Obsidian | Full Series
Weathered wood from the swim platform flashes before his eyes as he dives off the boat and into turquoise blue. And in a moment, he is pulled down under the waves and into the deep. Water encloses his ears and his eyes adjust to the murky light. The watch glimmers up at him as he swims further and reaches out for it.
As the watch glides deeper, he can see tendrils of seaweed flowing softly toward him. Deep red and sleek, each strand is more vibrant than the next, some of them brushing up against the watch and others stretching out toward his cheeks as his arms stretch out, trying to reach the watch with quick grabs. He’s starting to lose breath.
He can feel the pressure build in his lungs, but holds on and breathes out to release some bubbles, which help him push further down. The watch is about a foot in front of him, twirling downward, so close and so slow but still out of reach. It almost seems like it's toying with him.
He stretches his arms out front and forces another quick, broad stroke, launching forward and catching the leather strap in his right fist. Relieved, he closes his eyes and steadies his mind. Got it!
Pressure forms around his wrist as he looks up at the surface. It’s not as far as he imagined, and he should be able to have enough reserves in his lungs to make it back to the top. With the quick flutter of his legs, he tries to launch upward. Nothing. He can’t move. He focuses again on the shimmering light at the top, flowing across the surface. He flutters his legs once more with harsh force this time and the pressure around his wrist grows more painful. Still no movement. Shit, he must be caught on something. He jerks his right hand and sharp edges dig into his wrist.
His heart skips. He’s almost afraid to see how caught he actually is. Trying to steady his mind again and reserve the bit of air he has left, he refocuses eyes back down into the deep blue to see what’s keeping him caught.
He looks at his wrist and suddenly grows cold. Pale, delicate fingers enclose the base of his hand, each punctuated with a long-pointed nail piercing into his skin. The tendrils of red seaweed circle up and around him. Then, with one strong pull, the hand launches him deeper. The water grows colder around him as goose bumps trail up his arms.
As Hank’s eyes adjust, he can make out a pale oval face gingerly rising up to meet his. The delicate chin and wideset eyes look strangely familiar and are framed in fiery tendrils matching what he had assumed earlier to be just seaweed. Her electric green eyes dance with excitement but the rest of her face is eerily still. As she stares into his own deep brown eyes, she demurely cocks her head to the side and keeps her strong but delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist. And suddenly the sea is spinning around them.
He’s not able to leave her gaze as her eyes glow from green to fiery blue and back to green again, but he can make out the fast motion of a tail moving wildly just a few feet beneath them, setting them into a whirlpool and spinning them around like a school of fish. Those electric eyes change back to furious blue. And she opens her plump lips to reveal rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth. Her front fangs are tapered neatly at the ends and she lets out a piercing scream.
Everything flashes to white. Hank floats motionless, stuck in her grasp. All he can feel is the vibration of that high-pitched scream, morphing into something that sounds almost like a song and moving up and down his spine.
A song and sound that feels painfully beautiful, yet terrifying. It’s in a language and cadence he can’t quite understand at first but eventually makes out two words that rip him to the core. “You forgot,” she sings. You forgot… you forgot… you forgot…
The alarm beeped. Hank shut it off and awoke to the soft morning light with that tick, tick, ticking sound bouncing between his ears and trying to coax him back to his dreams. What is that noise? It always took him a moment to realize if the sound had been borne of his deep, saliva-soaked sleep or was coming from somewhere outside. Like the faraway thump of a dripping faucet, the ticking would slowly pour out of his mind as he drifted back into consciousness.
That weird noise again. He’d wondered about it many times. What did it mean? Was it from a memory or worse, early signs of an aneurysm? It had a metallic sound like his old watch and a comforting lull to it that also reminded him of a beating drum--or his thumping heart as blood rushed to his ears when he ran on icy mornings. Every morning it would fade. The light would stream in. His eyes would slowly adjust to reality and clear out the sound of his dreams.
After yawning and holding sore arms out in a stretch, he threw the covers off, jumps to his feet, and shuffled into the kitchen for coffee. Then, the lists of the day’s activities took over.
Do I still need to wash the dogs today? No. You don’t have dogs anymore you ass. She took them, remember. Idiot. F**k. Cheryl wasn’t that great anyway.
Okay, but I do need to head to the bank. Do laundry. That thing at Jon’s is on Saturday, should probably wear something presentable for that. Damn... I don’t even know if I want to go.
Trent was wondering about that piece he found out in Maine. I’ll talk to him about it today. The picture was kinda blurry. He really needs to get a hold of himself. Who brings an antique watch to a nightclub anyway? The thing probably smells like vodka Redbull and cotton candy perfume by now. I’ll take a look. He’s not a bad guy he usually finds some good stuff.
Hank thought all of this to himself as he ground the coffee beans, flipped on the switch to his old coffee maker, and headed to the cabinet for a bowl of cereal. He stood at the kitchen island as he finished the cereal.
Pen in hand, he scratched his head and wrote a quick list in his notebook, laughing to himself about what an ancient relic notebooks were now.
He still brought it with him everywhere and got a few laughs for it. The leather backing was frayed at the edges.
The coffee-stained pages were filled with lists like this morning’s, notes on the latest finds, quick math, book recommendations, contacts. Hank could remember Trent’s reaction to it on his first day working at the coffee shop.
“What’s that?” Trent had asked, bemused and grinning from ear to ear as he sat at the wooden bar.
Hank held up the fraying notebook, “It’s a notebook. I know you know what a notebook is.”
Trent snorted, taking a muffin in his hand and sauntering out the door.
“Take it easy old man, I’ll see you next Wednesday. 6 AM sharp?”
“Yeah, I’ll see yah. You’re welcome for the opportunity by the way,” Hank had projected at him dryly.
That day was the beginning of an unshakeable partnership that has so far lasted for five years. Trent acting like a jackass, but actually being the most punctual, organized, and reliable person Hank had ever worked with. Hank being a fair and steady boss, or at least he liked to think of himself that way, and also being exactly sixteen minutes late every single day. And also being the most absent-minded boss he’d ever imagined he could be.
Back in the new morning light, Hank finished the notes he was scratching down in his notebook, downed the rest of the coffee, and sets the pen down on the kitchen island. Trent’s probably over there. Better head out.
After grabbing his essentials—phone, keys, wallet, notebook—he locked the front door of his small house and looked out into the fresh morning air. Large pine trees lined his front yard. He took in the fresh scent as he stepped out onto the unpaved road, leading to the shop.
Obsidian was a pretty small town and remained so, despite the booming city just 40 minutes away. More people would pass through in the summer as they stopped by on their way to and from the mountains. On chilly winter afternoons, they would also flock in after busy ski days.
But it was very much thought of as "that old mining town," a stable community that never really seemed to attract many new people. The solid community that had been there for generations was nestled in, almost protected from the outer chaos.
Hank walked briskly down the road, looking over and waving at Ann as she sipped coffee on her porch, and laughing at old John a few doors down who eyed him suspiciously from behind his blinds. Every morning, he thinks. Known the man more than 30 years and he still looks at me like I’m crouchin' behind his bushes in full camo or something.
Each house was modestly sized and older, some in brick, others in wood shingles or stone. Those with chimneys, puffed out gentle streams of smoke as people warmed up the fireplaces for the chilly October mornings.
He turned the corner and stepped onto the paved sidewalks of Main St. The quaint town center had all the fixings of the quintessential mountain town. Taffy shops, a local florist, and a post office with vibrant photos of that month’s stamp designs plastered to the window.
Hank walked past the stores and nodded at the few who had already set up shop for the day. Then, he eyed his parking lot. A red Chevy was parked out front of a log cabin-style shop with large windows and a few tables set up on the wrap-around porch.
A sign hung in front with a bold, lacquer-black font, “Oldman’s Coffee shop – The one with the big mugs.” Hank smiled up at the sign as he did every morning and unlocked the front doors. He looked down at his watch, which pulsed once—6:16 on the dot.
“You’re late!” Trent smiled up. He was wiping down each round wooden table, and the lacquered cherry wood shimmered in the soft light under glowing lamps. “I’m right on time,” Hank said.
“After rush hour, tell me about this piece you found,” he nodded toward Trent.
“I think I might start looking into this one too,” he looked down at his grandfather’s watch and tapped the top of it. The worn leather fit his wrist perfectly, and mother-of-pearl glowed within the watch’s face. 6:18. It’s time he started trying to remember.
Episode 1: The Dream
Shards of glass from the watch’s face broke away from each other as Jason’s shoe drove it into the pavement. He looked at Hank, made a fake spitting gesture towards the ground and started running away. At 13, Hank wasn’t exactly the largest or most aggressive kid in his class, but he was stockier than most and Jason was aware enough to know that Hank could kick his ass if he wanted to. Aware enough to keep himself from being a middle-school asshole, though? Jason unfortunately hadn’t grown to that point yet.
Hank looked at the watch, which was shattered on the ground. The cognac leather had some wear, darkening in places where years of fingertips had fastened the straps to a wrist. He picked it up, careful not to let the shards touch his skin and saw the bent second hand still ticking away.
12:30. Lunch. The worst time to be an eighth grader. He folded the watch into the napkin from his daily sandwich, placed it into the front pocket of his jeans and headed back to the cafeteria.
“That’s a grandpa watch, why do you wear that thing anyway?” Jason had asked before smacking it to the ground and grinding it beneath his worn sneakers.
“It looks like something my Uncle Al would wear. Where did you get that ugly thing?”
Hank looked up at Charlie who had been standing between them helplessly, “Charlie, I’ll see you later.” Charlie waved and mouthed, Sorry!, before heading to the cafeteria.
“Jason, go eat a dog turd,” Hank yelled bitterly as Jason scampered off with faux confidence in his shoulders, trying not to look nervous. Hank wasn’t the most eloquent or diplomatic at that age. Even if he was, he couldn’t really answer the question if he’d wanted to. The watch was just always there.
Hank’s earliest memory was of his grandfather wearing it. He could remember board games at the family table, seeing it on a weathered, comforting wrist as long fingers gingerly moved a green piece forward along the game trail. “One, two, three, four. Hank, it’s your turn kiddo.” The voice was smooth, full and cheerful. It reminded him of a violin, or the sound of wood crackling in a fire. He could remember the smell of fresh coffee always simmering on the stove. “It’s your turn kiddo.”
Then, Grandpa was gone. After that, all Hank could remember was the watch being with him. He would fasten it as tight as possible onto his child-sized wrist, securing the clasp in holes placed there especially for him. When he wasn’t wearing it, it was tucked neatly on his nightstand, next to Archie comics, Tootsie rolls and toy cars. While it probably looked out of place to anyone who noticed, the old timepiece felt completely in place to him.
