Diary of a Heretic

The Walls Close In

The insurance paid for a new Toyota. With Colette strapped in her car seat, Jeanne drove on the highway where Paul had died. It was on the way to Colette’s day care, going the opposite direction.  Still, Jeanne noticed the cracked barrier.

Either Paul was terribly distracted—Jeanne envisioned a curly-haired woman beside him, her seat belt undone, but not that time (she didn’t appear in the police report)—or a destructive urge that overwhelmed him at the wrong moment. She would never know, and resolved to stop wondering. No explanation could undo what was done. 

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

 “The boy Toby doesn’t have a daddy,” Colette said. “Same as me. Only Toby’s daddy’s still alive. But Toby doesn’t know him.”

Jeanne asked Colette if she missed Paul. “Everybody does. Don’t worry, Mommy.”

Paul had worked long hours and his attention to Colette was more dutiful than doting. He had shown little to no evidence that his small daughter made him proud or brought him pleasure. Jeanne hadn’t thought so before, but now his determination rose in her mind, personifying him.

All the tiny rifts where she and Paul missed a beat or their attention lapsed, their desires wandered and dreams diverged haunted her. Instead of dying, Paul should simply have left them. Perfectly good fathers did it all the time.

Two minutes ago Jeanne resolved not to speculate, because she couldn’t know. Paul had routinely said he loved her and loved Colette. Their lives, he insisted, would get better. Don’t let momentary, senseless regrets trip you up, Jeanne. He had said that often. It was a mistake, he told her, to think so much. Just live your life; that’s what it’s for. Jeanne dwelled on details that capable, highly successful people preferred to overlook.

Under Paul’s instruction, she learned to behave carefully; she learned to fake it well enough so that even the most suspicious types would forgive a flurry of over-enthusiasm or a momentary protest flickering within her complacent gaze.

How much more difficult this—and everything—was without Paul beside her. Afraid of failing Colette, Jeanne couldn’t sleep. The child balked if Jeanne clung to her too intently. Too many puzzles and stories and songs—Colette wanted to rest. Her daughter’s complaints shocked Jeanne, reflecting so exactly her famous faults. Jeanne overdid it. She was too much—for everybody.

And if she weren’t careful, she’d warp her perfect little girl with her awful stridency.

Jeanne knew enough to give Colette love rather than take love. Mothers were there to teach and nurture: Teach, nurture, and with exquisite timing back off.

Her sister Patti sympathized, but thought Jeanne was overreacting. For the past months Patti occasionally phoned, when she had never paid Jeanne much attention before. Of course, Patti said, she understood exactly how Jeanne was. After all, they had grown up in the same house with the same shadowy parents; the same boisterous friends. “Relax. Meditate. You’ll get over this,” Patti said over the phone.

Jeanne was meditating. She couldn’t sleep in Paul’s bed. Every night the walls closed in while the ceiling incrementally descended. Lack of sleep set her teeth chattering. “When nobody’s watching, I layer on sweaters, even though it’s July. While Colette’s asleep, I wear wool socks and heavy boots.”

Jeanne claimed she could hear every mechanical squeak within a five mile radius. And the smells! An inescapable stench never let up.

“If you move here, you’ll be happy,” Patti said, sarcastically.

Yet, Jeanne still found the remark odd and interesting. When asked why she had offered such a suggestion, Patti snorted. “Because if you come to Kansas, you’ll suddenly discover that by golly, you’re set.”

“I hope you meant that,” Jeanne said, “because I’m desperate to move. Everything reminds me of Paul and I’d rather not be reminded. Given half a chance, I’d sell the house and everything in it for half-price.”

Patti had not sincerely suggested Jeanne move to Kansas. Yet the possibility looked more and more appealing to Jeanne every day. Without directly telling Patti, Jeanne decided that if her dingy Cape Cod had not sold by August, she intended to move to Kansas anyway. True, her most immediate associations with Kansas came filtered through “The Wizard of Oz” movie. To Jeanne, the fantasy aspect was hers to create: she never once doubted that Kansas would prove the perfect place for Colette to grow. She imagined packing up Colette’s toys and clothes and taking to the road at day-break one day or the next in August, well before rush hour.

