Traveling Left of Center
and Other Stories
by Nancy Christie
Pixel Hall Press
Newfoundland, PA USA
www.PixelHallPress.com
Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories
by Nancy Christie
Copyright © 2014 by Nancy Christie
Cover design copyright © 2014 by Pixel Hall Press
Annabelle and Alice in Wonderland previously published as eBooks by PHP Shorts (an imprint of Pixel Hall Press), 2013
Beautiful Dreamer previously published in Full Of Crow, Fall 2012
Misconnections previously published in Wanderings, January 2008
Still Life previously published in Office Number One, June 1996
All rights reserved. No portion may be reprinted, displayed or otherwise reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief quotes in critical articles or reviews. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Pixel Hall Press
Newfoundland, PA USA
www.pixelhallpress.com
ISBN: 978-0-9860649-8-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014946883
Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Christie, Nancy, 1954–
Traveling left of center and other stories / Nancy Christie.
230 pages; cm
Issued also as a paperback.
ISBN: 978-0-9860649-7-5
1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Fate and fatalism—Fiction. 3. Control (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Adjustment (Psychology)—Fiction. 5. Short stories. I. Title. II. Title: Traveling left of center and other stories
PS3603.H757 T73 2014
813/.6
To my father, Joseph V. Ress
Table of Contents
Introduction
Traveling Left of Center
Alice in Wonderland
The Sugar Bowl
The Shop on the Square
Watching for Billy
The Healer
The Clock
Anything Can Happen
Out of Sight, Out of Mind
Misconnections
Skating on Thin Ice
Still Life
The StoryTeller
Exit Row
Waiting for Sara
Beautiful Dreamer
The Kindness of Strangers
Annabelle
Author’s Notes
About Nancy Christie
About Pixel Hall Press
Introduction:
Afraid of the Dark
The short story ain’t what it used to be. Neither is being a writer. The pride that literary lights used to take in being writers is gone with the Internet, Reality TV, 140 character communication, the well-documented short attention span, the well-recognized dumbing down of our culture. A sort of Song of Roland is heard in the literary land. (And if that reference escapes you, Google it.)
I should say immediately that I am a serious admirer of Nancy Christie’s work. She is by no means a new writer. (Like so many wordsmiths most of her work over the years has been journeyman stuff; she has led the freelance writer/teacher life that so many literary folk are forced to live in these post-literary days.) But if she is not a new writer, her short stories are new writing. Exciting new writing.
The short story, like the poem, is a tough buck. And much as some of us may long for the cultures and days of living, breathing O. Henrys, Guy de Maupassants, Katherine Mansfields and Ernest Hemingways, this sort of literary endeavor, this art form, is pretty much the creature of obscure and non-descript periodicals whose names end in “Quarterly” or “Review” (The Past) or in very, very strange names (apparently from The Future). And therefore, all praise to Pixel Hall Press for publishing this amazing new collection.
For Nancy Christie’s stories are amazing. The world she shows us is a terrifying world of deluded, demented people. The sort of people who never get a second look or a second thought from you and me. But whose lives are nightmares. These nondescript, unbearably fragile people are, she makes us discover, everywhere, either fearing danger where none exists or failing to see the shadow of the doom that falls across their paths. Often their most ardent wish is a death wish. And what is more terrifying, often when they get their wish, they welcome it.
The world of Nancy Christie’s short stories is a world of both the sudden gratuitous cruelty as well as the prolonged torture that human beings inflict upon each other and upon themselves.
It is a world peopled primarily by desperate, helpless women, sinking into their own deadly quicksand (though there is an occasional feckless man in there somewhere). These short stories are the chronicles of these people’s inevitable individual defeats.
And if all of this sounds dreadful, why praise the writer? Because her world has been so well hidden from us that when she reveals it, we catch our breath as the first readers of Poe or Kafka or the darker passages of Mark Twain’s later works surely must have gasped.
Her world is so real! And just when you think—by which I mean desperately try to escape it through disbelief—“This can’t be!”—a sudden, strange and surprising detail pops up in a strange and surprising place and you are pulled back into facing the truth.
There are writers who are wonderful because they make you say to yourself, “Yes, that’s how it is!” Then there is Nancy Christie, whose writing makes you say, “So—that’s how it is . . .” You say it with the wonder and dismay of a reader discovering proof of what life is for the secret few—and, you realize with new-found terror, what life can be for all of us.
That is why Nancy Christie is a wonderful writer.
Morrow Wilson, novelist
David Sunshine: A Novel of the Communications Industry
Traveling Left of Center
“Girl,” my mama had said to me the minute she entered my hospital room, “on the highway of life, you’re always traveling left of center.”
Mama was always saying things like that. She had a phrase for every occasion, and would pronounce them with a certainty that, in my younger days, I accepted as gospel. But that time, I didn’t pay her no mind. I just went on painting my nails “Passionate Purple,” hoping that the sexy polish would catch the doctor’s eye.