The watch was unassuming at first glance, but Hank imagined it must have been a treasure to the one who owned it before. It was the type of leather he would see when his mom dragged him to antique shops. Sturdy and smooth, with a few tiny knicks and scratches in all the right places. The watch face was inlaid with mother of pearl, a darker color fading from a coffee brown to oyster and even blue or green hues depending on the light. Exposed gears embellished the center, layered in circles of silver and gold, some turning, others staying in place.
When he wore it, Hank could hear and feel the watch tick as steady as ocean waves, in and out and in and out. He wasn’t really superstitious about most things, but the watch did become a kind of totem to Hank. Whenever the class broke out into laughter, or the teacher said something particularly memorable, the watch would tick a little stronger and kick out one extra pulse almost to nudge him.
It also seemed to pick up on the purest moments in Hank’s life. When Mrs. Hattie Harper, the school nurse, broke her leg, Hank’s father and his friends came to school with homemade soup and wildflowers. Her husband was among them and helped her out of the wheelchair so she could give them all a hug. She tapped each one on the shoulder, eyes sparkling. Mr. Joe Harper gave the men a wink—the kind older men give to signal, you did good, kid. Hank’s watch sent out a pulse.
Similar occurrences also happened for less joyous moments. When Jason, already angsty at ten, decided to start tripping people on their way into the cafeteria, a double pulse shot up against Hank’s wrist. Mean spirited. Hank couldn’t stand that kid.
When Hank’s dad came home from work one night, grief and humiliation twisted his face as he whispered to Hank’s mom, “They let a few go today.” Double pulse. One. Two. The sounds of whiskey sloshing through a glass as Hank opened one of his comics to give them privacy. One. Two. The double pulse became his recognition of darker undercurrents. It was almost the watch’s way of saying, “This wasn’t right.” “That didn’t feel right.” “I see that this is hard.” “This needs to pass.”
He liked to think of the watch as his backup compass. It wasn’t that the watch was Hank’s inner voice or inner guide per say. It just started to feel like a small confirmation that his own intuition was right. Just like Mr. Harper’s wink of respect. Each pulse felt like a small nod from an elder, a way of confirming. “This is what goodness is, Hank.” “You’re right in feeling cautious about this.” “Yes, I saw that too.” “Yes, that happened.” “You’re okay kid.”
Episode 2: The Watch
“You’ve had that thing since you were a wee one, right?” Trent nodded at Hank as they sat at the wooden bar in the coffee shop. The morning rush hour came and went fairly smoothly. They had finished what they liked to call the half-close: balancing the books from the morning’s business, mopping the back kitchen and wiping the tables. It was now 3:00 and they were enjoying their routine coffees. Hank’s was always strong with one pump of lavender syrup and a shot of almond milk. Trent could never get through Hank’s order without chuckling a little.
“Say one thing about my drink choice and you’re outta here,” he barked jokingly at Trent. Trent’s was always black. “You stop drinking foofie drinks and I might give you a promotion,” Trent shot back with a shit-eating grin.
Hank takes a sip of his drink and nods at his watch. “Aye, just a wee one,” Hank replied in a gravelly Irish accent, laughing, “What is this new voice you’re trying on?”
Trent raised his right hand, pointer finger up. “Look, never forget that you have employed the descendent of Colin Edward O’Malley the THIRD. I’m exactly one-quarter Irish, I will have you know. And yeah, did Grandad ever actually say that?” Trent shrugged, “Wee one… I…I don’t know. But, I gotta get back to my roots yahno.”
“Oh—speaking of granddads, get out your notebook. I brought that piece I was telling you about,” Trent pointed behind the counter where Hank usually kept his notebook.
“I was gonna ask you about that,” Hank reached behind the counter and slid his notebook and pen in front of him, “Whatcha got?”
Trent reaches into his pocket and pulled out a gold watch. The black alligator straps were ragged at the edges and Hank could make out a moon phase illustration on the face. Too new.
“A Peugeot. Forty millimeter. The guy said this was probably 1960’s-1970’s. I think I’ll replace the straps with a newer set I found from the same timeframe. It’s still in pretty good shape. This should be good as new in a couple weeks,” Trent said—sliding the watch toward Hank carefully.
Hank held it up with his left hand and jotted a few notes down. “Looks good. You could probably try for 250 with the new straps. I wouldn’t go lower than 95.”
He handed the watch back to Trent and raised his grandfather’s timepiece toward the light. “See, this one just can’t be a Peugeot. It’s much older than that. Maybe I’ll look into some 1920’s pieces. Without any date on the back, or a serial number even, it might take a while to get it sorted out.”
Trent stared across at the watch as it glimmered under the lamps. He had a curious furrow in his brow, almost as if he was remembering something. “I am curious about how that face has held up all these years. No scratches.”
“Well, it hasn’t,” Hank said firmly. “I know for a fact it’s been repaired at least once. I think my mom knows a guy closer to the coast who used to repair it. Not sure what happened to him. I haven’t really had to get it replaced since I was a kid.”
Hank thought back to the afternoon in middle school. He had sauntered home and into the kitchen, where Trisha, his mom, was sitting with a magazine and painting her nails for an upcoming girls’ trip. He handed her the watch and shrugged, “Jason’s an asshole…”
“Hey! Language. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to tell him that when you’re older. Here, let me see,” Trisha cupped the watch in her hand and gently grinned.
“Don’t worry, Hank. And I’m sorry this happened, but it’s an easy fix. I’ll take it to the coast with me. It’ll be good as new when I come back, alright?”
She wiped the watch down with a damp paper towel to catch any stray specks of glass, wrapped it in a scarf and put it in her purse. And, a few days later, she had come back with the watch in hand, handing it back to Hank with a big grin and mussing up his hair. It looked like new.
Trent continued staring at the watch as Hank eyed it for more clues. Trent shakes his head to get out of the daze, “Alright, Boss. I’m out early today. I uhh, I’ll see you Friday alright,” Trent grabbed his own 1960’s model hurriedly and shoved it into his pocket, clumsily knocking his coffee mug to the floor.
Heavy pieces of the mug teetered on the ground with a few splatters of the remaining coffee trailing around them. “Ah I’m sorry, Hank!” Trent rushed to pick up the pieces.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. All part of the job. My mom will be here tomorrow morning. I’ll ask her to bring a few spares.”
Trent nodded and made his way out the door, pausing, “Hey—ask her about that repair guy, if you can, too.” he gave a half-hearted wave and shut the door behind him.
Episode 3: Buckets
Hank stepped over to the spot where the pieces of Trent’s mug had fallen, streaked with remnants of black coffee. He wiped the floor and glanced at the damaged pieces in the trash. Ah, the clown-themed one, he thought to himself. Creeped me out a bit anyway.
Since its opening, Oldman’s had been known for its oversized, hand-fired mugs. They were all gifts from his mother, Trisha, with each handle displaying her unique thumbprint.
The thumbprints had originally been a mistake she had made when he was a teenager, and Trisha had started going to a new pottery class on Wednesday nights. Looking at her first mug, she furrowed her brow as she stood in their overdecorated 1990s-style kitchen, inspecting the mark. After turning the mug over in her hands, she shook her head, looked over at Hank, and giggled.
“Look at this big old print, Hank! Sheesh, that doesn’t look great does it?” she said, not really expecting a response. She paused, thought for a moment and erupted into an even bigger smirk.
“Nah, I like it. I think I’ll make it my signature!” she said. “What do you think, Hank?”
He smiled and gave her a thumbs up, “Everyone’s gotta have a signature. Go for it.”
It was true, the thumbprint looked pretty goofy. It was this awkward oval indent at the top of the handle, a perfect outline of his mother’s right thumb. He didn’t say this though, and just nodded in support before looking down at his cereal.
At the time, Hank was just happy she was finding something to make her happy. By that moment in the kitchen, they had been through the wringer together. Dad had left when Hank was 14, and he had taken an undercurrent of chaos with him. It was the type of chaos no one really acknowledged with words, but Hank could clearly see by his dad’s bloodshot eyes and the way he restlessly wrung his hands through his hair in the mornings. Hank’s watch would pulse twice every night at 8:30, when his mom would quietly close the door to her craft room upstairs and the clinking glass in his father’s left hand met the coffee table in the living room.
But those sounds were gone when he entered into high school, and replaced with new routines, new living room decor, and, well, lots of new pottery. Past arguments between Hank and his mom settled to gentler spats or them silently agreeing to spend time apart in separate areas of the house.
Things he used to hate her for, like no TV on school nights or his 11 o’clock curfew on weekends seemed trivial now. He was sixteen and raging with hormones but his high school angst had started to settle. Hank knew these moments at home were precious, even if he didn’t quite know why or understand what made him so aware of the time passing.
After class, he would saunter in the front door, set his bags on the ground and walk into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. He would then slosh together a bowl of cereal for himself as she walked in, usually with a huge grin and enthusiastic story about her day. He listened to her as she poured tea and mused about things like her new ceramics class, Mrs. Laura’s pogonias, or a new article she was writing.
She was never the type of mom to ask him too many questions or force conversation with him, a “What did you learn?”, “Where did you all go to pizza last night?”, “Got any girls you’re interested in?” She would just sit and let him share when he wanted with a knowing smile and fill in the spaces when he didn’t care to share at all.
Every Wednesday, she would take home a haul of her latest mugs, vases, and other unidentifiable objects that she made at her ceramics class.
“Mugs are just not big enough these days, yahno?” she would say as she lifted glossy oversized specimens onto the table.
Those early ones were… interesting… in Hank’s opinion. An expressive work in progress. Some had rings around the base. Others were lopsided and dipped in various colors of glaze, and still more had polka dots, stripes, or other patterns etched across their sides.
He would nod, raise one skeptical eyebrow, and chuckle to himself and she lifted the gigantic drinkware in each hand.
“That’s not a mug, mom. That’s a bucket,” he jested one afternoon. She looked at the mug quizzically, as if seeing them in their fullness for the first time and raised her head in laughter.
From that afternoon until she bought the ceramics shop for herself ten years later, Tisha Oldman brought home at least one gigantic handmade mug a week from her class. Each had her perfect thumbprint signature.
And each “bucket,” as Hank continued calling them, became truly remarkable as the years went by. She started experimenting with materials, some were fitted with charms or displayed carefully placed mosaic tiles. Others had imprints of feathers, leaves or pressed flowers. She would eventually paint entire landscapes with glaze, mountain scenes with deer lining the horizon, or snowcapped peaks overlooking open valleys. She would form little animals out of scraps of clay and fix them to the bottom of the mug—with a surprise cat, whale, or frog for someone to come across as they finished their cup of cocoa or coffee.