(Click here to read the next episode)

A Dire Business

One minute Jeanne had supposed nothing really bad was likely to happen to her. And the next minute was now: the dire business of living day to day.

When the official on the phone had finally found his voice and reported the car crash to her, Jeanne had drawn her knees to her breasts and wrapped her arms tightly around her shins, afraid even to cry.

[Click here to read the first episode.]

But by the next morning she proceeded with more confidence than she had ever known. After all, her chief responsibility now was to protect Colette, because her father driving eighty miles an hour toward an exit ramp was a terrible anomaly. Jeanne gave Colette the news seriously but matter-of-factly while driving the child to day care.

Without ever guessing she’d be in this position, Jeanne had read books and magazine articles explaining how important it was to maintain a child’s routine during any unforeseen upheaval. The day care center had phoned early this morning stressing the same point of view. Colette, the director said, would be much happier if her life continued as closely as possible to before the tragedy. Nobody at that time approved including a toddler, who would be too young to remember much about her father, in the funeral proceedings.

After discussing these things with the day-care director, who promised to phone Jeanne if Colette asked for her, she returned home to a crowd of people surrounding her premises, most of them laden with food trays and boxes of alcohol, as if snacks and vodka might solve her concerns. Soon her parents and Paul’s arrived. All of whom expressed their grief with the violence of hurling themselves down waterfalls, after which, Jeanne submitted to continual damp hugs.

Her father asked to retrieve Colette and take her to lunch at McDonalds as a surprise treat. This wasn’t the Colette’s routine, of course, but neither was a mob of inebriated adults weeping and swaying and balancing towers of foodstuffs on paper plates.

In no time, it seemed, Colette was pulling Jeanne onto the back porch to tell her how much she loved Coca-Cola. A next door neighbor whose little girl was Colette’s best friend invited the child to spend the night.

Jeanne was packing her daughter’s overnight bag when her mother pushed inside the crowded room and asked if Jeanne really thought it best to send Colette away. “She should be with her mother, and surrounded by aunts and grandparents, I think.”

“She’s more than surrounded,” Jeanne said. “She’s squished, frightened by the crowd, and queasy from noise. Five minutes ago, I found her hiding in the closet, trying to escape the swarming grown-ups who paw at her and drink and weep.”

“Still,” Jeanne’s mother-in-law had forced her way into the tiny child’s bedroom, “after losing her father, she should be with her mother.”

Jeanne sat back on her heels. The crush of neighbors, her deceased husband’s coworkers, and various daycare parents remained in place, observing Jeanne, her mother, and mother-in-law. Poor, overwhelmed Colette sucked her thumb between Jeanne’s knees. She pressed her curly blond head into her mother’s shoulders and sniffled. “If something like this ever happens to you, I promise not to criticize whatever choices you might make. We do our best when faced with tragedy. I can tell my child finds the crowd frightening. I find it frightening. She wants to spend the night with her friend. Staying up all night, clinging to me while everyone drinks and laughs and cries does not strike me as the best way to comfort her. It might give you comfort. It might even give me comfort, but not Colette. Nobody can explain what happened…”

Jeanne’s older sister Patti, who had joined the throng, said, “If you want, I’ll explain it what happened.”

“I don’t want that,” Jeanne said. “I will spend the rest of my life explaining it to her, and to me.” She finished selecting Colette’s pajamas and clothes for tomorrow, when she hoped she could stop at the neighbors before the girls went to school. She realized she still needed to address her relatives regarding Paul’s funeral and why Colette would not attend. It wasn’t a wedding. True, the toddler might toss rose petals onto her father’s open grave, but given the circumstances, Jeanne found the picture grotesque. Chances were Colette wouldn’t remember. Why make her suffer?

