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PAGE SEVEN Exercise Assignment October 12, 1999 Exercise #33: "One Word Titles" This sounds simplistic, but it may not be as easy as it first appears. Write down the first twenty or thirty words that come to mind. (Don't even think about the rest of the assignment, if you can keep from it.) Then go back and choose ONE from your list and write a story around that word. This one word will become the title of your story. I believe Ray Bradbury used this method to create many of his stories. See if it works for you. Cornmaiden Oh sure. It’s a helluva big honor being chosen the Cornmaiden for a year. It’s also one big pain in the rear, too. Oh, the gifts and attention are cool. I particularly think the feathered headdress is nifty. Man, they must have killed a dozen eagles to get all those feathers! You ever wonder what an enraged eagle can do to a young guy wearing only a small, sexy loincloth? Well, it’s not pretty, believe me. Leaping Twig, a close friend admitted a lot of the young bucks volunteer for all this heroic crap because when or if they return, the maidens just do anything for them. I think that’s fine, but part of me thinks that’s kinda insincere...even a bit sick. Perverse, ya know. I mean, getting an eye gouged out and half your skin ripped off just so that you can roll around for days in a tent with a couple of young maidens? Whatever. Oh, by the way, my name is, oops, was, Laughing Eyes Blue Moon. My friends just call me, sorry, called me, Blue. That was before I got voted as Cornmaiden for the year. Now I am just Cornmaiden or the Holy Maiden. What kills me, is this is supposed to be this big honor and all, right? But, like, figure this, I have to wear this stupid corn husk and corn silk skirt all the time. It rustles and Great Father in the Sky, I gotta tell you, it chafes my precious Maiden skin. And it poufs out. Well, I mean, it’s not graceful or anything. I go to sit and, well, there is too much Blue Moon out there sometimes, as far as I am concerned. And no buckskin blouse, either. Nope. Not tradition. Just this necklace of corn kernels, nice colors ‘n all, but give a girl a break...some days are getting chilly, it being autumn now and all. Well, I guess the braves get an eyeful on the cold days...I am one Blue perky Cornmaiden. But, hot damn buffalo chops! Ya know, it makes me get ideas...these lusty guys staring at my...you know...and me feeling like warming up and all and I get these sensations...I am only human and I gotta tell you, two or three braves might not be enough for me...but tradition! I can’t roll in the teepee with even one lust filled brave until the night of the harvest festival! At least that’s only next week!
I gotta admit, I am getting a little creeped out. The older squaws are looking at me funny and when I ask what happened to the last Cornmaiden, Two Doves Big Tree, they change the subject or mumble something about her going to the Crow People. Well, I may be young, but I am not that stupid! No one goes to the Crow People! They are filthy and make women do slave work. Two Doves was no squaw for that shit. Believe me, some Chief would need some powerful medicine to get her to wash his feet, let alone act like some slave! She would have beaten him up the way she did that Grizzly that stole her elderberries. That bear wished he could have been a rug. Not only have none of us seen that Grizzly, he must of told all of his friends, too, ‘cos we have not seen any Grizzlies since then. So, what’s the deal? Why give me all these presents and honors and then what? At the end of the year, just take ‘em all back? And what about me? What do they do with me? Hey, I am not going to be a slave to some dirty tribe that can’t wash their own ears. So, I have a surprise planned for the Elders, you betcha. When I am expected to bless the crops and the new children and animals, guess what? You got it. I am gonna say, “Yeah, I sure would love to Bless all of you. But, I got this thing about losing my gifts and being traded to other tribes. I also got this creepy idea that maybe you are thinking that after I give this Big Blessing that you won’t need Blue Moon anymore. Maybe that means that there is a big ugly Blue Moon pit dug out behind the buffalo skin tanning yard, too. Well, you can all kiss my Cornmaiden behind if you think I am going down that path. I mean, I will hold the corn in one hand and raise the flowers in the other and all...but you get no kind of blessing until I get everyone’s solemn vow that I don’t get planted in the big orchard along with a bunch of corn. Savvy?” Well, that’s just me venting a bit. This Cornmaiden job is getting old. My chest is sunburned and my thighs are raw from the damned skirt. If they don’t want to change their stupid traditions a bit, then screw it. They won’t get my blessing. It’ll be a Blue Moon all right before that happens. Damn, where’d I put that headdress? I gotta look good anyhow. Oh, and Sis, if something happens to me, be sure that the next Cornmaiden gets this letter right away, OK? © Zenbob 1999 Exercise Assignment October 19, 1999 Exercise #34: "Spurring Memories 01" The idea for this exercise was contributed by New Writer member, Ann Davie Using the list provided below,think about each item and the memories you associate with it. Then write a story about it. While other senses may be triggered by items on the list, your work should be motivated by the chosen sense of the assignment, which in this case is that of scent. The description of that scent as experienced by your character should be included in your story. Okay, are you ready? Take a deep breath and read each item concentrating on it's own unique odor and the images the scent stirs in you. If the first one doesn't work, keep going--there's plenty to choose from. Scents Alcoholic Beverage Orange Peel The Spray She sat in a pond of lily pad tables. Weak autumn light rippled with the
thinning canopy outside the atrium windows. She half-closed her eyes; her
head hummed a half key sharper than the low buzz of conversations around
her. Clinks and chinks of cutlery punctuated the droning and every now and
then the rough scudding of a chair abruptly altered the improvised harmony,
interrupting her meditation. She looked down at the ordered debris. Plastic lunch box neatly placed on
top of its lid. Sandwich wrappings folded around the collected crumbs and
stray sprouts. She picked up the small orange and pushed the box to the top
of the table. Resting her elbows on the granite tabletop, she jabbed her thumbnail into the fruit. Resistant to its fate, the peel broke in a small jagged tear.
