Here is the first draft of my short story for Creative Writing. It's a piece of crap. It's not the kind of story I usually write, I don't think, but I wrote it; I don't know if I like it or not, but, like I said, I wrote it, so I guess that means I'm supposed to dislike it. Anyway, you should read it and tell me how you feel about it.
"Love Me Tender"
OneI’m going to tell my boy his daddy was Elvis; just passing through, singing the blues.
She met him on a night out dancing. In Ford’s Creek, a small mill town in the foothills of California, complete with a waterwheel and covered bridge, Friday night barn dances were common entertainment for the hardworking community, an opportunity to wind down and have a little fun, and Susanna Ford, great-great-granddaughter of Elias Ford, the town’s founder, never missed one. It was a family environment—Ford’s Creek—where everyone knew everyone else and strangers were always welcome. The wooden slats below her bare feet creaked to the beat of the local bluegrass band as Susanna twirled below the white icicle Christmas lights strung across the ceiling.
With the combination of the warmth of the summer evening, escaped body heat, and the fading of the banjo’s resonation trapped between the barn’s walls, a sweltering Susanna twisted around to head to the bar for a jar of water. It was in the midst of this about face that she caught his eye, a blue-eyed boy in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, black hair framing his face, leaning against the counter and sipping on a whiskey tumbler. He didn’t look out of place amongst the extended family of Ford’s Creek, but his high-top black Converse betrayed his belonging. Susanna flipped the hair out of her eyes and onto her shoulder as she sidled to the bar, holding his gaze as she drew near. Seated on a bar stool facing the stage, water jar in hand, Susanna coyly ignored the boy, who had sauntered toward her and was now leaning nonchalantly against the bar counter. He faced her, resting on his elbow, ankles crossed, fixing his gaze on her so intently that she could not help but turn to greet him.
“I’m Paul,” he introduced. He extended his hand to grasp Susanna’s, holding it as though she were a fragile porcelain doll. There would be no shattered glass for eager dancing feet to step on in the barn that night, not if Paul could help it.
She nodded once, her small, slender hands still engulfed by his large ones, calloused fingertips stretching over her wrist. “Susanna,” she smiled, “It’s a pleasure, Paul.”
Her hands were clammy, a mixture of condensation from the water jar and perspiration from dancing in the stuffy room, yet Paul’s hand lingered. Susanna noticed the split-second glance he took at their clasped hands. “Your hands are so hot. You care to step outside?” he invited.
Susanna eased her half-empty water jar onto the counter and slid off of the barstool. With his free hand, Paul swung his personal bottle of Jack Daniels off the counter and began to snake his way through the dancing and chattering crowd toward the barn’s double doors, glancing back to send Susanna an appreciative smile.
Once outside, Paul produced a spun-glass hand-pipe from his pants pocket. He lit the bowl and took a deep hit, the weed glowing stronger like the flashing lights of a ambulance as he sucked the smoke into his lungs; the surrounding crickets’ song were his blaring sirens. He bobbed his head and closed his eyes before exhaling the smoke. “So, you’re a dancer?”
“It’s just a way to pass the time,” Susanna shrugged, although a bud of smile blossomed across her face. “How about you? What are you doing around here?”
Paul paused to take another hit of his Acapulco Gold. He chewed the words over in his mouth, saying them slow and deliberate. “Well, I’m taking the scenic route to San Francisco.” He was a cartographer mapping out a beautiful new land with his eyes, waiting to explore the wild frontier. His gaze lingered on the torn hem of her knee-length skirt. “Let’s take a walk,” he invited, motioning with a jerk of his head toward the dirt trail leading to the covered bridge. Susanna glanced once more at the barn doors, praying to God that no one would note her absence, and followed him.
