The Girl from Charnelle

by K. L. Cook

  “Why did she leave?” she asked.

  Again he was slow to answer, glancing over at Laura in the dark. He sucked on his cigarette and then said quietly, “I don’t know. None of us could have predicted that she would just vanish like she did. No one does that. But I guess on some level I wasn’t totally surprised. I wasn’t the greatest husband, Laura.”

  She nodded, not to agree with him but to encourage him to continue.

  “I guess you’re old enough to know that. I didn’t always treat your mother right, and so some part of me felt I had it coming. That she did it to spite me, and I deserved it. I believed it was my fault.”

  Laura didn’t remember her parents arguing too much when they were married, but she did remember the woman he’d brought home a few months after her mother left. And Mrs. Letig had insinuated that there had been other women, that her parents were not happily married. Laura knew there was a longer story here, but she didn’t really think it was her business to know it. Parents and children did not need to know everything about each other, she thought. Some things were better left unsaid.

  “Do you still think it was your fault?” she asked tentatively.

  “No,” he said. “But I did for a long time. And my guilt got all mixed up with my anger. Eventually I felt that she was to blame. It wasn’t right what she did, to abandon us all. But it especially wasn’t right what she did to you kids.”

  He paused here and seemed to be remembering something.

  “But now…I guess now I don’t blame anybody. I don’t see the advantage in it. Or the truth of it. We sometimes do things in our lives that seem like deliberate choices at the time, but really, when we look back on them, they weren’t choices at all. People do things because they have to do them. It’s in them already.”

  “What do you mean?” Laura asked.

  “I think your mother had to leave, that some part of her always wanted to leave, to be alone and maybe even to be somebody different. She’d always been mysterious. Always something of a loner. That was why I fell in love with her in the first place.”

  Laura closed her eyes and tried to imagine the young woman he’d married, the girl she’d seen in those pictures that Aunt Velma had given her. Was her father right about this? Are our actions always in us? She remembered thinking something similar way back when they were having all those problems with Greta. She remembered watching her mother sitting on the stump staring at the dog pen, and she wondered later if the seeds of the future are always there, in the present, just waiting to bloom. Maybe that’s what her mother had meant when she told her father that it was nature’s way. Laura didn’t know if she believed this, that our natures were always waiting to have their way. It seemed such a sad philosophy.

  “Do you think she’ll ever come back?” she asked.

  “No, I doubt it.”

  “If she did, would you take her back?”

  He kept his eyes on the road. She held her breath, and her throat felt tight. She wanted him to say yes.

  He shook his head. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation.”

  “Would you?”

  “That’s a big if, Laura. But if she came back…well…I’d have to say no. No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It couldn’t be the same. We could never go back to how it was before.”

  “But I thought you said you didn’t blame her anymore.”

  “That doesn’t mean I could forget what she did. And I guess I’d always be wondering when she would leave again. I couldn’t take that. Once was bad enough. And I don’t think it would be, in the end, very fair to all you kids.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  He paused again, took a deep, contemplative drag off his cigarette, held it in, and let it curl out of his mouth in a long, white stream that filled the cab.

  “No,” he said. And then, “That’s not true. And it’s not fair, really. I suppose I will always love your mother. Or maybe it’s just the memory of her when we both were younger that I love. I’m not quite sure…. That’s a hard one, honey.”

  They were both quiet then. The wheels of the truck whistled underneath them. What had she expected him to say? Something clear and definitive? But that wasn’t the way things really were. She felt a sudden sense of failure sweep through her. She thought about how strange it was to be coming back, in the dark, to Charnelle. Doing what her mother wouldn’t or couldn’t do. In some way, she believed she was coming full circle, but the idea depressed her. She began to cry, softly at first, just tears welling in her eyes, but then soon she was sobbing.

  “Hey, now,” her father said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I miss her,” she said, staring out the window at the dark, flat nothingness of the Panhandle.

