The group assembled on the Four Seasons terrace.
Gracie Honeywalker spoke first. “Mercy, ain’t this a long way from that Kentucky farm.”
“Oh, poo!” Granny Limerick said. “There’s no difference between a farm and a … what do you call this, Jim?”
“This is a condominium building, Annie Kate. I’ve gathered you here to get your feedback on this Daily Rite session.”
Brian Larney adjusted his bow tie and oinked a pig noise. “Didn’t you do that in September?”
“That was the previous session. That time around, I started writing about myself but did such a terrible job, I returned to the world of fiction and all of you.”
“What makes you think we aren’t real?” Monsignor Collin Doherty asked.
“I hate to break this to you, ladies and gentlemen,” Jim said, after a long pause in which he considered the characters – some gentle, some monsters – he’d created. “But you are all figments of my imagination. Even this scene is a figment of my imagination.”
“If I’m not real,” Norman said, “that means this muscular body you’ve given me is purely in your imagination. Everyone, try pinching yourselves. If you’re real, you’ll feel it.”
They all started pinching themselves – but felt nothing.
“Oh, my God!” Victorial Balmoral intoned, “I am fictional. Cornelius, can you feel anything?”
“No!”
“It’s outraged I am, all this time getting upset over Agnes and Norman when it didn’t really happen at all,” Siobhan Limerick said. “Does this mean I didn’t give birth to those four babies who died?”
“None of this really happened … to you. But I took the writer’s license to mix up all sorts of real things that happened to other people, and make them happen to you. Sorry if I gave you too much conflict and tension. But I’m the writer. I get to decide.”
Agnes smiled her devious smile. "Not really, Jim. You created us in a certain way. Your story will only work if you have us doing things in character."
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Collin Doherty: Psychic
Collin squeezed his buttocks together and walked sideways like a crab around the table, picking at the crudité, the shrimp dip, and the crackers and cheese.
“Uncle Collin,” Patrick said sotte voce, “how much longer must we stay? I count eighteen people in this cracker box.”
Collin looked around at the motley collection. Too many grays, to be sure, among the Limericks, Balmorals, and friends – all for little Grace’s christening party. Collin looked around him, Agnes speaking with Norman’s father, Norman’s mother holding the baby and talking with Siobhan, Norman speaking with Angelo and Cristina Rosamilia –
Odd, Collin thought, Cristina’s posture while she looked at Norman – and the way Norman held his hands behind his back, Angelo prattling on about Roosevelt’s election victory – as if a coded language existed between Norman and Cristina. As if they had been lovers. Collin looked over to his niece – Agnes smiled and laughed, going from guest to guest, now talking with Cristina’s parents. Just as ignorant of the signals being passed between her husband and her best friend. Odd, indeed.
“Uncle Collin,” Patrick said sotte voce, “how much longer must we stay? I count eighteen people in this cracker box.”
Collin looked around at the motley collection. Too many grays, to be sure, among the Limericks, Balmorals, and friends – all for little Grace’s christening party. Collin looked around him, Agnes speaking with Norman’s father, Norman’s mother holding the baby and talking with Siobhan, Norman speaking with Angelo and Cristina Rosamilia –
Odd, Collin thought, Cristina’s posture while she looked at Norman – and the way Norman held his hands behind his back, Angelo prattling on about Roosevelt’s election victory – as if a coded language existed between Norman and Cristina. As if they had been lovers. Collin looked over to his niece – Agnes smiled and laughed, going from guest to guest, now talking with Cristina’s parents. Just as ignorant of the signals being passed between her husband and her best friend. Odd, indeed.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Agnes Limerick: Write about a ritual
Mrs. Stein came over to Agnes and held her arm, “I’m sorry for your trouble, dear Agnes Limerick.”
Agnes introduced Norman. Mrs. Stein directed her attentions to the baby – “what a beautiful baby, Agnes, she’ll have your red hair when she grows up” – but Agnes kept looking back toward the hallway. A minute later she saw the black shadows of six men carrying Granny’s stiff body across the front hallway into the parlor.
