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PAGE FOUR Exercise Assignment May 25,1999 Exercise #20: "All in a Picture":
Members were given a choice of six photographs from which they were to choose one and write the story behind the scene.
OLD FRIEND By Graham Weeks Michael’s call came at a bad time. "I need help, John." I hadn’t heard his voice for over fifteen years, but there was no mistaking the gentle Irish brogue, overlaid as always with just a tinge of hysteria. "Michael, it’s good to hear from you, and I’ll do what I can. But if it’s money, I..." "It isn’t money, John. D’you think I’d call you after all this time to ask you for money? It’s more important than that, and it won’t cost you a penny. There’s even something in it for you. Quite a lot, in fact." I’d like to think it wasn’t that last sentence that convinced me. I’d be fooling myself though. I was ruined. Me, John Carpenter, city whiz-kid and baby-faced star of Murchisson & Strather, Merchant Bankers. I’d made more money for them than the net wealth of most small countries. And a pile for myself, of course. Then the Japanese futures market hit a low. No problem; these things are cyclical. You just borrow a few thousand million, enough to cover your losses and service the loan while the market picks up, then it’s money minting time again. Except that the market went bust. Murchisson & Strather were unforgiving. The morning after the crash, I found someone else’s name painted on my office door. And the worst of it was that I’d put just about everything I personally owned into those same futures. When Michael’s call came, Lizzie had taken the kids to her mother’s for a few days, where they would at least be able to eat while the scandal blew over. The newspapers were full of holier than thou articles written by envious, twenty grand a year hacks. How they loved it. The fall of Icarus, they crowed. Midas loses his touch. I went through the pockets of my suits for taxi fare. I didn’t really believe Michael’s offer of money. He was a writer for God’s sake. What’s a lot of money to a writer? A couple of grand? I’d need a quarter of a million to keep the mortgage and the car payments going, never mind the kids’ school and all the rest, just while I got back on my feet. But at least it gave me something else to think about. Michael had given me the address of a hotel in Camden, of all the God-forsaken places. On the long cab ride from Belgravia I watched London pass by, sweltering in the hot afternoon. It was one of those late 80s summers that seemed to be a by-product of all the money we were making. Michael read English at Oxford, I read economics. Each thought the other was wasting his time, but we were inseparable. Until Lizzie came into the picture, that is. She was a Philosophy postgrad, and Michael’s girlfriend. Marriage was in the air, a ring had been given - the sort of ring he could afford in those days, with a diamond about the size of a full stop. Then one night he burst into my rooms at Magdalene and found Lizzie, sitting before the mirror brushing her hair, naked. He never spoke to me again. Much later I read a couple of his novels, spiteful little rants about suburban matrimonial betrayal, the stuff of minor paperback print runs and maybe a TV adaptation or two. I didn’t read any more of them, and forgot about Michael. I’d given Lizzie my own ring (with a golf ball of a diamond) and two beautiful daughters. And then the phone call. I need help. Something in it for you. Quite a lot. "All that was a long time ago, John," said Michael. "Forgive, forget and all that." I could see he didn’t believe it; but he wanted something, and could hardly begin by bringing up the girl I stole from him all those years before. He was sitting on the bed in a cheap hotel room near Camden Passage, and had motioned me to take the single armchair. We sat hunched forward, our heads uncomfortably close together in the tiny space. A hot breeze pushed past faded curtains, carrying the cries of the street traders below. A few stilted formalities, and he came to the point. I didn’t believe it at first. "You want me to... what?" I said. "Kill me, John." His voice was level, sane, and businesslike. Even so, it took me some seconds to realize that he was perfectly serious. Then he went into a long speech, which he had obviously prepared carefully. He spoke of his empty life and his writing, which had brought him some financial success, but no satisfaction. He knew he would never be more than third rate, would never live up to those promises we had made ourselves when we were students and had our lives all before us. His parents and his only brother had died in an accident some years before, he had never married. He had, he said, no reason to go on living, to go on suffering the agony of his failure. There was one problem. Michael was too much of a coward to kill himself. He returned to the subject of the money. Compared to me, he’d made almost nothing; but spent almost nothing either. There was over four hundred thousand pounds, now in a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank. He held out a tiny key. "It’s all yours, John, if you’ll help me. I know you need it, I’ve read the newspapers. That’s why I called you. That, and because you owe me. For old times’ sake. Help me." I was appalled to find that it all made sense. He didn’t want to live. If I didn’t help him, he would find someone else, or eventually pluck up the courage to do away with himself, and the money would rot in Switzerland forever. What’s more, he had it all worked out. "We haven’t seen each other for years, John, nobody will connect you with my death. I’m booked in here under a false name, you didn’t give yours. I check out, we take my car down to the Isle of Dogs, where there’s a quiet place that’s just right. This gun is illegal, untraceable. See these? New gloves. Put them on, take the gun. Heavier than you thought, isn’t it? Afterwards, you take it down river a couple of miles and throw it in. Then get yourself a plane ticket to Zurich. Simple as that. One shot, John, that’s all I’m asking. One moment of your life. Help me." My gaze swiveled up from the gun in my gloved hands, to the tiny key he dangled in his fingers. It glittered in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Outside the street traders bayed, trying to sell up before closing time. "I need... time. I need to think, Michael." "It’s got to be now, John," he said. "Now or never." **** I live in Acton now, Du Cane Road. H.M.P. Wormwood Scrubs is a fair way from Belgravia too, but you get used to prison life. Michael and I drove down to the Isle of Dogs just as it was getting dark. On a deserted wharf I put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I was shaking as I got out of the car, the gun and the key in my pocket. Then I heard the sirens. He’d planned it very carefully, down to the last minute, making the call to the police while I thought he was checking out of the hotel. And he hadn’t lied about the money, except that it wasn’t in a Swiss bank. It was contained in an insurance policy. In the event of Michael’s death, almost half a million pounds would be paid to the sole beneficiary: me. The Queen’s Counsel produced the policy in court, smugly sealing his victory. The premiums had been paid religiously for over twelve years. The date of the policy, I noticed, coincided with my marriage to Lizzie. I forgot about Michael, but he didn’t forget me. © Graham Weeks, 1999 Exercise Assignment June 8,1999 Exercise #21: "Character Building and Plotting":
Write a story inspired by a SINGLES PERSONAL AD. You can use a real ad from your local paper, radio, etc., or make one up. In a good singles personal ad you will get a sense of the writer's physical, emotional, or spiritual characteristics (at least as portrayed by the writer). Now, what sort of person might respond to this ad? THE ONLY ONE By Graham Weeks "Mister Bradley!" I look up nervously. Miss Henley is standing behind her large desk, thirty feet away. She’s a black shape against the bright window behind her, like a crow or a vulture. "Mister Bradley, would you come here, please?" At first I think she’s seen that I’ve one of my magazines hidden behind the file I’m pretending to work on. But it isn’t that. She’s holding up the papers I placed in her in tray earlier this morning. The awful thing about an open plan office is that everyone sees everything, and hears everything. My desk is behind the door, so I have to walk past all the others--ten of them, all women except me--to reach Miss Henley. I have to walk past Jane’s desk. That’s the worst part. I bend my head low, and keep my eyes glued to the green carpet. I don’t want to fall over and make a complete fool of myself. I can almost hear Mother’s voice in my ear: 'Don’t fall over, Kenneth. Don’t make a complete fool of yourself!' "Elementary mistakes, Mr Bradley. Mistakes I have pointed out time and again, I may add." I raise my eyes, but not far enough to meet Miss Henley’s ice blue stare. The thin, painted line of her lips is as far as I dare go. They remind me of Mother’s. She’s about forty-five, too, about Mother’s age. Miss Henley hates men. I think she might be a lesbian. They hate men, I know, I’ve read about them in my magazines. She hates me, anyway. "I’m sorry, Miss Henley," I say, dropping my eyes back to the carpet. "I’ll go over them again." She leaves a long pause, so that my apology hangs in the air and becomes grotesque. Mother used to do that. When I apologised, she would wait, and I’d imagine the words suspended in the air, slowly turning green, like