Thursday, July 20, 2006


This cover for the first of Helen Well's iconic Cherry Ames series,
along with many others from the same sub-genre, can be found at,

The 2800 words that follow might, or might not, become the first chapter of my novel, A Brief Affair. It's your basic nice engaged Jewish nursing student from Queens meets wounded and emotional numb Vietnam vet from the south sort of story.

Any insights, input, or insults will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill


Coming Together
by Bill Fullerton

“In other national news, a Defense Department spokesman says 18,000 of the 31,000 US troops ordered into Cambodia by President Nixon have been withdrawn.”

The news was background noise as Gwen Kaplan gave her bangs one last touch. She cared but had been hearing variations on the same theme since junior high and none of it had ever affected her personally. When you live in Flushing, little outside your neighborhood ever does.

“Investigations continue into the killing of protesters at Kent State and Jackson State universities. Authorities discount recent allegations that both incidents were started by sniper fire from student dorms.”

Her hair would do, she decided, and put the brush into her purse.

“In local sports, the Mets and Yankees both dropped double-headers--.”

She switched off the radio, then re-checked her make-up and uniform. As usual, Gwen didn’t like what she saw in the mirror. Despite visual evidence to the contrary, her self-image was still that of a pudgy schoolgirl with dull brown eyes, drab brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across an otherwise okay nose.

After dieting all winter, her figure was at the point where she could consider buying a bikini for trips to Rockaway Beach. Of course, she’d end up with a more modest two-piece. Even that would mark a vast improvement over the dowdy, one-piece swimsuits she always wore before. No matter how she might really look, what she saw in the mirror never seemed to improve. She shook her head in resignation, grabbed her purse and suitcase, and headed for the living room.

“So you’re going to skip your cousin Sammy’s birthday on Wednesday, am I right, and not come home until Friday?” The sound of her mother’s hectoring voice made Gwen cringe.

They had fought all weekend about her decision to skip the bar mitzvah of a particularly unappealing cousin. “That’s right, Mom. But I’ll call tonight from the dorm.” Not wanting to give her mother a chance to re-start the hostilities, she gave her a quick kiss and then hurried out the door.

It was a beautiful, almost balmy Monday morning in the borough of Queens. The other redbrick apartment buildings in the complex looked fresh and bright. Birds sang in leafy trees. Flowers bloomed in well-kept beds. Fluffy, white clouds floated in a clear blue sky.

Gwen paid no attention to these marvels of urban nature. Through the lobby window, she’d seen the bus approaching. Missing it was not an option. She rushed out the front doors, said a quick good morning to the two old ladies who were always on the stoop, then hurried across Jewel Avenue to the bus stop.

In Gwen’s opinion, getting on a New York City bus, even in Queens, could be a form of hand-to-hand combat. People in front and back push and shove while you battle to hang onto the handrail, whatever you happen to be carrying, plus your tokens or change.

Doing all this with a suitcase in one hand and a purse on your shoulder, while trying to keep your white uniform clean and the hem of its short skirt in place, made the experience even more interesting. Sometimes it didn't all work.

Today, however, a lot of people must have decided to sleep-in. The big, orange Q65A bus wasn’t half-full and few others got on with her. She even spotted an unoccupied window seat near the front. Grabbing it, she deposited the suitcase on the floor, tugged at the hem of her skirt, strategically positioned her purse on her lap, and then pulled out a paperback edition of, The French Lieutenant's Woman.

A few stops later, the bus made a quick, hard swerve before coming to an abrupt halt. The movement and sudden stop broke Gwen's concentration. Looking up from the middle of page 92, she glanced out the window. A stunning young woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a fashion model's figure was standing nearby. She wore tight, designer jeans and a white, fitted blouse. Gwen was positive neither of them came off any bargain rack.

Mesmerized, she watched the blonde goddess tilt her head up to kiss a slim, dark-haired young man in a three-piece business suit. Gwen noticed the stylish cut of his pin-stripped suit, the length of her golden hair, the rich-red leather of his briefcase, the size of the diamond on her ring finger, and succumbed to a wave of intense envy.

Like many others from her background, she suffered from a deep "shiksa" complex. Forget about Elizabeth Taylor or Vivian Leigh. To her, true female beauty meant slender, elegant women with peaches and cream skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair.

As the bus pulled away, she rubbed the much smaller stone on her own engagement ring like a talisman of good luck. Well, at least I’ve got Johnny. And someday we’re going to get married, someday. As the now crowded bus accelerated past an unbroken string of cars parked inches apart along the curb, she continued to stare, unseeing, out the window, remembering the time four years ago when she first met Johnny DeAngelo.

The bus made a sharp turn and braked to a stop at the Forest Hill subway station. Gwen looked up in surprise, dog-eared the still unread page 92, and put away the book. Suitcase in hand, she shuffled out with the other passengers.

As she hurried toward the gaping hole of the subway entrance, a jet flew overhead. Out of habit, she paused and looked up, searching the skies until she spotted the plane. Gwen lived between two of the world’s busiest airports, but had never flown. To her, the idea of flight and travel was fascinating.

