Jun 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles, Father’s Day edition: Saying goodbye

FullSizeRender (3)Starbucks

Rt. 40, Delaware

April 2006

Last week, I hugged Roomie down in Maryland, and that’s when it hit me: I’m saying goodbye.

I almost cried.

I’m moving soon, so it’s time for those farewells, that talking to the people I should’ve been talking to all along. My Grande Java Chip Frappuccino turns into a venti with extra ice added. More room to cry in my proverbial cup of coffee, if I did such a thing.

It was a wonderful chat, in a Starbucks of all places. We discussed families. Her boy is having some of those young child sensitivities, including separation anxiety. I totally get that today.

Her second baby is due in August, and she thinks she’s having a girl. Will a family of my own be in the future?  We laughed about keeping kids occupied with a video or DVD for an hour. Years ago, we never would. Now, that’s an hour well spent!

I lamented our distance to come. She said, “We’ll always be friends,” casual as if saying the rain has stopped outside.

Then she drove away. When I arrived, the parking space next to my car was empty, so she had parked there. An hour later, when I left, her spot was still empty.

Coffee shops should be places to say hello, welcome people with hugs and squeals, or at least a handshake. I’m here in my usual spot drinking my usual drink, missing my familiar places already. I’ve taken them for granted.

Looking out the window into the dark night, my car’s in her usual place, headlights facing towards this store. Too many nights like this, I sat in that car, talking to Dad on the phone about his frustration that Mom wasn’t getting better and she didn’t seem to be trying. We talked and I stared into Starbucks, feeling empty even though there were lights inside. I willed the night to go away so I could forget him, Mom, and my own heartbreak.

Dad’s been gone for one year and three months. I miss those talks. They weren’t all bad. We compared notes every week about which one of us saved the most money with our grocery store coupons that week. It was a pretty even matchup. We talked about my job, his bus rides and talking to the regulars there, Pittsburgh sports and how terrible my high school teams were playing, and always the weather.

Dad would be tickled that I’m moving to Detroit, the place where he and Mom honeymooned. They toured the Ford manufacturing line, and that’s all I ever knew about it.

I wish I could ask him now. I’m curious about what else they did.

As if a higher power is watching over me, a little girl and daddy walk out of the Red Robin next door. Pink shirt, jeans faded, red balloon. Leftovers, two boxes of Styrofoam. Dad’s in long sleeves, maroon, and tan pants. He buckles her in the backseat, a minivan with silver doors and auto close. He puts the food on the front passenger seat. They back out now–how charming, how happy and content. Unlike a family of four just moments ago: the mom yelled at one girl while dad takes another girl in the restaurant.

What a shame.  A wasted opportunity.  I’d never take that for granted.  My throat closes up at the thought.

I can’t take this. I need to write. My journal is filled so far with my newspaper article transcripts, notes about the houses we’ve already looked at in Michigan, reactions from my coworkers at my announcement and, funny this, a list of the four closest Starbucks to the area we’re looking at moving to. Now I add to that:

“At K’s parents’ house, I couldn’t find my School Days book. Did I take it to Delaware already?  Worry, worry. An hour ago, found it. Looked through it, found Krista-TN stuff, letters Dad wrote me. Read one, his familiar print, all caps. A Penn State item taped in the letter. Weather report. Shows he videotaped for me. Mom and Star Trek group news. I missed Dad and I cried. I talked to him, to no one, about how I miss sharing this Detroit move news with him. I have to believe he knows, but I miss hearing his voice, his thoughts on it all. Cried more. Then had the strength to go into our Home Theater room and watch my wedding video. Father-in-law took it, used to think that was distracting from our ceremony. I am so blessed to have those images. Dad smiling. A smile! A cough. His large glasses, his cane. And somehow, that comforted me. I still cried.”

Gotta stop here. I’m about to cry again. Time to go out to my car and cry into my cup of Frappuccino. Time to say goodbye to this night.

Jun 16

Driving Detroit with Dad

michigan graphic“Dad would like you to drive the van,” my mom says to me. “It’s easier for him to get in and out of it.”

