Why didn’t someone stop me?
I made up my mind. I would not be deterred. At some vague level I knew I was drunk, and they let me go.
I was being unreasonable; they knew I was drunk. They let me go.
How I wish someone had stopped me. They didn't.
I was determined to hitchhike.
I stood on the road's edge, swaying. I raised my hand to every oncoming vehicle. The swish of the wind from their passing bulk almost knocked me backwards onto my bum. Though I must have reeked of grog, the drivers wouldn't have known that. Not then. Nobody stopped. No one yelled, "Hop aboard young lady," while drawing into the curb.
My stomach began rolling like an ocean wave. My arm dropped – my head drooped. I turned, and was sick on the gravelly roadside.
I had paid a lot for my hairstyle before the party. Now it hung in my face. I was angry as I thought of them – those other girls back there – those gigglers back there. I didn't know why they wouldn't come with me, but I'd show them! So what if I was wearing high heels and my red satin miniskirt – so what? I'd show them! I could hitchhike if I wanted to! They said I wasn't dressed right.
Then I heard it. The crunching of tyres on gravel as a vehicle pulled off the bitumen. I swung around. It was a dual-cabin truck with three men inside. I ignored the hair prickling the back of my neck, and got into the open back door.
They didn't ask me where I was going. They were laughing a lot, but I didn't hear the joke. They didn't talk to me – they talked to each other.
I felt tired. I wished I was home in bed; home at the apartment.
Then one said, snickering, "Does your mummy know you're out, little girl? You got nice legs for your age."
"I'm 18!" I snapped. They all laughed.
I closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. I felt the truck pulling up again. It was bouncing – we were off the bitumen.
"Where are you going?" No one answered.
Then I was on the ground. I felt my head hit a rock. The tearing pain between my thighs went on and on. God help me!
I'm sober now. A young male officer asks me, "Did they say anything before they left?"
"Yes, tell your mummy you had a great night out!"
Why didn't someone stop me?
Friday, 16 November 2012
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
Another Update
I have been away from Friday to Monday to a town four hours north to visit my mother in hospital.
It is a sad irony that during the 60s and early 70s I learnt to take care of sick people in hospital. I, or my fellow nurses, didn’t judge them by age, or by any other criteria other than that they were ill and required care.
We learned how to wash and feed the frail elderly, sick adults and little children. Strangely it seems, at a glance we could tell if they were uncomfortable--(when their heads were not supported by a pillow, for instance--when their sheets were wet and needed changing, and when their pain had reached a level that needed treatment.
The irony is that now I am elderly, and my mother is even more elderly, (99 to be exact,) and nursing standards are abysmal.
It breaks my heart to see her so wasted and in pain, surrounded by able-bodied people who seem helpless to give her comfort. I watched a nurse get her out of the shower. I watched her totter to her bed, and sit on the edge in an ill fitting gown, (because she was being made ready for a procedure and she has lost so much weight.) Unable to shuffle into position, she was left at a precarious angle on the bed with the sheet only pulled up on one side.
Thank God we were there. I am now in a wheelchair and unable to offer any assistance. I couldn’t even take her in my arms and hug her. My husband lifted her into a comfortable position and adjusted the pillows, only to discover one side of the sheet was wet from the IV drip.
When I visit my families I am compelled to choose a motel with disabled unit because of my condition and none of my relatives has adequate facilities, although they agonise about it and insist they can help. It’s hard to explain to people about total dependency and what is required. The motel becomes expensive, so a long stay is out of the question. Also, while we’re away we don’t have the equipment such as the hoist I need.
We all got a very strong feeling from the nurses that, Oh, she’s an old lady and going to die anyway, so why bother.
I am broken-hearted and cannot write more.
It is a sad irony that during the 60s and early 70s I learnt to take care of sick people in hospital. I, or my fellow nurses, didn’t judge them by age, or by any other criteria other than that they were ill and required care.
We learned how to wash and feed the frail elderly, sick adults and little children. Strangely it seems, at a glance we could tell if they were uncomfortable--(when their heads were not supported by a pillow, for instance--when their sheets were wet and needed changing, and when their pain had reached a level that needed treatment.
The irony is that now I am elderly, and my mother is even more elderly, (99 to be exact,) and nursing standards are abysmal.
It breaks my heart to see her so wasted and in pain, surrounded by able-bodied people who seem helpless to give her comfort. I watched a nurse get her out of the shower. I watched her totter to her bed, and sit on the edge in an ill fitting gown, (because she was being made ready for a procedure and she has lost so much weight.) Unable to shuffle into position, she was left at a precarious angle on the bed with the sheet only pulled up on one side.
Thank God we were there. I am now in a wheelchair and unable to offer any assistance. I couldn’t even take her in my arms and hug her. My husband lifted her into a comfortable position and adjusted the pillows, only to discover one side of the sheet was wet from the IV drip.
When I visit my families I am compelled to choose a motel with disabled unit because of my condition and none of my relatives has adequate facilities, although they agonise about it and insist they can help. It’s hard to explain to people about total dependency and what is required. The motel becomes expensive, so a long stay is out of the question. Also, while we’re away we don’t have the equipment such as the hoist I need.
We all got a very strong feeling from the nurses that, Oh, she’s an old lady and going to die anyway, so why bother.
I am broken-hearted and cannot write more.
Monday, 12 November 2012
Amateur Marriage Counsellor (short fiction.)
Amateur Marriage Counsellor
The phone rang, and a creepy sixth sense warned me this would be a difficult call. I should have run away right then, but who'd have thought I'd regret answering the phone?
It was my friend Ellie. She was distraught and crying.
"It can't be that bad, Ellie." She was swearing divorce.
I couldn’t believe she was serious! They rarely have a row!
I've got to do something."Come over straight away. I'll put the coffee pot on." I'll try to calm her down.
"We never go anywhere anymore. And he just talks over me–shouting! And he won't listen!" Ellie's fist hit the table, "Oh Jeannie, I can't bear it. I want a divorce!"
Dear sweet Ellie, nearly 45, cried and cried, dabbing her swollen red eyes that looked puffy in her milky complexion, as she brushed impatiently at the short black hair, now tangled and unkempt.
We got together a couple of times a week in one another's kitchens for morning coffee. At 9.30 am on a Monday it was a little earlier than usual, and the men had gone to work.
Ellie's husband is a wood craftsman, making furniture and household crafts. He enhances his work with unique carving. My husband, Laurence, is a carpenter. The men have been good friends ever since Ellie and I brought them together after our respective marriages.
She and I have been close friends since we were young and started work as trainee nurses together. We just seemed to hit it off. People joked about us being 'the long and the short of it', because I was tall and thin, and she was short and plump.
I was shocked when Ellie mentioned divorce, and I started thinking fast. I needed time.
A phone call from my daughter's school interrupted us. 12-year-old Liddy was sick and I'd have to collect her in the car.
"Tomorrow," I ordered Ellie. "Your place at 10 am sharp for another coffee."I have to sort this out.
On Tuesday morning, I left Liddy in bed with cold medication and hurried to Ellie's.
Before sitting down for coffee, I fingered Ellie's beautiful hand-built table. "I've always envied you," I reminded her. "Can we move to the pergola?" I asked.
Ellie seemed thoughtful.
The Middle Eastern style pergola was beautiful. I admired the carving before taking my seat."So gifted," I murmured, pretending to think out loud, "I always thought John had such rich talents; and I love his smile...his whole personality."
Ellie smiled. "That's what I fell in love with," she whispered, tears in her eyes.
After 10 min, I rose, and, cup in hand, wandered around her flowerbeds. We talked gardening.
"I need to take Liddy to the doctor tomorrow," I explained before returning home. "Come back Monday to my plain-Jane kitchen, " I invited as I closed her front gate, another piece of John's great handwork. "Goodbye till then." I tried to sound cheerful.
