A Dark Tale

Meg Giordano

This is a dark tale, as the reader can tell from the title. This is important to establish, as the history of storytelling tells us that many, if not most, good stories have at least some dark thread in them. Being therefore assured that we are on a good path, we will proceed.

Isme was a woman who knew her mind. She knew it so well, in fact, that she frequently spoke to it at great length. She would consult it regularly about the merits of the people and things around her. “What do you think of those shoes? Well, certainly not with a dress. Definitely not.”

Isme was not, however, insane. The reader in search of a dark thread may or may not find that assertion disappointing, but it is nevertheless the truth. She knew perfectly well, and will perfect rationality, that she was in the habit of indulging a robust inner dialogue. She simply preferred her own counsel to that of anyone else.

Ah ­– a misanthrope, then? Moodily pushing her fellow human beings aside from her thoughts and intentions as she makes her way through the years in cold isolation? Hardly. Isme was keenly interested in all her neighbors, knew their names and used them. No one could outdo her in simple, frank friendliness.

Simple-minded, then?

Silly?

We could go on for some time with such speculation and surmise. Let me instead summarize the facts about Isme.

Isme lived in a moderately-thriving city, on the twentieth floor of a high-rise building, set in the middle of one of the ‘outskirts’ blocks, neither downtown nor suburb, and she liked it that way. She bought most of her groceries at shops on her block, but she took transit to work and to things like haircuts, the bank, and the movies. She was a content editor for the city’s public works community relations office, and particularly enjoyed striving to set the right tone – informative, but not sappy. Helpful, but not falsely personal or cheerful. She did not have a pet.

On the day with which this tale is concerned, Isme had taken the subway twelve stops, entered a towering medical complex, and was now seated in a consultation room. The door opened and a nurse entered and sat in the chair across from Isme.

Is this where Isme’s tale takes a turn? Let us see.

“So, the doctor wants to make sure you understand the test results, and your next steps.”

“Yes, I think so. I’m just sorry I waited so long to check on this – I don’t know why.”

“Lots of people have had that experience. It seems like it’s not a big issue until it is. Don’t be hard on yourself. What’s important is that you’re here now.”

The nurse paused and looked at Isme’s record.

“So, I know that you like to avoid medication …”

Isme nodded.

“But at this point your level is just too high. The doctor feels she must recommend intervention.”

“I suspected this might happen.”

“All right, then. So, the doctor recommends both starting a course of the medication, and that you have a consultation with the nutritionist.” She looked up at Isme.

Isme considered momentarily and nodded her head.

“All right then. Take this to the folks at checkout and I think you’re set to go for today – but the doctor would like us to check in with you again in about six weeks.”

Isme stood and took the paper. “Thank you, Robin – I really appreciate your help again.”

“Of course! That’s what we’re here for.”

Isme stepped up to the glass window in the reception area. “Hello, Esther! It’s always so nice to see you.”

The woman took the paper Isme held out to her and glanced at it. “Nice to see you too, Isme,” she responded cheerily, and turned to her computer. “So, I’ll send over your prescription to the pharmacy, and contact the nutritionist with your referral. You should hear from their office in a few days.” A printer started whirring, and the woman swiveled her chair and reached for the paper. “Here you go, love! There’s a nurse appointment scheduled for you to come back for the follow up blood test – it’s a quick stop in, usually no waiting. You let us know if there’s any problems, okay?”

“I will. Thanks. And if I don’t see you before then, you and your family have a good holiday!”

“Well, thanks – you too!”

Isme, being finally done with her appointment – which wasn’t so terrible after all – decided to treat herself to an early dinner at a favorite spot. The atmosphere of warm wood and cheerful chatter enveloped her as she followed the host through the restaurant.

“Oh lovely, my favorite table!” Isme beamed with delight and sat down. “It’s like you knew I was coming.”

The host smiled again and placed a menu in front of Isme. “That’s what I’m here for! Your server will be along shortly.”

Isme looked over the specials. The server approached, and Isme looked up.

“I feel silly asking, René, but by chance do you remember which soup it was that I liked so much last time? Was it the minestrone, or was it the barley mushroom?”

“Oh yes, I remember that you liked the soup! Let me check what we were serving that day, but I’m thinking it was the minestrone. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

The server returned in a moment. “Definitely the minestrone.”

“Excellent – let’s go with that. And I’ll have the ravioli again, please. It’s so good!”

“I got you covered, hon.” René took up the menu with a nod and wink, and disappeared.

Isme took a sip of water and relaxed into her chair. “I do love coming here,” she sighed contentedly, looking around the room at familiar faces mixed in with new.

Isme approached the elevator in her building later that evening, rearranging and securing the multiple packages just barely contained by her bag. She had decided to maximize her trip to town: fruit stand, pharmacy, the dollar store, stationery shop. The last was a favorite, a locally-owned store she liked to support, and a source of pleasure keen enough to dispel the cloud of even the most stressful day. She smiled to think of the package containing sky blue notecards, slate blue ink, and a new notebook for recording daily doings. The rhythms and routines of normalcy.

