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.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Fabulism-Draft 2
You are squashed in between Harry Miller and Victoria Wells. A detail your host, Ms. Shaffer (call me Gloria!) failed to mention is that, together, their weight is approximately equal to a teenage rhinoceros. Henry asks you if you mean anything by your blue and red striped tie and Victoria can’t take her eyes of the innocuous yellow bandage you have wrapped around your thumb. You try turning the conversation to the weather, but this only sets Harry off on a rant about governmental policies on weatherization, while Victoria remarks that she misses seeing the sunlight and lays her sizeable palm on your upper thigh.
Across the table, Tilda Marks is staring at you. You think that she can’t be the same Mrs. Marks, “Witch Marks,” who used to live in your neighborhood when you were a child. Witch Marks was much older. But maybe it’s her sister? Or her daughter? As Victoria Wells’ hand inches up your thigh you hope that word didn’t spread through the Marks’ family about your well-aimed egg that one Halloween when you were eight years old. Tilda Marks turns her attention to Jean-Claude, who feeds her a piece of bread dipped in butter. He begins to mutter in a French accent, and you realize (with some degree of alarm) that you are the only one who notices that he isn’t actually speaking French.
Gritting your teeth, you cross your legs. Victoria Wells seems to get the hint and withdraws her fingers. You pick up your wine glass and then freeze—you realize that the container of blood in the fridge was right next to the wine bag and, given Gloria’s level of inebriation when she first answered the door, you decide that you cannot trust her to have not mistaken the two. You put your wine down and glance at Gloria Shaffer. She is caring on an animated conversation with her dead grandfather, Lawrence (that is to say, his empty chair) who shakes the table in response. The cutlery jingles and liquids swoosh out of the glasses and onto the white linen tablecloth. You begin to think about how silly it is to invite a ghost to dinner when you notice that the food on his plate is gradually disappearing into thin air.
Mr. Shaffer, at least, seems sane. Then again, Gloria Shaffer always seemed sane during your water-cooler talks at the office. You are new to the corporation and you saw no harm in accepting her invitation to dinner, despite Jesse Mueller’s hints about Gloria’s “infamous” parties.
No, but Mr. Shaffer, Moe, does seem relatively normal. He is sitting quietly at the head of the table, poking at his meatloaf and ignoring Harry Miller, who is whispering in his ear. You catch his eye from across the table an attempt a smile. Moe Shaffer stares at you. With one, silent motion, he raises the bottle opener to his throat, bares his teeth at you, and pretends to pull it across his jugular vein.
You ask where the bathroom is. Gloria says she will show you and you walk together down a dark hallway, past a room where coils of silver smoke are creeping out of the doorframe, and to a small bathroom. She follows you in and presses you against the mirror. You insist that you need privacy and she smiles and says, later, before squeezing your bottom and sashaying out.
Down the hallway, the dinnertime conversation hits a crescendo. You stare at yourself in the mirror as they laugh. You realize with horror that the bathroom smells like someone has died, and someone else has sprayed a cheap air freshener in hopes of getting rid of the stench.
The window is locked. You break it with your elbow and sneak away.
Across the table, Tilda Marks is staring at you. You think that she can’t be the same Mrs. Marks, “Witch Marks,” who used to live in your neighborhood when you were a child. Witch Marks was much older. But maybe it’s her sister? Or her daughter? As Victoria Wells’ hand inches up your thigh you hope that word didn’t spread through the Marks’ family about your well-aimed egg that one Halloween when you were eight years old. Tilda Marks turns her attention to Jean-Claude, who feeds her a piece of bread dipped in butter. He begins to mutter in a French accent, and you realize (with some degree of alarm) that you are the only one who notices that he isn’t actually speaking French.
Gritting your teeth, you cross your legs. Victoria Wells seems to get the hint and withdraws her fingers. You pick up your wine glass and then freeze—you realize that the container of blood in the fridge was right next to the wine bag and, given Gloria’s level of inebriation when she first answered the door, you decide that you cannot trust her to have not mistaken the two. You put your wine down and glance at Gloria Shaffer. She is caring on an animated conversation with her dead grandfather, Lawrence (that is to say, his empty chair) who shakes the table in response. The cutlery jingles and liquids swoosh out of the glasses and onto the white linen tablecloth. You begin to think about how silly it is to invite a ghost to dinner when you notice that the food on his plate is gradually disappearing into thin air.
Mr. Shaffer, at least, seems sane. Then again, Gloria Shaffer always seemed sane during your water-cooler talks at the office. You are new to the corporation and you saw no harm in accepting her invitation to dinner, despite Jesse Mueller’s hints about Gloria’s “infamous” parties.
No, but Mr. Shaffer, Moe, does seem relatively normal. He is sitting quietly at the head of the table, poking at his meatloaf and ignoring Harry Miller, who is whispering in his ear. You catch his eye from across the table an attempt a smile. Moe Shaffer stares at you. With one, silent motion, he raises the bottle opener to his throat, bares his teeth at you, and pretends to pull it across his jugular vein.
You ask where the bathroom is. Gloria says she will show you and you walk together down a dark hallway, past a room where coils of silver smoke are creeping out of the doorframe, and to a small bathroom. She follows you in and presses you against the mirror. You insist that you need privacy and she smiles and says, later, before squeezing your bottom and sashaying out.
Down the hallway, the dinnertime conversation hits a crescendo. You stare at yourself in the mirror as they laugh. You realize with horror that the bathroom smells like someone has died, and someone else has sprayed a cheap air freshener in hopes of getting rid of the stench.
The window is locked. You break it with your elbow and sneak away.
The Bloomdom Beast-Draft 2
Drops of blood scattered in the snow, as random as stars, as vivid and strange as the eyes of a newborn. Ben gripped his brother Henry by the shoulders as he steered him to his car. Henry clasped both his hands to his nose as blood gushed from between his fingers.
“Get in the car,” Ben said, hurling Henry into the passenger seat. As Henry fumbled with his seat-belt, Ben jumped into the driver’s seat. He glanced up at the stoop, where his wife and four sons were standing. Emily was crying and the boys looked torn between confusion and sheer joy.
Ben gritted his teeth and sped out of the driveway. The tires slid over the ice and for a split second Ben lost control. Then the tires locked back on, and he pressed hard down on the gas.
“Are you ok?” he forced the word through his teeth as a hot flush rose into his face. Henry looked down at his bloodstained hands.
“I think so,” Henry said. “Where are going?”
“Where are we…? The hospital, you jackass. Where’d you think?” Henry shrugged. Ben let out a long, hot breath. It had been such a good evening so far. He had bought all the decorations that Emily had asked him to. He had shoveled the snow off of the path. Their guests were there. Their mother was driving from the city. It was going to be the perfect Thanksgiving; Ben’s first since he left for his tour of Iraq for the first time six years ago. And then Henry…and then Henry had to go and…Ben gripped the steering wheel. He was grateful that their father wasn’t there: that he hadn’t survived his double bypass surgery six months earlier.
He glanced at Henry. There was blood all down his shirt and arms. Henry looked calm, staring out the window at the flat, snowy landscape.
“Well, are you ok?” Ben said.
“You already asked me that,” said Henry. “I’ll be ok. Jesus, though, you throw one hell of a right hook. Did they teach you that in the army?” Ben clenched his teeth and stared straight ahead. If he looked at Henry, he knew he might not be able to resist the urge to hit him again.
This was no time for emotion, Ben reminded himself. This was a mission. Just like in Iraq. He was on a mission and that was all he should let into his thoughts. Ben took a deep breath. He felt the familiar emotions began to take grip. Cold, clear focus settled down between his shoulder blades as adrenaline began to pump, slowly at first, and then faster, all throughout his body. A mission. Get Henry to the hospital, alive. Save him.
“I think your phone is ringing,” said Henry.
“What?” Ben grabbed his phone from off the dashboard. “Hello?”
“Oh, hello, darling,” his mother said from the other line. “Listen, I’m at your house now and Emily is completely beside herself and you’re not here, obviously, and neither is Henry and from what I gather there was some sort of altercation…”
“I’m driving Henry to the hospital, Mom,” Ben said.
“The hospital? My God, what did you do to him?”
This is how it had always been. Henry, the victim. Ben, the aggressor.
“You’re cutting out,” Ben said, and hung up the phone.
“So,” said Henry,” how’s Mom?”
“Henry, can’t you take anything seriously?”
“There’s no fun in that. Look, Ben, we all know it’s a hard adjustment and everything. Mom made us read all the books. We get that you’re under pressure right now.”
“Pressure,” said Ben. “You have no idea.”
“Well, then, talk to me,” said Henry. “We’re brothers. Shouldn’t we be able to talk about things?”
Ben wanted to know when they had ever talked about things. When had their interests ever lined up so that they could talk about things? In high school, Ben had been on crew, dated girls, participated in leadership club. Henry had smoked pot and spent lunch in the art room. There had never been anything for them to talk about.
But Henry was bleeding on account of Ben, his nose probably broken, so Ben took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “Emily and I couldn’t pay for the private place anymore. The boys are starting at Bloomdon Elementary after Thanksgiving break.”
Henry started to laugh. Ben felt a burning rage rise in his chest, dissolving the blocks of self-control and responsibility that rested on his lungs. It would be quick, easy, and thoughtless. Ben had killed men before without blinking.
But no.
“What,” Ben said, forcing each word out from between his teeth, “is so fucking funny?”
Henry wiped a tear from his eye, smearing blood, and smiled.
“Can I tell you a story?” he said.
Ben didn’t trust himself to speak, to move, to breathe.
“I was seven,” Henry said. “And you were ten. I had spent the day with my best friend, Cameron. Do you remember Cam? He was a little guy. His mom worked the graveyard shift at the local Safeway or Subway or something like that, so he usually ate dinner with us and Dad always made you walk us home. You hated it, but you did it. And one night we were halfway between our house and Cameron’s house, right next to Bloomdon, and you stopped us. You said, ‘hey, have you guys ever heard of the Bloomdon Beast?” We hadn’t. Cam shook his head so fast that his glasses nearly fell off his face.” Henry laughed. “And you said, well, you guys know Bloomdon, right? And you pointed at the school and of course we knew it. The image is still so clear in my head, of the school that night. It was getting dark, but the building was sort of outlined by the sunset. It was blocky and square and really ugly.
“You started to tell us about the Bloomdon Beast. You said it was this huge creature that lived in the deep woods next to Bloomdon. It snuck around and if kids wandered too far, it would eat them, and that’s what happened to kids who disappeared. You said that only a few people had seen it and lived to tell the tale. And you told us that if we could bring it back to you, you’d give us ten dollars each. That was, like, a fortune back then, so of course we agreed.”
Ben, who had let Henry’s words wash over him as he tried to tie down his violent emotions, saw the STOP sign just in time and slammed down on the breaks.
“Bullshit,” he said, as they jerked forward. “That never happened.”
“Would you let me finish?” Henry said. Ben bared his teeth and stomped on the gas. Henry took a deep breath.
“Anyway,” he said, “Cam and I went up to Bloodom. There used to be a fence around it, but, we found a hole and got through. The setting sun cast these shadows all over the place. It was like we had our own dark, grotesque audience. Cam kicked a ball someone had left behind and it made a noise like-like a shot going off and that scared us but then it all became sort of a game. We started to play on the hopscotch, pretending that the black pavement was lava and the white stripes were safe bits of land. I don’t remember being scared. I didn’t think you’d ever send us into real danger and anyway, I always took comfort in the fact that you knew everything.”
Ben took a deep breath. The rage had cooled, but it still stirred at the base of his stomach. Henry, who seemed utterly oblivious to all of Ben’s emotions, continued.
“The air was cool and smelled sterile, like bandages and chapstick. And asphalt. Cam kept saying how different everything looked at nighttime. It looked bigger to me. Emptier. More vast. We reached the edge of the forest and then I did feel a little scared. I know Cam did too because I could feel him shaking next to me. But, you know, to call it a forest is kind of a stretch: all it really was was a bunch of skinny white trees. I bet a bird would think it looks like spots of hair on a bald guy, because of that hill, you know?”
Ben didn’t, but he grunted in response: it was all he trusted himself to do.
