It's always hard to get dumped....Jane Kenealy tells us in spectacular detail why that is! Enjoy. West Virginia in My Head by Jane Kenealy--one of the Best of the Memoir Writing Conference 2012

 

 

West Virginia in My Head

By

Jane Kenealy

I am an ex-reference librarian, occasional bakery clerk, and novice web designer. I began my first novel when I was seven, but had to abandon the project when I lost my pencil.

 

He came home, and went upstairs in silence.  No “good night”.  No “I’m going to bed.”  As usual, nothing.  I sat in my chair and watched him go up the steps, my legs curled up toward my body, my arms cradling my stomach.  I had confronted him a week ago about the other woman, and he had sworn that he would end it.  But then he had gone out again that very night, and every night thereafter.  This whole past week had been one of silences from him, and reading relationship rescue books for me.  Things were not going well. 

      I looked at the cover of the latest chirpy “you can fix it if you try” book that I had gotten from the library, and felt myself giving up, at least for the night.  I crept up the stairs to bed, quietly, each step careful to avoid the old house creaks.  I didn’t want to disturb him.  He got up earlier than I.  He was snoring already, just slightly.  I carefully crawled into my side of the bed.

            His cell phone lay on his dresser, mocking me.  West Virginia stirred, and I heard Nanny’s voice in my head.  “How long are you going to go on like this, child?.”  “Not long,” I thought.  “Not long at all.”  “Then get up out of that bed and DO SOMETHING.”  I obeyed, and slid my legs back out from under the sheets.  I reached for the cell and walked back downstairs, making the right at the bottom to go into the dining room.  I thumbed the machine on, and hit the menu choice for “Outgoing Calls”.  He had called Her five minutes after leaving home that night.

            Nanny was wide awake now.  “He ate your food and then called his hoore?”  Her remembered twang turned the noun into some sort of medieval epithet.  “He ate your food and then called his hoore with your dinner in his belly?”  Somehow that made it all worse: the ultimate insult.

            Nanny picked up a cast iron frying pan, and I picked up the cell phone that I had dropped.  We went back up the stairs together.

            I stood in the doorway, looking at the huddle of sheets that was my lying, cheating husband.  I hefted the phone in my hand, wanting to throw it at him, longing to scream unforgivable unforgettable devastatingly wounding things just this once.  My heart was banging in my ears, barely drowning out Nanny’s rumbles of rage.  “Heck, that little thing isn’t going to teach him anything.  You need a good frying pan.  Here.  Take mine.  Now that will get his attention.  Do some damage.  Show him you mean business.”

            “All that will do is get me arrested.”  I pictured the squib in the next day’s Times-News police blotter: “Angry librarian attacks husband with kitchen appliance.”  The Times-News always got things a little off-kilter.  Not good.  I would end up shamed when I was not the one who had done anything to be ashamed of.  Peter, the bastard, would become an automatic object of pity and concern.  “So sad.  Who knew she was so crazy.  What he must have put up with,” the populace would cluck.  He would love it.

            “Shut up, Nanny,” I told the voice in my head.  “There’s got to be a better way.  One that will shame him.  One that will remove him.”  “One that will teach him good!” Nanny piped up.  “No, Nan.  I’m not interested in him learning anything.  I just want him gone.”

            I turned and slid back downstairs, the phone still in my hand.  “Knowledge is powe,” I remembered from the posters at work.  This time I went through each text message, scanning it, then forwarding it to my work email.  Logging the days and times and numbers of the regular calls on the back of an old envelope.  Rummaging through his contacts list, and writing down Her phone number.  I worried momentarily that he would notice that I had been messing in his phone, but remembered that for all his pride in his technological know-how, he was really just a child performing simple monkey tricks when it came to electronics.  He could barely handle his email or find a document once he had saved it.  I was the technogeek of the family.  

            Guilt began to pick at me.  I was invading his privacy.  Dewey and a century of librarians waggled their collective fingers at me.  I told them to shut up too.

            I sat back in my chair again, brain spinning.  What to do?  How? What? The guilt thing rose up again.  How could I think of doing something to my husband?  Maybe I really was crazy.  I had my dead grandmother screaming in my head.  Was that normal?  Then I looked again at the stream of daily messages to Her.  I slid the plain gold band off my finger for the first time in twenty-eight years.  “I divorce thee,” I whispered to it.  “I divorce thee.  I divorce thee.”  I placed the ring carefully on the table by my chair.  It had meant something to me.  But women in my family just plain did not divorce.  There had to be another way......

Copyright 2012 © Jane Kenealy

Between Heaven and Here

 

Susan Straight's eighth novel was published yesterday.  Read this fascinating piece on how an image can spark a story. 

