Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber
If you’re just reading about the September Challenge Contest, please check it out here. You can read yesterday’s post, Good-bye, George. Check back each day to read the different stories and make sure you vote on Sunday!
Today’s story is inspired by Julie Weber, one of my friends from college. Here was her idea…
“Character: Hudson analytical hilarious artistic quiet slightly judgmental handsome but insecure
Setting: large college in the Midwest 1960s
Conflict: married adult male going back to college trying to juggle dream and young family”
Starting Over
Hudson woke, sitting rail straight in bed. Soaked in sweat and tears, he heaved and gulped air. It seemed that his feet couldn’t get him into the bathroom soon enough. Fortunately, he made it to the toilet before he vomited.
It was another one of his dreams. Him. In the jungle. An M14 rifle held so tightly in his hand his knuckles were white. A line of men, identical in uniform, gun, boots, fear. Like ants marching along.
That’s when the bomb explodes. And then another. Then the ambush. And he’s left all by himself. Everyone else is dead. He turns the rifle toward himself.
He always woke up when the dream got that far. It was his brain’s way of protecting him.
“Hudson,” his wife Sandy said, standing in the doorway. “Are you okay, dear?”
“Just a dream,” he answered. “Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” She didn’t ask for details. He’d made it clear that he would never talk about it. “Breakfast?”
“No. I’ll just have coffee.” He stood, splashed water on his face. “I need to grab a shower before class.”
She walked away. He closed the door. She’d never understand, he thought.
The water in the shower cleaned off his body, reset his mind to function for the day. At least that’s what he hoped.
—
The campus of the University was crawling with students. Hudson swallowed his nervousness, pushed away the anxiety as he walked through the halls of the art wing. It seemed that all of his classes were in the most populated buildings. Apparently, art and education were very sought after degrees. But he hated crowds. They made him nervous.
Why am I so afraid? He wondered. This isn’t a war zone. There are no Viet Cong here. I’m safe. I’m okay.
He looked at the other students. They were kids, really. Only six years younger than he, but none of them had seen their best buddy get his arm blown off.
He shook off the memory. Those flashbacks always seemed to hit him at the worst times.
He’d been home from Viet Nam for just over a year. So much had changed while he was gone. His family, his hometown, even the government. It seemed that everyone hated the war and took it out on the soldiers. Most of his friends were wearing bell-bottoms, smoking marijuana and talking about peace.
And Hudson felt left behind. Set back because of his time in the war. It seemed that everyone his age had a career, money, a life. But he was just starting at college. He had no idea how he would support his family working part time for his father-in-law.
“Hey,” a kid said, bumping into Hudson, jostling him out of his thoughts. “You a professor here, man?”
“No,” Hudson answered. “Just a student.”
“Whoa, man. You look too old to be a student.” The kid looked like a hippie. The kind that would protest. Hudson wanted nothing to do with him.
“Yeah, I was in Nam. I had to put college on hold.”
“Nam? Man, that’s so not cool.”
“No, it was really hot as a matter of fact.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Hudson walked away. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“So, did you, like, have to kill anybody?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
The man followed him. Hudson felt his breath on his neck. The man smelled. Probably a marijuana smoker. He thought.
“You know what that means, man? It means you killed somebody.” He was yelling. Drawing a crowd. “You killed somebody’s baby. Somebody’s dad. Or mom. You know that, man?”
“Listen, I was drafted. It wasn’t my choice to go over there.” Hudson pushed the man away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to class.”
“Baby killer!”
Hudson shoved down his rage and went into his art class.
I should have never come back to school. He thought. What was I thinking. It’s a totally different world now. I don’t belong here.
—
“Honey, I’m home!” Hudson called as he opened the front door. A thick aroma of rich food calmed him. Here he was loved.
His wife came around the corner. She wore one of his flannel shirts, baggy blue jeans, her hair pulled back.
“Hi, Hudson. How was class?”
“Well, I think I surprised all the hippies with my sketching ability. They had no idea someone could actually draw without the help of LSD.”
