Above the Dust - Writers Forum

Wyndstar · 08-21-2005, 06:08 PM

Based on some actual history---the 1970s busing, and what often happened to those who stayed and left...

ABOVE THE DUST

Castle Island was less than a five-minute drive from the part of South Boston where I used to live. It’s a beautiful place. Though my husband Neil had moved us halfway across the country away from it, I forced summer vacations in Massachusetts every year to visit the members of my family that remained there. My aunt and I would take my young daughter Ariel to play amongst the chestnut trees and cement animals that were erected during my childhood.

Almost 21 years later, only one of those animals were left standing, but it was crumbling, and it wouldn’t last the winter.

That’s somehow fitting…

As we walked along, my now adult daughter and I, the words I’d wanted to say to her had suddenly abandoned me, and so silence separated us while memory pulled us into different directions. Ariel drifted to the playground and I---

I was absorbed someplace timeless by a single, familiar smile…

“He’s cute mom.”

I blinked, was pulled back to the normal world, and gazed in puzzlement for a moment.

“The guy standing next to you, if like, for just a split second.” She huffed when I didn’t respond. “If he’s mature, you should go for him.”

“Extramarital affaires don’t sit well with your father.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure if daddy lived up to his end of the deal, that’d be applicable…”

His name was Dennis Malone.

No, not my husband, but the ‘cute one’ with light brown, loosely curly hair, light dancing in his eyes. He bore a striking resemblance to Dennis Quaid in his later years and was about as accessible to the likes of me.

My husband – one Neil Faragut – had salt and pepper hair, sported a gut that looked like cold, congealed grease, and a mask of disgust frozen in his eyes from my trying to engage him in intelligent conversation during our 20 years of marriage.

Neil wasn’t bad, as husbands went. He was a decent father and knew better than to try and get a ‘physical’ upper hand with a born and bred ‘Southie Girl’.

Still, Ariel, my auburn haired ‘Irish Rose’ wasn’t very fond of her father. He truly didn’t have as much patience with her as he did out two younger boys, and he was undeniably sexist.

I warned him that once Ariel started driving, calling all bad drivers ‘long hairs’ would reflect badly.

All in all, it wasn’t a satisfying marriage, but it was serviceable.

Ariel didn’t believe relationships should be merely ‘serviceable’.

“So, do you know him?”

“Who?”

“The guy who was talking to you?”

Oh, but my daughter was persistent.

“His name is Dennis, sweetie.” I answered her calmly “He was my childhood sweetheart when I lived in Southie---where he died…”

I was born Magdalene Marie Feeney. My father wasn’t happy with the name. He thought it was too Italian a name for the first born of an Irish family. My mother nicknamed me Maigy in compromise.

I lived in my grandmother’s backhouse and didn’t see much of my parents. They were both working, saving for a house of their own.

Or, maybe I didn’t have parents in the beginning. I don’t have any early memories of my father, just vague images of my mother with bags of powdered milk and blocks of yellow welfare cheese that broadcasted poverty to everyone but me.

Childhood in Southie meant Irish solidarity in the form of gangs, drunks on the corner, St. Patrick’s Day, and yellowed lace curtains obscuring my view of ‘richer’ people’s parlors. I remember hanging out with family friends at the Old Colony Housing Project down near Carson Beach. I’d bring the cockroaches from my house and we’d compare them with the ones from the project. Mine actually won sometimes.

And then, there was Dennis.

Dennis Malone lived in the house across the street from my grandmother’s. A two-story white with green trim, it was another house I wasn’t allowed to see into. I didn’t’ understand at the time, but I was seen as a ‘project kid’---white trash.

I learned those terms from Dennis’ mother.

Still, Dennis and I were friends, no matter that she bounced me out of their yard so often, I felt like the Boston Celtic’s basketball.

Dennis was two years older than me. He had that sly, knowing look to him and you just knew he had a slick, smart remark on him just waiting.

We liked holding hands, though during the age of cooties we made up reasons to mask the action for what it truly was.

I remember one winter, as we walked atop great piles of snow made by the snow plows, how I kept slipping from ‘traps’ set by enemy agents.

Okay, it was lame. Even Dennis, at his age, understood that. He gave me one of those ‘Damn but that was a load’ looks.

