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Novel Projects
"After
I have finished a book I only wish to see it published exactly as I
wrote it and have as many people read it as possible. You write for
yourself and others."
~ Ernest Hemingway
~ Ernest Hemingway
I enjoy writing novels
more than anything else because the story I create always takes on a
life of its own. The characters become real people in my mind and the
sense of accomplishment I feel after completing a novel is unlike
anything else I've ever experienced.
Below are a few novel excerpts for you to read. Both The Crabapple Tree and The Trouble With Emily Dickinson are finished and
I am in the process of getting them published.
Between Friends is a current work in progress.
Below are a few novel excerpts for you to read. Both The Crabapple Tree and The Trouble With Emily Dickinson are finished and
I am in the process of getting them published.
Between Friends is a current work in progress.
~~~~
The Crabapple Tree
Writer's note: Busy Wheeler is a spirited tomboy who’s adopted and best friends with a mentally handicapped boy named Billy. She is suddenly having strange feelings for the new girl at school and fighting an overwhelming sensation that she’s growing up too fast. After getting into trouble too many times at school, she is sent away to live with an aunt she’s never met for the entire summer. As the summer unfolds, so does a deep-seated family secret and Busy comes face to face with her birth mother. With the help of a new friend, Busy must learn to swallow her pride and make amends with a mother she’s never known while laughter, unexpected kisses and a continuous trail of mischief lead her on an endless journey of adolescent discoveries.
Thankfully, Randy hadn’t been on the bus coming home since he has football practice after school every day and I didn’t have to hear him call me any more nasty names. Not that it mattered much to Billy. He was too busy sulking because he hadn’t gotten any chocolate from his teacher. I had asked him if he wanted to come over but Mr. Cobb was waiting for him when we got off of the bus.
“Busy,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you come in here for a moment?”
Marsha is sitting at the kitchen table again, this time without her beauty products spread out in front of her. She gives me one of her fake smiles but I don’t offer her one in return. I hang about in the doorway hoping that I won’t have to be there long.
“Do you have something to tell me?” Mom asks in that tone that tells me she’s about an inch away from being upset.
I shake my head.
“I think you do.”
I pretend to think hard because I really have no idea what she is talking about.
“You don’t remember getting into a little fight on the way to school this morning?”
My stomach dips like a cart on a roller coaster. The bus driver must have reported me after all.
“Uh, oh that, that was nothing.” I pick at the wallpaper avoiding Mom’s eyes. “It was just a dumb argument.”
“Well, that dumb argument caused your guidance counselor to call me at home. So maybe the school doesn’t think it’s dumb for you to fight on the bus.” Her arms fold angrily across her chest.
“Mom, this jerk was making fun of Billy,” I explain. “What could I do?”
“Ignore him,” Marsha adds in her two-cents.
“Ignore him, yeah right.” I throw my hands wildly into the air. “Then he would have just kept throwing oversized spit balls at Billy’s head!”
Mom relaxes her stare a little. “He was throwing things at Billy’s head?”
“Yes! And he was just doing it to make the other kids laugh. I mean, how stupid can you get?”
“Well...there is no cause for that,” she says and I think I have made a solid case for myself until she adds, “but that is no reason to get into a fight. I don’t like to think that I raised a barbarian for a daughter.”
“You may as well have,” says Marsha.
My lips feel glued together. What am I supposed to say now?
“I think you should go to your room,” Mom tells me.
“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” I shout. The anger left over from the morning resurfaces again. “He’s the one who called me an ugly freak who wants to be a boy!”
“Why would he say such a thing?”
“Because he knows I can kick his ass!”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I know I shouldn’t have said them.
Marsha instantly raises a hand to her mouth and gasps in disgust. The room is filled with an eerie silence until Mom raises one hand swiftly into the air and says, “Well what do you expect people to say when you dress like a boy, pal around with boys, act like a boy!”
She is furious now and I can tell because she has that expression, the one where her eyes become narrow and her cheeks cave in.
“Mom it isn’t a big deal, he was just being –“
“This is exactly what I am talking about,” she turns to Marsha. “You see! You see what people think of her. I did not raise her this way,” she turns back to me, “I did not raise you this way!”
“What way?”
“You are a tomboy,” says Marsha as if I didn’t already know this.
“Who cares if I’m a tomboy,” I ask. If she keeps adding in her two cents I’ll be rich.
Mom inhales deeply, so deeply that I wonder if she is ever going to exhale.
“Busy, you need to start acting like a young woman and stop all this boyish nonsense. You’re practically fifteen now,” Marsha says.
I glare at her, resisting the urge to tell her to shut her mouth. She’s not my mother, she’s not even part of the family.
“I don’t need to act like anything,” I tell both of them. “I’m me and that’s all there is to it.” I cross my arms defiantly over my chest.
Mom taps her fingers restlessly on the counter. “Well, I just can’t have this. I can’t have people going around thinking my daughter is some sort of, uh, you know –“
“Rebel tomboy,” Marsha finishes.
Cha-ching. I’m two-cents richer.
“Tomorrow after school I am picking you up and we are going to go shopping for new clothes.”
“I don’t need any new clothes!”
Mom raises her finger at me, “No arguments. Marsha is right, it’s time you started acting your age, which means dressing and acting like the young woman that you are supposed to be.”
I open up my mouth to protest, but she stops me with the palm of her hand.
“I don’t want to hear another word. Go upstairs to your room. We’ll talk about this when your father comes home.”
I pull at my fingers, trying to figure out exactly what I did wrong because I don’t have a clue. What I do know is that I stood up against someone who was bullying my best friend, got called an ugly name for doing so, and now I’m being told that I need new clothes.
Mom’s voice breaks into my thoughts, “Busy go to your room!”
