Adelaide Literary Magazine No.12, April 2018

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINEIDE-
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Revista Literária Independente Mensal
Year III, Number 12, April 2018 EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Ano III, Número 12, abril de 2018 Stevan V. Nikolic

ISBN-13: 978-1-7320742-5-5 [email protected]
ISBN-10: 1-7320742-5-9
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent interna- Raymond Fenech
Ɵonal monthly publicaƟon, based in New York and
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish Adelaide Franco Nikolic
quality poetry, ficƟon, nonficƟon, artwork, and photog-
raphy, as well as interviews, arƟcles, and book reviews, GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
wriƩen in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish Adelaide Books DBA
outstanding literary ficƟon, nonficƟon, and poetry, and
to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE EDITOR / EDITORA PORTUGUESA
emerging, and established authors reach a wider liter- Adelaide Franco Nikolic
ary audience.
BOOK REVIEWS
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal Heena Rathore
internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Jack Messenger
Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Ade- Ana Sofia Pereira
laide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objecƟvo da revista é
publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de ScoƩ Morris
qualidade assim como entrevistas, arƟgos e críƟcas
literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim
como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan- Laura Tahir, Lisa Lopez Snyder, Joseph Garcia, Nancy
do os autores novos e emergentes a aƟngir uma au- Gendimenico, James Tucker, Robert Kirkley Whitney
diência literária mais vasta. Judd, Juan Villagomez, Thomas Elson, Toni Morgan,
Mary Ann Presman, Perle Besserman, Meg Rivera,
(hƩp://adelaidemagazine.org) Joshua Sastre, Fran Turner, Luke Bandy, A. Elizabeth
HerƟng, Peter Hoppock, Sam Gridley, Mari Wise, Edith
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York Boyd, Haley Biermann, Virginia Duke, Russ Bickerstaff,
244 FiŌh Avenue, Suite D27 Alex Lobera, Rekha Valliappan, Harry Groome, Lazar
New York NY, 10001
e-mail: [email protected] Trubman, Tara Lynn Marta, Linda Juliano, Ken
phone: (917) 727 8907 Puddicombe, Brandon AbboƩ, ChrisƟna Kapp, Bruce A.

Copyright © 2018 by Adelaide Literary Magazine Heap, Joram PiaƟgorsky, Carol Fixman, Robert
WexelblaƩ, Carol Crawford,Mary Bonina, Fabrizia
All rights reserved. No part of this publicaƟon may be FausƟnella, Sylvia Semel, Donald Dewey, EllioƩ Vincent
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without wriƩen Flood, Sydney Samone Wright, Byron Beynon, Kai
permission from the Adelaide Literary Magazine Editor- Raine, Timothy Robbins, Daisy Bassen, Craig Kennedy,
in-chief, except in the case of brief quotaƟons Fabrice Poussin, Dean Baltesson, Manuel Madera,
embodied in criƟcal arƟcles and reviews. Anwer Ghani, Graham McLennan, Tim Rodriguez, W.
Jude Aher, Timothy Dyson, Joe Murphy, Herbert

MarƟn, Marc Carver, JeaneƩe L. Miller, Anca
Vlasopolos, Mukund Gnanadesikan, Sarah Snyder,
Timothy B. Muren, Sahina Jerome, John Sweeder,

Heather Lee Rogers, Razmik Grigoryan,
Maro Ghukasyan, Stephanie E. Dickinson

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Revista Adelaide

CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS

EDITOR'S NOTES GOOGLE MAPS by Harry Groome 112
THOUGHTS & QUOTES by Stevan V. Nikolic 6 DEADLY LONELY QUIET WILDERNESS 115
by Lazar Trubman
FICTION / FICÇÃO STRANGERS NO MORE by Tara Lynn Marta 123
STORY TIME by Laura Tahir 7 THE BLUE HAT by Linda Juliano 127
SATISFACTION by Lisa Lopez Snyder 12 THE INTERVIEW by Ken Puddicombe 132
A NATIVE AUSPICE by Joseph Garcia 20 ALWAYS LOVE by Brandon AbboƩ 136
VICISSITUDE by James Tucker 26 WILD THINGS by ChrisƟna Kapp 140
ONE, TWO, THREE, BANANA 33 THE ELEVENTH INCIDENT by Bruce A. Heap 147
by Robert Kirkley THE MIRACLE OF ESTELLE 153
MEADOWS by Whitney Judd 38 by Joram PiaƟgorsky
DEICIDAL SECOND GRADER 42
by Juan Villagomez NONFICTION / NÃO-FICÇÃO
DON’T WANT MUCH by Thomas Elson 44 UNIFORMS by Nancy Gendimenico 160
THE HOUSE ON EAST ORANGE STREET 49 THE BEAUTY OF THE MUSIC 166
by Toni Morgan by Carol Fixman
‘TIS A PUZZLE by Mary Ann Presman 50 ON SIDEKICKS by Robert WexelblaƩ 168
CAGE by Joshua Sastre 58 DELIVERIES by Carol Crawford 174
TRYING AGAIN by Fran Turner 61 TOY GUN AND VIDEO GAME PLAY 178
NEW YORK SOUVENIR by Luke Bandy 66 by Mary Bonina
THE BLACK DEATH OF HAPPY HAVEN 70 HOMELESS by Fabrizia FausƟnella 183
by A. Elizabeth HerƟng COMPETITION by Sylvia Semel 186
TERRIBLE BLUE by Peter Hoppock 75 ENTERTAINMENT by Donald Dewey 189
MARCH AROUND THE FIELD by Sam Gridley 82 TITAN by EllioƩ Vincent Flood 191
THE CREEDE CONUNDRUM by Mari Wise 88 TRACK CHANGES by Sydney Samone Wright 193
MEETING MELISSA by Edith Boyd 92
FIRST SIP by Haley Biermann 97 POETRY
BYRESH by Virginia Duke 100 SURFERS by Byron Beynon 199
CANDY IN THE VOID by Russ Bickerstaff 109 I TRAVELED by Kai Raine 201
ON THE STAIRS by Alex Lobera 111 MIDLIFE by Timothy Robbins 203

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Adelaide Magazine

BOARDER by Daisy Bassen 206
WINTER by Craig Kennedy 207
EXPLORER by Fabrice Poussin 208
THERE WAS TIME by Dean Baltesson 211
ESPERANZA by Manuel Madera 214
THE WAR’S SON by Anwer Ghani 216
A PLACE WITHOUT JARS by Graham McLennan 217
SHOULDER TO STONE by Tim Rodriguez 219
BETWEEN THE SEASONS by W. Jude Aher 221
POST WAR BABY by Timothy Dyson 224
FOR EMILY by Joe Murphy 226
THE ARROWS by Herbert MarƟn 230
THE CIRCLE by Marc Carver 232
REFUSALS by JeaneƩe L. Miller 233
EQUINOX SWINGS by Anca Vlasopolos 235
THE CLOSED DOOR by Mukund Gnanadesikan 237
SUMMER by Sarah Snyder 238
SUPER-8 by Timothy B. Muren 240
JOSIE by Sahina Jerome 244
BLUES BUSKER by John Sweeder 247
SOMETHING BLUE by Heather Lee Rogers 250
FREEDOM by Razmik Grigoryan, 253
translated by Maro Ghukasyan
BIG HEADED ANNA by Stephanie E. Dickinson 256

Front cover photo:
THE BUTTERFLY — by A.F. Nikolic
Interior illustraƟons— From the series “Postcards
from Portugal” by A.F. Nikolic

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Adelaide Magazine

Stevan V. Nikolic

THOUGHTS & QUOTES

“... for miracles to happen, God need our cooper- “The only truly beauƟful dreams are those we
aƟon. As Pastor Charles once told me, God can convert into reality. Everything else is just a night-
throw us a rope to save us, but we have to hold to mare.”
it.”
― Stevan V. Nikolic
― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Michael
“…leaving a book behind keeps your thoughts
“You know Pastor, baking is a real art. Especially alive in this world forever. So, in some ways, your
bread baking. There is something so divine about spirit never dies. It is the best way to achieve im-
it. It is a pure alchemy. And all alchemical ele- mortality.”
ments are there: flour that comes from the earth ― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Michael
and represents material, water that you mix with
flour to make the dough, air released by the yeast “I think that both our lives and the potenƟal di-
fermentaƟon that makes dough rise, fire that recƟons our lives may go are predesƟned. By us-
bakes the bread. It is fantasƟc. And the aroma of ing our free will in making our life choices, we do
hot bread released during baking is the most nothing else but picking up one of many already
pleasant fragrance for our senses. Think about predesƟned opƟons. To us, it seems like we were
that for a moment, Pastor. Any food aroma that making the decision, while in reality, we just se-
we like, no maƩer how much we like it, gets over- lected one of many possibiliƟes that were already
whelming aŌer a while, and we open the kitchen a part of our desƟny.”
windows and close kitchen doors so the smell
doesn’t get into the living room. Any smell, but “Don’t you think God is so powerful that he can
the smell of freshly baked bread. Did you ever make us believe that we made some choices,
hear anybody complain about the smell of baked when in actuality, he had made a choice for us?”
bread? Nobody, Pastor! Nobody. You hear people ― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Michael
complaining about their neighbors frying fish,
roasƟng pork, barbecuing sausages, but nobody
ever complains about the smell of baked bread.
And you know why? Because it is divine. It is mag-
ic – the magic of the craŌ.”

― Stevan V. Nikolic, Truth According to Michael

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Revista Adelaide

STORY TIME
by Laura Tahir

It was August 1976. Sam stopped and looked Jamie jumped on the step and held on to the grab
down from the cab of his Big-OJ Tanker. Under handle, sliding onto the seat without leƫng go of
the streetlight near the truck stop exit he saw the the pillowcase. It was a big tanker, an eighteen-
ragamuffin shuffling his feet on a patch of grass wheeler, very fine inside and out. Jamie tried to
coming out between concrete slabs beaten down hide his awe at the gauges and dials. The cab
and cracked by years of careless, reckless traffic. darkened when he pulled shut the heavy door,
A young white boy, probably in his teens, Sam but Jamie kept in his head the image of the spark-
thought. The boy wore a baseball cap and baggy ly red and blue dash nobs. Who would think that
jeans, and he held a stuffed pillowcase close to orange juice would warrant such an aƩracƟve
his chest. Sam had seen him in the truck stop re- transport?
stroom washing his face about a half hour earlier
and wondered why so late at night this boy was “My name’s Sam. Where in Ohio?”
there alone.
“It’s in the northern part. I have the phone num-
“You think you’re going to get somewhere just ber and she’s expecƟng my call.” Jamie stared
standing there? What’s your name, boy?” Sam ahead into the night and his body sƟffened. He
asked. would have to come up with a city in Ohio for his
ficƟƟous grandmother to live in. He had been at
“Jamie. Can you please give me a ride? I’m going the truck stop for hours and no one had even
to see my grandmother,” Jamie lied. He thought bothered to look at him. And now, what good
the man would refuse if he said he was running fortune! This truck was clean and smelled like
away from home to nowhere. fresh apples and cinnamon. He was afraid one
wrong move could ruin it and he would be
“Where you going?” Sam asked, not waiƟng for dumped on the side of the road.
an answer. “You think you can keep talking? Keep
me awake? I’m taking orange juice to northeast By the light of the exit sign Sam noƟced the boy’s
Ohio. We’ll be in New Jersey a bit more, then delicate fingers gripping the pillowcase on his lap.
Pennsylvania Rte 80 West, the most godawful Strands of hair, the color of pink champagne,
stretch of gray and black nothingness you’ll ever poked out of the boy’s stuffed cap on to his pale
see. Think you can do it?” white face and neck. Seconds later when they
were on the highway the cab was a murky blur
Jamie nodded, “Yes, Sir. Perfect. My grandmoth- inside. “AŌer a while you can see again. Your eyes
er, she lives in Ohio.” get used to it,” he told Jamie. “I just keep focused
on that white line in front of me.”
Sam noƟced the boy’s voice was unusually deep.
He watched the kid walk around the front of the “Uh huh,” Jamie said.
truck to the passenger side, eyes wide in wonder
at the long cylindrical tank. Sam pushed the door “You’re going to have to talk, like I said. I can’t
open. He was relieved he would have some com- keep this up for ten hours if you fall asleep. It’s
pany for the long ride ahead. black out there, darker than my face, and we’re

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Adelaide Magazine

only going to hear this engine hum. If you don’t mad bat. I think the bat was diseased. He kept
talk, I fall asleep and we crash. Both of us. It squealing all night and banging into the wall. I
doesn’t have to be real what you say. Just keep it kept pounding my fists on the door and my dad
interesƟng.” told me to act like a man. And my mother she was
gone somewhere. See if I care about any of them
“Well, she lives in Cleveland?” Jamie knew liƩle now.”
about geography, but he had heard his father talk
about the Cleveland Indians, some sports team, “I don’t care much for mine either,” Sam said. The
and he saw Cleveland on the big map posted at tenderness he felt toward this girl Jamie who was
the truck stop. He looked over at Sam for some trying to sound and act like a boy was uncomfort-
reassurance that his story made sense but could able.
not see the man’s face. By the glow of the dash
assembly he watched Sam’s big brown hands and “What did yours do?” Jamie caught himself
his casual hold on the steering wheel. speaking in his higher voice. He cleared his throat
and forced a burp sound.
Sam heard the boy’s diffidence and hoped he
would be able to ignore it. “I can get you to Cleve- Sam’s laugh was unrestrained and mellow. He
land. If that’s really where she lives. Why you go- told Jamie about how his black father, a colonel in
ing to your grandmother?” the US Air Force, and his German mother met
during the War. He told Jamie about how he went
“She’s Irish. I mean, my parents are sick. I mean I to schools for rich kids, run by proper people who
think my dad he’s going to die and my mom she taught him the tenets of white tradiƟon. He
can’t take care of all of us. There’s my brother played the cello and learned the classics of music.
and another brother. I don’t have any sisters. A His mother wouldn’t let him play jazz. “She was
cousin of mines is in prison.” His voice squeaked mentally ill. They called it ‘mental’ back then,”
out sentences and Jamie felt foolish. Sam said.

“That’s good.” Sam glanced over at the boy. “You “Oh, I heard of that,” Jamie said. He wanted to
going to hold that bag for the next ten hours? You break the momentary silence, to keep Sam awake
can put it in the back, you know.” and talking. “They don’t let me play loud music
back home. They never told me to read books.”
Jamie didn’t want to let go of his property, but
Sam’s voice was comforƟng. He tossed the pillow- Book Ɵtles of the great white men ran through
case into the darkness behind his seat, and just Sam’s head. He had read the canons of literature,
then the green neon billboard of Dad’s Big Boy 2 but never read Richard Wright, never read Zora
MILES ON THE RIGHT shined on Jamie’s bulging Neale Hurston. In college Sam read Giovanni’s
torso. Sam saw the bra under Jamie’s tee shirt. Room, but he couldn’t stay interested in Bald-
win’s sexual struggles. Long rides made Sam remi-
“Remember you need to talk to me, keep me niscence, but he knew he shouldn’t driŌ into pri-
awake,” Sam said. He was annoyed and disap- vate thought this late at night.
pointed, but he couldn’t swat her out the window
as he would a bee on his dashboard. Besides, they “What maƩers now is that I’m free. And I can
were already on the road. His team driver had drive this truck,” he said. “This is freedom, Jamie.
stolen from him and deserted the truck at the last Pure joy.”
stop, and the cops didn’t believe Sam’s story. He
was Ɵred. As long as the kid keeps me awake, he Sam’s talk was easy. He didn’t dismiss the boy
thought. Sam saw that Jamie was a girl, trying to and there was no harsh confrontaƟon. Such gra-
pass as a boy to protect herself, so he would play ciousness was foreign to Jamie. His stomach rum-
along with it. He knew what it was like to pass. He bled as the big truck sped through the dark.
had been forced to pass all his life. Jumping onto the highway was not an opƟon, so
Jamie jiggled his cap and chewed on the skin of
Jamie slumped forward and held his elbows. “My his right thumb, soothing himself. He leaned into
dad’s really a roƩen man, and my mom she’s not Sam’s poise and acceptance and away from his
much beƩer. Once when I was a kid my dad he own miasmic insecuriƟes. FiŌy or so miles into
locked me up in the aƫc for a whole night with a their ride Jamie imagined there was nothing he

