Meet Me at Michelle's!

Dear Friends, Followers, and Passers-By,

I am very pleased today to be a guest at Michelle Fayard's blog. Michelle bills herself as a "pre-published author of edgy historical novels," and I will add that she is a generous presence in the blogosphere. She hosts fellow writers regularly and so provides a wonderful opportunity to build the dialogue with new friends and potential readers. I hope you will hop over to her site, where you will find Michelle's interview with me as well as the opportunity to win a copy of my novel, The Somebody Who.

See you there?

Maybe Really Ready Damnit – My Experience Building an eBook

I cleared a major hurdle last week when I created a Kindle version of my novel. It’s something that had been on my to-do list for months. It’s also something I avoided because I knew that, at a certain point, I’d have to do some technological things I’ve never done before.

The whole process took about 40 hours, and that time might have been cut in half had I had a final copy of the manuscript in Word format. But, alas, I didn’t. You see, back in the summer of ’08, the last few rounds of editing were done during the time that the novel was with the PDF chick. Accordingly, the only final copy I had was in PDF. And so, beginning a few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure (not!) of copying the entire manuscript into a Word document, and then going through it, line by line, reformatting the text to ensure each paragraph filled the page from left to right. And offline, I had to keep a copy of the paperback open so I could capture the formatting of the dialogue correctly.

It goes without saying that it is impossible to catch every line break when doing this sort of exercise on a manuscript that represents a 332-page book. So, when I embarked on the final several steps Sunday before last, I knew that I still had quite a few hours ahead of me.

Make that 15 or so…

Consulting the Easy Instructions provided on the Amazon site, I saved my newly formatted manuscript as a Web, Filtered (HTML) document (but not before copying it, so as to still have access to the Word document). I believe I called this first HTML (and its corresponding Word doc) “MSS Sunday afternoon.”

Then, I downloaded the software (Mobio-something-or-other) that would take me on the next leg of my journey.

You need to know something about me: any time I am required to download a new software, I get very nervous. (Seriously; I physically shake.) I’m just not sure it will work, and I am convinced that when it doesn’t, my computer will blow up in my face, the world will stop spinning on its axis, and George W. Bush will be reinstated into the White House before the end of Obama’s first term. No, it’s not that I have a tremendous sense of power. Quite the contrary – it’s pure, unadulterated paranoia.

But, wonder of wonders, I was able to download and install the software without a glitch.

One small step for most people; one giant leap for me and my kind.

Then, I followed the instructions to “build my ebook.” And I gotta say, people, these really are easy instructions.

Once I’d done that, I then had to confront my download/install fears again – this time to enable access to the Kindle Previewer. I was not yet feeling entirely confident as I hit all the correct buttons (but at least I had stopped shaking).

With that step behind me, I was on to the next: retrieving the ebook so I could review it on the Previewer.

I hit the necessary buttons and voila, my novel appeared before my eyes as an ebook. Immediately, I realized I needed to lower the minimal content on the title page, so I made a note of that. Within several pages, though, I realized that note-taking was not the way to go. So, I retrieved the document entitled “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I went back and forth between it and the version in the Previewer. I caught a few formatting issues as well as dozens of premature line endings that I’d missed the first time around. When I reached the final page, I thought I was good to go.

I closed the Previewer, returned to “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I saved it, this time calling it, “MSS Ready Maybe.”

I then returned to Mobio-whatever, created a new ebook from this second version and uploaded it into the Previewer.

Damn! More issues I hadn’t overlooked!

So, I once again retrieved the document, but even as I did, I had a bad feeling… when I saved it as an HTML, I did so without also saving it as a Word document.

Sure enough: I could not make changes within the saved HTML document. I’d have to return to “MSS Sunday afternoon” (though it was about 9pm at this point) and find the newest issues as well as the dozens of old ones. But this time, I made a copy first. I called it “MSS Sunday Night.”

Back to the Mobio, I created a new ebook and returned to Kindle Previewer.

My eyes were starting to glaze over, but I was at least achieving some kind of rhythm.

A few hours later, I had a new version, in both Word and HTML. I called this one “MSS Ready Damnit.”

But it wasn’t. I’d have to wait until Monday to pick up where I’d left off. There was no trusting my brain-eye-hand coordination at this point. I was fried.

On Monday afternoon and evening, I went through two more reviews. I called the first of the two “Maybe Ready Now,” and I dubbed the second “Really Really Ready.”

And what that ultimate “really really ready” status meant was this: I’d have to hit the scariest buttons of all. The ones that put my novel out there to the Kindle-reading public.

The final steps were pretty simple in terms of key strokes. I had to register an account, name my price, etc. And when all was said and done, I hit that final button.

And I immediately freaked.

What if I hit the wrong button? What if I had sent “Ready Maybe” or “Ready Damnit” instead of “Really Really Ready?” Or what if I totally erred and just uploaded a grant proposal that I recently drafted for one of my clients? What if a nasty note sent to my landlord is now an ebook entitled The Somebody Who?

People with Kindles (I’m not one of them) will have to let me know. I imagine the reviews will be some indicator. I.e., if a review states that the grant request is valid, but the competition is too severe at this time given the Foundation’s limited resources, then I’ll know I hit the wrong button. Likewise, if someone, reviewing the ebook, lauds my use of expletives when describing a plumbing problem, then that also will indicate a user error on my part.

But I think it should be okay…

And, may I add, now that those hours are behind me, I think it’s quite remarkable what technology allows us to do. I also am grateful for the learning curve I recently scaled. In retrospect, it wasn’t such a bad process because I gained knowledge through my mistakes.

In fact, the next time I want to create a Kindle ebook, I may act downright cocky.

I might even do it with my eyes closed.

(God knows, they need the rest!)

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Nine

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

III

“Claudia!” Evelyn says, entering the kitchen to see how dinner preparations are coming along, “I’ve been making Thanksgiving plans.”

“What’s that?” asks Davy, looking up from The New Yorker.

“Thanksgiving,” Evelyn says. “We make turkey and enjoy our family and friends.”

“Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

“And you will! And Claudia,” Evelyn says, leaning into the counter and smiling, “I was wondering if you and Gabriel would like to join us. Not to work, but to be our guests.”

“Oh,” says Claudia, genuinely taken aback and rather touched. “That’s very nice. I’ll ask Gabriel. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Or you can let me know next week!” Evelyn says. “Just know that you’re invited.”

“Am I there, too?” Davy asks.

“Yes, Davy, I am also inviting you to Thanksgiving. Do you plan to attend?”

“I could try, I guess.”

“Good. Because I’m also planning to invite your friend Gus. Maybe you and he could do a little musical improv.”

“We could?”

“You might! Anyway, I’m going to call the piano tuner tomorrow and schedule an appointment. Just in case.”

“But I don’t have it,” Davy says.

“You don’t have what?”

“A piano.”

“We have one in the living room.”

“Okay."

IV

Evelyn decides to empty the dishwasher before heading up to the Quilt Room. She is amazed by her energy. She feels light and focused, as if a three-year fog has lifted and her vision is clear.

She listens to the television with which Davy is sleeping. Sounds like a sit-com. Tame enough. But she knows that the line-up could change before she checks in on him again, so she goes into the family room and turns the volume down a bit.

In the dining room, she reaches for the one remaining bottle of wine. And when she has retrieved it, she realizes, much to her chagrin, that this is the cheap stuff Angie brought. “Oh well,” she says to the nondescript label, grabbing the corkscrew and relieved, in a way, that this bottle actually has a cork.

The sound of the pop is not exactly encouraging, and she sincerely hopes that she will not soon be tasting something that would make a semi-decent salad dressing. She pours a taste into her glass and then raises the glass to her lips.

“Hmm,” she says, after a moment. “That’s not as bad as I expected.”

She fills the glass and repairs to the second floor.

Before entering the Quilt Room, she goes into Adam’s room, crosses to the windows and opens one. She leaves the door to his room open so that the breeze will touch her back throughout the next few hours.

* * *

to be continued on June 18th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Eight

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

II

Evelyn’s afternoon in the study is relaxing and productive. She pays a few bills, re-organizes the cubbyholes in the rolltop desk, and begins to make a list for Thanksgiving. Much to her surprise, the list is indicating a party. A large party. A feast.

“Am I nuts?” she says to no one, tapping her pen between her upper and lower teeth and taking a look at the list.

Spontaneously, she reaches for the phone and speed dials #03.

“Judy!” Evelyn says, after her daughter-in-law, who is out of breath for some reason, says a quick “Hello.”

“Evelyn! How are you?”

“I’m great,” Evelyn replies, “and I’m thinking about Thanksgiving. Have you made plans?”

“God,” Judy says, “that’s what—two weeks from tomorrow? No, as a matter of fact, I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Well, I’m thinking about having a gathering here. Interested?”

“What, and have no mess of my own to clean up?! That hardly sounds right!”

“I take that as a ‘yes.’”

“Absolutely. Listen, Ev—, I gotta run. Today has been crazed from the get-go.”

“I understand. We’ll talk later in the week.”

“You got it.”

After they both hang up, Evelyn finds “Patrick and fam” on the list. She writes a “5” in the column on the left and circles it.

Evelyn is about to make another call, but before she has a chance to hit the next speed-dial buttons, the handset rings.

“Hello?” she says.

“Evelyn! It’s Angie! So, so sorry I have been out of touch!”

Evelyn, not having considered that Angie had been out of touch, is at a loss for what to say. Fortunately, she doesn’t need to say anything just yet.

