(no subject)
My love, Isobel.
Living by herself.
_____
It was Sunday noon, and Mrs. Pickering was displeased. Her husband’s shuffling during the hymnals and muttering for brunch, the wrong order of danishes for the first communion reception, to the inappropriate floral arrangement by the altar; each ingredient bubbing into an estrogen stew at it’s boiling point. As if things couldn’t have been worse, she’d spilled her latte while narrowly avoiding some foolish child in the street, dropping her cellular phone and staining the SUV’s upholstery in soy and espresso. Taking a chunk of the lawn with her as she skidded over the curve, Mrs. Pickering was very displeased.
It had been a year and nature had begun it’s fertile work. Moss had cultivated around the doorbell and brass knocker, between the concrete crevasses of the patio. Babylonian vines, rich with leaves, threaded their way up the brick walls and picket fence; the lawn a wasteland of dandelion patches, dead grass, and hills of black ants. Mrs. Pickering fanned herself in the Texan humidity, feeling as though she were touring some demented greenhouse.
The lace curtains parted and two wide brown eyes stared out, receiving a perfunctory smile from Mrs. Pickering and a nod towards the petrifying door. A squeal of rust and the first scents of the kitchen prompted Mrs. Pickering’s monologue.
“Miss Isobel, it’s my duty as beautification commissioner of ‘White Flight Meadows’ pleasant community to inform you once again that painting your house silver is against ordinance three…”
The dry recitation was cut short as fingernails dug into the pale skin holding out another violation citation, pulling her into the house.
“Miss Isobel! That constitutues harassment and my husband is a lawyer. I’ll also warn you that I carry mace!”
“White Flight Meadows is really such a pretty name isn’t it? It always makes me think of doves and vanilla pudding”
“Miss Isobel!”
“I’ve told you before, darling, call me Isobel”
Like a strange faery she’s already pirouetted across the marble floor, and faced Mrs. Pickering, the petal of an amaryllis blossom between her index and forefinger.
“Miss Isobel, this is completely…inappropriate…if you ask my advice…”
Mrs. Pickering had seen the silver laquer as it slowly seemed to be turning the suburban home into some absurd aluminum fortress, but had never dared enter the house. All around her cats lounged on countertops and shelves to the extent which Mrs. Pickering was required to watch her step at the expense of a calico tail or scratching post.
“…If you ask my advice, I’d not manhandle others like some sort of heathen or…”
“Do you like my babies? There are thirty of them, babies say hello to the darling.”
A tabby nuzzled the crisp calf of Mrs. Pickering’s suit, and she sat down in an effort to contain her bewilderment. Isobel seemed almost to float across the kitchen, the white hem of her skirt and the black ribbon around her waist bouncing.
“Oh my, company, I’d love to break out my best stock for you darling.”
The granite countertop between was strewn with unopened letters and fliers, a bowl of congealed shredded wheat and a glass still caked thick with mandarin lees. Mrs. Pickering sized up Isobel as she rummaged through the freezer, curious which zinfandel or merlot she could possibly have pre-chilled for any odd guest. She was by no means unattractive, her face mimicking her feline counterparts in curious wonder and black hair a starless cold pouring over her shoulders.
“You certainly are a spectacle Miss Isobel, I’ll tell you that, you’d be surprised what some make-up and clothes that don’t make you look like some kind of pixie”
“Your too kind darling. I sewed it myself, out of a haberdash of things in my knitting room.”
Isobel stopped to finger the pearl brooch at her lapel, before returning to her search. Mrs. Pickering could hardly contain herself, for honestly, who would parade about in a patchwork white top and skirt, wrapped in a ribbon bible-black.
“You’re in luck my darling! There’s still plenty simply hiding behind Prometheus.”
“Prometheus?”
“He died just Wednesday.”
Isobel had already spooned herself two globes of ice cream from the bucket she’d removed and motioned it towards her guest.
“Darling are you, alright? You look a shade pale… I do promise it’s the best flavor Dulce du Leche. That means milk cream in spanish, did you know that darling?”
“Miss Isobel, have you lost your mind?”
“Perish my habits darling, perhaps darling is of a different persuasion. I picked up a fine Oreo blend you may prefer…”
“Miss Isobel! For god sakes”
“No darling, with real oreo pieces. The darling at the market swore to me so.”
“You can’t keep a dead cat in your freezer! It’s not right, it’s insane…”
“Just to keep him till the burial tonight, at full moon in the pet cemetary.” Isobel, sleeves cascading and mouth bulging with dulce du leche, motioned beyond the window to the backyard; a flander’s field of popsicle sticks in the dead grass, military formation.
“Miss Isobel, that breaks ordinance seven concerning organic materials in the…you know what? It just doesn’t have any sense or scruples. It’s bizarre. Are you on some kind of medication?”