 

 

Artist and writer, Fanny Banny, talks about "The Point" in her terrific memoir piece. Another "Best of the Memoir Writing Conference 2012". Grab a cuppa Joe and enjoy!

The Point

By

Fanny Barry

Fanny Barry writes, paints and teaches yoga in Tulum Mexico.

 

I closed the door of the phone booth and felt the remoteness of where I had chosen to live.  My house had no signal for a cell phone and “land lines” were only available in the pueblo, 20 minutes away. I liked being out of touch yet sometimes I needed someone. I dialed my mom, waited and hung up just before the click for voicemail.  I left the “casita telefonica”, little house of phones, and shuffled down the nearly empty, dusty Avenida Tulum, and recalled phone conversations from just more than a year before. 

“It is cancer Mom. Sorry.” I felt badly. 

“Oh my,” she said and then, “Don’t be silly Joanne. Nothing to be sorry about.”  Her voice cracked as she asked.  “What did they say?”

“They called me this afternoon and told me, just like that,” I said, starting to cry.

“Are you ok?  Want me to come see you?” she asked.

“No.” I fought tears.  “No Mom, it’s late. Is Calzi there?” I asked.

“She is, of course, sweetheart.  Talk to the nurse.”  Calzi was also my sister and best friend.  “But if you need anything, just call.  I’m here”, she reminded me.

“Thanks Mom,” I meant it.

As she passed the phone, I started to cry.

“Hey Fans what is up?  Mom looked worried.”

“I have cancer, Calzi.  Can you believe it? Fuck sake.  They said ‘metastatic’,” I blurted through tears.

She said softly, “Shit,” and paused before she asked slowly. “What exactly did they say?”

“Well, I know they said that word because I asked about it.  But I mean, to tell me that on the phone. What the fuck?” I knew I could confide in her.

“I am sure there is more to it,” she said confidently.

“They’ll call tomorrow.  But shit.  Really, doesn’t metastatic mean everywhere?” I had to know.

“Depends Fans. Don’t worry,” she said and then followed with, “Shit. Want me to come up?  Are you ok?” 

I had not been afraid but now I felt unsure.

“I am a mess but I am ok.  I mean, what can I do, right?  She told me to call a surgeon.”  I started to cry.  “Like I have one. It is so messed up.”  I took a deep breath, “Yeah, I guess you could say I am a little freaked out.”

“Understandable”, she said and then, “I cannot believe she would tell you that on the phone.”

“Me neither,” I agreed.

Calzi continued, “Well, get some rest and call me tomorrow after you hear, ok?”

“Okay,” I said and then, “Calzi?”

“Yeah?” 

I hesitated and then asked, “Don’t tell anyone, ok?”

“Okay.  But why?” She sounded incredulous.

“ I don’t know.  Just don’t, O.K.?  Ask Mom not to as well, would you?  Not until we know.”  I was surprised, but I felt embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know.

She didn’t understand.  “Stay cool, Fans.” she told me. “There are a million more things you need to know”.

“Really?” I needed to hear it again.

“Yes,” she said definitively and then followed with, “Shit, yes,” which somehow inspired much more confidence. “There are lots of different cancers and different metastatic cancers too. Okay?”

“Okay.”  I was a little more comfortable in my own skin.”

“You sure you will be alright on your own?” she asked me.

I loved that she cared about me.  “I’ll be okay.  I’ll be asleep before you could even get here.”

“I love you Fans.”

“Love you too Calzi.”

“Call me tomorrow,” she reminded me.

“Will do. Give Mom a smooch for me, okay?  Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  You have nothing to be sorry for.  Now, go on.  I love you”, she said.

I was smiling when I hung up. 

The next day, Dr. K called me at work.  I forced myself to answer.  I was so afraid.

“Hello?” I said quietly.  I did not want anyone to hear through the thin walls of my cube.

“Ms. Barry?” Dr. K asked.

“Yes Dr. K?”

“The next series of tests determined it is only breast cancer.” she said almost happily.

My heart stopped pounding, “only breast cancer”.  I had hoped she would say it was all a mistake.

“Great,” I said, meaning it but not liking it, “Only breast cancer.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said sincerely and then, “We will forward the results to your primary care physician, Dr. Gleysteen, right?” 

“Yes,” I confirmed and then asked, “Is there something I should be doing?”

“Did you contact Dr. Koufman, the surgeon”, she asked.

 “Yes but I need a referral.”  The insurance companies had more than a few rules.

“Stay on top of it”, she cautioned.

“Okay.”  I mean, did anyone just forget that their doctor told them they had cancer?

“Good luck, Ms. Barry,”she said genuinely.

“Thanks very much.” 

I hung up and repeated, “Only breast cancer”.  I didn’t know what to do. Should I be happy?  I called Calzi and thought, “Breast cancer they can take care of, can’t they?”

