Repent, a fable

What follows here is the first chapter of a novel fable I've been working on for a few years. Repent is the tale of the transformation Jack, a lost and mildly degenerate artist. The story starts with him as a standard sort of anti-hero that is common in contemporary art, film, and literature. The sort of character we are told is 'believable'. His utter lack of greatness makes him good, or so the archetype goes.

In this story Jack will learn to expect more from himself, and those around him. He will be faced with a call to real greatness requiring him to leave his broken though familiar and comforting life behind.

Repent

a fable

by William Scott

 Chapter One

“Hello.”

“Jack?”

“Lori?”

“Mom’s gone”

“Where”

“She’s . . . Gone”

These are the first words we’ve shared in 3 years.  Lori and I do not talk for any better reason than we cannot talk.  We talked to mom and she talked between.  More interpretation than mediation.  Our oath-less conspiracy allowed our mother to create the family story to her liking.

“. . . She’s dead. “

“How?”

“Heart attack.  In the pool.” 

Oh God!  I meant to see her again.  I ever mean to see her again.   Lori lives in the same town as mom.  Just a few miles apart.  She managed  to keep her house, to keep her husband and to keep mom involved; off to church on Sundays,  too the pool on Fridays, and endless cups of tea,  Mom’s pot handle sticky with the syrupy melancholy of her evaluations.  I moved far away as soon as possible, but the tack was refreshed on my fingers every time I picked up her calls. 

“Jack!?”

“y-Yes” 

“Well?”

“When’s the burial?”

“The funeral is next.  A week Saturday.”

Open casket.  Family thing.  Facing the death in yourself, something.  My great grandmother, me only six picked up by dad to look in.  “Where’s Nana”, I said.  She looked like a wax clown, grandma too.  Thinned lips, sewn together I suppose to keep her from getting out one last word.  More make-up than she had ever owned, upon her face.  Eyelids sewn too it looked, stuffed behind the lids, with clumps of mascara that looked like they might drop off the lashes onto her powder pink cheek; the proud work of some artisan at the mortuary.  How do you train to paint doll’s faces on the dead?  Maybe they all have to do it in turn. 

Putty forehead, cool,

unyielding as I bent to kiss.

Once, a boy upon your knee,

through folds of severity,

in sparkled tear I caught a glimpse, 
of your maiden bliss.

The men are always cremated. 

“You going to make it?”

“‘Course”

“Need money?”

“Maybe to get home?”

Too soon for snide.  I want to mourn, to chasten my neglect, my cowardice of so many years, to miss her (I have always missed her), but not with Lori on the phone with only a satellite’s veil between.  All the fragments of my memories of home, all the unfinished intentions are beating at the backs of my eyes to be let out.  I want to tell mom what to tell Lori.  I want to hang up!

“Have you told your kids?”

“Joan won’t comprehend it much.  But we did not want to tell Jack or Jessica ‘till you knew.”

“Uh hmm.  Thanks.  How do you think they will take it?”

“As well as I do.”

Control and order. I am her shabby brother.  The longer I tread my ‘courageous’ road the more I crave the disposition to live like Greg and Lori.  What have I to show for all my heroic journeying?  A dry cough, dark circles, and --most like-- liver spots.  I am 15 women’s ex- boyfriend.  My progeny: an aborted zygote, an aborted fetus, and one solo art show.   They have what most everyone has, and yet they have so much.  More than I could bear. 

“You’re just not cut out for marriage, dear.  You’re an artist like your father”, every time we spoke, without fail (without conviction).  “But I still pray the good Lord will send you an angel to soften your heart.”  At some point I could have carried on my conversations with mom by myself, picking one of twenty or so aphorisms to answer any need more or less poorly.

“Was it quick?

“She drowned.”

“Jesus!"
"Jack!"
"      . . . sorry.”

“The lifeguard thought she was just diving to touch the bottom, she liked to do that.  That poor boy is a wreck; he emptied her lungs and administered CPR while the girl lifeguard ran to get the defibrillator.”

Sheepish, mom confided once -deep into the box of Chablis- she tucked pennies under the bottom edge of her swimsuit bellow her right hip.  Her father threw pennies into the pool at the Okanagan resort where they vacationed, the siblings struggling under water to bring up the most.  “It is silly and girlish I know, but I dare not ask anyone else, so I let them loose when no one is watching, and I dive down to gather them all up myself.”      

