V is for Visit my webiste

Ok, yeah, I know, this is a pretty lame blog post and usually I post pieces of my novel. But today has been one of those days. And by way of justification, since we're meeting new bloggers and getting to know each other, our websites are a great way to do that. Right? (nod, I won't be able to see you, but it will make me feel better to think that you agree.)

So if you didn't do that today (and need a break as we're winding down) you can use "website" tomorrow. :-)


There's a link at the top of this blog that will go right to my site.

www.amywilloughbyburle.com

U is for Unsure and Undone

(Excerpt from The Lemonade Year, a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which Nina accepts a dinner invite from her soon to be ex-husband and can't stop thinking about her now ex-boyfriend, Oliver.)

 “Tell me this isn’t better than pizza and a movie,” Jack says across the candle lit table of a reservations only restaurant.

 “Is that what you think it’s like with Oliver?” I ask.

I can’t bring myself to talk about Oliver in the past tense, yet the rings are loose from the vase  and back on my hand. The genie is out of the bottle and it turns out he didn’t have three wishes to grant. All he could offer what some bad advice. Sure, the evil genie had said, accept Jack’s dinner offer. What can it hurt?

“Ok,” Jack concedes. “So, what, he’s the coffee house and book reading type? Does he quote you lines from some dead poet?”

I can’t talk about Oliver with Jack. I can’t talk about him at all. My phone registers a text message and I look to see a note from Carol. Just saw you go into Carmela’s with Jack. What’s up?

I don’t answer. I don’t know what’s up.

“Is that him?” Jack asks. “Are you going to tell him where you are?”

“Is this night about me?” I ask. “Or you and Oliver?”

“What do you want, Nina?” Jack says, waving his hand up in resignation. “Do you want to adopt? Do you want me to do like Ray and get on TV and apologize for hurting you? For ruining your life? What?”

You could wish for a pen, the genie whispers in my ear, sign the papers.

“I don’t want you to concede, Jack,” I say. “I don’t’ know what I want.”

“That’s the problem,” Jack says. “You’re always looking ahead for something that might never come.”

I look up sharply at this comment. The truth of it is a perfectly round flood light in high school play, illuminating the two of us there at the table. In the play, the me character gets up and steps into the darkness like a walking behind a wall the contrast is so sharp.

“You’re right,” I say.

“Of course I am,” Jack says and takes hold of my left hand across the table. “Now let’s put all this behind us and get back to where we were.”

He touches the rings that I’m wearing. A wide crevasse has opened between us but he doesn’t see it. I don’t want to get back to where we were. Suddenly I’m not afraid anymore. This was a mistake. Jack obviously thinks my agreeing to have dinner will result in my agreeing to give this all another try. That will follow into his moving back into the apartment. Putting his clothes back into his side of the closet. Setting his place at the table. Soon he’ll be talking about turning the spare room into an office so that if it comes to it, I can have the option of a home based job, and I’ll ask what are you talking about, and he’ll say that I should be open minded about what sort of work I might find once the publishing house is out of business, and I’ll say, no, what are you talking about the spare room, what spare room?

And the old differences we had will still be there.

He’ll want to box the nursery up and put it away in the storage unit in the basement and all my hope will be in the dark and damp of that forgotten nowhere where people dump old grills and camping equipment and bicycles with flat tires and boxes of things from their childhood that they can’t throw away but really don’t need and when the baby finally get here, how will explain to people that the nursery is in the basement. How will you hear him crying way down there? they will ask.

You can wish for another chance the genie says to me, that’s what they all wish for, really. I’ll see what I can do.

“I can’t do this, Jack,” I say. “I’m sorry to have given you false hope. I’m sorry that I haven’t signed the papers. I will. I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says.

I slip the rings off my finger and place them on the table.

“Thank you for giving these to me,” I say.

“Nina,” Jack says. “We can at least finish dinner.”

“To what end,” I say.

“Is this about Elliot?” Jack says.

“Oliver,” I correct him. “And not really. Good-bye Jack.”

T is for Taken off guard

(Excerpt from The Lemonade Year, a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which Nina, the protagonist, is saying goodbye to her new boyfriend when her ex-husband happens upon them both.)

