July Exercise: Cornbread & Milk (m)
Find a Conversation
| Thu, 07-12-2001 - 1:41pm |
July Exercise: Cornbread & Milk (m)
I’m sort of cheating here. I started this story last month with the lyric exercise but never finished rewriting it. The other night, I was working on the story I started for this month and thought about this one. So I edited out the lyric sections and here it is. I’m concerned with two areas: 1) I wanted the opening paragraph to be in the present tense and then with the second paragraph she goes back in the story so it's all in past tense (or suppose to be if I got my tenses right). Does it work? Or do I need more of a transition? 2) I think the ending sucks (do I sound like a broken record? Every story I post I think the endings suck). If anyone has any ideas about the ending, PLEASE let me know. Of course any others areas you notice that need improvement, please point those out too! Thanks so much,
Mac
* * * Cornbread and Milk * * *
Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat, not knowing if I’m hearing Cornbread’s voice in my head or he’s really here with me. My attempts to block his voice always fail and his words flood me like the Chattahoochee River overflowing its banks. Some days, I miss him and don’t want to force my memories of him away, even if they are painful for me.
Seventeen months ago, I’d left a comfortable home in South Georgia to pursue a dream with boy I barely knew. Cornbread (his real name was Eldridge Robison, much too formal for a person of such casual caliber) started going to my high school in the middle of our sophomore year. We quickly became friends; he was a lively, spirited person with handsome looks; “He could charm the silver off an electroplated bracelet,” my mom said the first time she saw him.
We had only been gone three months when I realized how right my mother had been about Cornbread. The “fabulous” apartment he’d set up for us was a farce. The owner agreed to only charge us $100 month if Cornbread would perform in the lounge below the apartment three times a week. Sounded perfect when Cornbread laid out the plans. “I’ll get some other gigs on the nights I’m not working there so we’ll have some money,” he’d told me. But none of the other club owners wanted to hire an underage singer or said they were already booked for the next six months. The poorly furnished dump that the owner called “an apartment” cost us almost all the money we’d brought from home to make it livable. Like a greedy accountant, it sucked us dry so I got a job at the butcher shop around the corner.
Roger Kenny and his wife, Lucinda, had hired me to run to the cash register. “Good with numbers?” Roger asked when I requested an application.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re hired. Grab a smock over there.” He motioned to the pegboard in the back of the shop.
I worked everyday from opening to close and I’d come home with left over New York Strip Steaks that didn’t sell that day. Little by little, I began to feel like the only one contributing. Cornbread expected me to use the money I’d earned to buy everything and his drinking habits started to eat up half of my paycheck each week. Since we couldn’t legally buy alcohol, he paid the owner of the lounge a premium to purchase liquor. Of course, he used my money to pay it, anything but spend the few dollars he’d earn from tips.
I longed to see my family; it had been almost six months. That was the longest time in my whole life without seeing them. As I sat listening to Cornbread sing Otis Redding’s Let Me Come On Home, I wiped away the tears as they rolled down my cheeks. Oh, I prayed, please let me come home. Even though I knew my Dad would yell at me for leaving, my Mom say how much I had worried her and my younger sister would tell me she’d taken possession my bedroom already. But I also knew they wouldn’t turn me away so I rushed down to the payphone and dialed the number.
“Stacey, is that you?” my sister yelled. The music from the lounge spilled out into the hallway, making it difficult for her to hear me.
Then, I heard my Dad’s voice. “Where are you, honey?”
“Daddy, can I come home?”
“Yes, we miss you so much. Where are you?” he asked again.
“I’m in Atlanta.”
“Atlanta. My God, Stacey, I’m coming to get you right now.” He sounded more worried than mad. I could hear my mother wailing in the background.
I told my parents that I was safe and pleaded with them to wait until the next day to come get me. I wanted to let Mr. Kenny know that I was quitting my job. They agreed reluctantly.
I was waiting up for Cornbread when he came to bed a little after three in the morning. As I explained why I wanted to leave, he begged me to stay; when I refused he got angry and left, slamming the door on his way out. I didn’t see or hear from him until the next afternoon.
Sitting on the corner of Peachtree and Capital Streets, I watched as he stumbled across the intersection. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them for a few minutes; he was talking to me and I looked up to see his familiar blood shot eyes. As usual, he reeked of Mad Dog 20/20. It smelled so strong I thought he must have doused himself with it like cologne. “Don’t even try to stop me. I called my parents and they want me to come home.”
“Ple-eee-ase let me tell you-ou something,” he mumbled, swaying back and forth. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you too but I can’t stay.”
Cornbread was drunker than I’d ever seen him. “But baby I-I-I told you-ou—”
“I can’t live like this anymore. I just can’t do it.” I rubbed my belly without even knowing I’d done it. Seeing that he didn’t notice, made me happy. I didn’t want him to know because I was still confused about whether I wanted the baby or not.
I checked my watch. Twenty-two minutes and my parents would be driving up. ���Our dreams just didn’t work out.”
“I’m still go-going for my dream. I-I-I’m the next superstar.” He smiled and began singing as he walked away, not once turning back to look at me.
Before I left the apartment, I’d written out detailed map in case he decided to come visit me. When he showed up at my house six weeks later, I’d regretted doing that. At first, I thought I was dreaming. Looking out, I saw Cornbread standing on the front lawn and tapped on the glass. He came running over to that end of the house.
“Baby, open the window,” he said, unaware of how loud he was talking. He was so drunk and drugged that he hardly looked like himself.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Let me in—”
I opened my bedroom window. “Please be quiet.”
He ignored me. Getting louder with each request he belted out. “I need you. Don’t you want me, baby.”
The light on the front porch was flipped on and Cornbread tried to crouch down in the bushes. He ended up stumbling backward and my dad come running over, armed with a baseball bat.
Moments later, we all sat around the kitchen table. My parents looked up and down the man that I had just told them days before was the father of their future grandchild. Needless to say, they were not impressed and their eyes, pity beaming from them, stared at me.
I sipped a glass of orange juice and Cornbread poured back my mother’s black coffee down as fast as she’d serve it. Then, my Dad excused himself and asked my Mom to join him. Gazing across the oval pine table, I smiled when he started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“The other day this lady called me a tramp and I said, ‘what did you call me?’ She shook her head and kept walking. I heard her mumble tramp again.” He had a broad smile like he’d just told the funniest joke. “People just use the word tramp no more. Of course I did look like a tramp come to think of it.”
I didn’t really know how to respond, so I said, “I’m sure you didn’t look that bad.”
“You know me and my mama came to live her. I was always so ashamed of being country. I liked to have died when I had to wear overalls to school ‘cause that’s all mama could afford.” He looked down at his grungy shirt. “Look at me now. I’d die for a clean pair of overalls.”
“Why don’t you stay here? I could ask my parents if it’s okay.” I pushed myself up from the table. With the thick housecoat, I knew he couldn’t see my bulging belly. “I want you to stay.”
He looked around the room. “No. I don’t think that’d be a good idea.” He stared into my eyes and said he couldn’t, but promised he’d go to Atlanta and straighten things out. He promised me he’d come back for good, once he had.
Months went by and the baby came but he never returned.
After wondering and crying until my eyes ached from puffiness, I convinced my cousin to take me to Atlanta to look for Cornbread. Before noon, I searched all the places we used to hang out but couldn’t find him. I was close to deciding the whole thing had been a bad idea when I remembered the story about the tramp. The alley behind Six and Seven Steak House was known as Tramp Alley so we headed there.
Homeless people were scattered everywhere. I asked a few people if they knew a guy named Cornbread. A gray-haired man with missing front teeth pointed without speaking. I followed the direction of his finger to a pile of cardboard boxes.
The person underneath the pile didn’t move as I pulled off the cardboard that he’d used to cover himself from the rainy weather. A piece of rubber was tied around his upper arm and his veins were riddled with needle marks.
“Cornbread,” I said. Bending to the ground, I cupped his face in my hands. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes blinked but he didn’t say anything.
“Call 911, Rachel,” I shouted to my cousin. She took off towards the restaurant to use their phone.
“Look Cornbread, we have a son.” I reached into my purse and showed him the picture. “I named him Charlie.”
His eyes were still and didn’t blink again.