There are no words for me to say at this point. I struggle to gather what is left of myself and leave the room.
“You should purchase some make-up for her as well,” I hear Marsha say as I head up the stairs. “It might pretty her up a little bit.”
Writer's note: Busy Wheeler is a spirited tomboy who’s adopted and best friends with a mentally handicapped boy named Billy. She is suddenly having strange feelings for the new girl at school and fighting an overwhelming sensation that she’s growing up too fast. After getting into trouble too many times at school, she is sent away to live with an aunt she’s never met for the entire summer. As the summer unfolds, so does a deep-seated family secret and Busy comes face to face with her birth mother. With the help of a new friend, Busy must learn to swallow her pride and make amends with a mother she’s never known while laughter, unexpected kisses and a continuous trail of mischief lead her on an endless journey of adolescent discoveries.
Excerpt :
Thankfully, Randy hadn’t been on the bus coming home since he has football practice after school every day and I didn’t have to hear him call me any more nasty names. Not that it mattered much to Billy. He was too busy sulking because he hadn’t gotten any chocolate from his teacher. I had asked him if he wanted to come over but Mr. Cobb was waiting for him when we got off of the bus.
“Busy,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you come in here for a moment?”
Marsha is sitting at the kitchen table again, this time without her beauty products spread out in front of her. She gives me one of her fake smiles but I don’t offer her one in return. I hang about in the doorway hoping that I won’t have to be there long.
“Do you have something to tell me?” Mom asks in that tone that tells me she’s about an inch away from being upset.
I shake my head.
“I think you do.”
I pretend to think hard because I really have no idea what she is talking about.
“You don’t remember getting into a little fight on the way to school this morning?”
My stomach dips like a cart on a roller coaster. The bus driver must have reported me after all.
“Uh, oh that, that was nothing.” I pick at the wallpaper avoiding Mom’s eyes. “It was just a dumb argument.”
“Well, that dumb argument caused your guidance counselor to call me at home. So maybe the school doesn’t think it’s dumb for you to fight on the bus.” Her arms fold angrily across her chest.
“Mom, this jerk was making fun of Billy,” I explain. “What could I do?”
“Ignore him,” Marsha adds in her two-cents.
“Ignore him, yeah right.” I throw my hands wildly into the air. “Then he would have just kept throwing oversized spit balls at Billy’s head!”
Mom relaxes her stare a little. “He was throwing things at Billy’s head?”
“Yes! And he was just doing it to make the other kids laugh. I mean, how stupid can you get?”
“Well...there is no cause for that,” she says and I think I have made a solid case for myself until she adds, “but that is no reason to get into a fight. I don’t like to think that I raised a barbarian for a daughter.”
“You may as well have,” says Marsha.
My lips feel glued together. What am I supposed to say now?
“I think you should go to your room,” Mom tells me.
“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” I shout. The anger left over from the morning resurfaces again. “He’s the one who called me an ugly freak who wants to be a boy!”
“Why would he say such a thing?”
“Because he knows I can kick his ass!”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I know I shouldn’t have said them.
Marsha instantly raises a hand to her mouth and gasps in disgust. The room is filled with an eerie silence until Mom raises one hand swiftly into the air and says, “Well what do you expect people to say when you dress like a boy, pal around with boys, act like a boy!”
She is furious now and I can tell because she has that expression, the one where her eyes become narrow and her cheeks cave in.
“Mom it isn’t a big deal, he was just being –“
“This is exactly what I am talking about,” she turns to Marsha. “You see! You see what people think of her. I did not raise her this way,” she turns back to me, “I did not raise you this way!”
“What way?”
“You are a tomboy,” says Marsha as if I didn’t already know this.
“Who cares if I’m a tomboy,” I ask. If she keeps adding in her two cents I’ll be rich.
Mom inhales deeply, so deeply that I wonder if she is ever going to exhale.
“Busy, you need to start acting like a young woman and stop all this boyish nonsense. You’re practically fifteen now,” Marsha says.
I glare at her, resisting the urge to tell her to shut her mouth. She’s not my mother, she’s not even part of the family.
“I don’t need to act like anything,” I tell both of them. “I’m me and that’s all there is to it.” I cross my arms defiantly over my chest.
Mom taps her fingers restlessly on the counter. “Well, I just can’t have this. I can’t have people going around thinking my daughter is some sort of, uh, you know –“
“Rebel tomboy,” Marsha finishes.
Cha-ching. I’m two-cents richer.
“Tomorrow after school I am picking you up and we are going to go shopping for new clothes.”
“I don’t need any new clothes!”
Mom raises her finger at me, “No arguments. Marsha is right, it’s time you started acting your age, which means dressing and acting like the young woman that you are supposed to be.”
I open up my mouth to protest, but she stops me with the palm of her hand.
“I don’t want to hear another word. Go upstairs to your room. We’ll talk about this when your father comes home.”
I pull at my fingers, trying to figure out exactly what I did wrong because I don’t have a clue. What I do know is that I stood up against someone who was bullying my best friend, got called an ugly name for doing so, and now I’m being told that I need new clothes.
Mom’s voice breaks into my thoughts, “Busy go to your room!”
There are no words for me to say at this point. I struggle to gather what is left of myself and leave the room.
“You should purchase some make-up for her as well,” I hear Marsha say as I head up the stairs. “It might pretty her up a little bit.”
~~~~
Between Friends
Writer's note: Ray and Zoe have been best friends since birth. Born on the same day, in the same hospital only a minute a part, their bond was formed from the moment they took their first breaths. There's is a friendship that would seem to last through anything, even as they grow from budding adolescents to adults. But when Ray realizes that she is gay, their friendship is severely tested. Zoe is faced with her own religious beliefs and struggles to accept the one person she thought she knew. The story takes you on a journey through the lives of Ray and Zoe, as they learn about themselves, growing individually and together while struggling to maintain the kind of friendship most of us hope to experience in our own lives.
