Katarina Beche (F) 3 of 6

Katarina Beche set down her groceries on the kitchen counter. Before she could turn toward the dining room, her mother spoke. “Rina, did you see Peter yesterday?”

Katarina’s shoulders slumped. “See him? Ma-ma, it was a sentencing hearing. See him. Why do you ask such a question?” She opened a cabinet door and began setting canned goods on the shelves.

“Well, what were you wearing?”

“Ma-ma!”

“Please not one of those black suits you think makes you look all judge-like.”

“Yes, Ma-ma, and my hair was up and pulled back into a bun, and I wore black flats, and almost no makeup.”

“Oh, Rina. Well it’s all too too much if you ask me. Is he really going to be kept there for 10 years? Too too much.”

“Yes. Yes as long as Wasserman is chief justice. He is adamant.”

“Wasserman is a pig, Rina.”

Katarina allowed a slight smile. “Well, he is that and he is adamant.”

The older woman leaned against the refrigerator. “How was Peter?”

Katarina paused. “Ma-ma, Peter was Peter. And I was—am—a justice. Why belabor the encounter. I handed down the sentence to a convicted felon. An enemy of the state.”

“Fine. I see you didn’t buy anything fresh. I’ll go down to the market and bring back some good food. Oh, and the bakery too. Is his wife still missing in action?”

“I don’t know about any of that.” Katarina poured herself a glass of Merlot.

“What of his son and his granddaughter?”

“He won’t be allowed to see his granddaughter.”

“Rina!”

“Well, Ma-ma.” She pushed a glass of wine toward her mother.

“Pig Wasserman’s work, no doubt.”

“Peter is a convicted felon. He’s lucky to have escaped charges of treason. He’s alive.”

“Peter Linton wouldn’t harm flies much less topple the country. He will die there.”

“I do wonder how many visitors will be allowed. His son, yes. Maybe, but not many, some of his colleagues from the university. I don’t know.” Katarina went into the living room and sat down next to the fireplace.

“Peter’s a good man. Maybe too honest, but don’t you think he is a good man?”

“I don’t think, Ma-ma, not about Peter.”

“Pish. Well, no matter he is in jail and that is that I suppose.”

“He’s not in jail.”

“You know what I mean. He’s locked up. For 10 years, Rina.” She turned and looked out the front window to the street below. “Such a long time.”

“None of that is for me to say. Oh, did you want me to reorder Vogue?”

“Yes, and People.”

“Yes, Ma-ma. Are you going to the market?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, I won’t bring up—you know—again.”

“Okay. Could you get us two baguettes and something sweet?”

“Of course, my dear girl. For you, the moon. I’ll be back in an hour unless I run into some of the girls. I’ll text you. Smooches.”

Katarina blew her mother a kiss and waited for the sound of the door closing. She stepped over to the sofa and slipped off her shoes. Settling back into the cushion, she stretched her legs out to the coffee table.

Eyes closed, just one more thought on the matter, that Peter Linton is a damn fool after all.

Lyman 2021 

 

 

 

Peter Linton (F) 2 of 6

Peter Linton sat back in the wooden desk chair. Short stacks of books balanced on the old desk and on the floor next to his chair. A few titles caught his eye. Frazier’s The Golden Bough, Burton’s The Source of the Nile, Montaigne’s Selected Essays, the Donald Frame translation.

Loudly, 3 sharp raps on the front door. Heehe chuckled. How curious, the door was not locked, would never be locked. He pushed back from the desk.

“Come in, not locked you know.” Peter stood facing the door.

“Dr. Linton, it is Captain Thibaut of the French security force.”

“Yes, yes. Come in, Captain, come in.

The door opened and in stepped a younger man, arrayed in full dress uniform. “Dr. Linton.” He stood stiffly.

Peter took a step toward Thibaut. “So, Captain, you are my host for my extended stay?”

“I am in charge of the security detail, guards, the security equipment, and we will oversee your day-to-day life here.”

