Reno Renaissance

By Margot Comstock

Pearl sat listlessly at the fourth slot in a row of five, in a sea of rows and columns. Three quarters of the slot machines were occupied, more by women than men, more older than younger. Pearl was somewhere in the middle agewise, she told herself, evading the reality of a sixtieth birthday three days away. Her chin pushed up causing her mouth to form a down-turned crescent. Her wandering, vacant eyes happened on those of a man and made contact, unwanted contact. Pearl relaxed her chin, tilted her head sassily, and turned with a small smile to the slot. She pulled the arm. Two cherries but a banana before them; no win. She glanced toward the man to find he had turned away. She sighed deeply, with no idea why.

It was cool in the casino. It was the only cool place in Reno to which Pearl had access. She had drunk too much in just about every restaurant and was either unwanted or too embarrassed to frequent them. No longer. She had quit liquor two years ago, cold turkey, and had stuck to it. She'd told no one. Just as alcohol had kept her going for all those years, knowing she had beaten it, by herself, no help, kept her going now.

She'd also given up blackjack; well, actually, blackjack had given her up. Pearl had a knack for numbers. Before, she'd gotten real good at counting cards, even in multiple packs. She'd begun to win regularly. She'd started to save. And the bigger her balance grew, the more she wanted. She bet higher and won. Despite her heavy drinking and smoking, her bank account flourished. She became confident, she preened, she celebrated. The floormen noticed. Suddenly, she was banned from the blackjack tables in her favorite casino. Within a month, there wasn't a casino in Reno that would allow her to play.

She was sick. She began to drink more. She stayed home in her new, fancy apartment and drank. She decided to try the high ticket games, see if they would let her in those. They did. And, quickly, they took back all her money. She got behind on her rent, she wasn't eating, she wasn't going out. She was evicted. She had no car. She found places to sleep, hating it. Food was an expense she couldn't endure; the liquor she bought instead was cheap and deadening.

One predawn she'd wakened to a kick in her ribs. She barely moved in her stupor. The kick came again, and a harsh voice. "Move on, slut. You can't sleep here. Get up and get out." This was a kind person—he gave her time to pull herself together, grab her knapsack. She slunk off, hating him, hating everybody, craving, craving. The morning was relatively cool and she hardly noticed. She trudged on, wondering where the hell to go. As she walked, dawn brought the first rays of sun, not yet sweltering. The sun was warm, the breeze cool, the sparse trees bright and fresh looking in the early light.

Pearl's stomach tautened. She felt fear, but not the fear of people or of not having a place to sleep or a drink. Scared of this unwanted, yet vaguely familiar feeling, Pearl found a spot of grass by a tree and sat, looking around in fear. No, in need. Need? Of course she had needs--nothing new there. She saw the sunshine spreading, the long morning shadows, the leaves gently moving in the slight breeze. She felt like crying. Crying! No way, there was no room for pity. But she knew the feeling on her cheek was a tear. I don't like this, she thought. I don't need this. She scrabbled in her sack for the bottle, groping, near panic. She found it. It was empty.

It's been empty before, no big deal, she told herself. Her self wasn't listening. Her self was watching the sunlight on the casino's nacre facing. It was beautiful.

Pearl felt the innards clutch, full of butterflies. Butterflies! Good god. She watched herself raise her bottle to smash it on the pavement—and she watched her arm stop, lower it; and she went along when her self took the bottle to a trash can and dropped it in.

Okay, she said to her self. What do we do now. What are we doing?

I need to bathe, she thought, and her entire self focused on where she could go to get away with bathing.

She remembered a mission. She made her way there. She was hungry and torn. But she didn't ask for food. She found a man with a priest's collar, already there.

“Excuse me,” she said, mumbling.

The man looked at her skeptically and then gently. “Yes?”

Pearl pulled her body up to stand straight. She raised her head, and then, with enormous effort, she raised her eyes to his.

“I've quit,” she said. “I so need a bath. I wonder if you can tell me where I might be able to bathe.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then, slowly, he smiled and his smile was the second sunrise of this day for Pearl.

“Yes,” he said, “there is a bath here, and you are welcome to use it. Yes, you will feel much better.”

