Past Midnite: A New Publication
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Nice birthday present for yours truly, this book arrived in the mail this afternoon, a copy of the new issue of RiverSedge, a literary journal published by the University of Texas-Pan American Press. Libby's Foot is a short little story, 1,500 words, and was originally published in 1999 or so in Nebo. Here's the story in case you feel like reading:
Copyright 2002 G.D. Peters
LIBBY'S FOOT
by
G.D. PETERS
Libby's foot protrudes tranquilly from beneath lace-edged covers printed with lilacs and roses, a slender, delicate organ which perfectly represents the rest of her, lying quiet as a mist of spring rain in the twilight of early dawn. The toenails are painted a deep blood-red, fastidiously groomed with great care and precision in a hue which rivals the crimson lip gloss she wears when she is making love. The toes are soft and elegant, devoid of barnacles and calluses which mar the feet of the most beautiful of women. But Libby has been kind to her feet, sparing them the torturous cramming and stuffing into tight-fitting pumps and heels which is so common among those who have been less vigilant with their physical well-being. In this matter, at least, Libby has not been careless.
The top sheet slopes away evenly, defining with its gentle curve the lovely shape of a milk-white calf, the well-proportioned fullness of her leg, one knee drawn into a half-fetal crook which accents the comely shape of her bottom.
At Libby's waist the sheets are gathered in a series of tight folds where her left fist clutches firmly to the smooth linen, pulling an irregular panel taut in a crisp shroud which catches at the base of her elbow. Her fingers are graceful and pretty, the nails well-manicured, painstakingly polished with the same enamel which graces the toes. As petite as is the hand, the grip which it maintains on this section of fabric is deceptively strong; one can see a taut contraction of carpal tendons beneath the cream-smooth skin. There is a noticeable tan line on the finger where a wedding ring is usually worn.
Down on the avenue a milk truck grinds to a halt, its hydraulics gasping and spitting as it eases two tons of white cargo to the curb. The driver holds a clipboard, noting the time and date. He will rest while the crates are unloaded, his role fulfilled once delivery has been made.
On the dresser against the wall is a wedding picture, matted and framed with loving care and proper regard to symmetry and balance. The matting matches the hand-embroidered antiquity of Libby's dress, the ebony frame the crisp elegance of the groom's tuxedo. The photograph shows a laughing Libby, holding aside her veil with a free hand, her mouth open, prepared to accept a traditional offering from the grand wedding cake.
As morning light begins to filter through drawn shades it is possible to discern the outline of Libby's clothing, which has been haphazardly discarded, piece by piece it would appear, on the wine- colored, braided oval rug beside the bed. A skirt lies close upon the footpost, its pleats uncharacteristically disarrayed and rumpled. Libby spotted the skirt in a small boutique last winter while vacationing in the Caribbean and asked if she could buy it. She needn't have asked; when have I ever denied her anything she might have wanted? Her white cotton panties lie at an odd angle at the foot of the night stand, rolled into the shape of a figure eight, the mathematical symbol for infinity, the way ladies' panties become when they are hastily removed.
The time changes on the old dinosaur of a clock Libby keeps on the night stand, a pre-digital remnant from her college days whose hinged panels flip down like Rolodex cards to reveal a new top and matching bottom; it is no longer 4:57, the top half of the "7" having swiveled to reveal an "8." Although it is outdated, this early electronic relic has proved steadfast and reliable, two admirable qualities, even in a clock. Certainly they are desirable in a person, especially if one loves her and has pledged to her one's lifelong devotion.
Out on the avenue milk crates roll from the cargo hold down stainless track rollers to the sidewalk, there to be caught and stacked by a grocery clerk. A fire engine turns the corner coming off the avenue, the unique purr of its motor unmistakable even at a distance, and begins to slow as it nears the firehouse, its air brakes audible as a series of sighs. The warning beep sounds thinly through the early morning quiet, meep...meep, serving ample notice for all to stand clear as 44 Engine backs into its hangar. It is almost as though this tone echoes through the room.
From a vantage point at the foot of the bed one can view the silhouetted outline of Libby's graceful figure as a bas-relief of lulls and rises ebbing and swelling beneath the top sheet. In this position, with one leg raised and the other extended to a length, her torso bent slightly at the waist in a runner's crouch, Libby resembles the sprinter streaking toward the finish line, this taut section of linen the ribbon she will break the moment the line is crossed.
As daylight slowly invades the shadowy realm of twilight, one is able to see the area surrounding the bed. On the floor to the right an overturned wine bottle reclines, the remainder of its contents seeped well into the Persian rug which covers the open area of the floor, a red stain soiling the earthen beauty of this charming artifact. One half-empty stem glass stands beside the clock atop the night table on Libby's side of the bed. Another, on the other side, has been broken amid some confusion, its jagged shards scattered on the floor beneath the window. On this side, as well, are more discarded clothes: a pair of trousers, one leg balled beneath the rumpled heap, the other extended toward the bed. A long-sleeve shirt is there as well, but one sleeve has been removed; it lies there disfigured, no longer able to serve the purpose for which it was created.
Above the point where Libby's elbow catches the edge of the sheet it falls away in a series of loose waves toward the headboard, a fine antique of hand-carved oak symbolically representing the cycle of life in its depiction of the lunar phases: crescent-, quarter-, half- and full moons, beautifully crafted and side by side.
A new driver is being trained at the helm of 44 Engine, his persistent attempts to dock the craft audible as a series of engine heaves and warning tones as the great vessel is backed repeatedly through the threshold, whose brick facing is painted the traditional bright red, its open bay inviting the union with brass and steel and two hundred feet of fire hose.
Another panel flips on Libby's clock, mechanically illustrating the passing of a limitless series of moments with a single gesture representing one finite number. Only for one instant, infinitely shorter, actually, than a nanosecond, was it truly 4:59. The panel will remain unchanged, however, while time presses onward, ever streaking across the firmament toward Armageddon, infinite and eternal.
If only the earthly condition would remain so constant, how much simpler life would become. As it is, however, this life is not very simple at all, it is a complex fusion of hopes and fears, of promises and desires, a twisted mass of give and take and borrow and steal, gnarled and bony, rooted only in self-gratification and fueled by the instinct for survival. In the face of this, one's heart stands helpless against the armament of unforgiving love.
Thus, when the battle is waged and the challenge thrown down, one can only run for cover or take up the gauntlet and engage the grave disease. One choice is for the cowardly, the second a simple reflex in the quest for self-preservation. I have only myself to blame for my predicament, and will surely be in some trouble when this is done.
The outline of Libby's ample breast can be seen pressing up from beneath the sheet, which falls in a loose fold across her bare shoulder. That is all that is left of Libby here on the bed. There is a stain at the top of the sheet, spreading like ink drops in water at the end of her neck where her pretty head, which now is gone, once rested. The head now is over here, in this corner, on the lap of Edgardo where I have placed it. Edgardo's eyes are wild with fright above the gag which I have tied about his head, fashioned from the sleeve of his shirt, to keep him silent while I work. He sits wriggling in the chair, naked (as I found him), arms and legs bound tightly and Libby's severed head upon his lap, worrying, too late now, over what I am about to do.
THE END
Hope you liked it; you can read the rest of my published work on my Fiction Page.
Posted by cronish at July 16, 2002 03:57 AM