Many times, Tisha would mark the year on the bottom of her creations. When she didn’t, the birthyear of buckets were often a mystery, unless Hank happened to remember them somehow.
The missing date would come to him if he found a family photo featuring someone lifting the gargantuan things during Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas. “Ohhh, that one was a 2006, I forgot about that one. Yes, that month I didn’t feel like marking them. Look how sweet Jess looks here. This is your cousin Jess, Hank, you remember when they used to live over on Forest near Loyd’s gas station?”
Hank rarely remembered these offhand stories, especially as he got older, but would give a nod and make a note in his notebook—describing the mug, year and materials. He wanted her to have a record of them eventually.
When Hank sat at his mom’s kitchen counter at 30 years old and shared his idea for the coffee shop, he debated (mostly with himself) over the type of atmosphere that would suit the shop best. “Wood interiors would probably be good,” Hank said as Tisha cupped her mug full of tea.
“Like a cabin almost. I want it to be comfortable, yahno? Somewhere anyone can just settle in, enjoy a quick cup, read a book, catch up with friends. Not too fussy. What do you think?”
She smiled at him, with a half wink in her eye and shrugged, “I’m sure you’ll find something perfect! It’ll be a beautiful place. If you ever need mugs, I know a gal.”
He did not take her up on the offer. But her encouragement did give him the lift he needed to really go for opening the shop. I can do this, he thought. No, I need to do this.
Tisha and Hank’s best friend, Aiden, were the first to hear about the shop idea. Then, the news spread from there. No one was surprised to hear that Hank was planning to open a business. In school, Hank was what Aiden referred to as a, “nonchalant genius.”
“Doooo it. You’re a master of whatever trade you feel like being a master of at that moment,” Aiden shot over to Hank during their morning runs as he floated the idea for the shop.
Hank shrugged it off, “I was solid A- student and a master of not f*cking finishing stuff, you mean.”
Aiden chuckled, “I remember trying to get you into school! You were a genius, and I will stand by that. But you stubborn as hell.”
In senior year, Hank was the history, art and science teachers' darling but he spent most of his time in shop class. The same mindset that taught him to treasure the time he had at home in the kitchen led him to take on every opportunity that stepped in front of him and genuinely apply himself to classes that interested him.
A few months before graduation, Hank was offered a merit scholarship to San Francisco State for good grades and a demonstrated skillset that the board had referred to as, “A peculiar but outstanding combination of scientific aptitude, artistic ability and abstract thinking as evident in your studies, portfolio of projects, letters of recommendation and phenomenal craftsmanship.”
On the day the acceptance letter arrived, Aiden came over to celebrate. Hank beamed with a quiet gratitude as Aiden read the acceptance letter in a full, falsely formal voice and jumped up and down. Aiden, who had struggled with keeping grades and sports up to get into a school in California had hounded Hank for months to even apply to college.
Getting Hank to send the application alone had been an arduous task. “Mrs. Stets literally called you a prodigy in chem last week,” Aiden said on his first attempt to get him to apply for schools, aggressively waving the application in front of Hank.
“Apply to the damn school, Hank. I’m not telling you twice. Also, your mom already thinks you applied, because I just told her in the kitchen on my way in here.”
Hank shrugged and sighed, “I’m not even looking at San Francisco, Aid, I’m going to the trade school—maybe. I told you that.” He had been casually looking into trade schools but decided to give in to Aiden’s insistence eventually. Might as well try, he agreed.
Aiden helped Hank put together a portfolio of art projects and photos from shop class of hutches he had intricately carved. Aiden nodded approvingly while reading Hank’s essays. He stood by Hank at the end of classes, nudging him to ask the teachers for letters of recommendation. He reminded him every day for weeks until the deadline to, “Submit the damn thing already.”
When the letter came, Hank could not believe he got accepted, but there was no way Aiden would have taken no for an answer. This was just as much his moment as it was Hank’s.
“See Romeo, I am abstract,” Hank laughed as Aiden read the acceptance letter aloud.
“Yeah, abstract, right,” Aiden chuckled. “I’ll still never forget that play sophomore year. I made you audition with me because Rayya was in it.”
Hank smirked and put on his driest tone, remembering his own total lack of enthusiasm at that audition, “Juliet. Oh. Sweet, Juliet? Um… Where thou artst.. my Juliet…” Hank mimicked himself reading the part in the auditorium.
“Soundin’ like the dry eyes guy in an eyedrop commercial,” Aiden shook his head. “You just weren’t giving the theater any pizzaz, H. You gotta get in there! Project!”
“I said I would audition with you, Aid, I didn’t say I wanted a part. Anyway, it’s part of my process,” Hank mused.
“…I…There’s no way for me to express the depth and complexity of this mind,” Hank waved his hand theatrically and elbowed Aiden jokingly.
Hank did take the opportunity to go to San Francisco after graduation. The years following had been a long, winding road of disparate choices that delighted Hank to the fullest and caused his family and loved ones more anxiety than they cared to admit.
He headed to California to go to school for a few years, and then on to trade school in Oregon, and then on to be a biochemical research assistant in New Mexico. Then, he left that for blacksmithing in Montana—and a woman, and left those endeavors to build houses in New Mexico. And Hank eventually returned to Obsidian—very tired and a little jaded.
By the time he had landed back at his mother’s kitchen counter as thirty-year-old vagabond, Hank’s next adventure was to learn the art of settling in and setting up shop. I have to do this, he thought. But, I’ll know the right time when I see it. He started with the idea. Then, talking more about it. Then, waited.
Months later, on a crisp June morning in 2018, Hank was walking downtown and looked over at the old Smith cabin to find a big red sign out front. “For Sale,” it read in bold letters. That’s it. Hank’s watch pulsed once. And that was the start of the shop.
A few days before the shop’s opening day in October, Hank was running ragged. Between finishing and shining the wooden interior, testing recipes at home, interviewing a few café attendants for days he couldn’t manage the shop and running across town to leave a few flyers, Hank was running on multiple buckets of caffeine from home and zero sleep.
He opened the door to his shop with, the newly-hired, Trent trailing behind to get a run of the machines. “You’ll love these machines. I’ve been testing a similar model at home. They make the perfect cup…” Hank paused. “cup…” he looked up in a daze. “What am I forgetting?...”
Suddenly, Hank stopped in his tracks and gave the new hire a look of horror. He opened his notebook and looked down at the list of supplies, then looked up again, deflated.
“arugh… cups. I haven’t even bought cups. How the hell am I gonna run a damn café without damn cups—who am I!?!” Hank stared, wild-eyed and over-caffeinated. Trent looked back with raised eyebrows. He himself was confused and becoming slightly less sure of this new employment opportunity.
Noticing the panic across the new hire’s face, Hank shrugged and said, “It’s alright I’ll still give you a run of the place while you’re here. Sorry for that, Trent, a few last-minute details escaped me. I’ve been a little absent-minded trying to sort everything out in time. Don’t worry.”
Hank swung open the cabinets, “When we do have all of the cutlery, it will be h…”
He looked up and was shocked once again. They were filled to the brim with buckets. The crisp white of the cabinets was overtaken with rows and rows of his mom’s hand-fired, ornate, quirky mugs—all from different years of his young adulthood.
He recognized some early 2000s in there, a few 2008s and even a few 2015s. They were colorful, and tacky, and elegant and marvelous and completely overbearing in the way that his mother never had been—only when it came to pottery.
He looked at the mugs, and then back at Trent, and then back at the mugs.
“huh…” Trent remarked. “Those look a little big.”
“Yeah…” Hank nodded and pointed up, still in disbelief, “Those are the buckets.” And they both broke down laughing, doubling over and holding their sides, trying to steady themselves against the counter. Hank sat down on the freshly waxed floor and laughed until his eyes brimmed with tears.
Episode 4: The Legend
The morning after Trent had shown Hank the new watch, Tisha streamed into the shop with her typical beaming smile, “Got some buckets for yah, Hank!”
“Oh, hey Mom, let me see what you’ve got,” Hank was in the shop wiping down tables for the morning rush.
He walked over to Tisha and grabbed the box full of mugs. She followed him excitedly as he sauntered over to the wooden bar.
“Okay, so I’ve been toying with some new glittery glazes lately. This one,” she said as she lined each bucket neatly along the bar, “has kind of an oil slick finish. Pretty groovy, right?” she said playfully.
The big mug was indeed, groovy. Its pink and green exterior shimmered against the bar top as Tisha set it beside its colorful counterparts.
“It looks good, Mom. Kind of reminds me of mother-of-pearl,” Hank said. Oh, the watch repair, I’ll have to ask her about that, he remembered as he looked down at his wrist.
Tisha nodded and rubbed her hands together in satisfaction. “Alright, good to see you, kid. I gotta get to my 7:30. A class of kindergarteners! Should be an easy morning but gotta make sure I’ve got enough clay. I’ll see you Sunday, though?”
“I’ll be there,” Hank said as he gave her a quick hug.
“Before you head out though, Mom, I’ve got a question for you about Grandpa’s watch,” he said and he tapped the top of his wrist. Tisha’s eyes widened as she straightened her shoulders.
“Do you remember when I broke it, way back in middle school?” Hank asked.
Tisha nodded with raised brows, “Oh, yes, I do remember that. You’re not having any troubles with it are you?” She looked over at the watch hesitantly.
“Oh no,” Hank said. “The thing is still solid. I’ve just been looking into a few things with it. Maybe trying to get a date for when it was made?” Tisha smiled politely at her son but looked like she was stifling a laugh.
“What’s so funny? Anyway, I remember you were able to get it repaired, said it had to go to a special place?” Hank continued.
“Oh yes, that was near the Coast,” Tisha looked up at him, nodding slowly in recognition.
“The glass on that watch it…” Tisha paused, “Well there’s kind of a trick to it. There are some properties in it that are hard to find nowadays. There is—was a place near the ocean where it can be—could be fixed, but I’m… shoot, Hank. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to find the repair shop for it anymore.” She patted Hank on the shoulders and reached out to delicately tap the top of his watch.
“If you have any issues with it, I can always find a way. That watch and I go wayyyyyy back. That watch and our family go way back. Fixing it is not a problem!” she continued.
With that, Tisha lifted the empty box and clumsily headed toward the door. “I will see you on, Sunday, kid! Please bring that new cocoa recipe if you remember.”
