A Short Story

I’ve recently completed a short story collection. It was a new sort of project for me, but now I don’t know what to do with it. The collection is entitled Here’s What You Do, and the stories are centered around the conundrums of people who seek the advice of a self-help columnist. Here’s one of them:

The Outstanding Student 

Dear Sophie,

My daughter takes clarinet lessons from a very nice man, highly recommended. He gives the lessons in the front room of his small house on one of the busiest streets in town. The lessons are costly, but she likes him, she enjoys practicing, and she’s obviously improving.

He gives back-to-back lessons on Saturday, which is also a packed day for me, as I have other children to get to their various activities. In short, dropping off one child for tennis makes me ten minutes late to pick up my clarinet player. Sophie, the clarinet teacher puts her out of the house, making her sit on his front porch on his high-traffic street, rather than allowing her to wait inside. I understand that he’s got another student in there, and that student might not appreciate someone listening to his private lesson, but turning my thirteen-year-old out has its dangers.

Your solution?

Worried Mom

The response:

Dear Worried Mom,

For those ten minutes you and the teacher share responsibility for your child. Get her an air horn, tell her how and when to use it, and explain to the teacher that if that loud noise blasts from the front, he needs to get out there and check on her. Tell Mr. Allen hello from me.

Best wishes,

Sophie

Peyton enjoys playing the clarinet and she enjoys being the best in the band. Because she practices and takes private lessons, the band director, Mrs. Kerr, shows a positive interest.

The way Peyton sees it, there are two ways to get extra attention in school—be as perfect as you can be or be a troublemaker. Anywhere in between and you’re ignored. So, because she sees value in following rules and meeting goals, she chooses to be outstanding rather than disruptive. 

Mr. Allen is a good clarinet teacher, enthusiastic about music and offering suggestions that help with breath control and support.

“Like you would with a tube of toothpaste,” he tells her. “Squeeze slowly and steadily from the bottom, pushing upward, rationing the air as you go.”

It doesn’t make sense when he says it, but later, at home, when she thinks of the air inside her as toothpaste in a tube, the concept comes together. 

On the flipside, Mr. Allen’s moustache often has crumbs and gunk stuck in it, and his small stuffy house smells like steamed vegetables. She’s always happy to get out of there, and watching the traffic in front of his house is entertaining and educational in that she learns a lot about how careless drivers can be. She has, from the top step of his stoop, witnessed three rear-enders and the near-hit of a pedestrian. And though her mother frets, at no time has she ever felt the least bit imperiled. Also, she understands the idea of a private lesson being private. She wouldn’t want anybody else listening in during her half-hour.

Peyton’s also the best in her Spanish, English, Algebra, and Earth Science classes.

Teachers and the other students, even her parents and brothers, refer to her as “one of those people.”

Though academic success works well for her, there are two things in her life that are awful. Two things that make her dread getting up in the mornings.

One is that Ella, a girl who used to be one of her best friends, turned against her three months ago. The incident that caused the ill-feeling was just one of those things that happens—Ella gave a party, and Peyton was unable to attend because her grandmother was in the hospital. But apparently Ella had seen the party as a test of friendship, and when Peyton couldn’t come, she was blackballed. When Peyton realized that she’d been cut, though she thought Ella was being small-minded, she apologized, explaining once again that visiting the hospital had been a family requirement. Ella neither acknowledged the apology nor forgave.

Influential, Ella persuaded all but the nobody-girls to cancel her; and then the nobodies, following the example of the prime clique, followed suit. At this point, Peyton has gone nearly three months without another student speaking to her, and without speaking to another student. She is fully ostracized. She eats alone, walks the halls alone, and has no one to talk to before class starts. She’s taken to arriving at school with only seconds to spare so she won’t have to stand by herself amongst the milling groups.

The rest of this year, and all of next year—that’s how long it will be before she goes to high school and meets new people who won’t hate her. She girds herself. She can make it. Also, other things are going on that are more important.

