Part II, Chapter 5 will be posted soonish. It is already several hundred words underway.
Technical difficulties on the home front may (or may not) delay posting.
An open ended narrative about life in a small town on the border of California and possibility.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Part II - four
“Well, that went better than expected…” Ginny clambered into the cab of the big white truck and plopped into the driver’s seat with a sigh.
Beside her, Rebecca said, “Oh my god, Ginny, I flirted with him at the café! A couple of days before you came in. I’m not even sure he noticed.”
Ginny fished the keys from the pocket of her green army surplus coat; the sleeves had been removed so it was now, more properly speaking, an army surplus vest. She looked over her shoulder, through the small rear window and over the packed bed of the truck to the patio, where Darby stood with his hands in his pockets, regarding them. He had, quite unexpectedly, spent the better part of an hour helping them load the truck. More surprising than the physical labor Darby had volunteered was the uncharacteristic, at least in Ginny’s experience, good cheer with which he worked. She nodded and waved at him through the window, “Who?” she asked Rebecca. “Darby?”
From the porch, Darby returned Ginny’s wave. She inserted the key in the ignition and twisted. The engine turned and started.
“No!” Rebecca protested. “Gordon!”
Ginny had been dismayed to find Gordon not only home when she arrived at 11:00, as promised, to pick up her stuff, but opening the door to her gentle knock. Seeing her and Rebecca standing there, he had put it together at once. She watched him figure out, despite never being told the name or gender of the person he had been dumped for, that this golden cutie beside her was the one. She’d dreaded bringing Rebecca, and had only done so because she had nobody else to help her with the move. After brief and awkward introductions, Gordon slunk away and they didn’t see him again.
Turning the truck around in the street now, she felt certain he was watching, probably from the upstairs bathroom window. She stole a glance in that direction and, sure enough, there was the shape of a dark head bobbing just below the window. This meant, of course, that he was spying on them from the shower. Thinking of Gordon naked, she recalled why she’d first been attracted to him. “Yeah, well…” she said, smiling at Rebecca. “He’s a cutie in his way, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Rebecca, “though he’s not exactly my type.”
Ginny laughed. “Then why were you flirting with him?”
“Well,” Rebecca grinned, “it wasn’t exactly serious flirting.”
Hitting the gas, Ginny laughed again. “God, I love you,” she said.
Rebecca giggled as they left the house at 61 Euclid behind. “Speaking of old boyfriends, maybe I can get James to help us unload this stuff.” She nodded in the general direction of the truck bed.
Ginny frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “It seems like it was hard enough on him lending us the truck.”
Now Rebecca frowned. “You think it would be too exploitive to ask him?”
“He’s awful sprung on you,” Ginny observed.
“Which is why he’ll do pretty much anything I ask,” mused Rebecca, twirling a lock of golden hair between her fingers.
Ginny frowned again and cast a glance at the girl beside her. “Which is why,” she began…
And Rebecca jumped in to complete the thought, “It’s wrong of me,” she said, “to take advantage of him the way I do.”
Ginny shrugged, turning the truck down Barbados Street. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Something like that.”
Rebecca leaned over and kissed Ginny on the cheek. “You’re making me a better person already,” she said. “And I love you for it.”
Ginny looked at Rebecca, a golden radiance beside her, removing her eyes from the road longer than safety dictated, perhaps. When she returned her attention to driving, she found that she had passed Donner Street, where she had intended to turn. Rebecca’s kiss tingling on her cheek, she braked and executed a masterful u-turn, unhindered by traffic as the streets were unusually quiet.
“Who needs men, anyway?” Rebecca continued. “As long as we’ve got each other.”
Ginny considered for a moment the way such a “you and me against the world” kind of sentiment might have seemed sappy and trite to her before Rebecca. Now, she didn’t even have to consider it for more than a moment. She knew it was true. Whether that made her a better person, or just a sappier one, she didn’t know. And, as she drove the two of them home, she didn’t care.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Monday, January 09, 2012
Ginny's note to Gordon
This is the note, pulled directly from his memory, that Gordon found on his door in chapter 3, part I.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Part II - three
Ginny wished again that there was an easy way to do this. But there wasn’t. Especially for a person such as herself, who tried to live a life that she felt was good, to do the right thing when things needed doing. It was this philosophy of honest living that was responsible for her misery these past few months. She’d woken up one morning and realized that she no longer loved Gordon, probably never had loved him, in fact. It surprised her because she’d thought that she was smarter, more than capable of discerning between love and infatuation. From that morning until meeting Rebecca a few days ago, she’d been living a lie, carrying on with Gordon as if nothing had changed. That, she realized, suddenly reframing her perspective, had been the hard part; breaking up with him, because it was the right thing to do, would be easy.
Or so she fervently hoped. In any case, she’d cushioned things a bit for herself by securing a spacious duplex over on Geometry Street. The thought of Rebecca waiting for her there, moving in and setting up house, gave her strength. It was Saturday night and she entered the house on Euclid Street for the penultimate time.
Gordon, in the kitchen, turned from the stove and smiled as she entered. “Where you been all day?” he asked.
Ginny paused just inside the door. The look on her face scared the smile from Gordon’s. “We need to talk,” she said.
“Uh oh,” said Gordon.
Though there was a hopeful, almost playful tone in his voice, Ginny could tell by the troubled knit of his brow that he was worried. She wondered about her choice of opening line. It was so cliché, but it seemed the natural thing to say. She’d think about what that might say about her later. “I met somebody the other day, Gordon…”
His hand moved slowly up and gripped his forehead.
“At the Rolling Bear,” she continued. “I went in for lunch and came out in love.”
Gordon’s eyes grew wider. His hand remained on his forehead. “You’re breaking up with me…” he muttered.
After he said it, a great weight was lifted from Ginny’s mind and the situation became much easier, for her at least. “Yes,” she said. “In fact, I’m moving out tomorrow. I’ve already got another place.”
“You’re breaking up with me,” he repeated, unmoving.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, Gordon. I don’t want to hurt you but… I’m in love with somebody new.”
The hand dropped from his forehead and hung limp at his side. “I guess it doesn’t matter that I’m still in love with you…” It was not quite a question, not quite a statement.
Ginny shook her head and approached him from across the room. “Of course it matters,” she said. Only a couple of inches shorter than him, she looked up into his eyes. “But it also matters that I’m not in love with you. Not anymore.” Though the thought crossed her mind, she avoided the cruelty of adding, “If I ever was”. Instead, she apologized again. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Gordon just stared at her wide eyed and wounded. He didn’t say much else as she moved about the house, gathering up her toothbrush, a small brown journal, a pack of post-its, a ball of extra clothes, and stuffing it all into a green knapsack. When she stood at the door again, looking at him from the threshold, her bag slung almost carelessly over her shoulder, he said, “Oh, Ginny, I love you.”