“Oh, honey. They can’t be that bad.”
“Ha. Well, you don’t know them.” He took off his jacket. “Something smells real good in here, Sandy.”
“Just a roast. Nothing special.” She kissed his lips. “You have to shave that beard off. Feels like I’m kissing shredded wheat.”
“How’re the kids?”
“Cindy’s still napping. I forgot how long newborns sleep.”
“How about Jeremy? Where’s he?”
“In the living room.”
He kissed her again. “I’m going to say, ‘hi’.”
Jeremy was on the floor. Belly down. Feet in the air. Head up. Coloring on a pad of paper.
“Hey, Champ,” Hudson said, admiring the talent of his five year old.
“Hi, Dad.” Jeremy didn’t look up. “Did you have fun at art school?”
“I did,” Hudson lied. “Did you have a good day at home?”
“Sure. I caught a frog and fed it worms.”
“That’s great.”
“What did you draw today, Dad?”
“Just a few faces. Nothing special.”
“Yeah, me too.” Jeremy pulled a piece of paper from his pad and handed it to Hudson. “You wanna draw with me. Mommy likes it when I make pictures for her.”
“That would be great, Son.”
They sat, drawing dogs and clouds and trees.
“I’m proud of you, Dad.”
“You are, huh?”
“Yup.” Jeremy looked into Hudson’s face. “Because you’re doing a hard thing and going to college. That’s what Mommy said. And we’re proud of you.”
A part of Hudson’s soul began to mend.
Good-bye, George — Inspired by Kristi West
Kristi West and I go way back. We attended college together, sang in the choir, performed in Madrigals, etc. Kristi was my very first fan (on my Facebook “novelist” page) and she made sure to get a whole bunch of people to “like” me. Kristi and her family live in Misery er…Missouri. Kristi can be found at her blog.
This is the first story of our September Challenge Contest. You can check out the story schedule and voting information here.
Good-bye, George
Kaitlin knocked on the door of her grandfather’s apartment. No answer. Knocked again. And no answer. She used her key and opened the door.
The apartment was empty. No table, no chairs, no grandpa. Empty.
Except for a white legal envelope. The words “My Family” written in his shaky hand. She tore it open. It was a letter with messy, squiggly letters turned into words, turned into thoughts, turned into a letter.
My Dearests;
I am sick. You’ve known that, haven’t you? Even though I never got around to telling you. You must have known. All the shaking, spilling my coffee, slurred words. No, I wasn’t drunk. Haven’t had a drop of liquor since 1981. When Kaitie was born. Seeing my first grandchild made me want to live.
I don’t want to live anymore.
I’m tired. I’m sick and tired of shaking and my body always hurts so bad. And, you don’t know this, but I keep falling. Hit my head the other day. It scared me so much and I didn’t know who to call for help. And, lately, it’s been hard for me to remember things. I forget to eat dinner and I’m losing things. Lost my glasses two weeks ago and still haven’t found them.
And that’s why I’m saying good-bye. I never wanted any of you to have to take care of me. And I think I’ve been doing a pretty decent job of living on my own. Not many 87 year olds still have their own apartment. But now I need help. And, so, it’s time for me to leave. I know this might confuse you and it will make you sad. And it’s not good that I can’t say it to your faces and hug you all. I wish I could do that, but I’d lose my nerve to do what I have to do.
By the time you read this, I’ll be on an airplane to Switzerland. Heck, I might even be there now. Maybe this whole thing is done and over and you’ve already gotten a phone call. Who knows?
I made an appointment a few months ago. It’s so strange, isn’t it, that I could make an appointment to die? I’ll have someone to help me get through the airport. He’ll fly all the way to Switzerland with me. He’ll take me to the apartment where a doctor will meet us. I’ll get hooked up to a machine and push a button and it will be over. The most pain I’ll feel is the IV they put into my vein. Then it will be over.
I’m sorry. I just don’t want to burden you. And I don’t want to lay in a bed and fall apart piece by piece. Someday, when you’re old, you’ll understand. Please don’t be angry. I’m doing this out of love for you all.
