Reverse Angle by Cathy Richard Dodson (Chapter One only)

REVERSE ANGLE:

A NOT-SO-ROMANTIC TALE

By Cathy Richard Dodson

Chapter One Only

Published by BooksForABuck.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and situations used in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously.

This document contains only the opening scenes to Cathy Richard Dodson's REVERSE ANGLE. To purchase the entire eNovel for only $3.99, click the Buy Now button below. All transactions are handled by PayPal for your security. You need not be a PayPal member to purchase.

ISBN: 1-60215-040-0

ISBN-13: 978-1-60215-040-9

Chapter 1

"He's doing what?"

My husband Rob repeats himself, unfazed at my outburst. He's casually dropped the latest gossip as we linger over our Sunday paper and coffee, streams of warm sunlight filtering through the bay window in our little condo in Sherman Oaks, California.

Rob leans back in his chair and stretches out his long legs as he lazily turns another page of the paper. "He's decided to move her to Texas. He and Fanny want their past and present families to be together."

I'm constantly amazed at what Rob's dad will come up with next. Rob's family has a history of loony activity but this time they're going above and beyond. "How will they know if they're together or not?" I ask. "They'll all be dead! You've been telling me for years how your mother planned her funeral down to the last pink rose. How do you think she's going to feel about this sudden cross country journey?"

"Well," Rob grins over the cartoon page of the L.A. Times, "as you yourself pointed out, Emma, she's dead."

I'll admit he's got me on that one. Although Rob's mother died long before we even met, the stories he's told me brim over with the fact that his mother never wanted to leave California, and how she hadn't left anything undecided when death finally necessitated that she did. I refuse to believe whatever part of her spirit happens to be floating around in the great beyond is going to be very happy about being shipped off to Texas--even post mortem! Especially so she can be buried in some military cemetery with Rob's dad Rob Sr. and his second wife, Fanny.

I tried to make sense of this logic, and then I remembered that Fanny's husband was a military man, as was Rob's dad. (That's if you call maintaining and fueling airplanes military, which I guess you can since no one seems to have questioned it when they applied for membership in the new military cemetery in Arlington, Texas.) At least Fanny's husband actually saw some action in Germany, even if it was only the clean up. Rob's dad never got any closer than London--still a pretty big leap for a country boy from Paducah, Kentucky. Bottom line though, he never really "fought" in WWII.

Anyway, Fanny decided to move 'the Mr.' over to this new cemetery, and Fanny's daughter May convinced Rob Sr. he should move Lois out to Texas too, so they could all be buried there. Not that they're actually going to be buried together, mind you--according to Rob the plots are probably a mile away from each other. But at least they'll all be in the same hallowed ground, in the hallowed Lone Star State. I've never heard anything like it--in life, fiction, or the movies.

"You know how Dad feels about having someone look out for them, keep flowers on the graves and stuff," Rob muses between sips of his morning coffee.

"But they'll be dead. What does it matter who looks out for them?" Irritation creeps into my voice, and I know part of it has nothing to do with all this--except for the fact that Rob happens to be a pushover when it comes to anything his dad asks him to do. But beyond that, I have my own set of moving worries to think about.

"It's that old school way of thinking." Rob interrupts my thoughts as he neatly folds his Sunday paper and reaches lazily for the pot to pour himself another cup of java. "Old people like knowing someone's going to visit their grave."

"Oh, for Pete's sake."

"Well, it's true."

"I'm sure it is true. But what about your mother and the funeral she planned for herself and the idea that she was just where she wanted to be with all the things she wanted around her? And even if that wasn't the case, he's driving her to Texas in his pickup? Is that even legal? Not to mention he'll have Fanny, his number two wife on board? Don't you think your mother might be just a little annoyed about that?"

With a sheepish look, Rob picks up another section of the newspaper. "You just said she's dead, so what does it matter?"

He's right. Really, what does it matter? Except for the fact that once again, everyone is catering to Rob Sr. But like I said, I have my own set of pressing problems at the moment. I take my cup to the sink and rinse it, my reflection in the glass reminding me once again that I'm not wrinkle-free anymore and it's time to get my daily exercise in. Brushing a wisp of short blonde hair behind my ear, I frown at the state of me, even as I stare out on another sunny Southern California day.

* * * *

I'm not feeling so sunny inside as I knot my sneakers and head out the front door. Why does it matter to me what Rob Sr. does with his dead wife's body? Still, I can't shake it off, the idea that we never really have the kind of control we think we have. I never knew Rob's mother and if I had, I suspect I wouldn't have liked her much. From what I'd heard, she was too controlling and an alcoholic to boot. But in the end, any control she thought she had just vanished into pure illusion. She was dead and gone and her wishes meant nothing. It all came down to that in the end. What we want, what we plan, means nothing.

