The Anderson Sisters
The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.
“Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.
The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.
Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.
Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.
Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.
Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.
The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.
Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone.
“It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.
“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.
Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.
“We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.
Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.
“You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.
The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s. Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”
“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.
Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.
Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.
Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?
I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.
I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove.
Nope. Not me. My character. (I thought I'd jot down some thoughts instead of complaining more.) Braketed [] parts are notes on my notes, or notes within notes.
He was an adult when Mao died and capitalism started to be filtered into the Chinese economy. Since he was an intelligent young man and not particularly fond of farming, he ventured into business. [What business? Need to figure it out so that it ties in logically with existing story.]
He does well in his business and travels. He has visited many places, including US. At some point he meets his wife, a woman with Taiwanese ties. [Do I need to elaborate on how they met?] China, as is often the case, is uncomfortable with wealthy capitalists. He is a loyal citizen, not completely unaware that he needs to make his patriotism clear and open. He believes he has done well at this, but...
The rest mostly follows as in the original story, minus the fan element.
If I write his life story as fully as I can, I can then determine how much and what parts need to be revealed when in the story. His whole biography can be telling until I actually fit it into the story, at which point I need to get into his head and "experience" it as I did with Abby's (female lead) story.
I'll edit as I think 0of things, if I can do that here.
Footprints
And there, I saw, the great secular salvation. One set of footprints, followed by a trough in the sand. I had been told the old story of Jesus carrying the burdened soul through difficulties, but these were my feet. The trough had been cut by the misconceptions I had drug throughout my life. It wasn’t by grace that I would be saved, but by letting go; letting go of Christian dogma, letting go of the expectations of a world my mind had created.
Here, I leave the penance of self-sacrifice. Here, I leave the denial of self and identity for the construct of the husband and father. Here, I abandon the stones I had used to wall myself within a faith I had created. Here, I stand, naked and bathed in sunlight with the dawning of self-realization. It is within my own being to persevere; to save myself.
Blinking my eyes, I stretched as my room came into focus. The orange light slanted through the long awning window, illuminating an errant sock on the graying spruce floor.
The phone had been chirping below me, sounding through the open floorboards; only calling my attention with the final alarm and click of the answering machine, “Halo” my own voice called out in a fake Spanish accent, “Eef you are a friend or relative, please leeve your message now. If not, please rot in Hell, as I will not be talking to jou.
“Please hold” another recorded voice replied to mine, “ a representative will be with you shortly.”
“Christ” I moaned as I rolled sideways to stare vacantly at the clock. My amusement listening to two machines exchange small talk was replaced by disbelief that a company already intent on shaking me down for money would have the audacity to put me on hold to wait for the next available collections agent. There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, then a click. For a second before the disconnect, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Running my hand across my jaw line, I felt the day-old scruff and tried to picture her. She was young, I decided; about twenty-two. She had long blonde hair that she kept pulled back. She wore a crisp blouse with khaki pants; casual yet professional. Her face was kind, yet determined, with the beautiful glow of youth upon it. She didn’t like her job, I thought. Who would? But, she was fresh out of college and this was the best paying gig she could land at the call center somewhere… Atlanta, I decided. There she sat. In a room full of cubicles, with my number randomly routed to her phone. I decided if I ever met her, I would tell her I was sorry. Sorry for all the mean things my machine told hers. Sorry my life was a disaster. Sorry that I had to make it her problem as well.
Getting up from my mattress, I examined the coil of sheets and blankets I had discarded sometime in the night. It was nice, I thought, not to have to worry about making the bed. First of all, I could argue that there was no sense in making the “bed” since the actual bed was a days journey south of here. Making a mattress on the floor would be as deluding as buying throw pillows for a camping pad. I shuffled through the covers and made a little bounce the six inches down to the floor with a muffled thump. The boards were warm on my feet as I stepped into the sunlight allowing the warmth to creep up my legs. Through the window, Breezes lifted apple leaves and made gentle tracks through the tall grass.
How many times had I looked out that window? How many seasons have I plaintively watched pass across it’s pane? The feeling rose in me that the scenes as they played out cared nothing about the presence of my eye to record them. The hands that had laid the foundation to this structure some eighty years prior were, undoubtedly stilled; resting across a skeletal breast in the cemetery over the next rise. The indifference of nature below my feet was comforting; like standing before the ocean, vast, ancient, and powerful.
Kneeling down on the floor, I pried my fingers under the boards that made the hatch to the ladder below. Eventually, I thought, I would tire of using a ladder to reach the loft above, but now that I was alone the ladder was like a youthful friend. This was my fort, my tree house, my club of one. I would have placed a big hand-painted sign saying ’no girls allowed’ if it were not already painfully obvious that there weren’t any girls trying to get in to begin with. Still, it had become a man’s playhouse. There were shelves made from hand-hewn logs in the kitchen and dining rooms. One corner of the dinning room floor was littered with various woodworking tools, relegated to their new home mid-project. On a beam high above the computer desk, hung a shotgun, and, peering out at visitors to my primitive abode, was the head of the first and only deer I had successfully shot.