  “Is that why you ran away?” he asked.

  This was such a complicated question, made more complicated by her tears. She had left because she felt that Mrs. Letig was right, that she had helped to bring about their tragedy. Though when she boarded the bus, it was not that clear—just a need to be gone, out of her house, out of Charnelle, to be away from them all, far away, where she couldn’t be seen by people who knew her. These thoughts had coiled in front of her, as alarming as a rattlesnake.

  “I don’t know. Partly, I guess.”

  He passed her his handkerchief, then put his hand on her shoulder. She looked out the front window. She could not see Charnelle yet. The gray highway lay ahead of them like a river, leading them back to the town where she had spent her life, where so much had already happened, and where the Letigs, as well as her own family, lived with their grief and their shame. Where Anne Letig hovered before her mirror, pouring more wine and sorting through her options. Where Jack lay in his grave. She was grateful now, despite all that had happened, that she and John had not run away, that her life was still her own. Yet she knew she would always carry some burden of guilt, the knowledge that she had been, for a period of time, at the secret center of the Letigs’ grief. For them she would always be the girl from Charnelle, the one they wouldn’t mention again but could never forget.

  And they, too, had penetrated the secret center of her life. She imagined that she would always think and even dream about little Jack, his eyes closed in the coffin, and then the coffin itself closed and placed in the ground, the hole covered with dirt. Some part of her had disappeared with him, would always be gone, buried deep inside the Letigs’ marriage.

  “Do you think we’re punished for the things we do?” she asked.

  He took a last drag of his cigarette and then tossed the butt out the window. He seemed to think about her question for a long time. She turned to him, watched the silhouette of his face in the dark as he stared ahead at the highway, his arm perched over the steering wheel.

  “I think,” he finally said, “that we usually punish ourselves.”

  Her throat felt thick and tight. She remembered again watching her mother through the cab of this same truck, wondering if she would ever really know her. It had dawned on her back then that such a connection was almost impossible. Was it only in our cruelty, intentional or not, in our shared pain, that we ever penetrate other lives? Was it only in grief that we ever really touch someone else? She hoped not. She hoped that time would bring, for all of them, less pain, less memory of pain.

  “Slide over here,” her father said. She buried her face in his shoulder. His flannel jacket smelled of smoke and something else, a good smell she couldn’t quite describe but knew immediately as her father’s.

  “I love you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? I’ll always love you.”

  He held her tightly for a few seconds until she calmed herself, and then he let his arm drape loosely over her shoulder. He rolled the window all the way down, so that a steady stream of crisp, chilly air filled the cab.

  After a while, he began humming. The melody sounded comforting and familiar, although she couldn’t remember the name of it. The r
hythm of the tires rolling over the newly patched highway provided accompaniment, as did the steady beat she could hear in his chest. She felt enormously thankful for this small pleasure, and soon she was able to swallow and then breathe again.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered, brushing away her tears.

  When she looked up again, she could see in the distance the faint glow of Charnelle, little dots of jittering yellow and white lights. She wanted to prolong this part of the journey home, this short time of traveling in the dark with her father. She closed her eyes for a while, listening to him, listening to the wheels beneath them, knowing and yet not knowing this melody he was humming, and hoping, despite the fact that she knew the lights up ahead were growing brighter and more distinct with each mile, that they weren’t too close to Charnelle, hoping, even though they were on their way home, that they wouldn’t arrive just yet.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I first want to thank the two Jennifers in my life: my agent, Jennifer Cayea, whose faith, good cheer, honesty, intelligence, and stubbornness made all the difference; and Jennifer Pooley, who is everything a writer could want in an editor—critic, advocate, and cheerleader.

