IN MY LIFE
by
Richard Eisley Webster
Richard loved a girl.
All his life he needed something, only to find empty rooms. When his mother
left— Richard five, Dad twenty-two— every word was WHORE and SLUT and almost
always ADULTERY. As he aged, these words bounced around the rubbery insides of
his brain, never to find an exit or release.
Freshman year of high-school, he was assigned a seat which would change his
life.
Madeline.
What a beautiful name, he thought.
Then the words stabbed thorn-pricks in his brain. Women are SLUTS, are WHORES,
women commit ADULTERY. Women are women are—
He didn’t speak to her.
Through the days and weeks which followed, he learned that she spoke even less
than he did. Her eyes were always on her work, or at the blackboard or towards
the door.
They were so similar.
I bet her father left her. I bet he left and she hears the same words I do. I
bet her brain hurts when they jump around inside, just like me.
On the classroom door, an orange leaflet was taped so students would see it as
they entered.
HALLOWEEN DANCE: PROCEEDS TO BENEFIT FCA
Richard eye’s widened, pulsed, understood.
With every emotion bubbling over, the old words didn’t ricochet in his mind. He
realized the only person who understood life and pain and confusion was the
beautiful girl sitting next to him.
Five minutes before the bell rang, the class crouched over their workbooks.
A whisper in the silence like the crackle of leaves underfoot.
“Excuse me,” he asked.
A swish of blonde hair, not romantic, not a movie star’s feigned dilettante.
Simple, kind interest.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering . . . the poster on the door . . . if—”
At the classroom’s head a broken, old-woman jag: “Mr. Webster, your work,
please.”
—oldwomanpointednoseSLUTWHORE—
“Could you . . . maybe . . . if you’re not going with anyone—”
“Sure. Let’s talk after class, okay?”
Calm. Pure. No hint of evil or treachery.
Dad was wrong, Richard thought at his desk. Dad was wrong.
After the bell, amid the commotion of papers and zipping book-bags, she stood
before him. A slip of paper. Curved lines and fluid handwriting.
“Here’s my number. Call me tonight, Rick.”
Rick.
He was a king on the walk home. Pride mixed in with happiness. But for the first
time in his adolescent life, he questioned his father’s honesty.
Dinner was sandwiches, like every night. His father started drinking after they
ate, so he broached the subject of the dance beforehand.
“Dad, I need a ride this weekend. A thing for school.”
“What kind of thing?” A muffled mouthful. Scowling.
“A . . . dance.”
The man’s eyebrows rose from their leveled frown and he put down the sandwich.
Wiping the corners of his mouth, he growled “Get me a can.”
SNAP and hiss of the beer. Gulping
“Son, you’re getting to an age when you need to hear something. You know what
your mother did, so I won’t bring it up. And I don’t want you going queer or
sumthin’.” His eyes lost Richard’s as he spoke, “But remember one thing about
life, boy. Never trust a woman. Sluts, mostly. Not a one of ‘em wouldn’t fuck
‘yer brother for a dollar or two more. Remember it.”
Richard did, though he strangely associated Madeline as something his father
couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
“So, will you give us a ride?”
“Us?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve invited someone from school . . . A girl.”
“No. Get her father to drive. I don’t want nothing to do with no slut from
school. You can make your own bed in that department.” His father laughed at his
own joke, the sound following Richard as he walked towards the phone.
Two rings.
Three.
Four— then a coughing answer.
“H-Hello?”
“Is Madeline there, please?”
“Who’s this?” a woman’s voice. Not angry, not threatening. Probably her mother.
“My name is Richard Webster. Rick. I go to school with Madeline. I hope I
haven’t called too late.”
“No, son. Not at all. Let me get her.”
Waiting on the phone, he heard another SNAP from the kitchen; his father opening
the next beer.
“Hello, Rick?”
“Madeline. I missed you after school, so I thought I’d call later.” Nervous,
hoping the shake in his voice wasn’t audible
“That’s cool.”
