'Ailina's Nanowrimo

'Ailina's NaNoWriMo 2008 has moved...

2008-10-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

NaNoWriMo Novel 2008.

Chapter 2: b

2006-11-05T23:14:00.000-08:00

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

In the months following Abe’s death, folks came out of the woodwork to offer their condolences and heartfelt aid to a widow in mourning. They brought casseroles and crockpots of food, cakes and pies and breads. They sent their husbands to do the yard and inspect every inch of the house to see everything was in good working order. They took the kids for ice cream and snow cones, showered them with clothes and toys. And many nights, pairs of women showed up at the doorstep, Bibles in hand, for coffee and prayer, when all I truly wanted to do was mummify in the bed and let the ache throb away in my body until sleep came.

Slowly, the visits tapered off to a phone call once a week, but the sad smiles and knowing pats on the hand have never stopped. No matter where I go or what I’m doing, every eye meets me with an acknowledgement I am a poor, fragile flower who must be appreciated and handled ever so gently.

It’s been three years now. Gracie does not remember her father. She insists she does, and when the others are gathered around a photograph, recalling things Abe said or did that particular day, she makes up memories to talk about along with the rest.

It may be terribly unhealthy to allow her to continue creating her own past with her father, but we allow her to, because the alternative is confusion and emptiness. Gracie’s just now learning to dress herself and brush her own teeth. She doesn’t need to be faced with the concept she is the only one in the family who has a past with no memories of her father.

So we let her believe. Just like I let everyone else in Roe believe life ended for me when Abe’s life ended. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if they paid no attention to me at all. I’d prefer it if the rest of the town would simply let Abe go and never again mention our marriage. But that’s as likely as Abe’s resurrection.

The reception is in full swing, and everyone under the age of 75 is well on their way to drunk. The girls are having a ball chasing after the Meyer’s twins, fetching them cake and cookies whenever they holler for them. Jake mills around the DJ, watching him cycle through CDs, thumbing through the volumes of albums.

I’ve been sitting at the “young mothers” table, tuning out the conversation about how wonderful Dr. Polk is, how he delivered three generations of healthy babies in the Jameson family, how he drops everything to tend to the needs of Ethan and Cryer—and how awful (Dr.) Ted (Stanton) is, how he’s misdiagnosed every illness that’s come through his office, how he should just shave off that combover, how he ought to “move on back to Lake Charles where he came from, because nobody needs him here.”

Dr. Stanton delivered Nanna and Gracie, too, and his combover didn’t bother me one bit. And it was on a thundery Thanksgiving Day when his car battery died in the hospital parking lot, because he was in such a rush to get to the third floor, he left his windshield wipers running. He delivered Gracie in two hours, and when he was satisfied she was fit as a fiddle, he apologized and explained he must rush off to his mother’s house in Pineville.

He found out soon enough he wouldn’t be rushing anywhere with a dead battery, and Abe drove him to Dean’s Auto Shop in the pouring rain to buy a new one.

Dr. Stanton was so grateful, and his mother was, too. She sent us her special carrot cake, “With Thanks and Blessings” for seeing to it her son made it home for the holiday. It was the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted in my life, even better than Aunt Georgia’s.

And yet, Mother Stanton’s carrot cake won’t bring the doctor business. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if those young mothers and their mothers, too, forced Dr. Stanton back to Lake Charles, with all their talk. As long as the Graves children were in Roe, however, he’d have at least five patients, and very grateful ones at that.

A series of chimes rings from a champagne glass, and Greg Weiner, the groom Miller’s best man, squeezes between the bridal couple, microphone in one hand, beer bottle in the other. His cheeks are the color of tomato, and sweat gleams on his forehead.

“Alright, folks! Getcher drinks, now!”

The Meyer’s twins ignore Greg and trot around the dancefloor in their ballet shoes, but as Patience rounds the corner, I call to her to grab her sisters and come sit by me. There are pouts, but no protests. Out of breath and shivering with energy, they fill the empty chairs at our table. Jake waves at me from behind the DJ, and I nod permission to let him maintain his independent position across the room.

Greg whispers something into the groom’s ear, and his face flushes a shade brighter. He launches into a gut laugh but manages to compose himself as someone whistles near the wine table and yells something mildly obnoxious.

“You hush, Red,” he says into the mic. “I know what I’m doin’.”

Brenda rolls her eyes, grinning with feminine condescension.

Greg’s smile disappears. He bows his head and sighs. “This is a sad day,” he says. “A sad, sad day for the young men of Roe.”

“Lord have mercy, what is he doin’.” The mother next to me clicks her tongue.

“You see, Shane here knows every one of us would like to be in his shoes right now—Brenda, you’re beautiful.”

Brenda curtsies.

“But…the best man won!”

Applause.

“Well, I guess technically, the best man didn’t win—the groom did—but…”

Laughter.

“You two were meant for each other, and I wouldn’t give up my best friend to anyone else, Brenda. You two have a wonderful life together. And let’s see some babies!”

Noise erupts, and I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. Patience shouts to me above the laughter, “Mommy, can we go play again?”

I nod, but grab Gracie’s hand before she can run off. I leap from my seat and pull her along behind me, praying to make it to the toilet before I empty my gut.

In the stall, Gracie stands behind me in silence, staring at me with fingers in her mouth. I have a death grip on the metal bar on the wall, and the other hand is at my hair, holding back a few strands that have come loose from the clip. The gurgling sounds of my hacking reverberate, amplified by the cold emptiness.

I see the reflection of the silk orchid in the toilet water, muddied by spit and stomach acid. Tears drip from my eyes, and I smear them away with the back of my hand, oddly comforted by the fact I hadn’t had time to put on any eye makeup, so there would be no smudges.

I rip a handful of paper from the roll and dry my eyes and mouth, breathing deeply before standing with utmost caution. Gracie gazes at me, face bright with fear.

“It’s okay, Gracie,” I say. “Follow me. Let’s go wash our hands and get cleaned up.”

We stand together wordlessly at the sink. She watches me in the mirror as I squeeze out a generous amount of soap onto our hands. I turn on the faucet full force and scrub our hands together, then wrists, and upper arms, too.

The water is warm, and I miss my bathtub desperately. I decide, as soon as the kids are in bed, I’ll run the tub as full as it can be and spend a good hour or two soaking in the silence. I begin to devise ways to make our exit. It would be easy if I told anyone I just spent the last ten minutes throwing up, but that would be way too much cause for concern, and who knows what they might conclude. Instead, I resolve to stick it out at least until 8:00. That’s only an hour away, and no one argues with bedtime.

I rip a yard of paper towels from the roll and pat our hands dry. Gracie leans her head against me and returns her fingers to her mouth. She wraps the other arm around my leg and pats me the way I do when I’m comforting her.

She is so much like her father, peaceful and affectionate. Abe was a man of few words, but I never felt too much of the silence. When he was home from overseas, he stayed close, a hand on my back at the stove, a child in his lap on the couch, roughing up Jake’s hair in passing. His eyes were always open, watching for a need, waiting to offer a hand at any moment.

Gracie’s too young to remember Abe’s ways and mannerisms, but I can see already, out of all the children, she is most like him.

I smooth her hair away from her face and straighten the bow in her hair. I flatten her collar and check to see that the hem of her dress is turned down as it should be.

“Come on, Sweetie. Let’s go find Jake,” I say, leading her back to the reception. I check my watch. 8:06.

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

Chapter 2: a

2006-11-05T01:08:00.000-08:00

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

Sympathy is something of which I’ve never had much understanding. Neither the hardship that warrants it, at least in the sense there might come a time in life when one acknowledges regret for whatever work her hands are obliged to do. Mother never gave me the idea there was any other choice but to own my lot and work it with the strength and sense God gave me. And she certainly never implied I might be thanked, lauded, or pitied for whatever work I might do. If we broke it, we fixed it. If we baked it, we ate it. If we buttered it, we laid in it. And if we filled the house, then by God, we kept it like an angel in the Lord’s mansion.

When Jake was born, I didn’t whine for lack of sleep. When Patience was born, I didn’t lament a lost figure. When Annie was born, I didn’t pine for vanquished youth. With Nanna, I didn’t protest my station, and with Gracie, I didn’t “What-If.” Even when Abe was gone and there was free license to question the Universe, I didn’t, because Mother taught me such self-pity betrayed my God-given intelligence and was an utter waste of time, energy, and potential.

It’s hard to say I survived. Naturally, losing Abe was an agony unimaginable and unparalleled, but a person isn’t proud of herself for breathing. We just breathe because we can’t not breathe. And we just keep going because we can’t willfully, spontaneously die. Certainly, it took a long time to claw my way out from the belly of Abe’s crypt, and I did leave a pound or two of flesh and heart behind me in the clammy soil. But I never doubted I’d stand on solid ground again; somebody had to pull the kids out.

So when Aunt Georgia continues to gaze on me with that pained heartbreak at the corners of her brows, I’m not exactly able to absorb her warmth as I’m sure she intends. And when a gentle hand trembling with sincerity is placed on my shoulder after the umpteenth retelling of the story of Abe’s passing, I am never quite able to equally return the embrace.

I lower my eyes, because it’s humble and polite; I tilt my head because it’s comely and genteele; and I offer my thanks in a whisper, because that is what everyone does when they’re speaking of death. Everyone but Mother and I.

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

Chapter 1: b

2006-11-05T01:06:00.000-08:00

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

As expected, bottle-blonde Clarice Rhine gave us the pleasure of yet another rendition of From this Moment. She took to the microphone with a misty-lashed expression of overwhelm that seemed—to the untrained eye—brand new. But I’d seen the same token-tender smile on Clarice’s face just three months before, at Dayton Owen’s wedding—same song, same dress, different color. It was a wonder to me that there wasn’t more variety in the song list, or at least her presentation. But it’s well understood that the people of Roe are creatures of habit, and I was probably the only one within a 100-mile radius who was sick to death of Clarice’s best Shania Twain.

“Murray’s daughter has a lovely voice.” Miss Olivia leaned toward her husband, nodding her admiration.

Jake stifled a yawn and stretched his shoulders. For a moment, I considered demanding his earphones so I wouldn’t have to listen to I Swear, but what kind of example would that be? Instead, I studied the back of Miss Olivia’s head, pondering how she was able to get every curl the exact same circumference.

Finally, Clarice ended her last song. Applause rippled through the room, and when the Miss Helen began to play the piano, in streamed a current of ballet pink organza. I recognized each girl as the lively little gems in Brenda Stark’s social tiara and was unimpressed. Sadly, Jake seemed very much impressed, and he sat upright in his seat a little taller than before. I chalked it up to normal injudicious teenaged impulse and reassured myself it would wear off long before his own bride would trek the same path. And hopefully, if I prayed hard enough, his wife-to-be would be cut from an entirely different selection of cloth than were the bridesmaids of Brenda’s.

Doreen Meyer’s twins stumbled in next, decked in so much tulle, their rosy little faces were hardly visible. They flung flower petals from their baskets as if they were disemboweling a goosedown pillow, and their preschool aggression was only encouraged by the collective “Awwww…” that hummed around them.

Annie, Nanna, and Patience were no exception. They thought the Meyer’s twins were cute as a button, and no doubt, my girls were at that moment caught up in the fantasy of rose petals and petticoats. Annie beamed at the twin who passed closest to our pew, and when a petal fluttered down to her shoe, she carefully retrieved it and ever so tenderly placed it in her palm of her hand. I was sure the tiny souvenier was destined for Annie’s jewelry box, to keep the company of a pet rock, a long-deceased june bug, and sundry bits of metal and plastic collected over the few years of her life self-aware.

How unfortunate there would never be a mutual admiration there. The Meyer’s twins would never sit audience to the Graves girls in procession, and even if they might, they’d pay no attention to the aisle. Rather, they’d spend the time digging in their mother’s purse for Lifesavers and dollar bills, or taking turns crawling onto the pew to make faces at other fidgety children on the other side of the room.

Suddenly, the urgent wail of the organ broke like a battle cry. We rose to our feet, and all eyes turned to the chapel doors. There stood the bride Starks-soon-to-be-Miller in all her Hall-of-Fame splendor. Another collective sigh rolled through the room, and behind us, a camera clicked away like a swarm of crickets.

True to the press release and the family budget, Brenda was a gorgeous bride. Her slim torso seemed to float in midair above a cloud of winter white silk, and the warm glow of the new recessed lighting—courtesy of Jim Tyler & Sons Custom Construction—poured over her pale bare shoulders.

A crown of diamonds arched through her gleaming blonde hair, sparkling like a constellation above her smiling face. Her veil was as light and airy as incense smoke and spilled down her back, disappearing into the pools of material behind her.

“They must be so proud.” For once, Miss Olivia’s commentary was on the money, judging from the tears that had already found their way to Mr. Stark’s cheeks.

Indeed proud. But how else would it have turned out for Brenda? I was no teller of fortunes, nor was I a woman of exceptional insight, but I knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that Mrs. Brenda Miller would no time soon stand at her husband’s memorial, wondering how on earth fairytale could so easily become massacre.

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

Chapter 1: a

2006-11-03T23:37:00.000-08:00

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

The sun sang a sharp note on the side of the long, black Buick van in the next parking space. The light seared through my retina as I did my best to ease the old Corolla between the narrow yellow lines on the pavement. On the other side, the tires of a beige Mercedes rested on a full half of the paint marker, a gesture of carefree arrogance, as a paper license tag dated only yesterday leaned against the rear window.

I couldn’t complain. It was the last parking space before one resorted to pulling onto the grass and mud at the very rear of the church lot, and that meant mud on white shoes, splashes of it on clean white tights, and two days of preparation wasted. Instead, I chose to bear the stress of navigating with surgical precision our tiny car into a tiny space between two very expensive and very close vehicles.

“Now the cars next to us are very, very close, so be careful getting out. Don’t hit ‘em with the door.”

“Yes, ma’am.” All five children replied in unison as buckles unsnapped and doors clicked open.

“And don’t step in any puddles.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I shrugged my purse onto my shoulder, swallowing back a wave of anxiety, and eyed every angle, holding my breath for the sound of impact. There was none. I let out a long breath of relief as the children assembled nearby.

“Partners,” I said. “Jake, no earphones.”

“You look nice, Mom,” he said. He plucked the earphones from his head and stuffed them into his pocket as he took Gracie’s sticky hand out of her mouth.

“So do you, Jake.” I doubted his earnesty. Hardly five minutes went into my appearance. After cleaning up the girls, dressing them, arranging their hair, and making last-minute alterations to their dresses, five minutes was all that was left for me. The best I could do was knot my hair up on my head, crown the mess with a silk orchid, and smudge on some lipstick, hoping to hide the exhaustion under a line of color.

Fortunately, I thought far enough ahead that my dress was not an issue. I settled on a brown shift I reserved for “fat days.” It was comfortable cotton, and the seamwork traced out curves that shouldn’t be there. The hem came to the calf, just far enough down to shroud the thighs but draw the eyes to my only redeeming quality—lean lower legs lovingly bestowed upon me by my mother. I capitalized on this one highlight with a pair of brown leather heels with braided straps weaving around my feet and ankles.

In all, the outfit was bland and hurried, but decent—perfect for the occasion, as Mother always taught me bland-and-decent was the order for all weddings if I weren’t the bride.

“Patience, pay attention!” I snapped. “Where’s your partner?”

She scoffed and yanked Nanna’s arm. “Nanna…You’re supposed to hold my hand.”

“It’s not her fault,” I said. “You’re older than her. It’s your responsibility….” Of course it was Patience’s responsibility, but as always, Nanna was in her own world, eyes squinted and fixed on something hanging from a tree branch overhead.

“What’s that?” Nanna asked, pointing.

“A spider web,” Patience offered.

