Dabbles From the Mind Of ...

The Center of Everything, part deux

2006-08-31T15:08:00.000-07:00

Author's Notes: Chapter One. Gump.

Chapter One- Exodus

The first day of summer dawns slowly. I watch the pink sun stretch up towards the morning clouds, pudgy hands outstretched and flexing as she mounts the sky. Orange light spills through the window and onto the floor, pooling around my feet and gently lapping at my ankles.

I wrap my hand around my warm coffee mug, the smell twisting upwards and filling my nose. I’ve never actually liked coffee, but I drink it in the mornings anyway – there is something about the smell, the weight, and the maturity of it that I’ve always loved. The caffeine doesn’t hurt, either.

The flight isn’t until noon, but I’ve never been able to sleep in passed six o’clock or so. Everyone else in my family is a night owl, but I’ve been a morning person since before I can remember. I’ll be on my own for most of the morning.

My luggage is stacked by the doorway. The two duffels bulge to the point of breaking; the zipper on the second one is just barely clinging to its tracks. I wonder what it’s like on the inside, crammed so close together that the different articles of clothing tangle. I imagine the colors mixing until everything becomes a big, tie-dyed rainbow of cloth.

It’s a poetic notion.

I turn back to the window, listening for the quiet rumble of the taxi that’s coming to take me away. And sure enough, there it is – bubbling over the gravel in the driveway and creeping through the storm glass, the gentle chug-chug-chug of freedom.

Even before the cabby can get out of his seat I’m outside, dragging duffels and hefting them into the trunk. Wordlessly, I slip into the back seat and shrug my backpack from my shoulder. “Thank you for getting here so quickly,” I tell him, sifting through my wallet. “The bus station, please.”

He nods at me, shifting gears and slowly pulling away from the white-and-blue house. I resist the urge to turn and watch it disappear to the trees and bushes, focusing instead on the rough leather of my wallet and the small fabric that protrudes from the pocket meant for change. It’s a square cut from our old couch – the couch that I was born on.

Dad got rid of it the month after my mother died. I guess he didn’t want to be reminded every time he sat down to watch football.

With that, there’s no fighting it. I twist to look out the back window. The leather of the seatbelt rubs into my chest as I breathe, deep, unsteady breaths that give away the fear and sadness in my stomach. “Goodbye,” I whisper, suddenly feeling sorry that I hadn’t left a proper note, a note that said I love you and I’m sorry. I wish I’d left sandwiches in the refrigerator and I wish that I’d brought more than just one picture, of the four of us, standing in front of the new house and smiling because Mom had just died and we were all sick of the tears.

***

The plane is smelly and crowded, and I press my nose against the windowpane, imagining that I am inside my duffel and not an airplane full of strangers. I feel shirts pressing against my arms and a dress wrapping around my legs. I lift my knees to my chest and draw comfort from the dark, cramped space. The soft leather that is all around, like a pair of worn arms wrapping around my whole body.

I’ve never understood why anyone would be claustrophobic. In my opinion, the smaller the space, the wider the haven. When I was seven, the year that my mother died, I would crawl between the seats of my Dad’s old Volvo and then stretch, my legs and arms pressing against the back and front of the two seats, confined in that tiny area and unable to move. Everything was so simple in that space; it was me and the soft leather seating and most of all the ancient, family smells, twisting together and warming me from the inside out. There isn’t any room for anything else in boxes and duffel bags and that spot in my Dad’s old car. Just me and the simplicity of darkness.

“What’s waiting for you in Virginia?”

It is the old man sitting next to me, his dentures popping out of his mouth every time he speaks. He calmly reaches between his feet, dusts off the plastic, and pops them back in. “Uhm,” I answer, trying my very hardest not to be revolted, “Family.”

He nods, scratching his sideburns. “Ain’t it always? Seems t’me like everyone is too spread out these days. It’s gotten to be that a daughter lives on the other side of the world and I never even get to see my own grandkids!”

