Quote:
CHLOE’S POEM
Some weeks I barely register. I’m little more than a faint shadow fading into the washed-out wallpaper. Dialogue reduced to body language – muted and cryptic at best.
He acknowledges our routine, I’ll give him that. He nods cautiously if I ask him a question. He keeps to the same regular hours. Never misses a mealtime. Civilisation as we know it. Safe. Simple. Structured like an algebraic formula. Both sides balancing as per the laws of nature. Equilibrium maintained. Whenever we sit together in the kitchen for a coffee, or at breakfast, he’ll always angle a smile at her empty chair then swivel it my way. But by then it is too late; an afterthought twisted into a shy wrinkle of regret. I don’t have the heart to confront him with his grief any more. I have my own pattern recognition system to override day after day.
I’m always here for him. Wife, sister, mother, partner in crime, concubine, therapist.
It has been eight months now and I can sense that things are gradually getting worse. But not to the extent where we have to talk about it – not yet. He has closed all ports – sight and hearing running on autopilot now. And he does sense my need when I draw close to him. That I do know, reaching out to him as we lie next to each other. Staring into each other’s private nightmare. Splashes of black on charcoal grey. Words like cobwebs strung out of reach inside the ceiling corners. Too timid to face the reflected grief in each other’s eyes.
I hold onto this delusion that he loves the feel of my skin on his even now. At least, his body goes through the familiar motions of accepting this token of temporary forgiveness. I feel the blood thicken. I sense he’s happy for my fingers to take control. Let me guide him in once he is ready. No effort on his part.
I never come. Not through his touch anyway. And most of the time neither does he. Eventually It’s a solo dance. I’m the one who senses the music has stopped playing and I roll off. The stickiness down there as much a sign of failure as of misplaced passion. I curl up like a wood shaving, scraped from a living trunk, desperate for some contact with the primeval forest once more.
But Mike’s like a corpse, flat on his back; unmoving.
I swear he never sleeps.
I never feel the pulse deaden, the breath grow shallow. I never sense his muscles become tender as a spent lover’s.
Even his eyes, closed in search of sleep, are for ever looking at the cold caverns above our bed and seeking something there that we both know has left us.
In the first section, your reader is presented with two people who are existing passionlessly as per their adherence to rigid structure. The story is told through the narrative of Chloe's mother, Caroline- the reader will discover this gradually and even then the narrator is named only once. Gradual exposition is used exceptionally well throughout this piece as a means of stylistically presenting information to the reader rather than forcing character information and descriptions down any throats.
An important characteristic to understanding the character of Mike (who has not been named yet) is presented in the figurative language that refers to math, but it is not wholly presented yet as the extended metaphor that it is. A small action irks painful memories for the two- a brief glimpse of an old lifestyle that has uncomfortable connotations in the new, a technique that will be utilized at least one more time in this story. A time frame of '8 months' reveals that whatever the tragic event is (unstated at this point, Chloe's death), it is relatively recent. The physical act of sex, perhaps the single most definitive aspect of any living organism, is outside of Mike's interest whereas Caroline seems to be the one endeavoring for it. This is relevant in the thematic way death is explored- the reader is given the sense that Mike is decaying or lost in death, juxtaposed with Caroline's trying to heal. These two different character traits are to this reader the most fundamental elements in this piece. A significant simile about Caroline's need to reconnect with the primeval forests relates the lust for living with the lust for being carnal.
The first couple of lines are very important. Caroline is expressing something about herself, firstly and before all other descriptions. For much of the piece, she takes a subservient position to the exploration of Mike's character- given the lines about how she is a 'wife, sister, mother, etc' in terms of his utility, this was a sound stylistic decision.
Choosing to exposition the couple's love life was a strong choice because in a steady relationship it is something of an everyday (if not mundane) consideration; this story is largely about how the mundane is interrupted and what is lost when that happens, and then the character's reactions to that as two very different people.
Quote:
When he drags himself to school I switch on his laptop. It’s almost a reflex action by now. He must know subconsciously that I check it for clues most days. It has become a repository for so many of his thoughts that there is no other way to maintain contact. I check his documents folder. Random quotes pasted from various blogs about reality and karma and closure. The tao of crap.
I click on ‘ChloDoc’. Just one new line this morning:
‘Her eyes, twin dismal portals to the past’
I’m not particularly keen on him using the word ‘dismal’. In hindsight, yes it makes sense. But my Chloe was anything but dismal. Life shone within her eyes. Hope. Ambition. Humour. Purpose. Mischief. So many positives spun in her orbit – a cloud of plus signs like a cosmic aura of well-being.
