Defloration

My dress, wrapped like a collar, smells of grass.

After I kicked his face, he pulled off my boots - hips jerking, rocks scraping against my back – and heaved them into the creek.

The grass smells like warmth against my cold body.

High

The black place between
no way in and no way out.
Black is how you see everything.
Except when it's not black,
when lights are spinning and your body
feels like it's god.

33 words for , including the same one, thrice.

Deliverance

“Awkward is what it is!” Gerard is sitting in the wheelchair like some elderly pneumonia patient, waiting for Tony to gather up the paperwork. “Give that to me,” he snaps, “and get me the hell out of here.”

Tony fumbles still with the charts, x-rays, CDs, finally managing to slip them all into the folder - why a business folder and not an envelope he’ll never know - and slaps it down on Gerard’s lap.

“Awkward!” Tony kicks at the wheels to straighten them out. “There’s nothing awkward about it except you. I’m your companion. A perfectly ambiguous, inoffensive, let-them-think-what-they-will word. Honest to god, I don’t know what you’re so uptight about. It’s not like you have some reputation to maintain, like you have anything left to throw in people’s faces. What do you care what that silly little nurse’s aide thinks of you?” Tony is now standing in front of Gerard and the wheelchair, hands firmly on hips.

“Can we leave?” Gerard says tight lipped. “I’d like to get the hell out of here before they find something else wrong with me, shove me back in that black hole of an emergency room.”

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Tony has finally begun pushing the wheelchair which keels to the right. “You’re so horrified to be stuck with me that you can’t even treat me like an execrated houseboy. Like your least favorite lackey! I knew I shouldn’t have come here, especially not today with the way I feel and christ the way I look I’ll be scaring the small children.”

“Tony, for chrissake!”

Tony cannot straighten the wheelchair out properly, and he is pushing it diagonally across the hospital entrance, which appears to be a jousting range. “Fine! Let me back you out,” he says. Gerard watches the interior of the hospital recede while he is jerked backwards, unable to witness Tony’s journey towards the exit, on which he is dragged like an afterthought. The jousted glare at him as they stumble away.

 333 words for , including COMPANION (noun) 3a :  one that is closely connected with something similar b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Dancing in the Moonlight - (TrifeXXXtra)

When they dance, she sees that her smile makes her pretty, makes her beautiful even. She is watching it in his eyes and in the play of his lips. She admires the lay of her hand across the back of his shoulder, and she presses down to feel where he is warm and taut, stronger than she could have anticipated. She is surprised to find her body knows far more than she does.

Her body knows where he is hard -it knows why he is hard and what he is hard for- and she can’t help but respond. Her muscles are doing things she is embarrassed to do, but there is nothing that can stop her pulling in close to him, letting the music accompany her body as it turns insistent.

He needs no convincing. He’s already there, holding her to him as they move to the blues that carry them both. All that she doesn’t yet understand is knowledge he has long gathered, long perfected, and it is now his to release to her. She receives the play of his fingers along her hips as they rise without her permission when he sways back and forth. He leans in and she can hear him moan. With her lips she hears and brings them close, covers his lips with hers. She takes his moan into her mouth and holds it there long enough to learn his tongue, understand the heat of it, measure the force of it. As it fills her mouth she learns how to kiss. She learns how to run her tongue into his, run it along his teeth and out to his lips and back in again. All the while her hips mimic the movement of her tongue, and he holds her aloft, holds her against him where she moves –unaware of what she’s doing- but then he hears her. She returns the moan to his mouth and so teaches him. Finally, it is he who is taken by surprise.

 333 words for , in honor of National Erotica Day (November 15th).

Tea with the Neighbors

“Today it’s four years since Bertha died.”

“Well. More or less,” said Dan.

“Oh, Dan, don’t start.”

“I’m sorry, but the truth is implacable,” Dan said, looking at Sacha but glancing at Sally in quick, lizard-like flashes of acknowledgement. “Today we remember Bertha,” he said. “But the truth is this is the anniversary of her funeral, not her death.”

“Dan, cut it out.” Elaine turned from the stove and crossed her arms over her chest. Sally stared wide-eyed at her.

“What?” she asked. “Was she murdered?”

“Oh, no,” said Sacha, putting her arm across Sally’s shoulders. “Nothing like that. It’s just so sad. We never found out how long she’d been dead when they found her.”

“They. A neighbor,” Joanne said softly.

“Sometimes she just disappeared, you know? She was private that way. We never thought...” Sacha gave Sally’s shoulders a squeeze and let her go.

“Are you going to her grave?” Sally asked.

“No. Her family...”

“This year we’re making flowers,” said Joanne. “Elaine took a course on napkin folding.”

“I’m pretty good at it,” said Elaine with a wry smile. She tossed a weight of dirty blond hair off her shoulder. “I figured out how to make dahlias, Bertha’s favorite.”

 “What are you gonna do with them?” Sally asked.

“We haven’t decided,” said Elaine. “We could decorate the restaurant.”

“Oh, sure, pulling for the home team, huh, Lainy?”

“We could take them down to the beach and let them loose in the surf.”

“Dan, she never went near the sea.” Sacha poured tea into small hand-made raku cups. “We could take them over to the hospital…”

“If we’re going to honor Bertha,” Joanne broke in, “what we should do is go up to the train station and hand them out to random travellers. Whoever strikes our fancy. Some good-looking guy…”

“Good luck with that!” said Cora. Everyone turned to look at her in surprise. They burst out laughing.

“I love that idea,” said Dan. “Something special and unusual. Quirky. Like Bertha.”

 333 words for , on their 2nd Anniversary Challenge. Using Remember (verb): 3 a : to keep in mind for attention or consideration b :  REWARD

Ambidexterity

“Very crafty.”

