Month: July 2018

Part Two:

Booted feet stomped impatiently on the porch, letting the caked and dried mud scatter in generous footprint-shaped piles. Matthew found himself one of the rocking chairs and began to unlace the boots, removing each with a weary grunt, leaving them next to his seat for the next day. He opened the door with a raw and sore hand, despite wearing his work gloves, from reseating old fenceposts bordering the south pasture. “Damn cows,” he mumbled as he entered the door, “why they scratch on those posts instead of a tree is beyond me…” The smell of baked chicken and potatoes stopped his commentary and he quickened his step toward the sink, recognizing his hunger at last, then grabbed the pump handle to raise and lower it a few times until the water clumsily sputtered from the spout, clearing away a day’s worth of caked dirt and sweat from his hands and forearms. Matthew dried his hands on a towel, pausing just a second to touch his finger to the embroidered lily he’d first admired a few short years ago. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, willing himself to remember where he was instead of with her. Another sigh escaped from between his stubble as he sat at the table, gently raising the dark curls on his forehead just long enough for Mary to see more sweat and dirt smudged there.

“Hard day?” she asked.

“Mm-hmm.” Matt cut off a thigh and leg from the chicken and began to eat before it had a chance to land on his plate.

“How many fence posts do you have left?” Mary inquired without lifting her fork, slightly amazed that he left the other foods alone.

“Three.”

“Oh, that’s good. I figured you’d need to spend two full days on those after you told me about the damage those cows did. This way you can get to them after breakfast and finish up by lunch time.”

“Sure,” he replied, but thought, “I would have finished today if the ground weren’t so muddy.”

“The sunset shone pink on the easterly clouds today as they moved off, so we should have a dry night and pleasant weather tomorrow. I know the rain today must have slowed things some.” Mary began to cut her green beans in to bite-sized pieces for something else to do, feeling strained to get anything more than one word out of him.

“I’ll head out before you get here tomorrow morning. Leave the biscuits on the table so I can take them with me.” With that, he rose from the table and headed to his room, leaving Mary to eat her meal without him. Stopping at the doorway to his bedroom, he turned his head over his shoulder and said, “Look, you don’t have to wait for me to have supper. The agreement is for you to keep house and cook. I don’t need the company.” Without waiting for a response, he moved on and shut the bedroom door behind him. Mary let out a sigh and, resigning, finished eating. He was right about waiting for him, she knew. Now she’d have to ride the four miles to the boarding house in town in the dark. Fortunately, Duke, her horse, had learned the way in the last month and could carry her there blindfolded. Tonight would be fine since the rain had stopped, but she knew that future rainy nights might mean trouble. She resolved to let him have his supper in peace.

As she returned to the sink with the dirty dishes she again glanced at her reflection in the window, trying to stare out into the darkness. She wouldn’t be able to get answers from Matthew about the blond woman. Saul had never mentioned any other living soul, besides any of the three of them, not even the late wife. Matthew had only ever said, “Sarah would…” or “Sarah used to…” and trail off, as if the memory of her was so painful it prevented the use of words to remind him she was gone. Mary couldn’t help but feel Matthew needed the company anyway. Still, his grief needed time before… before what? Before he would be conversational? Before he would be civil? Whatever the answer, Mary would do her job and establish a routine. Besides, the morning might dawn with fresh possibilities.

Based on former comments, here’s a revision to part one:

Somewhere in the western regions of North America, there lies a small cabin of four small rooms, surrounded by grassy fields more the color of toasted bread than green. Two bedrooms face the west and adjoin the largest center room, which leads further to a store room on the northern side for keeping everything from canned goods to extra linens. The biggest window, situated on the eastern wall in what can barely be called a kitchen, faces Lake Promise about 200 yards away. The early settlers in the region named it, thinking that this place must be what was promised by all the tales of the wide west just waiting for people to start a new life. The view includes a pier that seems to run alongside the lake shore. The one and only neighbor lives on his boat at the end of that pier, which bobs gently with the calm waves, quietly begging for fresh paint, while he often sits on the end of the pier and fishes. Mary, the first housekeeper for Mr. Miller, the man who owns this cabin, sees the neighbor every day while he fishes, seemingly immobile as she washes the dishes. She notices the man puttering around on his boat other times, but not really working, and he doesn’t seem to own a shirt.

Her first day there he came up to the kitchen window late in the afternoon to introduce himself. Mary had seen him approaching the house, expecting him to come to the door. When she heard tapping on the glass, she jumped. He slid up the sash from the outside and poked his head in a bit. “Sorry, hand’t meant to startle you, ma’am… I’m Saul. Lived on yonder boat a few years, since ‘afore Matthew built this cabin. Mighty glad to have a neighbor, I was.”

“Oh, no problem. I’m just used to visitors knocking on the door. I’m Mary. Nice to meet you.” She cautiously approached the open window, holding out her hand to show she welcomed him. He took it up quickly and shook her entire arm, his smile widening. Mary couldn’t help but smile back. “Nice to meet you,” she repeated, not sure what to do next. “Would, would you like to come in?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I just wanted to say hello. It’s good Matthew has a helper. He won’t ask me, but you sure can.”

“Well, thank you very much. But, I can manage a house quite well on my own. I helped my older sister when her children were small. They got big enough to not need Aunt Mary any more. When I saw Mr. Miller’s advertisement I could move on without their feeling obliged or worried for me. I’ll be here every day to do the same kind of work, and again, it was nice to meet you.”