“Ah. Do you play chess, Captain?”

“Monsieur? No, no I do not play.”

“Well, perhaps a friendly game of gin now and again. What can I do for you today?”

“If you would, Dr. Linton, please pass along requests for visitations a week in advance so your government may approve. Also, for phone conversations. You will see on the kitchen counter requisition forms for food and drink. I would advise you fill one out within the next two hours so we may attend to your needs.”

“How do I get requests to you?”

“A guard is posted at the far end of the garden just outside the main building. Hand all communications to him. The post is manned 24 hours a day. If you have a medical emergency pull the fire alarm here next to the front door. Questions?”

“Do you have children, Captain?”

The officer looked at him without blinking. “No.”

“Have you guarded a prisoner here before?”

“No.”

“I am the first? Such an honor. Well, Captain, you shall find me an easy keeper. Despite what my government has decided.”

“Monsieur.”

“Okay, okay, my taciturn jailer. I will pass along my grocery list within the hour.”

“Very good, Dr. Linton.” The captain closed the door, snapping shut loudly enough for Peter to flinch.

Peter returned to the chair and set a small box of framed photos on his lap. The first one he pulled out and set on the desk was small, 5x7, the face of a 2-year-old with long yellow hair, his granddaughter Veronica. The eyes were bright green, the smile wide.

The next picture, larger, was of Veronica at 7. The hair a little less yellow, the eyes a little darker, the smile as wide. And the next picture from 3 months ago also Veronica, 12, mouth closed—braces—but the eyes still green and captivating. Perfectly formed eyelashes. The cheekbones, the dimples, pretty like her mother.

Wouldn’t Mellice laugh, more like sneer, to see him now the doting grandfather. To hell with her. Gone now for 6 years. Six? Maybe 7. Still in Haifa with her brother’s family? Mattered not a stinking bit.

Wouldn’t Mellice laugh her fool head off to hear he was now a prisoner of the state. What did she say when one of his fiercest editorials appeared—“You’re no damn good as a hero. You idiot. What about my needs? What about your family? Why do you hate us so much?”

Peter reached back in the box and pulled out a plastic freezer bag filled with pens, and paperclips, and a few pencils, an eraser, and a small paperweight shaped like a turtle shell, head and legs withdrawn inward. The turtle, a birthday gift from Veronica.

He set the turtle in front of the row of photos. Of course, he would file an appeal immediately to allow Veronica to visit him at the consulate. Ten years without contact? Impossible.

“No” he said out loud. No, he thought, I loved—love my family.

Peter shook his head and stood and stretched, arms toward the ceiling.

Lyman 2021 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday Twofer

                         By the Books

Oh, but by god yes I have read them,

read them all, and can only imagine Isolde

brushing back Tristan’s hair from his forehead

as they stand at the shore, or I like to think

that he tucks her hair behind her ears

before he holds her face in his hands,

then whispers those words offered

up like a prayer before lips meet,

or do I hear Sancho’s grumbling,

or the low rolling vowels, Laura extolled

virtue by virtue—surely some professor

has reduced that obsession to a nihilist’s pinprick—

or Darcy chosen,

perhaps Palamon unhorsed,

at last shrewd Kate kissed,

or in faith am I finally to be taken

hand in hand, by my Beatrice, faint illumined

beneath a starry sky, to believe, at last,

by heart the world to be forever well.

Ladson 2013

Reading Aloud

For so long have I read aloud

that I am no longer sure that even the voice in my head

when I am alone is completely my own. 

A question, a comment, a heartbeat,

the spark sent to my brain is just as likely to o’er leap

my own thoughts and stumble into someone else’s lines.

Oh, surely I diverge from my path—viva la difference—

and I hold tarrying no crime until too late (of late),

duty bound, shall I come unbound—shall not render

unto Prince Hal?

I yearn to divine a sense of self,

in a sort of madness much aware perhaps of too much,

and the striving,

and the seeking,

but undiscovered country still awaits,

isles ahead the mermaids sing.

