Trinity Theory
1. Earthbound – magic cming formt he earth, plants, animals. Ties in stringly with chemical theory.
-Used to alter the phsyical world – alchemy, agriculture, etc.
2. Within – magic coming from one’s self: one’s mind/mental powers, one’s own spirit
-used on oneself – confidence boosts, good luck, etc. (essentially selfish)
3. Spiritual – Coming from the spiritual energy generated by death. (A spirit is housed within a being, freed upon death. Or by nasty ritualistic means.) No one’s quite sure how this works, and spells often going horribly wrong for unknown reasons.
-used for altering those around you– mind control, love spells, persuassion, etc.
*Generally not used independently– most spells under this combine different sources into a magical pathway (mechanism theory) with a desired net result. General magic studies don’t go into this, but it is important for spell design.
Chemical Theory
Comes from the make up of the physical universe. Heavy on potions, blood magic. A purist’s version of earthbound magic.
Theory of Names
*Everything has a specific name, and once knowing a name, will bow to the name’s possesser. However, names change for each thing at each time, making it vurrrrry tricky.
*Incantations use generalized names to harness power. Control is not complete, and thusly much chanting is needed.
Theory of Shape
A shape can capture the essence of something (think abstract art). Runes, wards, etc.
Magic of the Insubstantial
Deals with human-defined terms: time, numbers, space. Background theory is that everything exists at once in one space. However, no one can quite figure out why this magic works the way it does, so who knows if that’s right. (provide information no one can understand so no one questions it)
Celestial Theory
Deals with stars and planets.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Nathan again.
Nathan sat on his bed, wondering what to do. It was cold. January. He had thick socks on, but the floor was hard wood. His mother was calling him for dinner, but the floor was hard wood. If he walked with socks on the wood floor, he would slip. He wouldn’t fall, but he would be able to feel his feet slipping away from him with every step. It was how he got to the bed, and he had hated it.
He could take his socks off, but then his feet would be cold. That’s how it had been when he’d gotten up that morning, and he had hated it. His mother called him again. He wished he hadn’t taken his shoes off. He wished his mother hadn’t taken his rug to be cleaned.
She called for him again, and he could hear her foot steps coming up the stairs. He wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t.
There was a toy truck on the floor. It had been his father’s when he was young. It was metal, not plastic like Nathan’s other toys. He liked it best because the doors really opened, and he could put his little finger inside the driver’s seat and turn the tiny metal steering wheel.
The truck had a wide bed. Nathan was small for his age, and he could fit his foot onto it.
As his mother came to the door, he jumped for the truck. He would land on it, and it would roll all the way to his mother, and they could walk down the hall because it had an old rug that made his feet itch when he wasn’t wearing socks but he was wearing socks so it would be okay. But he missed the bed of the truck, and instead the heel of his foot landed squarely on the sharp edge of the bed, and his mother screamed as he lurched to the side and fell on his arm, which hurt a lot, but not as much as the sole of his foot which felt like it was bleeding.
He sat up and twist his foot to look at the bottom as his mother rushed over and threw her arms around him. There was a tear in his sock, and he could see his torn skin below it. He wasn’t bleeding then, but when he squeezed his heel blood began to ooze from the jagged cut along his foot. His mother screamed and grasped his wrist, wrenching his hand away from the injury.
She carried him to the bathroom and set him down on the edge of the bathtub. She rolled his socks off, throwing them carelessly to the side. She then found a washcloth, wetted it in the sink, and pumped liquid soap onto it. She folded the cloth in half and rubbed the two sides together to get the soap to lather. As she was doing this, Nathan had pulled his bleeding foot onto his lap and began picking at the cut with fascination. He even forgot about how cold his feet would be now. If he pulled one way it hurt a lot, but if he pulled another–
“Stop that,” his mother snapped. Nathan stared up at her in confusion. He wasn’t sure why what he was doing wrong. “You’ll make it worse,” she continued and kneeling before him with the washcloth, cradling his foot gently with one hand.
“But then how will I know how I work?” He asked.
His mother frowned as she scrubbed his foot. “You can ask a doctor. Or read a book. But don’t hurt yourself.”
“How do they know how I work?” Nathan asked.
“They just do,” his mother snapped and scrubbed harder.
