Original fic, My Mother Never, Chapter 3
Nov. 23rd, 2002 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
janetlinTitle: My Mother Never
Rating: G
Genre: historical fiction
Summary: An aspiring author searches for acceptance and inspiration
~*~
Previous chapter
It was a simple diner, not too different from many I had been in through the course of writing some of my most recent assignments. There were seats at a counter that spanned the length of the room, and against the front wall and beneath windows were booths. The diner was almost full, so it took me a while to find where Alyson was sitting.
"I thought it was my job to play the no-show tonight," she said as I slid into the other side of her booth. Though she was smiling, it was quite different from what I had seen earlier that day. This was almost self-deprecating, as if before I arrived she had been chiding herself. Suddenly I realized that I had taken her quick smiles in the newspaper office for granted. But now I was sitting across from someone more complex than I had originally thought, and I instantly kicked myself for not seeing it the first time I had met her. I was supposed to be more observant than that.
"Alyson, I'm sorry. I was writing and the time just completely got away from me. I’m so sorry. I hope you haven't been waiting long." It sounded weak, even to me, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. She shrugged.
"Chief let me out early today," she said quietly.
"How early?" I asked, catching the tone in her voice that said she was trying to tell me something other than what had just escaped her lips.
She shrugged again. "Five."
"Five?" That was almost an hour ago. "You haven't been here the whole time, have you?" She nodded. My heart fell to my stomach, and even though I know it hadn't been my fault, some part of me felt like it was. I’m such an ass, I thought. "Alyson, I…"
"It's all right," she said. "I've drunk about as much coffee as I can stand, but I just ordered some pie, if you'd like some."
"Yes," I said, "pie would be lovely." I breathed an internal sigh of relief. She doesn’t hate me. Well, that’s a start. I waved down the waitress and asked for another cup of coffee and a second piece of pie. The pie arrived warm and with a healthy scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. I hurriedly ate the ice cream first. Alyson eyed me curiously.
"You're supposed to eat them together," she said.
"But, see," I explained, "the pie is hot, so if I don't eat the ice cream first, it'll melt and then make the pie soggy, and I won't be able to eat the ice cream, either, because it's all melted all over the plate."
She just looked at me for a moment, then smiled and shook her head. "Are they all as odd as you, out in the country?"
"Only the good ones," I grinned.
She shook her head again, grinning as if she didn't want to, and returned to her pie. I allowed myself another internal sigh. Things weren't going as badly as it seemed they might. We ate our pie in our respective 'odd' ways, and asked each other polite, small-talk kind of questions. Before I knew it, I was on my second cup of coffee, and she had ordered a milkshake, which she was stirring in an effort to thin it to the point that it could be drunk through the straw. I decided to forego the opportunity to get into another discussion about eating habits, and continued asking questions and answering those asked me. I discovered that in addition to living in the city her entire life, she had been working at the paper since she was eighteen. Which, I didn't ask, but seemed to be at least a few years ago.
"My mother had the idea that it would be an excellent place to find a good man to marry. Of course, at the time, I had no intentions of finding a husband. But mother was certain that one of the young men about the office would just snap me right up, and then I'd know for sure that I was getting a guy with a decent and stable job."
"But…" I prompted.
"Well, everything went according to plan, except that the guy himself wasn't decent or stable."
"Peter Lawrence," I deduced.
"Yeah," she answered, suddenly going quiet. This was definitely a subject that would take some more looking into, but after today, I didn't think it was appropriate to ask. "So what about you?" she pulled herself together enough to ask, "Do you have a girl back in Carthage?"
"Lots of girls in Carthage, but none of them mine," I answered.
"Why is that?"
Taken slightly aback by the question, I shook my head and just looked at her, until she raised an eyebrow, as if to indicate that she truly did expect an answer. "I, well, umm," I said, willing something to come to me. "I suppose that's because the married couples in Carthage love each other very much."
A moment of confusion passed across her face, followed closely by possibly her biggest smile yet. She laughed. "Daniel McKabe, are you making fun of me?"
"No, ma'am," I replied, giving her my own very big smile. "I believe that's exactly why there are lots of girls in Carthage. Or anywhere, for that matter."
"You know what I was asking."
"Well, as for that, I suppose they don't consider newspapering to be a decent or stable job for a fellow," I said, remembering my mother's assertion at one point that I would never amount to anything considerable as long as I tried to be a writer. I should be a farmer or a carpenter or a blacksmith, just like all the other men in Carthage… no, thank you.
