An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Sumner. I think there's someone named Sumner -- looking for you."

"What? I don't know anyone..."

"Oh yeah, luv. He's coming," but he had bent over his guitar again, his head rocking slowly from side to side. "I was lost once, you know. Me and the mates, out in Hollywood. For years, I think, but I found my way back. Then it all disappeared, like in a flash..."

"I know. We cried, we all cried."

"Then there was this cat, this monstrous, fookin' huge cat. And Jennifer was there."

"I'm sorry...I don't understand..."

He lifted his head once again, looked down the trail to the east. "Well, luv, tomorrow never knows...but the choice is yours. You can be free as a bird, if that's what you really want, but it's all coming together for you right now. I'd think twice about it, ya know."

She felt a breeze pick up from seaward, turned and saw a sailboat making for the curved breakwater, then she turned back to him again. She saw the tuft of grass, she saw the grass had been pressed down where he sat -- and there was a guitar pick laying on the grass -- but Lennon was gone.

She stood, shook her head, looked east down the trail -- but she saw...nothing. She stared ahead, looked at the abyss, at the edge -- at the dividing line between the living and the dead -- and she wondered what had just happened. She wondered what had happened to her life, to the joy she had once called her own.

"It's all gone now," she heard the voice inside her head say, and suddenly she was subsumed within images of loneliness -- drifting among the most painful moments of her life. Always "alone, alone, alone..." No, her life was over now, gone, like images of better days in her mind had all been a mirage. Memory taunted her now, daring her to go on...

She turned and walked to the edge again, looked down at the paved walk below, then she looked up, out to sea, ready to take the next step...when she saw a massive wall of cloud rushing in towards the shore. The sailboat, she saw, was about to get pummeled, beaten in it's race to make the breakwater, still a half mile away.

She watched as the wall of rain and wind hit the boat, and as the boat leaned sharply away, as the man behind the wheel struggled to stand and fight his way to shore -- and then, the wind hit her.

She was blown off her feet, felt herself rolling backwards -- away from the abyss. She tumbled past the benches, over the trail and into the tall grass beyond, gasping at the sudden ferocity of the raging storm. She fought her way up, struggled into the face of the wind and turned away from the rocks below, then made her way to the bench and -- there he was again. He'd come back!

Leaning into the wind, his long hair whipping away in the gale, he turned and smiled at her. She smiled too, tried to wave but he let go then, turned his back and ran before the wind. He seemed to dissolve as the storm gathered around her, then she heard the calliope and his voice over the wind, only now he was singing as rain joined their little symphony.

So the last thing she heard was his laughter, only she wasn't really sure whose laughter was carried away on those galloping calliope winds.

All that remained now was that smile, a smile at once so vague, yet so familiar. She wrapped herself in the feeling, and with his words for company she turned and walked through the storm -- for home.

+++++

It was busy the next morning, the morning after the storm. It was busy, and her feet hurt, her wrist too, but she was tired of worrying about all that now. She didn't quite feel light on her feet, not yet, but she felt a change even so -- like when he blew away on the wind he took her cares away. To her loyal customers, she seemed adrift, floating along the currents of a dream that hadn't ended. To the American who walked in a little before ten that morning, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most drop-dead gorgeous, breathtakingly sexy woman in the history of the universe. He sat and waited for her to come to his little table, yet when she made her way there he grew tongue-tied and felt like he was twisted in a ball of tight little knots.

"And what can I get you this morning," she asked as she watched him stammering his way through the menu above the counter...

"I don't know? Coffee, perhaps?"

She laughed. "This is a tea shop. Bakery goods and teas, sir. No coffee, that I'm aware of anyway."

"Oh. Well, what do you recommend?"

She looked him over as if taking his measure: "I'd say English breakfast, perhaps two walnut orange scones, with clotted cream?"

"Clotted cream?"

"Like butter, only better."

"Well, sounds good to me." He had a local paper in hand and turned to it while she retreated to her little kitchen. He opened the 'Classifieds' and began reading through, circling an item of interest, noting telephone number...

...then she was there again, by the table, a tray in her hands.

"By any chance, do you know where Ovingdean is?" he asked, still focused on his paper.

