by J J Hebert
Still no greeting from anyone, not even Leigh.
I stand still for about a minute, waiting for someone, anyone, most desirably Leigh, to walk up to me and say hello or offer some sort of direction as to what course they would like for me to head in. But waiting gets old quickly. I walk out of the entranceway and eventually wind up in the kitchen, where I see Leigh’s mother wearing an apron on her stick-thin body. A skeleton with hair, she’s stirring two pots over the stove, alternating between them. I should’ve known she’d be in here. The turkey aroma should’ve given it away.
I stop behind her and see what she’s stirring, stuffing and gravy. “Hello,” I say politely, energetically.
Leigh’s mother turns toward me, her face unresponsive. “Oh. Hello.” She speaks in a listless tone.
I extend the pie toward her. “Where would you like me to put this?”
She doesn’t answer, only shoots her hand at me. I set the pie in her palm and she tosses it on the counter behind a pile of other desserts, treats that have obviously been made from scratch: lemon meringue pie, strawberry shortcake, and many more.
“Leigh’s still getting ready,” she says, turning back to her pots, fully focused on them. “Go have a seat in the living room.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I say, feeling mistreated but trying to remain respectful. I start toward the living room, as requested. That woman/Grim Reaper is freezing cold, and I think: How can she be Leigh’s mother? The two are complete opposites.
I sit in the infamous loveseat. This house feels cloaked in a dark cloud of negativity. I can sense Leigh’s mother seething in the kitchen because I’m here. An assumption? Perhaps. But her actions of a minute ago certainly back up the initial notion; she wasn’t the least bit friendly to me out in the kitchen, and she seemed genuinely unhappy, so I can’t be too far off about her being angry about my presence. Hopefully she doesn’t own a scythe. I wonder if she or her husband wanted me here for Thanksgiving, or if it was totally Leigh’s doing. The latter sounds about right. If it was Leigh’s parents’ way, they’d rather not open their home to a person who cleans a school.
I feel below these people, like some sort of subhuman who lives in an underground society and is here on the surface, visiting. I want to go home. I don’t belong here.
Leigh steps into the room, smiling, wearing baggy dress pants and a blouse. Her hair has been straightened, and she’s wearing cherry red lipstick.
“James,” she squeaks, “I missed you!” She practically jumps onto the loveseat, providing a whiff of her perfume—fruit. She gives me a bear hug, slips her hand into mine, and says, “Sorry for the wait. I wanted to be ready for when you got here, but I couldn’t figure out what to wear.”
I smile, looking her up and down. “You definitely made a good choice. You look beautiful.”
She grins, then gives me a peck on the lips. “I’m so happy to see you.” Her face is half a foot from mine. “It feels like it’s been so long.”
“Ditto that.” I initiate another hug, and we don’t let go for two minutes.
“Oh, before I forget . . .” She pulls away gradually, but makes sure to grab my hand. “I meant to ask you last night whether or not you heard anything from those agents, but I was too busy blabbering on about myself. Sorry about that.”
My heart drops to my feet. That’s the last thing I want to talk about. I imagine her face if I were to tell her about the rejections; her eyes would squint, she’d purse her lips, and she’d laugh, pointing a finger at me, the loser. Then she’d tell me to get out of her house, her life, because she doesn’t date losers, only winners.
“Hello? James?” She waves a hand over my face, snaps her fingers. “Did you hear what I asked you?” She tilts her head, rubbing the palm of my hand with a thumb. “Are you okay? Is there something you want to tell me?”
What, that I’m a loser? “Uh, I’m not sure.” I shrug.
“James.” Leigh’s voice rises as she says my name, reminding me of my mother, the way she used to say it when I had done something wrong or when I wasn’t listening.
“Leigh, how much do you like me?” I stare into her eyes.
“A lot.” She smiles. “Now tell me . . . You heard from them, didn’t you?”
I can’t lie to her. My voice wavers. “Yes. I heard from them.” I look down at the carpet.
“Good or bad news?” she asks softly.
“Bad.” I look up at her, think oh, screw it, and spit out the rest, “They rejected me. Each of ’em. Twenty total.”
Amazingly, Leigh says, “Don’t let those people bring you down. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
Leigh hugs me again, whispers into my ear, “I’m here for you.”
I wonder if she’s lying, if it’s only a matter of time until she says good riddance. She’s probably just trying to be nice, or maybe she does actually like me, though I don’t know why she would.
Leigh pats my back and, hands still interlocked, she says, “You should read me some of your novel sometime. I bet it’s amazing.”
I back up my work every time I write by sending the Word file to my e-mail address. I’m ritualistic about this, obsessive-compulsive. So I respond, “That could be arranged.” I feel like I need to prove my writing skills to her. I just hope that I don’t inadvertently prove that I’m one of the worst writers who ever lived.
“You wouldn’t mind sharing?” Leigh asks.
Actually, I’m petrified of sharing; I wish I could retract my offer, but my rewrite is decent, I think, and maybe that would impress her. “How long do we have before dinner?”
She glances at her wristwatch. “An hour or more.”
“Do you have a computer nearby that we could use?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“With the Internet?”
