A lot of people ask me how I develop my characters for my books. I always start with people I know and clip them into shape for what I need. I also start with incidents from my own life, then stretch to what my character might feel. I capsolize the events around my characters. So to better explain how I put together ‘Snap Me a Future’ and ‘A Mouthful of Shell,’ for DLSIJ Press, I present the following story Training. It is autobiographical. But the events didn’t happen as arranged. The incident on the train happened a good year before I went not to France but to Austria as an exchange student. I never wanted to be a secretary, and my mother was constantly taking privileges away if I said the wrong thing. Very much like Claire, I learned the power of the social fib on her, but over a much longer time. Enjoy.

Training

The 9:55 from New York slowed down. “Princeton Junction,” the conductor sang.
Claire Munson stood, glad to stretch after an hour-and-a-half sitting, and reached into the overhead rack for the Lord and Taylor bags she and her mother had collected on the preflight shopping trip.
Kathryn Munson rose almost at the same moment Claire did. “Careful, honey, don’t drop anything.” She was tired, and didn’t feel like picking blouses and belts off the dirty car floor, if her daughter dropped them.
Claire let out a low sigh. “I’ve got the small stuff. Give Dad the big one.”
Watching the girl out of the corner of one eye, Kathryn pulled down a suit box. “Ed, can you grab this?”
Her husband guided the package down. Claire began opening her bags and carefully tucking smaller ones inside larger ones. “What are you doing,” Kathryn asked, wrinkling her brow.
“Consolidating stuff,” Claire kept her voice even.
Her mother’s green eyes lighted. “Well, aren’t you a smartie. I never thought of doing that.” With a slender hand, she chucked Claire under the chin.
Edward Munson scowled. Good grief, Claire was seventeen years old. When was Kat going to stop treating her like she was five?
The train jolted to a halt. Mrs. Muson staggered in her high heels. Edward stood, and grabbed her elbow. Claire rested one palm on the back of a seat to keep he balance. Edward steered his wife toward the door at the end of the car.
Several passengers beat the Munsons to the exit. Kathryn eyed them. business men arriving home late, rumpled, and shoulder-hunching weary. One looked downright glassy-eyed. Drunk, she thought. And– Oh, God, looking at Claire. At sixteen–no seventeen–Kathryn swallowed –Claire had the slim waist, well-proportioned breast, and hips of a woman, a figure bound to cause trouble: until she matured emotionally Kathryn gently shoved a broad shoulder through the crowd, until she could place her tall frame between Claire and the drunk. Then, she tried to catch Edward’s eye, to warn him to stay near their daughter
Eyes on the exit, he thought only of a cold shower after a long day of meetings. Kathryn gritted her teeth.
The business men began disembarking. One carried a “New York Times’ folded to the political section. Claire caught a glimpse of an article–Lyndon Bains Johnson on the campaign trail for the Democrats.
The drunk squeezed path Katheryn, eyes on Claire. Katheryn gulped, but feeling someone too close to her, Claire stepped into a free space behind her father. The drunk lurched past her and stumbled off the train. Edward followed. Then, the only other woman in that car stepped in front of Claire and held her hand out to the conductor. Claire watched him guide her to the platform. She was dressed in a gray silk suit with a pink blouse, and carried a black brief case. Claire tried to imagine what the woman did. Executive secretary for a company with international connections? That’s what Claire wanted to be, so she could use her French. No teacher or nurse stuff for her. And certainly no housewife. Kathryn’s life of coffee klatches was boring, suffocating.
The woman stepped to the platform. Feeling a rush of sticky night time heat, Claire started down the car’s steep steps. The conductor reached a hand to her. He was a young man of medium build. In the flare from the train’s lights, she could see his brown eyes, and wavy dark hair under his cap.
‘Careful getting off with the packages, ” Kathryn called.
Mother, please. Closing her fingers over the conductor’s, Claire bent one knee, and with a leap befitting the top of ballet class, sailed off the car’s first step, over a foot stool, and onto the brick pavement.
The conductor grinned. “Good one.” With a wink and a slight tilt of his head toward Kathryn, he let go of Claire. “Good night.”
Kathryn’s slanting eyes narrowed, taking on the look of an annoyed feline.
Claire joined her father, struggling to keep her face straight, as he waited a few paces from the train. In two steps, Kathryn caught up to them and grabbed Claire’s arm. “Watch it, Kiddo.”
She pulled free. “I am a thinking human being. I know how to get off a train.” She shouldn’t have annoyed her mother by springing off. But what ought she do? Be Mommy’s Little Lamb all her life?
Edward frowned The evening had started out fun. He’d met his wife and daughter for dinner, and while they dined at La Groceria Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village, Kat and Claire told him about the dresses, skirts, and blouses they bought for Claire’s trip. But on the way home, Kathryn didn’t like how Claire put packages in the overhead, and criticized the girl for not smoothing her skirt when she sat down. Claire adjusted her clothes and parcels, but Edward knew she hated Kathryn’s nagging, and would eventually retaliate with a minor rebellion like jumping off the train. Kathryn that behavior. An explosion between them wasn’t far away.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a slip of yellow paper. “Hey, Claire, you want to ride the Dinky home?” He glanced at a spur track a few yards from the platform. The business men were meandering toward it, to catch a shuttle into Princeton.
“Sure, Dad,” she laughed. “Where’d you get the ticket?”
“I left from town this morning. Your mother hadn’t decided whether to drive to Princeton Junction or not So I brought a round-trip. Use it up. We’ll take the car and meet you.”
Claire glanced at her mother. “Is it okay with you?”
Kathryn scrutinized the business men. The woman with the brief case stood among them. So did a couple of guys who looked like Princeton students, and the drunk. Claire had seen bums on the New York streets, but she’d never handled one. When June Hargrove staggered over from next door full of gin, Katheryn always moved her to a part of the house away from Claire. Her baby had plenty of time to learn about life’s ugly moments. Suddenly, Kathryn wished Claire weren’t leaving, that Ed hadn’t given her permission to go. “Some other time, Claire. I’m tired Let’s just go home.”
“Okay,” the girl gave in with a sigh. “I’m sure I’ll get to ride plenty of trains between Niece and the town I’ll be living in.”
Kathryn’s stomach turned upside down. France was so far away. Ed spoke. “Oh, come on, Kat. It won’t take long. The Dinky’s here. Look.” He pointed at a single headlight piercing the thick darkness. An ancient pair of Pennsylvania Railroad electric cars clattered into view, lumbering like an arthritic dinosaur, compared to the sleek commuter train, now pulling out of the main station. Smiling, he handed his daughter the ticket. She gave her mother a beseeching look.
“All right,.” Kathryn said. “Go.” Then as Claire turned toward the spur, she leaned close to Edward. “What about that drunk?
“She’ll be safe with the conductor there. Besides, she had to learn to handle people like that. You cannot be with her forever.”
“But she’s a girl. My only baby.”
“She’s not a baby. It’s time you stopped treating her like one.” He took her arm and led her toward the parking lot beyond the station. “Let’s get the car.”
Claire heard none of her parents’ conversation. The night suddenly felt cool, the air light. Perfumes filled it: the hay-like aroma of late-summer grass, roses around the station. Even the exhaust from cars leaving the lot, and greasy train wheels smelled like exotic oil. She was free. Free to walk by herself with her packages like an adult. Free to let the Dinky’s yellow-lit windows remind her of glowing diamonds.
“Hurry up,” a conductor called, this time, a potbellied man who reminded her of Grandpa Munson. “All aboard the PJ&B–Princeton Junction and Back.”
Letting her laugh float softly into the night, Claire quickened her pace and reached the spur.
“Come on,” he yelled at someone else.
Looking around, she spotted a man shambling along the platform. He looked like a TV portrayal of a used car salesman, in white shirt, plaid coat and slacks. His white shoes gleamed like a walking snow bank . Then she realized he wasn’t headed toward the train, but toward her.
“Hey, baby,” he whispered. Opening and closing his lips, he chirped.
She’d heard that noise in New York from guys loitering on the sidewalk. Even as a kid, she hadn’t needed Kathryn’s grimace, quickening step, and protective arm to know they weren’t thinking nice thoughts. When she finally got her period, Katheryn explained what leers and noises meant. Now, they made Claire furious. Lengthening her strides, she bounded to the train.
The drunk quickened his pace as well She was a ripe little strawberry, a sweet-cream filled cupcake, probably inexperienced enough to frighten into letting him have a fondle.
Claire assessed the Dinky’s cars. The diamond glow emitted mostly from the first. People filled it. The second looked darker, and almost empty. She headed for the bright one and scrambled up its high steps. The drunk thumped behind her. Stepping inside, she scanned faded plush seats, once red. Where to sit?
“Hey, cutie,” the man mumbled. “C’mon over here.” Reaching her, he touched her shoulder, then slid his fingers toward her breast. His breath smelled like Mrs. Hargrove’s in the evening when she came over and Claire answered the door. This could be a nasty trip if–what had she learned in the street safety class at the Y? Oh, of course. Turning to the drunk, she hissed, “Scram.”
His leer just got bigger, and his hand stayed where it was. All right, next step, find people and ask for help. Where was the conductor? She glanced around. No place in sight. Who else might help? How about the woman? She sat talking to the business man with the newspaper. The drunk began rubbing Claire’s behind. Ah–there was a spot, next to a guy in Levis and a sport shirt. He had a knapsack beside him, but she could ask him to move it.
Slithering away from the drunk, she headed for the young man. “Excuse me, ” she whispered. “There’s a nut case following me. May I sit with you?”
He looked up from the book he was reading, took a quick glance around the car, and spotted the drunk. “Of course, Miss.” Grabbing his belongings he stood up. “Come. Sit on the inside.”
She recognized an Irish lilt in his voice, then smiled at his freckled face and thick red hair that looked as if it didn’t like staying combed. “Thank you.”
The drunk muttered and sat down in an empty spot. Her evasion made her all the more desirable. He’d get another rub when she got off.
The Dinky’s whistle peeped twice like an asthmatic bird, and the cars lurched and clattered forward. The young man grabbed the back of the seat in front of him. “Well, will we be stayin’ on the tracks now?”
“It’ll be an interesting ride. The joke ‘round town is that George Washington used the Dinky to move his cavalry to the Battle of Princeton.”
“I believe it.” With a smile, he held out his hand. “Kevin McCarthy.’
“Claire Munson.” They shook. Taking a close look at him, she decided he was perhaps in his late 20s. “Are you studying at the University?”
“Yes. At the Woodrow Wilson School of International Affairs.”
“I want to go to a place like that when I finish college. You’re from Ireland, aren’t you?”
“I can’t deny it.” He smiled again.
“I’d also like to go there.”
The train was rocking along the roadbed by now. A breeze rushed into the open windows. Kevin McCarthy leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I’d like to go to Ireland,” she shouted.
“You’d love it,” he yelled back.
The cars crashed over a trestle. The whistle croaked. Realizing that conversation was impossible, they leaned against their seats, and bounced over the rough roadbed. Claire looked out the window. Kevin balanced his knapsack on his lap. The breeze tickled her neck. Breathing deep, she enjoyed the wind, the speed, and sitting next to him. He watched her enjoy herself. The world might disconcert her, but it didn’t scare her. She was pretty, too, with an oval face and shoulder-length wavy blond hair. He found himself hoping she’d one day study at the Woodrow Wilson School. He’d be long gone, and that would be too bad.
The Dinky slowed. Moaning and squealing, it pulled into the Princeton station. The passengers began to stand. The drunk waited, mouth slack as if drooling, red-eyed gaze on Claire. Kevin McCarthy sized him up. “Is someone meetin’ you, Miss Munson?”
“Yes, Mr. McCarthy. My parents are waiting.”
“Then I’ll see you off the train.” He placed himself between her and the drunk. Scowling, the drunk joined the crowd disembarking. When he disappeared, Kevin beckoned Claire out of her seat. Then he walked beside her to the door. “There are my folks.” She waved at a car parked near the platform. “Thanks for all your help.”
He stepped aside. “Good evenin,’ then.’

“Well, did you have fun,” Edward asked a few minutes later as he drove onto Nassau Street, Princeton’s main drag.
“I ran into a drunk,” Claire said cheerfully. “And–”
“Oh, he wasn’t drunk,” Kathryn’s voice sounded like fake honey.
“I know a drunk when I see one,” Claire retorted. “You think I’ve missed Mrs. Hargrove all these years?”
Kathryn heaved a long sigh, as if she had to give up something she wanted to keep.
“What did you do,” Edward interrupted.
Claire explained. Edward said nothing, but smiled to himself. He’d known his daughter could think. Kathryn didn’t speak either. The darkness hid the frown she shot a him. But he felt it. Holy cats, what was the matter now?
Claire looked out the window at the dark, stone buildings of Princeton University, wondering where Kevin McCarthy would live.
