Love Is A Battlefield

“That was just stupid. It might even be the worst movie I’ve EVER seen.” Those words hit me between the eyes along with the realization that I just could not be married to this man any longer. It wasn’t just the way he shattered the reverie of fresh movie magic floating around me, but the mocking tone and personal jab that was so carefully intended to ruin my experience. Twelve years of his cruel and contemptuous behavior was long enough to break the grip the guilt held over my vows.

I held my breath for what seemed an eternity before telling him, “The doctor’s office called. The test was positive. I’m pregnant.” He turned around in the doorway and grabbed the top of the frame with both hands. It was an odd stance in an odd moment that felt overly suspended in time. When he finally turned around he was actually smiling and he exclaimed, “I’m going to be a father – that’s fantastic! I am SO happy.” I was stunned at his words but convinced myself they were genuine. When I began to add my own he turned on his heel and was gone. That dynamic had become familiar over the past year along with the cycle of breaking up and getting back together. What is crystal clear now was glossed over by the unrealistic romantic notions of the 20 year old woman sitting on the edge of the bed that day.
 

We were raising two sons in an atmosphere charged with animosity and just plain distrust. The first affair happened in the early days and I never stopped comparing myself to the sexy blonde who flew off of my front porch and into her Camaro at my unexpected arrival. I was supposed to be at work but the daycare had called when the baby developed a fever. Her car hindered my entry into my own driveway but not my view of them kissing goodbye on the front porch. He was wearing a pair of white tennis shorts and nothing else. After her swift departure, he raced over to my car, jerked open the door and leaned in close to my face. His animated whisper was a threatening reassurance that “it wasn’t what I thought." He had taught me long ago not to question him.

Being grown up wasn’t nearly the carefree, independent place I had always imagined as a child. With my high school graduation barely two years behind me, I was fully immersed in a troubled marriage and the demands of a baby with his never-ending needs. That was a far cry from the lifelong vision of a career-oriented gal with the world at her feet. Leaving college after my first year due to my parents’ hardships had been a difficult blow. I was resolved to return again someday but had been swiftly sidetracked by a man who set out to own me. I was truly one of the innocents and thought there was good in everyone. I learned otherwise.

 

Charming. Maybe as in Prince Charming? I used to believe that was a wonderful quality to possess. In retrospect, I understand that charm beguiles as a disguise in front of one who must enchant you lest you run screaming from their true nature. I would have run fast and far. I would have run the instant I opened the door with the girlish excitement of our date night looming ahead when his thumb brashly rubbed the bright, red lipstick from my lips and across my face. The instantaneous shock of such an outlandish action didn’t stop me from trying to shut the door on the entire scene. His foot was swift. It was one of many such scenes. The charm could render the bruises meaningless and convince me it would never happen again.
 

But it was the irreverence of his comment after the movie that finally snapped me out of the fog that had blocked my view of reality for such a long, long time. And I made no haste in changing my life. A decision accompanied by years of court battles and sheer hell. Divorcing a violent man is not an easy option. But it is a decision I don’t regret though it cost me in ways I could never have imagined. It was my ultimate salvation. Finally relieved of my innocence and ability to be charmed, I never looked back. The memory of him is riddled with broken trust…broken vows…broken bones. He battled valiantly for years to win his ultimate trophy. I would not be conquered for my spirit is not broken. And that thing that is elusive for him has finally settled all around me – I am content.

A Catfish And A Tiger

“Daddy! Come quick, come quick, Daddy. I’m going to lose him if you don’t come and help me!” My bare feet were sliding down the muddy bank and when they finally lost the battle the catfish won his and swam away. I had tears streaming down my face when Daddy came into view and he said, “Now Tiger, you’ll get him again.” But it was time to clean the others hanging from the stringer on my belt loop, so I tied up my bag of bread and headed back to the house with him. Today’s catch wasn’t enough for Mom to fry up. I would change that soon enough.

Fishing was a good way to decompress after a long day of being nine years old. I liked to take the soft, white bread and mix it with spit to form the gummiest dough balls. Those stayed on my hook the best and I could cast repeatedly with confidence. I hated to lose my bait. I could only fish after homework and before supper so it was important not to waste time or bait. If I could catch at least six it was a good round. I was three bream in when I saw “my” catfish lurking near the bottom close to a freshly dug bed.

My Zebco wasn’t really the proper pole and I didn’t know about things like the right weight of fishing line back then. A twelve pound catfish would make short work of that flimsy equipment, but in my naivety, it didn’t stop me from carefully placing my bait in the most tempting location for my quarry. And then those pesky ducks! They liked the remnants that my bread created and would invariably find me. I called it a day and threw the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the bread bag. The ducks were squawking happily as I headed away from the shore with my determination digging in yet a bit deeper.

Perched in my favorite cherry tree I was the master of all I surveyed. Though being absent for a whole week from my fishing spot didn’t feel particularly masterful at all. And as I contemplated the consequences for sassing Mom, I was still convinced it was just dumb to say “dungarees” instead of “blue jeans.” From now on I would just keep those corrections to myself. There’s no telling how far away that catfish would get if I didn’t get back down to the lake. My nine year old wisdom didn’t think in terms of the limits of a thirteen acre lake.