Orange oils were released in a fine mist over her hands and spiked the air
with their sharp, fresh scent. Not in the least bit sweet, the aroma was
green and bright. She glanced up briefly and caught his eye before he quickly turned away. A
faint flush across his cheek and throat gave him away. She waited. The
orange poised lightly on her fingertips. She willed him to turn to face
her. And he did. He raised his eyes slowly, too slowly, grandly announcing his interest. The
moment his gaze locked on her, she dug her thumb into the ripped peel and
pulled the two halves apart. Juice sprayed before trickling down her wrist. Now it was sweet. Warm and full, the stinging bite of the zest was subdued
by the fruit’s hidden flesh. Orange, not merely citrus. Luscious not tart. His hunger was obvious. She allowed a slight smile of acknowledgment as she
observed him swallow hard. Was he trying to regain his composure, or was he
drinking her in? Her tongue darted out and ran up the top of her forearm,
along her wrist. The warm and sticky skin was now sweet and musky. She
watched his jealous eyes follower her tongue. The Flesh She placed the orange halves on the table. His desire was palpable and sent
her thoughts spiraling, infusing them with a brazen heat. Her skin tingled
wanting to be touched; and a familiar, delicious warmth flooded her body
waiting to be explored. She parted her lips, licking them before placing
one sticky finger after another against her tongue. She savoured the salty
sweetness as much as she delighted in watching him fidget, unable to look
away from her. A pod of solid businessmen settled nearby, their beefy hands fumbled with plastic forks and miniature napkins. She could feel his despair. His head bobbed above a wall of shoulders. He finally resorted to moving tables.
Slightly closer, the increased intimacy heightened the frisson, adding an
element of feared proximity. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The essence of honeyed zest
shot through her. Images flashed of skin hot and wet from friction. Two
bodies panting in humid air thick with blossoms waiting to close with the
morning mist. She opened her eyes slightly, his features mingled in the
same blurry haze. She pulled a section of orange away. It dripped into her cupped hand as she
raised it to her parted lips. Her tongue accepted the flesh, pulling it
into her mouth. With the gentle pressure of her tongue, the fruit burst,
filling her mouth. He leaned forward, intently focused on each gesture. He watched her devour
the fruit with equal hunger, his wide-eyed amusement replaced with basic
lust. She enjoyed the effect she was having on him and knew his thoughts
were pulsing and surging in time with hers. She imagined the soft flesh of his neck and belly giving way to her mouth.
