SHORT STORY:

EXCERPT FROM “NORMANDY”
by William Parrish

May 16th, 1998 10:07 A.M.

 

Well, it’s the seventeenth day of my sixteenth year of existence, and I, Lindsay Porter, am having a nervous breakdown. Literally. And not in the “0h, my life is over because the cute guy in my Biology class won’t even look at me!” sense, but in a real, palpable, scientifically measurable way. I knew it would happen eventually, but not this soon. I mean, I am now, as I write, sitting in the back seat of my Father’s Honda, careening down the road towards what he promises is a fresh start for all of us (Including, unfortunately, my Step-Mother, who is sitting in the passenger seat with her usual expression of aggressive indifference.) We are leaving for good that God-forsaken bit of washed out waste-land that we called home for most of my life. The place that was named, presumably in a drunken stupor, Vallehoochie. Vallehoochie, Georgia. What a place to grow up. If you’re wondering what kind of place it was, well, let me put it thusly: the locals’ idea of sophistication was gutting the roadkill on the front porch instead of in the house. I’m not kidding. That’s pretty much all you need to know. And now we’re finally leaving. So I should be happy. Ecstatic, even. But, as the mile markers speed by outside the window and we draw inextricably closer to our destination, I can’t help but be overcome with a feeling of dread. Why, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. In the months leading up to our move, my Father was in sales-pitch overdrive. He had that kind of insanely enthusiastic yet slightly defensive air about him that he always gets when he’s trying to convince somebody of something that he’s not quite sure about himself. He told my Step-Mother and I about this plot of land that his ex-Father-in-Law had agreed to let him use, and about how he knew a guy who worked at a place and he could get a great deal on a double-wide trailer. Or mobile home, as my Father insisted on calling them, as if that changed the fact that it was basically a glorified tool shed. And he kept excitedly telling us about the area, about how there’s seasons and snow in the Winter. Right towards the end, he began really losing it, and adopted a downright scary tone, as if he had pioneered the place himself, and cleared the land, and cultivated it, and fought years of drought and harsh weather and Indian attacks and made it livable. He seemed to lose his grasp of the real situation, which was that he was sticking a stupid trailer on a bit of land that no one else wants. The point is, whenever he gets like that about anything, it usually ends in disaster. And I can’t see any reason why this is going to be different. But, he is getting us out of Vallehoochie, so I gotta give the old guy credit for that. And, truth be told, I actually really like it when he’s in one of his crazy moods, even if it usually does end badly. There’s a kind of insane energy to him that I just like. I wonder sometimes if he knows how much I like him when he’s like that. I suppose I should tell him one day. Anyway, we’re getting pretty close now, so I suppose I’ll put the old journal away until I see what we’ve got ourselves into. Bye for now!
 

May 16th, 1998 11:30 A.M.

Two words: Lying Sucks. Let me explain. Just plain lying is one thing. I’m a good liar. I can lie my way out of any situation in seconds flat, with a story so convoluted and complex that no one could ever possibly figure out which part was real and which part was made up. I am a genius at deception. But this is just plain wrong. I never get my hopes up about anything, but I actually let myself get excited about this move. All based on my Father’s stupid sales pitch. Well, right now, I’m looking out the window of my Father’s Honda at our future home. Am I Looking at a beautifully landscaped spread with ancient Oak trees lining the driveway? Am I looking at a quaint old homestead with rustic-looking farm houses and charming country atmosphere? Am I, you ask, even looking at a bit of  land on which even remotely civilized people could hope to live? Uh...no. You want to know what I see right now? I see a vast, impenetrable coniferous ecosystem, extending farther than my eye can see. I see centuries-old growth, coming right up to the road we just pulled off of. I see woods. NO, make that a forest. And not like Sherwood forest, but like the forest Bigfoot lives in. Or the Headless Horseman. What I don’t see is where my Father intends to put a trailer, seeing as how I probably couldn’t even open the car door to get out, although my Stepmom certainly managed it. As soon as we pulled in, her features took on the look of someone who just saw a loved one killed. My Father tried valiantly to defend himself, but she just screamed something about the fact that he’s always doing this, and just jumped out, running God knows where, and he followed her. They could be lost in the woods for days. And since we’re on private property, no one would ever know. I am now debating whether or not this is a bad thing. I’m quickly sinking into a bad mood. I’ll have to get back to you.
 

