Lucy’s Regal Blue Dress

Nightlife. 1943 Archibald John Motley Jr.

Lucy Goosey pulled her worn winter coat out from the back of the closet.  Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she slid the dress out from underneath the coat.

The dress still had the tags on it.  It was a size 8, and the color was Regal Blue. It fit every part of her, requiring no alterations.

After she cut the tags off, Lucy would tuck them into her scrapbook.

 Lucy had never had clothing, other than underwear, that was storebought new with tags.

She kept the dress secret even from her mother, though it fair killed her.  She did not want the gossip and speculation to start.  She intended to surprise.

She laid the frock on her bed and spread the skirt.  The color was glorious, and Regal Blue was the perfect description.  The taffeta caught the early sun and glowed. With its full skirt and low neckline, Lucinda Marie Duval would command attention.

Lucy paid on the layaway for twelve weeks, doing without the few extras she allowed herself.  She walked to work every morning and home from secretarial school every night so she could use her bus fare against the layaway balance – the one decreasing oh so slowly. 

In celebration of her eventual achievement, the shop owner steamed the dress for free before expertly folding it to fit into the store’s signature box. 

Once home, she lifted the dress, taking care not to disturb the tissue paper stuffed into the bodice and sleeves to prevent wrinkles. Lucy set aside the pink ribbon used to bind the box shut. She would wear it with her maid’s uniform. 

She saved the pristine and sturdy white dress box.

Nothing in Lucy’s life served a single purpose. The gleaming dress would celebrate her betrothal or mark the end of a relationship stealing her youth.  The Regal Blue frock might go on to serve as her wedding dress should they decide on a Justice of the Peace, but either way, it would end up in the window of the consignment store.  The proceeds would be applied to the next semester’s tuition.

Johnny knew she, the woman he had nicknamed Lucy Goosey for her fluid dance moves, had been expecting a proposal for months. 

Johnny changed the subject if the air between them felt palpable with expectation.  He knew she was trying to find the words that would prod his.

Once she found those words, everything would change. 

A few times when her expectation niggled at his brain, he sent his younger brother with a message that he was ill and would not be able to escort her to Smitty’s as planned.

Johnny was not prepared for the Lucy who greeted him at the door.

Everyone at Smitty’s would understand as soon as she walked in arm-in-arm with Johnny. If they did walk into Smitty’s.  Moving from her doorway to Smitty’s might not happen.

The light from the floor lamp set her skin, her eyes, her hair, and the taffeta glowing.  Johnny was on the porch, but the lamp lit his face as well. 

Lucy watched his expression change and then change again. She did not need to say anything.

She was regal.

She wanted it understood she was not a supplicant. His first naked expression told Lucy he did understand.  He knew he had until he walked her home to make the decision.

The niggle had failed him this day. Surprise had been achieved.

The splendor of the dress did not overpower her in any way.  She was striking. She was tall. She was resolute.

Lucy was planning a future ablaze with certainty. She knew lots of people with promise who never found that future.

Still, her voice was soft when she said, “Shall we go now?”

Johnny held out his arm. She wrapped hers around it.

His voice as soft and gentle as hers had been, he said, “You are so lovely.”

Johnny would remember, for all of his life, the image of Lucy in the doorway.

Lucy did love Johnny.  He excited her and made her feel alive. They danced together like one body. She thought them well-suited in temperament, though she wasn’t sure his ambition matched hers.

Her future would fork left or would fork right this very evening. So would Johnny’s. The question was whether they would be arm-in-arm on the same fork.

Her mother and father had loved one another. As had his.

Though necessary, love can be not enough. Lucy understood that. Johnny suspected as much, but hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond the now.

He loved his Lucy Goosey, but he would never again call her by that name.

Now was slipping away and soon Lucy might too.

She slowed her pace to match his as he checked his watch.

Smitty’s was just around the corner.

Fractured Ekphrastic: The Conversation

Alice R. Henderson is believed to have painted the piece attributed to Matisse titled The Conversation.  The image is that of a dark-haired woman in a black robe sitting in a chair.  Standing opposite her is a red-headed man.  He is wearing pajamas.  The expressions on their faces are familiar but hard to put to words, although it is clear the woman is not happy.

Persephone wants to leave early, and Hades won’t let her. For six months of every year, for centuries now, she has gone to the underworld and hidden herself away.  The earth transitions to winter during her confinement, and the people long for a return to warmth and growth. But Persephone is forced to stay in her chambers and slumber. She is weary of sleep.  Weary of stillness.  Weary of the silence.  

The look Alice R. Henderson painted on their faces is one of yearning and discontent.  The people who line up to view this painting, all of them, instantly vibrate.  They know that look.  They know the feeling is uncomfortable, but they don’t have the words.  They can’t have The Conversation.

They want to.  Oh, how they want to.   Everyone views the painting and regards it as a Zen koan.  They don’t know what that look is, but when they leave, they are transformed.  They make changes.  They leave jobs, they leave marriages, they leave countries.  When asked to explain, they say nothing, or they say, “I don’t have the words” or they say “Go see the painting.” 

They know the feeling is uncomfortable, but they don’t have the words. They know the feeling provokes change.  They have had the conversation and expressed their discontent and expressed what it is they yearned to experience. The conversation between their heart and their brain was silent, but the silence reverberated. It is revealed in the lives they go on to live.

Persephone wants to wake.  She wants to return to warmth and growth.

