The Old Brass Bed

Thanks to jo for editing.

********

In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities.
- Janos Arnay

Frankie's walk to the subway each morning was a routine that she usually did half aware. She rarely looked up at other commuters and rarely noticed the neighborhood that she walked through. The six block walk from her third floor apartment to the subway station was a blur. Only when she was safely at her desk did she come out of her stupor and focus on the world around her. She felt safe at her desk. She felt safe in her apartment. It was everything in between that was a problem.

You see, Frankie was a border-line agoraphobic. Actually she had several border-line phobias. Fear of open spaces, more specifically fear of leaving safe spaces, was just one of them. And these insecurities controlled her life. They dictated where she lived and worked, they made her hyper-aware of everything she touched or ate, and they even prevented her from having close friends. On a rare occasion she could steel herself and work past one that prevented her from doing something that she especially wanted, but normally she went through life like the silver ball in a pinball machine, bouncing from bumper to bumper before falling into the slot at the bottom.

When she got to work she was invisible. Only when nature called did she venture from her cubicle and go out among her coworkers. She was comfortable at her desk doing her job. Everybody in the office knew that she was a little 'quirky' and left her to do whatever she did. Women didn't come over and talk to her about the horrible date they went on over the weekend or what sale was coming up at Macy's or any of the usual girl-girl chatter in every office. The men in the office gravitated toward the more attractive and fashionably dressed women and Frankie was definitely no slave to fashion so their attention went elsewhere. Her usual fare was non-descript clothes that accented her non-descript hair style that went with her lack of make up, and a pair of old ugly glasses. Nobody's head would turn to look at her when she walked by. So, in effect, Frankie went through life invisible. But she preferred it that way.

On one of her out-of-focus walks from the subway to her apartment something yanked her back to reality long enough to notice the world around her. She was standing in a crowd waiting to cross the street when a glint of light caught her eye. It was the reflection of the sun off of something in the window of the building next to her and she turned her head toward it. The light was blinding and she instinctively put her hand up to protect her eyes. That's when she noticed the building for the first time since she moved there four years ago. The sign over the window said O'Reilly's Antique Shoppe. The cluttered front window contained a collection of old radios, hats, toys, books and a mannequin wearing a 1920's Flapper dress. It was something behind the junk in the window that reflected the sunlight, something that from the curb looked like a large pile of gold that caused her to hold her hand in front of her eyes.

It wasn't like Frankie to do something out of her routine but she broke from the usual and walked over to the shop window and peered in. When her eyes focused on the large pile of gold she saw it was the headboard of an old brass bed. It was tall and ornate and the brass was dull with age. The only clean spot was on one upright post and it was responsible for the sun in her eyes. She just stood at the window looking at the old bed thinking back to the one in her grandmother's attic. When grandma died everything she owned was scattered among the family. Frankie really wanted her grandma's brass bed but one of her aunts snatched it away before Frankie could find the courage to say anything. Since that day she's always wanted an old brass bed of her own. "It must be very expensive," she thought as she stared through the window. Convincing herself that she couldn't afford it she turned and continued her half-aware walk to her apartment.

Every day for the next ten days Frankie broke her work-to-home routine and stopped at the antique shop and looked at the old brass bed through the window. Every day she convinced herself that she couldn't afford it. Every day she walked on. On the eleventh day she got up the nerve to open the door and walk in.

"Hello miss, can I help you?"

The disembodied voice scared Frankie. She looked around but couldn't find its source. She reached for the door to leave when voice spoke again, "I'm up here. Look up."

Frankie turned and looked up toward the ceiling and saw a little old man sitting on a little old chair leaning over the rail of the balcony over the counter.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to frighten you," replied the old man. "I just didn't want you to go away. Wait a minute and I'll be right down."

Frankie cautiously walked around the shop and stopped in front of the bed. She ran her hand over the smooth metal and found it coated with dust, now coating her fingers too.

