Gifted

GIFTED
6/18/2004

Kurt read back what he had written and frowned. He pounded the desk with his fist.

“It’s shit,” he said disgustedly, his own voice echoing in the emptiness of the house. He clicked and highlighted the text, stabbing the delete key with more force than was necessary. He rested his elbow on the desk, placing his forehead in his hand, utterly weary physically and mentally.

After a moment, he sat up with a jerk and shook his head.

“Coffee,” he said to no one in particular, standing up and heading for the kitchen to put on a pot. A look at the clock over the stove told him it was just past 2:30 in the morning. He had a deadline to meet. His editor was expecting these chapters tomorrow. Today. In truth, he had wanted the chapters days ago, but Kurt had been unable to oblige. He felt now as if he were in a vise, but he had no choice. He had to write until he had something that would work. Something. Anything.

He filled the coffeemaker with water, measured the coffee into the filter, and flicked the switch. He leaned back against the counter to watch the coffee brew, his mind trying to find the track that would take him back into his book. He felt helpless, as if he had no control over his ability – or lack thereof – to write.

The coffee dripped steadily into the carafe, the popping, dripping sound the only noise in the oppressively quiet house. Nothing had gone right since Olivia had died. She had been everything to Kurt: his life, his heart, his light, and his soul. When she had died, she had taken his Muse with her. His inspiration had been wrapped up in her, and all the music and beauty in his life had died when she did.

For six months, Kurt had been restlessly and aimlessly walking the floors in this empty house, searching in vain for respite from the searing ache in his heart, but there was never comfort. The emptiness weighed on him, threatening to crush him. The silence was a scream that echoed endlessly in his ears. Time had not eased his own screams.

His mother called daily, trying to pull him from the quicksand.

“Kurt,” she would say. “You have to go on living. Olivia wouldn’t have wanted your life to end with hers. She loved you. She wouldn’t want this for you.” Her pleading didn’t help him. Sometimes he’d listen quietly. Other times he’d rage at her.

“Leave me be! What can I possibly have that’s worth having without Olivia! She was everything!” Eventually his mother would hang up, only to try again the next day. There were many days when Kurt refused to answer the phone at all.

The coffee was done. He pulled a mug from the cupboard, filled it, and took a hard swallow, heedless of the burning on his tongue. He wrapped his hands around the mug as if for his own life, hanging on to anything that might anchor him. In his mind he saw her, young and beautiful and healthy, standing in this kitchen the day after he had brought her home from their honeymoon.

She stood at the counter, slicing carrots and tomatoes into a big teakwood bowl of lettuce, her ash blonde hair shimmering in the late afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. Kurt sat opposite her, nursing a glass of white wine, watching the sunlight playing on her hair and skin. He marveled that this lovely, lively young woman was his bride. He thought he’d never known a happier moment.

“I love you,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch her. She smiled, her warmth radiating through the kitchen and penetrating the deepest parts of Kurt.

“I love you too.” She leaned over and kissed him with soft lips. He breathed her scent, filling his lungs with her.

“I can’t wait to have a dozen babies with you and fill this house with their laughter,” she said excitedly, a shine in her green eyes.

“And they’ll all be beautiful, just like their mother.”

Olivia blushed at that, finishing the vegetables and tossing the salad with her hands.

“No more beautiful than you,” she said.

Hot tears surprised Kurt. He wasn’t a crier.

She had been beautiful, his Olivia. Even at the end, when the cancer had ravaged her body and taken her strength, she had been beautiful. He’d have given own his life for her if only she hadn’t had to suffer.

They had been married only ten months when she’d developed the blinding headaches that sent them rushing to her doctor for answers. For help. Answers they had gotten; for help, there was none. The cancer had taken her quickly. Olivia had been just twenty-four years old when she died.

