Miss Elizabeth

Here is a short story that I have been working on. I'll post it first then I'll write a little of my thoughts about it after. I don't want to influence or cloud your initial reading...though technically I think I just did. In an editors note, the formatting doesnt allow me to indent. This sucks. New speakers and qoutations are indicated with a -dash.

Miss Elizabeth

I read:
"When she reached him he held out his hand and she took it. She was so pale in the lake she seemed to be burning. Like foxfire in a darkened wood. That burned cold. Like the moon that burned cold. Her black hair floating on the water about her, falling and floating on the water. She put her other arm about his shoulder and looked toward the moon in the west…"
-What are you reading?
I looked up, startled.
-A book. I mean, its by McCarthy.
-That's nice. I used to read so many books.
-Yeah? I love books, just getting into this one though. Its beautiful.
-What's your name young man?
-John. My name is John. Whats your name?
-Excuse me?
-What's your name?
-Now why would you ask a thing like that first off?

She was white, purple blouse with white jeans and white hair that was once auburn and she had a long café cane with a blunt handle, stubby hammer of wood and we were the only two people sitting in the radiology waiting room. She was classy old. She looked away and I, unsure if the conversation had ended with double glance to her looking away went back to my book. I read:
"…do not speak to her do not call and then she turned her face up to him. Sweeter for the larceny of time and flesh, sweeter for the betrayal…"

-Young man? and the courteous wait for my reply.
-Yes?
-Have you seen my pocket book? I always tend to misplace it.Or maybe Elsa has it? Maybe I gave it to Elsa.

And into the room a Hispanic woman on cue,

-Miss Elizabeth, they need to know what year you born.
-You expect me to just blurt out my age right here in front of the whole world?

She looked at me. I smiled, put my hands over my ears and hummed some hymn.
When I took my hands away, Elsa was assuring the safety of the pocketbook and Elizabeth was smiling at me.

-You remind me of my grandson. Well, he's really my grand-nephew, but he is tall and he has this gorgeous red hair. Lives in Boston. My sister's hair. She was the only one to get it too, this gorgeous red hair, like the color of bricks. That red.
-I don't really have red hair.
-No. No it's brown. But not the hair, the smile. You remind me of my grandson, the whole world in front of him.

She moved her cane in her hands, brought the handle to her face, smelled it, touched it to her lips. The older the elderly the more easily they see potential, the more loosely they define youth. The more whismy nostalgia they ascribe to all ages under their own. Backseat love and moon reaching. I am in my thirties. This conversation takes place in a hospital.

-Young man
-Yes Miss Elizabeth
-That is my name. When I was a young girl my grandfather owned a bottle factory in Brooklyn, and we would bring free soda and tonic to all the kids in the neighborhood. We were very popular.
-Do you still live in Brooklyn? Have you been there all your life?
-All my life, with a few detours.

She caressed her café cane again. A minute passed.

-That's a thick book young man, you must enjoy reading.
-Very much so
-Who is it by? I used to read very much.
-Its actually three books bound in one hardcover, its by Cormack McCarthy.
-That's nice. By chance have you seen my pocketbook? I seem to be always losing it. Maybe I gave it to Elsa. Did you see me give it to Elsa?
-As a matter of fact I did.

I smiled again.

-You’re a very nice young man. I have this grandson with the world in front of him, and he has your smile. But he has this thick red hair. God its amazing. Red like a sunset. You could go a long way in this world with a head of hair like his. He moved to Boston last year.
-I've never been to Boston.
-It's lovely. My grandson lives there.

She looked across the room, empty but for chairs. She looked away from me and twisted the cane once around like a baton. She smelled the blunt worn wood handle. I looked at her until I knew her attention was gone. The elderly have a way of looking outward but traveling inside. They pull their fears back inside their memories. They turtle. As if by looking back they could make future time stop and past time begin again. I know the feeling. This conversation takes place in the Oncology ward of a Hosptial. I looked back down at my book. I read:

"Nesting cranes that stood singlefooted among the cane on the south shore had pulled their slender beaks from their wingpits to watch. Me quieres? She said. Yes, he said. He said her name. God yes, he said."





First off. I am toying around with this idea of using snippets, randomly pulled (though this example is not random)fragments of other peoples work placed newly in new creations. The idea is that the pulled pieces take on new and entirely different connotations in altered settings. Like found photography. Does it work here with the McCarthy pieces? Does it irk you as a reader that I do this? It kindof irks me.

Second. The ending. I wrote a few different ones. The one here where I just leave it at the beautiful McCarthy quote. One where I tell her I am God and that she should be at peace with her past. One where she just stares at me and then I walk away, and one where I see her later in the hospital hallway, half naked in a hospital gown and I greet her for to bypass the awkwardness of her nakedness and she wonders at me all down the hallway walking away. Does the current ending work. Is there any emotional payout?


Lemme know what you think. Especially lemme know what pieces were unclear. I tend to have experiences/pictures in my head when I write and sometimes I leave things unsaid.

-Aaron