Gilda's Locket

Gilda's Locket

  By T. L. Ingham

  For my grandmother, who gave me an insight into the world and the people in it, far beyond whatever natural capacity I may have gained on my own.

  Gilda's Locket

  Copyright 2012 Tammy L. Ingham.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Gilda's Locket- a short story

  About the Author

  Sneak preview of The Dradon Project

  Gilda; never Gil, never Gilly, only Gilda or Gilda Jean if you must; toyed with the locket that dangled from the thick chain wound around her neck. The chain, which had been a separate purchase from the locket itself, was another strike on her already very tight budget. Her monthly widow’s pension and social security check barely covered the household expenses, such as they were. She lived quite modestly in a tiny house that she and her husband had purchased over fifty years before. They had struggled over the next thirty years to keep up with the monthly mortgage payments, worrying each month as the next due date rapidly approached, but somehow they had managed to squeeze each payment out just in time, and eventually, they had owned the property free and clear.

  The neighborhood had changed quite a lot over those years. When they had first signed the mortgage, their neighbors had been young couples not unlike themselves. Twenty-something’s buying their first homes, places that would inevitably be a stop along the way until their careers took off and they could afford something better; eventually relocating to the bi-level homes in the new neighborhood being constructed on the other side of town. Only a few of the originals had stayed behind, inevitably leaving their homes to less than deserving children or in some cases grandchildren, who lived a much less motivated lifestyle. Instead, these twenty-something’s existed paycheck to paycheck, investing their earnings on less essential things. High-end technologies were more important these days, and each of these small cracker-box homes housed more than their fair share of high-end computers, cell phones, flat screen televisions, and surround sounds. Gilda would venture a guess that if each of her neighbors set aside the funds they had used on all the frivolous purchases they could easily have afforded better homes. But that was none of her business. And it certainly had not been the case with Eldon and herself.

  They had both worked most all of their lives, but neither having a college degree or being licensed in any trade, they had been forced to accept the paltry weekly paycheck that seemed to be the only thing they had a right to expect. Eldon had worked most of his life in the local grocery store, working his way up the ladder to produce manager. Not very exciting, but it paid the bills. She herself had worked a bevy of odd jobs, everything from cleaning lady to keeping the books for a local doctor. Eldon, being older than she, had retired only a few years before his death, so they never had really gotten to enjoy those so-called golden years.

  Not long after her official retirement, also known as finally old enough to receive a social security check, she had taken a job at the local library. It was a job she enjoyed, not terribly demanding, and the quiet unrushed atmosphere was a perfect for a lady of her advanced years.

  Her birthday had been the week before; turning seventy-five had seemed more exciting for her co-workers than it ever had been for her. All the same she feigned delight at the surprise party they had held in the small room behind the checkout counter of the library. Fully equipped with paper streamers and pink-iced cupcakes (thank God none of those awful party hats- she had some dignity after all), the party had been a pleasant diversion to the normal work day.

  It may have been because of the party atmosphere still lingering in her brain, that after she had left the library that day, instead of going straight home which was normally her habit, she had instead made a right hand turn onto Bradley Street and found she was pulling up in front of the consignment shop. She loved the dim little shop, but rarely if ever did more than peer in the windows when passing by. The temptations were too great for someone like her on such a strict budget. Her library money was her only “mad money,” but it also had to pad a rapidly dwindling savings account. With taxes rising every time you turned around, and the cost of electric and gas going up as well, it wouldn’t be long before her combined checks wouldn’t be enough to cover the bills. And she wasn’t sure what she would do then. A bridge she would have to cross when she got to it.

  At any rate, that day she did more than peer in the windows. She went inside the dim little shop and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light, then began wending her way down the tight little aisles, admiring all the little knick-knacks on the shelves. All the gleaming silverware and delicate china dishes, the little porcelain dolls, the hand-tatted lace doilies; many of the things from a bygone era that it seemed only she and others her age could appreciate. She had been about to leave, proud of herself for not spending so much as a dime, when a flash of silver from inside a glass case caught her eye.

  She made her way to the case hesitantly and then peered inside. There it was. It. The thing. The most magnificent thing she had ever laid eyes on. A beautiful silver locket, highly etched with an entwining rose pattern, complete with thorns (she had noticed those only after she had put on her reading glasses), and complete with a simple clasp and silver loop at the top through which you could thread a chain. It was magnificent and she hardly dared to breathe.

