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(story) Sisters Weekend - 1670wds

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nativelaw

unread,

Dec 12, 2002, 7:58:06 AM12/12/02

"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021212001123...@mb-mg.aol.com...
> x-no-archive:yes
> Please do not archive
>
> Sisters Weekend
> by DH Henry
>
> The day began with a drizzle that the wipers on Jared's black Volkswagen
Passat
> patiently swept aside. The highway was nearly empty, the air still. The
voice
> on the radio reminded him of Melanie's voice--a voice that, for the past
year,
> had flowed through Jared's mind like a river of light.

Hi Hank,
I enjoyed this story. There is much in it that is very real.

The opening line feels too passive. The second line is good but I think it
wants a real short first line like, "It was raining." The third line about
the voice on the radio has a nice beat, though I am not certain about the
river of light image; as pretty as it sounds I'm not really connecting to
it.

>
> There had only been cordial phone calls between them, dealing with the
> business of buying and selling rare books, yet Jared set out unannounced
on
> this dismal October day to cover the hundred miles of highway that
separated
> him from that voice, to cross the Santiam Pass to the small town of
Sisters,
> Oregon. Jared knew or cared nothing of Melanie's appearance; he knew
only her
> voice. He believed himself to be intuitive, and saw subtle clues of
> encouragement in her words.

If you weave these details into the story in a more active way it would pick
up the beat. Also, he loses a tiny bit of credibility for me when he says
he cared nothing about Melanie's appearance, especially since we hear him
say later on in the story that appearance does matter. He is looking for
her to fulfill her voice and the image she has created in his mind; maybe
specific appearance doesn't matter, but appearance does matter.
>
> It was Saturday, his fifty-seventh birthday. Being some twenty-five years
> older than Melanie, albeit with a youthful appearance, Jared was
self-conscious
> about his age, as if he'd neglected to hold on to youth.

This is a poignant bit of information but it could be even stronger if we
learn how he looks by catching a glance of himself in the rearview mirror or
something, or as he was dressing for the trip, or some other way.
>
> He carried with him a first edition of Thomas Wolfe's *Look Homeward
Angel*, a
> gift to buffer his surprise arrival, which his nervous fear whispered
would be
> a foolish end to a long drive.

"Carried" with him pulls me out a little since he's driving; maybe just
brought with him?

>
> Beyond the subterranean lure of Melanie's voice, he knew little about her:
> that she owned a small bookstore, her life's joy; that she was thirty-two
and a
> single parent of a six-year-old girl; and that her social life was limited
by
> the small population of the town.
>
> What he knew most was the warmth in her voice.

Nice.
>
>
> Jared reached the crest of the Cascade pass that divided the wet
Willamette
> Valley from the more arid eastern climate, and the sky opened as if on
God's
> command. All along the curving, climbing highway a crowd of scrub, maple
and
> sumac splashed bright orange, purple and yellow against the green-framed
> roadside.
>
> Jared opened the sunroof and let the cold summit air bite his face. He
slowed
> to the shoulder, allowing a car to pass. There would be no rush today;
this was
> his day, his destination, his discovery. He sat watching shafts of
sunlight
> brighten the frothy hillside, and recited Wolfe's words: *Naked and alone
we
> came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from
the
> prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable an incommunicable
prison
> of this earth.*

These paragraphs are beautiful.
>
> Jared waited until the shafts spread out, until the entire mountainside
was
> illuminated, and then he continued on toward the town.
>
> He planned to explore the tourist traps and pubs, and when he got his
nerve
> up, to enter the bookstore as any browser would. He would finger the
volumes
> in the rare book section, and from somewhere in the rear of the store he'd
> listen for the voice he knew so well. He'd find a vantage point to
observe
> her, to see how she fit the tones of his reverie. Then, if his courage
held,
> he would retrieve the book from his car and reveal himself.

Nice buildup.