Despite my dad’s notoriously poor behavior as a passenger, I immediately respond, “Sure, I’ll drive.” Then I conjure an image of how the rest of my family will react when they find out that I’ve pulled the short straw. Relieved, they will celebrate by high-fiving one another and cheering, “Woo-hoo! Kelly has to drive!”

Soon thereafter, on a sunny and warm spring morning, I arrive as promised at my parents’ house, where Mom and Dad have been waiting with my sister and brothers. Waiting is the most popular item on the day’s agenda. It starts with the family waiting for me. It is to continue downtown at Henry Ford Hospital where we will stew for eight hours and hope that dad gets to come home with us after his surgery.

Dad sits up front beside me. Everyone else piles into the seats behind us, and we begin our trek to the hospital.

“Your dad likes to be early.” Mom doesn’t have to remind us of that. We know it. Dad is a morning person, and he’s never late.

When my siblings and I were children and living at home, we had Saturday mornings to look forward to Dad waking us up. He would step into our rooms while we slept and begin a loud phonetic rendition of the bugle call, “Reveille.” Then he’d sing these words in the same cadence:

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the morning!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the day!

Dear Ol’ Dad had borrowed that morning routine from his camping days with the Air National Guard from 1954-1962. Other young men were being called up by the United States Army to serve in far-away places. Dad thought that by enrolling in the Guard, he had a better chance of staying close to home and finishing his six-year-long apprenticeship to become a printer. All worked out even better than he had planned. About half-way through his eight years of service, he met my mom, who had come to vacation in Michigan.

Dad enjoyed getting up at the crack of dawn and I think he wanted his family to like—or at least embrace—mornings too. Whenever we took a road trip, we’d rise before daybreak. The sky was dark; the air was crisp and chilly. There was no time to waste. Other people weren’t around to tie up the freeways. We had at least three hours to get ahead of everyone else.

On the morning drive to the hospital, I am reminded of how hard it must be for Dad to have to relinquish control of the steering wheel. He’s used to being the one behind the wheel. He drives everywhere he and Mom go, and sometimes he even drives me where I need to go.

Practically every year, Dad takes me to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice where I complete my annual stint of jury duty. He spoils me. I don’t have to go into downtown Detroit alone, find a parking space, and walk by myself to the courthouse.

“I’ll drive you,” he insists.

Mom comes along and the two wait for me to get a break or to be excused for the day. They wile away their time at Greek Town Casino and then the three of us get lunch. Our little arrangement is something pleasant that I think we all look forward to.

Today, however, I experience familiar and familial pressure as I drive downtown. I go an acceptable five miles over the speed limit. Dad gruffly says, “Slow down!” Moments later, when I drive at the posted speed limit, Dad suggests that I could “go a little faster.” All the time, he foresees potential problems with traffic and warns, “Watch out!” “Take it easy!” “Give ‘em a little more room.”

I force myself to relax, despite the tension everyone in the van is feeling. There’s a hush that comes over us. No one wants to distract me from focusing on Dad’s instructions.

“The road coming up has a big pothole. It’s just past the light. See it?”

When I was sixteen, I had my first car accident—which wasn’t my fault. My dad didn’t seem mad at all. During college, when I had a second car accident which was my fault, he again showed only concern for whether or not I was alright.

I’m sure he’s not remembering these things that happened decades ago. He treats my brothers and sister the same when they drive. He just likes to be the one in charge and taking care of everyone else.

Having worked as a printer for The Detroit Free Press for over forty years, Dad knows the city’s history, the parks, the office buildings, the old stadiums, the bars and hang-outs, and most importantly, the back ways into town. He skillfully directs me down streets and through neighborhoods that I wouldn’t be comfortable in if I were by myself.

Dad explains that the humming bridge over the Rouge River needs to have water poured onto it to cool it down when it gets hot. He says that when he was a little boy, the Army responded to race riots by camping out in Clarke Parke. Later, more race wars took place in the 1960s, and the National Guard came to keep order but they didn’t have ammunition in their guns. Army paratroopers came in next and shot a bunch of people.

