Pools of Light

Pools of Light
by Guinevere Knight

“Damn it, it’s sunny again.”

Sunshine streamed through a small crack in the porch’s corrugated plastic roof and onto the floor near the back door. Mirage sighed as she grabbed an empty coffee can to catch the stream before it got all over everything. Sun is a bitch to get out of floorboards. A sound like warm honey hitting the bottom of a metal bucket whispered across the room as Mirage headed to the storage closet to gather roof patching supplies.

The weather outside wasn’t as bad as Mirage had feared after seeing the leak on the porch. It looked like the constant on-and-off drizzle of the past few days had slowly filled a large bird nest in the tree above her house, straining the stick, feather, and moss contraption to its limits until it fell apart. The thick onslaught of viscous light against the roof had managed to pry up an older patch, allowing the cascade below. There was still a tiny river of light coming down from a few slightly-cupped pieces of nest that hadn’t fully drained.

Briefly wondering if the nest was abandoned last year or if the builders hadn’t used their beaks carefully enough when recently attempting construction of a sun-tight roof, Mirage opened her step ladder, double-checked her tool belt, then climbed onto the porch roof. Using a putty knife she scraped the sun away from the hole, redirecting its stream down a more solid section, towards her sun barrel. Ripping up the old patch and gluing down a new one in less than a minute, Mirage climbed down and went back inside to clean the floor before the sun set and made her job more difficult.

_____

The weather was nice outside. Everything was glowing extra bright, as it always did after a good bout of sun. Mirage’s favorite time of year had always been Spring, when the sun comes back after the long drought. Over the winter almost everything outside gradually lost its glow as the plants used up their stores but the first real sun of Spring brought out the beauty of the world. If a person had the time they could sit on their porch and watch the sun slowly seep into the ground as the amber light moved up the plant stalks and tree trunks out into the tips of the leaves and stems as the plants drank their fill and imparted a warming glow to the surrounding area.

Winter and darkness had always saddened Mirage. One winter, when she was a teenager, her cat, Thunderguts, became sick and she’d always associated the two things. The cat started taking in less and less sun from its bowl and its fur slowly lost the healthy white glow it once had. By the time Christmas came around the cat was lethargic and its eyes barely glistened. She knew Thunderguts was gone when she came downstairs on Christmas morning and he was a motionless dark grey lump under the tree, curled up around a box of catnip Mirage had planned to give him. She never owned another pet.

_____

Mirage opened up all of the doors and windows, to help warm the house and give everything a good airing. She was born in this house and grew up here. Although she’d left for a time, and various owner names had passed across the deed, Mirage lived here now and planned to stay forever. It was where she belonged.

When she moved back into the house, Mirage had even found a few of the little wishes she’d hidden behind gaps in the moulding and under loose floor boards as a child. Some of the wishes were gone; Mirage assumed those were the ones that had been granted. Like the one where wished for a C on the test when she hadn’t studied, or when she wanted a pretty new dress for her birthday. The wishes she’d found were harder ones to grant, like bringing back her grandmother or wishing the mean kid in her class would explode. Technically he had exploded but not for another 20 years and it was because of a mining accident. That wish didn’t count since it hadn’t happened during the time Mirage wanted him to explode.

Mirage took out her knitting and sat on the couch. It had a nice view of the front yard and was in the path of a good, warm, breeze. Right as she got into the soothing rhythm of clacking needles and sliding wool there was a knock on the rickety screen door at the front of the house. The door was old; even older than Mirage herself. The mesh was riddled with holes that seemed to make it less effective than no screen door at all - like it was daring any bugs to try getting in.

Barely glancing up from her work, Mirage didn’t recognize the middle-aged man she saw through the worn screen so she kept knitting, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.

The man waited a few seconds then knocked again. “Knock, knock!” he yelled out. Mirage continued to ignore him.

“I said knock, knock!” he tried again.

“Yes, you did.” Mirage replied, still knitting.

“My momma always told me when a person knocks you gotta let them in” said the man, speaking through one of the larger holes in the screen, as if she could hear him better that way.

“That’s nice,” Mirage replied, still knitting.

“So, I knocked and now you need to let me in,” insisted the man.

“Says who?” asked Mirage.

“Says my momma! She always told me when a person knocks you gotta let them in!”