If I write too much more, I’ll lose my nerve.
I sold everything. It didn’t get me much money. But what cash I got is getting me on the plane. I’ll come back to you in a bag of ashes. Please have them sprinkled over Lake Huron. Just make sure it isn’t a windy day. Please laugh. Remember how I loved to laugh.
All my love and kisses and hugs to each of you,
Good-bye,
George.
Kaitlin dropped the letter and ran out the door, not bothering to lock it. She drove her car as fast as it would go to the airport, hoping that she would see him, find him before he left. She had no idea when he’d left. Sometime between her visit two days earlier and that moment. She prayed that she wasn’t too late. The tears made her vision blurry, but she didn’t want to slow down. Didn’t want to stop and miss him.
He’d had these plans when she saw him last. How had she missed it? Why hadn’t he told her?
“Kaitie, take care. It’s a jungle out there. I love you. Always have,” he’d said.
Was that his way of saying “good-bye” to her?
The airport was full. The announcer’s voice blared over the speaker, too muddled to understand. Kaitlin just needed to see his balding head. The white hair. The brown leather briefcase that she knew he’d be lugging around. He never left home without it.
At the cafe. A man drinking a cup of coffee. She was sure it was him.
“Grandpa!” she yelled, her voice seemed to bounce off every wall.
The man looked up. It wasn’t him.
Kaitlin ran through the corridor. Found an airport worker.
“Please, help me. I need to find my grandfather,” she said, nearing breathlessness. “He’s not in his right mind.”
“Okay, ma’am.” The woman said. “What flight?”
“I don’t know. Uh. Switzerland.”
“We don’t do non-stop flights to Switzerland. What’s his name?”
“George Stramm.”
After a few minutes and much pacing by Kaitlin, the woman said, “We found his flight. It hasn’t left yet. Go all the way to the end of the West corridor. You’d better start running. The flight boards in 10 minutes.”
Kaitlin took off. She was relieved and rushed and worried and scared. She dodged families pulling luggage and small children. Frazzled business men and women, checking their watches. Good-byes. Hellos.
She saw him. Pushing a walker. A man walked next to him, carrying the brown briefcase.
“Grandpa!”
He turned slightly. He smiled weakly.
“Stop, please!” she yelled, catching up to him. “Please, Grandpa.”
“Hi, honey. Why are you here?”
“You can’t do this.”
“Oh, Kaitie.” He pushed a finger into the corner of his eye. “I need to go.”
“No. We need you.”
“The problem is that I’ll need you. And I don’t want that.”
“It’s not time. We can take care of you.”
“I really need to get on the plane.” He turned back in the direction he was going.
“I’m pregnant.”
He looked at her. “You are?”
“Yes.” She touched her stomach. “Your first Great-Grandchild. I’m 10 weeks along. We just found out.”
His face turned to a mixture of joy and sadness. “That’s wonderful.”
“Does it change anything?” She sounded so young. Her face was pulled down by grief for the man that still stood right in front of her. “Please let it change your mind.”
His head jerked to the side. A movement he didn’t understand or will. “I’m only going to get worse.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be in pain.”
Kaitlin looked down. Sighed. “But don’t you want to see my baby?”
“When I held you, it made me a better man.”
George looked at his granddaughter. Remembered the moment he held her. She tiny and bundled in a pink blanket. He still drunk from the night before. Hadn’t stopped being drunk for 20 years, it seemed. But her small face and fresh smell had changed him. Sobered him. He knew he would do anything for that little child. Even fight the addiction. Even fight to live.
He turned to his escort. “Thank you for helping me. But I think I’m going to have to change my mind.”
George looked at his granddaughter. “Kaitie, can I get a ride?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“Oh, and there’s a problem. I don’t have anything. I sold it all.”
“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
She helped him get the walker turned around. Took the briefcase from the escort.
“I didn’t have any luggage. Didn’t need a change of clothes.”
“Okay.”
They walked together slowly, leaving the escort behind them.
Story Schedule for September and Voting
Hi, All! It’s officially September!