Paul was a musician, a guitar player on a solo tour up the West Coast. He had happened
upon Ford’s Creek while on a drive to Yosemite, had been informed of the barn dance and invited to stay. In between exploration of the town’s surrounding hiking trails and dips in the river, Paul had been at the saloon all day. His drink of choice was whiskey, every time, although he enjoyed high quality tequila on special occasions. “Not just that cheap Jose Cuervo shit either.” He was near-sighted and had to wear his glasses day and night.
Susanna could not see the glaring, milky reflection of the moon on Paul’s glasses. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, but she could see a smile spread across his face, his teeth glowing white. He leaned into her, his hand brushing Susanna’s hand and thigh. Although she knew that inebriation clouded his judgment, her stomach flipped.
As they neared the covered bridge, the rush of the river beneath them was the rush of the blood pumping through Susanna’s veins. In the darkness, the bridge stretched to the rivers of Babylon; the opening at the other end of the tunnel was a mouse hole. Suddenly, Paul’s arms bound Susanna’s body to his, boa constrictors suffocating their prey, and he was pulling her deeper into the covered bridge and into his grasp. Her heart pounded. Her feet screamed for her to run. But Susanna’s body craved him. Paul’s intoxication lusted for her.
And Susanna succumbed.
Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled…TwoI’m going to tell my boy his daddy dreamed of model trains and heartbroken explorers
scaling small town barstools. “Pregnant?” Susanna’s father’s sunburned face reddened in anger. “What do you mean pregnant?!”
“Jesus, Dad, what does it sound like!” Susanna shrieked in retaliation. Her hands bolted
upward to clutch her concrete head. The pressure to tell him had been rising for two months. She knew she would have to tell him before her baby bump began to show, but she had been frightened. Now that the truth had been revealed, her fear of her father’s reaction was solidified.
Her father clenched and unclenched his fists. Dirt was permanently embedded into his skin, the thick black lines like protruding veins. “It was that wandering boy, wasn’t it? That fucking filthy guitar player!” The way her father was holding himself—head down, shoulders hunched forward, back arched—was like a dragon atop a horde of treasure, only the treasure clutched in his claws was the anger swelling in his chest and the blind rage burning behind his eyes.
Images of Paul swam through Susanna’s head. Blue eyes glazed over with lust. The reflection of the moon in his glasses. Paul’s arms encompassing her and the magnetizing darkness swallowing her, drawing her into the belly of the whale. It was all too much.
“He raped you! He did, didn’t he? Didn’t he!” her father roared, smoke billowing from his nostrils, the beast unleashed. “If he ever comes back here, I’ll kill him!” His rage finally boiled over as he slammed his fist into the wall. The wooden walls of the house shook and the only hanging portrait, one of Susanna’s parents on their wedding day, fell from the wall, glass shattering in the frame.
Susanna’s face was hot and words spilled out of her mouth before she could gain control. She was the feminine reflection of her father, pent-up anger spilling out as she screamed, “Well it’s not like he’s ever coming back, so you missed your only goddamn chance!” An eruption of tears exploded from her eyes, a lava trail billowing down her cheeks. She bolted for the door.
She had to hurt him. She had to make him feel the same pain he was causing her to suffer by refusing to understand. Her voice was cool, calm but menacing. “Oh, and, by the way,he didn’t rape me.” Susanna turned to glare, hand on the lever of the screen door, judging her father’s shocked expression, “I begged for it.”
His face fell; eyes wide, lips parted. Susanna saw his heart break in his eyes. His little girl. She hadn’t. She couldn’t.
“Susanna…” he started softly, but it was too late. Susanna shoved her way through the screen door, letting it slam shut. She heard the crack behind her as the door met the frame, a shotgun in the dark, but she didn’t look back. She ran down the path toward the covered bridge, down to the riverbank. Susanna wasn’t in love with Paul; she didn’t even know Paul. Throwing herself into the grass on the edge of the water, Susanna curled into a ball like the fetus growing within her womb.
Susanna was not in love with Paul, but the idea of raising a baby alone scared the shit out of her.
