Sinister Shorts

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  She did it pussy it was Madame Caesar the neighbor but we'll never prove it said Gertrude Stein putting down her pen while Alice B. Toklas looked down from the upstairs window at Raymond the gardener who was clipping the roses with a snip and another snip and all the snips were precise. The Englishwoman was left handed and would not have shot herself with her right hand that is that is that is that but the right handed Madame Caesar will just claim the Englishwoman was right handed and the Englishwoman had no other friends here to say otherwise Gertrude Stein continued picking up her fountain pen a green marbleized Schaeffer and writing a homespun phrase over and over on a piece of paper which she then added to the immense stack of papers on the desk.

  Perhaps someone else did it and placed the pistol in her right hand I have seen Raymond the gardener seeing la petite Fleurette also and there is something about his seeing that smells like a fish or you know a bicycle and so on mused Alice B. Toklas whose mood had reverted to the placid practical usual domestic mood of Alice B. Toklas.

  So he is not the brother of Fleurette and he might be jealous of the attentions of the cameoed one with the plump lip nodded Gertrude Stein and reflected awhile. And as Gertrude Stein stared out the upstairs window at Raymond the gardener who was a good looking bootblack type as has also been said of Picasso Gertrude Stein made a sound that was jolly and robust and which came from the belly.

  But he is left handed too look how he snips his snipping clears him. He would have remembered even in haste to place the pistol in the left hand of the cameoed one things sometimes come clear in a simple homespun way if you have been seeing what there is to be seeing and that is that is that is that said Gertrude Stein interspersing her statement with many more jolly sounds from the belly.

  That is a relief I would hate for him to be sent away he snips the roses so well and there is such a servant problem said Alice B. Toklas who failed to see the humor as always.

  That is not the point pussy the point is that definitely it was the right handed volatile Madame Caesar who killed the Englishwoman said Gertrude Stein. Will you please send Madame Caesar our calling card stating Gertrude Stein declines any further friendship.

  Yes of course I shall send the card Raymond can take it but should we not also notify the constabulaire asked Alice B. Toklas.

  Regrettably we cannot prove anything but we have at least solved this small mystery to our moral satisfaction which is a relief replied Gertrude Stein. You see pussy all is mystery we live in the middle of something grand and terrible not knowing where we came from not knowing where we are going not knowing what we are doing here or if there is a here here. However in solving the case of the sheep eyed Englishwoman we are comforted by uncovering the small vivid truth which incidentally explains why the mystery story is the grandest and most cathartic of literary forms.

  Upon completing this statement the mood of Gertrude Stein darkened suddenly in the manner of geniuses. Gertrude Stein pooched out her lower lip while gazing upon the stack of papers and rubbed her august brow with her right hand muttering perhaps I should throw all this away and write a well plotted conventional mystery and made a sound of despair.

  There there let us forget it if we can't prove anything we can't prove anything replied the placid practical no longer sullen Alice B. Toklas who had a small dark downy mustache growing. Come here lovey look at the size of that rose he is cutting is it a rose it is as big as jodhpurs or a fish or a bicycle.

  A rose cannot be a bicycle observed Gertrude Stein rising from her chair and looking down from the upstairs window.

  A rose is a rose you can say that again said Alice B. Toklas stroking her upper lip where there was definitely a mustache growing.

  There is always something more if you have been seeing what there was to be seeing responded Gertrude Stein in her monk's haircut which imparted a dignity like that of Joan of Arc. I need to go back to my writing now pussy I think I am onto something that I am thinking and what I am thinking has to do with what you just said something about roses.

  Picasso and his second wife will be arriving at dinnertime said Alice B. Toklas do not forget. And we have to buy two chickens at the market Picasso likes my recipe for roasted chicken.

  Okay okay okay said Gertrude Stein. You made me forget what I was thinking something about roses I almost had it but now the thinking has turned to Picasso so shall we go and get the chickens.

  And they motored in the ancient Ford to Belley to buy chickens and perhaps they are still driving there talking about bells roses and bicycles. On the way Gertrude Stein who always drove and dreamed for the two of them turned to Alice B. Toklas and said will you always love me pussy even after I am dead and Alice B. Toklas replied oh lovey yes I said yes I will yes

  But that is another story.

  The Furnace Man

  Mrs. Rodriguez had her hand on the doorknob and had just swung her purse to her shoulder when the phone rang. She considered leaving it for the machine. But couldn't it be Geraldo, calling to tell her he was sorry? In spite of the unlikelihood of it being Geraldo, who didn't operate that way, who generally fumed for a few days, then brought her flowers, but never ever admitted any wrongdoing, she ran back into the kitchen and picked up the portable phone, out of breath.

  “Uh, hello, Mrs. Rodriguez. This is Clean-So-Well Heating and Plumbing. How are you today?”

  She was disappointed. You like to think a man can grow and learn. Why should she always be the one to make peace? She did a fine job running the house, and if once in a while, she blew the budget, well, that was life. Something of a crapshoot. But her husband didn't agree. He disliked uncertainty, and, even more, debt. So they couldn't pay off the card this one month. How frivolous was it for her to buy some clothes she needed, and the kids needed, that they could afford, that they could pay back next month out of his raise?