Kurt drained the mug of coffee, refilled it, and padded down the darkened, quiet hallway back to the den. He sat in the leather chair in front of his desk once more, watching the cursor blink its rhythm on the blank screen in front of him. His penciled notes were strewn about the desk, some of them crumpled in his frustration and spilling over onto the Oriental rug beneath his feet. The half-eaten remains of his supper lay at the back of the desk. Movement caught Kurt’s eye, and he turned to see a large spider crawl across the abandoned plate. His first thought was to smash it with his fist, but with a muttered remark about karma, he instead scooped it up with his napkin. He stood and strode into the foyer, opening the heavy door and unceremoniously dumping the spider into the darkness outside.

“Go home,” he said senselessly, wondering if he was slowly going insane.

He stood a moment, breathing the sharply chilled air. He wondered if the cold burst into his lungs would clear the dissonance in his head. The still, cloudless darkness renewed his sense of urgency to meet his deadline, but nothing eased the dull ache left hanging in his body. He slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt.

Back in the den he sat in front of the uncompromising computer, the blank page looming there. He took a large swallow of coffee and began again, starting and stopping in dissatisfaction and deleting more than he saved.

“Damn it!” he shouted, hearing the reverb sting his ears. “Damn damn damn. I can’t write!”

He jumped up suddenly, knocking over the mug of coffee. It dripped off the edge of the desk onto the rug, soaking the crumpled papers that lay there.

Kurt knelt, violently throwing the coffee-stained paper into the wastebasket. As the wet seeped into the rug, his own tears shocked him once more.

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said ruefully. “I know you loved this rug. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He fetched a thick towel from the closet in the hall and pressed it against the rug, hoping to pull the coffee out of its fibers. As he mopped at the mess, another spider crawled in front of him.

“Where did you come from?” he asked sharply. “Go outside with your buddy.” He scooped the spider up, this time with his bare hands, and tossed it into the cold as he had done before. “Find your friend! Leave me alone.”

“It’s no use!” he bellowed, leaning back against the front door as he closed it. “I give up! I’m not going to write again.”

“Yes, you are.”

Kurt started. He shook his head. What the hell…? Was he hearing things? Where had that voice come from? Had he finally snapped completely, going over the edge to insanity? He heard it again.

“You can write. You have to stop trying to control it.”

“Who are you!” Kurt yelled. “Am I crazy?”

“You’re not crazy. Go sit. Write.”

“I can’t.” Kurt’s voice was bitter. He stormed back into the den and flung his body into the leather chair. As he watched the cursor blink, an idea slowly formed in his head and began to consume his thoughts. A few moments later, he hunched over the keyboard and began to thump out the words, faster and faster until his furious fingers had trouble keeping pace with his brain. His breath was rapid, jagged, and his eyes glazed as the story came with ever increasing speed.

As the first dim gray light of dawn began to peer into the windows, Kurt’s fingers at last rested. He lay his head on the desk and allowed the weariness to take over. He slept. A single spider crawled across the back of his hand and stopped in front of the keyboard to watch him.

……………

“These are great, Kurt,” Barry enthused. “Best work I’ve seen from you in months.” He shuffled the papers, spot reading portions here and there.

“You’re the editor, Barry. I’ll take your word for it.” Kurt gave him a weak smile. “My night took a lot out of me,” he explained at Barry’s look of concern. “I wound up sleeping at my desk.”

Barry laughed. “Worse writers than you have done the same,” he said. His face becoming serious, he placed a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Do you think you should talk to someone about it?”

“About what? Sleeping at my desk?”

“No. About Olivia’s death.”

Kurt pulled away from him. “No. I’m fine. I’ve – I’ve got to go now, Barry. Get back to me with your revision notes.” Kurt snatched his leather briefcase and left the editor’s office abruptly.

When he arrived home, he went immediately to the den. The chair in front of the desk still felt warm. The large coffee stain on the Oriental rug was gone. Kurt’s eyes were drawn to the computer screen in front of him, the cursor blinking rapidly next to the words typed there. He read, his mouth agape, his eyes widening as he stood up, gripping the edge of the desk and following the words again and again:

I love you, Kurt. Keep writing. O.

In a corner of the room, a spider began carefully spinning a web.

