Dawn was just seeping into the sky, oozing light as red as blood, when Hank realized he'd left the urn at home. Dammit, he thought, even beyond the grave That Woman still managed to cause trouble. He heaved a sigh, pushed the worn leather hat up off his head, and rubbed at his bald spot. What now?
The pickup sputtered as if in reply, and it occurred to Hank that maybe the decision of what to do next could wait till after a fillup. Coffee for him, diesel for the truck. How far to the next station? Maybe he should have gotten one of those fancy GPS systems That Woman was always talking about. He glanced at the fuel gauge, where the needle hovered menacingly between the quarter-tank mark and "E". He could make it a few more miles, maybe even ten if he had to. But he hoped he wouldn't have to. Exhaustion from the long trip was finally setting in, and he really needed that coffee.
Hank mashed at his itchy eyes. Austin and Lake Travis seemed too far away to imagine, and here he was driving all the way there because That Woman wanted her ashes scattered along the shore. Ridiculous. She was always wanting frivolous things like that. Always wanted, Hank corrected himself. Wanted. Past tense. The highway swam a little before him, but it was just the tiredness. Tears weren't for men like Hank, and definitely not over That Woman. He scraped indignantly at his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to pry the offending dust out.
--WUMP--
The pickup lurched strangely, sickeningly, as if he'd taken if off a curb. Hank glanced blearily in the rearview mirror and saw nothing, just a tornado of dust in its wake. Stupid coyotes, he thought. He hoped he wouldn't have another dent in the wheel well this time. He had enough to worry about. Thank the Lord he hadn't lost control of the truck and followed it over the ditch--it was a good 5 feet down. Worthless creatures.
That Woman would have insisted on going back, wasting time to make sure that the coyote was put out of his misery. No more, thought Hank. I can just go and leave it in peace. Coffee and diesel were waiting for him at a truck stop somewhere up ahead. He patted his rifle absentmindedly; even though he wasn't going to be using it those fond feelings had still been called up. A man should have affection for his rifle, thought Hank. A man needs to be able to rely on his rifle.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The DeCordova
Sometimes, kismet strikes and I actually find out about something cool in time to attend it, rather than two days after it has run its course. Today while debating about what activity we should select to occupy our unseasonably mild summer morning, I happened to run across a deal at the DeCordova that was simply irresistible--produce your Bank of America card and photo ID and enjoy free admission to the museum and sculpture garden on the first weekend of every month, through spring of 2009.
The DeCordova is one of those attractions that seizes my fancy so entirely that I want to somehow surpass just visiting it, I want to swallow it up, to pitch a tent and live there, to wrap it around me like a blanket. This, I say to Sean, is what makes the cost of living in Massachusetts worth it. This commitment to culture, to the mixing of contemporary art and natural beauty. We walk the idyllic green lawn of the sculpture garden, the sun pressing us but not so insistently that we feel compelled to duck inside. Bryce is sweetly ignorant of his own mortality, climbing the sculptures he can reach and plunging down hills with a child's freeness, his arms and legs akimbo, somehow defying gravity by not falling. He meets a little boy at a huge pile of sticks constructed from logs wrapped in discarded tires, laughs when the preschooler ducks behind one and then emerges, crying "Peek-a-boo!". He finally seems to be old enough to have a child's appreciation of great open spaces, he relishes running free now.
The elevator is out of service, so we climb mountains of stairs to take a cursory glance at the current exhibition before it's swept away in two weeks to make way for the next. I love the tintypes, love the strange surreal narrative paintings. I want to squeeze the rubber sculptures and see if they feel like Jell-O (there's a sample for touching in the hall by the restrooms, they do.). Bryce madly presses buttons and yells gibberish into headsets while I duck into the ladies' room, balancing far too many things in my hands for fear that my husband will be unable to adequately keep him safe if he's further burdened by a digital camera or lunch bag. Who is responsible for creating this mythology of semi-incompetence, I wonder.
We select salads and soups from the cafe (really just a glorified vending machine for premade grocery store crap), eat outside on the terrace. Bryce eats most of his almond butter and jelly sandwich, gulps some yogurt, and begins plotting his escape. The wall around the terrace is alarmingly short, maybe a foot at most, and the drop beyond it is frighteningly large. I am breathless with fear, chasing Bryce around the terrace, scooping him up before he can get near the edge. He wriggles, throwing his weight down in a mad bid for freedom. This is our lot in life, I think, to fight him in order to keep him safe. We will have this struggle for many years, for the foreseeable future. Such a strange fight. Can't he just trust that we want what's best for him?
