(Yay! You don't have to win to be thrilled. The Hemingway Short Story Competition 2010 attracted over 1650 entries. One of them was something I wrote and, for the third year in a row, I am amongst those receiving an Honourable Mention. That feels like an achievement. I am thrilled. I have said before, it feels good to have hits across the pond.)
LOOKING IN AT WINDOWS
Callum leaps the garden fence. The day is dull and grey and a wind is blowing. The sound of cables hitting metal and wood makes a ringing sound from the harbour and the flap of cloth in the air is sharp and a constant drumbeat.
Susan is asleep in her bed, the curtains fully open. She is dressed. Her face is creased as though she is not really asleep, but forcing her eyes shut against seeing something she’d rather not see. Or as though she is perhaps in some pain. She has a chair wedged up against the handle of the door. Callum resolves to call on her sometime in the afternoon. Maybe with some ring doughnuts and some fresh bread.
Corinne in sleep is a different picture. Her face is blank. Like stone or marble that has been made smooth and looks soft when it is hard. Like paper that is new and not yet marked. A clean blank page. That’s what Callum thinks. Then he laughs at his own fancy.
He lights a cigarette at the corner of the house. He looks over his shoulder and along the whole empty stretch of the front. Then he moves on.
There’s a light in old Tom’s bedroom. Like they used to do when the boats were out. Lights left on to guide the fishermen safely home again. Lillian is sitting on the edge of the bed and she is speaking to herself. It looks to Callum as if that is what is happening. On the bed are several envelopes, all open and the pages of the letters from the envelopes scattered on the floor.
Callum does not know what any of that means. He wonders how old Tom is and thinks about knocking on the door and going in. Then he decides against it for now. Lillian will be in the shop later and he’ll have a word with her then about how it goes with old Tom.
Sinnie is sitting up in her bed. Callum is careful this time that she doesn’t see him. She is wearing her orange nightdress and is writing down her dreams. Owls she has been dreaming of lately. That’s what she told him over the counter in the shop. Owls in silk waistcoats with silver buttons. She laughed when she told him and said she might be losing her marbles. Last week it was squirrels in top hats of bright colours. Their tales tickled her face as though she was a tree and they were running all over her. Callum would have made a rude joke, except it was Sinnie.
Eileen is not home, he thinks. The curtains are open and that is not usual. And Lachlan Davie is home. He is standing looking at himself in a full length mirror. He is covered from neck to foot in writing. Black scribbles that Callum cannot read from where he is. Lachlan is twisted, trying to read what the writing on the back of his left thigh, high up where there is no hair.
A dog stands to attention on the green. It has been watching Callum. He stubs his cigarette out on the grass, then makes a whistle as though calling to the dog. It barks at him and he makes his way to the bakery.
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