Adelaide Literary Magazine No.23

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINE
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Year IV, Number 23, April 2019 Stevan V. Nikolic
Ano IV, Número 23, abril de 2019
[email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1-950437-61-0
ISBN-10: 1-950437-61-2 MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent inter-
national monthly publication, based in New York and GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Adelaide Books LLC, New York
Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to
publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and
book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We Nikki Petrie, Mario Perez, Sushant Leena,
seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfic- B. P. Herrington, David Robbins, Joann
tion, and poetry, and to promote the writers we Smith, Beth Goldner, Matthew Abuelo,
publish, helping both new, emerging, and Chris Cleary, Gary Jaycox, John Tavares,
established authors reach a wider literary audience. Jason Joyce, Forrest McElroy,
John Himmelheber, Liz Whitt,
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação Norbert Kovacs, Jasmine Dalrymple,
mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Keith Perkins, Connor Bowen,
Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic Virginia Davis, Sharon Frame Gay, Keay
e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da Davidson, Sara Cummings, John Garcia,
revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e Anahit Petrosyan, Steve Colori,
fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas,
artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e por- Anna Lindwasser, Jeremy Ford, Miles Ryan
tuguês. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e Fisher, JW Burns, Jacqueline Rosenbaum,
poesia excepcionais assim como promover os
escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores Wendy Thornton, Brian Riley, Kenneth
novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária Norris, Emanuele Pettener, Debra Basco,
mais vasta. Ana Lucia de Leon, Dan Cardoza, Vern Fein,
Wally Swist, Ruth Deming, Richard Dinges,
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)
Kathy Robertson, Makayla Minnich,
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York Elizabeth Spragins, Dominique Williams,
244 Fifth Avenue, Suite D27
New York NY, 10001 Carla Carlson, Gordon Roberts, Jared
e-mail: [email protected] Pearce, Steven Lebow, George Freek,
phone: (917) 477 8984 Richard LeDue, Trivarna Hariharan, Alex
http://adelaidebooks.org Bastianini, Okoli Stephen, Ashley Ener,
Omar Reyes, Allie Rigby, James Evan Gates,
Copyright © 2019 by Adelaide Literary Magazine Kyle Doty, Eileen Flaxman, Anya Lofamia,

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may Aaron Fischer
be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission from the Adelaide Literary Maga-
zine Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quo-
tations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

EDITOR'S NOTES LETTERS TO JULIA by Sara Cummings 125
ON HOPE By Stevan V. Nikolic 5 THE COMPANY HE KEEPS by John Garcia 130
WANTED MAN by Anahit Petrosyan 136
FICTION CHANGING LANGUAGE by Steve Colori 141
THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM by Nikki Petrie 7 CANCERPHOBIA by Anna Lindwasser 143
DOG EAT DOG by Mario Perez 9 BROTHERS by Jeremy Ford 151
THE FIFTH DIRECTION by Sushant Leena 14 THE GOOD SHEPHERD
BY NO MEANS by B. P. Herrington 18 by Miles Ryan Fisher 158
NINE / TEN by David Robbins 24 ALL SHOOK UP by JW Burns 167
SOMETHING GRAND by Joann Smith 32 A TABLE SET FOR FIVE
DROVE MY CHEVY TO THE LEVEE BUT by Jacqueline Rosenbaum 169
THE LEVEE WAS DRY by Beth Goldner 40 THOSE LOVELY FAMILY MOMENTS
ONE NIGHT IN A NAMELESS TOWN by Wendy Thornton 172
by Matthew Abuelo 48 CONFETTI PINK AND ASHY by Brian Riley 177
THE WAYS OF FISH by Chris Cleary 54
A TABLE, FOR TWO by Gary Jaycox 58 NONFICTION
FAITH AND DESTINY by John Tavares 63 UNITY by Kenneth Norris 186
THREE STORIES by Jason Joyce 71 OSCAR WILDE IN BOCA
THE HARD WALK by Forrest McElroy 74 by Emanuele Pettener 187
DISTRACTIONS by John Himmelheber 77 THE SUICIDE OF MY YOUTH
IMAGE AND VOICE by Liz Whitt 79 by Debra Basco 189
HORSE AND GARDEN by Norbert Kovacs 83 THE COFFEE PLANTATION
SWEET DREAMS by Jasmine Dalrymple 91 by Ana Lucia de Leon 192
THE WASATCH by Keith Perkins 94 THAT SATURDAY by Dan Cardoza 195
OUT THE ROAD by Connor Bowen 99 PARTY OFF by Vern Fein 197
A MAN LIKE HENRY by Virginia Davis 108 NOVEL AS PAINTING by Wally Swist 199
ROAD RAGE by Sharon Frame Gay 114 WILL I DIE OF HEAT STROKE?
BOSON’S BEST by Keay Davidson 120 By Ruth Deming 202

POETRY NEW TITLES
TWILIGHT by Richard Dinges 205
INTO THE BLIZZARD SALT OF THE NATION by Matt Bloom 266
by Kathy Robertson 208
WHISPERS by Makayla Minnich 210 OPEN DOOR AND OTHER STORIES OF 267
GRANITE by Elizabeth Spragins 212 LOVE AND YEARNING
OPEN BOOK by Dominique Williams 214 by Joram Piatigorsky
IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD
by Carla Carlson 219 BLINK IG YOU LOVE ME 268
IN ANOTHER MAN’S POEM by David Moscovich
by Gordon Roberts 223
ALL THIS LOVE by Jared Pearce 227 COUCHSURFING: THE MUSICAL 269
CERTAIN THINGS by Steven Lebow 230 by Gary Pedler
NOTHING LEFT TO SAY by George Freek 231
LONELINESS IS RARELY IMAGINED OF BREEDING AND BIRTH by Rita Baker 270
by Richard LeDue 233
SONATA by Trivarna Hariharan 235 TRAVERSE by W.A. Holdsworth 271
BLAKEAN REPROSE by Alex Bastianini 236
I AM AN AFRICAN by Okoli Stephen 238
ALIVE DAY by Ashley Ener 240
TEENAGE ANGST by Omar Reyes 244
HONEY JARS II by Allie Rigby 246
SHE IS A WOMAN by James Evan Gates 249
CEILING FAN by Kyle Doty 251
Selections from CALL ME ISHMAEL’S
APPRENTICE by Eileen Flaxman 255
FRACTIONS by Anya Lofamia 258
ORANGES AND LEMONS
by Aaron Fischer 261

ON HOPE

In Greek mythology, Pandora, the first wom- hope seem to be a psychological necessity, if
an, opened a jar (pithos), sometimes translat- man is to envisage the future at all.
ed as "Pandora's box" , releasing all the evils of
mankind, leaving only Hope inside once she Often, such hope, even when it appears to
had closed it again. As it was told in the story, be justified, is transient and illusory. Thereby,
she opened the jar out of curiosity and not as there is a term "false hope" which refers to a
a mischievous act. The myth of Pandora is an- hope based entirely around a fantasy or an
cient, appears in several distinct Greek ver- extremely unlikely outcome.
sions, and has been interpreted in many ways.
It is quite interesting that old Greeks consid- Some scholars say that hope appears in our
ered Hope as an evil, which is completely op- lives when the circumstances are dire, when
posite to the Christian understanding where things are not going well or at least there is
the concept of Hope is considered one of the considerable uncertainty about how things will
three theological virtues of the Christian reli- turn out. Psychologist, C.R. Snyder says that
gion. "Hope is an essential and fundamental hope is cultivated when we have a goal in
element of Christian life, so essential indeed, mind, determination that a goal can be
that, like faith and love, it can itself designate reached, and a plan on how to reach that goal".
the essence of Christianity". Hopeful people are "like the little engine that
could, (because) they keep telling themselves
As modern psychology would define it, "I think I can, I hope I will".
hope is the emotional state, the opposite of
which is despair, which promotes the belief in a It is important to note that a hope is differ-
positive outcome related to events and circum-
stances in one's life. It is the "feeling that what ent from positive thinking, which refers to a
is wanted can be had or that events will turn
out for the best" or the act of "looking forward particular state of mind, as well as therapeutic
to with desire and reasonable confidence" or
"feeling that something desired may happen". or systematic process used in psychology for
Other definitions are "to cherish a desire with
anticipation"; "to desire with expectation of reversing pessimism.
obtainment"; or "to expect with confidence".
According to the Holman Bible Dictionary,
Defined in the Webster’s dictionary as
“expectation, a desire for some good, accom- hope is a "trustful expectation, particularly
panied with at least a slight expectation of ob-
taining it, or a belief that it is obtainable, confi- with reference to the fulfillment of God's
dence in a future event, the highest degree of
well founded expectation of good, a feeling promises. Hope is the anticipation of a favora-
that something desirable is likely to happen”,
ble outcome under God's guidance... the confi-

dence that what God has done for us in the

past guarantees our participation in what God

will do in the future.”

The author of the book of Romans, Paul the
Apostle wrote that hope was a source of salva-
tion for Christians. Romans 8:24-25 states "For
in hope we have been saved, but hope that is
seen is not hope; for why does one also hope

for what he sees? 25 But if we hope for what
we do not see, with perseverance we wait ea-
gerly for it".

Hope is a common theme and often a key
concept in the works of fiction, and has a
strong place in western literature as well as in
both classical and contemporary works of
world literature.

For those searching for the higher meaning
of life, it would seem essential to lean on the
hope on their path often covered with mist of
the unknown before them. Faith in the unseen
and hope of finding it is what moves pil-
grims for centuries in their quests, without
any expectation of reward other than the un-
derstanding of Creation.

We often assume that our “free will” or
our determination will give us the advantage
in bringing our plans to fruition, trying to

make consciences choices that will place our
hope in certain achievements in more rational
frame of mind, only to find that frequently
things and events in our lives happen beyond
and above our field of influence, directed by
the cosmic order of things, that we refer to, in
a lack of other word, as to a destiny. Those
who believe in the power of God Almighty
speak of it as “God’s plan for us”. Whatever it
is, hope is the indispensable part of our exist-
ence which gives us strength to endure
through the numerous challenges of life.

THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM

by Nikki Petrie

He made himself promise never to come home never do it again. He wanted her to know he
again three years ago. It was the fifth time he had moved on. He was no longer a victim stuck
promised himself that but it was the first time in her cycle of abuse.
he meant it. He was done with the anger, the
apologies, the forgiveness, and the betrayal. He He wondered if some part of her would be
stopped hoping—stopped wishing for another proud of him, not that she’d every admit it
life. He had accepted she was an alcoholic first because that would mean admitting she was a
and a mother second. problem in the first place and denial ran
through her veins as much as liquor. She had a
It didn’t hurt like it used to; it was more of a tendency to wallow in the tragedy of the past,
dull ache from a wound healed over but not clinging to a drink while claiming she was
forgotten. He tried as best he could to separate better than the people who hurt her. Some-
himself from his history, to try and break free times he thinks it’s true what people say, ‘third
of a cycle that had haunted his mother’s child- times a charm’. It took his grandfather drinking
hood just as much as his own. He moved to the away the pain of his wife leaving him and tak-
suburbs, where he could walk through grass ing that betrayal out on his daughter for his
fields and watch children play in the streets. He daughter to believe she led a different life
liked to imagine having his own children play- while falling into the exact same narrative for
ing in the street outside his house while he and her son to see through the dangerous nature of
his wife watched from the front porch—one pain. Instead of drinking, he saw a therapist.
day. He believed there was life out there for Instead of anger, he mourned. He let sadness
him which didn’t consist of empty beer bottles consume him for a time—feeling the heart-
and disappointment. break, the betrayal, all the pain that had accu-
mulated throughout his life—and then he saw
Some days were hard. Some days his fin- all the hope, all the happiness that was still out
gers itched to dial his mother’s number and there.
then when she inevitably didn’t answer, he’d
dial the landlord of her building who normally He’s had a complicated past, one with more
brought her inside when she passed out in the tragedy than triumph, but he’s learned not to
hallway—too drunk to find the right apart- dwell on things that can’t be changed. He only
ment. He didn’t know what he hoped to ac- has control over himself and the path he takes.
complish by talking with her. Their relationship
only ever consisted of him picking up the piec-
es of everything she broke: vases, relation-
ships, herself. He felt no need to sweep her up
into something resembling a person anymore.
If anything he wanted her to know he would

About the Author:

Nikki Petrie is an up-and-coming writer and
photographer. Switching between mediums of
expression, she tries to connect readers to inti-
mate moments, feelings, and relationships ex-
perienced throughout life. She has her own
website at www.nikkipetrie.com where she
posts photos regularly and a piece of writing
about every couple of weeks. You can also find
her work on Tumblr at www.nikkipetrie.tumblr.com
and Instagram @_nikkipetrie_.

DOG EAT DOG

by Mario Perez

A bleak fog was fixed above the mountains more interested in the food on the gravel floor.
outside Dishusan. It was a cold morning, caus- Her ribcage was visible and looked like a xylo-
ing Xu to tighten the neck of his army jacket. phone. The dogs were starting to trail off, seek-
The road outside town resembled an empty ing out more food elsewhere. She dragged her
conveyer belt. He kept close to the edge of the fat nose along his shoes, startling him. Hesi-
it, listening for the echoes of motorists who tantly, he reached down to pet her. She
buzzed along the mountain. A club was tucked snarled at him and snapped at his fingers. Half
inside the jacket, still incrusted with bits of her teeth were missing while the other half
blood. Xu unsheathed the weapon as he got were pitch black. Her eyes, brown with green
closer to the ditch that dipped below ground leaves dusting the edges, glared at him with
level. It was a prime spot for mangy mutts look- anger. He lifted the club above his shoulders
ing for trash. He got twenty-five per dog from but he didn’t want to use it, couldn’t. It was a
Gao Xiao, the local gangster slash butcher who girl, a scared little girl. She was someone’s
supplied all the meat to the top restaurants in daughter. There was a mother and father out
town. He had to be discreet since people didn’t there looking for her and there she was. She
like to know they were eating dog, but didn’t calmed a bit, slouching her shoulders and
mind not knowing they were eating dog. When nudging his leg lovingly. Her stomach growled.
Xu peeked in he saw a corgi with patches of fur Xu dropped to a knee,
missing, a bull dog with three legs, a greyhound
with only one good eye, and a small girl in a “What’s your name?”
dirty white t-shirt on all fours.
She licked his face.
They didn’t stir as he slid in. A foul stench
filled his nose as he crept over to them. He had “Where are you from?”
a firm grip on the club in case one of the dogs
attacked. The dogs whined and backed away a She lifted her leg and let out a fart.
few paces, but the girl took advantage and
chewed into a bag of chips. Rubbing his eyes There was a chance someone in town knew
and slapping his cheeks, he looked again, but her parents. A car dashed by up on the road.
she was still a girl, a human girl. She was about An empty bottle crashed a few feet away. She
five years old. There were scrapes at her el- cowered into his arms, shaking.
bows and knees, dried blood near her lips, and
greasy dirt stains all across her face. Her hair *
was damp and tangled, reaching the lower end
of her back. He called out to her, Meimei The men who really know Gao Xiao called him
Meimei, he whispered, but she didn’t respond, Big Chief, on account of how massive his body
was. His saggy face was flustered by the excess
of liquor he drank with his clients. The restau-
rant was empty by the time Xu shambled in

