Adelaide Literary Magazine No.9. Volume II, September 2017

ABOUT THE
OLD MAN

Skyler Nielsen

After months of begging Dad let up, and the day “Doesn’t sound like you were very organized.”
couldn’t have gone better. He said if I worked
hard, I could come back tomorrow. I did OK. “This is why I don’t like telling you stories.”
Swept the whole cold storage, even though my
fingers went numb in five minutes. But I finished, “I’m sorry, go ahead.”
and didn’t complain once. Then, when the fruit
came out of the field, packing started, and I got “I don’t interrupt you.”
the empty boxes ready for the line. I was in
charge of something, and I didn’t screw up once. “You’re right. What did you do after emp-
tying your desk?”
Dad took me to Taco Corral for lunch, and
bought me a cheeseburger with crinkle fries. I “Turned in our books. When she called
can’t tell mom about the orange freeze because your name you had to take your books to the
they’re not good for me, but maybe I’ll get anoth- front, and she looked through them and wrote
er one tomorrow. At the end of the day, I labeled down if you messed anything up. I was worried
all the full boxes for shipping. Dad said I got too because I spilled soda on my science book, but
messy, but I’ll do better tomorrow. she didn’t say anything. Then she gave us our
report cards. Before we left, Mrs. Chavez gave
Now we get to drive home. My arm’s hanging out everyone a hug, even the boys.”
the window, and Dad’s playing the radio loud. All
he has to do is tell a story. That’s what farmers “She’s a good teacher.”
like to do at the end of the day; they lean on their
trucks, and tell stories. We have to get home “Yeah.”
because mom’s throwing a party for Amy’s birth-
day, so we didn’t get to hang with the rest of the “See, that was a story.”
crew. That’s fine, as long as he tells a story while
we drive. “Now tell me one, Dad. ”

“Com’on Dad, a quick story before we get I think it’s the only time it’s OK for Dad to
home.” smoke. I didn’t like it most of the time, but when
he tells stories it’s different. At home he can’t
“Why don’t you tell me a story instead?” smoke because mom gets mad, so it’s not the
same when he tells stories there. If he quit, but
“I don’t have any good ones.” smoked whenever he told stories, it’d be perfect.

“Tell me about your last day at school.” “Did I ever tell about the time I went to the
grand bazaar in Tehran?”
“We didn’t do anything. It was a short day
and they didn’t even give us lunch. All we got “What’s a bazaar?”
was a treat and some milk. In the morning we
had to clean out our desks. That took a long “It’s a fancy word for an outdoor market.
time.” Vincent and I had ridden buses since leaving Ka-
bul, staying in a few small villages along the way.
The people would let us sleep in their homes for
thirty cents, but most of the time we were stuck

99

on that damn bus. The first thing we did when the poor man viciously, and I expected the Per-
we got to Tehran was rent a room, and buy some sians head pop off, and roll into a gutter.
drinks.
“While the crowd formed, Vincent and I tried to
“Somewhere in western Afghanistan we gage what would happen next. We stood at the
hooked up with this barrel-chested German Bazaars center, and if we ran we’d need to push
named Niklas. Every year he took a six-week va- through a mile of crowd to get free.
cation from his job in West Berlin and traveled
the Middle East. Niklas was a lunatic, but when “Had Niklas taken it further things
you come across a Westerner in the Orient, might’ve turned. Finally the Persian said some-
you’re honor bound to stick together. thing, and the German let go. He turned towards
us, who probably looked ridicules standing there,
“Before parting ways in Tehran, we asked wide-eyed and unsure. Then he said in his thick
Niklas to show us the Grand Bazaar. It was fa- German accent, ‘Let’s move along now.’”
mous throughout the Middle East, but places like
that can be dangerous if you don’t know what “Why did Niklas do that, Dad?”
you’re doing. Niklas spoke perfect Farsi and un-
derstood the customs, though he had an irration- “I never really found out, Boy. Once we
al hatred of Persians. He really liked Afghans, but got a safe distance from the mob I asked Niklas
not Persians. what it was all about. He answered, ‘that damn
Persian said something rude to you, and I’m not
“What sort of things did they sell, Dad?” going to stand for that.’”

“Imagine it, and it was there. One row Dad has the best laugh in the world, and
sold grocery items: meats, breads, and every type it’s funny the way he laughs hard at things that
of produce imaginable, followed by a row that nobody else does. I usually don’t get what’s so
sold fabric and rugs. The rugs were incredible, funny, but I go along anyway. It’s the way he
and to this day I regret not buying one. Works of bounces. That’s what makes it good.
art on the cheap, but I didn’t want to deal with
mailing anything back. At the time I followed the Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. I remember
strict philosophy of living in the moment, but I reaching the last game of the season. One win to
learned something that day boy, and I want you sweep league. We could have been the first un-
to remember this.” defeated team in fifteen years. Man, to have one
of those championship patches reading 10-0 on
“OK.” my letterman jacket; that would have been killer.
When we lost by three points, I told Dad how it
“It’s not about living in the past, present or sucked. He just laughed in that condescending
future. You have to consider them all at once. way of his.
The trick is understanding when to live in which.
Point being, I should have taken an extra day and “You still get a championship patch, and are head-
sent back a rug. ing to the playoffs. That’s all anyone’s going to
remember.”
“By noon we’d been walking for hours, and
decided to eat. We headed back the way we He didn’t get it then, so I shouldn’t be sur-
came, toward the side of the market where the prised now. I guess I figured he’d see the stakes
food venders set up. are higher since we’re talking about the rest of
my damn life.
“I walked behind Vincent, not paying
attention as usual. Next thing I knew, Niklas “Are you going to sulk through dinner,
grabbed this Persian by the scruff of the neck, and Boy?”
slammed him into a booth selling precious stones.
He was yelling at the man in Farsi, and the Persian I hate the new dining room, but Mom
shrieked back. Ruby’s and diamonds glittered as wants it this way, and Dad’s backing the change.
they flew through the air, and it was beautiful,
except for the violence. Niklas started shaking

100

She hated her childhood, and by randomly chang- What a load of bull! Every time something bad
ing stuff, even the nice stuff, she feels she’s happens, that’s what he says, that it’ll make me a
getting away. I could never say it; Dad doesn’t better man. Welcome to the modern era Dad.
like it when anyone complains about Mom. What matters is that class, and getting ahead, not
being a better man.
Still, I don’t get junking the big table. It
was awesome, like those seen in the ancient man- “Just go down to the school, Dad.”
sions of Europe. She replaced it with this stupid
round thing with a glass top that’ll always be dot- “And do what?”
ed with fingerprints. Then she’ll move the tacky,
glass circle from one side of the room to the oth- “Do what Mrs. Trousdale did.”
er, then to another part of the house altogether.
She’ll eventually get bored, and replace it with “So you won’t have to work hard to get
something else that still won’t be as good as the where you want. So you won’t have to struggle a
old table. little. So you can go down the checklist, and have
it easy like everyone else, while some other kid
The chairs are uncomfortable, but they gets kicked out to make room for you, and it goes
match the glass table, plus she’s replaced all the on and on that way until they arrive at a student
old prints of impressionist art with horror movie who’s parents don’t have the pull to do the same,
posters. The one from the old Bella Legosi Dracu- and that kid gets screwed. I’m not going to do
la is cool. I complained about the rest before Dad that. You have to keep battling, keep working,
told me to back off, and let Mom do what makes because that’s the only thing you can rely on
her happy. She’s working late because of tax sea- when the unfair things start stacking up.”
son, and I’m trapped in the dining room with the
Old Man. “So you’re not going to help me!”

“Com’on, let’s have a laugh or something.” “Did I every tell you the story about the
night I won the MVP of my baseball team my sen-
“Stop making fun of me, Dad.” ior year of high school?”

“I’m not making fun of you. But you’re “I don’t care.”
acting like this is the end of the world. Believe
me, it’s not.” All that time traveling the world, collecting
wisdom from ancient civilizations, and what’s he
“I needed that class. It was key.” do but use it to circle around things; to avoid fac-
ing anything. He never liked confrontation, that’s
“You have to make the best of it, because all it means in the end.
there are going to be worse roadblocks than this
thrown your way.” Sure Dad can be maddening, but I miss him. Four
years down south learning high finance, but as
“Thanks for the advice, but this has noth- days ticked off toward my final exam, all I could
ing to do with random hardships of life. This is think about was spending time with the Old Man.
about Dale Trousdale’s mother going to the That’s why I’m walking the long, dirt road that
school board, fighting to get her son into that cuts the farm down the middle, leading from the
class, and getting me thrown out.” front porch to the packing shed at the far end of
the land.
“You think that’s fighting for her son.”
It’s fitting that our first, true conversation
“That’s exactly what I think.” in four years will be held under the bin dumper.
It breaks down every few months, but he’ll aban-
“She cried and harassed everyone she don all his dreams before replacing it. He takes a
knew would listen, that way she wouldn’t have to liking to something, and all of a sudden it’s trans-
fight, and neither would her son. Fighting would muted into something sacred.
have been to take that boy aside, tell him to work
harder, but he could still get to the same place,
and he’d be a better man for it.”

101

“I think when it’s over we’re going to bury you “Good boy.”
under this thing, Dad.”
“Let’s go check that water.”
“Hey, there’s my Boy.”
“Alright. Oh what’s this now.”
“Need help, Old Man?”
Of all the superstitions that torment the
He’ll give anything a chance unless it’s in farmer, none is more terrifying than a mysterious
his best interest. Even a proper pair of work vehicle arriving late in the afternoon. They never
boots would help that knee, but he prefers the come with anything worth knowing, only bad
cheapest shoes he can find. He’ll spend the rest of news, or because they want something.
his days pulling himself up with a grimace of pain
followed by a pop. “Who’s that, Dad?”

“Just hang around, I might need a second pair of “George Allard.”
hands.”
“When did he start driving a Range Rov-
“Alright.” er?”

I can still hear him all those years ago, ‘You “My guess would be a week ago.”
work all day Boy, and when you’re done, you do
one more.’ So down he goes, suffering another Owning a gas station, and a quick-stop
pop, and back to the cool concrete of the packing mini-mart makes him a successful man around
shed. town, but that car still has to cost fifty grand.

“So how’s the job search going Boy?” “Hello Joseph. It’s been too long,” George
says with his customary summer sniffle.
“I got an interview with an investment firm
in San Jose next week.” “George. You remember my Son.”

“That’s good.” “Of course. You visiting from your stud-
ies.”
“It’s only entry level, but it’s a first step.”
“I just graduated.”
“Well I hope it works out. I want to spend
the rest of my life starting sentences with, ‘My “Congratulations young man. What did
Son, the investment banker…’” you end up majoring in?”

“You got water running?” “Economics and Finance.”

“Yeah, on the south end. You want to take “Going to be a businessman are you.”
a drive, and check it after I’m done here?”
“We’ll see.” I look at Dad, methodically
“Sure.” wiping grease from his hands.

“Why don’t you start putting some of this “What can we do for you, George?”
stuff away. Then we’ll go move the water before
heading home.” “I was driving around with Elmore here.
Have you ever met Elmore? He sits on the Fresno
I used to know the home of every tool, but four City Council. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him.”
years of having my hands held at the University,
and I’ve lost those instincts. At school, everything It’s strange for Dad not to look into
had its place, clearly labeled, and never far away someone’s eyes when he meets them. Dad’s not
was someone to help. This is the world, and you like me, there’s nothing that brings joy to the Old
either know, or you don’t. I’ve learned many in- Man quicker than meeting someone new.
teresting things, but I was probably more useful
to the Old Man four years ago. “You know Elmore, these people are prob-
ably the best farmers in the Central Valley.”
“Looks like we got it all, Dad.”
“I got water running George, so if you need
something, ask. Otherwise, maybe you and your
friend could visit another time.”

102

“Oh, well I only wanted to bring Elmore to meet an uncomplicated set of standards, and I’ve al-
you, and was hoping to take you for a ride. Have ways done the opposite, envisioning the path to
you ever come across a vehicle so nice?” truth as a complex, winding one.

“That’s a beautiful machine, George.” Dad stands silently, his head down. Not
upset or beaten; just tired. George can run
“Well, it’s terrible I know, but I couldn’t through all that data. He’ll quote the rules of
help myself. Actually, I haven’t seen you since I business, and give mathematical proof of why his
closed the deal. Did you hear about it?” actions were no less moral than purchasing some-
thing at a department store. He can get his
“Everyone around town heard about it.” friend, a respected local politician to talk about
the big picture, and they’ll finish by regurgitating
“I told you to come in with me Joseph. socially accepted adages.
You could have cleaned up.”
Dad can’t hide behind such things, even if
Dad tosses his wrench to the ground. Not he’d like to. For him, there’s right and wrong, and
in a violent way, but I’ve watched him work my even if the distinction is rarely clear, it’s the only
whole life, and he never tosses tools. Not ever. one that matters.
He limps forward until he’s right in front of
George Allard, before removing his sunglasses.

“I don’t like the way you handled that
George.”

“What are talking about?”

“You’ve been bad mouthing Adelberto and
his family all over town. Now, I’m only a dirt
farmer, and I don’t know how much influence
that had in driving him under, or pushing down
the price so you could buy him out for nothing.
Either way, it was wrong. What was sick about
the whole thing is that I know the real reason you
did it, and it had nothing to do with business.”

“Oh, and what’s the real reason?”

“You hate Adelberto. You’ve hated him since we
were in school together, and that’s why you
pushed him out. That whole business deal was
personal, and I didn’t like it.”

George protests and I try to follow, but
Elmore pulls me aside. The Councilman begins
asking questions, trying to strike up conversation.
All the while dragging me farther from George
and Dad, the way students did when witnessing
their favorite professor being unfairly challenged.

I don’t know what it’s all about, but Dad
wants none of it. He’d prefer to keep working,
ending the day driving his land, checking water,
and catching up with his son. Above all else,
Dad’s a simple man.

This is the great trap; happening right in
front of me. Men like Dad function according to

103

THE APOLOGY

Janel Brubaker

I held the phone to my ear and listened, stunned span of ten years, we had kept in touch through
to the point of silence. I had known this would monthly phone calls and frequent emails. She had
happen. Indeed, I had walked myself through it taken the place of close friend in my heart, and I
hundreds of times, hoping that when the day in hers, though we had never told each other so.
came, I would be prepared. I was not prepared. I “If you ask me, this is a fault in the system, and a
had expected to receive this phone call years ear- disservice to honest citizens like yourself.”
lier, and yet I was still caught off-guard. I blinked
slowly, frozen and unsure. The female voice on I couldn’t respond. I swallowed hard and
the other end of the call was saying my name, but tried to clear my mind of the thoughts which
I hardly heard her. I was too distracted by what seemed bent on capturing my full attention: the
she’d said, and how this news would affect me in smell of the court room on that hot August after-
the months and years to come. I was anxious and noon, the growing pit in my stomach as I was
upset, torn between fear of the past and fear of called on to testify, the terror I felt as I sat and
what was about to become my future; my heart answered the attorneys’ questions, and the looks
was beating harder and faster than before, my of the jury as I returned to my seat, all rushed
lungs had tightened which made my breaths shal- into the forefront of my mind, unbidden and un-
low and swift, my skin felt clammy, and pearls of wanted reminders of what I endured nearly ten
sweat lined my forehead. years ago. They were the cause of the fear I’d
fought to repress for so long.
“Chloe, talk to me,” the female voice said,
finally breaking me out of the daze I had fallen “I don’t blame you, Sheriff,” I forced myself
into. to say. It was true, I didn’t blame her. Tabitha
Morgan hadn’t been Sheriff at the time of the
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” I said, moving to stand incident. In fact, it had been the first day of her
near the window to my left. I stared into the yard third week out of the academy when she and her
where my five year old son, Lucas, was playing partner got the call. Her partner had been much
with the family dog. Lucas was the pride of my more aloof and distant when they found me,
life. He and his father, my husband Vincent, had whereas she had been warm and kind. How could
made me happier than I ever imagined I could be. I have blamed her for anything?
Even with the residue of trauma still imprinted on
my mind, I had found happiness. I was afraid it “Is there…anything I can do?” she asked, and I
was all about to be undone. “I’m still here.” knew the offer was genuine.

