Aug 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Reflections on the Unresolved

FullSizeRender (5)Starbucks

Plymouth, MI

November 2006

4:37pm

I’m here to celebrate a good job phone interview.  So I’m here drinking my cappuccino and writing it all down.

I feel lonely here in this coffee shop full of people, and I’m distracted.  I’m paranoid of the boys hanging out down the street near my Penn State flag-waving car. They’re just out of my vision from this table at the window.

I’m finally eating lunch, a turkey and cheese sandwich on a sesame bagel, along with my vanilla cappuccino.  I was feeling a bit shaky, and that’s been happening a lot lately.  Maybe it’s the caffeine?  Maybe I’m eating less food?  Jobless, I don’t have a real schedule yet.  This feeling, it hits me all of a sudden, a shaky, frantic feeling that goes away as soon as I eat food.

Hey, look at that.  Two women at the table in front of me discuss a menu of some sort. Do they use balls or pats of butter?  Should they have pre-tossed salads or individual containers?  The woman in charge says to her client, “I learn so much from you, how you organize your committee.”

I wonder what the meal is for.  They’re part of a community somewhere.  What job are they doing?  What event?  What are they working on?  I wish I knew, and I wish I was doing that.  I want someone to appreciate me and my perspectives.

Now they discuss using salad dressing containers without lids.  That’s not a good idea because of the safety and spill issues.  Also, there’s not enough for each table.  I remember my wedding and how we had simple food, not some huge catered event.  Big money was spent on the photographer because everyone remembers the photos, not if your salad dressing was in a plastic or ceramic bowl.

And now my husband calls like he knows I’m thinking of him.  He’s frustrated about some music thing with a DVD or CD set.  I turned my phone off.  I came here to write and to think about this job thing.

I had a good phone interview.  The position is in a division that is creating a new area of concentration, so this is a brand new, never-done-before job opportunity.  How exciting!  Within 15 minutes, I was invited for a face-to-face.  I couldn’t stop myself from doing one of those arm pumps in the air and mouthing a silent yessss before composing myself back to finish the interview.

I answered some unexpected questions rather well, and now I know to prepare these for the future.  “Is this position below you?” (the “overqualified” question everyone asks).  “What about challenges?” (a sub-question of “overqualified”).  “What pay are you looking for?  Why do you want this job?” and so on.

I feel good, and I haven’t felt good in this job search.  I danced before the interview just because, and not even to a favorite song.  I danced wildly in the living room afterwards when “Billie Jean” kicked on XM Radio.

Celebrate good moments when they occur!

The kids I spied lingering around my car are gone.  I used an excuse to go outside because it’s chilly in here and I needed to warm up.  My car is safe.

This is the first position I’m excited about.  Not just another this-could-be-a-good-opportunity position, but really excited.  Why?  Is it the PR/communications aspect?  Maybe.  I took control of the interview.  I let my personality show through as well.  I stuttered a bit, but I was confident.  Definitely need intelligent questions for the face-to-face.

What about that other job?  It either will or will not be.  I’m thankful for options.  It’s frustrating, too, doing all this work and not having anything substantial to show for it.  Still, opportunities keep popping up.  I’m anticipating the interview.

I can prove myself.

I will.  Whether it’s this job or another one, I will.

I’m just happy.  There’s no one to talk to here or share my excitement.

I’ll turn my phone on now.

Aug 16

The Best Seat in the House

“This is my command: Love each other.” ~ Jesus

(John 15:17, NIV)

For over 125 years, Mt. Hope has been inviting visitors to become part of its church family.

Oliver sits directly in front of me. The five-year-old was a student in my vacation Bible school class. He snuggles up to his mom. With a broad smile and a gleam in his eye, he leans in to kiss her cheek. She puts her arm around him and hugs him close. Oliver’s dad sits on the other side of the young boy. The two of them have the same color of hair, brown, and similar haircuts. The dad stretches his arm all the way out—behind and past his son—and caresses his wife’s shoulder. The way he stares and smiles at his wife in that moment tells me he adores her. She’s looking down at something in her lap and misses that glance of affection. All the while, Oliver is delightfully sandwiched between his parents. All three are visitors to church on this particular Sunday, but I’m sure they’ve been here in the past. Probably on a day that they came to hear Grandma Mary Ellen sing in the choir.