He led her through hallways then opened a door on a bathroom that had a shower-bath.

"Shower first," he said—no, Pearl thought, he's not ordering, he's suggesting—"then let the water go and fill the tub fresh for a bath." He showed her towels and soap. "Take your time, please. I will be nearby when you're finished; if you don't see me, just call Aldo."

“Aldo,” Pearl said, wondering where the hell she'd got a conscience, “I am not religious; I do not believe.”

“No matter,” he said, smiling again. “No matter at all. I won't try to convert you if you won't try to convert me.”

Pearl had a goddam tear in her eye again.

When she had showered and bathed, just the way he suggested, she looked for her clothes. Instead she found clean jeans and underwear, a tank top and a light sweat jacket. She cracked the door. She could see Aldo in the next room down the hall, busy with something.

“Aldo,” she called quietly, and again a little louder. He turned.

“Yes,” he said. “Those clothes are for you. Are they alright?”

“Yes,” she said, full of wonder.

“When you're dressed come and get me,” Aldo said. “The mission will be serving breakfast in about an hour. But, if I understood you correctly, I believe you'll need something before then. We'll scrounge something up.”

Pearl just stood there, peeking around the door.

“Go on, then,” Aldo said. “Get dressed!”

That's how it had happened, two years ago.

She had begun to help at the mission, helping in the kitchen, serving meals, doing odd jobs as they were needed. In exchange, or maybe just out of kindness, besides a small amount of spending money for her work, Aldo allowed her to sleep in the mission when she needed to and to take meals there. He talked to her sometimes, trying to help her find a direction. She hadn't found it yet.

This morning when she'd arrived at the mission door, she'd found it locked. It frightened her. She'd waited awhile. No one showed up. Eventually she heard sounds inside. She gathered her courage and knocked on the door.

"Sorry, the mission has closed. There is no mission here now," someone said through the door.

Pearl's heart sank, fear filled her stomach. She banged again.

"Wait!" she said. "Please, where is Aldo? I need to talk to Aldo."

After a pause and voices inside that she couldn't distinguish, someone said, "Aldo is gone. Aldo will not be here again."

And then, "Go away!"

Pearl'd sat on the stoop. The world was unreal, her world had turned to shit. She sat and sat, and the day got hot and hotter.

Finally she stood up, bent, fearful, hot, miserable. Well, she could deal with the heat. And she had gone to a casino, sat anonymously at a slot machine.

And now she was here in a casino again, not daring the tables, not wanting to. Just wanting the coolth. 

_____________________

Reno Renaissance appeared in the Summer 2009 edition of the twice yearly 'zine Riverbabble, www.iceflow.com/riverbabble/archives. It was the winning story for that issue. Another yippee! It's copyright©2009 by Margot M. Comstock, as are all the stories on this blog, unless otherwise noted.

Moving On

Moving On 
By Margot Comstock 
Doorknobs Winner  

She wants to dance, she longs to feel her body dancing, she lusts to dance. But her legs, her feet, are leaden. Her back, her groin beg, she feels that she's being torn apart. But she does not move.  

In her head she exhorts her body, Stupid immobility! Sloth of flesh! Although she hasn’t made a sound she thinks any minute her thoughts will be heard by the lovely, liquid dancers, and she feels their condemnation intensifying her own.  They dance by her, now the quickstep, now a paso doble, now the passionate tango—the magnificent tango—and she screams, wrenchingly, pitifully, hysterically, spewing anger and hatred in the primeval sound, condemning the dancers, god, and all evils, and most of all herself. 

She has made no sound. She has not moved. Her body, her soul, is on fire. Surely they must hear her, there must be flame.  A waiter places a glass before her, an elegant crystal martini glass. 

She is startled. 

“You look so lovely there, an island of peace in this maelstrom, yet sad. A beautiful woman should not be sad. I’ve brought you a cocktail. On the house.” 

Still she cannot speak; but, slowly, she reaches for the glass, raises it to her lips, and drinks of the ice-cold, crisp, sharp gin. The waiter, exorcist, smiles sweetly, and moves on. 

Her cerise dress reveals much but hides the bruises. More wait at home. But she won’t go home again, ever. Tonight—tonight she will dance.