“Oh.”

“So are you gonna let me in?”

“Why?”

“Because I knocked!” The man was getting frustrated. He knocked again, vocally announcing each rap of his knuckles on the old wood. “KNOCK,” then a pause, “KNOCK!”

“Who is it?” sing-songed Mirage, setting down her knitting needles.

The man sighed, “Are you going to let me in?”

“Why?”

“So I can rob you.”

“No.” Mirage picked up her knitting again.

The man whined,“But I knocked!”

Mirage knitted.

“I said I knocked!” the man tried yet again.

“What are you, some kind of vampire?” Mirage asked, finally fully directing her attention to the man outside the screen door. “Do I need to invite you in to exsanguinate me and thieve my things?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Rob me.”

“No, the big word that sounds like a penguin eating. I’m not going to eat you.”

“Drain me of my blood.”

“Ew. No, blood’s gross.” the man replied with a look of disgust. “I’m not gonna kill you, I just want your stuff.”
“No.” Mirage said as she stood, still holding her knitting, and slowly walked towards the door.

The man looked like he thought she might finally let him in. She’d said “no” but was headed his way. “About time.” he said as Mirage arrived in front of him.

Mirage closed the door and locked it, the man’s mouth still stuck through the hole in the screen.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice muffled by the thick oak door, “You almost hit me doing that!”

Mirage shuffled her way back to the living room and resumed knitting for a bit before heading to bed.

_____

In the morning Mirage went outside to check on her garden. Small pools of light were scattered between the rows. The sky was bright with sun clouds and the air was heavy with a heat that gave everything more than a few feet away a shimmery, ethereal, vibration and washed out the usually-intense glow of the plants. It looked and felt like a massive storm was rolling in.

A few sprouts had popped up since the day before and were glowing happily in their little dirt mounds. Mirage admired the greenish amber glow the young plants gave off but her true happiness with gardening came later in the season when the plants start producing food and giving off the colors of ripeness.

The far corner of the garden had been planted with golden and red beets. For the first few weeks the beet tops pulsed dark green but Mirage had arranged them to make a glowing red and gold image of a cat when the edges of the beets eventually poked out of the soil as harvesting time neared. Also in the garden were patches of assorted squashes, carrots, peas, horseradish, numerous herbs, and an entire row of Mirage’s favorite vegetable: romanesco broccoli. Mirage saw something beautiful about the fractal patterns nature created in romanesco and it made a delicious bright green soup.

In the back of the garden, near the fence, there would soon be a watermelon patch. Mirage’s favorite color had always been ripe watermelon. Its deep-red shimmer striated by dark green lines reminded her of the carnivals that used to come through the area when she was a kid. Clowns dancing on stages while juggling sun-filled balls that glowed in impossible shades. Lovers seated on see-through colored plastic boats floating down artificial rivers of sun through glimmering arches of fresh flowers. Teenagers daring each other to go through the almost complete blackness of the haunted house, grabbing or groping each other in the darkness to cause either fear or arousal.

Mirage’s father used to take her to the carnival and on the way out they would stop at the watermelon juice stand. He would buy himself a small cup and let her get whatever size she wanted. She always asked for a large and would make that drink last as long as possible. The sugar rush from the sweet drink and the specific red glow it broadcast onto her skin made her feel magical.

As Mirage walked towards where the watermelons would be sprouting any day now, something felt off. She noticed a dark mass under the gunnera plants that couldn’t have been there during the sun shower. The plant’s leaves were massive, growing up to four-feet across on stalks eight-feet tall, and provided good cover, but everything got a small sprinkling of sun during a storm; there shouldn’t be anything completely dark outside. Going to investigate, she grabbed a rake and flipped it around to prod the mass with the tip of the handle.

“Mmmf,” said the mass as it wriggled.

This was quickly followed by an “OW!” as Mirage brought the rake handle down hard onto the area that had mmmfed.

Backing out of his blanket faster than a cenophobe at an innovation seminar the would-be robber from the day before jumped up and hid behind a gunnera stalk. “What’d you do that for?” he asked, eyeing the rake warily.

“Why are you in my garden?” demanded Mirage as she flipped the rake around to make it a better weapon.

“I didn’t take nothin’, I just needed a nap.”

