Being the seventh part of a seven-part series based on Your New Favorite Writer’s recent WWA workshop “A Bulletproof Beginning: Five Ways to Anchor Your Story in Urgency from Word One.”
I can’t tell you how to write a great beginning. But here are FIVE BIG IDEAS—three Dos and two Donts—that ought to help quite a bit:
1. Engage the reader immediately.
2. Do not drown the reader in information.
3. Introduce important characters and plots early.
4. Do not let INFORMATION bog down the profluence of the narrative.
5. Shape early action toward later plot points.
In recent weeks, we’ve looked closer at each of these five big ideas. I hope you’ve discovered ways to write livelier, more compelling beginnings for your novels, short stories, or screenplays.
But can we say anything, in general, that summarizes these five big ideas in a way that’s true to the reality of writing fiction or, for that matter, narrative nonfiction?
Structure is King
As you may have surmised already, Your New Favorite Writer believes we all need a working knowledge of the universal story template that seems built into the human psyche. The five big ideas all rely, ultimately, on knowing what can happen within the space of a manuscript or screenplay that logically exploits our craving for dramatic and narrative order. So the concepts of beginning-middle-end or Act I-Act II-Act III and the major plot points are essential equipment in the writer’s toolbox.
Not Each But All
It’s also important to note that the five big ideas—or any other valid ideas you may be offered for making your work sing—do not operate one by one. You need to make them all work with each other. You must not only introduce important characters early, you must avoid awkward information dumps while doing so. Furthermore, they must be introduced in ways that presage plot developments to come along later in the story. It all has to work together.
This is really hard to do. That is why we big-league writers are so highly paid.
Let the Protagonist Protag
One thing I have probably under-emphasized in this series of posts is the central importance of the protagonist. In the last analysis, the story is always about the protagonist. The more active the protagonist, the more story there is to tell. And the rule is, the protagonist must protag. (That’s what we in linguistics call a back-formation, kids.)
To protag is to act. To protag is to be unpredictable. To protag is to have big things at stake. To protag is to take hold of the story, turn it upside down, and shake it till all the loose change falls out of its pockets.
You can be cute. You can tell the story from the viewpoint of a secondary character, but it will be the secondary character talking about the protagonist, like Watson and Sherlock. Unless you have a very good reason for doing so, why bother?
You can tell the story from the viewpoint of the antagonist. But still, it will be the chief opponent talking about, or more likely scheming about how to counter, the actions of the protagonist. Of course, the antagonist, if worthy, may be very active as well. But here’s a thought: The moment you catch your antagonist protagging, you really ought to ask yourself if you have a protagonist disguised as an antagonist. In that case, may the good Lord help you, because I can’t. You’re going to have to turn everything around. But you may have to do that. Remember, a bad guy can be the protagonist. Anyone who has ever read the works of Patricia Highsmith can attest to that.
At some point, preferably early in the process, you’re going to want to ask yourself, “Whose story is it?” And if you can bring yourself to answer honestly, you have identified your protagonist. Make sure he, she, or it protags.
It’s best if the protagonist is active, or at least mentioned, early in the narrative. Remember, this little series is all about beginnings.
So What?
When you understand basic structural concepts, when you realize all your tools must work together, and when you come to grips with the vital activity of your main character, you have an opportunity to build the beginning of the story toward what will happen before the end. You will be more likely to include only those actions, events, and speeches that make the story flow with a decent profluence from beginning to end.
If, Dear Reader, you will trouble yourself to re-read the preceding paragraph, you will find it is a nice, pretty, nearly irrefutable, paragraph. I’m very proud of it.
But if you are an experienced writer, you already know that no matter how well you master structure and all the other elements that must work together, your story may astound you with all the twists and turns it takes before you type “The End.”
Try not to be disappointed if you have to go back, once you thought you were finished, and write a new beginning to match the middle and end that actually showed up for work.
But having at least thought about the general principles discussed here, you may recognize the contours of your work for what they are. And this should make it easier to rewrite the beginning.
ATTENTION: Owing to some kind of error in the huge, unresponsive bureaucracy of Kindle Direct Publishing, part of Amazon, many of my outstanding small-press publisher’s books are no longer listed on Amazon.com. This includes my Amazon Best-seller immigrant saga The Price of Passage and also the heartwarming coming-of-age story, Izzy Strikes Gold!
FORTUNATELY, we do not rely on Amazon to get our books in people’s hands. You can purchase either or both of these books direct from the publisher by clicking these links: Izzy and Passage.
Thank you for your unwavering support of fine literature from small, independent presses.
I left off other pursuits at age 70 to work seriously on becoming Your New Favorite Writer. By writing and publishing two great books (The Price of Passage and Izzy Strikes Gold!), a few short stories, and about 325 blog posts—weekly ruminations on the past, the present, and topics of literary and historical interest—I have established a late-life career as a minor, yet real, literary lion.
But a few weeks ago, at age 80, this literary lion discovered a serious condition—a lumbar stenosis—that required surgery if I wanted to spend the rest of my days upright and ambulatory. It’s a tough operation, involving a long dorsal incision, six hours on the table, and the placement of rods and screws inside my spine.
I solemnly vow, Gentle Reader: This is the last time I will lumber you with tales of Your New Favorite Writer’s surgical woes. As rumors, spread by me, of post-operative grief have turned out to be exaggerated, we will return next week to interesting stuff.
Suffice it to say: An octogenarian takes several months to recover from this kind of event. I am working on it.
Br’er Fox throws Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch. Walt Disney Productions. Fair Use.
NOW, HERE IS THE COMPENSATORY BLESSING that has been revealed: In the past weeks—just before the Big Health Scare, continuing through it, and afterwards as well—a more ambitious literary agenda has come into focus. It includes a way through the thicket of the current work-in-progress, a WWII-era historical novel; the impetus for a narrative nonfiction work on a “history-of-religion” topic; a Vietnam-era military memoir; a speculative fiction comic novella partly inspired by the Big Health Scare; several new short stories; and a more sustainable approach to marketing and selling these gorgeous hunks of intellectual property.
All this may keep me busy until I’m 100. We’ll see how it goes.
Gentle Reader, from this end of the telescope I suddenly see every bit of life—every difficulty, every failure, all the boredom and frustration experienced at tasks I didn’t want to be doing—or more precisely, tasks the preparatory value of which I did not grasp—every problem encountered and surmounted or endured: I now see all of that as simply a fair price paid for the marvelous vista gleaming just ahead.
Excuse me, but I’ve got to get to work. See you next week.
Kindly old Mrs. Winders kept me after class one Friday afternoon in October. She sat me down by the dusty chalk rail and said next Monday morning I must report to the room across the hall.
Dazed by this announcement, I walked home. Skipping a grade was nothing I had heard of before. I didn’t know it could be done.
I told the news to Mom. She knew all about it. She, Dad, the teachers, the principal, and the school psychologist had already talked at length about this plan to make me a fourth-grader.
The only one left out of the conversation was me.
So What Else Is New?
It would have been extraordinary to include a kid in a decision that affected him.
We were to be seen rather than heard. Why would anyone consult us on a matter of importance? We were defective; that is, not yet adult.
“But Mom, I like my friends in third grade. Those fourth-graders are older than me. I don’t know them.”
“You’ll just have to make new friends.”
That was that.
The next Monday, I walked into a classroom where all the kids towered over me.
Where everybody already knew their multiplication tables.
Students practicing penmanship. Fair use.