That means that today will bring you the first of the short stories in our September Challenge Contest!
What’s the September Challenge Contest? Well, read about it here.
All the stories ideas have been entered (sorry, I’m not collecting anymore at this time). Here’s the schedule!
Week 1
September 1: Kristi West
September 2: Julie Weber
September 3: Alex Skye
Week 2
September 5: Jessie Heninger
September 6: Holly Becker
September 7: Rob Meyer
September 8: Rachel Tear
September 9: Marianne Badongen
September 10: Shannon Caroland
Week 3
September 12: Kristi West
September 13: Lindsay Clem
September 14: Amy Sue Williams
September 15: Beki Hodgman
September 16: Betsy Carter
September 17: Kate Fineske
Week 4
September 19: Megan Sayer AND Mandy Rose
September 20: Kristi West
September 21: Betsy Carter
September 22: Trevor O’Brien
September 23: Karen Schravemade
September 24: Nickole Huffman
Week 5
September 26: Heather Hammond AND Adam Meyer
September 27: Holly Becker
September 28: Robyn Orme
September 29: Amelia Rhodes
September 30: Liz Ferguson
Each Sunday in September I will take votes for the previous week’s stories. So…each week there will be a finalist. Then, on October 2 there will be a vote for the Ultimate Winner of the T-Shirt!
Until then…
Whew. I have A LOT of writing to do!
Only 9 hours, 54 minutes left!!!
Now it’s down to 9 hours, 53 minutes! You better get your story ideas in!
Here’s how it works…
I want to stretch myself and my writing. So, we’re going to play a little bit of a game. You pick the characters, situations, places, time (in history) and I’ll write the story. This is how it will work.
1. You pick a character. Give me a few characteristics (loud, quiet, quirky, homeless, rich, etc). You can even give me a name for the character.
2. You pick the setting (era and location. Is it in a home, mall, office?). Pick a year and region.
3. You pick the conflict (fighting with spouse, out of work, lonely). I’ll figure out the resolution.
So, be creative. Have fun. Give me a challenge! At the end of the month we’ll have a vote of the best/most interesting story. The winner (the one who came up with the best ideas that led to the best story) will win…
A Freeset Signature T-shirt! (check out more Freeset items at Better Way Imports.
So…go, go, go!!!
Challenge September
Okay. I want to try something new and fun for the month of September. And I need your help. In fact, if you don’t help me…well…it won’t be successful at all.
Here’s the thing.
I want to stretch myself and my writing. So, we’re going to play a little bit of a game. You pick the characters, situations, places, time (in history) and I’ll write the story. This is how it will work.
1. You pick a character. Give me a few characteristics (loud, quiet, quirky, homeless, rich, etc). You can even give me a name for the character.
2. You pick the setting (era and location. Is it in a home, mall, office?). Pick a year and region.
3. You pick the conflict (fighting with spouse, out of work, lonely). I’ll figure out the resolution.
So, be creative. Have fun. Give me a challenge! At the end of the month we’ll have a vote of the best/most interesting story. The winner (the one who came up with the best ideas that led to the best story) will win…
A Freeset Signiture T-shirt! (organic cotton, made by women who have been freed from the sex trade in Kolkata, India. The lettering are the names of the women who work in the t-shirt department of this Fair Trade Federation member company. Previously, these women were unable to read and write their own names.)
So…give me your ideas in the comments or email them to me at susiefink@gmail.com. I’ll take your story ideas until Wednesday, August 31 at 12:00 am Michigan Time.
Ooo…I’m so excited!
Ready. Set. Go!
Compassion — Short story from the archives
I hate doing my grocery shopping at night. Seems that’s when the really strange people come out of the corners and wander the store. I never feel quite safe walking around the produce and deli sections. Always have to keep my hand on my purse. You never know what one of those people will do.
“Hey, Mom,” my teenage son says to me about five minutes ago. “I need four dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale tomorrow.”
And guess who doesn’t have nothing in her cupboard to make his cupcakes.
“Make the boy get the stuff,” my husband grumbled. “He gotta learn.”
