Thimble and Star

About fifty minutes into the rural, winding trek he’d travelled countless times, Tom took the left off highway 4, onto the 447, and began the ascent to the summit. He was right on schedule, less than seven minutes out, and it was only six-thirty on this early October morning.

Petit Jean mountain had always been a special place because he’d met his Sandi here. She, a demure, blonde, recently graduated with a social work degree, girl scout leader with a twisted ankle. He a strapping six-foot geology master’s student. Tom spotted Sandi on a well-worn path surrounded by an overly concerned gaggle of pre-pubescents of the Brownie ranks. Pigtails and braces and everyone talking at once.

He knelt beside her, as she sat in the path, holding her ankle. She looked up at him, tears on her face, and said, “I took my eyes off the path for a second and missed that rock back there.”

“Can you walk?” Tom asked.

“I’m not sure I can even stand,” she responded with a shaky voice.

The Brownies had hushed and gathered around them both. Tom could feel the hand of one behind him, patting him on the back.

“We’re not far from the mouth of the trail. I could carry you.”

She caught the faces her smiling charges. They were fairy-tale giddy; her prince had come!

“Are you sure?” she’d asked.

“As sure as I am you won’t walk out of here on your own.”

And then Tom scooped Sandi to his chest. A couple of the Brownies bounced up and down on their toes. One actually clapped.

With her securely against him, he stood with ease, her, cradled in his arms. The Brownies ran ahead, a royal procession. 

He held her like a giant newborn, his left arm went around her back and his right under her knees. Her right arm was behind him, grasping his shoulder. Sandi held her head away from this stranger’s body in her semi-prone position, but it was nearly impossible, using only the muscles of her neck to support her head. She finally laid her head against him, atop his chest, where his jaw met his neck.

A lot of thoughts raced through Tom’s mind in those first twenty or so steps. He hoped Sandi was comfortable in his arms because he could imagine how awkward this was for her. But then she laid her head against him. “I’m Tom, by the way,” he said.

“I’m Sandi.”

He could see the clearing, and cars beyond. Then Sandi spoke again. “I’m so glad you found me.”

And that’s when Tom realized the girl with the twisted ankle was twisting something inside of him.

He put her in the van, where the Brownie parent whose only commitment to the outing was driver, waited to take them back to the place from where they’d come.

Tom said so long, but knew he’d find Sandi again, through her Brownie’s troop number.

Tom drove the last few miles, winding back and forth through the cutbacks as his car scaled the mountain. Early on, he and Sandi had decided to come back to the mountain every year. Their love story had been born there, and they’d always found it intriguing that the mountain was known as a place where another love story had been laid to rest.

Adrianne Dumont was a Parisian debutant, engaged to an explorer, Chavet, a young French Nobleman. He asked the king for permission to explore the Louisiana Territories, and when the king obliged, Adrianne begged Chavet to marry her so she could accompany him on the adventure. He would not.

So, Adrianne, in her desperation, disguised herself and applied for a cabin boy position on the ship. She called herself, Jean, French for John. Eventually, around the ship, she was known to the crew as Little John. Petit Jean.

When they got to the mountain, Adrianne fell ill, so sick was she that departure was delayed. Eventually, in her debilitating illness, her identity became known. Her last request of Chavet was that he forgive her, and then she died, there, on the mountain called Petit Jean.

Tom made the right turn, so easy to miss, especially in the pre-dawn darkness. He passed the sign pointing to the right, directing visitors to the grave, and drove on to the parking lot. The first thing Tom noticed when he emerged from his vehicle were the gentle but persistent breezes whispering winter’s impending appointment. The second, was, of course, that he’d failed to bring a flashlight.

A deck had been built at the end of the lot, from which visitors could stand and behold the vista. But the more adventurous could abandon the structure and head on their own to the rocky bluff. For the brave enough, there was plenty of seating at the ledge.

He and Sandi had been here every year, for what was it now? He fought to remember. Forty-seven years? They’d sat in one specific spot, their legs dangling over the abyss, and waited for what Sandi had always called the greatest show on earth. Long before they’d become witnesses, or even, before Adrianne showed up, the sun had promised to begin its day at this spot every morning.