She turned her eyes from his a moment. “I know,” she whispered. Meeting his gaze again, she said, “I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest of my stuff, around 11.”
He nodded his head, rather vacantly Ginny thought. She was relieved that he had not cried, and did not appear about to do so. She pushed the door open before her. “Take care, Gordon.”
She was glad to see him summon a smile up from somewhere. “You too…” he said.
Then she exited the house, leaving it completely empty.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Part II - two
While Ginny ate her lunch (grilled cheese sandwich with fries on the side and, of course, a Coca-Cola), Rebecca cornered Melinda in the kitchen and begged her for information about the customer in booth four, the bright girl with the dark hair and eyes who called herself Ginny, short for Virginia.
“You’re acting like you’re in love, little girl,” Mel observed.
Rebecca laughed. “I think I might be. Please, Mel, what can you tell me?”
As it turned out, Melinda could tell her quite a lot. With the possible exception of Ginny’s own mother, the proprietor of The Rolling Bear Café knew Ginny better than anyone in town; maybe even better than Ginny knew herself. She gave Rebecca the details the love struck girl needed.
Virginia Jason was a local girl, in her mid to late twenties (Mel wouldn’t get any more specific than that), the daughter of Emma Jason. Emma owned and operated The Stall, where the guy Ginny had been living with for some months was employed.
“But don’t worry,” Mel reassured Rebecca, much as it pained her on behalf of Gordon, “Ginny hasn’t considered that relationship serious for a while.”
“So, she’s kind of single?”Rebecca laughed.
Mel nodded, “Exactly.”
Rebecca’s head and stomach were abuzz. It was a feeling she associated with guys, usually. She’d felt like this the few times she thought she was in love – darling Ricky, incorrigible Tony and, of course, poor, poor James. But it was much stronger now, a constant silver –blue thrill right through the middle of her at the thought of Ginny, dark and bright, currently eating a grilled cheese sandwich in booth 4.
“Is everything ok?” Rebecca approached the table with a question, using her duty as a good waitress to get another look at Virginia Jason, the girl who had, apparently, stolen her heart without even trying.
Ginny swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “Best grilled cheese sandwich ever,” she said. And she meant it! In fact, she couldn’t remember anything ever tasting as good as this perfectly grilled sandwich, these fries crisped just the way she liked, this cola so cool and refreshing. “Really,” she continued. “This may be the best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Wow,” said Rebecca, and, “Great!” She was feeling so good at the moment that she had no reason to think Ginny might be exaggerating, which, of course, she wasn’t. “Let me know if you need anything else!”
They both smiled.
Ginny couldn’t resist the opening this beautiful blonde creature had provided. “Just to see you again,” she said.
Rebecca laughed, her cheeks flushing, that silver-blue thrill pulsing through her anew. “That’s easy,” she said, “but how about a refill on your Coke?”
Ginny placed a hand over her glass. “No thanks,” she said. “I’ve gotta’ pee as it is.”
Returning to the kitchen, Rebecca paused behind the door to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. She was smitten, without a doubt. Seriously. And with a woman! What would her uncle say!? Well, she reflected with a grin, he’d probably give his blessing! She decided to go with it, as if she wasn’t already racing along on the rushing waters of this strange new feeling. Alone there in the kitchen, she smiled. She wanted to know what came next.
Eleven minutes later she slipped the bill, face down, onto Ginny’s table. “I’ll see you at eight,” she said.
“I can only hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.” Ginny smiled.
Rebecca tingled. She felt electric, certain that Ginny must see the sparks of light popping from her hands and face. “Maybe more,” she replied. Smiling shyly now, she slipped away from the table with Ginny’s empty plate.
Turning the bill over, Ginny found a small yellow Post-it stuck to the bottom. She laughed even before she read the words, printed in a neat and tiny hand on the small yellow rectangle, for she had a pack just this size in her pocket. The note, short and sweet, read:
I think I love you.
You’re beautiful.
Her heart fluttering, Ginny removed the note, read it again. She felt the Earth spinning beneath her, just as it always had but different. Now she sensed a purpose in that mad rotation, a meaning previously unguessed. Reaching into her pack, a green army surplus bag with a couple of large pockets, she withdrew her journal. She flipped the brown, vellum bound book open and placed the note, now a precious thing, on the inside front cover, pressing firmly down upon the adhesive strip. She had no doubt that she was in love.
At the register, Melinda rang her up. Glimpsing Rebecca at work in the kitchen, Ginny asked, “So, who’s the new girl?”
Melinda smiled, knowing that she was witnessing the beginning of something beautiful and true. By the time Ginny had figured the tip (a little extra to be sure!), signed her name, and returned her debit card to her wallet, she knew as much about Mel’s new waitress as Mel did.
Her name was Rebecca Raine, 21 years old. She’d been in town less than a week, visiting from San Pia down south. She was staying with her “occasional boyfriend”, as Mel put it, James Hollowbroook. James, something of a loner, was a poet and musician. He sometimes played around town, on street corners or on stage at The Blue Room, just a few doors down from The Rolling Bear.
Rebecca seemed to be in a kind of in between state at the moment, Mel observed; unsure if she wanted to remain in town here with James, maybe even get her own place, or go back to her uncle in San Pia. Mel had given the girl a job on a temporary basis because she needed help, sure, but she’d fallen in love herself with Rebecca’s bright smile and flashing golden curls.
“Anyway,” Mel finished, “she’s off at eight, officially, but why don’t you come by a little early?”
“Bless you, Mel, I’ll be here at six!”
Melinda laughed softly. “How about 7:30,” she suggested. “And please, Gin, let Gordon down easy.” She looked into Ginny’s dark eyes. “You know he’s crazy about you.”
Ginny frowned, but only a moment. This new elation which moved her would not allow any sadness to linger. “I know,” she said. “And that’s gonna make letting him down easy impossible…”
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
This product is not associated with my narrative of the same name.
Or is it?
Many years ago in New Orleans I saw, in a gallery, Rodrigue's art, including I am sure the blue dog pictured above. I did not know the artist's name, or how popular his blue dogs were, until recently.
Though I cannot credit Rodrigue's art as a direct influence on my open ended narrative about life on the border of California and possibility, I will admit my glimpse of Rodrigue's blue dog may have influenced me somewhere below memory as The Blue Dog Journal, the characters and their stories, began to take shape in my mind. Especially as my blue dog - read chapter 4 for his first appearance - looks not unlike Rodrigue's! Though height is difficult to judge in the picture above, I think my hound is bigger, if scrawnier, and maybe a little rougher around the edges but a similar shade of blue.
