Seven Days and Seven Sins : A Novel in Short Stories

by Unknown

• ISBN13: 9781400052660
• ISBN10: 1400052661
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Trade Paper
• Copyright: 2004-06-01
• Publisher: Three Rivers Press

Summary

Like a modern-dayOur Town, this unforgettable book explores the subtle tragedies and the hope for redemption tucked deep inside every house in a seemingly average suburban neighborhood. Angela Mayfair is not your typical twelve-year-old. She is a Millennium Extrasensory Evolution Kid, and she can see through walls. She notices the dark shadow of pain lurking in one neighbor's pantry and can sense the paralyzing anger keeping another neighbor awake at night. In this lyrical, heartbreaking, and whimsical slice-of-life by critically acclaimed novelist Pamela Ditchoff, Angela walks us through the homes on Lantern Hill, introducing a cast of fascinating characters whose lives intertwine in quiet, yet often profound, ways. From Arnie the dwarf, a compassionate phone company guy who struggles to heal his emotionally damaged wife; to Cora, the postal service mail sorter whose unlikely sexual awakening is triggered by a delivery of exotic orchids; to Hank, Angela's father's lover, who channels his self-loathing into bulimia, each luminous character in this thoroughly engaging novel-in-stories teaches Angela a lesson in the human condition. Drawing on the classic nursery rhyme about the seven days of the week, as well as the seven deadly sins, Ditchoff frames each household beautifully in its own particular pathos. From the Hardcover edition.

Author Biography

PAMELA DITCHOFF lives in Michigan. This is her second novel.<br><br><br><i>From the Hardcover edition.</i>

Excerpts

Monday's Child Is Fair of Face

THE BLEND of circumstances occurs only in April: late afternoon, an hour or so after rain, sunlight nearly white, wet lime-green grass, hyacinth's purple knuckles clenched tight as fists, and no wind at all. Arnie Timmick's pager beeps, usually when he's up a pole repairing storm-damaged lines. The number displayed is his home phone, but he doesn't call his wife. He doesn't because minutes count, and if he is too late, Faye will lock the basement pantry door and stay inside all night.

Arnie drives straight home and finds Faye in the pantry, its small south window casting a light square on her back. She stands before the shelves, hands gripped in her hair, counting cans. Even though there may be only thirty, she counts the same cans over and over in a rush: "Two hundred and five, two hundred and six, two hundred and seven."

Arnie says "I'm here" and moves to a position where she can see him, peripherally because she won't take her eyes from the cans. Faye keeps counting until she reaches 522. Face blotched, breathing rapid, she turns to him, and he can barely stand the seconds before the click of recognition when she cries, "Arnie."

They go upstairs and he draws her a bath, sits on the commode and watches her soak, watches as she slides all the way under, as tiny bubbles rise from her nose. He marvels at the beauty of his wife (marvel is the actual word Arnie would use), because Faye is classically beautiful, like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. That he is a dwarf does not influence his perception. Faye loves him as best she can love, and although she's beautiful enough to be a movie star or a fashion model, she doesn't know it because when she looks in a mirror she sees a face without features.

ARNIE MET Faye three years ago. He was updating the phone system in a psychologists' group office when Faye walked into the reception area. She took his breath away. The dress that swayed about her ankles was pale gray, and she wore no jewelry. Her black hair was braided away from her face, away from her dark blue eyes, and her skin looked as if she had never spent a day in the sun. The full effect made Arnie recall an enameled tin cup from which he drank milk as a child.

Every person that passed through the area stared at Faye. The guy sitting across from her made no pretense of gawking. A pharmaceutical rep was eyeballing her while chatting up the receptionist who cut her eyes in Faye's direction whenever the rep turned his head. Faye was the embodiment of everything that had been out of reach to Arnold Timmick, and he intended to keep her at arm's length. Arnie's history with beautiful girls was generally confined to being the target of mean-spirited remarks. He hated their haughty, self-confident conceit.

However, Faye grew edgy under this scrutiny, biting the inside of her lip, jiggling her foot, checking the wall clock. Arnie thought if she had wings, she'd fly to the ceiling light and bang against it over and over again.

After patching in the final extension, he lifted the receiver and saw that Faye was watching him. Her eyes held his with a silent plea, a reflection of his own past desperation, and Arnie decided to take action.