I only attend, no commands to give,

wry smiles undone, until sing I of the body eccentric,

to yield, in such silence as may be wrought,

and then, and then, and then the rest.

Ladson 2013 

Katarina and Peter (F) 1 of 6

Justice Beche pushed a folder across the small table toward Peter Linton. He nodded and opened up to the stack of documents.

“Well,” he said, “I do appreciate the irony, Katarina, you being sent to deliver my sentence.”

She nodded in the direction of the court videographer. “Please, Justice Beche if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Why would I mind?” He smiled.

“The first document is the Case Summary—this is your copy to keep, of course.”

Peter set it to the side. “Next?”

“The second document is the Verdict Affirmation. The top sheet is a summary review.”

“I was surprised Kat—Justice Beche—you didn’t take the partnership at Martin and Clarkson.”

“Please, Professor Linton—“

“No longer obviously. Just Peter.”

“Dr. Linton, please. The third set is the Sentencing section. In the appendix are the sentencing guidelines per State Statute 34B-221. Do you have any questions before I review the sentence?”

He held her gaze for a moment. “You didn’t marry that Ted, Junior at the hedge fund?”

“Dr. Linton, this is an official proceeding of the court. You are being sentenced for crimes against the state. You will conduct yourself in the manner of being before a justice in a courtroom. Understood?”

“Indeed. Onward then.”

“On the charge of inciting public lawlessness, you were found guilty by a vote of 5-2.”

“Power of the pen, I suppose. You wrote as well as anyone I ever had in my constitutional law course. Now here you are, a Justice at 39.”

“Dr. Linton, please. On the charge of threatening the prime minister with physical violence, you were found guilty by a vote of 7-0.”

“Yes.”

“On the charges of both libel and slander directed again the prime minister, you were found guilty by a vote of 7-0. Any questions at this point?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Please sign and date the next page, the Affidavit of Judgment.”

Peter pushed the signed sheet back toward her. “Will this ankle bracelet being coming off soon?”

“The sentencing section will answer most of your questions.”

“Patience then? See, I am already on the virtuous path.”

“Dr. Linton, having been found guilty of all charges presented before the High Court, you are sentenced to ten years beginning in 48 hours from this hearing with the following provisos.”

Peter shifted in his chair as Justice Beche took a sip of water.

“You are to take up residence in the guest quarters of the French Consulate—“

“The old consulate?”

“Yes, even as they still have nearly 20 years on the lease on that compound, they have agreed to this arrangement.”

Peter shook his head. “Amazing. So helpful.”

“You will be confined to the quarters and the courtyard. You will have access to the library room once a week for two hours. You will not be permitted internet access, email, or a personal phone of any kind. If you wish to place a phone call, you must request—in writing—at what time and name the person to be contacted.”

“Any chance I’ll get a French chef?”

“You will be provided groceries once a week after you fill out the appropriate requisition form.”

“Spending limit?”

“Yes, $80 per week. Now, you will be allowed your laptop, without wireless capacity, two suitcases for all clothing items, two medium boxes for books, toiletries, and a subscription to one daily newspaper of your choice. Questions?”

“So who will be watching me? You?”

“The consulate has state of the art technology and the state security team will be linked to it around the clock.”

“So no access to the wine cellar?”

“You may spend your food and beverage budget as you deem suitable.”

“Well, you certainly have comported yourself with all due dignity, Katarina. The ankle bracelet?”

“It will be removed after you have been secured at the consulate—Dr. Linton.”

“Now, one last thing—Justice Beche. Visitors? My granddaughter specifically?”

“You may have one visitor—supervised, of course—in the library for one hour each week.” She stacked the folders together neatly and nodded to the videographer to end the recording.

“But my granddaughter, specifically?”

“She is a minor and therefore will not be allowed of course to visit a convicted felon. Especially one deemed a threat to national security.”

