Grouse
bow chicka bow wow
Hey, so a while back, a joined an RP site with a free-form app. Instead of the typical bullet list/description of the character's traits/history, I figured I should do a short(ish) story containing snapshots of his life. Not groundbreaking, I know, but it's the first time I'd ever done anything like it, and I'd like to know if what I've written is enough to paint a clear picture of who he is as a person. Feedback much appreciated!
0. The Fool
The lemonade stand is David’s latest project, and his mother sighs in relief. It is one of his less outrageous ideas, at least. When he announces that he will put it up somewhere along Belton Gates, she laughs. His father opens his mouth to protest, but she rests a hand on his shoulders, stops him.
Can’t have everything, can they?
He drags his sister along, as he always does, tells her what to do, and what to say, and how much candy they’ll be having at the end of the day.
Belton Gates is the perfect place for a lemonade stand. The people there have lots of money, and they like to complain about things like the weather. They sound like the sort who can use a lemonade.
The grown-ups pass by, tell them they’re adorable. Some even buy drinks. They smile and their eyes twinkle, but sometimes he watches them leave, sees the reflection of their faces on the shiny glass windows of their big houses. The smiles always go away.
He wonders if he didn’t put enough powder in the drinks.
They get a little under five dollars by the end of the day. It isn’t quite as much as his hundred dollar projection, but it gets Bonnie her pink taffy and it puts David closer to filling up his piggy bank. They decide to do it again tomorrow.
The next morning, they come back to find cops waiting, receive their first lesson in business permits, and bureaucracy, and the general shittiness of mankind.
He’s never seen his father angrier, knows it’s serious because Abel’s half-hearted smile disappears the moment he thinks they’re not looking.
They see, of course. Children see, and children hear, and children never get as much credit as they deserve.
Bonnie sulks. She sits on the floor, and pulls her knees to her chest. She thinks she’s done something wrong. He wants to fix it, comes closer and gives her a hug.
One day, I’ll buy us a hundred business permits. He reassures her. And that blue-brick house -- remember? The one I showed you? It’ll be ours. We’ll all live there. You and me and mom and dad. You’ll see.
(His dad tells him about the Warrens once, about how they helped found Wicklow, how they were giants in this town. The tales spark flames in his eyes.
And we used to have a house in Belton Gates? He asks.
His dad doesn’t say anything, only smiles. The flames burn hotter, brighter.
Don’t be putting ideas in his head now, his mom half-jokes, but by then she is too late.)
Over time, dreams of blue-brick houses fade away like fairy tales. He abandons his little projects, instead channels his energy towards textbooks and worksheets. He learns the way the world works, learns to use his Belton Gates classmates as they use him. He writes them essays and answers their homework, makes enough money to ensure he doesn’t even need to work during his first two years of college.
UMich becomes his ticket out of town. His mother keeps dropping hints, keeps mentioning in passing what a respectable university Lundqvist is. A gem. Truly.
Come on, Ma. Didn’t you get Tyler just so you wouldn’t miss me? He laughs, doesn’t think much of it.
When he puts his mind to something, nothing can stop him.
His bags are packed well before graduation. He leaves immediately the day after, watches his family from his rearview mirror, waving and smiling and shrinking until they disappear completely, but he does not look back.
VI. The Lovers
He meets Karen during his first year of residency. She is fresh out of law school, eager to please and bow down to her bosses. They are mirror images of each other.
Anxious, she approaches him, asks for his supervisor. It’s urgent, and it’s for a case, and it really can’t wait, but he also knows better than to rouse the dragon from her sleep, so he gives her the next best thing.
He half-asses it for the next few minutes, answers her questions with sentences peppered with hypotheticallys and in theorys. Minutes turn to hours, and they bond over their mutual status as bottom feeders in their respective workplaces. She laughs at his jokes, laughs and nods even when she admits she doesn’t completely understand what he’s saying. Finally, he admits he doesn’t either, confesses he isn’t sure about half the words that have come out of his mouth -- just that he wanted to keep the conversation going.
She grins, tells him he can make up for wasting her time by buying her coffee. Weeks later, he finds himself regularly delivering coffee to her tiny desk in her gigantic law firm. A year later and he’s making her coffee every morning in the kitchen of their cramped, messy apartment.