I smile sympathetically at him, hoping to God that he doesn’t get any sort of disease from the grime that’s accumulating on his fake teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him, twisting in my seat so that I can look at him straight on. “So is that who you’re going to visit?”

The old man laughs, spitting out his dentures in the process. “Me?” He asks, giving up hope and tucking them into his pockets. “Sure thing.” He pauses. “Well – her and the corn.” He grins over at me, the grody dentures poking out over his guns. “There’s nothing like good, Virginia corn.” He turns eagerly to me, his eyes gleaming, “Think of it. A steaming hot ear, the juices, the salt and the butter … Mmmm-doggy!” I try not to laugh, because you should never laugh at someone you don’t know. But the old man is just beaming, his eyes glazed as he thinks of it, the soft, juicy, bright ear of steaming corn. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about food. At home, we sort of just eat whatever’s in the cupboard (usually junk food and sandwiches).

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him, settling my head against the seat. He smiles over at me, picking grime from between the plastic teeth. He is quiet for a few moments before drifting off to sleep, his chest rising steadily. I study him, his face. It’s soft, wrinkles lapping like waves over themselves and his skin. His bushy white eyebrows spike in all directions and the grizzle beneath his mouth is nothing more than prickles. He’s ugly, I decide. The ugliest person I’ve ever seen.

I wonder, does his wife find him attractive? My mother once told me that you can’t always love yourself, so you’ve just got to find someone to love it for you. Is that Mrs. Disease-Ridden Dentures? Or his daughter? Or maybe he’s alone, maybe he’s the member of the family that no one really likes, not even his children. Maybe, since he can’t love them, his love manifests itself in food, in perfect corn dipped in butter and salt.

Butter and salt. It’s a funny combination – sweet and sour. And yet so unbelievably tasty. I think a lot of things in life are like that. I think that’s what makes it interesting.

***

The house is huge, comparatively speaking. All the houses in our neighborhood are smaller, opting instead for the most amount of yard space. Dad thought that it would be a good idea, so that the four of us could play outside instead of attaching to the computer or T.V. all day.

My hand hovers over the large green door, my knuckles brushing the loose paint. I can feel the painful pressure of the duffel tugging downwards on my shoulder, and my fingers ache from clutching it so tightly. The porch bends beneath my weight and I imagine myself falling through, into the blackness under the house, to lie with the snakes and the worms.

I knock. Once, twice, three times. There’s no sound behind the heavy wood so I knock again, my heart suddenly in my throat. What if she doesn’t like me? What if this is the wrong address? What if she’s some sort of communist Nazi who will throw me into a cell beneath the bathroom?

I step away from the door, overpowered suddenly by the thought of my mother here, swinging on the tire that dangles from a large oak tree, or sneaking out of her window, or riding her bike along the gravel. I can almost imagine her leaving here, her eyes filled with tears, and hugging her mother goodbye as Dad waited in the car, impatiently honking the horn.

“Delia?” My head snaps up at the quiet voice and I behold the sight of my grandmother. She’s tall and bulky – not fat, though, just strong. Her jeans are about as high-waisted as they come, her white button-up shirt tucked inside. She’s the picture of a farm woman, her hands callused and her hair pulled back tightly away from her face.

“Yeah,” I manage, looking down at my feet. “It’s nice to finally meet you … ” I trail off, unsure of what to say. Gran? Grandmother? Mrs. Walker?

“Call me Sal,” she orders, ushering me inside. “Everyone else does.” I smile, liking the name. Sal. It suits her. She grabs the duffel that I wasn’t holding and tosses it lightly into the house, shutting the large door behind us. “Drop your stuff off here – Earl and I were about to have lunch.”

I stare at her as the bag drops from my hand and relief floods up my throbbing arm. “Earl?” I ask. “Is he my – ?”

