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.

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.

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.

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?”

Being with Georgette #13

I’ve not always welcomed Georgette back with open arms after her absences.

One night I opened the door to find Georgette standing on my porch dressed lightly in a skirt, blouse, windbreaker, and purple canvas shoes with two feet of snow in the yard behind her. A thumb was hooked under a strap of a backpack, the only physical baggage she had with her.

She fixed her black eyes on me, refusing–as always–to speak first. The moment froze as hard as that year’s winter.

“You always call ahead,” I said.

“I didn’t have time.”

“I don’t either.”

“You don’t what either?”

“Have time.” Her eyebrows furrowed before I added, “For you.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Georgette looked up the road into the darkness. She squeezed and opened the hand hanging at her side.

“Just give me a lift back to town then.”

***

The roads were newly iced over, so I drove slowly, making the silence all the longer, all the more palpable. Georgette sat small and distantly in the passenger’s seat; my other Georgette’s spare winter coat hung loosely over her shoulders. It was much too large for her which only increased the caricature of her smallness.

“Drop me at the motel at the edge of town. I can manage from there.”

I drove past the motel and took her to a nice hotel downtown.

“I can’t afford this place.”

“I’ll pay.”

***

“How many nights?” the clerk asked. He was tall, thin, and young, in an ill-fitting maroon uniform.

“One,” Georgette said.

“Double?”

“Single,” we said in unison.

While the clerk processed my payment, Georgette asked, “When is the shuttle to the airport?”

The clerk and I both stared at her. Him because he was slow to answer unexpected questions. Me because I knew she knew better.

The clerk said, “You have to take the bus up to the freeway and over to Northaven where you can catch the shuttle.”

Georgette nodded curtly.

I fought back an impulse to ask if she could afford the flight. I didn’t need to appear over-concerned, and she always visited me with an open return ticket. She would manage.

I handed Georgette a hundred dollar bill, and when she hesitated I said, “For the bus.”

She took it, and the clerk winked at me. 

***

I drove home even slower than I had driven to town. The silence grew still longer, but less palpable–more ethereal–as whorls of gritty snow danced briskly across the road.

The last I had seen of Georgette she was helping the clerk up off the floor and inspecting the sudden redness and swelling around the eye that had winked at me. I’m no different than you. I too abhor violence–except when it’s strictly necessary. Or when it’s useful. Or when it just plain makes me feel better.

Georgette had stiffened her back against me, and I didn’t wait around for elaborate editorials on her part.

***

Six years passed before Georgette stood on my porch again. The summer sunshine was more suitable to her light outfit of skirt, blouse, windbreaker, and purple canvas shoes, but she also had more baggage.

She had taken the time to call ahead, and I had the time to let her in, because by then she was my last remaining Georgette.

<< Story #12 | Index of Stories| Story #14 >>

Originally published December 7, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Being with Georgette #12

When I finished preparing dinner, Georgette had disappeared. She wasn’t in the house. She wasn’t in her garden.

She knew her fish was almost ready, so I had no idea why I finally found her in the middle of the canola field across the highway holding a beach ball.

***

At golden hour, the yellow canola blossoms glow with an ethereal radiance. I had told Georgette the night before that the effect was due to over-saturation of yellow sunlight on the blossoms. Many colorful things look magical when over-saturated.

Georgette had said, “It’s more magical if you don’t explain it.”

I did not say out loud that it’s even more magical when you understand it because you also understand how it connects to other magical things in the universe. I did not say it because she had already stopped listening to me before I could begin saying it.

That was last night. Now Georgette stands among the glowing yellow blossoms that climb to her waist. Georgette herself glows with an ethereal radiance, but not due to over-saturation. Her dark hair and dark green dress contrasts with the glowing yellow blossoms around her. Her ethereal radiance comes from within.

***

I crossed the highway and waved to Georgette from the edge of the field.

Georgette waved the beach ball over her head.

I shouted that her fish was getting cold, but she just waved the beach ball over her head again.

I stepped into the field. The canola stems and blossoms parted easily, but the leafy green plants on the ground grabbed at my feet.

When I was halfway to Georgette, I shouted again that her fish was getting cold.