When Wednesday came, Elie had experienced an epiphany.
She dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose on a soggy tissue. "I've been a fool Jeannie. I want to make it up to John. I've booked into a motel for the weekend; you know--second honeymoon...sort of." A sheepish smile twitched at the side of her mouth as she hung her head, her face reddening.
"He'll appreciate that." I tried to be reassuring, and patted her on the arm.
Thank God! What a relief!
She wasn't finished. "You made me realise... I'm a boring wife. It's time I did something about it."
On Friday night Laurence walked in from work with a mischievous smile. "Whatever is wrong with you?" I burst out.
"John came to see me at work today. Guess what?"
"They're reaffirming their vows?"
He laughed. "You could say that! They're joining a nudist colony!" I gaped.
"John's worried though," Laurence continued, "I feel rather sorry for the guy, because he's so modest."
"Poor John, I didn't think Ellie would go that far."
"No, I told him we'd join with them."
The phone rang, and a creepy sixth sense warned me this would be a difficult call. I should have run away right then, but who'd have thought I'd regret answering the phone?
It was my friend Ellie. She was distraught and crying.
"It can't be that bad, Ellie." She was swearing divorce.
I couldn’t believe she was serious! They rarely have a row!
I've got to do something."Come over straight away. I'll put the coffee pot on." I'll try to calm her down.
"We never go anywhere anymore. And he just talks over me–shouting! And he won't listen!" Ellie's fist hit the table, "Oh Jeannie, I can't bear it. I want a divorce!"
Dear sweet Ellie, nearly 45, cried and cried, dabbing her swollen red eyes that looked puffy in her milky complexion, as she brushed impatiently at the short black hair, now tangled and unkempt.
We got together a couple of times a week in one another's kitchens for morning coffee. At 9.30 am on a Monday it was a little earlier than usual, and the men had gone to work.
Ellie's husband is a wood craftsman, making furniture and household crafts. He enhances his work with unique carving. My husband, Laurence, is a carpenter. The men have been good friends ever since Ellie and I brought them together after our respective marriages.
She and I have been close friends since we were young and started work as trainee nurses together. We just seemed to hit it off. People joked about us being 'the long and the short of it', because I was tall and thin, and she was short and plump.
I was shocked when Ellie mentioned divorce, and I started thinking fast. I needed time.
A phone call from my daughter's school interrupted us. 12-year-old Liddy was sick and I'd have to collect her in the car.
"Tomorrow," I ordered Ellie. "Your place at 10 am sharp for another coffee."I have to sort this out.
On Tuesday morning, I left Liddy in bed with cold medication and hurried to Ellie's.
Before sitting down for coffee, I fingered Ellie's beautiful hand-built table. "I've always envied you," I reminded her. "Can we move to the pergola?" I asked.
Ellie seemed thoughtful.
The Middle Eastern style pergola was beautiful. I admired the carving before taking my seat."So gifted," I murmured, pretending to think out loud, "I always thought John had such rich talents; and I love his smile...his whole personality."
Ellie smiled. "That's what I fell in love with," she whispered, tears in her eyes.
After 10 min, I rose, and, cup in hand, wandered around her flowerbeds. We talked gardening.
"I need to take Liddy to the doctor tomorrow," I explained before returning home. "Come back Monday to my plain-Jane kitchen, " I invited as I closed her front gate, another piece of John's great handwork. "Goodbye till then." I tried to sound cheerful.
When Wednesday came, Elie had experienced an epiphany.
She dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose on a soggy tissue. "I've been a fool Jeannie. I want to make it up to John. I've booked into a motel for the weekend; you know--second honeymoon...sort of." A sheepish smile twitched at the side of her mouth as she hung her head, her face reddening.
"He'll appreciate that." I tried to be reassuring, and patted her on the arm.
Thank God! What a relief!
She wasn't finished. "You made me realise... I'm a boring wife. It's time I did something about it."
On Friday night Laurence walked in from work with a mischievous smile. "Whatever is wrong with you?" I burst out.
"John came to see me at work today. Guess what?"
"They're reaffirming their vows?"
He laughed. "You could say that! They're joining a nudist colony!" I gaped.
"John's worried though," Laurence continued, "I feel rather sorry for the guy, because he's so modest."
"Poor John, I didn't think Ellie would go that far."
"No, I told him we'd join with them."
Sunday, 11 November 2012
The White Picket Fence flash fiction
The White Picket Fence
I sat in the dark, my back hard against our white picket fence. Sheila, my wife, was not happy about my forthcoming trip. She was frightened, uncertain if she could live with the risk of whether I'd come home or not.
I was feeling stupid. I'd been insensitive. My conscience told me to get back inside the house and embrace the woman I loved.
I did embrace her. I tried to make up for my stupidity, and we both shared some passion trying to make up for our impetuous argument.
Wrapped in her arms I whispered, "This will be the last time sweetheart." But I'd made that empty promise before. She didn't believe me this time either.
Six weeks later; Mediterranean Sea:
I played for time on the rocking, motor-launch deck, verbally parrying to gain a few more minutes for our diver to set his charges. I'd befriended Jaleel, the foul-breathed, black-bearded Turk. He was a scoundrel, a mercenary and smuggler, sure, but smart! I could see distrust mounting in his close-set, piggy eyes. I saw his quick glances right and left, beckoning his greasy henchmen. They were baying for blood. I could take one, two at a pinch; but not five.
I was ready. When Jaleel's patience snapped I hit the water and dived deep, trying to stay vertical, and less of a target as I went down. As expected, bullets were hitting the water around me soon enough, and almost before the thought, I felt the sting in my leg.
Soon enough I leveled out, and made desperate sweeping strokes underwater with my arms, trying to get as far away from the boat as possible. I sent a silent plea to God that the diver had succeeded.
I couldn't resist turning to look back as I surfaced, and sure enough the diver had done his work. The boat was in flames. I love divers!
Figuring they'd be too busy saving themselves to worry about me, I set off stroking in the direction of land. In the far distance there were pinpricks of light. The distance was possible. The long-distance swimming ability had been one of the factors that clinched the job for me ten years earlier. Now all I had to worry about was sharks, and I prayed I wasn't leaving a trail of blood from my leg.
At that moment I made up my mind. They're not paying me enough for this secret agent crap. I owe it to Sheila and Candy to get a life and spend some time with them.
Candy was our only child.
Oh God...I can see the faces of those two precious females now. What the hell am I thinking? Sheila went through hell to bring her safely into the world, and a five-year-old doesn't deserve to lose her father this early. Dear God...let me make it to shore.
I had to get my mind off myself. With each stroke I reaffirmed the vow, I will never leave them again.
I settled into my long-distance pattern: deliberate even strokes; breathing steadily, and trying to stay relaxed. I couldn't feel the wound in my leg for at least half an hour.
Then the pain started. Jesus, will I make it?
I was thinking of Sheila and Candy again. Just last night, I'd read my daughter a bedtime story. "I love you, Daddy," she'd said in that beguiling way that daughters have.
Then I thought of Sheila. I was back there, after I'd finally left the fence where I'd been sulking. I was back in bed caressing her beautiful folds. Smelling her delicious freshly showered body and feeling her respond to my mounting ardour.
Later, wrapped in our bathrobes, we shared confidences whilst sipping coffee. In that moment in the water I agonised, 'God I love that woman!'
I'd always known it, but had I really known it? God, just let me live through this... I just want to be back inside that fence. What I'd give to be back there, feeling its hardness on my spine. That's what I'd always wanted; the white picket fence around the suburban cottage; the epitome of normal. I suddenly longed for normal, not this struggling for life caper.
About an hour later I collapsed onto the beach, not caring if it was sand, mud or gravel.
--0--
"You're crazy," my boss told me, "what's this crap about a white picket fence, for God's sake!?"