Now that I am aware of Rodrigue and his blue dog on a conscious level, it is only a matter of time before they appear somewhere in my open ended narrative. And maybe I should start using Rodrigue's journal to write The Blue Dog Journal. A nice idea but I am composing more and more on the laptop these days.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Part II - one
The relationship was serious almost immediately, both Ginny and Rebecca would agree. If it wasn’t quite love at first sight, it was at least love at second sight. Ginny, who’d been unhappy with Gordon for a while, wasn’t actively seeking another lover. Not consciously, at least; and certainly not at The Rolling Bear Café on some off Tuesday afternoon. Rebecca, for her part, thought that she preferred men. Then their eyes met.
“Hi!” said Rebecca, still practicing her waitress smile after only a few days on the job as she offered a menu down to Ginny, who sat looking up from the corner of her usual booth.
G inny blinked, noted the plastic name tag on the girl’s blouse. “Hello, Rebecca.”
Grimes waved a hand. “No hurry!”
“Hi!” said Rebecca, still practicing her waitress smile after only a few days on the job as she offered a menu down to Ginny, who sat looking up from the corner of her usual booth.
At the sound of her name pronounced in the breathy voice of this dark and beautiful woman, Rebecca’s real smile shone through her practiced expression. Ginny returned the smile and it was then that each of them knew the world had changed.
“Can I start you off with something to drink?” Rebecca, not knowing what else to say, bravely pressed forward with routine.
Ginny knew just what to say and said it, “What time do you get outta’ here?”
Rebecca laughed, a sound like wind chimes to Ginny’s ears. “About 8…”
“Can I see you then?”
“Yes, please.” Rebecca could hardly believe what she was saying. “I’ll wait for you.”
Except for Mel in the back, they had been alone in the café until that moment when the bell tinkled on the door and old Doc Grimes entered. Nobody was sure just what kind of doctor Grimes was, but most agreed his field of knowledge seemed wide and deep enough that he might have been any kind. Rebecca turned her waitress smile on the old man as he took a seat at the counter. “Be right with you, Doctor!”
Grimes waved a hand. “No hurry!”
Turning back to Ginny, Rebecca’s real smile returned.
Ginny had not removed her eyes from the young waitress and was now even deeper in love. “Wonderful,” she said. “My name’s Virginia, by the way, but you can call me Ginny. And yes, please, can I get a Coke?”
Rebecca felt somehow that she knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway, “Diet or regular?”
“Fulla’ sugar and caffeine!” Ginny laughed.
Regular, just as Rebecca had known.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
eleven
Wiping his just washed hands together, Gordon emerged from The Rolling Bears tidy restroom and saw Melinda gazing out at the street and shaking her head in apparent disbelief.
“Did I miss something?” he asked, approaching her where she stood on the customer side of the counter, one hand atop the register.
“Some insane woman,” she said, still shaking her head and regarding the street, “just went speeding like the proverbial bat out of hell down the wrong side of the street.” She looked at him. “I thought for a second she was gonna’ end up in here!”
Gordon peered out at the street, now calm and empty. “You think it’s safe for me to leave?”
“You going home?” She asked.
He nodded through the glass door in the direction from which he’d come. “Yeah.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s the way she was going. If she continued at that speed, she’s either piled it up somewhere by now or gotten well out of town.”
They stood silently for a moment, considering. “Well,” said Gordon, “I guess I’ll take my chances.”
Melinda placed a hand on his shoulder and locked her eyes on his. “You’ll be OK,” she said, suddenly serious. “Just be careful.”
Gordon returned her steady, earnest gaze, feeling that she was referring with her admonition to something more than a mere walk home. “Always,” he replied, the usual flippant confidence that might have informed such a riposte deflated by the sense of foreboding, vague though it was, that her words had evoked.
“You know that I mean it, don’t you?” she asked, gripping his shoulder now. “About being careful, I mean?”
Gordon nodded. “Yeah,” he said, a bit shaken by her intensity. “And I hope you’re serious about me being all right, too.”
He hoped she might laugh, or at least smile, but she did neither. “Yeah,” she said, nodding her head, “I think you will be. Just be careful.”
“Listen, Mel,” exclaimed Gordon, unable to stand the vague intimations of menace any longer, “what the hell are you talking about?”
She gazed at him blankly for a moment, then blinked her eyes. “I wish I could tell you, Gord.” She shook her head. “Just one of my feelings, you know?”
One of Melinda’s “feelings” meant vague intimations, shadowed glimpses of indefinite possibilities, a 50/70 chance that something specific, if unspecified, might transpire.
“Uh huh,” he said. “Like the feeling that I’d be in earlier than usual today?”
“Like that,” she agreed, “only stronger and less. . .specific.”
Gordon sighed, a sudden sinking feeling taking the few high spirits he had fluttering about inside him straight down to the murky basement of his heart. “OK,” he said. “Anything at all that I might look out for?”
Melinda closed her eyes a moment, a small frown curling her lips. “No,” she said, “just darkness.” She opened her eyes, but the frown remained. “And something, possibly unpleasant, coming out of the darkness.”
Gordon’s already subterranean spirits sank farther still. When Melinda leaned forward and placed a shining kiss on his cheek, they rallied and ascended slightly, rising toward the spot where the kiss shone on his face. “And also,” she continued, “that you’re gonna’ be OK, maybe even better than OK, whatever happens.”
“Better than OK?” he mused, “that would be an improvement.”
Melinda laughed. “Really,” she said, “remember that whatever happens, you’ll be better for it.”
“That’s reassuring.” Gordon offered her a pale smile. “Assuming you’re not bullshitting me about that last bit.”
He knew she wouldn’t and wasn’t, and Melinda, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, illustrated that she was aware of this. “I expect to see you in here next weekend,” she said.
Ironically, she was not so confident, or truthful, about this last bit as she had been about all the rest. Though it was not her nature to deceive, she let it stand because the firm date seemed to offer Gordon something that he needed at that particular moment. Something tangible to move toward, past the fear she had stirred into slithering life inside him.
As it transpired, many weeks passed before they saw one another again. When they did meet once more, Gordon would find himself pleased to report that not only was he all right, he was a better and stronger person.
“Did I miss something?” he asked, approaching her where she stood on the customer side of the counter, one hand atop the register.
“Some insane woman,” she said, still shaking her head and regarding the street, “just went speeding like the proverbial bat out of hell down the wrong side of the street.” She looked at him. “I thought for a second she was gonna’ end up in here!”
Gordon peered out at the street, now calm and empty. “You think it’s safe for me to leave?”
“You going home?” She asked.
He nodded through the glass door in the direction from which he’d come. “Yeah.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s the way she was going. If she continued at that speed, she’s either piled it up somewhere by now or gotten well out of town.”
