This story marks #6 in the Jack and Diane series. The two met on a 50+ dating app a few months before this story occurs. I did not set out to create a series for these two characters, but they continue to live in my writing mind. Enjoy!
Jack Marin parked his Ford F-150 at the curb in front of Diane Somer’s house. The double garage door was open. Her Prius sedan sat in one bay. As Jack walked up, he realized the second car was an old dark blue Volvo, its hood open.
“Hello?” he called.
Diane’s head appeared from under the hood.
“Hi. Right on time.”
Jack nodded. “A very old Volvo.”
“A 142-S. Frank kept it for all these years.”
On the wall facing the Volvo was a faded wooden sign. Mi Volvo es muy mal.
Jack pointed to the sign.
“Frank got it from an abandoned garage somewhere up north, years back,” Diane said. “The old girl is fading, though. I only use it three times a year.”
“Why three?”
“Visits to the cemetery. His birthday, my birthday…and today, Margaret’s birthday.”
Diane ran a pair of battery cables from the Volvo to her Toyota.
“Can I help?” Jack asked.
“I got this.” She started the Toyota, hopped out and got in the Volvo. In a minute or so the Volvo kicked over. It coughed and sputtered, then smoothed out. She disconnected the cables and turned off her Toyota.
Ten minutes later Diane was driving them to the cemetery in the Volvo. She pulled up under a large tree. Opening the trunk, she took out two faded aluminum beach chairs and placed them at Frank’s grave. Then she set out a small cooler.
“Have a seat,” she said. “There’s water and soda in the cooler, and a few snacks.”
“I’ll wait,” Jack said. He sat.
“I usually stay for an hour or two,” Diane said. “If you get restless, feel free to walk around. And there’s a restroom in the office near the front gate.”
“Good to know.”
“Jack, I appreciate your being here with me.”
“Sure.”
“I sometimes sit in silence. Once in a while I will talk quietly to Frank. Today I’ll introduce you.”
Jack shifted in his chair.
Diane sat upright. She closed her eyes, arms resting in her lap. Jack leaned back, tried to relax. His own wife had been gone for two years now, but he had never once visited her cemetery.
Diane whispered. “Frank, I drove over in the Volvo today. She’s still running.” She gestured to Jack. “I brought a friend with me today. His name is Jack. You’d like him. We met on a fifty-plus dating app a couple of months ago. Not really dating. More like hanging out together. Developing a friendship.”
Diane drifted back to silence.
Jack looked around the cemetery. Many of the graves had flowers or flags. Several other visitors stood around graves, or sat in the grass. He got up quietly and walked to the road. He walked the perimeter of the cemetery. Near the top was a section for cremated remains, graced by a small fountain. He circled and walked down near the office building.
A white BMW SUV sat in the office parking lot. Jack walked past without a glance. As he went by, a woman’s voice called out. “Sir?”
Jack turned. A woman slipped out of the BMW. “May I ask you a question?”
Jack pointed to himself. “Me?”
The woman nodded. “I’ve been sitting here for a while. Are you with that woman up the road, the one with the old Volvo?”
Jack hesitated.
“Her name is Diane?”
Jack took a step back. Held his palms out. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t. But I was watching you sitting with her.” The woman pointed up the road. “That’s my mother.”
“Oh.”
A hawk screed in the distance. Jack looked up. A half dozen crows were chasing the hawk away from a stand of trees at the edge of the cemetery. The hawk flew calmly away while the crows squawked after it.
He turned his attention back to the woman.
“You must be Margaret.”
The woman leaned back against her car. “I’m guessing my mother told you about me.”
Jack shook his head. “I only know she’s troubled the two of you are not communicating.”
“Today is my birthday.”
“That’s why she’s here.”
Silence hung between them for a few moments.
“She didn’t tell me how sick my dad was…till he was gone.”
Jack nodded.
Margaret took a step toward Jack. “What has she told you about me?”
Jack held his palms up. “Please…don’t put me in the middle. I like your mother. I don’t want to be carrying a secret around. Reach out to her, but don’t pull me in. It’s none of my business.”
A tear slid down Margaret’s cheek. She looked out at Diane up in front of her dad’s grave. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Jack turned to walk away. Margaret slipped back into her car, fired up the engine, and drove off.
Damn! Don’t do this to me.
Jack walked back up to the grave site. Sat down again without a word.
Diane looked up at Jack. “You were talking to Margaret.”
Shit!
“Yeah. You saw her?”
“I know her car. I spotted it as soon as we got here.”
“This is awkward.”
“What did she say?”
Jack shook his head. “I told her I didn’t want to get in the middle of this.”
Diane stood. “We should get back.” She folded her chair and packed up the cooler.
Jack remained seated. “I don’t belong in the middle of this.”
“Jack, we’ve been seeing each other for several months now. Like it or not, you are in the middle of it. My estrangement from Margaret is part of my life. Jump in the pool, or walk away.”
“Ouch.”
She stood over him. “Your ouch is nothing compared to my pain. You can help me with this, or I will go back to dealing with it alone. Your choice.”
Jack stood, folded his chair, put it in the Volvo.
They drove back to the house in silence.
Diane nudged the Volvo back into the garage. “Want to come in for coffee?”
Jack shrugged. “This is getting complicated.”
“You’re in or you’re out…in, I hope.”
Jack smiled. “Got any cookies to go with the coffee?”
Five years ago I published a play on Amazon Kindle titled Buried Lies. The story traced a young man’s efforts to learn about the father he had lost 16 years before. The youth made a film about his dad, about his search for his legacy, about the raw discovery of his dad’s lover.
Earlier this year I re-wrote part of the story from the point of view of the father’s lover, exploring first person point of view with a different character than the original. I find first person POV difficult to write.
I hope you enjoy reading it.
My Bag Is Packed
Bob Gillen
It’s been four days since the funeral. Since Clare buried her Patrick. Sorry. Since we buried our Patrick.
My bag is packed. I have nowhere to go. But I’m ready. Clare doesn’t want me here.
Patrick chose me. I know that. Know it as sure as I know my own name. Yes, I admit he loved her. But he was so conflicted in the short time I knew him.
We met a few months ago, entirely by accident. One Friday we were both in the same subway car riding home after work. A couple of jerks stood over me. Kicking my leg. Shoving me.
I saw a man who looked like a construction worker stand up. He put his tool bag on his seat. Stepped over to where I sat. “You know these two?” he asked me. I shook my head no. He grabbed each one by the back of the neck. Squeezed hard enough to put them both on their knees. I thought they were going to pass out.
When the doors opened at the next station, he told them to get up. He walked them to the door. Waited till it started to close. Shoved them hard out onto the platform. Before they could find a breath, the train was moving out of the station.
I bought him a drink to thank him. A quiet little bar I knew, nearer to my place than his. Conversation was awkward, but I worked hard to keep it going. We met every Friday for a while. It was the highlight of my week. No, it was my week.