“Anyway, Ev, I was just looking at the calendar. How did it get to be the middle of November already? I just cannot keep up, you know?”

Whatever, Evelyn thinks.

“So, anyway, I was wondering what you folks are planning to do for Thanksgiving. I don’t suppose you’re staying in town, are you?”

What a ridiculous question, Evelyn thinks. Our two children who have families live in town. Davy has Alzheimer’s. Where might we go for the holiday? On a “cruise to nowhere?”

“Well, Angie,” says Evelyn, trying not to sound as disinterested as she actually feels, “I was just starting to make some calls, in fact. I think we’re going to do Thanksgiving here this year. Would you care to join us?”

“Oh, Ev, you are a life saver! I would love to join you! I have just been so—oh, hey, can you hang on a minute? I’ve got another call coming in.”

“Sure,” says Evelyn.

The limbo of “hold” is okay with Evelyn. And she frankly doesn’t care if Angie spends the rest of her afternoon on that other call. It’s her dime, after all.

But, having been so productive up to this point, Evelyn chooses not to waste these moments. She scans the list in front of her so as to enter a “1” beside Angie’s name. And then, having attempted that exercise, she smiles in bewilderment. As it turns out, she had neglected to include Angie’s name on the list.

“Interesting,” Evelyn says to her list, as she adds Angie’s name to the bottom and annotates it with a circled “1” in the left column.

“Interesting,” she says again, still on hold.

Evelyn waits another thirty seconds or so, and then she realizes that this is absurd. She should not be hanging on the phone like this. She should not be allowing someone to be so disrespectful. She holds out the phone so as to hit the button that will cut off this waste of her time. But just in that moment, she hears a voice. She brings the phone back to her ear.

“Evelyn!” Angie says, having returned to the line breathless. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Angie. Really. It’s okay. I, uh, need to go, though. So…we’ll see you in a few weeks?”

“I’m looking forward to it, Evelyn, I really am. And of course, I’ll give you a buzz a few days ahead to see what I can bring.”

“Sounds great,” says Evelyn. “Talk to you then.”

Evelyn hits the Off button and continues where she wished she could have gone. “Sure, Angie,” she says to the turned-off phone, “how about a case of that three-dollar wine?”

* * *

to be continued on June 11th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Seven

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

CHAPTER TWO

I

“So, how was the event?” Claudia asks Evelyn, when she finds her way into the kitchen late the next morning.

“Oh, Claudia, it was so lovely,” Evelyn replies, making her ritualistic beeline to the coffeemaker. “The Waldorf was gorgeous, as always. The food was good. I saw an old friend. Davy’s art was auctioned off for some amazingly high prices—

“Is he?” Evelyn then asks, interrupting herself.

Claudia nods, indicating that he is indeed, and once again, asleep with the television.

“Anyway,” Evelyn continues, “it was really touching. And, of course, I had a great time with Joy.”

“I’m glad for you, Evelyn. You know, I’d be happy to do that again. Spend the night, I mean.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? It’s a good deal, getting Friday off!”

“Good, then,” Evelyn replies, remembering her plan to call Adam, “because I think I might be going into the City for dinner sometime soon.”

“A hot date?”

“I’m too old for a hot date, Claudia!” Evelyn says, in a tone that mocks scolding.

The phone suddenly rings, causing Evelyn to make a dash to the family room. And by the time she gets there, Davy is stirring.

“Hello, dear!” he says to his wife, as she reaches for the handset beside his chair.

“Good morning,” she replies to him, before pushing the Talk button.

“Hello?” says Evelyn, into the phone.

“Good morning!” says Davy, from his chair.

“Evelyn!” the caller intones enthusiastically.

“Yes?” Evelyn replies, somewhat tentatively.

“It’s Ashley!”

“Oh! Ashley! I didn’t recognize your voice. How are you doing this morning? I hope you were able to take the day off after your fabulous success last night.”

“No, I’m at school. But, I’m letting all my classes sort of have an improv art day. I am definitely too tired to teach.”

“Well, your event was fantastic. We had such a good time, and my goodness, you did a lovely job matting and framing those pieces!”

“They looked good, didn’t they?”

“They really did,” Evelyn says, smiling down at Davy and wishing he could have seen his work so beautifully presented.

“So, who won?” Evelyn asks then, having not learned, by the end of the night, whether Gus or his competitor had walked away with the prize.

“Gus did; isn’t that great? The final bid was eleven-fifty.”

“One thousand one hundred and fifty?” Evelyn asks, amazed and delighted.

“Yup. How ‘bout that?”

“That’s… remarkable.”

“And, Evelyn, Ed Thomas—the other bidder—is still interested.”

“What do you mean?” Evelyn asks, feeling herself flush a bit at the mention of Mister Two-First-Names.

“Well, he called Elder Haven this morning, and they called me. He is wondering, apparently, if there are more of Davy’s pieces available for sale.”

“Really?” Evelyn asks, quite astonished by her husband’s sudden popularity.

“So, I’m calling to see if I can pass your number along to him.”

“Well, I guess...” Evelyn says, not at all prepared for the feeling of intrigue that is surging through her veins right now. “I mean, I don’t see why not.”

“Great. So I’ll do that in the next day or so, and I imagine you’ll be hearing from him,” Ashley says. “He seems like a really nice guy, by the way. Apparently, he lost his wife to Alzheimer’s.”

“Yes,” Evelyn says, looking at Davy, who has fallen back into his nap. “He mentioned that last night.”

“Anyway, I need to get back to class. Expect a call from Ed, and please pass my number along to Joy. I’d love to hook up with her some night when I’m in her neighborhood.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Great. And, hopefully, our paths will cross again, too!”

“Let’s make a point of it.”

“You got it. Have a great day, Evelyn.”

“You, too.”

* * *

to be continued on June 4th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Six

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

XIII

Evelyn has changed into her household sweats by the time she enters the Quilt Room. The smile on her face more serene than usual, she doesn’t sit down right away. Instead, she stretches. And one stretch leads to another.

And another.

It’s as if Evelyn cannot stop stretching.

In some way she doesn’t quite grasp, Evelyn is feeling her body open up. Each opening leading to another portal. Each portal leading to another opening.

At a certain point, Evelyn is very close to being able to kiss her own kneecaps.

Not bad, she thinks, for a woman who is two years shy of seventy.

Then, she shifts her focus to the project. The bowl of folded-up papers. She exhales and takes her seat.

She looks to the bowl, which became full again four or five days ago, thus signaling the beginning of Round Two. “Okay,” she says to no one. “Let’s get to it.”

She draws a square and unfolds it. PATRICK, AGE 11-14.

Evelyn finds the box, brings it back to her work area and places it in front of her.

So, Patrick, she thinks, as she begins to open the box. Do you have something for me?

Evelyn pulls out a polo shirt, clearly from the higher end of the age range. Though she likes the lime green color, the shirt has no history, no meat. She casts it aside, adding to the pile she will ultimately take to the thrift shop. Three polo shirts later, she comes upon a tee shirt that Patrick received from his summer camp, a co-ed experience in the Berkshires.

Looking at the logo and the Camp Hickory name, which appears to be constructed out of perfectly rectangular tree branches, Evelyn remembers a discussion that raised more questions than it ever answered.

Evelyn and Davy were sipping after-dinner coffee while sitting side-by-side at the counter. It was a cool, April night, and a nice backyard breeze floated into the kitchen through the sliding screen door.

Evelyn wanted desperately to enjoy the breeze, but Adam, who had just turned eleven, was on her mind. That day, he had announced, rather forcefully, that he did not want to go to Camp Hickory that summer.

“But it’ll be good for you to get away for a few weeks, sweetheart,” Evelyn had said, not understanding her son’s lack of enthusiasm and thinking she might be able to change his mind.

“You can’t make me!” he then said to her, tears welling up in his eyes.

“But I thought you had fun there last summer!” Evelyn countered, feeling surprised and confused by his firm and emotional pronouncement.

“I don’t want to go!” Adam stated again.

When Evelyn shared this information with Davy before dinner, his response had been typically relaxed. He shrugged his shoulders and suggested that they talk about alternatives. He didn’t seem concerned that Adam was so vehemently opposed to Camp Hickory. And that lack of concern allowed him to let it go.

Evelyn, however, could not let it go, and because she didn’t feel like being alone in her obsession, she brought it up again.

“Couldn’t you just talk to Adam about it, Davy? I just think it’s better if he goes there. I mean, we know Camp Hickory. It’s not too far away. It’s affordable. They offer a nice variety of programs.

“Patrick always loved it,” she added then, after a pause.

“Patrick always loved what?” their older son asked, entering the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetie,” Evelyn said, smiling at her grown-up boy. “Did you have fun with Michael and Ray?”

“It was okay,” replied Patrick, who was home on Spring Break and had just met up with some former high school pals.

“Where’d you go?” asked Davy, his voice the most energetic in the room.

“The Canteen,” Patrick responded, opening the refrigerator door and surveying its contents.

“Of course,” Evelyn commented. “That’s where everybody goes.”

“It wasn’t too crowded, actually,” Patrick said, his tone of voice even. “But I didn’t get much to eat.”

“Pull out that casserole dish on the third shelf,” Evelyn suggested.

Patrick opened the lid of the casserole and nodded in approval. The macaroni and ground beef dish was always one of his favorites. He then closed the fridge door and, casserole in hand, he ambled over to the counter. Standing across from where his parents were sitting, he opened a drawer, retrieved a fork, and began to eat the cold casserole directly out of the serving dish.