When he stepped off the deck in this predawn darkness, he watched the ground carefully. The path hadn’t changed at all, but he had. A lot. He still had much of his strength, but balance and timing were a bit off. He couldn’t afford a misstep.

With his head down, he was nearly on her before he realized she was already sitting where he was about to. Suddenly, he had no idea what he’d do. Someone was in his spot, and as far as he could tell, she had no idea her solitude had been lost.

Finally, he said, “Excuse me,” and then repeated himself a little louder when she didn’t respond.

She turned, unalarmed, and greeted him. “Good morning,” she said, in an accent Tom thought he recognized. Dutch? German?

“May I sit here too?” he asked. “Just until the sunrise is over,” he quickly added, making what he hoped was an assuring gesture with his hands.

“Sure,” she said, and gathered what looked to him like a silver travel mug from between them.

He couldn’t see her very well, but her posture and clothing gave Tom the impression they were close in age. He was kind of surprised to find a woman here, in his age demographic, alone on the mountain. Good for her, he thought.

They sat for a few minutes. Their perch was just above the treetops growing from far below; a position, easily, 1000 feet above the Arkansas River Valley. Tom could hear the scurry of squirrel families preparing for their day. A moment later, he introduced himself.

The lady returned, “My name is Jean.” Then she downed the last of her drink and slipped the mug in her coat pocket.

Tom thought he’d misheard her. “Pardon me?” he questioned. “Like the mountain?”

Yes, her name was Jean, well, Genevieve, but only her mother had ever called her by it.

Morning was rousing. Light emanated from the east, easing black into the faintest blues and purples. The glow invited comfortability, and they talked more like friends than strangers.

Jean eventually shared that her husband, Emil, had died a few years back, and a unique collection of circumstances, demanded she leave her home in Frankfurt and come live with her daughter’s family in Little Rock. They’d been here for years, she said; her son-in-law was a someone important in finance.

“I’m bored and I’m lonely,” she confessed. “I’d heard about this sunrise and decided one day I’d just come up here for myself and see it, you know, before I couldn’t.

Daylight’s blossom began to open. A distinct line, a thousand miles away, like a blistering grass fire, lay on the horizon.

Tom told her about Sandi. “This is my first trip up here alone. Cancer. We had different plans.”

“We did too,” Jean murmured.

The semi-circular glow in the east was now arresting. They continued their conversation, but neither looked away.

Jean said Emil had been the center of her existence. He’d been her protector, guardian, her shield. She was safe with him. Secure.

Tom, too, told the story of how Sandi had been his ballast. She was the one whose insight and advice he’d followed. She’d steered him out of a few potential scrapes in their life together. He’d actually said, “saved my bacon,” and didn’t know if Jean had understood.

The sun had nearly eclipsed the horizon. The sphere’s presence demanded awe, wonder, respect. It resembled a massive snow globe set ablaze. They fell silent in admiration.

Then Jean spoke, obviously in tears. “Emil was my…you know…that sewing thing you put on your finger?”

“Thimble. Emil was your thimble.”

“Yes, and Sandi, she was your star.”

A single tear escaped Tom’s eye; the first, since the funeral.

The sun was visible in its entirety now. A glowing, vibrant orb. It blessed the cliff with enough light for Tom and Jean to clearly see each other’s faces. They stood up, hand brushed their clothing, and took in what each had expected: lips, eyes, and noses, and lines, some deeper and longer than others. And also sorrow.

Without a word, they turned to leave. Tom let Jean lead as had always been his way with Sandi. When they got to the deck, Jean missed the first step. Her left hand grabbed for the rail, and her right hand shot away in her body’s natural attempt to maintain equilibrium.

Tom, reflexively, reached out and took it, soft, and warm. Their eyes met for a second, and then they continued on, but didn’t let go.

In the parking lot, they dropped each other’s hand and stood, facing each other.

“I’m glad I met you, Jean,” Tom said to her eyes.

“Same, Tom.”

“Maybe we’ll see each other again here one morning.”

“I don’t think so. I’m moving back to live in my hometown next week.” she answered.

They continued their gaze into each other’s faces until they could somehow sense it was time. Then they got in their vehicles, started the engines, and left Petit Jean, and her mountain, behind.