11!
That, my friends, is the number of days left before I complete my bachelor’s degree. I returned to school in 2021, and coming into the program with an associate degree, I’ve been able to plow through (spring, summer, and fall) and finish up in two and a half years. It’s been fast and furious, and I’ve learned a lot, but I admit…I am more than excited to wrap up.
And yet, I don’t think my school days are done. I’ve shared in the past about possible masters plans. Currently, the idea is to take the next six months off and enter a fiction MFA program in the fall. I’m still in the application stage of the process (or rather the waiting stage after applying). I do not like waiting. At all. But more on that next time. Stay tuned!
For MFA applications, I had to compile a writing sample of approximately 20 to 25 pages, a wee bit challenging given my limited experience in fiction. I could have submitted one large excerpt from my manuscript work in progress, but frankly, it simply isn’t ready. I spent a few weeks looking through my meager offerings, and agonizing over which pieces to include. Finally, I managed to bring together some work I am (somewhat) proud of and today I thought I would share one of the short stories I included.
It’s been some time since I’ve shared fiction here, and well, it’s always a test of courage. Which I suppose is healthy. Even if I don’t like it. I wrote this flash fiction piece for our Copyright and Publishing Law course (of all things!), but I fell for the protagonist, Caroline Rigby. She’s a class act. Who knows, maybe she’ll show up in a longer work down the road. I feel like there’s more of her story to tell. Anyhow…I hope you enjoy her.
And now, I present to you: The Pillaging of Caroline Rigby
My grandmother has been plundered; her memories pillaged. The timing hardly seems fair, weak as she is. She’s been nearly bedridden for over a month. Her body seems to be coming into its last lap, her legs signaling the waving of the white flag. They refuse to cooperate with her whims any longer. Her mind, however, is as alert and feisty as ever, and yesterday’s revelation brought a fire to her cheeks she hasn’t had for weeks.
It started when I brought her morning tea. The sterling silver tray was stocked with its usual fare: steaming Earl Grey, cream-and-sugar set, and sourdough toast with tart orange marmalade. The latest issue of her beloved Publisher’s Weekly was placed under the toast plate. Grandmama has not released a title for over a decade, but she reads her trade newspaper as religiously as her Bible. She hasn’t missed a week since she penned her first novel in 1981. No one can accuse her of not being devoted to the craft.
I pulled back the silk draperies and handed her the reading glasses off the nightstand, then settled into the winged back chair we placed by her side. We have our routine. She’s taken to referring to me as her Lady-in-Waiting. My summer break from Clemson is our mutual blessing.
Grandmother was turning the pages of the periodical slowly, scanning each section before the meticulous read-through that would inevitably follow, when she gasped, hand flying to her throat.
“The devil!” she spat, practically toppling her tea tray. “Karis! The phone. Get me my phone!”
Grandmother rarely loses her head, so I all but flew to the dressing table to retrieve it. As she fumbled through her contacts, she emphatically pushed the magazine into my hands. Scanning the announcements page, I stopped abruptly when I found the reason for her outburst:
Caroline Rigby: A Biography
In this first biography of author Caroline Rigby, Robert Holbrook, Rigby’s great-nephew, shares excerpts from Caroline’s journal, stories of her rise to literary fame, and anecdotes of Caroline’s family history comprised of “bootleggers and baptizers.” Holbrook punctuates the narrative with personal tales of life with “Great Aunt Caro.” August release.
I understood her horror at once. Along with publishing 18 novels in the span of 30 years, Grandmama has been a scrupulous keeper of memories. The family’s history, her literary life anecdotes, and her private journal referred to in the PW blurb were all meticulously kept. A few years after penning her last novel, she curated the memories into a compilation for the town library. Caroline Rigby is the celebrity of Beaufort, South Carolina, as she well knows. The anthology was a gift to the city and its citizens, a thank-you for their support and adoration through the years. The library on Craven Street was also Grandmama’s haven as a child. The location may have changed, but her gratitude for the hours of refuge spent within its walls did not. Her anthology was a giving back, meant as a precious keepsake for the town.
“Edward! Publisher’s Weekly, page 4,” said Grandmother crisply to her attorney on the phone.
As she waited, she frantically waved toward the water pitcher on the nightstand. I poured her a glass and heart sinking, watched her trembling hand reach for the glass.
Edward finally replied. Grandma nodded along, her spare hand clutching the bedding at her side.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “But this can’t possibly constitute fair use?”
