Post by jeannerené on Jun 2, 2009 23:41:49 GMT -8
Synopsis: ... a family story of tragic consequence
REVISION post 10/25/2009
The heavy peg-door had been left open. A naked bulb, swinging violently from a loose electric cord, exposed the front porch. Trapped within the wrap-around veranda of the long-neglected Victorian, a hellish wind whipped the house with its own private cyclone. The carpet of brittle oak leaves covering the planks danced in mad circles, as if some irreverent spirit twirled in feverish merriment. And, like a chorus of mournful sopranos in the final act of a tragedy, the gusts wailed and flung their anguished torrent against the structure. The weathered planks rattled, shook and begged to be ripped from their frame. The bitter tempest whistled through the aluminum screen door, throwing it open with a jerk and pitching it back again with a bang, and so the screen, skewed and beaten, played on with unrelenting percussion to the wind's symphony.
The lights inside flickered in a wary vibrato of illumination on the bottom floor. Upstairs was dark and the whimpers behind the second-story window were heard only by the four walls of the unlit bedroom.
She sat on the second of five splintered steps that led up to the house. Feet crossed and toes twisting, Callie brushed the tangled golden tresses of her Barbie doll, not once minding the bang of the screen door or the fervor of the wind. Her own hair was slapping her cheeks and her gingham nightgown billowed about her bare legs, but she continued, unmoved, smoothing down Barbie‘s flailing nylon locks. It was near story time, as dusk had just bowed out of the day, giving the night a handful of stars to begin its reign. Callie glanced up at the star-scattered sky, and she looked out over the dry, dusty field and dirt road on the other side of the gate.
Evelyn's little girl was waiting, so she could ignore the rape of the wind and the frantic dance of the wizened foliage at her backside. She could silence the screams that echoed from the very soul of the house and ... just ... keep waiting. For a moment the screen door stopped banging and the girl turned only when she recognized the familiar tap-tap of Babe's paws across the porch. The old black lab jumped down to the third step and sat close to Callie. Reaching under Babe’s chin, turning white as an old man’s beard, the raven-haired child gave him a couple of gentle scratches, and smiled. Babe responded with a quick run down to the bottom of the steps and over to the open gate. He jumped up and down on his hind legs, a customary greeting for any visitor coming across the field.
The screen was held open again, as second set of footsteps came down onto the porch. A hand released the door, returning it to continue with its hounding rhythm. Callie waited for the heavy scuff of boots to draw near, and for the scent of new leather before she released Barbie from her clenched fist. She called to Babe, who returned to her with a bound up the steps, knocking the doll over the side and into the dirt.
In the distance, two headlights pierced the dark. The combination of wind and wheels kicked up so much dirt it appeared as if the vehicle was traveling with its own low-riding cloud. The dust cast across the headlights glimmered and scattered as if it was child‘s glitter. The old Toyota pickup slowed down as it passed Callie and Babe, honking a customary greeting, barely heard above the persistent gusts. The driver waved, a wave to say 'git inside girl, out of this weather' and then sped up again.
Callie watched the blue truck as it disappeared up the road and manuevered round the bend. She didn’t know the driver, but she knew the truck. She knew all the old pickups, blue with gray primer, white with gray primer, rusted with primer, that traveled this dirt highway, north to south, south to north, day after day. No real name to this road outside the city limits of Coalinga, just an unpaved, gutted path that carried familiar pickups packed with hired farm help, legal and illegal, to the fields, and faded green Oldsmobiles or beat up red Mustangs that taxied wives and children going into town to pick up the mail and groceries.
Weekday mornings, Callie stood in front of her house and watched for the yellow bus come down the road, stop and open its doors to take her to school. She looked out the window as her mother waved goodbye and went down the same dirt highway to and from town with other big-eyed children, nose to the pane. And afterwards, after school, when chores were done, Callie waited for her daddy to come down the very same dusty pass. She’d sit on the step with Babe and watch, waiting for his truck to rise up out the horizon. Some days his pickup never showed, but on those day when it did, it might have been better if it hadn‘t.
But each day, that long road had held promise for Callie. It had held a promise ... Tuesday afternoon. Now the sun had set on Tuesday's promise, the road lost to the twilight's horizon.