“Patrick!” his mother exclaimed, assuming a scolding tone.

“What,” asked Patrick.

“Don’t you want to heat it up?”

“No. This is fine.”

“Well, how about a plate? Wouldn’t you like to scoop some onto a plate?”

“No. This is fine.”

Davy laughed at the mother-son interchange. “It’s efficient!” he suggested.

“Thanks for the support, sweetie,” Evelyn said tamely to her husband.

“So you were talking about me when I came in,” Patrick said then, between bites of cold casserole. “Something I loved, apparently.”

“Camp Hickory,” Evelyn stated. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“It was pretty cool. Yeah, I liked it. Why? Are you thinking about sending me there as a graduation present?”

“No, we were thinking about giving you a car,” Evelyn responded, with a facetiousness that was obvious to all of them.

“Great,” Patrick said. “Then I can drive to camp.”

“Oh, you’re such a smart-ass!” Evelyn commented then.

“He got that from you, you know!” she then said to Davy, love in her eyes and a playful lilt in her voice.

“No,” Davy said. “I think he’s better at it than I am!”

“Glad to make you proud, Dad,” was Patrick’s contribution, delivered in the monotone that he often used to get attention.

“Patrick, you do make me proud,” Davy said, smiling at his son. “You make me very proud. But not because you’re a smart-ass.”

“Thanks, Dad. So, what’s the deal with Camp Hickory? Any reason it’s the hot discussion topic tonight?”

“It’s Adam,” Evelyn responded. “He told me today that he doesn’t want to go there this summer. He was very serious.”

“Really,” said Patrick, a hint of inflection in his voice.

“So what do you think, son?” Davy asked then, more interested in the situation, apparently, than he had indicated to Evelyn earlier.

Patrick, having finished the leftover casserole, walked the dish to the sink and ran water into it. As he reached for a paper towel to wipe his hands, the energy in the kitchen took on a suspenseful tone. Evelyn could tell that Patrick had an opinion. She knew that her son was taking his time to find the best possible way to express that opinion. And as he continued to buy that time, he walked to the fridge and retrieved a bottle of beer. Returning to his place at the counter, he twisted off the cap and placed it on the counter. Took a swig. Placed the bottle on the counter.

“Adam is different,” Patrick said finally, noticing the engrossed expressions on the faces of his mother and father. “Don’t get me wrong. I love him like a brother. But he’s not a normal kid.”

“How do you mean?” Evelyn asked, cradling her coffee mug.

“He just doesn’t seem to enjoy kid things, you know? I don’t know how else to explain it. Anyway, I think if he doesn’t want to go to camp, then he shouldn’t have to. And,” Patrick added, taking another swig of beer, “I kind of admire him for speaking up. I think that took a lot of courage.”

“You did like Camp Hickory, though, didn’t you, Patrick?” Evelyn asked then.

“I thought it was great!”

“Hmm...”

“I think I’m gonna watch some TV upstairs. Okay with you guys?”

“Of course!” Evelyn responded, surprised that Patrick was asking their permission. “Of course!”

After Patrick had left the room, Evelyn turned to her husband. “So?” she asked him, the question obvious.

“I don’t think we should force Adam to go to camp if he doesn’t want to. And it’s interesting,” Davy added, “I’d never considered this before, but I think Adam might feel the way I did when I was a kid.”

“How do you mean?”

“When I was a kid, I felt, I don’t know, out of place a lot of the time. Like I wasn’t meant to be a kid. I think I was always meant to be an adult.”

“But, Davy,” Evelyn chides, smiling, “you act like a kid now!”

“That’s right. And being a kid as an adult is a hell of a lot more fun than being a kid as a kid.”

“You’re a nut,” Evelyn said, leaning into him for a kiss.

What strikes Evelyn now is that Adam still does not act like a kid. He just cannot seem to escape the earnestness that wakes him up in the morning and takes him through his day’s activities. She wonders if Davy’s observation that night had been correct. She understood it then. And she appreciated it. She even chose to believe that it was true. But Davy’s comments weren’t really about Adam; they were about Davy. Adam’s true identity, apparently, seemed to elude both of them.

Evelyn makes a mental note to call Adam tomorrow. She was planning to speak with him soon, anyway, to see if he will be coming home for Thanksgiving. But she now realizes that regardless of his holiday plans, she needs to make a date. Go into the City, perhaps, and have dinner with him. He’s clearly been haunting her. How else was he able to take possession of the foray into Patrick’s age 11-14 box of old clothes?

* * *

to be continued on May 28th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Five

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

X

A third of the way into the program, when the guests are enjoying their entrees of herbed chicken, basmati rice and steamed vegetables, the evening’s Emcee returns to the stage. Evelyn looks at the program again. Although her thoughts were elsewhere when the Emcee was introduced initially, the woman seems familiar somehow.

Who is she? Evelyn wonders, flipping through the program. I know I’ve seen her somewhere.

As the Emcee proceeds to recount her own experiences with Alzheimer’s—“Grammy’s slow demise”—Evelyn finds the page with the Emcee’s bio. That’s it! Evelyn thinks, looking at the photograph. She’s that bimbo anchor from The Crime Report. Talking about the 7-11 heist or the pulled-over semi on the Hutch as if it were comparable to news from the Middle East. That’s who she is!

Evelyn closes her program and looks up, but not without meeting Joy’s curious glance.

“So,” Tiffany Broadbent concludes, “I understand what you all are supporting tonight. And, on behalf of my Grammy, I want to say ‘thanks.’”

She wipes away her tears during some extended polite applause.

“Thank you,” she says again, her teeth perfectly bleached, her posture studied. “And now!” she says, her tone changing, as per directions in the script, “I have been asked to announce that the silent auction is going to close in five minutes!”

There is a great deal of shuffling in the room.

“Bidders, this is your last chance!” Tiffany continues. “If you want to make sure you win one of the fabulous items we have put up for auction tonight, go now and make that closing bid!”

Gus and Ed both leave the table, and Evelyn turns to Joy. “I know it’s Davy’s art,” she says to her daughter, “but I kind of feel like I’m being fought over!”

“And are you enjoying it?”

“Kind of,” Evelyn replies, nodding slowly and shrugging.

XI

“Oh, honey,” Evelyn says to Joy, as they hug goodnight on the platform at Grand Central, “thank you so much for joining me tonight. That really was fun.”

“That was. Thank you. Now, are you going to be okay getting home?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one asking that?”

Joy smiles at the irony. “How about this?” she suggests to her mother. “Call me when you get home, and by that time, I’ll be home, too. Then, we’ll each know that the other is okay.”

“It’s a deal,” says Evelyn, hugging her daughter again before entering the virtually empty train that will deposit her in Westchester within the hour.

XII

Per their agreement, Evelyn calls Joy as soon as she gets home. Joy is home, too. And their mutual safety makes them both feel all the better about the wonderful night they shared. They don’t engage in a long conversation because doing so is unnecessary. They each know they will talk together again very soon.

After hanging her leather jacket in the hall closet, Evelyn goes upstairs to look in on the sleeping. She opens the door to the master bedroom. Davy appears to be in deep REM in the bed she shares with him. And down the hall, in Joy’s old bedroom, Evelyn smiles as she witnesses Claudia’s loud snoring.

Evelyn’s quick tour of the second floor enhances her sense of peace. And she is happy to feel as relaxed as she does, considering how different and unusual the night’s activities were.

Were she tired, truly tired, Evelyn might find something relatively passive to do, something that might act as an organic sleeping pill. But, despite the hour, which is decidedly close to midnight, Evelyn is not tired, not by a long shot. And she knows that part of the energy she is feeling—much of that energy, in fact—comes from the Quilt Room. From the project that is still in process.

* * *

to be continued on May 21st .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Four

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

IX

Evelyn and Joy are pleased to be the first guests to arrive at Table Number 12, and Evelyn feels particularly flattered by its location. Not bad for comps, she thinks, as they select two prime chairs, and as each drapes her leather jacket on the seat she’s claimed for the program.

“This is nice,” Evelyn says, scooting her chair in while Joy poofs out her skirt before taking the chair to her mother’s right. “I’m glad we’re sitting down before the mad dash begins.”

“Great table,” says Joy, having taken her seat.

“God,” Joy continues, sashaying her shoulders while surveying the room and noting the close proximity of their table to the stage, “I feel like such a grown-up tonight!”

“A little Chateau Waldorf, my grown-up girl?” Evelyn asks, reaching for one of the wine bottles that came with the table.

“I’m not driving the train,” is Joy’s reply.

Evelyn smiles as she fills her daughter’s wineglass.

“Thank you,” Joy says, waiting for her mother’s glass to be filled before enjoying a sip. “Oh, and I haven’t told you yet! I had a short chat with Mister Two-First-Names.”

“Mister Who?” asks Evelyn.

“The other guy who’s bidding on Dad’s art. Ed Thomas.”

“You met him?”

“Yes! While you were first talking with Gus and Ben! I spied someone signing the bid sheet, so I ran over there.”

“And?”

“He’s interesting. Very charismatic. A retired architect.”

“Hmm…” says Evelyn.

“Well hello again,” comes a low voice at Joy’s right.

Evelyn looks up to see the remarkably attractive man who, apparently, has already met her daughter.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Thomas!” Joy says.

“Please, call me Ed.”