After Saturday’s chores were done, I donned my “dungarees” with the strongest belt loops and headed for the kitchen to grab a loaf of bread. It was still early enough that I should have some luck. My toughened feet didn’t require shoes, but after the recent run-in with a kingsnake on the lake trail, I decided shoes might be a good idea. I grabbed Daddy’s floppy straw hat and my prized tackle box. I stopped in front of the fruit bowl and weighed my choices. The bananas were just spotted enough to fail the test so I dropped an apple in Daddy’s hat and was finally ready to go.

Black-eyed susans dotted the banks this time of year. I would pick a bouquet on my way back to take to Mom for the kitchen table. She would put them in the old black kettle and admire the contrast of the flowers to the red checkered table cloth. I smiled to think about her doting around the kitchen baking her “million dollar pound cake.” Tomorrow was the family picnic at our church and Mom’s cake was one of the favorites. It was published in the annual cookbook and everything.

As I drew closer to my spot, I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. My big brother must have stolen some of Daddy’s cigarettes again. I hadn’t caught him red-handed but I knew what he was up to. He would sneak down here to the lake and teach himself to inhale. I had overheard him and his snotty friend laughing about their escapades. It was only a matter of time. I was a pretty big tattletale in those days. I hadn’t fully learned that retaliation could be a real comeuppance.

I settled in and dug out my first piece of bread. Sometimes I would take a couple of bites even though Mom said white bread had the nutritional value of a piece of newspaper. She only bought it for me for bait. I rigged up my line being careful not to nip myself with my pocket knife when I snapped down the blade. My tackle box was meticulously organized and I loved sifting through the little compartments in search of the perfect weight or bobber. I was certain today was going to be the day.

My first cast no sooner hit the water than a tiny crappie took my line down and wasted my bait. I threw him back in and recast a little farther out in a different direction. While waiting for action, I watched baby frogs not long out of their tadpole stage hop around near the water’s edge. It was hard not to leave my pole and go catch a few but I remained vigilant. It seemed like hours but when my pole finally saw action again – it was him. I had relaxed a bit too much and the pull on my pole almost tore it from my fingers.

He put up a fierce fight and my slide down the bank and into the water didn’t alter my concentration. I was going to make Daddy proud today. I toggled between letting the line out and reeling in ever so slowly so the line wouldn’t break. And when he was finally close enough, I wedged the net under his body. The thrill matched that of the shiny pink Christmas bike last year. He had swallowed the hook. So I just cut the line and ran him up the stringer. He was a work of art with his speckles and sharp spines. I decided he would be better dangling from my hand than my belt loop.

But as I gathered my tackle box and pole I was overcome by the urge to turn around and let him go. And he wasted no time swimming back to the murky depths that were his home. I didn’t really understand my decision that day but I knew it made me feel good inside and that was the most important thing. I met Daddy on the way back to the house and he hoisted me onto his shoulders and we sang a silly song about Mr. Catfish. We carefully selected only black-eyed susans that had not been left lacey-petaled by the bugs and hurried home to surprise Mom.

A Little About Me...

I'm not a professional writer, as you'll be able to tell from my work. I'm not as interested in form as I am with conveying emotion. I have a lot to write so I hope you'll stop by from time to time and indulge in a little reading.

I was born in Miami but raised in central Georgia. My profession is Information Technology but I'm also a karaoke jockey/disc jockey at my business, Songbirds Entertainment. I meet a ton of interesting people all the time through Songbirds and truly enjoy sharing my love of music.

I've had an interesting life - some of those interesting details show up in my stories but I won't ever tell which ones! You'll find as this progresses that I do enjoy a good romantic venture but I can be into mystery, family dramas and even some mysticism.

Please provide any feedback or commentary if you feel compelled. I take constructive criticism in the spirit it is intended. I'm hoping to meet some like-minded people through this arena.

~Laurel

What's In A Name?

My anger and my grief faced off like sharpshooters in a western duel. WHY?! Why did you wait 36 years, with your deathbed beckoning beneath you, before you stroked my hair and whispered softly, “I love you, Genevieve”?

I could hear the bell ring across nine acres of meadows and woods. I didn’t want to be pulled away from the dusk and my friends and the army game unfolding in the tall grasses. But I knew the bell meant come and come this instant. I didn’t want to upset her. It was never good to upset her.

As I ran through the woods I couldn’t resist checking on the newly built fort from a fresh fallen pine. It was the absolute perfect angle and with the addition of smaller branches, I had created quite a den for myself. I would return later with my flashlight and book in hand.  And Anne Marie. Anne Marie knows all of my secrets and loves me anyway. When I was six and Anne Marie’s arm tore off, I cried so hard that Daddy put a paper bag over my mouth and told me to just relax and breathe. He rubbed my back in slow circles and used his most soothing voice to calm me. It wasn’t until her needle and thread had repaired the damage that I could breathe easy, though. I would be lost without Anne Marie.