“Craft has nothing to do with it.”

“What would you call it?”

“We call it mano izquierda.”

“When your right hand doesn’t know what your left hand is doing. I call that sneaky.”

“No, not at all. Not underhanded. Like using your less-coordinated hand. Tact, not duplicity.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You need to approach it from a different angle, you know?”

“You’re going to take his side anyway. I’m always at fault. He never complains, never has a bad word, of course he always gets his way.”

“I’m not taking sides, really I’m not. I want to help. I don’t want to see either of you suffer. If you suffer, my son suffers, that’s the way marriage is.”

“He hardly suffers.”

“Argh. He may not show his feelings – just like his father – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. He’s strong-willed, pig-headed even, when he doesn’t feel he has a choice.”

“A choice. What choice to I have?”

“You both have choices: the choices you would make separately, and the choice you make together. Because that is marriage. Choosing together.”

“Compromising. Exactly. He doesn’t compromise. When it’s his decision, everything is hunky-dory; when I don’t agree, I’m a shrew.”

“A shrew! I don’t mean to laugh. That’s not true, nobody thinks you’re a shrew. Little mouse. Hahaha. I’m sorry.”

“So you want me to just accept his decision? To save our marriage.”

“No. Oy. What I want you to do is use what advantages you have. You’re a smart woman. You know the things he likes to hear. The way he likes to see himself, how he wants to be seen.”

“So I should trick him into agreeing with me. That’s what you’re saying.”

“No. Not trick. Show him why his decision is the right one and, more importantly, show him why it is the same as your decision.”

“Oh, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Just use your left hand, darling. You’ll see. Trust me.”

333 words forincluding CRAFT (noun) 3 :  skill in deceiving to gain an end craft and guile to close the deal>

This weekend's challenge is community judged.

• For the 14 hours following the close of the challenge, voting will be enabled on links. 
• In order to vote, return to this post where stars will appear next to each link. To vote, simply click the star that corresponds with your favorite post.
• You can vote for your top three favorite posts.
• Voting is open to everyone. 

Epiphany

   “Isn’t it strange,” you said, looking at me as if I personified strangeness, “how we fall in love with such unexpected people.” You ran one long finger down my nose. “There’s not a bit of logic, no reason to it at all.”

   I laughed my jaded laugh and said, “Speak for yourself. It’s obvious why I fell in love with you. I’ve never known a man so good, so kind.” I smiled and smiled at you, but you looked at me with an expression that felt like disdain. The subject changed, we made love, we fell asleep. All the next morning I was dogged by that look of yours. I was still pondering what could be wrong when I started out to meet you in the square. Something about that balmy winter midday made me cut through the park and stop at the little bridge over the artificial pond. As I looked over the darkly green pool, I felt a tremor run through me, though there was no breeze, just the sun’s jagged reflection off the still water. Some deep-rooted alchemy was causing a seismic shift in my core. Then it settled.

 

   Later, you were loping towards me outside the train station, smiling your bright, sunny smile.

   “Remember what I said about loving you because you’re such a good man?”

   You still smiled, but less so.

   “That’s not quite true.” I said.

   Your smile was almost gone.

   “I would have fallen in love with you even if you were a wife beater or a serial killer, because that’s how crazy true love is. I just lucked out, is all.”

   Your smile exploded. You tried to whisk me off my feet and we almost fell to the ground in a flapping, quivering pile. You were like a big puppy that way, a big Saint Bernard puppy whose whole body could exude happiness. Allowing myself to inhabit your waggling hug, I marveled at how simple it turned out to be to make someone else happy.

333 words, including the one  wanted: ALCHEMY (noun)  3: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

Hyperbole

When the shit hit the fan and everything blew up in her face, Laura took it like a man.

She drank the bars dry, fucked everything that moved, then went home to Mother.

  So we're giving Trifextra some hyperbole this weekend.

Town Called Irony

Suzy was born to hit the ground running, destined to change the face of the earth, starting with the smallest town in the ugliest corner of the world.
 Two doors over, Laura rarely ventured outside her yard unless it was to go to school, and she had every intention of breathing her very last breath in the house her grandfather built. She learned how to bake at her grandmother’s knee. Her father taught her how to drive out on the back roads that took them to the empty shopping plaza parking lot on Sundays. When she wasn’t petitioning the town to keep the old Lawson water pump in working order, it was to protect the hundred-year-old oak on the village green.
 Suzy was aching to shake the dust of her hometown off her shoes, scared if she didn’t she’d soon be seeing her own reflection in the faces of her neighbors. Those old farts who stuck around town waiting for their high school reunions to roll around every year were like taunting demons. ‘I won’t let you catch me,’ she wanted to shriek after burning the rubber off the tires of a smart little import that would let her peal out of town again and again every Thanksgiving.
 Laura always smiled at Suzy’s fantasy and tried not to dwell on Grandmother’s words:
 ‘That girl moves too fast for her own shadow.”
 Of course it was Suzy who noticed the new kid in town, and the first thing she did was introduce him to Laura. They were destined for greatness, she claimed. If only one of them had declined the dare, backed down from the challenge, been willing to concede to the others.
 Laura still bakes. Suzy never misses a high school reunion. The new kid left town in a smart little import right after graduation.

    DWELL 3a : to keep the attention directed —used with on or upondwell on my fears>

Silver for Trifecta week 64!! (http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/02/trifextra-week-fifty-five.html)

Domestic Engineering

“You never could keep it in your pants, could you? But this is so … taudry. You make me sick.”

Sarah stepped away from Paul’s desk. She imagined him standing, heaving the chair back in fury as he grabbed her arm and slapped her across the face, her hair whipping dramatically as she fell to the footstool and wept. She turned to check, but in the tumult of their world falling apart, Paul sat at the desk with his pen held to a crossword puzzle.