“Ed,” she nods. “Ed.

“Ed, this is my mother, Evelyn Bennett.”

“Ms. Bennett,” Ed says, extending his hand.

“Evelyn,” she responds.

“Evelyn,” he repeats.

“May I?” he then asks Joy, his elegant sweeping-hand gesture indicating the seat to her right.

“Sure,” Joy replies, a bit surprised that Ed Thomas has been assigned to the same table.

Ed takes a seat and reaches for the chardonnay in the icer. After filling his glass and returning the bottle to its place, he raises his glass. “Cheers, ladies,” he says.

Evelyn feels extremely self-conscious for a moment, and she also feels incredibly relieved to have Joy in the chair between her and this mystery man. She wants to say something to Mister Two-First-Names, but she feels lost.

Fortunately, he fills the silence relatively quickly.

“Evelyn,” he says, “as I was telling your lovely daughter, your husband’s work is really amazing. I have rarely seen that kind of detail rendered in such an artistic fashion. It makes me appreciate why I went into architecture.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn says. “Thank you. My husband will be happy to hear that.”

Evelyn immediately feels the What?!? that Joy is thinking. And Evelyn immediately wonders why she made such a misleading statement.

“I mean,” Evelyn says, “I’ll tell him. I don’t know if he’ll be happy to hear it.”

Again, Joy’s vibe speaks to her mother. It says: Mom?!? Hello?

“I mean,” Evelyn says, allowing her hands to give the sign language that says I am totally flustered!, “he has Alzheimer’s, so I’ll tell him what I’ll tell him, and he’ll hear what he’ll hear!”

She then exhales rather noticeably and takes a healthy gulp of wine.

“I’m so sorry,” says Ed, first looking compassionately at Evelyn, then turning away. “And I understand.”

He returns his glance to both Evelyn and Joy. “My, uh, late wife… had… Alzheimer’s.”

Evelyn wants to offer the appropriate condolences, and she is about to do just that when Gus and Ben arrive, bringing a burst of their own energy with them.

“Is this seat taken, young lady” Gus asks Evelyn, regarding the chair to her left.

“Only when you sit in it,” is her clever reply.

“Great table!” Ben comments, taking the seat to Gus’s left.

“This is great,” Joy says then, amused by the banter she didn’t expect to find at Table Number 12. “The competitors meet!”

“What’s that, honey?” asks Ben.

Joy holds out her arms. “Ed. Gus. You two are the major bidders!”

Ed and Gus, each recognizing the other’s name and understanding what Joy is getting at, both partially stand and shake hands jovially.

“I think I’ve got you at this point,” Ed says with friendly competitiveness, returning to his chair.

“No,” Gus says. “As a matter of fact, I just dropped by our mutual bidding card. And unless someone has stopped by since, I’m the top dog at this point.”

“Well,” Ed says, conveying an elegant playfulness that Evelyn finds attractive, “I’m not going to jump up now, but, uh, we’ll just see.”

Evelyn cannot help but notice the confidence behind Ed’s smile.

* * *

to be continued on May 14th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Three

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VII

“Wow,” Joy says quietly, her leather jacket slung over her arm as she gazes with admiration at her Dad’s pen-and-ink drawings, “they spared no expense on these mattes and frames. These look fantastic, don’t they?”

“They really do,” Evelyn says, admiring her husband in a new light. “Ooh, and look!” she adds, noticing the bid card. “Some people have already bid!”

Joy leans in to read the names. “Hmm… ‘Ed Thomas’—a man with two first names—Six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred dollars?” Evelyn asks, incredulously.

“That’s the minimum,” Joy states, “…and… let’s see here…” Joy squints to read the second entry. “Weighing in at six-fifty is: Yay! Gus Michaels!”

“Aw, Gus. So he’s here!” Evelyn says, excitedly, looking over her shoulder to the packed room. “I hope he wins it.”

“Well, he’s got some competition. Mister Two-First- Names returned with a seven hundred dollar bid.”

“Mmm,” says Evelyn, a tinge of sadness in her utterance.

“I know,” Joy offers then, tracking her mother’s thoughts. “It’d be nice if Dad could hear about this and understand it. But, you’ll tell him when you get home, and maybe he will know what you’re talking about.”

“Only he knows what he knows,” Evelyn replies.

VIII

As Evelyn and Joy stroll away from the bar with their second round of merlots, something causes Evelyn to slow her pace and look to her left. And immediately, not six feet away, is the smiling face of Gus Michaels.

“Oh my God!” Evelyn cries, and she and Gus walk into a warm embrace.

“Evelyn!” Gus says, pulling out of their embrace and stepping back to absorb her presence fully. “You look unbelievably beautiful and the same. Is there some portrait in your attic that looks like a woman who’s aged?”

“Oh, Gus,” Evelyn says, rolling her eyes as she takes in the welcome compliment.

“Evelyn,” Gus says then, “this is my partner, Ben Franklin.”

“Ben Franklin?” Evelyn confirms.

“I’m worth at least a hundred dollars,” Ben replies, a comment he probably makes several times a week.

“Nice to meet you,” Evelyn says, shaking his hand. “And my date—” Evelyn says, turning around and wondering where Joy went, “is… somewhere.”

“Davy?” Gus asks.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t bring him. He just can’t go out anymore.”

“I’m so sorry, Ev.”

“Well,” Evelyn says, scoping the room again for Joy and then returning her attention to Gus, “It is what it is.”

“I just can’t imagine Davy not being Davy, you know?”

“I know,” Evelyn responds, “but that’s what happens…Are you familiar with—? I mean, have you known anyone?”

“No one in my family, fortunately, but Ben’s aunt—” Gus answers.

“Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry. Were you close to her?”

“Very much so. She pretty much accepted me before my parents did. You know, for being gay and all.”

Gay and all, Evelyn thinks, already enjoying Ben’s personality and believing that for Ben, gay is all.

“So you were quite close?” Evelyn asks Ben.

“Incredibly close.”

“Is she still alive?”

“She’s in a facility in Connecticut now. It just got to be too much for my uncle.”

“Is it better for him now?”

“Not really,” Ben replies. “He’ll just never get his old life back, you know? Cecilia was the social butterfly. She really brought their lives to life. Uncle Gary just never really had those tools, you know?”

“I do,” says Evelyn, understanding Ben’s comments more than she cares to share at the moment.

“Here I am,” says Joy, having returned to her mother’s side and knowing that Evelyn was probably looking for her.

“Your date?” asks Gus. “If this is one of your daughters, I’m going to start feeling incredibly old.”

“You’re old, Gus,” Evelyn replies, smiling. “And this is Joy. You remember Joy?"

“I remember a darling little girl with a free spirit and a great sense of humor.”

“Then you do remember me!” Joy says, shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you, Gus. I remember you, too!”

“And, Joy,” Gus says, “this is my partner, Ben.”

“I was once a darling little girl,” Ben says, playfully.

“I’m surprised we were never penpals,” Joy responds, shaking Ben’s hand.

“Never too late to start, honey,” Ben says. “And, by the way, I love your dress! Is that vintage?”

“Well, I guess now we all get to feel old,” Joy replies. “Because it is vintage and I am the original owner!”

“Well, Missie,” says Ben, truly impressed, “you have really taken good care of that classy number.”

“The compliments go to Mom,” Joy states, nodding in Evelyn’s direction. “She took care of it.”

“Good job, Mom!” Ben says, holding up his empty hand, as if there were a drink in it and he were proposing a toast.

Then, looking at his partner, Ben says, “Gus? What’s wrong with this picture?”

“To the bar!” Gus says, in answer to Ben’s query.

“We’ll see you at the table!” Evelyn calls out to Gus and Ben as they make their way through the crowded room.

“Maybe we should sign in,” she then says to Joy. “We don’t even know what table I’m talking about yet!”

* * *

to be continued on May 7th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Monday Reruns: Observations from the Niche-Free Zone

(original post-date: April 21, 2010)

Back in the mid-‘90s, when the Internet was in its infancy, I got a call from someone representing the Barnard Alumnae Association. He was calling regarding a directory they were putting together. He was seeking information for my entry in said tome.

Yes, I said it: tome.

You see, this was to be an actual book with actual pages. Something alums would order so that they could access information regarding women, like themselves, who had experienced higher education at the venerable college that attracts tough, independent New York types and is affiliated with Columbia University.

After answering the man’s questions as to “what I do,” he said something that filled me with pride: “You don’t really fall into any category.”

My response? “And if I ever do, please shoot me.”

It will seem unrelated for me to suddenly bring up American Idol, but I’m kind of entitled, what with my no-category status. Besides, there actually is a reason to bring it up. I first should confess that, yes, I’m one of the hooked masses. I love American Idol for all kinds of reasons, and I’d detail them here, but a character in my second novel (not yet published) already has done so, and I really want you to hear it from her mouth. Regardless, something I’ve noticed this season is the judges’ desperately wanting to home in on a contestant’s niche. Is she country? Is he blues? Should she go the pop route?

Recently, Siobhan Magnus (the refreshingly quirky glass blower from Cape Cod who can somehow scream without being “pitchy”) defended herself against the judges’ comments as to “who she is.” I can’t quote her verbatim (and I’m too lazy in the moment to Google it), but essentially, she conveyed that she wasn’t interested in being pigeon-holed.

Good for Siobhan!