“Where’s the spider?”

“Let’s go, kids. We don’t have time to talk about the spider. We’ve got to get in there. Come on, Annie,” I said, extending my hand.

She skipped to me, catching the toe of her shoe on a hole in the concrete. It made an awful scuffing sound, and I winced. “I like being your partner,” she said.

“I do, too.” I tried to ignore the instinct to chastise her for bouncing around. We hadn’t even gotten out of the parking lot yet, and already, she’d marked her shoe and beads of sweat were beginning to form on her forehead.

I checked my watch. We still had fifteen minutes left before the ceremony would begin, but I anticipated we’d probably have a hard time finding enough room for all of us in a single pew. I marched on, turning over my shoulder to inspect.

The children did look nice, though uncomfortable. A scowl surfaced briefly on Jake’s face. He would never get used to ties. I didn’t blame him, but it was a detail that would not be eliminated. His khaki pants were straight and pressed, and his shoes gleamed with no marks.

The girls wore matching cream dresses trimmed with rows of eyelet lace. The ruffled hems peeked out from under toile pinafores. The burgundy print caught perfectly the highlights in their maple colored hair. Heavy satisfaction pooled in my gut as I saw their satin bows were still crisply set exactly where I’d placed them, perhaps the most consuming task of all in the last hour before our departure.

We crossed the street toward the chapel, hand in hand, and I gave off a quick spill of commands as we neared the door. “No talking, keep your hands to yourself, save your questions for after the ceremony. Sit quietly, mind your manners.

And Jake, no earphones.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As expected, the chapel was an intricate bouquet of white. Lillies bloomed on every surface, and wide streams of ribbon twined over every beam and border. Slender milk wax candles burned like ivory saplings in the corners, and verdant garlands arched over every visible entranceway.

Pleasant Mount Chapel was once a quaint little country church, but over the decades, the pastor and the pastor’s family—and the pastor’s friends and patrons and business associates and hunting buddies and frail societies of kind elderly women—saw to it that the Lord’s storehouse wax abundant, and by 2001, there was enough money in the treasury to wholly reconstruct the entire edifice.

These days, Pleasant Mount looked nothing at all like it did when I was child. The wood frame was replaced with smooth stone, the pane windows were now cool sheets of tinted glass. Certainly the sign was different. The new one featured a digital marquee upon which scrolled witty figures of speech that were, to me, capital embarrassment.

Inside, the beautiful oak polished floors had been covered with thick wine carpeting. In years past, a narrow podium stood at the front of a small raised altar, but now, the expanded area stretched from wall to wall, and a glass and pipe construction angled up from the floor like a frightening ice sculpture.

Even Pastor Richman had changed. What he did with all his dove gray and beige suits remains a mystery, but these days, black was all he wore, and his gold pins and cufflinks stared out from the dark material like evil cat eyes from deep shadow.

Equally mysterious was how they were able to transform the sleek new Pleasant Mount into a lush garden of lacy sentiment. However perplexing may have been the process, I didn’t for a moment put it past the limitations of the Starks family. They work a dozen miracles for Brenda Starks-soon-to-be-Miller, and they’d make believers of the unfaithful.

Brenda was no friend of mine. Jake’s father was her favorite cousin when he was living. He was invited to every Starks family celebration since he was a child, and for the past fifteen years, we’d attended every one of them without fail. After Abe died, though, it was assumed by all that I would carry on the tradition.

We saw every one of Brenda’s birthdays, her high school graduation, her college graduation, her induction into Roe’s “Pride of the City” Hall of Fame, her engagement party, and now, her wedding. And as with every other event, there was I, with all five of Abe’s children in tow, dutifully present and dutifully celebratory, no matter what sentiment might be deficient or altogether absent inside.

As expected, there wasn’t enough room for all of us in one pew, so Jake slid into a seat on the end of the pew in front of us. Elton Bolton, from nearby Kinder, sat with his wife, Olivia. Elton was a wide man with a thick band of neck that rested on his back collar. He was kind enough and offered Jake more than enough room, to Miss Olivia’s dismay, but when he shifted to allow space for Jake, he positioned his large body strategically in my line of sight to the altar. It would be a nice wedding to hear.

Chapter - 1a | 1b | 2a | 2b

1. b.

2005-11-01T23:55:00.000-08:00

Even in the grips of disease, she is beautiful. Her ashen black hair frames her narrow face like a wreath. In thirty years, I’ve rarely seen her with her hair down. She is a modest woman, neat and conscientious. She’s always worn her hair pulled away from her face, drawn into a bun or veiled with a square of linen or crocheted wool. When I was a child, I asked why she didn’t let down her hair. It was more beautiful than any other woman’s hair I’d seen. My friends’ mothers wore trendy hairstyles, streaked and colored, but they weren’t half as beautiful as my mother, if she’d only show it. But Mama told me her beauty was for God, and for Daddy, and for no one else. She said God saw her beauty in her heart. In the hospital bed, her beauty adorns her like flourishing ivy on a dying tree. Her lustrous hair falls over her jaundiced skin, and her thick black eyelashes lay against the sunken crescents under her eyes. Her drained lips are still full and shaped like the back of a lyre, though pulled taut by bodily suffering. “Mama,” I call again. “Listen to me. I want to tell you something very important.” Her eyelids part slightly, and I can see a flicker of the lamplight reflected on her glassy irises. Her fingers tense weakly around mine. Behind me, Daddy shifts his feet and breathes deeply. “Mama, I’m going to have a baby.” She inhales and opens her eyes enough to capture mine. “Kimmie....” Her lips form my name under a loose smile. The flicker in her eyes flashes as moisture floods over her lashes. My heart breaks with a thousand feelings, all reaching out and grabbing onto my mother who must stay with me, stay with me, stay with me, because it’s not time yet. I’m going to have a baby, Mama, and you must be here with me. This is the gift of life that is the right of every woman, the right of every daughter. Why not for us? You’ve loved me at the cost of everything else, and I’ve never abandoned you. Why is God punishing us? Why does He deny us this? “Kimmie,” she says, pulling me to her. It must take all her strength to raise her arm to encircle me. I’m sobbing against her chest, and I can hear the wet, raspy static of her lungs filling and emptying with less air than she needs. “Mama, don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” I say. And she begins to speak to me in a language I haven’t heard since I was small enough to lie in her lap and love lullabies. “`A`ole no au e `ike ana lâ. Kekahi mea nui aku no ke keiki, ke kâlai nei `o Makua. Ke aloha nui mamua o ka`u .”

word count: 409

2005-10-31T22:53:00.000-08:00

1-a. Dr. Lim’s lips are dry and thick, like his words. He’s spoken to me this way for years. I understand his heavy-accented English, and I understand his relative stoicism in dealing with people like me. He is a strong man, and a wise man. He must be. “Any time,” he says. His eyes fix on the tile near my feet. He crosses his arms over his tiny chest, tangling his stethoscope in the wrinkles of his lapel. “A minute, an hour...any moment, really.” “I understand,” I say. “You’ve called the rest of your family?” “There’s no one else who can come. My father’s here.” “Yes, I see him come.” Dr. Lim lingers, but I know he is anxious to leave us here. He says, “any time,” and it is his judgment that I should be by the bedside rather than here in the hall awaiting words that he will never deliver. “Thank you,” I say. He nods and pats my shoulder. He is shorter than I am, and it’s almost as if a child were trying to console his mother. I turn and place my hand on the cold metal doorknob, watching as Dr. Lim shuffles down the corridor toward the elevators. He’ll stop to see another patient or two, to his office to check his schedule or thumb through messages. Then he’ll head for home in his tiny sedan to meet his equally tiny wife. She’ll have a hot meal for him; they’ll eat together and talk in their native tongue, and then they’ll crawl into bed bedside each other, to pray their old prayers and sleep their old sleeps. Dr. Lim is seventy-four years old, and his wife is seventy-five. I suspect they may live to be 100, and they may die together. His white coat disappears around a corner, and I push open the door.

She lies in shadow. The lights hurt her head, so even in the middle of the day, the room is dark. Darker now. The sun has already set, and Dad stands in front of the lamp, shielding her from the glare. I sit near her on the edge of the bed and take her hand. Her flesh is thin and light, like soft paper. “Mama?” I say. “Are you sleeping?” Her eyes roll under her eyelids, and she turns her head almost imperceptibly. Even in the grips of disease, she is beautiful.

KICK-OFF: Enter Protagonist

2005-10-31T20:34:00.000-08:00

I just thought I was ready for Kick-Off! YIKES!!! It's almost here! Only an hour and half left! I never did settle completely on the Hônaunau plot, but I think I'm going to use this last bit of time to name my protagonist and just run with it. The weekend was sickly inspiring, so I doubt I'll have to struggle for feeling. But I do need to have something to work with. Goals for tonight:

2,000 words
introduce protagonist
begin character sketch (not necessary to flesh her out!)
establish immediate setting
reveal emotional/mental state

"The Gates of Hônaunau"

2005-10-07T14:23:00.000-07:00

Possibly. But there are a few things that may prevent me from using the title, none of which are--thankfully--because the title is already copyrighted. I draw my title from the Pu`uhonua of Hônaunau. Hônaunau is a district of the Big Island of Hawai`i. This western area is known for its pu`uhonua, or "city of refuge" (virtual tour). This pu`uhonua is the symbolic focus of the story. From the National Park Service website:

Pu`uhonua o Honaunau National Historical Park preserves the site where, up until the early 19th century, Hawaiians who broke a kapu or one of the ancient laws against the gods could avoid certain death by fleeing to this place of refuge or "pu`uhonua". The offender would [be] absolved by a priest and freed to leave. Defeated warriors and non-combatants could also find refuge here during times of battle.

The biggest problem with the title is, there are no "gates" at Hônaunau. The most prominent feature of the area is a 10-foot-high, 17-foot-thick stone wall that separated the refuge city from the nearby palace grounds. Entrance to the city--as far as I can tell--was gained where the wall met the shore, or directly from the ocean. But metaphorically, "gate" would be the appropriate word. "Gate" represents a threshold, a distinguishing boundary, etc. I haven't reconciled this little conflict yet, so for now, the NaNo title will still be "working title." ----- The plot:

In a small Southern rural town, Heroine's mother reveals from her deathbed enigmatic information which eventually leads Heroine to a grotesque discovery--she may be the product of a rape. Heroine's world shatters as she faces the reality of her identity. Desperate to understand the trauma, Heroine journeys to her mother's Hawai`i birthplace and forms a relationship with Aunty, her mother's twin sister. While immersing in the family's heritage, Heroine and Aunty grow close, and Heroine learns the depths of her mother's suffering while continuing the search for healing, self-forgiveness, and God's mercy.

NaNoWriMo 2005

2005-10-03T18:51:00.000-07:00

My Nano novel site is updated and ready to go. That's about all the progress I've made so far. Still no plot. No outline. Not even a viable protagonist. Oh, how I love November!

The End

2004-11-29T16:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Dumping My Brain

2004-11-24T08:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Random Excerpt that Probably Only a Wrimo Could Appreciate

2004-11-22T23:29:00.000-08:00

“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.”

Writing Spree

2004-11-21T23:56:00.000-08:00

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'm about to break 50k.

2004-11-21T08:40:00.000-08:00

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....

Climax to come...

2004-11-20T00:25:00.000-08:00

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...

HUGE Mahalo to Michael Sirois

for his excellent photos!

(Me, Tia, Chris "Father NaNoWriMo" Baty (emphatic reverence mine),
& The Pencil)

I promise I'm not this boring in real life.

2004-11-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Ugh. Too much competitive spirit.

2004-11-15T23:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Rita e.

2004-11-15T01:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Rita d.

2004-11-15T01:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Us vs. Them: Creating Conflict in the (contrived) Military Domestic Social Construct

2004-11-14T09:12:00.000-08:00

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.

A Thousand Words

2004-11-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

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.

The Pencil in Action

Caffe' Cottage

Halfway & Faking it

2004-11-12T08:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Rita c.

2004-11-12T08:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Rita b.

2004-11-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Easy 3k

2004-11-10T23:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Rita.

2004-11-10T23:03:00.000-08:00

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.

5.

2004-11-10T00:36:00.000-08:00

"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.

4.

2004-11-10T00:34:00.000-08:00

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.

3.

2004-11-10T00:28:00.000-08:00

“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.

2h.

2004-11-10T00:17:00.000-08:00

The day came. At breakfast, Buddy announced he and Matthew would be leaving on the 5:00 bus early the next morning. Adele's composure cracked wide open, and there in front of Buddy and Mother and Matthew, too, Adele began to sob. "Nevermind me," she gasped, trying to shake the tears away but unable to cease their mighty flow. Buddy rushed around the table and crouched next to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Don't cry, Dellie," he said, heartbroken. "You know I got ta go. You've known it all along." "I know," Adele conceded, still weeping pathetically as she tried to collect herself to some impression of maturity. "Don't mind me, Buddy. It's just tears. I have known all along." Buddy gave Mother a withered look. "I'll visit again soon, Mother, I promise. I won't let four years go by like that again before I come back." Mother nodded, agreeing, but grave, and Adele saw immediately she was unconvinced. "I know, Buddy. It's alright." Buddy took a cloth napkin from Adele's place setting and dabbed at her face. "There, there now...I'll come back to visit 'fore ya know it. You'll see." Adele took a deep, deep breath. She stared blindly out the kitchen window. How meaningless the morning. How absurd, how cruel, that out this same window weeks before, Adele had seen a morning heaven-adorned. How life turns on a dime. She dried her face and turned to Buddy, placing her palm on his cheek and offering him a weak but comforting smile. "I know, Buddy. It's alright. It just wouldn't be right if I didn't miss you. But I know. It's alright." It was enough for him. He patted her leg and went back to his chair, squeezing Mother's hand before he picked up his fork again. Mother nodded. "Adele's right, Buddy. Wouldn't be right if we didn't miss you." "I know, Mother. Won't be no time at all. You'll see." Adele righted herself, and when she saw Matthew had left the table, the biscuits and honey on Adele's plate were doomed to grow cold.

Adele excused herself from the table and retreated to the bathroom to rinse her face. She saw the color drained from her cheeks and spider-thin lines netting the whites of her eyes. She was completely assaulted by the obviousness of her anguish, and she was all at once certain Mother and Buddy, too, could not help but have noticed. And if they had indeed seen through her as she suspected, then it made sense to do nothing else but leave Baskin, rather than endure the shame in having betrayed every good moral she possessed, and every good person who loved her and whom she loved. She swore to herself she would never let Buddy down; she would never give him any reason to doubt her. For all the long years they had behind them, Adele was Buddy's anchor and his sunshine. She was his harbor and his zephyr. She had been the constant when Daddy died, when they suspected Mother might not survive. What did it mean that Adele was capable of trading all the years that she and Buddy had together for something so fleeting and uncertain as Matthew Eaton? And then, Matthew Eaton was not hers, nor was she his. There was no substance at all to the hours they had together. There was no future. No present. Years ago, when Mother had first introduced to Adele's young mind the nature of this thing called "love," a strict, distilled concept took form. "Love," said Mother, "is a gift we're to accept as it is, and then we spend the rest of our lives doing our best to make it better. And if it can't be done, then we spend the rest of our lives accepting that it'll never change. If you can do that, you’ll be happy come hail ‘r high water." Such a washed philosophy might shatter anyone else, such a sterile perspective. Where was the fire and the burning and the storm-sweeping euphoria? Where was the delirium? The flight? The sweet confusion? Where were those things of which poets wrote? Those things of which girls like Adele and Mona spoke long into the night? Apparently, there were none, but instead of losing all hope love might one day be a lovely, fulfilling thing, Adele grew comfortable with the idea of the expected. This is why she was never tempted to chase or be chased. This is why she never gave any thought to what life might be like with a man. She already knew. She’d been a knowing woman, and she’d been a patient woman. And yet, she had chased. And she had relished the run. It would be easy to return to the predictable, generic monotony of Baskin life, and Yes, she thought. It would be possible to be happy, to forget Matthew Eaton and poetry and rose petals. Adele dried her face with a towel, straightened her blouse, and left the house to walk as long as it took to feel the way she did before Buddy ever came home.