Ten minutes later, Agnes saw the men leave and the women go inside. Fifteen minutes later, they left. Was Granny alone? Forbidden at an Irish wake. You could never leave the body alone. Agnes rushed into the parlor. She saw Mrs. O’Toole sitting on a chair in the distance. “Good, Agnes. I’ll leave you alone with Annie Kate. You can have time with her before we close the front window.”
She stood by the coffin a moment, feeling the cold breeze rush in from the window, and looked at Granny. She was dressed in white lace, red rosary beads with her hands, gold crucifix around her neck – all white, like Granny’s face, except for the red hair. She’d kept her hair red right up to the end. But the face shocked Agnes. Its right half was turned up at an angle, the chin, the mouth, the eyes, her eyebrows, all of it. The hemorrhage must’ve occurred on that side. It pained Agnes to realize friends would see Granny with that frozen expression on her face. She touched Granny’s fingers and pulled them back, guilt washing over her. She should’ve first kneeled to pray for Granny’s soul.
Agnes introduced Norman. Mrs. Stein directed her attentions to the baby – “what a beautiful baby, Agnes, she’ll have your red hair when she grows up” – but Agnes kept looking back toward the hallway. A minute later she saw the black shadows of six men carrying Granny’s stiff body across the front hallway into the parlor.
Ten minutes later, Agnes saw the men leave and the women go inside. Fifteen minutes later, they left. Was Granny alone? Forbidden at an Irish wake. You could never leave the body alone. Agnes rushed into the parlor. She saw Mrs. O’Toole sitting on a chair in the distance. “Good, Agnes. I’ll leave you alone with Annie Kate. You can have time with her before we close the front window.”
She stood by the coffin a moment, feeling the cold breeze rush in from the window, and looked at Granny. She was dressed in white lace, red rosary beads with her hands, gold crucifix around her neck – all white, like Granny’s face, except for the red hair. She’d kept her hair red right up to the end. But the face shocked Agnes. Its right half was turned up at an angle, the chin, the mouth, the eyes, her eyebrows, all of it. The hemorrhage must’ve occurred on that side. It pained Agnes to realize friends would see Granny with that frozen expression on her face. She touched Granny’s fingers and pulled them back, guilt washing over her. She should’ve first kneeled to pray for Granny’s soul.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: This is my strategy
You sure gone to love it, walking by that picket fence yonder, story I’m gone to tell you. Back in ’59 when I was 7 living on that Kentucky mansion working for the man, he done told me, see that store yonder, they done sold bad chickens got ever one sick as dogs. Them white folks, they done stayed in bed three, five, seven days depending on how strong they were. Made life easier for us colored folk, didn’t have to work no hard or hear so much tinny racketing. Get me this you lazy maid, you never done listen to me. Ain’t never heard such nonsense as from the man and his ladies. Talk like they brains gone to the chickens.
They never done known, tell a good chicken from a bad. Seven years old I knew when to turn my nose up and say, No ma’am. Served me good these years up in New York since I ran away fall of ’59. Good riddance to the man, gone to the north soon as I could. I wanted to learn, I wanted to read, I wanted to write.
They never done known, tell a good chicken from a bad. Seven years old I knew when to turn my nose up and say, No ma’am. Served me good these years up in New York since I ran away fall of ’59. Good riddance to the man, gone to the north soon as I could. I wanted to learn, I wanted to read, I wanted to write.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: Reaching for it
Agnes and the children departed for the train station five minutes ago – and that Brian Larney she’d invited to live here. He went with them. Thank the Lord. Thank the Good Lord in all the heavens they were going to New York City for the weekend. Victoria could have peace and quiet. She could have the house to herself. She didn’t have to clean her bedroom. She didn’t have to wipe up the sink or the stove. She could cry all she wanted.
She walked downstairs to the kitchen and left her bedroom door open – the first time since she’d taken to her room after hearing the news. She prepared herself some blueberry scones with strawberry jam, and a stiff pot of tea. She sat at the kitchen table. The drapes were open and the sun shone in her eyes, but she got up and closed them. It would be a dreary November day for her, even with the sun out.
