#momma rawlins

[thatwasntlikeridingabikeuasshole]

kitchen

a bonus drabble for the @thehauntedair Starless Sea drabble event <33333

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Momma Rawlins points a wooden spoon accusatorily at Zachary and Dorian as she sings the word lovebirds and they laugh. The speaker crackles, but her voice is rich. 

Their feet creak on linoleum floors. They are dancing barefoot, swooping out of the way as she crosses from the counter to the stove. Dorian dips Zachary just in time to avoid a cutting board of chopped vegetables. 

Dorian is singing along, but he doesn’t know the words. He’s picked up the melody and is using it to tell Love that the food smells delicious and also, he loves Zachary very much. 

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🐝 🗝🗡

[thevagabondvantage]

8.29.2018

The bus has always made me so nauseous. When I was a little girl, Momma and Daddy would take me into town so we could go to the grocery store. Our house was out on the corner of Morehead Drive and West Section Street, so the only way to get anywhere was to take the early morning bus to the square. Momma would make sure I brought my white sweater so I wouldn’t get too cold in my seat. The seats… They used to be made of this dark blue scratchy material; the very thought makes my nose crinkle and my eyes water. 

I could always tell how much I’d grown since the last trip by how close my feet were to the ground. The first time I rode the bus, my black-buckle shoes barely came off the front of the seat. I couldn’t wait to be able to grow just a little more so I could swing my legs off the front of the seat! Some years later, ‘bout the time I started high school, I suppose, we got on the bus and my feet touched all the way down. Some ladies talk and say they knew they were a woman the day they got married or the day they saw their brand new baby’s tiny fingers... Not me. My feet resting on that dusty floor told me I had become a woman. I sat a little taller in my bus seat from then on; it was a good day.

“Is this seat taken?” I look up to find a rather plump woman wearing gloves pointing at the seat next to me. I scooch over to make room for her. As she gets comfortable, I notice she smells like lavender and cats; looks like her name should be something like Betsy or Ruth.

The nausea hits. Maybe it’s motion sickness or maybe I’m allergic to the musty old men scattered around the rows and rows of seats. I look out the window for some relief. Mountains are in the distance - my mountains. I don’t own them or anything, but they’ve always been there for me. My entire life has been spent inside of these mountains - a beautiful, natural fence in a way...

“Next stop, Asheville, 390 miles” the driver exclaims. I let myself ease into my seat some more. Normally, I’d have gotten off at the square about three stops ago; not today.

“Peppermint?” Betsy/Ruth asks. I glance into her hand where she has four individually wrapped mints. Momma used to bring a peppermint in her purse for when I started to feel sick. She and Daddy have been gone for a few years now, and I haven’t fancied the smell or flavor since then.

“No, but thanks, ma’am,” I reply. The nausea hits again. Maybe I should have taken the mint. Betsy/Ruth puts the mints away and pulls off her gloves. She looks out the window.

“Mighty beautiful mountains, aren’t they?” It’s as if she’d read my mind.

“I’ll say.”

“They say when the peaks of the mountains start to turn to a dark brown like that, it’s time for something new.” Betsy/Ruth was right. “How old are you, sweet? You don’t look to be a day older than sixteen!”

“Oh,” I chuckle. “I’ve been nineteen for about ten days now.”

“Nineteen,” she sighs. “Well, enjoy it while you can. You get to be my age and can’t remember what nineteen ever felt like.” I’d hoped she was right. I didn’t want to feel nineteen ever again. Young and lost, not knowing where you just were or where you’re about to go. Everyone treating you like you’re a baby, but still expecting you to have it together - it’s too much for one person! “I’m being awfully rude,” she continues. “I’m Margaret, Margaret Fowler.”

“Anne Rawlins,” I respond.

“Pleasure, truly.” Her smile is genuine and welcoming. “Tell me, Anne, what’s got you headed to Asheville on this chilly Tuesday morning?”

“Well,” I clear my throat. “I just finished taking writing classes at Duke. Professor Ripley told me in my last quarter that all the best writers get their start at the Asheville Gazette, so I’m headed there to write something!” When Daddy died, he took my hand and gave me permission to be anything I wanted to be. I was already planning on it, but he didn’t need to know that then; would have spoiled the moment.

“A writer! Well, isn’t that something!” That’s usually the reaction I get from people. Some people don’t think a woman should own a typewriter. Actually, some don’t even think a woman should wear a watch, but I ain’t too concerned about those kinds of folks. They don’t usually read anyway…

“What’s bringing you to Asheville, Miss Margaret?”

“Please, call me Margie. Miss Margaret was my great-great grandmother’s name. I may be old, but I’m not that old!” She took a deep breathe through her nose. “Asheville is home! I was just in Smithville visiting my sister. Her husband died last year and she hasn’t taken too kindly to widowhood. How could she, though? She did practically everything for the man! A life once filled with cooking, cleaning, hosting, and entertaining reduced to a life filled with napping, bathing, and reading. It’s tragic if you ask me.” What about napping, bathing, and reading sounded so unappealing to her? I sort of wish her sister and I could trade places for a day.

“Asheville is mighty long way to go, my dear! What will your family do without you?” She was getting a little too nosy for my liking.

“Well, Mama’s been gone for four years now, and Daddy gone for maybe six? I don’t have anyone to miss having me around.”

“A girl without a family - what a tragic cause!” I could tell this wasn’t going anywhere. “If I were you, I’d go and try to snatch up a good man in Asheville before you turn twenty!”

“Oh, I’ll be alright. I don’t need a man right now. I’m perfectly content as just me, my typewriter, and my wristwatch!” She uttered some disapproving groan in response.

“Darling, can I give you some advice?” She was going to regardless of what I said. To make things easier on both of us, I nodded. “I want you to really hear what I’m saying. No woman thinks they need a man, and they do just fine until they need to buy a house, or a car, or want to express an opinion or two. Then they realize just how hard the real world is without a man. The world is run by men, and they’ve yet to learn to listen to anyone other than men! No woman needs a man, but the man tells the woman she does, so let that run through your naive, feminist mind. A woman with a typewriter and a wristwatch is nothing without a Tom, Dick, or Harry.”

I turned back toward my window. I felt hot, frustrated tears begin to gather at the edge of my eyes. I was going to hold it together - I had to prove this woman wrong. Who was she to tell me how my life will turn out - with or without a husband?! I’ll show her… I’ll show them all-

“Do you want a Peppermint?” Margie offers again.

“I want to go home.” I decline.

“And I want to go to the moon,” she spits back as she returns the mints to her purse. “It ain’t happening, sweetheart. Time to accept that.” She turns away, busying herself with knitting.

I look in the distance for some familiar comfort, but the mountains - my mountains - are further away than ever before. I realize that the bus isn’t any better with two feet on the floor, and womanhood is only sweet with the independence I thought I’d earned. A hot, determined tear rolls down my cheek; I’m not willing to be wrong.