Here is it revised:
If I was to give it a title, I would call it "Amber"
Fifty-three gowns in two days, she knows he would prefer her in jeans – heck she would prefer jeans (and a get-a-way car). Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures, and her nanner zips, tucks and buttons one dress after another; her sister slouches on a red velvet divan and texts; one auntie hangs back questioning the queer look in her niece’s eyes.
Dress after dress, white upon white, all the white could not fix her thoughts…she loved who she loved – she had been wrapped in fifty-three different straight jackets and within a few days she will be bound in one of those contraptions for life…where’s the gaiety in that. In need of a break, she heads out for a bit of time with her best girl. Watching the sun set from their windy seats atop of Blue Hill Mountain, shades of red highlight the sky - the sky masking their blushing cheeks, the cold rock under them prevents them from putting on airs – so they sit in silence – holding hands. Her best girl is like a little radiator, so warm –so soft, they snuggle closer and enjoy the moment; the past is not thought of, the future is not considered only the moment…so warm, so soft, and so red.
Just one day till the shackles are welded closed around her limbs; her sister, mother and grammy arrive at her home to help with final preparations. Her soon-to-be greets them with a grumble from his recliner, feet elevated higher then his head; sporting his lucky Yankees cap, releasing a little gas, he loses himself in the game. Just one day to go…she hides; her sister knows right where to find her – in her closet.
Needing to escape the chaos of finalizations, she sneaks off to visit her Aunt, the aunt who does not usually miss a beat, the auntie who noticed the look in her eyes. Bringing along her best girl, the two sit for a spell, “Auntie, this is my good friend. My auntie loves the Simpson’s, check out this Rubik’s cube of Homer’s head – she can be pretty good at figuring out these head games.” The three girls sit and watch episode 345 of the Simpson’s together, nervous laughter and side glances until her auntie starts a game of Truth or Dare…she was never good at keeping things from her auntie…even as a small child:
“Your knees are ticklish; who are you going to marry? Barney? Big Bird? A Ninja Turtle?” Teases her Auntie
“Turdies, silly Auntie, I wuv Barbie.”
A child no more, the years and days have passed briskly by, the day of reckoning has arrived too quickly, she tries to write her fiancé a long over due Dear John; her hands tremble and she shuffles the pen from right to left – her hands as ambidextrous as her soul. The Fates hold her life but who holds her heart…
A few sprinkles of rain spatter against the windshield, “oh I hope their wedding does not get rained out” her mother frets.
“No matter what happens, it will be a good day” her grammy declares, “red skies at night – sailor’s delight”
The fifty-fourth gown, a restraint concocted of lace and tulle; the final fitting moments before the facade is to begin. Family, friends, co-workers; they are all there – all but her best girl. She thinks back a couple of nights ago to their time on the mountain and tries hard to feel the rock beneath her and to feel the warm, soft hand in hers.
Most everyone is gathering in the pews while, in the back room, she stands for the final alterations. Six of her nine aunts “oooo” and “aaaah” while her mother dabs at tears, her grammy takes pictures and her sister, unenthused, slouches in a chair and texts; one auntie hangs back, noticing, but no longer questioning, the queer look in the bride-to-be’s eyes. She stands on the stool while her nanner alters and hems. Stitching away, nanner leisurely pokes the needle in and gradually pulls it out.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry sweetie, I did not mean to pierce you with the needle.”
She offers a small smile of forgiveness for her nanner, then gazes down at the dress and at the red liquid seeping from a little hole in her leg… or is it from her heart…where is her courage, her strength, her heart; where is her best girl. The clock is ticking - the approaching ceremony is weighing on her like a drove of ominous black clouds, tears escape her eyes...blood trickles from the open wound…yet she feels… nothing.
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The rewrite solves all the earlier problems--we know exactly where we are and what's happening. The detailing is very careful, exquisite almost--gracefully moving between outer and inner, past, present, future.
ReplyDeleteBut for me the revision opens up new problems. The straitjacket and shackles are over-insistent: let the reader figure that out. Even the densest of us (me!) can handle that much of a leap. Unless you let the reader do it, we feel we're on a moving sidewalk we can't get off of instead of taking a nice stroll at our own pace.
Still, you now have the piece you are aiming for: complete, coherent, all of a piece, and for what it sets out to do and on its own terms-- just right.
I guess it's too late to yell at you for doing fiction on me, huh?
Yes, I see what you mean about the moving sidewalk, I was a bit afraid of that - straying to far from the point of that week.
ReplyDeleteHey, surprise though, before I did this rewrite I spoke with my niece, talked with her, took in her thoughts, read it to her and all that and this is a bit more on the accuracy track...maybe not complete fiction - nonfiction with a creative twist. :)