Sheriff Tabitha Morgan sighed. I could “When…” My throat tightened and I had to
sense the tension in her voice. “I’m sorry about all clear it before I could continue. “When will…he…”
of this, Chloe.” I knew she was sincere. Sheriff I was spared the need to finish the sentence.
Morgan had been an endless comfort for me, a Sheriff Morgan knew what I was asking.
champion for my health and safety. Even after the
“He’s supposed to be released on the first

104

of June into a period of parole lasting up to eight- “Thank you,” I replied. “I appreciate that.”
een months.”
I went through the rest of the day in an
I let out a slow breath, trying to recall eve- altered mental state. I was quiet and reserved,
rything I knew about parole for released crimi- something Lucas had become accustomed to. I
nals. I knew that the length of parole varied de- sat outside with a cup of tea that I pretended to
pending on the crime committed and the severity drink and a book I pretended to read, and I let
of that crime. I also knew that he likely wouldn’t Lucas play. He was a happy boy, vibrant and full
be allowed to leave the state until his parole was of laughter and curiosity. He didn’t need me to
finished, and even then, he would need to jump answer his questions about caterpillars or hum-
through a myriad of hoops to do so, or risk being mingbirds, nor did he really want me to. He was
sent back to prison. content that I was there, that I was with him. He
liked to answer his own questions, and spent the
“He won’t know where to find you, Chloe. afternoon searching the backyard for clues.
You’ve moved out of state. You took your hus- Though the phone call with Sheriff Morgan re-
band’s last name. You’re safe.” played over and over in my mind, I did what I
could to watch Lucas and forget everything else.
I couldn’t stifle the sigh that left my body. “I did-
n’t feel safe while he was in prison, Sheriff. How Vincent arrived home only two hours after I’d
am I supposed to feel safe now that he’s about to ended the phone call with Sheriff Morgan, and he
be released?” noticed my reserve immediately. After everything
we had been through, he knew how to interpret
She didn’t reply immediately. I knew she the meanings of the smallest details of my body
was trying to ease the concern I couldn’t hide, but language and facial cues. Where I was usually
she hadn’t lived the last ten years of my life. She talkative, I was now quiet. Where I usually sat up
only knew what I had communicated to her over straight with my hands in my lap, I now sat with
the years, and I never gave her the whole picture. my shoulders slumped and my arms folded across
She didn’t know how long I had been unable to my chest. Instead of meeting his gaze when I
sleep in my own bedroom, or how nightmares of spoke, I stared at my feet or an insignificant mark
that evening still haunted me. She didn’t know on the wall. He understood, as Lucas was yet una-
that I still saw a therapist on a weekly basis and ble to, that I didn’t withdraw from people or life
took anxiety medication daily. She didn’t know without a trigger. He wasn’t going to bring it up
that I couldn’t, as a twenty-five year old woman, until after Lucas was in bed, so he made chit chat
go anywhere alone after dark without hearing his over dinner, took on the responsibility of bathing
footsteps behind me or feeling his hot breath on Lucas and putting him to bed, and then met me in
my neck. She didn’t know how my heart would the master bedroom.
race at the smell of whiskey, the same odor that
had emanated from his hands and clothes and “What’s the matter?” he asked, leaning
now made me feel sick. She didn’t know of the against the wall.
physical and emotional exhaustion from being on
edge all of the time. How I always checked that I met his gaze, wishing I could just get lost
the door was locked every morning when I awoke in his brown eyes and leave the stress of the out-
and double-checked that it had, indeed, locked side world behind and avoid this inevitable con-
whenever I came home…how I couldn’t even versation. After a minute I sighed and sat on the
drive by the high school, my alma mater…She edge of the bed.
didn’t know how the exhaustion made me feel
depressed and angry. These were the bulk of my “Zachary Ulger is going to be released from
emotional and mental stressors, and all while my prison next month,” I said. My voice was surpris-
attacker had been locked behind the walls of a ingly calm and void of emotion.
state prison. What would I do and feel now that
he was about to be released? I watched a frown disrupt his handsome
features. He ran a hand through his dark, short
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to curls and sighed deeply. I could see he was angry,
call. I want to help if I can,” Sheriff Morgan said he always clenched his jaw when he was angry,
softly.

105

and I thought he looked a little afraid. It was for Vincent had been my closest confidant in the
me he would be afraid. darkness after the attack. It established an intima-
cy between us that never faltered, even after the
“Sheriff Morgan called and told me just trial and the conviction. Even though we had
this afternoon,” I added. been friends before it all, I hadn’t expected him to
remain as close as he had been during the trial.
“So much for justice from the damn justice The worst of it had come and gone, and the time
system,” Vincent said through grit teeth. for healing had rolled in. I thought we would go
back to before, but we never did. He still walked
“This release date is less than a year away me to school and to classes, but now he held my
from his original sentence. It’s not that extraordi- hand. He still came and saw me once each week,
nary.” but started to bring bouquets of flowers. Some-
times they were wild flowers from the field by his
“He still should be serving out the whole of house. Sometimes they were small, odd collec-
his sentence!” Vincent exclaimed. “Why give him tions from the store put together in ways only he
a sentence of eleven years if he’s not going to would concoct. They were hideous creations, and
serve the whole time?” I loved them all. They were weekly reminders
that, even during the relentless, crashing storm of
“We’re lucky he wasn’t released sooner,” I what my life had become, beauty and life could
heard myself saying. “It’s very rare for rapists to still thrive. With the flowers, eventually, came a
serve more than half their sentence once convict- romantic correspondence. He would leave his
ed. He was only convicted in the first place be- letter on the counter by the flowers next to
cause they were able to link three other cases of where my own letter would be waiting. Because
rape to him through the DNA extracted from the of him I felt like a normal teenager. Or, at least, as
rape kits. That he’s been in prison this long is a close to normal as I could possibly be. When he
rarity, even with the other three convictions.” asked me to marry him after high school gradua-
tion, my answer was as natural and true as any-
Vincent stared at me in shock. “Are you… thing else in my life, and it all began because of
saying this is a good thing?” the intimacy that was established during the days
leading up to and during the trial. Our marriage
I sighed. “No. I’m saying it was unavoida- was the one good thing to come out of the as-
ble. He was going to be released at some point, sault.
and now that time has come.”
I imagined how hard it must have been for Vin-
“He shouldn’t be released at all!” he ex- cent to have endured all of that with me, to have
claimed, only catching the volume of his voice on seen me at my darkest moments (and there had
the last few words. He ran his hands over his face. been plenty), and to know how I still struggled
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “It’s just…a even after such an expanse of time, only to then
shock.” hear of the release of the man who had raped
me. It was probably much more than just a shock.
I nodded slowly and looked down at my I could see the trepidation in his eyes, the con-
hands. Vincent and I had been close friends when cern and rage he knew he couldn’t express for
the rape occurred. He knew, firsthand, the emo- fear of raising my own anxiety. He would suffer in
tional toll it took. He had been at the hospital the this with me, but where my struggle was acknowl-
night of the attack; he and I had agreed to meet edged, his would be hidden. I held out my hands
at his place that night to study for an exam, and to him and he took them. I pulled his arms around
when I didn’t show, he called my parents. They me, causing him to kneel in front of me, and I
had explained what happened and less than ten placed my head on his chest. I closed my eyes and
minutes later, he had arrived at the hospital. He I listened to his heartbeat. It was a practice I had
refused to leave my side for days. He slept on the adopted shortly after the assault. I found it
floor of my bedroom. He walked with me to helped me to refocus my attention and find
school, and he walked me to each of my morning something beautiful amidst my world of agony.
classes. He went with me to therapy and, once he
did finally move back to his parent’s house, he
visited me no less than once a week to see how I
was doing. He sat next to me through the whole
of the trial.

106

His heartbeat represented his life, and I was a About the Author:
part of that life. I liked to imagine that, some-
where amidst the blood and tissue and muscle, Janel Brubaker recently graduated from Clacka-
my name was etched on the organ that pumped mas Community College with my associates in
life through his body. When his arms tightened English and Creative Writing. She worked as a
ever so lightly around my body and his lips student assistant editor for the Clackamas Liter-
pressed against my forehead, I smiled. In his ary Review for the 2015 and 2016 editions. She is
arms, I was safe. currently the Managing Editor of the M Review.
She has been published in Sick Lit Magazine,
One month later, Zachary Ulger was re- Heartbeat Literary Journal, Crab Fat Magazine,
leased from prison. I saw his face the next day in Dark Fire Fiction, Linden Avenue Literary Journal,
the daily newspaper. I had never really seen his Slink Chunk Press, (boink) zine, Corner Bar Maga-
face during the attack, and I had avoided looking zine, Anomaly Literary Journal, and Sheepshead
at him in the court room during the trial, but now Review. Janel is currently pursuing a B.A. in Crea-
he was staring back at me from the pages in my tive Writing from Marylhurst University.
hands, and all I could think was how normal he
looked. I read through the brief article which
touched on the rapes and the convictions, and
then I froze when my eyes reached the last para-
graph. The journalist had asked Zachary what he
would say to his victims if he had the chance. His
reply was short, and yet I read it over and over
until I was dizzy. I set the newspaper down and
looked away, tears glistening in my eyes. I told
myself it was probably just for show, an insincere,
cookie-cutter reply to prove that his early release
was justified, and that I needn’t take his words to
heart. But I was overcome with conflicting emo-
tions. I wanted his reply to be sincere, but hated
the idea that it could be. I breathed deeply as
tears ran down my face. The knowledge that he
might regret his actions did not bring me closure
the way I had imagined it would. It only made me
angry. I realized I had never wanted him to be
sorry, I wanted him never to have assaulted me in
the first place. That was a closure he could never
give me.

107

GO FISH

Maryetta Ackenbom

There it was! A flash of scarlet and white, just at fogged his mask. He couldn't dive again today,
the corner of his vision. But his lungs were and his funds were running low. He couldn't
bursting; he had to go up for air. afford to hire the boat again for a long time. Once
again he would have to go home empty-handed.
With a flip of his fins, Jack pushed up to
the surface of the water. He breathed deeply With a sigh he looked again. Now, at the
through his snorkel a few times, then quickly de- very end of the tube, almost hidden by the darker
scended again toward the globe-shaped coral plastic of the seal, he saw a twinkle of scarlet.
head twenty‑five feet below. He was tired, and Staring wide‑eyed through his mask at the fish,
this was his twelfth deep dive that day. If he did- he whooped for joy. He swam toward the dive
n't spot the bright little fish again right away, he'd boat with renewed energy and climbed aboard,
have to give up for the day. waving his collecting tube at the crew.

Back down he went, as near as possible to "Finally found it!" he yelled, pulling off his
where he saw the miracle fish, but he couldn't mask. "I've been searching for this little creature
hold out long. Jack was almost fifty; his lungs for years!"
were not able to withstand the pressure as they
used to. He swung his head around, looking for Captain Al looked over from where he held
the tiny fish. Nothing. a fishing line at the side of the boat.

Then, from the opposite direction, he saw "Yeah?" he said. "You had better luck than
it, disappearing behind a protuberance of the I did. Nothing is biting. What's it worth, your little
huge white coral head. He turned and swam fish?"
there, pointing with his collecting tube. Again he
saw a scarlet flash, this time below him. He dove Jack slipped out of his flippers and strode
quickly into the violet deep, his lungs aching, and to the captain, brandishing the plastic tube. Al
activated the suction on the tube in the direction peered inside and blinked as the fish flipped its
where he reckoned the fish had gone. yellow tail.

He had to go up, now! The pain in his lungs "Several hundred, last I heard." Jack
made him look only upwards, as he kicked his way flipped his graying hair out of his eyes. "But this
to the surface. He was light-headed, and only his baby is mine! Going right in my display, in the
years of experience kept him from panic. He spat place of honor. I'll set up a new tank for him."
out the snorkel and gasped for air as his head
came out of the water, then bent to inspect the "Nice. What kind is it?"
collecting tube. He saw nothing. Lying back,
letting the warm water support him while his "He's a wrasse, a Cuban hogfish. This little
breathing calmed, he blinked back the tears that tyke got its name before the Cubans got away
from Spain. See the colors of the Spanish flag?"

108

"Red, yellow, white. Okay." The captain his aging van to the nearby bird sanctuary. Stump
started to reel in his fishing line. "Well, it's late, learned to recognize him during the next few
let's get underway." months when Jack stopped by occasionally to
check on him. When the amputated stump
Jack released the fish into the white plastic healed, the vet at the sanctuary turned the bird
bucket at his feet. He had collected two dozen over to Jack again, and Jack released him on the
other specimens that day, a good haul. The crew- docks. As far as anyone knew, Stump never left
man stowed the anchor while Captain Al tended the docks again, appearing to lead a full life there
the helm, and the dive boat started toward the in spite of his handicap.
shore.
Jack fed the peanuts to Stump that morning while
Jack lounged on the bench inside the cabin nurs- he waited for Al. The other pelicans croaked and
ing an icy bottle of beer as the boat set out to- fluttered, but Jack made sure that Stump got al-
ward the small city of Marathon in the Florida most all the peanuts.
Keys. Who would have thought that after all this
time he'd finally found a specimen of the tiny fish Stump brought him luck today, thought
that had captured his heart many years ago. He Jack, as the “Fun ‘n’ Sun” made its way back to
had kept an aquarium shop for fifteen years in shore. He took a swallow of his beer and relaxed,
Marathon, barely breaking even financially but smiling as he remembered the morning depar-
enjoying his work. His one part‑time assistant ture.
helped out, so he could go out collecting fish
whenever he had enough money to hire a boat. Al looked over at him. “What if we throw
The reefs where the best specimens were found the little fellow back so you’ll have a reason to
were too far out to swim to, and he couldn't get come back out here?”
enough money ahead to get a boat of his own.
Maybe next year. “Not on your life!” Jack grinned, then sud-
denly his expression changed. “You really think I
That morning, waiting for Captain Al to get want to go to all the trouble and expense of
his “Fun ‘n’ Sun” charter boat loaded, he watched catching him again?”
the pelicans gather, as they always did when a
boat came into dock or prepared to leave. Usually “Maybe not. Maybe you’d just rather sit
the crews gave the graceless birds a meal. Fisher- and look at him, in his new glass house.”
men thought pelicans brought good luck, even
though they cursed them when the birds grabbed Jack sighed. The beer tasted flat. He tossed
fish meant for the market, or laid a slimy deposit the half-empty bottle over the side of the boat.
on the dock.
“Hey!”
Jack saw Stump among the other pelicans,
begging for a handout. He stopped at the small “Oops, sorry.” Jack had forgotten that Al
shop on the docks and bought a bag of peanuts. was death on littering the seas. “It’ll make a good
home for some little crabs, Al.”
When Stump saw Jack coming he hopped
toward him awkwardly on his one good leg, flap- The Cuban hogfish was one of the reasons
ping his wings to keep his balance. Jack was al- why Jack had come to the Florida Keys to live and
ways good for a snack. Stump could fly, but he work. He had kept tropical fish since he was a
didn't bother with that too much, because every- small boy in Chicago, and when he saw his first
one who came to the docks took pity on him and salt‑water aquarium when he was a teenager, he
fed him whatever was available. Stump lost his was hooked. Carefully budgeting his resources, he
leg in a bout with a tangle of fishing line some purchased as many specimens as he could afford.
years ago. Jack was on the dock when a couple of He studied the subject more thoroughly than he
youngsters fished the pelican out of the water, ever studied for any of his high school classes. He
near death from starvation, with the fishing line found books with brilliant photographs of fish he
cutting through the flesh of his leg to the bone. could only dream about. One of those was the
Jack took the bird from the boys and carried it in Cuban hogfish. One day when he was browsing in

109

a local aquarium shop he saw the scarlet and things, starting again toward his van. He stopped
white striped beauty, but it was not for sale. The to reach in his pocket. Finding a couple of leftover
shop owner had put it in one of his own display peanuts, he tossed them to Stump.
tanks, where he kept the most glamorous speci- Maryetta has published several short stories
mens. Jack spent hours watching the tank, and he online, and has just published her second novel,
fell in love with the little fish. "Hope Abides," available on amazon.com. She
lives and writes in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico, a
“Where can I get one of these?” he asked warm city with warm, welcoming people.
the clerk.
About the Author:
“Can’t. I never saw one for sale. Go catch Maryetta Ackenbom has published several short
one yourself!” stories online, and has just published her second
novel, "Hope Abides," available on amazon.com.
When Jack finished high school, he had not She lives and writes in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico, a
developed much enthusiasm for anything else, so warm city with warm, welcoming people.
the call of the tropics was irresistible. He went
traveling, and some years later, he ended up in
Marathon.

The boat approached the time-worn dock. Jack
struggled to gather his belongings. As the "Fun 'n'
Sun" bumped the dock gently, the flock of peli-
cans converged on the site. The crewman hopped
out and secured the boat, and Jack hoisted his
bag of diving equipment onto the dock. He turned
to pick up the bucket of fish he had collected and
heaved it up onto the weathered boards, climbing
out after it. The captain cut the motor and began
to unload his own supplies. Picking up his white
plastic bait pail, Captain Al lifted it onto the dock
and tilted it to release the small fish he had been
using for bait. They would not survive another
night. Jack watched as Stump raced the other
birds to catch the bait fish before they fell
through the cracks of the dock. The birds scooped
up the lethargic fish frantically, each one grunting
and shoving to get its share.

Jack started walking toward his van, load-
ed down with equipment. Then, with a sudden
awful awareness, he whirled around, his eyes
widening in horror as he saw a bit of scarlet,
white, and yellow disappear into the huge bill of
the one‑legged pelican.

He slumped onto the dock, his head reel-
ing, his eyes staring blindly into the dark water
below. The diving bag and fish bucket slipped out
of his hands unnoticed. Then, slowly, he looked
up, to see Captain Al gazing at him curiously.

Jack shrugged his shoulders and gave Al a
wave. That little fish wasn’t out there all by him-
self, he thought. Next time, maybe next year, he
would find its mate. He got up and picked up his

110

BETWEEN
LOVE AND HATE

Toni Morgan

After a fitful sleep, Ken was relieved to see dawn “Ken?” His mother stood in the doorway,
shredding the last vestiges of night. Outside his wrapped in a faded chenille bathrobe. Her arms
bedroom window, a thick glaze of frost covered were crossed against the cold and she held a
the ground. He pulled on the clothes he’d worn steaming cup in her hand. “Coffee’s made.”
the day before and shoved his bare feet into an
old pair of leather boots. A board creaked as he Later, Ken went out to start the truck, careful to
tiptoed past his mother’s door. He stopped to avoid getting dirt on the shoes he’d polished to a
listen, hoping he hadn’t awakened her. The hum glossy sheen the night before. He started the
of the refrigerator came from the kitchen. No engine and let it warm up a few minutes before
other sound. A moment later, he grabbed his going back in the house for his mother.
windbreaker and stepped onto the porch.
“You look handsome in your uniform,” she said as
His eyes swept across the fenced-in meadow sep- he drove down the lane. At the end of the lane,
arating the house from the highway. Every spring he turned left, onto the highway.
his father had traded venison or elk meat for a
calf, which they’d fed up there. Marie always “Thanks,” he said. They were cautious with one
tried to make pets of them, no matter how many another, the previous night’s conflict lingering
times he warned her not to, and every fall she between them.
cried when he and their father loaded the
fattened animal into the back of the truck and When they reached the church, Marie and Paul
drove off with it, heading for the butcher. waited in the vestibule. Marie held the baby. It
was hard to think of his little sister as a wife and
On the north side of the house, aluminum pie mother. At eighteen, her face still carried the soft
pans swung on dirty, wet string. A scarecrow, its contours of her own childhood. Paul, beside her,
tattered remains anyway, lay propped against a stood awkward and silent. His big hands stuck
broken bale of straw. Ken chuckled softly. Both out of the cuffs of his white dress-shirt, so new
were evidence of the war his mother waged each the creases from when it had been in the store
summer, trying to keep the deer, rabbits, and wrapper were visible.
birds from her garden.
Ken hugged Marie and shook hands with Paul.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked out to Marie’s eyes and nose were red, but she pulled
lean against the fence. A trail of dark footprints back the edge of the blanket to show off her son.
followed him. Across the valley, wedged beneath It was the first Ken had seen his nephew and he
a cloud-packed sky, white-crested mountains wasn’t sure what he should say. Paul tugged at
soared, their flanks blue-black with timber. his collar, lifting and extending his chin.