Later, Patti said, “Some people might call you a bad mother, keeping Colette apart.”

“Let them,” Jeanne said. “Maybe it will make them feel better about Paul’s death. Maybe he drove into an embankment at eighty miles an hour because he also feared I was a bad mother to his daughter. Well, I’m not a bad mother; in fact, I am so sure I’m a good mother that I don’t care what they say. Although, my guess is that if anyone among these heavy drinkers has ever suffered such a staggering and sudden loss, they might agree with me that if just once during our lifetimes, for one minute, on one horrific occasion, we could find it in within ourselves not to judge each other, these are the times. What right do we have to assume that someone with dry eyes is heartless or less loving than those given to copious weeping? Or that someone who’s too stunned to speak is cold and unfeeling compared to the glib soul offering one endearing recollection about our dear departed after the next?”

“Shit,” Patti said. “Case made. You’re not a bad mother. Colette can go to day care and spend the night at her little friend’s house and let her grandfather take her to McDonalds. She’s still not won’t understand why her father’s dead.”

“Why is that so important this second?” Jeanne said. “I don’t understand why he’s dead.”

“He’s dead, dear sister, because he sped head on into concrete embankment.” “

That’s the reality,” Jeanne’s mother and mother-in-law said in unison. “You can’t protect your child from life as it is. Her daddy’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

“That’s not how I want to do it,” Jeanne said. “I don’t want my two year old to memorize the facts of her father’s car crash. I don’t see how it will help her understand. It doesn’t help me. Oh wait, now you think I’m crazy. Well, I certainly understand he’s not coming back. I just don’t understand the religious underpinnings, if you will.”

“Religious underpinnings?” Patti shook her head. “You have no idea how to grieve sensibly.”

“When this happens to you, Patti,” Jeanne said, “you can show everybody: here’s how to grieve sensibly. Follow these instructions, stay within these bounds, shed a few tears but don’t ruin your eye-make up.”

“That’s enough,” Jeanne and Patti’s mother said. “Jeanne, if you believe Colette will be happier at her friends and won’t resent you her entire life for keeping her from her father’s funeral, go right ahead. It’s your decision.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

A Last Glance Back

Jeanne was twenty-five when it happened. Colette was almost three, and already asleep for the night. Single-rib lamb chops lay marinating in fresh lemon and thyme. They had listened to Daddy A Go Go while Jeanne folded laundry and Colette jumped on the couch. Paul objected to Jeanne letting Colette ruin their furniture—or anyone else’s.

“She won’t ruin other people’s furniture. Colette knows jumping is allowed only at home, and only when I’m in the room with her.”

“Why do you think she can decipher unwritten rules, Jeanne? People shouldn’t assume they can do that.”

“Paul, most people do it perfectly, no assumption involved. They know automatically. It depends on the rules.” From then on, Colette jumped on the couch when her mother was home to watch her and her father was not.

But within a few months, along with everything else, Jeanne and Colette had lost the part of life that required treading lightly, even at home sometimes. Their private behavior mattered less. Odd what you end up missing. Jeanne understood why people imagined that someone imperceptible was watching over them from above.

That night for Colette’s dinner, she cut cold chicken into small pieces and fixed a small bowl of noodles.

Only on weekends did the three of them eat together. Week nights Paul opened the door just in time to read Colette a good-night story. That night, though, he had phoned saying he couldn’t leave his office until eight-thirty

“Apple or pear?” Jeanne asked Colette.

“Pear, please, Mommy.” Eating the juicy pear slices, making a mess her mother hadn’t anticipated. Colette said, “The mean boy didn’t bite me today.”

Jeanne hadn’t known any boy had ever bitten Colette. But when she asked who the boy was, Colette looked away. “He never bited me.”

Jeanne read Colette the book about the mouse and a stone cutter in a cathedral, while Colette turned the pages and pointed at the mouse as if it were hidden, which it wasn’t.

