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He had said “yes.” The woman with the pale blue shawl whispered the words over and over to herself.
She gazed out a large window onto a busy street. Mountains in the background caught the reflected light from the early morning sun. The peaks stood dark against the blue of the sky like sentinels guarding the landscape. Little daubs of white lay between the points catching the light with little diamond glints visible from her home in Boulder. The snow had all but disappeared everywhere but those remaining remnants far up the skyline.
In the city, she sat staring out the window at her universe. A person such as herself needed some sort of outlet. A television would simply not suffice, its tawdry garishness just a little too gauche for her sensibilities. The window was different. It was real and the world it revealed was as wonderful as any contained in the dog eared stories lining her bookshelf.
A man arrived promptly every Saturday morning around 10 am to clean the large window. Some techno-geeks had their HDTV’s to see the world, she had her window. So she kept it clean, a far better alternative than the pixilated genius of a Sony or Sharp LCD.
With half her mind she studied a young woman walking the sidewalk below her. The other half continued to float with thoughts of the word — yes. He had said yes. It wasn’t just for work this time. They were going out, leaving the house, to enjoy the crisp spring air. Her shoulders shook with anticipation.
She would have never asked in the first place if she hadn’t been ready for him. Otherwise, she would have kept it professional, never showing a shade of interest. After all, rejection would have been too much for her to bear. Why take the risk, if it couldn’t lead to something. And it could now. She was sure of it. Two years was a long time, but a miracle was happening. It was probably just her body healing itself, but she still thought in terms of something higher and more powerful than science and medicine.
The feeling was there now, growing stronger when she thought of him, up her long legs, between them – a tingling.
I’m Alive, she thought, the smile opening wide on her mature face, her eyes bright. A soft laugh erupted, starting at her chest and moving up to her mouth.
The woman below the window continued to pull at her attention. Partly, it was the way she was dressed; a threadbare grey coat covering a pair of puffy brown slacks, wrinkled and dirty. A piece of pant material had been torn out of the right leg, a bit below the knee. Her pale skin gleamed under the patch — ivory white – such a contrast to the rest of her as though she had taken a hot shower minutes before grabbing her rags to walk the streets.
Part of it was the contraption she pushed, wheels squeaking so loudly, Cassandra could hear them through the window.
There was something else though. She looked familiar.
They call them bag ladies, Cassandra thought. Indeed that was certainly a stereotype given to many of her kind. She dressed the part and she pushed the ever present King Soopers grocery cart. Only she seemed so young. Didn’t bag ladies always have the ever present sag of age and abuse?
With a sigh, Cassandra turned from the window. She had a bit of work to do before Don arrived. Grabbing a brush, she approached the painting. Something was missing. The three figures in the center of the canvas certainly looked the part as if they had just jumped from the pages of the book. Alexandre Dumas couldn’t have imagined them any differently. She had even placed a fourth musketeer in the background, a calloused hand on his sword.
They seemed a bit too perfect, not a hair out of place. Then the inspiration gripped her. Leaning forward, she made the appropriate adjustment. A torn pant leg had now appeared on the lead swordsman. It was a small tear and showed the skin underneath, just to the left of the knee. Much better she thought.
A pounding startled her out of her contemplations and she moved toward the front door. She opened it.
The bag lady stood there in all her glory, a paper bag in her hand.
“You want some more herbs?” The woman’s drawl was nasal and loud. “I believe you’ve run out.”
It had happened two weeks ago to the day. That’s when she had made the last of the tea.
The bag lady’s face seemed different today from what Cassandra remembered two years ago. It was soon after the accident when she first came.
Every evening since, Cassandra had made a bit of the tea, just a pinch. It had lasted a long time. She knew how to ration valuable things. She never knew what was in it, just that it helped her sleep and when she woke up, she felt like it was a brand new day with all the hope of a child receiving a shiny red sled on Christmas.
“That first batch was free,” the bag lady said. “This will cost. Give me something dear to your heart. Don’t try to cheat me. I’ll know all right. Can’t fool me with some expensive junk.”
Cassandra sped over to her easel and wrapped the painting.
The Gaziantep Oral Escort bag lady smiled upon receiving it. “This’ll do nicely, it surely is from your heart.”