"Well, you're in the city now, where it does count for something," Alyson said, granting me yet another of her smiles.
"I certainly hope so," I answered.
"So, your turn," she said, "how did you get into the business?"
I settled back in my seat. "Well, I always was a writer, which was never something my mother approved of. I figured that being a newspaper reporter would give me more access to the outside world, which I could then use in my stories. My mother thought that reporting would keep me too busy to write my 'nonsense stories,' so she was happy about the choice. And it does provide a steadier flow of income than fiction would."
"So what are you doing here?" Alyson asked.
I shrugged. "I've seen everything there is to see about Carthage, written what I could from the things that inspired me there. I needed something new, something bigger, different kinds of people with more stories to tell."
"What kind of stories do you write?" she asked, stirring at her milkshake.
"Whatever kind of mood I'm in at the time. Some things are best expressed in fantasy, some find a tragic beauty in horror. Sometimes I write mysteries, when I'm trying to figure something out."
"Fiction, though," she said with a raised eyebrow, and I nodded. "How does that fit with reporting, which is solid fact?"
"Well, let me show you." I took out my pen and unfolded a paper napkin, and started to write:
In a booth near the back of a small but busy diner, two figures are enjoying dessert. Miss Alyson Porter, an attractive woman who works in the offices of the Chronicle, sits across from Daniel McKabe, a young reporter "fresh off the farm" from the Carthage Herald. Mr. McKabe has invited Miss Porter here as a thank-you for securing him a position on the Chronicle's staff. Miss Porter was kind enough to agree to the gesture, and has decided for the moment to overlook his impropriety in arriving late.
They entertain each other with talk of their families and homes, over a cup of strong black coffee and a strawberry malt shake. An hour passes without either of them noticing, as they talk about themselves and learn about each other. Miss Porter has asked Mr. McKabe the piercing question of how a fiction writer can accurately report the news, to which he replies by taking out a napkin and pen, and he begins to write...
I handed Alyson the napkin and waited while she read it. "That's all solid fact," I said when she'd read it. She nodded in agreement. "The thing is how you present it. I look at a situation, and then I write the article as if it were part of a story. Or perhaps even a story in and of itself. The main difference is the use of detail."
"You could write a lot and never really say anything, that way," she observed.
"Well, that depends on what you're trying to say," I replied. "Articles are written to inform people of what happened or is happening in some place they aren't. And if you use the right words, you can actually convey more to the reader: they feel as if they witnessed the event, instead of only knowing basic details, which anyone can pick up from street gossip."
Alyson nodded and folded the napkin. She stirred at her milkshake and we sat in silence for a few moments.
"So what's your real ambition, since marrying a newspaper man has been thrown out?" I asked.
"I never really thought about it," she said, taking a sip from her straw.
"Oh, come on," I prompted, "there must have been something."
"Horses," she replied. "I want to have horses."
"And do what with them?"
"Anything," she replied. "Raise them, ride them, breed them, it doesn't matter. You can't do any of it here."
"Is that all you want? A way out of here?" I asked.
"Pretty much," she nodded. "This city is... dead. People think it's exciting when they're from out of town, but I've been here my whole life, and it's horribly boring. Big grey buildings and long black streets... Nothing is alive here. I feel like if I don't get out, I'll die along with everything else and not even notice it until I'm gone." She shook her head and laughed. "I'm sorry, that must sound like nonsense to you."
"Not at all," I replied. "In fact, it's rather poetic."
"Oh, so you think I'm a writer too, now?"
"You might be," I grin, "anyone with creativity can be a writer. Some people just don't bother to try and discover it. Or the inclination is crushed by an outside force before it even has a chance." Somewhere in the back of my mind echoed my mother's eternally degrading 'Hmph.'
"Well," Alyson said, "some spirits aren't so easy to crush. Besides," she continued with a grin, "a little adversity is good for the soul."
"Indeed?" I raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. "It builds character. That was my mother's contribution to my spiritual development."
"I believe our mothers would find each other quite agreeable," I said. She laughed and began sipping her liquefied shake. I absently stirred my coffee and noticed that the sun was setting outside the windows of the diner. Awkward moments passed, and Alyson's green eyes looked at me expectantly.
"Umm, Alyson," I said, staring into the depths of my coffee cup, "may I walk you home?"
I felt her smile without even having to look up. "That's mighty chivalrous of you, Daniel. But you forget, I'm a big city girl. I've got my very own car."
"Of course," I said, feeling like an idiot. Of course she'd have a car. I supposed I should see about getting one soon, as well.