Then Jeanne kissed her daughter, who was still sleeping in a crib, adjusted the night-light, and closed the door.

She added salt and pepper to the meat and fixed a fresh green salad. Between eight-thirty and nine, she drank a beer and read the newspaper. It was mid-June and dusk was only beginning to infiltrate the house. Jeanne had no idea why Paul was working late or why he hadn’t phoned.

In their bedroom she dabbed cologne on her fingertips and ran them through her thick shiny hair. She had dropped her shift and reclined on their bed naked. When the phone rang, she was imagining Paul’s breath in her ear. Languid but eager, she had drawled, “Hello,” in a voice that would never sound as casual and calm again. In the terrible, infinite pause between her “hello,” and an official hesitancy, Jeanne realized Paul had died. The man on the phone cleared his throat and she almost screamed, “Is he alive?”

Jeanne’s husband drove their green hatchback going eighty miles an hour into a concrete barrier flanking Interstate 287.  The evening was mild and visibility was excellent.

She closed her eyes and her entire awareness stole one last glance back before her teeth began knocking together.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Do It Again

Several years ago I started this blog as a way to stop rewriting the same five or ten pages to death. After adjusting to how public it was—even one reader feels significant after writing in total privacy—I imagined blog fiction as a kind of “performance art,” in keeping with my intention to go over the prose again if I wanted to keep it.

After a while I came to believe that on a blog my prose works best in 500 to 600 word episodes. This belief changed my writing, which used to go on rather long. Most of my blog episodes ran one into another, with the story reaching its conclusion at approximately a hundred manuscript pages, or novella-length, which I’m told is unmarketable. Still, I think they are worth reworking. 

Except for a few very kind souls, I rarely get comments. But when I do, the comments often show me areas or avenues I hadn’t considered. One remark or another has altered a plot’s direction or intensified my characters’ relationships.

We’ll see how it goes. I’ll give it my all and you can let me know, one way or another.  Up first is Nine One One (titled after the emergency phone number, not 9/11/01).

Real Situation

Brian’s spending the night, keeping me under observe-reverb-er-ration.

Wearing only jeans, dreads drippin’, I catch Brian in the moonlight crossing the yard. Beside him flows Hailey in a little dress. Sublime Hailey troubles me more all the time.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Tis true, I’m a break-out fool for Hailey. My first sight inside the radiance was Hailey’s astonishing splendor. Then I landed on me rass and closed my eyes, desperately aware of how hard I love her. More than me own soul. Nothing I can do, though. Hailey was born for Brian. Right after she met him, she whispered in me ear, “So that’s Brian the Lion.”

Altogether, I spent six weeks with Hailey. We shared plenty of true love. But that was nothing compared to Brian’s, which grows purer all the time.

Didn’t trouble me at first. I had whole heaps of time, and believed in linking with lots of girls. Saying no words, Hailey and me agreed: she should be with Brian. And to this day, no clue for me. Like I don’t fully exist.

Before our Daddy died, I was oblivious to loneliness. But after the astounding light surrounded me, which led to the mania, et cetera, no situation’s easy. An in the overpowering luminescence, I see how Brian and Hailey’s love brings out the best and bravest in them.

An I-and-I appear nowhere. How can Hailey be born for me same as Brian? When in the light maybe I was never even fully born. Could be I’m a figment.

Hailey’s standing behind Brian, who finds me on the deck. “I need to stay overnight with you, Trevor. So I can rush you to the hospital if you get groggy or sick.”

Thing is, Brian says, he has to get a bunch of students out of jail and then go pick up a group from the hospital. “Mostly guys who drank too much. I’ll be driving around all night.”

So Hailey’s watching over me. She knows what’s normal for me. After Brian leaves, she cuts her eyes all around till they fix on mine. I look away first. But she’s reassuring me. “Don’t get bothered, Trevor. We’ll be fine. Can I heat you some soup?”