“Yeah,” said Henry. “There wasn’t much there but I felt connected with it. I could feel it moving back and forth and stretching, dancing, swaying, as if it were trying to pull itself from the cold earth and skip away to the beat of my heart.” Henry paused. Ben thought maybe the story was done, and he felt himself relaxing. “And then we saw it,” said Henry. “Cam saw it first and he hit me. Then we both saw it.
“It was just sitting there on a pile of leaves. It blended in for the most part, except that it had this black stripe down its back. And it had these huge eyes, these huge blue-gray eyes and it kept blinking at us, like it was blinking back tears. It shrank away and I knew it was scared. It had a pink tongue and black lips but no teeth. I mean, the only reason anyone would call it a ‘beast’ at all is because of its white horn. I fell to my knees and Cam started to back away. I held out my hand and all my thoughts about capturing it and bringing it back to you just disappeared out of my head. I told it I wouldn’t hurt it and it started move toward me, delicately, like a child testing the bathwater. It took three steps forward and then,
“BOOM!”
Ben jumped. Henry’s voice picked up speed and pitch as he continued.
“Cam screamed. You came from nowhere and tackled me and we fell to the ground. You started laughing at me and I tried to hit you. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to hit you as hard as I could but you just pushed me to the ground. You told me to cool it and I told you that you’d scared the beast away. It wanted to be my friend, Ben, you and you scared it away. And then you called me a moron and said it was just a story. Cam had left. I remember hearing the drag of his broken sneakers as they slapped through the silence.”
Ben turned sharply. The car tilted and the steadied itself.
“You are such a fucking liar,” Ben said, struggling to control the syllables of each word. “That did not happen.”
It had started to snow again. Ben flicked on the windshield wipers.
“Yes it did,” said Henry. Ben glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. There were tears in his eyes, tears that he couldn’t feel. They magnified his dark irises so that Ben felt that he was looking straight into his own soul, straight into the soul of a scared little boy.
“No,” said Ben, as he stared at his reflection. “No, Henry, I wouldn’t,”
“Ben!”
The car had started to drift to the right. It careened off of a bank of snow and flipped, three times, before setting near the trees.
Ben closed his eyes and smelled the blood before he felt it slither down his face. He blinked it away and reached out-for what he didn’t know. Something grasped his outstretched wrist with both hands and tugged. He felt bones pop in and out of their sockets and then, he was lying face up in the snow, staring at the white sky and his brother Henry, covered in blood, his nose askew.
“Ben,” Henry said, as Ben blinked up at him. “You know what I just realized?”
Ben shook his head back and forth. The movement sent sharp jabs of pain up and down his back. Henry grinned and raised his bloodstained hand.
“It’s the same,” Henry said. “Mine,” he pointed to the dried blood, the blood from his nose. “And yours. It’s the same blood, Ben.”
Ben started to cry. He started to cry because he’d just wrecked his car, a car he wouldn’t be able to afford to fix. He cried because Thanksgiving was ruined. He cried because it was cold and he was in pain. He cried because he hadn’t cried in six and a half years, and he was drowning in the tears that had built up inside of him.
Henry lay down next to Ben. His body was warm and felt fragile.
“Don’t cry,” Henry whispered into Ben’s ear. “Don’t you get it? I forgive you.”
They lay in the snow, covered in each other’s blood, in each other’s tears, two dark shapes, spots, on life’s pristine stage.
“Get in the car,” Ben said, hurling Henry into the passenger seat. As Henry fumbled with his seat-belt, Ben jumped into the driver’s seat. He glanced up at the stoop, where his wife and four sons were standing. Emily was crying and the boys looked torn between confusion and sheer joy.
Ben gritted his teeth and sped out of the driveway. The tires slid over the ice and for a split second Ben lost control. Then the tires locked back on, and he pressed hard down on the gas.
“Are you ok?” he forced the word through his teeth as a hot flush rose into his face. Henry looked down at his bloodstained hands.
“I think so,” Henry said. “Where are going?”
“Where are we…? The hospital, you jackass. Where’d you think?” Henry shrugged. Ben let out a long, hot breath. It had been such a good evening so far. He had bought all the decorations that Emily had asked him to. He had shoveled the snow off of the path. Their guests were there. Their mother was driving from the city. It was going to be the perfect Thanksgiving; Ben’s first since he left for his tour of Iraq for the first time six years ago. And then Henry…and then Henry had to go and…Ben gripped the steering wheel. He was grateful that their father wasn’t there: that he hadn’t survived his double bypass surgery six months earlier.
He glanced at Henry. There was blood all down his shirt and arms. Henry looked calm, staring out the window at the flat, snowy landscape.
“Well, are you ok?” Ben said.
“You already asked me that,” said Henry. “I’ll be ok. Jesus, though, you throw one hell of a right hook. Did they teach you that in the army?” Ben clenched his teeth and stared straight ahead. If he looked at Henry, he knew he might not be able to resist the urge to hit him again.
This was no time for emotion, Ben reminded himself. This was a mission. Just like in Iraq. He was on a mission and that was all he should let into his thoughts. Ben took a deep breath. He felt the familiar emotions began to take grip. Cold, clear focus settled down between his shoulder blades as adrenaline began to pump, slowly at first, and then faster, all throughout his body. A mission. Get Henry to the hospital, alive. Save him.
“I think your phone is ringing,” said Henry.
“What?” Ben grabbed his phone from off the dashboard. “Hello?”
“Oh, hello, darling,” his mother said from the other line. “Listen, I’m at your house now and Emily is completely beside herself and you’re not here, obviously, and neither is Henry and from what I gather there was some sort of altercation…”
“I’m driving Henry to the hospital, Mom,” Ben said.
“The hospital? My God, what did you do to him?”
This is how it had always been. Henry, the victim. Ben, the aggressor.
“You’re cutting out,” Ben said, and hung up the phone.
“So,” said Henry,” how’s Mom?”
“Henry, can’t you take anything seriously?”
“There’s no fun in that. Look, Ben, we all know it’s a hard adjustment and everything. Mom made us read all the books. We get that you’re under pressure right now.”
“Pressure,” said Ben. “You have no idea.”
“Well, then, talk to me,” said Henry. “We’re brothers. Shouldn’t we be able to talk about things?”
Ben wanted to know when they had ever talked about things. When had their interests ever lined up so that they could talk about things? In high school, Ben had been on crew, dated girls, participated in leadership club. Henry had smoked pot and spent lunch in the art room. There had never been anything for them to talk about.
