"Julian & Me"

As far back as I can remember, the first day of summer meant only one thing. At seven o’clock in the morning, my mother burst into my room with the same canvas bag I’d had since I’d started school. Pulling me by the hair, she ordered me to pack as much as I could in half an hour before she shoved me out the door.

            My brother Julian was twelve that year, and dreaded what was to come. He also had a cheap canvas bag in hand when he looked into my room, his minimal wardrobe already thrown inside it. When I looked up at him, he shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor.

            “Ready?” he asked as I tossed a couple t-shirts on top of everything. “It’s seven-fifteen.”

            Tapping the face of his watch, he dove back into his room when he heard our mother shuffling into the hallway. I sat at the foot of my bed with the bag in my lap when she came in, patting the pocket of her worn and faded robe. She peeled off two twenties from a wad of bills and fished around the bottom of the pocket for another one. Clutching the money in her fist, she offered it towards me.

            “Here, take it,” she said as I slowly reached for the bills. “Take it and don’t you or your brother waste it on useless shit.”

            I shoved the money in my jeans pocket and threw the bag over my shoulder. Standing in the doorway, I watched as she handed Julian his allowance and kissed him on the forehead, patting his shoulder as he slid it into his pocket.  I could feel the heat from her glare as she turned from him and walked back down the hallway.

            Julian took one last look in his room before we started for the door. His Gameboy sat on the nightstand beside his bed – the one luxury Mother allowed him, at least while we remained at home. I had nothing left from my childhood – when I was seven, she’d told me that my Barbie dolls had all suddenly decided to move to Malibu.

            Mother stood in the front door as we trudged towards her, Julian going first. Facing him, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. She reached for the door and smiled as she guided him out. He stood on the doorstep, watching.

            She turned towards me and looked me in the eye. I felt her nails dig into my skin when she grabbed my shoulder.

            “You better take good care of him. Be back by September first.” I nodded, and with that, she shut the door behind us.

            Julian and I already had our bus passes for the month for when we went to school. When class let out on the fifteenth, we had stashed them away for this occasion. Though we had a hundred bucks between us, it was our responsibility to make sure we had enough to get home by the end of August.

"The Cost of Loving" (2010)

            For five years, my mother had lived in the trailer park next to the Motel Six with her roommate, John. One Friday afternoon, she died on the floor of the bathroom in room 106, moments before cleaning the tub. I received the news over the phone from the manager, in a panic because the room she’d been found in was reserved for later that night.

            Brian and I had barely been married for six months at the time of her death. At his insistence, she had not been invited to our wedding. We lived half a mile away from the trailer park and had never paid a visit. Brian became upset when I told him that John had offered to let us look through her belongings before he shipped them off to Goodwill.

            “I don’t know, May. How do you know we can trust him?”

            Despite our misgivings, I had Brian drive me to the trailer park the next morning, where John was waiting for me in his Jaguar. Brian sat in our old Toyota and watched as I got out, waving me on as I headed towards the trailer.

            John got out to shake my hand. He was tall and thin with wispy grey hair and a good amount of stubble, wearing a dirty plaid jacket and torn muddy jeans. His eyes were glazed over. I was hit by a familiar odor before I even opened the screen door. Overcooked eggs and burnt bacon – the same greasy breakfasts I’d stomached throughout my childhood. Walking through the door, we were immediately brought into the kitchen.

            My mother’s room was located at the end of a small hallway. The door was broken straight down the middle. Looking around, I saw a bare mattress, drooping houseplants, and a collage on the back wall. The side table by the bed was tilted to one side. John walked over to it and opened the drawer.

            “I’m afraid this may be the only thing you’ll be interested in,” he said, reaching in and pulling out a bent-looking envelope. “Says your name on it.”

            He sat on the bed and looked at the wall as I opened the envelope. “You know, I wouldn’t have recognized you if it weren’t for all these pictures she put up.”

            My mother’s handwriting was a childish scrawl, the body of the letter compacted in the middle of the page:

            May,

            I know we never exactly got along. I wish I could have seen you at your wedding. There is something I think you should know. Your father knows about you.

            Love, Mom.

