Page 2 of 9 FirstFirst 12345 ... LastLast
Results 21 to 40 of 167

Thread: Summer's End

  1. #21
    "Come on, Aimee! Sheesh!"

    Jim paid the cabbie, and climbed out, still rubbing his shoulder with no shortage of melodrama. Aimee had a fist like a brick and had caught him just so; the bone would be throbbing for ages, he just knew it. His humble backpack was tossed over his uninjured shoulder, and he joined Aimee, who was peering through the gate. Beyond, there was a large house with an expansive drive; it had tall glowing windows, twin garage doors, and a picturesque balcony in the middle. Framed by looming maple trees, Jim's home smacked of every extravagance; even its steep sloping roof was needlessly propped up by creamy white columns, like a poor man's Acropolis. Jim looked deflated.

    "Somewhere in California, right now, Alex Kaine has just puked his guts out. Help me over the gate, will you, Aimee?"
    Last edited by Jim Lewinski; Oct 22nd, 2013 at 03:52:47 PM.

  2. #22
    "Very boo-schwa-zee, Jim," she said as they stood at the large gate that enclosed the driveway, clearly marking where Yours and Mine were separated. However, she easily scaled the decorative iron, stopping to drop her backpack on the other side and give Jim and hand up. Their sneakers hit the driveway in unison, and she trailed behind him as he resolutely approached the mansion.

    The mansion! Jim was a rich kid! Aimee tried not to goggle at the back of his head, or at the huge house, or the manicured lawn - actually there wasn't really anywhere to look. She squared her shoulders, feeling acutely aware of the travel stink she must have all over her, and jogged a bit to catch up to Jim.

    is purple your favorite color?

  3. #23
    "Yeah, well, it's not really me," he said, dismissively, an impressive feat when in the shadow of such a house, "Actually, it ain't really my old man, neither. It's more..."

    From inside the house, there came a scream which turned Jim's blood cold. It was joined, subsequently, by a chorus of piercing shrieks, giving the distinct impression that somewhere within his home there was a gaggle of geese being brutalised. He stood frozen, his key in the door, until the screaming subsided. Then he wilted with dismay.

    "Shit! It's Tuesday," he elaborated for Aimee's sake, "Cribbage night."

    There was a click, and the front door swung open without fuss. They were greeted by a wide open foyer with cream walls and a varnished mahogany floor. An ornate Iranian rug occupied the middle of the floorspace, to the right, a staircase curled up to the second floor, and on the left, there was another staircase which curved downwards into the basement, where the dying crackle of laughter could be heard. Jim advanced a step, whereupon he halted, and over his shoulder he tossed his companion a look full of regret.

    "Shoes. Sorry," he said, as he tossed his own sneakers aside.

  4. #24
    "I'm sorry too," she said quietly, "Your feet reek." Aimee shucked her shoes, and wrinkled her nose as she took off her socks too, stuffing them down into the toe of the warm and slightly damp sneakers. "Mine do too, you're in good company."

    Jim's newfound backstory had temporarily shocked her out of the emotional funk that had clung to her the entire trip, and she curiously followed him toward the basement staircase. The rugs were plush, the wooden floor smooth as silk, and the staircase was carpeted in a light cream as they decended toward the sounds of laughter. Aimee trailed a hand along the dark wooden bannister. Everything was lit sumptuously, even the staircase to the basement. Jim seemed to be dreading the coming encounter, and she put her hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

    Then a thought struck her. "Jim, they know we're coming, right?"

  5. #25
    "Uh, why would they know?"

    Halfway down the stairs, Jim fired Aimee a look of such bewilderment that she might as well have suggested braiding his hair. When they reached the bottom, the carpet underfoot was replaced with hard slippery marble, and the walls on either side were panelled with wood. It was a long room, warmly lit, with a bar on one side and a large round table in the middle. There were three women at the table, sloshing cocktails and squawking at each other over handfuls of cards. Jim steeled his nerves, and just as he was about to make his advance, a fourth woman sprung up from behind the bar with a large bottle of gin. She spotted them, her lazy smile faltered, then she shrieked in fright. There was a crash as the gin bottle shattered at her feet. The rest of the women went rigid in their seats, heads swivelling, like a mob of alarmed meerkats. But there was only one that did not succumb to theatrics. Jim gave a sheepish grin.

    "Hey, mom. I'm home!"

  6. #26
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "Jimmy?"

    Slowly, Francine rose out of her seat. She clutched the edge of the table for support as she stared, in stunned silence, at the teen duo that had appeared at the other end of the room. The boy was unmistakeably her son, and the other thing that was with him - well, she had no idea what that was. The silence became tense, drawing out a nervous flutter of laughter from Jimmy, and the air around them was stifling. On the periphery of her vision, Francine spied her friends staring in ravenous curiosity. Suddenly, she melted, and closed the distance between her and her son at a swift trot. Arms at right angles, she took him in a stiff embrace, and held on until there were sniffles coming from the card table.