My job laid me off in mid-December. Merry Christmas! I was already a month behind on my rent, thanks to transmission work on my eight-year old Chevy. Patrick told me he could finish the work he had been doing on his basement by early January. He had planned a rec room for his son. He would make it a small apartment. He wanted me to move in. I was thrilled. “How will you make this work?” I asked him. He shrugged. “You can be my cousin. Over from Ireland. Looking for work.”
It had been a sub-zero January night. I had moved in a week before. We should have waited. Should have told Clare first. I was downstairs in the basement apartment. Small, cozy, not well lit. I was waiting for the cold spell to break before I looked for a job. I wanted to pay rent, carry my weight. Clare’s washer and dryer took up a small corner of the basement, but we managed to dodge each other most of the time. Twice I ate dinner upstairs with them. I loved seeing Sean. Their two-year old. Loved watching Patrick play with him.
Clare came home early that January night from a church bible study meeting. Apparently they cancelled it when almost no one showed up because of the bitter cold.
Patrick had come downstairs with two cold beers. He never came downstairs. Not when Clare was home. And she was almost always home.
Only one lamp lit the basement. I was wrapped up in a blanket on the daybed. Trying to read but not caring about the story at all. He held out a beer to me.
I felt a smile break across my face. He pulled the blanket aside and crawled under with me.
Oh God, I can remember what I felt. Warmth. Tingling. Anticipation. For a few minutes we talked about how he couldn’t justify this… this… love? He was conflicted. Torn. An Irish, Catholic, construction worker. Married. With a son. Living in a traditional blue collar neighborhood. No place for infidelity. Certainly not with me.
I put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” I said. I kissed him. He pulled back. Looked deeply into my eyes. I saw longing. I saw fear. He leaned in and kissed me back.
I felt his hands caress my neck. My ear lobes. I shuddered. The wonderful first touches.
We hadn’t heard Clare come home. She must have looked around the house upstairs without finding Patrick. The door to the basement had been open.
I heard a scream. Looking over Patrick’s shoulder, I saw Clare was halfway down the stairs. Still wearing her unbuttoned coat. We were shirtless under the blanket. Patrick leaped up, tripping on the blanket. I pulled the blanket back.
“Patrick! Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on?”
“Clare, you’re home early.” As Patrick reached for his shirt, I could see the flame in his cheeks.
Clare stomped down the rest of the stairs. I had started to get up. Forgot I was pantless. She looked at me. She screamed again. “Matthew? Oh my God!”
Patrick reached for Clare’s hand. “Okay, calm down. It’s not what you think.” I thought, Patrick, don’t say that. It is what she thinks.
“Not what I think? Not what I think? You screwing your cousin in our house is not what I think?”
“Clare, calm down. Please.” I saw Patrick was shaking. I pulled on my pants.
“You bastard! You goddamn bastard! Is this why you built the basement apartment? Is this why you took in your cousin? Matthew is not your cousin, is he? Son of a bitch!”
Patrick gestured towards me. “Let me explain.” I cringed, stepped back.
“Get out of the house, Matthew! Get out now!”
“Clare, we can’t do that.” Patrick stepped between Clare and me.
Clare looked around the room. She grabbed an empty beer can from a table and hurled it at Patrick. He ducked and the can clattered against the wall.
“Clare, stop. You’ll wake Sean.”
“I’ll wake Sean? What’s the worry? You don’t want him to know his father is gay? Go to hell, Patrick. Go to HELL!”
“Relax, Clare. Come on.”
“Patrick, stay in the basement with your lover boy if you want. You made your choice. But don’t let me ever see your face upstairs again. Do you understand? Not ever!”
“But Sean…”
“You’ve seen Sean for the last time.”
“Clare, in the morning you’ll see…”
“See what, you bastard? See what? That I married a liar? See what, Patrick? That the father of my son would rather hump another guy than sleep with me? What am I supposed to see, Patrick? Tell me… what?”
A thought clawed its way into my conscious mind… yes, he’d rather hump me. Yes, he made his choice. I could not help smiling.
Clare broke down sobbing and ran up the stairs. Slammed the door.
Two weeks later Patrick was dead. Came home drunk, slipped on the ice in front of the house, and slammed his head on the sidewalk. The sub-zero cold had lingered. The blood from his wound froze. But it was the head trauma that killed him. A neighbor found him after midnight. Called 911. Then rang the bell upstairs. I heard Clare scream. Heard sirens. Somehow I knew. I stayed in bed.
For a few days I cocooned myself under blankets in bed. Clare was out every night at Patrick’s wake. Her mother sat for Sean. I could hear her voice soothing him, reading to him. Every morning I heard Sean running his toys across the floor upstairs. I heard him squeal in delight. I cried each time. Cried for his dead father. Cried he would never see his daddy again.
I went to the funeral. Sat in the back row. Talked to no one. Actually knew no one. Patrick’s friends from work, his fellow contractors and carpenters, milled around after the service to offer a word to Clare. The burial was private. I actually don’t know where his grave is. She didn’t have anyone back to the house after the cemetery. I heard her sobbing for hours that night.
The separate side entrance to my apartment keeps me from running into Clare since the funeral. I make sure to go out every afternoon so she can do the laundry without seeing me.
As I said, my bag is packed. But I will not leave willingly. Patrick made his choice in that moment when he defended me to Clare. He built this apartment for me. He invited me to live here. I didn’t care how uncomfortable it made Clare. Patrick wanted me here.
The problem is, as I sit here in the basement, everything screams at me that my love is gone. I barely knew him, and he’s gone. I have a place to live, and nothing to live for.
The basement door squeaked open. Clare did not come down.
“Matthew?”
I answered.
“I talked to my accountant. I have to sell the house. I want you gone before I put it on the market. Is that clear?”
I stepped over to the stairs. “Clare, may I see Sean once before I leave?”
“Fuck you, no. I repeat, I want you gone.”
I looked up. Our eyes met. Searching in mine. Bitterness in hers.
“I’ll be gone.”
***
Buried Lies, the play, is available on Amazon Kindle.
Have you ever blundered into an awkward situation? Casey Romero found herself in the middle of a film shoot, on camera in a classroom scene. An imposter syndrome magnified!
Enjoy the short read. I’m back from a month’s hiatus and will post a fresh story every week. Stay tuned.
Just Another Movie Shoot
Bob Gillen
“Monty, I have to get a notebook out of my locker!” Casey Romero pleaded with the school security guard.
“No can do, kiddo. The campus is closed for the entire three-day weekend.” He gestured over his shoulder. “This film shoot is paying the school to use the campus. I can’t screw that up.”
“I have to write a paper. Can’t you get my notebook? I’ll give you my locker combination.”
Monty shook his head.
A passenger van pulled up to the gate. Monty checked the driver’s name against his list. “Good to go. Let me give you your passes.”
