Her Thirties Part 50

I was helping Marilyn finish cleaning her apartment so we could go out to dinner.

I happened to glance at the products she was using—every one was from the Thirties from the Dutch Cleanser to the Twenty-Mule Team Borax.

I took a close look at the phonograph too. It was authentic—not a modern reproduction—even the record she was playing was original.

Where does she get all this stuff?

“I raid second-hand shops and people’s garbage,” she said, en route to the bathroom.

I stared at her as if she read my mind.

She stared back, amused.

“You go dumpster diving?” I asked.

“People throw out all kinds of valuable stuff,” she sniffed, closing the bathroom door.

I went to work on the floor and by the time she emerged twenty minutes later, the job was done and all the supplies put away.

“You’re amazing,” she said, standing in the hallway.

I looked up at her and she took my breath away. She was the amazing one.

She was wearing a red slim-cut dress with wide shoulders and a belted waist. The contrast with her blonde hair was striking.

“You look smashing.”

Her eyes glinted, and she pretended to feign nonchalance, but the corners of her mouth turned up when she checked herself in the hall mirror.

“Ready?” she asked.

I took her elbow and guided her toward the stairs.

“Oh, Gran!” she cried out, remembering Ella was downstairs.

“It’s okay—she can come eat with us. I’ll drive her home afterwards.”

She stopped and touched her hand to my cheek. “You’re so thoughtful—you always were.”

I stared at her, and she realized what she said. “I mean, at least, as long as I’ve known you.”

“And how long has that been?”

She sighed. “Forever, it seems.”

I felt I was put under a spell. I would have gladly stood there forever, staring into her eyes.

“Got to go, Joe,” she smiled, and again, realizing her slip, giggled, “figuratively speaking, that is.”

I got the joke, but the way she said, Joe, was a caress. Your name always sounds different in the mouth of someone who loves you.

I stared at her and saw her shape shift before my eyes—another girl appeared, her face superimposed over Marilyn’s—the girl from my dream.

I felt a plaintive sob from deep within. Something, or rather someone was responding to her.

I felt momentarily displaced and fragmented. I became a virtual observer to two strangers in love.

The sensation lasted only a few moments but it was a feeling akin to vertigo—I felt sucked in by some force greater than gravity and seemed to merge with my dream persona.

I’m Scott—not Joe, I told myself, but damnably, even I wasn’t sure.

There was a panicked look in Marilyn’s eyes.

“C’mon,” she whispered. She gave me a frightened smile. She grabbed my arm and guided me down the stairs. When we reached the bottom, I stopped her in the tiny alcove.

“We need to talk. I need answers.”

“I don’t know if I have any.”

We were standing in a cramped space—flocked wallpaper behind her, and the amber door glass burnishing her hair.

It was familiar. I had been there before—standing with her in a cramped vestibule kissing.

I felt a wild joy—a leap of excitement inside me—a recognition.

She watched my eyes as if viewing a film. “You know don’t you? You feel it too.”

“I love you, Mar.” the words were out of my mouth, but they weren’t mine.

She shook, her jaw trembling, a huge tear rolling down her cheek.

“I’ve never stopped loving you,” she whispered.

I took her into my arms, pressing her close, burying my face in her hair, inhaling and remembering the fragrance.

A burst of images exploded inside me—when they stopped, I knew. I felt it too. There was never a time I didn’t know her. I always loved her.

We clung, weeping, holding on to each other as if returning.

“You haunt my dreams,” she murmured. Her eyes grew huge and dark. “There—now I’ve said it.”

I held her close, wanting to melt into the warmth of her, to merge until we became one. I don’t know how long we stayed there, but when we finally opened the door and came out, it was dark.

Ella was gone. The bookstore was locked.

“How will she get home?” I asked.

“The same way she got here, she takes cabs—she can well afford it.”

“I asked her to the party on Sunday.”

“Of course, you did.”

I saw a warmth shining back at me through her eyes. That elusive feeling returned. I felt cared for—loved—and sheltered.

The plaintive note of grief began again inside—like seagulls crying on a windswept coast. I was weeping again, but not this time for us—I was grieving my mother—the real mother I lost. I was never able to cry for her. I did now.

“It’s okay,” she consoled, “I know.”

I believed her. I believed everything then. It all began to make sense.

To be continued...


© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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Part 49