Hawke: A Modern Retelling of Wuthering Heights Novel Draft and Theoretical Analysis Kristen Csuti Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for Graduation from the Malone University Honors Program Adviser: Diane Chambers, Ph.D. 21 April 2016 Csuti 1 Table of Contents: 1. Hawke: A Modern Retelling of Wuthering Heights........................................................2 2. “Unquiet Sleepers: A Young Novelist’s Thoughts on Adaptation”............................192 Csuti 2 Prologue Catherine Harlowe checked to make sure her husband was asleep before quietly getting dressed. She opened the bathroom door just far enough that she could slip inside, any farther and it would squeak. She applied a fresh coat of make-up and forced herself to breathe evenly. He won’t wake up. He hasn’t yet. At the top of the stairs, she paused. “Mommy?” Her three-year-old daughter was standing in the doorway to her room. “Go back to sleep, sweetie,” Catherine said. “I had a bad dream. The bad faeries chased me.” “The bad faeries won’t get you. You’re too good.” “Can I sleep with you and daddy?” Catherine thought quickly. If she woke Max up, he would realize she was gone. Emily always slept in the car. And she probably wouldn’t remember this anyway. “I’m going out. Do you want to come, sweetheart?” Emily nodded and ran to grab her teddy bear. “Let’s be really, really quiet,” Catherine said, “like good faeries.” Emily nodded gravely and rose up on her tiptoes, and the two made their way out to the car. Emily was asleep before they left the neighborhood. Catherine drove to an overgrown park about forty minutes away. She pulled into a parking spot next to a black sedan—the only other car in the parking lot—cracked the windows and got out. A man walked out from between the trees and beckoned to her, but Csuti 3 she shook her head. He approached her, dark eyebrows creased. “I have Emily,” she said quietly. The man shrugged and pulled her to him. “My Cathy,” he said, and Catherine sighed happily. Emily watched them embrace under a dim streetlight, awakened by the car door shutting. They were bathed in an unearthly glow, swaying slightly in the night breeze. Her mommy looked happy. Csuti 4 Chapter 1 Emily Harlowe awoke to the sound of wind chimes and realized she had fallen asleep with the window open again. The thumbnail-sized crystal hanging from her shelf threw rainbows across her face as the chimes underneath reminded her why she had awakened three times in the middle of the night freezing. She rolled out of bed, taking the comforter with her, and stumbled across the room to shut the window. The plastic groaned in protest. In her half-asleep struggle she stepped on the edge of the blanket and tripped backward, knocking the three-year-old ivy plant off her windowsill. She cursed under her breath and threw the blanket toward the bed before starting to scoop what soil she could back into the ceramic pot. She stood to survey her work. The formerly six-inch circle of loose dirt had become about two feet wide and ground into the carpet. Great. That could be dealt with after a cup of coffee. She absentmindedly wiped her hands on her shorts before throwing on a sweatshirt and heading downstairs. She smelled the coffee before she saw it and was suddenly glad that her father was an early-riser. She filled a mug and started drinking before her father even looked up from the yellowing paperback he was reading. “You’re up early,” he commented. “And up to stay, judging by the gusto with which you are attacking that coffee.” “I was cold,” Emily said. “More than that.” “I left my window open last night accidentally, and I was cold. So I shut it and then knocked my ivy over and had to clean it up.” “Is that why your hands look like a mechanic’s?” Csuti 5 “I needed coffee.” “Obviously. Using a sink is an arduous task, to be sure. How’d I ever train you to do it?” “I’m a quick learner,” Emily said. Her dad smiled. “Go wash your hands.” Emily stayed put. “Or I’ll ask you how school has been going and expect an answer other than ‘fine.’ Said answer will include direct examples of papers written, grades received, and snippets of conversations between you and anyone you’ve ever spoken to.” Emily rolled her eyes but went to wash her hands, taking the coffee with her. “Hey, Em?” her dad called. “Hey, Max?” she called back. “How much would it take for you to spend today cleaning out the back room?” She strolled back into the living room and sat down on the arm of the couch, facing her dad. “Hm. I’m thinking… a pony, a trip to Disneyland, and your soul,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “How about twenty dollars, and the next time you say you’re too sick to go to school, I believe you, no questions asked?” “Deal. I didn’t have plans today anyway.” Max laughed. “You’re an easy sell. I don’t know what all is gathering dust back there, but the fact that it’s there means we don’t need it. Use your best judgment, but don’t be afraid to throw it all away.” Csuti 6 Four hours later, Emily lay on the floor surrounded by half-empty boxes, overflowing garbage bags, and stacks of clothes, papers, and more books than they had bookshelves for. Her dad knocked on the door and she groaned. He peeked his strawberry-blonde head through a crack in the door. “How’re we coming?” She groaned again. “Find anything of interest?” he asked, opening the door wider. She threw a rubber duck with a Sharpie mustache at him. “He’s been keeping me company. I named him Edmund McDuckyson, and he thinks you need better organizational skills.” “Talking to inanimate objects is only a problem when they start talking back,” he said, tossing it back at her. “I brought you iced tea, but I’m not going to throw that.” She sat up. “Thanks.” He turned to leave. “I’m finding a lot of Mom’s stuff,” she said. “What do you want me to do with it?” He grimaced. “That’s why you’re going through this stuff. Throw it away.” He paused, curiosity getting the best of him. “What are you finding?” “Mostly clothes, a few books you would be very not interested in. Jewelry. Accessories.” “If you want any of it, keep it, I guess. Otherwise throw it out. Or put it in a box to sell—I know how much you like garage sales. And you know how much I don’t.” “So you’re not going to help me,” she finished. “So I’m not going to help,” he said. “I don’t care what you do with it. I don’t want it.” He left. Csuti 7 “Well, Edmund,” she said, addressing the duck, “shall we see what else we can find?” The duck stared back at her. The next box she opened was, like most of the others, filled with books and loose papers. She pulled out A Shopper’s Guide to Cheap Designer Shoes and two different copies of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, both showing women much happier than she thought anyone growing something inside of them should look. She placed those in the newly christened garage sale box and continued digging. Underneath sixteen calendars and matching daily planners—Max’s, of course—she found a miniature treasure box, about a foot wide, glue dots showing where plastic jewels had once been, darkly stained and covered with a hand-painted quote she vaguely recognized about being a brain and an athlete and a criminal. It had a small lock, which Emily broke easily. She opened it, not wanting to throw away something important, and surveyed the contents. Inside were haphazardly folded papers, old photos, movie ticket stubs, receipts, and the like. It must have been her mom’s. Emily had a box just like it in her room, though hers was covered in a vintage flower pattern and in much better taste. She pulled out the photos first. Her mom and dad smiled at her from the prom while a kid in an orange suit stared awkwardly at the camera behind them. Her dad had a similar picture hanging in the hallway, but it was of just the two of them. After that was a picture of her mom and dad as children sitting on opposite sides of a table. A dark-haired boy with striking blue eyes was sitting next to her mom, frowning at the camera. A strip from a photo booth showed her mother convincing the same dark-haired boy, now a teenager, to smile. In the last frame, he was smirking, so whatever she said must have Csuti 8 worked. She had seen that face before. When she was little. She had no idea who he was, but his face was ingrained in her mind. She had been looking for that face for years. The rest of the photos were mostly of the same three people, in various states of knowing they were being photographed. There were a few of Uncle Fenton and of Lyssa, the woman who had lived with them for a few years after Emily’s mom died, and a few of her mom’s parents—mostly her grandfather—both of whom had died before she was born.