THG 3 – Ch 15 – Sorry, Wrong Girl

Today I re-read THG3 1 as it sits in the can and decided the heck with it, here it comes, a chapter a day, slop and all. Duck.

Following in the “style” auditions thought, I tried out some epistolary as this all occurred before cell phones. There are a few times in THG 3 where, over three years, letters and packages play a part. But not, as I once envisioned, making up the bulk of it because I was lazy and after all one need research far less if the content is parked in letters home. I find the format confining and demanding, although it is how many famous historical relationships flourished and thrived. As a child of the second half of the 20th Century I folded. Too much work. Voices in dialogue, fine. Too many overeducated people in this tome for me to write all that properly.

Cambridge, U.K., May 1979

Dear Mom, (and Daddy). I can hear Amanda saying “Mother and Father. You are through with baby words, young lady.”

I’m sorry I don’t write as often as I thought I would. I write all the time, just not letters. ALL the time. Cat and Merriam and I worked it out that we use forty-two hours a day, between us. That’s girl hours for studying in one flat, on one day, in Cambridge. I always said school was school and I could handle it, but I never thought it could be like this. It’s the middle of Easter term and that means nothing because it seems like my individual studies run on forever, beyond the limits of term. Some days I feel they run on beyond my own limits. And the weather is miserable again for May.  I can see my breath.

I have finally had to take a few days off, that’s why I’m writing. The days off are because I had to go to the infirmary after an incident at the Red Door. That’s a pub. It’s not far away and kind of small and the food isn’t really food but nasty mush in a chicken pot pie crust with fat French fries and not very cold beer. You would say it was quaint, and tolerable if it was all there was and you hadn’t eaten in a week. Not like that gross shack where Jax took us all to eat monster barbecue when Doug had to get married and you didn’t want to get out of the car. I know you made dad get a map to that place from Jax after.

I don’t know how the infirmary works. I didn’t have to pay them anything, but if they send you a bill or something you’ll know it was me and I really went. It was all because I sent some letters and they came back after too long and I sort of lost it. You know me and beer and everything.

I’m studying things I’ve studied before, only in a different way. How they make us think about things, how they think about them. English literature. Where I am now it happened all around me. But it seems like a lot of people over here don’t even know what they have. First you have to be a Royalist, or not, then you can have a discussion. If you think the Queen is cool, then you hang out over here, and if you don’t you hang out over there and if you’re an anarchist or a socialist  you go somewhere else. If you’re an American and don’t care you have to say that out loud. So I have to say, “I don’t care about your bloody monarchy,” then they go “Oh the Yank lass, she’s alright,” and I can sit anywhere. Weird.

I miss you. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. All of the things I used to have. The little things I complained about I shouldn’t have. I have a sort of friend. He’s a not yet priest, or not yet Vicar I guess, and he told me I should face my darkest shadows with the most ferocity and that meant tell everyone I loved that I loved them instead of not wanting them to love me because it felt like this super monstrous responsibility and I just couldn’t be who they loved all the time. He said people who really loved me didn’t have those expectations or something. I couldn’t listen to him after a while because it took him forever to not be able to unscrew my furniture from the floor. So I love you, Mom. And Daddy, too. And even Doug. I’m sorry I’m such a big mess all the time.

If you ever talk to Mom Anne, if she knows, or you know, or if even Amanda knows where Jackson is, please tell them to tell him to write to me, or tell me where he is. I know I say the same things every time, but all I do is go to school.

Your Loving Daughter (really), Deanna

My Only Deanna,

I love you. I miss you. I worry constantly. I will never understand how you think or how you feel or how you imagine others feel but thank you, at long last, for trying. I sense there is more to “incident at a pub” and the infirmary and a few days off than you and your inability to drink beer. All I can say is please take care of yourself and let us us know how you are as often as time allows. Even the smallest notes mean so much.

I love you, and so does your “father” because you are part of us, not because we have to, or because you have to be a certain way for us. We were so lucky that you were beautiful and healthy and yes, more than a handful at times. Unlike Douglas who was a disaster from the moment of his birth. A physical, smart troublemaker always looking to shake things up. You were our perfectionist thinker with that smart troublemaker gene who wanted to shake things up the right way, who lost her heart somewhere and never told anyone how or why or what we could do to help you find it. Except my mother and she is gone. Yes, you have exerted your brand of mess as well as your brother. It’s different for girls. I know you want to change that entire scenario, but please, for all our sakes, remember how dangerous it is to be a female, even a smart one.