Sarah seethed.

She crossed the hall, heading for the kitchen, and almost tripped over Katie.

“Darling, what are you doing there?” Sarah asked, ignoring the evidence that their daughter had overheard everything. “Have you finished your homework?”

Katie nodded. Sarah reached down and gave her arm a shake.

“Come with me and we’ll see about dinner. What do you feel like?”

“I feel like a child from a broken home.”

Sarah stopped short, gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, please, Miss Drama Queen. A broken home? You have no idea.”

“YOU have no idea!”

“Don’t get fresh with me, young lady, or...”

Sarah stood with her finger raised in the air as the child jumped to her feet and ran up the stairs. A second later the door slammed. “Hey!” came a muffled cry from the next bedroom over. Kevin’s burgeoning role of older brother consisted almost entirely of pointing out Katie’s childish behavioral patterns. Door slamming was a point of contention.

Sarah couldn’t face dinner yet. Confronting Paul had unleashed an adrenaline rush that she couldn’t contain. She grabbed her keys and purse and slammed out the front door. “What the hell?” came the cry from Kevin’s room and Sarah smiled maliciously. Rage propelled her down the street as she headed vaguely towards the center. She needed to walk, let the anger overtake her for a while, burn its way through her system and leave her some sort of a path to follow out of this tangled web.

 

     This week's word is  PATH  3a : course, route   b : a way of life, conduct, or thought

Cars 'n Girls

Even before she’s out of the city, Laura gets her memory sensors flung into overdrive. Racing to make the light that sends them up the winding road to Vallvidreira, she feels her cheeks flush with the effort of ignoring so much accumulated past.

‘Geez, Mom, chill, will ya?’ Annie doesn’t bother to glance up from her mp3, a frown of disparagement locked in place by the third turn.

‘It’s not me, it’s this road,’ Laura says. ‘These curves are a bitch.’ She downshifts into a one-eighty degree turn to the left, then guns it up a short straightaway. Out past the city limits, she settles into the drive, leaning into curves she hasn’t seen in fifteen years like she took them yesterday. The body is a strange creature, remembering things the mind would much prefer to forget. She would rather be checking street signs, just following directions to her kid’s party at a strange house in an unfamiliar town. Instead, she takes the long way around to go past David and Consuelo’s cottage. She hasn’t been here in years, not since the kids got into that silly fight. The excuses pile up. Before you can blink, a decade has passed and you don’t know how to make a breezy phone call. Too many ghosts haunt the line.

Laura finds the house on the second try.

“I thought you knew this place like the back of your hand,” says the daughter who isn’t paying attention.

Laura bites her tongue.

“It’s nice out here,” Laura says as she gets out of the car and pointedly does not lock it.

“Aren’t you gonna lock the car?”

Does she know her daughter or what?

“No one’s gonna steal this shitbox out here.”

Annie stops three paces from the gate.

‘Don’t you have somewhere to go?’

Laura tries to disguise her sudden intake of breath.

‘Yeah. I do.’

Her daughter disappears behind a tall metal door. Laura crosses her arms and leans against the car, jiggles the keys.

       333 words including BITCH (noun) 3: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant

Foreclosure

   You thought you would be exhausted by now, thought the past weeks, months, years even, would leave you without the energy to be afraid. You imagined you would be drained to such an extent that when the papers finally came, when the notice was finally served, you would be able to handle it. You would be prepared. You would be ready. How wrong you were. The nerve-wracking interviews with the bank, the startled awakening to a sleep-knotted stomach, the jangling hours of insomnia were only anticipation. The underlying, ever-present dread has built up, gathered like storm clouds until you feel fear the size of a tornado grip you by the throat and shake you. And still this is only the beginning. Still to come is the day when the knock on your door will not be a bailiff delivering notice, but a sheriff to evict you onto the street.

You think: powerful beings always find a new way to dupe you, to fool you into doing something that will be the end of you. You understand how the non-entity that is you has called upon itself the wrath of this financial entity, the new century’s god, and you are powerless to do anything but bow before it, render unto it. With no patron, no backer, no governing ear, you are at a distinct disadvantage. The bank is casually balancing its books while you play monopoly.

Forget about Park Place and Marvin Gardens. The only thing giving this property substance is your name on the deed, the same name that now appears on the defaulter list at the bank, on debtor records in the courts. When you open the door of your ground-floor apartment, there is a small area enclosing the stairs in front of you, mailboxes to the right. You slam the door shut then spin the keys to lock it. You stop before the mailboxes and look at your name. You remember: Do not pass GO.

 

ANTICIPATION (noun) 3a : visualization of a future event or state b: an object or form that anticipates a later type
Your response must be between 33 and 333 words
 

Dedicada a la invencible Cristina Fallarás
 

San Lorenzo

He is a mess, a mess she doesn’t want to disentangle. She’s glad he’s not her mess, and yet there is a definite magnetism about him and his mess. Because he’s so messed up, she often thinks he must be a genius. She’s dying to, but dares not ask him if he has flashes of brilliance. She says the sentence to herself, practicing the right intonation so it doesn’t sound accusatory or jealous, facetious or snarky. Hollow. Do you have flashes of brilliance? She can’t envision the situation in which that would ever sound anything other than puerile. Do people have flashes of brilliance? She can hear him guffaw, saying, People have their head up their ass.

