It’s another fiction Monday. After a wonderful and successful poetry reading at UMHB, I’m back to crafting out some prose for the next few weeks …
“The Roar”
She is sitting in her kitchen on an average and modest summer day. The smell of baking cake lingers in the air. A vanilla, sugary-sweet swell. Heavy. Suffocating. She sniffs. Her left ankle tucks carefully behind her right and her white pumps cling to her heels, revealing no trace of panty-hosed feet. Simple, unpretentious dresses with appropriate accents are her choice attire, and today she wears a brown housewife’s uniform with white collar and cuffs to match her shoes. Her brunette hair is pulled neatly back in a coiffure, her eyes stare into the distance, and her shoulders remain stiff, rigid, awkward. She sips her coffee slowly, careful not to smudge her lipstick. As she sets the cup down, rays of sunlight reflect from the shimmering clear window behind her to the porcelain yellow of the mug and then to the creamy white of the pearls around her neck. The pearls are too tight. Like a noose. She takes her index finger and pulls at them slightly to relieve the tension. Mrs. Abigail, the woman, forces a smile as her little boy of seven, Matthew, whose presence at the other side of the table Mrs. Abigail has forgotten, tells his mother that she looks pretty today. She thanks him. She sends him out to play in the yard.She hears the roar.
It is distant, far, but persistent. She heard it more distinctly that morning, when she was waking. The sound of the river. Then, suddenly, the sound is gone. She is alone.
A moment passes. Mrs. Abigail allows herself the luxury of imagination.
She is husbandless. She is childless. She is happy.
Imagination leaves her and reality sounds with the ringing of the grandfather clock in the living room. Eight in the morning. On the seventh chime, Mrs. Abigail looks down at the stationary before her and at her pen.
She has thought of this for some time.
At night, when her husband has finished with her and lies in tranquility steadily smoking a cigarette, Mrs. Abigail closes her eyes, listening to the violent rushing of the river so far away, promising herself that the next day she will leave her miserable life behind and seek out a better one; yet, each morning she wakes, dresses, kisses her husband, and feels sick from the lingering smell of smoke. When she stands in Matthew’s room in the morning calling him to wake, Mrs. Abigail closes her eyes, hearing the battling beats of the raging water, promising herself that she will no longer pretend to love a little one whom she has no feelings for; yet, each morning she laughs, smiles, embraces her child, and feels sick from the lingering sense of nothingness.
The outside masses debonairly declare that women are ne’er more happy then when they lovingly labor at home. She despises her husband and all others who believe this doctrine.
But today is different. Today she is determined.
Today the roar is louder. Clearer. Beckoning.
Upstairs, under her bed, sits suitcase that will provide enough for the beginning of her journey. Before her, the single piece of stationary will explain her actions to her husband and son. She is leaving. She is overcome with joy. She picks up her pen and sets it to the paper, slightly crinkled at its edge. Mrs. Abigail discovers it is hard to write and form her words because she has prepared for this moment so often that her ideas from all of her imagined letters of farewell blend together to for the single word sentiment “goodbye”.
She sighs. She writes anyway.
Her message is simple, approximately ten lines. Six lines for her husband, four for her child. Mrs. Abigail clearly states her purpose: she is leaving, she is a burden in the family because she has no interest in it, (she does not believe this, but feels that it is a nice thing to say so that husband and son will not blame themselves), and she is going to seek happiness elsewhere.
As she signs her name, she looks up at the vase filled with white roses on the table. Tiny bubbles cling to large green stems. She finishes her name as a single bubble escapes from its place and rapidly rises to the top, bursting instantly, shaking the top of the once still water.
A moment passes. The water is still. The short note is placed next to the vase.
Somewhere in the distance, the great river continues to churn with fury.
Mrs. Abigail stands. Matthew laughs outside and chases a large red ball across the yard. She does not smile.
