Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 25, June 2019

Revista Literária Adelaide

wearing the same a re day a er day and he no ced the mailman leaving, and he
bouncing from pub to pub night a er night. stopped to retrieve his mail from the box. It
was junk for the most part, but there was a
Several months later, he staggered into le er from the academy. He hadn’t a end-
the dimly lit lobby of a shabby building. In- ed the academy in months. What could it
sects crawled along the cracked walls and up be? I probably owe money, he thought. He
the stairs. The hall reeked of cigare es and opened the le er, his body s ll as concrete,
stale cooking. A man slumped in the corner dropping the le er.
to his le began coughing violently, startling
Ernst. Quickly, he reached inside his coat for His pain ng had been sold for a sub-
his handgun and aimed it at the man. stan al amount of money and was being
exhibited at the Bauhaus. Ernst, who had
“Please, Herr, don’t shoot. Please,” the started the day drunk and in poverty, was
old man begged. suddenly tremendously rich and his work
was renowned.
Ernst slid the gun back inside his coat
and proceeded upstairs. He halted in front By 1933, Ernst had given up his exces-
of his filth-encrusted apartment door. The sive drinking habit and returned to the well-
landlady appeared, dressed in torn house groomed bachelor. And he resumed sleep-
clothes. Ernst would have liked to avoid her, ing with pros tutes and a ending shows.
but the door was difficult to open. Most importantly, his work remained pop-
ular, with pain ngs such as Nudely Wednes-
“You think living here is free, don’t you?” days, a portrait of naked pros tutes in
she said in a raspy voice. “Well, it isn’t.” She his apartment. He even bought a Mer-
took a drag of her cigare e. cedes-Benz and hired a chauffeur to drive
him around Munich.
“I’ll have it to you by the end of the week.”
One day, the chauffeur stopped in front
“You’ll have it to me by tomorrow eve- of the Weir restaurant, so people could
ning. Are we clear?” She inhaled a final no ce Ernst. He was more than a mere
idol; he was a God. He stepped inside and
me before flicking the cigare e down the gazed around the sumptuous restaurant.
stairs. He sported an ocean-blue coat with ar ul
crosshatching. Immediately a tall, hoary
Inside his apartment, he lay on the bat- man holding a piece of paper greeted him.
tered sofa, thinking about his finances.
Between his alcohol addic on and paying “How are you, Herr Goldstein?” he said,
rent, he had exhausted his tui on funds his face grave. “I have a table reserved for
and had no money. you over here.”

He picked up a copy of the latest Kölner Behind the maître d’, Ernst no ced Karl
Stadt-Anzeiger. The headline on the front and Hans si ng with their dates.
page shouted about the high unemploy-
ment rate in the city. Smaller print told of “Karl,” Ernst said so ly. He looked back
the new leader of the workers’ movement. at the maître d’. “I’ll be joining those gen-
On the next page, Ernst read that a brewery tlemen this evening.”
was hiring a large number of workers. It’s
worth a try, he thought. The maître d’ walked over to the gentle-
men’s table. They looked up, then squinted
The next day, Ernst le his apartment for
the brewery. On the way down the stairs,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

in Ernst’s direc on. Karl signaled Ernst to “Ernst, I’m serious.”
the table.
“It was another me, Karl. But I don’t
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, old have any interest in poli cs,” said Ernst.
friend,” said Karl. “Please sit down. So, my
good friend, are you working on anything “Neither do I. Anyway, enough with all
new?” this poli cal garbage. We have a show to
a end at the Deutsches Theater. Ernst, you
“Not lately. What about you?” are welcome to join us,” Hans offered. He
drained his glass of wine.
“Same here, old friend.”
A er the show, on his way home, Ernst’s
“Hans, what are you doing these days?” car passed a brick wall showing a poster of
disgruntled ci zens and the phrase “Hitler
“I’m a sales manager at my father’s mar- Is Our Last Hope.” The chauffeur halted
ke ng firm,” Hans said proudly. in front of the Nymphenburg Palace and
opened the car door for Ernst. As he neared
“Who would’ve guessed the student at the entrance, he heard a woman call out his
the bo om of the class would come out name. He turned around and saw Lenora
making more money than us?” said Karl. wearing a blue dress climbing out of a car.

Ernst laughed, ligh ng his cigar pipe. “Lenora,” he said. He raised his eye-
brows in surprise. He hadn’t seen her in
“Now you sound like them,” said Hans. years. “What are you doing here?

“I do not,” said Karl. “I am here for you. Aren’t you going to
invite me inside?”
“Who’s them?” asked Ernst.
“Yes, please come inside.” He held the
“The Nazis,” said Karl. “What are your door open for her.
thoughts about their poli cal viewpoint?”
Inside the apartment, Lenora sat on the
“Nothing that comes to mind,” Ernst an- sofa. Ernst watched as she gazed around
swered. the room, with its high ceiling and spotless
marble floor.
“I don’t understand that mean.”
“How’ve you been?” he asked, offering
“Karl, you’re paranoid,” said Hans. “The her some brandy in a crystal glass.
man hasn’t gained power and already
you’re packing for America.” “I’ve been alright. You have a nice place,”
she said.
“Now, wait a minute. I wouldn’t expect
you to understand. You’re not an ar st. “Thank you. How’d you know where I
Ernst, on the other hand, you must under- live?”
stand. I’ve heard incredible things about
this man Hitler. How he wasn’t admi ed to “I have my way of knowing,” she said,
the art academy in Vienna. He may be seek- walking over to the large window.
ing retribu on.”
At last, Ernst had his opportunity. He had
“Well, that makes me feel be er, to everything he had ever imagined. The look
know his war isn’t with the Jews, but with of this beau ful woman and her elegance
the human imagina on.” Hans laughed,
pouring wine into a crystal glass.

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excited him enormously. He approached “It’s also rumored that the Bauhaus is
Lenora from behind. Lenora turned around being closed. Is this true?” asked Hans.
and with gentle hands removed Ernst’s
sunglasses. He felt no longer concerned “I’m not sure, but I’ll find out,” said Ernst
about his appearance. She was like a nurse as he scanned the evic on le er.
who’d cured him of his insecuri es. In the
bedroom, they made love and then slept “What’s going on?” Lenora came out of
holding each other. At last, he felt love and the bedroom wearing a black see-through
affec on. negligee. “Ernst, come back to bed.” She
went back into the bedroom and closed the
In the middle of the night, the sound of door.
people singing “Horst Wessel” and shout-
ing “Sieg heil!” came from outside. Ernst, Later that day, Ernst stopped by the
wakened by the noise, went to the window Bauhaus. Inside the building, officials were
to find out what was going on. He could confisca ng art. Professor Freundlich at-
see people cheerfully marching down the tempted to prevent this from happening
street in the brown-shirt uniforms and Kepi as he grabbed an art piece from one of the
caps from a decade earlier, but now holding officer’s hand.
red flags with the swas ka in their center.
But s ll, he couldn’t tell what was happen- “What are you doing? This is disgrace-
ing, nor did he care as he looked back at ful.” Professor Freundlich said.
Lenora’s naked body. He went back to bed.
“No,” said the officer, “you are disgrace-
Early one morning, a couple of months ful! All this goddamn junk. Come on, let’s go!”
later, a pounding on the door wakened
Ernst. The men were carelessly dragging the
expressionist pain ngs downstairs. As Pro-
“Ernst, open the door!” fessor Freundlich grabbed onto it, he was
pushed down the flight of stairs where he
Ernst stumbled to the door and lets lied unconscious from a broken spinal cord.
Hans in. Ernst rushed over to help him.

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Hans, hand- “Someone call the ambulance!” Ernst
ing Ernst a note that had been le at the yelled, but the officials ignored him.
door.
Ernst carried Professor Freundlich out
“Haven’t I heard what?” Ernst’s voice the building with the help of some students
was s ll thick with sleep. to the clinic to be treated. He le shortly
a er.
“Hitler is chancellor. And last night the
barbarians destroyed my father’s market- His chauffeur was parked beside the
ing firm. And what’s more, we must pay academy, but Ernst walked in the oppo-
for the damages ourselves even though we site direc on, down a street sca ered with
have insurance. They’re boyco ng Jewish glass le from the previous night’s may-
businesses all around.” hem. On the corner, Hans’s office windows
had been destroyed and Ernst could see
Hans went over to the table to pour a that the office had been vandalized along
glass of Brandy. Ernst unfolded the note. He with surrounding Jewish businesses. Ernst
was being evicted from his residence. con nued down the street with a straight

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

face. A er much walking, he ended up at “Ernst Goldstein.”
Karl’s apartment building. He entered the
building, walked upstairs, and knocked on “Yes, Ernst Goldstein. The ar st of ex-
the door. To his surprise a woman wearing pressions.” The officer dug down in his
a robe answered the door. pocket.

“Is there something wrong?” she said, Ernst stepped back, preparing for the
invi ng him into the sumptuous apartment. worse. He glanced at the flight of stairs, his
hands gripping his pistol in his coat. But the
“Where’s Karl? Is he here?” officer merely pulled out a notepad.

“I don’t know who that is, Herr. Only my “This may come as a surprise, given our
husband and I live here.” different poli cal views, but I am a great ad-
mirer of yours. May I have your autograph?”
Ernst looked around the well-ordered The officer handed Ernst the notepad.
room. Over the fireplace hung a self-por-
trait of Karl. He turned to the woman. “Of course,” said Ernst.

“Your husband must admire art very “There was another famous ar st who
much.” lived on this floor. I believe his name was
Karl Klein,” said the officer
“He has no interest in art. He’s a doctor
who works exhaus ng hours. We moved “Would you happen to know his where-
in a couple of weeks ago, and this pain ng abouts?” asked Ernst, handing back the
happened to be le behind by the previ- notepad.
ous tenant. I convinced my husband not to
throw it away. I like it a lot. Blue is my fa- The officer wrote down an address and
vorite color,” the woman said. “It goes well then tore the page out the notepad and
with my furniture, wouldn’t you agree?” handed it to Ernst.

“Yes, it’s lovely.” Ernst smiled reluctantly. “Heil Hitler,” the officer said, stretching
“Then this must be the wrong apartment. his arm forward.
Are you sure?”
Ernst looked at him and back down at
The woman remained adamant that no the paper.
one named Karl resided there.
“Thank you,” he said so ly and then
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, frau.” walked downstairs.

As Ernst le the apartment, a man Ernst went to the address. He climbed
dressed in SS a re walked past him. The SS several flights of squeaky stairs, skir ng
man turned around and stopped Ernst just around a small boy who was using a piece
as he was going downstairs. of broken glass to scrape the peeling wall-
paper in the shape of his own shadow. At
“What are you doing here? What’s your last, Ernst arrived at a door covered with
name?” he said. cobwebs. He pulled the sheet of paper out
of his pocket and checked the room num-
“Ernst.” ber, 1A. The number one was missing from
the door, but its shape was visible, like a
“Ernst what? What’s your last name?” ring print on a finger. The doorknob looked
The officer eyes bore a hole through Ernst.

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as if it had been hammered. He knocked on “What?”
the door.
“We are creators. Professor Freundlich
“Who is it?” told this to me years ago. I didn’t under-
stand at first, but now I do.”
“Ernst.”
“Go on,” Karl said, ligh ng a cigare e.
“Wait a minute.”
“Our art represents, rather, expresses
A few minutes later, Karl opened the what’s going on in the world. So, we should
door. express through our art what’s happening
today in order to open the eyes of the pub-
“Come in,” he said. lic and give them insight. They’ll wake up,
you’ll see. Just like before, when the Bavar-
The apartment contained nothing ex- ians restored order.”
cept an old couch, piles of books suppor ng
a radio playing music, and a suitcase lean- Karl burst out laughing.
ing against the wall. The bulb dangling from
the molded ceiling gave only a dull light. “Things are only beginning, and you
don’t even know it.”
“How did you find me?”
“You’re wrong, Karl. Professor—”
“An officer told me,” said Ernst.
“Oh Professor,” said Karl, all laughter
“I’m not surprised. Everyone seems to gone from his voice. “So long as he’s here,
know everything these days. It’s beginning he’s dead. Don’t you get it? His philosophy
to turn into a police state, this place.” is a thing of the past. It means nothing to-
day, nor will it mean anything tomorrow.
“Are you leaving for America?” Ernst You don’t know the law. We’re prohibited
asked, looking at the suitcase. from pain ng. There are spies everywhere.
What happens when strange men disguised
“I am. Where are you headed? En- as officers come knocking at your door?
gland?” What are you going to do? Fight them off
with your paint brush? They have fucking
“I don’t have any money.” machine guns!”

“Somehow, they’ve managed to with- The music on the radio was interrupted
draw every reichsmark from my savings. by an important announcement by Adolf
Luckily, I kept a few marks, which was Ziegler, the president of the Reich Cham-
enough to buy a cket to America. I have ber for the Visual Arts: “The exhibit of over
a handful on me s ll.” Karl handed Ernst a 5,000 works from ar sts from all over Ger-
couple reichsmarks. many will premiere in Munich on July 19,
and will run through November 13, before
Ernst thought about what Professor Fre- traveling to 11 other ci es in Germany and
undlich had told him years before. Then he Austria. All students here and abroad are
had been a broken, dispirited man, not a encouraged to view the exhibit. Don’t miss
successful ar st. It made sense, what the the Entartete Kunst exhibit, featuring over
professor had said, nevertheless. If these 650 pain ngs, sculptures, prints, and books
terrible events were occurring, then per-
haps art could reveal to the masses that
this madness was dangerous.

“We’re gods,” said Ernst.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

from the collec ons of 32 German muse- In one of the rooms he stumbled across
ums. Heil Hitler!” his own expressionist pain ng. A group
of art students were gathered in front of
The musical program resumed immedi- it, poin ng and laughing. Years earlier, it
ately a er the announcement. had been the subject of study for most art
students, par cularly in Munich. Now, the
“You want your answer. There you’ll find words “Deliberate Sabotage of Na onal De-
it,” Karl said, picking up his suitcase. “Take fense” were inscribed below it.
yourself, friend.”
He pulled away from the group and
A er Karl had le , Ernst sat on the walked to the door. As he was leaving the
couch, feeling uncertain about his future exhibi on, he no ced Lenora holding hands
and pondering why these things were hap- with a man who looked like a high-level pol-
pening. i cian. The man smiled disparagingly at the
art along with a scholar, economist, and art
The next night, Ernst strolled down a director.
street near Maximilianstrasse. Near the
corner he saw a flyer pasted to a building. It “So, about the modern wing,” said the
showed a picture of the sculpture Der Neue scholar, leaning on a cane. “What will hap-
Mensch by Professor Freundlich above the pen to the gallery?”
words “Entartete Kunst.” Just around the
corner was a building with a banner over “The law en rely prohibits any degener-
the door that read “Degenerate Art.” Ernst ates, especially expressionists, from paint-
observed a group of young people—art stu- ing,” explained the art director. “So, the
dents, perhaps—as well as cri cs carrying modern wing has been summarily closed,
notepads in their hands going into and out forever.”
of the building.
“And what about profits from the auc-
Ernst entered the building and climbed on?”
a broken-down staircase. As he entered the
exhibi on, he almost bumped his head on “Profits will go directly into the party’s
the knee of a larger-than-life woodcarv- campaign to support factories and large
ing. He looked at the label: Crucified Christ corpora ons in order to reduce unemploy-
by Ludwig Gies. As he walked around the ment,” said the economist.
woodcarving, he recalled seeing this par-
Ernst turned to glance at Lenora one last
cular piece hung much higher in Lubeck me before leaving the gallery. He walked
Cathedral. down the street, stumbling in front of the
Bauhaus, famous symbol of modernism’s
On his le were pictures clustered to- commitment to social change. He sat on
gether, some crooked and badly lit. Al- the stairs and began weeping.
though the exhibi on rooms were rela ve-
ly small, he managed to squeeze through The next night, the SS men stampeded
the large groups of spectators viewing his apartment building.
abstract pain ngs hanging upside down
on the walls. Above and below the pieces, Ernst opens his eyes, realizing that what
people had scrawled graffi ridiculing the the tenant said is true. The truck makes it
works and their ar sts. way down the road and into the woods.
The passengers seem oblivious to the view.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
“Where are we?” says Ernst, looking
back at the tenant. “What is this place?”
The tenant stares back at him.
“Dachau.”