No one hears much from Jackson, including his mother. Anne told me that he had mentioned to her some time ago about possibly finishing school in California, possibly with you. That was the first I had heard of it. You are a long way from school in California, and as far as anyone knows, so is Jackson.

It would be in your best interest to apologize to your Ms. Morisé before inquiring anything of her. Anne and I had lunch with her not long ago and as your brother would say, “She’s not a happy camper.” You should send Doug a note, too. Your sister-in-law is pregnant again. Again! Write or call, any time. I miss you with everything I am.

Love,
Mom

Dear Mom Anne,

I never thanked you for the gloves you sent me in that box with some other clothes from my mom. They’re the only ones I have and I wear them all the time. I never said anything because I was afraid of how you probably feel about me now. I look at everything back home and it’s all a giant, fucked up mess. Everyone is mad. Some are even hateful. I never understood what you meant by that word until now, about how people could be that way. Here I am in England and there’s nothing I can do about any of it. I hope you, of all the people I know, might get how I feel.

Mom said you told her you hear from Jackson less than I write to her. I know that’s my fault. I sent him some letters and they came back and I don’t know why I thought he’d get them anyway. His apartment was empty except for a box of my things. He did send me a Valentine’s rose but his note just said he’d missed enrolling in California. I didn’t know he would do that, go that far away, without saying something. If he doesn’t want to talk to me at all, ever again, I understand. But I need to talk to him. If I send you something for him, can you see that he gets it? Or if you know where he is can you tell me? I need to know he’s OK. And he needs to know that he promised.

Love,
Deanna

Angel,

Jackson calls me to say that he is alive, once every three weeks or so, usually on Sundays. I know he isn’t sick or dead or in jail and that is the best I can hope for and all I have to share. You know as much as I do now. I am not sure if you know that he left a box of his junk in the middle of the garage when he discovered you were going to England, and immediately drove to New Mexico where I was told that someone working for Amanda Morisé found him, half dead and “out of it,” 75 miles from where his car was parked. I have asked for more details but that is all I was told. I believe Amanda knows more than she tells me, I am sure her thinking is that I am better off not knowing. She obviously doesn’t have children. I say that and in truth she has two. You and my son. God knows why, of all the kids in the world, she picked you two.

The last time Jax called he claimed he had left New Mexico and is living in an old, concrete block gas station on the edge of Las Vegas, and playing piano in a run down motel frequented by a colorful cast of criminals. He said he found it “poetically amusing.” His proclaimed intention is to register for school at USC in Los Angeles for the fall semester. If he is in school he will need to have an address to register, then we will all know where he is. If I knew how to contact him I would give you his information, and between us we might both piece together a straight story. But you know my son. He would find a way to weave a tale full of innuendo and vague analogies that would leave us scratching our heads.

Deanna, some things last and other’s don’t. Do what you need to do for yourself, as a woman. Don’t weigh yourself down with what anyone, even my son, thinks of you or what you’re doing. I ran away twice in my life. Once from home and once from a man. It wasn’t any fun either time, but I had to do it. If you come home, come see me. If you need someone where you can say whatever you want, whenever you want, you have my number. I am here. You are my third child, Angel, and I love you. Take care of yourself. We never know what we’re made of until we are forced to find out.

Best always,
Love, Mom Anne

Mom Anne didn’t understand, either. Well, maybe a little. Where was he? Some old gas station in Las Vegas? That had to be a lie. He has to wait, like he said he would. Really. Had to tell him she knew he was upset and she blew it again. Had to know he was okay, that was the big one. Half dead and out of it? That didn’t help. At all. No one understood.

Cambridge, U.K., Mid May 1979

Ms. Amber Free, Ms. Beverly Sealy, Ms. Stacey Skillern
C/O C.A. Morisè
1700 Oilman’s Bank Tower

Dear Ladies of Morisé,

I’m sending this to all three of you. As first my apology for leaving without telling any of you. I understand from my mother there is a big ol’ box of my behavior in the library with “BITCH” written on it in giant letters. I don’t understand myself how everything happened. All I can do is ask for a truce and for all of you to put that somewhere and break it out when I come home. Second, right now and really important, is for you to PLEASE help me. Anne Jackson said someone from there found Jackson, my Jackson, half dead and out of it in the desert, but that he survived and is now missing until he crawls out of wherever he is and calls his mom. I know he and Amanda have something between them, and she wouldn’t just let him go die somewhere being stupid. So please, I’m sorry about everything, but you have to tell me who found him and where he is and how I can talk to him. I have to know he’s okay. I know you’re all mad but he was a big part of what we did and Amanda loves him even when she hates him and you guys know that, too.

