Angel backed the car out of the hotel parking space, and we hit the highway back the way we came.

THE END

And the novel is "complete." (heh.) I didn't get to 100k as I dreamt I would, but that's okay. I can't believe I wrote far more than 50k. It's testing my limits, and I never thought I could churn out that much prose. 2,000k/day seems like nothing after writing up to 9,000 words in one sitting. I'm resurrecting last year's NaNoWriMo novel for NaNoEdMo, and I'll continue to blog the process here when we pick up in March. In the meantime, I've got some ends to tie up. I've got to chase down newspaper copies of The Advertiser from the last two Sundays--which will be a challenge. I've got to somehow pull together a photo op for Wednesday night. I've got to pull MYSELF together for troupe practice on Thursday night, and then a performance on Friday night, and then the official Thank-God-It's-Over Party for Lafayette NaNoWriMo on Saturday afternoon. Ick. And I'm sick as it is. I'm thinking...R-E-L-A-P-S-E.

I stayed up to 4 AM writing last night. I wrote 9,098 words. And I would've kept writing if Mark didn't have to get up to go to work, and if we weren't leaving for Leesville tonight. My fingers are numb. I'm dehydrated. I have no creative prose left in me. How cool would it have been to write 10,000 words in a sitting? I'm thinkin' maybe I should've kept pushing just so I could say I did it. But there's always another day left in the month. For the rest of the month-- Day/Word Goal Wednesday: 500 Thursday: 0 Friday: 5,000 Saturday: 7,500 Sunday: 5,000 Monday: 5,000 Tuesday: 5,000 This should bring me up to 100,000 words on my NaNo novel this year--double the goal. It really makes me wonder. Granted, the writing is a buncha crap. I spent maybe 1,000 words describing what a person does when they see a cockroach crawling on the ceiling...cockroach cootie dance...hoping it doesn't crawl away in the time it takes you to go grab a shoe or something to kill it...hoping you kill it the first time you hit it...how they totally disappear under a dresser or into a crack when you do miss it...how you don't get any sleep for the rest of the night because you don't want that thing crawling over your face while you're sleeping. See? Piece o' cake. I don't even think about what I'm writing, really. I just write. Last night, my main characters got paid for being skanks in a Skid Row music video, they pawned all their electronics, donated plasma, and robbed a bank with French Toast pantyhose on their heads. They ate biscuits and gravy and a skillet at Denny's. They burned a hole in their quilt, and one of them drooled on herself and spilled coffee in her lap when the other one jerked the wheel of the car a little too hard. They spent the night in a Best Western, had breakfast at Denny's again, and now they're killing time in WalMart in the toy section. It sure isn't a Pulitzer, but it'll be a fun read ten years from now.

“What’s a Feather Bottom?” “Well, it’s like this,” Randy began. “No, no, no,” Angel said. “She’s my friend. I’m going to tell her what a Feather Bottom is, if you please.” “Be my guest,” Randy said. “I probably wouldn’t get it right the first time anyway.” “Okay, Rita. It’s like this. Feather Bottom: a feather is light, right?” “Right.” “Well, ‘Feather Bottom’ implies you’re light underneath.” “I’m not sure I know what that means.” “Well, I’m not sure either,” Rita said. “It’s just one of those filler things that we all joke about like it’s some big secret and laugh about so one person in the group feels a little targeted, but in the end, the punch-line is a real letdown because there’s really no point to it anyway, because somebody coined the phrase ‘Feather Bottom’ without thinking it through enough to even give it a punch-line.” And we all looked questioningly at the writer tapping at the keyboard just on the other side of the reality field. Well, no one ever said writing was easy. And I know I wasn’t born with all the wit in the world, especially at this point in the game, when all I really want to do is beat the pants off of Connecticut, a booming omnipresent voice said, and everyone in the room froze. “What in the hell was that?” Randy asked, terror stricken. “I don’t know,” Angel said, peering around the room. “I’ve never heard a voice like that before.” “It sounds like God,” I said. “But God’s not female.” “That was definitely female,” Randy said. “I should know.” “Stuff it,” Angel said. “We know what a female sounds like, too. We’re females, Randy.” “Oh yeah.” Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, now is he. Beautiful, but dull. Very, very dull. Angel and I burst into laughter when we heard that, and Randy frowned, hurt. “Hey, we all have our gifts, alright. I can’t help it if mine happens to be a little cliché.” It’s not the gift, Randy. It’s the hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?” Randy demanded, yelling into the air. “Chics dig long hair.” Chics dug long hair fifteen years ago, but it’s--wait. Serious plot flaw here. We’re in the 50’s, aren’t we. Everyone in the room nodded their heads. (Sigh....) Alright. Time to rearrange. The room began to shake and quake, and suddenly, the walls flew away as if a tornado were whipping by and sucking into its churning belly the entire structure and all habitants therein. The bartender was swept away. The fierce guy at the door was swept away. Sam and his piano were swept away. Randy and his hair and his guitar were swept away. All that remained were Angel and me on our little bench in what used to be a dark corner near the stage. Suddenly, a group of ninjas repelled down from an unseen rafter high above in the canopy of nothingness. They moved silently, stealthily, like water, my friend, and when their feet touched the floor, they flashed their swords from the sheaths, and Angel and I gasped, the backs of our hands flying to our gaping mouths, blood curdling screams frozen in our trembling throats. A ninja swooped in a foot away from us with leering eyes. “Mmm-phhm mmm-bwmmm-phmm,” he said threateningly. Angel shook like a leaf, choking back a sob and searching those leering eyes for the meaning she missed. “Mmm-phhm mmm-phmm-bwmmm-phmm, phmmm-bmm?” We paused, confusion slowly chasing our fear away. The ninja glared at us, his sword hovering right above our heads, certain to fall at any moment and rend us into so many tattered shreds. ("tattered shreds"????) “I--I don’t get what you’re saying. Can you repeat it? A little slower this time?” The ninja dropped his sword at his side and heaved his shoulders, sighing irritably. “Mmm-phhm mmm-phmm-BWMMM-phmm! Phmm-BWMMM-phmm!” Angel and I looked at each other, hoping above all hopes the other had a clue. The ninja rolled his eyes and threw his sword to the ground. He pulled and tugged at his hood, untying and unwrapping until he was able to lower the black fabric from over his mouth. “Which way to the penthouse,” he said blandly, scowling. “Oh!” we said in unison. “The penthouse!” “Yeah,” Angel said. “You just go right down that hall there, hang the first left, and there’s the elevator about three doors down. You can’t miss it.” “Thanks,” the ninja said, rearranging his mask and picking up his sword again. He mumbled something to the other ninjas, and as quickly as they appeared, they were gone, leaving Angel and I recompose ourselves and fix our makeup. “How’s my nose?” Angel asked. “I don’t have a mirror.” “Bit of a shine,” I said. “Here, let me help.”

Well, I did it! I broke 50k today, and I've gone beyond. 56,519 words so far. I wrote 7,330 today, passing my 7,000-word goal. I'm afraid I've stopped writing with any seriousness at all. The "Rita" chapter is turning out to be some Thelma & Louise-esque vacation story in which Angel reveals she's a multi-millionaire and suggests the two of them take a two-month vacation when their husbands are called away on duty overseas. They've just had makeovers, and now they're heading to something called a "bolt line" which will be some kind of high fashion assembly line. Anyway, it's bizarre, and a little dark, and a little frightening, and a little lush, and a little inappropriate, so these nonsense chapters will never see the light of day. But it'll get me through to the end of November, and I do think we have a fighting chance of beating Connecticut, so we'll see. I think I'm taking advantage of this exercise in free-write and free-imagining, which was really supposed to be the point to begin with. That's NaNoWriMo for you, though. Learn something new every year. But I'm really surprising myself, the way my imagination can stretch. I'm such a realist when it comes to creative writing. I never test the conventions of decency, the boundaries of character, or the laws of physics. I respect the world I live in, and I function within it. To this point, I've respected the fictitious worlds I've created, and I've written my characters to function within them. Art mimics life. But I'm done with that this time. I'm allowing my characters to make selfish choices, to be selfish, shallow people. I'm allowing them to meet strange, eerie characters from whom I'd run screaming if I were to encounter them in real life. I'm allowing myself to create a euphorically materialistic wonderland where everyone is beautiful and the world is an oyster. And it's fun.

---

An exerpt: Miss Francesca returned with the pink-coated girl who greeted us. The girl smiled again and stepped in close to Miss Francesca’s elbow. “Very good,” Miss Francesca said. “Daily, please see that all my things are in order.” Daily nodded and made her way to a standing rack of shelves on the wall. She grasped the rack and rolled it across the room to within Miss Francesca’s reach. Next, Daily poked her fingers into a hole in the corner of the long tabletop. She tugged, and the tabletop opened up to reveal thousands of cosmetic cases lined up in neatly tiered little rows. There were rouges and lipsticks, mascaras and shadows. There were liners of all shades, brushes of all sizes. There were cotton balls and cotton swabs and tissue and sponges. There were false eyelashes and false eyebrows and even tiny cups the size of a fingertip, made of a strange film and in all the colors of the rainbow. I fought to conceal my amazement, but I suspect Miss Francesca saw it anyway. She smiled smugly and waved her hand over the array. “This, girls, is the sum of a lifetime’s worth of study. I have toiled away behind the walls of this little shop, and I’ve created the largest and most coveted collection of cosmetics in the world. “With this,” she waved, “I am able to take any woman on the planet and transform her into a beauty that vies that of even Aphrodite herself. And this is what I shall do for you.” “You are an artist’s artist,” Angel said proudly. “Thank you, you darling sweetheart. Daily....” “Yes, Miss Francesca?” “Give the girls a good swabbing while I prepare their palettes.” “Yes, Miss Francesca.” Daily withdrew a large pink canister and a jar of cotton balls from the table and seated herself between Angel and me. She twisted the lid off and inside was a pink cream. She scooped up a large portion of the cream and smeared it over Angel’s face, then mine. It smelled of roses and cucumbers, and my skin began to tingle under the thick layer of it. In seconds, the tingling was replaced by a sensation of tightening, and I saw the cream on Angel’s face begin to harden. Daily tossed the cotton balls into a white wastebasket, and she returned the canister to the table. When she was seated between us again, she watched her watch as two minutes or so passed. “Alright,” Daily said. She placed her fingers at the edge of the cream on Angel’s face, and she tugged. The cream had hardened to a mask, and Daily peeled it off in one swift but gentle motion. Again, I was awed. Angel looked ten years younger. Her skin looked as smooth as I imagine it did when she was a child. There were no dark circles under her eyes, no wrinkles at the corners of her cheeks, no lines around her mouth. Her skin was flawless. Daily turned to me next. I felt her fingers grazed the skin at my hairline, and when she tugged, the mask that was a cream came off of my skin in one sheet. Immediately, my face felt brand new. The air felt cool against my skin, and my skin felt light. Angel smiled approvingly. “Would you like to look?” Daily asked, and she handed pink hand mirrors to Angel and me. Again, I did not recognize my own reflection. Like Angel’s, my skin was flawless. There was not a line or a wrinkle to be found. The color was fresh and even, and even my cheeks seemed fuller and more youthful. Daily handed us two warm face towels. “Dab gently,” she said. We did as we were told, and Miss Francesca turned, inspecting Daily’s work.“Fine work, Daily,” she said, satisfied. “Now, let’s begin.”

