Nov. 1, 2011

She was in Part 2 of her life. 

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She was in Part 2 of her life.  Part 1 had been the obligatory one:  childhood in a near-Victorian household, school, even college, under the watchful eyes of nuns.  Marriage, both parts, the story-book beginning, a war-time wedding to the hopelessly handsome and brave man; thirty years of peacetime slavery to raise half a dozen children on a teacher's salary.  Part 2 was a challenge.  In thirty years, slavery can become a crutch and freedom a challenge.  In Part 2 she had to discover first that there was another part, not just the winding down of the first one.
--Tom Hoyer, RBWG member

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She was in Part 2 of her life and planning for Part 3 when she received the message.  The flashing red light on the answering machine caught her eye as she entered the room.  Pressing the button she went about taking off her shoes and dropping her handbag onto the chair until the caller mentioned her by name.  Listening closer to the unknown voice she felt her heart begin to race as a frown formed between her eyes.

            Playing back the message twice just to be sure of what she heard, she stood silent in the room.  The unknown voice told her to call the office as soon as possible.  Her mind raced as she tried to calm herself against the flood of panic settling into her.  What could the tests have shown?  How would her future look in a day or two?  Would there be a Part 3?
--Nancy Janssen, RBWG member

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He was a distant friend, and we hadn’t seen each other for 20 years. Then here we were (in the fashion of such happenings) picking up the conversation as though it had left off yesterday. Brothers again, we were sitting on separate couches regaling each other with stories of the past, what happened in the long gap – things real and imagined – and even what might come in the future since we were in Part 2 of our lives. In my mind’s eye, I suddenly had a vision of two old men sitting on park benches doing nothing but laughing, loving, and living. It suited us.
-- Jim Van Loozen, RBWG Member

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She had a habit of counting days: when she was young it was the days until her birthday, until Valentine's Day, Mother's Day. It seemed she broke herself into segments, long enough to survive, short enough to compact the pain. She wasn't certain when she realized that she compartmentalized herself, or that she thought of herself in the third person, "Now she has a month until she turns 21". Later, after the divorce she spoke of them, "We were together for seven years, four months and three days." As if marking off time in such certain terms would keep her safe and hold the emotions in the spaces between minutes and hours. The second part of her life began when she was thirty-one, at a bus stop in upstate New York. It snowed, the bus was late, and the passenger next to her said, "Would you like coffee?" His smile was off center, and she noted he had a hair growing from a mole in the corner of his face, and his hands were scruffy. Not someone she would speak to. Before she thought she said, "Yes, yes I would."
"I'm Andy."
She took his sugary hand, "are you taking the number 52?"
He spilled coffee on his pants and shook the creamy spot from his knee. "Yup, all the way to the end of the line. What about you?"
"As far as Lymesville."
"Can I sit next to you?"
She counted the squares on the tile floor. She looked at her watch. She thought this is the second half of my life, and she said, "I want the window seat."
--Mary Pauer, RBWG member

* * *

She was in Part 2 of her life.  She pictured turning the page and seeing those words displayed in some gimmicky old-fashioned font with curlicue underlining.   Maybe the number would be a Roman numeral.  Let’s not get carried away, she told herself. 

As she reviewed Part 1, she was surprised to find herself both happy and sad when she reached the last scene.  True, Part 1 was overwritten.  And it couldn’t decide if it was drama, comedy or something in between.  It might have been a soap opera, except the furniture was all wrong.  Plus there were too many characters in search of a plot. No, that wasn’t it.  It was all the roles she’d discovered she was supposed to play.  Costuming alone had been so time-consuming, not to mention the make-up. 

In retrospect, the dialogue was lacking warmth and didn’t reveal character to the extent she now found necessary.  As for her own parts, she saw that as a rule she stayed silent when she should have spoken up (and sometimes vice versa).

Part 2 would have less artifice, she decided, that is, if it was up to her.  Well, why wouldn’t it be?  Hadn’t she learned anything from Part 1? Character and events would unfold naturally, the way ferns in the forest unfurled themselves each spring with cues from the sunlight and warming earth.   Strange that she should be thinking about spring when she was contemplating the downhill side of her story.  She wasn’t planning a Part 3.
--Sarah Barnett, RBWG member

* * *

She was in Part 2 of her life.           Her husband died unexpectedly even though he had been battling disease for many years.  Hard as it is to close the door, one must do that to survive.  She tried not to think of him as right now it brought only heartfelt pain.  Her two children wanted to make “everything better” but that is an insurmountable undertaking.  She always knew one could not wish for impossibilities.  Creating a new life was a task she did not want to shoulder, but there was no other choice.
--Patt Clark

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