"I do. Perhaps you'd like some tea first."

He looked up, jerked with a start. "Oh, excuse me..." he said as he folded the paper and shuffled it aside. "I'm still trying to get my bearings today..."

She smiled, put the little teapot on the table, then a cup and saucer. "I'll be back with your scones in a moment," and this time he watched her go, admiring her form as she walked. He noticed the way people looked at him then, the very proprietary way they seemed to regard her, and he filed that away as he watched her coming back with another plate.

"So, Ovingdean?" she said. "How familiar are you with the area?"

"Not at all. Just got in yesterday."

"Like to walk? Or will you need a taxi?"

"How far away is it -- from the marina?"

"You're...at the marina? When did you say you arrived?"

"Yesterday afternoon," he said warily, uneasily. "Why?"

"Did you get caught out in the storm?"

"Yup, just about made it in, but it nailed me about a half mile out. I thought I had enough speed to beat it, but life's like that, I guess."

"What? What do you mean..."

"Oh, you know. You can't outrun some things, it's like you're one or two steps behind...that kind of thing, if you know what I mean."

"I do," she said, frowning.

"So?" he asked, as he watched the moods on her face drift by.

"Pardon?"

"How far? From the marina?"

"Ah. Not much more than a mile, depending on the address."

"Excuse me for asking, but are you alright? You look a bit, I don't know -- kind of airy?"

"Airy?" she chuckled. "What on earth does that mean?"

"Like you're up there," he said, pointing skyward, "up there in the clouds. You know? Free as a bird?"

"What's your name?" she stammered, his words out of the blue, striking a vital chord.

"Sumner, Sumner Collins..."

She staggered under the weight of his words, stumbled away from the stream of echoes that came for her, but he was out of his seat in a flash and caught her before she fell. Her anointed guardians rushed to her side in that moment, pushing him aside and gathering her up, helping her to a chair by the entry -- all cooing tunes of solicitous concern -- all standing around her like sentinels warding off evil spirits.

Collins looked at the scene like the interloper he suddenly felt he was; he pulled out a few pound notes and tossed them on the table then slipped out the side door, grateful for the fresh autumn air that cooled his suddenly sweating brow.

He walked east along the Marine Parade, past the Brighton Wheel until he came to a bus stop, and there he looked at the schedule. He sat on a bench in the covered shelter and wondered what the devil had just happened, why she seemed to know him. A bus came along and he rode out to the marina in silence; he hopped off at his stop and walked down the drive, through the massive car park out to the office, then further on, out to his slip in the marina. He went below and changed into shorts and sneakers, then went on deck and hooked up a hose dockside and began re-washing layers of accumulated salt and spray off the hull and deck. He rinsed and dried the deck hardware, then pulled the sails off their furlers and sprayed them down, looked over the troublesome stitching on the staysail and reef points on his mainsail, them laid them all out to dry.

He noticed his stomach rumbling, remembered he'd walked out on breakfast, looked over at a restaurant on the west side of the marina and shrugged.

"Well, it's either that or another granola bar," he sighed while he reeled in the nylon hose. The granola bar won, and he quaffed two bottles of water while he looked for his Tilley Hat, then with newspaper in hand he walked up to the marina office, looking for directions. He walked back up to what he hoped was the correct bus stop, and he caught what he hoped was the correct bus and rode out to Ovingdean. It was only a short walk after that, and he came to a farm house with a sign out front...

"Puppies for sale" -- he read, and he smiled.

He walked down the drive and came to the house, and a young woman was waiting there as he walked up to the front door.

"Mr Collins, is it?"

"Gosh, I sure hope so. Mrs Lethbridge? If not, I've made a long walk for nothing..."

She laughed. "Well, we have three girls left. You wanted a girl, I think you said?"

"Yup. I've had better luck with 'em over the years. High strung, but loyal."

"Oh, so you've had Springers before?"

"My mom and dad were nuts about them, and I think they must've passed the gene on to me. I've only had one of my own so far, though."

"I understand. Well, would you like to go see them?"

"Lead on...can't wait!"

He followed the woman out to a small barn, and a very possessive female Springer met him and started sniffing his legs, then his hands and, having passed that test, was allowed into the barn.