Which leads to the second complication, this one even more wretched:

Her parents are getting divorced. She’s known this to happen in the lives of other kids, and in truth, she’s not surprised. In her home there’s been closed-door fighting and vindictive whispering. There’ve been a few violent confrontations, one resulting in Mom having a black eye.

When they first told her and her brothers that they’d decided to split up, she was relieved, but her brothers, who hadn’t noticed the signs, were being big babies about it.

At fourteen, Peyton is the oldest. Cal is ten and Lester is seven. In the matter concerning her parents and their relationship, and knowing there’ll be friction, Payton has decided to follow the path of stoicism. Not so with Cal and Lester, who, now that Dad is living elsewhere, are fearful and acting out— “I hate you!” they scream at Mom. “You should’ve been the one to move out!” They kick furniture and throw books and game controls. Contemptuous disobedience is involved.

Mom: frustrated, furious, and hurt. The boys: defiant and blaming Mom. It goes on and on until Peyton feels that the devil dwells in the house, lurks in corners, and stirs up hatred.

One night, when she hears Mom crying in her room, she taps on the door and goes in. Mom’s on the bed, face down, sobbing into her pillow.

“I heard you crying,” she says.

“I’m just tired is all,” Mom tells her, wiping her eyes and cheeks.

“This can’t go on. How has everything gotten so bad?”

“It’s not your problem.” Mom sits and rolls her shoulders. “I’ve vowed to keep you of it. Your job is to do well in school, not to become embroiled in our problems.”

This is what the words say, but her expression is one of yearning. She badly needs someone to talk to and to lean on.

And Peyton, already suffering all day at school, recognizes and empathizes with her mother’s anguish and decides that she can take on this burden, too.

“From the way you and Dad have been acting the last few months, I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you both thought it was for the best. So why the tears?”

“Life. Deep unhappiness. Money. Mostly money.”

Peyton sees that Mom’s wondering whether it’s wise to spill to her daughter. And her mother’s not mentioning the physical abuse is a glaring omission.

“He said he wanted out,” Mom continues, overriding her misgivings. “We both did. But now that he realizes how much he’ll pay in child support, he’s decided it’d be cheaper for you kids to live with him, so he’s claiming to want custody.”

To Peyton, this is horrifying. Dad will count every penny spent on his children. Her clarinet lessons will come to an end. And his slap, hard across the face, comes often and unexpectedly. Without Mom to act as a buffer, it’d be only a matter of time before his open palm tenses into a fist.

And what she really doesn’t understand is that the boys have been the recipients of his hot slaps many times, so why are they so torn up that he’s gone? Why aren’t they relieved? Are they learning that there’ll come a time when they, too, can sling their hands with no accountability?

“The kids always stay with the mother,” she says, certain that it’s true.

“That’s what conventional wisdom says. But there’ll be the cost of lawyers and interviews and accusations. And it’ll take such a long, long time before we can move on.”

The next evening Dad rings the doorbell. Seeing him standing out there, their mother frantically orders them to stay inside. Peyton, Cal, and Lester cluster at the front window. Dad didn’t park straight and he left his car door open. Grabbing Mom by the arm, he pulls her from the porch and, stopping in the grass several feet away, takes a confrontational stance—putting his face into hers, making his shoulders large. Right there in the front yard. Is he showing the world what a big man he is? Is he proving to everyone who has eyes that he’s the boss?

And speaking of eyes, the neighbors begin to emerge from their homes. Eva and her sister, Joanie, step from their houses, leave their porches, and meet on Joanie’s driveway. Joanie’s son, Henry, also comes outside. He stays close to his mom. Then others, too, appear. Gabe, the tiny man from next door, strides to the center of his lawn. Arms folded across their chests, they all witness the huge angry man towering over their petite pretty neighbor.

Unable to tolerate the tension for a second longer, Lester races outside and tries to insert himself between his two adults. Dad’s strong hand grabs Lester by the shoulder and slings him to the ground. Lester emits an oh! a whimper, and a sob. He curls up like a threatened worm.