Her fingertips knew his skin, taught over his chest and thighs, would yield
to her touch. She wondered what he would taste like, smell like. Each
section she ate tasted less like an orange and more like him. The zesty
fragrance lingering in the air was translated mentally, erotically, into the
urgent scents of sex. His imagined sounds and moans were lost amidst her
own humming in her head. The Pip She regretted reaching for the last section. There had to be an end, but
she realized the sweetest ending would have been to not finish. She lowered
her eyes, not wanting to meet his gaze. She extracted the thin crescent from the white pith and held it gently. She
looked up to see his face, and delivered a knowing expression that told of
quick parting kisses which promised nothing more. She popped the last
section into her mouth, firmly closing her lips. With a last, forceful
release, the juice washed down her throat. Flesh spent, all that remained
was a hard pip. The last languishing moment dashed, she raised her fingers to her mouth,
delicately removing the seed. She looked down in embarrassment, the awkward
moment frustrated her. She looked back up, hoping he wouldn’t have noticed,
but instead met his profile. Following his regard, she discovered a young woman, soft in silk the color
of chamois. The woman’s eyes were focused on the last strip of peel about
to be removed from the horn of creamy flesh. The fresh tang had left. In its place, an annoying sticky sweetness
remained. She carefully gathered the discs of peel, cradling the small bits
in the larger ones and dumped them into the plastic box. She pushed her
chair back, the rough shudder causing heads to turn. All but two. There
was no use in competing against a banana. © Ann Davie 1999 Exercise Assignment October 26, 1999 Exercise #35: "Members Story Starters" Write a "Story Starter", using 300 words or less. That should allow you to write a really good "hook" which the rest of us will later build upon to create a story for future exercises. The only condition is that it needs to be something that will grab the reader's attention right away. Poets, your word count will naturally be smaller. You are however, encouraged to participate in this exercise. Who knows, you may make poets out of some of us die-hard prose writers yet. Don't grimace like
that--it's possible. Your "hook" can be in any genre--remember, it's your "Story Starter". You set the opening scene for the rest of us. We'll take it from
there. The Chase (Story Segment -- 200 words) The dark figure crouched low to the moonlit ground, heart pounding, hidden in the shadows of the juniper bushes lining the railroad tracks. His lungs ached for oxygen, but he dared not breathe too deeply or too loudly. A shout tore through the still night air. "Russell! You can't run forever, boy! Give it up! You're surrounded!" McAllister's voice! James Russell looked around in the dark. Swinging flashlights approached from every direction. He was trapped, all right -- caught like a firefly in a jar. He felt the earth tremble beneath his knees. A strong white beam of light suddenly appeared in the distance. Nearly overwhelming Russell's astonished senses, the light glared brighter, the
vibration of the earth grew stronger, the noise became thunderous as alocomotive lumbered around a curve and roared past the spot where he lay. He jumped to his feet and ran alongside the train. "There he is!" someone shouted. "Stop him!" cried McAllister's voice. A shot rang out, then another. Car after car passed Russell's outstretched hands, eluding his grasp as the locomotive gained speed on the straight stretch of track. With his churning
legs feeling like rubber, his chest on fire, he made one final, desperate lunge for the last car in the train. © Rob Addison 1999 Exercise Assignment October 31, 1999 Exercise #36: "Trick or Treat" Here's an exercise to get you in the spirit of All Hallowed's Eve, Samhain, All Hallow Tide, The Feast of the Dead, Devil's Eve, or what is referred to as Halloween. So write a story, using this upcoming holiday as your inspiration. You need to include aspects of the supernatural for a purpose that can be either good or bad...a trick or a treat--you decide. Rainwater I should have been a writer. When I was a kid, I loved all that Brothers Grimm stuff, swallowed it down night and day. Witches, goblins, magicians... But you get older. You move on to science fantasy, historical novels, literary fiction. Finally I got round to facts. But it was always the haunted woods that I loved, and enchanted castles in the moonlight. I should have stayed with it, and then maybe Rainwater wouldn’t have ruined me. Of course I do write. You’ll find the name Jurgen Cabell above the hard nosed, investigative, spill-the-beans spreads in the Morning Post. I find out, then I tell. No quarter, no sentiment, that’s my reputation. The pitiless truth, laid out on a slab of ice cold prose. I’m a legend. My corrosive wit, my scalpel-like pen are feared and respected. You can be proud of something like that. I can look in the mirror, at the steelsharp, penetrating eyes set in the slack, booze raddled face. Nicotine yellowed fingers, my gut like a sack above the tortured waistband of shinyassed trousers. The journalist. The uncoverer of sleaze, the writer of wrongs, for yes, I am a writer. But I should have been a writer. Now the elf has taken care of all that. This is how it happened. Picture the scene: Night. I am at home, in my house on Long Island. Upstairs in her queen-size bed, my third wife Dorothy snores irritably, her face covered by a sort of Zorro mask with no eyeslits, the kind filmstars used to wear when she was young. Downstairs in my study, beneath the