She knew she'd find Matthew in the playhouse, and as she stepped into the dank little room that comprised the entire structure, she saw the shadow of him crouched in a far corner. He sat still and silent as she drew near. She stood next to him, and he rested his head on her thigh. She wound her fingers into his hair. They remained locked together, one crouching, one standing, for several minutes. It became clearer to Adele as the minutes passed that words were ineffectual and vain. They both knew the pricelessness of their very first embrace. And they both knew how costly it would be. And they both knew that there would be no mercy for them as it was time to render what was owed. Adele knelt next to Matthew. He opened his arm to her and she fell against him. Soon, they were both asleep, and they did not return to the house until well after dark.

Baskin was still black when Buddy roused Adele. "Come on, Dellie. Mother made some coffee," he whispered. Adele rose, numb and apathetic, and accomplished the few tasks required to ready herself for the drive back to Roe. On the porch, Mother hugged Buddy to her and held him for a long time. She mussed his hair and kissed his forehead, and it reminded Adele of the days when Buddy would leave for weekend fishing trips to Gaines Lake. Even though she knew he'd be back home before supper on Sunday evening, she never failed to keep him close to her much longer than necessary, a gesture which afforded Buddy considerable embarrassment, where the Howard boys were concerned. But as he grew older, he understood. And now, as Mother smiled warmly and mildly at her grown boy, he wouldn't have it any other way. It would be much different for Adele.

The bus station was abandoned but for Buddy, Adele, and Matthew. The night mist rolled in like angry smoke, blanketing the roads and the roofs in a thick, unforgiving gray. They knew the bus had arrived, because the headlights cut through the air like bright swords. The air smelled dank and old. No wind blew, and the low clouds crept along the ground like a congregation of ghosts. The bus door creaked open, and a man clothed in shadow leaned out and whistled. “5:00 to Shreveport,” he said. Buddy hoisted his canvas bag back onto his shoulder, leaning under its weight. He moved close to Adele and pressed his forehead against hers. “Be good, Dellie,” he said. “I will, Buddy.” “Take care o’ Mother.” “You know I will.” Buddy kissed Adele’s cheek and hugged her tight. He smiled broadly and tapped the top of his hat before he turned and stepped into the bus. “Goodbye, Buddy,” Adele whispered, and she immediately felt the world return to some rightness. Matthew stood several feet away from her. He watched Buddy disappear to the back of the bus before he approached. He came near her until she could feel his breath on her face. She could see hours’, days’, weeks’ worth of words on his lips, but she knew he’d offer none. She had no words for him, either. Her faculties were already caught up in the task of desperately racing to etch every detail of his face into memory, because she was sure she’d never see it again. The bus driver whistled a second time, and Adele glimpsed Buddy at the back of the bus, peering down into his lap. It appeared he would grant them one moment, of which they must be entitled. Matthew tenderly placed his hands on Adele’s cheeks, and he kissed her softer than any word he’d ever said--if it could at all be called a kiss. His lips brushed hers with less than a sigh between them, and the warmth of the contact was minutely perceptible. But it was enough to say goodbye, and it was enough that Adele remembered it even seven decades later, on a brutally cold day in January.

2g.

2004-11-10T00:07:00.000-08:00

Matthew leaned against the kitchen counter with his hands in his pockets. Buddy took a glass from the cabinet, and Matthew shifted out of his way as he passed to the icebox. From the parlor, Adele couldn't hear what Buddy said to him, but she figured whatever it was, it must be coy and funny, because Buddy snickered, dipping his head between his shoulders as he expounded on his joke. Matthew smiled broadly and shook his head, though his smile seemed awfully strained and distracted. His thoughts were not on what Buddy was telling him, and he confirmed that as his eyes sought Adele in the shadows and lingered on her until Buddy said something that required a reaction. What terrible tension. For once, Adele wished Buddy weren't interested in loitering about in the kitchen. He'd expect to enjoy easygoing conversation with her, but her thoughts, like Matthew's, were a million miles away. Buddy shouldered in close to Matthew, lowering his voice to a whisper, and Adele seized the opportunity to retreat again to solitude on the porch. She stepped outside, and her soft steps fell heavy and hollow on the slatted wood. The car dripped in the driveway, and a raccoon plodded across the lawn. The moon was high and bright, and Adele set out across the gravel toward the road. The property seemed strange. The Cavanaugh house was the only house she'd ever known. She knew every hole in the ground, every bush and tree, every ant pile and clover patch. She knew how the shadows would ebb and wane through the day, and how the light-pools would grow and fade through the night. She knew the sounds of the insects, the calls of the little animals that came scrounging for food from the trees, the croaks of the toads and bull frogs that watched her from the flowerbeds and the ditches. She knew the feel of the weathered, splintered wood on the tool shed out back; the sharp, rusty pricks of the barbed wire strung between the rose garden and the fields; the old, rippled skin of the oaks, and the smooth skin of the maples. She caught the scent of Mother's flowers on the breeze, and she knew if they were gardenia or magnolia, rose or lavender. She knew where the blackberries grew, and the honeysuckle, and the ivy. She knew were the darkest groves of the garden were, where as a child, she often went to sit to read or daydream or share secrets with Mona. She knew where the frightening corners of the property were, where she begged not to go when Mother asked her to fetch a bucket or a rake or a spade. She knew where the spider webs were, where the snakes came out, where Mr. Durham's horse would come up to bite you if you stood too close. Home was the only wonderful place Adele knew so well, but tonight, it seemed unfamiliar. Some apple-sweetness of the place had changed to a flavor that reminded her of wine, and she felt as if home had grown away from the child in her and had become a home of men and women. The fantasy was gone--the stories she'd read, the tales she and Mona told, the notion of possibility. Adele walked in the dark all the way down to the road and sat on a tree stump by the mailbox. From there, she could see the strong dot of the porch light, and the house appeared to be peaceful and secure. But inside, Adele's heart still pounded; her skin still burned damp and feverish. The taste of Buddy's mouth on hers lingered and scorched her lips. She could still feel his kisses on her neck, and she dropped her head back, both willing the feeling away and savoring it at the same time. He had been everything she'd never even considered, the way he knelt by her in the rose garden, slipped both his hands into her hair, and took a kiss from her lips. The way he breathed on her and begged her to ask him to stop. The way he tore his hands from her and backed away, his blue eyes flashing, conflicted, but steaming as he could not avert them from Adele. It was she--she who grabbed his hand and led him running through the rose garden, beyond the house, across the fields, and far back into the forest. It was she who took him over the trails that belonged only to her and Buddy and Mona. It was she who pushed aside the old, musty, moth-eaten quilt that covered the entrance to her childhood playhouse. It was she who invited him. Sitting in the dark on the tree stump, Adele lost her breath recalling the unearthly fountain of which she'd partaken. A sash of red hair draped across his bare skin, a ripple in his flesh, a cry as she'd never heard before leaking from his throat. The name "Matthew" did not sound unfamiliar anymore. It did not sound like the name of a Washington man, a man with an older sister and a younger brother in college, the name of a man who visited his mother four times every year. The name "Matthew" belonged to her now, and no matter the cost, there was not a soul from Washington to Roe, Louisiana who could challenge that.

Adele was not alone with Matthew for several days after that. She and Mother spent the rest of the week preparing for the spring pageant as Rachel Twigg brought her dress back two times for alterations and last-minute embellishments. During the hours of pinning and tucking and sewing, Adele's thoughts were constantly with Matthew, back in the dusty shadows, lying with him and fear and excitement shivered through her. At times, she did not hear Mother speaking to her. She mumbled apologies and excuses as Mother eyed her, felt her forehead and asked if she was feeling ill. Adele couldn't bring herself to eat much at the dinner table with Matthew at her elbow. Buddy commanded the conversation, and Adele prayed no one noticed how silent she and Matthew had become. When Mother's back was turned, or when Buddy was preoccupied with the radio or sneaking a cigarette outside on the back porch, Matthew ran his fingers over Adele's cheek or brushed her hip with the back of his hand. His eyes always sought hers, and when they found them, they locked for as long as the opportunity would allow. Once, when Buddy had gone to town and Mother walked down to the mailbox, Matthew and Adele rushed to the parlor and tangled themselves in each other's arms, hands clutching desperately and mouths kissing every exposed surface. There was no time, but they were powerless to restrain themselves. Matthew pressed his body against her, and Adele would cave into him, but through the window, she glimpsed Mother coming up the gravel drive with a handful of envelopes. She wrenched herself away from him, smoothing her hair and straightening her dress. She saw in his eyes the same desperation she saw that day in the rose garden, the same desperation inside that made her want to collapse in tears. Mother's footsteps thudded on the porch, and Matthew quickly kissed Adele's forehead before trudging back to Buddy's bedroom. "What’re ya at the window for, Dellie?" Mother asked as she stepped in the house. "Just lookin'," she said, touching her cheek with the palm of her hand to see if she might feel how flushed she must appear. And there was no consequence. Mother took the mail to the kitchen table for sorting, and Adele went back to the porch swing to burn in her thoughts until it was time for supper again. A week passed that way, and as the opportunities for Matthew and Adele grew fewer and further between, a brand new terror began to grow and billow in her gut. Buddy wouldn't stay much longer. He hadn't gone to town for a couple days now, and when he'd run out of distractions in Roe, he'd be ready to leave again for the next adventure. The only thing more agonizing than the endless hours of aching for Matthew was the thought of his departure. That occasion, like so many others, bittersweet and scarring, was natural and inevitable. But Adele could not reconcile with losing him the way she could reconcile with a humble brand of beauty. She'd never struggled against hard change. She'd never seen the purpose in it, but even if she had a reason to buck a new development, she had no idea how to. Soon, Adele began to sink back into her familiar, gray, rational acceptance. She no longer returned Matthew's stares with flickering fervency. Her eyes pulsed and withered from his beautiful face to the dusty ground. And when he chanced to find a moment to hold her, she no longer melted into his kisses, folding herself up into his arms. She dropped her head heavy against his chest, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the dull hammering of his heart. His warmth would not last forever. And if there were one slim chance it could, Adele would not allow herself to conceive it. Never in her lifetime.

15,048 and holding

2004-11-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

It's 12:55 AM, and I just don't know if I'm going to get ANY word count in tonight. Lafayette write-in is tomorrow night, so I spent the majority of the evening pulling together some last-minute details. Mark got off the computer 1/2 an hour ago, so I just now got to read emails that all need replies--STILL. Haven't updated at the forums.... And Mark's just spent 20 minutes venting. I just don't think it's gonna happen for Adele tonight. I'm goin' to bed.

The Nanowrimo Pencil - Lafayette's new mascot!

2004-11-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

The Nanowrimo Pencil - Primed & ready for paint

2004-11-08T08:20:00.000-08:00

The Nanowrimo Pencil

2004-11-08T01:01:00.000-08:00

It was my Sunday off from writing, but I wrote anyway. Trying to do my best to contribute to the war effort against Connecticut. I had my mind made up to write 3,000 words tonight, but after a burst of inspiration that lasted about 2,000 words, creative motivation fizzled out like a candle in the wind (<--metaphor=prime example). All I had the energy to do was update my word count at the Nanowrimo website and update my little progress bar there. These two rituals follow a writing session, no matter how late I'm getting to bed. So, no excerpt update tonight. ~~~~~ But my 7-foot Nanowrimo pencil is primed and ready for yellow spraypaint. I conceived the idea when trying to come up with something cool and shocking to stake our claim at our reserved section when we have write-ins. A lot of ML's use table tents or table cloths or banners. I can't afford to construct/rent/whatever a "table tent," and my search for a cheap paper table cloth never resulted in anything usable. So I brainstormed, and a 7-foot Nanowrimo pencil is what I came up with. Basically free, but for the $2 in yellow spraypaint I bought. I rolled Priority Mail boxes (shhhh...don't tell the post office) after I took an Exacto knife to them in order to make fold-lines to create the classic pencil hexagon shape. Tia helped me cone these old brown manila folders Mom gave me, to serve as the pencil tip. And we wrapped a pink pillowcase around Forest's soccer ball and stuffed it into the end to make the eraser. The pencil is huge. So, it's sitting in the garage drying. The spraypaint wouldn't stick well at all, so Mark dragged out a can of white primer we had laying around. The pencil is huge and white right now, but by tomorrow afternoon, it will be yellow. Not the true golden-yellow everyone knows and loves, but at $2.90-something a can for the gold, 97-cent bright yellow will do just fine. I intend to keep The Nanowrimo Pencil for next year and the year after...until it falls apart. It ought to be donated to some "Oversized" museum somewhere in a tiny tourist town in Obscure City, USA. If we never get our pictures in the paper again, The Pencil should.

2f.

2004-11-07T13:10:00.000-08:00

The morning grew late. Adele walked the half-mile down the lane to Cousin Mona's house with a basket of fig and strawberry preserves. In exchange, Mrs. Durham, Mona's mother, sent back four jars full of sparkling honey. The thick golden liquid spilled slowly through the honeycomb when Adele tipped the jar. She couldn't wait to get home and taste some of it with the biscuits left over from breakfast. More than that, she couldn't wait to get home to see if Matthew had returned from his walk, but Mona wouldn't let her leave until Adele had told her every detail of the night before. Adele's slender, pale cousin walked with her to the end of the drive, strolling painfully slow and following one question with another. Mona was twenty-four years old as well, but she seemed much younger. She was gawky and homely, carrying herself with her sharp shoulders caved forward as if she were always cold. Her glasses were too narrow for her narrow face, her lips too thin for her thin smile, and her voice too strained for a woman so wiry. Her hair, too, was an ashy brown and straight as a board. She kept it in a cord-tight braid, but could never seem to keep stray strands from hanging awkwardly down her forehead and into her eyes--her single redeeming feature. They were clear, tiger-green hazel, the outer-corners of which met high and slim, ornamented with licks of long black lashes. If Mona did not hide those beautiful eyes behind those severe eyeglasses, she might charm any man in Roe. But most couldn't see past the lenses, and Mona learned to appreciate the attentions of Adele rather than pine after a beau. It didn't matter to Adele if Mona relied on her to narrate her periodic episodes of excitement. Adele enjoyed sharing her stories as much as Mona enjoyed hearing them. Today, however, Adele wasn't interested in sharing at all. In the past, a date that ended in disaster and humiliation became the inspiration for hours of laughter and speculation for Adele and Mona. The women weren't mean or pompous as they gasped and giggled about a boy's faux pas or Adele's unavoidable yet forgiving aversions. Instead, they wondered at the absurdity of the human mating dance, how foolish it seemed that a man and woman who might consider each other to live as man and wife, to conceive and bear children together, to see each other into the winter of life, might so terribly fumble over things like introducing themselves to the family, or saying goodnight in a discreet and respectful manner without staining the armpits of their shirts with sweat, or asking what a woman might enjoy doing that didn't involve some domestic productivity. At least Adele wondered these things, and as she posed these questions aloud, Mona shook her head in bewilderment, shrugged her shoulders at such mystery, then asked if the gentleman of the evening tried to hold her hand at all. As the two women neared the gate at the end of the drive, Mona let Adele's small talk drop into silence, studying Adele's face for a hint as to what the night before held. Adele felt terrible for leaving Mona so unsatisfied, but honestly, what on Earth could she tell her? He called me "Hellenic," Adele would say, awe thinning her words to an impassioned whisper. "Hellenic." And when he danced with me, he didn't stop. Not even for those dancing diamond girls.... And he passed up Mother's breakfast so he could go walking this morning. But most of all, he seems to know something...like he's read every chapter of my life, or maybe it's because he's a Yankee, and maybe he's used women up North not concerning themselves with "propriety." He held the door for me, but not the way the boys here do. He was...reverent. Mona searched Adele's face for just a glimpse of the wonderful evening her cousin must've had. Adele smiled warmly, taking Mona's hand and swinging it as best friends do. She wanted to tell Mona everything, to relive the magic by giving those moments voice, but Mona could not properly receive them, and Adele could not bring herself to let those precious, precious birds out of their cages to simply admire their wings. "Thank Aunt Sue again for the honeycomb, Mona." "Oh, I will," Mona said, failing to hide her disappointment. "Thank your mother, too. I'll probably just hafta taste some o' that strawberry with those soup crackers Mama has. I don't think I can talk 'er into bakin' up a batch o' biscuits 'fore tomorro' morning." Adele kissed Mona's cheek and set back toward home, pacing herself so she didn't appear to walk too fast to make Mona wonder any more. She ran her hand over the clear, clean mason jars, tapping her fingernail on the tiny bubbles swimming lazily in the sweet liquid, and it reminded her of Matthew Eaton and his enchantingly sweet and subtle speak.

