Thursday, September 27, 2012

Part II - eleven

Though retrieving her journals from the house on Euclid St. had been foremost in her mind for most of a week, ever since she’d discovered them missing, it had taken Ginny most of that week to work up the nerve to return to the house. She really did not want to see Gordon. Now, here she was the night before she and Rebecca were leaving for San Pia, heading over to 61 Euclid afraid of how he might react. She’d wanted to give him as much space as possible in a small town. She knew in a way that stroked her ego, she was ashamed to say, that Gordon would need time to get over her. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Ginny would not see Gordon again for quite some time.

Partially to save gas and partially to clear her head of wedding logistics, she had decided to walk to the house at 61 Euclid Street. It was only a few blocks, at most, but by the time the house rose gray in her view the evening had begun to darken around her. She hadn’t expected night to fall so soon. As she approached the porch at the front of the house a dim light above the door flicked on. The motion detector which activated the dim bulb after dark was sensitive, she knew, and she was glad for it as she ascended the creaky steps to the door.

As part of her effort to sever the relationship as cleanly as possible, Ginny had returned her key the day she moved out. So it was that she found herself knocking at the front door of 61 Euclid, and waiting in the deepening dusk for a reply. When no answer seemed forthcoming she knocked again; and again before deciding that nobody was at home. She wasn’t sure of the time. Maybe Gordon and Darby were still at work. Or perhaps, and she found this unlikely, they were out partying somewhere. It was just as well, in any case. She would leave a note for Gordon. She and Rebecca could pick the journals up on their way out of town tomorrow morning.

Just as Ginny moved to swing her small black backpack from her shoulders, to retrieve a pad of Post-Its and a pen, the bulb above her head snapped off. Or perhaps it should be observed that just as the 25 watt bulb above her head snapped off, Ginny moved to access her backpack, thereby activating the motion detector, which flicked the light on once again. Hoping it would remain on long enough for her to jot down a quick note, she knelt on the porch and rummaged briefly through her bag, removing a pad of blue Post-Its, a roll of scotch tape (because, though she loved the sticky notes, they often just weren’t sticky enough) and a black pen. 

As she put pen to paper, the sound of Stony Creek splashing along its course behind the house came dimly to her ears.

Gordon (she wrote)

Just as well you're not home, I'm sure. I came for some
stuff, personal, upstairs in the closet. Do us both a favor - throw it in a bag and leave it by Turtle Rock 'round back. I'll send Rebecca by to pick up.

Be well,


The light timed out just as she finished. Rising, she activated the dim glow once more and taped the note to the pale white door. In the feeble illumination of the dim porch bulb, the little square of blue paper seemed to glow, faintly. Ginny remembered picking this particular pad of paper because it was nearly the same shade of blue as the dog she had been trying to conjure. The dog she had conjured. She smiled. It was the blue dog journals she had come for tonight. She could still see them up in that closet, so clearly in fact she didn’t understand how they had missed being moved.

Again she heard the creek splashing along behind the house, the liquid chatter almost a silver stream running through the night itself. Throwing her supplies back into her bag, she heard movement in the yard behind. Or thought that she did. When she turned, there was nothing but the empty yard and the night ripening beyond the dim border of the porch light. A couple of street lamps had flickered on out there and even now their yellow sodium lights were growing brighter.

With a final look at her note glowing blue on the door, Ginny swung her backpack over her shoulders and darted down the steps, so fast they didn’t make a sound. She decided to take an alternate route home and so headed out across the small field at the end of Euclid Street. It was dark but she didn’t have far to go to the pedestrian bridge that would take her back across Stony Creek and, ultimately, home. Behind her, 61 Euclid sat in the new night, porch light dimly burning. The thin hedge which hugged the front of the house shook and rustled a moment, too violently for the whisper of a breeze that blew through the night, and then was still.   


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