He sniffed the air. It would snow soon. Ken glanced around, surprised at the number of
people gathered. They’d never been much for
attending church—from something his father had

111

once said, he knew the old man had been brought work, his father was going hunting. Even at five,
up Catholic, though his father had never attended Ken understood this was not what fathers were
the Catholic church in town, at least to Ken’s meant to do. They were supposed to go to work
knowledge. His mother had taken him and Marie and take care of their families.
to the local Methodist church a few times, but
that had stopped years before. And they’d never His mother’s shoulders sagged before she
participated much in town events—the Fourth of turned and stepped back into the kitchen. He
July rodeo was about it. followed her inside and watched as she crossed
to the sink and filled it with soapy water. Marie
His mother had grown up in Platt City, though— sat in her highchair, carefully examining each tiny
her parents had owned the local grocery store. He circle of cereal before pushing it into her mouth.
and Marie had gone to school there, too, so he When the sink was full, his mother picked up a
guessed some knew his father well enough they cereal bowl from the breakfast dishes piled on
wanted to pay their respects. the counter. She washed it, rinsed it, and put it in
the rack to dry. As she reached for another, she
He wondered what his father would have thought scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her wrist.
about being buried Protestant, if it would have Then she dropped the second bowl, splashing
mattered to him. At sixty-three, had his old man water down the front of her dress. She put her
thought he had plenty of time to make his peace face in both of her hands, her shoulders shook.
with the priests? Maybe he’d made whatever
peace he needed to while lying on the ground Ken went to her and leaned his forehead against
next to the woodpile, his face crumpled and the back of her legs. “It’s okay, Mommy. We’ll be
twisted, or in the ambulance, its siren sounding good.”
and lights flashing while the medics worked on
him. His mother knelt and gathered him close,
resting her check against the top of his head. “I
The baby stirred. Marie hushed him by stroking know you will, honey. You’re the man of this
his back and whispering to him. Between them, house when Daddy’s away.”
Ken’s mother sat with her chin up, gazing at the
minister. Her hands were gripped together in her The image of his weeping mother had re-
lap and she twisted her wedding ring around and mained firmly planted in Ken’s memory. As he
around on her finger. Ken fought the urge to moved from childhood to teenager and then
reach over and take one of her hands, hold it, but young man, his resentment toward his father
he was afraid she might crack, the self-control grew, creating a wide gulf between them—a gulf
holding her rigid, disintegrate. frequently charged with bitter words and accusa-
tions.
He tried to listen to what the minister was saying,
but couldn’t stay focused; how could the man say Their final confrontation had come without warn-
anything relevant about someone he’d probably ing, moving in as quickly as the lightning-filled
never met? If he had met his father, maybe he summer storms that arrived every August, bring-
could explain all the dead-end jobs his father had ing with them the forest fires his mother dreaded.
held or jobs he’d quit or walked away from—just
so he could go hunting or fishing or whatever the They always ate dinner early on Sundays.
hell he did up there in the mountains. His father finished and pushed his plate aside.
“I’m going fishing tomorrow, up on Elk River.” He
The minister’s voice faded. Ken was five reached for his coffee. “I don’t know how long I’ll
years old again, standing on the porch next to his be gone.”
mother as the old green pickup truck his father
drove swerved around the worst of the ruts, Anger, sudden and full-blown, flooded Ken. “You
heading down the lane. His mother held herself can’t go fishing. What about your job? You don’t
so still she didn’t seem to be breathing. have any vacation time coming yet. You’re just
taking off again, aren’t you?” His face was rigid
At the end of the lane, the truck stopped, appear- with the effort it took to keep from shouting.
ing to hesitate. Then, in a swirl of dust, it turned
right, toward the mountains. Instead of going to His father took a sip of coffee. “Don’t worry about
it.”

112

His father’s implacable calm enraged Ken even He heard the pickup’s engine long before it
more. “Somebody around here has to, because turned off the logging road onto the track leading
you sure as hell don’t. You’re never around when down to the river. He didn’t turn to look as the
we need you. There’s never enough money, ei- truck crunched to a halt behind him. Instead, he
ther. Mom is always having to do without things, kept his gaze forward, fixed on the river. The
worrying about bills, how to get enough food truck door slammed and footsteps sounded in the
even.” gravel. He tensed as his father paused and then
eased down beside him.
The last part wasn’t true, they always had plenty
to eat, but by then Ken didn’t care. His father was the first to break the silence.

His father shoved his cup aside. A muscle “You surprised me, Ken. I guess saying I’m sorry I
twitched in his cheek. “You leave your mother out haven’t been the provider your mother deserves
of this.” isn’t going to change things much. Won’t really
change things between you and me.”
Ken’s chin jutted forward. “I won’t leave her out.”
Ken worked to swallow the tension in his throat.
Marie remained silent. Her eyes, large and “I’ve got to get out of here. I’m eighteen. I’ll be
shocked, moved from their father to Ken. graduating in a couple of months. I’m going to
join the Marine Corps.”
His mother’s face drained of color. “Ken, please…
please don’t do this.” For a long minute, his father studied him, like he
was trying to see underneath his words. “You’re
Tears stung Ken’s eyes, making him even angrier sure that’s what you want to do? You’re not just
that his father would see his weakness. He thinking you’ll run off because you’re angry?”
clenched his hands to keep them from trembling
and ignored his mother’s effort to keep the The pressure Ken had felt for so long, as well as
peace; this had been building for too long. the lump in his throat, eased a bit. “Yeah, I’m
sure. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”
He drew a deep breath. “She won’t tell you how Ever since the recruiter had come to school. He
many nights, while you’re off playing mountain- needed to get away, wanted to get away—
man, or whatever it is you do up there, I hear her wanted to test himself and prove he had what it
crying. She won’t tell you how people look down took to be a man.
their noses at us. The kids at school laugh at
Marie’s clothes. They laugh at her, for God’s “I won’t try to change your mind if you’ve already
sake. Mom won’t tell you the truth about any of decided. I was hoping you’d set yourself on a
it. But I will. I don’t know why you don’t just do different track, but each man needs to decide for
us all a favor and stay up there in your goddam himself what road he’s going to follow. If the
mountains. You love them so much, why don’t Marine Corps is yours, I’ll respect it.”
you just stay up there?”
Ken nodded, as much to himself as to his father.
His mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “Ken!” “It’s what I’ve decided.”

Ken jumped up, knocking the chair over in his The rustle of movement around him as
haste, and bolted out of the house, his father’s people stood returned Ken to the present. The
shout left hanging in the air behind him. He tore service was over.
off through the woods behind the house and did-
n’t stop running until, panting and sweat-soaked, He held his mother’s elbow as they stepped out-
he reached the river. Leaning forward, he braced side the church into the blustery wind. A neigh-
himself with his hands on his knees as he fought bor came up to them, his mane of thick gray hair
to catch his breath. blowing around his weathered face. Holding his
hat in his left hand—the tips of his middle and
The riverbank’s smooth stones were still warm index fingers missing, the result of a long-ago
from the late afternoon sun. When his heart fi- ranch accident—he extended his right. “If there’s
nally slowed and his breathing evened out, he sat anything I can do for you, missus, you tell me. I
and stared over the water, noting a flicker of sil- liked your man.”
ver where a trout fed.

113

His mother gave a weak smile. “Thank you.” Her Marie gripped her mother’s hand. “This house is
softly spoken words were whipped away in a gust too big for one person. You should sell it and
of wind that rattled the bare branches of a nearby move into town near Paul and me.”
cottonwood tree.
“Or use the money to travel.” Travel is what Ken
It was too cold to stand and chat; as soon as the would do. Who’d hang around Platt City, Idaho,
brief ceremony in the cemetery was over, people when there was a chance to get out and see the
fled to their waiting cars and trucks. The family, world? She wasn’t even old yet.
including Paul’s father, caravanned back to the
house for the lunch Ken’s mother had prepared “I’ve told you, both of you, this is my home. I’m
the night before. When they reached home, they not leaving.”
found a ham and several covered dishes on the
porch. By the set of his mother’s jaw, Ken knew it was no
use talking sense to her, at least not now. Just
His mother picked up the ham. “People have because his father had built it, she acted as
been doing this for days. You’ll have to take some though it was the Taj Mahal or something. It was
home with you, Marie. You, too, Frank,” she said a house, for Christ’s sake, not a fucking monu-
to Paul’s father. “Otherwise it will go to waste.” ment. Why couldn’t she figure that out?

During the meal, Marie kept looking at their fa- Paul’s father pushed back from the table. “I guess
ther’s chair and crying. Paul tried to comfort her, it’s time for me to head on home.” Head cocked
but she wouldn’t be. The baby woke up crying, to one side, he looked at his son and daughter-in-
too, until Ken’s mother picked him up and held law.
him on her lap. Paul’s father tried to keep a con-
versation going, but got no help and eventually Marie answered his unspoken question. “We’ll
gave up. stay a little longer.”

Like the rest of them, Ken pushed his food around “Now don’t you be worrying about the dishes,”
on his plate and thought his own thoughts— Ken’s mother said. “I can take care of them in no
mainly about how his mother was going to cope. time.”
The place always needed something done: fire-
wood chopped; the garden plowed every spring; Marie picked up her plate and silverware. “No,
there was a porch rail that came loose each sum- Mom. You go relax; play with your grandson.
mer, when the wood dried out. He pictured her Paul and Ken will help me.”
sitting alone in the evenings, lonely and brooding.
His enlistment would be up in a year-and-a-half. Later, when Marie, Paul and the baby had
He’d planned to re-enlist, to make the Marine gone home and his mother, looking drained, said
Corps a career, but if she wouldn’t leave this she was going to lie down for a while, Ken took
house, he’d have to get out. He’d have to come the truck keys from their hook by the door.
home and take care of her.
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto the
“I don’t know why you won’t sell,” he blurted out, logging road. He ignored the No Trespassing sign,
surprising himself, but unable to contain his feel- just as he and his high school friends used to do,
ings. just as his father had done.

“We’ve already talked about this, Ken.” His moth- Signs of summer lingered in the clearing beside
er’s voice was even, though her eyes held a warn- the river: a thick rope hung from a bare tree
ing gleam. branch; a pair of red, high-top tennis shoes tied
together by the laces, dangled from another
“He’s right, Mom.” branch; some soda and beer cans were piled next
to a log. He turned off the truck’s engine, but
Ken had talked to Marie on the phone the night didn’t get out.
before, a long, whispered conversation after their
mother had gone to bed. They’d agreed one- The laughter of his friends echoed all around him
hundred percent their mother should sell. as he recalled summers past—the wild splashing,
the horseplay, the crazy dares. Many times,
he’d come alone and sat on the rocks under the

114

bridge, throwing stones at empty tin cans while had never been there at all. Or watching the
logging trucks roared above his head. Sometimes, mother deer, her nose raised and twitching, as
out of frustration or boredom or simple reckless- she led her young fawn through the forest.
ness, he’d swum to exhaustion, barely having His thoughts returned to the day his father had
strength to fight the current back to shore. followed him to the river. After he’d announced
he was joining the Marine Corps and his father
But the last time he’d been there, when his accepted his decision, they’d remained on the
anger at his father had erupted and his father had bank, quietly talking, until a breeze rustled the
followed him to the river, that was the memory leaves on the branches of the trees lining the far
that stayed with him. That and the image of his bank of the river, making their shadows toss and
mother crying at the sink, the image that had dance as they skipped across the water and
fueled his childhood and teenage anger. climbed the bank to where they sat.
“It’s time to go home,” his father had said. “Your
Then, staring at the swollen river flowing silently mother’s waiting.”
past, another memory emerged. It must have
happened about the same time, maybe the same Across the river, the same trees lined the
trip. They were eating dinner. Ken, his fork bank, their branches, now bare, shook in the
paused in midair, glanced at his mother when he wind. Ken ignored the cold seeping into the
heard the familiar sound of his father’s truck com- truck’s cab. Finally, when nightfall arrived and the
ing down the lane. He didn’t know how long his trees became only a shadowy blur, he reached
father had been gone. A week, maybe two. out and started the engine.
It’s time to go, he thought, almost echoing his
He watched the stillness on his mother’s face as father’s words.
his father’s footsteps sounded on the porch. He put the truck in gear. It shot forward.
When the door opened and shut, a gust of wind
sent sparks shooting up the chimney. Without a About the Author:
word, his father walked across the room to the Toni Morgan’s previous publishing credits include
table, then dropped down beside Marie’s high- two drafts of a short story in Mooring Against the
chair, leaned over and retrieved her spoon from Tide, a creative writing textbook published by
the floor. Prentice Hall, and numerous magazine and news-
paper articles. Toni is a retired banker.
As though it had just happened, Ken saw again
the loving look that had appeared in his mother’s
eyes, the warm and welcoming smile that played
across her lips as she reached out and rested a
hand on his father’s unshaven, wind-reddened
cheek.

Ken’s own cheek burned with the sudden
memory. He began to remember other things
about his father, things he’d long ago set aside.
Like sitting on the porch when he and Marie were
young, Marie on their father’s lap, watching a
storm approach over the mountains. They’d
counted the seconds between the lightning and
when they heard the thunder. When the storm
was close and the thunder loud, his father had
cupped his hands over Marie’s ears.

He remembered, too, the stories and legends his
father told them about the woods and the crea-
tures that inhabited them. The stories were so
real, Ken had felt he was right there, seeing the
cougar that had surveyed his father from across a
creek before suddenly disappearing, as though it

115

THE GRAVERS
LANE LOCAL

Edith Boyd

The job in the city was working out for me. Actu- suitor, Eddie, to be casually dressed, and for their
ally, the job wasn't great, but the apartment I nuptials to be an outdoorsy kind of thing.
chose, and the train I rode to work were fun. Each
had separated me from a bad trend I had leaned When Ginger caught my eye, I hastily
into; getting wasted with my friends, complaining looked away, as I didn't want to meet them, and
a lot, and accomplishing little. The downward find their names or their lives to be normal or
spiral my life had taken since John’s telling me he banal. Nicole began to worry about me. I was
needed space. I needed a change of locale and a nearly friendless since I moved, and managed to
straight job. Cooper Products offered me a gener- insult my partying crowd. Nicole sat with me in
ous salary, and an opportunity to choose a small my window seat, which she decorated, and
apartment of my own. clinked her wine glass to mine. " Beth, you seem
obsessed with these people on the train," she
Nicole, my sister-in-law, helped me deco- said sincerely.
rate my place with her special flair. Not only was
she artistic, she was a good bargain hunter, so the Had my interest in them become a patholo-
finished decor didn't cost me a week's pay at gy of sorts? I wasn't aware of the frequency of my
Cooper. She also tuned me into the Gravers Lane tales of the train. For Nicole to assert this, I felt
Local. the need to venture into an evening class, or to
join a book club, and get out of my head. I was
I began to enjoy the 8:10 A.M. Local, even careful to avoid speaking about my train people
though the 8:20 Express would get me into the during the remainder of Nicole’s visit. She was
city more quickly. It was comforting to see regu- not only my decorator. She was also my first
lars at the Stanton Street stop; a retired couple guest. The night Nicole referred to my train ob-
walking with the self-satisfied gait of a strong sessions, I re-iterated how lucky my brother Joe
portfolio, and a dreamy young couple who board- was to have met and married her.
ed with the guy twirling his fingers through the
woman's cork-screw curls. Their bliss warmed me Later that evening, I opened my windows
more than my thermos of coffee. I imagined a and heard the gentle thwack of a bat hitting a ball
long, happy future for them. and calls of "little help" from the field behind my
apartment. The ball field reminded me of our
My imagined dream for them began to childhood home. Behind our home was a ball
inhabit a great deal of my ride into the city. Per- park, and as I settled into my new digs, I remem-
haps it was to buffer me from the bland emotion- bered playing Monopoly or Scrabble with Joe, on
al life at Cooper Products. Or to protect me from hot summer nights, with players’ comments and
reminiscing about John. I pictured the young cheers chanting a gentle chorus in the back-
woman, whom I named Ginger, to wear a ground.
traditional lacy wedding dress, and for her ardent

116

As taken as I was with Ginger and Eddie, I began sand dunes and seascape, with Ginger ethereal in
to develop an interest in others who passed her beauty, seemed iffy to me, and I noticed my
through the portals of The Gravers Lane Local. coffee thermos was no longer hot or even warm.
There was the accountant whom I passed on the Beth, get a hold of yourself, I said, in my best
streets of the city, when the train reached its des- fatherly voice…..this day dreaming has gotten
tination. I don’t believe I imagined his occupation, outta hand. My dad’s pragmatism collided with
as I saw him enter an accounting firm, briefcase in my lifelong fondness for fantasy.
hand, no chit chat with the vendors on the street
corners. But my job was not inspiring, and the train
trips so interesting, with the varied people and
And a cardiologist and I struck up a few views whizzing by. The mesmerizing sounds of
conversations on the Local, when we happened the train slowing for yet another stop, had be-
to land on the seat next to the other. I noticed his come as soothing as the summer sounds of base-
name tag under his tan cardigan, and asked him ball when I first moved to my apartment. Who
about his field. I remember the morning well… cared if Nicole thought I was becoming a bit un-
slightly chilly for early fall, when I worked up the hinged?
nerve to say, “What kind of doctor are you?” He
hesitated, and answered, “A good one,” with a I did, and I was very relieved when I received a
charming smile, then quickly became serious, and message from my brother that he and Nicole
said, “A cardiologist. I work at City Hospital.” were throwing a Halloween party. I hadn’t been
to a party since John and I were a couple, the
“ Do you work in the city?” He said with an thought of which sent a stab of pain right through
earnest tilt of his head. I could picture trusting me. I distracted myself by thinking about Ginger
him with my medical care, then shuddered that I and Eddie.
would need it at my age.
Uh oh. Here it was again. The fantasies
“I work in marketing at Cooper Products” I about the Gravers Lane Local. Easier on me than
replied, straightening my shoulders to look the facing the extra twenty something pounds I was
part. He clearly didn’t find my occupation intri- carrying around. I was avoiding my parents as
guing, as he gave me a tepid smile and settled they wouldn’t say anything, but the arch of my
into his seat, and then, remembering his man- mother’s eyebrow would be enough to let me
ners, he asked a few questions about my work. know how she saw me.