The soap stung and the pressure from his mother’s adamant washing hurt, but Nathan didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat wondering why the soap and the rubbing hurt in different ways, and how he instinctively knew the stinging was from the soap and the dull pain was from the rubbing, and then there was another pain from the cut itself, which was sharp and more like the soap’s sting than the rubbing’s ache.
His mother had him turn around and wash his foot off with the water from the bathtub faucet. Then she let him dry his foot himself with a towel while she found gauze and medical tape under the sink. She covered his cut with gauze and taped it in place.
“Can you walk?” she asked. Nathan carefully stood and nodded. The bathroom tiles were like ice, but he wouldn’t slip.
It didn’t occur to him until later that she had really meant, “Does it hurt to walk?”
He could take his socks off, but then his feet would be cold. That’s how it had been when he’d gotten up that morning, and he had hated it. His mother called him again. He wished he hadn’t taken his shoes off. He wished his mother hadn’t taken his rug to be cleaned.
She called for him again, and he could hear her foot steps coming up the stairs. He wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t.
There was a toy truck on the floor. It had been his father’s when he was young. It was metal, not plastic like Nathan’s other toys. He liked it best because the doors really opened, and he could put his little finger inside the driver’s seat and turn the tiny metal steering wheel.
The truck had a wide bed. Nathan was small for his age, and he could fit his foot onto it.
As his mother came to the door, he jumped for the truck. He would land on it, and it would roll all the way to his mother, and they could walk down the hall because it had an old rug that made his feet itch when he wasn’t wearing socks but he was wearing socks so it would be okay. But he missed the bed of the truck, and instead the heel of his foot landed squarely on the sharp edge of the bed, and his mother screamed as he lurched to the side and fell on his arm, which hurt a lot, but not as much as the sole of his foot which felt like it was bleeding.
He sat up and twist his foot to look at the bottom as his mother rushed over and threw her arms around him. There was a tear in his sock, and he could see his torn skin below it. He wasn’t bleeding then, but when he squeezed his heel blood began to ooze from the jagged cut along his foot. His mother screamed and grasped his wrist, wrenching his hand away from the injury.
She carried him to the bathroom and set him down on the edge of the bathtub. She rolled his socks off, throwing them carelessly to the side. She then found a washcloth, wetted it in the sink, and pumped liquid soap onto it. She folded the cloth in half and rubbed the two sides together to get the soap to lather. As she was doing this, Nathan had pulled his bleeding foot onto his lap and began picking at the cut with fascination. He even forgot about how cold his feet would be now. If he pulled one way it hurt a lot, but if he pulled another–
“Stop that,” his mother snapped. Nathan stared up at her in confusion. He wasn’t sure why what he was doing wrong. “You’ll make it worse,” she continued and kneeling before him with the washcloth, cradling his foot gently with one hand.
“But then how will I know how I work?” He asked.
His mother frowned as she scrubbed his foot. “You can ask a doctor. Or read a book. But don’t hurt yourself.”
“How do they know how I work?” Nathan asked.
“They just do,” his mother snapped and scrubbed harder.
The soap stung and the pressure from his mother’s adamant washing hurt, but Nathan didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat wondering why the soap and the rubbing hurt in different ways, and how he instinctively knew the stinging was from the soap and the dull pain was from the rubbing, and then there was another pain from the cut itself, which was sharp and more like the soap’s sting than the rubbing’s ache.
His mother had him turn around and wash his foot off with the water from the bathtub faucet. Then she let him dry his foot himself with a towel while she found gauze and medical tape under the sink. She covered his cut with gauze and taped it in place.
“Can you walk?” she asked. Nathan carefully stood and nodded. The bathroom tiles were like ice, but he wouldn’t slip.
It didn’t occur to him until later that she had really meant, “Does it hurt to walk?”
The next day I got up early to pretend to go to church. Our church had services all day Wednesday, and I always said I went so Mom wouldn’t get mad when I almost always skipped Sundays. I almost always skipped Sundays because I was almost always out late on Saturdays. During the school year I couldn’t go Wednesday mornings and Mom would drag me in and usually with a horrible hang over I had to act like I didn’t have, and that was awful. But there were more awful things like going out Thursday night and taking a physics test first thing Friday, and it was okay now because it was summer.
I went to Barnes and Noble. That’s a pretty lame way to skip church, I know. But most of the rest of the mall was closed at that time, and you could see employees getting ready for the day or something. I didn’t really know what they were doing; I’d never had a job. Anyway, I went to the self-help section because I thought maybe I’d go on a diet.