May 16th, 1998 11:30 P.M.

I am now sitting in my ad hoc bedroom in my Grandparents’ house, and I think everything is going to be alright. More on that in a bit. Right now, I have to get something off my chest. Namely, the absurd events that transpired upon our arrival at my Grandparents’, which is about a half-a-mile down the road from the wooded area that we are going to live in someday. I should probably explain a little about them. My Grandfather’s name is Mac Edgemont. He is not a nice person. He is known far and wide as an insufferable boor, and that’s among people who like him. Oh, and he also hates my Father. Despises him. Wishes him dead, more than likely. Has planned his death, quite possibly, on several occasions. My Grandfather has looked me in the eye and said to me several times that the only reason he puts up with my Father at all is because of me. I am also the reason he’s giving my Father this plot of land to settle on. To get me away from Vallehoochie and around “good influences,” meaning he and my Grandmother. When being a selfish, over-bearing pompous blowhard became a good influence is beyond me. Anyway, we have to stay with them awhile (meaning months and months, most likely) until the land is cleared and the trailer is set up. This is bad.
I could tell just how bad the moment we pulled in the long gravel driveway to their log cabin style house. By the side of the drive I spotted a yellow caution sign which read “CAUTION: SCOTTIE CROSSING” in huge block letters, under which was a silhouette of said canine. How cute. But then I thought to myself , “Oh, man, I wonder if that means...”
My thought process was cut off by a sound that is going to absolutely drive me insane while I’m here, an incessant, extremely annoying staccato yapping, followed by what looked like a throw pillow with legs. The dog practically jumped in my Stepmom’s window, its tiny little nails scratching the side of the Honda.
“Oh, wow, when did you get this?” she said to my Grandfather as he approached the car, valiantly attempting small talk.
“Isn’t she something? Look at her go!”
My Grandfather really seemed to be enjoying the fact that his little Scottish Terrier was ruining my Father’s paint.
“Libby, stop that, girl! Get down!,” he shouted, obviously not meaning it.
It’s name is Libby. Isn’t that precious. My Stepmom tried to open the door at this point and was immediately attacked by this little bundle of joy.
“Ow! Get down, you bit me...!”
“Uh-oh, did she get you?”
His smile seemed to widen. He grabbed the dog and scolded it in a little-baby voice as it licked his face. By this time I had sunk so far down in my seat I was practically under the car. For a fleeting moment I weighed my chances of them not even noticing me back here, and being able to stay crouched down in the back of my Dad’s Honda for weeks and weeks until the trailer was ready. No such luck.
“Linds, darling, is that you hiding back there?”
He made a show of putting his hands to his brow, and let loose a wheezing, phlegmy laugh that soon gave way to hacking. He tried to open the door, but my Dad must not have unlocked it yet.
“Well, heck, Jim, you afraid I’m gonna steal it?”
Another hacking laugh, then he saw my Stepmom’s hand, and called to my Grandmother, Charlotte.
“Oh, my gosh, dear, you better run and get something for Emma’s hand, here.” He leaned over and patted the little dog on the head.
“She’s a corker, this one.”
“Boy, you sure know how to make someone feel at home, Mac,” my Dad called out with a fairly convincing smile. He went over and looked at my Stepmom’s hand, which was bleeding fairly badly.
“Man, you’re gonna need stitches.”
“Oh, come on now,” said Grandpa, “it isn’t that bad. Charlotte will have her fixed up in no time.”
He leaned over and started talking to the dog in his little baby voice again, and the dog jumped in his arms and licked his face, as it was basically given gentle encouragement and reward for nearly severing my Stepmom’s hand.
I had decided at this point that my getting out of the car was simply not a feasible option, but I would keep them informed as events warrant. Thanks to my Stepmom’s near-death experience, they still hadn’t noticed me and made me get out. So far, so good.
My Stepmom was about to say something trivial about the intense, searing pain in her hand when she was cut off by Mac.
“We got this dog about six months ago at a huge dog breeding farm outside of Newton, Georgia, called Quarkus farms. They specialize in Scottie dogs like this one. Let me tell you, that is a major operation, buddy. They’ve got close to five hundred dogs out there, all full bred. There’s no mutts or Heinz 57 dogs out there, sir. How much you think we paid for this one?”

