THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTON

xxii. RAW

PINE TREES, THE UPLIFTED SPIRITS AND GLOVED HANDS CARRYING PILED PRESENTS. Christmastime was heavy on everyone's minds. As Miss Charlotte Porter got older, that joyous day and cheerful month was replaced by the feeling that this month was no different than the rest.

Perhaps a lack of faith in a virgin giving birth whose father ruled the universe was the culprit. Maybe it was her trying to forget old Christmas memories. And, of course, a mother who sold herself for booze and the promises that broke the moment they left Alice's lips. 

Nonetheless, Charlotte went on pretending as though Christmas meant something to her. She hung a homemade wreath on the door whose black color still stuck out like a cow among pigs. Alice hadn't complained, she just promised she was working when her hair remained disheveled while sucking on a breathmint. 

"Don't forget about the art show." Charlotte reminded her graying mother over a late night dinner

"How can I with that black door reminded me every time I walk up?" Alice replied in a smart tone, finally bringing up the damned door. "Homeowners' association's gonna ride me like I'm a rodeo cow if that shit ain't fixed soon." Alice told the girl, lighting a cigarette. She blew out the smoke and gave her daughter a once over. "What's the black door for anyhow? What statement is this s'posed to make?"

"It's- uh it's nothing. Just wanted to do something different." She lied, looking back down at her half eaten meal

"Oh yeah?" The young artist's mother asked, squinting her wrinkled, emotionless eyes. "Ain't nobody paint their door black for no reason. You're not one of those fuckin Rockin' Stones." 

Charlotte bit her lip and kept her head down, filled with shame as she corrected her mother's lack of knowledge regarding pop culture. "I'll change it."

"The hell you will." Alice's hands shook as she reached for another light. "You've changed, girly."

"Everyone changed." Charlotte shrugged, "You changed, I changed, I'm sure Dad changed too."

"You really gotta bring your daddy into this?" 

"I've just been thinking lately... y'know, about what happened."

Alice angrily put her cigarette out, her agitation growing as yet another gray air developed. "Charlotte Diana Porter, I've already told you. I don't know what you expect me to say about that day."

"I wasn't gonna ask you to repeat the story. It's been eight years, don't you think it's ti-"

"No. We've been over this. I've not stepped foot in that office to make that claim for three years and I intend on never doing so."

"Mom, please just-"

"I'm tired of this damn conversation, Charlotte Diana. I'm a good wife, I've been faithful. Good wives are faithful and loyal no matter what. They're called vows for a reason." 

Alice sighed and got up, angrily lighting another cigarette. Her strained southern voice probably couldn't take much more nicotine or tar lining her larynx. "You've changed. What happened to my good, mellow girl? You don't come home immediately after school so you can paint. You eat now. But you're still like a tornado."

"We both changed." Charlotte barked. Both were trying to deflect the anger, who could push the first one of the edge. "You have to move on, Mom." She told her, in the gentlest angry voice she could muster

"You're the one that fuckin' asked what happened that night." Alice screeched, waving her cigarette around

"Because maybe then you'll see that you can't keep waiting around. It's been nearly ten years, Mom. He isn't coming back."

Alice shrieked throughout Charlotte's plea, wincing at the idea that her long lost husband was indeed gone. Dead or alive didn't matter. He was never returning. Charlotte stared at her mother slowly slide onto the ground, the shell of a woman that smiled so radiantly in all the photographs around the house. The alcoholic prostitute who once sang for the choir, sang all the live long day,

"You have to let her go. Being a hooker isn't going to make you forget him. I know you're still going at it, Mom."

Alice glared at Charlotte and hugged her sides like a disobedient toddler who'd just been spanked. She felt like some kind of emotionless monster, like Dallas Winston. A predator attacking her prey, her prey being raw emotion.

The silence filled with bitter sobs. The sobs soon quieted and Alice was asleep on the kitchen floor. Charlotte gathered pillows and blankets for her and soon retired to her own bed. The remorse hung heavy on her heart. She felt as thought she morphed into something she wasn't. But like all teenagers under the spell of youthful ignorance, Charlotte didn't even realize she changed. She preyed upon her mother's buried emotions and forced them into the light. Why? There was no valid reason. No valid reason to tear into the raw emotion.