Out on the street we determine that our cars are in opposite directions and that I need to go back to my office to pick up some “homework” so we stop on the sidewalk to say out goodbyes. I have the urge to invite him over for the evening, but fight it off. This will do for today.

“I like this,” I say and move a bit closer to Oliver.

He puts his arms around me and kisses my forehead. I see someone approaching us and realize that it’s Jack. I pull away quickly and Oliver seems confused.

“Nina,” Jack says in greeting to me, but looking at Oliver.

I know him well enough to know that he’s taken off guard, but he’s a good showman.

“Oliver,” I say and take hold of his hand, mad at myself for having pulled away. “This is Jack.”

Jack shoots his hand out for Oliver to shake, forcing him to release mine. Oliver does so and then puts his arm around me. A bubble seems to form around the three of us, some bizarre snow globe effect of three people on the street, caught in an inescapable moment. I imagine us each miming our hands around the inside of the glass, feeling for a way out.

 “Oliver,” Jack repeats. “Nina has mentioned you. You’ll have to forgive my surprise at being face to face with you.”

“Likewise,” Oliver says casually and I love that Jack’s desired effect on him isn’t taking.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” I question without regard to couth.

“Nice to see you too,” Jack says with a curt little laugh. “I was just on my way to an appointment. What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

Jack looks around him and up at the building.

“Still?” he asks and looks around like he’s finding himself somewhere he didn’t mean to be. “Working late?”

“No, just coming back from dinner. Anyway,” I say. “Interesting running into you. We really have to get going.”

“Recess over?” Jack says and tries to level Oliver with the jab.

 “Good one,” Oliver says and gives Jack a playful slap on the arm. “Nina,” Oliver says and pulls me to him, kisses me like he would without Jack there. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns back to Jack and offers a handshake again. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Take it easy.”

Oliver winks at me and walks off.  Jack stands his ground saying nothing more until Oliver is out of earshot. Before Oliver disappears into the crowd on the street I see him glance back at us.

“Nina,” Jack says in some sort of condescension that he can’t seem to control. “Are you kidding?  He’s a child.”

“And you’re an asshole,” I say and turn to go into the safety of my office building.

Jack reaches out and catches me by the arm. I stop and turn back to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That whole deal there. I was caught off guard. I actually came this way on purpose. I wanted to see you.”

“What about the whole ‘oh yeah you work here’ bit?” I say and shake free from him.

“Total crock,” he says. “I just didn’t expect to see you with someone. I didn’t think you were serious when you said you were with some guy.”

“Oliver.”

“Whoever.”

“Oliver,” I say again.

The city is busy around us. Tourists, business people and local hippie types walk the same paths. Smells waft from local eateries and the chime chime of store doors opening and closing sounds around us.

“Can I take you to dinner?” Jack asks.

“We already ate,” I say. I look at my watch and pretend that I’m late and need to go inside.

“Coffee?” Jack says, not giving in.

“It’s a little too late.”

“For coffee?” Jack says. “Get decaf.”

“For this,” I say, losing patience. “We’ve already hired lawyers and drawn up papers.”

“That you haven’t signed,” he says.

“Yet,” I say.

“Come on,” Jack says. “You can’t be serious about this guy. I get it. You’re sad, or mad. At me. The world. Your father passed. I wasn’t there for you. You’re searching for some new Nina and this kid fits your need for something new right now.”

“Don’t tell me why I do what I do, or feel what I feel,” I say, suddenly angry and exposed. “Don’t pretend that you’ve had a change of heart. I know you want out and this is all just a slap to your ego.”

 “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Nina,” he says. “I’m just stating the truth here. Am I wrong?”

I don’t answer and I know that Jack is taking that as proof of his point. He reaches out to me again and I step back from him. He likes this. This is what he’s good at. I know any response will be met with a biting remark and I’m suddenly much too unhinged at the moment to try and win.

S is for Stay

(Excerpt from The Lemonade Year a finished novel seeking representation.)
Nina, the protagonist, is at the house of her new and younger lover. If you've read earlier scenes, this is before she takes off her wedding rings--the last remains of her defunct marriage.

 

 

We stay in his bed long past dark, having made our way out of our clothes and under the covers. Afterwards, he slips out of the room and returns with two dark beers and two white boxes of leftover Chinese food.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed.  “This is all I have.”

