Jeremy sighed quietly and fought the urge to roll his eyes. He’d been dreading parents’ weekend at the University of Oregon. At least his particular parental units—his Mom, Rain, and his Dad, Dylan—weren’t trying to adopt the phony cool attempted by so many of his friends’ parents. No, they were just being themselves, which was bad enough.
“Why did they put gargoyles on the library?”, Dylan asked again, pointing at the brick building’s eaves 30 feet up. “It’s not at all consistent with the rest of the motif.”
“Maybe they were just trying to encourage diversity of theme”, Rain answered in her slow, breathy voice. Then she glanced at Jeremy and smiled. “Dylan, honey, it’s a library–what’s inside is what matters. “
“Humph. I suppose kids don’t come here much anyway–they’re too busy with their Facebook, and their smartphones, and their PlayStations.”
Jeremy could have recited word-for-word what his father would say. Jeremy could remember when the evil trio was MySpace, cell phones, and iPods.
Rain and Dylan were the products of a different age, a flower-children upbringing. Both artists, they looked at the world in ways different than most. Jeremy had learned that gentle adjustments to the flow of the conversation were sometimes the only way to actually get anywhere. He might only be a freshman on campus, but he had a PhD in his parents’ personal peccadilloes.
“Hey guys, turn around. I love this path that winds through these big trees. Sometimes I go sit in the shade to study. You know, there’s something in this place that opens my imagination and makes studying almost fun.” Jeremy knew that bringing up something slightly metaphysical would steer his parents just a little closer toward done on that long, long day. But in this case, he really wasn’t making it up: there really was something special about this place.
Silently, the three walked the path. Filtered sunlight and a sprinkler system provided enough incentive for grass and a patchwork of wildflowers to grow lushly, and the birdsong from above blunted the sounds of campus and traffic. In the middle of this space, somewhat at odds with its surroundings, was a statue. The statue was a bronze casting, long gone to gray, touched with moss from the unrelenting Oregon damp. The subject was a woman of the old west, seated primly in a chair. She was depicted wearing a simple dress, with a period bonnet on her head and a shawl across her lap. Her chair sat, literally, atop a block of plain cement that displayed a plaque.
“Pioneer Mother”, Dylan read aloud. He stepped back and took in the statue, then stepped closer than before. “She’s very detailed. From a distance, the prominent facial features and superficial wrinkles make her look quite old–but up close she looks softer and younger than I expected. Marvelous casting work.”
Rain slowly circled the statue, brow furrowed slightly. “She’s sitting so properly; not posed, though–more like she’s patiently waiting for something. Jeremy, do you know anything about her?”
Jeremy was cautious about answering, fearing that this could be an all-afternoon art appreciation seminar if he wasn’t careful. “Not really. I’ve never paid much attention.” Seeing his parents still looking closely at the woman seated above them, he suddenly had a flash of inspiration. “There is a campus legend that she stands up whenever a virgin walks by.”
The comment successfully derailed his parents’ artwork analysis, but earned him twin glowers that eloquently said “Show some respect, son.” Jeremy had a follow-up, though, now that he had their attention: “I know this: directly on the other side of that building over there is a statue of a man from a similar period. I think they’re related.”
“Another statue?”
“Where, did you say? Around which building?”
He had their attention now, and better yet it was directed further along the route he hoped to lead them. “Right over here, just around Johnson Hall.”
A puff of wind brushed the three as they turned. The breeze spoke so quietly as to be inaudible to human ears: ”‘Related?’ Well, you could say that.”
~~~
The copse of dense woods gave way to open sky as they approached the venerable administration building. They skirted the building, and Jeremy was glad of the distraction, for Johnson Hall is far too interesting architecturally for his aesthetic-sensitive parents to ignore under normal circumstances.
“There it is—just across the street.” Jeremy pressed his advantage and hoped that he could continue herding them toward their old Saab, parked in the visitor lot near his dorm. It was a long way off, still, but closer than a few minutes ago.
