On 3/4/2021 9:16 AM, Gary wrote:
> Â*BryanGSimmons wrote:
>> Actually, there is a sub-plot in *Winter's Present* that deals with
>> revenge.Â* It's undoubtedly the most offensive (only offensive?) thing
>> in the novel.
>
> If you would, go ahead and quote that Bryan.
> Revenge seems to be your passion. Not real revenge but imagined
> scenarios about revenge.
>
> That might have been good but I never read that far.
>
> It should have a conflict, a reaction, then a conclusion.
> Hopefully focused on actions and not so much conversations.
>
> Many of the better novels have many sub-plots, ie stories within the story.
>
>
..It's long. This, from earlier in the book describes Ann's
..dysfunctional relationship with her father.

***********
Winter laughed. "No, I didn't mean that, just that you seem more
civilized than the other girls. Anyway, I love living at home. My
parents are great."
"I wish I could say that."
"You don't get along?"
"I haven't spoken to them for months. They're super fundamentalist,
and I don't measure up to their moral standards."
"Because you like girls?"
"Oh, they don't even know about that. They don't like that I don't
go to their church anymore. They don't approve of my political opinions.
They don't like the way I think. I just didn't turn out the way they
wanted me to. Coming here to school crossed another line.€�
€œMoving away?€�
€œNo. My father hates the Catholic Church, and he saw me accepting a
scholarship to a Catholic university as another betrayal. He thinks
everything is about him."
***********
>
..Now, on to the event.

***********
Ann was preparing for what she expected would be one of the worst
experiences of her life. She was breathing deeply, but she wasn't
asleep, and had heard every word. After today, in all likelihood,
she'd be an orphan. She at least hoped they could part civilly.
She'd give them one last chance to suffer her as she is, or at
least to accept that she'd found love, then it would be over. When
they neared the park, Ann split away from Winter and Ian, who
tarried for a few minutes while she found a bench. The meeting
wasn't to take place for half an hour, but she wanted to give the
impression that she was alone. Ian and Ann ended up occupying the
next bench, which was perhaps thirty-five, forty feet away. When
her parents finally arrived, Ann stood and said, "Hi." The fact that
her father merely nodded didn't bode well. There were to be no
pretenses, and time didn't appear to have softened his heart, so
she began her exercise in futility, "Mom, Dad, I know you're not
happy with some of the directions I've taken in my life, and I
don't expect you to agree with me, but just to accept me."
Her father spoke, "So you want to come back?"
"No," said Ann, "I just want it to be OK with us. I don't expect
to be close, just not hostile."
"Considering that you've done nothing but rebel against me for the
past three years, I think I have the right to be upset with you."
"Dad, I wasn't rebelling against you. I'm finding my own path,
finding out who I am. My relationship with Jesus is still there. I
don't even expect you to like me Dad, or approve of my choices,
and I didn't accept my scholarship to hurt you. I'm just different."
Even from a distance, Ian could see the contempt in the man's
demeanor. It was clear that Ann had been correct. This wasn't
going well.
"I'm queer, alright?" As she spoke those words, she felt false,
because she knew that it was the wrong word, intended to deceive,
to make the argument that she'd had no choice, the appeal that had
won the day with the more fair-minded majority. "I'm in love and
it's with another woman, and I know you think that's sinful, but
I'm just asking. I mean, nobody's perfect."
"Perfect? I think you've done a perfect job. You've dishonored us,
rejected everything holy, and turned your back on God, and you
expect me to accept you?€�
€œYes, and no. I don't expect you to think what I'm doing is right.€�
€œIt's not right, Ann, and you're not right.€�
€œRight?" Ann blurted. €œYou damned well bet I'm not right, and it's
because of you.€�
€œHow dare you speak to me that way you Sodomite bitch. You live
your life however you choose. You can go to Hell, and I regret the
day you were born."
Ann burst into tears. He'd told her that she was a mistake, or even
worse, that God had predestined her for Hell. Her plea was almost
audible across the distance between her past and her future,
"Mom?" Ann's entire body was shaking, and Ian, while he couldn't
see her face, was horrified. He wanted to intervene, and Winter
sensed that. She shook her head slightly and put her arm in front
of him, in a gesture that said, "This isn't our fight."
Ann's mother just looked away, and the hurt became anger. Her
mother's complicity was verified, and Ann snapped. Now louder, more
insistent, she barked out, "Mom, you know. I know you do." Through
clenched teeth, she poured out her wrath. "You knew. Those walks
he'd go on in the middle of the night. Yeah, he'd close the front
door, nice and loud, but you heard that he hadn't left. He came to
my room. You want to know why I can't let a man touch me?"
Ann's father yelled, "You liar, you godless liar!"
"Don't bother," Ann shrugged. "She knew," she practically spat the
words over her father's ranting, "You knew, Mom, and you could
have protected..." Ann's words were drowned out by her father's
words.
"****ing liar."
Ann glanced back, and Winter released Ian, who strode toward toward
them hastily, with clenched fists, his eyes locked with Ann's
father's. Ann faced her mother, "**** you, Mom! **** you like he
****ed me," and she turned and walked straight toward Winter,
passing by Ian, who glared at her father, daring him to make one move
toward Ann. Ian wasn't a large man, but Ann's father sensed the
threat of violence, and felt the urge to flee, instinctually grabbing
his wife's upper arm. Ian stopped when he sensed that Ann had passed
out of danger. When Ann and Winter had gone some distance, he
followed. Ann walked, but she didn't speak until they got to the
station. "We're going to the art museum."
Ian called the car rental, and arranged to have them pick up the car
at the station, and when they got on the El, they found a spot where
they could talk privately, at least far enough from the other
passengers that no one would hear anything but snippets. Winter
asked her, "What happened back there?"
Ann said, "I told my mother that my father molested me."
Winter looked anguished, and said, "I'm so sorry. You never told
me. Baby?"
"I'm not a baby, Winter, and I'll never be innocent again. See, it
wasn't true." She gritted her teeth, and her face contorted into
something bordering on ugly. "He never touched me. He never touched
me at all. He never touched me in all the ways that a father should
have touched his daughter. He never told me that I was his beautiful
little girl, and he didn't have any dreams for me beyond handing me
off to another man, and that was to glorify himself. You can't know
how it felt to be me, because you were loved. I'd planned it, but I'd
hoped that I could just walk away, and then, then he told me that he
wished I'd never been born, and my mother turned away like she agreed.
I cut loose."
"But Ann," said Winter, "Nobody lies about that."
"I know, and I was never a lying child. That was the plan. Ian, you
heard what she said to him. Well, my hearing is pretty good and I
heard it too. It was, 'Don't touch me'. There's justice there."
They changed trains without conversation, but once they were seated,
Ann opened up. "I'm sorry you two had to be part of that, but it was
just like Winter told those Texas people. I told my parents to ****
off, and now we're going to the Art Institute, and I'm excited. You
