Jo’s Fanfic

The story I mentioned the other day is now sitting.  I’m not sure that it works from a structural standpoint, and I need some distance from it in order to know for certain.

What I do know is that sometimes, when I’ve been working on a “dark” story, I need to work on something quite different for balance.  Last summer, when a very dear friend was dying, I worked out some of the issues by writing “The Seasons of a Friendship,” in which Joe assists a dying friend in his last days.  Then, in attempt to turn my thoughts in another direction, I wrote “Fetching the Payroll,” with exasperated Ben telling of how his mutton-headed sons managed to mess up the very simple task of bringing home the payroll.  Granted, I followed that up with another dark story, “Premonition,” which I started upon coming home from my friend’s funeral, but as I grappled with those days, it helped that there had been a few moments when I was able to create a bit of humor.

Sometimes, it’s just the drama of the story itself that demands relief.  When I was writing “The Barn Cat” last winter, it was definitely heavy lifting–Joe’s injury, the possibility of amputation, fever and delirium and risk of death.  So, one day, I thought, “I need a break.  What’s the opposite of all this intensity?”  In the space of a couple of hours, I wrote “The Best-Laid Plans,” in which was Joe was again injured and in bed but handling it in a far different fashion by trying to entice a girl to join him for a romp.  (”The Best-Laid Plans” is posted in the Ranch House Studios R forum on Bonanza Brand.) 

I have several stories in process now, but all of them have been on the dark side.  I’m not quite sure why, although I could take some guesses.  In any event, last night, I started writing one which had occurred to me before in which Ben comes face to face (so to speak) with the fact that his baby is no longer a baby.  It’s not a full-blown comedy in the tradition of “Romeo” (Adam telling the story of how he directed Joe in a production of “Romeo and Juliet”) or “Fetching the Payroll” or even “Brother Daniel” (in which well-meaning monks tried to protect amnesiac Joe after he witnessed a bank robbery), but the opening scene did lighten my mood.  We’ll see where it goes from there. . . .

I’ve finished a draft of a new story.  Time was when this was happening every other week, but I’ve slowed down.  Partly from necessity–there’s still a finite number of hours in a day, and things like earning a living can’t take second place forever.  Also, the urgency has leveled off.  It’s been a while since I’ve had a story that just demanded to be written.  Certainly, I have several that will grab me periodically, but if I have to say “no” in order to tend to real life, they don’t consume my mind as they once did.  This, incidentally, is a bit of a plus–it’s difficult to have a conversation with the person in front of you when your mind is working out a conversation between Ben and Joe. 

The new story is one I started a while ago and simply hadn’t finished.  It’s about Joe at seventeen as he deals with the unexpected death of his best friend.  (No, I didn’t kill off Mitch Devlin–I gave him a different best friend.)  The story still needs work, but in the hope of whetting your appetite, I give you the beginning:

* * *

“Here, Joe, take a drink of this,” said a voice.  Huddled naked beneath somebody’s saddle blanket, Little Joe reached mindlessly for whatever they were handing him.  A bottle, as it turned out.  He took a swig and handed it back, never looking up to see who his benefactor was.

 

A commotion down at the shore seized his attention.  Still wearing only the blanket, he pushed through the crowd as Hoss carried the limp body up, out of the water.  The men parted, and Joe reached out with one tentative hand to touch his friend’s cold, wet cheek.  He looked up at Hoss as if pleading for confirmation that what he saw before him was not, in fact, the truth.

 

“His foot was wedged in the rocks,” said Hoss, his deep voice rough with sorrow.  “I’m sorry, Little Brother, I truly am.”

 

“Where’s his pa?” asked somebody.  There was shuffling behind them, and then Mr. Munson stood beside Little Joe.  Like Joe, he reached out, almost in wonder, to touch his son’s cold flesh. 

 

“Samuel,” he whispered. 

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” breathed Joe.  At first, he wasn’t sure Sam’s pa had heard him, but then, the older man’s wide blue eyes fixed on him, brimful of grief.

 

“Thank you, boy,” the father said at last. 

