Patchwork People XVII Hell s Angel
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Patchwork People XVI: Buried Secrets free porn video
XVI. Buried Secrets.
First thing I do on that first day is I take a detour through town to
check out this totally demented store where Marcia mentioned she has a
job. What kind of a job, I can't quite imagine. From what I can tell, it
sounds like something super low-ambition, some not-trying-too-hard
menial position that can't possibly pay very much. Given my main reason
for showing up here in Hope Crossing, that doesn't bode well for the
future of yours truly.
You can imagine my hopes sinking when I actually see the place.
The Blue Cat Curiosity Shop!
The only thing curious about it is that anyone ever finds anything to
buy there. It's on a block of mostly shuttered-up storefronts sandwiched
between two businesses that bit the dust before it. The laundromat looks
to be doing a brisker than average business, though; well, at least, a
couple of the machines were running. I passed a barber shop that looked
practically sepia-tinged everything about it was so old, including the
barber and the two old geezers patiently waiting their turn to get what
little hair remained on their bald heads trimmed. Everything seemed to
move so slowly in there you might have thought it really was a
photograph.
As for The Blue Cat? Well, it looked more like a junk shop than anything
else. You figure they put the best, most alluring stuff in the window,
right? That's marketing 101. I didn't even take the course in college
and I know that, but apparently not the owner of this joint. Unless--and
this is an even scarier thought--she did put the best stuff in the
window!
Truthfully, I might have been looking at the contents of a homeless
person's shopping cart; in fact, I'm sure that I've seen better stuff in
a homeless person's shopping cart.
I was about to turn away when some movement from inside the store caught
my attention. I looked up and there was this little old elfin lady
smiling and waving to me from inside. I might have missed spotting her
altogether if she hadn't waved. She practically blended right in with
the faded knick-knacks and dusty ceramic figurines. I was startled and
annoyed that I'd been spotted when all I wanted to do was observe. So my
first instinct was to pretend I hadn't noticed her and bolt but it was
clear that she'd seen me notice her and I suspected from the way she was
waving that she already knew who I was. I figured it didn't make sense
to act any weirder than necessary. Meeting this woman was going to be an
inevitability. Best to get it over with, I thought, and with the minimal
amount of embarrassment. Besides, I was curious, so I went inside.
She was pretty cool, I'll hand her that. She didn't play any games, like
pretending not to know who I was or to be all surprised to find me
there. She just said, "You must be Phoebe."
"Yes I am. I guess you're Grace. You live in the main house in front of
the horse garage that my...that Marcia rents."
"Yes I do. Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
"I've heard a little bit about you, too."
She offered me some leftover cookies but I begged off, claiming I was
still full from breakfast. She offered me a cup of coffee, which I took.
She told me that Marcia had made the cookies, so it seemed kind of
churlish not to take one, after all. I pocketed it for "later." Then she
asked me where Marcia was--she called her "Marcia," not "your dad" or,
even worse, "your mom," which I was relieved to hear. Maybe she picked
up on that fact that's how I preferred to refer to her/him. Anyway, I
told her that Marcia was till back at home. She nodded and dropped that
line of questioning, for which I was also grateful. Like I said, she was
a pretty cool old lady.
She showed me around the place a bit, a dusty old hole-in-the-wall that
looked just as hopeless and tragic and raggedy inside as it did from the
outside. But the dotty thing was as proud as anything of it and I
pretended to be impressed, or, at least, not grossed out at the
absurdity of it all, because she really did seem sweet and harmless
enough, like the grandma everyone wishes they had. I'm not altogether
heartless, after all!
As soon as possible, though, I said that I had to get going, because I
started getting nervous that Marcia would show up at any minute and I'd
end up getting stuck in the exact situation I'd been trying to avoid all
along.
I thanked her for the coffee (and the cookie) and said I had to be on my
way. I wanted to continue my tour of the town. She made some suggestions
and I listened politely as if I were actually considering them. It was
all very light, very chit-chatty. She didn't ask me anything very
probing or try to get into my head. She let me be on my way without
making me feel like I had to fight my way to the door. I was much
relieved for that.
Yeah, she seemed cool enough for a loony old bird.
I didn't take any of her suggestions though. Instead I went straight to
the graveyard that I'd noticed on my way into town.
Call me weird.
Why not? It wouldn't be the first or the worst I've been called. Besides
I am weird. I like graveyards. I don't know why. Maybe it's the one
place where you aren't alone but you don't have to worry about anyone
bugging you. In some ways it's the best of both worlds. You can think in
a graveyard and I had some things I wanted to think about without being
interrupted. Everyone in a graveyard is pretty much totally absorbed in
his or her own thoughts. It's a loner's paradise.
Mainly what I wanted to do was remember. I wanted to remember my Dad,
because I'd come all the way out here to meet him and instead there was
this woman called Marcia in his place. It was a little like "Invasion of
the Bodysnatchers."
Except, underneath it all, he was "still" my Dad, wasn't he?
