Gypsy Road to Redemption
1499 words
Paul Ahnert

Antoine lay in bed, listening to the drone of his alarm. Mondays were the hardest days to get out of bed for Antoine Levy, but this Monday, in particular, was more difficult than usual. A late Sunday afternoon message from someone he believed buried deep in the past ensured this Monday would be filled with more dread than any other Monday.

In stark contrast, merely two days earlier, Antoine awoke with excited expectation. The little ring box sitting on his dresser that fateful Saturday morning promised to change everything. On Saturday night, he proposed to Sheila, the love of his life. And, as fate would have it, Antoine was not the only one waiting to spring a surprise. Sheila also carried exciting news, only Sheila’s surprise was not in a small box in her pocket, Sheila’s surprise grew in her womb.

The message which sent Antoine’s happy life into a tailspin came the previous day, around 4:30 PM. An email from a relative he had not heard from, nor even thought about, for his entire adult life shook him to his foundation: “Now that you are about to be married and have an heir, it is time you learned the truth about what happened to your parents and time for you to do what they could not, it is imperative you do not fail as they did. Meet me tomorrow at the bus station at 10:00 AM. Come alone and do not be late. Uncle Val.”

Uncle Val was actually Valentino Khmeleva. Antoine had cloudy memories of Uncle Val showing up at various family functions prior to his parent’s death. Uncle Val carried an ominous air about him and when he showed up for a family gathering, the older men would solemnly disappear into a back room with him for an hour or so. What was discussed was never disclosed. Antoine remembered something which, at the time, held no significance, but now nearly choked him with foreboding. The week before 8 year old Antoine’s parents died, under mysterious circumstances, Roman Levy, Antoine’s father, was for the first time, summoned to the meeting of Uncle Val and the family elders. Young orphaned Antoine was shipped off from his home in New York to Aunt Lyla in New Jersey and had no further contact with any of the family he had known his first 8 years, including mysterious Uncle Val.

Antoine arrived at the Greyhound station five minutes before Uncle Val’s Bus, not really knowing how to respond to a man of whom he had very little recollection. He deduced, if his father’s family had a Matriarch, it was Uncle Val. An inexplicable darkness gripped Antoine’s spirit, along with anticipation of secrets revealed, as the unmistakable sound and smell of diesel filled his senses.

Uncle Val was the thirteenth passenger to exit the bus. Valentino Khmeleva was a man of not quite average height, yet, he cut a formidable image of dignified grace usually reserved for those reared among royalty, dressed in a black suit, complete with a black overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape, accented by a blood red tie and pocket square. Though Khmeleva was undoubtedly well into his seventies, his jet black hair, salt and pepper beard and regal bearing gave him the appearance of a much younger man. The only accoutrement hinting to his advanced age was a black, highly polished cane with silver wolf head handle, although, upon further inspection, the walking stick seemed more accessory than necessity.

Somehow, Uncle Val knew exactly whom he had come to see as he walked directly to Antoine without a shred of hesitation. In a heavy Romanian accent, Khmeleva dispelled any notion this was a warm family reunion, “Come, quickly, we have much to discuss and you have much to do.” Antoine, flabbergasted by his Uncle’s direct approach, blurted out the one question, the only question which mattered, “What’s this all about?” “Not here” came the terse reply, “you have a car, I presume? Let us go to a place we cannot be disturbed nor overheard.”

The drive home was much more like a family reunion than the initial meeting as Uncle Val asked what Antoine remembered from his childhood prior to going to live with his mother’s sister, Lyla. Antoine did remember the family gatherings being festive and he confessed to having a vague memory of the near stranger seated next to him. During the drive, Uncle Val, jovially, recounted his memories of young Antoine and his parents, although there seemed to be an underlying bitterness when Valentino spoke of the late Mrs. Levy.

