Winter Bayou E-Book

Kelly Sullivan

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 126

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

'Each time we lay down together, I thought of pounding fetlocks, the flex of tendons, the press of horse shoe against my chest, the ring of purple flesh it would leave on my stomach, his galloping, galloping into me … Each night, after, I filled the space we'd made with the whine and later the voice of the violin, my voice, coming quicker and quicker, my fingers finding the notes through his hair, quicker and quicker through my bow arm sweeping across the strings, down the flutes of muscle on his back. It came mellow and low then quicker and harder and pizzicato and striking each note, forcing it from the wood and into the still sycamores, pin oaks, maples. Always, the violin called between the spaces.' In this stunning fictional début Kelly Sullivan explores of the inner life of Grace: mother, wife, and talented violinist. Finding release only in her music, Grace exists in a state of profound emotional paralysis, until the storm. 18 August 1969 – Hurricane Camille ravages all that lies in her path; at a party in Mississippi drunken revellers eagerly await her arrival. As they sway to the sound of a stereo hi-fi, outside 'the trees whip by and the rain whips down'. Twenty-four people die inside the beachfront building when it's razed 'flatter than a winter bayou'. Speeding over drifting sand, Grace, her husband and his newly acquired lover make a last-minute dash to safety. In the days that follow, Grace surveys the destruction wrought by the tempest. Like the wood of her beloved violin, her fractured ego risks crumpling under the pressure: 'Too much moisture and you're gonna warp her, but too little and you'll have more cracks,' the violin repairman had warned. In Winter Bayou, Grace journeys through the past, from the heady rush of teenage love to a marriage 'ripped apart too … shredded and pushed beyond our boundaries' – her meditations forming a perfectly poised novella as lyrically tender as it is viscerally sensuous.

Leseprobe

Winter Bayou

Kelly Sullivan

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

DUBLIN

for my parents

and for PR

What reasons do you have for despair.

Only one, this sense of emptiness.

José Saramago

18 August 1969, 5 pm

Wright Residence, Slidell, Louisiana

They told us to evacuate but Charlie said there ain’t no need, he said,it can’t get past St Bernard anyhowand what could I tell him? We were watching the news, the picture getting fuzzy every few minutes like waves and I asked him again if we could leave,ain’t no need, Grace, he says and I listen to the anchorman tell us again, the New Orleans station,Everyone within coastal, Chinchuba to Biloxi Bay, should head inland. The phone rings and I think it’s my mother wanting to know if we’re leaving, but Charlie answers and laughs so I know it can’t be Mother.

5:47 pm

Charlie tells me again this will be great fun, that I should do my hair, look my best, that Sutpen has an apartment right on the water and we’ll watch the whole thing and anyway, there’ll be other women there, you’ll have a great time, great fun, it’ll be great fun.

5–22 August 1969

Hurricane Camille

Saffir–Simpson Category 5 storm makes landfall shortly before midnight in the Bay St Louis area. The eye of the hurricane measures 12 miles in diameter, with wind speeds estimated upwards of 220 miles per hour, and pressure at 26.85 inches. Damage estimates range from 1 million to 1.5 million dollars, and deaths total 261, with an additional 300 persons reported missing.

18 August 1969, 7:24 pm

Highway 90, Bay St Louis, Mississippi

Charlie eases the bumper of the Dart up close to the bumper of the Cadillac ahead of us, impatiently smashing his fist into the steering wheel. The water of Bay St Louis eases up closer and closer to the sides of the highway. I look out, cars in both lanes, slow moving to 49 in Gulfport, north to Hattiesburg, away from the rising waters that boil to steel under the sky, maddening in the south.

He pushes up against the bumper once more, forcing him faster across the highway bridge, moving us away from the bay and closer to Pass Christian, Sutpen’s apartment, parties, women. The water rises, eases up over the sides of the highway and we continue.

8:16 pm

Hurricane Party at 24 Richelieu Beachfront Apartments,

Pass Christian, Mississippi, home of Sutpen Winters

Used to call Richelieu the Rice Fields no wonder why, flat as a winter bayou and just as wet.

9:37 pm

Count 29 people here, 29 people drinking vodka tonics and dancing to a stereo hi-fi, look out to the parking lot, only vehicles are these, palm trees ripping sideways in the wind and a rain wants to come. I know he’s got his arm around some girl, picked which one before he did, platinum blonde like a box of Revlon and styled so tight even this hurricane won’t move it. Same for her dress, except he will.

10:56 pm

Sliding glass doors open onto a back patio, six floors up, and I press my nose against them, my skin like snail, smooth, flattened, displaced. On the horizon the sky turns mustard and looks like three angry knots of twine, rolling against the water. I call to Charlie crouched next to her on the arm of the chair. He doesn’t look up.