“That is that bastard Wasserman talking! Threat to national security. What nonsense, Katarina."

She stood. “The Chief Justice was very clear on the matter, security considerations are paramount.”

“But—“

“Transport will arrive in forty-eight hours. Be ready, Dr. Linton. Guard!”

The guard opened the front door of Peter’s apartment.

“Good day, Dr. Linton.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Katarina.”

She nodded and followed the videographer out into the hall. The door closed, the guard snapped the lock, and Peter Linton, elbows on the table, put his head in his hands.

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Fragile Things

Intentions sure, I am tender

of fragile things,

Japanese maples delicate

in leaf,

filigree of a sort fashioned

by expert hand,

grafted by experience—

a child’s heart, too, I attend.

A yearning, a dream, a wish—some

of the potted maples I turn

a few inches or set back from the sun

a foot or so at a time. Searching

I aim for the sweet spot, not too much

afternoon heat, not too little morning sun.

Teary-eyed, a child lets me know

I am unbalanced, displaced—encouraging

or have I thwarted?

This time of year many of my maples

have releafed as if a second spring.

Laughing, a child spins my world—re-rooted

I am lesson learned.

Lyman 2021

 

Kaple Rules

Do not talk with your mouth open when full of any green vegetable. Or Captain Crunch cereal.

Stoop to the eye level of children when you are talking to them. If you can’t stoop, kneel. If you can’t kneel, find a chair.

Do not put your bare hand into the dirt of a raised garden bed.

To understand life, fill all 4 car tires to the correct pressure and check one week later. Refill, and check again in a week. You’ll catch on, probably. Otherwise, repeat until lesson learned.

You are under no moral obligation to finish reading a book. You are under no moral obligation to read every word of a book. How you deal with assigned reading is your own damn business.

When scheduling outdoor events, expect foul weather. If the weather is fine, remember it’s not fine because you deserved it. Or anyone else for that matter. Just be grateful.

More often than not, most of the world will never give you a first thought, much less a second.

Of course you’re not here because you chose to be. Now what?

Reality check before bedtime: Contrast what you wanted to have happen during the day with what actually happened. Great or small, “thwarts” and all.

Seriously, you have maybe four or five friends who will be there for you no matter what.

Have both Phillips and flathead screwdrivers on hand. All of the time.

Rarely does anyone truly understand what is going on, but a few moments of insight now and then will get you through most likely.

And, yes, stop and smell the tea olives which are blooming profusely in my yard now, Zone 7b.

 

 

 

 

 

House Guest

 Sometimes the opening salvo via phone is "Are you the homeowner?" I always answer "Yes" rather than dive into the muddy pool that is home ownership with an outstanding mortgage balance. 

Yes, I take care of the place as if it is mine a bit differently than I would take care of an apartment. Nearly every decision is my own, especially when it comes to tending to the yard. 

But, in truth, the house and land is mine only as long as I fulfill mortgage terms, so "Yes, but..." is the more complete answer. Not that such a conversational turn is ever taken.

More to the point, I could suggest I am a guest in my own--nearly--home. With the understanding I have a far-reaching run of the place. 

Thinking of myself as a guest under this roof or in the yard may seem odd, but it does give me pause, a sense of passing through. Of course, should I drop dead among the tomato plants, my ownership is rendered moot.

It's the passing through notion that is really on my mind. A young neighbor who spots me roughly 6 decades observed the other day that I "have lived a long life". 

Well yes, and no. 

The median age in the US is around 38, plus or minus a bit most likely. Okay, I've blown by that marker.

Now I am digressing--back to the passing through notion. As a layperson, not a scientist or historian, I do consider my lifespan in terms of the greater expanses of time passed, time to come. 

Family members to this side of the Atlantic for well more than 300 years, Sumerian writing about 5500 years ago, formation of solar system around 4.5 billion years ago, and well let's just leap backward the roughly 14 billion years and call the universe our home. 

Our home where we are just passing through. As guests.

Me? A mere 68 years in.