They stood silently for a moment, considering. “Well,” said Gordon, “I guess I’ll take my chances.”
Melinda placed a hand on his shoulder and locked her eyes on his. “You’ll be OK,” she said, suddenly serious. “Just be careful.”
Gordon returned her steady, earnest gaze, feeling that she was referring with her admonition to something more than a mere walk home. “Always,” he replied, the usual flippant confidence that might have informed such a riposte deflated by the sense of foreboding, vague though it was, that her words had evoked.
“You know that I mean it, don’t you?” she asked, gripping his shoulder now. “About being careful, I mean?”
Gordon nodded. “Yeah,” he said, a bit shaken by her intensity. “And I hope you’re serious about me being all right, too.”
He hoped she might laugh, or at least smile, but she did neither. “Yeah,” she said, nodding her head, “I think you will be. Just be careful.”
“Listen, Mel,” exclaimed Gordon, unable to stand the vague intimations of menace any longer, “what the hell are you talking about?”
She gazed at him blankly for a moment, then blinked her eyes. “I wish I could tell you, Gord.” She shook her head. “Just one of my feelings, you know?”
One of Melinda’s “feelings” meant vague intimations, shadowed glimpses of indefinite possibilities, a 50/70 chance that something specific, if unspecified, might transpire.
“Uh huh,” he said. “Like the feeling that I’d be in earlier than usual today?”
“Like that,” she agreed, “only stronger and less. . .specific.”
Gordon sighed, a sudden sinking feeling taking the few high spirits he had fluttering about inside him straight down to the murky basement of his heart. “OK,” he said. “Anything at all that I might look out for?”
Melinda closed her eyes a moment, a small frown curling her lips. “No,” she said, “just darkness.” She opened her eyes, but the frown remained. “And something, possibly unpleasant, coming out of the darkness.”
Gordon’s already subterranean spirits sank farther still. When Melinda leaned forward and placed a shining kiss on his cheek, they rallied and ascended slightly, rising toward the spot where the kiss shone on his face. “And also,” she continued, “that you’re gonna’ be OK, maybe even better than OK, whatever happens.”
“Better than OK?” he mused, “that would be an improvement.”
Melinda laughed. “Really,” she said, “remember that whatever happens, you’ll be better for it.”
“That’s reassuring.” Gordon offered her a pale smile. “Assuming you’re not bullshitting me about that last bit.”
He knew she wouldn’t and wasn’t, and Melinda, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, illustrated that she was aware of this. “I expect to see you in here next weekend,” she said.
Ironically, she was not so confident, or truthful, about this last bit as she had been about all the rest. Though it was not her nature to deceive, she let it stand because the firm date seemed to offer Gordon something that he needed at that particular moment. Something tangible to move toward, past the fear she had stirred into slithering life inside him.
As it transpired, many weeks passed before they saw one another again. When they did meet once more, Gordon would find himself pleased to report that not only was he all right, he was a better and stronger person.
R. Cody '06
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
ten
The Rolling Bear Café served, Gordon was sure, the finest pancakes in California. Possibly, the best in all of North America. The entire western hemisphere, perhaps. It was this enthusiasm which led him more Saturdays than not to the popular café on the respective corners of Bonner Ave. and Pineyoak Street – even these past few weeks, even though it was this very place where Ginny and Rebecca had met. The younger of the two, Rebecca, had been waitressing at the café for a few days before Ginny showed up one afternoon for lunch. After that, Rebecca offered Ginny much more than was on the menu, and Ginny in turn tipped Rebecca straight from the heart of love. Rebecca ended up quitting her job at the café the same day that Ginny left him.
“Gordon Alan Pruitt, I had a feeling I’d be seeing you earlier than usual today!” Melinda Barbado, proprietor of The Rolling Bear for fourteen of its thirty-six year history, knew not only the habits but the full names of her regulars, as well as many of the less frequent locals and most of the out-of-towners and passers through in from the road for a quick bite. It was, as her kid sister Belinda said, a “psychic thing”.
Melinda served breakfast at The Rolling Bear between the hours of seven and eleven o’ clock a.m, (everyday except Sunday). Most Saturday mornings, Gordon was ordering his pancakes at just about 10:58. She’d been thinking about him and Ginny and Rebecca – but mostly about him for some reason - this morning when she woke up. As she’d already indicated, she had a feeling about him today.
“Why am I not surprised?” said Gordon, smiling as the café door sighed shut behind him.
“Because you know me too well,” Melinda replied. “Or, at least, well enough.” She stepped from behind the counter and stretched her long limbs. “Now,” she continued at the tail end of a contagious yawn, “are you gonna’ surprise me with an order of something besides your usual this bright and early July morning?”
Catching her yawn and returning it through his lightly curled fist, Gordon shook his head. “Nah,” he said, making his way across the empty café to his accustomed place beside the jukebox (kept unplugged by Melinda, most days, until the lunch menu was circulating). “Just the same old lighter than air pancakes please, Mel. And a glass of milk?”
She smiled. “You got it.”
And so he did just a few minutes later. They were, as always, delicious. Better even than last week, perhaps, fluffier and richer in flavor – not necessarily an objective fact concerning any actual quality of the food itself, but a matter of personal experience on Gordon’s part and therefore, as he viewed it, a possible indication that the pall he had been living under since Ginny left him was thinning. Or, at least, that it was capable of thinning.
In any case, it was after Gordon finished his breakfast that things really got interesting.
“Gordon Alan Pruitt, I had a feeling I’d be seeing you earlier than usual today!” Melinda Barbado, proprietor of The Rolling Bear for fourteen of its thirty-six year history, knew not only the habits but the full names of her regulars, as well as many of the less frequent locals and most of the out-of-towners and passers through in from the road for a quick bite. It was, as her kid sister Belinda said, a “psychic thing”.
Melinda served breakfast at The Rolling Bear between the hours of seven and eleven o’ clock a.m, (everyday except Sunday). Most Saturday mornings, Gordon was ordering his pancakes at just about 10:58. She’d been thinking about him and Ginny and Rebecca – but mostly about him for some reason - this morning when she woke up. As she’d already indicated, she had a feeling about him today.
“Why am I not surprised?” said Gordon, smiling as the café door sighed shut behind him.
“Because you know me too well,” Melinda replied. “Or, at least, well enough.” She stepped from behind the counter and stretched her long limbs. “Now,” she continued at the tail end of a contagious yawn, “are you gonna’ surprise me with an order of something besides your usual this bright and early July morning?”
Catching her yawn and returning it through his lightly curled fist, Gordon shook his head. “Nah,” he said, making his way across the empty café to his accustomed place beside the jukebox (kept unplugged by Melinda, most days, until the lunch menu was circulating). “Just the same old lighter than air pancakes please, Mel. And a glass of milk?”
