The Days That Are No More

The Days That Are No More

Digital Image by Jerry Craven

 JERRY CRAVEN 

May 27, 2020

            Claire asked my opinion about the authenticity of a star sapphire in a gold ring. A natural stone, not a lab-grown crystal, its value had to run into five digits. I set the ring down and stepped back. It was too pricey for me to handle.

            She wore a paper COVID-19 mask when she placed the ring on the counter, and I wondered if this person wore the mask to protect herself from me or to protect me from her own spewing of virus when she talked—or maybe it was a bandit’s mask. I reached for a mask, which Jesse required of all employees, though I didn’t work for him, was there to allow Jesse a lunch hour.

            Her eyes told me she was smiling. “Why,” she asked, “is a pawn shop open when it’s legal only for essential businesses to be open?”

            I waved my hand at the wall where Jesse displayed handguns. “In Texas,” I said, “the governor considers shops selling firearms to be essential businesses.”

            “Must I buy a pistol before you tell me what the ring is worth?” Another eye smile, a teasing one.

            I hung my mask on one ear. “If I promise to be a good boy and never harm you in any way, not with coronavirus or anything else, will you take your mask off? And I am James Maddison Barr.” I handed her a business card.

            She glanced at it. “A gemologist. And a writer. Okay, James, I’ll accept your promise and hold you to it.” She dropped her mask to dangle from one ear.

            I stepped back and might have gasped. “Julie?”

            She tilted her head in puzzlement, much as a dog might. “Claire. I’m Claire Muscovy. Who is Julie?”

            “A girl from my past. High school. You look much like her.”

            “Nope. I’m a woman. Full grown. Not a girl.”

            “I meant no insult. Back then people called me boy and called Julie girl because neither of us were grownups.”

            “Apology accepted. Now, about the ring.”

            “Where did you get it?”

            “India. My husband stole the ring and gave it to me. He’s dead now.” Her eyes danced into another smile, her lips joining the dance. “How much?”

            I suspected she knew, but I told her anyway. A clear stone, tinted light blue—a medium cornflower—with a single inclusion visible even without a loupe, the surface of the stone starred from any light, but when hit with a pen light, the star was the best I had ever seen on any sapphire or ruby. It was a perfect star sapphire with that one inclusion proof that it was a natural stone.  A collector would pay at auction thirty to fifty thousand for it.

            She nodded. “In this weird time of pandemic, I need some immediate cash. Make me an offer.”

            I studied her long hair, her intense blue eyes, her lips. All so Julie but not Julie. “I’ll give you some cash or a personal loan. Do not sell or pawn this rare stone. Don’t mention it to Jesse. Though he’s married to my sister, I’ll tell you he’s not honest. He would grab the gem and not let go until it thundered.”

            Claire laughed. “Like a Texas snapping turtle.”

            “Yes. He would declare it to be glass or a fake, or whatever he needed to say. How much do you need?” I took out my wallet. “Maybe two hundred?”

            “A loan then.” Claire pulled from her purse a paper packet like those gem dealers use to wrap stones. “Take this as personal collateral. Can you afford three hundred?”

            “Yes. I offer the loan without collateral.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know.  Because, because . . .” I started to say because she looked so like Julie. “I don’t know.” I handed her three hundred dollars. She leaned across the counter and slipped the paper packet into my shirt pocket. I objected until she startled me into silence by touching a finger to my lips.

            In the time of social distancing and the real danger of catching a virus that could kill me, I allowed her touch, welcomed it, wanted more, and fell silent as she left the shop.

            Claire Muscovy’s name, phone number and addresses were handwritten on the paper, and inside the folds was a small faceted sapphire with a Texas star cut, blue as Claire’s eyes, a lovely stone though lab-grown, so for all its fire and beauty, not natural and hence worth only about 20 bucks.

            I called her within an hour, suggested we meet, but she was evasive, in a nice way, finally said okay, next week. Where? I named a small park on the edge of the city. “There are ducks,” I said. “I’ll bring bread for them.”

            It turned out that having a week to wait was good, for I used Google to read about Claire Muscovy. The web had little about her, some of it alarming. I wondered if she put off a meeting in order to check on me. If so, she would find plenty information, given my success as a gemologist and my published books.

            At the park neither of us wore a mask.

            We sat a proper social distance apart on opposite ends of a bench on the edge of the lake, which isn’t a lake at all, only a stagnant pond with dark, scummy water, attractive only because of the colorful muscovy ducks beaking the water for bread I had tossed out. Claire seemed eager to talk.

            “I remember little about high school,” she said. “But I do remember a fun incident. You wore your hair high and tight on the sides with a floppy pompadour on top.”

            So she had found an anecdote anyone could find on the web. My hands suddenly felt numb and my ears flushed with dread. Don’t look at her, I told myself. Watch the ducks, avoid tears.

            “I hated that hair.” She laughed a sincere-sounding laugh, clapped her hands as a child might. “Remember how I tied you up for play, how I used Mom’s pinking sheers for cutting hair? All so comical.” She scooted on the bench a bit closer to me.

            “I would have allowed Julie to cut my hair without tying me up. I would have done anything Julie asked. So you’re telling me that you’re Julie?”

            “Yes, I saw that you knew even before I dropped the mask.” She moved closer. “Do you mind not keeping social distance?”

            I did mind, shook my head and muttered to myself, “Deep as love, deep as first love, and wild with all regret.” I fought against tears. “I also forget much of high school. What did you use to tie my hands?”

            “I don’t remember. Maybe rope from my father’s camping supplies? Your hair fell in large tangles, and your scalp looked haggled and bleedy when I finished. Pinking sheers. How did we even think to use them?” She moved closer until our legs touched. “I had forgotten all that until I read an account in one of the articles about you on the web. Oh Jimmy, we both lost so much when I was foolish enough to move away.”

            “You told me your husband was dead. His family name was Muscovy?”

            “Yes. Like the duck with red flesh on its head. Some say buzzard duck or vulture duck.” She pointed toward the pond. “Like those ducks. You brought me here to see muscovy ducks, right?”

            “Maybe.” I put my arm on the back of the bench, telling myself to stop yet allowing my fingers to brush against her.

            She looked startled, then leaned into me. “You can see I’m back now, that I’m Julie. Again, and forever.”

            “Your husband. Did you kill him . . .”

            “No. Of course not.”

            “. . . with a knife?”

            Anger wrinkled her brow, and she seemed to spit out her words. “Someone told you lies repeated in that mockery of a trial. Lies. Did they tell you the jury found me innocent? Did they?”

            “Julie zip-tied my hands and ankles. When she finished the haircut, she snipped the plastic ties with toenail clippers. These are not details that are easy to forget.”

            “Oh, now I remember.”

            “Revising history changes nothing.” I sighed, wanting to pull her to me, to accept her story. “Claire, the beginning of wisdom is realizing you will never have a better past.”

            She stood with sudden energy, shoved my arm aside. “Don’t you dare lecture me.”

            “I apologize,” I called after her as she strode away, “for not keeping my promise.” Claire glanced back, her jaw set in anger, a tear streaking one cheek.

            Pushed by an abrupt, determined whim, I took Claire’s paper packet from my shirt pocket, shook out the fake, unnatural sapphire and flipped it far out into the pond. Then I read her name scribbled across the paper, wadded it up and dropped it into the scummy water.

JERRY CRAVEN has served as editor for 4 university and literary presses and has designed books and book covers for 3 of them. Some images from his 2020 art show "Magical Realism" are available here: http://www.jerrycraven.com/resources/some%20Magical%20Realism%20art%402000.jpg