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2010 Short Story Contest
by Carrie Driscoll of Naperville

WINNING STORY - THE BLANKET SHAWL

It would be Frankie's first time out in public since coming home. Announcing to his parents earlier that evening that he would be going out had caught them so unprepared that they both seemed suddenly white-washed. While Frankie dressed himself in his bedroom- it took triple the time now- his mother whispered from the couch that it would be best if his father was with him. His father stood and walked to the bathroom to shave.
As Frankie was leaving, his mother stood from the couch, holding that blanket shawl tightly around her shoulders, her way of bringing some of the encompassing comfort with her, and said, "You're as handsome as they come, you know." Frankie had become so used to seeing his mother sit on the couch, that seeing her stand now seemed a small miracle. But this business with the blanket shawl and wrapping her arms around herself showed Frankie that his mother was either perpetually cold, or was unsure how to, or if she should, reach out to touch him now. Too much touching would treat him as some pitiful thing, and so she opted for no touching at all. Frankie noted his mother's strangeness and regretted that she'd probably wear that blanket shawl around her shoulders a lot now, maybe always, and he wished she wouldn't. It seemed a very short ways from not getting out of bed at all. That would be his mother; getting lost in her head, parenting from the couch as it engulfed her, while sending her husband like a messenger to say the things that would need to be said. But it was a good thing to say, to remind him he was handsome, even though Frankie did understand the utility of good looks and how much he would need that now.
With the crutches laid across the back seat of the car, assuming the weight and presence of an uncomfortable third person back there, Frankie became acutely aware of his father's age, which wasn't as noticeable inside the house in his flannel shirt and favorite chair. But here they were, both staring straight ahead at the garage door as though it was really something to behold. "You sure, Frank?" his father said. And Frankie said that he was, that it was good to get it over with in one shot. "Probably do the same myself," his father said, but as he slowly backed the Plymouth out of the driveway, both Frankie and his father privately doubted it was the truth.
When Frankie and his father entered the theater to find it already dimmed, the father felt an immense relief to finally have helped his son escape something. The relief seemed to broaden his shoulders once again, for they had rapidly sunken inward from carrying this grave, new seriousness around with him. The guilt so heavy that somehow he should have protected his son better, gone to Canada, something, as his wife begged that one night with the snot running down her mouth. When Frankie's father bellowed, "No son of mine's a shirker!" she wiped that long line of snot straight across her sleeve and turned her body away from her husband for several days, if not forever. So that now, it seemed to him that particular fight with his wife and sitting here with Frankie in the theater were bookends of an entire movement that had stripped him of something. Exactly what, he wasn't sure, but here he was now, not knowing at all where to look, or what on earth to do with his hands. It was as if layers had been permanently peeled from his skin, making him horribly raw and pinkish.
There in the dark of the theater, it took Frankie's father by complete surprise to feel a man's hand on his shoulder. Then, to see the man's other hand stretch behind his seat to Frankie. This man squeezed their shoulders hard and rasped a vapor of warm brandy into their necks. "Great to see ya home, Frankie. Great to see ya home." Frankie and his father turned to see Patrick McGregor, a man the father had grown up with, although from a considerable distance. What was it, the father thought, a year or two ahead of him in school? Or was it three? While he watched Patrick McGregor find his aisle in the dark, Frankie's father thought how this man, this Patrick McGregor, who was one, two, or possibly three years older then he in school, had touched his son more fatherly then he himself had since Frankie had come home. The father realized he'd been copying his wife, following her lead, for she seemed to always know best, the way she thought on things for so long, pondered, looked at all the angles like a shaman. Suddenly he was furious at himself for not following his instincts, for not hugging Frankie until the two couldn't breathe. And so, as the curtain opened in a series of smooth swishes, he reached behind Frankie and gave his neck a shake back and forth, a gesture which used to make Frankie's head wobble side to side when he was boyish. But now Frankie's neck was strong and prime, and the gesture wobbled the father more.
When Frankie and his father returned home, they crept past the sleeping bundle under the blanket shawl on the couch and each went to his own room and closed the door. Frankie, sitting on the side of his bed, noticed his one kneecap looked significantly smaller from this angle with nothing hanging beneath it. The father, in his own room, felt sure that if he had the means for fire at this moment, he would light that blanket shawl so she could not wrap herself in it all day. And how pleasurable it would be to watch the yarn pieces writhe like a pit of snakes as they burned.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Carrie Driscoll lives near downtown Naperville with her husband and three children, ages 7, 5, and 4. She is currently working on short stories and her second novel. As the winner of Glancer Magazine’s 2010 Short Story Contest she will receive a $100 gift card to Anderson’s Bookshop in downtown Naperville. Her story will also be published online, along with the top three stories that were submitted.

