Jeremy Crowther turned the corner onto Freeman Drive and saw his house for the first time in a year. His first thought was that nothing had changed. The same cracks ran down the edges of the same beige stucco walls. The same wet magnolia leaves overflowed the same sagging, moldy gutters. The same brown patches of dirt fought the same brown patches of grass for control of the same brown yard.
Jeremy slid his backpack off his shoulder and set it on the sidewalk.
Nothing had changed.
He took a deep breath. It was now or never. He dragged his backpack toward the house, rehearsing once again the words he had practiced a thousand times during the past three days. “Mom, I’m so sorry.” He never made it past those four words. He had no idea what would come next. That would depend on how his mother reacted. And maybe, he hoped, he wouldn’t need any more words at all. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”
He stepped onto the dusty cement porch. The same dust.
He reached toward the doorbell, then hesitated. What would his mother do when she opened the door and saw him standing there? Would she drop to her knees in relief and wrap her arms around him? Would she yell at him for what he’d put her through, what he’d put his family through? Would she turn him away, send him back to the street to punish him for running away?
Jeremy brushed the thoughts aside and rang the doorbell.
His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. If he were going to change his mind, now was time time. In another few seconds–
The deadbolt clunked. The doorknob turned. The door made a cracking sound as it freed itself from the snug doorjamb.
And there stood Jeremy’s mother, looking down at him.
She looked just as he remembered. She wore her usual blue jeans and dark shirt, and the watch she always wore, with the tarnished metal band. Dear God, nothing has changed.
But no, one thing had changed. Her hair was shorter. And darker. She must have dyed it. So that was two things. At least these two things were different.
Jeremy’s mother blinked, then frowned. “Yes?”
“Mom,” Jeremy said. “I’m so sorry.”
Her head jerked back. “What did you call me?”
“Mom, I–”
“What kind of prank is this?”
She doesn’t recognize me, Jeremy thought. Had he changed that much in a year? “It’s me. Jeremy.”
She glowered at him. “What kind of shit are you trying to pull here, Jeremy?”
“Mom!”
“Stop calling me that.”
“But–”
Jeremy’s mother looked over his shoulder toward the street. “Okay, you and your friends have had a jolly good laugh. Now leave me alone.”
“Mom, what’s going on? What are you–”
She stepped back and reached toward the door.
“No, wait!” Jeremy blurted. He reached up and pushed on the door with his hand. “Mom, wait! I want to come home!”
His mother stiffened and gaped at him. She raised her right hand slowly to her mouth. Barely audibly she whispered, “Aaron?”
She’s punishing me, Jeremy thought. Punishing me for running away, for abandoning her the way his dad did, the way Aaron did. She’s punishing me, and I deserve it.
He began to cry. “No, I’m Jeremy. Your youngest son Jeremy.”
His mother wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Jeremy, I think you’re at the wrong house.”
“No!” Jeremy shouted. “This is my house. You’re Natalie.”
“How do you–”
“And Gil lives here, too, and Deena. And Aaron used to, but he–”
“How do you know about my family?”
“I am your family! Mom, what’s–”
“You little shit,” Natalie said, her voice cracking. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but this is fucking cruel.”
“What?” Jeremy squeaked.
“You’re a hateful young man, Jeremy, or whoever you are,” Natalie said. She stepped back again, this time more quickly, and grabbed the edge of the door.
As the door swung shut, Jeremy thrust his foot out and blocked it. “What are you doing? This is crazy!”
“Get out!” his mother yelled.
The door jerked back, then smashed hard into Jeremy’s foot. He yelped and pulled his foot away.
The door slammed shut.
“Mom!” Jeremy cried. “Mom, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
The deadbolt slid gently home.
Tags: manuscript
I think this is markedly better than the first draft, but there’s still a lot of work to do.
For example, there are way too many saidisms. Instead of saying stuff, Jeremy squeaks, shouts, cries, and blurts. I always catch those things when I crit others’ work. Bleah.
Also, I want to say more of what’s going on in Jeremy’s head through all of this, and to do it with more grace than I’ve done here.
That’s what draft 3 is for.
Randy Ingermanson and a host of thoughtful reviewers are critiquing a number of first paragraphs on Randy’s Advanced Fiction Writing blog. Check out the helpful feedback they gave me.
Hi Dale, This is poignant. I like the comment about the “same” dust. I assume he’s not very old if his mother looks down at him, and dragging the backpack shows he’s fairly little.
Only thing that jarred me a bit – I don’t think his mother would call him Jeremy as you have her do fairly early on. If she doesn’t know him and feels he’s playing an ugly prank I don’t think she’d call him by name ever–that suggests an acceptance of who he says he is. In the “She’s punishing me…” paragraph, you slip out of person when you say “the way HIS dad did…” Make it “the way Dad did, the way Aaron did…”
Lois (from Randy’s blog)