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Looking forward to seeing how that one button influenced the creation of your character and some sort of scene he/she/it lives in! *I scanned the original Button Jar sheet (which I handed out at Lloyd Center) and added it to the File Cabinet under "writing prompts" for your convenience.
Kathleen is taking a ferry boat from Dover to Calais. She’s leaning against the cold metal railing, watching the white cliffs move further and further away, listening to the water lap up against the side of the boat.
ReplyDeleteEveryone had told her to take the Chunnel but the idea of being stuck on a train underneath all that water was too much for her claustrophobic mind to handle. She didn’t know what she would do or where she would go once she got to Calais. It was all up in the air which both thrilled and terrified her.
Here she was, at 75 years old, about to backpack through France. She laughed out oud as she pictured herself bunking in hostels with a bunch of burned out college kids. How on Earth would she fare under those circumstances?
She had taken good care of herself over the years, staying active in some way shape or form - aerobics in her thirties, jogging in her forties, power-walking in her fifties, and yoga in her sixties. ‘It’s harder to shoot a moving target!’ her father always used to tell her. Nowadays she just plain old walked, but it was enough to keep her feeling good and out of assisted living. Enough to walk her aging ass across France and take the adventure she’d always dreamed of...she just hoped she’d find whatever it was she was looking for.
I love her adventurous spirit!
DeleteKathleen is a spitfire! I wonder what prompted this solo trip!
Delete
ReplyDeleteEvelyn was nervous. Sitting on the hard, wooden pew, she absent-mindedly fidgeted with the loose button on her green sweater. “I need to tighten this up,” she thought as she scanned the room. He would be here soon.
The morning sun streamed through the nearby stained-glass window, brightening the chapel and highlighting her chestnut hair. This sanctuary, so familiar and so welcoming, always had a calming effect on her. It was a place she felt at peace. But not today. She felt queasy, and her hands trembled slightly as she thought about the conversation that was about to take place. “How did I get here?” she wondered.
Evelyn had been the organist at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church for almost sixteen years. That’s how they’d met. She clearly remembered the day the new Reverend asked to meet to discuss the music selections for the following Sunday. They had chosen the hymns quickly, but ended up talking for hours, laughing about the way they’d lost track of time. Rushing off to pick up her son from football practice, she felt restless and distracted. She couldn’t stop thinking about his hazel eyes and easy manner. The next morning she was drawn back to the church, making some lame excuse to see him again. And that’s when it started.
Snapping back to the here and now, Evelyn looked at her watch and steeled herself; there was simply no choice. She thought about Richard. He was such a hard worker, always putting in extra hours at his job as a foreman with General Motors. He was far from perfect, but he was a good man. Sometimes she’d watch him joking and smiling with their three children while she put dinner on the table, and she’d recognize the young man she married.
He must never find out. She had taken far too many chances already. She knew other women noted her closeness to Reverend Weber and she wondered if they suspected it was anything more than a casual flirtation. Her friends never questioned her, but they often remarked on the extra effort she put into fixing her hair and choosing her outfits. Last Friday night, during their weekly Pinochle game at the Martins’ house, Joyce made a point of saying they should wrap up early so Evelyn could get back to the church in the morning. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she saw Richard shift a little in his seat. For a brief moment, their eyes locked across the table. That was when she knew it had to stop.
This town was no different than any other small Ohio town where the sidewalks are rolled up at night. People gossiped, and they rejoiced in any revelation that someone’s moral character was less than pristine. She could not risk putting her family at the center of a small town scandal.
Despite her determination to do what needed to be done, she couldn’t help but feel intense sadness at the loss she would experience. The last eight months had made her feel alive. She liked the anticipation and joy she felt when she turned into the church parking lot. She wondered how she would ever go back to being who she was before. She wondered if Paul would feel the same sense of loss. Would he be hurt or angry; would he understand? She made a mental note to start calling him Reverend Weber.
Footsteps sounded on the hardwood floors in the hallway. She heard him whistling softly, happily, as he often did. He appeared in the doorway and she rose to meet him, unaware that the loose green button on her sweater had fallen to the floor.
You've created a really complex character...loved reading it!
DeleteLove the descriptions and how you w!ove the button into the story and made it symbolic. I want to know what happens next (if you choose to write more at some point!).
DeleteI want to know what happens next. Who finds the button? Does he feel the loss? Where does she go? Thank you
DeleteSomeone finally made religion interesting!
DeleteMaggie stood before the closet door and sighed audibly. It had been a long day. Everywhere she looked something reminded her of Grams, and Maggie had found herself remembering little things about her all day: her smooth cheeks, the faint smell of her Chanel perfume; the time when she had whispered in Maggie’s ear, “I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I love you the most,” and Maggie’s eleven-year-old self had felt sublimely happy (even though deep down her eleven-year-old self was pretty sure her grandmother had said that to all of her grandchildren).
ReplyDeleteShe had tried to share these memories with her mom, but the two of them hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks - especially about her grandmother. Other than ordering her around, mom hadn’t spoken two words to her today.
Happy and healthy her grandmother, a widow just shy of 70, had still travelled, volunteered and led a very active life until three months ago when an undetected cerebral aneurism ruptured. Just like that, Grams was gone. Maggie had tried to be understanding about her mother's "absence" at first, but as time had passed, feelings of resentment had trickled in (and then, like any good Catholic girl, feelings of guilt about her feelings of resentment). After all, Maggie was still here, still alive, and she needed her mother; she missed Grams, too.
As if on cue, her mom brushed by her carrying a cardboard box labeled “Books to Donate". Nothing. Not a word. “Excuse you,” Maggie mumbled under her breath, “whatever.” She shook her head as if to shake off her disgruntled feelings and opened the closet door. Everything they left would be part of the estate sale. The coats in here were being donated.
