Beginning of Chapter 1, Untitled
Posted: Mon May 23, 2005 12:52 am
This was a day a man had every reason to pull out a lawn chair.
This was the type of day lemonade was invented for, the type that gave every child in the neighborhood a good lashing of sunburnt shoulders. Especially Maria, who stood almost four feet when her back was straight (more than five with arms reaching), with bright blue eyes and hair nearly to her ankles, had a rash on the back of her neck.
Of course, this recent collar irritation could be blamed on her love for bobby pins and pony tails, which exposed the skin. But that thought never actually occured to her. Even if it had, she would have put her hair up anyway, for this morning in the mirror it looked even more horrendous to her than yesterday. Long, straight hair always dangles funny.
The sun silhouetted each leaf overlapping another. Out in the shadows of the overlapping leaves Maria sat on a branch, busy discovering the blessings to both her curses: first that when wet, a pony tail doubles as a weapon, and second that peeling skin is like fine tissue bubble wrap - all the curiosity of a scab, with none of the pain.
A pale old gentleman's grey eyes laughed as they fixed on his grandaughter in the shade. He recalled one rainy day last summer as Maria was peeling a banana. It was cold and wet; straight from the fridge. She paused with a blank grey stare and took hold of his hand, studying carefully. Then she informed her Papa that he must be too ripe.
He watched from his study with the blinds pulled up and the window cracked. He realized all he had to peel were scabs and brown patches. With that thought the grey eyes twitched and burned.
"It seems summer days bring the worst temptations," he thought to himself, as he looked at his lawn chair, collecting dust in the corner. Deep down he knew he couldn't actually sit in the sun for long.
The house Maria and her grandfather lived in was old and brick. It had been standing close to 110 years now, three floors in all, with the large glass door painted blue, and the back siding painted white. In traditional Victorian-era style it had 14-foot ceilings, and larg thin windows. One thing was missing, though, which every other house in the neighborhood had: a wrap-around porch. It was a shame - the three lonely cement stairs to the front door only had one iron rail to keep them company. There should be some shade.
This was the gentleman's fifth year with a severe skin cancer, and he was growing more and more impatient. The doctor had told him to stay indoors, but he read elsewhere that it took 20 years for skin cancer to actually develop from sunburn.
Wearing layers of clothing had already been tried, and dehydrated him. Of course, an umbrella or tent overhang would have been sufficient. But that thought never actually occured to him. Even if it did, he wouldn't have paid the money. Those home improvement stores are always out to get you.
In the house the man was in a hot debate with the window. "At a ripe old age of 78, what is 20 years? If I wanted a donut, or a cigarette, doc wouldn't object to that." The old man chose to ignore the fact that "doc" was a dermatologist. "Shit, I'm entitled-"
Before he could finish his thought, the door clunked twice.
This was the type of day lemonade was invented for, the type that gave every child in the neighborhood a good lashing of sunburnt shoulders. Especially Maria, who stood almost four feet when her back was straight (more than five with arms reaching), with bright blue eyes and hair nearly to her ankles, had a rash on the back of her neck.
Of course, this recent collar irritation could be blamed on her love for bobby pins and pony tails, which exposed the skin. But that thought never actually occured to her. Even if it had, she would have put her hair up anyway, for this morning in the mirror it looked even more horrendous to her than yesterday. Long, straight hair always dangles funny.
The sun silhouetted each leaf overlapping another. Out in the shadows of the overlapping leaves Maria sat on a branch, busy discovering the blessings to both her curses: first that when wet, a pony tail doubles as a weapon, and second that peeling skin is like fine tissue bubble wrap - all the curiosity of a scab, with none of the pain.
A pale old gentleman's grey eyes laughed as they fixed on his grandaughter in the shade. He recalled one rainy day last summer as Maria was peeling a banana. It was cold and wet; straight from the fridge. She paused with a blank grey stare and took hold of his hand, studying carefully. Then she informed her Papa that he must be too ripe.
He watched from his study with the blinds pulled up and the window cracked. He realized all he had to peel were scabs and brown patches. With that thought the grey eyes twitched and burned.
"It seems summer days bring the worst temptations," he thought to himself, as he looked at his lawn chair, collecting dust in the corner. Deep down he knew he couldn't actually sit in the sun for long.
The house Maria and her grandfather lived in was old and brick. It had been standing close to 110 years now, three floors in all, with the large glass door painted blue, and the back siding painted white. In traditional Victorian-era style it had 14-foot ceilings, and larg thin windows. One thing was missing, though, which every other house in the neighborhood had: a wrap-around porch. It was a shame - the three lonely cement stairs to the front door only had one iron rail to keep them company. There should be some shade.
This was the gentleman's fifth year with a severe skin cancer, and he was growing more and more impatient. The doctor had told him to stay indoors, but he read elsewhere that it took 20 years for skin cancer to actually develop from sunburn.
Wearing layers of clothing had already been tried, and dehydrated him. Of course, an umbrella or tent overhang would have been sufficient. But that thought never actually occured to him. Even if it did, he wouldn't have paid the money. Those home improvement stores are always out to get you.
In the house the man was in a hot debate with the window. "At a ripe old age of 78, what is 20 years? If I wanted a donut, or a cigarette, doc wouldn't object to that." The old man chose to ignore the fact that "doc" was a dermatologist. "Shit, I'm entitled-"
Before he could finish his thought, the door clunked twice.