Jonah & the Edge

By Emily Blake Vail

In the days before the cell phone, Facebook, i-pads, and mass electronic communication, there was Alexi. She lived in a suburb called Lockridge, in the USA, and she had a credo: "I don't want to do anything really." But change crept into Alexi's Autumn of 1982, twisting her existence. New people appeared at school. She was forced into a job (Halloween Carnival chairman) she didn't feel comfortable with, she found dealing with her divorced parents trying, and feelings emerged that were totally new and unexpected ... could it be LOVE?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462899227

Emily Blake Vail

Emily Blake Vail enjoys writing in many genres: novels, children’s fiction, non-fiction, short stories, and poems. ”POEMS from TIME PAST: Cross-Roads, Byways, Destinations” is her second published poetry book, following the 2008 publication of “POEMS … this fragile earth” (both Xlibris publications). In both volumes she comments on and confirms her experiences of life in the twentieth century. Ms. Vail’s published books include: The Ghost Shrimp, The Burlap Bag, Dark Night on Mimosa Trail, The Grey Ghost of the Pharaoh, Carla and the Con Men (Wright Books); The Lost Equation Game, The Spindleburne Spectre, Mist in the Heart, The Search for Ole Ben’s Treasure, Sue and Charley, Jonah & the Edge ( Xlibris). Short stories appeared in a collection by Pen and Pica Writers entitled “ The Night The Animals Screamed “. Ms. Vail’s occupations over time have included editing, teaching (high school and college), church choir director and soloist, volunteer coordinator, boutique manager, mother, and college administrator wife. With degrees from Birmingham-Southern College (A.B); Georgia State University ( M.A. in Medieval English literature), and the University of Georgia (Med in counseling) she has assumed many roles and participated in varying activities---some leading to the writing of novels and poems. A member of several writers’ groups, she is presently active in the Atlanta Branch, National League of American Pen Women. In 1997-99 she served as President of the Georgia Poetry Society. She continues to be an active member of St. Augustine of Canterbury Episcopal Church and sings in the choir.

Book preview

Jonah

     & the Edge

Emily Blake Vail

Copyright © 2011 by Emily Blake Vail.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011911085

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4628-9921-0

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4628-9920-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-9922-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

96627

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Acknowledgement

Dedication

For Aurelia, Alina, and Julian

1982 Autumn

One

FROM THE OPENING of school to Halloween was a mysterious time for Alexi. Jonah became Jon. Uncle Albert taught her how to hula. She fell madly in love with e. e. cummings, and she became tenth-grade chairman of the Halloween Carnival, an impossible job that came to include the fire-breathing dragon.

Alexi lived in a suburb south of NeuAlford called Lockridge, just twenty miles down the Interstate from the tall buildings of the inner city. Lockridge was a small community of clustered shops, fast-food establishments, block-long shopping centers, one library, three schools, and five churches. Two other communities were in the area with city halls and police stations and, except for signs along the road, nobody knew where one stopped and another began. On Lockridge Road the lanes had grown from two to five within the past year.

Alexi lived in a comfortable townhouse condo with her mother. In her closet, tucked away under shoes and purses and two luggage bags, plus books and papers and crayons and dust, was her dingy, much-washed white security blanket. She’d loved it all her life. It was wrapped around her most favorite keepsakes: a Raggedy Andy and two special books. Alexi was a person who liked to hang loose and not take on any responsibilities . . .

She frequently reminded herself: I don’t want to do anything, REALLY! It had become her credo, and it served her well, especially when counselors and teachers began talking about careers and offering suggestions about how she was supposed to handle her life and times. Who wanted to think about having a career? She didn’t! She’d much rather have a foot-long chili dawg with all the trimmings, maybe even french fries and a coke.

But now it was morning and she had to dress and go to school. When she came downstairs to have her breakfast, her mom Dora saw her first. Woodrow, her dad, sat at the breakfast table as though he belonged there.

Dora said, Well, look who’s here! as though she’d expected Snow White to come waltzing in.

Alexi remembered her manners. ‘Morning, Mom. Hi, Dad.

Here’s my extra-special girl! he said. Hello there!