            John was still eyeballing the wall covered in pictures when I looked back up at him.

            “You done?”

I nodded and turned the letter over.

            “Davy Langdon. 95 Green Street.” The address was about two streets over from where my mother had lived when I was born. I’d never known whether my parents lived together before they had me or not. John was shuffling his feet as I pondered over the address.

            “I said are you done?”

            I looked over at him and folded the letter back up. “I’d say so. There’s nothing here I really want.”

            “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging and walking back out of the room. My mother hadn’t brought much when she’d moved into the trailer. The mattress and plants appeared as though they’d been there longer than she had.

            Brian honked eagerly when he saw me walk out the screen door, with John trailing behind me.

            “So how’d it go?” he asked as I got in the car. I showed him the envelope and shrugged.

            “Not much.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Nothing that John would have wanted, at least.” I put it back in my purse and looked straight ahead. Brian kept driving and I put all thoughts of the note in the back of my mind.

            I couldn’t sleep later that night. Around two in the morning, Brian finally had to throw his arm around my waist to keep me from tossing and turning.

            “Babe, you alright?” he whispered. I had the note on my nightstand and grabbed it, shaking it in his face.

            “My father knows about me! My father knows about me!” I screamed, nearly falling over the side. Brian grabbed me before I tumbled over and turned me to face him.

            “What are you talking about, May?” he said, his eyes following the note as I waved it about. “Are you sure you’re not dreaming?”

            “How could I have been dreaming if I wasn’t asleep?!” I cried, collapsing onto my pillow. “All these years of wondering where Daddy had been…He knew about me all along and didn’t care!”

            “Let me see that.” He took the note from my hand and pored over it, squinting without his glasses. He raised an eyebrow as he turned it over and read the address. “Well, what do you know?”

            “What do you think?”

            “I think we should stop worrying for tonight and get some sleep,” he said, putting the note on his nightstand and lying back down. “Don’t think about it for now, babe. Save it for the morning. I love you…”

            I felt his hand rubbing my shoulder and relaxed a little. Though my thoughts were still racing, I eventually drifted into a state of uneasy sleep.

            We went to check out the address the following weekend. Green Street was on the poorer side of town, lined on both sides with run-down houses, their lawns yellowed and spotted with weeds. Number 95 was somewhere in the middle. It was a slate-grey Victorian, with a droopy spruce tree in the front. There was no car in the driveway.

            “Are you sure anyone’s home?” Brian sat idling the car in front of the house, looking from it to me and back. “He may have moved since she wrote it down.”

            “My father lost his license for good shortly before he met my mother. He’d have no reason to own a car.” He shrugged and pulled into the driveway. “Are you coming in?”

            “I think this is something you should work out on your own.”

            “Suit yourself.” Getting out of the car, I felt my stomach lurch. Brian patted the steering wheel and watched as I walked up to the door.

            I was hesitant to knock the first time. I waited for half a minute and tried again. I heard a thump, followed by the sound of slippers scuffing on a carpet.

            An elderly woman stood in the doorway, hunched over her cane. She looked up at my face and narrowed her eyes.

            “Can I help you?”

            I looked down at the ground and shuffled my feet.

            “Um…may I speak to Davy Langdon?” She stepped back a few feet and looked around.

            “What business do you have with my son?”

            “I think I need to speak with him.”

            “I’ve never seen you around here before. I don’t believe you have any business with my son.” She reached for the door. “Please leave now.”

            “Ma’am…”

            “Go.” I heard a man’s voice in the background as the old woman went to shut the door in my face.

            “Mom? Is everything alright?”

            “Yes, Davy, I’m fine. Some strange girl just wanted to speak with you.” Her voice softened when she spoke to him. “Just tell her to go away.”

            “All right, Mom.” I could hear the old woman shuffling back into another room, and the door opened once again. “Hello?”

            A man stood in the doorway, wearing a Budweiser shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. He was about half a foot taller than me, with a head of brown hair streaked with grey. Looking out at me, he held fast onto the door.

            “Davy Langdon?”

            “Who are you?”

            “I don’t know if you’d remember me, but I found your address on the back of a note my mother left for me shortly before she…died. Apparently, you’re my father.”

