MARTHA |
Issue 8
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Martha takes another gulp of coffee – cappuccino, her favorite. The silky texture carries a bitter note. She doesn’t like it, but not so much that she won’t drink the rest. The fact is, she loves the soft froth which settles on her lips until she sets her tongue to gather it in. She makes a game of it; waiting to see how long she can leave it on her top lip before it begins to slide down and must be caught. Like those ice creams her daddy bought her from the ice cream van back when she was a girl.
Two lovely young ladies have sat at the other end of this large table. She’s not very happy about this either as she had chosen the spot to be hidden and alone. Her lips form a thin line. No matter, they’re so wrapped up in their own chatter - that they don’t even appear to notice her. “Just a croissant, please,” she tells the waitress who is looking at her expectantly. Secretly, Martha hopes the roll will come with jam and butter, though she does not specifically ask for this thinking of the alarming roll of belly growing beneath her waist. Leave it to karma, she thinks. “Mrs. Gillespie…. is it you?” Drat! The waitress is too close. Martha can see the tiny hairs on the girl’s arms which have opened wide, and then Martha is folded into a loose embrace. In the back of Martha’s finely coiffured silver head, she is struggling. Could this creature be one of the neighbor’s children all grown up? Or, perhaps, a grandchild? Martha’s pulse quickens. “Nice to see you dear,” she mumbles, into the girl’s green hair – catching a whiff of sickly-sweet shampoo. Green apple she thinks before flinching at the sight of the angry red tattoo of a skull on the bottom of the girl’s shaved neck. She thinks it winks and shuts her eyes. “It’s me, Mrs. Gillespie, Sandra – your dog walker.” Thank heavens. Martha feels warm relief. The waitress appears to acknowledge the sudden slight relax of Martha’s tightly held shoulders and releases her from the hug. “Why, so it is.” Martha peers at the waitress over her glasses, noting with distaste the heavy eyeliner and the thickly mascaraed lashes. “I hardly recognized you with your hair pulled up like that.” She smiles broadly, cheerfully, already forgetting the skull. Sandra grins back. She’s only gone a moment before returning with the croissant, looking forlorn on a plate glaringly absent of jam or butter. She places it in front of Martha with a napkin and leans back on her heels. “And how is Ginger doing?” Her face is open, curious. “It’s been awhile – why almost a whole year since I moved. Did that other girl work out?” Damn! Martha can’t recollect any other girl. And, in truth, she can’t remember ever having a dog. She rests one hand on the table to steady herself before slowly sinking further into the chair, away from the threatening proximity of Sandra and the lonely looking croissant. Ginger? Surely if she did have a dog, she wouldn’t have called it Ginger. Or would she? Sandra seems to be watching her closely. After what seems like ages words appear in Martha’s head. Quickly, before they’re lost, she blurts them out, “Why yes, dear. Yes, we’re all good.” The waitress doesn’t look convinced. She stares at Sandra’s chin. Martha touches her face and feels there a slight dribble of coffee. Wide eyed with uncertainty, she reaches for the napkin. In doing so, she becomes aware of the silence. The clatter, which her chipped fingernails had been making as they drummed against the table, has suddenly ceased. There’s a sudden wail and Sandra’s attention moves to a nearby table where a child has spilled her milk. “Well, nice to see you Mrs. Gillespie,” she says. “Give Ginger a hug for me.” She leans down to whisper. “And don’t worry about the coffee – it’s on the house,” before moving off in the direction of the spilt milk. The coffee? Martha had quite forgotten. Yes, there’s still a drop in the cup. She picks it up and swallows the last mouthful, grateful for the small pocket of warmth. She sees the plate, pulls it closer to her, greedily placing her fingers on the croissant, and quickly recoils. It’s greasy and cold, unappetizing. She is uncertain of what to do. Martha looks around. The coffee shop seems busier than before. Most tables have people at them. It’s all suddenly very noisy. They all sound angry, she thinks, feeling a growing anxiety. She knows none of these people, not even the girl with the green hair behind the counter who keeps smiling in her direction. Martha doesn’t feel well. She looks down at her nails making an infernal noise on the tabletop. She sees smudges of grease on the surface. It is unsettling, unsanitary. Her mouth curves downward and she sighs,. She spies the soiled napkin lying near the plate, picks it up and begins to rub the table top. She rubs and rubs but the smudge only grows larger. Martha becomes increasingly upset and begins to struggle with the napkin which seems to be falling apart in her hand. It isn’t working, she says to herself. What is wrong with me? I can’t do anything anymore. She feels like crying. “Come on, Mother.” A woman has approached the table and appears to be talking at her. She looks worried, smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes. Her teeth are like a crocodile, sharp and a disgusting yellow. Martha blanches. The woman leans down to brush her lips along Martha’s cheek. “No,” Martha flinches. "Please don’t." The woman straightens up and looks around her. A few faces are looking their way. "Shhh,” she says, putting her fingers to her bright orange lips. “Ready to go and get those nails done now?” Martha is confused. What nails? She stares at the woman’s cheeks, the wrinkles streaking towards her temples from the corners of her eyes look like dry river beds. She reaches a finger to touch one. "Mother!