Hank waved at his mom and went to the back of the counter to retrieve his notebook. He put down a few notes. Special properties.
What does that even mean, he wondered. A place near the ocean? There is a shop. No, she said there isn’t? WHAT kind of glass is this!? Hank’s watch pulsed once. Very funny, he thought.
He looked down at it and the mother-of-pearl changed from green to a vibrant purple tone. The glass encasing it glimmered in the soft light. He stood quietly, mulling over his mother’s words, trying to make sense of them.
“Hey Hank!” he heard Rayya’s muffled voice and gentle tap on the door. He set the notebook down and made his way to the front. He chuckled seeing her with disheveled curls lining her damp forehead.
She rushed in with the two boys in tow, the baby on her hip and a frantic look in her eyes.
“Wow hey, hi, good morning,” she said and gave a sheepish wave. “Hank, you gotta do me a favor this morning okay?” Her raised brows and brown eyes, as big as saucers, pleaded with him.
Hank was never one to deny a favor, especially for Rayya. He waved and walked over to pat her on the shoulders. “Of course, hey Ray—hey kids—what do you need?”
The boys waved and Rayya gave a surprised smile and relaxed as she swayed with the baby, “Gah thank you! Okay. Is it okay if these two sit with you here for a couple of hours? The house is flooding. Aiden just got called in. These two are off of school for fall break,” she nodded over at the boys. Each looked up smiling with tight curls crowning their faces. Hank laughed as he noted Anthony’s untied shoes.
Rayya continued, “I gotta take Lily here to the doctor, but Janet said they’re gonna run some tests today so it might be best if it’s just me and the baby for a few hours since they’re gonna be in and out,” Rayya waved her free hand frantically as she explained.
“It’s not a problem, Ray. Yes, c’mon boys, sit here at the bar!”
“Okay, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Ray said as she lunged into him for a hug. The baby’s smooth cheek grazed Hank’s beard and left a bit of slobber behind.
Hank wiped his face, pinched Lily’s soft cheek and calmly nodded. “It’s nothing, Ray. Remember that one time.”
He looked over at the boys and lowered his voice, mumbling from the side of his mouth, “That one time you and Aid pulled up because my drunk and naked A-S-S locked myself out of the house…?”
Ray chuckled and gave him a wink. “Hey, I won’t mention it if you don’t. Alright, I’ll be back at two. Call me and put me on the phone,” she said—raising her voice a little and giving the mom look to her boys.
They had booked it to the bar at the back of the shop already and were each sitting and swinging their legs against the stools. She continued, “Put me on the phone with them if they ACT Up. They’ve been mellow this morning, though and they have already had breakfast.”
Ray waved again and hurriedly walked toward the front, “Okay thank you again. Bye, boys. Be good, love you!”
Ray turned to open the door and Lily looked back with a sheepish grin. “A-S-S!” she gurgled with a glimmer in her amber eyes and waved her chubby little hand at Hank.
“Good kid,” Hank smiled and waved back. He turned back to the bar to see Tim and Anthony looking up with delight.
“You know, I think you two are THE FIRST patrons here at this bar today. What can I get for yah?”
“I’ll take a hot chocolate…with EXTRA chocolate please,” Tim said, looking satisfied with his choice.
Anthony rolled his eyes at his older brother, “I’ll take a hot chocolate too please, but I don’t need no EXTRA chocolate. I did have pancakes this morning. And my mom put some extra chocolate in those so, even though I do like chocolate I mean I don’t need that right now. That was a good choice, though, Tim. I mean I respect that; I respect that.”
Anthony shot his brother a sideways glance with his big brown eyes and looked up at Hank goofily. He clearly did not respect his brother’s need for EXTRA.
Anthony was the most like Rayya out of her children. They both had a direct and diplomatic way of smoothing over a conversation. Like her, he assessed all the options quickly and stuck to his choices, but tended to say things with a bit of a wink in his eye.
Tim, on the other hand, was Aiden through and through—jovial and theatrical. He liked things big and bold and never apologized for it. Tim shrugged his brother off with a triumphant look on his face as he rubbed his hands together. His own green eyes danced with excitement.
“This is gonna be good!” he exclaimed. “Uncle Hank, do you remember when you made hot chocolate for us when we went to your house? It was perfect. I mean I asked for hot chocolate every morning after that,” Hank nodded and let Tim continue.
“One time I asked my mom for three cups of it but she cut me off, but it’s alright though it’s alright. I got some another time. But your hot chocolate is the best.”
“I’m glad you think so, Tim,” Hank beamed at him. “You know what? I actually made a couple changes, added a few secret ingredients and perfected the recipe.” As Hank explained, Anthony straightened in his seat and looked up, interested.
“Test it out for me. You two will have to let me know what you think.” Hank walked over to the cabinets to pull out the syrup he had in a glass jar, and a saucepan. He added some milk from the fridge and lit one of the burners to a low flame.
“Alright, I’m gonna heat this milk for about… ehhhh five minutes,” he looked down at his watch. The boys watched breathlessly, eyeing the stove and Hank’s old watch. Hank opened the glass jar and the space around them filled with the sweet, deep scent of cocoa, brown sugar and cinnamon.
“Here smell this.” The boys each dipped their noses toward the jar and nodded.
“See that’s why I need that EXTRA,” Tim said. Anthony smiled and put a finger to his chin, trying to guess the ingredients.
After the five minutes had passed, Hank whisked in the chocolate syrup and then poured three big mugs of cocoa. He dipped a finger in his to make sure it wasn’t too hot, then added an extra spoonful to one of the mugs, making sure Tim could see. Hank slid two of the buckets across the bar to each boy and pulled up a bar stool to face them with his own in hand.
The buckets were about as big as the boys’ heads. One had reindeer painted across the front and a Christmas tree-shaped handle. The other had a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes dancing across the front. With two hands, the boys tilted the gigantic mugs to their faces and set them down heavily.
“So good!” Tim exclaimed. Anthony beamed and nodded, “It’s delicious. I like the new recipe.”
They all sat drinking their hot chocolates while Hank chatted with them about what was new—the sports they were playing now, their favorite subjects in school, and which movies they were watching. The boys got into a slightly heated debate about which fictional character would win in a fight. Anthony advocated heavily for Sonic the Hedgehog while Tim rolled his eyes and profusely stressed that Captain America “always beats everyone always because he’s obviously stronger. And obviously more patriotic.”
Anthony looked over at his brother and cooly replied, “That’s debatable but we can discuss later,” and Hank couldn’t help but bust up laughing at this very adult response, knowing he must have gotten this from his mom.
Hank thought back to how Ray would end their own discussions in high school. “I mean, we can revisit this later, Hank. But if you look at the facts, I think you’ll realize, the Powerpuff Girls do have more fighting power than the red Power Ranger. I mean… hey, I could be wrong...” She said this with a convincing tone and huge grin noting her love for the game.
As the conversation between Hank and the boys quieted and they sat enjoying their time together, Hank looked down at his watch. “Alright, your mom will probably be here in about two hours. You sure you’re not hungry?”
The boys shook their heads and Anthony fixed his eyes on the watch.
“Where did you get that watch you always have? Can I look at it?” Anthony asked.
Hank slid off the watch and set it in front of them. “I got this when I was… heck maybe your age, how old are you, eight?” Anthony nodded as Tim jumped in, “Yeah, I’m ten and Anthony is eight. He just had his birthday a couple weeks ago.”
“There’s kind of a mystery to this thing,” Hank continued. “I remember being a bit younger than you two, and my grandpa used to wear it every day. One day, he sat me beside him and told me about it.
“You see this shiny piece in here? That is mother-of-pearl. It comes from the ocean. But this color is kind of rare. Pearls are usually a light white color or can be blue-green. But this one—it changes a bit in the light.”
Hank picked up the watch and tilted it gently to show the changing colors. The face of the watch did have an inlaid mother-of-pearl base at its center. At first glance, the watch’s mother-of-pearl base was a deep brown. But in the light, the colors changed to a navy. Then with another tilt, it became an almost black shade of purple, and with yet another tilt, it changed again to a light aqua.
Wide-eyed, the boys stared at the watch and then looked up at each other as Hank continued, “Most of this watch comes from the deep sea—at least that’s what he said.
“This has been passed down to me from my grandfather of course, and his grandmother, and his grandmother’s father… and so on and so forth. It’s traveled from the Plains to here and before that they say maybe San Francisco. Before that, it was in Montreal, Canada, and before that, over the seas to France, then Morocco… After that, who knows… as far back as you can go.
“Gramps said this watch could be the first of its kind. He also said something about some legend, mermaids or sea monsters or something, but I’m sure you two don’t want to hear all that,” Hank paused and raised his eyebrows for dramatic effect.
“Nah, we definitely want to hear this!” Tim interjected. “Yes,” Anthony nodded. “What is this legend? What kind of mermaids?”
Hank smirked and continued the story, “Well, as Gramps said, the legend is that there was a time when humans didn’t only live on land. Thousands of years ago, we walked across deserts and mountains like we do now, but we could also live within the ocean.
“Almost like amphibians, we had lungs that allowed us to spend days underwater, catching fish, exploring deep sea caves, and hunting with dolphins and seals. But one day there was a shift. Something changed and tribes started warring against each other—fighting over the differences between land and sea. Land tribes were traditionalists and aggressive. They wanted to conquer as much of the land as possible. Sea tribes were much more mystical. They started to morph into oceanlike creatures and lose their grasp of the earthly traditions, forming their own languages and new ways that were hard to understand by land-dwelling humans.
“Land tribes started to resent tribes who lived within the water. They wanted full control. And those within the water fought back, rebelling against those on land.
“But it wasn’t exactly that clean cut. There were also tribes who were in between, people who settled on the shore and wanted peaceful access to both. They were called the Seekers. They were scribes, spiritualists and healers. They practiced magic and were sometimes able to tell the future. Even though they were sought out by both the land and sea kingdoms, Seekers were also feared because of their gifts. They seemed unexplainable to Land tribes. They were feared to be evil, traitors, slightly too mysterious.
“As wars started, the Seeker civilizations slowly lost out. And just like now, where the loudest voices seem to win, where those who have the strongest opinions can take hold, Seekers were overpowered by Land tribes.
“The emperors of the Land and their armies infiltrated Seeker communities, and one by one—made them choose. Land or sea? Choose or die. And one by one, Seekers refused, perishing across the coasts as Land civilizations took over and Sea tribes retreated further into the depths—never to return.