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Revista Adelaide

would not tell Sam. He became jaunty and em- that white trash hick back there who was arguing
boldened and wanted to impress the man. with you?” Jamie asked. He had heard them at
the truck stop, saw the young red-head tell Sam
“I went to Catholic High School. Old religious fo- he was finished with trucks. There was something
gies run the place. So one day I got kicked out wrong with that red-head with fiƞul movements
because I dyed my hair black. It was long then, and paranoia: You think I don’t know you’re try-
longer than it is now, and I had curled it into an ing to infiltrate my head? You beƩer find one of
Afro and I had went to school like that. But that your kind, a mulaƩo that wants to sit with you all
was nothing compared to the marijuana we grew day and night because I’m done. “Was he on
in the garden behind the church. And then there speed? I think he took your CB radio, didn’t he.”
was the Quaaludes and diet pills we stole from Jamie said rather than asked. “I seen the cops
the Ministry’s MedicaƟon to HaiƟ Charity. I swear laughing.”
that was just a cover for the priests. They got
theirselves more high off of that donated stuff “Oh, yes, the partner. You’re observant. So by the
than what they sent to HaiƟ.” Jamie watched for way am I.” Sam looked over at Jamie’s dim form,
Sam’s reacƟon, but he couldn’t detect the man’s confused by his need to protect her and at the
features in the dark. “My parents tried to get me same Ɵme drop her off at the next stop and get
to enlist in the Army early.” So far his stories had away fast. Girls are smart but they are trouble.
been more or less true, but Jamie was rapt by his Sam felt tricked and exposed. She thinks and talks
narraƟve and told Sam that his grandmother too much. She’s trying to pry. I have to treat her
agreed to let him live with her so he wouldn’t like a boy so she doesn’t get too personal.
have to go to jail.
More silence, and the dark, and Sam said, “Yeah,
There were no vehicles in sight. Sam braked and you’re right, Jamie. The cops did nothing. They
pulled the truck to the side of the road. “We may won’t find him because they won’t look for him.”
have a problem here,” he said. Then he sang a commercial diƩy, his voice deep
and rich as golden honey: One man sleeps while
Jamie slapped his right hand hard against the the other man drives,/on the nonstop Lawson
right side of his face and cupped his hands over run./ And the cold, cold juice in the tank truck
his ears. “It ain’t my fault,” he yelled, and pushed caboose/ stays as fresh as the Florida sun./ Roll
his head onto his knees. on, Big-O! Get that juice up to Lawson’s in 40
hours.
Jamie’s sudden response surprised Sam. “You
have drugs in that sack?” he asked the boy. Jamie heard the absurdity and became giddy. He
giggled and Sam laughed.
“No, no, believe me! Please, Sam. I’ll show you
the bag.” Jamie reached back to find the pillow- The hours went by and the colorless blank space
case and felt the subtle reassuring pressure of around them was for the most part untouched by
Sam’s hand on his arm. “I made that up about the anything but the occasional glaring signs on Rte
jail, Sam. Honest.” 80, mostly ads for food and gas, and the constant
hum of the truck engine. Jamie’s voice seƩled in
“OK, I believe you.” Sam heard the fear in Jamie’s and he told Sam the story of his life, and Sam was
voice. She’s too vulnerable, he thought. He relieved that the focus was no longer on him.
turned on the overhead cabin light. “Let me see
your face.” She didn’t know when it happened, but it seemed
natural for Jamie to hear Sam refer to her as fe-
Jamie turned his face quickly showing both sides. male. They came to a truck stop halfway across
“It’s nothing. I do it all the Ɵme.” Pennsylvania and Sam told her to wait for him to
help her get out of the cab. Sam’s effortless inter-
They rode on for several miles. Sam thought he acƟon with the aƩendant who refueled the truck
heard Jamie crying and he cursed to himself for made Jamie feel safe. In the restaurant Sam or-
bringing her along. “You’re supposed to talk. You dered coffee and fried eggs, but there Jamie felt
can’t sleep on me now. You have to talk.” small and insignificant when the Ɵred waitress
perked up and bantered with Sam, made
Jamie wriggled around on the seat. He wanted to him laugh while they waited for their breakfast.
hear more about Sam. “So what’s the story with

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Adelaide Magazine

Jamie’s anƟcipatory dread was familiar. Sam some donuts in a bag. His ease of acƟon made
could flee, abandon her and run off with the wait- Jamie think Sam must own the place.
ress. There were only two other truckers at the
restaurant at that early hour. Why did it take for- For the next two hundred miles they drank coffee
ever to get their food? Once they were served, and ate donuts, and they talked. Sam, born the
they ate quickly. year World War II ended, spoke as if he had
fought in it. Jamie was half Sam’s age, and her
“You go on ahead. I’ll wait outside the Ladies’ tales were oŌen veiled, incomplete, and
Room for you,” Sam said as he tapped Jamie’s scaƩered, but they kept Sam awake. Jamie spoke
shoulder and moƟoned with his eyes toward of how her parents, especially her father, didn’t
where she would find the restroom. understand her.

When Jamie saw Sam waiƟng for her outside the “Maybe he just doesn’t understand girls,” Sam
restroom, she rubbed her eyes to hide tears. She offered.
was thrilled that Sam didn’t see her as a full-
blown mess of a baffled teenage boy. She didn’t “Maybe. Maybe no one understands girls.” Jamie
have to tell Sam she was a girl. He knew it. Most said, and Sam laughed.
definitely a girl. Maybe Jamie could really be the
girl she knew she was. Why was it so difficult for “We only have about an hour to go. You got to
everyone else to accept what she knew to be keep talking to me.” Sam said. With one hand on
true, that she had been a girl for as long as she the steering wheel, he reached behind his seat
could remember? Her brothers had always want- and fumbled for several seconds. “I almost forgot.
ed trucks and trains and guns for Christmas, but I save these delicious Jersey sweet babies for the
Jamie wanted a doll house, art supplies, a sewing last miles,” he said, holding the two obscure orbs
machine. Her father had forced her to go fishing in front of Jamie. Tell me you don’t love this fresh
with them. Jamie hated worms. And she hated smell. These were my mother’s favorites.” He put
everyone for insisƟng she was a boy. She hated one of the apples in Jamie’s hands and took a bite
her parents, her brothers, the friends she tried to from the other.
impress with her disorderly conduct, her teach-
ers, her doctors, the whole world. “Thanks, Sam.”

Jamie was gleeful, but also confused and sad. Jamie was calmed by Sam’s reminiscence. She felt
Would it be possible to ride the rest of her life as as well the power of words to recall the stories of
a girl, a woman? Would she, like her mother, her own life. She came to think it would be her
have to conform to what others expected of her? talk that would cause the morning sun to rise.
Would she lose male autonomy? She wanted Sam
to make sense of the inchoate mass of feelings It was light out when they arrived at Lawson’s
that vexed her. Surely he could do this. If she convenience store in Parma, Ohio. Sam bought
were really female, he could make her feel beƩer. Jamie a gallon of orange juice and a package of
He would illuminate her world, clarify the muddy deli meats and gave her some dollar bills and
obscurity around her. Jamie had no vision yet of coins. “There’s phones around the back of the
female agency. She had a vague sense she must store. I got to get my tank of juice to the boƩle
give herself to Sam, whatever that meant, but she plant now. It was a good ride for me, Miss Jamie.”
knew she would only disappoint him. Sam laughed. “Do me a favor. Get some money
for a bus next Ɵme. You were lucky I picked you
“They got a lady’s shower on the other side, girl. up. Some white trash hick trucker could have tak-
Go ahead if you want to be clean for your grand- en advantage of you. And don’t hook up with the
ma, but you have to be fast. We sƟll have a ways boys at the carnivals. Listen to your grandma.”
to go.” Sam told Jamie.
Jamie, besoƩed, looked at Sam’s face in the
“No, Sir. Sam. It’s OK. I’ll wash when I get there.” bright sun. She had no idea where she would go
She followed him back to the restaurant and or what she would do, but a surreal whisper inƟ-
watched him carefully pack four large coffees and mated she could be herself. It was the greatest
ride of her young life. Jamie felt a zealous intent
to add to her life story. This is freedom, pure joy,
she thought. “Thanks, Sam.”

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Revista Adelaide

About the Author:

Laura Tahir, PhD, is a psychologist with pracƟces
in NYC and Allentown, NJ. She has published arƟ-
cles in popular and academic books and journals.
"Story Time" is her first published short story.

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Adelaide Magazine

SATISFACTION

by Lisa Lopez Snyder

Logan slumped in the funk of his futon, PBR in liked the UlƟmate Tower, a five-box combo of
hand, and looked over at the glistening tank. Fun- walnuts, cheddar popcorn, dry roasted peanuts
ny how they moved, he thought, as he watched and chocolate-covered pretzels. There was a feel-
his goldfish flit about in short symphonic bursts. ing of power about this, the knowledge that
So smooth and undisturbed, much unlike his cur- someone, somewhere, would receive this giŌ
rent circumstances, and the unbelievable and with great enthusiasm.
maddening way in which he lost his job at 4:30
that very day. And he was thankful for the job. Melody, the ran-
corous owner with cigareƩe breath, had hired
How it could happen, though, was puzzling, for him for a full-Ɵme posiƟon, conƟngent on his per-
everything leading up to the Christmas rush at formance during the rush. She had, Logan sensed,
Peanuts & Popcorn had unƟl then appeared with- seen him as more than a mere recent college
out complicaƟon. Packing popcorn into Ɵns was graduate, maybe a lifeline of sorts. In just a short
not the most complicated thing, but it was Ɵme, he had mastered the intricacies of juggling
enough to keep some cash handy to help with the the online and phone orders, and Melody soon
rent. A full five months aŌer graduaƟng from Kent put him in charge of the seasonal college hires.
State, anything was. Between bites of large, vinegar-drenched Italian
subs during short lunch breaks, she tucked in
When he recalled the incident, he pictured the business advice. “Dry snacks are the ulƟmate
red melon of his boss Melody’s face as she flew giŌ,” she once told him. “Budget-friendly, but
into a rage, and the smirk on some of his co- thoughƞul. For the giver,” she added, “it’s the
workers’ faces. A few of them remained mute and saƟsfacƟon of a gesture without expectaƟons.”
stone-faced. He thought in the midst of the chaos
someone had taken a quick selfie, a high def or a These supporƟve talks quickly dissolved, howev-
blurred image, that would have caught Melody’s er, once the orders started coming in post-
pasty arm as it flung itself toward the door, when Thanksgiving, at reckless and unforgiving speed.
she was screaming at him to leave. Logan had
been just four weeks into the job, minding his Melody’s firm voice soon emerged as screams.
own business, but focused on keeping the holiday
orders filled as soon as he got them. “Get the friggin’ eff off the phone!” she’d yell at
the college hires when they pecked at their mo-
It all began when he had been in the middle of bile devices in the storeroom.
filling the Zig Zag UlƟmate Tower, a selecƟon
from Peanuts & Popcorn’s specialty line. The Logan took her shrieks as a natural part of the
effort involved placing a pre-measured assort- business—it was a chaoƟc Ɵme, aŌer all.
ment of candy, nuts and popcorn into various Ɵns
and cardboard boxes. In fact, he was just starƟng This day, however, he was the first in the line of
to get a hang of this snack Ɵn thing. He especially fire.

“You have to go faster,” Melody screamed at him.

12

Revista Adelaide

Normally, this wouldn’t disturb Logan. This was And yet, so saƟsfying.
her business; she had a right to expect the best
during the high season. But something snapped in As soon as Logan leŌ the store, Melody had
Logan today. It might have been the adrenaline of walked briskly into her small office and closed the
the rush. It might have been the need to corral door. There was something. So Adult. About Zan-
some humor into the day, or simply a way to deal tac. It was her first grown-up prescripƟon. Melo-
with his blistering mouth sore. Whatever the dy had never actually considered herself a candi-
case, in a half-joking moment, Logan had flipped date for the drug--that was for unstable people
off Melody when her back was turned. The sad with stomach problems—unstable! She shud-
fact, though, was that she saw his gesture, a lone dered as she recalled TV ads showing happy peo-
dangling finger, in the reflecƟon of one of the ple with crisp polo V-necks fluƩering down a golf
solid Christmas Ɵns, the ones that were part of course, free from gastrointesƟnal lurches. It was
the Happy Candy Cane holiday pack. Maybe if he only aŌer a parƟcularly busy Easter at P&P that
had just not done it with such a forceful swipe of her father had suggested she get help—the day
arm, he’d sƟll be there now—geƫng overƟme— none of them menƟoned (but whoa, what a story
instead of sulking in his apartment sucking down the customers could tell), when the pink popcorn
warm PBRs. bunnies smashed into confeƫ onto the floor and
Melody spun around the packing tables like one
Logan stabbed his middle finger up in the air in of those globular forms in Ghostbusters. Her
memory, and grabbed the last of the six-pack on mother took her to the doctor aŌer the incident,
the floor. He snapped the flip top. So much for a with Melody feeling like her 12-year-old self ra-
college educaƟon. He leaned back and stared at ther than a 32-year-old woman with bright possi-
the dried water stains inked across the ceiling and biliƟes.
listened to the bubble of the fish tank. There was
a Ɵme he loved aquariums, the enormous ones at Her father had not yet handed over the enƟre
the zoo. It might have begun as a child, when the business to her, but she knew she was his last
effervescing sounds of the tank in Mrs. Lucas’ fiŌh hope. Her younger sister Carrie had graduated
grade math class soothed his concerns about cal- from Akron and was working as a legislaƟve aide
culaƟng variable expressions. He remembered in Washington, D.C., another cog in the world of
how he first sat there, fingers clenching a pencil, crisp jackets and skirts.
making fake moƟons over the page unƟl at some
point, with the soŌ bubbles in his ears, his shoul- “It’s Ɵme for you to learn the business.”
ders eased, the ringing in his ears stopped, and
the answers emerged on the page in scraggly The day her father said this, she felt a certain sad-
numbers. AŌer that, he was determined to learn ness, knowing that he, too, lamented that he had
as much about aquarium fish as he could. but two daughters, and that they were more like-
ly to seek their fortunes outside and far from the
Logan tasted the sour dregs in the can and shud- harrowing pace of P&P. InsƟnct quickly revealed
dered. The Pabst nipped like an X-acto blade on what Pop saw: a single woman with a cat, hair-
his cold sore. He sat up, dizzy, and eased himself balls flicked to the side or behind the couch (he
off the couch. As he felt his hand slowly liŌ him looked once). She oŌen wished she had leŌ Ohio
upright and over to the gurgles of the tank, he aŌer she graduated from Kent State. She could’ve
wondered about the possible consequence of moved to Texas with her old roommate, Tammy,
mixing a single carbonaƟon with another. How he who was set on geƫng a job with the oil industry.
could become a disappointment to himself so “Lots of jobs,” Tammy said, insisƟng that Melody
quickly was numbing. He tried not to think about join her. But a woman named Tammy seemed to
the call he’d have to make to his parents about belong in Texas. Melody fancied her own name as
the job, and liŌed the half-full can over the lip of permanently Midwest, most comfortable in the
the tank. A circle of fish flickered in the haze of middle of things. Willing to try something new,
fluorescent light, their fins like snipped sails in the but never taking really big risks. Always available,
wind. Intricate. SaƟsfying. And horrifying. So terri- but judicious in her offer to help. EnthusiasƟc, but
fying to find out, Logan thought, as he Ɵlted the mindful of possible consequences.
can forward, its contents nearing the edge.

13

Adelaide Magazine

An image of Tammy and her father’s face sudden- She sat back on the dingy office couch against the
ly emerged in her mind as two greasy fried eggs wall. Her friends’ exoduses were eight years ago.
floaƟng on a bog. She felt a small disrupƟve rum- Already she felt years older than her parents’ next
ble in her stomach. She grabbed her purse and -door neighbor Sonia, a master gardener with the
dug into an inside zipped pocket and pulled out a two kids, house and two-car garage in the sub-
small box. She punched out one of the blue, dia- urbs. Sonia was only 28, great God.
mond-shaped tablets from an unopened bubble
top and glumly swallowed it. It wasn’t as though Melody didn’t care about eve-
ryday things, or that she didn’t try. With Sonia’s
If only she had moved when she had the chance. guidance one Saturday, Melody planted petunias
And right out of school, too, instead of staying in and zinnias in hanging baskets on her front porch,
Middletown, a plucky suburb burgeoning with and organized irises and fennel in the yard. She
Ohio State Buckeye and CincinnaƟ Reds fans, stood back now with the plasƟc watering can (a
what her business-minded father called “a capƟve great $2 deal from Big Lots) and thought about all
audience.” the ways she could create a more welcoming en-
trance. “Curb appeal, Melody,” Sonia said with
She was probably wrong to take it out on the new pointed finger, “it’s all about curb appeal.”
kid. Logan was actually somewhat a glimmer in an
otherwise lonely space. He was the only one who “Gimme a break,” Melody had replied. She saw
really listened to her when she spoke about the the quick downward turn of Sonia’s mouth.
business, his eyebrows raised, nodding in agree- Damn, here it comes, Melody thought, another
ment. She could tell he cared. He seemed to, any- admoniƟon about her hasty, curt responses.
way. And the place did need some comic relief.
He could make her laugh on even the busiest “It turns people off,” Sonia said. By “people,” Mel-
days. ody knew she meant “men.”

When Pop eventually gave her more responsibil- These instances made Melody want to pour hot
ity with the business, she thought about all the candle wax over Sonia’s head. But instead, she
reasons it was wrong to do it. She didn’t picture smiled and clenched her fingers around the wa-
herself as someone who could think about inven- tering can handle. “It’ll scare off the men,” Sonia
tory, markeƟng, customer service, and holiday conƟnued as she nudged dandelion roots from
planning—much less manage people—all in the the soil with appropriately gloved hands and a
same breath. Where in the equaƟon did she fit? large shovel that Melody bought for $3 at Dollar
What did she want? General. A steal, Melody wanted to tell her as she
leaned against the porch railing and lit a cigareƩe.
“Pop,” she said to herself, “what about me?” A steal.