But Henry was bleeding on account of Ben, his nose probably broken, so Ben took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said. “Emily and I couldn’t pay for the private place anymore. The boys are starting at Bloomdon Elementary after Thanksgiving break.”
Henry started to laugh. Ben felt a burning rage rise in his chest, dissolving the blocks of self-control and responsibility that rested on his lungs. It would be quick, easy, and thoughtless. Ben had killed men before without blinking.
But no.
“What,” Ben said, forcing each word out from between his teeth, “is so fucking funny?”
Henry wiped a tear from his eye, smearing blood, and smiled.
“Can I tell you a story?” he said.
Ben didn’t trust himself to speak, to move, to breathe.
“I was seven,” Henry said. “And you were ten. I had spent the day with my best friend, Cameron. Do you remember Cam? He was a little guy. His mom worked the graveyard shift at the local Safeway or Subway or something like that, so he usually ate dinner with us and Dad always made you walk us home. You hated it, but you did it. And one night we were halfway between our house and Cameron’s house, right next to Bloomdon, and you stopped us. You said, ‘hey, have you guys ever heard of the Bloomdon Beast?” We hadn’t. Cam shook his head so fast that his glasses nearly fell off his face.” Henry laughed. “And you said, well, you guys know Bloomdon, right? And you pointed at the school and of course we knew it. The image is still so clear in my head, of the school that night. It was getting dark, but the building was sort of outlined by the sunset. It was blocky and square and really ugly.
“You started to tell us about the Bloomdon Beast. You said it was this huge creature that lived in the deep woods next to Bloomdon. It snuck around and if kids wandered too far, it would eat them, and that’s what happened to kids who disappeared. You said that only a few people had seen it and lived to tell the tale. And you told us that if we could bring it back to you, you’d give us ten dollars each. That was, like, a fortune back then, so of course we agreed.”
Ben, who had let Henry’s words wash over him as he tried to tie down his violent emotions, saw the STOP sign just in time and slammed down on the breaks.
“Bullshit,” he said, as they jerked forward. “That never happened.”
“Would you let me finish?” Henry said. Ben bared his teeth and stomped on the gas. Henry took a deep breath.
“Anyway,” he said, “Cam and I went up to Bloodom. There used to be a fence around it, but, we found a hole and got through. The setting sun cast these shadows all over the place. It was like we had our own dark, grotesque audience. Cam kicked a ball someone had left behind and it made a noise like-like a shot going off and that scared us but then it all became sort of a game. We started to play on the hopscotch, pretending that the black pavement was lava and the white stripes were safe bits of land. I don’t remember being scared. I didn’t think you’d ever send us into real danger and anyway, I always took comfort in the fact that you knew everything.”
Ben took a deep breath. The rage had cooled, but it still stirred at the base of his stomach. Henry, who seemed utterly oblivious to all of Ben’s emotions, continued.
“The air was cool and smelled sterile, like bandages and chapstick. And asphalt. Cam kept saying how different everything looked at nighttime. It looked bigger to me. Emptier. More vast. We reached the edge of the forest and then I did feel a little scared. I know Cam did too because I could feel him shaking next to me. But, you know, to call it a forest is kind of a stretch: all it really was was a bunch of skinny white trees. I bet a bird would think it looks like spots of hair on a bald guy, because of that hill, you know?”
Ben didn’t, but he grunted in response: it was all he trusted himself to do.
“Yeah,” said Henry. “There wasn’t much there but I felt connected with it. I could feel it moving back and forth and stretching, dancing, swaying, as if it were trying to pull itself from the cold earth and skip away to the beat of my heart.” Henry paused. Ben thought maybe the story was done, and he felt himself relaxing. “And then we saw it,” said Henry. “Cam saw it first and he hit me. Then we both saw it.
“It was just sitting there on a pile of leaves. It blended in for the most part, except that it had this black stripe down its back. And it had these huge eyes, these huge blue-gray eyes and it kept blinking at us, like it was blinking back tears. It shrank away and I knew it was scared. It had a pink tongue and black lips but no teeth. I mean, the only reason anyone would call it a ‘beast’ at all is because of its white horn. I fell to my knees and Cam started to back away. I held out my hand and all my thoughts about capturing it and bringing it back to you just disappeared out of my head. I told it I wouldn’t hurt it and it started move toward me, delicately, like a child testing the bathwater. It took three steps forward and then,
“BOOM!”
Ben jumped. Henry’s voice picked up speed and pitch as he continued.
“Cam screamed. You came from nowhere and tackled me and we fell to the ground. You started laughing at me and I tried to hit you. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to hit you as hard as I could but you just pushed me to the ground. You told me to cool it and I told you that you’d scared the beast away. It wanted to be my friend, Ben, you and you scared it away. And then you called me a moron and said it was just a story. Cam had left. I remember hearing the drag of his broken sneakers as they slapped through the silence.”
Ben turned sharply. The car tilted and the steadied itself.
“You are such a fucking liar,” Ben said, struggling to control the syllables of each word. “That did not happen.”
It had started to snow again. Ben flicked on the windshield wipers.
“Yes it did,” said Henry. Ben glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. There were tears in his eyes, tears that he couldn’t feel. They magnified his dark irises so that Ben felt that he was looking straight into his own soul, straight into the soul of a scared little boy.
“No,” said Ben, as he stared at his reflection. “No, Henry, I wouldn’t,”
“Ben!”
The car had started to drift to the right. It careened off of a bank of snow and flipped, three times, before setting near the trees.
Ben closed his eyes and smelled the blood before he felt it slither down his face. He blinked it away and reached out-for what he didn’t know. Something grasped his outstretched wrist with both hands and tugged. He felt bones pop in and out of their sockets and then, he was lying face up in the snow, staring at the white sky and his brother Henry, covered in blood, his nose askew.
“Ben,” Henry said, as Ben blinked up at him. “You know what I just realized?”
Ben shook his head back and forth. The movement sent sharp jabs of pain up and down his back. Henry grinned and raised his bloodstained hand.
“It’s the same,” Henry said. “Mine,” he pointed to the dried blood, the blood from his nose. “And yours. It’s the same blood, Ben.”
