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Author: Jeannette Ferrara The Write Place
Catherine
Even then, everyone knew that you had him murdered. He was a husband like many others; given to drinking and hunting with his buddies with an aversion to work especially the work of the state. I stood outside the opulent palace where it happened, amid the exquisite fountain-laden gardens on the Gulf of Finland, full of admiration. It was, after all, a time when a wife could be banished to a convent or worse for displeasing her husband even if she was married to the emperor.
How did you manage it? How were you able to convince the military to carry out your plot, to convince the powers that be, that you, who were not even born Russian, would be the better ruler? Some say you courted the affection of the military for years. They responded in kind by carrying out your plot. Is that why you had your portrait painted in the full military dress of a man astride a horse? Somehow I can't believe that you were a cross dresser. It still hangs in the throne room of your summer palace.
You made it clear that marriage was not for you at a time when that was the only option available to a woman. But that certainly didn't stop you from enjoying yourself with a succession of increasingly younger men upon whom you lavished wealth and position. No one even dared to challenge your behaviour or question your authority.
You were a hard worker, they say. I know that you amassed one of the finest and most extensive collections of art and paintings in the world. Although you never travelled out of Russia, all the important leaders of Europe came to you where you received them in your spectacular amber room. Europe was buzzing with talk of the revitalized Russian empire thanks to you.
Many palaces and works of art have been destroyed by war never to be replaced; but not yours. Nazi bombs and misuse could not conquer your legacy. Time and money were no obstacles to full restoration. Your palaces are the peacocks, standing haughty, proud and unapologetic, amid the row upon row of crumbling communist concrete. No restoration there - thankfully. Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Gorbachev take that, you architectural imbeciles. She still rules, she still is Catherine the Great.
The Funnel Cloud
I already knew him. He sat behind me, at the end of the row in grade seven. Every morning, as we stood to parrot in unison, "Good morning, Miss MacElvride," he took a step closer as he delivered his own version. "Good morning, Miss MacElbags." I tried not to turn my head or smile. That would ensure the full force of the teacher's glare. A glare that promised an array of dire consequences; but it did prompt me to steal furtive glances over my shoulder as we were expected to work in silent solitude. His notebooks, no matter what the subject, were always lined with intriguing sketches and doodles, so unlike my own pristine versions. This continually enraged Miss MacElvride. I cringed as she held mine aloft for comparison. Catching his gaze through the corner of my eye, I noted an odd mixture of distain and amusement.
It was Sunday, "the day of rest", and my parents, who took that Biblical admonition quite literally, were having an afternoon nap. I had already relocated my lawn chair to the front yard, pretending to read, as I watched him ride his bike down the middle of the road, as he always did, fingers laced tightly behind his head.
On the second lap, he sidled over to the curb. "Get your bike," he directed. "Let's clear out of here. We'll ride up to the farms and feed the horses."
"My parents....." I began. He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Do you always follow the rules?" he challenged.
"Just give me a minute," I countered. I tiptoed up the stairs to pull my shorts under my skirt. Shedding the skirt outside the door, I stuffed it into the milk box. I was not allowed to wear shorts on Sunday; but with any luck, this would go undetected. I grabbed some carrots, pop, a notepad and a couple of pencils. Perhaps I would write about the farm for our descriptive composition assignment.
It didn't take us long to lose the bald cookie cutter boxes of our new subdivision. The cool shady trees that lined the road provided a welcome respite from the afternoon sun.
"There," he pointed. A small band of horses grazed peacefully nearby. We parked our bikes, scaled the fence, and soon diverted the attention of the animals from grazing to chomping carrots.
When the carrots were gone, we settled down on the grass and turned our attention to the pop. I pulled out my notebook and started to write.
"What's that for?" he asked.
"It's my descriptive composition. You know, you should try it sometime - actually handing in your homework," I needled.
He smirked as he grabbed paper and pencil. A few minutes later, he stopped. "What do you think of this?"
I looked over his shoulder. There it was. The hasty pencil sketch had replicated the scene perfectly- the fence, the trees, the horses grazing nearby, with the barn and clouds in the background. I opened my mouth to compliment him when I noticed it.
"There's a funnel cloud on the horizon. Why did you put a funnel cloud in it? There's no funnel cloud here!" I could here my voice rising in agitation.
"The funnel cloud makes it more exciting, doesn't it?" he insisted.
I wanted to protest that the sketch was better without it, but now I wasn't sure. Anyways, it was time to head back.
After that day, our paths diverged. Even though we went to the same high school, we moved in different circles. He hung out with the cool kids who grew their hair long and wore their jeans ripped, always skirting the edges of acceptability.
I hadn't thought of him in years; until one day as I careened out the supermarket door with an overloaded shopping buggy and a cranky toddler, there he was, his neck retreating into the upturned collar of his produce shirt; his fingers wielding a cigarette as if it were a paint brush.
"John, how are you?" I asked in surprise. His lips formed the shape of a smile, but his eyes rebelled.
"Great. Welcome to my world." He gestured to the sliding door.
I soldiered on. "You were good, you know."
"What?" He seemed puzzled.
"A good artist. Remember the day we rode our bikes out to feed the horses? Your sketch was better with the funnel cloud."
He waved his cigarette in mock toast. "To funnel clouds." This time his eyes smiled, but in a sad sort of way. "They're very destructive you know."
More stories by Jeannette .......
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