Sal laughs as I follow her into the kitchen. “Not at all. Harold – that’s your grandfather – died years ago. Earl Edwards helps out around here, along with his nephew, Sam.” I nod, feeling a small sense of loss at Harold’s passing. A part of my mother that I’ll never get to know. Just another section of her that’s rotting beneath a path of grass.

The large kitchen is equipped with a small table, and an older man – I’d guess in his fifties – is relaxed in one of the chairs. “Sal, old girl,” he says cheerfully, standing as we enter the room, “Who’s this young gem, eh?”

I blush, tucking a strand of hair behind my hear and dipping my hands into my back pockets. “Earl, this is my granddaughter Delia,” she introduces from the cupboard, where she’s grabbing me a plate. I don’t tell her that I ate on the plane. “She’s here for a while this summer.”

Earl shakes my hand, his grip strong and comfortable. “Now, how could you have kept a girl like this a secret?” He exclaims. I stiffen, but Sal just smiles at me, tossing a wink in my direction.

“To keep her safe from creepy old men like you,” she quips cheerfully, much to Earl’s delight. He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling as he lowers himself back into his chair. “Have a sit, Delia. Would you like some salad?”

I take a seat beside her and offer my plate. She piles the blend of lettuce, croutons, and cheese onto the plastic, the soft purple flowers disappearing beneath the mountain of food. “I need to fatten you up, doll,” she exclaims, eying me with a sigh. “Just like your mother – thinner than rolled cigarette.”

I blink at her, unsure if that was a compliment or not. Earl laughs, noting my confusion as he shovels a forkful of lettuce into his mouth. “Ignore her, Delia. You’re grandmother’s just jealous because she’s still rounder ’n a ripe blueberry.”

Sal makes a face at him. “D’you want to lose your job, old man?” It’s fascinating, to watch them talk to one another. I sit quietly, idly picking at my lunch, content just to listen to the two of them banter back and forth over the flowers in the middle of the table. It’s foreign to me – no one talks like this at home. There’s no middle ground between arguing and getting along – and yet they’re doing both at the same time.

“Have another bite, Sal. An old lady like you needs to keep her strength up.”

“You’re catching up, old man. How old are you now? Fifty-nine? And when’s your birthday?”

“Next month, but I’m still sprightly as a spring chicken.”

“Before or after it’s cooked?” I smile, looking down at my lap. There’s something strange about this house – no, not strange. Strange indicates that it’s bad, but it’s not. It’s just … different, from home. It’s … lived in.

It’s comfortable. Things at home aren’t like that – everything this always in its place, except maybe in Jake and Jonas’ room, and there’s no such thing as the “family room”. This house is different. This house has memory, and every crevice in every wall has a story. I can almost hear my mother’s laughter, can see her sitting at this table and eagerly bantering with Sal and Earl, or maybe even my grandfather. Maybe she used this fork, maybe she used my glass. Maybe this plate was her special plate.

I guess I should explain why I’ve never met my grandmother before this. I can’t, really. I don’t exactly know what happened, except that Sal never really got on with my father and when Dad and Mom got married, they sort of … drifted apart. Dad once told me that we used to come here for a week every summer when I was younger, but I don’t remember it. There’s nothing familiar here, but the taste of my mother is everywhere – faint and vague, but present.

In my pocket, I feel my cell phone start to vibrate. I tug it loose from the fabric and check the Caller ID – speak of the devil. “It’s my Dad,” I explain, excusing myself and trying to pretend that I didn’t notice Sal’s eyes narrow. I drift into the bathroom and shut the door tightly, locking out the sounds of Sal and Earl whispering in the kitchen.

I take a deep breath as I flip it open. “Hello?”

“Delia?” His voice is frantic and the word spills from his mouth all crooked and tangled.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.” I try to sound calm, but his panic is starting to make me nervous, and I pace back and forth across the floor, from the toilet to the sink.