Where the cursive characters—which I had barely begun to learn—were posted above the blackboards all around the room, from which vantage point they leered, taunted, and dared me to write using them all the time. And to practice “good penmanship,” whatever that was.
Fourth grade was a place where my new teacher, a mean old lady with beady eyes, saw me as an untutored savage, a burden thrust upon her.
Oh, the Humanity
Van Gogh suffering from an earache. Public Domain.
People say artists must suffer. If they never suffered, it’s not art.
Writers are held to be artists. Therefore we must have suffered too.
In this business of suffering I am also defective. I haven’t suffered much. At age seventy-nine, I look back on a life of tranquillity, prosperity, and more than my share of joy.
But in those days when I was an impostor posing as a fourth-grader—both smaller and younger than my classmates, resented by my harsh teacher, expected to know all sorts of things I had sped past in this oddball promotion—at that time, Dear Reader, if at no other, I thought I was suffering.
Making friends was the least of it. My classmates treated me as a novelty—a mid-season interloper with an overgrown brain and an undergrown body. At least they were nice. They showed a kind of mascot-worthy toleration. One or two offered real friendship.
Some other kid, with a different personality, might have used the sudden promotion to take fourth grade by storm. Some folks are outgoing, potentially meteoric, by nature. I am not one of them.
Years and decades have taught me versatility; the skills required to make new friends quickly; the ability to assert my own interests in a pleasant, no-nonsense way so I won’t be huddled in a dark corner when goodies are distributed. But way down deep, I’m still an introvert.
Timidity ruled me in third and fourth grades. I seemed born to be bullied.
“Stand up for yourself,” my parents said.
Now, I know what they meant. Then, I had no clue.
My path to a full social life may have been gradual, but I got here. Gone are my days of quailing and quaking. Life is now good to me.
Yet the wounds of childhood, even many years later, can still sting.
An Altered Ego
So there was a hidden agenda when I set out, a few years ago, to write fiction.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. --T. S. Eliot
I thought through historical fiction—stories set in the past—I could fix the past.
I created a character, Izzy Mahler—a six-year-old boy, beleaguered by schoolyard bullies who shook him down for money, a dime he did not have. “You’d better get it,” said big bully Barton Bigelow.
Izzy’s first, forlorn appearance, from the Saturday Evening Post’s Depression-era art files. Fair use.
The ingenious means by which Izzy got the dime, warded off Barton Bigelow, scored a candy prize for himself, and learned a lesson in finance, became a fount of quaint humor. The Saturday Evening Post website liked the story well enough to publish it as “Nickel and Dime.”
By combining a couple of real incidents from early childhood—changing a few names, facts, and relationships—I had given Izzy a success that had eluded the actual me. How’s that for exploration, T. S. Eliot?
Two more Izzy stories, again bought by The Saturday Evening Post, showcased my flair for creative reconstruction of the past.
Then I caught the bug to write The Great American Novel. My great American novel, Price of Passage, took about five years to complete. All along, I had it in mind to write a book about Izzy’s grade-school experiences back in the 1950s.
And I did it. The result, Izzy Strikes Gold!, is a middle-grade novel that grandparents will also enjoy reading—as a dip into the roseate past, if nothing more.
It’s 1957. Twelve-year-old IZZY, long on hope and short on cash, claws golden nuggets from the waters of a secret spring. His co-discoverer COLLUM swears him to secrecy.
Izzy hopes to be a regular kid, not just the class shrimp. Half his brain teems with schemes to fit in with his peers, while the other half struggles to keep his family from falling apart.
MOM and DAD are at odds, Izzy helpless to save their marriage. THE RUSSIANS launch the first artificial satellite, blighting Izzy’s hopes of space-age glory. Bullying LYLE dashes Izzy’s self-image; breathtaking IRMA seems oblivious to his wistful ardor; and GRANDPA, who taught him to be brave, wastes away in a hospital room.
Money could ease these woes—but Izzy has pledged silence about the gold in the hidden spring.
DEEP IN DILEMMAS, HOW CAN IZZY HOLD ON TO HOPE?
Because it features a child protagonist with a child’s problems, this book is classified by booksellers as a middle-grade novel—one meant for readers eight to twelve years old.
But, Dear Reader, I wrote it for EVERYBODY. I hope there’s enough universality in Izzy’s story that people of any age can enjoy it as a snapshot of a magical time in a child’s life. People my age, who can remember the very different world of the 1950s, will resonate with the events contained in its pages.
I hope they will give this book to their grandchildren—read it along with their grandchildren, perhaps. It may spark wonderful conversations.
Themes
Authors must talk with people about their work. It’s easy to talk about characters and events in a story you have written. It’s harder to talk about themes.
You may not know the themes until the dust has settled.
Long before starting on the Izzy novel, I shared with my friend Christine DeSmet the fact that I wanted to write a “coming-of-age” book which would be mainly about “acceptance.” That desire sprang from the many times I suffered anxiety, hoping my classmates would accept me as a true peer even though I was younger and smaller, and knew bigger words.
But when the book was finished, I found its main themes are hope, friendship, and love.
All these transcend mere acceptance. In fact, taken together, they make acceptance unnecessary.
I thought I wrote about a child’s struggle to be tolerated in juvenile society. What came out was a saga of hope tenaciously held, friendship slowly gained, and love made manifest.
I went in for a penny but came out with a pound.
Having arrived where I started, I knew the place for the first time.
Blessings,
Larry F. Sommers
Your New Favorite Writer
P.S.—If you’re in or near Madison, Wisconsin, on July 24, come to the FABULOUS LAUNCH PARTY. You can buy the book on site and get a genuine author’s signature on the title page. Details here.
Or rather, ahem, my short story, “Beast of the Moment,” is in it. (Page 171, if you must know.)
I am proud of this story, because it was good enough that editor Mandy Haynes deemed it worth publishing.
It has the three chief virtues of a good story: A beginning, a middle, and an end. (See Poetics vii. 2-3, by Mr. Aristotle, noted Greek philosopher.) It also has an interesting, and humane, subject: an old woman who loves dogs. So, yes, it’s a feel-good story—yet not pollyannish.
“Beast of the Moment” appeared in the June 2023 issue of WELL READ online magazine. If you wish, you can read it for free here.
But it also appears now in print, in this paperback anthology of 2023’s best pieces. I’m honored it is there. On page 171. I’d strongly advise you to acquire a copy, for it has not only my story but 37 other great pieces by a variety of authors. I read my way through it last week and liked what I saw. There were short prose pieces, both fiction and non-fiction, and a good sprinkling of original poems.
One piece that made a strong impression was “A Hard Dog,” by Will Maguire, starting on p. 20. It’s a story about a hard dog, and, well, it’s a hard story about a dog. It deals with the relationships between a forlorn man, his recent girlfriend, a stray dog, and the neighbors. There are points where it’s hard to read and you want to give up on it. But if you stick with it, you’ll be rewarded. Maguire tells a hard story, but he tells it with skill and a certain amount of grace. Dog lover or otherwise, I recommend giving it a try.
The next story up is “Evolution of Love,” by the talented and persistent Rob Grindstaff. It’s a romance for the modern era, and it tells its tale with depth and imagination. I promise you’ll get involved in the developing love between positivistic scientist Steven and the faith-based nurturer Dempsey. And there’s a neat little twist at the end that could be magical realism . . . or something else entirely. Don’t miss it.