There are lots of books on being happy back there, though not as many as the ones about being skinny, or getting rich quick. I bet you think I’m going to comment on society now, about how we value being rich and beautiful over being happy, but I’m not. I’m not because I could never be happy knowing I’d found happiness from a how-to guide.
I picked out one of the dieting books I hadn’t read yet and sat down with it and read for a while. Then I thought stores were probably open and I went out and bummed around the mall for a while. The only thing I bought was coffee, though, because I was yawning all over the place.
Eventually I went to Catherine’s house. She was still in her pajamas.
“Hey,” she said and walked away from the open front door. I followed her back to the kitchen, where she was watching a movie on her mom’s portable DVD player and eating Lucky Charms cereal. I told her I was going to make grilled cheese. She grunted, and I made it.
After the movie was over and we’d finished our meals (mine was lunch and hers was breakfast), Catherine went upstairs to shower and dress and I started on what we called ‘Operation Party-Proof.’
I started in the main dining room. Catherine’s family normally ate in the ‘breakfast corner,’ even when it was dinner, and their dining room was dominated by a huge, grand table that was still pristine from years of only eating out their for holidays and big social gatherings and the like. At first we were going to put the snacks out on it, but the table was too perfect and broke up into pieces anyway, so we decided to move it out of the way.
I didn't know how to take the table apart, so I just went about getting rid of the cream-colored tablecloth and the fancy glass centerpiece and all the useless decorative plates hung on the walls. I put them in her parents’ bedroom, which we planned to lock. I wasn’t sure what to do with the plants in the huge, painted ceramic pots. They framed the bay window looking out to garden they’d put in the front yard, and I knew there was no way I could move the plants by myself.
Catherine found me taking small, decorative things from random rooms down to the basement. Some vases, family portraits, a little bonsai plant. Those sorts of things. I got her to help me take apart the table and drag the pieces into her parents’ room.
We had this plan, you see. Operation Party-Proof. We’d spend two or three days moving everything we thought could be broken into the basement and her parents’ room, then we’d lock them and her room upstairs. We’d leave the guest rooms open– you had to have free beds at big parties. Then we’d cover the fancy couches with old blankets. It would look stupid, but it would be more comfortable than my grandma’s plastic covers.
After the party, we’d spend the next few days before Catherine’s parents came home from Seychelles cleaning up. We’d also take down all those fliers we put up for it.
We were really excited about this plan because even though we’d spent all of last semester party-hopping with our new drivers’ licenses, we’d never had one of our own. We weren’t even really sure how to get booze, short of raiding Catherine’s dad’s collection– but that was out of the question. We would definitely get caught that way.
That’s where the fliers came in. We’d get a bunch of cool, older guys to come and bring their own beer. It was perfect.
I went to Barnes and Noble. That’s a pretty lame way to skip church, I know. But most of the rest of the mall was closed at that time, and you could see employees getting ready for the day or something. I didn’t really know what they were doing; I’d never had a job. Anyway, I went to the self-help section because I thought maybe I’d go on a diet.
There are lots of books on being happy back there, though not as many as the ones about being skinny, or getting rich quick. I bet you think I’m going to comment on society now, about how we value being rich and beautiful over being happy, but I’m not. I’m not because I could never be happy knowing I’d found happiness from a how-to guide.
I picked out one of the dieting books I hadn’t read yet and sat down with it and read for a while. Then I thought stores were probably open and I went out and bummed around the mall for a while. The only thing I bought was coffee, though, because I was yawning all over the place.
Eventually I went to Catherine’s house. She was still in her pajamas.
“Hey,” she said and walked away from the open front door. I followed her back to the kitchen, where she was watching a movie on her mom’s portable DVD player and eating Lucky Charms cereal. I told her I was going to make grilled cheese. She grunted, and I made it.
After the movie was over and we’d finished our meals (mine was lunch and hers was breakfast), Catherine went upstairs to shower and dress and I started on what we called ‘Operation Party-Proof.’
I started in the main dining room. Catherine’s family normally ate in the ‘breakfast corner,’ even when it was dinner, and their dining room was dominated by a huge, grand table that was still pristine from years of only eating out their for holidays and big social gatherings and the like. At first we were going to put the snacks out on it, but the table was too perfect and broke up into pieces anyway, so we decided to move it out of the way.