“Only breast cancer.” I said when she picked up the phone and I started to laugh, a nervous silly laugh.

She asked me, “Fans, you ok?” 

“Yeah, just relieved.”  I couldn’t stop laughing.  “Funny how breast cancer could make me so happy.”

“Well, it is good news, relatively speaking.” she admitted.

“Everything is relative, as Dad used to say.  I am going to call Mom.”

“Yeah, call her. She needs to hear from you”, Calzi said.  “At least we can do something with breast cancer. Do you know what to do next?  I mean, what did they tell you?”

“To call a surgeon.”

“Do you have one you like?” she asked me.

“I have an appointment Friday.  But I need a referral.” I told her.

“Shouldn’t be hard to get. I’ll go with you” It was not a question.

“Are you sure Calzi.  I mean, it will take your whole day.”

“Fanny, don’t start.”, she nearly scolded.

“That would be great”, I said and then, “Thanks Calzi”.

“We can drive together.  What time?” She was all business.

“The appointment is at 2 on Beacon Street.” I was thrilled to have her help me.

“I will be there around one.  Love you, Fans.  Call if you need anything, ok?” she reminded me. 

“I love you too.”

We hung up and I walked outside to call my mom.

 “Sweetheart.  How are you?  Did they call?” she asked me.

“Yes. It is only breast cancer”, I hated that I had to tell her.

“Well,” she paused, “what do you need to do?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly.

“Oh, darling.  Want me to come and have dinner with you?”

“I would love it,” I said to myself as I looked up at the blue sky and wished I were so close again.  All of a sudden, I didn’t understand why I was in this hot Mexican beach town. My family and friends understood it less.  But between the remoteness and the bad connections, I was learning to rely on myself.  Maybe that was the whole point.

 

Copyright 2012 © Fanny Barry

 

 

Mary Flood has a very unique voice and, as she says, a diamond mine of memories in her past.

 Sole Searching

By

Mary Flood

Shoes have always been a problem for me.  I have big feet.  They are not freakishly big given the fact that I am six feet tall, but just big enough to make buying shoes a challenge.

When I was a kid and my feet were growing, I remember my mother’s exasperation when she would take me to buy shoes and the only things in my size had high heels.  My mother would say to the salesman, “But she’s just a little girl.” He would shrug his shoulders as if to say, “It’s not my fault your seven year old has clown feet.”

The one pair of shoes I always looked forward to buying was my tap shoes.  No matter what size foot you had, everyone in tap class had the same shoes: black patent leather with grosgrain ribbon.  They were shiny and made you dance like Ginger Rogers or  Eleanor Powell. It got better come recital time when you took gold or silver paint to them so they would match your costume.  Whoever came up with the idea to add glitter to the paint was a genius.

Alas, even my tap shoes ended up being a problem.  As I reached adolescence, my classmates started showing up in high heeled tap shoes.  Perfect, right?  Well, no, because by then my feet had grown so much they didn’t make the high heeled tap shoes big enough. Back to square one.

I have made peace with the fact that I will never wear Manolo Blahniks or snap up shoe bargains or develop a shoe fetish.  That sometimes makes me feel out of step with the sisterhood.  As for tap shoes, the last pair I bought when I returned to tap dancing a few years ago were black leather, not patent leather or high heeled.  They were men’s black leather tap shoes and it’s hard to feel like Ginger Rogers when you’re wearing Fred Astaire’s shoes.

Copyright 2012© Mary Flood

Heidi Tony's brilliant piece about her parents, about love....aren't the best stories about love?

A Summer Day in Charlestown

By

Heidi Tony

           

            The summer I was ten, my parents celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary at my grandmother’s cottage on the Northeast River in Maryland.  We made the two hour trip down from our home in South Jersey in the baby blue Cadillac with the once-fashionable flashy fins in the back.  This muggy July morning, the car was an oven and the old upholstery gave off a faint odor of something oddly sweet, maybe dry rot or some ancient source of mildew.  There was, of course, no air conditioning, so the windows were open even as we sailed down Route 40 over the giant span of the Delaware Memorial Bridge.  The wind whipped my hair into my eyes and threatened to rip the pages from the coloring book I was working diligently to complete, picture by picture from front to back, finishing each image with a bold outline using the black crayon - a technique I’d admired one of my friends using.  (And yet, somehow, I did not grow up to be completely obsessive compulsive.)

            My mother made the unfortunate decision to wear a sleeveless shift dress made of paper as her traveling outfit.  I’m not sure why anyone thought paper clothing would be a good idea, but this was the sixties before anyone conceived of the “reduce, reuse, recycle” slogan.  Instead, the catchphrase was “disposable.”  Disposable diapers lightened the housewives workload on laundry day so considerably, why not do away with the need for laundry at all?  My parents were adventurous sorts and they’d try almost anything once - Tang, shake-a-pudding, hot Dr. Pepper, avocados (and then attempting to root the pit by suspending it with toothpicks in a glass of water) - so of course, my mother had to try paper clothing. 