When they arrived home she contentedly carried her packages upstairs. Her parents followed, her father with the big box, and her mother empty handed. Edward set the suit box on the bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Kathryn sat down beside the package. “You need to be careful who you talk to when you’re on trains and buses.”
“What do you mean?” Claire began sorting her packages.
“That young man could have misunderstood you. What if he had said ‘hmmmm, here’s a friendly girl?’”
“Mother, there wasn’t anything like that. It was a nice encounter.”
Kathryn said nothing. Her silence radiated disapproval. Claire didn’t know how to respond. Her intuition, and now experience, trusted what the cops at the Y told her. Her spirit wilted because she’d displeased her mother. “What should I have done?”
“You should have found that conductor.”
“But I had no idea where to look. I’d have had to go into that darker car where there were fewer people. The jerk would have stuck right with me.”
“But, but,” mimicked Kathryn.
Claire had understood that signal since childhood. “All right, I should have hunted down the conductor. Meantime, I might as well just lay these clothes right in my suitcase.”
Her mother didn’t answer.
Claire withdrew a blouse from a bag. Then, sensing Kathryn’s displeasure, looked at her. “That’s all right, isn’t it? Why unfold and hang them?”
“You’re not going to Europe,” Kathryn said. She knew it was an unreasonable statement, but fury and fear made her say it–fury at Ed for putting Claire on that train, and fear of what might have happened if this Kevin McCarthy had been as difficult as the drunk.
“What?” She nearly dropped the blouse.
“You can’t even handle yourself in the United States. How do you expect to survive in France?”
“But–but I’m supposed to leave Thursday.”
“But, but. Putt, putt. I’ll call tomorrow and cancel your trip. You can use your new clothes when school starts in a couple of weeks. I’m sorry, that’s the way it is going to be.” Her mouth snapped shut. She stared at the ceiling.
“That’s not fair,” Claire exploded. “The cops told us that it’s a small risk to ask a person on the street for help. What is your problem?”
“I should never have allowed you to sign up for that exchange program.”
“You’re being stupid.”
“Ohhh, that sort of statement will really make me change my mind. It’s sooo grownup.
Steps padded. Edward appeared in the door, bathrobe flapping at his ankles. “What is going on in here?”
“Mom just said I can’t go to Europe.”
Edward took his wife’s elbow and propelled her out of the room. She looked over her shoulder at Claire. “Unpack your bag.”
Claire dropped onto her bed. For a moment, she thought she’d throw up. Her hands shook. Her heart pounded. Why had she accepted the ride on that stupid Dinky? If she’d been a good girl when Mama said ‘no,’ none of this would have happened. Or–why didn’t she just lie? Say she found the conductor? No, that would have been wrong.
Edward marched Kathryn into their bedroom and shut the door. “All right, now what’s brought all this on?”
“Edward, what if something happened to her tonight?”
“She worked it out, Kat. She was fine.”
“Aren’t you scared? We don’t know the people she’ll be living with in France. What if she gets sick or breaks her leg? What if they abuse her?”
“She’ll be supervised by people running the program–”
“No. She’s not going. I cannot let her go.”
“Kathryn–”
“No.” Voice rising, she clutched her stomach. “She was attached to my body. She is physically part of me. I don’t know how else to explain it. I can’t let her go.”
“We are not canceling the trip. I paid thirteen-hundred dollars to send her, and it’ll be good for her.” He drew a breath. “If she’s furious with you right now, I’m not sure I blame her. Although she might have handled it better.”
Kathryn began to cry. He put an arm around her. She pushed him away. “You’re not c-c-concerned a-about h-her w-w-welfare, are you? Not one bit.”
“That’s not true.”
“Get out of here. ” She grabbed a throw pillow off their bed and threw it at him. “Go sleep on the couch.”
He batted the missile onto a chair. “Fine. Let me know when you’re ready to be reasonable I’ll come back and talk to you. Claire will go to France.”
She watched the door slam behind him. In the morning, he’d be in bed beside her. He never paid attention to her blowups. Fine. That would give her time to accept the reality of Thursday when an Air France jet took off with Claire aboard. Deep inside, Kat knew she didn’t want her daughter to miss the experience. What would her folks think of that, if they were still alive? She hadn’t been allowed to leave the house unchaperoned until she was eighteen and working. Even then, she could only go with boys whose families her father knew. When she met Ed at a dance, she sneaked out to meet him. He opened a new world to her, showing her life beyond church socials, Wednesday choir practice, and Sunday service. She didn’t want Claire to have to escape such a narrow hell, yet to raise her, Kathryn clung to her own upbringing for guidance. Somehow, she had to stop.