About the Author:

Allen Levaniel has been wri ng for ten years and had found his voice. He relocated from
Jacksonville, Florida to Charlo e, North Carolina in order to embark on a wri ng career. Af-
ter studying art history in Charlo e, it puzzled him to find that ar sts were stopped in their
prime because of one man’s distaste for the style of pain ng and failure to become such an
ar st. In any case, this event inspired him to write FROM BAUHAUS TO DACHAU to express
how it effected a par cular ar st.

55

TWENTY FOUR

HOURS IN PARIS

by Eoin O’Donnell

Jeremy followed Rachel to Paris because the city. I filtered the op ons down to ‘val-
he loved her. I followed Jeremy to Paris ue for money’ and ‘loca on’ and se led on
because I loved him. It was like a mini sex one place in the 10th Arrondissement.
conga line gyra ng its way to the con nent.
Rachel was a long black haired, big eyed “A shithole,’ barked the first review.
beauty that we knew in college. Some mes
I used to catch them glancing and smiling “Great loca on but rude staff and terri-
in at each other in class. I wonder did she ble breakfast,” bleated another.
ever see me and Jeremy doing the same. As
final exams ended in that summer of 2004 “Great value for money. Hot chicks were
everyone was talking about their plans. in my dorm,” this one chirped.
Someone men oned Paris. Rachel said she
was going. Then Jeremy said it. So I said it. “Not clean, good loca on,” another
crowed.
She went in June and Jeremy followed
a few days later. He and I had spent the Always look at the best review and the
week before smoking a lion bar of hash in worst review and presume that the sweet
my miserable excuse for student accom- spot is somewhere in the middle.
moda on in Maynooth. All he talked about
was Paris. He said there was only one stop It was the end of July and I found myself
sign in the whole city and that that was a galloping towards Paris. Despite the flight
place where he wanted to live. His enthu- being delayed leaving Dublin and wai ng
siasm rubbed off and I was dying to go too. over for an hour for my bag in Charles De
Eventually I saved up enough and reserved Gaulle my enthusiasm was unso ened.
a one way cket. I had no plans beyond ar- I hopped on a train in the airport and we
riving in Paris, finding Jeremy and us being rolled off into the morning and gradually
in love. I booked myself the cheapest hostel built up a pace. When I saw the city emerge
that was closest to the centre of the city. Or into view my heart started to thump. I was
at least what I thought was the centre of obsessed with a band called Broken Social
Scene and their song KC Accidental was in
my ears. It was like it was wri en just for
this journey. So fran c and then stopping

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and star ng and then gathering speed and walked by and I imagined that we were all
whooshing off again. It was the perfect friends and I went drinking beer with them.
soundtrack. I felt a surge of energy. I loved I finished my cigare e and went back in-
Paris already. side, only then, realising that all the smok-
ers were s ll inside puffing away. Maybe I
I had stayed in worse places. The staff looked like a freak a er all.
were fine. The loca on was ok. No “hot
chicks” in my dorm. But it was clean. Actu- But now this freak was ecsta c. Jeremy
ally, this was the Ritz compared to my stu- had replied.
dent house. I would leave a suitably mid-
dle-of-the-road review so like-minded trav- “Baz – what a surprise. You should’ve
ellers would know what to expect. There told me you were coming. Where are you
were twelve beds in my room, all bunks. staying? Meet us tonight. Address below.
I plonked my bag on a lower bunk near There’s a gang of us in an amazing old apart-
the window and decided to email Jeremy ment. Just like Maynooth. Except we’re in
straight away. I couldn’t wait to tell him I Paris – ha ha! Come tonight. There’ll be
was here. someone there from 5 or 6.”

There were some computers in the re- Oh Jeremy, you magnificent bastard. He
cep on area so I got a coffee from a ma- had that incredible skill of always finding
chine and composed a lovely, short email the party, always landing on his feet and
to him. I clicked send and then got my always fi ng in wherever he went. He al-
first shot of awareness. Like the bang of ways made me feel like I was the centre
the front door tells you that you le your of the world too. I took out a celebratory
house keys inside. Here I was chasing my cigare e, sat where I was, and lit up, con-
love around the world. I sat there imagining tently tapping some emails home to friends
several nega ve scenarios in the desperate and family. I slightly exaggerated my expe-
hope that if I imagined them then none of riences so far – “great guest house, French
them would come true. I even imagined a coffee, cha ed to some Americans (lovely),
no response so that I would be ready for have met Jeremy and ea ng at his place and
the disappointment. Nothing was arriving hanging out tonight”. It was almost true.
in my inbox so I logged off and went outside
for a cigare e. Back in my room I changed into some-
thing more suited to a party – a burgundy
It was a hot day and the sky was a bril- shirt and charcoal jeans. The shirt wasn’t
liant blue. Why did the sky look so full and tasteful but, at the me, I thought it was
far away? Why did the sky in Dublin feel so gorgeous. I was twenty two. What twenty
narrow and close? I imagined never going two year old doesn’t have terrible taste? So
home. I could learn French. I could get a job. off I went with my shirt, Ipod, head full of
I could write and live and love and learn. I ideas and notebook in hand.
could find the stop sign. I inhaled my ciga-
re e and looked up and down the street. I I wanted to find a cute café and drink
liked being a smoker. It was great for confi- coffee, flirt with someone and write some
dence, making conversa on and not look- lines of poetry. Instead I just stumbled
ing like a freak when hanging around wait- around half lost. I thought I might see some
ing for an email. A gang of American girls of the usual sites but maybe I was in the
wrong part of the city. I found a bench for

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

a break and sat there for a while sipping When I reached my stop I tro ed outside
from a bo le of water, swea ng in the sun. and checked my map. As I strolled along
A er an hour or two of more wandering I the old streets, kind of lost, I inhaled the air
thought I might as well wander in the direc- and smelled the fragrances and looked to
the blue sky. There were patches of white
on of Jeremy’s apartment. I would prob- clouds there now and the old grey architec-
ably get there a bit early but if it was any- ture mixed with the new straight modern
thing like the house in Maynooth, as he had was inspiring me. I was s ll listening to Bro-
said, then there was bound to be someone ken Social Scene. It was a slow dirge called
there to let me in. “Lover’s Spit”. I loved this song. And I loved
the one a er it as if they were wri en just
I must’ve been in love. I was swaying for me.
from horrible anxiety to mindless joy. I was
worried that I was going in the wrong direc- The apartment was up some steps and
had a big wooden door. There was a series
on and that I was doing the wrong thing. of buzzers to the right of it. I rang each one
But when I found a seat and se led in I be- as there was no iden fying names or num-
gan to find pleasure in simple things. The bers. No answer. I took a seat on the steps
sites, the smells, the clicks and bings of the and lit a cigare e. I took out my notebook
train. I leaned back and thought of Jeremy. and scribbled down some thoughts. I liked
No doubt he felt at home here. He spoke them and hoped that they could be used in
excellent French. He had studied languages a poem or a novel that I might write some-
in college, Spanish being the other. I studied day. Cars passed. A dog ran by. Some Amer-
English and skipped my French classes. We icans. Why so many Americans? I stared at
first met at the Mundo La no - the Spanish my shoes and put them in various stages of
Society. Jeremy was club secretary. I saw a pose as if modelling for an ad. I thought of
poster and decided to a end. There was a going back to my hostel. Then I heard my
lot of free tequila with bags of lemons and name.
sachets of salt. Students can always sniff
out a free drink. The opening evening was “Barry?”
in a class hall and a er a tonne of shots ev-
eryone went over to the Students Union to I looked up. Rachel. She looked surprised
con nue the party. I was loaded on the te- and then smiled. I don’t think she was too
quila. More loaded than anyone had ever excited to see me. But she wasn’t evil. She
been. I danced to Depeche Mode and the gave me a big welcome. We embraced
Strokes but nobody would dance with me. and she asked me a load of ques ons. She
Then Jeremy took pity and joined in. What had an incredible gi of ac ng interested
a night we had. He woke me at the end of in someone even when she didn’t care.
the night as I lay sleeping in the corner of I found that side of her amusing. She had
the bar. I had sobered up a li le and he two bags of food shopping with her. She
said he would walk me home. At the train handed both to me as she looked for her
sta on bridge I wanted to kiss him but he keys. On our journey up the three flights
said “kiss me when you’re sober”. He said it of stairs (the li was broken) and through
would mean so much more. I asked him to the second front door I gave her a brief syn-
stay the night but he just smiled and said he opsis of my day. I carried both bags. Then I
had to go home. But he was right. The so- asked about Jeremy.
ber kiss later that week was so much be er.

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“You mean Remy,” she said ma er-of-factly. night some mes. He said he didn’t know
how he felt and that maybe it was all just an
“Remy?” experiment. Like doing drugs. But I didn’t
like to think that being gay was like doing
“It’s what we call him here. He feels it’s drugs. Maybe he meant that being in love
more French so he prefers to be called that. was like being on drugs. That was how I felt.
We’re all feeling more French.” Either way, I wanted to be around him. Ly-
ing in bed together, him fidge ng with the
I smiled at how Jeremy liked to inte- loose strips of wallpaper over the head of
grate himself into his new surroundings. my bed as I sat up on my elbow looking at
Some people would say it was preten ous. him. He rambled across various unrelated
I wouldn’t. Not about Jeremy anyway. May- topics. He had an array of informa on. My
be giving himself a new name was a way for favourite was how Genghis Khan murdered
him to move on from college and be a new so many people that he caused the earth’s
person. Jeremy was for college. Remy was climate to cool. I could’ve stayed leaning on
for life. my elbow forever.

“Do you call him Remy?” I asked. She took the food bags from me and
started to unpack. Two bague es, apples,
“Well, his name is Remy,” she said. “You peaches, croissants and two large bo les
should call people what they want to be of sparkling water. We ate some of the ba-
called. Not what you want to call them.” gue e and drank the sparkling water. Then
I had an apple and Rachel had a peach. The
She always did that. Announcing state- apples were delicious.
ments that you couldn’t disagree with. She
would say things like “I hate racists”. It’s “You ate the apple the wrong way?” Ra-
not a line that opens discussion. What can chel said as I tossed the core into the bin.
you possibly add beyond agreement? Say- “Most people eat through the middle. Like
ing “yes” wasn’t conversa on. She liked to you. But it should be eaten top to bo om.
give herself the final word with the opening You won’t no ce the core, you get all the
line. I began to think that this was the first nutrients and there’s no waste.”

me the two of us ever had a conversa on I couldn’t disagree.
alone. She looked so serious. I wondered
why he loved her. She was such hard work. We moved from the kitchen into the
Or maybe she was just hard work for me. living room, smoked some cigare es and
then people started to arrive, just walking
There had been a long term boyfriend in without knocking. Did they all live here?
in college and she was only recently sin- I began to think there wouldn’t be a spare
gle. She unloaded the news the week be- bed for me. Unless I managed to get in be-
fore exams and that’s when she said she side Jeremy. I nodded to myself and loved
wanted to go to Paris. Then it all seemed the idea, imagining that it was already ar-
to snowball. There had always been a flir- ranged.
ta on between her and Jeremy but now it
seemed to be legi mised. She didn’t sleep Before long the room was full. I count-
around and neither did he. He had told me ed twelve. Most of them were Irish. I didn’t
he loved her a few days a er we had first know anybody. Rachel opened the two
kissed but he never moved for her. We used
to hang out in my house and he spent the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

large windows and let the warm air in. He was in his element. I just wished I could
Someone put on The Smiths which I didn’t have him to myself. I planned to corner him
think was music suited to a wonderful, in the kitchen later. We could have our pri-
summer evening in Paris. It was an acous c vate catch up. I felt it was only a ma er of
one, short with no drums. I didn’t recognise
it. I thought about the song and it made me me. Par es always tended to disperse into
sad. But when I had looked up I saw Jere- the kitchen at some stage.
my. My heart did a somersault. I watched
as he raised the two bags in his hands, an- The music got louder, the air got hazy,
nouncing “wine”, ge ng a stoned cheer of the sun went down and the night moved
approval. He passed it to somebody and on. I stepped closer to the windows and
greeted others and then we made eyes. He looked out into that beau ful, dark Pari-
looked surprised and then smiled and we sian sky. I wanted to stay up all night. Nev-
met in the middle of the room. er go asleep. I said to my new friends that
we should try to wait up and watch the sun
“Barry,” he said and hung his arms rise. Some of them nodded and half smiled,
around my neck and kissed my forehead. half hearted, as if I had just asked them
He had a gigan c smile. He looked like he for a loan of money. Conversa on turned
was stoned. We started to speak about my to some book or philosopher and they all
journey and my plans when we were inter- tripped over each other to quote a line or
rupted by someone asking about the wine passage. Someone rolled a joint. Rachel
and the cigare es. This set the tone for announced that “poverty shouldn’t exist”.
conversa on all evening. No one-to-ones Then someone was asking why the li was
or private discussions. No ge ng to know broken. Rachel told us how li s work and
anybody. It was all very jovial with people how they stop at each floor. I topped my
talking aloud, over each other and grabbing wine up from an errant bo le on the dining
their chance whenever they could. Lots of table and wrote some more.
hoots of laughter and shouts of joy mixed
with some specula on on life and philoso- Jeremy was s ll centre stage. But he was
phy, movies and music. always over there and never over here. The
drunker I got the more I loved and hated
Jeremy filled my glass beaker with wine. him in equal measure. Why couldn’t he talk
Dark red. Almost purple. It was divine. to me?

“The French keep all the good wine for A er listening to a lively but incoher-
themselves,” he said. ent debate on Stanley Kubrick I decided
I needed some air so I stepped out onto
This lead to more jabs of speech, opin- the landing. Jeremy was there, leaning on
ions, laughs. the bannister while a girl and a guy sat on
the steps. She was preparing a joint. Jere-
“It’s fantas c,” he went on. “And so my looked warm and experienced in his
cheap. It’s a na onal right to have fine wine.” open shirt, white vest, blue jeans, toking
away and bringing the wine to his lips. As
Someone called him Remy and he an- I appeared he winked at me and con nued
swered. I just sat and stared at him, sipping to talk. He was going on about the French
my drink, as he stood there smoking and diet and how it was the healthiest in the
holding court. I loved seeing him like this. world. I se led in on the steps behind the

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Revista Literária Adelaide

girl and the guy. We all smoked and I said “He doesn’t care about you. He cares
some things that made them laugh. I don’t about me. He loves me. He just wants to fuck
remember Rachel making Jeremy laugh the you.”
way I did. But maybe some people don’t
want the person they love to make them She didn’t flinch. Her face was blank.
laugh.
“If he wants to fuck me, that’s okay.”
When we went back inside Rachel and
some other girl screeched in delight and I couldn’t disagree. I felt tears forming
grabbed Jeremy. They said they wanted in my eyes like when you get in a fight at
him to make a bong out of a coke bo le and school. I immediately wanted to say I was
he rubbed his hand through his gorgeous sorry. There had never been any animosi-
lank hair and agreed. I let them at it and I ty between us. My stupid brain or heart or
retreated to the kitchen to top up my glass. dick made it spring forth tonight and I im-
A giant bearded man wearing an Anthrax mediately felt terrible.
t-shirt was there. I tried to chat to him but
he seemed distracted or stoned. The girl Then I just disappeared. An Irish good-
beside him looked like she wanted to throw bye. It was raining outside and even though
up. The kitchen was a mess and I couldn’t it was a er 2am I walked towards the Met-
find anything to drink. I went back inside to ro in the stupid hope that there might be
find the music was louder and more revel- a train. It was closed. The rain got heavier
lers had arrived. I tried talking to some peo- and I knew I would have to get a taxi. Af-
ple but they were too far gone. ter about twenty five minutes of tramping
the streets I managed to hail one. I think he
I decided to go home. I scanned the took pity on me in the rain because his light
room for Jeremy but couldn’t see him. I wasn’t on. He spoke English, thank God, so
had barely spoken to him all night and was I was able to describe where I was staying
feeling cheated. When Rachel rushed past and he said he knew it.
me I stopped her, awkwardly, and asked for
Jeremy. She corrected me by calling him As we drove he asked me where I was
Remy and said she didn’t know. I told her from. I told him Ireland. He arched his body
I was going. She said “ok” and gave me a around, not looking at the road for a good
brisk hug and turned away. But I grabbed five seconds. He looked excited.
her hand and she turned back, looking con-
fused. “All the best Irish writers came to France,”
he said. “Wilde, Becke , Joyce.”
I was drunk and stoned and in love. Just
one of those things will make you do some- He then told me about his favourite Wil-
thing stupid. And I did. de play, that he loved Portrait of the Ar st
and how Becke actually wrote in French.
“I love him,” I said. Lots of quotes and stories tumbled from him
and I was actually glad to sit there and listen.
She didn’t answer. She just stared at me. Then he told me that when Becke lived in
the south of France he used to give André
“And he loves me,” I added. the Giant a li to school in his lorry because
André was too big for the school bus.
“What are you talking about?” she said,
slightly agitated. “Imagine that,” he said. “Samuel Becke
and André the Giant.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

This cheered me up. I had never heard have melted ice-cream. There were s ll six
that story before. I pa ed my pockets for my or seven bodies snoring when I le . I sam-
notebook to write it down because I knew pled the con nental breakfast but could
I’d forget it by morning. I checked my front only manage a cup of coffee. The thoughts
pockets. My back pockets. Oh no. I checked of Rachel or Jeremy finding my notebook
the back of the taxi, down the sides of the caused a sharp poke of nerves in my stom-
seats just to make sure. My heart tripped. ach. The pains made me lose my appe te.
I didn’t have it. I must have le it at Jere- Or maybe it was the hangover. Or the guilt
my’s. I couldn’t go back. No, no, how stu- of speaking to Rachel. My sinuses were all
pid of me. I didn’t have enough money to blocked up and I was breathing like Darth
be driving around all night in a taxi. Plus, I’d Vader. I checked the internet sta ons in the
le under a cloud so I couldn’t return just to recep on area but they were all taken. I
retrieve a notebook, could I? I looked back didn’t want to wait so I went out into the
through the window as the streets rolled noise and heat of the city. I wanted to talk
out behind me. I felt so helpless. to Jeremy so I decided to find an internet
café and send a note to him. I’d tell him that
I’m sure someone was leafing through it I wanted to see him and we needed to talk.
in a stoned haze. I thought about the things Maybe I’d men on the notebook. Hopeful-
I wrote. What I said about those people. ly he wouldn’t reject that idea. Why would
They would find it lying on the floor and he? We had got on so well last night. I had
just ins nc vely have a read. I imagined made him laugh. But when I opened my
them laughing, scoffing, tearing it apart. email there was a message from Jeremy. It
Even ge ng angry. Or worse they would was brief.
think it was trite and adolescent. Sad and
desperate. Or maybe nobody found it. “Barry – where did you go? Need to talk.
Maybe it was lying there ignored. But if I’ll come meet you.”
nobody found it tonight, somebody would
find it tomorrow. Surely they hoovered the He named a café in the Pigalle area at
place once in a while? midday. Eventually I found it and paid for
a stupidly overpriced coffee. Then a coke.
By the me I got to the hostel the rain Then a water. I couldn’t shake this hangover,
had stopped. There was a fresh wind blow- this dread. I waited and waited. I wanted to
ing. The driver and I thanked each other and see him so badly. I imagined him arriving.
I meandered inside to my temporary home. Hangoverless. Looking amazing. He would
I was dying to go asleep. Maybe there’d be say he was angry but he understood that
American girls in the room? Or nobody. I had to speak to Rachel. Or he would say
Just me. But it was full of drunks. All men. he loves Rachel. Or he would say that he
I couldn’t discern the accent or language. loves me. Or he would say that I should stay
But, good Jesus, they were loud. They sang, in Paris and we should see how things go.
pissed and puked all night. The quieter they Maybe I could move in to the apartment.
tried to be the louder they were. I think I Take things slowly. But what about the note-
got about half an hour of decent sleep. I book? He might say they read it. Or that Ra-
wished I was at home. chel read it. Maybe she was angry about it.
But he wasn’t angry. He was fla ered that
Next morning I beat the queue for the he was worth wri ng about. He would en-
shared shower. The smell in the room could

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Revista Literária Adelaide

courage me to write more. Then he would “Yes. She’s my best friend. We came here
say Rachel’s moving out. Or that she knows to Paris to live together. Best friends do that.”
about us. Or that the whole things a mess
and I would have to console him. He must be confused. He was definitely
confused.
Whatever was going to happen I wanted
to tell him that I loved him. “But you said you wanted her? You said
you loved her?”
“Barry.”
“I do love her. As my friend.”
I looked up. There he was. I stood up
and went to embrace him but he kind of “But you followed her here.”
brushed by me and took the seat opposite.
He ordered an Americano from the waiter “We came over to live here. To look af-
and then made small talk by telling me how ter each other. That’s what friends do, Bar-
the Americano got its name. ry. They look out for each other. They don’t
pick fights with each other.”
“American GI’s in Italy during World War
II. The espresso was too strong so they add- We sat in silence for a few minutes lon-
ed water to it. It was nicknamed the Ameri- ger. I think he was deliberately saying noth-
cano by the Italians.” ing, le ng me stew. The whole me I was
plundering my brain for the right thing to
I wished I had my notebook. say, terrified of telling him how I felt. Then
he stubbed out his cigare e and downed
He looked very hungover. But even with his coffee in what must have been a new
that he retained his striking features. We world record me.
made some more small talk although he
seemed distracted. “And the way you just appeared unan-
nounced.”
Eventually he spat it out: “Why did you
shout at Rachel?” I slunk down in my seat.

He looked right at me. “It was just a bit sudden”, he con nued.
“But that doesn’t ma er. The thing is the
I tried to deny it but I didn’t do a good way you acted towards Rachel. And be-
job. He didn’t look impressed. cause of that I can’t see you right now.”

Then he said: “Barry, she knows about us.” “I told her the truth.”

I took a sip of water. “Good,” I said, de- “It wasn’t your truth to tell. It was my
fiantly. truth.”

“No, not good. She’s my friend and I I sat up straight. My hands were shak-
wanted to tell her who I was. I was wai ng ing. I tried to say I was sorry but no sound
for the right me. I didn’t want you or any- came out.
one else to do it for me.”
He dropped a few euro on the table. I
The coffee arrived. Jeremy thanked the went to touch his hand but he pulled away.
waiter and took a drag on his cigare e and He went to leave but then turned back.
blew a mighty stream of smoke into the air.
“Oh, here. I think this is yours. Rachel
“Do you love her?” I asked. found it.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

He took it from his front pocket and He nodded at me, slow and deliber-
tossed it on the table. And then there it was. ate. Like he was saying goodbye. Then he
My notebook. turned and stepped away, moving in and
out of the maze of tables, out onto the
I picked it up but then dropped it again. I path. He looked le and looked right and
wasn’t sure I wanted it back anymore. crossed over the road. I watched him walk
along the far side towards the Metro, his
“Rachel read some of it,” he said. shirt flapping in the breeze. He descended
the stairs into the sta on. I sat there for a
I got that jab of a cramp in my stomach. minute. I thought of him, I thought of Ra-
chel. I thought of my flight and my hostel.
“And she showed me some of it,” he added. I thought of the notebook. I thought of the
trains and the party. I thought of the cof-
I went defensive. “I’m allowed have a fee. My twenty four hours in Paris. I stood
diary.” up and dropped some money on the table.
Leaving the notebook there I made my way
“I know. We stopped when we figured out through the tables and onto the path. I
that out. People wanted to read it but she looked le and right and crossed the road
wouldn’t let them. She’s a good person.” to follow him.

“Jeremy,” I said, si ng up straight but he
raised his hand.

“It’s Remy. My name is Remy.”

About the Author:

Eoin O’Donnell is a writer from Dublin, Ireland. He writes, sings, hosts radios shows, hosts
walking history tours, drinks beer and tea and watches Harrison Ford movies.

64

JUDITH

by Chris Cooper

My eyes flu ered open, catching the lu- baby boy. Cooing Tim with the whispers of
rid glare from the remaining sunlight as it her gentle voice, she stared at him in awe.
bounced off the windshield. I sat up in my She looked up at me and smiled; and even
seat, shielding my eyes from the repug- in her weary state, she looked beau ful. I
nant rays with my right hand and clutching remembered feeling so content, as if there
the bo le of Jameson on my lap with my wasn’t a single thing I wanted more in life.
le . The dried tears on my cheeks had le
behind a s nging irrita on. I adjusted the The familiar tears began sneaking down
rearview mirror, taking in the image of my- my visage as I grasped the bo le of James-
self; my sullen, sunken face covered with an on to take another swig. I twisted the cap off
unkempt beard made me look homeless. and held the mouth of the bo le up to my
Rubbing my withered eyes, I recoiled, let- lips. I blew into it as if it were an instrument,
playing a somber song. I took a quick drag
ng the back of my head hit the car seat’s and blenched as the noxious fluid entered
headrest; I suddenly remembered why I my esophagus. Blinking my eyes lethargi-
was parked on the side of the road, drink- cally, I leered into the bo om of the bo le
ing whiskey into oblivion. as If I were searching for remedies to my
perturba on. I clenched the bo le by the
The so lull from my iPod playing pro- neck and followed up with a long masoch-
vided a soothing soundtrack for my woes. is c chug and winced; the pungent s ng of
I turned the dial to raise the volume as the whiskey flooded my nostrils, and each
my playlist of sad songs trickled from the tear le behind a s ff coldness on my skin
speakers. Glancing at the side mirror, I took as they fell from my face. I pulled out my cell
in the slowly se ng sun; the last sunset I phone and opened my text messages:
was ever going to witness. My body ached,
and my throat burned, but there was a We’re away this weekend. You’re picking
slight solace in knowing it was all going to up Tim from prac ce— was the last text I
be over soon. I sat back in the driver’s seat received from Dina.
and took a deep, mindful breath and closed
my eyes once again. I shook my head in disbelief; how did we
ever become so distant and hos le towards
I thought back to the day Timothy was each other? I recalled how we vowed to
born; Dina holding our son in her arms. She never go to sleep angry at each other and
sat up in the hospital bed with her frizzled how we promised to love one another un-
hair and red eyes, embracing our new condi onally, un l death do us part. We

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

had never missed a Valen ne’s day; we had the stars above. As the brisk air swept over
never hung up the phone without saying my body, my vision began spinning. My
we loved each other. We had done every- stomach rumbled with fire as the Jameson
thing right; so how did it all go so fucking began se ling. The haggard trees along the
wrong? How did our tenderness turn into side of the road revealed small blooming
such enmity? Like the en ty of a flower, our buds of color, depic ng a stark dichotomy
blossoming love was short lived and culmi- of life and death. And while the viable foli-
nated a er 10 years into a withered dalli- age was to defeat death as spring lingered
ance. But I guess that’s the only certainty in around the corner, my long-las ng struggle
life; everything eventually dies. to survive would end on the contrary.

I held the bo le of whiskey up to take I shi ed on my side and extended my leg
another swill, only to be met with the dis- outward, trying to pull myself to my feet. I
appointment that it was empty: just like I got to one knee and felt like I was going to
was. I took a deep breath and opened the puke. I had to do it soon before the liquid
door of my car and stumbled out onto the courage ran out, I told myself. Finally rising
shoulder of the road. The empty Jameson on my two legs, I swayed back and forth,
jug slipped from my hand and sha ered trying to catch my balance. The crisp wind
against the pavement, sending innumera- brushed through my hair, reminding me of
ble shards of glass in different direc ons. brighter days. I recalled the camping trip I
Woozy from the booze and drunk on sor- took Tim on a few years ago. It was around
row, I closed the door and leaned against the same me of year, and it was one of
the side of my car. The swi passing of the the last mes my son actually wanted to
vehicles zooming by rocked my car back be around me. I remembered telling him it
and forth with vigor. Shivers swarmed up was a boys’ weekend and that we’d go to
and down my spine as I pictured myself be- sleep whenever we felt like it; his eyes wid-
ing hit by an oncoming truck. I imagined the ened with excitement. Dina was granted
ra ling of a speedy vessel colliding with my sole custody, so I only saw him every other
body; I wondered if I would feel anything. I weekend. I had spent the first couple years
pondered how mangled my corpse was go- a er the divorce desperately trying to plan
ing to end up from the impact. fun things to do with him. My machina on
was to be the ‘fun’ parent and to have us
As I staggered to the front of the car, I do something he would look forward to ev-
lost my foo ng and fell hard on the pave- ery two weeks. But once Carl entered the
ment. Lying face down on the side of the picture, I just couldn’t compete. From front
road, I li ed my hands to see fragments row seats to Knicks’ games and fucking hot
from the broken bo le of whiskey em- air balloon rides, he swept in like a fuck-
bedded in my palms. Clutching my sides, I ing hawk, stealing my family from me. It
erupted in loud manic laughter. I cackled at wasn’t very long un l Tim preferred to stay
the absurdity of it all. I didn’t do anything at home with them; and how do you force
wrong; I didn’t cheat, I had a job, and I someone to spend me with you who is so
wasn’t abusive. I was a good fucking father; blatantly disinclined?
how could she have destroyed me like this?
I rolled over onto my back and looked up Fucking Carl, I thought to myself. What
to the sky, taking in the faint emergence of a gross, banal name. His name sounded

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Revista Literária Adelaide

like someone had a stroke while spur ng slew of speedy vehicles. Glaring head-
it out. He looked like a squirrel with his lit- lights beamed from about a mile away as
tle beady eyes. But he worked in finance, I stood s ll. Flits of panic skirted along my
and I was just a writer. And I could never back and neck while pools of perspira on
give Dina the life she wanted; I was never slowly permeated under my arms. And as
enough for her. I could feel a ngling sen- the dual lights snuck closer, I jumped off
sa on in my nose, which meant the tears the side of the road, bracing myself on
were coming back. I stood at the edge of one knee. I clenched my St. Jude curio and
the highway and peered across the broken held it against my chest. I turned around to
white lines that ran along it. Was I really go- watch the car that could have put an end
ing to be able to go through with this? to it all scurry past. The driver was an older
guy with a baseball cap on. I wondered if he
Car a er car darted by, grazing me with had even seen me on the road; I wondered
their velocity as I wobbled from side to side. if he had any idea how close our lives came
Closing my eyes, I tried to muster up the to changing forever.
gall to push myself onto the road. Cease-
less heart palpita ons strafed my chest as I stood back up and looked out onto the
my limbs trembled; my lip quivering as I road. The sun was on the verge of se ng,
held back the incessant urge to cry again. I and my emboldening buzz was about to
reached into my pocket and pulled out my fade; I knew what I needed to do. I pulled
St. Jude medallion and squeezed it. St. Jude out my phone and opened my Facebook
was the patron saint of desperate cases and app. I entered in Dina’s name and saw there
lost causes; she was the saint my English were no results; I almost forgot she had a
teacher Mr. Tienken always told us to pray new last name. A er fran cally typing
to right before the commencement of our her amended name into the search bar, I
exams. I remembered my teacher had given clicked on her picture. Her profile appeared
one to each student in the class my freshman like a brash pop-up ad, and her familiar
year of high school at St. Christopher’s Prep. smile pierced through me like a dagger. Her
And for some reason, I s ll held onto the ar- profile picture was of her and Carl hugging
chaic relic ever since, pulling it out in mes one another and flashing ostenta ous grins
of distress, which was every day as of late. I like they had just won the fucking lo ery.
hadn’t been to church since high school, yet I swiped through her profile as picture af-
I clung to the token like it provided celes al ter picture scrolled across the screen of her
influence. I guess I just wanted something to smiling widely, kissing her newfound love.
believe in. And I could only imagine what Mr. I zoomed in on their wedding photo, ex-
Tienken would have said about mortal sin. amining her adoring stare; the same loving
He’d tell me suicide is a mortal sin and that’d gaze that had warmed many of my coldest
I’d go to hell for eternity, and I’d tell him that nights. And as much as I wanted to deny it,
hell isn’t just a place you go to when you die, I couldn’t any longer; she was happy.
for me, hell is all around.
Stepping onto the highway, I turned to-
I brazenly hopped onto the highway wards the oncoming traffic. Clenching my
with eyes closed, turning my body to meet medallion as my legs wavered with hesi-
the oncoming cars. Le ng my arms hang ta on, I recalled the day we moved out of
loose, I opened my eyes to embrace the the house we had bought together. Pack-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

