The Edges of Light and Darkness

By Alan M. Webster

The Edges of Light and Darkness is a collection of stories that explore the complexities of human relationships, their beauties and their joys, their sorrows and their sufferings. They are stories of pain and of loss. But always there exists hope, a knowledge that there, on the edges of darkness, there is light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350928846

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The Edges of Light and Darkness

©2023 Alan M Webster

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-35092-411-4

For My Family

Acknowledgments

For reading these stories and providing thoughtful comments

and indispensable advice I would like to thank Bill Webster,

Mike Chapman, Warren Roaf, Elizabeth Robinson, Dave Irwin,

Ann Crisp, and Tami Turner.

For typing the original manuscript I thank Elizabeth Robinson.

An extra special thanks to the members of my writing group for sharing their stories, listening to mine, and giving me the encouragement to carry on: Cheryl Domian, Barbara Holmes, Brian Kearsey, Patricia McNally, Maarten Smits, and the late Merv Hegan.

Contents

An Interesting Story

Sally

Henry

Holy Night

Reflections

Phoebe

An

Interesting

Story

At the crossroads he pulled the car to the shoulder, turned off the engine, and lifted himself stiffly from his seat. Closing the door behind him he walked to the center of the intersection. Straight ahead the gravel road wound its way upward through open meadows, then veered to the right and disappeared into the darkness of the forest. To his left another dirt road climbed through open pasture and disappeared over the ridge beyond. A small herd of Holstein cattle grazed on the hillside. He could see the silver roof of a barn shimmering in the morning sun at the top of the ridge. To his right the road climbed again from the narrow hollow through the repeated pattern of meadow and pasture and woods.

It was maddening. For the better part of an hour he had driven these dirt roads. They all looked the same: open meadows, fence lined pastures, thick patches of woodland. There were neat white houses with red barns and silver roofs that nearly blinded him in the sun. There were rundown houses with paint, if there was any, chipping and flaking away. Broken houses surrounded by sagging barns with gray weathered boards and rusting roofs. There were open pole barns with farm equipment lined in well-ordered rows and there were yards cluttered with broken down tractors, doorless refrigerators, the hulks of cars buried in tangles of briars and weeds. Dilapidated, vacant house trailers dotted the landscape.

Twice he had driven deep into these hollows, the road growing ever narrower. Twice the forest closed in upon him until branches blocked out the sky and scraped the sides of his car. He feared going on yet there was no place to turn and he had to back up what seemed an eternity until the forest opened once again into pasture.

In the passenger seat of the car his cell phone sat useless, dead since it slipped from his hand into an ankle deep puddle at the turnpike rest stop earlier that day.

He had no idea what roads he had been on. For all he knew he may have passed the same farm house a dozen times. At the end of every road a steel pole stood firmly planted in the shoulder bed. But there was no road sign on top of the pole. They had, it would seem, all been removed. A prankster? Most likely. But he took it as a direct affront to all travelers trying to find their way. Stay away if you don’t know your way. We do not want you here.

Twice he had found his way back to the county road and he debated heading back to town for directions. But the lure of the next dirt road always pulled him back into the maze he now wandered through. And what if he had returned to town? What town? He had passed through it several miles back. A row of houses all seemingly asleep on this Sunday morning. There was a general store with a Closed Sunday sign in the window. There was a gas station similarly marked Closed. He had passed a church with a handful of cars parked on the grassy lawn in front of it. By now they would all have returned to their homes and quiet Sunday dinners.

He had passed a farmer plowing, the smooth dirt of the newly turned furrows glinting in the sunlight. He had pulled his car to the shoulder and begun gingerly stepping over the fresh-turned earth towards the tractor. The farmer shifted slightly in his seat then turned back to his plowing without as much as a wave.

So much for country hospitality, he muttered and stood a moment watching the tractor disappear over the knoll before he returned to his car.

This was a mistake. This whole day. This whole idea. This dream. He had seen the ad online and it had immediately caught his attention. Why this ad and not the hundreds of others he was not sure. A photo of a small white house. Two acres, three bedrooms in the hills of upstate New York. That’s really all the ad had said but for the three magic words that caught his eye. High speed internet. He was hooked.

He was a freelance graphic designer with a flourishing business. He could work from anywhere provided he had access to the internet. But what intrigued him most about the place were the three bedrooms. One for sleep. The second for his office and the third a studio where he could pursue his true passion of painting. He had grown tired of the city. Seeing the photo of the white house had made his apartment seem stuffy and confining. He yearned for open spaces where the creative juices could flow.