Ben started to cry. He started to cry because he’d just wrecked his car, a car he wouldn’t be able to afford to fix. He cried because Thanksgiving was ruined. He cried because it was cold and he was in pain. He cried because he hadn’t cried in six and a half years, and he was drowning in the tears that had built up inside of him.
Henry lay down next to Ben. His body was warm and felt fragile.
“Don’t cry,” Henry whispered into Ben’s ear. “Don’t you get it? I forgive you.”
They lay in the snow, covered in each other’s blood, in each other’s tears, two dark shapes, spots, on life’s pristine stage.
Monday, December 7, 2009
First Draft Fabulism
You will sit here, on the right side of the table. The heads are reserved for my husband and me, you understand. We like to adhere to traditions. I mean to say, we like to adhere to traditions when it comes to things like seating for a dinner party. Other than that, my husband and I are really quite liberal. Wily. I imagine some people might go as far as to say that we are the most original couple they have ever met.
But I’m sure you have also come to that realization. I saw the way your eyes bugged out with pleasant surprise when you saw our collection of taxidermy pheasants. I’m sure you didn’t expect to see such riches in a house that has a silly dog-shaped mail box. (My daughter made that. She’s an artist. Not very talented. My husband insists we should support her and put up her art. He doesn’t ask for much. And I’m a generous woman.) As for the taxidermy, it’s always been a hobby of mine. That bear-rug is my prize possession. And see that snow-goose over the mantle? Would you believe that I got it at a garage sale for only five dollars? Hush, though—that’s a little secret. I’m not that kind of woman that lives for garage sales. Oh, ha. Far from it. It was more of a “we-must-sell-everything-and-flee-the-country” sort of sale anyway. From what I heard, he lost all his money gambling. There were some debts he owed to the mob. She tried prostitution for a while but it just wasn’t her thing. I bought that snow-goose out of the goodness of my heart. Every penny counted toward their salvation.
You look thirsty. Come to the kitchen. There’s my husband, Moe. Say hello, dear. He’s shy. Aren’t you? Yes. Well, what would you like? My fridge is your fridge. Let’s see. We have wine, of course. Any alcohol you’d like, I’m sure we have it. And there’s orange juice and cranberry juice and our water purifier and—oh that? No, don’t worry, it’s not human blood. My youngest is using it for a science project. Where did she get it? Now that you mention it, I haven’t the faintest idea…
Just water? Are you sure? You look a little pale. Maybe it’s just the light. I keep telling my husband he should fix the lights. Maybe someday, right dear? You don’t mind if I have a glass of wine, do you? Wonderful. I’ve always believed it’s good to start off these little parties tipsy.
These glasses are so small. I wish it were still socially acceptable to use goblets. Yes, goblets. Like in those King Arthur films. I’m quite the history nut. You wouldn’t think it by just looking at me, though, would you? Would you believe that someone approached me on the street thinking I was Angelina Jolie? Well, they did.
Let me tell you about our guests. My husband and I try to throw one of these shindigs once a month. My son hates it. He says we’re impeding on his style. (My husband and I are concerned that he’s gay, but that’s another story entirely.)
Let us see. You are sitting here, at the right side of the table. I’ve placed you in between Harry Miller and Victoria Wells. Both eligible, depending on the way you swing. They used to be married. It was a messy divorce. I wouldn’t bring it up. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of things not to bring up, I wouldn’t mention the government to Harry unless you want a bucket of conspiracy theories poured into your ear. Honestly, don’t even talk to him about the post office.
As for Victoria, well, crazy isn’t the right word to describe her, but I wouldn’t mention institutions, doctors, medical schools, money, taxes, bandages, cats or baby carrots. It would strike the wrong chord, and you do want to start off your relationship on the right foot. Believe me. It will do you no favors to be on her bad side.
Here at the head is my husband of course. You met him in the kitchen. He’s quiet when he’s sober. Don’t worry, that won’t last long tonight. Try not to be alarmed if he starts to cry and confess to atrocious crimes or threaten you with the bottle opener. He’s harmless. I mean to say, he’s harmless now. I’ve never actually witnessed him harm anybody. Poor Moe has spent the last ten years in and out of jail. I wouldn’t be completely floored if he went back in the near future. Oh, don’t apologize, it makes life exciting. He looks familiar to you? Well, you’ve probably seen on him on America’s Most Wanted at least once. I think it’s sexy. Is that wrong? It’s something about crime that just makes me hot. Your stutter is so cute, dear.
I put Tilda Marks next to my husband. Perchance you saw her house when you drove in? It’s not hard to miss. It’s the big, dark one at the end of the cul-de-sac. Yes, with all the cats and the hearse. She bought that hearse second hand. Can you say bargain? The kids have themselves convinced that’s she’s a witch but I believe that that handyman died of natural causes. And the bats are not her pets (I don’t think.) Anyway, she’s a lovely lady with a taste for French films and literature. She’s quite the Francophile. But aren’t we all?
The obvious choice to place next to her is Jean-Claude Pierre. You’re fluent in French? Well, that’s wonderful, dear, but Jean-Claude doesn’t speak a word of it. Jean-Claude isn’t even his real name. He’s an old friend of Moe’s. Don’t ask him questions and try not to make eye contact. It makes him antsy. And try to make sure you never stand in between him and a window or a door. He likes to know there’s a means for escape. Naughty, naughty, what did I say about asking questions? I put Jean-Claude next to Tilda because I think they’re doing it. Do you know what I mean? Doing it? I mean they’re having sex. At least, I think they are. I’m not a gossip, but I thought you should know so you don’t think it’s odd when they both excuse themselves from the table several times during dinner. Hehe, consider yourself warned.
Last but not least, sitting next to Jean-Claude, is my great-grandfather Lawrence. He died twenty-five years ago. We still set a place for him. You wish you could have met him? Oh, you will he’s always prompt and never fails to clean his plate. He’s not much of a talker, but he will rattle the table if the conversation displeases him. Last time he and Harry got in such a fight. You should have seen it. Plates and cutlery were flying everywhere. It was the kind of party no one ever forgets. Those are the kind of dinner parties I aim to throw.
I just want to say it’s so nice you agreed to come over tonight. Really. Most people at work are too busy (not that I’m persistent. As if I would want Lucy Jennings or Tom Hams at my dinner table.) Here we go, there’s the doorbell. Let’s raise our glasses: here’s the hoping you have a simply marvelous time.
