The Road Not Taken ( a story )

[Thistle]

Jannie’s long ivory fingers reached for a particular worn brown and gold spine. The book slipped easily from the shelf above her desk. Light from the silver touch lamp bounced across its vertical bold faced lettering stamped into the side. The medium weighted item shifted flat against her palm to reveal the same formation of words spread horizontal across the cover. After all these years, it still felt smooth like the first day she got it. It appeared young for its old age, almost unharmed by the hours upon hours of tormented pages. Fingertip imprints dated back to her great-great-grandfather who flipped through the well-bound book. Digits studied its surface, cracked crevices, and altered page corners. Tiny imperfections gave it so much beauty to the eye of the beholder. To Jannie.

Her thumb slipped delicately under the far corner of the brown cover to reveal the title page. Another light pull of paper and her hand rested to the table of contents, fingers traced across simple titles one at a time. She never did read the complete works from start to finish, but she assumed someone in her family once had before it was passed down to her. She, like many others memorized only a few poems that made up the popular collection. Like wild fire they caught on so quick, magnetic to her thoughts. Each stanza calmed tidal waves of frustrations that sloshed around in her head. The heirloom, life as she knew it, held strong between deaths fingertips. Jannie proudly admired every facet. Without a second thought lips began to mutter a line in a low whisper. Care was given to each every page until she reached one hundred and forty-three. Then muttered stanzas grew to a pride filled and low sound as her hazy gaze fell in time with where the lyrical lines rested from memory.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost’s genuine work of art was a small summarization of what she occasionally compared her half-lived life to be. Empathic, intimidated, a wonder if she had followed a different root. One, that was laid out before her very warm grasp. One, with diligent structure that offered a fruitful return. One, well-traveled just as this path she was on seemed to be.

Jannie shook her head with a displeased smirk in deep thought. Her palm flexed forcing the book to shut harshly. “Que Sera ... Sera!” she vibrantly shouted across the room of her small personal office.

“Future is unpredictable and past is past,” shoulders shrugged. “So who else were you expecting? Certainly not the Easter bunny. Low and behold the keeper of the crypt.” Jannie mocked in her own side bar conversation.

Her palm stiffened around the hard bound book, short fingertips cut into the surface making it feel soft and pliable in her hand. It felt like putty melted into her strong grip. With the twitch of her wrist, she glared back to the vertical binding. Bold letters shimmer in a dull fashion and the book slipped back into the safe confines of her bookshelf before the rapid change of thought peaked uncontrolled.

Jannie flung around in one easy about-face turn then sat with a heavy huff into a nearby sitting chair. Arms crossed over her voluptuous built frame, wrists tucked beneath both elbows and fangs forcibly bit down into her lip while long legs strewn over the dust covered flower fabric of the left arm. Her rear slunk into the depths of the seat. Blonde messy locks leaned left and her shoulder stopped against the high back of the chair. Jannie took an unneeded breath and closed her eyes to rest.


((edited to add a better break into the next part))

[Thistle]

"Woe as me." she mockingly grimaced regarding her agitated friends current affair.

Double golden suns dimmed at first then by some awkward calling trickled remorseful tears. Jillian sat stiff but slowed the wide berth of her hips to the bedside when the back of her aging hand wiped away a crystal path along her cheek. Her palm then landed firm against her lap. Numb, less-than-nimble fingers balled tight around a crumbled frail tissue, soiled in smudged hues of berry lipstick and dark mascara. An exhale lathered with whiskey signified this sudden circumstance was not something to be mended by any sort of consolation prize or deterrent smelling super glue. Jillian perched to the corner of Jannie’s bed with a lazy arm wrapped tight around a plain and heavy weighted red oak post. A burnt orange and blue worn comforter of the unmade bed pulled up and over her knees as if the years of childhood sleepovers and endless spooky stories it lived through would console her more than her friend. Jillian sulked and Jannie wrote.