“He really worked very hard to bring her back, Jack.

ha huh, who’s the poet now?”

“I’m not a poet.”

“More than me.”

“Just mouthy sometimes, with rhymes, not publishable.”

“You were always too hard on yourself.  Mom still has that one you left on your wall, about dad, she still cries when she makes herself read it.  Says she’s sorry you had to learn all that, no matter how beautifully written.

You still painting?”

“I'm a print maker”

“Oh, yes.  Mom has that one you sent.”

“Really?”

“Yes, on the fridge.”

“Really!?   Ha. I guess that’s where it belongs.”

“I said I would get it framed for her, but she insisted you would pick out the frame next time you came out to see us.”

“I gave her the moulding manufacturer and profile number.”

“Jack, we don’t understand all that.  Maybe you could get it framed while you're here.”

“Too late now, I suppose.”

“I’d like it.  I think it’s beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course Jack. You are very gifted. Or do you think I'm too low class to appreciate it?"
"No. I didn't mean . . .    " I might have.

"I don't have any fancy words as to why, may be that you made it, but it makes me happy.
When you come you should stay for a few weeks, if you can, the kids should get to know their uncle Jack better, and I’ll ask Greg if we can pay to get the picture framed.”

In the cardboard house

Holly Hobbie’s cups set neatly out.

he still-sad while she buzzed about;

Father placed freshly in the ground.

Paused when she beheld his frown,

wiped his tear as if her own;

humming soft ‘anon, anon’,

she kissed her father’s brow.

“God this is so awful”

“I know Jack”

“I really am flat too, but I have some money coming in a few weeks”

“It’s okay I’ll book your ticket online.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You have to come.

While you’re here you can give the kids some art classes, Lord knows I’m no hand at it, and private lessons are so much.” 

“You sure?, I’ll pay you back”

“Of course.  Don’t worry, we’ll be together soon.”

London Plane

   

    The music is too loud, even for John.  The buzzing of something he’d been handed along with the alcohol was coalescing into a floating agitation.  He needs to move from the couch, to get outside, but is uncertain of his balance.  A girl stumbling is cute, but if he shows weakness he might get shoved into the wall. Sitting next to Gwendolyn still, somehow.  He had given her a ride, kind of by chance, not really a date—she had popped by and mentioned the party—he didn’t expect she’d spend the whole evening with him.  She was around a bit, quite a bit lately, but just seemed friendly; too friendly for anything else? Thinks he might just he being used for rides, but doesn’t mind. 

   
        After a few false starts at conversation over the din of inebriated trance beats, he sits quiet, trying to determine the cause of the one imperfection in the carpet before of him, snapping intermittent glances at the downy hair on Gwen’s right forearm; her fingers now running light over a small white scar just above her bare knee.  She has turned to talk with a friend.  Three jocks, one female, and a couple of bored androgynous aesthetes complete a circle around them. Small towns. Everyone has to keep hanging out like it's high school still; two years out. All were shouting over the pounding sound.  Shouting about simple enough stuff, but John can’t find a way to improve it with yet more words. He has taken up snorting when he feels it will provide concurrence appropriately.  He can’t be heard, but hopes Gwen at least notices his affirming movements at her interjections.

         The music suddenly drops down into a low dreamy trance.  Turning to look at Gwen’s cheek, she turns smiling, “Why so serious?” 

        “I have to go.”

                
        “Eww John, TMI.” How come she’s talking like that?  
        “No. I need to leave.” 
        “Oh”, she is disappointed, “Why?  Things are just getting going.   We haven’t even started dancing yet.”

        “You can stay.”  He says awkwardly, wondering how many ways that could be interpreted, wrongly.  “I just need to go outside for a bit.  What was that we took?”

                
        “I don’t know, I didn’t take it.”

                
        “I saw him put it in your mouth.”

                
        She whispers her confidence into his ear, “Yeah, but I didn’t swallow it.  I don’t trust that guy.  Kinda creepy.  But it’s safer not to make a scene.” John gets goosebumps; her breath warm and voice wise and gentle. 

