novella
Active Member
Inspired by the good sirmyk, here's a beginning to a Halloween story:
All Hallow's Eve
One of the reasons Kitty liked living in London was that she was able to avoid American holidays. At least that's how it was for a couple of years, but lately the English were taking them on, the bad turkeys in autumn, the Christmas music all winter long, even the Fourth of July. Last summer she'd had three invitations to "American 4th of July Barbeques." Presumably they sought out Americans specially for these things. But the worst was Halloween. Every year it got a little worse, a little bit more like home. The cheesy orange and black cardboard cutouts on front doors all marking the houses where little English children were whining for whatever Disney cartoon costumes were being pushed that year. Piles of bagged chocolates in the stores for weeks ahead. Kitty was planning to hide on Friday, lights out, shades drawn, in order to avoid knocks on the door. Halloween, night of the restless dead.
Her first memory of Halloween was bad. She remembered her grandmother sitting her down on her hard olive-green sofa years ago, her face so close the Four Roses breath was suffocating. Kitty hunkered down, knowing it wouldn't be good.
"All Hallow's Eve," her grandmother had said, "is not for children. Do you know what it is, Catherine?" Her grandmother snorted in a breath, getting ready for more talk. "All Soul's Eve. When the unhappy dead who could not go to God are released." She paused on the word God to look at the living room ceiling. "Restless souls and sinners rise from their graves." Kitty wasn't scared. Her grandmother liked to say things like this after she'd had some Four Roses, which she sipped from a fancy cut glass at the kitchen table. Ruth's Four Roses talks were never good. A few weeks before she'd told Kitty about something called women's maturity, which didn't make any sense at all, but was also scary. Kitty knew there was some truth to it somewhere. There usually was, even though she also knew a good half of what her grandmother said at night was probably crazy.
"Where do they go?" Kitty had asked, picturing the aimless and stupid dead stumbling around. "Where do the sinners and souls go?"
"Well, they look for their families and their loved ones and for those who did them wrong," her grandmother said, as if everyone should know this. She pulled a Kleenex from the middle of her bra and pushed it across her mouth, taking off whatever faint pink lipstick was left from the day.
Kitty wanted to go back to the television and watch Bewitched. She spent many hours wishing she could wiggle her nose like Samantha and be somewhere else in an instant. And she wanted to have hair that flipped up at the ends. Her grandmother snorted in more air, like an anteater. "All this nonsenth of knocking on strangers doors. We won't be doing that, Catherine. Do you understand?"
Kitty didn't say a word, knowing that total silence was the best way to get her grandmother to go back to the kitchen. She pursed her lips and looked straight ahead. A glance at the television would be a mistake, a signal of inattention. After a few minutes of pregnant breathing, Ruth—her grandmother insisted on everyone using her given name—pulled herself up and found her way back to the kitchen table, where she continued to mumble at the crossword puzzle and sip her drink.
That night Kitty lay in her bed, which had been her mother's bed a long time before, and wondered whether her mother was a restless soul. That made her wonder what her mother's body would look like after a year. She thought of that song, "the worms crawl in," and couldn't bear to put the two ideas together. She imagined her mother, dressed in tight plaid pants and a dark turtleneck, popping out of the cemetery plot with her shiny hair behind her ears and her eyebrows perfectly drawn on. If any dead person in the universe would be restless, it would be her mother, she knew it.
Her mother never sat still. She only remembered her mother sitting down on the sofa once. It was more than a year ago. Her mother had been waiting for someone to call, maybe the doctor. It seemed to Kitty that the doctor was quite important at that time. Her mother had been sitting on the sofa next to the phone. She was reading a magazine about ladies clothing, and Kitty went to sit next to her. Over her mother's shoulder she saw a picture of a woman in a see-through shirt with everything showing. Kitty was surprised. Maybe she made a noise, but she couldn't remember. But her mother had looked down at her and shut the magazine. "That's not for children," she said. She then took a long brown cigarette from a packet on the coffee table and lit it, as though nothing in the world was more important. Her nails were painted pale pink, almost white, and they clicked when she touched things. All these things were hard to remember, but Kitty practiced a lot.
Maybe her mother would come looking for her on Halloween. She had been a sinner, that much was definite. Kitty remembered that.
to be continued, I think . . .
