Adelaide Magazine No. 39, August 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

a good dude, a heart full of kindness and out one bout at a time. Skillet admired
humor. Knew the best ways to demonstrate the gym’shumbling darkness. Wires that
concepts taught in class—how to calculate dangled like spider webs from tin fixtures
distance over time for vehicles traveling at above worn out canvas rings. Smell of diesel
certain speeds; best method for loosening from gravel haulers that grumbled past on
lugs nuts and changing a car tire before McGraw. The glint of sweat on boxers who
hoisting it on a jack; simpliest way to boil sparred and grunted. Splat of gloves pun-
water in the microwave to make Easy Mac. ishing flesh.
Food examples worked well. Skillet liked to
leverage those demonstrations by making “Stifled all that bullshit from the streets,”
everyone cook their own servings. he once muttered during class lecture, a
crooked smile stitched across his lips, notes
Popcorn, Easy Mac, pancakes on a flat crumpled in his big hand.
iron electric skillet—didn’t matter: if he
taught it and the boys could make it, they But now he’d escaped. No one knew
could eat it. All they had to do was to make where he was, least of all Skillet. He hoped
sure they had enough for Skillet. that he might understand. Go back, review
his case file, interpret the hidden details
Must’ve weighed 290, maybe 300 of his situation and see the justification in
pounds easy. The descriptions his mother spite of the law. Maybe, years down the
used about Refrigerator Perry from the road when he was older and free of his
Chicago Bears, the ones she garbled about crime, he could go back, try to explain to
during the weekly Lions slaughter — he Skillet. Let him know how much his wisdom
could easily apply them to Skillet: massive helped. How much he looked up to him like
upper body, thighs as thickas tree stumps, a big African American brother he never
square head plopped onto his shoulders had. By the time his actual release date
like a dollup of hot fudge on an ice cream came up, she might’ve been dead, her liver
cone. Deep, soothing voice. Sometimes shriveled like a prune on her couch, Virginia
during class, Skillet talked about his unteth- Slim pinched between her craggy fingers.
ered youth in Detroit. A gutless father who No one would have found her. Time to save
ditched the family when he was two. Her- her was running thin.
oine addict mom, who was 85 pounds when
she died in a burned-out bungalo on Five He squirmed against the tree. Thinking
Mile, a needle plunged into the leathery about his mother and Skillet made him feel
skin behind her knee. Once, he’d described nauseous. All that work. Hours. Jabs. The
a near-death fight. Lifted his MC-5 t-shirt bruised palms. Dipping and lunging. The
to show a jagged etch of skin in the dark glares. A small rope of guilt wormed its
layers of fat on his right side where a boy way into his chest when he thought about
from the 7 Mile Bloods had slashed him the days they spent in the recreation yard,
outside a club. Wasn’t until he was 16 that learning how to move, focus his power, shift
he’d found the sweaty concrete walls of the his weight on his feet, drive his fist from his
Kronk Gym on McGraw. He’d heard about shoulder and not his arm.
Tommy Hearns training there with Emanual
Stuart for his fight against Hagler, a place “Jab and dip, jab and dip. Don’t wait for
where inner city history was scratched him to bust your ear coming over the top,
Bobby.”

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“Been doing this my whole life, Skillet, unknowable rythmn that relied on muscle
I know,” he’d wheeze between jabs. He’d and mind working together seamlessly and
shoot a jab at Skillet’s massive paw, dip low, without thought. Take classes. Get his GED.
rise up again and launch a left jab, hear the Work part-time at the gym. Save some money
slap of his knuckles against soft palms. for a year. Enroll in community college.

“Your whole life,” Skillet mocked. “You ain’t Earn a certificate in heating and cooling.
but 16. Ain’t had no life yet. Still a baby in Move out of the city.
diapers. Faster, move faster, don’t admire it.”
But then Syd happened and everything
“I got it.” got derailed. He surged upward as that fa-
miliar pang of anger shot through his veins,
A week or two before he escaped, some fired a left jab into the fat part of Skillet’s
of the other juveniles stood at the edge right hand, which caused the big man
of where he and Skillet trained on the ce- to wince. Skillet rocked backward a step,
ment basketball court. They worked under caught off guard by the power of Bobby’s
a rusted metal backboard, its rim bent like jab. Then he eased forward again, his heavy
a paperclip toward the ground. Clevette, shoulders slumped like a boxer.
an aneroxic black kid with thick cornrows
who’d been arrested selling crack near Liv- After a few more minutes, Skillet raised a
ernois just outside of Bobby’s neighbor- hand for a time out. He bent over, forearms
hood, stood by, fingering the dark stubble of planted on his heavy thighs as he worked to
his chin, his small eyes narrowed into slits. regain his breath. Then he lumbered over to
where Clevette stood, a sweat stain in the
“Nigga, why you keep working with that shape of a pizza slice down the back of his
white fool,” he lamented, shaking his head. blue polo shirt.

Behind him, a group of four huskier black “Those skills might save his white ass,”
boys in blue jeans and white t-shirts loomed, Skillet whispered. He glanced back over his
nodding in agreement. shoulder, winked at Bobby. He turned to
Clevette. “Won the PAL championship last
“Tits got skills,” Skillet rasped, heaving. year,” he said, voice low.

“Skills, shit,” Clevette hissed. He spat on Bobby cringed and glanced away, seized
the ground near where Skillet and Bobby with embarrassment. Didn’t need anyone
worked. “Theys got his dumb ass dumped in to know. Championship was months ago. He
here. Not much skill breaking some dude’s had no reason to relish in it. It was nothing
face and getting caught.” but a means to build muscle, exhaust some
anger and get away from Syd a few hours
Clevette looked Bobby up and down, every day. Eight months in a sweaty gym
scowled. Bobby lowered his head and con- under recessed lights. Pounding weights on
tinued working, avoiding eye contact at all tired vinyl benches that creaked when the
costs. He bobbed and weaved, body gliding bar was loaded with plates. Pull-ups using
up and down effortlessly, each jab combina- cold water pipes that spanned the ceiling,
tion a fluid assembly of straights followed clinked and hissed after the toilet flushed.
by dips—one two dip left, one two dip right, Visions of Syd and his swollen face on heavy
one two dip left again. When he trained, bags that hung from rafters, the ones he
he sometimes imagined his future working
like a combination, everything synced in an

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worked over without gloves. Dull thud of withdrew into the shadows of his street
fists filling his ears. year after year, until all that he remem-
bered were his grease-smudged coveralls
Bobby turned his right hand over. Scars and scent of Old Spice. Syd was a different
on his knuckles never quite healed up. The story. When he thought long and hard
skin was red, rough and cracked, ready to about it, contemplated his mottled face,
bleed if stretched a certain way. A chunk collection of bongs that sat on the kitchen
from Syd’s front teeth had left a indentation counter, or imagined his plump body that
in the shape of a tooth. He often imagined flooded their ripped couch, holding back
that asshole’s face when he trained — the wasn’t an option. This was his world. She
broken capillaries, eyes the size of dimes that was his mother. He was tired of that broken
looked to have been drilled deep into his Harley tilted on the front sidewalk where
sockets, pastry skin blotched from drinking, weeds punched through cracks of cement,
small mouth formed into an irritating scowl a puddle of oil poisoning the brittle grass
as if he sucked on lemons. Bobby tried of their yard. Worn down from being called
not to flinch each time he thought about dumb ass: hey dumbass, grab me another
the beating she got last Thanksgiving be- beer. Dumbass, get your mom her pills from
fore he returned from the gym. Every so the bathroom.
often, the image of her laying face down
on the couch and that fat ass hunched at Dumbass, need to vacate for a few hours.
the table, an empty beer bottle in front of He’d had it with the back-hand flicks to his
him, floated up in his memory unexpect- ears whenhe sat in the kitchen reading
edly. He snapped his eyes shut, trying not one of his boxing magazines and minding
to remember. That didn’t work. He saw his his own business. Driving his heavy fist
mother’s torn lower lip. Black eyes coverup into Syd’s weak chin, squinting at his teeth
couldn’t conceal. A welt on her right temple. tumbling into the abyss of his incomplete
The voices of nameless trainers who barked mouth, laughing as he fell to his knees and
strategies during fights, techniques picked spat out his incisors in a thread of blood
up from rumpled copies of Boxing and mucos before taking a knee to the eye
socket — that was his pumpkin pie. That he
Illustrated when he sat on the gym’s did withpleasure.
iron-stained toilet, the weights he hefted
each day — manufacturing a viable motive “Shit, nigga, whatever,” Clevette spit.
wasn’t necessary. The bloated, sweaty face “Tits still stuck in this shit hole, ain’t leaving
of that fat fuck and memory of his swollen no time soon. Seems winning whatever the
hands around her neck at the table when he fuck championship he won did no good any-
walked through the front door — that was ways.”
more than enough.
Skillet nodded, recognizing the truth of
Looking back, his world was rutted his words.
with bad decisions and disgruntled memo-
ries that popped up like ruptured slabs of “Happy to work with you if you’re up for
concrete, burst car tires and fractured alu- it, Cleve,” he said, his voice easy, sincere.
minum rims in the winter. Beating the shit “Get a little meat on them bones. Build ya
out of Syd—that wasn’t one of them. Or the out a little. Make ya a real man, not some
memory of his father, in spite of how far it fake fool with a gun.”

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Clevette pulled his mouth to one side, “Nigga, you crazy?” he asked, waving
frowned. Behind him, some of his friends Skillet away with a dissmissive flick of his
chuckled low, shot smiling stares at each wrist.
other, shook their heads.
He scowled at Bobby, who stood, shaking
“Damn dawg,” he said. “I’m the real deal. his head slowly. “Give me a cap and I’ll test
My shit ain’t fake. Don’t have to waste any his skills.”
of my fuckin’ time. People take care of my
shit. Always have, always will.” Skillet nodded.

“Yet here you is, saying what you saying. “I figured,” he chuckled, turning back
Seems like you’re wasting time as it is, Cleve. to Bobby. “I hear ya, Cleve. Just ain’t man
enough. Need to bulk up first, get rid of that
Don’t make no sense.” baby body, do something.” He looked at the
boys behind Clevette and smiled. “You and
“It’s ok, Skillet,” Bobby sighed, wiping your mangina brothers should take this
sweat from his brow. He didn’t want any time and try to get in shape.”
more problems. Needed to stay focus, keep
his plan in line. Bobby looked down, clutched the
bottom of his chin with his hand and tried
Clevette scoffed. He raised his right hand, not to laugh. The smiles on the boys’ faces
snapped his fingers to indicate that the quickly evaporated. Skillet reached out,
group was moving. clutched

“Whatever big dawg, whatever the fuck. Clevette’s frail upper left arm and
You keep working with them white boys.” squeezed gently before the boy shrugged it
away and scowled again.
He started to walk away. Skillet looked
at his back, then shifted his gaze to Bobby, “You delicate like a dying bird. Your
then back to Clevette. scrawny ass get blowed away in the wind.”

“Wanna test his skills?” he asked sud- Behind him, Clevette’s crew chortled
denly, waving a meaty hand toward where again and bobbed side to side. Clevette
Bobby stood, his other hand on his hip, tightened his heavy lips, turned around, and
breathing heavy. Bobby glowered at him, slashed the air in front of him with a karate
shook his head. chop, quieting his friends.

Sweat poored from his forhead, into his “Nigga, you don’t know shit. No fuckin’
eyes. Fighting was against center policy. Au- clue,” he sputtered, turning to walk away
tomatically tacked a deuce onto your cur- across the compound toward the far end of
rent time regardless of how it might start or the basket ball court.
end. Skillet knew this. But he wasn’t afraid
to demonstrate an important point, even if Skillet laughed, low and deep, a sound
it fell outside of approved guidelines. Bobby that emanated deep within his belly.
knew that with one, maybe two punches
max, he could put Clevette down. But he “I know we all got bills to pay,” he
wanted no part of him. His reach back home preeched, voice booming loud enough for
was nothing to joke about. other boys at the far end shooting baskets
to hear. A curly, red-haired kid with the ball
stopped dribbling.

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“You all gots to remember that. Like make them stop watering, hoping that
the song says, ain’t no rest for the wicked. Skillet might not notice. Since he was a kid,
Money don’t grow on trees. Got bills to pay, he’d learned to check his emotions, stuff
mouths to feed, nothin’ in this world is free.” them down and hide them from others.
But lately, in the long hours of the night,
Clevette and his crew continued their he regretted leaving her alone and getting
saunter across the yard, hands clutching the himself locked up for two years. His job was
back pant loops of their jeans. to take care of her. Get his GED. Enroll at
community college. Maybe find a decent
Bobby stood up and stretched his arms job one day and move them out of the city.
to the sky. “You make that up?” But five minutes with Syd screwed it all up.
“Just want to avoid that stuff if possible. No
Skillet shook his head. “Naw,” he growled, what I mean?”
his breath labored. “Bunch of white boys
who rap. Can’t think of their name. Speak Skillet craned his big head back on his
the truth though. No lie in their game.” shoulders, stretching his thick neck. Dark
veins bulged on the sides. He looked at
Bobby wiped his forehead with the Bobby and pursed his lips, perhaps recog-
back of his hand. Clevette and his crew nizing his watery eyes.
hadreached the cement bench at the far
end of the compound, sat, and immedi- “I read ya loud and clear, Bobby,” Skillet
atelly begain gestering with his hands to- said. “You need to get anything off your
ward Skillet andBobby. chest, can always come to me.” He gave
Bobby’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Ain’t
“You weren’t serious about him and me always about making you all see the bad
going at it?” Skillet waved at Clevette. you’ve done. We all done bad at one time
or ‘nother. But how we move forward and
“Naw,” he growled. “Against policy. Just grow…that’s how you make a better future.
trying to get him a little nervous, make him We never forget what we
think.”
done, but it don’t need to ruin what
Bobby chewed on this a second or two. could be good in your life if we use it as a
guide. You need to talk, just shout. Anytime
“Really want no part of him. Don’t need at all.”
no more trouble than I already got,” he
whispered, turning his body away from the He watched Bobby from the corner of
group, but watching them from the corner his eye. Bobby slowly nodded but kept his
of his eye. “He done things in my neighbor- eyes on the ground, his stomach churning
hood no one knows about. Bad things.” with worry, eyes burning.

