Blue Girl: A Novella

By R.W. Clinger

When eighteen-year-old Joanna Morto moves from Rochester, New York to Pittsburgh, her world changes and innocence is lost. Under the care of her uncle, Howard Long, a best-selling and world renowned poet, Jo is introduced to passion, art, and the city’s frankness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GreatOne AS
• Release date: Jan 8, 2011

R.W. Clinger

When R.W. writes he feels as if he lives within the world he creates. He blends a "true to life experience" into each character. R. W. breathes the characters and plot inwards with complete indulgence. He pulls his readers into a extraordinary world of emotional tenderness like no other. He loves to read, write poetry

Book preview

PART ONE – HIS DESIRE

HER WRISTS

Her wrists are tender and smooth, covered nicely with blue veins. They are swathed in a warm skin that is soft and wrinkleless, are thin with bone and muscle underneath—beautiful wrists. He writes about Joanna’s wrists for thirty days. How pretty they are. How they smell like her favorite perfume called Happy. He invites her to lunch and dinner, just to see them, and becomes exhaustively enticed by the wrists, adoring their luxurious prettiness, and sometimes asks Joanna, Let me feel your pulse … please, moving his fingers across the narrow length of her left wrist, caressing the veins and muscle, the soothing flesh that he longs to write about. He becomes seduced by their silkiness. Not secretly sexual with the young girl across from him. Genteel. Smooth. So nice.

He finds Joanna pretty with her long black hair, her aquamarine colored eyes and their long lashes, and her somewhat button-sized nose. She’s an attractive girl, a freshman at Juniper this year, an artist with an exuberant mind for watercolors. He doesn’t become hard by looking at her (not at this moment), nor by touching her (not now, of course, not in public). Instead, he is selflessly devoted to the skin on her wrists, the parallel lines that are nothing more than gentle looking creases because of everyday use, the enchanting epidermis and soft follicles of hair that are unnoticeable to the naked eye. Yes, Joanna Morto is glamorous, of course, but her wrists, he confides, are more glamorous.

REFLECTION

He escapes into the men’s room. Blue marble floor. Clean smell. Like chlorine. Like aftershave. A very clean bathroom with sparkling bowls, spotless basins, reflective mirrors. The bathroom is empty. Just him: Howard Long. His leather heels click across the floor as he glides to the mirror and faces himself. He is an older man, he sees. Middle-aged. Forty-two years old. Sandy-brown hair that is cut very short, having a professional look about himself that exemplifies maturity and education. Cream colored brown eyes. Thin build. Not emaciated. Not starving. Thin since he was a young boy because of his metabolism. No tummy. No abs. Slightly over six feet tall. Scarecrow broad shoulders. Crow’s feet at the corners of both eyes. Narrow lips. No facial hair, because Howard’s skin has a natural oily texture and sheen. Glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose; silver frames, a minimal prescription to help him read. Not a handsome man. Just normal. Average. Certainly not ugly, though. Not a hunk either. Not a cutie. Not someone who is aging well. Not a cover guy. Normal. Howard Long is normal and he likes himself, what he sees.

He wets his face at one of the basins, pats it dry with a paper towel. Flushed now, for some odd and unexplainable reason, he stares at his pallid facial skin in the mirror. A fishy look about him. A nervous and jittery look. A flustered look. Sickly, almost. He’s really not sure what the look is, but he’s feeling fine. A victim of September cold. He shows no sign of a fever or cough, though. No soar throat. Howard Long is healthy, he surmises, is feeling fine. He just looks ill today, having a loss of color in his face. Pale and deathly looking. Not up to par. But he feels fine, excited to be with his niece this afternoon. Tea for two. A special gathering that he has looked forward to since Monday, the day after her arrival in Pittsburgh. Yes, he’s fine. Perfectly fine, because Jo Morto has finally arrived, living so close, under his care. His niece.

SOMETHING SO CLOSE

Temple Tea Place. It’s on Oliver Street. A tiny place with giant satin pillows scattered on the floor, for couples to become acquainted and comfortable with each other. Imported teas from all around the world are served. There is a rustic look about the place: avocado colored ceiling and eggplant colored walls. To the left of the combination of pillows are tables for two, where Joanna sits with Howard Long, talking.

You’re obsessed, Joanna says over green tea with sprigs of mint.

I can’t help it. They’re beyond any understanding of exquisiteness. He is gently touching her hands, obeying his thirst, crossing a fine line between woman and man, relatives. Dangerous ground. Simple thinking. To have something so close and not be allowed to hold it. Become close to it. Something so beautiful and striking. The smoothest skin. The gentlest eyes. So very close. And yet he shouldn’t touch it. His niece.

She giggles, a faceless girl of eighteen, his sister’s child, Joanna whispers, People are starting to look at you funny, and she pulls her left arm towards her small breasts, collects her tea in one hand with grace, and sips at the Hall cup, gingerly.

You have your father’s wrists, he says.

Joanna shakes her head, scowls at her uncle (narrow blue eyes looking angry at his comment, thin lips pursed with a sense of bitter execution, and chin pointed because her jaws are tightly locked), and acidly answers, My father is dead. I am nothing like him.