...to be continued
REVISION post 10/25/2009
The heavy peg-door had been left open. A naked bulb, swinging violently from a loose electric cord, exposed the front porch. Trapped within the wrap-around veranda of the long-neglected Victorian, a hellish wind whipped the house with its own private cyclone. The carpet of brittle oak leaves covering the planks danced in mad circles, as if some irreverent spirit twirled in feverish merriment. And, like a chorus of mournful sopranos in the final act of a tragedy, the gusts wailed and flung their anguished torrent against the structure. The weathered planks rattled, shook and begged to be ripped from their frame. The bitter tempest whistled through the aluminum screen door, throwing it open with a jerk and pitching it back again with a bang, and so the screen, skewed and beaten, played on with unrelenting percussion to the wind's symphony.
The lights inside flickered in a wary vibrato of illumination on the bottom floor. Upstairs was dark and the whimpers behind the second-story window were heard only by the four walls of the unlit bedroom.
She sat on the second of five splintered steps that led up to the house. Feet crossed and toes twisting, Callie brushed the tangled golden tresses of her Barbie doll, not once minding the bang of the screen door or the fervor of the wind. Her own hair was slapping her cheeks and her gingham nightgown billowed about her bare legs, but she continued, unmoved, smoothing down Barbie‘s flailing nylon locks. It was near story time, as dusk had just bowed out of the day, giving the night a handful of stars to begin its reign. Callie glanced up at the star-scattered sky, and she looked out over the dry, dusty field and dirt road on the other side of the gate.
Evelyn's little girl was waiting, so she could ignore the rape of the wind and the frantic dance of the wizened foliage at her backside. She could silence the screams that echoed from the very soul of the house and ... just ... keep waiting. For a moment the screen door stopped banging and the girl turned only when she recognized the familiar tap-tap of Babe's paws across the porch. The old black lab jumped down to the third step and sat close to Callie. Reaching under Babe’s chin, turning white as an old man’s beard, the raven-haired child gave him a couple of gentle scratches, and smiled. Babe responded with a quick run down to the bottom of the steps and over to the open gate. He jumped up and down on his hind legs, a customary greeting for any visitor coming across the field.
The screen was held open again, as second set of footsteps came down onto the porch. A hand released the door, returning it to continue with its hounding rhythm. Callie waited for the heavy scuff of boots to draw near, and for the scent of new leather before she released Barbie from her clenched fist. She called to Babe, who returned to her with a bound up the steps, knocking the doll over the side and into the dirt.
In the distance, two headlights pierced the dark. The combination of wind and wheels kicked up so much dirt it appeared as if the vehicle was traveling with its own low-riding cloud. The dust cast across the headlights glimmered and scattered as if it was child‘s glitter. The old Toyota pickup slowed down as it passed Callie and Babe, honking a customary greeting, barely heard above the persistent gusts. The driver waved, a wave to say 'git inside girl, out of this weather' and then sped up again.
Callie watched the blue truck as it disappeared up the road and manuevered round the bend. She didn’t know the driver, but she knew the truck. She knew all the old pickups, blue with gray primer, white with gray primer, rusted with primer, that traveled this dirt highway, north to south, south to north, day after day. No real name to this road outside the city limits of Coalinga, just an unpaved, gutted path that carried familiar pickups packed with hired farm help, legal and illegal, to the fields, and faded green Oldsmobiles or beat up red Mustangs that taxied wives and children going into town to pick up the mail and groceries.
Weekday mornings, Callie stood in front of her house and watched for the yellow bus come down the road, stop and open its doors to take her to school. She looked out the window as her mother waved goodbye and went down the same dirt highway to and from town with other big-eyed children, nose to the pane. And afterwards, after school, when chores were done, Callie waited for her daddy to come down the very same dusty pass. She’d sit on the step with Babe and watch, waiting for his truck to rise up out the horizon. Some days his pickup never showed, but on those day when it did, it might have been better if it hadn‘t.
But each day, that long road had held promise for Callie. It had held a promise ... Tuesday afternoon. Now the sun had set on Tuesday's promise, the road lost to the twilight's horizon.
~~~~~
...to be continued