There is an exquisite symmetry in her features, sharp and soft in all the right places, with a figure shaped like an hourglass. The mere sight of her causes his chest to tighten, makes him wonder how he could be so lucky, how she could be so unfortunate. Her magnificence is wasted on him.
Sometimes, she catches him looking, smiles appreciatively. But she doesn’t understand. He admires her beauty like science, not art.
He learns to love her eventually, the same way he learns to love his job, or the slobbery golden retriever their oldest son asks for on his seventh birthday.
It’s easy to fall in love with her, really. Easy to fall in love with her whole family.
Her family is more … complete. Their Easters and Thanksgivings are rambunctious and noisy and full of people. Their arguments are petty and nothing more. Karen’s mother stuffs food in him until he’s gained ten pounds. Her father pats his shoulder, proudly announces to everyone that his son-in-law is some hotshot heart doctor.
Holidays at Wicklow become a dream at thirty.
(He steps out for a few moments every Christmas Eve, at least gives Bonnie a call. Tyler’s phone always goes to voicemail, and when he tries Uncle Keith or Aunt Maggie, he’s never there. Eventually he stops trying, instead sends generically inspirational cards from Hallmark. Tucked inside are dollar bills and promises that next year, he will come home.)
X. The Wheel of Fortune
Myocardial Infarction-induced heart failure. Severe blockage of the left anterior descending artery leads to an ischemic heart, leads to an incompetent valve, leads to a dead father. He understands the words perfectly, but twenty-four hours ago, they were just words. They did not mean anything. They were not supposed to.
Suddenly, the contents of his carefully-constructed compartments spill unto one another. He stumbles and flounders, desperate to keep the pieces together.
He finds himself in a suit and with a pair of dry eyes, standing around at his father’s wake, going through a whole line of people like he is mingling in a fucking party. He exchanges thank you for coming for I’m sorry, so sorry, collects my condolences like words would make everything okay. Sometimes they ask what happened, and he humours them, confounds his sentences with pretentious medical jargon, until they close their mouths and leave him alone.
One by one they leave, until he finally runs out of guests to hide behind.
Bonnie has always been his favourite, so he comes to her first, knows exactly what she needs. He walks towards her, ready to give her a hug, when she goes to chase after her running children. Her husband catches them all, tells their children to behave, holds his wife tenderly in one fell swoop. She’ll be okay.
She doesn’t need that hug as much as he thought, he decides, wonders which of the two of them really does.
He sees his younger brother sitting by himself in a corner, stiller than he’s ever seen him, than any eleven-year-old should ever be. David approaches, sits beside him. A blink is all the acknowledgement he gets.
Hey, buddy. David musters his best smile, conjures a small wrapped box like he is magic. Tyler does not seem to notice. I know Christmas is still a few weeks away, but I called Santa and convinced him to give you your present early this year.
This succeeds at getting his brother’s attention, although when David meets his ice-blue gaze, he only sees rage. I’m eleven, David. He sounds exasperated. I know Santa isn’t fucking real.
We don’t use that kind of language here, Tyler.
How would you know? His younger brother storms off, and he does not follow.
Finally, he sits in silence with his mother, holds her hand.
Ma, you could have told me. His voice is hushed, low, as if he is talking to himself more than anyone else. I could have done something.
You weren’t here. Mary’s voice is frail and measured. A single touch would have broken the truth out of it: You never are.
She lets go of his hand.
Six months later, he is hit with deja vu, finds his little brother sitting by himself as their family falls further apart. Once again he approaches with gifts, bribes, because he doesn’t know what else to do, to offer.
Pokemon Gold. Mickey’s Racing Adventure. The words on the boxes are big and colourful; the accompanying images beautifully drawn.There is something vaguely twisted about it, how these gifts are the perfect addition to the one he gave Tyler half a year ago.
Suddenly, it occurs to him that he has no idea whether his little brother ever unwrapped that box.
XII. The Hanged Man
He comes home from a conference, arms full of boxes wrapped in shiny, colourful paper. The sound of the front door opening rouses the boys from their sleep. They come running and screaming, wrapping their little arms around his legs, dangling themselves, trying to push the other one off, until all three of them fall to the ground, laughing.
