Excerpt: The Woman Who Came Before

EXCERPT 1:

PROLOGUE

She stepped into the tub with a sigh. My god, my ankles hurt, she thought, feeling the swirl and comfort of epsom-salted heat surround her stiff, sore joints. She eased in and down, settling her back against the cool porcelain with a tiny chill. Her son would be home in a little while, soon enough to help haul her out if she was too tired to do it alone. Plenty of time left for private thoughts, then maybe some chitchat before bed. Not that Donald was talkative these days... he'd gotten sullen, looking for work so long. He'd gotten resentful towards his own mother, as if it were her fault he'd lost his job in the first place, instead of a poor choice of employment on his part. The big baby.
He'd been trained as well she and Andy could do, to be a man. God knows Andy had always been a hard worker, and a smart one, whatever other flaws he'd had. Bringing home that thick cut bacon, for decades; paying for parochial schools and college for the kids, living in this pristine neighborhood, keeping them all in style until he passed. And he made the cash to build this place, their second home, and deck it out with the best paint, paper and rugs available. It had been her dream home, and he’d let her go wild making it live up to her fantasies.
Looking up at the shiny papered ceiling over the bath, she sighed again. At the time, she'd been mad about this wallpaper; it seemed daring and sharp, glossy and outrageous. At forty something, after raising three children and getting at least two of them out on their own, she was still full of creative impulses. Like finding the newest colors and textures for her party palace. Gorgeous fixtures that made her old house look hopelessly fuddy-duddy. And of all her choices the paper for the bathroom was most hip, even the kids thought so. Putting it on the ceiling as well as the walls, to protect them and reflect more light, had been her big brainstorm. It was extravagantly expensive, both to purchase and to lay, but the result was undeniably long-lasting. Still wasn’t a mark, a rip or a curled corner, though the gold bits had faded to a paler, silvery gold in spots. She thought she’d never tire of it, but forty years later, let’s admit it: she had. It almost made her sick, some days, straining on the toilet with those shiny bronzed blossoms gleaming out at her. She’d love to paint over it, a fresh sheet of white or pale blue, or some nice cream stuff in that new fabric type covering they had, now. Anything but those damn flowers.
But Andy was gone, and his pension had been fairly squandered by his two sons, and there wasn’t any extra money to fix things that weren’t broken. Hell, she could hardly afford to fix what needed it, these days. And she was tired of keeping it all up. Donald should be doing that, now, anyway. He had a stake in it, didn’t he? He knew he’d inherit a third of it, someday. He lived here, too, and he was supposed to pay for that by doing repairs, looking after her, taking on some of the maintenance of their home. Unfortunately, Donald’s version of getting repairs done was to put tape on a broken electrical cord, paint over dirt and scratches, buy the cheapest possible replacements for everything. Not like his father. Andy had been handy, and knew that quality to begin with lasted longer and saved money in the long run. And maybe that was it. Maybe Donald didn’t want to stay here, in the long run. He’d sell this place the second she turned up her toes, split the money with his brother and sister, and invest it in one of his doomed money-making adventures. All her careful choices, all the work she and Andy had put into this place, would go down the drain. Some young couple would move in and change the colors, throw cheap semi-gloss over her fine matte walls, hook up their computers everywhere, throw away the drapes she’d hand-washed twice a year and put up plastic blinds over the bay windows instead. All her memories, her whole life, painted over. Nothing she could do about it.
The bath had cooled and she ran a little more warm, noting a tiny trickle coming from under the faucet, where Donald had failed to replace the broken washer. For a month now. He wasn’t paying the water bill, was he? Well, no point in stewing over it. She needed to get out soon and get to sleep-- she had a full day tomorrow, what with laundry in the morning, lunch at the club, and dancing class in the evening. Dancing with Charles Robinson, in fact. The thought made her smile, knowing Andy was screaming in his grave at the idea of her slow dancing with a black man. If she’d known him sooner, they might have done more than dance. Still might, if he was capable and made a move, on the right day. Charlie was a handsome, well-preserved man, whatever his color, and Gin had never cared about that sort of thing, anyway. Not like Andy had. She drifted off a little, thinking of what to wear tomorrow night, lulled of out her annoyance with her son by the more pleasurable idea of Mr. Robinson’s dark, scented cheek above her shoulder. Dancing…