“Eventually, one great Seeker kingdom was all that was left. Anticipating an attack, the Empress of this kingdom put together a plan. She gathered her most precious materials from both land and sea. She sought out rare mother-of-pearl from the ocean’s depths and gold forged from within the ground.
“She told her craftsmen to tan the strongest leather and strengthen it with Seekers’ spells. And in those spells, they added something else…what they called the Spirit of the Seeker, a magic that held the great knowing of time and truth to guide future generations.
“As the legend goes, her craftsmen fastened those materials together to create a watch. And, after it was ready, she gave it to her only son. She attached it to his wrist and sent him out into the water at dusk—telling him to swim as far as he could, find land again and rebuild his life anew. She hoped that one day a new generation of Seekers would be born—to remember the past just as their ancestors did.
“Then, she dove into the depths, swimming down and down to a Sea kingdom below, leaving her land behind.
“You see, the Seekers in her kingdom had heard about the deaths of other Seekers. They started to get scared, and they started to rally against their Empress. The Seekers who were left feared the tyranny of those who dwelled on land alone, and jointly decided to leave their ways behind.
“When the kingdoms of Land marched in, they found the last Seeker empire at its knees, waving the white flag and ready to forget their past. With a joint spell, the Seekers vowed to the Land emperor that they would erase all memory of their culture and step into a new life as Land tribes.
“But what they didn’t know, was that Seekers were also the only keepers of Spirit. They were the meeting point of land and sea—of reality and dream. They were one last bit of what kept society whole. They say, at the moment the spell was done, dark clouds fell over the land and all human spirits split in two. Half of Spirit stayed on land, becoming a part of everyone walking the earth. And the other half entered the ocean, becoming a part of what we now know as mermaids. All wisdom was lost. Because of this, we each walk the land looking for our other half, hoping to reunite with our soulmate. Our other spirit.
“When sailors hundreds of years later started venturing the ocean on ships, the past was long forgotten. But mermaids would sometimes appear, calling to them with siren songs. And these mermaids drew the sailors in, not just with a pretty face or pretty hair or a pretty song. Mermaids carry the other half of our Spirit. Diving into the cold waves, and swimming toward the sea maidens, sailors were grasping for the other piece of their soul that they didn’t know had been missing. And mermaids were grasping for the missing piece of theirs.
“But somewhere, there was that son, the young emperor. He was the sole survivor of the Seekers who made it back on land. He still carried the memories and spirits of both.
“As Gramps said, someday a Seeker will be born that will remember the past and can hold the key to rebuilding a better civilization. The key to actual harmony,” Hank paused.
The boys sat silently. Tim had started playing with the mug with one hand and picking at his ear with the other. Anthony looked up quizzically and a little concerned, like maybe Uncle Hank had started letting the stress of the shop get to him a bit.
Hank snapped back to reality and wiped his brow. Damn. He was getting a little loopy, and he was starving.
It is a great story, he thought to himself. Though poor Tim clearly thinks it’s a snooze, and I mean wow I haven’t gone on like that in a while. “Well anyway, that’s the legend,” Hank shrugged.
“But Gramps also used to tell me if I slept with a textbook under my pillow, I would get straight A’s on my trigonometry tests. Hahaha. I was a solid B student in trig so we know how that goes.”
Tim nodded in agreement with one eye shut and said, “Solid B’s over here too, Unc.”
Hank patted Tim on the shoulder and picked up the watch to slide it back on his wrist. “They’re just stories. I do love this watch though. It’s very special to me. Reminds me of my grandparents. But it’s an old heirloom. I never took the legend too seriously.” The watch pulsed twice saying, no. Hank felt the double jolt in rhythm with his own racing heart.
Hank shuffled to the kitchen to toast a few blueberry muffins, layered on thick slabs of fresh butter and set them in front of the boys. They enjoyed them together as Tim’s energy revived and he listed off his wish list for future birthdays and Christmases.
“I mean, I would do a lot with an iPad, I told Mom. Not just for fun. She said as long as I choose one learning thing, I can use it for an hour every day on school days. She also said, ‘We’ll revisit that.’ Which I mean that could mean anything,” Tim raised his hands in exasperation.
“You know Mom. It means we’ll revisit it,” Anthony said firmly. “I do want an iPad though, too,” he grinned.
At that moment, Ray rushed in through the front door. Lily was at her hip, smiling and gasped, “ANTY! DIM!” as she saw her brothers. Tim jumped off of the stool and reached up for his sister, juggling her in his thin arms as she wriggled and shrieked. Rayya looked tired but happy to see them.
“I see they were good and got some food! Thank you, Hank, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll make yah a pie. How was it?” She looked down at her sons.
“I got EXTRA chocolate, you know how it is, Mom,” Tim said, raising his pointer finger triumphantly. Rayya smiled and nodded knowingly.
“It was great, Hank is on board with us getting some new iPads,” Anthony smirked, putting his hands together in a faux begging motion. Rayya rolled her eyes and said, “We’ll talk about it.”
“How was it really, were they good?” Rayya grabbed a piece of the boy’s leftover muffin and leaned on the bar.
“I mean they were complete gentleman, couldn’t ask for better customers. We laughed, we didn’t cry, it was fine. I did start blabbering a little about that watch story my grandpa used to tell. The stress of the shop is just making me kinda loopy, I think. So, if they have nightmares or want to go out to sea, you can blame me. Hah.”
“Ah yes, the Spirit. Man, I haven’t thought about that in a while. Kind of a cool story though. How are you holding up with this shop?”
“I mean, it was quiet this morning,” Hank waved his hands at the empty room. Wooden tables lined the open space, each lit by an individual candle. The fireplace had quieted to a small crackle. Subway tiled floors were still sparkling. Dark jade green bookshelves had little inlets with untouched books and old seafaring knickknacks placed about. Though it was empty today, he felt pleased as he glanced around. “But this is all I could ask for. This feels right, yahno? Five years already. I think it’s good.”
Ray scanned the walls, focusing her eyes on the books for a moment then beaming at the mention of the shop’s milestone. “You’ve had this place five years, Hank. Five years! That’s huge. Enjoy it.”
Hank waved his hand, brushing off the compliment and Ray leaned in to give him a quick hug. Hank gave Lily a gentle pinch on the cheeks and they all sauntered over to the front door, the boys racing each other along the way.
“Okay boys, butts in the car,” she commanded.
Anthony grabbed his mom’s wrist as they headed out the door. Hank could hear his muffled voice ask, “Mom, is Grandma a Seeker?”
Well, if anyone is, Marva is, Hank thought to himself.
He couldn’t hear Rayya’s response as she nodded for them to say goodbye.
“Bye, Hank!” Rayya, Tim and Anthony said almost in unison as they stood outside.
“A-S-S!” Lily shrieked and Rayya shook her head, laughing and raising an eyebrow as she gave one last wave.
“Good kids,” Hank said and he walked back in to clean up the last of the cocoa.
Episode 5: Professor Vic
“You teach my kid to say Ass?” Aiden shot over to Hank in between labored breaths. The two started running together every Friday when Hank first moved back into town. Hank, a former sprinter, now struggled with any distance over two miles and Aiden was the opposite. He could run for hours, or what seemed like days to Hank, and seemed to enjoy it.
The two had always linked up throughout the years. If Aiden was fishing, Hank was fishing. When Aiden was on the basketball team in high school, Hank was at least trying out—and meeting him on the court after class to help him practice. Hank and Aiden were an odd couple but brought out the funniest parts of each other. Aiden stated everything that Hank understated or just chose to go without saying.
Aiden liked everything EXTRA just like his eldest son, Tim. Aiden wanted every flavor of ice cream on his sundae. His voice carried across the room and his arms were usually raised in a big dramatic gesture as his green eyes glinted when he told a story.
On the flip side, Hank stated things plainly and just as they were. Or, at least as he saw them. But Hank liked Aiden’s ability to see more in every situation. Aiden pushed the limits beyond what was right in front of him. In return, Aiden trusted Hank’s opinion and counted on him to show up, give sound advice and call out B.S.
The running started when Hank returned to Obsidian at thirty years old, washed up and rigid from all of the changes over the years. He had inherited a cabin from his grandfather on the outskirts of town and spent most of his days holed up, making small improvements on the place and drinking. His many adventures, though they filled the years with excitement and joy in some forms, had placed him at a crossroads in life.
Hank felt directionless and was usually hung over. Getting up was torture and he wanted more for himself but didn’t exactly know what more even meant. As he explained this to Aiden over coffee one morning, Aiden screwed his face up into a quizzical expression and said plainly, “Get up with me tomorrow morning.”
“Nah I’m good,” Hank immediately shook his head and ran an exasperated hand through his hair. Aiden went on, ignoring this, “Yeah… get up with me tomorrow morning. Let’s say 5:30 ish. We’ll start with three miles. Just through Oak, then up through Main and around toward Nell’s place.” Aiden made a circular motion with his pointer finger across the mint-green laminate surface of the table.
“Three miles… of running?” Hank laughed. “No. Immediately, no.”
“Aid, when I said I meant directionless, I meant more like,” Hank spread out his hands in a figurative way, “Without life direction. Not f*cking hitting the trails or whatever.”
Aid nodded, expecting this response, “Look, you don’t have a direction right now, H. I know. You don’t. And that’s okay!”
Aiden looked at Hank empathetically, “That is okay. You’ll get there. But, one thing I know is you need air, H. You need life.” Aid raised his hands dramatically to his chest.
“You need to get a little uncomfy and you’re GOING to start doing that in a small way. Also, I need someone to chat with. All I listen to is Kid’s Bop. And all I watch is Trolls on repeat and I know every word to Frozen. Every word,” he looked into Hank’s eyes pleadingly with the same shocked expression Hank imagined a prisoner of war would give after being rescued.
Hank enclosed his arms around his chest stubbornly but nodded in agreement, “Yeah, well you owe me two shots after that,” he said. Aiden nodded back. Two shots of espresso sounded fair.
“Alright, be at my door tomorrow. 5:30 ish, don’t be late. And ish don’t mean later. It means 5!” Aiden pointed to his imaginary watch.
Hank took out his notebook and wrote down a reminder for himself. Aug 18th, 2017. 6:45. F*ckn running with Aid. You will receive coffee for your efforts. He clicked the pen and held out a handshake to Aiden.
“It means 6:45. See you then,” Hank said and winked. They shook on it and Hank did show up at Aiden’s door the next morning. At 5:30.
From then on, the two would run together without complaint. They eventually learned to keep the same pace. Warm summer sunrises blended into chilly fall mornings that brought the crisp smell of apples. One by one, the days froze into frigid winters, which eventually melted into fresh and chirping spring mornings.