I ask if she wants a little soup too. But she and Brian already ate. She’s going to read her book in the main room.

“Take anything you want, Hailey.”

Just saying her name seems desperately intimate; my voice too low and gentle. I didn’t say honey or darling or sweetheart. But saying, “Hailey” out loud affected me as if I kissed her lips. An stroked the inside of her arms. When I’m steadier, I smile. “’Night sister.”

“If you wake up, honey, come and wake me.” She can call me honey, no big deal. “I’ll peep in sometimes to make sure you aren’t sleeping too heavily.”

“A yah.”

Near sun-up Brian returns. They both stand by my bed. Hailey touches my nose and Brian taps me chin. “Here’s your phone, Trevor. I’ll be back after I run. Another few days, and we’ll be running together.”

They leave, whispering. I wait a few beats and bound outside; the dawn’s just breaking. From her deck across from mine, Polly’s glaring red eye at me.

“Morning, Polly.”

“No trickery now!” She scuttles onto my deck and pokes my chest where she punctured it when she was hiding in that tree. The spot still itches. “I’ve stayed awake, Trevor. So I know. You and Hailey had sex all night.”

“You don’t even know what sex is, Polly.”

“I know it’s not that damn lie you told me. ‘Guava jelly or fresh jam,’ you said. Carla and Crescent laughed at me. They laughed and laughed.” She forces me against the glass wall. I could push free but it’s better to make her ease up.

“Guava jelly was a metaphor, that’s all. An no matter wha’ppun in your water color class, Polly, I would never interfere between Brian and Hailey.”

“But you love Hailey like crazy. Like real weird love. And making love’s more serious than sex.”

“Making love is more serious, Polly. Hailey and I don’t make love. All her love-making is with Brian.”

“That’s not what Carla says. She told me the whole story about you and Hailey.”

“You think Carla knows everything?” I’m dizzy and want to sit down. “Did you hear what happened to me at Carla’s? There was a riot and I got a concussion.”

“You were at Carla’s and not me! You went to Carla’s and then came home and had sex with Hailey.”

“Don’t be stupid, Polly.” I push her backwards, but lightly.

“You think I’m stupid. You have sex with all the girls but not me because you think I’m stupid.”

“That’s not why. You’re not stupid. I only said ‘don’t be like that’ because you keep saying I had sex with Hailey and you’re wrong.”

“You’re a liar, Trevor. You’re a liar and a cheater and I hate you!” She turns around, walking away.

But now she’s back, shoving me against the wall. I need to lie down. But she’s yelling, “Caw! Caw!” and waving her hands near my face. When I reach to stop one hand, she plunges my Daddy’s razor-sharp knife into the itchy spot on my chest. The pain grows deeper and deeper. Polly’s twisting a four inch knife into my heart. A four inch knife but it’s real sharp and she hits the right spot.

I try telling her, “Leave it,” meaning the knife. Leave it in me and I’ll lose less blood. But it’s no use. Blood from my heart spreads through my lungs. It’s a puddle and then a pond. I’m thinking—all this within seconds—if she just leaves the knife in, less blood will gush out. But it makes no difference. I can’t breathe. My heart’s blood is drowning me.

Dying happens fast. My head drops and I’m gone. There’s nothing.

Or no, some static revives enough awareness so that I’m vaguely here when the knife clatters on the deck. Polly pulled out the knife. I slump in half.

From an impossible distance, my corpse thuds against glass, and then wood. It falls forward and knocks over a chair. Or maybe not.

Because I’m not here anymore. Far away nerve endings signal a final commotion. Polly has run into the woods. I don’t see her. I can’t see at all. But the idea’s stubborn: The covetous beast runs off.

And so there is nothing. But darkness.

The End

Burnin and Lootin

All Carla’s friends told her that if Trevor was singing at the Eden cafe on a Friday night—Friday night—it was asking for disaster; playing with fire.