She fingered a postcard from Texas Tammy on The gold color mutaƟon in goldfish was discov-
the bulleƟn board above her desk, imagining her- ered in 300 A.D., someƟme during the first period
self on the beach in a successfully form-fiƫng of the Jin Dynasty. But it wasn’t unƟl 700 A.D.
swimsuit. Melody felt a small sense of glee that at that the Buddhist monks finally domesƟcated the
least that she didn’t need to, nor cared to, con- darn things. Over the centuries, Asian collectors
form to the fashion of the day. It wasn’t a con- focused mostly on aestheƟcs—color and dorsal
scious choice, more one of convenience. It took variaƟons—rather than the culinary aspects. SƟll,
too much Ɵme to systemaƟcally peruse tops that it wasn’t unƟl the 1600s that standard goldfish
went with skirts and pants or vice versa. were exported, first from Japan to Europe, then
to America in the 1800s, becoming what is known
She wondered how she could feel so at odds with in the United States today as the common gold-
herself. So many of her college friends had leŌ fish.
Ohio, even as places like Columbus and Cleveland
were experiencing a renaissance of sorts with Over Ɵme, collectors naturally bred the fish, in-
their growing insurance, technology, and other creasingly aiming for selecƟve, exclusive, or show
“knowledge economies,” a phrase that made
Melody cringe.

14

Revista Adelaide

varieƟes. There are your basic, chubby Sakuri Logan was different, though. Sure, he came in
Ranchus, which run from thirty to fiŌy dollars with the same air that other college kids did these
each, and there’s the coveted slender Koi and days—smug, self-consumed, glued to the
their varieƟes, which start at one hundred. So- smartphone. But something set him apart. He
phisƟcated markings, type of backbone curvature actually paid aƩenƟon to what she said. He un-
and feathered fin lengths are just some of the loaded the shipping materials and counted inven-
aspects that collectors look for. tory…accurately. He paƟently listened when she
told him how to order supplies, and helped her
Logan was generally proud he had educated him- set up the new digital inventory tracking system.
self on the finer points of exoƟc goldfish. He knew He even suggested creaƟng a smartphone “app”
one day he would make a career out of it, study- so that customers could order at just the flick of a
ing their behaviors and paƩerns of reproducƟon. fingerƟp.
The idea perked up his parents, who encouraged
his goldfish interests in the hopes it would some- He reminded her of Ted, her first boyfriend in
how translate into a lucraƟve degree in the sci- high school, a lovable scoundrel who sneaked her
ences. He did have a thing for technology, so that into a second movie theater aŌer watching the
was something. His mother pinned Ɵny hopes on first film. They made out during the first half of
his first major, biology, imagining him as a scien- Love Actually. AŌerwards, they fed each other
Ɵst doing field and lab work, or whatever such thick, crinkle-cut fries at the IHOP.
people do. “Please, any STEM degree would do,”
she eventually said during Logan’s junior year, She withdrew a half-empty boƩle of Pepto Bismol
weary of her son’s changing majors. She didn’t from the kitchen cabinet and uncapped it. Drink-
understand, though, what it took to get through ing from the lip, she yearned suddenly for even a
physics, Logan thought. He tried to tell her once. simple, romanƟc French fry exchange. Heck, just a
He recalled logging onto his laptop to make a final toke might help, if she even knew where to get
decision, scrolling repeatedly through the various some. She considered herself apoliƟcal, but now
opƟons that flashed before him. He hovered over she wished the state legislature would just get it
“English.” Indeed, he was a good writer. And his over and legalize pot. It might help with the stom-
professors did say posiƟve things about his es- ach problems, she knew. More recently, she had
says. watched a PBS special about the legal clinics in
Portland, where people with chronic condiƟons
Click. appeared at newly-established dispensaries with
prescripƟons for weed varieƟes that match their
Logan watched the two large red and white medical needs. When will Ohio get its damned act
ryukin flit against the glass. A member of the carp together? She capped the boƩle and sighed.
family, the ryukin has a fat belly and a prominent
hump behind the head, perhaps the most capƟ- Her cell phone rang.
vaƟng of its features. The fish were a giŌ from his
father at graduaƟon. A quick Google search “-- meet with Vince yet?” her father asked. She
showed that he must’ve spent almost three hun- could hear the distracƟng crack of peanut shells
dred dollars for just the one. Logan put his nose between his teeth as he spoke. “He’s ready…over
against the glass and watched the fishes’ orange- the books with you.” Melody felt a pain growing
ringed lips smacking “o’s” as they snacked at in her belly.
floaƟng parƟcles.
“Tomorrow, Pops.”

“Now that’s really going to help him get a job,” he “You can’t…puƫng this off, babe.”
remembered his mother snapped as he and his
father set up the tank. Melody hung up the phone and looked at her face
in the hallway mirror. Vince was due to show up
When Melody got home, she kicked off her shoes in an hour and she was spent. Dad saw him as a
at the front door and threw her sweat jacket over business asset (“on top of his game, babe”); Mom
the couch. Today’s youth didn’t understand what saw him as son-in-law material. He’s a nice boy,
it took to run a business. Melody was Ɵred of her mother once said, brushing back Melody’s
screaming. It made her feel glum and anxious, like bangs (and “that boy,” recalled Melody, was 40
a mother.

15

Adelaide Magazine

years old). Maybe you should get a nice trim, she Logan stood up and stumbled his way to the door.
had said. “Nice” and “lovely” figured largely in her Tomorrow night was Buckeyes versus big bad
mother’s vocabulary. Michigan. He remembered the Peanuts & Pop-
corn rush and looked at his watch. 8 pm. The last
And possibly a nice facial scrub to flush those of the sport snack orders had long gone out. Lo-
pores a bit, her mother added. gan shook his head as he walked into Jerry’s
apartment, trying to make sense of days. To-
Melody touched the pockmarks that lined the night’s game? Oh yeah, the Cavs. LeBron was
right side of her face. Okay, so maybe she could back. Customers had been ordering the King
make a difference in her life, if she just changed James Snack Pack ever since they announced LeB-
her aƫtude. Maybe it was like Sonia Quite Con- ron James’ return to the Cleveland Cavaliers. Or-
trary said, “curb appeal.” ders had picked up at corporate events across
town.
“Curb appeal!” Melody screamed at her refrigera-
tor. He kept a close eye on the phone for the next two
hours while he and Jerry watched the Cavaliers
She picked up her cell phone and punched at the hammer the Miami Heat. Maybe she’d call back.
dark angry numbers. He was sƟll a liƩle miffed that Melody would call
him out in front of everyone. At least she was
Logan woke to cold air and quickly rubbed his sorry. BeƩer make her wait.
palms over his arms. The apartment had become
grey and chilled. He heard a low buzzing as he lay “Kill it, LeBron, kill it!” Jerry punched the air with
with his back on the floor. Maybe the tank was his fist as King James slam-dunked a ball right
becoming electrified. Maybe a thunderstorm had before Chris Bosh’s eyes.
frazzled the electrical system. He heard the faint
phone voice of his neighbor Jerry from across the As Logan watched Jerry, he realized more than
hall. “Yeah, and load the second one with lots of just Cav fans had forgiven LeBron for leaving
pepperoni and extra cheese.” Cleveland for Miami a few years ago. There were
plenty of Cavs fans in central Ohio, too. He calcu-
The buzz rang again, and from the corner of his lated future possible sales from just app orders.
eye Logan saw a nub of flickering light. He turned NBA season had just begun, and whoa, what
over on his stomach and crawled over to his cell about the damn college basketball lineup? There
phone. Three message icons. would be Ɵme to develop fun promos around
March Madness. A ‘capƟve audience,’ isn’t that
Jerry’s voice echoed again from across the hall. what Melody once told him?
“Yeah, yeah, so all three large ones, man. Okay,
thanks.” Logan looked at Jerry, who was a computer geni-
us at Hi-Tech Mechanic, a rapidly growing digital
Two aƩempts, and then one message. Logan automoƟve soŌware company. What if Jerry had
clicked on the last one. his company test the applicaƟon?

Sorry—my bad Please come back Melody “Hey, asshole, watchya thinkin’ about?” Jerry
folded a slice and pushed half of it into his mouth,
Logan stared at the simple message. Was it really his eyes transfixed on the screen.
that easy? He didn’t know. He was too Ɵred, and
his mouth felt dry and heavy. He decided he Maybe, just maybe.
would not call or text her. Maybe he could just
show up tomorrow. OverƟme was awesome on “Jerry,” Logan said, “I think there’s some good
Saturdays. stuff ahead of us.”

“Hey, Lo!” It was Jerry pounding at the door. “You “Huh? Whatcha talkin’ about?”
home? I ordered some pizza, man. Come on over.
The game’s on.” Logan sat back on the couch, and aŌer a long sip
of Budweiser, clicked on his phone.

16

Revista Adelaide

“Would you like another glass of wine?” Vince long, but in the yellow haze of her front porch
flashed a thumbs-up as they sat at Tony’s TraƩo- light, Vince suddenly looked like a Ɵred 40-year-
ria, a small Italian restaurant in the neighbor- old accountant. His dark suit was rumpled and he
hood. Outside, the last of the fall leaves lay yawned. He made Melody feel like she was 40,
scaƩered under the maple trees lining the side- too. Melody wondered what ever happened to
walk, their bare limbs reaching weakly into the her old boyfriend Ted, and why the hell she never
night’s frost. heard about a class reunion.

Maybe Vince wasn’t such a loser guy, Melody When she shut the door behind her, Melody slunk
thought as she finished the last of her glass. Vince to the floor in the dimly lit foyer. The wine
was wearing a dark, if weary, suit, and swiped seemed to be sinking her into the ground. Her
away a few lines of perspiraƟon from his fore- coat sƟll on, she fumbled through her purse for a
head. From the looks of his fresh haircut, he was cigareƩe. She lit the Pall Mall and closed her eyes
trying, or at least he knew of her mother’s de- as she blew smoke rings. She pulled out her
sires. Melody suddenly realized he might know phone. The baƩery was low, and the screen was
her own mother beƩer than she did. She imag- blank. As she sat there, she tried to erase the
ined signing checks with a revised name. Mrs. quesƟons that eluded her. Is this what her Friday
Vince Delay. Mrs. Melody Delay. Mrs. Delay. Ms. nights would become? How could popcorn, which
Delay. she really liked as a kid, become this kind of obli-
gaƟon? Who cared if it made anyone else happy?
She could also just keep her own last name. Why didn’t she hear back from Logan?

“Thank you,” Melody said, as the waiter brought She closed her eyes, leƫng the wine stupor pull
another glass. Somehow Italian dinners with a her against the floor and the wall. If she sat there
mature man felt comforƟng. There could be more long enough, she would feel beƩer, or beƩer
of these if she wanted. yet—perhaps a Zantac would help. She reached
for her purse and punched out not one, but two.
“How’s your manicoƫ?” Vince asked. He twirled Slowly, she popped them into her mouth.
his spagheƫ, fork against spoon, and ladled too
big of a serving into his mouth. She closed her eyes and imagined her arms and
legs spread out from her body like fins, floaƟng
Maybe she could make Middletown work for her on water.
aŌer all. Establishing trust in a community takes
Ɵme, and while a bit unsteady, she already had During the commercials Logan started to doodle
one foot in the door. on the blank backside of the pizza box flyer. He
drew several fat-bellied goldfish, experimenƟng
“Quite lovely.” Melody’s own words shocked her. with just the right fleshed-out appearance, a solid
She had never once called anything lovely. Was design for his own app graphic design business.
she becoming her mother, or were everyday He could even maybe do this as some kind of con-
things or moments, indeed, quite lovely? sulƟng thing with other companies on the side
and he and Jerry could split the difference.
Was this her third or fourth glass of wine?
He could call his company “Ryuki,” short for
She remembered later that there was some more ryukin. An Asian-inspired goldfish name, a simple
small talk between she and Vince at the restau- but memorable icon. He could already picture it
rant, and nothing really ever about the business. on a web site, helping clients like Peanuts & Pop-
Maybe that was the plan. Tomorrow or next corn and Hi-Tech Mechanic put together a site for
week, perhaps. She’d have to fill in Pop. He’d Google Play, where users could download their
want to know. But maybe he already knew. mobile apps in just seconds. He had made the
suggesƟon to Melody once. She just shrugged,
Later, when Vince dropped Melody off at her but this Ɵme he’d go ahead and create a demo
doorstep, her hands clutching her coat collar for her. “Don’t just work,” Logan remembered his
against the cold, he asked, “Do you need me to dad telling him, when he was applying for jobs,
come in?” The quesƟon sounded odd and forced.

It might have been that the night had gone on too

17

Adelaide Magazine

“contribute to the company. Show the big boss Melody sat up against her front door, not know-
you have something of value.” ing how long she had been there, but maybe she
had made a mistake with Vince and with Logan.
Would he have to patent his design? There was a What were her last words to them? Was Sonia
whole list of things he needed to do. there reminding her to watch her words again?
There were too many unknowns.
“Hey, man, come on!” Jerry pointed to his flat
screen with his empty boƩle. “Heat’s got nothing She’d take one person at a Ɵme. If she could just
on us! Give it to ‘em, James, baby.” go outside and talk to Vince, yeah, that would be
a start. He was probably sƟll outside, waiƟng in
“Dude, you got a really good idea, man,” Jerry the car. She could at least tell her parents it was a
said as he squashed another piece of pizza into really nice date and that this thing with Vince
his mouth. “I mean, hey, this could help me at would work out. He knew her parents really well,
work, too.” and, he could possibly be a mediator so that she
wouldn’t have to even deal as much with the
“For sure.” Logan didn’t tell Jerry about being business.
fired and then re-hired in the space of five hours,
but if all went well, things for everyone—him, She was outside now. A long Ohio winter was
Jerry, and Melody—could really take off. He’d around the corner, she could just feel it in the
even surprise his parents. cold breeze. Sad how quickly fall goes. She didn’t
even remember the color of the leaves changing.
“Geez, I’m out of beer – would you mind?” Jerry There was something so yearning about this Ɵme
said. He stood up and pulled out empty pockets of year.
from his jeans. “It’s half-Ɵme, anyway.”
From the distance she saw the bright headlights
When Logan got in his car, he realized he should- coming toward her. Was that Vince? Maybe he
n’t be surprised he didn’t hear from Melody. It had leŌ and was coming back. Maybe he forgot
was Friday night aŌer all. She was probably out something. “I forgot you,” he would tell her in
with some of her coarse friends who would listen that low voice of his, and they would both laugh
to her bizarre tales and they’d all laugh about the at their awkwardness. How nice. But the car did-
young motley crew at work. He might as well sur- n’t seem to be slowing down. Maybe he didn’t
prise her at work tomorrow—yeah, that would be see her. She could just wave him down. Her coat
good—and he’d tell her about his idea for the was dark aŌer all, and the shadows of the tree
mobile app. Funny how things can turn around so branches and dim streetlights threw down illu-
fast. sions.

He rounded the corner of the block and headed She walked out into the middle of the street, but
toward the town center grocery store. The town in her cold disorientaƟon, as the car neared, she
center was one of those precisely designed, pre- saw the face of the young man as he looked up.
planned communiƟes in the suburbs where the Really, it was just his mouth, shocked and open
“live-work-play” set lived. Restaurants, shopping wide, scared, like she was, but she was unable to
and living areas all together. It wasn’t for him, but move before she heard a screaming of Ɵres and
maybe one day. At least get one of those liƩle the faint pitch of metal somewhere in between.
one-story condos with a front porch and yard.
Maybe meet a girl. Lots of promise ahead. As he And the quiet of cold black night.
drove through a green light, he contemplated the
future, things that included working extra hours,
and then weekends on the patent, and a cool
Ryuki design. Who knew something good could
come of the goldfish? He looked down at his
phone and realized he hadn’t clicked the Send
icon yet on his message to Melody. “Shit,” he said
to himself, and he looked down for what seemed
like just a second.

18

Revista Adelaide

About the Author:

Lisa Lopez Snyder lives and writes in Columbus,
Ohio, where she is at work on a novel and a col-
lecƟon of essays. Her work has been featured
in The Raleigh Review, The Foliate Oak Literary
Magazine, The Scrambler, Gravel, The
34th Parallel and other publicaƟons. Her es-
say, “In Transit,” won The ChaƩahoochee Re-
view’s 2011 Lamar York Prize for NonficƟon. She
received her MFA in ficƟon from the University of
South Carolina and was named the 2015 Carl
Sandburg Writer-in-Residence.