"Litters always smell the same," he said as he looked down into the whelping stall. The pups looked like little brown and white balls of fluff, half of them asleep, the other half, the alpha half, trying to annihilate anyone challenging their ascendency to the top of the pecking order. "They even growl the same..."

"You've had litters before?"

"My parent, several times. My wife and I wanted to, but..."

"She passed?"

"A few years ago."

She nodded, looked at him anew. "So, you'll be taking her back to America?"

"In time. I sailed over, arrived in Cork about three weeks ago, then crossed to Exeter. I'm going to stay here a few weeks, rest and get some work done on the boat, then I think I'll winter over in Paris, before heading south to the Med."

"Really? That sounds a bit like heaven. I wish Rod was about; he'd die to talk boats. I think if he could he'd sell the farm and buy a boat tomorrow, do just what you're doing..."

"Well, please tell him he's welcome to come down to the marina, anytime at all. I'll show him around..."

She turned away from him abruptly. "So, the three females still available are over in this pen," she said as she guided him over, then she opened the gate, let him in and watched what happened.

His eye had fixed on one immediately, the little girl who hung back a bit; that one watched him closely while the other two stumbled all over themselves to get to his shoes and tear into his laces. The loner just looked him in the eye for a minute, then, when the other two had exhausted their attention span she walked over and sat down in front of him.

He squatted and picked her up, brought her gently to his face while he was still close to the ground, keeping her calm, keeping her eyes in his. She continued to stare at him for a few more minutes, then she licked his chin. He kissed her on the nose, felt her ear canals a bit as he stood, keeping her eyes focused, earning her trust, then he turned to Lethbridge.

"She's the one."

"I can tell. It's always love at first sight, isn't it?"

"Always. Her eyes are clear and her ear canals are big enough, and her hips and knees look sound. Besides, she's smart."

"You're quick. Yes, she was my pick too, but Rod wouldn't let me keep another."

"How many do you have?"

"Four, I think, but that's a flexible number. One of the boys is a bit too alpha, always off exploring somewhere."

"Been there, done that. Never again. Got to get trust that first day or they turn into runners."

"That's the problem when you keep one from your own litter. Those first few days they learn your weaknesses. What will you name her?"

"Charley."

She stared at him.

"Sorry. It's a Steinbeck thing?"

"The writer? Oh yes...Travels with Charley. I recall now."

"Yup."

"Well, we have a little paperwork to get through, and all the veterinary documentation you'll need for export."

"Going to France, so EU paperwork is all I need for now."

They went inside and took care of the necessaries, and she gave him a small bag of the pups food. He gave her his phone and dock information and told them to come down in the next few days.

"Might I call you a taxi?"

"Nope, I came out on the bus, but I think I could walk back faster than that."

"Well, if you walk down Greenway to the highway, there's a stair down to the beach from there. But I like walking along the bluff. The view, the breezes...it's much nicer from there."

He had a little puppy papoose in his daypack, and it clipped to the shoulder straps. He slipped Charley inside, her inquisitive little face poking out, then they walked, the three of them, out the house and down the driveway.

"Well, a pleasure to meet you," he said. "And please, do feel free to come down to the marina."

"I'll tell Rod, but I'm sure he'll be down this evening!"

"Okay," he said with a grin. "I'll look forward to it."

He took off down Greenway until he came to the roundabout; there he looked around until he found the pedestrian tunnel she'd mantioned -- and he crossed under the highway, with Charley looking around at her new world all the time now. And to him it just felt so good, this being out in the grassy air on foot! He felt so good he wanted to sing out loud -- even when he saw the sea...again.

He and Charley had left the British Virgins in June, and battled unseasonably warm weather all the way to Hamilton, Bermuda. Hurricanes were already lining up off Africa -- a big one veering dangerously north -- so he cast off after taking on fuel and water and a few fresh items from the nearest grocery, and sailed almost due north -- until he was in the middle of the Gulf Stream. Any further north and he knew he'd be in the region of drifting icebergs, and sailing alone now he had no desire to test those limits.

