The Absence of Men

The prologue and first chapter of a novel I'm writing.

 

 

Prologue

 

On the afternoon the police discovered Seth’s body, Mira, Holly, and I sat in Mira’s living room, our various children around our feet and in our laps, and we made the sounds that women make when they’re trying to comfort children and themselves. During that quiet time between learning of Seth’s suicide and the onset of phone calls and visitors, we huddled in our collective grief, although it was Mira who suffered the most and around whom Holly and I were circling our emotional wagons.

            Underneath the cathedral ceiling of the big room, the hazy, late afternoon sunlight hovered above our heads and we seemed tiny and powerless, and I wondered where we would find the strength to make it through this new crisis. I was suddenly gripped with longing for a man to take charge and take care of us, to do this for us. I was surprised at both the thought and the intensity with which I felt it, for depending on a man was as foreign to me as actually finding a dependable man. It was a wrenching recognition that we were women alone, and really always had been, although among the three of us there was a corral full of assorted husbands and lovers. 

            We weren’t man-haters, but if I’m going to be honest, I must admit that I had become bitter and untrusting, much more so than my younger sisters. Perhaps in a few short years, when they were flinching at forty, they might have felt the same, but Seth altered our direction. We all became different after Seth died; it wasn’t that we were changed as much as it was that, by his death, he rearranged us, shifting, stacking, cleaning, and organizing until we worked better than we had before.

            But on that hot afternoon, we still seemed very small, as weightless as the dust particles glinting in the empty space above us. Like the countless times before, we only had each other. So we sat and mourned and nurtured as we always did – in the absence of men.

 

Chapter 1

 

            I suppose I should say something here about our father, because that is where every woman’s story starts, isn’t it? Even when a father is absent, he’s there; his absence defines him. Our father, however, was very present, and in our young years, was a wealth of stability and affection. His arrival home each evening was a tonic for difficult days. Three grubby little urchins—none of us were ever the dainty, girly-girl type—flew to meet him when he came in the door, and he always seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him. 

            By the time we had grown into women, though, he had changed, and we faced each other across a chasm that the four of us were unable to traverse. We gathered for family occasions, we hugged and smiled and called him every few days or weeks to say hello, but it was a facade built on the knowledge that there would be no real meeting or understanding between us. Wherever the man who had raised us was, he was no longer with us; we watched this new man for evidences of the old, but found few. I wonder now if he just wore himself out, and finally chose to expend his energy on his work, where there was no pain, and the demands were not emotionally loaded. He became a lake that had receded in reverse—the water was left lingering on the shallow edges of the shore, while the depths languished dry and untouched. 

My mother told me once that my father hated women. This was not long after he left us, and not long before she died, and the bonds of family secrecy had been loosened by the hand of distress, as well as by generous quantities of liquor and prescription pharmaceuticals. 

“He hates us, baby, I mean me, but it’s not really me, it’s that horrible mother of his.” Her words slurred over her drawl. “But not you, darlin’, not you or your sweet, precious sisters. Daddy loves his little girls.”

That my father hated women was the pronouncement of a therapist they had seen, the culmination of hours and dollars spent in my mother’s pursuit of marital and emotional survival. The value of this diagnosis remains unclear to me. Did the therapist expect that the knowledge would bring forth an epiphany in him? Did the therapist expect that he would suddenly see that the hundreds of women he charmed and seduced and despised were only evidence of his fear-driven need for power? 

My mother believed it—finally she had confirmation that the hope she had placed in her marriage was utterly futile. She felt she had fought a losing battle from the day she had stood with him before the fireplace in her parent’s home. Apparently, she felt that way right up to the day she drank a fifth of vodka, chased it with a handful of Valium, and then climbed into the last Cadillac Daddy bought her. She wove slowly across town, picking up speed just in time to turn hard into the guardrails of the bridge and sail straight out into the green muck of Deep River. 

When the car was pulled from the river later that day, her mink and her jewelry were discovered with her. The mink was a loss, of course, and she had filled a plastic sandwich bag with her jewelry, or what was left of it. Based on the hammer and glinting pieces of metal and precious stone I found on the back patio about the time I heard sirens just south of town, she had smashed it all prior to her flight. 

With the mink and the pieces of jewelry being gifts from Daddy, even I, at eleven years old, understood she had made something of a statement.

Reviews

[bluessadmood]

this is both dark sad and wise writing ,i am surprised at the talk between mother and daughter,she tells her daddy do not like us we women,he wants to feel powerful ,like the only man of the house,then the mother goes on that he really loved you when you were young ,but that he hated her,and indulged in work less consuming emotionally,its his horrible mother who did it she says,and we witness the mother riding her cadillac her husband bought her only to end down the river ,only her jewels left,yes a man in the house ,the father,the kindness all lean on the non ending love ,the power to protect and keep the family together,this is so strong ,it conveys lots of deep meaning,it was written with great emotion and great skills,i just loved reading it,it tells a lot about family life and about life and ...death

[shiloh jennings]

someone else already quoted the reverse lake bit that I enjoyed... and this bit struck me first:

"We all became different after Seth died; it wasn't that we were changed as much as it was that, by his death, he rearranged us, shifting, stacking, cleaning, and organizing until we worked better than we had before."

... I'm hooked and although I truly hope you have the entirety of this work published; for your sake of course.... I would love to read it allll! :) So keep writing and keep posting -- consider me hooked! :)

[Juan]

Well I know what I like and I love this, yeah I'm a little twisted but having a story start with 2 deaths and NOT be a horror is one way to get some ones attention. And I dont know if it will be a horror, or love story or just a story about random acts that come together at the end with a unicorn "you have me hooked"...LOL.. love,gore,scifi, whatever it turns out to be I cant wait to read more..great job

[Gordon]

Ok send me chapter 2! I'll review all of them if I don't have to buy the book :)

Although I get the feeling by the time this story starts expanding, i'll be willing to pay you for it.

The Good: It sets up for some interesting characters, plots, drama. I liked this analogy;
"He became a lake that had receded in reverse-the water was left lingering on the shallow edges of the shore, while the depths languished dry and untouched. "

The bad: It's kinda depressing for a start of a book. I mean Seth and mom committed suicide in chapter one. Dad's a shallow lake and women hate men. It's still a good read and I'm sure you've got something of a brighter future planned for those girls.

Keep it up!

[W. Braid Anderson]

A good story, and full of descriptive pieces. I particularly liked the lake that had receded in reverse. To me this is new and original, and deserves mention. Keep at it, I think you have a real talent for story telling.
regards
Braid Anderson