The Nerve
(a short story)
By
CC Geddes
Published by Lucky Bat Books
A Lucky Bat Book
The Nerve (a short story)
Copyright 2012 by Cindie Geddes
All rights reserved
Cover Image by Ben Grader
Published by Lucky Bat Books
Smashwords Edition License Note:
This e-book is licensed for the enjoyment of the person who bought it. If you’re reading it and you didn’t buy it, c’mon, it’s less than a buck, and I worked hard on it; just go buy your own
This story was previously published in Palace Corbie (Merrimack Books, USA, 1995) and The Best of Palace Corbie (Stone Dragon Press, USA, 1999) in a slightly different form under the name Cindie Geddes.
Table of Contents
CC Geddes
Mona was ninety-seven years old. Old enough to know when things were right and when they weren't. Old enough to know about the nerve, but too old to be believed. Old.
Today was one of those rare days when Mona’s daughter Lindsey brought in her son, Nigel, for a visit. Easter. Mona didn't look forward to it, not the way old folks were supposed to. These were pity visits, visits designed to alleviate quilt at her funeral. Sometimes she even feigned sickness so they‘d go away. Then she got flowers. That was nice.
Mona liked flowers. She didn't like children. Never had, despite the fact that she had birthed five herself. All boys, of which only Tom Junior had lived to have some of his own. The rest died in wars too long past to think about, to judge. Tom had died himself after a protracted war, a campaign fought first with knives that took his lung and pancreas, then with radiation that took his beautiful black hair, and finally with drugs that took away his mind.
“What's wrong, Ma?” Lindsey asked, perched like a frightened rabbit at the foot of the bed, as if old age were something catching, creeping at her from across the ancient spread.
“Nothing. I was just thinking about the family. About the ones who're gone.”
“So many dead,” Lindsey mused, letting Nigel down on the floor to run through the sunbeams that sprawled lazily in the corner. “You must get so lonely.”
“No, I don't.” Truth. “I didn't like most of 'em anyway.”
“Ma,” Lindsey admonished with a nod of her carefully groomed head toward her son. “Don't talk like that.”