>
> Jared wondered what it would be like to share unhurried time with the
woman
> who owned the voice, to discuss books over a glass of wine, to explore her
> eyes, her face, her nature, while listening to *the voice.* Would
Melanie's
> countenance or bearing somehow negate the passion that stirred him when
she
> spoke? Or, would her appearance confirm the being that filled his
imagination?

This is what I meant about, he does care about appearance insofar as it fits
his imagination. Nice language.

> The essence of a voice, a uniquely personal set of sounds--from where
does it
> flow?
> In his reverie he perceived the heart beneath the voice and thought of
Wolfe's
> greatest work: *Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked
into
> his father's heart? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?-Wolfe
was
> once Jared's favorite author, whose stories he'd not revisited since his
wife's
> death. Melanie's devotion to Wolfe awakened his old interest.
>
> Intoxication filled Melanie's expressions about *Look Homeward,*
intoxication
> that alternately flooded him, and left him disquieted.

This line was confusing a little... intoxication filled her expressions? He
was intoxicated, I think, by her expressions, is clearer.

>
> Late one night he finally understood the opposing forces in his
breast-that
> his lost passion for books, a glory that once defined him, was now distant
and
> fleeting. Even the rarest volumes no longer brought joy; rarities had
become
> common to him. He had become a disinterested spectator, passing great and
> wondrous art to others.

I would have liked to know more about this stuff.
>
> Yet, Melanie's affection for Wolfe had given Jared new hope, hope that
might
> again be his strength, rushing on of its own momentum, lending him
purpose,
> renewal and love. And so, this journey, which began with casual
conversation,
> became larger in his wishes, became urgent to his need.
>
> He chose not to risk her refusal from a distance. He assumed that her
voice
> was reason enough to come. And, on this side of the mountains, he found
> renewed optimism--confident that neither his age nor her appearance would
be a
> barrier once they met.

I am so hopeful for him, here.

>
>
> The coupe rolled effortlessly down the straight highway through giant
> Ponderosas, bathed in bright sunlight. The air was warmer and drier on
this
> side of the mountains. Glancing in his rear-view mirror, he saw the dark
> cloudbank brooding in the pass. He wondered how mountains could hold back
the
> rain. He thought of his own barriers to a brighter life--for the past
seven
> years he'd been stumbling through his darkest loss, the loss of his wife
to
> cancer. Then his parents died--his mother, followed by his father, who
lived
> defiantly to the age of 91. While his father lived, Jared saw time as
> abundant-thought there was no pressure to risk himself again. Others
> celebrated his father's long life; he had tried to mourn with their spirit
of
> thankfulness, but all it really meant to him was that his family was gone,
that
> time was running out, that loneliness stained every hope.

This paragraph has some beautiful thoughts and images, I love the dark
cloudbank brooding in the pass, the stain of loneliness, the image of
mountains holding back rain. It also has a lot of information though about
three family deaths that are big events and they seemed sort of dropped in
the middle, rushed a TINY bit (not a great deal but enough that it caused a
bump.)
>
> He slowed through the outposts of town and turned onto the sun-bathed main
> street of Sisters. The buildings wore freshly painted old western fronts
of
> different colors. The sidewalks were full of lightly clad shoppers
bearing
> purchases.

Nice.

>
> Jared followed the line of traffic until he passed the small bookstore on
his
> right. He couldn't see through the windows' reflections. People were
going in
> and out of shops that lined both sides of the street.
>
> He turned left at Billy Bronco's Bar and Restaurant, and found a parking
spot.
> Unfolding his stiff legs from the car, Jared walked into the bar and
ordered a
> Dos Equis. The clatter of dishes and bustle of waitresses took his mind
from
> the risk he soon would face.
>
> He stared into his beer and listened to voices around him. There was a
> language beneath their words, one that played on his imagination. Had he
been
> wrong about Melanie? Had the heart he'd detected in her voice, in dozens
of
> short conversations, in her smiling response to his gentle teasing-had
these
> been mere business?

