He had said "yes." The woman with the pale blue shawl whispered the words over and over to herself.
She gazed out a large window onto a busy street. Mountains in the background caught the reflected light from the early morning sun. The peaks stood dark against the blue of the sky like sentinels guarding the landscape. Little daubs of white lay between the points catching the light with little diamond glints visible from her home in Boulder. The snow had all but disappeared everywhere but those remaining remnants far up the skyline.
In the city, she sat staring out the window at her universe. A person such as herself needed some sort of outlet. A television would simply not suffice, its tawdry garishness just a little too gauche for her sensibilities. The window was different. It was real and the world it revealed was as wonderful as any contained in the dog eared stories lining her bookshelf.
A man arrived promptly every Saturday morning around 10 am to clean the large window. Some techno-geeks had their HDTV's to see the world, she had her window. So she kept it clean, a far better alternative than the pixilated genius of a Sony or Sharp LCD.
With half her mind she studied a young woman walking the sidewalk below her. The other half continued to float with thoughts of the word -- yes. He had said yes. It wasn't just for work this time. They were going out, leaving the house, to enjoy the crisp spring air. Her shoulders shook with anticipation.
She would have never asked in the first place if she hadn't been ready for him. Otherwise, she would have kept it professional, never showing a shade of interest. After all, rejection would have been too much for her to bear. Why take the risk, if it couldn't lead to something. And it could now. She was sure of it. Two years was a long time, but a miracle was happening. It was probably just her body healing itself, but she still thought in terms of something higher and more powerful than science and medicine.
The feeling was there now, growing stronger when she thought of him, up her long legs, between them - a tingling.
I'm Alive, she thought, the smile opening wide on her mature face, her eyes bright. A soft laugh erupted, starting at her chest and moving up to her mouth.
The woman below the window continued to pull at her attention. Partly, it was the way she was dressed; a threadbare grey coat covering a pair of puffy brown slacks, wrinkled and dirty. A piece of pant material had been torn out of the right leg, a bit below the knee. Her pale skin gleamed under the patch -- ivory white - such a contrast to the rest of her as though she had taken a hot shower minutes before grabbing her rags to walk the streets.
Part of it was the contraption she pushed, wheels squeaking so loudly, Cassandra could hear them through the window.
There was something else though. She looked familiar.
They call them bag ladies, Cassandra thought. Indeed that was certainly a stereotype given to many of her kind. She dressed the part and she pushed the ever present King Soopers grocery cart. Only she seemed so young. Didn't bag ladies always have the ever present sag of age and abuse?
With a sigh, Cassandra turned from the window. She had a bit of work to do before Don arrived. Grabbing a brush, she approached the painting. Something was missing. The three figures in the center of the canvas certainly looked the part as if they had just jumped from the pages of the book. Alexandre Dumas couldn't have imagined them any differently. She had even placed a fourth musketeer in the background, a calloused hand on his sword.
They seemed a bit too perfect, not a hair out of place. Then the inspiration gripped her. Leaning forward, she made the appropriate adjustment. A torn pant leg had now appeared on the lead swordsman. It was a small tear and showed the skin underneath, just to the left of the knee. Much better she thought.
A pounding startled her out of her contemplations and she moved toward the front door. She opened it.
The bag lady stood there in all her glory, a paper bag in her hand.
"You want some more herbs?" The woman's drawl was nasal and loud. "I believe you've run out."
It had happened two weeks ago to the day. That's when she had made the last of the tea.
The bag lady's face seemed different today from what Cassandra remembered two years ago. It was soon after the accident when she first came.
Every evening since, Cassandra had made a bit of the tea, just a pinch. It had lasted a long time. She knew how to ration valuable things. She never knew what was in it, just that it helped her sleep and when she woke up, she felt like it was a brand new day with all the hope of a child receiving a shiny red sled on Christmas.
"That first batch was free," the bag lady said. "This will cost. Give me something dear to your heart. Don't try to cheat me. I'll know all right. Can't fool me with some expensive junk."
Cassandra sped over to her easel and wrapped the painting.
The bag lady smiled upon receiving it. "This'll do nicely, it surely is from your heart."
The lady started to leave then turned back. "I give acupuncture, if you want," she said. "Every bit as good as the herbs, only longer lasting, true healing."
Cassandra was silent for a long time, thoughts whirling. How desperately she craved true healing. The doctors had called her case hopeless, no known medical cure. Anything was possible, they said. The body sometimes does marvelous things.
She knew she was so much better, but there was so much more to be done.
"Yes, please," she said.
"I'll be back then," the lady said.
After the bag lady left, Cassandra returned to her window perch.
The bag lady was on the sidewalk now, the wrapped painting stuck in the cart, one point high in the air above the rest of the flotsam. Slowly the lady pushed the cart across the sidewalk, the screech of the wheels loud in the busy street.
A figure raced by, a young man seventeen or eighteen, wearing shorts in the brisk morning. He dodged around the bag lady, almost past the cart when he made his move. Quick as a snake, a hand darted out and fastened onto the side of the painting. A split second later, the painting was off the cart and under his arms.
With legs pumping, the young man disappeared down the street.
The bag lady slumped over her cart, arms hanging over the sides like shredded cheese, thin and droopy, blowing in the wind. She straightened and glanced at the large window of Cassandra's house. Cassandra could see the face, the streaks running down her cheeks, the mouth open in agony. Then the bag lady slid onto a nearby bench, her face down, body curled over her knees. The bag lady remained there on the bench. Occasionally her back shook like some minor earthquake. Otherwise, she was motionless.
She remained hunched over her legs for a full thirty minutes. She might have been there longer except that something extraordinary happened that changed everything. A young man, perhaps in his early twenties tapped her on the shoulder. Looking up she saw the painting under his arm. Handing it to her, he pointed down the road gesturing about something far out of view of the window. Cassandra surmised it was about the rescue, finding the thief, retrieving the prize.
The young man received his own prize for services rendered. It wasn't tangible like money or some valuable object. It was instead a pair of arms, wrapped around him, lips open to his. He accepted the invitation and their two lips pressed together, softness against softness as though it was the most natural thing in the world for two apparent strangers to kiss passionately beside a busy street, cars honking as they passed.
Eventually they separated, and then pushed the cart together across the sidewalk to disappear around a building.
Almost as soon as they disappeared, Cassandra heard a knock on the door. It was Don, the window cleaner. As he entered the foyer, the masculine smell of sweat and cologne filled the room. She wondered if he could hear her pounding heart. Yet he appeared casual, almost too much so. She wanted him to pull her into his arms. He must know how I feel, she thought. I wouldn't have asked you if I hadn't cared.
He was a bit older than Cassandra and after an awkward moment of greeting, he walked to the closet containing the cleaning equipment. Cassandra watched him from a distance. Shortly he was sliding a chamois cloth over the window. Maybe he is just shy, she thought.
"I've thought about you often today," she said.
He stopped his rubbing motion and turneing his head toward her. "Me too," he said then turned back to the window.