with Meimei. He had found a rope on the road trying to quell its fear. The dog whimpered and
and used it as a dog collar, tugging her along moaned, but couldn’t move. Taking out a
with him all the way to town. Meimei barked at curved blade that was so sharp it could rupture
strangers and passing cars every chance she skin the moment it touched, a Mongolian blade
got. Xu wrestled to keep her close, choking her used for torture, he said, Gao Xiao would cut
with the rope accidently. He felt horrible drag- from head to tail one smooth slit, removing the
ging her like that, but she wouldn’t let him car- skin as if he were taking a shirt off his son. The
ry her, nor would she stand on two feet. It felt dog’s eyes bulged from their exposed sockets,
wrong for Meimei to crawl on all fours to town, meat and veins pulsing red. He then took time
but no one seemed to mind. Gao Xiao had two dicing up all the meat that was available on the
problems with Meimei: first was that she was dog, every inch, tossing each piece into a bin
all skin and bones, no meat to be seen, second, that contained other pieces of animals. All that
that Xu decided to name her which was a clear was left was the skeleton when he was done.
lack of professionalism on his part. Gao Xiao Xu imagined Meimei on that chopping board,
sat at a round glass table which had plates still stained from the last dog. The shrill music
filled with bones, vegetables, noodles, and being turned up and her naked body lying ex-
empty glasses tipped over and dripping. He posed while Gao brought his thick lips close to
lifted one of the plates of meat and gently her ear telling her it’ll be okay as he lifted the
placed it in front of Meimei’s wet nose. She jagged Mongolian blade behind his back where
dipped her head and viciously chewed at the she couldn’t see. She’d stretch her limbs out
food on the plate. This was his method. “That’s and guard her eyes with her fingers trying to
a nice one,” he conceded, “Maybe with time it say something but nothing would come out. Xu
will grow big and plump and be of use.” Gao yanked Meimei’s rope and dragged her out of
Xiao fumbled into his pocket and pulled out a the restaurant as quickly as possible, retreating
crisp one hundred RMB note. The waiters were from Gao’s booming voice.
smoking cigarettes in the back and playing
cards. There was a pile of cash in the middle of *
the table. They shouted at one another and
slammed the cards onto the damp table while His mother was preparing dinner when he
letting out a thunderous shout. Gao Xiao was walked in the house. She immediately shouted
petting Meimei with his huge hand, shaking her at him from the kitchen, asking why he wasn’t
wet hair lazily and saying sweet things to her. in school. Meimei dragged her nose through-
He did this with all the dogs Xu brought in be- out the room, bumping into chairs and boxes
fore he skinned them. Xu had watched him left exposed. The house was a modest cement
prepare a dog for slaughter before. First, he’d building, one floor, with three walls blocking
offer it a plate of food, petting it lovingly, mas- off three rooms. The curtains were drawn to let
saging its head. A dog had to be happy so the the grainy sun sprinkle onto the red rugs. His
meat would be tender, he’d say. After petting it mother stomped into the room in an apron,
to calm its nerves, Gao Xiao would hook a col- sandals, and a green dress she had bought
lar to it, lift the plate that the animal was from a shop in Shanghai. She talked about
chomping on, and cradling it in his arms like a Shanghai a lot, the style, the fast life, and the
child. He gently placed it on a chopping board endless tall buildings. When she was young,
in the back. After nudging the dial of the old the city was so vibrant, and she’d spend nights
radio to play his favorite American pop songs, with her friends smoking cigarettes and listen-
he’d begin: first draining the dog by poking it in ing to jazz music in bars. That was before his
the paw and letting the blood spill into a bowl dad swooped her up thanks to her parents
which he used for another dish, pressing seeking single men for their aging daughter in
weight onto the dog’s back and caressing it, the park. She couldn’t say no, she was getting
old, 29 years old to be exact, and most Chinese

men wouldn’t have bothered with her. She was There were three men drinking beers outside
tainted, used up. Xu’s father told her about this the police station. They slumped into lawn
town, encompassed by mountains, and it chairs yelling at one another, shifting their
sounded like a fairytale place, but when she seats each time the sun moved so they’d be
got here she realized a place in the mountains consumed by its rays. The door to the station
means a place with nothing. was closed. They wore regular clothes and did-
n’t notice Xu coming until he was at their backs
His mother was stunned, gripping the edges with Meimei sniffing at their boots.
of the doorframe in fright. Meimei was chew-
ing on a shirt that had been left on a chair, “You got a permit for that dog kid?” The
gnawing at it with the teeth she had. “Where? cop with a baseball cap snorted as Meimei
Why did you bring that home?” She finally said, licked the sole of his shoe.
an extended finger piercing Meimei, “Take it
out now before it gets use to this place. This Xu shook his head. “You don’t need a per-
isn’t a home for pets. I have enough on my mit to be a girl.”
plate raising a rowdy son, I don’t need a mangy
mutt pissing and shitting on my floors.” She “Girl?” Shouted the fat one whose shirt
wouldn’t step into the room with Meimei curled above his gut revealing a hairy belly
there. Her face was bleached white with fear. button. “I don’t see a girl. I see a dog.”
She hyperventilated, grasping her chest as if
she just saw a ghost. Xu bent down and looked “Just look at her,” Xu shouted, but just as
at Meimei again, really looked at her, and yes it he said this Meimei barked at a squirrel that
was true, she was in fact a girl and not a dog. darted up a tree. She orbited the trunk for a
Why can’t they see her? Xu told his mother bit, gnawing on the bark. “I mean, look close-
how he found her among a pack of dogs in a ly,” he reiterated.
ditch, how it wasn’t right for a girl to walk on
all fours and piss in the streets, how she was “Sure acts like one…” baseball cap
someone’s daughter, and there may be a fami- muttered.
ly looking for her somewhere. His mother
cleared her throat, “There isn’t anyone looking “Smells like one too…” the fat one chuck-
for…it,” she chose her words concisely, “take it led.
back to where you found it. It doesn’t belong
here.” The door closed which meant end of “But she has fingers, not paws. She has no
discussion. Meimei had found a rubber ball Xu fur, but skin. And look at the way her nose
had played with as a child behind the sofa. It doesn’t jut out like other dogs’.”
was the size of an orange. She batted it with
her palms, back and forth, smiling widely each “Look kid,” baseball cap said inching for-
time it rolled past her nose. The ball drifted in ward in his chair, “What is one big difference
his direction. He dropped to the floor and vol- between us men and dogs? Think about it,
leyed it to Meimei who happily trapped it and yeah, speech. We talk with words, big words,
pushed it back. Meimei eventually got bored, and animals, all they got is that annoying bark
let the ball pass, and sniffed her way to the that means nothing. So let’s see if your girl can
table to piss beneath it. The golden pool of understand what it all means.”
urine grew to the size of a plate before ceasing.
Xu chased her out of the house and cleaned it Baseball cap whistled to Meimei, calling her
with a mop before leaving. over. She shambled to his fingers, giving them
a good sniff. “What’s your name girl? Where
* are you from?” Baseball cap was mocking Xu,
“Is this bad kid bothering - ouch!” Meimei bit
his hand hard sending him toppling off the
lawn chair, hitting his face on the dirt floor. She
let out a plethora of rapid barks. The others

laughed so hard tears collected on their “Are you guys even police officers?” Xu
cheeks. Baseball cap erupted to his feet, said, exasperated.
reached into his jacket and pulled out a huge
knife. It was thick with jagged edges. His eyes “Who said anything about police officers?”
were bloodshot and his arm quivered. Xu baseball cap snorted. “As for her, she’s your
grasped for Meimei and held her tight. He did- problem now haha…”
n’t want to see her die. Xu could feel Meimei’s
heartbeat and it was erratic. Baseball cap’s arm They exploded in laughter. Shuffling in their
eventually went limp, he righted his lawn chair, chairs, but never rising to their feet. Xu took
and caved into it. Meimei in his arms, she was crying, and he
carried her away from their harsh cackling voic-
“Nothing but a mangy dog,” baseball cap es. The night was coming and she had no
muttered. “Better off letting it go into the wild home. The mountains resembled the bottom
where it belongs.” part of a dirty jaw as the sun sank, creating
canine shadows, shadows that were ready to
The group grew quiet, slurping their beer devour them both whole.
bottles and scratching their chins. The sun kept
ticking across the sky. The shadows spread like *
wings on the ground. There were a few ped-
dlers selling fruit on the street. Their selection Night swept into town like a procession. He felt
was covered in dust. each step. His head rolled along his shoulders.
A group of men were squatting over a wooden
Xu felt rushed: “At least find out if there is a table with cigarettes in their mouths watching
family looking for her. She must have come them as they crept by. Xu thought about going
from someone, that’s how we are all brought back to the ditch where he found her and leav-
into this place.” ing the girl there, maybe that was best for her,
best for him. He would go back to hunting dogs
They laughed again, much harder than be- tomorrow. He’d get his club from the bush he
fore. “Sorry to break it to you kid, but parents threw it in and smash their skulls in, tossing
toss out newborn girls as soon as they pop out, them in a bag, and collecting the money from
at least that’s what I hear,” baseball cap Gao Xiao. The image of Meimei sprawled out
smirked. on the chopping board to be skinned alive blos-
somed like an old polaroid. Xu lunged for a
The fat one nodded his bowling ball dome, cement stoop and let out an exhausted yawn.
“Yeah, men are the prize, just like when there He stretched his legs and arms. He peered out
used to be kings. Women just don’t offer the into the expanding road. It looked like a vast
world nothing.” black sea. He’s never seen a sea before.
Meimei sniffed her way to his lap and settled
“Except to become prostitutes maybe ha- comfortably within it, snoring almost immedi-
ha.” ately. Her bony back ululated beneath his
palm. He got used to her smell, it was almost
Baseball cap finished his beer and rolled it heavenly. It felt much warmer with her there.
on the cement floor. It landed in the gutter Her body quivered occasionally as she sank
where there were more empty bottles clanking deeper into his legs. Xu felt sleep slipping be-
in the wind. A woman came over with a huge neath his eye lids too. His muscles relaxed, he
cloth sack, her back bent forward permanently settled against the doorframe, and just as he
like a sickle. The clothes she had on hung off was about to doze he heard a whistle. It was
her, tattered and rancid. She picked up the faint, so faint Xu thought he dreamt it. But
bottles with her hands and placed them in the then it came again, a steady melody, gracefully
sack. Xu watched until she packed each one lifting from the ambiance like a cloud of smoke.
inside and quietly shuffled off.

He blinked into the darkness, trying to discern lips. From time to time the little girl would peel
where it was coming from. Gao was sitting on a back a page and they’d continue on. He shiv-
lone table outside a restaurant smoking a ciga- ered when the wind stirred, reminding him
rette. He was staring at Xu, puckering his lips, where he was. Eventually, his hand slapped the
like he was calling a lover. Xu gently lifted money on the table, he stuck it in his pocket,
Meimei in his arms and carried her to the chair and found his way home.
across the table, setting her back on his lap
calmly so she wouldn’t wake up. Gao took a End.
second to settle the final taste of the cigarette,
grinding it into the wood before flicking it off About the Author:
onto the street. Xu shifted in his seat. He no-
ticed his fingers were grasping Meimei’s. Mario Trinidad Perez is a south side Chicago
guy at heart, but he threw a dart at the world
“Dogs are a burden boy,” Gao nodded to in his mid-twenties and ended up in the middle
himself, rubbing his second chin. “They grow of China where he has been on and off ever
big, give you those adorable eyes, eat all your since. He collects all the stories he hears and
food, take all your love, and die.” scribbles them on little notebooks he buys
from different countries. Only a few of them
There was movement in the atmosphere, as are legible.
if the night was collapsing onto him, about to
choke him. He held her hand tighter.

“You must mold them the right way, to
know their place, and then maybe they can be
of use.”

Immense force pressed onto him. They bur-
ied their nails into his shoulders and pried his
arms free. Xu let out a muted moan. One of the
men wrapped Meimei in a blanket and lifted
her, trying not to awake her. Xu tried to
scream, but they stuck a sock in his mouth. The
man had Meimei in his arms, carrying her into
the night until she faded like a dying match.

“It’s a dog eat dog world boy,” Gao huffed,
rising from the table. The men were still forcing
him in his seat. Gao threw a stack of one hun-
dred RMB notes on the table. “This is for good
faith. If you find any more dogs, you know who
to find.”

He spat out the sock when they let him go,
but he didn’t move from the seat. The huge
rectangular window from the restaurant had a
warm honey glow. Inside were numerous
wooden tables scattered like missing teeth. He
noticed a woman with flecks of grey in her hair
arched over a small girl with a book spread out
on the table. They were reading the story to-
gether, he could tell by the movement of their

THE FIFTH DIRECTION

by Sushant Leena

My father was an introvert. After the death of him in a voice choked with emotion. He could
grandfather , the responsibility of cultivation have said," I'll let the wind take my balloon in
had fallen on his shoulders. But, he was not the direction it blows." But,he said," I'll not go
happy with his present life. Often, I felt as if he in either of the four directions -- east, west,
wanted to do something else. Probably, he had north or south. I'll take my own decision re-
some other aim in his life . My mother was garding my direction."
more practical than my father. The work of
looking after the farming was taken over by my The wind must have been still that day as
mother and her brother. So, things went on father's hot-air balloon rose straight above the
smoothly in the household . ground -- in a fifth direction.

I was fourteen years old at that time and stud- Soon, the balloon had risen far above in the
ied in the village school. One day, father an- deep blue sky. It hovered on the threshold of
nounced that he would make a 'hot-air balloon' invisibility. I thought, soon it will be lost to
and would go up in the sky in it. People were sight. Surprisingly, it did not fade away but
aghast when they heard about it. Some said, he seemed to hang there forever.
had lost his balance of mind. Others wanted
the village-shaman to treat him. Mother con- Till evening, we all waited with palpitating
sidered this an eccentricity of father and tried hearts for the hot-air balloon carrying father to
to stop him but father refused to budge. melt into oblivion . However, contrary to our
apprehension , the balloon -- now a distant
On the due day, father reached the village- presence -- remained suspended in the azure
ground along with his hot-air balloon. Half the sky . As night fell, we returned home .
village followed him to the ground. Mother
was crying. Father took hold of her hands and I ran towards father's room and picked up
said something softly to her. Then he turned the letter written by him from under the pil-
towards me. low .

" Take care of your mother , dear. " He put In that letter, father had written," Son, any-
his hands on my head and said lovingly to me," one who wants to do something different is
I have left a letter for you under the pillow. You considered an eccentric in the beginning. But,
will understand everything once you read it ." our own dreams can be realized only by us .
Then he kissed me on the forehead . Never allow the direction to decide your desti-
nation . Always take your own decision in this
A lump swelled up in my throat. Tears matter. Just because everyone else is going
welled up in my eyes. somewhere doesn't mean it is the right direc-
tion for you too...."
" Which way will you go, father? " I asked

I could not sleep that night. At the break of hot-air balloon could then be seen still hanging
dawn , I ran towards the village-ground. It was determinedly in the distant sky . I intensely felt
still there -- the hot-air ballon of father. Sus- father's absence during such times . There was
pended in mid-air in the deep blue sky at the no one now to narrate folk-tales to me . There
the threshold of invisibility . What a miracle it was no one now to tell me new things about
was . I was amazed . Indeed, father had not birds, fish , flora and fauna .
gone anywhere . He was still there in the large
basket attached to the hot-air balloon. Looking People in the village said all kinds of things
benignly at us from high above . about my father. Some said," God might have
appeared in his dreams . May be, he wanted to
Several days had passed. But, father's hot- go to heaven in flesh and blood . " Others said,
air balloon hung there tenaciously . Suspended " He was an escapist . He could not face the
in mid-air . On the tenth day, our relatives and harsh reality of world and decided to run
the village elders arranged a helicopter from away . " Some others said," He was an idler
the nearby town . I accompanied them in the and a day-dreamer who lost his balance of
helicopter as it flew towards father's balloon . mind . "

We wanted to talk to father and convince I would often worry about father. How was
him to come down . But, it never happened . he coping with the terrible loneliness high
Surprisingly , even after a few hours of our above? The elements of nature must have tak-
flight , father's balloon remained as distant as it en their toll on his health. If he fell ill, who
was at the start of our journey . We were all would take care of him? Did he ever remember
perplexed . As the helicopter could soon run us ?
out of fuel, we decided to turn back .
One year had passed since that fateful day
After this strange incident , mother and when father had gone up in the hot-air bal-
other relatives organized a ' yajna ' and special loon . People in the household did not talk
prayers at the village temple so that father about him now . But, I still remembered him
could get rid of evil spirits and come back . fondly. Often, I would sob alone in the desolate
However, father's hot-air balloon remained emptiness of night. His absence had left a void
fixed where it was . in my life that was hard to fill.