19

Adelaide Magazine

A NATIVE AUSPICE

by Joseph Garcia

I can hear the teeth of the comb scrape against face awash in the light from the stained glass win-
my scalp. I Ɵghtly clench my jaw without a sound dows and recited the verses in baritone; the
to prove my grit to my father. His hair is curly like aƩorneys, with their gold-rimmed glasses hung
mine. He used to comb my hair every Sunday be- low on their noses, put their ruddy faces up for
fore church. It was the last of our rituals. I would review; the sunhat chorus beamed their per-
stand on a box in front of the mirror in my navy- fumed melodies through porcelain teeth and
blue blazer with the gold buƩons while my fa- painted faces toward the eaves and raŌers; our
ther’s huge mahogany hand scraped my hair into Sunday-school governess never dropped her gaze
the desired state. from the pulpit to keep an eye on us, her charges.
I’m beneath the front pew with my face to the
“There ya go Bubbah Louie” my father said before floor craŌing magic wands of pipe cleaners with
he let out a saƟsfied chuckle and douse himself in the children of Old Southern Money.
aŌershave. I don’t think I ever let him know that
it felt like I was being scalped with a hot knife There was a murder on the front lawn that day
every single Ɵme. aŌer church. There was usually a murder on the
front lawn every Sunday. The other children and I
Mother liked to take us to Episcopal church on loved to grab tea cakes greedily from the coffee
Sundays. We would all climb in the sedan; my cart and dispense them in the grass for crows.
father in the passenger seat and I in the back This was permiƩed by our parents who distract-
swinging penny-loafers and smacking bubblegum edly tussled our hair whenever we hugged their
under wheat-blonde curls. Every Sunday of the legs. Usually they were too busy extending invita-
Spring it was sunhats and classical music. My Ɵons and congratulaƟons, or pressing a gloved
mother matched her favorite arias in verbose hand to their chest in laughter to take any noƟce
mezzo-soprano while we drove through our small of our unsightly taste in company. Over Ɵme the
Southern town, passing the ancient shacks that crows had grown bold and mingled among the
once housed slaves. Barely old enough to see out crowd of the Sunday lawn, pecking at the crumbs
through the window, I remember my young eyes we leŌ for them. Everyone came to the church for
catching those of a girl my age standing hand-on- coffee and tea cakes in the grass.
hip in her yard. She watched me pass through the
chain link fence. The coffee cart was wheeled out on to the lawn
by the maintenance crew. I had never seen nor
During service, the rigid form of Anglican tradiƟon heard of the maintenance crew. They did not
reflected off the faces of our congregaƟon to the aƩend our services. It just follows logically that
priest who in turn echoed their collecƟve hopes someone put the cart there while we were all in
skyward when decorum so prescribed: My moth- church singing to the eaves and the raŌers.
er elated her full-voiced agreement; my father
tucked his chin obediently to his chest with his

20

Revista Adelaide

* when our handy man tore off the siding of the
house to repair our broken stove, exposing a
Sunday aŌernoons were spent in the woods and patch of gray unfinished wood.
on the banks of the pond beside our house. My
only brother, our chocolate lab, would trot along “Yep” said the Cajun handy man, wiping off the
beside me everywhere I went. Once he saved me sweat from his brow with his wrist. “This a deer
from a water moccasin who lay in ambush along camp. People used to come here from New Orle-
the banks of the pond. He grabbed it by the head ans just to set and drink, maybe shoot some
and whirled it like a lasso Ɵll it flew off in an arch deer.” He let out a laugh and derided the long-
and landed with a splash back in the water. “Oh! dead huntsman, “maybe somebody never tol’
Oh!” screamed my aunt as I ran off to tell the epic him… not much deer this part the woods.” A dis-
news to anyone and everyone. Mother didn’t tant peal of thunder urged him to finish re-siding
believe me unƟl my aunt came in and confirmed the house before we were both soaked through.
what I said. Jepps was the dog’s name. He was my His eyes flashed back to me; he spoke half to him-
hero. self as I watched him work. He gave a wave of his
dirty glove:“Too wet.”
Our pond had bass and perch. Usually, they never
so much as rippled the surface. Only when I stole *
bread from the cabinet to sprinkle on the water
did they make their appearance. They flew from Once every summer the parishioners of our
their hiding spots to devour my offerings with church would don hard-hats and work-boots to
incredible speed. It seemed they must have spent work their hands at charity. Their tool belts
their whole lives watching the surface. First I sagged with the weight of their tools. One year
came to think of them as pets, then as friends. I we built houses for a neighborhood in need. It’s
oŌen went to war with the boys next door on not as if it were all for show; there was real im-
their behalf. The boys liked to fish for them as provement happening. A whole block of houses
food. Once, the oldest boy pushed Jepps off the was raised on both sides of the street in a maƩer
dock into the pond. It didn’t phase the dog; he of months.
was bred for the water. Later on, I shot that boy
with my air-gun for breaking into our house. At first, my aƩempts to help were encouraged;
though I was never allowed to work. My mother
We even had our own egret, or she had us. Her pretended to need a screw-driver from another
saintly appariƟon would light upon our liƩle pond site and the holder of the screw-driver would say
to rest her wings. Through the kitchen window, I he needed a hammer from the foreman who then
would spy her picking among the reeds in the asked me to carry a load of insulaƟon to my
shallows. I never saw the moccasins or snapping mother. This went on through the morning into
turtles give her any trouble. Somehow she was the hoƩest part of the day when at last, covered
above all that; she was the Lord of that pond. As a in sweat, dirt, and insulaƟon my mother lost her
mere terrestrial creature, she never let me near paƟence with my games and shouted: “Would
her. Her pure white wings would beat the air in you leave me alone? Let me do some God-
retreat at the slightest sound of my approach, damned work here, son!” So, I was leŌ to find
taking her off to where I couldn’t go. Craning my other uses for my Ɵme.
neck, I used to follow her flight with reverence
unƟl the trees blocked her from view. The ever present Southern woods called to me
and I answered them. FighƟng through the bram-
Our liƩle plot of land was deep enough in the bles and the vines which make much of the
woods for us to play at seclusion. At night the woods in that area totally impassible, I stumbled
chorus of tree frogs drowned out the song of Ɵres on a creek bed with water so low it was mostly
screeching down the interstate through our liƩle mud. My mother’s son was not spared a boy’s
town. We had a nice house. It had once been a love for dirt; I immediately marched down the
hunƟng camp for the rich who came all the way path blazed for me by the mud of the creek bed,
from New Orleans by boat before they put heading deeper into unfamiliar woods. Humming
in a bridge that crossed the lake. We learned this to myself and waving a sƟck in the air ahead of

21

Adelaide Magazine

me to ward off spider webs, I lost my sense of My soggy boots and I squished along the side of
Ɵme. The only thing that halted my advance was the road unƟl we came upon some old shacks
my coming upon a graveyard. with screened porches where I spoƩed through
the chain link fence the same girl I had seen be-
Where I was the creek must have been deep fore. She was having a tea party with her dolls in
when it was full. The banks, lined thickly with cy- the yard. Her eyes grew wide when they met
press, rose high above my head on either side. mine.
Peeking out from the mud between the thick
roots of the surrounding trees were human teeth “Gramma! Gramma! There’s a white boy in the
and jawbones. My young mind instantly thought: road outside. Gramma!” Her feet pounded up the
aha! Ancient naƟve burial ground. Some mem- three steps to the porch and the screen door
bers of a proud and ancient race had long ago slapped shut aŌer her. I stood soggily in the road
deposited their departed loved ones in the soil trying my best to put on a brave face. I didn’t
there. In Ɵme the place had been forgoƩen. Only want them to see that I had been crying.
now the running water of the stream had ex-
posed their remains and I was the one who dis- I could hear the old house creaking with the
covered them. Now I think more likely that they weight of someone’s slow, heavy approach and in
discovered me. I laid aside my spider sƟck and a liƩle while an older woman appeared on the
bent my face down for a closer inspecƟon. porch. She looked at me severely through the
screen. “Boy, now what you doin’ all dirty out
“Yep,” I said to myself aloud “…naƟves. There’s a they in the road?”
whole tribe in here.” Though I had no way of
knowing for certain, I began at once to dance and “I’m lost, Ma’am.” I sniffed dejectedly. A loose
shout like I was sure the naƟves had done before pebble I kicked with my boot protected my eyes
me. I clapped my hand over my open mouth.“Aah from hers.
-Oo-Oo” Smearing my face with thick lines of war-
paint I fashioned from the black silt of the banks, I “You tellin’ me. Where yo mama at?” It felt like I
gathered sƟcks, branches, leaves, and mud to was being scalded for being young, lost, and out-
build an altar to the naƟves. My construcƟon was of-place. The old woman sƟll hadn’t ventured out
hastened by the rhythm of drums ringing through in the yard or invited me in. The liƩle girl peeked
the trees - ringing in my ears. I swore to myself at me through the screen from behind the folds
then and there that I’d never forget where this of her grandmother’s dress.
site was; that I’d always return to sing and dance
in the mud to the teeth and bones of the naƟves “Well” she cast a doubƞul look both ways down
that lay in the boƩom of the creek bed. the road “it’s geƫn’ dark, boy.” She shook her
head resignedly. “Now… now come on inside the
Lost in the task at hand, I hadn’t noƟced the ad- yard off the road. Let me go and see ‘bout yo peo-
vancing twilight Ɵll a change in the sound of the ple.” Waving me into the yard as she disappeared
bugs alerted me:- I was bound to be in trouble. back into the house, she sent her granddaughter
One last look back to the altar at the boƩom of out to greet me.
the creek bed and I tore off through the vines,
bushes, patches of mud, and branches to find my The young girl ran up to open the chain-link gate.
way back. As I entered, her big brown eyes looked me up
and down. “You stupid” was the salutaƟon I re-
The thick Southern woods have a way of turning ceived. Of course she was right and I felt stupid
anyone around, making them lose all sense of standing there in a strange place covered in mud;
direcƟon. Each tree melted into the next and pan- but refused to let her know it.
ic soon set in. The chorus of insects sang their
songs to the coming night unconcerned. In silent “Nuh-Uh! And you have to be nice to me; I’m
desperaƟon, I fought my way through the woods your guest.” I insisted with a nod of my chin. I was
Ɵl I burst out into an unfamiliar street covered in shock that my mother’s rules of hospitality
from head to toe in mud. were not at play. The strangeness of my predica-
ment dawned on me and filled me with more
anxiety than I had felt when I was lost in the
woods.

22

Revista Adelaide

The young hostess sassed back: “I don’t have to Oo!” He clapped his hand over his mouth. The
do a thing.” She gave me the whites of her eyes liƩle girl succumbed to her giggling and fell on the
and crossed her arms in indignaƟon. We sat there grass. I was beyond indignant.
awkwardly on the grass for what felt like a long
Ɵme. Both of us did our best not to look at each I kept repeaƟng to them that it was true while
other. Undoubtedly we would have remained in their laughter subsided. Finally, the old man put a
that state forever had we not been acted upon by finger under my chin and met my fiery gaze. “I
an outside force. know you seen them bones, liƩle man. Come own
see ova h’ya.” He started off again, waving his
“LiƩle man!” I heard a man’s voice approaching hand. “Come own.” I followed him down through
from the back behind the house. “LiƩle man! the back yard passed the back porch where I
Come own back hy’uh to the back uh the hos. Let could smell their grandmother’s cooking through
me speak at yo face.” the smoke of a wood burning stove. He took me
to the edge of the woods and pointed at a pile of
A kindly old man in overalls shuffled up to me discarded fish bones and oyster shells. Any trace
around side of the house and beckoned me to of mockery leŌ his voice as he said “you never
follow him with a wave of his hand. seen a sheepshead befo?” He tossed me one of
the blanched skulls to examine. “Sheepshead” he
He whispered to himself as I followed him: “liƩle repeated. “They got teeth just like people. Small
man come out the woods so dirty you can’t even ones not so good for eaƟng, huh.” He discarded
see his face.” Every few feet he stopped walking the bones from his hand back into the pile and
to take another look at me as if he didn’t believe stepped passed me. “Too many bones.”
what his memory told him he had just seen. With
his memory refreshed, he would clap his hands, He sauntered off and leŌ me to ponder the skull
do a liƩle jig and laugh hearƟly at me. I could hear in my hand. I wondered if all I had seen were the
the liƩle girl behind me had caught the giggles. It skulls of dead fish. I struggled to accept my altar
infuriated me. was for nothing. I couldn’t accept it. My thoughts
ran back to war dances in the mud, to the sounds
My eyes must have given away my indignaƟon; of drums through the trees, to the naƟves watch-
the man’s expression soŌened grew more seri- ing me through the roots of the trees with their
ous. The wrinkles under his dark eyes grew long. hollow eyes. Too soon, my reverie was shaƩered
“Now, what you did back there made you so dirty, by a cracking sound from just behind me.
liƩle man?”
Shoving the skull in my pocket, I whirled around
“The graveyard. I found a graveyard! There’s an to discover the old man spliƫng wood. I hadn’t
Indian graveyard back there in the creek bed and I ever seen anyone outside of a television split
found it!” I more shouted than spoke my story wood before. The old man could tell I was fasci-
about the teeth, the bones, my war dance, and nated so he waved me over with a smile. “Come
the altar. He crouched down to my eye-level and on nah and hep me.”
nodded his reverent aƩenƟon to my story with
the utmost sincerity, adding ‘uh-huh’ and ‘mm- I took up my posiƟon between the old man and
hmm’ punctually to urge me on. At the story’s the chopping block. He handed me the full weight
conclusion he rocked back on his ankles and shot of the maul. It instantly fell to the ground with a
a glance over my shoulder to the liƩle girl stand- thud. Crouching down around me, the old man
ing behind me. There was a brief moment of si- wrapped me in the sweet, unfamiliar smell of
lence. twenty five cent cigars. His course hands gently
pressed my soŌ hands into place on the shaŌ of
His eyes and cheeks bulged as he exploded with the maul. “Bend yo knees now, liƩle man. Got to
laughter. Surprisingly nimble for an old man he lif up like this h’yuh.” I liŌed the maul high over
hopped up to his full height and skipped around both our heads and with his help I brought it
laughing and clapping. “LiƩle Man, o LiƩle Man! crashing down to split the wood in two.
Got to tell me some mo o that today! He say Indi-
an bones!” He removed his cap to hide his face on “Aright nah liƩle man, aright.” He made his
the unpainted wood siding of the house. “Oo-Oo- lanky gait to collect the pieces of wood. I beamed

23

Adelaide Magazine

triumphantly at him. My first real work accom- “The thing about it is, people from the city come
plished. “That’s it, liƩle man. Now Gramma can all the way out here for the woods, but they don’t
cook cornbread.” He set about stacking wood. I go up in em. They cain’t; it’s too thick to walk
wrestled feebly to liŌ the maul from the ground around in.” She produced an old rag from some-
for a second go. The door of the back porch where and began scrubbing in that rough, almost
slapped open and the liƩle girl poked her head puniƟve way mothers oŌen do. My scramble
out. through the thick woods had leŌ my face with
scratches which I only then realized I had. I didn’t
She pointed her finger right at me, Judas. let her know it; but it felt like she was sanding off
"Gramma say that boy mama went all the way to my skin.
the po-lice lookin’ fo him.” My stomach dropped.
My head swam. The serenity of the scene blurred “Mm-hmm” she conƟnued, “everybody always
with coming tears. “She comin’ nah.” lookin’ out where they cain’t go, like it’s some-
place special. Bet you that’s why you thought
Both the old man and I jumped at the news. “She them fish was people; because you don’t know
say the po-lice” he said to himself. With his hand ‘bout them. Thing is, they don’t know ‘bout us
scratching under the cap on his head he cast a neither. How they don’t know we not just big fish
worried look down at me. “Nuh-uh, liƩle man. Yo lookin’ down at em? Shoot.. You wouldn’t a
mama gon’ whoop you. Talkin’ bout Indians in the known they was fish if nobody told you. Now
creek brought the po-lice. Can’t do nothin’ fuh would you?”
yuh.” He sauntered up into the house and aban-
doned me to sit on the chopping block with the “No, ma’am. But they could sƟll be Indians.”
full weight of my predicament resƟng on my
shoulders. “Well…” the old woman chuckled to herself as
she pushed my head forward with her hands to
FighƟng off hot tears, I sat in the waning light of work at the mud in my hair, at the mud behind
the twilit yard Ɵll I heard the creak of the screen my ears. I kept my eyes shut Ɵght. In the distance
door. “Yo mama not gon’ like you all dirty, boy.” I the thunder from an approaching storm. “Them
The old woman stepped out from the light of her people from New Orleans come tear down the
house onto the steps of the back porch. “Come trees and build theysef a nice house in the coun-
on, nah. We can wash yo face befo she comes. try so they can watch out through they windows;
Ought to try n do something.” but they don’t even go up in them woods. That
prolly ruin it fo ‘em anyhow. SomeƟmes it’s
“Yes ma’am” I sniffed, rising to my feet. beƩer not knowin. They can just put all they
hopes across that window pane out where they
I was dirty so she wouldn’t let me in the house. cain’t go.” She sucked her teeth “It’s almost like
She pointed out an old Ɵn washing basin tucked they prayin’.”
just under the back porch. Her slow shuffle led us
around the side of the house where the rusty pipe I thought about our egret. I wanted to ask the old
of an old well stuck out of the grass. I followed woman if she knew that our egret was sacred;
her instrucƟons to drop the basin under the spout that I oŌen craned my neck to watch her fly
and she began pumping water to fill it. The water across the top of the pond to where she can see
beat against the boƩom of the basin with the the whole of the world in perfect silent miniature
rhythm of heavy rain on a Ɵn roof. where all the Ɵnkering people and ploƫng fish
driŌ away quietly as one. Distant and removed.
“Yea…” she began “my mama used to whoop me
for runnin’ round in them woods.” She let out a Before I could speak, I heard the sound of a car
laugh. “Never stopped me, though. Seemed like engine coming up the road and I saw headlights
the only place to go round here they wasn’t no- flash across the side of the house. My Ɵme had
body triflin’ could get at me.” She beckoned me come. “Go on to yo mama now, boy. Ya heard
to kneel in the grass beside the basin which was me?” She kicked over the basin and headed off to
now full. She cupped the cool water in her hands the back yard. Through the screen of the front
and splashed it against my hot face. It mingled porch I could see the shapes of the old man
with the dry mud and ran down my nose, my and the liƩle girl watching me cross the front
neck, my back; cooling me wherever it touched.

24

Revista Adelaide

Stepping through the chain-link gate to greet my
mother’s ashen face, I felt the first smaƩerings of
a heavy rain.
That night aŌer the shouƟng and crying had
stopped and all my desperate explanaƟons had
been exhausted, I lay in the vast atrium that was
half our house to listen to the heavy rain beat
against the glass. Water collected on the trans-
parent roof Ɵll it fell down the sides as a waterfall
which threw rippling shadows across my face and
body with every strike of lightening, distorƟng all
sense of proporƟon. Strewn across the floor were
pots and pans that collected the water which
dripped through the gaps between the panes of
the ceiling. The rhythm of the drops against the
boƩom of the pans became the metronome that
marched me off to sleep that night, and for many
nights aŌer. Just before I fell asleep, the wind
picked up and I could hear what sounded like
branches scratching at the windows, trying to get
in. Taking the bleached skull which I had managed
to hide from my mother in hand, I dreamed the
whole night through of that egret, snapping at the
fish in the shallows.

