Just imagine

Last week I wrote about my blushing maiden (!) foray into writing a sex scene.  Since then, I’ve wondered a lot (note that I am not analytical) how we novelists go about writing good drama if we haven’t experienced everything; theft, killing, incest - the good stuff.  After all, strong emotion is not an everyday event; most of us will never know the horror of being raped or the thrill of taking some evil bastard’s life.  

In My More Than Sister, when Glinda finds her best friend’s corpse, I wondered whether it would make a reader sad.  Then my throat closed up and my eyes started to leak.  I formatted the following chapter in full authorial mode wiping my eyes and blowing my nose.  Did that mean my personality is split?  Is this split what writers do to themselves so they can write fiction?  Is it healthy? 

What’s going on when our inner Nazi (our analytical, now’s-the-time-for-comic-relief, and-don’t-forget-plot-point #3a) holds sway over our keyboarding fingers and our feelings slosh about within our innermost innerness?  I doubt it’s “professionalism”, whatever that means; if it were, we’d all be celebrated in the New York Times Book Review.  Yeah yeah yeah I know; we’d go on writing drama even if it were a sanity-threatening sickness, but it’s just plain ole imagination at work; we know when we’re making it up; telling lies.  It’s probably cathartic.  Or maybe it just feels good.  For me, there’s never been a consideration either way; I just make up dramatic stories and otherwise live a dull, pleasant life. 

Some of us write drama better than others.  I mean us, not Stephen King and Laurie King or Martin Cruz Smith: the rest of us.  I know a woman whose romantic tale of a German refugee in the wine country made me want to fall in love and sing lieder.  A man I know fashioned a unicorn tale so compelling I finally, finally understood the anguish of a warrior returning home safe.  Can I do either of those things?  I wish.  But I can write a story of regret that makes a man cry (was that a surprise!).  And I know how it feels to suckle from a werewolf.  Just ask me. 

Maybe I’m just blowing smoke and there’s no secret to weeping or laughing while practicing the tricks of this trade; but it strikes me that imagination is odd and maybe unique to humans, although I doubt that.  And I’m forever grateful that I can plow on with the mechanics while I make up scary things from whole cloth. 

Here's Chapter Twenty-Three from Dead on Dutcher's Mountain.  Pity Sheriff McCoy his nobility!

Dead on Dutcher's Mountain
Twenty-Three
McCoy arrived at the Webster house with steaks, a kit bag, and a picture book of baby animals for Karen.  He walked into the large living room without knocking.  Hillary and Karen were on floor pillows at the fire pit.  Karen’s head was in Hillary’s lap; tears were drying as she stared into the fire.  Hillary, absorbed by the child and bent over her, seemed paler and more finely drawn than ever.  She was still giving that nervous cough, stroking Karen’s hair.  But Lord, she was a sight.  He was smiling when she became aware of his presence.

“Hello, Earl.”

“Hello, Uncle Earl.”

The girl had never called him that.  She might already have known how he felt.

The early evening became a separate reality from the awful day.  All three prepared dinner and ate quietly beside the fire.  McCoy and Hillary talked afterward.  Karen, between them, read her new book.  Conversation was desultory, but there was no sense of strain.  McCoy absorbed Hillary’s presence, her unconscious tenderness toward him, like a balm.  Her distress for her brother was controlled for Karen.  He appreciated the control as he cast about for a way to take its burden.

Karen drooped early.  Soon she was leaning on his arm, remembering from time to time to turn a page.  He let her finish a section about lambs, then picked her up to carry her to bed.  Her arms moved automatically around his neck, her head lowered to his shoulder.  Oh, yes; Brian always took her to bed like this.  She was doing what she did every night.

The phone rang while he was busy with Karen; Hillary got it.  She spoke only briefly, “thank you” and “goodbye.”  Condolences.  When the phone rang again he was sure, and he determined to disconnect it as soon as he was finished with the girl.  He tucked the last stuffed bear into the child’s bed, kissed her forehead and switched off the light.  As he reached the hallway and phone rang a third time.  He waved Hillary back and answered it.

“Webster residence.”

“Is Hillary Webster there?  This is her editor at the paper.”  It was Brad.

“She’s not taking calls.”

Fractional pause.  “Would you tell her I’m on?  It’s pretty important for her to talk to me.”

“What about?”

“We need some information about her brother.  It won’t take a minute.”

“Sit on it, Brad.”

The new pause was more than fractional.  “Who is this?”

“Sheriff McCoy.  You are not Ms. Webster’s editor.  You are not going to interview her.  If you call back, it’ll be me again who answers.”

“Now listen, McCoy; it’s the public’s right...”

“That’s crap.” 

“Have it your way.”

“Right.”  He was fuming.  He pulled the plug.  “Where are the other phones, Hill?”

“Kitchen, my bedroom, Bri’s, the study.”  McCoy pulled them all in a full circuit of the house.  She hadn’t mentioned the extension he found in the garage.  When he returned, Hillary handed him a snifter of brandy and patted the cushion beside her.  She was amused.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know, Earl.  I’m sorry.”

“That sleazy ghoul wanted to interview you, for the love of God.”

“He wanted to earlier, too, at the hospital.”

“He did?”  McCoy eased himself onto the cushion and stretched his legs.

“He’s a type I know.  He surprised me this morning, though.  He found the emergency room lounge for me and even bought me coffee from the machine.”