a rotting, hanging corpse. The silence behind tells me that everyone is watching, waiting to see what will happen. That means Jane too, and my toes curl and wriggle inside my brown brogues, the only expression I can give my anguish. Finally, when Miss Henley is satisfied that everyone is aware of the inadequacy of my apology, she says (and she speaks just as loudly as when I was thirty feet away), "You shall not go over them again, Mr Bradley. You have gone over them quite enough, I think. Miss Southerton? Come here please." Miss Southerton! I hear the soft scrape of Jane’s chair on the carpeted floor, and her gentle footsteps approaching. Inside my brogues, my toes wriggle like a nest of maggots. I feel her golden presence behind me, think I detect her sweet breath on my neck. I smell her perfume. "Yes, Miss Henley?" Her voice! "Take these, Jane, and please see if you can do anything with them." "Yes, Miss Henley." "And as for you, Mister Bradley, confine yourself to Type A files until further notice. Even you can’t do too much harm there." I go back to my desk and spend the rest of the morning thinking about Jane. Mother didn’t like Jane, but I like thinking about her. Sometimes I imagine I could live with her, in a cottage somewhere in the country. She would make jam, and I’d keep bees, and we’d be happy. But sometimes, like this morning, I think other things about her. Things I’d like to do to her. And that makes me remember my advertisement, and I open the file with the magazine inside, and read it for the thousandth time. *** Mother warned me there’d be women like Miss Henley, and what they would do to me if I was on my own, without her to advise me. And Mother didn’t approve of Jane. She never met her, but I told her about Jane’s golden hair and her beautiful, innocent face. And one day I told Mother about what I’d like to do to Jane. Not the cottage and the jam, the other thing. Mother went very quiet, and afterwards I wished I hadn’t said it. My advertisement stares back at me from the page. Each time I read it, it seems new. It seems to be written in letters of fire. And I forget about Miss Henley, and even about Jane, as I think how carefully I wrote it. Nothing obscene, but careful hints so that anyone reading it would know just what I’d like to do. It took me a long time to write it, but it was worth it. It will be worth it, I think, if it brings me the one I want, the one I need. And today, at lunchtime, there may be answers waiting for me. The Post Office is crowded, and I queue impatiently for twenty minutes. I give my box number, and old man in the window hands me five envelopes. Back at work, in the toilet, my fingers tremble as I open them. Two are advertisements for sex shops, with special introductory offers. I tear them up angrily. One is a letter, but it is garbled, badly spelt nonsense. The fourth is a tract from something called the Church of the Risen Christ. And then I find it! The fifth envelope contains a typed letter. It is from her, I know it immediately. The one I want. The only one. I was excited to read your advertisement, the letter says. Are you really almost six feet tall? Do you look like Sean Penn? Do you really like... those things? And there’s more; it’s signed, Jane. Now I know that people don’t use their real names. I didn’t use mine, of course. But just the idea that this is Jane Southerton, makes my head spin and my feet want to dance. Somehow I get through the afternoon. Somehow I get through the following week at the office, Miss Henley’s vicious rebukes making no impact on me at all. I try, without much success, to keep my eyes away from Jane. At times I catch her glancing at me, a strange expression on her face, and I wonder.... I am only waiting for Saturday. That is the day I have suggested, in my reply. Like spies, we will meet in a park whose location I have carefully described. We will recognize each other by the folded copies of the magazine under our arms. Saturday finally comes, and I am late and out of breath when I arrive at the park. This is because I have spent so much time carefully washing, shaving and dressing myself in the new suit I have bought. Then I see her, walking away from me, the magazine clutched to her side. It could only be her, I suddenly see that. I call out her name and she turns. "You don’t look at all like Sean Penn," she says. "And you’re nowhere near six feet tall." "I’m sorry." My words hang in the air while I stare at her thin lips, afraid to meet her eyes. And then, instead of waiting for her to speak, I say, "Can I come home, Mother?" © Graham Weeks 1999. Exercise Assignment June 22,1999 Exercise #22: "Story Starters":