A month had gone by. My concern for fa- One day, all of a sudden, leaflets started
ther was increasing day by day . He must have falling in the village ground . I rushed there and
exhausted the food-stuff, fruits and water he immediately recognized father's handwriting
had carried along with him. How was he sus- on those leaflets. Many other curious villagers
taining himself ? had also gathered there by now.We took those
leaflets to the village headman . In those
Sometimes, I would quietly slip out of the leaflets, father had cautioned us about the im-
house in the thick of night and go to the village pending floods in river Teesta flowing by the
ground . I had this vague hope that father may village . He had advised all of us to leave the
come down in the pitch darkness of low-lying areas immediately and shift to the
night .Once or twice , I thought I saw a shad- higher ground .
owy figure resembling father in the ground . Or
was it an illusion ? I could not be sure who it In the meeting called by the village head-
was in the dim light of stars . Was it really fa- man , many skeptics dubbed it another eccen-
ther or was it just my wishful thinking playing tricity of father. However, on the advice of the
tricks on my tired senses ? village elders , people decided to move to high-
er ground . As prophecied by father , river
Time passed . Winter had set in . The veil of Teesta was in spate the third day . Luckily, due
fog would lift only in the afternoon. Father's to father's timely forecast, no lives were lost .

After this incident , it became a practice . these years, I continued to pray for his well-
We used to find leaflets in father's handwriting being.
strewn across the village ground before any
impending natural calamity. These timely fore- Time flew. My son had grown up now and
casts saved us from disasters . Our village was my mother had aged considerably. One night,
located at the mouth of the river. Due to accu- father appeared in my dream. He looked very
rate fore-warnings given by father , we were old, frail and ill.
able to take precautionary measures a number
of times when cyclones from sea hit our area . I was deeply moved. I thought, the time for
Father also provided us prior information re- action had come. He was my father. I always
garding the impending attack of locusts on our wanted to do something for him. I did not want
standing crops . His reassuring presence high to see him suspended in mid-air forever. I
above was God-like to us . wanted to free him from such a destiny.

It was the year 1970. India had not I built a hot-air balloon. I wrote a letter to
launched the INSAT series weather satellites till father thanking him for his services. All the
then which could provide us with accurate villagers signed or put their thumb-impressions
weather forecasts. Television was not common on that letter. I tied the letter to the hot-air
in Indian homes at that time. The work of balloon and took it to the village ground. Years
providing reliable information regarding ago, father had gone up in his hot-air balloon
weather was not an easy task during those from the same spot. I untied the rope holding
years. the hot-air balloon and it rose above. The wind
must have been still. My hot-air balloon too did
We were all amazed at the accuracy of fa- not go in either of the four directions -- east,
ther's forecasts. How did he do that? I was still west, north or south. It rose straight above the
nursing a faint hope that father would return ground in the direction of father's balloon -- in
one day. But, it did not happen. His distant the fifth direction.
presence was only a partial solace to us .
In the letter addressed to father and tied to
Time had grown wings. After completing the balloon, I had written," Father, you've ably
my studies from the village school , I shifted to shouldered this responsibility on your part for
the nearby town to pursue higher education in years . People of the village are grateful to you.
the college. Then I moved on to the university. It is my turn now. I have got a degree in mete-
I was lucky to get the job of my liking there- orology . I have been appointed an officer in
after. I took mother along with me. After some this department in our area. I'll now take the
time, I got married to a homely woman. And help of images obtained from satellites to pro-
then, I was blessed with a son. But, all of us vide accurate weather forecasts . Father, you
made it a point to visit our village at least once are free. Let me shoulder this responsibility
a year. Father's hot-air balloon could still be now ."
seen suspended in the deep-blue sky at the
threshold of invisibility. I had a sound sleep that night. I dreamt of
father again. He had a contented look on his
Many villagers would come to us and claim face. He kissed me on the forehead.
that they had often seen a shadowy figure re-
sembling father roaming in the village streets Next morning, I went to the village ground.
in the dark nights. Was it father searching for I had binoculars with me. I gazed far and wide
fuel and foodstuff in the dead of night or was it at the sky in every direction. Father's hot-air
just a figment of people's imagination? This balloon was nowhere to be seen . The blue of
remained a mystery . But, father continued to the sky looked deeper that day. The sunlight
work for the welfare of the villagers. During all felt warmer that day.

In the letter addressed to father, I had also About the Author:
written, " Father, your grand-son has grown-up
now. He does not want to become a doctor or S.Sushant was born in Patna ( India ) on
an engineer or a lawyer. He does not want to 28.03.1968 . He was brought up in Amritsar ,
pursue an M.B.A. degree and earn a fat pay- Punjab ( India ) . He had his school education
package of lakhs of rupees per month by work- from St. Francis school, Amritsar and gradua-
ing in a multi-national company . He does not tion from D.A.V. College, Amritsar . He topped
want to go in either of these four directions . in G.N.D. University, Amritsar, in Pre-
He has nursed a dream since his childhood . He University, B.A. ( English ) Honours, and M.A.
wants to be a space-traveller. He is pursuing a English . He also topped in University of Delhi
degree in Astro-physics in the university... to go ( India ) in M.A. Linguistics. He was lecturer in
in a fifth direction. " English for a few years in D. A. V. College, Jalan-
dhar , Punjab ( India ) . The English translations
No one ever saw father's hot-air balloon of his poems and short-stories have been pub-
after that day. I'm sure, wherever he may be, lished in several literary magazines and news-
his soul is at peace now. papers in India and abroad . He is author of an
English poetry collection " In Gandhi's Country
". He is an established and reputed poet and
author in Hindi ( He writes in Hindi as Sushant
Supriy ) with several collections of short-stories
and poetry to his credit. He presently works as
an officer in Lok Sabha Secretariat , Parliament
of India , New Delhi ( India ) . Sushant lives with
his wife Leena and two children Vinaayak and
Aanya in Indirapuram, Ghaziabad, India

BY NO MEANS

by B. P. Herrington

The fly skittering across the sales counter fid- scored a web of creases across his face. His
dled its forelegs and sprang up in an aimless course dingy white hair swept up from his
drift. In the acrid odor of fertilizer and feed, crown to a point like a yellow onion. “Need
Davis slouched at the register, counting the four rolls of five-foot mesh fence. Hunnerd
seconds until the fly alighted, and each time it foot roll. Galvanized.” As the boy scribbled the
rose he began his count again. When at last order, the old man offered, “Dead tree fell on
the fly lazed and cocked its head, Davis tightly the coop.”
rolled the local paper and swatted a second too
late. He unfurled the pages and whipped “Yes, sir,” the boy said, not listening.
through them, dreading more reports of old “Anything else?”
classmates out in the world making the dean’s
list, joining firms, marrying sweethearts, war- “Ten of them fifty pound sacks of layer
ring in distant deserts. He flipped to the classi- feed.”
fieds, lingering on one perpetual advertise-
ment—a grainy black-and-white photo of busi- “Yes, sir. Ten bags.” The boy jotted down
nessmen shaking hands—that touted mastery the order, cutting a quick whistle through his
of salesmanship in only six weeks for a fee that teeth. “Once you got ten bags you gonn’ be
Davis could never afford. The fly looped in the good and set. Might not see you for a while.”
glare of the long storefront windows where
sunlight washed out scraggly pastures across McCormick chewed on the inside of his
the highway. cheek and swung his head. “Heart gets weaker
and weaker.” He pressed his rusty hands into
Davis jumped when the cowbell on the the small of his back. “Cain’t make the trip so
door jangled. A stooped shadow limped out of much.” As the boy worked out the figures on
the sunlight. Davis grunted as he rose, having the receipt pad, the pencil lead scratched like a
gained thirty-six pounds in the four years since loud whisper. McCormick dug his freckled fin-
high school. His eyes adjusted and he called, gers into his billfold and tugged out three fad-
“Morning, Mr. McCormick. Thought we would ed one hundred-dollar bills. He pinched coins
have seen you Monday. Like usual.” out of his front pocket and laid the exact
change on the boy’s palm. Sweat seeped down
The old man hollered from halfway across the old man’s furrowed face. His sun-darkened
the floor, “Had to go into town and see the skin drained green. “Wisht I had a extry pair of
doctor. Ain’t one thing, it’s another.” When hands unloading all this out at the house.”
he reached the register, McCormick planted his McCormick swayed like a tree and caught hold
scarred hands on the counter and caught his of the counter.
breath. Years of work and sun and worry had
The slouching boy jerked upright and put
out his hand just short of touching the old man.

The boy’s ears burned with a flustering surge of R. B. craned his neck but got no reply. His lips
pity. “I could run them by after my shift.” cinched tight in anger and he ran off at last,
tripping as he had before.
The old man shook out his crumpled hand-
kerchief and dabbed his face. He chewed his The cowbell died against the door. Davis
cheek, not looking Davis in the eye. “Oh, thank unfolded the old bills. Three hunnerd dollars.
you, son.” He drew a wheezing breath and They were soft as water between his fingers.
turned away. He envisioned himself in the grainy advertise-
ment from the classifieds, closing a deal with a
The boy choked a little. “I get off at four. firm handshake and celebrating over lunch in a
That work for you, sir?” classy restaurant and he would owe it all to the
six-week course: “Learn from proven execu-
The old man waved without looking back tives—gain powerful skills of persuasion—be
and walked into the blind field of late morning the salesman you are meant to be—only
light. The cowbell clanked and died. Davis felt $250.” A breathless jolt rang down his arm and
the feathery hundred-dollar bills still in his fin- he ripped the receipt and carbon from the pad.
gers and realized he had not entered the trans- He shoved the hundred dollar-bills into his
action in the register: there was only the hand- jeans pocket.
scrawled tally and its smudged carbon copy on
the receipt pad. He felt a fool that a tottery old In the tiny bathroom behind the counter,
man should have thrown him off his task. He he took the book of matches off the toilet tank
turned the sad, worn bills over in his hands and and set fire to the receipts in the sink but the
the president’s face was as greenish gray as the fickle flame only licked the paper brown and
old man’s when he had swooned. petered out. An ambulance siren whined near-
er until it passed and warped to a whimper.
A pickup truck skidded into the dirt parking His hands trembled. The second match fell
lot and Everett Eason hopped out, bounding dead with a hiss. The third match took to the
through the chalky billows in that tight, wincing paper and charred it. He scooped up the flak-
way old men run. When the cowbell rang, the ing pieces and let them flutter into the toilet.
boy crumpled the cash in his hand. Mr. Eason After two flushes, black flakes still freckled the
hobbled to the counter, waving one hand as if bowl. He laid down ribbons of toilet paper to
he were flagging down the boy in a crowd. “Git pull the ashes under for good and when it
the ambulance people on the phone! But he’s flushed, the whole mess shuddered and went
dead already.” The boy read the ambulance down glacially. He glanced out at the sun-
number from a decal on the telephone and whitened windows and scrubbed his fingers on
dialed it with the hand that clutched the mon- the green bar soap until it was dented and
ey. He stammered at the dispatcher on the bruised with soot. He came out of the bath-
other end until Mr. Eason yanked the receiver room wiping his hands across his jeans and sat
away. “Yes, ma’am. Biscamp Road. Single hard on the stool behind the counter—its
vehicle. Run off in the ditch. Elderly fellow, patched-up cushion huffed loudly under him.
name of Harold McCormick. Y’all can send ’em He worked the bills out of his pocket and un-
out but I tell you he’s dead.” He slammed the folded the white-washed, velvety cash doleful-
receiver and cut the boy a look that was as ly, as if the bills had been abandoned by their
good as telling him off. dying master.

No sooner had Mr. Eason torn out of the lot The cowbell clanged. A spindly shadow,
than R. B. Plunkett zipped up to the store on skeletal but lithe and as tall as the door, cleft
his three-wheeler and jumped off. He tripped the wash of light. He tucked the bills in his
on the threshold and yelled from the door, “I pocket and stood. Two little shadow bodies
just seen Harold McCormick dead in a ditch!”

streaked across the front glass and tugged the Davis heard her. “That’s just how they
door open. The tall body stepped into the sleep,” he laughed. He turned to the little boy.
calmer light inside and Davis could see a young “Which one of these you interested in?”
woman in short cut-offs and a tank top, her
bobbed hair sprigged with barrettes. He The boy made a face. “None of ’em.”
sucked in his gut. Her lanky limbs were pale as
the sun and her careless gait dragged her flip- The woman swatted his shoulder. “Answer
flops across the floor. A very young girl with him.”
golden tangled hair shyly wrapped both arms
around the woman’s bony knees. The little boy clutched where she had
slapped him. He narrowed his eyes and said, “I
The woman leaned down and scolded ain’t ast for a stupid chick.”
through clenched teeth, “I cain’t walk with you
grabbing a holt of me like that.” The woman yanked the little boy by the
arm and headed down the wooden steps off
The other child, a little boy in jeans and a the porch. He twisted and kicked and cried.
Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, ran in figure eights,
buzzing his lips and growling like a truck gone The girl rolled her eyes and shook her head.
mudding. With the woman gone, the child shed her bash-
fulness and confided to Davis in a wry,
The woman barely opened her mouth as grownup tone, “I tell you what, that boy is a
she said to Davis, “I saw a ad in the paper, said handful.” They heard five hard smacks from
y’all selling chicks. The kids is begging for one.” somewhere around the side of the building.
She kept rolling her neck to the side, her eyes The girl was oblivious. “I’ll take two of them
roving over everything behind the counter but little red-looking ones. They are just the cutest
him. things.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered in a deepened Davis leaned down by the girl to reach the
voice. “Right out here.” chicks. She squinted at him and pursed her
lips. “I guess you think she’s pretty, huh?”
He led them toward the side porch and the Davis giggled and his face burned up. He set
little girl’s blond head bounced along beside the two chicks in a cardboard box. The girl
him. As he held the screen door open, he tossed her hair. “All the men’s always staring
turned back and saw the woman hunched over at her ever’where we go. But sad to say, she’s
the little boy, holding his forearm in a white- spoken for.” She set her hands high on her
knuckled grip and whispering intensely against hips and rocked. “My deddy ast would she
his cheek. When she finally strode past Davis, marry him last week and she most certainly
her ears were aflame and she left a breeze of said yes.”
strawberry and perspiration in her wake. Davis
nodded them over to a little pen lit by a red The woman stomped up the wooden steps,
lamp. Chicks rested in two quiet patchwork dragging the sobbing boy.
clusters. The three-week-olds with their newly
sprouting ratty feathers looked like crushed The girl worked her eyebrows and whis-
pine cones. The newer hatchlings lay with their pered to Davis, “Get a look at that ring on her.
necks outstretched and their beaks buried in That’s what they call a rock.”
pine shavings.
Davis handed the chicks to the girl. The
The girl pointed out the hatchlings and little boy glared with his red-rimmed eyes at
whispered to her brother, “If he thinks I’m the cheeping box.
getting stuck with one of these dead ones, he’s
got another thing coming.” The woman tapped the girl hard on the
back. “Hand them back to the man.” The girl’s
mouth fell open and she clutched the box.

