Beyond Grace [ON INDEFINITE HOLD]

Beyond Grace: 6

It was a cold day.

Early in the morn; a small sun peeking over the horizon. The street was near silent – not wholly silent, though. The incessant buzz of the morning traffic; of the hustle and bustle of businessmen and women as they boarded their trains, and buses, and cars, and various what-nots… they lingered in the background. Just a bit; only if Cash strained his ears especially hard.

Short sharp breaths made funny little smoke clouds. Miniature cigarette clouds, almost. Minus the cigarettes. The frigid cold bit into his arms, coercing movement. Yet wariness held him back.

There was this peculiarly comforting, yet iced aura to the house before him; stigma from reminiscent past. Flecks of pride resonated in the dilapidated walls. Paint slathered over each flaw, each crack, until licks of paint peeled off like layers of skin.

The grey mesh door partially obscured the inside of the house. It had been repaired, Cash noticed. The screen wasn’t peeling off the frame nearly as much. If he had looked closer, he might have seen the nails stapling it to the thickly painted door frame and the sinuous blobs of glue copiously soldering the two textures together. But he didn’t, leaving the door closed and his hands still stiffly folded.

Another horn flailed in the distance. Cash spun around, searching futilely for the source. Merely a disturbance. Shoving cold hands inside his pockets, he took a step back. And another. And another, until he was standing outside the perfectly flawed picket fence.

Wistfully, he traced a hand over the wooden panels. Thousands of misguided nails jutted out, slicked back by unyielding layers of paint. In the long-gone days of blithe youth, he would fix the panels every time they broke. She had done it up later on; precisely hammered in iron pins scattered betwixt the rough job of his bygone years. Another coat of paint webbed from each stoke, masking the details with every utopian layer.

Wrenching open the car door, shaking hands found the quashed cigarette box in the glove compartment, precariously sandwiched between a library book never returned and a long lost photo from primary school. Back when he was young, capable, and ready to face the world. Clenching his hand into a fist, the crumpled photo fell to the ground. ‘Not so fucking capable now, eh Ma?’

Cupping hands together to protect the flame, Cash lit a cig up. The scent was… amiable? More so – hot and heavy, creating an extrinsically fulfilling atmosphere. He inhaled. Savoured the pungent taste. Then exhaled. In that order. The plumes of smoke spun up and up like lacy yarns of cotton wool on a spinning wheel, then dissipated into the background.

Cash took another drag of the cigarette.

The noise in the background seemed louder; more vehement, more present. Morning traffic – yet the city was always like that. Same old corporate hot-shot CEOs running after their fancy Blackberries with elaborate skim-milk-double-shot-lattes on the go. Cash snorted; expensive people and their possessions. She raised him reasonable, at the very least.

A creak wailed from the screen door.

“Cashel?”

Cash looked up.

A hot pink dressing gown hung limply from her shoulders, dyed platinum fairy-floss hair swept into a low bun. Hanging from placid fingertips trailed ‘The Australian’ newspaper. Falling with a thud, it slowly rolled away from her bare feet.

Spreading both arms wide in a half-hearted gesture of love – Cash couldn’t help but notice the distance between them. Shoving away from the car, he mimicked her. Waiting for her disjointed steps as she stumbled over, feebly entrapping him within weary arms.

“Ma…”

Spindly fingertips pressed into his back, a weary head resting upon his shoulder. He tried to put everything into the hug – the regret, the pain. The love. Albeit the odds, it was received; incomprehensible murmurs of solace and pity hushed into an ear.

Halcyon, mother and son stood in their tranced sate for what seemed like eternity. Silent as the wording of “I’m sorry”, yet peace did little to disguise the meaning. Cash’s shoulders grew wet from the torrid flow of tears, but he didn’t flinch away, instead rubbing a hand soothingly on her back.

They broke apart, virulent green eyes searching for answers, for valid reasons. Tired red rings lined both eyes, another watery tear threatening to cascade. Throwing the cigarette butt onto the gravel, Cash followed her inside. He deserved so much less.

The kettle flickered to life, Ma already preparing the chamomile tea bags in two chipped mugs. Cash released a shaky sign, leaning back onto the vinyl kitchen counter. Pictures of him scattered the table top – of him and Melody euphorically beaming at the camera. Cash looked away. Not now.

The mug clunked loudly onto the table. Their eyes met, latching onto the other. Wordlessly, he accepted the gesture, bringing the broiling tea to his lips. Another moment passed, Cash’s expression mimicked in her wholesome smile.

Her hands overlapped his; the weary skin encasing the hands once young and virtuous. Long ago, he would marvel at how big her hands were, trying to match up, fingertip to fingertip. Now, his hands were just as lined as hers, fitting in perfectly like pieces to the right puzzle.

Taking another circumspect sip of the steaming tea, Cash’s thoughts meandered to Mariah; those voluptuous breasts, those sexual hips; that look. Waking up holding her shapely body in his arms had been the epitome of the mornings so far. Yet the trivialities of work had intervened, the requirements of a nursing job ushering a hastily dressed Mariah out of the doors with promises of a return.

Ma was staring at him, studying the tired lines hinted on his face. Those shocking green eyes searched for a long lost son, beguiling unuttered solace from the placidity of the moment.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and those two words were enough.

For it was paramount to forgive, to bypass the wrongdoings of yonder years. Though dilapidated, the house was welcoming, with remnants of other lives engraved within its framework. And finally, like an adventurous cub lost from the lion’s den, Cash was ready to return home.

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Ahh, my friends, Tell me if you love it... Currently in a bit of a writer's block/epic editing overhaul, so this is the best I could do... If you've made it this far in my story, use the word 'pottery' in your comment and get yourself a medal :P