Victoria rather enjoyed this moment, but she told herself no, she cannot enjoy these moments. She cannot enjoy any moments anymore. Her youngest son was dead. And here she was, living with his wife, their children, and her piano teacher. Why’d she have to invite the piano teacher to live here? All he did was bother Victoria with his bubbly laugh and his limp-wristed girly voice.
Hungry now that no one was at home, Victoria wanted to have some oatmeal and scoured the kitchen. In the last two months since Norman died, Agnes had taken over the kitchen again. She’d moved everything around. Ah, there it is, she told herself, on the top shelf of a cabinet – but Victoria couldn’t reach for it. She needed Brian Larney’s height to get to the oatmeal.
She walked downstairs to the kitchen and left her bedroom door open – the first time since she’d taken to her room after hearing the news. She prepared herself some blueberry scones with strawberry jam, and a stiff pot of tea. She sat at the kitchen table. The drapes were open and the sun shone in her eyes, but she got up and closed them. It would be a dreary November day for her, even with the sun out.
Victoria rather enjoyed this moment, but she told herself no, she cannot enjoy these moments. She cannot enjoy any moments anymore. Her youngest son was dead. And here she was, living with his wife, their children, and her piano teacher. Why’d she have to invite the piano teacher to live here? All he did was bother Victoria with his bubbly laugh and his limp-wristed girly voice.
Hungry now that no one was at home, Victoria wanted to have some oatmeal and scoured the kitchen. In the last two months since Norman died, Agnes had taken over the kitchen again. She’d moved everything around. Ah, there it is, she told herself, on the top shelf of a cabinet – but Victoria couldn’t reach for it. She needed Brian Larney’s height to get to the oatmeal.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Brian Larney: The violence
“Brian,” Victoria called from the hallway, “dinner will be ready in a half hour. I don’t know where Agnes is, but dinner will be ready.”
“Thank you, I’ll be done before then.” He launched back into his latest project – Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. As always, he’d play it all the way through and then break it apart. The performance wasn’t for three months.
He could smell the roast beef, potatoes, and stewed vegetables all the way in the back music room. What a difference from the one-room apartment at the top of Mrs. O’Toole’s house. He’d been there nearly forty years, ever since Martin Limerick rescued him from the train station attack. And now here he was living in his daughter’s house … and she knew nothing about the incident, long before she was even born.
He heard the door open and shut. Keaton ran out of the piano room and barked at his mistress. Agnes was home, and she peeked in the music room for a look at Brian. Wet as a chicken, red hair matted down onto her head, but smiling cheek to cheek. He had no idea what made her so happy – she hadn’t smiled like that since before Norman had died.
“Thank you, I’ll be done before then.” He launched back into his latest project – Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. As always, he’d play it all the way through and then break it apart. The performance wasn’t for three months.
He could smell the roast beef, potatoes, and stewed vegetables all the way in the back music room. What a difference from the one-room apartment at the top of Mrs. O’Toole’s house. He’d been there nearly forty years, ever since Martin Limerick rescued him from the train station attack. And now here he was living in his daughter’s house … and she knew nothing about the incident, long before she was even born.
He heard the door open and shut. Keaton ran out of the piano room and barked at his mistress. Agnes was home, and she peeked in the music room for a look at Brian. Wet as a chicken, red hair matted down onto her head, but smiling cheek to cheek. He had no idea what made her so happy – she hadn’t smiled like that since before Norman had died.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Norman Balmoral: What a loser
Norman sat in the basement of the rectory with Monsignor Collin, Patrick, and their friend Aloysius. He dealt the cards for their poker hand. “Aces high, my deal.”
Collin took another swig of whiskey. “Young man, tell me about yourself. All I know is that you’re a follower of Henry VIII’s church.”
Collin and Patrick laughed, but Norman forced a grimace. Agnes had insisted on this outing, he had to get to know her uncle and her brother. They were willing to spend an evening with him, she said, so he needed to as well. Norman accepted it, but only to keep peace with his new wife.
They played their hand of poker – Norman took it with three jacks and made $0.15 in the process – as he talked about architecture school, Europe, his parents’ ailing pharmacy. He didn’t talk about nailing Agnes in the back office of the pharmacy, but of course they knew. Annie Kate would’ve told them. But they drank and drank with each poker hand – a little whiskey for Uncle Collin, eighty proof beer for Patrick.