Monty swung a box full of lanyards towards the van. One fell to the asphalt. Casey stepped behind Monty, keeping him between her and the driver. She scooped up the lanyard pass, stuffed it in her jeans pocket.
Without a word, she mounted her bike and rode away. Over her shoulder, she could see that Monty was back inside his doghouse-sized guard shack. She made a quick turn and headed for the back gate. No one around. She shoved her bike into the shrubs and climbed over the fence. Texted her study partner Martin. Might be a few minutes late.
With the lanyard hanging prominently around her neck, she weaved through the parking lot and headed for the classroom building that housed her locker.
Shoot!
The film production swarmed over that building. Large scrims on aluminum frames stood outside one of the classroom windows, blocking the direct sunlight. Cables snaked from an enormous generator in the parking lot, through the doors and down the hallway. Crew scurried everywhere.
Casey held back to observe, trying to find a clear path to her locker. She straightened her shoulders, put on a false face of confidence, and walked into the hallway. She spied a big aluminum cart right in front of her locker. A guy sat on a stool, fingers working sliders on a sound mixer. Now what?
From down the hall she heard someone yell, Cut! The sound guy stood, stretching his legs. Casey approached him. “Can I just get to that locker?” she asked, pointing over his shoulder.
As the sound guy looked at her, she felt a hand on her shoulder. “You’re early. We don’t need background till this afternoon.”
Casey turned to see a tall young man with a clipboard and a tablet. The sound guy said to Casey, “This is our 1st AD. I can’t move this cart until this scene is done.” He pointed at the young man. “1st AD…First assistant director. His name is Rod.”
“Rod!” a voice bellowed from down the hall. Rod ran to the voice.
“I just need a notebook from my locker.” Casey said.
The sound guy winked. “You’re not an extra, are you?”
Casey shook her head.
The sound guy edged his cart and stool away from Casey’s locker. She quickly spun the combination, yanked out the notebook, closed up the locker.
“Thank you,” she smiled at the sound guy.
He nodded, “Now get out of here before someone catches on.”
“You!” Rod came back, pointing at Casey.
“Too late,” the sound guy whispered.
Rod motioned to Casey. “Over here. The director wants to see you.”
Oh shit!
Rod steered Casey to a man wearing a baseball cap and sitting in a chair marked “Director.” An array of video monitors sat in front of him
The director said to Casey, “As long as you’re early, we’ll put you in this scene.”
A woman seated next to the director, a tablet and a clipboard on her lap, said, “It’s not in the script.”
“It is now,” the director said. The woman’s fingers flew over her tablet keyboard.
Rod ushered Casey into the classroom. Two actresses stood at the teacher’s desk. Towels covered the shoulders on their pants suits while makeup people fussed over their faces and hair.
“Sit there,” Rod said, pointing to a desk near the window. He looked around to make sure she would be in the camera shot.
Casey slipped into the seat, her notebook in front of her.
“Remember, you’re background. Ignore everything going on. Sit still and look at your notebook.”
Casey nodded. This isn’t happening.
Rod called to makeup. “Touch up this kid, will you?”
A woman blotted Casey’s face, brushed a bit of powder on her cheeks. “Take off the lanyard before I do your hair.” She ran a brush through Casey’s hair.
Moments later two men came in, one with a Steadicam camera strapped to his torso. The second man had his hands on the camera operator’s waist, ready to steer him. Another sound guy stood near the two actresses with a long boom holding a mic. From the corner, out of the camera frame, Rod yelled, “Roll sound.” Everyone went silent. Then he yelled “Roll camera.”
That’s me. Look invisible.
“And action!” Rod said.
Casey froze, her eyes rigid on the notebook in front of her. In a few moments, Rod yelled, “Cut!”
The director stepped into the room. “Background,” he said, pointing at Casey. “You’re not a statue. I want you invisible, but I want you to look like you’re alive. Turn a page in that book. Run your finger over a page…got it?”
Casey felt her face turn red. She nodded.
“Okay, let’s go again.” The director left the room.
“Roll camera.” Rod yelled. Silence fell. “And action.”
The actresses engaged in a conversation, something about another teacher being incompetent. Casey turned a page. She moved the notebook slightly.
“Cut!” Rod said. “Moving on.”
Casey sat still. The director came in. “Background, you’re released.” He grabbed her notebook off the desk, handed it to Rod. “Let the teacher hold this in the next scene.”
He and Rod left the room with Casey’s notebook.
Shit!
Casey put her lanyard back on, stayed in the seat as the room cleared and the crew moved on to a different location down the hall. One of the two actresses approached her. “Honey, be a dear and go over to Crafty and get me a bag of chips. I have to stay close.” The actress peered at Casey. “You look pale. Get something for yourself, too.”
Casey left the room, looked around for craft services. She spotted tables outside the building at the edge of the parking lot. She walked over, got a bag of chips and a bottle of water, and headed back to the classroom.
The actress thanked her. “Listen, hon, help me out here. If I get crumbs on this outfit, Wardrobe will kill me.” She handed the bag back to Casey. “Open this and put a few chips in your hand.”
Casey tore open the bag, set chips in the palm of her hand. The actress picked one and nibbled on it, leaning forward to keep food bits from falling on her clothes.
“I need that notebook the director took away,” Casey said.
“It’s a prop, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s mine. I need it for a paper I have to write.”
The actress stared hard at Casey. “You’re not an extra, are you?”
Casey shook her head no.
“You’re a student here, right?”
Again Casey nodded.
“You got guts, girl. I’ll hand you that.”
“Thanks, but guts aren’t doing me any good right now.”
The actress finished a few chips. “Thanks. Listen…wait, what’s your name?”
“Casey.”
“Okay, Casey. I’m Nora.” She glanced around the room. A bookcase full of books sat in one corner of the room. Nora grabbed a book. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m in the next scene with the actress who has your notebook. Let me go hover in the background. I’ll swap this book for yours when they’re done. You stay here. Keep your head down, I’ll be back. Okay?”
Casey nodded. “Thanks.”
Casey’s phone chirped. “Shut that off!” Nora said. “If the director hears it, you’ll be out on your ass.” Casey silenced the phone. Nora left. Casey glanced at the screen. Martin. Where are you? Aren’t we studying together?
Casey shoved the phone in her pocket. Later, dude.
An eternity later, Nora slipped into the classroom. She smiled, handed the notebook to Casey. “Get your ass out of here before we both get caught. The script supervisor will have a fit when she realizes the notebook is missing.”
Casey opened her mouth to say thank you. The actress grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her towards the door. She held up a hand. “Shh.”
The actress peeked out the door. All the crew clustered down the hall. She stepped out to block for Casey. “Go!”
Casey dashed for the door at the end of the hall, broke out into daylight.
She had gone just a few steps into the parking lot when a voice called out. “You. The extra. Come here.”
Aah, no!
