Live Oak

Lyra was destined to become an aerial artist. After all, her name was Lyra like a lyra hoop artist. She imagined herself working as a professional circus acrobat after the first time her mother took her to the local fair. There before her wondrous 8-year-old eyes, she saw a magical dancer spinning round and round on one of those lyra hoops, her body spinning infinite circles 20 plus feet in the air.

Now twenty years of age, Lyra stared up at the live oak tree that stood in front of her parents' beachside chalet. This was her vacation throughout her childhood in the niche part of Jekyll Island, Georgia. She was home for college and she would not return. Her parents passed away within two years of each other. The last five years were particularly difficult for Lyra. She dissolved her life savings from babysitting gigs, summer lifeguarding jobs, and Christmas gift money to help her ailing folks. Cancer. Both of them, chain smokers for over forty years. The beach house was meant for her parents’ retirement. Lyra was putting it on the market for the invaluable real estate value, apparently, developers were putting up a casino and she’d received an offer, she couldn’t refuse. 

In her hands, she held the rigging for her own lyra hoop, a rope securely tied to the metal frame, and several carabiners. The rope swung nimbly over a thick medium branch. The tree was large and its branches reached outwardly like arms waiting for a hug on every level of its trunk. She guided the hoop up just high enough for her to practice her trapeze art without touching the ground.

It would never have suited her to move down to Jekyll. Everyone was old or blonde. She hated sticking out in the crowd, and down below the Bible belt, she always stuck out like an exotic bird. Her almond eyes, jet-black hair, and high cheekbones were beautiful to behold but different. Different isn’t always good, especially when people like the chalet’s caretaker boasted about how before they had sold the house to the Ling’s, the house, tree, and all were relics of their ancestors.

“My ancestors were part of the group from France that discovered this island, and this is peninsula is where they took up roots,” Monsieur Bain explained.

He always found a way to insert his rightful ownership into the conversation every time she came to visit. Their house was what used to be the main house three acres west. They had subdivided the plat long ago to earn extra income. A piece was sold in the ’80s and in early 2000, her parents acquired the last plot.

Monsieur Bain did not look like a Frenchman or even a descendant. His looks were average and akin to most middle-aged, tired, southerner that Lyra had crossed path within her life. He insisted on the title, “Monsieur,” for the sake of tourism rather than authenticity. At home, alone with his wife, he was simply Tom, and the neighborhood vendors, local fishermen all knew him as Mr. Bain.

Lyra was deeply focused on a new maneuver she wanted to hit. She lost her scholarship due to all her recent time planning funerals. She didn’t plan on returning to school. She was chasing Cirque du Soleil and one particularly handsome casting director across the country, perhaps into Canada. She’d secured an audition before, but the heavy hitters in the running left her out in the cold. That was two years ago. Now, it was time for another chance. She just had to get stronger.

She was intensely winding her legs and twisting her body through and outside of the hoop. It wasn’t until she pulled herself up in a front support position that she noticed someone up the hill eyeballing her. Lyra squinted her eyes and as they came into focus on the familiar figure, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She cast backward and landed on her feet like a cat on the ground next to one of the old tree’s outgrown roots.

Waving, she called out, “Monsieur Bain, what a pleasant surprise!”

Sauntering after Lyra’s recognition, Monsieur Bain called back.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he breathed as he approached the promising young acrobat. The hills on that property seemed to grown gigantically every passing year.

Monsieur Bain cast his gaze down when he reached the girl.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your parents.”

Tom had liked the Lings. They were respectful people, kept to themselves, never held parties. He couldn’t have asked for better seasonal nearby residents. When they were alive, he hadn’t thought to invite them to dinner, and he’d only wandered over when he saw Lyra practicing her art on the tree because he realized how young she was to lose both her parents.

Lyra nodded. She didn’t want another long conversation about how it all happened and what she went through making arrangements, selling their main home. Most of all, she didn’t feel like telling strangers how she was making out. She really wasn’t. Her parents splurged a couple years before they got sick and bought a tiny Airstream. It was an opportunity to make sure they all stayed close when Lyra went away for school. That way on summer vacations, they would all go on a new adventure cross-country together. That never happened. The summer after that, Lyra was offered a great opportunity to dance in a real show off-Broadway. The summer after that, they took that cross-country vacation without her. The summer after that, her father was dead already. Then the Airstream sat in the driveway until Lyra’s mother followed suit.

After their Maine house was under contract, Lyra packed some of her favorite clothes from high school, family photos, and her dad’s guitar. He’d always wanted to play, but work and struggling to “make it” kept him from it. She hadn’t done better. It was collecting dust on a guitar stand in the camper.

After some pleasantries, Tom posed the question that weighed on his mind.

“Can we talk about the house?”

Lyra’s head shot up.

“What of it?” She asked, her tone getting defensive.

“We were thinking, maybe instead of selling it, you could do vacation rentals,” Tom spoke quickly before Lyra could respond. “I think it’ll give you just the right amount of income while you get back on your feet…Those big wigs are trying to buy us all out, well, we’d like to keep this little piece of heaven…underdeveloped, if you know what I mean.”

Lyra shook her head vehemently.

“No, no, you can’t talk me out. I need the money for travel…”

“Pops!” A little boy called out in the distance.

A tiny frame of six-year-old stood at the top of the hill. He waved his diminutive, little arm in the air. The motion cut like a cartoon moving in front of the scenic Jekyll backdrop with the Atlantic ocean swarming up the rest of the picture. The little boy ran down the hill easily and when he reached Lyra and Tom, he grabbed his grandfather’s hand.

“Granny, wants you to invite the girl to dinner!” He exclaimed with glee.

Monsieur Bain grinned at Lyra.

“Well, how about it? You up for joining us and we can talk over details?” He smiled, rather shyly and a little bit hopeful.

Lyra contemplated. She knew that her parents always meant for her to come to visit them their in-between gigs or school. Their retirement was around the corner before the storm came in. They had pictured her inheriting the place and taking her kids to vacation on family trips, once she had a family of her own. It didn’t seem feasible anymore.

“This is Alfie, my grandson,” Tom introduced. He pointed at the little boy whose face suddenly lit up.

“Oh!” Alfie let out. “That’s a cool idea.”

Lyra nodded again.

“Yes, that’s why I’ve always liked this tree.”

Monsieur Bain smiled.

“When I was a little boy, I used to climb like a monkey on that tree,” Tom said, getting lost in reconnaissance. “I used to jump from limb to limb.”

Lyra smiled.

“I was never encouraged to do that,” she admitted. “I guess it’s different for girls, but when I started doing this,” she gestured towards the hoop. “I began to enjoy trees more, especially this one.”

Alfie broke from Tom and scurried up the first branch of the tree.

“Alfie!” Tom protested. “That’s not our property.”

Lyra let them know it was fine for Alfie to climb. But Alfie was on the other side of the hoop and was only focused on reaching the next branch.

The adults meditated while watching Alfie practice his Tarzan skills.

“Okay,” Lyra said. “Let’s eat. I’m just going to talk, I won’t promise anything, but I’m starving and I didn’t fix dinner.”

Tom smiled.

“All, I can ask for is an open ear. Let’s go.”