I liked Dr. Baldwin, even though we had few Unable to stick with Atkins or join Gold’s
further conversations during our morning com- Gym, I decided to dress as a witch or a dragon,
mute. He was akin to a pillar of normalcy in my something I could pull off without working off the
new life in my new neighborhood. We often just weight. Not one of those sultry witches…I would
nodded to the other, after he boarded at the be the old-fashioned kind, dreamed up to scare
same stop as the well- heeled retirees. I didn’t kids, for whatever reason some crazy person de-
know the walking couple, but the strut was not cided to scare kids. I considered asking Nicole to
that of a couple who had worked any graveyard whip something together for me, but realized she
shifts in hospitals or diners. would be busy decorating their home, and I
sensed I may have become a bit of a pest, leaning
One crisp, fall morning, I was so taken with on Nicole too frequently.
the orange and gold maples, that I almost missed
Eddie alight from his seat, to greet Dr. Baldwin as The invitation to the party sparked a resolve
he made his way down the aisle. A frisson of fear in me to begin walking and getting in shape.
crept up me that I couldn’t quite explain. Of
course it was possible they were neighbors, or After the Local deposited me back home, I began
Eddie’s dad was a golf buddy of the doc, but to walk through my new neighborhood. I said
something primal in me told me that was not the good-bye to Ben & Jerry, and started to improve
case. my diet. As I started to feel better about myself, I
became less interested in Ginger and Eddie.
Somehow, the wedding with lilacs and ivy, or

117

Or so I thought. A week before Joe and Nicole’s Speaking softly, so as not to alert Ginger, I
party, I saw Dr. Baldwin approach Eddie at the whispered, “ I’ll play along, but if there’s anybody
Stanton Street Station. He grabbed Eddie’s wrist, in the world I could pick out with a blindfold, it’d
as if taking a pulse, and my heart clenched. Could be Joe.” I could say that to her without her be-
Eddie be a patient? It certainly seemed that way. I coming uncomfortable or possessive of Joe. From
couldn’t ask Dr. Baldwin, and I didn’t want to their first meeting, Nicole accepted the brother/
break the Eddie and Ginger spell to find they were sister bond between Joe and me.
Travis and Ashley. Nor could I express myself, yet
again, to Nicole. And there were more than a few greeting
cards I received from Joe, that I knew Nicole
I threw myself into finding an attractive shopped for, and held the pen in his hand for him
witch costume. My walks in the neighborhood to sign.
and my climbing the steps at work had helped me
shed some of the pounds that were plaguing me. I The night of the party, I felt an excitement
found a fun witch’s outfit, complete with hat and I hadn’t felt in a while. I was getting fit, had re-
wand. duced my drinking immensely, and was settling
into my new apartment, which suited me so well.
While shopping for my outfit, I was sur- Look out fellas, I thought as I applied the last bit
prised to hear Nicole’s gentle voice asking if of glitter around my eyes.
there was a stand alone scarecrow decoration. As
I rounded out of my aisle into hers, She nearly Joe and Nicole’s place looked great with
shrieked, ghosts, witches and scarecrows lining the walk-
way, and orange and black streamers swaying
“Beth, look at you, wasting away! You look with the ringing chimes Nicole placed on their
great!” And then, she knitted her brow and said, back patio. I noticed a guy dressed like Sherlock
“Are you O.K.? You’re not sick or anything,” …her Holmes, and he noticed me. I could feel it.
voice trailing away.
I waved my wand around, and he smiled
“Ahh, thanks. No, I’ve been exercising and and walked over to me.
gave up ice cream. Does it really show?”
“You’re Beth, Joe’s sister,” he said disarm-
She placed a few things in her cart and ing me completely.
hugged me tightly.
“Yes. I am. I consider it an honor,” I said,
We stayed that way for a few seconds, and hoping my glitter didn’t accentuate my nose or
my throat caught, thinking of her support in the make me look silly. “I’ve heard so much about
early post John dregs, withholding judgement of you,” he said, while guiding me over to the bar
him or the situation. My heart, still enmeshed area set up for the occasion.
with his, didn’t need criticism of him.
Although I preferred beer, I felt self-
Appearing to read my thoughts, she said, conscious ordering one, and settled for a vodka
“Joe has met some quality friends, Beth.” Just as I tonic. While stirring the little straw through my
was about to say something, I saw a familiar pro- drink, looking down on the lime in it, I said, “You
file from the train. Ginger. She was to my left didn’t tell me your name.”
heading to the Pharmacy area of the Super Shop.
I started to point her out to Nicole, and then re- “Gerry…Gerry Mc Laughlin,” he said, with a
membered her concern, and told her how I was glint in his eye that warmed me to him, and
looking forward to the party, meaning it. stirred feelings I hadn’t felt in a while.

But preparing for the party didn’t stop me So this was Gerry. Joe had told me about
from inching over near the Pharmacy and Ginger. him…all good things.
But Nicole came back over to me to ask if I could
go along that I didn’t recognize Joe right away at I slipped my drink slowly, remembering the
the party, as he “ has gone round the bend” excesses of my recent past, and asked him about
about his costume. himself. He only said a few things about himself
before he glided me over to an empty couch, and

118

asked me about our childhood, Joe’s and mine. “Dr. Baldwin has a satellite office on Stanton
Unusual for a guy, I thought, to defer talk away Street, but his home base is City Hospital, where
from himself. A combination of my nerves, the he does a lot of pro bono work.”
vodka, and his warmth led to describing my new
residence and the memories of past summers, The conversation I overheard was a rou-
with the thwack of baseballs, and parental cur- tine update, father to daughter. I was relieved
fews lifted. I felt relaxed enough to begin telling that her father was not in a health crisis, and tick-
him about the Gravers Lane Local. And some of its led that my train pal was connected to our family.
inhabitants.
And when Gerry and I met for a dinner the
When Nicole drifted by us with her cell Wednesday after the party, I felt a joy and quick-
phone heading to the patio, I became silent and ening I hadn’t felt in a while.
heard her say, “Dad, did you ask Dr. Baldwin?”
Thursday morning, after our dinner date, I
I nearly grabbed Gerry’s pipe prop right awakened with an odd sense of dread.
out of his hand and said, “Did she say Dr. Bald-
win?” Trying to be my father’s daughter, I tried to find a
practical reason for my feelings. It didn’t take long
He looked at me warily and said, “Beth, to admit it would be a long wait until next Friday’s
what’s the big deal if she did?” In the split second pay check, as I had squandered the last one, pre-
it takes to process stuff, I was pleased that Gerry paring for my date.
appeared jealous, and fearful that I had truly
gone nuts to react so strongly to the mention of Although the Stanton Street stop didn’t
Dr. Baldwin. produce the regulars, I did notice Eddie and Dr.
Baldwin on the 5:20 Local on the way home. I
Leaving Gerry on the couch, I smiled and thought of Ginger’s waiting for her love with the
said I’d be right back. I followed behind Nicole expectant look in her wide-set eyes. I didn’t chas-
and heard digitalis….one glass of red wine, and tise myself, as my daydreams were becoming a
knew it had to do with her dad’s heart issues. way to distract me from my growing feelings for
Gerry.
Gerry managed to distract me, which bode
well for a possible friendship, and maybe more While relaxing and reading my book, close
between us. I fumbled with my i-phone when he to my home stop, I heard a ruckus in the front of
asked for my contact information. I began to the train car. A woman in a purple coat blocked
hope this could be a casual thing, that I could go my view of the incident. I inched my way up and
on a few dates and wear those sling-back heels saw Dr. Baldwin ministering to Eddie in what ap-
that sat in my closet. I wasn’t crazy about the peared to be CPR. He was barking orders to those
name Gerry, but liked everything else about him. gathering near him. I completely froze to see the
star of my fantasy life, struggling for air, under
Joe, whose costume did actually fool me, took off the compressions of Dr. Baldwin.
his mask and came to talk to us on the couch.I
was pleased he showed no protective brotherly With an arm waving motion, he pushed
concern about Gerry’s attention to me. I excused against the assembled crowd, and put his face
myself and went into the kitchen to hang out with into his hands. He mumbled the words Justin and
Nicole. After a little give and take about the party arrhythmia, and a quietly attractive woman put a
and Gerry, I asked about her father, without re- hand on his back and said, “Daniel, there’s noth-
vealing my looking for clues about Dr. Baldwin. It ing more to do right now...He’s gone.”
didn’t take long for Doc Baldwin’s name to come
up. As always, Nicole was open and without guile, Her words were echoed through the slow
and she knew I liked her dad and would be inter- screeching of the braking train as it made its way
ested in details about him. to the Stanton Street stop. I would know about
Eddie before Ginger knew. Before her world ex-
ploded. I knew that Ginger, whom I later learned
was Amanda, would crawl through a cave of grief

119

and maybe never return to beauty and hope. I re- About the Author:
lived the metallic taste of loss, and hated it.
Edith Gallagher Boyd is a former French language
At the Stanton Street stop, I saw Amanda teacher. Her short fiction has been published in
with her cork-screw curls newly done, rush to the multiple online literary magazines, and can be
train, still oblivious to the impact of her loss, to found by googling her full name. Her short story, "
the vicious twist her life would take. The Flower Shop," published in The Furious Ga-
zelle, appears with her nickname, Dee Gallagher
It pained me to think of the time it would Boyd. She lives in Jupiter, Florida.
take her to notice a sunset, or laugh at a joke. To
move forward through a mountain of resistance
to happiness, to slivers of joy, shaky, at first, but
then enduring.

I imagined for her a re-birth, perhaps in a
number of years, maybe opening to a new love,
different from this one, or maybe not bonded
with another, but strengthened from this blow,
joyful in knowing how fragile, yet precious, this
life is.

120

PIECES OF
GRAY

Dana Hunter

Scratch, Scratch, tug, tug. It was July and Kathe- printed on the black shirts worn by the different
rine Gray was wearing a long sleeved shirt and a servers. The deep oak chairs and tables were
pair of cut - off jeans. She pulled at the bandages comfortable. There was an occasional couch or
on her wrists concealed by her shirt. Her hair was chaise thrown in for groups. The clients ranged
black and twisted into dreadlock's, pulled up into from Twenty-years-old and up. A mixture of ages
a ponytail. Katherine had caramel colored skin, and races and delicious coffee concoctions.
her eyes were almond shaped and a piercing blue.
She possessed the distinct talent of raising one Katherine jabbed at her iced coffee with a straw,
eyebrow while cocking her head to one side when as she tried to sink the cubes. "I don't know why I
something caught her attention or didn't seem even bother", she moaned into her cell phone.
quite right, she called it her "bullshit detector"
and it was never wrong. Lady Dahlia sat on the other end of the line offer-
ing encouragement.
Panic set in as she felt a bead of sweat
trickle down the small of her back, it was ninety- "Each attempt I make these days just seems to fall
eight degrees outside and there she sat bundled flat.' Katherine said. "I want to do what the psych
up in a heavy shirt. Katherine began to tug at the doctors asks, but I don't think they realize what
gauze from her, “little accident.” She laughed to they're asking of me at times."
herself and thought about the scene from the
movie “BEETLEJUICE”; where the dead showgirl “What the hell is that s’posed ta mean?"
held up her blue arms and flashed her slit wrists Dahlia answered.
and referred to them as her, “her little accident.”
Katherine wondered if she would have become a Lady Dahlia was a bit rough around the edges, but
civil servant in the afterlife too if she had succeed- she or rather "he" was honest and patient. Lady
ed. Dahlia Moore performed Drag at the local club,
"Le Resistance". His hair was brown, or blonde or
She sat with her back to the wall and fac- red. Depending upon the character he was per-
ing the door so she could see everyone who en- forming that night. He spoke in a slightly raised
tered her favorite coffee house “The Deep Cup”. tone in public, but when speaking to Katherine, it
A dimly lit hideaway, whose atmosphere was was always low and comforting. Dahlia and Kath-
quirky and peaceful. There were photos of fa- erine met five years ago in the waiting room at
mous poets and various animals and playbill co- their therapist's office. They clicked instantly. As
vers on the walls. The music was eclectic, switch- Dahlia would say, "madness knows madness."
ing from rock to country and soul or R&B and yet She trusted him with everything. They talked
it all seemed to smoothly flow together without a about their illness, sex, and makeup.
hitch. The waiters dressed in jeans or shorts or
skirts. The only dress code was the word WAITER Katherine once asked Lady Dahlia to squeeze her
breast. Reluctantly he did, then pulled his hand
away quickly, “Auugh!” he shuddered.

121

“I feel you” Katherine responded, “I don’t hate "You sound like an oracle," Katherine said in re-
my body, I love my breasts. I am just not wired for lief. "An orifice?" Dahlia joked. "Don't be stupid."
sex anymore.” Katherine flipped up her skirt and she laughed back. "You've calmed me down like
opened her legs wide, and smacked her vagina you always do. Thank you “Oh Dahlia on high.”
with her hand, “And this,” Katherine explained.
“Nothing.” She smacked it two more times. “Not “High being the operative word Guurrrl. I'm over-
even a tingle.” She lowered her head, closed her due to get “on high.” Lady Dahlia joked.
legs and fixed her skirt. “I can see a cute guy and
my heart jumps, but from the waist down. I’m “Ok, talk to you later. I’ll let you know how it
dead.” She muttered into Lady Dahlias’ chest. went.” Katherine hung up her phone and placed it
on the table.
He had taken hold of her and held her in his arms.
“My medication has even taken sex away from A friend. She was waiting for a friend and nothing
me.” She said flatly. more. Good not to put too much pressure on a
situation, when you don’t know what the situa-
They both cried that night, Lady Dahlia held Kath- tion will become. There was a time she would
erine even tighter and kissed her on top of her look at a man and plan a lifetime with him in five
head. minutes. She would have to take this slow and
moment by moment, but how do you explain long
Katherine took a slow sip of her drink, shook her sleeves when the weather outside is so hot? Do I
head and then poured four more packets of raw have to explain? She thought, and decided to
sugar into the cup and stirred rapidly. worry about that when and if Michael got there.

“They tell you, get out there. Meet people, be Katherine had met Michael in the Graphic Novel’s
social. The whole “people are social creatures” section of the library, where she volunteered
bullshit.” Katherine continued on the phone. “But shelving books. They discussed Marvel vs. DC
what psychiatrists don’t understand, is that just comics and the Fables collection of stories. Mi-
going out for a cup of coffee can be mentally and chael was a tall and decently handsome painter of
physically exhausting.” Katherine sighed and took Italian descent who taught art at the local high
a sip of the sugary mixture. school. His looks wouldn't stop traffic, but they
appealed to Katherine and she loved how his blue
"Can you walk?" Dahlia asked. eyes played against his jet black hair. Like hers did
and she adored that connection.
"Of course, I can walk," Katherine replied, slightly
upset. Michael had offered to walk her home one
afternoon, but Katherine refused, saying coyly
“Now, hold on and listen. If you can walk, you can “We’ll talk more about that walk if you can find
get there. So many people can't walk, so they me here tomorrow.” From that day on, each
have wheelchairs or crutches or those walkers time he entered the library, she would play the
with the seat on them. I always wanted one of game of “Can Michael find Katherine.” She would
those, mine would be purple with rhinestones. let him see a glimpse of her, then dash off into
The whole point is to get where you're going too, the book stacks. If he actually was interested she
no matter what it takes. Just get there. And for thought, he’ll find me. And he always did.
you, it's sitting in that coffee shop, waiting for a
guy and hopefully, making a friend. Not a hus- Katherine could count the number of dates she
band or a future. But a friend and that’s all." Lady had the displeasure of attending on one hand.
Dahlia said in a calm tone. Michael would be number five. She had looked
forwards to the date, but the voices would always
He worried about Katherine constantly. The come and tell her not to get her hopes up. That
phone call he got a few months ago stressed their what she sees in his eyes, is not attraction, but
friendship. Dahlia hadn’t realized how much he pity. That he thinks you're a nutcase and he has
loved his little ‘Kat’ until that day when he
thought he would never see her again.