ing pictures and loading things into boxes, The honking of a horn grabbed my ear
I turned and watched as Dina dumped our as I stood steadfast on the road. The head-
wedding album into the trash. Unfazed by light beams pressed against my closed eye-
the denouement of our marriage, Dina lids. As I prepared myself for the impact, a
proceeded to pack her things, almost like vision of my son entered my mind; a father-
she was a child ge ng excited to leave for less boy who was going to be guided by my
sleepaway camp. ex-wife’s weasel lover. And suddenly, I be-
came startlingly aware of my mortality, and
“Did you just throw out our wedding al- an inexplicable force from within tossed
bum?” me to side of the road. The oncoming car,
nearly brushing against my launched body,
Dina turned to me with a caus c smirk, swerved back and forth before coming to
“Well, what are we supposed to do with it? an abrupt halt on the shoulder.
We’re divorced.”
I laid on the side of the road, drowning
I watched as she then pulled my manu- in tears; I had failed again.
script off the same shelf and turned to me,”
Oh, and here’s your almost-finished manu- “Oh my god, are you okay?” a clement
script. Maybe you’ll have me now to fin- voice echoed.
ish it.” She held it up with her two fingers,
mocking its inadequacy. I glanced up to see the gentle face of a
young woman with curly dark hair and lus-
And I’d never forget her standing there, trous blue eyes standing in front of me.
beli ling me to an incomplete book: use-
less and unfulfilling. I remembered search- “Sir, are you okay?” she asked concernedly.
ing in her face for some familiarity, some
resemblance of the love that had filled my “I think so.”
life for so long, but there was nothing le .
How do you spend 10 years of your life with “You don’t look so good,” she remarked,
someone, have a child together, and share extending her hand downward.
yourself completely only to realize you
married a stranger? I accepted her gesture and clutched
her hand. Rising to my feet, I gazed at the
But was it really Dina that was the cata- friendly stranger.
lyst for this dejec on? I pondered. Or was
she just the personifica on of all my fail- “Some mes, people choose a perma-
ures; a symbol of everything in life I strived nent solu on to a temporary problem,” she
for but couldn’t a ain? From my lack of said with a benevolent smile. Her pale com-
crea vity to finish a novel to my inability to plexion illuminated her silhoue e, making
save a marriage or move on and find some- her look angelic. Her symmetrical face and
one new, she represented it all. I was just so features provided an aura of calmness.
a speed bump for her, the slight veer from
her path before she found her soulmate; I “You think it’s only temporary?” I asked
was the mistake. And how I was supposed in a state of disquietude, struggling to make
to live, knowing I would s ll see her; how eye contact as I sponged away at watery
could I live with the constant reminder that eyelashes with the back of my hands.
I was a failure?
She inconspicuously rolled up her sleeve
to reveal a discernible canvas of cuts along
her wrist and forearm.

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“I promise,” she said as she reached “Wait,” I announced. “At least tell me your
out and hugged me. I felt immense humil- name.”
ity and embarrassment as I wrapped my
arms lightly around the beau ful stranger. “Judith,” she replied, looking over her
But her hug was not typical; it was heart- shoulder, as she got in her Chevrolet and
felt, and it was sincere. She smelled like drove off.
affluent lilacs, reminding me of the purple
flower gardens that sat outside my parents’ A 2010 English literature graduate of
house when I was a child. The warmth from James Madison University, Chris currently
her chest flowed into me, breathing a new- works full- me as a copywriter and part-
found hope; and for some reason, I felt like
anything was possible. me as a freelance copy editor. He was the
recipient of the 2010 “Future Writers of
“Thank you,” I said as I smiled awkward- America” award his senior year in college,
ly. “I think I’ll be okay.” and his work has been featured in Across the
Margin, Scars Publica ons, Spillwords Press,
As we broke from our embrace, the and the Minds Journal Magazine. Chris is an
ethereal woman smiled one last me and avid health and wellness advocate and en-
made her way back to her car. joys skiing, golfing, compe ng in strongman
compe ons, and of course, wri ng.

About the Author:

A 2010 English literature graduate of James Madison University, Chris Cooper currently
works full- me as a Senior Copywriter and part- me as a freelance copy editor. He was the
recipient of the 2010 “Future Writers of America” award his senior year in college, and his
work has been featured in Across the Margin, Scars Publica ons, Spillwords Press, and the
Minds Journal Magazine. Chris is an avid health and wellness advocate, and enjoys skiing,
golfing, compe ng in strongman compe ons, and of course wri ng.

69

A SACRED TRADITION

by Paul Kivelson

Ricky was tall, and not just for his age. He Nathan was a year older, though you
could fit on his old bike only by bending his won’t know it to look at him. “Hey buddy,
back up ght and pulling his hands in close. can I ask a ques on?” Nathan said, breathing
The faded red paint along the bike’s body heavily.
was in the process of flaking away to noth-
ing. The wheels made a whine when Ricky “Fine, what do you want to know?”
pushed the bike too hard. His dad had prom-
ised to buy him a new one three months “This is my first me doing anything like
ago, but that hardly seemed likely now. this,” Nathan panted out, “Does it hurt? It
seems like it would.”
His balance on the bike might be precar-
ious, made worse by a heavy backpack, but Ricky hated talking while pedaling, but
he’d go en be er at dealing with the wob- you had to give newcomers some extra
bles over the years. The road was rough considera on. Ricky had been going for
too, asphalt – badly worn. Just about ev- two years now; he had experience. He’d
erything seemed to be slowly falling apart. been there since the very beginning.
His backpack at least hadn’t sprouted any
holes - yet. Pedaling around the corner of Marshal
and Branson, Ricky pulled out his best re-
He needed the pack in one piece; it was assuring tone, saying, “You’ll probably fall,
Ricky’s job to bring the bandages and gauze and if you do, just try to hit the ground roll-
to the mee ng. A well cleaned scrape and ing. At worst you’ll scrape yourself up a bit.
something to cover it with were important if The main thing you have to watch out for
you didn’t want to draw unwanted a en on. is the pole. You do that and you’ll be fine.”
Ricky’s back was star ng to ache; it always
“R-ick-y!” did a er pedaling too long.

Ricky didn’t need to turn his head to see “It’s the pole I’m worried about. Though,
who’d spoken. There was only one person to be fair, falling has me pre y stressed,
who stretched the two short syllables of his too,” Nathan said with a gasping breath. His
name into a long-winded three. Keeping bike ra led, le ng out a metallic thunk as
his body forward and eyes peeled for cars, it lurched heavily over a bump in the road.
Ricky replied, “Nathan, I’m glad you decid-
ed to man up and come.” Ricky let his bike “Look Nathan, it’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”
slow and it wasn’t long before Nathan’s thin At least Ricky hoped Nathan would be fine.
and pale wisp of a face bobbed into view. They all knew in the back of their head that

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Revista Literária Adelaide

it was just a ma er of me un l somebody Rodney turned, waving as they ap-
messed up and ran home crying. A broken proached - mostly to Ricky - but Nathan
bone, a cut that really got the blood pouring got some of the gree ng by proxy. Rodney
and it would all come crashing down. The par- raised his voice, calling out to the others,
ents would come, like a pack of dogs - they’d “Okay. Everyone, gather round.”
bark on and on about somebody ge ng
themselves killed. With his dad gone, Ricky’s Rodney had a quiet intensity about him.
mom already had to do the paren ng of two His eyes were always sharp and focused,
and Ricky certainly didn’t need to add to that contras ng with his mousy blonde hair and
by giving her more to lay into him about. doughy so features.

“Will the others already be there?” Na- Rodney liked to think he was the boss -
than asked. he sort of was. He’d been the one to come
up with the rules. S ll, Ricky didn’t think
They would, but Ricky felt he’d done his that should mean he had any right to lord
duty to the group, so he simply nodded. it over everyone. Ricky would have said
Nathan, for all his flaws, was an accommo- something, but he had a reputa on of dis-
da ng sort. He took Ricky’s silence in stride, interest to maintain.
le ng them ride with only the sounds of
heavy breathing. Ricky hopped off his bike, laying it gently
down on the ground, Nathan followed his
They rode on, past two more street cor- lead. Jeff waved to Ricky as he slipped the
ners and down the snow-sprinkled bike path straps of his backpack from his shoulders.
that curled through the park. The ride wasn’t There wasn’t much to say about Jeff; he’d
long; in fact Ricky always wished it was longer. been coming for years and Ricky s ll didn’t
have much of a sense of him. Now Sandra,
The mee ng place was a circular cul-de- who waved too. Ricky knew her very well.
sac lined with condos. The condos were nota-
ble in that they seemed to be in a state of per- Sandra was tall, shorter than Ricky, but
petual construc on. Every year it seemed a tall nonetheless. She was thin with sharp
new set of empty wooden frames arose from pointed features, her hair short and dark,
the overgrown lots and every year a new de- jagged at the edges. Of all her features, the
veloper took over, bringing them down again. sharpest were her eyes - they never let a
thing pass them by.
The construc on crews came only on
Mondays and Thursdays, showing up ear- “Alright,” Rodney declared, walking to
ly and leaving late. He’d seen them driving the center of the circle, “Honored mem-
away once, on his way back from Rodney’s bers, we are here to carry on this ancient
house, their cars pulling away one a er an- and sacred tradi on.”
other, emptying quickly from the circular
drive like air from a breath held in too long. “He does this every me,” Kendra whis-
pered to Nathan. Kendra was da ng Vince;
Biking into the circle, Ricky saw that all she always brought him along. Vince never
the regulars were wai ng. Jeff was talking competed. He mostly just sat on the bench.
to Sandra while Rodney watched from his He was always hunched over so far that it
sec on of the curb. Vince and Kendra had seemed his hair was a drooping curtain that
taken the only bench. blanketed his face.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Rodney powered on, saying, “We have their compe tors. Remember to aim low;
some new blood here so I’ll take this oppor- I don’t want any accidental body shots. If
tunity to remind you all of the rules. I am both bikes go down, the losers are the team
sure that nobody here wants to deal with that are knocked farther from their bike. I’ll
any more calls of chea ng. I don’t need to re- be over by the backpacks, keeping an eye
mind any of you what happened last month, out for any foul play. Ricky and Jeff, you’re
do I?” He didn’t. Ricky remembered. “Every- up first as Pole Bearers. Sandra and Nathan,
body needs to keep in mind why we’re do- will be our Peddlers.”
ing this. It’s serious business. So, first things
first, as always - two people per bike.” “Fine,” Kendra said, “But I’d be er get to
be a Pole Bearer in the next pass.”
Ricky stared at Rodney’s face as he gave
his speech. It was basically the same talk ev- Nathan tried to pair up with Ricky, walking
ery me, and every me he made the same over with his hands shaking, but Ricky would
face. Many people didn’t even try to put up have none of it. Ricky moved quickly to stand
with Rodney. Ricky could understand that, by Sandra and a er ge ng a nod from her,
but there was something endearing about he perched himself on the back of her bike.
Rodney’s bluster. It was rare to find some-
one so full of their own brand of convic on. Si ng with his bu half on and half off
the seat wasn’t par cularly comfortable.
Nathan was beginning to look a li le pale The posi on did have some favorable as-
as Rodney con nued on. “One will be the pects to it, or so Ricky admi ed to himself
Pole Bearer, the other the Peddler. The Ped- as Sandra turned to smile encouragingly
dler … Peddles. The Pole Bearer, uses one of over her shoulder.
these.” Reaching down, Rodney picked up
one of the four long bamboo poles laying She wasted no me wheeling her bike
at his feet. Each one was around five and a around to bring it onto one of the star ng
half feet in length and of a dull brown color posi ons marked by a stretch of duct tape
touched with shoots of green throughout. across the concrete. Nathan was gripping the
Sandra had found the poles; she’d taken handle bars so ghtly it seemed his knuck-
them from her dad’s garden. les would burst out from his hands. Jeff had
a loose smile and a relaxed grip on his pole.
Sandra’s dad – Hindrick - was enthusi- They were squared off, thirty short feet apart.
as c about his garden, more than might
be considered strictly normal. Ricky’s dad Before the seconds could stretch out
had liked Hindrick. The two used to sit and too much, Rodney began the countdown,
share drinks while Ricky and Sandra played “One. Two. And...” he said, pausing for dra-
in Hindrick’s backyard. Ricky and Sandra ma c effect, “my personal favorite, three!”
chased the li le rollie pollies that lived be-
low the leaves, snatching them up to pop- No sooner was the final number spo-
ulate their freshly made ci es of mud and ken, then from between Sandra’s open lips
grass. The two fathers watched and made emerged a loud, completely unintelligi-
quiet small-talk, interspersed with the oc- ble ba le cry. Her legs shot up and down,
casional grumbled fatherly-noises. knees slamming the empty air.

“The Pole Bearer has one job, to strike Ricky gripped the poll closely in his
the end of their pole into the bicycle of hands as it waved through the air, the mo-

on of the bike shaking his arm about.

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The front wheel of Jeff’s bike spun clos- bounced, driven an inch into the air from
er and closer. The wheel was all Ricky could the force of the impact.
see in the dim light of the fading evening.
Sandra’s head was bent low, her hair whip- Ricky had done his best to shield himself
ping around under her helmet like a lazy with his arms from the ground, but every-
susan at a table of hungry diners. thing hurt or ached in equal measure.

Ricky forced the pole down, the p As Ricky lay on the cold gravel of the
trembling as it moved through the air. The street, he looked to his fellow compe tors.
bikes were only seven feet apart now and They each had their own reasons for going
if Ricky hadn’t been so focused on the ev- to the joust. Some were obvious: Nathan
er-approaching wheel, he might have seen was s ll shaking - eyes wet with tears, but he
the fear spreading across Nathan’s wide had made it through his first ride. The bruise
eyes and Jeff’s concentrated half squint on his cheek was proof enough of that.
stretching into an oblong frown.
Sandra was already up and on her feet;
The final gap closed and Jeff’s pole flew she never stayed down for long. Ricky knew
up into view. Ricky could feel he was off in his he needed to get up too. A small sma ering
aim, his pole a touch too far to the right. He of blood marked his sleeve. His arms hurt, a
needed to bring the pole around and quickly. throbbing pain that ran from hand to elbow.
Ricky screamed, his voice matching Sandra’s He wondered if he and Sandra had won. It
as he forced his lance down and to the le . didn’t really ma er to him all that much,
but a win would put a smile on her face.
The front of Ricky’s poll splintered, shat-
tering as the wheel of Nathan’s bike cracked Pulling himself to his feet, Ricky rolled
against it. Ricky’s leg collided with Sandra’s his shoulders back, stretching out the ache
helmet, his body flipping around. A loose that had taken root. There was something
piece of gravel met his cheek, bi ng small special about working out an ache that had
cuts into his face. The two bikes fell to the wormed its way in deep. It might be that
ground, tangled together, wheel to wheel. the condos around him would never be fin-
ished, but in a moment like this he imag-
Sandra hit the ground rolling, while Jeff ined that the construc on crews were hap-
landed sharply. Ricky flailed his arms all py with the work of building them up, even
about, like a bird that had forgo en how to if it meant tearing them down in the end.
fly. Nathan for his part fell on his back and

About the Author:

Paul Kivelson has a degree in English with a focus on Cre-
a ve Wri ng from Stanford University, where his adviser
was Adam Johnson, author of The Orphan Master’s Son. He
is a fervent devotee of all nerdy hobbies.

73

DREAMLESSNESS

by Ivan De Luce

Friday — Dreamt I was in love. I met S ll no answer. He leaned forward and
her — Samantha — at a party, and we peered into his fishbowl. He ran his finger
hadn’t seen each other in ten years. She along the glass, but his be a didn’t follow.
hadn’t aged at all, but she was blind. All Instead she stared back, wide-eyed.
I could say was “Oh my God.” Either way,
it was a sweet feeling while I was asleep, Finally, Andrew answered.
but very bi er upon awakening.
“Andrew, how are you? It’s Peter.”
Saturday — No dreams at all. Very con-
cerned. There was a pause on the other end. Pe-
ter ran his hand through his hair once more.
Monday — Peter sat up straight at his studio
desk, staring at the number on his phone’s “Peter!” said Andrew. “Peter Ville, car-
screen. Dr. Andrew Callings, psychiatrist. toon-smith, joke-maker, worrywart, spoil-
His thumb hovered above the name. He set sport Peter? Of course. I’ve seen a cartoon
his elbows on the desk, took off his glasses, of yours in The New Yorker. Very funny stuff.
and ran a hand through his hair, which fell Now that I’ve been living back in the city for
back in dark waves over his forehead. close to a year you decide to call me.”

Fantas c, he thought. I’m seeking pro- He stood up. “I thought I’d let you get
fessional help now, like some kind of de- se led in.”
pressive basket case. Would Andrew re-
member me a er twelve years? Of course Andrew’s laughter was so loud Peter
he would. had to pull the phone back from his ear.
“How wonderful. What can I do for you?”
He dialed the number and leaned back
in his chair. He stared at a large cork board “Well, I was wondering if you could
which hung over his desk, where he pinned point me in the right direc on.” Peter be-
dra s of his cartoons: amusing line drawings, gan pacing his living room. “I’d like to see a
black-and-white, with a single cap on in ital- therapist about a problem. Know anyone?”
ics. Other framed cartoons hung in a row
along the opposite wall, from his colleagues “Peter, do you not know what I do for a
at The New Yorker. Below them, a bookshelf living?”
held several collec ons of New Yorker car-
toons, most of them featuring Peter Ville. “Yes, and I thought you might know
someone who could —”

“What afflicts you? Anxiety? Depres-
sion? Suicidal thoughts?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“No, none of that. I — I haven’t had any “I appreciate your concern, and I’m sure
dreams lately.” you’re a great therapist.”

“Well, we all lose sight of our goals in life “The best in my field.”
some mes. When I was a kid I wanted to be
a boxer. That’s perfectly normal. Not sure “Although —”
it’s enough to get treatment for.”
“I’ll give you a fi y percent discount.”
“No, you don’t understand. I haven’t
dreamt — at night — for the last three nights, Peter stopped pacing.
actually.”
“Any spots available tomorrow?”
“So?”
“How’s five o’clock sound?”
Peter let out a sigh. “I dream every night,
without fail. Always have. And I rely on my Tuesday — Peter hoped to churn out an-
dreams as inspira on for my cartoons.” other cartoon by lunch me. A single panel
gag. An everyday image and a funny line.
“And without your dreams, you cannot He had his drawing pad out, along with his
draw li le people saying funny things.” fountain pen, ink bo le, a rag, and but one
idea. He chuckled to himself. He dipped his
“Right.” pen into the bo le, carefully took it out,
and drew a man on the phone, his mouth
“Fine. I’ve decided to accept your case.” slightly open, mid-sentence. With two
strokes the man had raised eyebrows. He
Peter could picture Andrew grinning on drew a living room behind him, a coffee ta-
the other end, his feet up on a desk. ble, a TV, a cable box, a line for the floor,
and a line for the doorway. All of his people
“Oh,” said Peter, “I was hoping you could looked the same — two dots for eyes, a lit-
refer me —” tle curved nose (some mes with a bump)
and some kind of bu oned shirt. The lines
“And just what is wrong with me?” An- flowed and there was no shading neces-
drew snapped. sary. It was about the cap on.

Peter paused for a moment. “Aren’t ther- Tuesday — Tried my hand at drawing to-
apists not supposed to treat people they day. Saw all that I had made, and saw
know personally?” that it was good, but not good enough.

“They say there’s such a thing as pro- He took the A train to 42nd street. The
fessional boundaries, that a therapist must New Yorker cartoonist’s lounge on the 20th
remain at a healthy distance in order to floor of the Condé Nast building was a vast,
properly treat the pa ent. But that’s non- round room. Thin wooden slats lined the
sense. In fact, I can treat the people I know walls, which were adorned with framed
personally even be er than some other cartoons by the greats. He was already on
shrink.” Andrew’s laughter boomed. those walls—with Maxine Roberts, Saul Ro-
senstein, and Sally Brunelli. Peter joined the
“Thanks Andrew, but I think I’ll go with would-be cartoonists on the couches, each
someone else.” one wai ng for their turn with the editor.
And there was Sally herself, an old woman
Peter imagined Andrew’s smile fading. wrapped in a bright blue scarf.

“Peter, come on. It’s a fascina ng case.
I’d like to see just what’s wrong with you.
Plus, I want to help you.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Morning, Sal,” Peter said as he sat be- brought everything he’d drawn because he
side her. He set his por olio of ten cartoons hadn’t drawn much.
on his lap.
Peter heard muffled voices coming from
“Back again, Pete? Didn’t see you last behind the glass door. Then he didn’t hear
week. Thought you threw in the towel.” anything; Mankowitz was probably refusing
cartoon a er cartoon. A er some me, all
Peter laughed. “I was sick. Bad case of he could make out was Boykoff thanking
cartoonist’s block.” Mankowitz repeatedly. He tro ed out of
the office with a smile on his face.
“You go a keep showing up,” Sally said.
“Otherwise Mr. Mankowitz’ll forget all about “Any luck?” Peter asked.
you.”
“Nope. But he complimented one of
One of the other cartoonists, a mid- mine! Who wants to go next?”
dle-aged woman, stepped out of Mankow-
itz’s office. “Boykoff, you wanna go next?” I guess it doesn’t take much to please
she asked, and a nervous young man trot- some people, he thought. At least that
ted through the frosted glass doors. means he won’t be taking up valuable spots.

“How’d you do?” asked Sally. “Go ahead, Peter,” offered Sally.

“No dice,” she said, then put a finger He walked in through the doors clutch-
pistol to her head. “I’ve been coming here ing his por olio. The sunlight from a mas-
every week since 1998.” sive window looking out towards Midtown
shone through the room, nearly blinding
“How many cartoons you ever get ac- him. Mankowitz sat behind his desk, a dark
cepted?” Peter asked. silhoue e against the light. As Peter’s eyes
adjusted, he found a chair to sit in. The
“Two. And that’s ten submi ed cartoons now-familiar office consisted of nothing
every week for twenty years.” but a desk, two chairs, a laptop, and a large
coffee mug, all tooth-white.
Peter had only been coming for five years
and had already made a name for himself. “Mr. Mankowitz, how’s it going?”
But s ll he dreaded wai ng here, making
chit chat — some mes with veterans like “Not too great, I’m afraid. Not a lot of
Sally, or new arrivals like that Boykoff. He’d good ones today. Need to fill up the last few
watch them build up their courage, take slots, but not many are making me laugh.”
deep breaths, wipe sweat from their brows, Mankowitz’s eyes, magnified by his square
before being torn down by Mankowitz, glasses, were lined at the corners from years
who was ruthless. But he had to be. Fi y of squin ng at drawings. “So it’s up to the Up-
cartoonists, on average, submit ten car- per West Side wiz-kid. What you got today?”
toons a week each. Mankowitz had to si
through five hundred and choose around Mankowitz held out a hand for the port-
twelve of the best. And no one was safe, folio, and started flipping through, barely
not even the masters. Peter was constant- giving each one a glance. Peter found him-
ly sketching and coming up with ideas. He self wincing at the reac on. “This one’s too
typically drew double or triple the cartoons vulgar,” Mankowitz said. “And this one’s too
that he submi ed. This me, however, he obvious. And this one — we’ve got enough
Jew jokes this week. Hold on, what’s this?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Mankowitz held up the cartoon Peter had Tuesday — Cartoons are suffering im-
drawn earlier that day. The cap on read: mensely from lack of dreams, and so am I.
“GODOT CABLE COMPANY,” and the man was But what’s in a dream anyway?
saying, “Between the hours of 12 and what?”
I’m not surprised about rejec on. Hap-
“Well, it’s a joke on the Becke play, pens to most people. But Mankowitz con-
Wai ng for Godot. ‘Cause Godot never firmed the cartoons were stale this week.
comes. Like the cable guy.”
He walked to Andrew’s office on east
Mankowitz shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. 21st street. Inside an ornate lobby with mir-
It’s nicely drawn, but if I see another Godot rored walls and ceilings, and with the help
cartoon in this office I swear to God I’m quit- of an especially glum doorman, he found
Andrew’s door.
ng. And, believe it or not, it’s too obscure.”
He knocked, but heard nothing s rring
Peter’s throat went dry. “Too obscure?” inside. He tried three more mes, then
waited.
“I have to turn down the millions of
Godot cartoons because there are some A er ten slow minutes had passed, the
readers who just won’t get it. We’ve got building’s door opened again.
enough of a snooty reputa on as it is. Give
me something anybody can laugh at.” “Hello, Peter. I’m so sorry for being late,
but I know you’re a pa ent man, so I took
He flipped through the rest and said my me with breakfast this morning.”
nothing.
Peter no ced that one of Andrew’s
“As you can see,” Peter said, taking back shoes were un ed.
his work, “this isn’t my week.”
“It’s really nothing,” Peter said. “I my-
“I was coun ng on you to round out the self arrived later than I thought. I hope this
issue, Peter.” doesn’t shorten our me together.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got some great ideas Andrew’s smile barely showed through his
up here,” he said, poin ng to his forehead, thick beard. “Oh, it certainly does.” Andrew
“but they’re s ll marina ng. Just give me a laughed. “But we’ll make the most of it.”
week or two.”
He unlocked the door and they walked
Mankowitz took a loud gulp from his into what appeared to be a wai ng room.
mug. “Send Sally in here. She’ll have some- As the lights came on, Peter saw old mis-
thing for me.” matched couches and armchairs arranged
haphazardly.
He stepped out to the lounge. A dozen
heads turned to see if he’d submi ed any- In the next room was Andrew’s office.
thing, hoping he hadn’t. He pointed his thumb It was small and shabby, much like Andrew
at Sally and mo oned towards the door. himself. And, much like Andrew, it reeked
of cigare es. His desk was a pile of papers
“How’d you do?” asked Sally, standing and his curtains were drawn. He turned on a
up to go next. lamp, which did li le to illuminate the room.
Andrew mo oned to the green velvet couch,
Peter shrugged. Seriously, he thought, and dragged over his blue Wassily chair.
I had no idea something could be too ob-
scure for this magazine.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

They sat down. When I was li le I’d draw pictures of them,
and maybe that’s where an early interest in
Andrew exhaled as he sat, as if he’d comics came from.”
been moving boxes all day and was finally
allowed a moment to rest. “So, Peter, how “What were your most recent dreams
long has it been?” like, before they stopped?”

“About four nights.” “I guess they weren’t quite normal.”

Andrew li ed an eyebrow. “No, I meant “How so?”
since we went to school together.”
“Well, the last one was kind of strange.”
“Oh, I’d say twelve years?”
“What was it of?” Andrew asked, lean-
“Do you s ll talk to Jessie, or Rhonda, or ing forward.
Brad?”
Peter looked at his hands. “I don’t really
“Brian, you mean? He’s not very inter- think it’s too important.”
es ng anymore.”
Andrew shook his head. “Look, if you’re
Andrew stared at the floor for a moment. not going to tell me the whole story then
“Right. Yes, well he never was, or else I would there’s just no point to this.”
have go en his name right. Shall we begin?”
“All right,” Peter said. Andrew always did
He then picked up a large hourglass have a temper, he thought. “I dreamt I saw
which had been si ng on the coffee table, an old friend of mine from school.”
and flipped it over.
“From university?”
“One hour — give or take,” he said.
“Yes, and it was at a party. And the really
Peter took a deep breath. “Well, as you strange thing was — she was blind.”
know, this started with my sudden lack of
dreams. I used to dream every night; I’d have “Who was it?”
vivid dreams, about all sorts of things. They
were never frightening, just lively. Dreams “Nevermind who. But she’d gone blind
of imaginary ci es, hybrid creatures, wing- in the last few years, and I guess I hadn’t
less planes, large empty swimming pools, seen her in a while, and I didn’t know. But
outdoor music fes vals, and some mes, if her eyes looked completely the same. But
I was very lucky, they were sexual. But this she had a s ck.”
past week I have not dreamt.”
“Like one of those blind people s cks?
“Not at all?” That are red at the end?”

“I have not had a single wisp of a dream,” “Yes,” Peter replied, speaking slowly.
he said, waving a hand. “One of those blind people s cks.”

“And how does that make you feel?” “And so? What happened next?”

“It’s filled me with fear.” Peter was looking at his hands again,
unsure of how to phrase the next part of
Andrew crossed his legs. “Hmm,” he his story. He suddenly felt more exposed, if
said. “When did these dreams first start?” that was possible, and took a deep breath.
“I remember feeling very sorry for her, and
“I don’t remember a star ng point, ac-
tually. They must have always been there.

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when I saw her I said, ‘Oh my God.’ And she trying to analyze data. He only no ced that
just smiled. I think we were catching up on an hour passed when the last grain of sand
old mes, and she hadn’t aged, and…” fell inside the hourglass, signaling that their

“It’s Samantha, isn’t it?” me was up.

Peter said nothing. Andrew smirked, “Great,” said Peter.
then laughed. Peter felt some relief at the
sound. It really was quite silly, that it was so Andrew was already walking over to his
obviously Samantha. She’d gone to school desk, moving around papers. “Don’t get so
with them, and had been their friend. Pe- sulky. I’ve got something for you.” He found
ter never had feelings for her, but Andrew an orange pill bo le and tossed it to Peter.
loved to tease him about it.
“What’s this?”
“Anyway, the point is I woke up and s ll
believed it was true. I was totally in love in “Experimental something-or-other. One
my sleep.” of the drug company representa ves gave
me a sample.”
“And in love all through college.”
“What’s it meant to do?” Peter did not
“You jokes are s ll fresh as ever.” like Andrew’s tone, which grew more casu-
al the more serious the topic was.
Andrew stared blankly for a moment, ig-
noring the quip. “So how would this dream “It’s intended for pa ents with anxiety,
have informed a cartoon?” but some side effects include strange dreams.
So these may help you get back on track.”
Peter smiled, already knowing his own
punchline. “A man greets a blind woman at “I guess I don’t have much of a choice,
a party. Cap on reads: “Karen, it’s so good do I?”
to see you again!”
Andrew smiled. “Just take two of these
Andrew smiled from the corner of his and I’ll call youme in the morning.”
mouth, nothing but a twitch from his beard.
“I wouldn’t submit that to a magazine.” Peter nodded.

“I already did.” “I’m kidding. Don’t actually. I’ll call you.”

“And it got rejected?” Wednesday — No ced that I didn’t ex-
actly dream, but there was one image
“Well, yes, but that’s beside the point.” le behind — me si ng in a brightly lit
room. When I told him this, he said this
They talked more about Peter’s sleep was very posi ve news. But one single
rou ne, his bedroom, and if anything image a er a whole night’s sleep is as
else changed in his life before the dream- good as nothing.
ing stopped. Andrew asked if Peter felt
any different, then made a joke about the Thursday — No dreams.
real cause being a brain tumor. Andrew
laughed, but Peter didn’t. Peter had go en Friday — Peter was back for another
comfortable talking about himself this way, session with Andrew.
like he was outside of himself. He imagined
that he and Andrew were scien sts in a lab “Have a seat, Peter. I’m excited to hear
how last night’s dreaming went.”

“Actually,” he said, si ng down, “There
haven’t been any—”

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“Hold on,” Andrew said, flipping the hour- conscious level.” No response. “My research
glass. “I wasn’t asking, not un l our me would be greatly aided by this case, Peter.”
starts. All right, go ahead.”
Though he was already in the building’s
Peter sighed. “There haven’t been any lobby, Peter turned around. The mirrored
dreams.” ceiling and walls made endlessly repeat-
ing images of them. Infinite conversa ons
“Not last night? But you had a dream went on at once. “Your research? Well,
before that.” He lit a cigare e and began to please excuse me. I didn’t mean to disrupt
stroke his beard. your valuable research. I was having such a
good me being your guinea pig.”
“That was a frac on of what I normally
have, and then nothing a er that. So I don’t “It truly isn’t what you think at all. I have
think these pills work.” always had your best interests in mind.”