                
        John feels worse, pulling himself to the edge of the couch, if he had only known earlier that deception is sometimes the most ethical course of action.  Looking back, “Do you think I am creepy?” 

        “What?”

        John, louder, “Do you think I’m creepy?”  The music drops and everyone looks. 
        "Now that you mention it Johnny." The voice of one of the jocks, John can't remember his name.

        Gwen laughs pushing his shoulder lightly.  Uncertain what this means John finds his way to his feet, red faced.  His legs ache; he wants to reach down and touch his toes but resists the spectacle, walking instead through the kitchen toward the front door. 

                
        “Hey Johnny Boy.”  Ken, a monstrous piece of work, blocked the only way through at the far end of the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb.  “How’s Einstein today?” 

                
        “I’m no Einstein.”

               
        Pause.

                
       “See you’re here with Gwen.  Not bad big brains”, Ken pulling at his crotch.  A small posy of betas chortle and smirk sycophantically.  

        “You bin workin’ out lad?”  Ken lifts John’s arm and squeezes his bicep hard until he flexes to resist. It hurts, but John does not flinch.

                
        “A bit.” 

                
        “Hey not bad little man.  You were such a pussy in middle school.  Remember when I kicked your ass.”

                
        “How could I forget?”

                
        “Yeah, but you were being a dick.  What were you doing?”

                
        “Don’t remember.”

               
        “Really? Me neither.  Must have been a dick or I wouldn’t have kicked your ass.”

                
        Actually John had bested Ken in English class, and foolishly took the opportunity to gloat.  In the afternoon, Ken turned to the only recourse he had, his fists. He was actually easy on John.  Kind of hard, even for Ken, to destroy a guy who could barely manage a defensive posture. Still, the weeks of that black eye were the most shameful of John's life.  He has been working out ever since.    

                
        “Love to talk Ken but I left my coat at the front door.”

                
        “What’s the hurry Johnny, we’re just catching up.” 

                
        John doesn’t know how to respond.  He always feels Ken is one syntactical misunderstanding away from swinging.  He stands woozily, wondering if he should just strike first and pay back that black eye form grade 8.  He wonders for a minute if he is strong enough to take Ken.  But how could that matter anymore?  Ken is getting a bit fat. Sloppy even. He won’t finish well.  His old man is a loud mouthed lard ass; no doubt living off his inertia from youth. Ken still seemed to have more confidence than John.  Perhaps Ken just had nothing else to think about.

                
        “You don’t look so good Johnny; you didn’t take the white pill did you?”

                
        “Naw.”

                
        “You sure.”  Ken begins moving his face in and out from John’s, thumbs in his ears and fingers up like wriggling antlers, “Ooo scary.  Scary.  What was that show?  Oh yeah,  Oooo scared myself.” 

                
        The charade has its affect; John wants to spew, or lie on the floor. 

                
        “Well if you are leaving I guess I’ll just have to go sit next to Gwen.  Oh, too late.  Looks like Brad already moved in.”

                
        He had.  John turns to see Gwen gesturing animatedly in conversation with Brad.  Her soft white forearms rotating her hands, elbows perched on her knees.  Why did he get up?  Why couldn’t he get her talking like that?  Under the influence his heart both rose and sunk. He stared at her straight brown hair pulled back over her ear, a few stray strands.  She was beautiful in a plain way.  Left to her physicality, she would be average looking.  But there was a deep grace in her; some mystical sweetness that made her irresistible, and somehow unattainable.  As he watched John fell further, hating Bradley Barns. 'The guy’s a vacuous dandy.' John could take him no problem brain or brawn. But that was no way to win Gwen. Or maybe?

                
        “You just gunna look at her all night Johnny Boy?”   Ken breaks John’s reverie; pushing him back into the living room.  Gwen looks up as he stumbles in.  She is quizzical, shoulders shrugged—palms up.  John reads her lips, “I thought you were going?” 

                
        “Couldn’t get through the kitchen.”  Smiling lamely and mimicking her pose.  She cups her hand to her ear shaking her head.  He wants nothing more than to replace Brad on the couch.  If only he had the balls to wedge his way between them and stake his claim.  But how do you follow-up a move like that.  He notices a sliding glass door at the side of the little sunroom they are gathered in. 

