The Old House on Seventh Avenue
by Shirani Rajapakse
One is such a lonely number. You recline against the dozen or so comfortable cushions on the dark pink sofa and listen to the quietness around you. Sadness treads softly across the floor and creeps along the four walls reaching up to the ceiling like a trailing plant. A copy of last week’s newspaper rests on your lap while the two sports pages sprawl at your feet. The image of the cricketer, one arm raised high with the ball firmly in his grasp and a triumphant look on his face, stares out at the world. The cup of tea sits on an old slightly chipped saucer on the three-legged table at your side. You bought that rather unimpressive looking table at the garage sale on Fifth Lane many years ago. You remember like it was yesterday, although it must have been about ten or twelve years ago. You’d gone there with him and your two besties. The four of you were inseparable in those days. That is, until the foursome became a twosome.
The three-legged table wasn’t all that special. It was just a little round table that had three legs instead of the usual four. Everything else in the house had four legs – the tables, chairs, cupboards and beds. You thought the three-legged table with the heavy round top would look unique. He painted five flowers on the tabletop to make it stand out more. Five creamy pink araliya in a tight bunch right in the middle with a couple of leaves and one long stem that appeared to curve around the side and disappear below. Another three araliya blooms and a single leaf hung from a stem on one of the legs.
“Three flowers to represent the three legs.”
He joked about it when you questioned why he painted them all on one leg leaving the others bare.
“Why does it matter if they are all on one leg?”
He refused to paint any flowers on the other two legs even though you insisted repeatedly. Those two legs were unadorned. There wasn’t even one tiny leaf on them.
“Why not paint three birds as well? Three little birds on the three legs. You can place them at three different levels all flying up the legs of the table towards the bunch of araliya at the centre.”
He didn’t appear to be interested in what you suggested to him two days after painting the blossoms, although he seemed to be in a better mood that day.
“Three’s a crowd.”
“But you’ve got three flowers?”
“Three flowers are very different from three birds.”
“Why, is there something special about having only three flowers and not three birds?”
“I don’t want to paint three birds.”
“Then have one bird.”
“Why would you want one bird?”
You remained silent for seven or eight seconds as you didn’t have an answer to that question and he had smiled in that strange way you had got so accustomed to. It made you feel comfortable, that unusual smile you’d first seen when you both met at the Ten-to-Ten café next to campus. You were with your two best friends while he was there alone. You were married within three months. Two years later it was all over, burnt out like a meteor that had hurled through space at breakneck speed and crashed far too soon.
You slide one finger gently over the surface of the table as if the touch could bring to life the araliya painted on it. He’d finally given in to your sweet-talking and agreed to your wish, although rather reluctantly, and painted a bird on one of the legs, the one that is the farthest from you. One solitary little bird hovering on a table leg, its wings spread out as if in flight, gazing up longingly as if the look alone would make it possible for the bird to reach the flowers at the summit.
You’ve been sitting for so long you don’t realize it’s already four p.m. You’re not wearing your watch but the old clock hanging in the dining room, the one you inherited from your grandmother along with the beautiful dresser with roses carved into the fine teak in bunches of three, chimes the hour. You tilt your head ever so slightly to the side and listen to the deep resonance of the chimes striking one, two, three, four times cutting into the serenity of your surroundings. The tranquility that descends after the final chime fades away lasts for about twenty five seconds, or maybe it’s less. You place your lips tenderly against the edge of the wide cup and cautiously take two very small sips of the hot tea and let your eyes track the steam as it spirals out of the cup and disappears. Suddenly the silence is splintered by the soft but insistent meowing of a cat that sounds like it is calling out in two syllable rhymes.
“Mee-ow, mee-ow,” it cries out twice then stops to listen for a returning call or a response from anyone. But there is no one to answer the cat today.
Four demalichchas fly in to perch on the telephone wire that stretches along one side of the road to chirp their news to the world as noisily as they can. They are joined by two polkichchas that listen attentively, but don’t comment. Six birds, each bird balancing on a single wire look as though they are six notes on a sheet of music hung up in the sky. You smile as the image takes you back to your second date at the concert.