“Yes. Now tell me what you’re up to.” Her voice edges toward excitement.
“Bring me to the computer and I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I download the file of The Forsaken World onto her laptop. Leigh sits on her bed. I open the file, readying myself to read at the desk that sits directly across from her bed. I turn in the chair to see Leigh smiling. I ask, “Are you ready?” My heart’s banging so loudly I bet she can hear it.
“Of course. What are you waiting for?”
I release a titter. “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be.” She leans forward and borrows a phrase from our earlier days. “I like you, and that should be all that matters.” She winks.
I smile, appreciating the continuity, then turn to the laptop. I stare at the copy, silent, experiencing an adrenaline rush, like I could lift a car.
I start to read chapter one. Initially, my voice cracks due to nerves or maybe late-blooming puberty, but then, once I get to the second paragraph, it levels out and I start to feel comfortable with sharing my work with Leigh. I read and read. I hear her laugh at the funny parts, sniff at the sad scenes. She must be enjoying my story; she hasn’t left the room yet, revolted.
Leigh interrupts. “You really wrote this?”
I turn to her. “Yeah.” I give the duh tone, like Arthur.
“I didn’t realize how good you were.” She beams. “Please, read more.”
I grin, then twist away from her and back to the laptop. I read where I left off—the scene in which a person is murdered and the murderer, Dreco, hatches a plan to cover it up. I read Dreco’s part convincingly, husky voice and all. I read for twenty minutes—the dialogue, narrative, monologue, thoughts, everything in character. I sweat during an intense paragraph on page twenty-one, feel sympathy for the murderer’s victims, and for the murderer. On page twenty-four, I stop and look to Leigh. Her eyes are wet. Her face brightens. She says, “You’re incredible.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling like a winner, a real champion. “It’s a little rough, I guess, but it gives you a decent idea of my writing style.”
“Rough?” She blows out air. “It was amazing . .
.”
“I hope the agents feel that way,” I say. “Of course, I’ll have it edited before I send it their way again.”
Leigh gets up from the bed and stands in front of me. She says, “They’ll love it. It’s so real. So genuine.”
“You think so? But they still might think that—”
She sets her hand on my shoulder. “James, they’ll love it. Got it?”
“I don’t know. They could decide to be—”
“Shhhh.” She wraps her arms around me, whispers into my ear, “I believe in you.”
* * *
I’m officially a fish out of water, like Michael Jordan trying to play baseball. I’m surrounded by Leigh’s family at the dinner table, and I haven’t spoken a word for at least twenty minutes because I don’t know when or how to jump into the conversation; Leigh’s father, aunt, and uncle have been going on and on about politics, poking fun at the Democrats. Kerry came up, I believe, as did Gore. I’m not the only one staying out of the conversation, though. Leigh hasn’t said anything and neither has her mother—who’s been poking at her meal—or Leigh’s teenage brother, Erick.
I take my time with the meal, turkey and stuffing and potatoes smothered with gravy, and Leigh holds one of my hands under the table; she’s sitting on my left, chewing quietly. I don’t know anything about politics, so the words coming from their mouths might as well be in a different language. I tune out their gibberish and try to enjoy the food, despite my desire to get up from this table, bringing my girlfriend along, to go somewhere else. Leigh could show me pictures of her trip, and expound upon the vacation, or she and I could discuss my writing in more depth. Heck, we could do both, if we were to have enough time.
I glance at Leigh’s mother at the other end of the table as she plays with her food, her gloomy eyes aimed at the plate. I shift my focus to Leigh, who takes another bite of turkey, then I eye her dismal mother again, which is when I realize something big: Leigh’s mother has body issues and she’s been projecting them onto Leigh from the start, through fat jokes and other demeaning ways. I watch Leigh’s mother set her fork on her plate, leaving large amounts of food untouched, and this hits me like a cudgel as I look at her anorexic frame: She fears that her daughter will become fat, since to the Food Poker, obesity is about as evil as Satan himself.
So, I think that when she makes fun of her daughter’s eating habits, it isn’t done out of hatred for Leigh; rather, I think the poking fun is done partly out of love, as warped as that is—because in the end, who wants their child to be involved with evil?—and partly out of jealousy—because Leigh has curves and yet still chooses to eat.
Leigh’s mother finally makes eye contact from her end of the table, and I quickly look away, down at my own plate. I suppose I could’ve been more subtle. As I pretend to ponder the last bite of turkey on my plate, I think of Leigh and her mother, and I feel a seed of sadness being planted deep within my heart for the both of them, for the fact that Leigh’s mother’s eating disorder has obviously been ignored, and for the fact that Leigh has had to deal with the consequences for so long.
I’m beginning to loathe this dinner. I feel like I can’t talk to my girlfriend because I may interrupt this political discussion yanked straight from CNN. I didn’t come here to sit in silence for what seems like hours. I should’ve pretended to be sick; that would’ve kept me out of this droning situation. But then again, if I had played ill, I wouldn’t have been able to read my work to Leigh when I did and I wouldn’t have been able to hear those four beautiful words: I believe in you.
“James . . .”