All kinds of jello-mellow flooded over her when she stooped to drop a kiss on his reddish-blond, rumpled-curly hair. He was wearing a green-alligator knit shirt, which was in need of ironing, but he looked GOOD and he was smiling. He stood up to help her into her chair. He was middle-sized, not short but not overly tall. He was just right. They were good and special friends, even if they didn’t see each other more than four times a year.

Not since the divorce . . . when she was nine.

Her dad had named her Alexi. He said it was his mother’s name and, since she had passed on (like died), he wanted Alexi to have it. Alexandra Mettaiczsche. It was a hard name to spell and to live with.

Alexi had long ago decided that none of Ms. Dora’s other gentleman friends were as nice, ever would be, as her dad Woodrow, even if he did threaten all the time that he wanted to be called by a different name: Matthews. She tried not to remember what Dora always said about him: He has quirks, Alexi. But Dora bustled when Woody was around as though she wanted to please him.

Now Dora put a glass of milk and a piece of golden bran toast, thickly buttered, on the table before Alexi. Your father has great news for us, Alexi. She was smiling.

Alexi saw that Woodrow was smiling, too, although his smile was always thinner than her mom’s. She thought he did seem different somehow. You happy, Poppy? she asked him softly.

I admit I am. I’ve legally changed our name from Mettaiczsche to Matthews, and that step has effected a miracle. I’ve been brought into my company as a senior middle-management executive. My abilities, dedication, and long hours of work are being recognized at last. Yes, the change of patronymic was an inspired move.

I hope it’s going to mean more money, said Dora, joining them at the table with a cup of steaming coffee. The third chair made the space in the dinette crowded. Usually lack of space was not a problem because Alexi and her mom rarely ate at the same time. They never ate the same food either. Dora went for exotic gourmet food, while Alexi preferred meat, potatoes, and pizza.

At the moment Alexi basked in the morning glow of sunlight through the windows. They were like a real family, she thought, like people who ate together and slept under the same roof and sometimes went on grand vacations to places like Disney World, Epcot, and the Grand Canyon. Like a family who didn’t have quirks. This morning she could imagine that’s the way they were.

Suddenly Woody’s nose began to quiver and nothing was really that fine. Money again, eh? He seemed to explode. Dora, I think I resent your implications. Have I ever missed a month sending the child support?

Several!

I don’t recall that I have.

Dora sat not saying a word, just staring at him.

He flushed and took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Maybe I missed a time or two . . . when you were off on one of your trips.

I don’t know what my trips had to do with Alexi’s child support!

Woody chewed on his bottom lip. If you had money enough to take those trips, then I figured you didn’t need money from me. I was a little short then.

Alexi has to eat while I’m gone.

Dora put cream in her coffee and stirred it carefully. Woodrow always drank his coffee black. Alexi recalled many family discussions about that point. Dora liked to spend money as fast as she had it in her purse. Woodrow liked to save, even to the point of not wanting to afford cream to go in his coffee. At least, Alexi thought, Dora accused him of that, saying that she liked fine things, especially real creamery thick cream, not powdery creamer. But Mom overdid it sometimes, Alexi thought, almost as though she had to win her point.

They both liked to win points. Frankly, my dear, Woody was saying now, there have been times I was tempted to go to court and ask the judge to give me sole custody of Alexi.

And what then?

I would take her to live with me over at my place.

Dora glanced at Alexi nervously. Don’t be absurd. I would say something wicked about your housekeeping, but Alexi is here.

Don’t mind me, said Alexi, draining her glass of orange juice.

If they kept this up, she knew she was pretty soon going to be stiff and tearful. It was just too bad . . . when the morning had started off being so great. She certainly didn’t want to live with her much-loved father Woodrow. His place stayed junked, just absolutely wrecked! He was in no way tidy. He needed lots of help. But Dora had never wanted to pick up after him or wash his dirty socks.

Alexi could understand the difficulty. Nevertheless, when her mom would say, Your dad’s trouble is— Alexi always interrupted her. Please, Mom! She took up for him. I know he’s messy, but he doesn’t know how to do many things about the house.

Alexi remembered Woody’s protests. "Don’t fuss at me, Dora. My mother kept my room neat and spotless. She put out clean clothes for me to wear . . . every morning. She put my dirty things in a basket, then she washed them. In the washing machine. No washtub, no scrub-board. A washing machine. You have one, too. Easy to operate. You turn