He kept holding my hand though.

Dennis went to private school, so when Judge Garrity forced busing on Southie back in the 70s, it was an issue for him only so much as the protests caused his mother to be late for whatever it was she worried about being late for.

In time, my parents made enough to move us to the suburbs. We were part of what the politicians called ‘The White Flight’; whites fleeing racial integration. What we were fleeing from, were politicians making decisions about our lives without asking us.

Dennis’ mother however, made it very clear that change of location did not change my status…

“…You still barely measure up to dust.” She said.

I didn’t tell that to Dennis – who visited when I saw my grandmother on weekends – until after I joined the military…

“…So I guess it’s going to be a problem for her that I plan on marrying you before I decompose.”

“When would that be?” I teased, thinking little of his comment except that it was his normal wisecracking.

“How about after you get back from basic training?”

I fell off my chair.

Dennis was dead serious.

Six weeks later, he was dead.

For the ‘white trash’ my family was, at least mine knew to get us out of Southie. True enough, it grew us tough as nails, we would end up the nails in the coffin of its future if we stayed. Anyone with common sense knew that.

Dennis died during a drug dispute he had nothing to do with.

The cops said it was a stray bullet. There were no witnesses---not that anyone from Southie would believe them, or tell them anything. Southie had been a closed community of Irish gangs, while the cops were part of Judge Garrity’s enforcement of his law. Our law was the law of silence.

Dennis became just another nail in the coffin…

I raged for a year. It was better than the pain of grief.

I blamed Dennis’ mother.

If they were rich, if they were so much better than me, why didn’t she have the sense to get Dennis out? Why did she oblige him to stay with her, even when he was going to college? Why didn’t she have the sense to push him someplace safe?

She wouldn’t talk to me, so I never found out.

Eventually, the numbness overcame me, and so did Neil.

I hardly even remember the year we dated.

And then, one day, when the vomiting started and I began to swell, I woke up, saw the other in my bed, and realized I’d sleep walked into the last reality I ever planned; a life without Dennis.

Neil – who was the type that had no trouble dragging an 8-month pregnant woman on a 12-hour trip one way by car to a high school reunion – thought my tears were mood swings.

No, I cried because I finally understood that I’d lost love, friendship and history all at one time, even as I cried tears of gratitude.

So few people ever find what I had in Dennis. Some never find it, even after a lifetime.

With that realization, I was able to settle into the life I walked into with the acceptance of one who knew they chose of their own free will, even if it oft felt like a lifetime sentence, with no parole.

It was a talent that would serve me, even now…

“…So, you’re saying---he was a ghost?” Ariel smiled. She wouldn’t scoff or disbelieve. Ariel was one for adventure. She had an open mind, despite the firm, stolid ground I based her existence on.

“What did this ‘ghost’ have to say?” She pressed further.

I thought for a moment. I had fully expected something to happen like this, being like all good Irish and believing the old tales---what seeing ghosts of loved ones meant.

I might have lost the words needed to explain the reason that dictated I bring my daughter here, but Dennis had given me the strength to find them again.

So I quoted: “Everything on Earth walks with the dust, until love returns for them, lifts them up, and returns them home.”

After a moment of soft silence, my darling daughter’s eyes misted over, and she took my arm in hers as we began to walk.

“He misses you.”

I nodded, and Ariel added, “But not for long.”

She squeezed my arm all the tighter, as if keeping it meant keeping me to her forever. I smiled at her, squeezed back, and told her I would always love her.

“And I’ll miss you, too, mom.” She whispered.

I didn’t dry her tears any more than I did my own as she walked me above the dust and into the sunset.

I didn’t need words any more…

Keridwen · 08-22-2005, 03:50 AM

Aaaaaw!! That was...wow!! I loved that!! So beautiful...poor Dennis...

You really made it seem real. The words flowed brilliantly, it didn't seem as though you were writing it at all, that it was coming straight from the heart. Or straight from Maigy's heart.

Just one thing...

Quote:

I didn’t tell that to Dennis – who visited when I saw my grandmother on weekends – until after I joined the military…

I reckon it would be better just to finish that with a full stop instead of the ellipsis.