 

He started to take his son from Hoss’ arms, but Hoss said, “I’ll take care of him, sir.”  One of the men produced a blanket.  Gently, as if Sam were asleep and Hoss didn’t want to waken him, the big man wrapped his brother’s best friend in a blanket and laid him carefully in the back of the buckboard that they’d sent for when it became apparent it would be needed. 

 

As men discussed in low voices how to get the Munsons home, Adam laid his arm around Joe’s shoulders.  “You need to get dressed,” he said quietly.  With a gentleness not normally associated with the logical, rational Cartwright, Adam drew his brother off to the side and handed him his clothes. 

 

Joe’s hands shook as he pulled on his pants.  The last time he’d worn them, Sam was alive.  The same thought crossed his mind as he pulled on his boots.  Adam took the blanket from his shoulders, and Joe put on his shirt.  As he went to button it, though, he caught sight of the buckboard that bore the body of a seventeen-year-old boy who would never be eighteen, and he started to shake. 

 

“Easy, Joe,” murmured Adam.  He held his brother’s shoulders as the boy doubled over, hurling the contents of his stomach on the ground.  “You’re all right, I’ve got you,” he said, rubbing the boy’s back. 

 

Finally, Joe straightened, drawing his hand across his eyes.  “I’m okay,” he said. 

 

Adam didn’t call him a liar.  He just patted Joe’s shoulder and said, “Let’s get on home.” 

 

“Where’s Hoss?”  Joe cast anxious looks around in the fading daylight.

 

“I’m right here,” said the big man.  He’d already dressed, and now he reached out to button Joe’s shirt.  “This boy’s cold,” he said as if Joe couldn’t hear him.  “He’s shakin’ like a leaf.”

 

“I know,” said Adam.  “Let’s get him home.”

  * * *

First, and probably most exciting, is the fact that I didn’t have to work this weekend.  There haven’t been that many weekends when I can say that, so that’s a big deal.  The weather is superb–slightly cool for August (high 70s) and dry, which is a delightful perk in humidity-prone New England.  As I write, a fairly serious breeze rustles the treetops, but down here at ground level, it barely touches us.  The phone has rung only a couple of times, leaving me to read and cook and play with the cats with nearly no interruptions.  And perhaps the most exciting thing is that, apart from singing at church this morning, there hasn’t been anything scheduled–nowhere that I had to be at any particular time.  In a world where time is measured in tenths of an hour and running hither and yon is the norm, the notion of such unstructured time is definitely a gift.

And these peaceful hours have brought a number of grace notes, as I call them–moments that are lovely little gifts.  Yesterday morning, a little brown bird perched in the mountain laurel outside my office window, chattering as though it definitely had an opinion about something.  I picked up the kitten and let her watch.  Immediately entranced, she stood with her nose pressed against the screen, not moving, as this bird continued its lecture.  It took a moment before I saw the object of the bird’s irritation–a hummingbird that kept hovering close and then moving away to perch on a neighboring branch.  Another bird–a finch, I think–came near as if to investigate, but it quickly moved away.  Oblivious to Olivia and me, the brown bird kept up its chatter, and the hummingbird continued its to-and-fro maneuvers for several minutes before they both left.  In all my years in this house, I have never seen a hummingbird, and watching this one, with its shimmering feathers glinting green, was a delight for cat and human alike!

This isn’t to say it’s been a complete break, of course.  The carpenter completed repairs on my screened-in porch yesterday, and it now falls to me to finish the painting and clean-up.  Errands and housework have taken their place in the days’ activities.  And, to be honest, there’s a great deal more I could be doing–research for a treatise I’m updating, straightening up my office, weeding the gardens, and similar tasks.  Dinner must be cooked, garbage and recycling need to be hauled to the curb for pickup in the morning, the dishwasher must be emptied.  Not now, though.  Right now, I want to bask in the songs of breezes and birds (okay, and occasional traffic–sound travels a lot farther than I wish it did).  No more hummingbirds have come around; instead, the crows are cawing in the woods, and the cats are sleeping in the living room.  The late afternoon light, already softened by clouds, is dimming ever so slightly.  For now, at least, my tiny piece of this earth is a peaceable kingdom.

Welcome to my fanfic blog! This whole blogging thing is new for me, so I expect the blog to change and develop as I start to learn more.  Come back and visit often–the teakettle is always on!