Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [73]
The damp weeds of the field were up to her thighs. Most were dead, except for the creeping honeysuckle and wild rose briar on either side of a faint path, some patches nearly over her head. Several long canes reached out, almost snatching at her; she dodged as her steps carried her on. Broom sage, Queen Anne’s lace—all dead, long dead, and not just from this past summer, but the summer before that and likely several summers long ago. Judging by the looks of the derelict land, it hadn’t been cleared this decade, possibly a decade or more before that. Who knew the last time it was used?
The building wasn’t cared for, only half-heartedly secured against vandals. As if no one ever came here; no one cared if they did. So weathered, the wood of the plank siding was a colorless grey. Plywood had been nailed across the front of the place, covering the windows and doorway. Someone had spray-painted a peace sign and the words Hell no! We won’t go! in red on one warping board. The Vietnam era? The paint was fading away.
Asha paused at the bottom of the steps, contemplating if the porch was safe, but then decided to go around to the back instead.
Behind her, she heard Jago calling, but his words were carried away on the waves of memories fighting to surface within her. As she circled around the side, she heard a flapping noise. Her steps slowed as she neared.
The sound came from an odd addition to the building. Originally, she’d judged, the structure was a simple L-shaped house. Possibly someone had lived here once. At some later date, the extension—what looked like a small pavilion—had been grafted onto the back. There were no walls to this part of the structure, just sheets of unpainted plywood covering the two open sides. One wooden panel had been pulled half down, hanging diagonally by a single nail. Behind the boards was a heavy circus tent-quality canvas, gray from age and ripped in a couple places. The wind caused the end to flutter, the metal grommets of the rings knocking against the wooden post.
Asha hesitated for a moment, uncertain if she wanted to pull back the sailcloth and see what lay beyond. Just as she worked up enough nerve, Jago touched her arm. Her mind snapped back.
“Asha, are you all right?” He reached out and brushed the back of his hand to her cheek. She offered Jago a fleeting smile, trying to reassure him, only her attention remained divided. The clanking of the metal grommets against the poplar wood post was a siren’s song, calling her.
In a sad voice, she told him, “It seems so small now.”
“What’s small?”
She heard his words—ignored them. Moving forward, she grasped the canvas and lifted it back. In a flash, everything about her surroundings shifted, changed—as they had by the pool. Instead of the dingy, forlorn pavilion, the white canvases were rolled up to the roof and tied back, leaving everything open to the night air. Colored Christmas lights were tacked along the poplar wood rail that ran along the outer edge of the small skating rink. Eydie Gorme’s “Blame It On The Bossa Nova” played over the speakers hung on the walls. The skaters could rock to the music while going around and around. Laura loved the dizzying sensation, loved the spinning colorful lights, similar to the feeling of being on a merry-go-round.
No, no, the bossa nova.
Then she saw him, standing by the post, watching her. Tommy. So handsome. And she loved him more than she loved life.
“Asha, damn it.” Jago jerked her around by the arm to face him. “What the hell is wrong with you? And don’t bother telling me you need a Pepsi.”
With a faint shudder, Asha’s mind returned to the present. She glanced about the