Bobby shook his head, looked down, Skillet turned to regard Clevette and his
worried. “Maybe if you need me to spar crew again.
with him, I could. Things can’t really get
any worse than they are already. Moms is “Stupid fools. Just trying to get them to
pretty much on her own at home. Got no think more about what they says and dos.
one but me.”
Clevette and his crew is as dumb as they
He looked up and for a second felt his come, but whatever. Need to try and get
eyelids grow heavy with tears. He looked
away and blinked a few times, trying to

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him and you straight.” He shrugged. “Some- “Helps pass time, eh?”
times it works, sometimes it don’t. He thinks
this is just a pit stop. But he goin’ down the Bobby shrugged. He thought about his
wrong path and can’t stop. You, I can help.” mother, what booth she might be slumped
into, if her head might be planted into a
Bobby could feel Skillet’s gaze on him pretzel bowl, how many whiskeys she’d con-
and sense his plump dark mouth curving sumed. He hoped she’d make it home safely
into a smile. For a minute he reminded tonight. He hoped he might see her soon.
Bobby of Aunt Jemima on the label of syrup
he loved as a kid. The taste of syrup always “Passing my time, right?” Bobby asked
made him feel safe, comforted. as he rubbed an eye and looked up. Skillet
nodded. “Now you getting it.”

About the Author

Gary James Erwin’s stories, essays and science journalism have appeared in many literary
journals, reviews and publications, including Red Cedar Review, The Sun, Pebble Lake
Review, The MacGuffin, Driftwood Review, Michigan Avenue, 3288 Review and Santa Fe
Literary Review among others. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations and had
a story anthologized in The PrePress Awards Volume II: Michigan Voices. His collection of
thematically-linked short stories, Trail Crossing Sixteen Counties, was published by Adelaide
Books in September 2019 and was nominated for the Michigan Library Association’s 2020
Michigan Notable Books of the Year recognition. “River Run” is an excerpt from his novel-
in-progress titled Grindstone Creek. He lives with his wife, kids and critters on three acres
in the woods of Clarkston, Michigan, and serves as associate vice president of Marketing &
Communications at University of Detroit Mercy.

104

INTIMATE

by Susie Gharib

“I wanted to intimate something and not to was ransacking his memory for a single
be intimate,” I explained with a bitter grin. word or deed that could have misled him
and thus implicate me in the derailing of
He always boasted about his excellent a flowering friendship. I had learnt from
command of English but that sex-charged previous experiences that some men could
adjective that resembled a verb he had get the wrong impression, so I had made
never used before began to shatter his it clear from the very beginning that my
self-confidence. He looked like a captain affection for him was sisterly in order to
who had lost his ship to the winds. avoid any future mishaps and misunder-
standings. I was tired of losing potential
“Please forgive me, Celena,” he stuttered friends because each relationship that was
with an accent that he managed to conceal immune to sexual dalliance floundered in
when he was not upset. the end.

“I thought we were friends,” I said with “Always ends the same,” my mind kept on
apparent disappointment. repeating a refrain from George Michael’s
“Cowboys and Angels”, my favorite hit. Only
The crumbled letter in his hand was Haseem was not a cowboy, and I was not
bearing the grunt of his reddening embar- the indulging victim. “It’s the ones who per-
rassment. sist that we most want to kiss”, how true it
is. Throughout my life, I had tried to salvage
“There was no verb to be and you en- one single friendship but I could not.
couraged me to use formal English in our
epistolary correspondence,” I added, giving “What is it you wanted to intimate to me,”
a grammatical twist to a very awkward sit- he finally said with effort, as if his tongue
uation. had been chemically transformed into a
piece of lead.
He reopened the letter to doublecheck
the absence of the infamous be and vent I hesitated for a while then decided to
his spleen on his stupidity. I could not un- tell the truth regardless of consequences.
derstand how a misinterpretation of one
word would unleash that passion which “I wanted to tell you that I could move
must have been for months smoldering. I into your apartment and give my house
was taken aback by the kiss that tried to to the female immigrants who fled from
prowl upon my lips with absolute vehe- arranged marriages. My house is spacious
mence. I was deeply offended. I knew he

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enough to accommodate the ten of them. “When do we meet in the library to-
You had told me that you could not receive morrow?” I asked, trying to inject some
them at your place because you observe cheerfulness to a voice that had started fal-
cultural etiquette, and I could not dwell tering. Deep down, I was extremely morti-
with such a crowd because I crave for si- fied at that turn of events.
lence needed to conduct my research. But I
can see now that this plan can longer work, “At ten,” he said, without looking into my
so let us forget the incident,” I said with an eyes because his orbs were growing tear-
affirmative voice to put the matter to an ev- fully iridescent.
erlasting end.
“We could have lunch in the nearby café
He wanted to say something but opted because we have loads of work and no time
to keep his lips locked for fear of aggravating to waste,” I added with emphasis.
the situation.
“Indeed, my friend,” he said with a bent
head.

106

YOUNG MAN’S SLAVE

by Bo Fisher

There’s a security car that passes the “Oh,” she said, “yeah, but it was nothing.
house every three hours. It makes a slow Probably the sushi from last night. I feel fine,
left hand turn about the cul-de-sac at the now.”
end of Poplar Hill Loop before retracting its
path through the neighborhood. The driv- “I told you not to eat any sushi around
er waves at Karen, her face only half visible here,” he said. “This isn’t New York.” Did
behind the curtain. She hasn’t waved back he think she’d forgotten? She asked if he’d
since moving to Cotton Lake. She won’t let considered putting a gym in the basement.
herself. Not yet at least.
“I just don’t have the time right now. It’s
For the first month after she and Jason the middle of the season. How can I put in
moved to the lake, she found ways to dodge a gym?”
the neighbors. She didn’t answer the door
when they came with their pies and their “We could hire someone to do it. You
iced teas. She only took out the trash at know, just so that you wouldn’t have to
night when she was convinced they were leave so early every—”
asleep. People get comfortable when they
are on a first name basis, when they wave at He was already out the door, already
those who are better left strangers. waving it off saying, Yes, Yes, he’d think
about it. He had to wait for the security
Jason was still fumbling for his bags at car to pass before he could back out of the
the door when Karen pulled herself away driveway. Jason waved at the driver. Karen
from the window. He would leave early for shut the door, went back to bed.
the ballpark, as he did every morning since
their move. There was always something *
he needed to work on, something to im-
prove in his game: picking up the knuckle- It’s a thirty-five minute drive through Cot-
ball before they played Toronto; practicing ton Lake, the rural, gated community they
with a heavier bat before playing New York; moved to just outside Augland, Michigan,
watching film on certain left handed pitchers and then another ten minutes down a two-
and learning when to steal second on them. lane highway to get to something resem-
bling a town. Karen endures the trip once
“Did I hear you throwing up earlier? a day.
While I was still in the shower?”
The first time she drove through Cotton,
all she saw were poplar trees. There wasn’t

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a Bloomingdales. No Whole Foods or NYC “I wouldn’t be on the phone if I was in
Racquet Club. There was no Margot Patis- the cages.”
serie with her almond croissant and salted
caramel latte. Just poplar trees flanking “So do you think they’ll cancel it?” she
her on both sides of the street. Growing at asked again. She was balancing herself on
near-visible rates. Edging her in. one leg in front of the television, turning her
flip-flop over with her big toe. “It looks bad.”
Detroit was a two-hour drive while the
next best thing–an area called Marysville “I hope not.”
that’d recently re-identified itself as a city
rather than a village after an exciting seven “Why? If they cancel it now, you might be
percent population rise–was an additional home before ten.”
twenty minutes drive from Augland. So,
most Saturdays now, instead of browsing “We’re two games out, babe.”
the Chelsea or Brooklyn flea markets, Karen
settles for wandering around a Meijer where “Well, I just thought if they cancelled it,
she might buy cheese by the pound or wine you’d be able to come home early.”
by the gallon. There’s a Pete’s Coffee, but
she’s refrained from going back. The one She moved into the kitchen, stood be-
time she went, two men in coveralls cor- fore the window. There were two new cars
nered her against the pick-up counter. in the driveway of the house across the
street.
“Hey, wait,” one of them said, shoving a
finger at her, “you’re Campbell’s wife aren’t *
you? Jason Campbell!” She nodded, smiled,
turned around to look for her latte. She couldn’t tell what had woken her up,
the noise coming from across the street
“Knew it!” He clapped his friend on the or the pain in her stomach. She searched
back. “Hey, you’ve got a good man there. the refrigerator for a Ginger Ale but soon
He’s gonna get our boys a pennant this year.” felt her body heave itself toward the sink.
There, she threw up something that looked
The other one interjected, “Wait, now, I like oatmeal. Her stomach settled, she sat
figured ya’ll’d be living in Detroit or some- at the kitchen island and stared out the win-
where closer to the stadium. What the dow. A chiminea, visible around the side of
hell’re you doing all the way out here?” the neighbors’ porch flickered, beckoned.

* Jason came into the kitchen, grabbed a
coconut water from the refrigerator. “Were
“Do you think they’re going to cancel the you just throwing up?”
game, Jay?” On the television a group of
men had just begun unrolling a tarp onto the “Don’t you hear that?” she asked him. “I
diamond. “They’re bringing out the tarp.” think it’s coming from the new neighbors.”
When he didn’t answer, she asked what he
“I see that, babe, I’m at the ballpark.” thought it might be.

She turned the station to the weather “It’s music, Karen.”
channel. “Well, I thought maybe you were
in the cages.” “Doesn’t sound like music.”

“Yeah, and you don’t sound 100 years
old there,” he muttered. Typically, the sort

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of comment wouldn’t have bothered her. to admit her age: it’s thirty-two; she’d been
Living in New York, Karen often felt younger saying it for 200-some days, yet it had never
than she was. And that’s not even to say been so difficult.
that she was old: thirty-two to be exact. Yet
she’d done something strange the other day. “Yes, yes,” she lied, her head desperately
nodding in every direction, convincing her-
She’d made the mistake of taking the self. “Yes, yes, yes.”
trash out when the sun was still up. Mr. Al-
tman greeted her from his lawn. He’d been Jason finished his coconut water and
tending the garden while his wife sat on the joined her at the window. The sky was in
porch, drinking her iced tea and squinting the process of turning from pitch black to
across the yard. navy blue, yet Karen could now make out
a form on the porch across the street that
“Who is it, Ralph?” she asked her hus- seemed to vibrate in the early morning heat.
band.
How the hell had security not been called
“It’s Karen, darling,” he shouted over his all night? She didn’t want to ask Jason. He
shoulder. Then to Karen, he said, “She’s was smiling, looking across the street.
been putting off going to the eye doctor for
her new lenses. Thinks she doesn’t need “We should go have a beer with them.”
them!”
“Who?” Karen asked.
Mrs. Altman toasted with her iced tea,
asked Karen if she caught the Tigers game “Those kids over there.”
the night before. Karen nodded, knowing
that she couldn’t tell the truth. She thought about grinning but couldn’t
tell if he had been serious. “Jesus, Karen,”
“That husband of yours,” Mr. Altman Jason sighed. “It was a joke. And they’re
said to Karen. “That homer he hit the other just college students. You remember col-
night against the White Sox? Whoa! And lege, right?”
off of Jensen, to boot! Haven’t seen a Tiger
with that sort of power since Magglio. But Karen wondered if the question might
Jason’s even faster than him; better arm too. not be rhetorical. Of course she remem-
Five-tool player, they say.” bered. She remembered nights after games,
sneaking into the baseball dugouts, drinking
“You betcha,” Karen allowed, smiling, with the team until dawn. She remem-
back-peddling. bered staying in the dugout with Danny
Kauffman after everyone had left and be-
“Ten year contract, too,” he gasped. fore the grounds crew would show up at
“Clubs don’t shell out those kind of years for 8:00. The smell of Marlboro Lights on his
the young man’s slave, Karen. Only twen- fingers. Of sunscreen and stale beer. BBQ
ty-seven years old! That kid is going to be and hairspray. Breath mints and vomit. The
a star.” sounds of Tom Petty and Springsteen. Old
bed springs and headboards, rally chants
“You and your Jason are only twen- and victory car honking.
ty-seven?” Mrs. Altman shouted from the
porch, squinting again as if to find the These things Karen remembered well. So
number pinned to Karen’s forehead. And when was it exactly, she tried to remember,
that’s when it happened. Karen was about that she had begun to forget?

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* hurt only a person you thought would never
cause could cause, Karen remembered a
It’s my day off, Jason just kept saying; why conversation they had ten months ago. Jason
did they have to fight on his off day? He was told her he was thinking of opting out of the
pouring coffee beans into the grinder with final year of his contract with the Yankees.
one hand and checking the scores from the They’d been married just over a year, and
night before on his phone with the other she suddenly felt stupid for assuming they’d
hand. never leave New York. The conversation
began as something casual, the kind where
“I didn’t think we were fighting,” she said. they were both carrying out menial activities
while half-listening to the other—she, dicing
“I just don’t know why we can’t wait until cucumbers for a salad; he, scrolling through
the off-season to talk about something like his phone. At first it just sounded like an
this.” idea, something they’d talk about without
allowing it to become too serious. Only mo-
“Because it’s only June. You really want ments later did she realize he was no longer
me to live here for another four months?” speaking in hypotheticals but in certainties.
He spoke of his career; she, of their life. He
“Don’t forget about October, babe,” he thought of money; she, of friends. But some-
said with a smile. She brought up Detroit where in the middle of it all, as the fight frac-
again. At this, Jason’s body deflated toward tured, sprouted new fights, he decided that
the floor like a child being carted around a they couldn’t raise a family in the city. And
department store by his parents. if they were going to “do this thing,” as he
put it, they’d need to start soon. “Nobody is
“For God’s sake, Karen,” he exhaled. “Why getting any younger,” he warned.
the hell would you want to live in Detroit?
There’s nothing wrong with Cotton Lake. I Whenever she thought back to this con-
grew up in a place like this and I loved it. My versation, one that her divorced friends
parents were happy. I was happy. What is compared to fights with their respective
it?” And when she didn’t answer, he added, exes, Karen would grow faint, nauseous.
“And Detroit? Karen I have to go through it Now, staring at Jason’s back, she was
every day. Do you know what Detroit is? It’s suddenly aware of a raging saliva and its
having to lock your car doors at red lights. It’s mounting thickness on her tongue.
being afraid to send your kid to school every
morning, wondering if he’s going to come “Did you really just say that?” The coffee
back home or not. Do you really want that?” grinder stuttered. Jason appeared to think
about responding but pretended not to hear.
“What kid, Jason?” Her body stiffened. “Hey,” she tried again. “Are you fucking kid-
He didn’t know anything. What was there ding me?”
to know? She hadn’t taken a test, afraid of
what it would say, of what it would mean. “What?” He stopped the machine and
turned around.
“I’m just making a point,” he sighed. “It’s
just hypothetical.” He turned back to the “What what? What the hell is that sup-
coffee grinder, mumbled something about posed to mean? Is there something you
it being too late anyway. want to say to me?”