The lady started to leave then turned back. “I give acupuncture, if you want,” she said. “Every bit as good as the herbs, only longer lasting, true healing.”
Cassandra was silent for a long time, thoughts whirling. How desperately she craved true healing. The doctors had called her case hopeless, no known medical cure. Anything was possible, they said. The body sometimes does marvelous things.
She knew she was so much better, but there was so much more to be done.
“Yes, please,” she said.
“I’ll be back then,” the lady said.
After the bag lady left, Cassandra returned to her window perch.
The bag lady was on the sidewalk now, the wrapped painting stuck in the cart, one point high in the air above the rest of the flotsam. Slowly the lady pushed the cart across the sidewalk, the screech of the wheels loud in the busy street.
A figure raced by, a young man seventeen or eighteen, wearing shorts in the brisk morning. He dodged around the bag lady, almost past the cart when he made his move. Quick as a snake, a hand darted out and fastened onto the side of the painting. A split second later, the painting was off the cart and under his arms.
With legs pumping, the young man disappeared down the street.
The bag lady slumped over her cart, arms hanging over the sides like shredded cheese, thin and droopy, blowing in the wind. She straightened and glanced at the large window of Cassandra’s house. Cassandra could see the face, the streaks running down her cheeks, the mouth open in agony. Then the bag lady slid onto a nearby bench, her face down, body curled over her knees. The bag lady remained there on the bench. Occasionally her back shook like some minor earthquake. Otherwise, she was motionless.
She remained hunched over her legs for a full thirty minutes. She might have been there longer except that something extraordinary happened that changed everything. A young man, perhaps in his early twenties tapped her on the shoulder. Looking up she saw the painting under his arm. Handing it to her, he pointed down the road gesturing about something far out of view of the window. Cassandra surmised it was about the rescue, finding the thief, retrieving the prize.
The young man received his own prize for services rendered. It wasn’t tangible like money or some valuable object. It was instead a pair of arms, wrapped around him, lips open to his. He accepted the invitation and their two lips pressed together, softness against softness as though it was the most natural thing in the world for two apparent strangers to kiss passionately beside a busy street, cars honking as they passed.
Eventually they separated, and then pushed the cart together across the sidewalk to disappear around a building.
Almost as soon as they disappeared, Cassandra heard a knock on the door. It was Don, the window cleaner. As he entered the foyer, the masculine smell of sweat and cologne filled the room. She wondered if he could hear her pounding heart. Yet he appeared casual, almost too much so. She wanted him to pull her into his arms. He must know how I feel, she thought. I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t cared.
He was a bit older than Cassandra and after an awkward moment of greeting, he walked to the closet containing the cleaning equipment. Cassandra watched him from a distance. Shortly he was sliding a chamois cloth over the window. Maybe he is just shy, she thought.
“I’ve thought about you often today,” she said.
He stopped his rubbing motion and turneing his head toward her. “Me too,” he said then turned back to the window.
“How does a woman meet a man these days?”
“The internet,” he said quietly.
“I don’t have a computer.”
“You do fine,” he said. “Thanks for asking me.”
A few minutes later, he was finished inside. Outside in the heat of the morning, he removed his shirt. The sun at this high altitude was strong, the air warm. A shirt was merely another obstacle to comfort. Watching him from the haven of her bedroom, ashe slid his cleaning rag across the glass, Cassandra slipped a hand between her legs. While middle aged, he had maintained the lean lines, taught muscles of a man much younger. His jeans were tight on his hips, the protrusion of his penis outlined against the cotton cloth.
Slowly Cassandra rubbed herself. The tingling was still there and as she continued her manipulations, the tingle slowly transformed into a warmth, a throbbing. She was a woman again. Her legs jerked, not enough to actually be visible to anyone watching, but she felt it and that was the most important thing.
Eventually Don finished his cleaning. Cassandra had finished as well, a soft smile covering her lips.
When the knock came again, she was ready. She had washed herself and wore a clean blue dress.
“Come in,” she called.
Don was there, his shirt back on. “You ready?” he asked. “Thanks for inviting me to do this.”
Her cheeks colored. “I figured you’d never ask, so I did. I thought perhaps I was too forward. It’s not a proper woman’s role and all that.”