I drove down the road, crying with the same force I had at six years old. I’m not sure how I made it back home and why the rhythmic “Mommy, Mommy, oh my god Mommy” came screeching from the depths of me. I had never heard that voice. I had never felt such a contortion of my face and neck. I have no idea if anyone saw me on the drive home that day. I had no idea of anything other than she was gone and I had to get her clothes together to take to the funeral home at 2 o’clock. Daddy wouldn’t be able to do it like she wanted. He never did.

After her death I had the dream. She was in the kitchen. That was her favorite place. She baked incessantly though her trim figure contradicted such a pastime. She was standing at the stove in her tiny shorts and I was inspecting her legs. I was frantic to make sure no decomposition had developed that would render her a permanent resident of her grave. “Mommy, you MUST remember to take the brown potion!” My voice was high-pitched and breathless. “Mommy, if you don’t remember to take it, you won’t be fresh enough to come out next weekend.” And I awoke with sweat pooled in the small of my back and clenching the sheet beneath me. I needed water and to just breathe. This grief thing was exhausting.

I don’t know why my sixth year is so clear in my memory. I remember taking great care to pick out the day’s outfit for Anne Marie as I had also done for myself. I loved going to school. The only part I didn’t like was leaving Anne Marie. I took her to the kitchen and sat her up in the little chair. I laid out her clothes with detailed and strict instructions for Mommy to feed her a good breakfast and make sure she was dressed for the day. Mommy said she would but was mad because I needed to tend to myself and not worry so much about Anne Marie.

I was excited as I flew off the bus that afternoon and I raced down the long dirt driveway in a hurry to see Anne Marie. And she was still sitting there. In her pajamas with her head slumped forward onto the table. Her daytime outfit still folded neatly in a pile. And I cried because I didn’t want her to be hungry and in her pajamas. And Mommy was mad again because I was being Sarah Burnheart. But I didn’t know who Sarah Burnheart was and I was secretly happy to go to my room and miss my snack because all I wanted was to hug Anne Marie. She hugged me even when I cried. When I was supposed to be a big girl but I wasn’t.

And as the years went by Anne Marie was eventually relegated to the cedar chest. I would take her out occasionally and change her clothes and brush her hair. She closed her eyes and said “Ma-Ma” in her mechanical doll-voice when she was laid on her back. Sometimes I would lay her down four or five times to hear her repeat the word. Because Ma-Ma means love in Anne Marie’s world.

As I faced her impending death, I felt shattered and betrayed. I couldn't fathom how this woman who had rarely touched me had such a hold on my life. I would have done anything for her. And then she died. But not before she finally uttered the words my soul craved more than any other thing. Those words are imprinted in the recesses of my mind. The words spoken to her child adopted as an infant. Her child who never quite reflected her likeness in thought or appearance. She once told me her first choice was to name me Genevieve. But when Daddy brought me home from the foster home that day, she changed her mind. If only I were Genevieve.

Fifteen Minutes In A Bookstore

He suggested we peruse the bookstore as we were wont to do while waiting to go to the restaurant to meet friends for dinner. As we made our way toward his favorite section, I was playing a game where I make eye contact with passersby and smile at them to see if they will smile back. I have a high percentage return and I love to see people smile. It’s a bigger win when the smile goes all the way to their eyes.

We walked to a table boasting classics for the bargain basement price of only $7.98. I was intrigued by the colorful, gaudy covers and the pages with their shiny gold edging when he moved so close to me I could drink in the light scent of his cologne. I was immediately transported to a more intimate memory of us that made my cheeks flush momentarily. It was subtle but with the addition of my sly smile and sideways glance he caught my thought and gave me a knowing and seductive look. I intentionally moved away from him for fear my hands would betray our public surroundings.

We only had a few minutes to spend in this place. I revere bookstores and libraries with the passion of a priest for his religion. Pages turning crisply beneath my fingers give me a buzz akin to my evening glass of chardonnay. The thrill I experience at being drawn into a story with a deft description of a scene shaped by an author. I would just as soon sit right down in the middle of the aisle with my legs curled under me and keep turning pages. Propriety keeps me from doing so as I move along to the next genre and study the titles.
 

I’ve made my final selection and am unfairly annoyed at the single register that is open to serve more than its share of guests. The man at the counter is engaged in a conversation with the clerk who quite effectively describes the location of a particular magazine of interest to the patron. I’m stunned and impressed at the precise level of detail though secretly judgmental that the clerk is rather nerdy to know such a fact so readily. The elderly woman directly in front of me comments on the rack of Monopoly games to our right in a way that lets me know she is also employed by the bookstore. It must make her feel good to voice her affiliation with the store as she seems to want those of us within hearing range to know it is indeed “her store.” I glance at him and we share our silent amusement at the absurdity of her crowing.

When I’ve finally paid for my purchase and am making my way out the door I catch the inviting scent of fresh brewed coffee wafting from the little shop situated in the back of the store. I make a note to myself that I will be coming back to this place and soon. Fifteen minutes is not long enough where literature and coffee await me. And as he takes my hand to hurry me along to our dinner date I smile to myself that I had those moments with him in this place that captivates me as little else can. The man who would have happily watched me sit in the aisle and read endlessly if I had spontaneously decided to do just that.