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Short stories of life, love, and loss
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HIGH TIDE MARK & OTHER STORIES
BY S. M. TAYLOR
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High Tide Mark and other stories
By S. M. Taylor
Taylor’dtofit Productions Vancouver BC Copyright 2009 by Sharon M Taylor All rights reserved. No part of the material protected by this copyright notice may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means -- graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Cover photo by Sharon Taylor. Cover design by Sharon Taylor
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Table of Contents
High Tide Mark p. 4
You Gotta Dance p. 12
The Call of Blood p. 19
Dedicated to my mother and my husband, who supported me even when horrified.
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High Tide Mark
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High Tide Mark
If there had ever been a time when she needed it to work,
it was now.
If there had ever been a time when she needed belief to be
enough, it was now.
She glanced back over her shoulder as she hurried down
the path. If there had ever been a time, she prayed, Lord,
let it be now.
She had crouched under the bushes since early that
morning, waiting for the explosive silence to stop. The
mother had shoved a piece of bread in her hand before
whispering in her ear, “Go outside and play, sweetheart.” It
had solidified into a sweaty mush that coated her fingers,
sticking them together. She had sat staring at them,
peeling them apart, then letting the viscous mess glue
them into a solid mass again over and over. The bottle of
water dropped at her feet remained on the doorstep,
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witness to the shaking of the mother, the unwillingness of
the child.
If there had ever been a time …
She had peed under the bushes, pulling torn panties aside
to let a stream of dark gold water pass between her feet. It
had hit the dry ground and splashed on grubby sneakers.
She could remember when the sneakers were brave and
white, squeaking new out of the shop, and she had danced
down the street while the mother had laughed and run
after her, turning the dance into a joyous race to the bus
stop, missing the bus by moments, and dancing to their
own music as they waited for another one.
The smell, sharp and acrid, had surrounded her, driving
her from the safety of the bushes as the sun rose. The
house squatted on the top of the hill, heavy with
anticipation, like a mother straining to deliver something
monstrous.
There was no longer any sound, not since the soft keening
had stopped. She could not have said how long ago.
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She had backed out of the bushes slowly, as if every
movement hurt. Like any hunted thing, she moved, then
froze, moved, then froze. There was only the beating of
her heart drumming softly in her ears, only the cry of a
seagull in the distance, and the mocking chuckle of a raven
when she moved a little too far, too fast.
Now the pebbles on the path slipped under her feet as she
circled around the cliff, a small girl with tear-streaked
cheeks and white-bread-goo smeared across her jaw like
snot.
If there had ever been a time …
She stared out over the small rocky bay, mesmerized by
the kelp waving under the swell of the murmuring ocean,
the bladderwrack drifting over top with its claw-like sacs,
slimy and satisfying underfoot. She made her way to the
arbutus tree with the wide low branch that ran the length
of her body out from the main tree, and hid herself in the
leaves, picking off pieces of the ruddy, papery bark,
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holding her breath while she peeled off the longest piece
she could without breaking it, all the while praying “If
there was ever a time, Lord. If there was ever a time.”
When she had said it one hundred times without breaking
the long strip of bark, she laid her hot face on the smooth
green flesh beneath to cool it. She closed her eyes and felt
her mother’s skin under her hand – smelled the spicy
sweetness of her soap, the silk of powder, the oiliness of
lipstick. For a moment, she fell asleep, cradled in the arms
of the look-out tree.
The raven called, a long gurgle of mockery.
She startled awake, nearly tumbling from her perch into
the waves below.
There was no sound from the cottage on the hill. When
she shaded her eyes and stared into the sun, now
overhead, she could see a lone gull hovering over the roof,
as if stalking a frightened creature, waiting for it to dash
out in a hopeless bid for freedom, only to lose all in one
swift crunch.
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She shuddered and looked back out over the bay.
There. There they were. Three small black spots, bobbing
like corks in the water, upright, dozing with their heads in
the bright sun, their bodies in the frigid water.
