A Story Of Jane (In The First-Person Singular)
Chapter One
PROLOG
The most difficult aspect of the story I'm about to relate, its most unique feature, is one of tense. Now, don't get me wrong, I realize that the first person singular past tense narrative style has been around since well before Homer. That's not it at all. The problem is perspective.
I guess that doesn't make any sense to you. No, of course it doesn't. It's just that ....
Well, if you read this through to the end, I'll remind you of this paradox again. Then you'll understand. It all makes perfect sense ... once you can just understand the problem of tense.
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And now, A TECHNICAL NOTE: Most of our modern-day Christian-based holidays share their roots with other celebrations based on pagan rituals. The word Easter is derived from "Eastre," the Great Mother Goddess of the all the northern Saxon tribes. The annual celebration in her name was held on the vernal equinox. Followers of Wicca (witches) also hold a great celebration during the evening of the equinox (or the night before), and there are at least five other religions that also share the equinox as a time of celebration. Easter is always the first Sunday following the first full moon following the vernal equinox (which falls on March 21st, in most cases). The earliest possible day to celebrate Easter, therefore, would be March 22nd, but this would mean that the equinox would have to fall sometime on a Saturday, and afterward, the full moon would have to occur on the same day. Rare, but it does happen. The Easter holiday has little bearing on this story. But, as it turns out, these dates were exceedingly important.
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WEDNESDAY, the 18th of MARCH
I had seen her in the reading room before. It took me a moment to remember, but she had been there during the previous afternoon. I had thought when I saw her the first time that there was something profoundly familiar about her, and it struck me again now, as she approached me. The way her head and long neck turned as she slowed her purposeful stride, looking left and then right, seeing that we were alone in the large room, continuing toward me self-assuredly. It was that time of day when there were few people in the library at all, and it was not odd that there would be no one else in the main reading room. Later on a Wednesday afternoon, when the town's west-side high school let out, business would normally pick up a bit. School was out today, however, for the start of the Easter break; so for now, it was just the two of us.
Suddenly, it dawned on me why I had noted the familiarity. In a sudden moment of clarity, I realized that I actually had seen her face before: every morning in the mirror. She looked like me. Well, not exactly like me, of course. She must have been fifteen years older, in her late thirties, at least, but I thought with a pang of self doubt, that I could only HOPE to look that good in another decade and a half. She was much more shapely than I, much better proportioned. I'm a cow; my breasts much too large for the rest of my frame, and a constant source of distraction, both to me and whoever I'm trying to carry on a conversation with. She, more mature and sure of herself, seemed perfect in body and spirit. She had my sharp facial features, my eyes and brow. Our ears were almost identical in size and spacing. But we most definitely parted company in the hair department. Hers was short, thick, straight and very, very black; mine was long, curly, and almost bright red, a strong trait of my ancestry.
"May I help you?" I asked automatically, trying hard not to stare.
"Yes," she answered, lyrically. She paused, glancing about her again. "Are we alone here?"
"Donna's in the back," I answered, somehow disappointed that she might not want to speak to me. "She's the head librarian. She's back in the stacks. Did you want to talk to her instead?"
"Oh, no," she smiled. "It's you I want. I have something for you."
She produced a single long-stemmed red rose from her purse. It's a wonder I hadn't noticed it before. The stem must have been protruding at least a foot. The head of the rose was encased in a clear zip-lock plastic bag, which she removed to thrust the flower forward, holding it just below my face.
"Oh," I said, "it's lov ...." I choked into silence as I automatically inhaled the rose's fragrance. It was horrid. There was a vague rose-like odor underlying a mixture of scents which included sulfur, alcohol, rotting wood, and several other things I could not guess at. "Ugh!" I grunted. I tried to back up a step, but I couldn't seem to make myself move.
"Smell it again, please," she said, smiling.
I inhaled again. The smell was almost unbearable. "No, please," I whined. "It's awful!"
"Yes, I know," she agreed patiently. "It won't last long, I promise. Now, once more, please."
Again I breathed in the rancid fumes, shaking my head slightly, slowly in the negative.
"That's wonderful, my dear. Now, look directly into my eyes, please. Yes, that's it. Right into my eyes. Yes, perfect. What's your name, dear?"
