Opal Ling-Smith waited on a park bench near, and facing, a marbled horse and his rider—Mad Anthony. A letter in her hand was shaded by the horse’s legs, and a breeze played with the two upper corners of the page. She sat, dressed in her white spaghetti strapped shirt and a thigh length jean skirt that fit snuggly to her body. Two thin white sweater sleeves draped over her shoulders and were folded neatly one over the other just below the crevice of her neck, just above the crevice of her breast—just as great grandma said not to do. Her skin was not tan, but dark none-the-less, and shined beyond the white display. It was nearing one and she remembered bells rang downtown every hour. City of churches; also, city of restaurants. Every block seemed to have a restaurant. She stared at the motionless animal and his rider. Mr. Anthony looked like he was in need of a cleaning, the brass wilty looking and his angry face added just that much more to he need. “Mad Anthony,” she sighed. “I’m as mad as you to think anything will come of this.” She lifted the letter to him as if he would read it. She looked at the letter again. She remembered coming down to this park for a festival a couple of times. She had enjoyed the first homestead out on Butler Road, shared by her, her parents, and three siblings. Honnoy Hong lived next door. His family way into the Chinese culture, though he was fourth generation American. Her family not so intense, though they had started a ritual three generations back: “not married by twenty we find you a marriage,” as her great grandmother put it. So, she was twenty-three and traveled—because of her parents. Born in the U.S., keeping her U.S. citizenship, and living in Scotland, Hong Kong, Paraguay, Berlin, and lastly Columbia. The last three places all within two years—without her parents. This was only a visit home, and back to. . . . Well, where was she moving onto now?
She read the letter again, and said the signer’s name aloud. “Honnoy Hong. Honnoy Hong. You annoy Hong. You annoy, go get hung.”
That’s what came to mind listening to, hearing the, saying the name—Honnoy Hong. Who was she kidding? She’d never fall in love; and thought she had at one time. That was annulled after he confessed, in their wedding bed; he couldn’t get it up for a woman. He loved her, but men turned him on. After she had evaluated her feelings, she realized the reason why she married: a solid last name. Her parents gave her both of their names: Ling and Smith. Both too common, both so . . . well, so wrong for her. “This way you have a part of both of us,” her mother told her one day. She couldn’t understand how great grandma allowed it, but dad was the strong type. While she insisted on keeping her married name—Cronwall—the government refused: no consummation, no change of name. The church idea had really taken hold in the Soviet Union. But they weren’t called that anymore, were they? The Republic of something? Now, if this arrangement didn’t work, she’d change her name to Opal Cronwall legally, at least in the U.S.. It would cost her, but she would do it. The name Cronwall was her, so her, not Ling-Smith. She sighed, deeply; that questioning sigh when one thinks they know.
The bells awoke her to one thirty. No Hong. Mad Anthony was looking pleasant.
“Ugh!” she kicked her bags to the left of her on the cement. Two bags and a purse were all her worldly possessions. Well, not quite, her books, her bit of furniture, and her stuff animals—except one—were with her parents in Indianapolis. They had moved back to this state, the state of their bliss they said, to become reconnected. They wanted to move back to Fort Wayne, actually, but . . . you went with and to the job. “Ah!” She told them that she wasn’t coming home. Home wasn’t here anyway. And here she was. She had no home except what she took with her, and that was mostly her bags. Somehow they had managed to talk her into coming to this . . . this place! And now? Honnoy Hong wasn’t here.
A crowd had gathered at the water fountain and pool area, watching the display of colored lights decorating the water in a matrix of colors, the colors dancing in the pool and in the spurts from the fountain. Not as bright as they were at night, she recalled. The joy on the children’s faces made Opal forget her anger, and she flung a backpack across her back, her purse over her shoulder and the other bag she let dangle at her side from around her wrist. She made her way to a tree, but before getting there a biker’s handle bar hooked her backpack. The biker flew from his bike and the bag on her back jerked her around and down, missing the back of the bike with the spinning spokes. She fell hard to the ground on her right side. She groaned, and smelled the fresh cut grass.
“Oh! ma’am; I’m sorry, so sorry!”
She rolled over to see a guy all decked in biker’s equipment getting up from the sidewalk. “Are you all right?! I just happened to look at the statue and leaned a little too much to the left. How clumsy of me.”
