Prose: A Character Study

I’ve been working on this piece for some time now, and I just finished some revisions after workshopping it with a friend.

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Beth believed in God, to begin with.

The day always starts early for the mother of two, and it always starts with quiet. The neighborhood, despite being one of the corners of a rather busy intersection, is as quiet as the snow falling in front of the still illuminated streetlights. Council Bluffs never has sunlight at 5 am, and some have argued for the existence of it at all.

The first few steps are always the most important to her, as it is with those that she gains the strength to continue on into the kitchen. A younger, less experienced denizen of the town may not have the fortitude to make it out of bed in December. But a Christmas gift from years past makes the trek easier, and much softer. Linoleum floors are one of her favourite things about the house.

Careful measuring of her coffee ensures…what, exactly? Richard Simmons and his diet routines quickly faded, but the teaspoon of sugar and 1/3^rd cup of skim milk remain constant companions to the morning coffee.

And then the Bible. Prayer.

The illuminated and memory-laded Christmas Tree in the living room, allowing itself to be displayed through the window to the street for holiday voyeurs to take in, is a sight that makes her both terribly happy and terribly sad. A quick glimpse around the faux-pine pulls memories of her now-grown children calling her “mommy” and needing her. The thought of the Christmas before, when her son carried pain in his eyes that stemmed from his heart, and the smiles he seemed to fake. Why hasn’t he learned that mothers can’t be fooled?

“Why wouldn’t he just let me hug away those tears he hid?”

She was never one to hold tightly to her kids, and only one ever went any further than a drive through Omaha. In addition to that, the family was very close. She would be seeing her daughter later that day, in fact. They would talk about their lives and they would have a good time.

But still.

“But still” is the mantra of those living in Council Bluffs.

Her husband of twenty-five years has finally arisen from their bed, and they smile at one another as he crosses the hallway into the bathroom. Her rock. Her prayers always included thanks for her husband—a terrific father, the breadwinner and her guardian. She loved to poorly sing Sonny and Cher songs to him and recite Celine Dion songs to which he hides his laughter by feigning disapproval. She also prays because she knows it takes him a few steps more than she to start his day. Retirement from a quarter-century in the military was not easy for him, nor was returning to the town he grew up in. There was no fatted calf when he returned from the world, only an ailing father and an interstate that was always under construction.

After her prayers are complete and she is enveloped in her God’s ambiance, the world seems to come alive. The sun has decided it will shine in vain. Some poets have spent their lives describing a sunrise, or the way beams strike buildings in their small towns or their big cities. Council Bluffs has the ability to swallow that light. But she looks happily out her window and past the tree and to the powdered ground and the now constant stream of cars stopping at the sign, waiting, and then hurriedly pressing their accelerators. She turns on the television.

Her husband has dressed and they chatter over breakfast eaten in the living room. He groans disapproval of her viewing choice, and she chides him mildly. It is then time for him to leave for work. They hug. A kiss, as well.

“I love you!”

“I love you, too!”

And they mean it. She thinks for a second how easy the next twenty-five years will be. Her rock.

Eventually, she, too, must leave for work. As she walks out to her car, she notices that the windshield is already scraped clean of ice. Though this happens every morning, her temperament disallows her to become used to small gestures.

She is the receptionist at the Catholic Church she attends. As close to a perfect job as possible for her at this point in her life. She once dreamed of being a flight attendant. “Stewardesses, we called them back then,” she always notes when telling the story.

As the car warms, her mobile erupts with the Carol Of The Bells, a ringtone her daughter had installed. Ringtones were not on her radar, yet she insisted to have a Christmas tune in lieu of a standard tone. She never cemented the habit of checking the caller-ID, nor did she understand the idea behind texting. Accessing the Internet on a cell phone was still a marvelous concept to her.

She knew the Microsoft Office Suite better than her husband and her daughter.

Upon opening her mobile, her son’s voice greets her. The sun is brilliant as she crosses the viaduct in conversation. He is playing at something, being a bit coy. She wonders why he is not in class. Their conversation ends as she passes by a homeless shelter. A Salvation Army store. A used car dealership.

Saint Patrick’s Catholic church is as big as ever, and she parks in the once empty lot and plods through the snow which is to be shoveled by Mr. Greene at 11:30. Mr. Greene owns a hardware store.

The door is unlocked, and Father Dave has left the door unlocked for a reason. Her son and daughter are waiting inside. The semester was over four hours away, and he is back for Christmas.

Those new to Council Bluffs can be easily overpowered by its lack of light. Those who can step from their bed to their kitchen know that light has to be searched for.

But still.