            As we rode along in the stifling car, perspiration got the better of the wood pulp fashion and a rip began to form on the armhole.  My father caught sight of it and couldn’t resist temptation.  He reached over and gave it a little tug.  I laughed in shock, but not for long.  My mother was furious.   She saw no humor in the fact that her oh-so-modern dress was now flapping in the wind across her chest.  I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but it involved a lot of yelling on my mother’s part and smirking on my father’s, followed by stony silence from both for the remainder of the trip.

            Once we left the highway, we traveled down a country road for a bit, stopping at the tiny, ramshackle general store that marked our arrival in Charlestown.  My grandmother had her groceries delivered from this store, which fascinated me.  So upper-crust!  In particular I remember the Jif peanut butter (better than the store brand my mother bought) and double-wrapped Arnold white bread.  That was my breakfast of choice at the cottage - toast with peanut butter topped with crispy bacon.  Trust me, it was delicious. I grabbed a cream soda from the faded red chest cooler by the front door.  I have no idea what my parents bought.  Maybe cigarettes.  Before the Surgeon General came out with his warning about smoking, both of them were smokers.  The butts of Mom’s filtered True Blues with her lipstick impression mingled with  Dad’s Camels in the ashtrays of our home until the government report came out, and then they both quit, cold turkey. Their hard-headed personalities were both a blessing and a curse.

            After the stop at the store, we continued our journey on the dirt road that led to my grandmother’s house.  It was just one road that followed the outline of the Northeast River as it wound its way to the Chesapeake.  The homes built along the river at that time were not grand, by any stretch of the imagination. They were little more than fishing shacks with big porches facing the water.  But to me, it was paradise.

            The backyard was packed dirt with a few weak blades of grass and moss near the trees.  The dense canopy of leaves overhead provided a cool respite from the summer heat, but little encouragement to a lawn.  Close to the street was a brick barbeque that, as far as I know, was never used for anything other than burning the trash.  Another unused feature of the backyard was an old outhouse that served as a sort of garden shed.  It both fascinated and repelled me.  It didn’t smell - the cottage had indoor plumbing for a few decades by the time I started coming around - but the original wooden seat was still visible behind the rakes and shovels stored there.  What had it been like to have to use it, I wondered?  What if you had to go in the middle of the night?  Did they really use an old Sears catalogue in place of toilet paper, like I’d read in “Little House on the Prairie”?  Ugh! Just the sight of that building gave me an uncommon appreciation for flushing toilets and soft rolls of Charmin. 

            As you approached the back of the house from the road, you first saw the kitchen and bathroom annex that had been cobbled onto the original building, very much like an afterthought.  Passing that on the right you entered the house up a worn wooden step to your left.  Alongside the step was a yellow rectangular wash tub with a few inches of water in it, which anyone with bare feet or flip flops was expected to step in to rinse off the dirt from the backyard or sand from the beach, in an attempt to keep the floors clean.  Don’t get the wrong idea, however.  My Nana was no clean freak. (In stark contrast to my father’s mother, who though I’m sure cared for me, never made me feel particularly comfortable.  In her house, filled with glass knickknacks and African violets, I was expected to look, but not touch.) The cottage, however, was loved and lived in and it looked it. 

            We arrived early the day of the anniversary party and parked in the tall grass across the street from the house.  I remember walking from the blinding hot of the field across the dirt road  into the tree-shaded coolness of the backyard and my grandmother coming out to greet us.  I had reached that awkward stage (which lasted for a long, long time in my case) and was uncomfortably self-conscious.  I hated the sailor-style polyester dress my mother insisted I wear (looking back, I’m just relieved that it wasn’t paper.) I was hot and sticky and my black cats-eye glasses (chosen because I thought they’d make me look like my glamorous older sister - they didn’t) were sliding down my nose.  On top of all that, I was uncomfortably aware that the smiles my parents had pasted on their faces were only for show.  They were still giving one another the silent treatment and it could go on for days.

             My grandmother, bless her soul, erased all of this misery by holding her arms out to me and declaring, “When did you become such a beautiful young lady?”  Even at this late date, I’m not sure if she truly found something attractive in my appearance, or if she just knew that’s what I needed to hear at the moment.  No matter.  It made me happy then and still does today.  And the take-away lesson for me was this - never miss an opportunity give someone a sincere compliment or word of encouragement, for you never know just how much those few simple words might mean.

 

Copyright  2012©  Heidi Tony