Women's Writes - Works

A priest is seated in one side of the confessionals. He rises, and moves out of the confessional. A shadowy figure sneaks up behind him and stabs him. He dies.

Oh, God, he said it. Most of the men left it unsaid, but he had to go there. The lamest line he could have started the conversation with, and he had to reach for that one, stupid phrase. The phrase she hated most in the entire world. She had no idea how to answer such a question. Should she deny she was pretty? Or should she try to explain it away, to explain that pretty women could be smart, talented, capable? Or just…make a joke? That last was impossible. She had never been able to think of a good joke to answer that question.

Without him, she’d had some wonderful times. She thought things would only get better with him. How could she have been so wrong? Her life, so stable, so ordered, so rational, was now the biggest mess she could imagine. Nothing he did worked out, and he was so good at leaving the messes for her to clean up.

Men were definitely in the minority in this waiting room. Taking a quick inventory, I determined that men made up less than ten percent of the waiting group. Young women were scattered around the group, mostly alone or with another woman. Many of the women were accompanied by older women, perhaps their mothers. A few women waited with women their own age, and it was difficult to determine which was the patient and which the friend. The few men who were there shifted their weight uncomfortably, feeling out of place in this congregation of women. This was a place meant for women, and their nervous energy showed they understood that.

A poem about the United Nations? And Saudi Arabia? What in the world can she be thinking?

The entrance to the tunnel was her only way out. She clawed at the sides, hoping to widen the space because it was too small for her to move forward any further. She worked furiously, not caring that the rocks were ripping her hands to shreds, not noticing the dirt filling her mouth and eyes. The more she worked, the narrower the tunnel seemed to become. Still she dug and clawed, hoping to move forward at last.

Most people are aware of Jacob as the man who worked fourteen years to earn the wife he wanted, battled an angel, and gave a coat of many colors to his son Joseph. But most people are not aware of Dinah, the daughter of Jacob. In fact, when I discussed this play with a friend of mine, told her what I was writing, she denied that any such story existed. Most of the plays I’ve written in this series are met with the same disbelief. “Nope, no such story. I’ve read the Bible, and I never saw it. So not there.” If you doubt my veracity once reading this story, go get your Bible off the shelf, blow off the dust, and open it to Genesis 34. I think you’ll find…well, the story of a woman, and how the world responded to her in the brief time they bothered to notice her.

A voice behind her made her jump and swirl. It was an unfamiliar voice, thin and reedy. She couldn’t tell if it was a female or a male voice; it was one of those that wasn’t clear just listening to it. She backed away, in case it was a kidnapper, but she knew she was trapped. There was no place for her to go.

“You had to go and do it, didn’t you? I always said it, didn’t I? I always said you’d be late to your own wedding!”

Mandy didn’t answer. She slumped into the chair in the corner, too exhausted to stand. Mom prodded at her; she needed to put on her gown and get out there. She was already 45 minutes late. Logan would leave if she didn’t hurry. Why did she always have to do this? Why did she always have to inconvenience everyone? Why couldn’t she just be like her sisters, and show up eager for her wedding, put on a gorgeous white gown, and prance down the aisle in happy anticipation?

The test was ready when she got out of the shower. Her heart dropped as she glared at the faint pink line. This was a disaster. If she couldn’t afford birth control pills, how were they ever going to afford another child? She bundled the test up in the trash, pulled the bag out of the can, and deposited it in the can by the curb. No one would see it…no one would know. That wouldn’t help, she thought. It would be hard enough to hide soon. Besides, who was she hiding it from? It wasn’t like she had anything to be ashamed of…and it wasn’t like she could do anything about it. She hollered to Charlie that she was going to bed early, to not let the kids stay up past nine, and that she would be up early to go to work, so she was sleeping in Meg’s room tonight. She would rather sleep with Meg right now than Charlie.

Tired.
All my life, tired.
Get up in the morning,
Make the coffee,
Run out the door.

It all started when I got married. Menelaus, that’s my husband. He was the king of Sparta. I was told I would be happy. I was told I would learn to love him…or at least to tolerate him and be able to stand it when he put his hands all over me. I was told all sorts of things. I was just a girl. I was too young to be getting married. I should have still been playing, making daisy chains, laughing with my girlfriends. But there I was, packed off to live with a man much older than me, a man I didn’t know, a man who didn’t really know how to love. I was a possession, a trophy. He paraded me through the streets of town to show everyone how beautiful I was, then locked me away to make sure no one could look at me.

Alameda sorted out the books, carefully arranging them in alphabetical order. Tomorrow she would need to take them back to the library. She needed more; she had read all of these. She fingered the title of each book, wanting to commit it to memory, wanting to never forget anything she read. Someday it might be useful. Someday she might need this knowledge. At nine, Alameda was already committed to a life of learning. She had selected three colleges that she was interested in attending, and was doing her best to keep her grades high enough to get accepted. It wasn’t easy, especially sharing her room with two sisters who tended toward noise, and the long list of chores each of them completed every night. It could be hard keeping up with her homework with a nine o’clock curfew, but somehow she always got it done.

I was born under Venus rising. I was told I had an abnormally long love line. Numerous Tarot readings predicted I would be lucky in love. And when I met…him…I knew. I was truly blessed by the goddess of love.

The rest of the day was like a strange reality show. It was both like and unlike courtroom shows on the television, and it wasn’t even much like the original hearing. Perhaps each judge had their own style, but Amber felt much more comfortable this time. The judge didn’t spend all his time glaring at her, but maintained a neutral manner from the beginning to the end. Her lawyer focused on her case, and was prepared for a major fight if need be. She had prepared pages upon pages of notes, and her brief was thorough and damning. She knew her stuff.

Amber realized this was the woman Brad had left her for, the model he had become enamored with, the one who made his wife seem quotidian, ordinary, down to earth. Amber had never pretended to be exotic, and watching Marguerite now, she was glad she had never adopted that style. The woman oozed insincerity, but Brad didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t take his eyes off her even as he asked Amber to run a couple of errands for him after the kids left.

Amber shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the door. She pressed the bell again, knowing it had a habit of failing to work at the most important times. She resisted the urge to peek in the window and see if anyone was home. He should be home…they had an appointment. Was he just playing cat-and-mouse with her?  She checked her watch against her phone; both showed the same time, and it was three minutes after time. She’d been standing here for five minutes. It was time to go.