Antoine lay in bed pondering the life altering meeting with Uncle Val, a meeting which ended abruptly when a black limousine pulled in front of the house and whisked his uncle away to parts unknown. His uncle’s last words, as he strolled out the door were, “Do not fail as your father failed, I do not have another 20 years left to recruit your son, yes, my boy, you will have a son, I have seen it.” Antoine Levy discovered his father’s true name was also Khmeleva, but was legally changed to Levy at the behest of Lillian, his mother. Lillian did not want her husband and son involved in the vile business of the Khmeleva family, even if they were descended from an ancient royal bloodline.

Antoine’s mission was to claim his rightful place as heir to the throne of a mysterious and ancient order of Gypsies. Roman Levy, Antoine’s father was recruited for this very task and failed because Lillian Levy insisted on traveling to Romania and provided enough of a distraction to prove fatal to both. Antoine could not even begin to wrap his mind around the things Uncle Val revealed, it was madness. His was to travel to the land of his ancestors, challenge the “usurper” as Uncle Val called him, and, if necessary, kill him. The fact the Usurper was responsible for his parents’ deaths was quite an enticement.

Because Antoine had always been open and honest with Sheila, the next day, he shared everything with her. As insane as the tale Antoine weaved sounded, Sheila knew this was just the opportunity she had been praying for. While Antoine was busy learning about his past, Sheila had been busy dealing with hers and made a life changing decision.

Sheila, days earlier, not really knowing what to do with the life growing inside her, found herself in a crisis pregnancy center, looking for options. This particular pregnancy center was run by folks from a local church and after a couple of hours of counseling and prayer, Sheila was not only committed to keeping the baby but made a commitment to give her life to Jesus Christ.

After sharing her exciting news with Antoine, Sheila saw the turmoil in her fiancé’s eyes. She shared everything the counselor had spoken to her, and, as a result, Antoine was more conflicted than ever. On one hand, the things Sheila shared sparked a longing in his heart he had never experienced and on the other hand he was seriously considering the mission of vengeance and murder for which Uncle Val had recruited him.

That night, Antoine’s dreams were fraught with images of death and life. In his dream, his Uncle Val flew in like a giant bat, enticing him to give in to his anger and bitterness to claim what was rightfully his; while Sheila appeared as an angel calling him to a warm and glowing light promising forgiveness and freedom from the need for vengeance. He did not realize this was more than a mere decision, this was a spiritual battle for his very soul.

What Lillian Levy knew and Sheila suspected was Uncle Val was a master of dark arts and Antoine’s birthright was to rule over a coven of witches. Sheila prayed all night as evil fought for the heart of the man she loved. Antoine awoke in a cold sweat, crying out to a God he barely believed in, asking for a sign. Dimly at first, a light entered his window and grew in intensity, lighting up the cherished photograph of his parents on the wall across from his bed. In the photo, his mother’s visage shone much like Sheila had in his dream. With an inexplicable urgency, Antoine jumped out of bed and for the first time in his life, knelt down and prayed. As he prayed for forgiveness and committed himself to Jesus, he felt all the heaviness and darkness Uncle Val cast over his soul evaporate.

A few hundred miles away, Valentino Khmeleva gripped at his evil shriveled heart as the dark spirit which sustained his life fled like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Khmeleva was no longer of any use to his dark master and was tossed aside like a bag of dung. His last thoughts were a powerless curse directed toward his still praying nephew.

Devastation of Michael
1021 words

Sometimes I just want to relax, watch the birds fly in and out of the trees, and appreciate the beauty of it. There have been a few things that have prevented my goal of making my back yard into a paradise. A big one was Hurricane Michael.

Flashback

My husband Bob and I braced ourselves against the glass sliding door as we faced hurricane strength winds. As the winds pushed the glass door inward, I looked up at the framing above to see a large crack appear and disappear then reappear again with each forceful gust. Pine cones struck the glass in front of us like balls sent from a canon. How long had we stood there and faced the monster known as Hurricane Michael?
Twenty-four hours earlier, we received the news that Michael had entered the Gulf of Mexico. I had previously planned a trip to Tennessee to go alone to visit my mother and her husband.
But I would not abandon my husband to survive a hurricane by himself.