He had taken a photo of the ad on his phone. A phone number was listed with the address, 20 Orchard Road. Now all that information was gone when his phone drowned in a puddle on the New York State Thruway.

He remembered the address but the road signs were all missing, an act of tomfoolery he more and more saw directed squarely at him. He thought he possessed a clear picture of the house in his mind, but now he was not sure. The houses all looked the same. It could have been this one. It could have been that one. He was no longer sure of anything.

He went back to his car. The thought of giving up and turning around, both enticed and repulsed him. He looked to his left, then right, and finally, determined, climbed back into the car and drove straight through the intersection. Meadows surrounded him, their ankle deep grasses the rich green of early spring. A hawk circled overhead, its ever-growing shadow an ominous warning to the field mice scurrying through the grasses below.

At the edge of the forest he stopped, shut off the air conditioner and lowered the windows. He sat in silence, listening to the deep silence surrounding him. He had never heard this depth of silence before and as he sat there he felt all the anxiousness inside him grow quiet. And as he grew quiet he realized it was not quiet at all for he heard the world awakening around him. He heard birdsong, not one song, but many. Voices of strangers he had never heard before. And unlike the strangers he passed on city streets, his eyes focused straight ahead refusing to make contact, he yearned to know them.

There was the chattering of squirrels, those he recognized from the scoldings he received while walking through the city park. Somewhere far off he heard the puttering of a tractor.

The forest beckoned him. He could feel its cool dampness. He could smell the rich moist fragrance of it. What if it narrowed into nothingness? What if once again he had to painstakingly back his way out? What if he didn’t? What if, on the other side, a new world opened before him?

Let’s go see what’s there, he said and rolled slowly into the darkened woods.

The road did not narrow. Branches never scraped the sides of the car. Sunlight filtered through the trees and speckled the road and hood of the car. He squinted at the contrast of light and dark, nearly blinded by it.

He drove slowly. A stone wall crept at a right angle from the forest then paralleled the road to his left. He climbed a small hill and emerged into an explosion of light. Stonewalls lined both sides of the road with open meadows sloping gently upward to patches of forest beyond.

Ahead and to his left was a house, surrounded by three freshly painted red barns. The house was white with black shutters, two-storied, it showed none of the wear of so many he had seen.

A woman was bent over in the field, a white bucket by her side. She was digging plants of some sort and dropping them in the bucket.

He approached her slowly and pulled to a stop on the shoulder beside her. She continued to work without looking up.

Excuse me, ma’am. I seem to be a bit lost. Can you help me?

She rose then and turned towards him. He eyed her as she eyed him. Her face was tanned, weathered but not wrinkled. Her white hair hung free to the small of her back. Though the morning was warm she wore a denim jacket several times too large for her slender frame. Her gray sweatpants were tucked neatly into thigh high black boots.

At first she did not speak but only looked at him, her dark eyes studying him.

You look lost, she said.

She made no effort to move towards him but only stood eyeing him.

I’m looking for Orchard Road. Have been for an hour. But these roads. They all look the same and the road signs are all gone so I’ve been looking for an orchard, but I can’t find that either. Just a couple trees here and there around a farmhouse or out in the middle of a pasture. Can you help me? he repeated.

Ain’t gonna find it.

Why?

’Cause there ain’t any.

What? Road?

Orchard.

But the road.

Oh there’s a road. Can get ya there alright.

So why’s it Orchard Road if there’s no orchard?

Interesting story, that is, and she moved for the first time towards the car. Yessir. Interesting story, that is.

She carried a trowel in her hand but left the bucket where it sat.

What are you digging?

What am I digging? What am I digging?" And there was laughter in her voice and eyes. She swept her arm across the field filled with yellow flowers.

Ain’t the city boy ever seen a dandelion?

How do you know I’m a city boy?

She tilted her head to the left and raised her eyebrows. Her mouth curled into a "Are you kidding me? expression.

OK. OK. So I’m a city boy. And yes I’ve seen dandelions before. Thought they were weeds.

Son, in the springtime when you’ve been eatin’ food off’n the shelf all winter ain’t nothing better than a mess of dandelions cooked up with salt pork. Tastier than anything you can imagine.