258 deaths, American

3 deaths, Cuban

68 missing

8000 deaths, cattle, mostly drownings

5662 homes destroyed

1082 mobile homes destroyed

1 large diesel fuel barge lifted from the harbour, deposited on the median strip between east- and westbound lanes of Highway 90.

11:16 pm

The water’s rising almost to the bottom apartments and I call to Charlie,Charlie, call him over and over till he answers,back room, I swing open the door to darkness, shapes everywhere and I recognize coats, then two bodies, his, the blonde’s,Charlie, we’re leaving.And him,but love I’ve just started here, just begun,kisses her giggling oyster mouth again, another couple bursts in, hands and her legs in pumps pushing me against the doorframe,get out of here, they yell,we’re gonna die here, and he hears them, doesn’t hear me, but catches the fear in the other woman’s voice and pulls his blonde off the bed,come on girl, which one’s your coat?and I find my own and run down the stairs, listening to the moan of the palm trees as they hit the ground.

11:18 pm

Wright Residence, Slidell, Louisiana

Water, opaque, coffee brown, thick with mud from Lake Pontchartrain, from Lake Borgne, thick with sand and mud from the Intracoastal waterway, from the Chandeleur Sound, thick with mud and silt from the Breton Sound, from the Mississippi River Delta, thick with mud and silt and storm from the Atlantic Ocean pressed frantically against the lowest boards of the jaune three-storey with the wraparound porch, the paint already chipped and fading where the sun hit most frequently, now pounded, again and again by waves, waves higher with each pulse. The water licked over the planks of the porch, ripping them with each return, and forcing them up with each surge. The water reached the windowpanes, pressed against the dark glass, slammed against the wide oak door, pressed harder with each pulse, and continued, a breathing animal against the land. The windows gave way first, then the door burst in, the water rushing and not returning to sea, drowning the oriental rugs, the furniture, the fisherman’s chair, chased into the kitchen, sucked out the microwave, the heavy refrigerator, pulled pickles, grape jelly, carrots, half a turkey, twelve Coors cans, a pitcher emptied, threw them about the house. It rushed down hallways and tore down the stairwell, pressed higher and climbed stairs, threw beds, mirrors, shampoo, ivory soap dishes, the pale pages of a book, a violin emptied from its case.

11:22 pm

Richelieu Beachfront Apartments

I hold onto the handle of the car until they come from the apartment complex, tripping and laughing and she pulls a fur coat across her shoulders but doesn’t bother to put her arms in the sleeves,hurry up, Charlie, and they bend into the wind, her hair lifts and he lifts her skirt, laughter, and they come closer and his hands search her thighs, search her breasts, press her against the car and press into her sides, her back, search his pockets for his keys,hurry up, Charlie!he aims drunkenly for the lock, misses, stabs again, the wind picks up her hair again, picks up the lapels of his dinner jacket and blows them near his face, bent in concentration over the lock, her hands in his hair, her lips on his ear.Hurry up, Charlie!he pulls the door into the wind, the blonde laughs, falls into the back, and I open the passenger side and slam it, out of the wind. I watch the palm trees blow sideways, grace the sidewalk and dance back up again, over and over, the mustard sky rising in the south and the knots curling and curling against the waves.

11:46 pm

Route 49, De Soto National Forest, Mississippi

The trees whip by and the rain whips down and in the back seat she whips her arms like a seizure, uncertain where she is, or why, and then goes suddenly quiet. Charlie drives quickly, speeds over the drifting sand, over the silty water that drifts up from the marshes, that puddles from the rain.

Turns on 26, he stops the car in Wiggins at a motel, and I hurry out next to him, holding my collar up against the driving rain and calling his name. He trips, but catches himself against the door to the office, and I catch up and walk in next to him. Small talk with the attendant, he asks for a room and when he signs the papers, his left hand is naked and wet.

575 miles of roads cleared

30–59 tons of bedding delivered

40,000 textbooks donated from New York schools

30 unclaimed bodies processed by the FBI

infestation of fireants

24 dead at a hurricane party at Richelieu Beachfront Apartments, Pass Christian, Mississippi, after a storm surge 19 feet above the high-tide line, high winds and the knot of hurricane passed through the beachfront Rice Fields and razed the building. Flatter than a winter bayou.

28 August 1969

Slidell, Louisiana

We pull up at the house, so many days later and I wonder if there’s any reason to return, or whether we’ve been ripped apart too, like the house, shredded and pushed past our boundaries, ready only to return to the earth and rise again, different. But he gets out of the Dart and looks at me through the windshield, then motions, gently, like he would if he were touching me early in the morning, when he’s still himself.