I was justifiably proud of my hands, especially since, at that particular time, they were the only part of me that was skinny. A girl’s body sure takes a beating from having a baby. It had taken me at least a year to get my shape back after Robert Nicholas, and it looked like Rebecca Nicole wouldn’t be any kinder to her mama than her big brother had been.
I love my babies, I really do, even though I hadn’t planned on having them and life would have been a lot simpler if I hadn’t gotten pregnant.
I would have been able to do something with my life—go to beauty school, maybe—instead of changing diapers and cleaning up baby spit-up for days on end.
It’s hard being a mother with no husband to lean on. But to give Mama her due, she was always there, right from the beginning, ready to help out.
“You’re having a baby?” The way Mama shrieked when I told her the news, you’d think she’d never heard of it before. Granted, I was going to make her a grandma at the same time I became a mother, but I don’t know why it was such a big surprise. Bobby and I had been keeping company for at least six months before it happened.
“Good Lord, what will I say to the ladies at bingo?”
Bingo was my mama
’s one passion. She never missed bingo night at the church.
“They’re going to ask me how it happened and what will I say?”
“Well, if they don’t know by now how it happens, they’re pretty damn stupid,” I had snarled back, and then ran into the bathroom to lose what was left of my breakfast.
My first pregnancy had been an endless battle between morning sickness and cravings for Twinkies and rum raisin ice cream, all smashed together.
All in all, though, Mama took it really well. Even when Bobby left me two months before the Big Event, she didn’t say too much, beyond the expected “Well, I told you he was no good. He had shifty eyes. I saw that right away.”
Maybe she was right. I don’t know that I ever noticed his eyes. I was too busy looking at his sexy half-smile and the way his shoulders filled out those white T-shirts he wore. His arms were so full of muscles that he could barely fold his sleeve over the pack of unfiltered Camels he was always smoking.
Bobby had a way of blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth that made me weak at the knees. So how could I refuse him? I never thought I’d get pregnant—not that fast anyway. It wasn’t like I planned it or anything, although I did kind of picture the two of us in a little apartment with ruffled curtains and a new bedroom set from Furniture Plus.
So it really wasn’t my fault. Little Robert Nicholas just happened. That’s what I told Mama.
“Things don’t ‘just happen’,” Mama answered. “Girl, you can’t do now and think later. You’ve got to pay attention!”
Mama was always preaching, always telling me how I needed to pay attention. Like that night when the policeman stopped me and Mary Jean Macabobby. All we did was go to the neighborhood bar after work for a few beers, before we headed home.
I figured it was okay to drive—we only had to go a few blocks and besides, nobody was out that late anyway. Nobody except the cops, I mean, and when I heard the police siren, I knew I was in trouble. But I still swear that light was yellow when I went through it.
Luckily, he was best friends with Mary Jean’s big brother and let me off with a lecture and a ticket for having an expired license.
“Who looks at their driver’s license?” I wailed, trying to get sympathy from him. But he just shook his head and Mary Jean poked me in the ribs and hissed, “Shut up before he smells the beer on your breath.” After that I clammed up pretty fast. Besides, my words were slurring just a bit.
But you would think he would have cut us some slack. It wasn’t like I did it on purpose. And my hair looked particularly nice that evening, thanks to the new perm that turned my usual straight brown hair into a bunch of sexy curls. And my nails were painted “Russian Roulette Red”—the shade all the models were wearing, according to the manicurist at Nails-To-Go.
But it didn’t cut no ice with him. Maybe he didn’t like girls. I suppose even a cop can be one of those kind. He didn’t even bat an eye when I let my fingertips rest on his when he handed me the ticket.
When I asked Mama for the money for the fine, she gave it to me—and a half-hour lecture along with it. Didn’t I know about drinking and driving? What if there had been an accident? I could’ve ended up in jail if he hadn’t been a friend of Mary Jean’s brother.
“You were just lucky! But you can’t count on luck all the time!” she said. “Girl, you’ve got to start paying attention!”
She wouldn’t let me drive the Buick on my own after that, which is how I ended up with Bobby. He had a candy-apple red Olds, with bucket seats covered in fake fur. That’s where we did it the first time. Even now, my heart beats faster when I see a car with thick plushy seat covers.
So, in a funny kind of way, it’s Mama’s fault I got pregnant. And the fault of that policeman.
But Mama came around in the end. She even threw me a baby shower, and bought me a set of puppy and kitten-printed sheets for the second-hand crib Mary Jean’s aunt gave me. The only time she got a little testy was when I unwrapped a shower present from one of the girls at work; it was a sexy black nightgown—a sheer nylon one with ruffles down the front. “For later,” the gift card said.
“There better not be no ‘later’,” Mama answered real fast with a warning shake of her head. “She’s got enough on her plate for now.”
I just ignored her, holding it up to me, but the nightgown barely covered my belly. I had gained almost 40 pounds with that baby, most of it around my middle. I couldn’t even imagine being able to slide that nightie over my hips any time soon.
