The Betrothed
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 24
Darrick sat on the couch in the common room of Angela Bowen’s Boarding House, idly twirling a beer in one hand and a pen in the other, one eye on the TV and the other on the blank notebook on his lap. He wanted to look as though he was writing, but he had found that all that was necessary to maintain that illusion was to chew on his pen and make a few introspective noises at irregular intervals. The fact that his page was blank fit his story of being an eccentric author; should anyone ask, he would respond that he was awaiting his muse, and that the beer and television were there for inspiration. Beer would serve as a poor-man’s substitute for absinthe, and the television added the perfect postmodernist touch.
Of course, the real reason the TV was on was that he was bored; he was hoping that the beer would also help with that situation. Abby was out shopping with Angela, and that left Darrick with very little to do in their sparsely-furnished room on the second story of Ms. Bowen’s establishment, an old six-bedroom domicile in the Inman Park neighborhood of Atlanta. It was the kind of place invariably described in real-estate listings as “charming”, and Angela had decorated the common room in such a manner as to only encourage such platitudes. Living there was pleasant enough, though it might not have been Darrick’s first choice in other circumstances, but they had chosen it because it seemed as though it would attract the kind of people who would accept a few idiosyncrasies in their housemates, and given their circumstances, Darrick and Abby both knew that they could never pass for a completely normal couple. And that had proven to be more or less true; Darrick and Abby had found their own niche quickly enough, and uncomfortable questions were few and far between. No one had objected when Darrick had positioned himself as an author, the kind of job he felt could best explain their steady supply of funds as well as his utter lack of a work schedule. He couldn’t help but wonder if he were doing a disservice to real writers, but if playing on the stereotypes would keep their lives peaceful and – most important – below the radar, he was willing to risk it.
Casting another glance downwards at the blank page teetering on his leg, Darrick reflected that it was fortunate that his “work” was only a sham; he felt too restless today to apply himself to anything so concentration-intensive as composition. His thoughts jumped around from one subject to another, seemingly unable to alight on any one for very long. Taking the remote control, he flipped rapidly through the channels, the clicking of the buttons in time with the up-and-down jiggling of his knee, an unconscious echo of his racing mind. Nothing he saw interested him, nothing could catch his attention. Five hundred channels, he thought, and there really is nothing on worth watching. God, I want something to do! He tossed the remote down in disgust, leaving the television on some cable news channel. He took another swig of beer, finishing off the bottle, and was preparing to stand up and pace around the room when a rough voice interrupted his agitation.
“So whaddya think of this whole Korea thing?”
Darrick jumped as Jimmy McDonal, a fellow boarder, sat down on the easy chair to Darrick’s right. Jimmy was an older man, very country in both voice and habits. His skin was tanned and wrinkled from what Darrick assumed was a life working in the fields, though some of the wrinkles could be explained by the nicotine stains on his fingers. Angela Bowen was very strict about smoking indoors, though, so Jimmy had converted over to chewing tobacco, and never seemed far from a spit-cup, a habit Angela tolerated so long as he was certain to never miss. To Darrick’s surprise, Jimmy had taken a shine to him, chatting him up whenever they were in the common room together, which was often, as Jimmy was living on his pension and therefore had no job to keep him occupied.
“Um, what?” Darrick responded, having some difficulty placing Jimmy’s question in context. Jimmy waved at the television.
“You’re the one watching the news, son,” he said. “I try to avoid it, but goddamn if you can’t get away from it nowadays.”
Darrick blinked and looked, paying more attention this time. The headline read North Korea Masses Forces on Border. Darrick vaguely remembered hearing something about some diplomatic crisis earlier that week, but he hadn’t been paying much attention; that was about the same time his annoying restlessness had started building.
“I think that you guys were supposed to have taken care of this sixty years ago,” Darrick said, and Jimmy laughed, then coughed.
“You’re picking up a smart mouth from that wife of yours, Darrick,” Jimmy said in mock reprimand. “It wasn’t easy, y’know. Those guys were crazy, and the ones they have in charge now are even crazier.”