Thank you,
Deanna (D.C.) Collings

She received three individual returns in one envelope. The first she opened was on silver embossed and bordered linen Morisé stationary, wow…

Ms. Deanna Collings,

Those of us at C.A. Morisé who were involved, and participated with you in the now closed D.C. Collings project, were all saddened by your sudden departure. Unfortunately, we are unable to assist you further with any inquiries save those related to your materials as outlined in the Mutuality of Use contract. Requests for copies of those materials may be submitted and will be processed in a timely manner.

It is the genuine wish of everyone at C.A. Morisé that your personal, academic and professional endeavors are successful, and that they will bring you the satisfaction you desire.

Sincerely,
Amber Free, Esq.,
Vice President, Legal – C.A. Morisé

Vice President? Legal? No wonder it was so…She opened a card with DaVinci looking flowers on the front, the inside filled in longhand.

Hot Stuff –
You’re right. You really pissed everyone off. Now you want to us to use our resources to help you find your old boyfriend? Personally, I could wring both your necks and slap your faces for your shit behavior. I watched a beautiful, caring woman fall apart in my living room because of you. Before anyone here will ever begin to forgive you as you requested, or consider helping you in any way, you need to find a way to tell Amanda you’re sorry, not us. You could have left us, you could have quit, you could have stuck a knife in all of us, fucked us all over completely. But you should have at least had the courtesy to let Amanda know what was up. She gave you all she had and backed you with everything at her disposal, including us. She made you the shitty little superstar you thought you were. She hung a dream on you, and you couldn’t bother to say, “Sorry, wrong girl?”

Save the stamp, don’t bother to write us again or I’ll be forced to tell you what a shit for nothing little bitch I think you are like I mean it. Duh, genius superstar, I got married before you left.

For all the “Ladies” of Morisé
Beverly Deflande

On a blank front C.A. Morisé all purpose card from Public Relations, in school teachery cartoonist printing

DC –

I asked Glenn if he’d heard from Jackson. He said “no.” I believe him. For some reason he and Marcus think the world of that little Bozo. They say some days Jackson was like an air purifier for their brains. When everyone else tried to make something impossible, Jackson could make it simple. Brought it on home. Took it to ‘choich’. They also say Glenn and I are his doing. I am hesitant to believe either of those tales. However, he always found a way to bring you home when you got too deep in your own bullshit. Glenn and I, maybe there’s something to his and Amber’s “colored bubbles” and music nonsense.

I asked the man who might be my future husband for a favor for someone I didn’t think deserved it because my mother had a sign over the front door we had to read every time we went outside. “There are no exceptions to the Golden Rule”. If mom were still around I could tell her no matter what the sign said, I’ve met some possible exceptions, and you would be close to the top of the list.

You could have done the right thing and put this Mission Impossible adventure of yours on the table in front of Amanda. You could have told her to stay out of it, that you had to do it your way. Told her it was coming, not done it behind her back. She would have understood and probably underwritten the whole thing.

The worst part for me is that I’m the one who signed off on your back door reference letter request. Do you know what that feels like? Being betrayed and betraying as a result? No, I doubt that you do. I hope you come to it, sooner than later. The truth that no one will speak around here is Morisé needs you. Both of you. Warning. Come back with your shit together, or stay gone.

Stace

“Shit together.” Right now, everything fucked up and sideways, just “together” would be okay. Just a word. Not today. Deanna dropped the cards in the big black bag under the sink, fuck the save the planet people, fuck recycling, fuck everything. There was no home anymore. There was no life. There was only sixteen to eighteen hours a day of Cambridge. Except on the days when there were twenty.

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Published by

Phil Huston

https://philh52.wordpress.com/

5 thoughts on “THG 3 – Ch 15 – Sorry, Wrong Girl”

  1. No need to “duck” – in my opinion, as an experienced reader, this is great drama, underline great. Once I started reading the letters and “saw” the parts that had been missing before, a lot came together and Deanna became much more “human”. Thanks for the good read and entertainment also.

    Like

  2. Epistolary works well for you.
    And you do seem to be able to enter a young lady’s mind. (As well as her mother’s and her beau’s mother’s.)
    Stacked together, maybe it works if you portray that the letters all arrived in a bundle, entwined and mottled with tea stains.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ha! Clever, but this costume drama is a few years too late. Perfect for the whole epistolary style though. “Look what I found in an old trunk in the hayloft.” More on (moron?) the ribbon, Jackson is about to get a Paul Revere ponytail.

      Liked by 1 person

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