On those runs, Aiden shared his excitement that Rayya was pregnant again and Lily was on the way. Hank nervously shared his idea to start the shop, and sought advice from Aiden about the women who flitted in and out of Hank’s life. A few years, one new business on Hank’s side, one new baby on Aiden’s and an even more solid friendship later—they were still at it.
“You teach my kid to say Ass?”…
Hank shook off the memory and looked back at Aiden. “That little girl is a genius. And yes, I might have inadvertently taught her,” Hank started laughing and was finding it hard to catch his breath. “I am an ass.”
They both stopped for a moment to catch their breath. They had run through most of the side streets and were making their way toward Aiden’s neighborhood. The colored leaves were dancing in the mild October breeze and gentle streams of smoke from fireplaces floated above the brick homes beside them.
Aid started stretching and looked over at Hank’s watch. “Oh, I was meaning to tell you about Vic,” He said.
“So, Anthony has been talking nonstop about that old story you have about the watch. He loved it! Asked to do swimming lessons this spring, and also decided he’s going to be a marine biologist when he grows up—it’s a whole thing,” Aided shook his head but was grinning with pride.
“Anyway, as all this was announced to us last night, Rayya was on the phone with her Uncle Vic,” Aiden continued. “Remember that guy? Boy, THE stories Floyd used to tell.”
“Vic? Yes, Rayya’s Dad’s college buddy?” Hank questioned and chuckled, remembering. “Good Old Floyd in the college days. I do remember that,” he nodded.
Aiden continued, “So she was telling him about your watch. And you know he’s huge into that stuff. He said he’s up for taking a look at the watch if you have time.
“I know you’ve been pretty busy with the store, so I took down his email. It was all kinda over my head, but Vic started talking about some pieces from—maybe Vienna—that might be similar or from the same timeframe as yours.”
Hank’s watch sent out a single pulse. Hank thought back to his dream from last night. The recurring dream that had haunted him for the last few months. The watch glinting in the ocean depths. The long delicate fingers clawing at his wrist and dragging him under. You forgot. Something was different in last night’s dream though. The watch was more in focus… set to a specific time. What was it? 6:06, 6:36, 6:16?
“Yeah, text it to me, I’ll reach out to him,” Hank said. “I’ve been meaning to get a better idea of this one. I mean, you know I’ve had it forever. I won’t sell it or anything. But Gramp’s stories keep sticking with me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was from Vienna. If I had to guess, it has the craftsmanship of one from the 1680s I saw a few years back. That one went for close to 500k,” Hank paused and cut himself off seeing Aiden’s eyes glaze over. Just like Tim, Aid wasn’t much into those details.
They continued stretching in silence. Maybe I’ll finally get to meet Vic! Hank mused to himself in the fall breeze.
Rayya’s father, Floyd, was a history teacher when they were all growing up. He had studied at NYU before meeting Rayya’s mom, Marva, and moving to Obsidian to settle down. A part of Floyd never really settled down, though. He would recount stories from his college days to Hank, Aiden, and Rayya as she blushed and rolled her eyes in embarrassment.
“And that’s when we had to tie together the bedsheets from our second-floor dorm, rush to the bottom, half naked, mind you! Well, I had boxers on if I recall, and they made us chant the old Higgins poem,” Floyd recounted to them once as they sat on the couch. Hank, red in the face and holding in a laugh, nodded.
“Do you know that one, Hank? It goes,” Floyd continued and Hank sheepishly shrugged his ten-year-old shoulders. “In the journey to the light, the dark moments, should not threaten.” Rayya slapped her hands to her forehead, shaking it from side to side.
“C’mon, Ray! I know you know that one! Belief! Requires, that you hold steady! Anyway, that was part of the hazing ritual in those days,” Floyd raised his hands up dramatically, egging her on.
“The one piece of college advice I’ll give you, Hank, and don’t forget this. Bring one of those foldable ladders with you when you get to your dorm that first year. It came in handy, I will say… you know I remember once—”
“That’s enough, Floyd!” Marva, Rayya’s mom, hollered from the kitchen.
“Right, right, you’re too young for that story, yet,” Floyd paused.
“Anyway, another piece of advice I’ll give you, Hank. Always have a right-hand man, a good friend who is a good talker. Vic was that for our gang for sure.
“Vic was one of the mellower guys in our crew. Wouldn’t find a smarter person,” Floyd pointed up to his forehead.
“But, when we would get into our shenanigans back then, God, that boy turned into a lawyer almost! I remember one time—Vic, me and Mark were holed up in the Dean’s office for… let’s just say… being unfit to complete our midterm one morning. And, well…”
As Floyd went on, Hank looked over at his friends. Rayya started nodding off on the couch and Aiden had fully immersed himself in the Rugrats episode they were watching. But Hank patiently listened as Floyd continued.
“…The three of us were in that office, hungover, Mark’s shirt was half ripped off and I had lost an eyebrow somehow.”
“Let those babies watch their show, Floyd! Wrap it up,” Marva laughed from the kitchen. Floyd waved her off.
“Alright, Dear! This is the good part though. Okay, so Vic sat down in front of the Dean, Mrs. Brady—fully composed. A perfect gentleman. She used to have a bunch of these artifacts all around her desk, from all over the world.
“And one of them was this old compass. Marc and I hadn’t really noticed it. But Vic nodded at that thing, cool as a cucumber. He looked up at her and said, ‘Well I’ll be, Mrs. Brady, is that really an M-1938?’
“Mark and I looked over at him like, ‘Man, what the Helllll you talking about?’ But, Brady took the bait! She looked up at Vic, who was this skinny 19-year-old kid at the time, and seemed a bit shocked he recognized it.
“That is, Vic, though! The thing about Vic was, he could shift the conversation in whatever direction served at the time. But he really was into those antiques. He would just light up and could go on for hours about the history and when it was used, why it was used, what it meant.
“And Brady ate that up, she did. By the time they got done talking about this old compass, me and Mark were no longer in danger of being expelled. And Vic had a lunch date with Mrs. Brady to swap other stories about antiques. She just let us go, happy as a clam and practically laughed us out of her office.
“I’ll never forget---Mark and I just looking at Vic, jaws to the floor once we all got outside. Vic gave us a wink and said, ‘I dunno, history is powerful, especially when you start realizing you’re running out of time.’ Then, like it was nothing, that fool walked on to his dorm room to sleep it off.”
Hank’s watch pulsed once at that moment. And it usually pulsed when Floyd shared stories about Vic after that.
Vic became a sort of mythological character in Hank’s mind. He would listen intently every time Floyd decided to share a story, sometimes wishing he could fast forward to the good parts—sometimes laughing with Floyd over the hilarity of the trouble they all seemed to get into. But Hank always wondered about Vic. Who was this seemingly debonair, unflappable guy? Hank always hoped they might cross paths someday.
Hank and Aiden rounded the corner and jogged up to Aiden’s house. Rayya was outside with the kids, shuffling them into the car. She kissed Aiden on the cheek and called out to Hank, “Hey Hank! Don’t forget to call Uncle Vic,” then looked over to Aiden, “You told him about the thing right?”
Aiden and Hank nodded in unison. “He did!” Hank said. “That’s great, Ray. Yeah, I’ve been meaning to look into this thing. I’ll reach out to him,” he said and waved at the boys in the car.
Rayya looked satisfied and started strapping Lily into the car seat, talking to Hank between rushed breaths. “He’ll be happy to hear from you. Dad says Vic can identify the age of anything and everything. And I’m sure if he didn’t know, he’d be happy to help you find out,” Rayya clicked Lily into the seat and pulled a Lego out of her back pocket, eyeing it confused.
Rayya threw it into the car and continued the story, “Hell, he’s been retired for a couple years, I’m sure he’d get it dated for you. Dad says he’s been going a little crazy up in New Hampshire with nothing to work on. He’s been looking into going free diving again. But at eighty…” Rayya made an exaggerated ‘I dunno’ expression.
“He checks that email pretty often. And if he does respond, tell him to get his ass down here!” she said demandingly.
“A-S-S!” Lily replied. Aiden chuckled and Rayya raised a hand to her head, embarrassed.
“I’ll do it first thing. Appreciate you, Ray,” Hank grinned, excited to finally meet this Vic. They all finished the conversation and Hank jogged a few blocks down to his house.
To: vbahis@nyhs.com
From: hank@oldmanscafe.com
Hi Vic,
I’m Hank, a longtime family friend of Rayya and Aiden’s, and Loyd Smith’s. I heard some epic stories about your college days. You can thank Loyd for that, but they also tell me you’re a genius when it comes to identifying antiques.
I’ve got a watch you might be able to help me out with. It’s passed down from my grandfather. I’ve had it since I was a kid and have been trying to get to the bottom of what the real origins might be.
It’s an automatic, has a moon phase display, has a leather strap—that does not get ragged and resists water as far as I can tell, mother-of-pearl base, and it’s in a similar style to what I’ve seen of early Breguet Tourbillon models.
No serial number or date is on it. Yet, there is an inscription, “noli oblivisci,” on the bottom of the face.
If you have any time to spare, I’d love to have you check it out and hear what you think. And if you’re even back in Obsidian, coffee’s on the house!
Thanks and hope to hear from you,
Hank Oldman
Owner, Oldman’s Café – the one with the big mugs
Cell: 959-555-0232
www.oldmanscafeobsidian.com
To: hank@oldmanscafe.com
From: vbahis@nyhs.com
Dear Hank,
Rayya dropped me a line the other day and let me know you might be reaching out! It is a pleasure to meet you. First of all, I would love to be of assistance. I have to be honest, between acting as the occasional assistant to the wife’s gardening and sudoku on the tablet, and my new hobby of model plane making (I’ve been giving it my all, but why I thought that was a great idea I will never know)—the calendar of my retirement years is sparse, Son. Very sparse.
Secondly, the type of watch you describe sounds very interesting. Namely, because an automatic watch of that description and produced around the same time as early Breguet timepieces would be rare, if available at all.
The inscription you describe is also very interesting to me. I have much to say on that, but it would be better if we talk in person.
By the way, I told Rayya that yes, I will get my “ass” over there for a visit at lightning speed—God and my wife Martha willing.
How’s lunch in a few weeks sound? I’ll be happy to come to you, and I may take you up on that offer for a complimentary cup.
See you then,
- Vic
Dr. Victor Bahis
Trustee, New York Horological Society
P: 778-555-3984
www.newyorkhorologicalsociety.com
Episode 6: Trent
Trent woke up with a chill down his spine and the fan buzzing in his face. It was already 4:30, fifteen minutes before his alarm was supposed to go off and he felt pretty hazy. Was that Tish? In the dream?