Maggie pulled them down and folded them into the box by her feet. In the void, she noticed they had hung in front of a shelf with a single shoebox on it. Curious, she reached for the box and opened it to find a white beaded handbag with short handles and a small gold clasp. It was just big enough for an iPhone, a small wallet, keys, lipstick. The beads were slightly iridescent giving the the simply-styled purse a dressy, polished look. Maggie suspected it had been preserved because it had been one of her grandmother’s favorites.
“Let me see that,” her mom demanded. Startled, as she had not even heard her mother come back into the house, Maggie handed her the purse. Her mother turned it over in her hands and gently brushed her palm across the beads. “This was one of her favorites,” she said quietly.
“I thought it might be.”
Her mother's eyes brimmed and she blinked quickly several times. Maggie read her pain, saw her mother fight it down, and realized how selfish she had been.
Reaching into the bag, her mom pulled out a white button rimmed in navy blue. “No way,” she said to herself and smiled. It was the first time Maggie could remember seeing her smile since her grandmother had died; Maggie thought it was beautiful.
“What is it?” she asked smiling herself.
“It’s her lucky button.”
“Grams had a lucky button?” Maggie was a tad incredulous, but her mother didn’t answer. She was lost in her own thoughts, still examining the button, turning it over, holding it up to see it in better light. “Where are the photo albums?” she suddenly inquired.
Maggie shrugged, “Trunk or back seat I guess.”
“Come with me,” mom said and walked out the door.
"Closure" Part 2
ReplyDeleteThey sat side-by-side on the porch swing. Mom had the button in one hand and was absent-mindedly playing with it. A photo album was open across their laps so that Maggie had to turn the pages but they could both see.
“Here it is,” mom said pointing to a photograph of her grandmother. In the photo her grandmother was wearing a fitted white jacket over a matching dress that had navy-blue piping around the scoop neckline and hem. The jacket had five white buttons with navy blue trim identical to the one her mom was holding in her hand. Grams was holding the little white purse.
“Your grandmother was wearing that outfit on the night she met Grampa,” mom began. “They literally bumped into each other in front of the drugstore near her house, and he asked her to dinner on the spot.”
“That’s sounds so romantic,” Maggie said.
“Started out that way,” her mother said. “But they ended up at some Chinese restaurant where for some unknown reason Grams ordered something she had never tried before, and she hated it. After dinner they went to the boardwalk and Grampa took her for a romantic spin on the ferris wheel. Apparently, he neglected to mention he got motion sickness so he got sick in the men’s room when they came off the ride, but he refused to cut the night short so they just sat at a picnic table and sipped ginger ale and talked until he felt better. He did win her a stuffed animal at the arcade, a giant white bear with a red bow. She tried to put it in the back of his car when they were leaving and didn’t realize the ribbon had somehow wrapped itself around a button and so she tugged the button right off.”
“It’s amazing they ever had a second date,” Maggie said giggling.
“Actually, she told your great-grandmother that very night that she was going to marry him.”
“No she didn't!”
“She did! She said it was the luckiest night of her life and instead of sewing the button back on, she started carrying it around with her as a good luck charm," her mom paused, "must have worked, they were married nearly fifty years before Grampa died.” Mom sighed, looked over at Maggie and smiled. “When we were kids, she would tell Aunt Grace and me that we could ‘consult her button’ if we ever felt like we needed extra luck. And you know how when you get married you have something borrowed and something blue?”
“Really?” Maggie exclaimed as she inferred the connection.
“Yep, both of us walked down the aisle with that button on a ribbon tied around our bouquets,” her mother’s voice was wistful. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, glanced at Maggie and then at the button still in her hand, and Maggie felt something shift between them.
Inexplicably feeling at peace for the first time in weeks, Maggie leaned into her mother and rested her head on her shoulder. Finding her mother’s hand, she clasped it tightly, the button between them. They sat that way for several minutes. Silent. Reconnecting. Until suddenly, Maggie found herself giggling as an unbidden image of Grams consulting the “Button of Fortune” was conjured up (in her head "Button of Fortune" was said by the movie trailer guy with lots of reverb). Apparently, her giggle was contagious because soon her mother was laughing, too. This made Maggie laugh even harder because she knew her mother had absolutely no idea why they were laughing.
Maggie felt the moment the dam gave way and weeks of pent up emotions burst forth. Her breath began to hitch and tears streamed from her eyes. Though it was hard to tell if they were tears of joy, sorrow or both, she let them run. They both did.
When the tears and giggles had abated, Maggie sat back up, dried her cheeks with her hands, and looked at her mother's face. She sensed a change; there was still sadness, but there was also solace.
“Not sure if this button is lucky,” Maggie said softly, still sniffling, “but it certainly has a way of bringing people together.”
I am jealous--I want a lucky button. I appreciate the mix of humor and magic, of emotion and reality.
DeleteThis feels true. Did you incorporate a family story or know somebody with a lucky button?
DeleteNeither a family story nor have I known anybody with a lucky button. The only actual real detail was the purse! My parents recently celebrated their 46th wedding anniversary and we were looking through their wedding album, my mom carried a purse like the one described : )
DeleteWhen I finished reading part 1, I was so wanting to know more about this family...so it was a welcome surprise seeing part 2 right underneath! I love the sentiment and how something so small could mean so much.
ReplyDeletePART 1
ReplyDeleteThe last day of school. The bell has rung, the students are gone. Rather than attend the faculty barbecue, Cait sits slumped back in her wheely chair, gazing at the ceiling and slowly spinning back and forth. She has about an hour before she needs to pick up her kid from daycare, and about three hours’ worth of work before she can comfortably leave for the summer. At the very least, I can clean out my desk, she thinks to herself as she snaps herself upright and begins digging through her drawers.