She smiled. “You got it.”
And so he did just a few minutes later. They were, as always, delicious. Better even than last week, perhaps, fluffier and richer in flavor – not necessarily an objective fact concerning any actual quality of the food itself, but a matter of personal experience on Gordon’s part and therefore, as he viewed it, a possible indication that the pall he had been living under since Ginny left him was thinning. Or, at least, that it was capable of thinning.
In any case, it was after Gordon finished his breakfast that things really got interesting.
- Richard Cody, 2006 -
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Editorial Note
Part ten of The Blue Dog Journal is currently under construction.
In the meantime, please enjoy a sampling of links found while conducting a random search on Google using the key words vampires and fungus:
"Cannibal" fungus helps treat skin diseases, including psoriasis
Bioarcheological and Biocultural Evidence for the New England Vampire Folk Belief
PLANTS OF THE RAINFOREST
50's and 60's Horror Movies MAT
ERGOT AND ERGOTISM
Cthulhoid entities: How to spot them and what to do when you've been spotted
NASA Satellites Watching Out For Invasive Plants
Candida Albicans
In the meantime, please enjoy a sampling of links found while conducting a random search on Google using the key words vampires and fungus:
"Cannibal" fungus helps treat skin diseases, including psoriasis
Bioarcheological and Biocultural Evidence for the New England Vampire Folk Belief
PLANTS OF THE RAINFOREST
50's and 60's Horror Movies MAT
ERGOT AND ERGOTISM
Cthulhoid entities: How to spot them and what to do when you've been spotted
NASA Satellites Watching Out For Invasive Plants
Candida Albicans
Saturday, November 26, 2005
nine
Returning indoors, Gordon debated a moment climbing back into bed or venturing forward into the day. Realizing that he was wide awake after the incident with Rebecca, he decided on the latter. After showering and sliding into the t-shirt and worn blue jeans that Ginny had once referred to as his “slacker uniform”, he headed to the kitchen – where he found Darby hunched over the table reading a pornographic comic book and munching from a saucer piled with graham crackers. Stairway to Heaven blared from a cheap clock radio on the counter.
Darby, sensing Gordon in the doorway, glanced up from his reading. “Morning,” he mumbled through a mouthful of graham cracker.
Gordon nodded, saw by the pale digital display of the noisy clock radio that it was 6:56 am. He had been surprised by the unexpected clamor of his clock 41 minutes before, and again to see Rebecca in the back yard, but to find Darby not only conscious but speaking before ten o‘clock on a Saturday morning was really something. “What’s the special occasion?” he asked.
Darby raised his eyebrows. “Car out front idling for fucking ever,” he complained. “Woke me up. I hate to be the one to tell you, Gord, but I think it was Gin.”
Ginny tolerated only a select few calling her by three letters and Darby, as she was fond of reminding him whenever he called her Gin, was not among them.
“Yeah,” Gordon said, “that makes sense. I had a visitor ‘round back myself.”
Darby snorted noncommittally. “hey,” he said, “is it just me or does this song blow?”
Gordon became aware of Stairway to Heaven unfolding epically from the tin can radio. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now,” he found himself chanting along, “it’s just a spring clean for The May Queen!”
And there was Rebecca emerging from the hedge in his memory: pretty, bright as day and a little the worse for wear. A bit of a bruised may queen, he mused.
“I mean what bombastic shite! “The whispering wind?!” I don’t know what you hear in this stuff, Gord.”
The debate regarding the merits and absurdities of Stairway to Heaven was not a new one between them. Gordon, an enthusiast of what had become known, tragically perhaps, as classic rock, maintained that the song was an intricate tone poem equal in theme and scale to works with such heavy names upon them as Milton, Blake, Alighieri! Darby, who described himself as a “musical purist”, disagreed eternally and often vociferously with anyone who thought the song more than, in his words, “a fucking ego bloated parody of itself.”
Gordon ignored the bait Darby had thrown him in the apparent hope of beginning a new chapter in the discussion. “Have you seen my keys around here?” he thought he had left them in the kitchen the night before, after finding Ginny’s note on the door.
“Over by the ‘phone.” Darby offered, returning to his crackers and adults only comic.
Gordon moved to the telephone, found his keys. “Thanks”, he said. “I’m going to The Rolling Bear for breakfast, if anybody asks.” Exiting the room, Gordon paused a moment in the doorway, Stairway to Heaven spinning toward its a-cappella climax behind him. “And, Darby,” he said over his shoulder, “you can always change the channel.”
Darby, sensing Gordon in the doorway, glanced up from his reading. “Morning,” he mumbled through a mouthful of graham cracker.
Gordon nodded, saw by the pale digital display of the noisy clock radio that it was 6:56 am. He had been surprised by the unexpected clamor of his clock 41 minutes before, and again to see Rebecca in the back yard, but to find Darby not only conscious but speaking before ten o‘clock on a Saturday morning was really something. “What’s the special occasion?” he asked.
Darby raised his eyebrows. “Car out front idling for fucking ever,” he complained. “Woke me up. I hate to be the one to tell you, Gord, but I think it was Gin.”
Ginny tolerated only a select few calling her by three letters and Darby, as she was fond of reminding him whenever he called her Gin, was not among them.
“Yeah,” Gordon said, “that makes sense. I had a visitor ‘round back myself.”
Darby snorted noncommittally. “hey,” he said, “is it just me or does this song blow?”
Gordon became aware of Stairway to Heaven unfolding epically from the tin can radio. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now,” he found himself chanting along, “it’s just a spring clean for The May Queen!”
And there was Rebecca emerging from the hedge in his memory: pretty, bright as day and a little the worse for wear. A bit of a bruised may queen, he mused.
“I mean what bombastic shite! “The whispering wind?!” I don’t know what you hear in this stuff, Gord.”
The debate regarding the merits and absurdities of Stairway to Heaven was not a new one between them. Gordon, an enthusiast of what had become known, tragically perhaps, as classic rock, maintained that the song was an intricate tone poem equal in theme and scale to works with such heavy names upon them as Milton, Blake, Alighieri! Darby, who described himself as a “musical purist”, disagreed eternally and often vociferously with anyone who thought the song more than, in his words, “a fucking ego bloated parody of itself.”
Gordon ignored the bait Darby had thrown him in the apparent hope of beginning a new chapter in the discussion. “Have you seen my keys around here?” he thought he had left them in the kitchen the night before, after finding Ginny’s note on the door.
“Over by the ‘phone.” Darby offered, returning to his crackers and adults only comic.