I’ll stick to my market. Fresh food there any time I want.

You do that. Eat them fresh vegetables from California. Ain’t fresh if they came from California. These dandelions will be on the stove in an hour if I quit talking with you.

She had reached the car then. She rested her hand on the door and bending, examined the contents of both the front and rear seats.

She eyed the phone in the passenger seat.

Can’t your fancy phone find your Orchard Road fer ya?

Dropped it in a puddle this morning. It’s dead.

She chuckled.

Thought you were going to tell me why there’s no orchard on Orchard Road.

Interesting story, that is. Yessir.

Well?

Was an orchard once. Good one too. Owned by old Jess Atkinson. Yessir, it was a good one. Thousands of trees. People come from miles around on weekends to pick Jess’s apples. Truckloads of ‘em shipped off to cities where people like you bought ‘em all winter long when they cost too much and weren’t no good any more.

You seem to know a lot about me. He had felt no animosity in her voice. She spoke matter-of-factly. It was to be her way. Certain things were just truths to be accepted.

Well?

OK. Sometimes. But they don’t taste that bad to me.

That’s ‘cuz you don’t know any better.

Maybe.

Listen, she said and she leaned in towards him adding emphasis to what she was saying.

You can shine up an old shoe all you want but it’s still an old shoe.

Not sure that applies here.

It’s a lesson, son. Just a lesson. Someday you’ll eat one of them waxed up old apples with the taste of a real one in your mouth. Then you’ll know what I mean.

The orchard?

Well, Old Jess got older and gave the orchard to Jess Jr. Still a good orchard then. Jess Jr. sold a lot of apples to some juice company. People still came to pick but not as many. Started going to the bigger orchards down river where they had fancy stores that sold cider and cider donuts and pies and had them corn mazes and other games for kids to play. Then Jess lost his contract with the juice company and, well, by the time Jess the third took over, weren’t nothin’ much left.

She paused and shook her head. Gets sadder then, Yessir, much sadder."

She stood upright seemingly lost in thought, her eyes looking beyond him up the empty dirt road.

He looked beyond her to the neat house and well-kept barns. He looked back at her. Her face wore the look of age, of hard work and hard times. Yet there was a youthfulness to it. Her eyes were a soft deep brown, filled with memories. As he looked at her he could not tell her age. She could have been fifty. She could have been seventy.

Finally she spoke.

Mind if I smoke?

No. Go ahead.

She reached into the left pocket of her denim jacket and pulled out a black pipe. He noticed its stem, chewed and gnarled. From her right pocket she removed a pouch of tobacco, opened it, and deftly filled the bowl with tobacco, pressing it down gently with her thumb. She struck a match from the book of matches she had pulled from her breast pocket and puffed gently until a steady stream of smoke rose from the bowl. A scent of cherry drifted into the car. He had said nothing but watched her curiously through the process. When the pipe was safely lit she removed it from her mouth and spoke.

Never seen a lady smoke a pipe before?

Can’t say that I have.

Think it odd, don’t ya? A story to tell your city friends ‘bout a hillbilly lady smoking a pipe.

I wasn’t thinking that.

Bet ya don’t think it odd your ‘phisticated lady friends in the city smoking them fancy tipped cigars. Bet you think them ladies refined and I’m just a pipe smokin’ hillbilly lady.

That’s not quite the crowd I hang out with, he said, adding, And don’t assume to know what I was thinking.

She puffed softly and the pleasant scent of cherry wafted once again into the car.

Yer right, she said. Here I am ‘cusin’ you of judgin’ me and here I am judgin’ you.

She took a long puff from the pipe.

Ain’t that just the way with folks.

It’s OK. I guess I was judging you a bit.

She reached in and patted his shoulder.

Jess the third?

Oh, yes. Young Jess. He done had his problems. Seemed to make a mess of everything he touched. Biggest mess he made was marrying Ellen Hastings. She was a tart, that one. I’ll call her a tart. Some folks call her worse, but I’m a lady and won’t use them kinda words, least to a stranger like yourself. What she saw in Jess was anybody’s guess. Jess weren’t a handsome man and she was a pretty lady all right. Lady of the night some called her. Some called her worse than that. Guess she saw all that land and thought Jess was one of them rich landowners when just the opposite was the case. Young Jess was land poor. Could barely pay the taxes.

She paused then to relight her pipe that had gone out while she talked.

So what happened to the orchard?