But apart from that it was really good!! I really enjoyed this piece!! A question though...did I misinterpret it or does Maigy have a terminal illness or something? From the "not for long" that Ariel said, and also the 'I'll miss you too'?

idlemusings · 08-22-2005, 07:09 AM

Really liked this - nice emotive writing and good story.

Well done

gohn67 · 08-22-2005, 07:11 PM

HI Wyndstar,
I liked this story alot. And I feel like I understood this story. It was much more straightforward to me. And I think that's one of the reasons I like it. Very Good Story.

Quote:

My husband – one Neil Faragut – had salt and pepper hair, sported a gut that looked like cold, congealed grease, and a mask of disgust frozen in his eyes from my trying to engage him in intelligent conversation during our 20 years of marriage.

How come all the husabands in your stories seem to obnoxious pigs? Just an observation.

Quote:

Still, Dennis and I were friends, no matter that she bounced me out of their yard so often, I felt like the Boston Celtic’s basketball.

I don't get this simile.

eggo · 08-23-2005, 08:07 PM

Hey Wyndstar,

Not much time this week.
Every once in a while I hit a story here that I consider great and this is one of them.

You weave the story masterfully. The emotion drips through the lines without being overly sappy. It fits very well together and held me like super glue. Only two problems I saw with it,

Quote:

Still, Dennis and I were friends, no matter that she bounced me out of their yard so often, I felt like the Boston Celtic’s basketball

.
Even though I love the Celtics, from Cousy to Parrish to Mchale and Bird, this simile doesn't quite work. I might suggest saying a basketball from the "Garden" instead. In reference to the Boston Garden. If they don't know that's where the Celtic's play, hell with 'em.

Quote:

True enough, it grew us tough as nails, we would end up the nails in the coffin of its future if we stayed.

True enough, it grew us to be as tough as nails. Little did we know, we would end up the nails in the coffin of its future if we stayed.

Maybe a bit clearer?

I drag out my old warped soapbox, climb creakily to the top and clap.

Thanks for the read.

Wyndstar · 08-23-2005, 10:30 PM

Thank you all for reading. This is sort of the most mundane thing I ever wrote. I actually didn't think anyone would like it. I thought it was sort of cliche. While there isn't any tragic love story, and my daughter is a long way from 20ish, Southie and its circumstance/s is very real.

Keridwen - yes, Maigy is going to die. What of, I leave to the reader.

gohn - I don't really know about the obnoxious pig deal. My father was actually a good looking guy who stayed faithfully with my mom until the end. It might come from the fact that when I was military and handled judiciary actions, I only saw one adultery charge for a married female member in ten years. I saw seven confirmed charges for men in one weekend.

eggo, you and gohn are right about the celtic's thing. I'm so accustomed to my uncles saying it I didn't even realize I'd used it until you two pointed it out. This was another one of those 20 minute deals where I checked grammar and structure and posted before it got deleted---which it did. I really, really like your suggestion though eggo, so I'm going to use that. Thanks...

Chris Miller · 08-26-2005, 03:59 PM

I think I liked this story the best of any that you have yet produced. Learning at the end that the woman is a ghost, absolutely blew me away.

Your style here is different than your usual. It is patient and clear. There was no need to read it over to take its meaning. I read it twice though, anyway. Some nice bits of setting/historical research too it seems.

P.S.

I just noticed in your notes that she is not a ghost? Damn! Well I beg to differ. I don't care if you wrote it. I saw what I saw, and it works for me. Maybe it is one of those serendipitous things we writers stick in without intending. Because, believe me, the woman is dead. The daughter is walking with the ghost of her mother who needed to be by her just as the ghost of her old lover needed to. The little girl sees dead people.

Excellent story whatever the case Wyndstar.

Chris

Wyndstar · 08-26-2005, 04:11 PM

Actually, Chris, you're sort of right about the ghost deal. When I first wrote it, that's what I planned her to be. But I thought it would be too hard to suspend anyone's belief if I did---keeping in mind that I didn't think anyone would read this anyway. I was sort of hoping it would read that way even though I was really concerned about the fact that again, like a lot that I write, it would be harder to understand. That at least ONE person saw what I initially intended makes me really very happy. Thank you.

Oh, btw, there wasn't any research required for this piece. I actually lived there during that time period. Its all pretty much memory.