Neh couldn’t have been. He chuckled to himself. Definitely not something he ought to mention to Hank. He ran the scenarios through his head and laughed as he stretched his arms in a yawn. Oh, by the way, I dreamt about your mom last night... Slept great! Dreamt about your ma…
Trent stepped out of his platform bed swiftly. It was a maple frame, delicately carved on the sides with a mythical filagree. When he first saw the bed in a dusty antique shop in Boston, the ocean-inspired carvings caught his eye. Etchings of coral blended into swirls and schools of fish on the inner edges of the bed frame with sea dragons spanning the sides of each post. He had always been drawn to the sea and as a lover of antiques, Trent knew he had to get it the moment he saw it. It looked familiar. It felt familiar when he traced his pointer finger along the etchings for the first time.
Trent pulled on his flannel pajama pants and stepped into his small bathroom to splash water on his face. The shock of cold felt good along his cheeks and he stood in front of the mirror, patting his cheeks with a towel while intently observing any changes from the day before. He stared at his reflection and waited.
Trent’s aqua eyes were always striking, often drawing people in, but something odd had been happening over the last few days. As he looked into his eyes a ring of golden yellow flashed around his aqua irises, like a blazing fire lighting up on top of the sea.
Well, shit, still there. When Trent first noticed his irises changing, he thought it would pass after a few days but now he was starting to worry.
No one else seemed to notice it, but every time he looked in the mirror he saw the transformation—mood ring-like hues showing a small flicker of yellow ring around his standard aqua. Either he was consistently delusional or this was real and really odd. His eyes must be permanently changing.
No time to dwell on it. Trent brushed his teeth, combed his sandy hair and closely trimmed his short beard. He checked the time, 5:15, better start heading to the shop.
With swift and fluid motion, he walked across his small studio apartment toward the armoire. His place was fairly sparse but everything in it was carefully chosen and meticulously arranged. Long curtains enveloped his sleeping area for privacy. A few paintings lined the walls with pops of tangerine, yellow and teal brightening the otherwise white space. The large antique cherry wood armoire he kept in the corner of the room was carved with delicate 18th century filagree.
As he opened the doors in the dim morning light, Trent rubbed his eyes and scanned his hanging shirts, lazily filtering through the day’s options.
It was going to be a busy day, better wear something comfortable. Clark might stop by so best to pick something presentable, maybe the teal one? But what if Jessica makes it in? She always complimented him when he wore red.
He scanned the ironed shirts and raised his eyebrows in surprise. A globe of light was illuminating each one, moving with his gaze every time he turned his head. He rubbed his eyes again. The illumination stopped.
Trent shook his head and kept looking, reaching out for a teal plaid shirt while rubbing sleep from his left eye. The globe of light turned back on and passed over the shirt again. This time the piercing light was more pointed as if the left half of a flashlight had turned on. He stared at the shirt in disbelief and then rubbed his right eye. At that moment, the fullness of the globe of light came on again, still focused on the shirt in front of him. What in God’s name?! He dropped the shirt from his hand and ran to the bathroom mirror.
As he peered into the glass, two bright shocks of light met his gaze like two headlights in front of his pupils. Trent stood slack-jawed and stared into his bright reflection. He looked down, rubbed his eyes and stared up again. The lights then vanished and his aqua pupils looked normal. He scanned his face for other changes. Strong jaw, large and wideset eyes, full and sandy brows—everything seemed to be in its place. His strong cheekbones still framed a thin nose and the small scar near his left eye added character and roughness to an otherwise elegant face.
Trent checked the time in a panic, 5:35! He better get on his way and whatever this was was not going to sort itself out at this moment.
He rubbed his eyes again and the piercing light turned on. Agh!!!! I’m not a fucking flashlight. I’m not a flashlight. No time! Not today. Not today.
He rubbed his eyes to turn the lights off, ran to the floor to grab his shirt, hastily grabbed some jeans from the armoire and wrestled them on as he filled its pockets with his wallet, phone and keys and slammed the door behind him. Trent rushed down the stairs and out the front door of the old brick building. Miss Dolly, his sweet neighbor was out front tending her flowers in the garden.
“Hello Miss Dolly, nice to see you,” he tipped his head to Dolly with an uneasy smile. “Oh, hey Trent, good morning, dear! Have a great day today.”
“Yes! I will,” he said hastily, trying not to show the panic that was surging through him.
He continued, “And you! As also! You as well, ma’am. I mean yes, have a wonderful time today,” he clumsily muttered as he walked along the small path. Dolly raised her eyebrows in surprise and nodded.
After closing the garden gate, Trent rushed down the street, trying carefully not to rub his eyes and made his way to the shop.
Once he made it to the shop, Trent focused on his morning tasks and tried not to think about his eyes. Breathe, just breathe, he thought. Just wipe the tables. Now, sweep the floor. One thing at a time.
When 6:15 rolled around, Hank breezed in through the front doors and looked up at Trent with his typical warm smile. “Hey, mornin’. How’s it goin?” Hank said.
Trent nodded and smoothed his shirt. “Oh, hi, it is going well. Quite well. Yes. How’s it hanging with you, boss?”
Hank cocked his head to the side and smirked. “What’s going on? You’re acting weird.”
Hank scanned Trent’s face in silence and waited, his cognac eyes looked perplexed and he folded his large arms across his chest. Trent hated when he did that.
Trent shrugged and waved his hands, “I know, I know… I’ll just tell yah it’s been a weird morning. Something’s been a little off this morning I don’t exactly know how to describe it. I don’t even know where to start…”
Hank smiled calmly and nodded, his full cheeks rose up in understanding, as if to say—don’t push the issue. “Sorry to hear that. Take it easy this morning. Give me a shout if you need me to jump in on anything.” Hank patted Trent on the shoulder and walked to the back of the counter to set down his notebook.
Trent could feel Hank’s eyes scanning him a bit from the counter for a moment, but Hank gave him space throughout the rest of the morning.
It was a pretty standard day. Trent manned the orders and briskly churned out poured coffees as customers rolled in, making small talk and trying to be cheery. Hank sat at his desk in the back for a few hours to take care of bills and correspondence but jumped up front every once in a while, to take on a few drink orders, quickly clear away dishes from empty tables and chat with the waiting customers. As the hours rolled by, Trent’s shoulders relaxed. He felt grateful that Hank was taking a little extra care to bide him some time between orders.
When 2 pm rolled around, they finished the afternoon activities and the shop grew quiet again. Trent made up their standard afternoon coffees.
“And a LAVENDER syrup ALMOND milk latte for you, sir!” Trent said, comically exaggerating each word to give Hank a hard time for his “foofie” drink. Used to this, Hank accepted his bucket of caffeine without response and took a long sip.
“Yup, drink of champions.” He said matter-of-factly, resting his eyes for a moment.
He looked over at Trent, “The morning went by pretty quick. Here, I’ll pour you a cup,” Hank motioned for Trent to sit at the bar as he poured a mug full of black coffee. He slid it over to Trent across the bar and wiped down the counters.
Trent cupped the warm mug in his hands and gave a big sigh, trying not to rub his eyes.
As Hank shuffled behind the counter, putting away freshly cleaned mugs, he chatted a bit about the day and the typical customer happening. Trent listened half-heartedly, feeling a bit more relaxed and sipped his coffee, using his pointer finger to trace the blue wave print that was painted across the mug’s edges.
I should ask him about that watch, he thought. And as if reading his mind, Hank leaned over the bar and pointed at his watch.
“Oh, I was meaning to tell you. I spoke with my mom about this glass. Said she didn’t really know if the repair place is even still around,” Hank looked quizzically at the glass and tapped his fingers on the bar pensively.
“It’s odd, I got the feeling...she wasn’t telling me something. I don’t know, she said it had ‘special properties.’ And that the place was near the coast. I remember that part. But the rest was kind of unclear. It was hard to get a read on her.”
Trent looked at the watch’s gleaming face and placed his hands to his mouth in thought. “Well, that is strange. Doesn’t really sound like Tish. That’s good you were able to get more info on the place though at least. It was by the coast, huh? I’m assuming she meant that’s in Cali right?”
Hank nodded, “Yes, should be California. She and her friends go to San Francisco every year for a girls’ trip. They’ve been doing that since I can remember. I’m pretty sure that’s where she took it for repair.”
California. Waves. Trent started remembering flecks of his dream from the night before. The deep blue color and strong sound of waves crashing against a rocky shore. Tisha’s delicate fingers cupping the watch in her hands and dipping them under the water while chanting something.
“San Francisco is where they go,” Hank continued. “I haven’t been there for ages but that may be a good place to start. Get some contacts for watch repair places out there. See if I can find any similar shops, I’ll do some looking tonight when I get home.”
“San Francisco…” Trent said, still lost in his thoughts of the dream. Then he continued, shaking his head and trying to pep up a bit. The coffee was definitely helping. “I know a few dealers out there—antiques I mean! Not the fun kind, don’t get any ideas,” he laughed and winked at Hank. “Anyway, I’ll see if I can find anything too. I’ll talk to my pal Ed, been meaning to see how life’s been treating him anyway.”
“Cool,” Hank nodded and looked up at Trent quizzically. He scanned Trent’s eyes as if noticing something. Shit, Trent thought. He can see it.
They cleaned up their dishes and started filling orders again as customers streamed in. At 5, Hank started balancing the cash register as Trent swept the wooden floors and polished the table tops.
“Thanks for today,” he shouted over to Hank as he turned off the lamps throughout the room.
“Hey, don’t mention it. I know what it’s like to have a shit morning,” Hank said warmly.
Trent walked to the counter and wrapped a few leftover muffins in plastic wrap.
“I’ll probably head over to Ray’s for my biweekly appointment and drop some of these off. Anything else I should take over there?” Trent smirked at Hank and shook the muffins in his hand.
“Ray is not your therapist!” Hank laughed and shook his head in disbelief.
“Right, you are not!” Trent quipped back. He cupped the muffins in the crook of his arm and grabbed one for himself, holding it in his mouth as he stuffed his pockets with his wallet and keys.
“Alright OLD MAN, take it easy, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Trent said as he walked out the door.
“See yah, Trent. Have a good night,” Hank said.
Episode 7: Rayya
Rayya blew out the flame from the tip of a cinnamon incense stick in her hands and waved gently above it. She shuffled a deck of tarot cards absent-mindedly and set them back on the counter, then gave a relieved sigh and folded her arms across her chest triumphantly.