“Neither of y’all’s getting a chick. I swear to placed token orders such as the twelve dollar
God, this is last time—” paring knife, but the men had no use for any of
it. At his uncle’s trailer house, Davis demon-
The little girl stared off and tightened her strated the King Cutter, a pair of scissors that
quivering mouth. The woman took the box out could cut a penny in half. When he was done,
of the child’s hands and cast it carelessly on the his uncle whined, “Why the hell would I want
floor. She stormed off and the little boy ran to do that?”
after her. The girl followed them slowly. She
stopped and turned. With her arms crossed Davis shifted in his chair and put the scis-
she asked Davis, “So. You still think she’s sors down. “Well, no. It’s just to show what all
pretty?” Then the girl was gone, too. it can cut.”

Davis returned to his post behind the regis- “Like what?”
ter. He put the oscillating fan on the highest
setting and laid his head on the counter. A “You know what I mean. Wires and things.”
tractor catalogue flapped open and fluttered in
his face. He was still thinking about the wom- His uncle stood up from the table. “Hadn’
an, but the little girl’s quivering mouth came to you ever heard of wire cutters? Got three pair
mind and muddied up his lust. He pulled the in the back of my truck.”
bills out again and smoothed them out on the
counter. They squirmed beneath his fingers in In the white-hot windows where Davis
the fan’s breeze. This is all I ever needed, just contemplated all these dead ends, a familiar
something to jumpstart it all. beat-up yellow truck rolled off the highway and
crept along the sandy lot. Mr. Collier, the own-
Beyond the white blindness of the windows er of the feed store, parked near the door. The
he mustered the landscape of his dead end old man took three tries to hitch his leg out of
jobs: bagging groceries, trading in scrap metal, the truck, grasping wildly at the doorframe
cutting lawns, cleaning gutters. He figured he with his arthritic hands to haul himself out.
had done all that he could with scarce re- Davis tucked the hundred dollar-bills into his
sources. He once even drove all the way down front jeans pocket. Mr. Collier, always seen in
to Houston to pursue a no-cost, mysterious overalls and flannel, emerged wearing only
“one-of-a-kind sales opportunity” only to be blue shorts and a white collarless shirt, looking
recruited into selling mail-order kitchen knives bird-legged and paunchy.
door-to-door. The company’s gospel was the
efficacy of ten: tell ten friends and they tell ten Davis stuck his head in the bathroom and
friends and the circle rolls on in a great cloud of checked the sink and toilet for black flecks.
customers. At the recruitment meeting, a re- The cowbell knocked and Mr. Collier yelled
gional sales manager who had flown in from from the door, “Well, I guess you heard al-
Atlanta paced the stage like an evangelist, ready. I run out to the wreck soon as I could.
whipping the microphone cord out from his Ain’t even been home to change.”
feet and mopping his head with a handker-
chief. “Turn to your neighbor and say, ‘All it Davis tidied around the register. “Yes, sir.
takes is ten!’ Aw, come on. I cain’t hear you! Had Mr. Eason and R.B. both come tell. Cain’t
You got to feel it. Now turn to your neighbor believe it.”
again for me and say, ‘All it takes is ten!’”
Mr. Collier was ruddy and dripping with
But when Davis returned to his sleepy town sweat. “Poor man’s wife says she thought he
and laid out his wares on the dining room ta- come here just before.”
bles of kinfolk and church friends, he was an
apostle of little faith. A few of the women Davis scrubbed an ink stain on the counter.
“Yep. He come in and just about turned green.
Hardly spoke at all.” He looked up. “Couldn’t
even place his order.”

Mr. Collier closed his eyes and reflected picking and clawing at the seams of his turned
earnestly, “To be the last one to see a man that out pockets. He flung open the car door and
died.” He shook his head. Then he slapped the plunged his hands between the seat cushions
counter and brightened. “We like to never got and under the seats. He sank to his knees on
that truck out of the ditch. I mean, it plowed the pine straw and swept his hands across the
right in.” He noticed Davis looking at the clock. floorboard, and when stinging sweat blinded
“Well, I know you got to head out. Purina truck him, he went on feeling with his fingers. He
gets here at ten tomorrow. I’ll come in and collapsed in the car and told himself that there
tend the counter while you get it unloaded.” was no use in panicking. He breathed in,
breathed out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Goddamnit, three hunnerd dollars!” he
But as Davis stepped out into the late after- screamed, almost flipping over in his seat.
noon heat, he had no intention of ever again
hauling a sack of feed on his back or sweeping His hands flew all around him—the pockets,
up spilled grain or carrying armloads of potted the seats, the floorboard. And with nowhere
plants to old ladies’ cars. He vowed that he else to search, he shoved his hands down the
would never again make small talk about any- back of his jeans and felt along his sweat-
body’s chickens or pregnant sows or their cow soaked underwear for the bills. He frantically
that had come down with lumpy jaw. When unbuttoned his jeans and his pasty gut spilled
Davis climbed into the swelter of his rusty two- over. He felt down his jeans, almost reaching
door car, the air burned his lungs and his his knees, and lifted rolls of fat as if the bills
sweaty clothes clung to the cheap upholstery. might be there. He threw himself against the
But today he was too exultant to mind it. He seat and seized his gut with clawed hands,
pulled out onto the highway and cranked up squeezing and screaming. He pounded the
the local A.M. station, joyfully singing the steering wheel and fell back in his seat, panting
honky-tonk refrains out the roaring open win- quietly. A breeze stirred over his fat, pale na-
dow. At the stop sign of an empty intersection, kedness and set the birds singing. Strands of
he reached into his jeans pocket to caress the pine straw twirled out of the boughs and
secret money and, not finding it, he plunged settled on the thicket floor. A woodpecker
his hand into the other pocket. He hauled his knocked hypnotically far off. Davis set his head
bottom off the seat and checked one back wearily near the window sill and stared
pocket then the other. He tried the front pock- through the stand of trees where a tide of
ets again, the back pockets again. shadow welled up from the ground. The even-
ing sun that had roared so mightily all through
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus! No!” He squirmed and the day slid down a leaning trunk like a drop of
dug deep in all his pockets. He turned off the dew and slipped away.
radio and caught his breath. “No, no, no. Je-
sus, please.”

He turned down a back road and drove be-
hind a stand of trees a little way off. When he
had parked, he jerked all his pockets inside out
and stuffed them back in and tugged them out
again. He hopped out and paced around the
car, beating the trunk with his fists until his
arms went dead. “It’s got be a hole some-
where,” he sobbed. “Got to be a hole.”

He fell back against the car and wept aloud,

About the Author:

B. P. Herrington was born and raised in the Big
Thicket of eastern Texas. His studies as a com-
poser took him to the Royal Academy of Music,
London, where his work received the Royal
Philharmonic Composition Prize. His fiction has
previously appeared in Post Road Magazine.

NINE / TEN

by David Robbins

1 gather up the right kind of ammunition. I spent
the last two weeks while Kramer was brushing
For six months, Arthur Kramer treated me like me off to brush up on him, and it didn’t take
he was doing me a favor by planking me. I let it much more than a Kramer & VanderClount
happen because you’re out in the ninth if you Publishing Company directory. I looked up the
don’t know the rules of Social Darwinism it plain-sight information he’d guarded from me;
takes to survive in this town as a thirsty young his phone number and address up on West
working woman within the egos of men. Part 95th and Amsterdam. There also, in a company
of this is that sometimes to get a leg up (so to newsletter, I found the name of his wife: Cyn-
speak) a working girl has to resort to sleeping thia Evans Kramer—home-maker and child-
with her boss to pretend to fill in that some- rearer. I wrote all this down, copied it and car-
thing he feels he’s missing out of at home. But, ried the copy and the original around with me
in my case, I suppose Art’s sins eventually for a moment like this.
tweaked his guilt, because two weeks ago he
went home and started to “rediscover” his As soon as Perky Polly fires me through that
wife, and this morning he had me fired. And he ugly sneer of hers, I thank her as calmly as I
didn't even have the balls to do it himself, the dare, then walk two floors up into Kramer’s
coward. office. Without saying anything, I place the
copy of my findings face up on his desk. I hold
So, at 10:AM, my supervisor-in-name-only, up my original for him to see and then slide it
Perky, Petite, Preppy Polly Parker prances into safely back into the tit pocket of my shirt. The
my cubicle as Art Kramer’s Babylonian Messen- stunned look on his face makes me feel better
ger. Polly Parker, Jeeeze! Even her name already.
sounds like something out of comic book. What
wicked mother would name her daughter Polly, “What is it you want, Melinda?” His voice
anyway? I thought names like that died out has a quiver to it.
before the Suffragettes marched down Wall
Street into their quasi-emancipation. Polly “Six month’s severance and a guaranteed
breathes her peppermint-scented angst down freelance contract of three-thousand a month
upon my concentration along with her nervous, for the next year and a half.”
spasmodic arm gestures.
He looks back down at my note and con-
Normally I dish out my revenge from the centrates on the hidden intent wrapped into its
ground up. It’s a little more time-consuming four lines. His expression falls into one of fright
but more effective, because in the end the ac- more than rage. I know him well enough to
cuser often becomes the victim without know- know that, to him, Company money is more
ing it. This gentle revenge requires research to disposable than his happy marriage. Being a

Catholic—an every-morning-to-Mass kind of Housekeeping has never been a strong suit
Catholic—his emotional well-being is con- for me. As nice as my place is, I live within a
trolled by his guilt and some sort of looming well-organized clutter. Though my apartment
censure from The Holy Father. I could imagine isn’t exactly a glamour-shot from a Macy’s cat-
him sensing his life flickering away before him. alog, it’s not a gangland crap-shoot mess like
some of the other places I've passed out in in
”Four months severance and a nine-month my time here, either. Aimee, my love-interest
contract at two-thousand.” partner, is the opposite. She’s some sort of
latter-day Donna Reed, and it sometimes
“Five months, a year contract, and I’m hold- makes me sick. I swear she wears a cute chintz
ing at thirty-five hundred, guaranteed,” I vol- apron to clean her stove. I try to temper my
ley. angst about this by imagining she’s wearing
nothing but the cute chintz apron, with her
“You said three thousand.” short, dykie-bobbed blond hair all mussed up
around her beautiful face. God was very kind to
“Thirty-five hundred,” I repeat. “Firm. In Aimee. Out of my pure love for her, I hate her
writing.” for her good looks.

He sighs heftily at the note. “Done.” She's got the body for wearing nothing
from all that sweaty working-out she does in
“Okay, Art. If it makes you feel better, you the gym, and often brings her left-over energy
can now rip up your copy.” I raise the original back here and into bed. I love her scent. She’s
from my pocket. “But I guess I’ll just hold on to got the right firmness and softness in just the
this. You know, good faith insurance.” right places, and in the right proportions. Shav-
ing her legs is a real turn-on for us both, but
His lower lip begins to quiver. “Go, Melinda. especially me. I feel the shiver of a warm thrill
You can leave now.” as I draw the razor down through the slimly
fluff of the cream coating the quivering firm
I shoot him a proper professional smile and slopes of her calfs and thighs.
leave his office. Even though it might have
been half what a middle management man Standing next to her, dressed as nature
might be offered without question, mine was made us, my unremarkable form looks like one
not a bad compensation from a lousy lay such of those anatomical drawings the forensic cops
as him. use to diagram where all the stabs and bullets
entered. I never understood why guys like Art
Arthur Kramer was never that big a thing Kramer are so drawn to my body, even with
for me, anyway. You see, here’s the deal: a the lights on. Come to think of it, all that
horny straight guy with a power complex squeezing, poking and prodding of makes me
should never mess around with a lesbian. We feel more like some sort of middle-school biol-
bite back. ogy experiment.

# With Aimee and me it's not about physical
form. Most of us women who love women love
2 one another are in it for the substance; how
the Yin and the Yang of our beings interact in a
Thank you, daddy. My two-bedroom condo in perfect emotional balance. Love seems more
TriBeCa is an absolute joy. He bought the place wholesome and irrevocable that way. On the
for me back in ‘92 when I first struck out from awful day when it ends, it’s usually because our
The Cincinnati School of Art toward the mean emotions get all busted up before our hearts
streets here in Gotham. Dad wanted me to be
safe at his expense, and being that Ann Arbor’s
idea of New York City is that it’s one big “West
Side Story” populated with nothing but Sharks
and Jets, he provided me this sanctuary.

do, and the hurt never dies, despite the denial. “And order me a Jim Beam neat if you get
I’ve been there once before, and I never want there before me.”
to be there again.
#
#
Pandora’s Box is one of those darkly-lit Lezbo
Now, empowered by my lopsided bargain with joints where unsuspecting straight guys go to
Kramer, I stand gloating on the little balcony of hit up on the many women like me who hang
my sanctuary while I sip a from a cup of cinna- out there. They must think they’re in heaven
mon tea. Forearms on railing, I look down at among a bar-full of mostly girls and some tran-
West Street twenty-two stories below. Filling nies who are more gorgeous than many of us
the right side of my vision loom the two im- plain-looking dykes. God! Do these guys act
mense monolithic towers defining New York as goofy around girls who find it fun to toy with
the financial stronghold of the world. As plain them! They must be thinking we can be con-
and unadorned as they appear, those two verted to hets, even if it’s just for one night—
buildings seem to exude the kind of power that yeah, right.
energizes a person as insignificant as me. Well,
maybe not so insignificant anymore now that Aimee is in one of her frivolous moods to-
I've applied the screws to Art Kramer. night when I come upon her at the bar. My
double bourbon is already set in place next to
The phone’s ring is more like a blare, and I her mimosa. “Listen, I’ve got connections,” a
vow to adjust it down somehow. It's probably toothy, scrawny-looking guy in a too-big suit
the perky, preppy, prancing Polly Parker calling from Barney’s is saying to her. He’s loosened
to prosecute me about something she per- his tie for The Effect, and he’s more like gush-
ceives I've pilfered from her desk, or to push ing because Aimee’s looking particularly foxy
me to finish a layout I haven't even started yet tonight. “I’m a trader at Sachs.”
because she never gave me the fucking work
order. The phone rings again. I don't need this “Oooh!” Aimee purrs girlishly. “You work
shit I tell myself as I consider lacing my tea with for Saks? Can you get me discounts on shoes?”
a couple of shots of Jim Beam.
“Huh? No. Not there. Better than there. I
It rings again. Fuck it. Let the machine pick work for Goldman Sachs, a big brokerage
it up. I make my way toward the kitchen where house. And I can get us pre-season Islanders
I keep the booze. On the fifth ring, the ma- hockey tickets.”
chine clicks on: “Hi, you’ve reached Melinda.
You know the drill. Here comes the beep. “Oh, Hockey. I kinda like basketball better,
Three—Two—One—Go!” Beep. where those hunky tall guys run around in their
cute baggy shorts bouncing the ball until they
“Hey, Babe. I’m back in town. Let's meet at throw it through that little hoop.”
Pandora’s for copious amounts of alcohol and
then…well, you know.” “Oh, no, doll,” he says all lit up and stupid-
looking. “Hockey’s a lot more exciting. I let's go
It’s Aimee! She’s back early! I rush to the to a game together. I have inside connections
phone and pick it up just as she finishes her and I can get us center-ice tickets.”
message. “Hi! What time, hon?”
She shoots him a coy, innocent glance.
“How about at eight. I’ve gotta clean up a
little from my San-Fran jet-lag.” I have to stifle a torrent of giggles, as Aimee
plays the kid like a bassoon.
“Okay. Eight. I missed you, sweets.”
“Okay,” he tells her. “I can teach you about
“Shut up. Me too, you. Order me a mimosa hockey.” He gulps the last of his beer and
if you get there first, okay?” makes to order another. “With my connec-
tions, I can get us really good seats.”