About the Author:

J. Evan Garcia is a naƟve of New Orleans Louisi-
ana who was displaced by Hurricane Katrina and
finished ‘growing up’ in Texas. AŌer graduaƟng
from The University of Texas at San Antonio, he
traveled the ConƟnental United States hitch-
hiking for years. He currently teaches English in
Asia.

25

Adelaide Magazine

VICISSITUDE

by James Tucker

“You can’t miss the giant weeping beech in the It really sums up the relaƟonship between mother
back yard”. Those are the last of the direcƟons and me. We think (thought) differently.
the landlord gave me. He was not wrong.
The house is brick, its once rusty-red color
The tree is a colossus demanding aƩenƟon the now dark with the grimy paƟna of age. It is an old
moment I turn onto the road even though the mill house; on an old mill road, lined with analo-
house is sƟll a couple hundred yards away. The gous old mill houses built long ago for those who
closer I get the larger the tree becomes, yet; (as if worked in what is now a much older, old mill;
straight out of some kind of Alice in Wonderland long closed.
illusion) the house itself seems to be geƫng
smaller. Knowing I am suffering jet lag, I twist the At the boƩom of the steps, leading to a side
knuckles of my index fingers deep into my eye door is a moss-covered hole in the concrete. I
sockets hoping my vision will correct itself— to no reach my hand into the darkness anƟcipaƟng the
avail. venom filled fanged bite of a waiƟng spider or
snake, the flesh ripping jaws of a rabid rat or rav-
Situated behind the home the tree’s branches enous wolverine, or whatever flesh-eaƟng crea-
protrude above and on both sides, causing the tures occupy these parts but all I feel is the metal-
house to look even more diminuƟve than it is lic key, which the landlord correctly told me
whilst being embraced in an arboreal bear hug. would be there. God my nerves are shot and I
Two full limbs at the top, each with subsidiary haven’t even walked inside yet. Emerald colored
branches hanging like tendrils swaying in the lichen or moss also completely covers the three
breeze, descend over the home like some kind of steps I ascend leading to the door, giving them
guardian specter. No doubt, this is what aƩracted the candescent shimmer of a green glow-sƟck.
my mother to this place, as I am sure she and
many like her—those who live on the periphery of “Jesus, can I just get this over with and get the
normal— would find it beauƟful and lovely. I do hell out of here?” I bitch while opening the door.
not.
The smell of mold, mothballs, and the unmis-
Pulling into the drive and stepping out of the takable miasmal aroma of the old punctuates
car my first thought is of the sheer encompassing the dread I feel as I enter the house. It is small
magnitude of the thing. Second is of the damage which is apropos, as it needed to accommodate
its umbrella-like shade must cause, not allowing only one. I feel ambivalent in the fact that I never
sunlight to evaporate moisture off the roof. I can visited this place, ignored my mother’s pleas to
only envision the amount of bird droppings and come and see her, to bring my girlfriend (now
squirrel crap that must come off those branches. wife) to meet her.

“I’ve got a lot going on right now but we’ll try
and make it some other Ɵme,” was the standard

26

Revista Adelaide

recitaƟon; hopefully never leƫng on that I was Across the room is a large bay window with an
ashamed of her; never wanted my wife or friends unobstructed view of the weeping beech, its sum-
to meet the woman who birthed and raised me. It merƟme fullness blocking out anything that may
has been years since I spoke to the woman I once be behind it. In this last room of the house, the
called mommy and much longer since I last saw aŌernoon sun aƩempts to beat through the foli-
her. I said my goodbyes when I went to college at age from above causing a contrast of dancing
seventeen. I am forty-three now. Twenty-six shadows and shimmering light, creaƟng an omi-
years, the math is simple. nous chiaroscuro. The room is small with only a
twin-size bed, a dresser and a small escritoire;
The door enters into a kitchen / dinning room and to my surprise, an almost matching chair. The
with faded yellow Formica countertop, faded yel- desk is by far the nicest piece in the house— the
low cabinets and an ancient faded yellow refriger- 1st place winner in a, you’re-not-enƟrely-
ator, the kind that never stops running, making a unwanted contest. I am afflicted with goose
god-awful racket as this one is doing now. There bumps when I suddenly have an all too real image
is a faded yellow kitchen table with sepia colored of my mother wriƟng scores of unanswered
chairs, which may or may not at one Ɵme have leƩers to me from there.
been yellow. Past the kitchen / dinning room, is a
living room with a small couch, which just barely With more than a slight chill, I turn back to-
fits the width of the room, the obligatory coffee ward the window and the corollary view of the
table in front. Against the opposite wall only a tree. In the glistening light, the many branches
few feet away is another similar table but with a look like massive arms with endless redundant
percepƟble slant; a TV perched upon it. My head smaller branches, all in leaf, undulaƟng in the
is askew as I look at it and contemplate first: how breeze like millions of groping fingers. My skin
it is sƟll standing and second, how or if anyone crawls as they rub and probe against the glass
ever watched it. and all over the side of the house with nails-on-a-
chalk-board affect. The largest of its massive
The interior is Spartan. As is (was) indicaƟve to limbs rises from the trunk at a thirty-degree angle
her peripateƟc lifestyle my mother never owned unƟl it is about nine feet off the ground when it
much in the way of furniture, for her austerity abruptly straightens and runs about twenty feet
was a virtue. As a child, I always had a bed— al- parallel to the ground where it branches off into
ways a maƩress, rarely a box spring— and an as- five subsidiary appendages giving it the appear-
sortment of never matching tables and lamps ance of a chimerical claw.
purchased at the local Goodwill in whatever city
we happened to live in at the Ɵme. Mother was InsƟncƟvely, know; that is where she did it.
superb at acquiring furniture that One would nev-
er be disheartened leaving behind on a moments The ring of my cell phone more than startles
noƟce. me. I recognize the number from this morning; it
is (was) my mother’s landlord.
There is an open door leading to an unremarka-
ble bathroom: sink, toileƩe, and tub. Upon fur- He perfunctorily tells me what a tragedy it is
ther inspecƟon, I realize the tub is actually quite and blah, blah, blah. He then tells me what a
large; the full length of the room and above it is a wonderful woman and great tenet my mother
railing with what appears to be a new shower was. “She was a fine lady; I know she was proud
curtain scrunched to its end. Impulsively I grab it of you.” He consoles.
and pull it to its full length. It is a beauƟful scene
of Italy’s leaning tower of Pisa. I let out a half- “Oh thank you. My mother always spoke high-
snort half-laugh recalling the television and de- ly of you too,” I say, repaying the ruse— both of
cide not to ponder. There is a closed door caƩy- us having more than an inkling of the truth. I,
corner to the one I walked through but it opens knowing that he lived halfway across the country
with a flick of the fingers, leading into the sole and that she was only known to him as a rent
bedroom. check that arrived (hopefully on Ɵme) once a
month, he; by having earlier that day having to
explain to me, in detail, direcƟons to the house.

27

Adelaide Magazine

At the end of our conversaƟon as we bid our thought of us instead of me does not occur to a
farewells and just before I hang up I barely hear child.
my name called through the phone.
“Well sweetheart your father is… oh my liƩle
“Yes?” I ask. sweet boy. I think you are old enough to know
the truth. Your father is… Your father was…”
“I know this is roƩen Ɵming but I wanted to let
you know the house is going on the market,” he That is when my mother spun one of the great-
tells me. est tales ever told to a child; a myth she would
promulgate for the rest of my childhood. A myth
“Dispose of the furnishings any way you see that even with the incredulity of age remained
fit,” I reply. No noble act on my part as the re- embedded in my memory unƟl elucidated and
moval of these items would cost more than they shaƩered by the invenƟon of Google Search.
would ever be worth. Then a truth that came not as an epiphany but as
a slow crushing weight. I do not call it a lie be-
“So, you wouldn’t mind if I have Goodwill cause it was an efficacy never meant to deceive
come and pick the furniture up?” he asks. for harm or gain, only to protect.

I smile wondering how many Ɵmes these un- A large amount of air escapes my lungs and I
desirable furnishings have leŌ only to be repatri- twitch in an autonomic spasm as I have apparent-
ated back to their home of goodwill and never ly forgoƩen to breathe. I take a gulp of air and my
ending donaƟons of crap. The smile fades as I breathing resumes though much heavier. I am
think of all the people who have never known faintly aware of the goose bumps that materialize
what it would be like to own possessions that on my arms when the sudden chill that started at
started and ended as theirs, having only known my neck violently permeates throughout my
hand-me-downs and rejects. A feeling I remem- body. Just as suddenly begin the recollecƟons of
ber far less than nostalgically. all the different ‘uncles’ (though none were very
avuncular) we lived with throughout my child-
“That would be great,” I say hanging up. hood. Their faces, once blank to me, are materi-
alizing maliciously in my memory — another bru-
Taking a last look at the last place my mother tal quiver, another deep breath.
ever called home and content that I have fulfilled
my filial duƟes (whatever that entails) I am some- I have a sudden mental flashback, only it is not
what surprised that I feel… nothing. I have spent a flashback in the literary since but more of a
so many years away from this woman I am numb. break-in by some unseen cerebral intruder meƟc-
No, it would be wrong to say nothing. Though it ulously prying and pilfering; riffling through
is true, I have spent a reprehensible amount of locked rooms and drawers of my mind. A forced
Ɵme away from my mother, the most impression- remembrance cruelly ripped against my will from
able years of my life were in her arms and by her the safe recesses of my subconscious.
side living in her demimonde. I feel unseƩled and
unpleasantly surprised at the sudden and violent I am very young during a Ɵme we stayed in a
wave of memories that assault me. A childhood nice apartment and my so-called uncle would
phantasmagoria plays itself out all too realisƟcally come over on weekends– a man whose name is
in my mind. unremembered and unimportant. A man who
would always rub the top of my head unƟl the
“Your father loves you more than you will ever gold wedding band he never deigned to remove
know,” she tells me while wiping the tears from dug into my scalp. For this assignaƟon, he always
my face, her piercing blue eyes always affecƟng called the same babysiƩer to get me out of the
reassurance and love even in apartment, a girl in her late teens or early twen-
the midst of such a farce. I was only a small child, Ɵes who smelt of a combinaƟon of lip-gloss, weed
but even then, the memory of the man who was and shopping mall. A want-a-be valley girl whose’
my father—but never a dad— was beginning to every sentence started with ‘like’ and ended with
fade. ‘as if’.

“Then why did he leave me? Why doesn’t he
ever come to see me?” I say between sobs. The

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Revista Adelaide

“He needs to get some fresh air,” he would “I hate you,” I say in tearful susurraƟon. Is it a
cajole my mother. He would then hand the siƩer phantom memory or do I recall her graceful walk
a wad of cash and tell her, “Take him to the mov- (it was more of a glide) stumbling… her hand
ies or Chucky Cheese or whatever.” squeezing mine… a violent hiccup?

I all too vividly remember her holding me by “I love you. Nothing you say can make me not
the shirt while she was talking to her friend on a love you.” That was her standard reply, jaw
payphone (back when people somehow survived clenched, voice so mellifluous; she more pulled
without cell phones). “Like, I’ve goƩa watch him than led me the rest of the way. The school was
for a liƩle while but it shouldn’t take the old fart not much further and though she walked up right
long, as if,” she says in giggles. She hangs up with and stoic, her natural lithe having returned; I
an “Ohmygod” chortle. think I remember the back of her hand, the one
not holding mine, wiping the tear from her face.
Tears well up in my eyes and I have a yearning
for the insensate emoƟonal block I first entered The series of flashbacks and recollecƟons will
this house with. I will not cry for this woman, this not subside. I am on a mental rollercoaster that
paramour. This demimondaine who dragged me will not stop, there is no geƫng off, and the safe-
from one ‘uncle’s’ home to another’s, none of ty latch is giving way. For twenty-six years, I have
which were my dad, just vacant faces; faces that suppressed and now am drowning in these fuck-
when I was older, college (and an ungodly ing memories. The experience is causing a raƩling
amount of drugs and alcohol) would be my es- hum in my head that is sending me to the edge of
cape from: theirs and hers. Long ago faces, which a panic aƩack. I am able to take a deep breath
to spite my best efforts at suppression are and relax at the realizaƟon that what I am hearing
starƟng to come into view. is not coming from within my head but is in fact
the insidious screech of that goddamned refrig-
I remember one we lived with whose house erator. How the hell did she stand it?
(now I realize, not so coincidently) happened to
be very close to my school. He was unctuous and The torrent of memories starts again, the flood-
eel-like with a vulpine face, another nameless gate wide open. Years later when the misnomer
specter. I recall my mother and him laughing and ‘uncle’ no longer fooled me (funny; it occurs to
drinking the grape juice she would never let me me that I have never actually known a true uncle,
try even when he said to her, “Oh com’on, it’ll I wonder if I have one) there was ‘Uncle’ Jim. He
make a man outa him.” was a corpulent, odious, runt of a man with a
bulbous pockmarked face who, at the Ɵme, for
Her response was indignaƟon. the life of me I did not see what my mother could
have seen in, she so tall, thin and aƩracƟve. For a
“Lighten up babe, I was only kidding. It’ll take long Ɵme— the longest lasƟng of the ‘uncles’—
more than some booze to make a man outa him,” we lived with him in an opulently beauƟful house
he says with a sardonic, lecherous smile. That is on the beach not far from the private school I was
when she sent me to my room. I remember her aƩending; one of the best, I was told.
crying early the next mourning when I awoke,
wiping her face when she saw me and smiling. How can something I had forgoƩen about
come back so vividly?
Her smile was her greatest lie.
He was never physically abusive (or perhaps
“I hate it here. I hate him,” I tell her as she walks never had the chance to be) but I had no miscon-
me to school. A view I would express on more cepƟon that he liked me. It is such a bad memory
than, and for more than, one occasion. compounded by the awkwardness of adoles-
cence: braces, correcƟve shoes, speech therapy (I
“You’re in a great school and it’s almost out, pronounced my th’s with a sibilant s sound); good
we’ll leave as soon as you’re finished,” she says in Ɵmes.
a comforƟng voice, always the purveyor of sang-
froid. “Just keep studying and keep your grades “Do you have any idea what this is fuckin cos-
up. That’s what your father would want.” She Ɵn me?” I can sƟll hear him bellicosely screaming
gives my back a reassuring rub and wraps her at her; can fell rage even now, not because my
splendid long fingers around my hand.

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Adelaide Magazine

mother was the focus but because I was the cata- aŌernoon sun blazing overhead, now it has be-
lyst. He grabbed her arm and clamped down like a come crepuscular. I lie down and the deluge of
vice causing her to wince. I wanted to hurt him so memories conƟnues to pour over me.
bad I could taste the bile in my throat but I was
no more capable of that than I was of flying or At the end of my school year, we went to stay
walking through walls. with a group of my mother’s friends in the woods
of Oregon, an omniumgatherum of starving arƟst,
How many Ɵmes did I scream viscerally at her? writers and other misfits. A gregarious assem-
blage that oddly (or maybe not so oddly), I discov-
“And you should show a liƩle graƟtude,” he ered years later, boasted an ex-California state
bellows at me. “You know how much fuckin mon- senator—forced to leave office aŌer an affair with
ey I’ve wasted on you?” An ossified finger a wealthy donor’s much too young daughter—
jammed into my minuscule chest just in case and a renowned chemist— with a penchant for
there was any confusion. making pharmaceuƟcals of highly quesƟonable
legality— among their numbers. We had stayed
“You’re not my dad,” I spat back at him! there years before, I remember it with fondness,
and according to my mother, years before that
Was that my riposte? Was that the best I when I was an infant. They were an effusively
could do? jovial, insouciant lot and there was always ribald
laughter, much drinking and copious amounts of
“You beƩer thank God I’m not YOUR dad! You acrid smelling smoke, a group of rejects who
wanna know…” found purpose in each other’s company.