In that moment between confusion and
rage that might best be described as the

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“I don’t want to do this today,” Jason happen in a few months. What would their
warned, smiling wearily. “I don’t know what lives be like then? Had he just been making
you think you heard, but I don’t want to do a point? Was everything still hypothetical?
this right now.” Her stomach ached an anxious retort.

“No, you don’t want to do anything, re- Two more boys came outside. One held
ally. All you want to do is drag me out in the a coffee mug, the other a can of beer. Each
middle of nowhere, promise me everything took out cigarettes of their own. A guilt sud-
will be worthwhile, talk about how great it denly overcame Karen.
is out here, and then spend all your time
anywhere but here. How the hell does that “Maybe we could go into town,” she of-
work? This place is so great? Why aren’t you fered.
ever here, Jay?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “I was thinking
“Seriously? That’s a real question you of going down to the lake.”
want to ask me? That’s fair?” Karen threw
her hands up, began for the kitchen window. “We could go on a hike,” she tried, sur-
It was 7:15. The security guard would be prising herself.
passing any moment. The poplar trees
across the street pushed themselves into Jason smiled, picked up his phone. “Sure,
her vision. She could feel Jason standing babe. Maybe.”
beside her, feel him trying to gauge her eye-
line, trying to pull her back toward him. “I’m *
in-season, Karen. This has been our lives for
three years now, and all of a sudden you’ve On Tuesday he boards a plane for Texas and
got a problem with it?” she spends the day on the Altman’s porch.
One of the college kids turns on the pro-
“It’s not the job I have a problem with.” pane to their grill. Mrs. Altman marvels sol-
emnly over how long Jason will be on the
“Right.” Jason moved back to the coffee road. “Seventeen days,” she keeps saying.
grinder. “I don’t know what to say, anymore,
Karen. It sounds stupid saying you signed up Wednesday, Jason calls after the game,
for this, but didn’t you? In a way at least? but because they lost he doesn’t want to
We talked about this. We agreed to try it talk for more than a few minutes. She’s
out, and—” upset but wonders what they would’ve
spoken about had he stayed on any longer.
“And we’ve tried it. I have. I can’t.” Afterward she calls her friend Corrine who
still lives in New York and cries into the
“Great.” Jason sighed, started pouring phone for an hour. Corrine doesn’t help
the coffee into a filter. “Well, like we talked when she asks if it’s possible that Jason is
about before, maybe we’ll move after the sleeping around.
season. You can’t wait a few more months?”
Thursday, the game goes into extras,
One of the boys from across the street and she falls asleep waiting for his call. She
came outside and lit a cigarette. He wakes up to booming music at 2 AM and
stretched like a cat, and his wrinkled blue she sees a text: “Sorry the game went into
tank top lifted, exposing his mid-drift. She 14 innings. We won! Going out for beers
thought about Jason’s question. A lot could with the team. Hope the neighbors are
driving you crazy.”

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Friday, he calls her from the plane be- herself of the implications of that conver-
fore they leave for California. All he says is, sation, and instead she says again that she
“Taking two of three from the Rangers isn’t could’ve come with him to the West Coast.
so bad, I guess.” While she tries to think of “I know Lucia goes with you guys,” she says,
things they can talk about, she wanders the and when he doesn’t answer, she clarifies,
grocery telling herself she doesn’t need “The first baseman’s wife.” “Lopez?” he
to take a test. Later she watches the boys laughs. “His wife has family in Anaheim. She
across the street compete in a beer funnel only came because we’re in LA and Oakland
race. She hides the pink box in the back of for 10 days straight.” He tells her that even
a cabinet. The boy who finishes last vomits if she had come, he would’ve barely seen
over the porch railing. her, and she realizes this is true. How often
does she see him when they play in Detroit?
Saturday is a day-game, and Mrs. Altman
invites Karen over again for iced teas and Monday, he spends his day off in the
sandwiches. Mr. Altman stays in the house batting cage and she makes an excuse to
and watches the game. In between innings not spend another day next door. There’s a
he comes outside with updates. “Your man thunderstorm on Cotton Lake, but she can
just robbed the Angels of a homerun. What still hear the neighbors’ music. She places
a stud! I love that kid.” When five of the boys her hand flat against the warm glass of her
across the street shotgun beers and throw bedroom window, lets the music’s vibra-
the empties onto the yard, Mr. Altman ex- tions move through her body like electricity.
changes words with them. “You boys better She thinks of her appointment at the clinic
pick those up or I’ll call security. You might tomorrow and whether or not she’ll go.
be on vacation, but this is where we live Wonders what tools they would use. What
and you better treat it with some respect.” she would feel. What she wouldn’t. Then,
Mrs. Altman pats him on the arm, says, “You imagining sitting in her underwear atop
tell ‘em, Ralph.” One of the boys apologizes, an amplifier, the flesh of the inner thighs
another burps, the rest laugh. Karen slinks quivering, the room goes black. A streak
down in the patio chair and tries to hide of lightning thrashes through the darkness
her face behind the glass of iced tea. And and the sky claps with thunder. And this
for the first time, she wonders if they’ve time, she realizes, it’s the beat of her own
been watching her as much as she’s been heart making noise.
watching them.
*
Sunday, after their win and sweep of the
A’s, he tells her he sees no point in coming What could she ask them for? What kind of
back to Michigan for his day off. “Why would food would a college student have? What-
I fly from California to Michigan and then ever she asked for, they needed to have it
back just for one day?” When she tells him so that she could actually get past the door.
that she misses him, that she can’t spend
another day next door, that she thinks she’s She’d tried imagining the inside of their
turning into Mrs. Altman, he tells her it’s house. Every night that she stayed awake
only 11 more days. So, she considers telling listening to their music, every morning
him about the test. She wonders if he would when one of them came out for a cigarette
come home because of it. But she reminds and coffee, every time they threw beer cans
onto the yard, she fantasized about being

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right there next to them. Until an hour ago, Pistons game that night and people need
she never would’ve considered actually dip to do such things. They could come if
knocking on the door. they wanted to, she thought about saying.
Well, sure, of course, I’ll come in and wait
She’d agreed to going to the rec center for you to find the dip—that’s no problem,
with Mrs. Altman when she realized she really. And, oh, is that beer pong in the
didn’t have anything better to do but obsess corner? I haven’t played that since my last
over the neighbors from her window. How- college reunion…no, she wouldn’t say that.
ever, once there, she became overwhelmed Nice pong table—who’s got next?
by the demographics. In the locker room
she watched a woman in her eighties being She waited for the security car to round
helped into her bathing suit by a friend. The the loop at the end of Poplar Hill and pass
pool was ruled by geriatric swimming les- by before leaving her house. She heard the
sons. In the first hour that she was there, music—that same heart beat rhythm with
ambulances visited the weight room twice. notes like shards of broken glass slicing
But it was a gesture of Mrs. Altman’s that through the center and looping, looping,
caused Karen to feign sickness, mumble looping. She knocked on their door. The
something about walking home, and rush beat pulsed through Karen’s forearm in
for the locker room before the old woman sonic waves, passing through her shoulder
could stop her. Karen had been sitting on the and causing her to fold like a wet leaf. Dip;
edge on the pool, dangling her toes in the basketball game; party; I can shotgun too.
water, when Mrs. Altman let out a small cry. The words throbbed along her tongue just
She doggy paddled to the edge and brushed as when Danny Kauffman asked her to wear
a finger gently under her Karen’s left eye. his jersey at the bars after beating Penn
State. She was only a freshman at the time,
“Darn bags,” she said. “I get them all the he a junior and captain of the team. She had
time.” searched for the words that time too—one
word specifically: yes. But like an atom, the
“What?” Karen asked. She rubbed at the word split and began multiplying, and every
bottoms of her eyes. half-syllable vibrated like the shirt from her
chest.
“You know what I do? Before I go to sleep
every night, I set a small bag of ice over both And then the door was open.
my eyes, and it’s like magic. No more bags.”
“Oh,” was all he said at first. There was a
“These things? Oh, I probably just haven’t beer stain on his loose blue tank top, which
been sleeping well because of the music was still wet, still sticking to his ribs. Dip,
across the street the last week. It’s nothing.” she tried. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Is
the music too loud? I know we’ve been an-
“Well who could sleep through that noying you guys, I’m sorry. I’ll turn it down.”
racket? But no, no, darling, I think these
just come with age. Are you sure you’re 27?” Someone from inside yelled, asked who
Mrs. Altman laughed, kidding of course, but was at the door. Karen heard something
Karen pulled back. She rolled over onto her plastic hit the ground, something with a
knees and started for the door. light bounce. What was that? She’d heard
that sound before. She wanted to stay to
Dip! She would ask them for dip because
she was inviting people over to watch the

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remember, but she felt her body turning “Go Yankees,” she whispered.
away already.
“Oh, shit! You better keep your voice
“Guys turn it down,” he yelled inside. down or Ralph will hear you.” He paused
“The lady across the street can hear us to laugh some more, clapping his hands in
again.” And then, with the door half shut, approval of her. “Ahh, look we just ordered
she heard him quietly warn, “She might call some food for the Sox game, it’s coming on
the fucking cops.” in like an hour. Having a few drinks. Chilling
out, nothing crazy. But you’re welcome to
Before she realized, she was at the come over if you want. It’s not the Yankees,
street, halfway home. Her face felt wet, but but hey, it’s not the Tigers either.”
she didn’t have time to rub the tears away.
She didn’t see the door. Didn’t see the road “Fuck the Tigers,” she whispered again.
or the house. All she saw were the poplar
trees in her peripherals, boxing her in, cor- “Yo. Now, you gotta come over.”
nering her senses. Just before she reached
her yard someone from behind called out to A ping pong ball! That’s what it was, she
her, using the word “ma’am.” remembered, as he led her into the house.
The sound, that playful plastic bounce, light
“Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. and youthful that she had heard only mo-
ments before. She hadn’t forgotten any-
“Oh, my bad, my bad.” His voice seemed thing.
forced, deeper than what she was expecting.
She turned and found a boy standing before “Guys, this is,” he looked down at her and
her, his pink tank top clutched against his smiled, “my bad, my bad, I didn’t even get
ribs and chest, his arms as big as Jason’s, a your name.”
crop of brown hair tangled with sweat in
his eyes. “Look, sorry about the music, you “Karen,” she said, blushing.
know, we’re just having some fun while
we’re still here. We’re only here for one “Guys. This is Karen. Karen, this is the
more day. It’s sort of a summer trip thing. squad. Jake, Robbie, Bryce, Luck, Kyle, Jordan,
You know how it is,” he smiled. “I’m sure and Sampson. I’m Brian by the way.”
you party every now and then.”
“Oooh, shit, you’re Jason Campbell’s
She blinked. wife!” the one named Luck burst out,
spilling his beer a little as he leaned over the
“Sure, sure,” she allowed. “I saw you guys pong table to point at her. Then everyone
we’re playing—” else agreed with “ooh shits” of their own.
“Your huband’s a bitch. But you can have
“You’re Jason Campbell’s wife, aren’t next game if you want.”
you?” She felt the right side of her body dip
to the ground. She was ready to nod and “You’ll be playing us,” the one named Jake
walk away when he added, “I hate to break said, handing her a Bud Light can. “Luck’s a
it to you, but your husband sucks.” She fucking troll, he hasn’t made shit all week.”
didn’t realize that she, herself, was smiling
until he smiled back. “Yeah,” he continued, Karen watched herself take the beer,
laughing, looking shyly at the ground, watched herself open it and then motion
“we’re from Chicago. Go White Sox.” with the can toward a funnel that rested on
the kitchen counter.

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“Anyone want to pour this beer into that room. Luck was next to her, pouring his own
funnel for me?” beer into his funnel while Brian poured for
her. On the TV she noticed Jason’s stats
“Oooh shit,” the boys harmonized. flashing across the screen while two ana-
lysts spoke before the White Sox game. One
“What–this funnel?” Brian held it up of them said to the other, “This might’ve
to her from a distance. “You sure you can been the biggest move over the off-season.
handle this?” The Detroit Tigers nabbing Jason Campbell
off the free agency. Shane,” he intimated to
“Bro, she fucks with it,” Jake said. “Look at the other analysts, “this kid is in the prime
her, she’s crazy. Give Luck the other funnel, of his career, I think we’re looking at a beau-
I’ll bet fifty that she fucking murders him.” tiful, beautiful relationship between a pow-
erful switch hitter and the Tigers for years
“My whole dick,” Luck said, pulling a beer to come.”
from the case under the table. “I hope you
don’t funnel beer like your pussy husband “Yo,” Brian said. She felt him hovering
swings the bat.” over her, holding the funnel high above her
head. She could smell the sweat coming
“Bro,” Jake said, “he bats like .320.” from his armpit. The heart beat music vi-
brating the floor beneath her and running
“He’s a bitch,” Luck said. up the insides of her legs. “You ready?” he
asked. She nodded. Luck finished pouring
Karen caught herself looking out their his beer. She removed her thumb from the
kitchen window. Mr. Altman leaned over nozzle and tilted her head back.
the side of his porch as his wife knocked on
Karen’s door. The poplar trees swayed in a
pre-storm tension, and she imagined the
wind uprooting one, tossing it into her living

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LOVE AND REBIRTH

by Esther Neema

The bell was ringing. They heard it! It was The village was dark, and the night was
grand! Three times it rung! Each time it even darker. Fear of death and fear of spirits,
rung louder than the last. Gong! Gong! fears of whose door it would knock this time.
Goooooong! Two great men and a child, now gone, the
question is who was sacrificing others and
“Another one has died!” Bibi whispered, why? Death without sickness would always
as the wrinkles of her face shown. be the hand of man, and never god. For god
would not be so cruel to take a man, before
It was cold and windy, blowing the co- his time, especially a young child.
conut trees. There was heard the sound of
owls and barks of dogs all over the village. Shortly, another bell rung, once, twice,
It was the cold season, and so was every thrice and then it stopped. Another person
heart. The sorrow that this month had gone, every corner of Ribe was wails and
brought could not have never been worse. tears. The silence was finally disrupted, and
It was as if the devil had come with all his the wails would cover most of the night, and
might, together with the cold nights or the suddenly, there was another silence, dawn
gods were angry and shaking every earth was near, and the village would go to sleep,
seeking for man to repent. The village that hoping for the wake of a new day, and hope-
once had music and drum beats in celebra- fully forget about the last one.
tions of weddings and festivals had nothing
to celebrate about, it was filled with fear, *
suspicion and blood shed.
Her lantern was flickering, her paraffin al-
Thrice that week, the bell had rung, most getting finished. As the wind blew, she
three people had departed to the other feared, it would also blow her lantern, and
world. Death had become too common she had no more matches to light it in the
than they would have preferred, and even mid of the night. Though the cause of fear
though common, it could never be anything and believed to be powerful, she too had
they could have ever get used to. her fears. She too was afraid of the night,
afraid of the dark, and equally longed for
“Who could it be?” Nyavula asked her warmer days just as the coast was warm
grandmother when she was younger. Only, even in the
midst of hot days, whilst others would drip
“No one was sick. It must be Sophia, she
is out to finish us all” Her nose pointing at
Sophia’s house.