The tiny backpack we wanted to buy for him is $42.50 at the museum shop, too expensive to justify. Had it been $29.90, or had he run towards it pointing and crying "Nay! Naaaay!" we probably would have bought it. But neither of these things occurred, so after a thorough inspection of all the wooden toys, we leave empty-handed.
Driving home, Bryce insists on more Cheerios for his snack trap, then nods off soundly before he can eat any of them. His head lolls forward at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable. I look out the window as we drive, for Lincoln is beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to live here, to bike the potholed roads every day, to visit the architecturally stunning library. The schools here are amazing, the scenery is incredible. But there are no sidewalks to stroll, and even the DeCordova's website remarks on the dearth of suitable eateries in the area. It's miles and miles from downtown. I sigh, happy to visit the DeCordova, just as happy to not make my home here.
The DeCordova is one of those attractions that seizes my fancy so entirely that I want to somehow surpass just visiting it, I want to swallow it up, to pitch a tent and live there, to wrap it around me like a blanket. This, I say to Sean, is what makes the cost of living in Massachusetts worth it. This commitment to culture, to the mixing of contemporary art and natural beauty. We walk the idyllic green lawn of the sculpture garden, the sun pressing us but not so insistently that we feel compelled to duck inside. Bryce is sweetly ignorant of his own mortality, climbing the sculptures he can reach and plunging down hills with a child's freeness, his arms and legs akimbo, somehow defying gravity by not falling. He meets a little boy at a huge pile of sticks constructed from logs wrapped in discarded tires, laughs when the preschooler ducks behind one and then emerges, crying "Peek-a-boo!". He finally seems to be old enough to have a child's appreciation of great open spaces, he relishes running free now.
The elevator is out of service, so we climb mountains of stairs to take a cursory glance at the current exhibition before it's swept away in two weeks to make way for the next. I love the tintypes, love the strange surreal narrative paintings. I want to squeeze the rubber sculptures and see if they feel like Jell-O (there's a sample for touching in the hall by the restrooms, they do.). Bryce madly presses buttons and yells gibberish into headsets while I duck into the ladies' room, balancing far too many things in my hands for fear that my husband will be unable to adequately keep him safe if he's further burdened by a digital camera or lunch bag. Who is responsible for creating this mythology of semi-incompetence, I wonder.
We select salads and soups from the cafe (really just a glorified vending machine for premade grocery store crap), eat outside on the terrace. Bryce eats most of his almond butter and jelly sandwich, gulps some yogurt, and begins plotting his escape. The wall around the terrace is alarmingly short, maybe a foot at most, and the drop beyond it is frighteningly large. I am breathless with fear, chasing Bryce around the terrace, scooping him up before he can get near the edge. He wriggles, throwing his weight down in a mad bid for freedom. This is our lot in life, I think, to fight him in order to keep him safe. We will have this struggle for many years, for the foreseeable future. Such a strange fight. Can't he just trust that we want what's best for him?
The tiny backpack we wanted to buy for him is $42.50 at the museum shop, too expensive to justify. Had it been $29.90, or had he run towards it pointing and crying "Nay! Naaaay!" we probably would have bought it. But neither of these things occurred, so after a thorough inspection of all the wooden toys, we leave empty-handed.
Driving home, Bryce insists on more Cheerios for his snack trap, then nods off soundly before he can eat any of them. His head lolls forward at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable. I look out the window as we drive, for Lincoln is beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to live here, to bike the potholed roads every day, to visit the architecturally stunning library. The schools here are amazing, the scenery is incredible. But there are no sidewalks to stroll, and even the DeCordova's website remarks on the dearth of suitable eateries in the area. It's miles and miles from downtown. I sigh, happy to visit the DeCordova, just as happy to not make my home here.
Jewels
Writing is jewelry-making, stringing the pearly spheres of words onto silver sentence chains. Change the order of the beads, of the jewels, and you change the overall effect of the necklace. Move the beads around, see how they complement each other. Would this bead look better over here? Add beads, take beads off. You don't want your necklace to be too busy, too crowded. But don't allow it to be boring in its spareness, either. What is it that you really want to express with this piece of jewelry? Would it be truer if we used this bead?
Forget it. Let's just scrap this necklace and start over.
