CROSSINGS

By Marsha Carow Markman

Crossings is a collection of short stories that began years ago with scribblings on Post-it notes and journals, all set aside while the author was engulfed in a teaching career, a poetry group with university colleagues and writing for the academic marketplace. Resurfaced, completed and revised, the stories grew out of her favorite words: what if, words that plunged her into a world of the paranormal and all manner of phenomenon that, but for the courage of a cadre of researchers and experiencers, often rest outside the realm of science and too often the object of ridicule and indifference.

Beginning with, “The Crossing,” Boston is home to the characters in each tale, a city with a long and varied history of American experience. The first-person “telling” by the central characters intimately connects each narrator with the reader in these tales of unexpected and unexplained experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665523899

Marsha Carow Markman

Dr. Marsha Carow Markman earned a Ph.D. in English Education from the University of Maryland, College Park. She taught at the George Washington University and the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. before returning to her California home. She is currently Professor Emerita of California Lutheran University’s English Department, where she directed the Writing Center; the Freshman Writing program; taught a variety of courses, including, “Children’s Literature,” “The Holocaust through Literature and Film” and cross-curriculum courses with professors in the departments of Music, History, Drama and Philosophy. Dr. Markman’s publications include: The American Journey (Volumes 1 and 2) and Writing Women’s Lives, with Drs. Susan Corey and Jonathan Boe. (The latter book includes her, “Breast Cancer Diary”). If We Dance . . . A Collection of Poems, is a collaborative effort with CLU faculty. She edited and wrote the “Introduction” to Piri Piroska Bodnar’s Holocaust memoir, Out of the Shadows; a review in The Historian (Vol. 71) of Martha Tomhave Blaufelt’s, The Work of the Heart; “Teaching the Holocaust through Literature” in New Perspectives on the Holocaust; articles with Dr. Gordon Leighton in, College and Research Libraries News and Research Strategies; and, Do You Know Your Audience with Dr. Lorena Stone. Her poetry appears in Poetry Super Highway. Markman has edited textbooks for Houghton Mifflin, West Publishing and Scholastic, Inc. She has lectured on the Holocaust at the United States Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C.; UCLA’s Johnson Center Foundation; the Rotary Club; Wittenberg University; The Jewish War Veterans; and The Jewish Family Service. At Washington, D.C.’s, Gallaudet University for the deaf and hearing impaired, she introduced its faculty to dialogue journal writing, the topic of her doctoral dissertation and an integral part of her teaching career.

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© 2021 Marsha Carow Markman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/21/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-2390-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-2388-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-2389-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021908350

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

About the Author

About the Book

Acknowledgements

The Crossing

Dream Traveler

Aunt Lee

Click

Down the Rabbit Hole

The Far Side of Yesterday

Telephone Daze

A Television Curiosity

Chameleon

Fastforward

The Visitors

Through a Glass Darkly: A Preamble

Through a Glass Darkly: A Novella

Déjà vu

The Vision

Impulse

On Schemes and Scandals

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Authors%20Photo.png

Dr. Marsha Carow Markman earned a Ph.D. in English Education from the University of Maryland, College Park. She taught at the George Washington University and the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. before returning to her California home. She is currently Professor Emerita of California Lutheran University’s English Department, where she directed the Writing Center; the Freshman Writing program; taught a variety of courses, including, Children’s Literature, The Holocaust through Literature and Film and cross-curriculum courses with professors in the departments of Music, History, Drama and Philosophy.

Dr. Markman’s publications include: The American Journey (Volumes 1 and 2) and Writing Women’s Lives, with Drs. Susan Corey and Jonathan Boe. (The latter book includes her, Breast Cancer Diary). If We Dance . . . A Collection of Poems, is a collaborative effort with CLU faculty. She edited and wrote the Introduction to Piri Piroska Bodnar’s Holocaust memoir, Out of the Shadows; a review in The Historian (Vol. 71) of Martha Tomhave Blaufelt’s, The Work of the Heart; Teaching the Holocaust through Literature in New Perspectives on the Holocaust; articles with Dr. Gordon Leighton in, College and Research Libraries News and Research Strategies; and, Do You Know Your Audience with Dr. Lorena Stone. Her poetry appears in Poetry Super Highway.