Excerpt:
It turned out that my mother led a life that most women around town
turned up their noses at. They whispered at us when we’d walk down the
street or across an isle in the grocery store. They’d watch us like we
were beggars on the sidewalk, scanning the concrete for loose change.
They said that every woman needed a husband and wonder how a single
mother could raise a young girl to be wholesome and pure. But my mother
didn’t care.
“All husbands know how to do is leave,” she told me. And she spoke from experience. Not that she was ever married before. But her father, my grandfather, had left her mother shortly after she was born. My mother was raised by a single mother, it only seemed fitting to her that she raise me as a single mother. Not that she had much of a choice in the matter.
“Woman are strong Ray,” she would often say, “strong and resourceful. With or without a man around.”
And that became her mantra. That became the key to her happiness or maybe it became the demise of her happiness. Either way, it kept her from giving all of herself to anyone, kept her from loving another human being without question, without fear. At times I wondered if she ever really knew what it felt like to be in love.
There were other things that my mother chose to love unconditionally instead, things that were more important to her than any man. She loved me, I knew that much for sure. She also loved to paint. She craved the taste of creativity like most people craved chocolate. During the day she painted. She’d paint for hours, sometimes even before the sun broke wild pink in the sky. And I would be there with her, resting in my crib or play pen until I was old enough to walk. Then I’d wander around the house, while she kept a watchful eye upon me.
At night, she tended bar at the local tavern. It was good for now, she said. Until she found something better. But she never found anything better, and good for now eventually became just good enough.
My mother never did settle down with a man. There were a few scattered faces here and there, most notably and my favorite, Adam Preston. I loved his last name and vowed that someday it would become my own once they were married, once he became the father I had always wanted. But it was a dead-end dream. My mother never planned on marrying, not even a man as wholesome as Adam.
He was a fixture in my life the summer I turned eight years old. It was just about the same time that Zoe reentered my world.
My mother had started going to church again for whatever reason. It was just after my grandmother died. It’s strange how I don’t remember my grandmother’s face, but I can recall the way she smelled. The scent was a soft mix between vanilla hand lotion and sweet department store perfume. It danced in my nostrils every time she hugged me close. And when she’d let go, it would cling to my clothes.
She and my mother were more like best friends than mother and daughter. And I think that when she passed on, after a stroke, something inside my mother died. She wanted to feel whole again. And she hoped to find something to fill that void at church.
Church was about as exciting as going to the dentist for me. I hated having to put on a dress, any dress, just to sit in an uncomfortable pew and listen to the preacher’s nasally drone. Even at a young age, my rebellious side was beginning to take hold.
“Put this on,” my mother commanded one Sunday morning.
“I don’t like yellow. And I don’t like dresses.”
“Too bad. You’re wearing it.”
“But Mom!”
“No buts!”
I slid my bare chest through the opening and yanked the frilly bottom down over my bony hips. My mother zipped up the back with one hand while she dabbed lipstick across her thick lips with the other.
She was a beautiful woman, tall and lean right down to her ankles. What she lacked in breast, she made up in stride. Walking just so, that her bottom swung perfectly from east to west. Her long, angular cheekbones accentuated her full lips. And her eyelashes were so long that they’d tickle my face whenever she hugged me cheek to cheek.
“You’re not wearing those,” she said observing my athletic socks and high top sneakers.
I pouted, sat down and reluctantly took them off.
“What’s that?” I pointed a stubby finger at a curvy line in her pantyhose.
“What?” She leaned over. “Crap.” In one swift motion the hose were gone from her milky white legs. “Put your nice sandals on while I change into another pair.” She glanced at her watch. “Hurry up, Adam will be here any second.”
“Yay Adam,” I shouted, ran through the apartment in my bare feet cheering wildly.
We left the house hurried, less than ten minutes later – me in my white sandals and my mother in a fresh pair of pantie hose and a screaming red dress. We drove in Adam’s car, an old Ford truck, wintergreen and rusty. He fondly called it Betty. I sat in the middle, happily swinging my feet. My mother fanned herself from the passenger side, complaining about the air conditioning being broke while Adam laughed, as he often did, at her impudence.
“Betty’s fine without it,” he smiled, rolled down the window further.
“Betty’s about to bite the big one,” my mother snorted.
“I like Betty,” I told her.
Adam winked at me.
We arrived at church, just barely crossing the threshold as the sermon began. My mother shooed us into the last available row, so crowded that Adam had to lift me up and plant me on his lap. I let my eyes bounce around the pews like a rubber ball jumping from one random head to the next. The preacher cleared his throat, began speaking. I noticed something peculiar in his tone. His voice had changed. It was smoother, richer, like butter.
I looked up at the pulpit and no longer recognized that man addressing the crowd before him. His face was round and innocent, his hairline receded and a pair over glass circled his beady eyes.
“I know him,” I heard my mother say. “I recognize his face, his voice...” her voice trailed off, lost in a memory. I chased a bee with my eyes. It landed on the flowered pink hat two rows in front of us. I wondered if the bee knew that the flowers were plastic. I could tell easily.
The sermon went on and to my surprise I found myself following along. There was a point where the preacher asked for all of the children in the congregation to come forth.
I glanced up at my mother for permission.
“Go on,” she urged.
“He invited you,” Adam added. He nudged me off his strong legs with ease and set me down in the isle. I chewed on the end of my thumb, pulled out my underwear from behind and walked bravely down the center of the pews.
