This eight-chapter novella, inspired by Thomas Wolfe's
Look Homeward Angel,
is set at inception in Asheville, North Carolina, in the second decade of the twentieth century. Posting of the work will be completed within three weeks chapter one posts.
*
"It won't be long now."
The young man had a booming voice—a surprise coming out of his frame, which wasn't small. But he was trim and not more than average height, and was made to look smaller than he was by the soaring spaces around him. The light hit him just so as he hunched over the centering writing table, leaning over the top of the table from the straight-edged chair and just laying his pen down from having been writing intensely. The lighting, focused on the table, picked out the red highlights in the unruly golden curls framing his almost angelic face.
A moan and something close to a menacing rattle was heard from the shadows beyond and to one side of the table, and the lighting expanded to pick out a narrow brass bed with a thin mattress and, one became increasingly aware, the figure of a man, on his back, bare torsoed, but with blankets covering him to half way up his chest. He was dark headed and had an arm thrown across his face. Nothing could be seen of him except his broad, deep chest, covered in curly black hair and slowly, laboriously rising—and holding—before it contracted with a moan twisted into a hollow rattling sound.
"Confession finished—leaving nothing to conjecture—and bound for home at last." It was the young man's voice again—loud. Spoken as in self-contemplation, but delivered as if for the ears of the many. "One last promise to fulfill, and then freedom. Release."
The young man stood, and his hand picked up the pen again. He stared dramatically down at what he'd written. He paused, and then noticeably shuddered. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes and heaved a great sigh. He stood there, transfixed—but was then set in motion by the hoarse, deep-chested rattle from the gaping mouth of the man prone on the bed.
The pen descended to the paper and there was the flourish of a signature before the pen was dropped, with a thud, on the desk top. The hand moved to another object on the table, just now becoming the focus of attention. The young man picked the object up and held it at various angles, allowing the light to reflect off the metal of the pistol's barrel.
"Two bullets. Enough," his voice boomed forth. "And then bound for home."
He gave a mournful look to his side, the side away from the bed, and then he turned, facing the bed, pistol held up and shoulders squared—as the scene went to blackout.
The hollow sound of six hands clapping, two pair slowly and perfunctorily, and one overenthusiastically as if trying to make up for all that weren't there, echoed through the nearly empty hall and was quickly muffled from the stage by the sound of the curtains creaking shut with a loud rustle. Then, more timidly they slowly began to part again.
"Good, good, Tom. No, you can leave them shut I think. That running was fine. The curtains need not be rung up again until tomorrow's opening. Thank you, Tom. You can go home now. We'll close up. Yes, yes, that will be fine."
The voice was deep and cultured, each word enunciated perfectly. It was muffled by the thickness of the curtain, but had grown louder as its owner continued up the apron stairs to the front of the stage. The last "Yes, yes, that will be fine," was clearly heard as the play's director, Stanford Dane, had then reached the wings at the edge of the curtain and was speaking directly to the stage manager, who had drawn the curtain.
Simultaneously, a young woman, her eyes big with awe and admiration came around the edge of the curtain at the other side of the stage and latched her worshipping gaze on the blond actor who still stood, holding the pistol, but who had turned back toward the front of the stage when he'd heard Dane start to speak.
All ears were on Dane when he spoke. He had a silky, rich, tone-perfect voice that commanded attention and fostered an immediate wish to be with him and to do whatever he asked of you.
It was the young woman who had been clapping enthusiastically. She had stopped when the curtain was fully drawn, but she started up again as soon as she stepped into the area of the stage behind the closed curtain. "That was wonderful, Charlie," she gushed. "You are a natural dramatic artist. And to think, grown right here in Asheville. Who would have known if Mr. Dane hadn't found you here? He is a natural, isn't he, Mr. Dane?"
"Yes, yes. A natural, you sweet girl," Dane condescended to her with an indulgent smile. "Ed will take you home, Betsy. The costumes are fine. He should be finished taking care of the lights now. He'll be waiting for you out in the lobby."
"I thought . . . Charlie said he'd take—"
Her eyes were turned to Charlie, almost pleading, her voice almost a whine. Her stance dripping with the signaling that she had endured the entire last-minute, hours-long practice in the drafty theater hall before tomorrow's opening night in anticipation of the walk back to her boarding house that Charlie had promised her—and perhaps more.
