The Fulcrum in Shadows
Driving down into Salt Lake City from the rich red rock canyons of Utah’s eastern badlands I waited eagerly to see Great Salt Lake shimmering in the distance, but there was too much smog. Straining, I saw few or no landforms - some white hints of peaks in the distance, but mostly just heavy brown air. I was disappointed. But the desire to be impressed passed quickly. Satiated from the beauty we had just driven through
I sat back and passed into reverie….a flood of images, scents, sounds
and feelings: weathered cliffs — angles smoothed by the winds of ages undulating like brown solid water up into the sky; sudden vistas of green valleys planted with flowers and corn glimpsed through breaks in the cliff walls; sun slanting down on a swift-moving creek; the deep mystery of shadows; the call of a distant hawk; cool air fragrant with moist earth at the approach of dusk.
Breathing deeply I looked across a dun featureless dusk falling over the rising night glow of this storied city, fast becoming diamond points of light in the falling dark.
We descended into the valley, wound our way carefully through crowded streets. I am always amazed by the sense of urgency even at the quiet times of dusk, midnight, and dawn in large cities. Hurry hurry hurry whisper the undertones, engines roaring, trains clacking, power lines crackling, time clocks clicking. This was such a contrast to the formless flow of time and event in the badlands we had just left, I felt disoriented and momentarily wished for all of us to have a moment of true silence, a moment of true peace when decisions can be made in quiet, after reflection and meditation have had a chance to reveal the most advisable course of action!
But the humm of the city at night droned on as we drove through thickets of time toward our destination - the home of a stranger - putting us up for the night as we passed through the fables of other peoples lives riding horses of our own making.
Finally, after much deliberation over maps and arcane directions we arrived.
Her apartment was average, but had a wrought-iron balcony overlooking a courtyard.
She answered the door with an odd combination of power and shyness. I was intrigued immediately. Behind her eyes were huge temples of thought, but she was glazed over by the frost of caution - icicles hung from her eaves. I felt at once relaxed and on guard. She invited us in with a wide sweep of her hand, jauntily sinking back onto one hip, she cocked her head and eyed us intently.
I took one last look at the fading of dusk before the door shut out the coming of night. Inside the light was yellow and orange bouncing off golden brown paneling. All the furniture was low, Japanese style. She invited us to sink down onto the floor.
She said her name was Jane. I studied her carefully. She had a prowling, brooding grace, like some feline version of human femininity that was mesmerizing to watch. She stalked the room gathering pillows, offering each of us one. Muscles rippled in her shoulders, hard and hidden under a thin t-shirt. She was at home in her body and watched us carefully with sidelong glances like a predator. I liked her manner. I noticed immediately that she was always careful to keep her right side toward us. Hmmm. Interesting.
Fortune was with me that night. She and one of my companions discovered a surprising common interest and proceeded to enter into lively discussion that excluded everyone else in the room with some passion leaving me free to rest my mind and watch her. She moved cleanly, surely, as she spoke, rising up and standing to make a point, floating back down to lounge on her pillow as she took in what was said in return. She was given to large gestures, and always as she moved she kept her right side toward her listeners, right hand cruising the air, inscribing meaning and emotion as her mobile features transported us into the world of her thoughts!
As I watched I realized her left hand was the fulcrum upon which her body turned as she danced for us the meaning and the rhyme of what she was thinking. I began to watch for glimpses of that mysterious hand dancing in and out of the shadows of the movement of her mind. It was long and slender and the single most graceful hand I have ever seen. I was bewitched and adrift on the seas of fascination. During a lull in the conversation, I mentioned she had graceful hands. Something in that statement struck at her heart and she recoiled a bit. Surprised, I settled back into silence and the conversation drifted briefly onto the subject of flesh and the imposition of fantasy before returning to shared passions. Hmmm, definite rebuff. Now I was actively curious. I watched that mysterious hand intently as she circled around it heatedly expressing her opinions. I finally realized there was something different about it. It was too long and too slender to be human.
The image of alien hands flashed about in popular films came immediately to mind.
Awash in the magic of the moment with no regard for delicacy I simply asked, “May I see your hand?” And just so there was no possibility of misunderstanding I pointed at the one that so interested me. She was visibly startled, but reluctantly held it out in front of me. I immediately saw the reason for its slender grace. The ring finger was missing, but looked as though it had never been there. The skin was tan and smooth. Muscles rippled in her forearms as she flexed and turned it. She did not seem to notice my obvious bewitchment. I ingenuously said, “it is the most beautiful hand I’ve ever seen. Were you born this way?” She stared at me, completely at a loss for a moment. Still bewitched I looked up and saw her discomfiture. I didn’t know quite what to say because I really meant what I had said, but she obviously had a hard time accepting that. I looked down then gently stroked that fabulous hand. She abruptly drew it back and said, “No, I wasn’t born this way.”
Then, seeing my ardent gaze, she told me her story.
“I was in a karate competition. “I wanted to win. “My opponent and I were pretty even, then he did a spinning back kick. I knew if I blocked it he’d be open and I’d have him and the win. I knew if I did that though, it would probably break my hand. I just decided right there to go for it, and I did. I won and my ring finger was shattered. The surgeon who saw me decided to take the bone out all the way back to the wrist and wire the others together so it would look as good as possible. That’s why it is this way.” Then she hid the hand away again and resumed that odd, yet incredibly mesmerizing way she had of dancing with it.
I looked up at her admiration burning in my heart for her courage and the compassionate artistry of the doctor who had wrought such beauty from her courage and irrevocable choice.
“Well,” I said, “it certainly is beautiful. He did an incredible job.”
She hesitated, waved the hand in the air, a gesture of blank confusion, then turned away back to my companion and their passionate conversation, but off and on she glanced shyly my way, though she never looked me directly in the eye for the rest of our stay.
We left the next day.
As we did I looked up at her standing on her balcony. Only then did she address me again, “Come back any time.” I smiled and waved and felt deep awe within at the knowledge of her strength, her courage and her struggle with her irrevocable choice all mixed up with that graceful hand that was a sign of her sacrifice and of all the mixed blessings there are in this world.
Teresa D. Hawkes c. 1997