“He wouldn’t get the right stuff,” I answered. “I don’t know nothing about baking.”
“Suit yourself.”
I put on my raincoat and drove the four miles to the super market.
“Mama! Mama!” a little girl is screaming from the cart. Her mother, or at least I think it’s her mother, is on the other side of the aisle looking at the canned vegetables.
Somebody’s gonna come along and snatch that kid right up and that mother wouldn’t even know what happened. Probably wouldn’t care neither. Except she wouldn’t get her food stamps no more. Leaches on society. Should all have to get a job. Working flipping burgers is better then taking money from the government. Shame on them.
“Mommy!” That little girl’s got some lungs on her.
“What?” her mother says. She don’t really care what her kid needs.
“Mommy, I’m hungry!”
“I’m getting you something. We’ll eat in just a few minutes.”
“I want chicken nuggets! Or a taco!”
“We ain’t gettin’ nothin’ like that.”
“But I want it!”
That kid starts carrying on like she been slapped across the face. Probably would do her some good. That’s the problem with people these days. They don’t punish their kids. Just want to be their best friends. A good whipping never hurt nobody.
“We ain’t gettin’ no junk tonight, April. So shut up about it.”
How dare she talk to her little girl like that. I just about tell her off about that one. What kind of mother uses such language? I have half a mind to shake some sense into her.
That mother takes three cans of green beans in her hands. And, I swear, she puts them right into her purse. I kid you not. She looks up at me. She knows I seen her. She rushes over and pushes the cart and the little girl away from me.
I ain’t letting that go. No, sir. I take off after them. What right she got to steal them green beans? And right in front of her child. Ain’t right at all.
I peek my head around the corner and watch that woman slip a can of tuna into that purse. And she don’t stop there. Spam and crackers and a couple apples. I follow her all over that market. She sure does have a big purse.
“Hey, there,” I say, pulling aside a woman in a red polo shirt. “You work here?”
“Yup. Can I help you?” she asks.
“Sure can. You see that woman there. The one with the screaming kid?”
“Yes. But, ma’am, I don’t feel right telling her to keep the girl quiet. She’s just a tired little child. We see it here all the time. They’ll leave soon enough.”
“No. That ain’t the problem.”
“Well, then, what is the problem?”
“See that big ol’ purse? She been packing it full of food. She’s shop lifting.”
“Oh, my.”
“So, go get her.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your concern. I’ll go talk to the manager.”
I go to the bakery. There are all kinds of cupcakes there. Might as well just pick up them. It’ll save me lots of time. I get myself a couple doughnuts to eat myself. I done a good turn today. Doughnuts are a good prize for me.
“No! Please!” A screaming voice from the other side of the store. “I’ll pay for it. Just let me pay for it!”
“Ma’am, we can’t have no one stealin’ from us.” I’m guessing that’s the manager.
“But they’ll take April. Put her in a home.”
“I’m sorry, lady. But that ain’t my problem.”
“Here. I’ll give you all the money I got in my wallet. It’s more’n enough to pay for everything.”
“Listen, if you had the money to pay, then why’d you think you should steal this stuff?”
“Cause that’s all I got. How am I supposed to pay for rent and food? I ain’t got a job.”
“Shame on her,” I say to the cashier as she scans the code on my cupcakes.
“Happens all the time.” The lady at the counter pushes buttons to ring up the doughnuts. “These look yummy.”
“Yeah. I got me a weak spot for sweets.”
“Don’t I know it. I got this gut to prove it.” She hands me the bags. “That’ll be $17.65.”
“I gotta write a check out.”
The manager’s pulling the shop lifter toward his office. April’s walking next to her, tugging on her hand.
“Mama? Where we going? I wanna go home.” April’s voice is so much smaller now. She’s so scared.
“I don’t know, baby,” her mother weeps. “Just don’t be scared. I’ll take care of everything.”
“But I don’t wanna go with no one. I wanna stay with you.”
“I know it. I know.”
“I’m still hungry, Mama. We ain’t had nothin’ to eat.”