"You don't see workmanship like that any more," the old man said as he hobbled through the maze on a pair of canes. "It was made in the 1920's by a manufacturer here in New York that went out of business during the depression. It's a very unique style and you couldn't find another like it outside of a museum. We got it about two years ago from the estate of Geneva Fitzgerald. Ever hear of her?"

"No," Frankie answered.

"Oh Geneva was one of New York's wealthiest women, a high society lady who had more money than she knew what to do with. She had huge, lavish parties and traveled all over the world collecting art and furthering women's causes. She gave money to the arts, built hospitals, and owned several large businesses. Heck, even one of the Staten Island Ferries has her name on it. Geneva died about ten years ago at the age of ninety-nine. She'd had an interesting life to say the least. She was born into one of the wealthiest Connecticut families and married into the Tyler manufacturing fortune. Now Carlton Tyler was an old man when they married and he died after a few years and left his vast fortune to her. Her second husband was a bootlegger who died just after they repealed prohibition. I can't remember his name but I understand he met an untimely demise at the end of a shotgun. She married into the Fitzgerald family just before World War II. Together Samuel Fitzgerald and Geneva turned a large fortune into an immense one with scrap metal during the war. She was the quintessential high society lady. There were even rumors of her having a number of lovers over the years."

"Thank you, but I want to know how much is the bed?" Frankie sheepishly asked.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to bore you with ancient history. Sometimes it gets a bit quiet in here and I like to hear myself talk and meeting a charming woman such as yourself only makes me talk more."

Frankie blushed and looked down at the floor. She wasn't used to hearing compliments.

'Well let's see, I think I can give you a good price. It's all here, the footboard is over there and the rails and slats are beside that bookshelf there. With a little work it would look as good as the day Geneva had it made."

"How much?" she asked again.

"Well, I can't take a penny less than three thousand."

"Wow! That's a lot. I can't afford that much. It is a beautiful bed but that's way too much for me. Thank you for your time."

As Frankie turned to leave the old man piped up and said, "Now wait a minute here. You didn't even try to dicker with me. You're supposed to bargain with antique people, I don't mean old people like me I mean people that sell antiques. We live for that. Now, since you're new at this, I'll help you out a bit by starting it off. I'll come down on the price a little just to give the bed a good home; just so you can have it. What do you say to twenty-five hundred dollars?"

"That's still a lot. I don't think I have that much in my savings account."

"Well, just to be honest with you it does have a history. I've sold this old bed twice before and each time it's been returned. They wouldn't tell me why but they looked kinda strange when I asked how they slept, almost scared. And since it seems to come back each time I sell it I'll give it to you for two thousand, as long as you promise not to return it."

Frankie looked at the old man and at the bed and then dug deep into her purse. She pulled out a little notebook and thumbed through the pages. When she found the page she wanted she looked up to the ceiling and did some mental calculations.

"I'm sorry but all I can afford is fourteen hundred and sixty-two dollars."

Almost before she finished the sentence the little old man yelled, "Sold!"

"You drive a hard bargain little lady but you got yourself one really nice bed. Come on over to the counter and we can do the paperwork."

Frankie looked at the old man and smiled. Smiling was something that she didn't do too often. She probably had a touch of geliophobia too; the fear of laughter.

On Saturday two neighborhood boys delivered the bed and Frankie spent the rest of the day polishing the metal to a mirror-bright shine. It took several hours of rubbing and buffing before she was satisfied. When all the hard work was done she just sat on the floor exhausted staring at it, with a somewhat larger smile on her face now.

"Just like grandma's," she said out loud to herself. Frankie had a habit of talking out loud to herself when no one was around (a bit of glossophobia?)

After her usual dinner, alone, she got into her pajamas and ready for bed early. She was anxious to get under the covers and try out her new purchase. It was barely dark when she pulled the quilt up over her shoulders and nestled her head into the oversized pillow. She looked up at the silhouette the headboard created on the wall above her and thought about the woman the little old antique dealer told her about, Geneva Fitzgerald.