I know. It's a cryin' shame I didn't break 50k last night, considering I'm only 811 words away from it. I could accomplish that in 30 minutes. But I cuddled up in the bed after dinner--8:30--while Mark took over the kids, and well--that's all she wrote. Guess the past few days of excitement finally cashed in. Not a word yesterday. So, the goal for today is to make it to 57,000 words. And to take a shower. But if it comes down to choosing....

I've just been too drained to write about the incredible climax of this year's NaNoWriMo experience. I'm still comin' down from that obscene high...still trying to recover from two nights' lost sleep...still trying to allow the oil and water of my psyche to settle to peaceful and orderly separation. Until then...

I wonder why 3rd POV "story taling" is such a laborious task for me. When I read back over what I've written of Rita's chapter, I hearken back to my high school days of poisonously cliche plots and--ugh, the "poetic description." The Rita chapter does not sing. It reads like a label on a box of baking soda. What's the formula? It seems like everybody I ask (or who is brave enough to volunteer an opinion) can tell when I'm flowing in my natural voice. I can tell when I'm writing in my natural voice, because at the end of each sentence, I feel fairly confident and satisfied I've said what I wanted to say, in the way I wanted to say it. Rita reads: Blah blah blah blah, and then she blah blah blah. I've a time or two considered pulling Matriarchs from the web, I'm so ashamed of it.

I'm really courting burn-out here. I've written almost every single night, and for the last four or five days, I've exceeded my 2,000-words-a-day goal by at least 200%. I just couldn't do it tonight. 2,500 words, which brings me 500 words shy of 40k. Almost four-fifths of the way there. I can't say this year's Nanowrimo has opened up new doors of creativity for me. To be perfectly honest, I think the quality of my prose has plunged a good six or seven years' worth of maturity. But I admit it's because I'm writing out of my comfort zone. No self-absorbed psycho-babble this year. No, I must tell a STORY. But to be even more honest, the only reason I've been pushing myself so hard is because I want to beat Connecticut so bad. We are the underdog state here: 65 participants to their 99. They're at least 100,000 words ahead of us, last census, but we've managed to stay within that range for a while. That means our fewer writers are really churning out those words. Some of us are writing upwards of 7,000 words a day. In order to truly appreciate that, one must realize 2,000 words is about ten typed, double-spaced pages. 2,000 words is my average daily goal--just enough to get me to 50k by midnight Dec. 1. Now, 7,000 words calculates to 25 typed, doubled-spaced pages, and there are actually people in this deliriously crazed event who average that amount each day. How do they do it? Or...How do they do it and still manage to reserve enough brain power to feed themselves and wipe their own bottoms? I've already decided, next year, I'm going nuts with my novel. Between now and then, I'll come up with a theme that will do anything but allow me to construct a comprehensive plot. It will be such a bag of mixed nuts, I won't be able to help but throw caution to the wind and write free-associative to my heart's content. Maybe I'll even title it, The Worst Novel EVER Written, or My Name's Not Marjorie Mockernut.

I never saw Mama so heartbroken as when I told her where we were going. She tried her best to be happy for us. Deep in her heart, she knew this was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to us, but that mighty part of her that simply clung to me and Eileen would not release us gently, and she was constantly in tears until the cab came to get us that Monday morning. “You keep her close to you on that plane ride,” she said, tugging Eileen’s blanket snug under her chin. “And don’t let nobody hold her until you get to know them a little. “Call me when you get there so I’ll know you’re okay--" “I will, Mama.” “Don’t forget,” she said sternly. “I’m goin’ ta worry myself sick here until I hear from you.” “I know, Mama, I will.” “Don’t go wanderin’ off without Roger until you get to know the place. There’s no tellin’ what could happen to a beautiful woman like you in a strange country.” “It’s not another country, Mama. It’s still part of the U.S.” “Oh, I know that,” she grumbled. “But it might as well be. It’s certainly not Roe.” For that, I was thankful, but I didn’t say so. Mama stopped and looked at me, her cheeks slick with tears. “I’m gonna miss you, Daughter,” she said tenderly. “I never imagined your carefree spirit would take you halfway around the world. I know you’ve wanted this all your life, and I’m sorry if I’ve held you back.” “You haven’t, Mama,” I interrupted, taking her hand. “Don’t do that, Rita,” she said gently. “Now you just listen to me. I know you weren’t made for Roe, and I’ve never had any intention of tryin’ ta keep you here. I just thank God for the time He gave me this past year.” She touched Eileen’s face. “I got to see my grandbaby born. That’s all I’ve ever asked for. That, and for you to be happy.” All my life, I just knew I’d never miss Roe. I just knew, when I got the chance, I’d leave Roe and never look back, and now that it was happening, a large piece of me was being ripped apart from the rest of me, and I’d leave it here with Mama, here in the bland little farmhouse I grew up in. Even at that moment, I wouldn’t have chosen to stay on. But as much as I couldn’t wait to take that first step out of Louisiana, the last thing I wanted to do was leave Mama. My tears came hot and fast. “I’m gonna miss you, Mama.” We embraced, with Eileen pressed between us. I wished I could carry that moment with me like a letter in a scented envelope. Mama shivered and pried away from me. She kissed Eileen, then kissed me, and nudged me into the cab. “Do call me the minute you land,” she sobbed. “I’ll be waitin’ by the phone.” “I will, Mama, I promise,” I said through tears. “God go with you, child!” The cab meandered down the drive and turned left onto Cavanaugh Lane, and out the back window, I watched Mama stand waving until she disappeared in a cloud of Louisiana dust. # The cake was just a bit brown when I took it out of the oven, but when I stabbed the center of it with a knife, I saw it was still moist. I’d planned to trim the cake with white icing and pretty pink and yellow roses, but after the phone call with Roger, I decided all I’d do was slather the icing on thick and top it with a plastic carnation I had in the drawer. Eileen played in the living room, and I remembered the anxiety I’d been trying to ignore; oh, how I didn’t want to take her to that darned nursery. I thought for sure Eileen would throw a hissy fit when she saw I was leaving without her, and I just wasn’t prepared to walk away from that. I stuck my finger in my mouth and began to chew on the nail until I realized I was revisiting that nervous habit after almost ten years of breaking it. Instead, I stepped out into the backyard for a breath of fresh air while the cake cooled. “Hi there, Rita!” Angel called from next door. I looked over to see her sunning in a lawn chair, shoulders bare and eye hidden behind a pair of stylish red sunglasses. “Hi, Angel.” She stood and walked over to me, slipping her arms back into her bathing suit straps. “You getting ready to go to the coffee? Oh, are you baking? It smells divine.” “Thank you,” I said, wondering at the red patent heels Angel wore. “You like ‘em?” she asked. They were, to my surprise, incredibly racy--and they looked incredibly flattering on Angel. “I do,” I gushed, in spite of myself. “Can’t buy these here,” she grinned. “I got them through the mail-order catalog. Here, try them on.” I blushed and looked around to see if Corinne were anywhere in sight. “Oh, I don’t know if they’re quite my style.” “Oh, nonsense,” she said, slipping out of the shoes. “You’ll never know unless you put ‘em on.” I kicked my brown shoes off to the side and carefully slid my foot into Angel’s heels. My bare toenails peeked out through the open-toe, and the sole of my foot arched high and sharp as the heels raised me a full three inches in height. My calves tensed, elongating my lower legs. Even in my beige day dress, those red shoes made me feel like a movie star. I wobbled off balance and reflexively grabbed Angel’s forearm. “Careful now!” A boisterous laugh leapt from wide, red mouth. “Those shoes are dangerous!” “I can see that!” I laughed, too, and the tinge of embarrassment I initially felt instantly evaporated. “Walk in ‘em,” she encouraged. She stepped back but did not release my hand. I cautiously put one foot in front of the other and slowly and stiffly crossed the tiny square of concrete patio. “Honey, you have gorgeous legs,” she said. “You got those from your mother, too, didn’t you.” “Tell ya the truth, I wouldn’t know,” I said honestly, floundering again. Angel righted me again, laughing still. “It takes practice to walk in heels like that, but once you learn, it’s like riding a bike--you never forget.” “Where on Earth do you wear shoes like this?” I gushed. “Anywhere!” she said excitedly. “Grocery shopping, to the post office, sunning in the backyard.” “I guess so,” I chuckled as I made the careful U-turn back toward the door. “Next time we get together, I’ll have to bring my catalog with me. Maybe there’s something in there that suits you.” “Oh, I just don’t know,” I said, withdrawing my feet from Angel’s high heels and shoving them back into my own shoes. “Even if I did have a pair o’ shoes like that, I just don’t know if I’d ever have the courage to wear ‘em.” Angel peered at me through the sides of her eyes with a knowing expression I’d never seen on anyone before. She paused before putting her heels back on, then she slipped her sunglasses back down over her eyes. “Whatcha gonna do with Eileen while your gone?” she asked. “I ‘tend to drive her over to the nursery. Corinne said that’s where all the ladies take their children for these coffees.” Angel scoffed. “Don’t you dare,” she said, starting back toward her house. “You leave that baby with me, you hear?” I stepped off the patio to follow her, mildly protesting. “Angel, that’s not necessary,” I said. “I don’t mind driving her--" She waved her hand behind her, making it clear she was done with my protests before I even got them all out. “I’ll be over in a jiffy!” Back in the house, I found Eileen in the same spot I’d left her in. Her bag was packed and ready to go by the front door. The cake was cool, and as I heaped heavy layers of icing onto it, I wondered how it could be I felt better about leaving Eileen with Angel than I did with women who spent their days caring for other women’s children. I didn’t know Angel from Adam, really, having only met her the day before. I didn’t know what kind of woman she was. Corinne seemed to think Angel was less than trustworthy. There were a couple qualities about Angel that I found annoying, yet intriguing. But all in all, there were far more things about Corinne that rubbed me the wrong way, and I decided I’d rather Eileen be in Angel’s care than Corinne’s, if ever given the choice. Angel knocked on the door just as I was putting the finishing touches on the cake, and when I let her in, I saw she was dressed in a pretty blouse and dungarees. “That’s some wardrobe you have,” I remarked, surprised she was dressed in something that wasn’t sexy. “There’s a time for everything,” she said. “Especially when it comes to a woman’s closet.” “If she gets hungry--" “Then I’ll feed her,” she grinned, plopping down on the floor next to Eileen. “I’ve taken care of a child or two in my lifetime,” she said. “More than that, I’ve taken care of a man or two. I can handle an Army.” I couldn’t help myself. My eyebrows shot up, but she was too interested in Eileen to notice. “Alright,” I said, loitering in the middle of the room. “Go on,” she said. I slipped my handbag onto my arm and set my hat on my head. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re done.” “Take your time.” “Bye, now,” I said, pushing the door open. “Rita,” she said quickly. “Yes?” “Forgetting something?” I touched the hat on my head, checked the snap on my handbag. “The cake?” “Oh!” I said. Cake in hand, I backed out the door, blowing a kiss to Eileen. “Bye-bye, Sweetheart!” I called. “Be good for Miss Angel!” The door closed behind me. I stepped onto the sidewalk, and I could already see ladies walking in pairs up Minnie’s drive. A wave of nervousness pooled in my stomach, but it was eased by the cheer I felt at having made my first friend.