Cleaning Day

***Language warning: this story contains strong language***


CLEANING DAY
3/8/2004

Bonnie glanced out the window as she washed the dishes. The brilliant blue of the early summer sky drew her eyes. Her backyard was sunny and inviting, the tiny deck surrounded by the blooming annuals she had planted just two weeks before. Her watchful gaze took in the budding oak tree, the apple tree, the lavender plants, and the yellow cotton sheets flapping gently in the morning breeze.

Today would be the day.

As Bonnie rinsed the last plate and carefully placed it in the draining rack, Jeff came stumbling into the kitchen. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed, suffering the after effects of last night’s binge. He didn’t look as though he had slept at all, though Bonnie had heard his snores most of the night. His stench was powerful, and Bonnie wrinkled her nose.

“Get me some breakfast,” Jeff spat at her as he sat down at the little round table and picked up the newspaper.

“I’ve already eaten and washed up, Jeff. It’s past ten o’clock.”

“Do you want to be that stupid, you dumb bitch?” Jeff glared at her from around the newspaper, his dark eyes clouded with unspent fury. “I said, get me some breakfast.”

Bonnie nervously twisted one end of her pink and white gingham apron.

“Okay, Jeff,” she said quietly, removing a shiny copper-bottomed frying pan from the dish draining rack. It was an old pan, in need of a new handle or at least solder for the current one, but Bonnie kept it as clean as new. She wiped it dry with her apron and set it on the stove top. As she cracked eggs into the pan, she looked over her shoulder at Jeff still sitting at the table. She wondered what it was eight years ago that had made her think she loved him. She couldn’t remember if there had ever been any real charm or appeal. She couldn’t remember if he had always been hotheaded. She couldn’t remember much of anything about him before the first time he had hit her, a blow that had come on her wedding night.

The wedding had been small and quick. She had worn a faded floral sundress and a white straw hat Jeff had said she could buy new. He had worn a threadbare brown suit with white shoes. They had stood in front of a judge in the county courthouse to take their vows, Jeff’s somber older sister their only witness.

After a quiet supper at the diner in the middle of town, Jeff had taken her to a motel on the outskirts for their wedding night. The motel was a little rundown, the green paint faded and peeling, the sign proudly proclaiming a color television in each room. It was in their tiny room over the sounds of that color television that Jeff had struck her. At seventeen, Bonnie had been a nervous bride, afraid of what she knew was to come in the marriage bed. Jeff had not wanted to wait. He had not wanted to be patient or gentle with his young wife and had responded to her tears with violence. He had punched her face, and when she was sufficiently cowed, had ripped the sundress from her body and relieved himself on her, rolling over with a groan when he was finished.

The next morning, Bonnie had woken to a bruised jaw and a ravaged spirit.

Eight years of marriage hadn’t changed or mellowed Jeff at all. In fact, he’d gotten worse. Bonnie carefully flipped the eggs in the pan and slid them onto a plate with a slice of buttered toast. The eggs were as perfectly “over easy” as any could be. She set the plate in front of Jeff and went to the counter to pour him a mug of coffee. As she turned to bring the mug to him, he flung the newspaper down and eyed his breakfast with disgust.

“What the fuck is this?” Jeff’s tone and face were frightening; Bonnie was disheartened.

“You- you said you wanted breakfast. I made eggs. You knew I was making eggs.” Bonnie set the coffee down on the table and backed away, bumping into the counter and holding its edge behind her back. She bit her lip as she saw Jeff begin to rise from the table as if in slow motion.

“I don’t want over easy, bitch. Why are you so stupid all the time?” Suddenly he was upon her, pulling her hair and dragging her from the counter to the table. He slammed her face into the plate and rubbed it around as if she were a bad dog who messed in the house. She could feel the yolk in her nostrils as he continued to grind her head into his breakfast.

“You eat that shit,” he said angrily, giving her leg a vicious kick and her head a final slam. He left the kitchen, swearing at her all the way down the hallway into the bathroom. Each curse seemed to echo loudly in the tiny house and inside Bonnie’s brain.