The preacher was waiting, a kind look on his face willing me forward. I felt safe sitting there next to him, listening to his Bible lesson about a brave young man who defeated a giant with a slingshot. A girl beside me reached over and poked my shoulder. I turned. She smiled. I looked away.
Once the sermon ended, my mother guided us into the recreation room for refreshments and donuts. The old woman who smelled like cat piss and vinegar was there too. She asked me if I wanted to sit on her lap. I politely declined, shaking my head like most kids my age do when they don’t want to do something for reasons they can’t quite put their finger on. But I knew the reason I didn’t want to sit on her lap. It was because I was scared of her and nothing more. I had heard the stories and the delicate whispers from the mouths of parents who alluded to her strange obsession for little girls, the need to touch them, to have them sit on her lap. I didn’t know if the rumors were true, I didn’t care. All I knew was that I shouldn’t go near her, ever.
Adam handed me a chocolate cream donut with a napkin wrapped around it so I wouldn’t spill any of it on my dress. He sipped his coffee while my mother gossiped about the new preacher.
“Donuts are bad for you.”
The girl who had poked me during the children’s lesson was standing in front of me, standing awkwardly on one foot while the other dangled behind her.
“Says who?” I took a big chuck out of the donuts with my front teeth.
“My mother,” she declared. “They are full of sugar and will rot your teeth.”
I shrugged. What did I care about my teeth anyway? I hated brushing, hated flossing. I’d eat donuts every day of the week if my mother would let me.
“Honey, who this?”
I looked up into a pair of inquiring blue eyes. The woman gently placed her hands on top of the young girl’s shoulders, pulled her close after noticing the chocolate mess on my face, afraid that it might jump off my cheeks and land on her daughter’s brand new Sunday dress.
“I don’t know,” the girl said.
“Little girl, where is your mother?” the woman asked as if I had wandered into the church unsupervised.
My eyes darted across the room but failed to locate her. The last bit of donut had been shoved in my mouth, afraid that the little girl might want a piece of it. I stared back at her mother, unable to talk with a full mouth.
“You have got to be kidding!” I heard my mother screech from somewhere behind me. “I knew it! Once I saw Harold’s face up there, I just knew it.”
She stepped in front me, draped her arms around the woman’s neck, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“Don’t you remember?” my mother asked once she saw that her enthusiasm wasn’t being returned. “St. Vincent’s hospital? 1978? We shared a room...”
The woman gasped, “Praise Jesus!” She moved the little girl aside and embraced my mother like they were long lost sisters.
“Annie Parks it is so good to see you!” my mother cooed.
“I still don’t believe it, after all these years. Margaret Mitchell, you are still as beautiful as ever.”
My mother passed the comment aside. She hated being called Margaret. She preferred Maggie. But I’m sure she didn’t mind the compliment.
“Is this your daughter? Is this Zoe?”
Annie nodded. Zoe clung to her side, too shy to say anything more.
“She looks just like you!” My mother said in a high-pitched voice that I wasn’t used to hearing.
It was true. They looked practically identical. Zoe had her mother’s steel blue eyes, her apple cheeks and her autumn hair. I suspected that when she grew up, she would take on her mother’s curves as well.
“And this must be Ray?” Annie offered me a smile. I took it, gave her one in return. I watched as she studied me slowly first, and then my mother. There was little to compare. My hair was strawberry blond, my face was dotted in freckles, and my nose curved up slightly at the end. The only trait my mother had shared with me was her beanpole length. At eight, I was already the tallest in my class.
“She has her father’s face,” my mother explained.
“Oh but she’ll grow up to be a beauty just like you,” Annie said cheerfully, almost trying too hard.
“Ray,” My mother said to me, “this is Zoe. You and Zoe were born on the same day, in the same room about a minute apart.”
“That’s something special,” Annie added, turning to Zoe. “You and Ray are like sisters.”
Zoe picked at her earlobe and I mindlessly chewed on my collar until my mother smacked me lightly on the side of the head to get me to stop. We wondered at one another, listening to our mother’s gab, not really understanding the depth of our unique connection.
Adam wandered over after my mother gave him her “come here now” eyes. She introduced him as a close friend but I knew better. Adam was going to be my father. It was just a matter of time. Then I’d be called Ray Preston and I would become a famous actress. With a name like Ray Preston, how could I not?
My mother continued to ramble on about the last eight years since she and Annie had gone on about their lives. How silly was it that they only live a town apart and still hadn’t crossed paths until that very day.
Annie recalled the scattered details from her own life right up to the part where her husband had decided to take a job at our church after the former preacher had suffered a severe heart attack. It was temporary position, until the old preacher recovered, but Harold was happy just the same. And she was just absolutely thrilled that my mother and I had found our faith again.
My thoughts drifted after that. I was bored, ready to get out of that ugly yellow dress and play outside.
“Do you jump rope?” Zoe asked, finally letting go of her mother’s skirt and standing next to me. An uneasy look had settled in her eyes, as if she was afraid that I’d turn her down.
“I’m not that good,” I confessed.
Her eyes lit up.
“I can teach you.”
She reached for my hand before I had a chance to tell her that my mother didn’t approve of me playing in my church clothes. I ran close behind her as she lead me through the maze of people and out onto the front lawn of the church. We danced in a circle, spinning each other around and around until we fell dizzily on to the fresh cut grass.
“I don’t have a jump rope,” I said and rolled my body over to face the sky.
“I can teach you when you come over to play then,” Zoe answered. She crawled over to me on her knees and fixed herself so that our arms were side by side. We watched the clouds take shape.
“Do you know the woman with the cane?” I asked.
“With the gold glasses?”
“Yeah, the one that always smells funny.”
“What about her?”
“Do you know if all those stories about her are true?”