Good.

>
> It was way past lunch but Jared had no appetite.
>
> He looked through the windows and across to the bookstore. Again Wolfe's
> words came to him and he mumbled them: *Remembering speechlessly we seek
the
> great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf,
an
> unfound door.*
>
>
> The ends of the narrow bookstore were windowed; the sun flooded orderly
shelves
> of used books, neatly separated by topic. To his right, an elderly lady
waited
> with a stack of romance novels; behind the counter, two younger women bent
over
> a computer. Averting his eyes, he moved past into an aisle of books. A
locked
> glass cabinet stood against one wall with a calligraphied sign that read:
RARE
> BOOKS, PLEASE ASK TO SEE.
>
> Jared moved until he could see the front counter through a gap in a shelf
> between "Westerns" and "Children's Books." From his vantage he could
overhear
> the conversation of the two younger women and could see the delicate
profile of
> one of them. A strand of dark hair hung down against her cheek. Both
women
> straightened up. He could no longer see above their shoulders, but focused
on
> the hands of the dark-haired woman. She had to be Melanie.
>
> "That should fix it," one young woman said, placing her hands on her hips.

> "Thanks--heaps!--If I get stuck again, you're next door for a while?"
>
> Jared recognized the second voice. He smiled involuntarily and a twinge
of
> anticipation ran through him. He moved down the shelf until he was a few
feet
> from the counter but still hidden from view. The old lady completed her
> purchase and left.

> Now Jared was the only customer in the store. He stood peering into the
rare
> book cabinet while straining to hear.
>
> "You should. You really should," said the other woman.

It threw me that the other young woman is still in the store. For some
reason after she said "You'll be next store for a while?" I assumed she'd
left, at least it sets it up that she is going. Do you need it?

>
> "No, no. No. I couldn't he's just too, well, too--"
>
> "Old? Listen, Melanie honey, he's not *that* much older. Ed's a good guy.
I
> know he likes you."
>
> Jared felt the blood drain from his face. An ache filled him.
>
> He could see Melanie's hands bend back, pulling against each other.
"Sixteen
> years, Judy. I just couldn't."
>
> "Do you think Ed *looks* forty-eight? Be honest."
>
> "Forty, maybe."
>
> "Okay, okay, so, just tell me why?"
>
> "Listen, Judy. I appreciate you trying to fix me up, but I have to deal
with
> these old fogies on the phone all the time. Their wife is away, or worse,
dead.
> They're losers." The words from the cherished voice, the voice he'd held
in
> his dreams for months, carried a cruel timbre he'd never detected on the
phone.
> "I always feel them leering--no, no. I'm not interested in anyone older."
>
> A rumble of thunder vibrated the building and seemed to move up Jared's
spine.
> He looked through the windows. The sky was quickly darkening. The odor
of
> rain upon hot blacktop wafted through the open door. Even the mountains
had
> not barred the impending storm. He dumbly stared into the rare bookcase.
>
> Above him, at the end of the top shelf, stood a first edition of *Look
> Homeward Angel.*
>
> (c) 2002 DH Henry

Aw.

Good story, Hank.

I know it's done. And I resist happy endings. But in life, it always seems
right about this moment that, having lost his rose colored glasses,
something (or someone) happens that makes him know it was for a reason? So
I guess this ending was too predictable for me and I was looking for a
little bit of a twist.

But I still enjoyed the story. Nice job.

Andrea

Andrew Callahan

unread,

Dec 12, 2002, 12:22:06 PM12/12/02

Hank,
I enjoyed your story. I thought it was well written and had some beautiful
imagery. I think beautiful imagery is important if you are writing about a
place like Oregon. Oregon deserves beautiful writing.