Gordon moved to the telephone, found his keys. “Thanks”, he said. “I’m going to The Rolling Bear for breakfast, if anybody asks.” Exiting the room, Gordon paused a moment in the doorway, Stairway to Heaven spinning toward its a-cappella climax behind him. “And, Darby,” he said over his shoulder, “you can always change the channel.”
R. Cody, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Editorial Note
I don't write on a deadline. Which is why I am typing and you are reading this Editorial Note rather than part nine. I know the lack of new material here at The Blue Dog Journal is a bitter disappointment for my many and varied readers (all -400,012 of you) but I think you will agree that quality trumps quantity in original fiction as it does in game shows.
And one thing you can certainly bet on, if you're given the opportunity, is that The Blue Dog Journal strives for as much quality as a magical-realist meta-fiction experiment can possess. In that spirit, please find below a snapshot from the real world - an original draft of the turtle dream chant which appeared in part six:
click image to enlarge
And one thing you can certainly bet on, if you're given the opportunity, is that The Blue Dog Journal strives for as much quality as a magical-realist meta-fiction experiment can possess. In that spirit, please find below a snapshot from the real world - an original draft of the turtle dream chant which appeared in part six:
click image to enlarge Thursday, September 29, 2005
eight
Just as Gordon was shaking his head and turning indoors, Rebecca was clambering, bloodied and more than a little frustrated into Ginny’s black Chevy Malibu (1980).
“’Becca’ baby!” Ginny exclaimed from the driver’s seat. “What happened?” she frowned to see Rebecca’s torn knees and skinned palms.
Rebecca thumped into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed with a slam. She glanced at Ginny, almost sheepishly, and burst out laughing. “I fell down,” she said, handing Ginny the plastic bag with the journals inside.
Ginny took the bag, glanced inside. “You OK?” she asked. Leaning across the Malibu’s middle console, she took Rebecca’s injured hands in her own, kissed them. “You wanna’ go back to the house – clean up, change clothes?”
Rebecca shook her head, glanced at the clock in the dash. “Nah,” she said, “I don’t wanna' be late. I’ll change when we get down there.” She returned the kisses to Ginny’s slender but strong hands. “Besides,” she shrugged, “Ellie’s seen me in a lot worse condition than this.”
Ginny smiled and eased the car into motion. “Tell me again about the time she found you in the bathroom with the neighbor boy.”
Rebecca frowned. “Just drive.” she said.
And Ginny did, bursting with a spray of gravel from the Chevy’s back tires into a drive that would take them several hours and a few hundred miles down the coast to attend the wedding of Rebecca’s older cousin, Eleanor, in San Pia, between the mountains and the sea near the southern end of the state.
“’Becca’ baby!” Ginny exclaimed from the driver’s seat. “What happened?” she frowned to see Rebecca’s torn knees and skinned palms.
Rebecca thumped into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed with a slam. She glanced at Ginny, almost sheepishly, and burst out laughing. “I fell down,” she said, handing Ginny the plastic bag with the journals inside.
Ginny took the bag, glanced inside. “You OK?” she asked. Leaning across the Malibu’s middle console, she took Rebecca’s injured hands in her own, kissed them. “You wanna’ go back to the house – clean up, change clothes?”
Rebecca shook her head, glanced at the clock in the dash. “Nah,” she said, “I don’t wanna' be late. I’ll change when we get down there.” She returned the kisses to Ginny’s slender but strong hands. “Besides,” she shrugged, “Ellie’s seen me in a lot worse condition than this.”
Ginny smiled and eased the car into motion. “Tell me again about the time she found you in the bathroom with the neighbor boy.”
Rebecca frowned. “Just drive.” she said.
And Ginny did, bursting with a spray of gravel from the Chevy’s back tires into a drive that would take them several hours and a few hundred miles down the coast to attend the wedding of Rebecca’s older cousin, Eleanor, in San Pia, between the mountains and the sea near the southern end of the state.
***
Richard Cody, 2005
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
seven
At the sound of the alarm, Gordon started awake, leapt out of bed and stood swaying drowsily a moment in the thin light of the new day. Reaching down to the bedside table, he grabbed the small clock and silenced it mid-beep. Glancing at the face, he realized (without quite realizing it) that something was wrong.
Turning his gaze to the window before him, he saw the backyard bathed in the crisp and lucid glow of softly falling south-eastern light. He realized (as if the information was transmitted via the light of the sun) that it was Saturday morning and there was no reason for him to be up. He did not recall even touching the clock before going to sleep last night, let alone setting the alarm. But here he was at 6:16 Saturday morning, blinking at the window with the clock in his hands.
A sudden movement beyond the window caught Gordon’s eye. Somebody was emerging from the hedgerow. Or stumbling from the shrubbery. He had no idea what the tangled wall of vegetation abutting the lot next door was called. Whatever it was, there was some person unknown coming through it with no small amount of violence and possibly more determination.
The struggles of the figure in the bush and the steady shaking of the green which resulted were surprising not only because they were unexpected, but also due to the fact that there was a narrow opening in the green mass (large enough for an average size adult to shuffle through sideways as Gordon and Darby proved almost daily) not far from the mysterious flailing figure.
Who was that in there, anyway? It was impossible to say amid the flurry of leaf and limb. Even so something familiar began to suggest itself in the form, finally showing signs of fatigue in the hedge, or shrubbery.
Gordon’s brow slid into a furrow. As he watched, the party in the shrubbery withdrew and the wall of green grew still. Suddenly, he remembered Turtle Rock and Ginny’s journals laid atop it the night before. He glanced at the rock: there was the bag from the grocery, vaguely aglow in the morning light, just where it had been left. Apparently, Rebecca had not come by last night as he assumed she would. He couldn’t believe it was her out there now attacking the hedgerow.
The Bushes shook anew. Gordon looked and nearly gaped to see a bedraggled and clearly irritated Rebecca shuffling sideways through the narrow gap in the hedge. If he had been capable of telepathy at the time, Gordon would have known that Rebecca was primarily annoyed with herself for mistaking that small bare spot on the opposite side of the hedge for the obvious gap that Ginny had so clearly described. And that her hands and arms smarted fiercely from multiple cuts and abrasions suffered while trying to force herself through that bare spot. “I really do hope,” she thought, “that those damn books are there!”
Stepping from the shrubbery, she found herself staring across the yard, through a window, and directly into Gordon’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Oh god,” she thought, recalling the violence she had just inflicted upon the hedge. “I was bustling in the hedgerow!” Her brain instantly selected Stairway To Heaven from her internal jukebox. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now!” Robert Plant wailed in her head. She offered Gordon a dim smile across the yard. “He probably thinks I’m the freaking May Queen!” she thought.