Casey turned to see a woman standing next to a rack of clothes, pointing straight at her.
“You. Here.”
Casey stepped over, holding her notebook behind her back.
The woman held up a phone. “I need a picture of your outfit. For continuity. In case we have to shoot your scene again. Stand still.”
Casey held one arm down, the other behind her back with the notebook.
The woman took a few shots. “You dressed from your own closet, right?” she asked.
“I usually do.”
“Not bad. You look like a student.”
I am a student.
“Can I go now?”
“Yeah. They won’t need you till after lunch.”
Casey flew to the rear gate, climbed the fence again, and grabbed her bike.
She texted Martin. On my way. My film shoot ran late. Added a smiley face emoji.
A teen tries to make sense of her father’s death and the murder of eleven school kids by making a film. Can new life come from this?
The story is my own way of dealing with the senseless and continual tragedies in our nation.
A Rosary of Names
Bob Gillen
Call me Alex. It’s what my father called me. My mother, she prefers Alexandra. Alexandra Sanchez. I live with my mother. My dad is gone. If it’s possible to die of a broken heart, that’s what killed him.
At this moment I am sitting in an empty classroom. In a vacant elementary school. The school will be torn down in a few months. The floor is cool on my butt, on my crossed legs.
I’m holding my film camera in my lap. I came here to make a movie. To try to make sense of what happened five months ago. In this room. They called my father a hero at his funeral. He didn’t die here. Eleven children did. My father kept it from being worse. A teacher and eight children survived.
My graduation from high school last month would have been a proud moment for my dad. I have a scholarship to study at the film school at CSUN. Cal State University Northridge. My dream come true, right? Today my college days are on hold. I can’t leave my mother to attend an out of state school. She needs me. I need her.
I’m sitting here alone. The school has been shuttered since the murders. I have a key. My father was the senior custodian. For twenty years. His keys were still in our house.
Last March, while a teacher worked with her students, all third graders, dad was in a corner of the room mopping up a kid’s puke. Something he did often. A man pulled open the door, started shooting an assault rifle at the kids. He didn’t see my father. Dad lifted his wet mop and ran at the shooter, shoving the mop and the puke in his face. The man dropped the rifle, pulled a handgun out of his belt, and shot himself in the head.
All the news reports say the whole thing was over in a minute. It will never be over for any of us. I want to capture the tragedy, the loss, on film. I don’t know how. I hope something will trigger an idea. I want the world to know what can happen in a moment’s time. How a deranged man can kill children, then kill himself to avoid responsibility for his actions. I want others to feel what we feel.
My father died in his sleep, two months after the shooting. My mother said he had nightmares every night. He would wake up screaming. In a sweat. Trembling. Every night. I can’t imagine what he must have seen in this room. The shooter dead. Eleven kids bloody and lifeless. Dad was like a zombie after that.
I’m thinking that the surviving children from this classroom also wake up screaming every night. As do the parents of the children who died.
I’m sitting here in silence. There are traffic noises outside. Far off, a siren. Distant thunder from an approaching storm. I listen. There is only emptiness. I turn on the camera. I check white balance and focus. I hit Record, panning around the shell of a room. All of the desks and tables have been removed. The walls are bare of teacher art, of student drawings and papers. The floor smells faintly of bleach and ammonia. I can only capture images and audio with my camera. No other sensory bites. The camera runs as I sit with my silence. A tear works its way down my cheek. I leave it to hang till it dries.
It occurs to me, are the spirits of the dead children here? It’s been five months. Have they moved on?
And I wonder, do they grieve for their moms and dads, their brothers and sisters, their friends and classmates? Miss them the same way we all miss the kids? Do they reach out their hands for a mom who is not there? Do they call out into an empty space?
I have the names of the eleven dead children memorized. Like my dad. He knew most of the kids by name. The whole school. He was good like that. Always a smile, a nod, a fist bump. Mr. Sanchez. Always there when a teacher needed a cleanup. Always providing enough heat or air conditioning.
I begin to say the children’s names out loud. Ryan. Melissa. Pedro. Terrell. Megan. Iris. Maya. Shantell. Luis. Michael. Stacey. I repeat the names. Over and over. Like a rosary prayer. My dad’s name…I can’t even say it.
Tears run down my cheeks freely. I extend the camera out to avoid dripping tears on it. It’s still running. Capturing a void. What should be a room full of noisy kids, writing their lessons, making art, listening to the teacher tell stories.
I continue to say the names aloud. Thunder rumbles a bit closer.
And I hear a toilet flush. A toilet? Can’t be. I recite the names once more.
“Billy?”
A voice comes from somewhere in the building. Soft, tentative. I stop talking.
Again, “Billy?”
I’m sitting in the middle of the room. Nowhere to duck and hide. The door creaks open. I turn to see a girl peering in. She’s maybe my age. Dressed kind of shabby. Hair messy.
She stares at me. I stand, holding my camera. Still recording.
“You’re not Billy.”
I shake my head.
“He left yesterday. He didn’t come back.”
She steps into the room. I see she is pregnant. I would guess five or six months.
My voice squeaks out, “Who are you?”
She looks around the room. “I heard voices. Are you alone?”
I nod.
She smiles. “I’m Kenzie.”
“Why are you here?” I ask her. “The school is closed. How did you get in?”
“Billy jimmied a door at the back of the gym…he’s good at that stuff.”
She cradled her hands under her belly. “I’m pregnant.”
“I see that.”
“And I’m homeless.”
“Who is Billy?” I ask.
“My baby’s father.”
I take a step closer to her. She backs up. I stop. “Are you sleeping here?”
Kenzie nods. “We have a couple of sleeping bags in a closet.” She points to the rear of the school building. “It’s, like, a classroom, but it’s real empty.”
I feel my body tensing. I’m pissed. My focus is broken. I want to get her out of this room. “Show me.”
Kenzie walks me towards one of the classrooms near the back of the school. Mrs. Jenkins’s room. She opens the closet door at the back of the room. It’s a big walk-in closet. There are two dirty sleeping bags. Cans of diet soda, a loaf of bread, a few bags of chips.
“I’m running low on food. Billy went out to get more.”
“Where is he?”
She shrugs. “He always comes back when he goes out for food. He didn’t come back yesterday.” She giggles quietly. “I’m like his little bird in my nest. Every day he goes out to bring me food.”
Thunder rumbles again. The storm is much closer.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Alex.”
“That’s cool. Alex.”
She points to my camera. “Are you filming something?”
I shake my head. “Just messing around.”
“Do you go to school here?”
“This is…was…an elementary school. I graduated from high school last month.”
She looks confused. “This was a school?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Kenzie looks down at her feet. “Me and Billy, we’ve been on the road for a couple months. Heading for California.”
On the road. That explains her sun-bleached hair.
I stare at her belly. “What about medical care?”
“We hit a couple of clinics on the way. They say my baby is healthy.”