Seeing this, Gabe, such a sweet old guy, begins marching toward the fracas—and from the other side of the street, Joanie hollers, “Gabe, no!” Her call is a distraction that causes Dad to look up, look around. He sees that ten pairs of eyes are fixed on him. Shaking his head like a stunned bull, he releases Mom, stomps to his car, reverses, and with a squeal of the tires, drives away.

Leaving Peyton in charge of Cal, Mom takes Lester to the emergency room.

“His humerus is broken,” Mom says when she calls. “He cracked it on the brick border when he fell.”

“When he was pushed, you mean. Is he in pain? Will he have a cast?”

“Yes and yes. But at least now it’ll all be settled quickly.”

Peyton understands what Mom means. Dad broke his son’s arm and there are witnesses. There’ll be no custody battle. Dad’ll be lucky if he ever gets to see his children again. It’s a bleak tradeoff.

The next day Mrs. Kerr announces that, out of the nine members who auditioned, only one, Peyton, made regional band. Because they sense that the teacher expects accolades, the other students offer a brief and half-hearted round of applause.

A month later Peyton gets a Friday off from school to rehearse with the group, and then on Saturday the band rehearses all day for a concert that night. She is thrilled—mainly because she’s surrounded by people her age who don’t hate her. She’s made second chair, which, considering that she’s a year younger than most of the kids who made the band, makes her a star.

“You’re from Archer Middle School,” Lele, the third chair says when they meet for the first time. “One of my best friends from church goes there—Ella Hendricks. Do you know her?”

Within Peyton, a flame of ire ignites. Ella, who has hurt her so deeply. Ella, who plays no instrument and wouldn’t recognize a beat if it thumped her on the head. Ella has no right intruding here, the one space that belongs to Peyton.

“No,” she tells Lele with a bemused smile. “I never heard of her. Are you sure she goes to Archer?”

Denying that she knows Ella is like denying Ella’s existence, a small and private revenge; a delicious moment that’ll be enough to see her through the next couple of years.

A few days later Mom presents her with an airhorn, then tells her how and when to use it. As Mom’s obviously invested in her safety, Peyton responds with appropriate and solemn gratitude—but really. An airhorn? Ridiculous.

Panama City

A swinging bridge over a rainforest.

The Costa Rica Trip

The last two times David and I had reason to travel by plane, we said no more, never again. This flight travel, too, is fraught with annoyances—canceled flight, delayed flight, tension over making the connection; and then me being seated next to a man whose body flows into my space and who hacks, sneezes, and sniffs from beginning to end. And again, we say never again.

Exhausted, we land in San Jose at midnight. Dressed for the cold weather we left behind, and attacked by the sudden humidity, I yank the black high-necked sweater over my head, forgetting that, over the sweater, I’m wearing one of my favorite necklaces, which falls to the floor in the area of carousel five, never to be seen by me again. Later, upon realization, I’m distraught. “Let it go,” David advises. But still, I must make an effort. I am put on interminable hold by the airport security and the airline we flew in on. As I forgive myself for my carelessness, I imagine the joy whoever ended up with my necklace will take in it—a thirty-inch white gold chain interspersed with gemstones and a heavy white gold pendant set with two modest pale emeralds. A fortuitous find for someone who will appreciate it as much as I did. I tell myself to be happy for the person who now wears it. And I am done mourning.

It’s the practice of Tauck to employ local guides, and Angie, our guide for the first couple of days, doesn’t disappoint. She’s cheerful and her syntax is delightful. Also, one of my favorite forms of humor is stating the obvious, and her way of doing this is charming.

In Costa Rica,” she says, “we have bars at the windows, and barbed wire and spiked fences surrounding our homes—WHY? Because there are bad people who will come into your house and take your things.”

Another one: “When Christopher Columbus first came to Costa Rica, the first thing he saw was the coast—WHY? Because he arrived in a boat.”

