Mary Hotchkiss is a road. It’s a road you take when you need a short cut to somewhere, it really doesn’t matter where though just as long as you need a short cut. I used to walk down Mary Hotchkiss road, sing songs to her as she wound slowly down by the early morning wood. Mary used to live on Captain Neville drive in a house that was made for stain glass windows just as staining glass became expensive. There was a small school down the road; she went to it when there was no such thing as smoking in the young ladies room or any other such things either. I remember Mary when there was summer heavy all around the grass would sweat the air parting like drapes, especially in her house. She would show me pictures, photographs of a beautiful girl whose name was also Mary Hotchkiss but who had lived long ago when there was a small school at the end of the road where girls never smoked in the young ladies room. I remember sipping tea with her in the parlour room when a knock was at the door. I got up to answer not so much out of politeness but rather necessity for contrary to the belief of teenage lovers Mary’s legs were not immortal. I opened the door and there was a door to door salesman he was selling New World Almanacs. I told him no. He looked at me and said aren’t you interested in the future of the world? I told him no. Not even for a dollar? I told him no. Good-bye. I went back into the parlour. Mary was sitting in her velvety arm chair and her eyes were closed. I sat down to finish my tea.
Who was that? At the door.
A man selling New World Almanacs.
How much?
A dollar.
How many did you get?
None.
Good… You know I had this dream once. I’m not sure how old I was when I had it I was just a girl in it. But I was old enough of a girl in it because I had just been in the woods with this boy. Can’t remember who he was I think the brother of someone from school. Anyway, I had just been with him then left him I just got up and left. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew where I was going and somehow, how to get there. I walked down a road and came to a shop and went inside. Here she paused took some tea closed her eyes and sat back into her chair before continuing. I went in the shop; it didn’t have a name on it. I went in and looked around; there was a lot of stuff in that shop though I couldn’t see most of it and by now forgotten most of what I could see. But there was this ivy plant, a green and white ivy. I asked the man how much it was, and he told me. I pulled out all I had and put it on the counter. There were four buttons a dime and a jingle bell. I looked at him and said please, I want to give it to my mother. He looked at me and said in a voice louder than anything I ever heard before in this life – Get out of here you little bitch! So, I ran out quick as I could. I ran down the street quite a-ways even though I was pretty sure he hadn’t followed me. When I stopped running I saw a small building with big stain glass windows and a white wood fence around its little yard. Right above the iron stair was a sign that said – Afternoon Shop.
Did you go in?
No. I woke up.
Oh. I was wondering if the man in there would have sold you the ivy.
Sometimes I like to think he would but sometimes I don’t think he had any ivy to sell at least not green and white.
Wouldn’t just plain green have done??
Maybe – But I don’t think so. If just plain green would have been right then there wouldn’t have been any dream. I really did want to buy it for my mother though.
Did you? I know you didn’t in the dream but later on did you?
No. How could I? If you can’t do something in your dreams how can you ever do it?
Yeah… Was there ever a place called the Afternoon Shop?
Not around here. Not sure if there ever was one or not somewhere else. I thought I’d open a shop myself and call it that. But I didn’t.
We sat for a while sipping tea. Then she asked me to go down and get the Victrola.
Oh, Kay I said. I opened the trap door and went down into the cellar to get the Victrola and a few records. There were lots of things in her cellar, old trumpets and drums, books and wooden chest of drawers filled with tiny, strange steel tools, but mostly there were 78 records stacks and stacks of 78 records. Whenever we would have tea eventually we’d get around to having me go down to get the Victrola and a few records. There were lots of things in that cellar, old trumpets, drums, a tuba, flags, and banners mirrors with golden letters flags from countries I didn’t know an old wooden drawer full of tiny steel tools but mostly there were 78 records stacks and stacks and more 78 records. Whenever we’d have tea we’d get around to having me go down and bring up the Victrola and a few 78’s. I put it on the little tea table in the parlour. Set it up and then play the records. We never bothered to look at the titles; we agreed that if we knew the name it would take away from the enjoyment. Sometimes it would be some kind of opera or just about anything else from Beethoven to Stars And Stripes Forever. There were some records in the deeper part of the cellar that were recorded on only one side by Caruso and beyond those some I think Beethoven might have autographed and beyond that? Things we didn’t even know what they were for. I brought everything up and set the Victrola up on the table beside us. She looked at me and said let’s wait a while.
Oh Kay.
After a while she said for me to go out to the pantry. So, I did, bringing back wine, cheese, a tin of salty crackers and a plate of small thin brown square of bread with seeds in them. I got glasses and two little silver knives and two little white China plates from the China cabinet. We sat together now side by side on her velvety sofa. I had put the music on while she poured the wine. We didn’t know what kind of wine it was. She told me that a friend of hers had made a whole lot for her a long time ago. There wasn’t much left now. She liked it, the wine, it went well with 78 records and Cedar Farm cheese. It was some sort of symphony music or a march of sorts.
I used to play the trumpet. I told her.
Do you still?
No. I only played for five weeks eight years ago.
A friend of mine played tuba in the Marine Band.
He was a Marine?
Yes. He was a strange person. But I loved him.
The first record ended. She poured more wine. I took off the one record and put on another one. Marching Songs Of The U.S. Army. Sometimes I couldn’t help but notice the title. I liked the other one better. Somehow the Army just didn’t sing good songs to drink wine to. So, I pulled up the needle and took off the one and put on the other. It was some church organ music. It was pretty weird. We both smiled. As I fell back into the velvety sofa I caught something very strange in the eyes of Mary Hotchkiss. Something very old and beautiful.
It had started to rain and soon the road was more river than a road. Inside the music played, beauty grew from voice to body, from eye to eye and contrary to popular belief immortality is never lost…
Long were the hours spent in that house, deep the magic found there. I always sing when I walk down Mary Hotchkiss Road. I sing because magic loves music and I smile because of Mary Hotchkiss.
3.29.73.
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