In the hall, Edward let out a sharp breath. Kat had a powerful mothering instinct, and usually a good one. But not this time. He must talk to Claire. But how? He and Kat had always presented a united front to her when giving privileges and meting out punishments. Now the time had come to override Kat to Claire’s face, and he wanted the girl to keep respecting her mother.
Padding down the corridor, he tapped on her door. She opened it, tears at the corners of her eyes. He should just be honest with her. She was old enough to understand her mother had frailties, like everyone else. He put his arms around her. “Don’t worry. Your mother’s just scared. Fear can make a person unreasonable.”
She gaped. Mother unreasonable? He had never said anything negative about her. In fact, he usually took her side in arguments.
“Look,“ Edward said, “ You can’t blame her for being afraid for you. She’s sending you into an experience she’s never had. You’re going to have to slip out the door gently. It’s the kindest thing you can do.”
“I don’t understand.” Claire shook her head. “Are you saying I’m going to have to sneak out of the house to go to France? How can I do that?”
“Not literally– “ He saw her frown grow deeper. “Just, the next time you solve a problem the way you did tonight, tell her you turned to a conductor, or a door man, or an usher, or a cop. What you really must do is your own business.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “You want me to lie to her?”
“When people are unreasonable, sometimes you have to tell a fib or two. It’s not wrong. In fact it makes the world a more pleasant place” His smiled.
She considered. “You mean like–when Mrs. Hargrove comes blasting over here and tells Mother to vote Republican and Mother agrees to do it, and then has coffee with the Republicans for Johnson?”
“Well, yes. Like that. And remember that your mother will always be your mother. She’ll never stop telling you how to think. Never stop worrying about you. Your grandmother still tells me what to do.”
“You! The head of the physics department at one of America’s best universities. That’s horrible.”
He couldn’t expect her to understand. He hadn’t known how parents felt until he became one. “Do yourself a favor: if you know something upsets your mother, don’t talk about it. You don’t have to tell everybody everything.”
She pondered. “Do you do that with her?’
“All the time. There are a lot of good things about your mother: she’s loyal, she honest, and her sense of propriety is a big help at those social-professional parties I have to attend at the university. But, sometimes, she’s inflexible. And if you’re going to survive around her, you have to find a way to deal with that. Fibbing just a little has worked for me. Arguing won’t. Reasoning won’t. And–defiance certainly won’t.” He stressed the final words.
“But what if she’s right in my face, like tonight?”
”Move out of her way. Come up here and listen to records or practice your violin, or go outside, until she’s ready to be sensible.”
It seemed strange, and wrong– to dare to fib to Mother and to dodge her, but when she was inflexible, maybe she deserved it. Hadn’t Claire wished she’d said nothing about Kevin McCarthy? And what had Mr. Botcher said in sociology class last year? Every culture has some form of the white lie for social settings? She nodded to her father. “I’ll keep my head down ‘til Thursday. On the flight, I’ll drink champagne.”
“If they serve it, I hope you taste it.” He kissed her cheek. “And now, you need to get your sleep. And I need a shower.”
“You think I did okay tonight?”
“You did better than okay. I’m very proud of the way you handled that situation. Your mother will be too, believe me.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.”
“Do it, and you’ll manage her. One day you will grow up and have your own life.” He sighed. “Then things will get easier after that. Good night.”
“Good night.” When he had left the room, she shut her door and unpacked the rest of shopping bags. Slowly, gently she laid her clothes into her suitcase. He was a great dad. Kevin McCarthy was a nice guy, too. She’d meet nice people in France, in college, and where ever she went. Together, they’d deal with the nasty or difficult ones. It would be like when Mr. Hargrove came over and marched Mrs. Hargrove home. In a way Mother was no different than her. One had a drinking problem. One had a stubborn streak. Claire would manage her, like she learned tonight. Putting the last garment into the suitcase, she went to her window and opened it wider. Night sounds filled the room: a rumbling truck, a barking dog, a banging garbage can lid followed by a slamming door. A jet whistling and roaring. The Dinky hooting. Smiling, she shut her window.

Posted on September 3rd, 2007 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: Mainstream Fiction