“Pioneer Father”, Dylan read from the plaque. “Clearly the same artist, same medium, same style.”
“He’s so tall!” Rain said. “He looks like he’s hunting, in his fur cap and buckskins, with his trusty rifle at his side.”
“Well, he’s been hunting, that seems certain,” Dylan offered. “But if he were actively hunting, he’d be holding his gun differently so that he could quickly aim and shoot. To me, he looks like he’s done hunting and heading home.”
“Yes, I think you’re right—and look at the long stride he’s taking; I don’t think he’s trying to be the least bit quiet.”
“Agreed, honey, and one more thing: It would have been much easier for the artist to cast the gun held ‘at the ready’. What we’re looking at here was significantly more complex to cast. So whatever he’s up to, it was done intentionally by the artist.”
All his life, Jeremy had been listening to this kind of analysis. He allowed as how it had helped him learn to look at things critically, which had proved a vital skill in college that he was glad to possess—but at other times it was a true pain in his butt. This was never more true than standing on the aorta of student traffic on campus while his parents discussed a statue that was so familiar to everyone else that they didn’t even see it any more.
Jeremy pointed out that they were really close to the original campus buildings.
Rain and Dylan remained mesmerized. There was something about the expression on the man’s face…something they couldn’t quite articulate.
Jeremy mentioned that the School of Architecture was nearby and it was a very interesting building.
Rain finally said, quietly, “It looks like he’s about to smile.”
To Jeremy’s utter mortification, his father clapped his hands together and yelled “THAT’S IT! That’s what’s so interesting about his face! He’s about to smile. Brilliant, my dear!”
Rain and Dylan were, of course, oblivious to the stares and chuckles of the passing students and parents. Their son, meanwhile, was keenly aware of everything—as though he had wandered onto the stage during a performance of some show he’d never heard of and was suddenly illuminated by a spotlight. So he went for broke.
“Mom, Dad, please…the Memorial Union is really cool and it’s right over there. They have espresso drinks and ice cream!”
With only a brief hesitation to share a glance between them and the slightest of shrugs, Jeremy’s parents fell into step behind their son as they made their way to the Memorial Union.
A slight stirring in the trees and shrubs, unmarked by passers-by, spoke in a soft voice. “My, my. They understood. That hasn’t happened in a long time.”
~~~
Oregon’s high spring twilight settled gently on the campus. Along that portion of 13th Street, the towering alabaster path lights seem reluctant to concede the day. At last, though, the lights came up and the foot and bike traffic slowed. Passing cars—blocked off from this section of the street—could be heard, but less and less frequently.
Rain and Dylan had long since departed. Jeremy was across campus, swapping “My parents are so lame…” stories with his fellow dorm residents.
Later that Saturday night, a few intoxicated students staggered through the streets and paths, ignoring the furtive movements of feral cat, opossum and raccoon. The raucous laughter and over-loud voices echoed off the brick facades of the buildings, including Johnson Hall. Soon enough, though, those voices faded and all was still.
The warmth of the past day radiating from the blacktop began to fade, and the light breeze faded from a whisper to a dream. Somewhere far off, a clock tolled the hour, the echoes off the buildings distorting both the proximity and direction. Nothing on this earth moved.
The Pioneer Father’s eyes slowly looked left, then right. Seeing and hearing confirmed: all clear. With stiff, slow, silent movements the tall figure in the gray buckskins stepped down to the sidewalk and stretched. He set his gun down in the bushes where he was certain that no one would find it. He knew from long experience that no one would notice he was gone, since no one knew he was there to begin with.
After another quick look and listen, he crossed the street with slow, purposeful strides. The Father’s smile blossomed at last as he skirted the pools of light created by the street lamps. His pace picked up as he disappeared into the shadows next to Johnson Hall.