I sit up beside him, pulling the sheets comfortably around me.

“I’m starving,” I say and take a beer and a box. “It’s perfect.”

“I’ll do better in the morning,” he says and looks at me apologetically. “I really am a good cook. I’ve got the makings for some kick as crepes. Seriously. Give me a shot.”

I mull it over—the morning. We eat, sharing his kung pow chicken and my beef and broccoli. He moves in to kiss me and I pull away.

“I have kung pow broccoli breath,” I say and cover my mouth.

He laughs out loud. Being with him is easy.

“So do I,” he says and kisses me anyway.

He steals away again and brings back too more bottles of good beer. We sit up, under his covers, and talk. I tell him about Ray and Lola—the easy parts for now. About work and Mom. More details about the lemonade book.

“I won’t touch your lemons from now on,” he says and laughs. “I promise.”

“I might be a lemon,” I say. “You sure you want this?”

“Are you?” Oliver asks, taking my hand and twisting my wedding ring around between his fingers. “If you think there’s a chance to work it out. I won’t get in the way. Much.”

He winks at me. I had told Oliver about the divorce that first night. Not all the details, just the legal facts. Irreconcilable differences. Oliver hadn’t asked what they were.

 “What about you?” I ask, Oliver, deflecting as usual. “What pretty young thing am I competing with here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says by way of answer.

 “Those girls you work with look pretty perky,” I say and look under the sheet—making a face at what I see.

“Well,” Oliver says and puts on a mock face of concern. “Let me take another look. Maybe I’m wrong here.”

He reaches over to pull the sheet away from my body and I try to fight him off. I lose. He smiles at what he sees and winks at me. The conversation is silly and ridiculous and most importantly, not at all about anything. It’s easy to escape here. Maybe too easy. I could pull out of the world like the flicker of a firefly—here and gone, here and gone, till the gone is all that’s left.

“Stay with me this time,” he says, then, as if afraid to allow time for the answer he doesn’t want, he keeps me from speaking with his lips on mine.

 

 

***

I stay.

R is for Ray

(Excerpt from The Lemonade Year, a finished novel seeking representation.  A scene in which the protagonist, Nina, remembers her brother during their teenage years)

 Ray was eighteen and determined to begin his descent into self-destruction. He came home that winter with a tattoo of the devil on his shoulder, fire shooting from the face and running down the length of Ray’s arm. Mom cried; Dad asked if it was real and then simply shook his head and went back to the newspaper when Ray answered yes. I asked if it hurt, for lack of knowing what else to say.

“Not enough,” Ray had said.

Lola ran her hand across it like she was touching something beautiful and delicate. She kissed the devil on his fire breathing mouth. Ray looked at her, his face hard and jaw clenched, but for one moment something pained and yet relieved flickered in his eyes. Later, Lola sketched a replica of the tattoo and hung it in her room.

By the time Lola attended the same college Ray had gone too, his arms were covered and his eyes were empty. He dropped out before he finished, got arrested a number of times and spent more nights in jail that he had spent days in class.

He came to visit Lola at school a few times. She had insisted on going as they had a great art program. It was difficult for her to get through the first two years of basic classes and she didn’t get terrific grade, but just like high school before that, she muddled through. She takes a lot of notes and pays perfect attention so that she can recall as much as possible. I think level of focus and detail is part of what makes her such a wonderful painter. She see everything. Nothing escapes her notice. When she calls it back up, it may be a bit skewed but that just lends itself to her unique perspective.

When Ray would visit her, she would call me, two states over where I was in school. I wanted to see Ray, but I used the distance as an excuse not to. I was afraid to see what he had become.

I remember one of the first times Ray stormed out of the house leaving the rest of us to wonder if he’d be back.  I remember Dad sitting on the floor outside Ray’s room. I was watching Dad through a compact mirror held out around the corner. I could see him in the little circle of silver, he was whispering. He made the sign of the cross. We hadn’t been in church in years. I looked at my Hello Kitty clock. It was three in the morning. I heard Ray’s car in the driveway and Dad jumped to his feet. Now there were just legs in the mirror, they started back down the hall to my parent’s room, and then they returned.

