The Ring: Part 1
I found the ring when I was sixteen.
It was buried deep in my grandmother’s things, in an old dusty chest in the closet. Everything in it belonged to my great grandmother, at least, that’s what my grandmother said.
I had spent the summer looking through old photographs and antique letters, curious about my past for the simple reason that I had no other part about myself with which to be curious.
My present seemed to be set in stone - I was the teenage daughter of Captain Heideker, Marines. We were always moving from one place to another, different countries, different bases, different people. I had learned a smattering of German, Japanese, Korean, Italian, and a bit of Russian. I only had a few friends, all of them online, and we were not close. It’s all part of the life of an army brat.
My future was planned for me already. As soon as I graduated, I would be heading to Carnegie Melon University, to study engineering. I had always enjoyed Math, and set my sights on a career in physics, but my parents were adamant that I apply my education to something practical. Research was for dreamers, my dad said, once. You’re not a dreamer, you’re a doer. I didn’t disagree with them.
Everything is reliable when you live in an army family. Schedules are carefully crafted and adamantly adhered to. Clocks are set and alarms checked, and days are planned weeks in advance. The steady schedule was comforting as a child, but now, as I grew, I began to need to know more, and the past was all that was left for me.
My father never spoke about his father, save that he died in Vietnam. We still spoke with his mother at least once a month by phone, and on holidays. She was living in a condo outside Colorado, and never seemed to get out much. Once I had it in my head to explore the lives of my ancestors, I called her up to ask her questions. I asked her where she was born, and what her parents were like. I asked her how she met her husband, and what father was like as a child. I asked her about her siblings, who were dead; and what she had wanted to be when she grew up.
I asked her if she was happy. She didn’t answer me straight away.
She agreed to show me photo albums and keepsakes from the olden days when I came to visit that summer. She sent me a package of love letters to tide me over. I read through all forty-seven of them in one night, when they arrived.
When summer came, I flew back to Colorado to spend a month with her, and explore my grandparent’s lives. I spent the first two weeks simply pouring through ancient photos and crumbling yellow letters, learning everything I could about this strange woman that I thought I knew, and her husband that I knew I didn’t.
It was then that I learned that both of my grandmothers had been close friends long before they had ever met their husbands. They had double-dated and gossiped and told each other secrets that neither of them had told to anyone. I heard about vows and oaths made to each other late at night during sleep overs. I heard about scandalous music smuggled under pillows and sips of alcohol stolen away in empty perfume bottles. I heard about letters during times of strife and uncertainty, tickets to Woodstock, and a dear friendship that lasted for many years.
I was captivated by the stories, until my grandmother sat me down in front of a large chest, and told me it held some of my other grandmother’s things, safely tucked away.
My mother’s parents were both dead — killed in a traffic accident when I was little. I could only vaguely remember the sound of my grandfather’s voice, laughing with my mother and the smell of cigar smoke in the room, like pepper. One of the things that travels with us every time we move is a small wooden boat that he carved himself. My mother would always unpack the boat herself, which would inevitably remind her of one of his grand epic tales from his time as a fisherman. She would place the boat on the shelf, and re-tell the story, supposedly for my benefit. I knew it was for hers.
When my mother’s parents both died, my grandmother took a collection of items from the estate, and relinquished any claim to anything else. The top of the chest was full of much the same sort of things she had been showing me — letters and photos and strange odds-and-ends. Under a thick photo album, however, was an assortment of things that brought tears to my grandmother’s eyes. As I took each thing out, my she would sigh, and explain exactly why this particular leaf was so important, or what her dear friend had been doing the day this lock of hair had been saved.
A folder of papers held her sketches — she had wanted to be an artist — and I was astonished at the care and delicacy of the thin lines that covered each page. Flowers, birds, even a female nude that looked familiar and made my grandmother blush and wave her hand in dismissal.
The whole day was spent in front of that chest, studying pencil sketches of nature and keepsakes from the past. I studied the contents of the chest long past dinner, stealing to the kitchen for a sandwich after the sun had gone down.