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of sweat, she never felt warm. Every part of She had wanted to speak but she didn’t.
her was cold. They came again in the evening.

Her house small, she would still be She remained silent, staring at the
okay if the wind blew her fire, but she still ground until they left. They had talked in
wanted light at least just for tonight, any shouts and heckling, and all along she had
light for this matter would be okay, for many not said a word. She just said, “Go away”
years she had lived in darkness. On such at last in a husky voice that no body heard.
cold nights, she felt she needed to feel that She wondered if anybody heard her. It often
her house had company more than her- felt as if she spoke and nobody heard, or
self. For the many years she had lived, all maybe they did not listen or maybe she lost
she had gotten used to is the sound of her her own voice. She had often spoken, what
own voice, her touch alone, and her smell had seemed loud to her, but even she could
only. Nobody came, nobody came close. not understand herself. It was like madness.
The closest to the world was her memories, Was she?
many of which were not good now. The
good ones had somehow escaped her at Old, frail she had grown, now, even her
one time. Most vividly was the time she was last tooth had fallen. The children of her
made to take an oath. The entire village had own she longed for and even love she had
stood there watching her prove she was not longed for, there was not even a trace of
a witch, and as she swallowed the oath, it it. Every dream she had, had stared back at
stuck on her throat. It was only luck that she her in emptiness, owing very few items in
was not torched on that day, but everyday, her how. Her room was her portrayal of the
she was sure they would come for her one nothingness that had surrounded her being,
night. Just the other night, Charo, her sis- she had rage, sorrow, and emptiness. And
ter’s son had led a revolution to torch Mzee now that her years were over, she was sure,
Katana. It was only a matter of time. With her dreams would never be.
every bell that rung, so was her closeness
to the day they would come for her. They “At least there must be a time when man
had for many old men and women, and it stops believing, and it becomes okay to ex-
seemed she was the last of their suspects. pect nothing.” She had stopped dreaming,
singing, she had no music. “I am fine” as her
She had heard the bell, and her fear rose, head shook. She had often said to her walls,
not for the fear of death but for what any but she had stopped believing.
loss would mean for her.
The nights were longer, her days shorter,
Not long, her sister’s sons had come in for she looked forward to darker moments
noise, knocking at her door violently. “Stop than light often. Light would always be a
whatever you are doing, I warn you!”. It reminder of all she never had. The sound
was early in the morning, and had not even of children playing or women laughing
risen. He heard a gentle know at the door. reminded her what she could have been
She hadn’t opened. or could have had. She stayed inside, left
only at night to get her food from her farm
“I know you are in there. I am not afraid outside, so that no one would see her. She
of you, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to perhaps had not seen the sun in years, as
torch you, stop it”. every window had been covered to the last

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space, no light at all could ever get in. She “How will I sit before my peers, with you
was darkness and darkness was her, she walking around here having run away from
thought. What had been said of her, had your husband? You have made me a con!”
become a strong part of her, that she used He rattled.
the very fear to scare those frightened her.
She never understood why she couldn’t be She had never said why she left or even
released of this curse that befell her. maybe why she was chased, but her pain
had never departed her, every time she
“We do not want witches among us. One thought about it, she walked wounded daily,
of us has to leave. And we are not going and though wounds healed, hers had never.
anywhere. You either leave, or we make you She ached for her first love who never came.
leave” they had threatened. She ached for her short-lived marriage that
never materialized. Her heartbreak had led
She ever looked down, not one tear, not her back home, to never depart. But who
one word. What would she say that they did would take her, who would have a woman
not already know? She was what they said who ran away from her husband back to her
of her, and truly she did not know how she father’s? Even as she had walked speaking
could release herself of her own curse. to herself, “I can do this! I can do this!” She
didn’t really feel the courage she had before
Her story was shared amongst women strutting all over Kambe. She felt stripped
and children, often as a warning, especially of everything, she felt naked, but mostly
to girls. They told of how she had been en- she had felt the heat on her face every time
gaged by one very handsome man, rich and she walked and everyone stared. It was this
famous. Her ceremony had been grand and time, she stopped walking out more, unless
even her bride price, the best during that she had to, but often she didn’t have to, so
time but he never showed up. Quickly the she stayed in.
family arranged that she gets the richest
and man in the village who had claimed her Her one picture that still hung in her
early, and had earlier refused him, but now living room wall, she had been such a
was willing to avenge by marrying him. He beauty, and she still had traces of it. She
was old, struggling to walk, had many wives had had the biggest gap then. She even
already. had been declared the beauty of her time,
wearing a Hando, and her breast standing
She had left, but not long, she was back firm, she had stood there straight in confi-
after a month, even before the second dence smiling broadly waiting for her king
wedding. The plea to take her back to her to captivate her. Only her King never came,
husband by her father did not cause her to and she never went anywhere far away to
go back. Not even jeers and jokes about her any Kingdom, she stayed in the village.
told, took her back. She had come back with
no explanation and part of what her father Her refusal to stay with her old husband
had made out of dowry had to be sent back. had ached her father. Seeing her walk back
Every time he questioned, she blew fire. with her luggage on that day, his father had
There was hell in the house, and her little pleaded with her. A week passed, months
education would be blamed for it. He had passed, and now years had passed.
been angry and ashamed. It shook his very
ground as an elder. “What will people say, my daughter, go
back,” her mother begged, but she was

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intransigent, refusing to go back even when bell rung, once, twice and thrice and now
her father had grown lean because of it. It she certainly knew her last hope would now
had brought conflict between him and her certainly be over. She was the only one left.
mother, and he stayed more with his other They would certainly come for her, they
wives. When he died, everybody said she would certainly be back. Maybe not today,
had killed her own father with her bitterness or tomorrow, but someday very soon.
and her disobedience. She had lived with
her mother, and when her mother died, she *
had lost her everything. Perhaps wishing for
her time to come as well, only it never came There were wails all over, in every direction,
sooner though often she had near death almost every home, drums, songs, dances
moments herself, especially because of the of women and dirges.
agony that never left her.
“Gone too soon our child, too soon”
Now, she never smiled, she used a stick
to walk, she struggled to see, and she had “Whoa! Wickedness! She must pay for
even lost her taste in her mouth. So much this.” Charo said. Everyone nodded. It must
had changed, and so many years of sadness, be a hand of man for a child to die for no
that had turned in to bitterness and anger, cause at all. In Africa, nothing bad could
and waking up to fear each day. She had a ever be a cause of nature; someone had to
wall around her, that no one would reach be the cause. For how could nature harm
that wall. anyone?

“The dreams, the dreams that never The little boy had gone for coconut up at
happened, oh the dreams” she whispered the top. When he was coming down, bees
to herself. came for him. He had fallen, and that was it.
There was no struggle, when everyone had
Certainly they would never be. She knew run to pick him, he had already died. There
that one day, the words of her sons would was no blood around him. It had taken him
not be just words, but it would be action, so fast. That must be the spirits that cause
and usually it was gruesome. him to go out of the coconut tree. He was
just sited when he suddenly went to the
When they left, she did not even rise tree to get coconuts. Death had called him.
from her chair. She still looked down. For Oh poor child.
once in her many years, she would let out
a burst in a surge of pain, falling flat on the “Such a young boy, poor girl, how will she
ground screaming like a child, no tear shed, manage. She struggled to get that child, and
though she wished upon them. How had now he was gone” the women gossiped.
she become this person? Now her fears and
that of her mother had come to pass, she The mother had her eyes swollen, and
was everything they feared for her, and she her throat soar from screaming, she had
was afraid. even fainted for hours. Her husband had
gone drinking. Enraged, that his aunty had
“We do not want witches among us!!!!” gone too far and too deep.
The words echoed, the words stung.
“You are too much Aunty, too much”
Every knock on her door was a step closer Charo had walked in anger, and most day
to death. As she lay on the floor, another he spent it there, drinking. Enraged and

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fuming. Shouting “You are too much, too times he had courage, she never opened.
much” Most days he too was afraid, just incase
even he too is caught by bad luck. He could
“My father, my mother, now my son? only pray for his aunty and hope she could
Who else?”. Turning his straw and sipping change.
more mnazi, until he now could not stand.
He was falling drunk. His peers holding him, Sifa, had memories of his childhood. He
trying the little they could to encourage him longed for those days.
as he sipped to the last drop. Frustration,
he looked too old for his age. Poverty could He remembered her aunty more vividly
destroy a man, yet he didn’t know he was than the rest, when she had been a happy,
poor. It could make him obsessed, it could full of cheer and so wonderful and in love.
make him desperate, but more it would She had been such a beauty, he often said.
fill him with hate. He owned nothing, had He could see some tenderness in her heart
nothing, what was his little hope had gone besides the anger and hate that occasionally
with the wind. No penny, no child now, and spewed out of her, he imagined some grace
no wealth, and any he got, was to chase our still remained. No one understood her like
his sorrow. His power was in the terror he he did. It was like his soul was connected to
caused. hers. Though he too feared for himself. He
had seen what getting too close could do to
* a person, for those that had been truly evil
they loved no one. A part of him believed,
Just before dawn, at 3:00, there was anoth- Aunt Sophia had a fraction of her that was
er wail and shout coming loudly from the still beautiful. It was hard that any part of
chief home. At 6:00 in the morning, there that beauty could go.
was another bell sound. One, two, three,
certainly another had gone, now, seven in She had denied the world her beauty,
one week. felt misused for it. He had not even seen
her for such a long time, for every time her
“That’s it” Charo said brothers went to declare war on her, he
never went. But he was always sure to de-
“They want to eat us all” another said fend her. It was because of he that she was
never torched the first time. He held her
“If we wait until morning, another may tightly, crying. People did not know what to
just go” A young mad echoed do, he was just an innocent child. He had
been such a little boy, but had been such
“No, let’s wait till she can speak for her- a hero. He had walked her back home to
self.” Sifa defended. ensure no one came for her. Sophia still re-
membered this, she always smiled about it.
Only he had never fully believed she was
a witch. Though he agreed, she was strange The fond memories of her never left him.
and that he even feared her too. She stayed She had taken him to the beach, the first
too much by herself, the had not seen her time ever. She had come home with a new
face in years. But who could blame her, he short, after her first income as a teacher. She
thought, she had been ridiculed too often, had asked his mother for permission and
she had lost her confidence, he thought. He took him on a bus to town. It had been his
had longed to go to hers often, but every
time he was close, he turned around, few

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first outing to town. He had been in dismay collecting each other. It was always better to
of the ocean, especially, and had played in draw attention in shouts. If many people saw,
it all day. He believed that the ocean must there would be no more recruits for witches,
be the largest phenomena; it gave him dif- that this may be a warning to even others.
ferent perspective of the world, that there
was something greater and endless beyond “Achomwe Achomwe” “May she be burned”
his village. He had never forgotten that mo-
ment ever, until now he had his own family, The drum beats got louder, and so did
he remembered his almost only trip as a the chants whistles, blowing, dropping
child. themselves on the floor. It was a festival,
even though they chanted death.
It had been so unfortunate how the
marriage that didn’t happen had shat- “Achomwe Achomwe” They sung as
tered his aunty. On that day as she stood they sharpened their knives, women and
there waiting, until dawn when the drums children on the sidelines in fear. It was not
stopped beating, and then one guest left always that they would know which house
after the next, then the night fell, and the men would visit. Many old people had
dawn came again. She had never been the died. Somehow, they had that look in their
same again. From the cheerful woman with eye that made them witches.
laughter that had been the envy as well
as the darling of everyone, to now an old The chant went louder and louder, fur-
witch. A part of him ached. She had been ther from everyone, and closer to Sophia.
so kind. But would pain and her desire for Even she could hear the chants now. It was
vengeance truly have turned her in to this not a mistake, the torch was close. Very
person? He didn’t fully doubt it, for even close.
he perceived her mysterious, he still didn’t
get close. In that moment, her mind began to relive
every moment. For the first time she could
* feel a tear wanting to stream in a long time,
but it didn’t. Her eyes hot, burning more
The men begun to chant and sing, with fire than they ever had. Her knees really weak
and paraffin in their hands. Palm leaves on from trembling. Her small house could not
the others. The young men were ready to contain even her, for if she took two steps,
torch and set on fire. Witches had been her house would be already travelled. And
warned, but if they had still insisted with if she went out, she would be spotted, for
the trade, they would face their own music. her hut stood solely alone like at a desert in
Sophia was about to face hers for the sec- a land of so many coconut trees, hers had
ond time, only this time, she was by herself, none. There was no escape, and she had no
no savior. courage to even escape. Perhaps she would
wait for it as she always had. Perhaps she
They ran round in noises, chanting and would lead herself to them, but whatever
chanting demonstrating how they would do she did, she was finished. This time she was
it when they got there. sure.

“Achomwe, achomwe, achomwe achomwe” “Achomwe, Achomwe, Achomwe dzi dzi
They sung running around the village, dzi dzi” They kept singing, their torches
growing bigger, and their sound getting

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louder. Their rage and hands thirsting for paraffin, stronger than ever. They poured
her blood, they walked and walked closer and she heard the sound of it pouring
and closer. The cry for vengeance was al- on the ground. They all had matches and
ways the worst one, for when one was con- torches. If one person lit, it was certain she
vinced you owe them, they would be so would burn.
aggressive in their pursuit. When man be-
lieved you were the cause of their misery, The gallons were now empty, and the
they became ruthless. These were not ma- men stood their ready. Many withheld their
licious men. They believed she had taken flames, waiting for the first daring one. They
from them, the cause of their poverty and held off bit by bit, all looking at Charo to
lack of progress, and if so, they would do give them a queue. Who would do it? They
it mercilessly. Should she have spoken? But, all wanted Charo to throw his match. For
she had no sound. sometime he hesitated as if to wait for a
voice of reason, but on noting all eyes, he
Man always looked for someone to knew there would be no stepping back. This
blame when things did not go right. It could would be his defining moment among his
never be a miscalculation on their part, or peers as he had led them to torch their own
failure to work as hard, she thought. There family in the quest to cleanse.
was always someone who had caused
them misery. For her like many old men He had been the ring leader in firing
and women, this was the case. Nyavula had other homes, with the old men in it. He had
told her Sidi one day. He almost believed been the cause of their anguish. The young
her, but he was not sure of it. It was true men knew he had hesitated because, he
that Sophia was never seen, unless in the didn’t also fully believe Sophia was a witch.
night. It was true she refused to open her She had named him at birth. She was his
door when people knocked on it. The coin- godmother. There was always a voice within
cident occurrences were too many. him that spoke, maybe his late mother
speaking in his head. As if to say, “Don’t”.
For Sophia, it seemed that it was only
she, who wanted herself to live, and if she Where was Sifa when he needed him to
lived for no one else, perhaps she was ready save this moment?
to go. No pain would be greater than the
years of seclusion. Would he turn back at this moment?
The silence was deafening, but when sud-
* denly there was a jeer from the crowd, “Let
us finish this”. He had no choice, they had
Suddenly there was silence. They had opted come this far, just for this moment.
not only to flame her, but even her house.
They surrounded it. Many men, some wom- In a flush he threw his match, and ev-
en and some children stood in awe, ready eryone would begin throwing theirs. It was
to watch evil set on fire. only a matter of time that the small house
would be totally burned. He started to walk
She heard them, she cringed on her away, not wanting to watching it burn, and
bed, folded, she could feel them. She could so did everyone follow him and his lead. In
feel her skin shiver. She could smell their the darkness of the night, walking tall into
hate, and even more she could smell their the night as a hero, but in his heart was too
heavy. He would reach home and break

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down like a child. His wife holding his strong to feel the heat. The many years she has not
man breaking down. This was a mistake. weeped or cried, she let them all out. She
felt a relief off her shoulder and her chest.
“It is finished!” he said. Only to what end? She was ready to go. And as if to give up,
she would let out a breath and wait for her
* moment, already breathless, already the
fire too close. Though sad for a story that
In there, everything was racing in her head may never be told, she resigned to this. She
as the flames grew louder. The night she could see stars, and suddenly she could see
refused to go back to her old husband was no more, she lay there breathless.
even more clear. The night that he had
forced himself on her, and failure to suc- *
ceed how he had hit her the first day, and
the next day and the next. She could re- Suddenly, there was an only voice from a
member her mum weeping with her and distance carried by the wind, only too late.
encouraging her to keep strong and forget
her prince so she would move forward. She “Wait, wait” Sifa breathing helpless and
saw herself and the prince at the river, and running, he was late, the house was already
that pained her more. She still sobbed for ablaze.
that day she found out he was running away
with her cousin. It still ached her heavy. “No, no,“ He wailed, sobbing on his knees,
When she stood there waiting for him to watching the house ablaze, fading away,
come on her bridal negotiations, and that taking away his last memories.
he did not show made her first tear stream.
She had not thought about it as clearly in Nyavula had told him of what had hap-
years. Every time she had, she felt rage pened. He had just come from Mombasa
within her, but it wasn’t rage, it was such and passed by her home, when she told
sadness. When she had dressed up for him him of the ordeal. He had dropped all he
as they always talked and he did not show, had, and run before they could torch her,
and she had never seen him. He never said but they already had, is there anymore left
his sorry, thus he never released her. Now to save, as people ran from the house, he
she was here, about to be torched without ran toward it.
ever hearing his sorry, the only thing she
had needed. Why did he do it? A sudden courage shook him off his
ground and he ran fast inside. He held the
“I am sorry, I forgive you, ” she mattered door and pushed. He knew the house so
even as the flame came closer, “I forgive well many years later, it was where he came
myself. It was also she needed to say to a lot when he was a child.
herself. “Sophy, I forgive you” She said. The
many years, she had blamed herself for her “Aunty, Aunty,” He called out. She already
father’s death, and even her mother’s and was half conscious choking from flames.
even her sister’s. “Aunty”

She could feel her very heart melting There was no sound, and fire was already
away, and tears overpowering her with pain reaching to him even as he was surrounded
as if taking away her sorrow, as if washing by smoke.
away all cold inside her soul, and beginning
“Sifa” she called out meekly. Her tears
burning her again. This time not too much

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from sadness. She felt a warmth in her heart her clean. It was like the last coldness inside
that ached her heart. It was such strong a her heart was melting totally.
strong feeling of love. Perhaps the stron-
gest she had ever felt. It made her sob even “Thank you” She said. “Thank you” she
more. Letting out her anguish at last. Also, managed to say.
like releasing her own demons and ghosts
of her past, allowing her to live again. The She had thought she had wanted to die,
tears couldn’t stop but now she had one more reason to live.
When it had stared her in the face, she had
“You came”. hoped for a savior, and here he was once
again. Now, all grown, a man with his family,
“How could I not?” strong enough to even carry her.

“Aunty” he called as he noticed she was “Thank you” she said again, amidst her
about to cross over, her eyes closing now. pain, she said it over and over.
He picked her from her floor where she
lay weakly and couldn’t help but notice “Thank you”
how meek she was, such as paper. Wrap-
ping them in the blanket he had, he walked “Aunty” Charo called after a long si-
amidst the fire he lifted her, bending down lence without saying a word. His eyes also
at the door. Very wounded, very burned, streaming in tears as well.
but still breathing. That was enough.
“Were you ever… a witch,” he stared at
“Keep breathing, don’t stop,” he said. her now serious more than ever. Then there
Noting that she was already giving up, was silence with her sobbing uncontrollably.
gasping for air that felt like her last. It ached totally, and she couldn’t explain it,
it was time.
“Please stay”, he said.
“You can tell me” he reached out to her,
She opened her mouth trying to utter and she finally relented.
something. She couldn’t utter.
“I will understand, you have been through
He rolled her on the ground to release too much” Charo assured. He had hoped to
her of the flames, and then he rolled him- at least get this just the truth, for this had
self as he was also flaming. He was also driven him crazy too for some time. Perhaps
afraid for himself and even more for her. if she was, he would have regretted saving
her, or maybe even if she was he would still
* have, but even more to justify he had been
right all along. Though mostly he knew, he
When there was silence, and the night was had overpowering care towards this woman,
cold, but it felt hotter for Sophia who was that he could not explain.
feeling heat for the fast time. She could now
watch her sister’s son and admire the man he Her was heart breaking a little, looking
had grown to. She was happy for this moment, away, not afraid anymore, but ashamed.
even though not sure how long it would last. “Never!!!” She finally said it. It was so real,
Very good looking and strong young man. so moving at the same time and so inno-
Still not able to speak, but she could afford a cent. Just like the woman he had known.
small smile. She smiled and kept smiling, and
her tears overflowed as if they were washing Now even he drained in emotions seeing
Aunty Sophia, light, and frail. Helplessly too,

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his tears brimmed all of them. Knowing *
that she could not have lied about this. It
dawned on him how cruel their world had The village remained quiet and music died
been to her without knowing, and maybe down, now everyone believed she had
they would never know. been burned. They celebrated, though
deep down they were sad. They had killed
“All this was pride Aunty?” “Why did you their mothers and fathers, but still their
never say anything? He said, when he was hearts were empty. A part of them knew
finally looking like she could do with some they have been wrong all along. Only now
sleep. this could not be recalled. Suddenly there
was hush. At least in death, even not true,
He carried her that night, and took her she would escape this hell of people that
to the Kaya, where all the elderly were kept had tried never to understand her.
safe, away f rom young men who were too
angry with their own failure to realize that “I will take you somewhere safe, where
these old people were never the cause of you can begin your life again” Charo had
their misery, but their own choices were. said, reading her mind. He knew the village
would never be safe, so he took her to the
The poor lady would be safe for now. Kaya
Everyone had left, and it was hers to start
a new leaf, she could rest. Then she would “Everybody deserves a second chance.
wake up in the morning to realize that the Now go and give love this time” he smiled
love of her life was also right there with her and she smiled too. She had received the re-
at the Kaya. It would be his time to explain deeming love, and so she hoped she could
what happened. give the same back.

125

THE CASUAL
THINKER

by Marcus Berkemeier

Many consider Samantha to be my best “Your face is puffy,” Samantha says as she
girlfriend since we’ve known each other sweeps a strand of hair behind my ear.
for at least five years and, most weekends
in Los Angeles, we are inseparable. She is “Nice to see you too.”
the prettiest girl to me, I will admit, and
her new breasts are round and perfect and She laughs it off. Then she tickles my
her face is sleek with sharp angles at her wrist, getting dangerously close to smudging
cheeks. There were times in those younger my new sterling silver bracelet.
days when one is victim to instant crushes
that I found her to be attractive and com- “Tell me about that guy you met,” she
pletely personable. Some may even say I says.
was obsessed with her. But I look at her this
evening in this club and in this lighting and, “He was exactly what I needed.”
well, . . . I don’t know.
Samantha and I texted daily while I was
“Girl, I have not seen you in weeks,” she in Australia, but the extra cost of interna-
says as she taps my wrist with her long ce- tional SMS limited it to simple superlatives
rulean blue fingernails. She holds a purple and facial expression emoji’s.
martini in her other hand, the expanse of
the club spread out behind her. Lights of “You heard from him? Any pics?” Sa-
all colors sweep across the bar and dance mantha says.
floor. Men and women mostly in their twen-
ties chat and throw down drinks. Go-go I blush.
boys – Samantha’s favorite wild animal –
jiggle their packages in tight fitting under- “My god, you are totally smitten,” she
wear while they dance around on various says. There is a drop of sweat above her left
speakers or dance box things. eyebrow, which is painted red. Her hair and
lips are both red today. So is her dress. She
I am still a little jet-lagged. knows the bartenders here are straight, so
she’s vamping.

I take a long drink of vodka soda with
lemon. I make sure my bracelet does not get

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a spray of flop sweat. It’s still June, and it’s I look down at my shiny gray stilettos.
boiling. The humidity levels are crazy, even
for L.A. “It was the night after I saw a dance show
at the Opera House,” I say. “Some indige-
I can only imagine what my hair is doing. nous dance troupe, which I found inspiring.
So curly and shaggy and, likely, in a bird’s So many muscles and slipperiness. I decided
nest. I have my father’s hair. I didn’t even to have a drink after, at the Opera Bar right
think to cover it – I was in such a rush to outside on the water. The people there
get here. were international and sophisticated. Beau-
tiful, well-dressed.”
“Come on, girl, talk,” Samantha says.
“Preach,” Samantha says.
I catch a glimpse of my silver nail polish.
Everything today is silver. “I guess you could say I had a few vodka
sodas there. Well, vodka lemonades, which
That was his name. Jason Silver. is what they call them. After the third or
fourth round I was tired of being by myself,
“I only had a couple of free days in so I got on Tinder. The guys there are mostly
Sydney,” I say. It’s true. I spent most of the abs and veins, but so damn hot.”
week visiting various locations for work.
Trying to implement the international mar- “Sooo damn hot,” Samantha says. She
keting push for a new food chain of Amer- winks at a go-go boy as he lumbers past our
ican fried chicken. table.

“How’d you meet?” Samantha says, tap- “Jason Silver wasn’t my first choice. He
ping the table. was third or fourth. But he showed up first,
even though it was forty minutes later than
I feel a wave of lethargy. For some he said. It must’ve been after 23:00 by then.
reason something so interesting seems so He wore a navy-blue suit. Very sophisti-
tiring. Maybe it’s just the smell of sewer cated. His beard well-groomed, his brown
coming from the bathrooms at the back of hair perfectly long. He was over six feet tall.
this club. Maybe it’s the non-stop rhythm Very thin, but still with presence.”
of the go-go boys with their semi-erect pe-
nises. It’s too much. “I’d climb that tree,” Samantha says.

“Ok.” I try to lose myself in my thoughts “We hit it off instantly. His Queensland
as I tell her everything, but I also can’t help accent was thick but not obnoxious. The
but look around to see if anyone is staring. way his large hands rested on my thigh.”

“I stayed in the Four Seasons down by “Girl, I’m gonna need another cocktail.”
Sydney Harbor. It’s a good location. Easy
walking distance to the Opera House and Luckily the shirtless waiter has one
Harbor Bridge. Sydney is a beautiful city coming.
this time of year, even though it’s their
winter. The crowds are big, but not huge. I “You fuck him?” Samantha says.
mustered up the strength to do the Harbor
Bridge Climb all by myself.” “Not yet.”

“Hopefully not in those heels,” Samantha She looks around the club.
says.
“Jason and I shared at least two drinks. I
was probably a little messy by then. I regret

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that. I had on my four-inch red heels, and my curves nicely. Well, not too nicely. There
my gray dress was a little too business, but are certain curves girls like us don’t need
it did the trick. Jason offered to escort me to show.”
for a walk along the Harbor. He was a per-
fect gentleman. We walked all the way back Samantha laughs.
to the Four Seasons. He kissed me on the
cheek, then turned me over to the door “He took me to Mr. Wong’s, a wonderful
man. Texted me as I got in bed. He wanted Chinese restaurant nearby. They played
to continue the date the next morning.” jazz, and the servers – all men – wore tux-
edos. I felt like a princess. Then we took an-
“He’s like that cheerleader you dated in other walk along the Harbor. Ended up on
college,” Samantha says. “What’s his name? the Bridge. It was dark, and the lights kept
Jake?” switching on and off. It was chilly.”