“I know,” Aimee gushes.”I am so impressed “Congratulations, babe. You probably de-
that you have all these connections!” served twenty.“

He answers this with a gloating smile. “I know. I’m working on the boys in control
up there at Klein’s. But twelve percent brings
“Hi, girlfriend,” I whisper into Aimee’s ear. me up to two-hundred-fifty-K. Plenty enough
She furtively grasps my hand. to support us.”

“I’ll call you,” the guy says as he reaches This comment from right field hits me as
into a pocket for his card. weird. “To…support…us.”

“‘S’cuse me,” Aimee says to him through a “Uh, yeah.” She lights her arm over my
smile, then turns around and lays an impas- shoulder. “Look, Lin. This is good, you losing
sioned kiss on my lips. I wasn’t prepared for your job. I can give up my apartment and what
this and I feel our teeth clack together. But it costs and then move into your place while
even at the expense of a chipped tooth, it’s we’re here in New York until we can start
worth it to see the aghast look on the goon’s spending more time in my place up in Pawling.”
face. As we hold our kiss, I break into into a
little spasm of girlish giggles, and Aimee starts “Pawling. That again? Jeee-zuzz, girl. Have-
giggling with me. As we pull apart, he backs n’t we talked that one to death, yet? And here
away. you still think we should move in together up
there into that dilapidated family mansion of
“Don’t forget to call me!” Aimee calls after yours way the fuck in the woods, where we’d
him. have to take on some servants.”

He raises his hand and then his middle fin- “Yeah, that one. I know it needs work, but
ger as he turns back toward the entrance next with the money I'll save by moving in with you,
to the floor-to-ceiling poster of Bette Davis I’ll be able to afford to fix it up. It can be like
dolled up in her droopy black cocktail dress for our own little pied de Terre.”
that bumpy evening in “All About Eve.”
I feel the same flush of betrayal I did when
We can hardly contain ourselves. I sip my we’d talked that plan over the last time. I could
drink, then nearly regurgitate it though anoth- never leave the city for a life in Green Acres
er giggle attack. I think I need a cigarette to and Aimee knows this. “One hundred acres is
calm me down, until I remember I gave it up not so little.”
ten years ago. Sometimes these cigarette jones
come out of nowhere, especially when I’m Her soft expression darkens into the hard-
nervous. Finally I get a grip. “How’d you like ness that often precedes a rash of temper, and
San Francisco, babe?” I ask. I find myself drawing back. Instead, she lays her
hand upon mine and drills her stare into me.
“I liked it plenty. You and I should go “You don’t want to? Lin, honey, listen. This
there.” could be what we’ve been waiting for. We
could start a life together.”
I lift my drink. “Here’s to free love.”
“What about your twelve-percent higher
She raises her glass in return. “Free love.” pay job way up there at Klein’s Brokerage? Are
you gonna give that up? Oh yeah, and there's a
“Well, Aim, I’m glad you’re finally back. Oh, little matter of me not even having a job.”
guess what? I got fired today.”
“I can commute. You’re a talented designer,
She lets this sink in through a long, hon. You could get a better job anywhere.”
thoughtful look. “Oh-kaay. That works for me. I
just got a promotion and a twelve percent in- “I don’t know, Aim. There aren't a lot of
crease.”

publications art jobs up there in the hinter- there’s a breeze up and there the building
lands of Putnam County.” sways! It makes meI feel seasick! And I don't
like the idea of hurling up a one-hundred dollar
“You can free-lance from there to here. I’ll lobster Newberg all over the place! It’s so un-
get you one of those powerful twenty-eight dignified, even for me!”
DTM modems to send your work to the city.”
“The whole building’s on giant-sized shock-
“It’s up to fifty-six -K now, and it’s absorbers! It’s supposed to sway like that!”
BPM, not DTM. And that kind of telecom-
muting concept hasn’t been proven for the I broaden my smile. “No, it isn’t!”
kind of stuff I do. I’d need some sort of direct
network.” Aimee sighs for a dramatic effect. “Okay,
Lin. We’ll eat the crappy bar food here, then go
“Good. Then I’ll get you one of those.” back to your place and do a couple of lines,
okay?
What she doesn't know about the kind of
work I do could fill a set of encyclopedias. I I gaze over at the the other wall-sized post-
show her a condescending look. “Oh, yeah, er next to the glass-enclosed smoking room
sure.” where some of the dykes are puffing on cigars.
This poster shows Marlena Dietrich—my favor-
Her saying: ‘I’ll get you one of those…’ ite coquette— dolled up in her “Blue Angel”
sounds possessive to me. Maybe she thinks costume of a top hat and gartered bustier. I
just because I’m temporarily jobless and she wish I had her legs. “I thought my place was
has a raise, she somehow owns me like some gonna be our place,” I say to the poster. I’m
husbands try to own their wives. Not on my pretty sure Aimee doesn’t hear that because
watch. “Aimee, I can't leave New York. Not she just smiles back at me over the noise.
now, at least. It’s the only place I can relax and
call home,” I glance sadly down at my glass of #
Jim Beam. “Not some over-sized drafty farm-
house up in Pawling. Not now.” I concentrate 3
on the refraction of dim light flowing like oil
through the deep richness of the bourbon. Things go better with coke. The traffic noise
from the street hurdle brightly up into the air
She tightens her hand over mine. “Okay, from below. Up here on the roof, the sounds
Lin. I get it. I’ve been planning it all out, while take on the ringing of little bells, like those of a
this is all new to you. Will you think about it, at horse-drawn sleigh through a soft new winter
least?” snow. The glittering city lights are so distinct.
The stars appear brisk and bright, even through
I look up at her and smile—anything to end the actual, perpetual haze of city sky. Good
this conversation. “Sure, Aim. I’ll think about coke lets you see through the smog and into
it!” We now have to nearly shout over the Des- the stars themselves, if you let it happen. The
tiny’s Child stuff the bartender had just turned air is crisp and bracing, promising a nice late
up. I swear, sometimes she just boosts up the summer day for tomorrow. The Anisette tastes
sound system to see how deaf she can make us warm and beautiful as it journeys down my
patrons. throat. This time of year at this time of night is
perfect. Life is beautiful right now.
“Good! Now let me take you to dinner up in
Windows on The World to use up my raise!” We are huddled together against an arm of
one of the wicker couch-chaises set around the
“Shit, girl!” The music’s so loud I can barely rooftop pool of my apartment building, where
hear myself talk. “You know how I hate that Aimee and I often play at camping out under
place! It makes me queasy when every time the stars. The fence around the pool was locked

up at ten, but the pool lights are still on and I have to chuckle at this. “Yeah. They got a
send their wavering aqua refractions across our glob of anonymous sperm from a bank or God
faces. I see Aimee is smiling contentedly as she knows where. The father was the fucking tur-
feigns sleep. I lean over and kiss her hair. It key-baster they used.”
smells of hemp and Prell. She nestles closer to
me and I draw the blanket further up around Aimee lets out a giggle—it's like her trade-
around our shoulders. mark. “Here’s to Daddy Butterball.”

“You cold?” I ask her. I sip the remains of my Anisette and drape
my arms around her. She picks up on my cue,
“Shut up. I’m sleeping.” tucks her legs beneath her and nestles back
against my shoulder. “I love lying here with you,
“Bullshit you are.” Aim,” I whisper to her.

“Then, yes. I’m cold.” She shivers and cud- “And I love lying anywhere with you, girl-
dles closer. I tighten the blanket around her. friend. Listen, hon. The jet lag is really catching
“Have I told you I love you since I got back?” up to me now, and I need to be at work tomor-
row at eight to start moving into my new
“I don't recall. I guess not.” office.”

Her hand finds mine. I feel the light touch of I look out and up at the place where she
her fingertips. “I love you, Melinda.” works. “A corner office, right?”

For some reason, I feel like crying. “I love “Two down. Now let’s just lie here like this,
you, too, Aimee.” okay?”

“Have you given any thought to my little ‘Sure you don’t want to go in? It’s starting
plan for us?” to chill a little.”

I’d hoped she’d be off this kick for now. “No, hon. I’m fine right here. I really don’t
“About moving to Pawling? No. Let's wait until mind the chill, and I love looking out at the
Friday then talk about it, okay?” lights. They help me to rest.” She huddles in
closer; her signal for me to shut up and let her
“Why Friday?” Her voice has grown hoarse sleep. I draw the blanket up a little more and
through the chill. stare out at the city lights to regroup my day
into a sensible chain of events. Of course, this
“That’ll give us the weekend to argue about involves thinking about Art Kramer.
it.”
My thing with Kramer is one of those few
She sits up in little stages like the action dark secrets I keep from Aimee. I’d started up
pains her, then settles against the couch-back. with her maybe a year after I moved into Man-
“Well, that’s a convincing endorsement. You hattan, and our relationship came with a caveat
think this should turn into an argument?” from her: “You can fuck as many women as you
want, Babe. But you fuck a man and I am gone
“No. I hope not. More like an agreement, from you.” She wouldn’t understand about
maybe.” Kramer, and the fact that there was noting
there. He was always like some sort of job
“It’s not like we're going to move seventy- maintenance for me, just about as enjoyable as
five miles away, set up house and have kids, going to get my teeth cleaned. He was nothing
Lin.” more than a means to an end.

“Well, first of all. That would be impossi- I listen to the voice of the city —the inces-
ble.”

“Really? Sue Brinman and Clarie what’s-her-
name did it. They have a four-year-old.”

sant bleat and blare of car horns and sirens— “Hey, Babe, It’s me, sitting around in my
and start to think about moving to her big naked new office with a bunch of boxes.”
house in Pawling. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Maybe I’ve used up the excitement of this “ That sounds nice. You kinda sound like
place. It is quiet up there, too quiet, but I can you’re in a submarine.”
get used to that, I guess. There is a commuter
spur to Manhattan which might mean getting “Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. They’ll be
up a five AM (ugh!) to go to work if I find some- sending me out on the road more, so I have
thing. And remodeling a place like that to make one of those flip-phone thingeys. The service is
it habitable might take years. The big factor is pretty crappy up here. Let me walk closer to
that Aimee is right: we can start a real life to- the window. Can you hear me any better?”
gether.
“A little. Listen, Aim. I’ve been thinking
I look again toward the building where she about your idea of moving up to Pawling into
works—the North World Trade Tower, with its that big drafty house of yours.”
muted office lights streaming like broken, nar-
row ribbons down the runnels of its massive “Well, not mine really, but my eighty-nine
flat face. I have mixed feelings about its archi- year old grandfather’s. It’s all mine when he
tecture, but it seems to provide a sense of se- goes. Anyway, hon, you’ve been thinking?”
curity on the outside. I just hate where Aimee
works on the ninety-fourth floor. I then gaze up I feel myself choking up. “Yeah. Let’s go the
at the sky and guess it’s close to midnight on fuck ahead and do it. You know, to solidify
Monday, September tenth. I reconcile that a things for us.”
year from now we’ll probably be picking out
drapes for our living room in Pawling. “Oh, Wow! You mean it?”

# “Yeah, girl, I guess I do. But no kids from
turkey basters, get that? That’s where I gotta
4 draw the line.”

Sade’s singing relaxes me and it’s how I usually “No turkey-baster kids, right. Maybe we can
wake into the day, as I sip my coffee. And it’s a adopt—”
really nice day, even for a cynic like me. It’s like
one of those God-made, top ten kind of days. “Or maybe we can just live our life together
Not a cloud in the sky; none of that grimy New for a while.”
York City smog. Everything seems crisper, and I
haven’t had any coke since last night. Summer “Oh, God! I love you so much, Lin! It’s gon-
will be gone soon and days like this must be na be so great. Just you and me.”
taken in. Even at eight-thirty in the morning it’s
warm enough to open my balcony doors. I’m I have to smile at this. “And Bambi, and
thinking maybe later in the day I’ll take the B- Thumper, and Yogi Bear and all the other terri-
train out to Brighten Beach to take in the sun fying woodland creatures.”
with the Brooklyn Russians, and maybe get a
flush of a tan. “Even better! We can hunt for our food.”

The phone blares again. God I hate that Eeeewww! God no! “No. We can’t”
thing. Probably it’s perky Polly calling to phuck
up my beautiful day. Something doesn’t sound right from out-
side. It’s like a hard, loud, rumble—screeching,
“Yeah, Hi. It’s Melinda. State your case. almost pleading—almost like a jet landing
down below on West Street. “Do you hear
that?”

“Hear wha—?”

A crashing explosion sounding like lots of

breaking glass rips through my ears along with About the Author:
a tight, numbing concussion. I feel it in my si-
nuses like a roundhouse punch to the nose. David (D.H.) Robbins has been actively writing
Whatever it is trembles my apartment and fiction for nearly 30 years. The settings of his
sends a coffee mug and some plates crashing to novels is the 1960s. His first published novel,
the kitchen floor. Plaster and wallboard dust “The Tu-tone DeSoto” (2014), introduces eight
puff out angrily though new cracks in the ceil- teenagers growing up in Iowa. The story focus-
ing. And then the flash. A blinding flash which es on the kids’ relationships with their parents
heats up the room by about twenty degrees. and among themselves as they come of age
This is accompanied with another louder explo- during the veiled turbulence underlying the
sion. It rumbles through my apartment like it is Kennedy Years (1960-63). His second published
gripping it, as I grasp the kitchen counter to novel, “Chamelea” is a crime mystery centered
stable myself . One of my easy chairs topples around a serial killer-priest in New York City,
over, and my couch swivels backward. All of 1963-4. He is a former publications art direc-
this has happened over about fifteen seconds, tor/designer and interactive publications media
during which all I can do is stare stupidly at the strategist and designer. He’s the co-author of
broken crockery scattered over my kitchen two design reference books: "Motion by De-
floor, which has itself become cracked. Hearing sign" (Laurence King, 2006) and "Visual Effects
myself say: “What the FUCK!” brings me into Artistry" (Elsevier Press, 2009). He currently
the moment. presents a lecture/discussion series on “The
1960s —Revisiting a Crucial Decade.” Robbins
As I rush to the balcony doors, I see one of was born in Darien, Connecticut and currently
them has become unhinged and is falling in lives in Simsbury, Connecticut where he contin-
slow motion to the floor. Every alarm in my ues to type away on his third novel, focusing on
building is going off. “Is this a fucking EARTH- the counter-culture years (1965-68) and the
QUAKE?” I ask out loud as I step around the Vietnam War.
falling door to look out.

Then I see the result of whatever has just
happened, and I feel like I’ve been momentarily
stunned by a head-on crash. I’m still holding
the handset, and I bring it to my ear. All I can
hear from Aimee’s phone is a weird sort of loud
crackling. “Aimee?” I say tenuously. It takes
moment to register. Raging flames and black
smoke are billowing from an open, searing gash
in the upper floors of the tower. “Aimee?
Hon?” I shout breathlessly as I feel my tears
dampen my cheeks. “Aimee? AIMeeee! AIM-
EEE!”