  The man working the shop instantly noticed her interest and hustled over to assist. Gilda couldn’t remember much if any of the conversation. She barely recalled allowing the shopkeeper to extract the locket, barely recalled handling the piece as if testing the weight, barely remembered opening the clasp to look inside, it was empty, no pictures at all, but it seemed to call out to her to fulfill its purpose and put some lovely picture into its interior, bringing it to its ultimately intended glory.

  Oh, how breath taken she was, how mesmerized. And it wasn’t long until she had purchased the thing, and it had been boxed and bagged, and there she was, exiting the store with what amounted to two months worth of library paychecks dangling in an eight inch bag.

  She should have regretted the purchase immediately, though she couldn’t say that she did. True, she was worried about pulling so much out of the savings all at once, savings that would take more than two months to acquire again no doubt. But still, she did not regret the decision. There was something about this locket that called to her. It was as if it sought her as much as she did it.

  Once home, she had removed it from the bag and placed it gently into her mostly empty jewelry box where it had stayed the whole weekend. Sunday, she had purchased the chain for it, a thick chain that wouldn’t break; she was taking no chances. But even then she did not lift the lid on the jewelry box; instead she laid the chain on top. It wasn’t until this morning, after she had cleaned up and dressed for work, that she had removed the locket, beautiful as ever, (she could just hear the compliments now), and threaded the chain through before slipping it over her gray head. Now, she stood admiring it in the mirror, turning it this way and that, caressing it between her aged fingers.

  It wasn’t until she had been at work and one of her co-workers, (a young mother, pleasant girl but not terribly bright), noticed her new jewelry and commented on it, asking if she had a picture of her husband inside, that it had dawned on Gilda that she had neglected to do just that. She quickly explained it away saying she had been far too busy over the weekend to get out all the old albums and that she had wanted to choose just the right picture. She was determined to do exactly that as soon as she got ho
me.

  It was nearly bedtime by the time Gilda had returned from work, cooked something for her dinner and cleaned up. But she kept her silent vow and took the time to dig out some of the old photo albums. As she sat in the threadbare armchair, she slowly turned the pages, illuminated only by the low wattage of the small table lamp beside her. It surprised her to realize she had not looked in any of these old albums in years. Certainly not since Eldon had died, and likely not for years before. He had been so ill the last few years that all her time was taken up in taking care of him and trying to maintain a somewhat normal home atmosphere amid the hospital bed that took up half the living room, and the IV stands and monitors that kept a constant droning beep going day and night. No, there definitely hadn’t been any time for reminiscing, even if she’d had a mind to.

  The first album, simply out of fate rather than design, was the most recent, showing Eldon and Gilda in their latter years. The pictures had been taken maybe fifteen years before and consisted mostly of pictures of their tiny little vegetable garden they had attempted to plant that year. While it couldn’t have been considered a complete failure, it wasn’t what you could call a roaring success either. Whoever had suggested old ladies were good at gardening had never met Gilda. At any rate, the garden that year had yielded countless zucchini, (she felt no sense of accomplishment there, growing zucchini was the act of a simpleton, she would have felt more success if it had failed, after all, who had ever been unable to grow squash as prolific as it was?) Aside from that, that had managed to squeeze out two of the most pitiful peppers she had ever laid eyes on, and one rather good tomato. It would have been simpler, and cheaper, to go to the market. But, as Eldon constantly reminded her, they didn’t know until they tried. It was the last time they tried.

  The next pictures in the album were from Christmas of that year. Just the two of them as usual. They hadn’t seen Scott in years. He was far too busy to travel home for holidays; though he always made mention of dropping by for a visit sometime during his travels, it never seemed to come to pass. Even when his father had been dying, he had far too much on his schedule to take time out for anything more than the funeral. Gilda hadn’t seen him since then. Had only talked to him a dozen times maybe. Her heart panged at the thought. Then she quickly shook her head and put her mind to the task at hand. It was getting late, and she was going to have to be getting off to bed.

  Finally, after turning a few more pages forward, then a few back, then a few forward again, she decided on a picture. It wasn’t perfect maybe, but considering the lateness of the hour it would have to do. Sliding the picture out of the album, she admired it once again before heading to the kitchen for the scissors. It was the picture of Eldon she had taken over Christmas. She’d made him sit in the armchair right beside the little round end table. The table lamp had been replaced with a miniature Christmas tree. The tree, an artificial one they’d had for years; not unlike them,