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Into the Mystic

Bill Tope

    Mary, an ageless and stunning brunette, stepped cat-like through the crowded living room of the party house, as though she were walking through a dream. She passed others by without a word, tacitly refusing offers of marijuana, alcohol, and even stronger substances. Like always, she said no. She kept her focus on her destination: the door at the other end of the room, which led to the back yard. Arriving finally at her objective, Mary opened the door and stepped into the cool autumn air, pulling the door closed behind her. She breathed with deep relief.
    Mary walked calmly across the damp, neatly trimmed lawn, saying nothing and seeing nothing. At length, she came upon a child’s swing set, and she eased onto a wooden swing. There she sat, motionless, with the sounds of the party—the music, the raised voices, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—in progress behind her. The yard, but for Mary, was deserted, though there were the softly hissing embers of what had once been a bonfire a short distance away.
    Mary cast her thoughts back through time, to her son. This swing set was his favorite plaything. Endlessly, Aaron had played on this very swing, safely sequestered in his backyard. Home-schooled in dread of the perils of the public or even the private education of the child of a celebrity, he was held dear by his parents for all seven years of his too short life. A Halloween puppet show at the mall, the unlikely venue for a shooter, had ended Aaron’s life. Mary supposed that every October would rekindle the same memories. How could they not? It was still hard for the two of them.
    Mary turned her head to listen to the music drifting from the house. It was a 60s band, playing a tune that was popular thirty years before anyone in the house was even born. A pretty ballad, sung by an Irishman. She had heard it somewhere before—on an oldies station, she supposed; she liked it and wished she could remember its title.
    Suddenly, she became aware of a presence nearby. A figure had grasped the chains holding her swing and was looming behind her. She could no longer tolerate the unexpected. She drew a sharp breath. Before she could react further, the figure spoke.
    “Mary,” he asked in his deep, beautiful voice, “are you alright?” She released her breath and relaxed. It was her friend.
    “Ellis,” she replied. “Where did you come from?”
    “I waited for you,” he said, “and when you didn’t come back to bed, I got worried.” He gripped the chains a little tighter.
    “I’m sorry, Ellis. I didn’t mean to make you wonder. I wanted to enjoy the night and the cool. It’s so hot inside—the smoke, the smell of whisky.”
    “Do you want me to tell them all to get lost?” he offered. “I know it’s not exactly your scene.”
    With her back still toward him, she shook her head. “No, they’re all artists on your label. This is just part of the cost of doing business for you. I understand. It would be wrong to throw them out.”
    “It’s not the label that I’m in love with, Mary,” he pointed out, dropping his hands to her shoulders and kneading the muscles with his strong fingers. Even in the chilly night air, she felt suddenly warmed.
    What record was that, Ellis?” she asked him. “A moment ago—the Irishman?”
    “Van Morrison?”
    “Morrison! Yes. What was he singing?”
    “Into the mystic,” he replied at once. She nodded and felt the love and concern emanate like waves from his body.
    They were quiet for a few moments, sharing a history and a son, before he said, “Come back to bed, Mary.”
    “Will you take me back there, Ellis, back into the mystic?”
    “I will,” he replied, and offering his hand, he led her back inside.

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