King Exercise I

For Christmas 2002 my wife bought me Stephen King’s On Writing. As I’ve written about elsewhere, I was a huge fan of his, reading just about everything he wrote up until the mid-90s before moving on. I did read Dreamcatcher during our honeymoon (mostly on the plane ride across the country) and was disappointed. But the man’s an undisputed master of his genre, of that I agree wholeheartedly and enthusiastically. So I read this book in a day or two, and was intrigued when I came across the challenge.

Somewhere near the middle of the book (I forget exactly where) he proposes a fairly typical and somewhat clichéd set up: a woman and her daughter just learn that dear old Dad has escaped from the looney bin. Now, Steve challenges the budding young storyteller, and I can almost see the glee behind those coke-bottle lenses, now … reverse the characters and make the woman the crazy one.

I took the challenge in the spring of 2003. Here’s the untitled horror story I wrote, in three postings:


Three hours of peace, Richard thought as he juggled his packages inside the foyer. Time to rest before playing referee between Nell and Sheryl tonight.

He placed the Saab keys in the stained-glass bowl under the antique tin lamp he and Sheryl recently acquired in Nantucket and fumbled the packages across the tiled floor. To his dismay Nell’s present spilled out, along with Sheryl’s note, and Richard nearly threw out his back trying to keep the porcelain monkey from smashing against the basement door. Cursing under his breath he collected his gifts and party favors neatly under his good arm, hung his wool coat, and made his way into the kitchen.

A faint, sweet chemical odor trailed him into the house, and he paused absentmindedly, tangling with a vague memory. When nothing immediately came, he sniffed deeply, but still in vain. Oh well, he mentally shrugged; Mrs. MacAfee finally got around to spring cleaning. He smiled at the dim realization that the best way to jump-start shoddy service was simply to “forget” to mail the check.

What better way to spend a chilly afternoon alone than with a little light reading and a cup of hot tea? He placed a pot of water on the burner and rubbed his hands briskly near the flame. Despite the lateness of the season, April temperatures still clustered around the freezing mark, and the old house still poured heat out of every window pane and crevice. Been that way forever, he thought, over eight years, when he and Jane were newlyweds and purchased it –

Richard jerked himself upright. What brought that into his head? He hadn’t thought of Jane since he last saw her, at the sentencing, almost three years ago. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Every time he looked at Nell he saw Jane in those brilliant green eyes, the high cheekbones, the way her mouth twisted in mock anger. But aside from such vague recollections bubbling just under the surface, semi-conscious – well, well, he tried his best not to think of his ex-wife.

A wise policy, he now affirmed. Warmed up enough from the stove, he carefully removed the contents of his package on the oak table. Exhibit A: one porcelain monkey. For his daughter, for her birthday. A slight grin played across his face as he shook his head. Nell had a fascination with monkeys bordering on the obsessive-compulsive. Big ones, small ones, stuffed furry ones, posters of the hairy beasts, Halloween costumes – you had to face it, the kid didn’t do anything half way.

Just like her mother.

“Okay, enough, enough,” Richard found himself mumbling. He gingerly placed the monkey within the styrofoam peanuts of the box and after a brief reconnaissance to the den for Scotch tape and scissors, wrapped it, and applied a bow. Setting it aside, he then filled out her card, an appropriately colorful collage of monkeys, freshly freed from their barrel, intertwined into the number seven.

Dear Nell, my favorite little chimp, Happy Birthday! Hope you enjoy your birthday party! Love, Dad.

He debated whether or not to add Sheryl’s name after his, then finally decided to leave the envelope unsealed and the decision with Sheryl.

The pot on the stove whistled, and Richard made poured a cup of tea. Sitting in the wicker chair at the glass table, legs crossed comfortably, he sipped the hot beverage and reread Sheryl’s note. Richard – Sorry about not getting the afternoon off! See you both soon tonight – I have a little special present for Nell I think she’d adore. I’ll call you at seven. Love, Sheryl.

He glanced at the clock above the sink. Quarter past three. That gave him two-and-a-half hours before Nell was due home from her catered school party. Two hours plus to read his latest interest, an epic bio of Julius Caesar. That would so come in handy this semester. Maybe even help jump-start his stilted magnus opus, a twelve hundred page first-draft overview of Europe at the advent of the first millennium, sitting in a drawer now for – what? – almost seven months now.

The writing had been so therapeutic three years ago, after Jane and those unpleasant events. It had been a way to console himself, a way to wrap himself up in an alien world where he felt more at home in. He had given blood and tears to help Nell adjust through the hell of it, and at night, after putting the child to bed, he had looked forward to spending the evenings with some kings and queens, knights, popes and antipopes.

But then things quickly changed: life happened. He had met Sheryl, an office manager-slash-friend of his sister-in-law, at a family Fourth of July bash, and actually asked her out. Richard soon discovered to his absolute delight the she was an avid history buff, a liberal arts graduate, a lover of wine, a fan of impressionism – both in painting as well as music – and, like himself, a recent divorcee. By September and the start of a new semester he had realized he was in love, and dutifully relegated his opus to his desk’s bottom drawer.

He told her of his love for her, and she echoed his feelings.

Life would have been perfect save one small, minor problem: Nell. The problem seemed paradoxical to Richard; the two women in his life initially got along tremendously, but little by little Nell grew distant, sometimes angry and often downright rude, whenever he’d mention Sheryl. No approach helped the situation. He tried to whole gamut of parenting techniques: rational discussion failed, as did outright bribes. And though he never outright spoke of Nell’s behavior to Sheryl, he sensed that his girlfriend knew on some level, and had tried on numerous occasions to befriend his daughter.

Nell responded like an adult who realized her affections were being purchased: coolly at first, then ice cold, and finally, the stone-cold-dead silent treatment.

Then, last night, tucking his six-year old into bed after improvising a version of the tale of Gawain and the Green Knight, the question was posed to Richard.

“Is Sheryl going to be my new mommy?”

Richard had paused a long time. He had mentally rehearsed for this moment, but now that it was before him, his throat suddenly lost all moisture. It took an unusually strong effort at willpower for him, he who was used to lecturing in front of halls filled with several hundred students four periods a day, to produce an audible voice to speak to the little girl.

“Your daddy loves Sheryl, and Sheryl loves your daddy, honey. We may get married, but” – and this next part had been particularly acidic to him, though he’d fought to keep a poker face – “but your mommy will always be your mommy. Sheryl will just – ”

“When’s mommy coming home, daddy?” Her radiant green eyes, shining like sapphires from the light from the hall, pierced his, cut into him and into his heart.

“Nell, we’ve talked about this before, honey. Your mommy is sick. She’s in a hospital to get well. There are doctors treating her, and someday she’ll come back.” Yeah, he had thought, hopefully when hell froze over and he was long in his grave after about, oh, another forty or fifty years of enjoying life without the sick fear of losing it prematurely –

Or of losing the use of one’s arm.