Old Miss Gracing by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 2
She walked three more blocks to her apartment over a candy store, accessed through a back alley. On the way she made polite “Hellos” to a few unremembered kids from prior years, who chose to greet her in some fashion, one boy of about twelve, yelling; “Hey, Miss Gracing.” She smiled, waved and wished she remembered the name belonging to the loud rambunctious youngster, who was too busy running, playing and showing off to care.
She walked through the alley behind the candy store and took the stairs to her apartment. It was three railroad rooms heated by a huge black iron stove in the kitchen. She used her key and entered it. Simon came out from behind the stove and jumped into her arms. He was an orange cat with white markings, who wasn’t afraid of anything. He didn’t want to hurt anything himself and consequently seemed to assume that everything else felt the same way. His sequestered existence kept his illusions alive, as the only person he ever met was Eloise. “Simon, are you hungry?” she said as she put him down, heading for the white painted built in kitchen cabinets. She found his favorite easily, looking through the predominantly glass doors. She sat at the kitchen table, where she could keep a loving hand on Simon’s neck while he ate as if he were near starvation. The
room, as well as the other two, evoked an art deco, art nouveau and craftsman look, popular when she was a young woman, now available reasonably at Goodwill and junk stores. The angular shape of the deco contrasted nicely with the flowing forms of nouveau, suggesting some type of blue symbolic balance.
Practicality was introduced through the craftsman table and its attendant four chairs, which gave a sturdy appearance exhibiting a lightly stained oak simplicity.
She lazily looked around the room, stretched out on her chair, viewed the white painted stamped tin ceilings and walls now covered with gray paper containing small cups, each holding one flower, of different sorts, each some shade of blue or red.
She removed some papers from her carrying sack and put them and it on the table, which served as her desk. She liked working there because of its proximity to the stove heat source. The other two rooms displayed a similar motif, though the third room, with views of the street and was decorated sparsely, as it was too cold to use in the winter months.
When Simon was finished, she yawned and wanted to take a cat nap with her favorite companion and went into the adjoining room, removed her dress and crawled under the covers, with Simon in eager pursuit. She thought back to what didn’t seem so long ago, when a mid-day siesta was not a requirement. She was born September 15, 1900 and her near 54 years were beginning to make
themselves noticed. There were compensations; including Simon, the cuddle bug. She quickly drifted off, no doubt encouraged by the dark windowless room.
When she awoke she found her hooded full length black cloak in the closet, put it on and walked down the hall passing paintings depicting a penitent Magdalene and another showing an angel’s visit to a resting crew, pausing on their flight from Egypt.
She opened the door at the end of the hall, revealing a bearded thin man sleeping with his back to her on a brass bed.
She slowly walked over to the still creature, gently pulled down the blanket, seeing him wearing only briefs, pulled the hidden hunting knife held in her right hand under the cloak and proceeded to furiously stab away at his head and upper body.
Blood shot out of the wounds spraying on her face and cloak.
The almost still creature turned to her, the geysers at reduced force and said; “Bonnie, don’t.” This only seemed to get her more agitated and she flailed away, until the body was completely still. She then gave one more thrust to the heart, twisting the blade on its exit. The blood’s pressure drop-off turned the spurts into steadily flowing rivers. She woke up to Simon curiously looking at her face. “Darn that dream,” she thought, as she remembered the crying little boy she had met earlier in the day.
She put her hand under Simon’s chin and scratched it, saying; “Don’t worry, Simon. I’ll never stab you.” He trailed her back to the kitchen, where she fixed dinner and a pot of tea. She sat at the table and again looked at her papers which were almost immediately accompanied by Simon. “Simon,” she said, picking him up and putting him down in her lap. With her right hand on his little furry head, she again perused the compelling papers with her left.