A Memorable Day

By
Geoffrey Zimmerman

A Memorable Day by Geoffrey Zimmerman from JointVentureLightning on Vimeo.

The menacing late morning sky presaged change to the small bayside village of Lanvik as Lenny Danielsson sat on the undulating tundra overlooking Smallwhale Bay.

Barely five miles away, the sky from sea to horizon was fraught with dark clouds that rolled forth like billowing oily smoke.

He peered upward and the wind threw his hair back. Above him, wispy clouds raced inland across the crisp blue sky. His rough fingers worried a group of smooth age-worn runes and he looked down at the shiny stones, beckoning them to bring him luck. He prayed the incoming storm was not an omen, a herald of the future.

He had always believed the day of his first child’s birth would be sunny and warm. It’s just a squall, he tried to convince himself. Why should it matter what the sky is like when my first child is born?

Even with knees to his chest, and arms holding them close, his thick cable-knit sweater barely kept out the chill and wind of the impending storm. The fear of motion and tenuous warmth he experienced held him to the ground. He wanted to rise. To move. But asked himself, What else can I do? Pace? Run into town and Drink? He knew that to plow through the doors of Rena’s Tavern would demand too much of him today. His friends would sidle up to him, lift a glass and buy him a drink. Perhaps tomorrow, when all the waiting was over, he’d feel like celebrating. Lenny’s head had gradually dropped while he ruminated on the future and he had softly nodded off.

The storm blew in. The first heavy raindrops bounced off his head, then slowly soaked through his thick sweater, cooling his shoulders. His eyes flashed open. He shook his head, pulled himself up.

The earth smelled sweet, fresh and alive. So bright was the grass, and it shone and glimmered as the wind caressed it and pushed it around.

He started to run toward the house. Outcroppings of granite created smooth slick surfaces and he almost slipped. Across the undulating meadow his house looked small, yet so safe and secure.

He saw a figure leave from the house and look up as she quickly wrapped her knee length shawl around her. Even from this distance, he could tell it was Renee. One could spy that brown hair from a mile. It was as long as a horse’s tail. She started to run toward him.

She was coming to tell him. Tell him it was time. Realization coursed through his body and he quickened his pace. Her figure became a blur as they neared each other. He didn’t slow to hear Renee’s words as they converged.

She reversed direction, trailing behind him now, and shouted at his receding form.

“She’s been calling for you.” Renee had other words to deliver, but slid to a stop and spun her heels, following Len toward the small house.

Still intent on delivering her message, she trailed him.

Len nearly lost his balance as he skidded to the door. He took off his hat, pulled his wet hair back, pushed open the door and went inside.

In the bedroom, Loren was sprawled out beneath the rumpled bed sheets. The midwife, Elssa, old and wrinkled as the granite rocks in the meadow, stood ready and paced across the bed’s foot. She glanced toward the doorway several times, throwing back her hair and rubbing her hands together.

It was easy for him to adjust to the darkness of the house, for he had often come home at night and knew where the obstacles lay. The shutters were closed and only one lamp burned. In the bedroom. He drew up to the bedroom doorway and pulled his head into view. By the light of the solitary lamp, he saw the outline of his bed and his wife’s form, spread out under the covers.

THE REST OF THIS STORY CAN BE READ IN MY BOOK, GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES AND POETRY