I could not hear his answer, but I watched her shoulders drop and her fingers loosen their grip on the Chintz duvet as she listened. Dear Edward. He’d been her attorney for two decades. She trusted him entirely.
After hanging up, she leaned back on her pillows and closed her eyes. The momentary pink that had risen to her cheeks was gone. She now seemed paler than usual, the lines on her forehead pronounced. She needed rest. I began to quietly plod out of the room when her eyes shot open, and she reached for me.
“Don’t leave Karis. Sit, my girl.”
“What did Edward say?”
“He will contact Bob’s agent this morning and file a claim immediately.” She tightened her lips. “That man always was an ass.”
I couldn’t help but smile. But she was right. Bob was tolerated at family reunions but avoided conversationally at all costs. He was too slick, oozing oil with his smooth speech and practiced charm.
“From the sound of things, he’s been spending quite a bit of time at the Scott Street library,” she said, annoyance lacing every word. She closed her eyes again and sighed.
“But Grandmama, do you have a case?” I asked tentatively. I didn’t want to upset her, but I wanted the comfort she seemed to receive from Edward.
Grandmother squeezed my hand and smiled. “The documents I have shared with Beaufort are unpublished. Copyright law allows me the right to choose when and if I want to publish my work. My anthology was intended for use solely within the library. That is our case. That and the fact that Jackass Bob is trying to make a buck off his old Aunt Caro.”
I could see the fire returning to her cheeks, so I nodded my head and smiled. “Edward will take care of it, Grandmama.”
She squeezed my hand again and asked me to take her tray. She was spent.
I wheeled Grandmama out of the courthouse, triumph illuminating her eyes. The local newshounds and Caroline Rigby fans populated the steps outside, so I rolled Grandmother to the edge and stepped aside. Sitting there straight-backed with all the regality of a queen, she answered questions with her signature charm and dignity. Only I knew how much that erect posture and lifted chin would cost her physically. Utter fatigue waited for her on the other side. Though she came out the victor, I felt certain this was her final battle.
“Miss Rigby, how do you feel about the verdict?” said an attractive young woman with a microphone, brown hair piling around her shoulders.
“I’m ecstatic. The content of my anthology will stay right where it belongs, in the trustworthy hands of Beaufort’s citizens.” The crowd cheered and Grandmother beamed. “Fair use of intellectual property is meant to further education and benefit the public. The court rightly judged this was not Robert Holbrook’s intention. He sought to make a profit, steal unpublished work, and exploit the town’s property. Justice was served today.” The crowd applauded again.
“How difficult has this been for you, with the defendant being your great nephew?” another reporter called out.
I watched Grandmama closely. I had heard many choice words about Bob over the past year. But those were meant for me alone, her confidant. Postponing my return to Clemson meant I had been at her disposal day and night, a decision I would never regret. The university would always be there; Grandmother would not.
Grandmama cleared her throat, lifted her head, and said, “Robert Holbrook is my great nephew, but he is not my friend. Friends do not pillage one another. Still, with God there is forgiveness. So, he has my forgiveness, but not my friendship.”
I could see her chin trembling. She needed to go home.
I’ve been re-reading all of Grandmama’s novels. I feel her very presence in the prose. She whispers in my ear in the character’s voices, even the antagonists, who carry her edge. Every few weeks, I leave Clemson and make a pilgrimage to downtown Beaufort. I drink a cup of Earl Gray at Scott Southern Market and make my way to the library. Linda Hamling works Saturdays and has Grandmother’s anthology out for me when I arrive. She pulls it religiously, in case I show. The small act is a large grace.
Gently turning the pages, I lose myself in Caroline Rigby's narratives, pushing Bob Holbrook far from my mind. My favorite parts are the patchwork memories of her childhood on Prince Street. Grandmama loved that house as much as life, its restoration her most infamous obsession. No detail was overlooked. The lavish spread in Historic Homes Magazine crowned the project and delighted Grandmama endlessly. Now the estate is mine.
At the reading of the will, Mom said it was only fitting, “She knew you’d love it best.”
Next semester I will finish my English degree and I will move to Prince Street. I will sit at Grandmama’s desk in the sunroom, and I will follow in her footsteps and write. And though I’ll never fill her shoes, I will try.
I will remember her last words spoken in a whisper.
“The mantel is yours, Karis. I have prayed a double portion for you.”
The night she handed me the cloak, I dreamed of Elijah going up in a chariot. The next morning, she was gone. Gratefully, there are no pillagers in glory.
Lovely story!
So good. Caroline Rigby sounds like a woman I could learn a lot from. 😃