I made a visual narrative to summarize where we’ve been in the story this far:
For a complete chapter index Let’s do the Raccoon
See you guys Monday!
Graphics (c) Rob Goldstein 2018
“Piazza d’Italia” 1934 by Arnaldo Dell’Ira
Footsteps: an affair.
“You’re late.” says Fellique.
“Ten minutes.” Marcy replies.
“I cannot kiss on an empty stomach.” Fellique orders à la carte
and gazes fearfully into Marcy’s eyes.
“What bothers you my little bon-bon?”
“Nothing, Mon cher. Try these snails.”
Yet the fear remains.
“Oh Marcy!” Fellique feels suddenly ill , “Will I die if we make
“Only If you forget to breath, my little bon-bon !”
Tragedy replaces fear in the eyes of Fellique Duprix . “Breathing reminds me
of my mother.”
“Is your Mother still alive, dear Felique?”
“I was ten. Mother chased wild geese and drowned in the Seine. This is why
love is painful. Everything reminds me of Mother! Oh poor stupid Mother!”
Felique sobbed as they hopped the E Train for Harlem; she sobbed for
her poor Mother.
Fellique turned to Marcy, her face as grey as the Moon.
“I’m a troubled woman.”
“Lamb.” Marcy replied.
“I do nothing but need.”
“Lamb.” Marcy repeated.
“Have I told you of my Mother?” Fellique asked.
Marcy gripped Fellique’s shoulders: “Did your Mother drink?”
“Alcohol wrecked your life!”
Fellque offers a cynical cackle: “Ah, that it was that simple
my wretched long-suffering woman. My Mother loved me.”
Marcy was strong, yet gentle: “Denial! Make love to me now!
Nothing sullies those who love!”
“Not even time?”
What it is about love?
Felique moves with the purity of a child who spies a new perception: all mothers are one Mother and the World is one big Mother
Hot tears dribble onto Marcy’s mound, whose love expels the ghost of Fellique’s affliction.
“O! Que j’aille à’ la mer,” sighs Felique.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
It was then I realized Roy had murdered his first wife and cared
nothing for his son, Little Jimmy.
I strolled with little Jimmy to the New Haven Green and asked if
he wanted a new Mommy.
“N-Not if Daddy kills her!” he replied.
It was then I thought of cigarettes and contrived a plan.
I married Roy and slowly introduced him to cigarettes.
He smoked a carton a day by our first anniversary.
One day, twenty years later, Little Jimmy returned from Yale.
Roy wheezed as I lit his cigarette.
“Trina!” Roy gasped, “You whore!”
“Shut-up,” I snapped. “Here! I’ll break off the filter!”
“Muthuh!” cried Jimmy, “Leave Fathuh alone or I’ll report you to the Surgeon General!”
“You and what lobby?” I sneered.
However, I was nervous and hastily swallowed the lit evidence.
I asked Jimmy what he had learned at Yale that day.
“Schematics,” he replied.
“Liar…” I grinned. “You were cruising the men’s room in the library. I slipped into one of your Father’s jackets and wore his aftershave.
I saw who you did in the stalls vile boy!”
Roy chortled and slid face first into his ashtray.
I held a mirror to his lips and caught the ashes of his last breath…
(C) Rob Goldstein 1986-2017 All Rights Reserved