The good news: I’ve finally reached the closing section of the novel rewrite. The bad news: I’ve finally reached the closing section of the novel rewrite. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy as ever to have gotten this far, but this place—the ending—is probably the most difficult part of this story to write. But I’m determined to push through. Last week I was ready to panic because the structure I’d imagined for the ending wasn’t working. Then my writing coach made a suggestion about point-of-view and I thought, “That’s it!”
This week, I realize that might not have been it. But point-of-view remains my focus and so I’ve decided to try a different one and that may be it. I’ll continue to work on it and we’ll see (hopefully by the end of November. That’s my self-imposed deadline for the ending.)
All this talk about ending made me look back to the beginning, not just of this rewrite, but the beginning of this story idea. I wrote the first draft of this story in the summer of 2005 during a very productive six weeks of daily freewriting. But, as I looked through my notes I discovered that the story’s real beginnings are much older than that. I found a short piece that I wrote in August of 2002, while living and teaching writing in Baltimore that is the beginning of Turo’s story. The title has changed a million times, many of the characters’ names have changed including Turo, the location has changed from Queens to Philly and the point-of-view has changed from first to third person subjective. Only three obvious things remain: Miss Taffy Brown (and all her divadom), the jazz club, The Skinny, and the friendship between a girl and a boy.
It was refreshing to read the story beginnings. It gave me a real sense of the growth of the story from this little snippet to the 100,000 word novel it has become. Here’s the snippet:
Second Son
He is the second son. And I’ve known him since I was eight years old. We met when I sprained my ankle walking home to my aunt’s apartment in Astoria, Queens. I was careless enough to turn a corner and step off the sidewalk into a small hole, turning my ankle violently. But I didn’t fall and it was my intention to grin and bear it the rest of the way home.
Through my watery eyes lowered in embarrassment, I saw him separate from his friends and cross the street against the light. He had to jog a little to catch up because I didn’t slow down.
“Looks like you’ve hurt your ankle,” he said.
It was more like a comment than a question, so I decided not to respond. De he actually see me slip? I wondered. Or had he decided my fashionable limp wasn’t just a fad? He gave me a sympathetic frown.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I finally said, through clenched teeth.
Not playing along with my attempt at bravery, he grabbed my arm and forced me to a complete stop. “Yes, it does,” he snapped. All sympathy was gone.
“Maybe just a little,” I said. “But I can still walk.”
“You live in 602 don’t you?”
“Who told you that?” I asked. I always seem to muster up enough courage for sass.
“Nobody.” He ignored my attitude—that in itself was impressive—and lifted my arm around his neck. He was a tall ten-year-old and had to bend slightly to one side to accommodate my height deficiency. “The name’s Kevin. I live in 681,” he said. “And you are?”
His sudden attack of formality made me blush. Celia,” I said after a short pause while we made our way down the block.
“Celia what?”
“Jones.”
“Is your moms home?”
“I don’t have a mother,” I said, purposely choosing to look at the crosswalk markings instead of him. I knew what was coming next. Everyone who had a mother thought everyone else did too.
“Everybody’s got a moms,” he said.
“I don’t,” I snapped. “She’s dead. I live with my Aunt Taffy.” In the four years since my mother had died I’d become accustomed to answering that question with minimal emotion, but somehow he made me aware of [my loss].
And then, just before the silence reached awkwardness, he said, “That’s too bad about your moms.” He had this frown on his face that was somewhere between a bad feeling and unimaginable confusion. “You live with Miss Taffy, the movie star?” he finally asked abandoning the momentary grief.
“Movie star?”
“Yeah, with the scarf and shades like a movie star.”
I smiled because my aunt was a sight to see in those scarves and dark shades. “She doesn’t get home till late,” I said, “but I have a key.” As soon as I said it, I remembered Aunt Taffy’s daily warning. “CeCe, don’t be walking home from school like you ain’t got a care in the world. Walk like you got purpose and nobody’ll give you trouble. And keep that key tucked in your blouse. The last thing I need is some nosey mosey to find out that you coming home to an empty house.”
“You can’t go home by yourself. What if you need to go to the doctor or something?”
My eyes found the uneven edge of the crosswalk markings again. “I’ll be okay. I don’t mind staying by myself. Plus, it don’t even hurt much. See.” I stood one step away from him, carefully balancing on my tender ankle.
