Latest Project

Here I have a very rough draft of a beginning for a novel...I've borrowed characters from the novel I've been working on for the past year and a half. Right now, I'm just trying to see if they fit better here. Anyway, here it is:

PROLOGUE
We sat together in the confessional. John’s eyelashes fluttered against my face and I held both my hands to open wound in the back of his head.
“We can’t stay here forever, Carrie,” he said. His voice came out as a thin whisper. I closed my eyes. His warm blood trickled down the back of my wrists. He cleared his throat. “Carrie,” he said. “We can’t stay here forever.”
“I know,” I said.
The slants of light from the church brightened his blond hair and blue eyes. He had a dark golden beard-the makings of one, anyway-but his eyes betrayed his youth. He put his calloused hand on my cheek.
“It won’t be long before they figure out we’re here.”
“I know, John.”
“They’ve probably already found the car.”
“I know, John. I get it.”
I took a deep breath of the warm, stale air. I had to sit on John’s lap to make room for both of us in the confessional and I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
“I’m so tired,” he said.
“Hey,” I said. “John, wake up. Please. Keep talking to me.” John didn’t move, but he opened his eyes. He looked so young to me. Despite the beard, I still saw him as the scrappy kid I’d met completely by chance nearly four months ago.
“You know what this reminds me of?” he said. “St. Thomas.”
“Did you spend a lot of time in the confessionals?”
His brow furrowed.
“Well…no. It’s the smell. You know, the wax from the candles and the musk and that smell that comes from hundreds of people walking around and breathing and talking and living. It’s the same here. I guess it’s probably the same in most churches.”
“I love you, John,” I said. For the first time, my words matched the burst of hot emotion that consumed my body. He smiled his bulletproof smile. Clutching the back of his head with both my hands, I touched my nose to his.
“It’ll be ok,” he said. I shook my head.
“Not this time,” I said. “You can’t be so blindly optimistic this time, ok? It’s not going to be ok.” I moved closer to him. “I love you,” I said.
“I love you too,” he said, and we heard footsteps outside the confessional—long, echoing footsteps with the definitive click of cowboy boots.
CHAPTER 1
My Uncle Glenn was, by nobody’s account, a good person. He was a priest, but a lousy one. People referred to him as a ‘the reclusive Father Gaulding.’ The way I hear it, he spent most of his time locked up in his study in the rectory behind St. Thomas or down by the river smoking joints with this bum named Kip. Yet, I felt a certain obligation to go to his funeral.
As I examined how I looked in a black dress that had once belonged to my mother, my father came into my room and sat on my bed. He had a bottle of amber whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. For a few minutes he watched me in silence, and then took a long, dry drag of the cigarette.
“You don’t have to go to this, Carrie,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“The bastard killed your sister.” I looked back at him in the mirror. Silver smoke poured from between his lips in the lazy sort of way he had worked hard to master.
“No one killed her,” I said. I sat down next to him and started to pull on my heels. “It was an accident, Dad. Anyway, that was twelve years ago.”
“He was stoned out of his mind,” Dad said, staring straight ahead, at our reflection in the mirror. “And she was just four years old.”
I stood up and went back to the mirror. I pulled my hair over my shoulder and studied my reflection.
“You should come,” I said, without turning around.
“Come,” he scoffed from behind me.
I turned back to him. Dad sat on the edge of my bed with his whisky in between his knees. His red hair was getting long and it hung over his forehead, stopping right above his small, squinty eyes, eyes that could beam with charm under the right circumstances.
“Yes,” I said.
“I hope he burns in hell, Carrie,” Dad said and passed out.
I picked up the bottle from my floor and took the cigarette from his fingers. I brought both to the kitchen, throwing out the cigarette and replacing the whisky bottle in our amble liquor cabinet.
Allan was waiting for me outside the apartment, also smoking, and wearing a bright blue tie.
“That’s a little inappropriate,” I said, taking a drag from his cigarette before I tossed it on the ground and crushed it with my heel.