The next day, I got up early and prepared to spend the day baking. The afternoon before, Corinne, a young sergeant’s wife from across the street, knocked on the door just as Angel was leaving. “Hi, Corinne,” Angel said as she stepped outside. “Hi, Angel.” Her lips pursed into a tight, polite smile, and I gathered Corinne didn’t appreciate the greeting. “How’s Bob?” Angel asked, lingering on the doorstep. Corinne was a petite woman. The top of her head barely reached Angel’s shoulder. Her strawberry blonde hair was cropped high above collar and gave her an elfish look that set me ill at ease. She wore a taupe-colored dress that was perfectly tailored and pressed. The seams were straight and even, and the boat neckline lay flat on her thin collarbones. In her earlobes were set tiny pearls that made her plump cheeks seem delicate, and her wide round eyes blinked incessantly in an exaggeratedly feminine way. Next to Angel, Corinne appeared to be a perfect paper doll, and she set Angel in a terribly sour light. “He’s fine, thank you,” Corinne replied, and she offered nothing else. “Good,” said Angel. “Have fun at the coffee tomorrow.” Corinne bristled, and as Angel sauntered off in her singular way, Corinne made a face and stepped in close. “I was hoping I’d get to you before she did,” she whispered. “I didn’t quite know a polite way to respond, so I simply smiled and invited her in. Eileen stood next to the coffee table, her little hands clutching the rim for balance. The ant bites had swelled, and their pinpoint heads had stained to a bright red. She looked pathetic and diseased, with spots of calamine lotion dotting her body. Corinne’s eyes widened. “Poor thing! Did you catch the chicken pox?” Corinne turned to me and crossed her arms. “It’s going around. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of Shelley’s little ones gave it to her. Those children are always sick. I tell ya, it’s because Shelley keeps those windows open all day long. “At my house, I raise the windows until after breakfast, and that’s all it takes to keep the house fresh. I tried to tell Shelley that, but I have yet to see her windows closed at noon.” I scooted across the room and scooped Eileen up into my arms. “She got into an ant bed,” I interrupted, rubbing my hand briskly over Eileen’s bare, bumpy back. “Ants?” Corinne gasped. “How awful! Where? In your yard?” “Out back,” I said. “On Angel’s side?” It was becoming clearer and clearer to me Corinne reserved an especial distaste for Angel. I had no idea why, but I suspected it had something to do with her hair. “No, right in the middle of my back yard.” Corinne trod across the room to the back door and peered out the window. “Now that’s a shame,” she said. “That’s all we need.” I kissed Eileen’s cheek, and I was thankful she didn’t seem to be in any lingering pain. “They ate her up,” I said. “They were on ‘er so fast. I’m glad Angel was out there hangin’ laundry. She yanked Eileen up s’ fast--by the time I got over there, she had most of ‘em off ‘er, but they crawled everywhere. In her diaper, too.” Corinne made an awful face, as if she’d tasted a rotted lemon. I wondered how Corinne would react to a leaky diaper or mucousy spit-up, daily occurrences in any mother’s life. I thought of Angel, and it occurred to me she visited with me a whole hour, and I never learned whether or not she had children. I suppose a part of me just assumed she didn’t. I didn’t see any babies crawling around in her yard, or bikes or scooters lined up along the house outside. She didn’t mention any children, and yet, something in her manner gave me the impression she was a mother. Corinne, on the other hand, was indeed not, if my instincts were correct. Her eyes darted to and away from the spots covering Eileen’s body, and I got the feeling she might faint. Mothers are not squeamish. And if they are, they are indeed miserable. Corinne drifted back to the living room and toward the door, eyeing Eileen from a distance. “She’s a precious child,” she said. "Her name’s Eileen.” “That’s a nice name.” Corinne straightened and peered around the room. Her eyes grazed every surface, along every wall, and into every corner. “I came by to invite you to the wives’ coffee tomorrow afternoon. I suppose Angel already mentioned it?” “No, she didn’t.” Corinne gave a self-affirming nod. “That’s not surprising. She usually doesn’t make an appearance. Well,” she paused. “We’d love to have you come. We’ll be meeting over at Minnie’s house at noon.” “I’m sorry,” I said, shifting Eileen onto my hip. “I don’t think I’ve met Minnie, yet.” “Oh, you haven’t.” She seemed satisfactorily surprised. “She’s in the house right on the corner.” She pointed toward the entrance of the cul-de-sac. “Is it alright if I bring Eileen?” I asked. Corinne blinked her eyes and pursed her lips. “We don’t normally allow children to the coffees,” she said. “You might take her to the nursery. That’s what all the other ladies do.” I glanced at Eileen. I’d never left her at a nursery before. I’d never left her in anyone else’s care before, and I wasn’t quite certain I was willing to. Corinne gave an awfully nasal chuckle that grated on my nerves. “You’ll just have to let the ladies there know she’s not contagious.” “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, promising nothing. Corinne seemed satisfied. She scanned the room once more, then smiled her thin little smile. “Hope you join us,” she said, then she left, pushing the door firmly in place behind her. # I leaned over to see how the cake was doing when the phone rang. "Hello?" "Rita...." It was Roger. "Goodness gracious, I wasn't expectin' ta hear from you." "I don't have much time," he said. "You'll have to speak up, Roger--I can't hear you." "It's gonna be another two weeks." I couldn't hear him well, but I heard him clear enough to gather what I'd face for the next two weeks. "That can't be right," I protested. "You were supposed to be home at the end of the week." "Nothin' I can do about it, Rita," he said quickly. "I did all I could to get out of it, but this is how it's gonna be." I thought of the bedroom, how luxurious it looked now, what a shame it was the bed hadn't even been slept in after I fixed it up. Now, I wished I never thought to make it nice at all. "How's Eileen doin'?" he asked. "She's fine," I began. "She got into an ant bed yesterday--" The line crackled, and for a few seconds, I thought I'd lost him. Then, his voice broke into the silence, but his words were chopped, and I could only make out a few things he was trying to say. "Make s-- --p --o-- ---m- -all Mama and -f --o -al- -o try ta call you again -f --et -----ce." "I can't hear you, Roger." "Okay, ok-- s Eileen --r m--. -- ---v you." "I love you, Roger." And the line went dead. All I'd learned is that Roger would be gone for two more weeks. I should've been used to his absence by then. Eight months of training when he first joined was only the first eight months without him. A week after he left for boot camp, I discovered I was pregnant, so I moved back home to Mama’s. There had been many phone calls, and Roger asked how I was holding up, how I was feeling, if the baby was healthy. He wasn’t there to see my belly swell up to the size of a good watermelon. He wasn’t there when I felt the baby’s first kicks in my side. He wasn’t there when the first labor pain sliced through me like a knife. Mama called the base in Texas when we got to the hospital. They put her on hold while the nurse wheeled me off to the labor ward. I looked back over my shoulder as we began down that long hall, and Mama looked awfully pained to be tethered to that phone. My bed was only on the other end of the wing, but it felt like I might never see her again. The separation from her, no matter how slight, brought me to tears. The nurse scolded me as she helped me out of my dress and into the dismal blue hospital gown. “Cryin’ already!” she said. “You’re not even in that much pain yet.” That only made me want Mama more, and a fear like I’d never felt before stung through me from the inside out. I was shaking like a leaf, and when the nurse unfolded those metal stirrups with a loud clack, I thought I’d shake apart. It felt like Mama was away from me for hours, but when she finally appeared, it had only been forty-five minutes. She rushed to the bedside, sat on the edge of the chair and took my hand. The worry on her face made her look ten years older, and I was afraid something terrible had happened. “What is it, Mama?” I cried. “I couldn’t get through to him, Sweetheart.” She put a warm hand on my cheek. “I had to leave a message for him.” At once, I was angry and frightened and confused and hurt. Why couldn’t Roger be there? Millions of women in the world had babies. Thousands of babies were born every day, and I was sure every one of them had their daddies pacing and smoking and sweating in the waiting room the entire twelve hours it took for the mother to push her child out of her body. Why did it have to be different for me? I’d heard how Mama had me, driving into Roe alone and catching the city bus when the car stalled. I knew how Mama walked into this same hospital on her own two feet, without a soul to help her. There was no husband to call, and she laid in her bed as I did now, without her mother there to hold her hand. I knew the story well, and I was convinced from early, early on it would never be that way for me. Roger would be there in the waiting room, cigars in his pocket, and when the baby was born, he’d give a whoop and come sailing into the ward to kiss my forehead and tell me what a good girl I was. Bullcorn. Roger was hundreds of miles away in San Antonio, doing anything else but what I imagined. And as I pressed the soles of my feet deep into the mouths of those horrid stirrups, he was elsewhere and oblivious. The bitterness gave me a strange strength that I used to will my child out of my body, and at 5:45 PM that suffocating afternoon in August, Eileen Matilda Rosalind James was born. Mama cried as much as Eileen did, as she ran her hand over Eileen’s red, red tufts of hair. “She’s a Rosalind, alright,” Mama said through her tears. And that satisfied me more than anything else, even than the end to all that pain. Roger came home a week later, and he fell in love. To him, it seemed like Eileen had been conceived and born overnight. But to look at me, swelled up twice the size as when he last saw me, the flicker in his eyes made me feel like I was a stranger. “You look beautiful,” he told me, but his words seemed too purposeful to be sincere. But at Eileen, he stared for hours, a transfixed expression of enchantment etched onto his face. He held each of her little fingers one at a time and ran his thumb over every little slope on her face. “Little Leen,” he kept calling her. His “Little Leenie.” Roger was enchanted, but Mama was spellbound. Long afternoons dripped by, and I slept for many days. Roger helped tend to the large chores around the house that had gone undone for years, and Mama spent every hour holding Eileen in the porch swing, talking to her, singing to her, smoothing her feather-fine eyebrows and tracing the rosebuds of her lips. She doted on Roger so excessively, I thought she’d lost a piece of her mind. She cooked three full meals a day for him, meat with each one. She brought him tea and coffee throughout the day, asked him if he’d like a slice of ham to snack on, or a piece of that carrot cake. Mama washed and pressed every thread of that man’s clothing and had it hanging up for him to wear as soon as he was ready--strings trimmed and creases sharp as wire. And when she spoke to him, she cooed and trilled in a way that made me sick to my stomach. “You do such a fine job with that baby, Roger James. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a good father as you. Now I know my Rita is going to be the happiest woman in Roe, no doubt about that. You are a catch.” Roger ate it up. He writhed in the attention like a fat cat in the sun, and I thought I might scratch his eyes out if he didn’t snap out of it. One night, when I was particularly intolerant of his and Mama’s antics, the phone rang. “It’s for you, Roger,” Mama said as she took his pie plate from him and rinsed it in the sink. “Yes, sir,” Roger said into the receiver. “First thing tomorrow morning, yes, sir.” Mama wheeled around when he said those words, and at that moment, Eileen began to wail from her bassinette in Mama’s bedroom. Mama darted out of the kitchen, and I sat at the table, stabbing my piece of blackberry pie with the tines of my fork and scowling into my plate. “You, too, sir,” Roger said stiffly. Then he placed the phone gently back into its cradle. Mama swept into the kitchen again with Eileen propped on her shoulder. She bounced the baby in the crook of her arm as she rubbed firm circles into her back. Roger grasped the back of a table chair and sighed, his chin on his chest. “I’ve got to go back in the morning,” he said. “Naturally,” I said, shoving a too-large bite of pie into my mouth. Roger withered and peered at me pathetically. “I can’t help it, Rita.” “I know,” I said. “It’s not the end of the world.” Mama kissed Eileen’s forehead. “Well, don’t worry about us, Roger,” she said confidently. “I’ll take care of Eileen and Rita, too. We’ll be fine here.” “I sure do appreciate that,” Roger said. “Sure does make life a lot more bearable to know Rita and the baby are in good hands.” And we were. I never worried when Mama was around. I was so secure, in fact, I did little else than plan and pine for our next adventure. Since Roger and met, it had been one adventure after another. Our courtship was short and fervent. Just three months after we met on the dance floor at B. B.’s Club in West Roe, Roger proposed to me under a large oak tree at the annual First Methodist Church Picnic. By Thanksgiving, we were married and living in our own little apartment in Roe, and by Christmas, I was pregnant and he was off at boot camp in San Antonio. All that time, I waited for our life to begin. After Eileen was born, I expected the world to shift and make a tiny space of room for Mr. And Mrs. Roger James to settle into and claim. So far, there had been no shift at all, except for the Roger shifting to and from one duty to another. What’s another month or two? I asked myself. I’m not sentenced to live my life out here in Roe in my mama’s house. That time, Roger was gone for four months. Each time he called, he offered the same phrase: “Just a little longer.” Then one day, he called, and he was so excited I could barely get him to speak slow enough that I could understand what he was saying. “Honey, we’re going to Hawai’i.” “Hawai’i?” I asked, bewildered. “Are you sure?” “It’s all settled,” he said. “Have your mother help you get your things packed. We leave in three weeks.” “Three weeks?” That hardly seemed like enough time to ready ourselves for a move clear across the ocean. But I’d spent more than a year in Roe. Eileen was almost six months old, and Roe was all she’d known. I might not have believed we were moving our family to a tropical island. I’d guessed we’d end up in North Carolina or California or maybe Texas, practically next door. But I never imagined Roger would receive orders to go to Hawai’i. I’d heard enough about the place from Nancy Cline’s runny mouth, and I’d heard enough to wish we might be as fortunate. But a reality, I’d never considered. It was a reality now. Roger hung up the phone after gushing and fawning over me, assuring me life for us was going to be all manner of idyllic now. Three weeks was not much time, but when the day came, we’d be ready.