There’s a flashy story called “Silver Sequins,” by Joy Ross Davis, that will make you think twice. I call it “flashy” because, for one thing, it’s short enough to qualify as flash fiction. It has that nice quality of flash fiction, the quality of not filling you in on everything—just giving you the drift of it and letting you fill in the blanks. But it’s also flashy because its author’s narrative skills are displayed with brilliance and panache. Yeah, I confess: That’s really what I meant. And, just like the stories mentioned above, it’s about—would you believe?—relationships. A well-wrought story, worth a read.
There are pieces that may be fictional short stories but could be mini-memoirs, sprung directly from life. It’s hard to tell with “Choices,” by Robin Prince Monroe; “Waiting for a Signal,” by Jeffrey Dale Lofton; the sardonic “Obituaries,” by Rebecca Klassen; and “What We Keep, What We Throw Away,” by Phyllis Gobbell. Maybe it doesn’t matter whether they’re fact or fiction. Each of these little gems highlights a facet of life that feels as real and experiential as a dropped memory or a parent’s tear for a wayward child.
I fear that by mentioning certain stories I have slighted others. The truth is, they’re all good, all thought-provoking. And the same can be said for the many poems.
By the way, did I mention that my story “Beast of the Moment,” about an old widow and her long-time canine companion, appears beginning on p. 171?
If you’d like to read them all, the price is certainly right: $15.00 paperback, $5.99 Kindle. Get the anthology here.
Wisconsin, where I live, is known for inclement weather. Winter seems to last about six months here in Madison.
Then there is a brief spring, followed by three months of warm, GLORIOUS SUMMER, which tapers off in a wine-and-gold two-month autumn until snowflakes fly around November 1.
Since summer does not last forever, I spend as much time as possible in my backyard. When not mowing or weeding, I sit in a chair, reading a book and sipping something. I glance up now and then to appreciate how lovely it all is.
One view of my backyard.
A black locust towers over our house. The tree is in the front yard, but I can see its top, over the roof, from the backyard. It’s thing of beauty and a joy forever, especially with its green leaves yellowed by the afternoon sun.
Another view of my backyard.
There is a sound track, too. My favorite part is the catbird’s call.
This small gray bird, Dumetella carolinensis, flits about the backyard, perching in one of our tall spruces, or sometimes briefly in our forsythia, a red cedar, or my wife’s special Montmorency cherry tree.
“But tell me, O New Favorite Writer, how do you know your catbird’s a he? Couldn’t it be a she?”
No, Dear Reader. He could not. Which is something I did not know until I did a bit of research. It’s surprising what you can learn by writing a blog. More on catbird vocal dimorphism below.
For now, suffice it to say that Mister Catbird is a phenomenal singer and mimic, much like his Southern cousin Br’er Mockingbird.
And he does all his vocalizing from a kind of throne. Though our common robins, sparrows, and cardinals use the same trees and bushes, when Mister Catbird perches there, it becomes a special thing.
The Facts on File Dictionary of American Regionalisms says, “To be in the catbird seat means ‘to be sitting pretty, to be in a favorable position.’” The book, like other sources, calls it a 19th-century Southern Americanism but admits in a roundabout way that nobody ever heard of it until 1942, when James Thurber publicized Red Barber’s use of it.
James Thurber in 1960. Photo by Ed Ford, World Telegram staff photographer. Public Domain.
James Thurber (1894-1961) was a cartoonist, writer, humorist, journalist and playwright—a literary icon whose work appeared often in the New Yorker. Today he is mostly remembered for his short story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” but during his lifetime he published many stories, as well as humorous essays, memoirs, and cartoons. One of his stories is called “The Catbird Seat.”
I won’t give you any spoilers, in case you’d like to read this now somewhat dated, but still entertaining, story. What concerns us here is how it got its title. Its main character, a file clerk named Mr. Martin, is disturbed by a co-worker, Mrs. Bellows, who sprinkles her office repartee with a variety of odd expressions.
It was Joey Hart, one of Mr. Martin’s two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant. “She must be a Dodger fan,” he had said. “Red Barber announces the Dodger games over the radio and he uses those expressions–picked ’em up down South.” Joey had gone on to explain one or two. “Tearing up the pea patch” meant going on a rampage; “sitting in the catbird seat” means sitting pretty, like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him.
Red Barber in 1955. Photo by Al Ravenna, World-Telegram staff photographer. Public Domain.
Red Barber (1908-1992), “the Old Redhead,” was a sports announcer who over a long career called major league baseball games for the Cincinnati Reds, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and the New York Yankees. A native of Columbus, Mississippi, he spoke slowly, with a soothing southern drawl, countrified and unflappable even when describing the hottest action.
Did Barber ever use the phrase “in the catbird seat” before reading Thurber’s 1942 story attributing it to him? That must remain one of those enigmas lost in the mists of time.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines the catbird seat as “a superior or advantageous position.” I guess that’s about right. “He’s sitting in the catbird seat” means he’s got no worries—however things turn out, he’s covered.
If you’re in the catbird seat you can sit aloof and entertain yourself with pretty songs while you wait for others to find out the bad news.
Our friend Mister Catbird perches, sometimes hidden by dense foliage, but always in a place where he can supervise the whole world. And he comments.
The Catbird’s Song
He sings one of the most complex songs of any bird. It’s a long, polysyllabic thing, a startling series of whistles, squeaks, squawks, and burbles. It lasts several seconds and is then repeated, only with its elements re-arranged.
That’s how I know it’s a he, Dear Reader. Because the catbird I’m hearing is not singing a normal “catbird” song, which is relatively brief and simple. Nor is he chirping the single meow-like syllable that gives him his name.
The complexity of Mister Catbird’s call comes from the fact that he’s imitating a series of other birds’ calls. Ornithologists think this is simply a way for a male catbird to show off, attracting the female of the species to his rich repertory of bird sounds. It’s like a guy who gets up at a party and rattles off a series of impressions—John Wayne, Dean Martin, Jimmy Cagney (“You dirty rat!”), Cary Grant (“Judy Judy! Judy!”) and on and on.
Only Dumetella carolinensis is actually a talented mimic, unlike our friend at the party.
Do yourself a favor, Dear Reader, and take five minutes to watch and listen to this YouTube video sponsored by Cornell Lab of Ornithology, in which Greg Budney, former audio curator of the Macauley Library, shows examples of catbirdmimicry.
After hearing all the calls the catbird masters in Budney’s video, you may imagine what it sounds like when they’re all run together by Mister Catbird in my backyard.
It makes me think of a general issuing detailed orders to the troops.
It sounds like an NFL quarterback barking a complex cadence before the ball is snapped—half of the syllables to inform his teammates about the play, the other half only to fool the opponents.
It’s the auditory equivalent of the gestures a third-base coach uncorks between pitches. You’ve seen it if you’ve ever been to a ballgame. He pats his left shoulder, rubs his elbow, taps his foot, shakes his head, doffs his cap, etc.—so his teammates will know what to do but the other guys won’t figure it out.
Even though I know Mister Catbird’s song is just an act to impress Miz Catbird, I still can’t shake the feeling that his baffling cascade of sounds must mean something.
Last fall, I attended the Wisconsin Writers Association’s annual conference, which was held in Superior.
Doug Lewandowski, a Duluth writer, introduced himself and told me about his book—a collection of related short stories about people and events in a small Minnesota town called Woman River. He was rather low-key and matter-of-fact about the book. He gave me a copy, free of charge. I promised I would take it home and read it.
Time went by.
You have no idea, Dear Reader, how many books I feel compelled to read—not only for my own enjoyment, but also in pursuit of my literary career. Woman River went to the bottom of my pile. Finally last week—about six months after Doug gave me the book—it reached the top of my pile.