Two half-empty jars of peanut butter, a folder containing stacks of student letters, three boxes of paper clips, and audio CDs are pulled out of her bottom drawer and neatly stacked on top of her desk. The CDs and clips return to the drawer, but out of curiosity Cait opens the folder of letters, and immediately knocks them all over the floor.
“Dammit all to hell,” Cait grumbles as she hikes up her maxi skirt and roots under her desk, collecting the letters and shoving them back into their folder. She is about to stand back up when she notices a round object hiding underneath the last letter. As Cait stands she picks it up, turning it over in her hands as she tries to place it. It is a button, a brass button with a man’s face engraved into it. It has the look of an old coin to it, though the back is plain with the loop part of the overall button. Where the hell—Cait wonders before it hits her. Her knees buckle under and she drops into her chair. “Sarah Pace.” Cait says aloud, and covers her eyes with her hand as she flashes back to this time last year.
A year ago Cait is enormously pregnant. It is June, the air conditioning has quit in the building, and the last class of the day is the class from hell. A Composition class of twenty-two students, ten of whom do not speak English and were placed there out of a lack of options. The rest are on IEPs and 504s, which Cait does not have a problem with. It is the behavior that creates issues for Cait as she waddles through the room collecting student journals. The students are spread throughout the room, not only to “facilitate classroom management” but to keep the room from overheating any more than absolutely necessary. One girl has separated herself from the others, and hides in the back of the room. Despite their daily journal requirement of one paragraph, this girl is now on the second page of her entry, detailing her weekend plans as required in the prompt. In deference to the heat, the girl wears shorts, but any cooling that would cause is negated by the button-up sweater she wears over her Fall Out Boy t-shirt. She slams her journal shut as Cait finally makes it over to her, and sighs in completion as she hands it to her teacher. They make eye contact as Cait smiles.
“My hand hurts because I wrote so much,” Sarah complains, shaking her hand in disbelief.
“Well, you’re the one on your second journal of the semester!” Cait teased, flipping through the journal and marveling at the neatly filled pages. “I love how you always write so much!”
“I didn’t mean to… I can’t believe it’s June and we’re still writing!” Cait gestures to her shirt.
“Sugar, we’re going down swinging,” Cait references the popular band, which elicits a wide grin from Sarah. “Take out your vocab homework, everybody…. Harold! Sit down! Don’t pretend you don’t understand me, you’ve been here over a year!” The class bursts into laughter as Harold shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his desk. On his way by, he gently tweaks Sarah’s braid which earns him a good-natured swat on the arm…
Cait shakes her head, bringing herself out of her memory as she continues turning the button over in her hand. She wore that damn sweater every day, she continued musing before slipping the button into her pocket. Cait retrieves her folder of letters and begins digging through them, searching for one in particular. She finds it midway through the pile, and takes a deep breath before unfolding it.
PART TWO
ReplyDeleteDear, Mrs. Ryan
Thank you for being an awesome teacher. You help me out a lot. You’re awesome and my favorite teacher. You always understand when I’m having a bad day. I’m going to miss you a lot next year.
--Sarah Pace (:
Cait silently reads over the letter, remembering the sound of Sarah’s voice. She maneuvered her chair to face her computer and googled Sarah’s name. Her face comes up under images, and Cait remembers how beautiful Sarah’s eyes were, especially when she wore purple.
“What a beautiful sweater,” Cait said one afternoon in January as the class sat in the computer lab, typing up their persuasive essays. God I hate this assignment, Cait thought briefly before turning her attention back to her relatively new class of eighth graders.
“Thanks…. Do we really have to write this? I hate persuasive essays, we did them with Mr. Benson last semester.” Sarah turned plaintive eyes up to her teacher, making the most of her big blue eyes. Cait melted a bit, but these mandated writing prompts are part of her evaluation.
“Unfortunately, yes, but there’s good news!” Cait gestured with a hand full of vocab quizzes. Sarah waited expectantly. “The good news is that sweater makes your eyes look almost purple! You did a great job picking out a color!” The other students around Sarah weigh in on this observation, most agreeing that the sweater’s color was a great choice on her part. Sarah blushed slightly, looking down at her lap.
“I didn’t mean to. The sweater was buy-one-get-one free at Kohl’s.” Sofia, the fashionista to Sarah’s left, began sharing her own bargains found at Kohl’s.
“Miss! I need you!” Arianiss called from across the room before speaking in rapid Spanish to the student next to her.
“Hold on! Excuse me, Sarah, Sofia,” Cait hurried across the room. She leaned over the pair of students before glancing back once at Sarah. The girl sat looking down at her sleeves, smiling softly, before taking out her outline and beginning to type.
“Cait? Do you have any plastic bags? I can’t believe how much food is left over! Cait?” Heather bursts into the room, interrupting Cait’s thoughts and dumping a pile of half-empty chip and cookie bags onto the nearest desk. Cait looks at her as Heather spies the computer screen and sighs.
“Oh jeez. It was about this time last year, wasn’t it?” Heather leans against Cait’s desk and looks at the obituary photograph of Sarah Pace.
“It will be one year next Tuesday.” Cait comments before rising from her desk and moving to her closet.
“I cannot believe that she took her own life. Was there any warning?” Heather moves forward to accept the extra bags from Cait, and the two together begin packing up the leftover food.
“Warning that she would hang herself? Not in the slightest. To be honest….” Cait glances back once more at the computer screen, remembering Sarah in class—reading her journals about her family, talking to her about music, the simple desire for someone to notice her— “I don’t think she meant to.”
moving!
DeleteLots of emotion in this story- well done.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteYou had me anticipating a twist and it was powerfully delivered - enjoyed reading your story : )
ReplyDeleteWow! You have brought reality crashing in through beautiful description.
DeleteIt’s that moment. The one when you realize something is off. Not just that something is off, but that something is different, drastically different. It isn’t what you’ve planned. In fact, you would never plan this, or even think of it for that matter. It’s like goose bumps, they just show up and not always at the most appropriate time. They change you. In a split second your world changes.