But she can also imagine him naked - hugely naked because, unlike Alfredo, he is huge, bulky, hairy - naked and lazy and sated and watching her from under hooded eyelids. In that lethargic state he might be capable of saying something along the lines of: flashes of brilliance. Like a shooting star, when you glimpse one on the night of San Lorenzo and it gives you a thrill, and then it’s gone and you wonder if your brain was just firing sparks off behind your eyes because the back of your neck was seizing up from staring at the goddamned sky at the stars, waiting for a shooting star so you could say you saw it, marvel at the luck of having actually seen one and then not giving up for the night, saying to yourself, to the person who is sitting there with you, one more? One more for the road? So you sit into the night, shivering, your neck twisted in a way you will never be able to straighten. And then you think you might like to replicate that. Do something that might give you that same feeling, make other people stay and watch and be unable to put their chairs away and go the fuck to bed.

HOLLOW (adjective)

3

: lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance : false,meaningless <hollow promises> hollow

 and without triumph — Ernest Beaglehole>

 

My Favorite Things

 want a few of my favorite things, in whichever form I want, in 33 words exactly.

On a Saturday in November, after weeks of sullen gray skies, bright sunlight hits the overstuffed armchair where, for one stolen hour, she will be lost in the infinite power of a sentence.

With props to Joan Didion.

Erotica

In honor of National Erotica Day, Trifecta
                                
are asking for an open write this week--33 to 333 words of erotic writing.

 “Silk scarves painted in turquoise and gold were draped across the clouds where I lay, and the clothes I was wearing began to disappear,” he said. “No one was undressing me, no hands touched my body, but the cloth grew light, then vanished, and I felt the air on my newly released skin. I ran a hand down one body, then up the next.” He ran his fingers over her arm, letting the shoulder of the dress fall to her elbow. She wished her clothes could fall away, like in his dream. She said nothing. She listened.

 “The nymphs drew close, as if they might cover me from all sides, caress every inch of my body at once. Everything that could rise on me did.” He looked at her. “The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stood up straight. Nothing touched me but their sighs on my neck on my chest on my thighs, between the cheeks of my ass. Their whispers rode up and down, hot breath swirling around my balls. I let my head fall back against the cushions.” She watched him do just that. “I parted my lips, waiting for their tongues, and they came hot and wet into my mouth, swift encouragements of fancy. Lick this, they teased, suck that. I stretched my hands out to grab myself, but my fingers were stopped by the softest of tissue, silken skin surrounding hard little nubs. I drew one of these to my mouth, teased it with my tongue, drew it in to suck and that was when I felt myself being covered.” She held her breath, watched his eyelids flutter. “The lightest of weights descended on me, alit on my thighs where I could lunge, nudge and strain upwards until I was in, bouncing back, thigh against thigh. I drew my hands about their hips and felt them move slowly, deeply. There I tried to remain,” he said. “In that dream. Breathless.”

Retribution [Trifecta Anniversary Challenge]

For Trifecta's 1st Anniversary, we participants were challenged to take Joules's first entry (38 italicized words), have a partner (mine is Renada Styles) add to it (100 words) and then finish it. I did so in 35 italicized words. Here is Team 10's entry to participating site Velvet Verbosity:

Retribution

Charts and optimal dates and preferential temperatures. One line or two. As if she could summon whatever it is that makes up the human soul as easily as she could a cab on a busy New York avenue.

She faced the window.
Her eyes saw infinite explication.

Her math books only examined the probability of tangibility. What of transcendence?

Yellow streaks formed cabs.
An anxious, veneer hand waved.

If it were a finite equation, the curves that lined the hand and body to the point of the nose would be defined by x and y. There would be no question of why two and two is four....

The cocoa swallowed the nutmeg's taste.
The heat rolled into the vents.

The hot chocolate she drank would taste no different to the student three seats over sipping the same.

As if she could banish the specter of truncated possibility; knock it back like some pill taken for the after effects. One cycle or two? Suck it up, spit it out, let it bleed. Expiation.

 

Happy Anniversary Trifecta!

Year

1998 was the year that changed Laura’s life. If you had asked her back then, she would have laughed and said, “Got change for a five? That’s all the change I’ve seen lately.” From a personal, intimate standpoint, which is where most people look for transformative events, this was as true as the day is long. However, in the grand scheme of things, that was the year she learned about death. Not death as abstract, philosophical posturing, not the death of a grandparent or celebrity, but death in a more referential vein.

Had she paid attention to such behavior, Laura could have vouched for having acknowledged, though not mourned, the passing that year of, for instance, Linda McCartney. In Laura’s limited experience, she became the living –or rather, dying- proof that death existed for the rich and famous as well as for the poor and unknown. She was vaguely annoyed by Charlie Parker’s departure, as she had only recently discovered his true genius, and this same devotion made her feel indifferent to the loss of Frank Sinatra. Similar but opposing sentiments were true for Ted Hughes (whom she blamed for Silvia Plath’s via crucis, justifiably or not) and her beloved Octavio Paz.

Frivolous as these brief, unemotional bouts of mourning were, they were held up for review when news of Joe Cooper’s death reached Laura. Barely classifiable as a friend, he was at the least a contemporary, and she had expounded more than one opinion in his presence. They had also shared more than one summer morning at the municipal pool with a cadre of offspring in their offhanded, slightly irresponsible care. So at Joe’s funeral, among the teary-eyed grandmothers and the slightly high colleagues, Laura learned the one lesson that would stand her in good stead when her own intimate and personal day of doom came knocking. She learned that ignorance, blissful as it was, could do nothing to stave off the inevitable. She learned what was needed to answer that door.

YEAR (noun) 3 : a calendar year specified usually by a number

Whore

WHORE  3: a venal or unscrupulous person

 Before  I told him my business, before he found out all that had been going on while he had been screwing around –how could he?- before he had a chance to call me a slut, I walked into his study, slammed the door and seethed. “You whore,” I said, “the two of you are whores. A whore and a whoremonger.” He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses, his hair gone gray and wrinkles crackling his face.

“Who are you raving about, if you don’t mind my asking?” he drawled, taking a sip of his whiskey, ice cubes tinkling for effect. He set the glass down and pulled a bag of dope out from the drawer.

