Gay’s Bio:

Gay Degani, a former community college instructor in English, lives in Southern California with her husband and ancient Labrador retriever. She's been published in two mystery anthologies, in THEMA Literary Journal and on-line at Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Online, Tattoo Highway, and Salt River Review. “Spring Melt” was a finalist for The 2nd Annual Micro Fiction Award and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. “Monsoon” was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s 2007 Fiction Open and “Wounded Moon” was short-listed for the 2008 Fish Short Story Prize. My blog is Words in Place and I am the editor of Flash Fiction Chronicles for Every Day Fiction.

Read my work online:
Losing Ground at Tattoo Highway, The London Eye at Every Day Fiction, Listing Lisa at Salt River Review, and Spring Melt is a 2008 Micro Fiction Finalist and a Pushcart Nominee.

Beyond the Curve

By Gay Degani

 

Three months after Allen Winter’s bicycle became a tangle of aluminum along Huntington Drive, his widow Carol moved into a small cottage along the Arroyo. The new property was tucked into a curve of the road, the narrow front yard closed off by white oleander and a six-foot iron fence. The path leading to the front door, visible at the gate, soon became invisible because like the street, it too was curved.

An alley ran along her walled-in backyard where an automatic gate spanned the driveway. She never left her car until the garage door slid down behind her.

Six months after Allen’s death, she finally began to breathe. She’d hung no pictures, none of Allen and none of their son. No art, although Carol herself was an artist of sorts. Jewelry. Stones and magnets. Maybe she’d do something about the empty walls today. Maybe it was time.

But later in the shower, hot water streaming down her body, she saw Allen through the beaded glass door, framed beyond her reach like a blurry painting. Bright red latex, yellow striping, helmet in one hand, a leg swung over his bike, standing out there in the bathroom. Carol turned away, twisting a knob. She flinched as cold water splashed onto her breasts, her stomach, the triangle of hair between her legs.

Later in the kitchen, thoughts of hanging pictures gone, Carol dug for decaf in the freezer. Rinsed the coffee pot. Clutched the grinder. A cry came from somewhere out front. Then another.

She tiptoed through the shadowed dining area and into the entry. Pulled aside the linen curtain. Trees, a bit of sky, and no one in view.

The word “Heeelp!” made her unbolt the door. Bright light washed across the polished oak floors, followed by the sweet smell of eucalyptus.

She ventured onto the brick path and saw, hanging on her six-foot fence, a red-haired, red-faced boy, his flannel shirt snagged on an iron finial. He was younger than Carol’s son, maybe 15 or so, hands gripping the fence. He was twisting up his knees to keep his baggy pants from slipping off his hips.

Carol shouted, “You’re trespassing.”

“Dude, I wanna sell you a magazine.”

“That’s why the gate is locked.”

“I thought it was stuck. Dude, nobody locks his front…Hey!” His pants slid toward his naked feet, taking Spiderman boxers—Spiderman!—with them. Both slipped onto the ground. The boy curled his legs upward and groaned.

She pivoted away, hiding an unbidden smile.

“Not funny,” the kid said. “Can’t you do something?”

She cut across the lawn. A worn pamphlet and a receipt pad rested near the fence. Beyond the gate lay Nikes and tube socks. “Why’d you take off your shoes?”

“Didn’t wanna rip ‘em. Just hand me them shorts.”

He grabbed them from her, and pushed the ball of one foot against her arm. She stumbled forward and he said, “Sorry. I need—”

“What if I hold them, so you can at least get your leg in?”

“Okay, but don’t turn around.” He held them out. She grasped one side, he the other. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble, but I was desperate.”

He got one foot through the waist, then lost his grip on the fence. There was a noisy rip, and he landed on the grass with a thump.

Glimpsing his white back under the torn shirt, she turned away, smiling again. She realized what she was feeling was lightness.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Make fun of me. Just buy a magazine, okay?”

“I don’t read magazines.”

“You gotta read People. Everybody reads People. How’re you gonna know what’s going on in the world?”

“I don’t think People—”

“I got others. I got a whole speech. I memorized it. You got something better to do?”

She should send this pushy boy packing. He would go, she thought, if she explained about Allen. Allen. She stared through the gate to the street.

She moved away fast, up the path toward her open front door where broken bits of golden light slow-danced against the gray walls inside.

She stopped. Drew in breath. Eucalyptus. Grass. Something better to do than listen to this boy? She turned.

The kid stood in his bare feet, his baggy pants resting on his hips, the magazine pamphlet unfurled in his hand.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Josh.”

“Okay, Josh. Let’s see if your sales pitch is any good.”

 

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