What did you get me? What did you get me? They rummage through the boxes, looking for the ones with their names written on it.
Karen leans laterally against the doorway to the living room, her head tilted to one side. She watches, smiles.
He comes to her, puts his arms around her hips, pulls her in close. She buries her face in the curve of his neck, a whiff of vanilla and bergamot wafting gently through her nose. He’s always hated perfume.
You smell like smoke, she murmurs in his ear, and she mentions nothing else.
When he looks at her again, the smile has disappeared.
The first time it happens, she gets angry, demands to know who, to know why.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, he half-shouts, half-whispers.
We need to see a counsellor.
They leave it there, careful not to rouse the children.
When she wakes, a little turquoise box sits by her bedside table. Tiffany and Co.: The words are etched onto the cardboard, shiny and unblemished. A small piece of paper rests between the box and the mahogany surface. She sees the neat, familiar handwriting, the harsh black ink on smooth white paper.
I am so sorry.
The second time it happens she cries to herself, silently, wordlessly, when she thinks he isn’t looking. He lies on the bed, motionless, his back facing the bathroom door. In the dead of night, he hears her repeat to herself, He’s a good father. Do it for the children. Do it for the children.
Her words soothe her like a lullaby, stab him like knives. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.
The morning after, she finds a little red box by her bedside table. Cartier: The words are etched onto the cardboard.
The third time is the last. He has ruined her, devastated her. She smiles, and she laughs, but her eyes never move. Her rings and necklaces and shiny things collect dust in a drawer. He wonders how they can even manage to sleep in the same bed.
And so he sits her down, talks to her, explains. Because he loves her too, in his own way. Beyond reason, and more than she can imagine, but still not quite in the way he promised, the way he’s able.
An air of stillness envelops them, comfortable and excruciating at the same time. His words breathe life into her eyes, pluck her lips into a smile. A genuine smile. She sighs in relief, because it isn’t her. It has never been her. She couldn’t have done anything.
A part of him is offended at the display. How can she not be hurt? How can she not be crying? Does she not understand? How humiliating this is for him? A part of him is angry. She has been looking forward to this. She is going to use it against him, lord it over him. A part of him admits the truth.
I don’t want to lose you. I can’t, he whispers, whimpers, and the truth breaks him.
She holds him, but she does not answer.
XIII. Death
When are you coming back? His nine-year-old asks him, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Don’t forget to get me a rock. You forgot last time.
David chuckles, his eyes automatically redirected to Karen. She chuckles too, but her gaze runs away from his. She tries to explain. Honey, I think it’s great that you’ve taken an interest in … geology, but you already have so many, and you keep leaving them everywhere…
I told you we should just get him an aquarium or something. He winks at his son. The latter’s eyes light up at the suggestion.
You know he’s not coming back, right? His older son interjects, arms crossed. The boy stands still, his breathing uneven.
The boy is eleven, he reminds himself. He knows what losing a father can do to an eleven-year-old boy. He’s seen it before.
And so he kneels down, gently ruffles the boy’s hair. He holds him tight, pats his son’s back as he sobs and sobs and sobs. This time he knows what to do. It comes naturally to him, like he wishes it could have so many years ago.
Abel, buddy, this isn’t the last time we’ll see each other again, okay? I promise.
The tears don’t come until he’s fifty miles out of Ann Arbor. By the time he gets to Wicklow, his eyes are red but dry.
(Where are you from? His college roommate asks him once. He hears the same question about a hundred more times in his undergraduate career alone, hears himself give the same answer everytime.
Oh, just a small town in the middle of nowhere, Ohio.)
Days pass before he calls anyone he really cares for.
Hey, David. What’s up? His sister’s voice sounds like the calm before the storm. He hears her children in the background, wants to hang up. Instead, he hears his own voice.
Remember that house in Belton Gates? The one I always told you I’d buy eventually?
Blue-brick house? When we were, like, in elementary school. Sure. She laughs.
Well ... I’m living in it now. He laughs, too, and he’s thankful she can’t see his face.
She doesn’t say anything for a minute. The silence is a second away from breaking him when she decides to do it herself.
Dave, are you okay?