“Jesus Christ, Carrie,” Allan said. He slung his arm over my shoulder. “I dragged myself out of bed, drove thirty minutes to this goddamn town in the middle of nowhere just so I could go to some funeral of some relative of yours who you don’t even like, who I’ve never even met and you want to critique my fashion choices?”
The air was cool and thick. We were ankle-deep in fog from the river. As we walked we stirred it up and created little clouds.
It took us about five minutes to walk from my apartment to St. Thomas. It was by far my favorite building in Wiseman and I was drawn to it, not just because the architecture was breath-takingly beautiful, with gray stone gargoyles sitting amongst saints, thick mahogany wood and two bell towers that loomed over the rest of us, but because my childhood was buried somewhere inside.
“I was eight when my sister died,” I said, staring up at the church.
“She died here?” said Allan. “Jesus Christ.”
“God, watch it, ok?” I said. “This is a church. A funeral?” He shrugged.
We joined a mass of other mourners, garbed in black, as they climbed the stairs to the church.
“Jeez, everyone’s staring at you,” Allan said.
“They all know what happened here,” I said.
“What did happen?”
We walked into the church and I was hit by a wall of cold air. The smells of wax, musk, stale paper, mold and something else—something both salty and sweet—lingered around us. Dark stone saints that I didn’t recognize stood solemnly along either wall of the church, framed by the multi-colored light of the looming stained-glass windows. Slender wooden pews lined the center of the church, broken by a wide aisle that stretched down between them. Above us long, knotted arches, like contorted human muscles, strained against the curved ceiling.
Allan and I took a seat near the back, in the shadows.
“My sister and I were playing on the pulpit up there,” I said. “She fell and died. Gosh, I haven’t been here for twelve years.”
“Yeah, well time heals all wounds,” said Allan. He popped his gum.
“Is that so?”
“It’s always worked for me.”
“After Allie died my dad left me,” I said. “He was gone for eight months.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Allan. The elderly couple sitting next to us looked startled. “Where’d he go? Where’d you go?”
“I don’t know where he went,” I said. “He’s never told me. I’ve never asked. My Uncle Chaz flew in from San Francisco to take care of me.”
“This was before Chaz off’d himself?” I nodded. “Shit, girl, you got one fucked up family.”
“Allan,” I said. “It’s a goddamn funeral.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “So, when your sister died, your mom was already out of the picture?”
“I’ve told you,” I said.
“Refresh my memory,” he said, in the sarcastic way I hated because it told me he didn’t really care.
“My mom was gone long before my sister died,” I said.
“She dead or did she jump ship?”
“She jumped ship.”
“Did she run off with some bastard or what?”
“Allan,” I said. “Stop being such a jerk.”
“Oh, I’m a jerk,” he said. “God, Carrie, I think I’m being a pretty good boyfriend today. I have a life, you know. I have friends who aren’t still in high school. I could be hanging out with them or doing work or, honestly, really anything would be better than sitting through some goddamn funeral for someone I didn’t even know.”
I rolled my eyes and focused on the service. The black belly of the church echoed with lilting voices, suppressed laughter, murmurs of grief and the click of high-heel shoes. It seemed so familiar to me. I’d often dreamed of the place, of the day that Allie had taken her fateful fall. It was more beautiful in real life and so much more in focus.
“Miss Gaulding?” I turned to face an old man, another priest, who stood bent next to my pew. I stood up. Allan looked the guy up and down and turned away.
“Yes,” I said.
“Carolina,” the priest said. He extended his withered hand. I took it. It felt like squeezing an old fruit. “Glenn, ah, Father Gaulding, spoke of you often. It’s such a tragedy that he was taken from us at such a young age.”
“Yes,” I said. “Have they had any luck tracking down the men who…?”
“I’m afraid not,” the priest said. “I’m Tim Nantes. Father Tim Nantes. Tell me, is you father-Lyle-is he here today?” I shook my head. Father Nantes touched my arm. “Well, send my regards. Too much blood has been shed in this house of God.”
I exhaled and sat back down next to Allan.
“Wait,” Allan said. “How did your uncle die?”
“Armed robbery gone wrong,” I said.
“Someone tried to rob a goddamn church? And then they shot a priest? Jesus, they’re going to hell for sure.”
“Allan, shut the fuck up,” I said.
The service was nice. Father Nantes spoke at great length about my uncle, but I had the feeling that he was elaborating on a fragile relationship. And the church was packed, but they had only turned out because a) it was something to do and b) everyone would be talking about it, it and the robbery that shook Wiseman to its foundations.
As Father Nantes spoke, I stared at the big picture of my Uncle Glenn at the front of the church. We looked alike, he and I. We had curly red hair and large dark eyes and high foreheads. He looked thin and sickly in the picture. I wondered how recently it had been taken. His beard was uneven. It looked as if he’d attempted to trim it but to no avail. It just grew thicker in some parts and not at all in others. He had a sad and serious smile, a smile that was more of a grimace than anything else.
I wanted to stay after the service, to linger for a while longer in St. Thomas, but Allan pulled me outside and into the alleyway in between the church and the grocery store.
“Look,” he said, pushing me against the wall. “I don’t appreciate being treated like this, you know.”
“Treated like what?”
“Like I’m some big baby you have to watch out for.”
“Allan, I was just asking you to not swear so much at a funeral, ok? It’s not that big of a deal.”
“I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“So what?”
“So if I wanna swear at some goddamn fool’s funeral, then I’m gonna.”
I slapped him. He hit me back with such force that I fell to the ground.
“Get out of here,” I said. I spat blood out of my mouth.
“Yeah, like you have to tell me that.”
I pulled myself back to my feet and wiped the dirt and shit off of my knees. The blood on my hands blended in with the black on my dress.
Inside, the church had mostly cleared out. A few people still mingled with each other in the pews. They had left flowers and handkerchiefs all over the stone floor and the weight of a death floating in the air, like ashes blown from a fireplace
The casket had been carried out but his picture remained. I waited until I was the only person left in the church and then I stood close to it, studied it. My Uncle looked like a good man. He looked weak and vulnerable but warmth bloomed from his dark eyes. I had a sudden, strange longing to speak to him.
“You’re Carolina?” I turned. An old woman, a nun, appeared next to the picture. I nodded. “What happened to your face?” I touched the spot of drying blood where Allan had hit me.
“Nothing,” I said. The nun went to my shoulder and joined me in studying Uncle Glenn’s photograph.
“Despite what you may have been told,” she said, in a dry voice, “Glenn Gaulding was a good man.”
“He was a stoner,” I said. “Not a very good priest.”
“I never said he was a good priest,” the nun said, sharply. “I said he was a good man. After the death of your sister, Father Gaulding stopped believing in God. He didn’t want to open any sort of dialogue and it was a struggle for him to preach every Sunday. On his worst days I would say, ‘Father Gaulding, the least you have to do is pretend!’ No, he was not a good priest. Far from it. But he was no more flawed than the rest of us. He was a good man. Come with me. I’ll get you something for the cut on your face.”
She led me into the back of the church and told me to wait in an old study. It wasn’t until after she had left that I realized it was Uncle Glenn’s study. There was a journal on his desk with his name on it, and a photo of him and Dad and Chaz in a frame next to a vase of old tulips. My favorite flower.
I opened the desk drawer and found a small bag of weed, several empty envelopes and an old picture of me and my sister. I picked it up. Alabama and I looked alike and for the first time in a long time I felt the knife of grief twisting deep in my gut. She really was just a baby when she died. There was still baby fat in her cheeks, still a shine of innocent joy in her blue eyes.
“Oh, hey.” I looked up. A boy about my age stood in the doorway. He had dark blond hair and a bulletproof smile. He wore a black jacket and pants that were a few sizes too big for him and a black tie.
“Hi,” I said. He inched into the room.
“I saw movement in here and I thought, well, I guess I don’t know what I thought.” He pulled at his tie, loosening it. “I’m John Luther.”
“Carrie Gaulding.”
His mouth formed a little O that irritated me.