You waited for him for ten long minutes outside the hall in the pouring rain. With no umbrella for protection and no room to shelter inside the jam packed lobby you were soaked to the skin in a thousand and one angry raindrops pelting you from above. Hair plastered to your head, damp clothes stuck to your body like a second skin, you walked in looking as though you’d taken a couple of spins, or maybe just one extremely long spin inside the washing machine. Your drenched appearance got you a few dozen pointed looks but that didn’t bother you as you ignored all and walked in with your head held high. Row eighteen seat number six was right under the air-conditioner that was on at full blast making you shiver with the added chill. Although it was probably about ten feet overhead, it seemed as though the cold air was flowing directly onto you. You were able to suppress the noise of blowing your nose, but that one time you sneezed loudly was at the exact moment the movement ended and everyone turned to see who was making such a racket. That was the first time you had felt so embarrassed in public.
About a half dozen little hummingbirds hover over the flowers in the garden. Who would have thought that at precisely eleven forty-nine in the morning your joy would end? There was no one to be with you, none to hold you in their arms or enclose your two shaking hands in theirs and tell you it was going to be alright. He had been the worst thing that happened to you, but he was also the one person you really cared about. It didn’t matter that the feelings weren’t returned or that he had put you through hell from the day you found out about his lies five months after your second wedding anniversary. You confronted him two weeks later and although he vehemently denied every piece of evidence you threw at him he eventually admitted everything. It took him all of four hours to pack his things and he was out of the door. He filed for divorce within seven days and the battle that would rage on for several years started. You couldn’t bring yourself to agree to let him have everything when you had every right to a portion, several thousand in cash, or at least half, including what was rightfully yours.
One little tear hops out of your left eye and scrambles down your cheek in a haphazard line. Another one follows, and another and another and another as you let yourself feel the sadness you should have felt a long time ago. All those emotions that you’d pushed back for the past six or seven years jostle at the gates waiting to be set free. The dam overflows spilling out dozens of little translucent salty tears that bathe your cheeks, flow down your neck and get lost in the collar of your powder blue blouse. After what seems like an eternity but was probably just a minute or two the flood of tears subside. You reach out and grab two tissues from the box on the coffee table to wipe your face. You blow your nose thrice, clear your throat and wonder what would happen to you now that he is no more. How would you settle the bills, where would you find the money even for one bill when you don’t have a job?
Leaning back against the plush cushions you sigh silently and listen to the wind rustling through the branches of the two coconut trees at the side of the house as if trying to tell you something, but the inability to understand the language of the wind prevents you from talking to them. You count the number of times the fronds of the coconut branches rattle softly against each other – one, two, three.
Suddenly, your phone that’s been lying on the table at the back of the room shrills loudly and almost jumps up twice in shock. You take a deep breath, calm your racing heart and wait until the sixth ring to rise unhurriedly to your feet. The newspaper slides off your lap and falls down joining the sports pages to scatter in four directions. Picking up the pages you hastily pile them on top of the two books on the coffee table. It takes eleven steps from the sofa to where the phone is. Twelve if you count that first step, the one when you placed your foot on the floor but didn’t move, waiting for your other leg to start.
You don’t recognize the caller, however, the last three digits appear somewhat familiar. He repeats his name twice and says you met him a long time ago although you don’t recall. It’s just any one of the numerous strangers that have passed through your life during the past nine years. However, it’s the first four words he utters after introducing himself that makes you wish you were seated.
“He left three million.”
“Three million, three million?”
You gasp out twice not quite sure if you can believe what you just heard. You pinch your arm with the first and thumb of your other hand, the one not holding the phone. It hurts and you know you are awake, it’s not a dream, and the millions are very much for real. You are elated, three million, three million you repeat twice and then three more times a little louder at each word. You grip the edge of the table to steady yourself and take two long deep breaths to slow down your racing heart. Another three long breaths and you begin to feel better as calmness settles in. You smile widely for the first time in the day. After all that you went through the millions seem like a miracle. It will be more than enough to pay the dozens of bills and live comfortably for the rest of your life, if you are careful.