But this time, Lord, you gave me a mountain; a mountain you know I may never climb…ThreeI’m going to tell my boy that his daddy purposefully drove his stick-shift into the lake. Beneath the glare of the yellow and red spotlights, beads of sweat dripped down Paul’s neck, soaking into his crochet guitar strap. “Hey, can I get more monitor for the drums?” Paul requested. It was more of a command, but musicians have to have some level of polite formality if they want to function in the business, especially in unfamiliar venues with second-rate sound engineers. He strummed a few chords as the drummer tested his kick and snare; the engineer in the balcony above fiddled with the knobs and levels on his soundboard. The voices in the crowd bled together like watercolour; seemingly endless synesthetic stormclouds.
Paul grabbed the bottle of water sitting on his amp; he twisted the lid off, his left arm and right wrist working together like an electric can opener; he raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. The water bubbled and rippled as Paul guzzled it down. Peering down the bridge of his nose and around the bottle, Paul surveyed the crowd.
It was a good turn out. Paul was opening for, who knows, some popular local Portland band with a decent following; lots of tall, skinny, bearded boys in pea coats and John Varvatos pointed toe boots; lots of tall, skinny, hipster girls with dyed, unkempt hair, knee-high socks and short floral patterned skirts. They all looked the same—clones; warehouse distributed manufactured copies—all artistic; all organic; all fake.
Yet, Paul fit in perfectly—he had an uncanny knack for conformity, and he knew it. “With conformity comes power…” Paul’s high school psychology teacher had instructed him, and Paul had adopted it as his mantra. What Paul failed to acknowledge was the ending of his teacher’s lesson, “...but, once empowered, it is your actions that define you as a person.” Paul was a manipulator. Conformity as power was Paul’s way of flipping a big “Fuck you” to The Man, to get what he wanted when he wanted it. There was no hard work or patience in Paul’s life. He was a chameleon, changing his colours to attract mates. Women fell for it. They fell for him. He changed his colours to save himself from heartache and the clutches of only one woman.
As he scanned the crowd of phonies and potential one night stands, Paul honed in on one girl who, despite the lack of music, swayed in the center of the dance floor, a curtain of wavy brown hair draped around her face. She wore jeans tattered at the hem and ripped at the knees and a red Elvis Presley tank top. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. Paul’s eyes lingered on her. Although Paul was not picky with his women, he favored brown haired dancers. Not
professional dancers, but natural dancers—girls who had never had dance lessons in their lives but still knew how to meld their bodies to the music.
“Talk to her after the show, talk to her after the show,” Paul thought to himself, anchoring the decision in his heart. Eyes still locked on the dancer, Paul lowered the water bottle from his lips. As he screwed the lid back on, her green eyes flickered and locked on his. Paul smiled and nodded his head at her once; she flipped her bangs out of her eyes and returned the smile. It was a familiar action, one that Paul always took as a good sign.
With a signal from the sound engineer, the show was back on. “How about a cover?” Paul said, directing his statements to the dancer in front of him. “It’s a slow one, so grab your partner.” The drummer clicked his sticks four times; Paul began to strum his acoustic slowly, singing the sorrowful words. He watched as the dancer swayed alone to his singing. Her eyes were shut and a faint smile played across her lips. By the way she rocked back and forth with her arms by her side instead of crossed over her chest, Paul could tell, she was alone, but she wasn’t lonely. She was confident and she was beautiful, and Paul could not help but think about all the beautiful dancers he had loved for a night and left behind. Paul thought of Bakersfield and San Francisco and Eureka, and Paul thought of five months ago on the covered bridge, and Paul thought of Susanna. Eyes bleared with sweet dreams of Susanna, Paul sang the tender lullaby, “Girl, if I made you feel second best, I’m sorry I was blind, but you were always on my mind…”
FourI’m going to tell my boy his daddy built a home in the cab of his truck and drove on. Susanna clutched the bulge beneath her black dress. Seven months along and she was a blimp. Even though she was town royalty, even though her baby would be a prince of Ford’s Creek, the wives of the millers looked on her with pity. The millers tipped their hats and said, “Morning, Miss Ford,” or “Good afternoon, Susanna,” but mostly, people avoided Susanna, a difficult task in a small town. Of course, they would make small talk, they would offer her refreshments at barn dances, but no one ever asked her for a dance or invited her over for dinner. Even her self-attempts at community involvement—rocking babes in the daycare during Sunday services and barn dance clean-up crew—proved to be futile.
