PREVIEW: Her Mother's Fur Coat
Pulling the long-ago memory from the dark recesses of her brain, Martine remembered the spectre of her mother as she stood at the edge of the ditch, her fur coat dripping, and her hair thick with mud as it lay plastered against her cheeks. Her eyes, appearing like black caverns leading into her soul, sparkled brilliantly as the headlights of each passing car reflected their light.
When last Martine had turned around, she had seen her mother walking the narrow pathway between the road and the ditch dressed in her finest; a fur coat inherited from a deceased aunt, brand new rhinestone earrings and her hair newly coiffed. And because it was a rainy evening, she wore her gumboots. Anyone living on a farm knows you don't wear your best shoes when it's pouring cats and dogs, no matter what special event it is you are planning to attend.
As a young child of eight years old, to Martine this startling transformation in her mother was a shock, and one that she knew even at that tender age would stay in her memory forever, periodically bubbling up to the surface to haunt her. Before leaving home, she had admired her mother's efforts at elegance and in spite of the gumboots had thought she'd looked quite beautiful.
After getting out of the bus, Martine had walked ahead of the two women. With her head tucked into the collar of her heavy winter coat, she had slogged along, leaning into the northely blowing wind. Struggling against the cold blast of winter she thought of the singing and dancing they would be seeing, music she knew she would love, music she'd been singing in their large kitchen for the previous two weeks.
Her only audience had been her father's canaries, budgies and finches. Each had chirped their approval at Martine's renditions and in their own unique way had caused pandemonium in the small dining area. Because her thoughts as she walked had been up on the stage with the musicians, she had failed to hear her mother's muffled calls for help. The frightened voice of her mother had been pulled into the soggy night air by the wind and rain where it was carried off to the mountains beyond.
But fortunately her mother's best friend had heard her plaintive cry for assistance. "Sir," she had called as she waved to a passing gentleman, "would you be kind enough to help my friend out of the ditch?"
As Martine remembered her mother's ditch dunk, as she now thought of it, time had not dimmed the memory of that stranger's expression as he looked first at her mother's friend, then at Martine before his eyes finally and reluctantly looked down at the sodden spectacle in the water-filled ditch.
"How did she get there?" he asked while he attempted to put off the inevitable. With an expression of extreme sadness, he glanced down at his suit and shrugged before again looking at the sad spectacle of this strange woman helplessly ensconced in the muddy warer. "Okay," he finally answered as he saw that our faces were watching him, beseeching him to help. At that moment he was our guardian angel. The only one for miles around, it appeared.
Martine, with an adult's perspective, thought that it was not the first question he should have asked. But to a young child, his question was reasonable and she had wanted to know also. She knew without a doubt that if she had ended up in the ditch wearing her very best clothes, she would've been in very big trouble and explanations would have been required to more than just this stranger. ...
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