SOMETHING GRAND

by Joann Smith

“My God, it’s the church,” Mary Ryan cried as munds managed to get his attention. "I was
she and her neighbors Dora Amato and Eddie baptized here," she told the photographer who
and Carol Edmunds turned the corner onto the was wearing an I.D. from The Daily News. "So
Grand Concourse. were my husband and our three children."
Mary Ryan said nothing. She had been baptized
Mary Ryan had been lying in bed when she elsewhere in the Bronx, as had Mike and their
heard the sirens nearing. She caressed Mike’s daughter, Aileen. And though Mary had attend-
side of the bed, just once, her hand wide and ed the 7 A.M. Mass at St. Philip’s almost every-
slow along the clean sheets. He died there the day since they'd moved here twenty years ago
day before, lying down after dinner, saying he and was in the church just that morning, and
didn’t feel well and suffering a heart attack, though Mike’s funeral was supposed to have
while Mary was in the kitchen cleaning the been held in the church two days from now,
vegetable drawers of the refrigerator; she and he read The Daily News every day of his
changed the sheets after coming back from the life, Mary would not pander for sympathy or
hospital that night, not wanting to get into a attention. She discretely patted the tears from
bed where a dead body had lain. When the her eyes.
smell of smoke wafted through her window,
she got up and looked out, then dressed and Just your luck, she said now to Mike. He
went downstairs, as several of her neighbors would have liked hearing that: he had spoken
had, in search of the fire. about his “bad luck” as if it were something
romantic. But Mary had never allowed him his
Carol Edmunds pushed through the gather- “bad luck.” “You have the same luck as every-
ing crowd to the police barricades, beckoning one else,” she told him over and over.
the other three to follow. A fireman in a cherry “Disappointments, Mike, not bad luck. They're
picker flooded the smoking roof with water, a part of life. Do you think you're some kind of
and the crowd gasped collectively when the privileged character who shouldn't have his
flames shot through and he had to be reeled share of disappointments?” She cringed now
away. The three-quarter moon had settled under the scathing of those words. He would
above the church, and the black smoke off the have liked it so much better, been able to bear
tips of the flames twisted toward it. An explod- it all easier if he could blame it on bad luck—a
ing sound jolted Mary back onto the toes of a trip over his own two feet that left him with a
woman behind her: a stained glass window bad back; fired from his job at the insurance
blew out. A newspaper photographer took sev- company because everyone else in his depart-
eral shots of the gaping opening where the ment was taking bribes to set the claims high,
window had just burst then scanned the crowd and he had not only never taken so much as a
for appropriately mournful faces. Carol Ed-

penny but was up for a promotion; not being Mary hesitated. “I just want him to have a
left the money he was promised by a great nice funeral,” she said. “He deserves that."
aunt; not winning the 50-50 at Church. He
could manage to smile about it when he con- "If anyone deserves it, it's Mike," Father
sidered it bad luck--the bad luck of having bad Ahearn affirmed. “I don't think anyone loved
luck—as if it were almost charming. But Mary the church more than Mike did."
wouldn’t let him have it. “Disappointments,
she told him. Just like the rest of us.” And then Mary nodded but a familiar resentment
none of it was as easy to smile about. Why, she rose in her. She was the one who attended
asked herself, had she been so harsh? Why, Mass everyday, walking up the hill no matter
she wondered, was it so important to her that the weather. But it was Mike whom everyone
he acknowledge disappointment? What would noticed because he made such a show of going
their marriage have been like if she had been on Sundays. In his blue wool suit in the winter,
able to say “poor Mike,” and then take him in the seersucker in the warm weather, his face
her arms, instead of telling him to stop feeling clean shaved and braced with aftershave, he'd
sorry for himself? attend the 9:00 Mass, locking his hands in pray-
er. After that, he'd join the choir for the 10:00
The photographer took a photo of Carol Mass, and later, for the 11 and 12, he'd usher
and moved on. and help with the collections, parading up and
down that long aisle for all to see, greeting as
“Do you see this?” Father Ahearn, the pas- many people as he could, lingering with the
tor, asked coming over. priests afterwards as though he wished Masses
would go on all day.
“It’s awful,” Carol answered, taking his
hands in hers. “Maybe we should do it in the school.” Fa-
ther Ahearn interrupted Mary’s silent condem-
“Our beautiful church,” he grieved. Then he nations of her husband. “I think Mike would
gently pulled his hands from Mrs. Edmunds want to be here in the parish.”
and reached them to Mary. “How are you,
Mary?” “I think you’re right,” Mary agreed, and
then she bowed her head and asked God and
Now she took his soft hands in hers. “I'm so Mike to forgive her unkind thoughts.
sorry about this, Father.”
But that night her mind wrapped back to
He shook his head, turned to look at the the old resentments—his refusal to share the
burning building then back at Mary. “And responsibilities of the household and his confi-
Mike,” he lamented. “Poor Mike. I'm afraid we dence that his charm made up for it; the atten-
can’t have his funeral in the church now.” tion he got at church; the attention he got from
neighbors whenever he took Aileen to the park
"No, I see that," Mary said, and they both on Saturdays while Mary cleaned the apart-
regarded the stone steps down which a rush of ment. Later Mary would hear about it: “Isn’t he
water poured. wonderful with her!” “What a good father.”
“Oh, how he loves her.” No one praised Mary
"But don't worry," Father Ahearn reassured for the bathing of, feeding of, cooking for,
her. "We'll set up the auditorium in the school dressing of Aileen. No one said, “Oh what a
for Masses. We can do the funeral in there if good mother you are.” No one noticed when
you like." she took Aileen to the park.

"You mean the gym?" Mary recalled the The next morning, Mary put on her brown
room that served as auditorium, dance hall, and black striped dress, combed her short grey
and basketball. hair—Mike had always wanted her to grow it:

"Or you can call one of the other churches."

“I miss your curls,” he used to say. But Mary tub grout or reorganize the kitchen cupboards.
didn’t have the patience for the unruliness of Maybe they could have gone to the Botanical
it. She walked up the hill at 200th Street, the Gardens to see the daffodils. They had done
smoke still pungent on her coat and on the that several times early in their marriage and
morning air. The church had stopped burning, when Aileen was young. Mary would have liked
but it was smoldering and three fire trucks re- to see the daffodils again. She wondered if all
mained out front. On the school door was widows did this—went over their marriages as
taped the top of a cardboard box with the if they were stories they could rewrite.
words MASSES IN GYM printed in black magic
marker. Inside, an unlit standing candle and Forcing her attention to Father Ahearn's
two statues that had been saved from the homily, Mary heard him persuade them that
flames were arranged in a greeting in a corner. the essence of the church was not gone; it
A cloth-covered, collapsible table, which was to could still be found among them, in them. It
serve as the altar was set up in front of the was an appropriate sermon, one Mary ex-
stage. Mary took a seat in one of the folding pected, and she thought ahead to what Father
chairs, and realized, as she started to her knees Ahearn would say at the funeral. Surely, he’d
that, of course, there were no kneelers. She sat talk about how much Mike loved the church.
with her hands folded in her lap, her head
bowed, and was unable to pray. When he held up the Eucharist, announcing
"The Body of Christ," Mary couldn't bear not to
She fell into a fantasy about her marriage, kneel before it and awkwardly pushed a chair
imagining herself answering Mike without the away and lowered herself to the hard floor.
sharpness in her voice. She lingered at the din-
ner table, chatting, instead of rushing to get At home, Mary Ryan set out the tuna and
the dishes done and a load of laundry in, sug- macaroni salad she had made during the night
gesting a few numbers for his lottery tickets when she couldn’t sleep, and two plates, and
instead of complaining about the waste of it. waited for her daughter. She hoped Aileen
He was different, too. He brought home straw- would bring the children--Tara, with her chub-
berry ice cream, her favorite. After dinner, he by pink hands, and Daniel Michael, the baby,
cleared the table, then put dishes away while who would come to Mary now without crying.
she washed, and they talked the whole time, With them in the room, Mary and Aileen could
laughed, even. He carried the garbage down- speak without having to look at one another,
stairs without her having to harp about it, and and that might be helpful when Mary had to
then he poured them a drink, always going a tell Aileen that her father’s funeral would be
little past the point where Mary said to stop. It held in the school auditorium.
seemed that it would have been so easy, all of
it, and yet, she had managed none of it. She Aileen had taken the news of her father’s
reminded herself that one of them had had to death badly, of course. She and Mike were so
take charge, one of them had to keep the much closer than she and Mary were. Mary
apartment clean, get the bills paid on time. expected the anger. But she expected a little
One of them had to say “no” to Aileen when sympathy, too. Instead, she got accusations.
she always wanted “yes.” And since he didn’t “Cleaning a vegetable drawer while your hus-
want to do it, she did. Still, she couldn’t stop band was dying, while my father was dying? Do
wondering what it would have been like if she you care about anything besides a clean
had let the vacuuming go once in a while. Or if house?” And “Did it ever occur to you to go in
she had said “yes” to a Saturday matinee, like and check on him? Or to call an ambulance
she used to when they were first married, in- when he said he didn’t feel well? Don’t you
stead of insisting that she needed to bleach the know the signs of heart attack? Everyone
knows the signs of heart attack.”

She told Aileen she couldn’t have done any- a fun parent, too. And Mike had tried to cajole
thing. Mike always went to bed before Mary her, telling her to leave the laundry and join
did. Should she have checked on him every him and Aileen in the park or at the zoo. But
night? And why would she call an ambulance she would answer him with “Who’ll do it if I
when he only said, “I don’t well so well”? His don’t?” If memory served her correctly, he
back often bothered him; Mary assumed it was hadn’t responded with “I’ll do it,” but only with
that. But the way Aileen put Mary’s cleaning of “It can wait.” How was she supposed to let it
a refrigerator drawer and Mike’s dying right wait? How was she supposed to let them go
next to each other in a sentence made Mary without clean socks and underwear? Plus, she
question her behavior. Why couldn’t she have didn’t know how to compete with Mike for
peeked in on him? It was because she had Aileen’s affection, and that’s what it always felt
grown so intolerant of his neediness and his like to her—a competition that she knew she
lack of awareness that she might be needy, would lose. So she accepted her role, and
too, that she stopped giving him what he want- sometimes Aileen needed Mary’s steadiness
ed most—her attention. How different would and practicality but more often she wanted
their lives have been if she had not begrudged Mike’s lightheartedness.
him his neediness, if she had been able to see
it as just a desire for love, a desire for her? Aileen didn't eat but picked up one of the
How hard would it have been for her to peek in albums and leaned at the sink while Mary
on him with a simple “How are you?” or worked the salad around in her dry mouth. She
“Would you like a glass of water?” How he glanced over at Aileen’s unused place setting
would have appreciated that. on the table and understood all at once that
from now on, she'd be eating alone, trying to
Just before noon, expecting Aileen on time, swallow every night for the rest of her life.
Mary went to the living room, took two photo-
graph albums from the hutch and placed them "We should bring some of these to the
on the kitchen table by Aileen's setting--an wake," Aileen said removing a photograph
offering of some sort. While she waited, Mary from its sleeve. "I want to put them out so peo-
flipped through the pages, recalling the circum- ple can remember him the way he was, not the
stances of each photo. There were fewer, by way he'll look in the coffin."
far, of her and Aileen than of Mike and Aileen,
and though that was only because Mary was Mary gave up on the salad.
better with the camera, and really didn’t like to
have her picture taken, it reminded her of how Aileen took several other photos from the
obviously Aileen preferred Mike’s company book and placed them on the table; only one
and how much more of a history they had then included Mary. "I want them back," Mary said
Mary and Aileen had. And why not? Mike was getting up and scraping the remaining salad off
the fun parent and Aileen had always been a her plate into the garbage. Aileen sat down,
daddy’s girl. while Mary put her dish and the one Aileen
didn't eat from, in the sink and began to wash
"Where are the children?" Mary asked them.
when she opened the door to her daughter at
nearly 12:45. "Leave those for now," Aileen said.

"You don't bring children to a wake," Aileen "And who'll do them?" She immediately
explained impatiently. “Danny’s watching regretted the harshness of her habitual refrain
them, and we have a sitter coming. He’ll meet and added more gently, "Look at your pictures.
us at the funeral parlor later.” I'll be right there."

But no one ever said that Mary couldn’t be Aileen huffed then stated, "I'd like to keep
some of these."

"I don't think I want you breaking up the Mary didn't see the point but she didn’t
albums. You can come and look at them when- argue. "Just make sure I get it back."
ever you want," Mary answered.
"I'd like to keep this, too,” Aileen answered.
“I want to take them with me. I don’t know “I might teach myself to play."
when I’ll be back.”
"Fine. You think about what you'd like, and
Mary looked up at the wall and then back we'll discuss it. But I don't want you ransacking
down to the sink. Aileen had visited once or your father's drawer now."
twice a month, but with Mike gone, she would-
n’t be making that kind of effort. "I'm not ransacking. I want a few of his
things. What do you care about the harmonica,
"Remember his harmonica?" Aileen went anyway? You didn’t even know he played it.
on pretending not to know that she’d just given You’ll probably just throw everything out.”
Mary an emotional body blow. "Does he still
have that?" Mary wanted Aileen to know that she
wished she could have done things differently,
"He never played it." better. But she couldn’t say that without cry-
ing, and she didn’t think Aileen wanted to see
"He’s playing it right here in this photo. He her cry; she wouldn’t have believed that
played it for me," Aileen stated. Mary’s tears were sincere.

Mary took that blow, too. "Did he? How “Take whatever you want,” Mary said.
nice.”
“The photos and the harmonica. And may-
“I think he used to keep it in his top drawer. be that holy medal.”
Can I go look?” Aileen got up before Mary an-
swered. Mary nodded. “His St. Joseph. I bought it
for him when you were born. He loved being a
Mary finished the dishes and walked to the father. St. Joseph was his favorite saint—the
bedroom behind her daughter, then stood next father of Jesus. You should have that.”
to her as Aileen slowly pulled open the top
drawer, and the smell of Mike escaped. Aileen reached into the drawer, took the
items she wanted, and then said she needed to
“His Sunday smell,” Aileen whispered. put on some make-up for the wake and went
into the bathroom.
“Yes, his aftershave,” Mary said. “It’s like he
just walked through the room.” Mary stood looking into the open drawer
after her daughter left the room. She decided
Aileen picked up and regarded the various she’d keep everything just as it was. She knew
items in the drawer that Mary knew by heart: Aileen was right and she could be unsenti-
his wallet, from which she had already re- mental, and in the right or wrong mood throw
moved thirteen dollars, the broken-handled just about everything out. She picked up Mike’s
coffee cup that held his pennies, papers that wallet and took the time to examine the items
Mary had gone through, his cuff links and tie in the pocket behind the credit card sleeve. She
clip, a medal of St. Joseph that he never put on found a card identifying him as Catholic and
a chain, palm from last year's Palm Sunday requesting that a priest be called in case of
service, the harmonica; a deck of cards and his emergency; a card stating his O+ blood type;
Old Spice. his lottery tickets—she’d check them, just in
case; (wouldn’t that really be Mike’s luck); a
"Here it is," Aileen said, taking up the har- faded, folded rectangle of construction paper
monica. She blew through it barely making a which she opened carefully, and on which
sound. I’d like to put this out at the wake, too.
I like the idea of having something personal
there, something that was special to him."