  She heard the breathing of the man on the other end of the phone. She never knew what to say to these strangers who called. Was there some polite way to tell them to get lost? “Fine,” she said, stalling.

  “We have a sale on. We'll inspect and clean your furnace and your ventilation system for sixty dollars off this month.”

  The house had central heating, and she vaguely recalled a furnace in the basement. She supposed these things required maintenance. In their five years in this house, she could not recall any occasion when they had had the system cleaned. This was their first real home, and she'd talked Geraldo into buying it against his instincts, back when he would still cave in to her sometimes. How she loved it, with the red geraniums in window boxes outside her kitchen windows, and three perfect bedrooms, one peach, one blue, and one pink; with its white see-through curtains in the living room and the worn golden maple of her mother's dining set. Probably, they ought to try to keep the air fresh during cold weather, when all the doors and windows would be closed.

  “Time to think about cranking that thing up for winter, wouldn't you say?” the furnace man went on. He had an unusual voice, nasal and unpleasant, almost funny if it wasn't for his deadpan delivery.

  “Well, I don't know.” She was acutely aware that her mother was waiting for her. Wednesday was grocery day, and she always took her mother to the shops to help her get what she needed. She always did her best for everyone. Why couldn't Geraldo see all that she did to make everything nice and homey for all of them? She would do anything for her family, anything.

  “You know how dusty the vents get,” he said as if she hadn't spoken. “There's fire danger, of course. We'll replace the filter as part of the service.”

  She felt helpless in the grip of such certainty. This was exactly how it went with Geraldo. He would bully and insist. She would give in, because most things weren't worth fighting about. And she only got her way if she was willing to put up with the flack that followed any decisions she made without his sanction. “I'll think about it,” she said.

  “Why don't I call you again in a week or two, then?”

  “Whatever,”
she said, hanging up with relief, practically running out the door.

  Two weeks later, she returned exhausted from her shopping trip with her mother, made a pot of coffee, and sat down with the morning paper to give herself a break before the kids got home from school. Her mother had been really aggravating that morning. Physically a very large and intimidating woman, she had lost the good humor she used to have, and was awfully cranky and difficult on these outings.

  Today, she had jumped on a grocery boy for the way he stacked cans up too high for her to reach. When he shrugged in answer, she pulled a can out of the middle of the stack, sending the green beans rolling around the floor, stepping neatly out of the way herself while the boy took a few on the legs. Really, it was a sight, Elena thought, able to laugh a little now, all those dented cans rolling up the aisles toward the other outraged shoppers. Her crafty mother had run to the boy full of charm and gracious apologies, a game she played to keep people off balance and off her case. By the time they left, the manager was thrusting free canned foods into their bags.

  Her mother's policy was do whatever you have to do to get what you want.

  She sipped her coffee, worrying about Geraldo. He had come home late the night before, as he had for the last several weeks, ever since that big blowup about money. This time, there had been no flowers. And now she had the hassle of knowing the credit card bill would be coming again, maybe today, and he would see more charges there that they could not pay. She didn't understand it. She did everything she could to keep things going right. How could it all be going so wrong?

  Her job was to keep the household in order. He didn't understand or appreciate what that involved, no man did. How could you clean windows without paper towels? How could you eat without napkins? He suggested rags, like his mother had used, and cloth towels, which needed laundering, soap, and more time she felt she didn't have to devote to such a level of trivia. He wanted her to be at home with the kids, he said, but they couldn't afford it, now that the kids were in school. He kept mentioning how their neighbor Rosa had found a job at the unemployment department, like he wanted her to do that. As if she could possibly hold a job now-doing what? Work as a secretary again for low wages with some jerk boss, and then come home and keep everything organized with three little kids? He was dreaming!

  Who would get the clothes clean, the beds made, the groceries bought, the house tidy, the record-keeping done, the phone calls made? Who would be here when the kids got home, when the cable repair-people came, or the washing-machine repair-people, or the delivery people? Who would make sure they all ate fresh-cooked, healthy foods, and make good lunches to take to school? Who would make breakfast, with her up and running to get out the door at the same time he did every morning? Geraldo? She didn't think so. She hopped up, heading back into the kitchen to rinse out the pot and figure out what to give the kids for a snack. The phone rang.

  “Mrs. Rodriguez? Fare-Thee-Well Plumbing and Heating here. I talked with you a couple of weeks ago about cleaning your furnace, and you asked me to call back and remind you.”

  She instantly recognized the voice. But could she possibly have asked this man to call back? They couldn't afford to have the furnace cleaned.

  “You'll save money on your heating bills because your furnace will run more efficiently with a new filter,” the horrible voice continued, sounding like Pee-wee Herman, exaggeratedly insinuating. How did he know what she had been thinking at that exact moment? It was eerie. If only Geraldo were as tuned in to her thoughts.

  She giggled.

  “When was the last time you had your furnace cleaned?”

  She had no idea. Probably never. But if she admitted it to this man, he would have her where he wanted her. “Recently,” she said firmly.