We walk down three hundred and ninety stairs to see a dramatic waterfall. Then we go to a coffee plantation to see how coffee is made. I’m skeptical because, well, pick the bean from the tree, grind it up, and strain it—what else could there be? In the end, producing coffee is a time-consuming and involved process. The beans aren’t huge to start with and, after several peelings, drying, then roasting, the interior portion used in making coffee is tiny. A cup of cappuccino requires forty-five hand-picked beans. The coffee guide is entertaining, though he’s overly invested in teaching us the Spanish names for every step of the coffee process, making us parrot words we don’t understand several times. If we can barely say hello in his language, why would we retain the name of the slimy sweet substance beneath the first peel of a coffee bean?  

What to take with me every time we leave the ship is a conundrum. For instance, our chosen excursion for today is the zip line followed by a tour of a cacao farm. The plethora of necessary accessories calls for a backpack, which I did not bring—a head covering, a rain jacket because there’s always a fifty percent chance of rain, an extra pair of shoes because this is a wet landing, and sunglasses, which will be put on and taken off again according to the clouds and shadows. Luckily, I have pockets and I will be strategic in their usage.

The zip line canopy tour: We wear hard hats, so no need to worry about sunburn. With the impersonal touch usually reserved for those in the medical field, young men fit us into harnesses. We are then escorted to a struggling tractor and hauled up a mountain. Though terrified of heights, I’m participating in this activity—WHY? Because sailing over a rain forest sounds enchanting. With a tranquil mindset, I will fly over colorful birds, make friends with howler monkeys, and wave at a sloth who’ll wave back. In the end, there’s a reason for the word “zip”. Nine times, I’m hooked up, told to lean back and lightly hold the cable with my strong hand; then I’m instructed to bend my knees and cross my ankles, and a man I don’t know releases my suspended weight, and gravity does its thing. So focused am I on doing as instructed that there is no looking down or around. No monkeys, no sloth. Afterward, David declares that it was fun. I’m proud that I didn’t scream, but fun? Nah, I was scared the whole time and my knees were weak and trembling when I was done. It was simply one of those nonsensical things one does so they can claim they’ve experienced it.

The next day we go on two rain forest excursions—the first is a snail-paced foot-drag, with twenty-three people following a guide. Every once in a while we’re told to look upward; and, with necks stiffening, we are joined by other tours until there are seventy people gathered around to view a patch of fur in the crux of a high palm. Do you see it? A sloth! Is it, though? Something brown in a tall tree; it’s more likely to be a coconut, but there we stand, pretending to be amazed. The next tour is a wondrous hike beside rapidly flowing water and framed by thriving foliage that’ll pin you in place if you remain still for too long. Four of us tourists, with three guides. We keep a snappy pace with our walking sticks. We sweat. There is a ludicrous heated showdown between two of the guides—what amazing beasts have you sighted? How close did you get? How many countries have you led tours in? Literally, a toe-to-toe competition. How fun.

Today we are at sea, traveling from Quepos to Playa Muerto. We will use the time to go to a yoga class, indulge in a sauna, reorganize our cabin, and do some laundry. Next? A day in an indigenous village and then on to the Panama Canal.

This made us laugh.

I Meet Myself

Between my junior and senior years in high school I was fortunate to receive a scholarship to Interlochen’s Summer Camp for the Arts in Michigan. To give credit where it’s due, the high school band director, Ron Wells, recommended me for the scholarship, which was awfully nice of him. He and his wife, Dotty, were helpful and supportive during my teen years, with Dotty giving me flute lessons in exchange for babysitting, a plan of mutual benefit that lasted until their kids outgrew the need.

There were some gifted artists in the music program in our high school and, to be clear, I wasn’t one of them. I was merely good. Nevertheless, this escape from the panhandle came at a good time. During my junior year, things hadn’t been great at home. My parents didn’t get along. My older sister was moody and always at odds with our mother, and our father was bipolar and went weeks without speaking to any of us. In short, there was always tension. I lived in the basement, kept my head down, read and did homework, played my flute, and was grateful that my mother and father’s focus never drifted in my direction.