Lauren and Crescent could scarcely believe she’d set it up. “What were you smoking,Carla, when you decided Trevor should sing at the Eden any night or even any day?”

“What? Who told you?”

Crescent pushed in closer. “So Polly’s lying?”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“Shit! I didn’t tell Polly.” Furious, Carla almost spit. “We watched TV last night but I didn’t say anything.”

Crescent and Lauren shook their heads. “Too late to stop the rumor.”

“Does Angelina know?”

“Don’t think so,” Crescent said. “She was here when Trevor and Brian started their run. Wondering what we doing here so early. Lauren said you were bringing us fresh berries.”

Carla’s voice shook. “Trevor was talking about how happy he was his first weeks here. Looking up at me, so wistful and naked that suddenly I said, ‘Why not sing Friday at the café?’”

Lauren smirked. “So that explains it. He was naked.”

“It’s not for thirty-six hours. Maybe I can call still it off.”

Lauren said, “I can ask Daddy to close the café for inspection.”

“The police shut down my place without warning? No. We’ll announce it as a last minute event. Limited to the first one hundred customers.”

Friday afternoon, Carla put signs in the window. By five pm, the café was so packed that she asked people to wait outside while she and the kitchen staff pushed tables and chairs out of the way. Carla then sent the kitchen staff home, since nobody would be eating.

Before seven, Trevor sneaked through the back door. He kissed Carla deeply—all honor and blessings.

He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over a t-shirt, both white. And a dark blue tam. Carla stared at him, recalling he had hoped to do this at lunch, some Tuesday. She must have been out of her mind to say, “Friday evening.”

He set up his equipment along the rise before the closed fireplace. “Remember, Carla?” Trevor held up the guitar Brian had bought for his first gig. (Had Brian caught wind of this, Trevor wouldn’t be here.)

Seeing the standing-room only crowd, Trevor pulled Carla into the closed kitchen. “No regular customers, eating and not listening to me? Last time I-and-I sang alone, mania broke out.”

Carla said, “I’m sorry, honey. I made a mistake.” They watched a crush of people pressing against the front glass wall. “Can you look for hints, Trevor? You know, in your lights.”

“Don’t need inner light to see this scene. You ladies must leave. Immediately.” Trevor turned and covered his face. “Leave now.”

“What ’bout you?”

“Can’t see myself in the light. But this feels like my last bashment.”

After the women left, a roiling horde pushed inside. Young men in UNC sports jerseys grabbed liquor bottles from the bar. Others filled beer pitchers.

Trevor stood tall. “Cease and skettle!” He tapped the mic. “Shut up!”

The mayhem dropped a notch. Trevor sang, “Nice time.” People shoved with nowhere to move, when a wave of bodies crashed through the front windows. The shattering sound interrupted Trevor’s refrain. Smashed sheets of glass were falling like in his dream.

A fresh mob broke through, ripping the front doors from their frame. Another horde crashed through the back door. Still, Trevor could always disappear, upon seeing his way.

Trevor yelled and whistled. “Ya rest or I’m gone.” He inched into the shadows. Maybe the mob quieted a bit. Trevor thought it did. Enough to begin “Dewdrops,” only to stop, because he couldn’t hear anything but the crowd’s slurs and din. People tossed drinks in the air and liquids rained down. Those in front, including Trevor, got drenched. Then someone hurled a beer mug, which hit Trevor’s forehead and knocked him out.

And, next Trevor knew, Chief Babylon had hoisted him over his shoulder. The police chief raised a taser at the brawling mob.

Two fire engines, alarms sounding, blocked the top of Main Street. The Chief made little progress until he pulled off Trevor’s tam. “It’s your idol,” Everett yelled at the mob. “Ya want him to die?”

He swung Trevor around, carrying him like a baby. And people made space in increments. Eventually, Everett reached his police car. When he and Trevor were both safely inside, he started the siren. The masses separated before the wailing vehicle. On I-40 Trevor sat up, having regained enough strength to light a joint.