"I wonder how many lovers Geneva shared her bed with; this bed, my bed. How many men kissed her and made love to her here? What ecstasy did she experience in the arms of her lovers? How many men were there, I wonder? My God, what if there were women here too? I wonder how often she cheated on her husband with their gardener, rubbing her hands all over his sweaty torso and kissing up and down his body ending with a kiss or two between his legs. I wonder how many times she had the chauffeur drive her to their country house and stop along the way for a little fun in the back seat, wrapping her legs around his hips, bucking and moaning until she screamed with ecstasy. I wonder if...

I wonder how...

I..."

********

Geneva and her father walked to the center of the stage arm in arm with their heads held high. The crowd was hushed with all eyes on the pair. She wore a stunning white chiffon gown straight off the boat from Paris. A diamond tiara twinkled in her short red hair. She was the epitome of grace, charm and beauty. Her father wore his best white tuxedo and looked every inch the rich society industrialist that everybody admired. He paused to let the crowd admire the beautiful woman next to him then in an authoritative booming voice said, "Ladies and gentlemen may I present Miss Geneva Rosalie Michaels." The crowd applauded as the stately gentleman leaned over and kissed the young debutante on the cheek and turned on his heel to walk away. Geneva stood in a regal pose as the applause died down. Slowly she leaned forward, bent down and turned her head to the side to execute a precise, formal St. James Bow. The applause started again as she rose.

Two tuxedo clad young men approached from the sides and stood stiffly beside her with one arm out. Geneva looked at one and then the other before putting her white satin gloved hands on their outstretched arms. Totally in sync they walked forward and down the stairs and over to the table in front of the room. Like the Red Sea in front of Moses the crowd parted to let them pass as they marched past the admiring eyes. With a tilt of her head to each of her escorts she dismissed them and sat down beside her father.

As the crowd moved to their seats the elegant young beauty leaned over to her father and whispered in his ear, "Can we eat now? I'm starved."

It was the most lavish and expensive debutante ball of the season. After two hours of eating and exchanging polite conversation Geneva was able to sneak away to the veranda for a cigarette.

The smoke swirled around her head as she exhaled. "God, I needed that," she mumbled talking to one of the Greek statues.

"You never looked more ravishing my dear," the statue replied.

Geneva took a step back and stared at the white figure. Slowly from behind the statue a man emerged with a huge smile on his face.

"Why you lout," Geneva squealed as she flicked the cigarette away and melted into his arms pressing her lips to his. The kiss was long and hard.

"Where have you been these last couple weeks?" she purred in his ear. "I missed you so much. I wanted to kiss you and to feel your body against mine. I ached for your touch. But you're here now and we can be together tonight after this little soiree is over. Can you wait that long?"

"I don't know if I can, but I'll have to. You have responsibilities inside and my news can wait."

"News? What news? Don't tease me, Ashford, tell me."

"No, I think it would be better when we're alone after the party."

"I can't wait that long. Ashford McManus, tell me now or I'll scream!"

"Well, if you insist," he said as he pushed her away and leaned against the statue. "Geneva, darling, I don't quite know how to tell you this so I'll just say it. I've agreed to marry Lucy Bartlett. With the Bartlett family money we can increase the size of McManus Shipping. We can start a transport line to Europe. Our family business will double or triple in size. But that doesn't mean you and I can't still be together. Just because I'm married to that milquetoast Lucy doesn't mean I don't love you. We can meet in my Boston apartment or the house in New York. Darling we could go abroad from time to time. With her money you and I can do anything we want. She will never know."

Geneva was as still as the statues around the patio. She stared into his eyes before raising one hand and with a forceful swing brought the palm of her hand across his face with a mighty slap.

"Why you son-of-a-bitch! You're going to marry that bitch Lucy and expect me to be your whore on the side. How can you do that to me? I thought you loved me? Oh wait a minute, I get it now, you were just wooing me to get to my inheritance; my father's money. The Michael's family money would do the same as Lucy's family money. I was just someone you shared a bed with so you could expand your business. I was just a business venture. You son-of-a-bitch." She swung again but this time he ducked.

"No Geneva it's not like that. I do care for you. It's just that right now we need capital to expand the shipping lines and you said you wouldn't marry me now. Lucy said she would. I still love you. I will always love you."