                
        “I’m going to go this way.”  Hoping she will follow. 

                
        “What?  I can’t hear.” he reads.

                
        John points pecking his finger like a chicken toward the door, then pretends to open it and walks across the air with his fingers. 

                
        “Oh.” She is smiling (is it uncertain?) and returns to talk to Brad, who is staring uncomprehendingly between Gwen and John his mouth slightly agape.

                
        John has to walk through the circle of jocks to get to the door.  It slides smoothly on the track.  The air, cool and fresh, mixed with a hint of marijuana, welcomes him outside.  A small circle of kids are passing a joint, boasting about other times they got more wasted. 

                
        “Hey man, want some?”  One asks, straining smoke between his teeth, holding the doobie outside the group toward John. Why does every pot head sound like a 45 year old burnout?

                
        “No thanks man, I’m more than good.”  John continues past toward a large tree in the middle of the back yard. He stands before it quiet for a minute, examining its form, the will of its becoming. He looks up into its large but youthful branches. Lying down on his back—head toward the trunk. The grass is wet and begins soaking through his sweater and shirt.  He does not flinch, but resigns himself to gravity’s draw.  It's a London Plane.  The leaves are new, pale green and hopeful.  A large patch of space is visible through a cloud break, John notices the Big Dipper.  Following the line projected by the two lead stars on the cup he looks for the North Star, but clouds obscure.  He fixes his eye were it should be and waits for an approaching clear patch of sky to reveal it.   

                
        Why did he want her so badly and why was he so useless at getting her.  She hung around. She didn’t seem desperate, just universally nice.  Too nice?  Maybe he was too much a shit. The girl can provide the sweetness still, can’t she? He would feel like such an idiot if he tried something and was wrong, or offended her.  The thought of forming the words, “I like you, Gwen”, made him tense on the ground.  What a gay pussy.  ‘Do you like me like that?’ He derides himself.  ‘Really? What time are you from Johnny Boy?’  Then out loud, “I couldn’t bear if she said, ‘No.’” Looking up he notices the circle of the weed had gone back inside.  Her ‘No’ would ruin everything.  He wouldn’t see her the same.  She couldn’t be his source of hopefulness again, only the dull meaningless mediocrity of being ‘just friends’.  It all seemed silly.  People don’t talk about falling in love in college anymore, not like for forever.  It was all just about getting laid; falling in love is too costly and dull, doesn’t last.  Or so the brave new convention has it.  He wanted to protect her and be loved and cared for in return. John felt a tinge of shame for wanting her in this way.  (He is certain this is an illegal social arrangement in some European countries.) 

   The North Star visible, briefly, through a small break in the cloud. 

   “Well things can’t stay like this forever.  Someone else will grab her if you don’t take the chance”  The idea of someone else filled him with hatred.  He should give her something.  One of the leaves?  It will be silly.  But it will prove her good humour.  Rising to his feet slowly and plucking a fresh leaf from a low branch, John turns toward the house and sees Gwen squinting with her hand for a visor at her forehead, bathed in porch light.  Her other arm is clutching at her sweater. 

“John, Are you out here?”  Shout-whispering.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”  She begins to take careful steps across the patio.  

“Just needed some quiet.”

“You coming back inside?”  She implores gently. `Ken is sitting next to me talking about his truck. I think it has titanium cup holders?” 

“Sure.  But you should come here first.”  John surprised at his own words.

“It’s cold.  The grass is wet, and I left my shoes inside.”

“I’ll carry you over.”  John pulls off his sweater and folds it into a bundle with the dry side up.  You should see this tree.”  Walking over the grass, he meets Gwen at the edge of the patio. 

“I can see it from here.”

“But it’s different from under.”  He smiles and she returns.  “Hop on.” John turns his back to her crouching. 

“You’re a goof.”

“The goofiest. Come on you don’t want to miss out.”

“Miss out?”

“Yeah, on a piggy back ride to my tree tree island.”

“This is behaviour unbecoming a modern woman.”

“Well, get your feet wet then if you prefer.”

“Are you sure you are strong enough?” 

“I’m sure.”

Gwen jumps up on John’s back and he hooks his arms under her knees.  The wooziness of earlier has settled.  The cold air and the wetness of his back have forced sobriety.  Gwen is perched lightly, leaning on her folded arms, hands gripping his lats. 