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SECOND PRIZE - HAVE YOU EVER BEEN BLOBBED?

Last week I took 22 Girl Scouts to summer camp.  Addie, the camp director gave me a selection of activities to choose for the girls.  We went hiking, boating and stargazing.  They made bead necklaces, had scavenger hunts, looked for animal tracks and built campfires.  Then Addie mentioned, “blobbing”.  After her description I said, “Sounds super fun, let’s do it!  And then I saw the blob . . . AACCKKK!

Picture a seventy feet long, six feet high, seven-foot wide inflatable jumpy type thing in the lake anchored to the high dive.  One person jumps off the high dive landing on the blob.  Once you land, you scurry to the far end of the blob.  Yes, you are scurrying on all fours in your bathing suit! 

Then you sit on the end waiting for the next person to jump.  When they hit the blob it catapults you up into the air then down into the lake.  Great fun right?    Completely lacking all foresight, I talked up this activity all day to the girls.

I told them how I couldn’t wait to blob, couldn’t wait to be blobbed, to have that much fun etc.  Oh man, was this a mistake!  One of my scouts asked if she could please, please be blobbed by me?  “Please Mrs. Schmidt, it will be way fun cause you are big! I will go super high!”  She quickly changed her description to “tall” when she caught the look on my face.  God love 10 year olds! 

I enjoy being their leader and try my best to make things fun for them.  I do however think the whole blobbing thing might be going above and beyond my normal call of duty.  As we gathered near the blob site, I thought back to my own Girl Scout days. 

My leader was sweet, patient and always smiling. I remembered sorting cookies in her dining room, going to sleep away camp in the winter, signing songs. Mrs. Doody was a gracious lady who so generously gave of her time to be with us.  I could not however picture Mrs. Doody leaping off the high dive to shoot me into the lake! 

These were just a sampling of the thoughts rushing through my head as I stood on that pier.  Others included hospital beds, cervical collars and ibuprofen!  Seriously, should a 42-year-old Mom of three really jump onto this thing? 

Our counselor told me that adults must be blobbed and blob other adults.  The girls could not be my blobbing buddies.  Now I had to convince one of my Mom chaperones to jump with me.  I knew I could count on my friend Amy, (incidentally a former leader who also wanted to appear cool to our girls).  We got in line. 

Waiting for 22 girls to take their turns took awhile.  Time spent guessing how fun it would be while pondering how terrifying it would be as well!  They were all very excited and then I told them I was having some doubts.  I am not exactly great at aqua sports, I am not oh so thrilled with heights and boy was the lake water murky.  As I was I imagining all the gross bacteria and fungi breeding in that cloudy dark green water, the chanting started, “Mrs. Schmidt!  Mrs. Schmidt!”  Oh boy there was no turning back now.  Amy went first; she climbed the ladder and leapt making it look easy and fun.  She scurried to the other end like an ant of fire.  Hilarious!  I made my ascent.  It was a dozen or so steps feeling like forever.  How beautiful it all looked up there, the lake, birds flying by, a bright sun beginning to set.  It was breathtaking until I glanced down.  I was high up there and it was a long way down to that insanely large bouncy thing. 

What happens if I miss it? What if I fell off? Would the girls shame me into climbing it again?  Would I still look like a cool leader if I scurried back down immediately the way I came?  And yet that darn chanting continued, “Mrs. Schmidt!  Mrs. Schmidt!” 

 I knew I had to do it so off I went.  It was fun and I got a cool bounce out of it and shockingly remained on.  Then came the scurrying, as fast as my arms and legs could take me I bolted to the end.  I tried my best not to think of how 22 girls were watching my backside (in a swimsuit) scramble to await my blobbing turn. 

I knew that a grown up had to launch me and I had just launched Amy.  I figured I had ample time to prepare myself for my own launching.  WRONG!  Those darn girls and lifeguard plotted against me.  Instead, they decided to let the next girl launch me.  

Before I knew what was happening I was flung threw the air with surprising force and altitude.  Oh gross I thought no warning time, no ear plugging, no nose holding, and no closing of my eyes! 

Witnesses tell me that I was screaming like a crazy person when I hit the water.  I came up to the surface to screams, laughter, hollering and clapping.  The girls were smiling and high fiving each other, looking really happy.  I must admit it was great fun (mixed with a tad bit of terror)! 