ReplyDeleteHis face still cold from lying on the floor, Geoff became conscious. With his head spinning out of control the flood of questions came pouring in; “What happened … why am I on the floor … who is that … is he dead … what am I wearing … where are the others … what is going on?”
Geoff thought the first answer needed to be to the “Is he dead” question.
He slowly grasped the shelf to guide himself up. A major spinning sensation coupled with stiff joints made the journey from squat to stand a difficult one. Half holding on and with no real sign of injury, he had a better perspective or at least some perspective on the situation. He could only see the boy’s legs lying behind the bench. They were lifeless. He noticed the boy’s shoes. “Were they Nike? Obviously not,” he thought, “probably some thrift-store nock-off.” He hated himself when he got like that. Pissy.
Edging over towards the boy he saw no blood, and no sign of movement. “Why him, he’s just a kid?” Still feeling dizzy, Geoff steadied himself and bent over to feel a pulse. Waiting, waiting, there it was. “Thank God.” He said aloud. Faint, but none the less a pulse. “Call 911.” Finally a coherent thought. Reaching for his phone he realized he was wearing the costume. “Why would I be wearing this? seriously? Focus. The phone, where was it?” Searching the trolley he noticed it seemed, well, off. No other way to explain it, just off. All of the shelves were standing up. The books seemed in place. Ipads were there, as were the notebooks. “Was that a Vanity Fair on the Books to Grow By shelf?” With no phone in site, Geoff stepped down to open the door. Holding on to the wall for balance, he turned the knob.
It smelled like dawn. A slight breeze from the west and the moisture of the morning watering felt welcoming. The familiar hills and vineyards helped him in getting his bearings. He was parked in the reading area. He saw no one. Nothing but footprints. Looking at the footprints in the dirt, their pattern, remnants of something like dance steps. That was when it hit him. Goose bumps. Like a slap on the side of the head. That was it. The moment he realized what was drastically different …
Such a sense of mystery and suspense...my favorite kind of story : )
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteI want to know more...you created a great sense of suspense.
DeleteThe Button Jar - Part 2
Delete… Darkness.
It was a feeling that stirred him, not a memory. Comfortable, restful, but man, the pain. “What is up with my head?” Geoff thought. From the mint green walls and the IV pulsing in his arm he guessed he was in some type of hospital but why the restraint belt? Unable to move off of the bed, Geoff looked around as best as he could to get a sense of where he was. “Stars, you actually see stars like in the cartoons.” He thought as he continued to attempt to make sense of his situation. Judging from the size of the small room and the bars on the windows he figured he was in some type of holding cell. “Hello.” he managed to whisper. “Hello?” a bit louder.
The opened door produced an officer. Seems he was sitting outside the door. “So, you’re awake. I’ll get the Doc.” Mumbled the officer.
“Where am I?” Geoff asked still trying to piece it all together.
Silence…
“Hello, where am I? He repeated.
“I said I’ll get the Doc. Quiet down.” Walking back to the door, the officer muttered something into a two-way radio and within moments a doctor was in the room.
Ignoring Geoff and scanning the machinery he wrote notes on his clipboard. Satisfied, he turned his attention to his patient. looking into Geoff’s eyes with a powerful light he spoke only to the officer. “He’s ok for questioning.” and with that statement, the Dr. closed his clipboard and exited the room.
“Sergeant, we’re ready.” The officer replied into his radio. Within minutes the bed was cranked and Geoff, still restrained, was sitting upright and staring at an empty metal chair positioned beside the bed.
The light from the hallway was eclipsed as a tall, military looking man entering the room. Geoff assumed he was the sergeant.
“Sergeant Riley here, please state your name.” Riley requested while unfolding a flip-style note pad.
“My Name?” Geoff managed to spurt out, still seeing stars.
“look, we can do this my way or we can do this my way. Name?”
“I’m Geoffrey Bettencourt.”
A surprised look crossed Riley’s face. “Bettencourt, like Maximillion Bettencourt from St. Helena? Are you related? His grandkid?”
“Yeah …” Geoff sighed.
“Whoa. That’s crazy. This changes things.” Easing himself into the metal chair, Riley began his well rehearsed speech, “Well, Geoffrey Bettencourt, You have the right to remain silent, If you choose …”
Interrupting, Geoff blurted out, “The right to remain silent?! Are you crazy? What’s going on?”
The Button Jar - Part 3
DeleteRiley looked toward the officer and rolled his eyes, “This is going to be a long night.” Pulling the chair a bit closer to the bed Riley scanned his notebook. In a, I can be your best bud voice, he addressed Geoff. “Geoffrey, Geoff, Can I call you Geoff?” Not waiting for a reply he continued, “I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but a relation of Maximillion, well, that’s a game changer. Here goes, you’re charged with kidnapping a nine year old boy. He’s been missing for two days and we are very excited that he’s going to be ok. We’re amazed that we found him in time, it usually doesn’t work out that way. Luckily for you, he has no signs of injury, well other than being drugged, and is expected to make a complete recovery. Because there are no signs of injury the charges are limited to only kidnapping.”
Geoff couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Flashbacks of the trolley and the Nike shoes mixed with the stars he continued to see only resulted in a more confused state of mind. “What?” was all he could seem to say.
As if Geoff wasn’t even in the room Riley continued, “We received a call around 6:15 this morning that Little Roberto was being dragged into a mobile home type vehicle by someone wearing a Golden retriever costume. Can I ask you, are you a furry?”
“What?” again was the only response Geoff could bring himself to reply.
Raising an eyebrow to the officer, Riley continued. “We found you in the valley lying face down outside of, is it a trolley?” Riley looked over at the officer, received a nod then looked back at Geoff.
