Saw this floating around the interwebs today and had to try it.

Never having read any Stephen King (with the exception of On Writing, years ago), I have no idea whether my style remotely resembles his.  (My previous blog post came up Margaret Atwood – yay! – but the first page of my novel, which I re-wrote yesterday, came up Dan Brown – bleurgh.) Maybe those of you who read King can read this short story of mine and compare.  But do not expect any telekinetic prom queens, freaky clowns, or possessed automobiles.

Dust to Dust

I hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me
The sound so ominously tearing through the silence
I cannot move, I’m standing
Numb and frozen
Among the things I love so dearly
The books, the paintings, and the furniture
Help me …
- Abba, “The Visitors”

Two black bags stood packed in the middle of the living room. It was the first time they’d ever been used, purchased not quite three months ago at the J.C. Penney thirty miles away. Their newness was obvious, even jarring, in the midst of all the antique furniture that fitted out the room. A lot of it was Victorian, or Victorian reproduction, and all of it feminine. None of it suited the dark paneled walls and rustic beams in the ceiling, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of furniture to suit the leathery skinned, denim clad cowboy leaning against the kitchen doorjamb staring at the bags (who, if he’d heard himself called a cowboy, would’ve made a gruff sound in his throat; he was far too old to be called any kind of boy). It was the detritus of the grandmother Judith had never known, which always seemed coated in layers of dust no matter how often she took the furniture polish to it, as if the dust were Nana’s presence in the house.

The old cowboy — Papa, he was to Judith — never talked much about Nana, yet to Judith, it somehow felt like he never spoke of anything else. He held her forever in his deep-set, startlingly blue eyes; her name was marked indelibly on his forearm, below the rolled-up shirtsleeve. Once Judith had asked about the tattoo, and Papa grunted and told her that all the guys got them during the war — anchors and eagles and such war imagery, or hearts draped in banners with their sweethearts’ names. It was very romantic, Judith thought, and very tragic. She told her boyfriend Johnny, and for Christmas he got her name tattooed on his bicep for her, which made Judith write in her diary that it would be Johnny her own granddaughter would see forever held in her eyes. Which were green, and not as naturally conducive to tragic romance as startling blue; but she had to work with what she got.

What Papa didn’t tell Judith was that Betty Jean hadn’t been impressed by the romantic gesture. Said she thought love meant remembering a girl’s name without having it written on your arm like a cheat sheet. She’d been that breed of practical Baptist farm girl indigenous to East Texas — the breed of girl Judith had never quite managed to be, even though she wore western cut jeans and shirts and boots.

But then, Judith had been born in San Francisco.

Today she was going off to college, which neither Nana nor Papa had done, and which Papa couldn’t see the purpose of, as her own mama, he’d told her more times than she could keep track of during the college application process, had only gotten an illegitimate child (her) and a drug addiction (and eventual OD) for the cost of tuition. Judith had argued more times than she could keep track of that her mama had gone to Berkeley in the 70s for art, while she was staying local to earn her teacher’s certificate. She couldn’t change that much.

When you lived in the part of East Texas Judith and her grandfather did, “local” didn’t mean there was a college near enough that Judith could live at home with Papa as she had since she was five. Judith didn’t have her own car (this past summer Papa had driven her to and from her job at the J.C. Penney in his battered old farm truck). Johnny, headed to a technical college in the same town as Judith, had gotten a new Ford F-150 for high school graduation, and would drive Judith to the start of the semester and bring her home for Thanksgiving.

So, all her clothes that would get her though the sweltering Texas August and September and the warm October and November (jeans, boots, a variety of short and long-sleeved plaid, striped, solid, and the odd floral shirts, and her letter jacket, in case of the random cold snaps Texas usually got for a day or two before Thanksgiving, before Indian summer set in) were packed in the black suitcase; the matching duffel bag held one of Nana’s handmade quilts and a set of sheets she’d embroidered — and a couple of bath towels, which were new, and had caused a mainly silent quarrel with Papa when she’d come off a shift at J.C. Penney with a shopping bag in hand (as in, he’d looked from beneath his heavy brow, and frowned, while she argued her case). Judith hated old towels, and had gotten these in a buy one, get one for one cent sale, on top of her employee discount. Practically free. In fact Papa ought to save a few bucks returning the suitcase and duffel, which were her graduation presents, and let her re-buy them with her discount. He’d looked insulted by the suggestion, so Judith let it drop. Was he feeling insulted all over again, she wondered, as he stared at her suitcases?