Adele consciously looked for Matthew's blonde head as she approached the house. Just as she mounted the first porch step, Mother and Buddy emerged from inside, dressed for town. Mother tugged on her driving gloves, her handbag dangling from her wrist. Buddy readjusted his tweed cap and bounded toward Adele. "Hold down the fort, Dellie," he said cheerfully. "Where ya'll off to," Adele asked, surprised she felt left out. "Well," Mother began as Buddy offered her his hand to help her down the steps. "I forgot all about the parcel Mr. Pease is holdin' for me at the post office. I got ta get that fabric 'fore Monday if I'm gonna get that dress ready for Rachel Twigg's daughter." "I thought that pageant wasn't until next weekend, Mother," Adele argued, dismayed Mother would take on work while Buddy just got home. "It is. But she says if it's flatterin' for the lil' girl, she's gonna want one, too, ta match." Adele rolled her eyes. Why did Roe women take spring pageants so seriously? Every year, two weeks after Easter, the whole town turned upside down, with mothers rushing to Mother's boutique for bushy petticoats, lace gloves, eyelet sandals, and frilly ankle socks. The way they fought to get their order in first made Adele want to lock them out of the shop, but she never said a word about it, because the more dresses Mother made, the more petticoats and gloves and sandals and ankle socks Mother sold, the better off the coming months would be for the two of them. And between the two of them, Adele and Mother had gotten through the entire list of orders well before the pageant, with the exception of the dress for the little Twigg girl. Naturally, Rachel Twigg would want to get one up on everyone else, her order being tended to last. And now, Mother had one more dress to make before the spring bedlam would end till next year. Adele sighed and shook her head. "Mother, why don't you let me take you? Buddy's not feelin' well, and I don't mind the drive--" "I'm fine," Buddy whined. "Besides, I got some business ta tend to in town anyway." He turned so Mother couldn't see him wink. "What about Matthew?" Adele asked, protesting to the end. "Don't worry 'bout him," Buddy said as he slid behind the wheel. "He'll take care o' himself." "Bye, Sugar," Mother said, raising a gloved hand. "You be careful," Adele said sternly, shaking her finger at Buddy. Buddy grimaced and waved her away. The car engine caught loudly, and before Adele could think of anything else to say, Buddy and Mother disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of dust and exhaust. Inside, the house was still and quiet but for the easy breeze sifting in through the front door. Adele placed her basket on the counter and lined up the honey jars next to Matthew's cold cup of coffee. Nearby was the basket of biscuits wrapped in cloth napkins Mother saved from breakfast. Adele split one of them onto a bread plate and smeared a light layer of soft oleo onto the halves. Daddy loved biscuits and honey as much as Adele did. He was fully responsible for encouraging their somewhat irrational addiction. "Everything in moderation," Mother would say when she'd find Daddy and Adele stuffing honey-dripping biscuits into their mouths long after everyone else had gone to bed. "When it comes to biscuits and honey," Daddy would answer, "Ain't no such thing." He'd smile at Adele as if the two of them alone shared an enormous secret, and Mother would shake her head and go back to bed. It wasn't just the taste Adele adored; it was the sweet flavor of her Daddy's memory, too. After Daddy died, Mother never said another word about when, where, or how many biscuits with honey Adele ate. And now, Adele intended to indulge to her heart's content. She grasped a honey jar in her hands and twisted the aluminum lid, but it didn't budge. "Dern it," she said, grabbing a dishtowel and trying again. The metal ring wouldn't budge. Adele tried an old trick, carefully banging the edge of the lid onto the countertop to loosen it up, but it did no good. Her hand began to hurt, so she gave up trying to turn the lid with brute force. She retrieved a knife from the drawer and began to slide it along the crevasse where the lip of the lid met the glass. She held the jar firmly in one hand and guided the knife with the other. Suddenly, the knife slipped, and in a split-second of panic, Adele released the knife to avoid slicing herself. By reflex, she released the jar, too, and both went crashing to the floor. Glass and waxy particles of honeycomb exploded onto the tile and cabinets. Honey slowly pooled across the floor and seeped and oozed down the wood. "Dammit!" cried Adele, squatting near the mess then standing up again as she wrestled with fury she was so clumsy, and the urgency of what she should do first. She was so distraught, she didn't notice the sharp breeze kicking up the kitchen curtains or the man behind her quickly unfolding a newspaper. "Dammit!" Adele swore again, and she stomped her foot. "Now, there's no need for violence," Matthew said as he pushed a wad of newspaper against a stream of honey flowing toward a chair leg. "Nothing to this mishap if we keep our heads and work together." Matthew was clearly making light of Adele's bitter frustration, but she grinned in spite of herself and grabbed a handful of newspaper, too. An hour later, the only evidence a crisis ever occurred were one less honey jar and a mild stick on the kitchen floor. Adele worked to remedy that with a damp dishtowel she smeared in circles over the tile while Matthew wrung out a handful of dishtowels he’d just rinsed. “One more,” Adele said as she handed him the last of the soiled linens. “I’ll take those out to the line to dry.” She left him in the kitchen and made her way through Mother’s rose garden back to the length of wire strung between two maple trees. The wind swarmed under her skirt and gently around her legs, and Adele felt alarmingly exposed. She pinned the towels up, and when Matthew brought out the last one, she handed him two clothespins so he could do the same. “Never thought you’d be doin’ women’s work during your stay, did you,” she joked. “Oh, it’s hardly women’s work,” he said. “You have to remember--your brother and I are a couple of bachelors. No mothers or sisters to care for us like that when we’re away from home. We’ve done a lot more than pin up dishtowels.” “Do you visit your mother?” Adele asked, realizing she knew nothing of Matthew’s life back in Washington. “Every chance I get,” Matthew said. “At least three or four times a year.” A flash of anger and envy ignited in Adele. Buddy hadn’t stepped foot back in Roe for four years, yet somehow, Matthew found it important enough to travel all the way to Washington to visit his family. As quickly as the anger flared, it subsided as Adele remembered Buddy’s tendency to wander. Even when he was home in Roe, Buddy could not sit still. As a child, he hardly even stayed near the house. He was always off trekking through the backwoods of Baskin, or cutting up around town with the other boys. When he was a teenager, he practically lived over at the Howard’s house. When he wasn’t helping with the cotton, he was fishing or riding horses or going to the picture show with the Howard boys. It wouldn’t be any different, now that Buddy was a man and was entitled to complete freedom. It would be an unnatural thing for Buddy to come back to Roe with any regularity. It made for much worry and uncertainty for Mother and Adele, but that was Buddy’s nature, and they loved him, wanderlust and all. “Do you have a sister?” Adele asked. “I do,” Matthew said. “And a younger brother.” “They’re in Washington?” “My sister’s married and living in Missouri with her husband. She has four children. My brother’s going to school in California, but he’ll be graduating this year, so it’s yet to be seen where he’ll end up.” “What about your parents?” Adele asked, taking a seat in a garden chair. Matthew sat in a chair next to her and picked a leaf off of a rosebush nearby. “They’re in Washington. My father is a (some industrial job) in (some large industrial city). They do well for themselves, but my mother doesn’t know what to do with herself now that all of us are gone. I’m hoping Timothy goes back home after he graduates, then maybe Mother won’t be so melancholy all the time.” Adele absently watched Matthew spin the roseleaf in his fingertips, and she plucked one from the bush, too. “I’d never leave Mother,” Adele said. “You wouldn’t?” Matthew seemed surprised. “I don’t believe.” “Don’t you want to travel? See other places?” “Of course I do,” Adele said. “And I think I will someday, but I’m not like you and Buddy. I’m not....” “Compelled?” Matthew said. Adele squeezed the leaf between her fingertips and paused. “I suppose that would be precisely it.” Matthew let his leaf fall to the ground. He reached back to the rosebush and tenderly touched a small bud. “I can see how one might find himself perfectly content in a place like this.” Adele laughed. “Some novelty,” she said, and though she hadn’t intended them to, her words came mildly scathing. Matthew turned to Adele and regarded her, seriousness furrowing his brows. “There is no novelty,” he said. “Novelty is for the dispassionate, and I’m about the most un-dispassionate person you’ll ever meet.” Adele couldn’t contain herself. She giggled and covered her mouth with an apologetic hand. "What did I say?” Matthew demanded, perplexed but charmed. “Un-dispassionate?” she laughed. “You are a poet!” Matthew shared in the absurd comedy, falling back into his chair as the joke eventually settled. It was all too easy for Adele to find the courage to look into Matthew’s eyes with no other purpose but to see him, and she did. And Matthew did not look away. The shudder in her stomach that stayed with her for the duration of their trip to Shreveport had been long extinguished. Now, there was carved a bay into which that calling sea rested, and it was more lovely and calm than even Mother’s rose garden. “A poet...,” Matthew said. “Then you are poetry.”

The headlights bobbed into view at the turnoff down the Cavanaugh lane. It was well past sundown, and Adele rocked in the porch swing, her hands tucked snugly under her crossed arms. Her skin rippled with a night chill as dew collected on thousands of blades of grass. From the garden shadows, she seemed to be able to hear every fluttering wing, every click and chirp, every low bellow from the flowerbeds’ hidden inhabitants. The car came under the houselights, and Adele sighed deeply, her body giving after releasing a cool breath into the night air. She put away the thoughts of a lifetime as she rose to her feet and gathered her sweater around herself. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was speak, but as Mother walked up to the house, she forced the humble tradition and did her best to weave into it some accent of conviction. “Everything go alright?” she asked. “Oh, fine,” Mother said, exhaustion weighing on her words. “Had to track Mr. Pease down all over creation, but I got it taken care of.” “What took so long?” Adele asked as Buddy kissed her forehead before heading inside. “Well....” Mother paused and leaned against the rail, pulling off her hat. “I had the fabric, so I just went ahead and started on that dress.” “Why didn’t you wait till I could help you, Mother?” Adele asked, perturbed but gentle. “Well, Buddy had his business anyway, and there’s no sense in drivin’ all the way back here when I coulda just gone to the shop and got somethin’ accomplished.” “I could’ve helped you.” “Oh, I know it, Dellie.” Mother rubbed her eyes. “It’s alright.” Adele took Mother by the arm and led her inside. “Did you get it finished?” “Just about,” Mother said, patting Adele’s hand. “An hour or two more.” Mother set her hat, handbag, and gloves on the kitchen table and started back toward her bedroom. “You goin’ to bed already?” Adele asked. “It’s early yet.” “Yeah, hon, I’m just really tuckered out. Ya’ll help yourself to that tater salad in the icebox. There’s biscuits left from this mornin’--Say, how’s that honey?” Adele felt color stain her cheeks and she stepped into the parlor shadows, lowering her head to study some imagined hole in the parlor rug. “You know Mrs. Durham’s honey,” Adele said. "Almost none left for all of you.” Mother laughed weakly. “Dellie an’ her honey,” she said, shaking her head. “Just like your father.” And Mother went to bed.

Normal Women, Scandalous Women

2004-11-06T01:04:00.002-08:00

Well, it must've been the coffee or the prolonged nap or the fact it's a Friday night, but I reached my quota with relative ease. Either that, or I'm beginning to feel what it's like to be Adele. So many things about her are contrary to my personality. I can't imagine being a stoic, responsible lady. Perhaps "stoic" isn't the appropriate word. "Unaffected" is better suited. And I can't say "I can't imagine...," because--obviously--I can and have. Not that what I imagine is at all true to life, but one must do the best one can. And so her character becomes a learning mechanism for me, because I'm compelled to explore what passion must be like for the actual unaffected, responsible ladies of the world. Surely, love was not an ordered, predictable thing, like opening a bank account or purchasing a vehicle. There is always a divine catalyst, and this catalyst is never, ever clean. (Sure, the context may be. But the burst-into-creation? A creative process--no matter the mode or medium--is never clean.) ~~~~~ When I consider my maternal family line, one descriptor presents itself: "scandal." (And--to be perfectly clear--this is not to implicate any particular generation. God forbid the reading public get the impression I incriminate anyone close to me. This is--dear reader--FICTION.) As a writer, I romanticize the stories and legends, but as a descendant, I take a very empathetic, somber, and realist perspective. History would like for us to believe most families graduated from one generation to the next with very few skeletons in the closet. But I suggest the opposite! What family does not have a few skeletons in the closet? Which brings me to my next potential purpose, one on which I've gnawed for the full week I've endeared this pretty little plot. I had to ask myself, What is it about the Rosalind women that sets them apart? Why are they important? Why is their story one which should be heard? What significance can this line of women hold for any other woman? My answer to myself: They are normal women who have faced exceptional challenges in exceptional contexts. Yet, the "exceptional" is really quite "normal." And the proof of the theory? If any reader follows the stories of these characters and for even a moment thinks, Why yes, That is my experience. Or, Why yes, that is my mother's life. Or, Why yes, that is what I've always been told about my grandmother. If the theory fails and the humble readership can in no way fathom much less relate to these characters, then at least the story will possess some vintage-flavor, Jerry-Springer-type shock value. And I guess I can live with that, knowing that my family is unique in at least one more way. "Live creatively."

2e.