POW! Take that, O smug, self-satisfied one-book wonder who brashly claims to be “Your New Favorite Writer”!
I was, as the Brits would say, gobsmacked.
Let me belatedly assure you Gentle Reader: Doug Lewandowski is the real McCoy. Woman River is a great book. I wish I could write like that.
So I’m passing this recommendation along to all my friends. Get hold of a copy of Doug Lewandowski’s Woman River and read it. You won’t be disappointed.
Here’s the review I posted on Goodreads.com a day or two after finishing the book:
The town of Woman River is filled with flawed people. They mostly smoke Luckies and drink Hamm’s beer—but it’s 1959, so that’s pretty normal. None of them sought to be flawed, but all of them want love. And—in a small but difficult miracle arranged by author Doug Lewandowski—we the reader get to see their love bulging from every wound and pressure point.
The book is a great affirmation of life with all its worries. One comes away feeling this is what writing is for.
Woman River is a novella built of short stories, each related to all the others as the varied residents are bound to one another by ties of affection, loyalty, and eternity.
A young farmer recoiling from a failed marriage pits his stern father against his lifegiving lover. The innkeeping couple face a dread illness with stoic devotion. The local pariah and the capable police chief share an affliction of combat stress. The town’s ethos revolves around its church, which comforts and challenges in equal measure. The priest clings to his precepts while falling under the spell of his gracious housekeeper, who must choose her own destiny.
The text could use a bit of proofreading, but the narrative is sure, deep, and compelling. As Midwest regional literature, this book might be compared to Nickolas Butler’s Shotgun Lovesongs, Michael Perry’s Pop. 485, or the works of the late David Rhodes. But I almost feel it’s the book Steinbeck would have written, rather than Tortilla Flat or Cannery Row, had he grown up in Minnesota, not California.
You should read Woman River. Don’t miss out on great writing.
#
I mean it. Read Woman River. You’ll be glad you did.
Blessings,
Larry F. Sommers
Your New Favorite Writer
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
Below is the first draft of a story. You can help make it better by commenting on what you liked or what you didn’t. Feel free to make suggestions. How could the story be better?
#
MOM WAS A SCURLOCK, once a respected name, but folks in town just called her Annie Screwloose. I knew this from an early age, and I knew what it implied.
She must have been aware what people called her, but we never spoke of it until one day, in battle, I shot it as a bolt to her heart.
She puckered her mouth and carried on. “People speak ill of others thinking it will make them feel good about themselves. You picked up their mocking name because you’re mad and want to hurt me.” She shoved a cat off a kitchen chair and sat down. “I understand your anger more than I understand their meanness. I wish you could partake of the joy all around you.”
I groaned. “Not this again. About the particles.”
She smiled. “Yes, the particles. Particles of joy in the air about us. I can feel them, see them, hear them, even taste them—and they transform my life.” Her face was radiant. “Why can’t you do the same?”
“Get my life transformed by particles? Mom, that’s crazy talk. There are no particles!”
I glanced around the room at the gas stove she had had installed right next to the disused woodstove, never discarding the woodstove, which had loomed there for as long as I could remember—after all, there was “oodles of space in this kitchen.” My glance took in the stacks of newspapers and magazines on top of that old woodstove, mingled with cookbooks of the world’s great cuisines, and a line of motley dishes on the floor holding several kinds of pet food, which spilled onto the patchy linoleum.
I capped my survey with a loud sniff of the air around us, which held an odor I never smelled in anyone else’s house. “You’re not some solitary saint protecting her only son. You’re a loony-tunes who drove her husband away and keeps all knowledge of him from me. What was he like? I don’t know. I never met him.”
“The less you know of that man, the better.”
“I’ll be eighteen soon, Mom. I’ll find him.”
#
“Hello, Dad.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He spat out the words, then launched into a fit of coughing that made me wonder whether he would live out his latest sentence.
“You ought to get that looked at.”
He gained control of his breathing and glared at me across the amored glass barrier. “Don’t be a wiseass with me. I didn’t have to come out here and see you at all.” He rose from the straight-backed chair on his side of the glass.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry I offended you. I just need—”
“Yeah, what do you need, sonny?” He sank into the chair again, more slowly than he had risen. “Nothin’ I can give you.” His eyes were dead.
“When you said ‘sonny’ just now, was that ‘sonny’ as in ‘son’? It took me years to find you. Can you at least acknowledge I’m your issue?”
He made a sour face. It puckered the wrinkles around his mouth. I was still in my twenties, so there’s no way he could have been the age his wrinkles testified.
“Look,” he said. “I got no issues. You wanna be my son, what’s in it for me?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Forget it.” I got up to go.
“That’s right, just cut me loose. Forget I ever existed.” His eyes suddenly sparked with fire. “You tell Miss Annie Scurlock: Thanks for nothing.”
“Tell her yourself, you son of a bitch.”
I went to the secure door and tapped on the glass. The deputy on the other side saw me and buzzed me through. “Get what you came for?” he asked, his face impassive.
“Got what I could get.”
#
I didn’t want to come home. I’ve been doing just fine on my own—learning a trade, paying my way, traveling light. I have no attachments and want none. I do better as a solo. But she was my mother.
Her neighbor, Mister Johnson, got in touch with me. I drove overnight to get here, took my stuff into the empty house. It still had the old smell. I sat in the kitchen, depressed, for a few minutes, then got up and went to the hospital.
She had shrunk to a mere wisp. Her eyes were bright when I came into the room, and she looked at me with recognition.
“Hello, Mom.”
She smiled and blinked. They had said at the nurses’ station that she no longer had the power of speech.
“I found the old bastard a few years ago. In jail, naturally.”
The light went out of her eyes.
“You were right about him.”
She closed her eyes and that was that.
The funeral director asked whether I wanted to specify a charity for memorial gifts. I thought of all the cats and dogs that used to be around our house, and I said the humane society.
“That’s very fitting,” he said. He looked down at the blotter on his desk, then raised his eyes again. “I suppose you know they took her cats away a few months ago.”
I gulped. “No, I didn’t.” That explained why I found no animals in the house. “I suppose it was for the best.”
“Frankly, they were getting to be a problem. After they took them away, a few volunteers from the church came by and helped clean up her house. Did the best they could, anyway, to put it right.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that, either. Keep the humane society for the memorial gifts, but I’ll send a donation to the church.”
“I’m sure it will be appreciated.”
So I came home. Now I sit here staring at the old woodstove. There are only a few magazines and newspapers on it. There are large patches of rust on the cast iron, but it’s a real antique. I’ll bet it could be restored and sold to somebody for real bucks.
It occurs to me to wonder what it would take to fix up this old house. It’s a large Victorian, in the family since the glory days of the Scurlocks. Now it’s mine. It might be worth the investment.
Now I notice a dish on the floor in the corner by the pantry door. Something’s in it that looks like dog food.
A scratch and a whimper at the back door. I get up, open the back door, and there stands a scrawny-looking mutt, some kind of a terrier I guess. He backs up and gives a half-growl, because he doesn’t recognize me. But his tail wags. I’ll bet this is where he comes to get fed.
I open the door. He scurries in, still half-suspicious, yet hungry.
He makes a beeline for the dish with the dog food and gobbles it down.
I watch him. “Hello, Mutt. My name is Frank.”
