“No one will know. Except you, your fling mate and hopefully me.”
“A fling. Hmmm.”
“Sorry. Gotta go. Bart Junior just spilled his orange juice on Snowflake again. What was I thinking, having kids and an angora cat in one household?”
Laurie ended the call. If all had gone to plan, she might have a child of her own by now. Instead she was sitting in a room alone, in the backwoods mountains, contemplating sex with a stranger. Which, to be honest, was a bit thrilling.
You’re what?
She could practically hear her late grandmother’s voice in her head. Come to think of it, Bella Mae Jenkins would skip the question and probably power wash Laurie with holy water. She’d been ninety-three at the time of her death three years ago, and lived in Swainsboro all of her life. Women of her generation never thought about flings. (Or if they did, they probably recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over to scrub their brains of lewd thoughts.) They mostly certainly didn’t think about flings when they were widows, and their husbands had only been dead for a year.
Widow.
Laurie still couldn’t believe the word applied to her. She, who up until her husband’s funeral, didn’t own a single thread of black clothing. She, who was only twenty-two when she watched dirt being thrown on Jake’s grave.
Widows had gnarled fingers and rheumy eyes and were generally ornery. Don’t cut through the Widow Lee’s yard. She’ll throw pinecones at you.
They were expected to maintain a certain decorum: Laugh infrequently and not too loudly. Always wear a pained expression when saying your late husband’s name. Listen patiently when people talk about his football triumph stories over and over.
Those expectations were ten-fold in a small town like Swainsboro. It was one of the reasons she needed to get away for a while.
Yes, she was a widow, and for the first few months after Jake’s death, she behaved like one. She lost ten pounds, rarely smiled and had zero carnal needs. But, in recent months, she’d been plagued by sexy thoughts, and those erotic novels she’d recently been reading caused them to multiply like fruit flies. Jake was buried in the cold soil, but her sexual drive had not been buried with him.
She glanced at her phone. Time for supper, thank goodness. Laurie changed into her most cheerful outfit, a hot-pink top, Capri pants and strappy sandals, and then left her duplex to head to the main house on the colony grounds. The sandals weren’t the wisest choice because the dirt path was strewn with sharp stones that stabbed at her feet through her thin soles. She picked the sandals to show off her toes painted in “That’s Berry Daring,” but now she wished she’d worn more practical shoes. The closer she got to the house, the more her stomach grumbled. A yellow Victorian loomed ahead, and upon entry, she followed the food aroma down a hallway to a large dining room.
Her heels made a terrific clatter on the hardwood floor, and it seemed as if dozens of eyes (mostly bespectacled ones) were checking her out. She was used to being stared at, especially by men, but this staring wasn’t lustful. She suspected everyone was looking at because her clothes were so loud they could wake the dead. If the colony director sent out a memo about dressing in gloomy attire only, Laurie didn’t get it.
About thirty writers filled the dining room. They looked terribly serious. So different from the romance writers she’d met.
When she first decided she wanted to be a writer, she attended a conference for pre-pubbed romance writers in Savannah called Moonlight and Mink. The attendees wore bright colors like fuchsia and purple, and she remembered thinking, these are my people. On the last night when a Fabio lookalike gave out the coveted Pink Heart Award, the room was filled with more sequins and feathers than in a line of Las Vegas showgirls.
But colony writers were a different breed and probably wrote books as bleak as their attire. A couple of years ago Laurie belonged to a book club, led by her future sister-in-law, Kate, who was a high school English teacher. The women chose boring books and conducted in-depth conversations about motifs and symbolism. She didn’t last a month.
Afterward Laurie started her own book club called Well Red, and the women drank Cupcake cabernet and barely discussed the novel, which was always a lighthearted beach read.
She was tempted to leave the dining room—intellectual types intimidated her. In their company she always felt a little too blonde and big-breasted.
But she reminded herself she’d won a scholarship to the colony. They only gave out one, which meant the colony staff thought her work was better than anyone else’s. She might be dressed like a flamingo, but she was a writer and belonged at the colony.
Laurie filed through the buffet line and heaped her tray with rib-sticking Southern eats: fried chicken, mac and cheese, cathead biscuits and a mess of turnip greens. Laurie was not one of those Southern women who picked at their grains of food like malnourished chickadees; she had the appetite of a Saint Bernard. Luckily, she was such a fidgety person she usually burned off the calories.
The room contained a collection of large picnic-style tables, and she plunked down on the end, several feet from the nearest person. Laurie doubted she’d be by herself for long. Some bold male was bound to sit next to her and start flirting.
Normally she would already have a prepared reply to discourage would-be suitors, but not tonight. Delilah had a point. Who would know if she decided to coax one of these writers into her bed? As they said in creative circles, she needed to refill the well, literally. (The thought simultaneously embarrassed and titillated her.)
A writers’ colony was the perfect place for well-filling. There was little danger of emotional attachments. It’d be a meeting of bodies and sexual appetites, not hearts, souls and emotions. All in the name of research, she thought.