Before starting my jog, I look back at our little yellow condo and once again feel the sense of unease that's becoming a regular part of my life these days. Rob was okay with our move to L.A. at first, but its charms had long since worn thin. Now he's sick of his job, the traffic, the people, and lately, life in general. I feel for him; I know how it is to be frustrated with your life. I'm pretty much there myself, but for different reasons, reasons I spend most of my time trying to avoid thinking about. With a sigh, I think now about how much I love our little home. To me, it's paradise in the middle of insanity--a quiet courtyard with nice gardens, a pool people hardly ever use, charming rooms decorated exactly the way I want them. I tell myself I'm not ready to give it up. But somehow, I know that time is coming sooner than I want it to, and controlling the outcome isn't in my hands.

Because one of the things I'm avoiding thinking about just so happens to be a big move of my own. Rob informed me earlier in the week that he's had enough of L.A. He's given himself a month to find another job, and if he doesn't, he's quitting anyway.

"I'll do freelance if I have to, but it won't be here." Rob's a graphic designer so he can pretty much work anywhere, given he can find work. The question is however, what kind of work does he want to find? I know he's burnt out and dissatisfied, but he's not the only one who's run head-on into frustration over the past five years. The answer isn't to just up and run away from it, or so I tell myself.

"Where, then?" I had asked him, wondering just what planet he was thinking we'd live on if we didn't live here. It wasn't like Rob to act impulsively, and I was pretty thrown off by his announcement.

"Somewhere. Anyway. But I'm done with this place."

"What if I'm not?" He had given me a look that suddenly made me wonder where our marriage was headed. Then it passed and he was Rob again.

"I guess we'll have to figure out a compromise." Yes, there was my Rob, a master of compromise.

I just nodded in agreement and dropped the subject for the time being, not willing to find out where compromise might lead. It had taken me most of my life to get to L.A.; I wasn't ready to be led anywhere else just yet.

Now, despite the southern California sunshine, that and all my other worries come crashing back with a vengeance. I jog for a few blocks then slow to a walk. Out here, you see people jogging like nobody's business. Old or young, running seems to be the thing to do when it comes to exercise. Truthfully, I hate running; I just do it to get my heart rate up. It certainly doesn't make my problems go away. If anything, I just focus on them more. Like the one about me getting older. That one hits me just about the time I get to the big hill, when I have to stop and walk backwards so I can actually make it to the top. Getting older may be inevitable, but it still sucks. Not that I'm old really. I'm only in my forties, and most people, if they had to guess, wouldn't put me much past thirty. My short haircut and glitzy highlights have done what they're supposed to. Which is good, because it's absolutely true that this town is all about how young you are. If people are rude enough to ask, I just say I'm old enough to know better but young enough not to care. Then I smile. I seriously doubt I'll ever be young enough to run to the top of that hill though. But at least I'm in the game, which sure beats knitting on the sidelines.

Once I make it to the top of that hill, I jog in place for a couple of minutes. The excuse is that I'm catching my breath, but what I really love is the view of the Valley. Ah, the Valleyif you haven't lived in L.A., you can't really appreciate what that means. The place where Valley girls once reigned supreme and Tom Petty wrote songs about vampires in Reseda and Free Falling. I always think of that song when I'm up here. I feel like a bird. I can see all the way to the mountains, and all the millions of people in between. Even though there may be a lot of vampires out there, people eager to steal your energy and suck you dry of enthusiasm, most days I still can't believe I'm really here. I wonder if I'll turn into one if I stay here long enough?

When we moved to Los Angeles four years ago, I had big plans. To date, I haven't accomplished any of them. I wanted to write screenplays, make movies, win an Oscar. When Rob agreed we could give it a shot, I was so thrilled. It's not like we had anything holding us back--we each had a grown child from a previous marriage, and retired parents pretty much wrapped up in doing their own thing. Besides, we weren't getting any younger ourselves--if we were going to make the move, the time to do it was ripe.

I came out to this land of opportunity with the best I had; I put my work in front of producers, and couldn't believe it when they said they liked it. But then they said it wasn't really what they were looking for, and did I have anything else? I did, but that wasn't really what they were looking for either. So they didn't buy any of my stuff which of course left me with a sense that not only was what I'd written not worth a damn, but that by now I'd probably said everything of value I had to say. I don't write anymore, and even though I'm not ready to leave, I'm not sure why we're still living in this city of four million, half of whom spend most of their time trying to pretend the other half don't exist. One third of whom don't even speak the same language. And the majority--who only care about making sure their cars are in spotless condition on any given day of the week. I understand this world, but I don't think I like it. If I found success, I'm not sure I'd like that either. But I want to leave my mark.

I'm just finishing my run-turned to walk when it hits me. A story just crazy enough to pull people in; just unbelievable enough to be believed--something no one knew they were looking for because it was so absurd. The chance to make a movie that'll be hilarious, and maybe even make me some money, and to do it before Rob drags me to God knows where. I can write it, film it, probably even edit it--I can do it all--before I have to move on from the land of my dreams. It'll be a documentary film, guerrilla filmmaking at its best--just waiting for me to make it. And I'll call it "Moving Mom!"

* * * *

Not surprisingly, Rob's less than thrilled about the idea.

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