But I’m sure you have also come to that realization. I saw the way your eyes bugged out with pleasant surprise when you saw our collection of taxidermy pheasants. I’m sure you didn’t expect to see such riches in a house that has a silly dog-shaped mail box. (My daughter made that. She’s an artist. Not very talented. My husband insists we should support her and put up her art. He doesn’t ask for much. And I’m a generous woman.) As for the taxidermy, it’s always been a hobby of mine. That bear-rug is my prize possession. And see that snow-goose over the mantle? Would you believe that I got it at a garage sale for only five dollars? Hush, though—that’s a little secret. I’m not that kind of woman that lives for garage sales. Oh, ha. Far from it. It was more of a “we-must-sell-everything-and-flee-the-country” sort of sale anyway. From what I heard, he lost all his money gambling. There were some debts he owed to the mob. She tried prostitution for a while but it just wasn’t her thing. I bought that snow-goose out of the goodness of my heart. Every penny counted toward their salvation.
You look thirsty. Come to the kitchen. There’s my husband, Moe. Say hello, dear. He’s shy. Aren’t you? Yes. Well, what would you like? My fridge is your fridge. Let’s see. We have wine, of course. Any alcohol you’d like, I’m sure we have it. And there’s orange juice and cranberry juice and our water purifier and—oh that? No, don’t worry, it’s not human blood. My youngest is using it for a science project. Where did she get it? Now that you mention it, I haven’t the faintest idea…
Just water? Are you sure? You look a little pale. Maybe it’s just the light. I keep telling my husband he should fix the lights. Maybe someday, right dear? You don’t mind if I have a glass of wine, do you? Wonderful. I’ve always believed it’s good to start off these little parties tipsy.
These glasses are so small. I wish it were still socially acceptable to use goblets. Yes, goblets. Like in those King Arthur films. I’m quite the history nut. You wouldn’t think it by just looking at me, though, would you? Would you believe that someone approached me on the street thinking I was Angelina Jolie? Well, they did.
Let me tell you about our guests. My husband and I try to throw one of these shindigs once a month. My son hates it. He says we’re impeding on his style. (My husband and I are concerned that he’s gay, but that’s another story entirely.)
Let us see. You are sitting here, at the right side of the table. I’ve placed you in between Harry Miller and Victoria Wells. Both eligible, depending on the way you swing. They used to be married. It was a messy divorce. I wouldn’t bring it up. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of things not to bring up, I wouldn’t mention the government to Harry unless you want a bucket of conspiracy theories poured into your ear. Honestly, don’t even talk to him about the post office.
As for Victoria, well, crazy isn’t the right word to describe her, but I wouldn’t mention institutions, doctors, medical schools, money, taxes, bandages, cats or baby carrots. It would strike the wrong chord, and you do want to start off your relationship on the right foot. Believe me. It will do you no favors to be on her bad side.
Here at the head is my husband of course. You met him in the kitchen. He’s quiet when he’s sober. Don’t worry, that won’t last long tonight. Try not to be alarmed if he starts to cry and confess to atrocious crimes or threaten you with the bottle opener. He’s harmless. I mean to say, he’s harmless now. I’ve never actually witnessed him harm anybody. Poor Moe has spent the last ten years in and out of jail. I wouldn’t be completely floored if he went back in the near future. Oh, don’t apologize, it makes life exciting. He looks familiar to you? Well, you’ve probably seen on him on America’s Most Wanted at least once. I think it’s sexy. Is that wrong? It’s something about crime that just makes me hot. Your stutter is so cute, dear.
I put Tilda Marks next to my husband. Perchance you saw her house when you drove in? It’s not hard to miss. It’s the big, dark one at the end of the cul-de-sac. Yes, with all the cats and the hearse. She bought that hearse second hand. Can you say bargain? The kids have themselves convinced that’s she’s a witch but I believe that that handyman died of natural causes. And the bats are not her pets (I don’t think.) Anyway, she’s a lovely lady with a taste for French films and literature. She’s quite the Francophile. But aren’t we all?
The obvious choice to place next to her is Jean-Claude Pierre. You’re fluent in French? Well, that’s wonderful, dear, but Jean-Claude doesn’t speak a word of it. Jean-Claude isn’t even his real name. He’s an old friend of Moe’s. Don’t ask him questions and try not to make eye contact. It makes him antsy. And try to make sure you never stand in between him and a window or a door. He likes to know there’s a means for escape. Naughty, naughty, what did I say about asking questions? I put Jean-Claude next to Tilda because I think they’re doing it. Do you know what I mean? Doing it? I mean they’re having sex. At least, I think they are. I’m not a gossip, but I thought you should know so you don’t think it’s odd when they both excuse themselves from the table several times during dinner. Hehe, consider yourself warned.
Last but not least, sitting next to Jean-Claude, is my great-grandfather Lawrence. He died twenty-five years ago. We still set a place for him. You wish you could have met him? Oh, you will he’s always prompt and never fails to clean his plate. He’s not much of a talker, but he will rattle the table if the conversation displeases him. Last time he and Harry got in such a fight. You should have seen it. Plates and cutlery were flying everywhere. It was the kind of party no one ever forgets. Those are the kind of dinner parties I aim to throw.
I just want to say it’s so nice you agreed to come over tonight. Really. Most people at work are too busy (not that I’m persistent. As if I would want Lucy Jennings or Tom Hams at my dinner table.) Here we go, there’s the doorbell. Let’s raise our glasses: here’s the hoping you have a simply marvelous time.
Friday, October 30, 2009
November is National Novel Writing Month
This was brought up in my creative writing class, and I've decided to take advantage of it. I don't know EXACTLY what I'll be writing about...I think it will be more exciting and more of a challenge of I start something completely new. Here are the guildines:
What: Writing one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month's time.
Who: You! We can't do this unless we have some other people trying it as well. Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together.
Why: The reasons are endless! To actively participate in one of our era's most enchanting art forms! To write without having to obsess over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. To be able to mock real novelists who dawdle on and on, taking far longer than 30 days to produce their work.
When: You can sign up anytime to add your name to the roster and browse the forums. Writing begins November 1. To be added to the official list of winners, you must reach the 50,000-word mark by November 30 at midnight. Once your novel has been verified by our web-based team of robotic word counters, the partying begins.
