Chapter Six -The Appointment
The Misery of Mrs. Geesky. Serial Number 6. The Red Reticule.
BEFORE CHAPTER SIX
We human beings look at reality through the conditioning of our own ‘self'.’ The result is suffering. We are full of ‘doubt’ when it comes to knowing Truth. And doubt further prevents us from knowing wisdom.
How many of us practice with deep concentration on our form, our feelings, our perceptions, our impulses and our consciousness?
Do you know your body is impermanent? That your feelings are fleeting? That your perceptions are an illusion? Your impulses unreliable? That your consciousness is clouded over with dullness?
Study yourself. Watch how Mrs. Geesky reacts again and again from a harbor of ancient twisted karma. She interferes. She is explosive. She relies on her history and identifies herself with it.
Her feelings are overwhelming. Her consciousness is such that she reinforces her existence with her past actions. She does not concentrate on the Truth of her body, feelings, perceptions, impulses and consciousness.
Rather, she identifies herself as these impermanent ‘things.’ Sadly, most of us do the same.
Study yourself without doubt. Study yourself to know the wisdom of these ‘things’ we call our body, our feelings, our perceptions, our impulses, our consciousness. Study deeply the wisdom in these ‘things’ that are there. And you will know without doubt the ephemeral nature of these ‘things’ and will be saved from all suffering and distress.
Notice how Mrs. Geesky is attached to these ‘things’ and how she suffers. This is ignorance.
CHAPTER SIX - THE APPOINTMENT
‘It is to be expected.’ She confirms as she imagines a conversation. ‘We, you whoever you are, and I confuse one another—we forget that our observations are limited, we are predisposed to make a mistake, an unavoidable propensity to be ignorant.’ Susan takes herself off the hook with these words before she predicts the weather in a low, distinct murmur.
“It is about to rain.”
No one answers.
Susan, with her dog, Loretta a large well-trained German shepherd stops in front of the old backdoor to her shop.
“Ok. Ok. Loretta. We’re going in. Hold your horses.” Susan pats both sides of her light blue rain jacket looking for her keys. “I know I have them.” Loretta squirms and yips to get in-between Susan’s legs. “Don’t knock me down, girl.”
The blue sky and sun hide behind a dark-gray cover of storm clouds; like a thick packed foam stuck between heaven and earth. There is about to be a protest of thunder and lightning. “Here they are, ye of little faith.” Susan jangles the keys over Loretta’s head in good humor before she unlocks her shop.
The day is chilled by a ceaseless, damp wind. The day Susan Belle, this Susan Belle, this present day incredibly old woman, makes an effort to come in early to have a conversation with a stranger. Youth long vanished, her pursuit in life whittled into a solitary thinker, a singular vocation mocked by her oldest friend as hokum. It is this old woman who unlocks and opens the security grates on the doors and windows of a renovated shop in a rundown part of town.
Released from her leash, Susan coaxes Loretta to do her job as the dog runs through to sniff and check each room while Susan replaces her daily epistle on the shop’s front window. Using a grease pencil she writes in large script,
Constant Vigilance is the Price for Safety.
At the sight of the words, she takes one step back to admire the words. She is particularly pleased with the period at the end. With eyes grinning she moves her head up and down as a distinct sign of self-approval. ‘It is a clear equation,’ she figures to herself, ‘it adds up to something on both sides of the equation. The cost of safety is constant vigilance. We pay the price of safety with constant awareness.
Words, the pondering and reworking of words until they are just the right shape is Susan’s well-habituated, intelligent companion. After a long vocation as a reference librarian her aptitude for words and service remains sharp. This morning she configures the equation mentally followed by writing it out as an essential review for correctness and accuracy.
‘Vigilance, a cautious attention, considered a currency.’ She weighs the words, vigilance against safety. ‘Yes. It does cost. We pay for safety by keeping an eye on things. Many pay big money for security.’ She remembers Jane, her skeptical and closest friend, would love this one. She recalls with apprehension Jane’s insistence on installing the clanging, metal security grates hung over the plate glass window and front door.
“Jane means well.” She says aloud to Loretta. “Don’t worry girl, you’ll not be replaced.”
Susan’s mental exchange takes a foothold until another epistle forms in her mind. ‘One hand washes the other.’ She repeats this one as well. ‘One hand washes the other.’ Followed by ‘Many hands make light work.’ ‘Is there always a cost?’ The question hangs in her mind.
