THE DISCOVERY OF LOVE // DANA CULIN

"And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that's stronger than this kitchen candle."
-
Blanche Dubois from A Streetcar Named Desire

A familiar shiver ran up Blanche's spine as she put her hand around the doorknob. For a moment she paused to let the feeling reverberate throughout her whole body. It was a feeling she craved and cherished; it was only thoughts of Allan that made it rise and fall. Not that the boy himself failed to provoke these feelings on his own; he certainly did (it was the knowledge of his presence on the other side of the door which brought them upon her now). There was always something equally indeterminate about him as well, though – a vague distance, a sheltered depth – that always felt better when reflected on or anticipated outside of the moment. It was that very quality which made these indefinable feelings of hers so intoxicating. She had somehow attained the unattainable, and his mystery was hers too, now and forever.

It caught her by surprise then, opening the front door, to find the contents of the small home they shared still bathed in darkness. It was later in the evening, and she had expected to find Allan in the sitting room, perhaps reading in a chair or writing at his desk. He had been known, on occasion, to come and greet her on arrival, presenting her with a kiss on the cheek and a poem or sonnet he had composed just for her. In these moments she felt herself like a schoolgirl, the heat rising in her cheeks and a bashful inability on both their parts to maintain eye contact. This night, however, all was silent, and as she made her way leisurely through the house, she accepted without concern that he simply was not yet home. Perhaps he'd stayed late at school or willingly lost himself in the library yet again, she thought with an affectionate smile. As she made her way towards the bedroom, she happily resolved to take advantage of this opportunity to freshen herself up and maybe pour herself a drink.

The door to the bedroom was ajar about a quarter of the way, the light off – unremarkable – but as Blanche entered the room and reached for the lamp, there came a gasp and a shuffle from out of the darkness. She had let her imagination wander, comfortable that she was alone in the house, and her finger had the lamp switched on before her mind had even a moment to process the possibility of anything different. Momentarily petrified, she stood in the doorway, right arm extended lamely beside the lamp that now illuminated the unexpected rush of action before her. Allan, her husband, was scrambling about on their bed in an undershirt, hastily trying to untangle himself back into his trousers. To his right crouched Ernie Spring, an old friend of Allan's, his own shirt unbuttoned to reveal a bare chest which he struggled to tuck back into his unfastened pants – all the while looking down and shrinking away into the corner of the room, as if attempting to outrun the reach of the light bulb or the distance of Blanche's dumbfounded vision. Her husband stared directly at her, the boyish features of his face cartoonishly accentuated by the look of guilt-ridden horror in his enormous, round eyes.

Blinking herself back into her body, Blanche mumbled a confused apology and stumbled backwards out of the room, grasping at the walls for support. Heart pounding in her ears and eyes, she found herself pacing about the kitchen, almost entirely incapable of forming thoughts. Unable to comprehend what had just happened and oblivious to her own actions, she began aimlessly opening and closing drawers and cabinets, searching for an unidentifiable something that she was never going to find. Moments later – or possibly hours, no one was counting – Allan and Ernie came cautiously, separately, out of the bedroom, fully dressed and appropriately groomed. Not knowing what else to do and still unable to grasp hold of herself or her thoughts, Blanche gave herself over completely to the unwavering comfort of Southern hospitality.

"Ernie! I hadn't been expecting you!" she exclaimed breathily. "Allan, dear, you didn't warn me we were having company! Can I fix you a drink?"

It was in the wee hours of the following morning when Blanche, Allan, and Ernie found themselves dancing their minds away at the Moon Lake Casino. When or how they had arrived, not one was sober enough to recall or care, but ask anyone they had encountered along the way, and these three friends were having the grandest night of their lives. Not one word was exchanged between them regarding the events of the earlier evening, and not one thought was given to the reality of their lives beyond this moment. It was not until an instance of joyful dance to the Varsouviana polka that Allan and Blanche locked eyes, and something about the ease with which he smiled back at her – as if he had not a care in the world – suddenly and instantly morphed everything about him that she had always adored into something despicable and unknown. She stopped dancing.

"I saw. I know," she reassured him over the music, not once breaking eye contact. "You disgust me."

Now he had stopped dancing too, like a wind-up toy being trampled on, and within seconds he had fled the room. Blanche then turned to meet eyes with Ernie, who now stared at her with a mix of terror, shame, and pity that she returned with equal intensity. "I always liked you," she said.

Suddenly a shot rang out from the distance, and everyone inside slowly started making their way out the door. There was something lying on the ground at the edge of the lake. Without knowing what it was exactly that she knew, Blanche felt a dreadful sense of comprehension for the moment she was currently living inside. Shouts of, "It's him!" "The Gray boy!" "Allan!?" "Don't go near!" swirled around her head as she attempted to make her way through the crowd.

And now she understood. She knew what it was that she knew, and she began fighting harder against the strangers who were grabbing her limbs and pulling her away. There was a different kind of shiver running up her spine now upon the thought of her husband, this one cold and brutal and not at all welcome.

Then everything went dark.



Dana Culin is a junior English major with a concentration in Film and Media Studies. She has a dangerously overactive imagination and a deep-seated appreciation for the real-world powers of fiction.