“In my garden? After you tried to rob me?”

“That was just a misunderstanding!”

Mirage adjusted her grip on the rake.“How was that a misunderstanding?”

“You misunderstand how the rules of eat-and-quit go.”

“Eat and quit? What are you talking about?”

“You know, the rules you have to follow.”

“Etiquette?”

“Yeah, that,” the man said, daring to come out a bit from behind the stalks then darting back again as the back of the rake head flew towards his torso, hitting the plant stem with a loud smack. “That too!” He exclaimed. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to hit?” he asked, turning sideways to hide as much of himself behind the plant as possible.

The rake flew at the man again, this time with the tines turned towards him, aimed less at his torso and more between his legs. He dodged at the last instant and the rake tines buried themselves in a stalk, holding fast as Mirage tried in vain to retrieve her weapon.

“Hey, be careful! You coulda hit this!” he yelled with panic, covering what he could of a bulging area on the left side of his crotch and stroking it with his finger.

Mirage looked at him with disgust and yanked on the rake handle as hard as she could, completely tearing the huge stalk and causing a giant leaf to thump down on top of the two of them. The leaf wasn’t heavy but the impact was enough to knock them both to the ground.

The man crawled out, felt the area near his crotch again, then pulled the leaf off of Mirage.

“You okay?” he asked, offering his hand.

“Don’t touch me,” she said coldly, pulling a knife out of her bra with one hand and feeling her ankle with the other.

The man backed off a bit but looked concerned.

“You okay?” he repeated, “That looks like it hurts.”

Mirage chanced a glance at her foot while still holding the knife protectively. It didn’t look or feel broken but was starting to glow an angry red.

“What do you care?” she demanded, “Back away. I need to stand up and I don’t want you near me, Thief.”

“Stammer,” he said, backing up to the edge of the house.

“What?” she asked, using her hands to move from a sitting position to a low squat. She winced while testing out her footing, but slowly stood.
“Stammer,” he repeated, absently rubbing his groin.

“If you want to keep what’s in your pants I suggest you stop playing with it.”

“My name’s Stammer,” he said, reaching inside his pants.

Mirage’s knife flew across the garden, slicing the outside of Stammer’s left arm before wedging itself into the side of the house with a satisfying thunk.

“Y.. y...y...you cut me!” Stammer stammered. The fresh wound glowed where the skin had been broken. The cut wasn’t bad but it was deep enough. After a pregnant pause it started to bleed, running down Stammer’s arm and dripping onto the ground with a small, wet, splat.

The orange-red glow of blood made Mirage think of her fall from the roof the previous year when she had sliced her hand open while doing repairs. If she hadn’t jerked back from the pain she would have only needed a few stitches, which she could have done on her own, but she lost her balance and ended up breaking an arm. The doctor she’d found said she was lucky it hadn’t been worse. He said shouldn’t be climbing up on roofs and doing her own maintenance work anymore. He also said she shouldn’t be living on her own. She was doing just fine; what did he know?  

“I told you to stop playing with it,” she said, pulling another knife out from a hidden spot in her clothing, “Now get your hand out of your pants or next time I’ll actually hurt you.”

“What? Oh! N..n...no, you don’t know,” Stammer said, realizing what it looked like he was doing. “I have… hold on… don’t throw that one. It’s not what it looks like. I promise!”

Mirage tensed but held onto the knife as Stammer sucked in his already-thin stomach and reached into his pants with his right hand as well. After a few seconds of adjustments, Stammer slowly removed his hands from his pants and held them cupped against his chest. Something greyish-pink glowed softly beneath his fingers.

“What is it?” asked Mirage, lowering her knife a bit and straining to see across the garden.

“A weird kitten. The naked kind. I found him after…” He paused, “I found him. He was cold.”

Mirage softened some and lowered her knife completely, although she still held onto it. She started to walk slowly towards Stammer, favoring her right ankle. After two steps Mirage’s ankle gave out, sending her to to the ground, her left arm hooked through a tomato cage and the knife fell just out of her reach.

“God damnit!” she said, grabbing her ankle

“You okay?” Stammer asked again, running to her side. “Let me help you.” Carefully he tucked the kitten into the crook of his left elbow and reached out with his right hand to help her up.

