“No, I’m serious. I can’t leave, not with the boy here. He will need someone to take care of him.”
“He’s not an infant. He’s practically a teenager. He’ll be fine.”
“You were right,” Steve said. “Nothing about this is right or fair. I won’t leave him here alone. I would never be able to forgive myself.”
Al’s jaw clenched and his expression turned steely. “So what are you saying? That I’m a terrible person?”
“We all do what we have to do, Al.”
“Well, if only I could be as evolved as you, Steve. Suit yourself. You want to stay here and play mommy to some brat who will only grow to hate you for what you’ve done to him, go right ahead. Me, I’m doing the smart thing and getting as far away from here as possible.”
Without another word or so much as a goodbye, Al turned and ran down the curved drive to the street. He did not look back as he sprinted away from the house, finally disappearing around a twist in the road.
Steve turned and found the boy staring at him, his expression suggesting that he thought he had stepped into a den of lunatics. If he only knew the half of it.
“Mister, if you’re not going to buy any candy bars, I really need to get going.”
Steve smiled. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Evan.”
“Okay, Evan. My name is Steve. We have some stuff we need to talk about.”
With one final glance outside, Steve sighed and closed the door.
KINDRED SPIRIT
(Co-authored with Shane Nelson)
Vanessa Small looked up from the computer screen and said, “Who’s M. Hunter?”
Her husband Richard was at one of the bookcases in the corner, trying to make room on the already overburdened shelves for the new books he’d purchased earlier in the day. He slid a paperback into a space he’d created—it was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze it in—and said, “What?”
“There’s an email here from
[email protected]
.”
“Oh, that’s for me. Save it and I’ll read it when you’re done.”
Vanessa frowned at the screen. She and her husband shared an email account, and she was familiar with the email addresses of all Richard’s friends and co-workers. This one was new to her. “Who’s it from?”
“A new friend.”
“A new friend? Where’d you meet him . . . or her?”
Richard smiled at his wife, coming over to kiss her. “No need to get jealous. It’s a
him
. His name’s Mace Hunter, I met him online.”
“Oh, I see?” Vanessa said with a raise of her eyebrows. “My husband is meeting men on the internet. That certainly makes me feel better. What’s next, I’m going to catch you watching
Cabaret
?”
“Ha-ha, very funny, Ness. I met him on that book message board I post on. We seemed to have similar taste in fiction so we started chatting. Turns out he’s a writer, too.”
“Oh, really? Published?”
“About like me. Some limited success in smaller markets, but most of the big publications still thinks he sucks.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Washington.”
“State or D.C.?”
Richard frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger. “You know, I’m not sure. We haven’t talked much about our personal lives, mostly books and writing.”
“Have you read any of his work?”
“Yeah, we’ve traded a few short stories.”
“Is he any good?”
“Honestly, he’s a hell of a lot more talented than I am.”
“I’ll take that with a grain of salt.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re your own harshest critic, Rich. You’re much too hard on yourself.”
“Well, Mace has given me some very positive feedback on the pieces I’ve sent him, which makes me feel good.”
“I’ve always told you your stuff is great.”
“Oh, I know, I’m not discounting your opinion or anything, but it’s nice to hear from someone else who’s serious about writing, who’s also pursuing it as a career.”
“Sounds nice,” Vanessa said, turning back to the computer, checking through her emails. “Did I tell you I finally sold the McKenzie’s a house? We close next Thursday.”
“That’s great, Ness. The one on Magnolia Street?”
“No,” Vanessa said with a sigh. “They settled on a two-story Victorian on Scottsdale Avenue.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”
“That house is listed with Heathcliff Realty, which means I’ll have to split the commission with Margie Crews.”
“Well, half a commission is better than none.”
“Okay, all done here,” Vanessa said, pushing away from the desk. She left the email account open. “You can read your message from your boyfriend now.”
“You’re a riot,” Richard said, swatting Vanessa on the butt as she passed him on her way out of the office. Richard sat down at the desk and clicked on the message from Mace.
***
FROM:
[email protected]
SUBJECT: Feedback
Richard, I read the story you sent me, ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think this piece has a lot of potential. You create an ominous atmosphere right from the beginning, and an escalating sense of dread throughout the narrative. I do, however, have a couple of suggestions on how you could make this story stronger. The character of Aunt Ursula comes across as a tad schizophrenic. She is portrayed at alternate times as a senile old woman, a wise sage, a busybody, and comedic relief. A little more consistency of character is needed, I feel. Also, the implausibly happy ending seems tacked on to me. I almost feel like you were going for something darker then decided to pull your punches at the last minute. The ending as it now stands undercuts the power of the whole piece. My advice would be to not introduce the dues ex machina at the end and allow the couple to remain apart with their lives fucked up. I do think the story was very well written, with a tight, fast pace, and I definitely recommend you submit this one.
For that matter, you should be doing much more submitting than you presently are. You’re a damned fine writer, and if you had a little more confidence in your own ability and would get your work out there, I think you’d be quite successful.
And what about that novel idea you mentioned in your last email, the thing about the shape shifters . . . have you started it yet? It sounds intriguing, and I’d love to read whatever you’ve got written. Well, I’m going to get back to work. I should finish up this new story tonight and I’ll send it your way.