A black ink pen rolled across thick pages in medium weight calligraphy lettering. Jannie's hand rarely came to a pause. Her gray-blue eyes fixated upon pages that glistened with sunlight sandy colored hue from the tiny silver touch lamp perched to the right corner of her desk. A stubborn refusal to respond with any sort of sympathy irritated the damsel in distress. However it was this shrieking girl who interrupted what Jannie liked to call her 'rhythmic dictation mode'. Jannie’s thoughts trailed off to relate Jillian's late night visits to more of a counseling session. One quite similar to a 'doc' who called the patient in to sit, expel their dirty and long winded frustrations, take note of a few tips for multiple sessions where a simple 'uh huh' and 'how did you feel about that' would suffice before revealing solid solutions to the patients troubles only to have them return to start the process over again. 'Mammy' was the ideal patient, but Jannie was not getting paid nor even wanted this involuntary position.

Mammy was a nickname given to Jillian from Jannie many years ago. The two would lumber around the home starting from her upstairs bedroom to the main floor great room, or foyer. Each evening filled with glorified games of cat and mouse, hide-n-seek, or any other idiotic and frantic pass-time they enjoyed as youngsters. Jillian was a hired babysitter (now a trusted friend) and held true to some of Mr. and Mrs. Hutchings house rules: No shouting, no shoes in the house, no sugary drinks or television after dark, no loud music, and most of all no boys. The grand kitchen fully furnished with butler and cook was also off limits unless they had permission from their owners to offer Jannie and Mammy a snack.

Jillian “Mammy” Mannard was eight years older than Jannie. She was a substitute parent, older ‘acting’ sister and a friend to Jannie. She had one older and one younger sibling who were both chaperoned around by soccer mom Mannard. Jillian, unlike her sisters, was nothing special. She was blessed with the freedom and a choice to not attend her siblings’ cheerleading competitions or state softball championship games. It was a freedom she loved compared to trudging through hours of homework just to maintain a status quo on the B honor roll. It came with a paycheck and a kid; whom after 10 years of babysitting, she felt responsible for.

Her stout frame shifted and fiery orange strands strewn about Jillian’s sulked facial expression shouted, "Pray, are you even listening!"

"Uh huh," was Jannie's empty inattentive response between another turn of the journal’s construction-paper pages. A thumb and forefinger firmly planted onto the shaft of the green and blue peacock feather pen scribing words that would not make complete sense now but if she had not the time to write them down, her efforts to remember them later was slim. Inspiration was not so easy to come by except when Jillian vented.

"I swear, it be the last time. When I was your age. I had not even half as much freedom as you." Fists balled tight as Jillian’s anger changed focus from the self-stressed tragedy. "Be it I ran off a time or two my grandad would have none of it! My sisters and I all had wooden paddles with our names on it. Red tush in all. Made me sit in the barn peeling potatoes for grammy until we couldn't sit no more."

Jannie rolled her eyes and nodded along as her pen methodically rose and fell to the paper. She listened to the whiskey filled tears blurt on with a story which she heard more times than a tiny younglings traditional fairytale. Of how ravishing and princess-like visions entrusted such caring and forgiving parents as the Hutchings, by the grace of anyone’s first, second, and ten thousandth impression would appear either astonished or taken aback on Jannie’s frame of mind. Jillian’s now jealous nature was the same as everyone Jannie met while living in Seattle. Many, if not all of her junior high friends would give their souls to the devil himself just to be her. Just to be in Jannie’s grandeur atmosphere. Jannie did not care.

[Thistle]

One road in particular had been presented to Jannie Theresa Hutchings on several occasions. An only child of perfect parents was to be molded, churned into a prim proper lady of the household. A dainty flower that a mother would want to share afternoon tea with and father would be proud to call a business woman. All the while, one hand cashed large checks after final contracts were dotted and the furnishings transported to consumers with lavish lifestyles. No complaints-no refunds. It was a strict policy that began once the new piece of property was signed for. The large pieces would often come with a hefty insurance policy; which some customers could afford while others had a tight budget when it came to the finer ways of living.

