The Bride Who Only Wore Black (And Other Stories)

By John Van Natta

These fifteen stories stretch from man's beginning, from the Myth of Sisyphus reimagined to the literal landscape we recognize today as our own, from the relationships Aeneas had with women in 1200 BCE to the way a woman endures the damage soldiers did to her mother during WWII. Sketches that begin incidentally, a father reflecting on Father’s Day, develop centrifugally to test the limits of credibility, and then beyond. Each story, modestly conceived, is driven by human kind’s psychological nature: how a stumble in a museum can evolve into something quite fantastic or how complex the interaction between a Priest and a youth can be. Some stories become disturbing, like the evolution of a terrorist plot or the act of an escaped convict, then others laughable, like a visit to the dentist or a visit from a magician. Can there be both together? Well, yes, because surprises, like a woman whose wedding wish has her wearing all black, after all, are allowed by the laws that govern creativity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Van Natta
• Release date: Dec 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999621233

Book preview

Folie a Deux

As he looked searchingly at the young man behind the counter of the County Hospital Emergency Department, with a puzzled grin across his face the burly officer announced, We found them in a trash can.

The clerk’s jaw dropped. Standing on one side of the officer was a scraggly fellow, hair flowing every which way, lips parched, who looked like he had not washed for years. On the other was a wispy, beautiful young girl, wearing a ring through one nostril, with a newspaper draped around her neck.

Speaking in a heavy, African accent, the clerk asked, Any ID for either of them?

Shaking his head, the officer said, No. And they haven’t said anything to me, either. Maybe you can get something out of them.

Fingers poised over the computer keyboard, the clerk looked at the girl and asked, What’s your name, miss?

The girl peeked around the officer at her friend. He glanced her way and held his forefinger to his lips. It appeared she wanted to speak, but, obediently, did not.

The clerk then tried the man. And you, sir?

Impishly, the man cocked his head, ran the fingers of both hands through his curly beard, and uttered, Nothing. He then sat down in front of the counter and crossed his legs. The girl, looking distressed, knelt beside him. The officer looked at the clerk and shrugged his shoulders.

I’ll call one of our social workers, the clerk announced.

Since it seems neither one wants to be here, I’d better do up some paperwork for you, the officer said.

Great, said the clerk, as he pulled out some forms and started writing on them. Found them in a trash can, huh! Well that’s a start. Where abouts, officer?

Ignoring the two, who were sitting face to face at his feet, the officer said, In an alley, west of here. Got a call. Someone went out to empty their trash and found the two of them all curled up inside the metal cans. It was raining pretty hard when I got there. Right next to the cans was an old refrigerator box, falling apart. My guess is that’s where they’d been staying.

Just then the social worker arrived, a portly woman, glasses askew, with a book bag on her shoulder. As the officer started leaving, the girl grabbed onto his trouser leg. He looked down at her and said, Everything’ll be alright, honey. This woman’s here to help you. The young girl looked as if she wanted to say something, but the weathered man sitting in front of her once again held his finger to his lip.

Pulling himself free, the officer started to leave. But before he could get out, the social worker, who had scanned the paperwork, shouted after him, Do we know if either is a missing person? She gestured towards the girl.

The officer stopped short. Good idea. But, since she’s not talking, we’ll need a picture.

How’s this? piped up the clerk, pointing to a still he had isolated on his computer screen taken by the security camera above the Emergency Department door.

The social worker beamed and complimented the young man. Nodding his approval, the officer announced a computer link, which gave access to the missing persons archive. The clerk typed it in. Pulling a card from her satchel, the social worker said, If anything comes up, please give me a call.

The officer nodded again and, as he was heading out the door, called back, If either’s under eighteen I’ll need to know. Just when I thought I’d seen it all, something like this comes along.

By now several more staff had joined in. Attempts to get either of the youths to cooperate were futile. The young man refused to budge from his Buddha-like posture. Despite all the commotion around him, he was smiling beatifically. Not by design, but by accident, when the girl was finally separated from her friend and taken to an exam room, she finally spoke: Be careful with Adam, please be careful with him. He understands so much.

Shocked to finally hear the girl speak, the nurse asked for her name. The one I was born with, she responded, looking at the nurse quizzically, or the real one, the one Adam gave me?

Put off by the response, the nurse, fiddling with a blood pressure cuff, steadied herself. Tell me both, she said, handing the girl a gown. And while you’re at it, why not get out of those wet clothes and put this on.

If I take my clothes off, what will happen then? the young girl asked, her unshaven legs dangling over the side of the examination table, both hands splayed out upon the paper covering.

Looking miffed, the nurse said, Well, that will give us a chance to weigh you, if that’s OK. Now, how about those names.

I can’t take this off, the girl said, pointing to the dirty, tattered newspaper that she had fashioned into a kind of collared bib.

