Being with Georgette #17

The wedge of darkness framed by the cream-colored door jamb and cream-colored door meant nothing to me for many years–other than indicating the passage to the basement below.

Then yesterday Georgette asked me to take the basket of jarred pickles to the basement.

***

The light bulbs flickered when I switched them on, and then at once they went dark with a pop.

I descended the steep steps clasping the basket of warm pickle jars to my chest, slowly doubting the wisdom of storing the spare light bulbs in the basement.

Without incident I found the workbench and next to it the shelves lined with jarred pickles. Georgette wouldn’t let a summer pass without putting up a dozen jars of pickles, but why she never eats them is beyond me.

The light bulbs had disappeared. Or been moved. So too had the spare flashlight.

My eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that, aided by the slim light from above, I could put the jars on this year’s shelf and take a jar from last year to the basement couch. And there, crunching on last year’s pickles, I remembered another dark basement, another slim light from above, and another voice joining Georgette’s in the kitchen.

***

Georgette said, “Because he’s cracked, that’s why.”

Georgette’s mother said, “He’s been like that since the two of you were born.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It never bothered you before.”

“He’s charming when we’re at home,” Georgette said, “But he needs to leave me alone at school. You know how the other girls talk.”

“The other boys too.”

Georgette said nothing to that. I could feel her blush from all the way down stairs.

***

“Don’t eat all the apricots,” a voice said nearby.

I froze.

A small lamp turned on, flooding the basement with a dim, shadowy light. Georgette’s father sat in his recliner, his headphones in his hands. The arm of the record player lifted and swung out of the way for the next record to drop onto the turntable.

I said, “But they are peaches.”

“So they are.”

Rows and rows and shelves and shelves of glass jars full of apricots, peaches, pears, strawberry jam, and pickles lined one wall of the basement.

“I don’t know why no one eats them, but Georgette’s mother can’t let a summer pass without putting up something or other never to see the light of day again.”

I screwed the lid back on the jar of peaches and put it on the side table next to the lamp. Then I climbed up on the workbench and out the basement window onto the damp grass outside.

The lamp went out in the basement, but the light in the kitchen remained on, with two silhouettes on the blinds talking back and forth at each other, the shorter one gesticulating wildly.

I was more careful after that about sneaking into their basement to spend the night on the spare sofa. I learned to wait until the lamp went out and a third silhouette appeared on the blinds before letting myself in.

***

I searched again for the light bulbs, but found my old turntable instead and a lamp that had caught my bedroom curtains on fire because I had removed the shade to wear as a hat for Halloween.

I plugged the lamp in and it instantly flooded the room with a dim and shadowy light, casting the baseballs, footballs, and basketballs on its shade against the walls, against the shelves, against the shelving unit with six dozen jars of pickles, a dozen minus one on each shelf. The minus one accounting for the one jar I eat when putting away the next year’s jars.

I put one of Georgette’s records on to play and ate another pickle.

And as I lay on the basement sofa, dreaming about peaches, I wished I had a pair of headphones to hold in my own hands. 

<< Story #16 | Index of Stories | Story #18 >>

Originally published May 2, 2021

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #445

Nascent wheezes of nasal battles, bringing in the big guns, would have sunk the Bismarck, the torero of the seas, but congestion proved fatal so the honor passed to the Hood.

Crescent croissants beleaguered the little leaguers half a league onward toward the Battle of Hasty Pudding a little too hastily. Hastings for dessert, but only if you finish both pounds of your steak. Streaks of slaked shrikes belted out the national anthem of zebras, but they forgot half the words.

The wordless windlass took the lass by surprise, so she lashed the tarp tighter to the lighter bulkhead, sulkily slinking toward Bethlehem, PA–being no slouch–nor none that matters anyway.

Honored, I’m sure, the suit of armor hot dogs didn’t fare too well at the faire of wiener dog races–especially once the mustard and buns appeared. Surprised, I’m sure!

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #156

A heat of purple flamingoes flamencoed their way across the dance floor du jour.

Assisted dying lights lit the dying embers of the amber pool of nightshades under the lampshades at night–in her nightie no less–nor no more–though as for that the passing there had worn them really to the bare nubbins–but that’s what they all came for. Camphor filled the antiseptic tent under the broad palms of forested hillsides taking the fusillade to the enemy whichever way that might have sounded right or wrong, right or left, left behind or misbegotten.

Miss Forgotten took her toys and went home where the boys were absent long enough for the wind in the windows to exhaust their fortunate wares unawares.

Miss Remembered remembered the way to the market and forged her own path all along the Mohawk–but the beauty parlor demurred.

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Being with Georgette #16

The red kite rose above the crest of the bluff and quickly flew out of my view from the desk inside the sliding glass door of our hotel room. The kite’s tail remained suspended a moment, jangling its yellow and orange bow ties she had folded out of the stack of napkins from the continental breakfast bar.

My writing stopped of its own accord, and my crutches appeared in my hands, unbidden. However, dragging myself to the door and opening it took my own effort, and was my own achievement.

The air was stagnant, and the ocean but a flattened sheet of glass.

And yet the kite flew higher and higher.

I stopped short when the right crutch knocked chunks of sandstone over the edge of the bluff. Four seconds passed before they crashed against the rocks on the beach below.

She giggled like a school girl. 

Her long, flowing dress fluttered in the same non-existent breeze that lifted the kite.

She had powers beyond my comprehension.

* * *

Her dark, opaque eyes fixed on me with impenetrable mirth.

She spoke, but I heard nothing from that distance.

She spoke again, and I could almost read her lips.

She repeated herself, and I leaned forward. I leaned forward a little too far and tumbled into the blue sky, the sandy beach, blue sky, sandy beach, red kite, and beautiful woman.