Aileen had written “All All My Love.” It was a Aileen parked and rushed to get out of the
Christmas present. Aileen had given each of car, away from Mary.
them one when she was six-years-old, though
Mary’s message only contained one “All.” “Wait. I found this in his wallet.” Mary ex-
Aileen had wanted her father to know she tended the love present.
loved him more. Mary still had hers in the
bottom of her jewelry box. She took Mike’s out “He kept it.” Aileen pressed it to her chest,
deciding to give it to Aileen. Then she pinched kissed it and then put it in her purse.
out a small, blue velvet pouch; she recognized
it right away—the case he kept his caul in. He Mary didn’t tell her that she had kept hers,
was born in “a sack,” he used to say. A mem- too.
brane covered his entire body; the doctors told
his mother it was a very rare occurrence and During the wake, people did glance at
they carefully cut it, dried it, and gave it to her Aileen's photographs and the harmonica that
in that pouch. His mother told Mike about his she laid out next to them, but for the most
unusual birth when he was a child, convincing part, they talked about the fire. Danny came,
him that the caul made him very special, very as did his parents. Mary watched him find
lucky. Mary had enjoyed the story when she Aileen, watched the way she led him to the
first heard it but grew tired and even disgusted casket, the two of them kneeling together,
by it in the many retellings. She had no idea shoulder to shoulder, their faces pointed to-
that he kept the caul with him; if she had, she wards Mike’s. Early in her marriage, Aileen had
probably would have told him to throw it out, called Mary a couple of times to complain
that it was a ghastly thing to carry around. But about how much more she did in the house
now she was suddenly teary at the thought than Danny did, and Mary thought they’d be
that he carried the caul believing that at some good friends after that, bonded by the exasper-
point, the good luck it was supposed to bring ation their husbands caused them. But Aileen
would finally kick in. But you had good luck, didn’t want that kind of camaraderie. Now as
Mike Ryan, she whispered to him. Everyone Mary watched Aileen lean into Danny, she un-
loved you. Mary put the wallet back in the derstood that her daughter’s marriage was
drawer, went out to the kitchen and put the nothing like her own. Aileen had forgiveness in
pouch and the love note in her purse. her and a determination for happiness that
Mary didn’t.
In Aileen's car on the way to the wake,
Mary informed her of the fire. “Then where’s Mary watched as Aileen placed something
the funeral?” Aileen asked. in the casket. At the end of the night, Mary
went up to say a last good-bye to Mike and saw
“In the auditorium.” that Aileen had left her love note on her fa-
ther’s chest.
“The gym?” she asked, incredulous.
“Couldn't you have gotten another church?" On Thursday morning, Mary sat in the lim-
ousine and looked out the windows as they
Mary said she couldn't, keeping Father followed the hearse from the funeral parlor to
Ahearn's offer to herself, promising Aileen that the school. Aileen sat next to her with the baby
they had done up the room nicely, respectfully, in her lap; Danny held Tara’s hand. Father
reminding her of how her father loved the par- Ahearn helped Mary out of the limousine, and
ish, how he would have wanted the funeral quickly arranged a processional order. The ba-
there. by squirmed, pulling at Aileen's dress, bunching
it at her hip, and Mary reached over and
“He loved the church,” Aileen corrected tugged it down. She would have liked to carry
her. the baby or have Tara's hand in hers, some-
thing warm and alive touching her.

At 10:00, with more light filtering into the After the Mass, Father Ahearn offered to
school than had at the 7 A.M. Mass, the fluo- show her the room where the church items
rescent lights on the shellacked yellow brick of that had been rescued were stored. "It'll take a
the walls smacked Mary with the ungodliness few minutes for everyone to get their cars
of the place. This was not what Mike would lined up to follow to the cemetery," he said.
have wanted. He would have wanted the digni- "You don't need to wait out there." He asked
ty, the solemnity, the parade of an aisle in a Aileen and Danny to come, too, but they de-
church. Aileen was right. It wasn’t the parish he clined saying the baby needed changing, and
loved so much, but the church itself, and for Mary was glad for a few minutes out of view of
him the church was not in the people, as Fa- everyone who knew what kind of a funeral she
ther Ahearn had instructed at Mass the morn- had given her husband.
ing after the fire; it was in the altar, the pews,
the aisle. She knew this now with a sickening The smell of smoke was so strong in the
certainty. Passing the office where the phone small room that Mary put her hand up to cover
rang, and the custodian lounged, Mary, for her mouth and nose. The priest pointed out
Aileen's sake, pretended not to be bothered. A disfigured statues, a silver crucifix--the upper
child, out of her classroom, cried at the sight of half of which had folded in the heat, sooty
the coffin, and Mary realized, in horror, that chalices, singed vestments. Mary viewed the
school was in session. objects with regret and shame. They seemed to
chastise her, as if to say, “This is what it’s come
They followed the coffin into the gym, and to.” Father Ahearn picked up a small steel box
Mary watched as Aileen spotted the retracted for her to examine. "These are some rem-
basketball hoops. Between the rows of folding nants." He held up a length of splintering wood
chairs, she found the black floor paint of foul the size of his hand. "This is from one of the
lines. Mary was sure her daughter was also pews. There's glass from a window, and this is
picking up the smells of perspiration, floor wax a tile from the floor. When we rebuild, we're
and rubber intermingling with the incense. going to bury the box at the foot of the new
Aileen glanced to the right, locating the source altar--a kind of symbolic foundation, the new
of the rubber--a gated cage in the corner church built on the old."
where twenty or twenty-five variously sized
balls were stored--and when she turned back "That's lovely," Mary said.
to her mother, her eyes, doleful and brimming,
Mary could only look away. He directed her attention to two gilded
boxes. "We managed to save the relics, too--a
Once seated, Mary tried to pray but again bit of bone from St. Philip, a thread from the
couldn't. A cold practicality, she realized, had robe of St. Francis."
allowed her to give her husband this preposter-
ous funeral, as if it were nothing more than an Mary came alive with an idea. She reached
item on a to-do list. That’s what she had let her into her purse pretending she needed a tissue,
life become—a to-do list. And here is where discretely opened her wallet, and pulled the
that list of a life had gotten her and Mike. She caul into her palm. After pointing out the sur-
reached out to pat the coffin but it was farther viving stations of the cross, Father Ahearn ad-
away than she estimated, and her hand swiped vised, "We better go. The cars should be ready
the air. by now."

Mary tried to listen to Father Ahearn but an "Yes," Mary answered distractedly, moving
odor nagged at her attention, vague at first, back toward the steel box. She wanted to do
then unmistakable. Fish cakes. The schoolchil- something to make up for this funeral, to make
dren would be eating fish cakes for lunch. up for the stingy to-do list life she had given
Mike. Something grand. When Father Ahearn

turned to the door, she dropped the caul About the Author:
among the remnants.
Joann Smith has had stories published or ac-
Outside, a respectable number of cars had cepted in The Halcyone, Two Hawks Quarterly,
lined up to follow to the cemetery, and Mary Emerald Coast Review, The Examined Life Jour-
was relieved. Worse than a funeral in a school nal, Whitefish Journal, Clockhouse journal;
gym would have been a burial no one attend- servinghouse journal; Chagrin River Review,
ed. She settled herself into the limousine. New York Stories, Literal Latte, Best of Writers
Aileen was crying as she fed a bottle to Daniel at Work, Alternate Bridges, Image: A Journal of
Michael. Mary turned to her, about to an- Art and Religion, So To Speak: A Feminist Jour-
nounce what she had done, that one day Mike nal of Language and Art, The Roanoke Review,
would be at the foot of the altar, a part of the The Greensboro Review, and The Texas Journal
new church’s foundation. But Mary wasn’t sure of Women and the Law. Her story “Tuesday
Aileen would approve. She’d wait, she decided, Night at the Shop and Shoot” was anthologized
maybe until they rebuilt the church. Then she’d in Lock and Load: Armed Fiction, University of
invite Aileen and her family to come for Mass-- New Mexico Press; another story was selected
she’d have a Mass dedicated to Mike. And after by the editors of Best American Short Stories
Communion, after Aileen had stood at the foot 2000 as one of the one hundred notable stories
of the altar, Mary would tell her. Or maybe she of the year. She lives and writes in the Bronx,
never would. Maybe it would be between her where she finds most of her stories.
and Mike.

For now, she looked out the window, and
cried for the loss of her husband.

DROVE MY CHEVY TO
THE LEVEE BUT THE

LEVEE WAS DRY

by Beth Goldner

I stole the Jackson Marlowe sculpture, Cattails fashioned out of toothbrushes. My next-door
for Wendy, from the front yard of Jackson’s neighbor has a peacock whose feathers are
very own house. The stems were made of re- overlapping soup can lids painted blue and
bar that arched up from a steel mount, and the purple and silver. Clint, the man I love but re-
flower heads were vintage apothecary bottles fuse to marry, owns a Marlowe piece: two
of cobalt blue. I had refused to buy one of Jack- roosters made of corrugated steel, standing
son’s sculptures, much to the chagrin of my under a chuppah made of chain-link fence. I
neighbors. Every other home on our block of care for Clint, please him in bed, tell him he is
Missouri Street had one of his pieces displayed handsome. I make him go to the doctor even
on their front lawn. Buzz about the sculptures though he said going to the doctor does noth-
began popping up on Internet travel sites years ing but make a person sick. What I needed
before, and locals and out-of-towners alike from him was to be needed, but that alone
came to see the splendor known as Marlowe’s does not make for sustaining love.
Block. When I stole Cattails for Wendy, I had
one goal in mind, which was to successfully Missouri Street borders the University of
hoist it into my Chevy Suburban, drive it to the Kansas. Our houses are a hodge-podge of
levee on Second Street, and push it, unnoticed cottages and bungalows in various states of
by anyone, into the Kansas River. I wanted to ruin or shine. Most were built from mail-order
make it clear to Jackson that he was, indeed, kits sold by Sears Roebuck during the 1930s.
correct in his observation: I was brave. Neighbors would work together to construct
the houses, which had up to thirty thousand
Jackson paints bicycle handlebars and hub- pieces in a kit. It was this approach that made
caps and soda cans in shades of red and green Jackson a hit in the town of Lawrence: being
and yellow. He glues and saws and drills and communal was in its very DNA. Clint was al-
torches, crafting kitschy pieces, like a poodle ways insulted when I called our town provin-
made of a motorcycle seat covered in bike cial. Just because you’ve traveled the world
gears, its paw holding a leash tied to children doesn’t give you the right to judge those who

haven’t, he’d say. The thing is, I haven’t just knew I’d understand the imprint of time spent
traveled the world. I have lived in the world. I in other countries, that people on our block
am a nurse and have worked for HealthSave only know how to vacation when they traveled.
Christian Ministries for twenty-five years. Alt-
hough I’m agnostic, HealthSave requires only “What do you mean I’m ‘holding out?’” I
that I care about God’s people, which I do. In asked Wendy, knowing exactly what she
my mid-twenties, I married the wrong man, a meant, but wanting to see what was going to
HealthSave doctor, but did the right thing by come out of her flighty mouth.
having two sons. I raised them well, if a bit
haphazardly. When my husband and I split, we “Oh, Anne. We’re one lawn, your lawn,
bought two homes in Lawrence. He settled into from getting our block in Better Homes and
an orthopedic practice, caring for the boys Gardens. Didn’t Jackson tell you they called?”
when I took assignments in Belarus and Hondu-
ras and Laos. Although I find pleasures in the Wendy nudged at Jackson’s ribs. Clint
smallness of Lawrence, I stand by what I do not looked down at his plate. Jackson glared at
like, and I do not like Jackson’s kitschy art, so I Wendy.
would not be bullied, silently or otherwise, to
put a piece of nailed and stapled trash on my “Nobody told me nothing,” I said.
front yard.
“You really should buy one. Jackson will
Jackson’s girlfriend, Wendy, was the only even give you a discount at this point. Right,
person with the guts to confront me. It was Jackson?”
easy to ignore my neighbors who, with just
their eyes, said, I know this sculpture thing is “Please, Wendy. Stop,” Jackson said, look-
ridiculous, but give it up already and buy one so ing directly at me.
we can make it into Frommer’s. Wendy is all of
twenty-six years old. She is prematurely gray- Things rarely made me uncomfortable. I
ing but wears it, along with her short chunky had held infants in Calcutta with burn wounds
thighs and broad nose and small breasts, with across their body from falling into an open fire
such confidence that she draws the stares—the while their mothers cooked. There would be
good kind—from every man in a room. lines of people behind that baby. Cholera and
vaginal fistulas caused by giving birth too
“I just don’t get why you’re holding out, young, and AIDS and boils and carbuncles, such
Anne,” she said. a long line of humanity that my team could
never relieve from suffering during the few
Clint and I were at Jackson and Wendy’s months we spent at any given ram-shack clinic.
having a late dinner. Despite my refusal to buy It seemed the countries all blended together.
a sculpture, I was still invited to dinner parties Holding out on my neighborhood was almost
and cookouts. Wendy had swept into Jackson’s amusing.
life and stayed. Before her, a revolving door of
women flowed in and out of his home. Jackson “Sorry about that,” Jackson said to me, as if
is tall, and skinny as if diseased. He has a long Wendy wasn’t even there.
beard, which looks odd next to his crew cut. He
was in Vietnam, and he said the crew cut was “No need to apologize,” I said with a shrug.
his way of carrying that time with him. Tattoos
announce pain and courage, and there’s noth- Wendy was drunk, yet she carried it well
ing wrong with that, but I only need to an- because she was a happy drunk—but, mostly,
nounce it to myself, he had said to me. I asked because she was young. She moved her chair
him why he even told me that, and he said he closer to Jackson’s and put her elbows on the
table, staring at me and ready to speak.

“Different subject, honey,” Jackson said.

“Okay. I get it. No, I don’t get it. But, you’re

right, new subject. Okay, how about this. Anne, month mission in Tajikistan. They needed a
I think we should go shopping together. For team of nurses for a hygiene campaign in the
clothes.” city of Dushanbe. She said the underwriters
still hadn’t approved it. Since my time in Yem-
“Why’s that?” en two years before, my blood pressure had
shot up. This was an unresolvable disconnect
“You have a lovely figure, and good taste. for me: I climbed Half Dome the previous
Everything about you is lovely, actually. But spring with my younger son, Gavin. I had an
you don’t show enough. You shouldn’t be excellent diet, kept stress at a minimum. I did
wearing stuff you’re too old for or anything. It’s cardio. Yoga. Pilates. Yogilates. But bad ge-
important to be classy, but you don’t want to netics are bad genetics and high blood pressure
be too classy. You know what I mean?” is high blood pressure, regardless of effective
pharmaceuticals. I joked that I never thought
“No, I don’t know what you mean.” I’d be too old to help. It’s not an age thing,
Kayla said. It’s a liability thing.
I looked at Jackson. His eyes lingered on my
shoulders. The previous summer, at a block Wendy came back, poured wine into her
party, when both of us were drunk but not very glass, and passed the bottle to Jackson to serve
drunk, Jackson told me if he were a painter, us.
he’d paint the curve of my shoulders, how they
sloped so perfectly that one’s palm could rest “Anne, I’ve decided that we’re going to the
comfortably on them regardless of the angle or mall tomorrow to shop. Just you and me. At
approach. I’d paint them on canvas, and then high noon.”
directly on your shoulders. All of those colors,
he said. I had just turned fifty, and it was the “Honey, you may be young and recover
greatest compliment a man had ever given me quickly, but you won’t be in any shape to go
about my body. Jackson was the only person in anywhere tomorrow at high noon,” Jackson
the entire town who didn’t care whether or not said to Wendy, and he and Clint laughed.
I bought a sculpture of his. It made me hate
him, for if he were an arrogant artist, I would Clint and I had been together for a year,
question his comment about my perfect shoul- and he had been getting antsy. At our age, you
ders and thus not take the compliment so deep don’t need to date for three years to decide
to heart. It would be easier to think he was full whether to tie the knot, he said. He had pre-
of shit. sented me with a ring. Twice. And both times I
told him I just don’t know what I know some
“You need to update yourself,” Wendy said. days. I’d wake up next to him and think about
“You don’t look a day past forty-five. I hope I how he didn’t snore, how he never asked if I
look as good as you when I’m your age.” needed a sweater but he’d sense I was cold
and bring me one, how he stayed out of my
“How old you think I am?” I asked, and I way if he saw a certain look on my face but
didn’t know if I should laugh or throw my knife would ask me if I’m alright if he knew he
at her. should. Other days, I would only love him like a
brother who would protect me. When I
“Fifty-six? Maybe, fifty-seven?” thought of Tajikistan, I worried that I wouldn’t
miss him. It felt as if I took turns loving him in
“I’m fifty.” different ways, and I told him this. Marriage or
no marriage, Clint said if I went to Tajikistan, I’d
And everybody but Wendy became a stat- be making it clear which way I loved him the
ue, a recycled old thing that does not blink or most.
question. Wendy went to the kitchen for more
wine. I walked out of Jackson’s dining room, out
of the house, and in the distance I heard Clint
Kayla, my rep from HealthSave had called
me that day about my application for a two-

and Jackson calling for me to come back. I He took my arm and brought me to the
locked my front door, got in bed. I ignored Clint door of their basement.
banging on my door, hollering, Anne, she’s just
a drunk kid. Just let me in. Please. Just let me “When are you going to buy one of my
in. pieces?”

