My copy of the Fall Issue of Voices arrived in the mail today, included inside is my short story, The Icon, one of the oldest in my collection - written in 1993, back when my experiences working in Romania were still very fresh.
In case you're wondering why I'm receiving the Fall issue in January, it's due to a clerical error - my name went missing from the mailing list, and it slipped my mind until the editor put out a call for submissions for the Spring issue. It means that I missed the launch, and the chance to do another reading, too. Oh well, c'est le geurre.
So, nine short stories published in 2013, and I think that's all the more remarkable because I stopped submitting back in April, so that I could concentrate on writing my next novel. Sorry, I couldn't resist a little boast.
If you care to read The Icon, I've attached it below. It's not very long, only 2000 words. You could have it finished before your first cup of coffee.
THE ICON
CW
Lovatt - May 30, 1993
She
peers at herself in the dressing table mirror, little crinkles in the corners
of her eyes as the sides of her mouth pull into a critical frown. A gown of snow
white satin accents the slimness of her waist before sweeping to the floor in a
virginal cascade. Shoulders bare, a string of pearls loop around her neck,
highlighting its graceful reach, before descending to her breasts.
On the dressing
table (a Louis Quatorze) are amassed
phials and decanters of perfumes, lotions and powders. Had she been asked, she
supposed that she would have approved of the gentility they infused, but it
would have been with an aristocrat's surprised air; for certainly, such things
were to be taken for granted.
She
observed her reflection: the brow, high and powdered, knit in perusal; the vivid
blue eyes painted with brushings of mascara, accenting their allure; the
cheekbones (high, proud and rouged) together with the nose (long, powdered, and
arrogant) created a satisfactorily haughty expression, she decided, before her
inspection descended to her mouth.
It was
a broad mouth, the lips full, but the aforementioned corners still drawn, not
quite ready to pronounce approval. They were painted a bold ruby-red, the
bottom one pouting in the most refined, practiced way so that when a man looked
at her his eyes would not see that pout, but his heart . . . ah, but his heart
would feel!
One
eye narrowed into a contemplative slit; she decided that the lips would need
more paint after all.
It was a risky
business of course, putting on one's face. Too little and you entered the ball
as a wet hen, dowdy and unforgivably dull; too much and you would be the talk
of Society, the Count's scarlet woman.
One corner of
that patrician mouth finally pursed upward, turning into a lazy grin as she
reached for the golden cylinder of lip-gloss.
On second
thought, let Society talk. Was she
not the Countess; and what did a countess care for such things?
The answer, of course, was proud and simple . . . nothing.
Yet, even as she
dipped the tiny brush into the phial, a frightened voice inside her head bid
her to hurry. A brief moment later, it warned her that it was already too late.
A foreboding
crept over her as black spots began to materialize in the mirror, dissolving
her reflection, one grain at a time.
"No!"
she moaned, reluctant to leave, but she continued to wither, the black dots to
expand, and the grains in the mirror to spread ever deeper with each passing
moment.
"No, please. No!"
Still the dots
continued to grow until her vision was filled with their black nothingness, as
they united to form one solid field. Then, once assured of victory, the
darkness began fading into grey.
As a
final betrayal she opened her eyes, breaching her last defense, allowing in the
morning and a heavy yoke of reality to settle around her heart.
The
dream slipped from her mind like sand through her fingers, and as she
unconsciously drew the last vestiges of warmth from its waning aura, she
simultaneously prepared herself for the numbing shock when she flung the single
blanket aside.
She
sat up, breath fogging the air. A threadbare shawl lay on the floor beside the
pallet. Shivering, she picked it up and hugged it around her shoulders, trying
to ward away the chill, even as it sank ever deeper inside her. With a rueful
sigh, she remembered that there was no wood for the fire.
Still
the cold cleared her mind, and as she willed herself to keep from shivering,
the guttural, arrhythmic sound of snoring caused her to turn her head to the
unkempt form sprawled beside her, completing the transformation from her dream.
He
had been drinking last night, but then he drank almost every night. She wished
he wouldn't, yet lacked the will to protest.
History
had taught her that it would not be wise to.
He worked hard,
he insisted, and who was she to begrudge his relaxation? He usually said this
while standing over her, weaving unsteadily, as his eyes narrowed to dangerous
slits.
If ever she
replied, it was guarded with apprehension, because when his eyes narrowed like
that, his fists were seldom far behind.
She raised an icy
hand to her face, gently touching her cheek. Her wince was resigned as her
fingers came into contact with the bruise.
He hadn't been so bad last night. God would
agree with her that there were times when the beatings had been far, far worse.
