Novel...thus far

Stepping away from the gate that separated them, she shied away from the hurt in his eyes, his long, messy hair whipping to and fro in the fierce wind. His hand still lay open, from where she had just withdrawn hers. He looked at his hand, which seemed frightfully void and empty, deprived of the warm, loving fingers which had encased it for so long. Alone. He feared it so. He imagined alone as being a lonely log cabin placed in the desolate frontier plains of the settlers who were out West. Reports of death and mutilation by Indians slowly made their way East, to the place of "culture", and "dignity," far from the savagery and killings of the Wild West. The West. It was a place that he had often imagined throughout his twenty-three years of life. A place, they said, where coyotes howled their mournful songs, and brown Indians with painted faces sharpened their tools to fight the White Man. A place where jack rabbits, prairie chickens, wild berries, and flat, rich land were abundant. Growing up in the hills of eastern Tennessee, he had been bombarded with stories of Davy Crockett, of the Alamo, of Sam Houston and other great legends of his time. He longed for some sort of adventure in his life, but she… She had been a classy and well-sought after girl. When he won her heart, finally, he felt as if he had acquired a great prize. Lots of beaux she had, and she finally chose him out of the many of admirers who brought her wild flowers, sweet words, and flattery which made her already oversized ego swell even larger with her added conceit. Seventeen years old, and as beautiful as the clear day itself, but she lacked the intellect and common sense that he needed in a wife, a companion who he could discuss matters with. However, at the time, he felt like he could change that, perhaps to teach her to not be so silly and vain, and to grow a deeper admiration for things pertaining to intellectual matters, such as books, languages, scientific matters, and mathematics. Later, he decided that regardless of her flightiness, he could love her just the same, which he realized later in his life had only been a desperate attempt to cling onto some remainder of his youthful folly, for he had worshiped her since he was a young boy. She possessed all of the qualities that Southern men adored, and his father assured him that she would be a fine catch, and a good addition to their proud, rich family which had a name older than the country itself. Her mother, Susanna, had been a reigning belle of the county, and had passed all of her endeared attributes to her daughter, Isabelle. Susanna's soulful brown eyes, gently swaying hips, and soft, golden-brown hair to her waist had often captured the imagination of the young men of her time, and many of their paints, as well. Many a day, Susanna had stood, posed like a Madonna, smiling with her long hair, waving down to her waist, her eyes filled with the carelessness of her youth, while the men painted her, delighted to have an excuse to spend hours with their goddess, devouring her beauty. Susanna had passed all of these attributes to Isabelle, and Isabelle had graciously inherited some of her father's mother's attributes, which included a beautiful complexion, and thick, black eyelashes which she batted flirtatiously on many occasions. However, looks and a fine, old family name were all that she had in her favor. As Isabelle was growing up, she heard her father tell stories of the Old South, of the grace, dignity, and "culture" of the people. Twenty years later, in the midst of the Confederate decorum in the house, she had grown up indifferent to the Cause, indifferent to the looks of disgust as they watched her flirt with the rich, Northern Carpetbaggers. In fact, the only liberty she took with her place of birth is the way she talked. She found that the rich, Northern men who came to collect taxes from the Southerners really enjoyed the "charming Southern accent" with which she talked, and sometimes they brought her gifts for how ladylike and sweet she was, they said. In fact, her only real joy was to dream of wealth, mansions, and…mirrors. She was vain, so vain that if she walked into a store and did not turn the heads of at least four men, she would flee home, and hide in her room for hours, crying. She had a "four-man" rule, as she called it, because the first man to look would be the store manager, peeking from behind his newspaper to see who it was coming inside his store, ringing the little bell on the door. He was not important to her anyways. The second to look would be the salesman, looking at her attire to try to spot new trends to capitalize upon in the store. He didn't matter to her either. However, sometimes there would be a nice young man who would be sitting in the Café, sipping an orange juice and discussing politics or the weather, and he would pass her an admiring smile, and oftentimes there would be another young man, perhaps a college-aged man who would stand up to greet her, and offer to buy her a lemonade if she would be so kind to join them for a chat. She always agreed; in fact, that was the reason she came to the store. She rarely bought anything, but she did indeed look over the men, and imagine which of them were secretly harboring intense, deep love for her. In her mind, all of them were, even though they were beaux of other girls she knew: her competition. Isabelle was the vainest creature who ever graced the face of the South. There had been many vain Southern belles who had preceded her in time, but Isabelle surpassed them all in vanity. The reflection in the mirror was the only companion she had besides her parents and her servants: she had no girl friends her own age. When she was thirteen years old, she and