Pick one of the six beginnings and fly with it. ROBERT By Vanessa Paris He looked out of place, wearing his Sunday best, weary eyes searching the room...for his son, Robert. Well, his given name was Robert, but they’d always called him Bobby as a child. When Bobby reached middle school, he’d found a new group of friends. They didn’t look any different than his childhood friends, wearing the same baseball cap, jeans and T-shirts they always had, but still—they were different. They didn’t seem intimidated by adults. When Bobby had these new friends over, they would ignore Linda and him. If either of them spoke to the boys directly, saying something like "would you like a soda?" or "how was school today?", they pretended not to hear. If it was repeated they would act annoyed and answer in as few words as possible, returning to their television or video games right away. At one point, Bobby told them that he now wanted to be called Rob. At the time they’d been bothered by it, had had trouble getting used to it, but reminded each other that he was growing up. They made an effort to remember to call him Rob instead of Bobby, but sometimes they forgot. When Rob got to high school, he found another new group of friends. These ones looked different as well as acting different. Suddenly, their son wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t black, and sometimes he wore dark lipstick and powdered his face white. He and his friends listened to music that sounded like it should be playing at a funeral. If he or Linda asked them if they wanted a snack or something to drink, they ignored the question entirely--even if it was repeated. Rob started going by the name Demise; he never told them to call him that, but they would overhear his friends calling him that. He spent less time at home, and wouldn’t tell them where he’d been. He and Linda lay awake many nights. Waiting for sleep, waiting for peace, waiting for their child to return. They tried to talk to him about the changes, but he wouldn’t respond. Sometimes Linda would get so upset that she’d shout at him, scream at him, but he would just stare at her blankly, saying nothing. Last night, Linda had lain in bed sobbing so hard she choked, praying that he’d yell back at her, that he’d tell her to leave him alone, that it was his life, to mind her own goddamn business. Anything but the blankness. Anything to show her that something of him was still left inside. Tonight they’d gone to a church meeting. They’d taken separate cars because Linda was going to stop at a sick friend’s afterwards. He’d pulled out of the church parking lot and seen it happen in the rearview mirror: the car coming too fast, hitting Linda’s car in the driver’s side. She was gone by the time the police arrived. He knew that Bobby was at a concert tonight at the music hall only because he’d seen the tickets on his son’s dresser. The show was sold out, and, at first, the bouncers refused to let him in. A paunchy, middle-aged man with a graying beard and an ill-fitting suit: it must be a joke. It was only when he began crying, for the first time since the accident two hours ago, that they agreed to let him go in to find Bobby. Now, he stands in the middle of the simmering crowd. All around him are teenagers in black; hair gelled into spikes and swirls, the harsh glint of metal in their ears, their noses, their eyebrows. They roar along with the music, a thumping beat with alto vocals. The air is sweet with various kinds of smoke. He looks helplessly around, trying to discern which of these swaying ghosts might be his son. Suddenly, he is afraid to find Bobby. Bobby will be embarrassed, he is sure of this, that his father is at the concert in his church suit—that his father is at the concert at all. What will he say, he wonders as he stands in the crowd with tears streaming down his cheeks? How will he explain to Bobby that his mother is dead? And, as he spots his son across the room clenching another black-clad boy, faces pressed close together and hands running roughly up and down each other’s bodies, he wonders what he will do when he tells his son that his mother is dead, and all the boy does is stare at him with dull, vacant eyes. © Vanessa Paris 1999 Exercise Assignment July 2,1999 Exercise #23: "Happy Couple?":