2004-11-06T00:55:00.000-08:00

The sky over Shreveport glowed hazy and strange, sinking into the inky horizon as Matthew guided the car down the vacant highway back to Roe. Adele turned over her shoulder to ensure Buddy was sleeping soundly in his champagne stupor, and that's when she saw the city winking out like a great theatre light. It was closing the cover on the last euphoric pages of a magical fairytale, and Adele's spirit glimmered in the lingering spell of the evening. Always, there was the notion the night would end eventually, and all the dancing girls would go home and slather their faces with cold cream, the blue lady would sink into her faded wingback chair and soothe her golden pipes with hot tea and honey, and Adele would help Buddy into bed, removing his jacket and damp socks, and then she would thank Matthew for a wonderful evening in the most ladylike fashion, before withdrawing to her little blue room to dream before dreams ever came. There was the notion, but Adele regarded it as natural a passing as Mother's crow's feet and the inevitable day when Buddy would announce he was back off into the world beyond Baskin. It would happen, no doubt about that, but Adele did not allow the inevitable to dull the platinum gleam of the hours. Each mile brought her closer to the end of the adventure, and so she savored each mile all the more. "I hope Buddy doesn't get sick in Mother's car," Adele said. "Our man can hold his liquor," said Matthew, curt and confident. "He's held much more than champagne in the years I've known him." "And you?" asked Adele. "Oh, I do fine. But I'm really not much of a drinker." "Oh, really," Adele said, unconvinced. "Quite true," Matthew said. "Buddy will learn sooner or later, there is much to miss if one is sufficiently inebriated." Adele felt a tremor in her stomach, recalling how she and Matthew danced together for the rest of the evening, neglecting to pause for a drink or a breath. On more than one occasion, one of the diamond girls led her partner near Matthew and Adele, flashing a coaxing smile to cut in, but Matthew was oblivious, and he held onto Adele as if she'd spin out of his arms is he loosened his embrace for a moment. In the car, she was separated from his body by a full two feet on the front seat. How oddly appropriate, yet only an hour ago, she'd been close enough to him to feel the warmth of him through his vest and jacket. "Why aren't you married, Adele?" Matthew asked abruptly. "I've never been compelled," she said, and a string of suitors paraded through her mind: Clifton Nowles, who spent three-quarters of the day on a tractor; Lonnie Abshire, who couldn't get away from his mother long enough to finish a two-minute conversation; Pete Owen and Merle Owen, who got into a fist fight in the middle of the livestock judging because each insisted Adele would be his date for the awards ceremony, though Adele had agreed to accompany neither, for she'd already assented to Kelsie Herbert's request, who she also eventually rejected, because he couldn't keep his hands out of her clothes. "That's quite the uncommon thing in Roe, isn't it? Aren't most girls your age already married and mothering?" "I suppose so," Adele said blandly. "Does your mother press you?" Adele smiled. "No, she never has. I think she's content as I am." "So, you're content?" The question hung in the darkness for a long time. Adele traced the hem of her skirt with her fingertip and watched the tree shadows blur by out the window. There were a dozen romantic scenarios poised on the edge of her imagination, and she felt them there like does at the treeline, mirror-eyed and ghostly, waiting for the slightest flicker of movement before they bounded off like soft lightening back into the blind forest. Adele was not a disenchanted woman. She didn't reject the idea of the love and passion of youth, and she'd never gone out of her way to prevent its manifestation in her life. Adele was a patient woman; she was faithful and quiet-spirited. There very well may have been a white, ringing day for her in the future, but a day of that kind was not an altar at which she lay her heart day after day as her youth slipped away. If the day would come, God would grant it. And if the day never did, then there must be some greater, grander design for Adele Rosalind Cavanaugh. She recalled these things, these affirmations she'd embroidered upon her sleeve since Mother first attempted to explain the meaning of love between a man and a woman. She calculated through the plusses and minuses of her formula so quickly, she was no longer conscious of all the steps of rationality it took to get from Point A to Point B. She recalled these things, and she was gravely startled by the realization the "formula" no longer felt important. That familiar sense of order seemed to have delicately plucked its roots from her mind and simply floated up into the atmosphere, evaporating with a sigh. Is this impulse? she thought. Adele knew impulse like she knew what Washington must look like from the window of a clattering train. It didn't feel like impulse. Impulse was scorching and direct. Impulse was certain and damning. Wasn't it? She might've upbraided herself for being gushing and silly. But she didn't feel silly. She didn't feel awkward or undone. On the contrary, her faculties were in good working order; she was indeed completely collected. But something about the very moment felt as if a hard-packed dirt road ended, and she stood on a narrow pier overlooking a most placid, inviting sea, one that would not carry her off and swallow her up in its gray-green tempests and choking swells. No, one that would send her along on whisper-light currents and breathe cool marine kisses against her cheeks when dusk enveloped her in its silk-lined bosom. Buddy snorted in the backseat, and Adele turned again to see that he was comfortable. She wondered then if Buddy was as content that Adele had never married, and she was all at once admiring he loved her so, and mildly bitter he never asked before Matthew did. She moved her eyes to Matthew's face, at the way the shadows so bravely clung to his features, the way a loving fingertip might if he were sleeping. She studied the strong slope of his nose, how it arched and dipped into the heavy bow of his lips, how sharp his chin angled back to the firm ridge of his jaw, and the delicate ear, the clean hairline, the glorious banded pillar of his neck. Matthew did not repeat the question, and Adele wondered if he might know in what handsome detail she sought the answer.

The next morning, Adele wakened to the sound of Buddy gagging in the bathroom. Our man can hold his liquor, Adele thought wryly. Apparently, even Matthew Eaton was apt to err. The piquing aroma of sausage gravy and fresh-baking biscuits filled the house, and Adele anticipated the cheerful percolation of Mother's stern morning coffee. She shrugged into her robe and went to the bathroom door, through which she could hear Buddy spitting and choking into the bowl. She rapped lightly on the door. "You alright, Buddy?" "Fine, Mother. I'm fine," he said. Adele laughed and opened the door. "It's not Mother, you nut." She shut the door behind her and took a clean washrag down from the linen cabinet. She soaked it with cool water then knelt on the floor next to him, swathing his mouth and chin. Buddy shook his head, but before he could protest, another wave of sickness washed over him, and he hunched over the water emptying more of his insides. Serves him right, she thought, but how she did ache to see him suffering. Nursing Buddy back to relative health was something she'd always done when he was at home, and even though it had been years since she was called to the duty, she took it up again as if no years of separation had gone by. Who took care of him if she didn't? Mostly likely Matthew, but Adele wondered if Matthew knew Buddy didn't like for you to rub his back when he was in such a state, that he didn't want you talking to him, that a tender hand on the back of his head made him feel a little better. Buddy must've really grown up out there in the world, no chores to attend to every morning but Sunday, no legs falling asleep during Sunday morning service when Reverend Wells found himself particularly inspired, no helping Helen's father with his cotton or horseshoeing, no driving Adele back and forth to town for school or choir practice. Out there, Buddy attended to no one but himself, but even then, he had Matthew to help him. Adele pitied her brother. It occurred to her he couldn't possibly have grown up as much as she'd like to think. A man couldn't grow much without a woman, whether to keep his edges sharpened, or to stand vigil while he recovered from one defeat or another. Buddy spit a last time and took the rag from Adele's hand. He leaned back against the bathtub and breathed deeply. Adele stood and squeezed a dollop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "C'mere, Buddy," she said, helping him to his feet. "You'll feel a lot better after you brush your teeth." Buddy did as he was told, and Adele left him for the kitchen. "Mornin', Mother," she said. "Mornin', Dellie," Mother cooed as she set a pan of steaming biscuits onto the stovetop. "You have a nice time last night?" Her crow’s feet multiplied as a smile spread across her face. "Wonderful time," said Adele, and she kissed Mother's cheek. "The biscuits smell heavenly." "Always do after a night on the town." She waved to the coffee on the back burner. "Coffee's done if you wanna help yourself." Adele took three cups and saucers down from the cabinet, filled them to the brim, and dropped two cubes of sugar into each one. She poured cream generously into her own cup, but for Buddy and Matthew, she left them stout and black. "No need to keep one o' those for Matthew," Buddy said as he walked into the kitchen. Adele's heart fell. "Where'd he go off to?" Mother asked. "Went walkin', I suspect." "Walkin'?" asked Adele as she set a cup of coffee in front of him. "Where to? Not much to walk to out here, if you don't know your way around." "Oh, don't worry 'bout him. 't's just his way." "His way," Mother repeated, raising her eyebrows and casting a furtive glance at Adele. Matthew's way. Somehow, Adele understood. She peered outside into the citrus April morning, at the bluejays and cardinals trimming the pear trees with their Venetian feathers, at the bumblebees hovering over the clover, and the cheerful swaying of the azaleas. To a Rosalind who was so accustomed to a narrow easterly view of this tiny patch of yard, a humbly ornamented morning like this was easy to overlook. Now, of all the Baskin mornings Adele had greeted and dismissed, this morning was singularly radiant. "Well, I'll keep the pot on for 'im anyway," Mother said. “He's likely to wander in here before breakfast is through. Can't no man pass up a fittin' breakfast after goin' ta Shreveport." "There can," groaned Buddy, pressing the wet rag into his forehead.

2d.

2004-11-04T23:31:00.000-08:00

Buddy and Matthew were the men of the hour. Adele had always known her brother was a handsome man, but the ladies of the Harbor Pearl thought moreso. They cut away from their beaus at the change of every tune, and by the gluttonous expression of satisfaction on Buddy’s face, Adele understood he was in hog heaven. And what woman would pass up a chance to dance with a dashing young gentleman from Washington? Matthew was fair, but he was fairer in his blue-black suit and his slick hair precisely combed and parted like a young millionaire. At six feet and four inches, he towered above all the others like a silver screen icon, and the ladies waltzed to him like Shakespearean nymphs, alight with the fruits of gaiety and eternal youth. Adele smiled behind her champagne glass, warmed to see Buddy and Matthew both so enjoying themselves. Jealousy and envy did not touch her. She’d grown up in Mother’s boutique; she’d helped clothe the wealthiest and most affluent ladies of Roe for their annual festivals and political soirées. She helped dress the most beautiful and fashionable brides and debutantes in the parish for their birthdays and engagement parties. She’d helped make North Louisiana’s glories even more glorious, but she never felt even a pang of inferiority. She certainly wasn’t lacking in beauty, but as Adele matured, she began to realize how fleeting beauty truly was. Fannie Usher was a stout, curvaceous woman in her early sixties. She was a gorgeous woman once upon a time, and thanks to the twin-miracles of cosmetics and couture, she was a gorgeous woman still. She had dark, deep-set eyes; high, sharp cheekbones; and excellent teeth. She was probably the boutique’s most profit-yielding customer; there was always a dress or a suit or a coat of one kind or another on order for Fannie. If Mother were sewing for her, she sewed five or six garments one after the other. If Mother placed a large order from Dallas or Houston, chances were, a good half of the merchandise was for Fannie. Fannie loved her wardrobe, and she loved Mother. But she loved Maybelle Price even more, because Maybelle Price was her beautician. Maybelle Price was solely responsible for Fannie’s Clara-Bow peepers, for her Dietrich cheeks, for her white-marble complexion that looked like glass milk. A young woman might be terribly intimidated by the likes of Fannie Usher, but not Adele. Adele was a bit saddened by it. Why fight so hard against something so natural and inevitable? she thought. She considered her Mother, bent at Fannie’s side, on one knee with the tape measure in her soft, dry hands. Mother winced kneeling down and standing up, because the arthritis pained her often, but when she sat or stood, she was the image of grace. She didn’t wear red lipstick and rouge the way Fannie Usher did; Rather, she dusted her cheeks and forehead with talc and dabbed onto her lips a bit of blackberry extract in beeswax--just enough to color her speckled Irish face. That was all the color Mother needed. She was a Rosalind, and all of Roe came to recognize the Mercurial copper-red of a Rosalind stepping into that shop or sitting in that pew. Mother was a tired woman, and she was aging. Adele could see not hints, but definite lines etching the corners of Mother’s eyes and lips. Her face was thinner, her neck narrower and more fragile. Next to Fannie Usher, Mother might’ve been mistaken to be the elder of the two. But that red hair.... It was no wonder women like Fannie Usher tried so hard. Tonight, dancing girls set the room like several tiny diamonds in a golden crown. They all tried as hard as Fannie Usher, and they were all young. Adele watched them weave between Buddy and Matthew again and again, smiling coquettishly and blinking their black-butterfly eyelashes. Their shoulders were bare, and every now and then, a girl would laugh in such a way she’d raise one of those bone-colored sculptures toward her partner’s face, tempting him to kiss it. But Buddy and Matthew never did. They were perfect gentlemen to the end, to the disappointment of many a dancing girl. The razz and chang of the band billowed then settled, like a great chiffon cloud. A saxophonist lowered his mouth to his instrument and began to breathe out a most wonderfully delicate melody, to which the pianist graciously replied. A lithe black woman in cobalt blue with a large magnolia in her hair slid up behind the microphone, and when she opened her throat, velvet issued forth.

(awesome Billie Holiday lyrics) (more awesome Billie Holiday lyrics) (even more awesome Billie Holiday lyrics)

Adele closed her eyes and wrapped herself up tight in that voice. That voice, that pulled from her the red satin ribbon of her heart and sent it floating and flying away above the crowd. That voice, that curled its fingers through Adele’s red Rosalind tresses and smoothed its palms over her temples. That voice, the opened up a banquet hall of sensation and invited her in to twirl along the laced and scalloped edges. That voice.... “Will you dance with me, Adele?” She opened her eyes to see Matthew bow and extend a ready hand. He stared at her, purposeful and expectant. “Yes, thank you,” she said. Her voice poured from her deep and womanly. At that moment, she wasn’t Buddy’s baby sister. She was Miss Adele Rosalind Cavanaugh, and Yes, thank you, she would choose to dance with the handsome Mr. Matthew Eaton. The lady in blue softly cried her song. Buddy occupied Adele’s thoughts no more, neither the diamond ladies all around her. Her hand nestled in Matthew’s palm, Adele stepped in close and allowed him to encircle her in his arm. They began to move together, and it was like crossing a cider lake on the wing of some great white bird. Their feet turned and circled together as pine seeds chasing down through the treetops after a dislodging breeze. The air burned between them, and it was like a blindingly brilliant Southern sunset, searing the sky with its licking hems of fiery hues, and behind it, a cool blue night spilling in slow and silent, wordlessly stilling the sun’s flashing arms as it lastly lashes, fierce and forgiving, to another sleep.

2c.

2004-11-04T08:13:00.000-08:00

“Buddy, you better take good care o’ Dellie while you’re over there in Shreveport--"

“I will, Mother.”

“I know you will, Buddy, but I hafta tell ya anyway. I just don’t know what I’d do if somethin’ ever happened to her.”

“I won’t let nothin’ happen to her, Mother. I’ll guard her with my life.”

“You best, Buddy Cavanaugh, ‘r there’ll be hell to pay.”

Buddy laughed as he slammed the Chevy door. “There ain’t nothin’ in the world like the wrath of a Rosalind woman,” he said.

“You got that right,” Mother said, and she waved high in the air as Buddy guided the car back down the pine-lined lane onto the narrow road that led out to the highway.

“You’re well loved,” Matthew said, and Adele knew he was speaking to her.

A chill shuddered through her, and she cranked the window closed.

“How do I look, Buddy?” she asked. She couldn’t remember the last time she dressed herself up to go anywhere. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t been outside the Baskin city limits in at least two years. The last time she ventured beyond Franklin Parish, she’d gone to Monroe to pick up some costly lace Mother had ordered from a lace-maker over in Texas. Back then, Helen traveled with her wherever she went, but Adele could not recall anything about the trip to Monroe.

“You’re the prettiest thing in Baskin,” Buddy smiled.

“Just Baskin?” Adele said.

“Course not, Dellie. Baskin and Roe and Shreveport...all o’ North Louisiana.”

“South Louisiana, too?” she asked.

Matthew leaned forward from the backseat. “Buddy, you obviously hadn’t seen many women in your lifetime.”

“As if you have,” Buddy quipped.

“I have,” Matthew said evenly. “And your sister....”

He paused for a long time. The sound of gravel flying under the wheels drew out the moment like a band of black taffy, and tall cattails beat by with the seconds.

Adele’s lips burned, and her breath grew thin. Her heart racked her body as it thundered in her chest, and she would’ve given anything at that moment to turn to see Matthew’s face.

She didn’t need to see his face, however, to know he was staring right through her. She felt the weight of his gaze like the heavy hand of twenty-four years’ worth of loneliness, and she admitted to herself she loved this man.

“She’s Hellenic,” Matthew said too softly for Buddy to hear. But Adele heard him, and for many years since that evening, his two words would serve as a radiant point of reference.

The Harbor Pearl was alive that night. Stylish black Fords crowded the parking lot, and groups of fashionable gentlemen and young ladies made their way to the bulb-lit entrance of the dance hall.