She woke, spluttering, remembering the feeling of a hand, making a soft trail across her face, a second earlier. Charlie? No. That was a dream, from last night, when she was in the bath… she was still in the bath, and couldn’t breath. Something was pressing her chest, the water was filling her nose and lungs, had been filling it! She tried to rise, coughing and gripping the chrome support bar on the tiled wall of the tub stall, only to fall back as the handle came off in her hand, the busted ring on one end scratching her leg as it fell into the water. Blood twirled around the wound, scaring her.
Pushing up was pain, pain in the arms, pain in her chest. Panic flooded her brain. Where was Donald? She could swear she’d heard someone moving in the hall, but she’d been dozing in the bath, like an idiot, and it was probably her own gurgles he’s heard. If only Donald would get home! She tried to call out, through the pain and water roiling in her chest, and realized with a stab of shock that was drowning and having maybe a heart attack, too: she was going to die, if Donald didn’t come in soon.
If anyone had been there, Gin Palmieri might have been saved. She had a strong constitution, after all. If anyone had been there, they would have heard her making a mighty effort to struggle forward and grab the other bar, the long handle that lay above the faucets; they would have noted the wet, thunking crash, as that bar too failed her, causing her to slam backwards and smack her head on the edge of the still perfectly smooth aqua porcelain, slipping below the water, flailing a moment, becoming suddenly still.
If anyone had been there.
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EXCERPT 3:

Rob grabbed a fresh sponge-top for the mop and headed downstairs with a beer in one hand, mop in the other.
“I’m going to need that!” Annie called after him. He mumbled a reply that sounded affirmative, and she took it as assurance that the mop would get back to her sometime that afternoon. If she had the energy left to use it-- they’d been working close to four hours, and she was ready to drop.
“You’re getting old, baby.” she told herself, pushing up from her hands and knees with difficulty. Sore. And strained. But it had to be done before the storage pod came. Floors, walls and the windows washed. The basement cleaned out, the radiators against the walls dusted, before the furniture came in. If only she had more gumption, more stamina. She felt like eighty today. Maybe ninety. As if her muscles had withered during the months while they tried to take possession of this house.
Finally done with the bedrooms, she dragged her ass out to the kitchen where the largest share of work waited. Every cabinet and cupboard had to be turned out and checked for bugs, every drawer wiped inside and out, the stove scrubbed down, the fridge washed and freshened inside. She immediately set the screen-like insert for the hooded fan over the cook-top into a basin of bleach, grimacing at the dead flies that had been perched there inside it who knows how long, before she shook them into a garbage bag. They were the only bugs she saw, though, anywhere in the house. Which was a good sign. The oven was clean, too, and the fridge not too bad. She cleaned the dark carven doors of her cabinets with Murphy’s Oil Soap, then pulled the drawers out, one by one.
“What am I going to do with this?” she asked the empty kitchen. The topmost drawer, between stove and sink, was ridiculously long and narrow. It was the natural choice of place for their flatware otherwise, but where would she ever find a separator that slim? The one they had already certainly wouldn’t fit. She felt around the back edge of the drawer, hoping for a partition that had gotten pushed to one side. Something to keep forks and knives apart. It was a little dusty; her fingertips were grey when she pulled them out. A rag and some all-purpose spray would take care of that, and she began at the corners, wiping carefully to remove the hoarded dust there. Till something scraped her hand; something sharp. She pulled out of the drawer suddenly, panicked at the thought of a biting bug she’d overlooked, and a bright flash caught her peripheral vision as something clattered to the floor, something light and made of metal, by the sound. Her hand was bleeding slightly. She sucked on the wound and bent down to retrieve the object.
It was a knife. Not a very sharp one either, she must have pressed just right against the blade, where it was caught in the grooves the drawer slid into. A brass-bright goldtone butter knife, with a mirror finish and a patterned handle. The style fit in with the colors of the curtains and chandelier in the dining room. They’d probably had a complete set of this stuff. It was considered elegant then, not tacky. Like now. Annie laughed at the thought of a golden spoon dipping in and out of a bowl of Grape Nuts, or Cheerios. Or Quisp, in those days. But the knife, last of it’s kind here, was in good shape. On a whim, she washed it and set it in the brand-new dish drainer on the counter. A good omen, she thought, a gift from the last cook in this kitchen. A blessing, maybe.
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Excerpt 4:

The perfume bottle sat on her dresser everyday. She always left it there, without a problem. It must have gotten pushed to the edge somehow, and now it had fallen onto the hardwood floor of their bedroom and begun to seep into the boards. The smell was overpowering, despite the open windows. The scent of jasmine and green tea, beautiful when she wore a touch on her wrists, but cloying and heavy as all the oxygen hit it, changing the delicate character of the scent. Her neighbors were probably getting a whiff of it, by now. The breeze had been blowing over the wreckage for half an hour. She had heard a noise about then.
If only she’d checked on that sound! But it was just a soft tap, lost in the leaf-rustling and bird chatter from outside on this fresh, green spring morning, when she had all the windows open first thing and was busy cleaning the screens of the doors to put them up, to let in more of the silky warm air. Now she had an oily stain and a stench that might be impossible to get rid of; no way she and Rob could sleep in here, tonight. She finished her secondary cleaning and thought about calling a wood refinisher. She’d have to pay for it herself, Rob would blow his top if he had to put another dime into this room right now. If she hurried, she might be able to get it taken care before he got home. Otherwise she’d have to lie, tell him she’d find a cheap solution soon. Damn. It was her favorite perfume, **JOY, and not inexpensive either.

**placeholder for name of perfume
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Excerpt 5:

The end of September is a breathing space-- a little respite between the extremes of heat and cold. The gentle moistened air of July and August sneaks away hushed, and whatever is left to blow the leaves from the trees hardens, crisping like the last few apples, and souring in the mouth till we’re used to the taste. Chilling the feel of the deceptively golden days, sharpening the breeze till it cuts the cheek as you walk to the bus stop or the library to return novels or cookbooks or old videos.
People who have no pressing place to be may enjoy this time of year the most-- it’s not a time to be hurried, for the hours and minutes are hurrying away already-- you must be able to stand still beneath an emptying bronzed branch and inhale, feel the difference in the air. The breath of Summer bursting with a million spontaneous activities has filtered into a lean, cool clarity, refreshing to the lungs and mind. Time for planning now, if we will take it, while the sky is clear of insects or clouds and our vision can settle, now that the excesses of bright, bare flesh and new petals are covered over for the season.
There is an eternal quality to late Autumn that even the brightness of Springtime lacks, and perhaps for the very reason that the land and the light are reft of their ornament as you watch… the bones show again, twisted limbs and dun earth, reminding us of our short time here, entreating us to spend this little time left making a glow if we can. The dressing of death is put on and the muted colors of death blend into twilight, and midnight, and dawn, making all parts of the day equal, eventually. It is the longer part of the year and it steals the largest share of the light, mixing in shadow to fool the eye as you step towards your doorway at evening. What was that, beneath the bushes? A rabbit or a skunk? Or a neighbor’s cat, out on parole, chasing a squirrel… or just wind in the garden’s debris. Who knows, in the transforming dim? Better to let it be. Savor the gloom, before the snow drops. Enjoy the point of transition while you can. It will be darker soon, earlier and earlier. The afternoon is dwindling.
There is time to prepare for the coldest nights, but not much-- and some years, you’re caught out. Thinking you had most of a month left to add some insulation, cover the windows with plastic, fill the tiny cracks that appeared in the foundation on an August morning while you were washing your car.
That’s when it’s good to have a supply of hardwood, split and cured, piled under the stairs. Long matches, thick heavy knitted throws for your couch and bed that don’t disintegrate after a year or two. And water stored somewhere, and extra batteries, some plain white tapers that are easy to light, easy to hold as you walk through a house gone suddenly dark. Emergencies pick their entrance for dramatic effect, when they can. If you’re unprepared, so much the better. When you live in an area where several feet of snow can fall in a single day, you’d best have your stores laid in long before the last moment of November.
When you live in WNY, you need to keep to certain standards: In your house, you should have a battery operated radio, a flashlight in good working order near your bed and another in the kitchen or den. Have some canned food and a hand can opener, clean drinking water, candles, matches, bandages and hydrogen peroxide. Extra prescription medicine, if you have a delicate condition to think about.
In your car, there should always be a shovel, an ice scraper, a blanket, a flare, spare gloves, some antifreeze, oil and a container for water. A few crackers and a bag of sand or kitty litter are handy in case you get stuck, too. And have at least a half tank of gas at all times. Keep your heater working, and don’t let your tires get low in the frigid air-- it could mean the difference between driving smoothly and skidding uncontrollably over the snow-packed streets.
The best thing to do is stay inside as often as you can, going out only to shovel and buy more food, more brandy for your cocoa treat at 10 pm. Light the fire, if you have it, and bury yourself in a blanket and a book, while a sponge for the morning’s bread baking rises overnight on the cool kitchen counter. And if you like to indulge in a long, hot bath to warm up before bed, with a candle for mood lighting or a glass of cool wine, make sure you’re not too sleepy. People drown in their bathtubs at home all the time. It’s one of the most common forms of accidental death in the household. Especially for older folk. But age isn’t a requirement-- anyone can drown in the bath, under the right conditions. Or maybe it should be, under the wrong ones.