He finishes the last morsel, looks up at me, and gives a sudden, whole-body shake. A beam of sunshine slants down through the window, and the dog’s shake sends up a thousand motes of dust, dander, and debris. They rise and swirl, tiny specks in the golden light.
Something makes me think of Mom, and I realize for the first time in my life I’m seeing particles of joy.
The End
How could this story have been better? Give the author feedback by entering a comment in the LEAVE A REPLY box.
Larry F. Sommers
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
Below is the first draft of a story. You can help make it better by commenting on what you liked or what you didn’t. Feel free to make suggestions. How could the story be better?
#
WAYNE MATCHED HIS STEPS TO THE ROTATING GLASS DOOR of the Ultra Star Boston Back Bay Convention Hotel. He walked out into warm summer air and took a deep breath.
Eleemosynary this and eleemosynary that—he had left all such talk behind in the hotel’s lobby. It was just a fancy word for charitable. It did not apply to the Society for the Support of the Classics, since the group aided no persons in actual need. Yet “eleemosynary” was always on the lips of Caedmon Truescott, silver-haired czar of the Society. For Caedmon Truescott nothing was more important than virtue.
Wayne, having no agenda outside the hotel, drifted with the traffic toward Boston Common. The Society would applaud when he ousted Truescott as chairman of the executive committee. He could hardly wait. Maybe it would happen in tonight’s plenary session.
Truescott’s prime asset was Charmayne, his second wife, young and blonde. Charmayne, always at Caedmon’s side, bedazzled everyone. Wayne could not place Charmayne in the same thought with Mavis, his own stalwart wife of four decades. Give Mavis her due: She studied Greek and Latin to read Homer and Ovid in the original, something none of the other well-heeled classicists of the Society could claim. But Mavis was no Charmayne.
The white spire of Park Street Church loomed ahead. Wayne belatedly realized he had walked past Boston Common barely registering its huge green presence. Well, he would start paying attention, now that he was downtown.
“Not a care in the world.” A voice pierced the babble of passersby. Wayne turned his head. A man in the shadow of the church stared straight at him. “Fat and happy, aren’t you? Probably from out of town, you have that stargazing look.”
Wayne halted. “Are you talking to me?”
The man was young and shaggy, his clothing foul. The man’s dark skin challenged Wayne as much as his words. “Bet you never missed a meal in your life.”
“I don’t suppose I ever have. No apologies. I work for a living.”
The man smiled. “As would I, my friend, if I could.”
“What do you want?”
The eyes looked down, then up. “The price of a meal would help—not just for me, for my wife, too.”
Wayne looked around, saw no woman nearby.
The beggar scowled. “You think I’m a liar?”
“No. I just—” Wayne pulled out his wallet. “Here.” He handed the man all his cash. He did not know how much he was carrying. It did not matter.
The man glanced at the bills, shoved them in a pocket. He looked at Wayne appraisingly. “The Bible says, ‘If a man takes your coat, give him your cloak also.’”
Wayne’s jaw dropped open. “You want my coat, too?” People hurried by, stepping around him and the young beggar.
The beggar’s eyed glittered as if enjoying a rare bit of sport. “Do I look like I have a coat, brother?”
Wayne sighed. He took off his suit coat—two hundred at Men’s Wearhouse? But did it matter?—and handed it to the beggar.
“Thanks, man.” Accepting the gift with his left hand, the beggar swung a roundhouse right and connected with Wayne’s nose.
A brief spasm of pain. The man sprinted away, carrying Wayne’s coat, dashing into the street between cars and vanishing into a warren of buildings on the other side.
Wayne’s world spun. He breathed heavily.
Where was he? Why had the man punched him?
He felt hands on his shoulder.
“Oh, my God, that man’s crazy. What did he do? Are you all right?” A middle-aged woman with a creased face stared into his eyes.
“I . . . it’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. Look here, you’re bleeding.” She squirreled into her shoulder bag, brought out a wad of Kleenex, and shoved them under his nose. “I’ve seen him before. He’s not right.”
He took the Kleenex from her hand. Bright red stains. He dropped the Kleenex on the sidewalk, fished out his pocket handkerchief, and held it on his nose.
“Look, it’s down your shirt.”
“It’ll wash. It’s no trouble.”
“That man got away with your coat.”
Wayne felt cornered. “Maybe he needed it more than me.”
“Nonsense. You should call a cop.” She looked up and down the street. “Where are they when you need them?”
Spectators formed a knot around Wayne and the aggrieved woman.
“Listen, “ Wayne said, “it’s no trouble. I’ll just go to my hotel, the . . . Hilton Something . . . it’s right up here.” He parted the onlookers and walked away, past the church, toward the tall buildings beyond.
“Well, I never,” said the woman, her voice fading behind him.
He only had to get back to the . . . place. The place where Mavis was. Hotel. Yes.
The Hilton Something. No, no, not Hilton. But something of the sort.
He thought as he walked: he had been in Cincinatti before, surely he could find his way back. No, not Cincinnati.
There was green on his left. He went through an arch and found himself in a shaded garden. No, not a garden. There were tombstones. Old tombstones—thin, dark tablets with names incised in square letters. Here was a big white one: PAUL REVERE. Imagine that.
He left the cemetery and continued, up and down city streets. One block, then another.
The place he was looking for must be close by. Maybe it was just beyond the next block. With tall buildings intervening, it was hard to see your way.
Bystanders stared at Wayne. What was there to stare at? A cop directing traffic in the middle of an intersection gave him the fish eye as he limped by.
The sun angled sideways. It threw long, blue shadows between buildings.
Wayne wearied. He started to fear that he would never find his way.
He almost gave up hope. Then it was right in front of him: The Hilton. No, not the Hilton. Something else. Back Bay something, the sign said. But it was the right place. He remembered the wide, revolving door.
He marched carefully to stay ahead of the door. Then he was inside.
He looked around. Some people in the lobby were familiar. One man gave him a little one-handed salute. Wayne knew him well but couldn’t think of a name. He waved back, smiled weakly.
What now? Find Mavis.
Where would she be?
A key. He needed a key. In his wallet. He remembered putting it in his pants pocket after the gypsies made off with his coat. Gypsies? Whatever.
It was there. Good. He pulled out the wallet, opened it, and found the key card. The back of the card had the hotel’s name and a pattern of diamonds.
No room number. Of course. They didn’t do that anymore.
He was stumped.
A young woman in a powder-blue coat eyed him from the front desk.
Of course!
He walked over to the counter. “Can you help me? I have this key, but I can’t seem to remember my room number.”
She smiled, her white teeth setting off her smooth chocolate skin. “Happens all the time. I can help you.”
He almost burst into tears. She could help him.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Wayne. Wayne Purvis. Mister and Missus.”
“You’re booked in here with Missus Purvis?”
Wayne nodded.
She studied a screen. “Here it is.” She smiled again. “I’ll just need to see some ID.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
Wayne pulled his driver’s license out of the wallet and handed it over.
The young woman looked at the license, then at him. She frowned. Squinted at the license, then squinted at Wayne’s face. She bit her lip.
“Very good,” she said. “It’s you, all right. Looks like you met with some mishap?” She did the thing with her eyebrows again.
“That’s why I want to get back to my room.”
The young woman studied him another moment. Then she wrote something on a slip of paper. “Eleven twenty-three. You can take the elevators over there.” She handed him the paper and pointed across the lobby.
“Thank you.”
Wayne saw Mavis.
“Wayne!” She rushed to him. “We’ve been looking all over for you. What’s happened?” She gawked at his appearance.
“I met somebody.”
