A weekend

It’s been a weekend.

I wrote some yesterday, and then again some today. In between that, I watched Family Plot, Alfred Hitchcock’s last movie. I’m not entirely sure the film works, and in fact it’s kind of a mess, but it’s not altogether unenjoyable. Bruce Dern and William Devane are both a lot of fun, and you certainly couldn’t accuse Hitchcock of not being an audacious filmmaker, even when it doesn’t quite pay off for him.

Anyway, the stuff I wrote yesterday is still a work in progress I probably won’t post here. The stuff I wrote today was with my free-writing group and is more just a scene:

She stands at the edge of the river, hugging herself against the morning’s cold, and looks for the slow rise of smoke to begin in the distance. The cell in her pocket will start ringing soon after that, but for now she just tries to enjoy the quiet, tries wrapping it as close to herself as her thin sweater, or the blanket she left with the rest of her gear back down the road in her car. No sounds but the whisper of the water and the distant call of birds that, even after five years in these woods, she doesn’t recognize. She knows that soon it will evaporate, this early morning hush, fly away from her like the birds themselves, like the dust of her former life scattered in the wind. She knows that this moment, like all the rest before it, will pass. The more you tighten your grip, the more it slips through your fingers, she thinks, remembering Edward’s words. There’s a sadness in that, but also a strange satisfaction. And so she stands by the river, scouting the horizon for smoke, the curl of black among the distant trees, and waits for the call that will tell her that Edward is dead.

She knows she should be moving. She should head back down the hill now to the car and drive — in any direction, north across the border, where they’re likely to start looking, or south, if she thinks she can navigate around the quarantine zone. She doesn’t think they’ll be afraid to look for her there, especially not if it’s Edward’s people in addition to the police — but the thought of seeing it all again — the ruined towns, if not the things that ruined them — gives HER a shiver, and she knows a move like that could only buy her time. She’s only losing time here. She ought to move. Casey can call to tell her it’s done just as easily from the road. Laura doesn’t need to see the smoke to know the cabin is finally ablaze. Just like she doesn’t need to see what Casey’s done to Edward to know the bastard is finally gone.

And then she does see it, the smoke at least, and she smiles.