I get it that there are reasons to claim a niche. If you focus on one thing, you will likely devote all your energy to it, and you will therefore improve within it and have a better chance for success. Undoubtedly, had I claimed a niche by now, I wouldn’t be constantly wondering if I’ll make ends meet on a month-to-month basis.

But, if I were stuck in one place, I’d also not discover new places.

I love my nonprofit work, which I “happened into” back in 1987. I had grown tired of waitressing by then, and so I began temping. When an assignment landed me at the Ford Foundation, I gained a new perspective on “office world.” Who knew there were kind, altruistic people doing the nine-to-five grind? (I didn’t.) Now, after many nonprofit staff positions and loads of amazing, Kodak-moment experiences, I do fundraising and program development work on a consulting basis. My clients are awesome, and what they do for folks in Los Angeles is life-changing.

I love my fine art work, which began when I “happened into” a bead store. For almost 10 years now, I’ve been seduced by what I call the unbearable lightness of beading. I’ve made jewelry, mobiles, and wall hangings. And without beads, I’ve made original greeting cards using recycled materials. Most recently, I’ve opened a shop on etsy.com. This means I’m in the process of moving my independent website inventory to a more well-traveled location. Sure, I’m competing with about 50,000 other jewelry designers, but I love my work, and so I believe in it.

I love my creative writing. In fact, I love nothing more than making sentences. I am even happy with that one. And this one. And the next one.

So what “do I do?” the Alumnae Association wants to know.

I look for joy. And when I find it, I look for more.

Funny that these musings reference Barnard. I remember, when I first arrived there (me, a 17-year-old from rural Virginia), I was so struck by my classmates and what I heard during informal freshman orientation conversations. The most common answers to peer-posed questions were two-syllable hyphenates: pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law… I was shocked, but I never felt pressured. Even then, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the mouths of babes. These 17- and 18-year olds had their whole lives figured out.

I hope it’s gone well for them. I hope they like their niches.

As for me, I’ll keep confusing the judges. And although I may scream at times, I’ll try never to sound pitchy (or… something that rhymes with that).

Please visit my etsy shop at www.KatieGatesDesigns.etsy.com . And tell your friends.

If you haven’t done so already, pick up a copy of my novel at Amazon. Just do a search for The Somebody Who. You’ll see it.

Know any nonprofits who need help with their fundraising? Send them my way.

I’m here.

I’m the one without a niche.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-Two

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

IV

“Hey, check it out!” Joy says, rubbing leather sleeves with her mother once they have pulled out of their enthusiastic hug. “Looks like we’re in the same gang!”

“Do you think people will suspect we planned it?”

“Do I care?”

“Oh, Joy!” Evelyn says, putting an arm around her daughter and pulling her into a sidelong hug as they walk hurriedly through the pedestrian traffic. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

V

An uptown local is just pulling in as they arrive on the crowded Lex line platform, and Evelyn, having not played the Manhattan rush-hour subway game in more years than she can remember, spontaneously grabs Joy’s hand. Joy, understanding her mother’s situation, guides them onto the
packed train. They find a place near a vertical pole and claim their connection to balance before the subway doors close.

Once the train begins to make its way to 51st Street, where they will be deboarding, Joy leans into her mother. “Did you see what I’m wearing?” she asks, as she mimics a flasher’s move by using one pocketed fist to open her jacket a bit.

“The dress!” Evelyn enthuses, recognizing the navy fabric. “Won’t you be cold, though?”

“Why do you think I wore a jacket, Ma?” Joy teases girlishly, making Evelyn feel like a girl, too.

VI

Although they are relatively on-time for the Elder Haven event, the Waldorf’s Empire Room is already buzzing when they make their entrance. Evelyn immediately relaxes a bit when she realizes she is dressed quite suitably for the occasion. And when she sees the no-host bar in the near corner, she relaxes a bit more.

“Race you to the wine,” Joy says playfully, reading her mother’s mind.

As they saunter toward the bar, Evelyn hears her name called out. She and Joy turn simultaneously.

“Ashley! Hello!” Evelyn exclaims, smiling as she hugs her new friend.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Evelyn. Did you see the display of Dr. Bennett’s art?”

“Not yet. We just got here. And Ashley, this is my daughter, Joy.”

“Hi, Joy. So nice to meet you,” Ashley says, as she shakes Joy’s hand. “Your mom told me about you. You’re in Fort Greene, right?”

“Yes! I’m on Clinton, just off DeKalb.”

“What a great area. Have you been there long?”

“Going on eleven years,” Joy responds, causing Evelyn to shudder at the passage of time.

“Wow! Good for you! So, I bet your rent is almost reasonable.”

“I am the envy of several neighbors,” Joy says, smiling.

“Excuse me, Ashley,” an older woman interjects. “We have a question at the sign-in table.”

“I’ll be right there,” Ashley says, agreeably.

She then turns back to Evelyn and Joy. “Work time.”

“Are we supposed to sign in?” Evelyn asks.

“Whenever you get a chance,” Ashley responds. “Just to get your table number. Oh! And, I put you at a table with Gus and Ben!”

Off Evelyn’s confused look, Ashley adds, “Gus Michaels!”

“They’re coming?” Evelyn asks, excitedly.

“They’re supposed to!

“Anyway,” Ashley then turns to Joy, “really nice to meet you. And, if you ever want to meet for dinner, I’m in your neighborhood a lot. I’m taking a class at Pratt.”

“That’d be great,” Joy replies, genuinely pleased with the prospect. “I’ll get your number from my mom.”

“Great. Well,” Ashley says then, as she begins to hurry off, “have a wonderful time tonight! And be sure to look at the auction display!”

“I like her vibe,” Joy says to her mother, after Ashley has disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

to be continued on April 30th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty-One

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

I

Realizing that she will need to be out the door in twenty minutes, Evelyn is glad she spent so much of Sunday obsessing about what she would wear. And as she takes one last look in the mirror before going into the bathroom to throw on a minimal amount of make-up, she is pleased with the decisions she made two days ago. The tweed skirt looks good with the ivory-colored blouse. The slim, heeled boots are a nice, self-assured touch, and her leather jacket will top it all off in a sophisticated, but not matronly, way.

She is pleased.

But, also, for some reason, she is nervous.

She goes into the bathroom and reaches for her mascara on the tray beside her sink. Several strokes of the wand later, she takes a look at herself and decides to see if her container of brown eye shadow, which is probably considered ”vintage” at this point, has not been sealed shut by the passage of time.

It opens easily. There appears to be no mold on its surface. And although she realizes it’s probably not the smartest idea to apply such an old cosmetic to her eyelids, she does so anyway.

And she is pleased with the result.

Next, she opens her lipstick tube, and after she has painted her lips, she applies a tiny dab to each cheek. She rubs the dabs in. A nice touch. A nice trick.

Then, standing back for a final look, she uses her fingers to comb back her bangs so that some, but not all, drop into the forehead that she’s always thought was just a little too large. The manipulation works. She cocks her head as she smiles at herself. Despite her slight case of nerves, she feels remarkably good.

II

“Evelyn!” Claudia says, her broad smile and dancing eyes a sign of sincere approval. “You look beautiful!”

“Oh my!” says Davy, looking up from The New Yorker. “Are we going somewhere?”

“You’re not leaving me here alone!” Claudia says to him, as Evelyn crosses behind Davy’s stool to get her car keys off the wall rack.

“But what are we doing?” he asks either one of them.

“We’re going to have dinner,” Claudia responds, “and then, we’re going to play poker. I’m taking you to the bank tonight, Davy!”

“The bank? But I don’t know how!”

“Exactly!” says Claudia, laughing as she finishes cutting tomatoes for the salad.

“Well,” says Evelyn. “This is it! My big night out!

“And thank you again Claudia,” Evelyn adds, kindly. “I appreciate your staying the night tonight.”

“When else do I get to play poker?” Claudia replies, shrugging with the knife in one hand and half a tomato in the other.

“Well, don’t take him for too much,” Evelyn says, leaving a lipstick kiss on Davy’s forehead.

“I promise. Just a few of his tee shirts. That’s all I really want.”

“Goodnight!” Evelyn says in a sing-song tone, shaking her head and feeling light and amused as she heads for the garage by way of the utility room.

III

Evelyn enjoys the train ride into the City, and she is thankful for the arrangements that she and Joy made. It’ll be good not to worry about parking in Manhattan and then making that long drive home at the end of the night. And she can’t wait to see Joy, standing on the platform at Grand Central.

Instinctively, Evelyn shifts her glance to look out the train window. But because it is dark out, that gesture only presents her with a mirrored view of the other passengers in the train. She notices a man, well-dressed for business. He is sitting about six rows in front of her, in a seat that faces the train’s center aisle. He looks very tired, maybe even a bit tense. And his image brings her father to mind…

All those years of commuting from New Jersey into Manhattan. What did he think about on that packed train? Was he happy to be getting away from the wife who was slowly and methodically going mad? Did he ever think about his kids? Or, was he just anticipating the day ahead on Second Avenue—the accounts he had to manage, the clients he had to please.

Evelyn looks again at the reflection of the man six rows in front of her. She sees his wedding band, but it tells her nothing. She wonders if this man is going into town to rendezvous with his lover—a secretary, perhaps, or maybe his “devil wears Prada” boss.

She hopes that the man on the train is not doing his loved ones any irrevocable damage.

* * *

to be continued on April 23rd.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Forty

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

IV

Judy’s suggestion, that a woman whose husband has Alzheimer’s might simply start dating again, preoccupied Evelyn for the rest of the day. And it is still on her mind when she enters the Quilt Room. Hopefully, the night’s first draw will provide her with a distraction from these thoughts.