I look at the food on the floor of the closet. “You’re eating junk. Can’t be good for the baby.”
Again she shrugs. “Best we can do.”
We stand facing each other. Me with my camera. Her with her big belly. I wave my thumb back towards the classroom we left. “Eleven kids died in that room. Five months ago. A shooter. They’re going to tear this building down.”
“Oh shit.” She cradles her belly again. “Eleven kids?”
I nod.
“I don’t think I can stay here now.” She kneels to roll up her sleeping bag.
“Where will you go? How will Billy find you?”
“He’ll find me. Oh God. Eleven kids died here.” She shudders.
I lift my camera. Words spill from my mouth. “Do you want to be in my film?”
“Really?”
I nod.
“I never saw myself on video before.”
“How old are you?” it occurs to me to ask.
“Eighteen. I would have graduated last year…if I stayed in school.”
I begin taping the sleeping bags and the food spread out on the floor. I move the frame up to Kenzie’s belly, then to her face. I point to her.
“Am I supposed to talk? Okay. Hi, I’m Kenzie. I’m traveling to California with my boyfriend Billy.”
I roll my finger for her to keep talking.
“We’ve been sleeping here for a couple nights. So quiet here.” She pauses. “Not like the shelters we stay at. Or the homeless camps. They’re so noisy. This place…” She pauses again. “The silence is peaceful…but now, scary. I mean, I just found out eleven kids died here. Shot to death.” She wraps her arms around her torso. “I can’t stay here. I need to move on. Right now.”
Overhead a clap of thunder rattles the building. Rain falls outside. I turn the camera towards the windows. Rain pelts the glass like bullets. Like shots that won’t stop. I whisper the names. Ryan. Melissa. Pedro. Terrell. Megan. Iris. Maya. Shantell. Luis. Michael. Stacey.
“Iris.”
It’s a girl.
I turn to Kenzie.
She touches her stomach. “It’s a girl. I’m going to name her Iris. My grandmother’s name.” She slides up the right sleeve of her hoodie. The name Iris is tattooed on her wrist. Surrounded by flowers.
We both sit down on the floor, backs against the closet door. A flash of lightning streaks somewhere close by. I see Kenzie rub her fingers softly over her tattoo.
Through all the thunder and the pounding rain I keep on saying the names. My rosary of names. Reciting them over the crashing storm.
The thunder rages. My camera is still running, focused now on the rain against the windows. My voice runs on. Name after name. Dead child after dead child. I keep reciting. Not praying. Simply calling their names. Maybe I hope I can reach them. Tell them we have not forgotten them. Tell them we miss their smiles, their curiosities, their hopes and fears. Really, though, it’s probably all I can do… say their names.
After a time I realize Kenzie is echoing the names with me. Hesitantly, missing a few as she tries to follow my voice.
We go on repeating their names. The storm outside is passing. The rain quiets. I spy a streak of late afternoon sunlight beaming through the departing clouds.
Kenzie turns to me. “I need to find Billy.”
I aim the camera at her. “Do you want me to go with you?”
She shakes her head. “I can do this.”
“What if you can’t find him?”
She stands. I do, too.
“What if you get stopped? They’ll put you in the system, won’t they?”
“Been there, done that,” she shrugs.
“What about Iris?” I point at her belly.
“I got four months to figure that out,” she says.
My camera is still running.
“I’ll leave our stuff here,” Kenzie tells me. “If I find Billy, we can come back for it…don’t think I can sleep here again, though.” Once again she cradles her belly.
“Bye.” She heads for the door at the back of the gym. She stops, turns to me. “Thanks for putting me in your film. Me and Iris.”
I wave. “Bye.”
I’m back in the classroom again. Where the kids died. The late afternoon sun flares through the rain-spattered windows and sprays across the floor. I film what I see. Sunlight. I find myself thinking, I wish my dad could have seen only sunlight in this room.
I start reciting my rosary again, this time repeating only one name. Iris. Iris. Iris.
DeSean arrives at a monastery to rest for a few days after a grueling week-long writer’s retreat. Inspiration totally eludes him. He is desperate to find a compelling plot line for his novel. A dead monk helps him.
This week I share a story from the first person point of view. Honestly, I’m not comfortable writing with this POV. Not sure why. Maybe it requires a much deeper dive into a character’s psyche. I find it challenging.
I hope you enjoy it.
Torn and Shredded
Bob Gillen
As I pulled my backpack and duffle bag out of my dirt-streaked Toyota in the monastery parking lot, a robed figure approached me in the fading light.
“Hello, you must be DeSean. I’m Brother Lucien.”
I liked his firm handshake.
“We were concerned. Glad you made it.”
“A massive tie-up on the Thruway,” I said. “A couple of jack-knifed tractor trailers. Had me sitting in my car for hours. Sorry to be late.”
“You’re here now. Ease your mind.” He waved me forward.” Follow me.” Brother Lucien led me down several stone-walled corridors and motioned to a door. “This is your cell while you visit us. Are you hungry?”
“I got fast food when I got off the Thruway.”
“On the desk you’ll find the daily schedule the monks follow during the week. Visitors are welcome to join any of our services, early morning through evening.”
“Thanks.”
“Our first prayers are at 4:30 in the morning. You may find that too early. But the next is at seven, followed by breakfast.”
Brother Lucien turned back before leaving the room. “In your letter you said you were coming to us for a brief rest after a long writer’s retreat in Montreal. May I ask, how did that go?”
I shook my head. “Not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope you find peace while you’re here.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”
A bed, a small dresser, a table and chair filled the tiny room. All wood, all austere. I tossed my bags under the desk, found a bathroom down the hall, and crawled into bed.
The silence crashing down on my little room didn’t reach my brain. I had anticipated this visit to be a rest after a productive writer’s retreat. Stress now oozed out of every one of my pores. The workshop had failed me. Or rather, I had failed. Failed to write anything of any consequence. I had an editor waiting for my manuscript. I was already a month late. All I had was several opening chapters, and the last chapter. Plot eluded me. Totally.
I woke to sun streaming in the single window, someone gently poking my shoulder. I blinked away the sleep. Brother Lucien stood over me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I struggled to focus. “I think so, yes. What time is it?”
“Nine a.m. You missed services and breakfast.”
I shook the sleep from my head. “I thought it was optional.”
“Not mandatory, yes. Most of our guests do prefer to share our life while they are here.”
“I guess I needed my rest. Sorry you had to rouse me.”
Brother Lucien nodded.
I stared at the sunlit window. “Looks like a good morning to walk, to clear my head. Are there any trails or paths here?”
Brother Lucien pointed to the desk.
“There’s a map in the drawer. You will be able to find several quiet paths…Lunch will be at noon.”
I thanked him and he left.
After washing up, I stuck my laptop, a notebook, a pen in my backpack and followed the map to a path that looked promising.
I should have told Lucien I’m not a morning person.