It strikes him how foreign the question sounds, how the words appear to have been strung together in a nonsensical way. Unprepared, he fumbles for an answer, chokes on his words.
I don’t know, Bon. I really don’t.
At least he’s home.
0. The Fool
The lemonade stand is David’s latest project, and his mother sighs in relief. It is one of his less outrageous ideas, at least. When he announces that he will put it up somewhere along Belton Gates, she laughs. His father opens his mouth to protest, but she rests a hand on his shoulders, stops him.
Can’t have everything, can they?
He drags his sister along, as he always does, tells her what to do, and what to say, and how much candy they’ll be having at the end of the day.
Belton Gates is the perfect place for a lemonade stand. The people there have lots of money, and they like to complain about things like the weather. They sound like the sort who can use a lemonade.
The grown-ups pass by, tell them they’re adorable. Some even buy drinks. They smile and their eyes twinkle, but sometimes he watches them leave, sees the reflection of their faces on the shiny glass windows of their big houses. The smiles always go away.
He wonders if he didn’t put enough powder in the drinks.
They get a little under five dollars by the end of the day. It isn’t quite as much as his hundred dollar projection, but it gets Bonnie her pink taffy and it puts David closer to filling up his piggy bank. They decide to do it again tomorrow.
The next morning, they come back to find cops waiting, receive their first lesson in business permits, and bureaucracy, and the general shittiness of mankind.
He’s never seen his father angrier, knows it’s serious because Abel’s half-hearted smile disappears the moment he thinks they’re not looking.
They see, of course. Children see, and children hear, and children never get as much credit as they deserve.
Bonnie sulks. She sits on the floor, and pulls her knees to her chest. She thinks she’s done something wrong. He wants to fix it, comes closer and gives her a hug.
One day, I’ll buy us a hundred business permits. He reassures her. And that blue-brick house -- remember? The one I showed you? It’ll be ours. We’ll all live there. You and me and mom and dad. You’ll see.
(His dad tells him about the Warrens once, about how they helped found Wicklow, how they were giants in this town. The tales spark flames in his eyes.
And we used to have a house in Belton Gates? He asks.
His dad doesn’t say anything, only smiles. The flames burn hotter, brighter.
Don’t be putting ideas in his head now, his mom half-jokes, but by then she is too late.)
Over time, dreams of blue-brick houses fade away like fairy tales. He abandons his little projects, instead channels his energy towards textbooks and worksheets. He learns the way the world works, learns to use his Belton Gates classmates as they use him. He writes them essays and answers their homework, makes enough money to ensure he doesn’t even need to work during his first two years of college.
UMich becomes his ticket out of town. His mother keeps dropping hints, keeps mentioning in passing what a respectable university Lundqvist is. A gem. Truly.
Come on, Ma. Didn’t you get Tyler just so you wouldn’t miss me? He laughs, doesn’t think much of it.
When he puts his mind to something, nothing can stop him.
His bags are packed well before graduation. He leaves immediately the day after, watches his family from his rearview mirror, waving and smiling and shrinking until they disappear completely, but he does not look back.
VI. The Lovers
He meets Karen during his first year of residency. She is fresh out of law school, eager to please and bow down to her bosses. They are mirror images of each other.
Anxious, she approaches him, asks for his supervisor. It’s urgent, and it’s for a case, and it really can’t wait, but he also knows better than to rouse the dragon from her sleep, so he gives her the next best thing.
He half-asses it for the next few minutes, answers her questions with sentences peppered with hypotheticallys and in theorys. Minutes turn to hours, and they bond over their mutual status as bottom feeders in their respective workplaces. She laughs at his jokes, laughs and nods even when she admits she doesn’t completely understand what he’s saying. Finally, he admits he doesn’t either, confesses he isn’t sure about half the words that have come out of his mouth -- just that he wanted to keep the conversation going.
She grins, tells him he can make up for wasting her time by buying her coffee. Weeks later, he finds himself regularly delivering coffee to her tiny desk in her gigantic law firm. A year later and he’s making her coffee every morning in the kitchen of their cramped, messy apartment.
There is an exquisite symmetry in her features, sharp and soft in all the right places, with a figure shaped like an hourglass. The mere sight of her causes his chest to tighten, makes him wonder how he could be so lucky, how she could be so unfortunate. Her magnificence is wasted on him.