Markman has edited textbooks for Houghton Mifflin, West Publishing and Scholastic, Inc. She has lectured on the Holocaust at the United States Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C.; UCLA’s Johnson Center Foundation; the Rotary Club; Wittenberg University; The Jewish War Veterans; and The Jewish Family Service. At Washington, D.C.’s, Gallaudet University for the deaf and hearing impaired, she introduced its faculty to dialogue journal writing, the topic of her doctoral dissertation and an integral part of her teaching career.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Crossings is a collection of short stories that began years ago with scribblings on Post-it notes and journals, all set aside while the author was engulfed in a teaching career, a poetry group with university colleagues and writing for the academic marketplace. Resurfaced, completed and revised, the stories grew out of her favorite words: what if, words that plunged her into a world of the paranormal and all manner of phenomenon that, but for the courage of a cadre of researchers and experiencers, often rest outside the realm of science and too often the object of ridicule and indifference.

Beginning with, The Crossing, Boston is home to the characters in each tale, a city with a long and varied history of American experience. The first-person telling by the central characters intimately connects each narrator with the reader in these tales of the unexpected and unexplained, a journey behind the curtain where curiosity and experience lay.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am grateful to my muse who leaves town unpredictably, returning with my plea to fill in the blanks; to E.M. Forster—writer, thinker, wordsmith—who has led me along this and other writing paths with the maxim: How do I know what I think until I see what I say? and to Shakespeare for Hamlet’s observation, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

My gratitude to Drs. Jessie Roderick and Jack Carr for inspiring me to think critically, analytically and imaginatively. To Drs. Susan Corey Everson, Maggie Westland, Joan Wines and the late Dr. Jan Bowman for their comments and encouragement on my scribblings over the years; to Linda Minster, English teacher extraordinaire, for astute editorial observations; and to my sister, Dr. Joyce Kishineff, who keeps me on task.

I am ever grateful to my family for their encouragement throughout all of my endeavors. Elliot for perceptive observations and Les for his publishing skills, his selection of the book’s cover and the what ifs that contribute to my ideas. Stephen who prods me along in my writings; and Dani and Hailey for sharing their knowledge of Boston, home to the characters in these tales. To Dr. Nancy Siegel who thinks outside the box . . . and listens; Kristina, the artist; Sarah, the scientist; Natalie, Katelynn, Abby, Mila and Eli, the blossoming critics; Helene for her unselfish kindness; and John and Roni who bring joy to my growing family. I am especially grateful to my late husband, Mark—still my guiding light—whose knowledge and critical thinking gave these stories the suggestion of likelihood.

To you, dear readers, thank you for taking this voyage with me, one that responds to questions and often-unexplained answers that are the inspiration for these fictional tales, some of which grew out of personal experience, sprinkled with literary license. Finally, to my friends and family whose characters bear your names, I promised you would not be villains and I kept my word . . . sort of. My apologies to my dear friend, Susan K. whose pleas to be a villain I ignored. And to Bostonians: unintended errors about your beautiful city and its history are mine.

Marsha Carow Markman

July 1, 2021

THE CROSSING

I awakened to find sunlight skittering across my room through chinks in the lace curtains. Outside my bedroom window, on the limb of a giant oak, birds were chirping and muffled voices rose from the street below. However, an unusual quiet settled over the house, peculiar for this time of day. I stood, refreshed from this afternoon nap, straightened the creases in my dress and slipped into my shoes.

In each of the second-floor rooms every bed was neatly made. Not a coat was flung on a chair, nor shoes carelessly left beside each hearth; nor was a single toy strewn across the floor in wait for Father to trip upon and bellow curses that would make the devil blush.

Fresh flowers were arranged in a vase on Mother’s dressing table; in Natalie’s room, a book of verses lay open on her bed; and in Kate’s little room, her dolls were neatly arranged side by side on the shelf that Father built last summer. Kristina and Sarah’s rooms were equally tidy: paints on the table beside Kristina’s easel and a science book lay open on Sarah’s desk awaiting the schoolwork to which she so diligently applies herself.

While I napped, Mrs. Richards must have tidied the house. Still, a musty scent in each of the rooms defied the aroma of fresh flowers and the lamb stew Mother was preparing for tonight’s supper. I ran downstairs to the sitting room and found Mother on the settee near the hearth, darning Father’s socks; Kate was cradling her Lucy doll on a near-by footstool; and Father was on the sofa reading the Boston Beacon. Kristina, Sarah and Natalie were huddled at the oak table near the window, working on a puzzle; and cousin Hailey, visiting for the summer with her husband, John, sat at the piano, their lovely voices poised to fill the room.