“Yes, well, it was worth a shot. I guess “No you haven’t.” Peter’s shou ng echoed
the placebo effect was nearly successful.” throughout the room. “You have only ever
had your own best interests in mind. You nev-
Peter was staring at the floor, but now er wanted to help me. You saw me as an op-
he glared at Andrew. “Placebo?” portunity. A strange psychological phenome-
non that you could dissect and resolve.”
Andrew’s eyes widened. “I suppose I
shouldn’t have said that.” “And so what? So what if I studied you?
We both would have come out of it on top.
That bastard gave me sugar pills, he We both stand to gain something together.”
thought. “Did you really think I’d be cured
with fake pills? That the dreams would sud- “This is not about gaining anything. I
denly come flooding back? Did you think I’d have lost something and I want it back. It’s
have to keep taking these pills for the rest the only thing that makes me who I am.”
of my life? It’s not something that’s just in
my head.” “You’ll have to face what you are with-
out it.”
“Strictly speaking, it’s all in your head.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Peter stood up.
“How am I supposed to know?” It was
“Now wait a minute. The pills were just my Andrew who was shou ng now. “Ask blind
first idea. We can s ll solve your problem.” Samantha, she’ll know.”

“I shall find another therapist.” Friday — It’s a wonder Andrew ever be-
came a therapist.
Andrew was standing, too. “We can get
to the bo om of this. I’m sure there’s a log- Saturday — Peter sat before his fountain
ical explana on for it all.” pen, ink bo le, rag and paper. He didn’t have
any ideas. A single panel gag, he thought.
Peter was opening the door to the wait- An everyday image and a funny line.
ing room, Andrew following closely behind.
The phone rang, causing him to drop his
“Maybe it’s your childhood. Unresolved pen. It was Andrew. He stared at the name
trauma. We didn’t cover that yet. Did your fa- on the phone, le ng it ring several mes.
ther ever beat your mother? Did he ever beat He picked up.
you? Maybe you want to kill him on a sub-

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“Peter, look, I’m terribly sorry about last The sun had long set as Peter walked
night. The placebo thing is really quite a com- down 21st street. On a Saturday night, there
mon method of treatment in some circles of was more life, and the young people were
psychiatry. I realize it may have looked as if leaving happy hour. Peter heard a group in
I was toying with you, but I really do want the distance laughing hysterically.
to help. And not just for my research. I like
to think that we’ve remained friends all this He arrived there ten minutes late, think-
ing he’d s ll get there before Andrew. But
me, even if we haven’t spoken.” when he arrived, he found Andrew at the bar
cha ng up a woman. She was quite short,
“I’m not taking any more pills, real or with curly hair and a green wool coat. He only
otherwise.” realized it was Samantha when she turned
around to greet him. He suddenly felt the
“No, of course. I’ve got something bet- urge to run away. They had probably been
ter. Let’s try a more informal approach. discussing him this whole me. He craved his
Some of the best therapy happens beyond studio, with its volumes of cartoons, novels,
the couch. Drinks tonight.” and sketchbooks. He craved his bed.

“I don’t drink.” “Peter!” she said, standing up to hug
him. “It’s so good to see you!”
“That’s absurd. Don’t worry, I’m buying.”
“Sam!” he gasped, manufacturing a
“No, you see, I don’t dream when I drink.” smile. “I had no idea you’d be here. What’s
it been, twelve years?”
“Are you dreaming now? No. So this is
your big chance.” Samantha looked a bit older, with a
thinner, sharper face, and some lines at the
Peter ran his hand through his hair. “What corners of her eyes. But the age made her
do you hope to accomplish informally?” more graceful and intelligent-looking.

“I figure we talk about the past in a Peter glared at Andrew, whose grin was
more comfortable se ng. Friend to friend, visible through his beard. “You’re late, as
free of charge. I want to get to the bo om usual. We were just talking about you.”
of this Samantha thing.”
“I didn’t know I’d be keeping so many
Peter thought about it for a moment. He people wai ng,” Peter said as he took a
knew such an odd dream must have some stool beside Samantha. “Tell me, how have
sort of significance, especially one that may you been?”
have stopped all the other dreams from
surfacing. Why was it Samantha, and why “Working at a law firm. No, no,” she
was she blind? said, stopping his congratula ons, “It’s re-
ally dull stuff. You couldn’t imagine a worse
“You s ll there?” job, trust me. But I’m doing well. I’m ex-
pec ng, actually.”
“Sure, I’m free tonight.”
“Expec ng what?”
“That’s what I figured. Jamon Bar, eight
o’clock sharp.” Samantha paused, unsure if he was kid-
ding or not.
Saturday — That bastard Andrew wants
to make amends, so we’re going for “A child.”
drinks tonight. Haven’t seen the inside of
a bar in ages.

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“Oh my God, of course. That’s great news. Peter told her about the dinner party,
A boy or girl?” perhaps at an old friend’s house, and how
he turned around to face her. She was smil-
“We don’t know yet. Actually, we’re ing, but looking out, empty, at nothing. Her
adop ng. But I kind of like to say I’m expect- eyes were a clear blue, as usual, not cloudy.
ing. It makes it sound more real.” She hadn’t aged. But she had a red and
white s ck with her.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“And I was overwhelmed by feelings of
“Lady, actually. Sheila and I have been loss and regret. And I felt very sorry for you.”
together for a few years now.”
She bit her lip while thinking. “Have you
Andrew held up a finger at the bartend- had thoughts about me lately?”
er and ordered Peter an Estrella. “Peter, we
have been discussing your li le crisis.” “I’m not sure, at least I don’t think so.”

I knew it, he thought. Now we have to “I may have been somewhere in the
talk about it. “How far did we get?” back of your mind,” she said.

“I explained that your sudden lack of “Maybe. Or I’m longing for the days
dreams was seemingly prompted by the when we used to go out three nights a week
dream of Blind Samantha, which could be and smoke and drink together. The days
the result of unresolved feelings towards rushed by so quickly, but since then they’ve
the past, or her directly.” felt slower. Do you know what I mean?”

“Which is why you called her up.” “Yes,” Samantha said. “About longing
for the old days, but not about life slowing
Andrew grinned again. “Yes.” down. If anything, it’s kept on picking up,
going faster and faster.”
“Look, Sam, it’s really not a big deal. It’s
just a strange problem I can’t find an expla- “Then I must be doing something wrong.”
na on for.”
Samantha downed the rest of her Coke
Samantha smiled. “I think it is a big deal. and said, “Even a er hearing next to noth-
This is your passion we’re talking about. ing, Beethoven composed the Ninth Sym-
This is like Beethoven going deaf.” phony, which became his most loved piece.”

Peter shook his head and looked at his Peter laughed. “I really don’t think car-
lap. “I don’t know if it’s quite that important.” toons are the same as symphonies.”

Andrew dug out his phone from his coat “Of course they are,” she said. “They
pocket. “Oh, Jesus. Six missed calls from a come from the same place.”
pa ent. What the hell do they want from
me? This one, classic fear of abandonment Peter tried changing the subject. He asked
issues. So damn needy. Excuse me while I her more about Sheila, about adop on, and
make a call.” He rushed out of the bar, tak- about everything that had happened with her
ing his coat and his bag with him. since college. He learned that she had broken
up with men and women, been broken up
Samantha turned back around to Peter. with by men and women, and finally found
“Let me hear about the dream again,” she Sheila si ng alone at her sister’s wedding.
said. “But from you.” When she asked Peter what he’d been up to,

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he could hardly think of a thing. It seemed am not the Beethoven of cartoons. But An-
that his cartoons were the only thing he was drew was right. For all the second-rate ther-
working towards the en re me. He’d been apy he provided, he at least gave me that.
in a commi ed rela onship with a woman
named Andrea, but broke it off a er a year Without thinking, he drew a therapist’s
on something more than a whim. Then the office, with a very Sigmund Freud-looking
conversa on turned to their school days. therapist si ng in a chair, and a man laying
on a couch.
Peter checked his watch. “Andrew’s
been gone for a while, hasn’t he?” He asked himself, what would make this
situa on absurd? A man who’s bleeding out
They split the bill, even though Andrew on the couch? He should be seeing a doc-
had promised to pay for Peter’s drinks, and tor, but instead he’s seeing a different sort
stepped outside. of doctor. Something with the word doctor
in it. No, too punny. I’ve got it. A man in
Samantha shrugged. “He must have gone therapy is laying calmly on the couch with
home.” an axe s cking out of his bloody head.

Sunday — Too drunk to dream. I was He scribbled the line furiously, terrified
glad to see Sam last night. That bastard that he’d forget the idea unless he put in
Andrew orchestrated it. I doubt I would down on paper immediately.
have told the whole story to Sam with-
out him there. Therapist says, “Now the first step to solv-
ing your problem is admi ng you have one.”
What to use a dream journal for if not
for dreams? He smiled, saw all that he had made,
and saw that it was good.
Si ng at his desk, Peter downed a cup
of coffee in seconds and took out his note- Tuesday — But what is a dream? A mes-
book. He s ll needed three or four more sage from subconscious to conscious?
cartoons to round out the week, and if he A wish unfulfilled? A fear unrealized?
kept drawing rough dra s, he might come Maybe it’s a story told in symbols. Or a
up with something. dark lake, with large green trout swim-
ming just beneath the surface, making
Beethoven was deaf, he thought. Not ripples with their tails.
that I’m comparing myself to him. Clearly I

About the Author:

Ivan De Luce is a graduate of the City College of New York,
where he studied crea ve wri ng. He has been published
in The Promethean and has won the Esther Unger Prize for
poetry. He works as a journalist in New York. You can find
him at www.ivandeluce.wordpress.com

83

EXCHANGE OF WORDS

by Gary Erwin

We’d recognized the dispari es in her stethoscope to her chest. “Might be one or
speech the third day a er hospital admis- a combina on of them all,” he con nued.
sion. “Mouth s ck,” she’d murmured one “We’ll know more in a week or two. When
morning during a brief moment of con- she’s able, you may want to think about
sciousness. She raised her limp hand, then taking some me away go somewhere re-
pointed a crooked finger at a tube of lip- laxing.”
s ck atop a pile of items from her makeup
bag that my sisters had dumped onto the With his eyes closed, the doctor turned
bedside table. She cocked her head toward his head and listened to the ebb of blood
my father, then squinted as he stood next as it flowed to and from her heart, over
to her with his meaty hand on her shoulder, the deposits that had conspired against
his blond eyebrows raised in ques on. her the last ten years of her life. It was the
eighth examina on of my mother he’d con-
“Here,” she instructed him, her blue ducted within four days. His perplexity in
eyes bloodshot and glazed, a finger deli- calcula ng the extent to which her heart
cately probing her cracked and dry lips. She had seized up was evident in the scru ny
puffed air into her cheeks to extend her of his pinched eyes and bouts of silence. In
lips outward, an exercise that immediately the middle of his first analysis, Mom woke
drained the blood from her face and caused unexpectedly to discover him leaning over
her eyelids to flu er. My father reached her, his brown face inches from her nose.
across her body but before he could snatch
her lips ck, the IV machine chirped, her She shot a fist toward his jaw, her knuck-
hand fell heavily to the bed and she’d les glancing off his bearded chin.
slipped into another drug- induced sleep.
When she inhaled, a gurgling sound gushed “Son of a bitch in my clothes,” she gar-
from her throat and nose, as if gravel shi - bled, glaring into his startled face.
ed somewhere inside her lungs.
This was the mother we were accus-
“Red meat, cigare es, gene cs, stress,” tomed to living with our en re life, a strik-
her doctor speculated in response to my ing contrast to the morning we found her
father’s inquiry concerning the reasons slumped over the clothes dryer in the laun-
for her unexpected heart problems, given dry room a er breakfast, her eyes rolled
her rela vely young age of 42. The doctor up so that only the whites were visible, a
leaned over her as she slept and pressed his ball of sweat socks clenched in her fist. But
some mes the contradic ons were diffi-

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cult to comprehend and without evidence: old men with leathery skin sold lake trout
before she became ill, she a ended to our caught from the Detroit River and pints
collec ve and individual needs carefully, of- of home-brewed stout from wood carts
ten making three different dishes at dinner freighted with blocks of ice. Mothers and
for my sisters and me, or scheduling days in daughters grew potatoes the size of can-
which only she and my sisters or I went to telopes in the rich, dark soil of front yard
lunch together downtown. My family and I gardens each summer. Fathers, sons and
sat next to her bed that second day in the grandfathers pitched horseshoes in empty
hospital with our mouths open, bolstered lots following their shi s at the Lynch Road
by the speed and agility she was able to assembly plant.
marshal toward the doctor given the grav-
ity of her afflic on. Not once in the years “Don’t know if I can trust that doctor,” he
prior to her heart condi on did she ever lamented on the way home from the hos-
display any degree of athle cism. pital the night before my mother’s release,
referring to the doctor’s ethnicity, which I
Each me he came into her room a er found undeterminable. As a teenager, my
that day, I watched his uneasy gaze shi father had been mugged by a group of dark-
back and forth behind his wire-rimmed skinned men who’d taken residence in an
glasses and survey the rise and fall of her abandoned brownstone two blocks from his
chest, an observa on I found unse ling. house as he trudged home from school one
His thick, wiry black beard rose high on his day. They o en lounged on the weed-infest-
cheeks and obscured his lips, which made it ed front stoop of the house a er sundown,
difficult to determine their precise loca on drinking quarts of Schlitz malt liquor and
when he wasn’t speaking. By the fourth day urina ng in the overgrown baseball lot next
the invisibility of his mouth undermined my door. My father had sustained two broken
confidence in him: when he turned and ad- ribs and a cracked fingernail before giving
dressed us, it looked as if his words were up the two dollars in quarters he’d stuffed in
issued from two horizontal strips of coarse his sweat sock to help defer the expense of
black hair. My sister Ann and I called him Dr. his family’s laundry bill each month. Some-
Hair. One night a er our visit, she leaned
across the back seat of our car as we silent- mes, when he recalled the story to my sis-
ly drove home, cupped her freckled hands ters and I, he unconsciously touched his ribs
around her mouth and whispered in my and let out an exhausted sigh.
ear, “When Dr. Hair, eats he probably eats
his own hair.” I looked up at the rear view mirror. Silver
light from passing cars dri ed across my fa-
My father wasn’t impressed with my ther’s ru ed face as we drove, illumina ng
mother’s doctor either. His trust had al- the gray half moons of skin that had begun
ways been difficult to gain. He was raised to sag beneath his eyes since her admis-
on the west side of Detroit, less than a mile sion. As I gazed into the mirror at his red
from where the abandoned shell of Tiger face, I began to think of all the trips we took
Stadium once sat in Cork Town, a borough in his car. Unlike my mother, my father en-
originally se led by Irish immigrants and joyed driving and found the low drone of
second-genera on families of Northern Eu-
ropean descent. During my father’s youth, res against pavement soothing to his life
consumed by us, work and mom’s sick-
ness. Once, maybe two months before she

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got sick, we drove through the forests and His head shi ed nervously between the
hills of the upper peninsula on our way to a road and Mom. “What?” he asked.
campground late at night and I sat in front
between them while Mom slept. For half She pa ed her nest of blond hair,
an hour I listened to the hiss of air through scrunching it back into place. “You know
my sisters’ noses as they lay passed out what,” she said in an even voice, the twist of
in back. Then I leaned toward my father,
cupped my hand around his ear and whis- ssue s cking out of her ear. “Back it down.”
pered, “Punch it!”
She plucked the ssue from her ear, her
“Shhh,” he hissed, shoo ng a glance at squint s ll fixed on my father who stared
my mother, who slept in the passenger seat straight ahead as the car slowed to a lower
with her head pushed up against the head- speed.
rest. “Not so loud—wait a few more miles.”
But now as we drove home from the
I nodded, then turned to look out the hospital, his concern for her health and the
window. I could see the chiseled layers of ability of her doctor to make the right di-
orange, gray and brown rock and dusty sed- agnoses distracted him. We’d already gone
iment that had taken hundreds of years to on a trip, but s ll mom got sick. A er a few
form into the precise sequences of crust minutes, my father fidgeted in his seat,
as our headlights flooded the roadside, yawned, then shook his head a few mes,
impressed with the geographical accumu- as if trying to prevent himself from further
la on of history that marked this part of comment regarding a strange doctor’s po-
the state. Land like this had never existed ten al for an incorrect diagnoses.
in the woods and around the lakes of the
town where I grew up, which sat in a small My sisters and I didn’t know what to
valley some thirty miles west of Detroit. I think. We were s ll disoriented by the sud-
peered at my father, his smooth face lit by denness with which her heart had seized
the green glow of the speedometer. He up like a car engine that lacked enough oil.
shot me a glance and winked. He was an ex- During visi ng hours, we sat quietly beside
perienced travel strategist and I trusted his Mom’s bed, studying the clear plas c tubes
judgement completely. To avoid waking my plugged into her arms, through which
sisters and mother on these trips, he o en transparent liquids flowed from the IV bag.
let our 1969 Charger coast over rough spots On occasion she awoke and peered at us
in the road or else he carefully swerved the with a blank, inconsolable stare we’d never
car to the so shoulder to avoid potholes. seen before, one that seemed to ques on
Once, he pulled over late at night, twisted who we were and what had happened as
a half piece of ssue into a thin spiral and her vacant eyes quickly roamed the room’s
delicately threaded it into mom’s ear to perimeter. A glass vase filled with long
muffle the engine’s drone. Then we sped stem roses, daisies and baby’s breath sat
off in a flurry of chewed up rock and grav- on the window-side table where my sisters
el. But within four miles mom woke up, her a empted to arrange the remaining com-
pe te body sensing the increase in velocity ponents of Mom’s makeup bag on our first
at which our car moved. She stared at my visit: an aluminum n of pink rouge placed
father, her eyes narrowed to slits. at the center of the tabletop, fenced in by
silver tubes of red, orange and mauve lip-
s ck.