~~~
Not far away, she heard the clock, too. “Not long now”, she thought. She listened to the deep silence and patiently looked around. Nothing to see but a bit of moonlight, filtered to a patchwork by the canopy of limbs and leaves above. She smoothed her dress and tucked a recalcitrant lock of hair behind her ear. She rubbed and patted her cheeks just a touch, to give them a rosy glow.
And then he was there, reaching strong arms and hands up to help her descend from the pedestal where she spent her days. His smile still caused her heart to skip a beat every time she looked down at him.
His hands closed around her waist and he lifted her down to the earth, with a landing as gentle and silent as a butterfly’s. He looked at her. She was no longer the young girl that he had courted, the one that made his heart ache just to think of her. At last, he had won her (there was no other way to say it) and they had married. Three children followed, two who had survived to become sturdy adults with families of their own. No, she was not that young girl—she was something richer, better. She was the partner with whom he had shared everything. She had a knack for always saying the right thing, or nothing at all if that’s what he needed. To him, she was more beautiful now than she had been when she was young. The little crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and the wrinkles on her face from farm summers just served to remind him of their life together. The eyes had lost a little of their youthful sparkle, but more than made up for it with the depth of age and experience. More than in their youth, more than later in life, more than last night—looking at her took his breath away.
She looked at him and smiled. She had noticed something about the gangly young man that couldn’t seem to stop staring at her, all those years ago. The single-room schoolhouse in which she had spent 11 autumns, winters and springs suddenly seemed small, the smell of chalk dust stifling in the air. But that final spring of her school years was diamond-bright outside—and inside her heart. She sensed in him a gentleness, but also a resolve, a feeling of calm confidence. He seemed to be sure of himself all the time, but with an utter lack of vanity or arrogance. Later would come the beautiful little wedding in the town church, and then the children. Little Samuel had taken a fever and not survived, but Sarah and Paul grew into hard-working and loving people—and the grandchildren had been the light of their lives during those last years.
Arm in arm, her head against his shoulder, they made their way toward the shadows and moonlight. From impossibly far away, familiar music began to play, in a register only they could hear. Father and Mother smiled; and they danced. It was a waltz, timeless and elegant. They danced as though a single being, their timing and movements precise from long practice. There was no hiding their smiles as they slid effortlessly between the shadows in 3/4 time.
As they danced, they talked about their lives together and the love they shared. Their voices were quiet, so quiet that even the owl gliding between the treetops didn’t hear. But Father and Mother talked. They prayed for little Samuel, and remembered fondly the years of watching Sarah and Paul grow up. They talked of friends they shared, long ago. They recalled heavy winter snows, thundering hail, and oppressive summer heat.
They danced slower now, for they knew their time was nearly at an end and they were reluctant to see their time together end. They thought back to the night that they had died in each other’s arms. It wasn’t cold, or heat, or injury or illness. They died one night because they were old, and couldn’t bear to ever be apart. Now they were ornaments adorning this lush, green campus—ignored, for the most part, by the endless generations of students and faculty. But they were together every night, in the hour between late and early.
The music faded finally and, after a moment of utter silence, a faraway rooster crowed. Their precious hour was over. They walked to her pedestal and embraced one last time. He lifted her, as easily as he might a child, up to the platform where her chair waited. She brushed away tears and gave him her bravest smile. He smiled and winked, and then—as he did every night—he stepped back and bowed.
With a final wave, he made his way around the dark, hulking building on his way to his own platform. He retrieved his gun and settled into his familiar pose and expression.
As the first shred of false dawn appeared in the east, a soft wind blew around Johnson Hall. “Goodnight, love” it sighed.
~~~
The dawn was quite real when Jeremy emerged from his hiding place in the copse of trees. He looked at The Mother, at rest again. He didn’t have class until that afternoon, and he knew he needed some shuteye now—but he was there, in his hiding place, watching, as often as he could be.
“Mom and Dad would never believe me” he thought for the hundredth time. Making his way slowly back toward the dorm, he smiled. ”I came to college to become a writer,” he mused. “Maybe someday, I’ll write about this.”
~~~ The End ~~~