I have another sip of my drink. Then “Aaand that’s where you fucked him.”
continue. “The plan for the next day was to
meet at a restaurant in some hipster neigh- Samantha’s not even looking at me any-
borhood – someplace known for hotcakes. more.
I got there at 10:00, which was a little late,
but he didn’t get there till almost 11:00. He “No, we didn’t fuck. He took my hand,
thanked me for having a table. Actually, he and we walked to the center of the bridge.
was surprised I was early. Isn’t that funny?” That’s where we watched the fireworks over
the Opera House. It was nice.”
Samantha caresses the waiter’s bicep as
he sets down her new drink. “Speaking of fireworks.” She waves at the
bartender.
“We had a nice meal,” I say. “Then
walked around the area. There were shops “He then turned to me and said, ‘Sorry.’
and weird colorful paintings on the sides He was shaking. I thought he was cold, so
of buildings. Somehow, we ended up back I said ‘Sorry about what?’ He leaned in
near the business district and the Four Sea- and kissed me. Took off his jacket. I felt the
sons. Then he surprised me. We got in a cab curves of his muscles under his shirt, very
and crossed the river. Ended up on some nice. He kissed me again, and we explored
cliffside with an amazing view of the city. each other’s chests. His hands carefully slid
We had tea and laughed. He said he was in down to my waist. Soon I turned to face the
finance, but his family owns a winery north Harbor again and guided him inside me. It
of town. He’s been in Sydney for four years. was perfect, and gentle.”
He’s just a little older than me – 27.”
“Sounds messy,” Samantha says.
“When did you fuck him?” Samantha says.
“I felt like such a lady, the whole time.”
I stare at my vodka.
Samantha’s green eyes are moist – ei-
“Anyways, the days went by quickly, and ther from emotion or the cigarette smoke
soon it was my last night. We agreed to from this patio. “And he had no issue with,
have one more evening along the Harbor. I you know?” she says.
bought a new dress at the hotel boutique –
way over budget. It was hunter green and fit “Of course not.”

I don’t look her in the eye when I say it.

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* She’s been spoiled all her life, for sure. Ever
since she was born, I have known my par-
I am not a fan of the Fourth of July. I have ents favor her.
always been afraid of loud explosions, and
the idea of my brothers throwing firecrack- “It looked like you two were hitting it off,”
ers into the air with their hands seems stu- Mom says.
pid and a reflection of myself and my family.
Just stupid. But Mom and Dad insist that I “What did he think of your little fried
come here every year, even though it’s a chicken?” Jean says.
three-hour drive north to San Luis Obispo
and the traffic is horrible and the sun is so Stupid bitch.
damn hot.
“Now, Jean, I think it’s nice that Kendall
I’m sitting on the back wood patio of my met someone on vacation,” Mom says.
parent’s house looking in the direction of “They say the Aussies are quite friendly.”
the ocean, although you can’t see it from
here. This is hill country, and all around us I stare at Jean as she twirls her perfect
are vineyards and trees and dirt. It’s pretty, brown hair in her fingers. It’s long, fully
yes, but nothing as diverse and exhilarating conditioned, and shiny with the reflection
as that view from the Harbor Bridge two of the sun. Jean is a hostess at one of the
weeks ago. local wineries. What a waste of a college
education.
Mom is sitting next to me on a wood
patio chair that matches the gray, weath- “Come on, Ken,” Mom says. “Tell us all
ered color of her skin. She is sipping a about it.”
large glass of iced tea. My sister Jean is
on the outdoor loveseat, which has red Jean laughs. “Start with how much you
and gold striped pillows that I picked out had to pay him,” she says. “And end with
for Mom and Dad many years ago. They the look of O.M.G. on his face.”
are now faded and dull. Dad is on the far
side of the patio cooking Italian sausages Stupid bitch from hell.
and hamburgers on the propane grill. My
three brothers are running around in the “What was the photo all about?” Mom
yard chasing each other with long crooked says.
sticks. They are high-school aged with mid-
dle-school maturity. “It was a cooking class. Some local
restaurant not too far from the Four Sea-
“That was a nice photo on Facebook you sons. Oddly the chef taught us various
posted during your trip,” Mom says. Her forms of dim sum. We made little baos and
hair is soft and thin and blows around her dumplings and stuff. I thought it was cute.
head in the breeze. “The one with you and I wanted to try some authentic Australian
the tall guy in front of the cooking pots.” food, but for some reason they didn’t have
a class on that. I asked this little old lady
“What was up with that guy?” Jean says. while rolling tortillas for the dumplings to
“He looked so confused.” describe for me the perfect Australian dish.
She couldn’t come up with anything.
I hate my sister Jean. The past couple of
years she has been so mean and competitive. “‘Cottage pie,’ the chef said.

“‘That’s English,’ the lady said.

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“They went around the kitchen and asked wasn’t even like soccer. It wasn’t football at
all the locals to supplement. They couldn’t all. They just stood there. I guess Australia
come up with anything other than British isn’t known for being overly active. Or fast-
dishes and meat pies. ‘Isn’t there anything paced.”
Australia is known for?’ I asked. Everyone
shrugged.” “Lame,” Jean says.

“No wonder he looked confused in the Mom looks at me with eyes filled with
photo,” Jean says. “This story is lame.” support. She’s very supportive. I love her
for that.
“Hush, Jean,” Mom says.
I couldn’t have made it through the past
I roll my eyes. few years without my mother. I am a mom-
ma’s child, through and through.
“How did you meet this young man?”
Mom says. “So, did you actually go on a date?” Jean
says. “Or was he just your tour guide? Did
I think of the guy with the goofy smile in you have to tip him?”
that Facebook photo. The sharp pink edges
of his cheeks and the big white teeth. “Hush, Jean,” Mom says.

“A colleague of mine at the Sydney head- “Of course not. He wanted me to meet
quarters introduced us. They knew I was his family, so one of the days we drove up
looking for a date to this dance show at the north of Sydney to the wine country, and
Opera House, and Jason Silver – that’s his he took me to their vineyard and we sipped
name – was a friend of a friend. Suppos- red wine and ate crostini. His family was
edly my age and interested in dance and lovely. There were actually brown kanga-
showing a lady around town. He was, actu- roos lounging amongst the rows of grape-
ally, a perfect gentleman.” vines. Can you imagine that? Kangaroos on
a vineyard.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says. She fin-
ishes her drink. Dad walks by with a plate “Sure beats rattlesnakes and deer,” Jean
of sausages – I cringe at the look and smell says.
– I hate meat. He takes them down to my
brothers, who are now wrestling in the dirt. Mom shakes her head.

Boys are stupid. “When are we going to meet this stud?”
Dad says as he walks past us with an empty
“Tell us everything,” Jean says, staring at plate. Dad has a gut and a bald head, and
me while still twirling her hooker hair. he really is the most unsophisticated person
I know. Seriously.
“He wanted to show me around Sydney
and make sure I had a good time. We went He never has treated me like my brothers.
to an Australian football game – the Sydney
Swans versus a team from Melbourne. I was “Do you even know his name?” Jean says.
so confused. There were, like, fifty people
on the field, mostly just standing around “That’s enough. I told you, his name is
chatting. Someone would kick a ball now Jason Silver, and we really hit it off.”
and then at these four goalposts, but there
was no passing or tackling or touchdowns. It Mom looks at me with those supportive
eyes.

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“Let’s call him and say hello,” Jean says. her, but she’s the only one I can afford. Ac-
tually, I don’t have to pay her anything. My
“He’s asleep.” so-called insurance from the fast food con-
glomerate has her on some kind of hotline
“Of course he is.” and payroll. I guess everyone is a hooker in
some way.
Jean and I used to be the closest of all my
siblings. But now . . . My cardigan sweater today feels too
tight and too clingy, and the yarn is sticking
“How did you end it?” Mom says. “He in the grooves of my silver bracelet. But the
sounds wonderful.” air-conditioning in this building is always
frigid. Just like Dr. Grambling.
“We took a walk along the Harbor and
then did the Sydney Bridge Climb. You know, “How’d you do on your trip?” she says.
the one where you climb all the way to the
top of the Harbor Bridge railing. Oh my god “It was fine.” I just sat down five minutes
it was so steep and high but the view was ago, and I’m already losing the feeling in my
incredible. It was the perfect way to say ass.
goodbye. He even gave me a little kiss.”
“Just fine? Work was productive?”
“That’s so sweet,” Mom says.
“I met someone.”
Jean rolls her eyes.
Dr. Grambling takes her notes on her
I look at Dad. He holds one of those pink notepad. She expresses no surprise or
stupid Italian sausages in a pair of tongs. His emotion.
face is red, and he looks completely flabber-
gasted over everything. “No, for real this time. His name is Jason
Silver.”
My family is simple. They are all just so
damn simple. I hate it. “That’s great.” She crosses her legs. They
are ugly, bulky legs.
*
“Can we just talk about my medication?”
I can’t believe it’s already been a month I say.
since my last visit. The office still smells like
cherry cough syrup, and the large purple Dr. Grambling makes her little half smile.
chair made of felt is just as uncomfortable
as ever. I look out the foggy window to see “Fine,” I say. “What you want to know
a glimpse of Beverly Hills and the moun- about him?”
tains in the distance. Los Angeles is hot and
sweltering. On fire, literally, in some parts “Just tell me the story, and we’ll see.”
today. I don’t really feel I need this session
with Dr. Grambling, but my medication is “It’s not a story.”
running low. Although, I’m not sure I want
to take it anymore. I look out the window and stare at the
top of department stores and office build-
Dr. Grambling is a wiry, ugly woman ings. All in a little cluster just blocks away
with an upturned nose and nostrils as big down by Rodeo Drive.
as the circles of her eyes. I don’t really like
“Have you maintained contact with this
guy?” Dr. Grambling says.

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“Of course.” Dr. Grambling scribbles something. Her
amethyst ring is catching a ray of pink sun-
“Tell me all about him.” light.

I don’t know. “We chatted for hours. Then he walked
me to my room.”
“Come on, Kendall. We’ve made some prog-
ress the past few months. You can tell me.” “Was that the end of it?”

Her usual spiel. “For that night, yes. Actually, I was afraid
it was the end of all of it. I forgot to get his
“It doesn’t leave this room,” she says. number and give him mine. I was so swept
up by all of it.”
I pick at some dirt behind a silver finger-
nail. A crack in my fingernail catches the edge
of my sweater.
“I met him at the Opera House along the
Sydney Harbor. I had just left a show about “Then what?” Dr. Grambling says.
an indigenous dance troupe. I was thirsty so
I had a drink. He came up to me at the bar. As the weeks go by, it’s getting a little
He was sweet.” harder to remember how to describe it. At
least, the most of it.
Dr. Grambling takes her notes. The sharp
back and forth of her long pen reminds me “I worked a few days in the Sydney area
of Mom’s knitting needle. and nearly forgot him. Then I went to this
cooking class one night, recommended by
“We chatted for hours. He was quite my hotel. I was bored and looking to get a
charming. I think I much prefer the Aus- little culture. The theme of the class was
tralian accent over the British one. There’s Asian food. It was really salty. We were
a comfort in it. Like a well-worn high heel cooking along – just me and a bunch of old
shoe. I just slid right into it and let him take ladies from Germany – when, wouldn’t you
me through a night of stories.” know it, Mr. Silver walked into the place.”

“What did you talk about?” “He was the guy you met at the Opera
House?” Dr. Grambling says.
I didn’t think she would require this level
of detail. “He looked surprised to see me. Actually,
it was a little awkward. Perhaps he was a
I look around and see no photos of any little disappointed that I didn’t put-out after
sort of lover or family for Dr. Grambling. She our drinks at Opera Bar. Maybe he was just
doesn’t have much on display at all. looking for what most guys look for, as
I’m learning. Well, as I’ve known all along
Except those monster legs of hers. but never really thought of in this detail. I
was happy to see him, so I waved him over
“Have you ever been to Sydney?” I say. and we took a photo. The German ladies
“The Opera House is quite spectacular. Not thought it was the sweetest thing.
just for the view or the architecture, but
also for the ambience and the people. “This time he made sure to get my info.
People from all around the world congre- Then he gave me a little hug, said goodbye,
gate there in the nicest, most sophisticated and went off on his way. I don’t even know
outfits. It’s my favorite place in the world,
that little peninsula. I fell in love.”

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why he came into that restaurant that night. was chilly, so he put his coat around my arms
Maybe it was fate.” so we could have another nightcap. Then
he asked if I wanted to go back to the hotel.
Dr. Grambling flips a page on her notepad. No, that was too soon for me. I was uncom-
fortable. How would I get him to leave if I
“I didn’t know what to think. I was sitting changed my mind? So I proposed we go for
in my hotel room a couple nights later, bored a walk. I guess he lived in the area, so he
and drunk. The week had been long and agreed. We took a stroll along the Harbor.
the marketing plan had finally been imple- Doctor, it is the most beautiful little walk.”
mented, so I was tired and in a haze. I picked
up my phone – first to take some photos of “So I hear.”
the fireworks shooting off from around the
Opera House – but then to play with social “We made our way up the street and to
media. That’s when he popped up.” the Harbor Bridge. It was windy up there,
but the view was spectacular. The white
“Mr. Silver?” Dr. Grambling says. lights of the city on both sides of the water.
The Opera House a creamy glow. The yellow
“Yes, obviously.” twinkle of the boats drifting by. It’s an image
that is forever etched in my heart. I see it
I look around for a glass of water. All of every time I close my eyes.”
this chatting is making me thirsty. That and
the heat from this window. “That’s great.”

“Did you see him again?” Dr. Grambling I am starting to get dry mouth, and I’m
says. sweating like crazy.