“I’m sorry?” My Dad was rudely and selfishly trying to quell the geyser of blood coming from his wife’s hand.
“How much do you think we paid for this dog?,” my Grandpa asked again, as if the very fate of the world depended upon the answer.
“I wouldn’t even---”
“Five hundred dollars, sir.’’
My Dad, for his part, didn’t even respond, not that he would’ve been able to. He simply stood there, his wife’s mangled hand in his, wrapped in an old shirt (which he used to check the oil in his car and that was probably brimming with sundry contagions), and just let the words that had just issued forth from my Grandpa’s mouth just hang there, in front of them, barely able to remain afloat in the air between them under the immense burden of their own absurdity, their very presence no longer an abstract sounded utterance, but now rendered palpable by the sheer inappropriateness of their advent. If you looked closely, in the heavy, sultry air between the two, you could actually see my Grandpa’s words, floating, lumbering and obtrusive: the Hindenberg of conversational iniquity.
Anyway, that’s what happened. My Gramma eventually fixed up my Stepmom’s hand. It wasn’t that bad. But the whole thing just seemed to portend an arduous time ahead. It probably will be. But it’s alright, because, as I said, things are good.
Earlier today, right after we pulled in the drive to the dense forest we were supposed to conquer, and my Stepmom was out of the car “cooling off”, my Dad got back in, blessedly not trying to make nice but just surveying his acquisition with a wide-eyed optimism that definitely suited him. But when he turned to me, I had to look away. When his eyes are open that wide, he can see too far into mine. I could tell that he really needed my support on this, and I wanted to give it to him. I was feeling an incredible fondness for him, for his determination to make a go of this, like it or not. He wasn’t conceding victory and staying in a place he hated. That I hated. This was looking bad, but he was going to do it anyway. I was suddenly struck by the most overwhelming sense of admiration and love I had ever felt for anyone. Pure, Heavenly love. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling this strongly. I wanted to smile as he looked at me. I wanted to tell him what was on my mind, but all I could muster was the same bland expression I always had. I couldn’t speak. He was looking at me with the most achingly wonderful, open expression, and I simply couldn’t tell him what was on my mind. He really needed to hear it, too, and I was silently trying to wrench the words from under impenetrable layers I had built up after years of hiding behind sarcasm and vague shrugs. I was scolding myself, screaming in my mind, trying to make myself say the words. The battle was raging in my head, echoing around like a thousand Normandy invasions. That’s what my whole life is like. The battle constantly raging in my head, as my thoughts invade the fragile shores of my mind, just like Normandy. What a great word. It evokes such a powerful image, and it just fits. If I ever slap a title on this journal, that’s what I’m going to call it.
But, I digress. Back to the story.

As it turns out, my Dad used the direct approach, which he had never done before.
He looked at me, with his wonderful, open expression. I noticed he had tears in his eyes.
“You think I can do this?”
That was all it took. He asked me a direct question, and didn’t make me take the initiative. The ball was in my court. And what I did surprised him, I think, as much as it did me. I burst into tears myself, and threw my arms around him.
“Yes, I do.” That’s all I needed to say. I could feel the burden releasing from his shoulders.
‘`Thank you.” That’s all he had to say.
So, regardless of how this works out, it’s going to be good, because my Father and I now have an understanding. And that’s about the most precious thing I can think of to have.
Well, anyway, it’s late, and I’m tired of writing. I’m going to bed.