We drive east on Fort Street from downriver and pass by desolate Woodmere Cemetery, where several generations of my ancestors are buried. It has been over twenty years since we visited. Back then, a recorded voice was blasted over a loud speaker to tell women not to stop at the gravesites alone. Today, I wish I could forego this drive to the hospital and take a detour inside the wrought iron, gated yard in order to kneel beside my grandparents’ graves and reminisce.

I would rather not have to face the fact that my dad has bladder cancer. I don’t want him to have to undergo surgery, to be poked and prodded, to be in pain and discomfort.

Dad seems to calm the more he talks about places that he’s passed thousands of times. We see the old, abandoned Greyhound Bus station and turn at the corner of 14th Street. A block down at West Lafayette is Green Dot Stables. Dad tells us, like he had many times before, that the guy who opened it used to be a harness racing jockey. Dad doesn’t seem to notice the graffiti and burned-out buildings along our route. Unlike him, my brothers and sister are squirming in their seats because they would have rather taken the freeway. Doesn’t Dad realize that I-75 would be faster?

I’m not nervous about driving through poor parts of town with my family, mostly because my dad is sitting right beside me. Despite the fact that he’s turning eighty this year, I still believe he’ll keep us safe, no matter what.

It occurs to me that my father is behaving like an imperfect tour guide. I consider his insider’s knowledge of Detroit, his familiarity with the roads, and his ability to tell great stories. I set aside the fact that Dad has little to no patience when behind the wheel of a car, and I get a crazy idea. I blurt out, “You should be an Uber driver!”

Laughter erupts in the van. I sneak a peek at my dad and can tell that, for a brief moment, he isn’t thinking about cancer, pain, and surgical complications. He’s not worried or stressed. He’s simply smiling in response to my ludicrous suggestion.

That moment was worth waiting for.

 

 

Jun 15

Bones

If you’ve never fractured a bone, you’re either lucky or should work on a more interesting life. Fracturing a bone is more than painful; it’s a frightful experience. My first occurred when I was 17 years-old, delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass chunks from my father to a friend in the neighborhood. Don’t ask. As I turned to leave the porch, I slipped on the icy steps, landing on my left elbow. I cradled my non-functioning, seriously hurting arm to my chest, thankful I hadn’t split my head open instead. Mind and body immediately knew the difference between a really bad sprain and a fracture, and neither the head nor heart was happy about it. 

“Dislocation fracture of left ulna,” read the report from Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit. For those bereft a medical background, that’s a break in the long, elbow-to-wrist forearm bone closest to the body when, in this case, a bloody end doesn’t actually protrude from the body for all to see. A compound fracture would have broken bone fragments lacerate soft tissue and protrude through an open skin wound. Although, in my case, even with no bone sticking out, horrible thought, animal instinct told me I had been badly damaged. 

Yes, it hurt like hell. My arm was instantly numb and out of action, saying, “Don’t even think about touching me or I’ll make you pass out right where you are.” Worse, this fracture had occurred while delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass pieces, not heroically tripping while proceeding down a church aisle carrying a crucifix. The ignominy of it all. Thankfully, hospital reports don’t go into more detail. Think of it, “Dislocation fracture of left ulna while delivering frozen deer-carcass chunks.” 

A broken bone forces an owner to give up all personal preferences and responsibilities to any attending physician willing to see him or her as soon as possible. There’s no arguing with your damaged body. Whatever the doctor wants you to do, you do it; anything for relief. The first trick is to not pass out from shock and pain on the way to the hospital. Once they inhale a lungful of disinfectant aroma, some people, like me, feel queasy and pass out just entering an emergency room to visit the sick. So, in this case, I was in trouble. 

When it’s time to immobilize the limb, you’re usually doped up with so much magic juice you no longer care if the doctor walked down the hall carrying your broken part to show his associates. Various techniques are used. Long ago, a white building-material called plaster of Paris was used to coat the broken limb. The material was named after a gypsum deposit in Montmartre near Paris, France. Medical plaster of Paris is the same plaster used for coating walls and ceilings, but costs thousands more than redoing your kitchen. Mixing dry powder with water creates a gooey paste, and the hardening reaction liberates heat through crystallization. A cheese-cloth bandage impregnated with this stuff is wrapped around the damaged limb and quickly dries into a close-fitting orthopedic cast. The problem is, plaster casts become so hot while solidifying they feel like the doctor has poured lighter fluid in and thrown a match on top. 

Fortunately, Fiberglas epoxy casts have replaced plaster to immobilize broken parts, unless you find yourself in Burkina Faso’s backcountry. Epoxy casts are wrapped around the offending limb just like plaster casts, after the magic juice has taken full effect, hopefully. Just before the process of applying an epoxy cast begins, and you’re doped enough so you don’t know if you’re right-side up or not, someone playfully asks what color you want to live with for several weeks; pink, blue, orange, or green. Such colors are supposed to be cute but, really, who gives a damn except the youngest of children? 

A second fracture occurred in my mid-twenties while finishing off a well-made martini at my parent’s house over the holidays. I reentered a living room filled with relatives and attempted a Charlie Chaplin-ish pirouette, for some reason long forgotten. But Charlie did it better. I tripped, landing in a heap on the floor, fracturing a bone in my right foot. It somehow took the bloom off the occasion. A quick x-ray revealed a mild, non-dislocating fracture that didn’t require a cast but lots of explanations for several weeks. Should I have explained I simply tripped and broke my foot, or admitted to a martini-influenced attempt at a fool-hardy pirouette for which I had no training? The former, by all means. 

A third fracture, this time a right wrist, occurred in my mid-thirties, towing our two small children on a sled across a frozen pond. Is there a pattern here? I was wearing snowmobile boots and couldn’t feel how slippery the pond’s surface was as I tried to spin the sled to give them a thrill ride. An out-of-control flop to the ice broke the wrist, requiring two different casts; the first positioning the wrist upward for two weeks to semi-knit together, and the second bending the wrist down for three more, altogether an even-less-than-fun experience. It seemed I would never be shed of casts. Of course, it was necessary to hand-write a dozen work-related reports the following week, a surprising and unexpected opportunity learning to write left-handed for a while. 

My fourth and hopefully last fracture happened years later in my mid-fifties, slipping on an ice-covered wooden deck leaving for work on a dark and wintery morning. This one occurred too fast to exclaim, “Oh no, not again!” Another inelegant pratfall (are any unexpected falls elegant) broke my left forearm, leaving the arm hanging at a painfully unnatural angle. Ulna or radial bone made no difference, it still hurt. Fortunately, this one was attended to by a doctor who had never seen me before, so he couldn’t exclaim, “Oh no, not you again!” With the new Fiberglass-epoxy casts, nobody could write stupid sayings on it, including myself. 

But my timing wasn’t great. Our daughter had broken her knee in a Canadian skiing accident a week before and couldn’t drive because of her leg cast. I was elected to drive her back and forth to work for several weeks, until she knitted herself together. I suppose we would have made quite a sight if we had been stopped by the police for an infraction; a driver piloting a car with a left arm in a cast accompanied by a passenger-daughter hitched to one side with her right leg in a cast. On the other hand, if we’d been in an accident, at least our limbs were already in casts and protected.

Jun 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 12 – Danny

Dannys House

Saint’s heart tripped in his chest. Something didn’t feel right. His eyes opened, and he reached for Sienna. His hand went to the bed. Still warm. He listened. Experienced with the worst, his past with his sister and her drug abuse, Saint’s hearing narrowed for any disturbance. Sienna was in the living room. His feet automatically hit the floor. Too quickly he found his boxers and tripped over his shoes. It was too soon after Sienna’s mother’s appearance for him not to worry.

He found her and what he saw was abject fear.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” she said. Her alarm coalesced and took shape into uncontrollable tremors. He watched it happen and was at her back, his arms wrapped around her in an instant. The screen image on her phone, after seeing it, he understood why she couldn’t stop shaking. Her mother was in deep shit.

“Please, Sienn…” she’d been cut off. There’d been a knife at her throat. The phone went black.

“Mom!”

Saint blinked. “Holy shit! This is a mess.” Saint turned her around, and she burrowed her face into the hollow of his neck. All he could do was hug her close as she cried.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered. “I have to go. I have to get to her.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The two stared at each other, and then Saint said, “not alone, anyway.”

*****

Danny hunched on the floor in the corner of the closet. The small four wall box a familiar prison. She’d locked him in; he couldn’t remember how long now. The cut on his lip and cheek ached like a son of a bitch. He didn’t dare move too much. The last kick he’d taken to his ribs had caused him to pass out. Luckily she hadn’t been wearing boots. She’d been wearing her red-soled high heels.

His mother’s outfit was pristine, no flaws in appearance. The perfect mom to anyone that knew her outside of the house. On the inside of her watchful sphere, though, his mom was the devil’s sister, her heart as hard and dead as a piece of coal.

Danny had just gotten back from school, his bag hitting the kitchen floor, and the next thing he knew he face-planted on the wood planks next to the marble island, his cheek bleeding…somewhere. “You broke my nail!” She’d screamed, he’d rolled into a protective ball holding his gaping skin so she couldn’t have another go at him. But she always found a way when she was like that.

Danny wiped the wetness from his cheek. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” He yelled into the bleakness.

She’d played with him until he whimpered in the closet like a stupid girl. She dragged him up the stairs and into the dark room, walked out and locked the door. And by play, Danny meant beat the shit out of him. Again. His father had just stood there.

“Bastard!” he screamed at the locked door. He grabbed his ribs as he tried to catch his breath.

His father was a weak asshole.

To distract himself, Danny made a list in his head about everything he loved about motorcycles. The most important thing on the list, Saint. “Saint is nothing like my father,” he whispered over and over. But then he got angry.  Then he asked himself, why was he with Sienna? He shook his head and then regretted it. He hurt everywhere.

“I need to get out of the fucking closet.” He crawled with the energy of a sloth and leaned into the corner, propping himself up, so he could breathe better. The wood paneling was hard and cold, and the cedar smell made his nose itch. One day she would go too far? The fists, the nasty screaming rages, they were getting worse and harder to hide from people at school. Maybe he was better off if it did. Maybe she would finally kill him. Blinking his heavy eyelids, they finally drifted shut. The last thought he had before he fell asleep made him smile. Freedom on the back of a motorcycle with Saint. He imagined a long road winding away from here.

When next he opened his eyes light spilled into his prison. Water spilled in rivulets down his face as he blinked.

“Get up Danny. It’s time for you to go to school.”

“School?” He wanted to kill his father. “Are you serious?”

“You have to,” his father slurred.

“Fuck you!”

“Quiet.” He looked over his shoulder. Probably seeing if dear old mom was coming to beat the shit out of him too. Danny would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Waving his hand Danny’s way, his Father said, “Tell them you got into another fight.”

Danny went to his hands and knees. He groaned through the pain and caught his breath. Grabbing for the wall, he lost his balance and struggled to get up. “I can’t keep giving the same excuse. Look at me,” his voice rumbled as he winced every time he moved to get out of the closet. Unlike his mother’s closet, it didn’t hold designer clothes and shoes that cost more than everything in his closet. He always had to beg for things he needed. Always.

When he was little, he’d dreamed he was adopted, which would have been a blessing. Danny had run a few times; his birth parents were out there somewhere, he’d thought. The last time he’d left, he’d screamed in her face. “I’m leaving to find my real parents.” His mother had laughed until tears had formed in her eyes. “You think you’re adopted,” she’d said.” He thought she wouldn’t give him any more explanation, but the light in her eyes gleamed with hatred that felt like a creature boring under his skin. To his surprise, she said, “Your Grandfather said I wouldn’t inherit what is rightfully mine unless I gave him a grandson. Your Daddy sure couldn’t get it up.” His father had been standing in the room with a far off look in his eyes that Danny hadn’t understood until she spoke again. “I fucked my way through my Father’s men and finally pushed out a kid.” His father had flinched and looked away. Then all Danny could feel was the pain. She punched him in the face. It was the first time she’d locked him in the closet. Danny was seven. “You’ll stay in there until you understand who has the power here.” After he’d screamed himself silent, his mind had blanked, and the darkness consumed him.

Danny pushed past the memory and the man that wasn’t his father sucking air through his teeth with every needling breath. When his so-called father tried to reach out and give some support, Danny weaved the other way and almost fell. “Don’t’ touch me,” he squeaked. He wrapped his arm around his ribs and walked toward his bathroom.

Most people thought he was a trouble maker so steered clear of him, but no one knew the extent of the control his mother had over him, when he could come and go, how he did it, what he wore, ate…everything. He wasn’t to have friends over, he wasn’t allowed to be seen going in and out of the house, so nobody knew the hell he lived. His mother hid the carnage she’d made of his life well. If he did go out, he couldn’t tell anyone what was happening to him, and his mother had too much power in their small town. Danny knew that much. But he’d told Saint.

“Stupid.”

If his mother or grandfather ever found out what he’d told Saint, Saint would be in danger. Danny knew it. He just knew it.

Danny had been able to sneak out of the house a lot more lately. His mother had to go on more business trips. It was the only time he was nearly happy until Saint put him on a motorcycle. When Danny wrapped his fingers around the grips of the bike and finally revved the engine for the first time, feeling the power underneath him, it was the first time in forever he was truly happy.

He sniffled and wiped his face. “Shit!”

Danny would chance running away again, but he thought someone watched him now. So he gave up. He’d given up on a lot of things. Until Saint.

He would find a way to race, though. Sitting on the motorcycle had been a revelation. Saint said being smaller was a good thing. He hated being smaller than other kids. But in racing, it gave him an advantage. He would do whatever Saint said if he could race. He’d find a way to get out of the house, do what he needed to, have a life. He would die trying if he had too.

Danny’s body jerked to attention. The banging on his bathroom door turned into a great thud. His father probably hit the wall. “Hurry up, Danny. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

He moved as fast as his body would let him. Danny didn’t want to give her any reason to hurt him again. He winced as he finished washing the dried blood off his cheek and the fat lip. He grabbed the hat that hung from the door. Covered his head, didn’t bother to change clothes. He didn’t care if he was dirty or not. It kept everyone away. He couldn’t afford to have anyone ask questions.

Through the door, his father gripped his shoulder hard trying to hold himself up. He leaned in too far. The smell of booze was making him sick to his stomach. “She’s going on a trip, Danny. Run Danny. Don’t come back.” Danny’s mouth gaped open.

“Run! Are you crazy!” No answer. His father slid to the floor and passed out.

“Pathetic.”

Danny jumped when he looked up and saw his mother. He sucked in a breath, hit the wall and bit his lip so he wouldn’t cry out in pain. A cold sweat broke out across his skin as an acidic wash swirled in his stomach.

His mother jerked her head. Danny skirted around his father’s crumpled body and hurried toward his door, out of his mother’s reach. But she grabbed onto his neck digging her pointed nails into his skin. A hiss escaped his lips. She laughed.

“You’ll be back here after school. One of my father’s men will pick you up.” His shoulders slumped under her grip. “Did you hear me?” Her fingers gripped his hair, and she forced him to nod.

“Yes, Mother.”

Danny’s day was shit. He’d run into possibly every person that had been at the Speedway the day of his only lesson. When he hit the parking lot at school, the only girl from class, Tina, showed up.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Tina’s eye’s narrowed, and she crossed her arms. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Whatever.” He started to move away but then she grabbed his arm before he turned away. His body jerked and he jumped away like a scared cat. “Shit!”

“Are you afraid of me?” He looked up at her face to see the look of disgust in her eyes, but they were full and bright.

“No!” Danny couldn’t look her in the eyes when he said it. He peeked up long seconds later.

Her eyebrows angled down, and she bit her bottom lip. She stepped back with a complete look of confusion, “Are you really okay?”

Danny took a stuttering breath. “I’ll be fine.” He needed to get away from her. Tina seemed nice. She was really pretty too, and her boobs were bigger than most of the girls in his classes, but he couldn’t trust anyone. No way. Not a girl. Especially Tina, because every time he was around her, his stomach got all weird. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t right.

“Will I see you at Paulson’s?” she said at the same time he heard his name called from the parking lot. He turned too fast and clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t scream like a girl.

“Shut up!” he snapped at her. He looked over his shoulder and saw one of his mother’s minions marching across to him. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Danny?” Tina asked just as a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“I gotta go.”

“Who’s your friend, Danny?” He looked up and saw Gunner’s eyes on Tina. His mother’s guard was not to be messed with, but he couldn’t let him know who this girl was.

“No one.” He watched Tina frown.

“Huh,” he grunted. “Let’s go.” Another wince, along with Gunner’s fingers on his shoulder, and he was turned toward the car waiting off a nearby alley school. No one would be the wiser to how rich he was. How rich his mother was.

“Bye, Danny. I hope I see you at the Speedway for riding lessons,” she yelled. Great! He thought.

“What Speedway, Danny?”

He shrugged.

Gunner opened the door to the Lincoln MKZ when they reached the hidden garage. He helped Danny into his seat gentler than he ever expected. Danny looked up at the big man and saw that he was taking in every nick and scratch that marked him. Gunner backed up and slammed the door. Danny looked straight ahead. The bigger guy had never reacted to his injuries this way. Why was it happening now?

“Did your mother take her fists to you again?”

Duh! Danny didn’t answer. The guy would tell his mother what he said anyway.

Danny watched him straighten his arms on the steering wheel like he would push it through the dashboard. “Tell me,” he roared. Danny pulled back and hit the passenger door. He watched Gunner ease a couple of breaths in and out.

“Danny, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he snapped back. Gunner’s head snapped around his eyes narrowing. He braced for him to strike. The air was thick in the car and the minutes seemed to slow right into the heaviness that was his life. And then the guy smiled. Danny took the time to figure this guy out. Danny had trusted Saint. He’d said the same thing. Should he answer? But there was no way he could trust one of his mother’s men. Was there? The way Gunner’s anger had spiked when he’d seen him. Maybe he could trust the guy. He nodded.

Gunner’s chin tipped down, and he inhaled real slow and blew it out even slower.

“What’s at the Speedway?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on Danny, tell me. I told you not to be afraid of me.”

Danny laughed and regretted it. His ribs hurt like hell. “Afraid?” He laughed some more and then for the life of him he just broke. His shoulders slumped and shook as he cried. He looked away and wiped his face.

“It’s freedom on two wheels,” Danny finally whispered.

“All right then.”

Gunner put the car in gear, and they quickly left the dark garage. When he headed in the opposite direction of home Danny started to freak out. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

Gunner looked over and smiled again. The man kept driving.

When they pulled up at Paulson’s, Danny sat stiff and unsure. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re going to talk to whoever’s in charge.” Gunner sighed. “I’m not who you think I am, Danny.”

What did that mean?

“Now get out.”

“But,” Danny started, and was soon talking to air. He got out as fast as he could and followed Gunner. When Danny saw Saint come out of Paulson’s main office, he didn’t know what he should do, but evidently Gunner had no problem figuring out what was what.

“You the man in charge?” Gunner asked.

“Yeah. Who’s asking?” Saint crossed his arms and stopped moving.

“Gunner Phillips. You’ll continue to give him lessons.”

Danny watched as Saint’s eyes narrowed on Gunner, and then turned to him. Danny could see his jaw get tight and his eye start to tick in the corner. Saint looked back to Gunner, and they stared each other down. What, were they havin’ a secret ‘convo’ or somethin’. Jesus! What was going on?

“Did his mother do that to him?”

Gunner nodded.

Danny sucked in a breath. Gunner admitted his mother beat the shit out him. He bunched over and grabbed his ribs his breaths turning into coughs. Soon there were more hands on him then he could deal with, and he started to struggle to feel trapped.

“Leave me alone,” he gasped. He backed away from both of them. Saint stood and watched his face easing. Gunner put his hands up and took a step back.

“You okay?” Saint asked. It was Danny’s turn to nod. “Who is this guy, Danny?”

“I don’t know,” he said looking right at the man that worked for his mother. Maybe he had more friends than he knew.

Jun 08

Give It To Me Straight – Fates and Furies (Part 1/3)

Then, play it again.

Fates and furiesReaders of Fates and Furies find a big story of modern marriage and relationship wrapped between the covers of this National Book Award Finalist. Lauren Groff’s novel offers a wealth of literary resources with her creative reinvention of structure, style and character. This three part analysis begins with storytelling and structure.

The Straight Line – Sequential Plot

Lancelot, nicknamed Lotto, tells his story for the first half of the book, almost two hundred pages in this four hundred page novel. In The Detroit Free Press  published interview, Lauren Groff  refers to her story as a tale of privilege. Let me count the ways that Lotto is privileged. First, he has fortune when he needs it and choses to surrender his fortune for his desires. Second, he has success. Maybe he was lucky or worked hard. Or maybe he fits the description of privilege – well educated, wealthy, male and white. Third, characters surround him, offer support and champion his cause – especially his wife. These factors propel Lotto’s story to the forefront and the first half of the book.

The point of view begins omniscient as the reader sees the first married union of Lotto and Mathilde – lest it be thought that the entire story is about Lotto. From there, the point of view shifts to a deep third in Lotto’s point of view. His story dips back to his birth with a clever device of repeating a story told many times to him. Time moves forward with Lotto’s perceptions dominating the story of his friends, his dreams and his marriage to mystery woman, Mathilde.

The Jagged Line – Fractured Plot

Mathilde, the wife, encourages readers to identify with her rage. Let me count the ways that Mathilde is angry. First, as a child, she is blamed for a deadly mean streak, shamed and never forgiven. Her survival depends on distant relatives who have no concern for her wellbeing. Second, egotistical and pretentious Lotto is the best part of her life, and without him, she is the devastated widow – her education and hard work unraveled without her center, her husband. Third, Mathilde believes she is “the interesting one.” Mathilde’s past is an example of the writer pushing a character to the outer limits of believability. Themes of inequality thread through the novel. In Lotto’s point of view, he blindly accepts Mathilde’s lack of family and friends. Mathilde’s half of the novel, another two hundred pages, tells her scrambled tragic version of her life story.

Mathilde’s narration alternates between her angry widow world and chapters revealing her  past and the formation of her values and beliefs. Mathilde selectively takes the reader through her childhood slowly opening the doors to understand her motives. Mathilde’s mean streak dots every chapter for the reader. Her only softness comes for the man she marries, and he is not spared from her passive aggressive ways.

Play It Again – Story Arc

Throw the traditional story arc in the trash for this novel except that Lotto’s half of the book is fairly traditional. Mathilde’s point of view jumps back in time and returns to her widowed agony almost like a zigzag across a graph of time. Unlike parallel plots, this story challenges even the most ambitious of screenwriter. For example, The Girl on the Train uses multiple points of view, slowly revealing a suspenseful and complicated plot arc. And hence, bestseller becomes screenplay and film. Some stories succeed with repetition – a retry of the same idea like the “back to square one” game – as used in the movie, Groundhog Day, and new Sci-fi film, Edge of Tomorrow; Live, Die, Repeat. Each repetition moves the story one step further.

Groff’s repetition, however, drills beneath what the reader assumed was the true story. For every major event in Lotto’s life, the reader now sees the hand of Mathilde. Her callous placement of an obituary notice punishes Lotto for his abandonment. She deliberately denies Lotto the children he wants. And Mathilde leverages everything to make her husband and his plays successful. In Mathilde’s story, vengefulness and anger are ever present – from the bruising of a teasing schoolmate to the personal and financial destruction of Lotto’s best friend.

In her interview, Groff states she planned to publish the two stories separately. The two halves together form a rich comparison in structure, style and character. The next post “It’s Greek To Me” will examine Groff’s style and literary references. After that, a third post will explore character and the human psychology of relationship and attraction. As seen in structure, marriage “For Better or For Worse” is a risky endeavor.