“ the woman steps back, away from Martha’s reach. "Let’s get your coat on,” she says taking a rich red wool coat from off the back of Martha’s chair. She begins to move Martha’s arms into the armholes. “Alright. Alright! You needn’t be so bossy.” Martha hears the whine in her voice. She sounds rude, but really – who does this woman think she is – manhandling her like this? She doesn’t see the turned heads of customers now watching them. “Come on, Mother. Help me please.” This said low, almost a whisper. The woman accompanies her words with a more forceful thrust of Martha’s arm into the wretched coat. “Ouch! For fuck’s sake!” It slips out before Martha has even thought it. But she is immediately aware of the room’s instant silence. She sees the shocked faces of the other patrons who, up until now, had ignored her. They look in her direction. They see her, she thinks. And she smiles at them. The woman is hurrying her to get the coat on. “Shhhh, Mum – it’s all OK. We’re leaving now.” There’s no comfort in her words. The comfort Martha feels is in the eyes of those lovely people looking at her; their eyes are on her. “Fuck!” she says it again. Then louder, “Fuck! Fuck!”. And once more because no one is stopping her, almost shouting, “Fuck!” And now the whole coffee shop has gone quiet. Most people have turned their eyes to their companions or out the window or at their plates, but there’s a few – the young lady with the ridiculous hair behind the counter included – who still watch her. Martha’s smile broadens. She relaxes. It is deliciously warm inside this coat. She lets herself be led outside. |
JANE WEARY
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Later, Martha fingers the lace doily on the back of the floral wingback on which she sits. Her pastel pink fingernails catch her attention. They please her – neat and colorful without being gaudy. She stretches out her hands separating the fingers, admiring their shade and the diamond that still sparkles on her left hand.
It's quiet in the room. Only the ticking of a mantle clock breaks the peace. She turns her attention to it. The yellow brass is dull, used, old and tired. The sound begins to irritate her. She remembers now. It was a wedding present from one of Jim’s relatives. They’d never liked it and had kept it in a closet for years, only bringing it out when the relative came to call. Now though it seems to always be there.
The incessant ticking. She shuts her eyes.
She sees Jim. Her Jim - tall and graceful. He was such a dancer - so confident, so smooth.
She’s in her sheer, gauzy cream dress. The one with the sequins, the one she wore to all the dances. She pirouettes, feeling the beads along the hemline caress her calves, slim and firm with the brown pencil line painstakingly drawn on. She must be careful only to whirl so much so as not to wear the line away before the evening ends.
Jim’s blonde hair is slicked back, his warm smile feels like sunshine. He moves in time to the music, his hands holding her small waist as they sashay together. The air is smoky, other couples, like shadows in the background, slip in and out of the soft blue haze.
All she sees is Jim. He thrills her, excites her, his touch a teasing promise. His mouth is wide, laughing. He extends his hand and she takes it in her own and lets him lead her. Pivots and swivels, the two of them together, naughty, close, upper thighs touching, hips glancing off each other, tantalizing and then apart. The tease. And then that cool air rushing in to settle the tension, a static buzz in the air all around.
They are such a team.
Jim’s forehead is beaded with sweat; her own heart beats hard, her breathing fast and furious.
Suddenly it is over.
The air rings with a loud silence. Gradually she hears again the beating of the clock. It is not her heart.
Her eyes open. Jim is not there. Her clothes are bland; her figure, fat.
Martha gets out of the chair and moves over to the window. The sky outside is bruised yellow; the setting of the sun in the city smog. She needs air. Her hands move to push open the heavy pane of glass but it will not budge. She tries harder, and then harder.
“Steady on there.” The voice behind her is stern. Cold hands are placed upon her arms, forcing them away from the window. “You know the window won’t open, dear.”
This is a stranger. She is old; her hair dyed a brass brunette that is too young for her face, her white uniform is a grey yellow. Martha suddenly knows there’s no point resisting. The woman is right; these windows never open. Her arms fall to her sides.
She allows herself to be led back to the chair with the doily, aware of the woman’s fingers cruelly pinching her arm.
When she hears again the steady tick of that tiresome clock, she looks around, her breath quickening. As the stranger’s hands begin pushing her down into the chair, Martha’s voice surprises her with its strength.
“No!”
She braces herself.
“No!” She repeats louder. And then, “Fuck you.”
The woman stops pushing. She freezes, her eyes open wide. Martha grins. Although the woman is motionless, Martha can see that she is tingling, electric. ‘”Fuck you,” Martha says again., but this time a little lower, a little softer. The woman doesn’t say a word. She just stands there and stares at Martha who turns her face to the warm evening light, her grin widening.