Now in the other hand lay the things that business bought. Wallets overflowed with coins of gold and silver. Sparkling personal trinkets that a pirate would seize and drool, scooping up every bit of twinkling metal they could muster. Hats in multitudes of shapes and sizes. Wardrobes overfilled with one-time wear fashion trends to ‘keep up with the Jones’. What more was there to want, to require?

{four days earlier}

“Come, Jannie. Tardiness is not tolerated.” Mr. Hutchings snapped his fingers in an insistent manner as his seventeen year old daughter sulked towards their mode of transportation.

Jannie whined with crossed arms from the sidewalk, “Why do you need me along.”

“Because the family must be present at this engagement and that includes you.” Mrs. Hutchings spoke holding her Cinderella like gown in both hands and stepped passed her beautifully pouting child. Her mother smiled to the driver then ducked her head to step inside the vehicle.

Mrs. Hutchings, mother, business woman, and secretary of the family business. She kept everything in running order. Much which included keeping up appearances from regal tea times to elegant soirées with their most devoted clientele. A proper women, dressed in flowing layers, corsets which strangled her very core, and shoes that pinched her feet. All the pain and suffering to put on a show which eluded to a wondrous lifestyle. Blonde waving locks twist then pinned with an opal or pearl silver pin, and broaches made of gold and silver for each outfit. A smile that would make Mona Lisa proud. Mrs. Hutchings believed a lady should be conservative, attentive and be a supportive branch of her husband.


“But..,” was all Jannie could mutter before her father’s long digit pointed in that stern ‘you’ll be grounded from Jillian if you don’t comply’ look on his face. “Fine!” she stomped forward and the families’ well-paid driver, Maximilian; winked to Jannie as he held the backseat door ajar.

“All set to go?” The locks settled into place and car shifted into gear.

“Yes, the party should end promptly at 11:00pm Max,” he directed. “Please be ready then.”

Mr. Hutchings, father, business man, and founder of ‘Hutchings Fine Furnishings’ barely lifted a finger to keep his ship in running order. At no expense would he skimp on an article of clothing, gold pocket watch, black top hat and matching five-piece suit. Shoes shined to perfection, white gloves, and long wooden handled umbrella. His salt and pepper hair and colored mustache was the only tall tale sign that he was an aged man. He walked with his shoulders back and belly arched outward and like Mr. Banks from Mary Poppins preached, “tradition, discipline, and rules,” a household motto to be followed.

“Of course Sir, promptly at eleven.” Max confirmed his instructions as the tires of the black Crown Victoria pulled away from the curb.

Jannie leaned forward and pressed her nose to the tinted windows. Her fingertips tapped the glass as a generous fog created by her warm breath smothered her view. Jannie’s mother sighed and patted the girls lap. “Ben, perhaps we should have had Jillian come along?”
“Not tonight, Laura. Jannie will be on her best behavior,” his frail expression wore thin, “won’t you?”

“uh huh.” Jannie dolefully replied.

[Thistle]

Bits of rubble cracked beneath fifteen inch black rubber tires as they came to a rolling stop against the curb. Maximilian shifted the vehicle into park and four hard plastic locks resounded loud throughout the quiet. Max was the first to step out into the evening air. He propped open the rear driver’s side door being the gentleman that he was paid to be. Thick humidity rolled inward. Summer’s heat instantly consumed the vehicles frost bitten leather seats causing them to crackle and grown liked an aged man willing his joints to move. Jannie’s tender hips shifted. Feet adorn with red strappy high heeled shoes from Nordstrom’s outlet store poked out from behind the driver’s seat to land both skinny rods to the solid ground. Hem of her little black dress swished as she reached and rested one palm into Maximilian’s open white gloved hand. Graceful as ever. Her head ducked underneath the door’s frame. She stood to meet his bright forgiving smile.