“I told you before. Don’t touch me,” Mirage hissed.

“Fine, I’ll just wait over here until you’re ready for help,” Stammer walked to the back porch and sat on the step, petting the kitten and talking quietly to it.

After a few minutes Mirage called out, “I don’t need your fucking help!” and tried to stand on her own again, only to fall down after another step.

“Okay by me. Guess I’ll be heading off then.” Stammer said, licking the fresh cut on his arm, picking the kitten back up, and meandering slowly towards the road in front of the house.

Mirage tried to stand again, fell, then called out, “Wait, maybe you can get me to the door... but just the door.”

Stammer turned to face Mirage. Walking gingerly through the young garden,  he carefully un-mangled the tomato cage as well as he could with one hand, leaned over, wrapped his right arm under Mirage’s arms, and lifted her to standing.

He was strong but skinny. Too skinny. Up close Mirage could see his eyes weren’t as bright as they should be and the skin on his face was gaunt, causing him to look much older than he actually was. Earlier Mirage had thought he was a man but she could see now that he wasn’t much more than a young teen.

Stammer helped Mirage hobble up the back steps and settled her into a chair by the porch door.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Mirage asked as he turns to leave.

He paused, “A couple days ago, I think.”

“A real meal or what you stole from someone?”

“I didn’t steal from anyone, ma’am.”

“Mirage.”

It was Stammer’s turn to be confused. “What?”
“My name’s Mirage.”

“What kind of a name is that?” asked Stammer

“What kind of person asks such a rude question of a woman who’s about to invite a strange thief to eat with her?” she asked, “Besides, Stammer isn’t any better.”

“I’m sorry. Nice to meet you, Mirage,” said Stammer, sticking out his hand, “I really would like some food.”

“Who said I was inviting you to eat?” quipped Mirage, “Maybe I get weirdos asking to rob me all the time. Maybe I’m going to ask the next one that shows up instead.”

“Oh…” said Stammer, tears welling up in his eyes.

Mirage felt a pang of guilt, “I’m joking. Yes, I’m inviting you. Maybe a good meal will help you brighten up. Let’s get me inside.”

_____

“Do you know how to cook?” Mirage asked once she’d settled on the couch, her foot propped up on a pillow and her sprained ankle wrapped.

“Kinda. My mom used to let me help her but it’s been a while.”

“Well, let me rest my ankle for a bit then you can help me make lunch. Why don’t you grab a couple cups of yogurt to hold you until then?” she asked, pointing towards the kitchen.

Stammer didn’t have to be asked twice. He grabbed a lamp, rushed into the kitchen, and took two cups of yogurt off the shelf. Without bothering to get a spoon, or even read the labels, he opened the lids and dumped both containers of yogurt into his mouth, one after the other, barely taking time to breathe between swallows, then licked the inside of the cups.

“Slow down! You’re going to make yourself sick!” Mirage chided from the couch.

“Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, just slow down. Why don’t you grab a yogurt and spoon for each of us and sit out here with me?”

Stammer did what he was asked and sat on on a chair near the couch. “What flavor is this?” he asked now that he was taking the time to taste his food.

“Acai.”

“Is that some kind of fruit?”

“Berry, why?”
“It doesn’t taste like any kind of fruit.”

“What does it taste like?”
“Uh…” Stammer took another spoonful and thought for a bit, “It tastes like what a beauty parlor smells like,” he decided, then finished off the cup.

_____

“What’s with your name?” Stammer asked after they had both finished their yogurts and Mirage talked him through making a pot of coffee.

“What’s with yours?” Mirage responded.

“Oh, my real name isn’t Stammer, it’s John, but nobody calls me that.”
“Why do they call you Stammer?”

“I used to have a stuttering problem.”

“Do you like your nickname?”
“Everyone calls me it.”

“I won’t, if you don’t want me to. I understand what it’s like to have a weird name.”

“Sure, you can call me John. I’d like that,” said John, standing up, “I think the coffee is ready. Want some?”

“Yes, please. The cups are to the left of the sink. Get yourself some too.”

Coffee in hand, the two sat in silence for a few minutes drinking and thinking.

“So, are you going to tell me about your name?” John finally asked.

“It’s a bit ridiculous,” said Mirage

“That’s okay,” said John.