I shut it down remembering to unplug it from the mains.
This whole poem business started the Thursday before her funeral. Mike had been in a limbo for days. We both had. But suddenly he seemed to have his mind set on something positive for once. Finally the constant drumming of his fingers on the arm of the sofa switched off.
I was still blundering along the edge of the map; bogged down in uncharted territories. The temazepam made the unending days a little less angular; a little fuzzier. Softening sounds. The ground a cushion rather than an abyss.
“I’m going to write an eulogy.”
I could hardly make sense of each word. But I knew what he meant rightly enough. And I almost laughed in his face. It was difficult enough getting him to put an original word or two above his name in a Christmas card or a Valentine. I couldn’t imagine this being any different.
“Why don’t you let the minister say a few words, love? He’ll see to it.”
The grief in his eyes sliced the distance between us like a guillotine. I could not bear to look into his guilty face.
“I want to do this for Chloe.”
I nodded resignedly and listened out for him hunting pen and paper.
“Try the bottom drawer of the dresser where I keep all the bills.”
His shadow flapped along behind him like a wing of torn skin as he slowly made his way into the conservatory. There was still the previous week’s washing to fold and air on one of the chairs in there. The sun would have baked all the creases in place no doubt. Such nice weather for the time of year. Bedding. Bath towels. Her school blouses, skirt, a couple of sets of bras and panties.
Hours later I found him sitting there staring at a pair of white ankle socks as if he’d just discovered the Turin Shroud.
Nothing else was said. He wasn’t able to go through with it. No real surprise there. Mike’s ideas always had a way of fizzling out of their own accord. He had more than his fair share of daydreams – wishes that ended up bitten off, half-chewed then spat out. Dennis all over again. All mouth no action.
Holidays planned in detail but never taken. Gardening projects measured out then abandoned. Cans of paint stored away in the shed without even being opened. That bicycle rack stowed away in our attic.
Conservatory:
1 Brit. a room with a glass roof and walls, attached to a house.
This section reveals a plot element by disclosing to the reader that Caroline is reading documents saved in Mike's computer and she is being somewhat secretive about it, although the secretive nature is presented as another part of their mundane coexistence. Mike has been writing a poem about Chloe and Caroline is apparently keeping tabs on it, as evidenced in the line 'Just one new line this morning.' Mike's inability to finish projects and produce a eulogy for Chloe's funeral is presented- Caroline is supportive but can be said to lack faith in his ability to write or see things through. Comparing Mike's perception Chloe's socks to the burial shroud of Jesus shows the deep connection he feels for her as well as the harsh absence. The question might be asked that if Chloe died eight months ago, why is Caroline washing her clothes from last week? Perhaps this is an oversight, or perhaps an indication that she has just gathered the will to do so- there is possibly evidence in the rest of the story to suggest her need to restore life has just recently arisen. There is the notion that Caroline has disdain for the poem itself, but it's merely a hint toward what is coming later.
There is a reference to 'Dennis.' Presumably the man Caroline is divorced from and possibly Chloe's biological father. To see the ex-husband in Mike is perhaps to see the worst in him and one of the more disturbing characterizations of the current state of their relationship.
Caroline's strong feelings for the poem are evident in the narrative as she offers an editorial opinion on it.
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But a month or so after Chloe’s funeral I came across a tiny slip of white card. It had printing along one edge – a single word in lilac
‘Remember’.
It came from that little pack of memo cards Chloe had bought him for father’s day the year before last. God knows where he dug them up after such a long time.
The card lay trapped under a glass ashtray on the dresser in the dining room. Like a business card left by some long-forgotten visitor. Which is what it was, I suppose.
Six words scribbled on the front in Mike’s hesitant scrawl.
“Sometimes I wonder what you saw”
Immediately I assumed it was meant for me. Perhaps an uncompleted question – what had I seen in him? What had he seen in me?
It doesn’t always do to dwell. I suppose I realised from day one that he saw me as a weak, needy woman; someone ready to lower her defences for a bit of affection or security. A divorcee looking for some comfort on the rebound; and a father-figure for her daughter. I used to think of myself and Chloe as victims – and Mike as some kind of saviour.
Huh.
Sex hadn’t entered into it. Not at first, although there had been times when we’d come close. But I’ll never forget the frenzy when we finally jumped into bed the first time. I’d prepared a lamb casserole for Sunday tea then at the last minute suggested it could wait until after. If he was up for it. Chloe was at her gran’s so we had the run of the house.
