Fiction exercise #1, #2

#1 Character Sketch: Christine Joy Fullerton

I sat beside you Daddy the night of my first kiss. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want to go home because I knew mama would smell my sin. I never wanted to grow up. I don't know why I felt older on that evening than I did that night you left us. Its okay daddy, I don't blame you. I know it was that deer that ran you off the road and not the handle of Jack you drank that night. I could never forget that night, or that date. Your death day marks the celebration of my life. The eleventh anniversary of your and mamma's little accident. You always used to tell me I was the best mistake you ever made. Remember how Mama used to get after you for calling me a mistake? You would just wink at me and grab your beer; by then it would be time for you to settle into your evening ritual of news and crossword puzzles. Well, three years have passed since we buried you in that cemetery down the street. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, with your death daddy, our dreams turned to rust.

I'm 14 now; daddy's little girl growin up without a daddy. It's okay I don't really mind it. I've learned to pick up the pieces. I am the one that looks out for the boys now. Jake, your baby, is getting ready for the little league tournament. I meet him every day after practice. I ask him all the questions you used to; the stuff about batting averages, and strike-outs. I even tell Jake about the Red Sox and their curse. I tell him everything you would have. Mickey is hard to talk to though. He doesn't have much use for a younger know-it-all sister. But I guess you probably knew that. Is it true that you can see everything from up there? I hope so; I told Jake that you saw his homerun last week. He is still glowing.

I help mama with dinner every night. She has gotten tired since you left. I started doing the shopping for her down at Smith's. We have a tab down there now. You'd be real proud daddy; I don't buy anything that we shouldn't have. Mama's not eatin' much these days, but I still fix her a plate. She always eats on the night I roast the brisket, though. That used to be your favorite. You would always drizzle it in Smith's secret barbeque sauce. Mama doesn't let us have that in the house anymore. She says she never liked it anyway. I tell her she's just being silly. But I know the truth; the taste reminds her of your kisses.

I started high school last week. I can hear your words, "You watch out, Christine Joy, those boys are nothing but trouble." Gregory asked me to the Homecoming dance, and it's not for another month. That was before he tried to feel me up underneath the bleachers. That right hook you taught me so many nights ago proved to be a winner. My trophy, his shiner, is still shining bright. Needless to say I will be going stag to my first high school dance. See daddy, I keep you with me all the time.

The night air is chilly with autumn on its breath. Orion is hovering. As Christine traces the outline of her father's name on his headstone, pieces of stone fall away. Jacob Ray Fullerton, beloved husband and father: It would seem that people are not the only thing that crumble after a long awaited touch.


#2 Dialogue with Character from Sketch

I walk in the house in time to catch Mama and Mickey getting into it. Silence falls fast when I shut the door. “Why don’t you get after Chrissy, ma? She's the one out all night sitting in a cemetery talking to a rock she thinks is the drunk that was our father-“ Mickey is silenced by a swift slap across the face.
“Christine Joy, you get yourself upstairs” mama says.
Mickey is red, fuming, shamed by his anger. Mama is shaking. I don’t have to be told twice to get somewhere.

I am combing out my hair; I heard a hundred strokes will make it shiny, stronger, …72, 73, 74…
“Chrissy?” Jake is standing on the threshold of my room.
“Come on in, bub” I say to the tear stained cheeks of my baby brother.
“Is he gonna die like daddy?” Jake asks me this every time Mickey and mama get into an argument. I put my brush down on the vanity and gather the sadness that is my little brother into my arms. I tell him this time, like every other time, “No honey, Mickey could never hurt mama dyin’ like he could by livin.’” He is too young to understand what that means, but Jake is old enough to know when I am telling the truth.
“Tell me a story, Chrissy. Tell me a story about daddy.” Jake said.
“You know how excited daddy was when Mama said there was another plus sign on one of those take home kind of tests?” I say, starting the story of Jake’s beginning. It’s his favorite.
“Daddy went out to buy you a baseball glove the day he found out,” I continued. “Daddy said that he knew he was going to have the best hitter on the Eastern Shore.”
Mama and Mickey’s angry words pierced through the foundation of the house. I could feel their hatred vibrating through Jakey’s little body. Innocence, the world’s greatest conductor, sat, charged in my lap. I kissed my brother’s brow. I ached to take his fear away.
“Jakey, I talked to daddy tonight,” I said. “ He told me he saw that homerun last week, remember how you hit the bat on the ground 4 times before the pitch? He said he knew that was a message for him. That was always your secret number, wasn’t it?”
Jake pulled away and looked into my eyes searching for a dream, verifying a wish. “How did you know that?”
“Like I said, daddy told me.” I said to him. Innocence should be allowed to hold on to its purity for as long as possible. I could not tell him that I heard his prayers every night through our paper thin walls; about 4 years, and leap years, and how he is the fourth tallest in his class, the fourth fastest runner, and the fourth oldest out of Ms. Miller’s class. I couldn’t tell him that I knew those things were how he knew that daddy was looking out for him. I couldn’t tell him that I did the same thing everyday. I would make messages out of cloud formations, the sudden change of a red light to green, the serendipitous vision of a father and daughter walking hand in hand down the street. No, I couldn’t tell Jake any of these things. He deserved to grow up with as much of a father as he could.
“Come on, babe, I’ll tuck you in.” I say to Jake as I carry him to his bed. I make sure he is tightly covered in his sheets. The snugness of his blankets mimicking the comfort I wish he could find during his waking hours. I get up after we say the Lord’s Prayer and head back to my room. Laying on my bed I hear Jake’s whispers, “I knew you were watching me daddy. I remembered our lucky number. I hope I made you proud daddy.”
I now wish someone was here to comfort away my tear stained cheeks. I am reminded that we buried that someone 3 years ago.
“Goodnight Daddy” I say into the darkness.