Fiction Night!

Disclaimer: this is fiction. However, there was one night, long ago, where I actually stood in front of a mirror on a New Year's Ever and said " This time, next year, you will be very happy." And I was. After leaving someone who was quite nasty. It was a good and brave thing to say out loud. 

Civil Wars

Jennifer Lynn McCarthy

Part One:

Invasion of a Well-Heeled Woman

The smell of desperation was thick. The pawn shop was full of odors competing for space. Mildew, cigarette musk, old sweat mingled in a room ripe with sadness that no amount of Lysol could remove.

Clare walked down a large aisle, straightening up confidently as the cavernous room swallowed the rays of hot sun that had momentarily followed her. Faintly, the minty smell of marijuana floated through the air and her mind went for a moment back to college. Along time ago, before her hair was refined into spun gold and her husband dazzled her with gifts of leather, pewter and hard rocks.

A door slammed, and two men sauntered behind the large glass cases, eyeballing the woman with the red lacquered nails and genuine handbag.

Among the other aisles, baseball caps jerked quickly down as she swept a glance behind her.

“Mexicans” she thought. “Always so quiet.”

It was time to get this sordid business over with. Clare stepped to the counter, stubborn chin out and haughty tone dialed down as much as possible.

“Yes, I have some things you might like to look at.”

She talked like she had been asked a question. She licked her lips without thinking and stood ramrod straight in her season- appropriate sundress and heeled sandals.

One of the men stepped forward. His cheap polo shirt had the pawn shop’s logo embroidered over a pocket and his gray eyes assessed her within seconds. 

“My name is Griff. What can we help you with today young lady?” Hand out, shook it and waited for her sob story. None came.

Clare knew who he was.

He was the “King of Deals” on his obnoxious tv ads for this store and he ruled this part of the town. The forgotten part of town where the paper mill ran 24 hours a day and the bad smells from its chemicals blew further east. 

The mill workers lived on bare wages. They were often deemed the “heart and soul” of the quaint town but were rarely treated with much heart and soul by its citizens. They were trotted out by Council Members, Chamber of Commerce leaders and the Mayor as tokens of American success. When the upper realm of the town had its holiday soirees and fundraisers, the mill workers were sent cheap hams from the grocery outlets and were most definitely never asked to the parties.

 The chemicals from the mill did not blow into Clare’s side of town. The town was probably built that way, a divine plan to keep the blue collar workers in a permanent state of stench while her friends lived near the warm breezes of sunsets, mojitos, inlets and bays.

Her husband used to call the paper mill workers “stink bugs.” He thought that was supposed to be funny. She always gave him a pass on dumb statements like this because he was college educated and so must have meant no harm.

Griff shook her hand lightly in an attempt to seem gentlemanly but it sent red flags up at once for Clare.

Clare pulled her hand away and remembered advice her Grandpa gave once:

“Never trust a big man with a small handshake.”

Clare opened a small soft bag she had in her purse and gently let her jewelry roll onto the greasy glass top. Emeralds, sapphires, platinum and pearls rested there, teasing her with old memories and false hopes. She had thought she would be sad at this moment, but now she wanted nothing but to get them out of her sight, now. She could have sold them online but had driven here with an urge to sell them for fast cash. To get them off her hands.

Griff made a big motion out of examining the pieces with a magnifying glass, getting out his phone to look up prices, pacing and winking at her like he was helping her out with a house loan.  The charade was ridiculous and both parties knew it. Clare would not get much for her jewelry, of this she was now sure.

The shop’s glass case was full of broken dreams, widowed promises and faded glory. Old wedding rings were placed next to medals of honor. Trophies piled up on one shelf next to battered hunting boots.

 Clare allowed some memories from her past to drift into her thoughts. Old family traditions with mom and dad.  Harder times, but peaceful times.  A past when getting one or two presents under the tree was a very big deal. A time when a trophy she won for swimming meant so much more than Italian shoes and dramatic highlights.

Something in Clare started to give way. Her belly did a small flip flop. She shifted around and noticed the quiet men with baseball caps putting items in their carts. One gracefully picking up children’s toys and looking them over, then placing them in a pile on the other counter ready to be taken home.

Griff came back to her, chest puffed up with pride and assured on all things shiny and bright. He was ready for a showdown, the kind he usually won.

“Well, I can offer you $700 for all these, but I don’t need this right now – pearls aren’t selling.”

The way his fat little pinky finger brushed aside her pearl bracelet made her instantly lose her cool. 

Clare snapped.

“Have you lost your ever lovin mind? Do you think I was born yesterday?”

Her eyes turned into blue sparks of fury and her red lacquered pointer finger turned into a threatening weapon as she jabbed the air about two inches from Griff’s chest. He raised an eyebrow as if amused but looked around for his coworker who had probably returned to their backdoor for another joint.