“Put that away,” I hissed. The kids are finishing up their homework, and I’ll have to get dinner soon.” He slid the bag back under the notebooks and newspapers and reached for a Marlboro instead.

“What are you going on about, Cat?”

“I’ve just been by Barbara and Carl’s,” I said slowly. I watched his face stiffen just a bit. I walked over to where he sat and snatched up his whiskey. “They were not very neighborly towards me,” I said and took a sip of the sharp, cold liquid, then threw the entire glass in my husband’s face.

“Do you have any idea what the two of you did?” I asked, ignoring my own little secret for the time being. John rubbed his forehead where the tumbler had hit, then bent to retrieve the ice cubes and pick up any stray pieces of glass he could find. He would be stepping on them for weeks.

“I know what I did,” John says succinctly. “I know what Barbara did.” He stood for effect. “And I believe I know what you did.”

     * * *  * *

Moving

The landlady stepped carefully around the puddles on the dirt road as she lead the granddaughter by the hand.
“Be careful not to muddy your school shoes,” she said. The sensible black shoes were worn over dark blue wool socks, each pulled to precisely the same height just below the knee.
“Where are we going, grandmother?” Never before had the child accompanied the old woman anywhere.
“Grandmother has an errand to run on one of her properties. You would do well to pay attention.” She did not lean on the child’s shoulder as they descended the concrete steps and crossed the patio to the front door. Standing the girl just to her right, she rapped twice at the glass, watching the curtained window for movement.
Jane Parker had seen her landlady standing primly on the porch, but didn’t notice the little girl until she opened the door.
“Hello Sra. Caspe,” she said, contriving a smile. She turned to the little Madeline double, searching for a rhetorical comment to make, but was cut off.
“Look,” the landlady used her snippiest tone. “I’ve never had a problem with you before, like I’ve had with the others. I don’t know or care how you get by without your husband around, but you owe me three months’ rent. Three unpaid receipts returned by the bank. You aren’t thinking of leaving, of moving out, are you?”
Jane glanced back over her left shoulder, gauging the gloom, and decided it was sufficient to keep the woman from seeing the plain brown boxes piled in the corner. She noted Gail’s appearance in dusty feetie pajamas and a winter bathrobe, her hair still uncombed and a line of purple magic marker across her cheek.
“Of course not,” Jane said quickly. “I had the bank stop payment … on something … and they seem to have stopped all payments.”
“It’s been three months now.” The landlady directed a stern glance at her granddaughter, and an even sterner glance at Jane’s daughter. Roughly the same age, they were certainly not from the same universe. The thought made Jane snort, which she tried to turn into a pretense of a cough by clearing her perfectly clear throat.
“Yes, and I’m sorry,” Jane said. She opened the door a fraction of an inch to apologize some more, and noticed that there was no longer a scent of urine attached to the woman. She must have had that operation finally, Jane concluded. “I’d invite you in,” she offered, “but Gail’s been running a fever.” She shrugged at the uniformed schoolgirl.
“No, no. We’re expected at a recital,” spat the landlady as she turned on her heel. She took two steps away from the porch and lifted her head ever so slightly back as she said: “There'll be no funny business, then. You’ll get the rent to me.”
“Tomorrow, certainly,” called Jane. “Thursday latest.” She shut the door slowly, watching the landlady lead the offspring of her offspring out of the damp, rented sector and up towards the mini mansion at the top of the road. She tried to picture Gail in that private school uniform and shuddered. Even so, the image of a pony, frilly dresses and expensive bedrooms caught her attention and she quickly determined what tack to take with her own eight year old. Lie, deceive, ignore or admit to fraudulent behavior? Let’s go with ignore, she thought and closed the door.

Mudanza

La casera pisaba con tiento para evitar los charcos de la calle sin asfaltar por donde llevaba la nieta de la mano.
-Ten cuidado de no ensuciar de barro tus zapatos. -dijo. Negros y serios, los zapatos cubrían unos calcetines de lana azul oscuro que alcanzaba cada uno una altura precisa, justo por debajo de la rodilla.
-¿Adónde vamos, abuela? –Nunca antes había acompañado a la anciana a ninguna parte.
-La abuela tiene un recado que hacer en una de sus propiedades. A ver si prestas atención, que te conviene. –Evitó apoyarse en el hombro de la niña al descender las escaleras de hormigón y cruzar el patio hasta la puerta principal. Colocó a la chica a su derecha y llamó dos veces con los nudillos en el cristal, atenta a cualquier movimiento de la cortina detrás de la ventana.