“What the hell?”

Trevor passed it to the Chief. “Jacob’s most soothing mixture.”

“Trevor, please.” And then, “Sure, why not?” Everett filled his lungs and put the snuffed joint in his pocket. “You’ve had a concussion and can’t smoke.”

The emergency room doctor recognized Trevor from previous incidents. “Tell me what happened.” Trevor did, in detail.

“And who’s this who brought you here?” the doctor pointed.

“Mi good fren’ Chief Babble-a-Babylon.”

The doctor frowned. “He calls me that for fun,” Everett explained.

After stitching Trevor’s forehead, the doctor asked him to gauge his headache pain on a scale of one to ten.

“Mi best guesstimate? Between a one-plus an two-minus.”

To Everett, the doctor said, “Someone must stay with him tonight. Someone who can tell if he’s acting normal.”

(Click here for the conclusion)

Hammer

Carla’s here ’bout every day but in the kitchen, ya see? This afternoon I’m smoking me after-school spliff in the yard when Carla comes baby-stepping from Polly’s. Seeing me leaning against the boulder, her face brightens. “Trevor, my love. Long, long time!”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“You look cris, Carla. Curvy and toothsome. Ya staying with Marvin?”

She shakes her head, “That con-man!” and tugs the long, snug skirt on her ample hips. “Polly made this for me.” Carla twirls around. “See the back?”

“It flatters you, darling.” Nice stitchery onna long bright-colored swatches.

“Too nice for cooking,” Carla says. She takes the spliff from me. “I miss you, Trev. You’re always with Brian. Ya-Ya or Polly.”

“The mania chains me to the ground.”

I want the spliff back but she dips sideways. “Wish I’d never left Brian.”

Stepping onto me deck, Carla settles inna chair. “Marvin. Hailey. No doubt Leon, too. A family of takers.”

“Carla, don’t lie ’bout Hailey. She’s didn’t take Brian. You were busy chasing different men.”

“Oh yeah? Polly says you’re in love with Hailey.”

“Ya nuh see? Polly’s half-right these days. But if you talk screwy to her, she’ll get vexed at me or Hailey or someone. And then red-eye becomes a covetous beast.”

Carla stands up. “Here’s my trouble. My heart’s broken, Trevor. Three men, three times.” She finally hands me the spliff.

“Ya want me to comfort you, sweetheart?”

“Can you?”

 “Yah-so,” I tell her, “inside.”

That first time I comforted Carla so, she was already getting fatty—nuh the sweet little biscuit she was when she lived with Brian. By da time that ol’ Marc bun her, she was cute and chubby; but that’s the right shape for her; Carla’s whole nature is gravilious.

Course now she’s fierce and big, bela lady, but if ya see her pure, it’s a massive fresh beauty. That kinda serious voluptuous woman. So I take care to admire her fully. “Carla, darlin’, since when were you so luscious like this?” Closin’ da door, I’m strokin’ her and humming appreciation. “Luscious to touch.”  

Later, resting a while—she was always a work-out—I tell her how much I’d love to sing and play the guitar the way I started, just me, at the Eden café. To my surprise, she’s all for it.

“Fridays,” she says. “Your old equipment’s in the store-room.”

Friday’s risky with Awake playing down the street. I’m safer at the bonfire. But Carla’s set on Friday evening. I can take my spot by the fireplace and sing songs of freedom.

It’s nowhere near dark when she leaves and I peek about, hoping Polly doesn’t see. Then I fall back in bed, my eyelids heavy while I choose songs for Friday.

I was asleep for hours in such deep darkness that no light penetrated my dreams. No moon. No stars. Nothing. And then a terrible cascading explosion. Shattering glass, a sheet of it, crashing down. Smashed to bits, the glass walls fall and keep falling…

But when I flick on a light—no broken glass. Some earth-shaking shattering noise plummeting from the mountaintops woke me. Mountaintops: that must be a dream. But I still feel a hammer smashed all the glass walls.