I called my mother to cancel my trip. I cried on the phone because I had so looked forward to it. After all, it had been five years since I’d seen her. But she understood. Then Bob and I took to task of boarding just the front windows. In the past we customarily boarded the side windows of the bedroom and bathroom and also the back glass sliding door. We made the mistake, like many Floridians of not boarding up entirely. Like many locals, we misjudged the potential strength of this hurricane.
I had worked many years in my backyard garden. I had three palms, a number of elaeagnus shrubs along the privacy fence, a huge century plant, a magnolia tree, a pine tree, an angel fountain, and a bricked in flower bed. Beyond our privacy fence there were many lush green trees. Little did we know that all of this would change in a matter of hours.

It was October 10, 2018. By the time Michael reached the Panama City, Florida coast, it was a category 5 hurricane. We knew we were in trouble and should’ve completely boarded up. We spent several hours with our hands braced against the glass door to the back yard. We witnessed the fury of the hurricane as it toppled trees from across the road that landed on power lines and eventually on our property. We watched our 2-story tall pine tree bend to the left and right without breaking; it didn’t crash on our house like so many other homes were damaged by trees in the area. All the while I was declaring in prayer, “Shalom! Peace be still!” Meanwhile, water had entered our house and was pouring out of air-conditioning ducts. The worst was in a hallway near the front door. Thankfully Bob had gotten a large trash can to catch the water. But water was pouring in through the skylight several feet away from this in a bathroom.

Many people who had Virgin mobile phone service lost connection during the hurricane. Fortunately, I had Metro PC; I was able to see Michael on the My Radar app as it traveled through and left the state. I placed a claim call to our home owners’ insurance agent before Michael had left the state. When it was over, it was as if a bomb had been dropped. So many trees covered the road that we were trapped in our neighborhood. Power lines were down everywhere. Privacy fences were flat on the ground. Shingles were missing from every house. Vehicles were damaged on the bodies and windows from flying debris such as the shingles; one vehicle was flipped upside down. We lost palm trees and pine trees too damaged to save. Michael picked up my angel fountain and hurled the bottom of it into the unknown. The next few days were spent picking up piles of shingles and pine cones and cutting broken privacy fencing to set out for pick up by the county. We’d have to work to regain our back yard garden again, our piece of heaven.

We went a week without water and electricity. A nearby pond provided some water to wash our dishes and flush the toilets. Thankfully, I’m a hoarder of plastic bottles which came in very handy for having set aside drinking water. The National Guard dispensed MRE meals in the parking lot of a nearby school. They also dispensed tarp for our houses. Before the week was up, my brother showed up unannounced bearing gifts: a large pumpkin, a case of trail mix granola bars and other food items, two large commercial flashlights, a generator, and some gasoline. That is the most loving, unselfish thing my brother had ever done for us. It helped lighten the load for sure.

After the electricity and water were restored, it was a small waiting period to begin employment with a company I had applied for before the hurricane. It was a blessing in disguise. The recovery efforts have been slow and sometimes disheartening. A two-story house on my street is still wrapped in tarp two and a half years after Michael due to a pending law suit for damage claims while a small house still has a tree on top of it a little ways from here, and the owner sleeps in a small travel trailer. Churches still stand broken and abandoned; commercial properties are empty, covered with only concrete foundations and parking blocks; houses stand abandoned with tall weeds in the yard.

And then the Covid-19 hit the US and the world.

Sometimes I’m glad for the lockdown and social distancing since my view out of my window is a forest beyond my neighborhood filled with large, dead looking trees with stubby branches erect or leaning. My back yard garden is still my oasis from the world. I also receive encouragement from God’s word and his promises such as “For I know the plans I have for you”, declares the LORD. “Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11

The Half-Empty Glass 841 words

I’m happiest when I’m miserable so stop trying to cheer me up. Nothing depresses me more than forced joy. If I hear once more that cliché stating that we use up more calories frowning than smiling, I’ll probably try to end it all. I’m actually getting more exercise by being depressed, so leave me alone.

