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Set and setting. Stories should start with set and setting. Every child in every school across the Commonwealth was taught to write like this. Most listened — hence the litany of stories that are nothing more than duplications.
I didn’t listen. Unruly kids never do. There’s medication for such kids today — medications to get doodling kids drooling as they stare off into space. Kids that, once upon a time, dug graphite pencils at their flexion creases when teacher spoke about set and setting.
The scar’s still there. Still here.
A more apt name for kids like those — like I was — would be contrarian. Forget set and setting. What’s going on in the character’s head? I mean, people don’t first move in the world. We first move in our dreams, in our heads. Everything you see was first conceived in thought. Everything, even the child that you hold dear.
Would this be blasphemous? Would it be sacrilegious? I don’t know.
God first dreamed of Adam before he came to be. The good Lord breathed life into dust and gave it life.
I wonder — what must He have felt as they sunk their teeth into the forbidden fruit? Was that the first death of hope?
Ever watched Finding Forrester? Great movie though I can only recall one scene: the mentor forcing the mentee to write on a typewriter. I bought one. What can I say? I’m easily influenced. Despite this, I have written every single first draft with graphite against paper.
“Then the Lord formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and Ivan became a living soul.”
Oh, Ivan!
I don’t know if I have ever written such a character before.
Why dwell on words when there is time to act?
From his conception he spoke with fervor.
Writing is no easy feat. Takes time. Takes unwavering focus. The devices and apps don’t make it any easier either. But it was different with Ivan. Ivan did not fight his birth but came willingly from the graphite dust.
Oh, Ivan!
When my firstborn son was born, I had dreams of the man he would one day become. He would, I hoped, take on my best qualities. This is not always the case. There are men who look at their adult sons with sullenness. “They never listened,” they groan or “what a disappointment.” No father imagines himself in such a position. At least not at the birth of their child.
Ivan was no such child. Never has been. Almost immediately, he mirrored me in lockstep. Measured, calm, peaceful, and even, a contrarian. But no father wants his son to be exactly like him. We all pray that they can go just a little further.
He was no disappointment.
It was during a dialogue. An interaction with a supporting character — his wife, Maria — when Ivan first begun showing signs of fortitude the likes of which I had never known.
Do you love me or am I just duty, Maria spoke as tears welled-up.
Love won’t feed you, Ivan said with a nonchalance that cut right through his wife.
Already, he knew me. This is not much to say. Just as we know God, all characters the writer creates know their creator intimately.
But of course, Ivan was nothing more than a character in one of my pieces. Of course he was. Of course he was…
Fiction, more so than non-fiction, has the power to quell a man’s complacency. How many lives has Nietzsche changed? What about Dostoevsky? And so too, Ivan would change a life.
Dishes. Judith never did dishes. No, no. That’s unfair. She did wash them but only when she felt like it. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a good wife… A decent wife. But… the dishes. And the nagging. The headaches. The exhaustion.
Oh, Ivan!
He would not stand for any of it. With a glare, Maria would bend the knee. Judith would never.
I’m not sure how long I had been working on the story. It usually took me a week, in the evenings after the kids had gone to bed. A routine was set: I’d make a steaming cup of tea, lock myself in the study for two hours or so and craft something to post. Judith never cared. She wasn’t much of a reader and my hobby was always “something he does to hide from his family.” What can a man do but take such things in stride?
It was different with Ivan — not a week, not in the evenings, not after the kids went to sleep.
The first call came from Mindo. “Boss, when we gonna see you in the office?” It didn’t matter. Things could work out just fine without me for a little while. They’re not kids, I thought.
Then, came Judith. Knocking on the study door, popping her head in, asking, “are you okay, dear?”
Why wouldn’t I be okay?
“Yes, dear. Just need to get this one right,” I responded as I watched her eyes steal a glance at the boxes of take-away piling up by the trash bin.
“The kids feel a bit cooped up. Maybe we should go on a weekend trip. What do you think?” There she was again. Nagging. Nagging. Ivan wouldn’t take it. Maria wouldn’t try it.
“I-I don’t know. Just need a little more…”
“Okay,” she cut me off and walked out of the room. A few minutes later she walked back in with a futon.
“What are you doing?” I barked.
“I’m not going to sleep alone again tonight. And we are going on that trip? The kids need it. I need it. And I can tell from the stench of this place that you need it too.”
He grabbed her by the back of her neck. She tried to retreat. He would have none of it.
“Okay, dear,” I bent the knee.
Oh, Ivan!
If only I were more like you: speech uttered in absolutes, unwavering confidence in the face of opposition, an ironclad frame.
Readers, he gave and gave.
“This spot,” Judith asked as my hand rested on the steering wheel “have you always had it?”
I moved my hand away and said, “of course. It’s nothing. Probably eraser dust and graphite from the pencil.” She was right. So was I. There was something different about it. A bit darker, more pronounced.
Never liked the smell of sea salt in the air. Or the sand kicked up to my calves as I walked on the beach. Or the uncompromising, almost choreographed, excitement of children on a vacation. Judith did all the appreciating for both of us.
Her hands were wrapped around mine. She gave the kids free reign to run through the halls. She locked the room door and… There were no headaches. She was not exhausted. Not even once. Maybe I needed it. Maybe we needed it. It had been quite a while since we had been away.
