LJ Idol Week 25 - The Catbird’s Seat
45 years ago, just around the summer solstice like now, I became an unintentional voyeur.
I had escaped with a book after dinner, from the noise of visiting family at home to my favourite tree on the playground nearby.
In the summer, I would often stay up there until it got dark, and I could not see what I was reading any more.
The sun had already gone down into a murky nest of clouds, over the rows of high rise buildings, and I was savouring those last quiet moments before I would cautiously descend back to the ground.
Suddenly though, I heard steps, then low voices, nearing my tree.
This made me anxious, as I always tried to avoid other people at this hour.
They would ask me what I did up there, all alone, in the evening.
They would probably insist on going home with me, to see which kind of parents let their child stay out in the dark.
And my mother would be sad and my father angry, again.
And our tenuous agreement that I could stay in the playground, just a block from our home, until the light went away, would end.
So I stayed where I was, even if it was getting darker by the minute.
The tree’s foliage was dense and I sat quite high up in my comfortably forked branch.
If I kept silent, my presence would remain hidden in the waning dusk, squirrels and birds more remarkable than me.
I still thought these were two people having an evening walk, hopefully disappearing as fast as they had arrived.
Alas, this was not to be. The two, from their voices a man and a woman, were coming near, and then stopped. Just below me, in fact.
And while they could not see me through the green, I had a direct view on their heads, in particular when one of them leant with their back against the trunk of my tree and the other one stepped closer, until they ended up embracing, their faces buried into each other’s.
I cannot remember exactly what I felt, probably confusion and a certain uneasy excitement.
The only thing I consciously recall is surprise. Because I recognised the woman leaning against the tree from her wavy, bright red hair.
It was our neighbour, Mrs. S., with a man who had not her husband's grey head, but a curly, thick dark crest.
And when the two paused their intense kissing for a moment, coming up for air, I realised I knew him too.
The striking, clear cut traits were without a doubt those of the priest of the Catholic parish where my mother went every Sunday. Dragging me and my sister behind, if we were unable to avoid it.
A still rather young man, he loved to preach about hellfire and torture for all those who sinned. Of horrible devils piercing the fallen humans with their needled spears, of glowing embers just waiting to sear the sorry skin of those who had not resisted temptation.
Mrs. S. was married to a nice but somewhat older man. My parents were friendly with them, but not too close, because the woman who was now entering a new round of passionate effusions could be acrimonious at times and, childless herself, was known to be easily disturbed by our laughter or play.
By now, darkness had enveloped the park and a soft fog was raising slowly from the grass.
The street lamps from the other side of the playground cast only a faint light through the exuberant growth of the shrubs and trees all around.
I realised that the two illicit lovers had probably chosen this place exactly because of the complete seclusion and darkness it offered to their few stolen moments of abandon, of which by now I could perceive the intensity from grunts and suffocated cries.
It probably did not last long, but to me, it seemed an eternity.
The tree was thick and strong, but at a certain point, their movement against it made it shake, and me with it.
Finally, the sounds and commotion stopped.
I was already hoping that soon I would be able to slip down the tree and head home, but then, a light flickered and I smelled cigarette smoke.
I idly wondered what would happen now, because I well remembered Mrs. S. berating my father every time when he was enjoying an after dinner smoke on our terrace, and the wind happened to blow even a wisp of the fumes over to her garden.
But to my surprise, whenever the priest drew on his fag, for a moment a subtle spot of light illuminated her adoring face on his shoulder, right in the middle of a dense cloud of exhalated mist.
They did not speak much and what they said was into each other’s ears, so there was nothing to listen to, and I was growing cold, bored and more and more annoyed.
But in the end they finally left, not together, but each into another direction, first her, then him.
I waited for a few minutes still, to be sure they were gone, then silently slid down the tree and ran home.
I managed to enter the garden and quietly sit on the swinging chair in a corner for a while, until my mother opened the glass door and looked out, evidently searching for me. Being used to my lonely ways, she just shooed me inside and I ran upstairs to my room, happy to not have my roaming privileges revoked.
For a week or two, I avoided the playground, the neighbour and the church. I have never been good at hiding my emotions and knew I would be unable to not stare at each of the two if I happened on them.
Slowly, the uneasiness about what I had seen began to dissipate, though. After all, I was only eleven years old.
And the attraction of my preferred evening pastime grew, also knowing that summer would be over soon, the days would shorten and my window of relaxing in those beloved trees’ crowns was closing fast.
Fortunately, there were a few more of the big, strong plants, and one, while less high, comfortable and leafy, stood in a more open part of the playground, where I was quite sure that any lovers would be wary of conducting their trysts, as they could be seen from the street.
Little did I know.
The second time I returned to my new favourite tree, in company of a good book and a chocolate bar, I completely forgot the time and once again, suddenly found myself with too little light for reading.
While I was preparing to descend, those two voices resounded below me again.
Mrs. S. was talking, rather loudly, about a dead snake she had seen during the day under “that” tree while walking her little dog.
The priest laughed and told her he’d push it away, so they could stay comfortable among the shrubs, but she refused.
Adamantly enough, that he gave in and they embarked once again on their heated, wordless exchange, in spite of this quite dangerous, exposed location.
Once again, with me as their very unwilling listener and spectator.
Be it for the fear of being discovered or the excitement of their risky position, they took less time to coo and sigh, proceeding immediately to the heavy pushing and shuddering against the tree.
To my relief, everything was over quite soon, and I was able to return home before it was fully dark, morosely resolving to avoid the playground completely from now on.
Then school started again and my memories of the unholy couple slowly faded away, among the many other problems of everyday life.
Months later, one evening at dinner, my mother casually mentioned something about Mrs. S. expecting a child.
Which, apparently, had caused quite a stir in the neighbourhood.
“Who’d have thought”, my father said,”that tired old husband of hers, still getting up to this stuff. She must be less bitchy at home than out on the street.”
My parents both laughed, knowingly, my little sister giggled just because they did.
Me, I tried to behave as if I were thinking about something else, while in my mind I saw the serious, brooding priest doing things to her, of which I suspected, from biology lessons at school, put babies into women’s bellies.
The school books actually only showed them doing it lying down on a bed, not standing up against a tree, but remembering the cows and horses and dogs I had watched in the countryside, I supposed that the result might be the same.
I would have liked to talk to somebody about it, that day. But I felt guilty that I had been watching them secretly, from my position high up in the trees, and so I kept it to myself.
Around the same time, the priest in question disappeared from our church. When I asked my mother where he had gone, she only shrugged and said that he had been transferred to another town.
A rather normal thing, they said, for those apocalyptic preachers never stayed anywhere long.
In March of the following year, Mrs. S. gave birth to a ittle girl with olive skin and dark hair and eyes.
Both she and her husband were fair skinned and blue eyed and one or the other eyebrow was raised.
Nobody talked about it in front of us children though.
Mr. S. had always stayed at work until late in the evenings and evidently saw not reason to change this now.
His wife kept to herself but without her former eruptions of rage whenever a noise or a smell dared to disturb.
When the days grew longer again, I returned to my spot on top of my favourite tree.
And from time to time, I heard somebody else walking towards me, then stopping at the trunk, leaning against it.
When I looked down, it was always Mrs. S.
Her company was quite different these times, though. She was slowly pushing back and forth a pink baby stroller, softly singing to herself.
Sometimes, these were songs of sorrow and pain. Others, of praise and joy.
Always, with one hand, she was caressing the tree, with the other her child.