She lifted her head slowly, bits of egg clinging to her eyelashes and runny yolk sliding down her cheeks. She wanted to cry but knew had to remain strong. She resolutely wiped the egg from her skin with the gingham apron and willed herself to stay calm. Today would be the day.

She heard the sound of the shower running as she dutifully cleaned up the mess her husband had made. She wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t married him. Would she have been better off or worse? She knew she couldn’t have stood one more month, one more week, in her parents’ house, watching her father beat her mother in one drunken rage after another. Bonnie never returned home after Jeff had picked her up from school and taken her to the courthouse. She had heard a few years ago that her father had drunk himself to death. Although she sometimes felt sorry for her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to care what had happened to her father.

When she had finished cleaning the table and the dishes, she rinsed the apron in the kitchen sink, looking out the window to her charming backyard as she did so. When the apron was rinsed of all the bits of egg, she wrung it out firmly. Brushing aside a wisp of mousy brown hair from her eyes, she went out the kitchen door, hearing the hollow aluminum bang of the screen door as it shut behind her. She went into the backyard, tilting up her face for a moment to feel the comforting warmth of the sun on her skin. The scent of the lavender permeated the air, and Bonnie drew it in as deeply as she could as she plucked two clothespins from the line and secured the apron there. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her dress and looked around again. It was a lovely yard, carefully tended only by Bonnie, a retreat she felt was all her own. She would miss this refuge, but it couldn’t be helped. Today would be the day she would leave it.

Bonnie went back into the house. She could hear Jeff’s movements in the bedroom as he dressed after his shower. She took a duster, a rag, and a spray bottle of cleaner from the broom closet in the kitchen and quietly padded down the carpeted stairway to the basement. The family room she had thought inviting and warm when she and Jeff bought this house now seemed chilly and remote. She snapped on the overhead light, shivering a little in the cold, remembering the silky warmth of the sun in the yard. She made her way through the room, dusting this and dusting that, spraying cleaner and wiping down the glass front of the fireplace. Bonnie enjoyed cleaning. She took pride in her neat and tidy little home, the rituals involved in her housekeeping offering a comforting consistency to her days. She plucked a long piece of ivory from the mantel, the tusk from a narwhal that Jeff had brought home one night after a poker game. She dusted it thoroughly, running her hands along the smooth, cold spiral. She gently replaced the tusk in its spot, taking care to point the tip toward the wall.

When she had finished wiping and tidying, Bonnie opened the heavy closet door at the back of the family room. She pulled a suitcase from the bottom shelf and set it aside on the floor. It was old and worn and not very big, but it would do.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jeff’s voice surprised Bonnie and she whirled around as he came down the stairs, clad in stiff blue jeans and boots, his hair still shower damp. He had not shaved, and his chest was bare.

“It’s cleaning day, Jeff.” Bonnie’s voice was soft. “I have some cleaning out to do.”

“I’m going out,” Jeff growled in return. “You better not have this shit laying around when I get back. And I want dinner on time!” He turned back toward the stairway.

Bonnie pulled herself up to her full height, breathed deeply, and took her plunge.

“Jeff.” She said it clearly and firmly, firmly enough to cause her husband to stop and turn back to her, suspicion evident in the narrowing of his eyes.

“Jeff,” she said again. “I don’t want you to go.”

“What? What did you say?” His voice was low and dangerous, and he advanced toward her with one agonizingly slow step. She saw the glitter of the brass plate on the toe of his boot.

“I…” Bonnie swallowed hard, then forged ahead. “I don’t want you to go.” She drew up her chin and forced herself to look into his eyes, black and dangerous with his rising anger. She could read the fury in them as she retreated, just as she done in the kitchen earlier. As she leaned away from Jeff, the back of her head butted against the fireplace mantel.

“You bitch!” he shot at her, advancing yet one more step. “You…do…not…tell…me… what to do.”

Bonnie watched as Jeff’s hand reached for his belt buckle. She stood transfixed as he slowly removed the belt from his crisply pressed jeans. She heard the hiss of the leather as it swung through the air. She felt the razor-sharp sting as it struck her flesh, slicing it open. She saw the blood flow from the injury.