I didn't know how to take the table apart, so I just went about getting rid of the cream-colored tablecloth and the fancy glass centerpiece and all the useless decorative plates hung on the walls. I put them in her parents’ bedroom, which we planned to lock. I wasn’t sure what to do with the plants in the huge, painted ceramic pots. They framed the bay window looking out to garden they’d put in the front yard, and I knew there was no way I could move the plants by myself.
Catherine found me taking small, decorative things from random rooms down to the basement. Some vases, family portraits, a little bonsai plant. Those sorts of things. I got her to help me take apart the table and drag the pieces into her parents’ room.
We had this plan, you see. Operation Party-Proof. We’d spend two or three days moving everything we thought could be broken into the basement and her parents’ room, then we’d lock them and her room upstairs. We’d leave the guest rooms open– you had to have free beds at big parties. Then we’d cover the fancy couches with old blankets. It would look stupid, but it would be more comfortable than my grandma’s plastic covers.
After the party, we’d spend the next few days before Catherine’s parents came home from Seychelles cleaning up. We’d also take down all those fliers we put up for it.
We were really excited about this plan because even though we’d spent all of last semester party-hopping with our new drivers’ licenses, we’d never had one of our own. We weren’t even really sure how to get booze, short of raiding Catherine’s dad’s collection– but that was out of the question. We would definitely get caught that way.
That’s where the fliers came in. We’d get a bunch of cool, older guys to come and bring their own beer. It was perfect.
Monday, January 4, 2010
If there’s one thing I’d learned from movies, it’s that no matter how bad it got, you’d always know what to do in the end. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d get music or a long walk in the rain to figure it out, but I always figured that if I ever got into a bad spot, something deep inside me would tell me the best thing to do, and I’d be alright again.
I was trying to explain this to Catherine as I drove her all over town, stapling flyers to telephone poles.
“Did you mark this one too?” She asked me. She hadn’t been paying any attention at all as she grabbed the stapler and hopped out of the car, but I didn’t really mind.
“Yeah. But it’s not like anyone will see it there anyway,” I said back to her, shuffling through the maps of telephone poles in the area she’d found on some county website. I was in charge of following her directions to them and then putting a big fat, red X on all the ones we put fliers on. So we could take them down before Catherine’s parents got home, of course.
“Some might,” she protested, smacking the head of the stapler as hard as she could against the flier and the wood pole. Neither of us could hunt down a staple gun that morning. “Sometimes guys use this road for drag racing, since it’s so low traffic.” She cocked her head to the side, admiring her handy work. “And for its width, I guess,” she added, and slunk back into the passenger’s seat.
I snorted as I started the engine. “It’s not like drag racers read signs. There are too many trees and bushes and stuff around it anyway.”
Catherine shrugged. “Well, whatever. Where’d you put the maps?” And I shoved them into her hands as I pulled back onto the road.
So that’s how we spent our afternoon.
Here’s another thing I learned from movies: falling in love is stupid. It does funny things to you, and it’s supposed to be beautiful, but really you’re just crying over stupid things and giving up fun things. And I know that’s true because mom said she was in love when she got married, but now she can’t go out and do anything fun anymore. And dad said he was in love too, but mom bitches at him when he has friends over. So I’m not going to fall in love, ever.
I was trying to explain this to Catherine as I drove her all over town, stapling flyers to telephone poles.
“Did you mark this one too?” She asked me. She hadn’t been paying any attention at all as she grabbed the stapler and hopped out of the car, but I didn’t really mind.
“Yeah. But it’s not like anyone will see it there anyway,” I said back to her, shuffling through the maps of telephone poles in the area she’d found on some county website. I was in charge of following her directions to them and then putting a big fat, red X on all the ones we put fliers on. So we could take them down before Catherine’s parents got home, of course.
“Some might,” she protested, smacking the head of the stapler as hard as she could against the flier and the wood pole. Neither of us could hunt down a staple gun that morning. “Sometimes guys use this road for drag racing, since it’s so low traffic.” She cocked her head to the side, admiring her handy work. “And for its width, I guess,” she added, and slunk back into the passenger’s seat.
I snorted as I started the engine. “It’s not like drag racers read signs. There are too many trees and bushes and stuff around it anyway.”