"That's it! The white picket fence... Don't you see? It's normal, it's what I want."
He went off shaking his head and muttering disgustedly, "Picket fence! Picket bloody fence...
I sat in the dark, my back hard against our white picket fence. Sheila, my wife, was not happy about my forthcoming trip. She was frightened, uncertain if she could live with the risk of whether I'd come home or not.
I was feeling stupid. I'd been insensitive. My conscience told me to get back inside the house and embrace the woman I loved.
I did embrace her. I tried to make up for my stupidity, and we both shared some passion trying to make up for our impetuous argument.
Wrapped in her arms I whispered, "This will be the last time sweetheart." But I'd made that empty promise before. She didn't believe me this time either.
Six weeks later; Mediterranean Sea:
I played for time on the rocking, motor-launch deck, verbally parrying to gain a few more minutes for our diver to set his charges. I'd befriended Jaleel, the foul-breathed, black-bearded Turk. He was a scoundrel, a mercenary and smuggler, sure, but smart! I could see distrust mounting in his close-set, piggy eyes. I saw his quick glances right and left, beckoning his greasy henchmen. They were baying for blood. I could take one, two at a pinch; but not five.
I was ready. When Jaleel's patience snapped I hit the water and dived deep, trying to stay vertical, and less of a target as I went down. As expected, bullets were hitting the water around me soon enough, and almost before the thought, I felt the sting in my leg.
Soon enough I leveled out, and made desperate sweeping strokes underwater with my arms, trying to get as far away from the boat as possible. I sent a silent plea to God that the diver had succeeded.
I couldn't resist turning to look back as I surfaced, and sure enough the diver had done his work. The boat was in flames. I love divers!
Figuring they'd be too busy saving themselves to worry about me, I set off stroking in the direction of land. In the far distance there were pinpricks of light. The distance was possible. The long-distance swimming ability had been one of the factors that clinched the job for me ten years earlier. Now all I had to worry about was sharks, and I prayed I wasn't leaving a trail of blood from my leg.
At that moment I made up my mind. They're not paying me enough for this secret agent crap. I owe it to Sheila and Candy to get a life and spend some time with them.
Candy was our only child.
Oh God...I can see the faces of those two precious females now. What the hell am I thinking? Sheila went through hell to bring her safely into the world, and a five-year-old doesn't deserve to lose her father this early. Dear God...let me make it to shore.
I had to get my mind off myself. With each stroke I reaffirmed the vow, I will never leave them again.
I settled into my long-distance pattern: deliberate even strokes; breathing steadily, and trying to stay relaxed. I couldn't feel the wound in my leg for at least half an hour.
Then the pain started. Jesus, will I make it?
I was thinking of Sheila and Candy again. Just last night, I'd read my daughter a bedtime story. "I love you, Daddy," she'd said in that beguiling way that daughters have.
Then I thought of Sheila. I was back there, after I'd finally left the fence where I'd been sulking. I was back in bed caressing her beautiful folds. Smelling her delicious freshly showered body and feeling her respond to my mounting ardour.
Later, wrapped in our bathrobes, we shared confidences whilst sipping coffee. In that moment in the water I agonised, 'God I love that woman!'
I'd always known it, but had I really known it? God, just let me live through this... I just want to be back inside that fence. What I'd give to be back there, feeling its hardness on my spine. That's what I'd always wanted; the white picket fence around the suburban cottage; the epitome of normal. I suddenly longed for normal, not this struggling for life caper.
About an hour later I collapsed onto the beach, not caring if it was sand, mud or gravel.
--0--
"You're crazy," my boss told me, "what's this crap about a white picket fence, for God's sake!?"
"That's it! The white picket fence... Don't you see? It's normal, it's what I want."
He went off shaking his head and muttering disgustedly, "Picket fence! Picket bloody fence...
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Update to Wood Heap and West Wind
This is an update to let you know what's happening in the family.
Mum, turning 100 on 4th January, has had a few falls lately and is in hospital. Due to constant pain she is very miserable. The thing that upsets her most is that she has lost her independence. It is only this year that she has finally sought help in the home for household chores. We have been blessed to have her for so long, but I fear she will not want to go on in this way too much longer. She refuses to be put into a wheelchair.
My writing will have to take a backseat for a while.
Giddy
Mum, turning 100 on 4th January, has had a few falls lately and is in hospital. Due to constant pain she is very miserable. The thing that upsets her most is that she has lost her independence. It is only this year that she has finally sought help in the home for household chores. We have been blessed to have her for so long, but I fear she will not want to go on in this way too much longer. She refuses to be put into a wheelchair.
My writing will have to take a backseat for a while.
Giddy
Monday, 5 November 2012
Short drama fiction Part 2 The Mexican Affair
The Mexican Affair-- Part 2
Sabine scrambled to her feet and ran for the back door. She flung it open, and was momentarily blinded in dazzling sunlight, except for a flash of red. Once more her arm was grabbed and she was pushed through the side door of a twenty-foot annex. The heavy wooden door slammed shut with a dull crunch behind her and she came face-to-face with a strikingly beautiful young woman.
"Quickly, ma cherie!" The willowy, raven-haired vision with full pouting lips and dramatic eyes, Ifdragged her into a toilet block.
There the two women stood trembling together behind a nearly-closed door. The woman put her finger to her lips and held her arm protectively across Sabine's body. She left the door slightly ajar.
Shouting and footsteps entered the room and Sabine's hand sought her companion's arm. They made no sound, but her frightened eyes took in the other woman's appearance. Despite fear in her face, the stranger stood defiant, curvy, tall, with shapely bronze-skinned shoulders brazenly exposed from the cutaway bodice of her clinging, red satin dress. Framed by black hair coiled into a sophisticated chignon, her beautiful face was the most striking. Long curling eyelashes were heavily mascara-coated, and the shimmering blackeyes were enlarged with jet black eyeliner which curved upwards at the corners.
Forty-five minutes later, retreating footsteps told the two young females their visitors had left. They had endured shouting, cursing, and random shooting, not knowing in which direction it was aimed.
Cautiously, they ventured out into the smoky interior. Ice coated Sabine's back, despite the intense clammy heat.
"I am Sabine."
"Yes, Cherie, I know who you are. My name is Gabriella. I am your sister."
Sabine drew in her breath sharply. "Your…sister? My God, you are so…beautiful, so…young and beautiful…Juanito?? He's your father?"
"Yes of course…you are my sister, my half sister."
Then Gabriella smiled, "And sister, I am not so young you know. I am fifteen years old now."
Sabine gasped for the second time, "Oh, fifteen! But you look so much more… More… worldly. You look… older."
"Oh, I know. It is the truth." Gabriella pouted her full, dazzling red lips. "My father says it too."
They had not heard his approach, but swiftly Juanito entered by the side door. He closed it behind him, breathing heavily, "Dios Mio! You are safe!" Sabine watched as he fell upon Gabriella, hugging her and kissing her hair.
Gabriella threaded her arm through his. "Papá, you see we are safe. We are not bebés. We are just as tough as you. Did not your Nina do the job well? We are very brave, my padre."
Juanito held Sabine's arms tightly, "You were strong Sabine, good!"
"But why, why?? What does it mean, Juanito?? Is it Lobos Frios?"
"Never mind, don't worry... It goes back to the past, a long way, Sabine. Our problems...maybe just starting."
"But the police...?"
Once again she heard the derisive laugh, "They know the police, Cherie, and they have deep pockets."
Before Sabine could speak again, Gabriella broke in, "Papá, we beat them! They have gone! You see I have met your French daughter from America. Such a strange thing… Why do you have a French daughter Papá? You told me she was coming, and I believe you now. We are going to be friends Papá. Did you know we are sisters? Yes, we are half sisters. Mamá told me."
JuanIto appeared to ignore her. "Come quickly." He said holding out his arms and ushering them towards the far end of the building.