JOY AGE 3-6 is the first paper Evelyn unfolds. She smiles as she approaches the box marked accordingly. She hopes that Joy’s energy, which filled her heart so thoroughly just a few days ago, will return to the room in the next few minutes.

“How perfect!” Evelyn exclaims to no one, as she holds up the small tee shirt that Joy had painted. “This will be beautiful in the quilt!”

Evelyn grins broadly as she looks at the figures—some so primitive; all so abstract. There is a house—theirs, apparently. And a family—also theirs (apparently). And a dog? They never had a dog. Perhaps Joy felt that was an essential part of the nuclear family.

But what Evelyn loves more than anything are the abstract splashes of paint that surround the more obvious images. There is a flow to those splashes. A purpose. An energy. And she remembers Joy bringing that energy back with her every afternoon when she returned from day camp. There was something about her tales back then. They were the days before she started speech therapy, and her speech was charming.

“Today!” she said, her feet dangling happily as she occupied a stool right next to her father’s in the kitchen. “We rode hortheth!”

“You rode hortheth?” Davy replied, imitating, but not mocking, his five-year-old daughter’s lisp.

“Yeth! And they were amathing! I rode one called Thilver. A white horth!”

“And did Silver behave?” Evelyn interjected at that moment, giving Davy the eye as she refused to play the lisp game.

“Oh, yeth!” replied Joy. “He wath tho gentle.”

“And what else did you do today?” Evelyn asked, smiling at the angel before her.

“Well, we rode in the morning, and that wath great, and then, in the afternoon, we painted tee thirth. Wanna thee?”

“I wanna thee!” Davy replied, nodding enthusiastically while waving off his wife’s scolding glances.

Evelyn looks again at the “tee thirt” in her lap. Joy’s enthusiasm and forward momentum began at an early age. The colors and swirls show it. No lisp, no hurdle, would stop her from moving ahead.

While Marilyn spent so many years vying for their father’s attention, Joy seemed to have spent those same years on her own “magnifithent” path, ensuring that her father’s attention would never make or break her.

Evelyn realizes, looking at the tee shirt, that she envies Joy in some way. Their second daughter had, for whatever reason, gotten the best. She’d inherited Davy’s fabulous spirit without feeling beholden to it. She owned it, and it traveled with her.

* * *

to be continued on April 16th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Nine

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

III

The waitress having cleared their plates, Evelyn and Judy are not yet ready to settle the bill and move on. The conversation has turned to lighter topics—the grandchildren (Judy’s and Patrick’s children). Their feats and challenges.

Evelyn loves hearing about Gretchen, Ricky, and Zoe. The stories are never couched in drama. Judy knows her kids are normal and that they are leading normal kids’ lives.

And when Judy has finished telling all the grandkid stories, she begins to tell Evelyn about her latest adventures selling real estate. The closing that she predicted the week before came to be. She expects a big check in the mail. And now, she’s the regular sitter at a Sunday “Open House.”

“Oh my God, Evelyn!” Judy blurts out, essentially interrupting herself. “I almost forgot! I overheard a really interesting conversation yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. And let me paint the picture for you.”

“Please!” Evelyn says, already intrigued.

“Okay. So. I’m sitting in this mansion on Cedar Street,” Judy begins. “I mean, if I even get a piece of this deal, I don’t even want to think about it. Anyway, it’s an Open House, so, you know, people are coming and going all day. I’ve got the sign-up sheet on the dining room table. I’m there to answer questions. But, you know, most of the people who come through aren’t interested in buying. They’re just spending a Sunday walking through mansions. It’s free, you know?”

“People do that?”

“Oh, sure. All the time,” Judy says.

“Anyway,” she continues, “these two women—about your age—end up standing in the dining room, chatting, for forty-five minutes, easily.”

“Wait,” Evelyn says. “They’re standing in an Open House, among strangers, catching up?”

“I’m telling you, it happens all the time. So, anyway, these two women, I quickly learned, are Marge and Jane.”

“Did they introduce themselves?”

“Oh, God, no. They might have had to sign in if they’d done that. They’re just standing there, and I’m just listening.”

Evelyn shakes her head and wonders if the spinning in Miss Manners’ grave will ever register on some seismologist’s graph.

“Anyway,” Judy continues, “after a while, Marge says to Jane (quite enthusiastically, I might add) ‘Betty has started dating!’ ‘Betty?’ Jane says, ‘Do you mean Bill died?’ ‘No,’ Marge says. ‘Betty just felt she needed to start dating again.’”

“I’m lost,” Evelyn says, loving but also overwhelmed by her daughter-in-law’s energy. “Who’s Betty?”

“Betty is their friend.”

“Marge and Jane’s friend.”

“Right.”

“Okay,” Evelyn says, catching up. “And Bill?”

“Bill is Betty’s husband.”

“Okay.”

“And! Bill has Alzheimer’s.”

“Okay,” Evelyn says, still wondering where this is going.

“So, Betty has started dating.”

“Ohh,” Evelyn says. “Okay. I get it. Well—good for Betty!”

“An interesting scenario, I thought,” says Judy.

“Mmm,” Evelyn agrees. “Interesting.”

* * *

to be continued on April 9th . In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Eight

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I

“Evelyn! Evelyn!”

For the second consecutive morning, Evelyn is being stirred awake by household help. Which means, for the second consecutive morning, Evelyn is enjoying a really deep sleep.

“EVELYN!” Claudia says again, nudging her employer.

“What now!” Evelyn whines, covering her head with her pillow and knowing that Claudia’s response will not make her feel like the lowliest Alzheimer’s widow on the planet.

“Judy called,” Claudia informs her. “She says she’s running late.”

“And what did you tell her?” Evelyn asks, from under the pillows.

“I told her you were running late, too.”

“Good answer.”

II

“Judy!” Evelyn says, scooting into the booth at the diner on Kimball Avenue. “I am so sorry! Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long at all,” Judy replies, easily. “Not to worry. Just enjoying some down time and the view out the window.”

Evelyn then exhales, in one, long shot, and looks at Judy, smiling.

“You look good, Evelyn,” Judy comments genuinely. “Tired, maybe, but something’s different. Something’s going on.”

Evelyn shakes her head as the waitress approaches.

“Coffee?”

“Please!” says Evelyn, “And are you still serving breakfast?”

“Back of the menu,” the waitress replies, wasting no time with formalities.

Evelyn studies the back of the menu as Judy studies Evelyn. They both see something refreshing.

When Evelyn puts the menu down, Judy looks at her pointedly. “So, what’s going on? I saw you just over a week ago, and something has changed.”

“Oh,” Evelyn says, waving her hand, “I’m working on a project. At the house. I don’t want to talk about it yet. I don’t know if it will work or if it’s worth it. But, it’s been really helpful.” She pauses to take a breath, and then smiles broadly. “And! Joy was up for a few days!”

“She was?!”

“Yes, and it was great! We had such a good time together. And she was so wonderful with Davy.”

“Coffee?” the waitress confirms, placing a mug in front of Evelyn and leaving a carafe on the table.

“Thank you,” Evelyn says to the waitress.

“And you ladies ready to order?” the waitress asks.

“Two eggs over easy, potatoes and toast,” says Evelyn.

“And you?” the waitress asks Judy, who is dumbfounded to be the one at the booth who remains undecided.

“Uh… let’s see… Um, you know, I guess I’ll have a tuna salad sandwich on wheat.”

“Toasted?”

“No.”

“Fries, salad, or slaw.”

“Yes,” says Judy, to the amusement of none.

“Um, the slaw, I guess,” she adds, after a moment of silence.

The waitress retrieves both menus and walks away.

Evelyn smiles at her daughter-in-law, takes a long sip of coffee, leans her head back and closes her eyes for a second. “Ah. It’s good to be out.”

“I’m definitely enjoying the change of scene,” Judy agrees, refilling her mug from the coffee carafe. Then, as she adds some Splenda and stirs it in, she explains. “The vibe at the office was a little intense this morning. One of the agents hasn’t had a deal in a while, and it tends to bring out her nasty side.”

“I imagine it’s quite a competitive industry.”

“That’s an understatement…

“But, hey!” Judy says then. “I didn’t get in it to make friends. I have enough trouble keeping up with the ones I have. And keeping up with family… You mentioned Marilyn when you called on the phone yesterday evening. Said she was going through some histrionics.”

“Newsflash, huh?”

“So what’s going on?”

“It was bizarre,” Evelyn responds. “She was complaining about Sara, who is doing fine, as far as I can tell. And then, she was obsessing about some murders that took place a while back.”

“Oh. Right. I remember those. That was pretty scary. A few teenage girls. But weren’t those solved?”

“Marilyn didn’t seem to think so.”

“No, I think they were solved,” Judy says. “Of course, I try not to pay too much attention to the local news. If I did, I’d tie my kids down until they were thirty-five. Hmmm…. So, Marilyn’s obsessing about them?”

“Yes. And it’s just so weird. I mean, this is how she’s been for a long time, but for some reason, when I spoke with her yesterday, I had a different reaction.”

“Like you didn’t want to give power to it?” Judy asks.

“Something like that, yes.”

“It’s tricky,” Judy starts, essentially thinking out loud. “She’s your daughter. But, you know, there’s a lot to be said for brain chemistry, and Marilyn’s brain might just be wired a certain way.”