Not too tall, brilliantly formal and sharply dressed. Maximilian had a heart and a well-paid job so long as he bucked up his chin to the brash bones of Mr. Hutchings. Not a word out of turn, stained glove, dull shined shoe or bicker towards the family man that kept him fed, warm clothes on this back and gave him hearth and home. It was his duty to be on-call when the family of three required transportation to any distance at any hour. Not a tardy minute was warranted and nothing less then formalities. Maximilian was forty-three and began this pristine career at a young twenty-nine. He rarely spoke but on an occasion would whisper fragile thoughts of love to the daughter he could nearly call his own. Max spent all but three years watching her blossom into a free-spirited, young adolescent. Nothing outside of death would change that.

“Pucker up, Madame.” He whispered to her ear. “The night is young as are you.”

Jannie and Max exchanged a tiny gesture of affection, a secret code despite many rules and regulations impeded upon them. He gave a millisecond squeeze of her hand and Jannie did too in reflex with a casual grin. The innocent notion was barely performed at a mind’s eye and successfully privy from Mr. and Mrs. Hutchings for nearly thirteen years until the Mrs. caught on. Even so, Maximilian never gave indication to harm the child. So she turned a blind eye but grinned, a showing sign of trust and acceptance.

Mr. Hutchings made haste to the drivers curb side and held out an arm to escort, “My lovely ladies.” A flush pink hue grew across both his wife’s cheeks. Jannie rolled her eyes. And both women latched arms on either side of the man to make their grand entrance.

A large water feature was located in center of the grand ballroom penthouse suite. Two fair skinned women of maturity. Each holding an overflowing barrel of grapevines perched upon their right shoulders. A platter with a fallen vase in the other. Crisp cool water trickled from the lip of each one landing with a slow flowing putter into the marble roman bath below. The soiree was sponsored by none other than Hutchings Fine Furnishings and Thompson Art Studio; a match made in heaven. Both family-owned businesses had a second-cousins repertoire with decor to complement the others’ eloquent taste.

Jannie’s grip instantly tensed as a mad rush of richly dressed couples latched themselves to form an assembly line greeting. “Best behavior.” Mr. Hutchings tapped her fingers and she bowed out of his grasp.

Echoes of the incoming couples were left behind in the turn. She had escaped the first of many double cheeked peck-and-coos both parents were subject to. ‘Keeping up appearances’ was exactly the phrase in which her mother considered this ‘little’ affair. Among the best were an endless supply of consumers, money driven egos and an appalling sense of humor. Surely both families outdid themselves. Not that they ever threw a fancy occasion without the best. It would be an evening that paid off in the end.

Jannie exhaled hard. Pleased she had the luxury to make a great escape. Ivory fingers fumbled around each other. She headed straight for an appetizer table and picked out a small selection of h'orderves then approached an opening to the foyer where a set of ceiling to floor length windows adorned with thick luxurious drapery opened to a marvelous ten story high lookout over the city. Shoulders rolled back instantly. Her grey-blue eyes bounced from the adjacent skyscrapers’ twinkling lights to another and she drank in the simply breathtaking view. Jannie popped a finger food of raw salmon on delicate watercress cracker into her mouth and savored the taste of bitter cream cheese and dry capers. Taste buds tingled with the textured sensation as it danced across her tongue. A second was equally delightful as the first.

“Must ask the house cook about these,” she mused before finishing the third delectable snack.

[Thistle]

“Little Jannnnie.”

That high pitched voice forced every muscle to freeze in place right where she stood. She knew that tone. The smell that floated without a care to the base of her nostrils. It swarmed around and clogged the atmosphere. Bounced off the large glass windows and seeped into her lungs one breath at a time. 'Moth balls. Why did old folks smell like moth balls?' For something that was supposed to detain little disgusting bugs away from fine linen filled closets. The horrendous odor would deter anything. Dog, kitten, child. This child. She continued to gaze across the night sky full of splendor to savor the peaceful moment.

’Talk about losing one’s appetite,’ her stomach gurgled.

Jannie huffed under breath and turned to face the women. Pinching fingers immediately lurked forward and grabbed layers of supple skin on her rosy cheeks into a forced half smile. Several tiny wrinkles pulled taut across the women’s olive face.