“What? Yeah, that’s my trolley.” Geoff sputtered. “It’s a Book Trolley. I read books with the migrant farmers kids that can’t get to the library.”
“That explains the books, but the costume? You’re sure you’re not a furry?” Riley asked looking at the officer who was spitting out the words “freak … sicko … psycho…” Riley looked back at Geoff.
“A fur… what?” Finally finding his voice, Geoff began to explain. “I read to these kids because on many occasions, their families can’t, or won’t, read to them. They spend weeks up here harvesting grapes and olives and need to work when they can find it. They have to take their kids with them because they can’t afford to have someone to watch them. The poor kids can’t even go to school. I don’t charge, it’s all free. I started the trolley to try to help these kids. In fact, I’ve been reading with Roberto for a while now. I use to wear the costume when I first opened the trolley. I thought it would be a draw for the kids.”
“You received a pretty big smack on the head, we found a heavy board on the ground next to you. We’re wondering if you can fill us in …”
Geoff’s mind was racing. “Wearing the costume? Hadn’t seen that for a while. The button. Roberto. The button.” In Geoff’s thoughts it was a deja vu. And for the second time that day, goose bumps again. Like a slap on the side of the head. That was it. The moment he realized what was drastically different …
Aelred Part I
ReplyDeleteAelred, you kept my secret and my heart safe for over seventy years and now you lay in your most quiet and reserved manner. Other people thought of you as aloof, almost mute but I have always known better. Your quiet, angular face held great strength with your glasses set precisely on the bridge of your nose, touching your brow.
“Anna, I am so sorry for your loss but I am glad Aelred gave you such happiness for so long” said Liston. He placed his left hand, palm up, under her right hand and gently patted the gnarled knuckles, careful not to incite the arthritis.
“Thank you, Liston. I am afraid the house will be empty now. Not even the Tiffany lamps will lift the gloom or fill his chair in the corner of the parlor, but I will always have the smell of his cigars.”
The aroma of his Phillips 66 cigars had long ago curled into the paisley wall paper just as the heavy smell of his chocolate settled into the drawer of his desk where the grandchildren thought they pilfered his snacks and never saw his slight grin.
“We are less with him” mused Liston “but greater because of him. Who will smoke cigars, eat Hersey Kisses and peruse Ecclesiastes now?”
Liston’s not really asking a question but he is wondering what will become of his afternoons without his cribbage partner. They were a contrast—Liston tall, with a round face hunched forward trying to predict the play of cards; Aelred, with a ramrod posture even when sitting, waiting, hiding his smirk within the sharp angle of his jaw. Liston didn’t win much but always chose Aelred for the Friday night cribbage tournament at the Lithuanian Hall.
“Afternoons will simply be drawn into night now, Anna.”
She nodded agreement and drifted back into the comfort of memory and away from the upheaval of death.
“Before I say yes, I have to tell you about my great shame, Al”
His bright, blue eyes settled in to wait.
“I, um…have been married before but no one, not even my parents, knew I had eloped. He was a dashing, young soldier and I played the stereotypical swooning girl. He left for The Great War, went into the Argonne Forest and never came out. His best friend wrote me and I told my parents a high school classmate had died in war. They never knew. I am sorry.”
“You know our love is true and so does God. So, is that a yes, Anna?”
He never veered from that sentiment, never told another soul not even his brother Liston about my foolish youth. Somehow silence and peace settled into his life and enveloped all the others around him though they didn’t always understand. His quiet demeanor frightened the grandchildren particularly his namesake, little Aelred who softened only when her husband held out a handful of Hershey kisses. They shared a sweet tooth, too. Little Aelred couldn’t quite see the language in his grandfather’s eyes, how the corners softened, the lids drooped slightly, the glint along the blue.
I LOVE the paragraph describing the scents he left behind...
DeleteAelred Part II
ReplyDelete“Anna, the viewing time has ended. Would you like some time alone” asked her cousin Arthur who ran the funeral home.
“Yes, please, Arthur”
She looked around and saw Liston and her children waiting just outside the archway to the room. She went to say her goodbye.
“Well, this is the last silence we will share, here, Aelred but later on we can recline in it. It’s funny talking with you now when words were so unnecessary. Being together was our language. Even our lively daughter Hazel always knew that. She was the only one who understood. Her smirk was always slightly bigger than yours when Little Aelred was eating your chocolate.”
She looked down at the heaviness of death and smirked. She had dressed Aelred in his favorite blue suit coat, the one missing the anchor cuff button from the left sleeve. He said the anchor design was like her and held him fast to the world yet set sail with him every day. She gently placed his small Bible, with the cracked leather spine and his worn copy of Last of the Mohicans beside his body.
“When I come, you must read to me from these our favorite books.”
A deep silence followed, unlike the usual one, and imbalanced her for a moment but then she heard the sound of a smirk forming, of a blue eye gleaning.
What a cool way to use the button as a symbol of their life together...so sweet.
DeleteI agree - great button connection!
DeleteI like how you wrote the said the anchor was like her. Nice scene!
DeleteI read this 3x because I was confused. Then I realized - yep, I was meant to be confused. Just like Geoff! Who is the kid? What is this trolley? ipads and notebooks on a trolley? Mobile classroom? Mobile library? Geoff is wearing a costume! Bill, I hope you write more on this some time. I need to know the answer to these questions!!!
ReplyDeletehahaha - thanks Kim. I'm working on it!!
DeleteThe Poster
ReplyDeleteAddy and her Father, Dave, are walking through the zoo, admiring the animals. It was cool for an October morning, especially for Atlanta. Dave wearing his black, fleece jacket and Addy in her chartreuse sweater. The sweater made by her Grandma Tilly for her mother when she was a young girl. The sweater was already a bit snug, but Addy wouldn't even think of wearing any other one, even though she had a closet full of clothes. Addy loved the flower buttons on this sweater. Every time a person commented on the sweater, Addy would tell them how her Grandfather brought the buttons back from Vietnam, when he was stationed there during the war.