sorcerer's hat of the desklamp, amid the ashtrays and empty coffee cups, the unhooked phone and clutter of computer junk, in the eerie light of the monitor, I create. On the screen, my latest article glows. It is the enchanting tale of Senator Gary Lancer’s adventures with a brothelful of hookers. This will bring him down, this will cause his wife to divorce him, his voters to forsake him. I’ve just finished it, and sit back feeling satisfied, but also as though I need to wash my hands. I am preparing to e-mail it to the Post, where Hannibal Bullfinch, my irascible editor-in-chief, is waiting in gleeful anticipation. Then I hear the scratching outside. Or rather, I realize I’ve been hearing it for some time. I have ignored it, thinking it will go away, but now I can’t ignore it any longer, because it has seeped into my consciousness, like a slowly worsening itch. So I peek out of the window. There is nothing to see in the darkened garden, but the noise, a constant rustling, seems to be coming from beneath the window. It's a mole, it's a cat, but who knows? I pick up a flashlight and a baseball bat and go outside. Beneath the window there’s a dense mass of dogrose and a selection of Dorothy’s shrubs. The noise has stopped, but I squint and poke around half-heartedly. "Easy, fatso, or I’ll make you eat that bat." The voice is small and shrill, but aggressive enough to make me jump. Then there’s silence. I’m just about convinced that I’m hearing things, when it comes again. "So don’t just stand there, human, get me out of here." The voice is coming from the middle of the rosebush, a wicked tangle of dark stalks and vicious thorns. I shine the torch there, and two little pinpoints of light, like a cat’s eyes, reflect back. "Who...what are you?" I say, not getting too close and keeping the bat up. "None of your damn business," The offensive tone brings me to my senses a little. "It’s my damn business if you’re in my garden," I say. The voice is quiet for a while, then comes back, thin and wheedling. "I’m only asking you to help me. I’ll make it worth your while" "Who are you," I ask again. "What the hell are you?" "My name is Rainwater. I’m an elf." This gives me pause. Then I say, "Oh, I see. I get it. You’re an elf. Hi, I’m the Energizer bunny. Nice to meet you." "Don’t be a smartass, human. Shine your torch down here and I’ll let you see me." I peer into the tangle of brambles. It bothers me that I can’t quite describe what I see. The overall impression is of a perfectly formed man, but only about the size of G.I. Joe. An impression, because he isn’t really visible the way things usually are. He wears, I think, a tight-fitting, greenish, silvery suit and brown leather boots. But he’s there and not there at the same time, shifting about like a bad television picture. At moments he is only a shape, only a shadow, or there’s nothing there at all. I suddenly feel I’m slipping away from sanity, slowly, like a huge ship undocking, moving away from the land of what’s real and true. But I hold on, pull myself back to the solidity of the quay. "So what can I do for you, Rainwater?" I croak. "You can get me out of here for a start," he snaps, squinting irritably into the light. "Sure. But just a minute." The reporter inside me is taking over. "How come an elf gets tangled up in a rose bush? I mean, aren’t you... magic or something?" It is hard for me to say this, but not as hard as looking down into that bush and seeing what I see. "How come you can’t get yourself out?" Rainwater puts on a patient voice, the kind Hannibal Bullfinch uses to show quite clearly that his patience is running out. "If you knew anything about elves, then you’d know the dogrose is a magical plant." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah. For one thing, It’s the only plant that can trap an elf when he falls into it. We’re powerless against the dogrose. Then we have to get help from some lumbering halfwit who’s totally uncool to the magical nature of the world. Someone not unlike your good self. Now get me the fuck out." "Not so fast. If you’re an elf, how come you talk so funky? How come you talk so dirty?" "When we have to talk to humans, we talk like you do, gutmunch." "What about when you talk to each other?" From the rosebush there comes a sound even harder to describe than Rainwater himself. It’s like morning birdsong, mixed with the tinkling of tiny, delicate bells, the whole thing overlaid on a backing track of summer breezes, rustling leaves and distant waterfalls. It’s like music. Now I’m not much for music, but at this moment I understand what it is opera buffs get so excited about. I understand what the conductor is hearing as he sways, transported, before the power of the orchestra. ‘Beautiful’ isn’t a word I use lightly, in fact it isn’t a word I use at all; but this sound is ethereal, other-worldly, ineffable. It is beautiful. "You dig?" says Rainwater, shutting off the radient music like a tap. "So come on. I answered your question. Set me free." "Yeah," I say, still dazed by what I’ve heard, but coming slowly to my senses. "All right. Wait a minute. You said there’d be something in it for me." "Oh yes, so I did. Well, most people would be happy just to have seen an elf, let alone heard him sing. Not you, though, big guy, huh? So what do you want? The usual? Sacks of jewels? Mithril? Three wishes, magic sword, dragonbait? Your miserable life over again? Take your pick." After a pause, I say,"There is something I remember about elves." "Do tell." "You can’t trust the little bastards." "You must have read that in Hans Christian Andersen. Just tell me what you want, big man." Now I’m thinking fast. Riches, wishes and all the rest of it, they're tricky items. Just look what happened to King Midas. But even more importantly, Rainwater has given me an idea. Most people would be happy just to see an elf, he said. If I can prove they exist! If I can do that, riches will surely come my way, and then the wishes will take care of themselves. But that isn’t what I really care about. The newspaperman in me has awoken and is baying like a hungry dog. I want, I need to expose them to the world. Give me the power to call you to me," I say. "Give me a spell to make elves come to me whenever I want." Rainwater thinks for a few moments. "How about a pipe?" he says. "A pipe?" "You know, like the dude from Hamelyn who led the rats away, only for elves. You play it, we come. How about that?" "It’ll work? You won’t trick me?" "It’ll work, human. And you’re in luck because I just happen to have one on me." I fetch pruning shears and cut Rainwater from the thorn bush. He hops onto the windowledge, and with a mocking bow, hands me the pipe. A trumpet to him, it is an intricate, glittering thing about the size of my little finger. Then he slides rapidly down the wall, just a shadow on the bricks, there and not there, and I lose sight of him among the shrubs and bushes. I hear, or think I hear, that music again, the elf language, briefly and from far away. It sounds like laughter. **** "Dorothy! Dot!" I was hysterical. "Get down here! Get down here, quick!" A groan sounded back from upstairs, and as soon as I heard movement, I raced back into my office. There were about twenty elves, though it was impossible to count them exactly. They ran around the floor, climbed the curtains, jumped between the tables and chairs. One fiddled with the complex mass of wires behind the computer, another rustled in the fronds of the pot palm in the corner. Groups of them swirled across the carpet, spinning in rings, while others swung from the light fittings. It was like a roomful of restless cats. The door burst open, and Dorothy stood there, bleary eyed, blinking in her fronded nightdress. "They’re elves," I said. "Elves, Dot! They exist! I’ve got a magic pipe and I can call them whenever I want. Do you see? Do you see what this means?" Dorothy looked around the room, and then at me. There was terror in her eyes. "Christ," she said in a hoarse whisper, "Oh, Jesus Christ." The door slammed, and I heard her running feet on the stair. The clock said 6.30 a.m. I shouldn’t have done that to Dorothy. She was never really awake before ten in the morning, after three or four cups of strong coffee. I laughed hysterically, and collapsed on the sofa. Elves were still tearing around the room. Lulled by their sublime chatter, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. **** I awoke, alone, cramped and stiff, clothes tangled round me like ropes. Flaming sunlight enveloped me as I pulled back the curtains. It was past midday. Beneath the window lay the remains of the dogrose, which someone, presumably Dorothy, had made a half-hearted effort to tidy up. Hunched over a bowl of cornflakes I read the note my wife had left on the kitchen table. Gone to my mother’s for a few days. Will be in touch to let you know my plans. This wasn’t surprising, even though Dorothy’s mother lived in Seattle, a continent away. Whenever there was something Dorothy didn’t understand or didn’t like, whenever Dorothy felt misunderstood or had a bad hair day, she got on a plane to Seattle. I had shares in AmAir. No way the company was going down with customers like Dorothy. I called the office, and for once had no trouble getting through to Hannibal. Obscenities blasted from the earpiece. I forgot to mail in the exposé on Senator Lancer in time for the first edition. "Hannibal," I said, "shut up and listen. Forget the Senator. I’m onto something here that is so big you’ll kiss me when you see it. Cancel your appointments for today. Trust me. Get a full editorial meeting together, one thirty in the conference room. Hannibal, this is the story of the century, and it’s ours." I showered, shaved, packed what I needed in my briefcase, and took the train. I’d hardly expected Hannibal to take me at my word, but when I arrived at the Post they were all waiting for me. I’d chosen the conference room, with its ornate wood panelling and brass fittings, for maximum effect. Disapproval hung in the air of the room, heavy as cigarette smoke. Hannibal and the seven section editors, having remade the front page at the last minute, and now dragged away from their big ticket lunch appointments, turned hostile faces towards me. My rubber soles squeaked on the parquet flooring as I walked to the far end of the long table. The far end, that is, from where the sharp point of Hannibal’s pencil ticked on the polished mahogany. "What’s the story, Jurgen?" he said wearily. I opened my briefcase with theatrical deliberation. "The story is, gentlemen...Elves really exist!" I held up Rainwater’s pipe and blew. Low, dreamy notes played themselves, the music not mine but contained in the instrument. Eight faces glared at me, and my stomach churned in a silent panic of doubt. But then they appeared from nowhere, tiny heads peeping from behind the paintings, popping out from beneath the chairs. Five of them dropped from the chandelier and capered round the table. Dressed in red and green, in blue and yellow, they dived over each other, climbed the walls, dangled from the picture rail. There must have been a hundred of them, tripping and scampering round the room, chirruping in that sweet, melodic language. I looked around the table. Through the chaos, eight stony faces, sixteen cold eyes were turned my way. After what seemed like an hour, but could only have been a few moments, Hannibal pushed himself heavily up from his seat and walked the length of the room, scattering dancing groups of elves as he came. He put a weighty hand on my shoulder. An elf with bright green eyes sat on his head. "Jurgen, you need a rest," Hannibal said in a quiet voice. "Pick up your stuff, go home, take some time, think things over." He smiled. "And don’t fucking come back again, ever." They all filed out after him, silent, serious, smirking. I sank down on my chair, buried my face in my hands. I was thinking about my mortgage, about Dorothy's hair salon bills. "Hey, what’s the problem, big guy?" I looked up to see Rainwater standing on the table before me, hands on hips, his head cocked to one side. I took a half-hearted swipe at him, but only succeeded in rapping my knuckles on the wood. "You sonofabitch," I said. "They couldn’t see you." "Hey, wait a minute, fatso. You never said anything about other people seeing us." "I just got fired." "Yeah, but it’s not all bad news. Your wife’s divorcing you. She’s with her lawyer now." "The hell with you, Rainwater." I threw the pipe at him and strode away, heedless of the fluttering figures at my feet. At the door, I looked back. The room was still alive with elves. Rainwater hung one-handed from the chandelier. "You may not believe this," he called above the din, "but we’re actually looking out for you." He tossed the pipe back to me. "Go home, human, go home and write about elves. You could be happy." I paused, my hand on the doorknob, looking at the tiny, translucent figure, at the smile on his cutesy face. He was right, damn him, he was right. Besides, what else could I do? © Graham Weeks 1999. Exercise Assignment November 9, 1999 Exercise #37: "Photo Assignment 07" Members were given a six photos and instructed to write the story behind the scene. Going Home I clutched Mama’s coat, sort of letting her drag me along. She said I was big enough to walk, and besides, she was carrying Frank, all wrapped up in a blanket, his legs hanging way down to her knees. It seemed unfair that I had to wake up in the cold night air, not when my brother was nearly as big as I was. Mama didn’t want him to wake up, that was the reason - cause if he did then he’d start crying and whining and just make matters worse. Daddy was already in the car, gunning the motor hard so that big clouds of steam shot out of the exhaust. It didn’t take much to figure out why Mama was rushing us out of Aunt Bet and Uncle Charlie’s house. Daddy was mad about something. “Who in the hell does your slutty sister think she is?” Daddy started right in before we’d made it out of the driveway. “That chicken-shit bastard she’s married to ought to knock her brains out. I sure as hell would.” Mama didn’t say anything; she just stared out the window. Mama never said anything when Daddy got real mad. I asked her once why she didn’ t yell back at him, and she told me it wasn’t any use, he just got madder. I snuggled down inside the blanket next to Frank, pretending to be asleep. Maybe if Daddy cussed enough in the car, he would be over it by the time we got home. “Telling me and Charlie we’ve had enough to drink for one night. That goddam fat bitch just sits home all day, not doing a thing, while Charlie’s out busting his ass, and she tells him he can’t drink another beer in his own house? Your whole family is a pile of shit, Mary, and you better be thankful I shoveled you out.” Daddy laughed then like he’d said something real funny; but Mama didn’t even smile, never even let on like she’d heard him. She just kept on looking out the window like it was the greatest sight she’d ever seen in her whole life. I didn’t see anything to get tickled about, either. When Daddy laughed like that, it usually meant he was getting ready to cuss some more. Frank moved closer to me under the blanket, and I knew he was awake and worried, too. He was finally getting old enough to know when to keep quiet, but if Daddy kept getting louder then Frank would start sniveling. I thought I’d sure be glad when we got home. “You wouldn’t do nothing like that, would you?” Daddy asked, real quiet like. “No, Honey, no. You know I wouldn’t say something like that to you, not in front of anybody,” Mama spoke for the first time, sounding like she really meant it. I wished with all my heart that Daddy would believe her, but my stomach started to ache with worry. He would forget he was mad at Aunt Bet. He would blame Mama, instead. Things were quiet the rest of the ride home. Daddy shut the motor off in the driveway, not bothering to put the car in the garage. He slammed through the back door, leaving Mama to do the best she could with Frank and me. By the time we got inside, he was already searching through the cupboards, looking for the bottle of whiskey. He didn’t drink that stuff at home, not unless Uncle Charlie or some of the men from work came over to play cards. Mama pushed us through the kitchen, Frank’s blanket dragging on the floor. “I’m just going to put them to bed,” she said over her shoulder as Daddy slammed the cupboard door. “Just let me get them into bed,” she said, and it sounded like she was pleading with him. I grabbed Frank’s hand and ran to my bedroom. He would sleep with me tonight, just like he always did when Daddy was mad, snuggled down under the covers with his head squashed against my side. Frank didn’t like to hear the fights. I guess it scared him, too. We jumped into bed, not bothering to undress, leaving our coats and shoes scattered on the floor. Mama stooped to pick them up, but dropped them again when she saw Daddy standing in the doorway. “What’d you do with it, Mary? Where’s that bottle?” he asked, his voice so quiet I might have been fooled if I didn’t know him so well.