“You’re Father Gaulding’s niece.” I nodded. Just one, quick nod. John held up his hand as if to ask me to wait and went to a file drawer next to the bookshelf. I watched as he went through the folders.
“How did you know my uncle?” I said.
“I used to be an altar boy,” John said. “I sang in the church choir, while it existed, and lately I’ve just been helping Glenn out.” He paused. “I was there. The night he died. I was there.”
He bent his head and continued to sort through the files. I watched him. I didn’t know what to say and we were saved by further awkwardness by the return of the nun.
“Oh, hi Sister Mary,” said John.
“What are you doing here?” Sister Mary said, crossing the room to me. She began to dab antiseptic lotion on the cut on my cheek. I grimaced.
John stood up, holding an envelope.
“Who hit you?” he said to me.
“No one,” I said. “I ran into a door.” He exchanged a look with Sister Mary who gritted her teeth and shrugged her bird-like shoulders.
John handed me the letter. It had my father’s name written on the front.
“Before Glenn died,” John said, with his forehead furrowed, “he said he wanted your dad to have that.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said John. “But it was like, literally his dying breath, so, please give it to him?”
I picked up the letter. My uncle’s handwriting on the front had induced the same emotional reaction as seeing the picture of my little sister.
“He won’t read it,” I said.
They both looked at me as if they were trying to see past my face, as if they were studying me for some glint of goodness. I got to my feet and told them I had to go.
Outside it had started to rain. The roads were slick and shiny and the water seeped into my heels and onto my toes. I clutched the letter to my chest and paused outside of the apartment. My blood pulsed so hard I felt dizzy as I ran my finger through the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Lyle,
I know I’ve written before. I’ve begged you to speak to me. But this is different.
If you’re reading this, then something’s happened to me. I’ve died or gotten sick and, anyway, I’m out of your life forever, with no chance of reconciliation. I always thought maybe one day we would start talking again.. I always clung onto that hope and I wonder if you have too. If you have, and I’m gone, then I want you to know it’s not too late. Lyle, I’m listening. If you can forgive me, if you can’t, but you want to say something, then I’m listening. I’m only gone in the physical sense.
I love you, Lyle. We’re brothers, and our connection is one stronger that life and death.
Tell Carolina I love her, and I’m sorry. More sorry than you will ever understand.
Love Always,
Glenn Gaulding
When I gave the letter to Dad, he took a lighter out of his pocket and burned it without reading it.
“You’re being an idiot,” I said. We watched as black ash fell onto the kitchen table.
“You wanna know who’s an idiot?” Dad said. “Your uncle. He’s sent me hundreds of letters. It’s pathetic. This may seem noble to you, but all he just wanted to live without the guilt. I’m never going to let that happen. He deserves to be guilty. He deserves to go to hell and he deserves to look at Alabama’s face every day and think about the life he stopped.” Dad shook his head. “He wasn’t a good guy just because he took thirty seconds to scribble out an apology.”
He dropped the last shred of the letter onto the table. I watched as he lit his cigarette and poured himself another drink.
“How much have you had to drink today?” I said.
“Not nearly enough,” he said and disappeared into his room.
I cleaned up the remnants of the letter from the table. As I dumped them into the trash can I caught a glimpse of my face. It looked bad. My left cheek was swollen although the cut was clean, thanks to Sister Mary. I touched it and grimaced. Dad hadn’t noticed.
Allan had left two messages. I deleted them both. We were really done this time. I wouldn’t go back, not again, not after what he had done and said. I felt stupid. I hated him not because he treated me like some disposable accessory but because of what he had said in the church. I felt almost no bond to my family, but his words had made my blood burn. There are some bonds we can’t untangle ourselves from.
As I stood over the telephone, telling myself that I should just avoid men for the rest of my life, Dad lumbered back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He cleared his throat as he poured himself another drink. I sat down next to him.
Dad clutched a postcard in his hand. Deliberately, he laid it out between us, picture-side up. It was so creased and bent that I couldn’t tell what the picture was of.