I found, however, that even though there was tension building, I found
myself waiting impatiently (as opposed to eagerly anticipating) for
something to happen in the story. The internal monologue (as has been
discussed on many other stories--including some of mine) can tend to slow
the pace. While this is done pretty well, I still find it slow and
monotonous. Recognizing that Jared is lonely and probably would not have a
confidant with whom he could share his most intimate and frightening
thoughts, it might be possible to have him talk to himself in the mirror as
he dresses, or talk to his basset hound who is riding along on the trip
(maybe because Melanie always ask about Rufus the dog, or something).
Obviously the dog couldn't respond (without making this a fairytale and
REALLY changing the story) but even a dog could respond to the scenery,
other cars, etc. The dog probably won't work, but I think the story needs
something to give it action before the final scene.

Other comments in text, and at end.

Does the make of car tell us something? Which is more important, 'black
Volkswagen Passat' or wipers _patiently_ sweeping? I don't think you need
both descriptive phrases in this sentence.

> on the radio reminded him of Melanie's voice--a voice that, for the past
year,

Might be helpful to describe some characteristic of the voice that made him
think of Melanie. He's already thinking of Melanie, so the trees along the
highway probably make him think of Melanie, but I think building his
delusional fantasy with a vocal characteristic would be helpful here.

> had flowed through Jared's mind like a river of light.

river of light - pretty words, but I don't know what they mean. I can't get
any image of this, it just confuses me.

> It was Saturday, his fifty-seventh birthday. Being some twenty-five years

"some" seems superfluous

> older than Melanie, albeit with a youthful appearance, Jared was
self-conscious
> about his age, as if he'd neglected to hold on to youth.
>

> He carried with him a first edition of Thomas Wolfe's *Look Homeward
Angel*, a
> gift to buffer his surprise arrival, which his nervous fear whispered
would be
> a foolish end to a long drive.

This is very good. It shows that he KNOWS he's fantasizing, but can't
control himself. Desperate, lonely man.

>
> Beyond the subterranean lure of Melanie's voice, he knew little about her:

I don't know what an underground lure would be. This doesn't work for me.

> that she owned a small bookstore, her life's joy; that she was thirty-two
and a
> single parent of a six-year-old girl; and that her social life was limited
by
> the small population of the town.
>
> What he knew most was the warmth in her voice.
>
>

> Jared reached the crest of the Cascade pass that divided the wet
Willamette
> Valley from the more arid eastern climate, and the sky opened as if on
God's
> command. All along the curving, climbing highway a crowd of scrub, maple
and
> sumac splashed bright orange, purple and yellow against the green-framed
> roadside.
>
> Jared opened the sunroof and let the cold summit air bite his face. He
slowed
> to the shoulder, allowing a car to pass. There would be no rush today;
this was
> his day, his destination, his discovery. He sat watching shafts of
sunlight
> brighten the frothy hillside, and recited Wolfe's words: *Naked and alone
we
> came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from
the
> prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable an incommunicable
prison
> of this earth.*
>

> Jared waited until the shafts spread out, until the entire mountainside
was
> illuminated, and then he continued on toward the town.
>
> He planned to explore the tourist traps and pubs, and when he got his
nerve
> up, to enter the bookstore as any browser would. He would finger the
volumes

This is clever. I hadn't noticed the first time through, he doesn't even
get to touch the books. I think that's a nice touch.

> in the rare book section, and from somewhere in the rear of the store he'd
> listen for the voice he knew so well. He'd find a vantage point to
observe
> her, to see how she fit the tones of his reverie. Then, if his courage
held,
> he would retrieve the book from his car and reveal himself.

reveal himself - this is fine, but second time through for some reason he
sounded like a flasher - didn't the first time I read it, however.

> The essence of a voice, a uniquely personal set of sounds--from where
does it
> flow?

This is delusional fantasizing on Jared's part. Well done. (Saturdays are
busy days for bookstores so the idea of unhurried time (even though he's
thinking of dinner later) still shows that this is fantasy, not actually
based on any real clues.