“Littl’ Jannie Hutchings,” comical clown drawn lines arched as her brow rose towards the receded hairline, “Thought you’d never fill into those fancy dresses. Lookin’ graceful for a lady now. Benjamin must be proud.”

‘ugh’ lady, what portion of my seventeen year old figure gave off that impression,’ she protested great-aunt Lucille’s generous comment with a subtle rolling eye.

The elder’s rough skinned digits tightly squeezed around the base of her chin to pinch and twist her facial bone as if to inspect for a spot of food. The red plastic rimmed glasses inched closer. Round enlarged saucers gleamed in a muted shade of brown. A strained stare regained focus through pencil thick plexi-glass filled rims. Ninety-two years of wear shown clear as day through great-aunt Lucille’s dark pupils. Any closer and the old bat would meld her freckled splashed nose with her own.

'One one-thousand’...

Jannie squinted to avoid looking through the thick magnified walls. She continued to count, ‘Three one-thousand... four one-thousand’

“Such a pretti face?” Jannie drew in a heavy polluted breath. Supple lips clamped together. Eyes forcing a stare over the elders shoulder.

'Five one-thousand...' Jannie’s fist tensed around the napkin in her left hand.

“Where’s your fathar?” Dueling orbs demanded.

'Six one-thousand...' She exhaled low.

“Mothar?” Jannie tipped her head sharply upwards and to the right forcing the bat-eyed women’s death grip to retreat and fall heavy on her shoulder instead.

'ugh, better.' The curve of her chin shouted happy chords. Free to breath and retreat back to the normal formation around muscle and bone. Jannie's hand rubbed across the edge of her chin. Great-aunt Lucille toppled to and fro in a short sideways motion to balance her pear-shaped frame between the young girls shoulder and a wooden cane. Jannie had forgotten how fragile the woman was.

“Nice to see you, Aunt Lucy.”

“Ehh?”

Jannie shrugged. Bat-eyed and deaf. A wonder how this ancient was still kickin. A soft chuckled emerged to the base of her throat. Kickin the bucket was more like it. Her imagination trailed off in jest. She pictured a blue plastic bucket. Empty. The bottom tipped and tilted sideways as it teetered along the edge of falling into the land of no return.

Oh poor, old, ancient Lucy. The woman had experienced nearly a century worth of ailments, adventures, and seen more tragedies then Jannie ever would this day and age. Lucy had one common phrase she lived by, “Kids are rotten spoiled rats that should be contained and licked well.” So much for getting through her thick skull. Alas, the woman’s steel heart outlasted great-uncle Hester’s mild demeanor.

“Ben and Laura are over there.” She stretched a finger outward across the crowd. Great-aunt Lucille squinted. Her grip loosened to plant a wrist around Jannie’s forearm.

“Be a good gal and take me o'r ther.”

Jannie rolled her eyes in defeat. 'Anything to ditch this ol’ bat on someone elses wing.' She sucked in another short polluted bit of air and led the unsteady women toward Mr. and Mrs. Hutchings.

[Thistle]

“Benjamin, darli’n, Laureen!”

’Heavens! Does she trim her talons ever?’ Jannie shrieked, clenched teeth tight in a concealed jaw as the hag’s nails pierced through the first layer of skin. The chattering fan club who surrounded Mr. and Mrs. Hutchings fell silent. Closest couple jump aside, the man wrinkled his nose while his lady brought a folded white, lace trim kerchief from her pocket to hers. Faking an unheard sneeze or concealing an invisible itch. A tender smirk formed to the corner of Jannie's mouth. This would be her out. No one was asking questions that required a young lass to entertain such adult conversations. She was invisible next to the stench of a cottonmouth, moth ball, bag of worms.

“Come! Kiss Kiss.”

Sweet release, I’m Free! Toes wiggled inside the tips of her red heels as Great-aunt Lucille darted forward for Benjamin, his face a target to a wall of kisses. For a moment-a tiny fraction of a second, Jannie felt remorse for her Father, but she would not give him as much. Alas, the woman’s grip was redirected which freed this young fawn to seek greener pastures and that she did promptly.

