The Winter Of A Mind, Elizabeth Towles [the best e book reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Elizabeth Towles
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than he was gone. She crossed the room, put her hands up and touched the wall as high as she could reach. Taking a step back, she checked all four corners—no grinning man— only a spider web or two…. She grabbed a long wood measuring stick from behind a chair and started batting at the webs, then circling the stick until only tiny gray bits of string-like fuzz clung to the pebbly ceiling. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dresser. She dropped the stick and stepped closer, peering at her image as though a stranger. A hand went to her face, lowered to touch her gown. Too late in the day to still be in night clothes, your mind will be asleep the rest of the day, girl! Her mother’s voice hissed in her ear.
As she stepped from the mirror, she spotted a pair of brown linen pants and a faded green cotton sweater hanging on a chair arm; she gathered them up and dressed as quickly as she could, taking the black purse that had been under the clothes. With the purse settled in the crook of an elbow, she left the room.
She grabbed the backdoor knob; the favored bedroom shoes still on her feet. She paused—there was something about a phone call. Was she supposed to make a call, or, was it the other way around? A frown settled. Oh…if only she could remember. She looked back into the house, eyeing the darkened path across the carpet toward the front door. Had she been outside sweeping the leaves from the small porch, or…? She felt something heavy on her arm—her purse. What was it doing on her arm? Was she going somewhere? Or already been…?
A grating noise nearby caught her attention. Her face gentled in recognition. Oh, yes, little mouse...your dinner. And then, it’ll be no more rambling for you.
A cheery look glowed from her face as she stepped out to the open breezeway and closed the glass-louvered door behind her.
The narrow walkway led down to her 1966 Ford, its chassis filling the length and width of the carport. She grasped the door handle; her fingers smarted when the sharp edges of eroded chrome dug into her skin. “You and me,” she whispered, breathing in, letting it go, “we’re not as we used to be.”
The driver’s door creaked as she swung it aside. She turned to back onto the seat. The leather upholstery, soft and luxurious years ago, was now dry and brittle; her every move brought a ragging sound. She turned the ignition key—only to hear a tinny plink. After several attempts, and with finally no sound at all, she leaned against the backrest. Her hands fell to her lap. She sat as though she’d found the perfect resting-place. Her eyes swept across the wide windshield and halted at a map of fine lines, like thin water trails, high in the right hand corner. Her gaze held—but there was nothing in her mind to draw from when or how the damage happened.
A pensive look stole across her face. On the passenger’s side, she could see him still, her little dachshund, Skippy, braced on his short hind legs, yapping excitedly, and tail flapping from side to side. Oh, how he did love to ride. He’d been gone for more than three years…or so. Tears stung her eyes.
In an impulsive stir, she pushed the car door open, placed a hand under her weakened right leg and got into position to climb out.
Back in the kitchen, the direful noises came rushing at her: childish giggling, high-pitched shrieks. She stopped mid-way across the room. Her head fell forward; the folds of her chin sank into the sweater hugging her neck. The Family was back! What did they want? And what was she to do? They wouldn’t leave the last time, and she’d called the police. However, the officers bombarded only her with questions. Did she live alone? For how long? Did she have grown children? And where were they? She’d argued heatedly that the Family hadn’t been questioned or even asked to leave. She’d pointed to the four Coca-Colas sitting on the kitchen counter, opened and getting warm—Coca-Colas, the Family had asked for, then refused to drink. Yet…the policemen kept saying repeatedly, “Nobody’s in this house but you. It’s only your imagination.” No, she wouldn’t call.
She crept down the hallway, stepped to the closed bathroom door and huddled against the
cool wood panel. They were all in there, Mother, Father, the little girl and boy. She could hear them talking, every word clear as a bell. “No! No!” she shrieked. She wrenched away from the door and fell back into a shallow corner. Catching her breath, she rounded a doorway into the bedroom, reached for the bedpost and pulled herself to it. “No,” she shouted. “No!” The Family wanted too much! Her beds—no, they wouldn’t be sleeping in her beds this time. No, not this time!
In a frenzy of motion, she tore off the bedcovers, stripping both beds down to the mattresses. The telephone rang several times—and stopped. Or the kids romping on her reserved-for-company sofa. "It would never happen, no. No." The words spilled from between her clenched teeth as she rushed to the living room. Bending low, she tugged at one end of the long coffee table, then the other side, shoving it against the sofa. A tall vase toppled and fell to the floor. Shards of sharp-edged glass scattered about, but, as with the phone, she took no notice.
Her body finally gave out. She felt drained; her breathing grew heavy, taken in long deep gasps. She slammed into a wall and grappled for a supporting hold. Her hands landed on a door. She held on until her heartbeats no longer galloped in her throat.
Still…the voices kept coming. What more could she do? Her eyes slowly rounded. Yes! She’d lock the Family in the bathroom and then call the police. And this time....
Much later, she sat alone on the back seat of a patrol car. She overheard the two officers, sitting up front, talking quietly to each other. One officer spoke of a Mrs. Harris, although eyeing her, and then of carrying this Mrs. Harris to the women’s center to await the arrival of someone named Betty.
What was going on here? And all this talk about some lady she didn’t know. Why was she sitting in a police car? Right now, though…she was just too tired to ask.
The patrol car started up.
Her look strayed, stopping at the house with the glass-louvered door. A man, woman and two children stood smiling in the open breezeway, waving to her with hands high in the air. As the car pulled from the curb, she turned to watch through the rear window. They were waving yet—such a nice family. People she’d might even come to like...if she could remember where they lived.
As she rode, she watched the street names change right before her eyes: Linville Street, South Street, and Newell. Then, she recognized Callaway Street. She hurriedly opened her handbag, took a five dollar bill from a change purse, and snapped the handbag closed. Leaning forward, she tapped one of the officers on a shoulder. “Sir, there’s a Dairy Queen in the next block.” She smiled sweetly and handed him the money, “And I do so love their vanilla and chocolate ice cream cones.”