7,000 words in one night. So far, that's my personal best. Doesn't say much for the quality of what was written, but it's word count. At this rate, I'll have 60,000 words by the end of the month. There are a lot of inconsistencies. My ignorance shows through a lot of the narrative, especially when it comes to a subject so precise as the military. I learned I've apparently blended two military domestic subcultures: the officer's wives circle was distinctly different from the NCO and enlisted circles. Not all were terribly formal, as I've portrayed in the story so far. But the cast of characters I've introduced so far are a reflection of truth. I went straight to the source for this one. I interviewed an officer's wife and an NCO's wife, and I got the impression both circles had your "uppity wife" and your "nutty wife"--your "ladder-climbers" and your down-to-earth people. Crafting this fictitious world that Rita's trying to adjust to has been so enjoyable for me. I realize a lot of these scenes are extremely stereotypical, but they do form some basis for the points I'm trying make. In the rewrite, I'll be able to come up with something far more fresh, original, and believable. But in the meantime, I think it's important I just establish the social pressures Rita's facing. ~~~~ "Angel," the sexy Army wife with the streak of rebelliousness, has really come into her own as a character here. I haven't gotten to the point where I reveal very much about her, but I think I've definitely brought her forward and invited the audience to pay attention to her, to question her past and her motivations--and what she's capable of. This friendship Angel and Rita are forming...it encompasses so much I've experienced over the years. The wives of the higher ranking soldiers form this formidable social wall; it's a wall that manifested itself in my life in a different way, but the stark, definite, separating societal line that's illustrated in the military social system is so perfectly representative of the what it was like for me growing up in a civilian community. The intimate friendship between two women who don't exactly "fit in" reflects the way I coped with being an outsider. ~~~~~ I can see where Rita's going from here, and I'm surprised Angel has matured so much as a character and stepped forward to play such a strong, positive role in the story. It's not apparent now. I'm still manipulating the audience's impression of her by allowing her to "show a little leg," but this is a tool I intend to use to even the plain, to shatter preconceived notions and stereotypes. Of course, to be fair, I'll have to play the same on the other side of the line, and I'm not quite sure how I'm going to approach that yet. It'll be a little uncomfortable writing that, because I'll have to sympathize with a snotty officer's wife. But we'll see. It can be done.

Missed my goal tonight by 2,000 words, but I did accomplish 1,000 at CC's. I'm glad for that. Tia spent the night, so instead of holing myself up with the laptop, I sat with her and watched Day After Tomorrow for the second time. (Second time around is just as great.) I'm optimistic about tomorrow, though. At least the house is coming together to some semblance of organization. I'll be able to set domestic tasks into motion tomorrow while I knock a big hole in the second leg of the writing journey. I think it's time to implement the Writing-at-the-Kitchen-Counter strategy. It worked for Virginia Woolf.

So, among the fuzzy/contrived/probably-innacurate details of last night's miraculous 4,000-words-plus:

• shopping in Honolulu in the late '40s/early '50s?
• Hawai'i from a young, white, military wife's POV--in the late '40s/early '50s?
• military housing in that era?

One of the primary plot questions I've been gnawing on:

Was Rita really a party gal by nature? Was she heavily influenced, and if so, should I establish that as one of her main motivations? Is her Depression and despair reason enough to drive her to "the terrible, terrible thing she's done"? Or do I need to add to the dynamic by providing her with something to run to, in addition to the thing she's running from?

---------------

I didn't stop writing last night until about 5:00 AM. I can't believe I wrote all that. I just kept going and going and going. I got to 23k, and thought, Okay, I'll just up it 500 more words. No problem.

So, I wrote about 23,400, and I thought, Well look--just a little over 500 more words, and I'll break the next 1,000.

When I got to about 24,300, I thought, Hey...just a little more, and I'll hit the Halfway Mark!

I intend to do it again tonight. I'm going to CC's to see what I can accomplish there in an hour. I put out the notice for Lafayette, but I can't say for certain anyone will show up. It doesn't matter, though. I'll be happy to get away to write anyway.

I'm taking the boy. He'll use the laptop while I handwrite. Tia says she intends to go, too, so we'll see. Only thing I'm concerned about is coffee money.

