Passing On Tradition

This story was included in the #NFFD2014 Flash Flood:

 http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/passing-on-tradition-by-kymm-coveney.html

November

       “Katie’s nine now,” Blanche said into the phone. She picked up the envelope, straightened it. “Shall I get tickets to the Nutcracker while you’re in town?”

      “The Nutcracker,” Jenny said. “Who’d be going?”

      Blanche tucked the envelope behind the fruit bowl. “Just us girls,” she said. “Won’t that be fun?” She closed her eyes to the silence, remembered Jenny and Sarah in matching winter coats. Her mother-in-law herding them into the theater, cigarette hand waving Blanche off.

      “Just you, Katie and me?” Jenny finally said. “That would be fun. A real treat.”

      “It’s settled, then.” Blanche pulled the envelope towards her and shook out the four tickets.

December

      Blanche hummed as she prepared the tree-trimming dips to go with the spiked eggnog. She paused over the photograph she kept on the fridge of Jenny and Sarah draped in tinsel, arms across shoulders like college roommates. She listened for the sound of banter, laughter. When she joined them, the eggnog was mostly rum and their voices were not full of cheer or even camaraderie, but were clipped and strained.

      “Let me hang your ornament, Mommy.” Katie was excited, demanding.

      “Remember which one is Mommy’s?”

      Katie dug her hand in the box, then held it behind her back. Not the silver sled, thought Blanche. Sarah turned from the tree, sloshing her drink.

      “Hey! My silver sled!” She lunged towards Katie. “Give it here, Katie-Poo.”

      “I think it’s time for bed, Katie,” said Blanche. She took the child by the shoulders. “Let me see?” She dug the sled out of the girl’s hand. “This was Great-Grandma Ida’s when she was a girl.” Katie shrugged out of her grasp. “Here, Sarah, hang it by the glass ballerina.”

      Jenny led Katie out of the room. “Have another drink,” she called back. “Eggnog with a dash of silver sled.”

January

      Blanche found them brushing Katie’s hair. “Look what Aunt Sarah got for you.” She held up ruby red ballet slippers.

      “It’s below zero,” Jenny said. “You really don’t expect”

      “Mom, look!” Katie stood and plied.                               

      Jenny clipped Katie’s hair back. “You’re gonna freeze. Go get your coat.”

      “Why are there four tickets?” Jenny asked the mirror.

      “I think,” said Blanche from the doorway, “that’s Sarah I hear.

      “Mom.” Jenny followed her mother to the kitchen, where Katie modeled the shoes. Sarah stood in their grandmother’s fur coat.

      “Where are you going?” asked Jenny.

      “We’re going to the ballet,” said Katie.

      “But Aunt Sarah isn’t.” Jenny looked at Blanche, then back at the fur coat. “It’s just us three, right, Mom?”

      Blanche jiggled the car keys as she pushed her arms through her coat. “Come, come, girls, we’ll be late.”

      Katie petted the fur coat. “Are you going to see the game with Daddy and Gramps?” she asked. “Cause they left already.”

      Blanche sat Katie between her and Jenny. Little girls in tutus and tiaras skipped down the aisles. She watched them, studiously ignoring the sold-out theater's one empty seat on the other side of Jenny.

A dream has power to poison sleep

- Mutability, Percy Bysshe Shelley

The above quote was the inspiration for this entry to the inaugural Light and Shade Challenge.

Garden Party / Fiesta inglesa

`[500 words for New Zealand Flash Fiction Day: http://thewrite-in.blogspot.co.uk/]

Rain falls in even musicality on the High Street, white noise to the thunderous clattering of

bottles under dawn’s borrowed window. Female voices carry up from the yellow kitchen.

Three old women, each a decade apart, are having tea in dressing gowns.

She will not give them another decade.

Charlotte waits for her at the lush, hidden end of the garden, behind the radishes and

bamboo shoots. They have juice, a large pot of coffee and a basket of French croissants.

There are jars of homemade marmalade.

Birds flit in and out of the tall, fat cypress tree.

‘Like an apartment building,’ Charlotte says, ‘in and out all day. Off to work, bring home the

worm, off again.’

Aiming for a bohemian look to tend Charlotte’s gallery, she carefully puts on the clothes

selected days ago from the closet at home, and lines her eyes in black.

Downstairs, the front parlour is now a sanded floor with one overstuffed armchair and a

square wooden table recovered from a dumpster. Sunlight streams through the front window

and lies in panes on the floor, across an unframed print.

She softshoes the length of the walls, studying the paintings, formulating gallerista

commentary, then settles into the armchair and boots up the laptop. Behind her, in a corner

of the floor between the radiator and a brightly-painted end table, sits the radio Charlotte

has tuned to the Bloomsday broadcast.

Stately plump Buck Mulligan.

