legs crossed and his hands on his knees. He was wearing baggy white clothes and his stillness stopped Luther in his tracks. Luther saw that the tent was really just a blanket hung over a rope and fastened to the ground with four stubs of wood. The rope ran between two maple trees and served as a clothesline as well. Luther was studying this odd homestead when the little man opened his eyes. He looked up at Luther and smiled.

Who is building all these bridges? the stranger asked.

What bridges? Luther asked back.

The ones this country is having. Last night I traveled fifty miles by bus and I am seeing many wonderful bridges. Who is building them?

Luther was having trouble regarding this as a serious question.

You mean on the highway? he asked.

Yes.

Luther stepped back and stared down at this man. He was sure there was some kind of trick involved. Yet, the man’s eyes were so sincere and this question seemed to be of great importance to him.

The government. The highway department. Who the hell cares?

They are all so excellent and I have never seen so many in such a small area. Is this place famous for its bridges?

No.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds.

Where are you from? Luther asked.

India.

They don’t have bridges in India?

Yes, of course, but America’s are so lovely and large. With the night lights they almost become persons.

Persons? Luther asked. I don’t see what the big deal is. If you need a bridge you put one up.

Getting across America must be made easier by the presence of such bridges.

I suppose, Luther agreed.

I am Rama. What is your name, my friend?

Luther. Wait a minute, this is the Ramapo Golf Course and your name is Rama?

Ah, a good sign indeed, Rama said as he stood and shook Luther’s hand. I am soon boiling water for tea. You are welcome to join me.

No thanks. I don’t like tea.

Not liking tea? Rama asked. My, oh my.

Dark, thick coffee is my choice, Luther said.

Perhaps you will be changing your mind.

I don’t change my mind very often, Luther said.

I wish it were so with me. The world is forever changing and I with it. You must find life very predictable.

It’s not predictable at all, Luther said.

Still, you are seldom changing your mind? Rama asked.

I live by my instincts, Luther said.

Surely, we all do in some portion, but is there not room for thought and reflection?

What are you doing here? Luther asked.

Yes, you are right, instincts, Rama said. This must be your ground and I am upon it.

Yeah, Luther said. Answer the question.

What am I doing here? Rama repeated. Well, on the largest of scales, I am having a round of the world.

Luther’s forehead wrinkled as he looked over at Rama. A golfer teed off nearby and the gentle swat of the ball broke the morning.

You’re going around the world? Luther asked.

Yes, that is it. It is my mission.

Mission? Who gave you this mission?

Why I have given it to myself.

Oh, Luther said. So you’re only stopping here for the night?

I wish it were so. You see I am spending the last of my money on this bus from New York City. Now I must earn more somehow.

You’re going around the world and you don’t have any money? Luther asked with scorn.

Don’t worry. I will have success. If nothing occurs here, I will walk to the west. My needs are small.

They’d better be, Luther said with a snort.

However, I am always finding things to sell or trade, Rama said. I am having a good start in America. I am already finding things I believe are of some value.

Rama reached back into his tent. He pulled out a blanket that was tied up at the corners. He untied the knots and proudly pointed to his riches. The blanket contained about fifty golf balls. More than Luther had ever found in one day. They were freshly cleaned and sparkled in the sunlight.

I have been washing them in the stream before your arrival, Rama said.

Luther felt his body temperature begin to rise.

We have golfing in India as well, Rama continued. I know these balls are costly. I am thinking perhaps I can sell them back to the golfers for a reduced price. What would be a fair price, do you think?

Luther was starting to breathe hard. If this had been Howard he would already be flat on his back. Rama looked at Luther’s red face and then at the bucket in his hand. He immediately understood what was happening.

Is it possible that you are selling these golf balls as well?

That’s right, Buddy. You just jumped in on my game.

I see, Rama said quietly. Does this game not have room for two players?

No.

Perhaps I could be paying you a percentage or some fee for a few weeks of golf ball gathering.

You’re going to be here a few weeks?

I have recently spent six weeks among the cargo of a ship. Because of that, I am appreciating these woods just now. I am also thinking this may be a holy place.

Holy place? Luther asked. It’s just the Ramapo Golf Course.

At that moment a golf ball came whizzing through the trees and landed not far from them.

It seems the store is open, Rama said with a big smile.

Rama looked to Luther to join in on the joke, but Luther was staring at the newly arrived golf ball. He was trying to figure out a way to make this thing work to his advantage.

I’ll tell you what, Luther said. I’ll sell you the rights to this area for a few weeks. I’ll show you where to sell the golf balls and give you an idea of what they’re worth. You find the golf balls, sell them and we’ll split the money fifty-fifty.

Thank you for the compliment, Rama said.

What compliment? Luther asked.