Susan appreciates the balance and clarity of things in her mind despite her knowledge that human beings tend to confuse and be confused resulting in being off balance. The dimness of one’s perceptions means mistakes are bound to happen no matter how vigilant, no matter how much security is installed. Something is bound to go wrong. It is the nature of this world.
The usual men loiter on the curb outside Susan’s front window. Restless. Young. Jobless. Aging. With hands warming in holey pockets, they stomp from one foot to another, indignant and cross under the broken awning of Susan’s shop. ‘They’re betting against the rain,’ Susan construes as she hears a clap of thunder off in the distance. Cigarettes dangle between their fingers, their common adornment as their necks jiggle like a modern collection of bobble head dolls.
With her hand perched on the nape of her neck, she wonders, ‘I wonder if they read these messages? Can they read?’ Loretta yips interrupting Susan’s thought. “Ok girl. Good job.” Loretta sits positioned in the middle of the front room. “You silly girl. You’re free. Go on then.” The tail-wagging Loretta speaks back with another yip then finds her station between the wide tufted love seat and the wooden coffee table.
The shop is loved. Everything from floor to ceiling sparkles with renewal. Yet, everything remains old, well-used and cherished. The front room is open with a place for incomers to sit in silence. There is a small alcove for tea. The furniture is reclaimed and comfortable. Everything looks well-used, showing off character and a long-lasting quality. Exposed wood beams of dark elm hang low along wide flat boards above. Diminutive globe lights crisscross the center with splashes of light on the black and white sidewall tiles. The wooden coffee table is big and thick, with round stumpy legs in a mix of dark rich colors and white inlays. It is enough like Loretta’s long-haired coat in color to conceal her at her guard post between the table and settee. The style is simple and elegant, and prized. There is a freshness and comfort despite the timeworn state from a faint smell of carnations.
“It’s just beautiful, isn’t it?” Susan pretends to speak to Loretta who is fast asleep. Susan is pleased with the recovery of the furniture and all the help she got from Jane. ‘Couldn’t have done it as well without you,’ she thinks of Jane as she fills an old electric kettle and plugs it in to make some tea.
Before arranging a cup and saucer on a rectangular tray Susan hears voices. She turns, to look back across her shoulder out the front window. A woman she’s never seen before is in the midst of the collection of men. Finding it a little strange Susan goes to the window to watch. ‘I don’t ever remember them talking to anyone?’ The unfamiliar woman takes a hard wide step towards the curb and raises one finger, quite a firm gesture, toward the gutter. ‘Curious,’ Susan acknowledges to herself. ‘I wonder if they know her. She looks like she is scolding them.’
Cut short by the sound of the kettle, Susan Belle probed no further except to notice the large, dark sunglasses pushing the woman’s pale brown hair into what resembled a dull tiara on the top of her head.
‘We all have our limits.’ Susan taps off the drips of the amber tea bag back into the cup as she checks her watch and remembers the message from her answering service. Her service made arrangements with a woman named Mrs. Geesky explaining that the woman refused to leave a phone number but wanted an early morning appointment. Susan, untroubled by the caller’s refusal to leave more details, inferred the caller is a private person and notes, ‘But she is late.’
This is how the conversation began; the day Susan asks Mrs. Geesky, “What shall we talk about?”
Mrs. Geesky stone-faced, in a sudden surge like an uncapped pipeline, answers in a bitter blast against something or someone – which Susan does not know.
“I don’t tell just anyone that I killed my sister—no one needs to know—since no one knew of her to begin with. Now you know.” Mrs. Geesky struggles to sit still on the wine-colored love seat, as she looks at Susan Belle and shouts. “Oh! Come on! You’ve heard worse. I’m sure!”
Before Susan is able to examine her memory Mrs. Geesky moves on.
“Listen! She never really existed. You try to make something out of it, and you’ll pay for it. I’ll see to that.”
Susan leans back in her chair pulling her breath with her as she senses she is about to be doused once again by this woman’s alarming revelations and threats.
“Both mother and father never mentioned her. You see, she never had a birthday party. I’d say, I do say…she didn’t matter much. Still doesn’t. Just remember, she doesn’t matter much.”
Mrs. Geesky wrinkles her nose at Susan as a silent warning to remember.
“She had a birth date. That’s it.” Mrs. Geesky scoots forward on the soft cushion as she gains staying power from her unstoppable outburst.