Forget it. Let's just scrap this necklace and start over.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
May 8, 2006
(1- Complete an exercise in the first AND third person. 2- Write about a significant date)
The day started too cold to bear, the fan spilling cool air over my legs, coaxing goosebumps to prick through the razor stubble. The alarm blared insistently, an awful piercing beep. I reached over, bleary-eyed, and smacked the "snooze" button. Not quite time to get up yet. Wait...I don't have to work today. My heart gave a little lurch. I wasn't going to have to line my car up with the rest, scan my badge and go up the ramp to the dank parking garage. I wouldn't have to walk past the frizzy-haired townies in Kmart sweaters as they cackled and blew out cigarette smoke. I wouldn't have to tiptoe over the grey Berber carpet, sneaking past my supervisor's cube on my way to the restroom. I was finished with that job, and the other one wouldn't start for another week.
It was May 8, and I had fully recovered from the celebrating that marked my exit from a job I first loved, then hated as it evolved from an outlet for my creativity to a loathsome exercise in frustration. I was getting married in exactly two months to my fantastic longtime boyfriend. The weather was warming, finally making good on New England's teasing promises of summer. Everything was great, except for that niggling little detail of the late period.
The day started too cold to bear, the fan spilling cool air over my legs, coaxing goosebumps to prick through the razor stubble. The alarm blared insistently, an awful piercing beep. I reached over, bleary-eyed, and smacked the "snooze" button. Not quite time to get up yet. Wait...I don't have to work today. My heart gave a little lurch. I wasn't going to have to line my car up with the rest, scan my badge and go up the ramp to the dank parking garage. I wouldn't have to walk past the frizzy-haired townies in Kmart sweaters as they cackled and blew out cigarette smoke. I wouldn't have to tiptoe over the grey Berber carpet, sneaking past my supervisor's cube on my way to the restroom. I was finished with that job, and the other one wouldn't start for another week.
It was May 8, and I had fully recovered from the celebrating that marked my exit from a job I first loved, then hated as it evolved from an outlet for my creativity to a loathsome exercise in frustration. I was getting married in exactly two months to my fantastic longtime boyfriend. The weather was warming, finally making good on New England's teasing promises of summer. Everything was great, except for that niggling little detail of the late period.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Spark word - "Flirting"
Rebecca shoved the last of her textbooks into her faded L.L. Bean backpack, brushed some impudent stray hairs out of her mouth, and shuffled down the hall. Late for chemistry again, she thought, and I'm going to be stuck sitting next to Ed.
There were no assigned seats in Mr. Icarie's chemistry I class. The students sat four to a table, each one with its own natural gas connection and water tap placed squarely in its center for them to share. Whoever sat next to you was your partner for that day, and most students in the class had wised up and started making sure to arrive early so they could partner up with friends (or at least someone cute, or cool, or with the IQ of a colobus monkey..., Rebecca thought bitterly.) Whoever arrived last was almost always partnered with Ed.
Rebecca's feet slap-slapped against the linoleum in the hallway as she walked at a brisk clip (but not fast enough to appear uncool) towards the lab. Why, oh why can't people get out of the way? Slow-moving freshman, skanky burnouts loitering by their lockers, emo kids shuffling to the bathroom with quasi-tortured expressions and secret stashes of cigarettes buried in their pencil cases...get OUT of the WAY!
Almost there, almost there....around the corner and through the door, and she was there, and there was still another empty seat! Rebecca's shoulders had just started to relax under the weight of her backpack as she breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Icarie cleared his throat. "Rebecca," he began, "Christina and Amber are out today, so I'll need you to partner with Ed."
Rebecca felt the air rush out of the balloon of hope in her chest. Ed! Stupid Ed! What had she done to deserve that? She slumped in defeat and walked sourly to the seat in the corner, feeling the eyes of her classmates burning into her as she passed. Ed! As if she didn't have enough to worry about.
Rebecca shoved the last of her textbooks into her faded L.L. Bean backpack, brushed some impudent stray hairs out of her mouth, and shuffled down the hall. Late for chemistry again, she thought, and I'm going to be stuck sitting next to Ed.
There were no assigned seats in Mr. Icarie's chemistry I class. The students sat four to a table, each one with its own natural gas connection and water tap placed squarely in its center for them to share. Whoever sat next to you was your partner for that day, and most students in the class had wised up and started making sure to arrive early so they could partner up with friends (or at least someone cute, or cool, or with the IQ of a colobus monkey..., Rebecca thought bitterly.) Whoever arrived last was almost always partnered with Ed.