I studied the past for hours, until at last I lay down for a moment to rest my eyes.
I found the ring in the morning.
It was in a small box at the very bottom of the chest, tucked away in the corner under a ragged old scarf. At first I assumed it was my grandmother’s wedding ring, but this thought was quickly discounted, as I could remember how the diamonds on her wedding ring had been made into a necklace for my aunt. Perhaps she had purchased a ring to marry my grandfather?
My other grandmother was unhelpful, shrugging and suggesting that it had once belonged to my great grandmother, passed down at her death, but never worn.
I couldn’t understand why when I opened the box. It was beautiful.
It was a twisted band of metal, curling around the finger like smoke, with a small dark jewel in the top. It glinted in the light, and as I held it to the sun I could see the gem was not black, but rather a stunningly dark purple.
I put it on to see how it would look. The silver was tarnished, and would need some polishing, but there was something about it that seemed to fit me. I took some polish from the cabinet in the garage, and began to polish it then and there.
I remember the mist, creeping in the corner of my vision. I remember the dark throbbing heartbeat of ancient drums pounding in my head, and a harsh smell of sand and fermenting dates.
At first I thought it was the polish.
I first saw him that afternoon, when I went running. He was standing on the street corner, looking around like he was lost. His hair was short and spiky, standing on his head like the bristles of a comb. His dark skin was a deep bronze, and it shone even in the dim light of the garage. He wore a chain earring that dangled almost to his left shoulder, and a yellowed bracelet that could have been brass. He was barefoot, wearing a thin pair of plain boxers tied at the waist with cord, and a pale blue t-shirt. His eyes seemed to be colored with eyeliner, and were a brilliant piercing blue that looked deep into me when our gazes met.
I had never understood what it meant for someone’s eyes to smolder until that moment.
“Can I help you?” he asked as I removed my ear-buds, moments before the very same words threatened to come from my mouth. His voice had a trace of accent, middle-eastern I guessed from his complexion.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said, smiling nervously. He looked at least eighteen, possibly older. “You look lost.” “I suppose I am, a bit,” he said, smiling. His teeth were a perfect white. “But I’d still like to help, if I can.”
“Thanks,” I giggled. Lord help me, I giggled. “I don’t need any help.”
“Okay then,” he said, taking a step closer. I didn’t step back. “I’ll probably see you around.”
“You live nearby?” I asked as he turned away. The area my grandmother lived in was not famous for its diversity — he must have moved recently, I decided.
“You could say that,” he said, glancing back. “Haven’t been out for a while, though — it looks like a whole new place. Have a nice run.” And with that, he turned around and walked away. I watched him for a few moments as I replaced my ear-buds, watching his lithe muscles move along his thin frame. It was not without regret that I turned my attention back to my run.
I wasn’t paying attention to the street.
It happened in a flash: a screeching of breaks that broke through my plugged ears. I glanced up in time to see the terrified eyes of the driver. Time seemed to slow down as my thoughts drifted to my father. I wondered which hospital they would take me to, and if I would ever wake up there. I thought about running away, but my body wouldn’t move except to cover my face with my hands…
And the car screeched to a halt behind me.
I felt my heart beating hard in my aching chest, my breath coming hard and fast. I heard the car start up again, and drive off, the driver obviously terrified about what had happened — had almost happened.
I felt an arm like steel wrapped around my arms and back. Slowly, I lifted my face to see the young man holding me tightly, several feet away from the street. He let me go as soon as I began to move.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I wanted to answer him, to say I was shaken but unharmed beyond perhaps a small bruise where his arms had held me so tightly. I wanted to laugh off the event and thank him with charm and class. I wanted to be an adult and get angry at the driver like my mother would. Instead, I noted with interest how my mouth wouldn’t move. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t control them. I felt dampness on my cheeks as though I had been crying.
I collapsed to the ground, my body quivering. I hugged myself as wracked sobs erupted from my mouth. I tried to control my breathing, but I could do little more than gasp in ragged pulses as I rocked back and forth on the sidewalk.
