Stormy

I’m thinking of you tonight—the storm has knocked out the power and the house is dark and still.

I never noticed when the electricity was on, but there was always a steady background hum—appliances cycling off and on, central air gently rushing through the vents, the clothes dryer chiming.

Not tonight. Tonight, there’s only the oily glow of candles, lightning baring its arm, and a brief blue flare exposing the geography of clouds.

This is life the way you live it, in your stormy world. You stare at me from your portrait as if musing about why everything is suddenly peaceful.

I remember the first time I saw you—it was in Waterford at the antique barn. I turned a corner on the second floor, and there you were—gazing back at me, as you are now.

I was entranced from that first glance.

Mystery ladies have always intrigued me and the owner of the shop was mystified himself, but not by your beauty—he was perplexed at your portrait’s lack of provenance.

“I can’t rightly say how I came across it,” he smiled sheepishly, “I vaguely remember a woman selling it one rainy day—said she’d return and supply a full provenance but needed the money right away. I probably paid less than a hundred, and never saw her again.”

I shake my head, chagrined as well, knowing full well why he paid the money, and knowing full well why I’ll do the same.

I pay him two hundred dollars and leave with my dark lady.

I'm very careful to place her gently on the back seat of my SUV.

It begins to rain as we leave the parking lot, and by the time I get home it’s pouring.

“I should call you, Lady of the Rain,” I chuckle to her, as I lift her from the backseat and stare into her dark eyes. She almost seems to smile.

I hang her in the foyer, near the foot of the stairs, where she can see most of the first floor and out into the street. She’ll be the first thing I’ll see when I go in or out—and I’ll be able to glance over at her from my desk.

I’m a writer, and a hopeless romantic, so you know I’m going to endow this Lady with a personality. Already, I think I know her name—Stormy. If that’s not her name, it should be—she looks the part.

“Stormy,” I whisper to her—and again, the almost smile.

When Melody comes over later, I flippantly introduce the Lady to her as La belle dame Sans Merci.

Mel frowns and wrinkles her nose. “I get a bad vibe from this girl, Jay. She doesn’t like me—I can tell.”

Mel’s full name is Melody Bride—she’s my book shepherd, and the conductor of the symphony of my writerly life—orchestrating book signings, doing PR work, running interference with my publisher—and, if I may say so bluntly, interfering in my life.

“Aw, c’mon Mel—don’t be like that—I want you two to get along.”

Mel hates it when I oppose her. “What do you mean, she fumes, “always telling me not to be like that? You know how that expression upsets me.”

There’s a sudden boom of thunder—Mel screams from fright—and the picture crashes to the floor. I ignore Mel and run to examine the portrait—fortunately, only a bit of molding on the very edge of the frame is flaking off.

“Thank God,” I sigh, “I have to get this moulding restored anyway.”

“Oh well, I’m sooo glad your precious picture wasn’t hurt—Oh, that’s fine, don’t worry about me—I’m quite all right.”

Anger flares inside me and I feel a hot flush rising up my neck. “What the hell, Mel—of course, I’d be worried about the picture—it fell off the bloody wall, for god’s sake.”

“Oh, and I didn’t fall down or faint—just was scared half out of my wits.”

We both know where this is going, but before it does, Mel bolts out the door.

I’m left feeling justifiably incensed, and just as justifiably guilty. I’m a conflicted kind of guy and caught between two women is where you’ll find me most times—except, in this case, the one party, for all I know, is probably deceased.

Later, I scratch at Mel’s door and she opens thinking it’s Belle, her cat. I grin, pour on the charm and take her to dinner. All’s well once again in Jay Randall’s tiny perfect world—until the next time—and the time after that.

I feel my Dark Lady has a jealous passion for me and an obvious distaste for Mel. I know it sounds absurd, but I think the Lady in the portrait is somehow real—or a ghost haunting me and wanting to possess me as well.

The brooding Lady seems to affect the weather—it’s always raining locally—sometimes, just on my street. I have to admit I love rain—so I’m not complaining—it’s just really spooky.

If Mel comes to visit, for sure, something will spill on her dress, or the power will go off—we’ve had more power outages this month, than times when the power’s been on.

“Something there is that dislikes a Mel,” I grin, trying to make light of the situation, but she gets the allusion to Frost and one ups me while glaring at the portrait:

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” she says sarcastically.

Stormy returns her venomous look.

Caught between two lovers.

Uh yeah—crooning the tune does not lighten the mood and my charm is fast wearing thin.

“It’s either her or me,” Mel finally declares.

I want to tell her, don’t be like that, but wisely refrain—perhaps, a cooling off period would benefit all.

The Lady of the Rain is confined to the den—she pouts and it storms for a week.

Of course, the power goes off and I have to end up writing in a coffee shop with free wi-fi, and Mel refuses to drop by.

It will all calm down eventually, I tell myself, but it’s been three weeks now and I’m sitting here tonight, in the oily glow of candlelight.

I’m reminded of Thomas Hardy, forever embroiled in lover’s triangles, one vertex of the figure being his deceased wife.

I’m also beginning to wonder about past lives—wonder about the writer’s life—wonder whether the world should end in fire or ice…

In other words, I feel I'm going slowly insane and am entertaining fantasies of ending it all.

Anything would be preferable to this continuous rain, and its interminable tread outside my window.

I’m fast coming to a personal conviction: Hell can't be fire and brimstone—it must be a stormy place.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo