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PAGE EIGHT Exercise Assignment October 15, 2000 Exercise #38: "Black and White" This exercise submitted by New Writers Co-Moderator, Graham Weeks, sounds simplistic, but it may not be as easy as it first appears. A simple theme, open, I hope, to all writing disciplines and flavours: BLACK, WHITE Chessboards, racial conflict, old photographs, simplistic
interpretations of complex themes, types of magic, lots of things
suggest themselves to me, I hope to you too. Black, White may be your title, though not necessarily.
Black, White I stand staring at the framed photograph on my apartment wall. Kaitlyn's lovely face smiles at me in glorious black and white, a stylish gray beret slanted across her forehead, placing her left eye in shadow. In the photograph, my arm is around her, my hand clutching her slim waist, my dark hair shining in the San Francisco sun. I pull my gaze back, to focus on the familiar reflection in the pane of glass which protects the photo. My hair is dark no longer. Too many flashes of gray remind me of the distance between this photograph--and my life. "I love you," Kaitlyn had said. "Marry me." "I can't," I replied. "I will, someday. But not now. Not yet." "When, then?" she wanted to know. Of course she wanted to know. "It's not that easy," I said. "Yes, it is," she insisted. "It's black, or it's white. You either want to spend the rest of your life with me, or you don't." I took too long to reply, and she left me. I can see children playing behind us in the photograph. Smiling children, pushing or pulling a little gray wagon along the sidewalk. Kaitlyn has kids of her own now. Two of them, I think--or three. Kids old enough to be the young adults in this photograph I can't tear my eyes away from tonight. Kaitlyn's arm is around me, too. I swear, if I try, I can still feel her fingertips gently pressing against my hip. I guess I let her go because I thought there would be a thousand Kaitlyns out there. I found out too late--there weren't. There weren't even two. My focus falls back to the man in the glass, to the emptiness in his gray eyes, to the streaks of white in his black hair. Black. Damn. © Rob Addison 2000 Black and White The lavish cloth emboldens In shadowed silhouette But I choose not to I move in the shadows © Danielle Hall 2000 Exercise Assignment October 31, 2000 Exercise #39: "Fear" This exercise was suggested by New Writers member, Tresa Newton. FEAR Wildfire A hot puff of wind licked Jack's face. He killed his chainsaw and
raised his head, sniffing. The air smelled burnt. He smeared the fine,
gray ash on his arm. Jack's mind creaked with fatigue. Something about that wind. It had blown in his face. But it had blown against his back all morning. That meant--the wind was blowing from the fire, instead of towards it. From the fire--. "Run!" Jack screamed at the fire line crew. "Run! The wind's
shifted. We gotta get out of here." Jack leaped off the path into the heavy undergrowth. Someone followed him but he didn't look back. He seemed to be running through green quicksand with bushes, small trees, vines and tendrils grabbing at him. The path ran parallel to the hillside, not away from it. It would be suicide to stay on the path. A hot, dry huff of wind pushed him. It seemed like the exhalation of some giant carnivore behind him. Then the beast roared. Jack felt the noise in his chest. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The fire crested the ridge behind him as he watched. It sounded like the engine of a 100-foot-tall freight train. Treetops along the ridge flamed like matches in a matchbook, all lit at once. The fire's front rolled and tumbled down the hill, a puppy joyously unaware of its lethalness, only eager to greet him. Furious, Jack ripped through the undergrowth. Stumbling and tripping, he suddenly dropped over the edge of a cliff. He hit rocks and icy water before he could scream. The cliff was the four-foot-high bank of a small stream. The cold water shocked his consciousness. He could survive in the water! Jack pushed and rolled rocks to the right and the left like a berserk bulldozer, trying to clear a man-sized space. A burning tree fell just downstream, making a blazing bridge over the creek. Jack flung himself into his watery bed. A blanket of strangling heat rolled over him. Jack could feel he was not completely underwater. His back and legs grew hot. The fabric of his pants seared his skin. Jack rolled over in the streambed to get his back and legs wet. He breathed but the air blistered his throat. His lungs refused it and he gagged. Rolling back onto his stomach, Jack put his lips down to the water and breathed again. Near the water the air was cooler. If only he could breathe water like a fish! Gritting his teeth against the heat, Jack flailed his arms and legs in the water, trying to splash it onto his exposed back. He barely felt it. Holding his breath, he rolled over onto his back again. Jack flicked his eyes open. Steam rose in white clouds around him. Overhead, he saw a canopy of flames. Fire grabbed his hair, trying to pull him bodily out of the water. Stifling a scream, Jack rolled onto his stomach and plunged his head into the stream. He threw water over his blistered scalp. He rolled his body in the stream, front to back to front, trying to keep some water on all of him. His arms and legs banged into the slimy rocks. Exhausted, he stopped on his stomach to catch his breath. Again he flailed with his arms and legs, trying to splash water onto his back. A moment of black humor let him see himself as a little bird, frenziedly taking a bath in a shallow rain puddle. Again Jack stopped from exhaustion. His back felt hot but it did not grow hotter. The stream gurgled. He couldn't hear the fire. Jack rolled over and opened his eyes. The sky boiled with angry black smoke but the flames were gone. The fire had passed over. He relaxed into the water, grateful for the numbing coldness. As the tension drained from him, Jack soundlessly began to cry.
© Ralph Krumdieck 2000 Neverland I was always adept, Driftwood fragments of friends' mistakes Time passed Having no baggage So what am I more afraid of?
Losing all? © Alan Bates 2000 Exercise Assignment November 15, 2000 Exercise #40: "Headlines" Write a story using a newspaper or news magazine headline as your
inspiration.
News headlines tell the climax of a story: "Seventy Year Old Wins
Marathon", "Teen Saves Home", or "Three Killed in Crash". Your task is
to create the details that led up to the headline. You tell us the story
which may not be in the evening news. For the poets, the challenge is the same. You don't have to give us a
complete story, however you may if you wish. But write a poem
concentrating on the thoughts and emotions of a loved one (of either the
victim, or perpetrator), or the actual individual mentioned in the
headline. Man Bites Dog! Mr. Cary pounded on the Rupp's door until his knuckles stung. He sucked on the middle knuckle while hopping from one foot to the other. Young Mrs.
Rupp, wearing short jean cutoffs and a halter, opened her door. Behind her cowered her 7-year-old son, Jake, and his dog, Growler. Mr. Cary aimed a lethal finger at Jake and Growler. "Him! Them! That dog! That boy!" Mrs. Rupp moved to shield her son. "Mr. Cary. What's the matter?" "Them! Them! My garden! Trampled! Ruined! Destroyed! Uprooted!" "Try to control yourself, Mr. Cary." "Control? Me? What about them? Vandals! Barbarians! Savages! And that beast. Vicious! Diseased! An animal!" Mrs. Rupp closed the door on Mr. Cary but it made little difference in the noise level. "Cannibals! Murderers! Vampires! Stay out of my garden. Hear? Out! Of! My! Garden!" Mr. Cary hit a note too shrill to vocalize and the last syllable of "garden" croaked in his throat. He gobbled several more words, then stalked away. Mrs. Rupp looked at Jake and raised her right eyebrow. "Wow. Mr. Cary was really mad, wasn't he, Mom?" "He really was, yes. Why was he so mad at you and Growler?" "I dunno," Jake said, then added, "He just hates dogs." "Yes, he does. You've seen the scars on his face and neck? Those were
made by a dog that attacked him when he was just about your age. That's why he's not fond of dogs." "Wow." "Wow, yes. Now, why was Mr. Cary so angry with you and Growler?" "Growler didn't bite him." "I'm very pleased to hear it. What did Growler do?" Jake squirmed. "Growler likes to chase the rabbits." "What rabbits?" "The wild rabbits that get into Mr. Cary's garden. Once Growler even chased away a deer. They come down off the mountain." "So Growler has been running around in Mr. Cary's garden. Didn't I tell
you not to let him get into the garden?" "Yeah. But he gets all excited and I can't hold him. I always chase after him and bring him back." "So both you and Growler are running around in Mr. Cary's garden.
Wonderful." She bent over annd waggled her finger in Jake's face. "Jacob, I don't want you in Mr. Cary's garden again. Do you hear me?" "Yes m'." "Even if Growler goes in. You stay out. OK?" "Yes m'." Jake tried but the very next day Growler got loose again and ran straight
into Mr. Cary's garden. Jake meant to stay out but Growler was lunging and
growling at something on the ground. This was Growler's way of calling for help and Jake could not desert his friend. "I'm comin', Growler!" Jake squeezed through the wire fence around Mr. Cary's garden and ran to
where Growler was. Growler had found a snake. The snake was about as
thick around as a broom handle. It lay coiled up into a pile, the flat head pointed at Growler. What caught Jake's attention was the hollow-sounding rattle on the tip of the snake's tail. "That's a rattlesnake, Growler!" Jake tugged at Growler's collar but the
dog wouldn't back up. "C'mon! Leave it alone!" "My carrot bed!" Mr. Cary stood on his back porch, waving his arms.
"Vandals! Out!" "Mr. Cary! Mr. Cary!" Jake waved frantically. "Growler found a snake. A rattlesnake!" Mr. Cary charged down his back stairs. Passing his toolshed, he grabbed a long-handled hoe. When he reached them, Mr. Cary tried to shove Growler
away with the hoe. "Get that animal away!" Jake grabbed Mr. Cary's arm. "It's not Growler's fault, Mr. Cary. Growler found a rattlesnake! Look!" Mr. Cary looked where Jake was pointing. "Lord o' mercy. Get back, boy." Mr. Cary stayed a hoe's-length from the snake. Raising the hoe over his
head, he chopped down at the snake. He hit it just behind the head, nearly
decapitating it. The coiled body writhed violently on the ground. Mr. Cary chopped at it several more times until the snake lay in three pieces. "You bitten, son?" "No sir. But it was my dog who found it and he might have been. Look!" Growler was earnestly chewing on his right rear leg. He released the leg, whirled in a tight circle, then attacked it again. "See?" Jake said. "He must have been bit in the leg." "Fleas!" Mr. Cary said. "Not my dog! The rattler bit him. You gotta do something. You can't let Growler die." "Take him to the vet." "We don't have a car," Jake said. "What if Growler dies before we get
there? Please help him." "How?" "Suck the poison out. I seen them do it on TV." "Suck it out? Suck on a hairy dog's leg?" "Please! He'll die! He'll die! I know he will!" "Hush. Calm down. Go get your dog." Jake ran over, picked up Growler and cradled him in his arms. Growler,
delighted, licked Jake's face. "Hold still, Growler," Jake said. "Sucking a dog's leg," Mr. Cary muttered. "Must be crazy. Whacked out.
Nuts." He grimaced but put his mouth on Growler's hind leg. "Mr. Cary! What are you doing?" Jake's mother was staring at them through the fence. "Growler got bitten by a rattlesnake, Mom. Mr. Cary's sucking the poison
out." "A rattlesnake!" Mr. Cary raised his mouth from Growler's rear leg, turned his head to one
side and spat. "Pfaugh!" "Have you got it all?" Jake asked. "Better try one more time to be sure." Mr. Cary glared at Jake then bent to his work. Growler twisted around in
Jake's arms and licked Mr. Cary's ear. "Jake," his mother said. "What's this nonsense about a rattlesnake?" "It's true, Mom. Mr. Cary chopped it up with his hoe." "Were you hurt?" "No, but Growler got bit and Mr. Cary is saving his life!" Mr. Cary straightened up and wiped his mouth, hard. He picked a dog hair
off his tongue and spat. "Daft. Bonkers. Certifiable. Sucking on a
hairy dog's leg." "We better get Growler to the vet's right away, Mom. Can we borrow your
car, Mr. Cary?" "Jacob!" Mr. Cary waved at Jake. "Go on. Get in the car." Jake went, carrying Growler. Mrs. Rupp eyed her neighbor. "Mr. Cary. Did Growler really get bitten by a rattlesnake?" Mr. Cary shrugged. "Boy says so. Needed...to be believed." Jake's mother looked at him for a long moment. "Well, thank you for
believing him." "Here." Mr. Cary held out his car keys. "But--if the dog's not really in any danger, why--." "You'd disbelieve him?" Mrs. Rupp hesitated, then took the keys. "No. I guess I don't want to do that. Thank you for the loan of your car, Mr. Cary." She turned and
walked off. An insistent car horn made her break into a jog. "Keep them out of my garden!" Mr. Cary yelled after her. He plucked another dog hair from his tongue and wiped his mouth again.
"Sucking on a hairy dog's leg. Cracked." © Ralph Krumdieck 2000 Too Close to Call Once-soft words, now sharpened Once we meshed, tighter than solid, But children squall; and So. I sit, and I wait; as do you. © Alan Bates 2000 Exercise Assignment November 30, 2000 Exercise #41: "Quest" For this exercise we are going to send our main character searching for
something or someone they believe will change their life in some way - and
it does not necessarily have to be in a positive way. You will need to
start with a situation or incident that leads to this great quest. In other
words, why does your character 'have' to pursue this quest? Add secondary characters to assist with the quest. Add characters and/or
situations that serve as obstacles to the quest. Make your reader feel the
desperation, tension, frustrations, etc., of the character's search. Make
them yearn for the resolution of the quest as greatly as does your main
character. Does your character find what he/she is looking for? That's up to you.
But, he/she must learn something in the end. What do they learn? The grass
isn't always greener on the other side? Happiness is in your own backyard?
Be careful what you wish for? Don't burn your bridges . . . well you get the
idea. For you poets, write a poem about searching. It can be the Great Quest of
all mankind. It can be about loss and the quest to fulfill the emptiness of
left behind because of that loss. It can be about the child's search for
adulthood, or the adult's desire to find that lost child. You decide. Just
make it a verse about searching. The Holy Grail George Brown struggled up from deep sleep to find the clarion alarm calling him and his heroic crew of firefighters to a killer blaze, was, in fact, his alarm clock. Too sleepy to open his eyes, George blindly grabbed the clock. Like a priest fervently fingering his rosary, he turned the little clock around and around, trying to find the alarm button by feel. His wife yanked the clock out of his hands, hissing “Idiot!”, and stopped the alarm. The clock flew back, bouncing off his chest. “Must you wake me up, too?” she said. “I wanted to sleep in, but No! You
have to let your alarm ring and ring until the dead are rising.” Feeling like he was illustrating her point, George sat up. “You can go
back to sleep now, Bertha,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the
bed. “That’s just fine, now that I’m wide awake, thank you very much.” George sighed. He felt closer to 103 than 53 this morning. Standing up,
he swayed a little until his sense of balance steadied him. He shambled to
the dresser and pulled out clean underwear and socks. From the closet he
selected a workday suit and draped the shirt, pants, vest, coat and tie
over his arm. “Don’t come crying to me to iron the wrinkles out, carrying your clothes
like that.” “No, dear. Thank you.” “Humph!” George limped down the stairs, favoring his right knee, which ached. He
showered and dressed in the bathroom, then came out and fixed his standard
breakfast of cold cereal, milk and toast. Frost speckled the grass on the
front lawn, so George put on his overcoat. He picked up his briefcase,
stepped outside and locked the door behind him. The cold air shocked him fully awake. Wishing for the thousandth time that
he could afford a car, George shivered, pulled the coat closer around him
and started walking. Two blocks down, he waited as Fred Gaines backed his
car into the street. Fred worked in the same building George did. George
frowned as Fred, alone in his car, drove away. “A ride?” George muttered to himself. “Why, no, Fred. I enjoy my
15-minute walk to work when it’s freezing cold, thank you.” Twelve blocks later, George reached the downtown business district. He
stopped at Herman’s newsstand to buy a morning paper. Herman grinned at
George and shifted his position in his custom wheelchair. “Getting rich yet, Mr. Brown?” Herman boomed in his deep, masculine
voice. “Don’t count on it,” George said, absent-minded. It was their stock joke.
Herman seemed to think accounting offered George chances of sudden wealth. Traffic noise filled George’s head as he stood on the corner, waiting for
the light to change. A woman behind him screeched at a misbehaving child.
George folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. A small boy darted past George, into the road. Immediately George dropped
his paper and briefcase and leaped after the boy. George’s world shrank to
the shriek of traffic and his hands reaching for the wild-eyed boy. He
grabbed the boy and threw him toward the curb. Staring after the boy,
George focused on a woman on the sidewalk, her mouth open, mid-scream,
unbelieving, as the boy rolled to her feet. At the extreme edge of vision,
George glimpsed an enormous rushing headlight. For one brief, shining moment, George glowed. © Ralph Krumdieck 2000 The Search I have searched for joy and happiness I have tasted the ecstasy of love "Where can I find happiness" asked a child Merely momentary tastes of what could be © Brian Francis 2000 Exercise Assignment December 19, 2000 Exercise #42: "Sensory: Sound" One of our Co-Moderators, Ann Davie sent this exercise suggestion in some
time ago. You are to write a short story or poem suggested by the following
sound: SOUNDS Read over the list and if one doesn't jump out at you, close your eyes and slowly place your finger on your monitor screen. Hopefully your finger will land on the above list. If not, try again. There's the sound. Now think about it. Can you hear it? What story or poem does this sound open up for you? Start writing . . . .
Born to Run Whenever Pittsboro gets one of these summer thunderstorms, it’s next to impossible to get good reception on the tv. Raylene coaxes the metal rabbit-ear antenna just a mouse’s breath closer, then away. Staticy snow fizzes and crackles across the screen, the white-noise blare impossibly loud. Exasperated, she yanks the antenna sharply to the left and reaches down for the "off" button, but the screen blazes to life instantly, revealing Oprah Winfrey in a tasteful camel-colored pantsuit. Satisfied, Raylene heads back for the kitchen. On the screen, a well-dressed couple sits on Oprah’s couch. "Today," Oprah tells the audience, "We’ll be talking about a subject that affects almost every marriage in America..." she glances knowingly at the camera, beaming an aren’t-we-neighbors grin into the living room, "That’s right, folks, it’s communication," She pronounces it like a foreign word, with raised eyebrows and undue emphasis. "Thousands of couples lose touch with each other every day because we don’t know how to communicate. And today we’re very fortunate to have Dr. Martin von Beck in the studio with us. Dr. von Beck has written the bestselling books "Opening Up," and "Why We Don’t Talk Any More," and he’s here today to help this real-life couple, Sally and Jim Lloyd of Dover, Delaware, bridge the communication gap in their marriage. When we come back - " she pauses a beat, "We’ll hear Sally and Jim’s story." The camera cuts to Sally’s pretty, concerned face, and then to a commercial for floor polish. Raylene scrubs at some potatoes with a stiff nylon brush. Outside, the rain batters down, smacking against the glass french doors in the living room like handfuls of pebbles. She fits a can of green beans beneath the magnetic disk of the electric can opener and turns it on, annoyed by the extra noise it creates. With the rain outside and the exhaust fan over the stove running, it’s hard to hear the television. Raylene empties the beans into a saucepan and turns it on to simmer, perching on the arm of the couch to catch the next segment of Oprah. When the phone rings, she jumps slightly, then hesitates. Is it safe to answer the phone during a lightning storm? She does it anyway. "Raylene?" the voice on the line trills, "It’s Lurene, honey. Listen, sister, have you got a cup of brown sugar to spare? I’m fixin’ to use up all these zucchinis here Del’s mother brought over, and you know how he loves zucchini bread, but I am fresh out of brown sugar and not about to take the car out in this tarnation!" Lurene is always this way, so charged with energy that her words compete and collide with each other on their way out. Having Lurene for a neighbor is like living next door to a carnival, Raylene thinks. She checks her cabinet. "I sure do," she tells Lurene, "Got plenty." "Well, then, honey, I’ll be over there as soon as I get my rain gear on. It’s just ungodly wet out there, honey!" She is gone with a click of the receiver. On the screen, Sally Lloyd of Dover, Delaware tearfully tells her story to Oprah. The camera pans over snapshots of a beaming Jim and Sally, presumably on their honeymoon, and a shot where they stand before what must have been their first Christmas tree. Sally’s mauve-painted lower lip trembles as she addresses the audience. "And then the business trips just got longer and longer," she quavers, "And more often, and now it just seems like we hardly ever see each other!" "And how does that make you feel?" Dr. von Beck asks intently. Oprah leans forward in her chair, extending Sally a box of tissues. Lurene doesn’t wait for Raylene to answer, thumping enthusiastically on the storm door and bustling on through. It jars shut behind her as she reaches to untie the floral-printed plastic bonnet that shields her hair. She shakes it lookse, and platinum-blonde curls cascade around her shoulders. Lurene bears more than a little resemblance to Dolly Parton, and Raylene is fairly certain that her elaborate hairstyle is part of an effort to cultivate the image. "Just ungodly wet!" Lurene exclaims, leaving her raincoat and bonnet in the entryway and joining Raylene on the couch. "Just look at that Oprah Winfrey!" She draws the name out, pronouncing it Win-fer-y in her Tennessee drawl. "Now, why do they always dress her in those boring old colors? Honey, if I had that pretty chocolate skin, you can bet I’d wear every color under the sun! And look at her in that awful tan thing!" Lurene makes it sound like wearing tan is the absolute worst thing a woman could ever do for herself. Lurene herself, in her technicolor flowered tunic and shiny spandex pants, is anything but boring. She looks like a bouquet. She watches Sally Lloyd continue with her story, telling Oprah and Dr. von Beck how she and Jim never talk anymore, and sometimes don’t even sleep in the same bed. In the audience, one woman looks horrified. Another nods with familiarity. "Now, isn’t that just the saddest thing?" Lurene trills, her Dolly Parton voice escalating with emotion, "Look at that pretty girl! She’s not old enough to have a marriage go sour! ‘Course, I suppose I shouldn’t judge. I’ve been very fortunate." "Mmmm-hmmm." Raylene has to agree. Dellon Nesbitt, Lurene’s husband, is an all-around catch, wheelchair or no wheelchair. Del was shot in Vietnam, but he still looks every bit as handsome as he did in high school, when Raylene used to steal glances at his laughing green eyes in algebra class. She still will look at Del this way on occasion, and then feel very badly about it, but she never can blame herself in the end. After all, Del treats Lurene just so well. Surely, a nicer husband has never existed, she thinks. Afternoons when the weather is nice and he rolls himself home from the hardware store in town where he works, Raylene often sees a bundle of cut flowers in his lap, or sometimes a green plastic tub of fresh berries from the market. It must be so nice, she thinks, to have a man bring you little presents just because he loves you, just because of the way your hair looks or the shape of your hips. Of course, being as pretty as Lurene probably doesn’t hurt the cause either, Raylene figures. It’s hard not to be just a tiny bit jealous of Lurene, with her beautiful hair and her bright clothes and her house fixed just so. Del never complains about any decorations she wants to put up, and so Lurene can have just as many lawn ornaments as she wants to - she’s got a whole row of crystal gazing balls, one in each color of the rainbow, all lined up red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet. "Roy G. Biv," Del had remarked to Raylene, "Remember that from science class in school? That’s how you remember the order the colors go in the rainbow. Roy G. Biv. There’s old Roy, right there in our lawn!" Del never complains about the Christmas decorating either, and even though it’s hard for him to maneuver in the chair, their house is one of the best on the block at Christmastime. He can’t reach the treetops, but it’s truly inspiring what he can do with the shrubbery. Once, when she and Lurene had gone through a whole six-pack of Melon Berry wine coolers Del brought home from town, Raylene’s mouth got the better of her, and she felt herself asking the question she’d been wondering about for years. Practically every time she felt herself having the thought, she made herself stifle it, but when she actually said it, it felt so delicious rolling off her tongue, mixed in with the dizzy-sweet melon flavor, that she couldn’t possibly stop. She had to know. "Lurene?" she asked, "How do you and Del...how do you...you know?" "Honey! Oh, honey!" Lurene’s soprano laugh pealed, "Don’t you know there’s other things a man can do to please a lady? Honey, some men are just so good they don’t need the equipment the rest of ‘em do." It made Raylene a little warm just to think about it, wondering what Del, who couldn’t move his legs anymore, or much below his chest, really, did to make Lurene happy. Equipment be damned, she thought - if Lurene was getting at what she thought she was getting at, well, it was just almost too much to think about, imagining Del’s delicious eyes and charming smile dancing around in the most private of places. ****** Dr. von Beck is ready to give his professional opinion of the situation to Sally and Jim. Sally’s big eyes look at him as hopefully as if he might be Santa Claus. Jim looks sincere, concerned. "Sally," the doctor begins, "James. It’s so obvious to me that-" The doctor is immediately drowned out by the skid and squeal of wet tires with worn treads, then the blare of a car horn that plays "Dixie." It makes her jump six inches every time, even though Rog has announced his arrival this way every day of their married life. When Rog gets off from the factory, the whole neighborhood knows about it, whether they want to or not. Some of the time, Raylene thinks, they’d rather not. When Rog comes through the storm door, it really seems like he slams it extra-hard on purpose, and he doesn’t bother to wipe his feet or take his boots off. Little darts of rainwater shoot from their soles as he lurches through the living room. Lurene ignores him, focusing intently on Oprah, and Raylene simply hands him a Coors from the refrigerator. As quick as that, he’s gone, back to the spare room where Raylene figures he’ll sit all night, where he’d probably sit forever if the factory ever shut down and the beer supply remained steady. When the spare room door slams even more emphatically than the front door did, Lurene looks away from the tv screen. "Honey," she says, "Sally here isn’t the only lady I know with a communication problem. You do know that, don’t you?" Raylene looks down. Lurene has made it her personal crusade lately to point out to Raylene the inadequacy of her situation. Once, Lurene went so far as to tell her about her cousin in Knoxville who left her husband. Went to the Legal Aid, got some papers drawn up, borrowed a little money from her sister, and out she was, simple as that, Lurene said. Only it probably wasn’t that simple, Raylene imagines. It probably seems that way to Lurene, never having had to even think about it. Lurene’s never had to think about what a bad marriage might be like, what it might be like to have a man treat you wrong. She doesn’t know that leaving’s just not that easy. "He doesn’t mean anything by it, Lurene," she says. "Honey," Lurene waggles a candy-apple acrylic nail, "I know better. You know better. And don’t you forget it." "I have to get my beans," Raylene says stiffly, heading for the kitchen. "Well, honey, I got what I came for," Lurene crows, "I can’t promise you’ll get brown sugar in return, but you be looking for a loaf of zucchini bread when this rain clears up." "Sure thing," Raylene follows her to the door. "I got that Legal Aid number for you whenever you want it," Lurene tells her, even though she hasn’t asked for it, "And I bet that cousin of mine in Knoxville would share her couch for a spell when you’re ready." "If I’m ready," Raylene whispers. "When," Lurene says, drawing her plastic bonnet tight again, her shiny pink raincoat bobbing down the front walk. ****** At nine-thirty, the house is quiet, except for the drone of the tv in the spare room. Canned-sounding jazz music drifts out, the kind that accompanies those detective movies Rog likes, the kind where all the detectives are blonde with long racehorse legs. The music gets a little slower and sultrier - probably not a detective movie after all, but the kind that comes on the satellite dish really late at night, the kind Lurene calls "skin flicks." Raylene is long accustomed to Rog’s preference for the television over her. It’s not even that easy to take personally anymore, especially not when she has Bruce. When she hits the play button on the stereo, he’s there with her, his velvet-smooth voice pouring out into the darkened living room as she stretches on the couch. She imagines Bruce Springsteen sings only to her, personally and soulfully, his heavy-lidded eyes looking up from his guitar to meet hers.... "Hey, little girl is your daddy home...did he go and leave you all alone? Uh-huh...I got a bad desire...." It’s silly, she knows, but she sometimes imagines that Bruce will come and take her away - in the song, he’s practically asking her - "Tell me now baby is he good to you?" No, Bruce, no, she thinks. No, he’s nothing like you. Nothing like Del. I want to come with you, Bruce. Behind her eyelids, he stands to reach for her, slinging his guitar to the side, its strap stretching across his broad chest, tight in a white t-shirt. His faded jeans are warm and soft, his shoes gently worn. His lips are infinitely soft. This is her favorite part of the day - when the dinner dishes are done, and Rog is securely asleep in the recliner, and she turns off all the lights and lets Bruce’s voice wrap through the living room. Nothing matters now - there is no Rog to complain about how dinner was late, or burned, or not good enough, or to remind her how hard he works so she doesn’t have to like Lurene, only he pronounces it "Loo-reen," making it sound as ugly as he can. It used to be, way back when they were first married, that if she squinted at Rog in the semi-dark, on a good day, when he wasn’t angry, he’d look just a little like Bruce. Just a little. ****** She thinks she can leave if Bruce will give her the inspiration. She’s been listening to "Born to Run" all week, getting ready. She’s got the phone number for the Legal Aid Society Lurene gave her pressed neatly into her jeans pocket, and Del and Lurene have kept her secret. While Rog was at work, Del checked the oil for her and the pressure in the tires. "She’s ready to go," he said, "Make it to Knoxville just fine, no problems." Her suitcases are in the trunk and the backseat; it took her and Lurene all morning to fill the car up. She’s never done anything like this before, and the only thing that’s making her feel better is Bruce, the way she can roll his words around around in her head for comfort like marbles. The way Bruce says it, he can make it sound poetic, like an adventure - kind of like in "Thunder Road," where he sings "Heaven’s waiting on down the tracks...oh come take my hand, riding out tonight to case the promised land." When she closes her eyes, she can imagine herself driving through the night to case the promised land - if only she can find it first. © Danielle Hall 2000
Behold
© Heidemarie McAlister-Bates 2000
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