In Candide, Voltaire’s Dr Pangloss stays eternally optimistic no matter how wretched his existence gets. He says we are living in ‘the best of all possible Worlds.’ What a twerp. Dante’s Inferno would be better than Preston, Lancashire under lockdown.

No one I know died today, which means the despair of losing more of my loved ones is still to come unless I die first and make them feel sad. The volcano didn’t erupt today – Hoo-bloody-ray. It might erupt tomorrow or the day after. I wish I lived near a volcano, so I can say I told you so as the lava buries us all. I’m tempted to move to San Francisco, ready for the big one, the quake they know is imminent. I have to settle for the more mediocre regret of not being there for it though. I just can’t get unhappy enough these days.
Still, enough about me. You say your wife left you and took the kids. Oh how I envy you …..

****

“Well, Harry, that’s the ‘for training purposes only’ recording of your last call handling someone contacting the helpline here at Reach-A-Friend. Not really the kind of message you ought to be giving out is it?”

“I’m terribly sorry. Am I to guess you are going to fire me, Mr Walkington?”

“I ought to, but given what you are saying to our clients, you might actually welcome dismissal, and yet also be bitterly disappointed if we keep you on and make you work harder. You are supposed to inspire optimism, not wallow in your own existential angst to leave the poor shmucks dialling in thinking you have it ten times worse than they do. If you ask me, you ought to be phoning us up, not receiving and responding to the calls. God knows how your latest client feels about his life now.

Trouble is, if I sack you then you might well exploit your dismissal to fuel your masochistic pessimism even further and it wouldn’t look good for us if we got reported as unable to keep our own staff happy in their jobs. Then again, keeping you on might mean a massive increase in client suicides, and needs for therapy, drugs like Prozac, etc. I really don’t know what to do with you. Maybe you need to just watch a few sitcoms and feelgood movies. Get drunk, have some sex. Lighten up a bit. Try smiling for once. Live a little.“

“I had a go at smiling once. I put a wire coat hanger in my mouth to force my lips to curl up to ten to two.”
“Obviously it didn’t work.”

“No, I could barely talk, everyone thought I had dental braces and the edge of the hanger sprang out and cut my tongue.”

“It was a pretty dumb thing to do.”

“I know. Everyone laughed at me including the doctors who treated me for the Tetanus poisoning.”

“At least you made someone else happy then.”

“But I don’t want to do that. Why should others enjoy life when I don’t?”

“That’s like a soldier marching out of step expecting the entire platoon to follow the pattern of movements he makes instead of conforming to the norm.”

“I’d have to be brainwashed to be more like everyone else.”

“So you put on this deadpan extreme individualism act to give yourself an identity and stand out from the crowd. You’re a phoney. Your gloominess is a façade and an act, like Harpo Marx pretending he couldn’t speak whenever he was in public.”

“He could talk? Oh no, that ruins the illusion for me. I’ll never be amused by those old films again. You’ve robbed me of one of the few pleasures life could still throw my way.”

“Right, well, this is all getting terribly rhetorical and philosophical. I think you are just being awkward, a maverick trying to go against the rules. It makes you too much of an anarchist to trust dealing with the kind of counselling we offer. I’ve decided it is for the best if I let you go. I hope you’ll fare better with any future employment. Good luck. “

“I understand Sir, and this isn’t the first time this has happened to me so I bear you no grudges. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“I’m curious as to where you worked before? Were you fired for being a bad-vibes merchant then too?”

“No, I made people laugh, smile and dance.”

“]You were a stand-up comedian?”

“No, I was an under-taker. They expected me to take things seriously. After they fired me I practiced on sad. I guess I over did it a bit, don’t you?”

Arthur Chappell