I wandered along a path that took me deep into the woods surrounding the monastery buildings. Scuffing through the leaves on the path, I inhaled the aroma of both fresh and decaying vegetation. Within fifteen minutes I felt like I had disappeared off the face of the earth. Dense foliage, trees that arched over the path, no sunlight penetrating the cover. A profound silence punctuated only by bird calls.
I found a small shaded clearing after walking for another half hour. A bench sat in the center, wood slats set on stone pillars. The sun was not high enough as yet to shine straight down on the clearing. I sat, opened my notebook, and stared at the trees. Inspiration. It has to be here.
The trees offered no inspiration. Nor did the birdsong. Nor the blue sky above. I opened the laptop and read my first chapters. Nothing made sense. Where does the story go from here?
After a fruitless few hours I felt the sun’s heat as it drew directly overhead and warmed the bench. I felt drowsy. Stretching out on the bench, I fell asleep.
For the second time that day, I woke to someone poking my shoulder. This time a bit more insistently.
“DeSean.”
“Oh, hi, Brother Lucien.”
I looked around to get my bearings. “It seems I overslept again.”
“You missed lunch.”
I shrugged. “Odd. I don’t feel hungry.”
“I sense peace is eluding you. Would you prefer to sit here for a while longer?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. I’m at least catching up on my sleep at your monastery.”
“We are here to provide a respite from a busy world. It’s good you are finding rest.” He extended his arms. “I do worry that you will need to eat soon. To nourish yourself.”
I brushed my hand through my hair. “I’ll be back for afternoon services and supper.”
Brother Lucien nodded. “Rest, and let peace find you.” He walked off.
I sat up, grabbed the notebook. Waited for the words, the inspiration. Waited. Waited. Re-read the first chapters. I had no clue where to take the story.
As the sun moved on, and the clearing moved back into shade, I stood. I shook my head, trying to clear my brain fog. No inspiration here. I shuffled back along the path.
Singing floated from the chapel. I slipped in and sat, back against the wall, watching the monks sing their Gregorian chant. About twenty five of them lined both sides of the chapel. I leaned my head back against the wall, enjoying the chants.
I dozed off.
Again, a poke in the shoulder. “Time for supper.”
I felt myself grow crimson as Brother Lucien stood over me. I nodded. Followed him into the dining hall.
I sat in silence at a table with several other visitors I had not seen until now. A monk served us large bowls of lentil soup, filled with vegetables. The warm aroma gnawed at my insides. Trays of fresh bread filled the center of the table. Crusty. Chewy. I ate. Ate like I had never tasted food before.
Afterwards, I wandered back to my cell. I stretched out on the bed with my notebook and pen. Doodled a bit. Wrote a few words. All shit. I fell asleep clutching my open notebook.
Credit: Confidata
I dreamed. An intense dream. Of a monk I had read about years ago. Thomas Merton. Dreamed about him dying by electrocution from a faulty fan. In my dream I saw Merton’s ghost, his spirit, float into my cell, write in my notebook. Music notes appeared to flow from his pen. The notes clung to my notebook pages, then were sucked into an old metal electric fan and shredded, the bits falling around the room like snowflakes.
A chapel bell woke me early. I jolted upright, still dressed from last night. Surprised for a moment. I hadn’t heard the bell yesterday. As my eyes adjusted to the breaking dawn, I saw shreds of paper littered across the floor. My notebook was torn and lying on the desk. I stood, blinking at the unreal scene. The dream came back to me.
I felt like all my thoughts, my feelings lay shredded on the floor. Like it was me shredded and scattered on the floor.
I scooped up the paper shreds, laid them across the desk. I thought I could reassemble the pieces, but they were too small, too erratically torn.
I spied one page intact in the notebook. Written there: Be still, and know that I am God.
Not my handwriting. I shivered.
A slight tap on my door. Brother Lucien stepped in.
“Ah, I see you are awake. I came to invite you to morning services and to breakfast.”
Lucien looked at the shredded paper scattered across the desk top.
“You appear to have had a difficult night.”
I shuddered. “This is not my doing.”
Lucien’s eyes took in the writing in the open notebook.
“‘Be still’…aah.”
A smile crept across his face. I felt confused. “What is it?”
“Am I right in saying you dreamed of this last night?” He gestured to the mess of torn paper.
I nodded.
“One of our spirits has reached out to you. This is good.”
I squinted. “Huh?”
“I am guessing you feel as torn as your battered notebook.”
I felt something release in my chest. My shoulders slumped. “Yes.”
“Your work lies in your peace. You must first be still.”
“But how…?”
Lucien held up his palm. “Come now. Join us in common prayer and a nourishing morning meal.”
I clutched my broken notebook, followed him out the door.
Almost two years ago I posted a story about a girl in a flatbed Ford. Back in the day, when I called this blog Mannequin Monday. More recently I revised it to take the two characters in a different direction.
Matt Briggs is hitching from northern California to Los Angeles in search of work. On the way he meets a girl driving a flatbed Ford. Intrigue ensues.
Matt Briggs sat on a bench at the edge of a mall parking lot, a quarter mile from the freeway off ramp where his last hitch dropped him. He held a cardboard LA sign damp with his sweat, backpack and guitar case at his feet.
A dark green flatbed Ford drove past. The girl driving slowed as she turned to have a look at him. She parked farther out where there was room for her truck.
She walked toward Briggs. Jeans, a faded red tee, worn cowboy boots. Her sun-bleached ponytail flashed in the sunlight. She pointed to his sign. “Headed to LA?”
He nodded.
“I’m headed in your direction. If you wait, I’ll drive you part way.”
Briggs smiled. “Sounds good. How long?”
“Long enough to eat a pizza. I mobile-ordereed.”
“Tell me – gluten free, veggies, fake cheese.”
“Pepperoni.”
“Fooled me,” Briggs said.
“Not hard, I see.”
He put up his hands in surrender. “Got me.”
She said, “I can share. Hungry?”
“Yep.”
They sat outdoors at a metal table, steel chairs squealing on the concrete.
She opened the box, grabbed a slice. “What’s in LA?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A job, I hope. I know a guy runs a food truck. He needs help. Or he can get me in at a craft services company.”
“Where you coming from?”
“The Bay area. Worked a grill for the last six months.”
“Tired of it?”
He sipped a Coke. “Tired of the place. If I see another hipster with a long beard, I’ll throw up.”
She laughed. “A bit biased, are we?”
He chewed off another bite. Waited to answer. Had none.
He shrugged.
“You think you’ll lose that vibe in LA?”
“Nah. Just different. I hope.”
“No girl left behind up north?”
He looked at her over his pizza slice. “Talk about biasses…is it always a broken down love?”
“When is it not?” she asked.
Once more he shrugged. His signature move.
“What was she like?” ponytail asked.
“Wonderful…till she cheated on me.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Then how did she cheat on you?”
