Meet Bekah, Agnes, and Helen v.2

I felt the cold on the edge of my nose.  I knew if I opened my eyes and pulled back the covers that cold would alarm the rest of my body.   It would wake me.  I needed to wake up.  I did not want to wake up.  I wanted to stay in the warm milky gray softness of sleep, hiding from the cold that rimmed my nose.

For a minute I forgot the bed, the pillow, the cold room.  It was barely light enough to recognize the walls of where I slept.  In that in between, that tempting moment to go back into the gray, I almost thought I was back in the apartment, our little attic room… and I would roll away from the chill into Dawn’s arms.

I pulled the covers over my head to hide from the cold pillow beside me.  I wanted that warmth of the in between to shield me from remembering.  Remembering the days of that empty pillow.  Of the room downstairs next to the kitchen.  Of all the empty unplanned days before me.

The phone rang just as my eyes were about to succumb to the tease of that gray.  I swung my feet around and startled the bottom of my heels as they hit the groaning wooden floor.  I found my phone vibrating on the desk and managed a groggy hello.

“Bekah, I can’t come on Saturday,” my mother’s voice woke me as harshly as the cold that nipped my nose.

“I need to go grocery shopping.”

“I thought Malcolm was coming up for the evening.”

“That’s why I need to go grocery shopping.  So I can make dinner.”

“I have to do a re-shoot,” Carolina was articulate in her unrelenting reply.  “Go when the nurse comes.”

“I…” I swallowed the words my not nearly awake mind wanted to snark.

“Or ask Sarah Lawson.  She has offered to help.  I don’t know why you don’t take up her offer.”

“She’s too cheerful for me.”

“Well, the cheerful wouldn’t be for you.  It would be for your grandmother.  The time to get away would be for you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m sorry, Bekah.  I’m committed to this.”

“I know.”

“No changes I should know about?”

“No changes.” I saw my tired reflection in the mirror over the dresser.

 

“Well, if anything does come up, call.  Love you.”

“Love you,” I agreed to end the short wake up call.  My mother was always alert and abrupt at the crack of dawn.  I imagined it annoyed her students as much as it did me.

I set the phone down and looked at the mirror again.  I saw the corner of the wallpaper that was peeling away from the ceiling above the door frame.  I noticed it before, a night when I tried to read one of the books I took from the library.  I could probably put it back in place with some scotch tape.  I liked the wallpaper with its vine pattern of small flowers.  I didn’t want to think about any complicated process of replacing it.  I looked away from the curled edge and saw my reflection again.  I looked old.  Much older than I imagined I should for just passing my 35^th birthday.  I didn’t remember having circles like that under my eyes.  So many parts of me had gone soft in the last six months.  None of the right curves had filled out.  Just the ones that reminded me how long it had been since I went for a bike ride.

No wonder Dawn lost interest… that stupid nagging morning voice echoed in my head.   I wasn’t going to think about that.  It was easier to fume about my mother messing up my Saturday cooking plans… forcing me to have to call that vapid, too perky for a person to be naturally, Sarah Lawson.

I went back to my bed and pulled the covers into place.  I never used to care about making the bed.   After spending a summer at Evelynn Manor it became my habit -  even before I got dressed, I made sure all the sheets and blankets were pulled tight with the pillows arranged neatly at the head of the bed.  I think I started because I was in Helen’s house.  She instructed me when I was a child to do that every morning.  She told me if you make your bed first thing, you put everything right in your day.  I don’t know if I believed that… but at that point I was willing to try anything to get somewhat right.

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Her eyelids fell.  She tried to fight them, heavily pulling her towards sleep.  She fluttered them open again, but found the struggle too overwhelming as the anticipation faded into the cloud of an obscured dream.  Then somewhere in the grayness a light flashed.  Aggie opened her eyes suddenly and saw the reflection of the panes move across the wall.  She watched to see if they moved again, but the distorted squares of light remained on the wall over her head.

She leapt out of bed towards the window.  She barely noticed the cold on her bare feet.  The light – two lights – glowed in the driveway below.  She rubbed her eyes, still seeing spots.  Then she looked beneath her as the shape of a long black car came into focus. The engine stopped.  A man in a dark coat stepped out of the front and opened the door behind him.  A woman in a long fur stumbled out of the back seat and laughed as she fell against him.  She got her balance and looked up at the house, revealing the face hidden by her cloche hat.  She had short hair like Miss Holbrook at the pharmacy.  She was prettier than Miss Holbrook.  She looked more like a picture from one of the magazines Mavis read during breakfast.

Shadows appeared on the snowy lawn as the lights went on downstairs.  Aggie saw Mavis, fully dressed as though it were day, walk over to the car.  She spoke briefly to the man and another woman with red hair who held a hat box.  The woman in the fur moved between them and took Mavis’ hand.  She lifted her dark eyes again, the laughter frozen as she looked at the house in the moonlight. 

Aggie hid behind her curtain.  When she looked back, Mavis followed the woman and her red haired companion into the house. Aggie tiptoed across the room and opened her door.  She went to the top of the stairs and strained to hear any noises that might make their way across the house and through the kitchen.  There was an eternal silence when the cold started to numb her bare toes and weigh down her eyelids.  She contemplated going back under her blankets when she heard footsteps and voices on the second floor.  Then she heard the laugh.  It was a carefree, low giggle.  Aggie’s lips curled mindlessly at the infectious sound.  She heard Mavis direct them to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Then she gave directions to the third floor.  Aggie rushed back to her room, closing her door quickly.  She went back to the warmth of her bed, giggling into her pillow as she let the heavy eyelids pull her into the grayness of sleep.

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I don’t want to open my eyes.  It is warm.  Too warm.  So easy to stay here in the gray, orangey cloud.  I feel the weight of my book where I let it fall against my chest.  My breath falls deep into my stomach beneath it.  It can stay there.  I won’t move.  I won’t open my eyes.  I like this sleep.  I feel like I’m falling, falling, falling back into a dream I forget.  Something of a garden and a walk in the woods.

I feel the weight of my book.  I feel the warmth of the room.  My neck hurts from how I have turned my neck on this old sofa and its dusty pillows.  The spell is broken.  I sit up but my head still feels the weight of my sleeping, the pull of that dream I forget.  I forgot.  I can almost taste it, but it is gone.

a short summer scene

So I'm sitting here in my living room.  I shut off my music a brief moment to watch something on Facebook... because I let myself be distracted.  Then I hear the breeze moving the trees outside the window and see the white curtains on either side of me move in the way I tried to imagine in this scene.  A short scene, but very significant... and one of my favorites that I've kept from the original manuscript 17 years ago.

July 1924

Aggie watched the thin curtains move in rhythm with the soft breeze, glowing in the blue light of a nearly full moon.  The gentle wind came across the dining room and touched her cheeks like a kiss.  She closed her eyes briefly, smelling the sweetness of the evening.  As she opened her eyelids again, she saw the sudden twinkle of the lightening bugs through the flowing curtains.  She was captivated by their movement, especially one that didn’t flicker, but moved back and forth in slow motion.  Entranced by its unusual behavior, Aggie moved to the open door.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the terrace and realized it wasn’t one of the bugs.  It was the lit end of a cigarette.  Helen’s blue silhouette stared towards the empty patch of lawn beneath the steps with glistening eyes.  She brought her cigarette back to her mouth and exhaled.  She wiped her cheek and swallowed hard.

Aggie walked out onto the terrace.   Helen turned around slowly, as if sensing her the moment she left the doorway.  She sucked in the cigarette once more and flung it into the darkness. “Can’t you sleep, Agnes?” 

“I’m hot,” Aggie rubbed her eyes.

“It is cooler here on the terrace,” Helen paused.  Aggie hoped she wouldn’t send for Mavis and tell her she had snuck out of her room.  “Come, sit with me.”

The little girl climbed into her lap, resting her head under Helen’s chin.   Helen slowly wrapped her arms about Agnes as she started rocking again. The breezes came off the lake and ruffled Agnes’ nightgown.  Helen’s arms were warm but not uncomfortable.  Her silk blouse was soft and smelled like flowers and tobacco.  Helen gently tightened her embrace and kissed Agnes’ forehead.  The breeze blew again, leaving a chill on her skin, where Helen’s cheek smeared a streak of moisture.  She put her arms about Helen’s neck, breathed in, and fell happily asleep.

A hint of history... and a scene

 A little while ago I wrote a blog about how a movie from 1989 had a particular affect on me.  I could say it has influenced this novel with which I have been struggling to fill in the gaps for the last two years.  The influence manifests itself in one scene, through the journey of one character.  A peripheral character... and yet one whom I admire more than any other in the story.  This short scene details her heroism and how her family fears her bravery.

August 1964

Agnes sat down slowly on the couch.  The images on the television weakened her knees and trapped her voice in her throat.  She was glad when Helen came into the room with her glasses and the pile of bills she went through every first week of the month.

“They found those young men,” Agnes spoke in a hoarse whisper when Helen settled in her chair and looked up at the television.  But the screen changed to a commercial for floor cleaner.

Helen put on her glasses and looked at the stack of papers on the table.  “I’m glad to hear it.  Now those families can mourn.”

“Helen, I’m scared for Carolina.”

“I am, too,” Helen still looked at the papers, but lifted her eyes and took off her glasses.  “I am also glad she is there, working to make things right.”

“Is that how you felt about Andy?” Agnes knew she should regret her question, but sometimes she doubted Helen’s sympathy.  Her coldness about Evelynn confused Agnes.  She knew Helen clipped the notice about her wedding and the birth of her grandchildren, but not once had she spoken to her daughter or Andrew in fifteen years.  How could she understand what Agnes felt?  How could she know how dangerous it was for her daughter to be in Mississippi?

“It was important to him to be able to fight.  Important enough to lie about his age,” Helen met Agnes’ eye.  “But that was different.”

Helen went back to her bills.  Agnes lifted up the shirt to which she had started sewing a new button when the news came back on.  She picked up the needle and pulled the thread around the holes.  She kept looping the thread until she realized the thickness made the button lopsided and cut through the thread so she could start over again.

She looked back at the television, which had switched to a music variety show.  Helen tore a check off the notepad and put it in an envelope.  “Agnes…” Helen pulled her attention from the black and white screen.  

“I know… I know this is different than the war,” Agnes spoke before Helen let go of the breath and the thoughts she kept with it.  “I know my daughter is braver than me.”

“Agnes…” Helen started again.  “You are brave.”

“I want to go to college.  George said it was possible.  He said I should study science.  I would like to teach science, like he used to teach me.  Not just cooking,” Agnes looked down to stop the tears from leaving her eyes.  “I want Carolina to be as proud of me as I am of her.”

Helen cleared her throat and took off her glasses. “She wouldn’t be there if you didn’t give her courage to believe that she can make a difference.”

Agnes picked up the shirt again and glanced at Helen.

“I still worry about her.”

“Yes,” Helen looked back to her checkbook.  

Agnes sighed and looked for her needle.  “I saw you brought in some cucumbers from the garden.  Maybe I’ll make a salad for dinner,” she threaded the needle and then set it on her lap.  “I do want to take a class in September.”

“You can tell Carolina all about it,” Helen flipped over the invoice before scribbling in her checkbook.  “When she comes home.”

Gone with the Wind, a counter argument or a scene from my novel

So I’m guessing Gone with the Wind was on television last night.  I don’t have cable… and more to the point I was only interested in Mad Men in the brief hour of alertness I found at the end of my Monday after an exhausting weekend.  But judging from the multiple posts and quotes on Facebook this morning, I’m guessing there was a broadcast.

I wrote a blog about my sentiments over the novel and film five years ago.  Most of that hasn’t changed… except that I am back to writing the manuscript to which I alluded and getting inside the head of characters who might read this novel/view this movie differently.  I also saw and read 12 Years a Slave which shed a completely different light on the glory of the ole South.

I wrote a scene set in 1939 to attempt a reconciliation of my 13 year old fan girl belief and my more critical view of race.  I’m not sure where it fits now.  I recognize some of the rough edges and incongruity to the latest round of edits.  I’m not sure if it will be necessary to the overall narrative… as another scene I wrote may have more to do with what I hope to say.  So maybe this will be its one chance for the spotlight.

December 1939

Agnes peered down the hall and saw the reflection of Helen pursing her lips to get the right coating of lipstick.  In the corner of the image she saw the person she sought imitating the motion.

“Evie,” Agnes took the steps down the hall.  “It’s time for bed.”

“I want to finish helping Mommy get ready.”

“You will help her by getting in your pajamas,” Agnes met Helen’s grateful eye in the reflection as she reached out her hand to Evie.

“I will stop in to say good night,” Helen stared into her jewelry box.

“I wish I could go to the party,” Evie pouted with her reluctant steps into her bedroom.

“We can pretend you are dressing up,” Agnes pulled the pajamas out of the drawer.

“Like Scarlett O’Hara,” Evie’s eyes lit up excitedly.

“Fiddle dee dee,” Agnes laughed, remembering Ginny’s favorite quote from the movie.  

“Fiddle dee dee,” Evie tossed her shoes off her feet.  “Fiddle dee dee,” again as Agnes lifted the dress over her head and once again as the nightgown replaced it.

“Go brush your teeth,” Agnes picked up the dress and hung it in the closet.

“Fiddle dee dee,” Evie giggled again and picked up her brush.  “Mammy, will you do my hair?”

“Evelynn Bradshaw!” Helen’s voice chilled the air.

“Yes?” the little girl dropped the brush, her hand trembling as much as her lip.

“What did you call Agnes?” Helen came into the room, behind Evie, forcing her with her stature to meet the angry brown eyes.

“Mammy.”

“Mammy?”

“We were playing Gone with the Wind.  I’m Scarlett O’Hara,” Evie attempted a smile.  “Agnes is my slave.”

“Agnes is not your slave,” Helen slapped Evie’s cheek.  Both mother and daughter froze as the echo of hand hitting skin echoed soundlessly.  Helen’s lip trembled as she slowly dropped her hand.  Evie gulped in several deep breaths until they escalated into sobs.

“What’s the matter?” Andy froze when he saw his mother still standing as her arm fell.

“Evelynn was disrespectful to Agnes.”

“It wasn’t… I don’t mind,” Agnes reached for the sobbing little girl and then saw Helen’s face – beautiful and wild and cold.

“Put her to bed,” Helen’s heels were heavy on the carpeted hallway.

“Helen, we’re going to be late,” Andrew came up the stairs and paused, hearing Evie’s wails.  He came in immediately and took her from Agnes’ arms.  “Why are you crying Evie, darling?”

“Mummy is mad that I was playing Gone with the Wind.”

“She said you were disrespectful to Agnes,” Andy hung in the doorway.

“Your cheek is all red, Evie.  What did you say to Agnes?”

“She was playing Mammy.”

Andrew glanced at Agnes.  “Will you play again?  Maybe Andy can be Rhett Butler.”

Andy shook his head and went into his room.  “Will you let Agnes finish putting you to bed?”

Evie nodded her head reluctantly and crawled under her covers.  Agnes listened to the footsteps that followed Helen’s heels.

“What just happened with Evie?”

“She called Agnes her slave.”

“Honestly, Helen.  It was just a game.”

“I do not have slaves.”

“You read that book.  You went to that movie.  You know it’s just a story.”

“Agnes is not a slave.”

“What does this house do to you?  You are an entirely different person when we come here.  Sometimes… I don’t recognize you.”

“Are we going to the party or not?”

“Your eyes are red.  Do you think that’s a good way to go to a party?”

“Fine.”

“Helen, what’s wrong?”

“I’m tired.”

“Then we’re staying home?”

“We’re staying home.”

Agnes looked down at Evie, frozen in the same attention to her parents yelling.  “Agnes, will you call the Madison household and send our very sincere regrets but Mrs. Bradshaw is feeling unwell.”

“Yes,” Agnes agreed as Andrew picked Evie up in his arms and leaned against the pillows.

Agnes saw Andy’s open door as she left the room.  She paused, but didn’t go in to turn him over.   His shoulders were shaking, but he kept the sobbing silent.