Excitement and fear suddenly clutched Adele, and she took a moment to view reflection in the Chevy window before she joined Buddy and Matthew at the front of the car.

She wore her hair long, though that was contrary to the high style. Other women cropped their locks even with their chin, or rolled their short coifs into wooly-tight caps of curls that did not fall below their earlobes.

Adele’s cherrywood hair hung past her shoulderblades in thick waves. Mother had taken the time to help her wrap lock after lock around hot iron rollers. When they first let her hair down, large spirals of red cascaded down her back, but that didn’t last long. The sheer weight of her hair pulled the curls all but out, and at the window in Shreveport, what was left of the style was gentle rivulets of auburn.

Her hair was not stylish as hair went in Shreveport, but Adele was not the least bit disappointed. Matthew said she was “Hellenic,” and so that must mean something much more lovely than beautiful.

She’d chosen a rust-colored Georgette dress Mother had made. She tightened the bow of the brown satin sash around her waist, and she smoothed the butterfly-wing sleeves and collar. Again, she wore the dove-gray heels Mother had given her, and again, she stepped carefully over the gravel and grass as she made her way to where Buddy and Matthew waited.

A doorman in a charcoal pinstriped suit stood at the entrance and nodded the patrons past. When Adele moved in close behind Buddy at the door, the doorman glanced over the men, then at her, his eyes lingering for a moment before he flashed a silver tooth and stepped back to allow them in.

They stepped into the hall, and for Adele, it was as if they stepped into another world. Brassy music crashed and collided on the stage, and the gold shine of instruments cast an instant spell. Enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling like spider-spun clusters of glass web, and the light beamed and fragmented through the prisms and onto the glittering gems on the throats of the ladies, and on the snowflake sequins encasing their thin bodies.

Adele had not a gem or a sequin anywhere, but she felt no more out-of-place, for there were thick drapes of velvet shrouding the outer halls, a heavy carpet of blood-red encircling the dance floor, and lips all around of the deepest ruby. Adele felt perfectly synchronized, lush, rust, and sublime.

A waiter appeared with a tray filled with champagne glasses. “Drink for the lady,” he asked.

Buddy became animated. “Thank you, sir. And for me and my man here, too.” He retrieved a glass and put it into Adele’s delicate hand. “You should have no problem putting this away, dear,” he grinned.

Adele touched the glass to her lips, but Matthew lightly touched her wrist. “A toast,” he said. “What shall it be?” Buddy asked.

“To the South!” Matthew shouted, raising his glass high into the air.

“Hear, hear!” Buddy and Adele laughed heartily and drank to the South.

“To whiskey on Mother’s porch!” Buddy cried, and they drank to whiskey on Mother’s porch.

Adele lowered her head and thought for a moment, turning the glass on its stem in her fingertips. “To my dear, dear brother, for coming back to me in the bloom of Spring.”

They humbly raised their glasses, beaming. “Hear, hear,” they said with pride and conviction. And they all drank to Buddy’s return.

Most Cliche Plot of the Year Award goes to...

2004-11-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

I am not pleased with the FLUFF I've been writing! Actually, I'm rathered appalled. Cliche, predictable, flowery, saccharine.... My characters are paper-thin and could've walked off a sitcom rerun. They have no substance whatsoever. What a buncha junk. What literary shame. I don't think I've ever made myself out to be such a crappy writer. Ugh. It just makes me cringe. I know exactly why, too. Because a) I'm writing in the 3rd POV. b) "Historical" setting. c) I'm writing about attraction! Now, it would be different if I were writing 1st POV, present-day, woman-vs.-self with heavy psychological and social conflict...but country-girl-smitten-by-dashing-Yankee is a Dollar Store scenario. shudder.

2b.

2004-11-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

The blue taffeta curtains shifting in Adele’s window let in a whisper of moonlight, and Adele squeezed her eyes together to clear the sleepy blur from her vision. She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping, but as she flung her feet over the bedside and to the floor, she imagined it couldn’t have been long; the night was still pitch and deep out the window, the house still as silent as the fields surrounding. Adele slid her feet into her wool-lined night slippers and shuffled to the hall. She pulled her robe close around her, supremely self-conscious as the knowledge of the Yankee’s presence set in anew. She cast a glance toward Buddy’s bedroom and saw the door was closed, no light issuing from the crack at the floor. She imagined Buddy curled into a tight ball, as he did when he was a little boy, blanket wrapped in his fist and jammed under his chin. She imagined Matthew lying back-flat on their cot, arms bare and folded behind his head. She imagined those soft, still eyes closed and dreaming. They were probably sleeping like logs, after the long bus ride yesterday. There would be no chance Matthew would catch her looking her worst. Adele padded to the bathroom to relieve herself, rinsed her face and hands, then made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The light was insufficient, but Adele knew her way by instinct after twenty-four years in that house. She found the cabinet by memory and drew a glass from the shelf. Just as she turned the faucet, laughter filtered in from outside. Adele gasped, fearful of what might be out there. The Cavanaugh property never saw a stranger, never an intruder, especially at night. An occasional whine or howl of a dog, maybe a baying mule or cow, but never a person. Then Adele remembered Buddy and Matthew. Why the men would be up at this hour was a mystery, but she was not one to pass up a chance to speak to the Northerner, even if she was in her night clothes. Adele crossed the parlor and stood at the threshold, keeping to the shadows. She listened intently as Matthew spoke under his breath and Buddy erupted into peals of laughter. She tried her best to interpret what was being said. “He didn’t recognize you?” “Not the least.” “Well, surely he’d remember the face of the cad who asked his daughters hand in marriage?” “You’d think so, wouldn’t ya! Naw. Didn’t remember at all. Just went right on tellin’ me the preferable ones, ya know?” “My Lord. Let Mrs. Moore get wind o’ that an’ we'll all be rottin’ in the can.” Adele had no inkling who Mrs. Moore was or what in the world was “preferable,” but she listened anyway, and when she saw Buddy toss back a bottle of whiskey, she decided it was high time she ask. “Buddy Cavanaugh, what’re you doin’ drinkin’ whiskey out here on Mother’s porch?” Her voice was stern, but her eyes were clear she teased. “Matthew whisked the bottle out of sight and turned red-faced to the shadows. Buddy teetered on the porch steps, catching a rail in the palm of his hand before he could slip over the edge. “Aw, Dellie. Don’t make a fuss ‘bout this. No need to tell Mother, she’ll just get upset for nothin’. No sense in gettin’ her mad at me when we got such little time.” “Don’t worry, Buddy. I won’t tell Mother a thing, but you best mind yourself and don’t go cuttin’ up too loud—Mother hears you, she’s likely to call Helen’s father over here with a shotgun. Then what’ll you do?” “Sneak back in the window, just like I always did.” “Naturally,” Adele laughed, remembering Buddy’s younger days and how little he’d changed in that department. “Thank you, Dellie,” he belched. “Thank you, Adele,” Matthew echoed. “No need to thank me,” Adele said, pleased Matthew thought such a small act of confidence deserved some verbal gratitude. “If anyone spoils your fun, it won’t be me.” She eased open the screen door as quietly as she could and squeezed beside Buddy on the steps. Matthew was close enough she could reach out her hand and capture a thread of his hair in her fingertips. The thought thrilled her. “Either of you got a cigarette?” she asked. Buddy flinched. “Since when did you smoke, Adele?” She took a cigarette from Buddy’s tiny silver cigarette case and winked at him. “Want a swallow?” Matthew asked, bringing out the bottle again. Adele didn’t answer, but instead tipped the bottle into the air and gulped. The tepid brown liquid seared down her throat. Her nostrils stung, and Adele sputtered and choked. Buddy slapped her back. “Well, well, baby sister! You drink like a man, too, don’tcha! Wee-hoo!” Adele dragged on her cigarette and passed it to Matthew. His fingers briefly grazed hers, and she relished the warmth at her fingertips and in her stomach. “So how’d you link up with my brother, Matthew?” she asked. Both men guffawed and slapped their thighs. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a story I should tell, Adele. You might not respect me anymore if I do that.” “Spill it,” she said, taking another swig of whiskey and managing not to cough. “Go on, tell her, Matt,” Buddy urged. “We met in jail,” he said. “Jail?” Adele’s eyebrows shot up, and she turned to Buddy in disbelief. “You were in jail?” “Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Buddy soothed. “Not as bad--Buddy, jail is jail--and you were in jail? What on Earth for?” Buddy dropped his head to his chest and mumbled, “Gamblin’.” “Not gambling,” Matthew said, poking the air with the cigarette with emphasis. “For cheating.” “Yeah, for cheatin’ at gamblin’.” “You see,” Matthew began. “It’s one thing to gamble. It’s another to gamble with a lawman. And it’s an entirely different thing to gamble with a lawman and try to swindle him out of his cash.” “He didn’t have to haul us off to jail,” Buddy whined. “No, he didn’t have to haul us off to jail, Buddy; he should’ve done worse. But that’s beside the point. I shouldn’t have been tangled up in that mess anyway. I wasn’t cheating.” “But he thought you were.” “Yes, he thought I was, and he dragged me by my trousers all the way to the jailhouse--same cell as your brother.” “And that’s how me met,” Buddy ended. “That’s how we met,” Matthew added. “And I beat the pants off of ‘im.” Buddy and Matthew fell all over themselves, drunk with whiskey and the hilarity of a rotten night. Adele laughed, too, but with only half the conviction. She knew she’d never understand the man her brother had become, nor the man he’d brought with him, the man she was quickly endearing.

By the time the three of them settled into the ease of fatigue, the first stains of dawn had already bled their way up over the prickly Baskin horizon. The smell of morning tickled away the fuzz and tart of sleep and liquor, and they all ached for the comfort of their beds. They creaked to their feet, stretching their arms and cracking their backs. “I gotta go,” Buddy said as he yanked open the screen door and rushed through the house to the bathroom. Matthew stepped ahead of Adele and propped the door open for her to slide past. Only a few inches to the left, and her shoulder would’ve brushed firmly against his chest. She would’ve been able to feel the weight of him against her arm, and she could carry with her the memory of that texture as she dropped off to sleep. Adele was never that brazen, though. Never that adventurous. Chances were good she’d probably never even dance with him if Buddy did take them to Shreveport after all. Sure, Adele was mature, conscientious, and Christian. But more, she adored Buddy Cavanaugh, and she would never do a thing to make him doubt her. Not a thing under Heaven. Adele stepped into the house and glanced at the grandfather clock in the parlor corner. 6:13. She heard Matthew secure the door, and he followed her down the hall, stopping with her at her bedroom. He stood at a polite distance, peering down at her with his hands in his pockets. “Can I get you anything?” Adele asked. “Water? Do you have enough blankets?” Matthew smiled and nodded, but he didn’t speak. As exhausted as Adele was, she would’ve stayed awake with Matthew for as long as he liked, if he’d asked. She looked into his eyes for a long time, relishing the exquisite sensation in her ribcage, prolonging the overwhelming urge to go to him and kiss him full on the mouth. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed, and both Adele and Matthew moved to their rooms. “Goodnight, Matthew,” Adele said clearly. “Goodnight, Adele.”

2a.

2004-11-02T01:30:00.000-08:00

It was 1928 the spring that Buddy came home. He stepped off the bus at the Roe station with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder and a tall, blonde-headed young man right behind him.

Adele stood under the awning, twisting her lace hanky in her hands and fighting the urge to run to him full-speed. She had enough trouble walking in the new dove-gray heels Mother bought her, and it made no sense to scuff them up in the gravel. If her brother would keep his promise, she wanted her shoes to be good as new for the dancing and parties he’d take her to in Shreveport later in the week.

“Adele!” Buddy’s face lit like sunshine when he saw her standing alone, and Adele forgot all about her shoes and ran to meet him, flinging her arms around him and his bag, too.

“Oh, Buddy! It’s so good to have you home!”

His brown eyes flashed with excitement and surprise as he looked his sister over. She was nineteen when he last saw her, barely more than a child. But she was a lady now, full, auburn hair lying thick on her shoulders, her Irish features strengthened by time. She was no longer wan and lanky. She carried her head high on her fleshy shoulders, and her stance was firm and graceful, not fidgety and flitting as it was four years ago.

She was the image of their mother, only more beautiful. That was the way of the Rosalind women: fairer with each new generation.

“Look at you, Dell,” he said, pride set on his beaming face. “I woulda thought you was Mother standing there waitin’ for me.”

“Oh, shut up, Buddy. I hadn’t grown up that much.” Adele passed a hand over Buddy’s jaw and caught the gaze of the young man she’d seen get off the bus. He lingered nearby, close enough to hear the conversation, but a few steps away to afford them some privacy.

Buddy saw that Adele was distracted, and he turned and caught the sleeve of the young man, tugging him near. “C’mere, Matthew. Let me introduce you.”

The young man straightened himself and nodded.

“Adele, this is Matthew Eaton, from Washington. He’s a friend o’ mine I met through my adventures--and damned good at billiards.”

Matthew Eaton from Washington stuck out a broad, flat hand, and as Adele pressed her palm against his, a tingle ignited in the pit of her stomach and spread through her body like stout liquor.

He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He reminded her of the pictures of the athletes and scholars at Harvard and Yale, of the Olympic photographs she’d seen in the paper every few years. His blonde hair hung down from his crown into his clear blue eyes, and the line over his ears and along his neck was clean and shaven.

He must’ve been some kind of athlete. His skin saw the sun often, and a splash of faint freckles peppered his nose. Under his crisp white shirt, Adele could see he was strong and toned. He was at least a head taller than she was, so he looked all the more impressive.

“Matthew--my baby sister, Adele.”

“I know well, Thomas. She’s all you’ve talked about for the last six days.” His warm smile revealed shining white teeth.

Adele touched her cheek as she felt roses begin to bloom there. “Thomas?” she asked. “How odd. I haven’t heard anyone call you by your proper name since Reverend Wells dragged you home by your ears--"

“Some things are best left in the past where they belong,” he laughed, tugging at his earlobe. “Where’s the car, Dellie? Let’s get home. I could eat a horse.”

Stepping carefully over the gravel and doing her best to be graceful, Adele led the men to the sable Ford parked in the grass, and she smiled to herself as she realized Matthew Eaton hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he stepped off the bus.

Mother was exactly as Adele and Buddy anticipated. She choked back sobs and coddled her son and scolded him all at the same time. “Buddy Cavanaugh! You rascal! Why on Earth would you go off and leave your mother missing you for so long? Oh, look at you, you’re such a fine, fine young man! Look just like your father. Oh, look at me, bawlin’ like a baby. Are you hungry? Rascal! What would your grandmother say if she knew I let you traipse off to God-knows-where the way you do. She’s probably rollin’ in her grave as we speak. But you look so fine, Buddy! Who’s been feedin’ you? You don’t look like you’re starvin’, so thank the Lord for that.

“What about you, young man? Where’s your mother? I sure hope you visit her more than this devil visits me! What’d you say your name was?”

“Matthew Eaton, ma’am. Of Washington State.”

“Oh, a Yankee. Oh--pardon me, Matthew. I certainly don’t mean to make you feel like a stranger. We’re just not used to havin’ folks from up North visit us out here. In Roe maybe, but town is a lot different from out here in Baskin.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I feel very welcome, thank you. You have a lovely home,” he said, glancing at Adele.

“Such a polite young man,” Mother said to no one in particular. “Your mother musta raised you right, such good manners.”

“Indeed she did,” Matthew said. “If I just had more of an opportunity to use them.”

“Adele, set the table, please.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You two boys go wash up, now. Supper’ll be on the table by the time you’re through.”

Buddy and Matthew disappeared to the back of the house.

“Such a nice young man,” Mother said.