  Thanks to the MacDowell Colony, Vermont Studio Center, and especially Blue Mountain Center and the Corporation of Yaddo for residency fellowships that allowed me valuable time and solitude to write and revise most of this novel. I also appreciate Dave Hanna and Lisa Floyd-Hanna for the use of their Durango home and Ronald Regina for his Palm Springs home, and my annual writing-retreat pals, Tim Crews and Wayne Regina, for their inspiration and abiding friendship and all the fertile discussions about nitrogen fixation, legumes, differentiation, multigenerational emotional processes, postmodernism, entity extractions, narrative strategy, and lucerne coincidences.

  I am deeply grateful to Prescott College for their support, especially in the form of sabbaticals, and my many Prescott College and, more recently, Spalding University friends, colleagues, and students, who nurtured me in ways they probably don’t realize. I particularly want to thank the Arts & Letters Program, Deb Ford, Roseanne Cartledge, Gret Antilla, Jamie Mehalic, Tricia Goffena, Sena Jeter Naslund, Jesse Schwartz, James Daley, David Siegel, and Aram Yardumian. Special thanks to Rick Russo, Bret Lott, Hannah Tinti, Silas House, Joan Silber, Harriet Barlow, Juliann France, Ben Strader, Hilda Raz, Kelly Grey-Carlisle, Jennifer Klein, and Ladette Randolph. Abby Koons, Paula McLain, and my great friend Joe Schuster read all or portions of this book and offered invaluable feedback and/or encouragement.

  Many thanks, too, for their love and friendship to the Thomason, Cook, Menefee, and Speegle clans, and particularly to Lena Cook-Kellison, Gail and Larry Menefee, Melanie Carter, Amanda Menefee, Janet Bicknese, Sarah Crews, Don and Judy Sulltrop, Raymon and Linda Thomason, Anna Burchell, Red Thomason, and Mike and Marianne Thomason. (As I promised, Mike, this is all about you.) My deepest gratitude and love are reserved for Anita, Brandy, Carson, Tristan, Vivian, and little Lena, and of course Charissa Menefee, the grace in my life, who read this novel more times and more closely and in more incarnations than any person should have to do, and who played many roles in its evolution: muse, midwife, nursemaid, coach, critic, collaborator, dramaturg, and editor.

  About the Author

  Meet K.L. Cook

  BORN IN DUMAS, TEXAS, K. L. Cook grew up in Houston, Dallas, Amarillo, and Las Vegas. He teaches creative writing and literature at Prescott College in Arizona and is also a member of the graduate faculty at the Spalding University’s MFA in Writing Program. He lives in Prescott with his wife, playwright Charissa Menefee, and their four children.

  In 2004, Cook won the inaugural Prairie Schooner Book Prize for Last Call, a collection of linked stories.

  His stories, essays, and articles have appeared in numerous literary journals, magazines, and newspapers, including Poets & Writers, Arts & Letters, The Three penny Review, Shenandoah, Harvard Review, American Short Fiction, Post Road, Colorado Review, Alligator Juniper, Puerto del Sol, and Witness.

  He won the Grand Prize in the 2002 Santa Fe Writers Project Literary Arts Series. Cook has also been honored with an Arizona Commission on the Arts Fiction Fellowship, two Pushcart Prize nominations, and artist residency fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, Yaddo, Blue Mountain Center, and the Vermont Studio Center. He was a Tennessee Williams Scholar at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and winner of a City of Charleston Literary Arts Award.

  Visit K.L. Cook’s Web site: www.klcook.net

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  PRAISE FOR The Girl from Charnelle