Where’d they get the stuff? Even if the amendment was making its way through the statehouses, it was still Prohibition and here they were, drinking like fish. No matter to them that Norman didn’t drink, they were playing poker, and he was winning. Hand over fist, every hand. Winning with a full house in one hand, three sixes in another, a straight from two to six in a third – you name it, Norman won.
He walked out that evening with $1.25 in winnings. He rather liked spending an evening with Uncle Collin and Patrick.
Collin took another swig of whiskey. “Young man, tell me about yourself. All I know is that you’re a follower of Henry VIII’s church.”
Collin and Patrick laughed, but Norman forced a grimace. Agnes had insisted on this outing, he had to get to know her uncle and her brother. They were willing to spend an evening with him, she said, so he needed to as well. Norman accepted it, but only to keep peace with his new wife.
They played their hand of poker – Norman took it with three jacks and made $0.15 in the process – as he talked about architecture school, Europe, his parents’ ailing pharmacy. He didn’t talk about nailing Agnes in the back office of the pharmacy, but of course they knew. Annie Kate would’ve told them. But they drank and drank with each poker hand – a little whiskey for Uncle Collin, eighty proof beer for Patrick.
Where’d they get the stuff? Even if the amendment was making its way through the statehouses, it was still Prohibition and here they were, drinking like fish. No matter to them that Norman didn’t drink, they were playing poker, and he was winning. Hand over fist, every hand. Winning with a full house in one hand, three sixes in another, a straight from two to six in a third – you name it, Norman won.
He walked out that evening with $1.25 in winnings. He rather liked spending an evening with Uncle Collin and Patrick.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Brian Larney: A song
Brian shut the door to old Mrs. O’Toole’s house and whistled “Shenandoah” down Clinton Street. He loved his new apartment – Martin had done a good job at convincing the old lady to let Brian move in, even when he had no money to pay. At least not now. But he had four piano students lined up, all four from St. Patrick’s Church. That Monsignor Doherty who was Martin’s brother-in-law spooked Brian with his knowing eyes, but he never said anything.
He knocked on the door of the Limerick’s Spruce Street house. “Good afternoon, Mr. Larney,” came a sprightly voice from Annie Kate when she opened the door. “You’re just in time for a spot of tea in the parlor. Martin and Siobhan are inside.”
“And the top of the day to you, Brian,” Martin exclaimed from the parlor. Siobhan sat on the divan and merely glanced up, preoccupied with two-year old Patrick on her knee. “Mother, bring the whiskey for a celebration with the good Mr. Larney. It seems Siobhan is to have another child in eight months’ time.”
A girl – Brian hoped should would be a girl. Girls were more fun than boys.
He knocked on the door of the Limerick’s Spruce Street house. “Good afternoon, Mr. Larney,” came a sprightly voice from Annie Kate when she opened the door. “You’re just in time for a spot of tea in the parlor. Martin and Siobhan are inside.”
“And the top of the day to you, Brian,” Martin exclaimed from the parlor. Siobhan sat on the divan and merely glanced up, preoccupied with two-year old Patrick on her knee. “Mother, bring the whiskey for a celebration with the good Mr. Larney. It seems Siobhan is to have another child in eight months’ time.”
A girl – Brian hoped should would be a girl. Girls were more fun than boys.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: Where I want to go
“Do you think I don’t know that, Norman?”
He was an idiot where women were considered. How did Agnes ever live with him? She was certainly glad they’d never gotten more serious than those three weeks in Florence or that dalliance back in ’40. Cristina counted herself lucky – she married the easy-going Angelo Rosamilia, much better than the tight-assed Norman Balmoral.
But, oh, how she loved wrapping her hands around that tight ass. And the sinews of his arms, chest, and shoulders. And feel the thrusts of his narrow waist into her, Norman hard for an hour … but she was forgetting herself.
“Cristina, you have to stop following me. I promised Agnes I’d never see ‘Mary Holmes’ again and I meant it.”