She glanced about and didn’t yet see anyone who immediately interested her. Most of the men were a little scruffy-looking. Laurie was attracted to broad-shouldered clean-cut guys who wore button-down shirts and khakis and said, “Yes, ma’am” and “no ma’am.” Guys who went to church with their mothers, drove new Chevy pick-up trucks and smelled like Irish Spring and...
Stop it, she thought. There wasn’t a guy like that here or anywhere else. That guy was gone forever. She shook the image of Jake from her head. Sad thoughts had a way of smothering sexy thoughts.
Minutes passed and oddly no one, male or female, sat with her. She dined by herself, and eavesdropped on conversations among the writers in the dining hall. None of the topics of discussion made sense to her. The intellectual appropriation of poetry? Pedagogical tools? Maximalism? It was as if they were speaking a different language. When they discussed their favorite authors, none were familiar: Jonathan Franzen, Karen Russell, and David Foster somebody. Occasionally she noticed both the men and women sneaking glances at her as if she were some weird attraction. She ate as quickly as possible, and vowed that, from now on, she’d request meal delivery.
Back in her cottage, she tried to write again but made little progress and was getting discouraged. She heard stirrings outside and looked out the window. Her duplex mate, a shaggy-haired male, was on the patio eating what looked like a peanut butter sandwich. He hadn’t bothered to cut the sandwich in half, and the bread looked so cheap even ducks would turn up their beaks.
Drizzle fell but her neighbor didn’t move from his spot. His hair flopped into his face as he ate, and he kept touching the bridge of his glasses, which were reinforced with electrical tape. He looked as if he was thinking extremely deep and complicated thoughts, but there was an air of sadness about him. Was he plotting a novel out there? If so, she suspected it was a tragedy.
Laurie’s writing was still stalled, and she was as jittery as a June bug from all the solitude and quiet. For amusement she’d been spying on her neighbor. He always ate his dinner on the patio, which made her wonder if the smarty pants in the dining room intimidated him as
well.
“He’s out there now.” Laurie was talking to Delilah on her cell phone. She’d been reporting on her neighbor for a couple of days now. “Eating that sad little dinner of his. He’s actually very cute, in sort of a downtrodden way.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Trot on out there and flirt.” Laurie could tell that Delilah was enjoying this immensely.
“I’ve tried that already. He’s skittish. As soon as I step out, he flees, but not too fast. He limps.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. The colony director sent out a flyer with everyone’s bio on it, but I misplaced it.”
“Have you tried hiding out there before he comes out, and then springing yourself on him?”
“Way ahead of you. Did that last night. Still went scuttling back inside.”
“Sounds like he’s going to be a challenge.”
Good, Laurie thought. She thrilled to a challenge; most men were such pushovers. And her neighbor was perfect for her purposes. He was cute and convenient, both very important factors when contemplating a fling.
“Is it time for damsel-in-distress?” Delilah said.
Laurie gasped. “I love damsel-in-distress! I’ll get right on it.”
She hung up the phone. Plotting a fling was such fun.
Five
Aaron should have been working on his next novel—that’s what you were supposed to do at a writers’ colony—but instead he’d spent the last few minutes writing an Amazon customer review for the latest Francis Zenn novel.
“Misanthropic with a dizzying lack of originality” June 12, 2016
By A Reader of Discernment—(See All My Reviews)
Verified Purchase
Bondage is an 800-page tome that follows the travails of the Dixon family, a bourbon-soaked Southern tribe who trace their roots back to the Civil War. This novel is so flawed it’s hard to know where to begin.
Ding!
Aaron eagerly switched screens to check his email. Before he left for the colony, an editor from Wilner, a semi-respectable literary imprint, expressed interest in his novel. He kept hoping to get an update from his agent.
From: Living Social Deals
Subject: Kale Juice Detox Diet
Delete.
He continued his Amazon review: “Characterization is thin and unpalatable.”
Ding!
From: Live and Eat Well
Subject: The Number One Food That Causes Belly Fat
Delete.
“Zenn’s prose is bloated and overwrought….”
Ding!
From: Male Pills 61
Subject: Make your happy stick bigger. Fast, effective penis enlargement
Delete.
“Turgid in some sections, flaccid in others, Bondage is not worth the papyrus it was penned on.”
Aaron hit the send button on the Amazon review, satisfied he’d made a contribution in the name of literary honesty. He was envious of Zenn’s writing career. His publisher was the prestigious Featherstone, and his first two novels received praise so glowing, it was a wonder Zenn’s head wasn’t the size of a minor planet.
Zenn’s second novel, however, was a failure on almost every level, yet it hadn’t received a single negative review. Even the notoriously cranky Kirkus dubbed it “Dickensian and galvanic.” Aaron suspected it was a case of the “Emperor’s New Clothes.” Zenn had become such an icon no one dared to admit he’d written a stinker.
“What’re your thoughts on the matter, Dusty?”
Aaron was addressing Windust—Dusty for short—the puppy he’d rescued from behind the dumpster. The dog cocked his glossy black head and looked up at him, as if soaking up every syllable. Dusty was so attentive Aaron often found himself talking to the dog, even though he realized the animal was limited in its understanding of the King’s English.
