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ARTIFACTS By Lesley Ward Submitted to the Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of American University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing Chair: (XkJAL jJL tu * c - Denise Orenstein Kermit Moyer Dean of the College Date 2007 American University Washington, D.C. 20016 AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UMI Number: 1445572 INFORMATION TO USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. Broken or indistinct print, colored or poor quality illustrations and photographs, print bleed-through, substandard margins, and improper alignment can adversely affect reproduction. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if unauthorized copyright material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. ® UMI UMI Microform 1445572 Copyright 2007 by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights reserved. This microform edition is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code. ProQuest Information and Learning Company 300 North Zeeb Road P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106-1346 Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. ARTIFACTS BY Lesley Ward ABSTRACT Artifacts is an original collection of short stories that examines what occurs when a group of ordinary people are forced to reconcile their past lives with the present. The characters must excavate the past, whether it is motivated by the discovery of an estranged wife’s silk scarf or the hush of a calm lake. The diverse settings range from a Los Angeles film set to a small island in the middle of Lake Erie. These geographical shifts allow the material to be explored through a variety of perspectives. The stories also seek to show how the characters interact with their environs, often letting the influence of the land shape their decisions as they are haunted by longing, heartbreak, and loneliness. ii Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT..........................................................................................................................................ii Stories UNDER THE LEMON TREE.............................................................................................. 1 SADIE.....................................................................................................................................18 RESOLUTE.......................................................................................................................... 36 ARTIFACTS......................................................................................................................... 54 THE UNTITLED CHAD REX PROJECT.......................................................................72 PARTING THE CUYAHOGA...........................................................................................92 DROWN............................................................................................................................... 122 iii Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UNDER THE LEMON TREE I think of my husband on the quiet morning drives to the set of a new movie Em producing. My husband who left me one month ago for another woman. I always take the route that goes through the run down parts of Santa Monica. The wide alleys are vacant, except for dumpsters overflowing with cardboard boxes and trash waiting to bake in the sun. I started driving the more desolate roads after the old woman, who sells flowers and roadside souvenirs on the comer of 23rd and Pico, saw me stopped at a green light, buried in my own grief. She had handed me a wilted carnation. I pass the Daisy Cafe with its uneven wooden tables that make me spill coffee all over my film scripts. I see the yellow flowers on the sign and think of yarrows. A tall patch had stood between us in the park where we met. Pollen would cascade onto my brown leather sandals each time he would articulate his reasons of why I should have dinner with him. I normally didn’t cave in so easily to such attractive men in the business, knowing that I was either a pursuit out of boredom or fleeting interest. Quick and easy attachments were part of the profession that had us shooting in L.A. one week, Vancouver the next, a quick move to a soundstage, and then wrap, never to see most of the other crew again. We went back to our lives looking for the next job, spending our days on the phone and taking lunches with associates. 1 Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 How I wanted to rub the flowers all over his face and watch his skin light up into a mustard glow. I would’ve liked to have made a clown out of a man like him. He was too self-assured with that smile and expensive camera slung diagonally across his chest. He was too perfect, and he only wanted me in small budding increments. I felt a blush of shame spread over my face when I said, yes; I will eat with you, knowing I would lose myself. We had married quickly and then I was a story to him. He used to speak of me in the third person while working in his dark room off of our kitchen. “The wife is home from work and she probably has mangoes in her straw bag.” Then he was gone after three years of marriage. I couldn’t say exactly where he is. Sometimes I think I may have accidentally killed him, only I don’t know where I put the body. It’s 5:00 in the morning and my eyes are burning like they do on days with early call times. Having dressed in the dimness of my bedroom, I’m not sure what clothes I’ve put on, but I can tell I’m wearing something that once belonged to my husband. I can still smell the bitter orange peels he left in his pocket the night before he left me. I’d found them while sorting the laundry. Still thinking he would return, I turned his olive work pants right-side-out and sniffed the collars of his button-down shirts before putting them in the wash. His scent has not faded yet but is closing in on its last days like the air between summer and fall. The orange peels are now drying under my bed on a crystal plate his sister gave us. Maybe I’m wearing his sock because I can feel the excess fabric crowding my toes at the top of my shoe. He got that orange off a tree in our back yard as the sun was starting to go Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 3 down. I watched him reach his long arm through the crisscross of branches and gently twist it off, just like he did when he opened ajar of olives. Like it was nothing at all. I bet he did it in the dark, thinking I couldn’t see him. They weren’t ripe yet. He didn’t know how I watched everything he did to the point that I was him, speaking in the same intonation, ordering water with no ice, brushing my teeth vigorously at first, then gently. Sometimes I did it in reverse just to see if he would notice. Notice how much I loved him. After I had yelled at him for picking the unripe orange, he sat down on the stone walkway that runs in between the blue hydrangeas and peeled that small, wrinkly orange, slipping the rind into his pockets. I had walked out into the cool evening, toes just painted, and stepped on a slug, drunk from the beer trap I laid the night before to stop them from eating my tomatoes. The tomatoes I was going to feed him sprinkled with sea salt. I felt a small pang of delight as I bore my foot down harder into the slug. I cast a long shadow over my husband’s hunched body, engulfing every bit of the light. He turned around and looked up at me. This was a time when he wanted me in a forgotten sort of way, barelegged, my hair down, like I just woke up. He wanted me most when I was caught off guard. I finally pull into the parking lot of the film’s base camp still gnawing on the reasons of why he left. I will need aspirin to soothe the tension in the crease of my brow by the time the cameras go up. My mouth is dry, my eyes are red, and I feel as if I’ve just emerged from the ocean in Huntington Beach where we used to swim on our days off. Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 4 My assistant, Amy, hands me a bitter cup of coffee with milk as soon as I round the comer of the prop truck. I see our shady looking weaponographer with his gun case, displaying the firearms like he’s a dealer. “Lock it up,” I yell. I drink the coffee quickly knowing it will bum the roof of my mouth. I will push on the sore all day as I order people around on set, so I can remember who I am, that I have a job, and a life not dependent upon him. She is carrying a clipboard and has two cell phones fastened to her belt. Amy looks calm as always, shiny hair combed into a low ponytail, her smart tortoiseshell glasses flipped up on top of her head. I wonder if she even needs them. “Morning.” “Let’s hear it,” I say, hoping that nothing too problematic will happen before the first shot. On tired days my husband used to sneak into the cook’s honey wagon and pour shots of expresso for me. He said he knew how strong to make them if he could see the crow’s feet around my eyes. I run my tongue over the sore ridges of the roof of my mouth.

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