With questions hammering in her head, Sabine struggled to keep up, dodging boxes and a muddle of hardware in the narrow, dusty warehouse. After leaving the building by an obscure tiny door in the far back of the building, the trio hurried through narrow dirt alleyways. Sabine was surprised when they doubled back, winding between buildings to a non-descript unpainted shack, huddled close to others in a narrow street of dwellings that looked like a row of bedraggled children hustling to get to the front of the line.
But inside was warm with the smell of bubbling chilli. A striking thirty-something female bustled towards them drying her hands on her apron. Juanito ignored the girls and took the ravishing woman in his arms, kissing her hungrily and lavishly.
The woman pushed him away. Sabine took her outstretched hand and smiled back at her greeting, "I am Carla, welcome to our home."
She followed her new-found relatives silently to a wash house, where they all doused their hands and faces before sitting at the table. When she was seated, Sabine realised hunger was indeed one of the feelings gnawing at her stomach. The chilli was delicious, but sating her appetite had to be the least of her concerns.
Juanito shook his head to her question, but she went on hurriedly before he could speak again."Please Juanito. I am frightened for my mother; she is ill; I am desperate."
She had tried to explain the mysterious threat to her mother in California.
She added, "There was a note; It said, 'Your past is here today. You must get the money, or your daughter is dead,' It was signed, Raf."
Hearing the name on the note, Juanito jumped to his feet.
He swore. "Dios mio!" Then he thumped the table repeatedly, mumbling to himself, and cursing in Spanish.
He looked up at Sabine, "He is trying to get at me through you. I have been a fool." And he swore again.
Briefly he glanced around and announced, "I'll be back soon," and he left the house.
The women sank back into their chairs, hardly breathing. They sat thus for a full 5 min.
Sabine's mind was racing but she felt compelled to ask, "Do you think he will help me, Carla?"
"We must pray, Sabine," Carla said.
Then Sabine asked, "Why does he call me Cherie? It is French."
The other women looked up quickly and spoke together, "You have a French name!"
But it was Carla who continued, "He is like that, my husband, he calls all his women, 'Cherie.' He says it is because of his French lover, many years ago.
And my Juanito," she smiled and cast her eyes down as she added, "He says your mother is French."
At that Sabine's face lit up. "Aah, my mother is French-Canadian. She spoke French and English when she was growing up. But after her trip to Mexico..." Embarrassed, she looked away from the watching faces, "She returned to California, and married. I was born there."
"You didn't know what we were saying?" Gabriella asked.
"Oh, yes, of course… I do speak some French, but my language is English."
After that, the women conversed more freely, and by the time Juanito returned, they had almost finished the domestic chores of cleaning the dishes.
"Sabine," Junito confided privately an hour later, "I'm sorry... Things I have done... In the past... Maybe they are not clever things. But you must believe me, I have never murdered anyone. This Raf... The one in the note you said... He is a murderer... Bad man! Some of my deeds have been…" He waved his outstretched fingers from side to side. "Mmm… Questionable. But Sabine, you are my blood; It is my duty, and like my Carla, you must trust me. This thing, this evil man… It is not your fault. It is mine. And I must fix... everything. You must stay here for... maybe two weeks... When I come back...poof!" His two hands opened in the air, "Our little problem...gone."
Sabine whispered, "Your club? All that killing? Was it...?
"Yes, yes. He is warning me, letting me know... But it is money he wants, I am sure"
"Oh, Juanito, I'm so sorry all this has happened. Will you be safe?"
"Ah, ma Cherie, I know this man. I know his head." Juanito replied, tapping the side of his head with his fingers.
Within the hour he was gone, but not before Sabine observed his passionate farewell to Carla and their daughter.
"I hope we can be friends," Sabine commented to Gabriella soon after Juanito's departure. Gabriella waved her hand, dismissing the subject."Tomorrow, I'll show you the city, my sister."
But the look on Carla's face made Sabine wonder.
She slept little in the tiny cot, haunted by the turmoil of her visit to the club. A cock crowed, before she closed her eyes in sound sleep, only to be woken harshly by crashing plates and loud voices. Sabine jumped out of bed, snatching a colourful blanket and holding it in front of her as she cowered in the corner of the little bedroom.
Then it became obvious the voices were those of her female hosts. Carla seemed to be making an effort to calm and quieten her daughter, and the contrast between outraged shouting and whispered pleading was magnified. Again the unintelligible shouts were punctuated by crashing plates.
Sabine ventured a look around the door, but retreated hastily to her bed when Gabriella flounced in her direction. She entered the room, muttering in Spanish, and threw herself onto the makeshift bed on the floor. She was dressed in a skin-tight, bright yellow singlet top with a plunging neckline, and her skirt, though full at the bottom, dipped below her navel and clung to her hips.
--0--
As days passed, Sabine found herself playing peacemaker. She enjoyed discussions with Carla, but soon realised it had to be tempered with quiet conversational indulgences with Gabriella.They fell into a comfortable routine, and slowly, a fond closeness developed amongst all three.
Towards the end of the second week though, Carla sounded impatient to Sabine when she answered, "As I said before Sabine, we all must wait for God to answer our prayers."
And tears threatened after one too many brittle responses from Gabriella. Then, quite suddenly, their waiting was over.
A cacophony of Spanish filled the little house as the Costanzos family reunited.
Later Juanito came to Sabine. "For a young woman, you are looking very sad, Sabine."
As he held her at arm's length, she observed his face. The black eyes no longer glittered with derision and mirth. His face was drawn and tired. "Oh Juanito," she started, "I'm so sorry..."
But he cut her off."You were right after all, to come to me," he assured her. "All of us, in this house, and your mother in California... We are safe now. You won't be troubled again."
At the mention of California, tears cascaded and she found her face buried against Juanito's shoulder. The thought of going home to her mother and stepfather was particularly inviting
.
"Tomorrow, I must make preparation to return home," she told him."My place is at home, at home in California with my mother and father.You were right. Juanito, I do not belong here."
Sabine scrambled to her feet and ran for the back door. She flung it open, and was momentarily blinded in dazzling sunlight, except for a flash of red. Once more her arm was grabbed and she was pushed through the side door of a twenty-foot annex. The heavy wooden door slammed shut with a dull crunch behind her and she came face-to-face with a strikingly beautiful young woman.
"Quickly, ma cherie!" The willowy, raven-haired vision with full pouting lips and dramatic eyes, Ifdragged her into a toilet block.
There the two women stood trembling together behind a nearly-closed door. The woman put her finger to her lips and held her arm protectively across Sabine's body. She left the door slightly ajar.
Shouting and footsteps entered the room and Sabine's hand sought her companion's arm. They made no sound, but her frightened eyes took in the other woman's appearance. Despite fear in her face, the stranger stood defiant, curvy, tall, with shapely bronze-skinned shoulders brazenly exposed from the cutaway bodice of her clinging, red satin dress. Framed by black hair coiled into a sophisticated chignon, her beautiful face was the most striking. Long curling eyelashes were heavily mascara-coated, and the shimmering blackeyes were enlarged with jet black eyeliner which curved upwards at the corners.
Forty-five minutes later, retreating footsteps told the two young females their visitors had left. They had endured shouting, cursing, and random shooting, not knowing in which direction it was aimed.
Cautiously, they ventured out into the smoky interior. Ice coated Sabine's back, despite the intense clammy heat.
"I am Sabine."
"Yes, Cherie, I know who you are. My name is Gabriella. I am your sister."
Sabine drew in her breath sharply. "Your…sister? My God, you are so…beautiful, so…young and beautiful…Juanito?? He's your father?"
"Yes of course…you are my sister, my half sister."
Then Gabriella smiled, "And sister, I am not so young you know. I am fifteen years old now."
Sabine gasped for the second time, "Oh, fifteen! But you look so much more… More… worldly. You look… older."