Prone to giggle, the girls, instead, bowed their heads when they saw me and folded their hands on their laps. Where there was laughter, music and lively conversation, instead was an unnatural silence. I looked to Mother who beckoned me to sit beside her. She placed a gentle hand on my cheek, in response no doubt to my baffled expression. Were tears glistening in her lovely blue eyes?

Suddenly, I heard a woman’s voice within the house, followed by a volley of footsteps across the wood floors and into the sitting room. I stared in disbelief at five strangers: a woman of Mother’s age, two boys (one about my age) and a man and woman who appeared to be their mother and father. The older woman was dressed in a blue cotton dress, much like the one Mother was wearing, its lace collar and ruffs at the sleeve in sharp contrast with the younger woman in trousers, much like those that Father wears.

The younger of the two boys was dressed in loose-fitting breeches that reached just below his knees, a checkered shirt and white shoes made from a canvas material that I have never before seen. He carried a small object on which were tiny buttons that he rapidly pressed with the thumb of each hand.

The woman in blue who stood before the others was describing our home: the year in which it was built and its various pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac. All the while, neither Mother nor Father looked up from their work nor did the children pay them any mind. And to my chagrin, neither the woman who was speaking nor those with her, uttered even a Good afternoon. I was about to address them when Mother took my hand in hers, a signal to be still.

Nevertheless, I rose, walked toward the younger child, a boy of about fourteen, and said, Hello. But he neither answered nor looked in my direction. How rude, I thought, nearly uttering the words aloud. Perplexed, I called to Mother and asked, Who are these people and why are they in our house? Mother continued with her darning, while Father glanced at me then returned to his newspaper. The sadness I could only glimpse, recalled the day when grandmother passed.

Are you selling our home? I asked Father, for he had spoken about purchasing a larger house either in Cambridge or Salem. Still, he offered no reply, but rose from his chair and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, a gesture for me to be seated and end my enquiries.

When the strangers leave, I thought, Mother and Father will surely offer an explanation.

Meanwhile, I would make my retreat far from those ill-mannered people.

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The attic is a vast hideaway filled with broken chairs, a pram no longer in use and trunks filled with a host of memorabilia—the sanctuary of my childhood imaginings, a refuge among the relics of my family’s history.

To my surprise, the attic was barren and swept clean. This morning, the room was strewn with outgrown clothing, hats no longer fashionable, broken lamps, bent watering tins, letters, books and baby blankets—all stowed in hampers now nowhere to be seen. Where used and no-longer-useful objects were the fodder for daydreaming, only a bent carriage wheel stood against one wall. All else was . . . gone.

I was about to return to the sitting room to press for an explanation when I heard footsteps in the hall outside the attic door. I retreated to a far corner of the room just as the older of the two boys entered and walked to the attic window—a quite handsome lad with dark, wavy hair and pleasant features. His shoes were fashioned of the same rough fabric as those his brother wore; their tread made barely a sound on the hardwood floor. From my retreat, I noticed an inscription on his white cotton shirt that I assumed was his name, Calvin Klein.

He stood looking out the window while I, like a frightened mouse, hovered in the darkened corner of the attic. Finally, he turned to leave; and feeling the fool for hiding in my own home, I stepped forward. He seemed not to see me; but when I approached the light that cast through the attic window, he peered at me—a rather frightened look upon his face as though I were a lion about to pounce.

I extended my hand in greeting, but he withdrew several backward steps, his face a mixture of fear and surprise. No doubt he was startled, believing he was alone in the attic. I couldn’t but laugh at his apparent fright. Finally, when he seemed to recover, I said, My name is Faithe. I live in this house.

He seemed not to have heard my words, so I repeated my introduction and waited for his response. At last, he spoke, his voice an echo muted by what seemed to be its passage through a tunnel deep in the folds of the earth. I shook my head and cupped one hand to my ear, a gesture I hoped would convey my inability to hear him. He took a deep, rather labored breath and, after a moment’s pause, looked around the attic, then walked to a wooden strut on which was carved, STEPHEN JAY and the numbers one eight seven six (cousin Stephen’s handiwork when he visited the previous week).