“Do you think they’ll do anything?” Darrick asked, feeling a burst of sudden alarm. Jimmy shrugged.
“Eh, who knows? They’ve been wanting to start something ever since we stopped ‘em last time, but all they ever do is bluster. Why would it be any different now?” He leaned back in the chair and flipped up the leg rest. “I’m getting too old now to care. They’ll not send me over again. Worrying about stuff is for young men, like you.”
You have no idea, Darrick thought. Sometimes Darrick felt like all he did was worry. Worry about being found by the Atlanteans, worry about what would happen if they were. Worry if Abby was really as happy and content as she claimed to be. That last one was particularly persistent. Darrick knew she was accustomed to a lavish lifestyle. How could she be happy renting a room in a boarding house hundreds of miles away from her family and the life she had always expected to live? Sure, she had lived away from it before, but that had been wholly her own choosing. What if he had pushed her into this? What if she resented him? What if—
“Didn’t mean to scare you there,” Jimmy said, and Darrick realized that he had once again gotten caught up in his own thoughts. He shook his head, partly in response to Jimmy’s assumption and partly just to clear it.
“Sorry,” he said, “that’s not it. I was just thinking.”
“Nothing good, by the look of you,” Jimmy said, too astutely for Darrick’s comfort. “Are you okay?”
“I need to stand up,” Darrick mumbled, mainly to himself. “I think I need some fresh air.” He matched action to words, nearly tossing the decoy notebook to the floor in his haste, catching it only at the last moment and slipping it under his arm, regretting the time it took to do so. He waved a goodbye to Jimmy and was nearly out the front door when he all but ran directly into Carmen Moraz, who responded to the near-collision with a flirtatious smile.
“Now, Darrick,” she purred, “you know that if you want to get closer, all you have to do is ask.” The look in her eyes let him know exactly what he would get if he did ask. Carmen was a very attractive woman only a couple of years Darrick’s senior, and her comment made his heart beat even faster than it already was. Rather than excited, though, Darrick felt annoyance. The woman just wouldn’t accept the fact that he was quite happily married; indeed, she seemed to see it as a challenge.
“The only person I’m asking is my wife,” he said flatly, and skirted around her as best he could; she certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Just like sleeping, he thought. There were many nights Abby caught a fit of the giggles listening to Carmen in the next room over; Darrick wasn’t convinced that her exaggerated noises weren’t at least partially for his benefit. There were several mornings-after he had caught Carmen casting surreptitious glances in his direction, attempting to gauge his reactions. Abby had called him paranoid when he had told her, probably because he had not told her of Carmen’s more forward approaches. No reason to concern her over a possibility which would never materialize; Darrick knew he would never accept Carmen’s offers.
This time, Carmen seemed content to let him pass with no more trouble, and Darrick made his way out to the street. The chill of a winter afternoon hit him like a brick wall, even here in Atlanta, and Darrick wished he had taken the time to grab his jacket. Not worth it to go back now. Walking will warm me up anyway.
He strode through the neighborhood, streets shaded by old, gnarled trees and lined by old, ivy-grown houses. He and Abby had spent many hours walking the brick sidewalks and enjoying the scenery, admiring the old houses, some of which dated back a century. It made for a nice, relaxing afternoon stroll, usually capped off by sitting by the duck pond in one of the small parks that dotted the roadsides. Today, though, Darrick’s goal was different – instead of a nice stroll, Darrick strode along at a rapid pace, eating two or more feet of distance with each step, eyes tilted downwards to the cracks in the bricks below him. Thoughts and worries about Abby and Carmen jumbled together, and in the back of his mind, ever-present, Cynthia and John and Jessica and Anthony and Richard and Meredith and Patrick and everyone else they had left behind half a year ago. Darrick missed his parents greatly, and knew that Abby missed hers as well, not to mention the friends with which they had also severed contact. Were they looking for them? Had they left any clues behind? Were they hot on their trail? And the question that never left his mind, but which he was afraid to consider: Had they made the right decision?