The best part came later when we were having circle time.  Each girl was asked to share which part of the day was the most fun.  Many said it was the blobbing with Mrs. Schmidt & Mrs. Crowley.  Somehow it was well worth it.  Perhaps I had a part in creating a happy childhood memory.  Maybe someday when they reflected on their own experiences they would remember the fun they had as Girl Scouts.  It is a gift to be a part of their lives; one I will try to cherish always. - Lynda J. Schmidt of Glen Ellyn

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THIRD PRIZE - TRASH: ON COFFEE GROUNDS AND NEWSSPAPERS

The plastic lid slips off easily and I heave the red-laced bag into the can, holding my breath against the putrid odor of rotten chicken bones and moldy peaches. A few coffee grounds escape the bag in transit, adding to the landscape of the garage floor, already littered with stuck-on macaroni-and-cheese and crushed Sponge Bob Square Pants cereal. The garage door grumbles when I push the button, obviously irritated that I would require anything of it so early in the morning. I plod down the driveway in stocking feet and my breakfast pajamas—a “my husband is out of town” cotton shorts and t-shirt number covered with little blue coffee mugs and pink donuts—pulling the smelly can. I hurry, hoping to miss the early-to-work neighbors, who also happen to be the cheerful slow-down-to-wave at the pajama-clad woman taking out her trash type. The recycling truck rumbles at the end of the street, creeping its way toward my house. Dashing back to the garage, I grab the blue box of aluminum and plastic, and in my haste to beat the truck, lose a milk jug and a noisy Diet Coke can halfway down the driveway.
Trash, in my opinion, falls under the 80-20 rule. Get 80% of it each week, and don’t sweat the other 20%. Over the long haul, this system works out okay. At least I think it works out okay. My husband, on the other hand, doesn’t share my opinion. When he takes the trash out, he takes all the trash out—the papers from the office shredded and bagged for recycling, the newspapers neatly bundled together, the empty Diet Coke cans rinsed and waiting properly in their blue box, and every last scrap of garbage cleared away from every room in the house. We’ve got five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a family room, a living room, a kitchen, and heck, even a dining room, which churns out garbage on an alarmingly consistent basis. Who’s got time to deal with all that trash? And, more importantly, who would want to?
Me, I just grab the kitchen trash and last weeks stack of newspapers and call it good. The bathroom trash makes its way into the plastic bin eventually, when it’s full of slimy, used dental floss, snot-filled Kleenex, and squeezed out to the last drop tubes of toothpaste. Why empty it prematurely? In my opinion, you can’t compare the hazard of used dental floss hanging around an extra week with the aforementioned rotten chicken bones.
But my husband gets uptight about trash. Granted, when we lived in California, it was serious business. Everyone got three cans—one for paper, one for aluminum, and one for plastic—along with one smallish gray can for true, indefinable garbage. Minimizing ones trash became a hobby of sorts for many of our neighbors. Fortunately, we were apartment dwellers and could just throw our trash into a large, vomity-smelling dumpster, racing our next-door neighbors each week to cram it all in there before it filled up. It irritated our landlady when it overflowed, something we didn’t want to make a habit of since our rent was well below the going market rate, and an irritated landlady tends to raise rent more frequently than an unirritated landlady. But it did make you stop and consider—is this permanently stained sock really trash? —before you threw it away.
I liken our move to the Midwest to hitting the trash lottery—so much trash! All the garbage you’ve got each and every week! Just drag it to the curb and we’ll take it! It’s miraculous. At first, we scarcely believed it could be true, but each week the scene on our quiet cud-de-sac testified to this reality—old toilets, broken chairs, and kitchen cabinets lined up on the curb regularly. Peeking through the curtains, my husband and I watched with anticipation. Will the garbage man really pick up that decrepit old rocker? Unbelievable! There it goes into the truck!
Given the spirit of garbage liberation our neighborhood exhibits, my next-door neighbor presents somewhat of a quandary. Each week, he carries exactly two bins of assorted recycling materials, one paper bag of newspapers, and one carefully tied trash bag to his curb. That’s it. There are four people living in that house—two of them teenagers—and that’s all the trash they can come up with? Now, I would understand if this was an every-once-in-awhile occurrence. After all, maybe he subscribes to my 80-20 theory. But it happens every week. He can’t be burning trash in his backyard, since our city compensates for its loose trash guidelines with a million other rules—including one prohibiting fires in ones backyard. Besides, we would smell it burning. No, this no trash thing is an honest-to-God mystery.
Each week I work up my courage to ask about it, this absence of trash, but the words just don’t come. They’re nice enough people, but how do you bring the subject up?
“Gee, you sure don’t produce much garbage over there,” sounds so critical, as if garbage production is a key value of neighborliness. Besides, it would reveal the fact that I’ve been interested their trash, which I have, of course, but it seems so crass to call attention to this fact. As if I don’t have enough to do scraping old macaroni-and-cheese off the garage floor. And have you ever tried sweeping wet coffee grounds? It makes a terrible mess. No, I’ve got enough to do dealing with my own trash; I can’t worry about the neighbor’.

-Robyn Whitlock of Naperville