Revised: December, 2009
Author: Elizabeth Towles
Copyright December, 2009
Imprint
As she stepped from the mirror, she spotted a pair of brown linen pants and a faded green cotton sweater hanging on a chair arm; she gathered them up and dressed as quickly as she could, taking the black purse that had been under the clothes. With the purse settled in the crook of an elbow, she left the room.
She grabbed the backdoor knob; the favored bedroom shoes still on her feet. She paused—there was something about a phone call. Was she supposed to make a call, or, was it the other way around? A frown settled. Oh…if only she could remember. She looked back into the house, eyeing the darkened path across the carpet toward the front door. Had she been outside sweeping the leaves from the small porch, or…? She felt something heavy on her arm—her purse. What was it doing on her arm? Was she going somewhere? Or already been…?
A grating noise nearby caught her attention. Her face gentled in recognition. Oh, yes, little mouse...your dinner. And then, it’ll be no more rambling for you.
A cheery look glowed from her face as she stepped out to the open breezeway and closed the glass-louvered door behind her.
The narrow walkway led down to her 1966 Ford, its chassis filling the length and width of the carport. She grasped the door handle; her fingers smarted when the sharp edges of eroded chrome dug into her skin. “You and me,” she whispered, breathing in, letting it go, “we’re not as we used to be.”
The driver’s door creaked as she swung it aside. She turned to back onto the seat. The leather upholstery, soft and luxurious years ago, was now dry and brittle; her every move brought a ragging sound. She turned the ignition key—only to hear a tinny plink. After several attempts, and with finally no sound at all, she leaned against the backrest. Her hands fell to her lap. She sat as though she’d found the perfect resting-place. Her eyes swept across the wide windshield and halted at a map of fine lines, like thin water trails, high in the right hand corner. Her gaze held—but there was nothing in her mind to draw from when or how the damage happened.
A pensive look stole across her face. On the passenger’s side, she could see him still, her little dachshund, Skippy, braced on his short hind legs, yapping excitedly, and tail flapping from side to side. Oh, how he did love to ride. He’d been gone for more than three years…or so. Tears stung her eyes.
In an impulsive stir, she pushed the car door open, placed a hand under her weakened right leg and got into position to climb out.
Back in the kitchen, the direful noises came rushing at her: childish giggling, high-pitched shrieks. She stopped mid-way across the room. Her head fell forward; the folds of her chin sank into the sweater hugging her neck. The Family was back! What did they want? And what was she to do? They wouldn’t leave the last time, and she’d called the police. However, the officers bombarded only her with questions. Did she live alone? For how long? Did she have grown children? And where were they? She’d argued heatedly that the Family hadn’t been questioned or even asked to leave. She’d pointed to the four Coca-Colas sitting on the kitchen counter, opened and getting warm—Coca-Colas, the Family had asked for, then refused to drink. Yet…the policemen kept saying repeatedly, “Nobody’s in this house but you. It’s only your imagination.” No, she wouldn’t call.
She crept down the hallway, stepped to the closed bathroom door and huddled against the
cool wood panel. They were all in there, Mother, Father, the little girl and boy. She could hear them talking, every word clear as a bell. “No! No!” she shrieked. She wrenched away from the door and fell back into a shallow corner. Catching her breath, she rounded a doorway into the bedroom, reached for the bedpost and pulled herself to it. “No,” she shouted. “No!” The Family wanted too much! Her beds—no, they wouldn’t be sleeping in her beds this time. No, not this time!
In a frenzy of motion, she tore off the bedcovers, stripping both beds down to the mattresses. The telephone rang several times—and stopped. Or the kids romping on her reserved-for-company sofa. "It would never happen, no. No." The words spilled from between her clenched teeth as she rushed to the living room. Bending low, she tugged at one end of the long coffee table, then the other side, shoving it against the sofa. A tall vase toppled and fell to the floor. Shards of sharp-edged glass scattered about, but, as with the phone, she took no notice.
Her body finally gave out. She felt drained; her breathing grew heavy, taken in long deep gasps. She slammed into a wall and grappled for a supporting hold. Her hands landed on a door. She held on until her heartbeats no longer galloped in her throat.
Still…the voices kept coming. What more could she do? Her eyes slowly rounded. Yes! She’d lock the Family in the bathroom and then call the police. And this time....
Much later, she sat alone on the back seat of a patrol car. She overheard the two officers, sitting up front, talking quietly to each other. One officer spoke of a Mrs. Harris, although eyeing her, and then of carrying this Mrs. Harris to the women’s center to await the arrival of someone named Betty.
What was going on here? And all this talk about some lady she didn’t know. Why was she sitting in a police car? Right now, though…she was just too tired to ask.
The patrol car started up.
Her look strayed, stopping at the house with the glass-louvered door. A man, woman and two children stood smiling in the open breezeway, waving to her with hands high in the air. As the car pulled from the curb, she turned to watch through the rear window. They were waving yet—such a nice family. People she’d might even come to like...if she could remember where they lived.
As she rode, she watched the street names change right before her eyes: Linville Street, South Street, and Newell. Then, she recognized Callaway Street. She hurriedly opened her handbag, took a five dollar bill from a change purse, and snapped the handbag closed. Leaning forward, she tapped one of the officers on a shoulder. “Sir, there’s a Dairy Queen in the next block.” She smiled sweetly and handed him the money, “And I do so love their vanilla and chocolate ice cream cones.”
Revised: December, 2009
Author: Elizabeth Towles
Copyright December, 2009
Imprint
Publication Date: 12-05-2009
All Rights Reserved
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