There were times when she had crawled, battered and bleeding, into a corner of
their single room, praying for the drink to carry him off into sleep. There were
times when she had woken on the cold, hard floor, with just the dimmest memories
of how he had battered her unconscious. There had been broken bones and sprains;
there had been eyes blackened and teeth hammered from her head - cuts and
bruises beyond counting; but she knew the fault was hers, that somehow she had
done something wrong. In the night, after she had fed Luca, and sang him to
sleep, she would get down on her knees and pray before the icon of the Heavenly
Child, and beg Him to guide her, to help her to be a better wife and mother.
Surely God was good. Surely one day He would hear her
prayer.
No, last night had not been so bad. True,
he had been drinking, and true, he had hit her when she was slow to heat his
soup, but had used only the flat of his hand.
She supposed that it was no more than
what was right. A man must drink; how else was he to prove that he was a man?
Once more she resolved to anticipate her husband, as only a good wife should.
Later he had
almost been kind. Perhaps he had been rough; perhaps he had even hurt her more;
but while she lay on their pallet with him on top, panting fumes into her face,
he had used her the way she supposed that God had intended a wife to be used.
No, last night had not been so bad.
Perhaps, and her
eyes now fluttered hopefully to the icon on the wall, perhaps God would be kind
enough to give her another child. Countless times in the past she had conceived,
and countless times miscarried, mostly, if the truth were to be told, from the
beatings. Yet her husband was a man, and a man must work his will; and through
him, the will of the god who denied her those children; but still she prayed,
so far, to no avail.
For her there had been Luca, and only Luca.
While she sat,
shivering on the edge of her pallet, she looked and could see in the morning's
gloom his sleep-tousled head, just visible above his blanket. The sharp, deep
ache of love filled her heart, and she willed it across the room to her son.
Ah,
with Luca, God had indeed been kind! He was a good boy and loved his mother; but
he was three months past his tenth year now, and the times that he wished to
spend cuddled in the womb of her arms were less and less these days.
She sighed this
thought away, and got up from the pallet. Soon her men would be awake, demanding
their breakfast.
From long habit
she went through an inventory in her mind as she managed a painful shuffle to
the lone cupboard in the corner of the room; the insides of her thighs were bruised
and chafed reminders of the night. She winced the soreness away, and stood
before the cupboard, weathered arms crossed over shriveled breasts.
There
was goat's cheese, and some pig fat as well. The soup was all gone, but there
was still a wrinkled tomato at the back of the shelf. The end of a stale loaf
of bread, scarcely more than a crust, would round it off. She frowned and nodded
- a gesture more inward than visible - it would have to do.
Later
she would go to the market, and if God was good, she would be able to gather
wood along the way so that she would have enough for her fire, and enough to
sell to pay for the food. If she was not so lucky she would beg on the street…and
if she still lacked the money…
She
chased the thought away with an impatient twitch of her head.
Of course it
would be all right. She had managed so far, had she not? Was God not good? Was
He not kind?
Her
husband might lack perfection, but what of it? So what if he drank? So what if
he beat her? So what if she knelt in front of the icon many nights, waiting for
him to return, praying that a vagabond would fall upon him and kill him along
the way? Afterwards, had she not always groveled before the Christ Child,
filled with horror, and begged forgiveness for such evil thoughts? If anyone
was wicked it was her.
Wearily, she
tried to ward away this thought also, but without effect; instead, like a
cancer, the old memory returned.
Yes, it was she
who was wicked, not her husband.
A cracked mirror
hung on the wall beside the cupboard. She gazed into its marred surface, and
was not deluded that her reflection was due solely to the imperfections in the
glass. The last cherished memories of her dream slowly twisted into a cruel
taunt.
She was not yet
thirty, but already old and withered beyond those years.
Yet she had not
always looked this way. Once she had been beautiful, once, many years ago; during
the time when she had been weak…
Hard days had
come, with no wood to gather, and nothing to be begged for on the street.
Had it been for one
day, or had it been more? Her memory refused to recall; but there had been a
man, a rich man with dark curls, who flashed a smile filled with strong white
teeth and had golden rings on his fingers, and a beautiful, warm coat of sheepskin.
He had been willing to pay, enough for food and firewood for an entire week.
Eleven
years ago, it had been.
She studied her
son while he slept, but instead of his angelic face, she now only saw that of
the wealthy stranger – the face of sin.
She had been so hungry.
Graceless, she fell to the floor,
her hands clasped under her chin while, yet again, her eyes sought the icon on
the wall.
"Forgive me!” she implored,
whispering, “Forgive me! I was hungry! Doesn't it matter that I was
hungry?" Unnoticed, a single tear crept down the weathered crevices of her
cheek, eventually coming to nestle in the trembling corner of her mouth.
But on this point, also, God remained silent.
The End