Adele mumbled in agreement as she lay cloth napkins at each place setting. She grabbed a handful of silverware and frowned they were scuffed and slightly tarnished on the handles. If she’d have known Buddy was bringing company with him, she would’ve taken the time to polish the silver to a mirror-gleam. If she’d have known Buddy was bringing Matthew Eaton of Washington State, she would’ve done more than that.

Kitchen silences were always comfortable when it was just Adele and Mother, but with her brother and a visitor in the house, a humming electricity hung in the air, and Adele felt as if she were unraveling like a sweater.

Her feet hurt in her new shoes, but the heels made her feel glamorous and womanly, a far cry from how she usually felt. At home, it was just the two of them, and Adele passed the days in cotton day-dresses and soft leather slippers. She usually kept her thick rope of hair tucked together at the back of her head to keep it out of the way while she cleaned or sewed or helped Mother with the tailoring and alterations for the ladies of Roe.

Adele saw her contorted reflection on the surface of a spoon as she inspected a handful of them. She wouldn’t recognize herself, with her eyes darkly lined and her lips pomegranate-red, like the women in the fashion catalogs Mother kept at the boutique. Adele rarely made her face so dramatic. Roe wasn’t a dramatic town, and so beauty need not be dramatic either.

A squeal escaped from Adele’s mouth as Buddy tickled her sides. The spoons fell from her hands and clattered onto the table.

“Still jumpy as a hare, are ya?” he teased.

“Mother’s right--you are a rascal, Buddy Cavanaugh,” she laughed.

“To my dyin’ day,” he said as he pulled out a chair and plopped down.

Mother nudged past him with a dish of pot roast and placed it in the center of the table. She pointed to the seat across the table. “You can sit here next to Adele, Matthew.”

Adele refrained from reaction as she gathered the spoons again and distributed them to the place settings. She returned to the kitchen counter to retrieve the tall glasses of sun tea she prepared. She felt a little dizzy as the familiar scent of soap lingered with the unfamiliar scents of the men in the room.

Buddy had only been home for an hour or two, and the exhilaration of his return and the introduction of this Matthew Eaton into her life was overwhelming. Adele wondered with delicious anxiety what it would be like that evening, sleeping in her quiet country home with a beautiful Yankee in the next room.

The cotton fields surrounding the Cavanaugh property glowed in the moonlight like Southern snow, and the brush was alive with the metallic clicking of crickets and the low rolling of bullfrogs. Lightening bugs dotted and flickered like swirling embers by the butterfly bushes, and the porch swing creaked and groaned as Adele and Buddy swung arm in arm after the evening’s meal.

Matthew sat on the top stair with one leg folded up to his chest. He stared out into the dark, his head tilted lazily toward his shoulder.

Buddy dozed next to Adele, and with no one studying her, Adele took liberty to savor every detail of the Eaton boy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it so quiet,” Matthew said.

“It can drive a person crazy sometimes,” Adele said.

“Not me. It’s nice. We’ve been everywhere, probably heard every noise there is to hear. That can drive a person crazy. In the city, never a quiet moment.”

Adele thought of Roe, of how loud the train was as it thundered by the boutique every morning, rattling the glass in the display cases and shaking the windows. When she was a little girl, the train terrified Adele, and she nearly wet her pants every time she heard the whistle blow long before it got to the south side of town. She was sure the train would barrel right into the shop and run her over.

But after ten years of that sound, Adele had grown used to it. Often, she locked up the boutique at the end of the day and realized she hadn’t even noticed the train come through. If a person can get used to that, she thought, I suppose she can get used to anything.

“Have you ever been to an airport?” Matthew asked, turning over his shoulder to peer at her. His face was lost in shadow, but Adele could sense the genuine interest in his voice. She shook her head.

“That’s probably the loudest noise you could ever hear, those enormous engines firing up. Hurts your ears.”

“We have crop-dusters fly over the fields here all the time,” she said. “They scare the cows.”

Matthew laughed.

Adele suddenly felt profoundly foolish. Here she was speaking of crop-dusters, when Matthew had probably seen silver-winged jets and big-bellied bombers and glistening passenger planes that carried movie stars back and forth from California to New York.

Matthew did seem genuinely interested in what Adele had to say, but this family was probably something of a novelty to him, like what one might see in a country museum.

She turned to her brother. At twenty-six, Buddy had changed so much. There was very little of the boyish Cavanaugh left in his features. He looked so much like Daddy, his wiry red hair and his sharp Irish jaw. He was a different person now, and not just because he’d grown up.

With Matthew, he’d probably seen more of life than Adele would ever see in her lifetime. It was four years ago when Buddy withdrew the 500 dollars he saved baling cotton with Wilson and Jerry Howard. He packed his clothes and shaving kit in a small suitcase and announced he was off to make something of himself.

Mother about died. She’d always counted on Buddy to be the man of the house after Daddy died of pneumonia ten years before, and now that Buddy declared his intentions, Mother was forced to face life without a Cavanaugh man at all. She couldn’t very well tell Buddy he couldn’t go. He was twenty-two at the time, and it would be most unfair to make him stay in Baskin where the most he might accomplish was going into business with the Howard’s someday.

Naturally, a part of her panicked, afraid the world outside Baskin might swallow up her son, and she’d never see him again.

But Mrs. Cavanaugh was a strong woman, and she’d thus far raised both her children on her own income, tailoring at the boutique in Roe. She was a good woman and respected by the good women in town, and her children were clothed, fed, schooled, and happy. She couldn’t have asked for more, except to have her husband back.

The day Buddy left, Mother saved her tears for her bedroom, but Adele clung to him, overcome with grief until he pried himself away and boarded the bus for Dallas.

The first year was excruciating. The holidays were empty, and Mother and Adele could never extinguish the overhanging spirit of absence in order to enjoy the spirit of celebration. There were letters and telegraphs, but for the most part, Buddy was no longer a part of their lives. Mother and Adele came to accept they were all that was left of the Cavanaugh family, and they lived as such, paying all mind and effort to the boutique in Roe.

Then, one April day, a letter from Buddy arrived, announcing he’d be at the Roe bus station on Tuesday afternoon. Adele had no idea how his return would mark an eternal shift in her quiet Baskin life.

1.

2004-11-01T00:56:00.000-08:00

It is a perfectly bone-chilling January Monday, and downtown Roe, only two blocks away, creaks along on the edge of hibernation. The sounds of passing engines and the stern groan of the 10:00 train are swallowed up in the cold white of the morning. The bare oak and pecan in my pocked front yard are still, and the birds’ nests tucked in the knobby branch elbows look abandoned from my kitchen window.

The pot of chicken on the stove boils and spits. The meat is just beginning to separate from the bone, and bubbles of fat roil at the surface of the water. I’ve just sprinkled flour on the countertop where I’ll roll out the dumplins and slice them into neat strips.

Chicken ‘n’ dumplins are my very favorite fare. I’ve loved them all my life, from the first time Mama Dellie made them for me out at her farmhouse in Baskin. No one makes a pot of chicken ‘n’ dumplins like a Louisiana woman, and no Louisiana woman makes chicken ‘n’ dumplins like a Rosalind.

I’ve been anticipating the deliriously tasty flavor of this meal all morning, and I ought to be thinking how wonderful it will feel in my pregnant belly, but instead, I’m wondering with rising panic why my contractions aren’t passing as they usually do, what I’m gonna do with the chicken if I have to call Mama.

And I’m thinking what a bastard Darren Cheatham is and hoping he loses his job today because he slept in with a hangover. I’m hoping he drank himself sick last night, out with his friends and whatever airheaded girls they happened to pick up along the way.

I’m hoping he’s livin’ it up and milking his youth for all its worth, racking up memories and stories to tell over Jack Daniels, thirty years from now, when he’s doing the same thing he’s been doing for three years.

I’m hoping he establishes himself such a consummate loser, I’ll feel not a pang of sorrow or regret that he lit on my leaf long enough to dust me with his seed before he flitted off again to some other flowerbed.

Damn you, Darren Cheatham. Damn you to hell and JD.

My chicken is cooked through. I turn off the burner and roll out the dough, wrapping my hands tight around the rolling pin as a band of pressure cinches around my abdomen.

The kitchen is too hot. I shuffle to the dining room window, leaving a trail of flour across the floor. Outside, frost clings to the grass and pon-pons. Tree bark is frozen on the trunks. Across the street, Miss Gladys’s chimney puffs away. A fat ribbon of smoke turns up into the air and disappears into the low winter clouds.

The glass is cold to the touch, and I press my forehead against it, fighting the odd fever that’s made its way from my torso up to my face. My belly knots up again, and this time, it takes my breath away.

“Mama!” I gasp, knowing full well she won’t answer me. She’s over at Vera Laughlin’s house helping her plan the menu for Casey Laughlin’s engagement barbeque.

I lean against the window and wait for the contraction to subside. It seems like a mile to the other side of the room where the phone is, but I make it, and by the time Mama’s on the line, I’m doubled over on the floor, barely able to talk to her.

“I got ta go, Vera.” Eileen yanks her glasses from her face and starts stuffing papers into her purse.

“Everything alright?” The first thought in Vera’s mind is something’s happened to Paul. Eileen is not an urgent person, and Paul’s not the healthiest man in town. As many blackouts and faintin’ spells he has, it seems only a matter of time before Eileen’d get a phone call to rush herself down to Roe General.

“Everest’s goin’ into labor,” she says.

“Well get goin’ then,” says Vera.

“I’m really sorry to leave you with all this, hon—“

“No, no--leave it all right here, Eileen. Don’t worry ‘bout us. You go on an’ take care of Everest.”

“Thank you, Vera.” Eileen yanks open the door, and a blast of cold air sends notes and magazine clippings swirling to the floor.

“Call me an’ tell me how it goes!”

Eileen’s hands ache as she wraps her fingers around the cold steering wheel. She says a little prayer before she turns the engine and gives an audible “Amen” when the car grumbles to life. She’s always been conscientious about how she treats her Chevy. It was the first car she ever owned. Mama Dellie revealed the depth of her generosity when Eileen went off to college back in ’67. That morning after breakfast, Daddy Vernon led her out to the car stall, and instead of there being only his mule of a truck sitting in the shadows, there was a brand new copper-colored Chevy, white-top and white-walls.

Daddy Vernon pulled his felt hat down low over his eyes, but Eileen could see the corners of his thin lips upturned just a hair, and she knew he’d cracked his sternness for a fraction of a moment.

For twenty-three years, Eileen had babied that car, for it had not only served as her primary source of transportation--it was by now an heirloom. Daddy Vernon’s been gone for fifteen years, but the Chevy goes on.

And it goes on because Eileen has never failed to allow the engine five solid, undisturbed minutes after she cranks it up. Not the day Everest came down with scarlet fever back in Kindergarten, and Eileen had to rush her to Roe General before that fever topped 104. Not the day Daddy Vernon’s 10 acres went up for auction, and Eileen wanted to be there to see who in Baskin most badly wanted that fine piece of land they were willing to pay fair price for it. And not the day Everest graduated college summa cum laude and Eileen had seven minutes to get to the auditorium before Everest made her speech.

Always, the engine would have its time, but this sleepy January morning in Roe, Louisiana, Eileen--for the first time--would not wait.

“Where’s Mama Dellie?” Eileen speaks as evenly as if she were chatting about the sermon on a Sunday afternoon, but her shoulders shake under her brown crocheted sweater, and she unconsciously tucks the ends of some undone yarn into the pea-sized hole on her cuff.

Aunt Helen says they’re going through the preserves, bringing out the persimmon and fig jams and moving the newer jars from past fall to the back of the shelf. She says Mama Dellie’s back in the cupboard with a flashlight, getting another tray.

“Well, I’m at the hospital here with Everest--"

“Is she havin’ that baby?”

“Yes, she is, Aunt Helen, an’ I need you to drive Mama Dellie down here quick as you can.”

“Well, alright, hon. Just sit tight a minute....Adele!”

Everest lies stiff as a board on the plastic-covered pillow behind her head. Her chestnut hair sticks to her plum-flushed cheeks, and it reminds Eileen of how her daughter looked when she was little, bawlin’ her heart out when she’d hit her head or fall flat on her face.

Everest hasn’t been crying, but even at eighteen years old, a full-grown woman, she manages to resurrect Eileen’s memories of early motherhood, when Everest was knee-high and full of temperament.

Everest begins to squirm as another contraction settles into her body, and she clutches at Eileen’s hand as if the grip will keep her from falling off into oblivion.

“Breathe through it, Honey,” Eileen says. “Take your time--"

“Adele!”

Eileen hears Mama Dellie far from the receiver, and it takes forever for Aunt Helen to communicate the news. There is shuffling of the phone, and Mama Dellie’s voice comes quiet and concerned on the line. “You’re at Roe?” she asks.

“Yeah, Mama, I’m at Roe. Now, Aunt Helen’s gonna drive you over here, alright? But you need ta bundle up real good, cause it’s mighty cold an’ I don’t wantcha gettin' sick, alright?”

“Alright, you don’t worry ‘bout me. Helen’ll get me there alright. You just take care o’ Everest an’ tell ‘er I love ‘er.”

“I will, Mama.”

“Alright.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Bye-bye, now.”

A tear squeezes from the corner of Everest’s eye, and she turns to Eileen wide-eyed and panicked. “Mama!” she cries. “I don’t think I can do this!”

“You hang on tight,” Eileen says and pats her hand. “You’re doin’ wonderful, Everest, an’ before you know it, you’ll get to see that beautiful child o’ yours.”

Everest sobs and tugs the gown away from her neck. A nurse adjusts the tube dangling from Everest’s wrist and eyes the numbers on a nearby monitor. “Won’t be long now,” she says. “Your contractions are getting longer and closer together.”

“Mama Dellie’s on her way,” Eileen says as Everest begins to relax again.

“Don’t leave me,” says Everest.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Baby. I’m stayin’ right here, and when Mama Dellie gets here, she’ll stay here, too. We’re goin’ to see this baby born.”

Eileen’s throat tightens suddenly and unexpectedly; emotion comes quick and unannounced these days. She was certain her heart broke harder than Everest’s did when that Darren Cheatham took off in the beginning. She wanted nothing more in the world for her daughter than a man who would be strong and naturally affectionate--Everest's equal. She’d spent years praying God would bless Everest with a fine husband and offer one Rosalind some respite in love and life. But when Everest called crying that Darren had taken off to Tennessee with no warning, Eileen gave a solemn nod to the Creator, finally understanding this purpose would be assigned for a fourth generation.

Darren Cheatham would never see his child--not the birth, not a birthday, not a graduation or a wedding. Everest would not enjoy the abundant joy in partnership. But today, this child will have much more than that.

Even through the foggiest milk-eyes in town, a person can see how much Roe has changed over the years. And how little. Those red-brick schoolhouses weren’t there but maybe fifteen years ago. Everest was the first Rosalind to attend Kindergarten there. Back when Eileen was that young, Adele sent the little girl across town to Dewey Primary. All the children in Roe went there, including the children from the towns surrounding: Baskin, Murphy, Winner Bell. There were many, many mornings like this one that Adele would rise up before the sun to cook up some biscuits, eggs, and bacon for Eileen.

No matter the weather, Adele would tug on her burgundy leather driving gloves, tuck her folded hanky into her patent handbag, shrug on her heavy tweed coat with the plastic quilted buttons, and top her head with her pretty taupe fedora trimmed with the grosgrain ribbon. She’d see that Eileen’s socks were smooth and neat, that her petticoat was discreetly hidden beneath the hem of her dress, and there were no grains of sand in the corners of her eyes.

Then, Adele and Eileen would climb into Vernon’s truck and make the fifteen-mile drive to Roe for the school day.

