THIS IS HOW WE END OUR DAY

Post #6 is entering what I call: "THE NOVELLA ZONE." Want to read what appears to be my latest Novella? Well, step right up 'cause here it is, folks.

Photo by Mike Jumapao on Unsplash

The Greek Chorus acting as an interlude

Looking back on life, on those awkward, adolescent, teenage years, when one discovered the discomfort of their own body, along with the sudden realization of the opposite sex, well, you can’t help but laugh at your own inept efforts. Life had a way of blindsiding you at the best of times, which of course always felt like you were living through the worst of times. The only thing one can hope to do is remember with fondness those first moments that come along in our lives.

That first kiss, while it may not be memorable, will always be remembered. And when one says the first kiss, it’s not meant to be that kiss you shared with the neighbour behind the garage door, the kind that was done in secret, in the shadows where the bars of light slipped through the wooden side boards, all the while hoping no one could see you, or suspect you. No, the first kiss is the one where you’re standing out in the middle of the dance floor, where one of you wraps their arms about the other, and the kiss is endless, like a dream you never want to wake up from. It’s the kind of kiss that lingers, and stirs in your loins, and brings with it thoughts of what may follow, or what can follow, or maybe, what will follow. Life is meant to be shared with someone, and when that first someone wants to share that first moment with you, and you with them; when you want to share your moment with that person, and sparks fly as your embarrassment drops, and you’re both swept along on a tide of lust and longing, not really understanding, but realizing, and knowing, you don’t want it to end. A first kiss is like a gateway drug that stabs you in the heart, and makes your mind race as you picture a hand touching a breast for the first time — or maybe being touched — and not just the touching of that hand with the cold, nervous clench of the unfamiliar, but the softness of a breast against that hand, and the beating of a heart underneath that echoes in the measure of one’s breath. A first kiss is something to be savoured in hindsight; something to be fantasized about, and longed for in the hallowed halls of adolescent memory. A first kiss is tentative, and cautious; it’s an exploration of feelings not understood, and unexplained, that can only be answered with the passage of time. It’s a fantasy that eludes you as soon as the spell is broken.

Act Three; scene three

We brought Billy home with a face covered in dried chocolate ice cream as well as dust from the road kicked up by passing cars on the street. It was still hot out, and Avery dropped one of the suspenders on her bib overalls because she said it was too hot. I told myself not to look, knowing she’d probably done it just to get a reaction from me. Or maybe it just doesn’t get as warm in Chicago; I don’t know. But I could see the dark outline of her nipple as the sun came in through her undershirt which seemed to billow out with every passing car.

The afternoon was slipping away as we made our way through the park. The sun broke through the freeway ramp above us, the shadows stretching into long columns that spread out across the broken landscape. The bushes on the side streets were covered with dust, and I wondered how long it’d be before they’d be torn up and the street widened. And with all the construction, the traffic on the smaller side streets was getting busier because of the freeway above. People used the streets in an attempt to get around the freeway with all its new exit ramps and constant construction.

The air was cool in the lobby, and Billy ran to push the elevator’s button.

“Wanna come by and listen to some music? My brother’s got the new Animals,” I said her.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? Didn’t you say Mrs. Whitcombe was visiting?”

“Is that her name? What’s she supposed to be some big deal, or what?”

“She’s a poet. Supposed to be famous, or something like that. I don’t know. I’m not too into poetry.”

“Why not?” she asked as the elevator door slid open.

“Why not? And I suppose you are?”

“I told you I wanted to be an actress,” she reminded me.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Have you never heard of William Shakespeare?”

“I hate Shakespeare, with all that thee-ing and thou-ing. Besides, I can never figure out what they’re talking about half the time. Billy? Did you push the button? Number four, remember? You should know that number. Isn’t that your age?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching up to the bank of numbers on the side of the car.

“That’s six,” I said. “And that’s a five,” I added. “Way to go, Little Buddy,” I said as the car finally lurched upwards. He looked up at me and smiled at his reflection in the mirrors.

“So? Animals?” I asked, seeing the full contour of her tiny breast in the reflection of the mirror behind her. It didn’t look anything like the ones I’d seen in my brother’s Playboy magazines. But still, there was that nipple staring right at me.

“There’s more to it than that,” she said, shaking the hair out of her eyes; I watched as her undershirt slid back into place and closed off the view like the elevator door.

“Just poke your head in the door and tell her you’re going to meet my mother,” I grinned.

The elevator door slid open and I walked to the apartment, stepping aside as Billy raced to be first inside. I looked back and saw her opening her grandmother’s door. She closed it again and turned to look at me, nodding as she started down the hall toward me. The air was already thick with the smell of frying onions and garlic — and was even heavier once Billy opened the door. There was a colander near the sink, full of spinach; a pot of boiling water on the back burner, with a box of spaghetti noodles on the counter.

I was wondering if Mom was staring out of the window again; she probably gasped in shock when Billy ran to her, wrapping his arms around her legs. She was bent down in front of him cleaning the dried ice cream off his face with a dishrag.

“You look like you ate the ice cream in the ice cream shop,” she said. “And then rolled in the dirt. Did you roll in the dirt?”

“No Grandma.”

“We’re going to go and listen to some music,” I said, and she looked up at me, seeing Avery for the first time.

“Oh, hello. You must be Alma’s granddaughter,” she said. “I’m Jennifer.”