“I know, baby.”
“Can’t even feed her child.” The cashier clucks her tongue. “What kind of monster. Probably spends all her money on drugs.”
“Probably.” I feel my heart breaking a little. Ain’t never felt so bad about doing the right thing before.
I tear the check out of my wallet and hand it to the woman. “You need my license?”
“Naw. You’re good.” Her drawer slides out and she puts the paper check inside. “Have a good one.”
I have to walk past the manager’s office to get out to my car. He’s in there with the woman and her girl. Both is crying and carrying on. It makes my stomach feel sick. I ain’t gonna be able to eat them doughnuts now.
April looks out the door. Her little girl eyes is so red and her mouth is so turned down. I can’t stand it no more. I look away.
Them doughnuts ain’t a good thing for a little girl to eat for dinner. I tell that to myself. But she ain’t got nothin’ else to eat. And the police’ll come and who knows where theygonna take her.
“Hey, little girl,” I call with my gentle voice. “I got something for ya.”
She looks up at her mother.
“I’ll bring it to you. You stay put.”
I walk in and hand her the two doughnuts. She don’t smile. I never expected that.
I also never expected how hard I’d be shaking as I walk out to my car.
Love Story – Part 4
Be sure you check out Part 1, Part 2 & Part 3. Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment.
Lucille struggled to regain her breath. “He forced me, Eddie. But I didn’t know what to do. I believed him that it was my fault. And then I was pregnant. You were so excited.” She gulped more air. “How could I have told you that Justice might not have been yours? And she came out with that same chin as Herbert. I was just so afraid. God help me, I was terrified of what Herbert was going to do to me.”
“Mom.” Justice stood in the back corner of the room. Her strawberry blonde hair didn’t even have a hint of gray. No wrinkles creased in her face. She looked more like a 30 year old than a 40-something.
“Oh, honey,” Lucille whispered. Her eyes grew wide, tears spilling from the corners. “Oh, no. I didn’t…”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Lucille looked at Edgar’s body. “There’s a lot to it, honey.” She shivered. “I never wanted you to think you were a curse.”
“Why did you keep me?”
“Because your Daddy was so excited. And that got me through the pregnancy.” Her eyes closed, cherishing a memory. “When I saw you, when they put you in my arms right after you were born. Oh, Justice. It was the happiest moment. It healed me. You made me whole.”
“But he wasn’t really my father,” Justice nodded toward Edgar. “Not really.”
“No, Justice, he was your daddy. You know how he loved you.”
The rest of Lucille’s children filed in. Chatting with one another is soft tones of reverence. Lucille and Justice held each other’s focus. There was a tension, a pull and push at the same time. Both women felt it. Both women felt vulnerable. Lucille was sure she’d lost her daughter.
Justice made her way to her mother, arms held out long before she reached her. She knelt on the floor, holding Lucille. The other six, not knowing what was going on, gathered around, circling their mom and older sister.
“She’s taking it so hard,” said Trudy.
—
That night, Lucille sat in her bed, drinking a cup of steaming tea. She looked at his pillow. It was still dented where his head would rest. There were a few short, silver hairs on the pillow case. The carpet bore the track of ambulance stretcher wheels. He had already been dead when they took him out. A black case closed up around him.
She smiled. Felt love blended with sadness seep from her heart to her throat.
I’ve had a great love in my life, she thought. Thank you, Eddie.
Lucille sipped her tea and remembered her Edgar.
Love Story – Part 3
Catch Part 1 and Part 2 if you haven’t already! And, by all means, feel free to share my blog with your friends on Facebook and/or Twitter! Thank you!
The funeral home was old. About as old as Lucille. The founders were still the owners and operators. At one point or another, they’d buried most of their siblings, classmates and neighbors. Including the man who was Lucille’s one time infidelity. Herbert Lane.
Everyone had come to that funeral. Edgar had been a pall-bearer. Lucille sat in the back, round with child and guilt. But no grief sunk her heart. More of a relief.