know why?" Not getting an answer, she said, "Because I've never been
there--one more thing that was forbidden." She turned her face to
the window, wordlessly asking for more of the space she'd been given.
Winter and Ian made small talk, much of it centering on Ian's phobias,
and his transcendences, both keeping in mind that Ann, while not
engaging, might be listening. Once they were at street level, on the
sidewalk, Ann insisted on holding hands, with her in the middle.
They snaked through a Chicago Friday afternoon with Winter in the
lead. Winter smiled at folks headed in the opposite direction, and
in many places she'd have felt defiant, announcing her freedom,
but here, in the Loop, no one looked at their little triad with
disdain, and Winter always elicited warmth. When they had to stop at
a crosswalk, Winter, in her best Dorothy, said, "Ian, I have a
feeling we're not in Skokie anymore."
Ann got the reference, but Downtown Chicago was gray, and her mood
subtracted what little color the streets offered, like a fish
swimming past the lures of gaudy commerce. When they crossed Michigan
Avenue, Ann felt the sun, and knowing that she was about to enter a
forbidden sanctuary, tightened her grip on her companions. Her old
world was gone. As they paused at the bottom of the steps, Ann spoke.
"I know it was ugly, what I did, and I hate that you two had to see
it, because you're all I have left."
Winter looked at Ann as lovingly as ever, and embraced her, and Ian
was there too, on her other side. As his cheek slid past hers she
sensed his maleness in the scratch of whiskers, and he said exactly
what her father should have said. It was soft, intended for her ear
only, and quite inaudible to Winter over the hubbub of the people
and the traffic, "No matter what, I'll always love you."
As her two lovers fell away from her, Ann thought of the word,
"lovers." It was a good word. Winter never used it but she should.
That's what they were to her. They loved her. Only an hour after
seeing her at her most unlovable, there they were, loving her.
"So, let's get in there. I want to see all of the wicked things
this great Gomorrah has to offer."
Winter had another interest. "What I want to see is a restaurant,
or snack bar, anything. I'm sure Ian must be famished."
As they laughed together, Ann dared to think, "This might be OK."
Rejoining hands after crossing Michigan Avenue, they processed up
the stairs, and then casually disengaged to enter through the
glass doors. Once inside, the tension faded. Instead of merely
buying tickets, Ian bought Winter and himself a membership, then
insisted on buying Ann her own as well. He knew it was impractical,
and before the money he'd never have done such a thing, but it was
symbolic. Now Ann was free to walk through those doors at will.
Winter had spoken the truth when she'd said he was hungry. "Since
I'm famished, I get to choose." Ian knew exactly where he was going,
and it was to hamburgers. No frou-frou decorated plates, but
substantial food. Ian ordered a double burger. He'd considered
getting two of them, but then thought about the evening, and the
possibilities in the burrito department. Winter thought that sounded
perfect too. Ann asked Ian if she could just share his fries, and he
said, "Sure." Ann was subdued, but didn't seem upset. She only ate
a few French fries. Ian realized that it was late, and they didn't
have much more than an hour until closing. He thought he'd first
take Ann to see American Gothic. That would make anyone smile, partly
because it was familiar. When they approached the painting Ann asked,
"Is that the original?" Ian explained that there were no copies in
the museum; everything on the walls was the original. Winter got he
and Ann to pose in the positions of the characters in the painting.
She insisted that Ann looked more like the woman than she herself did,
to which Ann responded, "Thanks a lot." They walked slowly, stopping
to look at anything that interested one of them, but Ian was headed
for Lauren's favorite painting, Nighthawks. Winter recognized it right
away, and was quite taken with it, but it was new to Ann. She smiled
and said, "It's so, like it's another world, another time. It reminds
me of Superman. That's Clark Kent, and next to him is Lois Lane."
Ian was looking forward to showing them his favorite paintings, a
Bouguereau and a Lefebvre. The two paintings were both nudes, and
they were displayed side by side. They were stunning placed together
that way. When they walked into the room, those two works stood out,
and Winter said, "Wow." It was all she said.
Ann approached the large paintings, first the Bouguereau, where she
lingered for several minutes, then the Lefebvre, and she started to
shake. Luckily, there was an open bench, and she sat, almost falling
back, still trembling, her face contorting. Tears streamed down her
face, but she wasn't crying. When she finally spoke it was in a growl
of rage, "You see what they stole from me? They took that!" The
word, "that," transcended rage. It sounded like pure hate, as she
pointed, her hand shaking almost violently. She slowly began to relax,
and her tremors subsided, replaced by long, slow breaths. After several
more minutes, she inhaled noisily through her nose, exhaled through her
mouth, then said with resignation, shrugging, "It's over."
***********

..Later in the book, Ian and Ann were going to put a wedding announcement
..in the Chicago newspapers, but Winter vetoed the idea because she
..didn't want their wedding tainted by "twisting the knife." Here's the
..proposed text.

***********
Mr. Ian Meadows, of Richmond Heights, Missouri, wishes to announce
the engagement of his dearest friends. This July, in Santa Fe, New
Mexico, Winter Sue Williamson, of Richmond Heights, daughter of
Natalie and Richard Williamson of Kirkwood, Missouri, will be joined
in marriage to Elizabeth Ann (Ann) Schultz, of Richmond Heights,
estranged daughter of Lisa and Thomas Schultz, of Skokie, Illinois.
After the ceremony, Ann will assume the name, Williamson. This will
be a clothing optional event.
***********

--
--Bryan
For your safety and protection, this sig. has been thoroughly
tested on laboratory animals.