Rebecca's feet slap-slapped against the linoleum in the hallway as she walked at a brisk clip (but not fast enough to appear uncool) towards the lab. Why, oh why can't people get out of the way? Slow-moving freshman, skanky burnouts loitering by their lockers, emo kids shuffling to the bathroom with quasi-tortured expressions and secret stashes of cigarettes buried in their pencil cases...get OUT of the WAY!
Almost there, almost there....around the corner and through the door, and she was there, and there was still another empty seat! Rebecca's shoulders had just started to relax under the weight of her backpack as she breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Icarie cleared his throat. "Rebecca," he began, "Christina and Amber are out today, so I'll need you to partner with Ed."
Rebecca felt the air rush out of the balloon of hope in her chest. Ed! Stupid Ed! What had she done to deserve that? She slumped in defeat and walked sourly to the seat in the corner, feeling the eyes of her classmates burning into her as she passed. Ed! As if she didn't have enough to worry about.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Tell a Story in the Form of a Love Letter
My Dearest Madeline,
How long has it been since I've left? I can scarcely remember. it seems like it must have been a million years ago that we walked together in Central Park. Was it really only last fall? I still remember the way my coat, long and sleek and black as night, billowed around my ankles as we skipped along. Your shoes made such a jolly tap-tap on the walkway!
Things are different now, where I am is different. The man I am living with does not skip, nor would he ever think of allowing his shoes to sing gaily the way yours so often would. No, he is stoic and quiet and solemn. But don't worry, he is kind and gentle, and I know I hold a special place in his heart even if he doesn't frolic with me the way that you did. In the evenings when he comes home from work, I'll often sit with my head in his lap, and he'll idly stroke my hair. Such love! Such bliss! But never quite the way it was with you.
Oh Madeline, Madeline. It makes me quiver with misery that we ever could have allowed someone to come between us. Remember how you would read to me from those thick volumes on cold winter nights? We'd burrow into the blankets on your bed and lay together till the sun came up. Sharing your bed, Madeline, was a thing of more pleasure than I ever could have imagined. Your bed was for us and us alone, till he came into the picture. And to think that I believed you when you introduced him as your "friend".
No friend of mine, he. For now it's him lying with you in happy slumber on the bed, and I sleep alone.
Please don't take that to mean that I'm angry with you, dear Madeline nothing could be further from the truth. He has bewitched you, I know that he has. I feared it would happen from the first time he looked at me with displeasure (when you were looking away) and started to change the subject to discuss his "allergies". I saw the sympathy on your face, and I wanted to say that I had allergies too, I wanted to talk about how my skin is affected with any change in my diet. But my mouth seemed frozen shut, I know now that I should have spoken up, for that was the beginning of the end of our love affair.
When your "friend" started to come by more and more often, I should have put a stop to it. I should have forbade you to invite him here, I should have explained that I needed you. But again, i couldn't seem to find the words. Even when the day came that you sat me down and told me that he was moving in, and that I needed to go, I just sat there sadly, unable to speak.
No more. I cannot get you out of my head, dear Madeline. And now I know that I made an enormous mistake in allowing our love to slip through my fingers. I know you said it would be easier if we didn't stay friends, so I've respected that and not contacted you. But I can remain silent no longer. I must tell you now that I love you, that I adore you to the very core of my being. I beg you, leave him. We belong together. My place is by your side. I long for your voice, your touch. I cannot go on without you. Madeline, please reconsider.
If you say no, I won't contact you again. But please, don't say no. I remain...
...forever your dog,
--Scout
How long has it been since I've left? I can scarcely remember. it seems like it must have been a million years ago that we walked together in Central Park. Was it really only last fall? I still remember the way my coat, long and sleek and black as night, billowed around my ankles as we skipped along. Your shoes made such a jolly tap-tap on the walkway!
Things are different now, where I am is different. The man I am living with does not skip, nor would he ever think of allowing his shoes to sing gaily the way yours so often would. No, he is stoic and quiet and solemn. But don't worry, he is kind and gentle, and I know I hold a special place in his heart even if he doesn't frolic with me the way that you did. In the evenings when he comes home from work, I'll often sit with my head in his lap, and he'll idly stroke my hair. Such love! Such bliss! But never quite the way it was with you.
Oh Madeline, Madeline. It makes me quiver with misery that we ever could have allowed someone to come between us. Remember how you would read to me from those thick volumes on cold winter nights? We'd burrow into the blankets on your bed and lay together till the sun came up. Sharing your bed, Madeline, was a thing of more pleasure than I ever could have imagined. Your bed was for us and us alone, till he came into the picture. And to think that I believed you when you introduced him as your "friend".