She squinted her eyes and shook her head slightly. “I’m fine. Nothing a little clean water can’t fix,” she hoped. She sat up and rubbed her shoulder from the pain of being jerked, and then landing on it. A close look at her shirt made her sigh. The stains would never come out, but that wasn’t the worse of it, it was ripped right up to the seam under her arm and a cut just above her hip exposed itself, about two inches long.
“Please. Let me help you.” He picked up her bags and brushed them off, picked up her purse and flung it over his shoulder like he wore one everyday, then held out his hand for her to come to her feet. “I should have never looked away from where I was going. I turned and . . .”
“. . . ran into me. I need to . . .”
“. . . clean up and dress your wound and find . . .”
“. . . another shirt.” Opal’s brows rose.
They laughed.
Opal brushed herself off more. “I do need to do all of that but I was waiting for someone. Don’t know if I missed him, if he’s late, or I’ve been stood up.”
“Hmmm. That is a dilemma. But I believe you need to take care of yourself. I’m going over to the Civic Theater for practice. I’ll get you in as my guest and there you can fix yourself up.”
“Thanks.” She held out her hand. “Opal Cronwall.”
He took her hand and kissed it. The gesture sent an odd feeling through her. Dé jà vu. “Milan Cal,” he smiled big.
His smile was all she could really see of his face—sun goggles and head gear all blocked what he looked like, and no hair appeared below the helmet; but she felt strangely attracted to him. The smile was beautifully perfect. A warm smile made the pain become a dull ache.
“I think the doctor’s here today. He can check that wound.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll wash it out and bandage it with my . . .” she tugged at her tattered blouse.
Mr. Cal put his bike right and moved towards the building that set next to the park. Following him, Opal didn’t feel eerie, no danger signal, but awkwardly assured. And that dé jà vu came back.
The building smelled of rock and concrete, cold and old. The walls were rough, as if sand stone had been plastered on, and the sections with doors jetted out like a rugged cliff or an overhang. Not noticing which direction she was taking, she soon became disoriented, and began to dart her eyes about to find the nearest exit, just in case. She’d learned long ago to be aware, and for some reason she had let that guard down because of the warm fuzzy feeling she was getting from him. Soon a door was opened for her, a small personal restroom, a restroom that must have been a closet or storage space at one time.
“I’ll send Bobbi for you to take you to a room where you can change. Not much room in there, but it is a private facility. At least you can wash up some. There’s no privacy in the rooms. When you’re done, wait just outside the door.”
“I’ll do—”
The door closed. She wasn’t going to any other room. Changing right here was fine.
It was tiny, no doubt, but private, where she could clean the open wound. There was barely enough room to do that. Pulling towels from the dispenser she folded them and blotted them with some warm water then dabbed some liquid soap onto the makeshift cloth. Lightly touching her skin she flinched at the pain and pulled the wound apart. She would need stitches. Throwing the towels in the trash she began to take off her shirt so she could rip it into rags for bandages.
“Miss Cronwall?” Someone knocked.
“Yes.”
“Bobbi May. I’ll need you to wait back stage for just a bit. Need to open a room for you.”
Opal peered out. “That won’t—”
The young girl smiled and walked away, signaling her that a seat on stage was hers.
Opal took her white sweater and shoved her arms through, pulling it close.
Opal noticed backstage was full of people: chairs in rows facing the curtain and one column of chairs facing the rows. Many people were planted through out. Opal took a seat in the third row first chair. People were reading, listening through headphones, mumbling, or talking to another. No one person paid attention to her moving towards the chair indicated for her. After a small time, an old man balding in the front and all gray came around the farthest end of the curtain.
“Drake McCallister. Mr. McCallister,” he called out.
A man a row up and a few seats from Opal stood. Drake McCallister? It can’t be. She watched. She stared. Look this way, will you please. You can’t be him. The old man directed him to the column seating where she could see his face but he was too far away. If it were Drake, his eyes would give him away. Gathering her bags and purse she moved towards him and began to remember the little boy back in Scotland on the Isle of Skye, the little boy she babysat for three years, the little boy who was devastated by an act she had no control over—her father’s job requirement: move where it took you. He looked at her, leaning his elbows onto his knees and propping his chin onto his folded hands, just as that little boy back in Scotland.
‘Drake. I have to move. I won’t be able to come to your birthday party. I’m sorry I’ll miss your ninth birthday.’ The boy stood there. His eyes watered. ‘Can I give you a kiss?’ She leaned over and exposed her cheek. He grabbed her cheeks between the palms of his hands and turned her lips to him, placing his lips squarely and forcefull firm, and pressing in on hers, their teeth clinking together. The kiss had only been a few seconds but if felt like a whole minute in her shocked state.
