The Orange Juggler

The following story I wrote won first prize winner in the City of Ottawa 55 Plus Fiction Writing Contest in 2002:



The Orange Juggler

“... May I reach
That purest heaven; be to other souls
The cup of strength to some great agony,
.. So shall I join the choir invisible
whose music is the gladness of the world.”
• George Eliot

He loved that she quoted poetry all the time. When it wasn’t her own poetry it was George Eliot, or it was Elizabeth Barrett Browning... “How do I love thee...I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

Like a massive ballet troupe, hundreds of runners were stretching against trees and walls and lying waiting on the grass. Music from a radio station trailer clashed with loudspeaker announcements. He wondered how she would have described the chaos.

Grabbing his left running shoe in his right hand, he stretched lightly and alone, alternately bending each long leg behind him.

He managed a wan half smile, a soft little ‘hmph’, sort of a laugh, his closed lips curling up at the corners, straight into his prominent cheekbones.

A beautiful big grin, she described it. Like punctuation between his ears.

She loved his smile. He loved her poetry.

He loved the wavy bangs she was always brushing out of her round, sad eyes. He loved her favorite lemon yellow sweater that smelled of her perfume. He loved her laugh. He would laugh for her.

He leaned against the tree to steady himself.

“Sorry about your wife.” A runner in a red jacket, a staff member he knew from the Y, stopped in front of him. He nodded back, his heart pounding. What could you say. He’d only decided to enter the race last week, because it supported the Breast Health Centre. The running would be no problem, he was certain of that, but he was so afraid he’d be paralyzed by thinking about her.

The ‘five minutes to start’ warning startled him.

Bending down, he pinned the race number on his white singlet. 404. Daniel Allan Stone. Male. 36. Then he hurried back outside and waited for 9 o’clock.

The air was a damp combination of spring mud and wet grass. He shivered and shifted his weight to keep warm.
He glanced at the timing chip on his shoelace, then at his watch. At 12:30 he’d be done.

An instant later, he was gone, swept away in a sea of runners. A huge quiet mass of arms and legs, heading down the road.
The grass was so green, shockingly green.

There were few spectators, just the beat of a solitary boom box under a little gray tent at the side of the course.
11 a.m. He stared ahead, already battling tension and fatigue. Perspiration and sporadic drizzle matted the thick brown hair around the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, his lean arms and fingers were too heavy to lift. His salmon shorts clung in wet wrinkles to his body. The runners had long ago strung out, and he had his own space.

11:45. Ten kilometers to go. “Just 10 kilometers. Just 10 kilometers.” Shaking his head, his dry lips shifted to mouth her words instead, as his aching legs churned along, fighting the urge to stop:

A moment in time

Drifting. Drifting.
A bittersweet interlude
Hanging in the air
In the damp heat of summer
suspended in time.
A perfect note of music,
a red canoe
going nowhere.
No future, only memories.
Knowing it will never end.
Knowing it will never be the same.
• Emily Stone, 1999

“Knowing it will never be the same,” he repeated, picturing their last perfect weekend on the lake. “Knowing it will never be the same.” He had memorized so many of the poems she had written just for him. She taught English, and wrote for others, but the poems were just for him, and he knew them all by heart. One good thing about being an actor. Just a year ago she had come back stage to meet him, and they were together ever after. Noon. Grateful for the distraction, he continued reciting her poetry, reliving their time together...

Bike Path

Bike path
Life path
Through the woods
with the yellow line.
You slow to lead me
Then you’re gone.
Down the road
Round the corner
Up the mountain
Out of sight.
To bike with you
To run with you.
I never dreamed
and now I do.
What better gift
Can ever be
Than you have shared
your path with me.
• Emily Stone, 1999

He blinked back tears. He felt she was with him, and she understood what was in his head. Always. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she’d say when he was filled with worries. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” And he knew it was. He knew she would be saying that now, gazing into his pale blue eyes and gently touching his lips. He marvelled that someone could be so serene and yet never waste a minute. She was always planning a trip, always thinking of some great adventure they could share together. She hated being stuck in the city on a long weekend. She wouldn’t have wanted to be in town now, and would have persuaded him to skip the race.

Urban tumbleweed

Scrub grass lapping unevenly
at the old metal legs
of a scratched park bench
placed optimistically
under a sparse, struggling tree.
A small circle of nature
in a mall of asphalt
ending abruptly
as a torn plastic grocery bag
blows saucily by.
Urban tumbleweed.
A blunt reminder
of where we are
and where we want to be.
• Emily Stone, 1999
•
She’d been sick so long, they both knew from the beginning their relationship had no future. They knew they could do nothing about it; and knew the pain of goodbye was the price they would have to pay for being truly, wildly in love.
He had imagined over and over how it would be to part from her - like visualizing a race - hoping that by creating her leaving in his mind he could somehow alleviate the leaden lump in his chest. Home for the last time, she had asked to put on his socks, closing her eyes as he rubbed her feet.

He was wearing the same socks now, the way she had wanted him to. They were keeping him going - through the blur of mile markers, drink stations, sweat and pain.

The mantra of poetry was a link with Emily, propelling him on.

It was the second time around. The home stretch. Then why was it so hard.

He plugged along.

Eyes downward as he came around the corner, he saw a piece of orange peel on the asphalt.

She always loved oranges.

He willed his throbbing legs to keep moving as the orange imagery flooded his mind. He was 12 years old, back in the bedroom of his parents’ house, light-hearted and light-headed, knowing what he wanted to do. He had seen jugglers at the circus every year, and he yearned to be like them. Maybe that’s what made him become an actor.

He had stayed in his room all day, practicing juggling three Mineolas. He was the smallest in his class back then. Though he’d been over six feet tall for so many years now, he was still that little boy inside. “I picture you tall and strong your whole life,” she said in disbelief when he told her, rubbing her fingers up and down his long arms for emphasis. His mind went back to the juggling as his legs strained on.

There had been so much to learn. He had wanted to quit. Who needs to juggle.

Who need to love. The oranges fell to the floor. Over and over. He was feeling a little better now. Everything seemed a little brighter, sounds a little louder. . .

He concentrated on finishing the race, juggling the oranges. The little boy had skipped supper to continue juggling the oranges... Daniel thought of the food at the finish line. He wondered if there would be oranges. One kilometer to go...Don’t move forward as you juggle...Don’t stumble as you run...His arms felt lighter as he imagined the three oranges tossing through the air, but he could barely breath. Focus. Focus... She’d always loved his juggling. She’d laugh and clap and say it was one more thing that made her love him.
He felt dizzy.


As you leave

I ache with envy
future dreams
Your strength
When I have none.
And see the world
Through your bright eyes.
Too late.
You show the joy
That all should taste.
Embrace the world.
Don’t cry. Just live.
I’ll know. I’ll feel.
I’ll be the same
And care as much.
I won’t be gone.
• Emily Stone, 1999

He gasped over the finish, ignoring the numbers on the large black time clock. He stumbled to the grass. He’d done it. He’d done it. For her. He had thought he couldn’t live without her, and now he knew he wouldn’t have to.