And because of this oppressive domestic stress, when the chance to spend a summer elsewhere came along, I was thrilled. Though the goal of the camp was to help the students become better at their chosen craft—and as six hours a day was spent in lessons and practicing, improvement was unavoidable—my personal goal was to enjoy the time away. Interlochen attracted smart and talented artists from all over the world, and I was so looking forward to meeting anyone not from Amarillo.

I expected the others in my cabin of twelve to be studious and dedicated. Some were, most weren’t. In the beginning, we explored our differences—our diverse colloquialisms, dietary preferences, and traditions made us fascinated with one another. The dancing, acting, and music-making only took a portion of our time, and we soon became a tight gang of geeks. When making our way to class, a meal, or back to the cabin, one of us would break into song or leap forward in graceful jetes; or a drama student would deliver a spontaneous Shakespearean soliloquy. I will always appreciate people who lack inhibition. As for me, within the first two days I had been named social director of our cabin.

In Texas, I was reserved and contemplative, and I kept my witty (some would say smartass) remarks tucked firmly inside my head. At Interlochen I put that person away. Maybe I went a little crazy. My new dedication was to my almost frantic pursuit of a good time, and I took my duties as the social leader of our crew seriously, so seriously in fact, that I was soon known as “The Instigator” among the cabin counselors. At my prompting, we snuck out most nights. We went skinny-dipping in the lake and, floating on our backs, spoke languidly of our dreams. We switched the names of the cabins around, dumped garbage on porches, tied doors closed, lifted small bits of furniture on to roofs, and went on forbidden excursions into the state park.

At one point, our counselor became so exasperated with our noncompliance that she threw her mattress on the floor beside my bed, effectively blocking me in my lower bunk.

“There will be no more night adventures,” she declared. She was a fun-loving grad student at U-Penn, and we took pride in having pushed her to take such an extreme step. She slept by my bed for four nights—and then, when she moved back to her cot, things went back to the way they’d been before.

Legendary singers, musicians, and comedians performed at Interlochen on a weekly basis. The cost of the tickets was prohibitive for the campers, but we were allowed to attend the rehearsals on the afternoons before the performances. Maynard Ferguson came, as did Bennie Goodman. And everybody was excited about Bob Hope. Though he was from our parents’ era, we’d been led to believe that he was funny and charming. Sad to say, this wasn’t the case. After he groused about the acoustics, the sound system, and the rainy weather, he insulted the accompanist (“I’ve known dogs who play better than you!”) when she began Buttons and Bows at too slow a tempo. This was a sweet-natured sixteen-year-old girl, nervous to be on the stage with him, and surely one of the most gifted of her age group at the camp; and his mean-spirited denigration caused a wave of aversion to pass through the airy theater.

At the end of the summer, my mother, my cousin Georgia, and my little sister came to drive me back to Texas. We stopped by Opryland on the way. After having been saturated in classical music for over two months, Nashville gave me an unprecedented love for country and blue grass music.

From my experiences at Interlochen, I learned that Amarillo was a miniscule pocket in a massive world. I returned home more confident and less cautious. And I realized that some people spend their whole lives in one place, knowing only one outlook, experiencing only one culture. That they would make this choice isn’t only their loss, it’s the world’s loss, because you can’t understand someone if you don’t take every opportunity to get to know them.

What does this picture have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing! I got the flowers and card from my sons on Mother’s Day and I didn’t have a picture to go with the blog.

Then and Now Romance

I recently read an article (NY Post, Lifestyle, by Jana Hocking) which tells of a situation wherein a woman knew that a man was interested in an exclusive relationship when he asked her to get tested for STDs so they could start having sex without condoms.  

The condom motive is obviously self-serving; and how appallingly unromantic. But Hocking analyzed further, presenting his request as a modern man’s way of stating that he wanted to be with her only, and for her to be with him only. I guess if you think of it in this way, it might be, at a stretch, considered romantic. But really, where’s the flair/flare?