Georgette turned her back to me and threw the ball as high as she could, letting it fall between us.

I approached the ball, picked it up, and took it to Georgette.

I said, “Your fish–“

“I heard you the first time,” Georgette snapped. She snatched the ball from my hands and ran away giggling.

I ran after her, and when I grabbed her arm, we fell to the ground in a clumsy embrace. What followed was even more clumsy, and perfectly silly, but suitable for the moment in a grown-up kind of way.

***

I said, “Your fish is probably frozen again by now.”

Georgette straightened her dress, still glowing with her ethereal radiance.

She said, “You’re the one who’s over-saturated.”

I said, “Why did you come out here when you knew dinner was almost ready.

She said, “All you think about is food.”

I said, “I think of other things too.”

“Not as much as you used to,” she said. “Even at sunset.”

***

The sun had set, but dusk falls slowly here in the weeks after the summer solstice.

As we crossed the highway to my front yard, I said, “Now what will we have for dinner?”

“You’ll think of something.”

Then Georgette stopped me and flung her arms around me. She whispered as though her life depended on it, “Go back and get the beach ball. I’ll make you an omelet.”

“Why do we need the ball?”

Georgette smiled and said, “Monica is pregnant.”

***

I took my time finding the beach ball.

When I finally returned to the house, Georgette said, “Your omelet is cold.”

She took the beach ball and cradled it like it was her first grandchild.

I said, “But it’s not over-saturated.”

“And it never will be, ” she said. Then she smiled at the beach ball and said, “And it’s even more magical because you also understand how it connects to other magical things in the universe.”

<< Story #11 | Index of Stories| Story #13 >>

Originally published July 17, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Being with Georgette #11

The small trailer hitched to my truck bounced over the potholes in the grocery store parking lot.

“Careful,” Georgette barked. “That’s my stuff.”

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked. “We can come back after dropping off your stuff at your school.”

“Turn off the engine.”

I turned off the engine.

“I’m not going to school this year.”

“So why did I bring you up here?”

Georgette said, “I’m going away.”

A bird landed on the hood ornament of the truck.

“With someone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I honked the horn, and the bird flew away.

“Someone else?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

***

I unhitched the trailer and blocked its wheels.

Georgette stared straight ahead when I got back in the truck.

“When will he be here?”

She looked at me and said plainly, “You don’t have to wait.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in a parking lot with your trailer.”

Georgette said, “Please don’t make a scene.”

“I’m not making a scene.”

“I mean when he gets here.”

“I never make a scene.”

“I know.”

“But you always tell me to not make a scene.”

“I know.”

“I won’t make a scene.”

“I know.”

***

We ate burgers in the truck as the sun went down.

Georgette said, “Don’t tell my dad.”

“What will I say at Christmas?”

“He’ll know everything by then.”

“What about Thanksgiving.”

She said, “Don’t go home for Thanksgiving.”

“I have to go somewhere; they close campus.”

“You can come stay with me. With us.”

“He must be quite a guy.”

***

At eleven-thirty I said, “My dorm closes at midnight.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“I can call the floor advisor, but they won’t let you in.”

“Why would I need in?”

“He’s not coming.”

“He’ll come.”

***

At dawn, Georgette said, “Have you slept?”

“A little.”

“When does your dorm open again?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re in class.”

“My classes don’t start until tomorrow.”

“Can you drive me back home today?”

“Why don’t you just go to school? Your classes start in two days.”

“I thought our schools started the same day.”

“No.”

“That explains it then.”

“That explains what?”

“He’ll pick me up today. We were a day early.”

***

By three in the afternoon, he had come and they had gone.

I didn’t make a scene.

I stopped by her college to see if they cared to know she wouldn’t be attending.

Outside the administration office was a table scattered with a few name tags of the freshmen who hadn’t yet arrived for orientation–and at least one who never would.

I took Georgette’s name tag and tore it in two.

A sweet voice said, “That’s mine.”

I turned around.

She was taller and darker than Georgette.

I said, “You don’t look like Georgette Jaynes.”

“I’m Georgette Gray.”

I put the two pieces of torn paper together. In a smaller font, centered under the large first name, was the last name “Gray”.

The name tag for Georgette Jaynes stared at me from the table with the same screaming silence Georgette had mastered long ago.