Cont'd Later
Living by herself.
_____
It was Sunday noon, and Mrs. Pickering was displeased. Her husband’s shuffling during the hymnals and muttering for brunch, the wrong order of danishes for the first communion reception, to the inappropriate floral arrangement by the altar; each ingredient bubbing into an estrogen stew at it’s boiling point. As if things couldn’t have been worse, she’d spilled her latte while narrowly avoiding some foolish child in the street, dropping her cellular phone and staining the SUV’s upholstery in soy and espresso. Taking a chunk of the lawn with her as she skidded over the curve, Mrs. Pickering was very displeased.
It had been a year and nature had begun it’s fertile work. Moss had cultivated around the doorbell and brass knocker, between the concrete crevasses of the patio. Babylonian vines, rich with leaves, threaded their way up the brick walls and picket fence; the lawn a wasteland of dandelion patches, dead grass, and hills of black ants. Mrs. Pickering fanned herself in the Texan humidity, feeling as though she were touring some demented greenhouse.
The lace curtains parted and two wide brown eyes stared out, receiving a perfunctory smile from Mrs. Pickering and a nod towards the petrifying door. A squeal of rust and the first scents of the kitchen prompted Mrs. Pickering’s monologue.
“Miss Isobel, it’s my duty as beautification commissioner of ‘White Flight Meadows’ pleasant community to inform you once again that painting your house silver is against ordinance three…”
The dry recitation was cut short as fingernails dug into the pale skin holding out another violation citation, pulling her into the house.
“Miss Isobel! That constitutues harassment and my husband is a lawyer. I’ll also warn you that I carry mace!”
“White Flight Meadows is really such a pretty name isn’t it? It always makes me think of doves and vanilla pudding”
“Miss Isobel!”
“I’ve told you before, darling, call me Isobel”
Like a strange faery she’s already pirouetted across the marble floor, and faced Mrs. Pickering, the petal of an amaryllis blossom between her index and forefinger.
“Miss Isobel, this is completely…inappropriate…if you ask my advice…”
Mrs. Pickering had seen the silver laquer as it slowly seemed to be turning the suburban home into some absurd aluminum fortress, but had never dared enter the house. All around her cats lounged on countertops and shelves to the extent which Mrs. Pickering was required to watch her step at the expense of a calico tail or scratching post.
“…If you ask my advice, I’d not manhandle others like some sort of heathen or…”
“Do you like my babies? There are thirty of them, babies say hello to the darling.”
A tabby nuzzled the crisp calf of Mrs. Pickering’s suit, and she sat down in an effort to contain her bewilderment. Isobel seemed almost to float across the kitchen, the white hem of her skirt and the black ribbon around her waist bouncing.
“Oh my, company, I’d love to break out my best stock for you darling.”
The granite countertop between was strewn with unopened letters and fliers, a bowl of congealed shredded wheat and a glass still caked thick with mandarin lees. Mrs. Pickering sized up Isobel as she rummaged through the freezer, curious which zinfandel or merlot she could possibly have pre-chilled for any odd guest. She was by no means unattractive, her face mimicking her feline counterparts in curious wonder and black hair a starless cold pouring over her shoulders.
“You certainly are a spectacle Miss Isobel, I’ll tell you that, you’d be surprised what some make-up and clothes that don’t make you look like some kind of pixie”
“Your too kind darling. I sewed it myself, out of a haberdash of things in my knitting room.”
Isobel stopped to finger the pearl brooch at her lapel, before returning to her search. Mrs. Pickering could hardly contain herself, for honestly, who would parade about in a patchwork white top and skirt, wrapped in a ribbon bible-black.
“You’re in luck my darling! There’s still plenty simply hiding behind Prometheus.”
“Prometheus?”
“He died just Wednesday.”
Isobel had already spooned herself two globes of ice cream from the bucket she’d removed and motioned it towards her guest.
“Darling are you, alright? You look a shade pale… I do promise it’s the best flavor Dulce du Leche. That means milk cream in spanish, did you know that darling?”
“Miss Isobel, have you lost your mind?”
“Perish my habits darling, perhaps darling is of a different persuasion. I picked up a fine Oreo blend you may prefer…”
“Miss Isobel! For god sakes”
“No darling, with real oreo pieces. The darling at the market swore to me so.”
“You can’t keep a dead cat in your freezer! It’s not right, it’s insane…”
“Just to keep him till the burial tonight, at full moon in the pet cemetary.” Isobel, sleeves cascading and mouth bulging with dulce du leche, motioned beyond the window to the backyard; a flander’s field of popsicle sticks in the dead grass, military formation.
“Miss Isobel, that breaks ordinance seven concerning organic materials in the…you know what? It just doesn’t have any sense or scruples. It’s bizarre. Are you on some kind of medication?”
Cont'd Later