50,000 words in thirty days. That's about 1700 words a day. Possible? We'll see!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
First Page of Novel. Exciting.
This is the first page of a novel that I've all but given up on. I liked the intro and the first forty pages, but couldn't seem to pull it all the way through. I may touch on it again in the future.
Flies Haunt the Eyes of Summer
Prologue
An old man with mismatched eyes stands at the back door of the Washington State Correctional facility. The sun catches his blue eye and buries his brown one. He is frowning and seems unable to keep still. The backs of his hands are pressed to his hips. Behind him, his fingers twitch. He shifts from one foot to the other. His eyes dart from the door, to the empty street behind him, to the sidewalk in either direction.
The setting sun paints shadows in his white hair. A closer look reveals startling black eyebrows and a gaunt face—the face of a man who is very sick, who has lost a great deal of weight in a short time, or who is carrying a great, personal burden. Like most old people, he may have been handsome once. The wear and tear of life, love and loss is evident in every crag and wrinkle. If anything, he has lived. Whether or not it has been a happy life isn’t clear. One thing is for sure—whoever this man is waiting for is of great importance to him.
People passing in the streets can’t take their eyes off him. Most wonder where they’ve seen his face before. It’s a famous face—right down to the slight hook on the end of his nose. Even children stare. The man has not tried to be inconspicuous. He wears bright red cowboy boots over jeans. His blue shirt matches his eye. Across his hips he wears a black belt, complete with a silver belt buckle in the shape of Texas.
“C’mon, Sam,” he says. His voice reveals an unsurprising accent.
He runs a vein-laced hand across the white stubble on his cheeks. The sun is getting lower and lower in the sky. The streets have begun to clear out. Men with tattoos stir near a dumpster across the street. The man gives them a level-headed look and turns back to the back door.
Streetlights flick on. The door opens.
The man straightens and is still. Two voices float down the staircase toward him and he lifts his chin, as if sniffing the air.
A cane comes first from the door. It is followed by a pair of worn sneakers and a bespectacled man with a beard. He is in his late thirties or early forties. Most of his face is covered by the beard and the glasses, but his eyes—light, amber-brown eyes, shine through. He stops halfway down the steps when he sees the older man.
“Sam Caslin,” the older man says. He lifts his chin. “Howdy.” Sam reaches his free hand to his glasses and then walks down the stairs. He walks past the older man. His cane clicks on the pavement.
The older man strolls alongside Sam.
“What are you doing here, Shaw?” Sam says. “Jesus Christ. I thought you’d be dead by now.”
With a sudden cry, Sam falls to his knees, clutching his thigh. The cane falls from his hand and clatters to the ground several feet away. Shaw goes to pick it up. He offers Sam his hand, but Sam has crawled to the nearby bus stop and pulled himself up. Shaw twirls the cane in his long fingers and hands it to Sam. Sam grips it between his knees.
Shaw sits down next to Sam.
“They let you out early, huh? Seven years early, by my count.”
“Yeah.” Sam shrugs. His eyebrows furrow as he stares across the street at the dumpsters. “I told them I would stay longer. I told them I wanted to stay longer. They wouldn’t listen.”
“Bastards.” Shaw pauses and chews one of his yellow fingernails. “We’ve had this conversation before, Sam. Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I still mean what I said.”
Short Story--In Progress
This is another piece for my Creative Writing Class. It's just a first draft and will no doubt change in the close future...for now, though, here it is:
The Bloomdon Beast
The last time my brothers and I got together, Ben broke Henry’s nose and we spent Thanksgiving in the E.R. Ben and I left our wives and children to sweep up the shards of glass. Henry left blood, bone and broken cartilage all over the pumpkin pie.
We sat in the pristine waiting room as Ben rotated his packet of cigarettes over and over between his hands. A hot flush had risen to his cheeks and his dark eyes fixated on the black and white clock on the opposite wall. He still had the military buzz cut and the snarl. I flipped through a gossip magazine and thanked God that Dad’s double bypass surgery hadn’t been successful.
Henry’s nurse let us in just as the clock hit ten. She had the body of a ballerina and the face of a rat. Cold black eyes, flat like stones, flashed over us as she led us down the hall. We didn’t speak. She was far less friendly than Martha, the nurse who had checked us in. Martha had assured me, as blood poured from Henry’s nose, that we were just one of the many Thanksgiving related mishaps she had seen that day. “I always say,” Martha said, as Henry was carted off, “you put a bunch of family members in the same room with cutlery and there’s bound to be bloodshed.”
Ben loomed over our unfriendly nurse and I walked behind them, studying the curve of their shoulder blades. Hospitals reminded me of goodbyes. They smelled like goodbyes: cold and bitter and a little sweet, like something you want to last but never does.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said as we stepped into Henry’s room. “Look, man, I’m just under a lot of pressure right now.” The nurse slid past me. Her shoulder rubbed against mine as she closed the door and disappeared. Henry looked up from his bed. The white bandage on his nose stuck out in an almost comical way, as if he were impersonating a tropical bird. Henry’s birdlike appearance—long neck and limbs, wide round eyes and a high brow—only emphasized this. “What are you stressed about?” Henry said.
I looked to him. For a moment our gaze met and Henry’s green eyes told me nothing except that he wasn’t angry. Ben didn’t notice because he had crossed to the window.
“Michaela is starting at the public elementary school next week,” he said, gripping the windowsill. “We couldn’t pay for the private place anymore.”
“I told you I could help out,” I said.
“I don’t need help,” Ben said and his voice echoed in the darkness of its own cave. “I told you that. Bloomdon was fine for us. It’ll be fine for her.”
Henry started to laugh.
Ben whipped around. His fists were clenched at his side. I began to imagine the next day’s headlines: War Vet Kills Brother on Thanksgiving and beneath it: After breaking his brother’s nose at Thanksgiving dinner, Private Ben Ferguson finished the job by killing his brother in his hospital bed. It would be the kind of story picked up by the late night shows and made fun of and then dissected up by the bigger news agencies who wanted to government to do more about veterans’ health care.
“What?” Ben said. “What is so goddamn funny?”
“Can I tell you guys a story?” Henry said.