            His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “What do you mean by that?”

            “Please just hear me out. If you think I’m wrong, you can tell me to leave at any time, but…”

            “Look kid, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve done a few things in my life that I’m not exactly proud of. Maybe you are my daughter, and maybe you’re not. I don’t want to hear your life story, and I don’t want to hear you sobbing about how much you’ve missed your Daddy.  That part of my life is over. I have other things to take care of now,” he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Putting one in his mouth, he looked just like a man in one of the photographs my mother had had on her wall. “I suggest you start moving.”

            As I backed away from the porch, he remained standing in the doorway, slowly shutting the door. When he’d gone back inside, I headed back to the car.

            Brian was sitting in the driveway tapping on the steering wheel as I walked back. He saw me slumped over and unlocked the door.

            “Babe?” he said as I reached for the handle. I threw my purse inside and slid myself into the seat. “May, are you okay? How’d it go?”

            I let my head fall onto his shoulder and started sobbing, reaching for his hand in his lap. He rubbed the back of my hand before putting the car in gear, and we started the long drive back home.

I'm Alive!

           Sorry for the long absence! Here's a short preview from the novel-in-progress:

*****           

           “Why aren’t you at work?”

            “You ain’t nothing but a home-wrecking bitch, Hawkins. Now get out of my way before I make you.”

            Eileen sucked air through her teeth and stepped aside.

            Maura had her back turned to the counter as she dealt with the coffee maker. Scott bellied up to the counter and huffed as he banged his fists on the laminate.

            “Maura, I want to talk to you!” he cried.

            “Hold your horses, the coffee will be ready in –“Maura looked over her shoulder at him. “Oh. It’s you. Can’t it wait until I get back –“

            “No. Now.”

            The diner fell to a hush as he reached over the counter and grabbed her by the left arm. He had almost pulled her whole body over it before she managed to wriggle her way back to the other side. She slid her feet back against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes.

            “Scott…”

            “You listen to me, Maura. I’ve tried being patient. I know you’ve been trying to help your friend get her shit together, but enough’s enough. You need to come home now. You’re gonna be my wife someday. Do you honestly think I’m gonna put up with this kinda shit forever? I think it’s time you stopped playing the martyr and focused on reality for a change.”

'The Scale of Things'

     "You might want to ease up on the desserts for a while, Mo. Looks like you're getting a bit of a gut," Scott says as he eases his way up from the couch. He pauses to gently pat my stomach and plant a quick kiss on my forehead. "Maybe try going for a run in the morning. Love you. G' night."
     "Love you too. Good night." I'm burning up inside as I say it.
     A little while later, I'm standing on the scale after I've taken my shower. Scott expects a report of my nightly weigh-in, and I'm not going to deny him it, as badly as I may want to do so. Looking over my entries from the past few weeks, one thing becomes clear: I have not, in fact, gained weight. If anything, I've likely lost a few pounds from a combination of disgust and his constant nudging-aside of food he considers too fattening for me.
     Watching him over time has taught me a number of things. For one, he's not the type to say no to dessert. Yet, when he sees me walk by with so much as a peppermint, he quietly orders me to spit it out. We wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of his parents, now, would we? And God forbid he be denied that extra stick of beef jerky he gnaws on as an appertif. Wouldn't even dream of it,
     I sigh as I climb into bed and get under the covers. Tying my bathrobe tighter around my waist, I know I'll be fighting the same battle all over again tomorrow.

'Watch Your Mouth'