“I guess so.” She looked dismayed, then threw her puffy arms around him. It felt good.
“I’ll explain” he said. “Can we just, just go to our house, first?”
“In Chippewa Falls? Wayne, this is Boston.”
“Yeah, yeah, I mean . . . our room. Go to our room.”
“Of course, darling. That’s a good idea.”
Over her shoulder, across the lobby, that silver-haired guy looked on.
Caedmon Truescott.
Wayne saw the dour look on Truescott’s face and knew that this moment was the end of his dream to unseat Truescott and become chairman of the . . . the Classical something or other.
Well, let him stare, thought Wayne as Mavis steered him to the elevator.
It was good to be home.
The End
How could this story have been better? Give the author feedback by entering a comment in the LEAVE A REPLY box.
Larry F. Sommers
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
Below is the first draft of a story. You can help make it better by commenting on what you liked or what you didn’t. Feel free to make suggestions. How could the story be better?
#
MOM BROUGHT UNCLE MAX HOME FROM THE STATION.
He stepped through the front door, looked around, smiled at me and Dad. He seemed less tall than I remembered, hunched forward a little, with the collar of his overcoat turned up against the cold. The forelock of dark hair pointed down to his eyes, which nested among dark lines and baggy skin I had not seen before.
“Hello, Bob.” He dropped his kit bag on the floor and stuck out a hand.
Dad shook it. “Nice to see you, Max.”
I rushed forward. “Hi, Uncle Max.”
“Hello, kid.” It was like a slap in the face. I had been about to hug him.
Mom pushed from behind. “Don’t just stand here letting the cold air in. Come on, out of the way. Shoo, shoo.”
Dad, Uncle Max, and I made way for the boss. She closed the front door, took off her coat, and started fussing over her kid brother. “You’ll have to wait to hear the latest adventures. He’s tired from his trip, aren’t you, Max?”
He gave her a grateful look. “Tired,” he said.
She took him to the guest room.
#
Later, at supper, Uncle Max talked. Not his usual line of chatter about hunting and fishing, wrangling horses or exploring the Australian outback. No long recollections of the time he worked his way across the Atlantic on a cattle boat, or the sharpshooting competition he won. Still, he was more like his usual self. Better rested, anyhow. “That’s great meat loaf, Doris. You can’t get chow like that out in the boondocks, where I’ve been.”
“Then you might honor the cook by eating more than one or two bites.”
“So, Max,” said Dad. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Oh . . . I’m kind of in between things right now.” He shook a Camel out of its pack.
“Not in here, you don’t,” said Mom. “No smoking in my house.”
Max frowned. Not guilt or even shame, but of frustration.
He smiled, slid the cigarette back down, and returned the pack to his pocket. “Sorry, Sis. I forgot. I s’pose you’re teetotalers, too.”
Mom said nothing.
Dad handed Max a bowl of mixed nuts from the buffet. “You were saying, ‘in between things’?”
Max took a couple of walnuts. “Air transport business isn’t what it used to be.” He pulled the little chrome nutcracker out of the bowl and besieged a walnut.
“You’re no longer with Clancy?”
“All this globe-trotting. Grain for starving villagers, Kalashnikovs for mercenaries. No good for a man. I’ve been thinking about settling down.” He fumbled the nutcracker. Mom snatched it from his hands and cracked the nut for him.
Uncle Max laughed. “Thank you, Dorrie. You always had a way with hand tools.” He looked over at Dad. “I’ve got a job out west. Chance to settle down in a nice part of the country.”
“Ahh?” said Dad.
“Working for an FBO.”
Mom squinted. “FBO?”
“Fixed base operator. I’ll be the manager of ground operations.”
Dad raised his eyebrows. Mom scratched her chin.
“Course, it doesn’t pay near what I’ve been making, but the cost of living’s cheap out there, and there’s lots of fish and game.”
“Sounds like an opportunity to me,” Mom said. “What kind of work is it?”
“Like running a filling station for airplanes.” He gave a snarky grin, the first time since he walked in the door that I recognized my uncle. “Hello, Mister Pilot, Sir. Top her up with jet fuel? Can I check your oil? Rotate your tires? Rent you a little hangar space?” He looked at me and winked like he was letting me in on a joke. Just Uncle Max and me, like the old days.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” said Mom. “Good honest work, in one place.”
Max got the other nut loose by himself. “You understand, I’d be the executive in charge of the service operation. We got other guys for grease monkeys.”
“Of course,” said Dad, nodding wisely as if accountants automatically knew all about airport operations.
#
After supper, Uncle Max put on his coat and took his pack of cigarettes to the backyard. I grabbed my parka and followed him.
He sat balanced on the edge of our snow-covered picnic table. “Jim, boy! You’re a sight for sore eyes. How are things in school?” A wisp of smoke rose from the glowing tip of his Camel.
“Uh . . . okay, I guess.”
“Those girls gettin’ after you?” He sniggered like there was some deep male knowledge between us. There wasn’t, at least on my part, but this at least was the Uncle Max I knew.
“Not half the problem for me as they are for you,” I said. This was nothing but sass. Since he was the only one in our family to be married and divorced three times, I figured I could get away with saying it.
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “Don’t let them get the better of you. That was always my problem. They get you where they want you, then you gotta cut them loose. And you pay.”
This was too deep for me. I looked at my feet. “Tell me about your new job.”
He threw his cig on the ground and lit a new one immediately. “Nothing to tell, really. Guy I know from the war runs the whole operation—Grand Tetons Aviation. Said I could work for him.”
“How long will you be staying here with us?”
“I got a week before I have to report out there. Tell you the truth, it’ll be like boot camp for me.”
“Boot camp?”
“You know your mom. She went through my bag and confiscated my nice silver flask. Don’t matter, it was empty anyhow.”
Could I picture Mom putting Uncle Max through such humiliation? Sure I could.
“It’s okay,” said Uncle Max. “I’ve been through boot camp before.”
#
We all accompanied him to the station. He stepped onto the platform to meet the train, a different man from the one who had slinked in the door a week before.
He was all jaunty fedora and shiny new wingtips, and everything in between had been remodeled. Mom had taken him downtown on a shopping expedition Wednesday. Under his new tan trench coat he wore a gray suit and striped tie. His bulky aviator’s watch had been replaced by a slim gold Bulova with a matching expansion band.
Even the comma of greasy-looking hair was gone, the lines and eyebags banished as if they had been massaged away. Maybe he had gained a few pounds.
He set down his brownSamsonite suitcase, yanked the leather glove off his right fist, and shook my fourteen-year-old hand just like I was a grown man. “So long, Jim. Come on out and see me. I’ll take a few days off and we’ll go bag ourselves one of those bighorn sheep on a mountaintop.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
He shook Dad’s hand likewise, then turned to Mom. “Thank you, Dorrie, for all the good food. And, well, for everything.” He leaned in to hug her.
“Just go make that airport hum. Make us all proud.”
“Airports don’t hum, Sis. They buzz.” He looked embarrassed at the lame joke. “But yes. I will, Sis. I will.”
I wondered who had paid for all this new clothing and luggage, his fresh haircut and nice-smelling cologne—him, or Mom? At no time in the past week had Uncle Max taken us all out for a big restaurant dinner, as on past occasions. He always enjoyed putting on a show and being extravagant, if he could.
Then the train came. Uncle Max stepped up into a gleaming car and was on his way to Wyoming.
#
A few years later, after he was well settled, we paid him a visit. It would turn out to be the last time I saw him.