As Lucille walked into the funeral home she wondered at the relief she’d felt so many years before. And she remembered thinking that this man, this father of her oldest, was not so heroic.
“Mom,” Trudy said, “do you want to look at Daddy?”
Her daughter’s voice snapped her back to the day. It was her husband’s funeral. That was today.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. “Alone.”
There’d been no visitation. No extras. Edgar didn’t want that.
“Just throw my body in the hole and call it a day,” he’d said. “And I don’t want anyone saying how good I look.”
Lucille walked into the small room. Chairs were lined up. Enough for 100 people. She expected far more. People would have to stand or pull up a chair.
The coffin was black. Silver handles ran down the sides. She saw his nose before anything else.
“You always had a big schnoz,” she said out loud.
As she got closer she realized that his make-up made him look three shades darker. Clown red cheeks, salmon colored lips, a little blue on his eyelids. His hair was slicked back.
“No one’s going to say you look natural, babe.” She took a tissue from her sleeve and wiped his face.
It was cold, clammy, hard. Not the warmth of living flesh. And yet she still felt a closeness with that body. She moved her fingers through his hair, parting it to the left. It made her feel better.
“Well, Eddie, we’ve had a good run,” she said. “You were always so good to me.”
A wail burst through her. Uncontrolled. Unstoppable. She groaned from her loss. Eventually, that wave of pain passed. A calm soothed her.
“Eddie, I have to tell you. This is something I never told a soul before. And I’m sorry I never told you when it mattered,” she leaned in close to his face. She told him about her affair.
In the telling, something occurred to her. She’d told Herbert no. She’d fought him. Clawed. Kicked. Bit. Begged. Cried. But he wouldn’t stop.
But why had her brain let her think it was her fault for so long?
“You’d better not tell no one,” Herbert had hissed in her ear. “Eddie’d never believe you.”
She remembered his voice, his smell, his weight pressing down on her.
She suddenly found it impossible to breathe.
Love Story – Part 2
Make sure to catch part 1 here.
The night was dark. Full of rain and thunder and lightning. Electricity flickered on and off until a huge popping sound shut it off for the rest of the night. Lucille hadn’t collected candles or found a flashlight. She’d just sat in her dining room waiting for sunrise.
And it came.
In oranges and pinks and reds. Clouds split, fizzling into the sky. A rainbow spanned the atmosphere.
“Edgar would have loved this,” she said aloud. “How he loved the few moments after a storm.”
A key turned in the front door. Trudy walked in.
“Mom?” Trudy called.
“At the table,” Lucille answered. “Can you believe the storm?”
“Is your power out?”
“Yeah. Went out about 2:30 this morning.”
“How terrible.” Trudy looked at her mother. “You aren’t thinking about wearing your bathrobe to the funeral, are you?”
“The graveside is going to be a muddy mess.”
“Are you thinking you’ll wear black?”
“Hopefully, they’ll have all the mud covered.”
“Mother. We have to get you dressed. We’re supposed to be at the funeral home in less than half an hour.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” Lucille looked at her daughter. “I’m just not looking forward to it. You know, all my life I loved picking out what I’d wear.”
“I know, Mom.”
“But how am I going to pick out the right thing to wear today?”
“I’ll find something for you.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you.”
She stood, flipped on the coffee maker. Nothing happened. She remembered the storm knocking out the power.
“We’re going to have to stop on the way for coffee,” she yelled toward the ceiling, hoping Trudy heard her.
“No problem.”
She looked at the sink. White porcelain with chips that revealed some kind of black material. Edgar had installed that so many years ago. And the faucet. The back splash. Counter tops, flooring, windows, paint. Her Eddie had done all of it. He’d been so skilled and strong. There was nothing around the house he couldn’t fix or replace.
Except her. He never figured that out. But, then again, most of her damage he never knew about. But he’d tried. And she loved him for it. She only wished she’d been able to love him enough. She always knew he loved her more than she could have ever loved him.
“How about this one?” Trudy walked to Lucille, carrying a burgundy dress.
“Yes,” Lucille didn’t turn around. “That’s fine.”