---

First published in Doorknobs & BodyPaint, November, 2009. In each quarterly issue, there is a winner. This one was mine. Yippee!

The Second Wife's Inheritance

The Second Wife's Inheritance 
By Margot Comstock 

Sleeping by his wife on Halloween, in the house in Offley Park her great great grandmother had inherited 232 years before, a man dreamed of a giant tree. It's trunk told of a thousand autumns, yet its shadows weren’t frightening, its size comforting.

In his dream he saw a woman, lithe and lovely in early blush of midlife, run through the twilight fog to embrace the tree. The tree seemed to soften, fitting itself to her, bowing its branches as if protecting her.

So they stood, as they might have stood a hundred times, and the dark foggy Halloween night seemed filled with warmth and joy.

Suddenly great clouds gathered, lightning streaked, thunder crashed. As suddenly, the woman's face filled with an eternity of sadness and she melted away. The great tree shook and bent to one side and the other in the wind.

The dreaming man watched it groan and felt its pain. In the moment of his dream, seeing the woman, he had known love.

He awoke to a terrible crack of thunder and ran to the window. Outside a giant ash tree stood where no tree had stood for more than two hundred years. It thrashed and crashed and then fell upon the house, into the bedroom. As if to go halvers with fate, it missed the astonished man and crashed into the bed.

As he raced for help, he thought he heard a woman's laugh, light and joyous, full of love and relief at last. 

---

Another Doorknobs & BodyPaint flash-fiction story. First published: November 2002. Another illustration by Leila Rae, I think. I love trees.

The Fresh Shade of a Woman

The Fresh Shade of a Woman 

Margot Comstock 

The fresh shade of a woman sat on a trashcan watching Donovan Spade enter Shubert Alley. Instantly the ghostly form dissolved into ashes, distributing itself evenly over the cracked pavement like sawdust in a Village cafe. Cremated legs, arms, shoulders, head spread quickly and found their level like water, no part higher than another. 

Last week the living woman had danced with Spade in a nightclub in the clouds, Manhattan sparkling at her feet. Grief rent her soul for the life she had lost. She was cold in spirit, empty and forsaken. Silently she howled as sorrow wracked her; in her anguish she writhed and reformed and flew.

The storm of her misery spent, she went back to the trashcan and found it toppled over. She reached to right it but couldn't. Anger became fury; she railed at her awful state. 

The can trembled and rolled. Did I do that? She willed the can to roll. It did not. Disappointment refueled her anger and she exhorted the can to move. It shuddered. 

Three hours later, the can was upright. Only the dead might have seen the exhausted, triumphant spirit lounging against it. 

Donovan Spade exited the theater at midnight and, living though he was, saw the strange whitish ashes rise from the pavement and form the shape of the fiance he had thrown from high in the RCA Building days before. In terror, he ran from the Alley into 44th Street and there succumbed to retribution under a checkered cab.

 ______________________
This story first appeared on the web in Doorknobs & BodyPaint, at www.iceflow.com, in November 2000. It was my first foray into flash fiction, this one confined to 250 words. It was also my first attempt at horror or ghost stories. What fun it was to imagine! The illustration is, I believe, by Doorknobs leader, Leila Rae.  —MMC

So Good It Hurts

On a green hill bathed in sunshine, a very blond man sitting still on a chestnut horse suddenly raised his seldom used crop and struck his own boot with it. His fair, sculptured face drew in on itself.

“Damn!” he said to no one.

Below the hill, acres of grapevines rolled over the land, healthy, well kept. As he look out over his realm, his face softened, even glowed. How he loved the vines and the winery they served.

They were his, these marvelous vines, and the winery too. He was Adrian Graf, owner—hands-on owner—of Mia Sophia Winery & Vineyards, one of the most successful of the local boutique wineries in Sonoma County, California.

Times were not good for most businesses, for most people, really, in this new year of 2010. Mia Sophia was not hurting badly, and Graf was confident that his winery could ride out the world economic crisis. He was happy.

And then, just yesterday, he got what its purveyors assumed would be good news: a huge wine conglomerate made an offer to buy Mia Sophia, an offer so generous that it had to be considered. 

