this letter to Norman Court by Pablo D'Stair -Part 5

this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each between 1000 and 1250 words) I am releasing by way of the following experiment: I am trying to serialize the piece across blogs, by reader request.  If you read and enjoy the section below and have a blog the readers of which you think would enjoy a selection, as well, please get in touch with me to be an upcoming host.  A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested.  There is some suspense, in that if a new host does not appear after each posting, the train comes to a halt (back tracking to previous hosts is not an option in this game).  So, if you enjoy what you read and would like to host an upcoming selection, please get in touch with me via unburiedcomments@gmail.com.  I welcome not only invitations, but any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.

Cheers,

Pablo D’Stair

this letter to Norman Court

Pablo D’Stair

five

Couldn’t find a motel ran me less than thirty-nine for the night, so didn’t want to just sleep through it, watched television until almost four, used up the free coffee and got a second batch the front desk.  Woke up past nine, finally, showered with as much of the soap I could, even though it dried me out bad with the towels only making it worse, my skin rashed from drying off. I smoked in the room naked, dressed slowly in the one change of shirt and socks I’d brought, same pants, checked did I have everything in my duffel, recounted my money twice, made sure the photocopied letter was as legible as the original, left. 

I took my time of it getting back to Klia’s house—Herman working in some middling office in whatever capacity it seemed she’d be grinding a day job, as well, was sort of surprising to find her car there midafternoon, the house windows open as I made a pass, sounds of a radio talking, coming out fuzzy through the cold. 

She came to the door, seemed she’d been doing something she still had her thoughts on, dressed grubby, took me a minute to notice her hands were spotted in various colours of acrylic paint. 

-Didn’t mean to interrupt you, you’re painting?

It made sense to me she’d’ve been, seemed like she painted. 

-My question briefly confused her, her face mussed, then like a blink there was the recognition.  You’re here for something my husband left?

I stared at her calm, no real gesture of getting my pack of cigarettes out, one to my lip.

-I’m here to see you, in fact, Klia. I can come in?

I poked my nose a tap, started past her, right away her features growing irritable, not exactly telling me No but she pointed, said Not with that.

-I think I will smoke, thanks. This’s about a mutual friend, in fact—more a friend of yours, really, not mine so much—you know Lawrence Glass? 

Maybe it was the loping trot of my sentences, the smoke out my nose, it was a look of blah concentration on her, sorting out what I’d said, then a spot of colour to her cheek that drained just as fast—just the mention of the name, the thought in her head, it overrode the awkwardness long enough I was closing the door behind me. 

-Is Lawrence, alright?  You were here last night.  She stammered, something clicking, eyes a brief skittish flare, she got the door opened and told me to leave.  

I sat on the stair third up the case, let her leave the door open, her hand slip off the knob, waited before she was forming a word to talk over her, loudly the first two words, then dropping to even tones.

-I can give this letter to your husband, or I can sell it to you, I don’t really feel like making a production out of this, I see I interrupted you, you’re painting.  

It really seemed she knew just what I was talking about, which letter in particular, I’d not even shown her I’d anything with me, yet. I wondered how long she’d wondered about it, wondered why hadn’t Norman got back to her about this or that, how long she’d wanted to but never did ask him out loud—I wondered how many moods poor Herman’d had she’d interpreted as his knowing, grappling, forgiving, changing his mind and I wondered maybe it was this letter winding up gone had got the creeps in her, led her to end it off with Lawrence if that’s how it’d gone or let him end it out with her, whichever. 

-How is Lawrence, these days? I asked, no answer but she looked like she knew, though certainly didn’t seem at all like she’d been with him maybe in years. 

I took the letter from my pocket, started reading it, the dull bit, the bit about nothing, and she right away said Give me my letter. 

-Going price to give you your letter’s two thousand. 

-I don’t have two thousand dollars.

-That is either untrue or else very unfortunate, because the thing’s this and it’s with no games, alright? We can go drive down your bank and you hand me the two thousand dollars you certainly do have or else you don’t have two thousand dollars, really, and I walk away from here thinking I’d better do something else constructive with my time. 

-You wouldn’t really go see Lawrence. 

This paused me up, but not so much it didn’t just look like I was taking a drag, indulging her a last moment. 

-This is bargain basement I’m offering you here, I think you can guess that.  Thing is this is something just fell in my lap and I’m looking for the quick thing it can be with no interest in it past this afternoon. 

-You won’t give me the letter. 

-I’ll give you this exact letter right here, that’s just what I’ll do—then you go do whatever you want with it, feed it to some pigeons, bake it in a pie, this isn’t something where I want to see you again, ever, Klia, you’re not my type.  Last time I say this, it’s two thousand dollars cash money, we’re leaving right here, or it’s I get my boot heel over as much of your life it’ll cover and twist my full weight down—go get your car keys. 

I was sweating heavily under my arms, down my lower back, between my spread legs, not nervous, actually just nearing giddy, all of it like a dream I was there on some stage in front of everybody able to say lines unrehearsed turned out they’re the ones belonged there. 

She swallowed, asked could she use the toilet. I told her leave the door open and only if it was a toilet downstairs.  I did my best not to listen, but she didn’t put on the overhead fan, blew her nose while I stubbed a cigarette out on the wood floor, felt like a rat about it, bent, took up the stub and wiped the spot clear with the cuff of my coat sleeve.

She came out from the toilet, it smelled like perfume or thick hand soap, went to the dingy green coat once probably looked something substantial, felt around until some keys came from the pocket, a few soiled tissues she let drop on the floor, said she wanted to see the letter. I told her she’d see it plenty all she wanted I’d got my money and she’d dropped me at some curb, driven off, wouldn’t see one word of it until. 

The drive to the bank, whole way she kept it on the same talk radio’d been going in the house. It grated on me, but I didn’t see why I’d have her change the station, nothing to bully her over—a small price to pay she was going along.

I asked her was she doing alright when I noticed her eyes about to tear up, but she whispered Shut up so little girl, pitiful, right with the end of my question that I even said I’m sorry, turned my eyes down.

Bio: 

Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays.  Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate.  His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novella and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.

The first four parts of  this letter to Norman Court are:

no. 1: Nigel Bird’s “Sea Minor“

no. 2: JulieLewthwaite’s “Gone Bad“

no. 3:  David Barber’s “Fiction World“

no. 4: Naomi Johnson’s ”The Drowning Machine“