    "Jimmy! I can't believe it! You're home!" she said, dreamily, and then with her gaze fixed upon her son, added: "Who's your little friend?"

  7. #27
    "Mom, this is Aimee. She's a friend from LA."

    Jim retreated a step, partly to facilitate his introduction, mostly to evade his mother's potent breath. It was true what was said about the sense of smell being the strongest memory trigger. In an instant, it all came back to him; the parties, the strangers, the shameless gin-soaked caterwauling, the tears, and then the hangover. One of the women at the table, a skeletal redhead emblazoned in gold jewellery, was sniffing and flapping spindly hands at her face. The other woman he recognised as Vivian, his mother's longest-serving cribbage companion, a tall and formidable woman with broad shoulders, a proud tower of silver hair, and a chin like a dagger. He had no idea who the one behind the bar was, tiptoeing, as she was, over freshly-broken glass. Despite all the hoopla, he glanced back at his friend, and gave her a smile he hoped very much was reassuring.

    "Aimee, this is my mom."

  8. #28
    Aimee wanted to hide behind Jim, or better yet run away from the awkwardness. Jim shot her a cadaver's grin, spots of pink appearing on his pale cheeks from either embarrassment or the combined warmth of four alcoholics, and she gave his mother a little wave. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Lewinski."

    She could feel the eyes on her, a familiar feeling that she had almost gotten used to, and bit her lip. "Sorry if we startled you."

  9. #29
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "Call me Francine. Mrs. Lewinski makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy!"

    Rattling machine gun laughter punctuated her words. Francine swiped a dismissive hand at the purple girl, manicured nails flashing like bloody talons, and quickly retracted it in case she expected a handshake. Thereafter, she started to fidget; thumbs twirling, fingers interlocked; the smile was cemented to her face. Another painful beat of silence before Francine remembered her manners. She gestured to the women around the table.

    "Jimmy, this is Alice, my new doubles partner. Of course, you know Vivian. And the one who broke my last bottle of Hendrick's is Sylvia - she is engaged to media mogul Armand Levinson."

    There was a diplomatic inflection in her voice when she said that, as if the act of name-dropping somehow negated the shortcomings of the butter-fingered bimbo. Alice beamed shamelessly through her tears. Vivian, who was perched hawk-like over her cards, unpursed her lips long enough to smile. And Sylvia wrestled with her shoes. That done with, Francine turned back to the teens, hands held aloft. All that was missing was a "Ta-dah!" In the renewed silence, she took another fleeting glance at the purple girl, then to her son she gave a manic, wide-eyed smile.

    "Let's go upstairs! You must be exhausted, and hungry. Do you eat? Go! Go!"

  10. #30
    Inwardly, Jim winced his way through the entirety of his mom's stilted chatter, and was thankful in the end to be ushered swiftly away from the old birds and the whiff of gin that engulfed them. There were, however, ugly connotations to the urgency of their departure. He saw how she had looked at Aimee, or, more to the point, not looked at Aimee while they were downstairs. Perhaps it was only after years of experience that he was able to decipher the subtext in each of his mother's actions, while, to a layman like Aimee, it would all go unnoticed like phantom rays beyond the spectrum of her understanding. He could only hope.

    First into the parlour, then the dining room, and then the kitchen, Jim lead the way while his mom plied him with tepid pleasantries and a running commentary on the recent renovations to each room. In the middle of the kitchen there was an island, above which hung a convoluted nest of pots and pans; Jim mounted a stool alongside it and kicked out a second in wordless invitation to Aimee. He watched his mom wander in, casting anxious glances about the room, hands still clasped firmly over her belly as if nursing a mortal wound. She met his gaze and stretched her smile another fraction, and he in turn did his best to reciprocate.

    "How have you been?"

  11. #31
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "Me?" she asked in surprise, "I've been fine. Great, actually. Guess who finally got that seat on the country club committee?"

    Index fingers flicked inwards, and then raised aloft in triumph, daintily poking the air. The reaction was disappointing. Jim's polite enthusiasm failed to reflect the stratospheric heights of her achievement, while his friend looked as clueless as she did misplaced. Francine gave a flick of her hair, and by the time her crispy curls had fallen back into place, she had skewered her son with a look of mischief. A solitary finger waggled in reprimand.

    "But you, Mister Gone-Without-A-Trace, what have you been up to, I wonder. No calls. No emails. And now, after all this time, you're back. Out of the blue. Just like that - poof! There's a story there, Jimmy. Maybe your little friend can tell me..."

    Whereupon, she had eyes only for Aimee:

    "So... what brings you back to New York?"

  12. #32
    Aimee blinked, surprised at being addressed. The pleasant smile she was attempting was getting stale, so she let it fade. "Um, well..." She looked at Jim and then back to his mom. "California is... The mutant registration, that is, and the rioting...

    "Ah, I mean, the house were were staying in has been condemned. We're both from New York so it made sense to come home until things are sorted out." Aimee hesitated, then decided that was enough of an explanation. She closed her mouth and shrugged.