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The scent of rubbing alcohol and sweat pital psychiatrist informed us that this was
consumed the air, a combina on that made something we should expect.
my nose twinge and my eyes water each
S ll, the contrasts between who she
me I inhaled. Bolted to the wall oppo- was and who she’d become were sudden
site her bed sat a short row of blue plas- and indeciphreable in spite of the biologi-
cal explana ons and linguis c consequenc-
c chairs with straight and uncomfortable es. Before her illness, she’d a ained a level
backs. Above them hummed a 20-inch Ze- of ar stry in the use of swear words unpar-
nith black and white television, a ached by alleled by other mothers in our neighbor-
two metallic support beams that extended hood, even those with large and untenable
from the ceiling like silver arms holding out families who lived at the end of our street.
a gi . Everything—the flat, clinical musings Growing up, I o en believed she was the
of the doctor, the exhausted expressions on author of many unchris an phrases. Her
the faces of my father and sisters, the ster- skill in verbally manipula ng the behavior
ile environment in which she suffered, the of my sisters and I was as equally daun ng
sense of weightlessness I felt while stand- as her ability in restraining us with a ght
ing next to Mom’s bed, listening to the elec- squeeze of her hand on the fleshy part of
tronic bleat of the heart monitor on the our upper arms whenever we acted up in
stand beside her—everything felt staged, as public. She was a small, delicate-looking
if I observed the room from behind a plate woman prone to moments of controlled
glass window. fierceness, and we avoided confronta on
with her at all mes. Out of habit, we’d ad-
 hered to this policy well into her first stay at
home, when it was clear that her mind and
She suffered from a congenital heart con- memory had diminished beyond repair.
di on characterized by an untraceable and
sudden increase in the heart’s rhythm, “Am I like before? What I was?” she
brought on by moments of intense ner- asked me at the dinner table a year a er
vousness or anxiety. Based on the doctor’s her return. I didn’t know how to respond.
es mate, eighty-percent of her mental fac- The five of us sat silent a few moments,
ul es were expected to return, represent- surprised at her ability to make this abrupt,
ing a substan al recovery given the deficit unexpected assessment, our heads bowed
of oxygen her brain and heart had endured. as we gazed at our watery mashed potatoes
But our doubts regarding his prognosis and blood-red roast beef that she’d spent
grew following her homecoming. Words four hours preparing. I wanted to remind
with precise, unwavering meanings gained her of my real name then, but I quickly real-
new relevance when delivered from Mom’s ized that this was not the right me.
lips ck-painted mouth. The word look be-
came gook; blew had transgressed into “You’re more like it every day,” Dad de-
spew; car was labeled lard, an exchange clared, quickly rescuing me from having to
that invoked chuckles from my sisters and supply an answer. I watched his wide, hairy
I when Mom and Dad weren’t looking. hand hover toward the center of the table
She’d forgo en my name, an unan cipat- to s r the potatoes. A thick layer of milky
ed consequence that extended beyond the water had bubbled to the surface. Using
ques on of my iden ty as her son. A hos- the p of his bu er knife, he gently carved

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

a canal from one edge of the potatoes to “You heard her,” Ann said, clenching a
the center and watched as the so , lumpy hand over her mouth to restrain the smile
pile absorbed the liquid, clearly intrigued that crept across her thin red lips. “Put it on
by the satura on process taking place be- the fuckis.”
fore his eyes. Then he smiled and traced
her hand with his pinky. “Good meal, hon.” I sat on the floor with my back against
the couch next to Sara’s feet. “What’s a
But her speech and memory didn’t im- fuckis?” I’d asked, trying to sound sincere.
prove. Once, almost two years a er her
ini al ailment, Mom withdrew a cigare e Sara jabbed me between my ribs with
from the pack she kept tucked in the breast her big toe, sending a ri of pain through
pocket of her blue pain ng robe as we sat my side.
in the family room watching a Clint East-
wood movie. Then she carefully leaned for- “Adam, you didn’t hear that,” she hissed.
ward, extended her hand and reached for “Don’t let Dad hear you say that. He’ll kick
her lighter that rested on the coffee table your scrawny ass.” She jabbed me once
in front of the couch. But her trembling fin- more for emphasis.
gers accidentally knocked it to the floor.
“Would someone please put my Bic on
She sat back and sighed, suddenly ex- the fuckis?” Mom asked again, oblivious to
hausted from expending what li le energy our conversa on. I turned to look at her. A
she had, her cigare e s ll nestled between blue vein pulsed at the corner of her le
the index and middle fingers of her le eye, a physical imperfec on I’d never seen
hand. She pointed the bu end at the light- before. I stretched a foot across the red car-
er. “Ann,” she whispered, “pick that damn pet of our family room, squeezed the lighter
thing up and put it on the fuckis.” between my toes, then brought it forward
and tossed it over my shoulder back onto
I turned around, glanced at her, then the coffee table, where it ski ered across
returned to watching television, caught off the top and nearly fell off the other side.
guard by this word, par cularly since it was
the first me she incorrectly used a swear “Thank you, Kevin,” Mom said. I started to
word in everyday conversa on. turn toward her, but caught the glare of Sara’s
dark brown eyes and thought be er of it.
“What’d you say, Mom?” Sara asked.
She sat Indian-style beside Mom on our Sara gently touched Mom’s arm. “You
black leather couch, the bangs of her blond mean Adam, right mom?” she asked, the
hair pushed in front of her eyes. nail of her big toe grazing my ribs.

“The fuckis,” she whispered again. “Put Mom nodded. She plugged the cigare e
that on the fuckis.” into her mouth, lit it, and sucked un l the
ember glowed and smoke uncurled in front
Sara flicked her hair out of the way and of her face. “Kevin, go find me an ashtray.”
squinted at her. “You mean the table?”
Sara reached for my hand as I stood up,
“Yes, yes,” Mom repeated. She jabbed but I took a step away from her. “Adam,” she
her cigare e at the table, then at the light- whispered as I turned toward the kitchen.
er once more as her frustra on began to
grow. “Put it on there. I need it.” Fuckis, I murmured, trying to remind
myself to write this new word down in the

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notebook I’d kept since my mother’s return. I slunk to the sink, where I used a steak
At one me I believed the collec on of her knife to chisel out the bu s that had been
words might some day help iden fy the dif- glued to the plas c ashtray by some nox-
ferences between this new version of who ious yellow substance, my head heavy with
she’d become compared to who she once the uncertainty of who she believed I was.
was. But no ma er how hard I studied the Kevin isn’t such a bad name, I tried to con-
different words and their disjointed spell- vince myself, feeling my fingers clean and
ings, I could never account for the changes rub my mother’s ashtray, wai ng for the
that resulted from her illness. fuzzy reflec on of my face to appear on the
dark plas c surface.

About the Author:

My name is Gary James Erwin and my stories, essays, literary cri cism and science journal-
ism have appeared in many literary journals, reviews and publica ons, including Red Cedar
Review, The Sun, Pebble Lake Review, The MacGuffin, Dri wood Review, Michigan Avenue,
Technology Century, and Sante Fe Literary Review among others. I have received two Push-
cart Prize nomina ons and had a story anthologized in The PrePress Awards Volume II: Mich-
igan Voices. In September 2019, Adelaide Books of New York will bring out my collec on of
thema cally-linked short stories, Trail Crossing Sixteen Coun es, of which the story I have
submi ed is a part. I live with my wife, kids and cri ers on three acres in the woods of
Clarkston, Michigan, and am the associate vice president of Marke ng & Communica ons at
University of Detroit Mercy in Detroit.

89

REFUSE

by Kevin Haslam

From a small table next to the window, seen by some as monuments to post-World
Maggie felt the warmth in her freckled War II prosperity, forced these families
cheeks disappearing. Her eyes floated in to hold firm their hats, stare down their
their sockets as she probed the dining room breath, and come face to face with the re-
for the waitress. When Maggie’s squint flec ons of a new world. These reflec ons
hit upon the server, she a empted to flag remained mo onless, and like the frozen
her down by brandishing her teacup. The puddles sprawled across the concrete,
waitress disappeared behind the swinging nothing bloomed beneath.
kitchen doors without taking no ce. Why
isn’t she looking at me? She nudged her Maggie had a direct line of sight to the
tortoiseshell framed glasses up the bridge second floor of the restaurant. The hostess
of her nose and swa ed the strawberry at the base of the stairs smiled mechanical-
blonde frizz from her forehead. Her tea- ly at each patron who found refuge from
cup laid empty for several minutes, and her the s nging wind in the form of brunch.
composure was crumbling bit by bit. Agnes, She wore a long charcoal dress like the robe
Maggie’s four-year-old daughter, was un- of a judge, holding up the proper number
aware of her mother’s agita on. She fidget- of fingers to signal the available sea ng
ed with a clean white napkin that provided and slamming her hand down like a gavel
her endless amusement in tandem with the when the message was received. Maggie
clanking cutlery. Agnes was the mirror im- was hypno zed by the hostess’ convic on
age of her father, but Maggie found no con- when her a en on was suddenly diverted
sola on when she looked into her daugh- by a curt exchange between a young man
ter’s faultless eyes. dressed all in white, whom she presumed
to be a busboy and another waitress whose
The chaos of thought bludgeoned Mag- bi er disposi on showed either a poor a -
gie’s senses. Through each industrious row tude or a lack of sa sfactory ps.
of Manha an skyscrapers, she watched as
the brunch crowd came and went. Most “We’re all ou a champagne, doll,” he
of them were families with several over- said.
lapping areas of pretension. It was a raw,
oppressive winter two years removed from “What the hell do you want me to do
Hitler pressing a service pistol against his about it?” she replied.
temple. Each steel tower and glass facade,
“Well,” he paused, “don’t go offering it
is all.”

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Maggie was trying to focus on the pale, “Fine,” Maggie said, as the waitress
anxious eyes of the young man when her turned again. The waitress had a youthful
waitress appeared. She glared at Maggie’s bounce in her gait that Maggie both longed
teacup. for and loathed. Maggie’s stare scorched
the back of the waitress’ black woolen
“Can I offer you another?” she asked. dress as she walked toward the empty bar
area. She imagined her own work clothes
Maggie met the blooming verdict in the being sprinkled with champagne, sweet
waitress’ eyes head on. confec ons, and delicate cheeses rather
than their customary spa ering of entrails
“Yes—go get me another.” and crimson juices.

“Have you decided on anything to eat?” Every morning the waitresses lined up
she asked. for inspec on. Two stories above Park Av-
enue at 18th, the owner’s son fussed over
“Yes. My daughter will have the chopped every detail of their appearance and de-
egg salad sandwich, and I’ll have—” Agnes manded superbly pressed uniforms. Each
interrupted her mother with a shrill whin- waitress dressed in a corresponding black
ing cry. ou it. Their well-starched ivory collars and
pe te pearl aprons provided the only em-
“Nooooo. I don’t want egg samwitches.” bellishment that dis nguished their garb
from that of a widow’s dress. Most of them
“Sandwich, Agnes. Sand—wich. What were Irishwomen “right off the boat,” an ex-
do you want then? Hmm?” pression popular with the sundown cocktail
crowd. The only splashes of color allowed
“Banana Split!” in their a re were their curly ginger locks.
Those who did not pass the daily inspec on
Maggie’s le palm stroked her right were treated as refuse and thrown out for
temple and her forehead ran parallel to the the day. For most, this would entail a pil-
floor. Her movements were a perturbed grimage back over the bridge to the Vine-
genuflec on to pa ence. For six months gar Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn. No wag-
she had saved up for this ny li le retreat. es were allo ed for their effort.
Agnes spent most of her me in the care of
her obligated grandmother. Maggie’s wag- She clung to her unfilled cup and won-
es were the only thing keeping the three of dered what the waitress’ name was. It was
them afloat. She wasn’t aware if Agnes was never men oned, and name tags were
always difficult with food, but she remem- not considered proper to the oppressive
bered the mes when the child’s bawling son of the owner. She knew the waitress
pleaded for it. didn’t have the nickname “mommy.” Mag-
gie suspected her name might be “Debra”
“Give us a few more minutes.” or “Alice.” She suspected that they were
all named “Debra” or “Alice.” Her mother
Agnes let out a hand-covered giggle. had given her the name Magdalene, but
her father had always called her “Maggie.”
“Mommy, are you gonna have anothuh She s ll condemned herself each me she
cuppuh grasshoppers? Ewwwww.” She gig-
gled once more and returned to her napkin,
this me fashioning a doll whose spine was
constructed from a teaspoon.

“I’ll be right back with your grasshop—I
mean tea,” the waitress said with a smirk.

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didn’t see her father’s image in her mind’s air. Her displeasure with wai ng on Maggie
eye, but she could always hear his hus- was only slightly percep ble behind her
ky Irish brogue calling out to her. He died crooked smile.
when she was four-years-old leaving only
her nickname, fragmented memories and a “Have we decided?”
lifelong burden for her mother.
“Yes. I’ll have the Chicken-a-La-King and
“Mommy?” my daughter will have a hamburger.”

Maggie closed her eyes as if suspended Maggie was frustrated into a fury when
in a fixed blink. She took the longest breath she heard the “Noooooooo” burst out of
of her life and pushed up her glasses. When Agnes’ unruly li le lips.
she raised her eyelids, she turned towards
her daughter. “I don’t wanna hambrrugaaaaah!”

“What is it, Agnes?” “Dammit, Agnes! You will eat the god-
damned hamburger or no ma nee. Do you
“Did Daddy eva go to matnay?” understand? That’s it.”