122

been talking to your mother in secret. This was could hear a voice threatening her, telling her
the thought that scared her the most. that it was “coming to get her.” Katherine could-
n’t think clearly or trust her own thoughts be-
Her first unexplained episode took her by tween what was real and what was something
surprise. Leaving her feeling lost and confused. she had concocted in her mind. She could no
Katherine had just finished her first round of final longer play her beloved Cello, which beckoned to
exams. She rushed into her dorm room and was her from its case in the corner of the bedroom,
bombarded with thoughts and ideas and emo- "play me.”
tions. Like a freight train they ran through her
head and she could feel the earth spin beneath Katherine’s heart hurt that she no longer could
her feet. Katherine was swirled up into it’s pull. remember where to place her fingers to produce
She wanted the swirling to stop for one fucking a note. She had lost her ability to play. When
minute, so she could catch up. Katherine felt a mental illness struck, Katherine found that she
pull from her gut, like she was leaving the room, could no longer think, feel or process information
but standing still. the same way. Everything was filtered through a
sieve of confusion. Her mind felt like it was flailing
She could see herself sitting on the bed. Body in the wind. She could reach forwards and some-
erect and empty. At first she didn’t realize what times, could catch the edges but never would she
she was seeing. Katherine wasn’t part of herself be able to hold it in both hands again.
anymore. She couldn’t feel herself breathing or
her heartbeat. The different medications Katherine tried in order
to control the rapid thoughts and deep depres-
Katherine felt herself crammed in the cor- sions made her feel like she was walking through
ner of her dorm room ceiling. She looked around wet concrete. A zombie type state where Kathe-
at the bookcase and chair and her body, wonder- rine would stare into space without thought and
ing if she really looked that way. couldn’t muster the energy to move or the moti-
vation to do anything but sit still or sleep.
“Is that what people see.” She thought to
herself. When she walked, it was a labored shuffle and
each movement felt like slow motion. It was a
Staring back down at herself. Katherine struggle just to speak, so she didn’t and either her
tried to figure out how to get back into her body. appetite grew or didn’t exist at all. There were
She felt a responsibility to go back, but not a de- other side effects with each medication change.
sire. Slowly her thoughts eased and the swirling Diarrhea, rashes, insomnia, nervous tics. Kathe-
had stopped. Katherine had caught up with the rine could remember, those were horrible days
world. It was like time had stopped and waited when her mother would yell at her,
for her to catch her breath. Before she could
think about the peace she was feeling, she was “Get up and just DO something!”
back in her skin. She could move and breathe. She
took a deep breath and never spoke of the experi- While deep inside, she was yelling the exact same
ence to anyone. words to herself.

A few years after the “experience” the How could Katherine trust herself, when
bottom fell out of Katherine’s life. All of Kath- one minute she's talking about who they killed off
erine’s dreams of becoming a professor were shot on the latest episode of The Walking Dead, and
to hell. She was a gifted Cellist who wanted to the next she believed that there were satellites in
eventually teach and was in Graduate school for space that were reading her thoughts, or that she
her Masters in Music. Katherine had another epi- could fly. These thoughts felt like reality to her as
sode which landed her back in New Jersey at her real as wood. Life had become a series of daily
mother’s house. This one was not like her first, in distractions in between the time to take her med-
this episode she saw black dogs following her and ication. Just a flow of video games, coloring books
and surfing the net. Unable to work, she felt like a
failure at life.

123

“You lose yourself,” she once told Lady Dahlia. wrong, instead, she felt they had sent her back a
“You can never trust yourself again and you’ve mistake. Katherine was no longer her "Little Kit
lost all control. Imagine questioning if your deci- Kat." Her Katherine didn't talk to herself and
sion to turn left was some grandiose thought, or a sleep all day and have crying fits. Who was this
true desire to just turn left.”, she continued. stranger? Katherine became this burden for her
“Nothing is as simple as, I want to turn left. It’s a to carry. Some stranger living two doors down
question of reality versus something your mind across from the bathroom door. She didn't want
created and there are times you can't tell the to blame Katherine, but there was no one else
difference.” there to blame.

Katherine knew one thing she had control Upon leaving the psychiatric wing a few months
of, one thing that was always there for her when ago Katherine was offered a choice of a group
the pain of living got to be exhausting. Katherine home. But there was a waiting list and she had no
had control of when and how she chose to end relatives she could stay with until a spot opened
her life. And she held onto this trap door with up for her. Reluctantly she returned to her moth-
both claws. er’s house. It wasn’t a healthy environment, but it
was a roof over her head. When she turned the
Katherine’s memories of her youth were key to enter the house, it was quiet. Good, she
scattered by the illness. There were times she thought. Katherine just wanted to get back to her
could recall moments of warmth and love from room. She climbed the stairs and immediately
her mother. Big birthday parties in the park, saw the broken bathroom door from the night of
where she would get mountains of gifts and her the incident.
mother would hold her so tight, Katherine would
become tangled in her blonde hair and the scent It had been over a month and nothing had
of gardenia, her mother Cassandra would whisper changed, it lay halfway in the hall and halfway in
in her ear, “You're my forever, Kitty Kat.” Once the bathroom. You had to step over they weath-
Cassandra’s parents discovered that Katherine’s ered gray split door to use the toilet. But her
father was black, she was disowned and she had mother had left it there.
to get two jobs to survive. Katherine was her spe-
cial project, to show her parents they both were “I didn’t clean anything! It’s your mess.” She
good enough and didn’t need their approval or heard her mother yell from the bedroom further
their money. down the hall.

Once a beauty herself, Cassandra had a The hardwood floor was stained with small circles
curvaceous body and long blonde hair. Ice blue of blood. My blood, it occurred to her as she
eyes and perfectly bowed lips, just like Katherine. stepped over the door and turned to enter her
Cassandra Gray’s looks had long faded and so had bedroom and pushed past the dresser, which she
her faith in her daughter. Cassandra never had a had used to block the door that night.
chance to attend college and when Katherine
received a four-year scholarship, she beamed Dried blood in pools of brown were
with pride and thought this is my child, she is smeared on the bedroom floor. Suddenly, Kathe-
smart, beautiful and will one day do great things. rine felt hot breath on the back of her neck. Kath-
Katherine’s father and Cassandra’s family had erine turned with a start and saw her mother.
both left her years ago. It was just the two of Cassandra was standing behind her in a stained
them. Her little “Kit Kat” was her pride and joy. house dress with large patterns of flowered print.
She wore nothing underneath and her large
The day Katherine returned from Graduate breasts moved with each labored breath. Her hair
school was the end of Cassandra’s dreams. Gone had turned yellowish white with age.
was the daughter who would prove her parents
Her skin was pale and her face defied her true
age, by not showing one wrinkle. Ice blue eyes
were deep set and her eyebrows were heavy on
her forehead, which protruded like a caveman’s
brow.

124

“Don’t expect me to clean anything. The mop is in began to say grace. Before she could finish saying
the bathroom. Somehow, you need to fix the Amen, Cassandra interrupted,
door.” She said and left the door slamming with a
loud thud. "I sold your Cello," she said and began eating.

Katherine stood and stared at the red Katherine could feel her heart sink and the anger
stains. As her mothers’ words resonated in her swell. Her mother just sat there eating her break-
mind, “Don’t expect me to clean anything”, she fast. Katherine could feel her mind swing, as
stood transfixed in one spot. She relived the day thoughts piled upon thoughts within emotions.
when it all went wrong. She was overwhelmed and sad, while angry and
scared all at once. Without thought, she picked
Katherine had woken from a fitful night of bad up the kitchen knife and began tapping the table,
dreams. Her medication had been changed once slowly at first.
again and things were shaky. It was one of those
moments when she wanted to use that trap door, "Now, don't get theatrical. You weren't
but it was a moment and moments pass. Kathe- using it anyway. We needed the money. It's not
rine decided she couldn’t keep walking that line like your working." Cassandra said with a mouth
anymore. Either I get on living or I get on dying full of pancakes and sausage.
she told herself. And this morning she made the
decision “to get on living.” She continued to fill her mouth with food, ignor-
ing the increased pace and sound of the knife.
She decided to play the part and go “Tap!” “Tap!” “Tap!” Which changed from an an-
through the motions of dressing neatly, brushing noying sound, to stabbing louder and louder on
her teeth, doing her hair and making breakfast. the Formica table top.
Katherine found comfort in the routine, it made
her feel safe. She felt that if she did these things, Katherine couldn’t speak. Even if she knew
these concrete movements daily, she was less what to say, she couldn’t form the words. She
anxious. continued to stab at the table. “Thump!”
“Thump!” “Thump!”
Katherine left the bathroom and hurried
downstairs to prepare breakfast, only to find her “Would you stop that!” Cassandra yelled.
mother had already finished the task. There were
pancakes and sausages piled on the nineteen- Suddenly Katherine screamed at the top of her
fifties style red kitchen table. The entire kitchen voice, “You BITCH!” The knife went flying towards
was a throwback to that era. The refrigerator Cassandra, but missed and clanged loudly as it fell
chugged loudly because it was so old. At times it and slid across the kitchen floor.
could be heard upstairs as it strained to keep the
food fresh and cold. The kitchen walls were a din- “Are you mad?” Cassandra screamed in
gy yellow and needed a fresh coat of paint. There disbelief. “Yes! I am. Remember that!” Katherine
were counters and cabinets of finished wood that yelled back.
had seen better days and a gas stove that needed
cleaning. She picked up the plate of pancakes and threw
them against the chugging refrigerator. “How
Cassandra stood at the head of the table sur- could you?” she asked full of anger.
rounded by four chairs, even though there were
only two of them. She had a forced smile on her “You weren’t using it!” Cassandra replied as she
face. "Breakfast is served," she said and took a jumped up and moved to the other side of the
seat. Katherine's right eyebrow raised and she kitchen.
cocked her head to the side, something didn’t feel
right. But she took a seat, bowed her head and Which was the smart thing to do, as Katherine
took hold of the bottom of the red Formica kitch-
en table topped with pancakes and sausage and
flung it off of its feet and onto the floor!

Cassandra screamed in fear, as Katherine
bounded for the stairs, looking for a place to hide.

125

There were too many thoughts, too many emo- side table, next to her neatly made bed. “Crash!”
tions and feelings of loss. Cassandra was close on The phone hit the floor, as she scrambled for the
her heels cussing and screaming at her, but Kath- receiver and dialed.
erine couldn’t understand a word. She was lost in
anger and better to take it out on the kitchen ta- “Dahlia, I need you. I need you now!” Kath-
ble, than her mother. erine yelled into the receiver.

She reached the top of the stairs and head- “Are you ok?” Dahlia answered.
ed for the bathroom. Opening the bathroom
door, she slammed it shut behind her. The old “No, I don’t know. She’s at me again!” She began
weathered door came off its hinges and fell to- to cry deep from her gut, each tear pulled from a
wards the floor. She held it in her hand for a sec- place of pain and loneliness.
ond and then dropped it to the floor with a
THUD! “Shit!” she yelled and started to climb over “Tell me what is going on Kat? Take it slow.” Dahl-
the door. Cassandra reached the top of the stairs ia said in a calm and easy voice.
and caught sight of the bathroom door torn off its
hinges and Katherine climbing over it as she made “I tried this morning. I decided I was going to try
her way towards her room. and live and stop thinking about death. I got up,
took my medication, dressed and was going to
“You slammed the door so hard you broke make breakfast. But she was there, with this big
the damn thing!” Cassandra screamed and fucking Sunday morning breakfast thing." She said
smacked Katherine with the back of her hand so as she started to cry again.
hard, her knuckle began to bleed. Katherine stood
defiantly straddling the bathroom door, lip bleed- "Come on Kat, what happened next, tell me. I
ing. can't help you if you don't talk." Dahlia pleaded.

“You hit like a girl," she said as she slowly stepped "I should have seen it coming, I should have seen
over the bathroom door, entered her bedroom it." Katherine said between the tears, "Dahlia, she
and with a “THUD,” she slammed and locked the sold my Cello!"
door behind her.
Time stood still for one instant and the
She began to push a dresser against the door, but banging had stopped. “OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!”
it toppled over instead and fell with a crash, it still Cassandra bellowed from the hallway. Splintering
served it’s purpose and blocked anyone from the moment and taking Katherine with it, her face
coming into the room. went blank and her eyes began to blink rapidly.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cassandra bel- “Oh my God, what the hell is going on?” Dahlia
lowed. screamed.

She tried to get into Katherine’s bedroom jiggling Katherine reached over and knocked down her
the handle and pushing it with her shoulder, but bedside table in one mechanical movement. The
it wouldn’t budge. draw of the table opened up as it crashed to the
floor. Pens and pencils and other items were
“Katherine open this door!” she yelled. strewn across the hardwood floor. Katherine be-
gan to search for something with one hand while
She began to bang on the outside, leaving smudg- holding the phone with the other.
es of blood from her knuckles with each pound on
its surface. “I hear her every day and I'm tired of it,"
Katherine spoke in a deadpan voice. “Tired of the
“I can’t do this anymore!” Katherine cruel words and nothing to do. I really have noth-
screamed at her mother in the hall. ing to do. It’s just moments between meds, did
you know that Dahlia?” she asked slowly.
She tripped over a throw rug on her bedroom
floor and landed on her face, “WHUMP!” Numb “I’m just distracting my mind in-between medi-
to the pain, Katherine crawled across the floor cating myself.” She continued. “I can’t work,
and pulled the phone down by its cord from the I can’t fuck, as far as my mother is concerned, I

126

can’t do anything right. I am tired. So very tired. thought. I should have ordered something cooler.
And now my Cello is gone.” She wondered how long she should wait, what
was the appropriate protocol for first dates?
"I'm coming over." Dahlia threatened. Scratch, scratch. Tug, tug. Slurp. Katherine fin-
ished her second iced coffee and was afraid to
"No don't. I won't be here." Katherine answered. order a third. As her anxiety began to grow Mi-
chael walked thru the doors of “The Deep Cup”.
She's found it. Breath deep, she thought to herself. That was the
past, and she was determined not to live there
With her right hand, Katherine hung up the phone again. Katherine was moving forwards and this
gently. With her left hand, she wrapped it tightly was her first step. Michael, a friend was going to
around a pearl handled old fashioned shaving have coffee with her, in her favorite place. And all
blade. that existed was this moment.

“OPEN UP KATHERINE OR I’M CALLING THE PO- About the Author:
LICE!” Cassandra threatened loudly. Dana Hunter earned her B.A. in Communications
from Upsala College. She has been writing poetry
“Call them, call everyone, call the Pope. It doesn’t and short stories with an emphasis on mental
matter!” Katherine stood up and yelled at the illness and living with the everyday struggle and
door. surviving. She lives in New Jersey and is presently
working on a collection of short stories designed
She held the straight blade in her hand like a sam- to end stigmas attached to those with mental
urai sword. illness.

“Kitten, just open the door”. Her mother said in a
soft welcoming voice.

“What are you playing at now Mom? Compas-
sion? Do you really think I am that stupid!” Kathe-
rine replied with anger.

“You sold my Cello, the one thing I cherished, the
one thing I hoped could get me back to who I was
before all this “SHIT!” began.” Katherine paused.
“And now you call me “Kitten” like nothing has
happened. Just go away.” Katherine says exhaling
as if she had just run a marathon.

“Don’t be so mean Katherine. You know how I get
sometimes. Just open the door and we can talk.”
Cassandra said in a honey dripped voice.

The door bell rang and Katherine could hear her
mother go down the stairs. At first, the blade lay
limp and cold in her hand. Katherine rolled up her
sleeves. Then she heard the rushing footsteps on
the stairs grow louder. Katherine gripped the
blade tightly and places it onto her warm flesh.
Feeling the cold metal, she hesitates as the foot-
steps stopped in front of her bedroom door. Kath-
erine panicked and slashed each arm with an up-
wards motion as everything went black.

Tug, tug. Scratch, scratch. Her wrists were
beginning to bother her. This shirt is too hot, she

127

BOOK COLLECTING
AS A SPIRITUAL
EXPERIENCE

Fred White

“Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, experience. They beckon you to reread them (in
Daniel. . . . Every book, every volume you see here, whole or in part) and extract even more spiritual
has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it manna from them. Collectors invest in pricey edi-
and of those who read it and lived and dreamed tions of the books they love as a way of enshrin-
with it.” ing them.
--Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind
And then there is provenance. Many people
Because of the way they illuminate the human enjoy collecting books with a notable history of
condition, books must continue to have a physical ownership. Even a common book that is not a
presence in our culture. Just as cathedrals and first printing, even a book that is in less than fine
mosques and synagogues deepen our spiritual condition, will prove valuable if it had once be-
experiences, Speaking of cathedrals, let me show longed to a famous or notorious person—or if
you what it means to be a cathedral architect in your copy of the book was inscribed to you by the
the twelfth century, brutalized by rivals, strug- author. Books, like baseballs can have a memora-
gling against hunger and homelessness because ble association. No one has a problem under-
of unemployment, yet eventually succeeding in standing why a baseball slammed into the stadi-
becoming a master builder. What have I shown um (and into your clutches) by Mickey Mantle
you? Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth. Even a pa- would be far more valuable (if subsequently
perback edition is worthy of display; but a pristine signed and dated by Mantle) than the same regu-
first edition, signed by Follett in his characteristic lation baseball you purchased at the sporting
calligraphic script, becomes an object of venera- goods store. Likewise, my copy of Lust for Life: A
tion. Novel of Vincent Van Gogh, inscribed to me in
1971 by Irving Stone, who shook my hand and
Still, most people find it hard to understand scribbled on the front endpaper . . .
why anyone would dish out hard-earned cash for
books they would find too venerable or valuable To Fred,
to read. In most cases, they do read them, but
very gently (I’ll say more about that in a moment), My fellow writer—
or they’ll purchase inexpensive “reading copies.”
Why collect books, they ask, when one can have Good luck with the stories!
a spiritual experience just from reading them?
Irving Stone
Here’s why: owning fine copies of the books
that have stirred your emotions, and that may . . . is a precious possession even though it is a
have changed your understanding of the world, later printing and the dust jacket is chipped and
amplifies their spiritual presence They are faded. “My fellow writer!”—such a gracious thing
permanent aesthetic reminders of that reading for a distinguished historical novelist to say to a
rookie. That makes it my Mickey Mantle baseball.