“Done! Done! Done with this good ole boy redneck bullshit! Done!  You can kiss this good stuff goodbye and thank you but no thanks!”

She grabbed up her jewelry and stuffed it into her purse, turned fast and practically flew out of the pawn shop. As the sun hit her face, she opened the door, inhaling the paper mill’s wafting breeze.

Clare whipped around, filling the door with her tall silhouette and casting a shadow down the aisle of the shop like some cowboy who had entered a saloon.

“By the way, your tv ads suck really bad! They do. And – you should be ashamed of yourself the way you rip people off in this town. All these poor people! Shame on you!”

The baseball caps stayed low, no one uttered a word. Time stopped. The vein on her forehead that her husband used to make fun of pumped blood so fast she felt dizzy. It stood out on her maintained skin like a red angry caterpillar.

With a huff, she opened the door to her champagne colored Jaguar and drove out of that red clay parking lot as fast as she legally could do it.

Just like that, Clare was back to her side of town. The side where parking lots are actually paved.  The good side of the town.  

Part Two:

Clare Lets Go

The wide expanse of her lawn invited her home with arms of ferns, live oaks and heavy moss. It was hot, early summer. The air was as heavy as the Chanel #5 that Clare had spritzed on her wrists on the drive home. She was trying to get rid of the pawn shop fog, one expensive ounce at a time.

She flung her purse on the custom kitchen counter and started her coffee maker. It was time for afternoon coffee, an old habit from her marriage. In those days, afternoon coffee meant something else altogether but it was a code word they could share and laugh at together. She changed into a comfortable two piece ecru linen outfit.

Clare allowed her eyes to find the letter. It had remained opened all these weeks, 3 pages of handwritten scribble scrabble that her husband had written. He had tried, in some pathetically sweet way, to write down all the reasons why he loved her, while proposing all the reasons why he just couldn’t be married any longer.

 His reasons ranged from “You’re too good for me” to “I need to find myself.” Every word was so clichéd that Clare was astounded at how she almost pitied him. Her husband of 18 years. All of their years melted down into three pieces of lined college ruled paper.

They had been best friends. They did not have children, by choice. They had chosen to better the world by traveling to exotic places, eating artisan foods, donating to charities (water resourcing and AIDS of course) and sharing thoughts on climate change. Both were from Southern towns and shared a nervous affinity for Southern food, politeness and genteel living.  They tried to always walk the fine line between old money snobbery and neuvo riche tackiness, and they did it very well.

 They decried the KKK history of the South and eagerly announced to people that they had black friends.

 They had a full life.

“Apparently, it’s not enough. Apparently, someone comes home from work, ready to order Thai food and sit on the gazebo and sees a letter sitting there, mocking every sense of reality. One person tells another what they need and what they need is not in their home,” Clare mused to herself. She was musing a lot these days.

 During the past few weeks, she had gone from being angry and astounded to other things. A constant sense of feeling lost.  Amazement at how illiterate he seemed in his letter. It seems all he learned in college was how to funnel beer, not how to form a nice sentence.

What bugged her most about her husband leaving was that they planned everything together. She felt left out. It was a bizarre thought but it stayed in the background of her mind. Her ego was more bruised than her heart, and she knew it. This would come to help her pain.

Clare folded the letter up tight. She didn’t need to see it right now. 

And they were still legally married.

She opened the French doors and brought her coffee to the gazebo. Their back lawn was like a golf course, rolling down to a bayou. It was orchestrated by the now wayward husband and a team of Mexicans. He always employed Mexicans instead of other local landscapers, calling them “good hard workers.” 

It was a weakness her husband had, hiring help to do things most husband do themselves. She used to admire how they could afford this help, now it seemed oddly incongruent with their environmental causes and urgent discussions about the plight of the poor. The past few weeks had been a mental unraveling of all of their marriage myths. Every couple has a few, Clare was making the uncomfortable discovery that her marriage had more than a few.

She propped her legs up onto a wrought iron table. Her husband hated it when she showed any sign of un-lady like behavior. Now, she could do things her own way. It was nice not asking him what he wanted for dinner and not having to listen to him talk about the deep meaning of “Mad Men.” Yes, she could prop her feet up now without disapproving smirks.

One of the Mexican workers came into view, baseball cap lowered and hedge trimmer in hand. He saw her and she gave a wave. He nodded quickly and hurried to their side yard. They were always on time. 

They never had questions. They just worked.

She knew his name was Matt. Which she thought was unusual because she thought Mexicans had names like Jesus or Enrique.

“Matt! Matt! Can you come here please?” Clare called over the stranger that had been doing her yard for eight years now, at least. Unacknowledged loneliness was doing its job.