He was still the same person I remember fighting with mom, screaming at
the top of his lungs, banging doors, threatening to leave. He might be
acting all peaches and cookies and light right now, but I remember him
ranting and raving, holing himself up for hours in the room downstairs
doing god-only-knows-what in there on the computer. That's what mom used
to call it: "god-only-knows-what." Whatever it was, she didn't make it
sound good.
He might want to start again and I don't blame him. Who doesn't? He
probably wants to forget all the things he said and did back in the day.
It's got to be great for him to dump all that garbage in the past and
start all over again where no one knows or remembers any of that. But
that past where he dumped all his toxic waste just happens to be my
life!
He may want to forget. But I remember.
I know who he really is.
And I don't think he should be allowed to forget it, either. It's just
not fair.
Dammit, I won't let him forget it.
Another thing I like about graveyards is that they help you remember.
They help you remember the past and they help you remember the future.
That is, where we're all heading and where we're all ending up. Maybe
that sounds like a gruesome thought to have, especially for a nineteen-
year-old with her whole life supposedly ahead of her, but, when you look
at it another way, it's really not so depressing. I'm standing right
now, as it happens, in front of the grave of a girl who died when she
was only sixteen. Three years younger than I am now. She didn't die all
that long ago, either. She'd be twenty-eight if she were still alive, a
young woman, maybe even a wife and mother. She never made it, though. It
boggles the mind.
Graveyards remind you that none of us have an unlimited amount of time
to get things done. And the time we have, it's not even guaranteed. I
bet the girl buried here wasn't expecting she'd only get sixteen years
to do whatever it is she wanted to do in life.
What is it that I want to do?
Honestly, I'm not even sure. I think that's what I'm trying to find out.
I guess the first step is to settle up the past and that means dealing
with Dad once and for all. Then I'll move on from there, one step at a
time as they say in the 12-step programs.
But I can't let him forget because I can't forget.
Maybe I'm just here to tell the truth.
Maybe I'm some kind of avenging angel.
Ha!
Imagine me being any kind of angel.
Sometimes I imagine that's why I don't want to eat. Like if I get
thinner and thinner, I'll become less attached to the earth, to its
grossness, its meatiness, and instead I'll hover in-between, more like
an angel, more ethereal and pure. Does that make any sense? There's a
connection here somewhere, not that I can make it any clearer.
I suddenly remember the day-old cookie in my pocket that the old lady at
the Blue Cat gave me. I haven't had a thing to eat today and I guess
it's hunger and thinking about my so-called eating disorder that brings
it to mind without me even realizing it. I take it out, sniff at it, and
my mouth is watering for it.
But I don't take a bite. It's a matter of discipline. It's not easy to
become an angel. I resist eating by imagining that the hunger pangs I
suffer are my wings growing.
Instead I break up the cookie into crumbles and spread it on the grave
at my feet. An offering to the dead. Sixteen. Her name was Amanda
Watson. I wonder if she managed to become an angel. I feel an affinity.
I look up at the sky, the trees, the clouds. I wonder. Is she happy? Is
she watching over me now?
"Don't you even care what happened to mom?"
They were watching television together after dinner.
Marcia seldom watched anything but the Food Channel, The History
Channel, and the Discovery Network. Occasionally she might put on CNN if
she felt the need to catch up on whatever recent crises the world was
facing. But it wasn't often she felt the need. You seemed to absorb
enough world crises just by osmosis. The news was everywhere, in the
very atmosphere itself sometimes, or so it seemed. As a consequence, she
wasn't up on the latest shows, but Phoebe seemed to know all about them.
The hottest ones seemed to be mostly of the reality type, ordinary
people, husbands and wives, parents and children, bickering incessantly
with each other.
What made anyone want to listen in on other people's family arguments
anyway? Were you supposed to feel comforted that other people lived
lives just as depressing, pinched, and mean-spirited as your own? Or
were you meant to be thankful that your own family, horribly
dysfunctional as it may be, wasn't quite the absolute train wreck that
the families on television were? It was the darker, flip-side of the
shows from back in the 50s and early 60s, like "Leave it to Beaver" or
"Father Knows Best," where all the families depicted were so perfect you
could only feel badly about the flaws in your own.
Then there were the so-called "talent" shows with byzantine rule
structures where unknowns tried to sing or dance their way to fame and
fortune. You could vote for your favorites, using your cell phone, which
gave you a sense of being involved. It was a little like high school all
over again. Basically it was a popularity contest where you got to hear
the gossip and personal stories of the surviving contestants as the
weeks went past. You learned to like some and hate others, regardless of
their relative talent, which, as far as Marcia could discern, was
inconsequential at best.
It was one of these shows that they were watching when Phoebe ambushed
her with the question. Marcia looked up the cookbook she was skimming
for new ideas on what to bake for the Blue Cat.
"You can't even say it, can you?" Phoebe filled the silence that
followed. "You can't even lie, like anyone else could. You hate her that
much. It's obvious. You can't even ask how she is."