128

My wife Terry and I own several other books of I own perform this minor miracle in their own
such caliber—like our inscribed copy of Edward ways. The books that mean the most to me in-
Albee’s Pulitzer Prize winning play, Three Tall spire me to pick up a pen and start writing, or
Women, and Tony Kushner’s play, Angels in awaken a capacity for perception or feeling I nev-
America. Here’s the story—and the fact that we er realized I possessed, and suddenly need to
can tell stories about our association copies is share with the world. I want to own such books—
what makes them fun to collect: In July 2004 we to admire them, of course; but also to dip into
traveled to Valdez, Alaska to participate in the them on the spur of the moment or simply marvel
Twelfth Annual Last Frontier Theatre Conference, at the way a particular book’s assemblage of
sponsored by Prince Edward Sound Community words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters magically
College and hosted by Edward Albee, the confer- transforms reality.
ence’s co-founder. I had submitted a short play
that had been accepted for a workshop there. On a more pragmatic level, book collecting is a
Each year several all-star playwrights and actors fascinating way to acquire in-depth knowledge
joined Albee at that Alaska conference to conduct about a specialized area of literature. While
master classes. Terry, who acted in a few plays there’s nothing wrong with collecting indiscrimi-
during her undergraduate years at Augustana nately—maybe one just enjoys owning books that
College, signed up for a class with Marian Seldes, strike one’s fancy for inexplicable reasons—it’s
a Tony Award winning actress (in Albee’s A Deli- even more satisfying to specialize, to build around
cate Balance). I signed up for a playwriting class a single author, literary movement, historical peri-
with Romulus Linney (whose daughter, Laura, od, or theme. Do you enjoy reading about favor-
may be better known than he, but who had ite cities you’ve visited or lived in? You may enjoy
written a powerful drama about Hermann Goe- collecting books about the history and lore of that
ring, titled simply “2” (i.e., the #2 Nazi after Hitler) city; or books by writers who have lived in your
—a copy of which Mr. Linney signed for me. You home town or region.* Are you fond of butter-
see my point: A single book can evoke such fond flies? You can assemble a fascinating collection of
memories in an instant. books about butterflies and moths (or we can use
the fancier term Lepidoptera). My reference to
As for Mr. Albee, Terry and I were delighted to this theme is not exactly out of the blue—pun
discover that the legendary playwright was stay- intended, as you’ll see. While working on this
ing at our B & B. For an entire week, we enjoyed essay I received a publicity e-mail from my favor-
breakfast together. All I need to do is read Albee’s ite antiquarian book website, Abebooks.com: “25
inscription in my copy of Three Tall Women, and Beautiful Butterfly Books,” the heading an-
it all comes back. nounced. “This time around we’re highlighting
the majesty of the butterfly. And not forgetting
For Terry and Fred, moths and silkworms and their kin, we’ve ex-
panded to include the whole order of Lepidop-
With good thoughts tera.”

Edward Albee Among the books linked to the message were
W.S. Colman’s British Butterflies (1897); W.F. Kir-
Alaska, 2004 by’s European Butterflies and Moths; Floyd Bur-
ton Bralliar’s Knowing Insects through
Paradoxical as it seems, we can enhance our spir-
itual experiences by enhancing our material ones. Stories (1918)—books with gorgeous cover art,
The objects we treasure heighten our connected- books I’d never heard of before. I suddenly feel
ness not only to the world but to our emotional inspired to collect butterfly books—in fact, Terry
involvement with the world. I tend not to distin- and I already own a copy of Kurt Johnson and
guish between the material, the aesthetic, and
the spiritual. A beautiful work of art, be it a * See B.J. Welborn, Traveling Literary America: A Complete
painting, sculpture, novel, poem, musical compo- Guide to Literary Landmarks (Jefferson Press, 2005), for infor-
sition, or Grecian urn, stirs our emotions; but it mation about writers and the geographical regions they are
does more than that. It enlarges our capacity for associated with.
emotion, which for me is another way of describ-
ing a spiritual experience. Most of the books

129

Steve Coates’s story of novelist Vladimir Nabo- If you’re not already a scholar, building a spe-
kov’s passion for lepidoptery, Nabokov’s Blues: cialized collection can turn you into one. As you
acquire, say, all the biographies of Albert Einstein,
The Scientific Odyssey of a Literary Genius (1999). you will be both delighted and disturbed by the
Before he wrote Lolita, Nabokov served as curator different lenses through which a life can be
at Harvard University’s Museum of Comparative viewed . . . and interpreted. Like history itself,
Zoology, and in 1945 while at Harvard, published biography (including autobiography) is creatively
his study of “Blues”—diverse butterfly species shaped out of the extant primary-source docu-
inhabiting South America. In a poem that prefaces ments (letters, diaries, and such), which can be
our edition of the book, Nabokov explains that he interpreted countless numbers of ways. One biog-
“became / godfather to an insect and its first / rapher will consider a fact of major significance
describer—and I want no other fame.” while another biographer will ignore it altogether.
There simply cannot ever be a “definitive” biog-
One of my specialized collections is that of vin- raphy as some of the blurbs promise—and that’s
tage works of astronomy; another includes books a good thing, once you realize that biography,
by and about Albert Einstein and John Muir. My history, nonfiction, no less than fiction, is subjec-
crème de la crème collection, however, is my tive, a feat of creative imagining.
Dickinsonania, which includes most of the schol-
arly monographs (several of them signed); biog- Many book lovers (I among them) enjoy col-
raphies, bibliographies (descriptive and analytic), lecting special-edition fine-quality editions such
including a bibliography of the textbooks Emily as those produced by the Folio Society, Easton
Dickinson used at Amherst Academy and at Mt. Press, Oak Knoll Press, the Heritage Press, and the
Holyoke Seminary for Women; selections of her like. They’re usually slipcased, which collectors
poems for children; both variorum editions of her relish because they offer optimal protection for
complete poems (Thomas Johnson’s in 1955; R. the book. At least that is the rational reason. It
W. Franklin’s in 1998); the 3-volume Letters, edit- might also have something to do with the swish-
ed by Johnson and Ward; Franklin’s two-volume ing sound the book will make when it is slid out. .
Manuscript Books (holograph copies of her fasci- . .or the solidity of the casing, which assures me
cle poems, restored to their original fascicle ar- that it will keep the book secure. Give me a mo-
rangements); and even novels and plays about ment while I fetch Angie Debo’s A History of the
the poet. Indians of the United States, originally published
by the University of Oklahoma Press in 1970, reis-
My most prized possession in this collection is sued in 2003 by the Folio Society. I slip it from its
The Life and Letters of Emily Dickinson, a 1924 slate-gray case: what a stunning image on the full-
biography by the poet’s niece Martha Dickinson buckram front cover: an Edward Curtis sepia-
Bianchi and inscribed by her. Every time I retrieve toned photograph of a warrior on horseback, cir-
this book I realize that it was held by the woman ca 1909, comprising the middle panel. The Palati-
who, as a child, used to visit her Aunt Emily and no text is printed on Buhl Wove paper . . . maroon
share secrets with the woman who would be- pastedowns front and back. And here is my Herit-
come the greatest woman poet in American liter- age Press edition of Sonnets of Petrarch, with
ature. Once, Emily brought her up to her room, illustrations by Aldo Salvatori. This great four-
shut the door, locked it, showed her the key, and teenth century poet’s sonnets to his beloved
said, “This, Mattie, is freedom.” Laura are presented in both the original Italian
and English translation. It was Terry who present-
My Dickinson collection exemplifies the insepa- ed me with this lovely gift (she’d found it at Pow-
rability of the pragmatic with the spiritual (and, ell’s Books in Portland, Oregon) on the day I pro-
yes, the irrational). Without these books at my posed to her during our excursion along the Co-
fingertips, it would have taken me five times long- lumbia River Gorge.
er than it did to complete my bibliographic study
of the poet’s critical reception during the past half Yes, these books are costly, but the aesthetic
century, Approaching Emily Dickinson: Critical and spiritual rewards are ongoing. I am hoping
Currents and Crosscurrents since 1960 (Camden soon to afford the Chester River Press twin folio
House, 2008), or for that matter my several other edition, in black Dutch cloth with dust jackets and
shorter studies of Dickinson.

130

slipcases, of Alexander Pope’s monumental verse for the company that manufactures them. Terry
translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey—a trans- and I purchase them in institutional quantities.
lation that Samuel Johnson hailed as “A perfor- The clear plastic will prevent not only soiling but
mance which no age or nation could hope to creasing and tearing, especially along the jacket
equal.” At $350 per set, it may be a while before I flaps. They won’t protect the books from sunlight,
can add it to my collection, but once I have it, I however.
will undoubtedly experience the dual vibrato of
creative power transcending the ages of both Another concern, especially in high-humidity
Homer and Pope. climates, is moisture damage. If you’re a collector
who lives in the South, you’ll want to invest in a
For book collectors “collecting” books means dehumidifier. And obviously, you’re not going
to care for them. As with living creatures, books read your signed first printing of Anthony Doerr’s
need to be cared for in different ways. Terry and I All the Light We Cannot See in the bathtub.
keep our “blue chip books,” as we like to call
them, in separate bookcases as far removed from Serious collectors also think carefully about the
light as possible. If you’re serious about col- way they arrange their books on the shelves. No
lecting, this is rule number one: keep books out of matter how much space you have for your library,
sunlight. Even indirect sunlight can be harmful it is not enough. That’s a law of the universe. But
over an extended period. First to fade, of course, don’t despair. I’ve discovered several creative
is the dust-jacket’s spine, especially if it’s yellow ways of optimizing shelf space: First, don’t over-
or orange. Some colors will turn a different color. stuff a shelf so that the books can’t easily be
Blue may turn greenish, for example. I have slipped out (and if they’re Brodarted, they’ll stick
caused many a pristine dust jacket to fade by not like glue). Better to stack some of them horizon-
shielding it from sunlight. Long exposure to light tally, especially if they’re paperbacks. Once again,
also causes the pages to become brittle— consider the undignified closet shelves. Hey, it’s
“tanned”—around the edges. Now it’s easy to better to put your sweatshirts and jeans on the
become obsessive about this. No sense building a floor than your books! If your bookcases are deep
library and having to keep it in complete dark- enough, try double-shelving. Refrain from over-
ness. Use common sense: books you expect to stacking the top shelf, especially if you live in
keep as collectibles keep out of sunlight. If a book places where terra isn’t so firma, like the San
wins a major prize and your copy is a first edition Francisco Bay Area, where Terry and I lived until
in fine condition, add it to the collectibles. If the recently.
spine is of a light-sensitive color, turn the book
around so that the spine faces the back of the One more suggestion: take loving care of your
bookcase. books but don’t treat them like Laura’s glass me-
nagerie in Tennessee Williams’s play. Coddle your
Preventing the soiling or marring of valuable books. Care for them. Show them off to friends
books is the biggest challenge. Books, even col- and family (an opportunity here to share fasci-
lectibles, are meant to be read! It takes a little nating stories about a book or two, such as its
practice, but it is not difficult to read a book with- provenance, the reasons for its scarcity, its im-
out damaging or smudging it in any way. First, portance it has had in your own life—enough,
make sure your hands are clean and dry. If you mind you, to stir up enough fascination to propa-
own rare or fragile books, it would be wise to gate the collecting bug). But most importantly,
wear cotton gloves, as skin oils can damage very read these books, don’t just flaunt them or use
old book paper. When removing a book from the them for decorative purposes.
shelf, clasp the middle of the spine, not the top.
While reading, cradle the book in the cusp of one We must do all we can to keep the culture of
hand. Keep the opened book a few degrees above the book alive and healthy. If, like me, you are
horizontal or else the spine may split or become troubled by the disappearance of brick-and-
distended (“cocked” is how booksellers describe mortar bookstores, by the proliferation of e-
it). As for the dust jacket, protect it with a mylar books, by the growing number of young people—
cover, known in the trade as a “Brodart,” named even college students; even English majors,
for heaven’s sake—who seldom read books aside

131

from their assigned texts, let alone treasure
books, then we must all become crusaders for the
physical book, reminding people of their spiritual
and aesthetic richness, and of course their cultur-
al legacy—the power of the written word to em-
brace and enhance the human condition.
Fred White’s essays have appeared most recently
in Gemini, Wilderness House Literary Review, and
Southwest Review. He lives near Sacramento, CA.
About the Author:
Fred White’s essays have appeared most recently
in Gemini, Wilderness House Literary Review, and
Southwest Review. He lives near Sacramento, CA.

132

UNDER THE
GREENWOOD TREE

Jonathan McRay

Abu Shadi sits in his plastic chair like a king at his My family has a lengthy history in Israel and Pal-
castle. But he does not reign over subjects like a estine, beginning with my archaeologist grandfa-
monarch. Maybe he is master of his house, but ther over forty years ago. Like many American
this does not quite fit either. His wife Noha often Christians, my family championed Israel despite
seems to run the show. Instead, he sits like a knowing little about Palestinians, despite having
member of his place, in a plastic chair on the pa- Palestinian friends as long as we had Israeli ones.
tio, someone who worships his paradise which is We studied Jewish theology, read influential Jew-
the ground under his feet and the trees shading ish writers, learned about Jewish shoahs, empha-
his receding comb-over. sized the Jewish roots of Christianity, all profound
and enlightening. We also believed that befriend-
Abu Shadi is a colloquial name translated as “the ing Jews meant befriending Israel. However, over
father of Shadi,” the name of his oldest son. Abu the last decade-and-a-half, my family’s perspec-
Shadi is also called Abdullah Awwad. He was a tive shifted from an ignorant support of nation-
thick quick man until stomach cancer slowed him states to an empathetic support of people, espe-
down even as it made him lighter. His voice be- cially as we learned about expulsions, land theft,
came tired and thin like his body. That voice was home demolitions, checkpoints, night raids, ab-
always strained, plucked by enthusiastic vitality ject poverty, and towering walls. Evictions and
that made it ring high like a small bell and then diasporas are now executed on others like a nega-
lower and chime, croak almost under the cracking tively-spun gift economy: because it has been
force of his grand energy. He always excitedly received, so it must be given.
shook his fist when he saw me approaching and
stood to embrace me. In 2008, I spent several months as an advocacy
journalist for the Palestine Monitor. I traveled
Some years ago, two friends and I worked in Pal- throughout the West Bank, writing several articles
estine and planned to live with the Awwads. Then about the village of Ni’lin, whose ancient olive
they learned of his cancer diagnosis and the idea groves and roads were fractured by the construc-
of hosting three young Americans became too tion of the Israeli Separation Wall, twice as tall
stressful. Instead, we found a fine stone house and three times as long as the Berlin Wall and
just over the hill. After his surgery in Germany rarely following the internationally-accepted bor-
and his return home, Abu Shadi’s bursting energy der between Israel and occupied Palestine. I doc-
started returning also, like the breaking of buds umented, and participated with, the efforts of
on branches in spring. Abu Shadi began humming villagers, as well as Israeli and international activ-
again between deep-bellied grunts as he ate pita, ists, nonviolently resisting the confiscation and
always under his breath, la la-la la la! I often devastation of their land. And I watched and ex-
laughed because in Arabic he was humming no no perienced police and military repeatedly respond
-no no no!

133

with raids heralded by teargas, rubber-coated actively caring for things nearby. These sets of
bullets, and live fire. Colonization uproots people practices – cooking, cleaning, washing, growing,
and I saw the literal uprooting and burning of crafting, storytelling, music-making – sustain con-
orchards on terraced hillsides. Along with young viviality and cooperation, which do not erase
Palestinian men, I tried to extinguish the flames weakness but instead welcome it. Laws never
by flinging dusty soil on burning branches. mandate these practices, an indispensable form
of politics in their own way, but they are required
The next year I worked as a writer and editor with in order to live well together. Gentleness is im-
Musalaha (“reconciliation” in Arabic), which tries portant because it redefines power and rule
to unite Israelis and Palestinians through a com- through the concrete love of friendship.
mon faith. I interviewed Israeli Messianic Jews
and Palestinian Christians and then incarnated my Vanier has written that love is not doing heroic
skeletal notes as stories about encounters with acts; it means “knowing how to do ordinary
the other. Along with Musalaha and volunteering things with tenderness” (Community and Growth,
with direct action collectives, I spent time each 1989, Paulus Press, p. 220). Tending is the act of
week with the Al Basma Center, a supportive doing those tender ordinary things, and Wendell
place for people with developmental disabilities, Berry offers descriptive support to this under-
founded by Noha and Abu Shadi. My family has standing. Berry is a close kin to Vanier. They both
been close friends with them for years. concern themselves with community, healing in
conviviality, the gifts of mutuality, and the wis-
Abu Shadi studied English Literature in Turkey, dom of care and fragility. Tending, as the Ken-
where he fell in love with poets like William tucky farmer understands, implies learning practi-
Wordsworth and Robert Herrick. “Gather ye rose- cal skills and livelihoods that are attentive to
buds while ye may!” he often said, especially after differences. According to Berry, the “Judeo-
his surgery. Abu Shadi has been barred from en- Christian tradition” he inherited is often inade-
tering Jerusalem of his call for justice and the end quate for this task for two reasons. Firstly, the
of the Israeli Occupation. He and his wife once otherworldly focus of much Christian theology
escaped from an African country after serving as a distracts people from caring for the close-at-
press secretary for a revolutionary movement hand. Secondly, the Bible and much religious liter-
gone bad. With savings from his job, he and Noha ature are “so strongly heroic.” We are too con-
started a small community center devoted to car- cerned with the actions of great men, supposedly
ing and sharing life with people society often ex- extraordinary because they are supposedly rare.
cludes. Their actions hardly serve as examples for ordi-
nary lives, which Berry believes inhabit a very
JEAN VANIER WRITES about sharing life together different genre:
and about the vulnerability and brokenness at the
heart of community. He writes simply and he The drama of ordinary or daily behavior [like the
writes gently. There is tenderness in the composi- heroic] also raises the issue of courage, but it rais-
tion of his sentences. I do not only mean the es at the same time the issue of skill; and, be-
thoughts he communicates, which find grace for cause ordinary behavior lasts so much longer
and within the weakness of our bodies and the than heroic action, it raises in a more complex
fragility of life. I also mean that tenderness is in and difficult way the issue of perseverance. (“The
the way his sentences are formed, the grace that Gift of Good Land,” in The Gift of Good Land: Fur-
is style and sound. Vanier’s writing reads like a ther Essays Cultural and Agricultural, 1981, Coun-
soft familiar conversation. terpoint, pp. 276-7)

