Chapter 1: The BeginningA Chapter by SweetNutmeg Independent, capable Bonnie can take care of herself... until fate strikes and she must rely on others. Can Bonnie accept the help she needs? Can she find the key to freedom from her loneliness Chapter One The Beginning New Orleans, 1991 In the temporary cool and quiet of Magazine Street at dawn, Bonnie approaches the coffee shop and... What the hell is that? Laid out exactly in the center of the cracked sidewalk is a thing. A rat the size of a cat. Dead. The long tail is perfectly extended, looking like a snake that mated with an earthworm. Disgust tries to roil up inside her, but she feels her inner shell harden, enabling her to be clinical about it. She now realizes it is not a rat but a nutria, a large aquatic rodent native to the region. It will need to be removed and the spot disinfected, before customers arrive. When Jean and Adam show up, Bonnie is dealing with the nutria in a matter-of-fact way, dragging the carcass by the tail, wrapped in newspaper to protect her hands. “Wow, Bonnie, that is intense. I've never seen such a huge rat!” Adam is definitely impressed. Jean looks revolted. “Ew. How can you touch it!” Amused, Bonnie delegates the disinfection process to Adam (Jean seems incapable) and continues the pleasant routine of opening up the coffee shop, starting the three stainless steel coffee machines and arraying the morning's pastries. Finally, she counts out the drawer, inserts it in the cash register, and they are ready to go. Classical music fills the shop. Bonnie leans back, sipping iced coffee. She relishes this moment of quiet. For the next 7 hours, she'll be busy nonstop. The first customer of the day arrives, and the rush starts. Bonnie, Jean and Adam speedily serve one customer after another, mainly yuppies at this time of day, a stream of ties and crisp shirts. The idle rich drift in for a late breakfast and the hipsters don't come out until after noon. At the 11 o'clock lull, Jean, Adam and Bonnie take their breaks back to back. When it is her turn, Bonnie sits under the banana tree's shade in the slate-flagged courtyard out back, chewing a bagel pensively. A man startles her as she sits in her usual spot. “There are rats in there, you know.” He points into the foliage drooping over her head. It's Pete from the record store across the street. He's got his usual retro 50's look going on: a dark blue rayon shirt with tiny red and white triangles sprinkled over it and lightweight pleated trousers in navy. “There was a nutria living up there but it is dead now. Don't be afraid, Pete. No rats are going to drop into your coffee.” “So it's safe to join you! I knew it was going to be a good day.” Now that she thinks about it, Pete's been coming in around the time for her lunch break for a while. She can't think how to prevent him from sitting down with her, especially as all the other tables are occupied. So she smiles and puts her bookmark in her book as she closes it. He's good looking, short curly blonde hair and blue eyes, a trim, athletic body. His face is open and guileless. Pete is a nice guy. But--- he can't compare to her midnight companion. No man ever measures up to him. *** Like most apartment buildings in the garden district, Bonnie's is a large house divided up into tiny apartments. The stained glass in the tall, narrow door is dim, like the space inside. Thick blue and green carpeting leads through the hallway and up the stairs. It is a long climb to her third floor attic apartment as the ceilings are so high. It's good exercise, she tells herself, as good as a step machine. The answering machine light is blinking when Bonnie opens the door. “Hi honey, it's Jack. We were wondering how you are. Call us when you get a chance.” Her stepfather. She'll have to call them tonight. But first, a long cool shower to get the coffee smell out of her hair, then dinner with Elaine. They have a standing date. Every Tuesday at 5 they meet at Fast Taco for margaritas, and the best fish tacos in town. Bonnie threads her way through packed tables, the hubbub of conversation magnified by the stamped tin ceiling. Elaine is dipping a chip into green chile salsa when Bonnie takes a stool next to her at the high counter in the window nook. “You always sit here because you like to show off your legs, Elaine.” “Hah, you're the one with the legs. I just like the view.” The view is nice, Victorian houses all in a row, enclosed by huge live oaks. And Bonnie does have the legs, long and slender. And Bonnie does have the legs, long and slender. Her blonde hair is done up in a loose French twist, pulled back from her handsome face, a faintly aristocratic look giving way to pleasure. In an attempt to keep cool, she is casual, in a simple aubergine tank top and short black skirt. Elaine's concession to the heat is a short kilt and a Misfits t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Her red lipstick and bobbed black hair are as crisp as can be when it is so humid. Their drinks arrive in oversized glasses. Elaine sips greedily at her margarita, but Bonnie only toys with hers. “How's Adam?” Elaine asks in a mischievous tone. “Adam,” Bonnie replies heavily, “is now impressed with my hearty womanhood in dealing with dead animals.” “Dead animals? That is an attraction new to me.” Bonnie explains the nutria. “Well, you have to admit that is pretty impressive, to take a giant dead rodent in stride. You actually picked it up?” “By the tail. It's not like I cuddled it or anything.” “Why don't you like Adam? He's cute. He likes you.” Bonnie tries to dodge Elaine's match-making by paying studious attention to the menu. “Pete from the record store likes you too.” “Maybe I'll get the special today...” Bonnie