Graf didn’t want to consider it; he was content; but there were others about whom he had to think. First among those was his wife, Sydney. If one man can feel both a thrill at the very thought of his lovely wife and despair of her in the same instant, then Adrian Graf was the proof. 

Sydney Hallas, his wife of twenty-three years, was stunning, brilliant, and endlessly intriguing. She was also ambitious; that was the rub. Sydney would leap at the offer; Sydney would not consider—would not countenance his considering—not accepting the offer.

They would be wealthy beyond imagination. They would be free to do whatever entered their minds without even thinking about expense. Sydney would love it.

He understood. She had been poor as a child. Abandoned by her mother, she had been raised by her father, a good man who worked only to see that Sydney had every advantage. He believed in education; he spent all his money to send Sydney to top schools, from grade school on. She was an excellent student; but he had no extra money to provide her with the accoutrements her classmates considered important. It was no wonder she valued wealth.

He supposed that he might feel the same way, in her shoes. And, until now, it was no problem. He loved being able to provide her all the things she enjoyed. But this was too much; this meant giving up his life—the life he loved. Were he alone, he would refuse the offer. Probably. He hates to think it, but Syd is the problem, the conflict: she'll want it so much; more than that, she'll expect him to leap at the offer. Adrian loves his wife. He's proud of her, he loves to make her happy. But the price of making her happy this time will be his giving up what he loves most about his life: his work, his family heritage.

“C’mon, Bucky,” he said to his horse, “let’s have one fine ride on this fine day, and leave our troubles ‘til later.” Taking a deep breath and letting it go and with it the moment’s worries, he clicked his tongue to his teeth and Bucephalus set off at a nice easy lope. Up and down the gently rising vineyards, taking the wider lanes between vines, enjoying the sun, and the blue sky, and the earthy smell of grapes and growing.

And so man and horse do, letting troubles go, feeling the soft beauty of the day. But before long Adrian feels the sense of dread returning, constricting his breathing, tensing his face, almost nauseating. He knows he has to deal with it. He has to deal with it.

***

He and Bucky have gone beyond the vineyards into a small woods. Adrian pulled Bucky up beside a gentle spring-fed stream. The sound of the water soothed the man. What if he just declines the offer and never tells, well, anyone. Why not? Of course, Lew knows; but Lew doesn't care, not about the money; he's already fixed for life. Just say no, let it go. The thought felt like a reprieve. 

He dismounted, made a cup of his hands and drank of the clear, sweet water. Bucephalus noticed and drank too. It was a moment of peace and joy. And then the moment passed.

It won't work. He remounted his horse. He can't decline the offer and expect it to stay a secret. The PD would report on it, especially if the offer were then made to another winery. Others would talk. And even if not, his conscience wouldn't let him keep the possibility from his wife.

No, there was no easy out. He turned Bucky back toward the house. He’d have to tell Syd. And once he had, then, face it, Adrian, he said to himself, he’d have to accept the damned offer.

Well, he was sixty years old, other people thrilled at the idea of retirement at sixty, freedom is how they saw it; no financial worries, time to do all sorts of things they’d dreamed of. What things? he thought. What do I dream of? I've been living my dream.

***

What it's all about

If you like, follow along as some folks invented for a different project try to find their way in their fictional life alone. Well, not quite alone. What you'll run into, if you choose to visit, is a bunch of characters in the making, and, once basically made, changing as the world around them changes. These are pieces of what might become short stories or even full-length works. Or not.

Nevertheless, cast out from their original context, you'll meet Adrian Graf and Sydney Hallas, owners of Mia Sophia Winery and Vineyards in Sonoma County, California; Gabriel Beasley, their lawyer, and his wife Kate, an interior decorator in San Francisco, and their kids; Earl Winthrop, a quasi-journalist with a big opinion of himself; Claude Galen, a once-famous doctor who now spends his life anonymously helping homeless people; and many more in the present. And you'll learn about Graf's family in the past and the terrible secret they never told.

Okay, that's what's on its way. Won't be daily, but now and then.

The very first bit follows immediately. The, stay tuned if you like.

I bid you peace, cheer, and love.