  13. #33
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "Until things are sorted out?" Francine repeated her words in disbelief, and gaped at both of them, "You were living in a condemned building! Why on earth would you go back?"

    She slapped the worktop in amusement, and rocked forward, laughing like an asthmatic pig. What to her was a source of obvious amusement, had no such effect upon her son and his friend. Their blank and boring faces promptly sucked the pleasure out of the moment, and Francine's laughter evaporated with a sigh. Glossy nails tapped out her last dreg of patience.

    "So then," she fired up, sniffily, "..."

    "Aimee," said Jim.

    "Yes, Aimee. Where exactly do you call home?"

  14. #34
    "Brooklyn," she replied promptly, though she'd been tempted to say Hell's Kitchen just to see if she could coax another expression from Francine's botoxed face. "Born and raised. I lived with a bunch of different foster families before I ...left for the West coast."

    Aimee found her hands trying to smooth out her messy ponytail, and forced herself to return them to her lap lest she start imitating Jim's mom's nervous tics. "Um, Jim was nice enough to travel with me. It was a very, very long bus trip." She felt like she was trying to smooth out something between Jim and his mom, but she didn't know what it was and if she was doing more harm than good.

  15. #35
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "And... now?"

    There was apprehension in her voice, and her eyes ticked to her son.

  16. #36
    Over the course of the exchange, Jim had sensed this awkward moment barelling towards them with all the force of a freight train, and as his mother's gaze fell upon him, he became the proverbial damsel on the tracks. There was a beat of silence, in which even his own mile-a-minute thought process offered up no means of diverting the course of the conversation. In the end, he decided to tackle the matter like a stubborn bandaid: quickly, briefly, and with as little fuss as possible.

    "Actually, ma, I was wonderin' if it would be cool for Aimee to stay a while. At least until she finds her own place."

  17. #37
    Francine Lewinski
    Guest
    "Here?"

    The word was expelled like something rotten; immediately, and with great distaste. And the stretched saccharine smile snapped like a rubber band. It was an instant that seemed to go on forever, in which the masquerade came undone, and Francine's plastered mask cracked into a weathered network of wrinkles. And just as suddenly, everything was sucked neatly back into place. She was wearing the same manic expression she wore in the basement, just before she chased them upstairs. A cellphone was wriggled free from her chinos.

    "Your father!" she declared, prodding the tiny keys, "He doesn't yet know! I'll tell him the good news and join the girls while you get ready for dinner, young man!"

    After retreating a couple of steps, Francine turned away with a practised flick of her hair, obstructing the purple girl from her sight and her thoughts. She paused at the fridge to retrieve a bottle of vermouth, and as she left, her voice could be heard:

    "Joe, your son's home."

  18. #38
    Aimee's heart plummeted at the reaction of Francine, and she hardly knew where to look in the awkward silence that followed her departure. "Um," she managed, "I don't think your mom likes me, Jim."

  19. #39
    "What?"

    That was all that Jim could muster: a single squeak of disingenuous surprise. Denial, the last bastion of the foolish. His mouth fell open, ready to spew half-hearted reassurances until Aimee was buried up to her neck in them, but he found himself spent. It would have been an insult to lie, even to spare her feelings, and there was not a fragment of him left that was obligated to protect his mother. He gave a snort and shook his head.

    "Mom doesn't like anyone."

    He slid from the stool and wandered over to the fridge. The mighty doors gasped open, showering him in light, and squinting, like a startled mole, he burrowed inside. It took longer than he expected to find what he was after, tucked away amongst mountains of food, which was a shameful sight to see, following his time in Redención House. When he reappeared, he was holding a couple of beers. The bottles gave a hiss, and buckled caps tinkled on the worktop in front of them. Upon reclaiming his seat, he offered Aimee a beer, then drank deeply. It was a meager act of rebellion, like flipping the bird in Sunday school, with just enough edge to cut through the bullshit and wash it away. When he surfaced for air, he sighed. The tension seeped from his muscles like warm honey. And in his temporary state of bliss, he cast Aimee a sideways glance.

    "Am I an asshole for keepin' this from you?"

  20. #40
    "Nah," she said, sipping the beer. The carbonation tickled her nose a bit, making her wrinkle it to keep from sneezing. "I do know a drafty warehouse we can stay overnight in, if you like."

    Aimee looked at Jim as seriously as she could, then a giggle bubbled up, and she was suddenly laughing. The laughter soon overwhelmed the megre joke she'd told, and she could feel her emotions slipping away from her, her yellow eyes getting bright with water. She swallowed hard, stifling everything and putting her hand over her mouth until she was under control again.

    A deep breath, and she put the beer to her lips and drank until about half of it was gone. She hadn't cried about any ....any thing. Any of it. She wasn't about to break down in Jim's kitchen.

Page 2 of 9 FirstFirst 12345 ... LastLast

Bookmarks

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •