(six)
Crossroads
A Retelling of Ernest Hemingway’s Hills like White Elephants
The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station, her shoes silent against the swollen wood floors. With large brown eyes that were unable to hide her rising frustration, she surveyed the rich fields of grain and the numerous trees that dotted the banks of the
And we could have all of this. Tentatively, she placed a slender hand on her still-flat belly. Her hand could not sense the budding life inside her but her heart did. Beat by beat, her heart with her tiny baby’s. A fierceness overcame her, a fierceness she had never felt before. A passion which, she knew, could move mountains. Or at least try to. She was young—hadn’t he insisted that more times than she could count?—but she knew that this newfound emotion will be stronger than anything else she could ever feel, ever go through. Love. For her child. This flowering being in her womb.
And we could have everything and everyday we make it more impossible.
“What did you say?”
Had she spoken out loud?
She closed her eyes momentarily and when she opened them, she saw the river. When she spoke, she still hadn’t turned to look at him. Not yet. She wouldn’t be able to face those blue alien eyes. “I said we could have everything.”
“We can have everything.”
She resisted the urge to put her face in her hands and cry. She didn’t want his saccharine, patronizing words. “No, we can’t.”
“We can have the whole world.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We can go everywhere.”
She whirled around, her hands tightened at her sides. Her eyes blazed as she took in his relaxed pose. “No, we can’t! It isn’t ours anymore.”
He jolted, as if he really couldn’t expect all that anger emanating from her. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. All he could do was stare at her, take in her sudden dislike of him, her unyielding ferocity, her youthful conviction. “It’s ours,” he finally whispered.
“No, it isn’t,” she hissed. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes but she would not let them fall. “And once they take it away, you never get it back.”
The silence between them was palpable. Both of them knew that her words spoke volumes, that the way she said them had shifted the conversation entirely. They were no longer talking about some vague “this,” some inconsequential “everything.” They were talking about—
She took a step backward and crossed her arms under her breasts.
He traced the rim of his glass with his finger.
“But they haven’t taken it away,” he said.
His eyes met hers. The accusation in her eyes, her unspoken response to his words, hurt him. Pain, grief, remorse, regret assailed him, threatening to surface. He stamped them down and looked calmly at her.
“We’ll wait and see,” she told him. Ominous. Grave. She turned, once again, and raised her eyes towards the river. It was so pure, so unsullied. So free. Suddenly—so unexpectedly that her heart began to beat faster, her breaths became shallower—she longed to be that river, course through the hills, the mountains, life inside her, life around her.
“Come on back to the table,” he said. He stood up and walked purposefully towards her but he stopped when she turned to face him. “You mustn’t feel that way.”
“I don’t feel any way.” How dare he, how dare he, how dare he? “I just know things.”
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do—”
“Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said, her tone as calm as his, as indifferent, as apathetic, as uncaring. “I know. Could we have another beer?”
“All right. But you’ve got to realize—”
“I realize,” the girl said, her voice, her tone, her body, her eyes hardening. Of course she realized. Everything was clear, clearer than it ever was. As crystal clear as the river. She sighed and put her hand to her belly, unconscious that she did so. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”
He heard her sigh. He saw the gesture. He saw her eyes.
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.
She didn’t like what she saw now. No. No fields of grain, no trees. No rolling hills of green. No river. None. She didn’t want what she saw now.
The train arrived, mercifully, when she thought she could talk to him no longer. He left her at the table to carry the bags around the station and when he returned, she smiled at him.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.” She drank what was left of her drink, her eyes sliding a covert, needy, resolute glance towards the hills, the mountains, the river. The fertile side, the side with the river
Labels: General Fiction, Rewriting
posted by Sasha Martinez @ 9:17 AM
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