Sapphic Voices Mystery

Painted Blind

This Story is incomplete as it is a Work In Progress. The Authoress requests the reader's feedback.

“Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” -from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream

She wakes each morning to the comforting sound of waterfalls in the distance. Her eyes are a molten topaz and her hair is a deep, ruby mahogany. She is known as 'Thinker' Rhodes, but her birth certificate says Lily. She published a book, a bestseller, a novel about witnessing her mother's murder when she was eight years old, and vanished.

The doctors say she has been permanently traumatised, and that she is incapable of forming close, interpersonal relationships. To the world, she is a contemporary Emily Dickinson, suspected of being an asexual hermit and a mute. To her fans, she is a survivor.

Her influences do not fall within the scope of modern times. She does not listen to the latest hip hop or R&B. There is no time for drifting away in a soulful compilation of heartfelt lyrics and harmonious musical synergism. Her heroes belong to a generation of the past. Women like Flannery O'Connor and Lillian Hellman are her muses. She does not venture out to the clubs with the other girls on Saturday nights, paintedly teased hair-do's and glistening, body-misted skin and all, eyes peeled for the "right" guy. She is twenty-five years old now, and lives alone.

She spends her evenings in the quiet of her home, which sits snugly in the Niagara Falls. Very few people live here and she is one of the few. She has no need for any sort of companionship except for that of one living creature, a Sheltie named Chava, and everyday, they can be seen jogging across the Falls. Seen, that is, if one is paying attention.

On this particular morning, she has stopped for a moment to re-tie the lace on her left shoe. Chava yips playfully, waiting to get on with their routine race, but Lily chooses to break away from the path for some reason. Sweat beads up along her brow, but she does not wipe it away just yet. Something has caught her eye, and Chava pads after her, tongue flailing in the crisp Canadian morning, just as eager and curious as her owner.

There is a woman of about thirty-five standing on a rock, looking out over the water, snapping a photo in her direction. Lily glances to little Chava and, in some strange way, Chava seems to nod back in assent.

"You're her, aren't you?" The woman says as Lily approaches. "You're that writer."

Lily turns to face the Falls, closing her eyes and breathing in evenly. Then she opens them and looks back to the older woman, whose eyes glisten knowingly. She doesn't say anything more for a while. Chavalah comes careering down the path to join the two women, breaking the silence with her panting and heaving. Lily kneels to receive the small dog and embrace her with a few loving strokes.

"'Thinker' Rhodes."

"No," the young girl plants a kiss on Chava's forehead, speaking firmly, "it's Lily."

"But, I thought-" the stranger's eyebrows seem surprised, as they perk upward momentarily.

"My name is Lily."

"My mistake then, Lily," her lips spread into a smile of disbelief, but she outstretches a hand, camera in the other, "Elinor Glass."

Lily does not take her hand. Instead, she rises from the ground and heads back down the path she took to come up here. Chava gives one last yip and follows, as usual. Elinor shrugs and continues with her work, trying not to give this mysterious young woman another thought.

I'm Elinor, Elinor Glass.

The voice of the stranger runs through Lily's mind all the rest of that night. She wonders why this woman had taken a photo of her. She sits up in bed, which disturbs Chava so that she, too, sits up for a moment. The little Sheltie yawns, stretches out, paws her way over to Lily and circles about until she is comfortable once again, then closes her eyes and drifts off once more. Lily is not so fortunate. She is troubled by the memory of the Elinor woman's strange, knowing smile. How can she possibly know who I am? Lily ponders.

**

Elinor slips out of bed and flips the light switch in the bathroom on to look at her reflection in the mirror. She turns on the faucet and dampens a towel, padding her face and neck with it until she feels cooled. It's too goddamned hot, she thinks to herself. She recalls her day as she runs a cold bath for herself and dips in, shivering, her breath shortening. The views had been incredible, the photos would turn out great. She mulls over the encounter with a young, attractive woman whom she is certain is Thinker Rhodes, the famous author of Homeless.

The hotel room feels warm, so she plays around with the air conditioning, but it appears to be broken. Her skin is hot and she feels slightly irritated by this seemingly trivial predicament. She picks up the phone and calls for Management. They tell her that there is nothing they can do about the air until morning, but if she would like to open a window, it should provide a small amount of relief in the meantime. She shakes her head, frustration welling up inside her. She knows how sensitive her body is to heat and explains this as calmly as possible to the voice on the other end of the line, but there is no further trace of friendliness in the young woman’s tone. Elinor raises her voice dangerously, threatening to wake the manager if a more helpful solution is found. She adds a reminder that it is 3:30 in the morning and she can only imagine how upsetting it would be for the receptionist’s boss to have to come all the way down to resolve such a trifling dilemma.

**

There is a silence, a faint tapping sound in the background, a muffled whisper, and then a click as the receiver is picked up and the voice speaks to ask if the guest would prefer to switch to Room 417, as it is the only other available accommodation. Glass sighs and asks in a thin, impatient tone if she will be asked to pay for this “other accommodation” and the receptionist returns with a terse “of course not, ma’am, there will be no additional charge—we’ll send up a maid with the key for you directly.” Elinor nods as though it is necessary, replies with a thick note of thanks, and hangs up the phone firmly.

As she packs up whatever has been removed and scattered about the room, Elinor recalls reading a biographical article on Rhodes and how it mentioned that she had been driven to depression and went mute from the trauma. Mute. She imagines what it must have been like to be placed in such a horrifying and powerless moment, to watch a man destroy a life, but not just any life, the life of someone so near and dear to your heart, and never be able to speak again. To write a book about it and then just...disappear. There is a knock on the door and it’s the maid, of course, with the key to her new room. Elinor smiles, offers up a courteous thank you, and the petite, Latina nods dutifully and turns around to head back down the corridor and slip into a service elevator.