Dave had picked Addy up from her grandparent's house a little later than usual, because he had to meet with a client. Addy loved spending Friday nights at her grandparent's house. Not only did she get to see Grandma Tilly and Grandpa Bob, but her three cousins too. Being an only child was lonely at times, but at least she had the triplets to play with and share her secrets, her hopes, and her dreams. Addy didn't mind that Dave was late. It gave the girls extra time to play with their American Girl Dolls. Besides, they were all up late reading. Grandma had put new Clementine books on the night stand in the room that the girls share on weekends. Grandma had introduced the girls to the series last summer.
The zoo was busier than any other time that they had visited. Addy loved watching the gorillas play. She could sit on that bench and stare for hours. Dave tried to spend as much time as he could with Addy. He realized how sad she seemed since his wife, Addy's Mother, died in the car accident nine months earlier. It worried him that Addy hardly ever talked about the accident. Was it because she was in the car too, or because she missed her mother dearly?
It was Addy who saw the poster first. The poster for the walk-a-thon. Dave saw it, but really took notice to how Addy couldn't take her eyes off of it. Did she want to walk to help raise money for Mothers Against Drunk Drivers? Dave wasn't sure. He knew how much Addy despised hearing about anyone driving drunk. Would doing the walk bring back the memories of that horrible night? Would Addy ask to do the walk? Should Dave ask her if she wants to?
Addy was extremely quiet on the ride from the zoo to ballet class, but perked up once she saw her classmates. The dancers were all aflutter. The costumes for the winter show had been delivered to the studio on Wednesday. Addy dreams of being a dancer. A ballerina like her mother, dancing in the Atlanta Ballet Company. Addy had been dancing for three years. But truth be told; she doesn't like to dance. She only dances because her mother wanted her too, and now because dancing makes her feel closer to her mother. Addy tried to focus on what the dance instructor was saying, but it was difficult. All she could think about was the poster she had seen earlier.
Awww. Poor Addy. Loved reading about her...
DeleteOh, that poster is going to reopen some wounds, I think...I hope they help to heal those wounds as well. Nicely done. :-)
DeleteEven though I felt badly for the Addy, you created the feeling of a strong, supportive family behind her.
Delete“It’s too fishy,” Sophia snapped at the young waitress with the “trainee” ribbon on her name tag, which identified her as Katie.
ReplyDeleteEmily rolled her eyes at the poor girl and sighed loudly. “Sophia, it’s a fish sandwich. What the hell did you expect?”
Katie allowed one corner of her mouth to lift while biting her tongue to avoid laughing outright. Sophia haughtily straightened her back, thrust out her chest and her chin, and glared down her nose at Emily over her designer jewel-encrusted reading glasses.
“That will be quite enough from you and your foul mouth, Emily Russell.” She turned to Katie. “Young lady, you will take this back to the chef and please bring me a grilled cheese sandwich on lightly browned wheat bread with a spinach salad on the side, please and thank you”.
Katie took the too-fishy sandwich plate from Sophia and responded, “I can certainly bring you a grilled cheese, but as I mentioned when you ordered earlier, ma’am, we do not have spinach salad greens – only iceberg and romaine.”
“Well then, I shall have nothing on the side. How disappointing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Katie responded, as she hurried away with the rejected sandwich.
Sophia launched into her signature tirade about how service isn’t like it used to be and whatever happened to the customer is always right, and in her day….
Emily watched as the other ladies nodded their head in agreement. Whether they agreed or not was questionable, but as usual, they bowed to Sophia’s will, not wanting to endure her wrath outside of their assisted living complex, where at least they would have been able to escape back to their own apartments. Here at the Newport Creamery, dissenting opinions would be shredded without mercy by Sophia’s highbrow righteousness. Listening to her drivel gave Emily a butt cramp. Sophia reminded her of the Army generals she met in her USO days, who followed their own agendas and expected to be waited on hand and foot, as their subordinates were barely provided for, despite their grim surroundings and the constant worry of injury or death.
“Sophia, kindly shut your piehole!” Emily hissed.
A loud gasp collectively emanated from the table. Marian, Betsy, and Eleanor froze – the only movement being their eyes darting between Sophia and Emily. Even Ralph, their bus driver, looked incredulously at the scene. Sophia narrowed her eyes at Emily and sneered, “Excuse me, Emily?”
“No, I will not excuse you. Your behavior is atrocious. You’ve been bossy and unreasonable since we arrived here. Untwist your girdle and give that poor girl a break. You’re at a diner, not the Four Seasons. That young waitress doesn’t get paid enough to deal with your whining, and I’m tired of paying more than my share of the tip because you won’t ‘reward substandard service’ as you declare every single time we dine out.”
Sophia hunched her shoulders and leaned forward, ready to lay into Emily, when Katie arrived just in time to slide Sophia’s grilled cheese in front of her. Sophia straightened her posture, gave Katie a terse smile and said, “Thank you, dear.”
Go Emily!!! Very much enjoyed eavesdropping on this luncheon : )
DeleteUntwist your girdle?!! I love Emily. I wish more of us were willing to stand up to bullies like Sophia.
DeleteThe chunky wooden button on his aunt’s wool coat dug into Sam’s chin. He hugged her on the track 4 platform in North Station amid her suitcases, hat boxes and several pieces of stylish monogrammed luggage.
ReplyDelete“It’s too far away Aunt Sophie. San Francisco is all the way across the country, I’ll never see you again!” he whined. Sophie disentangled Sam from her bosom, and carefully crouched down to talk to him.
“I expect you to be a bit braver and less selfish young man. A person only has so many adventures in them and this might be the last one I get. Once I get settled your father will bring you to visit me.”