Disconnecting the call and placing the phone back on the table you stare at seven ants hurrying along the wall in a crooked line. The two in the middle bump into each other every few steps. They remind you of the drunken men at the corner of Second Cross Street where the tavern stands. There are always at least four tipsy men at any time of the day trying to get to someplace on legs that don’t seem to respond to their commands. You lean over the table and blow softly on the line of ants climbing up the wall and they scatter in five directions. Lifting your hand you push one of the ants, making it change direction and go the other way. You attentively observe the ants for a few minutes, may be three, or is it only two? They seem to sense where each other are and after a while the seven ants regroup and return to their journey up the wall.
You turn around to face the two windows. The curtains are drawn to the sides and you have a perfect view of the three marigold plants right outside. There must be over a dozen beautiful flowers among the three short shrubs. They nod their heads in the warm breeze but the one flower at the side seems to be tired and hangs its head rather miserably. It won’t last more than a day or two and maybe it’s sad because it knows its days are numbered. You retrace your steps towards the sofa, however, instead of plonking yourself down you proceed towards the two open windows.
Three crows fly in from somewhere to perch on the compound wall at the side. It’s unusual for crows to be out so late in the day, but there they are, not one but three, talking about something you don’t understand. Two types of birds whose names you can’t remember sing out their versions of sorrow as a little squirrel looks on. When the birds pause in their song the squirrel chirps an interlude, and one crow caws in tenor. The cat meows thrice in a series of staccatos that appear to be coming from the garden next door. Two yellow butterflies flutter past the window like dancers on trapeze, pausing for a second or two to acknowledge the marigolds and admire their brilliant hue.
That strange noise rattling inside your brain almost like a thousand and one kettledrums is no longer audible. You wonder where it went but the two crows that join in on the song outside caw loudly and stare at you pointedly as though they are urging you not to go in search of anything, least of all weird noises that you have no use for anymore. Sit there, sit on that sofa next to the three legged stool and listen to us, they seem to be cawing. You wonder if you should call someone, but realize that there is really no one to call. Sighing softly you take three short steps back and fall on the sofa. You stare vacantly at nothing in particular for about five minutes as strange thoughts swirl inside your mind then gradually fade away. A smile touches the corners of your lips as you hum softly and tap a finger on the three legged table, one tap for each pink flower on the surface and two taps for the little bird trying to fly out of the leg. Peace floods your insides like a hundred and one gentle waves washing ashore at the rim of the lake you visited not so long ago. One, two, three they move in to wrap around your veins, your bones, lapping at the edges making you feel like you are cocooned in a warm embrace. Halting your soft tapping you curl your first finger round the handle of the cup you’d placed on the saucer. Lifting the cup to your lips you take one sip of the tea that’s no longer hot and steaming as you like it. However, that doesn’t matter and you take two more sips before setting the cup down on the saucer. You stretch your arms to get rid of the stiffness that seems to have settled in stealthily, tilt your head back, close your eyes and roll your neck round and round, three times to each side. Pushing your hair away from your forehead you smile contently as a little gust of wind drifts in through the two tall windows. Its tender fingers flutter against the skin on your face and arms like the gentle feet of a thousand tiny butterflies doing a happy dance. Slowly, very slowly, awareness dawns on you that one is really not the lonely number you had conditioned your mind to believe all these years.
Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of six books including "Chant of a Million Women" winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards, USA as well as "Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense" and "I Exist. Therefore I Am", 2022 and 2019 State Literary Award winners, Sri Lanka. The latter was also shortlisted for the 2019 Rubery Book Awards, UK. Rajapakse’s work has won and been placed in other competitions. Her work also appears in many journals and anthologies including Silver Birch, International Times, Poetry Lab Shanghai, Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry, Litro, Berfrois, Flash Fiction International, Voices Israel, Mascara, Counterpunch, New Verse News, Cultural Weekly, The Write-In, Harbinger Asylum and more. Rajapakse’s poems have been translated into Farsi, Spanish, French and Chinese.