> In his reverie he perceived the heart beneath the voice and thought of
Wolfe's
> greatest work: *Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked
into
> his father's heart? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?-Wolfe
was
> once Jared's favorite author, whose stories he'd not revisited since his
wife's
> death. Melanie's devotion to Wolfe awakened his old interest.
>
> Intoxication filled Melanie's expressions about *Look Homeward,*
intoxication
> that alternately flooded him, and left him disquieted.

I don't understand this intoxication thing.

> Yet, Melanie's affection for Wolfe had given Jared new hope, hope that
might
> again be his strength, rushing on of its own momentum, lending him
purpose,
> renewal and love. And so, this journey, which began with casual
conversation,
> became larger in his wishes, became urgent to his need.
>
> He chose not to risk her refusal from a distance. He assumed that her
voice
> was reason enough to come. And, on this side of the mountains, he found
> renewed optimism--confident that neither his age nor her appearance would
be a
> barrier once they met.
>

Again, good delusional fantasy. You have keen insight into this way of
thinking, I wonder if,. . . well, never mind.

>
> The coupe rolled effortlessly down the straight highway through giant

effortlessly - this hit my like a brick in the head the first time through.
Rolling down a straight highway seems effortless, so I think you can delete
effortlessly. He's not chugging, straining, pulling, etc. Rolling already
seems effortless to me.

> Ponderosas, bathed in bright sunlight. The air was warmer and drier on
this
> side of the mountains. Glancing in his rear-view mirror, he saw the dark
> cloudbank brooding in the pass. He wondered how mountains could hold back
the
> rain. He thought of his own barriers to a brighter life--for the past
seven
> years he'd been stumbling through his darkest loss, the loss of his wife
to
> cancer. Then his parents died--his mother, followed by his father, who
lived

aching loneliness building here, this is good stuff

> defiantly to the age of 91. While his father lived, Jared saw time as
> abundant-thought there was no pressure to risk himself again. Others
> celebrated his father's long life; he had tried to mourn with their spirit
of
> thankfulness, but all it really meant to him was that his family was gone,
that
> time was running out, that loneliness stained every hope.
>

> He slowed through the outposts of town and turned onto the sun-bathed main
> street of Sisters. The buildings wore freshly painted old western fronts
of
> different colors. The sidewalks were full of lightly clad shoppers
bearing
> purchases.
>

> Jared followed the line of traffic until he passed the small bookstore on
his
> right. He couldn't see through the windows' reflections. People were
going in
> and out of shops that lined both sides of the street.
>
> He turned left at Billy Bronco's Bar and Restaurant, and found a parking
spot.
> Unfolding his stiff legs from the car, Jared walked into the bar and
ordered a
> Dos Equis. The clatter of dishes and bustle of waitresses took his mind
from
> the risk he soon would face.
>
> He stared into his beer and listened to voices around him. There was a

Is Dos Equis served on tap in Oregon? Would he stare into the bottle? I
stare into a glass sometimes, but don't personally stare into a bottle.

> language beneath their words, one that played on his imagination. Had he
been
> wrong about Melanie? Had the heart he'd detected in her voice, in dozens
of
> short conversations, in her smiling response to his gentle teasing-had
these
> been mere business?

For internal monologue, this is well done. Quite a battle going on it his
head, huh?

> "No, no. No. I couldn't he's just too, well, too--"
>
> "Old? Listen, Melanie honey, he's not *that* much older. Ed's a good guy.
I
> know he likes you."
>
> Jared felt the blood drain from his face. An ache filled him.
>
> He could see Melanie's hands bend back, pulling against each other.
"Sixteen
> years, Judy. I just couldn't."
>
> "Do you think Ed *looks* forty-eight? Be honest."
>
> "Forty, maybe."
>
> "Okay, okay, so, just tell me why?"
>
> "Listen, Judy. I appreciate you trying to fix me up, but I have to deal
with
> these old fogies on the phone all the time. Their wife is away, or worse,
dead.
> They're losers." The words from the cherished voice, the voice he'd held
in
> his dreams for months, carried a cruel timbre he'd never detected on the
phone.
> "I always feel them leering--no, no. I'm not interested in anyone older."