The day I met Angel, Eileen had gotten into a bed of red ants, and she was wailing like a struck animal. I tossed my Vanity Fair magazine aside and bolted toward my screaming child when I saw someone else had gotten to her first. The woman appeared from behind the bed sheets hanging out in the yard next door. She darted across the grass, yanked Eileen up off of the ground, and began swatting her about the legs and ankles. Eileen wailed louder, and when I got to her, the woman had my daughter under the armpits and was shouting orders to me. “Get those shoes and socks off of her, quick! Diaper, too!” I did exactly as the woman said, and I stripped Eileen down to her birthday suit. Angry red spots began to rise all over her little body, and when a stray ant bit into my wrist, I understood perfectly what kind of pain my baby must be in. “Let’s get her to the hose,” the woman said, and she took off toward our spigot before I could say otherwise--not that I would have anyway. For several minutes, the woman and I ran cool water all over Eileen’s skin and checked every crease and crevasse for any ants that happened to escape the deluge. When we were finally satisfied we’d ridded her of every last one of them, we stopped for a breath and to gather our senses again. “You gotta watch those ants,” she said. “They’re something else out here.” She shook her head and settled onto a very curvy hip. She was a gorgeous woman. She cropped her black hair in a severely straight line at her shoulders and high across her forehead. Her eyes were a brilliant cornflower blue, and they flashed as she ranted about the poor extermination service out here. “They haven’t come to your yard yet, have they.” “Not that I know of,” I said, holding Eileen away from me so she wouldn’t soak me if she decided to pee. “I didn’t think so. If they’re not late, then they don’t come. You’ll see. That’s how it is every damned month. I call on the first, thinking those dopes will be out here if a sweet voice asks them to, but I figure they forget as soon as they hang up the damned phone. You can’t get a decent man to offer some decent help around here. It’s a wonder they’re hired to defend the whole nation when they can’t keep the damned ants out of their own backyard!” “I didn’t know there were ants in Hawai’i,” I said, slapping one off of my ankle. “Better believe it,” she said. “And worse. No need to worry about it now, though. Let’s get that baby inside and get her some calamine lotion. She’s got to be miserable.” We crossed the lawn to the backdoor. “I’m Angel, by the way,” she said, holding the door open. “I’m Rita,” I said as she followed me into the living room. “You look like a Rita,” she said. I set Eileen on the floor by her feet. “Do I?” I laughed. I’d never been told that before. I grabbed a diaper from Eileen’s bedroom and returned to find Angel seated on the couch lighting a cigarette. “Certainly. Haven’t you ever seen Gilda? Say, do you have an ashtray?” “Can’t say that I have.” “You don’t smoke?” “Oh, no--" I said, going to the cabinet for the ashtray we kept for guests. “I meant I’ve never seen Gilda.” “Oh, thank you. Well, you should. Then you’d know what I mean.” She tapped her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” Angel eyed me as I pinned Eileen’s diaper onto her bottom before I let her squirm away. “Honey, if I had hair like that,” she said, leaning toward me and speaking low as if she were about to impart a national security secret. “I sure as hell wouldn’t be stuck in a camp like this with all those damned fire ants.” “Come ‘ere, Eileen,” I said as I pulled her back to me and inspected her bites. Angel clucked her tongue. “They chewed her up. Where’s your calamine?” “In the cabinet above the sink,” I said, motioning to the bathroom down the hall. “Oh, don’t worry. I know where the bathroom is. These houses are all exactly alike.” She strode to the bathroom, and her hips swung like they were oiled in the joints. I’d seen women walk like that on television and in beauty pageants, but never in my presence, nor in my own house. She returned with the pink bottle in her hand and was already dumping some of the runny liquid onto a cotton ball. She knelt next to me on the floor and cooed to Eileen. “Hold still now, Sweetie. Let’s get you fixed up.” I rolled Eileen over on her back and held her arms and legs still while Angel dabbed thick smears of calamine lotion all over the baby’s torso. Eileen stared wide-eyed at the blonde lady, wriggling her limbs and kicking at the woman’s knees. “Alright, alright, I’m almost done,” Angel said. She dabbed with one hand and flicked the ashes from her cigarette with the other, and it amazed me how a woman could medicate, smoke, and talk all at the same time. “There ya go,” Angel said, handing me the soiled cotton ball. “Thank you.” “Your husband have red hair, too?” she asked. “Normally, I notice things like that, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen your husband. He’s gone a lot, isn’t he.” “He’s in Asia,” I said, acknowledging to myself that was about all I knew of his whereabouts. When he left, he never told me more than that, and I didn’t ask, knowing well it would make no difference anyway. “And his hair’s brown.” Angel grinned and stood, picking up the ashtray and carrying it with her as she strolled around the room looking at the photos I’d mounted on the wall only a few short weeks ago. “Must’ve gotten it from your side of the family, then. You must have some awfully strong genes.” “Oh, that’s for sure. Every woman in my family’s been born with red hair. No exceptions.” “Well, I know plenty a girl who’d kill to have hair like yours. Or at least pay a fortune for it. Look at Lola Banks down the road. You think she got that red hair naturally? I think not. Straight from the bottle. Not that I judge her. You think this black is my natural color?” She paused and waited for me to respond. I shrugged my shoulders. “Not at all,” she said, snubbing out the butt of her cigarette. “My natural color is blonde.” “Well, why on earth would you wanna color it?” I asked. “I thought every woman in the world wanted blonde hair.” “Not me,” she scoffed. “Blondes are a dime a dozen, and not everyone wears blonde well. If you don’t wear blonde well, you look cheap. Either that, or distracted. And nobody wants to look distracted. When my hair’s blonde, I don’t look cheap or distracted, but I don’t look like a bombshell either. Men see a blonde, and bombshell is exactly what they expect. “Now see this black here,” she said, pinching a length of her hair. “Not every day you see a dark-haired woman around here who isn’t from this island. But me? It’s unexpected. And that’s bombshell effect for you right there. I think it’s something of a fetish for men, if you ask me.” I didn’t quite follow anything she was saying, but she seemed to know exactly what she was talking about, so I took her word for it. I’d gathered enough, that red hair was something terribly special, and I was damned lucky to have it. And I wouldn’t have ever known if Angel hadn’t come to Eileen’s rescue. To this day, I don’t know if Eileen was shouting more because of the ant bites, or because she thought she was being beaten by a stranger. In any case, Angel managed to rid my little girl of the ants and plant a tiny seed of vanity in me. That day, Angel won my gratitude and my admiration. That day was also the day when Angel skillfully and stealthily opened an aching Pandora’s Box.