The ladder creaked as I stepped down to begin my descent to the living room. Beneath the ladder, Sheba looked up hopefully; swishing a bushy tail lazily and stirring up thousands of sparkles of dust in the slant of morning light. Stopping at the bottom tread, I carefully reached down with my foot and smoothed the fur on top of her head. Lowering her head, her eyes closed; two long black lines as she drifted into a doggy sleep.
Crossing the floor, I felt every ridge in the worn pine. It had come from a pallet of barn sheathing that I thought would do the job for a temporary home. It was funny, I thought, how the things we take for temporary often become permanent; and the converse, although not as funny, was just as true. Pulling two Benadryl from a box on the computer desk, I popped them into my mouth and went to the sink for a cupped handful of water to wash them down. One capsule cocked sideways, gave in to the water, and eased it’s way down my throat. My allergies had lessened a bit by now, but I still kept my system primed with antihistamines. Taking down a small cast iron pan from a nail in the small doorway, I examined it briefly before setting it back in place with a thunk. I wasn’t hungry enough for my last egg and three strips of bacon.
Turning to examine the log shelf that spanned the six foot galley, I set my eyes on the planned meal of the day. By making an abbreviated electricity payment, I was able to buy a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. The anniversary was approaching, and this was no time to skimp. I started the coffee and stepped into the shower
**********
The screen door creaked as Sheba slipped past me and around behind the house. The military surplus boots I had donned made a sound clunk on the porch. Standing there, finishing off my coffee, I examined the meadow. Starlings skated gracefully over the tops of the wheat-grass that strained toward the spring sky. Trees shook their fledgling leaves at the shifting air currents, while red squirrels raced through the rocking limbs. The morning air was clear and cool; not yet offering the promise of the oppressing heat a month’s time would bring. Below, a low drone alerted me to a wasp, drifting lazily by my boot. I watched him pass slowly by and towards the grass tops before gaining momentum and ascending in a quick arc, toward the woods.
Downing the last gulp of cooling coffee, I tromped heavily down the steps and into the meadow. I was quickly enveloped up to my knees in the fresh tide of grass. A crisp breeze playing off the apple branches touched my cheek before lifting a small aspen leaf, carried over from the harsh winter, to play with. The yellowed stubble of last year’s grass crunched beneath my boots. New life sprung from old. Soon my boots scuffed upon bits of charred wood, drawing my eyes to focus on a circle of scorched earth pierced throughout with new shoots of grass. I reached down and touched the blackened side of a log, remembering its specific placement the previous spring. This was the place.
**********
Garden rake in hand, I began my work in earnest; dredging up the thick under-matting of dead grass. Bundles were gathered and placed in the center of the scorched circle. With a sufficient haystack gathered, I leaned on my rake and stared out to the hillock where Sassafras lay buried. Green spruce boughs knelt before the spot as the horrific details flooded my mind. Bowing my head toward the grave, I entered the woods to gather the dead tree branches claimed by wind and snow. For the final step, I brought a double bit axe with me. As with all creatures, the winter brings death to the weak, so that the strong may go on. This winter had harvested about fifteen trees from the ranks of fir, cedar, and aspen. Of these, I sectioned and removed the closest to the pile. Once back at the pile, the logs were stacked teepee style with bits of broken pallets and scrap wood tucked between. Soaked with sweat, I inspected the pyre; some five feet tall and six feet at the base. The sun had already reached its apex and was beginning its long slant toward evening. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and bathed my aching arms; washing, along the way, tracks of dirt and forest compost. Blackflies buzzed around my head, searching for a safe place to land and gorge themselves. The hay would be dry by tomorrow; proper tinder for the task at hand. It was a car-sized mass of potential energy; waiting, expectant. Perfect in form, it was a bomb, with a fuse, waiting for a spark to set into irrevocable motion, its complete destruction.
Standing beside the circle, I leaned my head back and filled my lungs from the passing breeze. The world around me penetrated my senses. The earthy smell of decay from the forest floor, still clinging to the back of the logs rested heavily upon my palate. The green shoots of the wheatgrass played lightly upon my nose before being washed clean by the warm smell of spruce all around me. There was a trickle down my arm, warmer than the sweat that covered me. I looked down to see a thin trail of blood running from my forearm, down along the curve of muscle and tendon, across my wrist, and down my little finger. I watched each slow drop swell, and fall to the grass below. Like the yellowed undergrowth I had raked earlier, each drop of expended life, fell to the earth to provide for nourishment.
The preparations had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. The way I had waited then. But now, as in every year since, the outcome has already been written. Gone is the blissful ignorance I held that day. Gone, the hope; the belief in miracles, in rescue. There is only remembrance.
**********
I rose again to the slant of light. The call to work had already been made before my manager arrived. It was a call I had planned for a month now. I was as certain about having to feign illness as I was they would not have approved a day off. What excuse could I give them that would make sense to a civilized mind?
