Novel Journey Critiques ~ Week 7

Remember, our suggestions are just that—suggestions. The wise author will use discernment and pick up what works for him/her and ignore what doesn't. We're not above learning. We don't always agree with one another's critiques. Sometimes we debate, but ninety-five percent of the time or better, we trust each other. It comes through being long-time CPs.We've each been edited/critiqued by professional editors, best-selling authors, etc. and no one has been tougher on us than us. Our hope is you and this author, who bravely subbed his/her work, will benefit.

Our critique code is as follows:
( ) = suggest deleting
[ ] = suggest adding
** = comments
gws=goes without saying
rue=resist the urge to explain
im= internal monologue

Original Chapter

Chapter 1

Death stirs up all kinds of gumbo ya ya—most I’d rather forget.

This truth became all too true for me, at age seventeen, the start of summer break, 1982.

At the cemetery, I barely noticed the moisture from the grass that seeped through my black slacks to my knees. Mama had purchased the pants for a different occasion. Not this. Not death. Tears stained the silk shirt borrowed from my older sister, Bet. Mud from yesterday’s rain clung to the high-heeled shoes I had worn only twice before. Earlier this morning, my cries had mixed with others who wept among the oaks. However, by noon, I mourned alone.

Shovels struck against a pile of dirt meant to cover what death took away. In time, I too would go back to the earth as dust. Yet I still pondered the purpose of human existence—my existence. It seemed so futile. Did I, Sauny Louisa Lefort, only live to die?

Hiding death beneath life’s soil just brought more questions.

Did I love, merely to grieve? Did it really matter that I lived at all?

The shovels worked against the soil in a random cadence to finish what the backhoe didn’t do earlier. Each strike pounded my already raw heart. Though I wanted to scream, “Stop!” my voice had quit working days before, consumed by the pit of death. The men probably wouldn’t, anyway. Their purpose was clear—to cover the casket forever. To leave no evidence this body had ever lived and loved. Could a headstone say it all?

People liked to blame death for all the wrongs and ills of life. But in truth, rue sizzles long before death stirs up any kind of gumbo ya ya. When did mine begin? Probably the day Mama birthed me on the flatbed of Papa’s truck, however, I can’t answer to that memory. But, I do remember the events of a mid-July day in 1974, down on Bayou Lafourche, Louisiana when life played predictable. I was barely ten years old.

***

Clank, clank, clank rang out from the kitchen, down the hall, and through the crack in my bedroom door. I stirred to the familiar jingle. Mama’s cowbell. The house wake-up call that required no memory to set, was never late, and didn’t have a snooze button to hit. A muffled grumble rumbled from the twin bed a few feet from mine. Bet, my only sister, twisted between her sheets. Her wake-up response gained more attitude—like why did she have to get up so early—when she turn into a teenager, or whine-ager back in November. You’d think she’d get it. Summer never let us sleep past sunup on the farm. Actually, no season ever did between school, livestock, and crops. Clank, clank, clank.

Squeak. The thin wall next to my bed buffered nothing. Thump. The one successful purpose it served, to separate two sisters from three brothers. Bed springs recoiled against a solid resistance to get up for chores but with less fuss than my sister, I might add. Papa’s strong hand and firm ways made sure of that. “I’m raisin’ no boys to fuss ’bout hard work,” he had said at the first hint of summer defiance. “It’s gotta be done by all.”

The smell of salty bacon wafted into my bedroom on top of the clanks and rattles from the kitchen. Got me up and at ’em. No need for Mama to call a third time. My tank top and shorts replaced the frayed cotton nightgown my grandmother, Ma-Jacque, had sewn for me a year ago. If I got to the breakfast table first, Mama showed me special favor. So I slipped on my green rubber work boots, and hustled down the tunneled hallway. Bumpty. Clump. The wooden-planked floor announced my entrance into the kitchen. Family pictures rocked to the rhythm of my steps until I reached the kitchen. Mama stood in front of the gas stove dipping, flipping, and turning bacon in her black cast iron skillet. I walked up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her apron-covered waist, and squeezed tight. “Mornin,’ Mama.” Another squeeze. Warm. Love.

“Good morning, Sauny.” Mama slipped me a piece of flour-fried bacon. “Your Papa’s coming home today, you know.”

“For true, Mama?” I muffled through the crunchy bacon that awakened my taste buds, and sent a surge of saliva into my mouth. A flutter filled my heart, like a pelican flying off with a bill full of fish. Two weeks had passed since Papa tucked me into bed at night. Two too many. Empty, it’s been.

“For true.” Mama’s hands shuffled pots and pans on the stovetop. “Now set the table, and let’s eat.”

Breakfast ended right when orange sprayed over the eastern cane fields that sprouted tall, racing the sun up into the sky. My older brother, Thomas, ran ahead toward the barn where the men gathered to fix cane cutters, tractors, and such. He turned sixteen back in April. His chest puffed up high after Papa told him, “You’re a man now, son.” Bet and I couldn’t help but giggle. We both knew he played with the twin’s tinker toys and Hot Wheels when he thought no one looked. Nevertheless, his added farm responsibilities made him get up and go faster, come morning.

Bet and I strolled to the garden behind our grandparent’s house. Crickets clicked through the sugar cane, serenading our mindless walk down the length of the wagon beaten path. Armed with a white enamel bucket, my boots clunked alongside of my long-legged sister, who wore a straw hat cocked to the side. I knew the secret that made her grin one minute and frown the next—even if she thought I didn’t.

A handful of cousins waited at the end of the path. We then split up into pairs. Bet started down a row with cousin Alice. Papa didn’t care for the fifteen-year-old thoughts she put into Bet’s thirteen-year-old head.