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The time has come to start a new fiction serial. I’m trying something more ambitious this time, we’ll see…
***
Timothy sliced through the mango, cutting it up into easily-crushed cubes. Orange, banana, mangoes, he thought, all of Elsie’s favorites.
“Come here, Elsie,” Timothy’s daughter was pulling at the vent-cover underneath the kitchen sink; a cast-iron cover worked with curling flowers that tinkled as the baby shook it. “That’s dirty. Here, try a piece of mango.”
The young girl crawled over to her father and hoisted herself to a standing position using his trouser leg. He popped the fruit into her mouth, “What do you think of that, honey?” A look of intense concentration passed across her face, until the sweetness of the mango hit. She smiled and cried out for more. “Here’s another piece, the rest are for the picnic. Let’s go see mommie.”
Timothy hoisted Elsie in one arm and carried her up the farmhouse stairs; past the jeweled glass of great-grandma’s favorite window; past the pictures of dead family members along the hallway; into her parent’s bedroom where his wife lay under the covers, face turned from the door.
“Honey, I thought you’d be up by now. Did you take your medicine yet?”
“I don’t think I can go today,” Fiona, Tim’s wife, spoke without moving. The wooden room creaked as the central heating clicked on.
Timothy had been through this before. “You know that you’ll feel better once you get outside.” He was confident that his wife would eventually change her mind; her depression had improved after they changed doctors a few months ago. Timothy set down his daughter next to the bed and opened the blinds: soft sunlight fell over the counterpane. Elsie began to tug on the bed sheets, the vent covers started to rattle and the room felt warm.
Elise’s birth was a difficult one. First there was the Down’s syndrome scare, which turned out to be a lab error; then came Fiona’s panic attacks, which she treated with more doctors, herbalists and medicines. Finally, in her third trimester, Fiona developed hypertension. Tim suspected that the extra herbs and drugs had something to do with it.
After the delivery Fiona was listless; Tom chucked it up to exhaustion. She spent long periods in bed- just as the midwife told her to do- but after a couple of weeks his wife showed no sign of her usual spark. All she wanted to do was sleep, and sometimes she cried when she woke up.
Timothy had hoped that Fiona’s trouble would end with the birth; that her funk would burn itself out after she’d had time to recover. He didn’t count on the sleepless nights; the constant cleaning; the colic. He told himself that Fiona was improving right up until the day when he came home from work to find that Elsie had never been taken out of her crib; that she was hungry and plastered in her own mess.
“Fiona- did you leave her here all day?”
“What?”
“Elsie! I found her in her bed crying- didn’t you hear her?” Fiona just started to weep.
Timothy took time off work to care for them both. There were times when he felt that their wooden house was just a sinking ship, rattling awake each morning with a tepid groan.
But that was six months ago, and today they had a lot to be thankful for. He could go back to work, albeit part-time. Fiona was re-emerging: yesterday, she’d prepared fried chicken and coleslaw for their picnic. He’d even heard her chuckle while she did it. There had been no more neglect of Elsie; the dread that spread over him every day when he left for the office was subsiding. He knew that he could trust his wife again.
Timothy packed the chicken and salad carefully, as well as Elsie’s fruit chunks and animal crackers. He wrapped up a few bottles of shandy too; it wasn’t a drink that he liked, but Fiona did, and it was safe with her medicine. He bundled all this into the basket on his bicycle, then started to attach Elsie’s carriage to the rear wheel. That carriage, with it’s orange canvas and reflective caution sign, was a goodbye-present from his partner at the gallery in Chicago. Just what a yuppie needs in the country, Timothy thought when he unwrapped the gift, but he knew that Alex meant well. After all, Alex was from Schaumburg.
The orange trailer was supposed to lock on to the wheel easily with a ‘universal coupler'; but, of course, the coupler wasn’t universal enough to include Timothy’s bike. I’ll jerry-rig it with some wire and a couple of metal ties. He was tightening the wire around the wheel-center when his hand slipped, and line of dark blood fell from his finger over his palm.
That rich, velvety, ox-blood red against his skin…
“Let me take you to the car, Lillian,” Timothy bounded to the side of an aging lady, who wilted next to a marble column in the bright foyer. His shoes tapped lightly on the parquet.
“You’re beautiful, Tim, just beautiful!”
“We couldn’t have done any of it without you, Lil. You’re the star of the hour.”
A knowing smile flashed on the woman’s face, her pink lips and perfect white teeth glittered in the chandelier’s light. She was in her fifties, but Lillian still had the statuesque figure that made her famous. Her velvet skirt clung to her in rich folds- like the curtains on a stage- she still had perfect legs. Tim caught her in his arms and she rested the full length of her body against him as he half-walked, half-carried her to the limo waiting outside. She whispered soft things into his ear as they negotiated the stone steps leading down to the street.
“You are?” Tim smiled, “You will?” She was getting heavy.
Tim opened the door to the limo with his free hand and gently scooped her inside. While he was bent over her, her loose-fitting gold sweater shifted from her shoulder. A blood-red ribbon showed across her back. She caught him staring.
“They’re Italian. In Italy, your lover gives you a set like that on New Year’s.” Lillian’s hand lingered on the young man’s arm. “Why don’t you come with me tonight?”
Why didn’t Tim? At twenty-eight, he was already co-owner of the city’s premiere art gallery. He was a multimillionaire on paper. He had these things because of Lillian’s patronage. Tim and Alex, his business partner, would never have got the capital- or, more importantly- the credibility, had she not lent her Rolodex and drawing room to the endeavor.
And Tim could have so much more. If he went home with her, he knew that he would never have to leave. She was rich, and connected far outside of Chicago. Her atelier launched many of the leading danseurs- she had an ‘in’ on every endowment and grant-giving committee in country; every one that mattered, that is. All he had to do was slip into the car and his life would be gold-plated.
“They need me upstairs darling, otherwise you know I’d love to.” Lillian drew her knees together.
“Do you love me, Timothy?” she stretched towards him on the leather seat with the grace natural to a ballerina.
“Forever and always,” he said, “you’re my guiding light.” Lillian smiled, pulled herself upright, then rapped on the glass, signaling she was ready to leave.
“Visit me tomorrow Tim, I have some ideas for the gallery.”
“Of course, Lil!” He shut the door and the black vehicle slipped into the night.
Ox-blood, velvety red. The cold, high ceilings of Lil’s apartment… Why am I having these thoughts now? Timothy jerked himself out of the memory. Why do these thoughts come now, after I’ve been through so much and life is just getting back to normal? He finished attaching the trailer to his bike hastily, and threw his tools to the side of the garage. I need distraction. Noise, light. People.
Timothy found these memories deeply unsettling, because, he told himself, the events of the past 18 months had led him to question if he’d made the right decision when he’d refused Lillian, sold out to Alex and ‘retired’ at 35 to his family home deep in the country.
Fiona was in the kitchen when Timothy came back inside. Delft tiles shone on the splashback behind the farmhouse sink; a large picture window illuminated his wife as she washed dishes. Elsie was back at the vent-cover.
“Wow, you’ve got everything packed already!” Fiona said. By the sound of her voice, Tim knew that today would be a good one.
“Sure do, your bike’s good to go and I’ve hooked up the pumpkin for princess.” Elsie let out a happy shriek. She’d wanted to ride in the ‘pumpkin’ since Timothy brought it down from the attic last week. The Cinderella Pumpkin, just like in cartoons. She might be a little disillusioned after three miles, Tim thought. He left to pack her carrier onto his bike, just in case.
***
Thanks for reading. Part II is here.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