“You’re wet.  This better be worth it.” 

“It will be.” John promises, without really knowing what he’s going to do.  “When I lower you, land on my sweater.  It will keep your feet dry.” 

Gwen slides off John’s back onto the sweater.  He turns, looking intently at her under the cover of the tree—the light striking her face from over his left shoulder.  Gwen's pool-blue eyes staring back.

“Well, John.” 

“Beautiful here isn’t it?” 

“Yes.  Yes it is”, she says looking up into the branches.    I love trees, they always seem so. . . wise.” 

“Wise?”

“Yeah Like they know just how to be what they are.  And don’t have to go anywhere to be it.”

John looks down and sees the leaf.  Reaching up he plucks a fresh one, holding it out.  “This is for you.”  She receives it like treasure, beaming.  John Descends on one knee.  “Gwendolyn, will you . . .  will you be my girl?”

“I thought I already was.” Picking up the sweater Gwen takes John’s hand and leads him over the wet grass toward the house.  Looking down he sees his runners, tame against the wild beauty of her white feet collecting dew and grass blades.  Closer to the house the glass of the sliding door is elastic at the pounding beat from within.  She clenches his hand, “Wanna dance?”  

Crow Song

Short fiction by William Scott

At the edge of the lake sitting uncomfortable on rock, looking onto the calm surface of the water; wet gossamer stretched between the hills rolling in large soft ripples. 

He says “I love you” too easily.  Too quickly at least.  So he thinks.  Or do others say it too seldom or too late?  He said it again.  She smiled and sputtered something like its reflection, uncertainly.   

Before him the damp shore, small rocks and boulders wading in the shallow edge of the lake.  They look left behind, untidy.  He would move them, but where?  Every square inch of the ground is covered by accidents— mess.  The water is simple though, purely one infinite thing, shimmering, pulling the landscape and sky upside down in the low light of dawn.

He meant it though.  He felt it.  An expanding in his chest a sinking in his belly. The urge to vomit.  Words instead, now out between them with no place to go.  Not rejected but not received. 

Small fish intermittently break the water disturbing the surface with staccato shimmers.  Entropy quickly assumes them back into the grand lethargy.  Further out textured patterns patch the surface as wind coaxes against laziness. 

She was so beautiful just then; penitential grimace after burning the hot chocolate to the pot’s bottom over the campfire.  Black bits floating, “Don’t stir it, Abigail”, David searched ten minutes in the back of the Subaru for a strainer while Abby fished out what she could with a fork. 

He had wanted to say it five maybe ten times before, at quiet pauses when he felt himself blending with her, disappearing merely as himself.  How could it be so out of place?  What sort of world is this?  They share a tent, share bodies, risk pregnancy —trust each other primitively— and yet these words are too much?

A crow lands on a branch just overhead and behind, cawing its broken song.  David just looks at the water for everything.  Something.  The dry beating of wing through air and the crow swoops intently just over his head on its way to a branch hanging over the lake. 

“Caw Caw Caw.  Caw Caw.”  Another alights the branch behind without voice.  The fore crow continues to rasp till the second bird joins him on his branch, swooping closer to David’s head than the first.  They are mated.  He is cawing the way safely for his own.  Then he leads them to a tree back from the shore.   David notes how matter-of-factly they live out the dangers of their day.  Perhaps behind their stoic expressions, held in inflexible beaks, they hide both terror and joy. 

A rustle next to him, “You were up early.” 

“Couldn’t sleep. Hope I didn’t wake you”

Abby manages to settle comfortably beside him, “Cowboy mocha?  Not bad. I put the grounds into the chard chocolate and strained it through a J cloth.”  She passes a cup biting his neck with her lips over her teeth, “You missed out this morning.”   Resting her head on his shoulder,

“I am amorously inclined toward you too sir . . .  I will say it . . . soon.   But you will have to prove yourself worthy first.”

The male continues to caw caw caw, contorting its body pushing the rasping reedy sound forth into the day, pausing only to start again; as if it believed the next time it would be voice or song. 

“Really, what shall I do mi’ lady? 

“Maybe kill that crow?  What is it going on about?”

“Us, I think.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------