Looking back, there seems to be a blind spot in that first year we lived here in Hawai'i. I clearly recollect those first few months, and they were the sweetest I ever knew. Roger moved us into the little gray house on the military base. It wasn't anything like what I imagined home would be like, but surprisingly, I adjusted quite well to the notion I wouldn't have a porch like I did in Roe, no flowerbeds for roses or zinnias or marigolds, no garden patch for tomatoes or onions or green peppers. The house wasn't half the size of Mama's, but that didn't bother me one bit. I rather liked the rooms squeezed together so close, the little windows and the tiny square of property in the back where the Army already had clotheslines strung up for the wives. All the houses on the street looked exactly the same, the same dove gray, the same paneled sides, the same drive with room enough for one car. But on each house, there by the doorbell hung an aluminum plate etched with the family's name. CPL JAMES, R. I was so proud of that little plate, I polished it every morning. Roger was gone before sunup, so every morning, I walked across the empty drive to get the paper, and on my way in, I reached over with the cuff of my bathrobe and wiped away the night's dust. None of our furniture matched, as we received most of it secondhand from the families of soldiers whose tours in the islands were over. The first evening we were there, a chaplain down the street brought over a faded pink sofa and loveseat. A sergeant brought over an old coffee table that wasn't much to look at but was sturdy and made of good wood. A specialist brought his daughter's bassinette. With all the odds and ends we brought with us from Roe, our house looked like a consignment shop for a while, but it didn't take long for me to learn where to buy good fabric for a bargain. As soon as Roger received his first check from the Army, I went down to Ben Franklin's and bought nearly twenty yards of a gorgeous red and white pinstripe. I reupholstered the sofa and the loveseat and sewed curtains to match. It took me two days to make something of that coffee table. I hauled it out to the back patio and spend half a day sanding it down to bare wood. Then I stained it a deep walnut. When it dried, I positioned it in the living room and overlaid it with one of the linen tablecloths Mother gave me. On the hem of each end was embroidered the initial "R", for "Rosalind." Eileen's room was downright charming when I finished it, too. With Roger's second check from the Army, I returned to Ben Franklin's and bought ten yards of a pretty yellow seersucker and four yards' length of a wide eyelet lace. It took me three days to sew the curtains and the linens for Eileen's crib, but when I was finished, her windows and her new blanket and crib skirt were lined with lace from end to end, and the Hawaiian sunlight filtered through the windows and the fabric, casting a warm yellow glow into the room that lit every corner. Above her crib, I hung a mobile of pink, white, and yellow ribbons that danced as the breezes blew in through the curtains. And above the room's only window, I hung the little white crucifix Roger's godmother had given Eileen when she was first christened. Each week, another room in the house bloomed. The third week, it was the kitchen. I didn't buy new fabric for that. Mama sent several yards of white cotton with me when we left Louisiana, so I used that to sew kitchen curtains and napkins. All the dishes and cookware we had, we brought with us. We had enough good stoneware for the two of us, but if we were to ever entertain, someone would end up with a chipped plate or a cracked bowl. It didn't matter to me, though. Mama's coffee set was in good shape--china, with a garland of tiny red roses around the rim. I stacked the saucers behind the cabinet glass in plain sight, alongside the delicate coffee cups with the teardrop handles. They were my pride and joy. Many mornings Mama and I sat together on that porch swing, sipping coffee and listening to the mockingbirds bickering in the trees. Such quiet, quiet times, but even then, I knew damn well they were only a brief rest along the way. By the time I was ready to transform our plain, bare bedroom into something welcoming and comfortable, Roger was rotated to duties in Asia. Eileen was barely six months old when he left, and I'd just spent eight dollars on a beautiful silk blend for our bedroom. The night Roger flew out, I stood at the bedroom door with the fabric in my hands, deciding whether I should wait to dress the room up. It just didn't seem right preparing our room when he wouldn't even be coming home to enjoy it. I knew I wouldn't enjoy it myself, so what was the point? I stored the fabric in one of my trunks and promised myself the room would be ready for Roger when he finally came home. The next day, I took Eileen into Honolulu. It was much different than what I'd seen on the military base. We stepped into the department store, and it was like we were suddenly in a different country. There were brown-skinned people everywhere. Of course there would be. It was a tropical island, but I suppose I'd gotten so used to being Mrs. James, wife of Corporal James of the United States Army, I'd forgotten we were living thousands of miles away from Louisiana and its unremarkable American sameness. Stylish young ladies milled around the cosmetic counters, tight and shining jet-black curls to match their jet-black eyes. They had the most brilliant smiles, such straight white teeth flashing behind those dark red lips. They nodded to me as I passed with Eileen in her carriage, and it was the first time in my life I recall ever feeling out of place in a department store. I turned toward the ladies' apparel, and a mother briskly passed me with four little children in tow. She was a regal looking woman, with stern Polynesian features--a fine, sharp nose; full brown lips and a wide, strong chin. She'd pulled her bark-colored hair atop her head and secured it with a large wooden comb, and I could tell by the sheer mass of the twined plait her hair must've been at least to her knees. She wore a long dress made of the most intricate gold pattern--wild ferns and several strings of tiny flowers, twisted together to form an exquisite border print; the dress nearly brushed the floor with her long, purposeful strides, and that superb chin, raised high above her ruffled collar. The children were as elegantly groomed and dressed. Their shoes were buffed to a high shine, their socks neat and uncreased around their ankles. The boys wore straight white trousers with pressed, white, collared shirts, and the dark brown waves of their hair were cut clean, parted, and combed like little gentlemen. The girls' hair hung to their waists in two tight braids, the ends of which were tied in white satin ribbons. They wore smart royal blue jumpers over bright white Peter Pan blouses, and I saw the glimmer of gold crosses around their necks. If I'd seen a true Hawaiian since I'd come to the island, she would be this woman. I'd heard stories about a Hawaiian queen who lived in the island palace not so long ago, how she was a large, magnificent woman with a commanding presence and the blue of two thousand years' reign flowing through her veins. I'd also heard how she was forced to spend eight lonely, wasting months confined to the prison of her own palace bedroom. There in the department store with Eileen gurgling in her carriage and shoppers crossing walkways from counter to rack, a woman who might've been a queen once upon a time brushed by me with her four little heirs, and something in this Louisiana girl shrank and stepped aside. Back in the ladies' department, I browsed the dresses and suits. Styles were much different than what we word back in Louisiana. Roe women preferred eggshell blues and wheat-colored cottons. At the boutique, Mama got the occasional request for a dress of butter yellow or coral, with a slender skirt line and buttons down the bodice front. But on the racks in the department store, nearly every dress was a vibrant, festive color--all the colors I adored: red, carnation pink, navy and gold. The darted bodices accented the breasts and slimmed the waist before billowing to a full-circled skirt. If a woman had good legs, the dresses would showcase them. Everything else was granted. I ran my fingertips over sapphire green sheath dresses and mauve A-line skirts, wondering at how brave and sensual the women here must be. That's when I spied a taffeta dress of a most stunning russet plaid. Satin threading shimmered under the store lights, and a red patent belt cinched the trim waist. I pulled it from the rack and held it up against me, sizing it in a wall mirror. The bottom hem fell just at the top of my calves, and as I shifted, thick layers of brown mesh rustled under the fabric and peeked out from beneath the skirt. It was a party dress made for me. Against my pale skin and fire-red hair, the fabric lit the rose in my cheeks and the pulpy rind of my lips. It set me in spotlight with virtually no effort on my part. For this reason, I knew Mama would've turned up her nose at that dress, and for this reason alone, I made a beeline straight to the clerk and bought it. Back at home, I could not stave off the guilt that settled with me the minute I left the counter with the sales receipt in my hand. Roger liked for me to have things for myself. He knew I liked pretty things to wear, and he encouraged the occasional cosmetic or perfume purchase. But what would he say about this dress? I’d only glanced at the price tag for a moment and stiffened just a bit to see it was three times the amount I’d normally pay. I rarely bought ready-made clothes anyway. Roger knew I could sew like a master, and he knew if there were anything I saw in a catalog or on a television, I could make the same and better. Since we married, I made clothes for all of us, and we never complained or pined after expensive manufactured wardrobes. But the russet dress was something I couldn’t pass up. It was made for me, so I bought it. But the question remained: What would Roger say? I wouldn’t tell him how much it cost. I could tell him I got it secondhand from one of the other wives down the street, or I could tell him I caught it at discount. Or maybe he wouldn’t ask at all. I could’ve kicked myself for buying that dress if I didn’t love it so much. I finally decided I’d just take it back if Roger made too much of a fuss. In the meantime, I’d enjoy it, so I smoothed the skirt, straightened the collar, and hung it toward the back of the closet along with my other day suits and party dresses. The rest of the evening I spent pondering when I’d get to wear it, and oddly, I didn’t give any thought to whether or not Roger would be with me when I did. On Sunday, Eileen and I attended early morning services at the post chapel. The congregation, from what I gathered, was mostly Baptist, but there were a handful of Methodists in attendance who were there because the only other alternative was the Catholic mass on the other side of the base. Mother raised me Methodist, but Roger was as Catholic as they came. When he was home, we went to mass. When he was gone, I was free to choose worship services however I saw fit. I never gave much thought to which faith we intended to raise Eileen. She was still young yet, and though she was christened Catholic, she was--in my opinion--as much a Methodist. I was, after all, half responsible for her making, so it would follow she share half her faith with me. In any case, Roger was gone that Sunday, so there we sat, on a polished pew in the Baptist church. After yesterday’s adventure in Honolulu, I fell back into the military day with a little uncertainty. Blonde and brunette heads filled the church; white faces waited patiently for the pastor to begin his sermon. There was not a brown face in the room. How odd, to be in a community within a community. I’d always wanted to see what lay in the world beyond Roe, but it seemed I’d gone halfway around the world just to be holed up again in another sequestered little society. At times, the familiarity that was sometimes not familiarity at all offered me peace and comfort. But more often, the sense of stalled progress bored and beleaguered me, and I was left with an impatient frustration that lead me to seek other avenues of distraction besides sewing curtains or dress shopping. I considered these things when Pastor Weeks began his sermon with, “A virtuous woman who can find? For her price if far above rubies!” A more familiar verse there was none. How often Mama--in the height of a sentimental sip of coffee--thoughtfully trilled this same passage, rolling the rickrack trim of her collar between her petal-soft fingertips. When I was younger, I rolled my eyes and bit my nails, sighing melodramatically as Mama drew out her faithful conclusions for me in moldy old anecdotes and halfly-structured memories. I married, and as all new wives do, I soon began to ponder those words of my own volition, and when she began to tenderly preach them again, I nodded in humble agreement, though I reserved a very large part of my faith for that exciting and foreign world out there that would serve as the perfectly bee-busy background for my virtuous role. Hence, a smug smile readily lit my lips. I suppose, when I considered it, I had reached the threshold of the ruby-priced life I was meant to lead. With a newborn baby, a good husband with a respectable career and a decent paycheck, and a warm little house on a lush little island in the Pacific, I was exactly where I’d always wanted to be. The pastor spoke that morning about the glorious duty of a loving, conscientious, and obedient wife. Mama would’ve been proud I so enthusiastically received The Word, and The Word so special to her. I went home with a sense of purpose renewed. I abandoned thoughts of what to do with that dress, and I dug out that rich silk fabric I’d gotten for Roger and me. Over the next three days, I sewed and sewed until our bedroom resembled a plush, cosmopolitan suite. Once complete, the room was so precisely what I’d imagined it to be, I realized there was no way I could sleep in there one night alone. That was the first night I spent sleeping on the living room couch, hoping tomorrow might be the day Roger would come home.

The night, woven so purple-tight,
It smothers and strangles
As spider web tangles
with glistening, poisonous Vs.
On some strange eastern vine,
It comes creeping,
Pin-tip toes tapping
Down a humming wire line.
My black-belly baby,
My eagle-winged pilot,
Make haste, lest there be
Nothing left but a knot.

Solid 3,000-something words again tonight. Since I've been dancing along on that dark line, I figured I'd take advantage of it and put myself in my darkest character's head. I told Mark, it's scary, sometimes, how easily that comes.