You must like me somewhat if you are arranging things so that I will stay here for a long time. All the work is mine and half the money is yours. Surely this will delay my going west by some large amount of days.

That’s the deal, Luther said as he shrugged.

I believe sixty percent should be mine. Also, I believe you should be providing me some assistance in finding these golf balls.

Luther stared hard at Rama. He firmly thought he should be able to dictate the terms. This was his territory. He fought Howard for it, hadn’t he? Still, forty percent of anything that involved no effort was not a deal to be ignored. There was also the fact that he’d been getting some heat from the manager of the course. He could make himself scarce and still earn a few bucks. Let good old Rama get caught. It was no skin off his nose.

I’ll give you sixty percent and we’ll see about my helping you. I’m a busy man.

Very good, Rama said. I knew this to be a holy place.

It won’t be very holy if you cheat me, Luther said.

I am an honest man, Rama replied simply.

I hope so, Luther said as he walked over and picked up the newly arrived golf ball. We sell these over by the seventh green.

Luther marched through the trees as Rama followed while toting his blanket of golf balls. He got Rama installed in the little dip behind the seventh green and helped him with the first few sales. Rama caught onto the money right away and was making correct change by the fourth customer.

The players at the Ramapo Golf Course had gotten used to Luther selling their golf balls back to them. In some ways he’d become a kind of mascot. It was something for them to talk about in the clubhouse. Now they would have something new to chat about.

Rama was a natural. He loved the conversations with the golfers and coming to a price transported him back to the market- place in Jodhpur. He would ask for an outrageous price and when the golfers complained, he would tell them what trouble it was to find the golf balls and how early he had gotten up to do it. Eventually, he allowed himself to be talked down and they settled on a price. Everyone had a good time and Luther found Rama’s selling prices acceptable.

Luther left Rama to his work. He walked through the maple trees and when he passed Rama’s tent he stopped and looked at it for a few seconds. He laughed to himself.

A holy place, he chuckled.

Luther continued his walk until he came out onto the Spook Rock Road. As he started up the hill he decided he could do with a doughnut. He was trying to decide between a jelly-filled and a chocolate-covered when he came to the intersection with Airmont Road. Standing on the southeast corner of the intersection was the huge boulder that gave Spook Rock Road its name. Suddenly, Luther remembered there was some kind of legend associated with the rock. He recalled the fuss some of the local history buffs had made when the county wanted to move the rock to widen the road. The buffs had won the day. Now there was a newly installed plaque screwed into the rock. Luther had never bothered to read it and today he decided to go have a look-see.

Spook Rock, it read. Sacred grounds to the Munsee and Ramapo Indians.

Luther turned and looked back toward the golf course. His eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was going on.

He must have walked by here last night and read the damn thing, he said with a growl. This is 1986! That stuff doesn’t mean anything anymore.

Satisfied with his conclusion, Luther turned down Airmont Road and headed for the doughnut shop.

TWO

When Luther dropped the garbage can lid on the Harpers’ driveway he had, in fact, woken someone up. Until that moment, Abby Harper had been dreaming deeply of distant mountains. The clatter of the lid hitting the driveway made her sit up straight. It took her a moment to remember why she wasn’t in her bed back home. After she got her bearings, she got out of bed and opened the window to let in the morning air. When she stuck her head out to see what kind of day it was she saw Luther turn the corner. He was a flash of tan pants and a green sweater. After a few deep breaths, Abby got her robe on and went down to get the coffee started.

She would have loved to wake them up with bacon and egg smells and warm toast on the table. But her son’s household didn’t work that way. She would have to wait and see what each of them wanted. She put on her new apron and got the coffee going as she waited for their breakfast moods. After the places were set, she opened the kitchen door and walked out into the backyard. She was still in her bare feet and the morning dew felt fresh and cool. As she walked, she left a trail that resembled two long tracks. Abby looked back at her path and frowned.

I’m not even lifting my feet, she complained to herself.

Abby bent over and brushed her hands along the top of the grass. The dew felt wonderful. She rubbed her hands together and then slowly spread the dew on her face. She was again staring at her dew tracks when she smelled the coffee. A second later, she heard her son upstairs cursing the time. She dabbed a little of the dew on the back of her neck and it gave her goose bumps. Abby lifted her feet higher as she marched to the kitchen. Her wet face caught the morning sun as she turned and looked back at her improved strides.

Step lively, she told herself.

She closed the door and lifted the coffee pot just as Paul came down the stairs.

Morning, Mom, he yawned.

Coffee’s ready, Abby said.

Great, and I think I’ll have waffles, Paul said as he stepped out the front door for the newspaper.