And then she begins to dance. She lifts her stiff and heavy arms, feeling only their grace, their slender smoothness. Marth glides behind the chair, slipping slowly round it and back again to the window. She floats upon her feet, no longer in the shabby slippers but in her bright red pumps. Her body is light inside the shining dress, it feels soft and smooth and voluptuous. She gathers the folds of the skirt into her hands to lift the heavy sequined material high above her knees, and then higher, above her cream white thighs. She is daring, she is shockingly risqué. Looking at the faces of all those watching her, the admiration, the wonder, Martha laughs a waterfall of tumbling light.
Throwing back her head, her burnished golden hair falls in waves down her slim supple back. Jim’s eyes are watching, devoring her. His lips open in anticipation. She feels his excitement. She shares it. She is free and she is beautiful and she is loved.
On the worn carpet in the darkening room, Martha kicks off her dancing shoes and twirls.
It's quiet in the room. Only the ticking of a mantle clock breaks the peace. She turns her attention to it. The yellow brass is dull, used, old and tired. The sound begins to irritate her. She remembers now. It was a wedding present from one of Jim’s relatives. They’d never liked it and had kept it in a closet for years, only bringing it out when the relative came to call. Now though it seems to always be there.
The incessant ticking. She shuts her eyes.
She sees Jim. Her Jim - tall and graceful. He was such a dancer - so confident, so smooth.
She’s in her sheer, gauzy cream dress. The one with the sequins, the one she wore to all the dances. She pirouettes, feeling the beads along the hemline caress her calves, slim and firm with the brown pencil line painstakingly drawn on. She must be careful only to whirl so much so as not to wear the line away before the evening ends.
Jim’s blonde hair is slicked back, his warm smile feels like sunshine. He moves in time to the music, his hands holding her small waist as they sashay together. The air is smoky, other couples, like shadows in the background, slip in and out of the soft blue haze.
All she sees is Jim. He thrills her, excites her, his touch a teasing promise. His mouth is wide, laughing. He extends his hand and she takes it in her own and lets him lead her. Pivots and swivels, the two of them together, naughty, close, upper thighs touching, hips glancing off each other, tantalizing and then apart. The tease. And then that cool air rushing in to settle the tension, a static buzz in the air all around.
They are such a team.
Jim’s forehead is beaded with sweat; her own heart beats hard, her breathing fast and furious.
Suddenly it is over.
The air rings with a loud silence. Gradually she hears again the beating of the clock. It is not her heart.
Her eyes open. Jim is not there. Her clothes are bland; her figure, fat.
Martha gets out of the chair and moves over to the window. The sky outside is bruised yellow; the setting of the sun in the city smog. She needs air. Her hands move to push open the heavy pane of glass but it will not budge. She tries harder, and then harder.
“Steady on there.” The voice behind her is stern. Cold hands are placed upon her arms, forcing them away from the window. “You know the window won’t open, dear.”
This is a stranger. She is old; her hair dyed a brass brunette that is too young for her face, her white uniform is a grey yellow. Martha suddenly knows there’s no point resisting. The woman is right; these windows never open. Her arms fall to her sides.
She allows herself to be led back to the chair with the doily, aware of the woman’s fingers cruelly pinching her arm.
When she hears again the steady tick of that tiresome clock, she looks around, her breath quickening. As the stranger’s hands begin pushing her down into the chair, Martha’s voice surprises her with its strength.
“No!”
She braces herself.
“No!” She repeats louder. And then, “Fuck you.”
The woman stops pushing. She freezes, her eyes open wide. Martha grins. Although the woman is motionless, Martha can see that she is tingling, electric. ‘”Fuck you,” Martha says again., but this time a little lower, a little softer. The woman doesn’t say a word. She just stands there and stares at Martha who turns her face to the warm evening light, her grin widening.
And then she begins to dance. She lifts her stiff and heavy arms, feeling only their grace, their slender smoothness. Marth glides behind the chair, slipping slowly round it and back again to the window. She floats upon her feet, no longer in the shabby slippers but in her bright red pumps. Her body is light inside the shining dress, it feels soft and smooth and voluptuous. She gathers the folds of the skirt into her hands to lift the heavy sequined material high above her knees, and then higher, above her cream white thighs. She is daring, she is shockingly risqué. Looking at the faces of all those watching her, the admiration, the wonder, Martha laughs a waterfall of tumbling light.
Throwing back her head, her burnished golden hair falls in waves down her slim supple back. Jim’s eyes are watching, devoring her. His lips open in anticipation. She feels his excitement. She shares it. She is free and she is beautiful and she is loved.
On the worn carpet in the darkening room, Martha kicks off her dancing shoes and twirls.