“Probably after he asked for a statement.”

“I sicced him onto you for a photo of Voerst.”

McCoy snorted.  “You did that?”  He tasted the brandy.  “I thought it was his own idea.”

“You don’t give me enough credit.”

“For being devious?”

“Sure.”

She was drinking red wine.  McCoy watched her throat work and the delicate curve of her arm and wrist.  He leaned onto his elbows and placed his feet nearer to the fire.  She smelled good and she was so near he heard her breathe.  She set down her glass, twisting away from him and showing the line of her shoulder and breast against the firelight.  Life.  Just as you got bored it started playing games and you were either angry or worried or happy.  Or all three, like now.  More than anything he wanted to pull Hillary onto himself and just feel her body warm and solid against his.  Then he wanted to stroke that face and make love to her all night.  She kicked off her shoes, and the line of her legs glowed against the dark of the rest of the room.  She was still clearing her throat, busy not coughing, still tightly strung and not aware of it.  Hillary, brandy by firelight, a long evening; McCoy let himself fantasize.

She turned toward him, half reclining, her weight on one elbow.  “It was Jessica Gunderson on the phone before, and Rosalie before that.  I’m going up there for dinner tomorrow.”   Her fingers plucked at the carpet, twitching swiftly.

“Good idea.”

“Yes.  Rosalie’s a good, chatty lady.  Lewellyn and Karl will be there, and we can just relax.”

“Karl?”  McCoy brain resumed its anxious buzz about life.  He’d have a man up there to watch tomorrow night.

“Yes, Karl.  Why?” 

Her eyes were watching his mouth, and his lips just didn’t want to work.  “I don’t think I want to say it again, Hill.” 

Now her eyes were measuring his own, back and forth, then to his mouth again.  “Are you jealous, Earl?”

“Are you being arch?  No, I’m not possessive about you.  But you won’t believe that.”

“Of course I won’t.  I have my ego to consider.”

Her eyes moved to his hand, the one holding the snifter.  Nervously he finished the brandy.  When the glass was set aside, he didn’t know what to do with the hand.  She continued to watch it, then shifted her gaze along his arm to his shoulder.  He reached for the snifter, lifted it again, found it empty and set it down.
“Why are you fidgeting, Earl?”  She was teasing. 

He took his time about answering and felt everything in him damp down to a steady flame.  She was nervy, strained, but beautiful and gentle and finally he knew he had always loved her. “I’m trying not to make love to you, Hillary.  I don’t want to do that.”  Hillary colored deeply, looked away, drew a shaky breath.  She said nothing.  “I’m sorry, Hill.  You asked.”

There were tears on her face.  McCoy’s flame sputtered and scattered to his trembling fingers and heated his face and neck.  “Hill, I’m really sorry.  The last thing I want to do is embarrass you, or hurt you any worse.  I’m just not thinking straight these days.”

“I guess not,” she said quietly.  “You make it sound like lovemaking would take advantage of me.  There might have been consolation in it, from an old friend.”  She rose, standing and unsmiling.  “We are at least that, aren’t we?”

“Oh Christ, Hillary.”  He rose too, grabbed her wrist as she turned to retreat.  “All I was saying is that I don’t want to impose on you.  I want to help you get through this rotten time in one piece.  Let me.  Please.”

Something flared from Hillary which had been hidden even from McCoy.  All her tense grief solidified and turned her gem-bright, glowing with crazy hysteria.  “Do you really want to help me, Earl?” she challenged him.  “Beyond your pro-forma presence and our pleasant chat?  Feel my pulse; no, here at my throat.  Take a look at my eyes, my pupils.  You’re an MD; I’m an ambulatory explosion.  Pills won’t help, they’ll just give it more time to chew away at my guts.  No, keep your hand on my throat.  Touch me.  It’s a ground to drain some this scream I’m not screaming.”  She caught her breath.  Shaken, he held his hand to her face and she spoke tautly, clutching his fingers against her cheek. 

“I left an insurrection and its filthy, murderous aftermath a few months ago; then dengue fever ended my career.  Two days ago I became a mother.  Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, I’ll learn whether Brian will ever walk or even live, and whether I’ll lose my only remaining family.”  She lowered his hand, but now would not look at his face.  “Or maybe I won’t learn tomorrow.  Maybe not even the day after, or for months.  I’ve got to function until it’s safe, until I learn, and take care of that girl in there while she mourns for her mother and father.”  Her words slowed.  “Yes, stroke my hair.  Touch my face.  Oh God let me touch you, Earl, I need it so badly.  Let me have that from you.” 

Her eyes went shut and she trembled so hard there was nothing else for McCoy to do but put his arms around her.  Then it wasn’t a question of morale or friendship or love.  He wanted her; he was taking her.  Her hands were on his chest, then his back, and her mouth was on his, then she was begging him to hold her more tightly, to kiss yes her eyes, her face, her mouth, her throat.   Her body thrust fully against him.  His hands found buttons, zippers, breasts.  He stopped his mouth at her belly.  He was taking the woman he wanted, but she was crazy with grief; didn’t fully know what she was doing.  He rose and stepped back.

Hillary froze.  “God!  God my God oh God...”  She ran into the hall toward her room.  It took all of McCoy’s professional ability to minister to her, to sedate her, to get her through the night with some shred of her self-respect.  By morning he wondered whether he had made a mistake.