I’d sprayed enough ‘Anais Anais’ in my bedroom to signal my availability loud and clear. And as he stood there, undressing like a schoolboy getting ready for P E, I felt as if I was seducing him. I wanted to laugh. There was no slow, lingering strip-tease. Does any man actually do that? Well Mike didn’t. It was ‘whoosh’. Starkers there and then right in front of me; the whole lot on show.
My eyes took in his ribcage, his dark nipples that were a bit of a surprise. Then as I looked up to his eyes he came closer and began to help me undress. His hands were more used to correcting quadratic equations than unclasping a bra. And as I guided his fingers there was that unfathomable grin.
Sometimes my skin catches me out and replays the memory of the warm touch of his lips. His mouth was everywhere. And the sounds; the soft crinkle of cotton sheets; the sagging of the mattress and the wet, sucking rhythms as our bodies overlapped; hesitant gasps as he sucked in breath and began to set the pace.
And the following day is as real to me as any day imprinted on my heart. As tangible as the day Chloe was killed. Tidying up after the carnage. Sheets stained and twisted out of shape by the pair of us. Strange hairs on one of my pillows. The bath towel he had used after showering; the smell of him there long after he’d gone. Like Chloe’s sheets. Her smell took weeks to fade but I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to strip them off her bed.
If I had slapped Michael across the face his reaction could hardly have been less surprising. He snatched the card from my fingers, scrunched it up and tossed it towards the kitchen bin.
“It’s nothing, ok? Nothing. Just forget it.”
The habitual reaction to retrieve it and dispose of it properly in the bag was momentarily forgotten as I let him shove his way past me. He looked like a beaten dog retreating with its tail between its legs.
“I miss her too, you know,” a ragged whisper in his wake.
Moments later I heard the car engine start up.
I rattled around in the sink. The dish water had chilled in the last half hour or so. I pulled out the two mugs, teaspoon and tea-strainer.
Finally I stooped to pick up the wretched piece of card. I gently opened it out, smoothed the creases as best I could and placed it back where I had found it.
Popping out to the shops the next morning as I picked up the front door keys off the dresser I checked the ash tray again.
The card was no longer there.
Most strikingly comes the juxtaposition of the relation of this love scene to the first one. It demonstrates true intimacy and makes the reader reflect on what it means to know another person's naked body.
The past haunts these piece and more than thematically. This must be called success on the author's part. Caroline's narrative switches tenses in a weaving pattern of present and past. The ambiguity of the message of the card was a chance for the reader to try to assert a definitive meaning; like the protagonist, this reader could not. The actual death of Chloe is alluded to for perhaps the only time. There are no descriptions, the event looms like something of a gnomon and this is somewhat terrifying for your reader, who's mind is prone to look for the evidence and where there is none supplies terribly realistic fantasy- a faint taste of the emotions that would accompany the real loss and a way to relate to the characters. One of the most successful manoeuvres in this piece. Though Caroline has saved the card from the trashcan and returned it to where it was, there is no going back Your reader identifies this as a rhetorical device called synecdoche.
Caroline is apparently not washing Chloe's sheets but still doing her laundry (as in the conservatory scene). There is play with olfactory sensation that is well done.
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On his laptop today when I click onto it the poem is still the same. It’s been like that for the last week or so; as if he is finally satisfied with his workmanship. But then I spot the post-script at the bottom of the page - ‘posted June 18th’.
Four days ago. So I’m racking my brains trying to think who he would post it to. The local newspaper? Heaven forbid. My mother? She would have telephoned me. Some poetry publisher? Hardly.
I’m in half a mind to ask him as soon as he walks in through the door – he must realise I know what he’s up to. But there again perhaps it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. He seems a little more his old self. We went down to the canal Sunday afternoon and actually held hands for the best part of an hour as we walked along the towpath.
But you could cut the air as soon as we got inside the car again. Chloe always begged to sit in the front with Mike. I sensed we both shared that same raw memory for a split second. We had both escaped into some dream state for the last hour or so but were now back in the real world again.
I miss Chloe just as much as Mike does. God, I brought her into the world. I had her for fifteen years – saw every side of her. He saw her teenage angst, her romantic dopiness, her struggle to speak passable French, and her fashion statements. That’s pretty much it. Three and a half years of life condensed into one flashy movie clip – and he thinks
he’s known her all her life.