Air. An Ode to Air. Decadent, trustworthy. Air. Tiny patterned tings of heels quickened pace as she pushed past the double entry doors. Stepped out onto the grand marble staircase, the same ones she climbed just a few hours before. Air. Clean. Fragrant. Moth balls. Wait-what! Mind ablaze to seek out the source of this second disgusting odor. Frame of her bodice twisted left. Empty hues darted from the doors, to the stairs, to the spaces in between. About-face, scanned the other direction, feet stepped clumsily into a circle which spanned a five foot area of the porch directly in front of the buildings entrance. Nose sniffed the surface as wind wrapped its arms around the lass, longing to comfort, but her tizzy began to rage. Brow furrowed, belly rumbled and nearly wretched right there in front of a white lily flower of a maiden and black-tie man who sought the same sick pleasures as what brought her parents here.

“Excuse yourself, girl.” A sarcastic mutter as they passed beyond the gates of hell.

It was in that stunned second. She had paused. Lowered her head. A few loosened locks of goldenrod toppled o’er one speckled shoulder, another strand tickled her temple from which a rather large ache was brewing. Migraine the size of a mammoth parked itself deep inside her skull. Palm immediately pressed to tender spot. There. Moth Balls! @$*! Jannie stopped. No blink, no breath, wrist sharply dropped her arm to a horizontal position in front of her face. It was there a faint gleam of Lucy’s wretched stench grabbed inner nostrils and plucked tiny hairs, tears swelled and glistened gray-blue orbs. Lips, nothing but…

“Yuck!” A random shout of disgust. A man two feet to her right jumped and gawked in displeasure. A lit cigarette hung from a white holder perched between his lips. He appeared well do to. Of course why would she have to think otherwise when attending an occasion such as this. It was custom for men to huddle together in a smoking circle after appetizers and before main course. Again, they would mingle in their manly vices while wives took tea and crumpets because they shant eat the same amount in front of prying eyes.

“Frog legs had slime on them.” She lied. She didn’t care. She shrugged. They were probably slimy anyway. Jannie took a step closer to him. Her bodice engulfed in the roaming cloud of smoke which spew from the hot ash. Mind beckoned the chalky gray cloud to absorb the rather unpleasant waft of mothballs from her Irish-creme pours. Gladly trading one odor for another strong scent. The man's brow tightened, fist entered his tailored pants pocket. Foot tapped as if to warn his space was meant for him alone. Dark eyes of fury looked across her frame. She could tell by they way they roamed across her dress. Men with fat tight wallets were not known to be men of honor. Jannie may be seventeen, but she was well aware of what made her distinguishing features trigger some temporary inner happy-land of the opposite sex. Tongue leaked out to lick the corner of her mouth to get his attention purposefully.

She locked orbs with his, “Can I bum a f.. cigarette?”

He plucked the casing from between dry cracked lips, it rest between index and forefinger, sternly pointed in her direction. There it was. Reality set in. That grimace face protruded beyond the rather even level of the expression before. Brow tightened and transformed into a V above scorned eyes threatening to burn holes through her frame. A low growl growing in the back of his throat, worked up the will to pounce on its prey. It was the same look of her seventh-grade gym coach after a faked injury and attempt drowning in the elementary school pool to get out of a mathematics test in fifth period. He closed the space between them, Jannie welcomed him back to the front porch of the grand ballroom with a coy grin.

He snapped, “Who’s..where's your Father?”

“Jim Beam!” Jannie smirked, snatched what was left of his lit fag from its firmly planted funnel. She heard him gasp and shout as her feet danced down the stairwell to the sidewalk and disappeared through a set of well-groomed closely planted bushes. Echoed footsteps and clamored remarks fade in the distance behind a slammed door. Fingers pulled the remaining half filter from the tabaco tube. Brought it to her loose lips and inhaled its beauty into her lungs.