I don’t know how long I sat there in shock before I felt his hand on my back. It didn’t move, but rested between my shoulder blades. It wasn’t a comforting rub, nor was it a tender pat, but just a touch. Somehow, it helped calm my thoughts — my breathing began to steady, and my heartbeat quieted in my chest.
“Can I help?” he finally asked.
“Take me home,” I answered.
He walked me home in silence, his arm around my shoulder, giving me support. He smelled of spice and lavender. When we reached my grandmother’s house, he stopped, and let me walk to my door by myself, watching to make sure I got inside. Once managed to open the door with the spare key, I glanced back to thank him with a wave. It was returned with a simple smile as I closed the door.
It wasn’t until after dinner that I thought to wonder how he had managed to save me in time, and how he had known where I lived.
I began to see him everywhere. At the mall, I would see his smoldering gaze from across a crowd of giggling schoolgirls. I caught a glimpse of bare feet walking between the stacks at the library. Spiky black hair peeked out from behind menus at restaurants. Eyeliner reflected back from windows on the street.
I didn’t quite know what to think. At first, it was thrilling. I knew almost nothing about this quiet and strong boy that had saved my life, and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by him. I began to imagine what he would be like to talk to.
As the summer wore on, I began to worry. What before seemed to be little more than a girl’s fantasy was becoming more and more real. I saw him in places I should not have, and I began to wonder if he was a stalker. He knew where I lived, and always seemed to be nearby when I least expected it.
Eventually it got to the point that I had to speak with him — to tell him to leave me alone and stop haunting my steps — but once I had made up my mind, I couldn’t find him anywhere.
“Have any new families moved nearby recently?” I asked my grandmother one evening at dinner. “Middle-eastern families?”
“Indians, you mean?” she thought for a moment, her fork in her mouth. “No, I don’t think so. Most everyone around here is white as flour. There’s the dentist downtown, what’s his name…”
“He’s Italian, grandma,” I hid my smile behind a bite of potato.
“Well, I can’t tell that,” she waved her knife dismissively as she pierced her chicken with her fork. “I don’t mean to sound racist, but he has a tan, so you can understand where I’m coming from, can’t you?”
It wasn’t until almost the end of summer that I saw him again.
There was a park near grandmother’s place that I went sometimes, to read. It was a quiet place without many people. Joggers would pass by every once in a while, and several of the local ducks were too friendly for their own good, but it was peaceful just the same. I was wrapped up in my book when he sprung into my thoughts, unbidden.
Perhaps I thought of him because it was a romance novel. Perhaps he put those thoughts in my head. For whatever the reason, however, I paused in my reading to picture his face in my head.
Then he was sitting next to me.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his smoldering eyes burning mine like bright sunlight. I tried to think of something to say — something that didn’t sound like an infatuated girl, or a frightened child.
“I don’t know your name,” I finally said, setting my book down.
“I don’t have one,” he said, almost sounding ashamed.
“No name at all?” I asked feeling my heart beat faster at the sound of his voice.
“Not really,” he said, a small shrug in his shoulders. I turned away from his gaze to stare out at the park, and watch the ducks slowly swim around the tiny lake.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I said, after a few moments. “I realize I never said that when you took me home.”
He didn’t say anything to that — he just looked at me. His gaze was steady, but curious, like he was waiting patiently for me to do something that he knew I would. I tried to avoid his eyes, but something kept drawing me back to them. I could feel myself being pulled into them, drowning in their burning depths.
I knew. I don’t know how I knew then, what strange inspiration came from staring deep into his eyes, but in the span of a breadth, I knew he was not what I thought he was.
“What are you?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
“A spirit, perhaps,” he shrugged again. His golden fingers gently sought out and caressed the ring of my grandmother’s that I still wore. “I am here to serve.”
I looked down at the ring, as stories from my childhood flooded back to me. I looked back at his solemn face.
“You are a genie?”
“Perhaps,” he said again, a gentle smile.