We did talk about moving. Not far, just ten or fifteen miles out of the village to Stainsford or Beswick. Just to get away from that permanently scarred stretch of road where it happened. But then I keep thinking, if we move I’ll forever wonder. If she were to come home after her night out with her pals – take a cab instead of accepting a lift off one of those poor lads – what would she do when she realised her home was no longer there? She would assume we had abandoned her memory like one of Mike’s hopeless plans – given up on her so quickly and moved on to something new.
We used to talk about things like this. Quite recently even. But now he spends more and more nights alone in the dining room on that laptop. Searching for pornography? Well, that would be easier to cope with. But most of the time he just seems to be peering over the garden wall into one chat room or another.
Philosophy. Politics. Literature. Religion.
Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Henry Thoreau for God’s sake.
His sad, nocturnal activities leave a glistening trail that leads nowhere, like some neurotic snail.
What is it he’s looking for? Truth? Sympathy?
Then out of the blue I spot it.
WritLit. Personal Poetry forum – Writing – Pythagoras – ‘Chloe’
He’s gone and posted his ruddy poem on some web site for the whole world to see. Pythagoras. Trust a Maths teacher to come up with a geek name like that.
I scan the details next to her name and manage to make out that the poem has been viewed 74 times in the last couple of days. There are 7 comments - from other members presumably.
I feel as if I’m cheating on him, sifting through his private sorrow in such a sly way but I can’t help myself.
I click on the link.
And there it is.
‘Chloe’.
Three verses – 18 lines that by now I know better than the lyrics to ‘My Way’ or ‘I Will Survive’.
Someone called ‘Blue Muse’ calls it a heart-rending love poem. Every word tearing at the very core of one’s emotions.
Huh.
‘Bartholomew’ feels it needs trimming – too much repetition in the second and third stanzas.
Another, ‘Whacker’, a man I guess, says how much he enjoyed the imagery and rhythm of one particular line with its attractive run of dactyls – how he liked the metre and repetition of the second stanza, but felt the last line was too long and fell flat. He reckons Mike has a feel for maintaining rhythm, but could make it less staccato by using more enjambment and suggests changing the word at the end of the last line from ‘dearest’ to ‘dear’.
God. What a tosser.
Finally ‘Sharona’ says he or she loves the use of alliteration – ‘tresses’ and ‘treasured’; ‘sapphire’ and ‘safer’.
Tosser-
1. Brit. One who masturbates; a jerk; an *******.
Your reader can finally discuss the inclusion of math when referencing Mike (beyond it being his subject to teach). Pythagoras was a pre-Socratic philosopher who would be encountered largely through the doxographical tradition (your reader is not certain if there are any extant fragments of Pythagoras' writings). In right triangle trigonometry, there is his theorem of the sum of the squares of both sides of the right triangle being equivalent to the square of the hypotenuse; there are identities for trigonometric functions that are eponymous as well. But Pythagoras as a philosopher had a cosmology that stated the universe was fundamentally comprised of numbers, and that numbers arranged in a certain way create a kind of harmony. This cosmology is perhaps more important in considering the character of Mike- perhaps Chloe's death is out of harmony, or even more disconcertingly doesn't even follow the order of his universe at a fundamental level (it eludes numbers). A lot of information is revealed about Mike here, as well as his search for closure, but 'all leading nowhere' is a statement echoing much existential angst.
The significance of Caroline's relationship to Mike's chosen outlet (and place) of expression is reserved for the story's climax.
There's a bit of humor to be found here. It was a bit lost on this reader due to cultural-linguistic differences, but it must be said that after locating a definition, calling a man called 'Whacker' a 'tosser' is evidence of a bizarre humor at play (your reader now understands 'tosser' to be a synonym for 'wanker', a term he did know from television; any further meta-semantics are completely lost on him).
It is sharply called into question here (though subtly throughout the entire piece) Mike's relationship with Chloe- he was her stepfather for 3 and a half years? Perhaps Caroline's revealing of this fact is intended more of a reflection of her bitterness. She wonders what Mike is looking for on that website- she can't just ask him, the man who she knows intimately, who she now considers holding hands with for half an hour a time a noteworthy event in their relationship. Your reader thinks that perhaps Caroline has found (on some level) that Mike is searching for emotional connection, something perhaps lacking at this point in their relationship (maybe because of the way she sees him, as unable to finish a project, write a poem, or in the same light as Dennis?).
Your reader finds the prose quite nicely tightened here but suggests you try more enjambment for a fuller effect.
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I suddenly feel tears welling up inside the corner of my eyes. Chloe’s were never blue. Suddenly I see what he’s been trying to do for the last nine and a half months. God bless him. But how can I tell him I know? How can I get through to him that we are going to be alright? We will survive?