“It’s in the cupboard, Honey. Just let me get it.” Mama slid past him and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. I heard Daddy’s footsteps close behind her. Frank made a little noise then, like he couldn’t keep it inside any longer. He knew Mama wouldn’t be fast enough, just like I did. “What’d you and your goddamned sister do? Get together and decide the two of you would make me and Charlie look stupid? Huh? Is that what you thought?” Daddy’s voice was loud now, shouting. “I never said a word,” Mama answered. “I never said anything.” The slap rang down the hallway, louder than Daddy’s voice when he was yelling. So loud, I knew the crash that followed was my Mama hitting the floor. I wanted to get up, to peek out the door and see if she was hurt. But Frank held onto me so tight, I knew he would start screaming if I tried to get away. I wriggled my head from under the covers in time to see Mama staggering down the hall to her bedroom. Daddy followed her, and he looked like he wanted to cry, same as Mama. I felt hot tears slide down my nose, too. Mama shut the door, and their voices came out muffled, but not mad anymore. I thought I heard Daddy say he didn’t mean to do something, but after a little bit I heard their bed making noises like he might be hurting her again. It didn’t last but a minute or two, and then Mama went into the bathroom. I could hear her crying real soft, and so sad. I wanted to get up and put my arms around her like she did me and Frank when we needed somebody to hug us. Mama woke us early the next morning, even though it was Christmas vacation and there was no school that day. She had our breakfast ready, oatmeal and chocolate milk. I thought that was odd, because chocolate milk was a treat usually saved for special occasions like when Frank had chicken pox. Another strange thing, Mama was all dressed up like she was going to do the grocery shopping, not in her robe or sweat pants like any other morning. I could hear her in our bedroom, rattling hangers and making a lot of racket - like she was in a big hurry about something. She came back into the kitchen with her arms full of grocery sacks. I could see clothes and some of our toys peeking out the tops. She didn ‘t say a word, just shoved the kitchen door open with her hip and went out. I heard the door open on the old station wagon, and I looked out in time to see her throw the sacks into the back. I felt the achy lump start in my stomach again because I knew something was very different about this morning. “Help Frank get dressed, Angie,” she said, not looking at either of us, like she hoped for once we wouldn’t start asking too many questions. She hurried down the hallway again, returning this time with an armload of pillows and blankets. “Hurry up, Baby. We have to go.” She spoke quietly, but I understood. And I reckon Mama knew that cause she smiled at me a little, like we shared a grownup secret. “Where we going?” Frank looked up at the two of us, finally noticing that Mama meant to take us someplace.
Mama wiped his mouth with a paper towel, laughing at his chocolate mustache instead of answering. Frank forgot his question for awhile as Mama ruffled his hair and tickled him. I was glad. I didn’t much want to hear Mama’s answer myself. She stood in the doorway, holding our coats, while we dressed and washed up, then hurried us out to the car. She double-checked the lock on the back door just like always before we left, and drove away. We stopped at the bank, but Mama didn’t go to the driveup window this time. She told us to wait in the car while she went inside. We stopped at Aunt Bet’s house next, but Mama made us stay in the car again. Frank was starting to fuss by then, wanting to know what was going on. I told him I figured Mama had a surprise for us and if he asked too many questions, it would spoil it. Frank liked surprises, so he got quiet as a mouse, at least for awhile. Aunt Bet came out on the porch with Mama, and they hugged each other real tight. It looked like they both were crying some, but Mama wiped her tears away before she got to the car. Aunt Bet had a big armload of presents and Mama opened the back door so she could put them inside. That was odd because we always exchanged our presents on Christmas. Mama hugged Aunt Bet again, hard and fierce. “You let me know what happens, Mary,” Aunt Bet said, and Mama nodded, as if she had nothing left to say. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb, the radio playing Christmas music. She sang along to all the carols, and pretty soon, Frank and I sang, too. I never knew Mama to sing much before, but I guess she did that day so she wouldn’t have to talk. One thing you could always count on with Frank, he would go to sleep if he had to ride in the car for very long. His eyes got droopy and he was out cold before we got out of town. Mama turned onto the interstate and just drove along singing Christmas carols and smoking cigarettes, never saying a word to me about where we were headed. I climbed over into the front seat after Frank fell asleep, too excited to do anything but watch the road wind out in front of us. I knew this was a special day in our lives, an adventure, and if I said anything it might disappear. I don’t know for sure when it happened, but I fell asleep, too. Next thing I knew, Mama was stopping at a rest area, and pulling sandwiches and milk out of a cooler that I hadn’t noticed before, telling us we were going to have a picnic right there. Frank was full of questions by now, but Mama didn’t have any answers for either of us. She finally just told Frank we were on a little vacation and for him to hush for awhile. He must have still believed my ‘surprise’ story, because he went back to sleep as soon as we hit the highway again. Frank and I slept a lot the next two days. There’s not much else to do in the backseat of a station wagon, not when you just keep driving and driving. Frank got tired of asking questions finally, and just played with his toys or looked out the window. Every now and then he would