Another mighty swing was successfully ducked and then another and another.

"Get out of my sight you bastard! I never want to see you again. GET OUT OF HERE!"

Geneva stormed back inside to the party and over to the bar. "Give me a martini," she ordered the bartender.

"I'm sorry Miss Geneva. Your father said that we weren't to serve you any alcohol tonight. I can give you something else if you want."

"Ahhhhh!" she screamed and stormed across the room and into the kitchen knocking a waiter on his backside along the way.

She was sobbing gently when she felt a hand gently stroke her hair.

"What's so bad that it would spoil your party?" the voice from behind her said.

She turned and looked to see one of the young men who had escorted her to her table earlier. It was young Mister Parker, one of her distant cousins. His eyes and his crooked little smile showed that he had a little devil in him. It was just what Geneva needed.

"Let's take a walk," she said.

They snuck out the kitchen door and quietly tiptoed into the garage. Geneva opened the back door to the Duesenberg and climbed in. Mister Parker shut the door after entering. Their clothes flew off. Her dress landed in the front seat with his coat and tie on top. Her shoes flew out the window and his pants followed. Everything else piled up on the floor as they entangled their arms and legs in a heap of thrusting, pulsating flesh. He kissed her lips. She bit his ear. He kneaded her breasts. She grabbed his backside and pulled his hips between her legs. He entered her with a single thrust. She dug her fingers into his flesh. He pumped up and down. She moaned. He screamed out loud. She cried into his shoulder.

As quickly as it started it was over.

"GET OUT!" Geneva screamed at the naked man lying on top of her trying to catch his breath. "GET OUT!"

He grabbed his clothes and slammed the car door behind him as he ran bare-assed out the garage door.

Geneva just curled up into a ball and cried.

********

Frankie awoke in the fetal position. She felt tears running down her cheeks and her heart ached like nothing she'd ever felt before. The anguish and sorrow that she just dreamt about was still alive inside her. She just had the most vivid dream of her life and it was going to take some time for the feelings to fade.

"My God, what was that all about?" she spoke to the ceiling. She turned and looked at the shiny brass headboard her eyes wide with dread. "That was so real. But it was just a dream. Wasn't it?"

Frankie got up and went into the bathroom for her morning ritual. When she came out she just stood in the room and stared at the bed. An image of the man that Geneva loved and lost was still in her head. The anguish disappeared and a feeling of dread swept over her. She touched the bed and wondered aloud, "What's going on here?"

All day long and everywhere she looked she saw Ashford's face. She tried taking her mind off of him by reading one of her romance novels but nothing helped; his handsome face remained.

As she prepared for bed she thought about the dream from the night before. The image of Ashford was still there. The violent sex between Geneva and her cousin in the back of the old car was still fresh. The loss Geneva felt when her lover spurned her ached in her heart most of all.

"I hope tonight isn't as adventurous as last night," she said to the bed. "I need to get up and go to work tomorrow."

********

"Geneva darling, why don't we go for a walk down by the lake? It's pretty out there this time of night."

The sturdy straw-haired man had a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner punctuated by a gruff, husky tenor. Two dark eyes dominated his face and gave an appearance of aggression. His smile was insincere. He gave the appearance of always leaning forward. The black tuxedo he wore cried out money but his manner showed the real man, a man of rough texture and crude nature. He dominated over the frail beauty standing beside him as he whispered into her ear again.

"Come on, baby. Let's go for a walk, just you and me."

She laughed as if the man had said something witty. "No Stanley, not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever. If ever I take a walk around the lake with someone it won't be you."

His dismissal was complete but he wasn't smart enough to know when he had been insulted. All he had to do was skulk away and hide in the corner but instead he just took a sip of the drink he was holding and stood looking down at her. When he didn't move she rolled her eyes, shook her head and strode toward the couch. Stanley moved to stand beside a woman leaning on the grand piano.

"Stanley's such a cad," said the woman sitting on the couch lolling her head back as she spoke. "Did he ask you to take a walk with him out to the lake?"