The coral quicks of my fingertips peek raw and burning from the arc of skin where my fingernails used to be. I kept those nails slick and lacquered for the longest time. I was religious about soaking my hands, carving the cuticles away from the edges of each fingernail so it would grow fast, straight, and fine. I filed the rough spots down, smoothed the shape to a nice sharply rounded spade at the end. The color was always red. Mama hated red, but there was no other color better suited to this headful of red hair. These nails gleamed finer than that cherry-red hood of Preston Sedrick's car. And even though he wouldn't admit it, I know he appreciated these nails more than he appreciated that car of his, too. When the night was over, it was the car that stayed out in that ol' parking lot--not me. But you'd never know it to look at them now. Hideous hands, dried blood still visible in some places. That was the first clue I got that I really went over this time. The last time I remember tearing my fingernails off with my teeth was when I was twelve years old. Lots of us had nervous little habits around that age, and our mamas were always on our backs about it. "Gabby, don't you let Rita gnaw on 'er fingernails, now"--"Rita, if you see Gabby twistin' at her hair, you tell 'er ta stop." It was so, so hard to stop. But when we finally did give up on those things, it was because of the boys--not because of our staunch self-discipline. I wanted a boy to have a pretty hand to hold, and Gabby wanted her hair to hold its do. It's a long way from twelve, Mama, and there are a few new habits added unto--habits you wouldn't know about, and you never will know if I can help it. Eileen here should be better than a letter. Eileen's shoes barely hang over the edge of the carseat. She's restless, bouncing her feet on the vinyl and rubbing her shoes together. squeak squeak squeak.... My hand jerks--reflex to swat her leg and tell her to be still, to quit scuffin' up those new shoes I bought her, that I shouldn'ta bought her new shoes anyhow if she's jus' gonna go on and mess 'em up like she did that last pair o' pretty white sandals I got her, stupid child, what on Earth would possess her to take a can o' red shoe polish to those brand new shoes? Hadn't even had 'em a day, and I walk in there to find her smearin' that red cake all over the place. I tore her rearend up. And I threw those shoes directly into the trash basket. I couldn't get the stain out of her hands for a week, so I stayed mad for a week. I'll never forget it. Made me so mad I could spit. squeak squeak squeak.... But I don't say a word to her today. She's not even on the plane yet, but I've already come to regard her as someone else's responsibility. If she wants to scuff up those damned shoes, then let 'er. Maybe Johnnie has a better way of handling my daughter than I do. My thumb goes to my mouth and I start chewing on what's left of the nail there. Doesn't do a bit o' good, so I roll down the window and light a cigarette. If I can just hold it together long enough to get Eileen on that plane, all will be just fine. I'll be able to get back to Angel's house and that bottle of Jack Daniels she's got waiting for me, and then I can process this terrible, terrible thing I've done in my own time, a little at a time, without having it all shoved down my throat at once. I hate Hawai'i. How very, very different it is than what Roger and I had first imagined four years ago when he first got his orders. I remember, Nancy Cline and her husband just got back, not long after the war ended, and she pranced around Roe for a solid month, showing off her tanned shoulders in the tropical print dresses she brought back with her. She never would shut up about all the parties and dancing in Waikiki or the beach paradise that practically belonged to them because the United States Army wanted its fine military families to have the best the Pacific had to offer. I swear, Mama was up her ass for weeks, wanting to know all there was to know about the Army and "Ha-WHY-a." It was all I could do to sit and listen to Nancy gab on and on and on, with Mama sitting there encouraging her. Nancy knew damn well what Mama had in mind, and I guess between the two of them, they succeeded in convincing Roger to sign up. So to Hawai'i we came. Eileen wasn't but three months old when we got off the plane there at Hickam. After all that talking Nancy Cline did, she didn't even come close to describing what it was really like. Nancy said the air smelled like flowers, but when I first caught a breathful of Hawaiian air, it was like breathing Eden. The air smelled so sweet, it made me dizzy, and I had to hold on to Roger's sleeve to keep from toppling over, baby and all. We stepped out from behind the big silver wing of that plane, and the first thing I saw was a great green sleeping giant, laid out on his side, from one end of the horizon to the other. Those bright sloping mountains could've only been formed under the mindful and loving palms of God. They towered like guardian angels on the landscape, and it just about took my breath away. Roger and I never got a proper honeymoon. He took me to Shreveport for the weekend, and we stayed at Mockernut Inn. He took me to the nicest restaurants in the city, and we went dancing every night. But that wasn't much compared to what we talked about before we married. Roger spoke of Venice and New York. He told me how we must see Germany and Paris, and California, too. We never talked about how we'd afford to see all those places, but it didn't really matter. He'd get a job that paid enough for us to live however we wanted, and we were satisfied. That job never came. We didn't see Venice or New York. We didn't even see the Louisiana state line. When it came time for Roger to go off to boot camp, I was two months pregnant with Eileen, and I hardly stepped foot out of that house in Baskin until it was Eileen's time to be born. After that, life seemed to change overnight. One day, I was living with Mama, nursing a newborn baby by myself with Roger hundreds of miles away in Texas. The next day, I was stepping off the plane into Paradise with our new family all together. Nancy wasn't right about the air, but she was right about one thing. When we set foot on that island, I knew right away this place belonged to us, and I decided right then and there I'd never, ever go back to Roe, Louisiana. I've never gone back on my word about that. I never will go back to Roe, but I won't stay here either. I hate this island more than I hate Roe. Louisiana never did a good thing for me. Mama tried for years and years to teach me to be thankful and content, and I tried for years and years to do just that. But I never was able to make peace with the thought of turning out like her. Mama's never left that house in Baskin. To this day, I don't know what it is that enables her to be happy with every day exactly the same as the day before. She doted on me growing up. We did everything together until I turned about sixteen, and then it all started to unravel. That's when I started asking about my daddy, who he was and what he did for a living, where he was now. I don't recall her ever answering any of my questions, so maybe that's when I decided I was going to find out on my own. "Mama," I told her. "I'm goin' ta find my daddy." And all she told me was "Good luck. Don't forget to brush your teeth and change your underwear often." She knew I wouldn't get far, but when I came home with that tiny diamond on my finger and Roger James next to me with his hat in his hand, Mama knew I was dead serious. That's when she introduced me to Nancy Cline, and that's when I knew my days in Roe were numbered. But Hawai'i.... It's a demon pit. It does things to a person, and as Eileen falls asleep against my arm, I realize how sick a person can get if she gives in to this island's evil charm. The car stalls in the airport parking lot, waking Eileen. Her drool drips down my arm and I pick up a dirty hanky from the car seat to wipe it off. Eileen yawns scratches her head, mussing the only curls that haven't already been pressed flat against the seat. I open the door for her, and she hops down out of the car, the soles of her new shoes slapping onto the concrete. "Where am I goin' again?" she asks as I tug her suitcase out from the backseat. "You're goin' ta stay with your Mama Johnnie for a while." "Why do I gotta call 'er 'Mama Johnnie' if I never met 'er before?" "Because you're just a little girl and she's a grown lady, and you're supposed to be respectful. Besides, she's gonna take care o' you just like me, so it's fittin' you call her 'Mama Johnnie.'" "But you're my mama," Eileen argues. Normally, I'd scold her for talking back, but that's going to be someone else's job and someone else's problem from now on. Maybe they'll do a better job than I have teaching her some manners. I slam the car door closed, and we walk across the wide parking lot to the little building that serves as a gate. Eileen has a hard time walking in her new shoes, and she's caught the edge of my skirt in her little fist to keep her balance. "Now don't wrinkle it," I say. "Yes, ma'am." We step into the building, and there are soldiers standing along the walls, lined up at the desk, and seated in the chairs in a tiny waiting area. I take Eileen's hand and step into line behind a young sergeant, his wife, and his little girl who looks to be about Eileen's age. The little girl holds onto her daddy's hand, and when she sees Eileen, she turns around and flashes a gappy grin at her. Eileen stares and winds her fist tighter into my skirt. I light another cigarette. "My name is Linda," says the little girl. "This is my daddy, an' we're going to Washington." Eileen's eyes travel up the man's back, and she looks at his dark, clean-cut head for a long time. "What's your name?" the little girl asks. "Eileen," says Eileen. The little girl makes a face then looks at me. "You sure do have red hair," she says. "Linda!" The little girl's mother hisses and jerks at her sleeve. "Don't be rude." The little girl protests, "But she does!" The mother peers around her husband's shoulder, and her eyes flicker over my hair before she speaks. "I'm sorry," she says blandly. I nod and untangle Eileen's hand from my skirt. "Next," the man at the desk calls, and the line moves forward. I scoot the suitcase up ahead of me. "Mama, I gotta pee," Eileen says. I ignore her. She stands in place and dances, those shoes clattering lightly on the floor. I tell her to stop fidgeting, and she does for a moment. Then it's back to the dancing, louder than before. "I gotta pee, Mama," she says again with rising urgency. "Dammit," I mutter. The little girl's mother pokes her head around her husband again and offers, "I'll hold your place in line if you want to take her." I glance around the building. "Restrooms are over in that corner," she says, pointing behind me. "Thank you," I say, and I grab Eileen's hand and drag her off to the bathroom. Eileen sings behind the door. Her voice echoes a thousand times in that little room, and it simply hammers through my head. I need another cigarette, but I just smoked one. What I really need is a drink, but the way things are going, I won't be back to Angel's until after dark. "Eileen, honey," I say. "Let's stop singin' now, okay? Mama's head hurts." "Okay, Mama," she says, and she falls silent. A minute later, though, she nudges open the door and shouts, pointing to a corner along the ceiling! "Look, Mama!" she yells. "A lizard!" Her voice slices through my ears. I pop her cheek and lean down to scold her in her face. "Eileen!" I say. "Didn't I just tell you, I have a headache! That means no singin', no talkin', and certainly no yellin'!" Eileen's hands goes to her face, and her mouth opens wide, crying before the sound ever escapes her throat. Dammit. I light another cigarette, and Eileen sobs at my knee. I catch a view of myself in the mirror. I'm stunned, but not surprised. The woman I see there does not look like she's twenty-four years old. Her red hair stands away from her scalp in irritated wisps. Her eyes are sunken and bruised. Lines of fatigue and anxiety traverse the deep corners her mouth and at her temples. The woman in the mirror appears to be a sour, scowling hag of at least forty. The smudge of red lipstick on her lips is half-licked away, and it lends the lady a crazed, clownish look that reminds me of how Betty Davis will look one day when she's a sauced old has-been. Any other child in the world would be horrified to be penned up in this little bathroom with that woman in the mirror, especially if she just popped the child on the mouth for shouting the way she did. I've successfully exiled the guilt, and I've successfully graduated beyond the grade of considering I can possibly stop whatever it is that's got its claws so embedded in me. Just a few more minutes, Eileen, and you'll be free of the monster forever. I lean into the stall and toss my cigarette into the toilet bowl. Eileen's whimpering, snot running down her nose and onto the collar of her dress. I fish my clean hanky out of my handbag and squat next to her. "Look here," I tell her, taking her chin in my palm and wiping her eyes and upper lip. "No need to cry anymore, Eileen. I'm not mad. Aren't you excited? You get ta go on an airplane and see Mama Johnnie and Mama Dellie and Aunt Helen?" Eileen sniffs and searches my eyes. "I don't wanna go see Mama Johnnie," she says, clutching my shirt sleeves in her fingers. "Can we go home now?" Tears continue to fall from her tired brown eyes. She is the only Rosalind ever born to have red hair and brown eyes. I remember looking at her when her eyes first began to change. I had no doubt she was my child. Only a Rosalind has red hair like that. But her eyes never turned hazel-green like Mama's, or glass-blue like mine. They turned brown, brown--chestnut brown, just like Roger's. What a wonder that was. A brown-eyed child. So many women told me a newborn baby was an angelic thing, but Eileen looked to me to be just like a little imp--that stubby little nose, those pea-sized eyes, and that rebellious red hair. But as the weeks went by, Eileen began to turn those brown eyes on me when I'd hold her or feed her, and she lay so still in my arms, regarding me with the sweetest, softest expression I'd ever seen. There was indeed a little angel in there, and even though Roger was gone for so long and sometimes it felt like we didn't have a family at all, I honestly thought I could make one then, just me and Eileen. Me and my little red-headed angel. I never could. I think I came real close to it a time or two. When I found out I was pregnant with Danny, I made every effort to steer clear of Angel and Waikiki. I stayed home with Roger every night he was home from flying back and forth across the Pacific. I only drank on the holidays that year, and I never drank too much. I even painted and decorated Danny's room myself, with no help from anyone. And it was a lovely, lovely room. Powder blue, to match the sailboats on the blanket I made for him. I crafted a mobile of paper birds and hung it above his crib, and on the wall, a cross-stitch sampler of the verse from the Bible: "For every hair of your head is numbered. You are worth far more than two sparrows." I almost made a family. And for twelve days after Danny was born, I felt it was in my hand. All I had to do was close my fingers around it, and it would be mine. But that twelfth day, the nurse came and told me Danny was gone, he was too little, he never had a fighting chance. That baby's eyes were blue. I know they were. "I promise you'll be happy when you see Mama Johnnie," I say, taking Eileen's hands in mine. She's still crying, but she nods her head. "You can't come with me, Mama?" she asks. "I can't come with you, Eileen," I say. "But I'll stay and watch you fly up into the sky. How's that sound?" "I guess that's fine," she says, and she wraps her pale little arms around my neck. It is the first time in what must be months, maybe years, that I've held my daughter this way. There has never been any break in the way time just crushes past me, leaving me scrambling to pick up pieces, just so I have all the parts I need when I get a chance to put it all back together. Eileen has ridden along on my coat tails, watching me grab for fragments, patiently enduring the jolts when I slip and the roar and bite of so many days burning by. It never pauses until I'm just at the end of something, and then time slows down again, almost to a stop, allowing me to catch my breath and adjust to a new nail pressing against my heart. This time, I won't worry Eileen may not be able to hang on. I won't worry I may not be able to catch the tatters as they flit to the ground. It's a terrible, terrible thing I've done, but it's the best I've ever done, the best I really ever hope to do.