"Oh, I know. It is the truth." Gabriella pouted her full, dazzling red lips. "My father says it too."
They had not heard his approach, but swiftly Juanito entered by the side door. He closed it behind him, breathing heavily, "Dios Mio! You are safe!" Sabine watched as he fell upon Gabriella, hugging her and kissing her hair.
Gabriella threaded her arm through his. "Papá, you see we are safe. We are not bebés. We are just as tough as you. Did not your Nina do the job well? We are very brave, my padre."
Juanito held Sabine's arms tightly, "You were strong Sabine, good!"
"But why, why?? What does it mean, Juanito?? Is it Lobos Frios?"
"Never mind, don't worry... It goes back to the past, a long way, Sabine. Our problems...maybe just starting."
"But the police...?"
Once again she heard the derisive laugh, "They know the police, Cherie, and they have deep pockets."
Before Sabine could speak again, Gabriella broke in, "Papá, we beat them! They have gone! You see I have met your French daughter from America. Such a strange thing… Why do you have a French daughter Papá? You told me she was coming, and I believe you now. We are going to be friends Papá. Did you know we are sisters? Yes, we are half sisters. Mamá told me."
JuanIto appeared to ignore her. "Come quickly." He said holding out his arms and ushering them towards the far end of the building.
With questions hammering in her head, Sabine struggled to keep up, dodging boxes and a muddle of hardware in the narrow, dusty warehouse. After leaving the building by an obscure tiny door in the far back of the building, the trio hurried through narrow dirt alleyways. Sabine was surprised when they doubled back, winding between buildings to a non-descript unpainted shack, huddled close to others in a narrow street of dwellings that looked like a row of bedraggled children hustling to get to the front of the line.
But inside was warm with the smell of bubbling chilli. A striking thirty-something female bustled towards them drying her hands on her apron. Juanito ignored the girls and took the ravishing woman in his arms, kissing her hungrily and lavishly.
The woman pushed him away. Sabine took her outstretched hand and smiled back at her greeting, "I am Carla, welcome to our home."
She followed her new-found relatives silently to a wash house, where they all doused their hands and faces before sitting at the table. When she was seated, Sabine realised hunger was indeed one of the feelings gnawing at her stomach. The chilli was delicious, but sating her appetite had to be the least of her concerns.
Juanito shook his head to her question, but she went on hurriedly before he could speak again."Please Juanito. I am frightened for my mother; she is ill; I am desperate."
She had tried to explain the mysterious threat to her mother in California.
She added, "There was a note; It said, 'Your past is here today. You must get the money, or your daughter is dead,' It was signed, Raf."
Hearing the name on the note, Juanito jumped to his feet.
He swore. "Dios mio!" Then he thumped the table repeatedly, mumbling to himself, and cursing in Spanish.
He looked up at Sabine, "He is trying to get at me through you. I have been a fool." And he swore again.
Briefly he glanced around and announced, "I'll be back soon," and he left the house.
The women sank back into their chairs, hardly breathing. They sat thus for a full 5 min.
Sabine's mind was racing but she felt compelled to ask, "Do you think he will help me, Carla?"
"We must pray, Sabine," Carla said.
Then Sabine asked, "Why does he call me Cherie? It is French."
The other women looked up quickly and spoke together, "You have a French name!"
But it was Carla who continued, "He is like that, my husband, he calls all his women, 'Cherie.' He says it is because of his French lover, many years ago.
And my Juanito," she smiled and cast her eyes down as she added, "He says your mother is French."
At that Sabine's face lit up. "Aah, my mother is French-Canadian. She spoke French and English when she was growing up. But after her trip to Mexico..." Embarrassed, she looked away from the watching faces, "She returned to California, and married. I was born there."
"You didn't know what we were saying?" Gabriella asked.
"Oh, yes, of course… I do speak some French, but my language is English."
After that, the women conversed more freely, and by the time Juanito returned, they had almost finished the domestic chores of cleaning the dishes.
"Sabine," Junito confided privately an hour later, "I'm sorry... Things I have done... In the past... Maybe they are not clever things. But you must believe me, I have never murdered anyone. This Raf... The one in the note you said... He is a murderer... Bad man! Some of my deeds have been…" He waved his outstretched fingers from side to side. "Mmm… Questionable. But Sabine, you are my blood; It is my duty, and like my Carla, you must trust me. This thing, this evil man… It is not your fault. It is mine. And I must fix... everything. You must stay here for... maybe two weeks... When I come back...poof!" His two hands opened in the air, "Our little problem...gone."
Sabine whispered, "Your club? All that killing? Was it...?
"Yes, yes. He is warning me, letting me know... But it is money he wants, I am sure"
"Oh, Juanito, I'm so sorry all this has happened. Will you be safe?"
"Ah, ma Cherie, I know this man. I know his head." Juanito replied, tapping the side of his head with his fingers.
Within the hour he was gone, but not before Sabine observed his passionate farewell to Carla and their daughter.
"I hope we can be friends," Sabine commented to Gabriella soon after Juanito's departure. Gabriella waved her hand, dismissing the subject."Tomorrow, I'll show you the city, my sister."
But the look on Carla's face made Sabine wonder.
She slept little in the tiny cot, haunted by the turmoil of her visit to the club. A cock crowed, before she closed her eyes in sound sleep, only to be woken harshly by crashing plates and loud voices. Sabine jumped out of bed, snatching a colourful blanket and holding it in front of her as she cowered in the corner of the little bedroom.
Then it became obvious the voices were those of her female hosts. Carla seemed to be making an effort to calm and quieten her daughter, and the contrast between outraged shouting and whispered pleading was magnified. Again the unintelligible shouts were punctuated by crashing plates.
Sabine ventured a look around the door, but retreated hastily to her bed when Gabriella flounced in her direction. She entered the room, muttering in Spanish, and threw herself onto the makeshift bed on the floor. She was dressed in a skin-tight, bright yellow singlet top with a plunging neckline, and her skirt, though full at the bottom, dipped below her navel and clung to her hips.
--0--
As days passed, Sabine found herself playing peacemaker. She enjoyed discussions with Carla, but soon realised it had to be tempered with quiet conversational indulgences with Gabriella.They fell into a comfortable routine, and slowly, a fond closeness developed amongst all three.
Towards the end of the second week though, Carla sounded impatient to Sabine when she answered, "As I said before Sabine, we all must wait for God to answer our prayers."
And tears threatened after one too many brittle responses from Gabriella. Then, quite suddenly, their waiting was over.
A cacophony of Spanish filled the little house as the Costanzos family reunited.
Later Juanito came to Sabine. "For a young woman, you are looking very sad, Sabine."
As he held her at arm's length, she observed his face. The black eyes no longer glittered with derision and mirth. His face was drawn and tired. "Oh Juanito," she started, "I'm so sorry..."
But he cut her off."You were right after all, to come to me," he assured her. "All of us, in this house, and your mother in California... We are safe now. You won't be troubled again."
At the mention of California, tears cascaded and she found her face buried against Juanito's shoulder. The thought of going home to her mother and stepfather was particularly inviting
.
"Tomorrow, I must make preparation to return home," she told him."My place is at home, at home in California with my mother and father.You were right. Juanito, I do not belong here."
Sunday, 4 November 2012
A Meeting in Mexico... Part 1 short fiction
This is a short fiction I completed while studying POV. The characters and their descriptions was given, and the student was required to make up the rest. I've made a few adjustments since the piece was reviewed.
The Mexican Affair.
Sabine watched Juanito lift the shot glass to his lips, skilfully avoiding the bushy moustache that threatened to interfere. She was disappointed to hear him say, "You've come a long way, Sabine, all the way from California to see me, but you can’t stay. You don’t belong here."
She felt a brief stab of disappointment, before he added, “You don’t understand, Sabine. This place... it is not safe for you.”