I’m not allowed to add a comment even if I wanted to right now - I’m just a guest. And I can’t go opening a new account on Mike’s laptop, I should imagine, since there is already one user registered to it. He would spot the second user name anyway when he tried to log on later tonight.
So I switch it off and make myself a coffee. Time to put my thinking cap on.
I phone Jane at the community centre. She says there’s no need to book as Thursday nights are nearly always quiet. Just turn up, pay your pound and you have an hour’s broadband to do with what you will.
‘So! What are you up to, Caroline? Surfing the Net behind your husband’s back.’
I laugh.
‘Just trying to book us a surprise holiday for his fiftieth – but I daren’t use our laptop or he’s bound to find out.’
Thursday night we used to go out for a drink. Quiz night in the ‘Wellford’. Not any more.
‘I promised I’d pop out to see Marion’s new grand-daughter.’
He nods – filtering out most of the conversation unless it relates to work or bills.
‘See you later.’
There are two teenaged boys in the internet suite. One has headphones plugged in and I can hear the tinny thud of rap music. The screen is filled with garish graphics and his fingers move in a blur. The second one seems to be busy taking notes. It’s Terry, the news-agent’s son. He was in Chloe’s class. He nods but is lost for words.
I log on and Google the site. I should have written the web address down, I know.
There it is. ‘WritLit’ – ‘A community of Writers and Thinkers’. Better than Wankers and Tossers I suppose.
I find the membership page, fill in the required details – and in the end something makes me enter Chloe’s e-mail account – topgirl@poplover.
There’s an outside chance that if I use my own e-mail address Mike might somehow spot that my mailbox is active if he’s on-line. I don’t know.
Chloe had her own laptop. Her own private little room in the world. I gave it that Ellis girl she was friends with in gymnastics.
There’s the rigmarole of opening Chloe’s inbox, retrieving a ‘welcome’ e-mail and clicking onto a membership authorisation link, but that’s straightforward enough.
Once I enter my password and ‘WritLit’ user name ‘homebird’ I’m inside.
I feel like I’m trespassing.
I click onto the ‘Poetry’ forum and find Mike’s poem. 89 views by now – and a new comment from ‘GrizzlyBear’ saying he or she really liked it.
I stare at the poem like a star gazer suddenly discovering evidence of alternative life forms in the garden directly outside his front door.
‘Pythagoras’ has also posted a response. Thanking his ‘friends’ for their kind comments; promising their suggestions will be considered.
I run my cursor to the bottom of the page and I see Mike’s user name - he is already there with the rest of the members currently on-line. A thread of shared emotion running from this cold, impersonal room right into the heart of our home.
My heart is in my throat. I click on the ‘Comment’ button and begin to type.
“You should change the poem’s title from ‘Chloe’ to ‘Caroline’ – it would make more sense.”
I dare not hesitate a moment longer. I press ‘submit’. I wait.
The page reopens and there is my suggestion for all the world to see. My coded prayer for the return of our life. I read the poem one more time just to make sure I understand what he was trying to say. Then I log off, pick up my bag and wander down the stairs and out into the car park.
It’s already dark outside. I’ll be glad to get home and shut the door on the world.
'... for the last nine and a half months' means either time has elapsed (as the reader is told at the beginning that eight months have elapsed), you have a chronological error or you are metaphorically stating Mike has birthed a poem.
' I gave it that Ellis girl...' confuses your reader regarding syntax. He has heard this structure only once before, spoken by a person from Oxford. The American English equivalent would be 'I gave it to that Ellis girl...' and so your reader is left wondering if your original phrase is proper British English or otherwise altered. Quite distracting to your reader, to be honest, as it was when he heard it spoken aloud.
There seems to be a proportional relationship to Caroline's level of deception and her emotional nearness to Mike- in the climax it reaches its... climax.
The story's climax is about how Mike can have an emotional connection within strangers on the internet but not his own wife. Your reader can relate to this fragmentation... virtually no one in his immediate circle knows of his literary endeavors, and this story begs the question of the depths of such concealing. Returning to the characters, ' You should change the poem’s title from ‘Chloe’ to ‘Caroline’ – it would make more sense.' is an ambiguous line (please trust that your reader has read the piece closely and could not find concrete support for any one particular meaning). An interpretation could mean Caroline was being cheeky and revealing her readership. The contextual support comes in the line 'My coded prayer for the return of our life' so the reader can at least be sure that Caroline wishes for the line to serve a function, but perhaps like prayer is not certain that it will be received or answered.
An exceptional piece.
J