“About the dance . . . I’d like to, uh, to take you if . . . you know, you’re
not already going with some—”
“I’d love to.”
“It’s just. I don’t have a car and my dad can’t take us. Could, maybe your dad
drive?”
An uncomfortable pause.
“Madeline?”
“My, uh . . . my father’s gone, Rick.”
I knew it, his mind screamed. I knew we were the same.
“But I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind taking us.”
“That’d be great. I’ll meet you at Stan’s at six thirty.”
Within walking distance, Stan’s waffle-shop was the closest Richard could reach.
“Great. And thanks Rick. I’m really looking forward to it.”
. . .
Sorry. Hand’s getting tired.
Think I’ll give that tray a go. Guard brought it about an hour ago and it’s
probably cold by now. He’s a new guy, one I haven’t seen in the forty-seven
months since my transfer.
Needham fell asleep while I was writing, but the poster’s still looking down on
him.
On all of us, I guess . . .
So that was Act One. You’ve got the characters and setting. Maybe even have a
feel for what’s gonna happen. I’m trying not to think about what the guard said
or what the poster shows. Don’t want to jade the picture for you.
No clocks in the hall or showers. Guess they don’t want us counting off days and
going crazy from the eternity of numbers.
New guy wore his watch, though. Must’ve forgotten his briefing.
The digital numbers read 11:01 P.M. and that gives me about an hour more to
write.
Supper was good. Cold potatoes and cube steak. Washed it down with their luke-warm
Styrofoam coffee.
Gotta catch things early or they wind up ruined.
. . .
Laughing again.
Reread that last line and realized it starts the middle scene.
Here goes.
IN MY LIFE
(cont’d.)
Richard loved the girl.
Her grip on his arm as they entered the gymnasium was what poets write. Chin
firm, neck arrow-straight, he felt he could explain to Kings how they were
expected to act.
Look at me, Dad. Look at happiness. Look at what a woman can be.
All of a sudden, people knew him. Knew his name and wanted to talk to him.
He worried that the dancing wouldn’t come to him, but two hours later, brow
sweating, he found it a joy rather than a challenge.
Slow music: arms across her neck.
Fast: hands on her hips, interchange.
It came quickly, and more importantly, it fit. Never had anything been so purely
right.
At the end of the night, last song, he leaned in and kissed her.
Madeline noticed his shaking. But miraculously, she didn’t seem to mind.
When their lips parted, he leaned in, close to her ear.
“I think you’re perfect, Madeline. This . . . this whole night, has just been .
. .”
“Perfect” she said. Not a whisper. Her voice was clear enough for anyone to
hear.
The lights came on exposing coupled dwarves all motioned in pairs. The body odor
and pheromones were like a visible cloud surrounding everything.
Amplified chaperones: “Happy Halloween, everyone. Let’s all head out to Walker
field for the annual Baptist Bonfire!”
Pygmies.
Or maybe Indians on some uninhabited island.
The flames danced three times higher than any man. Broken shipping-palettes and
driftwood were piled atop each other.
Couples held hands.
He would think later that nothing could be stranger. Church people dancing
around a pagan blaze. Faithless celebration.
In the decades to follow, he would understand that duplicity was the heart of
man.
When the fire caught its crescendo, Madeline and Rick crouched in the shadows.
Each preferred sitting and watching. People danced and ran and ambled around
them.
But all they did was watch each other.
Maybe we’re too close to the flames, he thought before the pinnacle
moment. Maybe we’ll get burned.
And the next kiss was the sweetest.
Candy lips as her tongue danced and searched.
His spine tingled with electricity. One hand on his cheek, another tracing the
front of his jeans. They moaned in unison, feeling some cliff edge, seeing the
purpose that togetherness wrought.
It was fire—
Ecstasy—
Unknown reaches and newly found meaning—
Thank you, God. Oh, thank you.