It was one of those rare afternoons when she was actually ahead of schedule. The boys were at their respective after-school activities. Adam was finishing up at work and promised to grab dinner on the way back. Lily was on the last half of her nap and would probably watch some cartoons on the small TV facing her crib once she woke up. The house was quiet. The dishes were halfway done. This was a damn good afternoon.
She sat down in the worn La-Z-Boy chair and picked up the fantasy book she had been slowly chipping away at as she got free moments over the last few months. Just as she cracked open the book, ready to find out what the Elvin warrior princess was up to next, she heard rhythmic knocking at the door. Rayya rolled her eyes, Gahdamn. It’s probably Trent.
She slowly stood up from the chair and rubbed the small of her back, which creaked angrily. I should really just force him to make appointments at this point.
“Trent!” Rayya opened the door and nodded disapprovingly to greet him. Trent smirked and held up the muffins in consolation. “Hey Doc, what’s shakin’?”
“You better shake your ass back to your OWN damn apartment, Trent! I repeat, I am not your therapist. I do not practice therapy anymore,” she said in a forceful tease and opened the door for him to walk in.
From the moment they met at Oldman’s, Rayya and Trent had a rivalry that could only be compared to two siblings. Rayya seamlessly fell into the role of the older sister who begrudgingly put up with the younger brother’s shenanigans, more for the plotline and entertainment than anything.
Rayya had in fact been a counselor before Lily was born and still had a way of drawing people in and giving sound advice. Trent picked up on this quality like a moth to a flame.
One afternoon of cookies and Rayya listening to Trent drone on about some dating drama he had at the time turned into a regular occurrence. Every two to three weeks, he would knock at the door bearing leftover baked goods, a new story for the day and a grin.
Trent headed to the living room and sprawled out on the couch.
Rayya unwrapped one of the muffins and took a big bite. She looked over and waved at him to take his shoes off the furniture, then grabbed a nearby notebook and a pen.
“If you’re not practicing anymore, why you got that pen and stuff? What doooo you therapists write in there anyway?” Trent asked.
“I’m writing about your nonsense. You made your business my business, my guy!” she said between bites. Rayya waved her hands hurriedly. “Go on, Trent, where should we begin?”
Without hesitating, Trent launched into his stream of consciousness, “Alright, so I’ve been telling you about those weird dreams that have been… plaguing me… lately. Last night’s was. Well, look don’t take this the wrong way, but it was about a woman.”
Rayya stared at him flatly.
“It was, so… it wasn’t not about Trish, you know Tish Oldman… Hank’s mom,” Trent looked up, scanning Rayya’s face for judgment. Rayya shut her lips tight trying to stifle a laugh, then pretended to jot a few notes on the paper.
“Yeah that’s definitely going in the file,” she coughed. “Yes, continue. What was this dream about?”
“Alriighhhht, very funny, Ray. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that,” Trent said.
“Just picture this. The dream opened up on a rocky beach in the middle of the night. I could hear the waves so distinctly rolling in and out and a deep blue color shimmered on top of the shore.
“Tish walked out to the shore and was wearing this cute little kaftan thing, yahno that older women wear? And she had her hair braided in the back. She was smiling, almost as if she was on vacation or something and walked calmly out into the waves.
“She got out pretty deep, maybe a few yards in, but didn’t really seem to be struggling against the current. She just kind of floated above, moving gently with each movement of the ocean and staring up at the moon, which was huge in the dream. It shone over her and kind of reflected against the ocean.
“After a few moments, she closed her eyes, reached into the pocket of her kaftan and pulled out a watch. I could see the details of it in the dream as if it was real, almost as if I was holding it myself,” Trent continued.
“The watch’s face was completely trashed. I mean that thing was broken with pieces of glass coming off of it but the hands were still spinning and ticking like normal. It started glowing under the light of the moon and she held it gently into both palms, humming something as she floated with the currents.
“Then, Trish dipped the watch under the water and held it there for a few minutes. The florescent face of the watch continued to glow and I could see the glass slowly form again over the broken pieces like magic. It looked almost like it was repairing itself.
“As it started coming back together, Tish was singing something. At first, I couldn’t make out the words. They were in another language, but then I could hear it and understand very clearly.
“She sang,
‘Maa sen pet / They looked at the sky
Maa sen ta / They looked at the land
Mak ibsen / Their hearts were
Er maut / more brave than in lions.’
“And then I woke up,” Trent said.
Rayya’s face had softened as he spoke and she sat quietly, milling over Trent’s words. Trent paused with a relieved expression on his face, then started snacking on the rest of a muffin and fluttered his feet on the couch like a child. He was happy to get that dream of his chest.
Rayya pressed both palms together in front of her face, a quirk she had when she was working through “that algorithm of thoughts,” as Aiden often referred to them. Then, she raised her pointer finger as if sparked by an idea. “Trent, do you mind if I read some cards for you?” she asked.
Trent sat up and wiped the crumbs from his mouth, “Like tarot? Yes! I’ve been asking you for a reading for ages, Doc. But what’s this have to do with the dream?”
“Alright, let’s just try it. It’s an interesting dream, Trent. I don’t quite know what to make of it but maybe we can pull a few and see if they get us in a good direction,” Rayya said this gently as she sat up and stepped into the kitchen to grab her worn deck of cards. The cards rested into her hand warmly and had gold gilding on the sides and a sweet French floral print on the back.
Trent rubbed his hands together in excitement.
Rayya kept her tarot side pretty close to the chest. She had experienced first-hand the negative connotations others associated with it and didn’t always like the attention, confusion, or unsolicited questions it evoked when people found out.
But the few she had read for spread the word over the years. She was her mother’s daughter after all, and readings often got to the heart of who people were and what they were going through. “It’s not a superpower, Ray. It’s just a map to help you look at things in a new light. But without intuition, sometimes it’s easier for us to chart that map for others,” her mother, Marva, had said when she gifted Rayya her first deck.
Trent found out about it offhand from Hank, and really had been hinting at Rayya for months just to do a reading for him. She knew he wouldn’t be the type to accuse her of being “too witchy,” “phony” or downright crazy, but she honestly just didn’t feel like it at the time. And if intuition taught her anything, it was don’t do anything you don’t feel like doing—especially if it ain’t your day job.
When Rayya returned to her seat, Trent closed his eyes and straightened in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs as if searching for the appropriate way to sit for a reading.
“Alright, alright, just relax,” she chuckled.
She continued, “A portal to another dimension isn’t going to open up or anything—” But Trent interrupted, “Oh! You don’t know the kinda day I’ve had, Doc.”
Rayya straightened the cards in her palms. “I’ll just pick a few, see what flies out. Sometimes it helps add perspective. What I want you to do as I shuffle is just think back to the dream, the moment you just described,” she said.
Trent closed his eyes and he could hear the soft shuffling of the cards in the background. The rhythmic sound of the cards instantly brought back the crashing waves from his dream. Goosebumps trailed his arms as he remembered the cool sea breeze.
He saw Trish’s hands dip gently into the waves with the watch floating gingerly between her fingers. The glass started regenerating itself where open cracks had been. The watch’s face glowed in the moonlight.
He opened his eyes and watched Rayya shuffle the cards in rhythm.
“Strange that you would dream about Trish, really. I’m sure Han—” Before Rayya could finish her thought, two cards flew out from the deck and landed face-up on the table.
Rayya looked down surprised, then smiled. Queen of Cups, the small lettering read on the first card. It depicted a woman sitting on a throne atop a hill overlooking the ocean. The queen was wearing a golden crown and a blue gown. Her sweet face had a look of serenity and calm.
“Hmmm… The Queen of Cups in tarot is really a representation of an ocean queen,” Rayya said. “She isn’t exactly a cold and calculated rational, like the Queen of Swords. We’re talking more like emotional regulation, fulfillment, balance, and a little bit of flightiness. But, she is mature. She does know how to balance her emotional side,” Rayya explained.
Trent nodded, “That’s Trish if I know Trish, which honestly I don’t know her that well,” he laughed. “But it fits the dream.”
Rayya continued, “Could represent Trish for sure, could also unveil something about what the dream is revealing to you. Or, even to us. Alright, what else we got here?” She shuffled the cards again, picking up the pace a little.
Within seconds, another card dropped face-up on the table beside the Queen of Cups.
Rayya stretched her hand to the other card and tapped it gently. Trent squinted to get a better look. On a bright yellow background, a woman resembling the Queen of Cups was also on this card, but she was wearing more modest clothing. With a similar expression of calm, she was smiling down and petting a large lion that sat at her feet.
“Strength,” Rayya read the text on the card.
Trent looked up quizzically and searched Rayya’s face.
“There’s an inner strength here,” she said. “This could be in reference to Trisha, or could just help interpret the dream. So yes, The Queen of Cups is about harmony, emotional balance, attunement to those around, and a sort of soft courage in itself—all of that. But with this strength here,” she tapped the other card again, “there’s an extra foundation of resolve and wisdom, indicating a courage not always on display and maybe not even acknowledged by its owner.”
Rayya thought for a moment and said, “A seamless regeneration. Rebuilding happens on its own as time goes on.”
“Seamless regeneration.” Trent nodded, not really knowing what else to say. At that moment, he could feel his eyes change again and saw two spots of light shine front of him. He quickly rubbed both eyes to shut them off, hoping Raya didn’t notice.
Rayya sat quietly for a moment looking down at the cards. She looked up at the clock, “Welp, give it a noodle. And that is our time, Trent! Would you like to schedule your next appointment?”
She grinned at Trent and stood up to coax him out the door.
Trent stood up, “Nah, Ray, thanks for listening again. I’ll drop by again another time. Hopefully, Aiden will be around next time. I still have to get him back for beating me in Yahtzee last time… Well, and the time before that,” he said.
“Yeah, I think Anthony might have given you a run for your money last time too,” Ray responded as she cleaned up the muffins from the coffee table. She heard Trent step toward the door.
“By the way, you should get that checked out with your eyes, and I think your accent is coming back,” she yelled toward Trent.
She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him, but had noticed the eyes and that faint, almost medieval-sounding roll had come back to his speech during a few moments when he was telling the story. She peered around the corner to see if he had heard, but Trent was already out the door.
Rayya added the cards from the table to the rest of her deck and shuffled them again. Three cards slipped between her fingers and landed on the floor. They were the Queen of Cups and Strength like before, but now The High Priestess leaned toward them. She picked up the Priestess card and stared.
“Shit,” she said aloud to herself. “I should probably tell Mom about this.” Rayya placed the cards back in their case and started cleaning up the kitchen before the kids and Aiden were due back home.