In his room, Gordon saw the smile and tried to return it a moment or so before giving up and simply pointing in the direction of Turtle Rock. The rock was plainly visible and he was sure that Ginny would have provided Rebecca more than accurate directions. A second thought, however, and the recollection of the violence in the hedge he wasn’t sure of anything. At least, he hoped, she would know that he was trying to be helpful.
Rebecca, though she could see something of the appeal that Gordon had for Ginny in his dark eyes and slender, lean muscled build, had always been uncomfortable in his presence. Turning in the direction he indicated, she saw the rock – what appeared to be a plastic bag glinting atop – some feet distant. Maybe if she had exchanged more than desultory greetings with him. Or if she’d spoken at all that painful night when Ginny packed up her stuff (except for these journals, apparently) and left him standing at the door.
Stepping toward the rock, she mused upon the obvious as if for the first time: I’m stealing Ginny away from him. He loves her, ostensibly. Of course I feel uncomfortable in his presence! She wondered some times at her own lack of awareness. Since she was small she had been one to focus on details (and abstract details more often than not) at the expense of the bigger picture. She had never faulted herself for this, as she knew that this mode of perception had definite advantages – though, admittedly, they were not always as evident as the disadvantages.
Gordon watched Rebecca making her way to the rock, her blonde curls a bit wild, but not unbecoming, upon her head. He gasped then, and gazed on in helpless horror as she tripped over some unseen obstacle and plummeted to the ground in a painfully slow motion display of Newton’s first law of motion. Wincing, he saw her denim clad knees and bare hands hit the earth with skin tearing, bone jarring impact. “Ouch!” he thought, and was half-way down the hall to the back door before he realized he was only partially dressed, and that part the top. Running back to his room, he snatched a pair of khaki shorts from an overstuffed drawer, jumped into them and was tumbling down the steps mere seconds later.
Are you ok!? he nearly cried out, realizing only when he ceased his headlong rush that she was gone. So, too, the journals. Turtle Rock hunched there before him, a mute and empty rebuttal to his unasked question. The hedge, or shrubbery, moved not at all in the still and golden air of this fine July morning.
Turning his gaze to the window before him, he saw the backyard bathed in the crisp and lucid glow of softly falling south-eastern light. He realized (as if the information was transmitted via the light of the sun) that it was Saturday morning and there was no reason for him to be up. He did not recall even touching the clock before going to sleep last night, let alone setting the alarm. But here he was at 6:16 Saturday morning, blinking at the window with the clock in his hands.
A sudden movement beyond the window caught Gordon’s eye. Somebody was emerging from the hedgerow. Or stumbling from the shrubbery. He had no idea what the tangled wall of vegetation abutting the lot next door was called. Whatever it was, there was some person unknown coming through it with no small amount of violence and possibly more determination.
The struggles of the figure in the bush and the steady shaking of the green which resulted were surprising not only because they were unexpected, but also due to the fact that there was a narrow opening in the green mass (large enough for an average size adult to shuffle through sideways as Gordon and Darby proved almost daily) not far from the mysterious flailing figure.
Who was that in there, anyway? It was impossible to say amid the flurry of leaf and limb. Even so something familiar began to suggest itself in the form, finally showing signs of fatigue in the hedge, or shrubbery.
Gordon’s brow slid into a furrow. As he watched, the party in the shrubbery withdrew and the wall of green grew still. Suddenly, he remembered Turtle Rock and Ginny’s journals laid atop it the night before. He glanced at the rock: there was the bag from the grocery, vaguely aglow in the morning light, just where it had been left. Apparently, Rebecca had not come by last night as he assumed she would. He couldn’t believe it was her out there now attacking the hedgerow.
The Bushes shook anew. Gordon looked and nearly gaped to see a bedraggled and clearly irritated Rebecca shuffling sideways through the narrow gap in the hedge. If he had been capable of telepathy at the time, Gordon would have known that Rebecca was primarily annoyed with herself for mistaking that small bare spot on the opposite side of the hedge for the obvious gap that Ginny had so clearly described. And that her hands and arms smarted fiercely from multiple cuts and abrasions suffered while trying to force herself through that bare spot. “I really do hope,” she thought, “that those damn books are there!”
Stepping from the shrubbery, she found herself staring across the yard, through a window, and directly into Gordon’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Oh god,” she thought, recalling the violence she had just inflicted upon the hedge. “I was bustling in the hedgerow!” Her brain instantly selected Stairway To Heaven from her internal jukebox. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now!” Robert Plant wailed in her head. She offered Gordon a dim smile across the yard. “He probably thinks I’m the freaking May Queen!” she thought.
In his room, Gordon saw the smile and tried to return it a moment or so before giving up and simply pointing in the direction of Turtle Rock. The rock was plainly visible and he was sure that Ginny would have provided Rebecca more than accurate directions. A second thought, however, and the recollection of the violence in the hedge he wasn’t sure of anything. At least, he hoped, she would know that he was trying to be helpful.
Rebecca, though she could see something of the appeal that Gordon had for Ginny in his dark eyes and slender, lean muscled build, had always been uncomfortable in his presence. Turning in the direction he indicated, she saw the rock – what appeared to be a plastic bag glinting atop – some feet distant. Maybe if she had exchanged more than desultory greetings with him. Or if she’d spoken at all that painful night when Ginny packed up her stuff (except for these journals, apparently) and left him standing at the door.
Stepping toward the rock, she mused upon the obvious as if for the first time: I’m stealing Ginny away from him. He loves her, ostensibly. Of course I feel uncomfortable in his presence! She wondered some times at her own lack of awareness. Since she was small she had been one to focus on details (and abstract details more often than not) at the expense of the bigger picture. She had never faulted herself for this, as she knew that this mode of perception had definite advantages – though, admittedly, they were not always as evident as the disadvantages.
Gordon watched Rebecca making her way to the rock, her blonde curls a bit wild, but not unbecoming, upon her head. He gasped then, and gazed on in helpless horror as she tripped over some unseen obstacle and plummeted to the ground in a painfully slow motion display of Newton’s first law of motion. Wincing, he saw her denim clad knees and bare hands hit the earth with skin tearing, bone jarring impact. “Ouch!” he thought, and was half-way down the hall to the back door before he realized he was only partially dressed, and that part the top. Running back to his room, he snatched a pair of khaki shorts from an overstuffed drawer, jumped into them and was tumbling down the steps mere seconds later.
Are you ok!? he nearly cried out, realizing only when he ceased his headlong rush that she was gone. So, too, the journals. Turtle Rock hunched there before him, a mute and empty rebuttal to his unasked question. The hedge, or shrubbery, moved not at all in the still and golden air of this fine July morning.