All Hallow's Eve
One of the reasons Kitty liked living in London was that she was able to avoid American holidays. At least that's how it was for a couple of years, but lately the English were taking them on, the bad turkeys in autumn, the Christmas music all winter long, even the Fourth of July. Last summer she'd had three invitations to "American 4th of July Barbeques." Presumably they sought out Americans specially for these things. But the worst was Halloween. Every year it got a little worse, a little bit more like home. The cheesy orange and black cardboard cutouts on front doors all marking the houses where little English children were whining for whatever Disney cartoon costumes were being pushed that year. Piles of bagged chocolates in the stores for weeks ahead. Kitty was planning to hide on Friday, lights out, shades drawn, in order to avoid knocks on the door. Halloween, night of the restless dead.
Her first memory of Halloween was bad. She remembered her grandmother sitting her down on her hard olive-green sofa years ago, her face so close the Four Roses breath was suffocating. Kitty hunkered down, knowing it wouldn't be good.
"All Hallow's Eve," her grandmother had said, "is not for children. Do you know what it is, Catherine?" Her grandmother snorted in a breath, getting ready for more talk. "All Soul's Eve. When the unhappy dead who could not go to God are released." She paused on the word God to look at the living room ceiling. "Restless souls and sinners rise from their graves." Kitty wasn't scared. Her grandmother liked to say things like this after she'd had some Four Roses, which she sipped from a fancy cut glass at the kitchen table. Ruth's Four Roses talks were never good. A few weeks before she'd told Kitty about something called women's maturity, which didn't make any sense at all, but was also scary. Kitty knew there was some truth to it somewhere. There usually was, even though she also knew a good half of what her grandmother said at night was probably crazy.
"Where do they go?" Kitty had asked, picturing the aimless and stupid dead stumbling around. "Where do the sinners and souls go?"
"Well, they look for their families and their loved ones and for those who did them wrong," her grandmother said, as if everyone should know this. She pulled a Kleenex from the middle of her bra and pushed it across her mouth, taking off whatever faint pink lipstick was left from the day.
Kitty wanted to go back to the television and watch Bewitched. She spent many hours wishing she could wiggle her nose like Samantha and be somewhere else in an instant. And she wanted to have hair that flipped up at the ends. Her grandmother snorted in more air, like an anteater. "All this nonsenth of knocking on strangers doors. We won't be doing that, Catherine. Do you understand?"
Kitty didn't say a word, knowing that total silence was the best way to get her grandmother to go back to the kitchen. She pursed her lips and looked straight ahead. A glance at the television would be a mistake, a signal of inattention. After a few minutes of pregnant breathing, Ruth—her grandmother insisted on everyone using her given name—pulled herself up and found her way back to the kitchen table, where she continued to mumble at the crossword puzzle and sip her drink.
That night Kitty lay in her bed, which had been her mother's bed a long time before, and wondered whether her mother was a restless soul. That made her wonder what her mother's body would look like after a year. She thought of that song, "the worms crawl in," and couldn't bear to put the two ideas together. She imagined her mother, dressed in tight plaid pants and a dark turtleneck, popping out of the cemetery plot with her shiny hair behind her ears and her eyebrows perfectly drawn on. If any dead person in the universe would be restless, it would be her mother, she knew it.
Her mother never sat still. She only remembered her mother sitting down on the sofa once. It was more than a year ago. Her mother had been waiting for someone to call, maybe the doctor. It seemed to Kitty that the doctor was quite important at that time. Her mother had been sitting on the sofa next to the phone. She was reading a magazine about ladies clothing, and Kitty went to sit next to her. Over her mother's shoulder she saw a picture of a woman in a see-through shirt with everything showing. Kitty was surprised. Maybe she made a noise, but she couldn't remember. But her mother had looked down at her and shut the magazine. "That's not for children," she said. She then took a long brown cigarette from a packet on the coffee table and lit it, as though nothing in the world was more important. Her nails were painted pale pink, almost white, and they clicked when she touched things. All these things were hard to remember, but Kitty practiced a lot.
Maybe her mother would come looking for her on Halloween. She had been a sinner, that much was definite. Kitty remembered that.
to be continued, I think . . .
