[Critique Group 1] Marcia's January submission

[Marcia Wick]

My submission is early this month because I’m going out of town next week.
Also, you’ve seen this before
I’m resending the prologue and first chapter
of my book. It’s seen some heavy revision, and I’m back to the beginning in
order to revise the sequence of chapters
thanks for taking a second look.

 

2051 words

 

Prologue 

Lights Out

 

Why was she alone at work on a Saturday, stuck inside pounding the keys? The
work could wait. Warm weather Memorial weekend promised the approach of
summer in the small lakeside Michigan town. She couldn’t concentrate. She
wasn’t accomplishing much. If she ducked out soon, she’d have time for an
afternoon bike ride around Doe Lake with her best friend. 

 

She stood and locked her 1978 day timer in her desk. Already, the year
embossed in gold was beginning to fade. 

 

She strode down the hallway. Three steps from the exit, she was grabbed from
behind. Her neck was clamped in the crook of an elbow. She stared at a
hunting knife inches in front of her face. The exit door beyond reach stood
like an immovable boulder. 

 

She couldn’t move.

 

She couldn’t breathe.

 

She couldn’t scream.

 

As if viewing a movie, she watched herself claw at the arm restraining her.
Her relentless attacker pressed his weight on her, jarring her back to the
harsh here and now. Frantic and forced off balance, she collapsed into the
push bar. Brought down like a doe, could the young woman escape the grip of
her hunter? A fierce battle for survival erupted.

 

The heel of a boot landed one, two, three, four kicks to her head. “Fuck
you, fuck you” echoed like a jackhammer inside her skull. 

 

The woman struggled to stand. Her heel caught on the top step. With a final
shove from her assailant, she toppled. The back of her head struck the
concrete staircase and cracked. The acrid smell of fresh blood mingled with
the stench of her loosened bowels. 

 

Before her vision dimmed, she recognized her hunter staring down in disgust.


 

# # #

 

“As an outsider moving to a small town, your biggest problem will be that
everyone knows who you are and why you are there right away, but it will
take you some time to sort all of them out.” - Allan and Rosemary Young

 

Claudia

Nine Months Earlier

 

Why was I driving a thousand mindless miles in my ’68 Chevy to a small
Midwest town stuck in the middle of nowhere? The simple answer, I was
desperate for a job. I was a liberated woman in the 70s fresh out of college
with a journalism degree in hand. Despite investing in textured stationery
and hand-addressing 100 matching envelopes to mail out my resume, I had
received only a handful of standard rejection letters in reply. 

 

Through an unlikely twist of fate, an unsolicited opportunity landed in my
lap. My university advisor had met an editor at a newspaper convention who
was looking to hire his first full-time reporter.  The editor’s family owned
a weekly in a rural town west of Grand Rapids. My advisor put in a plug for
me. Thanks to him, I got the job, but I didn’t brag about it. 

 

Most of my fellow graduates – guys with names like Mike, Tim, and Brandon -
had landed assignments on big city dailies with names ending in Herald,
Tribune, or Star, while I, Claudia Krump, would earn my first professional
byline reporting for “The Doe Lake Messenger.” 

 

I wrestled with my conflicting emotions. I was abandoning the colorful
Colorado Rockies for a dead-end town in the rolling hills of Michigan. At
the same time, reporting for a weekly paper with a funky name like The
Messenger was a thousand times better than moving back home with my
suffocating parents. Twenty-two years of suffering through their
antagonistic marriage had been enough for me. I never wanted to live under
their roof again – not over my dead body. 

 

Despite my reservations, I itched with anticipation as my destination
approached. I squinted road-weary eyes at the exit sign ahead. 

 

“Doe Lake, Michigan, population 7700.” 