The car door shut. The front door opened. I saw legs turn in a circle of indecision. I tilted the mirror up, and could see hands ball into a fist, then relax. I heard the whispering again and tilted the mirror back to his legs so that I wouldn’t see his hands cross over his chest in desperation and prayer again because it scared me.

I heard Ray walking down the hall. His footsteps were loud and heavy like he could break the house down one step at a time. I saw his legs stop beside Dad’s and I tilted the mirror up, up, trying to find their faces. Dad reached out to Ray, tried to put his hand on Ray’s arm. Ray jerked away.

“You’re drunk,” Dad had said.

“I’m back,” Ray had said, spitting the words out. “So don’t give me a hard time.”

“Give me the keys,” Dad said, making his voice as angry as his fear would let him.

“They’re on the kitchen table,” Ray said and his hand reached for the doorknob.

“Apologize to your mother in the morning,” Dad said.

“Why,” Ray asked, “she doesn’t even know I was gone.”

Ray opened the door and disappeared. I tilted the mirror up again and could see the side of Dad’s face. There was no sound but his lips were moving, then he slid out of view. I moved the mirror around looking for him. Down, to the left, down and over. He was sitting on the floor beside the door to Ray’s room with his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking.

Q is for Quiet Decisions

(excerpt from The Lemonade Year,  a finished novel seeking representation. Nina has been reluctant to take off her wedding rings, even though the divorce papers sit on her kitchen table, even though she's met someone new (Oliver), even though her husband, Jack, has moved out.)

While Oliver eats and looks at the paper, I hide my hands under the table and toy with the gold on my hand. I slip the rings off and there is an internal whoosh of letting go. But it’s not just Jack and it’s not entirely a good whoosh. I feel the rushing away of everything I thought would be. Everything I hoped for. Pulling the rings off is like tossing my map out the window. Facing some unmarked road to who knows where.

What if I had to introduce myself to someone. I would have no qualifiers to attach to my name. Hi I’m Nina, I’m Jack’s wife, mother of three, we just bought a place out in the country. The kids can’t wait to get a dog. We never let them have one in that little city apartment, but our family just got so big that we needed more space. You should come out and visit. I’ll give you a tour of the garden. You should see it. The previous owners have really set us up as far as beautiful landscaping goes.

None of that was going to happen without those rings on. Maybe none of it was going to happen anyway. But without them, I wasn’t sure what to say. Hi I’m Nina. I take photos of food for a living. That’s pretty much it. Sorry. You always feel the need to apologize to strangers when your life doesn’t work out the way you planned.

“You ok over there?” Oliver asks, the paper on the table, his eyes on me.

“Yeah,” I say.

Under the table I put the wedding set on the right hand pointer finger. It doesn’t fit that finger, of course. So when I look down at it, it just looks like a couple of rings that don’t belong on my hand. The rings must belong to somebody, but just not me. How did I end up with these rings stuck at the knuckle of my right hand?  I feel like a person who took a wrong turn a hundred miles back and is just now realizing the mistake, but is so far into the journey that she doesn’t want to tell the other passengers that they’re going the wrong way.

I put the rings on the kitchen table. I don’t still want the marriage. I wanted the possibilities. But what I thought was possible, may not be. I’m exchanging one set of hope for another. It could be futile, but what else is there to do but go from here. I feel safe here.

“Are you sure about that?” Oliver asks.

I wonder if I’m making a different statement to him that I am to myself. He must see the removal of the rings as our official beginning. I suppose it is. The last step in one direction logically begets the first step in another.

“I’m sure,” I say. “Although it seems strange for them just to sit there while we eat.”

He nods and picks them up. He walks a few steps away into the living room area and drops the rings into a blue pottery vase sitting on the coffee table.

“There,” he says. “If you change your mind, you know where they are.”

He says it like it’s an option I’m allowed to take up. This is youth talking. I wonder how long it will take those rings to burn a hole in the bottom of that vase.

“Now,” he says joining me back at the table. “I just have to make sure you don’t.”

P is for Pause

Please pardon this pause in my story, partly due to laziness, partly due to pregnancy, partly due to getting the day out of the house to enjoy a pastry and write more pages on my new novel. I will pick back up tomorrow. I promise.