The front door’s blown open and the insides look like they’ve bled all over the porch, even spilled out into the yard. Beside the forsythia bushes I find the portfolios of photographs from the first year in Philadelphia. There’s Thomas’s baby picture, black-and-white now indiscernible, muddied, curled and washed like the Louisiana landscape through the windshield of the Dart driving back down here: liquid, trembling. In the front hall he finds his reading glasses folded and unscratched in the middle of the table as if he’d set them there before locking the front door for the night. On the floor, the lampshade and thousands of pieces of glass, some window, some china, some patterned with blue vines curling and curling across the waterlogged pillows, the paperweight, my great-grandmother’s wedding dress, a cracked picture frame, three oranges, a limp piece of sheet music.

Charlie reaches down for one of the oranges, brings it close to his face, breathes deeply, then begins to peel it, tossing the fractured shell back onto the floor with the rest.Grace.He looks at me, and just so the light from the broken back windows cuts across the hall and he is, new, sharp.Grace … I’m gonna leave.He looks again at my face, but only for a moment, then steps away, pushing another section of orange into his mouth and spitting a seed violently toward the wall.

Upstairs, the damage is no less. In the hall I step over emptied drawers and spilled bottles of cold cream, across the wide arc of pale grey mascara flung against the hardwood floor, itself warped and discoloured. I walk past my son’s room, past our bedroom, walk toward the blue room. The door hangs crookedly, ripped from its top hinges. Inside is a sea of sheet music, sharps, whole notes, pizzicatos piled as if for a bonfire, but still wet and already with a faint scent of decay. I dig my hands into the pile, pull up the cream pillows from the couch, drag their heavy forms out and fling them, drowned bodies onto sand. I pull at the drapes from the smashed windows, their folds dripping and twisting together and there, under the weight of indigo cloth, is the violin.

Its body, waterlogged and darkened, feels unnaturally heavy. I lift it by its neck, but quickly slide a hand down to the ribs and hold it with my fingers on either side of the end button. Water dribbles from the f-holes when I tilt it forward. The strings hang uselessly, their ends unravelling and sharp. The tailpiece dangles from the G-string. Two dulled spots in the spruce belly mark where the bridge used to rest. I turn it over in my hands and run a finger along the thin crack that arches through the maple back from the fingerboard all the way to the base. There is a looseness inside its body, a dull tap when I turn it from side to side. The wood, heavy with the water, is cold in my hands.Grace!I hear his anger and when I rise my knees are wet from kneeling in the rubble.

18 January 1939

Sycamore Mills, Delaware County, Pennsylvania

When I rose, my knees were cold and stinging from the cold snow that lined the top of the pond and the surrounding trees, contrasting the dark, wet of their branches with the shocking smoothness of the iced surface. I stood from the bank where I’d leaned, looking out across the expanse. I reached down for the violin case and took a tentative step onto the glassy surface. My saddle shoes had slick soles that slid before I found my balance with each step. Skirts blew around my ankles, tightened there, making it even more difficult to step forward into the space that only cold could inhabit. After thirty uncertain paces I stopped, looked up. An entire forest around me and then a space no one had ever occupied before, my space, the centre where each flux of water from Ridley Creek pulsed and widened, where the motion that smoothed the beaches and carved the edges of the lake began. I looked up to the chilled empty sky, my hair against my body, my dress pressing the shape of my hips, breasts just coming clear under the layers of wool and velvet.

I knelt next to the case and snapped open the catches, the sound loud and unnatural in the dead landscape. I pulled the instrument awkwardly from the felt-lined box and tightened the bow. I raised the violin to my shoulder and pressed down my chin. Light flashed on wood, the sharp contrast of the grained and polished instrument against the dull black lines of branches, trunks, the snow in collars against their bases. I touched the bow to the strings, an uncertain sound that whined into the space I’d owned, that whined, then wailed, then sang uncertainly, each stroke of the bow too short for a full breath, each note muttered and lost into space, separate from me, this wood and gut and ebony between us.

28 August 1969

Slidell, Louisiana

Grace, I turned quickly from the blue room, still holding the ruined violin by its neck and silencing the clanging tailpiece with my opposite hand. I stepped through the hallway, down the stairs, stood in the entrance to the living-room where he stood in front of the fireplace, stood in front of it dropping the short flames of match after match into the wet mouth and watching them go out in thin lines of smoke.Grace!and he turned, saw me in the doorway, saw the violin, and softened again, paused mid-strike, then continued, his eyes on the burst of flame that rose and levelled, on its long flight to the dark wet mouth, on the brief glow of red in the tip after it burnt out.Grace I …he looked up again, but not at me, at the mangled and darkened instrument, Grace … I’m sorry about all of this and I’m going to help you straighten up and then I’m going.

So I was right, we are washed past boundaries, cannot go back.

First time with Charlie I was seventeen. 1943 I guess, but I don’t remember it. Not a thing of it, though later, in ’44 and ’45, we went up Ridley Creek every weekend, just walked right up it, through the park, through the deeper woods. I’d tell him we’d get shot, like deer, our hides shadow in the shadows. He laughed,deer don’t walk up creeks, Grace, don’t you know anything? Fox walk up creeks. We’d better listen for horses