The following short story I wrote is a piece of
fiction that was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Shoreline” in
2016.
THE UNWRITTEN STORY
I
once lent a book on writing memoir to someone and never thought any more about
it until the plain clothes policeman rang my doorbell.
After
showing me his badge and confirming my name, he asked, “Do you know a Gabriella
Ramirez-Langdon and a Claire Winters?”
“Um,
I’ve met them a couple of times, but I can’t say I really know them. Why?
What’s this about?”
“I’m
gathering information on these two women.
May I come in and ask you some questions?” he asked, moving closer to
the door.
We
sat in the kitchen, facing each other.
He had a notebook and a pen in his hand.
“How did you meet these women,” he wanted to know, opening the notebook
and preparing to write.
I had
to think back several years. They had
arrived together each time at my writers’ group. Gabriella I had previously met socially, when
she was with her husband. She was in her
early forties, a slim dark-haired beauty, from Chile, who said she loved to
write. So I invited her to the
group. She brought Claire with her. She was a woman in her fifties, originally
from England, a fading beauty, quiet and evasive. They first hid themselves in my kitchen,
whispering and making tea together, before joining the rest of us.
“They
came together to my writers’ group several times,” I told the policeman.
“Can
you tell me what their relationship to each other was?” he asked.
I
thought back to their first visit. We
all took turns reading our writing, our aspirations for famed publication
nakedly displayed. Gabriella read her
poetry. It needed work, because English
was not her first language. Claire read
pages of flowery obfuscation, hinting she had a story to tell, but never
telling it.
“I
can’t write the truth,” she said. “My ex
would kill me. He was always
abusive. We had three children
together. He got sole custody and I was
hardly ever able to see them. Now that
they’re older and I try to tell them the truth, they don’t believe me. They think I’m just histrionic, looking for
attention. I want to tell my story, but
I can’t.”
We
encouraged her to write it down anyhow.
We said she didn’t need to share it with anyone, but that writing it
could be cathartic for her, a healing process.
“No. No.
You don’t understand,” she said.
“He’s a very prominent person.
Very well known. And very
powerful. Any hint at my telling the
truth about what he’s done, at home and not at home, and I would be snuffed
out. Like that!” she said, as she
snapped her fingers.
Gabriella
sat beside her, and soothingly patted her arm, or her knee, each time Claire looked
at her for validation. It seemed that
Gabriella knew what Claire was talking about.
The rest of us wanted to know, but respected her privacy. Those who had also survived abuse waylaid her
afterward, out on the street, urging her to write, or to seek professional
help.
But to
the policeman I only said, “They appeared to be close friends.”
“Really? How close?” he asked me.
“Just
close. They arrived together. They looked to each other for approval. They made tea together in my kitchen. They sat together. Why?
What’s going on? And why are you
here asking me questions about them?”
“I
have a book with your name and address in it.
A book on writing memoir. What
can you tell me about that book?”
“On
writing memoir?” I asked. “I lent such a
book to Claire the last time she came here to the writers’ group. I haven’t seen her or the book since. Why?
Please tell me what the book has to do with anything.”
He
leaned forward, folding his hands together on the table. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you can
tell me about them?” he asked, his direct gaze holding mine.
I
sighed, and then revealed Claire had said her husband would kill her if she
ever told the truth of what he had done, but that she never told us what that
had been.
Finally,
the policeman closed his notebook and looked at me directly.
“We
found your book in a hotel room with two dead bodies identified as Gabriella
Ramirez-Langdon and Claire Winters. They
were found naked, in bed together, and these deaths are suspicious.”
Now I
wonder whose truth it was that did kill them.
______________________
By Lisa A. Hatton
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