“And long,” said Mirage

John looked at her expectantly.

Mirage sighed. “Fine,” she said, “My name wasn’t supposed to be Mirage, but it accidentally is.”

“How do you accidentally get a name?” asked John

“Logical question,” replied Mirage, “Most people know what their name is from pretty early on, and every parent should know what name they’ve given to their child, but even my father didn’t know what my name was supposed to be for a few years.”

“Your dad didn’t know your name?”

Mirage nodded, “Yep. We found out on my eighth birthday.”

“Why did it take that long?”
“My mother wasn’t from around here. She was born in another country and didn’t learn English until a couple of years before she met and married my father. She was bad at spelling and had a very thick accent. When Mother found out she was pregnant with me she insisted on choosing my name. Father was madly in love with her so he went along with it.

“The day I was born my mother told the nurse and my father, ‘Come meet our beautiful Mirage!’ The nurse asked her for the spelling, and that was it.”

“But you said your name’s a mistake,” said John, “How is that a mistake?”

“It is,” Mirage continued, “I was happy enough with my odd name, but on the morning of my eighth birthday my father and I were making a cake in the kitchen when Mother came in. Usually she was fairly serious but that day she was almost giddy.

“As we were stirring strawberries into the cake batter my mother piped up, ‘Our little Mirage is almost old enough to be thinking about mirage! We need to help her find a good husband!’

“My father froze and stared at her before asking, ‘Wait… you think she’s old enough for marriage?’

“ ‘Not for another year or two,’ my mother replied defensively and my dad started laughing. She was serious. That was when we learned that we had been saying my name wrong my entire life. I was supposed to be named Marriage because my mother wanted me to have the best chance of finding a good husband and ‘What’s more assuring to a boy that a girl is marriage material than if it’s her name?’”

“But you’re not called Marriage,” said John.

“Nope, thank goodness. Father was annoyed when he realized what my name was supposed to be; luckily he preferred the mistake. We never told Mother that she’d spelled it wrong. Knowing her, she would have gotten it corrected immediately.”

“Did you ever get married?” asked John

“Kind of. For about a decade I lived with a man I’d prefer to forget. We spawned some crotch fruit but they’re all grown up now and one of them has kids of his own. They’re pretty cute. We visit each other occasionally.

“What about you? What’s your story?” Mirage asked.

John inhaled deeply and briefly held his breath before sluggishly releasing the air from his lungs through puffed cheeks, looking like a slowly deflating balloon. He opened his mouth wide and belched; bits of spittle and yogurt escaped his gaping maw and splattered the old woman’s exposed foot. “I’m an only child,” said John, “My mom’s really sick and I need to find her some help.”

“How long have you been walking?”

“I think two weeks.”

“With no food?”

John unconsciously licked his lips at the mention of food. “I had some but it ran out and so did my money.”

“How are you going to pay a doctor?”

“I don’t know.”

_____

Mirage’s ankle was still red and swollen at lunch time, but it was functional. She could walk on it but John insisted on preparing the meal himself so she could rest longer. He made a few simple sandwiches with ham, raw zucchini, and string cheese, and brought them out to the living room on a plate then quickly followed it up with a large bowl of what he called “lettuce salad.” Mirage took small bites of the unique sandwich but let him eat almost everything. She petted the kitten as it ate ham leftovers and purred loudly. Despite its scrawny state, the kitten was warm and its nearly-naked body was velvety to the touch. Healthy pink skin glowed fluorescent beneath a thin coating of light grey fur.

“What do you call him?” Mirage asked as the kitten closed its eyes and leaned into the scritches she was giving him on the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t.”

“What do you mean, you don’t?” Mirage asked, not turning her attention away from the cat, “Everything has a name.”

“I can’t keep him so why should I name him?”

“Why aren’t you keeping him?”

“I can’t even feed myself and he’d be safer indoors,” said John, “Do you want him?” he asked hopefully.

“If I wanted a never-ending box of shit I’d make it by myself and it wouldn’t cost me extra food,” Mirage replied without hesitation, “but he does need a name.”

“Whatever. All cats are the same.”

“No they aren’t!” Mirage said defensively. Thunderguts had been different. When he threw a vase of flowers off the table it was because they hadn’t belonged there. Other cats did it because they were jerks. “What makes you think they’re all the same?”