     "Children should be seen and not heard," Tom said at the dinner table.
    Ten-year-old Delilah ignored him, chattering away to no one in particular.
    Desperate to keep the peace, her mother turned her head to smile and nod at both sides.
    "Delilah, did you hear me?" Tom asked, his voice turning sharp. "I said --"
    "Yeah, yeah," the girl snapped, rolling her eyes at him. "I don't wanna see or hear you, either, you know."
      "Delilah! Watch your mouth!" her mother said, dropping her napkin into her lap. "I'm so sorry, Tom, I have no idea what got into her. She's never usually this ill-mannered."
      "Oh, I know what got into her, alright," he said, rising to his feet. "And I fully intend on knocking it out of her, too." He rolled up his sleeves, staring intently at the girl.
    Delilah gulped and sat back in her chair, not knowing what to expect.
    "Stand up. You're coming with me now, young lady," he said, reaching for one of her wrists. He yanked her sharply out of the chair.  
      "Please, Tom! Don't do this!" her mother pleaded, throwing her hands in the air. "She won't do it again, I promise!"
      "Not this time, Agnes," he said, heading for the living room with Delilah in tow. "She needs to be taught a lesson. I'm not letting this little brat disrespect me and get away with it."
      Delilah struggled as he maintained his grip on her wrist. Agnes covered her mouth with her hands as she watched the two make their way down the hall.
    Never letting go of his captive, Tom sat down firmly on the couch, making sure his lap was clear. He put his free arm around her waist, pulled, and carefully flipped her down on his knees.
    Her mother stood in the doorway, holding her face in her hands. She watched in horror as he yanked down the girl's jeans and underwear without bothering to stand her up. Delilah fidgeted as he held her down in the middle of her back and raised his right hand above his head.
      "Last chance to say you're sorry."
      Delilah sucked in her breath and uttered a slew of apologies until she was gasping for air.
    "...Too late," said Tom, bringing his hand down on her backside. "You'll have to be quicker than that." Raising his hand up again, he gave her another smack even harder than the last one.
      Delilah continued to wail as he went on, squirming under his grip once she got sore.
      "Hold still, you little brat," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't think you've quite learned your lesson yet."
      "Please stop, please stop! I'm sorry! I'll never do it again! Please, stop!" Delilah cried, kicking her legs out behind her. "Please!"
      He was about to raise his hand once again, when he felt a firm grip on his wrist. He looked up.
      "Enough, Tom," Agnes said, pulling his wrist further back. "I'd say she's learned more than enough by now."
He clenched his jaw and let his arm go slack. She let go of his wrist, watching it fall limp at his side.
Delilah barrel-rolled off his lap as he loosened up. Falling onto her back, she glared up at him as she pulled her pants back up.
Agnes ran to her daughter's side.
"Are you okay, honey?" she asked, putting a hand on Delilah's shoulder. The girl was biting her lip.
"You're too soft on that kid, Agnes," Tom said, his arms folded across his chest. "You need to stop spoiling her, or else she'll turn out to be a mama's girl."
She looked up at him and nodded.
"Maybe you're right..." she said under her breath. Delilah was hugging her knees to her chest, barely trying to hold back her tears any more. "Maybe I have been too easy on her."
"Exactly," he said with a smirk. "Now, why don't you make the first move?"
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Delilah was still curled up in a ball on the floor.
"Delilah," she said, her voice shaking. "Delilah!"
The girl looked up with eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I think it's time to...I mean...Oh, just go to your room!" Agnes said, pointing to the stairs.
"But, Mom..."
"Go to your room!"
Delilah jumped to her feet and glared up at her.
"Fine!" she snarled, stomping out of the room."I hate you!"

'No Kids At The Bar'

'No kids at the bar.' 

The bartender looked up from the glass he'd been wiping to give a stern look to the newcomer. A chunky young woman who couldn't have been more than nineteen had just come in and bellied up to the bar, balancing a sleeping child on her hip. She scowled as she leaned in on her free arm. 

'I thought we had a deal, Buck,' she said.

He looked up again and gave her a once-over. Despite her youth, time had not been kind to her. She stared at him with beady, bloodshot eyes as he kept going on with the dishrag.

'You and I had a deal, Carrie,' he said, setting the glass down on the counter. 'That kid, however, is a different story.'

She grumbled as she heaved the girl up on her hip once again.

'I could just go to Derrick's place across town, you know. At least they don't give me trouble, unless I say something...'

Buck froze. Heaving a sigh, he turned around to reach for the cheap whiskey she usually ordered.

'You drive a hard bargain, Carrie,' he said as he poured the booze into the glass in front of him. He shook his head as he slid it across the bar to her. 'Win or lose, the devil always gets your soul in the end.'