“Avery,” she said, smiling as she fumbled with the strap of her overalls, or maybe she was just pretending to? She was more or less just holding on to it.

“Music?” she asked me.

“Mrs. Naramova only has classical records. The same ones you probably listened to when you were a kid,” I added.

“You don’t like Classical music?” she asked, telling Billy to go into the bathroom and wash his hands properly. She told him that if he made a mess she’d make sure he was cleaning it after.

“Not when I can listen to new stuff,” she replied.

“You leave that door open, and don’t you be blasting it too loud,” she said. “Your brothers will be coming home, so they’ll put a stop to that, soon enough.”

“I’ll behave,” I smiled.

The room would be mine soon enough, I said, closing the door and just leaving it open a crack. I pointed at the bed, glad that I’d made it, and went to the nightstand where the record player sat. I sat down on the bed beside her and sorted through the box of records on the floor, asking her what she wanted to hear.

“I thought you were going to play The Animals?” she asked.

“Don’t Bring Me Down?” I laughed. “I love it,” I said, sifting through the album covers until I finally found it.

There was a moment of awkward silence as I put the album on and sat on the bed again, right beside her. I looked at her, and then looked down at the undershirt she was wearing, that single tit poking out over the bib of her overalls. The nipple looked bigger somehow, like it might have grown. I looked at her and she at me, neither of us speaking as I felt my heart racing inside my body, convinced she could hear it beating as loudly as I could feel it drumming against my chest.

“What was Chicago like?” I asked, my voice strained for a moment.

“Boring. I couldn’t wait to get out of there,” she laughed, breaking the tension.

“What d’ya mean? You’re going back, aren’t you? I thought you were just here for a visit?”

“I ain’t ever going back,” she said. There was defiance in her voice, and I wondered if Mrs. Naramova knew her plans about being an actress.

“What d’ya mean? What about your dad? Doesn’t he have a say in any of this?”

“My dad? He doesn’t care what I do. I told him I was leaving and he said don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I told him I was going to California.”

“He wrote a letter,” I explained. “It didn’t say much.”

“That’s because I wrote it,” she said. “My Grandma doesn’t know what his writing looks like. They were never what I’d call close. He’s never spoken to her that I know of.”

“What do you mean?”

“What did she tell you?” she asked, her voice cautious.

“That she had a son when she lived in Paris.”
“Paris? She told you my dad was born in Paris?” she asked, and I could hear the disbelief in her voice. “Why would she say that?”

“What d’ya mean? Where was he born, then?” I asked.

“Georgia.”

“But, that doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

“I know, right?”

“She said she met your grandfather when she was in Paris. She went there because there was a scandal here. He was ten years younger than her and some sort of a writer — a poet, I think.”

“She says she went to Paris because of a scandal? The only scandal would’ve been her having him in the first place.”
“What d’ya mean?”

“My daddy’s not like you, or even me,” she said after a moment.

“I don’t follow. What d’ya mean he’s not like you, or me? What’s he like, then?”

“My granddaddy wasn’t white. He was a Negro.”

“What?”

“My daddy’s what they call a Mulatto, according to the official Government forms — that’s what it says on the forms, too: Mulatto — but that’s not what he calls himself.”

“What’s he call himself?”

“He calls himself a Negro, just like his daddy before him.”

“You mean Black?” I said.

“Is that what you call Negroes out here? We don’t say it like that in Chicago. In fact, I tell people I’m High-yellow. I say that I get my colour from my mother.”

“Your mother’s white?”

“Was. She died when I was little.”

“You’re whiter than me. You don’t have any colour,” I pointed out.

“It gets cold in Chicago. I have a feeling I’m gonna tan real good out here,” she smiled.

I looked at the door where I could hear my mother laughing with Billy. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and looked down at my hands. They were cold, and I rubbed them on my pants. I looked at her again.

I leaned toward her and kissed her. She put her arms on my shoulders and slowly wrapped her arms around me as we fell on the bed together. I shifted, and pressed myself against her; I reached my hand up, sliding it up her ribs. She pushed her hand down between us and squeezed my pecker, then she pushed me away and laughed. She brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“Well, I won’t say I didn’t like it,” she said. “And I know you did,” she laughed again, looking down at my crotch. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

“I wanted to touch your tits,” I said.

“I know.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“We don’t even know each other. I mean, I just met you.”

“I decided I was going to kiss you a long time ago,” she said, standing up and doing up the suspender of her overalls. “Maybe next time I’ll let you touch my tits. But I should go before my Grandma wonders where I am.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking down at my crotch again. She laughed as she walked to the door.

I opened the door and looked down the hall. I could see the elevator door opening and closing as if there was something blocking the door. I stepped out into the hall and looked at the sliver of light growing brighter every time the door open, fading as it closed.

“There’s someone there,” she said.

I ran toward the elevator where I saw my sister sitting in a puddle of her own blood. She was sitting with her legs splayed apart, her back against the mirrored wall, her head lolling to one side. There was a blood soaked towel between her legs, and she looked up at me with glazed eyes.

“Oh my God!” Avery said, standing beside me.

“Go get my mother! Quick!” I yelled at her, and bending down took my sister’s hand in mine. It was cold to the touch, and I could feel tears coming to my eyes as I pressed my hand to her cheeks.

Her lips were turning blue.