Sonnettics

Intro: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson is a collection of short stories about life in a small town. One of the stories concerns a young lady named Louise Trunnion who has an “encounter” with a young man named George Willard. The chapter is titled: “Nobody Knows” and involves the “encounter” from George’s point of view. Clearly he is the one who is glad after the “encounter” that “Nobody Knows.” However, I wondered if there might be more to the story that “Nobody Knows.” Therefore, I took it upon myself to craft an additional chapter for Winesburg, Ohio based on one big supposition. I hope it does justice to Sherwood Anderson’s style and Louise Trunnion’s character.

CATALYST--Concerning Louise Trunnion's Unborn Child

The sky above Winesburg was gray and heavy, pressing down upon the fields that stretched beyond the Trunnion farmhouse. Louise sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the bare branches of a tree that swayed in the late autumn wind. She felt the familiar weight of silence, the kind that settled over the house after her father’s muttered grumblings faded into the distance. He had gone to town early that morning, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

It had been weeks since her encounter with George Willard. The memory of that night lingered, sharp and strange. She could still feel the damp chill of the grass beneath her and the awkward, fumbling intensity of his touch. It had been something she’d both longed for and dreaded, an act that seemed to promise a connection yet left her feeling more alone than ever.

Now, sitting by the window, Louise’s hand drifted to her stomach. A faint, nagging suspicion had taken root within her, growing stronger with each passing day. Her cycle, always predictable, had not come. She felt no sickness, no physical change, yet there was a certainty in her that she could not shake. She was carrying George’s child.

The realization filled her with dread, not for herself but for what the town would say. Winesburg was small, its people small-minded. She could already hear the whispers, the sideways glances, the quiet condemnation.

Her father, John Trunnion, would be the first to judge her. He was a hard man, stooped and gray, with little use for words beyond what was necessary to curse the weather or scold Louise for her imagined shortcomings. Since her mother’s death, he had grown more distant, retreating into a world of his own. Louise had learned to live with his indifference, but she knew he would not forgive this.

Her mind drifted to her mother, a woman she barely remembered. There were faint images—a soft hand brushing her hair, a warm voice singing lullabies. Her mother had been the only warmth in the house, and when she died, it seemed the light had gone out. Louise’s life had become a series of endless chores and quiet nights, broken only by the occasional burst of anger from her father.

And then there was George. She had thought, for a moment, that he might be different. That he might see her as more than just a farmer’s daughter, as someone worth knowing. But their encounter had left her with nothing but silence. He had not come to see her again, nor had he spoken to her in town. He had taken what he wanted and moved on, as she had always feared he would.

Louise rose from her chair and crossed the room to the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall. She studied her reflection, searching for some sign of change, some hint of the life growing within her. She saw only herself: pale, thin, with tired eyes and hair that refused to stay neat. She felt a sudden surge of anger—at George, at her father, at Winesburg itself. This town had nothing for her, and she would not stay to face its judgment.

That night, as her father snored in his chair by the stove, Louise sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and a pencil. She tried to write a letter to George. “I am leaving,” she wrote, but the words looked hollow on the page. She tried again. “You are the father of my child.” The sentence felt heavy, impossible. She tore the paper into shreds and let them scatter across the table. George would not care. He had his own dreams, his own plans. She would not burden him with hers.

Instead, she began to make her own plans. She gathered what little money she had saved, hiding it in the lining of her coat. She packed a small bag with her few belongings: a dress, a pair of shoes, a photograph of her mother. She would leave at dawn, taking the train to the city. She did not know where she would go or what she would do, but she knew she could not stay.

The morning was cold and damp, the sky still dark as Louise stepped out of the house. Her father’s snores echoed faintly through the open window, and she felt a pang of guilt for leaving without a word. But she pushed it aside. He would not understand, and she owed him nothing.

The walk to the station was long and lonely. The town was quiet, its streets empty. Louise kept her head down, her coat pulled tight around her. She reached the station just as the train pulled in, its whistle cutting through the morning air. She climbed aboard, clutching her bag tightly, and found a seat by the window.

As the train began to move, Louise looked out at the fields and houses that had been her world for so long. She felt a strange mix of fear and relief. She was leaving behind everything she had ever known, but she was also leaving behind the pain, the loneliness, the suffocating weight of Winesburg. For the first time, she felt the stirrings of hope.

On the train, Louise sat beside an older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Harper and struck up a conversation. Louise was hesitant at first, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. Harper’s kindness put her at ease. They spoke of small things—the weather, the journey ahead—but Louise felt a comfort in the woman’s presence.

As the train carried her farther from Winesburg, Louise allowed herself to imagine the future. She pictured the child she would bear, a boy or a girl with George’s eyes and her mother’s gentle spirit. She thought of the life she might build, a life where she was not defined by her past or by the judgments of others. It was a fragile dream, but it was hers.

The fields gave way to forests, and the forests to the outlines of a distant city. Louise watched as the landscape changed, feeling the weight of her old life begin to lift. She did not know what lay ahead, but in that moment, she felt ready to face it.

The train rolled on, carrying Louise toward an uncertain future and away from the town that had shaped her. In the quiet of her seat, she placed a hand on her stomach and whispered, “We’ll be all right.” And for the first time, she believed it.