The next day I went to Jackson’s house and He smiled, but I couldn’t tell if he was jok-
rang the doorbell. I wore a black turtleneck ing.
with pearls, gabardine pants, a London Fog
raincoat cinched tightly. The skies looked omi- “Never.”
nous.
“Why is that?” he said, laughing.
Jackson opened the door.
“Because I don’t like your art.”
“Is Wendy ready?” I asked.
“See,” he said, grinning. “This is what I’m
Jackson laughed. talking about. You are brave.”

“I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear that “I don’t know how not buying your artwork
she’s still sleeping.” makes me brave.”

“Can you wake her up? She said high noon. Jackson’s ego was made of solid ground,
It’s high noon.” but the slight drop of his face made me suspect
there were a few sinkholes.
He motioned me in.
“I love how you say whatever you want.”
“Anne, really, she was drunk. She didn’t
know what she was saying.” “I’m brave because I go to third-world
countries, Jackson. Not because I’m honest.
“She knew exactly what she was saying.” You shouldn’t deem being mouthy as a virtue.”

“She can be a bit much, I know, but please “Come downstairs,” he said, his voice even
don’t be offended.” but cold. “I want to show you what I’m working
on.”
I didn’t want to be offended. I didn’t want
to go shopping. I just didn’t want Wendy to be I cinched my belt tighter.
right. I felt wobbly and wondered if it was Jack-
son’s hardwood floors, which were a mess with “You shouldn’t be so stubborn, Anne.”
swells and dips. Scratches lined the white walls
from Jackson moving sculptures from the base- He took my hand, looked up at the ceiling,
ment to the outside. Jackson had blue paint on and closed his eyes. Then he walked us into the
his hands and across his eyebrow. He was deaf kitchen. He pounded on the table so fast and
in his left ear from artillery fire, and he spoke hard that the walls vibrated. I waited for Wen-
so softly that everything he said took on an air dy to come running downstairs, but she didn’t.
of intensity. Jackson counted aloud to twenty, then led me
downstairs into the basement, and he kept the
“Anne, you are beautiful in a way that Wen- light dim, and I couldn’t see how beautiful he
dy will never be. She will never see the world. believed I was, but I believed him.
She has a perfect heart, but she’s limited. She’s
not like you. She’s not brave.” For the next three months, I went to Jackson’s
basement, which felt like the terrain of a third-
world country. Tin sheets from old roofs

stacked in a corner, water leaks through the It had been two weeks since I’d seen Wen-
cinderblock walls, rusty soot, empty CD cases dy and her dress, and I hadn’t taken any of
piled on a table made of plywood, an array of Jackson’s calls. I showed up at his house one
corroded tools. We found places there, sacred morning when I knew Wendy would be at
spots, or we’d create them. At certain angles, work.
his jawline showed the vulnerability of a boy,
probably the frightened one he was in Vi- “I want to buy the cattails piece,” I said.
etnam. Imagine hundreds of bodies, he said.
What I saw at Cu Nghi was what no kid should To have a sculpture would be to have a
see, or do. And even though I’d seen hundreds large puzzle put together and I’d no longer be a
of bodies in states of inhuman disrepair, I said missing piece, just part of the background. I
nothing, only listened. At other angles, his face could stay glued until I became unglued and
looked worn and tired. He was more than a when I became unglued I’d have to leave. It
decade older than me and I was more than two was that simple.
decades older than Wendy, and this equation
made for a perfectly calibrated scale. When I “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” he
was with Jackson, everything was in balance. I asked.
went to his house only on weekdays, when
Wendy was at work. And after that first day in “There’s nothing to talk about. I want to
the basement, I called Kayla and told her I buy the cattails piece.”
couldn’t go to Tajikistan anyway, even if my
blood pressure no longer mattered. He had shown me the piece while it was in
progress. I had told him it was the only thing he
And then one day at high noon, when I al- ever made that looked like art, the simplicity of
ways went to Jackson’s, when I cared about just blue glass and steel.
nothing more than this one small area of this
whole town, I knocked on the door and Wendy “I can’t sell that piece. I can show you some
answered. She and I had not crossed paths other stuff,” he said, inviting me into the
since everything began. I was avoiding her, and house.
even declined a dinner invitation. She stood
there smiling, a diamond on her ring finger, her “I want the cattails.”
belly slightly round. She must be almost four
months along, I thought. She didn’t look sur- His face was a sheet of calm.
prised or curious to see me but instead cen-
tered, as if her world was in the best place it “It’s not for sale,” he said.
could be—and it was. I babbled words that I
could not recognize but at the end of this bab- “But that’s the one I love. It’s the only thing
bling I had asked to buy one of Jackson’s sculp- I’ll buy from you.”
tures.
“It’s a wedding present for Wendy.”
“Oh, Anne. God, Jackson will be thrilled.”
I went home and sat at the kitchen table
She took my arm and pulled me inside, tell- until the sky darkened. The University had built
ing me I needed to see her wedding dress, ex- a new gym across the alley and I could see in-
plaining she had no morning sickness, that the side its big glass windows, the boys in karate
wedding would be in the front yard, and she class kicking their legs, yelling yells I could not
didn’t care if people judged her for being preg- hear. Students jogged on the upstairs track
nant while taking vows. that overlooked the basketball court and, as
they ran around and around, I was lulled by the
“It’s a magical time,” she said. “A magical young girls in neon pink sneakers and matching
time.” shorts, big ponytails waving back and forth, so
certain and fluid.

Jackson and Wendy married in their front opened and Clint walked out. He was staying at
yard under the sycamore tree. Jackson looked their home while they honeymooned, taking
petrified and Wendy kept squeezing his hand in care of their two pugs. I reached my hand out,
reassurance. I own the world, her eyes seemed as if Clint were close enough for me to touch.
to say. Clint helped Jackson place the sculpture He walked into the street and talked to the
on the lawn after the reception, when the ca- adults. They swiveled, pointing at other hous-
terers were stacking folding chairs and clearing es. Twenty minutes passed and they still
tables. It had rained for days before the wed- talked. I had been standing there the whole
ding, and both men muddied their shoes and time, my arms covered in goose bumps. They
cuffs. Jackson and Wendy were leaving for can’t see me, I thought. How is that possible?
their honeymoon the next morning. They were Then Clint looked up. A big grin spread across
driving an hour away to Kansas City. Wendy his face and he waved his arm, beckoning me
wasn’t too far along to fly, but she was fright- to him. I didn’t move, and I waited for Clint to
ened about the possibility of something going excuse himself from the group, to cross the
wrong with the baby while they were away, of street, ask me if I was okay. Instead he put his
having to suddenly see a doctor she didn’t arm down. He turned back to the group and
know. Especially if we went overseas, she said. after a few more minutes of talking, he walked
If the doctor didn’t speak English, I wouldn’t into Jackson and Wendy’s house without look-
really know what was going on, you know? ing back.

“At least we’re going somewhere,” she With the sculpture in my backseat, I headed
said. “The Intercontinental Kansas City at the north on Route 59 toward the Lawrence Visi-
Plaza. It’s five stars! I know, we’re not even tors Center, which was across the street from
leaving the state or anything, but we’re still the levee. When I turned west onto Second
getting away.” Street, the sun hit me like a slap. I focused on
the yellow dividing lines to avoid driving into
“Kansas City is in Missouri,” I said to her. another car. Kansas is much like the desert,
with nothing to block the sun or diffuse its rays.
Clint pinched my arm, and Wendy’s eyes I parked in the lot of the Visitors Center and
widened. waited, making my way through a pack of stale
gum I found in my glove compartment. I stuck
“What?” she said. a chewed piece on a cattail bottle each time
the flavor wore out. At eleven o’clock, the Dip-
“Kansas City is also in Kansas,” Clint said, per had made its way past the North Star, and
pinching my arm a second time. “There are two there were nine missed calls on my cell phone,
Kansas City’s. But, they’re next to each other. A all from Clint. I drove my car right up against
state line divides them. The one you’re going to the Lawrence Levee Trail, a footpath that runs
is in Missouri. It’s confusing.” on top of the levee, and a place where, during
the day, people walked their dogs or jogged.
I waited to see her bloom with embarrass- The actual levee is just a steep hill of rocks that
ment, but instead she shrugged her shoulders. leads into the river. I pulled the sculpture out
of my backseat, dragging it to the edge of the
“Oh, well,” she smiled. “At least somebody footpath by the stems. I gave it a big push and
knows where I’m going on my honeymoon.” it tumbled down the hill, bottles breaking
against the rocks, and then came to a halt a
She and Clint laughed.

The next morning, I stood on my porch and
watched a large family—grandparents with
children and small grandchildren—walk down
the street, taking pictures of each lawn. As the
family reached Jackson’s house, the door

few feet shy of the river. I scooted down the “So your solution is to steal the trash?”
levee on my bottom to stay balanced, kicking
the sculpture inch by inch until it finally went “No. I just put it where it belonged.”
into the cold waters.
Clint shook his head and took the duct tape
Please let it sink, I thought. And it did. from my hand. The tissues were soaked, stuck
in the wound. He sat me at the table and
In the moonlight, I searched for big pieces worked silently.
of the glass, cutting my hand as I found them.
The glass pieces had my gum on it and my gum “Did you call the cops?” I asked.
had my DNA on it and what if there was an
investigation? What if this was a crime that “Do you think somebody saw you?”
was really a crime? Jackson would get to deter-
mine what happens next and how much weight “You didn’t answer my question. Did you
this would all have. Everything is in his hands call the cops?”
now, I thought.
“Obviously you broke it, but the question is,
On the south side of campus, a massive steam how bad? And where is it?”
whistle is situated on the power plant that gen-
erates electricity for the university. Since 1912, “It’s irretrievable,” I said.
the whistle blows at ten to the hour, every
hour, to signal a class change. It sounds like “What’s that supposed to mean?”
both a train and a barbaric howl. It was early
morning, and I was in the kitchen using tissues “It means I can’t get it back.”
and duct tape to jerry-rig a bandage for my
hand, which was still bleeding. The steam whis- “You are making this so impossible. Am I
tle blew as a perfect announcement to Clint supposed to lie for you, Anne? Is that what you
walking into the kitchen. I never locked my are asking me to do?”
door, and Clint never knocked.
“I can’t tell you what to do about anything,”
“What the fuck did you do with the sculp- I said.
ture, Anne?” he asked, standing in the kitchen
entrance. “I think I might have to stop loving you. I
might just have to try, at least.”
I had never heard him use that word be-
fore, and he delivered it with such calm, his The bleeding wouldn’t stop. Before taking
voice deep. For the first moment since I stole me to the emergency room, Clint sat us on the
the sculpture—for the first time in years—I felt couch, and he held my face, and then put his
frightened. hands on my knees and smelled my hair and
just kept saying, Christ, Anne, Christ. I lost track
“He saves trash. That’s all, Clint,” I said, my of time and then the whistle blew, and he
voice trembling. “Do you know that I once asked me again where the sculpture was, and
saved a baby from the trash? It was in Bangla- we just waited until we heard the whistle
desh and there was a baby in the gutter, right again.
there in shit and dirty water. Do you under-
stand what his trash versus my trash is all When we returned from the emergency room,
about, how you have to be careful about how I took a nap on the couch. I dreamt the police
you use that word?” arrived and they questioned me while I was on
the couch, flat on my back not moving. My
body was frozen but I could speak: Maybe
some students stole it. Why would I do some-
thing like that? You can’t prove anything. I’m so

tired, you understand? Have you been to Tajiki- About the Author:
stan? Do you even know where Tajikistan is,
officer? I awoke and looked for Clint. I found
him in my bedroom, asleep, his shoes neatly
placed next to my end table. He’s a heavy
sleeper, and he didn’t stir when I walked into
the room. I wondered if this was what he
would look like when he was dead, slack jawed,
limp wristed. I tried to picture Jackson dead. I
couldn’t imagine him dying with his body fully
intact. I imagined Jackson, simply by the nature
of his bending material to make something
new, as a man who would be physically marred
when all was said and done. Over the years, so
many of the dead I saw were young, and it was
wrong and unfair. So even though I could, I
would never allow myself to picture Wendy
dead.

The whistle blew. Clint didn’t wake up. If I
walked away, the last picture in my mind in
Lawrence would be peaceful. Clint’s car was in
the driveway behind mine. The path of least
resistance, which felt so important, was to take
my purse, Clint’s keys, and head to Kansas City,
to find Jackson on his honeymoon, to show him
my stitches and to pull blue shards of glass
from my jacket pocket and give them to Wendy
with an apology that was sincere, to explain to
both of them that my bravery had only begun,
that I was going to Tajikistan, high blood pres-
sure or not, with a mission or not, and that I
was headed to the airport next, the one in Kan-
sas City, Missouri, not to be confused with Kan-
sas City, Kansas, and that I would be in those
dank slums but wear pearls underneath my
scrubs.

Beth Goldner is the author of Wake: Stories
and The Number We End Up With: a Novel,
both published by Counterpoint Press. Her
work has been well received by Publishers
Weekly, Kirkus Review, New York Times, and
Boston Globe. She has published many short
stories, her most recent in Westview, Balti-
more Review and Northern Virginia Review (in
press). She lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

ONE NIGHT IN A

NAMELESS TOWN

by Matthew Abuelo

It was another sleepless night in a long line of to get the lid off and swallow the pills without
sleepless nights for Jimmy Miles. He was kept any water. Fifteen minutes later he felt a warm
awake by a sharp pain that started in his rib glow take over him. The source of his torment
cage before radiating to his back, making every had finally drifted away while his muscles re-
break labored. No matter the position he could laxed, and the tears and sweat dried. Sleep was
find no comfort. The weight of lying down only finally coming at last.
made the pain worse and as it was he was al-
ready sweating while fighting for each breath. The dreams had yet to come when the si-
The sweat drenched his tea shirt which clung lence gave way to a woman’s scream. At first
to his slight but muscular frame and mated his Miles thought nothing of it. It was not uncom-
dark brown hair. His shorts also were soaked mon for his neighbors to get drunk to numb
through as the sweat dripped from his legs themselves since the nameless town’s only
giving him the look of a junkie in the middle of factory had closed down after the fire. When
withdraw. the money and the alcohol dried up, the DTs
left the meanest drunks screaming in the
The doctors had given him Delauded which throughs of hallucinations and pissed stained
sat on the night stand next to his bed. His fear trousers. They yelled vulgarities into the end-
of becoming a junkie kept him from taking it less mornings and afternoons while the spiders
until the headaches from being up for too long crawled up and down their legs. When they
started coming in waves, forcing his eyes shut looked at their limbs though, nothing crawled
and filled with tears, then there was no choice at all. Others had started mainlining anything
his body had made its demands that would not that could be cooked down in a spoon or bottle
be denied despite any trepidation on being an cap and shot through a syringe. It was a usual
opium addict. This night his jaw was clenched, thing for the local drug store to be broken into
and the bed was soaked from the beads that at night and all the pain killers cleaned out of
came pouring down. Mile’s body was forced the pharmacy. The foreman who was on duty
into a fetal position as every sound around him that fateful day gave out a child’s cry hours
seemed to make every moment a reminder of before he was found hanging in the tree be-
what happens when the body breaks down. He hind his house with a chair tipped over under-
soon gave in and reached over to grab the neath him.
brown bottle. His hands shook but he was able