The trio fit right in with the rest of us regular worshipers. Love is abundant at Mt. Hope. Ours is a small church, but we’re big on family.

Across the aisle, in the front row, Kelsey sits where her mom used to. Everyone who knew Jan was saddened by her untimely death, due to a medical mistake. We miss her, but her husband Bud is the most distraught. We hug him when we can and cry with him when we do.

Nearby, Toddler Theo is full of youthful energy. He can’t be contained. His Nana carries the squirming child out of the sanctuary and to the nursery. I know she will stay there to play with him and keep him content, unless his Buppa happens to be volunteering in the back room to watch the young children during this morning’s service.

Farther back in another pew sits Sami. She rests her head upon her dad’s shoulder. Her neck is tilted—practically at a forty-five-degree angle—to her body. How could that position be the least bit comfortable, I wonder? I watch as her father protectively wraps his arm about her. Familiar tattoos peek out from beneath his short-sleeved shirt. His little girl is now a young lady. All grown up at eighteen and going to college in the fall. She will miss her daddy and mommy, though. Anyone can see that. Despite open seating to the right, Sami’s mom is pressed tightly up against Sami, an aspiring pharmacist. Beauty and brains, the perfect combination.

"Signs of affection are common during church service."

Signs of affection are common during church service.

A baby cries, and I don’t have to turn to see that it is Abela’s little sister. When just a few months old, the baby was baptized here. Pastor Steve poured holy water over the baby’s tiny forehead, and then our church family welcomed her by singing, “Jesus Loves Me,” like we do for all the babies. This precious little one didn’t even cry. She just cooed and smiled as she was carried up and down the main aisle so we could meet, eye-to-eye, the little person to whom we were promising to teach and guide and raise as one of our own. I hoped she would one day know how significant her baptism was. Even the water used to bless her was special. It came directly from Pastor Steve’s last trip to Israel. He had collected it himself from the Jordan River, where Christ had been baptized two thousand years earlier by John.

Today, the spot next to Al is vacant. His wife, Doris, is in the hospital recuperating from surgery, so their son Clark fills the void. Several pews forward from them, Mitchell is missing. He must be performing in a weekend matinee. What else can an actor be expected to do? Even on Sundays, the show must go on. On the rare occasion that Margaret isn’t in her usual spot, I immediately expect to find her at the piano, which she sometimes plays when our church accompanist, Sharon, cannot.

From my seat towards the back of church, I see all this and more. Dawn and Bill’s twin sons are training at West Point, so I know that the parents regularly sit beside lifelong friends and gab while they wait for service to begin. I notice when Grandpa John comes in to claim his place alongside his two grandkids. I hear when Lynn laughs and when Karen and Susie sing.

This morning, I can tell that we have visitors. Clumped together at the front, they must be with Bertha. She’s way out of place up there. Normally, she’s even farther back than me. But when I see her look closely at her great-granddaughter, clothed in a white gown and bonnet, I understand. There will be another baptism.

My mind races. Is the family bothered by the vacation Bible school decorations that will show up in the background of the baptism photos? Surely they didn’t expect a cave, complete with stalagmites and stalactites. I get up and quickly approach Pastor Steve who is seconds away from starting service.

“Should I move anything out of the way? Is it too late?” I whisper in his ear.

He smiles, shakes his head, and assures me. “We’re fine, Kelly. We don’t need to change a thing.”

This baby has a beautiful start in her journey to Jesus.

I return to my vantage point near the back of the sanctuary. Pastor Steve’s words float around in my mind and I think about this loving family that I’m a part of. Steve’s right, I know. We may try to capture life’s biggest moments from the perfect angle of a camera lens, but by focusing too intently, we might miss the delightful things that happen in the background.

 

Aug 15

A Pratt & Whitney Engine

Our Michigan Air National Guard 127th Tactical Air Command Reconnaissance Group stood in ranks at Detroit Metropolitan Airport’s tarmac. Two Douglas C-124 Globemaster transports loomed above us. It was early morning and we were to fly to Gulfport, Mississippi for two weeks active duty. The Alabama Air National Guard’s airplanes had flown in the day before. Each of us carried a duffel bag over a shoulder, while huge, clam-shell doors on the front of each plane gaped open with ramps leading into cavernous interiors. None of us had been inside anything this huge. Wafts of stale oil and aircraft fuel swirled about. 