“Ma nee, Agnes. That’s the proper way The waitress stood impassively in the
to say it. Mat—In—A. Why are you asking wake of Maggie’s outburst, but her pa-
me that? Huh? I don’t know. No. No, Daddy
never went to a ma nee. Okay?” ence was wavering and her scru ny of
Maggie intensifying.
“Did Daddy think Donnel Duck was a sil-
ly willy? I think Donnel Duck is a silly willy.” A er Agnes’ birth, Maggie got charged
with stealing an apple from a Bleecker Street
“I said he never went to a ma nee, Ag- pushcart. She told the policeman who ar-
nes. Okay? Now, what do you want to eat? rested her she had no money, her baby was
Hmm? We will not keep doing this. So, I starving, and she too was deprived of food;
will get you a hamburger. Yes. You will eat a however, the merchant wouldn’t drop the
hamburger. Do you understand?” charges because he didn’t want the neigh-
borhood shoppers to think he was “duck
Agnes’ father had been the center of soup to steal from.” The prosecu ng at-
Maggie’s world before the war. She loved torney aimed for the maximum penalty of
him without excep on and accepted his thirty days in jail and a $15.00 fine. Mag-
proposal of marriage before he could even gie’s wayward mother paid double the fine
finish the ques on. Agnes was growing in instead of jail me and offered to share her
Maggie’s belly when he slept his first night pocket-sized apartment. As penance to her
east of the Belgian–German border. He mother, Maggie stood in for all of her shi s
used his bloodless hands to dig a shallow at the neighborhood butcher shop mop-
trench in the frozen Hürtgen Forest soil. ping up trim offs and shoveling sawdust
Maggie believed he could do nothing short onto blood pools. There were few posi ons
of walking on water, but not all dei es re- available for someone from their neighbor-
turned from the war. hood, especially for women, and her moth-
er knew it. Maggie could not refuse.
The waitress a empted to place the
crème de menthe filled teacup down on “Perhaps another few minutes,” the
the table, but Maggie snatched it in mid- waitress said. Maggie fixed her gaze down
towards the carpet, gri ed her teeth, and

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never separated them when she reiterated here. Honest. I’m just le ng you know the
her order. crème de menthe is all gone. There’s noth-
ing I can do about that. How about I get you
“I will have the goddamned Chicken-a- something—”
La-King and she will have a hamburger. Do
you understand? Now, bring me another “Get it! Go find some. I don’t care how
one and put it in a teacup again.” you do it. Pull it out of a top hat for all I care.
Go knock on every door in goddamned
“But you haven’t even finished this one. France. Storm the beaches of Normandy
Besides, we’re all out of the crème de menthe again if you have to! Are you hearing me,
for your grasshoppers. That’s the last of it.” Debra? Hmm?”

“What do you mean you’re all out?” “I—I don’t know what to say. I’m sor-
ry. We just have none le . And my name’s
“I mean we have no more. The bartend- not—”
er just tossed the empty bo le.”
“You don’t know what to say? For start-
“Then why did you offer it in the first ers, stop telling me there’s nothing le .
place? Don’t go goddamned offering it if You’re not in a posi on to say no. I’m not
you know it will run out. Do you understand one of your matching ou it dimwits. You fill
me? You can’t offer me something and then the cup; I empty the cup. That is the order
just take it away. That’s not how things of things. See? You don’t get to take my cup
work,” Maggie said. Why is she looking at away. Do you hear me? I will not be denied,
me like that? Her trembling hands inched Alice. You’re not the judge and jury. You’re
upward as if hailing the angels to bear wit- not the gatekeeper. All of you clones put-
ness. “I was offered a life once. And now I
pull the covers over my daughter alone. Ev- ng food on every table beside your own.
ery night alone. I’ve pulled those bed sheets None of you are the gatekeepers. See? The
over my daughter’s shoulders hundreds and gate is blown to hell and you’re the god-
hundreds of mes alone. I said yes to his of- damned debris! Are you listening? I will not
fer inside a hollow, frigid church. I waved at be made smaller. Never again. Not by you
him from the shore and smiled like all the or anyone else. I will not be drowned out!”
other idiots. We all gathered together there
along the gates. Each one of us dressed in As Maggie flu ered in anger, her glasses
our tailored chiffon coats. Our hip bows fell down her nose, ricocheted off of Agnes’
and floa ng scarves whipping one another napkin doll and came to rest somewhere
senseless. And when the first whistle blew, on the floor. The murmuring of the brunch
I didn’t dare to rip him off that ship. I threw crowd came to an abrupt halt. The varied
my carna ons into the air like all the oth- nature of judgment was a wondrous thing
er wives. I smiled. I waved. And I watched that immersed everyone. Every eyeball in
those flowers fall into the water and drown. the restaurant transfixed on Maggie. Her
Do you understand what I’m saying to you? furor ceased.
No more. Get me another cup. Go get me
another. Get it!” Capitalizing on the momentary distrac-
on, the waitress folded the bill and laid it
“Please, keep your voice down. I’m sor- down on the table next to the teacup. Mag-
ry. Really, I am. I’m not trying to upset you gie pressed her moist fingers flush against
her scalp and watched as a blurry silhou-

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e e of the waitress backpedaled away from her head as if she agreed with something or
the table. Her wedding ring felt cold against someone else beneath the table.
her skin. She could make out the dull out-
line of the hostess poin ng toward her with Before Maggie could entrench her fin-
just one index finger upli ed. Maggie knelt gers in the carpet fibers and find her bear-
down, slunk her head underneath the ta- ings, Agnes jumped down from her chair to
blecloth and crawled around on all fours help her mother—the deafening “crunch”
groping about for her glasses. She nodded displaced the air in her warm, s cky lungs.

About the Author:

Kevin Haslam is a writer and communica ons professional. He was a paint salesman before
shi ing to wri ng where he earned an M.A. in English at Morehead State University. He
resides in Cranston, Rhode Island with his wife, two boys, and Daisy Buchanan—a Saint Ber-
nard who indeed can be located in the tub on most occasions. Kevin can be found at www.
KevinHaslamAuthor.com

94

THE BLOOD BEARER

by Julian Darragja

The clarinet bellowed a series of rippling parking lot that stretched out toward the
tremolos, then broke into strident bursts be- scenic parts of Riverwalk along the Detroit
fore bleeding a woeful, as if unending wail. River. You could see Canada across the river.

Edmond winced. He stood in line before From this angle, you’d never believe the
a busy, prepaid beer-and-wine bar, clad in news about Detroit’s decline. There were
suit and e, although with his jacket off, no board-shut windows here, no fenced
and turned irritably toward the blea ng at factories, no stray dogs in sight.
the other end, almost marveling at the play-
er’s ability to hold a single note so long. The Edmond ordered his fi h beer, craving
guy’s face had deflated, reddening. His eyes it with the same thirst he’d craved his first.
were bulging, yet he kept blowing out that With luck, he thought, it would be his last.
note for nearly half a minute. Like an army As he turned, a heavy-built and heavily-co-
trumpet, it summoned onto the dance floor logne cousin smacked his shoulder from be-
a throng of fes ve well-dressed kin who hind, and Edmond nearly spilled his drink.
circled a slender young bride in white and
an awkward older groom in black. Several “What did you say?” Edmond shouted
dancers twirled handkerchiefs, or clapped back, squin ng at him.
against the beat, while others only flocked to
the floor to fling cash at the newlyweds, and “What are you doing a er?” The cous-
over the heads of the musicians. A few bills in was mid-twen es, the top bu ons of his
clung like dead leaves to the bride’s wedding shirt undone, where a large gold necklace
gown and hair and soon they’d speckled the shown.
wooden dance floor and the carpeted cor-
ner where the band was playing. Edmond shrugged. “A er this? I’m not so
sure.”
The bar stood near a narrow hallway
that led to a bright lobby looking like a posh “A bunch of us are going out a er,” the
living room, with a gilded fireplace, an out cousin said and made a sweeping gesture
of tune grand piano that some kids clob- with his arm. He had his jacket off, too, his
bered or smacked or hid under. There was a shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
coat closet and narrow wing opposite lead-
ing to the bathrooms and the bridal room. His cologne triggered in Edmond memo-
The glassy double doors opened onto a ries of clubbing, of dizzying lights and thun-
derous bases and of girls in scant ou its
doused in lavender and other scents, their
behinds grinding against his crotch, his

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palms on their flu ering hips, his face hot there that wasn’t his cousin. She had on
in their hair. a ny black dress with a loose hem that
flapped over thighs so long and fine they
“Clubs, dog. Girls,” the cousin said. “When’s set his drunken blood to boiling. She was
the last me you got laid?” dancing with his cousin Gasper, a large man
with a large belly who’d laid claim to her
Edmond filled his mouth with air and and wouldn’t let go.
exhaled slowly, as if to ease the burden of
the same old ques ons, the same old tone Edmond finished the beer with a fast
of voice and sneering looks like the eternal chug and retreated to the bar for another,
rerun of some shi y movie. He let his eyes the crumpled money s ll in his hand. He
meander. “Got a lot of work in the morn- had on him some singles, a five, and a ten.
ing,” he said. The me had come to part with them. The
dance floor was as full as it could get and his
“Lots of illegals, I get it,” the cousin said, clan would get to see how generous he was,
but by now Edmond had slipped away. too. Not as generous as Gasper, apparently.
Gasper had le Elira alone a moment and
He moved up closer to the dance floor, was holding several sleek twen es in the
to the swarm of hopping bodies, bobbing air, like playing cards. With his other hand,
breasts, and bare bouncing elbows. Men Gasper flicked the bills at the bride un l the
danced with women, and women with men moneyed hand had only two twen es le .
and women. A massive black camera with its Of these, he licked one with his tongue and
lens in a downward angle weaved through pasted that to the bride’s forehead. As for
the crowd like a steady watching eye. It fol- the other, he bent low, reaching under the
lowed the bride whose flowing white gown bride’s gown while she drew away coyly. He
swept the bills behind her, li ing them in inserted the bill into the gauzy white layers,
the air a moment before le ng them fall then he stru ed back to Elira, inflated by
again to the trampling that fla ened them doing what was a rare custom at Albanian
to the floor. He recalled for his own bills in weddings. Elira clapped his bravado once or
his pant pocket. He dug them out now and twice before her arms resumed that classic
held them in his hand as he took a sip, rel- dip and bounce of Albanian wedding danc-
ishing the sight of his kin and all those bills, ing. By throwing her arms aside like that she
all those presidents, splayed at their feet. gave the partner a full few of her cleavage,
Father had reminded him of what Edmond and Gasper, Edmond observed, was ogling
already knew, the reminder almost an insult, it pre y hard. He turned to face the bar.
to have some singles handy on him. It would
look bad, his father had said, if he didn’t par- Another cousin asked him to go clubbing
take in the well-wishing of prosperity for the and again Edmond declined and stepped
newlyweds. Mother, too, had reminded him away with his new beer, stopping at the
of what he already knew, of just how gen- same spot as before. He guzzled this fi h
erous everyone had been at his brother’s bo le, needing to feel drunker s ll before
wedding. “We picked up from the floor over he flung his money at the newlyweds or
nearly two thousand,” she’d said, something cut in boldly between Gasper and Elira and
she s ll took pride in now two years later. claimed Elira for himself. All day he’d fasted
so as to work the effect of the alcohol faster
He took a sip again and shi ed his gaze
to Elira Gur, one of the few single women

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that way and draw from the recklessness it “Go on,” Mother said. “Go over there
provided. Now he could feel that effect to and ask Nina to dance.”
the roots of his hair and in the dulled sens-
es that failed to no ce his mother coming “There’s no music right now.”
over to stand next to him. She’d been sit-
“It will start again soon.”
ng un l then at their family table where
Father and Nina currently sat. Their moods And soon, too soon it did. He’d wel-
had been so bleak he’d had to get away. comed the silence in the music with the
Mother spoke to him a while, though he relief of an aerophobe landing safely a er
heard none of it from the music and turned a turbulent descent. Now off he flew into
only when she touched his hand. Her eyes, the clouds again. He turned for solace to
red-rimmed with tears, stared at his drink. the bo le and found there barely spi le
le . He drank it dry and held his ground as
They were missing him at their family his mother urged him toward Nina with all
table, his mother shouted in his ear. Nina the tenderness that she could muster. She
was missing him. The table, round like the stood two feet shorter than he, her gray hair
rest though smaller, stood near a mirrored
wall on which the closest object reflected ed into a plain ponytail like Nina’s, her face
was that of Nina, of her long straw-colored free of make-up. Her gown was long and
ponytail hanging over the pale parallels of black and without flourish, a blunt contrast
her bony shoulders. Nina sat so s ll, she against the gli er of high-end gowns swirl-
may as well have been a statue, or one of ing behind the row of round white tables
those pictures maybe of people revealing topped with ample food and drink and two
only their backs in shame. lit candles flanking flowers at the center.

“You haven’t asked Nina for a dance to- The last me everybody had gathered
night,” Mother said, taking advantage of a like this was at Artur’s wedding two years
merciful pause in the music, and seeing as earlier. There were songs about the brother
Edmond was looking at his brother’s widow. of the groom, complimen ng his hospitali-
ty and generosity that were actually veiled
“I thought I would have a drink first.” goading to fling money at the band singing
to him. S ll, he’d played his part well. Had
“But you’ve already had so many.” even exalted in it. He had hopped from
table to table, a cigare e tucked behind
“Didn’t know you were keeping tab.” each ear, and he’d touched the bo om of
his beer bo le with the guests’ drinks, or
“I think everyone is, Edi, you standing leaned in to take pictures with them, their
here like this.” toasts raised. He’d offered everyone ciga-
re es, some taking it, others declining with
Edmond said nothing. He watched Eli- palms pressed gently to their hearts.
ra Gur doing what looked like mock bel-
ly-dancing for Gasper, just as another song “Hajde,” Mother told him now, as he
began, while Gasper only ogled her some winked into the bo le. “Put the beer away.”
more. He scanned the room for Gasper’s
wife and he found her among a group of Edmond obeyed. He stepped back and
women, with a chubby big-eyed baby in put the bo le on the counter, surprised
her arm, tossing her head back in a roaring how fast the bartender’s black-sleeved
laughter, as though at Edmond.

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arm shot forward and whisked it away. He with more or less money than he. He had
returned to his mother then, his plastered no handkerchief to spin at Elira, but he had
head drooped over the crumpled bills in his hands that he could clap and feet that he
hand, his knees ngling and rickety. Some- could stomp, even if the typical compound
thing thumped and sizzled in his head as he beat—one-two, one-two-three, one-two,
smoothed out the bills and counted them. one-two-three—eluded him. With some
Seventeen dollars, enough to add to the help from Elira who edged closer and clos-
sca ered pile on the floor and the ones er to him, he seized the opportunity to back
over and under the bridal gown. He folded into Gasper and shove him out of the way.
the ten and put it back in his pant pocket.
Two burning black eyes smiled at his
“Okay,” he said. “Dancing it is.” And he brazen cu ng-in even as those eyes dipped
headed off now toward the dance floor. from the bulky towering Gasper to the thin-
ner, shorter partner. Their eyes were level
Mother smiled a er him and soon her and they held each other’s gaze a moment,
smile clouded over as he headed straight communica ng to Edmond all the ways Eli-
for Elira. ra had wrapped her thick blood-laden lips
around his cock and the myriad ways she’d
 do so s ll. It aroused him, the thought, and
he longed to go at it right then and there,
The blea ng of the clarinet had given away with that dress s ll on her. And what a
to the yearning of the accordion. The mel- dress! It was sleeveless, the hem a few
ody was Arabic-flavored, spellbinding as inches above the knee and two elongated
always and feverish in its mad meandering V’s, the point of one just shy of her navel,
around the base note. It compelled many the point of the other reaching below the
women, Elira among them, to linger in a base of her spine and baring more than a
half-rota on of the body, hopping a few hint of her behind. At the very least he had
steps forward while gyra ng the shoulder to lean over and shout in her ear, “Of all
closest to the partner in small synchronized the women in my life you look the best in
increments, then turning the other way and black.”
repea ng the exact same steps in the oppo-
site direc on, each segment a reflec on of Doub ul Elira heard him, but she
the other. The male partners either clapped smacked him in the head anyway to snap
or stomped or spun their handkerchiefs at out of it. He caught her dri in the irked
the females before them. way she curled her brow at him, in a way
she probably never had with Gasper. He re-
To mark his entrance onto the dance sumed stomping and clapping. It was easier
floor Edmond flung his seven dollars at the than dancing and he made it easier on him-
cheerful bride like they were rose petals self s ll by dropping to one knee, looking
and watched them floa ng gently. Momen- up at Elira and clapping harder. Elira eased
tarily, he forgot any gripe he might have closer to him, nearly touched his clapping
had about the crudeness of the ritual and hands. She put a hand at her belly, the other
was about to reach into his pocket for the she li ed into a half-halo over her head, and
ten. But the flash of eye-contact with Elira began twirling like a belly-dancer. By drop-
spared him from himself, assured him of his ping to his knee as he had, Edmond had
place rela ve to Gasper and to anyone else

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