Jane Parker había visto que era la casera quien se erguía remilgadamente en el porche, pero no se había fijado en la chiquilla hasta después de abrir la puerta.
-Hola, Sra. Caspe, -dijo, agenciándose una sonrisa. Se inclinó hacia la pequeña colegiala, preparando algún comentario retórico, pero se le interrumpió.
-Mira, -la casera empleó su tono más fastidioso. –Nunca he tenido los problemas contigo que he tenido con los demás. Ni sé ni me importa cómo te las arreglas sin tu marido, pero me debes tres meses. Tres recibos que me ha devuelto el banco. No estarás pensando en marchar, en dejar la casa, ¿verdad?
Jane echó un vistazo por encima de su hombro izquierdo, tanteando la penumbra, y lo juzgó suficiente para que la mujer no se percatara de las cajas de cartón apiladas en el rincón. Registró la aparición de Gail en su pijama de patucos polvorientos, albornoz de invierno, su pelo aún sin peinar y una línea de rotulador morado trazada en la mejilla.
-Claro que no, -dijo Jane rápidamente. -Ordené al banco parar el pago… de algo… y al parecer han parado todos los pagos.
-Ya son tres meses, -desdeñó la casera, dirigiendo una mirada severa a su nieta y una mirada aún más severa a la hija de Jane. De aproximadamente la misma edad, desde luego no eran del mismo universo. Este pensamiento provocó en Jane un resoplido que procuró convertir en un carraspeo que aclarara su cristalina voz.
-Sí, ya, y lo siento, -dijo Jane. Entornó la puerta unos centímetros para ofrecer alguna disculpa más, y se dio cuenta de que la mujer ya no arrastraba ese olor a orines. Se habría operado por fin, concluyó Jane. –Les invitaría a pasar, -se ofreció, -pero Gail ha tenido fiebre. -Miró a la colegiala uniformada y se encogió de hombros.
-No, no, ni hablar. Nos espera, que hay recital hoy, -espetó la casera al darse media vuelta. Se alejó dos pasos del porche y elevó su cabeza ligeramente hacía atrás al decir: -No habrá jaleo, entonces. Me pagarás el alquiler que me debes.
Seguramente mañana, -respondió Jane. –El jueves a más tardar. –Cerró la puerta lentamente, mirando cómo la casera sacaba la prole de su prole del húmedo sector de arriendo, elevándola hacia la mini mansión a la cima de la calle. Intentó imaginar a Gail en ese uniforme de escuela privada y se estremeció. Aún así, las imágenes de ponis, de vestidos de princesa y dormitorios de lujo le llamó la atención y rápidamente determinó qué rumbo tomar con su propia ochoañera. ¿Mentir, engañar, ignorar o admitir su conducta fraudulenta?
Pues me quedo con ignorar, pensó y cerró la puerta.

(NaNoWriMo 2010)

The Other Kid/La otra hija (NaNo Excerpt)

The Other Kid

My parents fell in love on their first date, and it wasn’t even a date. It was like they were in love before they met, but had to be pushed up together a few times before they realized it. It’s hard for me to imagine them together, and it used to drive me crazy that I hadn’t been born yet, that Tata was already there although she wasn’t even Papa’s kid. I never saw the house that Tata grew up in, even though it was her house for eight years. So I have to imagine a lot of things. I do know some of the furniture because Mom is notorious for keeping things around forever. I grew up with the same red sofa, the same TV stand and the same coffee table as Tata did, just to name a few items.
It is fun to think of them not knowing each other, not knowing that they were the loves of each others’ lives. Of course I’ve heard this story a billion times, Mom repeats it so much that she even wrote it in a story. I only read the story once though, and I never heard Papa’s version. Mom says he never was much of a talker. When I was starting school in K-3 and Papa took me in the morning, we would walk all the way there without saying a word, and he would be surprised when Mom would tell him what a chatterbox I was when she walked me. I don’t think I talk that much, but mothers are like that, aren’t they, always saying things about you that aren’t quite true but that everyone believes because they are the mother, even if you are the person, right there in front of them telling them something entirely different about yourself, but they believe your mother first. So I don’t know how true Mom’s version actually is, but I guess how she remembers it is how she tells it, and it is all in the retelling, isn’t it?
There are a bunch of parts Mom runs right past because she says it’s not something you want to talk about with your kid, or something a kid wants to hear from her mother. I guess she’s right, even though sometimes I would like to know the details. Just to know. But I guess I wouldn’t want to hear Mom talk about it. It would be too weird. It’s weird enough to think about, so I just stick to the romantic parts.
They sat side by side on that same old red couch while Mom heated up the eggplant in the oven. They were talking about some guy that Mom had dated and who was a friend of Papa’s, and Papa was all worried about this friend who I guess was still in love with Mom, even though Mom had forgotten all about him (and Tata says that is true, that she remembers, that he was a dork). When Mom tells the story, she always insists on my listening to what she’s saying, because Women’s Liberation is never over, and I have to pay attention and not let myself get caught up in listening idly to things that could keep me from being harmed psychologically. Yeah, yeah, I always think, but I do pay a little more attention anyway. Mom told Papa again that she and this guy had broken up ages ago, and that whatever the reason he had decided against telling all his friends that they’d broken up, it didn’t alter the truth that he had been out of her life for a long time. Mom told Papa in no uncertain terms that she was the property of no man and she was the only one who could decide whom she would or would not see or date or kiss (once when she was tipsy and telling this story to Tata, I heard her say another word instead of kiss, but she’d be mad if I wrote it down here).
Papa kept insisting that it made him feel kind of funny because he was aware of how much this guy still cared for Mom. Mom says at that point she would have begun to worry that Papa didn’t really like her and was just making excuses, except for the fact that he kept taking her hand in his and squeezing and rubbing it, and that they kept looking into each others’ eyes the whole time they talked, which made her neck a little sore, but it was worth it because there is nothing to compare with looking into someone’s eyes, which you think are beautiful, and seeing the reflection of them looking into your eyes. I always jump in here and say, And thinking your eyes are beautiful!, and Mom always laughs.
There they were on that red couch looking into each others eyes, holding hands and talking when suddenly Mom jumped up because she smelled the eggplant beginning to burn. She ran into the kitchen and pulled the casserole out of the oven – it was no big deal if it burned a bit on top, but she left it out to cool - and they went back to sit on the sofa. As soon as she turned to look in Papa’s eyes again, he leaned over and began kissing her. She was so surprised it took her a minute to react, but then she says she melted into him. When I was little, whenever she said that I used to think of the Wicked Witch of the West: “I’m melting! melting! Oh, what a world! what a world!”.
“Didn’t his beard scratch?” I used to ask, and she would always say, “Oh, no, it was soft as silk. Papa was soft as silk and warm and sweet and gentle and comfy.” Then she would look away from me and say, “and other things that I’m not going to talk to my daughter about, so forget it. But just so you know, the other things were all there.” I was older when she started saying that, and I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but I found out soon enough, and when I got my first real boyfriend, I remember one night he asked me if he was being too rough and I said no, your soft and comfy, and then I couldn’t stop laughing. He got so angry that I had to make myself stop – I mean tears were rolling down my face – and explain the whole story, well not the whole story, but that part about my Papa and Mom and how it had just that instant dawned on me all the things that she had not been saying and what she had meant. God, what a trip parents are sometimes!