“You saying it was my fault?” He leaned in.
“I’m saying, she’s free till she promises herself, right?”
“Not how I see it.”
She pointed a finger at him. “You’re not seeing it right.”
“Isn’t a year together enough of a promise?”
“Not in my book.” She held out her left hand. “While this finger is empty, she’s free.”
“What about you?” Briggs said. “I don’t see a ring on your hand.”
“And you never will.”
They finished the pizza. He ordered coffees for each of them.
“Where are you actually headed?” he asked her.
“Burbank.”
He tipped his head toward her. “A guy?”
She shook her head. “A horse. Checking out a mare I might buy.”
Briggs climbed into her truck, stashed his gear under his feet.
“If traffic is good, we should be in Burbank in under an hour.”
“So, you into horses?’
She nodded. “All my life. No one comes close.”
Briggs leaned back, stared out the window as she drove eastbound on the 101 freeway.
“Where’s your buddy live?” she asked.
“Glendale.”
“Not that far. You might catch a ride from where I’m stopping.”
“If you get the horse, where will you keep it?”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Her. She’s a mare. She, not it.”
He shook his head slightly. “Where?”
“I work on a ranch near Santa Barbara. I can board her there. Till I can afford my own place.”
“You want a ranch?”
“Yep. Some day.”
He turned to look at her. “That’s an expensive dream.”
“You originally from the Bay area?” she asked.
“Nah. College in Iowa. Raised in Indiana. Been out here since I got out of college twelve years ago. Mostly back and forth between LA and San Francisco. That’s where the food action is.”
“You a chef or something?”
He sat up straighter. “I call myself a chef. Everyone sees me as a cook.”
She cheated on me
She smiled. “You got a signature dish?”
“I did. She cheated on me.”
“Christ, that was a stupid answer.”
Another shrug. “A Monterey Club sandwich.”
She glanced over at him. “Make me want to taste it.”
“Three crispy whole wheat tortillas, layered with fried ham, marinated chicken, bacon, Colby Jack cheese, a spicy aioli.”
“What, no lettuce and tomato?”
“Thin slice of tomato, maybe. No lettuce. Makes for a sloppy sandwich.”
“What sides?”
“Thin cut fries, crispy and salty. A big mug of beer, or Coke. Either ice cold.”
She nodded. “You got me. Call me when you get set up somewhere.”
“You want to see me again?”
She pulled off the freeway onto Burbank surface streets. “I want you to cook for me.”
A mother embraces the return of her college-age daughter, whom she had not seen in a year. They reunite on Nantucket Island, each struggling with her own mistakes.
Why Am I Doing This?
Bob Gillen
Shit. Why am I doing this?
Riley Riggins had the text on her phone memorized by now.
Riley: in Hyannis tomw. can I come over to see you
Mom: Yes! Yes, of course. Been so long! Will meet you at the wharf. Can’t wait!
Riley had boarded the car ferry late, sat in the last row inside the cabin, near the stern as it churned towards Nantucket Island. The glorious June sun sparkling on the sea went unnoticed.
A blue hoodie covered her head. Ragged cutoff jeans and faded green Cons completed the outfit. Reaching into the backpack she clutched on her lap, she pulled out a book. The Silver Hammer. Author Hollis Riggins. Riley opened to the front matter. “Hollis Riggins, author of 15 thriller and adventure novels. Hollis Riggins’s characters prowl the New England seacoast, solving mysteries that elude others.”
Her mom made a comfortable living as a successful career novelist, working with a renowned publishing house. A tentative smile cracked Riley’s face as she remembered how her mom had worn out five keyboards cranking out her novels.
The last time Riley saw Hollis, she was driving away from Riley’s dorm at Syracuse University. Freshman year, with a declared major in biology and medical research.
On the steamship wharf, Riley hung back, waiting for most of the passengers and the cars to move ahead. She stepped into the blazing sun, squinting and keeping her eyes down. Maybe she won’t see me.
“Riley! Over here.”
She looked up to see her mom waving both arms. Hollis wore a khaki skirt, a white cotton shirt, sandals. A navy bandana circled her head. Huge sunglasses hid her eyes.
“Mom.” Barely a whisper.
Hollis ran up, reached out to embrace Riley. Stopped midway. Riley stood, arms at her side, shoulders hunched. Hollis took a step back.
“Oh, Riley, it’s been too long. I’m so happy you came. What a great surprise.” Hollis looked deep into Riley’s eyes. She reached up, pushed the hoodie back off Riley’s head. “Oh.”
“I cut it.”
“And added green streaks, I see.”
Riley nodded, eyes on her feet.
“Come on back to my place. I have food in the house.”
Hollis put one arm around Riley’s shoulder. They started off.
“Did you want ice cream? Or a slice?”
Riley shook her head.
They walked in silence, dodging the hordes of passengers and island residents swarming over the wharf. Long lines of cars and cyclists waited to roll onto the departing ferry. Parents herded little kids holding ice cream cones, the drips running down their hands and arms. Dads stuffed pizza slices into their faces. Everyone had a carryon suitcase, a backpack, a tote bag…and a sunburned face. Dogs on leashes paced restlessly.
As they walked nearer to town, Hollis stopped when Riley began sniffling. She pulled Riley aside, guided her to a sidewalk bench.
“What is it?” Hollis asked.
Tears flooded down Riley’s face. She put her head in her hands. Sobbed. Shuddered.
I failed
Hollis sat without speaking.
“I failed.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I fucked up. Fucked up everything.”
Hollis remained silent.
Riley looked up, stared at Hollis. “I dropped out.”
“When?”
“In April. I flunked all but one of my midterms.”
“Which one did you pass?”
“English.”
“Well, okay then.”
Riley managed a weak smile.
“I got a job in a coffee house, crashed with some students who had their own apartment.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Riley shook her head.
“And now you’re home.”
Riley bit her lower lip. “For a few days.”
“Then what?”
“No clue.”
“Okay. One day at a time.”
Riley wiped her face on her hoodie sleeve. “You’re not mad?”
“Confused. Hurt that you didn’t tell me. But thrilled to have you here in front of me. It’s been too long.”
Riley sniffled. “I’m sorry I missed the holidays.”
Hollis said, “Yeah. Me, too.”
The conversation dropped off.
Riley looked to her mom. “I saw your new book.” She pointed to the backpack. “I bought it.”
“You never read my books before.”
“I haven’t read this one yet. Maybe I’ll start it tonight.”
Hollis smiled.
Riley asked, “Is there any place to run here? I’ve taken up running in the last couple months.”
“Yeah, there are trails. Plenty of open space…You like running?”
“I lose myself when I run. It all melts away…for a few hours.”
“Lose yourself…or find yourself?”
Riley shrugged. “That’s a heavy question.”
Hollis nodded. “Maybe I’ll ask you another time.”
“Is it okay I stay with you?”