cry a little and say he wanted to go home, but Mama never answered him now and neither did I. Mama would pull into another rest area once in awhile and sleep a few hours, but mostly she just drove in silence. She’d stop after dark so there wouldn’t be so many people, and take us into the restroom to wash up and change our clothes. We had picnics every day, and when the cooler got empty, Mama stopped at a grocery store and bought more baloney and milk. I didn’t know where we were, but one thing was sure - we were a long way from home. I knew without a doubt that Daddy was probably the maddest he’d ever been in his life by now. I had as many questions inside as Frank, but I left them there, not asking. I knew Mama would get that sad look like she did when Frank cried to go home. On the third day, we left the interstate. Mama didn’t stop for gas or milk this time when she turned onto the highway. She just kept driving along, looking to both sides of the road. There wasn’t much to see. I had never seen such a flat place in my entire life and I could not keep myself from asking where we were. “We’re in Kansas,” Mama answered. “Where’s that, Mama? Are we goin’ home now?” Frank asked for the millionth time. I wondered, myself. Mama just kept driving. She didn’t bother to answer Frank’s questions at all anymore, like she was just too tired and sad to worry about us. I looked out the window at the yellow fields stretching away and out of sight on either side of the road, and I felt sad, too. I hugged Frank and tried to smile at Mama to make her feel a little better, but I don’t think she noticed. Maybe she felt like I did, that there wasn ‘t much to be happy about in Kansas. I felt the old car slow some, and Mama hunched forward over the steering wheel, staring out the windshield like she was looking for something. I leaned forward, peering over the front seat, trying to see for myself if there was something special on the long stretch of road ahead. All I could see was a dot far off, a house or something. Mama slowed the car even more, but the dot got bigger as we drove on until it became an old brown building. I could see a gas pump now and a faded sign across the front saying “GAS” in big letters all faded from the sun. Empty windows on the second floor stared back at us as we pulled alongside the pump. “I gotta go potty,” Frank said, already trying to get the car door open. “No. You two wait here for me,” Mama answered as she got out. She looked scared, more scared even than when Daddy was mad, and I pulled Frank back onto the seat, not caring that he wailed at the top of his lungs. Mama just stood outside the car for a long time, then she smoothed down her hair and wiped her hands on the front of her coat like she did when she was nervous, and went inside. I could see her through the dusty window in front, and I realized for the first time this was a grocery store. But Mama wasn’t taking stuff off the shelves, bread and candy bars and things; she was just standing inside the door. I saw the old man then. He was just looking at Mama and she was looking back at him like she was scared he was going to do something to her. I could see their mouths move as they talked, and Mama stepped on inside the store. I didn’t know what to do then. If I tried to go see about Mama, then Frank would throw a fit, and if I took him with me I would be in worse trouble. Mama solved the problem for me when she came out the door and got back in the car. “I’m hungry! I gotta pee!” Frank bawled as Mama started the car. “Me, too, Mama. Why did we stop here if you’re not going to let us do anything?” I had to say it, if for no other reason than to make her notice that Frank and I were still there, and we were worried. But Mama didn’t drive away. She pulled the car around to the side of the building and turned the key off. “Well, come on if you have to go,” she said, just like nothing was strange or out of place. “Grab a couple of those sacks, too, Angie,” she told me and looked full at me for the first time. I understood, then. We were going to stay here longer than it took to get gas and groceries and go to the bathroom. I noticed the door in the side of the building for the first time. It swung open and the old man stood there, just looking at Frank and me standing by the car. He stepped back to let Mama past with her armload of pillows and presents, and rumbled Frank’s hair with a smile. “Mighty fine children you got here. And big ones, too,” he said to Mama, and she smiled back for the first time in a long while, or so it seemed to me. Frank and I raced up the stairs, brushing past Mama. We were full of excitement all of a sudden, maybe just glad to be out of the car. We ran through rooms, dusty and cobwebby, some empty and others stacked full of furniture and other odds and ends - like somebody had lived here once. Frank leaned out the open window in the front, the one that had stared at us like an empty eye as we drove down the road. I looked out, too, at the fields all flat and the same color, and at the road snaking away in both directions. I could hear Mama and the old man talking softly in the other room. “We tried to tell you, Mary, your mother and me. But you just wouldn’ t listen,” the old man said. “I know, Pa, but I loved him,” Mama answered softly. “But I have to worry about my babies now. And besides, it’s nearly Christmas. Can’t we talk about this later?” I heard the old man leave, his footsteps on the stairs echoing through the empty room. I knew then that Mama had a lot of secrets to share with me, her nearly grownup daughter, and some explaining to do as well. Frank still leaned out the window, the wind tossing his hair into his eyes. He turned and looked at me then, and asked his same old question. “Are we ever goin’ home, Angie?” I finally knew the answer to Frank’s question and to all the ones I’d kept locked inside me for the last three days. “No, Frank. I reckon we are home.” © Elsie Roark 1999 Other New Writers' Choice Selections
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