Impulse is the first thing taunted out of you when you're different, and Arnie was not inclined to act impulsively. He would like to say he acted with dignity--not the antiquated sentiment used to describe the physically or emotionally maimed who stoically shuffle through life without a whimper of discontent, but dignity as a measure of worth, repute, and honor. There's honor in a man willing to risk his pride to take the heat off someone else.

Arnie would not tell you that as he closed his toolbox an image came to mind of the last time he acted impulsively. When Jay Brandstatter wrestled Peter Alexander, the skinny kid who refused to shower after gym, to the locker room floor, Arnie kicked Jay square center in his bulging calf muscle. As Peter grabbed his clothes and ran, Jay stuffed Arnie into a locker and padlocked the door. Two hours passed before Miss Richards, the AV lab instructor, concerned when Arnie didn't show for class, harangued Coach Brownley into checking the locker room.

In the psychologists' office, Faye stopped fidgeting as Arnie walked toward her. Through years of practice, he could gauge a reaction in seconds; if the face didn't give way, the body would. Faye's shoulders dropped slightly and her pupils widened. Arnie hopped up on the chair next to hers, hooked his thumbs around his suspenders and began whistling, "Whistle While You Work." Then he glared at the man seated across from Faye and snapped, "What the hell are you lookin' at?"

The man scrambled out the door, the receptionist shuffled papers on her desk, the rep snapped his briefcase shut and said he would drop by later.

Faye's laughter came from her throat, lips closed, chin raised, eyes shut. Arnie saw the sound flutter in the clavicle basin of her neck. She took a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her forehead. Then she said, "I can't stand this place another minute. Would you care to walk me home? My apartment's only three blocks away. I'll fix a lunch. My name is Faye Holliwell."

For a tall woman, she had a girlish voice. From the way she drew out her a's, Arnie guessed her roots were Southern. He shifted his eyes to the floor, aware that his answer would be a private crucible. Whatever he said, whatever action he took, he might regret it for years to come, depending on her reaction. The easiest thing would be to give her "the look," the expressionless stare that levels unwanted pity, and walk away.

It would be the safest thing to do; at age thirty-one, Arnie was finally able to lie down at night with a sense of contentment. He no longer dreamt of waking and finding his clothes too small. He had a good job, a house on Lantern Hill Lane in a quiet, safe neighborhood, friends he could watch a game with on the big screen at Trapper's, and enough in the bank to make life easy. And though Arnie had been born with his mother's romantic nature, he'd resigned himself to settle for occasional passion in motel rooms after the bars closed with women who were either drunk, depressed, overly curious, or strange and silent.

Faye did not deserve "the look," and Arnie knew this the moment he saw her. "I have another job in half an hour," he said. "Thanks for the offer, though. Name's Arnie Timmick."

Faye's hand trembled slightly as she extended it, and her fingers were cool in Arnie's hand. "You know, if a bottle of Jack Daniel's could speak, I'll bet it would sound like you," she said.

Arnie smiled; this was one he hadn't heard before. During his teens, he had cultivated a bass voice because as much as he loved his father, he did not want to sound like him. His father's voice reminded Arnie of a small, yappy dog.

When a man exited one of the offices, the receptionist said, "The doctor will see you in five minutes, Faye."

Faye stood abruptly; her handkerchief fluttered to the floor and she was through the door before Arnie could jump down from his chair. The cloth was white and smelled like lily-of-the-valley. Arnie grabbed his toolbox and headed for the elevators.

He caught up with her on the sidewalk out front. She stood with her back to the street, facing the building's reflective glass panels. Arnie was close enough to see the downward turn of her mouth mirrored in the glass.

"You dropped this," he said, holding up the handkerchief.

Faye turned slowly and took the cloth. She shaded her eyes with her left hand. "It is much too bright today."

"That's my company van," Arnie said, pointing to a vehicle with michigan bell painted on the side. "Would you like a lift home?"

Arnie opened the door, and as Faye climbed in, a breeze caught her skirt, exposing legs long and white as a field of snow. Walking to the driver's side, he imagined Faye watching him climb the three, custom-built steps, sitting in the seat twice as high as the passenger's, placing his feet on the raised pedals. But she kept her gaze on the street until Arnie started the van and asked: "Where to?"

