by Susan May
Snow nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Pam. Michael told us all about you at dinner.”
Funny, Pam thought, that’s exactly what Bev said.
“Don’t believe a word from him,” she said, playfully shoving her husband. “I’m really a very good wife and …”
Again, she was stopped. She had been going to say something else: something else she was, but now she couldn’t remember. She was a good wife and a good—
Oh, this was getting annoying. Now she couldn’t even remember things about herself. She was a good—
You’ve done your bit. The words popped into her mind.
She could remember those words. In fact, she couldn’t get the line out of her head, or Bev’s smile, or the way the old woman’s face had drooped when she’d said they were going and not staying for dinner.
Something about Bev’s smiling face, and now Snow’s smiling face, was really beginning to creep her out. So much so, she experienced a sudden urge to grab Michael’s arm, run back to the car and take off for … for … Oh, God, where?
She looked back at the old man, and in that instant, it seemed to her a shadow passed over him, shading and darkening him, so he became a silhouette and not a person. That image hung there for what seemed liked minutes. Her stomach clenched in sudden terror. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the shadow was gone—as though Snow had stepped out into the sunshine—and he was once again just a sweet, harmless old man.
“It was all good.” Snow chuckled.
He carefully put down the bowl as though he were handling glass. “Michael told us all about your wonderful life. He’s a lucky man to have a woman like you. He told us everything. How kind and how caring. How beautiful. It’s plain to see how much you two love each other.”
Pam blushed, and then nervously laughed. “No. Snow, please stop. You’re embarrassing me.” She looked up at Michael and felt his arm tighten around her waist.
Despite her protests, Snow continued. “Oh, yes. It’s lovely to see. Bev and I talked about it last night as we lay in bed. Young love. It’s how it’s meant to be.”
It’s how it’s meant to be.
The words stung Pam. Why had he said those words, those exact words?
It’s how it’s meant to be.
Bev had said them about their paying of the account. At least, that’s what Pam thought Bev had been talking about.
We’ve done our bit. You’ve done your bit. It’s how it’s meant to be.
Maybe it meant nothing. It could be just a country expression. Maybe the whole town of Broken Springs, Population 402, used those words when describing everything.
Regardless, Pam didn’t like it. She was beginning to think there was something missing from this picture. Something very significant. She wanted to tell Snow she knew this wasn’t how it was meant to be. That maybe there had been a big mistake. That even though Bev had helped her migraine somehow, and both Bev and Snow had been hospitable and kind, she and Michael should never have taken the scenic route.
Instead, she said, “Snow, you and Bev have been so kind. It was so hospitable of you to allow us to stay when we had no booking, but”— she slid her palm across her stomach and squeezed Michael’s hand, which was now resting on her waist—“we really must get going. We’ve already lost time on our vacation and we have to get going to—”
She glanced sideways at Michael and squeezed his hand again, hoping he’d finish her sentence. Thankfully, he took her cue and added, “Yes, Snow, Pam’s right. We really must get going. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed dinner last night, and I appreciate you sharing your woodwork. You truly create masterpieces.”
Snow nodded his thanks, and then extended his arms, offering something small and wooden to Michael. “Here. Take this as a memento.”
Pam now saw what the two men had been examining when she’d walked in. It was a perfectly turned wooden bowl, created in variegating stripes, from a honey-colored teak to a deep red cedar.
“No, Snow, we couldn’t,” said Michael, shaking his head.
Snow took a few steps toward them. Pam could see he had a slight limp; his right leg dragged awkwardly.
“Now, now, I insist.”
“Let me pay you,” replied Michael. “We can’t just take it. You’ve already been so generous.”
“Of course you can. Bev will give me hell if I don’t give you something to take away with you. Something to remember us by. After all, you’ve done your bit. We’re always grateful for that.”
You’ve done your bit. Pam cringed.
That was the moment she remembered something: two boys with curly brown hair—just toddlers, really—running toward her, her bending down to wrap her arms around them. The smell of spring and rain and Christmas. Then the same boys, but older, sitting by the side of a pool and calling to her. Except she couldn’t hear what they were saying. It was muffled and distant, as though they were speaking through a glass wall. Then, for the briefest moment, she saw the two boys in the back of their car. She was shouting at them. Feelings of frustration and anger burned through her. Pam couldn’t work out why she was shouting or angry. She liked children.
Then the image of the boys was gone—leaving behind a single thought. A memory. Finally.
Hallelujah! Praise the God of memory!
Relief rushed through her. Suddenly she remembered.
She knew where she and Michael were headed for vacation.
There was a beautiful cabin by the lake in Paterson where they spent a week every winter sitting by the fire, drinking wine, making love, and simply enjoying each other’s company. That’s where they were going.
Now she really wanted to leave here and get there. Get away from these two old people, who had done nothing wrong. Other than continue to repeat that strange sentence.
We’ve done our bit. You’ve done your bit. It’s how it’s meant to be.