In spite of herself, Cristina laughed. “I can’t believe you shared our private little joke with her. Does she actually think Mary Holmes was a real person?”
“Yes,” Norman replied, “but it’s not funny. We’ve been lying to her these past years. I want to forget we ever happened. Is that understood?”
“Don’t you boss me around, Norman Balmoral. You might have Agnes fooled, but you haven’t fooled me. I’ll do as I please.”
He was an idiot where women were considered. How did Agnes ever live with him? She was certainly glad they’d never gotten more serious than those three weeks in Florence or that dalliance back in ’40. Cristina counted herself lucky – she married the easy-going Angelo Rosamilia, much better than the tight-assed Norman Balmoral.
But, oh, how she loved wrapping her hands around that tight ass. And the sinews of his arms, chest, and shoulders. And feel the thrusts of his narrow waist into her, Norman hard for an hour … but she was forgetting herself.
“Cristina, you have to stop following me. I promised Agnes I’d never see ‘Mary Holmes’ again and I meant it.”
In spite of herself, Cristina laughed. “I can’t believe you shared our private little joke with her. Does she actually think Mary Holmes was a real person?”
“Yes,” Norman replied, “but it’s not funny. We’ve been lying to her these past years. I want to forget we ever happened. Is that understood?”
“Don’t you boss me around, Norman Balmoral. You might have Agnes fooled, but you haven’t fooled me. I’ll do as I please.”
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Victoria Balmoral: That damned phone (Photo #7)
Victoria came downstairs that Thursday morning after bathing and grooming herself for a quiet day at home. Agnes had left for work an hour ago, Grace and Harold had walked off to school with the Collingwood grandchildren at the same time, and Victoria had the house to herself. Mostly, at least. She looked forward to a crisp spring day of knitting and reading while she sipped her morning tea and looked out the window at Spruce Street’s sun-streamed elms.
These mornings alone gave her a sense of peace she hadn’t felt since Norman’s death. She’d finally convinced herself to eat, to come downstairs and join Agnes and the children, even to go walking in Rittenhouse Square. She even –
And then she heard it. Banging Prokofief on the piano. That Brian Larney. Why did Agnes invite him to live here? He played the piano all hours of the day, right when he woke up and right before going to bed in the middle of the night. And those piano students – the little 8-year old boys and girls who trounced into the house and got the floors dirty – and Prokofief! Anything would be better than the heavy chords and depressing music.
“Brian,” she shouted through the hallway, “could you wait a while before playing? I’ve only just settled in for the morning. A half hour, please.”
“All right, Mrs. B. I can wait until Susie comes for her lesson. That’s not for an hour.”
Victoria breathed a sigh of relief and went back to her knitting. Her tea was cold and she had to refill it –
“But Mrs. Collingwood,” Brian’s scratchy tenor screeched into the phone with a laugh and a hiccough, “you told me Susie would be coming …”
That damned telephone. If Brian Larney wasn’t playing the piano, he was talking on the telephone. Somehow the man always had to make noise, one way or the other.
These mornings alone gave her a sense of peace she hadn’t felt since Norman’s death. She’d finally convinced herself to eat, to come downstairs and join Agnes and the children, even to go walking in Rittenhouse Square. She even –
And then she heard it. Banging Prokofief on the piano. That Brian Larney. Why did Agnes invite him to live here? He played the piano all hours of the day, right when he woke up and right before going to bed in the middle of the night. And those piano students – the little 8-year old boys and girls who trounced into the house and got the floors dirty – and Prokofief! Anything would be better than the heavy chords and depressing music.
“Brian,” she shouted through the hallway, “could you wait a while before playing? I’ve only just settled in for the morning. A half hour, please.”
“All right, Mrs. B. I can wait until Susie comes for her lesson. That’s not for an hour.”
Victoria breathed a sigh of relief and went back to her knitting. Her tea was cold and she had to refill it –
“But Mrs. Collingwood,” Brian’s scratchy tenor screeched into the phone with a laugh and a hiccough, “you told me Susie would be coming …”
That damned telephone. If Brian Larney wasn’t playing the piano, he was talking on the telephone. Somehow the man always had to make noise, one way or the other.
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