You don’t belong here, rang in her ears. She felt her face grow hot. Why did he make her feel naive, like a young girl filled with curiosities and expectations? She dropped her eyes, aware that he had extracted a long cigar and a box of matches from his top shirt pocket. She fought the desire to turn away from the suffocating odour as smoke rings floated upwards. What was it about him? His glittering black eyes regarded her steadily over the cigar, as his fingers absently flicked ash onto the floor, but despite his stance, his expression was inquisitive. She probably knew more than he realised; that her mother had been naive and shy when they made love; that he'd been wanted for murder and her mother had supplied an alibi, for instance."Do you think I don't know who and what you are?" she asked the man science said was her father.
That fact alone confirmed her long held belief that her step father, Leo Anthony, was nothing but an arranged patsy to save her grandfather an embarrassment.
"I am not some innocent white rose. Is that how you see me?" She needed to convince him of her toughness, her strength, if she was ever to persuade him to help her.
Taking a peanut from a bowl, she sucked salt from the shell. Juanito grinned appreciatively. She knew by his smile he liked how she rolled it across her tongue. Her years in Catholic school taught her men like Juanito Costanzos were evil. The kind who'd slit your throat soon as look at you, or so the nuns intimated.
She judged he was exactly what she needed, but she guessed she was still a mystery to him. "I'm not stupid you know. I'm eighteen, and I was class valedictorian." Her battle for poise crumbled under the derisive laugh that erupted from deep in his throat.
She watched him finger his moustache, a smirk on his face. But was that admiration in his eye? She persisted, "I know you're the leader of Lobos Frios, but you don't know anything about me. I'm not a white rose," she repeated. She'd tried hard to look rojo like her mother, wearing a tight T-shirt that showed mounded breasts suggestively.
They were interrupted when a shaft of sunlight speared the murky club atmosphere, stealing their attention. Sabine could only see a black shadow until the man closed the door behind him. Struck by the contrast to her swarthy-complexioned father, Sabine saw a tall thin fellow, bald-headed, with wire-rimmed glasses and a slight paunch, accented through cheap grey overalls. He was as vanilla and ordinary as her father was exotic.
Juanito obviously knew him well, "Steele, come on over," he waved to the man. "Sabine, this is Ted Steele, the club manager."
She watched this man, Steele, as he weaved his way between the tables down to their end of the room, and drew up a chair. "Club manager?" She couldn't stop the surprise in her voice.
His undisguised appraisal unsettled her, "Sorry to interrupt, Juanito. Just going to open up," he let his arm graze Sabine's shoulder as he reached for a peanut. "Didn't know you were here. This that new waitress you hired?"
Sabine frowned, hoping she didn't look too virginal. This fellow would probably pay a week's salary to have her.
Juanito said, "No, this is my daughter." Steele's eyes widened, as did his smile. She shot a pleading look at Juanito in time to see him bristle, but was it paternal instincts or territorial ones that caused it?
When Ted Steele reached for a second peanut, Sabine recoiled at the smell of cheap aftershave and old cigars. Even in this dull light of Club Mexicana she saw murky brown, crooked teeth. She eased her chair back and swallowed against the bitterness coating her tonsils.
She hoped Juanito was being paternal when his voice rose a little and he announced, "All right then, time for you to open up, Steele."
Sabine was about to add more to her argument when deafening, crashing chaos claimed her eardrums. The loud explosion caused a burst of pressure against her chest. Just as if in a dream she saw the tabletop heaving up in front of her and felt Juanito clutch her by the arm and throw her to the floor. IShe screamed, and became conscious of a battery of gunshots that hammered at her ears.
They were both behind the tabletop. She hugged the floor, and glancing sideways, was horrified at the split-second chaos she caught at the bar. An exploding face, a human face, was now beyond help.
She could feel Juanito holding her arm, and his warm, cigar breath fanning her face.
When he said, "Don't worry, Ted will get help," she looked quickly at him with fear in her eyes. "What…" he started, then followed her gaze to the bar. There was nothing left but smashed timber and glass.
Then she vomited. "No, no Juanito," she whispered hoarsely. "Ted can't help."
The battering noise continued, racking her ears, sickening her stomach, and pressuring her chest. It seemed every square inch of room would be smashed.
Her father rolled her off the vomit. "Juanito," she rasped again. "Ted… He's gone… He's dead."
When she'd been flung to the floor, her first glance from behind the table revealed a ghastly sight. She saw Ted shot full in the face, splintered glasses and human debris disappearing upwards like an exploding soda bottle.
Juanito struggled to his knees to peer through a spy hole in the table. Sabine realised at that moment the table was purpose-built. Heavy wood logs, joined by thick bolts; it could kill a person if it hit them squarely.
Wetness on her arm caught her attention. She regarded the spilled alcohol spreading around them. The pool near her arm carried several peanut shells like miniature, rudderless boats drifting on the tide. A mixture of vomit, alcohol and something strong she couldn't identify, filled her nostrils. Enquiring from Juanito later, she would be answered with a shrug and an upward turned palm, "Cordita, old ammunition I bought once," he would tell her dismissively.
She stared at Juanito helplessly, as he sank down again and took her face in his hands. "Princess, Sabine, listen to me! I must get out. It is the only way for us. Take this gun and cover me as I leave. I will go through the back door."
Her terrified eyes soon revealed her ignorance of guns. "No no! I can't! You'll get killed! Please, no!"
"Listen!" he told her harshly, "if you don't take this gun and use it, we are dead!"
The gun was pressed into her hands and she stared at it with horror. Her finger curled on the trigger. "Before you shoot," he whispered, his lips almost touching her ear, "cock it, like this."
"But..."
"Do it! Sabine, you must! Look, lean to the side a little. You can see that black patch on the ceiling. You must shoot it! Keep shooting! Don't stop! When you see it all fall, you can stop."
"What? See what?" But it was too late. He was ready to go, and he nodded. His look told her, no time for argument.
She cocked the pistol and squeezed the trigger, feeling pain in her hand and wonder as the gun reacted. There was no indication she'd hit the black patch on the ceiling. She kept firing, gradually adjusting to the violence of it. To her amazement, she saw changes happening to the black patch, subtle but enough to give her courage. She ignored the blasting noise, and with a fierce joy fired more.
She almost let out a scream of triumph when suddenly a huge chunk of the ceiling collapsed inwards, tearing through the paper-thin false ceiling and raining down a noisy cloud of fire-cracking debris. Spontaneous screams added to the melee, and she heard a clatter of footsteps charge back out the front door.
She turned over and yelled, "Juanito!!"
Her voice echoed in stillness.
Baking with Angels... a true anecdote from my past
Baking with Angels
One day in the early 80s, Christmas was approaching fast and I decided I'd better do some urgent baking. I could hear the two little children next door arguing in the back yard, watched over by their mother from the kitchen window, so I called down to them from my back verandah, "Rory and Marina... Want to help me make some cookies?"
Rory was five and Marina only about two and a half, so Rory always did the talking, "Yes, please."
"Ask Mummy first and tell her you will be half an hour."
The children bounded up my back stairs. Surprisingly, Marina showed the most aptitude, though her efforts with the big wooden spoon soon resulted in the table being showered with cookie dough and fruit. Rory liked to create odd shapes and faces, but soon lost interest and retired to the verandah to watch the pretty, noisy, lorikeets on the bird-feeder. I showed Marina how to roll the dough into little balls between her hands, and then flatten them with a fork. She was careful to put all the odd-shaped cookies onto the baking tray, along with the regular ones, and then I sent the children home, telling them to return in half an hour.
When I slid the tray of cookies out of the oven, I arranged all the children's creations onto two little paper plates, along with some regular ones for their mum and dad. I covered them firmly with cling wrap and the children carried them home, each child carefully guarding their plate with their arms so proudly.
After that, Rory and Marina became regular cookie-making helpers.
