Genevieve; the Third of January by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 10

Genevieve was on her way home when she again saw Waylon; their last brief meeting at Tardiff and Lenta’s, earlier in the day. He was sitting at the side of the road looking distressed.

She cautiously said; “Hi Waylon,” hoping that he was just taking a rest after shoveling his roof.

It wasn’t exactly that, and he responded with a flat; “Hi, Genevieve. ........... I’ve lost my beach ball.”

Genevieve said; “That’s a shame. But, you won’t be needing it for a few more months.”

Waylon said; “No. Off and on, I play with it year round.

Now I don’t know where to look or what to do.”

Genevieve said; “Well, where did you last see it?”

Waylon and his beach ball; property of the author.

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Waylon said; “Right against my nose. I batted it so that I could chase it again, and then the wind kicked up and blew it all the way over there,” He used his snout to point at the woods at the end of Pacific Lane, and without losing a stride continued; “and I lost sight of it, and now I’m just hopeless and without a beach ball.”

Waylon’s partner Daisy came out of somewhere. She had heard a bit of the conversation and said; “Hi, Genevieve. He’s such a big baby about that ball. We’ll get you another one. Okay, sweetie?”

Waylon said; “I want that one.”

Daisy; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license, modified.

Daisy said; “See! Sometimes he gets totally unreasonable.”

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Genevieve said; “Well, it has got to be around here somewhere. Let’s go find it. Beachballs don’t just disappear into thin air.”

Waylon disparagingly mumbled; “It’s gone,” and head down, trudged through the snow, going in no particular direction; forming something of a “U” in the snow.

Genevieve was tired from all the morning’s house calls and sweepings. But, she felt it was her duty to try to help. She sighed, hoping the sound was not audible, at least not to Waylon; and started moving through the snow. Led by Genevieve, the trio followed the path of the wind to the end of Pacific Lane. They continued into the dense woodland at the end of the road.

No more than twenty feet into the woods Genevieve saw something! Maybe. Well, she was certain that she had seen something, but was less certain of that something being Waylon’s beach ball. She saw a flat, pink, white, orange and blue piece of plastic at the base of a thorny Russian Olive tree. It looked much more like the discourteous discard of a dietary do-up duffelbag designed by Colorful Packaging in China than a beach ball. In her tiredness she considered doing her due diligence.

In her tiredness she considered passing it up, but was sure that her companions had already seen it too. She said; “Well, I think that we’ve found some sort of carcass.”

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Waylon darted right to it. He had no difficulty in recognizing his beach ball, no matter its current condition. He sniffed at the remnant of his playmate with wheezing distress; both to confirm that this was it and in the hope that his breath would resuscitate it. Sadly having confirmed the former only to have failed at the latter, he then looked up and said; “It’s broken.”

Daisy said; “Deflated.”

Genevieve said; “Likely fixable.”

Waylon said; “Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa.”

Genevieve said; “Look here. There is just one little hole in it from the Russian Olive thorn. Duct tape will fix it.” She wasn’t certain of what she had just said; but thought it necessary in the moment to restore Waylon’s confidence, even through stating something a bit speculative as if it was fact.

Half lies have their place; and they might not really be lies.

Who can be sure before the fact?

Not entirely convinced, Waylon said; “Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa.

Idiot wind kicked up out of nowhere. ...... I mean, I was careful, sort of, and then this. Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa.” He picked up the flattened ball and started to carry it back home.

Daisy whispered to Genevieve; “All that tough exterior; and he can be such a big baby sometimes.” In a volume audible to

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distressed Waylon, she said; “It’s going to be okay. We’ll fix it, baby.”

They followed Waylon to the house, where Waylon put the deflated beach ball on the floor and sat next to it. “It’s torn,” he said in a tone Brando wished he could have generated for the “horrific” end of “Apocalypse Now.”

Daisy took a close look at it and replied; “It’s not a tear. It’s just a little puncture. Good lord. To hear you, one would have thought that the Titanic sunk again. I’m getting the duct tape right now.”

Genevieve silently stood there. She was absolutely too wiped out to engage in any sort of participation, or even think of something to say. She may have felt morally obliged to stay there during the crisis, or merely have been too mentally inoperative to come up with any better idea than to remain in place.

Daisy returned quickly, put a piece of duct tape over the puncture, and blew the deflated thing back up. Handing it to Waylon, she said; “There. Almost like new. And it’s added another color to boot.”

Waylon said; “The patch is not going to hold.”

Daisy said; “You want to get punched? Try it!”

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Waylon pushed it gingerly. When it didn’t deflate he pushed it harder. This process went on a bit until Waylon was happily batting it all over the house.

When Waylon returned to feeling exuberant, one of his bats took the beach ball right into the china lamp which responded with a smash on the floor. “Whoops,” said Waylon.

“Yeah. Whoops indeed,” said Daisy. “Duct tape is not going to fix that. Let’s go outside.”

Waylon said; “That wind might kick up again.”

Daisy said; “You want to get punched?” And they went outside.

Waylon batted the ball and he and Daisy chased after it.

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