“Ma’am,” he said, nodding his head in farewell and returned to the pier. Ever since then he added a talk with her to his habits. He raps on the window frame politely whether Mary is standing there or not, respectful of the boundary around another man’s house. He’s always friendly, sometimes offering a portion of his catch, but always in exchange for knowledge of what she did with her day. He is not unpleasant to look at, with wavy golden hair and muddy colored eyes in a face darkened and aged as much as hers, and invariably shirtless. He’s not trying to be enticing (which is the effect on Mary anyway), but rather hasn’t found a good enough reason to get fully dressed on a daily basis. These visits give the two a way to remember what it’s like to speak and be heard in this tiny part of the world.

After one of these regular conversations one evening, Mary returns to her chores and cooking dinner until an aching back and sore feet inform her she needs a break. She looks out the big window at how the light disappears on the fields, now very late for a spring twilight, the dimness slowly moving closer to the house. The farmer, Matt, usually returns about now before it is too dark to see well. Wondering why he’s still out is useless. He keeps his own clock. Mary’s worked on farms before, which all have their own general rhythms that follow the larger swings of the seasons rather than any dictate by ticking hands. However, she knows how to be alone and waits patiently. Mary glances at the table to make sure she didn’t forget anything. Satisfied that the meal is there – roasted chicken and potatoes and buttered beans with biscuits – she turns back to the window to find another face next to her own reflection. Mary has long, dark and wiry curly hair and looks every minute of her thirty-odd years. The other face, also of a woman, has wavy straw-colored hair and appears to be much younger, only in her twenties. Quickly, Mary whirls around to look for the stranger behind her. Finding no other person, she turns again to the reflection. This other is still looking at Mary, who walks toward the window to see if the lady is outside. Maybe she’s lost? Or Saul has a new friend? Before taking two steps, the woman seems to smile. This stops Mary’s motion. The woman’s smile grows colder, into a kind of smirk, as if not happy but unsurprised to find someone at the house, and then whole image fades away into the gloom.

Mary moves the rest of the way to the window, sure someone must be outside, but it’s too dark now to see for sure. She rubs her eyes and says to the empty room, “I must be too tired,” as if that excuses and wipes away the experience. Still, she knows what she saw. Turning once more to the room, she grabs the box of matchsticks from the mantel and lights the lamps there as well as the two on the table. The familiar glow helps return her breath to its normal shallow calmness. She sits at the table and begins to fill her plate, sure Matt will walk through the door any minute now and she can forget all about it.

Welcome Readers!

This is the first installment, of ten, toward writing a short story with the feedback and opinions of my friends and colleagues. I ask for your help for two reasons. First, this story was inspired by a particularly vivid dream one summer night, about the ghost of a lovely pioneer woman and her distraught widower. I woke before the dream reached its end, and have struggled with where to take the story. Second, I submitted the idea of posting portions of the story to my blog for peers to help me finish it to the EAPSU conference in Shippensburg this fall. The conference, titled “Creativity in times of crisis,” explores the creative writing process and the difficulties writers may face. This project cannot be completed without you!

Since I dreamed the events and characters, the details are both unclear and incomplete. Each week (on Wednesdays) I will post several paragraphs of the story to this blog. I ask that each of you read the portion, then post your own comments to offer suggestions, perhaps redirections, identify confusion, and make predictions. I will make revisions based on those posts and develop the story as I go. After ten weeks, I hope to have a finished story to share at the conference.

Feel free to ask any questions along the way!

 

Part One:

Somewhere in the western regions of North America, there lies a small cabin, of three or four rooms, surrounded by grassy fields more the color of toasted bread than green. The biggest window is situated on the eastern wall in what can only be called a kitchen and faces a nearby lake and looks out at the pier that seems to run alongside its shore. A neighbor lives on his boat at the end of that pier, which bobs gently with the calm waves, and he often sits on the end of the pier and fishes. Mary, the (housekeeper or sister? Which one determines some backstory) of the man who owns this cabin, sees the neighbor every day while he fishes, and she washes the dishes. She always notices the man doesn’t seem to own a shirt. He will walk up to the kitchen window late in the afternoon to talk with her. He’s always friendly, sometimes offering a portion of his catch, but always in exchange for knowledge of what she did with her day. This neighbor (needs a name?) is not unpleasant to look at, with wavy golden hair and muddy colored eyes, and invariably shirtless. He’s not trying to be enticing (which is the effect on Mary anyway), but rather hasn’t found a good enough reason to get fully dressed on a daily basis.

After one of these regular conversations one evening, Mary continues to go about her chores and cooking dinner until she decides she needs a break. She looks out the big window at how the light disappears on the fields, the darkness slowly moving closer to the house. The farmer, Matt, usually returns about now before it is too dark to see well. However, she’s still alone and waiting patiently. Mary glances at the table to make sure she didn’t forget anything. Satisfied that the meal is there – roasted chicken and potatoes and buttered beans with biscuits – she turns back to the window to find another face next to her own reflection. Mary has long, dark and wiry curly hair and looks every minute of her thirty-? years. The other face, also of a woman, has wavy straw-colored hair and appears to be much younger, only in her twenties. Quickly, Mary whirls around to look for the stranger behind her. Finding no other person, she turns again to the reflection. This other is still looking at Mary, who walks toward the window to see if the lady is outside. Before taking two steps, the woman seems to smile. This stops Mary’s motion. The woman’s smile grows colder, into a kind of smirk (or one that seems worried?) and then the entire image fades away.

Mary moves the rest of the way to the window, sure someone must be outside, but it’s too dark now to see for sure. She rubs her eyes and says to the empty room, “I must be too tired,” as if that excuses and wipes away the experience. Still, she knows what she saw. She sits at the table and begins to fill her plate, sure Matt will walk through the door any minute now and she can forget all about it.

 

I have a question – how much dialogue, if any, between Mary and the neighbor at this point?

I’ll introduce Matt next time…