The corridor is eerily silent. There is a slight draft, Elinor notices, and toeing out into the hall with one bag over her right shoulder and the camera slung over her left, the auburn-haired, sluggish photographer makes her way. She feels almost like a sixteen year old sneaking out of her parent’s house as she pads quietly about, searching for the right room. 410? No, that’s not it. 415? No. Ah, here it is, she thinks to herself upon glimpsing the silvery metallic numbers. 417. She slides the key in and out of the locking mechanism and waits for the green clearance signal before pressing down hard on the handle and opening the door with relative ease.

Hurling her bag, and not the camera, onto the bed farthest from the window, Elinor flings herself long ways across the second mattress. She decides to take another walk up to the Falls tomorrow.

The sun rises earlier than usual the next morning, 6:23 a.m. Lily is already awake, stretching her soft and sleepy muscles out on a mat she has rolled out on the floor in front of her television set. She never watches the actual set itself. Instead, she has collected hundreds of DVD classics, films from the 1930s through the 1960s, over a span of ten or twelve years. Desk Set is her favourite of all of them because it is about how a new machine threatens the jobs of several fact-checkers at a TV network’s research department, how modern technologies can threaten humanity under the guise of providing convenience, and how people juxtapose the two and create a whole new, more effective solution. Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. Classic. She runs her dark blue eyes over the curio containing her vast collection, searching for the familiar yellowish orange jacket. When at last they fall upon it, she ceases her exercises and rises slowly, careful not to twist too suddenly as her feet land quietly on the soft red carpeting. She pulls her mahogany hair back into a ponytail with one hand and brings her right wrist up to her teeth, tugging at the hair band that rests upon it, rigid and strong. Very soon, she intertwines the elastic band about her thick, reddish ponytail and releases it, feeling it pull the skin on her forehead back tightly. Her fingertips flicker effortlessly over several DVDs before stopping at their destination.

She slides the cool, round disc into the holder on the DVD player and presses a button. Sinking back onto the bed with a pillow under her chin, she waits for the common blue glow from the Sony insignia playing across the screen. And then it begins. She smiles, losing herself in the witty banter of the characters. Seeing Katharine Hepburn sashay about with such strength inspires this young writer. She wishes she could have lived in those times, the times when the celebrities were women of class and sophistication.

Even then, Hepburn was a marvel, unique. Slacks and suits instead of dresses, Lily looks up to her for her outstanding strength and active lifestyle. She mourns her death as well. For a moment, she dwells on the strangeness of that idea. How can one mourn for someone she never knew in life? The thought quickly vanishes from Lily’s mind and she justifies it with another, more comforting approach. When a person spends their entire career exposing the center of a fictitious character’s heart, a perceptive audience would be able to see the essence of the actor herself, in this case, Katharine Hepburn. And so, Lily thinks to herself, there is an attachment that forms between the performer and the public. No matter how much time may pass, or how many new faces may appear on the silver screen (whether they be as distinguished or not), Lily will always feel connected to this one aged, but incredibly beautiful soul.

Soon, the movie ends and Chava is ready to go for their daily run, so Lily rolls off the bed and jumps into the shower for a quick washing-up. She knows she’s already bathed once just hours before, but she still feels the need for lukewarm comfort. In the meantime, Chava curls up by the front door, snoozing lightly while she waits. Somehow, she knows it will be a brief nap, but the fluffy canine closes her eyes anyway. A light grumbling sound reminds little Chavalah of how hungry she is, so she determines that as soon as the bathroom door even hints at cracking open, she will alert her owner of this desperately urgent fact. After all, how will she be able to outrun Lily on an empty stomach?

**

Elinor Glass sits up, but does not yawn or stretch. She simply flutters her eyes and rises. She pads over to the curtains and pushes them apart to assess the view, and it is indeed quite breath taking. I can’t believe I didn’t request a room on this floor in the first place, she scolds. The picturesque landscape of the sloping, surging Niagara Falls is a visual overload. The sky above is blue and the air is crisp as ever, with emerald grass fragrantly swaying as the morning breeze sweeps across the heavenly scenic backdrop. “Perfect.” Elinor says aloud without realising it. Taking everything in, she is overwhelmed by the natural beauty and how it has managed to keep as long as it has without human interference. All it takes is one selfish mind to disturb such a paradise and transform it into a barren, blackened wasteland.

She turns away from the window, letting the curtains fall back together. The cool darkness envelops her once again. She searches the wall for the light switch and once her slender fingers land on the small plastic protrusion, she flips it upward, letting the white light flood the room. She drags her achy body over to the black duffle bag, unzips it, and examines her options: a black, long sleeve blouse with Gibson ruffles and a pair of black slacks, or a burgundy version of the same blouse with a pair of navy blue jeans. She leans over and pulls both outfits out to inspect them side-by-side.

If you have enjoyed Katharyn R. King's "Painted Blind", then please be certain to e-mail her at  king.kr[at]live.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Katharyn R. King's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

Copyright © 1997-2009 Sapphic Voices.  All rights reserved.
Unless otherwise noted, all site content is entirely owned and is solely maintained by  Sapphic Voices.
Absolutely no portion of this page may be reproduced either electronically or otherwise without the express
and written permission of the copyright holder, except as occurs in normal browser caching and page indexing.