“Where are you, young lady? What did you think you were doing, just disappearing like that? I didn’t know where you were, I’ve been worried out of my mind all morning looking for you – I thought you had been kidnapped or worse – ” His words come at me with alarming speed and I feel myself starting to get frantic, my knees going weak. But I keep walking, shutting my eyes and taking deep breaths, counting slowly to four over, and over, and over … it’s comforting to get all the way and then loop back to the beginning. Sometimes I count up and then down and then up, like a musical scale. One, two, three, four, four, three, two, one, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four … It’s a trick my mother taught me when I was really little. She said it was what she used to do.

“Dad, I’m okay,” I interrupt, my voice squeaking as I speak. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry that I worried you but I knew that if I asked – ”

“Where are you, Delia?”

I take several deep breaths, waiting for a moment until we’ve both calmed down a little. “I’m at Sal’s,” I tell him. “Don’t get mad. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. “Sal’s?” He asks. “Is that a friend from school?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “No,” I tell him. “No, not from school. I’m at – I’m at Sal Walker’s, Dad.”

Another pause, and when he speaks he’s very calm, which is comforting. “Sal Walker’s. You ran away to your grandmother’s house.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I tell him. “I’m going to be here for a while. Sal and I planned for ten weeks or so.”

He splutters on the other end of the phone. “Ten weeks? Are you crazy? No, I’m coming to get you.”

I shake my head frantically, feeling panic settle in again – my own, this time. “No, Dad, please,” I clutch the phone to my ear. “Don’t. Please.”

He sighs heavily on the other end. “Why, Delia? Why did you go there, of all places? Why did you go anywhere at all?”

I don’t know what to tell him, because I don’t know the answer myself, really. I can’t tell him that I woke up one morning and couldn’t stand to be in the house for another second. He just wouldn’t understand. “I came because it’s Mom’s old house,” I say finally, uncomfortable with the lie. “And – I want to get to know my grandmother. Sal.”

He doesn’t speak for a long time. “I want to speak with your grandmother.”

“Dad – ”

“Delia, let me speak to her.”

I unlock the bathroom door, pacing slowly toward the kitchen. I don’t want them to talk, but I can’t explain why. I just don’t want those worlds to clash – my world, my real world, and this new one that I’ve invaded. Sal and Earl stop speaking when I enter, and she wordlessly holds out her hand for the phone. I place it contritely in her palm, sorry that I lied to her, that I told her Dad knew about the trip.

“Jacob?” I can’t hear what’s being said, but I don’t really care. I already know what’s going to happen. Dad will convince her to make me go home. He’ll pick me up and he’ll yell at me and then I’ll go to my room and unpack and everything will be the same for the rest of my life. “No,” she says into the phone. “Of course I didn’t, Jacob, what sort of a person do you take me for? I understand that, but the mere fact that she’s here … what? That seems fair, if it’s what you want. I understand. Goodbye.” She flips the phone shut and hands it back to me.

“When’s he coming?” I ask miserably.

She glances over at me, an eyebrow raised. “Towards the end of August. The actual date hasn’t been decided.”

I snap my eyes up to her face and find that a little grin is playing across her mouth. “You mean … ?”

Sal shrugs at me, dumping another chunk of food onto my plate. “Eat up,” she says with a grin. “If you’re going to be here for the next few months buff up.”

“But … how … ?”

Earl chuckles, patting Sal’s hand. “Your grandmother’s a tough cookie, sweet thing. Ain’t nobody can stand up to her when she sets her mind on something.” He leans in close to me, whispering so that only we can hear. “And it looks to me like she’s got more than just her mind on you, darlin’. She’s got her heart stuck on you, too.”

I smile at him, and gently tuck a forkful of mashes potatoes between my lips.

The Center of Everything

2006-08-16T00:35:00.000-07:00

Author's Notes: Well, I decided that, since I'm getting kind of into it, I'm going to post the prologue of a new story I'm working on, called 'The Center of Everything'. Completely fictional. All names, etc., come from the deep and often frightening crevaces of my imagination.