Sometimes, Januaries back then were just as this one, smokey as a mountaintop and biting cold. Adele missed the days when Eileen would watch with wonder as the cotton fields, cows, and hay bales slipped by along the highway-side, and she would ask if the cows ever got cold, and if a little girl could lay down in the cotton fields like she were laying on a cloud, and if she might have her own horse one day.

Roe has changed, and today, Aunt Helen prattles on about the mysteries of modern medicine and how a woman used to never worry about whether or not her husband would videotape a delivery because a man wouldn’t step foot inside the ward.

It was decades ago--a lifetime--when Adele sat alone in the hospital lobby, enduring the steel and flabbergasted eyes of the staff while her fluid-soaked skirts clung to her quivering calves. Adele Rosalind staggered through the hospital doors after catching the bus from her apartment across town. By the time she reached the first nurse, her contractions were squeezing her in half, and she could not catch her breath long enough to tell the nurse her last name.

The nurse, however, knew all she needed to know. There was no wedding ring on the young woman’s hand, no despairing young gentleman lovingly guiding her at her elbow, no ecstatic mother or mother-in-law clucking instructions. This young lady’s life story was revealed in three seconds, and the nurse led Adele to a familiar corner on the far end of the “special” ward.

Six hours and forty-two minutes later, in the presence of a mother and two strangers, Rita Rosalind came into a gleaming, sterile, echoing world, and the only thing that flashed hotter and redder than the hairs of her head were her cries.

50k or Bust!!!

2004-10-31T21:36:00.000-08:00

Twenty minutes to Kickoff.

Got my coffee. Got my candy. Got my main character.

Laissez les Wrimos roulez!!!

Nanowrimo Research & Painful Details of the Past

2004-10-31T08:22:00.000-08:00

(HA. The real reason Chris Baty chose Nov. 1st for Kickoff: to give us an extra hour to prepare the night before. Thank you, Chris Baty, for being so kind to us Daylight Savings people.) ~~~~~ Research for this novel has been bittersweet. I spoke to Mom's stepmother today for the first time in my life, and I learned the truth behind so many legend and mysteries surrounding my mother's traumatic childhood. More fodder for the novel than I could've hoped for, yet so, so sad. It's difficult for me--I wasn't able to reach down deep enough to clothe these revelations in tenderness and sympathy--I was so excited to hold these gems of information. But for Mom, these are long buried childhood experiences that she does not recall. How do you tell someone the horrible things they went through? I am granted some mercy in that the story I will tell shall be inspired and not absolute truth. But even inspiration can have as sharp an edge as experience. ~~~~~ As a result of today's interview, I have decided to add another matriarchal element to the plot: the compassionate stepmother, who shares the same shining qualities as the Rosalind matriarchs, even if she does not share their blood. Thus, my statement has grown to encompass not only the symbol of strength and courage in this homogeneous Rosalind line, but also the symbol of strength and courage in women who are swept into painful circumstances such as this one, and are divinely pressed to muster the same honorable qualities of a mother supreme.

Gargantuan Laptop

2004-10-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

I am really about ready to pull my hair out. My perfect little 12" screen laptop that got me so swimmingly through Nanowrimo 2003 is kaput. I've gone the Google route to try to figure out what the problem is, but I know as much about formatting hard drives as I do about the Lithuanian language. It's not going to happen. Buying a new laptop is not an option--especially seeing as I have about 29 hours left till Kickoff. It's not like I don't have a suitable substitute: Mark's 17" Dell will do just fine. It's just like dragging a refrigerator around with me. And I wasted a precious Nanowrimo "No plot? No problem!" sticker on that Gateway. Now, the sticker is worth more than the laptop. See? This is why I haven't ever stuck another Nanowrimo sticker anywhere. It's too much of a risk. If I commit, it better be forever.

Nanowrimo: Off the Cuff

2004-10-30T09:22:00.000-07:00

Less than 48 hours to Kickoff, and I've devoted surprisingly little time to soaking in my novel-to-be. The #1 Must for me, though, is to be sure I have character names in place. The What-Happens is far less crucial than Who-Does. ~~~~~ To be honest, I'm really not relying very much on planning. It seems like I didn't really rely on planning much last year either. I settled into the head of my heroine, the clock struck midnight, and I let her speak. And that's how it went on. And I suspect this is why I had such a problem developing Conflict, why I had such a hard time when I tried to tackle the revision. "Lily" felt and broke and melted and combusted and bled all through the story, but she rarely accomplished anything. She sped faster and faster toward demise, and that's what constituted the bulk of the story. ~~~~~ I don't kick myself for my method, though, because it's gotten me to 50k at least 2-out-of-3 times. Naturally, it's not the way I'd want to approach a novel fit for publishing, but this isn't Random House anyway.

The Matriarchs of Rosalind, Roe

2004-10-25T23:05:00.000-07:00

All that stress about the Lafayette Nanowrimo Coffee & Pep Talk, and it is accomplished. And quite well, if you ask me. Thank God my sister was there to help me prepare and set up. In the immortal words of our mother, "I couldn't have done it without her." She is a Godsend. And it's just icing on the cake she's so enthusiastic and creative. Got that from our parents, for sure. Including John and Beth from New Iberia, and myself, we were seven participants. (One of them is our contact from The Vermilion college paper; I'm still tickled pink we got her in on the fun!) And there's my new belly dancer buddy, and her friend whom I've dubbed "Literary Short Story Writer," because I don't know his username yet. Good coffee, good coffee talk. I think we're all a little sketchy about Kickoff, but I think we're optimistic for the most part. Lots of good discussion and tips at the table. Had to be, if it sparked just enough brain for me to come up with a title and plot that will STICK! ~~~~~ I still can't believe I'm ending the night with a title and plot in hand. Maybe it's because I'm tired, but I'm still having trouble backtracking to see just WHERE the idea came from. Naturally, Mom is the only one who would've inspired a story to do with "matriarchs." Is a frequent, frequent reference in our family. And perfect fuel for my burning style. I knew the plot would have to be intimate, and female, and it would have to reflect the kind of life I know. And in order for me to approach the book with any passion, it would have to resound with the force of the triumphs and challenges I've personally experienced/witnessed. So, I looked back at the women in my family, and The Matriarchs of Rosalind, Roe were conceived. ~~~~ It's probably bad luck to "explain" a title that's supposed to lyric and provocative, but for the sake of enthusiasm, I'm indulging myself. Obviously, the story is about matriarchs--four generations of them. And Rosalind, Roe is punctuated as such because "Rosalind" suggests a city inside a state "Roe." "Roe" is actually the city--a fictious place of my own creation, in which last year's Nanowrimo novel was set. It is a self-contained, gossipy sort of big-fish-infested little pond where a drop causes a tidal wave; the rest of the world--including the actual state Louisiana--is irrelevant. "Rosalind" is the maternal surname of these four generations, and "Rosalind" takes a city form in the title because the family line is indeed like unto an established community. "Rosalind" also means "beautiful," "pretty rose," "horse," or "serpent"--all of which appropriately encompass the enduring qualities of these four tiers of women. They are creatures of beauty in their individual ways. They are feminine, and vessels of love--in their individual ways, which are sometimes sharp-cutting, sometimes tender. They are burden-bearing and availing, though in no way subservient. And when threatened, they are indiscriminate, primal, and swift. I'm pleased with the concept, satisfied with the title. But most of all, I commence with the overwhelming conviction this is a story that must be written.

Reading Influence on Nanowrimo Writing

2004-10-24T23:10:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the Baton Rouge Kickoff Party, and I'm so glad I went. Everyone else has viable plots at this point, so it's encouraging to hear of their planning progress--especially since I'm no better off this week than I was last week. It struck me--in the middle of the Baton Rouge meeting--this time last year, I was reading The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath); I'm certain this is why inspiration was so high, why I was able to spin that story with relative ease. This is why 2003's narrative was so self-absorbed and dark. Nanowrimo 2001, I was reading House of Leaves (Mark Z. Danielewski), and my Nano-novel mimicked Danielewski's form, digressing footnotes and visual text effects. Nanowrimo 2002, I was reading my old journals, back in the VW camper days, and the plot took on a road-trip flavor. I'm thinking maybe I should find the time to pick up a short, intense book before Kickoff. Plath-esque narrative came so naturally and comfortably to me. I'd like to weave the words of this year's novel in the same way. But the sum of Plath's life was never repeated in her other works the way it was in The Bell Jar, and the heart of my 2003 novel, Six Seeds to Sabbath, cannot be effectively repeated. --Not that anything Nanowrimo should be effective; and of this, I must continually remind myself. I'd rather go in uninfluenced, but this is such a dry spell this year. I'm really, really afraid to wing it. And I know whatever book I pick up at this point will have some influence on the voice and style for Nanowrimo. Which is important to me, because this voice and style will be the ones which I'll be tethered to (technically, that's inaccurate, because with Nanowrimo, you're tethered to nothing but word count) for the entire month. In any case, it's 12:22 AM. I still haven't wound down from the Baton Rouge meeting. There is still makeup on my face, and I'm jonesin' like anything for a cup of coffee that I will not grant myself because tomorrow is a big day for Lafayette Nanowrimo. BUT...the dishes are humming away in the dishwasher, the kids are all asleep, and there is money in my pocket for Forest's acting lessons. Troupe performance is done, college newspaper interview is done, Baton Rouge meeting is done. I do feel a considerable amount of satisfaction in accomplishment. ~~~~~ Lafayette Nanowrimo Coffee & Pep Talk Date: October 25 (Monday) Time: 7 PM - ??? What: Lafayette Nanowrimo Coffee & Pep Talk Where: CC's Coffee, 340 Kaliste Saloom Road Location: Lafayette Hosted by: A'ilina The Lafayette Daily Advertiser will be present with photographers to cover the event. The Vermilion college newspaper will be present to cover our event. Our contact has suggested a word count "experiment" to see how many words a participant can write within a 15-minute period. If you'd like to participate, bring your pen and paper or laptop. An outlet will be available for our use.

Campus Accomplishments & working title

2004-10-21T23:04:00.000-07:00

Just got back from Polynesian troupe practice, and good GRIEF--I'm exhausted. Had to put all things Nanowrimo on hold for a couple days, since the Polynesian troupe performance is on Saturday (11:00 AM, new Acadiana Arts building, corner of Jefferson & Vermillion). All our work at the college paid off. My contact from The Vermillion college paper will be meeting with me this weekend for some java and Nano-talk. That'll be fun. And my contact at KRVS college radio station seemed really enthusiastic about running the press release. Then tonight, I tried to recruit the Subway sandwich guy to sign up. He seemed like an ambitious writerly type, so maybe he'll show up at CC's on Monday night. ~~~~~ I cannot believe I STILL don't have a title. ????? What gives??? That's pretty much the first thing I've had taken care of every year. But this year...I've still got "working title" up there, testament of my incompetence! BUT...Nanowrimo IS all about word count. Nanowrimo doesn't care if I have a witty title or not. So, I guess in that case, I could title it something like, "Working Title: Legacy of the Clueless Protagonist Who Had No Idea Where She Was, Where She Was Going, or What She'd Do When She Got There"... That's 25 words out of the way.

Plot No More

2004-10-19T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm flaking on my PLOT.I really don't think I have it in me to spend a whole month constructing a fiction-form social commentary. I like the story; I like the story a lot. But this one is for a time when I have room to be tedious. Sooooooo, I've been thinking about doing something on the question of "the normal family." That's something I've learned many, many, many people consider, and I think I'm in the perfect position to chew on that particular question for 30 days.

Plot & The Question of Catalyst

2004-10-18T01:06:00.000-07:00

I am proud to say, I HAVE A PLOT. Where: "Roe" - my own small town creation When: present day The town of Roe is divided (conflict) when two of its sons--All-American Good Boy and Countercultural Rebel--are killed in a car accident while traveling together (catalyst). Readers experience the Roe tragedy through the eyes of Protagonist (female), Rebel's sister, who is also married to Good Boy's cousin (conflict). I haven't decided on what crystalized the catalyst: animal in the road, another driver, kid throwing rocks from the treeline. I haven't worked out whether I want to neutralize the cause, or demonize it--whether I want to humanize the cause, or objectify it--whether I want to reveal the catalyst at all, or maintain its anonymity. What I decide on will be determined by how much weight I want the cause to hold in contrast to the town's reaction. Neutralization = "It could happen to anyone." Demonization = Characters become victims of a villain. Humanization = The cause can be understood. Objectification = The cause can be opposed. Revelation = Reader carries burden of knowledge, and plot must gratify. Anonymity = Story carries burden of revelation, and plost must gratify. I suppose the plot must gratify any way you slice it. But these are the questions I'll be chewing on over the next few days. I've got to resolve this issue. I cannot go into November with a flaky catalyst. The way I write, the rest of the story's credibility and SOME sense of unity (I tend to forget...this IS Nanowrimo; there's not SUPPOSED to be any unity) depends on it. But the bigger and more pressing question: Do I REALLY have the brain resources to tend to this FREAKING question of catalyst??? And if not, WHY am I punishing myself???

Papering the college tomorrow for Nanowrimo, and then schmoozing at Cafe Cottage with Sister to try to net some participants. If anything, we'll get to sit in a disgustingly hip atmosphere, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, talk story, and makes stupid jokes for a couple hours. Much better than stressing at home.

[_]o

Papering Downtown

2004-10-14T23:45:00.000-07:00

My sister and I spent the afternoon and evening going from shop to shop on Jefferson Street downtown. The good news: not one shop told us we couldn't post our flyer. The bad news: the flyers were really small. They were hand-out flyers--not window displays. And the reason for this is that I didn't make it to Office Max before I drove all the way across town: Not enough time. But at least they're up. And we bent the rules of clean-city aesthetics a bit--we pulled the classic "tons-o'-flyers-pasted-side-by-side-like-they-do-in-New-York" kinda thing. No one stopped us or said, "Hey, you can't do that!" So maybe it'll help. If they don't blow away. ~~~~~ I hit The Independent (newspaper). I'm really crossing my fingers, because The Independent readership is a generally creative crowd. The Lafayette Daily Advertiser--I would think--has a much larger readership, so if we are granted both avenues, I'd hope participation would spike before Kick-Off. ~~~~~ I pick up my flyers tomorrow. --And I do have to pat myself on the back for this--I had 300 Nanowrimo bookmarks printed and cut! I was going to be very conservative and get maybe 100 for the first order. But shoot--who's going to refuse a bookmark??? No one that I know of. I've got dozens of junky ol' bookmarks for off-the-wall causes and events. And I keep them ALL. One can never have too many bookmarks. Besides, people spend MONEY on bookmarks. No one's going to pass up a free one. At least they'll keep it long enough to read what's on it. I think everyone reads their bookmarks at least once. Of course, they're not glamorous bookmarks, or flashy bookmarks, or bright bookmarks, or hip bookmarks. They're actually kinda plain, but they are Nanowrimo bookmarks, and that makes all the difference in the world. ~~~~~ Still no novel ideas. If something doesn't just whack me upside the head soon, I'm going to start getting veeeeeeeery nervous.

One Step Forward, One Step Back

2004-10-14T08:36:00.000-07:00

Well, as far as I'm concerned, I got the biggest stress out of the way: I finished the press release last night, so God-willing, that will go out to all the planned locations today. But it's raining. So it looks like I won't be posting flyers up outdoors. No problem, though. I'm designing Nanowrimo bookmarks to distribute at various bookstores and coffeeshops. They're more likely to cooperate if they're getting something. And who doesn't love a bookmark? Still NO IDEA what my novel will be about. NO CLUE. At least last year, when I was in the middle of a severe bout of Depression, I was inspired. This year, all I am is exhausted. Maybe it's the weather.

testing

2004-10-13T08:28:00.000-07:00

testing testing testing