She stood up and looked around, the lines by her mouth deepening in frustration. “Where are the colored porters? I need someone to attend to my luggage.”
Her nephew Paul, Sam’s dad, winced and said, “They prefer to be referred to as black now Sophie. Colored is offensive.”
“Well it was perfectly polite just yesterday!” she argued. “I give donations to the en-double A- Cee Pee, you know, not the en-double A, BEE Pee.”
Paul rolled his eyes and smiled. He saw a porter and waved him over. The mountain of luggage stopped him short and and sullenly looked at Sophie’s ticket. “You’re bound for San Francisco? We don’t get many transcontinental passengers these days ma’am.”
“I am certainly not going to travel in one of those flying sardine cans,” Sophie harrumphed. “They are uncivilized. What’s the point of crossing the country if you aren’t even going to look at it?” She dug in her purse for a ten dollar bill and asked the porter to bring the luggage to her berth.
“Yes ma’am!” he said. The tip energized him. He let out a piercing whistle and two other porters materialized by his side. “Miss Sophie, you just ask for Coffee Jack if you need anything between here and Chicago.”
“Thank you Jack.”
The three porters, wearing black uniforms with white shirts and black ties quickly blended into the crowd. Only their distinctive black hats with a red band bobbed above the travelers. Sophie cupped Sam’s face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “You know you’re my favorite Sam, and I’ll be counting on you to keep me informed about news from Boston. Your father has my address, and I’ll expect informative letters from you.”
“Letters! Can’t I just call you on the phone?”
“Telephones are fine for emergencies and quick hellos, but they are a poor substitute for well written letters. I have saved every letter I’ve ever received since I was a little girl. Sometimes I reminisce and re-read a letter from a dear friend. One can hardly save a telephone call. I’ll wait for your letter before I write you.”
“OK,” Sam mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, yes Aunt Sophie.”
“Thank you. You know I’ll miss you terribly.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Young man, you know I can’t resist an adventure.” Sophie stood tall, or as tall as a five foot woman could, smoothed her dress, adjusted her hat, and climbed onto the train to the conductor’s refrain, “Alllllll aboard!”
Sophie is a force, and it was nice to do a little time traveling : )
DeleteI really liked how the dialogue provided the backbone for the story. I found out just how difficult is is to do well when I was trying to put my piece together.
DeleteNorm, you have a strength for creating characters and breathing life into them. Enjoyed meeting Sophie!
DeleteThe Interview
ReplyDeleteby Corinne Woodworth
The way she saw life, you couldn’t be born a Sandra Dee look-alike (except six sizes larger) and not meet its challenges without a sense of humor. Bee was brassy in the way Tommy Dorsey performed “All the Things you Are,” with a smooth melody and complex harmonies, but she was aware that at the end of the 1950s Dorsey’s star was entombed in the Grammy Hall of Fame, while hers was still awaiting combustion.
At 34 she had held more jobs than Lucy Ricardo had, and each one had been a revelation. Waitressing taught her to be pleasant, even when her feet were tired. Demonstrating beauty products required tact and imagination, especially with women less blessed by nature than she was. Selling lingerie meant sending out a dual message of “envision this” and “don’t touch” to men whose wives would never see these products. Through them all, she remained calm, cheerful and optimistic, but on the brink of a new decade, she realized it was time for a change of direction if she didn’t want to end up old, poor and alone.
Bee stood in front of the mirror and fastened the jacket of her pink and white polka dot jacket. The buttons stretched the fabric over her chest, and she probably should have bought the size 12, she thought as she smoothed the peplum over her matching skirt, but she pulled in her stomach, picked up classified section of the newspaper, and locked the apartment door behind her.
The circled ad was brief:
HELP WANTED
RESEARCH ASSISTANT
PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT
NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY
Apply in person
Room 335
Chandler Hall
8:00 – 12:00
Monday - Friday
Life in a college town offered ample opportunities for cultural enrichment, and Bee had taken advantage of every single one. Resisting the blonde stereotype, she attended lectures, poetry readings, plays, concerts, debates and political rallies sitting beside professors, scholars, debutants and jocks. Sometimes the topics were puzzling; sometimes they were incomprehensible, but more often than not she recognized an idea that made sense, and over the years she threaded them together to weave an education that was more liberal than linear.
Not bad for a high school dropout, she thought as she reviewed her academic wandering, but now it’s time to map a path. A job on campus was one step closer to a diploma, and the diploma was her ticket to credibility. Besides, if she didn’t have a solid foundation in practical psychology, then who did? She hoped the job was more Kohlberg than Kinsey.
Chandler Hall sat at the edge of the quad, a compact stone building with gothic pretensions and wide windows shaded to the morning sun. Every school smelled the same, Bee thought as she climbed the stairs. Floor wax, brown paper towels and stale coffee. The linoleum, the ceramic tile and the paint on the walls all reminded her of the desert, and she wondered how anyone thought this lack of color inspired great ideas.
Three coeds sat in the waiting room, interchangeable in their twinsets, tweed skirts and flats. Bee gave her name to the receptionist and sat next to a thin girl who laid her hand on top of her pearls and raised her chin, avoiding eye contact. No, Bee thought, I’m not like you, but I want the same things, and I’m going to get them. She pulled her back straighter, feet on the floor, ankles and knees together.
“Beatrice Moore?” A gentleman in a gray suit inquired at the door. “I am Dr. Taggert,” he said as he held the door to the office.
Bee rose and followed him into a room with mahogany paneling, heavy furniture and a deep carpet that signified his lofty position in the department, and Bee realized this chance was even better than she anticipated. They took their places on the opposite sides of the desk, and with impeccable posture that matched the control in her voice, she smiled and declined a cup of coffee.
“Tell me about yourself.”