But the savvy nurse had been through things like this before, saying, Fine, we’ll put that right back on over top of the gown.

But I can’t take it off, not ever, said the girl, patting and rearranging the several layers of rain soaked newsprint. Adam told me not to.

Becoming short tempered—there was a line around the block of people with coughs and runny noses—the nurse tried one more time to get the young girl gowned, but to no avail. Well, think about it, dear, and I’ll be back, the nurse announced, as she started heading out the exam room door. But, as she had earlier with the officer, the girl grabbed the sleeve of the nurse’s uniform. Tugging rhythmically, she blurted out, I was born a Jill, but Adam told me my real name is Eve. To the nurse, she looked forlorn. This was going to be a story that needed a detective to figure out.

Sure enough, the police had a match—the girl’s name was Jill Southern, reported missing by her wealthy family about six months ago. She was presumed abducted and the case had gone cold. Ecstatic to hear their daughter might have been found, her Mother and Father, who lived not far away, would be at the hospital right away.

To make sure she did not wander off, a staff member stayed right next to Jill. When the nurse returned with two plates of food, the disheveled man ate ravenously. Jill, who looked painfully thin, picked away at what he scattered to the edge of his plate. She ignored the plate that had been brought for her.

The two were still seated on the floor, but now out of the way. Concerned the two would leave if informed Jill’s family was on the way, staff kept at a distance. It was not long before a man and a woman, both impeccably dressed, looking like they had just come from a fancy dinner party, walked assertively through the door. The clerk, seeing how out of place these two were, began a desperate search for someone to come help him. But he took the brunt of it—the story was out. Where was their daughter? The woman began pacing tensely about. The man leaned heavily on the counter in front of the clerk, glaring. The wide-eyed clerk, fumbling for his phone, could only stutter.

Finally, the social worker appeared. She led the couple to an area at the end of a long hall where the two young people were camped out. The minute they caught sight of the girl, these parents recognized her. Once she saw them running towards her, Jill shot up, looking petrified. The nurse and social worker, both holding their breath, thought she would run away. Instead, the young girl placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. He looked up at her, seemingly oblivious of the two adults bearing down on them, and lifted his finger to his lips.

This gesture seemed to calm Jill. She stood dispassionately, as her mother hugged her. Her father, standing patiently to the side, was next. His face fell, as she did not return his embrace. When he let go, she stepped backwards, a sheepish smile across her face. She looked embarrassed. Glancing nervously at her friend, who had resumed eating, she still said nothing. Visibly hurt by her disinterest, Jill’s father stepped away and began observing the young man sitting on the floor.

After a double take, he addressed him: Is that you, Herb?

The young man neither looked up nor responded in any way. Jill’s mother, momentarily tearing herself away from her wayward daughter, heard her husband and took a hard look at the bedraggled man, whose arms were now at his sides, his hands outstretched, his legs still crossed. Bending down, she looked him over front to back. Suddenly, as if stumbling upon a classmate from many years ago, she spoke directly to him: Herbert. Is that you? That’s you, isn’t it?

At this, Jill tugged at her mother’s coat, pulling her away from the young man, who, continuing to sit Buddha-like, had resumed licking the plate he’d been given.

No, Mommy, that’s Adam. Don’t you remember his name?

Mrs. Southern looked shocked. Composing herself, she held her daughter by both shoulders and said, Jill, where have you and Herbert been all this time?

My name is Eve, the young girl said. This here’s Adam. We’re special people, don’t you know? Seeing how the mother looked agape, the nurse and social worker exchanged knowing glances.

Then, spontaneously Mrs. Southern asked her daughter, Do you remember what our last name is? Seeing a stone-faced reaction, the ecstasy of this reunion with her daughter was being replaced by the horror that her daughter’s memory of an earlier life had been erased. Looking now at her husband, her palms upwards as if begging forgiveness, the young girl’s mother exclaimed, She’s still missing!

Standing to the side through all this, watching as an expression of terror distorted his wife’s face, Mr. Southern stepped forward. As if trying to retrieve what had been stolen from him, he cowered over the young man: Herbert, I demand to know what this is all about. The young man did not look up.

Then Jill stepped between her father and her friend and in a thin voice said, Leave Adam alone. Herbert nodded approvingly and again signaled her with one finger to his lips.

Placing his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and gently moving her to one side, Mr. Southern bent to one knee, so that he could be face to face with this unexpected suitor. Looking sternly at the young man, he said, Does your mother have any idea that you’re here or what you’re doing?

The young man licked his plate a few more times, set it to the side, and turned towards his girlfriend’s father. His gaze settled on the older man’s forehead. He remained otherwise impassive.

