Disclaimer: I don't own FOP.
Chapter Six: Eleanor Rigby
She walks home, her eyes glancing every which way but on the path before her. This is her daily ritual, walking home in the twilight, the stars providing a peaceful background (Dimmsdale is a small city whose skyline has yet to be besmirched by pollution). Thus, she could be calm and collected as she strives to lose weight, albeit slowly.
"Oh! A Down 'Em Doughnuts!" Geraldine cries in sheer delight and stops on a dime (literally, her blue heel crushes it). Alas, the baby steps fall too far short. Perhaps this is too much to ask of a woman who would follow a sandwich tied to a string down the halls. Perhaps, it's simply because they built a Down 'Em Doughnuts where she lives because she lives there (she's known as a reputable source of income for struggling food businesses).
Staring at the delicious delicacies twirling in the window display, she gazes wistfully at the gigantic ten-layer strawberry shortcake engulfed in white, swirled icing and bedecked with monstrous strawberries. A price tag above it proclaims: "39.99. Real cheap!" Of course, her mind and her wallet are greatly swayed by this show and she unconsciously walks in the door to discover something that fills her with disappointment.
A quick peruse of her wallet reveals only five dollars in cash and no credit or debt cards in sight. Oh, the golden gargantuan cannot be hers, not at this time. Another day and hopefully another thirty-five dollars richer. Poor Geraldine fairly starves on her diet of pastries and junk food.
Closing her wallet (as all the employees' hearts sink, no raise in the immediate future) and stuffing it back into her large, tan, leather pocketbook, she strolls out to the street and proceeds, uninterrupted, to her house.
Levitt himself would have been proud. The prime example of a Levitt town house, Geraldine lives in a small white house with a white picket fence surrounding it, exactly two bedrooms (not a half one in sight), a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. However, unlike Crocker, who must face his mother when he returns, she lives alone, where any noise echoes maddeningly.
No wonder she likes Beatles' songs so much, they provide needed release, especially that song about the girl who lived alone, never married, and died alone. What's the name of that song again? It's on the tip of her tongue, she knows she's seen it recently...
Jamming her slender golden key into the slightly protruding lock, she leans against the white wooden door and slips inside. To greet her is the translucent glass vase containing a single white rose (a gift from one of her esteemed colleagues, not Crocker) and the mail, which has inadvertently trodden upon, splashing a "Les Gens" with mud from the park (it rained yesterday). No dog, no cat, nothing to rub against her and show affection. Alone...
Slipping off her shoes, she bends down, retrieves her mail, and strolls to the kitchen. The kitchen is painted yellow with a prominent Victorian polished wood table whose chairs conflict, metal fold up chairs minus the cushions (principals don't make much more than teachers). It has white cabinets lining the walls and a small white refrigerator on the right with double doors and an ice-maker. White countertops line the area beneath the cabinets and only a coffee maker sits upon them.
Throwing her mail on the table, she collapses into a chair which protests under her weight. Around her are reminders on the life of a middle aged spinster- the fridge is bare, devoid of children's drawings and various mementos. No husband to kiss her on the cheek as a greeting, no children to shout and call along the hallway. In school, she can pretend the kids are her own, with their petty squabbles and carefree days. Here, the illusion falls through.
"Oh, that Denzel Crocker is so groovy!" Geraldine gushes to her friends, a girl with long, plaited blond hair down to her knees, a yellow t-shirt with a heart on it, bell bottoms and a string of flowers around her neck and another girl with long, wavy, black hair which reaches to mid-back and a tie dye purple t-shirt hanging just below her waist and also wears bell bottoms. They stand in polite inattentiveness, sick of their friend, whom they may love dearly, yet both are weary of this topic. Day in and day out, Denzel this and Denzel that. If he's so great, they muse, then why did a mob try to run him out of town a year ago?
All three are in Geraldine's kitchen, the black haired girl, Michelle, and the towheaded girl, Mia, sitting, facing each other, clutching pink, flowered, metal lunch boxes. Geraldine stands, swooning, leaning back on the counter. A history textbook is open before them, outlining the end of World War II, what they are supposed to study, but homework only interests them for a limited amount of time.
"You've only told us a hundred times today!" Mia snaps, her temper shorter than Michelle's. Arms folded across her chest, she fixes a cruel gaze at Geraldine.
"That boy is so creepy," Michelle mutters, not bothering to spare her friend's feelings. Reminders once or twice a day of her love for him is all right, but she is at the end of her tether.
"No, he's not! He's sweet, caring, and..."Geraldine searches for another adjective, "...well groomed." Desperately, she tries to force the pain their comments cause her.
"Er, yeah. Sure," Michelle says, not meeting Geraldine's eyes. "Let's study."
Ironically, not much has changed. There, she sits, in the same kitchen as she had thirty one years ago, no school books in sight but studying all the same. Sure, there is no test in the immediate future, but she must prepare.
For what, one might ask. She prepares a way to survive their date. Oh, how she loathes shrimp puffs.
A pale blue (her favorite color) is the color of her bedroom, and a TV set, dressers, and a full length mirror to the right of her bed. The windows are slightly ajar, a cool night breeze blowing on her and the azure drapes billow slightly. On the door is a single coat hook where her suit for tomorrow, identical to today's, hangs.
Sliding in and out of consciousness, the thoughts prevail for the moment.
The ridicule I endured because of you, Geraldine reflects as she lays awake in her queen sized bed, her quilted comforter pulled up to her chest. Was it worth it? Is anything you do worth sparing your feelings?
Why do I continue to spare you? You're a psychotic moron, obsessed with fairies, and you always put the children and me in danger. You're rude, inconsiderate, and...
Slowly dropping off to sleep, the clock on her bedside table blinking a furious, red 10:30 p.m., she has one last, conscious thought. And yet...