"I suppose the question is, then, may I drive you home, Mr. McKabe?" I looked up at her and her eyes were laughing at me. "Or is courtesy only acceptable in one direction?"
"I..." I began, caught momentarily off my guard. A saucy wench, my mother would call her. Saucy indeed. "I would not wish to harm your reputation." I knew it was hardly seemly for a lady to be seen driving to a man's lodgings.
Bold as brass, she laughed aloud. "Ah, you are adorable, Daniel McKabe." She stood up and pulled on a pair of cream leather gloves. "Another problem with the city is that most people can't hardly see anything past the end of their own nose. Come on," she inclined her head to the door as she lay her coat over one arm and picked up her purse. I scrambled for my wallet and set several bills on the edge of the table before following her quickly departing back.
She was several paces ahead of me by the time I reached the parking lot, and I could easily see the seams of her stockings, falling perfectly straight from the hem of her knee-length skirt to shoes the same cream color as her gloves. Her heels clicked on the pavement boldly, daring, not at all like the meek girls from town I was accustomed to. The setting sun gave her hair an auburn cast, and a ruddiness to her skin which I found most pleasant. Now here was a woman to write about. Straight from the page of some author's creation, how could she be real? Was there no end to her smiles, no limit to the things she could express with those eyes, and could she possibly be unaware of her effect on people?
She looked over her shoulder, smiling for she knew I had been watching her. Perhaps she was not completely unaware of her charms. But to employ them so ruthlessly... My poor heart, how was it ever to recover? My feet nearly tripped over themselves in their effort to close the gap between us. I trotted up beside her just as she was turning toward her car and pulling her keys out of her purse. My mind was drawn back to the situation at hand, and I cleared my throat, resolved.
She looked up just as she was turning the key in her door, her face innocently questioning. "I truly don't wish you any trouble," I said, thankful that my voice was obeying my will. "So, if I may, I will bid you a good evening here."
"Good evening, Daniel." She was amused but trying to be serious, for my sake.
"Good evening, Alyson." My traitorous willpower faltered enough that I leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then returned with a vengeance and made my face grow warm and drove my feet back the way I had come, back to my lodging house. I walked with my head bowed and my hands shoved deep into my pockets.
When I returned to my room, my eyes first fell on my typewriter, but my thoughts were too muddled to compose anything, so I fell onto my bed and put my hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling until sleep came.
Rating: G
Genre: historical fiction
Summary: An aspiring author searches for acceptance and inspiration
~*~
Previous chapter
It was a simple diner, not too different from many I had been in through the course of writing some of my most recent assignments. There were seats at a counter that spanned the length of the room, and against the front wall and beneath windows were booths. The diner was almost full, so it took me a while to find where Alyson was sitting.
"I thought it was my job to play the no-show tonight," she said as I slid into the other side of her booth. Though she was smiling, it was quite different from what I had seen earlier that day. This was almost self-deprecating, as if before I arrived she had been chiding herself. Suddenly I realized that I had taken her quick smiles in the newspaper office for granted. But now I was sitting across from someone more complex than I had originally thought, and I instantly kicked myself for not seeing it the first time I had met her. I was supposed to be more observant than that.
"Alyson, I'm sorry. I was writing and the time just completely got away from me. I’m so sorry. I hope you haven't been waiting long." It sounded weak, even to me, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. She shrugged.
"Chief let me out early today," she said quietly.
"How early?" I asked, catching the tone in her voice that said she was trying to tell me something other than what had just escaped her lips.
She shrugged again. "Five."
"Five?" That was almost an hour ago. "You haven't been here the whole time, have you?" She nodded. My heart fell to my stomach, and even though I know it hadn't been my fault, some part of me felt like it was. I’m such an ass, I thought. "Alyson, I…"
"It's all right," she said. "I've drunk about as much coffee as I can stand, but I just ordered some pie, if you'd like some."
"Yes," I said, "pie would be lovely." I breathed an internal sigh of relief. She doesn’t hate me. Well, that’s a start. I waved down the waitress and asked for another cup of coffee and a second piece of pie. The pie arrived warm and with a healthy scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. I hurriedly ate the ice cream first. Alyson eyed me curiously.
"You're supposed to eat them together," she said.
"But, see," I explained, "the pie is hot, so if I don't eat the ice cream first, it'll melt and then make the pie soggy, and I won't be able to eat the ice cream, either, because it's all melted all over the plate."
She just looked at me for a moment, then smiled and shook her head. "Are they all as odd as you, out in the country?"
"Only the good ones," I grinned.