Once again, she promised herself that someday she’d fly. Who knew, she thought with a smile, maybe it would be with Johnny when they left the city on their honeymoon. It was a happy thought to take down into the gloomy subway.

She knew better than to think her good luck would continue. Finding a vacant seat on the bus had been a big break. Getting one on the subway was too much to expect. Now she stood clutching a strap on the crowded F train into Manhattan, her body swaying with the motion of the noisy car.

An airline ad above the door reminded her of the plane she saw earlier. A look of resignation crossed her face as she recalled thinking about flying away with Johnny after their wedding. With her being two years away from graduation and Johnny still stuck in his job at a supermarket, if they got married now, they'd leave for their honeymoon on the subway instead of by plane.

If Johnny had stayed in school, or ever kept a decent job, Mom might not hate him so much, thought Gwen. The moment her mother learned Gwen's new boyfriend was a Catholic, a school drop-out, and four years older, she went ballistic. “What do you see in that little schmuck?” was about the nicest thing she said.

Sarah Kaplan's opposition did nothing but harden Gwen's resolve to make a success of her new relationship. Whatever it took, she was determined to never let her mother have the chance to say those four dreaded words, "I told you so."

Since then, Johnny had started many jobs, including a very brief stay in the Navy. Despite this sporadic work record, Gwen was sure she still loved Johnny. He was kind and sweet and she never doubted how much he loved her. She might have once had a crush on someone else, but Johnny was the only man she ever truly loved. It felt good going to parties and out on dates with a steady boyfriend. While sitting in class, she sometimes felt a sudden wave of warm security. And why not? After all, she was in love with a special someone who was in love with her.

If Johnny can just keep his new job, everything will be perfect. They wouldn't have to wait for her to become a nurse to get married. And maybe, just maybe, her mother would accept him.

After four years of maternal hostility, Gwen knew her strong-willed mother was becoming resigned to the idea of her equally strong-willed daughter marrying Johnny DeAngelo. Just last month, she overheard her mother telling a relative, "That daughter of mine seems determined to spite me and dishonor this entire family by throwing herself away on that lazy, good-for-nothing, no-account, little putz."

So Johnny's gone from a schmuck to a putz. It's not much of an improvement. Still, she decided it was progress.

At the 59th Street station under Bloomingdale's, she changed to the Lexington Avenue IRT and rode to the 26th Street stop. When the car doors opened, she allowed the surging crowd to sweep her out onto the platform.

The escalator was out, again. As she approached the top of the long stairway, the sounds and smells of the city intensified. Then she was standing on the busy sidewalk, out of Flushing, out of Queens, back in Manhattan, where anything might happen.

There was plenty of time, so she decided to walk instead of waiting for a crowded cross-town bus. It was a nice day, and she could use the bus fare to buy a hot dog for lunch. With that, she rearranged her load, then strode off toward 23rd Street and 1st Avenue and her job at the Manhattan VA hospital.


"What’s dat stuff on your face? What is it?"

Mark Cahill tried to pretend he was asleep. But the high-pitched young voice was penetrating, and persistent.

His day had been filled with an early departure and a long, rough connecting flight that included two even rougher landings. Now this. And LaGuardia was over an hour away. Still, he could recognize defeat.

With a sigh, Mark opened his eyes and looked towards the voice. A short, blurry figure was standing in the aisle next to his seat. Mark put on glasses with thick, milk-bottle lens, then looked back and inspected the figure. It was a redheaded kid, a boy, maybe three years old, wearing sneakers, overalls, and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. His ruddy, freckled face held an innocent, openly curious expression.

While this type of questioning didn't happen every day, it occurred so often, Mark had long since developed a stock response. Since he faced another hour on the cramped DC-9 before reaching New York, there was plenty of time to give this kid the full treatment.

“Well Hoss, let me tell you, it’s like this.” The kid gave him a big grin. "That stuff is powder burns. I got ‘em when this big firecracker went off near my face. Firecrackers can be a lot of fun, but they’re dangerous.”

He told about getting hurt when a big one went off by surprise, then finished with the usual morality lesson. "So don’t ever hold firecrackers when you light the fuse. If you do, you might get this kind of stuff in your face and have to wear thick glasses like I do."

"Andy. Andy Briggs, you get right over here and quit bothering that man.” The unexpected command came from a harried-looking woman who’d been talking to the young girl sitting beside her.

Mark watched without seeing as Andy cheerfully replaced his disgusted sister in the window seat. A new coloring book reconciled her to the aisle seat. With her children settled, the woman looked back over at Mark. "I'm sorry about Andy. He's always asking questions. I hope he didn't bother you."

Mark’s reply was flat and automatic. "No, ma'am. No bother at all. He's not the first to ask about my face and he probably won't be the last."

"Well, if you don't mind my asking, I overheard what you were telling him. Did that really happen? Maybe it’s just the suit and tie, but you look more like a businessman than someone who goes around playing with firecrackers."

