through the playlists in her mind. Marvin Gaye? Al Green? Roberta Flack?
She had surveyed her albums, eyes slowing at the S âs and T âs. She zeroed in on the band Traffic. She owned two of their albums, the same two anyone who had Traffic albums would have, Mr. Fantasy and Low Spark . She pulled Low Spark from the shelf and let it glide from its sleeve. She placed it on the turntable and skipped to the title track.
The needle hit the groove and from the friction between the two came the sound of piano and sax, coming on, moving in as though approaching from a distance. Geneva had stepped backward away from the turntable. A puttering of bongos, seeming to mind their own business, did their thing, a self-involved rhythm, while the chords of a piano minded the beat. Geneva dropped her robe over the arm of a chair and stood in the middle of the room where the effect from the stereo was best appreciated. There, she raised her arms forward slowly, leading with the backs of her wrists. She let them rise to Frankenstein level and held them there, suspended, shoulders relaxing before she released her arms slowly back to her sides. Reaching up then, out from her hips, she stretched her arms overhead toward the ceiling and then dipped into a hip. The sound was still all sax and chords and bongos as Geneva alternated arms and alternated hips, reaching with one as she dipped with the other. She eased into harmony, into sync, if not with the universe, if not with the voices in her head, then at least with this song. She rolled her shoulders up and back as the vocals broke through.
The stretching, and the hash, did its work on her. She felt her blood in her veins. Body and spirit reintegrated. The combination amounted, for Geneva, to sexuality. Her sense of it.
A mixed blessing, it was, to have that pot stirred.
And now on the road, just remembering her morning, she was horny again. Always a potential side effect of feeling good. Both a gift and a burden.
î
Geneva arrived at Parkview with only an hour left for visiting. The staff knew her and nodded in greeting. Alone with Ralph in his room, Geneva didnât talk aloud to him the way she knew many family members did to their comatose or catatonic loved ones. But she did try to emanate. She thought at him. She believed it a more effective method of communication given the circumstances.
And she brought him music. She was convinced he liked the Beach Boys, and she put Pet Sounds on the CD player she had bought for his room.
Ralph didnât look good, she thought, standing over him as he slept. But do the addled ever? His skin was tragically pasty, his mouth slack. A smother party waiting to happen. No more disappearing into Europe. She sent Ralph the telepathic message. Then she fingered his hand, a useless thing. She felt a small storehouse of tears behind her eyes. Nothing that needed to fall, just a stash in the psychic attic.
She looked softly at Ralph in all his frailty. In a way, she supposed, she had always considered him frail, if not of body then of emotional wherewithal. But once she learned to keep her restless mind to herself, he had been endlessly kind. Entirely devoted. She was Geneva. His Gen. He loved her. It was simple.
But the problem with simplicity, for Geneva, was that it couldnât be understood. So she didnât feel his love and nor could she see with her own logic that it was so.
The Beach Boys harmonized. Geneva looked at the picture of her and Ralph on his nightstand. It was of the two of them sitting on a neighborâs deck. It was taken in 1974. In it, Geneva has a great tan â they were real back then and considered healthy. Ralph was wild about tan lines, white breasts and bottoms. Up until last year, the picture had sat on her nightstand at home.
She touched the edge of the frame. Dated as it was, it was still Genevaâs favorite picture of them. The sky behind them was blue, and Geneva wore big hoop earrings and an
She had surveyed her albums, eyes slowing at the S âs and T âs. She zeroed in on the band Traffic. She owned two of their albums, the same two anyone who had Traffic albums would have, Mr. Fantasy and Low Spark . She pulled Low Spark from the shelf and let it glide from its sleeve. She placed it on the turntable and skipped to the title track.
The needle hit the groove and from the friction between the two came the sound of piano and sax, coming on, moving in as though approaching from a distance. Geneva had stepped backward away from the turntable. A puttering of bongos, seeming to mind their own business, did their thing, a self-involved rhythm, while the chords of a piano minded the beat. Geneva dropped her robe over the arm of a chair and stood in the middle of the room where the effect from the stereo was best appreciated. There, she raised her arms forward slowly, leading with the backs of her wrists. She let them rise to Frankenstein level and held them there, suspended, shoulders relaxing before she released her arms slowly back to her sides. Reaching up then, out from her hips, she stretched her arms overhead toward the ceiling and then dipped into a hip. The sound was still all sax and chords and bongos as Geneva alternated arms and alternated hips, reaching with one as she dipped with the other. She eased into harmony, into sync, if not with the universe, if not with the voices in her head, then at least with this song. She rolled her shoulders up and back as the vocals broke through.
The stretching, and the hash, did its work on her. She felt her blood in her veins. Body and spirit reintegrated. The combination amounted, for Geneva, to sexuality. Her sense of it.
A mixed blessing, it was, to have that pot stirred.
And now on the road, just remembering her morning, she was horny again. Always a potential side effect of feeling good. Both a gift and a burden.
î
Geneva arrived at Parkview with only an hour left for visiting. The staff knew her and nodded in greeting. Alone with Ralph in his room, Geneva didnât talk aloud to him the way she knew many family members did to their comatose or catatonic loved ones. But she did try to emanate. She thought at him. She believed it a more effective method of communication given the circumstances.
And she brought him music. She was convinced he liked the Beach Boys, and she put Pet Sounds on the CD player she had bought for his room.
Ralph didnât look good, she thought, standing over him as he slept. But do the addled ever? His skin was tragically pasty, his mouth slack. A smother party waiting to happen. No more disappearing into Europe. She sent Ralph the telepathic message. Then she fingered his hand, a useless thing. She felt a small storehouse of tears behind her eyes. Nothing that needed to fall, just a stash in the psychic attic.
She looked softly at Ralph in all his frailty. In a way, she supposed, she had always considered him frail, if not of body then of emotional wherewithal. But once she learned to keep her restless mind to herself, he had been endlessly kind. Entirely devoted. She was Geneva. His Gen. He loved her. It was simple.
But the problem with simplicity, for Geneva, was that it couldnât be understood. So she didnât feel his love and nor could she see with her own logic that it was so.
The Beach Boys harmonized. Geneva looked at the picture of her and Ralph on his nightstand. It was of the two of them sitting on a neighborâs deck. It was taken in 1974. In it, Geneva has a great tan â they were real back then and considered healthy. Ralph was wild about tan lines, white breasts and bottoms. Up until last year, the picture had sat on her nightstand at home.
She touched the edge of the frame. Dated as it was, it was still Genevaâs favorite picture of them. The sky behind them was blue, and Geneva wore big hoop earrings and an
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