Zoe shrugged and her shoulder brushed against mine.
“My mother said she’s just a nice old lady that people pick on,” I continued. “But I’m still afraid of her.”
“Can I tell you a secret,” Zoe whispered.
“Sure.”
“Pinky swear you won’t tell?”
“I pinky swear.”
I never pinky swore before, but it sounded like a serious commitment. We linked our tiny fingers together and I burned with anticipation, licked my lips and listened carefully.
“I sat on her lap once.”
“You did?”
Zoe nodded.
“What happened?” I was horrified, sweaty and worried that Zoe was about to tell me something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear, that maybe the old woman touched her someplace she didn’t want to be touched.
“She gave me a lollipop and a quarter.”
I released the link in our pinkies.
“She did?”
“Yeah. I sat down on her knee, she asked me my name, told me that she has a granddaughter who lives far away and that she misses her a lot. Then she gave me a lollipop and a quarter.”
“She didn’t touch you?”
“No. Why would she?”
I shrugged and said, “How come that’s a secret, if nothing bad happened?”
Zoe rolled her head to the side and stared into my eyes.
“Because I’ve never told anyone before, so that makes it a secret. Secrets don’t have to be bad silly.”
“I guess not. But that’s still a lousy secret,” I said sourly. The truth was that I was just disappointed I hadn’t gotten a lollipop and a quarter because I was too afraid to sit on the old woman’s lap. So much for listening to rumors.
“Then I’ll tell you another secret,” Zoe said.
“Okay,” I said skeptically since the first one had been a let down.
“I wish I had a sister.”
“Maybe you will someday.”
Zoe sat up, picked at the grass.
“I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “I don’t think my mother wants to have any more kids. I asked her the other day if I could have a sister.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that God chooses whether or not she can have more children. And he didn’t think it was a good idea right now.”
I didn’t know if I believed that or not.
“But now you can be my sister...if you want,” Zoe continued. “Since my mother said we’re like sisters anyway.” She didn’t look at me. I think she was worried that I’d decline her offer.
I sat up too, placed my arm around her shoulder.
“I always wanted a sister,” I lied.
I had never thought about what it would be like to have a sibling actually, brother or sister or otherwise. I was so used to having it be just my mother and I that the thought had never dared to cross my mind. But seeing Zoe sitting there with an air of sadness hidden behind her squeaky voice and offering a heartfelt pinky swear made me want to live up to her expectations. I’d be her sister, if that’s what she wanted and she’d be my friend because that’s what I wanted.
From that moment on Zoe and I were inseparable.
“All husbands know how to do is leave,” she told me. And she spoke from experience. Not that she was ever married before. But her father, my grandfather, had left her mother shortly after she was born. My mother was raised by a single mother, it only seemed fitting to her that she raise me as a single mother. Not that she had much of a choice in the matter.
“Woman are strong Ray,” she would often say, “strong and resourceful. With or without a man around.”
And that became her mantra. That became the key to her happiness or maybe it became the demise of her happiness. Either way, it kept her from giving all of herself to anyone, kept her from loving another human being without question, without fear. At times I wondered if she ever really knew what it felt like to be in love.
There were other things that my mother chose to love unconditionally instead, things that were more important to her than any man. She loved me, I knew that much for sure. She also loved to paint. She craved the taste of creativity like most people craved chocolate. During the day she painted. She’d paint for hours, sometimes even before the sun broke wild pink in the sky. And I would be there with her, resting in my crib or play pen until I was old enough to walk. Then I’d wander around the house, while she kept a watchful eye upon me.
At night, she tended bar at the local tavern. It was good for now, she said. Until she found something better. But she never found anything better, and good for now eventually became just good enough.
My mother never did settle down with a man. There were a few scattered faces here and there, most notably and my favorite, Adam Preston. I loved his last name and vowed that someday it would become my own once they were married, once he became the father I had always wanted. But it was a dead-end dream. My mother never planned on marrying, not even a man as wholesome as Adam.
He was a fixture in my life the summer I turned eight years old. It was just about the same time that Zoe reentered my world.
My mother had started going to church again for whatever reason. It was just after my grandmother died. It’s strange how I don’t remember my grandmother’s face, but I can recall the way she smelled. The scent was a soft mix between vanilla hand lotion and sweet department store perfume. It danced in my nostrils every time she hugged me close. And when she’d let go, it would cling to my clothes.
She and my mother were more like best friends than mother and daughter. And I think that when she passed on, after a stroke, something inside my mother died. She wanted to feel whole again. And she hoped to find something to fill that void at church.
Church was about as exciting as going to the dentist for me. I hated having to put on a dress, any dress, just to sit in an uncomfortable pew and listen to the preacher’s nasally drone. Even at a young age, my rebellious side was beginning to take hold.
“Put this on,” my mother commanded one Sunday morning.
“I don’t like yellow. And I don’t like dresses.”
“Too bad. You’re wearing it.”
“But Mom!”
“No buts!”
I slid my bare chest through the opening and yanked the frilly bottom down over my bony hips. My mother zipped up the back with one hand while she dabbed lipstick across her thick lips with the other.
She was a beautiful woman, tall and lean right down to her ankles. What she lacked in breast, she made up in stride. Walking just so, that her bottom swung perfectly from east to west. Her long, angular cheekbones accentuated her full lips. And her eyelashes were so long that they’d tickle my face whenever she hugged me cheek to cheek.
“You’re not wearing those,” she said observing my athletic socks and high top sneakers.
I pouted, sat down and reluctantly took them off.
“What’s that?” I pointed a stubby finger at a curvy line in her pantyhose.