Catherine shrugged. “Well, whatever. Where’d you put the maps?” And I shoved them into her hands as I pulled back onto the road.
So that’s how we spent our afternoon.
Here’s another thing I learned from movies: falling in love is stupid. It does funny things to you, and it’s supposed to be beautiful, but really you’re just crying over stupid things and giving up fun things. And I know that’s true because mom said she was in love when she got married, but now she can’t go out and do anything fun anymore. And dad said he was in love too, but mom bitches at him when he has friends over. So I’m not going to fall in love, ever.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Dead Things: An Introduction of Sorts
Nathan remembers when his puppy died. It was hit by a car. He found it, with its innards pouring out over the asphalt. Its eyes were unfocused. Its breath was ragged.
Its name was Ludwig.
He was seven.
And as he kneeled by it he thought, I can see how its insides work.
And with his bare hands, he had pulled apart the tears in the flesh, and Ludwig had whimpered. But he kept going, poking organs as the tiny heart pumped blood over his hands. Then slowly the whimpering stopped, and so did the heart.
He carried Ludwig up to his tree house, where he kept a Swiss army knife his dad had given him but his mother wasn’t supposed to know about. And he took Ludwig apart then, the way he had taken apart the TV remote. He laid its organs across the tree house in a line, wondering what they all did. This must be the heart, and this must be the stomach, he remembered thinking. But he had known nothing about anatomy then.
Then he had turned to the bones. He carefully cut the skin and fur away to stare in awe at how perfectly Ludwig’s skeleton must have fit together before it had been smashed by the car. And how perfectly all the inside bits must have worked together, to make one perfect little terrier.
He wished be had spent longer watching Ludwig as it had died, to see such perfection in work.
He watched the body bits rot slowly over the next few weeks. The flies were annoying, but he liked running his hands over the decaying flesh, pondering how it had all once been wrapped up as a warm little puppy.
Its name was Ludwig.
He was seven.
And as he kneeled by it he thought, I can see how its insides work.
And with his bare hands, he had pulled apart the tears in the flesh, and Ludwig had whimpered. But he kept going, poking organs as the tiny heart pumped blood over his hands. Then slowly the whimpering stopped, and so did the heart.
He carried Ludwig up to his tree house, where he kept a Swiss army knife his dad had given him but his mother wasn’t supposed to know about. And he took Ludwig apart then, the way he had taken apart the TV remote. He laid its organs across the tree house in a line, wondering what they all did. This must be the heart, and this must be the stomach, he remembered thinking. But he had known nothing about anatomy then.
Then he had turned to the bones. He carefully cut the skin and fur away to stare in awe at how perfectly Ludwig’s skeleton must have fit together before it had been smashed by the car. And how perfectly all the inside bits must have worked together, to make one perfect little terrier.
He wished be had spent longer watching Ludwig as it had died, to see such perfection in work.
He watched the body bits rot slowly over the next few weeks. The flies were annoying, but he liked running his hands over the decaying flesh, pondering how it had all once been wrapped up as a warm little puppy.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Second and final part of SHOTGUN WEDDINGGGGGGGGG
He arrived late that night– pulled up in his old Buick. Matilda’s parents were already asleep. They were in the guest room, with me and Matilda each taking a couch in the family room. Your grandpa was taking my old room. Matilda liked my old room, with the grand looking mahogany desk I got from when your grandpa redid his office. It was tres chic, she said. She did that sometimes, spicing up her conversation with French. Like, instead of just saying RSVP, she’d say répondez, s’il vous plaît. She took it for three years in high school. I thought she was brilliant.
Your grandpa didn’t even knock. He just walked in, kicked off his boots, sat down at the kitchen table, and waited for us to find him. Matilda was falling asleep in front of the TV, but I woke her up and dragged her over to meet him. She was groggy and he was pissy from all the hours of driving– he did it all in one shot, can you believe it?– but I thought them meeting went as well as it could have.
Is it a boy or a girl?
Was the first thing your Grandpa said. I guess he thought it was obvious who he was and who she was. So she answered,
We want it to be a surprise.
Got any names? He asked.
And it went on like that. She didn't even blink at how blunt he was. And I think he approved of that, because he never complained about her later. He never said anything about her later, actually, but if he’d known something was up then, he would’ve complained.
