Ernest offered his best attempts to keep up with Lucinda's seemingly sporadic to-and-fro, thinking that he might outwit her and cut her off once she got to... well, wherever she planned to settle. In five minutes' time she had darted, zipped and stormed from the bathroom to their closet, to the far end of the bedroom and back to the bathroom. There had been other stops in between, of course, but far be it from me to remember them all.
Emotions -- especially those that were particularly strong -- could make a person step out of their front door and turn up in some city they'd never seen before. There is rarely anything coherent or reasonable when such a force is at play.
Lucinda made occasional stops at the bed, upon which sat her hand-me-down Carry All, into which she stuffed clothes and random knickknacks she had felt the urge to salvage. The antiquated luggage had been willed to her upon her Mother's death ten years prior. The IRS had seized almost everything else. It was mauve, maybe maroon (depending on the light one happened to view it under, and taking into consideration any hairs one felt needed to be split), and was peppered with embroidered flowers of varying genus. Stitched into the bag, between two flowers, read: "Where Ever You Are, You Could Probably Be Some Where Better". The saying, its origin unknown, was in danger of becoming a family motto.
Ernest, stubborn fool that he was, would arrive at the bag hot on her heels. With each pass he would remove an article and place it where it once belonged, hoping to begrudge Lucinda of the quick and easy getaway for which she clearly aspired. Not thinking, she would play the game and try to abscond with said item on her next pass. Like their marriage, this proved to be an exercise in futility on both of their parts.
"Honey Deeeeew," Ernest lamented. "You're being silly. Help me put all of this stuff back where it belongs."
Lucinda, on her nth trip to her writing desk, removed a photo album. On the cover where once read "Lasting Memories", faded and weathered, now read -- simply -- "L Me or ". There was nothing significant, so far as I know, to be discerned from the script that managed to remain. "What about these?" Lucinda asked, holding the album open and directed at Ernest, flipping through the pages. There were pictures of summer picnics, trips to the park with their daughter, and so on. "Is this just 'stuff'?" She slammed the album closed, tucked it under one arm and took off for her armoire.
Ernest rolled his eyes, gave out a massive sigh that caused his shoulders to slump as if the act caused him to deflate. "My Little Latke -- Darling -- can you just be reasonable for a moment?"
Lucinda, having grabbed the heaviest bottle of perfume the armoire had to offer (with the intent on placing it in her Carry All) reacted as reasonably as the moment would allow. Without hesitation, and without any eyelashes batted, she lobbed the glass chalice at Ernest. With an inspiringly beautiful chime it connected with Ernest's forehead, sending him to the floor.
Ernest laid there, prostrate on the tasteful berber carpet, his eyes helplessly scanning the ceiling.
"Mommy..." a whimper from the doorway called out.
Lucinda, almost instantly returning to her senses at the meek siren song, turned to face the entrance to the bedroom. Standing in the hallway, peeking nervously around the door jamb, was the seven year old fruit of Lucinda's loins.
"Gretchen, baby..." Lucinda said in a soft, compassionate tone.
At the mention of her name, Ernest, too, came back to his senses. He allowed his head to roll to the left and, upon spotting his timid daughter, smiled.
Lucinda refused eye contact with the other two, hung her head ashamedly, and shuffled to her Carry All. She picked the perfume bottle up off of the ground and placed it in the bag with everything Ernest had yet to remove. She zipped the luggage up then looked to her daughter. "Did you pack your things?"
Gretchen nodded.
"And you're dressed?"
Again she nodded, a coy smile stretching across her face.
Ernest, still flat and immobile, gestured for his daughter to enter the room. "Let's see how you did."
Gretchen looked at the floor, blushing.
"Don't be shy, my Little Pot Pie. Show Mommy and Daddy your ensemble."
Imbued with confidence and a devil may care attitude, Gretchen hopped into the room. She had covered her frame with a green raincoat, purple tee shirt, orange pants, and mix-matched socks. They knew the socks didn't match as she had forgotten to put a shoe on her left foot, though had she remembered it would have (more than likely) shared nothing in common with the Puddle Skipper that covered her right foot.
"Very lovely, darling," said Lucinda.
Wrought with pride, having dressed herself for the first time, Gretchen spun around as if she were a super model wearing a one-of-a-kind evening dress by the best designer Italy had to offer.
Ernest looked on now with sad eyes. "You're growing up, Buttercup."
Lucinda looked down at her lame husband, scorn settling back onto her brow. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."
Gretchen looked at her father, noticing the trail of blood that ran from his forehead. She frowned, and her eyes grew wide. "Mommy, is Daddy broken?"
Lucinda removed her Carry All from the bed and joined Gretchen, taking her by the hand. She paused, turning to take one last look at Ernest. "Yes." She said plaintively. "Yes, I'm afraid he is."
Lucinda, with Gretchen in tow, disappeared into the hallway. Ernest listened as their footsteps trailed off into the foyer, then out onto the front porch. Not long after he heard nothing at all. He looked back at the ceiling, too dazed to notice the blood trail had made its way into the tear duct of his right eye.
He wondered how many speckles there were on the ceiling.
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