“How do you mean?” Evelyn asks.

“I mean, she might default to paranoia. Didn’t your mother have a bit of that? I know that Patrick doesn’t know much about your family, but what he’s shared with me—”

“Here you go, ladies,” the waitress interrupts, placing Evelyn’s and Judy’s orders in front of them.

“Just holler if you need anything else,” she adds, putting the check on the table.

Evelyn looks at her plate and immediately realizes that, in her haste, she ordered the most monochromatic meal known to man. She reaches for the ketchup, to give it a little more color.

Then, she looks up at Judy. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

“Brain chemistry,” Judy answers, scooping up a forkful of cole slaw. “Didn’t your mom have some issues?”

“Oh, boy, did my mother have issues!”

“Was she paranoid?”

“As a matter of fact…God! I had forgotten about it!” Evelyn exclaims, as she gathers some food onto her fork and wonders when she might actually taste it. “There was this summer. Must have been in the late Forties. She wouldn’t let us leave the yard all summer. She said there was a rapist on the loose!”

Judy, who was about to take a second bite of her sandwich, puts it down. “You all had to stay in the yard? You and your four brothers?”

“Oh, no,” Evelyn responds, covering her mouth as she swallows her bite of eggs and potatoes. “Just me and the younger boys. At that point, Frank and Jonathan were out of the house.”

“And what did your Dad do?” Judy asks.

“My father?” Evelyn replies. “Oh, he was in the City most nights. I have no idea what he thought.”

They eat in silence for a minute or two. Judy feels more self-conscious than Evelyn, and the irony of that, appropriately, is one that Judy absorbs alone.

Taking a break from her lunchtime breakfast, Evelyn gazes out the window for a few seconds. “So, I guess my mom was paranoid. Brain chemistry, huh?”

“That’s what I hear,” says Judy.

“Hmm,” Evelyn says. “I guess we can’t really control what we pass on to our children. I just know that if Marilyn inherited paranoia, it’s probably my doing. She certainly didn’t get it from Davy’s side.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Evelyn. You don’t know. I mean, you know Davy’s character, and you knew his parents, but there was a generation before them you never met. They might have been totally fucked-up.”

Evelyn laughs at Judy’s statement. She laughs not because Judy could be right, but because she knows that Judy probably says “fucked-up” a lot. Yet, this is the first occasion on which Judy has chosen to say it in her presence.

Evelyn appreciates Judy’s timing.

It shows heart.

* * *

to be continued on April 2nd .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Seven

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VIII

“Davy,” Evelyn says quietly, nudging him into an awake state. “Davy. I think you should come up to bed now.”

“Are you—? Are you too?” he asks, standing up unsteadily.

“I’ll come up with you,” Evelyn replies.

They make their way down the hallway and up the stairs without conversing. Evelyn knows that at this hour, Davy’s transference from family room to bed is pretty much a matter of coached sleep-walking. And, she doesn’t want to change that. With each night in the Quilt Room, she is feeling increasingly directed. She doesn’t want to lose her momentum.

IX

After putting Davy to bed, Evelyn returns to the Quilt Room. She decides to leave the door opened because she is sure Davy will not wake up anytime soon. Then, having made that one decision, she makes another. She goes across the hall to Adam’s bedroom, which looks much as he left it. She opens the door, crosses to the windows and opens one. The air feels good, and she will enjoy feeling its crispness nip the back of her neck as she continues sifting through the boxes of clothes in Patrick’s former bedroom.

She takes a seat and draws a square from the bowl. Unfolds it slowly.

ADAM again. This time the AGE is 11-14.

“Oh, Adam,” she says to no one, “am I supposed to get to know you tonight? Is that what this is about?” She retrieves the appropriate box and sets it down in front of her.

“Alright, then,” she continues, “tell me about Adam.”

She opens the box and extracts the shirt that tops the pile. A taupe dress shirt. Nicely tailored and a great color for her son. She feels confused as she looks at it, because she cannot immediately picture him wearing it. She studies it. The front. The back. And then, her mind’s eye recalling a moment she didn’t know had been stored, she hugs the shirt and smiles.

Davy was sitting at his usual place at the counter, reading The New Yorker and occasionally sharing a particularly funny cartoon. Evelyn, on the other side of the counter, was preparing their Saturday night dinner. With Joy and Adam the only kids at home, Saturday night had become more relaxed. It had become Davy’s and Evelyn’s night—a night to rent a movie and enjoy the marvels of their new VCR.

Often, on these Saturday nights, Joy would be out with a boyfriend or a gaggle of girls. And Adam, less social, would opt to stay upstairs—working on an architectural model, reading a book, or watching sit-coms on his own portable television.

But, on this particular night, Adam was dressed in a beautiful taupe shirt. Because he had a date. With a girl named Jen.

And he was very nervous.

“Just let me know when you’re ready to go,” Davy said calmly, looking up from The New Yorker and smiling at Adam.

“You okay, Sweetie?” Evelyn asked her son, looking at him proudly as he stood there unable to hide his twitching nerves.

“I guess,” he responded, his voice cracking.

“What movie are you taking her to?” his mother asked next.

“The Princess Bride,” Adam replied.

“A good choice,” said Davy, closing the magazine in front of him. “A good compromise.”

“What do you mean?” Adam asked, still twitching in a way that made Evelyn want to cry.

“It’s good,” his father replied. “It’s a good date movie. Not too guy-y. I mean, I think she’ll like it.”

“I don’t know,” Adam said then, utterly uncomfortable; staring at the floor.

Davy and Evelyn exchanged glances in that moment. Glances that were full of love and curiosity.

“So, Jen is in a few of your classes?” Evelyn asked then.

“We’re in Geology together. We’re lab partners.”

“Lab partners,” Davy said then. “Sounds pretty serious.”

When Adam reacted to this comment, Evelyn could tell, from glancing at her husband, that he immediately regretted having made it.

And Davy, quickly feeling the discomfort in the room, leapt for some recovering line.

“I remember Geology!” he said, with a light tone that immediately changed the room’s energy. “It’s a gneiss rock, don’t—”

“Take it for granite,” Adam chimed in.

“There you go!” Davy said. “That’s how you get an A in Geology!”

“You obviously have very ‘sedimental’ memories, Dad.”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about! Geology humor!”

“All right,” said Evelyn, relieved by the lightened mood. “So, is it time to go?”

“Yeah,” said Adam, his mood clearly less ominous. “I told her we’d pick her up at seven-thirty.”

“Then, it’s time to go!” Davy exclaimed, dismounting his counter stool and grabbing his car keys from the rack near the wall phone.

And as Adam and Davy headed through the utility room to the garage, Evelyn heard her son’s final plea: “Just don’t embarrass me, okay?”

Bless his heart, Evelyn thinks now. For all his years of being completely there, Davy never once embarrassed his son.

And yet, these days, Adam seems to be embarrassed simply by his father’s existence. Davy is doing nothing to deliberately hurt or undermine Adam. Davy is just doing. “Just doing that thing,” as Davy himself would say. But, everything Davy does these days seems to be something that fills Adam with shame.

Evelyn wishes she could reach Adam somehow. Or rather, that he would make an effort to reach her. She knows that behind that hyper-political head, which is always jumping on the next protest train, there is a huge heart and an opened mind. She wishes he would share it with her. Tell her what he really thinks. Show her who he really is.

* * *

to be continued on March 26th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Six

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VII

It’s 8:45 when Evelyn goes downstairs to check on Davy. Having been awake for a good three hours that evening, and having had large portions of the protein and roughage The Krosk had prepared for their dinner, he is peacefully sleeping with the television. Evelyn does not turn it off, but because she assumes the audio probably plays a part in Davy’s dreams, she does opt for switching the channels. Something other than the Eight O’clock News, which, in her opinion, should simply be called The Crime Report.

Returning to the project room, Evelyn realizes that she is feeling relaxed and happy. Joy’s visit, the revelations about Angie, and then Ashley’s visit that morning, were all somehow simultaneously exhausting and energizing. They also made her feel present. And now, as she prepares to open another box of old clothing, she realizes that although this quilt project is all about the past, it makes her feel present as well.

She reaches for a slip of folded-up paper.

ADAM AGE 3-6

The last of the babies. And the end of the Seventies.

Evelyn retrieves the appropriate Adam box, and she laughs when she sees the tee shirt folded up at the top of the stack. It features a New York Times crossword puzzle, and she remembers that the tee shirt had come with the clues and a pen so that the owner might complete it.

Davy had bought the shirt because it amused him that such a tiny person might be able to complete the puzzle.

“Well,” Evelyn reasoned, feeling playful during their weekend getaway in Manhattan, “there are a lot of tiny women who are smart.”

“I don’t want to meet the woman who is as small as our five-year-old son, no matter how smart she is!”

“I don’t want you to, either!” Evelyn responded, giggling as she gave her husband a long kiss on the cheek.

They were in a souvenir shop in Times Square, early for the evening’s performance of “Whose Life Is It Anyway?” Tom Conti had just won the Best Actor Tony for his performance in the play, and they were excited to have secured orchestra-seat tickets through the Concierge at the Waldorf.

It was feeling like one of those lucky, magical weekends.

They had arrived in the City the evening before, had a romantic dinner on the Upper East Side and then returned to the hotel. They made love throughout the night. Soft jazz on the radio. Lots of laughter and silliness. A bottle of champagne, pre-ordered by their children and delivered by room service, rested comfortably in an icer within arm’s reach of the bed.