She had known they would be there.
If there had ever been a time …
She stood slowly, holding onto the trunk of the tree, small
feet firmly planted on the sturdy branch, and lifted her
face to the sky.
“If there has ever been a time, Lord, when this has to work,
this is it. I am praying. I am asking. I call upon the power
of the ocean. I call upon the power of the wind. I call
upon the salt in my blood. I call upon the breath in my
lungs. This time, God, dear God, please. This time…”
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She stood high, high on her toes, sneakers grinding into
the flaky bark, gripping the smooth surface below the balls
of her feet. She shut her eyes, and took her hand off the
trunk, balancing lightly now, all confidence and grace.
She opened her eyes for a moment and stared out at the
sparkling water, sunlight turning the ocean into broken
glass reflection. Small playful waves kicked against the
cliff, washing over dirty gray barnacles and plum-purple
mussels. She could smell the rich rot of seaweed left
drying on the shore, taste the salt daubed on her lips by
the breeze. She could hear a boat horn far in the distance,
a lonely call to adventure. She could hear not one now, but
a hundred, a thousand birds calling her, urging her on.
When the mother and the father strolled down to find their
little wanderer a few hours later, arms wrapped around
each other, him with a lazy satisfied smile, she with a
bruise on white skin imperfectly covered under the weight
of his embrace, they found the small broken body of the
child at the bottom of the cliff, where the tide had left it.
Long hair floated with the kelp bed; arms and legs spread
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wide as if she merely slept on the breast of the ocean. One
soiled sneaker had washed up a few feet away.
And out in the bay, four seals bobbed like corks in the
water, with the sun warming their heads, and the sea
cooling their feet.
If there had ever been a time, oh Lord. If there had ever
been a time…
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You Gotta Dance
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You Gotta Dance
“Sometimes, Jaydene,” my mama would say, “You just
gotta dance.”
And we would take the cheque that my daddy had sent –
too little to pay the bills, too late to keep us out of the
pawnshop – and we’d dress up in the prettiest things left
in the closet. Then we’d go to a fancy restaurant and order
whatever we wanted from the menu. I’d have snails and
salad and steak or ribs. I liked the raw sugar with the
dancing man on the package – I’d hear the music in my
head as he swayed through the sugar plantation.
And my mama would dress like a princess in white and
pearls, with stockings so fine they would whisper against
her skin. And she would spray Chanel #5 into the air and
we would walk through it on our way out the door. “Just a
touch now, Jaydene. You want to leave them guessing.”
We would dance through the streets no matter what the
weather, huddled in thin woolen coats, laughing at the
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snow which kissed our face or the wind which slapped it,
or twirling in the summer breeze, long shawls floating
behind us. We would shop like fiends – decorating castles
in Spain with intricate Turkish rugs and bright Chinese
paper lanterns, with Korean chests whose many drawers
could hold secrets enough to satisfy the most determined
heart. Sometimes, when the season was right, she would
buy us each a tiny bouquet of fragrant flowers, and we
would bury our noses in the lavender-scented promise of
better days ahead.
When we arrived at the restaurant she had chosen from the
weekly food reviews in the local community paper, she
would ask the waiter his name (always a he, always a man
her age or a little younger), and enter immediately into a
life-long relationship, finding out more about his family
life and ambitions than the waiter himself probably knew.
By the time we were seated, he (they) was always her slave,
eager to serve her in any way.
She would consider her courses with an intensity that drew
them like heat on a cold day. She would debate the merits
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of halibut steamed in rice paper, or medallions of lamb in
raspberry coulis. She would ask advice, talk to the
sommelier, then with a pretty flutter, leave the choice to
the waiter, who always brought a feast worth remembering
in leaner days when hunger seemed to slick the insides of
our bellies.