---

Prologue

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She had everything she ever wanted, but she was still unhappy. Her parents gave her more and more, hoping that it would satisfy her, but nothing ever did. One day it dawned on the little girl that the source of her sorrow was her loneliness…

***

The day of my mother’s funeral is the most beautiful day the town has ever seen. A ribbon of endless blue swells from a single cloud and stretches above the trees, dripping down behind the mountains to splash into the ocean. The grass, heavy with green, sings quietly with the soft breeze that sweeps across the treetops. Bright and fearless sunflowers bask in the plentiful sun.
My dress is black but my mood is darker, fists clenched at my sides. Little half-moons spring up around my nails, imprinted on my palms. My father is dry-eyed beside me, his weeping done only in the cover of midnight. He thinks that no one knows, but I’ve seen him sitting at the kitchen counter with no lights on, crying into the crook of his arm.
He asks me, quietly, if I’d like to be the one who throws down the first handful of dirt into the grave. We stare down into the seemingly endless whole and the gloomy casket at the bottom; the dirt is thick and heavy in my hands and I hate the feel of it as it crumbles from my fingers and stumbles downwards onto the wood.
I think that maybe if I concentrate hard enough, the ground will open up and swallow me as it has swallowed her – down, down passed the dirt and the lava and the heavy pressure and I could lie beneath the grass, watching the world walk above me. I think of how peaceful it would be, no one but me and the worms and the dead.
The first clumps of earth explode upon impact with her casket and the sound is both too loud and too soft. It doesn’t seem right, I can’t help but think, that she should be stuck in that tiny coffin for the rest of eternity. I want to turn to the men with the shovels and shout for them for stop, to stop piling all that dirt on top of her because she’s just frail little woman and surely she can’t hold the whole weight of the world. I want to tell them to let her out, because she was claustrophobic.
My father’s hand on my shoulder. He walks with measured steps and a fixed expression; I follow him, turning my back on the person who always needed me most.

***

I was born in my living room, on the old red couch that was in the middle of the whole house. I’ve always liked that – my brothers were all born in the hospital, but not me. I was born here, in the center of everything.

New York from 60,000 Feet

2006-08-12T21:14:00.000-07:00

New York from 60,000 Feet

A sea of flickering lights. Golden and marvelous, expanding over the earth and clinging to the night sky. Breathlessly do the stars blanket the city, midnight like a secret murmured in an eager ear.

Luz, the Spanish man has called it.

Light, I said, and fastened my eyes on the golden orbs below me. The plane, and I too, gravitate towards the alluring promise of modern beauty, the fall buildings and sleek, silver cars glistening beneath stars that duck and hide in the scarce branches of the trees.

Yet we pull away, tugging free from the hold the city places on our minds, towards the life and the world apart.

Luz, the man repeats. Bonito, no?

Goliath, Pieta

2006-08-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

Author's Notes: Weeelll, I recently went on a little ... excursion to Italy and fell in love. (With sculpture, that is. Not anything with any other worthwhile qualities, like, say, a pulse.)

Anyhoo, due to this little affair, I tried my little fingers at a bit of inspired poetry. We'll see how it turned out. :)

---

Goliath
The blow – swift
The pain – sharp
The last, most quiet breeze
That he will ever feel.

He is undone.
A monster among men,
And yet a man himself –
There is no love left for the wicked.

A stone!
A stone has been his end!

And this, his foe’s warmth –
O, beloved stone –
Fading from its course surface
Come now, sword!
Be swift, dear blazing metal!

Serve your master one last time.

[]

Pietà
Her baby on her lap –
And God is man and man is God
(O man, her child, her son)
Holes in his hands to match the holes in her heart.
Her baby, her baby on her lap –
And she is saved.
And he? Her baby boy?
He has fallen to the shadows.
Condemned by those he refused to condemn.
But what is love, without this sorrow?
She has known since the beginning.
He was not hers to keep.
But only hers to lose.