No friend of mine, he. For now it's him lying with you in happy slumber on the bed, and I sleep alone.
Please don't take that to mean that I'm angry with you, dear Madeline nothing could be further from the truth. He has bewitched you, I know that he has. I feared it would happen from the first time he looked at me with displeasure (when you were looking away) and started to change the subject to discuss his "allergies". I saw the sympathy on your face, and I wanted to say that I had allergies too, I wanted to talk about how my skin is affected with any change in my diet. But my mouth seemed frozen shut, I know now that I should have spoken up, for that was the beginning of the end of our love affair.
When your "friend" started to come by more and more often, I should have put a stop to it. I should have forbade you to invite him here, I should have explained that I needed you. But again, i couldn't seem to find the words. Even when the day came that you sat me down and told me that he was moving in, and that I needed to go, I just sat there sadly, unable to speak.
No more. I cannot get you out of my head, dear Madeline. And now I know that I made an enormous mistake in allowing our love to slip through my fingers. I know you said it would be easier if we didn't stay friends, so I've respected that and not contacted you. But I can remain silent no longer. I must tell you now that I love you, that I adore you to the very core of my being. I beg you, leave him. We belong together. My place is by your side. I long for your voice, your touch. I cannot go on without you. Madeline, please reconsider.
If you say no, I won't contact you again. But please, don't say no. I remain...
...forever your dog,
--Scout
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Mercy of No Meringue
Spark Word - "Prophecy"
Ruby bent down, as far down as her stiff hips would allow, and adjusted the strap of her sandal. It would have been easy once, but now her fingers, gnarled with arthritis, felt too big and clumsy to be hers. (Whose fingers were these? Hers were soft and pink and smooth, never brown with dust and thick with callouses. She would never have allowed such a thing to occur. Who had played this cruel joke of switching fingers on her?)
Ruby heaved a sigh. No sense in waiting, really. May as well get on with it. She hitched up the faded floral skirt she was wearing, taking care to ensure that the scratchy lace on the slip she wore under it wasn't peeking out rebelliously, and hobbled into the church.
Blinking in the semi-darkness, Ruby looked around for Lobelia. It was Lobelia's special day, the day she would officially become a Chosen Person. (Hogwash, as if Lobelia was any more "chosen" than any other person. She couldn't even make a meringue set properly.) Once her eyes adjusted to the dim, she spied Lobelia sitting in the front row, wringing her hands nervously. (Probably worrying that that son of hers will ride that motorcycle here and make a ruckus.) She started to head for the nearest seat, then thought better of it and hobbled down the aisle to Lobelia.
"Lobelia."
A pair of milky blue eyes fixed themselves on her, and a pair of carefully penciled-in eyebrows raised in response.
"Are you still plannin' to go on about this foolishness?"
Now the eyes narrowed, and the mouth set itself in an angry line. "Ruby Joy Miller. I most certainly AM planning to go through with this. Becoming a Chosen Person is the best thing that's happened to me since Hank passed." She gathered herself up and puffed out her chest like a hen, then lowered her voice to a gravelly whisper. "Besides," she hissed, "I already told you that that's what the prophecy says I must do."
Ruby had heard enough of this prophecy nonsense to last several lifetimes, thank you. Lobelia and her prophecy nonsense. As if a coffee stain on a Reader's Digest could really be trusted to give one an accurate prophecy. But Lobelia must have known just what she was thinking, because she reached into her bag and pulled out the magazine, wrapped with care in tissue paper and contained within one of those brand-name zipper bags. "Here!" she snapped as she thrust the parcel at Ruby, "Have another look! It says so right there. Are you denyin' it?"
Ruby wanted to say that yes, indeed, she was denying it. But Lobelia was already making a scene, and the last thing Ruby wanted was for everyone in town to be talking about the loud spat two old ladies had in the crazy church. She made a "tsk" sound with her tongue instead. "Now Lobelia," she began, "Ain't no sense in gettin' worked up again. If this is what you think the good Lord wants for you, I can't see fit to stop you."
Lobelia, looking somewhat placated, reached for the Readers Digest and set it reverently on the seat next to her, where Ruby stared at it with distaste. "It's almost time." Lobelia swooned. "Are you sure you won't think about becoming a Chosen Person with me? The Lord would want that."
Ruby shook her head hard enough to toss her curlers about. "No thank you. That nonsense is not for me, and I'll thank you to leave me out of it," she began, then felt guilty at Lobelia's stricken face. "But I'll sit in the back and watch."