Sometimes, she catches him looking, smiles appreciatively. But she doesn’t understand. He admires her beauty like science, not art.
He learns to love her eventually, the same way he learns to love his job, or the slobbery golden retriever their oldest son asks for on his seventh birthday.
It’s easy to fall in love with her, really. Easy to fall in love with her whole family.
Her family is more … complete. Their Easters and Thanksgivings are rambunctious and noisy and full of people. Their arguments are petty and nothing more. Karen’s mother stuffs food in him until he’s gained ten pounds. Her father pats his shoulder, proudly announces to everyone that his son-in-law is some hotshot heart doctor.
Holidays at Wicklow become a dream at thirty.
(He steps out for a few moments every Christmas Eve, at least gives Bonnie a call. Tyler’s phone always goes to voicemail, and when he tries Uncle Keith or Aunt Maggie, he’s never there. Eventually he stops trying, instead sends generically inspirational cards from Hallmark. Tucked inside are dollar bills and promises that next year, he will come home.)
X. The Wheel of Fortune
Myocardial Infarction-induced heart failure. Severe blockage of the left anterior descending artery leads to an ischemic heart, leads to an incompetent valve, leads to a dead father. He understands the words perfectly, but twenty-four hours ago, they were just words. They did not mean anything. They were not supposed to.
Suddenly, the contents of his carefully-constructed compartments spill unto one another. He stumbles and flounders, desperate to keep the pieces together.
He finds himself in a suit and with a pair of dry eyes, standing around at his father’s wake, going through a whole line of people like he is mingling in a fucking party. He exchanges thank you for coming for I’m sorry, so sorry, collects my condolences like words would make everything okay. Sometimes they ask what happened, and he humours them, confounds his sentences with pretentious medical jargon, until they close their mouths and leave him alone.
One by one they leave, until he finally runs out of guests to hide behind.
Bonnie has always been his favourite, so he comes to her first, knows exactly what she needs. He walks towards her, ready to give her a hug, when she goes to chase after her running children. Her husband catches them all, tells their children to behave, holds his wife tenderly in one fell swoop. She’ll be okay.
She doesn’t need that hug as much as he thought, he decides, wonders which of the two of them really does.
He sees his younger brother sitting by himself in a corner, stiller than he’s ever seen him, than any eleven-year-old should ever be. David approaches, sits beside him. A blink is all the acknowledgement he gets.
Hey, buddy. David musters his best smile, conjures a small wrapped box like he is magic. Tyler does not seem to notice. I know Christmas is still a few weeks away, but I called Santa and convinced him to give you your present early this year.
This succeeds at getting his brother’s attention, although when David meets his ice-blue gaze, he only sees rage. I’m eleven, David. He sounds exasperated. I know Santa isn’t fucking real.
We don’t use that kind of language here, Tyler.
How would you know? His younger brother storms off, and he does not follow.
Finally, he sits in silence with his mother, holds her hand.
Ma, you could have told me. His voice is hushed, low, as if he is talking to himself more than anyone else. I could have done something.
You weren’t here. Mary’s voice is frail and measured. A single touch would have broken the truth out of it: You never are.
She lets go of his hand.
Six months later, he is hit with deja vu, finds his little brother sitting by himself as their family falls further apart. Once again he approaches with gifts, bribes, because he doesn’t know what else to do, to offer.
Pokemon Gold. Mickey’s Racing Adventure. The words on the boxes are big and colourful; the accompanying images beautifully drawn.There is something vaguely twisted about it, how these gifts are the perfect addition to the one he gave Tyler half a year ago.
Suddenly, it occurs to him that he has no idea whether his little brother ever unwrapped that box.
XII. The Hanged Man
He comes home from a conference, arms full of boxes wrapped in shiny, colourful paper. The sound of the front door opening rouses the boys from their sleep. They come running and screaming, wrapping their little arms around his legs, dangling themselves, trying to push the other one off, until all three of them fall to the ground, laughing.
What did you get me? What did you get me? They rummage through the boxes, looking for the ones with their names written on it.
Karen leans laterally against the doorway to the living room, her head tilted to one side. She watches, smiles.
