Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Rick Moody's "Boys" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Moody's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.
The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.
“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.
“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.
“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.
“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.
“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.
The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.
“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.
“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”
The family is silent. The girl is confused.
The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”
The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.
“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.
Silence.
The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.
No comments:
Post a Comment