Working Class Fiction
Here's my second model for Mary. The argument's changed a little bit, you'll notice if you read the last couple of stories I posted.
Mary said this is one sweet piece of fiction! She was really proud of me! I still think the ending's a cop-out, but I don't really write fiction, ever, so I guess I did okay, really.
Here you go!:
The Decision
Eggs gathered, hens fed, hutch door shut for the night.
Water pumped, kitchen floor scrubbed, rags piled for the wash tomorrow.
The length of the day hangs around my legs heavy as a soiled hem. I stand at the stove, stirring our supper, checking off chores in my head as I wait for Jake to come home.
Cat let out, laundry brought in.
I hear him come in behind me, the scratch of the chair by the table as he sits. He sighs, and I hear how work has bent his back for another day. I’ll have a new job soon, I hope - we know it wasn’t my fault that Mrs. Johnson died and her family couldn’t keep me any longer - but until then, money is short.
Weeds pulled. Figure I should wash the curtains this week.
I must have missed him talking, because next thing I know, I’ve got him next to me with one hand on my sleeve like a child, saying “Erin?”
“Oh, sorry, Jake, my mind was elsewhere,” I say, and I turn away from him, toward the sink.
“Hm.”
My husband, never known for more than a couple of beers, spent the past weekend down in town, until he came home Sunday, slow and sore.
Not like Liz’s husband. The town drunk. I pick up the steel wool, work it around that morning’s frying pan, scouring the old baked-on oil. My husband returns to his chair after a moment, and I look to see him pick up the glass of water I left there for him, drinking deep.
Swept the porch. Helped old Mrs. Able next door with lunch for her grandkids.
“Talk to me, won’t you?”
My hands grow still.
“Okay.” A beat. “I was talking with Mrs. Able and her daughter, you know Liz Robson? And they were saying that this past weekend there was some fine dancing down at Don’s place. Why don’t you ever take me dancing?”
I take the pan back up and rinse it as I wait for him to talk.
Have to run to the store tomorrow. Flip the mattress. Make his lunch.
“You may not want to talk about it, but it’d make me feel better if we did,” my husband said, getting up to stand by me again, taking the pan from me to rest back on the stove top.
“Talk about what?” I said, feeling gray and bent. “I thought we were talking about dancing.”
“That we might move. That we might get on to Alexandria, or Springfield, somewhere with jobs that don’t cover me in mud.” All I can hear is how tired his voice is, every night after rasping all day in the fields, not the words prodding me away from the land I had been born on.
“You listening to me? We could use the extra money, and Mr. Jan said he’d give me a good reference for working on the machinery. I hear there are factories bigger than the whole town up there, easy to find work, maybe for the both of us. That’s all they talk about down at the bar.”
I could walk up the lane tomorrow, visit my parents. Bake them a pie and see how they’re holding up.
“You’ve gone mute on me? Erin, talk to me a moment.” Then silence. The bubbling stew, the water dripping from one plate to another in the sink, then my footsteps as I reach the door, open it and stand in the cool air.
“Can we afford to move in the first place?” I ask, turning my back to the dark yard to face my husband. We had started this talk a few times, but I could never keep up with the words Jake used, couldn't make sense of their need.
“I’ve been socking it away,” he says, “keeping it in the house when I can.”
“Keeping us hungry all the while, you mean. While you find spare change to go get drunk.”
He ignores my jibe. We both understood that he had a need to get out of the house when he wasn't working, whether it cost us or not. “We could borrow your dad’s truck and pay for the gas up there, and three week’s rent while we get situated. I figure we could both get jobs within the first week-”
“Do you even know what you’re saying? How do you figure you know anything?”
“People from the city visit their family, come by the bar, talk with us, it’s not hard to find things out.” He helps himself to a bowl of soup, though the potatoes probably weren’t cooked through yet. He never thinks of those things.
He wipes his hands on his jeans - I have to remember to do the wash tomorrow, can’t put it off another day. Should also pull out the iron and work some of the worse wrinkles out of our Sunday clothes.
“Listen, what do you think? We need to get out of here if we’re ever going to afford to have a kid.” He ducks his head to his bowl, and I see his jaw working around the vegetables, the hard line of his neck meeting the broad curve of his shoulder.
I know the idea, the desire to leave this place where we both were raised, schooled, lived. But how could I? My parents helped us build this house, helped us break the soil. Our neighbors gave us chicks when they could, to help us start our own brood. None of that could come with us.
“Is this what you need?” I ask, not really agreeing, but not arguing. “You need this to happen?” The discussion wore on me. Maybe he was right. It would be nice to work again.
“I need this for us. You could be a secretary - you always said you wanted a typewriter, this could be your chance to at least use one every day. I could work at maybe a mechanic’s. Not corn, that much I know.” He laughed then, but whether it was at me or at the hope in his voice, I’m not sure.
“I don’t think I could say much to make you change your mind, huh?” Already new lists have started to form - I’d have to wear shoes every day, and fix up some of my better dresses for job interviews. Maybe get Liz to do my hair one final time.
I shut the door, move to get a bowl of soup for myself, the potatoes sure to be softer now.
What would I say anyway? That I wanted to bring a patch of green along with me? All my arguments are old, used, worn out. I don’t hear him as he chatters about the small things to do before we leave - I’ve already started on that.