"Is this your first pregnancy?" A dark-headed nurse with almond-shaped eyes and cinnamon-colored freckles set a tray of foreboding metal instruments on the counter next to Eileen's bed. An evil-looking device that reminded Eileen of blunt scissors lay next to syringes, tubes, and many other sharp, impaling things. "Yes," Eileen said, eyeing the tray and shrinking toward the opposite side of the bed. "Relax," the nurse encouraged. "I'm only going to take your blood pressure right now. Your arm." Eileen complied and allowed the woman to strap the wide black band around her arm. She studied the nurse and decided she must be Japanese. The woman's nametag said "Nishimura," and that was definitely Japanese, as far as Eileen could tell. Back in Roe, Louisiana, Eileen had never laid eyes on an oriental before, but since the Army sent Larry here to Schofield in Hawai'i, a day didn't go by that she didn't see an oriental. Eileen was pleased she'd grown accustomed to the islands enough that most of the time, she was able to tell a person's ethnicity without judging her last name. The nurse for instance. Eileen saw that the black of the woman's hair was an absolute pitch. Her skin was a creamy pale and clear, but for the splash of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were a smooth, sharp oval, and her mouth was small, the slopes of her lips gentle and even. Yes, she must be Japanese. "Has someone notified your husband?" asked the nurse. Notified. And Eileen knew she was in a military hospital. Back home in Roe, if a girl were to land herself in the hospital, a nurse might ask, "Anyone called your mama or your daddy yet?" or "Where's your mama work, hon?" But in the Army, one's husband must be notified. If his wife is having their child, he is notified. If his mother's just passed away, he is notified. If hell freezes over and the island on which his family resides suddenly sinks into the depths of the ocean, he is notified. For all Eileen knew, Larry had not been notified, for he was across the island on base, probably stuffed halfway down the belly of a tank, shouting orders or having orders shouted to him. Who in the hell was his superior anyway? Eileen just flew in from Roe only three weeks ago. She'd barely had time to attend a wives' coffee, much less memorize the roster of rank and seniority. All she had was a number, and it was an anonymous number, scrawled in pencil on the inside of her checkbook. Larry told her to use it in case of emergencies. Eileen thought this qualified. "I don't think anyone's called him yet," Eileen said. "I haven't had a chance to. I came straight here." "You drove yourself?" Nurse Nishimura asked. She did not seem surprised. "Yes." "Looks good," the nurse said as she loosened the strap from around Eileen's arm. "You sit tight while I go make that phone call. Here's some water if you need it." "Thank you," Eileen said, rubbing the patch of strawberries on her bicep. The small clock on the wall opposite the bed read 10:00 in the morning. Larry would be in the thick of work right now, and Eileen would have been, too, but the contractions were regular. They hadn't intensified much since they began two hours ago, but they were spot on every ten minutes. During her pregnancy, Eileen had read every book about pregnancy she could get her hands on. The library in Roe was grossly insufficient. Eileen wasn't sure if it was because the topic required such discretion on the part of the staff, they were more comfortable with a limited circulation, or if it was because most pregnant women in Roe didn't rely on books for their information. Most women Eileen knew learned everything they knew about children and child bearing from their mothers and aunts. But Eileen neither knew her mother nor had aunts. The surrogate, in the end, was the Roe Public Library. None of the books Eileen had read mentioned when was the exact time a woman in labor ought to check herself into the Emergency Room. "When the contractions are regular," one book said. "When the contractions begin to increase in intensity," another book said. Unsure which was the correct advice, Eileen hopped in the car and drove to Tripler Army Medical Center when the contractions came ten minutes apart, predictably. Better drive while I can, she thought. Eileen found the longer she was pregnant, the less she understood about pregnancy. Thus far, being pregnant was nothing like what she'd read in novels or seen on television. Why didn't a pregnant woman on a TV show get up and wash the dishes? Or haul a basket of laundry through the house? Or carry a full-sized suitcase through the airport to the Baggage Check? Why did it seem like so many people thought the slightest exertion of effort would "hurt the baby?" And the books Eileen read were vague, at best. Over time, she developed a guiding philosophy: eat well, sleep well, and if you're not in pain, carry on. And she did, without fear. But now, with those sadistic instruments poised to invade her body in unknown ways, with the bright lights of the ward shining down as if she were in a cruel theatre, she began to worry. She hoped somebody would "notify" Larry and get his ass over here.

Everest’s skin feels awfully clammy, and Eileen begins to wonder if something is seriously wrong with her. Eileen is never one to question a nurse’s expertise, but she’ll take her daughter’s word over theirs any day of the week. Everest doesn’t complain unless something’s wrong with her, so Eileen always knows: if Everest says it’s bad, it’s bad. “Are you feelin’ sick?” Eileen asks, dabbing Everest’s forehead with her fingertips. Her daughter swallows hard and lies perfectly still. “Mm-mm,” she says in her throat. Eileen offers her a cup of ice chips, but Everest shakes her head again, and that hard line gathers between her brows again. Her next breaths come quickly, and in moments, she’s sobbing again and pulling at the bedrails with all the strength in her thin arms. A growl borne of unbearable pain tears from her throat. Her eyes widen in disbelief, then search beseechingly to the ceiling and beyond. Eileen sees a prayer on her daughter’s lips. If it weren’t for the nature of the pain, Eileen could not stay on to witness her daughter in the throes of agony. The baby is on its way, and there is not a thing in the world--not flood or fire or war--that will stop it. At this moment, a mother’s love is pathetically ineffective. She can no more take from Everest the white hot pain in her belly than she can the event that put it there. This is not an unforeseen fate. It’s mouth gapes. It’s steamy breath envelopes. It will come to pass, and it will rip through Everest as it does. Everest screams again, and as Eileen squeezes her hand into the crushing fist of her daughter’s, her strength gives, and Eileen’s sobs join those of Everest. Too recently. Too recently passed, when Eileen’s prayer went up in the same way, but her sobs were raw and solitary.

“Don’chu worry ‘bout me, Mona,” Adele said as her cousin shuffled along arm-in-arm next to her. “Go on ‘n’ park that car--I'll make it just fine.” “You hush, not another word,” Mona said. All it’d take is one good fall, and Dellie’d be in the hospital indefinitely. No need for two Rosalinds to be holed up in that place at the same time. “Idn’t but two steps to that chair in there and I mean ta see ya to it.” The two old women made progress at a painful pace, and the Chevy coughed and idled under the Emergency Room entrance awning. “Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn, Adele?” “Never have,” Adele chuckled deep in her chest. A nurse met the pair at the door, and Adele recognized him right away. “Well, Miss Adele!” He was a handsome young man with a clear complexion and white, white teeth. “You in bad shape so soon?” he asked. “Weren’t you just here last week?” “I was,” Adele said. “Ta see Dr. Dean. I had an appointment.” The nurse took Adele’s other side, and he and Mona led her to a comfortable chair in the waiting room. “Where’re ya hurtin’?” he asked, gently helping her seat herself. “Hurtin’? Oh, no, Louis--not me. I’m not here ta see Dr. Dean. My great-granddaughter’s up there havin’ a baby.” “Is that so!” Louis shouted. “Well, Congratulations! You’re gonna be a great-great-grandmother now! Shouldn’t there be some kinda award for that?” Adele chuckled again. “I reckon there should be, I reckon so.” She smiled, and the soft wrinkles around her lips stretched thin as rice paper. “Well, let me get a wheelchair, Miss Adele, and I’ll take you up there myself. How’s that sound?” “Sounds fine.” “Oh goodness, Dellie. I forgot the car’s runnin’.” Mona took off back toward the door. Adele sat alone in the waiting room for several minutes. How times change. Hospitals were an entirely different place to be than they were in ’28. On the day Adele dragged herself into the Emergency Room, alone and in agony, patients crowded the chairs, protectively guarding their wounds or trying to suppress their raking, dry coughs. They sat apathetically together like half-dead flowers in an abandoned flowerbed. Now, there was a television on in the corner, playing shows no one was there to see, shows Adele couldn’t rightly understand. Seventy years ago, the blue-gray paint on the walls looked like cracking eggshells, cold, confining, and deftly sentencing. Now, the walls were a pleasant shade of deep burgundy, and several moderately sized paintings of egrets and peacocks and swans hung on all sides. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the slick tile floors, waxed and buffed to a blinding gleam. And when a person walked across it, their shoes squeaked, no matter what kind of shoes they were. And then, there was the manner in which Adele was received. It wasn’t time that robbed Adele’s memory of the nurse’s name who did not even both to inquire Adele of hers. Adele never knew the woman’s name. What she remembered was the sour curl of her lip, the perplexed sigh that no one was there to accompany the laboring woman. What Adele remembered was the woman’s cold, cold wake in which Adele followed as the nurse led her to the furthermost corner of the furthermost ward. Those times were long before Louis had ever been a thought in his mother and daddy’s minds. Yet God saw it fitting to bring Adele full circle, beyond her most lasting moment of weakness, to a time when a nurse was a man who knew Adele by her first name and would take it upon himself to see her up four stories in the building to her great-granddaughter. And there, Everest, bless her heart, would not sting the way Adele did.