  “[The Girl from Charnelle] is more than a coming-of-age novel of a young girl; rather, it is the record of the traumatic explosion of a childhood into pain and bittersweet adult knowledge…. It’s often said that the ultimate test of a male novelist lies in his ability to faithfully and compellingly portray the inner emotional life of a woman and that only the greats like Tolstoy, Flaubert, and James can pull it off. Cook pulls it off admirably. His portrait of Laura is compelling, deft, delicate, and as gritty and honest as a West Texas sandstorm…. This is a marvelously written and well-paced, deeply affecting first novel.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “If you have ever been a little girl, if you have ever loved a little girl, you will love The Girl from Charnelle…. [Laura Tate] will remind the reader of the character Kaye Gibbons made famous in Ellen Foster but with less angst and anger. Laura is the kind of girl who, when planning to run away from it all, packs a book of American short stories. Ultimately, love draws her home. Much like real life, this novel is free from a fantasy ending. But it has a good ending nonetheless. The reader will find themselves falling in love with Laura, pulling for her, and hoping she’s doing O.K. long after the last page is read and the book is closed…. The Girl from Charnelle is about grace, tragedy, and motherless children who assume adult roles. Themes which are all too common…. The Girl from Charnelle is a hit. A big hit.”

  —Mississippi Press

  “Cook’s debut novel drives itself into the reader’s consciousness much like the sudden, violent thunderstorms that sweep across the plains of the Texas Panhandle…. Cook’s depiction of the optimism of the new decade of the 1960s contrasts effectively with the bleak landscape of the arid Texas high plains. A deeply thoughtful and honest rendering of the unanswered questions of relationships and the nature of love.”

  —Booklist

  “Compelling…. A strong, complex story from a promising new literary voice.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Set against the backdrop of an emotional election and the start of a tumultuous decade, this atypical coming-of-age story from Cook considers more than a young girl’s erotic and emotional awakening; it’s the story of an entire generation growing up too quickly. The story may start quietly, but its deceptively simple premise builds to a tense situation that makes this debut impossible to put down until the dramatic and realistic conclusion.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “In The Girl from Charnelle, K. L. Cook has written a brilliant portrait of a small-town teenage girl whose secret affair shows such a complicated mix of will and entanglement, desire and accident, that it feels utterly true. The novel unfolds with a rare suspense, as it moves its characters through the threat of discovery and the aftereffects of family disaster. A fresh and indelible book.”

  —Joan Silber

  “The Girl from Charnelle and K. L. Cook give us characters we care about—even grow to love—set inside a story that strikes deep, the way important novels used to do. This story of running from oneself to find oneself is beautiful, tender, moving, and true.”

  —Bret Lott, author of Jewel

  “K. L. Cook is the best kind of storyteller—he creates compelling characters and dives deeply through the wreckage of their lives, exploring the darkest corners and returning with pieces of courage, love, and hope. The Girl from Charnell
e will capture your heart and stay with you long after you turn the last page.”

  —Hannah Tinti, author of Animal Crackers

  “After reading The Girl from Charnelle, I’m so convinced by K. L. Cook’s writing that I believe Laura Tate is a real person with a beating, aching heart, so full of longing and loneliness that she might burst. I loved her, I was frustrated with her, I was happy for her, and sad for her, but the best part is that I felt I knew her. She’s an amazing and lovely creation, and I’m honored to have met her within the pages of this book…. This book is expertly rendered in the hands of a writer who—if we live in a just world—will soon be known throughout the country.”

  —Silas House, author of Clay’s Quilt, A Parchment of Leaves, and The Coal Tattoo

  PRAISE FOR Last Call

  “Fourteen-year-old Laura Tate watches her mother descend into depression and finally leave her family of two daughters and three sons. Like Harriet in Donna Tart’s Little Friend and Alice in the recent National Book Award–nominee Florida by Christine Schutt, Laura experiences adult motives and emotions as achingly beyond her reach.”

  —Southwest Book Views

  “A family’s tragic trajectory viewed through the kaleidoscope of time in stories that make an immensely satisfying whole.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “They’re like something out of a country-and-western song, these Tates of West Texas, what with their good women and bad dogs, bad luck and good honky-tonks. But that’s where the song lyric clichéd comparison ends. In Cook’s hands, the series of linked stories introducing us to three generations of Tates fairly thrums with keen insight borne of uncommon wisdom and unwavering compassion for his characters…. Cook’s debut collection is a breathtakingly haunting and magical tapestry of human emotions.”