“That’s fine. Where do you want to go?”
“The park. I haven’t been there in two years. Please, yes the park.”
He walked behind her to grip the handles. “Need help?”
She smiled. “I think I can manage. My arms and hands are strong. I may get tired later.”
As she navigated into the foyer, he stood behind her ready to assist, careful not to interfere. The area around the door was narrow. A small opening led into it from the living area. The wheelchair was required to turn to the right immediately after entering the small enclosure. Don gripped the back of the wheelchair to help Cassandra guide it.
As she rounded the corner, Don’s fingers pinched against the side of the wall.
“Ouch!” he cried grabbing a finger with his other hand as though gripping it tightly would ease the pain.
“Sorry,” Cassandra said. “This is the first time I’ve tried to leave the house. It’s a tight fit in here.”
“How’d you get inside in the first place?” he asked.
“I can’t remember. I think someone carried me inside.”
Gripping the wheels, she rolled forward until her feet bumped up against the door to the outside. “Can’t go any further,” she said. “Can’t open it from here either.” She leaned forward to try to grasp the door knob but the distance was too great.
“Let me try.” Since there was no room on the side of the wheelchair, Don climbed on the wheel itself.
“You need to roll back,” he said. “You’re in too far.”
Cassandra laughed. “That’s something I should say to you — in too far.”
“Very funny,” Don said. “You’re stuck in here. We need to push you back so I can get the door open.”
Cassandra clasped the wheel and slowly rolled it backward, allowing Don the space to get in front of the wheelchair.
“The door opens inward,” he said. “You need to roll back further.”
“It won’t go back any more.”
“Then we’ll need to back up into the living room.”
Don climbed over the wheelchair again and pulled on the handles at the end. “Here, let me pull you this way. No. You need to move the left wheel. There, we have it.”
With the wheelchair out of the entryway, Don was able to open the door. Then the two of them twisted and pulled until the wheelchair was rolling between the double French doors that led outside.
“Watch it,” Cassandra called back to him. “I’m going to roll down the steps.”
“”Where’s your ramp? ” Don asked.
“Don’t have one,” she said, her voice rising a little with nervous tension. “You need to pull back and down on the handles so we can go down the steps slowly. Yes that’s it. No. I’m slipping. Pull back. Yes. Perfect.” She couldn’t stop the little gasps of terror and delight as they descended several steps. His breath was a little strained as he attempted to keep her from bouncing down them too hard.
Finally they were on the sidewalk. Don ran back up the steps to close the door, returning immediately to walk beside Cassandra and her neon bright wheelchair.
As much as she enjoyed his company, her mind was distracted. The hum of the cars, a small sparrow chirping in a tree, and a pounding sound — all spun around her like a symphony of noise. Yet she loved it. After the quiet of her house, this felt like freedom. She wished she could leap from the wheelchair and race to the park on strong new legs. Someday maybe, she thought.
She breathed deeply of the aromas swirling around her, a hint of baked bread, the sweetness of purple flowers on a nearby bush.
A new scent hit her, not pleasant, like old dish rags. The pounding sound was louder now. A woman stood on the porch of a house they were passing. A large rug hung on a metal wire strung between posts on her porch. The woman had a large paddle and slammed it against the rug. With each stroke a cloud of dust rose into the air. Such sounds inundated her senses making her heart pound in her chest like a machine gun firing at some invisible enemy.
As they approached the park the sound of the striking paddle faded.
“You’re good at your work,” she said as they crossed the street separating the park from the block of houses where she lived.
“It’s not that hard,” he said. “No real brain power. Keeps me active and I meet nice people.”
“But you did have something better before, something that used more of that cerebral cortex you’ve placed on the shelf now — right?”
“My, my aren’t you the little psychologist today,” he said laughing.
“I notice things is all,” she said. “I suppose that is a bit like a psychologist. I think you’re hiding out, laying down track.”
“Laying down track?” His left eyebrow lifted above the other, the corner of his mouth turning up,
“I guess I’ve started developing my own language now,” she said with a laugh. “It’s what those workers do before a train comes to town. They lay track in preparation for the big event, when the train finally comes to town all loud and everything.”
“Not real work? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No…not at all. I think you’re just biding your time. Laying down track is putting one foot in front of the other and not making any difference, not actually doing anything to be remembered.”