Note: Alice R. Henderson was Matisse’s scullery maid. 
He noticed her artistic promise when he saw her drawing rather than eating during her meal break.
It has been alleged that Matisse’s departure from the open, spontaneous brushwork of his Fauve period in favor of a flatter, more decorative style coincides with Henderson’s employment at the Matisse residence.
No one is sure how much of what is attributed to Matisse is actually Henderson’s work.

*****

[An aside: As are many of my stories, essays, and poems, this one began as my response to a writing prompt.

For this one, we were given an image of an older woman holding a candle (I think-we were only given a moment or so to view the painting.]

The image was accompanied by this text: What story did she recreate as art?

There is no Alice R. Henderson. Matisse did indeed paint The Conversation, and it is a self-portrait of the artist and his wife. Matisse is an interesting guy, but so too was his wife. It has been postulated that many of Matisse’s shenanigans were orchestrated to draw attention away from his wife while she was working with the French Underground during the Nazi occupation of France.

This enigmatic piece has haunted me for years.]

The Embers

Photo by Michał Mancewicz on Unsplash

It took all the coordination she could summon, but Brenda crawled out of the sleeping bag, unzipped the tent, and was able to stand up without falling down. She had to pee.. 

I hate camping, I hate camping, I hate camping – the refrain was on repeat in her head as she made her way to where she thought the latrine area was.  Brenda unzipped her jeans and squatted, careful to spread her legs wide so as not to get urine on them. 

I hate camping. I hate camping. I hate camping.

As she was making her way back to the tent, she noticed that Mike was still sitting by the fire. It was dark, but still, the situation didn’t look or feel right.  Brenda headed over to check it out.

Mike was sprawled in his Big Man’s camping chair.  His feet were propped on the stones of the fire ring. The toe of his left tennis shoe was smoldering.

She tried to rouse him, but he was out good.

“Mike, dammit, wake up.  Your shoe is on fire.  Mike!”

Nothing.

He didn’t even twitch. 

Brenda looked around and spotted the plastic tub of dishwater.  It hadn’t been emptied after the dishes were washed. She grabbed it and poured the cold water with bits of floating food and grease over Mike’s shoe.

The fire was out, but so was Mike.  Still, he hadn’t moved a muscle.  She felt his forehead.  He was clammy and cool.  She couldn’t gauge his color in this light, but something was wrong.  Really wrong. She ran to the tent to get her cell phone.  Signals were bad up here, but she’d found one spot in the middle of the road where she could pull in two bars. 

She woke Craig and told him what was going on.  Mike was his best friend and had been for 30 years.  Craig raced out of the tent without even pulling on his jeans.

Brenda managed to get a signal long enough to call 911 and for them to lock onto her GPS location.  Help was on the way, but she knew it would take a while. They were deep into the Monongahela. She hoped they sent someone familiar with this camping area. Otherwise, it could be hours before they would be found.  She didn’t think Mike had hours. 

Craig dragged Mike, all 275 pounds of him, out of the chair and laid him on the ground.  He barked at Brenda to get something to use as a pillow.  He was afraid Mike would puke and choke on his own vomit.

By the time the EMTs got there, Mike’s breathing was shallow, and he was shivering — still unconscious.

The taller EMT, the one who had been driving, asked about possible drug use. Craig looked at Brenda, and she at him. Finally, Craig said, “It’s possible.  He’s been in recovery six months.  That’s what we’re here celebrating.”

“What substance?”

“Anything he could get his hands on.”

“Meth?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fentanyl?”

“I never heard him mention that one.”

The other EMT administered Narcan, and Mike bolted up, screaming for them to leave him alone. 

Tears rolled down Craig’s cheeks.

Brenda was just disgusted.

Craig had hoped.  Brenda had written Mike off years ago after he’d stolen her jewelry to pawn. Her mother’s wedding rings were never recovered.

The EMTs were patient with Mike and oriented him to time and place.  Brenda was surprised he agreed to go to the hospital. 

After the ambulance left and Craig put his jeans on, Brenda sat in Mike’s camp chair. Her sympathy for Craig was bottomless, but so was her impatience. Mike had burned every bridge but Craig.

Craig was jingling keys and hollered at Brenda that he was ready to go.

Brenda sat very still and quietly said, “I’m not going.”

“What?”

“I said I’m not going. I’m done. Just done.  I’m done with Mike, and I’m done with camping.  I’m not going to sit in the ER for hours waiting for them to discharge Mike.  You know they can’t commit him, and he won’t self-admit. He needs real rehab.  He sees you as his safety net.  Stop being a sucker, Craig. It’s time for tough love.  Do not go sit there.  Don’t bring him back here. Let him figure it all out. I want us to pack up and go home.  I hate camping.”

The sun was coming up now…Brenda could see the eastern sky begin to turn pink and golden light rim the tops of the mountains.  Birdsong was filling the forest.   

She and Craig silently broke camp. Silently packed the car. Craig’s last act was to put out the fire while Brenda waited in the car. He shoveled dirt on the still glowing embers, suffocating the last bits of the fire.

Still silent, as if speech would somehow break the spell, they pulled out of the forest.

Brenda didn’t know where they were headed.

Scoot

Photo by Omar Ramadan on Unsplash

The kids were so excited to come home from school to find Scoot sitting on the porch.  His backpack was on the floor, and he was practicing the chords for Folsom Prison Blues. Marianne managed to tear herself away long enough to let me know with the required after-school phone call to check in.

“Mom, guess what!  Uncle Scoot is here! “

At that news, I wrapped the coiled cord of the business’s landline around my neck and pulled. I often did this as a joke to amuse my colleagues, but today?  Today I did want to strangle myself. 

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