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 24
Six Months Later . . .
Darrick sat on the couch in the common room of Angela Bowen’s Boarding House, idly twirling a beer in one hand and a pen in the other, one eye on the TV and the other on the blank notebook on his lap. He wanted to look as though he was writing, but he had found that all that was necessary to maintain that illusion was to chew on his pen and make a few introspective noises at irregular intervals. The fact that his page was blank fit his story of being an eccentric author; should anyone ask, he would respond that he was awaiting his muse, and that the beer and television were there for inspiration. Beer would serve as a poor-man’s substitute for absinthe, and the television added the perfect postmodernist touch.
Of course, the real reason the TV was on was that he was bored; he was hoping that the beer would also help with that situation. Abby was out shopping with Angela, and that left Darrick with very little to do in their sparsely-furnished room on the second story of Ms. Bowen’s establishment, an old six-bedroom domicile in the Inman Park neighborhood of Atlanta. It was the kind of place invariably described in real-estate listings as “charming”, and Angela had decorated the common room in such a manner as to only encourage such platitudes. Living there was pleasant enough, though it might not have been Darrick’s first choice in other circumstances, but they had chosen it because it seemed as though it would attract the kind of people who would accept a few idiosyncrasies in their housemates, and given their circumstances, Darrick and Abby both knew that they could never pass for a completely normal couple. And that had proven to be more or less true; Darrick and Abby had found their own niche quickly enough, and uncomfortable questions were few and far between. No one had objected when Darrick had positioned himself as an author, the kind of job he felt could best explain their steady supply of funds as well as his utter lack of a work schedule. He couldn’t help but wonder if he were doing a disservice to real writers, but if playing on the stereotypes would keep their lives peaceful and – most important – below the radar, he was willing to risk it.
Casting another glance downwards at the blank page teetering on his leg, Darrick reflected that it was fortunate that his “work” was only a sham; he felt too restless today to apply himself to anything so concentration-intensive as composition. His thoughts jumped around from one subject to another, seemingly unable to alight on any one for very long. Taking the remote control, he flipped rapidly through the channels, the clicking of the buttons in time with the up-and-down jiggling of his knee, an unconscious echo of his racing mind. Nothing he saw interested him, nothing could catch his attention. Five hundred channels, he thought, and there really is nothing on worth watching. God, I want something to do! He tossed the remote down in disgust, leaving the television on some cable news channel. He took another swig of beer, finishing off the bottle, and was preparing to stand up and pace around the room when a rough voice interrupted his agitation.
“So whaddya think of this whole Korea thing?”
Darrick jumped as Jimmy McDonal, a fellow boarder, sat down on the easy chair to Darrick’s right. Jimmy was an older man, very country in both voice and habits. His skin was tanned and wrinkled from what Darrick assumed was a life working in the fields, though some of the wrinkles could be explained by the nicotine stains on his fingers. Angela Bowen was very strict about smoking indoors, though, so Jimmy had converted over to chewing tobacco, and never seemed far from a spit-cup, a habit Angela tolerated so long as he was certain to never miss. To Darrick’s surprise, Jimmy had taken a shine to him, chatting him up whenever they were in the common room together, which was often, as Jimmy was living on his pension and therefore had no job to keep him occupied.
“Um, what?” Darrick responded, having some difficulty placing Jimmy’s question in context. Jimmy waved at the television.
“You’re the one watching the news, son,” he said. “I try to avoid it, but goddamn if you can’t get away from it nowadays.”
Darrick blinked and looked, paying more attention this time. The headline read North Korea Masses Forces on Border. Darrick vaguely remembered hearing something about some diplomatic crisis earlier that week, but he hadn’t been paying much attention; that was about the same time his annoying restlessness had started building.
“I think that you guys were supposed to have taken care of this sixty years ago,” Darrick said, and Jimmy laughed, then coughed.
“You’re picking up a smart mouth from that wife of yours, Darrick,” Jimmy said in mock reprimand. “It wasn’t easy, y’know. Those guys were crazy, and the ones they have in charge now are even crazier.”