She didn’t understand the words. All she understood was it made her feel as though she and Michael were the subject of a private joke.
Pam decided that instant it was time to get out of there. So she walked over to Snow, took the bowl, and gave him her best warm smile as she did so.
“Thank you. Of course, we would love to accept your gift. Now if you will excuse us, we’ll just grab our bags and go.”
Pam reached for the bowl; its smooth contours fit perfectly in her cupped hands. Snow held it for the briefest moment before releasing. In that moment, his smile turned from a wide, glowing-denture grin to a duplicate of Bev’s wilting scowl.
Pam’s stomach turned. The world spun about her, blurring to the golden and red-brown colors of the bowl. Snow was still there, solid, glaring at her as though she were an intruder invading his space. Something was wrong with him. The urge to get away from this place surged through Pam like fire.
Pam gave the bowl a tug—felt it come free from his grasp, felt it become hers. As she backed away, she saw the smile return to Snow’s face. Once again, he was a sweet, harmless old man with an amazing mane of white hair.
Although the moment with Snow had felt dark and desolate, when she thought about it later, the emotions that followed were somewhat wonderful, kind of freeing, as if a whole new life stretched before her. In a strange way, though she could never explain it, it felt as if this scenic route had changed their life forever.
She was never sure if Snow’s shoulders didn’t perhaps straighten, just a little. If it wasn’t an odd look of satisfaction that crossed his face. It would, also, take her some time to shake the feeling, in that split second, when both their hands held the bowl, there had been a tug-of-war between them—a tug-of-war for something very important. Pam would wonder, until eventually the feeling faded, whether she had actually won or lost.
From time to time Bev and Snow’s words would come to her. Sometimes, they would haunt her nights.
It’s how it’s meant to be.
© 2014 Susan May
The editor’s cut
Come behind
the velvet curtain
Working with an editor is a necessity. It’s another pair of trained eyes on your work, pointing out where you’ve confused present and past tense, sorting out your noun and verb disagreements (those guys can come to blows), and crossing your commas and dotting your sentence endings.
For me, one of the most important benefits of working with an editor is they call you out on overwriting. It’s a tricky thing as a writer to be certain you’ve given your reader everything they need to understand the story. Stephen King comments in his fantastic book on the craft On Writing, that a writer mustn’t go meekly to their work. He means don’t over-explain everything. Have the courage to say it and leave it for the reader.
Throw in the realization everybody has his or her own taste—for instance, some like everything tied up in a neat bow, while others prefer to ponder a more up-in-air conclusion—and a writer has much to consider.
Case in point: When “Scenic Route” came back from my talented editor at the time, David Gatewood, he strongly urged me to cut the last two chapters and, instead, conclude the story as you have just read it.
I let his comments sit for several months. In between, he and I and another writer, Brian Spangler, co-facilitated a pretty amazing anthology of stories from twelve incredible international indie authors. It’s called From the Indie Side, and you should check it out. When I came back to “Scenic Route” in February 2014 to go through the edits supplied by David, I realized I agreed with him.
I thought you might enjoy a peek behind the scenes of the process of bringing a story to you, the wonderful reader.
Finally, if you’re a writer, hunt high and low for a good editor, but do be picky and find one who understands the difference between creating a polished piece and creating magic. They are to too two totally different things.
Read the two chapters, which ended up on the cutting room floor, and you make up your own mind.
CHAPTER FIVE - Editors Cut
As the car wound its way down the hillside, two little boys, their hands pressed hard against the glass, stared out the barred window. Their parents were below, loading suitcases into their car. They had begun to shout. When that didn’t work, they banged on the window. The noise was loud and harsh, but still their parents didn’t hear. The boys’ palms were now red and sore and throbbing.
They had searched around the room for something to smash against the glass, but the room contained nothing except two dirty, well-used mattresses on the dusty floor.
Now exhausted, all they could do was press their foreheads against the cool barrier, tears snaking crookedly down their faces and big droplets of snot hanging from their noses.
The eldest boy reached across to his younger brother and wiped his face, catching the wetness in his palm, which he then wiped down the front of his shirt. His mother would have scolded him for this. But she wasn’t there to scold him. She was driving away with their father. Leaving them behind.
“Don’t cry. They’ll come back,” he said, nestling his arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“Why would they leave us?” said the younger boy, wiping dribble from his chin.
“Because they’ve done their bit,” came a voice from behind them. It was the ancient, creepy lady, who’d brought them food since yesterday. They’d been so captured by the sight of their departing parents they hadn’t heard the door open. “Now, it’s your turn to do yours. That’s how it’s meant to be.”
“We don’t understand,” said the older boy, eyes red and pleading. “Why would our parents leave us? What do we have to do? What’s our bit?” His voice choked with sobs. “We’ll be good. We promise. Please call them and tell them to… to… to come back.”