Your grandma didn’t show up to greet him that night. She was awake, knitting, but she didn’t go to meet him. She still talked to him regularly and they got along fine, but seeing each other face to face was always awkward for them. See, they hadn’t really been getting along right since I entered the fifth grade, but then this whole thing about an affair he had when I was a baby came out and she couldn’t even look at him for weeks. She’d just leave notes. That was a hard time for me.
So some part of me was afraid he’d be like that with Matilda, since that’s how I had always pictured him interacting with women: they couldn’t make eye contact the first time. But it went fine, like I said.
And after maybe an hour of talking we all went to bed. Just like that. We were all in this one small house, all asleep, all just a few paces from each other, and nothing happened. Looking back, I can’t believe the whole house didn’t explode from that.
And then breakfast came, and Matilda’s dad and your grandpa must have met. I’ll never know how that went, because no one will talk about that damn morning. But when I walked into the kitchen, both the men and Matilda were sitting around not talking. Matilda was still in her pajamas. Her dad was reading the newspaper. Your grandma was cooking bacon and scrambled eggs, but she didn’t seem bothered at all by your grandpa being right there, so I was relieved. I sat down in the one free chair next to Matilda and took her hand in mine. She smiled at me.
It was her last smile.
And then her mother came in, dressed in one of her favorite sun dresses, and asked where the spare chairs were.
And your grandpa just looked at her with the most peculiar face. And when she managed to drag a chair from your grandma’s room into the kitchen, he asked,
Who are you?
She stopped and blinked and laughed.
You must be the last in-law, she answered, beaming.
But he just repeated,
Who are you?
And she stared at him in confusion, and he stared back at her, glaring hard. And they just look at each other for a while, and we didn’t really think anything of it. Until her mother suddenly started screaming. And she ran out of the kitchen, and I guess went back to the guest room. Her husband rushed out afterward along with Matilda, and your grandma and I could hear then trying to comfort her through her screams. She was just saying gibberish at that point, and it didn’t make any sense.
What was that all about? Asked your grandmother angrily, waving a spatula at your grandpa. What did you do to her?
He just sat there and stared at where Matilda’s mom had been standing for a while, then finally he said,
We’ve met before.
And he stood up and walked out of the house to his Buick and drove away. He hasn’t visited your grandma since.
Matilda’s mom cried for hours, curled up on the guest bed, and we couldn’t get her to say anything. Matilda tried comforting her, but she’d just get more hysterical with Matilda in the room. So Matilda and I sat on the couch in front of the TV where she’d slept and didn’t say much to each other. I rubbed her back and she rubbed her expanded belly. Your grandmother just went back to making breakfast. She brought it to us on plates, but we didn’t eat it.
Then finally the screaming sobs stopped, and her mom limped out and collapsed next to her on the couch.
My baby… my poor, poor baby… she kept saying, and stroking Matilda’s hair.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, I said after a while. But then the woman glared at me.
This is all your fault! She bellowed, and she pick up a ceramic bird your grandma had on the coffee table and threw it at me. She almost hit Matilda, who jumped up and grabbed her arm.
But her mom was back into her hysterics again, and she was screaming and throwing things at me, telling me it was my fault, my fault such an awful thing would happen to Matilda.
Then Matilda cuffed her mother across the face finally and told her to cut it out; she loved me.
And her mother said,
Matilda, you are not your father’s daughter.
And she collapsed on the couch again, crying and crying. Matilda looked very confused, but then it suddenly clicked in my head, and I couldn’t move. I just stood there blankly like your grandpa had sat there. Matilda left her mom after a few moments and waved her hand in front of my face.
What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What the hell is going on? She kept saying. Then she punched my shoulder when I didn’t say anything. But this one thought kept going through my brain:
Dad had had an affair when I was a baby. And he had met Matilda’s mother before. And Matilda was not the child of her father.
And I really hope I don’t have to spell it out for you.
After I snapped out of it, I kept repeating that to Matilda until she got it.
That’s crazy, she said, laughing hoarsely. You’re insane. Or joking. But that’s impossible.
Impossible.
It was a crazy theory. I tried to explain it to my mother and Matilda’s father, but they had about the same reaction.
Crazy. Impossible. Insane.
But then, through all her sobs and hiccups, Matilda’s mother confirmed it. We all sat for a while, just staring at each other. We didn’t know what to do. My mother started crying. I wanted to cry. Matilda’s father eventually got up and locked himself in the bathroom.
