[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Martia's sub

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Another great addition to this storey.  



It is a welcome counterpoimnt to the main theme.



You have made a potential friend who has valuesexactly opposite to yours, 



and somehou you find it exciting. 



She challenges you to stay  and fight. 



Maybe  eventurn  your editorial into  an advantage. 



If you have the balls.  



It is an unwelcome ally at first, 



but I think you are beginning to change Yourfeelings about Veronica.




 



 


Martia sub for September




 


1308 words



 



An Unlikely Friendship



 



Eventually, my stubborn streak kicked in. I hadto clear my head.  At first light, I freed myself from the covers anddressed.



 



Layered up for the cold, I loaded my crosscountry ski gear into the trunk and drove my old Chevy to the Lake Hollandparking lot. My breath caught the morning light. The snow squeaked under myshoes. Perched on my bumper, I pulled homemade nylon gaiters over my Levis,switched into leather ski boots, and stepped into my new Nordic fish scaleskis. The fresh fallen snow was undisturbed. Alone in the quiet, I welcomed thesolitude. My tortuous thoughts were more than enough to keep me company.



 



I pushed forward. Kick and glide. Kick andglide. The rhythm of the sport is the secret, I knew. Kick and glide, kick andthink, kick and question, kick and cry. “Don’t give up. Should I leave? Don’tgive up. Should I stay?” An endless litany of doubt and regret echoed in myhead as my red skis cut tracks into the trail. Abruptly, thankfully, my twistedthoughts were interrupted.



 



“Claudia? Claudia, is that you?”



 



My solitude disturbed, I turned to see who wascrunching through the snow to catch up with me. There weren’t many people I wasin a mood to see. Certainly, no one I knew would be skiing around Lake Hollandthat chill morning.



 



“Veronica?” From a distance, I recognized thebig hair of the furniture factory lady. As she glided closer, I saw she wasoutfitted in traditional woolen knickers with Tyrolean argyle socks. My God,did she have to outclass me even on the trail?



 



“Wait up, let me catch up. I want to talk,”Veronica said.



 



Too late, she’d made me. What choice did I have?I froze mid-stride, although I wanted to shoot off the trail and hide in thewoods.



 



At my side, Veronica guzzled from a water bottleand then launched into a conversation like we were long lost friends.



 



“Wasn’t the Harvest Dance a blowout? I washoping to talk with you after dancing with Robbie, but you disappeared likeCinderella at dark.”



 



Punch. In one breath, Veronica hit me with areminder about her and Robbie.



 



“I don’t like driving after dark,” I mumbled.



 



“By the way, wow, what a great editorial youwrote for the Breeze last month. You really stirred up the old town!”



 



Pow. With her second breath, Veronica again hitpay dirt, calling attention to the second thing I was struggling to forget.



 



Desperate to change the subject, I glided aheadand asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?”



 



“Gosh, no.” Veronica kept pace with me stridefor stride. “You could say I’m not really from anywhere. Momand I never settled in one place. Each time she married someone new, we moved.By sixth grade, I’d been in six schools. That’s when Mom put me into a boardingschool.”



 



“Boarding school?”



 



“It was lots better for both of us that way. Forthe first time, I lived in one place long enough to make friends, and Momdidn’t have to schlep me around like luggage.”



 



“Like luggage?” I was incredulous.



 



“Mom was a soap opera star. She liked money andmen more than kids,” Veronica explained. “A clinging child wasn’t exactlyconducive to romance and globe-trotting. When I grew old enough to attract aman’s eye, it was time to ship me off to boarding school. At least, I no longerhad to behave like a good girl for every man Mom brought home. At boardingschool, I figured out what I wanted for myself, and it wasn’t to please Mom.”



 



Amazed, I listened to Veronica’s story unfold.We matched pace trekking uphill while she babbled on with her edition of TrueConfessions.



 



“Mom’s in Italy now, I think. I don’t keep up.She’s on husband number nine or ten, but who’s counting? If there’s one thingMother taught me, it’s to never marry.”



 



“Never marry? I thought the rule was ‘neverdivorce.’ That’s what my parents taught me despite their decades of weddedmisery,” I shared.



 



Veronica hooted without inhibition, her marbleblue eyes turned up to the sky as she laughed. Dislodged by the warming sun orperhaps her loud cackle, a clump of snow plopped onto my head from a branchabove us. Bent over, I joined Veronica howling in hilarity.



. “



 



I swiped the melting snow off my face with asweatshirt sleeve and said, “Well, I can see we don’t have much in common.”



 



“Oh, but you’re wrong,” she giggled like aconspiring middle schooler. “We’re both young single women stuck in a smalltown alone. At least, we can hook up and have fun.”



 



“But aren’t you dating Robbie? I thought…”



 



“Gosh, no. I make it a policy never to date thelocals,” she said. The secret is to sleep only with married men from out of town.Single men are controlling. They think once they get you into bed they own you.And locals tell everyone your business. Besides, married men are better sexpartners. They don’t kiss and tell. If you fill in a gap in their marriage,they’re grateful. When old wifey is too tired or has a headache, no worry. Letthe old gal sleep. I give men what they need without having to cook and cleanfor them, too. It’s a win, win, win.”



 



“Win, win? Don’t you worry what might happen ifthe wife discovers the affair?”



 



“Not at all. The sales reps, architects,photographers, and designers I sleep with are out of town on business. Afterthe obligatory phone call to say ‘good night’ to the kids and ‘I love you’ tothe wife, we get down to funny business. No harm. No foul. No one gets hurt; noman moves in and tries to run my life.”



 



This was a new attitude for me. Have your cakeand eat it, too? It wasn’t what I’d been taught, but it sounded intriguing…



 



“Listen,” Veronica advised, “I wouldn’t waitaround for Robbie to invite you for a roll in the hay. He’s already rolled mostof the women around here. You can do better.”



 



“Well, I’ve got bigger problems than Robbie.” Ishuffled the tips of my skis counter-clockwise to back track to the car. Iwasn’t ready to share my story with Veronica, that I was being blackballed bymost everyone in town.



 



“Hey Claudia, what’s up? I’m sorry. If you likeRobbie, go for it. I just thought you should know a thing or two about peoplearound here. Talk to me, girl.”



 



“That editorial you liked so much got me intotrouble with my boss, with Robbie, with the mayor, most everyone in town. I mayget fired or quit and go back to Colorado.”



 



“Quit? Why? Please! If a man pisses someone offat work, does he gets fired? No, he gets a promotion for showing he has balls.Well, women have balls, too. You should be asking for a raise.”



 



Veronica’s suggestion produced a new round oflaughter, releasing the tension I’d been holding in my chest for weeks, sinceseeing the frown on Mr. K’s face. At the parking lot, I exchanged businesscards with my unlikely friend, our home phone numbers handwritten on the back.



 



“Let’s ‘do’ lunch, darling,” Veronica quippedlike a TV star. We drove off in different directions after promising to meet upat the factory open house in February.



 



Determined not to compound my anxiety with winethat night, I still tossed in bed. Did I have balls? Could I stand up tocriticism? Would my writing hold up to scrutiny? Could I regain my reputationand prove myself as a fair observer of life in small town USA withoutcompromising my values?



 



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