In fact, it was almost twelve months to the day before I was able to wear it without looking ridiculous. But when I did, Randy’s eyes damn near popped out of his head. It made all those hours of belly-crunches worthwhile.
I had met Randy when I ran into the new Quik Mart Shop for baby formula. The store had just opened up, and Randy was in charge of hiring clerks and ordering merchandise. That’s what he did all over the county—set up new convenience stores and make sure he offered what the customers needed.
“You sure took care of my needs,” I used to kid him when we would be alone in his motel room, hot and sweaty after making love.
“I’ve got plenty more in stock,” he would shoot back and then we would start all over again, hugging and kissing like there was no tomorrow.
Randy was super. He was always telling me how pretty I was, how my long curly hair was so soft and my body so sexy. I was pretty vain about my hair, and my nails too. I kept them long and polished, even though Mama said I would poke the baby’s eyes out someday.
But she agreed to watch the baby when Randy and I went out. Maybe she thought he’d marry me and take the two of us off her hands. I didn’t have the heart to tell her Randy already had a wife. They weren’t living together, he said, and he swore he would divorce her as soon as his youngest child was in school. But that was three years away, and, in the meantime, all he could give me was his undying affection. And another baby.
“For God’s sake, girl, don’t you have enough problems?” Mama was fit to be tied when I told her I was expecting again. Randy had sworn he was fixed, that after the last kid his wife made him have an operation.
“It must have come undone, honey,” he explained, his big brown eyes pleading with me to forgive him. “You know how I feel about you. Please say you forgive me.”
What could I say? In the end, I let him off the hook, told him it would all work out. And it would have, except his wife called him one day at work and said little Joey missed his daddy and would he please come home for the sake of the children.
So he went, leaving me three months along, and Mama just shook her head and hauled out the infant clothes she had packed away when Robert Nicholas outgrew them.
At least that pregnancy was easier. No morning sickness, no cravings, and I kept my weight gain under 25 pounds. Doctor Bill at the clinic said I was doing real well. He was new in town, and real cute, with curling brown hair, and baby blue eyes.
One weekend, I had my hair cut short and tinted auburn, and when he saw me at the next check-up, his mouth kind of dropped open for a second. I must admit it felt great to be able to get under a man’s skin even when you’re five months along.
After that, I always made sure I looked my best for my visits, even spritzing on some “Night Moves” cologne just before he came into the room.
Luckily, when my time came, he was out of town and some old doctor delivered me. I say “luckily” because there is no time a woman looks her worst than when she’s spread-eagled on a table, unshaved legs up high, straining and groaning to give birth.
They even took off my nail polish, which is why I was putting on a fresh coat when Mama came to see her second grandchild and give me her latest lecture.
“You are an accident waiting to happen,” she continued, while I waited for the first coat to dry. If you hurried, the polish would bubble and chip. There was nothing sexy about bubbling polish. “Here you are, two babies and no husband. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
“What do you think of the name Rebecca Nicole?” I asked, more to change the subject than get her opinion. I had already made up my mind. Both my kids had the same initials—RNR—because I used my maiden name on their birth certificate. Robert Nicholas Ryan and now, Rebecca Nicole Ryan.
“RNR”—it made me think of “R&R” the army’s term for Rest and Relaxation. Or was it Recreation? Well, I had had plenty of the latter, and at least while I was in the hospital, I’d get a little rest. Once my nails were done, I’d set my hair in hot rollers so when Doctor Bill came in, I’d look real good.
Most women look like hell after they have their babies. Their faces are all red, and their eyes are puffy. They smell, too—of sweat and blood and antiseptic. The first thing I did after my babies were born was sneak out to the showers and stand there, washing away every bit of that smell. Then I shaved my legs and underarms, put on scented powder and brushed my teeth.
Once my hair was done and my nails polished, I looked damn good, except for the sagging belly. But the nightgown hid most of that, and soon the crunches would make it disappear for good.
“Mama,” I asked again, “how about the name?”
“Well,” she started to say doubtfully but then Doctor Bill came in and asked her to leave so he could examine me.
I didn’t care too much for the look she gave me—all knowing and warning rolled into one—but I blew her a kiss and told her to give it to Robert Nicholas when she got back home.
“Oh, Doctor, I miss my boy so,” I said to him as he took out his stethoscope. “It’s so hard to be a single mother these days.”
I moved the neck of my gown a bit so he could hear my heart beat. One thing having babies did was give me a Class A set of breasts. Since I didn’t nurse, they never sagged either, but just sat there firm and full. Men look at boobs before they look at bellies, so it was in my best interests to take good care of mine.
Doctor Bill wasn’t much different from any other man, in spite of being in the medical profession, and I swear his hand shook just a little when he had to hold the stethoscope to my chest. I took care to take a nice deep breath, and let my long shiny nails rest on the blanket where he could see them. Some men like long nails on a woman.
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