“STOP IT! ENOUGH!” my mother screams, he We arrived, greeted with a shower of hugs
and I equally stunned at her silky voice becoming and kisses (I remember clearly that some were in
so sonorous. “He’s just a child you asshole.” need of an actual shower) and exultaƟons of
“look how big he’s goƩen” and “my you look
His face became a rictus of shock while his beauƟful” all emphasized with more patchouli-
body began a freneƟc tremor of anger and what I infused hugs. I learned from my mother years
suspect was more than just a liƩle fear at my later that the munificence of a relaƟvely success-
mother’s clarion recriminaƟon. ful member of their group afforded their Bohe-
mian lifestyle. A writer who had found acclaim in
“Why don’t you tell the liƩle bastard the god- a Ɵme when people actually bought books, even
damn truth,” he shouts while shaking his fist, ani- ones that did not take place in Hogwarts.
mus exuding from his demeanor; its sharp edge,
however, now just a liƩle dulled. Today my conservaƟve self would refer to the
group as just a bunch of refractory old hippies but
Vicissitude being no stranger to our lives we I cannot help but smile at the remembrance of all
moved again the next day among a fusillade of the laughter, especially my mother’s; endearing
Jim’s apologies. My mother was able to fit all of laughs all. I wonder why we spent so liƩle Ɵme
our belongings into a mid-sized rented U-hall, all there as she love them dearly and not one of
the Ɵme proselyƟzing of how much my father them had a malicious bone in their body. There
would love and take pride in me (motherly dam- being no school for hundreds of miles would defi-
age control). Miraculously she somehow con- nitely have been a deal-breaker as she was a
vinced Jim that it was his obligaƟon to pay for a sƟckler for educaƟon. I start to feel more than a
small apartment and my many needs unƟl the liƩle culpable at the thought that without me, she
school year ended. Verisimilitude was another of probably would have stayed there—happy.
my mother’s intangible giŌs. Vicissitude and veri-
similitude; how the fuck could a child’s life be so I do not find it strange that I have recessed the
affected by two words that start with v? memories of all the quesƟonable and belligerent
men in my mothers (and subsequently my own)
Today my teeth are strait, my walk correct, and life but how could I of forgoƩen these ebullient
my speech precise. people and those halcyon days? Maybe it is not
just what happens to us in our lives that define us
Siƫng down on the bed, I cannot inhale the
stale air fast enough. How long have I been here?
When I arrived, the sky was bright with the early

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Revista Adelaide

but also our choice of memories. Why does it could just… When had I spoken to her last? I find
seem that I have chosen to pigeonhole my moth- my high school diploma and underneath that, a
er to the worst, while eradicaƟng the best? variety of school awards and report cards. From
finish to start is the documentaƟon of a child’s
Having no idea of the Ɵme, or how long I have scholasƟc life right down to the chaoƟc drawings
been in this fugue, I suddenly realize I must pull of a young would-be crayon arƟst.
myself together. I throw my legs to the floor,
stand up fighƟng verƟgo, lose the fight, crash to “Jesus, what is wrong with me,” I say to no
the floor, get to my feet like a newborn calf and one, breaking the daze I am in, aware that I am
tremulously make my way to the bathroom sink. unaware of how long I have been holding this box
The water runs a rusty brown for quit some Ɵme of crap. “Get it together,” I say to the only one in
before gradually becoming clear; a few handfuls the room. I put the picture in my pocket and re-
to the face and I feel much beƩer...well, beƩer. sign myself to tossing the box into the nearest
Why did I even come here, to this place that I garbage can; I nearly miss the envelope at the
never once visited when my mother was alive? I boƩom. On the upper leŌ hand corner is a print-
should have know there would be nothing here ed Easter Seals sƟcker with an address of which I
worth salvaging and cannot help an ironic smile at no longer recall. In the center of the envelope in
the thought that there is nothing here she herself muddled handwriƟng, so foreign yet so familiar, it
would not leave behind without a second reads, Santa Clause, North Pole.
thought.
I take the leƩer out, open it and begin to read;
Walking away, I hear just the slightest creak in another autonomic acƟon of which I am only
the floorboards. I turn around and as I am look- faintly cognizant.
ing back into the bedroom, I see something under
the bed I had not noƟced. I am pulling it out like Dear Santa,
an automaton with no recollecƟon of walking
back to it. It is an old shoebox with the name Pay I hate my mom so much. She tells me that I
Less on every side except the effaced top. In its should not ecpect a lot for crismass this year. She
place is a single word: Memories. It mocks me as says I should be thankful for having a home and
I sit inundated with many more than I care to re- food to eat. That is so stuped. All kids have homes
member. and food. My mommy is so mean but I no you are
nice. Please remember me and I love you so
In the box, the fist thing I see is an old picture much.
of my mother and me, her holding my hand. She
was a woman who never wore makeup but with Then there it is, the coup de grace, the knife to
such a natural glow, somehow always looked as if the heart: the closing.
she had. I remember her long blond hair always
seemed to be in a gentle breeze, blowing around I Will Always love You Santa
her angular face. She always seemed to be in
moƟon; grace in moƟon. God, for a split-second I I do not believe I could write something so
can actually see her thick locks undulaƟng in the hurƞul yet here it is staring me in the face. A
photo. Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment child’s messy scribble grabbing me by the scruff of
brings back normalcy. I remember how tall, thin the neck and forcing me to look. I noƟce how
and preƩy she was, so willowy. I now realize that worn the paper is, as if it has been opened, read
she was a woman who, beaten down by life, had and closed many Ɵmes. Perhaps because my past
every right too passively accept defeat; yet she self wrote it, it is remarkably, painfully, legible;
did not. She was so... vibrant. the ‘I will Always Love You Santa’ in big bold irref-
utable leƩers. This love delineated with a glori-
I next find my acceptance leƩer to college, fied sƟck-figure child’s sketching of me hugging
the postmark piƟlessly reminds me again that it foresaid Santa.
has been twenty-six years; the last Ɵme I saw my
mother. Being a good son, I always made my The irony is that my mother always encouraged
weekly call, then monthly, ebbing to quarterly me to write to Santa when I was young and al-
calls and then… I have a job, a wife; it’s not as if I lowed me to indulge in the illusion far longer than
my age should have allowed. The greater irony is
that the illusion is no more real than the image of

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Adelaide Magazine

the loving father my mother perpetuated even About the Author:
though my love for these two fantasies came at
her expense. James Tucker is from Charleston SC and has been
featured in Sick-Lit Magazine, Stay Weird and
My mother: paramour and demimondaine, prop- Keep WriƟng Press and others. He would like to
agator of myth, master of lies and manipulaƟon… thank the staff of Adelaid Magazine for their Ɵme
lover and protector of child. and paƟence and is honored to be among their
contributors.
I do not know how but I no longer have the leƩer
in my hands. Now I am staring at the picture, the
one of my mother and me holding hands. I see
no resemblance, her being so tall, svelte, and
beauƟful while I am simply awkward: a small child
with messed up hair, a crooked smile and comical
correcƟve shoes.

For some reason, I do not know why nor can I
stop, I take out a picture of my wife and me from
my wallet. I rip the picture in half, let the image
of my wife fluƩer to the ground as I take the half
of myself, and place it over the younger me.
Amazingly, it looks as if it belongs there, as if it
were there all along. The resemblance to her is
uncanny. Undeniable. I can hear the ethereal
sound of her saying “I love you” in my head with
that mellifluous voice. Did I ever say I love you to
her? Of course I did, all children do. When did I
last tell her as an adult? Did I ever?

I have oŌen heard the phrase, ‘we hurt the ones
we love’; yet, rarely does one discover that the
greatest means to that hurt, can oŌen be by
simply doing nothing.

I place the lid on the box and slide it back to its
original resƟng place under the bed with the sud-
den epiphany that the only shame in this house is
I— the opprobrium mine. The rivulets of tears
and sweat running down my face begin to subside
as I compose myself, unaware of nervously
twisƟng the sheet from the bed. The mischievous
lunar light of a full moon dances through the
ubiquitous canopy of branches and leaves, glis-
tening seducƟvely around the room.

Looking out the window at that once ominous
weeping beech, for the first Ɵme, I see its true
enthralling beauty. Swaying in the breeze at the
end of its massive limb, the enormous claw seems
to beckon. My sobbing stops, my breathing re-
turns to normal and tranquility sweeps over me. I
am suddenly invigorated. The stygian night is al-
luring; the wound sheet is strong yet soŌ in my
hands. I think I will go outside and have a beƩer
look at that magnificent tree.

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Revista Adelaide

ONE, TWO, THREE,
BANANA

by Robert Kirkley

On the first Saturday of May, Barry's mother “Hello,” a young man greeted Grayson and Barry
signed him up for soccer camp, the two-year-old on the first day of camp, “I'm Coach Pepe.” He
class. She sighed. Now came the tricky part. said it as though “Coach” were his first name and
“Pepe” were his last, which made Grayson, bring-
"Every Saturday morning at 10:30 in June and ing the stroller to a halt, smile.
July," she told her husband.
Short and slim, Coach Pepe had wavy, black hair
Grayson sat in his favorite recliner, feet up, and a black beard and mustache. He wore an
watching TV, the rebroadcast of a football game. orange shirt, green shorts, and soccer cleats. The
"Who's going to take him?" he asked. cleats were the same shade of orange as the shirt.

"It'll give Barry a chance to get outdoors this sum- “I'm Grayson Clarke.” The two men shook hands.
mer," she said. “And this is my son Barry.”

"Who's going to take him?" Grayson asked, again. Coach Pepe flipped a page on his clipboard, ran a
pencil down a list. The pencil stopped, made a
"It'll give me a break," she said. check mark. He handed Grayson something
rolled into an orange bundle. “The team shirt,”
"Mary Lynn, who's going to take him?" Grayson he explained.
asked, once more.
“Hot,” Barry said, so his father rolled the stroller
"You are, of course," she said. into the shade of a gumbo-limbo tree. Mr. Clarke
changed his son’s top. The jersey had a logo on
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “Uh-uh.” the front, a liƩle boy kicking a black-and-white
ball into an open goal, his hands raised in the air.
Mary Lynn said nothing. She knew to wait. The name of the camp was printed in green:
Game Changers.
“I have plans Saturday mornings. Big plans.”
Half a dozen boys and girls stood beside yellow
She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head at cones in a line, a parent behind each child. “It's
him. “You mean like watching the NFL Network important,” Coach Pepe said, “to stretch before
when it isn't football season?” we play soccer so that we don't strain a muscle.”
He walked as he spoke, pressing his fingerƟps
He opened his mouth to say something, and together and looking at the ground. “Do you
closed it. know how to perform jumping jacks?” he asked.
He looked at the class. “No?” he said. “I will
“June and July, you said?” show you.

“That’s right,” Mary Lynn replied. “Spread your feet, and rest your hands at your

“Oh, boy!” he muƩered.

“It'll give you a chance to bond with Barry.”

“Hum,” he said, “I hadn't thought of that.”

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Adelaide Magazine

sides. When I say ‘banana,’ jump, bringing your “Show me that you hear,” Coach Pepe said.
feet together and your hands together above “One, two, three, boysenberry.”
your heads, like so. Jump, returning your hands
to your sides and spreading your feet once more. Everybody stayed put, except for Barry, who
Do you see?” Several of the children giggled. “I dashed for the other end of the field, where the
hear that you see,” Coach Pepe said. “One, two, three-year-old class met. “Wait!” Coach Pepe
three, banana.” called aŌer him. “I didn't say ‘banana.’”

The children leaped, except for Barry, who bent Barry looked over his shoulder as he ran. “‘nana,”
at the waist and put his hands on the ground. he said.
“That's not a jumping jack,” Coach Pepe said.
“But what blazing speed!” Coach Pepe said. “We
Barry rocked back and forth on his legs. “What have a sprinter.”
are you doing?” Grayson asked.
“I'm on it,” Grayson said.
“One, two, three,” Barry said, “‘nana.”
“I'm going to get you,” Grayson said playfully,
He pushed off with his toes. His head was where trailing his son.
his shoes should be, and his shoes were where his
head should be. “But what a remarkable hand- Zigging and zagging, Barry replied, “Getcha.”
stand!” Coach Pepe said. “We have a gymnast.”
The three-year-olds pracƟced passing in diamond-
Barry looked at his father upside down. shaped groups of four. They kicked the ball back
“Heeheehee!” the boy said. and forth using the insides of their feet. Barry
charged through a group. “Argh!” he growled like
“Uh-oh!” Grayson said, and tried to grab his son’s a pirate.
ankles.
“Excuse us,” Mr. Clarke said, close behind his son
Too late. Barry toppled onto his back like a stack and gaining. A girl struck the ball, which lodged
of building blocks. He didn't know whether to between Grayson’s shoes. He came crashing
laugh or to cry. Yep, that smarted, he decided. down on his hands and knees, raising a cloud of
His face crumpled. “Waa! Waa! Waa!” he dust. He looked up at his son’s back, geƫng
wailed. smaller, and heard him laugh, “Gotcha.”

His father scooped him up, paƩed him on the Coach Pepe rolled a ball to each student. “In soc-
back. “You're OK, buddy,” Mr. Clarke said. cer,” he asked the class, “we may not use what
“Dada’s here.” parts of our bodies?”

“Mommy!” his son shrieked. “Feet,” Melvin called out.

“Next,” Coach Pepe said to the team, “I want you “No, hands,” his mother said.
to run from the yellow cones to the red cones . .
.” He gestured with his hands. “. . . when I say “That's right,” Coach Pepe said. “We may not use
‘banana.’ Not ‘apple,’ not ‘gooseberry.’” He our hands unless we’re goalies. When I say
wagged a finger no. A girl giggled. “Not ‘banana,’ place one foot next to the ball, as I’m
‘raspberry,’ not ‘strawberry.’” doing, and the other foot on top of the ball. This
is called the control posiƟon. No one can take the
A boy sat down on the grass. “Stand,” his father ball away from you in this posiƟon. One, two,
told him, and pulled him up by the wrists. The three, gooseberry.”
boy liŌed his feet and swung like a baboon.
Everybody looked at Barry, who didn't budge.
“Not ‘boysenberry,’ not ‘bilberry.’ ‘Banana.’ Do “Excellent!” Coach Pepe said. “Because we lis-
you hear?” tened. We must listen before we act. Listen.
One, two, three, banana.”
“Say ‘yes,’ Melvin,” a woman told her son.
Barry put his leŌ foot beside the ball. “Good,” his
“No,” Melvin said. father said. The boy put his right foot on the oth-
er side of the ball. “No,” his father said, “that one

34

Revista Adelaide

goes on top of the ball.” Bending his knees, the backs of his fingers, watched it roll, hoped for the
boy sat on the ball. best.

“That's not the control posiƟon,” Coach Pepe “No hands,” Coach Pepe chimed like a clock.
said.
“That's pushing the ball,” Grayson said. “Kick the
“Giddyap,” Barry said, and bounced up and down. ball, buddy.”

“But what wonderful imaginaƟon!” Coach Pepe The ball came to a stop. Barry tossed his palms
said. “We have a jockey.” on top of his head. Worse yet, he felt.

The ball slid out from underneath Barry, who The ball, evidently, didn't go anywhere, so it
landed on the grass, his legs bent in the air, the needed to go. Gripping it, he spun like a top,
ball between his knees. He spread his arms. “Oh, heaved it into the tall grass, watched it bounce
no!” he said. over a hill, disappear.

Grayson rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, boy!” “But what a strong arm!” Coach Pepe said. “We
he said. have a pitcher.”

“Kick the ball,” Coach Pepe told the team, “from Barry stepped to the edge of the slope, his father
the red cones to the yellow cones when I say bracing his shoulder. The ball floated on the sur-
‘banana.’ Watch. Tiny kicks, using the laces of face of a lake, out of reach.
your shoes. This is called dribbling. Keep the ball
in front of you. Kick it too far, . . .” He passed it The boy clapped his hands. “Yay!” he yelled.
to a parent. “. . . someone will take it. One, two,
three, banana.” Grayson weighed retrieving it. “There gators in
this pond?” he asked.
The players dribbled, but not Barry. He shiŌed his
weight onto one leg, about to kick. Something “Who’s to say?” Coach Pepe shrugged.
was wrong, he decided. He scratched his head.
The ball. It wasn't in the right spot, so he Mr. Clarke glanced at his watch. “LunchƟme,” he
squaƩed, picked it up. said.

“No hands in soccer,” Coach Pepe said. “How'd it go?” Mary Lynn asked aŌer puƫng her
son to bed for a nap.
“That's holding the ball,” Grayson said. “Kick the
ball, buddy.” “Badly,” her husband replied.

Barry moved the ball a yard to his right, set it “I'm sorry.” She poured herself a mug of coffee.
down. There, that was beƩer. “Want some?”

Ready to dribble, he shiŌed his weight, raised a “Sure,” Grayson said.
foot, stopped. Something wasn't right. He
looked around, folded his arms across his chest. She filled another mug, and they sat down at the
The ball. Ergh, that ball! Always in the wrong dining room table.
place, so he crouched, snatched it up.
“What happened?” she asked, brow wrinkled.
“No hands in soccer,” Coach Pepe said.
He described the morning.
“That's holding the ball,” Mr. Clarke said. “Kick
the ball, buddy.” “He wouldn't follow direcƟons,” Mrs. Clarke said.

Barry reposiƟoned the ball a yard to his leŌ. “That's right.”
Much beƩer, he thought.
“How do you feel?”
But sƟll not where it belonged. He needed a
different strategy, scratched his chin. An idea “I'm not sure,” Mr. Clarke replied, “that I want to
came. He stooped, gave the ball a shove with the go back.”

“Why?”

“I don't think he learned anything about soccer.
It seemed like a waste of Ɵme.”

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Adelaide Magazine

“I see.” She sipped her coffee. “I didn't enroll “Yes!” Mr. Clarke said.
Barry in soccer camp because I wanted him to
learn to play soccer.” “Now,” Coach Pepe said, “touch the sky.”

Grayson started to say, “Huh?” But he remem- Barry rose, his father too. On his own, Barry liŌed
bered what Coach Pepe had said about listening, his arms over his head, his father barely grasping
so he waited. his wrists. And that gave Grayson an idea.

“What do you think Barry needs?” “Do you like magic?” Coach Pepe asked.

“Help,” Grayson said. “Yes!” the children shouted. “Yay!” they hollered.
They stood in a line, a black-and-white ball in
“He's perfectly fine!” front of each of them.