Sailing alone...had been tough after Charley passed...and that's why he'd hit the 'net and started looking for a pup as soon as he landed in Exeter. This 'new' Charley had the same spirit in her eyes, and he was hopeful after just a few minutes that she would measure up, and at least he'd have a few weeks to get her acclimated to life onboard before crossing the channel to Honfleur.

Walking along the cliff trail was all the Lethbridge woman said it would be. Great view, calming breezes -- so he decided to walk along past the marina, then backtrack from town. There were, naturally, teens on skateboards and kids on bicycles to contend with, then, as he topped a rise he heard an old Beatles song -- Norwegian Wood, wasn't it? -- with someone doing a pretty fair imitation of Lennon's voice.

"Perfect!" he said to the wind. "What a perfect song for a perfect day!"

He walked along in love with life, looking down at Charley from time to time, looking at her looking up at him, smelling her puppy breath, letting her lick his chin as he wondered about the chance encounters between two such disparate souls as theirs. And he knew he was already in love with her...

...when he saw her...

The woman from the restaurant, her red hair streaming away in the breeze. She was standing near the edge of the cliff, the music getting closer too as he drew near, and yet she seemed oblivious to the world as she looked out to sea. She put her hands out to the side like a bird about to take wing, and he felt her tension gather in the air -- like a decision made, then fear came to him...

"Hello!" he called out as he started moving quickly her way.

She seemed to hesitate along the knife edge of her decision, then she stepped forward, her right foot drifting out over the void -- and he closed the remaining few yards in time to grab her by the collar of her blouse. He pulled her back and they tumbled to the ground, coming to a rest on their backs; he scrambled up and knelt by her side, helped her sit up and come back to the world, yet the woman seemed to have embraced her own death so completely she remained afloat over the abyss, wondering, perhaps, when the pain would start.

Staring blankly ahead now, her eyes detached from the present, her breathing otherworldly and calm, he watched as her hands started shaking, then as tears came for her she turned her ashen eyes to his and came apart.

He did the only thing he could, the first thing that came to mind: he sat beside her and pulled Charley out of the papoose, then thrust the two souls together.

Charley looked at the woman, recognized soul rendering despair and began licking the woman's face. Tears turned to laughter, laughter into an affirmation of life, and she held the pup to her face, fought her way back to the living.

"And what's your name, little girl," he heard her whispering.

"Charley," he whispered.

"She's such a love."

He nodded his understanding. "Yup."

"How old is she?"

"Eight weeks and a few days. I've had her about an hour."

She looked up at him. "Sumner?" she managed to say when she saw his face.

"That's right."

"He told me you were coming."

"I'm sorry?"

"John. He told me you were coming. Last night, and again, just a few minutes ago."

He looked around. "John?"

"Didn't you hear him singing?"

"I heard singing. A friend of yours, is he?"

She shrugged. "He was here last night, and again, just now."

"Where'd he go?"

She pointed. "He's right there."

He turned, looked at Lennon sitting on the grass -- he was bent over his guitar, writing words in a little book, and Collins was wondering why he hadn't helped when he looked up from his book.

Sumner Collins felt like the earth shifted off it's axis in that wrenching moment.

The long hair, the round glasses...he was looking at John Lennon...dead now almost forty years -- yet somehow he hadn't changed; indeed, he was as alive now as he had been the last time he's seen him, the last time they'd been together...

Yet as they looked at one another Lennon seemed satisfied and faded from view. Charley hopped down and waddled over to where he'd been sitting, then she sniffed and sniffed, whimpering a bit as she circled the crushed blades of grass.

"He was here yesterday?" Collins asked. Charley came back to his side, clearly confused now, and he picked her up, held her close.

"And today. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I saw him -- not so long ago. Right after my wife passed. It was a weird few days, like a series of hallucinations..."

"He told me you were...that you would be coming soon. From that way," she said, pointing to Ovingdean. "He told me your name last night, that you were coming."

He nodded, looked out to sea, wondered where she was now, if she was watching even now.

And when she would come back, he wondered.

"I'm not going to leave you out here," he said. "Can I take you home? Or could I take you down to the boat, fix you a coffee?"

"That's right...you mentioned something about that this morning, didn't you?"