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Late to the Party

11/19/2009

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The roses on the night stand gently bob their over-bloomed heads, lulled by the steady vibrations of her foot tapping on the hardwood floor. Arms crossed and face stony she is an imposing figure though he can’t see her. His back is turned as he steps into the shower. The clock on the nightstand remains undisturbed, the big hand pointing to the top of the dial, the little hand on the seven. She sees this and the roses shake harder.

Stepping into the shower, he knows that they are late. He knows it is his fault, and he knows he is going to be paying for it for the rest of the evening.  Still, he smiles at the thought of her wandering the bedroom aimlessly checking the seams of her dress and the curl in her hair while she waits for him. He smiles remembering her exasperated look and her pleading for him to “get the lead out.” He luxuriates for a minute under the warm steady pressure of the water. It feels somehow like a victory. He doesn’t stay long though, because even now it also makes him feel like kind of an asshole.

He appears behind her in the mirror, hair wet but groomed. As he grabs his suit jacket he catches her eye in the glass and comes to stand beside her. The make a striking couple, a modernist revision of American Gothic, no smiles, stern eyes. He bites the thought back before it pops out of his mouth. Now is not the time for jokes. It's not time to be friends again yet.

As they head to the car there is a pause before he grabs the keys, but he will drive. Though it’s her car, her house and her friends they are going to dine with, he'll drive. It's what they both want. She grabs the dessert tray she's made to appease the guests they will once again have kept waiting. He takes a look at the assortment she has arranged on a silver tray. Even through the overly cautious extra layers of cling wrap he can see it’s a pretty display.

He's somewhat ashamed of his earlier behaviour, more so when they pull onto the highway to see the traffic is backed up forever and that they are moving at a snail’s pace. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her yank out her cell phone, sees her constructing her apologies, punching them out on the keyboard pad. His fingers mimic the action tapping steadily on the steering wheel. 

He knows that she tries. She tries so hard, at everything, too damn hard. He is hungry now and his eyes rove in the rearview mirror looking for the tray in the back seat even though it would be mutiny so even suggest a taste. He sees the icing has begun to melt in the heat of the car, smothered by layers of protective plastic wrap.
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The Apprenticeship of Abilgail Wilks

11/1/2009

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The girl stands on the front porch of a fashionably ramshackle house in Riverside. She is ten years old. She looks younger from her stature, much older if you look in her face.

It’s early enough in the day that she can see the woman of the house through the kitchen window sipping on her morning coffee with her slippered feet up on the opposite chair.

She knows this woman. She knows of this woman. She wants to know the woman so she can learn to be a writer. So she knocks on the door.

The woman comes to the door. Through the keyhole she can see it is a child in a bright red rain slicker, though it isn’t raining. She is still too tired, to dazed by the process of waking up another day and suddenly too aware of the little bits of sleep scratching at the corners of her eyes to look much closer at the girl before opening the door.

She is staring at her daughter. But it is not her daughter. Her daughter is upstairs sleeping exhausted by all the efforts she pours in to being an angst-ridden seventeen year old. This is her daughter’s sister, her ex-husband’s child.  The one whose unexpected arrival led to the hasty dissolution of what had, up to that point, been a pretty satisfying marriage.

She is an unexpected Sunday morning guest. The woman suddenly feels very much older than her 45 years. Her had grabs the door and she is instinctively about to slam it shut when she remembers herself to be the kind of woman who doesn’t slam the door in faces of children dressed in red rain slickers.

The girl looks at her inquisitively for a few moments then abruptly sticks out her hand almost shouting. “I am Abigail Wilks. How do you do? You have a lovely home. May I come in?”

The woman smiles in spite of herself. Thinks on it a moment, just long enough to drain what’s left in her rapidly cooling coffee cup then replies. “And I am Cynthia Burrows. I know who you are. Are you here to see Lucy? She’s still asleep. She didn’t mention you were stopping by.”

The girl shakes her head and describes her intention. She wants to be a writer. She thinks she’d be really good at it. But she didn’t inherit any talent for it. Not a lick from either of her parents. But Lucy, and Matthew and Ben all got some. And it came from Cynthia, so they keep saying she can’t claim any of it. And she doesn’t think that’s fair. So if she can’t inherit it, she’s come to learn it. And she is hoping Cynthia will be able to teach her. 

Cynthia looks at the child carefully to see the hints of mockery or lunacy around the edges of this plea but can’t find any. Then she looks up and down the street and realized she can’t see of these talentless parents of Abigail’s either.

“How did you get here?” She asks.

“I took a cab.” Abigail answers.

“Your parents put you in a cab to my house?” Cynthia can’t believe it. Then she thinks a little bit on Thomas, something she almost never does anymore, and doesn’t completely rule it out of the realm of possibility.

“Oh no. They don’t know I’m here. I “googled” your address and came myself. My mom wouldn’t let me come here. She says that you think you are soooo much better than everybody else. No offence.”

Cynthia smiles again at this really weird little kid. “So you snuck out of your house to come here to ask me to teach you how to become a writer even though you think your mother will disapprove?”

“Yes. I know that people need to suffer for their art.”

“True.”

“Writing made Dorothy Parker suicidal.”

“Oh.”

 

“I love Dorothy Parker.”

 

“Huh.”

“So… will you teach me?”

 

Cynthia steps out of the doorway back into the house. “Come on in.”

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