“No, I'm asking for help.” Coach Pepe stood sixty feet away holding, in ei-
ther hand, something that resembled a teardrop,
She took another sip, reorganized her thoughts. a white net hung from a red frame. “Do you
“You offered advice and encouragement, but you know,” he asked, “the magic word?”
let him perform the acƟviƟes on his own.”
“Video,” Melvin blurted.
“Correct.”
“No,” his mother told him, “abracadabra.”
“Why?”
Coach Pepe slung the nets straight up.
Grayson drank his coffee. “I want him to be inde-
pendent.” Spinning, they opened into goals, and, spinning,
landed next to each other, right-side up, their
“Me too. But?” fronts facing the children, who clapped and
stomped and cheered.
“He couldn't perform them.”
“Do you recall,” Coach Pepe asked, “how to drib-
“Why?” ble?”

“He's not ready.” Silence.

“I agree. What could you do differently?” “I will remind you.” As he demonstrated, he said,
“LiƩle kicks with the laces of your shoes, making
Grayson took another swig. “Maybe next week I sure that the ball remains in front of you. When I
could do the exercises with him. You know, to- say ‘banana,’ dribble and score a goal. One, . . .”
gether. Work as a team.” He held up fingers. “. . . two, three, banana.”

“That,” she said, “would be worthwhile.” “Kick, kick, kick,” Grayson said.

“Who remembers,” Coach Pepe asked, “what we Barry didn't.
must do before we play soccer?”
“Kick, kick, kick.”
“Eat cookies,” Melvin called out.
SƟll didn't.
“No,” his mother told him, “stretch.”
Mr. Clarke stuck the toe of his shoe through his
“Absolutely,” Coach Pepe said, “we always stretch son’s legs and tapped the ball, which rolled a few
to prevent injury. When I say ‘banana,’ make a feet. They moved forward awkwardly, Barry’s
tunnel . . .” He separated his legs to demonstrate. arms liŌed, his father gripping his wrists loosely.
“. . . and touch the ground with your fingers.
One, two, three, banana.” “Kick, kick, kick,” Mr. Clarke said.

Kneeling, Grayson tugged gently, like a hint, on Nothing.
his son’s ankle, and Barry stepped with that foot
to the side. Grayson pressed lightly on his son’s “Kick, kick, kick.”
back, and Barry bent from the waist. “Touch the
earth,” Grayson said. Barry did. Nothing sƟll.

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Revista Adelaide

Grayson nudged the ball once more, and they About the Author:
wobbled on.
Born in BalƟmore, Maryland, Bob Kirkley received
“Kick, kick, kick.” a BA in philosophy from St. Mary’s College of
Maryland and an MA in creaƟve wriƟng from Flor-
Barry did. ida State University. He has resided in South Flor-
ida since 1996, living on a sailboat in Miami for
“Good,” his father said. ten of those years. This marks his twenty-first
year of teaching high school English in South Flori-
They took a single step. da and his first teaching in the Florida Keys. An
avid paddleboarder, he stops off once a week on
“Kick, kick.” the way home to paddleboard in the Upper Keys.

Barry did.

“Very good,” his father said.~

They took a few steps.

“Kick.”

Barry did, firmer sƟll.

“Not too far,” Coach Pepe called. “Someone will
steal it.”

Barry struck the ball hard. It rolled a long way.

“But what a powerful leg!” Coach Pepe said.

The ball lay in front of a goal.

“One more Ɵme,” Coach Pepe said.

“Score,” Mr. Clarke said.

And Barry did. The net shook with the force of
the boot.

“We have game changers,” Coach Pepe said.

Barry’s arms felt heavy. He wondered why they
were in the air. Oh, yeah. His father had been
holding them. At some point, he must have let
go. But where?

Lowering them, the boy turned around. There his
father was, fiŌy feet away, smiling at him. Barry
ran to his father. “Dada.”

“You did it, buddy,” Grayson said.

“Oh, boy!”

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Adelaide Magazine

MEADOWS

by Whitney Judd

"Lenore, Sing! Hang your head out the window! "He said, well, there is a liƩle town at the edge of
Sing! Look, here we are!" a woods. It's old and people are leaving. There
are a lot of empty houses. But it has a white-
"We're not there yet, Momma." The girl, sƟll thick washed church with a tall steeple. We go through
and slow with sleep, hung her hand out the win- the town. It's on the rise of the hill. I don't know
dow into the chill morning air, uncurled and how far, but he said we'd find it, said there is an
looked up. In the meadows, green and bright in old man who looks aŌer the place."
the morning sun and which grew into the black
edges of the two lane road, were blossoms of "How did you meet Mr. Ryan, Mom?"
white flowers. And as her slowed the car to a
follow a curve in the road, nearly stopping, she "Oh, I just met him somewhere."
saw one, tall and close to the road. The bright
crystaled lace of it glowed and formed rings radi- "Where?"
ant in the air, layer by layer, larger than it seemed
it could be. "Somewhere, Lenore, somewhere, Ok! What's
with you?" Her voice was sharp and quick.
"Gees," she gasped, turning her head to watch as
they passed. "Momma! It's not me. It's you. You've been cra-
zy!"
"Well, all right, LiƩle Miss Cynic. At least we're
out in the country, we're away from . . . from all . . Her mother's hands turned white and shook. Her
. we're away . . ." Her mother's voice edged for- eyes were and glistened in the sunlight.
ward and struggled to word or finish a sentence.
Her mother sat up away from the back of the car "Momma, it's not what I meant. I like it here.
seat. Lenore saw the white flecked hands as they Momma, I'm glad we've come. I just wanted to
gripped the steering wheel and her mother's talk. We haven't talked. I wanted to. What's
trembling eyes. wrong?"

The car picked up speed. The girl hesitated, "I just wanted to know more.
He seems nice, Momma, to let us come here, kin-
"I'm sorry, dear. It's preƩy here, thought, isn't it?" da like what a grandpa would do."

"It is beauƟful, Momma." Her words had tumbled out trying to soothe her
mother. She looked, and her mother's eyes
Lenore's hand was growing cold in the wind. She soŌen and began blinking rapidly.
leŌ it there. The sun through the windshield
made her want to sing just a liƩle. The girl paused for a moment. "Momma is it ok?
Does he look like a grandpa?"
"I love it here, Momma." So soŌly whispered her
mother would never hear. "How far did Mr. Ryan "Yea, he does." Her mother smiled and sat back a
say it was?" liƩle more against the seat. "I'm sorry dear," she
whispered.

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Revista Adelaide

Lenore mumble into the sunlight. "I don't want a liƩle, wishing her mother would say what was
you to be sorry." wrong or just stop, wishing the knots and pain in
her would end, or wishing her mother would go
Down through the layers first of sƟll then swirling away.
air, it seemed the world on this day would spread
out in sunlight and long encompassing meadows Thumping stopped. And these flowers, strange
of heavy green and stands of white flowers. It and bright, this chill in the air and the sunlight,
was a day intricate and deep and darker and blue even the rhythms of the car, all so clear, were so
above them. different. The sweet smell of the meadows made
her mouth water. From her stomach she could
A single flower torn from its stock blew in the feel a Ɵngling that made her shiver.
wind. Their car moved unsteadily along the glis-
tening black road. It was a decaying thread, a "Momma, look," her whisper lost in the air swirl-
wound the turned through the meadows and lead ing about the car.
toward a small town nestled in sparse wood. In
the edges of those woods where the meadows Lenore turned around. "Momma?"
fade and next to the trunks of trees occasional
flowers bloomed scarlet, waving in the breeze He mother was leaning forward almost on the
and dust, resonant in the darker aspects of light. steering wheel, far from the car seat. Her make-
The sun rose higher as they drove on. up was smeared, her eyes red. Her clenched the
wheel. They were white. She stared. The lines in
Lenore watched the flowers pass by her window, her face were deepened in the sun. Lenore was
counƟng them against her private silence in the quiet and looked out the window, dreaming in
car and the slight twisƟngs in her stomach there the white flowers.
for weeks and part of everything.
"Oh NO! Lenore the road ends! Where are we?
"Millions." The white sheets of flowers beside the This is the right road, Ryan said! Damn! Lenore!"
car broke apart in the thick green out in the
meadows. She could feel her mother's fingers "What, Momma?" The girl stopped looking at the
thumping against the seat and felt the twists she meadow and stopped a quiet song she was sing-
had weeks before in that night of all the noise. ing.
That next day she had watched her mother mak-
ing lunch in the sunlit kitchen of their apartment "No, mom. The pavement ends. The road goes
and they were worse. She had looked away from on. It's a dirt road, Momma. It's ok. We're almost
the television at the sound of a crash and saw her in the trees. We're ok." The girl sat up, staring
mother franƟcally pushing the broken jar into a forward, her hands in fists waiƟng for her anger
pile on the floor with her hands, then cover her to upside. She looked at her mother. He face was
face and lean against the cupboards. There were flushed and her eyes were moist. She was trem-
bright tears in her eyes and her shadow on the bling, too, breathing rapidly and the car slowed
floor that grew deeper as Lenore watched. AŌer almost to a stop.
that she made sure she was always in the kitchen
with her mother. AŌer that, at evening she "Momma, you're all right. We don't have to go
would watch her go back and forth oŌen to the back. It's like a pot-hole back home; only it's real
front door checking the locks and wiggling the big." Lenore reached over and touched her arm.
handle, rubbing her hand over new paint on the Her mother closed her eyes for a moment and
door sill. breathed deeply. Tears dripped down her face.
She turned and smiled at her daughter and put
At night Lenore had listened to her mother's cry- her hand over Lenore's. For a long moment they
ing behind the walls and closed doors. At first, she sat there together. The car kept inching forward,
had waken and went in, sat beside her and held then lurched into the dirt. Her mother grabbed
her hand. "What's wrong Momma? It's ok." Her the steering wheel, had it twist form her hand as
mother would cringe in pain and cry a liƩle more the car accelerated into the meadow. The girl
if she tried to touch her face or lean against her watched panic grow in her mother. She jerked the
body. Lately, Lenore would just lie in bed and cry wheel back toward the road and stepped violent-
ly on the brake. She saw her face redden again
and her hands turn white.

39

Adelaide Magazine

"Momma, don't," she whispered. and echoes, the bright light and her mother grow-
ing smaller blinded Lenore and took away all but
Her mother pulled hard on the wheel. The car the glare from the green.
plowed into the meadow, jerked and died.
"Momma . . ." a wild and savage pain.
"Oh, God." Her mother kept tugging on the wheel
and jammed her foot on the gas pedal. "Go, Go! "Momma," she whimpered and began to struggle
Please. Start. Damn It!" She turned the key hard. forward. Her feet sinking from under her and
The smell of gas began filling the car. those things she grabbed at fading. In those inch-
es between her and where her mother had been,
"Please, God, please." She began beaƟng on the the banging against the wheel, the falling through
steering wheel with her fists and yelling. "God it. Lenore failed and fought against the narrowing
damn it! Ryan, you said. You said!" space of the car. That almost scream of the body
pushed her and she fell into the meadow; her
"Momma, don't." The girl eyes reddened and her face into the dirt. There was no untangling from
face twisted up. what held her. She raised head enough to see.

Her mother had sagged. Her head fallen against Far away she saw her mother stumble and fall. All
the wheel sƟll pounding at its rim weakly and that was leŌ were broken flowers and a trampled
weeping. "No, no, no, no," long and plainƟve and path. There was overwhelming green.
undulaƟng. Tears fell, shining briefly in the sun
light and then lost in darkness of the foot well. She opened her mouth and choked. Her cry died
in the fear swelling up in her. Silence. The recent
"Momma, don't. Momma." The girl cried too, and memories of bodiless cries from behind closed
this a moan more than any words. Those enemies doors. A voiceless terror. The liƩle need and
in her, fear, abandonment filled her up. strength leŌ in her failed again in the tangle of
her feet and against the vast mound of green. In
"Momma, please, Momma, don't." Pleading and it the sparkling blindness of tears, in the confusion
ached in her voice, clung to the eyes and wet from the assaults of the present she crawled
checks so pale now. away from the car, staggered and got up. The
defeat of hopelessness, the seƩling shrill of aban-
In the silence amid the jumbled chaos and the donment oozed in and soaked deep, and she was
odors of the meadow, their bodies and the smell toƩering as the last moments of sunset before
of gas, the girl watched her mother, broken and dark, with each step the falling of a tree. She was
shrunken, exhausted, defeated by the things and forced from the edges of the meadow away from
people that were vague and frighƞul. Her mother her mother to the trunks of the trees and then
lay weakly now against the steering wheel and fell. Tears ran into the dust and blood dripped
her arms hung through it. She was so bright in the into her eyes. Silence once more and she couldn't
sunlight. Both wept. hear for her own gasping.

"Momma, it's all right. Please Momma. I can help, "No, please God, no more. I can't do this." Plead-
I have, I can. Please, Momma." ings were muffled by the grass. ExhausƟon
seemed to open weeks old wounds and ripen the
Her words were weak and fell beneath this over- bruises. Tears and the last dew on grass washed
whelming thing. away the make-up that covered the yellowing
bruising of her face. The threat she struggled
"No, you can't. You can't." From the silence into against, fighƟng sƟll to protect her daughter, the
which those words fell, this last wailing of her terror of its failing, the ground clinging to her and
mother and the breaking up on so much sunlight she was unable to move. Every blow, every strike
from the door shoved open, struck and stunned that would kill her, kill her first and then her
Lenore, forced her back and pierced through her. daughter beat on her again.
She watched her mother struggling through the
thick green and the tall bright flowers, her arms "Ohh, God," she moaned. Fear squeezed through
pushing and pulling through the air. Her mother
moving farther away.

"Momma, please don't leave me! Momma!" Tears

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Revista Adelaide

her last breath, through the numbness of her A hushed space, "I never sleep when you're gone.
body. Will he come back?"

It was not the smoke of the city, nor the scent of "No, they can't find us. Isn't beauƟful here, be-
blood or the clean air of the meadow or the scent loved?"
of black earth, it was the gasping, in the silence,
of her daughter that began to kill so much, and She lay her daughter in the car and drove slowly
she got up. The chill of grass, the early morning down the dirt road. The scent of dust mixed with
woven in, touched her skin, made her shiver and the sweet air of the meadow and the wooden
soothed her. Only sunlight fell down upon her. musk of trees and blended in the warmth of the
That expected face, the madness of the beauƟful sunshine and the long absent comfort from their
stranger she had picked up and brought home, touch. The rocking moments of the car spread
the dim violence that he brought of his skin over this mother and child. Whirls of dust rose up
against hers, "You first, your daughter;" these behind them, gold in the sunlight.
men of darkness, that crushing in her chest, all
she hid from, all she failed against, when she rose About the Author:
began to slip away. And her daughter there, then,
and now here. Whitney Judd an MFA student transferring from a
low residency program to a full-term pro-
What she rose up into was not the altered joy of gram. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
the police breaking through the door, not the
relief of opening the bedroom door and seeing
her daughter there, not the overwhelming emo-
Ɵon of her daughter holding her hand and whis-
pering "I'll protect you, Momma;" it was not the
growing impossibility of pretending, the struggle
against something she could not understand,
tears that fell, it was the clean air she stood up in,
her standing up again, finally; light and blue skies
and deep green, lightness.

"Over."

There was a quiet buzzing in the air, the sound of
wings from somewhere. There was the smell and
sound of the slight fall of water, and everything
was bright.

Her daughter was at the foot of a tree among
flowers as red as the blood that dripped.

"Lenore." She knelt beside her daughter,
liŌed her into her arms and wiped the blood from
her face.

"It's okay, dear, we're safe."

A few moments beneath the branches and both
cried.

"Did you know?"

"Yes, Momma, but I didn't want you to know I
did."

"I though you slept."

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Adelaide Magazine

DEICIDAL SECOND
GRADER

by Juan Villagomez

I never went to church before my first week in I shoved Jesus into my pocket and sat with him
Catholic school. The student body aƩended mass for the rest of the mass, occasionally slipping my
every Friday, and before the first service that hand in and fingering around for the wafer, trying
year, Sister Juanita talked to us at length about to get a sense of what was happening. My hands
the miracle of transubstanƟaƟon. “You are literal- were sweaty; the Jesus wafer started slowly erod-
ly about to ingest the physical body of Jesus ing.
Christ. Think about the importance of that,” she
said. “Think about the privilege you have in taking Mass ended and we went back to class. Mr. Vil-
part of the most beauƟful miracle in the history of lagomez started one of his social studies lessons
the world.” On the way to mass, she pulled me which, of course, turned into a lecture about insƟ-
from the back of the single-file line to remind me tuƟonalized racism in the United States. I conƟn-
that, since I hadn’t yet had my first communion, it ued to sit, hopefully showing no outward signs of
would be a sin for me to accept the Eucharist. panic, half listening to a Chicano separaƟst mono-
logue and wrestling with the noƟon of a decom-
I remained seated while everyone else went up— posing carcass in my pocket. By lunchƟme, the
the boys jabbing each other on their arms while wafer was fine dust mixed with strands of lint and
the girls freƩed over the posiƟoning of their skirts shreds of an old magazine clipping of a German
as they stood. But a teacher saw me seated and Shepherd. Jesus died once because of my sins,
chasƟsed me for not going to the altar, saying and I was killing him again.
that I should at least receive a blessing from the
priest. I got up, confused—was the priest sup- By the end of the day, I knew he was dead. And I
posed to differenƟate me from those taking com- had solidified in my mind a new self-idenƟty—
munion? My arms at my side, hands in my pock- one where I existed in comparability to PonƟus
ets, I told Father Bill I’d never had communion. Pilate and the Jews who wanted Christs’ head.
Without looking down at me, he slurred, “Uh, There was nothing to do except begin to under-
yeah. Put your hands out.” I cupped my hands, stand myself from the new perspecƟve of deicidal
and he set the communion wafer in my palm and second grader. I raised my hand to go to the re-
half nudged, half pushed me to the side with his stroom. I empƟed my pocket into the urinal and
limp arm. watched the scraps of trash, communion wafer,
and German Shepherd float a bit. I flushed them
I studied the wafer. down. At the sink, I took a few pulls of the straw-
berry-scented hand soap and watched the white
Surely, God would be upset with me for refusing ceramic turn pink as the water washed over my
his son. But it was a sin for me to eat the wafer. I hands. I got back to class in Ɵme for math and
knew that if I told the nun, I’d get two weeks of managed to memorize my sixes.
aŌer-school kneeling for accepƟng it.

