You may remember a few months ago, when I talked about a story I couldn't figure out, and eventually set aside. This week, in a few spare minutes, I returned to it and realized I knew how to end it. It was like seeing an old friend I hadn't realized I missed, and then finding out they bought a house and had grown up. When I took another look, I realized I liked the characters a lot, the dialogue was relatively strong, and the problem was, more than anything else, a structural issue. I didn't know where the parts of the story went, or how they fit together. I also think the title I had given it, which was "The Pooka" was forcing my mind to go on a certain path that the story didn't want to take. It was meeting resistance down that path, and I was trying to force it. Given that one of the central scenes of the story was a wake, I changed the title to "Bearing the Body" to see where that brought things. I suddenly clicked together: the narrative wanted to travel with the two main characters, to see the other things they experience in the day the story takes place. The protagonist, Isaac, is accompanying a man named Anthony who just received bad news around a series of errands, pulled along until he decides to be an active participant. There's still a bit of the idea of the pooka, a guiding spirit that leads the way, but by abandoning that title, I arrived at a more genuine sense of what the pooka is in the mythological sense: a creature that takes someone for a wild ride. Without forcing it, without realizing it even, the story is about just that. I'm going to post the new, improved beginning here.
When Isaac and Anthony got back in the car, they sat far apart in silence, as though they were each waiting for the other to speak first. Anthony reached into his pocket and took a piece of paper out. He handed it to his driver, Chuy and said, “First the bank, and then this address.” He reclined, shifting his weight so that he seemed to take up even more of the backseat, and Isaac slid over toward the door.
“It’s not contagious,” Anthony said. “You’re making me feel like I’m already dead.” Isaac wasn’t sure if it was a joke—even if it was, it wasn’t one he was ready to laugh at just yet.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in there. I didn’t realize the doctor—“
“He got confused. I don’t know how he made that mistake. He should know I don’t have a son, and you don’t even look like me. Still, it’s not your fault.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Isaac said. “I don’t even have anyone to tell.”
Anthony laughed, and said, “You could tell the newspaper, but I’d never publish the story. Can we eat? I barely had any breakfast.” Anthony tapped Chuy on the shoulder and said, “Take us to eat. I’d like a burrito, if that’s possible.”
“Of course, Mr. Colucci.” They pulled through a Taco Bell, and Anthony bought Isaac lunch. Watching Anthony Colucci eat was not so much like watching a meal; it was more like an attack, the larger man’s face ravaging whatever was in front of it. He wasn’t messy, just efficient: the burrito was gone before they got back to the highway. Isaac was almost ashamed of how slowly he pecked away at his two tacos, like he was rationing them to last the rest of the day.
At least after they both ate, Isaac finally felt that he was able to relax. They had both now acknowledged that it was the doctor’s mistake, and they had shared a meal, so they were both okay as long as they never mentioned it to anyone or each other again. He leaned back in his seat, a poor imitation of Anthony’s posture: when Anthony did it, leaning back in the chair was a demonstration of his power, a king showing how large his domain was. When Isaac leaned back, it only felt like he was shrinking. As they drove, he wondered what kind of bank a man like Anthony Colucci would go to. There weren’t many impressive banks around here, but there were a few rich people, like Anthony, who must have kept their money somewhere. Isaac was surprised when they pulled up to the same bank he used.
“I use this bank, too,” Isaac said. Anthony only looked across the seat toward him and shrugged.
“They’re all the same,” he said. “The only thing that matters is how much you’ve got in them.” He got out of the car and walked inside, leaving Isaac to sit in the car with Chuy. He stared outside and finally said, “So your name…that’s slang for Jesus, isn’t it?” Chuy looked in the rearview mirror as though deciding if he wanted to waste his time answering.
“It’s short for Jesús,” he said. Chuy seemed annoyed, so Isaac kept his mouth closed until he saw Anthony come out of the building, tucking a thick white envelope into his inside pocket. When Anthony got back in the car, he mumbled something to Chuy that Isaac couldn’t understand. It was strange that the sound would travel to Chuy in the front on the car but die before reaching Isaac, right across the backseat, but the driver must have heard, because he said, “Okay,” and put the car in gear. He said, “Okay” in a strange tone: it went up at the end, an incredulous agreement to some unknown whim of his employer.
So now I have a complete first draft. I'm going to go back and edit. Now that I've figured out the heart of the story and the structure, I'm happier with how it's turning out. There's also this sense of place linking a lot of my short stories lately, influenced by the area around me and all of the struggles and changes it's going through. I think,once I take a look at all of my stories taking place around the same area, I want to put together a collection of stories tentatively titled, "Appalachian Blues."