Bonnie screamed.

………………..

Bonnie loaded the last of her things into the trunk of the car. She gave a tug on the lid, pulling it down firmly to latch it. She wiped the dusty residue onto her jeans. She tucked her hair behind her ears, hair made a sunny golden blonde that afternoon with a box of Miss Clairol. Jeff didn’t like Bonnie to wear jeans, but she had kept this pair hidden, buried in the bottom drawer of her dresser, waiting for a chance to put them on. She liked the way they fit on her hips. She liked that she wasn’t afraid to wear them today. She went up the concrete step to the kitchen door, trying it to make sure it was locked. She walked around to the backyard, wanting one last glimpse of her garden. She looked lovingly at her oak and apple trees, at her lavender and her annuals, at the freshly turned earth that was to have been her vegetable garden. She felt a stab of regret that she wouldn’t be there to watch her vegetables flourish, but it simply couldn’t be helped. Bonnie had no time nor room to err. It was time to go.

With a road atlas to guide her and a full tank of gas, Bonnie backed the car out of the driveway with one final, wistful look at the cottage that had been her home. She drove out of the lane and then sped off onto the highway at sixty miles per hour, ready now to put distance between her and the life she’d shared with Jeff.

As she drove, she thought of Jeff a little sadly. She wished it had been different. She wished Jeff had been the kind of husband she’d longed for, wished it hadn’t come to this. Jeff hadn’t cared much for Bonnie’s garden. He’d laughed and sneered at her efforts to grow prize-winning flowers and big, ripe tomatoes. How fitting that now, in her absence, he would be the one to feed and nurture her vegetables.

She reached for the bit of ivory beside her on the car seat. Her fingers ran along the cold, hard length of that tusk, closing over the sharply pointed end. She supposed that at some time it would have to go, but for now she enjoyed the strength it gave her. It had been difficult to clean properly, but she had taken care of the job. Bonnie was very good at cleaning.

Today was cleaning day.

Flowers For Violet

FLOWERS FOR VIOLET
3/27/2004

It was deceptively sunny. Louis peeked out the window in the foyer and saw the big spring sun brightening everything it touched. There were a few shadows cast by the pear tree in the front yard, but for Louis there were always shadows anyway.

Louis knew that despite the warm appearance of the sun, it was still early in the spring, and that meant it might still be cold. He went to the closet, pulling out a worn wool sweater and poking his thin arms into the sleeves. He buttoned it carefully and slowly, thankful that the buttons were big enough to manipulate without causing too much pain in his fingers. Over the sweater, he pulled on a windbreaker jacket, zipping it up to his neck.

From his jacket pocket, he withdrew the leash. He jangled it a bit until Tommy came bounding around the corner, eager for his walk this morning.

“Hey there, feller,” Louis said gently, bending down to fasten the leash to Tommy’s collar and give him a scratch behind the ears. Tommy leaned into Louis’ touch, eagerly lapping at his free hand.

“Let’s go get some flowers for Miss Violet, should we boy?” Louis smiled, scratching Tommy’s head once more. Louis couldn’t have asked for a better friend than old Tommy.

When they emerged from the house, Louis felt the breeze on his face and knew he had been right. The sun was deceptive. The warm, inviting appearance from inside the house belied the chilly air outside. He gripped Tommy’s leash firmly and thrust both hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.

Tommy walked slowly, seeming to enjoy the scenery. Tommy was old too, like Louis, and he never tugged on the leash or tried to make Louis walk too fast. Tommy had been with Louis and Violet since he was a pup, and that was seventeen years ago. Sometimes Louis wished there had been grandchildren to play with Tommy when he was a pup, but wishing for a thing doesn’t make it so. Louis knew that as well as anybody. Still, it was just too bad that Tommy hadn’t had any boisterous children around him to toss a ball or run in the fields with him. He’d grown old beside Louis and Violet, content enough in his life with them. He didn’t seem to miss what he’d never had.