He had married a fourth time, to Ruthie, a woman who looked like a better match than his other wives had been.
He showed me the camping and sporting gear he had collected: hunting rifles, fishing rods and reels, nifty little tents and camp stoves and backpacks. It was great equipment and well used. But he did not take me out in the wilds to hunt or fish with him.
“Sorry, Jim,” he said. “I’ve just got too much work to do at the airport.”
“That’s all right, Uncle Max.” By that time, I had other things on my mind, anyway.
He looked over at Mom. “Always remember how important your family is, Jim. Someday you’ll need them, and they’ll come through for you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Mom’s boot camp must have been a success.
He died a year or two later, from too much hard living, and left Ruthie a nice house and a modest pension.
The End
How could this story have been better? Give the author feedback by entering a comment in the LEAVE A REPLY box.
Larry F. Sommers
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
Below is the first draft of a story. You can help make it better by commenting on what you liked or what you didn’t. Feel free to make suggestions. How could the story be better?
§
AN OLD MAN NAMED CARL SAT ON HIS PORCH, idly carving on a piece of wood. Nothing had come to him.
He studied the dog at his feet, Chief, who lay across the top step of the porch and snored peacefully. Chief was one of those fire-company dogs, white with black spots now gone gray. “Sleep well, old damnation. Reckon you got it coming to you.”
Carl’s gaze leapt to the pickup truck that stood by the road, dwarfed by tall trees on either side. He could not recall what color it had been, but it was nothing like that color now. Except where rust showed, it was muddy gray, not much to look at. But it still got Carl down to the store for supplies and back up the mountain as soon as he had filled his order. He knew the town people watched him, scratched their heads, and probably thought him a crazy old coot. But he couldn’t help that. Nothing could help.
He sighed. He had carved Chief plenty of times, in all positions, and the pickup more than once. Maybe he should whittle out one of those fairy tale princesses. He used to carve them for Celia, who was partial to them, but had not done one in years. He shook off the shreds from his aimless whittling and took a new interest in the wood. Where in this block of pine would he find a princess? He saw a line and pressed the tiny blade where he wanted it to cleave.
“Hiya!” said a young, chipper voice. “Whatcha doin’?”
Carl looked up and saw a boy, standing a few respectful feet from the bottom of the steps. He stood fearless, looking up at Carl with eyes that pierced his heart.
Chief raised his up ear but showed no other interest. He knew about boys.
“Just whittlin’, I reckon,” Carl said. He looked the lad over—six or seven years old, wearing a red shirt and blue shorts. “Where’d you come from?”
“From home.”
“I mean, how d’ye come to be here, right now?”
“Walked.” He marched around in a circle, showing how.
Carl pressed his lips together. When did kids get to be so sassy?
“We’re renting a cabin. Down the road. Me and Mom and Dad. For two weeks. It’s a vuh-cation.”
Carl examined his carving. “Is that a fact?” He drew another stroke down the block of pine.
“Yessir. Can I pet your dog?”
“Why ask me? He’s the one you’re addressin’.”
The boy frowned in perplexity. “What’s his name?”
“Calls himself Chief.” Oughtn’t take too much off the lower end. Princesses need room for their full skirts.
“Chief. Hi, Chief.” The boy sidled ever so carefully toward the spraddled dog. Chief raised an eyelid. The boy placed placed a hand in front of his nose, which hung off the top step along with his downside lip. Chief sniffed the hand, then licked and yawned. Courtesy rendered, he resumed his nap.
“He’s a nice dog,” the boy said in a tone of awe.
“He’s a ball of energy today,” said Carl. “Not this perky when he’s tired.”
#
“Where’s Kit?” It came to Genie that she had not seen her son for—how many minutes? Too many, here in this wilderness. She stopped stuffing food into the cupboards and looked out the kitchen window. Seeing no boy, she looked plaintively at Gus. “I told him to stay close.”
“When did you ever know Kit to heed instructions?”
“Not yet.” She giggled nervously.
“Well, he’s only seven. Plenty of time yet for growing up.”
“If a bear doesn’t eat him first.” She shuddered.
Gus sighed. “Relax. I’ll go find him.” He strode out the door, down the steps, and out toward the gravel road that wound past the cabin.
Genie felt mildly reassured. If Gus was not concerned, why should she be? He knew the woods better than she. Where did all that confidence come from? She longed to explore that, but all her experience told her to tread carefully.
When they were dating—he first asked her out across the circulation desk at the library—he had been a handsome, impertinent young man. “Who are you?” she had asked. “Call me Gus,” he replied. “Now how about that movie?” She had countered, “I still don’t know who you are.” He spread his arms, offering himself for inspection. “I am a humble design engineer.” She looked at him quizzically. “And you want to see Pride and Prejudice?” He feigned confusion. “Something wrong with Jane Austen?” She knit her brows and questioned herself inwardly. “I guess my first thought was, for an engineer, you have a taste for the finer things.” He smiled from ear to ear. “That’s why it’s you I’m asking out, Marian.” “It’s not Marian, it’s Genie. And it’s a date.”
At dinner, after the show, Gus had chatted amiably about Elizabeth Bennet and Mister Darcy, measuring the film against fine points of the book—another shock to Genie’s system. But when she asked anything about his background—his youth, where he grew up, were he went to high school, he clammed up. He shunned all her questions in the nicest way, referring her to his employer, a design-build construction company, who he said would vouch for his honesty.
While falling in love with him, she assumed he would someday share his personal story. But now, eight years and one son later, she still knew nothing of his life before they met. Something had wounded him terribly, and he had walled it off.
She was hurt that he would not share. All in good time, she thought, as always.
Gus was gone a long time in search of Kit, and she began to worry. Then she saw him coming up the path from the road. Alone, but not upset. That could mean anything.
She ran out on the cabin porch to meet him. “Yes? Tell me. Quick.”
“Relax.” He grinned. “There’s an old sawyer’s cabin a mile up the road. I thought that’s where he’d go.”
“Why did you think that?”
He shrugged. “Because that’s where the road leads. Anyway, I snuck up, hid in the road, screened by bushes, and saw him holding quite a parley with the old man and his dog.”
“Our first day here, and he’s out bothering the neighbors. But you didn’t you bring him home with you?”
“I wouldn’t say he was bothering the guy.”
“You said he’s a sawyer. Doesn’t he have work to do?”
Gus sighed. “Was a sawyer, years ago. Right now, it looks like he’s just a whittler. Probably hungry for any human contact.”
She squinted. “How do you know he was a sawyer?”
“Why else would anybody live up here? He doesn’t rent tourist cabins, I’ll tell you that. In fact, we were lucky to find this one.”
How deftly he changes the subject. “Speaking of which, what prompted us to come to this out-of-the way place for a vacation, anyhow?”
Gus frowned. “I, uh, found it in the paper.”
“It’s our first vacation ever. You know Kit would have been delighted with Disney World.”
“And he’ll be delighted with these woods, too. You wait and see.”
“I won’t feel good until he’s back in my view.”
“Well, here he comes now.” Gus pointed. “And all on his own. No coercion.”
Kit skipped in from the road, a smile on his face and an object in his hand. “Hi, Mom. This is for you.”
He gave her a small wood figurine, less than six inches tall. “It’s a fairy princess. He said you’d prob’ly like it.”
“Who said?”
“The old man up the road.”
“Does this old man have a name?”
Kit shrugged. “His dog’s name is Chief.”
“Aren’t you afraid of dogs?”
“No. I like ’em now.”