Bee paused and looked him in the eye. She would begin with the truth.
Love your description of Chandler Hall, and I would so enjoy the chance to meet Bee. Was her last name symbolic of what she wants from life or am I just being an English teacher? : )
DeleteYes to both counts -- when I was looking for a last name, it seemed important to give her one that is meaningful . . . first name too . . . and being an English teacher lets you see what others miss!
DeleteWhat a provocative place to end this piece! Left me wanting to be the interviewer!
DeleteKatya stepped out onto the bustling street of St. Petersburg. Although it was just after five in the afternoon, the sky had been dark for more than
ReplyDeletean hour.Like a babyshka, her blonde hair was covered with a flowered scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.
Despite her precautions against the cold, the January air stung her eyes and cheeks as she headed home after her shift at Hotel Moscow. As she approached the metro station
vendors still lingered behind their tables, calling to passersby, hoping to sell their meager offerings. There were several book tables and a few farmers with boxes of small, black potatoes next to a woman
with several crates of eggs. Many of the permanent vendors in kiosks offered cigarettes, socks, or toothpaste. A few smokers stood close to the entrance stamping their feet occasionally to keep warm.
katya noticed a bread line across the street. Since Gorbachev and his glastnost created Democracy in Russia, everything was deficit. Food was rationed, and people waited in long lines to buy expensive food
to feed their families. She was grateful her position at the hotel provided her with the necessities that were scarce and even a few luxuries.Tonight She was able to take home 2 loaves of leftover
bread, a candle and matches. Her friend Masha worked in the kitchen, and this afternoon she had gifted Katya with a kilo of sugar.Mama would be so grateful! Tonight they would have tea with sugar and mama's
last jar of strawberry jam from the dacha. Anticipating mama's surprise kept Katya occupied as she rode the escalator to the bottom of the long tunnel where trains could be heard approaching and leaving.
Katya was pulled along with the crowd to the second-to-last car of a crowded train. She would have to stand at least until the next stop when a seat may become available. The train ride was always a pleasant
time for Katya to collect her thoughts and rest her eyes after a busy day. As was often the case these days, her thoughts quickly returned to the interesting hotel guests. Today her American returned!
American visitors were more and more frequent, and they always stood out because of their beautiful smiles that flashed white, straight teeth. Their smiles and their shoes. Even the businessmen had colorful
sneakers paired with their jeans. In spite of this, What attracted Katya to her American was not his smile, or his sneakers, but his kind eyes. His eyes were not blue like so many Russian boys, but a rich coffee
brown enhanced by long, curled lashes. He smiled with his eyes.
Such great details about life in Russia (I know they are first-hand!) - left me wanting to know more about her American with the coffee brown eyes and wondering if she LIKES him likes him : )
DeleteI'm amazed at how many interesting places our button jar has taken us.
DeleteI'm impressed with the amount of sensory description that you were able to pack in here. Made the scene come to life!
DeleteI can’t believe today is here! I have been waiting so long! I keep asking, “Is it time now? Is it time now?” But Mommy keeps saying no, she keeps telling me to be patient. I have been patient! I’ve waited for at least an hour! I’ll just go into my room and see what I can find to keep me busy.
ReplyDeleteMy dolls? Nope.
A nap? Absolutely not!
How about a book? That might be good! A quiet activity before all the excitement. Amelia Bedelia. . .she’s funny. Let’s start on page 1. . .ok. . .I’m done. How about this Highlights magazine? I love these hidden pictures. Found the shovel. . .where’s the comb? Oh, never mind!
“Is it time now, Mommy?!?” Ugh, she said I just asked her that. No I didn’t. I just did ALL that reading!
Maybe Mommy will let me help her!
“Mommy, can I help? I’m a really good helper!” She said no. She said she needs to finish cooking and frosting the cake and she wants all of it to be a big surprise! Maybe, I could take a quick peek out the window to the backyard. . .I could see some of the surprise! There’s the window. . .shucks, the shade is drawn. Mommy really does think of everything! She’s not looking though. . .just one quick peek. . .
“Molly, what are you doing?”
Oh geez! That big booming voice could only belong to one person. . .
“Hi Daddy!” I was just. ..uh. . .fixing the shade. . .it looks a little crooked. . .yeah, crooked!
Ok, he’s smiling. . .he’s not angry. . .say something Daddy!
“Why don’t you go watch a little TV Molly? It’ll be time soon!”
Phew, I don’t know how I got away with that! Ok, TV. . .I can do TV. Back to the living room. . .oh wait, there IT is! It’s hanging on the outside of Mommy’s closet. I just want to look again. It’s so beautiful! No one’s coming. . .no one will see me sneak in here! There it is. . .pink and white with small flowers and those beautiful buttons down the back! I love those buttons. . .they look like magical crystal balls! I can picture the party now, all my favorite people, the sun shining, and me. . .twirling in my beautiful dress!
Maybe I could put it on. . .just to help out. . .when Mommy is finished, I’ll already be dressed! She’ll love the help! She does always say that I know JUST when to offer help. . .she says I always manage to appear at just the right time. . .
What can I step on to reach the dress? The bathroom stool! Got it!
Ok, it’s just out of reach. . .got it! Oh it’s so soft and beautiful! I love the way it feels on. . .look at how it twirls!
OOOO. . .there’s mommy’s makeup. . .wouldn’t my dress look so pretty with just a tiny bit of lipstick? Daddy says I’m too young for makeup but it IS a very special day. . .
Here’s my favorite color. Bright pink! Ok, I can put on just a little. . .I love twisting the bottom of the tube and watching the lipstick rise to the top. . .Ok, just a little. . .Oh no, the tube it fell!
Ok, I have it back. . .back to the mirror. . .
Oh no, my dress!!!!
I found myself smiling the whole way through at Molly's precociousness :)
ReplyDelete