There’re chores to be done no matter where we go.
Mary said this is one sweet piece of fiction! She was really proud of me! I still think the ending's a cop-out, but I don't really write fiction, ever, so I guess I did okay, really.
Here you go!:
The Decision
Eggs gathered, hens fed, hutch door shut for the night.
Water pumped, kitchen floor scrubbed, rags piled for the wash tomorrow.
The length of the day hangs around my legs heavy as a soiled hem. I stand at the stove, stirring our supper, checking off chores in my head as I wait for Jake to come home.
Cat let out, laundry brought in.
I hear him come in behind me, the scratch of the chair by the table as he sits. He sighs, and I hear how work has bent his back for another day. I’ll have a new job soon, I hope - we know it wasn’t my fault that Mrs. Johnson died and her family couldn’t keep me any longer - but until then, money is short.
Weeds pulled. Figure I should wash the curtains this week.
I must have missed him talking, because next thing I know, I’ve got him next to me with one hand on my sleeve like a child, saying “Erin?”
“Oh, sorry, Jake, my mind was elsewhere,” I say, and I turn away from him, toward the sink.
“Hm.”
My husband, never known for more than a couple of beers, spent the past weekend down in town, until he came home Sunday, slow and sore.
Not like Liz’s husband. The town drunk. I pick up the steel wool, work it around that morning’s frying pan, scouring the old baked-on oil. My husband returns to his chair after a moment, and I look to see him pick up the glass of water I left there for him, drinking deep.
Swept the porch. Helped old Mrs. Able next door with lunch for her grandkids.
“Talk to me, won’t you?”
My hands grow still.
“Okay.” A beat. “I was talking with Mrs. Able and her daughter, you know Liz Robson? And they were saying that this past weekend there was some fine dancing down at Don’s place. Why don’t you ever take me dancing?”
I take the pan back up and rinse it as I wait for him to talk.
Have to run to the store tomorrow. Flip the mattress. Make his lunch.
“You may not want to talk about it, but it’d make me feel better if we did,” my husband said, getting up to stand by me again, taking the pan from me to rest back on the stove top.
“Talk about what?” I said, feeling gray and bent. “I thought we were talking about dancing.”
“That we might move. That we might get on to Alexandria, or Springfield, somewhere with jobs that don’t cover me in mud.” All I can hear is how tired his voice is, every night after rasping all day in the fields, not the words prodding me away from the land I had been born on.
“You listening to me? We could use the extra money, and Mr. Jan said he’d give me a good reference for working on the machinery. I hear there are factories bigger than the whole town up there, easy to find work, maybe for the both of us. That’s all they talk about down at the bar.”
I could walk up the lane tomorrow, visit my parents. Bake them a pie and see how they’re holding up.
“You’ve gone mute on me? Erin, talk to me a moment.” Then silence. The bubbling stew, the water dripping from one plate to another in the sink, then my footsteps as I reach the door, open it and stand in the cool air.
“Can we afford to move in the first place?” I ask, turning my back to the dark yard to face my husband. We had started this talk a few times, but I could never keep up with the words Jake used, couldn't make sense of their need.
“I’ve been socking it away,” he says, “keeping it in the house when I can.”
“Keeping us hungry all the while, you mean. While you find spare change to go get drunk.”
He ignores my jibe. We both understood that he had a need to get out of the house when he wasn't working, whether it cost us or not. “We could borrow your dad’s truck and pay for the gas up there, and three week’s rent while we get situated. I figure we could both get jobs within the first week-”
“Do you even know what you’re saying? How do you figure you know anything?”
“People from the city visit their family, come by the bar, talk with us, it’s not hard to find things out.” He helps himself to a bowl of soup, though the potatoes probably weren’t cooked through yet. He never thinks of those things.
He wipes his hands on his jeans - I have to remember to do the wash tomorrow, can’t put it off another day. Should also pull out the iron and work some of the worse wrinkles out of our Sunday clothes.
“Listen, what do you think? We need to get out of here if we’re ever going to afford to have a kid.” He ducks his head to his bowl, and I see his jaw working around the vegetables, the hard line of his neck meeting the broad curve of his shoulder.
I know the idea, the desire to leave this place where we both were raised, schooled, lived. But how could I? My parents helped us build this house, helped us break the soil. Our neighbors gave us chicks when they could, to help us start our own brood. None of that could come with us.
“Is this what you need?” I ask, not really agreeing, but not arguing. “You need this to happen?” The discussion wore on me. Maybe he was right. It would be nice to work again.
“I need this for us. You could be a secretary - you always said you wanted a typewriter, this could be your chance to at least use one every day. I could work at maybe a mechanic’s. Not corn, that much I know.” He laughed then, but whether it was at me or at the hope in his voice, I’m not sure.
“I don’t think I could say much to make you change your mind, huh?” Already new lists have started to form - I’d have to wear shoes every day, and fix up some of my better dresses for job interviews. Maybe get Liz to do my hair one final time.
I shut the door, move to get a bowl of soup for myself, the potatoes sure to be softer now.
What would I say anyway? That I wanted to bring a patch of green along with me? All my arguments are old, used, worn out. I don’t hear him as he chatters about the small things to do before we leave - I’ve already started on that.
There’re chores to be done no matter where we go.