I held the picture closer to his face. “This is our baby. Can you see him?” I waited for him to do something. Squeeze my hand. Blink his eyes again. But he didn’t or couldn’t is actually the truth. Apparently, I imagined that I’d seen his eyes blink because later on the coroner said that Cornbread had been dead for at least nine hours when I found him.
Cornbread’s mother brought him back home to be buried. I visited his grave on occasion at first and even took Charlie there a time or two. His mother had placed a picture of him on the tombstone. His bright smile looked handsome against his dark skin and showed no signs of the troubled soul that lived within. Looking at it made me miss him even more so I stopped going to visit his grave. But no matter how hard I tried to block out his voice, his words still lingered in my head.

Pages
An EXCELLENT story that expressed (m)
profound unhappiness and sorrow. Stacey and Cornbread sure had some troubles. Great Job Mac. I always enjoy your stories. I seen two minor things, I'm sure you'll find and I think the ending is perfect. How did you come up with this title?
Love the story mac,(m)
you've really defined the two character well. The dialog is realistic and the story moves along well.
I do think the first paragraph is just a little passive. You might look at re-writing it a little, eg: ... not knowing if I hear Cornbread's voice in my head or if he's here with me.
Make next sentence into two. I can't block his voice. His words ... (love this phrase about the Chattahoochee River!)
As for the ending, the only thing I can suggest is to break the last paragraph into two.eg. end first paragraph with-- His mother put his picture on the tombstone. Then make a new paragraph with the last 3 sentences and put them in present tense to bring the reader back to the present?
A lovely, poignant story mac. Keep up the good work.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Glad you liked it. As for the title (m)
I couldn't really think of a good one so I thought "hey, we eat a lot of cornbread with milk down here." So there it is.
Mac
Thanks for the suggestions (m)
I think the idea about bringing the ending back to present tense would work better. I sort of wanted to do that but wasn't sure if it would be confusing. So I'm glad you suggested it.
As for the first paragraph, the opening sentence is the one I used in class when Bill Johnson was there and I thought he liked it. But, of course, I can't find the transcript for that class. LOL But I don't want to be passive so if it needs reworking, I most definitely will.
Thanks for reading it and for your feedback!
Mac
Hiya Mac (m)
When I read your title, I thought I wonder what Mac has cooking!(LOL)
You cooked up a tragic love story, I like the concept, interesting characters,good flowing dialogue.
Now for the ending, ummm? I honestly felt that I was left dangling,sure it had a closure but the events to that closure weren't fleshed out enough in my opinion.
I'm a sucker for happy endings so I would have liked to see them both struggle together, overcome the obstacles and prove to her parents like that one country song says, dad says you're not worth a lick only to have him say those same words when his daughter starts dating.
I also struggle with endings and am thinking of doing the ass backward approach where after the hook, you know the ending so then all you have to do is fill in the mushy middle, which can be so challenging but writing wouldn't be fun if it weren't challenging.
I always enjoy your writing.
maria
The title is fitting...m
He was crummy like cornbread and the baby is the milk she hopes washes away thier sticky problems..?
Can't eat gaggy in the throat cornbread without lots of milk to wash it down.
Good story...as always..Maryann
Hi Maria (m)
I’m glad you enjoyed it, even though it was a tragic story. I knew the ending was problematic and I appreciate your honesty. I know happy endings have more selling potential but I always tend to write sad ones. But I’m going to rewrite the ending using your feedback and Linda’s.
Thanks again for reading my story and your valuable input.
Mac
What a great analogy (m)
I hadn't thought of the baby being the milk so thanks for helping me out. I'm glad you liked it, Maryann.
Mac
Mac, good story (m)
Why not add the song elements back in? (your basic multi-purpose story!). Cornbread was a singer, so when Stacey can hear his voice, he's singing, right? And it could be a song that has special significance for them both.
I thought your transition from present to past at the beginning just fine, and I'd be tempted to put the last paragraph in present too, but you know I love to mess around with tenses.
Touching, sad, ironic. A good one here.
e
Mac,(m)
The first paragraph is good. I just meant that the verb form "I'm hearing" (I am/was hearing) is a more passive form than I hear/heard. Don't change the meaning of the paragraph--just check your verb forms and make passive ones active wherever possible.
Hope that helps.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Pages