Page 25 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Emily was.
I wonder, as I often do, if my wife knows. Sometimes I think all her fear and anxiety are the understandable result of finding her roommate butchered in her bedroom. But sometimes, I think it’s more than that—that she must know. Her reaction to the scent of sandalwood, her insistence that someone was watching her from the Simmons’ garden, and her flat refusal to do any publicity for her books—these all suggest she believes she’s still in danger.
If that’s what she thinks, she’s right.
Seventeen
Emily
* * *
I reach for my mug and raise it to my lips, my eyes still on my laptop screen, immersed in my story world. I open my mouth to drink, and nothing happens. I shift my gaze to the mug. It’s empty. I laugh at myself.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this caught up in my work. The buzz, the dopamine hit, has been driving me forward for hours. It’s time for a quick break. I should stretch my legs, pee, and get something to drink. After overimbibing last night, I need to stay hydrated. I scan the last few paragraphs I wrote, then I hit save and stand up.
I mull over the story as I walk out into the kitchen in a daze. Ruth’s predicament resonates. Maleen’s her closest friend, yes. But she’s also her boss. They aren’t social equals, and Ruth’s boxed in long before she’s walled up in a lightless tower. The trick is to make Maleen relatable in this scene. Why does she need Ruth to side with her against the king? He’s Maleen’s father. She should stand up to him by herself, shouldn’t she?
I pour a glass of water and drink it absently while I ponder the question.
It comes to me all at once. This happens sometimes. These flashes of insight are rare for me, which makes me love them all the more.
Maleen’s character arc is one from passive to active, patient to impatient, awaiting rescue to rescuing herself. At this point in the story when the king has forbidden her to marry the man she loves but hasn’t yet threatened to imprison her, she believes someone will take care of this problem—take care of her. It can’t be her lover, she knows the king will simply kill him. And it doesn’t occur to her that it can be her. She hasn’t had the life experience yet that will allow her to defy her father and walk away. So, she turns to her truest friend for support. Maleen’s need for Ruth’s help is myopic and she’s thoughtless, but she doesn’t realize the enormity of what she’s asking. She can’t understand what it would mean for Ruth to back her against her father.
I nod to myself, satisfied, drain the rest of the glass, and place it on the counter beside the sink. Maleen needs to grow as a character, and she will. But her desperate need for Ruth’s support makes sense at this point in Maleen’s journey. She doesn’t know what’s coming.
Just as I didn’t know that I was condemning Cassie to die an unimaginably horrible death when I asked her to cover my shift for me that night.
March 2017
* * *
“I’ll owe you,” I wheedled, fixing Cassie with a wide-eyed look.
“Em, I’m tired.” She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with my puppy dog eyes.
I gnawed at my lower lip, trying to work out how to convince my best friend to do this favor for me. I really want to hear Roland James read from his latest poetry chapbook. He’s my favorite poet, hands down. And I completely lucked into this ticket. The bookstore hosting him is two hours away, the reading doesn’t start until 8 PM, and Professor Lindell is not a night owl.
I was in the professor’s office, dropping off some research she’d asked me to pull together, when I noticed the ticket on her desk.
I’ll admit it, I squealed. “Ooh, you’re going to hear Roland James read? He’s amazing!”
She peered at me over the tops of her glasses, confused. I pointed to the ticket and her eyes traced my finger.
“Oh, that.” She waved a hand. “Rolly sent it over. But Pages and Sages is all the way over in Greenwich Springs, and I have an early committee meeting in the morning.” She paused. “If you want it, take it.”
My eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
She nodded. “Of course. I’m not going to use it.” Then she studied me closely “You like his work?”
“Roland James? Of course. His writing is so evocative and lush.”
“Huh, go figure. I find it smarmy.” She plucked the ticket from her desk with her thumb and index finger and extended it toward me as if it had cooties. “But I might be conflating the man and the work.”
I snatched the ticket as if she might change her mind. “You know him? Mr. James?”
She lifted her silver eyebrows. “Yes, I know Rolly. Or I knew him, at least. I was the literary magazine advisor a million years ago when I was an adjunct and he was an undergrad.”
“Wow.” I pocketed the ticket. “Lucky you.”