Okay, they’d been kissing for a while, and I know this part mostly because I read it and then asked Mom because, of course, Avi is involved so I was curious. It’s funny to read stuff about people you know, before you knew them. Anyway, I asked her why Papa called Avi. Mom said she was on her way to the bathroom, and when Papa asked if he could use her phone she didn’t know what to think. Once she said she thought he was calling his old girlfriend. Another time she said she thought he was calling his friend, the dork who wouldn’t leave Mom alone. But she couldn’t help overhearing while he talked (the house was tiny and the phone was on the wall right outside the bathroom door) and she heard him say: Hello, it’s me… No… I’m fine… You can go to bed now… Thanks… Goodnight.
She sort of sat there in the bathroom wondering what it could possibly mean that he was telling someone they could go to bed now. Or had she heard wrong? Had she heard him tell someone over the phone that it was okay because he was going to bed now? She finally talked herself out of the bathroom and walked right into him as he stood waiting for her in the small hallway. He looked at her and laughed.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “Who is going to bed?”
He laughed again then gave her a big hug.
“That was my father. I told him I might need a ride home, so I was calling to tell him I won’t be needing a ride home. Or will I?” He looked into her eyes and bent to kiss her again.
Don’t you think that’s weird? she sometimes asks me. Yeah, it’s weird, I say. I can’t imagine Avi sitting around waiting to hear from his son, who was on a big date, like he was fifteen years old at a guateque with some kids from school. Weren’t you weirded out? I always ask Mom and she says no. She was so relieved that he hadn’t called anybody’s ex that she forgot about it entirely until the next day, after he’d gone and she was talking with her neighbor.
We never did eat the eggplant, she says. I took it downstairs to Ruth to thank her for all she did for me, and it turned out that Paco hated cheese, so Ruth and I and the girls ended up eating it. Papa made me make it again when I had his family up for a meal, and it turned out his mother hated cheese also. My one great dish and everybody hated it.
Papa didn’t, I say. Papa loved it.
That’s right, Mom says, Papa loved it.

November 2009

La otra hija

Mis padres se enamoraron en su primera cita, que ni siquiera fue una cita propiamente dicho. Es como si se hubiesen enamorado antes de conocerse, y tenían que verse juntados varias veces antes de darse cuenta. Me cuesta imaginarlos juntos. Antes me enloquecía saber que aún no había nacido yo pero que Tata sí que existía, y ni siquiera era hija de Papa. Nunca vi aquella casa, a pesar de que Tata creció en ella, y fue su casa durante ocho años. Así que tengo que imaginarme muchas cosas. Conozco algunos de los muebles porque Mamá es famosa por guardar las cosas eternamente. Yo también crecí con el mismo sofá rojo, el mismo soporte de televisor y la misma mesa de centro que tenía Tata, por nombrar sólo unas pocas piezas.
Me divierte pensar en ellos cuando no se conocían, antes de saber que eran los amores de sus vidas. Claro que he oído la historia cientos de veces, Mamá lo repite tanto que hasta lo escribió como un relato que yo, por cierto, sólo leí una vez. Tampoco oí nunca la versión de Papa. Mamá dice que él nunca fue muy hablador. Cuando empecé el cole en P3 y Papa me llevaba por las mañanas, íbamos andando por todo el camino sin decirnos una sola palabra, y se sorprendió cuando Mamá le contaba lo parlanchina que era yo cuando me acompañaba ella. A mí no me parece que hable tanto, tampoco, pero las madres son así, ¿verdad? Continuamente dicen cosas que no son del todo verdad pero que todo el mundo cree porque ellas son las madres, aunque tú seas la persona que está justo delante de ellos diciéndoles algo completamente distinto sobre ti misma, pero antes creen a tu madre. Así que no sé cuánto tiene de verdad la versión de Mamá, pero supongo que ella lo cuenta según lo recuerda, y lo que cuenta es el relato, ¿o no?
Hay muchos detalles que Mamá se los salta porque dice que no es nada que se quiera conversar con una hija, ni nada que una hija quiera escuchar de su madre. Supongo que tiene razón, aunque a veces quisiera conocer los detalles -sólo por saberlo- pero imagino que tampoco me gustaría escucharle a Mamá hablar de ello, sería demasiado extraño. Bastante raro es pensar en ello, así que me quedo con los trozos románticos.
Se sentaron uno al lado del otro en aquel viejo sofá rojo mientras Mamá calentaba la berenjena parmesana en el horno. Estaban hablando de algún tío con quién Mamá había salido y que era un amigo de Papa, y Papa estaba todo preocupado por ese amigo que, creo, seguía enamorado de Mamá, aunque Mamá ya lo había olvidado hacía tiempo (y Tata dice que es verdad, que ella se acuerda, que era un gilipollas). Cuando Mamá cuenta la historia, siempre insiste en que escuche lo que dice, porque no se acaba nunca la Liberación de la Mujer, y que tengo que prestar atención y no dejarme llevar por la inercia de oír sin escuchar o de ignorar las cosas que podrían ahorrarme algún daño psicológico. Ya, ya, me digo siempre aunque, la verdad, suelo prestarle algo más de atención. Mamá le dijo a Papa sin dejar lugar a dudas que, fuese cual fuese la razón por la cual el tío aquél no quería admitir que habían roto hacía siglos, eso no cambiaba el hecho de que no figuraba en su vida desde hacía mucho tiempo y que, de todas formas, ella no era propiedad de nadie ni de ningún hombre y que ella era la única persona que podría tomar la decisión de con quién salir o no salir, besar o no besar (una vez, cuando estaba algo bebida y contaba esta historia a Tata, la oí decir otra palabra que no era beso, pero si la escribiera aquí ella se enfadaría).
Papa seguía insistiendo en que la situación era incómoda porque sospechaba que ese amigo seguía colado por ella. Mamá dice que entonces hubiese empezado a comerse el coco pensando que en realidad a Papa no le gustaba y que sólo inventaba excusas, si no fuera porque le cogía de la mano y la apretaba y masajeaba, y seguían mirándose a los ojos mientras hablaban, lo cual le dolía un poco sobre todo en los cervicales, pero que merecía la pena porque no había nada que comparase con mirarle a alguien a los ojos – unos ojos preciosos - y ver el reflejo de ellos mirándote a los ojos. Aquí siempre salto yo y digo, “¡a tus ojos preciosos!” y Mamá siempre se ríe.
Allí estaban en aquel sofá rojo, mirándose a los ojos, agarrados de la mano y hablando cuando de repente Mamá pegó un salto porque olía el plato de berenjenas, que empezaba a quemarse. Entró corriendo a la cocina y sacó la cazuela del horno –no pasaba nada por quemarse un poco por encima, pero lo dejó que se enfriara allí- y volvieron a tomar sus asientos en el sofá. En cuanto Mamá se giró para mirar de nuevo a los ojos de Papa, él se inclinó y la empezó a besar. Le sorprendió tanto que tardó unos instantes en reaccionar, pero entonces, dice, se derritió en sus brazos. Cuando era pequeña, siempre que llegaba a esta parte yo solía pensar en la Bruja Malvada del Mago de Oz que decía: “¡Me derrito, me derrito! ¡Oh, qué mundo! ¡qué mundo!”.
“¿No te picaba su barba?” solía preguntarle, y ella siempre respondía, “Oh, no, era tan suave como la seda. Papa era suave como la seda y cálido y dulce y tierno y mullido.” Entonces alejaba la vista y decía sin mirarme, “y otras cosas que no voy a recrear con mi hija así que olvídate. Pero que lo sepas: las otras cosas estaban también.” Ya era más mayor cuando empezaba a añadir eso, y nunca estaba muy segura de lo que quería decir, pero ya me iba enterando, y cuando tuve mi primer novio serio, recuerdo que una noche me preguntó si se estaba pasando de bruto y le dije, “no, eres tierno y mullido”, y luego no podía dejar de reírme. Se enfadó tanto que tuve que calmarme –las lágrimas me empapaban las mejillas- y explicarle toda la historia, bueno, no toda, pero la parte de Papa y Mamá y que había sido en aquel preciso instante que me di cuenta de todas las cosas que no me había contado y lo que había querido decir. Señor, ¡menudos son los padres a veces!