"Molly Mahone," I answered softly, trying desperately to talk without inhaling.
"Who'd have guessed I'd finally find you and you'd be Irish," she said, wonderingly. "Now Molly, I'm going to say some things, and I'll thank you not to interrupt. Just keep looking right into my eyes, like you're doing now, and try to keep quiet. Okay? Do you understand?"
"Yes," I squeaked.
She began reciting something in a foreign tongue. It took me a moment to realize that she was speaking in Latin. Each word seemed to end in "ia" or "um" or "o".
"I don't understand Latin," I said, realizing immediately my indiscretion. She stopped abruptly. "I never took Latin," I muttered in a smaller voice, wishing I could undo the terrible sin of interruption. "I don't understand," I mumbled softly, tears welling in my eyes.
She gave me a stern look, then a patient almost-smile. "You won't interrupt again, will you Molly?"
"No!" I fervently promised, my voice weak and pleading.
She began again, and I at once realized that she was repeating, once more from the beginning, exactly what she had recited before. I felt absolutely terrible that I had caused her the inconvenience of repetition. In contrition, I decided I would breathe more deeply of the noxious flower being held under my nose, and I concentrated all my efforts to gaze exactly into the centers of her beautiful eyes. I wanted desperately to please her.
Suddenly, it was over. She stopped the recitation, stuffed the head of the flower back into its plastic bag, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of her own weapon, sealed the thing up, and thrust it back into her purse. Then she looked back at me and smiled. I felt disoriented, to say the least. The whole thing was very strange to begin with, but the abruptness with which it ended left me staggered.
"Now, Molly, you did that very well," she stated. I felt a flush of bashful accomplishment. I had done something to make her happy. "When do you take your lunch break, dear?"
"Noon."
A frown. "Oh, my. That's almost another two hours."
"I could trade with Donna," I blurted. "She won't mind, I know. She takes her lunch break at eleven!"
A smile. I felt that wonderful feeling of shy pleasure again. "That would be wonderful, dear. There's a cafe right across the street. I'll be in a booth in the back. There will be some other ladies there I want you to meet. Eleven o'clock sharp. Don't be late, Molly." She spun around and walked toward the front door.
"Who are you?" I squeaked, before I could stop myself.
She halted and turned back to me, that awful look of smiling patience on her lips. A stern teacher placating a slow student. "I'm Josephine. You can call me Jo. All my good friends do." She turned again and walked out of the library.
Her good friend. I blushed crimson. I don't think I'd ever been so happy.
I looked at the clock. Fifty minutes to go.
I rushed into the Pink Pig diner across the street from the small downtown library at precisely eleven o'clock. For once, I ignored the garish porcine decorations that smiled pinkly from every corner, and spotted Jo seated at a corner booth all the way in the back. As promised, there were others there, and as I rushed grinning to meet my new best friend, I drew up short. They were all alike. Well, once again, not exactly alike, but so alike as to leave little doubt that they were drawn together by blood. All dark, all sharply beautiful, all with that intense intelligence smoldering behind their eyes. And once again, that uneasy familiarity. They all looked vaguely like me.
I was just regaining my equilibrium and was in the process of pasting the smile back on my lips, when Jo thrust me right back into deep confusion by making introductions and playing musical chairs at the same time. I tried desperately to keep up.
"Molly, I'd like you to meet my sister, Jan," she said, standing. Jan stood, too. They all stood. Jan shook my hand, trying to smile, but she was somehow gawking instead. As she shook, she sort of pulled me toward the booth. "You sit on the inside, next to the wall, dear, if you don't mind," Jo continued. I slid into the booth as another black-haired beauty slid in next to me, this one probably the prettiest (and I guessed, the youngest) of the group. She gave me a dazzling smile as she took my hand.
"I'm Jean, Molly," she cooed. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
Jo had pulled a chair up to the end of the table as Jan slid in opposite me. The fourth sat beside her, and at first I supposed her to be Jan's twin, but I began to notice subtle differences. Jan was older, I guessed, but not by much. This fourth sister had a small smattering of freckles on cheeks that were just a little higher. They dressed alike, though, and I got the impression that they liked to make people think they might be twins. Sisterly trickery.
"This is Jill," Jo completed the introductions. The other three were studying me intensely.