As I got older, I couldn't cope with the high stairs any longer because of the encroaching MS, and eventually we moved away to another suburb. Out of the blue one-day, about six years later, I got a phone call from Rory.
"Do you remember when we used to make cookies with you, Mrs Sweeper?" Rory asked.
"Oh yes," I replied, "they are very precious memories for me, Rory."
"They are for me, too" Rory replied. He told me they were also living in another suburb, and we arranged a visit.
On arrival at their house, we found that the parents had separated and the children were living with their mother. Rory was now in grade six, and Marina was preoccupied with a school-mate sleeping over. After dinner, she went off to her bedroom to play 'girl-games' with her friend. But sensitive Rory stayed close to his mum.. He had felt the separation keenly.
Rory's mum had made a lovely dinner, and we all enjoyed ourselves looking at old photos of when the children were little.
We haven't seen them since, but I am left with the most lovely memories of those happy times.
One day in the early 80s, Christmas was approaching fast and I decided I'd better do some urgent baking. I could hear the two little children next door arguing in the back yard, watched over by their mother from the kitchen window, so I called down to them from my back verandah, "Rory and Marina... Want to help me make some cookies?"
Rory was five and Marina only about two and a half, so Rory always did the talking, "Yes, please."
"Ask Mummy first and tell her you will be half an hour."
The children bounded up my back stairs. Surprisingly, Marina showed the most aptitude, though her efforts with the big wooden spoon soon resulted in the table being showered with cookie dough and fruit. Rory liked to create odd shapes and faces, but soon lost interest and retired to the verandah to watch the pretty, noisy, lorikeets on the bird-feeder. I showed Marina how to roll the dough into little balls between her hands, and then flatten them with a fork. She was careful to put all the odd-shaped cookies onto the baking tray, along with the regular ones, and then I sent the children home, telling them to return in half an hour.
When I slid the tray of cookies out of the oven, I arranged all the children's creations onto two little paper plates, along with some regular ones for their mum and dad. I covered them firmly with cling wrap and the children carried them home, each child carefully guarding their plate with their arms so proudly.
After that, Rory and Marina became regular cookie-making helpers.
As I got older, I couldn't cope with the high stairs any longer because of the encroaching MS, and eventually we moved away to another suburb. Out of the blue one-day, about six years later, I got a phone call from Rory.
"Do you remember when we used to make cookies with you, Mrs Sweeper?" Rory asked.
"Oh yes," I replied, "they are very precious memories for me, Rory."
"They are for me, too" Rory replied. He told me they were also living in another suburb, and we arranged a visit.
On arrival at their house, we found that the parents had separated and the children were living with their mother. Rory was now in grade six, and Marina was preoccupied with a school-mate sleeping over. After dinner, she went off to her bedroom to play 'girl-games' with her friend. But sensitive Rory stayed close to his mum.. He had felt the separation keenly.
Rory's mum had made a lovely dinner, and we all enjoyed ourselves looking at old photos of when the children were little.
We haven't seen them since, but I am left with the most lovely memories of those happy times.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Blood Orange short fiction, Part 2 (conclusion)
After 30 minutes Russell came to the table and sat down heavily. Kate hurried to pass him his dinner, "It’s steak, just the way you like it -- with garlic and mushroom gravy; and the sorbet to follow." She was desperate to appease him.
Russell picked up a fork and jabbed at the steak.
Nothing could have prepared his wife for what happened next.
An ex-boxer with muscled arms, a huge frame, and a three day growth of stubbly black whiskers, Russell jumped to his feet. Grabbing the plate of food and swinging it wildly he brought it crashing against her face. She felt the sting of the hot gravy and the pain of a bruised jaw. She staggered, and suddenly he was beside her, clutching her by the arm and flinging her onto the tiled floor.
She laid still, the back of her head hurting terribly and her eyes fogging with black shadows.
"You're useless! You’re a nothing! You can't even cook steak!" He screamed at her. "Get up and get into the bedroom! And try to be of some use to me there!“ he yelled maniacally, "I shouldn't have to put up with a bitch who looks like a drought-ridden cow!"
Kate opened her eyes wider as the room tilted above her. "Russell, please -- I can't... "
A moment later he was over her -- dragging her to her feet and frogmarching her to the bedroom.
For a long time after she heard the front door slam, her thighs hurt from his rough thrusting anger, and her head ached, but most of all she hurt inside. The shuddering doorframe at his retreat had shaken her little English China jug, given to her by her grandmother when she was ten, straight off the shadow box in the foyer. She heard the shattering, and saw herself breaking.
She tried to clear her foggy brain, whispering to herself, "I'll ring Jenny."
It would, she guessed, be some hours before Russell returned, alcoholic fumes humming from his breath.
'Just a small bag of clothes -- that's what they said to bring -- I'll be safe at the shelter; he won't find me there,' she consoled herself resignedly,
It could have been an hour, or it could have been two, that she stayed there, not moving. When she heard the front door open and close quietly, her heart sank. Tears flowed unchecked. "No! No!” she cried out, "no! I can't take any more. Why Russell? What have I done to you? I've tried so hard. I can't take it any longer!"
Rolling off the edge of the bed she spied her dressmaking scissors lying forgotten on the bedside table and clutched at them with trembling fingers. She stood up shakily. Hearing the footsteps treading quietly down the hallway, she screamed out in anger, "Why are you creeping, you coward? Maybe you think I'm dead!"
When the huge man entered the bedroom, his staring eyes locked with hers, boring straight into her. She returned his stare defiantly, her right hand held tightly behind her back, until she felt his hands on her shoulders as he forced her back down onto the bed.
Kate screamed, "No! you’re not..."She tried to ward him off with her left hand pushing against his face, and the sharp stubbly whiskers sent shivers up her back.
She hesitated, but as his hand gathered a bunch of her skirt, Kate's face screwed into a snarling, manic mask. With all the strength left in her body she forced her right hand forward wildly, into the side of his neck. The scissors plunged deep; from somewhere she heard a bloodcurdling scream; but she could not stop her desperate defence, lashing out with the scissors again and again.
When the suffocating weight on her body ceased to writhe, she groaned and dropped her arms. Then wildly, she started to push at the weight.
Gasping and choking with huge hiccoughing sobs, she pushed until the heavy frame rolled onto the floor with a flat thump.
She looked at her wet sticky hands. Orange juice?
It was spilling down her arms onto the bed covers. It saturated her clothes, dripping onto the bedroom floor, lapping over the carpet and drowning the still form on the floor.
Robotically, she reached over and picked up the phone, pressing the speed dial for Jenny’s number.
"The orange -- I can't stop the juice Jenny! I can't stop it! Come quick! He's drowning!"
Jenny gasped when she heard the manic cries for help. "Things are bad Mal," she said to her husband,
"Leave now, leave now Kate! just walk out, you've got to get out, you've got to go, Kate!"
"But what will I do about the juice, Jen? How will I stop the juice? " Kate insisted.
"No no, the juice doesn't matter love… but leave now… just run out of the house Kate. I'm coming to meet you."
--0--
The street light at the corner shone down on a lonely figure, standing...helpless When Jenny reached her friend she was shocked "Holy Mother of God!! Come on! I'm getting you to my place!" She dragged Kate along and the two ran, stumbling, the rest of the block to her house.
Mal opened the door to usher them in. Usually a religious man, but shocked by what he saw, he burst out, "Jesus Mary and Joseph!"
"See nothing!" said Jenny sternly. "Quick! Go over to Kate's place -- Russell probably needs the ambulance."
She pulled Kate into the shower.
"Aren't you supposed to preserve the evidence?" asked Mal with a worried frown.
"Not this time!" Jenny assured him.
Kate was still clutching the scissors. Jenny wrapped them in the bloodied clothes and pushed them into a garbage bag. She left Kate under the shower.