“Yes. We agreed to meet at Opera Bar. I “This isn’t easy to tell, is it?” Dr. Gram-
got there at 8:30. He arrived at 10:00. I’ve bling says.
learned that Australians are, for the most
part, a lackadaisical people. They are not I cough.
concerned with punctuality or, really, any-
thing of urgency. Maybe that’s a harsh state- “Go on,” Dr. Grambling says. “Remember,
ment. Maybe I shouldn’t say it like that. I this is why we have these meetings.”
guess they just go with the flow, as they say.”
I rest my hands on my legs and sit up
“An Aussie I once knew called his people straight. Maybe the felt fabric of this chair is
a group of casual thinkers,” Dr. Grambling making me sweaty. Maybe it holds the heat.
says. “Not worried about thinking or doing Gosh, even my ass crack is dripping.
anything more than necessary. Not really in
a hurry, and definitely not concerned about “It’s okay,” Dr. Grambling says. “Just let it
the specific details of things.” out.”

“You can say that again.” I close my eyes.

Dr. Grambling stares at me. “We walked to the center of the bridge
on the pedestrian path, which is protected
“So, we had more drinks, and it was a from the road by a thick fence. We took in
perfect night. I was wearing my favorite red the expanse of the scene. It was wonderful.
dress. It fits me well in all the right places. It Then he leaned over and kissed me. It was
brings out the green in my eyes. The night the softest, most sensitive kiss I’ve ever felt.

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I can still feel it on my lips. He put his hand ing overly dramatic, but Dr. Grambling says
under the top of my dress and did some ex- it’s time to throw an anchor into the waters
ploring. He seemed happy with everything of the present – she always says that – and
he felt. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so it was easy stop focusing on past lives and past events.
for him. It was nice, and I let myself go.” I guess she’s right, but it’s hard.

“Great,” Dr. Grambling says. “You’re fi- I feel like my thoughts of him are dwin-
nally living in the moment, aren’t you? Not dling away. I barely even remember the look
so caught up with what you think you must of his face.
feel, you just felt it.”
I’m sitting on the beach north of Santa
“Yes.” Monica, close to the water. The sun is hot,
and I’m wearing swim trunks and a bikini
“That’s progress.” top. I’m uncomfortable, and worried about
the awkward tan lines.
Maybe she’s right.
I’m holding my journal in my hands. I
“Then what happened? Did it stop there?” only write in this notebook when I’m trav-
she says. eling overseas or on some other sort of
adventure. I guess you could call it my trip
“No.” journal. It’s bound in leather, and I think I
bought it at a little store in Venice, Italy. I
I look at the clock. There still is a lot of love the smell of the skin and the yellow
time left in this session. fringes of the paper.

“Well?” Dr. Grambling says. I’m scared, but I think it’s time to read it.

“He continued to rub his hand along my I went to Australia and, primarily Sydney,
chest. It was hard for me to keep control. I a bit last minute. My boss said it was an
was nervous, but so turned on. He kissed emergency because the local people didn’t
me again. It was great. He blew soft puffs fully understand the nature of the fried
of air all over my face and neck. Then he chicken. Fine, I’ve never been Down Under,
reached down and pulled up my dress, past and I liked the idea of it.
my waist.”
The week was busy, during lunchtime at
Dr. Grambling takes her notes quickly. least. I went to over 20 store locations in
She has filled another page. those few days, but there was also a lot of
down time. I knew no one, and the people
“Then it stopped. It just had to stop.” from the company were not friendly to
Americans, especially one like me. In fact, I
“How?” Dr. Grambling says. was downright lonely. Lonely and hating the
choices I recently made.
I look towards the window. I see a
glimpse of my red lipstick in the glass. Sometimes I’ve been known to act too
much on impulse. Sometimes I see myself
“How it always does,” I say. “With that in ideals that no one else does.
look of disappointment.”
I toured that city by myself. I did the
* Sydney Bridge Climb. I went to the football

It’s been two months, and I think it’s time
to acknowledge that I’m never going to
see Jason Silver again. Maybe I’m just be-

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game, the wineries, the breakfast, and did I created a new and special profile just for
the cliff side tea all by myself. I even did the Australia. My header was “All American
Asian cooking class with the older ladies. I Sam,” and it showed a photo of me puck-
took an awkward selfie with the instructor. ering my red lips for the camera and pushing
He was the cutest. up my boob job for maximum effect.

But nothing like my Jason Silver. I wore the red wig.

A gust of wind blows sand into my eyes. Jason Silver was not the first guy to ping
It stings and messes up the focus of my me. He wasn’t even the second or third,
green contact lenses. I feel the sand sticking but he was the first one to show up, albeit
to my forehead under the line of my shaggy a little later than he suggested. I was two
hair. I decided to go au naturel today. No sheets to the wind by then. I barely recog-
wigs. No silly hair extensions. Not in this nized him from his profile.
pounding August sun.
He said he noticed me because of the
I know I’ve exaggerated my experiences tits. He said he saw them from across the
with Jason Silver. But I also know that those Harbor. That was probably a lie, but it got
tender moments we shared at the begin- me.
ning truly did exist. And now I cling to them.
We shared a few martinis. He put his
The ink in my trip journal is slightly navy sports jacket around me to keep me
smudged. I recall writing this entry while I warm. His frame was tall and slender, and
was deep into three vodka lemonades on his skin was tight. You could see the many
the flight from Sydney to LAX. It’s bringing veins in his arm pulsing.
back so many details.
I could barely control myself.
It was a Thursday evening. I’d just fin-
ished seeing the indigenous dance troupe He kissed me first while we were sitting
at the Opera House. It was quite a loud at the bar. His hair was dark and perfectly
and sweaty performance, but the people coifed, except one of his bangs swept across
were attractive and muscular and everyone my fake eyelash as we kissed a second time.
– even the women – had a certain level of
masculinity. The whole room smelled like He asked if he could walk me to my
salt. It made me both exhilarated and sick. hotel. I suggested we go for a walk along
the Harbor first.
I went to the Opera Bar afterwards to
cool off. The wind from the Harbor had a He put his hand on my thigh and rubbed
chill, and everyone was dressed in coats and it gently. There was not a trace of hair on
pants. Not me. I was wearing that beautiful my smooth skin.
red dress that barely went below my crotch.
The place smelled like the sea. The Harbor is not that big, relatively
speaking, and soon we were walking up the
There was something so freeing about stairs to the pedestrian path to the Harbor
Sydney, Australia. Something so alive that I Bridge. He put his hand on my ass as I led
never felt inside myself before. him forward. He squeezed it multiple times.
It felt nice. The entire length of his mascu-
Yes, I had too many drinks. Yes, I got on line hand held one of my cheeks.
Tinder and started looking for a companion.
It was too much.

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I would have done anything for him at focusing on the feeling of his hands on my
that moment. thighs.

It was late, and I’m not even sure we “Are you kidding me?” I think he said.
were supposed to be on the bridge by then.
The traffic was light, and the wind was He snapped the fabric of my underwear
strong. He took me to the center point of it and then stood up, gagging. I thought for a
all so each shore was equidistant. He asked moment this was the climax of his intoxica-
me to scream my name to the city, for all tion, and that he was going to puke. I didn’t
to hear. I did it three times. I didn’t think think for a moment about the remnants of
anyone could possibly hear it. my former life. I didn’t even consider that it
was still there.
He pushed me up against the railing. We
made out hard. He bit my lip. I bit him back. He punched me in the gut first. Then he
I loved the roughness of it all. hit me in the face.

The sharp burn of the stubble from his I didn’t fully understand what was hap-
facial hair. The clang of his silver bracelet pening.
against my cheek as he pushed back my hair.
“Lyin’ American bitch.”
We kissed for a few minutes, and he
squeezed my chest harder and harder with He hit me more and pushed my face
those massive hands. Then he was rubbing against the railing. It snapped my thoughts
my thighs. I’m not sure how drunk he was, back to reality. Suddenly everything was
but he smelled of liquor. vivid. The Opera House’s sails were a sharp
white, and the red fireworks shooting from
I thought I was going to climax from just them were most likely just a visual image
his hands – the twist of them along the in my mind.
muscles of my hips.
He punched me in the back. “You want
“Is this okay?” he said, his mouth deep in to play make believe on Tinder? You fucking
my cleavage. . . .”

“Yes.” He pulled on my underwear. Stretched it
so hard it ripped and then went flying to the
I didn’t even think to ask him the same pavement beside us.
question.
I tried to steady my breathing.
He dug deeper into my legs, and then
he pulled up the fabric of my dress. Its tight He rubbed the full size of himself against
elasticity went all the way past my belly my backside. Then he forced it in me, hard
button. I think he was surprised to see I was and without any form of warning or lubri-
wearing underwear. He laughed. cation. I screamed. Nothing but the empty
swirls of the Harbor winds to hear me.
Then he noticed the bulge that the silky
fabric kept restrained. He fucked me for at least three minutes.
Punched me again and pulled off my wig.
He stopped. Shouted and cursed repeatedly at the thing
that stood before him. Tore at me, and then
I barely heard him. I was still deep in left me laying there on that dry abrasive stone.
my head with my eyes closed, and I was

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He ran away after, still holding pieces of I couldn’t get away from the smell of
my red hair. his sweat and the taste of the salt on his
tongue.
I saw his bracelet in a small pile on the
concrete floor. Fiery threads from my dress I was trembling and emotional.
stuck inside its clasp.
I’ve always been so damn lonely.
I was in shock. Hyperventilating. I felt
no sense of control and could barely even I didn’t know what to do, so I laid there.
focus on the view.
And I said it.
I was hoping it was just an instant reac-
tion. That he would calm down and come Dammit, I said it then, and I will say it again
back to help me. I figured he must have now. With vigor. I don’t care what anyone
suspected something from my online pro- thinks – even if it’s wrong – because I mean it.
file, and that he just needed time to process
it. I’m still hoping for that. It was the first time I’ve ever truly felt
like a woman.

And I hated it.

137



NONFICTION



CHANGING

THE SCORE

by Natasha Rai

‘When trauma affects us, we can’t fully en- I walk afterwards, tiredness stretching
gage with the present.’ My therapist, Sue, from my head to my calves. I could fall
sits back after this pronouncement, face asleep on this street corner waiting to
brimming with empathic concern. cross the road. Sue said I dissociated, and
that word is a hammer blow, smashing my
I stare. What the hell is she talking about? thoughts into fragments of sharp rubble. I
I am a thirty-eight-year-old woman with bad slip through my front door and sink into the
childhood experiences. Trauma happens to sofa cushions. Why couldn’t I tell her how
war veterans or people suffering extreme I felt? It seems so easy now in the safety of
abuse. I have a functioning life, a husband, my living room. I summon up the qualities
friends, a job. No. I do not have trauma. I I’m afraid of losing. They tumble out effort-
leave, resentful, hoping she won’t say that lessly. Stubbornness; my decision-making
word again. ability; refusal to let anyone help me; how,
with a few words I can make my husband
I started therapy so I could be nicer to doubt my love for him; how scathing I can
myself, but it seems Sue wants to change me be towards people; how quickly I can sum
and that’s worrying. At home, my brain lists up people and convict them for life. I am
all the qualities I like about myself despite the a tough, hard woman. Strong and imper-
constant internal voice telling me I am stupid, meable – two words that sum me up. I fall
ugly, unlovable. I should discuss my worry asleep on the sofa, squinting into the after-
with Sue. At the next session, I try to explain. noon glare burning through the blinds.
Something strange happens. My hands shake,
my knees tremble, my feet dance to a tune I I read The Body Keeps the Score by
can’t hear. My heart thuds against my chest world-renowned psychiatrist, trauma re-
and the room blurs, the paintings on the searcher and teacher, Bessel Van Der Kolk.
walls becoming indistinct. A nameless terror I pick it up to prove to myself I am nothing
seizes my tongue and squeezes tears out of like his case studies. He says, after trau-
my eyes. It rises from my jiggling feet up my matic events, like sustained abuse, the brain
body, engulfing me, showing me a black hole cannot differentiate between normality and
from which I can’t emerge.

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danger. It’s so used to going into flight, fight I sleep, waking now and then to curse and
or freeze, the rational part is overwhelmed marvel at Van Der Kolk.
by emotion. An adult who has experienced
child abuse could be hypervigilant, always Years of childhood abuse followed by
watching and assessing for danger. I feel ex- racial abuse left me without trust. Even as
posed, my skull cracked open like a walnut. I write this, I shake my head. I know how
The behaviours I am so proud of and hold obvious it sounds. But what I am finding
onto so tightly, take on new meanings. out is how it manifests in my life. Sue and I
are talking about my fear of confiding in my
My husband and I visit my parents one husband. She asks me to describe the early
autumn weekend. As we turn into familiar days of our relationship.
streets, I feel the usual shrinking into myself.
My concentration wavers as I slip in and I was twenty-eight when we met. Our re-
out of the past shadowlike. By the time we lationship started out like most others. In-
pull into the driveway, I am thirteen again, tense physical attraction, fun nights getting
scared and trapped. I hug my childhood to know each other. Obsessively checking
abuser, on high alert for signs of attack. my phone, butterflies in my stomach when
He is an old man now, but I don’t see that. I knew we were going to meet, constant
I am an adult now, but I forget that. We state of nervous excitement when we were
stand side by side while he shows me together. As the months passed and our
something in the backyard. I turn to look feelings evolved into love, we talked about
at him and he raises a hand. I shrivel as I marriage, buying a house together and
wait for the snap of that hand against my making plans for our life.
cheek. The hand shields his eyes against
the insistent sun, and it is gnarled, the It was at that time, I realised he’d leave
flesh soft and useless. After dinner we sit me one day. He was going to wake up and
in their wallpapered lounge room. I talk see me – the real me. When that happened,
about work and he falls silent. Nausea he would leave. Well, I thought, seeing as
floods my mouth as I pick over the words he’ll stop loving me, seeing as he’s going to
still hanging between us. What did I say? leave anyway, I won’t be decimated in the
He will now rage against me, telling me I aftermath.
am ugly and disgusting.
That night, after my session, embold-
I flee to the bedroom, fall asleep without ened by Chardonnay, I ask my husband if he
my husband. I wake suddenly in the night, ever thought me cruel. He hesitates before
the silence wrapping a cocoon around me. saying no. I go through the list in my head
I want to go home. The next two days of the presenting evidence that proves otherwise.
visit are the same. I freeze when I talk to my
father, too scared to argue or correct him. I talked about moving to another country
A bone shattering exhaustion overcomes and when he didn’t immediately and enthu-
me. I sleep for hours in the afternoons. My siastically agree, I threatened to go without
husband whispers are you alright, to me him. I planned holidays with girlfriends I
repeatedly. My words flee. I want a magic didn’t tell him about till the last minute. I
spell to diminish me into a small, smaller lied to him about my savings. I lied to him
person till I disappear. On the drive home, about going for drinks with friends or con-
cealed an innocent museum outing. I joked
about divorce and how none of my family or