This is very good. I think it stands up very well, even if you delete the
phrase "I'm not interested in anyone older." perhaps replacing it with a
shorter, punchier phrase like, "I always feel them leering--no, no older
men."

>
> A rumble of thunder vibrated the building and seemed to move up Jared's
spine.
> He looked through the windows. The sky was quickly darkening. The odor
of
> rain upon hot blacktop wafted through the open door. Even the mountains
had
> not barred the impending storm. He dumbly stared into the rare bookcase.

We know he's not talking, and even that he feels stupid, I think "dumbly"
can be dropped, perhaps changing "stared" to a stronger verb.

>
> Above him, at the end of the top shelf, stood a first edition of *Look
> Homeward Angel.*
>
> (c) 2002 DH Henry

I liked the touch of her already having a copy of the book he brought as a
gift, and I liked that he couldn't even run his fingers through the books as
he had planned. I liked that the mountains didn't hold back the rain.
Something, however, about this seemed just too predictable. Lonely men
chasing after younger women, dreaming, fantasizing, only to get a reality
check in the end, well, so what? Why do I need fiction for this? This is
reality. I think the writing is quite good, and I enjoyed the 'journey'
just not sure it's ultimately worth the trip.

Melanie's not cruel, she's just not the one-dimensional angel Jared had put
on a pedestal. He chose to worship this woman from afar. He also chose
this 'safe' way to get his rejection, which he had suspicions would be his
reward all along. Perhaps if we find she really IS cruel, that she
INTENTIONALLY toys with older men strictly to buy at low prices and sell at
high ones, or for some other more nefarious reason, that might make a better
ending.

Well-written story, would have preferred it to have both more dialog/action
and a more satisfying ending.

Thanks for posting it

Andrew

Wind River

unread,

Dec 13, 2002, 9:04:55 AM12/13/02

Hi Hank,
Commenting as I read.

Allegory60 wrote:
>
> x-no-archive:yes
> Please do not archive
>
> Sisters Weekend
> by DH Henry
>

>
>
> Jared reached the crest of the Cascade pass that divided the wet Willamette
> Valley from the more arid eastern climate, and the sky opened as if on God's
> command. All along the curving, climbing highway a crowd of scrub, maple and
> sumac splashed bright orange, purple and yellow against the green-framed
> roadside.

Very nice paragraph. I like the sound of all those "c"s

> <snipped>

>
> Jared recognized the second voice. He smiled involuntarily and a twinge of
> anticipation ran through him. He moved down the shelf until he was a few feet
> from the counter but still hidden from view. The old lady completed her
> purchase and left.

Nice subtle view of emotion.

><snipped>

>
> "Listen, Judy. I appreciate you trying to fix me up, but I have to deal with
> these old fogies on the phone all the time. Their wife is away, or worse, dead.
> They're losers." The words from the cherished voice, the voice he'd held in
> his dreams for months, carried a cruel timbre he'd never detected on the phone.
> "I always feel them leering--no, no. I'm not interested in anyone older."

Good. You've tied the reader's emotions so well to Jared, that we can
almost feel his heart plummet.

> A rumble of thunder vibrated the building and seemed to move up Jared's spine.
> He looked through the windows. The sky was quickly darkening. The odor of
> rain upon hot blacktop wafted through the open door. Even the mountains had
> not barred the impending storm. He dumbly stared into the rare bookcase.
>

> Above him, at the end of the top shelf, stood a first edition of *Look
> Homeward Angel.*
>
> (c) 2002 DH Henry

Very nice story. I like the way the moods of the surroundings echo the
moods of Jared. In the beginning, he sees the splashes of color and the
sunlight despite the darkening clouds. Enjoyable.