“Of course. I’m beyond excited you’re here.”
“I’ve never been to Nantucket before.”
“Duh. I forgot. Yeah, I took an apartment here after the holidays. To finish my current novel. I’m really struggling with it.”
A group of teens hustled past, laughing as they took selfies.
“Really?”
“I’m stuck in the middle. I know how it ends, but I can’t get it there. Not yet.” Hollis stood. “Let’s go home.”
Credit: IMG Global
Riley slung her backpack over her shoulder.
Hollis led them to the cobblestoned Main Street. “Look at them all,” she said, waving her hand at the crowds. “They’re either day trippers, or they have a ton of money. Not much in between here.”
Riley listened to the car tires battering over the cobblestones. Smelled the salt air. A white Lab sitting in the back of a parked pickup truck stared at her as they passed. She stepped over, held out her hand for the Lab to sniff. She stroked his fur. The Lab closed its eyes in delight.
They continued walking. “This is nice.”
“My landlord has a couple of Labs. She runs a catering company here. Busy as hell all summer, then all but dead in the winter…She’s always looking for staff.”
Riley nodded, pointed across the street. “Is that a farm truck selling fruit?”
Hollis nodded. “He’s here every day.”
“Be right back.” Riley dodged traffic to cross Main Street. She came back a few minutes later with two peaches. She handed one to her mom. Took a huge bite, the juice running down her arm.
“It’s getting on your hoodie.”
“No worries. It’s already covered with snot.”
At Hollis’s apartment, Riley took a quick shower while Hollis seared scallops in butter. Riley put together a green salad.
Halfway through their supper, Riley set her fork down as tears channelled down her cheeks. “Mom, I fucked up so badly. A whole year gone. The tuition money…”
“Did you fuck up…or was it a learning experience?”
“Shit, you’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“The existential questions.”
“It’s what I do. I’m a writer.” She used her knife to guide lettuce onto her fork.
Riley wiped her eyes with a paper napkin.
Hollis said, “Can I share something with you?”
Riley’s eyes widened. “I guess.”
“I fucked up, too.”
“Huh?”
“A major fuckup. I lost my publisher. After fifteen years.”
“How?”
“You know how I have always had a benign disrespect for authority…in this case, management.”
“You were hell on my teachers in high school.”
“Which I do not apologize for….well, they assigned me to a new editor. Someone with not a lot of experience. I think they thought she could break in with me. I’d be an easy writer to work with….Wrong!”
“They dumped you?”
“Well, I suppose it was mutual. She tried to turn my book into a different story. I looked her in the eye, told her ‘ESAD’.”
“Wait, what?”
“ESAD. Eat shit and die.”
“Oh.”
Hollis leaned back in her chair. “That did not go well. The new editor had connections. We parted ways.”
“Now what?”
“Finish my work-in-progress, then find a new publisher.”
“Anyone would be glad to take you on.”
“I have a good track record…but publishing is a small world. I may have burned my bridges.”
“Can you live on your royalties?”
“If they don’t take my books out of print.”
Sounds like we’re both in between
Riley reached her hand out to touch Hollis’s wrist.
Hollis said, “Sounds like we’re both in between.”
As they washed and dried the dishes, Hollis asked, ”Would you like to read my draft?”
“Really? I don’t know any of your stories.”
“A fresh eye might help. But there are a lot of gaps.”
“No worries. I can get a sense of it.”
Hollis stepped into the living room and came back with a flash drive. “This is it. Go for it.”
“Tomorrow…after a good sleep.”
“I’m going to the market to get in some breakfast food. Want anything?”
“A decent bagel, if you can find one.”
“See you in a few.”
Hollis woke to the aroma of fresh coffee. She stepped into the kitchen to find Riley working on her laptop. “You’re up early.”
“I don’t sleep in any more. Can’t when you’re crashing in someone else’s place.” She pointed to the counter. “Have a bagel. They’re not bad. Much better than upstate New York.”
Hollis poured coffee, slathered a bagel with blueberry jam. “It’s so refreshing to see you sitting at the table again.”
Credit: WeeklyGravy
Riley pointed to her screen. “I made comments on your story.”
“Comments? Did you read all of it?”
Riley smiled. “Read it… and wrote comments. I left your original document untouched.”
“You could have added comments and hit Track Changes.”
“I know, but I wanted to read it through first.”
Riley got up to refill her coffee mug. Leaning against the counter, she looked at her mom. “You know the ESAD thing you talked about last night?”
“Yeah?” Hollis bit off a chunk of bagel.
Riley took a deep breath. “I think my fuckup caused that, too.”
Hollis cocked her head. “How so?”
“I’ve been thinking…you must have been so distressed over my not coming home for the holidays, and not texting often enough…I made you lose your publisher.”
Riley’s eyes glistened with fresh tears. “And it’s my fault you can’t pull this book together. You’ve never had trouble with that.”
Hollis pursed her lips. “You could be right.”
Riley’s eyes widened. Hollis said, “The ESAD incident had nothing to do with you. That was strictly a work issue.” She got up to warm her coffee in the microwave. “But…you’ve been so distant since the holidays. You stepped away from me. Why?”
Riley shrugged, brushed away more tears. She sat again. “My roommate had a biology major, like me. Her family works in healthcare…well, in pharma. I met some of them in Miami. They turned my stomach. It was all about money for them. Fuck the little guy. Sell millions of pills and put it all in the bank. I spent two weeks there living off their money, off the money they got from screwing over their customers.”
Riley wiped her eyes. “When we got back to campus for second semester, I drifted away from her. And someone in our dorm OD’ed. On pills. My head got so twisted.”
She stood, side by side with her mom. “I sold my dorm stuff, got a job in the coffee shop, and crashed with a couple of older students. I paid some rent, but mostly crashed. When school closed, I knew I had to see you. I couldn’t stall any more.”
“I’m glad you came.”
Riley sat once again and pulled her laptop close. “I was thinking. Maybe this book should be a standalone from your earlier ones. New setting, even a couple of new characters.”
Hollis squinted. “So you agree with the editor I dumped. I need to turn it into a different book.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m guessing it’s already different from your others. That’s why it won’t come together for you. You’re forcing it to be like the others.”
Hollis ran her tongue over her upper lip.
Rileys words came out slowly, hesitantly. “If you think I might be right…I can help you…if you want.”
Hollis crossed her arms. “That’s a lot of change to consider.”
“I just thought…” She closed her laptop.
Hollis stared out the window. Turned back to Riley.
“If I do this…if I ask you to help…no more bullshit.”
Riley met Hollis’s eyes. “I can take a gap year. And you can talk to the caterer for me…about summer work.”
She took Riley’s hands, stood her up, hugged her hard. Then set her at arm’s length. “Don’t expect a co-author credit on the book.”
“Ghost writers don’t usually get attribution, do they?”
“You were a ghost the past year. You’re real now. And no, no attribution.”
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