In this scenario, the woman wasn’t into it; and in fact, at the time of his request, was also seeing someone else. Her response was that they should continue to have protected sex while she continued to look around.

As a mother of boys, I observed the girls they grew up with, and I loved what I saw—young women who supported one another instead of back biting, who built each other up rather than tear each other down, who innately understood that being imperfect didn’t mean they were called to conform to someone else’s ideal. They were a take-charge generation of women, independent, self-confident in a way I never was, and comfortable competing with men in the workplace.

And being asked to take an STD so the guy doesn’t have to use a condom is what they’ve paid for being the inheritors of feminism and part of a generation so lacking in romance.

Last week I felt burdened by the literary tomes I’ve been buried in for the last year or so, and I realized it’d been a long while since I looked in on romance. I chose a book called Variation by Rebecca Yorros. This author has recently had success in the fantasy arena with her book The Fourth Wing, which was a fun adventure with dragons; and who doesn’t love dragons? But for the most part, her work is rooted in love stories and Variation received good reviews.

The formulaic romances I devoured during my Harlequin/pulp stage were built on a few traditional plots—two people consumed by their passionate love, inadvertently finding themselves wrapped in one another’s arms during every encounter, yet bizarrely hanging on to their fury over a years-old groundless grudge. Or it might be that, upon a couple’s first meeting they feel inexplicable and intense antipathy toward one another, and are vexed by their instant dislike until realizing that what they’re really feeling is mad love. Another plot might be that the woman is independent and brilliant; enter the masterful man who is compelled to tame her.

Oh, the storylines I recall—a reticent, mysterious doctor (handsome) hires a pediatric nurse (beautiful) to care for his daughter; a secretly aristocratic pirate (handsome) kidnaps a haughty heiress (beautiful); a movie star (handsome) visits his mother in his hometown, runs into his high school girlfriend (beautiful), and suspects her son is his—and it is!

The beginning of Variation hints at a standard plot—an encounter years after a life-altering and hurtful misunderstanding. However, as demonstrated in this novel, the writing and characters have altered drastically since the days of Rosemary Rogers and Jude Devereaux. The absurd and sometimes vulgar euphemisms for genitals of the seventies and eighties—“engorged manhood” and “member” for the man parts; “intimate folds” and “love canal” for the woman parts—have been replaced, not because of an attempt to introduce more appealing language, because the new vocabulary certainly hasn’t achieved that, but in a questionable quest for blunt clarity—now a penis is called a penis and a vagina is called a vagina. Finding names for body parts has probably stymied romance writers for centuries, though some of the best romances in the history of romances haven’t had a single sex scene (think Gone with the Wind). Also, in Variation, the language of love, which used to be erotic and seductive and, at times, lyrical, has become crude and unimaginative. Though it seems to be accepted these days, the word fuck was used without reservation or trepidation in this book, and it’s a word I never say or even think; and indeed, I suffered a sensibility crisis in the typing of it.

One difference between the old romances and the new, as demonstrated in Variation, is that in the romances of forty years ago, the man and woman were at odds. There was heated conflict over who was in charge, or how they felt about one another; or there was jealousy or disapproval in some form. The testosterone-charged man always conquered, and the feisty woman came away purring with satisfaction. What drivel. These days I cringe when I think of all the women-driven chauvinistic crap I bought into back then.

But in Variation, rather than passion or lust, the impediments to the characters’ happily-ever-after were based on careers and logistics. While the man is undoubtedly manly, a decorated Coast Guard swimmer; and the woman is ultrafeminine, a prima ballerina, they were both sappily concerned that their partner would have to give up his or her career in order for them to be together. In the end, they discover a unique and wondrous technique for decision-making called compromise. However, though there was some tepid back-and-forthing over how they would move forward, there was no heat, which is what happens when no heat is expected and today’s social norm for taking the next step is your partner asking you to get tested for STDs so he won’t have to use a condom.

What a romantic pot-boiler this was!