“What?” She leaned over. “Crap.” In one swift motion the hose were gone from her milky white legs. “Put your nice sandals on while I change into another pair.” She glanced at her watch. “Hurry up, Adam will be here any second.”
“Yay Adam,” I shouted, ran through the apartment in my bare feet cheering wildly.
We left the house hurried, less than ten minutes later – me in my white sandals and my mother in a fresh pair of pantie hose and a screaming red dress. We drove in Adam’s car, an old Ford truck, wintergreen and rusty. He fondly called it Betty. I sat in the middle, happily swinging my feet. My mother fanned herself from the passenger side, complaining about the air conditioning being broke while Adam laughed, as he often did, at her impudence.
“Betty’s fine without it,” he smiled, rolled down the window further.
“Betty’s about to bite the big one,” my mother snorted.
“I like Betty,” I told her.
Adam winked at me.
We arrived at church, just barely crossing the threshold as the sermon began. My mother shooed us into the last available row, so crowded that Adam had to lift me up and plant me on his lap. I let my eyes bounce around the pews like a rubber ball jumping from one random head to the next. The preacher cleared his throat, began speaking. I noticed something peculiar in his tone. His voice had changed. It was smoother, richer, like butter.
I looked up at the pulpit and no longer recognized that man addressing the crowd before him. His face was round and innocent, his hairline receded and a pair over glass circled his beady eyes.
“I know him,” I heard my mother say. “I recognize his face, his voice...” her voice trailed off, lost in a memory. I chased a bee with my eyes. It landed on the flowered pink hat two rows in front of us. I wondered if the bee knew that the flowers were plastic. I could tell easily.
The sermon went on and to my surprise I found myself following along. There was a point where the preacher asked for all of the children in the congregation to come forth.
I glanced up at my mother for permission.
“Go on,” she urged.
“He invited you,” Adam added. He nudged me off his strong legs with ease and set me down in the isle. I chewed on the end of my thumb, pulled out my underwear from behind and walked bravely down the center of the pews.
The preacher was waiting, a kind look on his face willing me forward. I felt safe sitting there next to him, listening to his Bible lesson about a brave young man who defeated a giant with a slingshot. A girl beside me reached over and poked my shoulder. I turned. She smiled. I looked away.
Once the sermon ended, my mother guided us into the recreation room for refreshments and donuts. The old woman who smelled like cat piss and vinegar was there too. She asked me if I wanted to sit on her lap. I politely declined, shaking my head like most kids my age do when they don’t want to do something for reasons they can’t quite put their finger on. But I knew the reason I didn’t want to sit on her lap. It was because I was scared of her and nothing more. I had heard the stories and the delicate whispers from the mouths of parents who alluded to her strange obsession for little girls, the need to touch them, to have them sit on her lap. I didn’t know if the rumors were true, I didn’t care. All I knew was that I shouldn’t go near her, ever.
Adam handed me a chocolate cream donut with a napkin wrapped around it so I wouldn’t spill any of it on my dress. He sipped his coffee while my mother gossiped about the new preacher.
“Donuts are bad for you.”
The girl who had poked me during the children’s lesson was standing in front of me, standing awkwardly on one foot while the other dangled behind her.
“Says who?” I took a big chuck out of the donuts with my front teeth.
“My mother,” she declared. “They are full of sugar and will rot your teeth.”
I shrugged. What did I care about my teeth anyway? I hated brushing, hated flossing. I’d eat donuts every day of the week if my mother would let me.
“Honey, who this?”
I looked up into a pair of inquiring blue eyes. The woman gently placed her hands on top of the young girl’s shoulders, pulled her close after noticing the chocolate mess on my face, afraid that it might jump off my cheeks and land on her daughter’s brand new Sunday dress.
“I don’t know,” the girl said.
“Little girl, where is your mother?” the woman asked as if I had wandered into the church unsupervised.
My eyes darted across the room but failed to locate her. The last bit of donut had been shoved in my mouth, afraid that the little girl might want a piece of it. I stared back at her mother, unable to talk with a full mouth.
“You have got to be kidding!” I heard my mother screech from somewhere behind me. “I knew it! Once I saw Harold’s face up there, I just knew it.”
She stepped in front me, draped her arms around the woman’s neck, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“Don’t you remember?” my mother asked once she saw that her enthusiasm wasn’t being returned. “St. Vincent’s hospital? 1978? We shared a room...”
The woman gasped, “Praise Jesus!” She moved the little girl aside and embraced my mother like they were long lost sisters.
“Annie Parks it is so good to see you!” my mother cooed.
“I still don’t believe it, after all these years. Margaret Mitchell, you are still as beautiful as ever.”
My mother passed the comment aside. She hated being called Margaret. She preferred Maggie. But I’m sure she didn’t mind the compliment.
“Is this your daughter? Is this Zoe?”
Annie nodded. Zoe clung to her side, too shy to say anything more.
“She looks just like you!” My mother said in a high-pitched voice that I wasn’t used to hearing.
It was true. They looked practically identical. Zoe had her mother’s steel blue eyes, her apple cheeks and her autumn hair. I suspected that when she grew up, she would take on her mother’s curves as well.
“And this must be Ray?” Annie offered me a smile. I took it, gave her one in return. I watched as she studied me slowly first, and then my mother. There was little to compare. My hair was strawberry blond, my face was dotted in freckles, and my nose curved up slightly at the end. The only trait my mother had shared with me was her beanpole length. At eight, I was already the tallest in my class.
“She has her father’s face,” my mother explained.
“Oh but she’ll grow up to be a beauty just like you,” Annie said cheerfully, almost trying too hard.
“Ray,” My mother said to me, “this is Zoe. You and Zoe were born on the same day, in the same room about a minute apart.”
“That’s something special,” Annie added, turning to Zoe. “You and Ray are like sisters.”
