Click to the blog carnival
Fiction
Tues. through Sat. of this week I’m participating in a blog carnival, “What About Love,” that’s headquartered over at The Other Mother‘s blog. Each of the days has a post assignment, and I’m weaving those together into a 5-part story. This is the first installment:
Part I: Something Old
Jamie sat on the chest at the end of her bed, tying one of her Keds. The cat rubbed its way around her ankles. She knew better than to try and pet the cat. They didn’t have that kind of relationship, and after a stroke or two, it would inevitably turn and try to sink its teeth into her hand. So, she let it rub and purr, but she kept her distance.
Finally, she stood and lifted the lid of the chest, pulling out a battered Adidas jacket. Red, with white stripes, it had been the official warm-up jacket of her high school swim team. After college, when she was finally settled in her own apartment, she spent a weekend going through boxes in her parent’s garage. After shuffling through piles of composition books, old sketch pads, and half-baked poetry, she had packed up a handful of things – her warm-up jacket, her yearbooks, a pile of mix tapes her friends had made for her at the end of their senior year, and a bunch of photos – and put them in the cedar hope chest that had been an 18th birthday gift from her parents. A week later, her dad and brother drove to the city and carried the chest up to her apartment.
The hope chest had followed her from place to place, even after she came out and it was obvious she’d have no reason for a real hope chest – at least in the traditional sense. After all, it was supposed to be all about marriage right? That’s what the chest had come to symbolize – the one thing that had alluded her.
This Thankgiving had been particularly painful. Her family had been supportive about her disappointment over the recent passage of California’s Propostion 8.
“Look, James. We voted against it. We did what we could, but it’s not like you were planning to marry any time soon,” her brother said. “I’m sure they’ll have this all straightened out by the time you’re ready.”
“Oh, thanks, Mikey. When do think that’ll be? I haven’t had a girlfriend since sometime in the 90s.”
“You could still have a baby,” her mom called out from the kitchen, where she was stirring gravy. “Your dad and I talked it over and we think it’s a great idea.”
“That’s not a appropriate dinner topic,” Jamie said, and her brother snorted
The red jacket smelled like cedar, from the chest, and very faintly like chlorine. She wore it all year round, with a sweater under it, or a down vest over it. In the summer, she started every day in it, even it if meant taking it off by 10 a.m.
She shook some dry food into the cat’s bowl and grabbed her keys, lip balm, and wallet off the table in the hallway, shoving them into her pockets, and then headed out the door.
It was a 10-block walk to the bookstore she managed, and Jamie had the trek down to eight brisk minutes, if she didn’t stop for coffee.
At the sixth corner, she paused for a moment in front of the coffeehouse, and then glanced at her watch. No, she should keep going if she wanted to have any time alone.
A woman sat at a counter in the window of the coffehouse, facing the street. Jamie caught her eye momentarily and the woman raised her eyebrows in recognition. Jamie didn’t know her, but she was familiar. It was funny how that happens sometimes, she mused to herself. One day she had seen the woman at the produce stand up the street, then she had noticed her at the coffeehouse. She had seen in her the lobby at the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, and again at a No On 8 fundraiser. It seemed like she was everywhere Jamie went. They never spoke, but the recognition passed between them like a current. The woman always seemed to be alone. Her hair was dark and cropped, and no matter what the weather, she was wearing a worn black Perfecto motorcyle jacket. The last few times Jamie had seen her, it still had a small “No On 8″ button on the collar, even though the election was long past.
She unlocked the front door and entered, locking it again behind her. Then she flipped on the lights, and turned off the alarm. She liked the quiet morning hours before the store opened. She wanted this time to rearrange the window in a Valentine’s display. So she spent the next hour arranging piles of poetry books around a couple of velvet cushions and a lacquered tray with a tea set and a bowl of grapes on it. She chose the books carefully with a mixture of old and new poets. She placed a cookie on a saucer, first taking an authentic bite out of it. Breaking a basic rule of good book handling, she turned a copy of Sonnets From the Portuguese face down on the floor, with the book open and the spine cracked. By the time she was done, it looked like a pair of lovers had just run off, leaving the remnants of an afternoon together.
She unlocked the front door and stepped outside to look at her handiwork. It was just like she’d hoped – romantic and decadent – a celebration of books and love.
She was rousted out of her reverie when someone coughed. It was the woman in the black leather jacket, standing by her side.
“We keep running into each other, don’t we?” Jamie said.
“It seems that way,” the woman said. “I noticed you were running late today so I brought your coffee.”
She handed Jamie a paper cup, wrapped in one of those corrougated wrappers.
“Hey, you didn’t need…”
“I know I didn’t,” the woman cut her off. “But I did.”
Then she crossed the street and headed down the block.
“Thank you,” Jamie called. She felt a little foolish. She didn’t even know the woman’s name, and her voice faded into the wind and traffic.
She took a sip. It had cream and two sugars, exactly the way she liked it.
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