Mace
FROM:
[email protected]
SUBJECT: Unproductive
Hey Mace, good to hear from you. Thanks for the feedback on ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ You really picked up on some of the story’s weaknesses. The reason Aunt Ursula seems so all-over-the-place is because she is actually a composite of several characters I excised from the piece. As usual with my stuff, the story started to get a bit unwieldy and bloated, so I removed two characters and gave some of their traits and dialogue to Aunt Ursula, creating the multiple personality effect. As for the ending, the original version was much darker with Peter actually murdering Fiona instead of letting her live without him, but Ness hated that ending. So I went back and added the discovery of the letter Ursula had written before her death and the subsequent tearful reunion.
Ness liked that ending a lot better, but truthfully it bothers me, too. Maybe I’ll send you the original version to see what you think of it. I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to start on the novel, or even any new short stories for that matter.
It’s been a busy time at the paper. The other guy in my department quit, so for the moment I’m the only one writing obituaries for
The Granger Gazette
. At least I get to work mostly from home, but it doesn’t leave me with as much time to write as I’d like.
Then again, I remember reading stories of how King would work long hours in an industrial laundry then write in the basement at night. Maybe I’m not dedicated enough. I mean, I’m 35 years old; by the time King was my age, he was already a best-selling author. What have I done? Sold a handful of stories to publications that don’t even pay professional rates. I better stop before I depress myself. If all these old people in town will stop dying—ha-ha—then maybe I’ll be able to start something new. And this weekend I’m going to take some time to polish up some of my stuff and get it out there, as you said. Thanks for the encouragement.
‘Til later.
Rich
P.S. Are you in Washington State or D.C?
***
Early evening twilight filtered through the office windows when Ness got home. Richard barely heard the muffled sound of the door closing. His fingers tapped eagerly at the computer keys, eyes tracking the words he wrote. His face seemed bleached in the glow of the computer screen. Ness arrived in the office doorway, a briefcase in one hand. She had to call Richard’s name twice before he reluctantly drew back from the computer.
“Hey,” Richard said, leaning back in his chair and smiling at his wife. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“You must’ve forgotten I was coming home,” Ness said, irritation edging into her voice. “No supper tonight?”
“Oh, damn!” Richard said. He removed his glasses and began to clean them with his shirt. When he put them back on, he looked at the clock. Seven-fifteen. “God, babe, I lost track of time.”
He got to his feet and quickly crossed to where Ness stood, impatiently tapping one foot. He took the briefcase from her hand and set it aside. “Tell you what, I’ll order in Chinese. You can eat then take a nice hot bath.” He stroked her jaw, pushing back her hair.
She smiled. “And a foot rub?”
Richard grinned. “Of course.”
“I’ll take that bath now.” Ness sighed. “Delivery will take at least forty minutes.”
“Great,” Richard said. Cradling the back of his wife’s neck, he gave her a lingering kiss. She blinked in surprise.
“My, my,” she said. “What’s gotten into you?”
Richard kissed her again and said, “I feel inspired.”***
“Food’s on the way,” Richard said.
Vanessa had submerged herself in a tub full of white suds, her head laid back upon the end of the bathtub. Her eyes were closed, dark sooty lashes against her cheeks. She moved slightly, the water rippling, and sighed.
“Wonderful,” she said.
Richard sat on the edge of the tub and listened while Ness told him about her day. It had been hectic, with three clients who insisted on seeing everything in the city. Richard listened attentively, waiting for his wife to run out of steam. Ordinarily she didn’t ask about his day and he didn’t offer—Richard found that trying to talk writing with anyone who wasn’t a writer was akin to banging your head against a wall. Today, however, he was bursting with enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry about supper,” he said. “I got so caught up in my writing that I lost track of time.”
Ness made an inarticulate sound of acknowledgement—
hmm mmm
—and Richard continued.
“You remember that story I wrote, ‘And This Too Shall Pass’? Well, Mace had some terrific feedback and I made a few changes today. I really feel like I’ve got a winner now. And I started two more stories today—
two—
and I usually have trouble keeping one on the go. I haven’t felt this inspired since I was a kid. Back then it seemed like writing was
it
, you know? I love that feeling.”
Richard had hoped Ness would open her eyes and express her pleasure at his happiness. Instead she gently waved a hand in the water, making soft splashes, and said, “That’s nice.”
Richard sighed.
Ness opened her eyes and looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Richard said. He got to his feet, knees popping. Suddenly the computer in his office seemed to beckon. “I think I’ll do a bit more writing before the food gets here.”
“Hold on,” Ness said, sitting up in the tub. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Richard breathed another sigh. “It’s just that . . . ” He found himself stumbling again, as he always did when he tried to discuss his writing with Vanessa. She couldn’t understand the fear, frustration and passion. That was what made Mace so great.
“Just that what?”
“I feel like you don’t understand my writing and how I feel about it,” Richard said. “I know I’m not that good at making it easy to understand, but I wish you got it a bit more. You know . . . the passion I feel.”
“I get it, Richard. Really, I do. I mean, I’m not a writer so I can’t really relate, but I know how much you love it. It’s great that you had a good day and got carried away with your stories. I only wish you hadn’t gotten carried through supper.”
“That’s the thing,” Richard said. He crouched by the tub again and reached into the warm water, touching Ness’s shoulder, seeking connection. “
Passion
does that. It makes you forget about the world around you. I haven’t felt that for my writing in
so
long. I was so happy, and I wanted to share it with you.”
“I’m glad,” Ness said.
“Writing is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Richard explained. Ness was listening now. “For as long as I can remember. Didn’t you ever have a real, honest-to-God passion?”