But Matilda didn’t cry. She just rubbed her belly and stared out the window. Then after a while, she quietly got up and walked out the door. I tried to stop her, but she gently pushed my hands away and said she just wanted to take a walk, sort some things out in her head. It was a reasonable request, so I let her go.
And she never came back.
We called the police that night when we couldn’t find her after driving around the neighborhood. We stayed up all night, and the next night her parents relocated to a hotel. They couldn’t stand to be around us anymore.
The police found her six days later. They tracked her down to an abortion clinic using her credit card transactions. She had apparently hitchhiked down to Atlanta from your grandma’s neighborhood. She had had a hard time finding someone to abort the baby, since she was so far along, but she had done it, and physically she was well enough. She was reunited with her parents at a police station, and they went back home to Arizona.
I found this out through a police phone call. Her family never contacted us again after her parents left.
I never went back to Arizona. I don’t know what happened to all my stuff there. I don’t know what happened to Matilda or Bill Manellas or any of my friends I had there. There was nothing I could do, and facing Matilda and her family would have just made it worse for both of us. Everyone just wanted to forget those months I’d spent in Arizona ever happened. I stayed in Georgia and went back to college. I met your mother a few years later. I was never quite over Matilda, but your mom. She was amazing. I hope Matilda got over what happened and found someone else too.
So kiddo, now you know the darkest secret of our family. Don’t worry; you don’t have any long lost siblings running around out there. But here’s what I want you to remember:
You go on in life, you’ll get hurt. You may never recover fully. Crazy, impossible, horrible things can happen to you. You’re not invincible. And I don’t want to ruin your mood for your wedding, but know that these things can happen to you, no matter how nice a person you are.
But the world will go on, whether you like it or not. I found my happy end, and I pray to God Matilda found hers.
Your grandpa didn’t even knock. He just walked in, kicked off his boots, sat down at the kitchen table, and waited for us to find him. Matilda was falling asleep in front of the TV, but I woke her up and dragged her over to meet him. She was groggy and he was pissy from all the hours of driving– he did it all in one shot, can you believe it?– but I thought them meeting went as well as it could have.
Is it a boy or a girl?
Was the first thing your Grandpa said. I guess he thought it was obvious who he was and who she was. So she answered,
We want it to be a surprise.
Got any names? He asked.
And it went on like that. She didn't even blink at how blunt he was. And I think he approved of that, because he never complained about her later. He never said anything about her later, actually, but if he’d known something was up then, he would’ve complained.
Your grandma didn’t show up to greet him that night. She was awake, knitting, but she didn’t go to meet him. She still talked to him regularly and they got along fine, but seeing each other face to face was always awkward for them. See, they hadn’t really been getting along right since I entered the fifth grade, but then this whole thing about an affair he had when I was a baby came out and she couldn’t even look at him for weeks. She’d just leave notes. That was a hard time for me.
So some part of me was afraid he’d be like that with Matilda, since that’s how I had always pictured him interacting with women: they couldn’t make eye contact the first time. But it went fine, like I said.
And after maybe an hour of talking we all went to bed. Just like that. We were all in this one small house, all asleep, all just a few paces from each other, and nothing happened. Looking back, I can’t believe the whole house didn’t explode from that.
And then breakfast came, and Matilda’s dad and your grandpa must have met. I’ll never know how that went, because no one will talk about that damn morning. But when I walked into the kitchen, both the men and Matilda were sitting around not talking. Matilda was still in her pajamas. Her dad was reading the newspaper. Your grandma was cooking bacon and scrambled eggs, but she didn’t seem bothered at all by your grandpa being right there, so I was relieved. I sat down in the one free chair next to Matilda and took her hand in mine. She smiled at me.
It was her last smile.
And then her mother came in, dressed in one of her favorite sun dresses, and asked where the spare chairs were.
And your grandpa just looked at her with the most peculiar face. And when she managed to drag a chair from your grandma’s room into the kitchen, he asked,
Who are you?
She stopped and blinked and laughed.
You must be the last in-law, she answered, beaming.
But he just repeated,
Who are you?
And she stared at him in confusion, and he stared back at her, glaring hard. And they just look at each other for a while, and we didn’t really think anything of it. Until her mother suddenly started screaming. And she ran out of the kitchen, and I guess went back to the guest room. Her husband rushed out afterward along with Matilda, and your grandma and I could hear then trying to comfort her through her screams. She was just saying gibberish at that point, and it didn’t make any sense.
