This is an excerpt from a story I am working on. It is obviously an extremely rough draft, since I’ve not had time to read over it a second time or third or forth, etc. (I am trying not to worry about that the first time through, because I have a habit of stopping and trying to fix things and then not finish the story.) I am just having fun with the characters, which are starting to come alive in my head. I am hoping, in time, I can get them to come alive on paper as well. I just thought, since I have nothing else to post, I’ll post this one.
Jane
July, 1966
Hanging myself is too dramatic and a gun is too messy. The best way to go about it is the bottle of sleeping pills hiding in Milly’s bedroom. I found them a few weeks ago, shuffling through her drawers for my tank – - the one she swears she didn’t borrow. “Why on earth would I wear that ugly thing? People would think I shop at the Salvation Army,” is what she said, and I couldn’t help but smirk when I found it and the prescription bottle.
I wonder if Bobby knows about the pills? Probably not. Milly’d sooner die than let anyone – -including her husband – - know she was prescribed medication by a shrink. Every other week she drives three hours to the city to see one, returning with a car load of new clothes and accessories, so no one will be the wiser, just think she’s spending money like usual.
Life, for Milly, is playing the perfect southern housewife: from fashion to decorum, which does not include shrinks and valium. She throws all night parties with endless caviar and vintage wine, stands on the committee of the most prominent social group in the town, and puts fear in the heart of any woman that disagrees with her on any subject. She does it all with a smile.
And drives me crazy.
I am not my sister. I know because my parents used to always say, “Why can’t you be more like Milly?” By the time I was twelve, I’d heard this phrase so many times my eyes nearly crossed. And I tried. I really tried! I’d cross my ankles, just like Milly. I’d wear my hair, just like Milly. I’d order the maids about with no please or thank you, just like Milly. I did this and that and everything I could think of, just like Milly. I tried so hard to be like Milly, I probably pooped like her, too.
But I never was Milly.
One night, after stealing a cigarette from my brother’s room, I snuck out to the garden to smoke. I hunched down behind the azaleas, knowing Daddy’d skin me alive if I was caught. I’d not been out there long when I heard laughing. Stubbing out the cigarette, I practically rolled beneath the bushes, especially when I realized it was Milly. She’d love to rat on me! Nothing gave my sister more pleasure than knowing she was the good daughter.
Only she wasn’t alone. Daniel Hutson walked only a few steps behind her, and every few seconds he tugged playfully at the strap of her dress. Milly laughed, keeping her voice low, “Would you stop?”
“Come on, Milly,” Daniel pulled her strap, again, but brought her back toward him and kissed her neck, “We’re alone!”
“We are never alone in this town,” she replied.
He smirked. “That’s not what you said ten minutes ago.”
“Shhh!”
He continued kissing her neck, and I probably don’t need to tell you his hands were wandering all over, too. This didn’t shock me so much. Daniel Hutson was real nice looking and captain of the football team, so he did what ever he pleased. What shocked me was that Milly didn’t seem to mind, despite her objections.
I shut my eyes. What was I supposed to do? If I came out from hiding, Milly’d know I was smoking. If I stayed there, well, I was no fan of watching the show. Luckily, I didn’t have to decide. My brother’s sudden appearance ended the liaison. “Melissa, what the hell do you think you’re doing!” he hissed, and you would’ve thought someone shot Daniel Hutson in the back.
“J-Jack…hey…uh…”
Milly appeared less spooked. “Daniel was just leaving, Jack.”
“Yeah. I bet he was,” Jack replied, peering at the two with nothing less than complete disgust. Milly brushed the hair out of her face, and Daniel Hutson shuffled back through the garden.
“Well?” my brother asked, after a moment of silence.
“Well what?” Milly placed a hand on her hip. “Don’t act self-righteous around me, Jack Parker. I know all about you and Jenny Brookes.”
Jack shook his head and started past my sister. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
Milly turned and watched Jack stalk toward the house. Jenny Brooks was apparently not much of a threat. My sister flushed, sudden worry pulling at the sides of her thin mouth. “Jack! Jack, don’t you dare!”
He kept walking. And it was here, for the first time, I saw something in my sister that frightened me. I expected her to run after Jack, to plead and beg forgiveness. I know I would’ve. Instead, Milly’s chin lifted. Her dark eyes narrowed, much like a cat ready to pounce. “Jack Parker, you breathe a word to our parents, and I’ll tell them all about you helping those Negros.”
Jack stopped cold.
“That’s right,” Milly smiled triumphantly, “I know all about what you’re doing.”
He turned. “How…how do you…?”
“It’s disgusting,” she said, “We have laws and regulations for a reason, Jack. They aren’t like us! They will never be like us.”
Jack stared. I can’t say if he was scared or angry. Maybe both. Milly smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. Whatever she knew about Jack, about what he was doing – - it was her trump card. She won.
Tucked away beneath the azaleas, it was the first time in my life I realized I didn’t want to be just like Milly. And it was right then, right there, I vowed I never would.