“Oh, they’ll never come back, son. Get that out of your head right away. In all my years, not one of them has ever come back. In fact, they never remember. If they ever do remember you, well, then they just don’t remember us. That’s Ma’s recipe for you. Never fails.”
The boys looked at each other, unable to fully understand their situation. One thing they did understand: something was very wrong with this woman, this place.
As she stood there smiling at them like they were pretty Christmas tree ornaments, a darkness came over her, as though the sun had disappeared behind a cloud, turning her into a shadow. In the same darkening moment, they realized another thing: her smile was gone.
Now the woman spoke to them quietly and gently, because she wanted them to stay calm. The end was easier that way. She told them a fairy tale about two good witches who lived in a beautiful wood, granting children all their wishes. How later, the boys would sip lovely tea and nod off to sleep. When they woke up, they could wish for anything they wanted. If they were really, really well behaved and didn’t scream, the good witch would even give them candy.
Then she explained to them how the witches always did their bit, and the children always did theirs, and that’s how it was meant to be.
CHAPTER SIX - Editors Cut
Pam stared absently out the car window, soaking in the beautiful wooded countryside. She thought back to the old couple. Even now, she could still smell that cinnamon tea. She’d forgotten to ask the woman for the recipe, and a little pang of regret seeped into her happiness. The woman—she tried to think of her name, but it was gone—had been very kind.
She looked down at the wooden bowl in her lap, delighting in the smooth feel of it as her fingertips ran around its edge. She thought how nice the husband was, too. What was his name?Something related to cold, maybe. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t find the name anywhere in her mind.
Oh well, it didn’t matter. It was just an old house on a scenic route.
Reaching her arm across the gap between her and Michael, she settled her hand into his lap, looked across to him and smiled. Her head filled with thoughts of the lovely week ahead. It crossed her mind if they’d had children, like all their friends, they wouldn’t be able to sneak away like this and enjoy being together.
Just then she noticed the sign—the same one they’d seen when they’d entered the town. Except now it had changed.
Broken Springs. Population 404.
Now a four had been written inside the last zero.
“That’s funny,” she said to Michael. “I’m sure that sign read 402on the way in.”
“Really? Someone must have had twins overnight.”
“Yes, maybe.”
Then, when she looked again, Pam saw she was mistaken. Now it was clear the number was 402.
She could have sworn the two had just been a four. A strange churning feeling began in her stomach and then abruptly disappeared, replaced by a calm, euphoric sensation.
“Never mind, my mistake. That headache must have fried my brain. It still says population 402.”
Then she added, although she didn’t know why, “That’s how it’s meant to be.”
© 2014 Susan May
From the Imagination Vault
We were on holidays in the beautiful scenic wine-country area of The Hunter Valley in New South Wales, Australia. It should have been a wonderful car journey to arrive at our isolated cottage for our vacation.
There was one problem. I had the most excruciating headache, bordering on a migraine. By the time we arrived at the house; I had my coat over my head, and I am told I was moaning something about seeing white light.
Several days later, still a little groggy, I joined my family on a sightseeing drive. We drove past a quaint little farmhouse on a hill. For the briefest moment, I registered a sign outside the house with the names of the owners, “Snow and Bev” and a surname. Instantly, it occurred to me these were great names for characters.
On the same drive, the kids were in the back seat fighting, as usual, and driving us crazy. By the time we arrived home the set up for the story was there.
What I didn’t know when I began writing was what would happen in the story and what type of creatures Bev and Snow were. While I was writing the story, I actuall
y thought they were vampires. In the end I will leave it up to you to decide what the story is really about. Are Bev and Snow witches or vampires? Is Pam crazy? Is she dreaming? Does she really have children to lose.
There’s one thing I am left with, and that’s the knowledge it is not always the best idea to take the scenic route. You never know what’s down that detour.
Hide-and-seek
Henry doesn’t like playing hide-and-seek. His brother and sister always find him. When they do, nasty things happen. That is, until the day Henry discovers the perfect hiding spot, where he discovers there are worse things than being found. Not being found.
They were looking for him. Henry’s heart thumped as he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, silently counting.
From somewhere downstairs came the frightening sounds of cupboards being opened, chairs being moved, and doors being slammed.
One. Two. Three … Nine. Ten. Eleven—
He stopped at eleven because he couldn’t remember what came next. He’d learned numbers at school, but he wasn’t very good at them. Mrs. Walsh had said—through tightened lips that made her look like a goldfish—“Henry, if you weren’t off with the fairies you might remember a few more things.”
Clarissa and Parker’s favorite pastime was hide-and-seek, but Henry hated the game. He wished he were off with the fairies. He counted while he waited for them to find him, because it took his mind off his fear.
Small popping sounds erupted from his mouth with each breath. He tried to stop making the noise, but being frightened always made it happen. Once he’d even wet his pants, which only made matters worse. His siblings laughed even more as they pointed at his crotch while dancing about him.