“I’m still the same Susanna!” she had cried in frustration at her father as they washed the dinner dishes.
“Ours are a simple people, Susanna. Simple and old-fashioned. They’ll come to when they see him,” her father responded, his attempt to soothe his only daughter.
A wet saucer slipped out of her hands and shattered on the wood floor by her feet. Susanna began to shake and sob, and when she turned to carry herself to her bedroom in defeat, she stepped on the pile of broken glass. The shards bit the soles of Susanna’s feet, their teeth embedding themselves in her skin. As Susanna howled in pain, over her cut feet and her ostracization from her own community—her own family—she hauled herself out the front door, leaving a trail of blood on the wood floor. Susanna plopped down heavily, the wooden stairs creaking beneath her weight. Her feet throbbed; her heart ached. Her baby kicked. Susanna wrapped her arms around her belly, holding herself together, holding onto the life that was falling apart and the life that was growing inside of her.
Slouched over, mouth as close to her stomach as she could get it, Susanna cooed to her baby. She hoped that her message would travel through her skin and womb and the amniotic fluid right into her baby’s ear. She hoped her baby could hear every word she meant.
“I hope it ruins your life when you find out your daddy didn’t even know about you.”
FiveI’m going to tell my boy his daddy died a war-hero. Susanna lay beneath a patchwork quilt, propped up against several fluffy pillows. It was just past midnight, when the coyotes cackled and the clack of their claws across the covered bridge could be heard clearly throughout Ford’s Creek. Her father dozed in the rocker in the corner of her bedroom, feet propped on a wooden stool. Cradled in the nook of her arms lay her son, a mess of black hair atop his head, blue eyes staring up at her. Susanna could not believe how big his eyes were, as big and bright as the harvest moon. For a moment, her gaze lingered on the window, the sheer, white curtain glowing as the pink moon beamed down on Susanna and her prince, reflecting through the double-paned window; reflecting off of Paul’s single-pane lenses, reflecting off his white teeth, reflecting off of the Jack Daniel’s bottle in his hand, reflecting off the surface of the rushing river and then drowning in the darkness of the covered bridge.
Shaking the images out of her head, she shifted her gaze back to her infant son’s face. He would look like Paul, Susanna knew, and he would have Paul’s essence inside of him somewhere, but she would never allow him to become his father. Elijah Paul Ford would bear his name proudly, would be valiant prince of Ford’s Creek. And, someday, if Paul were to return, were to come ambling across the covered bridge, were to knock upon Susanna’s door and ask her for a dance—well, Susanna would figure that out later. For a moment, she thought of Paul and the covered bridge, two bodies meeting and mingling and becoming one, two life sources giving birth to one glowing son. She allowed her mind to linger momentarily before drawing herself from her reverie. For now, she would focus on what was tangible, real and alive and in her arms and her son.
Elijah blinked up at her. A whiff of air blew out of Susanna’s nostrils as she sighed a laugh, a smile spreading across her face as she admired her baby boy. Elijah blinked and squinted and crinkled his nose at the onslaught, and Susanna continued to laugh.
“You are my boy,” she whispered, bringing her index finger up to stroke his round stomach. Tiny hands reached up to grasp Susanna’s finger; all five fingers wrapped around only half of Susanna’s index finger. Elijah grasped tightly. Susanna drew him closer to her chest. She could feel their body heat meeting and mingling and becoming one, two life sources giving life to one burning sun.
Take my hand; take my whole heart too, for I can’t help falling in love with you...