His hand balled into a fist, angrily Mr. Southern pounded on the floor, and then, almost screaming: Herbert, did you hear me?

After surveying every part of this older man, except he never looked him in the eyes, the young man brought the forefinger of his right hand to his lips and said in an oddly lilting voice, Can’t you hear that melody?

What melody, Herbert? Mrs. Southern, asked incredulously. What are you talking about?

By now, the social worker, who had stepped away, rejoined the group. Everyone but the young man acknowledged her. Even Jill snuck a look. Mr. Southern looked at the heavy-set woman—they were close to the same age—then at the young man, then back at her, shaking his head. Mrs. Southern was mouthing Thank you and taking every opportunity to touch her daughter. Her eyes darting back and forth between her father and her friend, Jill looked like a frightened bird.

As the social worker was writing furiously, the story came out. Yes, the Southerns knew this young man. His home was not far from where they lived. He had one parent; the other was lost in a tragedy. The young man’s name—Herbert Arnold. The young man had been a guest in their house several times. He had never said much. Neither parent thought their daughter, who had always been vivacious throughout her adolescent, could become interested in such a person, so neither had paid much attention to Herbert.

As the social worker rushed off once again—her beeper annoyed both parents, who scowled hearing it go off —a group wearing white coats came down the hall. Drawing the parents aside—leaving Jill to fawn over Herbert worshipfully—one young woman, a stethoscope draped around her neck, holding a clip board in one hand and a pen in the other, began the questioning. Exchanging looks throughout, Mr. and Mrs. Southern took turns responding, although Mr. Southern at one point admitted that he was preoccupied with the concern that that stethoscope, which appeared quite heavy on the one end, was about to slip off. But, Mrs. Southern remained focused. No, there was no family history of psychological problems and never any drugs. Their daughter had never been a problem. In fact, she had always been so compliant. There was only thing about her: she was easily entranced, first by a renegade religion, then by a rock music group, then by the purveyor of a special diet. Every time she embraced a cause, it was in the extreme. Nothing else mattered, until she moved on to something else. They had thought her new focus was the most wonderful they could imagine—her studies. She had been away at college, then back home for the summer, then away to school again to begin her sophomore year, and then not heard from until today. Uttering those words sent a shudder through Mrs. Southern, who broke free and went to her daughter’s side. She put her arm around her daughter’s bony shoulder, disturbing the newspaper precariously arranged there in the process. Looking annoyed—Don’t ruin it, Mother—the young girl brushed her mother’s hand away. But, Jill’s attempt to keep her precious garland from falling apart was becoming sadly futile. It was disintegrating anyway. Seeing her daughter looking so distressed sent mother frantically pacing.

Making note of this new commotion, the young doctor continued, wanting to know more about the young man. Mr. Southern confirmed that his daughter had become friendly with Herbert the summer after her freshman year. Everyone knew about the young man’s father’s death—some sort of home accident, the details of which had been sketchy. When the doctor asked if he could have been a suicide, both parents shrugged their shoulders unknowingly, but exchanged worried glances.

Herbert was always quiet when Jill brought him around, mother said. He seemed harmless. Besides, Jill was always trying to impress us with how bright he was—some kind of math genius, she insisted. Now looking toward her husband, she said in an apologetic tone, Neither we nor the police ever connected Jill’s disappearance with Herbert Arnold.

Now looking threatened by the line of questioning, Mr. Southern took his daughter by the wrist, firmly, and said, ‘We’re going now. That ended Jill’s reign of opposition. As her parents led her down the hall, she turned to wave at her friend, still ensconced on the floor. He did not return that wave, but rather once again brought his finger to his lips. The most senior member of that doctor group had given the Southerns some advice: You need to separate these two." They intended to follow it.

From the fractured self that had lived for many months among the rubble, Jill Southern would start over. Initially embittered at the enforced separation from the one person on whom she felt her life depended, she became melancholic. During the first few days, her mother even caught her wandering off again. The family decided to take an extended vacation—it was the beginning of Spring. The family travelled to the seashore. Wandering among the sea birds and kelp and shells, Jill continued to be remote and passive. She still insisted that her name was Eve. When not outside walking, she spent her days staring out the window. The one time her mother tried to throw Jill’s sacred newspaper away—it was by now a tattered mess—the young girl became furious.

Then, slowly she began responding to Jill. This breakthrough came when she received a post-card from a childhood girlfriend. They started talking by phone. At the same time, her mother noticed she had set her newspaper aside. Jill even wrote a long letter to her friend. Her appetite had returned. She no longer looked so frail. For the first time, she began grooming herself. Mother noticed a small braid tucked in above her ear.

Then, one evening during dinner, Jill—she had let go of Eve—told her parents a story. At the beginning of the previous summer, with nothing to do—a summer job had fallen through—for the first time she got romantically