“Do you think they’ll do anything?” Darrick asked, feeling a burst of sudden alarm. Jimmy shrugged.
“Eh, who knows? They’ve been wanting to start something ever since we stopped ‘em last time, but all they ever do is bluster. Why would it be any different now?” He leaned back in the chair and flipped up the leg rest. “I’m getting too old now to care. They’ll not send me over again. Worrying about stuff is for young men, like you.”
You have no idea, Darrick thought. Sometimes Darrick felt like all he did was worry. Worry about being found by the Atlanteans, worry about what would happen if they were. Worry if Abby was really as happy and content as she claimed to be. That last one was particularly persistent. Darrick knew she was accustomed to a lavish lifestyle. How could she be happy renting a room in a boarding house hundreds of miles away from her family and the life she had always expected to live? Sure, she had lived away from it before, but that had been wholly her own choosing. What if he had pushed her into this? What if she resented him? What if—
“Didn’t mean to scare you there,” Jimmy said, and Darrick realized that he had once again gotten caught up in his own thoughts. He shook his head, partly in response to Jimmy’s assumption and partly just to clear it.
“Sorry,” he said, “that’s not it. I was just thinking.”
“Nothing good, by the look of you,” Jimmy said, too astutely for Darrick’s comfort. “Are you okay?”
“I need to stand up,” Darrick mumbled, mainly to himself. “I think I need some fresh air.” He matched action to words, nearly tossing the decoy notebook to the floor in his haste, catching it only at the last moment and slipping it under his arm, regretting the time it took to do so. He waved a goodbye to Jimmy and was nearly out the front door when he all but ran directly into Carmen Moraz, who responded to the near-collision with a flirtatious smile.
“Now, Darrick,” she purred, “you know that if you want to get closer, all you have to do is ask.” The look in her eyes let him know exactly what he would get if he did ask. Carmen was a very attractive woman only a couple of years Darrick’s senior, and her comment made his heart beat even faster than it already was. Rather than excited, though, Darrick felt annoyance. The woman just wouldn’t accept the fact that he was quite happily married; indeed, she seemed to see it as a challenge.
“The only person I’m asking is my wife,” he said flatly, and skirted around her as best he could; she certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Just like sleeping, he thought. There were many nights Abby caught a fit of the giggles listening to Carmen in the next room over; Darrick wasn’t convinced that her exaggerated noises weren’t at least partially for his benefit. There were several mornings-after he had caught Carmen casting surreptitious glances in his direction, attempting to gauge his reactions. Abby had called him paranoid when he had told her, probably because he had not told her of Carmen’s more forward approaches. No reason to concern her over a possibility which would never materialize; Darrick knew he would never accept Carmen’s offers.
This time, Carmen seemed content to let him pass with no more trouble, and Darrick made his way out to the street. The chill of a winter afternoon hit him like a brick wall, even here in Atlanta, and Darrick wished he had taken the time to grab his jacket. Not worth it to go back now. Walking will warm me up anyway.
He strode through the neighborhood, streets shaded by old, gnarled trees and lined by old, ivy-grown houses. He and Abby had spent many hours walking the brick sidewalks and enjoying the scenery, admiring the old houses, some of which dated back a century. It made for a nice, relaxing afternoon stroll, usually capped off by sitting by the duck pond in one of the small parks that dotted the roadsides. Today, though, Darrick’s goal was different – instead of a nice stroll, Darrick strode along at a rapid pace, eating two or more feet of distance with each step, eyes tilted downwards to the cracks in the bricks below him. Thoughts and worries about Abby and Carmen jumbled together, and in the back of his mind, ever-present, Cynthia and John and Jessica and Anthony and Richard and Meredith and Patrick and everyone else they had left behind half a year ago. Darrick missed his parents greatly, and knew that Abby missed hers as well, not to mention the friends with which they had also severed contact. Were they looking for them? Had they left any clues behind? Were they hot on their trail? And the question that never left his mind, but which he was afraid to consider: Had they made the right decision?
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