What appeared to be a twelve-year-old pilot strutted about inspecting the airplane, while a co-pilot, who must have had a rough night, made notes on a tightly-clutched clipboard. What they expected to find that trained expert mechanics hadn’t already taken care of was beyond us. Senior Master Sergeant called us to attention as the pilot approached. The latter turned to us, squeaking, “Ya’ll doan smoke on ma plane,” he announced, “‘cause this one leaks awl a little. Ok, Ya’ll get aboard now.” I supposed the “awl” currently leaking was engine oil and not aviation fuel that shimmied in little pools on the tarmac. 

We began shuffling single-file up steel-grate ramps designed for military trucks, eyes adjusting to a dim interior lit by naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Two levels of wall-mounted multi-tiered seats were arranged like the inside of an ancient Roman slave-galley. Roman galleys had wooden oars. This one came with U.S. Air Force webbed belts, neither conducive to peace of mind. Instead of friendly attendants’ greetings, we were handed vomit bags and told to hurry up, find canvas slings, and strap in on canvas-webbed seats lining the walls. 

The ride had to be somewhat safe, didn’t it? After all, the government couldn’t afford to lose a couple hundred troops every day shuffling around the country in these things. Our Senior Master Sergeant had told us a previous reconnoitering flight to Gulfport had lowered its landing gear too early, almost splashing into the Gulf of Mexico. So, only hours before, I purchased a fortune’s-worth of optional flight insurance before reporting to the flight line. My parents would be millionaires beyond their wildest dreams if this leaky, overweight behemoth went down somewhere. 

One by one, all four engines coughed and fired, finally settling into a steady, ungodly loud roar. We couldn’t see out except for tiny portholes every few yards. Our plane was packed with khaki-clad airmen, and a few took their vomit bags out as we lurched and banged our way along the tarmac, both pilots apparently unfamiliar with Detroit’s airport and which runway to use. If we continued much longer, we could be over the state line and into Ohio with only 970 miles to go. 

Finally positioned for take-off, we sat for ages while the Alabama pilot apparently re-learned where the controls were. Everything seemed to check out and the turbo-props began howling. As tension grew, the brakes were released and we rumbled down 22L for much longer than necessary before finally lifting off. Unlike most airplanes once airborne and attaining cruising altitude, takeoff noise didn’t lessen, and we began laboring southwest over Michigan while more vomit bags were brought out. The C-124 yawed side to side in sickening arcs as if over-correcting neophytes were controlling the thing with rubber bands. Somebody forgot to set the temperature or open air vents and it became unbearably hot. We hadn’t been on course more than a few minutes before people were throwing up morning breakfasts. The smell was overpowering and dribbles from seats above slid down aluminum bulkheads. I closed my eyes, breathing through my mouth, thinking of other things. 

The rear of our cavernous cargo-hold held a single, exposed toilet. Several men struggling to avoid vomiting stood around waiting to use it. We hit a rough patch of air and the uncovered contents cascaded over those waiting, a scene straight out of Dante. My forehead was hot, not unexpected in these circumstances. “Motion-sickness is all in the mind” I told myself. “It’s all a mental game. Don’t throw up like others.” A guy to my right suddenly pulled out his bag and vomited, a final straw.  I could feel I was about to lose it and hastily retrieved my own bag. 

All of a sudden, there was a tremendous bang outside followed by louder engine roaring. “Hey guys,” someone near a porthole shouted, “The left engine blew up! The prop is frozen. We’re going down!” he added, unnecessarily. An inboard port engine, one of the four Pratt and Whitney R4360 3,800 horsepower turbo-fans, had seized without warning. The plane began drifting to the left as two right engines pulled 30 tons of fully-laden aircraft sideways. No one had time to think about the pilot reacting; we were momentarily out of control, my parents now multi-millionaires. A quick glance out the nearest porthole revealed the engine streaming a thin line of smoke, propeller frozen in place, blades flat against the wind causing a tremendous amount of drag, a combination most twelve-year-olds don’t train for. 

