Homer, New York
Congratulations, Doris!
Doris’s Bio:
Born in the Canal Zone (which is where the resemblance to Sen. John McCain ends) to a Panamanian-Catholic mother and a Lithuanian American-Jewish father, Doris Wright has lived and traveled throughout the United States and the world: in the last two years she has enjoyed the beauty and diversity of China, Senegal, and Mali (including spending the better part of a day in wind-swept Timbuktu), and is just back from France and Spain.
Besides traveling, Doris and her husband Don, an African historian, enjoy gardening, exercise, and their family and friends. They love to learn and to write, respect the precision and beauty of language, and they are passionate about world equity and peace—as well as the occasional microbrewed beer.
Doris recalls beginning her first story on a manual typewriter at age six, and writing steadily through high school and Spring Hill College, where she majored in English. She was a teacher and a newspaper reporter/feature writer before marrying, and then writing took a back seat while she raised her three sons. In the last few years Doris has taken graduate courses in English and participated in the Algonkian Novel Workshop, the New York State Summer Writers Institute at Skidmore College, and Colgate University’s summer writer’s novel workshop.
In addition to writing short stories and poetry, Doris recently has finished a draft of her first novel, “Cabbagehead.”
As if I Could Forget
Linda sighed. As she drained the pasta she watched her husband through the kitchen window. He had wanted to sweep the driveway but seemed now to be pushing the broom in circles. She set the colander in the sink and leaned over it, struggling, trying once again not to cry. To regain her former, happy self. She was determined to find some way to be happy through all this, but she hadn't succeeded.
She set two places on the coffee table in front of the television for their supper. He seemed less agitated when they didn't have to attempt conversation. They used to watch "Jeopardy!" but it had become too frustrating for him, and too painful for her, when he couldn't answer the simplest questions. Years ago they competed, shouting out the answers. But now…he insisted the show's writers provided incorrect ones, as if there were some sort of conspiracy.
So she started serving the meal earlier and they watched the news instead. He would stare earnestly at the set and shush her if she spoke, but when it ended, he would ask if the news would be on soon.
A few years ago he started having trouble at work, not being able to complete assignments, omitting key items from reports, making inappropriate comments, and then complain that his boss was sabotaging his work. Finally, his boss called her and suggested she arrange a thorough physical. The diagnosis was conclusive. But she had known already.
She felt his knowing would cause him to become depressed, accelerate his decline. To spare him embarrassment, they concocted an early-retirement offer. She was persuasive, reminding him of his dream, when they met, of writing a novel. Now, while she worked, he was home every day, ostensibly to write. But mostly he puttered with this and that, and wandered into the yard…just looking, as if waiting for something.
She didn't know how much longer she could leave him home alone. Their children had seen his decline, the effect of the stress on her, and suggested she have him "placed" somewhere. She couldn't bear the thought. Not yet.
He had been her life, but now he was gone, a strange shell she couldn't reach. He took out his frustrations on her. She, now, was the one plotting against him. He accused her of the strangest things, hiding his glasses or deleting pages of his novel.
She had always enjoyed their love making, but now she couldn't bear it. It was like he was making love to a stranger, and not her, not someone he loved. So she avoided it.
She braced herself and called him to supper. He stood there for a few moments, looking wistfully up the road, then dropped the broom in the driveway and walked slowly towards the house. She held the screen door. He walked in, past her, without saying a word.
"Don't forget to wash your hands, hon," she said.
"As if I could forget," he answered.
***