Monday, April 16, 2018

Searching for Manna, Part 1

I used to write fiction. In fact, I started this blog way back when as a way to keep writing in hopes that I might one day write fiction again. This story is one I wrote long, long ago. It was published in a student magazine when I was an undergrad but otherwise hasn't seen the light of day. This is part 1 of what I think will be four parts. Let me know what you think!

Searching for Manna

     On Christmas night, on the way home from Aunt Martha's, they decided to go. It was then that they realized how much they needed to see it. They were afraid if they waited one more day, they would miss the chance altogether. Ruth was driving. The car heater put out enough warm air to make her think she was wrapped in a cocoon--wrapped together with her parents, two dirty casserole dishes which sat at her mother's feet as patriotic survivors of one more baked ham and twice-baked potato meal, and a huge round tin with caramel, cheese, and sour cream and onion flavored popcorn, Grandpa's annual expression of love and good will. Outside, it was snowing. It had been for several days.
     Ruth navigated the pathways of slushed roads, lined with grey snow and headed south through town toward the countryside. She could feel their car being pulled from the stark incandescent streetlights into the gentle glow of the stars and moon that rolled with the hills for miles.
     Tiny towns appeared as dots along Highway 42. Ruth tightly gripped the steering wheel and pulled herself closer to it. Whenever she moved the wheel, it lightly brushed her breasts. The wind cut across the long-since plowed frozen fields, picking up bitter speed with each invisible row of corn that it passed over. The dark parallel lines on the roads shifted and changed without design as the snow blew relentlessly across them. She aimed for the middle, crossing the double yellow line and then back over again, focused on keeping the car out of the ditch on either side. There were no other cars on the road.
     Ruth's dad was the first to speak. "This is ridiculous," he said, when they were already several miles out of town. "You're going to get us killed."
     Even in the front seat, she could feel the warm bourbon on his breath. "Shut up, Dad," she said glancing over her shoulder. "We asked you what you thought ten minutes ago, and you didn't say anything."
     The sight of him leaning in the corner of the back seat, turned to his side, with his head resting on his hand, reminded her of the time several years before when he broke his rib at the hotel the last day of their vacation. At first, he had refused to go to the hospital and instead, resigned himself to lying in agony in the back of their woody Oldsmobile wagon. Her father, as they learned later at a hospital in the heart of southern Georgia, had no internal bleeding but a broken twelfth rib, the tip of which hung on to the rest of his rib cage like a loose hinge and threatened to break off at any moment and start a careless journey through the rest of his abdominal region. The injury resulted from a late-night fall either in the bathroom or on the patio. He couldn't remember which.
   That was the summer when she was eight, and it was the only time she remembered the family seating arrangement being altered. It always went by age. Dad drove. Mom co-piloted. The older two siblings were in the middle seat, and Ruth and Fran were in back, lying amid the suitcases, coolers, and discarded magazines. Ruth was the youngest, so she always sat in the back.
   This time, their father was back there, and she felt sorry for him. The suitcases could be isolating. She turned in her seat and sat facing him on her knees, reading parts of Ramona the Pest, and, when she saw tears in his eyes, offering him her stuffed goat. No one else in the car spoke. When he couldn't take the pain any longer, they stopped at the tiny hospital in Georgia. In that cramped and humid waiting room, sitting between her two older sisters, Ruth learned about drunkenness, and, she learned about her father. It was the first and last time that she heard anyone make a link between the two.

Part 2 is here.

Also, when I post two days in a row, I know I run the risk of readers missing the earlier post, so here's a link to it. Check yesterday's post out if you haven't seen it already!

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