This week's exercise is about that happy couple we've written about before. Well in this assignment, they have been together for several years and they are facing other phases in the growth of their relationship. You can use the couple you wrote about before, or you can create an entirely new couple. Pick one of the three possible phases of a relationship below and show us how your unique couple deals with it in a short story. JUST A CONFIRMATION By Carley Rey Jean was sitting in a huge armchair. Joe smiled as he stepped into the room to see the diminutive figure almost lost among the floral cushions, the huge back and large armrests. Her feet did not even touch the ground. She had shrunk in her old age and her hunched posture did nothing to reveal the once strongly independent character. That soul, once bubbly, bright and full of energy was fading too quickly. The light in her eyes faded to a smokey dullness that Joseph feared was about to extinguish altogether. Life would not be the same without Jean, even as she was now—just a breathing frame. He could still hold her though and even now in a nursing home she still smelled of her favorite perfume. It was his first gift to her. He had wondered for a long time how that bottle had lasted so long until he caught her buying a new one. She told him that while it was still being made she would always wear it. He had given her a new bottle just last month for her eighty-seventh birthday. It was symbolic in a way, he thought just maybe, while the company continued to make the perfume she would stay with him. He kissed her lightly on the lips as he reached her then looked deeply into her eyes in hope for a response. They were the same dull grey as her hair. At least she didn’t push him away today and ask him who he was. She does not talk much at all anymore but he continued to visit everyday. He would arrive on the early bus at ten in the morning and give her a cup of tea then feed her lunch at twelve o’clock. He would stay until about three then leave to catch the bus home before the night atmosphere began to chill the air. This way he could light the heater and have it nice and hot to try and stop the ice forming on his breaking heart. Today Joe told Jean about their new great-grandson. Jean had loved babies and had nine of her own. There were now thirty-one grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. Where Jean at one time recorded all their details in the family bible, Joe had taken over the task hoping the next entry would not be the death of his of his beloved Jean. Joe held her hand as he described their new descendent happily and told her how he found a small blue bonnet for the little one. Also the cat was dong fine and the rose bushes were covered in buds. He was sure they would have a good show this year and he promised he would bring the first bloom in for her. He felt the rings on her finger as he spoke and smiled at the memory of placing them there over sixty years ago. It was a warm spring day when they married and he had never regretted a moment of their time together. They had their ups and downs, the happy times and the arguments but each event strengthened their love for each other, as making up was the best fun of all. The dementia was gradual. Hardly noticeable at first but then she became a danger to herself and others. Joe being elderly himself could not cope anymore. His Jean needed someone stronger than him. He never thought it would happen like this. He thought they would be able to care for each other. Now she did not know who he was, didn’t know her children when they visited and now had lost all ability to speak or acknowledge anyone was even there. Joe always spoke to her—held her—and smelled her perfume. What more did an old man want? He wanted to know she still loved him as he did her. Just a smile would do it. ‘I have to go now love,’ he said as he stood to kiss her good-bye yet again, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Jean looked at him and smiled. A tiny light flickered in the depths of clouded grey eyes. ‘Do you know my Joe?’ she asked in a crackled voice, ‘You remind me of him. I still love him.’ The glimmer faded and Jean rocked the enormous recliner as she hummed softly. Joe looked at the carer who had come to say good-bye. ‘She still loves me.’ he said happily. ‘Of course she does.’ remarked the carer. ‘I believe the memory and the body fade but true love lives on with the spirit.’ Joe was happy to believe her, it was what he needed to hear. Jean had confirmed what he knew but needed her to say. That night the heater did not run as hot, there was a rekindled warmth burning freely in his heart. © Carley Rey 1999 Exercise Assignment July 8,1999 Exercise #24: "All in a Picture":
Members were given a choice of six photographs from which they were to choose one and write the story behind the scene.
Mama's Memories By Kari Lee Bless the man whose calloused hands laid her goat to rest. Bless the land where wheat once grew to the garden rail Bless the house, long-abandoned, trashed by ice and sun © Kari Lee (Agnes)
Exercise Assignment July 15,1999 Exercise #25: "Story Endings":
Here's a switch--for us at least. Use the following sentence as the ENDING of your story. She smiled softly as the door banged behind him. I think this is general enough that it could be used in any type of story--romance comes to mind initially--but it doesn't have to be a romance. There are other reasons for smiles....