What was that all about? Asked your grandmother angrily, waving a spatula at your grandpa. What did you do to her?
He just sat there and stared at where Matilda’s mom had been standing for a while, then finally he said,
We’ve met before.
And he stood up and walked out of the house to his Buick and drove away. He hasn’t visited your grandma since.
Matilda’s mom cried for hours, curled up on the guest bed, and we couldn’t get her to say anything. Matilda tried comforting her, but she’d just get more hysterical with Matilda in the room. So Matilda and I sat on the couch in front of the TV where she’d slept and didn’t say much to each other. I rubbed her back and she rubbed her expanded belly. Your grandmother just went back to making breakfast. She brought it to us on plates, but we didn’t eat it.
Then finally the screaming sobs stopped, and her mom limped out and collapsed next to her on the couch.
My baby… my poor, poor baby… she kept saying, and stroking Matilda’s hair.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, I said after a while. But then the woman glared at me.
This is all your fault! She bellowed, and she pick up a ceramic bird your grandma had on the coffee table and threw it at me. She almost hit Matilda, who jumped up and grabbed her arm.
But her mom was back into her hysterics again, and she was screaming and throwing things at me, telling me it was my fault, my fault such an awful thing would happen to Matilda.
Then Matilda cuffed her mother across the face finally and told her to cut it out; she loved me.
And her mother said,
Matilda, you are not your father’s daughter.
And she collapsed on the couch again, crying and crying. Matilda looked very confused, but then it suddenly clicked in my head, and I couldn’t move. I just stood there blankly like your grandpa had sat there. Matilda left her mom after a few moments and waved her hand in front of my face.
What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What the hell is going on? She kept saying. Then she punched my shoulder when I didn’t say anything. But this one thought kept going through my brain:
Dad had had an affair when I was a baby. And he had met Matilda’s mother before. And Matilda was not the child of her father.
And I really hope I don’t have to spell it out for you.
After I snapped out of it, I kept repeating that to Matilda until she got it.
That’s crazy, she said, laughing hoarsely. You’re insane. Or joking. But that’s impossible.
Impossible.
It was a crazy theory. I tried to explain it to my mother and Matilda’s father, but they had about the same reaction.
Crazy. Impossible. Insane.
But then, through all her sobs and hiccups, Matilda’s mother confirmed it. We all sat for a while, just staring at each other. We didn’t know what to do. My mother started crying. I wanted to cry. Matilda’s father eventually got up and locked himself in the bathroom.
But Matilda didn’t cry. She just rubbed her belly and stared out the window. Then after a while, she quietly got up and walked out the door. I tried to stop her, but she gently pushed my hands away and said she just wanted to take a walk, sort some things out in her head. It was a reasonable request, so I let her go.
And she never came back.
We called the police that night when we couldn’t find her after driving around the neighborhood. We stayed up all night, and the next night her parents relocated to a hotel. They couldn’t stand to be around us anymore.
The police found her six days later. They tracked her down to an abortion clinic using her credit card transactions. She had apparently hitchhiked down to Atlanta from your grandma’s neighborhood. She had had a hard time finding someone to abort the baby, since she was so far along, but she had done it, and physically she was well enough. She was reunited with her parents at a police station, and they went back home to Arizona.
I found this out through a police phone call. Her family never contacted us again after her parents left.
I never went back to Arizona. I don’t know what happened to all my stuff there. I don’t know what happened to Matilda or Bill Manellas or any of my friends I had there. There was nothing I could do, and facing Matilda and her family would have just made it worse for both of us. Everyone just wanted to forget those months I’d spent in Arizona ever happened. I stayed in Georgia and went back to college. I met your mother a few years later. I was never quite over Matilda, but your mom. She was amazing. I hope Matilda got over what happened and found someone else too.
So kiddo, now you know the darkest secret of our family. Don’t worry; you don’t have any long lost siblings running around out there. But here’s what I want you to remember:
You go on in life, you’ll get hurt. You may never recover fully. Crazy, impossible, horrible things can happen to you. You’re not invincible. And I don’t want to ruin your mood for your wedding, but know that these things can happen to you, no matter how nice a person you are.
But the world will go on, whether you like it or not. I found my happy end, and I pray to God Matilda found hers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)