Uncle River
Passing the Torch
Illustration by Mike Aspengren
“I’m sorry, all the plumbers are in jail.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded angry. Then she cut the connection.
Esther Pernion stared at the dead phone, confused. I’m too tired for this, she thought.
Esther felt weak as she walked the few steps to her threadbare, royal blue-and-grey easy chair. At least her legs worked all right, and her arms as she lowered herself into the seat. She sat a few moments, reassembling her thoughts.
She had had another “spell” this morning. Let’s not kid ourselves, she thought, another stroke. The sudden headache, the weakness, the confusion—Esther knew the symptoms. Well, that sort of thing happens. At seventy-two, she’d had one that slurred her voice and caused her to limp for six months. She didn’t think her speech was slurred this time. They’d wanted to put her in an “old people’s prison,” as she put it, back then. Now, at eighty-two she still lived alone.
“But Mom,” Jennifer’d said just last month, “I worry about you. Something could happen.”
“You mean I could die with no one around to poke a needle in my ass,” Esther retorted.
“Now, Mom….”
“You’re just afraid I’ll fall down and the county blade driver will find me two weeks later in a puddle of piss, and you’ll be publicly embarrassed.”
Jennifer left angry. Esther felt a little guilty later, but her life was her life.
So now what? Esther wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting, musing. Had she dozed off a bit?
Let me see, Esther thought: I had another stroke this morning. It was when I couldn’t find the jar opener and tried to open the olives by hand. So I took a couple Tylenol and noticed the puddle. That’s it, that’s what I was calling for; I wanted a plumber.
The headache was gone. The Tylenol must have worked. Esther still was unsure how much time had passed. She felt thirsty. She decided to brew some tea. Jennifer had given her one of those new temperature-sensitive microwaves, but Esther kept it unplugged and stored dried fruit in it.
“Mom, why are you so anti-technology?” Jennifer had asked.
“I like technology just fine,” Esther had snapped back. She didn’t mean to snap, but she knew she did. “I just don’t need a lot of gadgets cluttering up my life.”
Jennifer’s feelings were hurt, but Esther still wouldn’t use the microwave. She did like her propane stove. She filled the tea kettle, careful not to run much water down the apparently faulty drain, then set it on the left front burner. She was almost back to her easy chair when she realized she had forgotten to turn on the stove. Damn, she thought, strokes are so tiring. The few steps back to the stove were an effort.
Esther poured dry mullein, rose hips, and a little mint into her round, brown-glazed tea pot. She considered having coffee instead to perk her up, but decided, what with the stroke, that that wasn’t such a good idea. She had already drunk two cups of coffee that morning. A doctor would, no doubt, tell her to quit entirely. Well, she’d never expected to live to be eighty-two. As long as she was still alive, she might as well enjoy it. Tea was pleasant too, though.
Esther set her cup and saucer on the faded oak table by her chair, along with the honey and a spoon. She sat down again, waiting for the water to boil, enjoying the view out her kitchen window. Bare trees curved angular against a bright blue sky: alder, walnut, larger cottonwoods. Piñons, junipers, and live oaks stood somber green on grey and buff bluffs. Perhaps she would go outside. The breeze carrying the last wisps of cloud from yesterday’s rain off to the northeast might be chilly, but the November sun was shining so brilliantly that she was sure it would be comfortable in the lee of the house. A bug, immobilized all morning by last night’s cold, now crawled around the outside of the south-window screen.
While the tea steeped, Esther suddenly recalled that she had intended to call a plumber, and decided to try again. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. She felt sufficiently disoriented that it was several seconds before she realized that there was no dial tone. She set the receiver down and checked to be sure the wire wasn’t loose. It was tight. She tried the phone again. It was quite dead.
This is becoming a decidedly odd day, Esther thought. She considered becoming alarmed, but felt that would bring back her headache. So she sat back down in her chair and poured a cup of tea through the strainer instead. Then she opened the little drawer in the front of the side table and got out her small green stone pipe and the small round tin of marijuana. She filled the pipe, then lit it with her new glo-lite. Despite denigrating gadgets to Jennifer, Esther had no objection to something that did the job better. She had yet to use up a glo-lite, though she had lost two.
If anyone had asked, Esther would have said that the marijuana was a vaso-dilator and blood-pressure regulator and was thus medically appropriate following her stroke. She had never consulted a doctor on the matter. She considered it medicine for the soul regardless. She inhaled smoke, touched the pipe to her forehead, raised it aloft, then inhaled again. She set the pipe down, stirred honey into her tea, sipped, and contemplated.
Outside, the breeze occasionally gusted to a proper wind. Might be some weather coming, Esther thought, forgetting about yesterday’s that was leaving. She could feel the spirits riding the wind.
Like her tea and honey, marijuana smoke, juniper smoke in the wood stove, the spirits each had a flavor, mostly familiar. Nature spirits danced, slumbered, or roared, crisp or pungent, not especially human, but nourishing in their vitality. There were others too: kind but prickly ones, the busy spirits that fondled and worried so many lives, the nasty ones whose food was suffering itself.
Something felt different, today, though, Esther thought, sipping her tea while the marijuana caressed her sore brain. In all these years, the thing she still found a mystery was how to tell what is subjective and what objective. Only by comparing inner perspective to outer event had Esther ever been able to locate experience. So, she mused, is all this activity happening because I’m going to die today? Is that it? Did the world shut down on me today because I’m getting ready to leave this old body? Or does it have some purpose of its own to which I am participant… or observer… or totally incidental? Nearby spirits felt stronger. Bigger, more distant spirits felt scattered. Now what could that mean?
Esther set her teacup down and dozed. She had been sleepy after previous strokes too.
A hurried knock at the door woke Esther. The sun shone right on her, which meant it must be about to set. Esther’s brain and mouth both felt blurry. A sip of cold tea tasted much better than cold coffee would have. “Coming,” she called.
Esther remembered to stand slowly. She still felt a little dizzy, but her coordination seemed normal as she walked to the door, straightening her soft, blue, shapeless sweat shirt as she went. She brushed a wisp of white hair off her right ear, then opened the door. Her veiny hand felt a little weak, but it gripped normally. She hoped her voice was clear.
Esther’s neighbor, Prabaht, stood at the door. Esther always meant to ask him about his name. It sounded Indian to her, though his brown hair and fair, if tanned, features looked North European. Prabaht wore faded jeans and an old black T-shirt in the cool, late afternoon breeze. Fortyish, medium height and bone-skinny, Esther always figured his blood circulated double-time to keep him warm. Perpetually active, Prabaht never accomplished much, as he never slowed down enough to organize his actions. Esther saw no sign of Prabaht’s truck. He must have walked the third of a mile.