The Kitchen Door by Ann Davie The creaking spring groaned, pulling the battered screen door closed with its familiar slam. BANG, Bang, bang - the three descending staccatos hammered the dry air. Sometimes the sound so annoyed Alex; it became a kind of aural flagellation, a reminder of her duty. When the boys were young and still at home, she had sworn she’d rip the door off its hinges the next time one of them ran into the kitchen before heading back out, barely after the last "bang" finished. Other times a curious blend of reassurance and apprehension would be released with the last bang. She’d sit up late at night in the dark, waiting, listening. The sound would echo through the sleeping farmhouse, signaling that Jack was finally home, safe. Alex would quickly shift down in bed, feebly attempting to look as if she had been asleep already. Jack could always tell though. Either that or he just didn’t care. He would stomp up the stairs, loudly enter the bedroom and drop his heavy boots on the wood floor before releasing his great bulk to the sagging springs of their matrimonial bed. This time, each spanking rap only added to the tension that filled the kitchen. Alex was used to tension, but this was different. This was rage. After the door lay still, remnants from the verbal explosion slammed into each other, charging the air with a crackling electricity. Jack’s heated words still burned in her ears; her own words, ideas and feelings no longer caught in her throat, had been expressed with a wounding precision. "So this is it. What’s supposed to happen now?" Her arms couldn’t decide whether to hold on to her body, stretch above her head or lay limp at her sides. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, waiting for a cue, something familiar, to tell her what to do next. The midday sun eluded the kitchen, a brief respite from the baking heat that enveloped the land in all directions. Alex pulled the starched white curtains aside, looking out to the scrubby hills in the distance. The faint trail of dust kicked up by Jack’s truck soon faded into the deep blue sky. Alex fingered the cotton, thinking the small red and green bullion roses were a waste. "No one notices. No one ever did." Faint smudges of dust were left on the pristine white. Alex walked over to the deep sink and turned the cold tap on full bore. Heavy drops splashed over the stainless steel basin. She had always been conscious of wasting even a drop. Seven years of drought imprinted habits in every movement and action, but now a deeper, greedier instinct took over. If she were in town now, she’d be at the department store, spending big. Maybe she’d be in a bakery or chocolate shop somewhere, ordering one of everything on hand. The pub, however, would never even be considered. Jack would probably join her, believing they had at least one common interest. She desperately wanted to get back at him, and the extravagance on hand was water. Cupping her hands to catch as much as possible, she then poured cold water in her, on her, splashing over her face, shoulders and arms. Each handful washed away the red dust that seemed to cover everything, even small places like behind her ears and the creases around her eyes. The tap rushed and gushed, sending silty tinged water gurgling down the drainpipe. Alex shook her arms and hands over the sink and then rung the stringy tangles of dark brown hair. She wasn’t so frivolous as to let the wastewater merely evaporate. It could at least be put to good use watering the pitiful excuse for a garden just outside the kitchen window. Before the drought, her garden buzzed and hummed with bees and crickets, lush with wild flowers that at times filled the air with a heady honey. The garden enclave framed by the kitchen windows helped her imagine that she were far away from the dusty grazing land that lay for miles and miles around her. After the second year of drought, Jack said the scattered garden beds were an unnecessary drain on the farm. Alex had been unwilling to give in and her sons hooked up a bypass for the wastewater in the kitchen. The scattered beds near the kitchen window had a reprieve for a few years. This year, both she and the garden had acquiesced to the dry, barren landscape and spiteful looks. The beds now lay like decrepit dried arrangements, and Alex couldn’t find the courage to dig it all under. "Maybe we should pour your grog over the garden. You’d both be better for it." Alex recalled the sarcastic shot that had started it all. If it had always been this way, maybe she could have remained silent. It was the change in Jack that had been hardest to cope with. She couldn’t let go of what had been there once. Reminding him of his former spirit forced him to retreat into a numbed life of silence. If she bit her tongue, the resentment swelled until it choked her every thought. "I can’t handle being held up to the past. I’m not the same person. Everything is just slipping away." Jack’s words had pulled at her heart. She’d heard the pleading before, hoping beyond hopes that each time he uttered the excuse, he’d also admit needing help. It never happened. "You’ve said those same words over and over again. I don’t think you really know what they mean. I keep thinking you’re going to stop drinking, like you’ll realize how much you’re hurting yourself, and others. But you never do. If you can’t handle this, maybe you’d just better go." Alex had never uttered those final words before. She’d thought them, tumbling them over in her mind, imagining how they’d be used if she were ever pushed far enough. She never seriously thought the time would come, though. She was just as surprised as Jack that it had. "You’re just going to give up on me? Like