***
Richard Cody, '05
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Editorial Note
Part seven of The Blue Dog Journal (BDJ) is currently conjuring itself into form in that largely unexplored wilderness known as the back of my mind. I will remind readers that BDJ is very much a work in progress. The narrative goes from my head, to the notebook, and into this space with only Microsoft Word, and a keen if lazy editorial eye, between.
Verite!
Verite!
- Blue Dog Journal Cover -
The cover, of course, of the notebook into which the narrative spills hot and fresh from my head.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
six
To sleep
To sleep
I have promises to keep
In Dreamland
To sleep
I have promises to keep
In Dreamland
These lines presented themselves to Gordon as he lay in bed, his body and mind already submerging in the pre-dream substance of alpha-theta stage consciousness.
He cursed himself, mildly, the next day for not being strong enough to rouse himself from near sleep and write them down; for they were lost, at that time, in the far fields of sleep and quite unattainable, no matter how he strained his memory, as anything but the vague impression of an incomplete fragment of verse. Much later, he would recall the words perfectly and, in finally writing them down, unlock a door that was a metaphor, yes, but also an actual opening from one place to another.
But now he drifted away from language, deeper and deeper into a sleep transcendent of memory where, among other things too strange to recount in this space, he became a turtle among turtles moving en masse beneath a moon-bright sky, something like a song or a prayer filling the air:
we stretched our necks
and legs and feet
the creek fell
from our shells like sleet
up
up
patiently up the stone sharp bank
we climbed in silver moonshine
to sing our joy and thank
the one who gave us to the world
she who is more than any other
the eggmother
in prophecy furled
frozen in time and stone
in honor of the ancient pact
to keep the moon from being alone
***
R.Cody, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
five
Turtle Rock crouched in the shape of its namesake at the edge of what passed for the backyard of 61 Euclid Street, an unkempt and overgrown dash of grass surrounded by tangled thickets of shrubbery; reached from the house by three weathered concrete steps which tumbled from the back door.
Gordon found himself stumbling from the bottom most of these steps and cursing briefly in the dark. The light out here was, apparently, out. A dead bulb? Or had Darby flipped the wrong switch in the back room again? Either way he was definitely in the dark.
Standing a moment with his eyes closed, Gordon listened. Stony Creek babbled in the night just beyond the short reach of the yard. He opened his eyes and found the darkness suffused now with the pale light of moon and stars. There was Turtle Rock, a black lump thickening the dark before him. In his hand, the bag which had carried Darby’s beer home now enclosed Ginny’s journals – doubly protected by their envelope, now clasped shut.
“Throw it in a bag and leave it by Turtle Rock…” she had instructed in her clear, straight hand. “I’ll send Rebecca by to pick up.”
Rebecca was just about the last person he wanted to see, or be seen by, tonight. Blonde curls a golden nimbus around a face shaped like a valentine, complexion clear and pure as the trite and driven snow, brown eyes full of soul and deep as the fertile Earth. And that smile.
Just recalling the perfect golden mean of her features, Gordon could plainly see how and why Rebecca was now enjoying Ginny’s company. He had to admit himself that they were a beautiful couple, natural and complementary in a way that he and Ginny never could be, despite the obvious question of gender. And that, he supposed, was what really hurt.
Gordon found himself stumbling from the bottom most of these steps and cursing briefly in the dark. The light out here was, apparently, out. A dead bulb? Or had Darby flipped the wrong switch in the back room again? Either way he was definitely in the dark.
Standing a moment with his eyes closed, Gordon listened. Stony Creek babbled in the night just beyond the short reach of the yard. He opened his eyes and found the darkness suffused now with the pale light of moon and stars. There was Turtle Rock, a black lump thickening the dark before him. In his hand, the bag which had carried Darby’s beer home now enclosed Ginny’s journals – doubly protected by their envelope, now clasped shut.
“Throw it in a bag and leave it by Turtle Rock…” she had instructed in her clear, straight hand. “I’ll send Rebecca by to pick up.”
Rebecca was just about the last person he wanted to see, or be seen by, tonight. Blonde curls a golden nimbus around a face shaped like a valentine, complexion clear and pure as the trite and driven snow, brown eyes full of soul and deep as the fertile Earth. And that smile.
Just recalling the perfect golden mean of her features, Gordon could plainly see how and why Rebecca was now enjoying Ginny’s company. He had to admit himself that they were a beautiful couple, natural and complementary in a way that he and Ginny never could be, despite the obvious question of gender. And that, he supposed, was what really hurt.
Possibly. . .
Perhaps it was too soon to say what really hurt the most. Two days ago the thought that he would never again hear her singing in the shower seemed the high and the low of all his sorrow. Before that it had been the distant look in her eyes the night she left, as if she was already long gone and good riddance to him before she even walked out the door.
Moving toward the sound of the creek and the black shape he knew to be Turtle Rock, Gordon felt suddenly chilled. And not for the first time this evening. He puzzled once again over the details of his strange experience in the closet. If it had stopped at the sound of quiet breathing, he might have been inclined to write it off as a trick of his suggestible imagination, inspired by the reading of Ginny’s journal. But the volume and number of knocks, or thumps, was more than he was willing to allow his imagination capable. Darby claimed that he had knocked the door no more than 5 or 6 times but Gordon, though he had certainly not been counting, knew he had heard at least 12 distinct raps. And damn if some portion of that noise didn’t sound just like a dog’s tail knocking the floor.
He stopped before the rock and placed the bag gingerly atop what might be said to resemble the flat and relatively broad expanse of a large turtle’s shell. Suggestible, he thought, I must be.
Perhaps it was too soon to say what really hurt the most. Two days ago the thought that he would never again hear her singing in the shower seemed the high and the low of all his sorrow. Before that it had been the distant look in her eyes the night she left, as if she was already long gone and good riddance to him before she even walked out the door.
Moving toward the sound of the creek and the black shape he knew to be Turtle Rock, Gordon felt suddenly chilled. And not for the first time this evening. He puzzled once again over the details of his strange experience in the closet. If it had stopped at the sound of quiet breathing, he might have been inclined to write it off as a trick of his suggestible imagination, inspired by the reading of Ginny’s journal. But the volume and number of knocks, or thumps, was more than he was willing to allow his imagination capable. Darby claimed that he had knocked the door no more than 5 or 6 times but Gordon, though he had certainly not been counting, knew he had heard at least 12 distinct raps. And damn if some portion of that noise didn’t sound just like a dog’s tail knocking the floor.
He stopped before the rock and placed the bag gingerly atop what might be said to resemble the flat and relatively broad expanse of a large turtle’s shell. Suggestible, he thought, I must be.
The sound of the creek trickling through his ears, Gordon turned from Turtle Rock -his last remnants of Ginny laid upon it like a sacrifice - and made his way back through the softly glowing dark to bed.
***
2005, R. Cody
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