Habeas Corpus, installment 6
Posted on December 10, 2007
Filed Under Habeas corpus |
Strep throat in the house, no school today. And thus, no writing.
Thank God I’ve got a novel to entertain you with.
Here’s more….
It was the first of many afternoons, his waiting for me to finish the lunch shift, our walking out together, far into the woods while he talked about the great novel he had come to Grafton to finish. He spoke occasionally of a wife named Bridgette, a Rhodes scholar and academic, teaching summer school at Yale. I imagined her as my opposite, an ashen haired beauty with fashion sense and heels, someone who wore designer denim and had dismissive things to say about girls who attended state universities and wore fleece.
James never defined the rules of their marriage but I imagined they were loose and radically liberal, considering our daily coupling. He spoke of emotional freedom and the outmoded nature of monogamy and began to pursue me in ways that were increasingly urgent and lascivious. He left small un-poetic notes that were dirty and directly sexual in the books he left for me on the lunch counter. Come to the cabin, 3:30 p.m.. I’m going to fuck you all afternoon . These little dribbles of correspondence grew frequent, simply slipped between the pages of his favorite prose.
“None of my business. I know it’s not. But Chad seems like a nice boy. Someone who should make you happy,” May Bowen said one morning while she counted the money in the register.
“Chad’s great. He is,” I mumbled, eyes down, concentrating on refilling the napkin dispenser.
As the owner of The Peavine, born and raised in Grafton and married to the same man for nearly fifty of her seventy years, May considers herself a sort of authority on the subject of intimacy.
“You know that the thing between you and Writer James is becoming something of a public curiosity,” she said. “Dependability and kindness. Can’t overstate the importance of those two traits. Separates good from bad. Seems like Chad’s sweet and head over heels for you. Hate to see you overlook that fact.”
“Do we have a new case of Ketchup in the back? I’ll marry the bottles,” I said, hoping to change the subject.
“You’ve got no business marrying anything,” she’d said laughing and tossing me an apron. “Why don’t you get started on Mr. Bowen’s breakfast. He’ll be walking in the door any second.”
“Two eggs, over easy,” I ask.
“Yup, over easy. Should come natural to you,” she said, not unkindly.
Though she meant well, her words needled . I’d been meaning to cut it off but then James began to invite me to dinner at the cottage he rented out behind Harvey’s farm. He’d spread a paisley print tapestry on the living room floor and serve meals of sugar snap peas and roasted pheasant. He would load the CD player with Dvorak, Orff and Bach when all I was used to was bands called Fat Buttercat and Big Head Todd. He’d pour us goblets of Pinot Grigio he’d bought by the case in New Haven. He gave me poems he wrote for me. He made gifts of hardcover books by Melville and Fitzgerald and Austen and a leather bound journal with Indian scroll work on the cover.
One chilly night, after he removed my t-shirt and my bra and peeled me out of my shorts, he slipped a tiny, green velvet box into the waistband of my panties. He removed the panties with his teeth and slid the box up my stomach to rest in the crease between my breasts.
“Open it,” he ordered and I began to sweat a little despite the breeze that blew in through the open windows, making the candles sputter and throw our shadows in shifting shapes on the living room wall.
I was nervous, fumbling with the itty bitty box, never having received anything in such a promisingly sized package. There were diamond studs, each a half-carat. He placed them in my ears, securing the backs carefully. He tossed the turquoise tear drops I’d been wearing into the full ashtray on the coffee table and I stood there naked before him save for the first expensive jewelry of my life.
“I don’t want you to think I’m not thankful. That I don’t love them. I do. But I’m going to have to keep the turquoise. Chad gave them to me for my birthday. He’ll notice they’re missing,” I said, removing the earrings from the ashes and blowing them clean.
“That’s right, I forgot. Mountain man’s coming back for a few days. Wear the diamonds. See if he notices the replacement,” James said running his tongue along the lobe of my right ear, sucking on the faceted, shimmering emerald cut gem he’d secured there.
So I placed the turquoise tear drops in my bedside table drawer and wore the diamonds that weekend. I guess I was daring Chad to see me… really, really see me. There was no outrageous confrontation. No admission of guilt or discussions of disloyalty. He didn’t even notice the sparkle and weight of them, the cold cut of betrayal in my ears.
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9 Responses to “Habeas Corpus, installment 6”
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‘the itty bitty box, never having received anything in such a promisingly sized package.’
i don’t know why, but this line is so impressive.
i love this story.
i wish i had the whole thing.
Wow. You know I’m impressed. I’m beginning to feel like the parrot over your shoulder as you type. “Brilliant. Awk! Your prose makes us feel like we’re sitting at a stool in the diner. Awk!” I love the fact that you don’t immediately give your character away, letting her unfold as the story does.
I do have one question. What’s with Chad? We don’t know much about him and what is missing with that relationship (unless it’s just Chad himself).
I’m almost tempted to wait until the novel comes out and gallop through this instead of stopping at toll booths every 8 paragraphs. And, to put words in Chesca’s mouth, if we don’t get a coffee date when you hit our cities for the book signing, we’ll lie and tell everyone that we’ve seen better writing in crayon.
damn, woman. i hung on every word.
Thanks y’all for hanging in there and reading this in snip-its!
Ron,
I know Chad’s a bit undeveloped but his major problem as a character is, as you said, his absence during this time in her life. He’s also meant to be somewhat uninteresting, unable to capture and keep her attention, boyish and sporty and immature in ways that are typical of a person of their age and place in life. I need to work on this, maybe insert a bit of dialog that brings this point home without hitting the reader over the head with it. I was hoping it was there but I’m glad you’ve pointed out it’s not!
If I ever get the courage to send this to an editor or agent and by some stroke of luck it gets picked up, I will hand deliver a signed copy to all of you who have supported me here! That’s a promise.
Hand delivered signed copies it is! (And your kids would love San Diego.)
The dialogue could be simple. Chad enthusiastically talking about Chad, juxtaposed with James talking to our heroine about our heroine. What more would you need?
Yes, Ron, though I’ve written it so that Claire doesn’t love Chad simply because Chad loves her too much in his dopey, school boyish sort of way. There’s nothing more unattractive to a girl than a man who is too into her. That’s complicated dialog but I’ll work on it.
Ugh. You reached inside my chest, wrapped your fingers around my heart and squeezed. My earrings are tiny little diamonds.
Oh. I had so hoped to feel superior to Chad, but alas, the poor chap shares what I can only surmise is a long list of my own blind spots and flaws.
“the cold cut of betrayal in my ears.”
this is good stuff, cce. good stuff.