He comes to her, puts his arms around her hips, pulls her in close. She buries her face in the curve of his neck, a whiff of vanilla and bergamot wafting gently through her nose. He’s always hated perfume.
You smell like smoke, she murmurs in his ear, and she mentions nothing else.
When he looks at her again, the smile has disappeared.
The first time it happens, she gets angry, demands to know who, to know why.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, he half-shouts, half-whispers.
We need to see a counsellor.
They leave it there, careful not to rouse the children.
When she wakes, a little turquoise box sits by her bedside table. Tiffany and Co.: The words are etched onto the cardboard, shiny and unblemished. A small piece of paper rests between the box and the mahogany surface. She sees the neat, familiar handwriting, the harsh black ink on smooth white paper.
I am so sorry.
The second time it happens she cries to herself, silently, wordlessly, when she thinks he isn’t looking. He lies on the bed, motionless, his back facing the bathroom door. In the dead of night, he hears her repeat to herself, He’s a good father. Do it for the children. Do it for the children.
Her words soothe her like a lullaby, stab him like knives. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.
The morning after, she finds a little red box by her bedside table. Cartier: The words are etched onto the cardboard.
The third time is the last. He has ruined her, devastated her. She smiles, and she laughs, but her eyes never move. Her rings and necklaces and shiny things collect dust in a drawer. He wonders how they can even manage to sleep in the same bed.
And so he sits her down, talks to her, explains. Because he loves her too, in his own way. Beyond reason, and more than she can imagine, but still not quite in the way he promised, the way he’s able.
An air of stillness envelops them, comfortable and excruciating at the same time. His words breathe life into her eyes, pluck her lips into a smile. A genuine smile. She sighs in relief, because it isn’t her. It has never been her. She couldn’t have done anything.
A part of him is offended at the display. How can she not be hurt? How can she not be crying? Does she not understand? How humiliating this is for him? A part of him is angry. She has been looking forward to this. She is going to use it against him, lord it over him. A part of him admits the truth.
I don’t want to lose you. I can’t, he whispers, whimpers, and the truth breaks him.
She holds him, but she does not answer.
XIII. Death
When are you coming back? His nine-year-old asks him, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Don’t forget to get me a rock. You forgot last time.
David chuckles, his eyes automatically redirected to Karen. She chuckles too, but her gaze runs away from his. She tries to explain. Honey, I think it’s great that you’ve taken an interest in … geology, but you already have so many, and you keep leaving them everywhere…
I told you we should just get him an aquarium or something. He winks at his son. The latter’s eyes light up at the suggestion.
You know he’s not coming back, right? His older son interjects, arms crossed. The boy stands still, his breathing uneven.
The boy is eleven, he reminds himself. He knows what losing a father can do to an eleven-year-old boy. He’s seen it before.
And so he kneels down, gently ruffles the boy’s hair. He holds him tight, pats his son’s back as he sobs and sobs and sobs. This time he knows what to do. It comes naturally to him, like he wishes it could have so many years ago.
Abel, buddy, this isn’t the last time we’ll see each other again, okay? I promise.
The tears don’t come until he’s fifty miles out of Ann Arbor. By the time he gets to Wicklow, his eyes are red but dry.
(Where are you from? His college roommate asks him once. He hears the same question about a hundred more times in his undergraduate career alone, hears himself give the same answer everytime.
Oh, just a small town in the middle of nowhere, Ohio.)
Days pass before he calls anyone he really cares for.
Hey, David. What’s up? His sister’s voice sounds like the calm before the storm. He hears her children in the background, wants to hang up. Instead, he hears his own voice.
Remember that house in Belton Gates? The one I always told you I’d buy eventually?
Blue-brick house? When we were, like, in elementary school. Sure. She laughs.
Well ... I’m living in it now. He laughs, too, and he’s thankful she can’t see his face.
She doesn’t say anything for a minute. The silence is a second away from breaking him when she decides to do it herself.
Dave, are you okay?
It strikes him how foreign the question sounds, how the words appear to have been strung together in a nonsensical way. Unprepared, he fumbles for an answer, chokes on his words.
I don’t know, Bon. I really don’t.
At least he’s home.