Dusty knew the word “hush”—at home, Aaron said it frequently to keep his landlord from discovering the verboten pet—and the word “treat.” Dusty was a fool for a form of fake bacon called Wavy Treats, even though they tasted more like smoked rubber than bacon. (One day Aaron was curious about their appeal and stole a nibble.) Dusty also knew the phrases, “Come to Da,” (Da being Aaron) and “Who wants a tummy scratch?”
Aaron uttered the latter phrase, and Dusty flopped on his back and presented his belly, which was ghostly white in comparison to his black fur.
Shortly after rescuing Dusty from the storm (which quickly petered out into a drizzle), Aaron drove to the Humane Society and discovered they weren’t accepting any more animals that week. Then he called the dog pound to see what would happen to the puppy if he left it in their charge.
“Puppies are usually adopted,” said the woman who answered the phone. “It’s the older dogs that have trouble finding placement.”
Aaron decided to increase the puppy’s chances of adoption by buying it a handsome collar appliquéd with bones and giving it a bath and a brush. When the dog was dry, its fur was soft and silky to the touch. Its ears, in particular, felt like chamois between his fingertips.
After bath time, the animal got playful with the towel and tried to engage Aaron in a game of tug-of-war. It was acting so feisty and endearing that Aaron cut the game short so as not to get too attached.
When he arrived at the pound and set the puppy on the counter, the young woman in charge scratched it under its chin and said, “Are you sure you want to leave this cute snip here? There’s little chance he’ll be adopted.”
“That’s odd. I called earlier and was told that puppies almost always get adopted.”
“Not black puppies.” She was twirling a pencil in her hair, which was dyed a vivid shade of purple.
“Why not?”
“People have this silly idea that black dogs are more menacing because you can’t always read their expressions. We also post pictures of adoptable dogs on our website, and black dogs aren’t as photogenic.”
“That’s absurd. Look at this animal’s coat; it shines like obsidian. I can practically see my reflection in it. And his little face is very expressive. Sometimes he’s pensive, other times he’s eager, and right now he’s—”
“Adoring,” the girl said. “That’s how he’s looking at you. Like you hold all the keys to the kibble cupboard.” She scratched the animal’s head. “Isn’t that right, buddy?”
The girl was correct; the animal was gazing at him intently with dark inquisitive eyes as if trying to memorize his every feature. He couldn’t remember the last time any living thing looked at him that way.
“I can’t have a dog,” he said as he picked it up and left the pound. He said it again on the car ride to the pet store where he bought tins of food, a retractable leash, snacks, a harness to keep the animal stationary during car rides, and a collection of squeak toys. When he got home and the dog settled itself beside him on the futon, he opened his mouth to say it once more, but then the puppy rested its muzzle on his thigh and the words died in his throat.
Aaron was scratching Dusty’s belly when he heard the scream. He didn’t immediately respond, hoping someone else would investigate. A few moments passed, but the screams didn’t cease. He came to the unhappy conclusion that he was the only one hearing them, which meant he was obligated to see what was going on. Reluctantly he stepped outside on the patio.
A woman rushed toward him, a blur of hot pink and platinum hair. He recognized her as his neighbor. “Thank God you’re here!” She smelled of overripe peaches and baby powder.
“What is it?”
“A spider. It crawled on my foot.”
“Did it bite you?”
“Not yet, but I think that’s what it’s planning.”
“Where is it?”
She pointed a trem
bling finger at a corner of the deck. He expected to see a fearsome-looking variety of arachnid—a wolf spider or similar—but the interloper was a harmless daddy longlegs.
“That’s not a spider.”
“Is too.” She jutted out her bottom lip.
“Daddy longlegs aren’t technically spiders; they’re opiliones. Note the lack of separation between the abdomen and cephalothorax. If you were to examine it closely—”
“No, thank you.”
“You’d discover it only has two eyes; spiders have eight. Also daddy long legs don’t build webs.”
“But daddy longlegs are extremely poisonous; I remember reading that. And the only reason they don’t kill people is because their fangs are too short. I was lucky to escape with my life.”
“What’s your source?” Aaron was a prolific reader and didn’t remember anything about daddy longlegs being venomous.
“What?”
“Where did you get that information?”
“I don’t know. Wikipedia, maybe?”
“Not credible.” It was a statement he’d repeated many times to students.
Aaron took his first good look at his neighbor. Mink black lashes fringed blue eyes. Short wavy golden hair glinted in the sun. A plump strawberry of a mouth ripened below a nose so delicate it was difficult to believe it had a practical function as a breathing apparatus.
He wondered what she was doing at a writers’ colony since she looked more like a pin-up girl than a writer.
Regardless, he had no interest in prolonging the conversation—he was woefully unskilled at making small talk—so he headed back to the duplex.
“Wait! Can’t you do something about…” She lowered her voice to a whisper as if the spider could hear. “You-know-who?”
Love Literary Style Page 4