 

The end of the road at last. I veered off the highway, gripping the steering
wheel of my monstrous Chevy. Towering trees in full foliage blocked the sun.
Lights out. I punched the brake pedal. The two-lane country road darkened
like a theater curtain had dropped. The edge of the asphalt disappeared. I
ripped off my sunglasses. My car drifted right. I gulped in gratitude; the
gravel shoulder was wide enough to accommodate my
full-size-purple-cow-of-a-car. My fingertips prickled with relief; I hadn’t
driven off the edge of a cliff.

 

I gathered my wits at the roadside. If I dreaded one thing, it was darkness.
Born with night blindness, I tried to avoid tunnels, caves, basements and
secluded spaces that swallowed light. 

 

I cranked down the window and sucked in a nose full of earthy air. The
rustling leaves applauded my arrival. My eyes gradually adjusted to the dim
light. A fuzzy sign came into focus. 

 

“Doe Lake Park Entrance – 1 Mile.” 

 

I knew Doe Lake was a puddle by Michigan standards. Motorized boats and
campers were prohibited. Anxious to explore, I’d have to postpone my visit
to the park for another day. My priority was to hunt for a furnished
apartment in town. I only had two days before reporting for my first day on
the job. 

 

Like the Oz lion, I screwed up my courage and edged my retreads back onto
the pavement. The winding road curved away from the dense woods into welcome
sunlight. The rolling hillsides were ablaze. Oak and hickory trees glowed in
the sunshine. The glittering gold aspens I cherished in the Colorado Rockies
couldn’t hold a candle to the wash of red, yellow, and orange shouting
autumn in the Michigan hills. 

 

The vibrant landscape resembled an iconic illustration on a child’s jigsaw
puzzle. A picturesque village came into view. A church spire, a clock tower,
and a statue of a deer stood tall among Victorian homes nestled in the
valley.

 

I drove around the quaint community, Bug-eyed without direction. It was easy
to spot the newspaper office on South Main Street. “Doe Lake Messenger” was
emblazoned in two-foot tall lettering like a newspaper masthead across the
façade of a two-story building painted barn red. Being a Saturday, the
office was closed. The Michigan National Bank stood across the street.
Convenient. I could open a checking account there after securing an address.

 

The storefronts along the six-block business district reminded me of the
1950s television show Mayberry RFD. A five and dime, a ladies dress shop,
the stately post office with a pillared entry, a community library, the Doe
Lake Diner, an upscale country inn, and antique shops and galleries flanked
Main Street. Venturing north, I discovered a modern hospital, a traditional
schoolhouse, and an unfamiliar grocery store called Wrigley’s. The Starz
movie marquee on the outskirts of town advertised “Jaws,” last year’s
blockbuster. I’d have to drive another hour into Grand Rapids to find a big
shopping mall or Cineplex.

 

At a corner gas station, I picked up a free PennySaver and scanned the ads
for furnished apartments. The cute attendant behind the counter, about my
age, had a fresh pack of cigarettes in his flannel shirt pocket. To be
friendly, I asked for a pack of Marlboro Lights. Maybe he’d offer me a
light? 

 

“That all?” he asked, handing me change without a second glance.

 

Puffing defiantly alone in my car, I scoured the classifieds for rentals.
Lightheaded, I drove aimlessly. I hadn’t smoked since my father caught me
with cigarettes in high school and threatened to disown me. Well, what Dad
didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, I coughed.

 

That fateful first day in Doe Lake, I assumed no one noticed me driving in
circles, looking for “For Rent” signs. I wasn’t aware yet how conspicuous
newcomers were in a small town. Later, I would learn, like hunters concealed
in a deer blind stalking their prey, suspicious eyes behind curtains were
watching me. 

 

Despite my numb skull, I found most of the rentals advertised, but there
were some addresses I couldn’t locate. I spotted a requisite flag pole and
pulled into the parking lot. Perhaps I could ask for a local map inside the
town hall. 