Zoe picked at her earlobe and I mindlessly chewed on my collar until my mother smacked me lightly on the side of the head to get me to stop. We wondered at one another, listening to our mother’s gab, not really understanding the depth of our unique connection.
Adam wandered over after my mother gave him her “come here now” eyes. She introduced him as a close friend but I knew better. Adam was going to be my father. It was just a matter of time. Then I’d be called Ray Preston and I would become a famous actress. With a name like Ray Preston, how could I not?
My mother continued to ramble on about the last eight years since she and Annie had gone on about their lives. How silly was it that they only live a town apart and still hadn’t crossed paths until that very day.
Annie recalled the scattered details from her own life right up to the part where her husband had decided to take a job at our church after the former preacher had suffered a severe heart attack. It was temporary position, until the old preacher recovered, but Harold was happy just the same. And she was just absolutely thrilled that my mother and I had found our faith again.
My thoughts drifted after that. I was bored, ready to get out of that ugly yellow dress and play outside.
“Do you jump rope?” Zoe asked, finally letting go of her mother’s skirt and standing next to me. An uneasy look had settled in her eyes, as if she was afraid that I’d turn her down.
“I’m not that good,” I confessed.
Her eyes lit up.
“I can teach you.”
She reached for my hand before I had a chance to tell her that my mother didn’t approve of me playing in my church clothes. I ran close behind her as she lead me through the maze of people and out onto the front lawn of the church. We danced in a circle, spinning each other around and around until we fell dizzily on to the fresh cut grass.
“I don’t have a jump rope,” I said and rolled my body over to face the sky.
“I can teach you when you come over to play then,” Zoe answered. She crawled over to me on her knees and fixed herself so that our arms were side by side. We watched the clouds take shape.
“Do you know the woman with the cane?” I asked.
“With the gold glasses?”
“Yeah, the one that always smells funny.”
“What about her?”
“Do you know if all those stories about her are true?”
Zoe shrugged and her shoulder brushed against mine.
“My mother said she’s just a nice old lady that people pick on,” I continued. “But I’m still afraid of her.”
“Can I tell you a secret,” Zoe whispered.
“Sure.”
“Pinky swear you won’t tell?”
“I pinky swear.”
I never pinky swore before, but it sounded like a serious commitment. We linked our tiny fingers together and I burned with anticipation, licked my lips and listened carefully.
“I sat on her lap once.”
“You did?”
Zoe nodded.
“What happened?” I was horrified, sweaty and worried that Zoe was about to tell me something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear, that maybe the old woman touched her someplace she didn’t want to be touched.
“She gave me a lollipop and a quarter.”
I released the link in our pinkies.
“She did?”
“Yeah. I sat down on her knee, she asked me my name, told me that she has a granddaughter who lives far away and that she misses her a lot. Then she gave me a lollipop and a quarter.”
“She didn’t touch you?”
“No. Why would she?”
I shrugged and said, “How come that’s a secret, if nothing bad happened?”
Zoe rolled her head to the side and stared into my eyes.
“Because I’ve never told anyone before, so that makes it a secret. Secrets don’t have to be bad silly.”
“I guess not. But that’s still a lousy secret,” I said sourly. The truth was that I was just disappointed I hadn’t gotten a lollipop and a quarter because I was too afraid to sit on the old woman’s lap. So much for listening to rumors.
“Then I’ll tell you another secret,” Zoe said.
“Okay,” I said skeptically since the first one had been a let down.
“I wish I had a sister.”
“Maybe you will someday.”
Zoe sat up, picked at the grass.
“I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “I don’t think my mother wants to have any more kids. I asked her the other day if I could have a sister.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that God chooses whether or not she can have more children. And he didn’t think it was a good idea right now.”
I didn’t know if I believed that or not.
“But now you can be my sister...if you want,” Zoe continued. “Since my mother said we’re like sisters anyway.” She didn’t look at me. I think she was worried that I’d decline her offer.
I sat up too, placed my arm around her shoulder.
“I always wanted a sister,” I lied.
I had never thought about what it would be like to have a sibling actually, brother or sister or otherwise. I was so used to having it be just my mother and I that the thought had never dared to cross my mind. But seeing Zoe sitting there with an air of sadness hidden behind her squeaky voice and offering a heartfelt pinky swear made me want to live up to her expectations. I’d be her sister, if that’s what she wanted and she’d be my friend because that’s what I wanted.
From that moment on Zoe and I were inseparable.
~~~~
The Trouble With Emily Dickinson
Writer's note: JJ is in her senior year at Sampson University. She's a closet poet, a talented writer suffering from stage fright. And she's also in love with a straight girl. Kendal McCarthy is the ultimate sorority girl. She's the campus beauty and uber popular. Though it may seem to have her life figured out, she is still searching for that college experience that will help her make sense of herself. When she and JJ cross paths, both of their lives suddenly become a bit more interesting in ways that neither of them ever expected.
Excerpt:
With the rain falling outside her open window, Kendal McCarthy was finding it hard to concentrate on Emily Dickinson’s poetry. She lay on her stomach, staring at the words on the page as if they were written in Greek.
For some reason, college was something that had never been easy for her. She had to study hard just to keep a B average. In high school, she coasted easily and wasn’t prepared for the serious kind of studying that college courses required. And after pledging a sorority during her freshman year, her grade point average slipped so low her parents had threatened to pull her out of school altogether.
With a little tutoring on the side and a willingness to do her homework instead of going out, she managed to pull her grades back up. Her hardest class this semester was Women’s Literature and she had decided to get some help after she received a low grade on an essay assignment.