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friends would talk to him again. There were is the equivalent of what happened inside
other petty acts; refusing to remind him to me as an adult. That little girl was in con-
pick up dry cleaning or collecting something trol and didn’t know how to trust the adult
from the post office. We were two separate me. Why should she? When I got close to
people and therefore only responsible for my husband, that little girl was electrified
ourselves. Weren’t we? by fear. What was she to do with an adult
man? The teenager stepped in. She would
When I brush my teeth before bed, I can’t give to this lovely man, what had been given
meet my eyes in the mirror. Shame fissures to her. A lifetime of cruelty.
my heart and I double over with pain. How
could I have treated him that way? Why did Eight months into therapy, I sit with Sue
he still love me? In bed, I nuzzle my face and talk about a friend’s betrayal. She ridi-
into the space between his shoulder blades. culed me in front of others, I say. She looks
Once he’s asleep, the tears come and prom- at me expectantly. The friendship must end,
ises to love him better. I continue. Could you talk to her about it?
asks Sue. I am flummoxed. Why would we
In following sessions, there are times talk about it? She betrayed me. Nothing fur-
I hate Sue. Her soothing voice and care- ther can be said.
filled face irritate me. I want to mock her
and smash the lamp in her room. I fanta- I explain it to Sue. I am proud of my ability
sise about not paying for garbage advice. I to make friends in every workplace, any so-
continue reading Van Der Kolk, stopping so cial outing and I’m one of the few people
I can weep or dissociate so the words swim who can make genuine connections as an
together in a thick soup made with mine adult. Here is a part of my life that can’t
and others’ histories. Something happens. be ruined by analysis. My friends serve dif-
Answers emerge. ferent functions in my life, I say. University
friends are ‘real’ friends as we’ve known
During my childhood, teens, till the age each other longest, others are drinking bud-
of twenty I was physically, psychologically dies, creative friends, gym companions, vis-
and emotionally abused by my father. It iting restaurants together friends and so on.
taught me being loved was the same as Tell me how you initiate your friendships,
getting hurt. I lied, manipulated and stole she says. I falter.
to reinforce the message. I turned hatred in-
wards. At school I experienced racial abuse. My friendships start in remarkably sim-
My tormentors confirmed the messages I ilar ways. I have an instant attraction to
got from my family. I was ugly, I was unlov- someone. It’s usually their personality and
able, and I was worthless. there are two types of personalities that
draw me in. The loud confident person
I learnt early on, no one would help me. who charms me with their attention, even
Family members witnessing the abuse did though I secretly hate their confidence. The
not step in. Teachers at school turned away, other type is quiet, insecure, interesting
when I told them some of what was hap- and usually creative. I suffer endless bouts
pening. I had to rely on myself. But, what of jealousy when I see them with mutual
can a child of eight do in an adult world? friends and plot ways for them to like me
What agency does a girl of fourteen have best. I woo them and when I finally have
when navigating and making choices? This them, I hold tight and ensure I know their

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secrets. I’ll betray anyone to strengthen the The little girl inside me only knew be-
friendship. trayal and scorn. At school she was lured
into friendships and then attacked about
Over weeks, Sue and I explore my suc- the colour of her skin, the smell of her hair.
cess of maintaining friendships. I listen and Large groups taunted her on the playground.
never, ever forget a single detail. I build an When she met new people, she didn’t know
astonishing repository of stories and expe- how to be their friend. She put the guards
riences shared by my friends. What do they up, teased out all their secrets and kept
get in return? To be honest, I don’t know. tight hold of them, ready to unleash venom
They have my undivided attention, but they at the first sign of trouble.
never have my love. It is conditional. I am
an expert in showing them sides I think There are no succinct words to describe
they want to see. This friend here is single how I feel about myself many months into
and lonely. I show them loneliness exists therapy. Here are some that could fit. Relief,
in marriage even though I don’t believe it. shock, shame, hurt, grief, fear, anger, guilt.
My other friend struggles with working in a I hate myself even more, if that’s possible.
boring day job when she would rather com- A new fear emerges. If Sue helps me and
pose music. Well, aren’t I a struggling writer all these feelings go away, then who am I?
who also hates my job? Not strictly true. I don’t even know basic things about my-
self; my favourite colour or the music I like.
Despair engulfs me. My husband and now I copied them. Am I just an empty shell? My
my friends. Is there nothing in my life that poor inner child loses it. She doesn’t want
hasn’t been tainted? We keep going; Sue and these burdens anymore but if I keep poking
I. Tell me how some of your friendships end. and prodding my past, how can she protect
The question I’ve been dreading. My friend- me from the dangers out there?
ships with confident people usually wear
off. Those self-assured ones are always sur- The bases of trauma are shame and fear.
rounded by large groups of people and I hate I have an abundance of both. No, that’s un-
being in large groups. When I’m in a group, I true. My life is characterised by both. How
assume most of them despise me. I assume could I not have known? I thought I was
people talk about me, my skin colour, my dis- ‘over’ my childhood. How can it have shaped
gusting face, and scariest of all, the ugliness me so completely? These are the darkest
inside me. I assume people see my rotten days of therapy. A part of me is in denial
core and no amount of perfume and bright about the effects of trauma on my life. An-
clothes mask the sight or smell of it. other part of me is convinced I am a dirty,
horrible human being and all this work is
Inevitably, the confidences shared by going to further expose me. Fear and shame,
these very assertive and undaunted people fear and shame, fear and shame.
fall to stony ground when I can’t be their
friend anymore. My usual method of ending I stick with therapy, now and then seeing
these friendships is to create distance and shimmers of light. There are moments
then ghost them till they give up contacting when I imagine a different future for my-
me. What do I feel when I write this? I feel self. Sue shows me and all my parts that
regret and sadness. I wish I could talk to she is a trustworthy adult. I tell her foul
each of these former friends and explain things about myself, and she never flinches,
what was happening. screws up her face in disgust or shakes her

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head in judgement. When I say I had com- Their reaction shocks me. They profess love
plete control over my actions as a child, she and promise that I am infinitely lovable.
gently asks if that is true.
Over a year passes since I started therapy
I see something new. As that small girl with Sue. The strength of that therapeutic
grows in confidence about my adult abili- relationship, my own work and the support
ties to protect and love her, unknown sides of people I love have enabled me to tell my
of me emerge. The first thing to change is history of abuse and to understand trauma.
sleep. I had always been able to fall asleep I understand those symptoms of trauma
quickly once I got under the bedcovers but were my body and mind trying to heal and
most nights I woke, around two or three in keep myself safe. I now have much better
the morning, with a thumping heart while tools at my disposal to do that and it’s not
my brain listed things I hadn’t accomplished. the little girl who manages things anymore.
My deficiencies and the knowledge of what It is thirty-nine-year-old me. I’ve learnt I
a horrible person I am, kept me from closing am capable of great tenderness, a capacity
my eyes again. Once the therapy starts to love and most of all, to trust. The world
sinking in, I go to bed, fall asleep, and then doesn’t seem as dangerous anymore.
stay asleep till the morning alarm.
It’s not all beauty and peace. There are
The other change happens in my phys- days when that trauma monster raises its
ical body. For months I’ve suffered inter- head, but the difference is I know what it
mittent lower back pain. My reaction to is and how to deal with it. Most weeks, my
it was anger. I got terribly angry with my- past no longer haunts me and when it does
self and worked out harder in the gym to show up, I know it’s no longer happening.
try and fix it, once punching myself in the It’s my history; I am grieving for the child-
back. I saw a physiotherapist but didn’t hood I never had, but it’s over and that is
follow the treatment plan. More recently the best thing of all.
the pain returns, but the relationship with
my body has changed. My reaction is rad- Today, I look forward, and I breathe. I
ically different. I feel tenderness towards absorb what’s in front of me. I am curious
myself and take the physio’s advice. The about what life has to offer. I am curious
anger and loathing for my body dissipate. about myself. I still have the stubbornness
I go to a trauma sensitive yoga class which and willingness to work hard and inde-
is one of the best things I have ever done pendently, but I know I can ask for help. I
for myself. It’s the one place I can be with know my husband doesn’t intend to leave
myself and not judge what’s happening in me. That inner child who had to bear these
my body. burdens for so long no longer appears. She
is playing with her toys in her safe place. I
With these physical changes, come emo- can keep her safe for the rest of my life. She
tional ones. I challenge my inner monologue. is loved and cherished by me. As for adult
I’m not ugly. I am lovable. I only have to look me? I am looking around, no longer op-
at my husband, my friends. They love me, pressed by the past and no longer frantically
despite my behaviour. I experiment with making plans for tomorrow. I am here. I am
telling some of my friends about my past. alive. I survived.

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About the Author
Natasha Rai: I am an Indian-Australian woman, currently living in Sydney. I was born in India,
migrating to Australia with my parents at the age of ten. I lived in London, UK for several
years as an adult, and the influence of my three homes feature in my writing. My work
explores inter-sectional feminism, trauma, cultural identity and searching for a place where
race and gender don’t matter. My work has appeared in Australia’s first #MeToo anthology
about the culture of silence in Indian families, and online literary journal, Verity La. My
first, unpublished, novel was longlisted for the Australian 2017 Richell Prize and 2018 KYD
Unpublished Manuscript award. I am currently working on my third novel.

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WHITE PEOPLE

by Kent Jacobson

Do you need a crowd-getter? I have a 1963 Oldsmobile two-door
in which [civil rights activist] Mrs. Viola Liuzzo was killed. Bullet

holes and everything intact. Ideal to bring crowds.
Birmingham News (January 15, 1966), advertisement

I throw open the windows and the unfamil- “Will keeps asking me out. Go here, go
iar Alabama air wafts into my college office there. I’ve got Tim. Will knows that.”
and someone bangs on the door’s frosted
glass. I’d met Rachelle on my first day as Tim’s a somber philosophy professor
she stormed along alone on a campus side- twenty years older who’s stayed on longer
walk, she from a black family with an elder- than most white Northerners and bought a
ly mother in a nearby shack where you can house. He seems dug in.
see the ground between planks in the floor.
Not Rachelle.
I hold the door and she crosses into
the office and sits unselfconsciously on “I want out of this town, not another
my desk— bare butterscotch legs, lightly homegrown like Will. It’s all crabs in a basket
straightened hair and no makeup, conspic- around here, crabs in a basket. You try to
uous cheekbones like a Native American. crawl out and they pull you right back.”

Will. She needs to talk about Will and She means Will though she might be
it isn’t the first time. “He won’t leave me talking about Tim.
alone, he won’t stop . . . ,” Will a student in
one of my classes. Rachelle is gorgeous and smart with an
athletic fury. She moves and you watch, for-
The graying secretary’s jaw tightens ward and fluid and never a small step. She
whenever Rachelle appears (the same fe- stands in front of you and offers herself as
male student, a young teacher), despite the if to say, You can’t ignore me, you won’t ig-
college’s avert-your-eyes attitude. Rachelle nore me.
attracts talk. It’s 1967 and we are years from
wisdom on relationships between students I can’t.
and faculty.
“I’ll go North alone if I can find the money.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I’m twenty-three and fresh from grad- He seizes the soggy bills I hand him and
uate school with plans to return to finish stalks off.
a Ph.D., one of the few whites at Tuskegee
Institute. A Master’s was enough for the And following that, I peer constantly into
college in last-minute need of an instructor, the rear-view mirror when I drive: What’s
even an unworldly Northerner like me, and the beat-up pickup with the rifles across the
after several weeks I understand a min- back window doing?
imum about the Institute or the students I
teach, and less about the South except for I barely grasp why I’ve come South. I’ve
images on the news: howling men with bats scoured Wordsworth and Browning and
and women with signs “We hate niggas” as the Brontes in grad school and I’m feeling
a tiny black girl in a starched flared dress removed and less than essential and, what-
passes on a sidewalk to integrate an ele- ever I yearn for, it’s here in America some-
mentary school. where and not with the British writers I love.
In months Martin Luther King will die a half-
I’d gotten a first live dose two months day’s ride up the road in Memphis. Race is
ago. ripping my country. Wallace says: “Nigguhs
start a riot down here, first one of ‘em to
“What’re you doin’ down here?” A white pick up a brick gets a bullet in the brain.”
man in a greased baseball hat spits a chaw We’ve grown evil. And a tiny black child in
at my penny loafers at a Birmingham gas a flared, flowered dress on her way to ele-
pump. I’m blurry after August days in the mentary school pulls at me. I need a place
car, short miles now to Tuskegee, the heat in this life. I ache to be of use.
melting the station’s asphalt into a nasty
stink, my undershorts and shirt soaked But I hadn’t expected a woman.
with sweat. He’s spotted the Connecticut
plates on the rusty old Cadillac with a I hadn’t planned on Rachelle.
U-Haul. Civil-rights people call this city
“Bombingham.” And she isn’t the only surprise. Yesterday,
Will and Leon approached me after class
“Teaching,” I say, “I’m a teacher,” and and waited as others left. I closed the win-
don’t tell him where. Teaching has to sound dows. They wanted privacy. I collected my
harmless to him. I am harmless. notes and pens and set them in a briefcase,
Dad’s graduation gift.
He rams the nozzle into my gas-tank.
Will sings in a band with hopes for re-
Jesus, what have I walked into? Ex-Ala- gional fame. I sang as a boy and Will and I
bama-governor George Wallace swears the have buzzed outside class about the music
South had no “colored” trouble till “outside we loved growing up. Fats Domino, Larry
agitators” showed up. We’re the trouble. Williams, Clyde McPhatter, The Moonglows,
And true to form I’ve blundered into Ala- The Penguins, and the song “It’s All in the
bama with a sense of superiority, all the Game” by Tommy Edwards. Will speaks
while “black riots” (the media’s term) have warmly and then retreats.
surged in June and July in Boston, New
York, Detroit, Chicago, and a hundred other Rachelle might be the reason. Or is it my
Northern cities. I can appreciate Baseball whiteness he can’t trust for long?
Hat’s resentment.
Leon has a spiced reputation as a wild
man, for saying and doing anything, a

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