Making my way down the ladder, I paused at the bottom to examine a static sky through a single pane of glass. Randomly painted cirrus clouds clung to blue cellophane as a distant sun watched from above. The wheatgrass stood expectant in the field; unchanged by the prospect of a passing breeze. To the right hung the framed footprints. Touching them, as I had touched those very feet a decade ago, I remembered each detail of that day. A liturgy of despair: I was at work when I got an emergency call. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. I arrived just as she was admitted. The contractions came. He was born, he died, I died too. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. It was all her fault. Amen.
The words of condemnation toward her had still left me with no feeling of absolution. Closure was an illusion and payment would never be made for one soul thrown to the wind. This was a date that had passed each year without mention. The weight of the air bore testimony to the day that words would not do justice. Now, alone, I had resolved to bear the annual penance worthy of the crime committed. The day would no longer pass into obscurity without mention of the treason that had placed an infant in an unmarked grave; as if the body had to be destroyed and hidden to cover the shame.
“May God damn her to Hell,” I said aloud as I slowly pulled my hand back, allowing the words to hang in the air; to settle in the dust on the open rafters and be witnessed by the faces on the walls.
Drawing a match from the box on the pie safe, I struck it slowly, immersed in the moment when spark becomes flame. Sulfur curled around my nose as I lifted the flame to the wick of a candle beneath the framed footprints. The wick glowed orange before becoming a dancing flame, sending thin, black tendrils up to the beams above. Blowing out the match, I set the charred stick aside, and passed into the kitchen. Taking down the Jameson’s, I poured a full shot and returned to the pie safe to place it before the candle. For several minutes I stood there, my mind a flat lake, rapt in the vision of the flicking orange flame through the amber whiskey. I was an acolyte.
The next glass of whiskey was mine. I stepped out onto the porch, watching the sunlight play joylessly around the rim of the glass, casting sparks into the warm liquid below. Draining the glass, I retrieved a branch section from the previous day’s scavenging. Returning to the living room, I began tearing one of Shawn’s old shirts into strips and fastening them to one end of the branch. Layer upon layer. One from Shawn. One from Caitlin. One from Keagan; until the branch resembled a colorful novelty Q-tip. Dousing the end of the swab with lighter fluid, I carefully leaned it against the porch.
Once lit, the torch flared to life with surprising intensity; orange upon red, swirling around the top in ravenous layers. The torch held out to one side, I solemnly approached the wooded mound in the meadow. Thrusting deep, the flame broke off; quickly spreading through the tinder. Moving around the base, I ignited five fires along the perimeter before casting the torch to the top of the pile. From deep in the center, there was a rumble, then a gray cloud, out of which lashed fresh tongues of flame; eager for a taste of the larger kindling.
From below, flames grew; multiplied, and merged together to form a new life. The separate flames now became a fire, swallowing branches and enveloping logs. A log shifted, coughing a shower of sparks into the sky. Orange sprites danced and darted around me; filling my eyes with the glowing streaks of their courses and my nose with the spent life of the forest.
Alive now, it rose before me; it’s back hunched as it clawed and tore at the fallen timber; a beast of consumption, conjured before me at the end of a torch. I approached it’s heat; arms stretched, feeling each wave as my skin tightened against my face. I confronted the beast now, in it’s frenzy, eyes closed. I wondered. Would it feed indiscriminately? Would it accept all that was offered it? Would it devour my pain, my loneliness? Would it accept my guilt; my penance? How long could such a thing live off those parts, so invisible, yet so tangible they can paralyze?
I stood there, in the heat, every nerve in my skin now tingling with the searing energy before me. It was drawing me in. It was feeding.
**********
Evening fell with the darkness I had come to know so well in the meadow. Sitting on a section of log spared from the fire, I rested my feet in the charred circle and gazed into the mollified blaze. Putting the exhausted bottle of Jameson’s to my lips, I took a long draw, hardly noticing the warmth as it moved down into my gut. My body had become leaden. My feet were embedded in the ash, my backside pressed into the log, and my very soul felt poured out. Glancing at my hand, I could see a patchwork of soot in the flickering light. It followed up my arm and I presumed to be covered in it; a perverse ashen camouflage.
Lifting myself from the dying fire’s gaze, I made my way back to the porch. Closing the door behind me with an uneven thunk, dim light of the candle sent out a jumpy flicker of disapproval. Again, I paused before the footprints, watching now as pale yellow light crept at the heels. Lifting the whiskey I had set there, I bent, blew out the candle, “Happy birthday, Justin.”.
| Bloody Revenge | |
 | |
| Some bugger's nicked my car!" I stood in my now empty driveway. in my barefeet and looking like a very cold Arthur Dent in my pyjamas and dressing gown. "Little bastards!" I shook my fist in defiance of such an act. The police were no help as usual. The car could've been tak Poem of clichés
Barker
Karen_
|
