***Over a year ago, I started a story, narrated by a young girl named Jemma. I dropped the story after only a few measley pages, but Rawlins, the adult stand-in Dad character, has dogged me since. I don't know who he is or how he came to be in charge of Jemma and Jasper. He has seemed both loved and adored by Jemma, but also hated for his harshness. This is just a little back and forth between them....I'm going to try and figure this guy out without thinking about writing or story...let him speak for himself. ***


Dear Jemma,

I’m not sure you’ve got it in you. To tell our story, I mean. I’ve been standing out here in the hot sun, tapping my foot, dressed in my white shirt like a goddamn fool, waiting on you, you know. You think I’m mean, and I’m sure that’s how you’ll tell it, but you know what you are kid? What you’ve always been? Scared, like those little rabbits out there in the field, darting off like the air is dangerous, like the next thing that’s comin is the thing that’ll end them. Your daddy thought you were something so goddamn special, so smart, he said, so observant, so “in tune”, whatever the hell that meant. But I’m sitting out here in the hot sun waiting for your observations, waiting for you to just fucking open that mouth of yours and tell us what you think, something other than your errant fuck you’s. What is it kid? Am I not good enough for you? Are you afraid of what I might do or what you might do back at me?

You could write me the way you always wished me, you know. I could clean up and be nice for your story, put my pretty party face on for you and your readers like I did at the parties and at church and in front of your mom before she got smart and high tailed it outta this fucking place…what did you call it….a yellow knot of land? Fucking poetic Jemma. Why don’t you just put me out of my misery and write it down, get me outta this stupid shirt and out of the dust and get it done.

Joseph T. Rawlins

P.S. Don’t forget to tell them that what happened to Rowdy was just as much your fault as mine.


Rawlins,

Maybe I’ve left you out there in your boots with that white shirt on because I want to watch you squirm. Maybe I want you to watch me as closely as I always watched you, waiting for my cue, instead of the other way around. Maybe those rabbits are scared for a good reason and for all their darting around, at least they’re still alive. I mean, what happened to you, Rawlins, so scared of nothing, so big and mean, what happened to you to make your eyes get so hard, so dead? Maybe that’s what I’m waiting on. The part of the story that I don’t know. My dad, the way I remember him, was good. He was brave and smart and he always had time for me. I always figured you must have been the same way or he wouldn’t have been your friend, wouldn’t have spent those long nights up with you after mom left if there wasn’t something good and alive in you. So what happened Rawlins? I’ll write it when I know you better, because even though I hate the thought of it, you are the story. I’m the kid, the witness, the one who gets out alive because I’ve got a lick of spirit like Dad said. A lick of something fine. Do you remember him saying that? That Jasper had the guts, but I had the heart? Do you remember? Is that why you hate me?

Jemma

P.S. Don’t you think I think about Rowdy every day and know what I did. The heart never forgets mistakes like those, Rawlins. You know that because I see it in your eyes, standing in the dust, waiting for me like a sinner waits for his confessor.


Jemma,

Well, well, well. At least I know you’re still there. Right, kid? Still there. Give me a glass of whiskey in my hand and some shade and I’ll tell you a few things.

Rawlins

Dear Rawlins,

Take a walk back to the porch and sit on the swing. I’ll go in the house and get you some whiskey if that’ll make you talk. But you’d better tell it to me the way your heart remembers it, because I’m just not interested anymore in anything else. God, Rawlins, did you ever think about the fact that little girls and boys and horses know a goddamn thing or two? Like maybe you couldn’t just say and do and be whatever shade of mean you wanted to be without us noticing? Without it mattering?

Jemma

Dear Jemma,

Thanks for the shade. And thanks for the whiskey, but I take a couple of ice cubes just so you know for next time.

Where do you want me to start? Do you want me to dwell on my childhood like you? Talk about my mommy and daddy and all the things they did wrong? Or would you like to hear about your Dad or the war or your Mama. Or do you want me to tell you about how I see you, how I see Jasper, Rowdy, and all of those years there. Do you want me to tell you about what your Daddy said to me when he died? Or dear Jemma, do you want me to say anything at all that might change what you think you know. You’d better ask me direct.

Rawlins