Then the phone rang. As Mal opened the door to leave he heard his wife answer, "Russell? Russell? Are you okay? You're not hurt? Where are you?" Jenny sounded incredulous.
Mal closed the door again. "No," he heard, "She didn't tell me where she was going. No, no idea I'm afraid… sorry."
Jenny hung up the phone and spoke to Mal, "God! That man’s tough!"
Next morning Kate sat in the lounge room of the shelter, miserable in Jenny's old too-long jeans and faded blouse. Forlornly, she waited for the social worker to arrive.
A young woman entered the room and asked, "Would you like to read the paper, Hon?"
"Thanks", Kate replied, giving the stranger a weak smile.
She stared down at the headlines, 'Murdered Body in house may be Serial Rapist'.
Then she read on, 'Police believe the body found at the home of Russell Meuner maybe that of the district's serial rapist. It appears the man must have stumbled to the house for help as he bled copiously from wounds to head and chest. Extensive bloodstains in the house were found to be that of the dead man. Mr Muener found the body when he returned home during the evening. Police believe Mr Muener's wife had earlier left the premises, forgetting to lock the door. Though the police are still uncertain and reluctant to comment, it is believed the man may have been killed by an intended victim.'
THE END
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Short Fiction in 2 parts, 'Blood Orange'
Blood Orange
Part One
Kate sliced the orange in half and watched the crimson juice flow off the cutting board.
"That could be my blood," she murmured.
"What was that?" Jenny spoke sharply, "what was that you said, Kate?"
Kate shook her head. Reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe the stickiness off her hands, she answered quickly, "Nothing. I'm Just worried… you know Jen, it's Friday … Russell gets paid… he'll drink this afternoon… you know…".
Kate started to cry. "I'm so worried, Jen," she whispered.
“Don’t cry Kate. But you've got to do something; this can't go on. You can't continue getting bashed up every time he gets into a drunken rage. Think about it Kate. And look at your eye! God, you're poor eye! The bruises haven't gone from the last time!"
"More coffee?" Kate asked her friend.
"Kate! Yes okay, more coffee… but listen to me. He'll kill you one of these days! You've got to leave him… soon!"
"But he’s a good man in some ways. You know… sometimes we’re happy," agonised Kate. "And I'm doing sorbet for him. He loves it. I'm trying a new one… with these new blood oranges I found. He might be alright tonight."
"Yeah, maybe, maybe not… But he's an alcoholic, Kate. It's the alcohol. You can't trust him; he could hurt you again, and he will! You've got to leave him!"
Kate admired the tall blond personal trainer; 'A goddess! Physically fit, and beautiful,' she once told her friend.
Jenny had brushed her off, "What... with my unfeminine muscley arms?"
"Anyway, he promised me everything would be all right," Kate finished lamely, trying to reassure her friend.
Jenny paused at the door before leaving, "Now remember Kate, call me any time, straightaway if he threatens you. Don't wait till he hits you! Oh, and by the way, keep your doors locked. That serial rapist is not far from here and the mongrel’s bashed and killed two women already!"
"Probably be a happy release," Katie mumbled morosely, out of earshot of her friend.
In the quiet of the house she whispered, "Jenny's right. I won't take another beating!"
Jenny frowned as she walked home. She knew Kate well; they'd been together to the social worker. And after the last crisis with Kate and Russell, she'd related her fears to her husband, Mal, "Kate knows the pitfalls of staying with a violent alcoholic husband."
Deep in thought, Jenny chewed her fingernails as she walked.
When she reached home, she laid her head on her husband shoulder, "She seems different today, Mal. You should have seen her. She's tired and drawn…I think she's near breaking point."
Kate was distracted, walking into the bedroom and out again for no reason. On her fingers she counted the positives, mumbling out loud, "I've got everything ready. Steak with mushroom… his favourite… and the sorbet… he should like that, and I've fixed his shirt pocket..."
She clock-watched the day through, until four o'clock when ticking time picked up to the speed of a bullet train. When 5.30 came and there was no sign of Russell, Kate bit her lip and glanced at the oven.
At six o'clock she heard the front door close loudly, and tensed, "Hello darling," she greeted him, giving him a peck on the cheek, "dinner’s ready whenever you are." His whiskey-breath was ominous.
Ignoring her, he dropped without grace into his favourite lounge chair, and scanned the TV programme.
Pretty but petite, dark haired Kate looked insignificant in her husband's presence. She tried again, "I've got a new sorbet for you -- blood orange -- should be nice."
He grunted.
Kate retreated to the kitchen, where she leaned against the refrigerator, holding her folded arms tight against her stomach.
Part One
Kate sliced the orange in half and watched the crimson juice flow off the cutting board.
"That could be my blood," she murmured.
"What was that?" Jenny spoke sharply, "what was that you said, Kate?"
Kate shook her head. Reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe the stickiness off her hands, she answered quickly, "Nothing. I'm Just worried… you know Jen, it's Friday … Russell gets paid… he'll drink this afternoon… you know…".
Kate started to cry. "I'm so worried, Jen," she whispered.
“Don’t cry Kate. But you've got to do something; this can't go on. You can't continue getting bashed up every time he gets into a drunken rage. Think about it Kate. And look at your eye! God, you're poor eye! The bruises haven't gone from the last time!"
"More coffee?" Kate asked her friend.
"Kate! Yes okay, more coffee… but listen to me. He'll kill you one of these days! You've got to leave him… soon!"
"But he’s a good man in some ways. You know… sometimes we’re happy," agonised Kate. "And I'm doing sorbet for him. He loves it. I'm trying a new one… with these new blood oranges I found. He might be alright tonight."
"Yeah, maybe, maybe not… But he's an alcoholic, Kate. It's the alcohol. You can't trust him; he could hurt you again, and he will! You've got to leave him!"
Kate admired the tall blond personal trainer; 'A goddess! Physically fit, and beautiful,' she once told her friend.
Jenny had brushed her off, "What... with my unfeminine muscley arms?"
"Anyway, he promised me everything would be all right," Kate finished lamely, trying to reassure her friend.
Jenny paused at the door before leaving, "Now remember Kate, call me any time, straightaway if he threatens you. Don't wait till he hits you! Oh, and by the way, keep your doors locked. That serial rapist is not far from here and the mongrel’s bashed and killed two women already!"
"Probably be a happy release," Katie mumbled morosely, out of earshot of her friend.
In the quiet of the house she whispered, "Jenny's right. I won't take another beating!"
Jenny frowned as she walked home. She knew Kate well; they'd been together to the social worker. And after the last crisis with Kate and Russell, she'd related her fears to her husband, Mal, "Kate knows the pitfalls of staying with a violent alcoholic husband."
Deep in thought, Jenny chewed her fingernails as she walked.
When she reached home, she laid her head on her husband shoulder, "She seems different today, Mal. You should have seen her. She's tired and drawn…I think she's near breaking point."
Kate was distracted, walking into the bedroom and out again for no reason. On her fingers she counted the positives, mumbling out loud, "I've got everything ready. Steak with mushroom… his favourite… and the sorbet… he should like that, and I've fixed his shirt pocket..."
She clock-watched the day through, until four o'clock when ticking time picked up to the speed of a bullet train. When 5.30 came and there was no sign of Russell, Kate bit her lip and glanced at the oven.
At six o'clock she heard the front door close loudly, and tensed, "Hello darling," she greeted him, giving him a peck on the cheek, "dinner’s ready whenever you are." His whiskey-breath was ominous.
Ignoring her, he dropped without grace into his favourite lounge chair, and scanned the TV programme.
Pretty but petite, dark haired Kate looked insignificant in her husband's presence. She tried again, "I've got a new sorbet for you -- blood orange -- should be nice."
He grunted.
Kate retreated to the kitchen, where she leaned against the refrigerator, holding her folded arms tight against her stomach.
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