"Two blocks down Capitol, left on Madison, number 592."

Arnie parked in the drive of a narrow, two-story house, one of those turn-of-the-century downtown buildings renovated for the influx of yuppies during the eighties.

"I can't thank you enough. It's been one of those crazy mornings," Faye said. "How about coming inside for a cold drink?"

Arnie ran his hands along his thighs; it was unusually warm for April, but his sweat was not due to the weather. He wanted her out of the van, out of sight. "Sorry, I'm running late."

Faye cocked her head and sighed. "You think maybe I'm crazy because I was in Dr. K's office, some kind of psycho with bodies of phone company employees buried in my backyard."

"No, I thought you might have dwarfs buried in your backyard." This was a test, a roundabout way of getting rid of her, and Arnie expected her to mumble a quick good-bye and hurry inside.

"I do--six of them: Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Doc, and Bashful. That would make you Dopey."

Arnie laughed and shook his head. "Truth is, I have eight calls this afternoon. Maybe another time."

"Saturday night, six o'clock sound okay, Arnie?"

STANDING IN Faye's foyer, watching her bend and slip the back strap of a sandal over her heel, Arnie felt his stomach compress. Why did I come? What's she up to? Why would a woman with her looks be interested in me?

She wore red pedal pushers and a cropped T-shirt. Chris Isaak played from the stereo. Arnie wished he had brought something; he'd considered bringing flowers, but he didn't want to give the wrong impression.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Come on back to my office."

Arnie followed Faye down a hallway that was bare of photos, mirrors, or paintings. He stood in the doorway as she sat in front of a computer.

"Only two more entries," she said. A rotund orange cat poked its head out from beneath the desk and rubbed against her ankle.

"What are you working on?" Arnie asked.

"Surveys in zip format, at the moment. I work freelance data entry for dozens of companies. I'm better with letters and numbers than I am with people," Faye said.

Arnie chose not to cross that line. He glanced around the room: a double file cabinet sat next to the desk, which was clear but for the computer and a framed photograph of the cat. There were no posters, plants, or books. The room didn't look lived-in.

A buzzer sounded from the kitchen, causing Faye's body to twitch.

"Want me to turn that off?" Arnie asked.

"Yes, please."

The cat darted in front of him, leading the way to the kitchen, stopping at her empty bowl. Arnie couldn't reach the timer and cursed himself for not thinking about how high it would be before offering to turn the damn thing off. He looked for something to stand on; there were two, fifties soda-fountain-style stools pulled up to a U-shaped counter, two place settings, a pillar candle, and a bottle of red wine. He could push a stool over to the oven, but screw that. Faye came in and snapped off the timer. "I thought you were going to turn it off."

Arnie reached as high as he could, his fingers three inches shy of the timer, then looked at Faye, exasperation clear in the set of his mouth.

Faye's chin puckered. "I don't understand you. I like you, Arnie. One minute you come to my rescue and the next you push me away. Why?"

Arnie shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I don't know. I'm sorry. Something smells delicious."

Long after the salmon, baked potatoes, and salad were gone, Arnie and Faye remained in the kitchen. Once Arnie got past Faye's looks, he found her easy to talk with, though he did most of the talking. Faye answered his questions briefly, some with merely a shrug. She was born in Marmet, West Virginia, in 1974, left the day after graduation to summer with an Aunt in Lansing and stayed. That was all she offered. However, she was full of questions for Arnie. Was he a happy kid? Did he like school? Who was his favorite teacher? Who was his best friend? How did he get started in the phone business? Where did he live? She listened to him attentively, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers.

If Arnie had not been enjoying himself to such a high degree, he might have realized this was the first time in his memory that a woman seemed to hang on his every word. He was telling her the story of how Fender, his Brittany spaniel, got her name when he noticed the room had grown dark but for the candle's glow.

"I guess I should be going," he said, and turned to Faye. Her lips parted slightly as if to protest, then closed together in a pout. The urge to kiss those lips hit Arnie with unexpected force, followed immediately by the need to flee. He placed his foot on the top rung of the stool, preparing to step down. Before he could, Faye blew out the candle and pressed her mouth to his.


From the Hardcover edition.

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Excerpted from Seven Days and Seven Sins: A Novel in Short Stories by Pamela Ditchoff
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.