At the other end of the afternoon she is called to photograph the table. Candlesticks line up

as one, divide the table into repeating images of mirrored, sparkling wine glasses.

Her name tag is placed exactly where she would have changed it to, were she that kind of

guest, that kind of person.

She strikes up a conversation with a tall beauty who is far too young for this party.

Rather than confess ‘I have no idea what to do with my life,’ as she might have, certainly

must have, the young woman says earnestly, almost forgivingly, ‘I’m searching for a way to

express myself.’

‘What is it you love best?’ she asks, offering her only advice.

‘That’s just it,’ comes the answer. ‘That’s where my research is taking me right now.’

A smile flashes and fades as the dinner bell rings.

She finds, in conversation, that smooth, rational logic rolls off her tongue in perfect,

reasonable sentences. The future Nobel laureate to her right nods thoughtfully.

Ruby Tuesday plays in the corner cleared for dancing when she rises to join. Couples lean in,

wrap their arms around each other. The Rock Star unbuttons, then abandons his shirt.

Three middle-aged men follow suit.

She sits quietly in the darkness of the gallery, the rain putting an unironic end to the deep

night. She is not huddled and puking in the gutter.

She sits in the artist’s armchair, hardly noticing as her head begins to loll and she fades to

black saying yes I will Yes.

  --- Bloomsday, 2012 ---

Fiesta inglesa

Cae la lluvia en High Street con una musicalidad acompasada, un ruido blanco tras el

estrépito de botellas recolectadas al alba debajo de su ventana prestada. Sube un murmullo

femenino de voces desde la cocina de puertas amarillas. Tres ancianas, ninguna de la

misma década, toman el té en bata.

Ella no piensa añadir una década más.

Charlotte le espera en el lado escondido y exuberante del jardín, entre rábanos y brotes de

bambú. Comparten zumo, una cafetera enorme y una cesta llena de cruasanes franceses.

También hay tarros de mermelada de la abuela.

Los pájaros revolotean en las alturas de un gran ciprés.

-Como si fuera un bloque de pisos –dice Charlotte –van entrando y saliendo durante el día

entero. Salen a trabajar, traen la lombriz, salen de nuevo.

Con pretensiones de bohemia digna de atender a la galería de Charlotte, se viste

cuidadosamente con la ropa que seleccionó hace dos días, y perfila de negro los ojos.

Escaleras abajo, lo que había sido comedor es ahora un espacio de suelo lijado con un sillón

mullido y una mesa cuadrada de madera, recuperada de un contenedor. La luz del sol entra

a raudales por la ventana principal y cae en recuadros en el suelo, atravesando una

reproducción sin enmarcar.

Ella ejecuta un suave bailoteo a lo largo de las paredes, estudiando los cuadros, formulando

comentarios de galerista, para acabar sentándose en el sillón y arrancando el portátil. A su

espalda, en un rincón del suelo entre el radiador y una mesita de pintura alegre, está la radio

que Charlotte ha sintonizado en el programa de Bloomsday.

Solemne el gordo Buck Mulligan.

Para iniciar el lado festivo de la tarde, es llamada a fotografiar la mesa. Las velas quedan en

una línea perfecta, como si fueran una sola. La mesa está dividida así en imágenes gemelas

de copas de vino que se repiten y se reflejan.

La tarjeta con su nombre está en el asiento al que la hubiese cambiado, si fuera ese tipo de

invitada, ese tipo de persona.

Entabla una conversación con una belleza alta que no tiene la edad suficiente para estar en

esta fiesta.

En vez de confesar –no tengo la menor idea qué hacer con mi vida- como ella quizás

hubiese, seguramente había hecho, la joven dice encarecida, casi indulgentemente, -Estoy

buscando la forma de expresarme.

-¿Qué es lo que más te apasiona? –pregunta, ofreciendo su único consejo.

-Allí está –llega la respuesta. –Allí es dónde me están llevando mis investigaciones en estos

momentos.

Una sonrisa brilla y desvanece cuando se les llama a la mesa.

Descubre, al conversar, que una lógica fluida y ordenada se desliza por su lengua en

perfectas frases razonables. El futuro Nobel a su derecha asiente, con aire pensativo.

Ruby Tuesday suena en el rincón despejado para el baile cuando ella finalmente se levanta.

Las parejas se juntan, se envuelven con los brazos. El Rockero desabotona, luego abandona

su camisa.

Le siguen el ejemplo tres hombres de mediana edad.

Ella está quieta, sentada en la oscuridad de la galería mientras la lluvia da a la madrugada

un final libre de ironía. No está agachada potando en la cuneta.

Está sentada en el sillón de la artista -apenas se da cuenta cuando la cabeza empieza a

recostarse en un fundido a negro- diciendo sí que quiero Sí.

   --- junio 2012 ---