Abby worked hard for the next forty-five minutes. By nine o’clock, Paul was at work, Marcie was off for a round of golf and the kids were behind their desks at Cherry Lane Elementary. Abby cleaned up everything, got dressed and walked down Airmont Road to Alfred’s Shoe Repairs. She walked into the shop and presented her shoes to the man behind the counter. Abby told him what she wanted done.

They’ll be ready tomorrow afternoon, the shoe repairman said.

Tomorrow? Abby asked. It’s just a pair of shoes, not a TV set.

These take a special dye and I have to do some mixing to match the color.

Can’t you do it now?

No.

Could you at least tack down the heel now?

I can have them done by noon tomorrow.

I need them for a dinner tonight.

Sorry, lady, he said as he turned to another customer.

Abby grabbed her worn, red leather shoes and walked out of the shop. It looked like either no red dress tonight or one more evening hoping no one looked at her feet. Yet, Abby loved her red dress. It always got so many compliments.

I can buy some new red shoes, she suggested to herself.

But she didn’t. Abby had money now, but was having trouble spending it. She couldn’t figure out what to do with it that would be right. She didn’t feel comfortable spending Edward’s life insurance money on a pair of red shoes. It had to be something more important than that. She decided to try the Five and Dime to see if maybe they had a polish that would at least come close.

Nothing was simple anymore. You couldn’t just go down to the shoe repair shop and read a magazine while the guy tacked down the heel and gave the shoes a new dose of color. You had to leave them overnight. They needed a special dye. Abby shook her head as she walked into the Five and Dime. She found a red polish that was close and decided to go with that. While she was there she bought a box of little nails.

I’ll tack the damn heel down myself, she muttered.

Abby walked home and when she came into the kitchen she spotted a small pearl of maple syrup hanging onto the edge of the table. She put her bag down on the counter and got a cloth to wipe it off. After she scrubbed it away, Abby crouched down and looked straight across the table to see if any other hills of syrup broke the plain. Convinced she had gotten the last of them, she put the cloth away and went looking for a hammer.

Now, where would Paul keep a hammer? she asked the house.

Paul wasn’t really the tool type, so if there was one, it was likely to be buried somewhere. Abby went into the garage and after a long search in endless boxes came up with nothing. She came back into the house and went down to the basement. There she found a hammer that looked more like a child’s toy than a useful tool. Abby took it upstairs and with a shoe between her knees, tried to hammer the heel back into its place. It didn’t work at all. The hammer was too small, the nails were too skinny and Abby’s knees made a lousy vice. She succeeded only in smashing her finger hard enough to make it bleed. Abby went upstairs to the bathroom and got a Band-Aid. She sat on the edge of the tub and delicately put it on her finger. Abby started to cry a little and then a lot. She hadn’t had a good cry since Edward’s funeral and now it really started to come. Her sobs were loud and she couldn’t hold them back. Suddenly, Abby stiffened as if someone had put a gun in her spine.

This is crazy, she said angrily. I need time to think.

Abby was sitting on the edge of the place where she did her best thinking, so she turned on the hot water. She poured some of Marcie’s silky oils into the tub and stirred the water with her foot. When she eased herself into the hot bath she felt some of the pain float out of her.

I miss you Edward, she said to the ceiling, but I can’t mope.

Abby stayed in the bathtub for almost an hour. When the water would begin to cool she would top it off and sink back down into the wonderful warmth. Hot baths and oils had always been one of her weaknesses. Even when she and Edward were going through rough times, they always came up with the money for her bath oils.

Have you finished your return to the womb? Edward would ask through the bathroom door.

Abby had been having lots of long baths lately because there was so much to think through. After the funeral there was the selling of the house and all the decisions that involved. Right after the death of the man she loved for so long, she had to start throwing away his things. At what felt like the most emotional and sentimental time of her life she had to be the ruthless decider of what had to go. Then there was the move to Paul’s house and all the adjustments that required. It was only two hundred miles from Watkins Glen, but to Abby, it was like moving to the other side of the world. Adding to her loneliness was the fact she knew no one here except her son and his family. The decisions she now had to make were not a question of choosing this or that. It was a question of what to do starting from scratch.

The shoe guy in Watkins Glen would have fixed those shoes in fifteen minutes, Abby said to herself as she pulled the plug.

One of the firmest decisions that came from this soak was that it wasn’t enough to just fix breakfast every morning. On top of everything else there was one thing that sailed across the bath water and slapped Abby in the face. She was bored. She decided there was nobody to say how long one should mourn a dead love. It would always hurt, but she had days to fill.

Time to get off the critical list, she mumbled.

It was and she would. These bathtub decisions were things of steel. The other thing of steel she decided was to stop calling her new bank account Edward’s money. It was her money. The insurance and the selling of the house did not add up to a great fortune. After the cost of the funeral, the lawyer’s fees and such, Abby was the sole owner of one hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars. After a life of struggle