She shook her head again, grinning as if she didn't want to, and returned to her pie. I allowed myself another internal sigh. Things weren't going as badly as it seemed they might. We ate our pie in our respective 'odd' ways, and asked each other polite, small-talk kind of questions. Before I knew it, I was on my second cup of coffee, and she had ordered a milkshake, which she was stirring in an effort to thin it to the point that it could be drunk through the straw. I decided to forego the opportunity to get into another discussion about eating habits, and continued asking questions and answering those asked me. I discovered that in addition to living in the city her entire life, she had been working at the paper since she was eighteen. Which, I didn't ask, but seemed to be at least a few years ago.
"My mother had the idea that it would be an excellent place to find a good man to marry. Of course, at the time, I had no intentions of finding a husband. But mother was certain that one of the young men about the office would just snap me right up, and then I'd know for sure that I was getting a guy with a decent and stable job."
"But…" I prompted.
"Well, everything went according to plan, except that the guy himself wasn't decent or stable."
"Peter Lawrence," I deduced.
"Yeah," she answered, suddenly going quiet. This was definitely a subject that would take some more looking into, but after today, I didn't think it was appropriate to ask. "So what about you?" she pulled herself together enough to ask, "Do you have a girl back in Carthage?"
"Lots of girls in Carthage, but none of them mine," I answered.
"Why is that?"
Taken slightly aback by the question, I shook my head and just looked at her, until she raised an eyebrow, as if to indicate that she truly did expect an answer. "I, well, umm," I said, willing something to come to me. "I suppose that's because the married couples in Carthage love each other very much."
A moment of confusion passed across her face, followed closely by possibly her biggest smile yet. She laughed. "Daniel McKabe, are you making fun of me?"
"No, ma'am," I replied, giving her my own very big smile. "I believe that's exactly why there are lots of girls in Carthage. Or anywhere, for that matter."
"You know what I was asking."
"Well, as for that, I suppose they don't consider newspapering to be a decent or stable job for a fellow," I said, remembering my mother's assertion at one point that I would never amount to anything considerable as long as I tried to be a writer. I should be a farmer or a carpenter or a blacksmith, just like all the other men in Carthage… no, thank you.
"Well, you're in the city now, where it does count for something," Alyson said, granting me yet another of her smiles.
"I certainly hope so," I answered.
"So, your turn," she said, "how did you get into the business?"
I settled back in my seat. "Well, I always was a writer, which was never something my mother approved of. I figured that being a newspaper reporter would give me more access to the outside world, which I could then use in my stories. My mother thought that reporting would keep me too busy to write my 'nonsense stories,' so she was happy about the choice. And it does provide a steadier flow of income than fiction would."
"So what are you doing here?" Alyson asked.
I shrugged. "I've seen everything there is to see about Carthage, written what I could from the things that inspired me there. I needed something new, something bigger, different kinds of people with more stories to tell."
"What kind of stories do you write?" she asked, stirring at her milkshake.
"Whatever kind of mood I'm in at the time. Some things are best expressed in fantasy, some find a tragic beauty in horror. Sometimes I write mysteries, when I'm trying to figure something out."
"Fiction, though," she said with a raised eyebrow, and I nodded. "How does that fit with reporting, which is solid fact?"
"Well, let me show you." I took out my pen and unfolded a paper napkin, and started to write:
In a booth near the back of a small but busy diner, two figures are enjoying dessert. Miss Alyson Porter, an attractive woman who works in the offices of the Chronicle, sits across from Daniel McKabe, a young reporter "fresh off the farm" from the Carthage Herald. Mr. McKabe has invited Miss Porter here as a thank-you for securing him a position on the Chronicle's staff. Miss Porter was kind enough to agree to the gesture, and has decided for the moment to overlook his impropriety in arriving late.
They entertain each other with talk of their families and homes, over a cup of strong black coffee and a strawberry malt shake. An hour passes without either of them noticing, as they talk about themselves and learn about each other. Miss Porter has asked Mr. McKabe the piercing question of how a fiction writer can accurately report the news, to which he replies by taking out a napkin and pen, and he begins to write...
I handed Alyson the napkin and waited while she read it. "That's all solid fact," I said when she'd read it. She nodded in agreement. "The thing is how you present it. I look at a situation, and then I write the article as if it were part of a story. Or perhaps even a story in and of itself. The main difference is the use of detail."
"You could write a lot and never really say anything, that way," she observed.