And she would talk. My mama could talk the hoot out of
an owl, as my granddad used to say. She would tell stories
of her days on the road, stories of singing in small clubs
and bars where her voice played a smoky counterpoint to
the card games and the fistfights, a soulful score to the
wasted lives holding up the bar. She had loved it – the
sleaze and the dirt, the sad dreary round of agents who
always wanted something for their trouble and the other
performers who simply wanted her out of the way. She
saw the world always as a grand adventure to be faced and
vanquished.
And I would stare fixedly at the table as the waiter filled
the already overflowing bowl with creamers and sugar
packets, gave us extra servings of bread and butter, and
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pretended he did not see the empty plastic-filled bag over
my chair back grow full and fat with pilfering.
The dance home from dinner was always a longer one,
filled with the fear that one day she would simply slip
from my grasp and be swallowed up by the crowd on the
street, by the endless stream of cars. She would drift from
window to Walk sign, seeing only her memories of long
ago. I would hold tight, tight, to her hand, talking to her in
a steady unending chant, like a string holding a kite to the
earth.
I was 15 the last time we went dancing, went to a
restaurant with a little money I had scrimped out of the
household budget. “Come on, Mama, let’s go dance.” And
I took her frail hand in mine, and sprayed the last whisper
of Chanel #5 in the air, and helped her on with her
stockings, making sure the holes were hidden in the sole of
her shoe. And I asked her which restaurant she wanted to
go to, and she pointed and smiled.
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I begged my neighbour for a ride, promised him a favour in
return, and led my mother all in white and pearls out the
door. I choose her dinner and the wine. My purse was
only big enough to hold a debit card and a $10 bill.
And the only sound in the restaurant was the low murmur
of conversations we could not hear, of silverware on china,
of violins playing a never-ending chorus of Pachelbel’s
greatest hit.
“I hate this song. Remember that, Jaydene.”
And I promised to remember.
I can’t remember what she ordered, but I remember most
of it was left on the plate. My fingers itched then for my
plastic-lined bag. The waiter offered to put it in a doggie
bag. I smiled and said, “We don’t have a dog.”
She asked if we could walk home, and I looked at the $10
bill and sighed. I let the string out on the kite and
followed her home.
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She slipped the line a week later, dancing to the sky
without a backward glance.
When my daddy came to take me to his house, I was
dressed all in white, with pearls, and stocking so fine they
would whisper on my skin. In my plastic-lined bag was an
empty bottle of 15 year old perfume, bought on the day of
my birth.
In my head was only a smoky blues song, asking why
things happened the way they do.
But when I walked out the door and down the steps of my
home for the last time, I danced.
I danced, Mama. ‘Cause sometimes, you just gotta dance.
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The Call of Blood
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The Call of Blood
He couldn’t remember the first house he had lived in, or the third,
but the second remained as clear in his mind as a paper cut.
He had loved the house: the smell of old wood which has
settled into itself, the burning dust of the heat registers on
which he used to sit in the morning to warm his feet. He
loved the lambent light of weak sunshine through leaves,
loved the rustle of the trees as they rid themselves of
protective covering for the winter. He loved the walls that
sloped to the floor, the wood beneath his feet
(putonyourslippersoryou’llgetsliversinyourfeet). He loved
to slide his fingernails into the wood of the banister,
gouging channels in the wood grain.
He used to lie on his stomach at the top of the stairs, still
as a mouse, watching the family watching TV. He was not
interested in the moving pictures on the screen - the
screams of war, the self-gratification of the entertainment
world reporting on the entertainment world, the dizzying,
stupefying movement of the Wheel or the canned laughter
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and canned plot of this week’s top sitcom. No, he was only
interested in watching his people.
He knew they weren’t really his, knew he had been brought
to this house with his small suitcase clutched in his hand.