“I didn’t know the nineteenth anniversary was so special,” Evelyn had commented, when the champagne arrived.

“It’s special because it is ours,” was Davy’s reply, which caused Evelyn to give him a teasing glance, as she always did when he said something ridiculously romantic.

And yet, Evelyn thinks now, it would have been nice if Davy’s statement had continued to be true. The past summer’s anniversary—their forty-seventh—certainly was not so special. It was theirs, just as it had been theirs twenty-eight years earlier. But she had no one to share it with. Such an irony; unable to share with someone the very simple thing—a number; a date—that you have in common. Sure, Davy could recognize the number “47.” And he even could read “August 13.” But he had no clue what an anniversary was.

Not a clue.

Evelyn sets aside the crossword puzzle tee shirt that Adam wore without ever trying to fill in its grid.

This will make a nice square on the quilt, she thinks.

* * *

to be continued on March 19th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Five

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VI

When Evelyn enters the “Quilt Room” that night, she brings with her four new folded-up sheets of paper, all blank. These will represent the boxes that contain Davy’s and her old clothes. And since she has already visited one of those boxes, she puts one of the folded-up blanks into the bowl that serves as her “out box.” She puts the three remaining folded squares into the bowl from which she will draw the next entry.

She settles into her chair and enjoys a slow sip of wine. She is glad to be in the room relatively early. It might mean she’ll get to bed earlier than usual. And that would be good, since she’s made a date to have an early lunch with Judy the next day.

“Okay,” she says to no one, as she reaches into the bowl, “where are we starting tonight?”

When she unfolds the square of paper, she isn’t really surprised. It’s Marilyn, of course, at the age range that Sara now falls within: 15 - ?.

“She just won’t leave me alone,” Evelyn says, laughing ironically as she retrieves the appropriate box, places it on the floor in front of her chair, and opens it.

As she sits, she holds up the rayon wrap-around skirt that tops the stack. The skirt features a subtle paisley print in a variety of green tones that always went well with Marilyn’s decidedly Irish complexion. Evelyn winces as she remembers the auspicious occasion for which the skirt was purchased.

“So, Daddy, what do you think?” Marilyn asked, walking back and forth across the kitchen, as if she were on a runway.

“Very nice, honey. The skirt has an artsy flair; not too conservative. And the black jacket works really well with it. Very nice.”

“Did you confirm your appointment?” Evelyn asked her daughter.

“Yup. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Can I use the car?”

“Of course.”

“And Daddy, maybe I could meet you in the Dining Hall after? We could have lunch together?”

“I was just going to suggest that!” her father replied, sounding a bit jollier than the dialogue called for, and therefore arousing Evelyn’s curiosity.

“Ohhh,” Marilyn cooed, hugging her father around the neck, “I’m so excited! I can’t wait to go to college.”

“And any college would be very lucky to have you on campus, sweetie,” Davy replied.

“I better go take this outfit off and hang it up,” Marilyn said then, walking sassily toward the hallway and heading for the staircase.

As soon as Marilyn left the room, Davy looked at Evelyn, and the worry in his eyes was profound. Evelyn waited a full minute to speak, as she knew where the conversation might go, and she knew also that it must not be overheard.

“Which are you worried about, Davy?” she finally asked her husband, after she had heard Marilyn reach the second floor. “That she’ll get in or that she won’t?”

“Both,” he replied. “Both. I realize that we should have discouraged her.”

“How could we have done that?”

“I don’t know. But, she’s just not right for Sarah Lawrence. If she doesn’t get in, that will actually be a good thing, but I know she won’t see it that way. And if she does get in, I don’t even want to think about it. Most of the professors will eat her alive. Or they’ll ignore her. Or they’ll feel uncomfortable around her because of me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just not a fit.”

Evelyn was not surprised to hear Davy’s statements. They had already shared these feelings with each other when Marilyn decided to include her father’s school among the five or six to which she would apply. But early on in the process, it seemed like such a long-shot, academically. Perhaps, for that reason, they both hoped their concerns were moot. But, they both also realized, particularly on this eve of her all-important interview, that Marilyn believed she was a shoo-in. Her father was on the faculty, after all. Admission was a done deal.

“Do you think,” Evelyn asked her husband, “that they’ll admit her against their better judgment?”

“I hope not,” Davy said, “I hope not.”

Evelyn never asked Davy to speak to anyone in Admissions, and in the weeks following Marilyn’s interview, Evelyn never asked Davy if he had intercepted of his own volition. Regardless, Marilyn was not accepted, and the college’s decision was a blow from which she never seemed to recover. For the first time in her life, her father had let her down.

Thinking about it now, Evelyn wonders why Marilyn ultimately chose to settle so close to them in Westchester. She had done well at William and Mary. She made friends quickly, and she enjoyed her classes. And when she came home during school breaks, she spoke positively about the location. She seemed to like Virginia and its southern ways. Evelyn wonders why Marilyn and Barry didn’t stay in Virginia. If nothing else, they would probably have been able to afford a house there.

Thinking about it now, Evelyn wonders why Marilyn chose to punish herself. Surely, in the course of an average week, she must drive by that college a half dozen times. And that has got to hurt. Evelyn does not want to feel sorry for her daughter. The prospect is too exhausting. And the problem should not be hers.

She is thankful that three of Marilyn’s folded squares are now in the “out box.” At least, that’s where they will be until Round Two.

* * *

to be continued on March 12th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Four

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

V

When the telephone rings late that afternoon, Evelyn and Davy are both napping in the family room. Not wanting The Krosk to answer it, Evelyn reaches for the handset immediately, after the first ring awakens her.

“Hello?” she says quietly.

“I’m really worried about Sara,” is Marilyn’s salutation.

“Hi Marilyn. What’s going on?”

“She was out four times this past week. She bolts out of here after dinner and doesn’t come home until midnight.”

“On school nights?” Evelyn asks.

“Well, two of them were school nights.”

“Is she getting her homework done?”

“She says she is.”

“Then she probably is,” comments Evelyn. “How have her grades been so far this year?”

“Pretty good. B’s, mostly.”

Evelyn, who always sensed that Sara was quite smart, believes Sara could be getting A’s mostly, but she doesn’t feel it is her business to make that comment. She also wonders if “B’s mostly” means that the rest are C’s. Otherwise, wouldn’t Marilyn have said “A’s and B’s”?

“Do you know what she’s doing when she’s out?” Evelyn asks. “Who she’s out with?”

“Hanging out at Brenda’s. There’s a small group of them. They play music.”

“That sounds tame,” Evelyn responds, envisioning a record player, spinning 45s.

“Yeah, well, Brenda has a lot of equipment, I guess, and Sara apparently is pretty good on keyboards.”

“Oh,” Evelyn says, amused and confused by her daughter’s absurdly displaced disapproval, “so they’re making music.”

“I’m just worried, though,” Marilyn states. “You know, they never did solve those murder cases.”

Evelyn shakes her head. If I can ever predict what Marilyn will say next, she thinks, please lock me up and throw away the key!

“They were teenage girls, you know; the ones who were murdered,” Marilyn continues. “At least three of them. All in Westchester.”

“I remember. Did they have instruments?”

“Mom!!!”

“I’m sorry. A little black humor.”

“That isn’t funny! I am very upset! My daughter is out four nights a week!” Marilyn’s tone is now bordering on hysteria. Evelyn can sense that her daughter’s eyes are tearing up, that if the conversation is not reversed somehow, Marilyn will begin to cry, and once she begins crying, she will move on to other topics that upset her—Barry; the fact that they don’t own a house; the fact that she doesn’t think she can find a job.

“Marilyn,” Evelyn says, as calmly as possible. “Why don’t you ask Sara if you can join her some night? Tell her you’d like to hear the girls play.”

“I am sure she doesn’t want me there.”

“Could they practice at your house one night a week?” Evelyn suggests.

“Our house is hardly big enough for a band studio. Besides, I doubt if they would want to lug everything over here.

“And,” Marilyn adds, “I don’t think Barry would appreciate the disruption.”

Evelyn is always amazed at the number of reasons Marilyn can come up with to not do something.

“I just get worried, you know,” Marilyn says then, her voice faltering. “I think about those murders, and I just get worried.”

“Marilyn, sweetheart, I appreciate a mother’s worry,” Evelyn says. “I think, though, that you’re making unrealistic connections, and you are only hurting yourself by doing so. It sounds to me like Sara is doing fine. She’s expending her sixteen-year-old energy in a productive, creative way with productive, creative friends. She’s not a mallrat. She’s not drinking or doing drugs. She’s just being a teenager.”

Evelyn waits for Marilyn’s response, and when it is not forthcoming, she realizes that she’s being asked—silently, passively—to keep talking.

But I don’t want to keep talking! she thinks, amazed by her daughter’s ability to steal her energy without even being in the room.

“Marilyn,” Evelyn says finally, “I don’t know what else to tell you. All I can say is, I think it’s okay.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Well. I should probably go. I should probably get dinner started.”

“Is Sara there now?”

“She’s upstairs doing her homework.”

Evelyn shakes her head and rolls her eyes. What a delinquent! she thinks. Upstairs doing her homework!

“Anyway,” Marilyn says. “Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, dear. Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

Evelyn returns the handset to its cradle and looks over at her sleeping husband. “Next time, Davy, I want you to talk to her!”

Davy doesn’t stir.

* * *

to be continued on March 5th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.