agree to disagree, Larry.
These monstrous splashes of color symbolized more than a portrait of her friend. The slashes of her brush were an emotional response to Becky’s own feelings about age and loss. Susannah was far removed from the young woman she’d first met all those years ago and Becky herself hated to discover new wrinkles reflected in her mirror. Someone, somewhere, needed to shout out against the injustice of life’s losses. To cry out at the lurking presence of death.
Do not go gentle into that good night . Not if I have any choice, anyway.
She peeked over the top of her painting. “Getting tired?”
“Tired of what? Lying here?”
Gathering the sheet around her breasts, Susannah leaned forward. “Have you been to the new café?”
“It’s not so new from what I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard right,” Susannah said. “Step inside and you’d swear Martin was still running the place. Same tables, same decorations. You’d think someone would have had the good taste to replace that God-awful flocked wallpaper. I almost expected to see Chandra Piotrowski at the cash register.”
“Poor Chandra.”
“Poor Chandra, my ass,” Susannah said. “She probably ran off with the lifeguard from the Y.”
“Chandra, hooking up with twenty-three year old Mike ‘Muscles’ Morley? You can’t be serious.”
“If only it were true. There might be hope for the rest of us.” Pointing her painted toenails, she pushed her feet into the bejeweled sandals sitting at the base of the sofa. Having posed for almost ninety minutes, this was her gentle reminder that she’d grown bored with it.
Becky knew better than to ask for more time. Once she made up her mind, Susannah grew restless. A fidgety model was of no use at all. “You were talking about the restaurant.”
“There’s a man in the kitchen, you can tell. The meat in my casserole had been chopped to death. Pieces so small, it could have been anything.”
“Cow, horse, llama....” Becky wiped at the brush, cleaning the paint from it.
The sheet wrapped around her, Susannah hobbled over to the side chair where she’d dropped her clothing. “Martin was there. He told me a little secret.”
“About Chandra?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “About the family that leased the café.” Dropping the sheet, she wiggled into a pair of capris. “They live upstairs of the dining area, you know. All five of them.” She pulled a knitted sweater over her head. “In the smallest room, the one without windows, they’ve removed all of the electrical outlets.”
“Because – ?” Becky dropped her Berkeley Number Seven brush into a pot of turpentine.
“They have to use candles in the room. They can’t use artificial light. Artificial light might affect the prophecies of their seer stone.”
Becky’s voice went cold. “Psychics.”
“You don’t like fortune-tellers?” Uncertainty crept into Susannah’s voice. “It’s not what you think. They don’t charge anything. They wouldn’t even take my tip.”
“Do not tell me you went up those stairs.”
“It’s only a game.”
“It’s a wicked game,” Becky told her. “Let me finish cleaning up. I’ll put the tea kettle on to heat and we can talk.”
* * *
Seated at the kitchen table, she stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into her cup of green tea. “It was years and years ago,” Becky said. “Rick and I were fairly new to this area. We’d emptied our bank account to buy our first place together. This house.”
“I’ve always liked your house.” Holding the tea cup in front of her mouth, Susannah surveyed the cream-colored walls around her. “It’s so homey.”
“We wanted a place to raise our baby, our little Kristin. We had so many plans. There was just so much... so much we planned to do.”
Funny how the memory of it still hurts, she thought. Nearly two decades later and talking about what-should-have-been still carries the ache of a fresh
These monstrous splashes of color symbolized more than a portrait of her friend. The slashes of her brush were an emotional response to Becky’s own feelings about age and loss. Susannah was far removed from the young woman she’d first met all those years ago and Becky herself hated to discover new wrinkles reflected in her mirror. Someone, somewhere, needed to shout out against the injustice of life’s losses. To cry out at the lurking presence of death.
Do not go gentle into that good night . Not if I have any choice, anyway.
She peeked over the top of her painting. “Getting tired?”
“Tired of what? Lying here?”
Gathering the sheet around her breasts, Susannah leaned forward. “Have you been to the new café?”
“It’s not so new from what I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard right,” Susannah said. “Step inside and you’d swear Martin was still running the place. Same tables, same decorations. You’d think someone would have had the good taste to replace that God-awful flocked wallpaper. I almost expected to see Chandra Piotrowski at the cash register.”
“Poor Chandra.”
“Poor Chandra, my ass,” Susannah said. “She probably ran off with the lifeguard from the Y.”
“Chandra, hooking up with twenty-three year old Mike ‘Muscles’ Morley? You can’t be serious.”
“If only it were true. There might be hope for the rest of us.” Pointing her painted toenails, she pushed her feet into the bejeweled sandals sitting at the base of the sofa. Having posed for almost ninety minutes, this was her gentle reminder that she’d grown bored with it.
Becky knew better than to ask for more time. Once she made up her mind, Susannah grew restless. A fidgety model was of no use at all. “You were talking about the restaurant.”
“There’s a man in the kitchen, you can tell. The meat in my casserole had been chopped to death. Pieces so small, it could have been anything.”
“Cow, horse, llama....” Becky wiped at the brush, cleaning the paint from it.
The sheet wrapped around her, Susannah hobbled over to the side chair where she’d dropped her clothing. “Martin was there. He told me a little secret.”
“About Chandra?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “About the family that leased the café.” Dropping the sheet, she wiggled into a pair of capris. “They live upstairs of the dining area, you know. All five of them.” She pulled a knitted sweater over her head. “In the smallest room, the one without windows, they’ve removed all of the electrical outlets.”
“Because – ?” Becky dropped her Berkeley Number Seven brush into a pot of turpentine.
“They have to use candles in the room. They can’t use artificial light. Artificial light might affect the prophecies of their seer stone.”
Becky’s voice went cold. “Psychics.”
“You don’t like fortune-tellers?” Uncertainty crept into Susannah’s voice. “It’s not what you think. They don’t charge anything. They wouldn’t even take my tip.”
“Do not tell me you went up those stairs.”
“It’s only a game.”
“It’s a wicked game,” Becky told her. “Let me finish cleaning up. I’ll put the tea kettle on to heat and we can talk.”
* * *
Seated at the kitchen table, she stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into her cup of green tea. “It was years and years ago,” Becky said. “Rick and I were fairly new to this area. We’d emptied our bank account to buy our first place together. This house.”
“I’ve always liked your house.” Holding the tea cup in front of her mouth, Susannah surveyed the cream-colored walls around her. “It’s so homey.”
“We wanted a place to raise our baby, our little Kristin. We had so many plans. There was just so much... so much we planned to do.”
Funny how the memory of it still hurts, she thought. Nearly two decades later and talking about what-should-have-been still carries the ache of a fresh
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