"Well, that depends on what you're trying to say," I replied. "Articles are written to inform people of what happened or is happening in some place they aren't. And if you use the right words, you can actually convey more to the reader: they feel as if they witnessed the event, instead of only knowing basic details, which anyone can pick up from street gossip."
Alyson nodded and folded the napkin. She stirred at her milkshake and we sat in silence for a few moments.
"So what's your real ambition, since marrying a newspaper man has been thrown out?" I asked.
"I never really thought about it," she said, taking a sip from her straw.
"Oh, come on," I prompted, "there must have been something."
"Horses," she replied. "I want to have horses."
"And do what with them?"
"Anything," she replied. "Raise them, ride them, breed them, it doesn't matter. You can't do any of it here."
"Is that all you want? A way out of here?" I asked.
"Pretty much," she nodded. "This city is... dead. People think it's exciting when they're from out of town, but I've been here my whole life, and it's horribly boring. Big grey buildings and long black streets... Nothing is alive here. I feel like if I don't get out, I'll die along with everything else and not even notice it until I'm gone." She shook her head and laughed. "I'm sorry, that must sound like nonsense to you."
"Not at all," I replied. "In fact, it's rather poetic."
"Oh, so you think I'm a writer too, now?"
"You might be," I grin, "anyone with creativity can be a writer. Some people just don't bother to try and discover it. Or the inclination is crushed by an outside force before it even has a chance." Somewhere in the back of my mind echoed my mother's eternally degrading 'Hmph.'
"Well," Alyson said, "some spirits aren't so easy to crush. Besides," she continued with a grin, "a little adversity is good for the soul."
"Indeed?" I raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. "It builds character. That was my mother's contribution to my spiritual development."
"I believe our mothers would find each other quite agreeable," I said. She laughed and began sipping her liquefied shake. I absently stirred my coffee and noticed that the sun was setting outside the windows of the diner. Awkward moments passed, and Alyson's green eyes looked at me expectantly.
"Umm, Alyson," I said, staring into the depths of my coffee cup, "may I walk you home?"
I felt her smile without even having to look up. "That's mighty chivalrous of you, Daniel. But you forget, I'm a big city girl. I've got my very own car."
"Of course," I said, feeling like an idiot. Of course she'd have a car. I supposed I should see about getting one soon, as well.
"I suppose the question is, then, may I drive you home, Mr. McKabe?" I looked up at her and her eyes were laughing at me. "Or is courtesy only acceptable in one direction?"
"I..." I began, caught momentarily off my guard. A saucy wench, my mother would call her. Saucy indeed. "I would not wish to harm your reputation." I knew it was hardly seemly for a lady to be seen driving to a man's lodgings.
Bold as brass, she laughed aloud. "Ah, you are adorable, Daniel McKabe." She stood up and pulled on a pair of cream leather gloves. "Another problem with the city is that most people can't hardly see anything past the end of their own nose. Come on," she inclined her head to the door as she lay her coat over one arm and picked up her purse. I scrambled for my wallet and set several bills on the edge of the table before following her quickly departing back.
She was several paces ahead of me by the time I reached the parking lot, and I could easily see the seams of her stockings, falling perfectly straight from the hem of her knee-length skirt to shoes the same cream color as her gloves. Her heels clicked on the pavement boldly, daring, not at all like the meek girls from town I was accustomed to. The setting sun gave her hair an auburn cast, and a ruddiness to her skin which I found most pleasant. Now here was a woman to write about. Straight from the page of some author's creation, how could she be real? Was there no end to her smiles, no limit to the things she could express with those eyes, and could she possibly be unaware of her effect on people?
She looked over her shoulder, smiling for she knew I had been watching her. Perhaps she was not completely unaware of her charms. But to employ them so ruthlessly... My poor heart, how was it ever to recover? My feet nearly tripped over themselves in their effort to close the gap between us. I trotted up beside her just as she was turning toward her car and pulling her keys out of her purse. My mind was drawn back to the situation at hand, and I cleared my throat, resolved.
She looked up just as she was turning the key in her door, her face innocently questioning. "I truly don't wish you any trouble," I said, thankful that my voice was obeying my will. "So, if I may, I will bid you a good evening here."
"Good evening, Daniel." She was amused but trying to be serious, for my sake.
"Good evening, Alyson." My traitorous willpower faltered enough that I leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then returned with a vengeance and made my face grow warm and drove my feet back the way I had come, back to my lodging house. I walked with my head bowed and my hands shoved deep into my pockets.
When I returned to my room, my eyes first fell on my typewriter, but my thoughts were too muddled to compose anything, so I fell onto my bed and put my hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling until sleep came.