Outside, everything’s fine though. Nothing’s been blasted to smithereens. I gaze around at the intact cabins and sneak back against the woods, checking on Polly. She and Carla are eating popcorn and watching TV.

(Click here to read the next episode)

 

Rainbow Country

Everyone settled into warmer, longer days. Angelina and Kaya were planning a summer festival, a pure celebration—not a presentation like the winter festival.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

They wanted Trevor to mingle with the regular art students, even if he studied mostly in Asheville. Strange but true: he knew none of the young dancers, painters, or poets. Used to be, Trevor drew everyone close, women especially. But now he had decided his girlfriends from last year were plenty.

With Angelina and Kaya on Sunday, the three of them lounging on the couch, Trevor confessed that he ached to make music like before. “Sing a bit. People jammin’. Someday.” Assured sitting between his Mommies, Trevor kissed each of their cheeks.

The next morning, he and Brian raced along the mountain trails, sharing a new found freedom they couldn’t name. “Maybe we’re just faster,” Brian said.

“Nuh,” Trevor said, “something more. Like we’re right together. Forward an upful.”

Hailey had gently faded away from Trevor’s days. Brian sometimes mentioned her. And Trevor said, “Always depend ’pon her.” Glad for Brian, Trevor was holding onto large gratitude. Thankye Lord. The push for Trevor to eat at their table or just flex with Brian and Hailey had evaporated.

Brian had declared he would accompany Trevor whenever he performed at the Avalon—the crowd had grown too demanding and he needed an escort if not a bodyguard (no matter how many bouncers stood nearby.) On Saturday nights Brian watched from the catwalk; Trevor’s followers moved in a constant, churning spiral.

And when Trevor disappeared? Brian had his car around the corner, engine running, side door open.

On Friday nights, Awake minus Trevor played two sets for the same mob, who were not regular people out for fun. Videos of Trevor whetted their hunger for Trevor in real life. It made them that much greedier, while the Avalon and Awake made more money than ever.

With Earle fronting Awake on Friday nights, Jacob and Trevor led the ritual bonfire at the Consortium. Drums and chanting fit with the poetry classes; the bonfires reflected on the art-college culture. True enough. No guitar; Trevor and Jacob played the congas. Alec Olsen chanted his poetry and then they all chanted traditional blessings.

Preparing for second bonfire without Earle, Trevor remembered the guiros he had bought from Miller’s music shop. At the time, he thought Polly could play them onstage with Awake’s back-up singers. She’d love performing. Except cho! How had he forgotten the round dance, the mash of followers?

Even here, she wouldn’t want to scrape the guiro solo. So Trevor found Crescent and gave the hand instruments to her. “You and Polly keep the beat with us, darling.”

Polly hurried back to her cabin and put on a dress and hat to match Crescent. The next day, when Trevor visited her, Polly said, “Crescent and me were the only bonfire girls. We were the stars.”

A relief. Ever since the water color class, she had talked about nothing but Trevor’s secret love and how radical it was. “I seen it, Trevor,” she kept saying. “Seen it plain. What do I get for not telling?”

“Nothing.”

Polly could say anything she liked. Hailey had stepped back without a word. Trevor was pure hard honor. Nothing and nobody could break that.

After visiting Polly, Trevor stepped into the light and saw Brian and Hailey wracked with sorrow. For days whenever he meditated, Brian and Hailey were holding each other, waiting in grief. Their love steadied their desperate minds, which reeled from some unimaginable trial.

Again and again Trevor would turn away, upset by their misery. Only to look back, anxious to learn what had happened. But the light burned painfully bright; his eyes went blank.

Not till Sunday after seeing Angelina and Kaya did Trevor’s sight cast farther forward. The sorrow remained but there was new joy. Late next year, near Christmas time, Brian and Hailey would have a baby girl.

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