“So,” I returned the smile, hardly believing what he said. “Do I get three wishes?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I serve the wearer of the ring.”
“Did you know my great-grandmother?” I asked, wondering how far I could trust my belief.
“No,” another shake of the head. “I knew your distant ancestors, though. I recognize them in your eyes.”
I nodded, as though this was a regular comment on my appearance. I could scarcely believe it. Here I was, sitting in the park next to a middle-eastern boy who was talking as though he was a genie, and perhaps most unnerving of the whole situation — I was believing him.
“Why do I believe you?” I asked, deciding to settle the matter.
“Because it’s not something you know,” he said, his fingers brushing the ring again, “it’s something you feel.”
“What can you do?” I asked, my mind beginning to explore the possibilities.
“I am not very powerful,” his shoulders sagged slightly. “My brothers and sisters are much stronger. I can do little things.”
“Like save my life?” I looked him in the eyes again. He looked surprised.
“Little things,” he said, after a moment, “can sometimes become big things in time.” He leaned closer, his eyes almost glowing in the sunlight. “I will serve you, and only you, in any way that I can. You are my master, and I am your slave.”
I took off the ring that night, and put it back in the box.
I took the box with me when I flew back to my parents.
My father was stationed in Florida, at a training base for new recruits in a semi-permanent assignment. According to my father, that meant we were going to be staying for several years, at least. According to my mother, we probably weren’t going to move again. My father was being tapped as a special instructor for the Marines, specializing in ship to shore deployment, and consulting with generals about aircraft carriers. Unless anything went wrong, my father’s wandering years were over.
We bought a house in the suburbs, a good district with a good high-school that would help get me into college. All of my credits transferred, and I was on the fast track for early admission, so it was really just a padding for the resume — I just needed to survive two years without any trouble, and I would be off to Carnegie Melon.
Staying out of trouble came easy after living in my father’s house. I was good at keeping my head down.
After a few weeks, I was able to convince myself that the guy I had met had been no more or less than a horny boy making a clumsy play for action. Attractive, yes, and charming, but no genie at all. Thus resolved, I was able to better focus on my schoolwork.
I began to make unintentional friends. I payed little attention to where I sat at lunch, and somehow became accidentally entangled in conversations and gossiping. Before long a few other girls had claimed me as their own, and began giving me advice about the best places to meet available young men, order the best pizza, get a bit of quiet, and find sympathetic grownups who were understanding of a teenagers needs.
We shared favorite books and movies; I told stories of Japan and Italy while the others retold tales of suburban Florida. Those who had them talked about siblings. We who didn’t, talked about only-childhood. We bitched about parents, complained about teachers, gushed over crushes, and talked about how we were the only ones who seemed to really get it.
Then, my world came crashing down.
“A b-minus?” Lindsey said, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That’s what’s got you all worked up?”
“I’ve never gotten a B before,” I said, my voice catching in my throat. I was shaking, hunched over in the bathroom stall as Lindsey stared at my mid-term report card. “I’ve always gotten A’s.”
“Yeah, I still hate you for that, but still,” Lindsey shook her head. “It’s not that bad. It’s just a midterm grade, and we can study more if you like. What’s got you so crazy?”
My mind tried desperately to keep from thinking about it — to stop myself envisioning the look on my parents face. The sobbing returned, shaking my body on the toilet as burning hot tears erupted from my eyes and splashed onto my hands. I hugged myself tighter as Lindsey embraced me.
Lindsey wasn’t even my closest friend — she had just been the one nearby, who saw me run into the bathroom.
“Come on, girl,” Lindsey finally broke the hug, reaching to the side and pulling a strip of toilet paper from the roll. “Let’s clean you up. You’re a mess right now. I promise, it’s not as bad as you think.”
But I knew it was. Despite her kind words and soothing promises, I could feel my Father’s eyes on the back of my head, and my mother’s disappointed sigh. I could see my Father’s mouth twist in barely suppressed rage as his tongue began to loosen, uncoil from his throat like a snake…
I could hear his words already…