I look up from my plate. Leigh’s father is staring at me from his wife’s side; he was the one who uttered my name.
“We haven’t heard much from you this evening,” he says. “What are your thoughts on voting?”
The question strikes me like a hurled rock. I collect my thoughts and say, “I’m not sure how to answer that.” It’s like someone cracked open my skull and punched my brain.
He rears back. “You don’t know where you stand on voting?” His tone is stentorian.
“What do you think about it, sir?” I ask.
“I think voting is our duty as citizens of this country,” he says, pointing at me, his voice edging toward rage. Bleach his hair white, give him a goatee and a top hat, and who do we have? Uncle Sam himself.
Leigh’s uncle (no top hat covering his head) jumps in. “James, you don’t have an opinion on this?”
They’re challenging me. I have to say something. “I don’t vote,” I say.
Leigh’s mother rolls her eyes, and her brother simpers, as do the rest, excluding Leigh, of course.
“So you’re lazy . . .” Leigh’s father says sharply.
I’m tired of being quiet. “Sir, with all due respect, just because I don’t vote, that doesn’t make me lazy.”
He points at me, his face tightening. “Then why don’t you vote?”
“To make a statement,” I say.
The energy at the table turns belligerent. He asks, “What kind of statement?”
“A valid political statement,” I say.
“How can you make a valid political statement by choosing not to vote?” Leigh’s aunt joins in the fray.
I say, “Not voting makes a statement about our entire political system.”
Leigh’s father shows flared nostrils. “And how so?”
“The idea is this: I will not be subjugated to corrupt politicians.”
Leigh’s mother strikes. “A political statement from you won’t make a difference.”
Concurrence ripples over the table. Leigh is still holding my hand, silent, shaking slightly. I say, “So you’re saying that one person can’t make a difference in this political system?”
This causes everyone at the table to stop and think. Silence settles in.
“I’d like for you to leave, James.” Leigh’s father speaks firmly.
“Daddy, what are you—”
His tone is wrathful. “I said I’d like him to leave!”
Her eyes are wide and rounded with fear as if she’s about to be spanked. She continues in a meek manner. “I think what James said makes sense, Daddy.”
His nose creases. “You’re letting this boy control your mind.” He points his finger at her. “What are you thinking? We raised you better than this . . . and we love you! Now come to your senses. He’s a—a—janitor!”
I stand, the last part of his statement triggering repressed rage. “My work doesn’t define me, sir!” I say loudly, hands trembling.
Leigh stands with me. Her voice dithers as she says, “He’s a great writer. I’ve read his stuff, Daddy.”
He throws his arms up. “Don’t you see, he’s not going anywhere with his writing. No one’s going to take him seriously.”
I raise a hand. “Well, thanks for dinner, and sorry we don’t see eye to eye.” I walk to the other side of the table and tell Leigh’s aunt and uncle that it was nice meeting them. They nod, avoiding eye contact. Leigh looks like a lost little girl; she trails me.
“Show your boyfriend to the door,” her father orders.
She walks in front of me, leads me to the front door. Then she throws a coat on, as I do, and we step outside. We stand on the top step, face-to-face, dead leaves falling around us.
I want to crumble. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what just happened. I wanted my visit to go well. Oh, girl, I’m so sorry.” I slap a hand on my forehead.
“Don’t be,” she says, grabbing my hand, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You spoke your mind.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No one ever talks to Daddy like that,” she says. “Why would I be mad at you?” She smiles. “I liked it.”
“You did?” I’m shocked.
Her head waggles. “You made a good point about voting.”
“A lot of good that did,” I say. “Now everyone hates me. I won’t be able to come back here.”
She s
hrugs. “Then I’ll come to you. Every weekend.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I spent the bulk of my work night thinking about last night’s horrible dinner and now, sitting at my laptop, I laugh. Wasn’t it supposed to be Thanksgiving? A time to be thankful? Anyhow, my anger is currently under control. It helps that Leigh is behind me one hundred percent. I’m enthralled by her support. I think Leigh has been waiting for a long time to stand up to her dad, and last night she did, not in an enormous fashion, but enough to get a taste. She needs so very badly to be liberated. Maybe I can help her with that. Lead the way, in a sense.
I receive an e-mail from Mitch. According to him, he contacted the former head of the creative writing program at the University of New Hampshire and she, Barbara Johnson, would be happy to read a sample of my novel. She’ll be going on sabbatical next week for a year or so, Mitch paraphrases, and she’ll be unreachable during that period of time, but she’d be glad to speak with me and provide her opinion of my novel. She has time open this Wednesday evening, and I should e-mail her a sample of my writing (the first three reworked chapters) prior to our meeting.
I didn’t know Mitch had this planned. He’s always full of tricks. I guess it would be nice to get some advice from a former professor of writing. She may be able to teach me a thing or two. Or she may shove the creative writing course down my throat, as instructed by Mitch; I know he would love to have me take classes at his old college. Despite his motto of unconventionality, college is one piece of the conventional that he embraces.
Two things are for certain: I’ll have to ask Dad for Wednesday night off from work and I’ll need to polish up the first three chapters of my rewrite before I send it to Barbara for a critique.