“This is the last thing your mother ever sent me,” he said. His eyes were empty and dark. He looked old to me and fragile. I watched as he ran his stubby fingers across the destroyed photograph. “This is what she sent me to tell me she was never coming back.” He drew his eyebrows together. “When I left you I went looking for her. I guess I thought she should know that her daughter was dead. She sent this from Montana so, that’s where I went. I figured out in about three days that she wasn’t there.”
“You were gone longer than three days.”
“She wasn’t there,” he said. “In that big stupid state. She’d already left.”
“Left where?”
“I’m going to bed,” Dad said. “Goodnight, Carrie.”
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” I said.
He picked up the postcard and retreated back into his room. I waited until the lights had gone out and then I fixed myself a drink and sat at the kitchen table, mulling.
I didn’t go back to the church for nearly a month. I went on with my life, went to school, sat through classes and learned things I knew I’d never really need to know. I went to parties on weekends and drank too much and fell into the pants of any guy who would have me. I started noticing John Luther in the halls of Wiseman High, usually alone, usually wearing the same black t-shirt and blue jeans with a rip on the knee. We didn’t acknowledge each other. He never asked about Uncle Glenn’s letter and I never approached him to talk about it.
It was during this month that I started to think about escaping Wiseman. I would graduate in a few months. In June, I would be eighteen, a legal adult, and the last shreds of control that Dad exerted over my life would fall from my shoulders. I began to plan it out. At first it didn’t matter where I would go. One night in early May I dreamt of my mother and that decided it. I would go after her. I would try to find her. She owed me and I was more than ready to collect on her debts.
There were just a few obstacles to my plan. I didn’t have much money and I didn’t have a car. Dad didn’t have a car either and he worked at the local, one-screen movie theatre. His minimal wage job was just enough to buy alcohol, cigarettes and dinner. I didn’t eat breakfast and I only ate lunch if one of my girlfriends wanted to share or some guy insisted on buying. Hitchhiking wasn’t entirely out of the question but I had already met my share fair of creeps and I didn’t want to end up on a TV set somewhere as a Jane Doe found in a ditch.
My plans for running away joined a long list of things I couldn’t talk about with my dad. I couldn’t talk about it with my friends because they’d try to convince me to stay. As for exes, they would only encourage me to get lost. This left one person, the only person in Wiseman who wouldn’t be able to give me any advice at all.
The graveyard behind St. Thomas overlooks the river. It was probably scenic, once, before the grocery store moved in on one side and someone erected an apartment on the other. Nowadays the cemetery is framed by two graffiti-coated dumpsters. I knew the boys who had dared each other to slink through the graves to paint the dumpsters. I knew that they had laughed about it later and how they had bragged about knocking over someone’s tombstone.
Uncle Glenn’s grave was unremarkable. I don’t know what I was expecting. I thought, for a priest, it would be more elaborate. As I stood in front of it, it dawned on me that the church probably had to pay for it. Running my flashlight down his tombstone, I could read what had been engrained there.
Here Lies Father Glenn Francis Gaulding
Respected Priest and Child of Our Lord
“He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart;
He gently leads those that have young.”
Isa 40:11
The moon shone brightly across the damp ground. Behind me, St. Thomas glowed warmly. I turned my flashlight off and knelt in front of my Uncle.
“I’m running away,” I said. “And it’d be great if you could give me some sort of sign that what I’m doing will be worth it. You owe that to me. I don’t think you killed Allie but you could’ve prevented it. If you weren’t getting smoked out somewhere you could have told us not to play on the pulpit. You could have told us it was dangerous. Sometimes I wonder about how our lives would be different if you had. You know Dad had started smoking cigarettes after Mom left, but he didn’t start drinking again until Allie died. Anyway, you said in your letter you’d be listening so…” I looked up at the sky. “I’m not much for praying but please just keep me safe. Please watch out for my Dad.”
I sat there and turned the flashlight on and off on his gravestone. At some point I became aware of John’s presence and we sat in silence in front of my uncle’s grave.
“How much did you hear?” I said.
“Most of it,” John said.