I handed Georgette the pieces of her name tag and tore the other one to bits, muting the silence.

“Were you waiting for someone?” she asked.

“I’ve learned not to wait. I just exist while others are deciding when to show up.”

She smiled and said, “Do you believe in happy coincidences?”

“No,” I said, unable to return her smile. “But that doesn’t stop me from pursuing the interesting ones.”

And that is how I ended up with two Georgettes in my life.

<< Story #10 | Index of Stories| Story #12 >>

Originally published May 10, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Being with Georgette #10

I touched my fingertips to the window, feeling the vibrations from the music within.

Georgette stood singing on a small stage in a corner of the coffee shop connected to the bookstore. She wore a long, olive green dress and a necklace of large wooden beads. Matching bracelets with smaller beads danced up and down her forearms as she gestured half-passionately to the music.

In the years since, when I remember that night, I have the distinct but certainly wrong memory that Georgette was singing into a banana rather than a microphone. I was probably influenced by an album cover in the window of the used record store next door.

A few listeners were scattered across the room at small tables thumbing through books, but at one table a man sat in rapt attention, mooning at Georgette when she looked his way and glaring critically at the young man playing the guitar when she looked away. She had told me she was with someone. That must have been the someone.

Georgette had always dreamed of being a professional singer, and I wondered where this fit on her scale of dreams come true.

***

The night was pitch black. The moon was full, but heavy clouds obscured any moonlight. At least it wasn’t raining like it had the night before.

I’ve always hated the city, but a book signing across town had brought me down from the mountains.

Georgette had phoned to tell me about her divorce and her new chance to sing which would cause her to miss my book signing and that the new someone would keep her from spending some time in the mountains with me for now but maybe she’d come up if things didn’t work out and she would reserve a table for me if I wanted to come watch her perform.

***

A man and a woman sat at the table just inside the window from me. The woman chattered, oblivious to the music. The man glanced at a card that had been left on the table and then tossed it onto the window sill.

The card read, “This table is reserved for __________.” And in Georgette’s neat handwriting, my name filled in the blank.

***

The door opened, and a woman left the bookstore. She held the door, glancing my way, but I shook my head and she moved on. The door stayed open a moment, extending the invitation, and then it began to close slowly on its own.

A voice in the dark said, “You have some change?”

Without looking, I said, “I’m all out of flowers.”

The voice muttered and started to walk away.

I said, “Here.”

The voice snatched the five dollars of coffee money I had pulled from my front pocket.

***

The door had closed, Georgette was still singing into the banana, and home was far away.

I sat in the dark doorway of the used record store next door, but before I fell asleep, I realized just how long I’d been all out of flowers.

<< Story #9 | Index of Stories| Story #11 >>

Originally published April 28, 2020

More about the author, Rick Mallery.

Being with Georgette #9

Georgette kills me with her sense of humor.

She walks out the door, saying she’s going to get milk and eggs, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when she adds, “I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Sometimes it can be years.

But I am comforted by how her presence lingers in every room during her absences.

***

Sometimes I sleep on the floor in her sewing room. In the summer I sleep in a sleeping bag out in her potting shed.

Her garden dies. Cobwebs form on her indoor plants. Dust collects on her books.

I never write more–or more vividly–than when she is gone, and I can’t help feeling that she leaves me now and then for my own good.

Her friends continue to visit, but they are too polite to talk about her. No one calls from the place where she works. I fancy that’s because her presence lingers at work too. Perhaps she even gets her work done in absentia.

Being with Georgette #8

“Speeding Automobile”, 1912, by Giacomo Balla

I was the only one around the day Georgette’s mother died.

Georgette was away at her private school, which would be in session for another week, while my public high school had already let out for the summer. Georgette’s father and my mother were both at work.

I was mowing our front yard and had waved to Mrs. Jaynes when she passed by on her walk.

Only when I made a turn and was mowing back toward Georgette’s house did I see Mrs. Jaynes lying broken in the middle of the road.

***

She was still breathing when I arrived.

“I’ll go call the ambulance.”

“Don’t leave me here,” she said.

“I shouldn’t move you.”

“Don’t let someone else hit me.”