Her white heels make tiny clicking sounds as she crosses from the kitchen to the hall. She stops at the stairs. She must climb to acquire her suitcase so she can leave. Suddenly her heart is torn and she cannot force her foot forward to ascend. She must be certain. Placing her hands together, Mrs. Abigail closes her eyes and concentrates on her options. She ponders staying home and continuing her masquerade of pleasantries. She ponders walking up the stairs and taking her suitcase and then departing, free to be herself.
The roar is getting louder.
She walks up the stairs.
It takes her a moment to pull the suitcase from under the bed but she manages. Mrs. Abigail waits for a second once again to consider her choice; however, she decides that she must make her own happy ending, for no one else could make it for her.
Her husband failed. Her child failed.
It is up to her.
She takes the suitcase to the bathroom and shuts the door. The lights flick on instantly when she touches the switch and the bathwater makes a dull roar in harmony with the sounds of the vengeful river as she fills the tub. She opens the suitcase, feeling satisfied with her decision and pleased that she is so brave. Mrs. Abigail removes a novel, a change of dress, and a toiletry case from the bag.
The bag is now empty. She sets it aside.
The novel is by Virginia Wolfe; it is crinkled around its edge.
Mrs. Abigail removes her clothing and stands nude in front of the bathroom mirror. Her body looks remarkably supple for her age, a fact that pleases her, she will not depart looking unattractive.
She climbs into the tub and turns off the water. The room is silent.
There is no roar.
Tiny bubbles cling to her feet. A single bubble escapes from its place and rapidly rises to the top, bursting instantly, shaking the top of the once still water.
A moment passes. The water stills.
Her hand gropes over the side to find the novel. She touches the cold floor. She touches the toilette skirt. She continues to search. Her toiletry case is open. Inside is a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, soap, two small hotel bottles of shampoo, and floss. The razor’s edges catches the tip of her finger and dull pain throbs at the wound.
She decides to shave her legs. One last luxury before she leaves.
Mrs. Abigail soaps her legs for she does not enjoy shaving cream. The slippery mess runs up and down her stubble-sprouted legs, sending chills up and down her spine. She then takes the razor, places it in the water, shakes it, lifts it, and begins to shave. Her rhythm is specific and focused. As she shaves, she recites the final chapter of the novel by Virginia Wolfe. She has read the book so many times; the words simply drop off her tongue without a pause or blunder during the monologue.
The cake is burning downstairs. She smells the charred, sugary scent winding up the stairs.
She sighs, continuing to shave.
Mrs. Abigail turns her thoughts to Virginia Wolfe. The author who took a stone, placed it in her robe, and drowned herself.
She admires her. Mrs. Abigail feels that in some way, she is like her.
The roar is back. Louder. More persistent.
Did the river roar like this for Mrs. Wolfe? Did it take her as it was taking Mrs. Abigail? Did it call the writer the way the river calls her now, every waking and sleeping minute?
She believes so.
She picks up the razor that she had carefully set on the tub’s rim.
The first cut feels awkward yet it seems odd to her that it fails to hurt.
She cuts again, then repeats until both wrists drip with thin, red rivers.
Mrs. Abigail leans back, touching her head to the porcelain of the tub. It is painfully cold. She lies there for some time.
The burning swell becomes more pronounced, but she does not note it. Her eyes become laden. She slips under the water. Her foot, by some chance, knocks the stopper from the tub, causing it to drain.
The roar returns, but this time, it is the roar of the water as it slides over her body, battling to overtake the crimson tides that have become greater as she continues to bleed. Mrs. Abigail wonders if Virginia Wolfe ever tried to take the stone out of her robe. Ever tried to save herself.
Mrs. Abigail does not have this opportunity.
She thinks for a moment that she hears Matthew’s voice.
She thinks for a moment that she smells smoke.
She thinks for a moment that she is happy.
Then nothing.
Only a distant, dwindling roar, then the gurgle of an empting tub, then silence.
© 2011, Preston. All rights reserved.