"I don't hate your mother, Phoebe."
"Oh please!" Phoebe's face twisted into an exaggerated expression of
disbelief. "Then what would you call it?"
It was a good question. What would Marcia call it? She didn't hate
Claire, at least she didn't think she did, when all was said and done.
But did she care about her? In many respects, she thought of Claire the
way a parent might think of a kidnapper who'd stolen away her child,
because that is what Claire had effectively done. It had all legal, of
course, but that didn't make the end result any different.
How could Marcia not hate Clare for doing what she'd done? In some ways,
it was worst than what a kidnapper had done, because Marcia didn't have
a clear moral justification for hating the person she felt had stolen
her child away. So Marcia had tried hard over the intervening years not
to hate her ex, but some days it was harder than others. Hate had a way
of boomeranging back to you. What she had managed, and it seemed the
best she could do, at least for the time being, was an uneasy
indifference.
From the moment she'd heard of Clare's stroke what Marcia feared most
was smug satisfaction. The main reason she didn't ask about Phoebe's
mother was that she didn't want to face the possible realization that
she would be secretly, even subconsciously, hoping to hear the worst.
What's more, even if that weren't the case, she simply didn't think she
could force her face into an appropriate semblance of concern, let alone
grief, that the situation required. She imagined the truth of her
indifference would show plain as day, that she wouldn't even be able to
say the necessary words of condolence without sounding fake and wooden.
"I thought maybe you wouldn't want to talk about it yet," Marcia
offered weakly. "That you would get around to it when you were ready."
"Oh please. Like that is a natural response. If you cared, wouldn't you
want to know immediately? Wouldn't it be the first thing you asked?"
Of course Phoebe was right.
"How is she then?" Marcia asked. Her words sounded just as robotic as
she feared they would.
Phoebe shook her head, disgusted. "She's fucking had a stroke, that's
how she is."
"That's not an answer."
"And you didn't ask the question."
"I just did."
"That doesn't count. I had to prompt it out of you."
Marcia closed her book and stared down unseeing in her lap. When she
looked up again, Phoebe was staring at the television, her face pale and
rigid.
"It's not that I don't care about your mother," Marcia sighed. "I guess
I'm just more concerned with how you're doing. That's the most important
thing to me right now."
"You see how you avoid actually saying it? Don't you realize that you
couldn't say it any plainer if you actually spat the words out? Do you
really think it makes you some sort of saint, some sort of superior
person simply not to say that you're glad she had a stroke, while having
the emotions?"
"I'm not glad she had a stroke."
"Ha."
"I'm not glad, Phoebe. You can believe that or not. Anyway, what
difference does it make what I feel or don't feel?"
Phoebe looked up, her eyes blazing. "Because she's my mother. Clearly
that doesn't mean anything to you."
"Of course it does. I'm sorry for you, Phoebe. That I can say. The
rest...it's just too complicated. It's over--that part of our lives,
between your mother and I, it's over for both of us."
"How do you know what's over for her?"
Marcia felt a catch in her chest, as if something long-suppressed had
been about to escape, as if it had stopped dead in its tracks just in
time, and now crouched there trembling in horror that it had almost
revealed itself.
"I don't know. I guess you're right. I have no idea what she thinks
anymore. What I do know is that I care about you. And I'm sorry if
that's enough."
"You are sorry, that's the truth alright. And, by the way, it isn't
enough. You're right about that, too. Congratulations."
Phoebe threw herself up from the end of the couch and headed for her
room. Marcia hadn't the least inclination to stop her. What could she
possibly say to her even if she did?
On the television a chubby, pasty-faced man without any trace of talent
whatsoever, no doubt chosen for that very reason, to provide comic
relief in the earlier stages of the competition, was singing his heart
out to everyone's amusement. The poor soul didn't seem to have a clue
that he didn't have a chance at victory; that he was nothing more than a
laughingstock. It was very sad and very cruel, Marcia thought, if the
young man were truly as hopeful and clueless as he seemed. It fed the
appetite for sadism that the masses had shown since the days of the
Roman amphitheater.
She found it bearable only if his apparent artlessness itself were all
an act. If, in fact, the poor sweating, young man smiling nervously and
hopefully in the face of all that derisive laughter was, in reality,
himself in on the joke. That he wasn't an innocent dupe, but that he had
the considerable talent necessary to appear so convincingly talentless
and oblivious. Marcia doubted it, but it made it better to think it
possible that he wasn't just in on the joke, but that the joke,
secretly, was on all of those who were laughing. It gave one the hope,
probably false, that there was some justice in the world, after all.
* * * * *
Author note: I plan to publish "Patchwork People" in its entirety in
weekly installments here on Fictionmania. In the meantime, the complete
novel is currently available as an Amazon Kindle ebook for $2.99.
For more of my writings, drawings, erotica, and photos please visit my
blog Bad Pussy
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
Vera
- 23.04.2021
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