Along the back fence, there runs a line of trees. On her side, they’re honeycrisps. On his, they’re fujis.
Most evenings, he goes outside to find that she’s already left one for him. His fruit grows slower than hers and he’s not as good at the harvest, but, when he can, he leaves one too. This way, they each get to taste the similar, yet different, sweetness that the other grows, and that each desires.
On some days, they meet and walk along the fence together. They snap their separate stems and delicately place their words into the chill air. They defy the descending sun because neither is eager to go back inside. They like the openness. They like the air and the pink glow that reminds them of a Malick film. They like listening to each other.
You know, he says, you mentioned something once that I think about all the time. You said that one of the joys of joining another person is learning what they look like. Do you remember?
Yes.
I love that idea. I really like what you say.
I like what you say too, and I want you to say more. Tell me another story.
Another story? I only have one story, and I say it over and over.
Maybe, but you say it a different way each time, and I always like it. It breaks my heart.
I’m not trying to break your heart. I’m sorry. Besides, I’m running out of ways to tell this story.
No you’re not. Your trees are full – I can see from here. The ones that are left may be a little harder to reach, but they’re still delicious. I mean, look at that one. Pick that one for me.
This one?
No, the one next to it. The one that flares like a bell.
He pulls it free and looks as it. Are you sure you’re not tired of these yet?
Are you tired of mine?
No.
I’m not tired of yours either, and for the same reason. Now, it’s getting dark and I have to go back inside. You do too. We can’t stay at the fence forever.
I know, but I hate to leave. When will we be back?
As soon as we’re able. Until then, we can take something away and use it to make life a little easier.
He tosses the dappled thing into the air and catches it. Are you sure that you still like these?
I wouldn’t ask you for them if I didn’t.
It means a lot that you say that. Thank you.
You’re welcome. Now hand it over.
THE PEAL
Down the row, she looks at me with a tremendous smile. Bright points of light slide along the curved bronze gleam by her chest, and the lip casts a glow against the bottom of her chin.
I smile back, as the two ringers between us upturn their own golden cups, and we all focus on the conductor, our eight white-gloved hands, poised.
The organist powers the music through the pipes and the choir sings. We stand behind the singers, spaced apart so that, when the time comes, we’ll have room to swing broadly and produce a full, round tone.
Though hidden in the dark, I can feel the congregation looking up at us. They are expectant at the sight of four, blue-robed ringers, tucked into a corner of the choir loft, patiently holding our sparkling chimes until the news is heard that, in Bethlehem, a savior is born. A savior has been born in Bethlehem, let there be a joyful noise.
The wave rolls toward me and my right arm circles low and outward and the hammer snaps forward and the note sings out, deep and rich. It descends from the choir loft and shakes the candle flames. It enters the congregation and pours into the pews, shimmying through the children’s egg nog bellies.
After my right arm, my left arm swings and fills out the peal which is then re-born by her ringing again at the top, and up and down we go, left, right, high, and low, a shining ladder of sound.
Finally, when it feels like even the stones of the church have joined us in sympathetic vibration, the conductor signals, and we don’t damp, but let them ring and twirl them and shimmer them all over the church, and the overtones gallop forward and backward, prancing on the heads of the children and leaping off the backs of their ears.
The conductor signals again, and we bring them to our chests and feel the tingly buzz as they fall silent and silence is what is needed because the whole world has heard the good news and now, if it were wise, it would be still and ponder.
After, as we’re putting them away, she finds me and kisses me on the cheek and she has to run because she’s got a plane to catch, but I’m a lifesaver and she owes me one big time and she’ll call me as soon as she gets back and we’ll get together for dinner and it’ll be her treat, ok?
Outside, flakes are lightly falling. Everything has that peaceful, muffled sound that happens after a fresh snowfall. The sidewalk is an unspoiled carpet and the windows are rimmed with white. In front of me, a black, triangular building rises toward the sky and the stars peer and disappear behind the purple, flowing clouds.
I had been dreading this thing the whole day, but now that it’s over, I can admit that I had fun. She had been right. I know that you’re an atheist, she had said, but there will be Bach and, even if you don’t believe in God, I know that you believe in music.
Behind me, a giggle. I turn to see a young couple step out onto the church steps. She is unsteady, and holds on to the rail with a pink mitten. He stands next to her, supporting her around the waist.
I recognize the boy from the choir; we had been introduced earlier in the evening.
My friend’s a lawyer, she’d said. He squinted at me.
A Christian lawyer, he asked.
Once she safely makes it down the stairs, he runs to the corner and hails a cab. He opens the door and she walks to him. Snow settles into her brown, curly hair.
I can’t believe that you found a cab this fast on Christmas Eve. She kisses his neck.
It’s a miracle, he says.
She laughs.
The cab idles for a moment, red lights shining, windshield wipers winking. The couple shares the back seat and I know that he is listening to the driver’s question.
Even though I’m not a Christian lawyer – even though I’m not a Christian – I know his answer. I know that he believes what we all believe.
I know that he believes in true things, like good friends, and good music.
And I know that he believes in life things. Real things, which are also true. The rise of a woman’s nipple beneath your palm. Her open mouth by your ear.
Where to?
I’ll give you an address, driver, but you don’t need it. You already know it. Everybody who enters this cab – Christians and heathens alike – knows it, and seeks it. It’s the place of salvation. It’s the calm, solitary place where she and I can be together.