says, determined to ignore this topic. “You and John broke up months ago.” “Give it a rest, Elaine. I'm too tired to argue.” Elaine sits back and sips her drink. “OK honey. But you need to move on.” They sit in silence until the tacos come. Bonnie pushes hers around. “Are you alright, Bonnie?” Elaine leans forward, concerned. Suddenly on the verge of tears, she shakes her head. “I'm tired. I slept like s**t last night. I keep having that nightmare.” A shudder runs through her as she recollects the dream of the empty house with failing lights, getting darker and darker as she frantically tries one light switch after another, in vain. *** Jack answers on the first ring. “Hey, is mom around?” “No, she's playing bridge with the Fergusons tonight. You could talk to me instead, you know,” he says genially. Bonnie's stomach tightens. She can't help it. Jack has never been anything but kind and patient, but something inside her keeps her from being close to him in any way. Since her father's death, there has been a space inside her, and no one can seem to bridge it for her. “I'd like to, Jack, but I'm beat. Please tell mom I called.” In her oversized t-shirt, Bonnie gets out her walkman, preparing for the nightly indulgence she would never admit to, listening to Prince. Headphones on, in the dark she lives another life, a fantasy life in which that gaping space inside is crossed by someone from long ago. She wraps herself in sweet longing for the intimacy she never seems able to achieve and falls asleep to the sound of Purple Rain. *** The next day, with her laundry basket secure against her hip, Bonnie negotiates the narrow alley leading from the front of the building to the laundry room in back. She is annoyed to see the door open... someone else is in the laundry room. She hopes they are removing their things, not putting in a new load. Toeing the door open wide enough to admit her basket, who does she see but Pete. “Bonnie! You live here?” “Yeah, been here 2 years now. When did you move in?” Great, now she has to chat with him. “Last weekend. I'm surprised I haven't run into you earlier. What number are you?” “301, the attic. You?” “205, in the back. It has a nice view of the garden.” “Are you putting in or taking out?” She really wants to get started, not shoot the s**t. “Oh! Sorry.” He steps aside so he is no longer blocking the washer. “I'm putting my last load in the dryer.” He adds coins and presses the button. The dryer begins rumbling. She slides her basket onto the folding table and measures some detergent, begins adding clothes. She wishes he would go away. She has underwear and bras in this load and no desire to show them off. But he is immovable, determined to talk. “Where's the best grocery store near here?” Pete asks. They talk about the neighborhood as she stuffs the washer with her clothes. She drops in the last item and shuts the lid, slots home her quarters. She pointedly looks at her watch and asks, “How long are your clothes in for?” He looks at his own watch and says, “An hour.” He looks like he is about to say something more, but she briskly collects her basket and says, “Good, I should be able to get some housework done. Catch you later.” *** A few hours later, her laundry and housework complete, Bonnie wanders into the kitchen. She's not hungry although it is her usual dinner time. In fact, her stomach feels funny. She puts away the chicken thawing on the counter. She can make it tomorrow. She starts water for tea instead. The phone rings as she is waiting for the water to boil. It's her mother. “Bonnie, are you OK? I haven't heard from you in a week.” “Yes, mom. I'm sorry, it's just been busy at work.” To reassure her mother of her well being, she stays on the phone for twenty minutes. As they talk, she goes through the motions of making tea but finds she doesn't want it. Her stomach is hurting now, a dull ache. It must be stress. Between picking up extra shifts at the coffee shop and having those nightmares, she's exhausted. She resolves to stay in tonight and relax. Finally she says goodbye. Stretching out on the sofa, she opens the latest New Yorker. When she wakes, she's in a sweat. She fumbles urgently for the lamp switch. She's fallen asleep on the couch and had that dream again, of the darkening house. Her relief is great when the switch works and the lamp illuminates the living room. She gets up and turns on more lights. Her stomach is killing her. She pours some cold water, but she doesn't want even that now. Shaking off the nightmare, she focuses on her stomachache. Maybe she has a virus? The more she wakes, the worse the pain becomes. Tears start from her eyes and she moans involuntarily. She's doubled over now. This is way more than a stomach virus. She barely makes it to the toilet before vomiting, followed by wretched dry heaves. What should she do? She should go to the doctor. Tomorrow? Crouching on the bathroom floor, she decides it can't wait for tomorrow. She clumsily dials Elaine, gets her answering machine. That's right, Elaine is in Chicago for the magazine. How can she get to the hospital? She fumbles strands of thoughts, trying to put together a plan, but the pain interferes. Then she remembers Pete. Bent over, she stumbles down the stairs to the second floor, finds Pete's door. Please let him be home, please. © 2020 SweetNutmegAuthor's Note
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Added on October 5, 2013Last Updated on February 26, 2020 Tags: independent woman, grief, romance Author
SweetNutmegAboutI am returning all reviews of "The Past Follows." I am sorry to say I don't do poetry. At all. As in, never. Not even for you. more..Writing
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