  “This is something you should do every year,” he said just as firmly.

  “I'll have to talk to my husband,” she said, mad at herself the second she spoke the words. She hated women who resorted to this old cop-out. As if she couldn't decide whether to have the stupid furnace cleaned if she wanted to.

  But here was an excuse that always worked with men. “I'll call back then,” he said.

  “No, don't!” she cried into the dead phone.

  That night, for the first time since they had gotten married, Geraldo didn't come home at all.

  “Mrs. Rodriguez? How you doing? Do-Well Heating and Plumbing here. You wanted me to call so that we could schedule a time to clean your furnace and ventilating systems.”

  He had awakened her. It was the middle of the afternoon, rainy and gray outside. The kids were going to after-school sports, so they would be having dinner late. She hadn't been sleeping well since this trouble with Geraldo, so she had put her head down for just a minute, after washing the kitchen and bathroom floors.

  She had been dreaming about something-oh, yes. In her dream, they lived in a house surrounded by green hills, with church steeples in the distance, like a picture out of her youngest son's fairy-tale books. She had found an extra room in this dream house, a room just for her, where she could keep her things. She had been gathering her things when he called, her photographs, the little desk where she kept her bookkeeping and coupons tucked, a comfy armchair. A large picture window in the room looked out into the distant half-green, half-blue landscape. If she could just get all her things in there, into this haven of peace and isolation, everything would be all right again…

  “Have you talked to your husband yet?” he asked.

  His affected voice had taken on a new, familiar tone, as if he were inquiring as a friend.

  “No,” she said, still not quite awake enough to tackle him straight on. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, throwing the sheet off her legs. “I forgot.” She stifled an idiotic impulse to apologize.

  “I'll call again,” the man said. “How about next week?”

  “Look, why don't you give me your number and I'll call you?”

  “You can't call me,” he said. “I'm on the phone all day. So I'll just give you a call…”

  “Don't call back!” she said quickly, before he could hang up, before they had a plan together.

  “Well, now, why is that, Mrs. Rodriguez?” the voice said, hurt.

  The nerve!

  “Good-bye!” she said, hanging up the phone. She fell back onto the pillows, and pulled the sheet, then the comforter up around her, mad that such a nice dream had been interrupted like that. Didn't these people realize you had a life outside of their problems? From his point of view, she was this lazy good-for-nothing housewife who had nothing better to do than spend all her time considering what else needed doing to perfect this house that took all her time already and was eating them up with its needs and its extravagances!

  Was it her fault the roof leaked? Was it her fault mice had crept into the basement and were nesting in the old dryer down there? And heating cost so much? Was it all her fault they had three children who needed a safe, warm house, clothing, food, books, and a father once in a while?

  She couldn't get back to sleep. Combing her hair, she stared into the mirror at the face of a woman she barely recognized. She had gained a lot of weight since she had married. Diets didn't seem to help. Age had taken the soft prettiness Geraldo had once loved and left a middle-aged lady with hard lines around the eyes and mouth, in a housecoat in the middle of the day, hardly able to get out of bed. Geraldo had noticed and judged.

  Funny how he remained so possessive of her, quite jealous of men on the street who caught her eye, cockadoodling like a rooster if she even once looked back. Old habit, she guessed. He could get really angry and impossible, irrational even, on the topic of other men, so she was always very careful not to trample his male ego. Yet here he was anyway, slipping away from her.

  She could get him back. Rallying, she put on some tights and a big clean T-shirt. She would hop on the Exercycle. She had just enough time before the kids got home.

  Propping a book on a stand near the stationary bike, she began ped
aling. She pedaled hard, so that the sweat broke out on her forehead and ran down her face. With one hand, she picked up the book, turning the pages as she finished, skimming, mostly absorbed in the workout her body was getting. Geraldo deserved something better from her, a better devotion. She knew it. She loved him and she was making him unhappy. She needed to work harder, do better. He had taken her checkbook and her credit card that morning, and left her with just a little cash. She had resented it, yes, but she would rise above it, not letting this petty garbage get between them.

  Sweating, pedaling, breathing hard, she resolved to work off the extra pounds, keep the house cleaner, even scrub the damn toilet bowls more often, and quit spending extra money he didn't think they could afford, even if she disagreed. It wasn't worth losing her marriage, just because he was a skinflint in some ways, and nagged her so much about her spending habits. He was a good father, the best, and had always been an attentive husband until recently. She would promise him no more wastefulness, no more frivolity, and stick to the bargain.

  She didn't think there was another serious woman in the picture yet. She still had time to work things out with him.

  She would get the kids to bed early tonight, put on a pretty negligee, and perfume. He had said he would be home early, so that they could talk. Instead, she planned to show him she remembered how to be a wife to him, in every way.

  She had answered the door without hesitation, thinking Geraldo must have misplaced his key. A strange man in a uniform with an emblem sewn above his pocket stood on the porch, staring at her nightie.

  “Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said. “It's so good to meet you in person.”

  She knew the voice, but couldn't place it. Aware of the darkness outside, the hour, and the skimpiness of her clothes, she tried to close the door, but the man had a toe in the way.