Vale, llevaban un rato besándose. Conozco esta parte sobre todo porque lo leí y luego le pregunté a Mamá porque, claro, está el Avi y sentía curiosidad. Es extraño leer cosas sobre gente que conoces, cosas que pasaron antes de que la conocieras. Bueno, le pregunté porqué Papa llamó al Avi. Mamá dijo que se dirigía al baño y cuando Papá le preguntó si podía hacer una llamada, no sabía qué pensar. Una vez dijo que creyó que llamaba a la ex novia. Otra vez pensó que llamaba a aquel amigo suyo, el gilipollas que no dejaba en paz a Mamá. Pero no pudo evitar escucharlo (la casa era pequeña y el teléfono estaba justo al otro lado de la pared) y lo oyó decir: Hola, soy yo… No… estoy bien… Ves a la cama tranquilo… Gracias… Buenas noches.
Se quedó pensativa en el baño, preguntándose qué podría querer decir el hecho de que le dijera a alguien que podía irse a la cama ahora. ¿O es que había oído mal? ¿Había oído cómo le contaba a alguien que estaba bien porque él se iba a la cama ahora? Al final se animó a salir del baño y fue a dar de bruces con él, que le esperaba en medio del pequeño distribuidor. Le miró y se echó a reír.
“¿Qué?” preguntó. “¿Qué pasa?”
“Nada,” contestó ella. “¿Quién se va a la cama?”
Se rió de nuevo y le estrechó entre sus brazos.
“Era mi padre. Le había dicho que quizás necesitara que me viniese a buscar, y le llamé para decirle que no hace falta. ¿O sí hace falta?” Le miró a los ojos y se inclinó para volver a besarla.
¿No te parece raro? me pregunta a veces. Sí que es raro, le digo. No me imagino al Avi esperando saber de su hijo que había salido para citarse con una chica, como si tuviera quince años y estuviera en un guateque con los chicos del cole. ¿No flipaste? le pregunto siempre a Mamá y me contesta que no. Sentía tanto alivio por el hecho de que no hubiese llamado al ex de nadie que lo olvidó por completo hasta el día siguiente cuando, después de que se hubiese marchado, ella bajó a charlar con la vecina.
Nunca llegamos a probar las berenjenas, dice. Lo llevé abajo a Ruth para agradecerle todo lo que había hecho por mí, y resulta que Paco odia el queso, así que lo acabamos comiendo las niñas, Ruth y yo. Papa insistió en que lo volviera a hacer cuando invitamos a comer a su familia, y resultaba que su madre tampoco soportaba el queso. Mi gran plato de éxito y todo el mundo lo odiaba.
Papa no, digo. A Papa le encantaba.
Claro que sí, dice Mamá. A Papa le encantaba.