I reached for the tail of the distant kite, wondering how long four seconds lasted when falling in a dream.

* * *

I was already sitting up when I awoke with a start. I held her night-time pony tail in my left hand, a finger looped in its yellow and orange bows.

Her dark, opaque eyes fixed on me with impenetrable mirth, and her lips moved silently. Then clearly and distinctly, but still from the depths of sleep, she said, “I know I’ve always been your other Georgette.”

I let go of her pony tail and said, “But I love you.”

“I know,” she said, “That’s what makes it okay.”

* * *

Unlike my original Georgette, my other Georgette only left me once, but that was for good–and there was nothing good about it. 

* * *

In the dark times after her disappearance, that dream of the kite recurred frequently: the only difference being that I always woke to an empty bed. She was no longer there to accuse me, but I did enough of that for myself.

Wherever I am when I find the sun sinking in the sky, I look for a red kite to suddenly draw me tumbling back into her opaque and impenetrable life. But the deepest part of me knows that won’t happen until I fall the full four seconds and wake up with a start in another kind of bed, where I can finally comprehend the full extent of her powers. And her judgment.

<< Story #15 | Index of Stories | Story #17 >>

Originally published April 18, 2021

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #205

After her encounter with the roguish clown, Doris was both shaken and stirred.

Reckoning the fruits had it coming, the sizzle slathered all over the baton, but all that slathering was in vain, for Doris flipped the script each time the deacon turned on a dime upon the thirty-seventh step. Descending fifths could not account for the music in the spheres–or spears to hear Doris tell it all day long. Gambits succeeded four-to-one in the quiet conversations on moonlight flights of fancy. Forgotten harmonies resonated with the pilgrims pilgrimaging to the pilfered pilaf, one formerly owned by Edith. Now Doris holds those rights and uses them with as much splendor as the French could mustard.

Doris said oh really? Is that your professional opinion?

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Being with Georgette #15

 

Or I stare into the blank mirror, wondering what Georgette took of me this time.

And I gaze into the deep blue cloudless sky, wondering what she left of herself this time.

But I find only the vague reflection of my eyes staring back, wondering from the other side of the deep blue cloudless mirror.

Or I stand at the window, measuring the depth of the snow. Is it April or October? Winter’s belated farewell or early reckoning? The sun stares from the same spot in the same deep blue cloudless sky as the moment she had arrived. Was it October or April?

And I stand at the window, staring into the utterly empty living room full of her carefully (tediously) selected furniture and décor.

But I find only the vague reflection of my eyes staring back, straight into my deep blue cloudless eyes. Wondering from the other side of the utterly empty window. Searching for what she took of me. For what she left of herself.

This time.

<< Story #14 | Index of Stories | Story #16 >>

Originally published March 21, 2021

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #93

Darling went to the flea market, but the only fleas she found were buried in the knap of the mutt she tripped over on her way out.

The tea market was a different story entirely; the tea market had no fleas, even on the mutt Darling tripped over on her way out. The tea market did have plenty of tea, though. The sea market had neither fleas nor teas, but it had plenty of water. The only problem was they demanded you buy the whole sea–no partials allowed. Darling had already too many seas stowed in her closet, so she had to pass on the seas. She did, however, take the mutt she tripped over on her way out. The mutt had neither fleas nor teas nor seas, but it did have love for Darling.

On her way home, Darling stopped at the me market, but all she found was me, so she told me to meet her and her mutt at home in one hour. I skipped over the me market mutt on my way out, and told Darling all about it an hour later.

I also gifted her the full box of fleas I had gathered all the livelong day.

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #320

Deflated mates littered the loitered sands of next door islands, surrounded by the lush lilt of tilted and tiled transcripts.

Ginger lifted a finger–not that one–and George entered the raffle for a basket of tawdry teapots. Would Ginger find it funny? Would George find it fitting? Falling away from the lighthearted silk ties that gag, Ginger said her sister Hyacinth would know what to do. George said his brother Anselm would also know what to do. They asked neither for they decided they would wing it all the way to the hills of Rightynow.

Beseeched and breached, the fort took down its ragged signs and put up congratulations for Ginger and George, beseeching and breaching broached topics of poached toast and peached eggs Ernie. Ginger said where is your transcript. George said it’s deflated. Ginger said check the littered sands. George said let’s look tomorrow, upheavals are best left to chance.

Ginger smiled and said only you would know!

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Being with Georgette #14

“Why didn’t you ever marry my mom?”

Monica had entered the kitchen with all the grace of a fifteen-year-old.

I dropped the plate into the sudsy water and looked out past Monica into the living room.

“It’s okay,” she said. “They went out to get their marriage license and watch a movie.”

I began washing the plate again.

“I never asked her,” I said.

“I’m asking why you never asked her. You’ve been friends since childhood.”

“We’ve been friends since the day we were born.”

“Mom said your mothers shared the same hospital room.”

“According to the story your grandma always told, Georgette and I shared the same incubator for a week.”

“How is that even possible?”

Reading Ulysses in Montana #616

Disturbing sounds haunted the hunted hunters in their secret huts. Scented strands of salamanders slithered up the sequence of upright staircases.

St. Pancras secreted other secret huts with other nuts and hunted hunters. Under the thrilling victory of defeat, the gambit paid off the debt and three others besides. Beside the river the giver gave the flattered crumpet a fifth of barley rye directly in the center of the livid discourse, only two more horses for sale and then the baby shoes. A gather of trumpets forgave the four givers their gift horses in the mouth of the bay leaves, Marvin. Martians frittered away the strumpets along Suvla Bay, too many years after a hill of churches left the carnival of asteroids and other heavenly bodies.

Bringing down the fancy end of carnival knowledge, earned at the university of life, no one could tell any more how many more songs of innocence would silence laughter before you finally learn to breathe. Breathe!

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