her pretty childhood friend Alayne McCormick were strolling arm-in-arm at the VanBuren county fair. The sunshine was falling on the autumn leaves, and the cool, crisp air made the two girls' cheeks rosy, and set sparkles in their eyes. Happily, they tripped along, in their brand-new shoes that their fathers bought for the winter, and their eye fell on a group of boys that they knew from their school. The boys saw them approaching, Alayne with her white-blonde hair and blue eyes, and Isabelle with her golden-brown hair and brown eyes, and Isabelle's young world changed at that moment. The boys called, "Alayne, Alayne, please come over here and sit with us." Another boy said, "Can I get you some lemonade?" Joe, 15, said, "Would you like some pie?" Alayne said, "Lemonade would be lovely. What kind of pie?" On and on they chatted, completely oblivious to the fact that Isabelle was standing right there, her cheeks reddening with humiliation at being forgotten, her right foot grinding into the stones beneath her feet. She had not gotten her way, for the first time in her life. Someone had been chosen over her, and it was an offense that she would not live to overcome. Down went her basket, her things flying out of it, as well as her memory verse of the week. She did not turn back. She ran back to the house, never stopping for breath, never stopping to wipe the tears off of her face. She arrived back at her white, stately house, red faced, teary-eyed, and breathless. Poppa was sitting in his rocker on the porch, reading the daily newspaper and smoking his sweet-smelling pipe when Isabelle arrived. All Isabelle saw when she arrived home was a large newspaper and two legs sticking out from beneath it. She ran past, but became entangled in Poppa's left arm. "Now what's this all about?" Isabelle stood there, not sure what to do. Poppa repeated the question. Isabelle nervously shifted her feet. Should she tell Poppa that the boys who would soon be her beaux thought that Alayne was prettier than she? "Well-" she started, then stopped. "Yes?" he grunted. She thought of play-acting, like they did in plays. Then she had a brilliant idea. Maybe if she made Poppa feel sorry for her, he would buy her something new. It had to work. "Well," she said, mustering up a batch of false, yet convincing tears, "all of the boys at the fair think Alayne's prettier than me! I won't be able to get any beaux, to get married, to have children, to-" "Now hold on there," Poppa interjected, wearied at the discourse. "What's this business got to do with marriage? They think she's purtier'n'you? Well, now, Alayne's a mighty pretty girl. What's so bad if a couple of young bucks think she's pretty?" Isabelle thought, and real tears began flowing now. She grew disheartened, and was feeling very sorry for herself by this point. Poppa saw her face, and made a decision. He had just sold a cotton crop that was one of the largest that they had had since before the War. Surely he could afford to buy his little girl some pretty dresses so she'd shine brighter than anything that Alayne could muster. Poppa held out his arm to Isabelle, drawing her close to him. He took a long drag on his pipe, emitting a sweet smell that made Isabelle's stomach turn in disgust. "Well, sweetie, tell you what. I've got a little bit of money. I'll send Sadie out with you tomorrow, and she'll pick out some patterns and fabric and make you a few new dresses. Seems that fashion's always changin' these days. The hoops get bigger, and then they get smaller… Lord have mercy on any man who tries to understand these women's' things," and with that, an exuberant Isabelle threw her arms around Poppa, exclaiming "Thank you, thank you!" and Poppa smiled, with his handlebar moustache curling up, tickling Isabelle's face, which repulsed her. Isabelle ran inside the house, up to her room. She looked in the mirror. She looked into her own eyes, dreaming that she was looking into a man's eyes, the eyes of a man who would soon marry her…even though she was only thirteen at the time. ???????????????????????????????????? James Warren Oswald ran down the stairs in his two-story house. It was already 7:30 a.m., and if he didn't eat his breakfast in a hurry, he would be late for his first day of school. His family was new in town. They had just moved from lower Alabama, from the Gulf region. He had grown up with the rain, and the sunshine, and the beach sand between his feet. He had been educated in the finest schools, and only had one year left in grade school. After a year, he would be heading off to the college of his choice. Father wanted James to go to Harvard, or Oxford, or one of the other prestigious schools. Father wanted James to be a lawyer, to rely on his brains rather than on his planting skills. Father had been one of the rich, Southern plantation owners who had found it difficult to recover from the hard hit of the Civil War. However, he did, with the help of his shrewd trading skills and Providence, he claimed. Father had always been a God-fearing man, and always would be, he proclaimed. However, after the War hit, Father suddenly had an urge to rise early Sunday morning, force his sons out of bed, dress his wife in her fine feathers and head to the nearest Baptist church, for a session of preaching, singing, giving, and hallelujahing. Sallie never understood what had taken her husband so long to finally allow her to go to church, and to take her sons to church to learn about the Lord, but she never mentioned it to him, lest he change his mind and her sons grow up to be Godless heathens. James was only a baby at the time, but his older sons had a hard time adapting to the rigorous worship of a seeming invisible Being.

*I'm sorry, but this is all I have for now!*