Sue

Wind River

unread,

Dec 13, 2002, 9:12:19 AM12/13/02

I just read the other comments. It's interesting how stories can create
so many different reactions. The thing I like about this story is the
internalizing and the slow, thoughtful buildup. It has a nice quiet mood
where I could just float along and daydream with Jared. A nice story to
read on a snowy or rainy day.

Sue

Allegory60

unread,

Dec 13, 2002, 11:35:41 AM12/13/02

Thanks, Sue. Yes, I find the reactions interesting when they vary widely. I
think some prefer action pieces and so take a story like this down a notch. My
tastes run all over the lot. Glad you liked it.

Hank

Alaric

unread,

Dec 13, 2002, 7:51:55 PM12/13/02

This is an excellent conception, well written,excellent imagery, but I'm not
entirely sure of the point. We don't get a feelgood ending (I wanted him to
fall for the OTHER girl) so we see a guy who pins faith in a mirage. Is the
lesson that we must rely on ourselves?

With this and the controversial story, I'm finding riveting, substantial
prose, but I'm left contemplating purpose.

"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021212001123...@mb-mg.aol.com...

> x-no-archive:yes
> Please do not archive
>
> Sisters Weekend
> by DH Henry
>

> The day began with a drizzle that the wipers on Jared's black Volkswagen
Passat
> patiently swept aside. The highway was nearly empty, the air still. The
voice

> on the radio reminded him of Melanie's voice--a voice that, for the past
year,

> had flowed through Jared's mind like a river of light.
>

> There had only been cordial phone calls between them, dealing with the
> business of buying and selling rare books, yet Jared set out unannounced
on
> this dismal October day to cover the hundred miles of highway that
separated
> him from that voice, to cross the Santiam Pass to the small town of
Sisters,
> Oregon. Jared knew or cared nothing of Melanie's appearance; he knew
only her
> voice. He believed himself to be intuitive, and saw subtle clues of
> encouragement in her words.
>
> It was Saturday, his fifty-seventh birthday. Being some twenty-five years

> older than Melanie, albeit with a youthful appearance, Jared was
self-conscious
> about his age, as if he'd neglected to hold on to youth.
>
> He carried with him a first edition of Thomas Wolfe's *Look Homeward
Angel*, a
> gift to buffer his surprise arrival, which his nervous fear whispered
would be
> a foolish end to a long drive.
>

> Beyond the subterranean lure of Melanie's voice, he knew little about her:

> Jared opened the sunroof and let the cold summit air bite his face. He
slowed
> to the shoulder, allowing a car to pass. There would be no rush today;
this was
> his day, his destination, his discovery. He sat watching shafts of
sunlight
> brighten the frothy hillside, and recited Wolfe's words: *Naked and alone
we
> came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from
the
> prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable an incommunicable
prison
> of this earth.*
>
> Jared waited until the shafts spread out, until the entire mountainside
was
> illuminated, and then he continued on toward the town.
>
> He planned to explore the tourist traps and pubs, and when he got his
nerve
> up, to enter the bookstore as any browser would. He would finger the
volumes

> Jared wondered what it would be like to share unhurried time with the
woman
> who owned the voice, to discuss books over a glass of wine, to explore her
> eyes, her face, her nature, while listening to *the voice.* Would
Melanie's
> countenance or bearing somehow negate the passion that stirred him when
she
> spoke? Or, would her appearance confirm the being that filled his
imagination?
> The essence of a voice, a uniquely personal set of sounds--from where
does it
> flow?