“Cat’s can’t be trained; they do what they want when they want. He’s an asshole like the rest of them, just little.”

“Well, there you go. Now he has a name.”

“What name?” asks John

Mirage reached down to pet the cat again, “You like your name, don’t you, Little Asshole?”

The cat purred and let out a small “mew!”

John smiled. It was the first bit of happiness Mirage had seen from him.

_____

“If you really want to help me, open up the doors and windows to get some fresh air in here then take a lamp up to the attic and bring down the box that has ‘B-16’ written on it.” Mirage told John after he insisted on cleaning the kitchen and doing housework to pay for his meal, “Then go take a bath. You smell disgusting.”

John followed her instructions. Mirage hobbled to the linen closet to grab a towel and a clean robe for John. “The bathroom’s in there,” she said, pointing at a door, “Sun tap is on the left, water tap is on the right. Stay in there until you feel clean, but don’t use up all of my sun. After you’re finished we’ll drain it into the garden.” After he closed the bathroom door she had an afterthought and called out, “Make sure to rinse all of the sun out of your hair. I don’t want it getting on my furniture.”

As John bathed, Mirage dug through the old cardboard box, occasionally swearing as she removed the kitten from it. By the time John emerged an hour later she had given up the worn box to Little Asshole and had a few outfits laid out on the couch. John looked exhausted but much more relaxed.

“These were Brian’s when he was about your age. He might have been a little shorter than you but I think they’ll fit.” Mirage said as John emerged from the bathroom wearing her robe.

For the second time that day, tears welled up in John’s eyes, but this time it was from gratitude. His voice quavered as he said, “Thank you!” then turned his back to Mirage while he composed himself.

The clothes smelled old and dusty, because they were, and the pants were a bit long on John, but otherwise they fit well and they were in better shape than what he had been wearing.

“I didn’t realize Brian was that tall!” Mirage said to herself, “Maybe I’ve shrunk.”

_____

The temperature dropped suddenly and a cacophony of thunder shook the house as sun poured down from the sky, pelting the open frames of the windows and front door.

“My floor!” Mirage exclaimed, trying to rush to close everything but unable to move more than a snail’s pace because of her swollen ankle.

John was faster than her and had closed everything else by the time she made it to the front door. Grabbing a mop he wiped up the bits of sun that had made it into the house then started to work with a rag on the furniture before suddenly dropping it, his eyes widening, “My blanket!”

John ran to the back porch but before he even made it outside he could see that his one belonging was a lost cause. The broken gunnera stalk was no longer providing shelter to where he had been napping and the entire plant was flooded with light. He slumped to the floor and leaned against the porch wall, resigning himself to the fact that he no longer owned anything but an unwanted cat and a dirty set of clothes.

Mirage sat down beside him and wrapped a sleeping bag around the two of them. “Don’t worry, this is yours now too.”

“I can’t take it, I didn’t earn it.”

“We can figure out a job for you to do in the morning. For tonight you sleep out here on the porch. I’ll give you a pillow too.”

Mirage hugged John and together they sat on the back porch listening to the groan of distant trees fighting against the thunder and wind and watching large slugs of sun pelt against the corrugated plastic roof. She thought of when she and her kids used to sit on this porch during thunderstorms and silently wondered if John’s mother was even still alive.

As John fell asleep against her shoulder, she cried. The tears on her face like dimmer versions of the roof. She didn’t even try to stop them.

_____

In the morning Mirage woke up in her room and went downstairs to find breakfast was already made, and getting cold on the table, and the kitchen was clean. John had made runny scrambled eggs, with some shells still inside, and burnt toast, but he was nowhere to be found. Mirage ate what she could and was about to put on shoes to look outside for him when the kitten came bounding up. He had a strand of her knitting yarn tied loosely around his neck and there was a piece of paper attached to it.

“Mirage,” it read, “Thank you. I can’t wait any more to find a doctor. I’m taking the sleeping bag and pillow. I don’t have anything for cally    collyater    cullater    you to have to know I’ll pay you back but I will. Little Asshole is your problem now. - Sta John”

Mirage scritched the bridge of the kitten’s nose as she looked out the window. “I hope he went the right direction.”