Ivan was not to blame. Over the past ten years, I had built a company that demanded so much of me. This was not the fruit of ambition. Somehow, I had found myself in that position. Looking back it was as though I had been falling up the social hierarchy while the tethers that held me in place were slowly wilting. Writing was my only grounding. Judith would not have liked to know that. And as her tongue traced lines across my skin, I was glad to keep her ignorant.
Eventually, she would fall asleep and I would usher the kids away from their adventure and tuck them in and wait for their breath to deepen into a soothing symphony. It was then that I returned to Ivan — my son.
The azure from the screen burned into my retina as voyeuristic tendencies took hold. Ivan grew. His every choice was calculated. Each decision was plotted out. Every word uttered was deliberate and used either as a bridge or a weapon.
There he was, Ivan, moving like a liberated automaton. A being beyond his creator and the more I observed, the more I gave to him.
“Once we get back home I will be working on the story for one more week then I’m done,” I muttered to my wife as we were leaving the resort. There it was — that look that marked the disappointment in her, foolishness in me. That look that drove me to act without a demanding word.
“I don’t know what you want from me, woman.” Like my successes, those words simply fell out of my mouth. Those were his words. Ivan’s. How naturally they rolled off my tongue.
Judith paused and stepped back. Her lips parted as though a harsh retort was ready. Nothing.
I don’t think I had ever spoken to her with such sternness. It was abhorrent, misogynistic. I wasn’t raised to be that man.
It was exhilarating, empowering. For a moment, I was more than the man I was raised to be.
Except the two kids in the backseat bickering over toys, the drive was silent. However, where I would have previously felt the weight of resentment building in my wife, I found peace.
For the next week, I locked myself in the study. The garbage piled up. The stench was getting to me. The shower was avoided. The kids stopped coming into the room. Judith would step in, rarely, to check on me.
“I don’t get it. You’re ignoring your job, the kids… YOU’RE IGNORING ME.” There was nothing for me to say. Maria wouldn’t try.
Ivan wouldn’t take it.
In time, her nightly visits came to a complete halt. She was starting to lose hope. And all that left was the graphite against paper, my breath and Ivan.
I ransacked boxes from the storage unit to find old pieces I had written over the years that could be used as fuel to strengthen Ivan and his world. He was everywhere. Hidden in subtle phrases written decades ago to whole poems crafted no further than a few months ago. Ivan, it seemed, had always been present in my life.
Even if it’s not ideal, don’t you just love sitting in your study and doing what you were born to do? And even if Judith is belaboring you, isn’t it ideal to work on the gift God blessed you with? She has come around in the past. She will come around this time too, don’t you think?
His words bled off the page.
Falling up. Falling into a more demanding role, falling into money, falling into fatherhood, family. None of these things were planned. They sort of just… But Ivan’s life was — different in all the ways a man imagines his life to be.
Mindo and Maria… I mean, Mindo and Judith. Mindo and Judith walked into my study one afternoon.
“Boss, people are starting to talk. Saying things like you’re not okay. Why don’t you…”
“He doesn’t do anything,” Judith jumped right in. “Just sitting here like a pig. Writing and writing.” She came right to my desk and lunged at the stack of papers. “What the hell are you writing anyway?”
I lept to my feet. Judith didn’t think to step back. “He wouldn’t,” she must have thought as my palm went, first gently, then horridly, around her neck. She let out a wheezing gasp. Her breath thinned.
There it was — right in her eyes: the submission a man commands.
Mindo’s eyes met mine. He looked away before instinctively rushed towards us. A laborer’s odor wafted all around him pushing out my territorial scent.
“Boss! Boss!” Mindo pleaded. “It ain’t no big issue,” his filthy palm with darkened nails came around my wrist. I could feel the sweat on him. “We’ll leave you to your work, boss. Come on, ma’am. Let’s leave him to it. He’s a busy man.”
I let go of her throat. An imprint of my rage was left around her neck. Mindo asked if she was okay. She let out a forceful cough but wouldn’t turn her sights to me.
A ringing built up in my ears as they turned around to walk out of the study.
She’s a fine woman — Judith is. All she needs is some discipline.
He was right. A firm hand guides the ship to shore. A firm hand.
“Judith,” I said calmly. Mindo was the first to turn back. His hand still rested across her shoulder.
“You’re a monster,” she muttered calmly with her eyes away from me.
“WIFE!” I barked.
“Boss,” Mindo broke in. “I-I… We’ll leave you to your work.” There was a controlled rage in him.
The servant must know his place.
“Mindo,” I turned to him. “Know your place.”
Judith raised her head to Mindo who slowly lowered his. “Who are you?” Judith whispered. “You’re right, Mindo. Leave him to his work. He’s hopeless.” They walked out and shut the door behind them.
It didn’t matter. There I was. Exactly where I should have been. That look — the subservience in her eyes. It was enough. It was enough.
A man does not retreat, does not surrender.
I sat back down to continue. I picked the manuscripts Judith had tossed to the floor, took a hold of my pencil and sat down to build his world. The scar. Was it always that dark? I no longer remember.
Days. Weeks. Silence built in the study. Silence echoed from beyond the door. Judith was gone. She must have taken the kids. They would be back. She always comes around. There wasn’t much else for a housewife beyond her home. Nothing for her beyond me. It must have been suffocating for her out there. Out in the wilderness.
She’s a good woman. She knows her place.