“How much money should I send back with you?”
Kit gave her a look of incomprehension.
“You know, to pay for this fairy princess.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t have to pay. He said it’s a gift.”
She stood perplexed.
Gus swatted her playfully with a dish towel. “There you go, Genie. One day in the woods and already the forest gnomes are giving you gifts. That wouldn’t happen in Orlando.”
#
When the lad showed up again the next day, Carl was working on a dog.
The boy’s eyes moved from the real dog reclining on the porch to the wooden dog in Carl’s hands. “Is it Chief?”
“I reckon it is. He’s the only dog I’ve got to model by.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re gonna say. The real Chief is just like a lumpy rug on the floor. Sometimes I wonder if he’s drawing breath. But this Chief I’m holding is standin’ up and rarin’ to go.”
“Yeah.”
The lump of basswood, on which the old man had worked all morning, had started to show a fair likeness to its original, except for posture. The flop of the ears and the hang of the dewlaps were dead on. Tiny striations from Carl’s blade gave the impression of Chief’s hairy coat, with even the dark spots suggested by minute cross-hatchings. The dog rose on his back legs, front paws flailing the air, as if leaping to snatch a treat from Carl’s hand.
“You see,” he told the boy, “this is how old Chief looked a few years ago, when he was a gay young dog.”
“Chief is gay?”
“Happy. Playful. That’s what I mean. Just like this.” He held the object for the boy’s admiration. Carl was proud of his work. He might be just an old buffoon in a cabin in the woods, but he knew a thing or two about beauty.
The boy, who had told Carl his name was Kit, asked, “How old is Chief?”
Carl scratched his chin, as he often did when ciphering. “Well, let’s see, it’s about fifteen years ago I got him, and he was just a wiggly puppy then.”
“Did you buy him at the pet store?”
Carl chuckled. “Oh, no. When you live in the right kind of place, people give you nice dogs like this for free.”
“For free!” Kit jumped up and down on the porch, causing Chief to turn back over his shoulder and protest.
“Let’s go inside a minute, and I’ll show you something.”
The boy followed Carl into the dim, cool cabin. Carl switched on a light. “Look at that.”
Kit’s eyes roamed the room. Every surface held carved figurines—in all woods, painted and unpainted, varnished and unvarnished, stained and unstained. They were in two or three subtly different styles, which the boy would not notice, but all bore the fine marks of Carl’s favorite tool, his simple, two-bladed jackknife. He had heard that there were knives especially made for woodcarving, but as long as he had a good, sharp pocketknife, what did it matter?
Kit roamed the room, looking at dozens of forms—deer and badgers, Chief, the pickup truck, miniature tree trunks of the species from which they were carved, even beetles and toads. He reached out to touch a magnificent stag, and Carl wanted to shout, “Don’t!”—but he bit his tongue. What did it matter? The boy might as well touch them.
Carl picked up an eight-inch carving of a strikingly attractive young woman in a simple dress, looking back over her shoulder. He showed it to the boy. “This was my wife, Celia. When she was young. I lost her before I found old Chief. He never had the chance to know her goodness.”
“How did you lose her?”
“She died.”
“Oh.” Kit’s eyes were big and round. Carl did not know whether the boy had any idea what death meant. Still less how quickly a fast-growing cancer could destroy a life.
Carl set the carving of Celia back down and picked up a smaller one, a little boy in cherry wood, an impish smile on his face. “It’s our boy, Otto. When he was little. He was fifteen when I lost him.”
“Did he die?”
“No, no. At least I haven’t heard if he did. No, I lost him by sending him away. I was bad to him.”
#
Gus wondered what he had gotten himself into, and how he would get himself out. And whether he wanted to get himself out.
“This is the forest primeval,” Genie said, spreading her arms as they hiked up the road.
“That sounds like a quote.”
“Longfellow. ‘Evangeline.’ ”
“If primeval means original, then Longfellow was talking about someplace else. This is all second-growth timber.” Gus stopped and gazed up at the canopy of trees. “Old second-growth.”
“And did you just happen to know that? Or are you an expert forester as well?”
He shrugged.
“Anyway,” she said. “It feels primeval.”
“Well, there may be something in that.” He grinned. “Lots of primeval feelings up here on this mountain.”
Genie sighed as they walked on. “Sometimes I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gus pointed to a bend in the road ahead. “Now hush up. Just beyond here is where the old man lives.”
“And we’re hushing up because?”
“Just take a look for yourself, and you can judge whether Kit’s in any danger from this old geezer.”
“More likely the other way around, I’d think.”
“Shh. Lower your voice.”
#
The planes of Otto’s face, caught in a large piece of cherry wood, revealed a smoldering anger. The anger became more focused as Carl worked. Clearly the anger was aimed at him, the carver. Accusatory woodcarving. Will wonders never cease.
He had begun work in the wee hours, unable to sleep. Now it was mid-morning. He whittled calmly but with weariness.
Chief and the boy watched in silence until, at last, Kit could not contain himself. “I thought you said this was the same boy.”
“It is.”
“But he doesn’t look the same.”
Carl met the boy’s eyes. “The one you saw yesterday—Otto was about your age. I’ve made lots of carvings like that. But I’ve never before carved Otto when he was fifteen.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I should have, but I didn’t.” Carl brushed a few crumbs of cherry off Otto’s face. “That’s why you think he looks different. He’s older.”
“But he’s not happy, like the other one.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. He’s not.” The boy nodded, frowning, and Carl wanted to explain. “Nothing can make him happy. That’s how he was at that age.”
“Why?”
“His mama passed away. I didn’t know how much that hurt him.”
“Why not?”
Carl sighed. “I was unhappy too. So I could only see my own grief. Not his. I’m afraid I beat him.”
“Beat him?” The boy’s eyes showed shock. “You mean . . . ?” His hands formed small fists and plowed into his own thigh as he sat there on the porch step.
Carl hung his head. Finally, he picked up the knife again and continued work on the anguished figurine of his son. “Anyway, that’s why he looks unhappy.”
“What happened after that?”
“He left home. I never heard from him again.”
Kit’s head whipped around at a sound.
Carl looked up.
A woman walked in from the road. “There you are! I found you, you little rascal.” A young woman. A city woman, he guessed. A bit noisy, but she couldn’t be all that bad, raising such a fine young son. “Sir, I’m sorry. I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
Carl set down his knife and the block of cherry and stood up. Now he could see the young man trailing behind the woman. He looked furtive, or embarrassed. As if he would like to reel her back in. “Genie,” he said.
“Mommy,” said Kit. “This is the man who gave you the princess.”
She smiled warmly into Carl’s eyes.
The young man came up even with her.
“Howdy, Ma’am,” said Carl. “Hello, Otto.”
“Hi, Pop.”
Her mouth dropped open and she stood there looking first at Carl, then at Otto.
Otto turned to face her. “Otto Augustus,” he said. “Named after my grandfather.”
Carl cast his eyes downward. “God rest his soul.”
Kit jumped up and down. “Dad’s name is Otto? Cool!”
Otto put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s a long story.”
They all stood a moment, letting their thoughts settle.
Chief scratched his ear listlessly.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” said Carl. “Come on up here, where I can get a good look at ye.”
The End
How could this story have been better? Give the author feedback by entering a comment in the LEAVE A REPLY box.
Larry F. Sommers
Author of Price of Passage—A Tale of Immigration and Liberation.
Price of Passage
Norwegian Farmers and Fugitive Slaves in Pre-Civil War Illinois