They had arrived at the park by this time. Don sat on a bench overlooking the green lawn that was dotted with trees, aspens mostly with the occasional cottonwood. At the opposite end, a play set for children had been erected. The faint sounds of their irrepressible laughter barely reached the couple. Another couple sat at a bench along the right side of the park. A shopping cart was perched next to them, a large flat shaped object jutting out from the top, a piece of wood perhaps, a poster, or a painting.
“And what’re you hiding from?” Don asked. “I would’ve thought you’d have visited the park many times. It’s not that far. You’re not even laying track. You’re hibernating.”
“There’s my handicap you know,” she said, the barest trace of a catch to her voice. “My accident was a severe shock to the system. I couldn’t even sit up for the longest time.”
He slipped an arm around her, held her without speaking. Then he pushed the loose strands of her hair past her cheek and kissed it. She felt the warmth of his nearness, noticed the tingle start to grow again.
“I think you’ve done quite well you know,” he said softly. “Always busy with your paintings.” He nuzzled her neck. “And of course you invited me here. I’ve needed you to do that you know.”
“You needed…. I don’t understand. You’re so calm, so relaxed, so together.”
He laughed. “Looks can be deceiving even for a super-psychologist-window-watcher.”
“You’re teasing me now,” she said laughing. “And you’ve managed to deflect my question. So why?”
“Why?”
“Oh don’t act so confused. Why are you hiding out?”
The question lay unanswered. The woman on the far park bench had jumped up and started running. She raced toward them, a large flat object in her hand.
She stopped ten feet from them. By now Cassandra recognized the bag lady and the picture under an arm.
“You’re out of the house,” the bag lady said. “How wonderful!” She approached Cassandra and touched her head. “You’re healing. I can sense it. You won’t even need the acupuncture.”
“Are you sure?” Cassandra’s words were loud with a sharp edge to them.
“Not really,” the bag lady responded. “It’s just a feeling. I have this crazy ability to sense what is needed sometimes, like the herbs I gave you.”
“Herbs?” Don asked. “You gave Cassandra herbs?” He paused, staring first at the bag lady and then back to Cassandra. Cassandra had never noticed how truly blue his eyes were in her house.
“I was a doctor once,” Don said. “It takes science to fix your problem.”
“A doctor,” Cassandra said her eyes narrowing slightly at his tone. “What was it then, malpractice? Is that the dark secret?”
“Something like that,” he said, his eyes focused on the woman in the wheelchair. “There was this new drug, a miracle cure, not quite tested yet, but so promising. I jumped on it, prescribed it to a patient who desperately needed it. It worked too. Just one problem – a little side affect that hadn’t been discovered yet.”
“This is a natural cure, not some dark laboratory concoction.” She turned to the bag lady. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am for your help.”
“What’s in the herbs,” Don asked.
The bag lady’s eyes glowed as though a pair of light bulbs had been turned on inside her skull. “My special ingredients, a secret recipe.” She laughed with a sound like a church bell. “It cures. It always cures.”
But Don was not to be denied. “I need to know. I really do.”
The woman standing over him gazed up at a cottonwood nearby, then pulled her glance back to Don. “There might be just a bit of St. Johnswort, maybe some sweet basil, horsetail, and chamomile. I have some special ingredients. That’s a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”
“What is it?” Don asked, brows like little hoods over his eyes, dark and bushy.
“Blood root and just a trace of cayenne.”
“Can’t say any of them will hurt you,” he said to Cassandra. “Can’t say they’ll help either. Just don’t really know.”
“There are other ingredients you know. But I don’t think you would understand them,” the bag lady stated, eyes gone flat and opaque. “Not many do.”
“Well I do,” Cassandra said. “I’m like a new person. All the doctors swore it was hopeless. Now I can feel again.”
“I actually came to give this back.” The bag lady extended the painting toward Cassandra.
“It’s yours,” Cassandra said. “For goods received.”
“It should be yours,” the bag lady said. “Or his,” she pointed to Don. The bag lady unwrapped the picture. The lead musketeer looked familiar. He was the cleaning man.
As the bag lady turned to go, Cassandra called out to her, “At least tell me your name.”
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