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More about Teague
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More about Teague |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California 
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She was hungry and needed a shower, but she couldn’t keep her mind off what she had written before she fell asleep. She sat down and put her hands on the keys just to see if the same thing would happen again. She waited, her mind blank, her fingers gracefully placed in the starting position as her mind wondered back to the time before Sedona, to another life, it seemed. She thought about her Aunt Lolly. She had been the first person that she knew who died. Teague had only been seven. All she could remember of her aunt was the sound of bracelets and the fragrance she exuded that was like her mother’s handkerchief drawer. How sad that a living breathing person, with real tangible human qualities, a person with blemishes perhaps and dry chapped hands, who washed her dainty things by hand with a bar of soap and then admired them, sparkling clean and hanging on the line, and later breathed in the fragrance of sunlight, could be reduced to just bracelets and a handkerchief drawer. Teague wanted to be remembered for more than that. She wanted her writing to live for her, to catch a heart somewhere, long after she was gone. She thought about her marriage, six years of relative happiness and four of polite dinner table talk, then had come the voice. The voice had been hiding under the fabric of everyday life, waiting. Suddenly, she was back to the first morning that the voice had made her aware of her unhappiness. It was still as fresh in her memory as the day it happened. She had felt the bed shaking. She was dreaming she could dance on air. She pushed her foot down in anger, kicking her dog Dandelion, who was furiously scratching at the foot of the bed. She tried, but couldn't get back to sleep. She could hear Jim in the bathroom. She pictured him in the tub, his hair and beard covered with soap. Sitting up in bed, she had rotated her head round and round, her eyes still closed, wishing she could dream the day away. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face then opened her eyes. She remembered Jim saying, "Hi," and her mumbled reply. She had looked in the mirror feeling dizzy and disoriented, and that was when she became aware of an inner voice. She was talking inwardly to herself, but the words made no sense except for the empty unbearable yearning she felt which she understood completely. The voice said, listen to the silence of your life. She had retreated to the kitchen where she started fixing the coffee and putting some bacon in a skillet, going through the motions automatically, trying to still the voice with the sameness of her mornings. She went back to the bedroom and put her robe and slippers on. It was still dark as she opened the front door and searched for the morning paper in the moonlight. She gave the front page to Jim in the bathroom, then poured a cup of coffee and returned to the bed, where she turned the electric blanket to high. Again her mind spoke, and this time it really frightened her. Teague. You must look inside. Your life is on the brink. There is darkness around you. Open your eyes and see the treachery. Jim came in with the hair dryer and started blowing his hair dry. She put the paper down and went back into the kitchen. She turned the bacon and broke two eggs in a bowl and beat them with a fork. Jim had come into the kitchen then, wearing his new blue suit. He looked clean, sparkling and self-assured. She put her arms around him and leaned against him breathing in the smell of him, not wanting to move, wishing him to say something that would make the voices go away. "Come on, Honey," he said, disengaging himself. "I’m already late." She looked up and kissed him quickly. "I love you," she said. There was no reply. She put the eggs in a pan and scrambled them, and put the toaster down. When everything was ready she put the plate down in front of Jim, who was reading the newspaper. "Thanks, Honey," he said. She sat down beside him and watched the sky grow light out the kitchen window. Jim put his empty dish in the sink and picked up his briefcase. "Have a nice day," he said, giving her a quick kiss. She followed him out the back door into the chill morning air. He started the car and she watched him drive slowly down the street. Then the voice again: There is no beginning and no end, only now. I am in a black hole of now and cannot get out. I reach out my hands to touch, but there is no feeling anywhere, only emptiness. I don’t care. I am too tired to fight the cold breath of darkness that holds me. She had sat down on the front steps of that house where she had lived with Jim for eight years and cried until the morning sun crossed the porch and lit the camellia bush next to her. That had been the start of her realization that Jim was no longer in love with her. Later, he told her about the affair he had been having. He had told her of his love for another woman, someone with long blond hair and eyes the color of the sky. The scream that had been hiding inside became real then, and the darkness she felt was like the death of the essential part of her. Who would she be, if not Jim’s wife? Well, she had passed through that time of mourning and found that there was still a person left—the writing person, maybe even a loving person. She snapped out of her reverie and looked down at the blank page and began to type. "I must put my house in order. Hand, you place yourself there, leg, slope gently to the ankle please, this all takes time. I must matriculate into my years. Slowly now, the other side of youth is imminent. Everyone must graduate. God I’m tired of this same desolate day. I’m looking for a way to mend the cracks from this inner tremor. See me in the newness of this morning star? There is dust under the rug, I will write my name in it. Will you know who I am then?" Everything was so sad. She would sweep the dust under the rug and let the past be. It was time for new beginnings, time for her to write her name to the title of a best selling novel. She went to the closet and started pulling out her mother’s paintings. She was tired of burnt orange and brown and gold. She is going to add her own color to this room. She started lining up paintings on the floor. Color transformed the beige carpet into red and purple, deep blue and periwinkle. To heck with okra, she thought, I will have sunflower yellow and this almost black red of rose and here is the foggy gray mist of ocean. She had painted herself into the middle of a room of rainbows. She sat down then and wept. She wept for the child in her, for the wife who almost sold her soul, and she wept for the everlastingness of her mother that surrounded her. |
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| © Copyright 2000 Martie Odell Ingebretsen - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
Another glimpse of your longer work.. and I'm liking this! The time frames and setting are quite different, and I'm left wondering how she got from point A to point B. This one seemed a little more complete (Though neither are obviously, being from a longer piece) and I like it much! I'm definetly interested in seeing more of this! Abrahm Simons Put one foot on the path of life and tread the dagger's path betwixt dark and light. |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Excellent, Martie! I can 'feel' her pain and strength in this. MORE!!! Denise |
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