His eyes were directly upon her and the closer she came the memories flooded her more.
‘Mr. McCallister? I’m sorry about what happened yesterday. In all of that commotion I forgot to give him his gift.’ Mr. McCallister took her hand when he took the gift. ‘Drake is devastated. You know you’re his nightingale. You know when one finds his soul mate in Scotland one knows—no matter his age.’ He kissed her hand. ‘He’ll find you.’
She reached a seat just a few down from him, and elegantly sat her bags down, realizing too late that she had not paid attention to his eyes, which now diverted from hers. How could she drift? There was no way it was the same person. The boy, the 9-year-old boy of Skye would never come to this . . . this city of backwards and boredom. But she had. To what? Another disappointment? Another dead end? She sighed: another I told you so from her parents. Why can’t you be more like Sammy? or marry a good man like Kenra? or go to college and get a real job; her parents’ words echoed. And Honnoy probably saw you and ran—with that get up what did you expect? Yes. That was what great grandma would say. She wasn’t going home. At least not until the family took their ritual vacation trip to all the homelands. Then I’ll go home and gather my trinkets and scadoot.
“Opal Ling-Smith? Is Opal Ling-Smith here?” The old man was calling her, now. She was confused. How did this man know her name, her given name? She stood. “Miss Ling-Smith?” To stunned to answer she nodded. “Follow me.”
Quickly her bags were on her being, and with a quick look to the McCallister she so wanted to see the eyes of, she trotted off to catch up.
“Sir. Please sir. How do you happen to know my name? I didn’t sign in, and I surely didn’t use my maiden name. I’m not here to audition. I told no one who I was.”
“All I know ma’am is that your name is tenth on the list for tryouts of the Pumpkin Queen. It was already typed in, and I assume the manager did it.”
Pumpkin Queen? “Sir, who would have—?”
“I told you. See here,” he pointed to his clipboard, held it out for her to see as they walked. “Now. Go down this hall to number 3—on your left. Costume’s inside, and your script.”
She looked down the hall. What kind of game was this? The hall was nothing more than boards put up as dividers. But that didn’t bother her the most. Someone here was pulling a fast one. Some gag to show her parents what kind of dope she was.
“I want the manager.”
“Sorry hon. Mr. Hong left for an appointment. You can speak to Bobbi.”
Bobbi, uh! “Send her!” She wasn’t falling for this! And where was that something Cal or Cal something? He had to be in on this too! Then it struck her—Hong! How many Hong’s would be a manager of a theater—in a town like this? He stood her up to do this? Not a good first impression for sure. Why didn’t he just meet her? Wait—that biker, Cal, was to fetch me.
“By the way. The doctor’s waiting on you.”
“Doctor?”
“Mr. Cal said you had a pretty bad cut, and it looks like it to me.”
Forgotten was her injury. Touching her side in memory of the convenient set up, a wave of pain enveloped her side, back, and stomach. Her torn shirt felt matted and sure enough there was a substantial amount of blood, more than when she cleaned it, her sweater absorbing what her blouse couldn’t. How could she have forgotten about. . . ? Allowing myself to be astonished and played!
“Miss Ling-Smith, you need a dose of antibiotics; and when was your last tetanus?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll give you one for a precaution. Sign this sheet. It’s another medical release form.”
Still dazed by all that occurred she scribbled her name at the X. Bobbi had come and gone with no direct answers and leaving her with more questions. No one knew where Mr. Hong was, who was supposed to be back by two. And flowers appeared—two-dozen white pinked-tip carnations and another sheet to sign—for delivery. During the ten stitches she read the script. It was vaguely familiar. She looked for the writer’s name everywhere on the script. It just wasn’t there.
She decided to play along. There was no other way to get the answers she sought. And if Hong staged all this, she was surely interested now. No man had ever gone the limits to entice her.