Although he couldn’t remember it, he knew there had been
another house - one full of light, full of noise. He thought
there had been nothing between then and here, but he was
not sure, and was afraid to ask, to have his uncertainty
betrayed. His people did not pretend that he belonged - he
slept in a guest bedroom, he used guest towels. But he
also had ‘his’ cup and ‘his’ chair at the table, and did ‘his’
chores after school and after every meal. He felt he
belonged in most of the important ways, but there was
always the lingering fear that it would all disappear, that
he would disappear, that another little boy would come to
sleep in the guest bedroom, brush his teeth in the guest
bathroom, use ‘his’ cup, sit in ‘his’ chair.
So he did what he could to keep that from happening. He
was preternaturally good (“reallynotroubleatall”), quiet and
polite to everyone in the house. He did his chores willingly
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and well, never complained about going to bed or cleaning
up after the family dog. He could tell no one about school:
how he was chased to and from the large brick building
every day by the same tormenting group of boys, how they
threw rocks at him and once pushed him so that he fell
and skinned his knee. Before he left the house each day to
walk to three blocks to his school, he would shake so hard
he could barely put on his boots, hate so hard his heart
seemed to turn over in his body, clench his fists until the
skin of his palms broke beneath the nails. His silence grew
until it seemed to fill his whole body, pushing the part of
him he recognized by name into a corner of his own mind.
Then, and only then, could he leave the house, holding
himself separate from the outside world.
And he bled. Every day, he woke before the household,
before the dog was up snuffling at the back door, before
the people were stretching and peeing and grumbling and
crushing coffee beans in the morning litany. Every day he
would wake with the last glimmer of starlight and move
about the house with a safety pin hidden in his hand. First
the front door: inside in the morning, on the doorstep
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when coming home from school. A deep breath, hold it,
push the pin straight into the ball of the thumb. If the pin
enters on an angle, there is not enough blood to well and
drip from the wound, and it must drip from a height of no
less than three inches from the floor.
Then through the house to the back door, chanting, “From
door to door, this is my place,” softly, under the breath.
One drop of blood on the floor below the hinges. Blood
cannot be shed outside the back door everyday - only
sometimes after school when he is encouraged to play
outside, so an additional line is added to the chant on cold
or wet days when “outside play” is prohibited or unlikely,
“Outside and in, this is my place”. Then across the house
to the living room, to the small tile-surrounded fireplace, a
drop of blood in the centre of the grate, where the logs in
the evening will consume it. The chant begins, “In fire.”
and then as quickly as possible, while holding the breath, a
silent dash across the house back to the kitchen, “and
water,” a second drop in the drain of the porcelain sink,
“this is my place.”
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The ritual varied after that, depending on whether it was a
school day (blood in the boots - “In speed and in strength,
this is my place”), or a weekend (blood on the stairs - “Both
up and down, this is my place”). But everyday there must
be blood, one drop in each place, never more, and from the
same finger as much as possible. If he did not get a whole
drop of blood, or if he forgot to say the words, or if he
breathed during his race across the house from fire to
water, then the whole weary business would have to be
done again - in spite of painful fingers, in spite of the
danger of the people waking up and finding him.
It was not enough, as he had known in his heart it would
not be. Perhaps if he had been better behaved, perhaps if
he had used more blood, he would have been allowed to
stay. But there was the teacher who noticed the sore
punctured fingers, there was the doctor who declared the
thumb infected, there was the housecleaner who noticed
the blood on the front door step; then there were the
questions which had no answer, the sorrow and fear, the
clothes packed in the small suitcase, the tearful goodbyes
from the people, the hugs which he could not return, and
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the long walk back to the car, with the woman from the
Ministry, who could not help but ask, in a frustrated, tired
voice, “Why, Jeremy? Why would you hurt yourself like
that?” He could only just hear her voice from the cold
place held within; he could not understand her words.
He knew, though; even if it had not worked as he had
hoped, he knew that the house and he were tied by blood.
From door to door, this is my place.
From outside to in, this is my place.
From fire to water, this is my place.
In strength and in speed, this is my place.
Both up and down, this is my place.
Blood calls to blood: the house would call him home.
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