Lobelia seemed to brighten a bit at that news. "Well, then you should find a seat. The Leader is almost ready to begin." she chirped.
Ruby nodded slowly. "Well, then I will. Good luck, Lobelia." She turned and started to hobble back to the back of the church when she remembered something and turned back to Lobelia. "Will there be cake and punch after?" she asked.
Lobelia looked annoyed. "Ruby," she said, "You know that the Leader forbids eating or drinking anything with sugar. The Lord doesn't want us to excite our taste buds that way. It's heathen."
Ruby didn't know whether to feel outraged on Lobelia's behalf or relieved that she would no longer be plagued by Lobelia's pitiful attempts at baked goods. She hobbled quietly back to her seat.
Ruby bent down, as far down as her stiff hips would allow, and adjusted the strap of her sandal. It would have been easy once, but now her fingers, gnarled with arthritis, felt too big and clumsy to be hers. (Whose fingers were these? Hers were soft and pink and smooth, never brown with dust and thick with callouses. She would never have allowed such a thing to occur. Who had played this cruel joke of switching fingers on her?)
Ruby heaved a sigh. No sense in waiting, really. May as well get on with it. She hitched up the faded floral skirt she was wearing, taking care to ensure that the scratchy lace on the slip she wore under it wasn't peeking out rebelliously, and hobbled into the church.
Blinking in the semi-darkness, Ruby looked around for Lobelia. It was Lobelia's special day, the day she would officially become a Chosen Person. (Hogwash, as if Lobelia was any more "chosen" than any other person. She couldn't even make a meringue set properly.) Once her eyes adjusted to the dim, she spied Lobelia sitting in the front row, wringing her hands nervously. (Probably worrying that that son of hers will ride that motorcycle here and make a ruckus.) She started to head for the nearest seat, then thought better of it and hobbled down the aisle to Lobelia.
"Lobelia."
A pair of milky blue eyes fixed themselves on her, and a pair of carefully penciled-in eyebrows raised in response.
"Are you still plannin' to go on about this foolishness?"
Now the eyes narrowed, and the mouth set itself in an angry line. "Ruby Joy Miller. I most certainly AM planning to go through with this. Becoming a Chosen Person is the best thing that's happened to me since Hank passed." She gathered herself up and puffed out her chest like a hen, then lowered her voice to a gravelly whisper. "Besides," she hissed, "I already told you that that's what the prophecy says I must do."
Ruby had heard enough of this prophecy nonsense to last several lifetimes, thank you. Lobelia and her prophecy nonsense. As if a coffee stain on a Reader's Digest could really be trusted to give one an accurate prophecy. But Lobelia must have known just what she was thinking, because she reached into her bag and pulled out the magazine, wrapped with care in tissue paper and contained within one of those brand-name zipper bags. "Here!" she snapped as she thrust the parcel at Ruby, "Have another look! It says so right there. Are you denyin' it?"
Ruby wanted to say that yes, indeed, she was denying it. But Lobelia was already making a scene, and the last thing Ruby wanted was for everyone in town to be talking about the loud spat two old ladies had in the crazy church. She made a "tsk" sound with her tongue instead. "Now Lobelia," she began, "Ain't no sense in gettin' worked up again. If this is what you think the good Lord wants for you, I can't see fit to stop you."
Lobelia, looking somewhat placated, reached for the Readers Digest and set it reverently on the seat next to her, where Ruby stared at it with distaste. "It's almost time." Lobelia swooned. "Are you sure you won't think about becoming a Chosen Person with me? The Lord would want that."
Ruby shook her head hard enough to toss her curlers about. "No thank you. That nonsense is not for me, and I'll thank you to leave me out of it," she began, then felt guilty at Lobelia's stricken face. "But I'll sit in the back and watch."
Lobelia seemed to brighten a bit at that news. "Well, then you should find a seat. The Leader is almost ready to begin." she chirped.
Ruby nodded slowly. "Well, then I will. Good luck, Lobelia." She turned and started to hobble back to the back of the church when she remembered something and turned back to Lobelia. "Will there be cake and punch after?" she asked.
Lobelia looked annoyed. "Ruby," she said, "You know that the Leader forbids eating or drinking anything with sugar. The Lord doesn't want us to excite our taste buds that way. It's heathen."
Ruby didn't know whether to feel outraged on Lobelia's behalf or relieved that she would no longer be plagued by Lobelia's pitiful attempts at baked goods. She hobbled quietly back to her seat.
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