> Late one night he finally understood the opposing forces in his
breast-that
> his lost passion for books, a glory that once defined him, was now distant
and
> fleeting. Even the rarest volumes no longer brought joy; rarities had
become
> common to him. He had become a disinterested spectator, passing great and
> wondrous art to others.
>
> Yet, Melanie's affection for Wolfe had given Jared new hope, hope that
might
> again be his strength, rushing on of its own momentum, lending him
purpose,
> renewal and love. And so, this journey, which began with casual
conversation,
> became larger in his wishes, became urgent to his need.
>
> He chose not to risk her refusal from a distance. He assumed that her
voice
> was reason enough to come. And, on this side of the mountains, he found
> renewed optimism--confident that neither his age nor her appearance would
be a
> barrier once they met.
>
>

> The coupe rolled effortlessly down the straight highway through giant

> Jared recognized the second voice. He smiled involuntarily and a twinge
of
> anticipation ran through him. He moved down the shelf until he was a few
feet
> from the counter but still hidden from view. The old lady completed her
> purchase and left.
>

> Now Jared was the only customer in the store. He stood peering into the
rare
> book cabinet while straining to hear.
>
> "You should. You really should," said the other woman.
>
> "No, no. No. I couldn't he's just too, well, too--"
>
> "Old? Listen, Melanie honey, he's not *that* much older. Ed's a good guy.
I
> know he likes you."
>
> Jared felt the blood drain from his face. An ache filled him.
>
> He could see Melanie's hands bend back, pulling against each other.
"Sixteen
> years, Judy. I just couldn't."
>
> "Do you think Ed *looks* forty-eight? Be honest."
>
> "Forty, maybe."
>
> "Okay, okay, so, just tell me why?"
>

> "Listen, Judy. I appreciate you trying to fix me up, but I have to deal
with
> these old fogies on the phone all the time. Their wife is away, or worse,
dead.
> They're losers." The words from the cherished voice, the voice he'd held
in
> his dreams for months, carried a cruel timbre he'd never detected on the
phone.
> "I always feel them leering--no, no. I'm not interested in anyone older."
>

Allegory60

unread,

Dec 13, 2002, 8:22:48 PM12/13/02

>This is an excellent conception, well written,excellent imagery, but I'm not
>entirely sure of the point. We don't get a feelgood ending (I wanted him to
>fall for the OTHER girl) so we see a guy who pins faith in a mirage. Is the
>lesson that we must rely on ourselves?

Perhaps. Or, that one shouldn't pin faith on a long distance, voice-only
relationship? We hear or make what we want to hear or make.

>
>With this and the controversial story, I'm finding riveting, substantial
>prose, but I'm left contemplating purpose.

The controversial story has had another facelift. It's beginning to be the
Phyllis Diller of my collection.

Thanks for your read and your remarks. At least I'm close on style points.

Hank

Egad

unread,

Dec 14, 2002, 2:27:55 PM12/14/02

"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021212001123...@mb-mg.aol.com...
> x-no-archive:yes
> Please do not archive
>
> Sisters Weekend
> by DH Henry

Hey Hank,
I once received a wooden postcard from Sisters Oregon.

Poignant story. As I read it I was reminded of Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance. Definitely a man searching for something. I think
there is still some chaff in there. I know you could find it and cut it
out. Occasionally you get into a short staccatto sentence style that I
noticed. I would also like to see about ten minutes further in the story.
What is Jared's reaction? That kind of thing. Maybe that is just me.

Thanks for posting.
Egad

Allegory60

unread,

Dec 16, 2002, 1:22:55 PM12/16/02

>I would also like to see about ten minutes further in the story.
>What is Jared's reaction? That kind of thing. Maybe that is just me.
>
>Thanks for posting.
>Egad

Thanks, Egad. Yeah, I do that a lot to stories of Carver or O.Henry, or Chekov
(not that I'm in their league)--I want to see more, go 10 minutes further. I
think endings are particularly difficult for many of us, which may account for
the popularity of the novel over the short story. By the time you're finished
with a novel you may get that feeling of having spent too much time reading it,
while a short story often leaves you with the feeling that you'd like more.

Thanks again,
Hank

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