For agonizing seconds, there was no change in engine note from the other turbo-props but, if another ceased functioning, there was nothing to prevent spiraling to our deaths at cruising power. Not a happy thought at the moment. At 12,000 feet, we had about 120 seconds to say our prayers. Both pilots fought the controls, increasing power to the remaining port engine, throttling back the starboard engines, adjusting trim tabs, stabilizer, and rudder, frantically changing remaining propellers. Old Shaky shook all the more as the pilots kicked the tail rudder hard right, offsetting a left yaw. At least, this is what they should have been doing. What did we know? We weren’t pilots; they were. 

The C-124 seemed to stabilize, before sinking ever so slowly toward the flowering spring-time Michigan countryside, thankfully under control. At least we weren’t upside down in a screaming death-dive. Everything had happened in less time than it takes to read about. I no longer had the slightest inclination to vomit because, apparently, it’s a human condition that people about to die have no time for throwing up. My inner self-concluded I was going to fall 12,000 feet straight down in a ball of fire inside 30 tons of airplane with 150 others, so why bother. I stared at a now useless vomit bag and rolled it up. 

Word finally passed that we would make an emergency landing at the Indianapolis Airport. We began descending and eventually slid to a smooth stop before the clam-shell doors were thrown open, allowing everyone to climb out as fast as possible. Fortunately, there were no further histrionics from the C-124 but, sitting a hundred yards away on the runway grass, I no longer worried, because our transport was clearly done for the day. Perhaps it would still self-immolate, but at least we wouldn’t be on it to suffer the consequences. 

I felt sorry for the twelve-year-old staring up at his blown engine, a dozen emergency fire trucks ranged around the smoking hulk. He had done a good job getting us down in one piece. After several hours, we boarded another C-124, this time from the Tennessee Air Guard. I never understood whether my flight insurance policy applied to the second C-124 flight or not, but I didn’t want to find out.

Aug 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 14 – Off Course

“Crap!” she screamed. “It’s all crap.”

She slammed her hands on the drafting board, mad at herself, mad at the world, and mad at Saint for making her fall in love with him. Her sketchbook jumped. Her hands hurt from drawing so long in her larger studio above Twisted Metal. She shook her head in disgust and pushed the sketchbook away. What she’d done to Saint was deplorable. “It was a mistake. A huge mistake. I have to fix it.” Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over. She took a deep breath, then another, and wiped her face with graphite covered fingers. “God, I love him so much.” Her elbows hit the board, and her face rested in her hands.

Her mind was a whirl of indecision and frustration. She lifted her head and focused on something she didn’t deserve. “He probably hates me. I’ll go to him; I have to go to him now.” She stood. The chair hit the wall with a bang that seemed to rattle the walls. She gasped. That had been too loud. A second bang came that made her body jolt and then she froze. Someone was trying to break in.

Her body jerked again as she covered her ears. Sienna slowly turned toward the door. Nothing happened. Hair-raising fear skipped across her skin. Her eyes stayed glued to the door. Whoever it was struck again. She screamed. Her one desk light cast an eerie shadow across the door. She watched it vibrate as they struck it over and over. She backed away, the pounding in her chest a repetitious beat of growing dismay. There was only one way down from the second floor, and she was staring at it. She had to call 911. Sienna scurried to reach her phone and stumbled. The back of her knees hit the chair, and she went down the same time the door exploded inward. Sienna ducked behind her board, but it was no protection against what stormed into the room. A shrill scream tore from her mouth. Her lamp fell and broke sinking the room into darkness.

A streetlight outside silhouetted a bulky form coming toward her. Her eyes danced from the floor to her table trying to see what she could use as a weapon. She jumped when a body hit the floor in front of her. At first, she thought it was her mother. The body was small and thin. Her breath caught, and she moaned. She reached for the still figure. But the man struck out with his foot. There was a groan and then the small figure turned its head, tormented eyes she recognized. The figure went to kick the smaller one again.

“No,” she yelled and reached out. “Danny!”

“Ahh, so something else you care about,” The man said.

Sienna tried to scramble up to her knees to get to Danny, protect him, do anything to save them both.

“Don’t move, bitch!” came the voice, at the same time light burst throughout the room.

She blinked as her eyes watered. Able to finally focus, she looked up to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her chest. An electrical chill zipped under her flesh. All she could think of was that she’d let Saint think that all she had ever wanted from him was sex.

Sienna’s eyes flicked down when she heard Danny.

“I’m sa…sorry.” He groaned. Fingers spread out to him. She moved toward Danny, but the man waved the gun at her.

“I told you not to move, bitch!”

“What do you want!”

He fired the gun, and her body quaked in response fear grabbing hold, a hole breaking apart the wall above her head. She whimpered.

“The money your mother owes me.”

“I don’t…,” she stuttered, “have that kind of money.”

He pointed the gun at Danny.

“Wait!” Her breaths came in short puffs. Danny’s face stared off into the distance like he’d gone somewhere else. The man aimed again and fired another shot. Danny’s whole body jerked. It was his only reaction. “Don’t!” She yelled. The man aimed again. “Please don’t.” She began to cry. “Don’t,” she said again her body slumping in defeat. Leaping forward the man grabs her hair, yanks, and bends her neck at an odd angle until he’s inches away from his face, harsh breaths grip her body as searing pain rips through her scalp and neck.

“You gonna get me the money?” She barely could nod, but she did it anyway knowing it was a lie. There was no money.

Trembling with her hair still wrapped in the stranger’s fist she made to stand.

“Get up boy.”

“Go to hell, Marco.” Danny moaned.

Like he hadn’t spoken the man Danny called Marco continued. “You’re coming with us since this bitch likes you so much,” Marco said to Danny. Danny didn’t move. Sienna began to cry harder.

“Danny?” Sienna moved toward him, but the man halted her forward motion. She gritted her teeth. “Let me help him,” she pleaded. “You can’t hold us both.” Suddenly on her hands and knees, he kicked her too. She coughed through the pain.

“Get moving bitch!”

“Danny, honey,” she whispered and crawled toward him. When her fingers touched his shoulder, she could feel him trembling. “Please, Danny. You have to get up.”

“It hurts,” Danny said. Her head fell. If she couldn’t get him up, they were both going to die.

“You don’t get up boy, and I’ll shoot ya. I don’t give a shit if your momma inherits or not.”

“You leave him alone. You’ve done enough already.”

“Oh, you want to talk back some more, bitch?” Her breaths came faster now. She should have kept her mouth shut and not let her anger get the best of her. “You don’t watch yourself I’ll do to you what I been doin’ to your mother.”

“Oh, God!” This man had her mother too. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

He just smiled and grabbed his crotch, grinding his hips.

“I’ll get him up. I’ll do it. I’ll get him up.”

Struggling, but willing herself to get up so she could figure out how to get them out of this situation, she grabbed the drafting boards leg. On wobbly legs, she wrapped an arm around Danny and levered him under his armpits and pulled up. He weighed little to nothing, no doubt the symptoms of years of neglect.

“Danny? Okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied,” but she barely caught it. With each step toward the door, Danny made to breathe, but it rattled, and he flinched.

With the door hanging open they walked right through to the landing. Sienna stopped and glanced down, the biting chill dancing across her skin. The stairs were steep, and the ground wavered beneath her, vertigo causing her to close her eyes to gain her balance. She was afraid, with both of them hurt they would fall.

“Keep moving.”

“Just wait,” she snapped and instantly regretted it. The man’s gun pressed into her cheek. Danny moaned with the sharp movement when instinct had her shifting away. The man’s eyes narrowed only inches from hers that widened. She held still afraid to breathe.

“Move!” the man said as he pressed the cold metal of the gun grinding it into cheekbone.

Danny’s weight in her arms was awkward more like a small animal than a thirteen-year-old. Sienna shifted his small body and Danny whimpered. “It’s okay, we’re okay, we’re okay,” she said, hoping to believe the words she repeated aloud. She prayed Danny would make it his injuries really worrying her. His ribs broken, no doubt, from the kick the man delivered. Hope to God, she thought, he didn’t puncture a lung.

“Hurry up,” the man snapped.

“Please,” she begged. “Danny’s hurt.” She peeked over her shoulder, the gun still pointed at her and Danny. The stranger’s eyes flicked across the area like something was going to jump out of the woods at the back of the building. Sienna wished something would. She wished she hadn’t told Saint it was over. She’d be with him right now.

When they made it to the bottom of the stairs, she barely had time to take a breath when the man pushed them toward a large darkened Cadillac SUV. She almost fell and had to grip Danny so he wouldn’t either. He began to cry silent tears he couldn’t afford. The pain, she thought, must be excruciating.

“Get in.”

Sienna did her best to get in the vehicle.

Sienna tried to lay Danny in the back seat. The man was speaking to her, but she barely could hear him. She heard him too late when again he spoke. Heat seared her cheek. “Where is it?” He hit her again. “Where’s the money.”

“My…my house.”

The lie rolled off her tongue, to save them both from an early grave. She blinked, licking her lip catching the taste of blood from the corner of her mouth. It throbbed, and she couldn’t focus. Marco’s quick exit from the lot caused her to fall onto the floor in the back seat. There wasn’t enough time to put on a seatbelt. With one hand still firmly on Danny, she could feel him tremble. It was then she realized the stranger didn’t ask where she lived. He already knew.

Think, think, she told herself. How was she going to get help?

“Ohhhh,” Danny moaned.

“You’ll be okay Danny,” she said in the softest voice possible. The man didn’t notice, he was too busy driving. She looked back toward Danny when she thought she heard him speak. “What, Danny?”

“So sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“Danny, you did nothing wrong.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he kept repeating.

She shook her head confused by his continued apology, and then asked, “Was Saint still at the speedway when you left?” Danny’s eyes flashed, his only reaction since he’d been kicked by the man. “Danny? Was he?” She looked over her shoulder and checked on the man to see if he’d heard her.

“He fell,” Danny wheezed.

“What do you mean?”

“When you pushed him and ran away,” he paused to take an unsteady breath, “he fell and hit his head. I wanted you to hurt you as much as you hurt Saint,” he finished through a wheeze. “I told,” he paused to take a breath, “Marco where you were. I’m sorry.”

“What? Who is Marco,” she whispered dismayed. But never mind about that she thought. His pain-filled eyes held her gaze. “What about Saint,” she asked scared out of her mind even more now. “What about Saint,” she said as she shook him, not meaning to be so rough.

Danny groaned, his fingers gripped her arm, too weak, barely holding on. “Concussion. Maybe,” Danny answered.

Her breath hitched. “Oh, God.” She said too loudly drawing the man’s attention.

“Shut up.” He waved the gun over his shoulder, and she ducked behind the seat.

Sienna couldn’t believe what Danny was saying. Was Saint all right? Had she really pushed him that hard? Hard enough that she’d caused him to fall. She covered her face and began to sob. If they got out of this…no when they got out of this, she had to go to Saint. She couldn’t leave things the way she had. Sienna had to make things right.

When the Cadillac began to slow and stop her mind jumped at what to do but never landed on solid ground. Before she knew it, she was hauled out of the vehicle and dragged to her front door her legs scraping against pavement. The material was tearing, the rough gravel cutting into her exposed skin.

“Open it!” the man said pointing the gun at the door and then again at her. She looked up at him and stood stock still. Her keys were back at Twisted Metal.

“Well, don’t stand there, bitch. Open the door.”

“My keys are in my purse.” Her hands curled into fists and began to sweat. The man looked around.

“Where’s your fucking purse!” He bellowed.

She stared at him not knowing what to do so he wouldn’t kill her. And then she couldn’t think because her body reacted to the pop, pop, pop as he fired the gun and kicked in another door. He yanked her by her arm making her cry out, his fingers like a vice as he dragged her through the front door.

“Where?”

What could she tell him? There was no money.

He shook her over and over, her head jerking back and forth. She tried to grab onto him to find some balance but then she fell, and it was her turn to get kicked again.

“Where’s the money, where’s the money!”

“No money,” she whispered and his face twisted into a mask of something worse than evil.

Sienna’s sobs filled the room.

“I’m gonna enjoy killing you bitch!” He raged. He continued on, berated and condemned her to an unpleasant death, and then he lost his grip and they went down in a heap, the wind knocked out of her. Something landing on them both. She tried to get away. He was distracted. Then she saw Danny. The boy had somehow gotten himself out of the SUV.

Marco gained his feet quickly, Danny’s thin arms not enough to defend himself with, he went down and stayed down. Her eyes blurred with tears, and she waited to see if Danny got up but he didn’t move.

“Danny!” she yelled. Her head snapped to Marco, her rage at what he’d done to an already abused Danny causing the emotional cord that tied up her past in the little box she kept it in, snapped. Sienna launched herself at Marco. She clawed at Marco’s face, kicked him with wild aim. He struck back with his fists instead of his palm like before, and the room danced through a filmy haze. She swung out again aiming for any body part, but she tired and then everything went fuzzier.

“Maybe now you’ll understand who has the power here. And since you lied about the money, maybe your worth a little something to that boyfriend of yours.

Nooooo! Her mind screeched. Then Marco raised his weapon and the haziness she felt from his fists was nothing compared to the butt of his gun as her world bled black and her hope right along with it.

Aug 08

For Better or For Worse – Fates and Furies (Part 3/3)

Lauren Groff’s Fates and Furies falls into my newly created genre of relationship, or quite simply, “apres romance.” This novel begins at the most extreme height of passion, usually where most romance plots end. Yet does this relationship feel real? With the help of Professor Mark Leary at Duke University, I apply Understanding the Mysteries of Human Behavior to separate fact from fiction.

Love is A Drugunderstanding-the-mysteries

FACT – Lotto’s love at first sight is actually a psychological term called “excitation transfer.” After his stage performance, he sees Mathilde, relabels his excitement to her and falls in love. BOOM! Groff captures the passionate love of newlyweds.  Apparently, the brain in love is a brain on drugs.  Pumped full of dopamine and phenylethylamine (PEA), the brain is excited and exhilarated in the early phase of a relationship. Then, as the neurotransmitters chill, the relationship shifts to more compassionate love and douses the brain with oxytocin, leaving a warm fuzzy connected – all is right with the world – feeling.  Groff succeeds here in portraying the shift to career, financial and family concerns.

Opposites Attract

FICTION – Relationships run into problems based on personalities and character traits. In general, happy people tend to have better relationships. According to Leary, people who are disagreeable, hostile, suspicious and selfish will have less satisfying relationships. In Fates and Furies, Lotto narrates the first half of the book. His personality and basic nature attract followers and fans, and Mathilde may be the only one to deal with his alcoholism and bi-polar tendencies. She keeps Lotto hinged and producing plays. Mathilde, who seems opposite of Lotto, may succeed because of her stealth-like dominance in running their lives. As Lotto describes, she runs on the passive-aggressive side.

Marriage is Hard

FACT – Expectations are higher in modern relationships according to Leary. Our previous experiences make our comparison levels higher. There’s even a theory for this – Interdependence Theory. The criteria for rating current relationships is based on previous relationships. For the same amount of effort or “costs,” what are the rewards with someone else? Lotto and Mathilde’s relationship exceeds previous relationship experiences which make them satisfied. Since other alternative relationships do not compare, the couple stays committed.

Until Death Do We Part

FICTION – As a relationship ages, the perceived costs increase. Successful relationships manage to incorporate increasing rewards to adjust for the current costs. Lotto accepts the cost – his childless marriage. Mathilde increases Lotto’s rewards by using her leverage to make him successful and lets him naively believe his talent triumphed. Responsiveness is also a key to marriage success. Mathilde’s anger at Lotto’s speech about her role in their relationship made her pull back. Lotto came to her in apology, and they reunited. Had he harbored a grudge about being abandoned after his speech, the rift between them would have grown. Unsuccessful marriages foster an environment where each partner alternately disengages further and further.

Overall, Groff represents the ongoing challenges of a long-term relationship. If anything, the Lotto and Mathilde relationship is so three-dimensional that the other relationships in the story are flat.

This concludes my three-part series based on the novel Fates and Furies. When a novel succeeds on so many levels, I want to know why. How did the author accomplish so much? What was unique about this story? If there is any doubt, I confess a writer’s respect and a reader’s admiration for Lauren Groff’s creativity in structure “Give It To Me Straight“, mastery of style “It’s Greek to Me” and realistic depiction of a relationship over the span of two life times “For Better or For Worse.”