“No one knew. It’s hidden, hush-hush and buried. No one will know. But I know---even though I work hard to forget it. But it isn’t ever forgotten, it’s tattooed on my brain, carved in my chest—OH!”
Mrs. Geesky stops for a single moment to look clear-eyed at Susan. “Don’t!” she raises her voice a tad and repeats the word. “Don’t be fooled that there is anything like a feeling of sorrow---no---no---no. It’s more like dead skin. Numb, scabbed over. I live with it---alright---ok---.” She took a gulp of air, just enough to carry four words up and out. “I made them happier.”
Susan remains still in this inundated confession that is delivered more as a threat than anything else.
“I know I do. I live with it. I made them happier.” Mrs. Geesky repeats and continues. “When I see how others live---those disgusting men out in front ---- throwing butts in the street. Others in their silly flirtations with pretty things---chatty on the street corners---always looking about---wanting to be noticed. I am glad I’ve put the trees up—quick growers---they told me when I bought them---no one can see into my back yard now---they’ve grown up---thickened---joined limb and leaf to limb and leaf. Everyone wants to know my business.”
Jamming herself silent and stiff, she looks carefully at Susan studying her old face. As fast as she stopped, she started up again.
“I did mother and father a favor for what I did---I took care of them---and her. They’d never thank me---but I know I’ve done them a big favor. No one asks me---they didn’t ask me---I tried to make them happier again.” Mrs. Geesky took in a few shallow breaths and continued with less force.
“Everyone was surprised and kind at the school. I didn’t have to see mother and father---I almost forgot them and was glad of it. They needed too much help and I had done all that I could already.”
With an almost unnoticeable pause Mrs. Geesky fills in what must have been the colorless part of her childhood.
“I suppose you could say I was a good daughter. Yeah. I was. I am. The school made me think I could live without mother and father and---without all three---without anyone. The school made me ok. I got a good education. I went to college.”
With a slight almost inaudible rise in pitch she spoke of her father.
“Father interfered when I graduated from the school. His manly advice!” She turns in disgust and continues. “Told me to go into sales. It was best, he said. It didn’t work out, I tell you. It wasn’t until I got the idea, my own idea that working with the dying was for me.”
Mrs. Geesky smiles with pride of choice, her teeth showing. She made her decision on her own. The one that mattered to her because it made her happy.
“I wanted to be there, to witness the Great Matter. I went back to school. Worked hard, did all the work.”
She stops as though to rewind the string of a slow wobble of a wooden top.
“There was no trouble except with roommates. They crowded everything. Wanting to watch and know what I was thinking and doing.” She shows her teeth again as she recounts the memory of them.
“Dating was nonsense. JUST NONSENSE!” (Her voice spiked then fell straight down to a whispering despair). “I wasted my time. I got into something. I found my own way. I found what I like to do.”
Mrs. Geesky pauses, removes the large dark sunglasses that have fallen forward on the top of her head and with a slap of her open palm against the couch proclaims it is her right to choose.
“I live alone, in my house.”
Susan remains unyielding in her silence as she searches for space to say something. But neither the space nor what to say comes to her. ‘What can I possibly say?’ She thinks as Mrs. Geesky once more rewinds and speeds forward bringing her up to date.
“Mother is dead. I missed being with her when the Great Matter came. Father doesn’t know me now---can’t even say my name...and the Great Matter is coming to him…soon…as far as I can tell. I know about these things. I’ll get to see it come to him?” (She poses the question to Susan but does not wait for a reply).
“My neighbors are nosy always looking at my house when they walk by. Two new neighbors moved in next to my house. A married couple---they have a dog and a baby---I’ve been very good to them---but they are not very friendly---they talk about me. I know they do. I have pictures of them with the other neighbors. Complaining about how I feed the cats and the birds. That’s mean! You agree how mean that is---! You agree!”
The imperious nature of her words charges the air.
Susan’s lips close as her eyes narrow across her face in one long slit. She presses her one elbow into the worn leather on the arm of her chair and swivels to face Mrs. Geesky straight on. For a second, she presses her knuckles into her cheek and gazes at the space between them, asking herself a question. ‘Who is this woman?’ She turns her head as she unfolds her fingers that press close against her ear. ‘How does this woman live with such a story?’ With her ear covered, she relaxes the weight of her head into the palm of her hand, crosses her legs and asks with her clear, soft old-woman’s voice.
“What is your sister’s name?”
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