“It’s the one you wore at your 50th anniversary party.”
Lucille couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. “Oh, yes.”
“What’s so funny?”
“If you only knew.”
Lucille went into the guest room to change.
Love Story — part 1
There was a strong, almost-autumn wind. It upset the grand-kids’ play tent in the backyard, caused the crimson maple to wave furiously. There was a smell that was whipped up in the air. A warm, rich smell.
It made Lucille want to smoke on the deck.
She’d always thought that fall was the perfect season for smokers. Not too hot, not too cold. There was something comfortable about it. The smell of the leaves wilting on the ground, the slight chill in the air, the crisp sounds all around. Somewhere between her chest and her guts longed for just one cigarette. The urge was so strong.
But her only pack was over 6 years old. Hidden away in one of the decorative cookie jars atop the ledge in her kitchen. No one would care and no one would know if she had just one. The problem was, she didn’t know how terribly stale they might be after 6 years. And she’d have to climb on a chair to the counter-top and stand on her tippy toes to reach the cookie jar. It just didn’t seem worth it.
After she was dead and her kids were cleaning out the house, they’d find that old pack. Then, and only then, would they know her secret. She’d smoked for 40 some years without a single soul knowing. Well, except for the guy at the gas station outside of town. Not even Edgar knew. After 53 years of marriage and the man never knew.
Well, not 53 years of “wedding-in-a-church” marriage. More like “lived-together-so-long” it might as well be called a marriage. Everyone they knew just assumed they were married. Their parents had thought they’d eloped. Their kids never questioned it.
Somewhere around their 41st year together, they started going to church.
“Eddie, I think we need to be married,” she’d said to him after a Sunday evening service. The few kids that still lived at home were all in bed, yet she whispered anyway. “Don’t you think it’s the right thing to do?”
“Well, I guess so.” He’d looked at her like she had a second nose.
“But how? We can’t let the children know that we lived in sin.”
“Do they really have to know?”
“How else will we get married?”
Edgar had thought. Walked out of the room. Returned with something.
“Lu, I love you.” He got down on his knee. “Marry me.”
He slipped a key ring on her finger.
“Um, Edgar. How?”
“Right now.” He had bowed his head. “Lord, God. Uh. Can Lucille and me be married in Your Eyes? Can it work that way? Sorry for living with her out of wed-lock for so long. Amen.”
“Is that it?”
“I guess so.” His eyes had beamed into hers. “Hey, honey, could you help me up?”
“Goodness, you’re old!”
And that was it. Their long awaited wedding. In their bedroom among the unmade bed and overflowing hamper.
After all, where in the Holy Bible did it command a white dress and big, sugary cake? Lucille wouldn’t have felt right wearing white anyway. After giving birth to seven kids she was clearly no virgin. She could have gone for the cake, though.
“Sorry, wife. Can’t have a cake. No thanks to the diabetes for that,” Edgar had said. “How about some sugar free jello?”
“Sounds just fine, dear,” she’d said back.
“Just the two of us,” he had toasted, raising his dish of jello. “To many more years.”
Just the two of them. Lucille had felt a twinge of guilt at that. Even 12 years later, looking out the sliding door at the wind, she’d felt the guilt. It had been just the two of them. For so many years.
But not always. There was that one time. The time she’d failed him. But that was so long ago. In the late 1960’s. And that other man was dead. Killed in Viet Nam. And Edgar had never known.
She’d kept it from him to protect him. That way she bore the whole weight of the pain. But there were moments when she was sure he’d figure it all out. Justice, their oldest daughter, looked a whole lot like that other man. His green eyes, his strawberry colored hair. And not a lick like Edgar.
But Edgar had never said a word about it.
She couldn’t believe she’d let him go to his grave without telling him the truth. It upset her stomach. Brought her to tears. She had to put a hand on the glass of the door. Grief overcame her, putting her off balance.
A flash of lightning lit up the backyard. It was going to storm. It would be a big one.
Lucille hoped that it would all blow over before the morning. A soggy funeral would be miserable.
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