In their link, a rolling, unstoppable heat resonated. Between them burned a
power so cleanly good it couldn’t be contained.
The hand on Richard’s shoulder broke more than their moment.
“Aaah!”
“Time to go, sweeties,” the voice portentous amid the son’s painful yowls.
“Car’s runnin’ and Madeline needs to git’.”
As Richard turned, the flair of his broken collarbone screamed a red shriek in
his mind.
He heard the old words returning even before his father grabbed her.
“Gonna get you two outta here.”
—SLUT—
“Find us a place to do some talkin’.”
—WHORE—
“Show Ricky what a woman really says and does.”
—ADULTERYWHORESLUTWRONGWRONGWRONG—
In the darkness, no one heard the car door slam . . . or the pleas of a broken
son.
. . .
Last time I stop. Lights out in twenty minutes and that means midnight’s close.
We’re almost there and I realize why I really started writing this.
Dear Diary,
I’ve decided to hang myself. Yours truly, Richard.
Sorry again.
Cried.
Thought about that die-laughing thing and wished it was possible. If you’re
reading this, its over with and what I couldn’t say in court is finally told.
Honesty’s the best policy, so listen up. I want my last words to be clean and
clear:
What’s the difference between a blonde and a pepperoni pizza?
A pizza doesn’t scream when you put it in the oven.
IN MY LIFE
(finale)
Richard loved Madeline.
That was his first thought upon waking.
“Wake up, boy”
Dad.
The man’s profile was a blurry close-up in Richard’s vision. Eyes wider than
they’d ever been.
“Lookie here, son,” he motioned towards the homemade fulgurate, “Think I finally
found your Mom.”
Salem witches.
My God, the stake. The witches, the stake the fire, bonfire.
The girl contained her screaming until Richard woke.
When his head moved, the silence broke with a belt of screaming pleas.
“Oh God, Rick. Please! It hurts so much! I’m on fire! I’m burning! I’m—”
Richard’s wrists bound, his father stood and kicked his back. The boy’s torso
shot forward and he got the clearest, most grotesque vision he would ever see.
Forever it stayed with him; seared into his mind like a hang-rope neck scar.
Her hands were behind her so only her blonde hair could move. Thrashing screams
echoed along the empty, darkened plain. No one heard her burning.
“Dad. Oh my God, Dad, NO!” Richard’s supplication evolved into sobbing as her
hair caught ablaze.
She writhed, shrieked, pleaded for mercy. And all the boy could do was cry with
her.
The struggling slowed as her skin caught and her body jerked in smaller turns.
Then stilled.
As the fire burned to embers, Richard’s sobs abated.
Phoenix-like, his soul left with her, leaving only an empty, motionless husk . .
. black with his father’s flame.
One more kick and Richard’s eyes closed. His father’s words etched a charcoal
trail into unconsciousness.
“Gonna keep lookin’ for her, Ricky. Momma’s out there somewhere.”
Verging blackness, he felt the binds on his wrists disappear. “Speak word or
reason ’bout what just happened and I’d have to kill that girl’s momma.”
Something was stuffed in Richard’s pockets and palm— a gas can dropped by his
arm.
“And kill her aunts and granny and sisters and cousins . . . Hell, I’d havta’
burn damn near ever woman she’s kin to.”
Footsteps whispered as a siren started, miles away.
With the sizzle of the fire, his father’s mad words trailed out into the
smoking, cindered night.
And because he knew the hatred which consumed the man was equaled by his
dedication towards any goal, he knew his father spoke truth. If Richard
mentioned a single word about what had happened, Madeline’s family would burn.
No mercy or regret.
No thoughts of punishment.
His father would torture any woman without remorse.
He’d promised.
These thoughts followed Richard into a shocked unconsciousness where the fear of
what could happen blanketed everything. Eyes closed, the smell of burning flesh
merged with a solitary whisper through the swaying grass.
“Remember . . .”
THE END
12:01 A.M.
I am so sorry, Madeline.
THE END