"You’re right. It’s been awhile since I played with firecrackers. That story’s just a good one to tell kids."

Taking off his glasses, he pointed at the small, black marks below his eyes. "Like I told him, these things really are powder burns. But the firecracker was actually a booby-trap. The man in front of me stepped on it, in Vietnam.”

“I’m so sorry. Was he badly hurt?”

“He died before I could get to him.”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“I got pretty banged up; couldn’t see a thing for about a year. Now I’ve gotten some sight back, but the doctors had to remove a cataract. That’s why I wear these things.” He motioned with the heavy glasses while rubbing the red spots on the sides of his nose.

After taking a moment to clean the glasses, he put them back on and looked over towards Andy’s mother. She was staring at the floor, slowly shaking her head, and talking to herself. Her voice was low, but he had no trouble making out her words. "Oh, that damn war. Oh, that damn war."

Like most vets, he seldom spoke about his combat experience, especially to strangers. When kids asked questions, he relied on some variation of the firecracker yarn. But if an adult asked, more often than not, they got the real story. Since their taxes paid for his trip to Vietnam, he reasoned these curious citizens deserved the truth. But this woman’s reaction bothered him.

Of course, he didn’t mean to upset her. There were just too many emotions hitting him too quickly. The kid's question was no problem, although it reminded him of all he lost in Vietnam. Even when the kid turned out to be a freckle-face, redhead with a big grin, things were okay. But then his mother called him Andy. Hearing that name, the memories came crashing back. He wondered if they’d ever stop.

The heat. The weariness. The terror. The boredom. It was all part of a grunt’s existence in “The ‘Nam”. So too the friends who, like Andy, were there one minute, then gone without warning. And the explosion, felt more than heard, a body dancing in mid-air, a sheet of flames racing toward him, knocking him down, leaving him blind, ending his war.

A pop in Mark’s ears brought him back to the present. The stewardess announced the plane’s initial approach into New York. He obediently returned his seat back and tray table to their original, upright, and locked position, and checked his seat belt. Looking out at the tops of the thick, cumulus clouds, he wondered if he was in for his third rough landing of the day.

It don't mean nothing, he thought, repeating the mantra of those who served in Vietnam. After all, nothing could be rougher than the past few years.

It hadn't been easy since being wounded, and it sure as hell hadn't been fun. Still, for the time being at least, he was one up on both the VC who blinded him and the Army doctors who said he’d never see again.

He couldn’t suppress a grim smile of triumph. A year after being wounded, he was still flying to hospitals and the outlook for keeping some sight in his one remaining eye was uncertain. No longer having to travel blind was a major, though tenuous, achievement.

Sometimes he wondered if the rest of his life would be spent flying to hospitals. Before Vietnam, he cared about people and about making a difference. Back then, he wanted to become a lawyer and go into politics to fight the good fight. Most of all, he wanted one special someone.

Now, nothing seemed to matter, nothing seemed good or important. Even sex, sports, and having a good time held little more than a casual appeal. His only real goal was to finish the seemingly unending medical work on his eye.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was destined to become just another aimless, wounded war “hero” in an era when wars and heroes were no longer in fashion. It wasn’t an appealing prospect, but then, it don’t mean nothing. After all he’d been through, after all the friends he’d lost, nothing did.

Using his rebuilt, if still imperfect right eye, he watched the waters of Long Island Sound rushing up to meet his plane. Instead of a cot in an Army hospital tent in Da Nang, his destination today was New York City and a bed at the Manhattan VA. That wasn't what he wanted to be doing. But it was one hell of an improvement over last year.

A moment after the runway appeared, the plane touched down with an almost imperceptible bump. One good landing out of three's not that bad, he decided. Maybe things were starting to go his way.

He was way past due.


Anonymous nancy said...

I like all the information and detail here, but I'm wondering -- could it be more effective later on in the book?

The description is really good, but this chapter seems to be more about setting things up than actually starting the story, if that makes sense. It's like they're both going somewhere, but not yet *doing* anything.

I'm reading the second chapter right now, and, in comparision, it grabbed my attention right away and it's a lot more interesting to me -- it's a good mix of conversation, action (as in plot progression), description, etc.

Just an idea, but maybe your second chapter could be bumped up? I think the info from the first chapter could be integrated later on...

12:18 AM  
Anonymous Razib Ahmed said...

I liked the first chapter and I must thanks Nancy for pointing this out. Hoping to read all fo the chapters gradually. I think Bill that you should travel Vietnam and I am sure you will be to write some great novels based on Vietnam.

7:42 AM  
Anonymous Laurie said...

I haven't read past this chapter, so I don't know yet what I'll think of subsequent chapters, but at this point, I agree with Nancy's assessment that this doesn't feel like the story - it's backround information. Told very well, but background information anyway.

An opening chapter is best started in the middle of the action to grab readers. Background can go in later.

Still, you've got an easy reading style, which is good. :)

7:47 AM  

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