the rarest of sandal woods

the rarest of sandal woods

fiction
edward w pritchard

At one of my many jobs I had to pay my way through college one of my female coworkers acted what I considered at the time rather forward and invited me to her house for dinner. Her being attractive I accepted her offer although I scarcely knew her.

As I drove up to the address she had given me I realized quickly that I best not park my old car in the winding driveway and I wondered if the Lambrusco wine I had brought for postprandial seduction purposes was appropriate for such a fine mansion.

Both the Mother and Father were very polite to me. The Father showed me his wine cellar when we put the bottle of wine I had brought on ice and the Mother lifted up both silk table cloths to show me the sandalwood 12 chair dinner table which had a slight odor of old money and had been hand made in Asia.

We had our dinner in courses and there was a different plate with each fine food and there was a lady in a white apron who carried the used plates to the kitchen between stages of our repast.

After dinner the Father and uncle and I had a cigar on the back porch overlooking the swimming pool. Later the daughter showed me the grounds as we walked off our meal as she put her hand on my forearm as we walked about. However I didn't move things along as usual with the girl and I never called her back.Thinking of her now 50 years later I can't remember her first or last name or exactly what street the family lived on although it is no more than twenty miles from where I now sit. I still can remember vividly the smell of the sandalwood Asian dinner table and the smell of the Cuban cigars I smoked with the Father and uncle. I think the uncle's name was Maurice.

Later today I see my grand daughter play basketball and tomorrow I see my 14 month other grand daughter and my three year old grandson. To me my three grand children are all the world.

Sometimes I remember my Father bringing me a new bike home from work when I was four and him pushing me down the long driveway and me not knowing how to use the brakes and me getting hung up in a half century old rosebush at the bottom of the drive at the farm we rented and how my Mother cried when my Father used a pair of pliers to pull the thorns out of my arms and chest. Other times I remember a girl I can't recall hand on my forearm and wonder if things in life are preordained or just random.