The doors opened and she entered the streamlined rectangle. Up one flight the doors opened again and Isme brightened as two women from her own floor entered. One nodded pleasantly at Isme as the other looked to the button panel, and noted their number was already lit.

The quiet of the elevator was dispelled during the rise, as the women recounted the news of the afternoon, Isme nodding and inserting the appropriate sympathetic noises at the right moments. The sound of dinging drew the women’s eyes to the doors, and when they opened the two who had joined Isme moved swiftly out into the hallway. The second one looked back over her shoulder as Isme followed.

“Oh, let me get that for you,” she said as she held back the door with her arm, “your hands are full!”

“So nice of you, Jenn!” Isme stepped past her into the hall, and they all nodded in friendly solidarity as they turned to their respective ends of the floor.

Isme could hear the chatting and laughing of the two fading down the hall, and then the sudden silence as their conversation was muted behind a closed door. She shifted her bag and maneuvered her key in her own door. Her rooms were dark, and she dropped her bags onto the nearest chair.

Here now must be where the brave smile fades, in the silent stillness of her flat, which Isme cannot help but contrast with the friendly busyness of the outside world, yes? The mask drops, the television turns on, and she tries not to think about the warmth and light she can see emanating from other people’s homes outside her window? The darkness indeed of empty space, of hidden loneliness?

Not at all! Isme kicks off her shoes onto a neat mat by the door, and sighs. “So lovely to be home, isn’t it!”

Humming, she heads toward the kitchen, turning on a warmly-glowing lamp with a colorful shade on the way. She turns on the kettle, opens the fridge where she places her new leftovers from the pub, and withdraws a carefully-covered plate of cake.

“Been looking forward to YOU all day!” she smiles, and dances a little step.

She does turn on the television, which is paused on a thrilling series she’s been binge watching. She indeed has no pets to greet her, the reader may recall, but Isme stops to croon over a side table overflowing with plants, and is delighted to find new growth on a small fir tree she has been nurturing from seed. Isme glances through her mail on the counter, making a few mental notes about bills and calls to make the next day. She opens the bag from the stationery store, thrilling to the simple smell of good paper, and smiles at how carefully the shop owner had wrapped up her purchase in printed paper and string, thinking of how they had chatted over the unusual color of the ink and how it was so hard to find.

“It’s a bit expensive. But I love it so much. And I always think it is so satisfying to take the time and appreciate the craft of a small business owner – they care so much about their work!”

 Three hours or so later Isme eases under her covers, savoring the warmth and softness of the sheets and the weight of the blankets, and recounting the faces and stories she’d come across in her busy day.

Is this what our tale resolves to, then? Isme’s ordinary, cheerful life seems to be just what it appears, no dark underbelly or hidden corners? Not much of a story after all. Well, if it is to be so, then let it be so. I suppose we have not succeeded after all, despite our strong start. We ought to give closure, nevertheless, to the other players in our little tableau, and let them leave the stage as well.

—–

Robin finishes up her notes for the day and walks to the reception area before leaving.

“Esther, did we get a call back yet for Isme?”

“Who?”

“Isme – she needed a nutritionist referral?”

“Hmm. I don’t remember that, but I’ll check. What is the last name?”

“Let me look …” Robin scrolls through multiple screens, clucking her tongue and sighing. “Darn, I don’t know why I can’t find it. I know it begins with a D.”

“Ah – Dunn?”

“Yes, that’s it. Isme Dunn. Any contact yet?”

“I don’t think so – want me to try now?”

“No, they’re closed for the day, I think. Tomorrow will be fine.”

“I’d better leave myself a note, or I’ll never think of it.”

—–

René pauses near the back hallway of the restaurant, reading the schedule of the next week newly posted. A kitchen worker passes by.

“Hey, thanks for the help pushing the minestrone, by the way. I don’t know why the manager was so fixated on that, but he glared at that dumb pot every time he walked by, as if it was my fault we had so much.”

“No worries. It’s funny how easy it is.”

—–

The shop owner, staying late to check inventory, runs his eye and his finger along the shelf of small, beautiful ink bottles.

“Ah – out of slate blue! Glad I caught it. I don’t recall selling the last bottle today.”

“What’s that you said?” his wife asks, looking up from the list.

“I said I must have sold the last bottle of slate blue today without realizing it.”

His wife looks back down and makes a note. “Funny how the day can be one long blur.”

—–

“Who was that woman in the elevator?”

“What woman?”

“I don’t know, the woman who was in the elevator when we got in? I thought you knew her, the way she was talking with us.”

“Was she? I didn’t notice.”

“Well, she knew your name.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. I didn’t recognize her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”