I tensed. This was how Henry had gotten his nose broken in the first place—telling stories. Ben cracked his knuckles.
Henry has spent the day playing video games with Cameron, a mousy boy who used to live down the street from us. They’re both seven. Actually, Henry is seven and a half. He looks about ten next to Cameron, who stopped growing after his fifth birthday. Cam wears his dad’s old glasses and he and Henry both think it’s cool that they have ponytails like the characters in their videogames.
Cam eats dinner at Henry’s most nights because his mom works the graveyard shift at the local Safeway. Once Henry’s parents go to watch their TV show Ben is supposed to walk Cam back to his house. Ben usually gripes about it but one night just takes the responsibility. As they approach Cam’s house he stops them. Kids, he says, have you heard of the Bloomdon Beast?
Henry and Cam go silent. Cam shakes his head so fast that his glasses slide down his nose and he fumbles to correct them. You know Bloomdon, right? Ben says.
Of course they do—it’s the elementary school where Henry and Cam are second-graders. They can see it from in front of Cam’s house. It sits on top of the hill like a toad on a toadstool. The yellow and red ribbons of the setting sun cut through the blackening air and frame the boxy building.
Ben speaks in a low voice of the Bloomdom Beast: a creature rumored to slink around the sparse forest behind Bloomdom Elementary School. Only a few people have seen it and lived to talk about it. Look, says Ben. I’ll give you both ten dollars if you find it and bring it back to me. Henry wants to know if it’s ten dollars each or ten dollars all together. Ten each, Ben says. Twenty dollars total.
Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars.
But you have to be back by nine o’clock, Ben says. That’s in an hour.
“Bullshit,” Ben said. “You little shit. That never happened.”
“It did so,” said Henry. “Would you let me finish?” I gave Ben a look and Ben bared his teeth at me but crossed his arms over his chest and sat down.
Even though it is September, the air is warm, Henry continues. He and Cam had never gone to school when school wasn’t in session. They’d had no reason to go when they didn’t have to.
An old fence surrounds Bloomdon. Cam and Henry scramble up it and jump back down. Cam falls into the dust and Henry helps him up. The setting sun casts grotesque shadows on the orange brick—their own twisted audience. A bright blue ball someone forgot to pick up at recess sits near the basketball hoops. Henry kicks it and it goes sailing across the playground. It crashes into the brick with a wham that shatters the twilight into shards of confusion. They can see the forest from the playground. It looks denser and darker than it did during the day. Somewhere in the distance a car playing country music drives by.
They start to walk toward the forest. Their sneakers slap against the asphalt. Cam’s, because the bottoms are coming off, slap and then drag. The lights are on in Bloomdon, but they’re almost certain no one is inside. Ben told them once that they keep the lights are on because it scares away the spirits and ghosts that want to embody little kids and make them go crazy like they do in all the horror films. Henry is comforted in the fact that Ben knows everything.
The air smells like rubber and Chap Stick and the kind of perfume that their teacher, Miss Faddis wears. It’s a perfume that seems to be popular with a lot of the old lady teachers. It is cool but not cold and an occasional warm wind rustles the tops of the trees.
They make a game of crossing the playground, staying on the white lines of the four-square or the hopscotch court. They whisper and laugh about lava swirling beneath their feet as they teeter across the white lines and make it to the swing set. It looks different, Cam says, buried by darkness.
The game ends as they approach the forest. To call it a forest is a stretch, as it’s really just a cluster of skinny white trees behind the school. From above it looks like spots of hair on the head of the bald Bloomdon building. The forest is moving back and forth, stretching, dancing, swaying, groaning in the wind as if it’s trying to pull its toes from beneath the cold earth and skip away to the beat of Henry’s heart.
Above them the moon is starting to nestle in between two vast clouds. It casts a milky light around them and Henry realizes that the forest isn’t really that dark, really isn’t that scary with all the light from the moon and the school shining in.
And then they see it.
Cam sees it first and slaps Henry’s arm. They freeze and stare. It stares back.
It is sitting on a pile of dark red and orange and yellow leaves. It blends in for the most part, except for the long black stripe on its back. Luminous eyes swim in a bath of blue-gray and blink at them as the beast shrinks away. A bright pink tongue darts between its black lips, exposing its toothless jaw. It is about the size of a cat but has no fur. They can see large goosebumps like swollen hives along its back, protruding from its spine. The only feature that would classify it as a “beast” at all is the long smooth white horn sticking from its forehead.
Henry falls to his knees. Cam backs away. Henry holds out his hand to the beast. It shivers. Thoughts of capturing the creature have vanished from Henry’s mind.
It’s ok, Henry says. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s ok.
Ears like a raccoon’s perk. It takes one step forward, placing its webbed paw on the ground delicately, like a child testing the bathwater. Henry reaches into his back pocket and takes out a packet of saltine crackers. The beast sticks its nose into the air and takes three loud sniffs. It takes a step forward. Its nose and Henry’s fingers are just six inches apart.
BOO! A sound like God himself has leapt from the heavens tears through the forest. The beast leaps back and disappears into the undergrowth. Cam screams as Ben tackles Henry and they tumbles to the ground.
Ben laughs as Henry scrambles back to his feet. Tears fall down his face and he runs at his older brother and begins to hit him as hard as he can. Ben stops laughing and pushes Henry onto a pile of leaves. Jesus, he says. Cool it, would you?
Henry tries to make him understand. You scared it, he says. It wanted to be my friend and you scared it away. His voice is shrill and weak and in the darkness of the forest sounds like a dying animal.
You idiot, Ben says, pale. There’s no such thing. It was just a story.
Cam is gone—the drag of his broken sneakers slaps through the silence.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” Ben said. “That did not happen.”
Outside it was starting to snow or rain. Some weird combination of moisture tumbled from the heavens.
“Yes it did,” Henry said. Ben turned to me.
“John, tell him.” There were tears in Ben’s eyes—large clear tears that magnified his dark irises so that I was looking straight into his soul, straight into the soul of a scared little boy.
“I wasn’t there,” I said.
Ben went to Henry’s bed and knelt on the floor next to him. Tears ran down Henry’s face too. He reached out and put a hand on the top of Ben’s head. Ben’s shoulders shook.
Then the nurse came and told us it was time to go.
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