Josephine's Puzzle
by Jeanne Lyet Gassman
Josephine is assembling the most beautiful jigsaw puzzle. A thousand pieces of a place called Sweet Shoppe where mothers take their children to indulge in fudge, ice cream, and homemade candy. In the image on the front of the box, the mother is dressed in jeans and a flowing shirt with a print of butterflies on her sleeves. Her two children stand politely in front of the displays, deciding on their choices. The girl has a long golden braid down her back, and bright blue eyes. The boy, about two years younger than the girl, has blond curls that twirl around his ears. They are both smiling.
The glass breaks with a violent clatter, sending shards of green across the tile floor where they will remain until morning. Her father shouts, “Why don’t you listen?”
Josephine opens the box and spreads out the pieces, turning each one over carefully. So many types of chocolate. Chocolate-covered peanuts (she thinks), chocolate fudge bars (maybe), chocolate cherries (of course), and chocolate with sprinkles (those are easy to match).
A slap. Flesh smacking flesh. And her mother’s weeping that rises and falls like the wind moaning outside. He tells her, “Shut up!” But she continues her lament, and flesh smacks flesh again.
The secret to success, Josephine knows, is to complete the edge pieces first. They create a frame to work from. And they’re easier to find. The edge pieces identify colors that match them, assist the puzzle-worker in finding the elusive piece that will complete an image, and block out connecting shapes. Josephine lines up every-straight-edged piece, testing and testing, until she finds the right one to fit. Then she repeats the process for the next piece. Build the frame, she thinks. The frame holds everything together.
A door slams, and her father has left the building. Moaning dissolves into cries, her mother calling, “Josephine, Josephine, I need you.” But her pleas are useless. No one answers.
Josephine has completed the frame and parts of the middle. She moves the middle portions around, seeking a connection to the edge or to each other. She will not rest until the puzzle is finished.
Dawn peeks through the window blinds. The house is silent except for the furnace blowing heat through the vents. A faint odor of dried blood is captured in the airflow.
Josephine has almost completed the puzzle. Two more pieces, and she will be done. The children will be able to select their treats while the mother watches, her face bathed in love and adoration. What will the two choose? She believes the boy will pick ice cream, cherry vanilla to be exact, and he will get it in a waffle cone that will melt before he can finish, and it will drip all over his fingers. The girl is more practical and will order a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts. She will tug a handful of napkins from the dispenser for the boy and herself, but she will keep her prize safe until they return home where she can put it in the refrigerator to eat at her leisure.
A car pulls into the driveway. The driver’s door slams shut, and her father comes up the sidewalk, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
Josephine watches him push open the living room door. He hasn’t shaved, and his eyes are red-rimmed, but he is filled with remorse and promises he never keeps. She nods to him quietly. “She’s still in the kitchen,” she says. She doesn’t say her mother has passed out on the floor.
His cheeks flushed with shame or alcohol, her father mouths, “I’m sorry.”
Josephine is silent. She slaps the completed puzzle and breaks everything apart, scattering pieces across the table and living room carpet. Then she gathers them up and starts again.
The glass breaks with a violent clatter, sending shards of green across the tile floor where they will remain until morning. Her father shouts, “Why don’t you listen?”
Josephine opens the box and spreads out the pieces, turning each one over carefully. So many types of chocolate. Chocolate-covered peanuts (she thinks), chocolate fudge bars (maybe), chocolate cherries (of course), and chocolate with sprinkles (those are easy to match).
A slap. Flesh smacking flesh. And her mother’s weeping that rises and falls like the wind moaning outside. He tells her, “Shut up!” But she continues her lament, and flesh smacks flesh again.
The secret to success, Josephine knows, is to complete the edge pieces first. They create a frame to work from. And they’re easier to find. The edge pieces identify colors that match them, assist the puzzle-worker in finding the elusive piece that will complete an image, and block out connecting shapes. Josephine lines up every-straight-edged piece, testing and testing, until she finds the right one to fit. Then she repeats the process for the next piece. Build the frame, she thinks. The frame holds everything together.
A door slams, and her father has left the building. Moaning dissolves into cries, her mother calling, “Josephine, Josephine, I need you.” But her pleas are useless. No one answers.
Josephine has completed the frame and parts of the middle. She moves the middle portions around, seeking a connection to the edge or to each other. She will not rest until the puzzle is finished.
Dawn peeks through the window blinds. The house is silent except for the furnace blowing heat through the vents. A faint odor of dried blood is captured in the airflow.
Josephine has almost completed the puzzle. Two more pieces, and she will be done. The children will be able to select their treats while the mother watches, her face bathed in love and adoration. What will the two choose? She believes the boy will pick ice cream, cherry vanilla to be exact, and he will get it in a waffle cone that will melt before he can finish, and it will drip all over his fingers. The girl is more practical and will order a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts. She will tug a handful of napkins from the dispenser for the boy and herself, but she will keep her prize safe until they return home where she can put it in the refrigerator to eat at her leisure.
A car pulls into the driveway. The driver’s door slams shut, and her father comes up the sidewalk, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
Josephine watches him push open the living room door. He hasn’t shaved, and his eyes are red-rimmed, but he is filled with remorse and promises he never keeps. She nods to him quietly. “She’s still in the kitchen,” she says. She doesn’t say her mother has passed out on the floor.
His cheeks flushed with shame or alcohol, her father mouths, “I’m sorry.”
Josephine is silent. She slaps the completed puzzle and breaks everything apart, scattering pieces across the table and living room carpet. Then she gathers them up and starts again.
Jeanne Lyet Gassman's first novel, Blood of a Stone (Tuscany Press), received an Independent Publishers Book Award in 2015. Additional honors for Jeanne include grants and fellowships from Ragdale and The New Mexico Writers's foundation, as well as nominations for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sunlight Press, Skink Beat Review, and Writing in A Woman's Voice, among many others.