 

I heaved my car door open and froze, one foot on the pavement, unable to
believe my eyes. A dead deer was strapped to the trunk of a passing car. The
poor creature’s head hung limp, its throat slit. Ruby ribbons of blood
spilled onto the street. I clutched my own throat and gagged. 

 

I was aware hunting was popular in rural Michigan, but I was shocked to see
the grisly evidence displayed so brazenly in the middle of town. A child
seeing beloved Bambi that way could be traumatized. 

 

I clomped in my clogs into the municipal building, desperate to shake off
the image.  After entering the dim lobby from the bright outdoors, I stopped
short, forced to allow time for my eyes to adjust. 

 

“You must be Claudia, the new reporter.” A gruff voice emerged from the
dark.

 

“Yes?” I asked the first compelling question of my career. 

 

“You’re looking for a place to live.”

 

For real? How did this shadowy guy know my business? I hadn’t yet met anyone
in town. The gas station guy didn’t count. I stuffed my hands deep into the
pockets of my cargo shorts.

 

“How do you know about me?” I spouted another brilliant inquiry.

 

“Sue is my cousin. She works in the front office at The Messenger,” said the
silhouette. “She told me you’d be moving to town this weekend to fill the
reporter job at the paper. Thought I’d let you know, Betty Fox has a nice
apartment for rent upstairs in her house on Chestnut Street.”

 

“Okay, thanks for the tip,” I said.  

 

An office door down the hall opened, shedding light on the subject. A
holstered gun on the man’s hip took shape. 

 

“Oh, you’re a cop?”

 

“You betcha,” he said.

 

“Okay, you already know my name. So, what’s yours?” I asked.

 

“Officer Braun, Hank Braun.” 

 

Hank Braun was a solid name for a country boy, I thought. Then again, who
was I, Claudia Krump with a “K,” to judge a name? 

 

For sure, I had landed on the set of Mayberry RFD. Like Sheriff Andy Taylor,
Officer Braun was on the job, acquainting himself with the newcomer in town,
but I wasn’t comfortable with his small town familiarity. 

 

Back in Colorado, I’d been accustomed to no one knowing my business. I had
roamed around a college campus twice the size of Doe Lake like I was
invisible. I had come and gone without anyone prying into my whereabouts. I
had moved far away from the snooping eyes of my parents. I had escaped the
grip of old friends who had betrayed me. I had envisioned anonymity a
thousand miles from my painful past. 

 

“All right then, Officer Braun,” I ventured, “since you seem to know so
much, tell me, why is a guy driving around town with a bloody deer on
display?” 

 

“It’s hunting season,” Officer Braun replied.

 

“But couldn’t the poor thing be concealed inside the trunk so that visitors
to your pretty village wouldn’t be traumatized?”

 

Braun shifted his weight, assuming a characteristic cop stance. He fingered
the revolver at his side and said, “You can’t conceal your kill.”

 

I stiffened involuntarily. Did Officer Braun notice my knee-jerk reaction?

 

“Conceal your kill? Why, of course not.” Would I be more articulate as the
town’s reporter?

 

My murky friend explained, “The deer tag must be visible at all times to
help the game warden prevent poaching. Ever eaten fresh venison?”

 

I swallowed the thought. I’d been toying with a vegetarian diet at college. 

 

“No thanks, Officer, but could I get a map of the local streets here?”

 

The cop ambled down the hall and I followed him into the Clerk’s office. My
skimpy eyelashes fluttered under the bright fluorescent fixtures. Officer
Braun’s rugged face emerged in stark contrast to the scruffy, long-haired
college boys I’d been dating. 

 

Hank’s dark curly hair was clipped short. A trim mustache capped a
mischievous grin. His green eyes seemed to signal “go” like a green traffic
light. My heart revved into third gear. The police officer’s clean cut
country look tingled my fancy.

 

Hank pointed to a street map taped to the countertop. “Chestnut Street is
just down the road. See you around town,” he said with a wink and walked
out. 

 

# # #

 

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