Here’s another mid-serial episode from James Bond and the Girls of Woodstock. I intend to finish to serial at the half-way mark on Pure Fiction within a month or so.Word-count restraints hamper the action and flow. And while the series found few readers and no real followers, I nevertheless think the structure, using the two main characters’ point of view in third person, would work in a novel. Attempting this section online, which is too long despite my relentless rewrites, was fun and instructive, at least for me.
Jasper had arrived home four hours ago. From his tower, the main house appeared sealed shut. The sun still glinted a blinding reflection off the yellow Mustang. He sent his sister a text. Could use your advice.
She rarely texted back.
Vicky knew him better than he knew her, because of being six years older. With all his fame and fortune, she insisted he not disrupt her equanimity. But early on, he had gotten her to agree to an annual phone call, which sometimes recurred in Jasper’s mind like a childhood song.
Every January, Vicky said Jasper’s boundless good luck meant one thing: Pay back the universe! Who knew why one person should be so lucky? Jasper was born with sure-fire timing, extraordinary good looks, and an easy but sincere personality capable of sympathy. Loaded with these advantages plus countless more, Vicky said, he should strive for real, rather than popular, achievement.
He would laugh, saying popularity was unpredictable. He did his best and worked hard.
“For a movie star,” she said.
“True,” but he was learning all the time.
“And you’re generous to a fault.” The swimming pool he had installed and maintained in the backyard where they’d grown up together was one thing. Vicky swam a mile every day. She liked hosting pool parties. But his other gifts? She recognized what was rare and beautiful, not a replica, plain brown box or not. Thank you, she said, but “Treasures make no sense for a fifth grade teacher in Sedona.”
Jasper suggested she travel during the summers. He’d supply the funds minus any obligation to see him or his children. “Although, I’d love a postcard.”
She laughed again. He loved her and the sound alone cheered him.
“Maybe next year,” she said. Her rule that he leave her alone hurt him…when he let it.
Two years ago, she asked for photographs of the kids–and a short, informal video. She promised her severity wasn’t forever. So, Jasper collected hopeful signs. Such as: Vicky no longer maintained that he was past the point of no return. His success had not entirely rendered him sheen on a screen.
His amused response sounded real but wasn’t. Rest assured, he said. The camera was incapable of stealing a pixel of one’s soul.
“Unlike money and power.”
True. But she should knew him better than that. He reminded her that once upon a time, he was innocent.
Jasper’s earliest memories consisted of pleasing his mother, Sylvia, and his sister, Vicky, who shared a principled but gentle temperament. Only after Sylvia died did Vicky become stringent. When he, she, and their mother had lived together, they respected and reassured each other. But Jasper was always the lucky one. Whatever he said or did caused Sylvia and Vicky to laugh like bright waves upon waves. Jasper was so much fun, they had smiled at the sight of him.
Until, he changed from a bashful 12-year-old into an uncommonly tall and handsome 16-year-old. Vicky returned home from college to find him radiating the same surplus energy and confidence as now. Jasper flowed through the household, creating irresistible force.
But he hadn’t agitated Vicky until he hooked up with her friend Crystal. Vicky had returned to Tucson for her teaching degree. Crystal had stayed in Sedona to run her family’s vortex shop. Jasper was a senior in high school. Crystal pursued him in a new Subaru. Instead of a ride home, she offered him no-strings interludes. He hadn’t hesitated, and was astonished when Vicky blamed him, not Crystal.
Because Crystal didn’t have half of what Jasper had. Her argument had stymied him. He apologized to Vicky, and if she wished, he’d apologize to Crystal.
Vicky did not—wish! Yet before she could inform their mother of Jasper’s shameless disrespect, their mother reported she had untreatable stomach cancer. After which, nothing else mattered.
Now, from his tower, Jasper stared again at the sun’s undiminished glare bounding around his listless home.
The summer Sylvia was dying, he and Vicky sat beside her bed. If he hadn’t already disappointed his mother, he might not have found the wherewithal to hurt her when he was desperate to comfort her. But if he didn’t tell her what he’d done, she’d die deceived. Her pain escalated. The truth came out. He had turned down the basketball scholarship. Jasper was athletic, not an athlete, and they all knew it.
But Jasper pushed ahead. He didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. The scholarship should go to someone else.
Their mother’s eyelids fluttered and Vicky hissed in fury. “Go to class, go to practice, play your position. It’s that simple!”
Their mother sat up in bed and said, “Marry Sasha.”
Surprise and wonder raced between brother and sister: How did she even know who Sasha was?
Their mother said Sasha knew what she wanted and how to get it.
Vicky practically screamed. Sasha’s parents had been careful all their lives not to have children. A last minute miscalculation and they got—a total terror.
Sylvia sank into her pillows, saying she was thirsty. Vicky followed Jasper into the kitchen. He poured cool water into the cup with the straw attached. Vicky said, “Tell Mom yes, but don’t do it.”
“No, I can do this.”
Their mother moaned. In her bedroom, Jasper bent down and clasped her shaky hands between his. “Don’t worry. Sasha and I will get along fine.”
That was 11 years ago. From the tower, he saw the glare beginning to dim and started downstairs. His phone dinged.
Never leave her alone with your kids!
He tapped, How did you know that was my question?
In his head, Vicky said, Obvious.
by kathleen maher