Don’t ever say that in front of your mother, Jo. You would kill her. She would drop dead in a second. It’s unexceptional behavior.

I wouldn’t be that stupid, Howard.

Of course, you wouldn’t. Now, let me feel your pulse again.

She shakes her head, places the Hall cup back to the table’s oak surface, and chants respectfully, My blood pressure is fine.

You don’t know that for sure, Jo. When were you at the doctor’s last? When did you have your pressure checked?

She looks to her left and then to her right, shares a poisonous glance with her uncle that causes him to feel awkward, and icily adds, That’s none of your business. Now, stop badgering me. Drink your tea and leave me alone.

Their afternoon tea is over. She has a class in less than fifteen minutes, astronomy and the dynamics of space, and must return to her college. On Market Street, a block away from her campus, Howard Long says, Good-bye, Jo. Call me if you need anything. Please. I’m always here for you.

Jo vanishes into the crowd with an expensive leather bag strapped over her right shoulder, a bag from Sak’s or Bloomingdale’s in Philadelphia. Pressed against her breasts are two hardbacks, the edges of books possibly cutting into her chest, or rubbing against the fabric of her brassier. The smooth skin of her wrist is slightly bent, holding the books in place.

PRIVACY

His sister: Elizabeth Long-Morto. A Rochester, New York resident. A widow for the past three years. Kept by life insurance money. Good investments. Joanna’s look-alike. A twin, but older. Thirty-nine years old; three years younger than Howard to be exact. She calls to check up on Jo twice a week, dialing her brother’s home phone number.

Howard tells his sister that everything is fine, that Jo is safe, that the world at Juniper College could not be a better place for Jo. He calls his niece’s environment exciting, a place where life offers unlimited experiences. Her mother listens with steadfast ears, asks if Jo needs money.

No. Don’t send any money. I give her plenty. I’m taking care of her now.

Elizabeth rattles off questions about the girl’s health, if Jo is too thin, if she is making an assortment of safe friends.

His answers are accurate, all of which explain Jo’s security, and nothing—Howard nonchalantly promises while rolling his eyes—absolutely nothing in the city will harm her.

You promise?

Yes, Elizabeth. I’m your older brother. Don’t you trust me?

Of course, I trust you. I’m just worried about my daughter.

There is another topic of discussion before their conversation ends. Jo’s mother asks, How is the writing, Howard?

I’m working on a new poem, he says rather quietly; a tamed and soft voice that simply encourages that he doesn’t want to discuss his private affairs with her.

Will it be added to your book?

Yes. It’s very dark and gloomy. Something you wouldn’t like.

Tell me about it.

Not yet … I’m still working on it. Please … no more questions. Respect that, Elizabeth.

I’m sorry, his sibling whispers, I didn’t mean to pry.

But you have, Elizabeth … You already have.

THE BEAUTIFUL DESTRUCTION OF MAN

He is a sick man. Howard Raymond Long. A very sick man. Obsessed with his niece. Infatuated with Jo. Sharing incestual stares with the young woman—his sister’s child! How absurd. How sick. It isn’t right and he knows it. He cannot help himself. He needs help from others. A professional. A shrink. Someone with a medical degree to prevent him from wanting to touch Joanna. A psychiatrist that will offer him drugs to balance his mind, preventing him from wanting to touch his niece.

Shame on him. For shame. He can’t get the girl out of his mind. He won’t! It’s obsession he has. The poet’s likeness: Jo Morto.

His first book of poems was published by a small publishing house based out of Frederick, Maryland. The book was very successful. 168 pages long. 14 poems in all. A year to compile and rewrite. It was called The Beautiful Destruction of Man.

Fifteen minutes of fame elevated Howard Long into a higher, Heaven-like world. A larger publishing house based out of New York City purchased Beautiful, and overnight Howard Long became a true poet, a wordy giant with prize-winning skills in the literary clique. A writer with a curdled spirit for America’s everyday life. A poet with more tenderness and devised scope of words than any of his peers. He was celebrated as a king, a god of sorts that had been flung—indisputably and recklessly—into poet-stardom. The book of poems climbed a spiral ladder that had reached around the world. And then—

He cannot write. He is diseased. He is sick and famous at the same time. His poetic soul has depleted and fallen into a vacant land of wordless words. Everything inside Howard Long has died. He is lost and unsafe. A part of him has almost died. The poet has failed. There is no hope and guidance, no livelihood for almost two years. Until—

Her wrists. Jo’s wrists. His niece’s wrists. God, how he has fallen in love with them. God, how stunning they are, hypnotizing. He has found the strength and power to write about their loveliness. A devised second book of poetry that he will never speak of to Elizabeth. An infatuation that he cannot comprehend. A device for survival. They are the means of his existence, ingredients in a potent drug that drive him to paper. Honestly! The wrists are poetic-worth to Howard. Amazingly erotic wrists. Sweetly overgenerous wrists. A part of his world. A prescription for his sanity and life to continue without pain. Jo’s wrists. His niece.

His second collection of poetry will be about the girl.