Louis and Tommy strolled to the corner, where they stopped at Mr. Harlan’s stand. Mr. Harlan sold newspapers and magazines. He also sold a tiny selection of fruits laid out in wooden baskets, candy and gum, and every day, he had a few bouquets of fresh flowers to sell, bouquets hand picked from his own garden and arranged by his wife. Louis was pleased to see that today Mr. Harlan had some violets.

“They’re beautiful today, Louis,” Mr. Harlan smiled as Louis passed him a few crinkled bills to pay for a bouquet. “Anna was very happy to see the daffodils and the violets this year.”

“I imagine she was, Sam,” Louis answered pleasantly. “My Violet loves the spring flowers. She’ll be happy with these.”

Mr. Harlan bent down to scruff the back of Tommy’s neck while Tommy waited patiently for Louis. In a moment they were on their way again, Mr. Harlan waving genially and calling after them to have a nice day.

Louis and Tommy walked on through the neighborhood and past the park, where several young boys had gotten together a game of baseball. Louis heard their shouts echoing in his ears long after he had passed the park. It made him happy to think of children playing baseball in the early spring, eager to be outside after a long and snowy winter. Sixty-five years ago, Louis had been just like those young boys, tearing outside at the first sign of baseball weather, cracking the bat and sliding in the mud. He remembered long afternoons spent poring over baseball cards up in the tree house they had built in the woods behind his house. He sighed. Louis’ carefree childhood days were just shadows now, like so many other shadows, pictures of a past that had ceased to exist.

When they finally reached their destination, Louis lifted the latch on the heavy iron gate and pushed it open. He dropped Tommy’s leash and let him in first, leaving the gate open and following Tommy. Tommy knew where to go. He reached her first, promptly lying down and resting his head on his front paws. When Louis caught up to him, he lightly patted the warm golden fur. Tommy’s brown eyes seemed to hold sympathy for Louis as he silently watched Louis’ movements.

Steadying himself on the stone, Louis carefully knelt. He placed the violets tenderly on the earth, smelling the freshness of the awakening grass and the damp soil. His gnarled fingers ran along the front of the stone, feeling the words etched there. He swallowed hard over the lump forming in his throat.

“I brought you some violets, my girl,” he said, his voice growing raspy. “Violets for my Violet. I thought you’d like them today. It’s just right for spring. It’s too cold today. I thought the violets would make it seem warm.”

Louis leaned over, resting his cheek on the stone. It was as cold as it ever was. Tommy stood up and walked over slowly, his leash jingling as it dragged behind him. He put his paws on Louis’ knees, and Louis sat, heedless of the mud. Tommy snuggled into Louis’ lap as far as he could go, seeming to want Louis to take warmth from him.

“Gone too soon, wasn’t she, boy?” Louis spoke wearily. “It’s been a long winter, Tommy. Violet would have liked to be tending her flowerbeds now. That old garden will be full of shadows when the brush gets overgrown.” He scrubbed the top of Tommy’s hair with fingers becoming knotted in pain from his arthritis. “I don’t know if I can take care of her things, boy. Won’t be much of a garden this year.” Tears stung the old man’s eyes. He pressed his cheek to Tommy’s head and let them fall.

………………..

The late afternoon shadows had grown very long by the time Mitch left the park and headed for home. He and the guys had spent the whole day playing baseball and warming up for the season to come. He was happily splattered with mud and his muscles were sore, but he was more concerned about his stomach rumbling. He didn’t want to be late to supper, so he picked up the pace to a jog as he approached the cemetery three blocks from his house. When he came upon it, he saw that the iron gate was open, waiting for someone to come along and close it. Mitch slowed his steps, peering curiously into the cemetery, wondering who would be there at this time of the day.

He stopped short when he saw an old man leaning against one of the stones, fast asleep with a dog in his lap.

“Mister!” he shouted. “Hey, mister! Are you okay?” Getting no answer, Mitch jogged across the lawn until he reached the man and his dog. Something didn’t seem right. Mitch gasped, his instinct telling him to run the rest of the way home and tell his father. He turned, his feet pounding into the softening earth as he ran.

Behind him, just as the last shadows fell before the dusk, violets bloomed.