The dress fitted well and it was gorgeous. White chemise under a shimmering light silver coating that caught every color around it; and the veil was made of the same white chemise with silver trim. She was a princess in a fairy-tale, for real. Hong was enticing, was sweeping her off her feet, was being mysterious—and she like it. And she hated it. When life wasn’t in her control—like most of her life—she became pungently obnoxious. Somehow she was holding back the worse of her outbreak. She read and re-read her part, the part she would do on stage in a few minutes, a part that felt so much like. . . . She just couldn’t place it. But the surprising part was when the script said, “repeat after the Uniter. The person playing this part will tell you what to say.” Memorizing on the spot wasn’t good for her. And whoever wrote a script like this? Was this an experimental script? Not something she expected from Honnoy Hong.
“Alright. Miss . . . Miss Smith. Right?”
She raised her hand to cover her eyes from the glare of the spot light in hope to see the man speaking to her. “Miss Smith will be fine.”
“Okay. When you see the groom enter from right stage, kneel and bow. He’s the mighty warrior who has won your love. When he approaches, swear your allegiance.”
She turned to stage right.
“Make sure to speak loudly.”
“Yes. I will.”
“Very good. Stage right!”
A man dressed in purple tights and a gold cape with a mask covering his eyes like Robin, and a bow on his left shoulder clinging as a sock’s top and a band around his head with a couple of dangling feathers made her about burst into a hysterical fit. She managed to do just as she was directed, spite the comical get up of the warrior—just like . . . like whom? Damn, why can’t I remember where I’ve seen this before? His hand touched her shoulder and the lines smoothly broke from her lips: “My Lord, my life, my savior, I give myself freely to you and your kind,” and your kind? She had been so busily remembering the lines that it hadn’t struck her what was actually being said till now.
“Rise; and give me your hand and I shall pledge my life, my heart, my being, my eternal love.”
Opal stood and her hand was kissed with delicacy—just like . . . Mr. McCallsiter? She nearly withdrew. Pausing, just pausing, she smiled at the man dressed so silly. Together they turned to back stage where a man in colorful clothes stood. His apparel had suns and rays, clouds and rainbows, rain and earth in all its beauty—though through it all, the white collar stood out. The man had not been there when she came on stage, nor when she turned to stage right; the man had magically appeared. Then she noticed the two wires.
“Repeat after me Princess Pumpkin,” the man nodded at her. She returned the nod. “I, Princess Elegant Pumpkin of Mistress Opal Ling-Smith’s mind do solemnly swear to love eternally through all triumphs and defeats forever and forever.”
Opal repeated the words with little thought of what she was actually saying due to her concentration, so as to not make a mistake.
He bowed to her as a reward for perfect recitation and then nodded to the fellow who dressed as a kid’s fantasy. “Repeat after me Prince Spotted Wind. I, Prince Little Spotted Wind of Master Drake McCallsiter’s mind do solemnly swear . . .” the preacher went on as Opal’s mind drifted into the past where her conscious began to lift a haze, a fuzziness. “Swear both of you,” the words registering little now, “under God’s vast almighty hand that this you promise by saying ‘I do.’” She heard the man next to her say ‘I do,’ but she stood and stood, silently, dumbfounded with realization gripping her face.
“Miss. . . . MISS. . . . HEY! SAY I DO,” the man from the light booth yelled.
“Oh! I do.”
Then . . . a flood. She remembered now, remembered the story that she read to little Drake McCallister, a story that. . . .
The preacher went on. “Now, by the power of God and the power of the state of Indiana you are married. Please lift your veil dear Queen; and dear King remove your mask.”
Before the man in tights could lift his hands to his face, Opal collapsed to the floor. “Drake! Drake McCallister! The letter? The biker? Back stage? The flowers? THE SCRIPT!” She remembered the enduring term . . . my little Spotted Wind. Exactly what she called him after they wrote that silly little fairy-tale together.
Drake laughed.
Everyone clapped.
Then the song, he sung that song from the made up fairy-tale:
“Rodeo. Once there was a rodeo,
and Spotted Wind wanted to ride,
show them all a McCallister could,
that he could with his Elegant Pumpkin. . . .”
And Opal joined him:
“. . . with his Elegant Pumpkin at his side,
at his side his new bride, his new bride.”
Whenever she heard him sing it he was looking out the front window across the street. She always thought it was for the girl across the street. She thought the story had been written for the girl across the street. Everything was for the girl across the street.
He knelt and hovered above her. “Opal, when I stared out the window I was actually watching your image cast by the glass. My heart was yours and is yours.”
She wept. She mumbled. “No Hong. No Hong. Find you he will. No Hong. No Honnoy Hong. Find you he will.”
“Yes. Find you I did. No Mr. Hong for you.”
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