In actuality, Judith mistook insult for chagrin, but Papa’s tan, lined face was a difficult one to read. Had he been too thrifty over the years? Was that why Barbara turned out like she did?

“Thought you was s’posed to meet Johnny out front,” he said.

Judith had been walking slowly all around the living room, running her hands over each piece of furniture and every knickknack, picking up the framed photographs as if to hug her nana, her mama. Most of the pictures in the room were faded to shades of yellow, or black and white, as Papa hadn’t used the camera since Nana passed away. There were a few of Judith — her yearbook pictures, including her most recent in a bright red cap and gown — but none of them were framed, as Papa claimed he “didn’t know nothin’ ’bout that kinda thing”. Scribbled in one of her spiral notebooks she’d bought for her courses and packed in the duffel bag along with her linens was a list of all the pictures of herself and their dimensions; for Christmas she thought she’d frame her pictures for Papa, and maybe buy one of those wooden picture display shelves she’d seen when she was working at Penney’s.

She looked over her shoulder at Papa and lifted an eyebrow. “Thought you hated it when Johnny honks for me instead of coming to the door.”

“Don’t stop you from goin’ out with him.”

Shaking her head, Judith turned away again. “I called him back last night and said he had to come in and get my bags like a Southern gentleman and stand here and say Yessir while you give him hell about not speeding and not being alone in his apartment with me and not going to any parties and getting busted for drinking.”

Papa’s only response was an unintelligible gruff monosyllable. Judith chose to interpret it as a laugh, though if she were honest, she wasn’t sure she’d ever actually heard Papa laugh.

For some minutes they stood silent in the living room, as they’d passed so much of their lives. Gradually Judith became aware of that third-wheel sensation she’d come to recognize in her teen years as Papa having a conversation with Nana. She sat at the far end of the sofa, closest to the TV, and flicked it on with the remote so they could have their privacy. Anyway she always had to sit down when the air became heavy like it was now, as all the unsaid words filled up the space that was already stifling from the mid-August sunlight glaring through the window sheers and the musty, mildewy smell they never had been able to find the source of, which was so much worse this time of year.

The roar of an approaching truck engine told Judith that Johnny was coming up the dirt driveway. She pictured the cloud of dust his tires kicked up since it had been another summer of drought. He’d gripe the whole way to Waco about getting his shiny new black pickup dirty. Shutting off the TV, she stood and thought about what she’d say to shut him up. Probably that she’d take his truck to the damn car wash when they got there. She had lots of quarters in her purse for the dorm laundry rooms.

The putter of the idling engine indicated Johnny was parked in front of the house now. Then the engine kicked off. A heavy door creaked open, then banged shut. There was a jangle of keys, pocket change, and Johnny’s big belt buckle as cowboy boots clopped to the door.

The bell rang.

“You gonna get that?” Papa asked.

Judith nodded, but found she couldn’t make her legs move toward the door. She couldn’t even really think about it. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Papa push off from the wall, his long jean encased legs that ended in pointy-toed boots the color of dust bringing him two steps closer to her.

“You change your mind? You know I won’t object to you staying home and working at the J.C. Panty’s.”

If Judith had been looking at him, she would’ve seen that Papa’s eyes, sunk back under his heavy brow, were twinkling, and that it was her own image wrapped in the startling blue. But Judith was lost in her own mind, and her earliest memory of living in Texas replaying with all the clarity of its having occurred a moment ago.

Papa had taken her to church for the first time in her life, and she’d been awed by the pristine white steeple and the stained glass windows. It was the prettiest building in town (which wasn’t saying a lot). She’d also run, crying, from the five year-olds’ Sunday school classroom when a china doll of a girl with wavy black hair pulled back in a pink hair bow, wearing a pink sundress with a poufy skirt and white patent leather sandals asked her why she was wearing jeans and a Rainbow Brite t-shirt to church.

