Sleepers Unbound #11: Get Your OwnFeb 7, 2017
Sarah Jewel’s diary
August 6, 2016
Mom and Dad were away last night at the lake house (Aunt Cherri’s lake house, actually). They called it an early honeymoon. Which is great, because I finally had a window. But let me back up.
My parents don’t own much in the likeness to land—something like three to four acres. Mostly whatever my grandmother passed off to my dad after we moved her into the nursing home in Martinsville. But those three to four acres are a dense forest of white pine trees, and basically, nobody ever goes back there for the stubborn thistles rising like a fence along the barrier. But there’s one opening—a dead spot beneath one of the trees where, after a quick crawl, it widens into a clearing roughly six feet wide in every direction. Like a perfect circle. When I was a little girl, it was a den of sorts for me to read books from the library. I stopped going there after my parents handed over the basement to me after graduating from Clarion West. It was a “gift”, is what Mom called it. “Every writer has a space of their own where their muse can always find them,” she had said. When I rediscovered the spot behind the pine trees last week, it was covered like a blanket in last seasons shed needles.
Last night, after mom and dad packed up the Sedan and pulled away from the house, I dug my very own grave. Three feet deep. Not nearly deep enough, mind you. I cut about a four foot length of hose from the piles of unused garden hoses in the garage to use for oxygen while I was down there. I piled the dirt on top of one of Dad’s rain tarps he used to use when he went camping with Aunt Cherri’s old husband. So when I placed myself flat in the hole, I could grab a fistful of tarpaulin and drag the dirt over me. It was cold at first, and it all but stole my breath away. It was all I could do to gasp for enough air through the hose.
I was down there until Monday morning. A total of 30 hours. I don’t think I slept a minute. Not that I wanted to.
There’s a peace in the darkness, I think. A peace most of never learn about until it’s too late. I learned something about it from Abbi Porter. I could see that peace in her eyes as her soul left her body. Complete resolve.
Point is: I’m going back. I’m spending the week down there. Without a hose this time.
30 hours gave me the first 5 chapters to Sometimes They Wear Blue.
07 AUG 2016, 04:55 PM
I spoke with her father today. Alas, I played the part of newspaper subscription sales-lady. He and his wife are back from a trip. It appears S.J. didn’t go with them. Not sure where she disappeared to. I was watching the house all weekend. Won’t let it happen again.
P.S. Don’t do anything stupid. This group is different than the last. They’re more….ambitious. And that makes this entire act dangerous. I think you’re right, though. Holy-rollers are good for business. I think it’s going to end at the farm.
Subject: RE: S.J.
07 AUG 2016, 05:21 PM
I’ve been in this business a long time. I know ‘em when I see ‘em. Calvin is the epicenter. Lucy Gill, bless her soul, is nailing her coffin as we speak.
© Elliott J. Scott 2017. All Rights Reserved.