Indeed, gentleness defines the world of L’Arche, Heroism is deeply inspiring; it can unsettle the
communities Vanier helped start where people rigid and stale drama of the ordinary, especially
with different mental, physical, and emotional when that drama becomes repressive. But, ac-
abilities live and work together. L’Arche fosters cording to Berry, heroism does not live with the
friendships between people with varying abilities questions of long-term devotion and right liveli-
so that a diversity of gifts is recognized as central hood. “True community,” Vanier insists in agree-
to community life. Gentle friendships like those at ment, “implies . . . a way of living and seeing
L’Arche are cultivated by tending to the ordinary, reality; it implies above all fidelity in the daily

134

round” (Community and Growth, p. 109). Heroism Martha Nussbaum, still allied to liberal political
does not teach us how to actively care during theory, introduces a guideline for the indispensa-
diurnal rhythms when the crowds are no longer ble form of politics, those sets of practices, that
watching. sustain community life. She suggests that focusing
on capabilities might help us acknowledge that
Mainstream politics are almost entirely about rationality is only one part of our embodied lives
heroism, mostly dependent on sweeping (Frontiers of Justice: Disability, Nationality, Spe-
platforms backed by deep pockets. For the most cies Membership, p. 160). Capabilities focus on
part, political debates ignore difficult questions of particular practices with specific people and their
disability, questions that change depending on varying gifts and needs. Addressing capabilities
time and place. Modern political discourse oper- means addressing actual bodies and actual places.
ates with a strong underlying assumption in the Reason is rooted in our sensing bodies and the
rationality and free will of political actors, or what living earth that orients them. The literate and
is philosophically called liberalism. In the liberal the logical grow from sound and the sensuous.
mind, people with disabilities are lacking. Political We cannot define the meaning of life together
decision-making assumes that only those without without actually sharing life together in particular
severe physical or mental impairments can mean- places. Capabilities force us out of safe abstrac-
ingfully participate, an assumption that not only tion by making friendships with unlikely people.
reinforces anthropocentrism but a dangerously Vanier notes that the Hebrew word hesed means
reduced one: only human needs are valuable, and both fidelity and tenderness (Community and
only those that we understand. Liberal politics Growth, p. 63), and with good reason. Sharing life
excludes the disabled because it depends on gen- together inevitably dredges up old hurts and will
eralizability; in order to be applicable at a large inevitably inflict new ones. Sticking around for the
scale, it must avoid the messiness of context and long haul requires more care than transience.
ordinary emotions, which means it must avoid
bodies and earth. Liberal politics attempt to gen- Vanier says “Our world is waiting for communities
eralize the heroic by enthroning reason as the of tenderness and fidelity. They are com-
ultimate human trait, which is ultimately dehu- ing” (Community and Growth, p. 63). Some of
manizing. them are already here.

I have friends who believe that the world would I FIRST HEARD about Jean Vanier in occupied Pal-
be better if people were more rational. I often estine. I was working at the Al Basma Center in
agree, but I am also convinced that we would be the village of Beit Sahour, “House of Vigilance.”
better off if people were more compassionate, This ancient village sits in a valley on the east side
more generous, more communal, more com- of Bethlehem, between the hills rising to Jerusa-
mitted, more open to their senses and the experi- lem and the desert of the Jordan River Valley.
ence of others. Some Christian philosophers, in- Started in 1987 in collaboration with the Arab
credibly intelligent men and women, claim that Women’s Union, Al Basma (which means “the
belief in God is the only rational decision. Some smile” in Arabic) had almost no funds and no ta-
atheist philosophers, incredibly intelligent men bles or chairs, and so the six students sat on the
and women, declare that the existence of God is floor. Now, around thirty students walk or ride a
entirely irrational. Whose definition of reason is small bus to a stone building where the edge of
the most reasonable? Not all opinions are equally town begins to fade. They still have few funds,
valid, but reason is not a pure substance or an but their creative programs include olivewood
undefiled method that inevitably leads all adher- carving, making fuel from olivewood sawdust to
ents to the same conclusion. This is a pointless heat the center in winter, recycling paper for
quest that goes nowhere but our own navels. One making Christmas cards, weaving rugs on tradi-
of the hallmarks of humanity is rationality, but if tional looms, drama and exercise, speech therapy
that is the only defining characteristic, then many and hygiene classes, and counseling services for
people are not human. If the actions of world mental impairments and the inevitable trauma of
leaders are any indication, we might suspect that living under occupation. The students learn beau-
another major hallmark of humanity is irrationali- tiful and useful skills and the belief that they are
ty.

135

vital members of their community and have gifts Issa always slapped my hand as he entered the
to offer it. Their work helps sustain the center. center. He enjoyed squeezing my hand like a vice.
Issa was the finest dancer, and he seemed almost
At the time I worked there, six women were the entranced by the traditional Palestinian rhythms
leaders and teachers and, like the students, half of his feet and the flick of his hands above his
were Muslim and half were Christian. These wom- head. Sometimes he and I sat in the grass and
en sometimes sacrificed their paltry pay so the laughed about nothing in particular. He spoke as
center could continue each month. The days were if he had pebbles in his mouth. His family worried
filled with good work, with laughter and explosive that their daughters could never marry because
arguments and then laughter again. The work of his disability, so they hid him in a cave. Teach-
tables were transformed into banquet tables ers from the center found him and taught him to
where they ate modest vegetarian feasts because eat and speak. They also found that he was skilled
meat was too expensive. And then they removed at weaving. When I met him, Issa was an artisan
the tables at the end of each day and danced to who worked the loom with memory and intelli-
Arabic pop music between the pink walls. “A com- gence. He clamped his tongue between his teeth
munity that does not celebrate,” Vanier argues, in determination. He also lived with his family
“is in danger of becoming just a group of people again.
that get things done” (Essential Writings, 2010,
Orbis, p. 97). The next day, this routine began Khalil’s facial features were characteristic of
again, moved by the skill and perseverance of Down’s syndrome, but I remember his beautiful
ordinary courage. round face for his incessant smile. His short, stub-
by body shuffled toward me and his crinkled eyes
The teachers and I came out of the little office to stared up at me as he took my hand. He often
greet the students when they arrived in the said nothing, smiling with his tongue between his
mornings. Nizaar crouched down, overcome with teeth. I regularly watched Khalil push another
excitement, and shouted “Habibi! My love!” and student named George in a wheelchair up the
spread his arms out to hug me. Nizaar frequently ramp to the center’s entrance; Khalil stoops down
came through the small patio to the open pink to talk with his friend but the wheelchair starts
door of the office, sometimes dancing as he swerving and they almost run into the railing with
came, watching as my friend Patrick printed bursts of laughter. He blew kisses at the teachers
words on the recycled cards after I cut them to and me through the window of the bus as he left
size. Nizaar repeated our names over and over in the afternoon.
until we finally looked up at him. Then he raised
his hand dramatically and belted operatic vibrato Each afternoon we sat outside in the
as he hopped up and down clapping, then whis- courtyard. Confined energy quickly turned into
pering falsetto melodies with knees bent and eyes laughter or intense arguments across the patio. I
wide. His body and voice rapidly bound and un- saw Vanier’s point, applicable to many others,
leashed a vibrant energy. that we shouldn’t be idealistic about people with
disabilities: “Some have been victims of so much
Sana was spry and thin and he knew everyone contempt and violence, which they have stored
and everything in Beit Sahour. He entered every up inside themselves, that there can be an explo-
room saying his name in a shrill nasal voice as a sion of violence” (Essential Writings, p. 112). I
greeting announcing his arrival. His name and his often became impatient with the students and
presence were a unified event with a mischievous their furious shoving and constant chaotic noise.
grin. He lent his dramatic gravitas to the role of In my annoyance I noticed only their disability.
Little Red Riding Hood in the center’s plays. Sana Where is meaning and purpose in George’s body?
sat quietly outside the kitchen whenever the His mind will never be abled and his limbs will
teachers and I ate breakfast, folding and unfold- never be straightened; he twists and jerks in his
ing and refolding an old handkerchief. His scruffy wheelchair and can never sit still. He drools gar-
unibrow furrowed as he attentively watched the bled words.
pita and eggs disappear. Then he swooped in and
snatched a piece of bread from the table, scurry- In the midst of my self-absorbed resentment,
ing out with crumbs falling from his salivating Khalil often sat next to me like the missing charac-
mouth. ter of Job, the friend who does not moralize but

136

sits close in silent company. Khalil and I could not not be entirely determinate in another. Disability
really speak to one another, which meant I risked changes form and meaning within hospitality,
projecting my own words onto him or, worse, where people are cared for, their needs and gifts
assuming that he had little to say for himself. I are valued, and they can learn to be themselves.
could then keep him disabled and keep that disa- Vanier knows that his friends with disabilities
bility at arm’s length. But Khalil spoke to me with need his help, but at L’Arche he discovered that
touch, a fragile language that I could brush off like the opposite is also true: “People who are power-
a whisper, like the weakness of God. God does less and vulnerable attract what is most beautiful
not exist until Khalil sits next to me, incarnation and most luminous in those who are stronger:
over declaration. “I am very sensitive to the reali- they call them to be compassionate, to love intel-
ty of the body,” writes Vanier with a similar senti- ligently, and not only in a sentimental way . . . The
ment. “Many of our people cannot speak, but all weak teach the strong to accept and integrate the
express love and fear through their bodies. The weakness and brokenness of their own lives,
body is more fundamental than the word. The which they often hide behind masks” (Essential
Body of Christ is more fundamental than his Writings, pp. 100-101).
Word. Many handicapped people cannot under-
stand the Word but they can eat his We need places and cultures where people are
Body” (Community and Growth, p. 197). I too not simply disabled or abled but welcome to be
became struck with the sensitive and fundamen- themselves, who give and receive, who have defi-
tal love of the body. ciencies and have gifts. Places where some people
need more help in some ways than others and are
One day, Khalil took my hand in his squat fingers still called friends. I gave to Khalil and he gave
with darkened knuckles and I knew that I was back. I showed him love because he first loved
handicapped. I was disabled and I still am. With me. The more time I spent with him, the more I
my intellectual and physical abilities, I am the cared for him, the more times he screeched with
mess because I often do not know that I am bro- laughter as we made silly faces, the less he was a
ken. I have dodge vulnerability by hiding behind person with disabilities and the more he became
accusations of the brokenness of others. And yet Khalil. Everyone else became themselves too:
a necessary connection exists between love and George, Munther, Jael, Abed, Mustafa and Waafa,
vulnerability, between tender affection and open- Muhammed and Rushdie, Ramsy, Basma and
ness to those around us. The more we love the Jamla, Noor. I also started becoming myself. We
more vulnerable we are. A correlating connection are a vulnerable communion (to borrow from a
exists between the denial of death and the denial title by Thomas Reynolds) trussed together by the
of the body. Al Basma reminded me that I have inescapable fragility of life. According to the
my own inabilities, that my experience is inescap- Apostle Paul, faith, hope, and love remain at the
ably embodied, which means limited. The place end of the day, but the first two are byproducts of
reminded me that I, too, have a body that will love, because love comes first. To hell with hope
become frail and impaired. Someday I will not be if it means the present is meaningless without the
able to perform roles and tasks expected of me. future. We only hope for what we love.
To accept our bodies is to accept their fragility
and their eventual death. Al Basma taught me that listening well is part of
the gentleness of life. It looks like the women
I am not suggesting that my friends’ disabilities who run Al Basma sitting and crying with the stu-
are blessings in disguise, or that I know what they dents. I am still learning to listen to the wreck and
experience because of an existential realization of gift of the beautiful risk of life. Listening is a weak
my limits and future death. I am suggesting that force compelling me to surrender my illusory con-
our bodily senses are the grounding instrument trol and move gracefully. The same grace in Vani-
through which we engage this cycling and circling er’s words is in Khalil’s clumsy gait as he pushes
earth. Capability varies widely for touch and George up the ramp:
taste, smell and sound, but through proximity and
vibration I can feel with others. My friends can do We need to touch the truth of who we are,
that too. Moreover, a disability in one place might
It is then, as we grow gradually

137

into the acceptance of our wounds and fragility, for what we love, and I love good soil and the
vulnerable communion of my friends.
that we grow into wholeness,
The land is a gift, and it gives gifts because it gives
and from that wholeness, life begins to flow forth life. Much of this gift is stolen in Palestine through
a spreading colonialism until eventually only
to others around us. (Essential Writings, p. 86) patches like the greenhouse will be left for the
people who live there. Colonialism steals land but
AL BASMA ONCE had a greenhouse on a small rise it also steals water. I heard about a family in Beit
above a rusty playground and broken gazebo. The Sahour who, like many families, lost their water
greenhouse contained one of Palestine’s first aq- for days as their reserve tank ran low because the
uaponic systems, which mixes aquaculture irrigation systems favor the web of illegal settle-
(raising aquatic animals in tanks) and hydroponics ments that twist around the clumped hilltops. The
(plant cultivation in water). Accumulating excre- family once relied on an old well on their land
ment in the water is toxic for fish, but provides when the water was shut off, but returning home
vital nutrients for plants. In a closed-loop aqua- one day they found the Israeli army digging up
ponic system, water cycles to the plants where it the pipes and rerouting them toward the settle-
is cleaned and then recirculated to the fish. ments for swimming pools and lawns.

When my friends and I first arrived in Beit Sahour Many people cannot perform the roles and
the greenhouse’s crumbling rows were empty. tasks expected of them because the land and wa-
Patrick, Paul, and I took pickaxes and hoes inside ter cannot either. People are handicapped when
and began to churn the clotted earth. Basma, the the land and water are impaired. Disability is an-
calm and beautiful director who has been with other name for the theft of soil and water and for
the center since its beginning, sent us out in hesi- the displacement of people. To a certain extent,
tant English to “break up the ground so the we describe both people and places with the
farmer can bring the planets.” We laughed to- word disability – resulting from genetics, storms,
gether as Patrick drew a picture explaining the pollutants, accidents, or armies – when we have
syntactical difference between horticulture and not yet discovered their hidden capabilities. We
astronomy. Soon, the cucumber cotyledons reveal gifts when we love someone or someplace,
would be placed in the ground. Soon, water from when we name them as beautiful and useful. In
drip-irrigation pipes that rested on the rows greenhouses and olive groves on terraced
would seep into the ground and the plants would hillsides, in stone buildings heated by sawdust,
grow. Soon, we would be wrapping strings, tied around work tables and on dancefloors, ordinary
between the ceiling’s spines and the pipes, people hope for what they love by tending, gently
around the growing plants. And soon, we would caring for the nearby, for the earth and their
be picking the cucumbers from whiskery leaves friends. We treat the world as we treat each oth-
and eating them with warm pita, tomatoes, and er, as we treat ourselves.
eggs. But now, we needed to sift rocks from the
dry soil and pull and compost weeds. THE FOUNDER OF Al Basma and his wife live on a
steep hillside where they planted gardens and
The three of us bent down to our knees and be- orchards of grapes, oranges, apricots, pomegran-
gan ripping out weeds along the far translucent ates, olives, lemons, almonds, figs, thyme, mint,
wall of the greenhouse. For some reason, this and flowers from Gaza. Over homemade wine,
particular area was extremely overgrown. The Abu Shadi exclaimed to me, “This is my paradise,
strong roots of the weeds were deep and stub- and I want to die in it! My rocks are more beauti-
born, connected like webs twisted around larges ful than the green of Sweden. I don’t mean to be
clumps of hardened dirt. My hands were soon rude, but when I am gone I miss my rocks! If you
blistered and bleeding as I weeded the rocky soil, take me out of my land I am like a fish out of wa-
but I breathed deeply and happily. There is good- ter. I don’t want to drive Israel into the sea, so we
ness in dirt and breath and in people who come must give peace a chance!”
from dirt and breath, which is everyone. We hope

138

He repeated the same refrains because they nev- About the Author:
er became less true for him: “I want to live on my
land, with dignity and self-respect, in my soil and Jonathan McRay is a farmer, facilitator, and writ-
my house. We belong to the land, in the soil, er. His work is rooted in agroecology and restora-
working in the garden. Why should a Jew from tive justice. He grew up in the Appalachian Moun-
Russia or Bulgaria get to take my home?” He tains of East Tennessee and worked in Palestine/
often claimed he could trace his ancestors back to Israel and Mozambique. He is the author of You
the shepherds visited by angels who announced Have Heard It Said: Events of Reconciliation, a
the birth of an indigenous peasant. contributor to the anthology Watershed Disciple-
ship, and has published essays in The Other Jour-
When I said goodbye I told them how sad I was to nal, Geez Magazine, Permaculture Design Maga-
go, that I wanted them to visit me in my land. zine, and State of Nature. Jonathan lives in the
Shenandoah Valley, where he was a founding
“That is life, dear Jonathan, to say hi and bye,” member of Vine and Fig, a sustainable living cen-
Noha said, her hand on my shoulder. “Better for ter and therapeutic community that cultivates
you to come here then for us to go there. It is too and celebrates works of mercy, social justice, and
hard for us.” ecological health. He is now cofounder and care-
taker of Blacks Run Forest Farm in Harrisonburg,
She and Abu Shadi love the center and the stu- Virginia.
dents with a consuming passion. “The most im-
portant thing for us to do,” Abu Shadi insisted
with tears in his eyes, “is to tell them they are
needed. We give them love. They are not para-
sites. They are a part of this society. Believe me,
when I was in surgery I was thinking about these
children.”

“Believe me,” he constantly implored.

Abu Shadi occasionally shouted out Shakespeare
from his veranda with his arms spread toward the
Jordan River Valley:

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

He always repeated the final lines, with a slight
amendment, in a hoarse whisper: “Here, I hope,
we shall see no enemy but winter and rough
weather.”