Mrs. Newsome, the preacher’s wife, had noticed Judith in Papa’s wiry arms, her face buried in his collar, wetting it with tears, and offered to take her shopping after the service. “Panty’s is havin’ a clearance sale,” she said, which only distressed Judith more; it wasn’t her panties Amy had made fun of, although they were probably wrong, too. So she’d let Mrs. Newsome take her to the mall.

Being from San Francisco, Judith knew even at the tender age of five that two department stores that didn’t even have escalators because they were only one storey, and a couple of shoe stores, jewelry shops, and a Wal Mart, wasn’t a good mall. But they got corny dogs for lunch, and when Mrs. Newsome delivered her home to Papa, Judith jumped out of the station wagon and skipped up to Papa with a shopping bag in hand. “Corn Dog 7′s my favorite restaurant and guess what, Papa! Panty’s doesn’t just sell underwear!”

Papa and Mrs. Newsome spent an hour trying to teach her that the store was called J.C. Penney, just like the money, but got no further than Judith saying, “That’s what I said! J.C. Panty!” They thought she was just being a kid, until a week later, when Judith came home from Sunday school laughing about the little boy who’d crossed his legs and squirmed around in his chair and shouted out in the middle of the Bible story, “Tay-cher! I nayed ta go tay-tay!” that they realized Judith’s panty/Penney confusion stemmed from the unfamiliar drawn-out vowel sounds of a Texas twang to her Californian ears. Mrs. Newsome had laughed and laughed in front of Judith, a cackle most unbecoming for a preacher’s wife, which peeled through the tiny farmhouse and hurt Judith’s ears as well as her feelings, and said, “Judy, (Judith hated to be called Judy, though she’d never told anyone) you’re half-Texan. You’ll talk like a native yet.” Papa had laughed, too, though Judith never knew; he’d saved it for the privacy of his bedroom, as he had done when her mama tickled him.

Since then Judith’s speech had, as Mrs. Newsome predicted, relaxed into a drawl. And, ironically, she’d been assigned to the lingerie department of J.C. Penney. Papa had laughed in his room about that, too.

The doorbell rang again. It seemed to have been more forcefully punched this time, and, imagining Johnny sighing and crossing his arms and leaning against the siding, and shaking his head at her when she let him in, asking, “The heck took you so long, Judy?” and “You deaf, woman?” Judith snapped into action.

But her legs did not take her to the door, her hands did not turn the knob to yank it open. She bolted across the living room and threw her arms around Papa’s lean frame. The worn denim of his shirt pressed to her cheek, the wiry softness of his beard tickled her forehead. His strong arms, especially the one tattooed with Nana’s name, held her tightly to him. She almost had an inkling that he loved her and wished to God she wouldn’t go, because she would come back changed; but then it occurred to her it wasn’t her he was sending off to college, but that he was back in the summer of ’76, sending her mama off to Berkeley.

She pulled away. “You bought me suitcases so I could go somewhere.”

And, whether he knew it or not (which he did), so she could be someone. Problem was, neither of them knew who that was, and both were afraid of who it might be.

Judith opened the door, but when Johnny came in saying exactly what Judith had predicted he would, Papa already had her bags in his hands, and he carried them out to the dusty black pickup truck for her.

It was Papa who opened the passenger side door for her as Johnny turned the ignition, Papa who shut it. He said goodbye with a single nod. But as Johnny began to silently back his truck down the long drive, Judith saw through the swirl of dust Nana standing beside Papa. He had his arm around her, and she was waving. Only it wasn’t goodbye; Nana’s hand was somehow connected to Judith’s heart, and there was a twinge, a pull…

Judith turned her head and looked at Johnny. “Just turn the truck around in the yard. Let’s get heck out of Dodge.”

“Yes ma’am.” Johnny threw the shift into drive, jammed his foot on the gas. Papa and the house vanished behind them in a cloud of dust that coated Judith’s new suitcases in the back of the truck.