Natnwe - Many and One

(1)

A chilly January morning has begun to dawn around the town of Shettybury, New Hampshire. As the darkness slowly fades, the sky becomes a bright, hazy haze. Soon, silvery snow will fall. But there are still raindrops in the air. It reminds me of the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

The red brick buildings of the old city of Shattupally stand like a ghost town along the banks of the Potomac River. The Potomac River is Shattupally’s lifeblood. It rises in the snow-capped mountains of the northern region and flows southeast to the sea. The only two things that impede the river’s gentle flow are a dilapidated dam and a defunct waterwheel.

Along the riverbank are old factories. They are a reminder of the area's once thriving textile industry. At the southern end of the city is the Recycling Chemical Plant. The plant processes rubber, plastic, and vinyl products. Smoke rises from the giant chimneys and mixes with the clouds. The entire area is filled with the smell of rubber and plastic. Around the plant are mountains of discarded rubber tires.

As it reaches the south of the city, the river passes through tree-covered hills, snow-covered meadows, and stone walls built three hundred years ago.

About six miles south of town, the river turns eastward, forming a peninsula of about six acres. In the center of it is a shallow lake. A small stream connects the lake and the river. Behind the lake is a small hill. On top of the hill stands a small white Victorian house. With a hipped roof. The road, lined with oak and maple trees, winds its way along a long winding road to Highway 301.

About twenty-five yards north of the house, among the bushes, was an old, dilapidated barn. By the pond, there was a small building similar to the main house. It was a children's playhouse.

A beautiful New England landscape. A January painting. Just a little bit smaller. No fish in the pond. A small garden around the pond.

There are none.

The pale morning light filtered through the curtains into the picturesque white house, and she looked the same age. But Catherine seemed to be only a fraction of the age.

Chara lay on his elbows, gazing at her delicate form. Her face was shining in the moonlight. His mind was stirred as he looked at her.

He looked at the clock on the table. There were still twenty minutes before the alarm would go off. He lay back down on the bed. He found his wife.

He thought about his work. His business was growing rapidly. His mind was racing. What if a man named Charles Martel of Tenn., New Jersey, could solve the mystery of cancer? He was very close to it. But the strange thing was that he was not a trained scientist. When his first wife, Elizabeth, was ill, he was just a trainee doctor studying poisoning. It was only when his wife died that he began to earn a living.

He gave up his job and became a full-time researcher at the Weiberger Research Institute. It was in response to the death of his wife. His colleagues did not encourage him to do this.

Catherine knew her husband was awake, so she turned to face him and hugged him. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and smiled at him. His expression was strange...

"What are you thinking, brother?"

"Looking at my sister"

"Oh, yes, isn't your sister beautiful?"

"Not pretty"

He began, brushing her hair from her forehead.

Catherine's sleepiness had subsided. Knowing that her husband was awake and alert, she stroked him with one of her hands.

As snowflakes began to fall on the roofs, the two lovers drifted away in deep touch.

Just then, the clock chimed, signaling the start of the day.

Michele heard Catherine's voice calling from afar. She was dreaming. In the dream, she and her father were walking through a large field. Michele ignored Catherine's voice. But then the voice came again. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw Catherine's smiling face.

"It's time to get up."

Michelle took a deep breath and nodded. She said she was awake. Last night had been a bad night for her. She had nightmares. Sweat was pouring down her body. She was hot under the blanket and cold when she got out of it. She had been thinking about going to her father all night. She would have gone to him alone, of course.

"Oh, my daughter's skin is red."

Catherine said, opening the curtains. She felt Michele's forehead with her hand. It was hot.

"It looks like you're sick again, are you feeling well?"

Catherine asked kindly.

"I'm fine."

Michelle replied quickly.

Michelle doesn't want to get sick. She's afraid she'll miss school. She wants to get out of bed and make orange juice. Making orange juice is her job.

"I should take my daughter's temperature."

Saying this, Catherine went into the adjoining bathroom. When she came out, she was carrying a thermometer.

"Just a minute, kid, then you'll know what happened."

She put the mercury in Michel's mouth.

"Put it under your tongue, I'll wake the kids up and come back."

When the door closed, Michelle pulled out the thermometer. In a short time, the thermometer had risen to 99 degrees. She knew she had a fever. Her legs were aching.

She put the mercury back in her mouth. From where she lay, she could see her playhouse.

The playhouse was built by her father. The roof was covered with fresh snow. Her body shivered at the sight. She longed for spring. She longed for the days when she had lived in that little house. She and her father were alone.

When the door opened, fifteen-year-old Jean Paul had already woken up. He had a physics book in his hand. The clock radio by his head was humming softly.

Rock and roll music is playing. He is wearing a dark red nightgown with blue flowers. It was a Christmas present from Catherine.

"It takes twenty minutes."

Catherine said softly.

"Yes, Mom."

Jean-Paul replied with a smile.

Catherine paused. She looked down at the boy. Her heart fluttered. She wanted to pull him into her arms and hold him. But she held it in. The three children didn't like human contact very much. At first, it was a bit awkward for Catherine. Catherine came from an Italian neighborhood in Boston. Hugs were not uncommon for them. Her father was Latvian, but he left when she was twelve, so Catherine had no influence on him. She was completely Italian.

"I'll wait for breakfast."

Catherine said.

Jean Paul knew that Catherine liked to be called Mom. He called her that. It was a great reward for the kindness he received from her. Jean Paul's father was very busy in Jean Paul's life. His brother, Chat, ignored him. His little sister, Michelle, was no different. In this situation, Catherine came along. Catherine then legally adopted the three siblings. Jean Paul would have called her "Grandma" if Catherine had wanted him to. Catherine