He looked around, as if waiting for a candid camera crew.

“Yes Ma’am.” He stayed about 3 yards from the gazebo.

“How are you doing? Your family I mean?”

“Fine ma’am. Everything is looking good for Marie to start soccer this summer and Lilly’s due date is December 24.”

“Oh, how nice! Tell them all I said ‘hello’ please.”

Matt stood there, awkwardly not knowing if this weird conversation with his boss was over.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep hold you up.” Clare said.

“Dumb girl” She thought. “He thinks you’re crazy now and will probably quit soon.”

Clare had to remember her manners next time and not drag Matt away from his job. She knew as well as anyone in this town that if the Mexicans felt unwanted, they’ll move onto the burbs of Tallahassee. God knew the Russian workers who took over the hotel jobs would love to work houses like Clare’s and steal her kidney for the black market while she slept.

Her phone chirped in her pocket. Unknown number. Not her girlfriend Eva who had been calling like a champ every day to make sure Clare hadn’t driven off a bridge on purpose yet.

“Hello?”

A surprised little smile.

“Hi. Sure we can talk. What is going on?”

Silence as Clare sat up, crossed her ankles and

 straightened her back.

With the other hand, lifted her lukewarm coffee to red lips.

Sipped.

“What can I say.”

Silence.

“Good for you.” She spoke with a now growing Southern accent that seemed to arise when her temper got bad.

Then a sudden end to the conversation as she pressed the red “end” button as her soon to be ex-husband droned on to himself.

“Good for you.” Clare repeated out loud to the huge rolling green yard.

The next few minutes were ones that took Clare months to recall.

She had been let go. Her husband was truly done. In fact, he had found the love of his life.

The love of his goddamn life.

Really.

She seemed to glide back into her house, floating over her well- kept lawn and into the kitchen. She took those pearls, emeralds, sapphires and baubles and put them gently into a small gift box, surrounded by tissues. She taped it shut on all four sides. She remembered to breath out.

She felt on top of the cabinets for an old vice – Winston Light cigarettes and lit one. A habit that her husband had always hated. Clare knew it signaled some deeply buried distain for lower class people in him. Something that he would never recognize or acknowledge.

Instantly buzzing, she ashed into her deep custom sink that was perfect for rinsing over- priced organic vegetables. She opened a window and left the smoke fingers climb out. Her neighbors would probably smell it and call the fire department. Nobody in their circle of friends smoked anymore. Such a dirty habit.  So low class. She inhaled thoroughly once more.

 She remembered a box of hair coloring under her bathroom sink, bought on a whim.

Within the hour Clare had trimmed two inches off her hair (which would have to be helped tomorrow), dyed it auburn brown and made a pile of clothes to donate. She found Santana and played it loud.

Heart racing, from cigarettes and coffee she started dancing. It had been years since she danced.

The reproduction art in the hallway suddenly seemed like props. She danced down the long hallway, taking down each piece and leaning it on the wall. They would be great donations.

 Tomorrow, she planned to find her shiny toe rings bought on vacation in the Bahamas. She would dig out her old bohemian skirt and coordinate her toe rings with armfuls of loose loud bracelets.

 Tomorrow, she would continue to change her life. She would grow her own vegetables. The lawn would get made into charming rows of greens. She would make homemade soap. She would start knitting eco-friendly scarves made from fair-trade yarn. She would sell her Jag and get a scooter. She felt silly and childish with these thoughts.

In her bathroom, she looked in the mirror and said in a rather deep voice driven by emotion, caffeine and nicotine:

“This time next year, you will be very very happy.”

Back in the kitchen, she turned the box of jewels over and over slowly. Jewelry that was worth thousands. Each could be sold at small auctions through the internet for more. They held no value to her anymore.

 “Insane.” Clare spoke out loud to herself.

Then, she opened the side door to see if the lawn truck was still around.

She spotted Matt drinking water from a cooler. “Matt!”

She called him away from the crew getting into their trucks. Matt had been loyal for so many years. She never dared asked what her husband paid him for his labor. It would have insulted his sense of patriarchal Southern good heartedness. It suddenly hit her that their huge lawns and house looked like some miniature version of “Gone with the Wind.”

Yes, time to pull up roots and move or plow it up for a garden.

She slowed herself down.  

Felt the grass on her bare feet for the first time in a long time.

 The box held confidently in her manicured hand.

She spoke to Matt among quiet drones of distant lawnmowers. 

She spoke in a quiet tone about how she was selling everything and probably moving out soon. She spoke about how he was due a raise and how college for his children might be expensive. 

She asked him for discretion which he promised to give.

Clare said to Matt, “I have something to give you and your family.”  She breathed out.