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Josh Hughes

Mr. Mehrhoff

Comp. 3rd

/ Character Sketch

29 Jan. 2013

Dorothy of Yorktown

Beep. Beep. Beep. Smack The ancient alarm clock rested on her bedside as it had for the

past thirty years. It rang at the same time, 7:00 AM, as it had for the past thirty years. And she had

smacked it off in the same way after the third ring, for the past thirty years. She rose, feeling not at

all renewed.

Dorthy Hughes, now a ripe old 85, shifted her considerable weight out of bed. Her frame had

always been taller than the other women that she knew, but, beaten down from years of toil and

work, she almost seemed a normal stature. She shuffled, deft thuds and muffles across the carpeted

floor of her third story apartment, and made her way to the Mecca of her living space: the kitchen.

Coffee was hot in the pot; it was automatic. She had no idea how it worked; her son had set it up for

her. She only knew that she had to set it up with grounds and water each night before, and that she

missed her old Bunn.

Today was Sunday. Christ she muttered to herself; church was in just thirty minutes.

Realizing that she had no time to shower, Dorthy poured a cup of black coffee, and shuffled to her

boudoir to fix her hair. (The coffee was black because she always drank coffee with her German

born, farming father. He had no patience for sugar or creamer, let alone that they couldnt afford

either in the Great Depression economy.) Memories of a simpler time flooded Dorthys aged mind;

memories of sitting around a handmade table, hearing stories in a shouted tongue that Dorthy

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understood, but had since forgotten. Finally arriving at her mirrored desk, she set about to brush

down the short, coiled, mop that sat atop her head. She had always worn it short; a relic of the age of

bob-cuts and suffragists in which she was born. Applying a light misting of Chanel No. 5 (A special

gift for her High School Prom in 1944 that she had bought the rest of her life), and a touch of Mary

Kay blush (her favorite make that she discovered during a briefinterlude of sales in the 1970s) she

readied herself for the ecclesiastical trial waiting for her. By 7:25, she had seized her King James

Bible, as old and as cracked as the ancient king himself, from her bedside, and had was out the door.

The apartment complex that she lived in had a non-denominational service every Sunday.

She didnt like it. She missed the pomp and pageantry that accompanied the Eastern Orthodox

services of her childhood. Neither did she like the lack of youth at these services. It made her feel

much older than she would have liked to. Regardless of her outside demeanor, she retained a girlish

interior held in by her octogenarian shell.

She managed to find a seat near the left center of the makeshift sanctuary that was usually a

cafeteria. Rising with the other assembled old men and women, Dorthy Hughes helped to commence

the service with a hymn that she thought a little too lively, but beautiful nevertheless. Directly

following the hymn began the sermon. Usually pert and attentive during the sermons, today she

slouched and drifted; her mind was elsewhere. Wednesday was ten years since her husband had died.

They had been together for nearly 51 years on that fateful day in 2003. She remembered with a vivid

shock the feeling as she walked into their shared bedroom, calling Bens name to show him a new

plate she had just gotten in the mail. She dropped the plate by accident; the generally light sleeper

didnt stir. She shouldnt have been so surprised. He had smoked his entire life, and spent the last few

years on oxygen. She remembered her screaming for her live-in daughter. Dana, more like Ben than

the other three children, had only screamed louder. Holding each other, they wept. In the present, a

single tear crawled down Dorthys wrinkled, venerable face.

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The service ended. She went to her apartment, greeting friends along the way. By noon, her

best friend was talking with Dorthy over a cup of coffee. The subject turned to her late husband.

How are you doing, D? Laurie said with a low air of sympathy. Laurie had lost her husband only

four year prior.

She took a breath, collected her thoughts, and just like her Prussian father had expected her to

say daily almost eighty years ago, she said, Im fine. Im doing just fine. i

iSome names have been changed to protect identities.

The title is a parody of the film Lawrence of Arabia, where Lawrence struggles emotionally with

the death of his friends and random people in World War One.