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Revista Adelaide

About the Author:

Juan Fernando Villagómez is a student of creaƟve
wriƟng at the University of Houston. He enjoys
wriƟng stories, singing songs, and cooking plants.
He currently lives in Houston’s historic East End
with his liƩle dog, Abba, and his sweet kiƩen,
Brick.

43

Adelaide Magazine

DON’T WANT
MUCH

by Thomas Elson

This story happened over forty years ago, and These businesses are frequented in the morning
reforms have eliminated its recurrence. The me- by men in scuffed boots and sweat-stained knock-
dia would expose it. No one would tolerate it. We off Stetsons, which, if removed, expose white
are in a new era of transparency and integrity. skulls atop sour red faces with weathered eyes
that look as if slit by a knife. Their backs are sƟff,
And if you believe that, … not from age, but from life in the saddle. In the
aŌernoon they are replaced by women in coƩon
There was never any doubt they’d blame him. The prints, white socks, and heavy work boots. Their
naƟves are quite content in their ignorance. They broad shoulders display experience in calving,
live here because their great-great grandfathers branding, and all the other hard work of ranch
seƩled here, and possess a lack of curiosity that life.
ends immediately aŌer they ask, “Where ya
from?” They don’t want much, and there’s plenty Local direcƟons consist of family names. “Just
of that for everybody. turn leŌ at the Mushrush place and drive for a
while unƟl you get to where the old Miller ranch
This one, however, scared the hell out of me. It used to be. Then bear right. You can’t miss it.”
was the first one to come to trial. Luckily, it was in
my home county, and they would believe a naƟve Other than the few strangers passing through for
-born son over an outsider. I was born here. Seán a piece of pie at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant,
Tyler wasn’t. Where did he come from? No one the county remains passed by. Highway 50 passed
really knew, but it wasn’t in Ninnescah County, it by. The state turnpike passed it by. I-70 passed
and that seƩled that. it by. School unificaƟon passed it by. Cable T.V
passed it by. Even Wal-Mart passed it by. Howev-
Ninnescah County is ranching country, but with- er, the one thing that did not pass it by was re-
out the spreads seen on television. Absent are the ported in the Berdan Tribune. Shirley Tyler was
freshly swept porches and arid land with content- missing. This was a mere six days aŌer I was in
ed grazing bovine. Ninnescah County ranches the Ninnescah Hotel Restaurant parking lot with
feature weathered porches, a roughness associat- Shirley aŌer her husband, Seán, abruptly walked
ed with parched earth, and six generaƟons of land out of their dinner. She and I were to go camping
ownership firm in the belief of primogeniture. that weekend - our euphemism for trips into Kan-
sas City.
Two narrow lanes consƟtute the county seat’s
only paved road which passes through the center The speed with which the report appeared
of town. Past Meyer’s Tack and Hardware, Bum- stunned me. There was nothing to do but follow
my’s IGA, CoƩonwood CaƩle Company, Verdigris the plans laid out aŌer returning home from my
State Bank, Wagon Wheel restaurant, and Hole-in late-night with Shirley.
-the-Wall tavern.

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Revista Adelaide

First on my list was the County AƩorney, Bill Too damn Ɵght. We-”
Narth, a simple-minded runty guy whom I viewed
as a failure in his profession. He was just like his I asked about a couple of other reports, placed
father who had loaned me the money to go to my mouth against the phone, and said, “I ...
law school and cancelled the debt upon my grad- camping ... brief assignaƟon ... leŌ a message on
uaƟon. Bill’s poliƟcal radiance was severely her machine.”
dimmed by photographs that caught him leaving
a Joplin motel room accompanied by a busty, “I understand, Danny.” My grade school friend
dark-haired woman with a proclivity for exposed said. “Not a word. Never happened.” AŌer a sec-
skin. ond, “Anyway, we got our guy. Arrested the hus-
band last night.”
“Bill, this is Dan Bierley. I knew your father.” I
read about the Tyler case.” Then, in my most sin- “Who’s his lawyer.”
cere voice,
“Garry MaƩox. Court-appointed. Tyler’s got no
“He helped me out a lot in law school. Never money. And MaƩox’s damn-near starving.”
would have made it without him.”
As soon as my phone hit the cradle, I knew there
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bierley, we’ve met. My dad spoke needed to be more quesƟons, like “What was her
highly of you.” husband arrested for?” A smarter Sheriff would
have caught that, but, hell, I already knew more
“He was a good man. How ya doin’ with-” about the case than he ever would.

It took no further prompƟng. “Terrible. Never Later that morning, I siŌed through my acƟve
prosecuted a murder case before. We’re a small case files. “Great, the Johnston case. Perfect.
county, and I’ve got no support in this forgoƩen This’ll do it.”
one-man office. And-”
A few weeks earlier, my secretary had walked
Having no interest in his whining, I interrupted, into my office “Dan, your client, Mr. Johnston, is
“Bill, let me help. We could work together on here.” Herb Johnston had been my client since his
your opening statement and cataloging the rele- contested divorce when he was granted custody
vant evidence.” of his son. “He was telling me about his boy’s ac-
cident yesterday. Hit by a county truck. Sent to
“You bet.” E.R. It’s really bad. I brought you these.”

“It’s best we keep this sub rosa. I’m not running She handed me a parƟally completed case sum-
for office, just tryin’ to repay a debt.” mary sheet and my standard conƟngency fee con-
tract with the requisite porƟons highlighted –
A couple of more calls ought to do it. I looked at signatures, forty percent of any amounts recov-
my notes. ered, expenses deducted aŌer the client’s por-
Ɵon.
Next was Sheriff Hatzenbueller. We had gone to
school together – same grade school, same high A sixteen-year-old high school boy with good
school, even the same church - and one of the grades and on the track team, hit broadside by a
biggest fools in the county. He touted his nine county road maintenance truck. A young man
years of law enforcement experience. My view with broken bones in an intensive care unit of the
was he had one year of experience repeated nine largest hospital in the state, fed intravenously and
Ɵmes. I never thought he’d make anything of him- readied for brain surgery the next morning,
self, and I was right. screamed big injuries. Big injuries equal big dam-
ages, which equal big recoveries, which equal big
“Sheriff. Dan Bierley. Sorry to bother you-” aƩorney fees, which meant I had opƟons.

“Danny, good morning.” I placed the file inside a leather briefcase, and
carried it into the office of Garry MaƩox.
“Sheriff. It’s about the Tyler missing person re-
port.” Garry MaƩox officed in the back of the CoƩon-
wood CaƩle Company, had not been able to build
“Yep. Somethin’ fishy about the husband’s story.

45

Adelaide Magazine

a full-Ɵme pracƟce. I walked in, turned, damned well-paying clients who did not reside in a jail-
near ran into a pile of feed sacks, veered leŌ, house. MaƩox would begin and end each day
made a sharp right, opened the door, and there gasping for air.
MaƩox stood inside a space no larger than my
recepƟon area. He had crammed in a large beige Weeks and mulƟple rehearsals later, the Tyler
metal desk, three chairs, two bookcases. There criminal trial began. The local custom was for
were no wall hangings other than his law school aƩorneys to gather in Judge Wycliff’s chambers
diploma and cerƟficate of admission to the state prior to court, and I needed to be seated near the
bar. It had the smell of a wet barn. door before MaƩox arrived.

We sat across from each other, I began without The courthouse at the south end of town is a
looking up, “I’ve seen you in court, and you do a three-story wooden building with a red French
good job.” Pure hyperbole. “I represent Herb roof, no elevators, lady’s restroom on the first
Johnston in a personal injury case, but with its floor, men’s on the second. Half of the third floor
county government implicaƟons, it might present holds the courtroom and on the other half is the
a conflict of interest. Can’t take any chances.” I Sheriff Hatzenbueller’s residence, and the one-
smiled, looked directly at him, and said, cell jail next to the kitchen. Each floor has one
“Consequently, I want to refer this case to you.” window air condiƟoner and one cast iron radiator
per room.
I watched his pupils widen. “Garry, the lawsuit is
against the county – deep pockets. You could Three flights up the ornate staircase, a right turn
make some money. No more court-appointed onto the hallway, through the door toward a nar-
cases. And get the hell out of this feed lot.” rower hallway, then into the special province of
lawyers – the judge’s chambers. Once past the
I told him the Ɵmeline. DeposiƟons scheduled for bailiff’s desk, I nodded to the court reporter, then
next week. Meet with Johnston’s high school strode into the judge’s chambers, waved to Judge
principal and teachers two days later. Their depo- Wycliff. Judge Francis Wycliff, a modest man with
siƟons scheduled for the following Monday. Then much to be modest about, had flunked the bar
take deposiƟons of surgeons and emergency twice, but sƟll managed to become a judge.
room people.
A few moments aŌer posiƟoning myself near the
His neck muscles Ɵghtened. He looked light- door, MaƩox walked in with two briefcases - the
headed, almost dizzy. Suddenly he inhaled deep- one I gave him, and a green one, headed straight
ly, almost a gasp, placed his leŌ hand on his desk, to the judge’s desk and stood with his back to me.
then waved his right hand over an uncluƩered He avoided the group of lawyers, who conƟnued
desk, said, “I think I can manage it.” talking: SeƩlement … Hope you made as much
money as I did … Hell, I’m going broke repre-
“Here you go, this is yours.” I handed him the senƟng that guy … Just file a moƟon, that’ll delay
black leather briefcase containing the Johnston it a month … You’d beƩer file something and toll
file. that statute, or they’ll walk all over you…

“You might want to review it before we meet In a few seconds, MaƩox turned. I nodded, stood,
with your client tomorrow. I’ll call Johnston to walked into the courtroom and sat in the front
schedule a meeƟng with you and me tomorrow in row of the spectators’ gallery.
my offices. I’ll advise him then that I’m handing
this case to you. You can use my offices east of When MaƩox entered the courtroom, his shirt
town as a temporary satellite locaƟon.” collar looked glued to his neck. Bill Narth, a block
of granite set atop two thin legs, trudged toward
He nodded. Easier than I thought. By tomorrow the counsel’s table. Judge Wycliff entered, and
MaƩox would be wedged between two Ɵme- the bailiff called the case, State vs. Seán Tyler.
consuming jury trials bearing down on him like a
tsunami. AŌer a few remarks by the judge, Narth stood
behind the podium to begin his opening state-
We shook hands and I leŌ his office well-pleased ment. “This defendant is charged with murdering
– the kid had been maneuvered with a dream of his wife.” He moved his head as if unable to

46

Revista Adelaide

comprehend the enormity of the act, drew in air, Longer silence.
exhaled his disgust, then, exactly as we re-
hearsed, conƟnued, “Murder-in-the-first degree. Judge Wycliffe, his full-sized glasses near the Ɵp
The woman Seán Tyler killed has a name. Shirley of his nose, said, “Mr. MaƩox, do you wish to give
Tyler. Shirley is not the decedent. Shirley is not your opening statement?”
the vic.” His voice rose. “Her name is Shirley Tyler.
And her husband, siƫng over there looking at MaƩox faced the judge’s bench, and with an un-
you, killed her. Killed his wife, Shirley Tyler.” steady voice, “Yes, your honor. My client did not
Voice projected. Full stops. Just as he was commit the crime. He pled not guilty.” The judge
coached. moƟoned for MaƩox to face the jury. Judas, was
a dope.
Narth looked at the floor, hands folded in a bish-
op’s repose. It was a lot of work to get him to MaƩox began again, “He did not do it. He did not
master that. “This specific charge of murder is the kill her. He is innocent. I ask that you listen to the
killing,” his fist pressed against the table, “the evidence and remember that the state,” he point-
killing of one human by another - with malice ed to Narth, “has the burden of proving my client
aforethought. He planned to kill her.” A bit of did it. The defendant is not required to prove he
improv, but not bad. did not do it. Not in this country.”

“That man planned and intended,” he pointed at With palsied hands and shirt collar dark with per-
Tyler, his hand heavy with accusaƟon, “intended spiraƟon, MaƩox conƟnued, “My client is inno-
to kill his wife. Intended to kill her with a pistol.” cent. Do not be persuaded by photographs. They
In a moment filled with drama, his voice slowed do not prove anything other than she was killed.
to an almost Faulknerian drawl. I loved it. Not that my client did it. I ask you to return a ver-
dict of not guilty.”
His eyes upon the jury, and, aŌer a well-
rehearsed pause, he turned, glared momentarily MaƩox slowly turned toward the judge as if re-
at the defendant. “He killed Shirley Tyler, his wife, quesƟng permission to return to his seat. The
aŌer they finished dinner at the Ninnescah Hotel judge nodded, MaƩox sat, emiƩed a low whistle,
Restaurant. Killed Shirley with a pistol. Not just and I felt the energy dissipate from the court-
one shot. Not two shots. Not three. But four. Four room.
bullets penetrated Shirley’s skull and neck.”
Narth introduced the State’s exhibits through the
Narth slowly pointed to his head and neck indi- officer who took the photographs of Shirley Ty-
caƟng where each of the bullets entered. Just the ler’s body. They showed four bullet holes punc-
way I showed him. turing head and neck. Exactly the photos I chose.

“Then he abandoned her. LeŌ her. No, hid her.” No objecƟon, or cross-examinaƟon by MaƩox.
He finally remembered the right word, pointed
toward the east, and said, “He secreted Shirley in The second witness, the road worker who found
a grove of trees just a couple of miles east of this the body, walked toward the witness stand as if
courthouse.” approaching a proctology procedure. Once posi-
Ɵoned, he relayed the locaƟon of body. His final
Back erect and with unbroken eye contact, Narth bit of tesƟmony established the three photo-
concluded, “I ask you to deliver a verdict of-” His graphs were of the body he had found.
right palm deliberately struck the podium. “A ver-
dict of guilty. Guilty of murdering his wife, Shirley MaƩox sat in silence.
Tyler. Guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Tyler leaned toward MaƩox, who, just as I sug-
Silence. gested, slid a yellow legal pad and uncapped ball-
point toward him. Tyler began to write.
He sat down, head lowered, eyes open but un-
blinking, reached for his snow-white handker- A detecƟve from the State Bureau of InvesƟgaƟon
chief, and with a slow gesture, touched his right tesƟfied about a journal Shirley kept. It was the
cheekbone. That was a bit much. volume I selected. The others remained, uncata-
logued, at my shed.

47

Adelaide Magazine

No objecƟon by MaƩox. When Shirley’s body disappeared, I drove away.
There may sƟll be one unanswered quesƟon - to
The detecƟve conƟnued, “Shirley Tyler wrote-” which the answer is “No. Not once. Not even in
my most solitary moments.”
Narth interrupted, “The lady whose photographs
we just saw?” About the Author:

The detecƟve conƟnued. “Yes.” He lowered his Thomas Elson lives in Northern California. He
voice. “She wrote, ‘I do not know how to relate to writes of lives that fall with neither safe person
your outbursts. ...you inƟmidate me when you nor safe net to catch them. His short stories have
are angry, and someƟmes scare me... I feel ... very appeared, or are scheduled to appear, inter alia,
insecure at these Ɵmes.’” Shirley was not the only in the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Red City Lit-
woman who had said words like that to me. erary Review, Oracle Fine Arts Review, Avalon
Literary Review, PercepƟons Magazine, and A
MaƩox belatedly objected to the reading of the New Ulster.
journal as a violaƟon of the hearsay rule. Judge
Wycliff overruled the objecƟon. “I am going to
admit it, since it was used to establish a course of
conduct between husband and wife.” So far so
good.

No one menƟoned Shirley’s camper friend. Not a
word about a voice message. Chief Hatzenbueller
handled that.

MaƩox rose and said, “Your honor, the defense
has no witnesses.”

The next day the jury rendered its verdict. MaƩox
presented the obligatory post-trial moƟons which
were overruled. The judge thanked, then dis-
missed the jury. Sentencing was set for one week
aŌer receipt of the pre-sentencing report. Irre-
specƟve of the report, Tyler’s sentence was going
to be life imprisonment. His post-trial hearing was
only a formality.

“What’s next?” Tyler asked, but MaƩox walked
away carrying the black briefcase I gave him. He
stopped, returned to the counsel table, grabbed
the legal pad and pen, reached for his green
leather brief case, and said, “I’ll be in touch later.”

MaƩox turned, nodded at me, cocked his head,
and whispered, “One of our deposiƟons is later
today. GoƩa prep for it.” I’d take the case back
from him tomorrow. We had only shaken hands.

When the courtroom empƟed, I walked down the
back steps, and drove a few miles east of the
courthouse.

Amid bare trees and weathered grass, as if in an
instant, Ɵme stopped, shiŌed, suddenly reversed.
On my right was the faint image of Shirley flat on
the ground inside that grove of trees. It was ex-
actly as I remembered it.

48