Calvin pointed to the numbers and shook his head No. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a pencil and a small notebook on which, fingers trembling, he jotted the numbers two zero two one. He tore the sheet of paper from its binding and handed it to me, quite gingerly as it were. I looked at the numbers he noted, at the numbers on the beam, and once again at him. What could it mean?

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, conveying a baffled response. He smiled in return; yet there was wretchedness in his eyes that mirrored the sadness I read in Father’s eyes just moments earlier. He shook his head again, this time as though shaking loose an uninvited thought, backed out of the attic and fled down the stairs. I lifted my skirts and followed him as quickly as my legs would carry me, but he and the other visitors were gone.

In the sitting room, Mother was darning Father’s socks while he continued reading the newspaper. Hailey and John were seated at the piano, Hailey’s fingers poised on its keys; Kate quietly rocked her Lucy doll in her arms; and the girls sat quite still at the oak table, heads bowed, hands folded on their laps—just as I left them moments before.

Once again, I sat beside Mother, this time silently pondering the numbers that Calvin jotted in his notebook, as well as those on the attic’s beam. How were the two sets of numbers connected? To find the answer was to confront the young man once again.

I rushed from the sitting room into the foyer and peered through the window pane beside the front door. The woman in blue cotton was standing on our veranda, hands clasped behind her back like a school teacher waiting for her students to respond to a question about the War of 1812. In the courtyard our visitors were crossing the cobbled street, the young man from the attic with them. He stopped and turned toward the house.

Our eyes met and I raised my hand, holding the paper on which he wrote the numbers two zero two one. He smiled (rather a wan smile), took a step toward the house, abruptly stopped, then turned and walked briskly away.

I reached for the doorknob, prepared to run after him, to confront him. But Mother silently approached me, placed a gentle hand over mine and steered me to the near-by mirrored hall tree. What was reflected in the mirror was neither my image nor that of Mother who was standing beside me, but rather the foyer’s flower-papered wall behind us!

Turning once again to the windowpane, I looked out at the homes on the other side of the street. At the Donnelly house, a wooden bucket on each side of the entrance was filled to overflowing with geraniums; a sign posted at the doorway read, ROCKPORT FLOWER SHOPPE.

On the veranda of the Marshall house was a banner reading: MANDY’S MEMENTOS; beside the banner flew the flag of our lovely state of Massachusetts alongside a United States flag bearing, what appeared from this distance, far more than the thirty-eight stars representing the states in our Union. Across the street as far as I could see, the houses of our friends and neighbors bore signposts of antique shops, ice cream parlours and eateries, one of which advertised lobster rolls on a signboard at the front door—a delicacy, I presume, and one of which I was unaware.

I turned from Mother and climbed the steps to my bedroom, haunted by questions about the afternoon’s events: Why were those strangers in our house? When did the homes on our street become places of business? What happened to the crush of belongings that filled our attic just this morning? How are the numbers that Stephen carved into the attic’s beam connected to those that Calvin wrote in his notebook? And most curiously: Why am I, and Mother, too, no longer reflected in the hall tree’s mirror?

I thought deeply about those questions likened to the pieces of my sisters’ puzzle. But even as I put the pieces in place, the picture was distorted. To bring it into focus was to think outside the puzzle’s margins—outside what I have been taught about the world in which I live, about this enigma in which I found myself.

I recalled my teacher, Mr. Roberts, telling us that questions can open doors to great mysteries, doors that answers often close. Would the answers to my questions close the door to this mystery? I trembled at the notion that this puzzle, which lay at the very tip of my consciousness, would challenge my every belief. Weary, I put my questions aside, returned to the comfort of my bed, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

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I awakened to find sunlight skittering across the room through chinks in the lace curtains.

Outside, on the limb of a giant oak, birds were chirping. Muffled voices rose from the street below. However, an unusual quiet settled over the house, peculiar for this time of day.

DREAM TRAVELER

Trust in dreams for in them is hidden the gate to eternity

Khalil Gibran

Annie’s Story

Last night’s dream is one that recurs often lately, taking me to a time and place that I feast upon in sleep as well as in my waking hours:

I come home from school and Mama is waiting for me at the head of the stairs, a cupcake balanced in the palm of each hand. Her cupcakes, frosted with Grandma’s chocolate icing, is her best effort in a kitchen that for her is an otherwise foreign country.

I sit at the table and watch as Mama shakes the milk bottle, lifts its paper cap and spoons away the cream that settles at the top of the bottle. She pours