Kendal pulled her small frame off of the bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror, which hung between the bunk beds in her room. Her hair was cut just below her neckline and was the color of auburn leaves preparing to let go of the tree branches and layered at an angle. The greenish-blue tint of her eyes seemed to change color depending on the way the light hit them and her face was heart shaped with a slight cave angling her cheekbones.
She was pretty and she had always known she was pretty. Good genes her mother had told her, you were blessed with the good-looks gene.
Kendal sighed. The fact that she was beautiful used to satisfy her. At one point in time it had been enough. But she had grown tired of it somewhere along the way. This was her senior year at Sampson and she felt as if something was missing, some college experience that would help her figure out who she was and who she wanted to be. There existed a vacant space inside of her and nothing had been able to fill it, not the partying, not the sorority and not even her popularity on campus. Nothing.
Kendal could hear her sorority sisters running around the house getting ready to venture out for the night. Their vivacious laughter only reminded her that she wouldn’t be joining them. Instead of partaking in upside-down margarita night with the boys of Phi Delta, she was going to be nose deep in Emily Dickinson with some random tutor.
The door to her room flung open. Christine, her roommate and sorority sister, stumbled in while holding a beer casually in her left hand. “We’re pre-gaming, come join!”
Kendal hissed at the request. “I probably shouldn’t show up to a tutoring session wasted.”
“Such a good student. You do know that Kyan is going to be at this party, right?”
“Yes, you only told me a billion times at dinner.”
“You sure you can’t skip this?”
“No. So quit asking.”
“Fine,” Christine tipped her can in to the air. “Happy studying then. And um...don’t wait up for me. I’m planning on letting Jason know that I’m not mad at him anymore.”
Kendal fought the overwhelming urge to join to party in the next room and fill up the emptiness in her stomach up with cheap beer until spotted the open book out of the corner of her eye. Her stomach turned with guilt.
After gathering her things, she pulled Emily Dickinson off of the bed and slid the book of poetry into her book bag. She left the sorority house as fast as she could knowing that if she lingered any longer she might get swept up in the commotion.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the mild wind felt cool against her cheeks. She crossed the soggy lawn listening to the sounds of the campus come alive in the damp air. Sampson was only a five minute walk wide as it was long, a small campus with a small town feel.
Kendal took one last look across the quad towards her sorority house and up the road at Fraternity Row, the street where all the fraternity houses sat. You could hobble drunk from one party to the next and never worry about getting lost. But, she wouldn’t have to bother with that this evening. She felt the book bag against her shoulder and knew that Emily Dickinson was waiting for her. Patiently.
With the rain falling outside her open window, Kendal McCarthy was finding it hard to concentrate on Emily Dickinson’s poetry. She lay on her stomach, staring at the words on the page as if they were written in Greek.
For some reason, college was something that had never been easy for her. She had to study hard just to keep a B average. In high school, she coasted easily and wasn’t prepared for the serious kind of studying that college courses required. And after pledging a sorority during her freshman year, her grade point average slipped so low her parents had threatened to pull her out of school altogether.
With a little tutoring on the side and a willingness to do her homework instead of going out, she managed to pull her grades back up. Her hardest class this semester was Women’s Literature and she had decided to get some help after she received a low grade on an essay assignment.
Kendal pulled her small frame off of the bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror, which hung between the bunk beds in her room. Her hair was cut just below her neckline and was the color of auburn leaves preparing to let go of the tree branches and layered at an angle. The greenish-blue tint of her eyes seemed to change color depending on the way the light hit them and her face was heart shaped with a slight cave angling her cheekbones.
She was pretty and she had always known she was pretty. Good genes her mother had told her, you were blessed with the good-looks gene.
Kendal sighed. The fact that she was beautiful used to satisfy her. At one point in time it had been enough. But she had grown tired of it somewhere along the way. This was her senior year at Sampson and she felt as if something was missing, some college experience that would help her figure out who she was and who she wanted to be. There existed a vacant space inside of her and nothing had been able to fill it, not the partying, not the sorority and not even her popularity on campus. Nothing.
Kendal could hear her sorority sisters running around the house getting ready to venture out for the night. Their vivacious laughter only reminded her that she wouldn’t be joining them. Instead of partaking in upside-down margarita night with the boys of Phi Delta, she was going to be nose deep in Emily Dickinson with some random tutor.
The door to her room flung open. Christine, her roommate and sorority sister, stumbled in while holding a beer casually in her left hand. “We’re pre-gaming, come join!”
Kendal hissed at the request. “I probably shouldn’t show up to a tutoring session wasted.”
“Such a good student. You do know that Kyan is going to be at this party, right?”
“Yes, you only told me a billion times at dinner.”
“You sure you can’t skip this?”
“No. So quit asking.”
“Fine,” Christine tipped her can in to the air. “Happy studying then. And um...don’t wait up for me. I’m planning on letting Jason know that I’m not mad at him anymore.”
Kendal fought the overwhelming urge to join to party in the next room and fill up the emptiness in her stomach up with cheap beer until spotted the open book out of the corner of her eye. Her stomach turned with guilt.
After gathering her things, she pulled Emily Dickinson off of the bed and slid the book of poetry into her book bag. She left the sorority house as fast as she could knowing that if she lingered any longer she might get swept up in the commotion.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the mild wind felt cool against her cheeks. She crossed the soggy lawn listening to the sounds of the campus come alive in the damp air. Sampson was only a five minute walk wide as it was long, a small campus with a small town feel.
Kendal took one last look across the quad towards her sorority house and up the road at Fraternity Row, the street where all the fraternity houses sat. You could hobble drunk from one party to the next and never worry about getting lost. But, she wouldn’t have to bother with that this evening. She felt the book bag against her shoulder and knew that Emily Dickinson was waiting for her. Patiently.