that. Twenty-six years forgotten. Like that." "You gave up long before I did. I was hanging on, hoping you’d change. Hoping you’d see what a sorry state you’re in and do something about it. I only just gave up now, this minute." "I can’t believe you can be that selfish. You sit here, as if ice wouldn’t melt in your mouth, and tell me to leave. You have no idea how hard it’s been. You have no idea what I’ve been through to keep this farm going." "What do you think I’ve been doing? Sitting around living a life of luxury? You have got to be kidding. Of course I know what you’ve been through. I’ve been through the same. You just won’t let me help you, will you? Unless it’s to give you some money for the pub. But wait. You don’t even bother asking me anymore...you just take it anyway." "I don’t need to stay here and listen to this. If you’re idea was to drive me away...well...you’ve succeeded. I can’t handle this anymore." Alex shook her head. She couldn’t help going over each angry word. "’He’ can’t handle it." She picked up a dishtowel and mindlessly wiped the worn countertop, moving the toaster, jars and breadboard to wipe non-existent crumbs away before placing each to their allotted spaces. "Does he think ‘I’ can?" How could he have just left her like that? To be fair, Alex had told him to go. But still. She would have rather had him stay and face up to it all. Face up to the binges every fortnight. Admit that he’d let everything around him become buried in dust. She just wanted him to do what was right. She knew he had it in him. Was that selfish of her? "Who the hell does he think he is!" Not really a question, more a statement. The strange sensation of conquest, vindication and righteousness mingled together. Everything shifted, as if she’d stepped through a looking glass, caught a stray flying trapeze or been spun in a dust devil. That precise moment crystallized everything, bringing all facets into focus at once. Alex realized that she now held all the power...for the very first time in their marriage. "The first change around here has got to be that damned door." Alex grabbed the tight spring, the steel coils bit into her palms. Wedging her foot against the door, she pulled as hard as she could. The top screw gave way first, causing Alex to lose her footing. She gripped the spring with both hands, twisting the last straining screw from its hold. Her hands were raw red. No amount of pain or discomfort could dampen the elation Alex felt. The sound of gravel spitting from under heavy tires brought her back to reality. Alex set the spring down on the kitchen table and pulled the curtains open; rust and grease stains were added to the dust. She could make out the white trim first, the red truck almost lost in the brick red dust billowing around it. "What the hell is he doing back?" She couldn’t decide if she should be relieved or angry. Just a half second ago, Alex had broken free from Jack’s hold. The drastic change her emotions took scared her. Was her life different, or had she been imagining the feeling of freedom? She wanted to leave or hide, more than that—disappear. Thoughts of watching him realize what he had lost spurred the gnawing hunger inside her. His truck skidded to a stop in front of the kitchen windows. Alex could see him sitting, gripping the steering wheel as if afraid to let go. He turned the key causing the engine to shake with a choked cackle before stopping. He pushed the bronze mop of hair to the side. Alex had never realized how much gray had crept in before now. His tanned skin, now shallow and gaunt around his eyes, seemed fused with the same ochre dirt that covered his blue work shirt. "I love him." Alex said the words, really believing them this time, feeling them flood her head and heart. "But I can’t let him destroy me." Jack pushed the door open, slowly swinging his legs out as if each action were a labored, considered process. Alex moved away from the window. The last thing she wanted to do was look him in the eye right now. Pacing nervously, she finally decided to sit at the table. For a few seconds, she was able to calm down. She closed her eyes, her breathing came easy and she felt her shoulders let go. The only sounds came from the slow ticking of the truck motor settling and the soft scuffle of Jack’s boots on the dirt outside. When she opened her eyes, she saw Jack standing at the door, holding a battered looking plastic pot. The gray-green leaves from a scraggly, pot-bound daisy bush obscured his face. "If I promise to water it, can I come in?" "I don’t know if I can believe your promises anymore." "Maybe promising is wrong. The only thing I can tell you is...and you know how hard it is for me to say this...I was wrong. I know I was. Please, Alex, I’m not strong enough to do it on my own." Jack’s pleading looks fell on Alex, sliding off her firm resolve. "Hell, that ain’t right either." Frustration bulleted through his body, shaking the plant in his hands. "What I mean....It’s so damned hard to find the words. What I mean is, I ‘could’ do it on my own, I know I could. But I don’t want to. I love you, couldn’t imagine you not being near me." Alex bit her lower lip. She knew he was worth one more chance, a lot more than just one, if she had to admit it. "Alright. But I have to tell you, things are different now. Come in. That sorry looking plant needs a drink." Alex quickly added, "Of water!" Jack pushed the screen door open and stepped aside, expecting it to spring back closed. When it didn’t, he looked up at Alex with a grin. "I hated that thing. Drove me nuts." As Jack kicked the door shut, she smiled softly as the door banged behind him.
© Ann Davie 1999
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