“Then walk to that tree and back without limping,” he demanded.
I knew I couldn’t but I was still sassy and always brave enough to risk the pain; so I took two bold steps past him in the direction of the tree he had pointed out. The pain was unbearable. “I can’t,” I didn’t intend to whine but it slipped out as I hopped back to where he stood.
Choosing not to gloat about the mistake I had just made, he draped my bookbag and his around his neck and squatted.
“Get on my back,” he ordered. From his leapfrog position he secured me to his back and began to climb the steps at 684. He rang the bell and it was quickly answered by a voice that sounded like a song. “It’s me. Skim,” he said and the door buzzed obnoxiously, the opened when he pushed it with his foot. We made four turns up the stairwell and the door marked 2B was ajar. Once over the threshold, he returned to a squat and I put one foot on the floor. That little defiant walk to the tree had taught me that my right ankle wasn’t about to support my 73 pounds and I accepted that.
“Dear God, what happened?” The melodic voice from the intercom was singing to us.
“Miss Peachy, she hurt her leg crossing Ninth and nobody’s home at her house.”
“Come here, sugar,” she sang. “Come right in here and sit down. Let Peachy take a look at you.”
I hopped over to a blue velour sofa and sat on the edge. She removed my well-worn brown leather sandal and I do believe she duly noted the scuff marks on the toe straps with the shake of her head. When she flexed my ankle, I flinched and snatched my foot away from her.
“Skim, get me the Epsom salt from your bathroom cabinet. What’s your name sugar?” It flowed together like a lullaby.
“Celia Jones,” Kevin said in mid-flight as he jumped to reach the top of the doorway before disappearing down the hall.
“Celia sugar, let it soak in Miss Peachy’s medicine and you’ll be good as new in no time a’tall,” she promised, then went into the kitchen and came back with a washpan full of water and two brown bottles. At about the same time Kevin returned tossing and catching the carton of salt. She threatened his life in the event that he dropped the slightly opened carton before taking it and pouring a very generous amount into the pan along with just a little of each of the other bottles’ contents. After stirring it with her hand she told me to put my foot in it.
The water was hot to my toes but I clenched my teeth again and slowly lowered my foot into it. Kevin turned on the television and sat down next to me to watch Gilligan’s Island reruns.
“Celia, is your mama at work?” Miss Peachy asked.
“She lives with her Aunt Taffy,” Kevin explained over The Skippers admonition of Gilligan for falling through the side of the hut.
“Taffy,” Miss Peachy whispered like she was passing on a secret, then said something else in a murmur that I couldn’t decipher. Finally she asked, “Do you know Taffy’s number down at The Skinny?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“Tell it to me then. I can call her and let her know you gone be all right. What time does she usually get home from down there?”
I shrugged my shoulders as I went over the phone number in my mind. “ I don’t know the exact time ‘cause I’m always sleep,” I said.
Miss Peachy smiled. “I reckon we’re all sleep by the time Taffy makes it in. Now what’s the number?” she asked while holding the receiver.
“365-4821,” I said, then rubbed my arms. The foot I had plunged into the tub of water was warm but I wasn’t accustomed to air conditioning and chill bumps were bursting out all over my sleeveless arms.
“Let me talk to Taffy,” Miss Peachy said into the receiver. Then, “Skim, get your little Celia that throw off the chair. Can’t let her get cold with her foot in that water,” she said before she returned to the phone.
While Kevin was mummifying my in a sky blue blanket that was soft like daydreams and smelled like vanilla ice cream Miss Peachy told Aunt Taffy what happened and insisted that Aunt Taffy shouldn’t pick my up until after breakfast the next morning. Bundled in the warm blanket with my foot still in the washpan, I reclined next to Kevin and watched Gilligan drop The Professor’s makeshift radio transmitter into the lagoon.
10 August 2002
[end of free-write]
So, again as I approach the end of this draft, I am once again starting over, beginning again to write what I hope will be the final draft of Turo’s story.
Q
I’m challenging myself, during these busy days of winter, to 28-Days of Flash Fiction. I pledge to write and post a piece of flash fiction (200 words or less) everyday for four weeks.