139

HUNGER PANGS IN
AN AMERICAN HOME

Danielle Richardson

I am not a part of his American dream. generally a shy person. Throwing me into a house
surrounded by strangers of a different nationality
I watch as my father presses another burger to isn’t going to turn me into a social butterfly. But
the grill, the smell of smoke and oil filling up the perhaps I should make more of an effort. As I sit
back patio like a fast food joint. It smells like and talk to a few people about generic nothings, I
America, this great country that I have always find my mind drifting away to the guestroom up-
known about, seeing it on television my whole life stairs, where I can be alone.
and dreaming of what it would be like to live
here. Now I do live here. It’s lovely, but I find my- I catch a glimpse of my father through the
self thinking of the people and places back home kitchen window. He is on the patio with all the
more than I did before. My father sprinkles salt other fathers and his wife, laughing at some joke
over the French fries and it makes me fantasize or another. My sister runs up to them with a
about my crystalline Caribbean Sea and the smile full of mischief, entertained by a game she
laughs and memories tangled up on the shores of is playing with the other children. I look at them
Mullet Bay Beach. and I do not see people from the same country as
I. I see an American family, one so picture-perfect
More people are beginning to arrive, trick- that you could put it up on a billboard advertising
ling into the house like ants to a pile of sugar. My household goods and furniture. I see a family that
father and his wife are having a get together. All is not my own. He tells me that this North Caroli-
of their American friends are coming with their na house of his is my home too, but I know that it
children, who are around the same age as my is not. This is their house, and these are their peo-
little half-sister. It is like a scene out of a movie to ple.
me, the people getting together to laugh and
have barbeque on a patio in a nice neighborhood. I make my escape upstairs by pretending
We have get-togethers back home, of course, but that I need to use the bathroom, but I know fully
not like this. Here people come bearing gifts of well that I have neither eaten nor drank enough
devilled eggs, brownies, and macaroni. I remem- to warrant a visit to the porcelain throne. I close
ber meeting up with family on the beach, aunts the bedroom door as quietly as I can, but it does
and uncles and cousins bringing Johnny cakes, nothing to mute the sounds from downstairs of
fried plantain, rum punch, and croquettes, all people laughing, forks scratching against plates,
foods that now make my stomach ache with beer bottles clinking. I lie down and try to imagine
homesickness instead of hunger as I watch anoth- that this is my bed in Sint Maarten, that the
er family come through the door. sounds from downstairs are my people getting
ready to have fun and that I will be happily joining
My father expects me to socialize, mingle them shortly. But the lies I feed myself aren’t
and talk to people I have not met before. I know enough to quell the hunger for my home.
that this is nothing to most people, but for me
it’s like a nightmare straight out of hell itself. I am

140

Macaroni, hot dogs, French fries, hamburgers,
brownies, devilled eggs, sweet tea.

Croquettes, pastechis, johnny cakes, rum
punch, fried plantain, ponche kuba, crab back.

Which is better? I don’t rightly know.
But I know to which I belong.
I am not a part of his American dream.
Nor do I want to be.

About the Author:
Danielle Richardson is from the Caribbean island
of Sint Maarten. She is twenty years old and cur-
rently resides in Florida to further her education.

141

THE CUT DOWN

Dalton Bryan Monk

Duane Bryan Monk has no idea I’ve written this, check marking certain qualities that would deter-
and I intend to keep it that way. mine my dad’s build, endurance, speed, agility.
All the while my papa is explaining the excess
I wasn’t told that I had to embark on my dad’s amount of work my dad would be doing while
tedious vocations, but I knew it was my duty as saying with those oblivious eyes, “Save the emo-
his son to support him and endure the work with tions, if possible.”
him. Unfortunately, it was so hot it felt like I was
standing on a grate set on top of a cauldron boil- We went to the garage to acquire my dad’s far
ing water. It was July in West Virginia. too old chainsaw, which had a rustic color to
prove its lifespan. After forty minutes of configur-
My dad grew up on a farm lamenting the rules his ing the dry rotted primer, my dad went to cutting
father implemented upon him; those rules con- the deceased. I was there to collect the rem-
tained one that really shattered his pride and fe- nants.
licity as a growing boy: no baseball, because base-
ball gets in the way of farm work. My dad’s fa- The ten year, twice-engaged relationship my dad
ther, my papa, was a war veteran that had been was in had just ended; she was the breaker in this
to several countries and somehow dodged the case. I don’t know if you have divorced parents,
doomed D-Day (I know because he told me), thus, but it’s a strange life growing up with parents that
because of his military background, it can be as- have a dating life. It seems like their days of
sumed that he treated his five boys like cadets. getting broken up with should be over. But,
However, there’s no need to assume anything they’re just kids in aged skin. No one ever really
because my dad has told me several times that knows what they’re doing, they just get older and
his father was a mean man. It seems like just try to pretend that they do. They sure do try.
about everyone has a mean dad.
My dad is a tough and (sometimes) emotional
The garage, after his room, had just been man, so he naturally coped by staying busy with
painted an eggshell white that hardly looked “manly” chores. The reason my dad had all the
different from the white color it had been before. time to do this was because he was just laid off
There, in the front yard on the bend of the hill, from his job. My dad and I were in Washington,
stood a dead maple tree that served us a short D.C. when he found out. We were trying to find
life; my dad had decided the tree needed to be our hotel, and I tried to use my dad’s GPS on his
cut down, for the lifeless state it was in was a phone, but I was abruptly stopped by my dad’s
“sore sight.” voice. “I don’t want you looking at my phone
right now!” It felt like I was back to being 6 years
My dad acts as though his father never cared old and 2 feet shorter than the big, hairy, bad
about him, as if he produced him only with the breathed man that was my dad. I thought my dad
purpose to be a human farming machine. In my had a woman sending him texts he didn’t want
head, I see my papa talking to a futuristic doctor

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me to see, but, after a few minutes of letting his The tree began to fall and collapse while I would
face return to its normal color, he told me he was pile it into a wheelbarrow to stack in a pile behind
being “let go” from his job. He had choice words our house into the mouth of the woods. My dad
for Andres, his former boss. would curse under his breath with sweat tempo-
rarily staining his forehead and clothes.
The cutting of the limbs was a tedious job, just
like it is for the devil as he slowly kills us. When I If I had a brother or sister like I was sup-
think of a tree having to be cut down, I think of a posed to I could’ve looked at them and smirked
cut from the trunk that allows the weight of the and joked with them later. But I was left alone to
upper half, provided that gravity is still prevalent laugh with myself and feel sorry for my dad. I was
with its injurious motives, to topple. Though, it’s supposed to have a twin, but my twin died in the
much more practical than that. The tree is cut womb early on. I wonder what they would’ve
not all at once but one limb at a time. said about our dad cutting down a tree on possi-
bly the hottest day of the year. “Why..?” Some-
I wish I could say my dad and I spoke to each oth- thing like that I bet.
er like some regular guys on a hot day yearning
for the sound of ice cubes jingling against the I could see the frustration consuming my dad; the
inside of a glass filled with water, but we didn’t. way he looked cutting the tree was something I
The conversation, if any, was limited to the most had never seen prior to that moment. I’ve seen
necessary words. We did have one conversation, my dad contemptuously dealing with several
though. things I’ve done: changing the oil (or trying to, at
least), not wanting to practice baseball, wanting
“You could hurt yourself, Dalton!” My dad always to hang out with my friends instead of him, acci-
griped in situations like these. dentally hitting the car with a basketball, not
watching where his ball went when we were
“Dad, I’m 19. Let me cut with the chainsaw for a golfing, and, especially, not picking up my feet
bit.” while hunting through the woods. However, I had
never seen that look on his face until then. It was
“You’ve never used a chainsaw before! You want the type of face that was able to contaminate
this to end in a trip to the hospital?” anyone who looked at it with the emotions that
produced it. All the while, his shadow splashed
“How am I supposed to learn how to use one if the ground only delineating a man cutting down a
you won’t let me try it?” tree.

The conversation continued until my dad gave in. The tree was nothing but a five-foot stump
I was given the chance to cut down the tree for after two hours. My dad’s chainsaw was throw-
no longer than 15 minutes. It wasn’t my tree to ing up a white flag, as the chain began to unravel
cut down, anyway. The rest of the sentences that and the gas was running thin. There was about
were muttered involved the words “hot,” an eight inch cut into the width of the bottom of
“humid,” and “tired.” I said all of which. the stump at the end of our vocation. There is
where the chainsaw had its last cut.
I’ve always felt an immense pressure to be
there for my parents because I’m an only child. The stump still stands two years later. A
My mom and dad both love to spend time with job left unfinished, which is very unlike the man
me, so, my whole life, I’ve felt the jealousy be- that raised me. My dad has a new job and a new
tween the two; no one likes to share their favor- girlfriend. My papa died, and my dad misses him
ite toy. It consisted of phone calls that would more than he thought he would. I still struggle
turn into hour-long yelling competitions, snarky with having no one to share my humorous and
responses to different styles of parenting, com- poignant childhood memories of living at two
plaining to me about the other parent, and such. different homes, but I’m still able to somehow
Don’t feel like I didn’t enjoy my childhood, sling it off like the sweat burning your eyes on a
though. It used to hurt, but, just like every other
annoying thing people have to deal with, I dealt
with it and got used to it.

143

hot day. I guess it all just depends on how resili-
ent we are.
The tree isn’t as dead as we thought; there is a
stem that has started growing.
About the Author:
Dalton Monk is a senior at Marshall University
pursuing an English and Marketing degree. He
grew up in West Virginia, and he loves reading,
hiking, playing sports, and watching movies. He
aspires to become an editor, writer, or publisher.

144

TRAINS

Donna Stramella

Growing up, we visited two houses on Christmas Margate Drive, my two younger sisters and I
Eve. But we were only allowed to talk about one. voting on which house had the best decorations.
When we pulled into the driveway, mom remind-
After my dad arrived home from work, we drove ed us one last time about the secret.
through the oil-stained Baltimore Harbor tunnel
that separated the suburbs from the city. My Inside, we were greeted by hugs, the smell of
Grandpop George and his wife Dot lived in a small roast beef and carrots, and Bing Crosby singing
apartment across from the neighborhood bar— “Silent Night” on the turntable. Uncle Walter was
with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Natty Boh signs waiting. He would be able to open our gift to-
brighter than the crooked strings of Christmas night, but the ones under the tree were off limits
lights. until morning.

We entered through the kitchen, vanilla mixing He lifted the top of the box, his hands like a giant
with warm air from the oven. The star-shaped lifting each section of the toy locomotive—all
sugar cookies were timed for our arrival. shiny black cars except the red caboose.

Christmas held the living room hostage. My He liked red best, or at least we thought so—he
grandfather crafted small wooden houses, paint- never spoke. He was diagnosed as “severely men-
ed them pastel yellow and blue, and decorated tally delayed.” Delivered at home, he was stuck at
with crushed sparkling glass from broken orna- the top of the birth canal. The doctor aggressively
ments. He displayed those houses in his train moved the baby with forceps, pressing deep
garden. On either side of the tracks, there were ridges into the sides of Walter’s head that lasted
scenes—a farm with plastic horses and pigs, min- for weeks after his birth. He was in his 30s, but
iature iron ice skaters and skiers permanently other damage from the forceps never faded.
posed, and a wedding, where a bride and groom
stood stiffly beside the handcrafted white church, Smiling, Uncle Walter lined up the cars in front of
tiny feet planted in plastic snow as they faced the the Christmas tree. He loved trains, and so did his
minister. As a child, I looked into the bride’s sweet father, Charles, my mother’s loving stepfa-
painted, unsmiling face and wondered if she was ther.
my grandfather’s current wife, Miss Dot, or his
first wife, Grandma Lilly. That winter, after a seemingly endless series of
gray cold days, the weather broke slightly.
Back in the car, my mom nervously reminded us
that visiting Grandpop and Miss Dot was a secret. “We’re headed for the trainyard,” Walter shouted
Grandma Lilly did not want us to know she was to Lilly as he left.
married previously.
She didn’t answer. If she’d looked out the win-
We drove south out of the city to the suburbs. dow, she would have seen the two starting
My father eased the station wagon slowly down the short walk to the now-abandoned trainyard--

145

Walter in his thick brown coat and red mittens About the Author:
and Charles carrying a shotgun.
Donna Stramella is a fiction and non-fiction writer
She saw the shotgun later, when a neighbor who from Baltimore, Maryland. She has been pub-
had been walking his dog found Charles sitting on lished in The Baltimore Sun, Columbia Magazine,
the tracks crying, two unspent shells in his hand. and The Catholic Review. She recently completed
her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of
I later learned that Charles spent some time in Tampa.
the state sanitarium. We didn’t see him for Easter
that year. Or the Fourth of July. But on Christmas
Eve, he was queuing up Bing Crosby as we walked
in the door.

146

FIRST CLASS

Vern Fein

Later I would be chosen as the first Rhetoric Made it to the blackboard. Thankfully there was
teacher to be awarded an Honors Seminar. Earlier chalk, a big, yellow, whole stick of chalk. Picked it
I had substitute taught about one of my favorite up. Panicked as my frantic mind did not remem-
topics—The Theater of the Absurd—in a friend’s ber the assignment. Murmurs began to buzz.
Rhet class and it went well. It was on the Q.T. so Walked sideways to the desk to pick up the text.
he wouldn’t get in trouble because I had not been A furtive glance at the class. Saw one smiling stu-
hired to be a Teaching Assistant as had most of dent—Patty Smith—who became my best stu-
my classmates. I never knew why. It hurt my ego dent. Returned to the blackboard. Print-scrawled
badly. Someone told me that Mr. M. thought I the title of the text and the page number of the
looked too young. I really did look very young assignment on the board. Dropped the yellow
and as I, dressed in my one sports coat, dark pur- chalk and left the broken pieces at my feet.
ple with red stripes (my Father’s purchase), my
class text and notes in hand, which I had pored Turned and faced astonishment and qua-
over and re-arranged until I destroyed all confi- vered: “This is the assignment for you to read for
dence, and my mind echoing Dr. M.’s words, our next class in the Principles of Writing.” Turned
which might not even be what he said: ‘Too back and faced the board. Erased the assignment.
young, too young,’ I approached the door of the Hastily rewrote it, more neatly I think. Listened to
classroom having waited out of abject, hand- the class tide ebb out the door. Left when no one
clamming fear for all the students to be in the could possibly still be in the hallway.
room before I arrived.
It got a lot better after that.
Avoiding eye contact, I was a robot,
walked in stiffly, had to pass the rows of students About the Author:
on the side to get to the front of the room, looked
at no one, could hear gawking, “ too young, too Vern Fein has published poems in *82 Review,
young, Who’s he?, skinny, nervous, “look at that The Literary Nest, Silver Birch Press, Rat's Ass Re-
coat, those thick, black owl glasses (my Father),” view, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, a
deathly silence. Worked my way toward the front haiku, Spillwords, VerseWrights, VietNam War
of the classroom, no eye contact, looking ahead Poetry, Ibis Head Review, Spindrift, Former Peo-
at the blackboard, side glancing at the old, brown ple, 500 Miles, has non-fiction pieces in Quail Bell
desk in the center of the room, the color of a ci- and The Write Place at the Write Time, and has a
gar. Sidled toward it, the gawking getting louder, short story in the the online magazine Duende
put my notebook and text on the desk, walked to from Goddard College.
the blackboard, back still squarely to the class.

“Turn around, turn around now!,” my
heart screamed louder and louder.

147

GROWN-UP
CHILD

Idalis Nieves

It’s been almost four months since I’ve read a Being trapped in a confided space with nothing to
book for pure leisure. It’s been almost a year since stop a doll half a foot shorter than me from mak-
I’ve enjoyed a movie or TV show without analyz- ing me a victim. What he did to me varied; slicing
ing the symbolism, themes, and correlations to me, torturing me with his violent promises, and
real-life situations without wondering if the mate- making others do his bidding for me. Controlling
rial used stayed true to a book(s). them like a demented puppet master. He made
me want to hurt those I cared about.
What have I become?
To make up for the choice, we made soda cock-
In second grade going on third, I’m waiting for the tails consisting of Coke, Sprite, Fanta, and whatev-
next book from Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Un- er else my mom purchased. If brave enough, one
fortunate Events to appear on the library's shelf. of us would mix everything on the folding table
No luck. The Hostile Hospital, The Vile Village, The together and face the sugar crash after an hour or
Reptile Room, The Miserable Mill. The librarian two.
says the next one will arrive sometime next week.
To lessen my impatience and slight disappoint- Five years have passed since the last time
ment, my mom takes me to Burger King for chick- I’ve done a hodgepodge soda cocktail. There’s a
en tenders and fries after she lets me check out metallic, heavy taste to drinks I once enjoyed.
the tenth book in the series: The Slippery Slope. “Drinking from the bottle is better,” I reasoned
It’s not the first time I’ve read the books out of with my mom, a bottle from Coke from the Mexi-
order. can supermarket in my hand. “The taste is
smooth and purer to me.”
Summer ends, and I’ve read all of the books in
Lemony Snicket’s saga. Two more would soon be I had only seen two movies that have been nomi-
written. Before I enter third grade, my mom and nated for Oscars this year. The posters Kendra
school librarian suggest I read books with hopeful pulled up on her iPhone were familiar to me, but
and happily-ever-after endings. In school, I read most movies I either had no interest in or no time
the American Girl books. My dad buys me hard- to see on my own at the time of release.
cover canvas books of the Grimm and Hans Chris-
tian fairytales at a bookstore on the military base. “You’re bad at this,” Miranda playfully chastised
me at the 1882 Grille on third street. “You need
My last slumber party was when I was fifteen to get more into the times.”
years old, but I only had five or six friends over as
opposed to ten or eleven friends. I made it a rule I had seen all but three movies she listed from the
that no horror movies would be allowed; I dealt 80s, 90s, and Disney movies on Miranda’s iPhone.
with nightmares of Chucky chasing me weeks
after my tenth birthday. Kendra soon criticized Miranda for having seen
Tim Burton’s “Sweeney Todd” as Miranda re-
vealed a clear distaste for violent movies.

148